#Roman who's always flitting in and out and around and up and down

[schmweed]

[jaethaone]

Claiming What’s Mines

Part 2 Of “Coming for What’s Mines”

Parings: Roman Reigns x Black female reader, mentions of Carmelo Hayes x reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Ratings: 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Smut!! , Bad Smut Possibly, unprotected sex (Always Wrap It Up) , Possessive, Toxic Roman

Summary: After Trying To Avoid Roman Since His Return, And Show That You’re Moving On, Roman’s Had Enough Of The Games And Decided To Let You Know Who You Belong To

A/n: So The Creative Juices Have Been Flowing So Part 2 Is Here Faster Than Expected, Its Also My First Time Writing Smut So Bear With Me. I’d Also Like To Thank Everyone Whose Loved The First Part, I Wasn’t Expecting How Well Its Been Doing So Thank You .. I Hope You Guys Enjoy This Part.

GIF Credit: @jeysuso

The atmosphere backstage was electric, thrumming with the echoes of the crowd that had just departed the arena. The deafening cheers from the arena still reverberated in the air, vibrating with the energy of the crowd that had just witnessed an electrifying episode of SmackDown.

Among it all, a palpable tension brewed, one that was far more intimate than the public scene.

Two weeks had passed since Roman had unleashed his fury, reminding everyone why he was the Tribal Chief of the Bloodline, and why challenging him was a grave mistake. But it wasn’t just the wrestling world that was in upheaval. Your feelings were a storm, tossed between the lingering memory of Roman and the magnetic pull of Carmelo.

Charming and charismatic his attention had become a reprieve from the chaos, a welcome distraction from the heat of your complicated emotions for Roman. You had needed space, yet the distance had only stoked the flames.

You had been avoiding Roman these last two weeks.. or at least trying to. Flitting between the chaotic backstage life and stolen moments with Carmelo.

You had tried to spend more time with him.. with Carmelo, trying to show Roman that you could move on.

And yet, the longer you avoided Roman, the more you sensed his relentless pursuit, a force too strong to disregard.

You had been trying to escape from Roman’s looming presence and his possessiveness, the latter being something you haven’t experienced before, using every ounce of willpower to stand firm in your decision that you’d move on.

But still, Roman lurked in the corners of your mind. The memory of his gaze, smoldering with a fierceness that made your heart race, haunted you. He had a way of making your very being tremble, leaving you unsure yet yearning—caught in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions.

After the recent events at SummerSlam, where you had stood up to him, Roman had taken your rejection with a sort of nonchalance that made you ache. “Just know that I’ll be waiting,” was all he had said with that signature smirk, leaving you simmering in uncertainty. You thought avoiding him would help, but Roman was relentless; he always had to be in control, always had to get what he wanted, and right now, what he wanted was you.

Tonight, everything had exploded during his showdown with Solo, anger and frustration spilling over. His rivalry with the Bloodline had ignited a fire in him, but it was the sight of you laughing with Carmelo backstage that had truly pushed him to his breaking point. Roman had always been possessive, and right now, he was more determined than ever to stake his claim.

Roman leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the shadows emphasizing his chiselled jaw and sharp features. His dark eyes tracked every movement of the two figures in front of him.

He watched as you retreated down the hall, waiting until you were out of view before stepping to Carmelo

“Still think you can dance with fire and not get burned?” Roman’s voice broke the charged silence, low and dripping with menace.

Carmelo raised an eyebrow turning around, a sly smile playing across his lips. “I’m just here to have a good time. You know how it is, Reigns.”

“That’s the problem,” Roman leaned in, closing the distance. “You’re having too much of a good time and forgetting who belongs to who.”

“Like I said, it’s just fun”

“Well you can go have fun with someone else”

“Nah” Carmelo stepping up to Roman despite size difference, “I think I’m going to continue to have my.. fun.” Patting Roman on the shoulder and walking away.

“Yeah” Roman says rubbing his hand over his face. “We gone see”

With that he walks away.. towards your dressing room

Finally in the confines of your dressing room you sat on the couch that was positioned in the corner letting you have a view of the whole room. Letting out a long breath, you sat contemplating Carmelo’s offer. He suggested you come back to his hotel room tonight. And any other time you’d be all for the distraction. Yet, in the depths of your mind, like an ominous shadow, Roman loomed large.

He wasn’t just the crowd’s favorite. He was a force—a storm of confidence wrapped in simmering danger. You had seen it in his eyes when he fought for what he wanted, and it terrified you.

You were about to get up to change your clothes when the door burst open with a force that caught your attention, revealing Roman—jaw clenched, eyes ablaze with determination.

The tension in the air thickened as he pushed the door closed, his imposing presence filling the small space.

There was a moment—silent, electric—between you and Roman.

“What are you doing here, Roman?” you asked, a hint of defiance in your voice, but knowing full well what the answer was.

“I came to set things straight,” he replied, his tone smooth but laced with underlying menace. His eyes bore into yours, dark like a storm cloud, intense enough to make your heart leap in both fear and excitement.

You stood slowly, feeling the weight of Roman's gaze pulling you closer. The air thickened as you crossed the space between you and him, the palpable tension wrapping around you both.

“Roman, I—” you began, but he cut you off with a sharp shake of his head.

“No more games,” Roman asserted, stepping forward until he was mere inches away. “Two weeks of hiding from me, running around with him…it ends now.”

“Look I’m just trying to move on,” you challenged, trying to sound nonchalant but failing to mask your own growing irritation.

“Move on?” He laughed, a cold, harsh sound that resonated in your chest. “You think you can just move on from me, after everything? Look around; we both know it’s not that easy.”

“Roman, you don’t own me,” you asserted, your voice steadier than your pulse.

His eyes darkened, the air between you heating up, igniting something that had been smoldering for far too long.

You crossed your arms, grounding yourself as you tried to resist the storm brewing in your chest. “Honestly, What do you want, Roman? I thought I made myself clear.”

“Clear?” He stepped forward some more, invading your space, heat radiating off him like the sun. “You think you can just brush me off? You think you can move on with him?”

“Carmelo has nothing to do with this,” you snapped, trying to stand firm against the overwhelming presence of the man before you. But even as you said the words, doubt trickled in. ”Besides, you made your choice.”

“Did I?” Roman scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk that sent a thrill through your core.

“Look, I don’t belong to you, Roman,” you asserted, your voice stronger than you felt. “So this walking around thinking that i do, is going to stop”

The corners of his mouth twitched, a faint smirk forming. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said, his voice dropping to a low growl.

“You’ve always belonged to me.”

“Roman…”

He silenced you with a fierce kiss, capturing your lips with an urgency that sent shivers dancing along your spine. It wasn’t the softness of Carmelo’s charm; it was raw, passionate, and intoxicating. You felt yourself surrender, your body responding instinctively to the heat of his kiss, the touch of his hands as they roamed down your hips, pulling you deeper into him.

“Do you understand now?” he murmured against your lips, hungry and possessive.

“You’re mine. You always have been and always will be.”

As he pulled away just enough to look into your eyes, there was a wildness in him—desire mingled with desperation. You could sense it; he was a man who didn’t take no for an answer, a man who had always gotten what he wanted.

“Roman, I—” you began, though it came out more breathless than you intended.

But he was relentless, pulling you flush against him again, his mouth capturing yours once more in a heated frenzy.

“You belong to me,” he murmured, a low growl that resonated deep within you. “And I’ll remind you of that.”

With renewed fervor, his hands slid down your sides, gripping your thighs and lifting you effortlessly until you were wrapped around him. You gasped at the sudden heat pooling within you, pressing your hips against his as if trying to draw him in further.

“Roman, please—”

As he backed you against the locker, his hands traveled over your skin, igniting sparks everywhere they touched, and your body replied in ways you couldn’t control. Every ounce of reason faded into a haze of pleasure, a growing fire that consumed everything else.

You couldn’t deny how intoxicating it felt to be wanted in such a primal way. The air around you thickened with sexual tension as he devoured your mouth, hands slipping beneath your clothes, caressing the bare skin beneath. You gasped, a mixture of desire and shock, but it only fueled his hunger further.

“Roman,” you gasped, struggling to regain control over your senses, but he silenced you with another fierce kiss. He devoured you, as though he were trying to consume your very essence, fueling the desire that had always simmered beneath the surface.

“I’ll show you who you belong to,” he murmured, pulling you away from the wall and into a flurry of movement as he led you to the couch in the room.

Roman's hands traced your figure, each caress igniting the fire inside you until it blazed beyond control.

With raw, hungry intent, he pushed you down, his body pressing against yours

“You’re mine, always will be,” he growled, his lips trailing along your neck, seductive and overwhelming. The unmistakable urgency of his actions ignited a hunger you could no longer resist.

Your breath quickened as you felt his tongue trace a path along your collarbone. You wanted to be selfish, to keep this moment for yourself. But more than that, you wanted Roman, and you wanted him now. You couldn’t deny that anymore.

"Please," you whispered, your hands tangling in his hair. "Don't make me wait any longer."

With a growl, Roman ripped your clothes off, exposing your lace bra and the swell of your breasts. You gasped at the sudden exposer, your nipples pebbling against the soft fabric.

Roman took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and nibbling as his hand drifted down to your core.

"You're so wet for me, YN," he murmured, his fingers tracing the outline of your pussy through your panties. "Tell me it’s mines."

"It’s yours," You moaned, your head falling back as he teased you. "Roman, please. I need you inside me."

With a rough tug, Roman ripped your panties aside, his fingers plunging into your heat.

You cried out, your hips bucking off the couch as he thrust his fingers deep inside you.

"That's it, baby," he groaned, adding a second finger. "Take it all. Take my fingers and wait for your turn to have my dick."

You were on fire, your body throbbing around his fingers as he worked you towards an orgasm. You cried out, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he slammed his fingers in and out of your wet hole.

"Come for me, YN," Roman demanded, his thumb seeking out your swollen clit. "Let me feel you cum around my fingers."

You couldn't hold back any longer. With a strangled cry, you convulsed around his hand, your body shaking as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

Roman rode out your orgasm, his fingers never slowing as he prolonged your release.

"That's my girl," he growled, withdrawing his wet fingers and bringing them to his mouth.

In a heady haze, you surrendered, losing yourself in the raw ferocity of his desire. He gave in to every fervent longing—the taste of his lips, the intensity of his touch—every action a promise that surged through your veins. This was not just physical; it was declaration, a statement of who you belonged to.

"You taste so fucking good."

You were panting, your body spent as Roman feasted on the taste of you. He kicked off his jeans, freeing his hard length, and positioned himself between your legs.

You looked up at him, your eyes glazed with desire as you watched him slap his dick on your throbbing core.

"Tell me you want my dick," he demanded, his voice hoarse with need.

"I want your dick," you whispered, your eyes flicking to his thick length. "I want it inside me. Please, Roman."

With one swift thrust, Roman filled you, moaning as your tight heat enveloped him. You gasped, your eyes rolling back as he stretched you, filling you in a way you had only dreamed of.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned, beginning to move, his hips snapping as he set a relentless pace. "Tight little pussy was made for my cock."

You moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pounded into you. The sound of your bodies slapping together filled the room, along with your grunts and moans. Roman's eyes never left yours as he fucked you, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

"Look at me, YN," he demanded, his hand tangling in her hair, guiding her head back. "Watch me fuck you."

Your eyes flew open, locking with his as he thrust deep, again and again. Your pussy clenched around him, milking his length as he hit all the right spots.

"Roman, I'm gonna cum," you cried out, her body tightening around him once more.

“Let everyone know who you belong to,” he whispered against your lips, his breath hot and needy. “You’re mine, say it”

You couldn’t do anything but moan

“Say It” He said one more time, thrusting harder

“I’m Yours!” You all but yelled

"Cum for me," he growled, his hips never slowing. "Cum around my cock, baby."

As if in a trance, you tensed, your body shaking as another orgasm ripped through you.

Roman felt your pussy pulse around him, and it sent him over the edge. With a roar, he thrust into you a few more times before he stilled, his release flooding your insides.

Panting, you stayed joined for a moment, Your legs wrapped around his waist as you both came down from your high. Then, with a soft smile, Roman gently withdrew, his eyes never leaving yours.

"That's how I claim what's mine," he whispered, helping you sit up. "And now, everyone will know who you belong to."

Your heart raced as you realized what you had just done. The dressing room offered just enough privacy, but your passionate encounter could easily have been overheard. But instead of feeling embarrassed, you felt empowered. You had just experienced mind-blowing sex with the man you wanted, and didn't care who knew it.

"You're right," you said, a smile playing at your lips. "And I can't wait to do it again."

The reality of your earlier struggles faded away in the face of his unwavering conviction, a promise to remind you of your place beside him.

After you both got dressed and a promise of round two and a final kiss, Roman left your dressing room, a satisfied smirk on his face. He knew that he had just reignited a past romance, and this time.. you were going nowhere

You belonged to Roman Reigns—always had, always would.

TAG LIST

@whatdoeseverybodywant @trippinsorrows

@loloschive

[drivinmeinsane]

{ Eyes Always Seeking }

1/3 ※ Officer K (BR 2049) x Sierra Six (The Gray Man) ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

next chapter -»

※ Summary: Unpleasantly, K feels the return of the drowning sensation he had felt earlier. It is almost as though someone had placed a mirror in front of him in a dream. The reflection is him, but distinctly not. ※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ※ Content/tags: Canon-typical violence, Descriptions of a Crime Scene, Eye Horror, Descriptions of Injury, Frottage, Handjobs, Implied Reoccurring Sexual Abuse by a Supervisor, Emotional Hurt, Identity Issues, References to Greek Mythology, Hand Holding ※ Word count: 4,789 ※ Status: Chapter 1 / Complete ※ Author's note: I would have had this chapter up and ready to go sooner but the Saw franchise came into my life like a brick through a window. 😔 K and Six are close to being my Roman empire alongside Driver and Ken. I hope ya'll enjoy this pairing as much as I do. ※ Song inspiration: Like Real People Do - Hozier

Rice today. Not steaming, just cold and forming a congealing lump in the corner. There had been some sort of sad attempt at vegetables to go with it, but those had long since been further pulverized between K’s teeth and swallowed down. Currently on his fork is the last chunk of grub protein. It had been textured and flavored to look and taste like chicken. The replicant can’t vouch for the authenticity of it. Real poultry was something only the wealthy could dream of.

The tines of the metal fork are barely between his parted lips when Joi glitches to a halt, frozen mid sentence. She is “sitting” on window ledge, in the midst of prattling on about the breeds of chickens she might like to keep if they had the space. Privately, K thinks he might like to keep bees in another life.

A telltale chime of an incoming call seems to come from Joi’s open mouth, eking out past her teeth. It’s his madam. He knows it before the popup flashes to life to the left of his pretend wife’s face. There’s no one that would call him other than Lieutenant Joshi. He lets his fork clatter into the container, bite untaken.

“Accept call,” he addresses the projection.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your night. I’m sure you have plans.” Joshi’s voice sounds wrong, insincere, coming from Joi’s frozen figure. He averts his eyes, stares at the table so he doesn’t have to look at the mockery.

“Of course not, Madam.” K shoves down the ball of emotions that want to burst out of his chest like a living, breathing creature and keeps his tone free of anything resembling bitterness. She knows that she’s not interrupting anything. Even if she were, it wouldn’t make any difference. He’s always at her disposal for any whim. She owns his time. Owns him.

“I’m having you meet up with another officer. I’ll send over the coordinates. An informant tipped us off to a possible meeting place for some of the skinjobs we’ve been searching for. I need you to go sniffing around out there. See what you find. Might be nothing, might be a whole lot of something.

“Yes, Madam,” he agrees, getting to his feet. His body is thoughtlessly obeying.

“And, K? The officer.” He reflexively looks up at the sound of his name. “He’s one of your kind,” his madam says, ending the call. K stands beside his vacated chair, stunned. He accidentally ignores his pretend wife when she tries to resume their playacting like she hadn’t been stalled. Joi is talking, flitting around him with buzzing touches of her slender hands, but it feels as though he’s under water.

He tells himself that the details don’t matter, that who, or rather what, he works with is of no consequence. A job is a job. The officer forces his mind to compartmentalize as he goes through the motions of readying himself for night ahead. He is proficient at digging in the earth of his mind and laying thoughts in shallow graves. It keeps him out of retirement.

Mind carefully blank, he sets the remnants of his dinner inside the small refrigeration unit. His stomach needs to be as empty as it can be for this. If K had had more warning, he simply would not have eaten yet.

Once in the main room again, he “kisses” Joi goodbye before turning off the console responsible for her. The hard line unit that crosses the ceiling shrinks back into a neutral position like a kenneled animal. There’s no emulator to take her with him. Not yet. Soon. He’s only a few more payouts away.

K moves further down the hall that makes up the entryway. With slightly unsteady fingers, he pulls his long coat off of the peg and shrugs the reassuring weight of it over his shoulders. He checks the firearm in his holster. It’s firmly tucked into the synthetic leather, nothing amiss. He hadn’t bothered to take his equipment off before dinner, having had an uneasy feeling. Intuition had evidently been working behind the scenes. He’s already wearing his boots, usually is unless he’s in bed or in a rare state of undress. K prefers to avoid the feeling of cold tile against the bottoms of his feet. Satisfied that he is as prepared as as he is going to get, the replicant slides the door open and exits his apartment unit.

The stairs are as treacherous as always. They are perpetually overcrowded and K is resigned to knowing that the milling throng is on the cusp of a riot every time they are reminded that yes, he does exist and, yes he lives in this building alongside them. Conditions are not much better once he steps out in the neon lit glow of the night. He flips his collar up and fastens it shut against the smog and the near constant freezing rain. It’s a short walk to the parking garage where he keeps his spinner. It, like the apartment and his firearm, had been provided as a courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department.

He presses his fingertip to onto the door lock for the spinner. It beeps in acknowledgment, releasing the latch and letting the door swing upwards. He doesn’t wait for it to open all the way before shoving himself into the pilot’s seat and slamming it closed. The replicant’s tumultuous emotions are not so suppressed that they don’t bleed out into his actions. He’s never been paired with another of his kind before. He was made to go solo. Organics don’t trust groups of them, not since the rebellion, the riots. Pack hunters would be too dangerous even with the compulsion for obedience woven into their assembled DNA. There’s a part of him that’s almost excited, being on the same side for once.

The spinner’s systems light up with the touch of a button. As soon as the computer screen comes online, K checks his messages to find that his madam did send over the coordinates as promised. It only takes a few taps of his fingers to get the GPS running. He straps himself in, harness material digging uncomfortably across his chest, and manually steers the vehicle out of the garage and off of the pavement. Once he reaches cruising altitude, he sets it on autopilot. The spinner can handle itself until he reaches his destination.

During the flight, Officer K studies the provided aerial photos of the location. Nothing of note to see, he memorizes the layout all the same. It never works out to be surprised. He makes notes of where the other officer parked, and unable to help himself, he looks for details on the replicant. His efforts only muster up a number, no photo. A Nexus 9, but so is K and most other police controlled replicants these days. They needed to be stronger, faster; more capable than the older models. Bred for compliance. No mistakes. No abnormalities. Never a state of life too late to cull.

A beeping sound draws him from his contemplation, the spinner has delivered him. He flips off the autopilot and puts his hands on the wheel. He puts the machine down next to the other officer’s on a patch of broken up concrete. It was an old parking lot for what his implicit tells him was a store. It’s nothing but a shell now, roof blown off and the walls crumbling in the acidic elements. Despite the ruin, it still serves to hide them from the more intact warehouse behind it. He ducks out of the spinner into the open air the moment the door lock releases. He pauses for a moment to lean back into the vehicle to deploy his parrotfish. Having it in the air provides a sense of relief. It ensures less work and more security if things go sideways outdoors.

He straightens up and casts a critical look at his surroundings. There is no one else around that he can see. The other spinner is unoccupied, but something catches his attention. There is something written in the growing flakes on top of the other officer’s vehicle. Closer examination reveals that it’s a crudely done map, clearly traced out with a fingertip. It depicts two rectangles and a triangle. There are dashed lined leading from the triangle to the closer of the two rectangles. At the end of the line is an X. Presumably, the map is saying that the other replicant left the spinner and looped around the side of the defunct store and will be waiting at the corner of that building to have a line of sight to the warehouse they are charged with investigating. K feels thankful. This will save him hassle in locating his assigned companion.

A faint shadow passes over K and the map he’s still staring at. He looks up to see that the parrotfish from the spinner is doing lazy circles. His has joined in on the motion. The effect is of two vultures circling a carcass. It would be a bad omen for someone superstitious. Good thing he wasn't made to be.

K follows the barely visible trail in the slush. Deep boot tracks, likely from a male judging from the size of the footwear and the length of the stride. They match his own in a way that makes his stomach roll. Before long, he registers a figure leaning against the wall right where the map had indicated. The other replicant’s head is turned in the direction of the warehouse. Snow has settled over the shoulders of the jacket in a similar thickness to the spinner’s dusting.

There is no reaction from the replicant, even though K knows that the other officer has to be aware of his prescience. He had not been making any effort to mask the sucking sounds of his boots in the slush.

“KS6-2.8.” K’s tone is neutral. It’s not a polite greeting. There is no need for one. They’re here on business and neither is superior to the other. Both came from an artificially constructed womb.

The other replicant turns.

Unpleasantly, K feels the return of the drowning sensation he had felt earlier. It is almost as though someone had placed a mirror in front of him in a dream. The reflection is him, but distinctly not. His mirror image has neatly trimmed facial hair where K has nothing but thick stubble. There are faint crow’s feet by his eyes that K hasn’t aged into yet. If he even gets the opportunity. More startling is a glaring similarity, one that he never would’ve expected. They have the same misalignment of their eyes, the same sagging eyelid. Their genetic source must have had the same flaw.

“KD6-3.7. You’ve been briefed?” The other '9 asks. Nothing is given away on his face. If he’s surprised to see himself looking back into his eyes, he doesn’t show it.

“Yes.” K feels his lips twist up in a smile that seems friendly enough if you don’t look too close. The other officer raises an eyebrow. He’s not fooled. K drops the smile, his eyes harden. His companion’s jaw is working, he’s chewing on something. Tobacco? Gum? Seems like he’s not without his own vices. K supposes that they all must do something to feel a little more human, a little more real.

“You ready? The lead’s not going to get any fresher,” K says as a follow-up when the silence drags on longer than he would like.

KS6-2.8 only nods. The other replicant pushes off the wall and trudges through the ankle deep snow, leading the way. It’s disconcerting watching him. K gets the uneasy sensation he’s watching his own body walk away from him. The hair is longer and the muscles are bulkier, but all the same…

The only sounds to accompany them are the sloppy crunch of their footfalls and the crackling flapping of plastic sheeting somewhere in the distance. They reach the front of the warehouse only to realize that it’s completely blocked off with layers upon layers of chain link. It must have been taken from the building’s product cages. There are no windows.

A low grumble gets K’s attention drawn back to his fellow officer. The other replicant signals him to follow with a crook of his gloved fingers. He’s taking the lead and K knows he should probably find issue with that, but he doesn’t. He is willing to be obedient, for now. It must be the novelty of working alongside someone who doesn’t have the room to maintain a moral high ground.

Once around the corner and at the back of the warehouse, the replicants split up. K briskly angles himself at the loading docks while his assigned partner checks the back door to see if it can be pried open from the outside. He spots a slightly raised loading door. It’s likely wedged fast, but there should be enough clearance for at least him to slide under. With any luck, the additional bulk of his fellow Nexus 9 shouldn’t prohibit him from getting through as well.

No ladder. K quietly whistles to get KS6-2.8’s notice. The response is immediate.

“Got something?” The other replicant asks, moving to stand alongside him. There is a yawning cavern of space between them. It doesn’t feel right.

“Open door.” K responds, a jerk of his head at the sheet metal in question.

With nothing more than a quiet grunt, KS6-2.8 drops into a crouch and offers his cupped hands to him. K accepts the boost, as foreign as the assistance is. Once on the platform, he offers his hand and hauls the other replicant up. There is something comforting about their interlocked hands. K drops it as soon as the other officer is settled and scrambles under the door. The rubber seal catches on the back of his coat. His partner joins him shortly.

The loading area is unlit. Dark. Without the moon’s light bouncing off the snow, K can make out the faint, golden glow of KS6-2.8’s pupils. There are still are still traces of the older generations in them both. If K were sentimental, he would say that his predecessors were something like family. Good thing he wasn't made for that either.

K’s boot catches on something and he stumbles. The concrete floor is littered with old, torn scraps of nylon rope and shreds of plastic wrap. The wood pallets that would have filled this place are long gone. Used for firewood most likely. There’s nothing of apparent value left.

They push their way through into the main part of the warehouse. The shelving has been moved to form corridors. It’s a maze, one with a high possibility of some entity stalking them in these enclosed paths. There is a faint glow accompanied by an odor that makes the hair on the back of K’s neck stand up. Without saying anything, both replicants work their way in that direction. It's slow going. They have to inch sideways in some areas, their shoulders too broad otherwise. K irrationally imagines unraveling a ball of yarn to mark their way out.

The smell is getting worse the closer they get to the light. Bile threatens to rise in his throat alongside the bites of dinner he had swallowed down not even a handful of hours ago. No amount of jobs will ever desensitize him to this. K does not have the stomach for this career. Not that it matters. He was made not to protest.

It’s as though they hit a wall of heat and rot when they breach the center of the maze. Both officers can only stand shoulder to shoulder and take it all in. Bodies circle a gasoline heater, tucked into makeshift beds on the floor. They’ve all been dead for a while. The decomposition appears to be consistent among them all. Mass killing? Suicide? They are all naked.

There is a lit lantern sitting on top of the heater. K can’t believe that the place hasn’t blown. Realization strikes him like a bolt of lightning.

“CO2 poisoning, you think?” asks the replicant at his side, echoing his silent epiphany.

“Probably.”

As one, they spread out into the room. While K turns off the heater, cutting the supply of carbon monoxide being pumped into the warehouse, KS6-2.8 checks each decomposing face. K watches as he holds open the right eyelids of each body to make sure they all still have the eye necessary for their investigation. For each replicant he checks, the other officer reads off numbers taken from one of the files that had been provided to them. There’s no data pad in sight, he might have memorized each face’s corresponding numerical designation.

K knows that they will still have to take the eyes in order for Joshi to be satisfied. Anyone can change their face with enough money and the decomposition is too advanced for their field scanners to read the slowly deflating eyeballs here at the scene. K is mostly just thankful they have eyes left at all. It makes things easier. Replicants rarely receive dental care. The chances of identifying them by their teeth are slim to none.

While he is in the midst of pulling out a roll of evidence bags from an inside pocket, he catches a glimpse of his partner suddenly going stiff and standing up from his crouch beside one of the bodies. He doesn't have the time to question the other replicant. There is a sudden, crushing pain in his side and the edges of his vision go dark. He crumples to the grimy floor and tries to struggle to his feet as his assailant is knocked away by KS6-2.8. His head is ringing. The image of a glowing, white fountain materializes in his scrambled vision. Bile clouds his throat before he realizes that it's only the lantern.

K stands, shakier than he would like, and gets his breathing under control. The scene unfolding before him is disconcerting. KS6-2.8 is wrestling with their attacker, clearly another replicant judging by the way he’s managing to hold out even slightly against K’s fellow officer. K reckons that he must be an older generation given that he’s gradually losing ground. He’s missing the final edge to make it a truly even fight. Despite the disadvantage, the replicant manages to shove KS6-2.8 hard enough that the officer’s foot goes straight through the chest cavity of one of the rotting replicants. Their would-be killer lets out a howl that drowns out any protest from K’s partner, as violent and earsplitting as if it had been his chest that was caved in. K’s fellow ‘9 is forced to let himself fall backwards into the soupy embrace of another corpse as the assailant takes wild swings at his face with a sharp piece of metal produced from a pocket of his ragged jacket. A rudimentary knife.

Still disoriented, K doesn’t think before he pulls his gun out of his shoulder holster and shoots. A red mist signals that the bullet found its mark. The attacking replicant is still alive, even as he falls to his knees and slumps over KS6-2.8. K didn’t shoot to kill. He has questions.

A few strides has him standing over the two replicants. He fists his hand in the back of the assailant's jacket and pulls him off of his companion. His gun is re-holstered and he’s not gentle when he hauls the replicant to his feet. Blood pulses hotly from the wound that K inflicted, soaking through a scarf that is tightly wrapped around his neck. He’s bleeding out. Rapidly. The bullet had nicked a carotid.

KS6-2.8 gets to his own feet with a groan, the back of his jacket soaked through with whatever liquids the dead replicant still had pooling in their body. He hooks his hand under the older gen.’s arm and together he and K shove him up against one of the shelving units forming the room. K holds their attacker steady as his partner slams the hand holding the scrap metal over and over into a shelf post until the replicant is forced to let it fall from his grasp with a clatter onto the concrete.

As soon as the makeshift weapon is out of the equation, K starts his questioning. “What are you doing here?”

Nothing, just a rasping breath. The replicant is wild eyed and frothing at the mouth like a rabid animal K had heard described in a decades old report. It had been from a time when there were still enough real, organic animals around to carry and spread the disease.

“What happened to the others?” He tries again.

That gets a response. “I saved them.”

“Saved them how?” K questions.

“I could have saved you too. But you wouldn’t let me. Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams. Sweet… dreams…” The pinned replicant laughs and laughs and laughs, eyes wide and gleaming with a feverish shine.

Suddenly, he lunges at K, tearing out of his and KS6-2.8’s shared grip. The open maw reaches to snap closed on his nose, strings of saliva shining obscenely in the lantern light. His contact is stopped short by a bullet blazing through his left eye, blowing the back of his head open in a nightmarish spread. It’s over. Done. KS6-2.8 saw to that. K can taste the blood in his mouth. His hair is plastered flat with another one of his kind’s brain matter. They had encountered the beast in the maze, their very own Minotaur, and they had slaughtered it.

KS6-2.8 holsters his gun, trading it for a small knife taken from his pocket. He pries the eye out with steady fingers, severs the optic nerve. They let the dead replicant slump down against the shelf. He’s a warden over the eternally slumbering bodies. K retrieves the roll of bags he had dropped in the scuffle. He opens one and lets KS6-2.8 drop the severed eye inside before sealing it. He fills out information panel printed on the thin plastic with a pen that had been stashed inside his pants pocket.

Together, silently, they approach the nearest body in the circle. It is the one with the caved in chest cavity. They both crouch. K steadies the head while the other officer removes the leathery eye. He offers another bag. His partner drops it in. They repeat this same procedure three times before the silence is broken.

“Six.”

K looks up from the face he’s holding. The other replicant is looking at him, blue eyes unflinching. Blood is pooling in the hollow of the collarbone K can just barely see. A question is forming on his lips, but before K can bring it to life, the officer speaks again.

“KS6-2.8. Six.”

Oh. Warmth floods him. They are the same. Interlinked.

“K,” he responds. Something forbidden is clawing at him.

The other replicant, no, Six smiles. His teeth are a dazzling white in the gloom. Predatory. His canines are noticeably sharp compared to the rest of his teeth. They are like his. Would they feel the same as K’s own underneath his tongue? He shakes the thought off, buries it with hundreds of others, and they finish collecting the eyes.

While Six is occupied with a final survey of the rotting scene, K approaches the recently retired replicant. He kneels beside him for a moment, as though he’s paying graveside respects, before he reaches out and unwinds the blood soaked scarf from around his neck. If he still had his eyes instead of one taken and one shot out… well, K isn’t sure how he’d be looking at him. The fabric of the scarf is wet and gritty underneath his fingers, packed with old, infertile soil. He rolls it up and slips it into an inside pocket of his coat. It won’t be missed. He legitimizes his presence at the replicant’s side by picking up the makeshift knife off the floor and depositing it into an evidence bag.

Nothing else comes out of the darkness. There’s old trash strewn on the floors. They don’t find any more bodies, only the drag marks of old blood. It looks as though not all of them had gone peacefully in their sleep from the high concentration of carbon monoxide. Their attacker had gone mad in the dark. They find his ramblings on the walls. Some of it is carved into the material, some of it is painted on with substances they don’t want to address. It’s a manifesto of sorts. It seems like this might have been a splinter of a larger movement.

A team will have to be called in to photograph the scene. K will pour over the evidence later, put the pieces together. He’s going to be spending more time in the bullpen than anyone wants.

They leave the way they came, following an imaginary string. Their pockets are laden down with bags of stolen eyes. The weight of what they had experienced together is a heavier burden.

K slides under first the door first again. He doesn’t need to assist the other officer into standing but he does. Six’s hand is a comfort after what they had just done. The other officer holds on long enough to assist with K’s journey off the loading dock before letting go to drop down beside him.

They walk side by side, close enough that their bloody knuckles brush. K wants to take the other replicant’s hand, feel him finger to finger. He doesn’t dare, not under the open night sky.

“You okay?” Six asks.

“He cared about them.”

His partner’s stride doesn’t falter. He merely makes a noise. Agreement? Placation? K can’t tell. Neither of them can say anything more without tipping their hand and potentially revealing more than is safe.

“Are you?” K asks, biting down the rising tide of things he wants to say instead.

“It’s just another Thursday.”

K nods. He can relate to the sentiment.

They reach the spinners, K unlocks his and drops into the driver’s seat. Six leans against of the side of the vehicle while K powers it on. The LAPD logo appears on the screen. “Madam, please.” he tells the unit. It dials her. She picks up on the second ring.

“You’re a mess.” her tone is curt. Her eyes flick to where she can barely see the other replicant in the frame. Her severe expression deepens to a frown. “Report?”

“There was one survivor. He took the others to the retirement home. Weeks ago from the look of things.”

“Those his brains?” She asks.

“Yes, Madam.”

She makes a considering noise, “You or him?” she asks with a jerk of her head to the other officer.

“Both,” Six cuts in before K can answer. It gets a sigh from Lieutenant Joshi. She is going to have to make sure they both get a bonus. One that, by rights, should be solely Six’s since he was the one who put the final bullet in the old gen. K feels appreciation curl in his gut.

“We have all the eyes, Madam. Should we turn them into evidence or bring them to you directly?” K asks politely, seeking to soothe Joshi’s ire. He does not want a correctional visit from her. He vaguely wonders if the gore spattered vision of him will linger in the back of her mind and keep her at bay for a while. Will she imagine the squish of brain matter between her fingers when thinking about pushing his head down?

“Drop them off. I’ll send a team out for the rest. Come on back for your baselines.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Joshi ends the call, forehead creased with agitation. K recalls his parrotfish. A quick rap of the knuckles on the hood of the spinner and a nod is all the goodbye he gets from Six before the other replicant gets settled in his own spinner and goes through the necessary motions.

They take off, roughly in sync with one another. They are both going back to the LAPD headquarters.

His mind races with the passing city, alight with more curiosity than he should be feeling. Six is not what he expected. He knows that it nearly unheard of to come across another law enforcement owned Nexus with a shared face. The police departments don’t like their skinners to have matches. It complicates things. Their genetic code is engineered to result in different features, even from the same source DNA. They are meant to feel alone, to feel dreadfully distinct.

next chapter -»

[delimeful]

a still-glowing ember (2)

warnings: g/t, remus pov-typical violence/gore/innuendo, ignoring one's needs/magical burnout, self destructive behavior, hypothermia, death mention

-

If Remus didn’t find his brother soon, he was going to burn this stupid forest to the ground.

He decidedly ignored the way the night’s cold was seeping into him, frost biting deep enough that he probably couldn’t even conjure a spark, let alone a flame.

That wouldn’t stop him. He’d figure out how to start a fire the human way if that was what it took.

(And afterward, if Roman’s spark had already extinguished by the time he found him– he would find him– Remus would figure out how to burn to death the human way, too.)

They’d never be able to come back to this valley, anyhow. Remus had snatched three whole territory markers from a shifter as he headed north, using the decision-making process that had gotten him labeled ‘a danger to himself and others’ at his first colony.

What could he say? Roman was the closest thing he had to impulse control.

He’d considered going back for another one– the temperature drop as the sun set was killer, literally– but stealing foxfire was the sort of thing one couldn’t repeat without getting gleefully disemboweled by a pissed-off fox shifter, and who would track down Roman then?

Already planning exactly how he’d make fun of his brother for losing to a measly storm, Remus flapped his wings sharply, sending another wave of warmth through them and ignoring the way the cold pit in his chest deepened a bit more.

It didn’t matter. He’d always wondered what it would feel like to gutter down to ashes, anyhow.

The world’s most torchable forest continued to look the same no matter how far he flew, all thick-trunked trees and mossy undergrowth that he’d normally be eager to taste test. There was barely anything resembling a breeze, so the murmur of rustling leaves had been completely overtaken by the hum of insects and distant calls of night birds.

The lack of wind was just another stroke of bad luck. Normally, without any drafts to coast on, sprites would find a perch to occupy. He couldn’t glide for long, meaning that his half-frozen wings were working twice as hard to keep him in the air.

He had to keep moving. Roman was out there somewhere, perched in one of these identical trees or flitting from branch to branch in his own search. If he actually cared that Remus was missing, that was. Remus’s brain was beginning to suggest otherwise.

Maybe he’s glad to have the chance to get away from you, his mind offered. You should hunt him down and break his wings into little frozen splinters.

There was a heavy thud and rustle nearby, and Remus veered towards it, because investigating things that could potentially murder him sounded way better than listening to the squishy gray matter in his skull.

The source of the commotion turned out to be a sizable bear, shuffling its way down the trunk of a large tree. Remus circled around the scene on quiet wings, taking in the practiced movements of the beast.

Oh yeah, that could definitely murder me, he thought, successfully sidetracked. In a single hit, even. One of those paws probably weighed as much as three of him.

It was a moon bear, he was pretty sure, just barely able to see the telltale sliver of cream fur on its chest in the dark of the night. Not one of the more carnivorous species, boo.

No idea what it had been doing up there, but he didn’t have time to pursue the distraction any further.

With all the turning, his glide had shifted to more of a controlled fall, and he flapped his wings a few times, ignoring the way the bear’s attention shifted towards his direction. The flaps were frustratingly weak, slowed by encroaching icy numbness, and he forced another surge of warmth through them.

His spark pulsed painfully, and in the next moment, his vision blacked out entirely.

His wings flailed out to try and brake automatically, but vertigo had struck like a viper, and he could hardly tell up from down. There was wind in his ears now, which probably meant that he was currently hurtling towards a very splattery end.

He’d always said he wanted to go out screaming and covered in someone else’s blood, but he couldn’t even draw breath to yell, his whole body struggling to right itself amidst the pain of nearly burning himself out.

There was a sudden impact against one wing, hard but thin– a branch? Any semblance of direction vanished as he tumbled head over heels through what felt like an endless stretch of bush. Each stinging lash hurt, but by the time he hit the ground, his momentum had slowed enough to make the impact totally agonizing instead of extremely fatal.

He lay there for a few long moments, stunned or possibly paralyzed. He couldn’t really tell if the snapping sounds had been the branches around him or all of his bones. Slowly, his vision began to fade back in, each blink bringing a new arrangement of black spots.

Distantly, he finally registered an odd sound, one that was gradually growing closer.

Snuffling.

Oh, right. The bear.

Moon bears weren’t particularly active carnivores, but their primary meat intake was carrion. He remembered because he’d thought it was extremely funny, and also an excellent fact to gross Roman out with.

Remus attempted to twitch a wing, and failed miserably. His whole body felt like it had been tenderized into a paste.

… He was pretty sure he counted as carrion, at this point.

Getting eaten by a bear was a cooler death than hitting the ground because he forgot how to fly, at least.

The rustling of leaves intensified as something began pushing past the bush’s branches, presumably searching for him.

There was the sour taste of misery on the back of his tongue, knowing that if Roman was still alive out there somewhere, Remus had abandoned him with not even a corpse left behind. It was his own fault, he thought with a pang of aimless violent fury. If he’d been smarter or quicker or more reserved about his search, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

He was distracted from the impulse to bite down on his own arm– half to vent his anger and half because if something was going to eat him, he wanted the first bite– by the sensation of something soft and warm grazing him.

It was like his body remembered it was freezing all at once. He leaned against the warmth despite himself, his breath catching as a new wave of involuntary shivering agitated every bruise and bump he had, and struggled to think past the sensation.

The thing grabbing him wasn’t a bear mouth, he realized, mildly disgruntled. There were no teeth. Only a bunch of flexible, appendage-like protrusions poking through the brush and curling around him.

The mystery of it all was the only thing keeping his mind off his shrieking nervous system as his battered frame was steadily pried free from the bush’s tangled grasp. He stared down at the fleshy lump settled across his chest like a band and abruptly realized he was looking at a fingernail.

A hand. Had a human somehow grabbed him? Remus blinked, dizzily sinking into the warmth of it. Maybe they could help him with the forest fire. He’d been planning to set something on fire human-style, hadn’t he?

“Try to stay awake. Your body temperature is dangerously low,” a low, measured voice informed him.

Remus hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes until he opened them to the sight of a considerably larger face looking down at him. Not human after all, going by those fangs and the round, fuzzy black ears atop the stranger’s head. Where had he seen those ears before…?

The stranger had continued talking, not that Remus had caught any of it, and was now levering his arm up between two fingers and pressing on it. It felt gentle, but sensations could be deceiving in the cold, so it was totally possible he was about to watch his humerus get snapped in two. The stranger was staring at him expectantly now, as though a question had been asked.

Remus didn’t have an answer, but having finally figured out just what kind of shifter was holding him, he did have something to say. Inhaling past his bruised ribs, he tilted his head back against the palm he was resting on to make eye contact.

“You’re beary hot,” he managed, and with his piece said, proceeded to immediately pass out.

–

Remus woke up to fur in his mouth.

“Pfah,” he said, coherently.

The fur underneath him twitched, everything swaying slightly as though wherever he was laying wasn’t exactly solid ground. He was also sweltering, which was a great state for him to be in if he didn’t want his spark to go out from overstress. Really though, how much fur did one have to inhale to start coughing up hairballs?

There was a careful oversized breath, and then the surface below him abruptly shifted to something much flatter and smoother. Fabric, Remus realized, his cheek pressed against distinct woven threads.

“Hello,” a voice rumbled through him, large and close. “You’re on top of me. Please don’t be alarmed.”

Remus waggled his eyebrows blearily, still too disoriented to even contemplate being alarmed. Besides, he didn’t startle easily. He was normally the one alarming.

“Did you at least buy me dinner first?” he asked, his delivery weakened by the instant pain that blossomed in his chest. “Ow.”

“My apologies,” the voice replied. “I was unable to reduce the bruising of your ribs, since applying ice would have only worsened your condition. I did not prepare any dinner, because you were unconscious.”

Either this guy had the best deadpan in the business, or the innuendo had completely flown over his head. Remus was delighted regardless.

He struggled to push himself upright, his entire body protesting severely, and a giant hand lifted into his line of sight, hurriedly curving around him as a supportive measure. The feeling was familiar, and Remus went rigid as he recalled exactly how he’d gotten here.

“Where are we?” he asked, all traces of his lackadaisical attitude gone.

If the stranger was surprised by his sudden intensity, he didn’t show it. “My home. It’s a cave near the northwestern edge of the valley, and I brought you here after seeing–”

“You motherfucker,” Remus swore, and twisted to bite down on the stranger’s hand.

The fingers contracted briefly, but surprisingly enough, didn’t collapse down to instinctively crush him.

“Ow.” The stranger’s voice was insultingly monotone about the attack, which admittedly hadn’t even broken skin. “Stop that. There’s no need, I don’t intend you any harm.”

Seeing that his best efforts weren’t cutting it, Remus unlatched his jaw and craned his neck to scowl up at them. “Forget harm! You kidnapped me while I was in the middle of something!”

“Yes,” they replied dryly, “dying. I noticed.”

“How long has it been?” Remus asked, shoving to his hands and knees. “Is it still night?”

There were two hands hovering anxiously over him, now. “Not long has passed. There are still several hours until dawn breaks. Why?”

“Because I’ve got a featherbrain brother to find,” he said, “so sorry to smash-and-dash, stranger, but you’ll have to abduct me to your cave against my will another time.”

The stranger went quiet for a long moment, during which Remus painstakingly managed to push himself up to a standing position, though his wings were limply dragging behind him.

He couldn’t really see very far before his vision went blurry, so he wasn’t sure entirely where the exit was, but he could figure it out. It was a cave, after all: either he’d find the opening or he’d walk endlessly deeper and deeper into the earth like a dumbass.

Before he could successfully balance well enough to take a step towards one of those destinations, though, a shadow fell over him.

“My name is Logan,” the shifter spoke up, “and I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

As easily as a breeze would pick up a leaf, Logan scooped Remus off his feet back into his cupped palm.

“Nobody ‘lets’ me do anything!” Remus snapped back, thrashing as best he could against the grip. Seeing as he currently had the strength of a newborn kitten, it didn’t do much. “Come on, you can eat my corpse later, I’ve got time-sensitive shit to do!”

The comment earned him a minor twitch. “I have no desire to eat your corpse. That would defeat the entire purpose of this venture, which is to prevent you from becoming a corpse in the first place.”

“My corpse, my business!” It was frustrating to know that if they had met in normal circumstances, Logan was exactly the sort of stiff-backed repressed nerd that Remus would have delighted in teasing. Almost as frustrating as the fact that the dork wouldn’t let him go!

With a huff, Remus gave up on avoiding agitating his wounds and threw himself into struggling with no care for bodily harm.

“Listen to me,” Logan tried, sounding slightly more harried. “Your internal temperature is only barely beginning to recover. If you expose yourself to the frigid weather outside for any longer–!”

“Oh, I’ll expose myself alright,” Remus snarled, because what was the point of nonsensical threats if they couldn’t also be saucy? “Roman is out there in that weather!”

“And you’ll be no help to him if you choose to freeze to death out of simple, ignorant stubbornness!” Logan literally growled, the noise vibrating through Remus and lingering in the back of the shifter’s chest. “I will help you search once you’ve stabilized, but until then, you are at my mercy.”

Remus stared up at him, in utter disbelief that someone could make playing nursemaid to a sprite sound so threatening.

Logan’s expression softened, but his grip remained firm. “I refuse to sit by and watch such foolishness. I won’t be made to explain it to your brother.”

Maybe it was the way his words assumed Roman’s survival after Remus had spent the whole night imagining the worst, or maybe Remus was just exhausted enough for a rational argument to have an effect on him for once.

Either way, he clearly wasn’t winning this fight. He let his body flop limply against Logan’s hand with no little amount of petulance.

“If you don’t help me search, I’ll learn how to perform surgery on giants just so I can fill your organs with flesh-eating wasps.”

Logan took the concession for what it was, and only raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to lock me in a room with the wasps? My flesh would be eaten either way, right?”

It was the perfect question to distract himself with. Remus launched into a heated defense of the differences between external versus internal flesh consumption as torture methods, barely noticing as Logan carefully moved his limp wings back into a more comfortable resting position.

The shifter kept asking questions as he cupped his hand against his chest, creating a cushion of warmth on all sides. Remus kept talking even as drowsiness began to set in, a sprite cradled up against the heartbeat of a bear shifter. Heh. He had always wanted to cuddle something that could maul him.

Remus knew the warmth rekindling in his chest was his spark. Still, it felt a little like hope, too.

… Blech, Roman had been rubbing off on him.

He’d have to return the favor once they were reunited.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Atticus | More To Life Than This | Platonic

Requested: Yes

When Atticus finds out that you’re quitting your job as his assistant and instead start to pursue Jesus, he is confused. You have a little heart to heart with him.

The task is clear as day and you can almost smell your promotion as you repeat the mission Atticus had given you inside your mind. Tail the Zealot and report back what he is up to. It gives the Cohortes Urbanae some time to figure things out whilst you keep a close eye on the target in question.

Using your surroundings to your advantage, it is not difficult to seek out the place where the odd Preacher the Zealot has been pursuing is currently speaking to a crowd; you follow the flow of people towards the market square whilst sticking to the shadows to your best ability. After all, the main Romans walking around the village were soldiers, and you, as a young woman wearing something less feminine than what was usually seen in your culture, would stick out like a sore thumb if anyone took notice of your presence, no matter their background.

It is crowded but Jesus stands out as always, with a certain charisma around Him that you can’t quite place yet – it is as if something draws you to Him, and you aren’t sure what to make of it.

You find a place in the shadows, your eyes flitting everywhere in hopes of spotting Simon the Zealot - former Zealot - and you find him attempting to usher a few eager individuals away from Jesus, attempting to calm them down with words. Leaning against the wall, you cross your arms and smile slightly, taking a mental note. It seems that your target has occupied himself by acting as some sort of bodyguard.

That promotion is going to be served to you on a silver platter. Your heart stutters proudly at the sheer notion, for you have been in pursuit of it for a long time. 

As the apprentice of no one less than Atticus Aemilius Pulcher, you’re both envied and feared amongst your peers. He had been hesitant to take you on as his assistant at first, but he warmed up to your keen eye and sarcastic quips eventually. You could even say that you have developed a friendship overtime. And now, he is sending you out on a trip that seems easy enough, and it will certainly land you a higher position in the Roman ranks once this investigation is brought to a close.

You pull over your hood a little further in the hopes of disappearing from anyone’s attention, yet your gaze remains on Simon, the man your superior wanted you to scout for a while to see what he was getting up to. Atticus had first encountered him when the Zealot had been about to assassinate a Roman Magistrate, but Simon had become distracted by his formerly paralysed brother who walked past him. According to Atticus, the scene had been utterly strange, but mostly incomprehensible. The Zealot discarded his oath to his former order and had instead taken to follow a Rabbi from Nazareth, a Man named Jesus Who had garnered fame over the past weeks in the fishing village. Part of you understands, for every time you catch a glimpse of this Jesus, your heart strangely patters against the inside of your chest.

Suddenly, the air is tense. Someone in the crowd shouts over the others, loud enough to pierce through bone. It takes you a second to register that the source of the noise is behind you, and you pivot to see a man with a gigantic growth on the side of his face approach you. Your eyes widen at the familiarity of him; it is a former Roman soldier, whom you recognise from the outskirts of the city. You can see why he had been exiled, for his eye is swollen and his mouth hangs open on one side, seemingly unable to close fully.

Out of disgust, you wrap a hand over your mouth, the stench coming from him terrible enough to make your breakfast almost creep back up your throat.

“Jesus, take pity on me!” the man wails, the surrounding people parting to make a way towards the Teacher, so appalled by the strange liquid oozing from his eye that they don’t even bother fighting him to the back of the line. Your eyes narrow at the scene as Jesus appears in your field of view more clearly now, and for a moment, your gaze flickers to Simon the Zealot, who does not seem to move away from his current location. It gives you a moment to observe the Jewish Preacher without losing track of your actual target, your curiosity peaked at the way He watches the man walk up to Him. 

“Teacher, please, do n-not turn away from me! My-My family did, my friends did, and-and-and–” 

As the man chokes up, Jesus puts a hand on his shoulder. “Easy there, friend. What is your name?” 

“Titus.”

Jesus hums. “Titus. It is good to meet you here today.”

You frown at the odd scene, surprised that He doesn’t push away the former soldier simply for his affiliation.  “I beg you, please, my growth, it’s… It’s so painful! I know You can heal me.”

Jesus smiles. “You’re a Roman.” “Yes, Teacher.”

“And you came to see me, a Jewish Preacher, to seek healing.”

Titus nods and swallows thickly, the crowd starting to mutter amongst themselves, indignance on their features. “Silence, please,” Jesus quiets them down, and their attention shifts back to the scene taking place in front of them. 

“I prayed and made sacrifices to the Roman gods, but they have left me. Please, take pity on me. You are my last hope.”

With bated breath, you watch how Jesus’ smile grows. “I know,” He states, “I know that you have been in pain for a very long time, ever since that wound inflicted by someone you through who was your friend started to get infected. Your greatest battle is not this injury, but the one inside your heart.”

Titus shivers and nods, fighting back tears, for the saltiness thereof would certainly sting inside his infection. “Yes.” he whispers, “I don’t know what to do with myself. I have heard stories about You, about how You heal people, right? The Miracle Worker.”

For a split second, you turn your focus to Simon to see if he is still there, and to your relief, he is. The last thing you want right now is to have to turn away from this, curious to see where it will go. 

“And you come to Me. Realising that the Roman gods have nothing for you.”

“They have turned away from me.”

“And I will not turn away from you.”

Jesus’ eyes go over the crowd. “In the entirety of Galilee, I have rarely seen faith like the one this man displays. There are more Romans listening today who should take his words to heart.” The second His gaze lands on you, it sticks, and it is as if He is staring right into your soul, “To pursue Me is the greatest purpose one can ever go after. No career will compare.”

Your heart skips a beat, two, three, and you nearly forget how to breathe as Jesus finally tears His attention away from you, whilst He looks back at Titus, who is looking at Him expectantly, with a pleading look on his face. 

“You came to Me in spite of where you come from. There is a place for everyone at God’s table, as long as they are willing to submit themselves in the way you have displayed today. Your faith is beautiful, and I hope that many others will draw inspiration from it, and follow Me.”

Jesus closes His eyes and puts His hand on the large infection, not even bothered by the pus that seeps from it. It does not seem to hurt Titus, who seems to lean into Jesus’ hand further and further, whilst the growth shrinks. 

For a second, you wonder if you are being deceived, but right in front of your very own eyes, it clears right up. Not a trace of the wound remains, and Titus’ swollen eye opens again. A wide grin spreads over his face as he clings to Jesus’ shoulders, gasping. Your legs feel oddly weak in your confusion, your head spinning in puzzlement. 

“Oh, thank You! Thank You! What is the name of your God, Teacher?”

Jesus chuckles. “The Father and I are one.”

“I don’t know what that means, but praise Him! I have been healed! I am a Roman and this Jewish Man healed me! I can barely believe it, but it is real! He must be the One True God!”

The words pierce you like a hot iron. 

The people around erupt into divided responses, some unsure of how to react, some beaming with glee, others scornful towards the fact that He healed a Roman of all people. You put a hand on your chest in an attempt to calm your racing heart, but Jesus’ gaze meets yours again, and He smiles. He smiles and nods at you, your entire form filling with an unknown kind of warmth, as if your very spirit is touched in that second.

Simon the Zealot draws you from your current state as he touches Jesus’ arm in an attempt to lead Him away from the crowd closing in on Him, vying for His attention. For a second, Jesus diverts his focus away from you, but then, it turns back.

At that moment, you make a decision. 

You must follow Him. These words about pursuing Him instead of a career had been meant for you.

Returning the smile, you watch how Simon escorts Him away from the town square, where He disappears into a house.

Allowing yourself a moment to gather yourself, you manage to get your legs to properly work and carry you towards your superior, who is still waiting for you. You know the village like that back of your hand, so seeking Atticus out is no hard task. In your current state of mind, you are glad you don’t have to search for long.

You wonder how he will react, for it would definitely strike a nerve somewhere.

You find him in the alleyway you had agreed to meet in, where Atticus is just conjuring a handful of figs from his pocket and about to put one in his mouth, but he halts when he sees you. 

“Back so soon, (Y/n)? Do you have a report for me?”

Gulping, you gather the confidence to say the right words, but realise that there is no way to not upset the cohorte, no matter how you bring the news.

“I need to talk to you, sir.”

He frowns and turns to you. “Of course. It sounds serious.”

“That is because it is.” you admit, “I… I am going away.” 

For a moment, Atticus seems almost relieved. “If you need to go to a different town to continue your pursuit of the Zealot, you’re free to go.”

“That is not what I meant, sir.” you clarify. “I meant that I am going to pursue the Jewish Teacher.” A small smile forms over your lips as you speak the words out loud. It feels almost freeing to say them. “I saw Him perform a miracle that I cannot simply ignore. He healed a Roman soldier.” 

Atticus looks at you for a long moment, as if you have just said something ridiculous. 

“I have told you before, (Y/n), if you are in need of space to investigate certain trails, there is no need to be hesitant to ask me. I understand that we need to adapt to our circumstances. If pursuing the Preacher will bring you closer to our target, then that’s more than fine, even if it takes another week or so. It would also give you more intel on that interesting Teacher, so it’s like killing two birds with one rock.”

“Forgive me for being straightforward, sir, but you are misunderstanding me.”

Atticus frowns. “Then please, enlighten me.”

For a moment, you try to find the words. The smile that had been so small now broadens, your eyes sparkling at the idea. “All this, this work. It gives me nothing. So… I am leaving. Everything.”

“What do you mean, you are leaving? Why would you leave all of our progress on the mission behind like this? You know that you could get a promotion out of this, and–”

Your smile grows and you hold up your hand to get Atticus to halt in his speaking. “With all due respect, there is no use in protesting my decision. I’ve made up my mind, sir.”

Atticus cannot help but let the corner of his mouth curl upwards. Ever since travelling with you, he’s learnt a truth about you: “And once you’ve made up your mind, nobody can change that. Not even me.”

You reciprocate the smile and finger the small Roman brooch that keeps together your cloak. 

The cohorte looks at you with an expression you’ve seen on him plenty of times, one that tells of deep thought and scrutiny, with a hint of curiosity. 

“Sir?” you query.

“Tell me, (Y/n),” he starts, “What is it about this Man that made you decide on this? I understand that you’re interested in knowing more about Him and his so-called miracles, but… Leaving like this? We’ve been travelling together for a long time and I respect you, but this cannot be left unreported.”

You swallow away the sudden lump of emotion in your throat, for you had indeed built a decent relationship with the otherwise mysterious and reserved Cohortes Urbanae over the past years, so you were certainly going to miss him, and you fold your hands on your back. 

“I just feel like there is more to life than this. More than…” You pause, tilting your head slightly, wondering if the words you’re planning on saying will put you in peril on the account of treason. “To Rome.” you finish your sentence, regardless of the outcome. “To my career. To this.”

Atticus’ face softens. He watches you for a long moment, as if he is probing into your mind in an attempt to understand your thoughts. 

“What I saw,” you clarify your statement, “What He did to that man, I think you and I both know very well that this isn’t some kind of trick. And then, He looked at me, saying something meant for me, something He couldn’t possibly have known. There is no subterfuge, whatsoever. It would make any sense for them to lie about this. Don’t you understand that, Atticus? Jesus is not just a Man… He is way more than that!”

His eyes narrow and he sighs. “I do agree with you that He is unlike anyone else we have ever seen in our line of work. I’ve seen many Preachers, but He does not seek fame nor glory, asks for nothing in return for His services. But it’s a puzzle that I’m still trying to put together, and I would like to advise you to do the same. Don’t rush into things, especially not things like these. This could put you into grave danger if Rome found out, and neither of us would enjoy the outcome.”

You gulp firmly, yet plant your hand on your hip to appear taller than you are. “I am willing to risk it.”

Atticus’ face twists once again. “Truly?” he queries in something akin to disbelief, “Everything you’ve ever worked for, thrown away just like that? I don’t have to tell you how hard you’ve fought to get where you are right now, hm? How am I ever going to explain to Rome that you’re… That you’ve left. To follow a Jewish Preacher.” 

A sudden surge of confidence hits you and you step forward, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Sir,” you firmly state, “You know very well what I am talking about. You are the one who tried to get through to Quintus about the potential threat that this Preacher may pose to the order of Rome in spite of His pacifistic approach, and I have followed your movements and searched for answers myself. I greatly respect you, sir, and all I did was follow your lessons, and this is what I found out. I can no longer remain here when what I’ve discovered about this Preacher is so prominently evident.” 

Pushing his tongue into the inside of his cheek, Atticus narrows his eyes at you. He attempts to find the words, you realise, for you can see the process of thought behind his dark eyes. Then, they slightly glitter as he smiles.

“Okay,” he says, “I cannot argue with that. If that is what you want, then I shall not keep you against your will. I have never had a student like you, so I must admit that I will…” He pauses, nodding as he pats your shoulder, squeezing it firmly, “I will think back fondly on our endeavours as well as your excellent stew.”

You beam back and give a small bow of your head. “I am forever grateful for the opportunity you’ve given me to travel along with you, sir. I have learnt a great deal from you, and I greatly respect you. And, well…” 

Reaching for your brooch, you unclasp it and look at it for a second, watching it shimmer in the light of the sun for you’ve always polished it so carefully, before handing it over to the cohorte, sighing. 

“Thank you, sir.” you whisper, “For everything.”

“You are a strong woman, (Y/n),” he states, “And if you ever change your mind, know that you can always seek me out. You know how to reach me.”

Nodding in agreement, your smile grows. “I will not change my mind, sir, but thank you.” 

Atticus chuckles. “I am convinced that you won’t.”

After a brief silence, you take a deep breath. “So… I’ll try to find them now. I suppose they are in for a surprise when a Roman asks to join their group.” 

Exhaling through his nose, Atticus nods. “Stay safe. And who knows, we might see each other around one day.”

You smile, giving him a small bow. Stepping away, a few rocks crunch under your sandals, and you turn to head towards the crowd again, hoping to find anyone to introduce you to Jesus. 

A sudden thought pops up in your head and you halt in your tracks, a grin making its way onto your face. Casting a look over your shoulder, you find Atticus slightly confused as he gives you a questioning expression. 

“I have a feeling that we might run into one another soon, sir. Perhaps you’d join this side, too.” 

Atticus laughs, but not in a mocking way. Still, he shakes his head. “I doubt that, (Y/n), but the last few weeks we’ve established that miracles do happen.”

Chuckling, you nod. “They indeed do, sir. Take care, now.”

“So long, my friend.”

As you walk away, your mind continues on that thought for a few more moments, and you are suddenly quite certain that you will cross paths with Atticus again soon – maybe sooner than either of you realise.

[bmodiwrites]

Stay Cool, It's Just A Kiss

Howdy sailors! I'm busting out of my normal Steddie mold to dabble with TomGreg. This flew out of me like I was possessed. Here's hoping it at least makes sense! Read all of it down below or click over to AO3 to check it out there. It is rated E, so minors, don't do the thing... Let me know what you think - I could be persuaded to play with these two more in the future!!

Stomping, because he’s already feeling a little heated, Tom loudly makes his way into the ludicrously nice place Logan Roy is housing this all too glorious get together. He’s in the sort of mood that makes the glitz and glamor of richness around him not nearly as shiny as usual. Like always, Tom is floundering around water he doesn’t really belong in, just trying to stay alive.

He tells himself that’s why he unashamedly propositioned Shiv’s infant cousin. Playing it off as a joke is easy because this Greg doesn’t know him all that well. He’s not aware of Tom’s need to fill in the empty spaces with sarcasm and genuine assholishness. For all Cousin Greg knows, Tom is exactly how he described himself – a total fucking prick.

Yet, there’s a part of Tom that recalls the way Greg’s face looked in that awkward moment they experienced together. Usually, Tom is met with immediate disgust but Greg is more confused than anything. His eyebrows squint together heavily, as if scrunching up that gorgeous little face will give him the answer to the mystery that is Tom and his big fat mouth. Greg, who is a stranger to both Tom and the rest of the Roy’s, doesn’t really blink an eye. He simply stares at Tom – there’s no punch thrown or immediate denial. In fact, Tom is over the moon to remember the blush that prettily flitted across Greg’s face.

The infuriating repetition of that sight is the whole reason Tom had to excuse himself from the game in the first place. Between Roman being an asshole and the half-hard monster dick in his pants, Tom can’t focus. He needs to get away from the people who will have a field day if they ever learn about Tom’s instantaneous crush. Shiv knows him well enough to spot the truth in Tom’s proposition if Greg ever decides to buck up and share that little interaction. There’s no hiding from a truth that is only brushed to the side now because Greg doesn’t know any better. How can he – he hasn’t been playing ball with this crazy family they’re surrounded by – not like Tom. Tom understands the unspoken rules of existing amongst the Roy’s.

Never show weakness.

Always keep yourself in mind first.

Play your own game, no matter who you hurt.

With a tidbit of information like this, Tom is certain his entire department could be swept out from under him in the matter of days. It’s best to hold humiliating secrets tight to the chest as a means of protection.

Never mind the fact that Tom isn’t all that ecstatic about sharing the sight of his ill-timed boner with the rest of Shiv’s marvelous family. They already hate him – Tom is scared to think about the kind of fuel his inappropriate state at the moment could add to the rip-roaring bonfire already burning insignificant things down to the ground in its wake. Where the lunatics he’s hoping to marry into are concerned, Tom is better off being the joke than some ruddy pervert.

Upon entering a spare bedroom that no one else looked to be rooming in, Tom immediately let out a huge breath. His palm shifted to the front of his pants where his erection strains for attention. It’s too much to deal with at the moment, playing the never ending board of chess and navigating a midlife crisis where wanting to fuck a near child is actually a good idea. Never mind the fact that Greg, the man-child in question, is Shiv’s cousin. That in and of itself is a lot to unpack and Tom is already feeling a little desperate. Trying to make sense of any of it just isn’t in the cards right now.

Instead, Tom forces his hand back down to his side and away from the pounding need desperately trying to escape. Closing his eyes, Tom tries to think about something, anything at all, that gets his mind away from long legs and blinking doe eyes. He tries to pull up his first bout of embarrassment in seventh grade or the time his mom almost walked in on him jerking off – yet nothing works. There’s no escaping this blooming obsession.  

Tom, without the visual cues of the world around him, is better able to focus on the puzzled expression on Greg’s face and the way his first words aren’t no. He allows himself to picture Greg’s pupils blowing wide with arousal. The skin on the back of his neck prickles as that fantasy morphs into something a lot less wholesome than nature’s reaction to pleasant stimulus.

His mind shifts to those eyes looking up at him as Greg kneels between his legs, that same wrinkle to his brow there, too. Only now, it exists because Greg is focusing on the task at hand ��� deep throating Tom’s enormous cock and loving it. The vision of it is so vivid that Tom is genuinely disappointed when he blinks back to the here and now without any of his imagination following along.

He wants to curse at the person incessantly knocking at the door, disturbing his unsavory musings, but he’s seconds away from getting caught with his hands down his pants. In a lot of ways, the interruption is a blessing in disguise despite the feeling of hollowness opening up a little in Tom’s chest. Whatever’s waiting for him out there has to be better than a dirty round of masturbation in Logan Roy’s spare room.

----

All kinds of confused and a little turned on, Greg decides to follow Tom back into the house. It’s not like anyone is going to miss him – most of his ‘cousins’ are still calling him Craig, even. There’s no one looking at him as he drops his mitt to the ground and strides away. The lack of attention should make Greg’s skin crawl but his mind is otherwise occupied by sharp words and a question made into a joke that Greg is certain really isn’t.

At least, he’s positive enough to open the door after Tom goes through it and test his chances.

Where he’s at in his life, what does Greg really have to lose? Somewhere in that garbage talk Tom threw his way, Greg knows is a real truth. There’s something in his gut that says Tom, someone who’s important enough to be here today, will take care of him if given the chance. At the moment, Greg’s entire body is thrumming with the thought of his current needs being met. Despite risking a beatdown from some jackass, Greg’s steps are sure. His mind is made up.

Greg forces himself to wait to knock after Tom enters the room. He hastily counts to 100, skipping a few numbers here and there in his excitement. For the first time since reuniting with his ‘family’ Greg is feeling some modicum of exhilaration. His entire life isn’t a dumpster fire, not with the prospect of something interesting happening with this fascinating man named Tom.

Fist rising, Greg taps out a soothing rhythm as he asks for entry. There’s no reason for Tom to think it’s him so Greg is not surprised when the door is pulled open in the most aggressive way. They share a heated look for a second, their eyes locking as Tom gathers up the small details of the situation to better orient himself. Greg doesn’t know him all that well but it’s easy to see Tom tries to cloak himself in the guise of control. That’s why he swears and says mean shit, to stay one step ahead – Greg is almost certain of that.

Caught up in his runaway thoughts, Greg misses Tom’s first question. His cheeks color when the older man closes the space between them to get in Greg’s face. “Are you stupid? What are you doing here, Gregory?”

The words his mind came up with on the walk over are nowhere to be found. Greg’s mouth opens and closes, gaping like a fish – the impression he wishes to make is crashing and burning by the second. Soon, he’ll be much too embarrassed to do what his body (and heart) so desperately want him to do.

So, instead of answering, Greg pushes into the room, past Tom, without saying a word at all. His long legs carry him across the soft carpet, putting a bit of space between them again. Despite trapping himself in a corner like a caged animal, Greg feels better knowing walls and a door stand between them and the rest of the feral beasts out there roaming freely. In this space, their secrets, whatever they may be, remain safe and sound.

At least, that’s what Greg is hoping for.

Cutting all of his loses and screwing up the right amount of courage, Greg finally says what his mind supplied instantaneously after Tom asked his inappropriate question. “I would, you know.”

There, he’s said it. It’s out in the open.

Except, Tom squints at him, both hands coming up to cross over his chest. He looks pissed off or taken aback – Greg finds it hard to tell.

“You would, what? I don’t speak in fucking riddles, Cousin Greg.”

Knowing Tom adds the word cousin to rile him up makes this entire situation that much sweeter. Tom has no clue that Greg is eating it up – the quasi-bullying, the mean comments and harsh deliveries. By the end of the night, Greg is the one who’s going to have the upper hand. It’s just a matter of time before Tom finds that out, too.

With a saucy smirk, Greg straightens up, making himself taller. “I would kiss you. I’d do it without being forced to, even.” He looks earnestly over at Tom, gauging his reaction.

It’s silent for a long moment – Greg starts to feel terrified that he’s made the wrong move, that he’s screwed the fucking pooch. The longer the silence goes on, the worse the inkling gets.

Tom, however, is not done surprising him.

After clearing his throat, Tom finally speaks unflinchingly. “Do it, then. Kiss me. Kiss me, Gregory – you little shit. Lay one – “

His words are easily gobbled up by Greg pressing their lips together in a heated kiss. The method is more than successful at shutting Tom up – whatever the older man had on his mind is out the window, gone and billowing in the wind for someone else to hear some other day. Now, Greg is what’s important. That much is true by the way Tom moans sweetly against red lips as Greg deepens the kiss.

The kiss turns hot and sticky sweet. Tom isn’t afraid to thrust his tongue into Greg’s mouth, or fight for dominance as things get even more heated. Both of Tom’s hands are fisted into the front of Greg’s shirt, using that leverage to pull him close. The room is suddenly hot with Tom gripping him so tightly in conjunction with all the other stimuli attacking him, too.

Greg is quick to pull away, though only far enough to get his jacket off of his arms and onto the floor. Without that restriction, it’s glorious to move his rapidly cooling arms. Greg uses the newfound freedom to wrap Tom up in his grip until they’re pressed together chest to chest. Then, Greg abuses the small advantage his height gives him to walk Tom back until his back is pressed against the door. There’s fire in those blue eyes that is new and exciting – Greg desperately wants to see so much more of that.

----

Tom is having a mental breakdown.

That’s all his mind can supply him with as Gregory Hirsch, Cousin fucking Greg, barges into the room and kisses him with gusto. There’s no other explanation for the divine press of lip against lip, nor the sense of satisfaction Tom feels with every brush and swipe of a tongue that tastes like Sprite and cigarettes. It’s maddening which means he’s very quickly catapulting towards the whims of insanity.

Or, he’s about to have the best sex of his life. Tom, being shook up and oxygen deprived, is still trying to decide.

His mind whirs on the subject with every second that passes. It’s astounding to realize that thinking and having his mouth fucked by a man-baby is a hard thing to do. Greg, despite being all gangly limbs and awkward youth, is a good kisser. His hands are huge and take up a lot of real estate on Tom’s back and sides. Despite never admitting to it before, Tom is a big fan of touch like this – his body is on fire, slowly burning away with each new exploratory graze Greg’s big hands choose to bestow upon him.

There are so many other, much more important things, that Tom’s mind can fixate on but the world is all but narrowed down to Greg’s lips and the undulating push and pull of their hips grinding together.

When the hell did that even happen?

Taking so far aback, Tom struggles to pull away from Greg’s incessant ministrations. They both let out what seems to be a sigh of disappointment, though Tom’s head is immediately clearer with a bit more space between them. He’s already too deep to back out but he’s not going down without a fight.

“What do you think this is, Greg? Do you really think I’m that easy?” Tom asks, trying to school his face into a look resembling shit eating. It’s hard to do anything but pant and smile, however – Tom feels the best he’s ever felt. More happy and carefree than any other moment with Shiv or anyone else. He’s so fucked, Greg’s answer doesn’t really matter.

Though, it too aids in the warmth that fills Tom’s guts. Greg, it seems, without even knowing him or interacting with him more than once, has Tom pegged. Right from the start, Greg knows him better than Shiv or Logan, hell even his own mother.

“Yeah, I do. I think you asked me to kiss you because you want me. You want me in the sort of way that uh – makes it hard to do like anything but blurt out the dirty truth. You weren’t joking or stumbling nervously through a thinly veiled attempt at a threat. I interest you and you like that. You want me, Tom.”

Greg enunciates his words with a shift of his hips and the subtle roll of their cocks finally brushing together. The feeling of victory is so sweet – Tom’s cock throbs against Greg’s own, each pulse getting hardier with all the new words that pass through Greg’s lips. Tom likes being put in his place – that much is clear by the jeering taunt and the desperate sigh he can’t help but sigh.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck – Greg, how did you know?” Tom mumbles a half a second before pressing their lips together again, this time much more desperately. His hands move from the front of Greg’s shirt to the thick belt holding up shitty slacks. It’s old and ratty, easy to get the fake leather undone and out of the loop of Greg’s pants in no time. The snap of it hitting the floor makes Tom moan again, the sound echoing around the room to mix with the hasty piling of clothes being discarded.

Buttons come undone and Greg’s hands eventually join in on the fun. They’re awkwardly trying to jerk each other off after a few fumbling minutes it takes them to get each other naked. Tom huffs out a laugh and swats at Greg’s hand. After spitting into his palm, Tom wraps his hand around both of their lengths, eager to resume their desperate pace.

Minutes on end, Greg and Tom share breath. It’s glorious to feel Greg’s hips hump up against him, seeking more friction from the sleeve of his hand around them. Precum and the bit of slick his spit allows him is just enough to ease the ache but not topple them over. Now that Tom’s appetite has been wet, there’s no stopping him from getting his fill.

Not even the desperate plea of Cousin Greg in the throes of passion – though, it’s a close call.

“Uh, fuck – I’m close, Tom. So close,” Greg mumbles after a particularly glorious stroke of Tom’s hand. Their hips are rolling together, both of them on edge.

Tom has just enough brain cells to stop himself, though. His legs feel heavy as he pulls his body away just enough to turn around to face the door. He stays quiet until his chest is pressed against the wood before looking over his shoulder – hopefully glancing in Greg’s direction in the most enticing way possible.

So desperately, Tom wants to get fucked. Feel pleasure and pain and lust without having to protect his back and watch for the fallout. Intimacy with Shiv is a game. With Greg, Tom, despite still not really knowing the kid, is sure he’ll get exactly what he wants.

----

Head full of lust, Greg takes an obscene amount of time to recognize what Tom is putting up on offer. His cock is throbbing from the near orgasm, thoroughly cutting off the pipeline of blood back to his brain. Though, when the fog clears and Greg gets his shit together, the invitation is much too enticing to pass up. Especially with Tom looking over his shoulder so demurely like he is – Greg is but a man with a raging libido that’s never satiated. Throw in Tom’s good looks and his monster cock – at the end of the day, Greg is making out like a bandit. He’s the lucky one here.

Smiling at the thought, Greg sidles up to Tom’s back, wrapping one long arm around his middle. With his other hand, Greg reaches up to trace Tom’s lips with two of his fingers. Softly, almost as a whisper, Greg mutters, “suck.”

Tom wastes no time at all opening his mouth to do exactly what he’s told. The bossy man with sarcastic words and radical insults is nowhere to be found. In his place is someone needy and desperate, so taken apart that he’s thrusting his hips back against Greg in hopes of a little friction or something more.

Greg takes his time marveling at both the beauty before him and the power at his fingertips. Once he feels they’re wet enough, Greg drops his hand from Tom’s mouth, settling it between his pert ass cheeks, instead. Spit probably isn’t enough for what’s to come but Greg is too impatient to look for an alternative. Without any warning at all, his sloppy fingers trace Tom’s hole, pulling a jolt from the older man.

“Fuck, Greg!” Tom gasps, his voice thankfully muffled by the door he’s pressed against. While the party is raging on without them, there’s no need to alert the whole house as to what’s going on so soon. Greg is plenty certain Tom is only going to get louder the longer this goes on. In fact, he’s hoping for it.

After a second, Tom relaxes back, letting Greg easily push his first finger in to the knuckle. Tom is warm and tight around him, like the hot burn of the first hit of pot after a long day. The feeling of home is too much for what is supposed to be a quick fumble, though Greg can’t help the way it settles in and starts to take hold in his chest. He’s not put together enough to fight off the inevitable.

Pulling back, Greg thrusts his finger back into Tom – first gently, then with a little more umph. As predicted, Tom’s voice echoes more loudly around the room with every forward move. Two fingers replace the one eventually, the eager tips of them finding Tom’s prostate almost instantly. Greg reminds himself of that special spot and does his best to hit it with precision throughout the rest of his drawn out prep. Despite being strangers, Greg is compelled to take care of Tom, like it's engrained within him.

When impatience eventually bubbles up to the lip of their passion, Tom turns to look over his shoulder again, a glint of something unnamable in his eye. “Are you going to fuck me, or what?” Even in a position of submission, Tom is still an asshole. As the words process and Greg lets them settle in, a soft smile plays across his lips. They both know there’s no turning back now. The question is specifically to rile Greg up, to get him going and pushing things along.

Luckily, it strikes right where Tom obviously expects – Greg is suddenly desperate to make a space for himself inside that tight heat.

His fingers leave an emptiness that Tom thrusts back against, whining like a lost puppy (or horny little slut, the jury is still out) – the noise goes straight to Greg’s cock, making him even more impatient for what’s to come.

Gripping himself at the base, Greg shifts until the head of his cock is lined up against Tom’s rim. He plays with the pink muscle there, pushing and pressing against it. The tip slips in, breaching Ton for the first time.

“I don’t have a condom. Are you sure?” Greg asks, even as he’s pushing inside to slide forward inch by inch until he’s all the way home.

Snorting out a choked off laugh, Tom shakes his head that’s lulling between his shoulders. “Fuck you, Greg. Just take me. I don’t care – “

A hot burst of lust lances itself through Greg’s skin then – the permission is all he needs to thrust the last couple of inches inside so he’s surrounded by Tom in all ways. Leaning forward, Greg shifts his hips until the tip of his cock is pressed perfectly against that spot inside Tom; it makes him yowl like a cat in heat. If everyone doesn’t already know what they’re doing, it’s obvious now.

That thought sparks something in Greg. He’s a nothing without many prospects but there’s something he’s good at. He can take apart Tom, this seemingly perfectly put together person, and reduce him to groans and pleas and chuffed out noises Greg is certain the man doesn’t even know he’s making. It’s intoxicating and ludicrous all at once. He’s in no position to take or demand. He’s here to grovel, yet this man gives him things freely, without any sort of fight. His body. His trust. Even his irascible passion for more. Greg doesn’t deserve Tom or this gift but he’s going to cling to it for as long as he can.

Bursting through that thought bubble, Greg blinks back to the moment where Tom has one hand on the door to push himself back against Greg’s thrusts and the other fisting his cock. Their pace increased during Greg’s musings and things are quickly hurtling towards the edge of that steep cliff. His toes already feel like they’re hanging off and if Tom’s noises are anything to go by, the older man is standing right there with him.

Encouraged by that, Greg leans his weight even further into Tom’s back and frees a hand from its tight grip on Tom’s hips. Long fingers tangle with Tom’s so both of their hands move  ruthlessly over sensitive skin. Greg moans when the slickness of abundant precum registers – their hands are moving so easily because Tom is very wet. He’s leaking on himself, onto the floor, even against the door every time Greg thrusts forward to pin him against it. The whole scene is glorious and so much that Greg can’t hold on much longer.

Thankfully, Tom fumbles out a curse and tries to gasp out Greg’s name a second before his orgasm hits. Their hands move double time over Tom’s erection and Greg quickens his pace so his hips relentlessly thrust through their new rhythm, too. Greg lasts just long enough to milk Tom through his orgasm before the hurdle of that little death becomes the only thing Greg can think about. The free fall of cumming inside someone he feels a real connection with is novel and exhilarating and all kinds of addicting. Greg’s already hooked, wanting more before the first hit even settles.

Greg rests his head against the back of Tom’s neck, letting his chest settle and breathing return to normal. He sucks in a whiff of Tom’s cologne and fancy soap with each inhale, intoxicating him further. His head swims with a swell of happiness Greg is certain he’s never felt before.

Tom, it seems, is dealing with a similar situation.

“Fuck, fuck – did that really just happen?” Tom’s voice is wistful, like he’s still grasping for the straws of reality, of the here and now where they’re coming down from the best of highs.

Chuckling, Greg uses the last of his energy to kiss Tom’s neck. “You’re not dreaming, Tom. I promise.” He waits a beat, even presses another sloppy kiss against sweaty skin.

“I’ll take care of you, too. Just you wait and see.”

Greg doesn’t know how true his words are or how deep of a rabbit hole he’s about to head down. All he’s aware of in that moment is the rise and fall of Tom’s chest and the warm realization that the sarcastic ass in front of him didn’t negate him or try to fight back. Instead, Tom leans into him, embraces him further.

It’s funny what one ill-timed joke can do. Greg is certain it’s going to change his life for the better.

[sablesides-writing-corner]

Serpent's Fangs (Pt.3)

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

Time certainly had passed since Logan had sent the three of them into the witch woods, but it hadn't been so much time that the landscape had become entirely unrecognizable.

There was one thing that was glaringly different, though.

There was an inescapable air of terror and misery, and it blanketed the area with almost as much suffocation as the eternal winter had.

“Oi! You! What's up with the massive castle!” Remus asked a nearby villager, with all the grace and tact of a newborn foal.

“That’s the Lord Liddell's lair that is- scary place mind you, don't want to be caught alive in there- or single.” The woman replied, her eyes wide with haunting terror.

“What do you mean?” Remus prodded, Roman hadn't missed the way his eyes flitted toward him as she'd said ‘single’.

“He's been asking- asking for sacrifices- young men- always young men, once a year- they never come back- not even as- as creatures like him- he's a vampire lord, you know, nasty business.” Roman felt his stomach lurch.

“Sends that horrible little son of his down at the beginning of crop season, if he doesn't get an offering, the crops wither away,” the woman shuddered, her eyes hollow and sad.

“Well uh- we'll- we'll keep that in mind- I guess-” said Remus, who made a hurried grab for Roman's arm before taking a running start toward their old home.

“A vampire lord? Gods above Roman you sure know how to pick ‘em.” said Remus as they shut the door behind them, Logan waving his hands around to start repairing the minimal damage to the house.

“I didn't pick anything! He cornered me! In the woods!” Roman shot back.

“Well you're a single male and crop season is in a few weeks from the looks of things, so for your sake let's hope they don't remember you.” Remus hissed.

It wasn't malicious, Roman knew it wasn't, but he still felt like he was being scolded- like a child.

“Right- well uh- I'm- I'm going to see if my screenplays survived-” said Roman, meekly. He headed up the stairs, a nauseating sensation bubbling in his stomach.

The screenplays were all still where he left them- but he couldn't seem to focus on them, even while actively trying.

So, he figured he'd check on the old graveyard- see if his parents’ graves were still there.

He elected not to tell Remus, considering the man would probably try to stop him.

It was still weird to him- really- Remus being responsible. After their parents died something in him must have just. . . Broke. He certainly wasn't the same man that brought spiders to school and made poor taste jokes on every shopping trip.

Sure enough, the graves were still there. Though, noticably, there were no more iron bars- and there were flowers that had been set on the graves.

“Witches are a lot more respected, these days, now that people know they're on opposing sides of the war with the supernatural,” Roman jumped a little at the sound of the girl's voice. He turned around to face- whoever she was.

She was dressed in all black, a wide-brimmed hat atop her head. He thought she must've been a witch daughter, though the frogs and toads poking out of her pockets implied more of a hag-esque association.

“Oh uh- hi?-” Roman said. The girl stared at him, green eyes wide.

She couldn't have been much older than 15, with blonde hair in a short bob just above her shoulders, and glasses nearly as big as her face.

“He's looking for you, you know- the vampire lord,” said the girl.

“Oh uh- I- I don't think I've ever met him- so-” Roman said, his palms felt sweaty.

“Yes you do, you just haven't seen him,” the girl continued, whether she was aware of how uncomfortable the situation was for him, he wasn't sure.

“Well if it's who I think it is then he should get over it,” Roman snapped back.

The girl let out a shrill laugh.

It was only then that Roman noticed her teeth. Sharp, pointed fangs, right at the front of her mouth, and another set that was much sharper than what her canines really should have been.

“You- you work with him.” Roman glanced around, only with his eyes, he wouldn't dare move his neck in any way that might expose his neck.

“Of course I do, I'm his daughter! Well- one of them, vampire lords do tend to have quite a lot of wards,” said the girl, she took a step closer to him, and Roman tripped over one of the graves in an attempt to regain the distance between them.

“So- so that's what you've been doing with the sacrifices- then? Turning us into creatures like you?” Roman had spit the last word with more venom than he'd meant to- and the girl looked almost upset by it, but he couldn't quite bring himself to feel bad about it.

“Well they would have- but vampire children just get- hungry, sometimes, we're a lot more volatile, you know,” that would explain the boy Roman had met the first time he'd seen the vampire lord.

“Are you going to kill me.” Roman demanded.

“I won't, it's not allowed, see, but I don't make any promises about dad,” the girl vanished after she said this- and Roman took a sparring second to glance around, hoping her father wouldn't be anywhere nearby.

Once he was sure it was safe, Roman stood up, and bolted back to the house.

“Where've you been! You almost gave us a heart attack! Couldn't even find you on the wards!” Roman was pulled swiftly into a spine-crushing hug before he'd even made it all the way through the door.

“I- I wanted to visit our parents’. . .” Roman said, flashing his brother the most pitiful expression he could manage.

“And- and you promise- you promise you weren't hurt, right? No vampire lords?”

“No vampire lords. . .” The lie would probably come back to bite him, later, possibly literally, but it was all he could do to keep Remus from locking him up in his room forever, probably.

[transmutationisms]

hi caden. do you have any thoughts abt roman’s clothes & how they’re relevant to his self image/desire to be seen yet disappear etc? the sort of tightness of his shirts and trousers always seemed to me to be a representation of his repression? and also a way to show off his ‘medieval starving girl’ physique because it gets him closer to ‘god’, and yet the way his posture is always so unsure and he flits about constantly portrays his insecurity about his body and his sense of self? idk if this is making any sense i’ve just woken up lmao

hi dee💕💕 yeah i think roman's clothes and physicality tell us a lot about how he sees himself, his place in the family, and his fundamental drives as a character

most clearly, his clothes are uncomfortable and constraining. you can see how they don't move with him and always seem about to bust a seam or strangle him. they're also not particularly daring, fashion-wise---lots of simple button-downs and tight trousers, all clearly expensive and tailored but deeply uncomfortable. i kind of think of them as a hairshirt (self-flagellation) but also, like u said, a way of showing off his physique.

this goes along with roman being frequently shot looking in mirrors, as well as his dalliance with the personal trainer and his remarks about his appearance and fuckability. this is part of what drives logan so crazy about him: roman's experience of sex and sexual attraction has a lot to do with how he presents himself to others as an object of desire. his self-objectification is one of his 'feminine' traits, along with his body-checking and restrictive eating and submissiveness. i think his clothes tell us a lot right off the bat about his insecurities (about the size/shape of his body; about not belonging at waystar) and the way he tries to control and display his body in response to those insecurities.

however. the other half of this equation imo is kieran culkin's physical performance. whereas his clothes are acceptably bussinesslike (though too tight), roman's posture is all over the place. he struts, drapes himself over furniture, leans back against the walls, etc. there's a casualness to the way he carries himself that almost no other character on this show achieves, even though roman's constantly dressed in constrictive clothing.

i think an upright posture is socially coded as formal, refined, even 'civilised.' people who are all upright will find their bodies running parallel to one another: not touching, but looking directly at one another (anatomically, humans are not suited to crawl and look forward at the same time: our eyes point down, unless we strain our necks. it's only by standing upright that we can comfortably look forward and survey the rest of the world). roman disrupts all of this by lounging around the set, reaching for other people, placing his body at odd angles to others. i think you can read this as a physical manifestation of his desire to receive love and to connect with others; it also places him at odds with the frigid, no-emotions business world logan runs.

roman never quite fits in physically, not in his clothes and not in the company. he wants to be loved and to be seen, but he wants those things especially from logan. you can see how his tight clothes feminise him in logan's eyes, and his posture and physicality are part of the reason logan thinks of him as a screwball. i find it a little heartbreaking to watch him lol. for all his cynicism, there's a fundamental earnestness to the way he tries to show and gain affection. if he can discipline his body, if he can swan around at this meeting---he doesn't realise it's never going to work and logan's never going to actually respect him.

i think this is especially clever when you compare to kendall's clothes (also tight, but more conservative and usually suits) and physical performance (very stiff, structured, and upright, unlike roman). kendall trying to step into the heir role, vs roman trying to carve out a new place for himself; kendall trying to assert authority, vs roman literally reaching out for others (though both of them care what other people think about them, in different ways). this is a whole second post lol but yeah. i think clothing and posture are both very meaningful and deliberate on this show.

[footyblurbs]

He's so obvious. It's embarrassing.with Ben please

Ben Chilwell x Reader ; Jealousy Prompts

You and Ben have yet to make things official, having seen what happened with other footballers and their partners, but anyone who spent more than ten minutes around you could tell he was wrapped around your finger. Ben was getting fed up with keeping things secret, but since he was the one to propose the idea in the first place you found no harm in having him lay in the bed he made- even just for a little bit longer. Most of your close knit group of friends had picked up on Ben’s sour mood tonight. He'd spent most of his time watching you flit around the holiday party, catching up with those friends you’ve barely gotten to see during the year. Currently, he’s having a particular problem Roman, someone with whom you’ve always had a flirtatious friendship, but nothing more.

Excusing yourself from your convo, you head over to the Chelsea player sitting at the living room bar trying his hardest not to pout. Sulking alone like this is so outside of his character, he's usually your partner-in-crime when it came to the festivities, that you are about to put him out of his misery. To your surprise Ben speaks before you can, “He’s so obvious. It’s embarrassing.” He says through a clenched jaw, fighting the urge to wrap his arm around your waist possessively, his eyes still not leaving Roman. Ben wondered bitterly what the man was going to do with himself now that he could no longer throw himself at over you.

“Well, he has no reason not to be - does he?” You ask, unable to help yourself from throwing his idea back in his face. You do so playfully, teasing him as you bring your glass to your lips and try your best to position yourself between him and his view of Roman. “Y/N,” he says your name with a little bit of bite, but looking in his eyes you know his anger isn’t aimed at you. He's mad at Roman, but even more so at himself.

“We’ve talked about this, Y/N - I know I said . . .” Ben lets out a huff, running his fingers through his hair as he mulls over the right words to say. “I don’t wanna keep doing this shit. I want you to be mine.” There’s an unspoken meaning behind his emphasis on the last word, making it clear he no longer wants to hide. You put your drink down, bringing your hand to the back of his neck, running your thumb over his skin. “I think that can be arranged,” you whisper, and it's different from the hurried whispers the two of you had gotten used to exchanging in public. Ben looks up at you in awe as you lean down and press your lips to his. It’s all the permission he needs to pull you flush against him so that you’re standing between his legs and his arms are linked behind your lower back. “Mine.” He beams up at you, aware how dopey he's being now but he embraces it all because he no longer has to hide.

[luminnara]

The Dismemberment Song | BOP Victor Zsasz x Reader | 18+

Fandom: Birds of Prey

Words: 3,791

Summary: Zsasz takes a liking to one of the burlesque dancers at Roman’s club.

PART ONE | PART TWO |

WARNINGS: graphic blood/gore/violence, reader may or may not torture and murder a guy, alcohol, all that good Gotham stuff, reader is kinda fucked up

Seriously, don’t read this if you don’t like blood

Based on The Dismemberment Song by Blue Kid! 

This is written as a kinda vague fem!reader, but if there’s interest I can always write alternate versions for different genders, more specific body/personality types, or whatever else might tickle your fancy! Just hit up my ask box!

Requests are open!! Pls, I really wanna write more Zsasz or Zsaszmask x reader, gimme ideas!

The Black Mask was a club that boasted only the best of the best. Top shelf booze, luxurious furnishings, and entertainers that Gotham’s other club owners wished they could get their hands on all came together to form the East End’s trendiest spot. You were lucky enough to be one of those very entertainers, and you had been performing onstage at Roman’s club ever since one of his goons saw you dancing at another spot across town. Roman Sionis had bought you easily, promising a good nightly wage and all the free drinks you could stomach, and a few years later, you were still enjoying the nice gig at the Black Mask. 

Most nights were the same; you showed up around seven, hung around in the dressing room with the others while you all got ready, and enjoyed a drink or two before your first number. You were always in the chorus, not that you really minded--Roman paid you more than enough to keep you happy, even though you knew the stars got more. Girls who did solo numbers, especially if they could sing, those were Mr. Sionis’s favorites. You never really expected to achieve that kind of status, not when people like Dinah Lance were around and holding his attention, so when Roman pulled you aside one night to tell you that he wanted to give you the chance to do your own routine, you nearly dropped your drink. 

“Full creative control,” he said, a hand resting at the small of your back as you gaped at him. 

“I--what?” you managed to choke out. “I-I mean, thank you, Mr. Sionis, really--”

“Please,” he chuckled. “Call me Roman.”

“Thank you, Roman,” you smiled, swallowing down your fear. “I won’t disappoint you, I swear.” 

“I know you won’t, doll.” he motioned for someone to bring him a drink. “Full creative control, like I said. I want to see what’s swirling around in that pretty mind of yours. Put some heart into it for me, k doll?”

You nodded. “You got it, boss.”

He grinned, hugging you to his side and pressing a kiss against your temple like he did with all the girls he liked. “Looking forward to it, beautiful.”

He let you go, turning to leave, and Zsasz slunk after him, but not before casting you an almost annoyed look. 

“Don’t disappoint,” he teased, whistling low before he followed his boss. 

You gulped. You were sure he wouldn’t mind peeling your face off, but you rather preferred staying alive.

“I won’t!” you called after him bravely. 

He glanced at you over his shoulder, his eyes practically boring into you as if were sizing you up. He thought you were just some prissy little girl, didn’t he? Just like Roman, just like everybody else. But you would show them. They wanted to see what kind of shit really ate at your brain? Oh, you’d give them a nice little glimpse.

And so, only a couple shorts weeks later, here you were, getting ready in the dressing room like usual, only you were far more nervous than you had been for any other shift. You had busted your ass getting everything ready, even taking a few nights off to work twice as hard on what you hoped would be a good debut. You had given the band their sheet music, you had learned your lyrics inside and out (because you were absolutely determined to go that extra mile for Roman Sionis and show him that not only could you prance around onstage, but you could sing, too), and you had spent hours upon hours hand-decorating an old corset and lingerie set you had sitting around. Roman wanted this to come from the heart, he wanted a passion project, and you were gonna give it to him. 

You just had to pray that he was in the right mood to enjoy it.

“Think you’re good to go, my love,” the house mom said as she finished with your hair. 

You stared at yourself in the mirror. So far, so good...your hair was in big barrel curls, still warm to the touch as your house mom gave it a couple more passes with the hairspray for good measure. 

“You sure I don’t need--”

“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead,” she interrupted, retreating to her usual chair. 

You kept staring at your reflection. “Do you think it’s too much? I mean...”

She laughed loudly. “Hon, this is Gotham. There’s no such thing as too much.”

Glancing down at your outfit, you weren’t so sure. “But...”

“But nothing. Now go on, go show Roman why he stays in business.”

You stood on shaky legs, nodding to her as you made your way towards the door. “R-right.”

“Break a leg,” she called after you. 

All you could do was nod. You knew what you were doing. You had practiced for hours every day to get ready for this. With a deep breath, you made your way down the hall leading to stage, shaking your hands out as you stood in the wings. You could do this. You were ready.

As soon as your stage name was announced, you stepped out, ruby encrusted heels clicking against the wooden floorboards. The lights were harsh, the crowd quiet as you came out to face them. The stage was set for you, a few props already waiting for you as you stood there, ready for the music to start.

Then, the band began playing, and you sprang into action.

“Hold still, my sweet. I’m tryin to measure the space between your molar and your jaw...” You sang, lunging forward to grab the medical-grade calipers sitting in a metal bucket for you. You trailed them down over your victim’s jaw, smiling as you did so. “...This caliper, no cause for fear. No it...it doesn’t hurt, it only helps me measure how much skin you have...”

Across the club, Zsasz looked up. He was standing near Roman, his boss sitting in a booth while he chatted with some business associates. He was far more interested in you than their conversation, his dark eyes tracking you as you moved across the stage. He was absolutely enthralled by your outfit, your tightly-laced corset covered in blood red rhinestones that glimmered under the stage lights, your matching bra and thong shining just as brightly. You looked like you were covered in blood, the gems catching his eye in a way he hadn’t expected. 

“--and the topmost layer of fat, but I won’t make an incision till you’re nice and numb...” There was an operating table on the stage, where one of Roman’s lowest-ranking goons was tied down. If Zsasz remembered correctly, this guy had fucked up pretty monumentally recently, so seeing him strapped down and struggling brought a grin to his face.

You ran over to the man, the crowd laughing as you leaned across him. “...Oh, and laughing gas can be so much fun, please don’t doubt my decision...”

The scene you had set was both comedic and sexual. In all honesty, Zsasz hadn’t expected you to do anything like this; you were a chorus girl, someone he had thought would go for something overdone and classic. Maybe some old school stupid, annoying, Singin In The Rain type shit, yet there you were, dressed in an outfit that was obviously meant to emulate dripping blood while you flitted around a man on a gurney. 

Zsasz couldn’t look away. 

“This’ll be ooh, this’ll be ahh, this’ll be absolutely whee!” you squealed, teasingly pressing your sawblade to the goon’s torso. “This’ll be nice, this’ll be neat and bring you closer to me...”

You grabbed the goon as he struggled against his restraints, holding him down. Zsasz was sure the man was in on your little number, and he thought it was cute; you were pretending to be some sort of killer, maybe trying to appeal to Roman’s face peely urges. Maybe you were trying to make the boss happy by scaring his lackey like this.

“So don’t you squirm, don't you fret, I'm not gonna hurt you...yet.” You grinned, leaning down before you shoved the man’s face to the side, letting him go as you ran back across the stage. “I just feel the need to be gettin’ a little of you, a lot of blood lettin’, I know the sensation you’re probably dreading...”

You pranced back to the gurney, moving with that little extra theatrical oomph that made everyone think you were just playing. You smiled as they clapped and laughed loudly. They would figure it out soon enough. 

“Cutting you up will be so refreshing for me...” you cooed, discarding the calipers in favor of a scalpel. You traced it down the goon’s bare chest, a little line of blood following the blade as it pierced his flesh. 

He let out a scream, just as you hoped he would, and you gave his little table a shove, sending it wheeling a short distance away. 

“Now don’t you cry,” You sang, “And don’t call Miriam, she’s my alibi...oh let me check your toes out!” You picked up a set of pliers, taking hold of his big toe. “Aren’t your toenails cute?” you grabbed one and pulled, the goon screaming as you removed the nail, leaving a bloody pulp behind. “...and red is such a lovely color on you!” you leaned down in his face, grabbing the opposite foot’s big toenail and yanking. “...But you won’t be needing those!”

Roman began clapping, giving a loud “Whoo!”  as he watched you. He had no idea that when you had asked him for the name of his least favorite henchman, this would be the reason. Now, watching the man suffer onstage in front of everyone while you were dancing around him in six inch heels and a scandalously skimpy outfit, Sionis was more than entertained. He was impressed, absolutely astounding by the cruelty his little burlesque dancer held inside of her. He couldn’t have hoped for more. 

“When you’ve got no knees!” you sang, dropping your weapons in favorite of a crowbar. “...Or shins, or pinky fingers, or arteries....”

You brought your weapon down on each of the man’s legs, somehow still managing to poise yourself perfectly as you did so. You gave him a few good whacks, then dropped the bar, leaning down to pick a knife up out of the bucket and run it over his hands teasingly. 

“...so hold still while I remove them!” you trilled. 

The man tried to sit up, struggling against his restraints, but you shoved him back down with a sweet smile. 

“...Oh, and don’t fight back,” you sang, hopping up to sit next to him. “I think you’ll find you’re missing the point, with that.”

Meanwhile, Victor Zsasz was grinning, showing off his gold teeth while he watched you. He kept a close eye on your hips as they swayed, his trained eyes following your ass as it moved across the stage. Were you really carving a man up right then and there? He wanted it to be true. He wanted to smell the overwhelming tang of blood as you plunged a knife into your victim. But he was too far away, and so he had to settle for watching instead. 

Your victim tried to scream, and you shoved his head to the side playfully. 

“That’s enough outta you!” you sang, holding his jaw tightly.

As you repeated your chorus, your knife returned to the man’s flesh and he grunted in pain, pleading to an audience that didn’t care about him. The Black Mask was a fucked up place for fucked up people, no matter how trendy it was, and nobody in the audience was going to protest when someone was torn apart onstage. Besides, Roman Sionis was far too powerful for the GCPD to go after, and as you heard him laughing loudly in the audience, you had a pretty good feeling that he wasn’t going to send anyone after you for carving somebody up in a way that only you could.

You kept going, peeling your underbust corset off with the same grace and dexterity that Zsasz peeled faces with. As you stood in only your bra, thong, garters and stockings, you felt exhilarated, powerful, as if you had been born to cur people up in front of an audience. 

It’s not like this was your first time chopping a body up, anyways; there was a reason you had to move to Gotham and get a new gig, after all.

Zsasz watched you. In fact, his eyes were glued to you, even when Roman walked away to chat with a few mob bosses in a nearby booth. Were you seriously killing this man right in front of everyone? Victor didn’t necessarily care for all the theatrics, but he could appreciate how seriously you took you took your craft, and he had to admit, he was surprised that this was what you had come up with when Roman told you to give him something good.

“‘Cause I’m all out of hurt, you’ve used up all I’ve got,” you taunted, sneering down at your victim as you brought your saw down on his leg. “So I’m chopping you up and still coming up squat! If I want it to bleed, I’ll just roll up my sleeve and saw and saw and saw...”

The blade cut back and forth, and Zsasz’s eyes followed it. Blood was spurting up, drenching your arms as if you were wearing red opera gloves. 

“And saw, and saw, and saw, and saw....”

“Zsasz, can you believe this?” Roman asked, leaning towards him.

“No, boss,” Zsasz said with a little grin, shaking his head. 

“She’s good. We may have to give her a new job...”

You paused, giving your victim a break as you tossed the saw back into the bucket, drops of blood spattering across the stage as you pulled out a large butcher knife. Before it could touch Roman’s henchman, you used it to flick open the clasp on your bra, tossing the thin little piece of lingerie out into the crowd. You didn’t really care where it went; you were too busy enjoying yourself. 

“This’ll be ooh, this’ll be ahh, this’ll be absolutely whee,” you purred, trailing the blade down the side of the man’s face. “This’ll be nice, this’ll be neat and bring you closer to me...”

“So don’t you squirm, don’t you fret, I’m not gonna hurt you, oh no, no, no, not...yet.” you plunged your blade into his chest, between two of his ribs, not close enough to knick his heart but definitely deep enough to cause him immense pain despite all the adrenaline that was sure to be running through his system now.

You pulled the knife back out, blood dripping off the metal blade as you held it tightly and pranced back across the stage. “I just feel the need to be gettin’ a little of you, a lot of bloodletting, I know the sensation you’re probably dreading but there’s one thing you’re forgetting...”

Turning back to him, you brought the blade to his throat, and in the crowd, Zsasz’s eyes lit up. He was delighted. He was enthralled. His pants were getting a little tight, but whatever. The rest of the audience was gazing up at you with wonder, disgust, amusement...but Zsasz was absolutely admiring the way you so confidently played with your victim. The theatrics were starting to grow on him, he decided, and he wanted nothing more than to go right up there and lick all that blood off your face.

“There’s nothing like the thrill of a shredding,” you sang, almost snarling, “but this is no orthodox beheading...”

You destroyed the man on the gurney, carving through him, drenching yourself in blood in an almost comical way. 

“Cutting you up,” you sang as you made an absolute mess. “Cutting you up...”

“Cutting you up is gonna be....” you finally stepped back, catching your breath as the song slowed. “...so refreshing for me.”

As your routine finished, you took a little bow, still holding the knife as you crossed your ankles and bent at the waist in a delightfully fancy gesture. The man on the gurney was very much dead, blood dripping down onto the stage, and the audience was still eating up every second of it. You could hear Roman cheering, and as you spotted him standing there amidst the crowd with Zsasz at his side, you blew them both a little kiss. 

“How about that?” you heard Roman’s voice boom above the clapping as you strode offstage. “I would call for an encore, but unfortunately, I think we’d need a new victim....”

Your head was still abuzz with the rush of killing, and you walked back to the dressing room in a daze. You were vaguely aware of Dinah Lance wrinkling her nose as you passed her, but you didn’t pay her any mind. Absolutely nothing could kill your good mood now. 

“Well?” the house mom asked as you made your way to your mirror. “Sounds like it went well, judging by those cheers...”

You smiled and hummed to yourself, nodding as you reached for something to clean your face with. You were going to need an entire shower to get all this blood off yourself. 

“Told you.” the house mom snorted a laugh. 

“He loved it,” you grinned. 

She shook her head in amusement. “You are one fucked up girl, I’ll tell you that much.”

“That’s showbiz, baby,” you joked, raising a towel to start working at wiping your face. 

“Oh, pussycat?” a singsong voice made you freeze. 

You could see Zsasz in the mirror. 

He was leaning in the doorway, smirking as he watched you. “Boss wants to talk.”

You paled. Had you fucked up after all? Did Roman get his shits and giggles and now planned on having Zsasz peel your face off? Sionis was infamous for his fickle moods. You’d watched him have plenty of people dragged off into back rooms just for speaking at the wrong time, and you had just done way worse than interrupt him. 

 You gawked at Zsasz, still staring at his reflection. What were you supposed to do? Run? He was blocking the only door, and there was no way you’d be able to get past him. You had no choice but to follow him to Roman. 

“O-Okay,” you managed to stammer out, finally turning towards him. “Lead the way.”

“Might want this.” he held up the bra you had tossed, twirling the strap around his finger while he gave you a smile that showed off his gold teeth.

“Give me that!” you snapped, rushing towards him.

“Ah.” he held it above his head, leering down at you. “Think I like this view more...”

“Zsasz!” you protested, scrambling against his chest and practically trying to claw your way up him to get your lingerie. 

He froze. He finally smelled the metallic tang of all that blood covering you, and coupled with the feeling of your tits against his chest...oh, he was so fucked. 

When he dropped the bra, you grabbed it from him, tossing it back to your mirror and moving to pick up a silky red robe off a nearby hook. You shrugged it on, tying it shut while Zsasz cleared his throat and offered you his arm. 

“Such a gentleman,” you sneered, taking it anyways. 

“When I want to be.” his voice was low and rough, as if his vocal chords were scraping against each other with every syllable. 

You looked up at him, a bit dumbfounded, as he led you out into the club once more. The band was playing as a few people cleaned up the carnage you had left behind, the bar’s patrons all chatting and drinking again. It was as if nothing had even happened and they hadn’t just watched a man be torn apart onstage a few minutes prior. 

Zsasz took you to Roman, the crowd parting before the two of you easily. Sionis was sitting in his favorite booth, sipping his drink and laughing, still seeming to be in a very good mood.

“Ah, there she is!” He said when he saw you, standing up and spreading his arms.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” You asked nervously as Zsasz let you go.

“Yes, yes, I had Mr. Zsasz grab you so that I could congratulate you on a thrilling performance.”

You stared at him. “You liked it?”

“Liked it? I loved it, darling! A bit messy for my tastes, but a lovely show, truly, though I suspect our dear Mr. Zsasz here wishes he could have been the one to take care of your victim. Isn’t that right, Zsasz?”

You glanced up at Zsasz. He grunted, not necessarily in agreement. He didn’t hate watching your performance by any means, and as much as he enjoyed helping little birds fly away from the world, he rather enjoyed watching you do it, too. 

“I’m glad, Mr. Sionis,” you said. 

“I told you, call me Roman.” he took a sip of his drink. “You know, normally, I don’t enjoy it when someone kills the people that belong to me, but I must admit, you certainly have a way with a knife.”

“I would have asked your permission, but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.” you gulped. 

“And what a lovely surprise it was!” Roman laughed loudly. “You’re very talented...in fact, how’d you like a promotion? Yes? Perfect, perfect! No, no, don’t shake my hand, you’re...well, you’re covered in blood. Quite frankly, it’s disgusting.” He snapped his fingers. “Mr. Zsasz, take her up to the penthouse so she can clean up, I don’t want all this blood getting on the new carpeting in here.”

“Oh, Mr. Sio--Roman,” you cleared your throat, “I can use the shower in the dressing room, really, it’s no trouble--”

“Nonsense, nonsense.” he waved you away. “You’re part of the team now, aren’t you? Besides, a job well done deserves some sort of reward. Zsasz will show you upstairs. Don’t worry, he’s completely harmless.”

As Zsasz put a hand on your lower back, you had your doubts. Harmless wasn’t really a word you would choose to describe Roman’s right hand man. 

“Come on, princess.” Zsasz purred, guiding you through the crowd before you had much of a chance to protest. 

He took you to the elevator in the corner, the bouncer standing guard in front of it stepping aside with a nod. The man hit the up button, and soon, you were pressed up against Zsasz in the small space, on your way up to Roman’s spacious penthouse. 

[delimeful]

the shapes in the silence (13)

warning: illness, mild emetophobia, arguing, panic attack, dissociation, altered mental state, guilt 

-

They had very little time to process, after Puff-- Anxiety-- their rescuer collapsed limply to the ground.

Roman and Patton each burst into their own hysterics, but Logan was utterly silent. He was frozen, mind racing and connecting a thousand little dots, like realizing a constellation had been right in front of you, you’d just somehow missed the brightest star.

The form of Anxiety was sprawled out undeniably in front of them, struck down by the attack that had been levied against Puff, because he was Puff. He’d wondered why Anxiety wasn’t prone to their shrinking dilemma, but he’d been dealing with it the longest. Anxiety’s withdrawal and Puff’s strange behavior were causation and correlation.

Anxiety lay before them, but whatever he had done to change his form, to protect them against attack, it had changed him. Small purple scales curled over his cheekbones, two curved, deer-like ears lay limp on the sides of his head, and even a tail where there had been none before.

If there had ever been any way to refute his connection to Puff, his appearance now countered it single-handedly.

In the end, it was the doubts that snapped them all out of it.

Sinuous, shifting forms that changed with every blink, they crawled up from their blind spots, appearing in the corners of their vision.

Roman snapped his sword hand back up reflexively, frowning, but Logan could easily read the confusion scrawled across his posture. He’d complained at length about the creatures, their persistent aggression and the way that they always heralded Anxiety’s appearance in this realm, like the world’s creepiest minions.

But Anxiety lay prone at their feet, in no state to control anything, and furthermore, the glittering eyes of the doubts seemed almost… locked on him, glinting with malice.

More questions, and the only one who could answer them was unconscious and quickly gaining a sickly tint to his skin. The doubts were creatures of despair, and if they reached Patton or Anxiety-- the more emotion-driven pair out of the four of them-- the results could be disastrous. They needed out, now.

Logan firmed his shoulders, moving to cut through the panicked back-and-forth his companions were doing.

“Roman,” he called, taking reference from every instructor that Thomas had ever respected to insert authority into his tone, “pick Anxiety up.”

The creative side jerked, his eyes drawn down to Anxiety for a second before flickering away. “And give up my stalwart defense? We’ll be overcome before we reach anything resembling an exit!”

“You need to pick up Anxiety,” Logan repeated, and took a deep breath, shedding all the dirt and gore that he had accumulated while trekking through the Imagination. “I’m bringing the exit to us.”

Applying his function to a space that wasn’t real tended to... destabilize it. It was a last resort, the sort of thing that they’d figured out early on should be avoided. Roman demonstrably put his heart and soul into his work, after all, and fracturing it hurt Creativity as much as the realm itself. Even something as small as Logan breaking his own immersion made Roman twitch, let alone what he was about to pull.

Roman’s eyes went wide with understanding, and then grim determination. He sheathed his sword back into nothing and knelt down at the fallen Side’s side, only hesitating for the barest moment before sliding his arms under his shoulders and knees and lifting him into the air.

The motion seemed to jar Anxiety, and he let out a pained whine that wouldn’t have sounded out of place coming from Puff. Lifted up like this, they could see the singed gouge that tore through the back of his hoodie, the smoking, rotting injury lined up on his spine in the exact same place it had hit Puff.

“It looks bad,” Patton whispered, his eyes wet and his hands half-pressed over his mouth. The doubts were closer now, circling like wolves. They couldn’t be allowed to worsen Anxiety’s condition.

“We will handle it,” Logan said, not allowing even the slightest tremor in his voice as he held his hands out. He met Roman’s eyes, one last warning, before closing his own and focusing all his attention on dismantling the environment around him.

It was all illusory, from the faint scent of ozone lingering in the air to the cold stone around them. None of it was real, not the magic or the monsters, not when one thought about them logically. The Imagination was a limitless space, shaped and crafted by Creativity, and so any distance between them and the placement of an ‘exit’ was simply imaginary.

There was no logical reason to traverse an imaginary path, and so with one yank, Logan pulled and then folded the space between them and the exit, like crumpling a piece of paper to make two ends meet.

The landscape crinkled around them, bricks shattering and environments crashing together with discordant scraping. Roman would be feeling the effects of the hole in his work for a while, but there was a doorway ahead of them and the doubts were scattered and caught in the folds and tears Logic had created.

“Move,” Logan said through gritted teeth, and Roman staggered through the exit, Patton hot on his tail. He stepped through as well, the door slamming shut on its own behind him. His presence wouldn’t be tolerated in the realm for a good long while after this.

He beckoned Roman over, shoving away the guilt he felt at the other Side’s pained grimace. If his power had just held long enough for the Imagination’s effects to be wiped from Anxiety as well--

The wound pulsed once, as though to announce its stubborn survival. It was glowing a painful violet, the injury resembling nothing more than a slowly expanding Lichtenburg figure.

Logan’s knuckles went white as he looked down at it. He hadn’t even managed to make the injury into something real, something more manageable to treat.

He reached out, grasping again for that sense of unreality, of rejection, and Roman pulled away, backing up.

“No more,” he said firmly, his voice a sharp contrast to the shaking of his arms. Logan felt that familiar guilt threaten to flood for a moment, before-- “Specs, you’re about to pass out. You used too much.”

He blinked, glancing down at his hand. It was shaking, too. He’d overtaxed himself, been too involved in the previous daydream to shut it down without any backlash.

Logic shouldn’t have been too involved in anything. He clenched his fist, abruptly furious with himself.

“Whatever that witch’s calamitous curse caused, it’s spreading slowly for now,” Roman announced, still seeming almost skittish with Anxiety in his arms. “We have yet time to uncover the truth.”

Patton pressed the back of his hand against Anxiety’s forehead, hissing sympathetically. “He’s burning up. I don’t know about curing curses, but-- we can at least help with this.”

They all had memories of Thomas’s parents coaxing him through fevers and flus, but Patton was the best at actually following that example. He directed Roman to the couch, flitted back and forth between the kitchen and the living room with all the classic illness aids.

“This is a spell-based sickness. There’s no reason to believe that this illness will function similarly to Thomas’s past experiences,” Logan started, and then was promptly cut off by Anxiety jerking halfway up off the couch, twisting, and vomiting into the small trash can Patton had just brought out. “... I stand corrected.”

His voice seemed to drag Anxiety’s attention from his retching, his head bobbing up to look around.

He stared out at them with bleary eyes for a heartbeat, all of them quiet and frozen and waiting, and then he slumped back down into both the couch cushions and unconsciousness. A mutual breath of relief went around the room.

“So, are we… going to talk about it?” Patton asked, as though half-dreading the answer.

“Talk about what?” Roman snapped sarcastically, crossing his arms. “The fact that apparently our dear draconic companion has been none other than Anxiety, the scourge on our home, the blight on our fields, the bane of Thomas’s existence, this entire time?”

“We don’t own any fields,” Logan interjected.

“Well, if we did, the guy would probably blight them! He’s a-- a blighter!” Roman replied, increasingly higher in pitch. “This is probably some kind of trick, a foul villainous plot for some greater purpose we don’t understand yet. Anxiety can’t possibly be— have been—!”

“Talking shit?” A familiar drawl rang out, a dark figure appearing on the stairs between one blink and the next and making them all jump. “I thought I heard someone say-- Anxiety?”

There was a moment of stunned silence as everyone looked between the two identical figures in the room.

“Well,” the Anxiety that was clearly actually Deceit said, glancing over the three of them, “I don’t suppose I could convince you that he’s the fake one? … No? What a shame.”

He lifted his shoulders from Virgil’s perpetual slouch easily, shedding his disguise in favor of his usual attire. Several more puzzle pieces clicked into place.

“You were the one who appeared when we introduced Puff to Thomas,” Logan said, cutting off the startled exclamations from the others. “And just now-- you returned from appearing to Thomas, didn’t you? As Anxiety, not yourself.”

Deceit rolled his eyes, adjusting his cufflinks absently. “Yes, well, someone had to do his job while he was… preoccupied. Or were you all so remiss as to not notice the decline that comes with a complete absence of Anxiety?”

They all bristled in unison. “All we’ve been doing as of late is trying to figure out why Thomas has been struggling recently,” Logan replied stiffly. “We cannot jump to conclusions based on the seemingly random reticence of one Side.”

“Oh, but now you know it’s not random at all, don’t you?” Deceit purred, stepping down the stairs one by one. “After all, Occam’s Razor has never proved to be true before.”

“You’re the one who’s slithering around impersonating other Sides!” Roman cut in with a sharp accusation. “How do we know you’re not the reason dear Thomas has been acting off?”

Deceit’s lip curled, displaying a curved fang. “I haven’t been the only reason Thomas hasn’t fallen apart entirely! But if you’d really like to cast blame, I’m happy to inform all three of you that this is your fault.”

“Our fault?” Roman and Patton’s voices overlapped, one outraged and the other alarmed. Logan frowned, smoothing down his tie absently.

“Are you speaking under false pretenses again? Only moments ago, you were claiming that Anxiety’s… disappearance was the source of Thomas’s recent struggle.”

Deceit’s gloves crinkled with the force of his grip on the banister. “You three are the ones who drove Anxiety to believe that he was superfluous, to the point that he decided somehow trapping himself in the form of a— a pet was better than spending another moment as himself in your presence,” he spat, each word furious and bitter.

There was a tense pause, and Deceit visibly reeled in his anger with a deep breath. “I refuse to spend any longer debating sins with you. If you’ll hand over Anxiety—,”

“No!” Logan startled himself with the sharp response, but Roman and Patton alike had echoed it. They exchanged looks, all of them struggling for a moment to put it to words.

Finally, Patton turned to where Deceit was staring at them with narrowed eyes.

“I don’t know why Anxiety chose to— chose this, but I do know that he got hurt trying to protect us. And if it really is our fault-- ...Well, it wouldn’t be right either way, making you or him deal with this alone.”

“And that’s assuming you even have the tools to deal with it,” Logan added, earning himself an irritated glare from the Dark Side. “That was not a slight against you. To elaborate on my meaning, Roman’s experience with the realm and the perpetrator behind the injury could be invaluable in treating it. It would be remiss for us to not offer aid.”

There was a beat, and Roman looked up belatedly from Anxiety, his face pale and eyes distant. “Right,” he said, and then stronger, “Right. We’ll help Anxiety overcome this curse, and then speak with him ourselves on the matter of blame.”

Deceit looked between the three of them assessingly, gaze occasionally flickering down to where Anxiety lay. “I could handle this perfectly well,” he snapped, “but fine. However. If you worsen his condition and force me to continue this ridiculous charade… you will all certainly enjoy the consequences.”

He let the threat sit in the air ominously. Logan thought his forced disdain was a rather strange way to express protectiveness over Anxiety’s well-being, but to be frank, Deceit’s motives could be difficult for him to parse on a good day.

“Deceit,” Patton called before the other Side could sink out. “You’re welcome to come check on Anxiety whenever you’d like. I… I just wanted you to know.”

Deceit cast a glance back at Anxiety, unreadable, and sank out without another word.

—-

Half an hour after Deceit’s revelations, Anxiety woke up.

They hadn’t noticed at first. Patton had been in the kitchen, making enough soup to feed a small army, and Logan and Roman had been preoccupied with bickering, trying to piece together a timeline.

“—can’t be certain that any of the appearances prior to Puff’s introduction to Thomas were Deceit. Anxiety did not withdraw entirely until after that event,” Logan was saying, sharpening his tone to keep Roman from interrupting for the sixth time.

“But the things he said, it has to have been Deceit,” Roman retorted again. “Perhaps this has been going on for months, all part of a plot to replace Anxiety!”

“And do what? Thomas actively ignores Anxiety as often as possible,” Logan stated, the fact making something in his stomach twist oddly. “It would be pointless for Deceit to replace someone with little to no influence.”

“Who knows how the minds of Dark Sides work?” Roman scoffed, and then glanced over Logan’s shoulder and stood. Logan turned to watch him adjust the blankets that had shuffled part ways off of Anxiety.

Roman paused, and then leaned in slightly. “The curse mark—,” he started, and then was cut off by two and a half blankets being tossed directly at his face.

Anxiety scrambled off of the couch with surprising speed for someone who clearly could barely feel any of their limbs. His eyes were wide with unmistakable terror, pupils slit, and Logan lifted his hands non-aggressively.

“Anxiety, calm down,” he started, and Anxiety shot off towards the stairs with frantic and unsteady steps. From this angle, Logan could see the way the wound left from the curse was pulsing and expanding, and felt his own jolt of fear.

Patton rushed out of the kitchen just in time to see Anxiety overshoot and slam into the wall beside the stairs, bouncing off without a sound and struggling to regain his momentum like an animal mindlessly fleeing for its life.

“Patton, grab him before he hurts himself even further!” Logan called, and Patton hurriedly half-tackled the Side, pinning his arms and lifting him up.

Anxiety keened, voice warping into that double tone, and then kicked out against the wall, nearly toppling the both of them. By now, Roman had freed himself, and he jumped to Patton’s side to lend a steadying arm.

Logan hurried forward, careful to stay out of range of Anxiety’s still-kicking legs.

“Anxiety. Anxiety, can you hear me? You need to breathe deeply now, please follow this pattern,” he tried to count steadily, even as Anxiety stared right through him and made awful, gut-wrenching whimpers. His eyeshadow was streaked down the sides of his face like inky tear tracks. “3, 4, 5– Please, Anxiety, we’re not trying to hurt you.”

“It feels like it’s growing,” Patton whispered, Anxiety’s back still pressed to him. Roman pushed the neckline of the other Side’s hoodie aside, and swore at the dark, angular tendrils that were creeping up to his shoulder blades.

“We need him to calm down,” Logan said, but there wasn’t a single soothing method that would work if the person was too far gone to even sense him. “I don’t—,”

“Okay. Okay, I’m— I’m going to calm him down,” Patton said firmly, and then stepped back from the other two and maneuvered Anxiety so he was facing Patton. Logan recognized what Patton was attempting only a moment before Anxiety was pulled into a firm, encircling hug.

Patton’s ability to share positive emotions through physical contact— once jokingly dubbed a ‘drug hug’ by Roman— hadn’t been used frequently since they were all significantly younger. Nowadays, with Logic clearly not needing emotions and Creativity too prideful to ask for one, Patton mostly only used the ability accidentally— slipping up when he was hugging someone while too excited or happy.

Since switching over to this half of the Mindscape, Anxiety had never been exposed to this particular ability. The other Side twitched in Patton’s grasp for a moment, tail thrashing, holding out far longer than Logan expected before slowly melting into the embrace. When Patton finally pulled away, Anxiety was blinking dazedly but seemed considerably more aware of his surroundings.

“His back,” Logan started, and then stopped short.

The wound’s unnatural spread had stopped, the previous panicked pulsing of it reduced to a slow, muted metronome.

“His— Is it based on his heart rate?” Logan asked, bewildered and hating it. “It can’t be consciousness, he’s conscious now and the growth has stopped entirely, but it hadn’t receded at all earlier—,”

“Fear,” Roman said, his mouth set grimly. “A curse for Anxiety that feeds on fear. That’s exactly the kind of cruel irony that the Dragonwitch loves.”

Patton tightened his grip on Anxiety’s hand, his face wrinkled with worry. After a moment, Anxiety squeezed his hand back, still seeming a little distant from the actual conversation.

Logan knew from experience that getting one of those hugs at full power could feel like the emotional equivalent of being dropped into cold water unexpectedly-- it was a shock to the system, one that took a while to adjust to. He wouldn’t be surprised if Anxiety’s nonverbal state lingered for a while longer.

“Then… how do we fix it?” Patton asked. “Do we need him to… stop being afraid for real? Can we do that?”

Logan was quiet, thinking about how fearful Anxiety had looked for the brief moments he was fully aware around them. Roman looked away, and then shook his head.

“I need to return to the Imagination to check on something,” he announced, gaze distant. “I should… probably begin restructuring it, as well.”

Logan hid a wince. “I apologize for being so rough on the realm,” he said, remembering the way Roman had shaken with strain.

Roman waved it off. “You did what you had to, to get us all out. More useful than… well, consider yourself magnanimously forgiven.”

With a smile that seemed a pale facsimile of his normal one, he departed.

Logan turned to Patton, who looked a little wobbly at the knees. “We will be able to help him eventually, we just need more time to investigate,” he said as gently as he could, leading them both back to the couch. “Until then, we can take shifts to look after him.”

Patton curled his free hand around Logan’s, searching his gaze as though seeking some kind of solution. “We’ll figure this out together, right?”

“Right.”

[snootsnoot-fiction]

You're Mine

Pairing: Roman Sionis x reader 

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Smut, reference to death, smut, alcohol use, teasing, swearing, and ssssssmut :) (and a dash of fluff at the end)

A/n: Clearly I have an issue with focusing because this literally took me all day and I can't count the amount of times I got distracted/lost focus. That is to say, once I actually got into it (when it started getting smutty) I enjoyed writing it very much and got carried away. First full on proper smut, I'm kinda proud xD hope you all enjoy.

Summary: You're feeling especially needy for Roman and decide to be naughty when he's talking business...

Gotham city. Home. You weren't born here, but that's not what makes a home for a lot of people. You among them.

No. What made this place home for you was your boyfriend. Roman Sionis of all people. Of course, since coming here you have made connections of your own. Plenty of people liked and respected you. Yourself. However, your life in this city didn't quite take off until just before you met the infamous Sionis.

You two were a force to be reckoned with. You were his, but he was also yours, and you both made damn well sure to remind each other of that a lot. If anyone did, for some stupid reason, decide to mess with either of you, they would usually end up regret being in the city at all.

The dynamic between the pair of you was nothing to be messed with that was for sure. You had to admit, you loved every little bit of your relationship with Roman. Both good and bad. Being who he was, there was the occasional danger, but you had learnt to look after yourself, and your man wouldn't let anything happen to you lest the guilty party wanted to be left without a face. 

There was a time, back when you and Roman were still a new thing, that occasionally - when you would be sitting at opposite sides of his Black Mask Club - he would notice someone looking and smiling at you a certain way. 

For your sake, he tried not overthinking anything, but he'd catch them eyeing you like prey. That's when he had to act. Coming up behind you, Roman would wrap his arm possessively around your waist, pulling you against him before forcing a polite excuse and taking you away. Looking to Zsasz, those guilty people would always be escorted outside. You weren't sure what exactly happened, but you never saw their faces in the club again. 

You were Roman's, and if people weren't aware at the start, it was soon made common knowledge. You enjoyed the sense of power you got living here. It was almost addicting. Ultimately you only really cared about Roman, though.

It was just a normal night to begin with. That is, until a man came in and you left them be while they did business. You were feeling needy today, but you hadn't told Roman that.

You sat at the bar at first. Your eyes flit around to watch all the people enjoying themselves, but ultimately your eyes always found themselves back on your boyfriend. Staring longingly. You wanted his undying attention so badly, you weren't sure how long you could hold out before either disturbing the business or doing something stupid. 

With your penchant for teasing Roman Sionis and the alcohol now flowing through, you decided to do something stupid. Spurred on by knowing how he would undoubtedly react later in private. Your body already ached at the thought.

The idea came to you when people moved to dance like a small tsunami of bodies in front of the stage. Giving one last look at Roman, still deep in conversation, you downed the last of your drink then stood up.

You had been scanning the room since the idea first came to mind, and noticed this young man that you hadn't really seen around before. Eyes latching onto him, you shook your body with the music as you reached the crowd. Eventually finding your way to the man, you gave him a forced suggestive look, and your bodies were soon swaying with one another. Not quite touching, but close enough.

You focused on dancing, but after a while, you looked to see Roman looking back at you. A smirk pulled at your lips. The poor guy behind you wasn't going to make it through the night, but you didn't care.

Roman Sionis was trying hard to stay focused enough to complete the business he was in the midst of discussing, but you were making it very difficult. Images of what he intended to do to you flashed through his mind, as did the anger that someone dared act like that with you. 

The man faltered in his speech briefly when he saw the younger man now had his hands on your waist. Roman's eyes briefly connected with yours, and he knew he was going to make you absolutely regret teasing him like this later. Roman wasn't sure how he managed to not get up there and then, but he managed. Albeit, he did attempt to rush his business along.

A couple minutes later, your eyes closed as you simply enjoyed the music, you felt a tight grip on your upper arms pulling you away. You recognised who it was immediately, and your smirk widened as you opened your eyes, glancing back to see Zsasz and a couple other men taking the young man away.

Now having Roman's attention, when you got in the elevator, you turned and pushed your body against his. Only to be immediately pulled away, grip still hard on your arm. You were in trouble, and you quivered in nervous delight. 

Not once did his eyes look at you as he led you to the bedroom. Pulling you to stand in front of him, the furious look in his eyes made you shrink as he stared down at you, but there were still hints of a smirk on your face.

It was quiet for a few seconds. His face slowly leaned down, and you reached up. Before you could kiss him, though, he pushed you onto the bed. You looked to see him discarding his gloves, and you couldn't help but imagine those rough hands running all over you. Squeezing your thigh. Your backside. 

"Hey!" Roman's voice jolted you back to reality, and you realised he had spoken. "Strip." The simple order had you sitting there completely nude within seconds. The way he was looking at you now - eyes dark and hungry - made you shift your legs, desperate for him to take it all out on you already. 

"No." The word forced you to pull your hands from between your thighs. "You're not allowed to fucking touch yourself. Not yet." You couldn't help but let out a needy whimper. 

After another few moments of letting you sit there and suffer, the man in front of you finally took off his suit jacket and shirt. You looked at him expectantly. There was a slight amusement among everything else he was feeling now. Amusement that you thought you would be getting anything you desperately wanted anytime soon.

Watching your eyes, Roman decided to remove all his clothing with a small sigh at the release of his excitement. There was a somewhat evil chuckle that escaped him as he watched you shuffle, and lick and bite your lips. 

The man wanted nothing more than to ram himself into you, but he was going to have to punish you for using your body to flirt with another man. By the end of the night, you'd never even think about doing it ever again. 

Slowly, Roman kneeled at the end of the bed. You sat up to see, but you fell back with a yelp when you were suddenly yanked forward. 

Now your legs were hanging off the bed, held apart with rough hands holding your thighs firmly in place. You began to sit up.

"I didn't say you could sit up, did I?" You could feel the vibrations of his voice between your legs, and you melted back onto the bed. His hands brushed down and up your inner thighs, stopping short of your crotch. Your hips wiggled, and suddenly he was standing over you, holding you still by the waist while looking you in the eye. "Try to stay still sweetheart, and maybe I won't make you suffer for too long, 'kay?" You could only nod feebly in answer. 

Breaking eye contact, Roman leaned down until his face was just above your groin. You could feel his hot breath and it made you want to squirm. You planted your hands on the bed sheet either side of you, preparing yourself. There was a light pressure as the man placed a soft kiss, making you whimper with how close he was. 

Then there was a warmth as his tongue trailed from his kiss to your navel. Realising you were holding your breath, you let it out as you stared up at the ceiling. A low chuckle rumbled in the man's chest. 

Suddenly, Roman's face was above yours, making you gasp, and you could feel the warmth radiating from his entire body. With one arm keeping him propped up, his other hand brushed delicately down the side of your body from your chest. Not once did either of you break eye contact, and he began to smirk as he watched you struggle to contain yourself.

When his hand reached your thigh, he gave it a squeeze, earning a loud whimper from you. You suddenly became painfully aware of his member resting on the delicate area between your crotch and other thigh. You bit your bottom lip hard. Lifting your thigh, he hooked your leg over him. 

You knew to keep it there when he let go. Roman's now free hand found itself gripping your face, and he leaned so close his lips almost brushed yours, but not quite.

"I'm going to make you wish you hadn't even thought of doing that." Referring to you dancing with a strange man, his voice dangerously low in the way that made you surprised you didn't actually turn to water. You whimpered in response.

Smiling, Roman brushed his fingers over your cheek. Before you knew it, your body lurched up when he found himself attacking that sweet spot on your neck with kisses, sucks, and nips. His name passed your lips in a needy whimper-like-moan. The vibration of his hum tickled your neck, and he gave a little thrust of acknowledgment. The friction of his hardness rubbing so close to you had your hips bucking again. You couldn't help it.

Making sure to leave a significant mark that would let people know you were his alone, he pulled away from your neck to sit back on the heels of his feet.

"Maybe I'm overestimating your ability to stay still.." there was a thoughtful and sympathetic look on his face. You nodded eagerly. All of a sudden you were lying on your stomach, and Roman had both hands on each cheek of your backside, giving them a hard squeeze before leaning down so he could whisper in your ear, his whole body pressing into yours. "That's better." 

Sitting back up, he placed his hands on your hips as he took a moment to admire your nude form from behind. There was a crack that forced a yelp from you, leaving a small sting on your backside.

Leaning down again, his hands found yours and held them in place above your head as he thrusted his member against your backside. You could tell how much he wanted to just let his own needs loose, but you knew how serious he was when it came to punishment.

"If you would be so kind as to lift your ass for me darling." The words followed the distancing of his hips from yours. Doing as you were told, you brought your knees closer as you lifted your backside, now able to feel his excitement again. "Good.." he praised, placing a kiss on your shoulder. 

Deciding to let go of your hands, he straightened up. His hands now brushed over the curve of your backside before giving another, somewhat lighter smack than before. Then he gripped your waist with a steel grip.

Your mind was racing with what he was going to do, but it was all wiped from your mind in one swift action of Roman burying himself inside you. A scream and moan of intense pleasure shot out of your mouth as your hands made fists in the bed sheets. There was no chance to process what he had just done. The man immediately began thrusting with an average pace, but each thrust as hard as the first.

If you could, you would wonder why he stopped teasing all of a sudden, but you couldn't. Your moans were so loud, he was sure that if people weren't busy partying with their loud music below, they would surely hear you, and that gave him a deep satisfaction. Letting everyone know you were his in such a way.

Of course, with each thrust, he felt his own control slipping. Grunts and groans of his own mixed with your moans. Roman was desperate for his own release now he was inside you, but he didn't want to let you get there. He could feel that coil tightening in the pit of his own stomach, making him sure you probably felt the same thing. 

Closing his eyes, the man focused on getting himself there. "Don't you dare…" the words fell from his lips. You barely caught them, but you knew exactly what he meant, and you whimpered loudly.

It was so difficult to do as you were told. You couldn't ignore the feeling of getting closer and closer. Especially not with him pounding into you as hard as he was. In an effort to hold yourself back, you buried your face in a pillow, moans now muffled.

After a short while, his rhythm began to falter, as did his grunts as he urged himself over that edge. There it was. Euphoria exploded through his body. His pace slowed, but he rode it out as you felt his warmth spread inside you. Then he slumped over you. Arms barely holding himself up enough not to push you down.

"Roman.." you moaned after a moment of stillness, shifting your hips slightly. He hummed as he cleared the blissful fog in his brain enough to move. Roman pulled out, making you almost cry with need, but kept his body above yours. 

Now his arms properly held him up as he pressed his lips into your ear. "Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry!" 

"Once more with feeling."

"I'm sorry Romy baby, I won't do it again!" You cried out desperately. 

Putting all his weight on one arm, his free hand brushed up your body, stopping to give your backside a squeeze and a light smack.

"Too fucking right you won't," he growled into your ear, causing a shiver to crawl down your spine, "you want me to make you feel good?"

"Yeah.." you whimpered, yearning for a release brought on by him. Already that release you were close to before was so far away. 

"Beg." Roman straightened up again, his weight no longer on you as he brushed his hands delicately over the redness of your backside. 

"Please Roman.. i need it.. need you… please…" your voice was nothing more than a squeak.

"I suppose…" he trailed. Already he was hard again, and he took a moment to rub himself first.

Leaning down to wrap a hand gently around your throat, Roman pulled you up so your back was flush against him. The hand that was on your throat moved to turn your face to look at him. 

"You're mine, you fucking understand?" You could only whimper submissively with a nod, but that whimper transformed into a pleasure-filled scream when he suddenly pushed himself inside you again. 

Letting go of your face, Roman's hand placed itself back on your neck. Again, he gave you no time and immediately set a pace quicker than his first. Quicker, but still hard. He continuously hit that magic spot inside you, making moans fall from your lips like a waterfall and causing your throat to begin to feel sore.

With everything the man was doing, you could already feel that familiar tightening in your stomach coming back. As could he. 

His other arm was wrapped securely around your waist, making you incapable of any kind of movement. You were completely at Roman's mercy. No idea what to do with your hands, you simply held onto his arms. Your own grip tightening the closer you got.

With the both of you being extra sensitive from earlier, it didn't take too long to get there. 

You went first with an especially dirty-sounding moan of his name. Your mind was wiped clean again as fireworks went off in your body, creating such an intense feeling of euphoria, you were unsure if you would ever come down from the high. 

It didn't take Roman much longer after that. The way his name sounded on your lips as you came and your whole body tensed because of him. He rode it out for the both of you as that blissful fall claimed him for the second time tonight. His grip on your waist and throat tightened slightly as your own name stumbled from his lips in a groan.

The pair of you merely knelt there in silence as you processed everything. Eventually Roman let himself fall, twisting you as he did so, letting you fall onto him. His own arms instinctively wrapped around you as you placed your head on his chest. A peaceful silence followed.

"You know I love you right?" The man under you broke the silence as your fingertips traced shapes on his chest.

"Of course." 

"Please don't do that again, it upsets me."

You looked up to see Roman genuinely frowning at the thought and an immense feeling of guilt overtook you with a lurch of your heart.

"I won't Roman, I promise. I'm so sorry," you cupped his face with one hand and kissed his forehead, "can you forgive me?"

He looked into your eyes for a moment, seeing the clear guilt in them. "Of course I can, Y/N." A soft smile stretched his lips as he brought you in for a soft kiss before the two of got comfy - Roman sitting up to pull the covers over you. Finally settled, sleep eventually claimed you both. 

[whenisitenoughtrees]

If you’re still doing these, 33 with Moceit? ALL the fluff with perhaps a little dash of angst?

@thatoneloudowl i was gonna do a dash of angst but then i knocked over the angst jar and spilled a couple cups so. there is a little more than a dash. but the ending! is fluffy! don’t worry!!

for 33. Sometimes, I just want to cuddle, okay? Is that so bad?

Title: like a puzzle (we fit)

Word Count: 3,328

Content Warnings: mention of disordered eating, self-isolation as a form of self-harm

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

These days, Patton wanders the mindscape like a ghost. Frankly, Janus is beginning to find it annoying.

Or at least, he would, if the sight didn’t make his heart clench, didn’t make his stomach turn, didn’t make some unidentifiable emotion rise up within him, threatening to spill out before he even lets himself acknowledge it. And he’s not acknowledging it, if only because doing so while Thomas’ mental health is in such a precarious position is a risk he’s not willing to take. But that’s not enough to stop him from watching Patton out of the corner of his eye, not enough to stop him from tracking his movements, from taking in the way he seems—

Well. Bereft seems like a good way to put it. Bereft of his usual spark, his usual joy. And bereft in another way, too, because as the time passes, Janus realizes something else: Patton is isolating himself.

It’s fairly obvious, at least to him, so he’s surprised that none of the others have picked up on it— or perhaps they have, and they’re ignoring it, but that seems like a level of maliciousness that he doesn’t think that the so-called “light” sides are capable of. Because Patton is suffering, and he can’t imagine that they would let him go on in this way if they knew, even if they are angry with him. So, they’re not cruel, just oblivious, and if the situation were any different, Janus might laugh about the fact that he of all sides is the only one to recognize that something is wrong.

But this is no laughing matter.

Patton’s face is pale and drawn, his eyes watery, his smiles wan and fake. He’s grown thinner, too, if Janus isn’t mistaken, and that is yet another cause for concern; Patton is not the best cook in the world, but that has never stopped him from trying. The fact that he’s stopped cooking, perhaps even stopped eating, is worrisome, and the worst thing about all of this is that Janus isn’t entirely sure what to do about it.

He knows self-care intimately, all of its practices, all of its uses. It’s his job, and in theory, getting Patton to take better care of himself should be easy for him. But Patton has always been particular about deserving things, and Janus doesn’t know that he’s reached the level of relationship that would allow him to persuade Patton that he doesn’t deserve to be treating himself this way. He’s not sure that he’s could convince him of it outright, and while he thinks that manipulating him to come to that point of view might be doable, the idea leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Already, his judgment is being clouded by sentiment. He wishes that he were more upset about it than he is.

But whether he knows what to do or not, something needs to happen, and an opportunity arrives soon enough. He’s lounging in the common room— and the fact that he has the freedom to do that now is still nothing short of spectacular, frankly, not that he would ever admit as much out loud— when Patton comes down the stairs, bleary-eyed, and goes to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. He watches, curious, as Patton passes him with barely a glance.

It is instinct to follow him. Patton doesn’t seem to notice his presence, so he leans against the doorframe, observing quietly as Patton fumbles a glass from the cabinet, almost dropping it, and sticks it under the tap to fill with water. He considers saying something when Patton gulps down half of it in one go, and again when Patton sighs, bracing himself against the counter. But it feels like an intrusion, somehow, and the words won’t come.

So, he doesn’t say anything, preparing himself to jump in the moment that Patton turns and sees him.

Patton turns and sees him.

“Hello, Pa—”

But Patton flinches violently, and Janus is cut off by the sound of glass shattering on the floor. All thoughts of having a cool, measured conversation fly out the window.

“Shit,” he says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— here, just let me—”

He steps forward, choreographing his movement so Patton can avoid him if he wants, but Patton is staring at the ground, his eyes wide as they flit across the glass now scattered on the tile. He doesn’t react as Janus takes his elbow, guiding him away from the glass shards, and he doesn’t react when Janus snaps his fingers, getting rid of the mess entirely.

Janus’ concern grows.

“Patton?” he asks. “Patton, are you with me?”

Slowly, Patton blinks. His gaze comes into focus, and then he smiles, a smile so clearly plastered on, so clearly fake that it sits like a physical weight in Janus’ gut.

“Janus!” he chirps. “Hi! Sorry about that, I’m not sure what came over me. Guess I’ve got a real case of butter fingers today.” He waves his hand, holding a Butterfingers bar between his fingers, and Janus frowns. He knows a deflection when he sees one, though he’s less certain that Patton realizes that he’s doing it in the first place. By now, he wouldn’t be surprised if it’s an ingrained instinct.

Look away, Patton is saying. Wasn’t that a funny joke? Pay attention to the joke, not to me. I’m alright.

“I should be the one apologizing,” he says. “I startled you.”

Patton laughs. “That’s alright,” he says. “Really, I guess I just wasn’t paying enough attention. Was there something that you needed?”

He maintains a blank face with an effort. “Do I need to have a reason to spend time with you?” he asks, and there is the first crack: a moment of bewilderment passing across Patton’s face, as if he can’t possibly believe that someone would want to be around him for the sake of his company. It’s a familiar look, a bitter one, one he would never admit aloud to having seen in his own mirror.

“Of course, I would love to talk to you,” he continues. “But only if you’re amenable.”

Patton squints at him, and this, too, is familiar ground, as Patton tries to figure out whether he’s sincere or not. He waits patiently as Patton’s expression folds into something just a little more genuine, tinged with relief.

“Sure,” he says. “I’d love to talk for a little while.”

Something sour coats Janus’ tongue; a half-truth, then, though which half, he can’t tell. Patton is almost as practiced in lying as he is, though his are so often self-directed. But for now, he will take the admission at face value, and as he walks over to the couch, Patton follows, settling on the cushions next to him, and that is what is important.

“In all honesty, I wanted to know how you were doing,” he says, keeping his voice as gentle and sincere as he possibly can. It doesn’t come naturally to him, but somehow, it is easier when it is Patton. Easier to open up, easier to express his true concerns. Easier to allow himself to care, and he wishes he didn’t have to read into that, but he knows very well what it means, even if he’s shelving it to be considered at a later date. “It’s been some time now since the wedding, but I couldn’t help but notice that you haven’t been spending much time around the others lately.”

The wince is so quick that Janus half-wonders if he imagined it. But no— it was masked quickly, but it was there.

“Well, you know how it is,” Patton says. “Everyone’s so busy lately, me included! You know, with Nico and all.”

Janus feels his chest fill with warmth at the mere mention of the name, though he keeps his infatuation off his face as well as he can. There is not a single side in the mindscape that isn’t taken with Nico, completely and utterly, and Janus is unashamed to count himself among their number. Nico is who Thomas wants at the moment, after all, and Janus is always eager to let Thomas act on his wants.

But bringing him up now is nothing more than another distraction, one that he sees through immediately.

“I don’t know at all,” he agrees, “But, Patton, I can’t help but feel as though this is something else.” He flicks through a couple of options in his mind, wondering what will get through to him the best. After a moment of consideration, he reaches out and places a hand on Patton’s arm. It’s awkward; casual physical contact is not something he’s particularly practiced in. But Patton doesn’t seem to mind it, or at least, he doesn’t move away, though he appears a bit startled. “You’ve moved past busy into outright avoidance.”

Patton’s jaw works. “I’m not avoiding—”

“Patton.”

Patton stops and looks at him for a moment. And then, he slumps in on himself, like a marionette with its strings cut. “Am I that obvious?” he asks, and he sounds so miserable that for a moment, Janus wants nothing more than to wrap him up in his arms and hold him until his pain goes away. An unusual instinct for him, but perhaps it makes sense; Patton has always liked hugs, as far as he knows, so it’s not unreasonable that his first thought would be to offer one.

His drive for self-preservation goes far beyond preserving himself, after all.

“Not really,” he says, “but you know how I’m so terribly unobservant.” He pauses, and then goes on, more quietly. “I won’t force you to talk to me if you would rather not. But we’ve had the conversation about repression before. Multiple times, if I remember correctly.”

Patton laughs, but there’s no warmth in it. Just something sad, self-deprecating.

“No, no, you’re right,” he says. “And I know it’s not good, I just—”

He waits, and Patton draws in a breath.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, “about my mistakes a lot, lately. And I— I understand that it’s okay that I make them, and that I can’t be perfect, and as long as I try my best to fix things and do better then it’s alright, but it’s just that— Roman’s been so happy lately, you know? Because he finally got something that he wanted. And it just sort of hit me that I’ve been keeping him from having that for so long. He hasn’t been happy in so long, and I’m not even sure that anyone’s been happy in so long, and it’s all my fault because I’ve been saying that it’s wrong to want things for yourself, but it’s not really wrong at all and I know that now, but I just don’t know how to—”

“Patton,” Janus says, squeezing his arm, “please, breathe.”

Patton stops, looking at him, which isn’t exactly what he meant him to do, but he’s breathing, at least.

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding them?” he asks. “Because you’ve been worrying about this?”

Patton glances down, his hands twisting into the hem of his shirt.

“I just don’t want to hurt them again,” he says, voice small, and Janus is surprised at his own flash of anger. Who it’s directed at, he can’t say. The others, perhaps, for letting it get this bad. Himself, for not seeing it sooner.

“I understand that,” he says, “but even if you weren’t letting yourself magnify your missteps, which you are, by the way, you can’t possibly believe that they’d want you to hurt yourself instead.”

Patton jerks. “I’m not—”

“Oh, you’re not?” He breathes out sharply through his nose, trying to regain some of his composure. If this were any other side, he would feel comfortable in berating them from dawn to dusk, but Patton is too fragile for that right now. Even he can recognize as much. “Patton,” he says, softer, but firm, “when was the last time you ate?”

Patton’s brow furrows. “This morning,” he answers, “or— no. Wait. It had to have been— no, that’s not it either.” The corners of his eyes pinch as he tries to work through it, and while Janus has to admit that it is some relief to know that he hasn’t been denying himself food on purpose, the fact that the question is a difficult one at all is still very concerning.

“I—” Patton stops, stutters. “I guess I haven’t been very hungry lately. I didn’t think it had been that long—”

“It’s alright,” Janus interrupts, even though it isn’t, because there is an edge of panic beginning to creep into Patton’s voice, and he would like to avoid that if he can. “Well, we can work on it, at any rate.”

Patton’s hands are trembling. He pauses, considering for a moment, and then reaches out to take them in his. The contact is startling, despite the fact that he initiated it, and judging from the way Patton stills, the sentiment is shared. It is almost enough to make him pull away again, writing the venture off as a bad idea, but he doesn’t want to give Patton the wrong impression, doesn’t want him to assume that he stopped for any reason other than his own hangups about touch.

“That is,” he says, “if you’ll allow me to help. I can’t force you into anything. Ultimately, you’re your own person. Or rather, your own part of a whole person. But that means that the decision is up to you.”

Patton doesn’t reply. He’s staring at where their hands are connected, his face twisted into an expression that Janus can’t even begin to describe, and a horrible suspicion enters his mind.

Self-isolation can be a form of self-harm, too, and Patton has always been so tactile by nature.

“How long has it been since you last touched someone?” he asks, and Patton startles, yanking his hands out of Janus’ grip like he’s been burned. Janus tries not to let it sting.

“That’s not—” he says. “That’s not a big deal. I can— I don’t have to— and I didn’t want to bother anybody, so I—”

“Right, because asking people for a bit of physical contact is such a bother,” he says, his voice veering sharper than he intends.

“Isn’t it?” Patton asks, and Janus rears back at his tone. “Everyone’s dealing with their own things right now, so why should they have to help me on top of that? And besides, I’m clingy, and nobody—”

“Who told you that?”

Generally, he refrains from trying to murder his fellow sides, if only on the principal that they’re all needed for Thomas to function properly, but if it turns out that one of them has caused this, that one of them has called Patton clingy, made him think that seeking out affection when he needs it is somehow wrong, or a burden on others, then he refuses to be help responsible for his actions.

“No one had to tell me that,” Patton says. “But it’s true, isn’t it? I’m too much, and I’ve been trying to be better about that too, but it’s just—”

No.

No, no, no.

“No,” he says. “It’s not true. You’re not too much, not when it comes to things like this, and anyone who has ever told you otherwise is wrong. No—” He raises a hand when Patton goes to cut him off, though he doesn’t actually exercise his silencing ability. Repressing Patton now would be the exact opposite of helpful. “And that includes yourself.” He reaches out and takes Patton’s hands again, holding on tight. He can feel how tense Patton is, how every muscle in his body has stiffened.

“Please,” Janus says. “Tell me what you want.”

Patton’s eyes well up with tears. His lips quiver. The silence stretches on.

And finally:

“I— sometimes, I just want to cuddle, okay? Is that so bad?” It’s a whimper, a plea, and really, Janus is absolutely going to kill each and every last inhabitant of the mindscape for neglecting Patton like this, for allowing him to believe that something so simple as cuddling him would be a chore, would be too much. He’s going to kill them, but later, because here and now, Patton needs him more than he needs any acts of violence, no matter how well-deserved.

“Of course it’s not,” he says, and hopes that the sincerity comes through, hopes that Patton doesn’t assume he’s lying. “Come here.”

And even as he draws Patton closer, he begins to panic. He has never done this before, never been asked to do this; generally, the others have always assumed that he likes his space, and usually, that’s true enough that he’s never bothered to correct the notion. It’s had the added benefit of keeping Remus at arm’s length when he’s difficult to handle, but he would be lying— ha— if he said that he’d never considered the drawbacks before now, never let himself wonder what it would be like to have someone else so close to him.

He’s never cuddled. Never been cuddled, never cuddled someone else. So really, he is possibly the absolute worst side for Patton to be stuck with right now.

But he’s what Patton’s got, so he tugs Patton up against his chest, wrapping his arms around him. Patton makes a noise, something between a gasp and a whine, but it only takes a second for him to melt into the touch, all of his weight landing firmly against Janus’ body as he goes limp as a ragdoll.

It’s an awkward position. He doesn’t know anything about cuddling, but he’s fairly certain that it’s supposed to be more comfortable than this.

He wonders if the fact that he feels like his skin is on fire is typical, or if that’s just him. A consideration for later, maybe, though his heart is beating almost too fast to ignore.

“Here,” he says, “let’s—”

He pulls back, heart panging at Patton’s soft whimper, but he settles himself on the couch, a sprawling position halfway between sitting and lying down. He beckons, then, and Patton wastes no time before lurching forward, draping himself along Janus’ body, and this— this feels right, somehow, their limbs slotting into all the right places, curving against each other, and Janus places his hands on Patton’s back to keep him in place. Not that he needs to; Patton doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere.

Patton tucks his face underneath his chin, resting against the hollow between his neck and collarbone. Janus has to suppress a whimper of his own. He’s never been touched there. Not ever.

He feels himself melting into Patton just as much as Patton is melting into him. It’s new, and strange, and a bit terrifying, but he doesn’t want it to stop.

Patton lets out a sigh, long and low. “‘M sorry I was being dumb,” he murmurs, words barely intelligible.

“It’s not dumb to be scared, or to have self-doubt,” he replies, though it’s a struggle to make himself coherent. His brain feels mushy, his thought processes slow, like wading through knee-deep water. “You’re wrong, of course, but it’s not dumb.” He pauses. “And it’s definitely not dumb to want someone to take care of you.”

“‘M glad you’re here,” Patton mumbles. “I’m glad it’s you. Thank you, Janus.”

Something in his chest bursts, warm and brilliant, and he doesn’t think it’s the contact.

“Of course,” he says, fighting to speak past a mouth that has gone very dry. “Anytime.”

Patton shifts, snuggling closer, and he wonders if Patton realizes just how much he means it. Because he does, perhaps more than he has ever meant anything else.

He’s not ready to say it, yet, though. Not yet ready to make it known, to open himself up to that. So, for the moment, he holds Patton against him, and lets him rest. Safe, warm, and though unspoken, loved.

General Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii @severelylackinginquality @aceawkwardunicorn @gayerplease @elizabutgayer @dwbh888 @thatoneloudowl @sanderssides-angst @gayboopnoodle @wildfire5157 @ldavmp4 @a-ghostlight-for-roman @sammy-is-obsessed @imlovethomassanders @a-yeet-bop-bop-boom @halfords-hysteria @random-fander @addykatb @i-cant-find-a-good-username @intruxiety @maybedefinitely404 @arya-skywalker @thefivecalls @nerdy-emo-royal-dad @bisexualdisaster106 @teacupfulofstarshine @neo-neo-neo @lollingtothemax

[clearlynotjanus]

Loceit Appreciation Week: Day One, Hobbies

READ ON AO3

Chapter Summary: Through three accidental bonding moments over their usually solo hobbies, Logan & Janus realize they have a bit in common & enjoy what the other has to offer.

CW: Food mention, NSFW insinuated very briefly, Greek mythology Word Count: 6497 Genre: Gen Rating: Gen Ships: Slowburn Loceit, slowburn Intruloceit, pre-established Intrulogical, pre-established Dukeceit

taglist: @sanderssidesangsttrash​ @catalinaacosta​ @whatishappeningrightnow​ @anxiousbean4404​ @vexelore​ @the-dead-and-the-decaying​ @serpentinesomebody​ @poptartsaysurloved​ @robertdownerjr​ @dangitsbrightinhere​ @iamuncomffy​ @sanderdarksides​ @evertriedsoywithyourpopcorn​ @dragonfander @virgilstarantula​ @a-rudethude @indubitably-emo @gay-artist-626​ @cosplayhanna​ @edupunkn00b​ @wouldntyou-liketoknow​ @awesomerandomgirl1​ @loceitweek2021​​

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Without any effort made to conceal himself, Janus observed Logan and Remus from the kitchen pass through. Cynically his eyes measured the almost formal distance between the lovers on the couch. There was no need to guesstimate their familiarity; Remus gushed every chance he got about their private life but Janus was still nosey as ever. He leaned forward there with an elbow bent across the counter, the other propped up with an apple brought to his mouth every so often with a satisfying crunch. His gaze switched between keen on their movements and hazy as trains of thought whisked him away. 

Janus was aware his staring made Logan uncomfortable in these moments. He shifted, glanced in Janus’ direction, cleared his throat, pushed his glasses back unnecessarily, all as though being perceived so closely was an entirely new concept; but that was just another reason to continue. This was, after all, the Dark Side; his side, and far be it from Janus to let Logan forget that detail. Besides, it wasn’t like he was a peeping Tom, leering as their casual afternoon became intimate. No, whenever that occurred, Janus was out of the room faster than Remus could get it up.

Today was tedious in its domesticity. Remus scribbled like a madman with furious scritchscritchscritches in a notebook that seemed to change positions whenever Janus looked at him, specifically. Logan rested his head gently against a loosely balled fist. With a quiet schwiff every couple of minutes, he turned a page of the book in his lap. The room was silent otherwise.

Crunch. Schwiff. Scritchscritchscritch. Crunch. Schwiff. Scritchscritchscritch. Crunch -- The apple was finished and the sticky core was disposed of.

“Logan,” Janus called suddenly in a sweet tone as the trash’s lid closed. 

The Side in question stayed silent; either to finish the line his eyes were currently on or to give Janus a taste of his own uncomfortable medicine. Either way, Janus rounded the kitchen corner and balanced a hip against the arm rest next to Remus. A gloved hand idly found its way into his partner’s curls; thoughtlessly, Remus leaned into the feeling, but remained otherwise unresponsive, clearly content with his scribbling. Logan finally blinked up. His expression seemed indecisive between exasperated and dubious, with a predictable amount of disinterest.

“What is it you’re reading?” Janus asked, brows and chin raised with an amount of intrigue that Logan didn’t immediately trust. Not to say Logan didn’t trust Janus individually, but even if he was the Side who understood Deceit the best, there was still quite a bit of water under this particular bridge -- or, uh, whatever idiom would fit here.

Instead of responding verbally, Logan held up the blue and black cover for Janus to read himself; which he then did. With a slightly cocked head, the words were enunciated slowly.

“Born Under Saturn. The Character and Conduct of Artists; A Documented History From Antiquity to The French Revolution,” Janus blinked back up at Logan’s face, digesting the rather wordy sentence. “An analysis of historical artists?” He attempted to boil the topic down to something more … succinct as Logan lowered the book again.

“Basically,” He allowed, eyes poised to resume his reading.

Janus hummed with peaked interest and continued to watch as Logan’s demeanor receded from vaguely conversational to studiously mute once more. In truth, it sounded like a rather compelling read. Being Thomas’ Sides, of course, they were all inclined to art in some way; for the more left-brained Sides such as Janus and Logan however, the critique and reasoning behind the art and associated artists compelled them more frequently than the act of creating art, itself. 

“What’s the part about Saturn?” Janus asked with knitted brows, the hand in Remus’ hair going still as he interrupted again after a moment. This question seemed to get Logan going as he shifted in his seat.

“Well, I had assumed from the title that the study would be centered around evidence pertaining to when and where artists were born, alluding to the hypothesis that Saturnian positions and dispositions resulted in a certain type of artistic character,” Logan explained, annoyance bleeding into his tone as he placed the back of his hand on the page he was currently on in a humorless gesture.

“And I take it from your very contented mood that that’s exactly what the book is about,” Janus teased reflexively, taken aback by Logan’s sudden enthusiasm. Perhaps, Janus thought, he hadn’t been so bothered by being stared at and was simply wrestling with his expectations of the text.

“Ha ha,” He laughed dryly; the sound made Janus smirk. “Saturn is, unfortunately,” Logan waved his hand at the book, “Just a metaphor here.”

“A metaphor for what?” Janus pressed gently, giving a final tug of affection to Remus’ hair before retracting his hand; sensing the appendage being stolen, the distracted Creativity leaned to follow the stimulus until it was far out of reach. Janus turned away and sat delicately on the shallow coffee table in front of Logan, who then paused.

He didn’t wonder why Janus was interested in this topic; after all, he thought, philosophy and theoretical debate were right up Janus’ alley. Additionally, they were speaking about metaphors, he rationalized. Logan didn’t need to understand nor regularly use the literary device to know its practical application, particularly to Deceit who always spoke in those encumbering and roundabout ways. What Logan really paused for was a moment of recognition that after years of distant silence, they were embarking on a rather cordial discussion.

“The melancholic,” Logan explained.

“So not the Roman god?”

“Well, yes and no, but for the comparison to make sense, no is easier,” Janus nodded and crossed his legs, listening with intent held in his brows. “It is a tad convoluted but the theory relates to the history of the four humors,” Janus gave a soft, one-noted hum and Logan nodded. “After all, the Greek etymology for the word melancholy is melas, meaning black and kholé meaning bile; black bile, of course--”

“Being one of the four … fluids,” Janus scrunched his nose distastefully, “Associated with the four humors,” He finished his interruption, gesturing with a loose wrist. 

“Exactly,” Logan breathed with a surprised half smile.

“So what does Saturn have to do with black bile?” Janus asked reasonably.

“Well that part goes back to the interpretive study of Astrology,” Janus tilted his head with surprised interest. “Which, despite its dubious plausibility today, played a frequently understated role in the founding of modern science, especially modern psychology.” Logan paused, watching Janus’ face shift subtly in thought. 

“Forgive my relatively ignorant knowledge of Astrology,” Logan nodded permissibly as Janus began to piece the theory together with slow words, “But I guess what you’re saying, or rather, what you expected the book to say, is that artists all suffer from a melancholic disposition?” Logan hummed and shook his head, causing Janus to purse his lips. 

“Again, yes and no. The book is saying that, to some extent.”

“You had just been expecting the evidence to be reliant on literal Saturn rather than...whatever they’re actually using,” Janus tried again and was rewarded with another half smile.

“Are you nerds done yet?” Remus piped up suddenly as Logan opened his mouth to continue. Janus’ head turned and the awareness in his partner’s eyes made his own narrow; how long had he been attentive to their conversation? “I wanna show Lolo what I made.”

“Quite, then,” Janus smiled curtly at Remus who beamed with knowing sarcasm in a way that only Janus would be able to detect. Rat bastard. “Another time,” He promised almost provocatively as a parting to Logan, who looked rather miffed and torn between continuing this unexpectedly stimulating conversation and tending to his boyfriend’s desires.

Janus stood before brushing invisible dirt off himself. “Have a wonderful afternoon, lovebirds,” Janus lilted, fingers wiggling in a goodbye wave as his back disappeared down the hall.

Logan blinked several times before inhaling and turning to Remus, who seemed a few moments more patient and perhaps a little more amused than usual.

- - - - -

Remus’ door having gone unanswered, when music began to softly crackle from the direction of the kitchen, Logan followed it with a vague intrigue. He paused in the entry, blinking at the four black-sleeved and yellow-gloved hands that flitted about the counter spaces. They rifled through the fridge and plucked from the cabinets with a sense of mindlessness from their owner, who stood at the sink. Using his natural two arms, Janus filled various bowls with water as he hummed along to the quiet, bouncy swing song that played from an antique looking gramophone Logan could’ve sworn wasn’t there yesterday. The scene was fascinating, from a scientific point of view; he had never considered how Janus’ many arms worked and seeing them here, stretching out and acting as though they had their own sentience piqued his interest immensely. 

For long moments, Logan watched silently before the arms retracted, bringing various items back to the workspace closest to Janus. Packets of gelatin, food coloring -- Logan squinted from his position; corn syrup? The answer to a question he hadn’t asked made itself apparent as he recalled a few various tidbits Remus had given him about his partner. Logan cleared his throat to get Janus’ attention, satisfied with his distant examinations.

“Oh,” The baker turned around, excess arms disappearing inside him with a flourish as they completed their purpose of fetching. “Logan, good morning,” Janus greeted in a sunny tone, though confusion hinted in his eyes.

“Good morning,” He returned, taking conservative steps into the kitchen. He nodded at the gelatin packets. “So this is the gelatin art Remus talks about,” Logan observed without question.

“Remus talks about it?” Janus asked, reserved happiness in his distracted tone as he stepped from the sink to the counter and began measuring out tablespoons of corn syrup.

“Frequently,” Logan confirmed, crossing his arms casually. The conversation came to a peaceful lull as Janus began to stir the syrup and water. Concluding that, he turned and took steps that placed him closer than usual to the other.

“What does he say?” Janus asked like a teen greedy for rumors, giving a sly glance from under his lashes as he paused. The moment lingered as he reached around Logan for the gelatin packets he stood in front of, meeting his eyes all the while. Suddenly, Logan couldn’t remember a single thing Remus had ever said. The tips of his ears reddened with a blush that creeped up the back of his neck. He swallowed against the dryness of his throat.

“Just that you enjoy making gelatin,” Logan responded after Janus had made his way back to the counter, his posture feeling as stiff and unnatural as his answer. He could see the disappointment in the way Janus’ lips pursed as he began dumping the neutral colored gelatin into the solution.

“Is that so.”

“Yes,” Logan cleared his throat and again felt that his response was lame. It made the air between them go stale. How did Remus manage to speak with Janus so casually and with so much enthusiasm? Of course, he wouldn't be Remus without an absence of shame, but still; Logan found himself envying the fact. 

He was appreciative of the cheerful music that eased the awkwardness. Also that Janus didn’t seem to mind how apparently awful he was at idle conversations despite his desire to engage in them. After a few moments, Janus went back to humming as he repeated the task of pouring gelatin into the bowls and discarding the packets. As the heat in his face receded, Logan recalled more of Remus’ words over the time they had been dating. 

He always spoke very highly of his partner, which was to be expected. Janus was graceful, patient, and, quote, ridiculously smart. Despite taking everything Remus had to say with mounded tablespoons of realism flavored salt, examining Janus now and through the lens of their recent interactions, Logan would have to agree. 

“He has an awful habit,” Janus revived the conversation as one song faded into the next. He turned and leaned back against the counter; as he spoke, he slowly began turning the knob of a manual can opener against a can of condensed milk. “Of eating various inedible things,” Janus scrunched his nose and Logan exhaled. “You won’t believe the things he’s consumed over the years.”

“That’s why you make the gelatin, correct?” Logan asked, hoping this time his phrasing opened up the possibility for more elaboration.

“Mhm,” Janus hummed with a shallow nod and twisted the lid off before throwing it in the trash as well. He turned and stirred the thickened milk into the largest bowl of water and corn syrup. Discomfort washed over Logan once more as he began to realize the conversation had died again. His head fell but soon snapped up as Janus thankfully continued after a moment.

“Of course it doesn’t negate the problem entirely,” His tone was less annoyed than Logan would’ve thought. Though there was plenty of quiet frustration, mostly he sounded concerned and tired. “But I like to imagine it helps some at least.” 

“I think it helps more than you realize,” Logan offered slowly in a tone that was sure of itself despite the confusion in his brow. Did Janus not realize his instrumental intervention?

Remus never really shut up about how much he appreciated Janus. The various ways Janus managed him and his mental health over their lifetime together, how effortless Janus made it all look; Logan had to admit, hearing about it constantly was rather intimidating, especially at the beginning of their relationship. He had high expectations to meet if everything Remus said was true, and like he thought before, it was beginning to look that way as Logan got to know Janus for himself. Remus talked a fair amount about how much he appreciated Logan as well though, so he never did have much of a chance to get demoralized about it. Even so, gauging the dynamic between Janus and Remus without his interference was a bit startling as everything came into focus.

They flowed together easily; in the interactions Logan had witnessed, their affection always had a sense of routine and familiarity, but not in the stale way that felt boring after years of repetition. Perhaps, Logan began to think, it had clouded his view a bit and prevented him from questioning if Remus ever expressed his gratitude to Janus, directly. The likelihood that he didn’t seemed infinitesimal, and yet the doubt was still clear in Janus’ words. Was it that he didn’t believe Remus then?

Janus cautioned a look at Logan from over his shoulder, surprise and then confusion flashed across his features; exactly how much did Remus talk about him? He didn’t mind being complimented of course, he adored praise, but something about the idea of Remus jumping into a new relationship only to gush about him constantly didn’t sit right with him. Especially if that person was Logan. Who knew how Logan felt after all this time? Janus scrunched his nose and tossed the now empty can with a sense of distaste.

“I suppose he talks about me too much if you think that,” His tone was apologetic as he gave the mixture a final stir before turning to meet Logan’s eyes with a flashy smile. “Enough about all that though; would you like to help?”

Logan blinked, his mind catching up to the topic dismissal. “Help?” He repeated automatically before realizing what Janus meant. “Oh. No,” He unfolded his arms to wave a hand, shaking his head. “I’m not one for baking, I’ll just get in the way.”

“Nonsense,” Janus insisted, reaching forward to gently steal Logan by his sleeve. “If you need more motivation than just my requesting, think about how thrilled Remus will surely be knowing you had a hand in this batch.”

Logan let himself be pulled towards the workstation, not having it in him to refuse Janus’ smile and persistence more than once.

“I suppose you have a point,” He conceded with a sigh and Janus clapped his hands together quietly.

“Splendid,” he plucked the box of food coloring from the counter and pushed the dark blue dropper into Logan’s hands. “This is the easy part anyway. I trust you completely.”

Somehow, the implication of Janus trusting him made him pause, feeling his chest going warm. Logan stared down at the small bottle in his hands, feeling even more clueless now being involved than he had simply watching Janus; but Janus still trusted him. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell that Janus was trusting him on reputation alone, something the others consistently seem to find inconceivable. Not often was Logan trusted so explicitly, which was concerning to say the least, but function aside, the sentiment filled him with unexpected happiness. 

“Just get this,” Janus tapped one of bowls filled with water, corn syrup, and gelatin, “As close to this shade,” He then pointed to the blue swirl part of the Tide Pod resting between the various ingredients, “As you can get,” Janus finished with another disarming smile. Forcing himself to look away, Logan thought that at the rate Janus used that sort of charm on him like that, he’d never remember anything ever again.

“Okay,” He asserted slowly with a nod and unscrewed the small bottle. As he set to dropping small amounts of the dye before stirring and comparing the colors, Janus seemed to be doing the same with a shade of bright orange. “I suppose that’s good,” Logan ascertained after a few silent moments, holding the clear bowl up to his face for closer inspection.

“Flawless, I would say,” Janus complimented, completing his own color a second later. “Next,” He said slowly and reached to gather several of one kind of item that Logan didn’t immediately recognize, “We set the molds,” Janus explained as he neatly lined about a dozen purple, palm sized squares between them. Logan uttered a small, ah, in understanding.

He scanned the counter for a tool that would be useful here; the idea of pouring the liquid straight into the molds seemed rather silly and messy. If this were Patton, Logan wouldn’t put it past him, but Janus was far more structured, far more sensible.

“Should we use those?” Logan asked, reaching for the rather thick gauge baking syringes set to the side as Janus opened the molds to reveal a swirl shape identical to the signature Tide Pod.

“A step ahead of me,” Janus lilted with a nod, raising his eyes just enough to spot the syringes he planned on retrieving next. “Go on then,” He pointed his chin at the gelatin, reaching over Logan for a needle of his own. “I trust it’s fairly self explanatory for you.”

And it was; the entire procedure wasn’t particularly challenging, as long as Janus wasn’t smiling at him or charming him out of his brain cells. Logan drew up about half the syringe’s barrel and then held one half of the mold in his palm. Comparing it to the Tide Pod, he began to gently squeeze the blue solution along half of the swirl pattern, dragging it across the material for an even consistency. Janus smiled to himself, watching from the corner of his eye and began to do the same with his own orange gelatin, working from the opposite end of the line. 

“When it comes to the ones already filled,” Janus began as they approached meeting in the middle, though before he could finish, Logan interrupted knowingly.

“I suppose I should avoid picking the mold up so as to not disrupt the other side,” He guessed and positioned his syringe at a different angle, experimenting with how he should go about it now before settling on a method.

“Precisely,” Janus delighted quietly, moving behind Logan and out of his way to fill in the orange sides of the already completed blue ones. “Typically,” He continued as they settled back into a rhythm, “I just do both colors at once, holding it as you had started,” Janus glanced out of the corner of his eye; Logan looked so concentrated, it was impossible not to find the focus in his eyes adorable. For a brief moment, before Janus continued, Logan began to worry that he was getting in the way as he feared. If Janus had a certain way of doing this and he was doing it wrong, comparatively, then it was just as he thought; that he shouldn’t have gotten involved. 

“But I don’t quite mind this either,” Janus finished softly and Logan exhaled the breath he didn’t realize was being held. As the silence began to press on, he started to wish he could figure out something to say to Janus’ kindness. Then he wondered if this was how Remus often felt.

As Janus took Logan’s empty syringe and quickly rinsed both of theirs in the sink, he explained their next and final step before they would be placed in the fridge until completion. Sealing the molds with their domed, other half, they would repeat the filling action with the condensed milk and gelatin mixture.

“Simple enough,” Logan said as he accepted the syringe that Janus handed him with a smile. This time, Logan offered his own small expression before the two set to work. After a few silent moments, he continued with a rather impulsive question. “Does Remus ever help you with this?” Surely he did; in the same way Logan found it impossible that Remus never expressed his gratitude to Janus, he couldn’t fathom that the two didn’t enjoy this together.

“Oh, no, never,” Janus answered immediately with an appalled tone. Logan blinked, his hand going still as he again reevaluated how he perceived their relationship. “The first and only time I tried to get him to help,” He continued, his own hands pausing to stare wide eyed and offended at Logan, “He ate three of my molds!”

Logan couldn’t help the small smile that curved his lips, though he tried to dismiss it quickly by pursing them and looking away. The distress Janus clearly felt for something so simple was … a bit bewildering, but also very him, Logan decided. He got the sense that Remus would love to help, if he could, but that he had the habit of ruining Janus’ things in the process. With a heavy sigh, Janus went back to filling the molds and when Logan could keep the smile out of his voice, he continued.

“The other day he brought a few rocks from the Imagination to my room and asked what they were. He does that,” Logan glanced at Janus, “Stops by and asks questions like that, but when I located my geology kit, the first thing he did,” Logan smiled again, fondness creeping into his tone despite himself, “Was tear the handbook pages in excitement,” Janus clicked his tongue and shook his head, empathizing with the tragedy, but Logan continued, gesturing in small ways now. “It was completely illegible,” Logan paused, recalling the fear in Remus’ expression as he apologized profusely, handing the torn book back by the tips of his fingers. 

“Was?” Janus prompted quietly, watching Logan’s faintly passionate storytelling from the corner of his eye.

“At least for its intended use as a portable guide. If you pushed the papers together, you could piece the sentences but,” Logan paused again and shook his head, “He insisted on writing it, all of it. He took one of my notebooks right there and stared down at the little book and wrote everything he could make out,” Logan laughed dryly and resumed filling the mold he had stopped on. “I bet he has the entire handbook memorized now.”

“He adores you very much then,” Janus said without reservation, without even looking away from the molds. The conclusion caught Logan off guard and silence persisted as he waited for Janus to elaborate; but no such continuation came. Again Logan found himself holding his breath, but it wasn’t like he didn’t know that Remus loved him. He said it at least ten times a day. It just felt very different coming from someone who’s known Remus for so long, Logan guessed. It’s different when someone else can see love that easily.

“I know,” Logan whispered sentimentally after a while, and wondered in the enduring silence of their work if he should’ve said that Remus loved Janus very much, too.

- - - - -

Janus paused on the bottom step of the Dark Side stairs as he spotted Logan, bent slightly at the waist and jotting something down on a rather large stack of white paper. The astringent smell of Sharpies was unavoidable. While it certainly wasn’t new at this point for Logan to be found here on a casual basis, it was a bit strange that Remus wasn’t in the immediate area.

“Hello, Logan,” Janus greeted in a smiling tone as he continued into the room and approached the workspace that was their dining table. 

“Hello,” He returned the friendly gesture without tearing his eyes away or stopping his hand from drawing a simplistic symbol in one of the dated squares.

“What brings you here without your typical consort?” Now peering over Logan’s shoulder, Janus realized it wasn’t just any stack of paper he was writing on, but a wall calendar.

“Remus just went to the bathroom. He’ll probably be back in a few moments.”

Janus made a soft sound of understanding and continued to watch. Capping the silvery marker he had been using, Logan switched it out for a dark blue one. Intrigue growing, Janus observed as he neatly drew an open circle, then some complex looking arrow shape beside it. Next Logan drew an odd arch shape on the other side of the square beside another open circle, this one with a dot in the center. Then two smaller circles diagonal from each other connected with a single line. Finally, next to that symbol, he drew a half crescent moon. Janus’ brows furrowed delicately. 

“Logan, dear?” 

“Hm?”

“What on Earth are you doing?”

Logan blinked and paused before slowly standing from his leaning position. He … didn’t really know where to begin. Talking about his hobby with Remus was one thing; while his boyfriend readily listened to his enthusing and had even offered his artistic expertise in ‘livening up’ the calendar today, the idea of explaining it to Janus felt like a different beast altogether. Why was that? Logan observed his feelings on the matter, staring down at the calendar. The writing there was neither impressive nor sloppy, but a typical middle ground of insignificantly informative, in his opinion. Mindlessly, he brought the marker up to his chest and capped it with a decisive click. His stomach became uneasy imagining himself divulging eagerly, about anything, to Janus. Why was that?

“I’m,” Indulging in a pseudoscience? Partaking in something that is unreliable and interpretive at best? Having an indemonstrable belief system? Being less than serious? Logan turned to face Janus, his arms falling to his sides. “Calculating planetary positions and hypothesizing on their potential,” Spiritual? Emotional? “Financial, political, and interpersonal ramifications,” Logan’s heart raced. He counted the beats. One, two, three, fourfivesixseveneight--

“I see,” Janus said reflexively but then paused to digest the sentence. It sounded interesting enough to him; foresight was high on his list of well regarded practices. Whatever helped in that pursuit, Janus found at least a little compelling. Though he cocked his head slightly and gave Logan a once over. Was he acting rather … defensive? There was no lie in his words, Janus would’ve immediately known after all, but he got the sense that he wasn’t being painted the full picture here. 

A bead of sweat dripped down the back of Logan’s collar. Janus wasn’t looking at him in any specific way, there wasn’t anything interrogative about the silence, in fact Janus’ expression was rather polite. Logan had noticed at some point that Janus looked at him more like an equal than any of the other accepted Sides. In return, he had come to trust the intrigue frequently found in his expressions. And yet he was anxious. Why? Historically, talking to Janus had never made him nervous before, sharing in pastimes together hadn’t either, so … why did he feel like sinking through the soles of his shoes and never speaking about this, ever again?

“Well,” Janus broke the silence with his entertained tone. “You were always into space and such, I shouldn’t be surprised.” 

Logan inhaled through his nose, more suddenly than he meant to, and realized only now there was a tension in his hands as they twitched to relax. Janus didn’t see anything wrong with his description of the hobby, but the fact was that he didn’t know the whole story. Logan’s explanation was, of course, accurate; accurate enough to not count as a lie, but Janus’ suspicion was warranted. A suspicion that was much closer to curiosity than Logan realized in his paranoid attempt to seem and sound more serious than necessary.

“Yes,” He mumbled and turned back around to the calendar. Janus watched with narrowed eyes as Logan placed the marker back with the rest, seeming to have a particular order that they belonged in. After a pause, he diverted his attention to the open, beige colored notebook on the other side of the table. Logan began to lightly drag a finger along the bottom of a written line of symbols there. Janus could only assume he was committing their exact meaning to memory in a way only someone like Logan could.

“So tell me,” Janus interrupted again as he elegantly sat himself down at the table opposite Logan, whose train of thought halted abruptly. “What do those symbols mean?” Janus asked, cradling his cheek in his palm as he reached the other hand to point at the five dark blue markings Logan had made. Logan swallowed and blinked slowly, bracing himself. There was no way he made it out of this conversation with Janus’ opinion of him remaining positive.

Keeping his tone as neutral as possible, Logan then dragged his finger along each symbol as it was defined, meeting Janus’ inquisitive eyes with his own hesitant gaze.

“Full moon,” Open circle, “Sagittarius,” arrow. Logan directed his finger to the other side of the square, dictating that those two symbols didn’t correlate in a direct sense to the next three. “Gemini,” He continued, pointing to the odd arch shape, “Sun,” dotted open circle, “Opposition,” the two smaller circles connected by the thin line, “Moon,” Logan finished at the half crescent moon shape.

A puzzled look flashed across Janus’ face before the words connected like a puzzle, forming a sentence he understood theoretically but in no literal way; full moon in Sagittarius, Gemini sun, opposition moon … which was in Sagittarius then? Janus could only guess. These were phrases he’s heard before, of course, but Logan said them in a way that felt far more significant than any well-rated horoscope app had.

Logan let Janus ruminate on his explanation, hoping no more questions came at the detriment of his reputation. Again he started to consult his notebook, but it was only a few moments before Janus spoke again.

“So … what’s the significance of … all that?” He asked and Logan’s mind raced in the same way Remus, Roman, and Virgil could speak at a mile a minute.

“The significance,” Logan began after what felt like much longer than a moment of struggling to quiet his mind, “Is as I said; potential financial, political, and interpersonal ramifications,” He completed in a mumble before clearing his throat, unable to meet Janus’ eyes anymore, causing the latter to frown.

The fact that Logan was growing increasingly uncomfortable wasn’t lost on Janus, of course. He watched the gears churning in Logan’s mind as mental gymnastics were performed. It wasn’t a secret to Denial why he felt discontented currently; being taken seriously was paramount to this Side and everyone had a long history of finding Logic to be a joke. After years of being dismissed without advocacy, Janus could only hope to display a patience and interest deep enough for Logan to find himself comfortable in his presence again.

“As you said,” Janus agreed, dismissing that superficial statement. “But what about that one, specifically? It’s in blue so I assume it has some significance.”

Logan’s lips tightened; where did he even begin? Explaining the correspondence between phenomena and full moons? Diving into Jupiter’s mythology and Sagittarius’ significance to Thomas, personally, as his moon ruler? The unease in his stomach shifted up his throat.

“Oh hey, Dee!” Remus suddenly interrupted as he returned from down the hall. If Logan were a man of lesser self control, he may have jumped right out of his skin.

They both turned to blink at the entrance, Logan a second too late as Remus dotted an affectionate kiss to his cheek. Rigidly, he gave a half-lipped smile to the gesture.

“Lolo telling you about his nerdy Astrology stuff?” Remus plopped himself into a chair between them at the table.

“Just a little,” Janus said as he sat back and crossed his legs.  

“Booooo,” Remus cheered, giving Logan a thumbs down before grinning. He leaned over to peer at the dark blue symbols that were drawn while he was away. “Full moon in Sagittarius,” Remus read like he was fluent in this second language Janus had only just learned the existence of. “And uh,” He paused, cocked his head in order to read the markings easier, “Gemini sun, uh, what’s that one again, Lolo?” Remus pointed at the connected, diagonal circles. 

Janus narrowed his eyes. He got the sense that Remus could easily say what that sign meant, but had asked Logan in order to hear him talk about it. How sweet.

“Opposition,” Logan repeated like a sigh as he reached to scratch the back of his neck. “Since the sun is in Gemini for most of this month, it will be opposing the moon’s position in Sagittarius that day.”

“Does that spell trouble for Tommyboy?” Remus asked mischievously, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the unused seat behind Logan.

“On the contrary,” Logan responded, opening his mouth to continue but then quickly closing it as the corner of his vision registered Janus again. 

The frown on Janus’ lips grew deeper as he silently observed the two. It seemed to come down to him and his effects on Logan’s nerves; the assumption that he would dismiss him like Patton, Roman, and Thomas, or say that he was wrong like Virgil.

“Please,” Janus urged in his most genuine tone as he held up his hands like a white flag. “Pretend I’m not here, do carry on.”

Logan inhaled slowly and seemed to take his time believing that sentiment. Another mental stalemate began; Logan wrestled with the expectations he held himself to, the assumed expectations Janus had of him, and the misconception that his hobby would be seen as silly or less than in any way. The silence dragged on until Remus broke the tension once more.

“Yeah, c’mon Lolo. Dee listens to me rant about stupid shit all the time. He’s got the patience of a Saint, I swear,” Remus smirked at Janus, who then reached out to pull affectionately on his partner’s ear.

“Like I have a choice with you,” Janus mumbled fondly, lacing his voice with thick sarcasm. 

Quickly, Remus turned his head like a baited shark and bit after Janus’ hand as it was retracted, narrowly missing the appendages with his teeth. Janus rolled his eyes and Remus beamed before shifting in his seat and staring up at Logan expectantly.

Logan’s chest burned with some unfamiliar feeling as he watched the clearly loving display. Naming emotions certainly wasn’t his strong suit, but whatever it was tightened his throat and made swallowing difficult. As usual for him, the feeling was quickly pushed away.

Which caused it to land directly into Denial’s jurisdiction. Janus had long perfected the art of remaining stoic in the face of blindsiding emotions that weren’t his own; which of course included now, as the denial of jealousy swiftly punched him in the stomach. Janus’ breathing stopped as he waited for the familiar pang of envy to subside, knowing by instinct that the originator stood before him.

“I suppose,” Logan continued after a moment before clearing his throat. “It is on the contrary that Thomas will be experiencing anything negative on this day or the two previous days leading up to this full moon,” He reached to flip a page in his notebook, revealing a neatly drawn chart of dates and signs. His finger rested decisively next to three in particular. “The moon will be in Sagittarius, opposing the current sun sign; Gemini. This is particularly good for Thomas since he has a natal Sagittarius moon.”

“Laaaaaame,” Remus exaggerated belligerently. Having been through this before, Logan gave a renewed half smile, knowing Remus only found Thomas’ lack of misfortune ‘lame’ and not the inherency of his explanation.

Janus exhaled finally as the emotional turmoil in his stomach subsided with Logan’s contentment. His chin raised curiously, eyeing the revealed page. This all sounded fascinating. He got the feeling that there was so much more to this topic, and that he would be very willing and rather eager to listen to it all as long as it was coming from Logan.

“Tell me, Lolo,” Remus said in a dark voice, frantically leaning forward, splaying his palms on the table and disregarding the way his quick movement made Logan’s markers roll away. “Do your charts and shit say when he’ll die?”

“No,” Logan sighed and rolled his eyes. The air turned sweet and Janus’ brows raised despite himself. “Even if they did, I wouldn’t tell you. It’d be incredibly subjective anyway,” Logan gestured dismissively and turned away, catching sight of Janus’ intrigued smirk. The expression made him gulp. “It’s all incredibly subjective,” He continued, now in a mumble as he went to close his notebook. 

Hastily, Logan began to gather the haphazard markers like he planned on packing his project away for the day. Lie and jealousy aside, Janus found himself invested.

“Well,” He began as Logan took a step back from the table to stare at the floor, seeming to have lost a marker in Remus’ chaos. “I thought it was all rather … enchanting,” Janus flirted unashamedly, producing the green hued utensil between his fingers with a curled smile. Logan blinked, the tips of his ears going red. “You’ll tell me more sometime?” Janus insisted, turning the thing in his grip and offering it more pointedly.

Logan swallowed and reached to quickly pluck the object from Janus’ fingers. 

“Sure,” He sighed, suddenly feeling like he had agreed to something rather damning.

“Delightful.”

Chapter One || Chapter Two

[the-sympathetic-villain]

Until You’re Free - Chapter 6

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Description:  For as long as he could remember, Janus’ parents had trained him to be an exorcist but when his mission puts his cross-hairs on two young demon  children, he finds himself questioning everything he’d ever been told.  To spare the boys, Janus takes a chance trusting a cat demon named  Virgil, but as Logan and Roman are growing older, Janus finds himself  back in the city and hiding them is proving to be harder than ever.

Thanks to LynHaundend for betareading and make sure to check out @korruptbrekker‘s beautiful art here!

Word Count: 2773

Chapter Warnings:   Logan Struggles With Emotions, Anxiety, Mention of Control/Forced Servitude, Mention of Abuse/Child Abuse (Let me know if you would like me to tag anything!)

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         “Janus!”  

         On instinct, Logan raised a hand to his temple as the shrill voice grated in his ears. His vision blurred as he turned his head into his dad’s shoulder. He felt childish, but he couldn’t help his reaction. His senses were on fire as he fought the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him.

         “Greetings, Galiena. It’s good to see you.”

         “Likewise, my friend. It’s been too long.”

         The voice in front of him had quieted as the tapping of footsteps stopped in front of them. Logan blinked and managed to lift his head as the figure lifted a hand to Janus’ cheek. “Well, look who went and grew up.”

         “I do believe that’s what happens when one leaves town for the better part of a decade.”

         “Not everyone grows up so nicely though, hun.”

         “Well, I suppose I had to get lucky sometime.”

         “Luck didn’t have a thing to do with it.” The woman took a step back and Logan managed to get a good look at the stranger for the first time.  She was a few inches taller than Janus and the warm color of her skin glowed in the light of lamps of the Inn. “And how’s my favorite infernal kitten?”

         “Good day, miss Galiena.”

         Virgil raised their head to the Innkeeper with a warm smile. The charcoal gray skin of their cheeks darkened as she reached a hand to their face, tucking a piece of their disheveled hair behind their ear with a smile.

           “So formal, love. There’s no need for that.” Galiena’s arms curled around their neck as she leaned into them. “You are my guest here, same as anyone else.”

           “Thank you.” Virgil’s long black tail flitted around their ankles affectionately as the innkeeper embraced them. The nekomata smiled and their voice resonated with a deep purr as they returned the woman’s warm touch. “As always, your kindness is appreciated.”

           Galiena smiled as she turned to Janus, sparing a glance at Roman and Logan before she addressed him. “Well, I’d love to meet my newest guests, but it appears that maybe this isn’t the best time for introductions.”

         “Soon, Galiena. You have my word that we’ll make time for you to meet them properly.” Janus’ brow creased as Galiena looked up at him with concern. “We had an unfortunate encounter with Dorian before our arrival, and as you can imagine, he left quite an impression on our boys.”

         “Poor kids.” Galiena’s sweet smile twisted into a frown as she chewed on her words. Logan blinked as her glistening eyes turned down to him and indignation flowed from her like a fire. “The Order needs to get that rabid dog in check. Only a miserable man gets their kicks bullying children.”

         “Unfortunately, the powers that be thrive on the brutality of men like Dorian.” Janus’ grip tightened on Logan’s shoulder as the tone of his voice started to slip. Logan looked up to see Janus’ eyes fill with tiredness he’d never seen before. “I’m sorry for the late notice, Galiena. We’re looking for a room for a couple nights and we can pay—”

           “Nonsense, Janus. You always have a home here.” The Innkeeper bounced away, disappearing behind the counter for a moment as Logan watched with curiosity. She reappeared a minute later, extending a bronze key to Janus and pointing to the stairway beyond the hall. “End of the hall at the top of the stairs. The suite should be big enough for you and your boys.”

       “Thank you, Galiena. You’re a blessing to this city.”

       “And don’t you forget it, hun.” The woman pointed her finger at Janus, smiling wide before turning soft eyes down to Logan and Roman. “I look forward to getting to know you boys properly, but first you go have a good, long rest. Okay?”

         Logan was grateful for the grounding feeling of Janus’ hand on his shoulder as he nodded stiffly at the stranger. She seemed kind but Logan's words seemed lodged in his throat, caught up in the overwhelm of emotions he’d experienced in their short time in the city. He could barely hold his own head up, let alone hold a conversation, and he was relieved to know no one expected anymore from him.

         “This way.”

         Janus guided them down the dimly lit hallway to the staircase, keeping quiet as Logan snuck a glance back at his brother. The same shock Logan felt was reflected in Roman’s eyes and his expression softened, knowing that at the very least, one person could truly understand what he was feeling. Logan’s breath slowed as Janus unlocked the door and led them into the dark room, finally safe far away from the world.

         “Sit down, kid.”

         Logan reluctantly stepped away from Janus, feeling the weight of gravity on his shoulders as he staggered to the far side of the room and dropped down on the auburn, velvet couch. He tucked his arms across his chest as his dad came to kneel in front of him, suddenly feeling nervous at having everyone’s eyes on him. The room was silent as Virgil and Roman settled onto the bed next behind Janus, quiet as his dad raised a hand to his cheek. His skin burned with shame as Janus wiped the dirt away from his eyes and he tensed to turn away, finding himself frozen as Janus’ eyes met his own.

         “I know you probably want some space, but I need you to answer some questions first.” Janus waited for Logan to spare him a glance before asking for confirmation. “Can you do that for me?”

         “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

      “None of this is your fault, Logan.” Janus pursed his lips as Logan dipped his head away from him. A fire burned in his chest as he watched the kid wrestle with his feelings of guilt and fear. “Nothing you could have possibly done would have been deserving of that kind of treatment.”

         “I know,” Logan’s arms tightened around his chest in an attempt to soothe himself. “but you told me to be careful, and I tried—I really did, but—"

         “Logan—”

       “That kid barreled you over.” Virgil’s voice was firm as they pulled their legs up to their chest. “You didn’t have a chance to hide or do anything else.”

       Janus blinked as he glanced over his shoulder at Virgil. “What kid?”

       “Some poor human kid that bastard said he was hunting down for a bounty. He knocked Logan out of my reach just before Dorian showed up.” The vitriol in Virgil’s voice dropped away as their purple eyes flashed in Logan’s direction. “I may have been able to hide them both if the kid knocked Logan out of my reach, but they would have been in far worse of a state if Logan hadn’t been brave enough to step in and help him escape.”

       “I—I was just reacting.”

       “Give yourself some credit.” Virgil huffed as their tail curled around their ankles and they settled into a more comfortable sitting position. “Knocking out Dorian’s lackey was the dumbest shit I’ve ever seen you do but you saved that kid a lot of misery by giving them a way out.”

       Janus rested back on his ankles as he processed Virgil’s words. “Logan—”

       “I’m       sorry.”    Logan’s voice cracked as he dropped his chin to his chest, a familiar wetness brimming in his eyes as the heat started to build in his cheeks. “I know you’re mad, but I didn’t do it on purpose. He ran into me and I just—I tried to help, but that guy was too strong and—”

         “Peaceful breaths, Logan.” Janus swept his cloak behind him as he moved to sit next to Logan on the sofa. He pulled Logan into a gentle embrace, smiling as the kid turned to wrap his hands around his waist. “Just relax. You’re not in trouble.”

         Logan chewed his lip, stiff with disbelief. “But—"

         “I would never punish you for showing compassion.” Janus swallowed as his mother’s familiar words fell from his lips. He paused to consider what Logan was feeling, taking a moment to study the kid’s expression before continuing. “Just listen first, then you can react. Got it?”

         “Fine.”

         Janus smirked as Logan grumbled, wiping the tears in his eyes with the bottom of his wrist. Even in his weakest moments, the kid truly had a stubborn streak that would not be broken. “Do you remember what I told you about picking your fights wisely?”

    “You advised me to be selective about whose authority I challenge, and that picking a fight with the wrong person may not end favorably for myself.” Logan’s breath caught in his throat as he closed his eyes. “But I already know I messed up. You don’t have to lecture me. If you’re going to be mad, I’d rather you skip straight to the yelling at me part.”

           “I’m sorry that I ever acted in a way that made you believe I would yell at you for making a mistake. I’m not angry with you, and more importantly, I would never dream of yelling at you for doing your best to make it out of a bad situation.” Janus rubbed his thumb on Logan’s shoulder. “I’m not bringing this lesson up to punish you. I’m bringing it up because there’s an exception to the rule that I always taught you.”

         Logan crossed his arm across his chest, quiet as he let Janus’ touch ground him. His breathing grew steadier as his senses relaxed from their overwhelm. The dim light and Janus’ quiet voice brought him back into the moment, making him feel safe despite the guilt still weighing on his chest.

         “I want you to make good choices that keep you and your brother safe, but there are people in this world who don’t have anyone protecting them, and I don’t want your fear to stop you from standing up for someone who can’t stand up for themselves.” Janus let out a breath as he shared a knowing glance with Virgil. “I’m proud of you, Logan. What you did today was very brave.”

         “T-thanks.”

         “That doesn’t mean your actions won’t carry consequences, but whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

           The room fell quiet as Logan nodded his head, leaning to sit up on his own. The kid seemed to have calmed down, and as Janus lifted his head to Roman, he could tell that both kids were weary from the stress of the day. Their senses were getting a much-deserved break from the stressful day and their energy was quickly fading as they settled into the safety of the dimly lit room.

         “Why don’t you boys get some rest?” Janus’ voice dropped to a whisper as he rested a hand on Logan’s back. “You and your brother can take the room in the back. You may as well get comfortable. We’re going to be here for a few more days than we expected.”

         “What does that mean?”

         The iciness in Virgil’s tone gave him pause as Logan and Roman moved towards the door to the other room. Janus could see the nekomata’s tail twitching irritably as they let their feet stretch out to the ground. He waited for the boys to disappear into the spare bedroom together before turning to address Virgil.

         “We underestimated my mother’s manipulation.”

         “What does she want from you?”

         “A foreign official is visiting the city and she wouldn’t be able to play the part of the proud mother of the savior of prophecy if she didn’t have a body to parade around.” Janus shrugged as Virgil crossed their hands across their chest in disapproval. “It’s fine. I’ll spend a few days babysitting the official’s spoiled brat and then we’ll be gone.”

         “You know it won’t be that simple.” Virgil placed their palms between their legs on the bed, leaning forward to scowl at Janus. “Especially not if another exorcist is expecting you to register a new contract, or did you already forget the bluff you made to Dorian to get Logan out of trouble?”

         “Of course, I haven’t forgotten.” Janus shook his head as he glanced over his shoulder at the door the boys had disappeared through. “Having to sign either of them into a contract is one of my worst nightmares. I don’t want either of their names in the Order’s records.”

         “I don’t think you have a choice anymore.” Virgil muttered under their breath. Their pointed ears were perked up and alert to Janus’ movements, watching as Janus considered their situation. “You didn’t leave a lot of information up to interpretation when you told Dorian what you planned to do with him. They’ll be expecting a new contract in the records in the next day or two and if we’re not gone by then, they’re going to come looking for trouble.”

        Janus let out a long sigh. “I know.”

          Virgil chewed on their lip as Janus lifted their head. Their tail curled around their knees as they leaned back onto the bed and their face soured as they watched the look of guilt on Janus’ face. “It’s not so bad, you know. Being contracted to you.”

         “Not so bad.” Janus leaned back on the sofa, smirking as he rested his hands in his lap. “Oh, you flatter me, Virgil.”

         “Shut up, idiot. I mean it.” Virgil’s ear twitched as they let out a huff and stared down at their lap. “You’ve kept your word. In all this time, you’ve never forced my hand or stepped over the boundaries I’ve set. It’s not a bad life.”

         Empathy fluttered in Janus’ chest as Virgil chewed on their lip and avoided eye contact with him. “Listen, Virgil. It’s not that I’m not glad that you feel that I’ve treated you with the respect that you deserve, but—”

         “Logan could do worse than to be bound to you.” Virgil lifted their head, growing more forceful as Janus continued to shake his head. “I know you’d do the same for him that you’ve done for me.”

         “No.”

         “But Janus—”

         “Your name was already in the Order’s records when we met.” Janus held up a finger to stop Virgil’s protests. “A demon’s life is longer than a human’s such as mine. When I die, any contract I have will fall back into the public records for another exorcist to pick up and use as they please.”

         “It doesn’t matter.” Virgil’s idle movements stilled to a stop, revealing the anxiety that had been brewing in the back of their mind. “With all the time in the world, ending up in the Order’s hand’s is inevitable for all demons. At least bound by a contract, they’re guaranteed to get one lifetime with you.”

           “I told you once that I would spend the rest of my life proving to you I was worthy of your trust.” Janus smirked as Virgil’s cat-like ear twitched and they turned their gaze back down to their lap. He knew they were uncomfortable with this conversation, and usually he was content to let his words remain unspoken, but sometimes his friend needed to hear his promises out loud in order to believe them. “That’s no longer enough for me. I want all of you to expect more out of your long lives than perpetual imprisonment and I won’t rest until you are free without condition.”

           “Janus, you can’t think that’s possible.”

           “Not today, but we have a lifetime to find a way.” Janus moved to the bed and reached a hand to Virgil’s forearm. A soft smile curled on his lips as he watched Virgil take a long breath. “And you have my word that we will, but for now, we take the battle day by day. Okay?”

         Virgil nodded as they finally looked up to Janus. “Fine, then what are we going to do about your mother in the meantime?”

         “She won’t hold me here forever. She has no desire to keep up the act of the perfect parent any longer than necessary.” Janus raised an eyebrow as Virgil’s lip curled in disgust, exposing his long canine as his tail gave an agitated flick. “We have no choice but to play along until we’re able to retreat safely.”

         “Alright, you win this time.”

         “I appreciate your patience, Virgil.”

         “You deserved better too, you know.”

         Janus pulled his hand back and rose up to move to the other bed, dropping his pack at the end as he collapsed onto the soft mattress. The exhaustion of the day settled into his bones as he prepared to rest, dreading the long week ahead of him. “I know.”

[matth1w]

Always You

Pairing: Roman Sionis/Black Mask x Female Reader

Summary: After years of separation, you finally reunite with Roman.

Warnings: Vague descriptions of sex

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1,344 words

Note: Inspired by repeat listenings of Crystal Dolphin (I know). I imagined a camera circling around the two as their eyes meet, everything else fading into the background.

Second Note: Again, so stunned and thankful all the love Dancing for Daddy is still getting. 800+ notes!!!

Forever Friends: @captainrogerss​ / @commander-writergirl​ / @fics-not-tragedies​

Roman Sionis (Open!): @stardancerluv​ / @redspaceace​ / @darling-i-read-it​ / @tales-from-gotham​ / @vintagemichelle91​ / @ladyofhellhounds​ / @aliasimagines​ / @justauthoring​ / @daphne-fandom-writing​ / @ewanfuckingmcgregor​ / @troybcker​ / @ntlmundy​ / @21stcenturywitchcraft​ / @theblackmaskclub​ / @jokersdoll-blog​​ / @ryjo1992​​ / @highly-unknown​​ / @nighttime2am​​ / @hoefordarknessrecreated​ / @zodiyack​ / @obiorbenkenobi / @innuendocrescendo​ / @obitwo​

D O  N O T  R E P O S T  M Y  W O R K

You and Roman had always loved each other. Before you knew what love was, back when love was sweet and innocent. The love you shared was simply that of best friends who smiled wider when they held each other’s hands than anyone else.

As you stepped forward, patient and thankful for the line that let you try to simmer the bubbling anxiety within you, you took in a shallow breath. 

Your name only barely loud enough for the guard to hear. After a few moments of attention directed at his lists, no doubt, his eyes met yours again, a bit of a frown beginning as he looked back down at his tablet. 

“I see.” He gruffed. 

Unsure if you were hoping he would turn you away or let you forward, you stayed silent. 

After one more long beat of staring at you, he jerked his thumb to the door. 

“Inside for weapons check.”

As you crossed the threshold, you heard the signature beep of an old school radio being pushed.

In the club, Victor’s ear buzzed. “Tell the boss she’s here.”

He strides over to Roman who is thankfully in the middle of a very unimportant conversation. 

Only a moment after he leans down to relay the message, Roman jumps up from his seat. 

Manic excitement lights his eyes that leaves as quickly as it came, replaced by pure nervousness. 

He runs his hands through his hair, taking in deep breaths as he shakes his body and removes his sunglasses, and much to everyone’s surprise, his gloves, mindlessly throwing them into Zsasz’s hands. 

He turns on Victor with a start, seemingly realizing his friend is more than an accessory rack. 

“Do I look good?” He resists the urge to grab onto his shoulders and shake him when his answer isn’t instant. 

A nervous, too high pitched laugh bursts out of Roman before Victor can even reply. 

“I mean, of course I do.” He flits his head with his typically fake big smile.

Zsasz just nods with an unaffected look, hiding the concern underneath. 

“Course.” He says as he places a reassuring hand onto his boss’s shoulder.

Roman had been waiting for this moment his entire adult life. But now that it was here, that you were here, he felt so nervous. So insecure. 

Would you like him? The club? His clothes? Was it too much? Not enough?

The cacophony of thoughts continued to race through his head. 

‘Everyone out. 

… No stay. 

No one look at her. She’s mine. 

… But she deserves a sea of people adoring her. 

What do I do? What should I do?

Oh it’s too late to do any—’

Time seems to slow as you walk through the curtain leading into the main room. Everything quiets, even the song seeming to slip underwater. 

You’re unsure if it’s truly the music or just the effect this man is having on you. The air vibrates with the deep bass, electrifying your skin and moving you forward despite the echoing worry in your mind. 

‘What if he doesn’t recognize me?

What if he doesn’t remember me?’

You gather all the courage in your body as you let your eyes scan the room for the only one you could truly see. 

Had you not been holding onto something you would have certainly faltered in your step.

The way he looked at you instantly quieted your fears and confirmed you had not once left his mind.

You were expecting his looks. Roman was always fawned over as a child and truth be told, you had always found him attractive. And recently, you searched him online and realized he had aged like fine wine.

You expected the lavish suit. Dressed to the nines in a glamorous, almost campish style that seemed to be perfectly made to shine amongst everyone and everything else.

You had even expected the eyes, though they were more intense than before. Piercing through your skin and soul.

But lord. You did not expect eyeliner. 

And Roman himself was stunned. He had kept tabs on you and had even gone to see you once from afar but nothing could compare to how you looked only feet away from him.

He felt like a young child again, the moment he realized he loved you and would make you his one day. The emotions came crashing and he was frozen in his place.

You faintly register the music beginning to rise as the world seems to spin around you two.

You wanted to bottle this moment. Play it over and over again. The music, the lights, the touch of the dress of your skin, the warmth filling you. 

But most importantly, the way Roman looked right here. 

Right now. 

And how this man, your oldest friend, first and truest love, was looking at you. 

The music coming back to its full force makes you blink out of the trance and finally move. Your steps matching his cautious, unbelieving steps. 

You’re standing in front of each other, just staring, eyes roaming over each other’s bodies, taking in everything that was hidden by distance before. Hands hovering in the air, still in their instinctual yearning for the other’s embrace.

Neither of you dare to break the silence, the fiercest spell that had come over you both. 

With one last journey of his face, so close allowing you to appreciate every inch, you realize one of you will have to say something. 

“Hi—”

His lips jolt onto yours, closing the electrified distance, breaking the spell and instead creating something stronger - stealing the words from your mouth, breath from your chest, and heart from your very soul.

His lips are strong and firm and desperate in their movement like returning home to a place you had only been to in your dreams.

But you feel them pull away. Too soon. 

So you follow him and grab them again, sealing them with smiles as you bring your hands up and around to the back of his neck. Fingers flirting with the ends of his hair.

In a singular moment of clarity, Roman has but one thought tearing his lips from yours.

“They don’t get to see what I’m going to do to you.”

The sound of his rough voice stuns you, so different yet so similar to that which filled your memories. Not even taking in the words, you nod. Your head just barely moving down for a moment, still lost in your state of bliss.

With that, he leans away as if nothing had ever pained him more and takes your hand in his, rushing steps moving you through a parting sea of bodies.

Within moments, the sound and staring eyes disappear and his hands are roaming all over you, overwhelming your body so much that it can only respond in kind.

In the privacy of his darkened bedroom, you make slow, deep love. Staring into each other’s eyes as you give all of yourselves to the other. 

Deep kisses capture your moans - breathing them into each other’s mouths when you can hold them no longer. 

His touch always on you, never leaving your skin. 

Unsure where he ends and you begin. Both shaking, tensing, pulsing, releasing together. 

Finally laying together side by side, you’re both unable to stop looking and touching one another. The spell thicker than ever. 

You want to say something, anything, other than a cut off greeting and euphoric chanting of his name. But you continue to appreciate the moment in silence.

Roman kept his body closed off from the world. But not you. He wanted to feel everything you had to offer. With yet another thought pushing out to be voiced, he opens his mouth.

“Marry me.”

It was quick, sudden, and for a flicker of a moment, you thought impulsive.

Until you realized this was always where you two were meant to be. 

You had no other words than the one he repeated to you as a boy when you asked with innocent giggles if he would marry you.

“Always.”