#although in my defense the effects of the changes to my breathing were worth measuring

[wiremotherofficial]

me @ me after finally taking my medication for a few days (after a couple weeks without) and suddenly being able to complete basic tasks again

[bluerose5]

The Ghost of Paradise (Exile AU)

Chapter 2: By the Minute

Rating: M

Word Count: 3,796

Tags: Mass Effect: Andromeda, Scott Ryder, Reyes Vidal, Reyder, Pre-Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Exile, Flirting, Secrets, Complicated Relationships, Eventual Romance, Rivalry, Engineer/Mechanic Scott Ryder, Jealousy

[Read it here as well on ao3.]

“Our agents say that you were speaking with Reyes Vidal at Kralla’s,” Nola said. She didn’t even give Scott a chance to breathe. The second he was through their gates —which were still a work in progress— Scott was ambushed. “Do I even want to know what you have planned?”

Scott grinned at her.

“Why must I always have something planned?” Scott asked. “Reyes is a good friend. For all you know, we could have been catching up over drinks.”

“‘Could have’ doesn’t mean that you were.”

“Fair enough.”

As she fell into step at his side, Nola led him around while they spoke, appraising their growing community with pride.

“Scott, as governor of Paradise, should I not be made aware of any transactions that might affect us?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Tell me what I need to know then. Nothing more, nothing less.”

As if he could refuse her insistent prodding. Every time he left, he always forgot how relentless she could be upon his return, but only when it pertained to matters that could have both predictable and unforeseen effects in their future.

In a way, Scott was grateful to have someone with that type of dedication on their side. They’re going to need it.

“I swear, it wasn’t anything particularly groundbreaking,” Scott promised. “I gave him some seeds from our latest project in exchange for a long-ranged scanner modification. That’s it.”

“Hmm… A decent enough trade.”

“Glad to have your approval.”

Of course, it was too much to hope that she would leave it at that.

“What is it for?” Nola asked.

Scott knew from experience not to lie to her face.

He sighed. “I’m going to scout out some of the Remnant ruins nearby. See if I can get a read on their bots, or a turret if I’m lucky.”

She cocked her head to the side and considered that for a moment, lips pursed.

“Promise to be careful then. I know you would gladly give your life to protect any of these people, but we don’t need you to throw it away because of pure recklessness,” she reminded him. “If it comes down to an altercation, we would rather have you here than some lousy turret schematics. Besides—” She shrugged. “You would probably be the only one who could make sense of them anyways. You and that stupidly genius brain of yours.”

Scott scoffed, suddenly uncomfortable as he shifted in place.

“Got it from my parents, or so they say.”

Ellen and Alec Ryder. The woman who literally gave her life to perfect biotic implants and the man who created a whole new type of AI. Quite the legacy to live up to.

Good thing Scott wasn’t living his life based on their achievements. Andromeda was a whole different playing field compared to the Milky Way. The work he was doing with Paradise was incredible in its own right. At least, he liked to think so.

If he could change at least one person’s life for the better in Andromeda, then he considered that a success.

Based on the feedback he was receiving from the residents, he was doing a damn good job, and that was enough for him.

But Nola had a point.

People relied on Scott now. As much as he was willing to dive headfirst into danger, he needed to refrain from doing so.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised her. “If things start to go south, I’ll ping you and Nakamoto.”

“Thank you,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief.

Scott hated to worry her so, but there was that one other matter.

“If it’s any consolation to you,” Scott said, trying for a lighter tone yet failing, “Reyes offered to accompany me on the trip.”

Nola stopped short, and Scott skidded to a halt. She narrowed her eyes at him with a sneer curling at her lip.

“No, that is not of any consolation to me. Scott Ryder, you know how he is.”

“Charming and witty?” Scott tried for his best smile, but Nola wasn’t buying into that bullshit, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Flighty and untrustworthy, especially once his back is against the wall.” Then, she amended her statement, taking on a slightly accusatory tone. “That’s assuming you didn’t pay any of his ridiculous service fees.”

“Puh-lease.” Scott chuckled. “If anyone should be spending their credits, Reyes should be the one paying me for my company. I’m a treasure not many can afford.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Nola snorted, “but at least you know your worth.”

“They say that time is money, after all. I’ll make sure to charge him by the minute while we’re together.”

“Please do, and make sure to get a picture of his face once you show him that bill.”

Scott was only happy to see her smile again.

“Will do,” he said.

“While you’re at it, drop a few hints here and there that Paradise might be looking to contract out some exclusive deals with top-rate smugglers. Leave out the ‘top-rate’ part, of course. Can’t have that going to the poor man's head.”

“His ego is already insufferable enough without the compliments,” Scott agreed, “but isn’t the whole point of secrecy for you and I not to draw attention to our connections here?”

“A woman can dream though, can’t she?” Nola sighed.

“So much for Reyes being ‘untrustworthy.’”

Nola didn’t even hesitate, brushing off his attempt to use her words against her.

“Skill is skill, and we don’t exactly have the people or resources to be picky right now. Everything is a commodity on Kadara, even integrity. If he betrays us, we’ll deal with him, simple as that.”

Right.

Still, it was laughable to think that the Charlatan would take on a contract with some of his direct competitors.

Although, that sounds like exactly the type of stunt that Reyes would pull. More than likely, he’d have an ulterior motive for doing so, but Scott could see it happening.

Did he support the idea, though? Definitely not. 

“I don’t know,” Scott muttered. “I couldn’t see Reyes limiting his business to one group, especially if we’re only starting to get our feet wet.”

“You would know how he operates better than I, but I suppose that attitude is understandable. Disappointing, but understandable.” Nola grumbled. “Well, if nothing else, tell him the least he could do is give you a discount.”

“Trust me, I’ve been working that angle for a while. No such luck.”

“Greedy bastard.”

As they finished up their routine patrol, they soon switched direction, heading towards Nakamoto's clinic to conclude their meeting. There, Paradise’s leaders convened. They reviewed the requests that their colonists posted on the message boards around the settlement. Together, they decided on what matters they could approve for certain and which ones would be placed on the docket for a community vote. After that, they moved on to logistics, including topics such as requisitions and inventory.

To draw the meeting to a close, Nola relayed their latest numbers for colonial development. Water production was steady. However, food stores would be struggling soon to keep up with the recent influx of residents, so security personnel and all of those who knew their way around a gun were strongly encouraged to increase hunting and foraging activities while out on patrols or while performing their daily tasks. A roster will be posted on the local message boards to look for volunteers who would like to fill a full-time hunter-gatherer role.

Hopefully, what few angaran scientists they had amongst their people would be able to process their first batch of nutrient paste after their next harvest. It wasn’t exactly the tastiest solution available, but it was a necessary one if they were to survive.

In terms of population, there was a rapid spike in enrollment when word spread that Paradise actually got shit done and held true to their promises, but they expected the effect to eventually plateau once people settled in. Angara enrollment was up at the moment, especially after Scott appointed Nola as governor, and they have even seen a few Initiative members join up, having made the journey all the way from the Nexus to be reunited with friends, family, and loved ones.

Scott asked that they spread word for people to be warm and welcoming. The request probably wasn’t necessary, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Their community would make no friends by tearing people apart, and they prided themselves on being close and tight-knit.

It was important that they not only claimed to be but that they acted like it as well, backing up their words with actions.

Security assignments were then posted. Patrols would have to be upped to make up for an increase that they were seeing with gang-related attacks. Once automated security measures were in place, they would revisit the matter in order to assess which sectors needed heightened security. Emergency drills would be held at the end of the week.

With all of their needs addressed, Nola called the meeting to a close.

Once the meeting was adjourned, Scott approached Nola and their Head of Security, requesting a full census to be done within a day's time. Scott needed names, numbers, faces. Each citizen’s profile needed to be updated within their database.

If Scott was going to make an effective defense matrix for the colony, then he would prefer to program an IFF system that only a select few could remotely activate. For the system to work as intended, all of the colonists' photo IDs and biometric profiles would need to be kept current and constantly updated in real-time.

Nola promised to see to it that Scott got what he needed, shooing him off.

Apparently, he was hovering, but Scott could take a hint. He could tell when he was no longer needed, and he knew that Nola worked best when he wasn’t constantly worrying after her like a mother hen.

Departing from the settlement, Scott cloaked himself the second he went beyond the boundaries of their walls.

He was almost halfway back to Port when he received a message from Reyes. Figuring that he was in the clear, Scott made sure that the coast was clear before deactivating his cloak.

Pulling up his omni-tool’s interface, Scott opened the message. Along with it, there was a set of coordinates, sent from Reyes’s location.

R: Think I’m ready to cash in on those shuttle repairs. Wouldn’t mind the company right about now.

Scott’s fingers hovered above the holographic keys, contemplating his next move before deciding to hell with it.

S: Miss me that much?

R: Am I that obvious?

He didn’t even give Scott a chance to reply before he sent another message.

R: If it’s still in question though, let me put it bluntly.

R: I want to see you.

Scott pursed his lips, cursing his stupid heart for racing in response.

S: Give me a few. I’ll be there.

R: I’ll be looking forward to it.

Before he could embarrass himself, Scott closed out his messages. He quickly made his way to Port, grabbing his bag of tools and gear before venturing back out into the badlands.

From there, Scott followed the coordinates to a cliff, overlooking a nearby valley. The sun was slowly but surely sinking down over the horizon, lightning up the sky in array of pinks and oranges and reds.

Reyes was already waiting for him by the time he arrived, the shuttle powered down for the moment.

However, the second Scott noticed that Reyes was facing away from him, he instantly slowed his walk to a crawl. He bent his knees into a slight crouch and shifted his weight with each step, toe to heel as he snuck his way up behind him.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone.”

Scott delighted in watching him him jump in shock, only to have a blade at his throat in the blink of an eye.

As soon as Reyes realized who it was, all the blood drained from his face.

“S–Scott!”

Hands raised in surrender, Scott raised an eyebrow at him incredulously.

“You know, I was kind of expecting a warmer welcome,” he admitted, careful of the firaan's sharp edge. Keema must have given it to him. “Have to say, though, would it be weird if I was a little turned on right now?”

Reyes scoffed.

Trailing the blade along the outline of his throat, Scott swallowed thickly when he eventually felt its pointed tip press underneath his chin. Reyes tilted it up, and Scott followed, lest he risk being cut.

Their eyes met, and Reyes smirked.

Bastard was toying with him.

Retracting his knife, Reyes sheathed the firaan while Scott tried to catch his breath. The goosebumps left behind in the dagger's wake soon receded, yet a warm heat lingered.

“Tsk.” Reyes huffed at him. “Ryder—”

Uh-oh, back to last name basis. From experience, that meant trouble.

“You know better than to sneak up on me!” Reyes scolded.

“I do,” Scott said, not even afraid to acknowledge it, “but I love getting a rise out of you.”

“What if I would have hurt you?”

“But you didn’t.”

Scowling, Reyes placed his hands on his hips. Shaking his head, he pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“Scott, what the hell am I going to do with you?” he asked, releasing his nose, half-fond and half-frustrated.

“I’m sure we could think of something.”

Reyes hummed in agreement, watching Scott approach the shuttle with his bag tossed over his shoulder. He dropped it to the ground, then immediately got to work.

Watching him closely, Reyes leaned against the side of his shuttle with a thoughtful look.

“Maybe I could take you on a date?”

While Reyes tried to sound confident, his attempt ultimately failed. Instead of forming the words into a bold offer, they fell flat, sounding more like an uncertain question.

Scott stopped what he was doing. He spared Reyes a brief glance, only to return his attention to the task at hand, hiding his flushed face.

“Wouldn’t Zia disapprove?” Scott asked, being rougher than necessary as he practically took apart the control panel.

Envy curled inside him, spreading like an infection through his bloodstream. There was a sharp squeeze around his heart as it was encased in the feeling.

Reyes called him out on it, way too perceptive for his own good.

“Ryder, are you jealous?” Reyes chuckled.

Scott glared, causing him to throw his hands up in surrender.

“Just asking.”

“And if I am?” Scott retorted.

“Then I’d have to put your mind at ease.”

“It’s really none of my busin—”

Reyes closed the distance between them. Reaching out, he cupped Scott’s cheek, brushing his thumb along his bottom lip. Weak as he was, Scott leaned into his touch for a split second. His eyes threatened to flutter closed, but he had to remain firm about this one matter, if nothing else.

As he started to pull away, Reyes said, “There is nothing going on between Zia and I.” Scott froze into place. “We went out for drinks a few times, nothing more.”

“You swear?” Scott asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I swear.” His voice grew heated, impassioned. “I might be a bad man when it comes to many things, but I wouldn’t ever lie about that to you.”

Scott considered that before replying, “Well, like I said—” He cleared his throat, eyes averted. “ It’s not really any of my business, so I don’t know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

He trailed off, uncertain why he was acting that way.

Reyes furrowed his brow.

“No need to be sorry. If you had crossed a line, then I would have said so.”

“Even then, you’re not mine. Your relationships are your own.”

“I could be.”

Scott regarded him skeptically.

“Could be what?”

“Yours,” Reyes answered instantly, staring intently at Scott. “Just say the word.”

If only they weren’t both keeping secrets from each other at the moment, then Scott might take him up on that.

Turns out, being with the Charlatan would be a huge conflict of interests. Who could’ve guessed?

Silence settled between them. It was as if the whole world was awaiting Scott’s answer with bated breath. Time itself seemed to stand still in anticipation.

“I—” He struggled to find the right words. “Give me time.”

That’s all he could ask.

Reyes’s hopeful expression fell, and that alone felt like a stab to the chest. Scott's breathing trembled a little, as if it was becoming difficult to continue drawing in one breath after another.

God, he didn’t want to hurt him, but neither of them could really afford to rush into things half-cocked.

Scott copied his earlier gesture, reaching out to cup Reyes’s cheek. The change was almost instantaneous, how the tension drained away, only for Reyes to melt into Scott’s touch. He leaned into his hand, starved for affection.

Scott swallowed thickly, unable to pull away, let alone take his eyes off of him for even a second.

“All I ask is that you give me time,” Scott repeated. “That’s not a ‘no.’ I just need to think a few things over, iron out a few details.”

Reyes listened, then agreed.

“Alright.” He pulled away with a small, private smile. “As if I could deny anyone such a reasonable request, especially you.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Returning his attention to the shuttle, Scott got back to work. After all, he didn’t want to neglect the poor bird, and it appeared that the shuttle was in desperate need of a little TLC.

His diagnostics only confirmed his suspicions.

When a couple of sparks resulted from his prodding, Scott chastised Reyes for mistreating their baby. Reyes grew defensive, both of them falling back to old habits as they bickered.

This was the type of work that Scott did on the Nexus after he got sidelined and shafted. Systems repairs, shuttle repairs, routine maintenance… That sorta thing.

It was how he met Reyes to begin with. Few pilots had the energy to hang around and talk shop with Scott while he worked, especially since a lot of them had only recently returned from failed colonization efforts. Understandably, most people didn’t want to entertain idle conversation after watching their friends die out in the field.

That was fine by Scott, but Reyes had always gone out of his way —even then— to make sure that Scott had anything and everything that he needed.

They might have taken his shuttle out on a few joyrides together, gotten in trouble for wasting fuel, but Scott wouldn’t trade that time they spent together for anything in the galaxy.

Even now, it felt natural to settle back into their old routine. While Scott worked, Reyes watched, and they talked about anything and everything.

Time passed, and Scott only got deeper into the repairs and modifications. Despite the setting sun, he still broke a sweat, a light sheen glistening upon his skin.

Eventually, he had to take off his shirt, leaving him in a plain tank top that quickly got dirty along with his hands.

Swiping at the perspiration beading at his hairline, Scott grunted as he came to a stopping point for now. He reached for his bag, but what he was seeking wasn’t there.

“Shit.”

Turning towards Reyes, Scott huffed at him.

The bastard wasn’t even trying to hide his staring. Face flushed, he was biting teasingly at his bottom lip, brown eyes dark as he watched Scott through a hooded gaze.

Getting to his feet, Scott crossed his arms over his chest.

“See something you like?”

“Definitely.”

“You’re shameless.” Scott shook his head in disbelief, tsking under his breath. “You’re just as bad as that one time when Gil Brodie asked for a ‘second opinion’ on some fix he made. Turns out, I ended up doing almost all of the work while he sat back and watched.”

“Smart man,” Reyes noted, giving Scott a thorough once-over. “This Gil must have great tastes.”

Scott snorted.

“Flattery will get you nowhere. If you really want to make me happy, then you would grab your water bottle for me.”

“Did you forget yours?” Reyes asked, slightly concerned. After all, being caught out in the badlands without water was just asking for dehydration or heat stroke.

Nevertheless, he got the bottle for him. Scott placed his hands over Reyes’s, shrugging with a flustered blush.

“Yeah,” Scott sighed. “I thought I had packed it! I don’t know where it could’ve wandered off to.”

“Perhaps you were in a bit of a rush to get here,” Reyes said, trailing off suggestively.

Scott figured that he would allow that.

“Perhaps,” he agreed, “but what else do I keep you around for, if not the water? You wouldn’t want the guy repairing your shuttle to get dehydrated, right?” Scott smirked. “I could get delirious, and it would be very unfortunate if I just so happened to forget to install an essential component.”

Reyes gasped dramatically, relinquishing the water to Scott, who was quick to take a swig.

“You always have to watch out for the pretty ones,” Reyes grumbled. “Always causing trouble, keeping secrets…”

There it was again. That sense of knowing , that sense that both of them were holding something back. It was left unsaid. Neither confronted the other about it, but they knew that the secrets were there.

Before the sudden lag in conversation could get too awkward, Scott took another swig of water and asked, “So, you think I’m pretty?”

Reyes chuckled, glad for the change of subject.

“Kian seems to think so,” he muttered. Leave it to him to avoid the question. “He keeps asking when you’re going to start working for him at Tartarus.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“As a dancer?” He had to make sure he was hearing right.

“Yep.”

“Could you imagine?” Scott scoffed. “Me, shaking my ass for money? A tempting offer. It would probably be more profitable than the odd jobs I take on here and there, but I think I’m fine where I’m at.”

“Damn,” Reyes sighed, “what a shame.”

Scott raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“You saying you would have come to watch me?”

“Not only that, but I would have paid to watch you,” Reyes said, “especially if I could have gotten a private show out of it.”

Scott tried to imagine it, grinning in spite of himself.

“What’s so funny?” Reyes wondered.

“Nothing, nothing,” Scott said, brushing off his concern. “That just made me remember a thought that I had earlier.”

“What about?”

“Oh, you know.” Scott gestured vaguely. “Just that I should start charging you a fee for when we spend time together.”

Reyes winked at him.

“It would be worth every credit.”

[smolbugarts]

Since Doomguy probably got all or most of his clothes shredded in the Divinity Machine Incident, imagine him going to a nice Sentinel tailor or seamstress to get fitted for some new clothes and armor. :)

Ficlet under the cut!

The Doom Marine awoke slowly, vaguely aware of the fact that he was laying on the floor, shrapnel of some kind pressing into his bare stomach. A distant voice was frantically calling to him, a strange weight settled on his arm and harshly pushing at his temple.

He slowly blinked the sleep from his eyes, absently shifting to drag a hand over his face with a groan. Whatever was on his arm flinched away, falling from its perch with an audible 'oof.'

"Watch it, you damnable oaf!" The Doom Marine froze, confused; he knew that voice. That was… God, right, the Divinity Machine!

He shot up, the back of his head connecting with something as he let out a pained growl, one hand slamming into the ground as he searched for the source of the voice. His eyes narrowed as they fell on the creature curled on the ground, staring up at him with both anger and fear in its eyes. His own eyes widened for a split second as he processed what had happened.

"You… What the hell did you do to me?!" The human barked, wrapping his free hand around his sore throat after he'd spoken. His voice rumbled low and gravelly, grating against his vocal chords for reasons he didn't quite understand, head spinning as the Makyr cowered under him, covering his ears and fixing a glare on the soldier.

"This wasn't supposed to happen! You weren't meant to become a monster!" Samur fumbled back off of the floor, running a hand along the curve of his mask with a frustrated sigh. "It must have something to do with your biology reacting poorly to the machine— either way, we're both going to die if we waste any more time! We need to work together if we want to get out of this, understand?"

The Doom Marine growled, trying to position himself so he didn't feel so… exposed as the Makyr tried to explain his plan.

—

When the Elite Sentinel Guard found the human, he was pressed against the wall with his knees to his chest, settled into the indented ring that surrounded the remains of the Divinity Machine. Samur had ordered them to bring a large sheet of fabric, crafting some story about a betrayer of some sort giving him access to the machine, and using it to make him a weapon more powerful than anything the Argenta had ever seen, in order to defeat the demons that invaded their land. The Doom Marine's job was mostly to stay quiet about who brought him there and comply with their demands until Samur was done with him.

To say the soldiers were shocked to find him in such a state would be an understatement. They were terrified, although you wouldn't know it at first glance: they had their weapons raised and stances defensive as they approached the giant. Two of them stepped forward, holding the fabric out to him, ready to spring into action the second things went wrong.

He hummed to himself, carefully raising a hand so they could see before he slowly reached towards them, gently taking the cloth from them with a small nod in thanks.

The two Sentinels quickly retreated back into the safety of their group as he unfolded the plain fabric, mentally planning how he was going to cover himself with it as he waited for the group to empty the room so he could clothe himself. When they made no move to leave, the Doom Marine turned his attention to them, fixing them with a peculiar stare.

"Can I… be alone?" He mumbled, deciding to ignore the pain it caused. An embarrassed blush crept over his cheeks as the soldiers cautiously complied, looking down at the cloth with a sigh before slowly standing in the small space once he was completely out of view. He had to be careful not to hit his head on any of the floating pillars as he stood, experimentally wrapping the fabric around his waist.

Fuck, this wasn't really gonna work, was it? He couldn't walk out of here wearing nothing but a scrap of cloth wrapped around him like a towel. He tore the fabric off with an indignant huff, his eyes scanning the room for anything he could use to sew it into something more fitting.

He grabbed some wires and a thin metal pole from the remains of the Divinity Machine, using his teeth to shape one end of the pipe into a loop before threading the wire through it. He laid the fabric out, using a piece of sharp metal to tear through it where he needed to and doing his best to turn the heap of cloth into a decently wearable pair of shorts. They weren't bad, considering the limited materials and circumstances he had to work with, just a bit loose around the waist; a problem easily fixed by tearing some tubing from the machine and tying it around his waist like a belt.

Once he was finally dressed, he slowly inched his way towards the door, peeking out at the soldiers gathered outside waiting for him. They sat amongst themselves in an anxious huddle, exchanging whispered words in their native tongue. A few jumped to attention once they noticed the giant looming in the doorway, offering an awkward wave as they brandished their weapons.

"Come on, we don't have all day. The shop closes in an hour." One of the higher-ranking Sentinels grumbled as he approached the Doom Marine, he and a few others ushering him out of the room, edging towards him with their weapons raised.

"Shop?" He questioned, stumbling as he tripped over his own weight. The Sentinels corralling him flinched, darting out of the way as he struggled to regain his footing, an apologetic cringe crossing his face.

His entire balance was off, despite his body seeming to be completely proportional— if a tad bit more muscular. Maybe it was just a side effect of the machine, or something had changed besides his height; whatever it was, the Doom Slayer wasn't really willing to dwell on it.

Civilians and soldiers alike stopped to gawk at the giant as he passed by, sheepishly curling in on himself at the unwanted attention. Why did this have to happen to him? Why did they have to drag him into town and make a huge spectacle out of him when all he wanted to do after the incident was curl up and disappear?

He was snapped out of his self-deprecating thoughts by a concerned shout, belatedly realizing that he had almost knocked someone over when the group suddenly stopped.

"S— sorry." He mumbled, turning his attention to the building they had stopped beside as a few of them made their way inside, most likely to speak with the owners. "Is this… a tailor shop?"

"Of course. You didn't think you'd be wearing that into battle, did you?"

His head snapped to the source of the voice, his eyes falling on the higher-ranking soldier from earlier. His brows furrowed inquisitively as he carefully lowered himself to the ground, afraid he misheard the small soldier. They all stepped back as he crouched, the group readying their weapons again.

"Battle?"

"Of… of course. You've proved your worth in the arena, and you would clearly have an advantage on the battlefield: not to mention you'd need to find some way to repay our people for the resources it would take to keep you alive… it's just the most logical solution." He muttered, fidgeting nervously with his armor under the Doom Marine's imposing gaze.

It didn't take long for the shop's doors to open again, the owner emerging with a quiet squeak of shock, turning to the soldier beside them and whispering something in the alien language. The giant settled himself on the ground with a sigh, the chill of night creeping ever closer, seeping into his exposed skin with a shiver. The superior soldier noticed, and quickly spoke up.

"Is there any way we could do this inside? I'd rather not make my troops suffer the cold any longer than they must— including the giant. I'd hate to imagine the amount of medicine it would take to cure a cold at that size…"

The giant stifled a laugh, following as the tailor led them around the building to what seemed to be a delivery entrance. The Doom Marine made his way towards the garage-like door, careful to step over the others this time as he forced it open and slipped into the blessedly warm space, ignoring the cries of shock and alarm at the action as he settled himself amongst the fabrics. The others followed suit, standing guard as the tailor closed the door and made their way towards the giant, gingerly extending a hand to touch his knee, and clambering on top of it when the giant made no move to stop them.

He sucked in a shocked breath, the sensation of another living, breathing person walking along his legs sending goosebumps crawling over his skin. He felt his face flush as he held his breath, watching the small tailor as they tested their footing on the odd surface. Once they'd seemingly found their balance, the tailor curiously padded over his lap, seemingly fascinated by the giant as they prodded at his limbs and torso, eliciting an odd noise to come from the back of his throat in response.

The tailor chuckled lightly as they held one end of the measuring tape out for the marine to hold, carefully making their way down the giant's leg until they ran out of tape with a huff. They decided instead to settle themself on the giant's knee and scribble the measurement into their notepad.

The Slayer shifted slightly, unsure of how to act in this odd scenario. The Sentinel soldiers would raise their weapons at the slightest movement, eyeing the larger man wearily; that he was used to. He was always the outsider, or the gruesome warrior, or the enemy— he was used to being stared at in mistrust or disdain— but this? This strange, casual fascination? Not normal.

The procedure continued semi-normally, the soldiers eyeing him warily as the tailor did their job, occasionally glancing up at the giant to mutter a request in that odd language, miming whatever it was they wanted. They didn't seem to speak English, but they certainly understood it, as they could respond to the human's questions rather easily. They seemed to truly enjoy working with the unusual client, despite the obvious difficulties. The Slayer, however, couldn't quite say the same.

It proved to be increasingly difficult to sit still during the strange procedure, as the comparatively small tailor clambered awkwardly over his much larger frame. The sensation felt… oddly familiar to the marine, though he couldn't quite place why. Of course, that wasn't much of a surprise. He had spent far too many years traversing the unforgiving planes of Hell and Argent D'Nur to retain much knowledge of his life before; he couldn't even remember his own name anymore.

At some point, while the tailor was measuring the length of his arm, a slight misstep and the ensuing twitch of the giant's muscles nearly sent the Argenta tumbling to the ground, the swift movement of the Slayer's reflexes startling the guards into defensive positions, ready to attack at the first sign of danger. The marine wasn't even fully sure what had happened by the time his brain registered the fact that an actual, living person was literally in his hand, sending his heart into his throat as he scrambled for the words to explain himself, trying to force his breathing to return to normal.

The tailor suddenly seemed so fragile, making the Slayer almost afraid to move, lest they fall to pieces. He could feel the Argenta's heart hammering in the small, almost doll-like chest. Each panicked breath wracked their whole body as their brain struggled to comprehend where they were and how they got there. They looked around briefly before locking eyes with their savior, the shocked and slightly panicked expression visibly relaxing as they caught their breath. For a moment it was as if time had stopped, as no one in the room moved or made a sound, just… froze.

Then, the tailor laughed, sending small tremors through the giant's hand with the motion.

It wasn't clear if it was from relief, shock, or just the pure absurdity of the situation, but the sound quickly broke the tension in the room as the others joined in, each for their own, unknowable reasons. The Slayer chuckled in relief, mostly, but also the utter strangeness of the whole day, culminating in the restrained, nearly hysterical laughing fit he had now, shaking his entire body as tears crept from his eyes.

His attention turned to the tailor when he felt the Argenta shift in his hand, softly clearing their throat before speaking, eyes locked with the Slayer's, a hand gently squeezing his thumb.

"Thank you, amiixus." The small person smiled, placing a fist over their heart in what the Slayer understood to be the planet's general sign of friendship, and he carefully shifted his free hand to mimic the gesture with a nod.

Friend. He liked the idea of finding a friend in all of this madness.

—

//In the end the tailor gives the Doom Slayer a small selection of outfits, as well as his custom-fitted Praetor suit— with a bit of help from the Maykers and a team of assistants, of course! Anyways, I really liked this idea and got a bit carried away lol. Hope you like it!

[violetsystems]

#personal

I’m not in a terrible mood this week although I am completely exhausted with everything.  Home is great when you have internet.  Not so great when people try to disrupt it by setting up service on top of your address.  People can be terrible communicators especially when they are focusing only on themselves.  We live in isolated times I understand.  The idea that people ‘project’ all the information you need is incredibly exhausting to have to read into all the time.  Especially when no one bothers to read what you project back.  I often wonder if it will get exponentially worse when people feel safer returning to a public facing world.  I’ve been public facing throughout all of this and for many years prior.  You can’t travel the world alone and develop some sort of toughness.  The real trick is being able to turn your defenses on and off.  It’s a reflex.  Like how in one breath I can tell somebody to fuck off then turn my head and help a kitten from the sidewalk.  If it were called acting then I would have a job already.  I often have to look back at how I’ve grown over time to figure out the headspace.  I’ve always been sort of awkward.  Mostly because I was sensitive to what others thought of me.  I’ve always been bullied as long as I can really remember.  I grew up in an Irish Catholic suburb filled with white people, white pride and whiter drug problems than they cared to admit to.  Most of my friends were losers and rejects.  I kept to myself and listened to hip hop on a broken yellow sony walkman.  People would call me the n word every morning on my way to school proudly claiming I was going to hell.  I was a shy and nerve racked honors student.  I grew up an only child who wrote poetry and science fiction.  I played pen and paper role playing games by myself because nobody shared the same interests.  At times, the friend groups that I did find had group agendas that dwarfed my social needs.  This never really changed.  I spent most of the last ten years revisiting this sort of solitude.  I travelled Korea, Japan and China by myself.  I stayed in hostels in group situations where I still felt uncomfortable.  I developed skills to talk to people.  I met a lot of weird people.  I met a lot of nice people too.  In Seoul particularly, I found a normal that I’d never really understood before.  I’d go out and actually do things with people I didn’t know.  I went to a guitar cafe once in a basement in a small neighborhood called Hyehwa.  The group was myself, a hostel owner, a soccer fan from Dalian, and a random guest.  We sat in silence as a small old man played “Goodbye to Romance” on a small guitar as silent Pink Floyd concert footage played out on the tv behind him.  I escaped to Korea for a long time.  I’d go every six months for two to three weeks on vacation.  At the time I had the vacation from my job to use with impunity.  If I stayed home in the states, people would follow me.  I realized this later when I switched my trips to New York.  My boss and my CIO would stop at nothing to contact me on my vacation to write emails they couldn’t formulate.  Ask questions about things they already knew the answer to.  Looking back on it, there are so many times people made my life miserable enough to make me quit.  I never really got the message because I’ve been so bullied over my life that I learned to ignore it.  My CIO famously cornered me in a hall once and asked what was wrong.  He told me point blank I didn’t have a good poker face.  I replied I wasn’t aware we were gambling.  It was so subtle I don’t think he understood I wasn’t bluffing.  I lost that hand six months later when he fired me over video chat.  Nine months later I’m dead to an entire twenty years of friendships and professional connections.  If I don’t look surprised or scared, it must be the poker face I’ve been working on.

This is to say I understand or process none of anything that has happened to me anymore.  It hurts beyond hurting.  And I’ve become an expert at dealing with it all alone and in silence.  So much so that people follow me around like lost puppies thinking I can offer them clarity.  Or treat me like a practice dummy in their attempt to haphazardly attack the real problems in society.  I’ve never been so tired, done and particularly bored with everything until now.  And yet the bitterness never really gets me anywhere except physically sick and depressed.  Throughout all of this as the situation in society starts to worsen, I see people looking to me for leadership or guidance.  This is often without even asking or having consent.  They think I’m part of some revolution that they’ve never asked about.  Nobody has ever asked my name.  They just know me as the guy they see around all the time.  That I’m some wise and silent protector of things when I’m just some regular person suffering just like everybody else.  If you really added it all up and put these chapters I write together, you’d see an alarming trend.  That for whatever movement people include me in, I’m expected to fight all of this alone.  And me knowing full well how well movements and revolutions have left me completely insignificant and invisible after the things I have done is disheartening.  People enjoy getting a reaction.  Pushing all the buttons every time you step outside your door.  Sometimes it’s a hundred yards before someone starts trouble.  Sometimes it’s the minute you step outside either porch you share with your neighbors.  The lack of dignity and respect is something I deserve because of my supposed position of power.  America is like that.  There is so little to go around that everything is a Hunger Games glorification. Classes need to provoke each other not identities.  And yet we measure each other’s value by our differences and not our common strengths.  America has always been a paradox in this way.  The magical chaos of Anarchy that allows everyone to be free at the expense of others.  The real way to be free in America is money.  And money locks us out from the dialogue more often than not.  It’s a great narrative that people can start their own businesses here in America when all the contract work is locked behind corporate recruiters, headhunters with signing bonuses and worse.  That somehow at the end of a pandemic I’ve survived almost completely alone in I’m supposed to give in at the end.  It’s like the clown in It gnashing it’s teeth as it shrinks into a harmless baby.  I feel a bit sorry for America right now.  And yet that clown has become less menacing to me and has been forced to feed on others.  After all I’ve seen and been through I have no luxury to be afraid of anything or anyone.  I have completely lost my innocence in that respect.  And the face I put on for society when I walk out the door is one of stone.  It is futile to expect that anyone can engage me with respect, humility and courage.  Nobody can ever say my name.  I have not heard my name spoken in forever by people I know well.  I hear it spoke when I get Korean food down the street.  My neighbors simply tell things to me.  Or give me a longing glance like I’m supposed to read their mind, their agenda and trust their nosy intentions of being there at exactly the right time.  We’re all in this together.  We’re all connected.  And yet after all of this I’ve realized no matter how well and good that may seem, it’s a liability to be social without a proper level of respect for your right to be human.  Acting like the neighborhood secret police is not revolutionary. Acting like I owe anybody anything in this city after what IT has put me through is subliminal torture.  I’ve told it like it is more than often about my life here in America.  So much so that it echoes around the globe at this point as an anomaly.  Is it really true that this guy clearly does not give a fuck about what anybody thinks of him?  Yes.  This is how I stay the fuck alive out here.  I need you to understand just how desperate that sounds.  Then I need people to realize that the only thing I’m desperate for is to be left alone at this point.  

The reason I’m invisible to many people is that I’m not worth shit.  We are all technically not worth shit.  This might be news to all of you who read these.  Because I generally feel the most care from people on this platform.  I’m baffled by my own thoughts on this.  How a click can mean more than the world to me than a bunch of people in real life shouting or glaring at me with hidden intentions.  A glare and a hidden message on the internet is most likely spam.  A glare in the streets with a knowing look is basically an invitation to fraud for me at this point.  If you’ve seen me all over the place maybe you should ask my name or introduce yourself.  And yet in Nazi Germany, you wonder if the secret police felt the same.  The overall effect of having people follow, watch and keep tabs on you has this lofty narrative.  Don’t you feel important now that secretly you are being watched?  Don’t you feel special?  I have travelled all over the world by myself at this point.  I paid off the credit card bills to prove it.  Do you think I don’t know what it is like to be surveilled and followed?  Do you think in an era where white people actively target people and hurt them I feel any safer than anyone else?  I am appalled at what I’ve heard in the news.  And yet it is always the same root.  White extremism.  White culture.  White people.  Power abused.  Defenseless broken down worthless trash in rebellion.  Poor me for having a bad day.  In my admonishment of my mother’s call for information for Ancestry dot com, we had a conversation about family.  There are huge segments of my family I stay away from.  My cousin who I have not spoken to for years lives out west.  I learned last night that he sells guns for a living.  My mom told me a story of his father who was an avid gun supporter.  My parents approached him about being godparents.  He replied that he would only accept on one condition.  That when I came of age he would teach me how to shoot a gun like a real man.  I’ve never touched a gun in my life.  I’m a registered conscientious objector.  I swing a hammer in game more often than not though I’m known to creep around with a sniper rifle in Cyberpunk.  That’s a fucking game.  My cousin is out there somewhere at a gun show with a Trump flag and an internet connection just like every other right wing troll on the internet.  And I have to deal with the Fallout just the same.  Everyone bangs away at their status messages and twitter feeds and accomplishes more of the same.  Fear.  It froths over.  It never goes away.  It burns into hatred.  It becomes a righteous cause for which to stand behind.  My rights to be free.  As if holding a gun protects you.  As if wasting your prayers on causing harm to others really heals the world.  As if playing power and mind games on people you don’t know is somehow an act of liberation.  As if boring me the fuck to death with how cool you think you are by thinking you on anywhere near my fucking level helps my situation.  I have a right to be exhausting with all this performative bullshit.  And yet the world keeps upping the ante.  Like we’re in some high stakes Hunger games casino and the reward is your freedom at the expense of others.  We are not all in this together until we can look each other in the eye and understand the cause of each other’s pain.  The pain is that we do not communicate like human beings.  We skitter and prey upon each other like animals.  Animals remember when you feed and protect them.  Humans are worse.  If I know one thing about Planet of the Apes is that not even Mark Wahlberg can save you now.  Just let me exist outside the dome and forget I’m somebody important.  I’ve got my own life and loves I have to protect.  You don’t know what I go through daily to honor that.  And that secret is nobody’s business but mine.  Since there are no jobs left in America, I’ll settle for that one. I don’t need a letter of recommendation.  I write one every week.  Yeah we all float down here.  You’ll float too.  Better than sinking.  <3 Tim

[kabhi-haath-pakad-k-tu-mera]

Keep Walking through the Dark (You'll Find your Light)

Three times Draco wishes he was on the other side of the war, and one time when Draco turns over to them.

Or

Draco’s redemption AU.

I.

The Carrows bring ruin to Hogwarts. Snape does nothing to stop it. It nauseates Draco. The fear on the faces of his peers, the unsettling grins on the Carrow Twins’ lips, the indifference on Snape’s face, all of it, nauseating. This isn't what Hogwarts is supposed to be. This isn't what Hogwarts stands for. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong.

Everywhere he goes he sees familiar faces with bruises and scars, arms and legs in slings, and fear in their eyes. The effects of the Crucio last longer than anyone would think, as nightmares and injuries and sheer terror. Now when anyone sees him approaching, they change routes to avoid him, him being the Death Eater he is. Far more often than he’d like, Draco looks into wide, terrified eyes and sighs.

But everyone quickly finds out that things can get much worse. More than anything he is scared of the new rules that the Carrows come up with—new punishments, new crimes. He is terrified, because there are people in the school—students—who are not, and the thought worries him. Crabbe and Goyle, for example, take particular delight in Crucio-ing a small, miserable first year from Gryffindor, cackling in mirth and delight when she screams loudly, being thrown in the air due to the intensity of the curse. Their grins widen when she falls with a sickening thud, and Draco can only watch from afar with growing disgust.

It is now that he's realized that he—they—were wrong all along. This is not the world that he wants. Every once in a while he comes across a heavily bruised face and sees triumph instead of fear, and he knows who these people are, what they do. For the wildest fleeting moment he thinks about what it might feel like to be one of them.

———————————

II.

He is the Headboy, and it is his duty, amongst other things, to patrol the corridors to nab any ‘mischief’ makers. What Alecto really means when she says this is that he is to find out who is responsible for the writings on various walls that tell of Dumbledore’s Army’s activities.

‘Dumbledore’s Army, still recruiting,’ the writing in red ink reads, glaring against the backdrop of drab, cream coloured walls. Draco, however, pays it no mind, wandering instead towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and pausing at its gate. This classroom, with the Muggle Studies classroom and the Dungeons, is some of the Carrows’ favourite places to torture students. He knows for a fact that there are still some injured students in there—not many have the strength to carry themselves to their common rooms after being tortured by the Cruciatus curse.

He steels his nerves and pushes open the door to the classroom, empty but for two boys who might’ve been second years at best. They recoil when they see him, huddling together through their pain for support. Draco doesn't say anything—he doesn't have to. He’s used to this by now. Instead, he draws a vial of dittany and administers it to both boys until they look less battered. One of them, the smaller one, goes to say something but then decides against it.

Draco gets up without looking their way, walking out as he stows the potion away. This is his life now, healing those that his ‘friends’ had hurt. It's the only way he can sleep at night. He sees a flash of burning red round a corner. Ginerva Weasley. She is, of course, the one behind the writing and the mysterious Stunning of students who willingly torture others. He wonders what it must be like to do something good and to go to bed without the fear that comes with doing it. He wonders if he himself could ever feel that.

———————————

III.

He loathes it. Loathes his life. Loathes being a puppet to Lord Voldemort. But it's not as if he has a choice. If he shows the slightest sign of deviation from their cause, the Dark Lord shall surely kill Mother. If he knew of how he helped the tortured students back in Hogwarts ... the thought is terrifying. And so he does everything he is asked—has been doing it since the past year—catering to every whim, every command, every order, all to let Mother live some more.

Until he kills her anyway. Draco can only watch, stricken, frozen, unbelieving, as she falls on the ivory floor of their manor, eyes open in shock. Her black robes are a stark contrast against the floor, her blonde hair fanning out around her. Draco can only hear one sound reverberate through the hall of the Manor. A loud laugh. Remorseless, triumphant.

He cradles his mother's head in his lap and shuts her eyes. Eyes that don't see grief in his own, that don't see the blur of red robes and shock that all but runs to them. Aunt Bella reaches out and takes her hand, a tear dropping onto it. If he were naive enough he would have dared to hope that she was only unconscious, sleeping. But he knows more acutely than anything that she doesn't breathe anymore, and she will never awaken again.

He daren't think of what could have been, how it could've been, had they been on the other side. Is any of the glory, any promise of a new world worth anything, if Mother isn't there with him? The answer burns in his head as tears run down his face.

———————————

+I.

'It really shouldn't be a hard decision,’ a voice inside his head tells Draco. And it isn’t. He knows what he wants to do, what he needs to do, to avenge his mother. The moon is out in all its glory and it reflects perfectly on the surface of the lake, as if it were made of glass. He turns away from the window again and seats himself at the table on which his books and parchment are lying—which he hasn't touched since he entered the library in the afternoon. How could he, when everything in his life is wrong?

It’s late in the night now, and everyone has left—even Madam Pince, the librarian, who never engages with the Slytherins anymore, especially not him. Draco sighs, putting his head in his hands.. It’s not just her, he supposes, it’s everyone. Everyone avoids him for good reason, even the Slytherins, as if he were the reason why Hogwarts has changed so much. They don't see he is just as much a victim as them. Ginerva’s words come back to him, echoing in his head.

‘You can join us,’ she had said when she had found him tending to a group of Hufflepuffs, ‘work with the Order. Spy for us.’

He suspects she had known for a long time that he was the one who healed the wounds with Dittany. Looking back it was amply clear that he didn't hold the same views as the other Death Eaters, didn't agree with their ways and measures.

It had taken effort to not show the hope he had felt. ‘Why would I do that? What if it’s a trap you lot have set up?’

‘For your mother,’ she had said simply, unwaveringly. Knowingly. She knew what buttons to push. She knew how badly he wanted to avenge her. He hadn't said anything, just gotten up and left. This was a week ago. They hadn’t come across each other since then.

When he lifts his head up there is a flash of bright orange against the backdrop of brown. For a moment he thinks it is her, but it’s not. It’s a phoenix. Dumbledore’s phoenix. Draco recognizes the markings of the bird, the pattern of its feathers. There’s no mistaking it. It stands on his book, looking at him intently.

“Why are you here?” Draco asks, although he thinks he knows. The phoenix holds out a claw. Draco looks at it for a moment.

“You’ll take me to them, if I take your claw?” The phoenix caws, a soft sound which strangely reminds him of his mother. He hesitates for a single moment before taking the proffered claw, and before he knows it he is in the astronomy tower, not just before Ginerva but also Remus Lupin and a man he recognizes as Kingsley Shacklebolt. He nods.

———————————

He doesn't know how it is that he has managed for so long to remain hidden, to keep his alliances a secret, but he knows for a fact that the Dark Lord does not know about it. He, for all intents and purposes, trusts him as much as he trusts Aunt Bella. Because murdering Mother was a test, a test of their loyalty. But now they are in battle and keeping up pretences does not matter anymore. Today they fight. It doesn't matter if they live or die. And so he fights, cursing, defending, blocking, killing. He takes down Death Eater after Death Eater but more always crop up. At least they don't know that he is an enemy camouflaged as an ally.

It all shatters when Harry Potter comes welcoming his death. Stupid, stupid Potter, always on his high horse, always the hero. But Draco knows this is his destiny—kill or be killed. He doesn't stand a chance. He doesn't even try. The Dark Lord rises, face split into a grin.

“Avada Kedavra!” A jet of green light hits Potter in the chest and he falls, but with him the Dark Lord falls too.

“Is he dead?” the Dark Lord asks no one in particular, and Draco feels himself walking to him to see. He needs to know. He holds up his wrist for a sign of a pulse. It isn't there. His heart isn't beating, he isn't breathing, and Draco finds it hard to breathe himself. This cannot be the end. After all this, after everything, Voldemort cannot win. Harry Potter cannot die. So, even though he is sure of it, he checks again, and again, and feels a pulse. Potter’s eyes open. Draco sighs imperceptibly, and shuts his eyes again.

“He’s dead,” he declares once he gets up. A deafening cheer rises, Death Eaters celebrating carelessly in the middle of the floor. It is easy to take Potter and run.

They don't speak until they are in Hogwarts again, hidden in the headmaster’s office.

“Why?” Potter asks.

“He killed my mother. He killed the Wizarding World.”

Potter nods. He is weak. Every action that he does visibly pains him. He gets up anyway.

“His snake,” he says, “We need to kill it.”

“You can barely stand.”

“It has to be done, Malfoy. If we don't kill the snake we can't kill him.”

Draco sighs, then nods. “Fine, let's go then.”

The army of Death Eaters is already at the mouth of the destroyed castle, wand at the ready. Voldemort is at their head, his snake around his neck. They stand in the back of the crowd.

“Harry Potter ran away!”

“NO!” a shrill scream. Draco knows before he sees her that it is Ginevra. Tom laughs.

“Yes. Submit to me, and you shall be spared.”

Potter begins pushing through the crowd and Draco follows him, until they are near the front. Then several things happen at once. “Harry!” a voice calls, and Granger launches herself at him, Weasley in tow; Voldemort screams in rage, drawing his wand swiftly, and Longbottom takes the opportunity to draw what looks like the sword of Gryffindor and slays the snake. The battle begins again in earnest.

Voldemort makes right for Potter but Draco intercepts him instead, fighting with vigour. He has often been underestimated in terms of duelling, but he is a Malfoy, and his aunt is Bellatrix Lestrange—he knows more than enough dark curses to keep him occupied.

“It’s you, you traitor.” Voldemort snarls as Draco dodges. “Useless like your mother and father. You think you can duel me?”

“My whole life has been pledged to this meeting with you,” Draco growls back, “It won’t be for naught.”

“We’ll see about that. Aveda—”

“Expelliarmus!” Potter shouts from behind Draco, and Voldemort’s wand flies into the sky, spinning until its tip shoots out a jet of green light towards him. Voldemort crumples in a heap, his body disintegrating before their eyes.

Harry approaches so he is standing next to Draco, watching the body turn to dust.

“You did it,” Draco says after a long moment, his wand still clenched tightly in his hand.

“We did it.” Harry replies.

[jowritesthingss]

A (Demi)Boy and His Demon: Prologue

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairing(s): LoSleep (Logic | Logan + Sleep | Remy)

Rating: Teen

Content Warning(s): lots of swearing, religion mention, demons mention, injury/blood (Remy gets a papercut)

Length: 1,418 words

Brief Summary: Sleep-deprived writer Remy accidentally summons a serious-and-seriously-fed-up demon named Logan. Prologue. In Which Remy Inadvertently Summons a Demon

Fic Masterlist!

*

In Remy’s defense, he hadn’t exactly meant to summon a demon in the middle of a coffee shop on just another typical Tuesday.

And they most certainly hadn’t meant to bind the poor sap to them for the rest of their (presumably now-shortened and miserable) life.

But there he was.

And that was exactly what he had done.

But—erm, well. We’ll get there.

-

“Remy!” a familiar voice chirped as said enby pushed the door open to his favorite haunt. “Do you how do?”

“Ugh. Like, horrible.” The answer was instinctual at this point. Usually it was just sarcastic, but on a deadline like this? Satan had nothing on the wrath of an editor.

The echo of the bell ringing bright through his ears, Remy walked over to the front counter, where his good friend and caffeine addiction enabler stood. They tried in vain to pretend that they were swaggering and not at all staggering from sleep deprivation and lack of caffeine.

“So it’ll be the usual for you, then, yeah?” Emile smiled, and god, for all the years they’ve spent working as a barista themselves, Remy would never understand how Emile could stay so upbeat while on-shift.

“You know it, gurl,” Remy answered, fishing out his wallet. “Although gimme the largest size this time, hun’.”

Emile clucked sympathetically, already turning and getting started on Remy’s iced coffee. “Deadline coming up?”

“Uh-huh. Tonight.” Remy sighed, slapping a ten dollar bill onto the counter. “I’m due to get the script for chapter sixty-nine to Remus, but like, he’s been too busy giggling over the number of the upcoming chapter to finish the one we’re supposed to publish tomorrow. Virgil’s on the warpath, and I’ve been roped into designing shit to make up for Remus falling behind.” He rolled his eyes.

“Golly, that sure sounds rough.” Emile slid some ice into Remy’s coffee before popping a lid on it, swirling it a couple times, and sliding it across the counter with some verbal sound effects to accompany it. He picked up the tenner and began to punch things into the cash register, counting out change for Remy. “But I believe in you!”

“Gurl, you shouldn’t. I don’t,” Remy snickered. They reached back into their bag, groping around for their reusable straw. Pulling it out, he popped it into his cup. “There’s a reason I’m the brains behind the writing of this operation, not the art. You think I’d be working with those idiots if I had a choice?”

“Yes, I do,” Emile said mildly. He handed over Remy’s change.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fair.” Shoving his change into the tips jar, Remy rolled his eyes. Again. They did that a lot. Which, how could he not, when he was surrounded by so many dorks?

“Anyways, I’ll be in my usual corner, I guess.” Remy jerked their head towards their usual corner table. “Lemme know if you need any help back there, babe. Or if any tea needs spilling.” They winked at Emile from behind their sunglasses before turning and heading to sit down.

Once seated, Remy pulled out his laptop and the battered spiral notebook that he kept most of his ideas for their comic in. Exchanging their sunglasses somewhat reluctantly for a pair of blue light glasses, he booted up his computer. Then, after setting everything up in its typical position and connecting to the wifi in the coffee shop, Remy allowed themself a moment to sit back and sip at their iced coffee.

The contrasting tastes of sweet white mocha and bitter coffee filled his mouth, and Remy felt his shoulders relax for what had to be the first time in twelve to twenty-four hours.

Classes earlier in the day had been an absolute nightmare of scribbling in margins and surreptitiously typing the script up on his phone when professors weren’t looking. Then the night before had been a horror-filled dream sequence of exhaustion and trying to write actual content down without falling asleep on the keyboard and waking up with the L key imprinted on their nose and sixteen pages of keysmashes.

So suffice to say, Remy was not having a good time. But the iced coffee? It warmed their gay little heart. It made things just a bit more bearable on days like this.

All too soon the buzzing of his phone reminded Remy of their subsequent impending deadline and doom, and he came crashing back down to earth.

Sipping once more at their iced coffee, Remy set it off to the side, slipping in his earbuds and focusing in on the Word document in front of him. They began to type.

-

Three hours and two refills later, Remy had finished chapter sixty-nine, had sent it to Virgil to look over, and had even started on chapter seventy for a good measure.

Until Virgil sent back his edits, Remy’s focus of the moment had shifted to designs for chapter sixty-six, which Remus should’ve started drawing a few days ago, but nooo, the asshat wasn’t even done shading sixty-five, which was supposed to be posted in...Remy consulted their phone...in roughly six hours now. Fuck.

Remy couldn’t draw for shit, but they could research like nobody’s business, and designing and sketching was simple enough, so he wasn’t entirely unused to getting dragged into stuff like physical character designs and the creation of symbols and outfits (Remus was far too oafish and uncoordinated when it came to fashion, anyway).

Shaky as Remy’s art was, Remus certainly knew how to pick out what he liked from Remy’s miserable excuses for sketches, at least, so their partnership worked well enough...even if Remy privately thought his similarly-named partner acted like a dolt and smelled like minute ramen (and not even the good kind! more like the shrimp kind, and what the fuck kind of imbecile eats shrimp-flavored microwave ramen).

Finally satisfied with the roughly-sketched summoning circle that they had copied from the web, Remy exited out of Google Images.

Summoning circles, Remy had to admit, were a new topic of research for him. Their story—a Good Omens-type comic centering around an angel and a demon trapped in the human world—had required plenty of research into religion and religious imagery, of which they had not been a fan, but for some reason summoning circles had never really cropped up on their radar.

Remy may not have been a fan of the concept of angels, but he certainly wasn’t a fan of the concept of demons and the occult, either, so digging through the ominously dark websites had been...interesting. Eventually they had just given up and straight-up copied a summoning circle at random. They could take that and go from there, adding their own flair to it.

Remy looked down at the shaky summoning circle he had sketched out before him. It was kinda lopsided, but it was whatever. It was also much too boring, if you asked him. When they sent Remus their final reference, they’d put a note in the margins telling him to add some of that weird gory imagery stuff he was obsessed with. “Creep would really like that, huh,” Remy muttered aloud to himself.

Scrutinizing the copied circle for a few more moments, Remy mentally listed out some of the changes they wanted to make—an extra line here, a circle there, take out that square—and they reached into their backpack for one of the random looseleaf sheets of paper he always had floating around in there. Only, they grabbed at the wrong corner of the paper.

Feeling the sheet of paper slice into their pointer finger, Remy quietly hissed out a breath. “Fuck.” He drew his finger out of the bag, pulling it up to his face to get a good look at the injury, and shit, the papercut was bad enough that it was actually bleeding.

“Goddammit,” Remy cursed as a few drops of crimson splattered onto the paper in front of them, blurring over the details of the summoning circle he had drawn.

Remy popped his finger into his mouth and sucked at the smidgen of blood leaking out. Deciding to actually look at what they were sticking their hand into this time, they turned to the left, fully intending to practically stick his head into his bag to find a napkin and that pesky sheet of paper both.

This was how they came to be aware of the person who appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to stand to the side of their table.

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Prologue || One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six

*

This was supposed to be a one-shot, but Remy told Logan to hold their coffee and then bullied me into making it a prologue and six chapters’ worth of useless gays. I accept my defeat with dignity and insist that it was, in fact, actually my decision in order to get used to writing multi-chap things again before I tackle my Big Bad AUs.

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