#hes supposed to be like. 12-13 in this image but i just drew him normal. this is so sad

[sirompp]

that last post just reminded me that i drew this

[serasfanfiction]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3| Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16

The limo in front of them finished releasing it's cargo: a family of lessor Goetia consisting of a pair of blue and red Macaws and their primarily blue offspring. They posed here and there as they made their way up to the front doors. The limo rolled away, leaving room for Asmodeus' limo to roll up.

The limo rolled to a stop. It was their turn to get out.

Lucifer's entire body froze up. Etiquette dictated that he should get out first with Alastor. Not that he cared about etiquette. Etiquette could go screw itself for all he cared. It still dictated he go first.

He really did not want to go first.

He opened his mouth with every intent of telling Asmodeus and Fizzarolli to go first, only to be cut off by a shrill voice screaming: "WE LOVE YOU FIZZAROLLI!"

All eyes inside the limo went to the source of the scream. It was the fan from before, having managed to break free of the barrier that had been erected to allow. Eyes crazed and pants half undone, he rushed the limo, fully intent on throwing himself at it.

Disgusted, Lucifer snapped his fingers, the fan disappearing in a burst of red and gold dust.

A long silence followed, both inside the limo and outside. Fizzarolli gaped, the corners of his lips twitching upward. "Uh, what did you do to him?"

Lucifer blinked, eyes moving uncoordinated of each other. "I dropped him into a volcano."

Somewhere in the Wrath Ring, the little fan was getting a very hot bath. He may or may not survive the experience.

The retired actor of the group gave into the impulse and grinned. "If it wasn't rude, I'd beg you to play body guard."

Lucifer huffed, the mental image absurd. Just image: the king of Hell acting as body guard to an imp. It would be a silly sight.

No more silly than hiding behind his younger sibling, he supposed.

He drew in a deep breathe, held it, then let it out. He reached for the door handle. "Alright, better get this over with."

"Sire, if I may suggest?" Alastor tapped this side of his king's mouth, his own smile picture perfect. "Perhaps a little of that devilish charm might go a long way, in this case."

Lucifer, feeling stressed and spiteful, threw him a smile that was more aggressive than charming over his shoulder as he opened the door. As expected, the moment he cleared the car door, the stunned crowd, understandably not expecting him to show up - forget stepping out of the Sin of Lust's limo - completely lost their minds. Fixing his grin in place, he reached back into the car. "I believe that's our cue, Mr. Radio Demon."

It was like watching the shift change in his radio station. Alastor rose up out of the limo like he regularly showed up in luxury vehicles at high profile venues. Every move was full of lethal and gentlemanly grace. Without missing a beat, he tucked the hand Lucifer had used to lead him out of the limo onto his arm, as if it were perfectly normal for him to have the King of Hell himself on his arm. As he made his way towards the entrance of the manor, one might have thought he had been the one to receive the invitation.

For all that Alastor claimed that he only had a face for radio, he knew how to put on a show for a crowd. As few photos existed of him, the paparazzi could be forgiven for taking a moment to recognize him. But when they did, they went wild all over again.

"Your Majesty! Are you and the Radio Demon having an affair?" One sinner, a shark based one, tried to shove his microphone as far over the barrier as he could.

Another reporter grabbed the collar of her cameraman, nearly choking him as she aimed him in the direction she wanted. "How long has this been going on?"

"Does this mean that the Queen is gone for good?" A small raccoon sinner ducked under the rope barrier, holding onto it as he leaned out to try at a response as they passed.

At least one of them must have been Vox's people, as she threw her hands in front of the lens, shouting, "Stop recording, you idiot! You'll damage the camera!"

Sure enough, everyone who had attempted to either take a photo of Alastor or to film him over the last several moments began to make horrified, dismayed, or angry cries, or some combination of the three as they discovered their cameras were all beginning to ominously smoke.

Lucifer laughed, despite the tension, as they made their way up to the entrance. "Oh, I don't know why I keep forgetting you can do that." He covered his mouth in an attempt to be serious. "The rumors are still going to be messy."

Alastor was surprisingly silent, giving no comment on his opinion on the matter.

An imp, dressed as a butler, met them at the door. He took one look at Lucifer before dropping into a bow. "Your Majesty. May I take your coat?"

Lucifer shook his head. "No, no that won't be necessary." He turned to Alastor. "You want to hang onto yours or ditch it?"

The muscles of Alastor's arm flexed under Lucifer's hand. He appeared to be considering if he could handle seraphim's ongoing touch without his multiple layers. After a pause, he stated, "I'll keep my coat as well, good sir."

Lucifer was tempted to feel insulted. The feeling was banished when the redhead placed his hand over the captive one on his arm and gave it a light squeeze. It reminded him that if Alastor truly didn't want to be touched, he would be more than willing to shake him off, King of Hell or not.

The imp rose out of the bow. "The name of your plus one, your Majesty?"

"Alastor," the blonde offered. Weighed which of the redhead's titles might be more suited for this audience. "The Overlord."

The butler nodded. He led them into the manor and towards an elaborately decorated ballroom. At this door, he announced to the room at large, "Presenting, his Majesty, King Lucifer Morningstar and his plus one, Overlord Alastor."

The guests already in attendance fell into a hush. Everyone stopped what they were doing to either catch a peak at their king, the sinner he had shown up with, or both.

Father, why had he thought bringing Alastor would be less stressful?

A pat to the hand grounded him, subtle enough not to be noticeable from a distance. Alastor wasn't directly watching Lucifer, but was still keeping an eye out for any escalation in his stress levels. It would have felt nice, having that kind of attentive partner, had Lucifer been certain the redhead was doing it because he actually cared about Lucifer's wellbeing.

A tall figure, taller by several feet than Alastor, dressed in silk and velvet and a cloak that reflected the cosmos, approached them. An owl Goetia, whose black top hat was styled with a crown. "Your Majesty." He bowed the exact amount necessary for both their statuses. "We're honored you could attend my daughter's ceremony."

"Stolas!" He could really be no other Goetia. Stolas ushered them from the door to allow the continued flow of guests. "It's been a while!" Nearly eighteen years, in fact. "You look..." Lucifer trailed off.

Goetia were vain and sticklers about their appearances. Never a feather out of place or an errant thread in sight. Stolas, on the other hand, was too frayed around the edges to hide it. He had been a lanky teenager, not quite twenty when Lucifer had met him at the announcement of Octavia's birth. He had seemed tired, but happy to be a new parent.

He looked beyond tired, now. Bags under his eye, thin in a way that suggested a loss of appetite, and soul heavy with a life full of pushing everything down, down, down until it all threatened to explode or implode.

"Um... good?" Lucifer finished, lamely, kicking himself for making it sound like a question.

Stolas didn't appear offended. His pupilless eyes were just as effective mask as Alastor's smile, making him hard to read without paying attention to the other cues. "And you as well, sire." He blinked, once, a slow thing. His head was turned enough to indicate his attention as on the radio host. "Oh my word." In a move that spoke of a life of extreme isolation from people, Stolas leaned down and forward until he was almost in Alastor's personal space, "This is one of those Overlords I've heard so much about?" It was the sort of tone someone took when spotting a lion out on the plains from the safety of their car, not while encountering one up close and personal were it can quite easily sink its claws into them. "I've never seen one so close."

Alastor's ears twitched like they wanted to flatten and his smile took on a malicious edge. Stolas' height forced him to look up at him, something Alastor likely didn't have to do often. "Come now, good fella," he said, not a hint of whatever he was feeling in his voice. "Surely you're not one to judge someone based off their class." With all the grace of a viper going in for the kill, he added, "Not with the company you keep."

Lucifer's lips parted, someone still caught off guard by how audacious this sinner could be. He tensed, ready to interfere if necessary.

It proved to be unnecessary. Stolas' spine straightened, bringing him up to his towering ten feet tall. Everything retreated behind a wall built from a lifetime of locking everything because it was easier to suppress than feel. "Touché."

"Dad?" A smaller figure, closer to Lucifer's height, appeared at Stolas' side. A teenager, an owl-peacock mix Goetia, was dressed in a gown as black as the night sky. Littered throughout the bodice and skirt were numerous constellations made from crystals that twinkled as she moved.

Stolas followed her voice like the moon follows Earth. Where before he looked weary to the bone, he came alive at the sight of her. A deep warmth that spoke of unconditional love colored his voice as he said, "Via, come." He held out his hand and she came with only the slightest pause. "Meet his Majesty. You were only a hatchling when you saw him last."

The teenager, who could only be the star of the ball herself, blinked at Lucifer, her lips twisted mullishly. She clearly wasn't thrilled with being at this party. "Um." She blinked again, and then fell into a curtsy, the movement familiar but not used often. "It's nice to meet you again, your Majesty."

"Stolas, she's lovely," Lucifer responded, honestly and without hesitation. "And she's gotten so big!" Not as big as some of her relatives, but a healthy child was a healthy child.

The pride on Stolas' face as her gazed down at his daughter was impossible to miss. "She's my pride and joy," he said, sincerely. "What is it, my owlette?"

Octavia rolled her eyes as she didn't quite pout, finding the nickname childish. She pointed off towards a door in the back that likely led to the kitchens. "There's an issue with one of the guests. They're demanding to speak with you."

Stolas' eyes narrowed. "And they asked you to deliver the message? Honestly!" He patted his daughter's cheek. Octavia pulled another face, but it was obvious she secretly enjoyed it. Watching the exchange made Lucifer ache for the time his own daughter was this age. That time where children were learning the extent of their independence as they came into adulthood, but still wanted a degree of parental attention. The pain of the missed opportunity was another reminder of how much time had passed and how fast it had gone.

When he'd left, Octavia turned back to Lucifer and Alastor. "Sorry about my dad," she said, addressing Alastor. "He's still learning." She gave them both another nod, before retreating back into the throng of people.

Lucifer watched her go. She had a good head on her shoulders. After she disappeared from view, he began herding Alastor towards the end of the buffet. The sinner must have been curious about the offerings, because he let himself be pushed along. "Do you just know everyone's dirty laundry?" Lucifer grumbled under his breathe, smiling a little too widely as someone paused to watch them a little too intently.

Alastor stared at him, surprised by the question. "Why, of course, your Majesty!" He dug his heels in at a seemingly random spot at the table, bringing them to a stop. He looked to and fro, assessing his chosen spot. "Information is currency, and nothing is more valuable than things people want kept secret."

Alastor stepped behind Lucifer, his hands settling on the monarch's shoulders. Into his ear, the redhead stage whispered, "Take our host, for instance." He directed Lucifer to where Stolas had reappeared from wherever he had disappeared to. "It caused quite the scandal when it came out that he cheated on his wife, and with an imp no less!"

From the door they'd entered through, the butler announced, "Presenting his Highness, Asmodeus and his plus one, Fizzarolli."

The guests broke out into chatter anew, everyone having an opinion on the pair. "And then there's your little brother." He spun Lucifer until they were could easily see the Sin in question. "Fizzarolli was his business partner, before they fell in love and started their romantic entanglement. They tried to keep in on the down low, but no one was surprised when his Highness spilled the beans last month."

Asmodeus and Fizzarolli moved through the crowd, drawing mixed responses from the crowd as they passed. No one was saying anything to their faces, but they weren't trying to hide what they were saying very well either.

The butler appeared again, a little frazzled. "Presenting her Highness, Beelzebub, her plus one, Vortex, and her other plus one, Loona."

If everyone had an opinion on Asmodeus' choice of date, it was nothing compared to the Sin of Gluttony showing up with a pair of hellhounds she was in a polygamous relationship with. The taller, male hellhound was in a sharp black and white tuxedo, while the slightly shorter female was in a blood red sleeveless gown. Beelzebub herself had her arms around both their shoulders while rocking a cotton candy pink cocktail dress.

"Well, that's an interesting development," Alastor murmured. He sounded like this was genuinely news to him.

Lucifer wasn't sure if he wanted to know. "What?"

Alastor nodded to the female, Loona. "She is the adopted daughter of the imp our host is sleeping with."

Lucifer wasn't certain if he was being serious or not. "Really? What is this, some kind of soap opera?"

Alastor snorted. He withdrew from his perch, turning to inspect the offerings laid out on the table. "It certainly seems so, does it not?"

Off to the side, a live band began to play. Various couples made their way to the dance floor. A brave soul was already making his way over to Stolas and Octavia, likely to attempt to ask for a dance. Lucifer grabbed a drink from a server as they passed, silently wishing the kid good luck.

Judging from the sour mood Stolas was in, he was going to need it.

Over the first couple of songs, Lucifer alternated between watching Alastor and the crowd. The sinner weaved up and down the buffet, never straying too far, seemingly interested in the food. Every now and then, he would pause to taste something, an ear twisting around. Lucifer guessed it was to hear whatever gossip was being said near him. He noted when the redhead would linger he would pretend he was grabbing more than one morsel to snack on, but never actually ate anything.

Several of the Goetia pattered around Lucifer, but none approached. As the third song came to an end, Alastor prodded a passing imp. There was too much chatter around Lucifer to hear what he was saying, but the imp nodded and then ran off in the direction of the band.

Lucifer eyed him suspiciously as he made his way back over to him. "Bored already?"

Alastor hummed at him. He held out a hand, reminiscent of that night in his bedroom a couple weeks ago. "Care to dance, your Majesty?"

Lucifer stared out into the crowd. Across the room, the imp Alastor had flagged down grew closer to the band. Each step felt like another grain of sand falling through an hour glass, ticking away the seconds until this moment disappeared into the ether, lost forever.

If he accepted, this would be his first dance in public in nearly twenty years.

It would be the first time he had ever taken his first dance at a formal event with anyone other than Lilith.

The imp reached the band, chattering with them. They nodded at each other, the band fiddling with their instruments as they prepared the song. Lucifer eyed the held out hand out of his peripheral view.

Lilith had already made her choice. Had made it when she walked out the door to the home they had shared for almost ten thousand years. Had made it again when she disappeared somewhere not even her daughter could reach her.

Perhaps it was time for Lucifer to do the same.

He took Alastor's hand.

Alastor's eyes glinted with dark promises, his smile deceptively welcoming as he led them out onto the dance floor. The other attendees drew away, curiously murmuring to themselves as they gave them space until they were surrounded by a large circle of people.

A violin strummed a single note through the ballroom, testing it for accuracy as Alastor brought them both to a stop in the center of the dance floor. He rested his palm against Lucifer's waist, drawing him in closer, but not close enough to touch. "I'm sure his Majesty is good at improvising, no?"

As he wasn't sure where to put his hands, Lucifer left them out at his side. He grinned widely, delighted by the prospect of a partner giving him a challenge. "Do your worst."

A violin began to strum out the first notes. It wasn't a song that Lucifer recognized. Alastor started out with a simple sway in time with the music. Soon, he began to incorporate movement, such as turns and spins into the dance, following in time with the violin. It wasn't anything that Lucifer had ever danced before, although he noticed immediately that Alastor was using subtle pushes and pulls of his hand to indicate where he wanted Lucifer to go and when he planned send the blonde out for a spin.

The onlookers were forced to make a make more room as the circuit of their dance got wider, slowly picking up pace with the music. He could pick up subtle influences from the waltz in the dance, as he was drawn in, hands instinctively going into their proper places. When Alastor began to spin them around, Lucifer leaned back subtlety into the spin, enjoying the feel of a strong arm keeping him from toppling backward with the momentum of the spin.

Alastor sent him out to the left, connected only by a single pair of hands, until their arms extended out as far as they would go. Without missing a step, the redhead drew him back in, sending him off into the other direction, exchanging hands as they went. When Alastor pulled him back in, he spun Lucifer around until they were back to front, right hand holding right hand and Alastor's left sitting on Lucifer's hip.

For a split second, Lucifer was aware again of the people around them, staring at them with wide, judging eyes.

Everyone was watching them.

The sight was lost as Alastor spun them around again, ending with them facing each other in the default position for a waltz. Alastor, perhaps picking up on his distraction, leaned in closer than the dance usually allowed, voice pitched low as he said, "Eyes on me, your Majesty." His hands tightened, a physical reminder that the sinner had him figuratively and literally. "This dance is only for the two of us."

That wasn't true. Alastor wanted everyone to see this. Lucifer's hands gripped Alastor's tighter than necessary. Forced himself to focus only on his partner. He released the breathe he'd been holding in a shaky laugh.

Alastor lead them through another circuit around their stolen space. It repeated much of the same steps and movements of the first part of their dance, picking up speed as they went. Lucifer allowed himself to fall back into it, let his senses focus on the cues Alastor was giving him until there was nothing but the music and and the movement of the dance.

Lucifer let out a breathless laugh as Alastor used the momentum of their spin to pull him in and lift him from the side. The lift was small, more a tentative testing of weight. Now that he knew what to expect, when, several moments later, Alastor's hands went to Lucifer's waist, the king was ready.

The music hit a crescendo as his feet left the ground. Lucifer unfurled his wings, using them to help with the lift. For a moment, he was weightless, held down to the ground only by the hands on his hips. He laughed, a real laugh, exhilarated.

And then he looked down at Alastor.

Alastor stared up at him, eyes alight with something too dark to be called wonder. Alastor was looking at him like he wanted to join him. Like he wanted to tear him down and ground him forever.

Like he wanted to tuck him away in his bayou and never let him leave again.

Red tipped hands tightened around his hips, a warning, and Lucifer allowed himself to be pulled down, wings gently flapping to slow his fall. As he came down, his and Alastor's faces came within inches of each other, so close they were almost sharing a single breathe.

If he had wanted to, he could have leaned forward that mere inch or two and sent them down an entirely different path.

Lucifer's feet touched the ground, his wings disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. Alastor sent him out for one last spin, as if he were trying to regain his distance before he was drawn in too much. Left hand met left hand, both going up and over Lucifer's head as Alastor dipped him, only Alastor's right hand across his body keeping him from falling. Lucifer's own hand came up to catch his hat before it could tumble off his head.

Alastor pulled him back up. Both of them were flushed and breathing harder than the dance warranted as he stepped back and away from Lucifer. As the violin sang out one last note, signifying the end of the song, Alastor startled him by doing something he hadn't done a single day since they'd met.

Alastor leaned forward, one hand crossed over his chest, in to what could only be called a bow, even as every inch of his posture showed no subservience. Even in this, he was defiant.

In that moment, as he stared at the top of the head of the head of this sinner - this sinner who had half driven him mad with frustration, who dared to challenge him where no one else dared, who had waged a campaign to win him over - Lucifer knew he was caught.

Taking his own step back, he lowered the rim of his hat, hiding behind it like he could hide away from this revelation. "Stand up."

"Sire?" He could almost believe Alastor was actually concerned.

The roil of that uncertainty had Lucifer taking another step back. "I need to step away. Don't... don't get into any trouble while I'm gone." Without giving the sinner the chance to respond, he turned and fled.

The manor had been updated over time, expanding as needed. It was far older than every living Goetia combined. Once upon a time, it had been like a second home, when relations had been better. He remembered the layout enough to find a guest bathroom far enough away from the party not to be immediately found, but not close enough to the private residences to be intruding. They wouldn't have kicked him out, but it would have still been awkward.

Lucifer shut the door behind him, heading straight for the tap. The water was only ever able to get barely below room temperature in Hell. He chilled it as it hit his palms, splashing the icy water across his face. Repeated it once, and then twice. Held his palms over his face to hide from his reflection.

What was he doing? Did he really want to peruse a relationship with Alastor? Alastor, who was likely only playing with him for power? Who was certainly going to be furious when he found out the consequences of drinking angelic blood of Lucifer's caliber?

He didn't require utter devotion from his partners. He didn't require them to lay themselves bare before him. He merely wished that they want him for him, because he didn't think he could lay out what was left of his heart and survive having it destroyed all over again.

And that was the ultimate question: could he trust Alastor with his heart?

The honest answer? He didn't know.

Lucifer turned off the tap, grabbing a towel to wipe off his face. He pointedly didn't look in the mirror, unwilling to see what was staring back at him, unable to face it just yet. This wasn't the time nor the place to have a melt down. He could have it when he returned to his rooms, but for now, he needed to hold it together.

The hall outside the bathroom was empty, the noise coming from the ballroom barely audible down the hall. He had every intention of making his way back to the ballroom - to Alastor - when he caught sight of a figure disappearing around a corner. Lucifer might have brushed it off as staff and carried on, had it not been for the distinctive flash of what could only be angelic steel.

Now why was an imp skulking around a party full of Hell's highest royalty with angelic steel?

Keeping light on his feet, Lucifer trailed the figure. The figure moved from room to room, peering into each before moving on to the next. At random, the figure would look over his shoulder, forcing Lucifer to occasionally get creative with hiding spots. Stopping before a seemingly random room, the figure glanced around one last time, and then ducked inside.

Lucifer crept up on the room. A simple thought and he had transformed into mouse, tiny enough to allow him to keep low to the ground where no one would think to look for him. He sniffed at the entrance of the room, picking up on the scent of someone who had spent some serious time in the Wrath Ring. Could it be the figure he had been trailing?

Entering the room, the first thing he noted was the lights were out. The light of what passed for late afternoon/early evening filtered in through windows, whose curtains had been left wide open. Not much by way of furniture littered the room, leaving it mostly bare. It didn't appear to be in use, more of a spare room. The only thing of note about it was the high ceiling, where bare beams crossed from one side of the room to the next. Glancing around, he couldn't think of a single reason the figure would have come into this room.

Unless he knew he was being followed.

Lucifer transformed back into his normal form, rolling out of the way of a boot intent on coming down on top of him. He came up into a crouched position, noting right off the bat that the figure was standing between him and the exit to the room. The new position also gave him his first look at who he'd been tailing.

The figure was indeed an imp, one on the taller side for his species. He was dressed in what looked so stereotypically like a cowboy outfit, it almost looked like a costume, were it not for the fact that the cloth was clearly lived in and his weapons were very real. Sinister yellow eyes nearly glowed in the dimming light of the room, widening slightly as the figure got his own good look at who had been following him.

"Well, I'll be damned," the figure drawled. He flowed into a standing position like water running up a statue, tail whipping around behind him into into a coil. Utter contempt dripped like poison from his tongue as he said, "If it isn't the King himself come down to grace us peasants with his presence."

Lucifer stood up, swiping at his sleeves to dislodge any dust. He shot the imp a winning smile as he quipped back, "Well, Char-Char has been getting on me to get out more." He placed his hands together, one over the other. "So why don't you tell me what's got you sneaking around and I'll see what I can do for you?"

The little cowboy's grin was as contemptuous as his tone. "Hm, pass." He paced his side of the room, edging closer without ever coming into arm's reach. "You royals like to talk like you care, but none of you actually give a rat's ass about us."

Lucifer said nothing, letting him talk. It was obvious this guy had beef with the ruling classes. Let him talk long enough, and he might let something interesting spill.

The cowboy crossed his arms, body language deceptive languid. "And I don't think you'd like what I had to say, anyway."

Lucifer shrugged. "Don't know unless you try."

The cowboy tapped his fingers to one of the holsters at his hips.

The seraphim eyed the gun. It was a beautiful thing, as much a work of art as it was a weapon. The white parts of the barrel glowed, giving away what it was made from. He raised an eyebrow. "Really?" He placed a hand on his hip, using a single finger of his other hand to do a little circle in the air to encompass the entirety of the imp. "You're really going to attempt to fight me?"

The imp had ego, Lucifer would give him that, and confidence in spades. He wrapped his hand around the grip of his gun. "I always wanted to try and kill the unkillable."

Lucifer tilted his neck from side to side, cracking it as he went. Maybe this was what he needed to burn off a little anxious energy. Even with some holy weapons, an imp wasn't much of a match for him, but he might be entertaining. He made a 'come hither' gesture with his left hand. "Then show your king what you're made of, little imp."

The imp struck with the speed of a rattlesnake. His gun was out in the blink of an eye, two shots fired in quick succession.

Lucifer side stepped both. The bullets hit the wall behind him, sending out a spray of dust. He tilted his head to the side. "That all you got?"

The imp grinned. "I'm just getting started."

Lucifer was surprised the imp would dare attempt to get within arms reach, but that's exactly what the cowboy did. He rushed forward with that same deadly speed, a knife as pretty as the guns appearing in his hand. Lucifer side stepped the attempt, grabbing hold of the imps extended arm and tossing him effortlessly towards the wall behind him with enough force to stun, not kill.

The imp twisted like a cat in free fall, hitting the wall feet first. He used the wall to catapult himself back at the seraphim, landing partially on Lucifer' side, partially on his back. The imp's knife flashed as he brought it down towards the the seraphim's back.

Lucifer laughed at the attempt, transforming into a snake. The imp gave off a rattlesnake's warning rattle, hitting the ground as his support suddenly disappear. He was already wrapping a hand around Lucifer's body, tearing him off just as Licifer was about to sink his teeth into the imp's neck. The imp sent him flying off to the side.

Lucifer transformed in mid air, flipping over backwards and using his wings to slow his fall. No sooner than he touched the ground, did he have to duck as a piece of furniture went flying over his head. He caught a glimpse of an actual rope, which was far better than anything he could have hoped for. This imp was seriously committed to the cowboy shtick!

Lucifer let him throw another large piece of furniture at him before the blonde decided it was time to put a little fear of the Devil in this imp. He leaped over the armchair, coming down on the other side. As the armchair was released, he grabbed hold of the rope. The imp pulled the rope tight, tugging it hard against Lucifer's grip.

Lucifer didn't budge and his grip held fast.

The shadow cast by the brim of his hat cast his face into shadow, leaving only Lucifer's grin visible, the sight of it more reptilian than humanoid. The imp swallowed, a single streak of sweat rolling down the side of his face. He was caught between attempting to reclaim his tool or abandon it. Lucifer made the decision for him when hellfire caught between his fingers, taking to the rope like tumbleweed.

The imp released the rope mere seconds before it could touch him. Lucifer let the rope fall, cutting the power to the hellfire and dousing it as effectively as pouring water over a candle. As the fire winked out of existence, nothing remained of the rope, not even ash. Dusting off his hands, Lucifer taunted, "Ready to give up and start behaving?"

The imp retorted with a derisive sneer. He pulled his gun, firing off a shot that sent Lucifer airborne. Feeling like a nuisance, Lucifer didn't just dodge the next bullet, or the one after that, or the one after that. Oh, no.

He started pulling faces and silly poses, all to show off how utterly and completely he wasn't taking the imp seriously. Eyebrow twitching, the imp took a run up the side of one of the walls, twisting around at the height of the run. Using the momentum of the twist, he sent his pretty blade flying at Lucifer.

Rolling his eyes, Lucifer barely put any effort into his dodge. "This is getting sad, you know." He sighed and clicked his tongue. Shaking his head, arms out in a 'what can you do,' pose, he lamented, "And you were showing such promise!"

It turned out the imp had one last trick up his sleeve. Lucifer felt what could only be rope tightening around his ankles a moment before he was being yanked across the room. He barely felt the impact with the wall - the imp didn't have the brute strength necessary to cause him that kind of damage. He did feel his stomach drop as he fell to the floor, his wings suddenly as useful as a penguin's. He twisted so that he came down on his side, his wings safely between his body and the wall.

His pride smarting, he shoved himself up onto his elbow, seeking out the offending object around his ankles. He knew what he was going to find even without seeing it.

"Blessed rope?" He couldn't keep the incredulous lilt out of his voice. Guns, bullets, and knives made sense. Angelic steel could be reforged. None of that explained how an imp got his hands on blessed rope. "Where did you get blessed rope?"

He didn't wait for an answer, contorting in an effort to reach his ankles and free them. To his frustration, the imp yanked on the rope hard enough to keep them out of reach, pulling him across the floor several inches in the process. Lucifer's wings flared as he hissed, not unlike a snake warning an unwary soul that they were about to get bitten.

"Ah, ah," the imp laughed at him, breathless. His eyes were a touch too wide and his smile too full of teeth to be anything like real humor. "Gotta keep some of my secrets." He wrapped the rope around his hands to secure them, eyes darting around the room as he sought out a place to secure it.

The imp's upper hand was paper thin, the rope currently a double edged sword. They were both very well aware of the fact that if seraphim freed himself, the tables would turn.

"Looks like you caught me." Lucifer levered himself up until he was half sitting on his side, held up by one of his arms. The imp tensed, ready to pull on the rope if he went for his ankles again. Lucifer merely waved his free hand at himself, the restraint, and the imp. "What now, cowboy?"

The imp's golden tooth glinted as he pointed up to the ceiling. "Now I'm going to string you up like a pig for the slaughter." He mimicked Lucifer's earlier 'what can you do' pose. "Can't have you interfering."

Lucifer glanced up at the beam in question. It would be undignified, going up, but he would be able to free himself easily enough. Unbothered, he threw the imp a flirty wink. "Kinky, but not my thing."

The imp gave off that distinct rattle, his tail thrashing. His fingers twitched towards his holstered gun.

Curious. He wasn't smiling anymore. Did he not like innuendo? Oh, Lucifer could work with that. "What's the matter, cowboy?" His eyes fell half lidded into his best set of bedroom eyes, tilting his hips to show off the body that had tempted quite a few human's to their damnation. "Got me all trussed up and now you're getting cold feet?"

The imp's eye twitched, his self control hanging on by a thread. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," he seethed, "That everyone in this hell hole is a sex crazed maniac when we're being ruled by some two bit whore."

Yup, this was a tetchy one.

The insult rolled harmlessly off Lucifer's shoulders like rain water. He opened his mouth to truly send the imp off the deep end, when the door suddenly burst open.

"Oh my, this is quite the scene."

Lucifer resisted the urge to slap his face. Of course Alastor would show up now.

Whoever the imp was, he was quick witted. Alastor was forced to dodge as the imp decided to shoot first and ask questions later. Lucifer took advantage of the distraction to go for his ankles, only to narrowly miss taking a bullet through the back of his palm as the imp let off a warning shot right at it.

All three parties paused to regroup and reassess. The imp left his gun pointing at Lucifer. "Stay right where you are, Red, or I give our leader a brand new hole to yap out of."

Alastor stood up, tugging his suit back into place. "Hm, please do," he said. Raising his voice to be heard over Lucifer's annoyed protest, he tacked on, "I should point out all it's going to do is annoy him."

Lucifer was hardly mollified by the additional warning. It wouldn't kill him, sure, but it would still hurt!

Realizing that threatening the life of their king was pointless, the imp decided on a different strategy. In an impressive feat of strength Lucifer hadn't thought him capable of, the imp swung around, dragging the seraphim across the floor and sending him flying at the Overlord.

Flightless as he was with the blessed rope locking away his powers, Lucifer's wings were still quite large. They were more than enough to slow down his momentum so that he landed hard on his hands and knees at Alastor's feet rather than colliding with him.

Alastor watched the imp escape through a vent without making a single move to stop him. "Oh dear. It looks like he's escaped."

Unhelpful jerk.

Lucifer grumbled as he was finally able to untangle his ankles. He glared as he found himself in a tug of war for the rope with one of the redhead's shadows. "Nope, you're lucky I let you keep the dagger. You don't get the rope, too." He yanked it out of the shadow's grasp, having to put his back into it.

"Let me, sire?" Alastor leaned over him, the angle having him peering down at him upside down. A shadow wrapped itself around Lucifer's waist, lifting him up and setting him on his feet, back to the sinner. The seraphim's wings puffed up as a claw toyed with one of the feathers. "You don't even have the slightest clue where I hid it."

Lucifer tucked his wings away to keep Alastor from getting any ideas, like ripping a feather out.

The deer demon placed his hand beneath his back, the very picture of a perfect gentleman.

Not for the first time, Lucifer questioned his sanity over his choice of this sinner. He set the thought aside for a more pressing matter: "We should probably tell someone about that imp fella." He walked past Alastor to the door, without looking to see if the redhead would follow. "He's here for someone at this party." Normally, Lucifer could have cared less about assassination plots, but this little brat had irritated him.

He paused several feet down the hall, pivoting suddenly. He nearly ran into Alastor's chest, the sinner not having expected him to stop and not having stopping himself. The blonde poked him, lightly, in the center of his chest. "How did you even find me, anyway?"

Alastor took hold of his elbows, gently but firmly forcing him to take a step back. He pointed a single finger down at their feet, his expression bemused. "Haven't you noticed something odd with your shadow, your Majesty?"

Lucifer had not, in fact, noticed anything odd with his shadow. He followed the direction the finger was pointing, finding himself staring at what looked like nothing more than his shadow at first glance.

His shadow, which proceeded to wave at him completely independent of him doing anything.

"You had your shadow follow me?" He stomped his foot - lightly - over the face of the thing, causing the shadow to detach from him. It returned to it's master's form, shaking a fist at him and frowning dramatically.

Alastor reached out, running a finger under Lucifer's chin, imploring him to look up at him. There was nothing like mocking on his face as he stated, simply, "You looked distressed. I promised to look at for you."

Lucifer felt the soft rush of heat to his cheeks. He ducked his head low, hiding his expression - futile as it was at this point - and about faced. "And who's fault is that? All that bowing nonsense!" He resumed his marching down the hall back to the ballroom. "It doesn't suit you."

Alastor didn't respond. His amusement was nearly audible anyway.

They found their way back to the ballroom without further incident. Stolas wasn't hard to find. He was hovering off to the side, watching as his daughter danced with the female hellhound who had come with Beelzebub. He took one look at the blessed rope hanging from Lucifer's hand and was instantly on alert. "Your Majesty?"

The little king gestured for their host to follow him. He led the owl Goetia out of the room, Alastor keeping a leisurely pace at Lucifer's side. When the blonde was certain it was less likely they would be overheard, he held out the rope. "You have an uninvited guest. Likes weaponry of the angelic kind."

Stolas peered down at the rope. He tilted his head to the side. "Was this assassin by any chance a sexy little imp dressed like a cowboy?"

Lucifer blinked at him, blankly. Sexy? Had the imp been sexy? He squinted as he considered it. "I... guess?"

Stolas sighed, taking the rope. "Striker is a very... persistent foe." He tucked the rope away in the folds of his cloak. "My wife hired him to kill me." He bowed his head. "I apologize his Majesty was caught up in all of this."

Lucifer winced. Stolas' wife hired an assassin to kill him? He looked to Alastor, who didn't appear surprised by this revelation. Was this why he was surprised over Stolas and his wife throwing any public event together? Awkwardly, he turned back to Stolas. Asked, "Uh... Do you need any help...?"

The Goetia prince shook his head, waving away the offer. Before their eyes, he seemed to age another ten years. "Do not worry yourself, sire. I have dealt with him before. I will deal with him again." He waved a hellhound serving as bodyguard for the event, leaning down until he was near the hound's level. "Mount a search for the intruder. Keep it quiet. We mustn't disturb the guests."

The hound saluted. He scurried off, barking out orders as he passed his fellow guards. Soon a small army was amassed, spreading out to search the premises.

"I will join them in the search." Stolas returned his attention to the other two. "Would his Majesty and his guest like to return to the party?"

Lucifer considered. Did he want to return to the ceremony? To the crowd of vultures? To his siblings and their partners? He tilted his head to the side, looking to his own partner for the night. "Alastor?"

The radio host's eyes cleared, as if he were tuning back into the present. His smile turned indulgent. "I would of course be willing to follow whatever his Majesty is willing to do."

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at him, knowing what he was doing.

Alastor merely stared back, willing to wait him out.

Lucifer considered extending the evening with this sinner at his side. This sinner he might have been developing some level of affection for, even as he was tempted to strangle him on a daily basis.

"You know what? The night is still young! It's been a while since I enjoyed it." He reached out, telegraphing his intention. The redhead didn't move away, allowing him to take his hand. The blonde monarch tugged him towards the ballroom, calling over to Stolas as they went. "Offer is still open if you need help."

Stolas made a hum of acknowledgement, letting them go.

Without looking back, Lucifer led Alastor back into the ballroom, head held high. His mind was still on the fence on how he felt about this sinner, but he felt a little more like he might be able to face it whichever way things fell.

tbc

Part 17

[fearless-stormclaw]

To celebrate me starting the last chapter of the main part of the first book of my Owl House HP AU here are some sketches of some of the kiddos!

I might put colored versions of these drawings into the final draft.

(Fair warning, I do not claim to be an artist. Headshots are about the extent of my abilities.)

First up, our protaganist, 11-year-old Luz Noceda! She wears her hair in pigtails most of the time. The image on the right is a possible design of her with her hair down. (or a possible Vee, whose design I haven't fully pinned down yet) And I realized I forgot her scar whoops She's also supposed to have a scar across her left eyebrow which I forgot to draw but please imagine it's there.

Next up, 11-year old Amity Blight! Her little ponytail was an absolute pain to figure out how to draw. I think I managed it passably though. Her hair is dyed green, like it was in season 1 of the show.

12-year old Willow Park! Poor girl, she is haunted. Sorry, eyes are still a weakness. She's a year older than the others but still in the same grade because her birthday is after the first day of school. For Willow, this adds to her feeling of being behind everyone else.

9-year old Gus Porter! I should mention that the witches in this AU have normal round human ears, just like the wizards in the Harry Potter books. I imagine little Gus to have quite large ears that he will grow into some later. Again I apologize for the eyes.

11-year old Boscha Malphiday! I'm really pleased with how she turned out, although I struggled with her third eye and I'm still not 100% satisfied with how it turned out. Her surname in this AU is a play off of Malfoy--Malfoy comes from the French for "bad faith" (mal foi); Malphiday comes from "mal fidei", Latin for "bad faith".

13-year-old Hunter! He only appears as a cameo in the main storyline of Book 1, but he has a big part in one of the bonus epilogue chapters (which I haven't really written yet). In this timeline, he has only recently officially received his Golden Guard title. He hasn't gotten his cheek scar, ear notch, or eye bags yet (they will all come in due time) but he does have his tooth gap. He got that from getting his face punched in during training. I drew his Golden Guard uniform with only the one pauldron on his left shoulder as in the show, but I'm thinking of giving him a second one on his right shoulder like in the storyboards.

Meet 15-year-old Oliva Che'! She's one of my OCs. She's basically the Oliver Wood character--the captain of the Owl House grudgby team. She is a very spirited and gung-ho type and very enthusiastic about grudgby. She is in the construction track, although she is not a huge fan of the coven system. She's kind of a fun big sister to the younger Owl House students. She is of Yucateca Maya descent. She has brown or gold eyes. Her hair is naturally black but she dyes it a different color every year and usually keeps it in braids. This year it's pink. Unfortunately Paint did a weird thing when I cropped this picture and made her blurry I am so angry Her Palisman (not pictured) is a black spiny-tailed iguana named Toloc.

Meet 16-year-old Saka Katu! She is another OC. She is a cat demon girl and Oliva's girlfriend and also plays on the Owl House grudgby team (mostly because Oliva insists). She is in Potions track and believes deeply in the Coven system. She's a little uptight, some might call her bossy, and big into following the rules. She's kinda of a strict big sister type to the younger Owl House students. She keeps Oliva from being too reckless while Oliva keeps her from being too stiff. Saka is Malagasy for cat and Katu is Basque for cat so her name is literally "cat cat". She may or may not have a Palisman; if she does, it's some sort of fish.

Last but not least, 11-year-old William Myrtus Warthorne! His design is based off of Ser William from the audio tests/pilot. He is described as a handsome boy--broad-shouldered, with blond hair and blue eyes and a hooked nose which I swear I fixed but somehow it's still wrong ORZ. He is in Goat House and is friends with Boscha, but he doesn't participate in bullying (he doesn't do anything to stop it, though, he's just sort of there). He has a friendly, laidback personality and can get along with just about anyone. It's not discussed in this book (it's more of a plot point in book 2), but his family, the Warthornes, are a cadet branch of the Clawthornes which is why he has Clawthorne and Wittebane features.

[maatryoshkaa]

young god | chapter 14

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

word count: 5.7k

warnings: mild violence, foul language, dark themes and mental health.

description: Han Jisung’s overheard confession sends the precinct -- and the rest of Miroh Heights -- into chaos, forcing law enforcement, police, and citizens alike to choose sides. While he’s locked up, though -- making the acquaintance of a strangely familiar inmate along the way -- Jisung remains unaware of just what lengths some of the people around him are willing to go to in order to save his life. 

watch the trailer here!

14| monsters and men.

The interrogation room held a chill that seeped deep into Jisung’s bones. 

Across from him, the woman — prosecutor — that had been questioning him tapped her fingers on the table’s cold steel surface, her thinning lips the only indication of her growing impatience. They had been sitting for over an hour now — granted, there was no clock on the room’s bare walls, so Jisung could only guess — and he hadn’t spoken a single word.

“Staying silent isn’t going to help your case, you know,” the woman reminded him for what seemed like the thousandth time. She had curling brown hair and tired eyes — it seemed to Jisung like a recurring trait amongst law enforcement workers — and a thin line of a mouth. 

She had been nice enough, reading him his rights and asking questions calmly, but Jisung just couldn’t will his lips to move. He’d been absently studying the handcuffs clasped tight around his wrists with his head bowed. Kang had grudgingly called in a physician to perform first aid on the numerous cuts on his body — including the shallow stab wound above his hip the blonde man had inflicted — and after spending hours in the cold interrogation rooms the sharp aches of pain had eventually grown numb. Every word they spoke to him sounded as if it were in another language, bouncing off before they reached his ears, as if Jisung was enclosed in a muddled, soundproof bubble.

They had brought in a psychologist, too, after he’d stayed silent for an hour — a stout man with watery blue eyes whose tone was too warm for Jisung’s liking. 

“On a scale of 1-10, how are you feeling?” 

“Can you tell me what’s going on in your head right now?” 

“I’m here to help you, kiddo — cooperate with me a bit.”

But another hour dragged by, and so the prosecutor had returned. 

Jisung’s mind kept wandering — to the sickly warm feeling of blood, your blood pooling onto his shaking hands, your blood drained face on the hospital cot, Chan’s feverish eyes as he’d held onto Jisung’s slack shoulders with a fatherlike sort of firmness.

Just as the woman let out a sigh of defeat, the metal door behind Jisung swung open with a screech. Behind his golden spectacles, Prosecutor Kang’s beady eyes darted from Jisung’s empty expression to the woman’s tired one and scowled. 

“He’s still refusing to talk?”

The woman nodded. Jisung felt the weight of their stares boring into his head. Kang jerked his head towards the door and the woman stood to leave as the older prosecutor took her place across the table. 

“You’re holding out longer than I thought.” When Jisung didn’t react, Kang continued with a smirk, “Though I suppose I would expect nothing less from a cold-blooded killer.”

Killer. The note of truth in the word stabbed through Jisung’s gut like a switchblade.

“Well, boy, you’re sly, I’ll give you that —” Kang narrowed his eyes, “But I’m warning you now, we’ve already gathered enough incriminating evidence. DNA from the crime scenes, CCTV footage — you’re only a couple of lab tests away from a guilty conviction, Han Jisung.”

He was lying, Jisung knew he was — lying to get him to panic and talk. Minho had long since erased all fingerprints and disposed of all evidence, after all. Jisung had watched him do it with his own eyes. 

Scowling at Jisung’s silence, Kang stood suddenly and slammed his hands onto the metal table, sending the pad and pen skittering. He leaned in closer, his voice a rancid whisper. “Talk or not, you’re not going to be leaving police custody anytime soon. I’ve seen cases like yours. You look all—innocent—on the outside—” Kang’s eyes were almost pitying, his tone condescending— “But deep down, inside? You’re fucked up to the core, and you know it, too. You know you’re a defect of society — so why are you trying so hard to pretend that you’re normal?”

Jisung didn’t realise how tightly he had been gritting his jaw until it began to ache, his clenched fists shaking white. It was like Kang was pulling every fear Jisung had ever had out of the dark crevices of his mind, forcing them beneath the harsh, burning light.

“No matter.�� Kang drew back, raising his eyebrows. “You’ll crack sooner or later—just like you always do, eh?” He took off his spectacles, wiping them with a cloth from his breast pocket without taking his eyes off of Jisung. “Like yesterday morning, no? Two men dead and three comatose. Not to mention the poor girl hanging onto her life by a thread as we speak—”

At this, Jisung’s eyes flickered upwards for the first time since they had detained him. The light above him was bright and seared at his retinas, but all he could focus on was Kang’s jeering face. The older prosecutor raised his eyebrows, a flash of triumph rippling across his features.

“You haven’t heard? Or did you simply not care? An innocent young woman, and a switchblade to her heart—” Kang clicked his tongue. “The surgery isn’t going well, I heard. She’ll be lucky if she’s able to stay in critical condit—”

Jisung stood up so quickly his handcuffs banged onto the corner of the table and sent a bruising pain through his wrists. He whirled towards the door, already mapping out the shortest route from the precinct to the hospital—but Kang was onto him, rough hands seizing him by the back of his shirt and pinning him painfully against the desk with an echoing bang. He could feel the stab wound reopen beneath the bandages, a shock of fresh pain in the numbingly cold room.

“—go,” Jisung gasped out, his cheekbone crushing against the smooth steel. “Let me — need to see her, make s-sure she’s okay—let me—”

Kang’s disbelieving bark of laughter sent chills down Jisung’s spine. Jisung knew he could overpower him if he tried—but what about the officers standing guard outside, the dozens patrolling the precinct? The thought of the life fading from your eyes was enough to make him want to throw up.

“No need to pretend you care, Mr. Han—save that energy for the rest of the trial, yes?” At that, Jisung heard the metal door screech open again, and two officers’ hands replaced Kang’s on either side of his shoulders. 

The older prosecutor dusted off his hands, then fixed Jisung with a satisfied look. “You’ll be kept under custody until enough evidence has been gathered and processed to begin the trial.”

“Can I—see her? Please, you can—trail me, you can do whatever you want with me, I just—one moment—”

Kang cut him off. “You gave us nothing for nearly five hours. Even if you had, you have places to be, Mr. Han—the state prison, to be exact.” Seeing the confusion flash across Jisung’s whitened face, he continued with a savage glint in his beady eyes. “You’ll be a temporary inmate until you’re called for trial.” He glanced at his watch, then nodded at the officers, who began escorting Jisung from the room. 

Behind him, Kang called slyly, “You’ll be cohabitating with the worst of the worst—or shall I say, your own type?” He could hear the smile in the prosecutor’s voice. “We’ll see how long you last.”

━━━━━━━━

The bus ride to the prison was strangely peaceful.

Jisung caught a glimpse of the clock before he took a seat at the back. 12:00. Dead midnight. The streets were cleared, and there were nearly no cars on the road—the aftereffects of the lockdown had likely sent the citizens in a state of paranoia. Because of me, Jisung thought numbly. Because of the Mass-Murderer of Miroh Heights. Besides two accompanying officers and the driver, the shuttle was empty. 

No other inmates. Jisung was alone.

He had never really gotten used to the loneliness, though it had followed him his entire life. Each time it came back, it seemed more suffocating than the last. A voice in the back of his head told him that maybe this was how it was supposed to be. That maybe, for someone like him, he deserved nothing more.

The overwhelming feeling of emptiness began to numb his chest. Eventually the rocking motion of the bus pulled him into a cold wash of dreamless sleep. The last image he saw behind his drooping eyelids was your face.

━━━━━━━━

Jisung was woken two hours later, and they spent the early hours of the morning taking pictures and recording his information before he was given a change of clothes and finally escorted to a cell. Other inmates were waking up, some taking walks, but none spared him a second glance. They were all wearing the same stiff uniforms, with a number stamped on their breast pockets. Jisung almost laughed—for once, nobody cared who he was, who he might be. For once, he had nothing to hide.

The air smelled of dust and salt, and the inside of his mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. The prison guard motioned towards the last cell in the corridor, and Jisung stepped inside, watching the light in the room disappear as the heavy doors slammed shut behind him. As his eyes adjusted under what little patchy sunlight the barred windows let in, he realised with a start that there was another man in the cell.

“You planning to stand there for the rest of your sentence?” His voice took Jisung by surprise — it was mild, nonchalant — no hint of threats, hostility, or ulterior motives. Compared to the last forty-eight hours, it was like a breath of fresh air.

Jisung looked around the cell, not quite sure where he was supposed to go. The man chuckled and gestured across from him, and so Jisung awkwardly took a seat on the floor in front of him. The man was contemplating him with slightly raised eyebrows, and Jisung was beginning to get the feeling that somewhere, somehow, he’d seen his face before. His eyes had a familiar crescent lilt, and the corner of his lips were wide and upturned, making him look as though he were always smiling—fox-like features, but with none of the slyness. He was middle-aged, his thinning hair streaked with gray.

“You look like you could use a nap, son,” the man finally remarked, and Jisung subconsciously rubbed at his eyes. Son. Why did the word sound so strange to his ears? “What’s a kid like you doing in a place for monsters?”

Monsters. The old man certainly didn’t look like one. He looked like he could be someone’s uncle, professor, or father. He had said it lightly, almost as if he didn’t take it seriously, but the word still made Jisung’s heart sink. “Are you...a monster?” He finally asked, and the man laughed, but there was a sad edge to his voice.

“Well. That’s what they called me, ten years ago. You can make of that what you want, eh?”

Ten years ago. What had he done to earn such a long sentence? There was a brief silence, before Jisung felt compelled to speak again. It was as if the hours of silence had finally taken a toll on him now, and his tongue was beginning to burn with words and questions. “You don’t look like…”

“A monster?” The man raised an eyebrow. “Neither do you, son. But we’re both in here for a reason, no?”

“What’s yours?” Jisung was surprised at his own boldness — the man could turn on him any moment, after all. But he realised that he was already far beyond the point of caring whether or not he got hurt.

The man studied him for a long moment, and seemed to make a silent decision before finally speaking. “I...killed a man. I killed a man who had hurt someone dear to me.” He let out a deep sigh, and Jisung watched his face cloud over with memory. “A few said it was justified, but the prosecutor in charge was a stubborn one. Headstrong. The world of law is a cold one—killers are convicted without pardons, and murder is murder regardless of the circumstances.”    

Jisung swallowed a painful lump in his throat, but his voice still came out sounding like he was being choked. “I killed people who...hurt someone I loved, too,” he murmured quietly. For a moment, he thought the old man hadn’t heard—his voice was nearly inaudible—but when Jisung lifted his gaze, he saw that the man was listening intently, warm brown eyes focused on his face. “B-but in the end, I...hurt the person I loved the most. Because I couldn’t...stop.”

The man sighed. “I know.” 

This took him by surprise. Confused, Jisung followed his gaze to the corner of the cell, where there sat a stack of newspapers. The one on the very top had bold headlines that screamed, MASS ASSAULT AT LOCAL DINER. TWO DEAD, FOUR IN CRITICAL CONDITION. Just the black-and-white picture of Mia’s Diner on the cover sent a twist of nausea through his gut. “I’ve been following the case—the Miroh Heights Murders. It’s you, isn’t it?”

Jisung could only nod, exhaling shakily. “Unlike you, I...I deserve what they call me.”

They were silent for another couple of minutes, the man contemplating Jisung with that same, strangely familiar look in his eyes, and Jisung avoiding his gaze and staring at the dusty ground. He was already filled to the brim with self-loathing. The last thing Jisung needed was a convicted criminal looking at him in disgust, too—he didn’t think he would be able to take it. 

Instead, the man simply said thoughtfully, “They can—and trust me, they always will—call you what they want. Whether or not you choose to believe it, though, that’s up to you. You know what I learned, son?” Jisung finally lifted his head to meet the man’s gaze, hesitant but curious. “The more you accept those words and let them explain your past, your actions — the longer you let their voices replace your own…the more those words end up becoming your truth. You know yourself better than they do.”

Jisung looked down bitterly. Did he? “You can’t — make those excuses for me. I’ve killed people, I’m a killer, I’m a monster—”

“Are you the monster they claim you’ve always been?” The old man interrupted gently. “Or are you forcing yourself into the mold of the monster they’re making you out to be?”

Jisung was silent. The sun had changed positions while they were talking, the glare in the cell softening into a golden glow. “Why are you telling me this?” 

The man sighed, stretching. “I’ll be honest, I’m not too sure, myself. I haven’t talked this much in a while. I’ll say, though, boy, I’ve seen my fair share of monsters—been in here for ten years, and I’ll be in here for the rest of my life. You’re not one of ‘em. As a matter of fact, you remind me of...myself.”

Jisung looked over at the newspapers again. “Why were you following the case?”

“You need to find a hobby to keep yourself sane in here,” the old man scoffed. “I would usually say it’s out of boredom, but...not this time. I have a son,” he finally confessed, a softer note in his voice. He tilted his head, studying Jisung’s features thoughtfully. “He’s a few years younger than you. Just got into university, I heard. Miroh Heights. I worry...about how he’s doing.”

Jisung nodded, a sour taste in his mouth. Imagine living with the serial killer from your son’s campus. Suddenly, the lock clicked and the door swung open, revealing a guard. “Mealtime,” was all he said, and the old man stood.

Before they were escorted out, Jisung asked one last question. “What’s your— what should I call you?”

The old man thought for a moment, then smiled. “People in the town used to call me Old Yang.” He shrugged, a wistful look in his eyes. “Yang is fine.”

━━━━━━━━

Prosecutor Kang was in the middle of lighting a cigarette when Seungmin stepped outside the District 9 Precinct. The interrogations had just ended, and Seungmin had been told to stay behind and drive a couple of his higher-ups back to the law firm. Judging from the sour look on Kang’s already taut features, the questioning hadn’t gone well.

“Kim Seungmin,” Kang called by way of greeting, and Seungmin gave a curt nod. “As you may have heard, the serial killer — ah, the Han Jisung case, I should say—has been transferred to me.” When Seungmin forced himself to stay silent, Kang glanced over and gave him a clap on the back. “Now, now—don’t feel too ashamed, Kim. Everyone makes rookie mistakes. They may have assigned the wrong case to you, but rest assured — it’s in proper hands now.” 

“Is it?” Seungmin couldn’t help blurting, and instantly regretted it. Kang’s face darkened, and the older prosecutor turned to face Seungmin head on.

“Have something to say to me, Kim?”

Too much, Seungmin thought, except he could never get the proper words out of his mouth. They would bubble and foam on the tip of his tongue before his own anxiety and apprehension would push them back down hastily. “I’ve just — never understood the way you handled cases, sir.”

“Seungmin.” Kang took a short drag of his cigarette, then took a step closer. Seungmin could smell the bitter tobacco, mixed with mint, on his breath. “Allow me to share a word of advice. They won’t teach you this in law school.”

He took another drag, then continued. “Your job as a prosecutor is not to judge the defendant fairly.” When Seungmin opened his mouth in indignant protest, Kang cut him off. “If you want a smooth career...all you need to do is make sure you’re appealing to the right people. In other words, listen to what the public wants.” Kang jerked his chin; a couple of blocks down the street, the familiar flashing of police cruiser lights were illuminating Mia’s Diner. “Please the public; don’t waste a single damn about the defendant. You spent all your precious time worrying your little head over the killer’s motives, and now that we finally have him, you’re still worrying over the severity of his sentence. Murder is murder, Kim Seungmin, and actions speak louder than motives. You can show lenience towards a mass-murderer, or you can sweep his sorry past under the rug and bring closure to dozens of families. Which would make you a richer, more popular man?”

Seungmin grit his teeth, a sour taste flooding his mouth. “Is that how you got to where you are?” Everyone knew Kang was one of the most affluent prosecutors in the firm — no, in the entire city.

Kang only smiled, spectacled eyes flashing like a snake’s. “Think, boy. As far as anyone needs to be concerned, the cold-blooded killer is caught, peace is re-established, families are soothed, justice is served once again — and I come out the hero. You saw that boy’s wretched past. Even he can’t handle it. So why poke at wounds that aren’t meant to be reopened?”

Kang flicked his cigarette, not catching the way Seungmin was shaking with anger. “You think you’re being kind? Justice isn’t meant to be kind, Kim.” He shrugged. “Make up the easiest case to solve and do everyone a favour.”

Just then, the precinct’s glass doors slid open and a couple of prosecutors stepped out. Kang waved them over into one of the parked cars, Seungmin in the driver’s seat, and they sped off, leaving the parking lot eerily empty.

Yang Jeongin stepped out from the corner where he had been standing, concealed in the shadows, the confused nurse he had guilted into letting him “take a quick walk” trailing by his side.

“We best be going, sweetheart,” the old woman said worriedly, eyes darting nervously between Jeongin and the IV drip still connected to his arm. “Fresh air is good, but it’s best you don’t overexert yourself this soon.”

Jeongin nodded absently, and let her guide him back to the hospital while clutching his arm. He felt stronger, but his head was beginning to pound again. 

He glanced down at his other hand, where he had been holding out the voice recorder, and pressed END RECORDING.

━━━━━━━━

“Hey, chin up, kiddo. Look at me.”

Even though Bang Chan was sitting on the other side of the plexiglass, Jisung couldn’t bring himself to meet his friend’s eyes. He heard the detective sigh.

“When the trial starts. Plead not guilty, you hear? I know what you’re thinking, but if you plead guilty, that Kang bastard is going to eat you alive.” 

“I can’t.”

“Jisung—”

“I can’t, Chan. I’m not innocent. Shit, I — I can’t even remember half the murders they’re accusing me of, but I know my hands are bloody.”

“If you can’t remember, that factors into the investigation. A mental impairment, a handicap--” Chan was in detective mode, hands gesturing wildly as if he were moving his thoughts and theories through the air. “We need to find out why.”

“Woojin visited before you,” Jisung said in a dead tone. The police captain had been the most distressed Jisung had ever seen him, pacing the room with a locked jaw. It seemed to be a habit of his.

“Han Jisung, I’ve seen numerous murder cases before. This isn’t...right. Your sentence shouldn’t be as heavy as Kang’s making it out to be, but he’s removed both Chan and I from the investigation. We couldn’t gather more counter-evidence if we tried…” the captain looked up at him, his dark eyes troubled. “Unless you give it to us.”

The detective fell silent as Jisung repeated Woojin’s words. The younger boy’s voice was shaking with so much raw, unconcealed emotion Chan felt his own two hands clench into shaking fists. “And I won’t. So please, Chan—and tell this to Woojin, too—don’t throw away your reputations to save me. I...don’t deserve it.”

At this, Chan stood up abruptly, slamming his hands on the desk so hard the Plexiglass screen between them shook violently. “To hell with reputation. I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you it all over again: Jisung, you don’t deserve the death penalty.” 

Jisung got to his feet, too, staring his older friend down with shaking pupils. “I don’t want to hurt anything — anyone — for as long as I live. Never really have, although I can’t exactly tell them that, can I? It needs to stop. This—I—need to stop. This needs to end — and if a death penalty is the only way to do it, I’ll take it.”

Chan raked a hand through his unruly blond hair. “Take a lawyer at least, ‘sung, haven’t they told you you have the rights to one? Hell — do it for y/n. She needs you. She needs you to stay alive.”

At this, Jisung swallowed a painful laugh. “I think I’ve learned better than anyone that in order for her to live, I need to stay out of her life. For good. She is the reason why I need to do this, Chan.”

Before Chan could respond, the timer buzzed and the door clicked open, and Jisung was dragged out of the distressed detective’s sight again.

━━━━━━━━

Fire.

That was the first thought that flashed in your head, the first word accompanied by a twinge of searing pain that pulled you ever so slightly out of the murky darkness. You were burning up, an inferno that sapped all the energy from your veins and made you want to curl up and lose what little consciousness you had just regained.

There were tiny pinpricks of light poking through your vision now, and the fire was beginning to concentrate on one area in your chest. Your lungs were aching, trying to steal back the air that the fire was consuming and as your mouth pried itself open to catch your breath your eyes shot open and you were thrust into a world of blurry white and muffled sounds.

Blinking groggily, you began to register your surroundings — a familiar white, speckled ceiling, the rhythmic beeping of a heart machine. A pinch of wires attached to needles biting into your arm. And the awfully sore, burning throbbing underneath your left collarbone.

A nurse that had been replacing the IV fluid nearly dropped the sack when she saw your open eyes. “Sweetheart? Can you hear me? Blink twice if you can hear me.”

You blinked rapidly, and she gave a sigh of relief. “I’ll call the doctor, you sit tight, alright?”

She returned with an older woman who spoke so quickly you could barely catch her words. You were lucky they didn’t have to undergo open-heart surgery—the wound was deep, but missed a major artery in your heart by a thread. Instead, you had a punctured lung they had resected, which explained the burning ache in your left side. And you had been unconscious for nearly three weeks.

You had been unconscious for nearly— 

“Three weeks?” You sat up suddenly and the nurse’s eyes bulged at your abrupt movement.

“You’d best not move too much if you don’t want to be unconscious for more,” she scolded. “You poor thing. Don’t you worry, though, sweetheart—that monster who attacked you’s supposed to stand trial soon. He’ll be paying for his sins in no time.” 

Her words only hit you after a beat of silence.

Stand trial.

Pay for his sins.

Han Jisung.

The memories came back in a violent flood—you had been woken by an echoing crash from the living room and gone back to sleep briefly. By the time you had thought to go and check, Jisung had been long gone. After a chase down dead ends under a growing thunderstorm, you had followed the muffled sounds of pain and fighting all the way back to the back lot of Mia’s Diner, where the only boy you had ever loved had been kneeling like an avenging angel over five unmoving bodies.

You had called out his name like a shout into the void.

And when he finally heard you, there had been a flash of pain that sent you doubling over. You remembered the switchblade sticking out from your ribs, how it had felt like your body was no longer your own. And you remembered the last thing you had seen before you had slipped unconscious—Jisung’s horrified, tear-filled eyes.

You had wanted to say something to him then, but the words hadn’t made it past your lips. They had echoed in your head when you slipped away, and they came back to you now.

Don’t blame yourself.

Because it was me who chose to stay. To listen. To fall in love with you — each and every part of you, Han Jisung.

And somehow, I don’t regret a single choice I made.

Your fingers absently trailed to your side, where a thick layer of bandages rose beneath the hospital’s scrubs, and found your mind wandering to a memory of Felix and Hyunjin. It hadn’t been too long ago — a couple of semesters after the three of you had first met as freshmen.

“Complexes?” Felix had repeated, and you nodded.

“It was the topic for my psych lecture today. It’s a core part of your subconscious — shaped by perceptions, emotions, and memories. It can be a fear, or a belief, but it usually has a theme of some sort, and like all subconscious influences it affects the way that people act. You know, like an inferiority complex, or an Oedipus complex.”

Hyunjin snorted. “Felix definitely has an Oedipus complex. I’ve seen him call his crushes “mommy” one too many times.”

Felix smacked the taller boy, mouth falling open in protest. “It was a joke, bro!”

The barista had rolled his eyes, pulling a new bag of coffee beans from the shelf. “Jokes always stem from truth, my friend. Anyways, if we’re talking about complexes, you can’t deny that y/n has a hero complex.” 

Felix had nodded rapidly at this, and you had raised an eyebrow. “Not that you want to be a hero or anything, but it’s like, you kinda want to save everyone, all the time. You can’t stand to see anyone suffering. I’ve never seen anyone more fitting — or less fitting, depends on how you look at it — to be a therapist.”

Hyunjin had made an amused sound of agreement before you could argue. “You remember that stray cat with a limp we found behind the shop in freshman year? She wouldn’t stop crying until we brought it to the vet. And the bird with the broken wing that crashed into the window upstairs—wouldn’t leave its side until it could fly again.” He shook his head, smiling at the indignant look on your face.

“Your complex extends to humans, too, you know,” Felix continued without missing a beat. “You walk home the little kids whose parents are at work during the winter because it gets dark early. That girl who used to get bullied by her classmates would come to Glow Cafe, every morning last semester, just to talk to you. The list goes on.” The blond journalist hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe we’ll make it a new segment in the paper: Good Samaritans of Miroh Heights.”

“Don’t you dare,” you had snapped playfully, “That sounds even more ridiculous than the damned Matchmaker of Miroh Heights.”

“You can’t save everyone, y/n,” Hyunjin had said, giving you a small, well-meaning smile. “Someone going into your field ought to know that, sooner or later. No matter how stubborn you are, no matter how much you want to.”

As if on cue, Minho’s words from the rooftop echoed in your head, sending a chill down your spine. There is little you can do for people who don’t want to be helped, y/n.

You gritted your teeth in defiance. To hell with it.

All you knew was that if there was something you were going to save, it was going to be Han Jisung’s life. 

The nurse opened the curtains, letting bright beams of sunlight cast their warmth into the room. The light was blinding, but it felt good on your face nonetheless. Before she left the room, she turned to you. “Is there anything I can get you, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip. “Can I have my laptop?” 

━━━━━━━━

Your paper was just as you remembered it — you had thought the rough draft was completed, save for a few points that needed tweaking and a few references you needed to track down and cite, but now you quickly scrolled to the bottom and deleted the entire conclusion. You had all the puzzle pieces in your hands — not just the voice recordings and notes from the final interviews, but you now had access to police statements (Chan and Woojin were one phone call away) and numerous newspaper articles. Now you knew which concepts to apply, now you had all the theories and evidence you needed.

This wasn’t just going to be a final paper.

You had to get it published as a formal case study.

By the time you had finalized your thesis and made the finishing touches, the moon was threatening to drop from inky night sky, the hues of dawn slashing through the velvet horizon. Your room was dim, but you could feel the city below — and the rest of the hospital outside your room — thrum with a sort of life, a neverending heartbeat. Your phone was still warm by your side, having made nonstop calls to whoever you could get ahold of that was working on Jisung’s case. You picked it up to make one last call.

You peeked at the clock. 5:02 A.M. “Rise and shine,” you muttered, and punched in the number.

He picked up on the seventh ring. “...ngh? Whuhsh hap’ningh?” 

“Felix,” you breathed. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed your best friend, and his familiar, groggy voice made you smile. “Felix, it’s me.”

You heard him sit bolt upright and choke before clearing his throat, fully awake now. “y/n? Holy shit, you — are you okay? I mean, what the hell, of course you’re not fucking okay — when did you wake up?”

“This morning,” you told him. “Look—”

“Y/n, I’m so sorry. I— I don’t even know what to say. If I could go back to the day I set up that stupid blind date —”

“I’d let you,” you interrupted him, and you heard him fall silent in confusion before you continued. “Listen, Felix. If you really want to make it up to me, check your email and read the paper I’m sending over.” 

“You...want me to read over your psych paper?” There were a few beats of silence as the blond skimmed over the documents you had sent, and realisation dawned on him. “Y/n — these are — you mean —”

“Today’s Saturday. The weekly campus paper goes out on Monday. I need you to cover this story, ‘lix.” 

You heard him swallow uneasily. “Shit, y/n, I—you realise these directly contradict the local press? They’ve been throwing up story after story about how Jisung’s a — a cold-blooded psychopath, and that lead prosecutor keeps egging them on. The campus newspaper is far bigger than your average school newsletter, heck, I’ve been bragging about it since before I joined, but…” he hesitated before saying the worry that had been tugging at the back of your mind. “Will it even stand a chance?”

You exhaled slowly. For a long moment, all you could hear was your pounding heartbeat, synchronised to the high-pitched beeping of the heart machine by your bed. “We won’t know unless we try.” Your voice faltered, giving into your own creeping anxiety. “What do you think?”

At that, you heard him let out a slow, decisive breath, and something changed in the blond’s voice — a grit and determination you always saw when Felix was working on a new story, setting his mind to a challenge — and it immediately gave you a newfound surge of confidence, a feeling of assuredness you hadn’t felt in a while. 

“I think,” Felix began, and you could almost see the glint of determination flickering over his usually mischief-bright eyes, “It’s time to kick some prosecutor ass.”

[katyatalks]

Mob Psycho 100 Interview Translation - Character Designer Kameda Yoshimichi - Otome Visual 2017

Summary-style translation for Character Designer Yoshimichi Kameda’s 4 page interview from Otome Visual 2017, regarding elements in the creation of Mob Psycho 100 such as: what inspired this cover art, the influence of fan art in the anime’s creation, Tsubomi’s design, the process behind the package art for the DVDs, and more. Includes some genga. Under read more;

[TN: The reason why I elected to summarise this interview rather than do a full write up is because a lot of the information given gets covered in December 2016′s Animestyle010, in “The Making of Mob Psycho 100.” I typed that one out in full over on twitter but that’s a long interview, and I don’t have the time or energy to reformat it for Tumblr, but if you’re interested in a very in-depth look into how Mob Psycho 100′s anime came to be I’d really recommend checking it out. Direct quotes are given in “” here. Enjoy!]

---

*~The genga illustration for Otome Visual’s cover~*

“With the recent popularity that Skating Anime has had, what’s this - a Shouwa idol collab?! It’s all in the little details in their clothing - their wrinkled shirts, white trousers, black belts - both around their waists and arms.”

*~Kameda’s comments~*

“Can you heaaaar me!! I am currently speaking directly into your braaaain!!! What I’m grateful for with this commission is I was able to design the cover in any way I’d like!! A cover is a reflection of current times, so, of course, I went for ice skating! You wouldn’t be able to find this kind of amazing content in any time period other than now! That’s what I first thought! Like, Mob Psycho 100!! If there’s not a certain Mob Psycho 100-ness present in the art then what’d be the point, so, the characters are being very serious but they’re also pretty laughable. I tried to create a piece of art from which you could hear their voices!!! What’s with it being Shouwa-esque?? Being lame is incredibly cool!!! Huh? Does that describe Mob Psycho 100?? Can’t answer that if you ask!!!! Please feel the amazing Paradise Ginga x Mob Psycho 100-ness here!!!!!!”

---

Kameda describes how he wasn’t sure how best to adapt the manga into an anime format at first, since from the art he was shown he immediately knew it to be very unique - the idea of using Flash to animate the show was raised but quickly shot down

Originally, upon being asked about the show, he based his thoughts on what a web image search for Mob Psycho 100 gave him rather than having the actual manga in hand. “For the most part, the results that came back would be fanart (laughs). It’s a bit strange -  at that time, it was difficult to find art uploaded from the manga. If you could find anything, it’d just be art from the covers. So for the most part, an image search of Mob Psycho 100 would just bring you back fanart. A lot of that fanart would be… a shounen in a cool pose wearing a school uniform with smooth bobbed hair & sharp cat-like eyes, sort of like Hiei’s eyes (from Yu Yu Hakusho). Very different from the manga’s art. But when I looked at that art, I thought; this could work. Fanart is, fundamentally, ‘fans drawing what they like’, so I thought, ‘the anime having this kind of art would make the fans happy.’ Well, it didn’t work out that way, obviously. I was told the anime’s art should resemble that of the manga. (Laughs)”

He hadn’t read the manga so all he had for reference was art from volume 1 and the fanart he found online. “But I like things like spirits and urban legends, so seeing Dimple - a floating supernatural fiery ball - and being told the manga touches on the occult caused my interest to soar.”

Says that Teru is the easiest character for him to draw. “He’s overflowing with confidence, so it’s easy to put him into some cool poses. Mob and Ritsu in comparison, not so much. [...] With Reigen, he has a lot of poses that are like, he’s trying to look good. He takes a solid stance. I suppose Spirits & Such has such a shady air to it, and you have to hide that somehow, right? So, Reigen injects confidence into how he presents himself. A model-like stance.”

“The anime is faithful to the manga… ah, actually, Tsubomi-chan was changed with a ‘let’s make her more like a heroine’ conversation. So, I did so, but reading recent events in the manga I can’t picture her in her anime form (laughs). The manga’s Tsubomi isn’t much like a heroine, so I’ve found myself wondering, if we animate up until this part… just how will we approach it? The anime’s Tsubomi is so bright and sparkly, so she wouldn’t have snot hanging from her nose (vol.13 of manga), would she…? (Laughs). Perhaps we went a little too far with making her a heroine. Maybe, if we do season 2, we’ll turn her back into a normal girl (laughs). Well, Tachikawa-san is clever; I think he’ll find a way to make do with her current design.”

---

Picture text: "This is Mezato's first appearance, so I decided to make her cute!! Thank you in advance!!"

Picture text: "That girl was telling me such a stupid story this morning... aidzuchi* isn't easy, you know... I'll just ignore her tomorrow..." [* sounds made to indicate that you're listening to someone speak]

---

Asked about his favourite characters; “I love Mezato Ichi from the Newspaper Club. When I drew her in her character sheet in that pose where she’s holding her camera, I came to see her as being quite cute. So now I focus on her a lot; in fact, when I draw genga I sneakily choose the cuts that have her in them (laughs).”

“I also love Mob. Reigen stands out the most so your eyes naturally jump to him, but I love the balance that Mob has. His heads tall ratio... or rather, his face, and the way his body is proportioned? It makes him lovely. Ritsu is around the same height as Mob, but, how can I put this - the cuteness that Mob has, is lacking in Ritsu… due to the latter being quite standoffish, I suppose (laughs).”

Ritsu’s hair changing through the first season is discussed, and how it is purposefully shortened during the latter half. “I paid attention to making sure his hair was long especially while he was being possessed by Dimple. So it’d resemble thorns.”

“I feel Teru-kun is the most ‘yang’ of all the characters. The rest are more ‘yin’ in nature. Because of this, it’s easy to play around with his expressions - he’s fun to draw. Speaking in terms of Dragonball, he’s kind of like Mob Psycho 100’s Vegeta (laughs).”

“In episode 9, Dimple possesses one of Claw’s security guards, right? I don’t really understand why that security guard is so popular.” Q: What do you mean? “Because he’s just some middle-aged dude (laughs). He doesn’t even appear for long…”

After discussing the huge amount of SG!Dimple commissions received: “Unlike SG!Dimple, I don’t really get asked to draw Shou-kun. With this commission I thought to myself, I /have/ to include him here, and so I added him in. The initial brief excluded him.”

Asked about moments that stuck with him; “When Teru chokes Mob in episode 5. [...] Mob’s pained expression as he’s being choked is good, but Teru-kun’s face shows us… envy, jealousy, distress, anxiety.”

“Also, the ‘super real Reigen’ sequence from episode 12. The tension between Reigen and Sakurai is funny, but the art itself has had me laughing since production. It’s funny no matter how many times I look at it!”

Kameda’s idea to have the characters make number shapes for the volume art came from him watching ‘Tonneruzu no Minasan no Okage deshita’, specifically the ‘Mojimoji-kun’ segment of the show (where they try to make numbers from their bodies)

Volume 6’s cover art was first planned to have a whole ensemble of characters, but Kameda changed his mind on this - “if we do a second season, we can leave that for volume 12 (laughs).”

Volume 4's cover was originally planned to feature only Onigawara and Gouda, but Kameda found himself wanting to include the rest of the body improvement club

Regarding the pose we see on vol 6’s package art, “My original thoughts for that cover were to have Reigen and Mob in a ‘hell wheel’ pose, like, Mob pulling Reigen’s legs and arms… but that wouldn’t be very fitting for the final volume.”

His message to the readers; “Thank you for your support! With sales, the ‘this is popular!’ message gets conveyed, and the more support you give us, then there’s no doubt we’ll be able to produce season 2 and season 3!! Season 2 relies on your support. It’s in your hands - thank you!!”

---

Crossposted on twitter here.

[wavesmp3]

let’s make a trade: the sun for the stars; platonic jihoon x reader artist!jihoon, nude model!reader (so warning: mentions of nudity) wc. 2.1k

a/n: this fic is just a complete mess of a piece, absolutely no plot and was meant to be part text fic, just mainly a lot of random dialogue that came to me at 2 am tbh, also basically an ‘i’ll give you the sun’ fanfic because i love jandy nelson’s writing a/n 2: really read at your own risk, this isn’t even a fic this is like a half-baked outline at best

— 

Jihoon thinks there’s something profoundly odd with nude art. What’s the purpose of nude drawings and painting and sculptures anyways? He knows of course what he’s been told the purpose is, in fact the instructor is rattling on about the purpose of nude drawings right now. It’s to capture the emotion, the stress, the lines, and the contours that would normally be hidden behind layers and layers of polyester and cotton clothes. It’s to capture beauty; take the fascination humans have with each other and mark them down forever. It’s to showcase the skill of the artist. Of course, today, with the nude model in the center of the classroom, the exercise is meant to bring out the latter purpose. But jihoon thinks there’s something more to drawing someone nude. There’s a vulnerability in it. It’s a vulnerable place for you, the model to be in. Because it’s more than just being naked. It’s subjecting yourself to be picked apart, piece by piece. It’s letting yourself be seen by a million different lenses. It’s letting the artists convey the little things, like the way you sit, or the way your bones come together, or how you have that one vein in your neck and forehead that sticks out a little more than the others. It’s putting on display the birthmark in between your collarbone and shoulder, the tattoo under the curve of your hip and the other one on your wrist. Jihoon knows he’s supposed to draw you as you’re seen, work from the inside out, bone blood then skin. But then why is it that he takes his pencil and sketches your vulnerability. (Portrait: The Naked Model Wearing Vulnerability As Clothes). 

—

“Smoking kills,” Jihoon scowls exiting from the art building a little earlier than normal, “you know that right?” 

You squint up at him. Sitting on the doorstep of the classroom and taking an extra long drag. Just in spite. 

“Yeah,” you mumble, driving the cigarette straight to the earth's core, “I know.” You stomp your foot against the bud, and the entire world shakes a little when you do. You stand up and look at Jihoon. You look angry. You didn’t hold this emotion in between your brows before. Maybe it’s new. Or maybe you’re just good at hiding it. Jihoon isn’t good at that. He wears his emotions on his sleeve and in his knees.

You exhale, rolling your eyes. “Is class over then?” You ask pointing towards the closed double doors. 

He shakes his head. “No, I got kicked out.” 

“For what?” You chuckle, but it comes out like a scoff. 

Jihoon shrugs. “Not completing the assignment.” 

You suck in your bottom lip. “Let’s see it then.” He blinks at you. You nod towards the sketch book he has tucked under his arm. Jihoon mutters a silent ‘oh’ before opening the book and flipping to the page where he drew you. You take it from him wordlessly. 

He supposes he should be scared by this. But he isn’t. It feels more like returning a favor. Because now he’s the one in a vulnerable position. But you take a long time to look at the drawing. You take years to dissect each line and shading. You burn over every inch of paper until the entire book is bursting into flames in your hands. He lets you take your time. You look up at him, something indescribable in your eyes. Something like fear or awe or wonder. You look at him like you would running into an ex-friend. Jihoon feels more than just vulnerable now. He feels like you’ve ripped behind his skin straight to the muscle and bones. (Portrait: A Bundle Of Muscles In The Outline of Person). He feels naked. He wants to feel no more. 

“So—“ 

You shush him immediately. Accidentally silencing the entire world. And after another lifetime of you staring at the one page, the one singular drawing, you’re finally done. 

“It’s really good.” You breathe. Jihoon senses a but. “But it isn’t me.” 

He says it plainly. “It’s a version of you to me.” (Portrait: The Way You See Yourself Looking In A Mirror; The Way He Sees You Looking Out). “Don’t most models leave after the modeling?” 

“I’m waiting for my boyfriend.” You hand him back the sketchbook. “Well, see you around I guess.” You turn back towards the double doors of the art building. And right before you’re swallowed whole by the red brick and air conditioning, you lift up your hand in a silent goodbye without looking back. And you do it in an almost cocky manner as if you know he’s watching you go. In your defense, he is. 

—

The next time he sees you is in the same class later that week. Apparently, nude sketching is a week long lesson. Your pose is a little different this time. Hands covering certain parts, head turned away. Today, the instructor wants them to focus on conveying emotion through the body alone, no face. He does as he’s told. He draws you as you are, as others would see. He draws something that won’t get him kicked out of class. And on the next page, he draws you the way he wants. Something more abstract. Focusing on the strain in your neck and arch in your back. He highlights the insecurities you’ve dropped by your feet and creates a shadow around the confidence you wear around your head. 

 —

[unknown number, 17:12]: hey it’s the nude model [unknown number, 17:12]: lol that’s probably not a normal greeting [unknown number, 17:13]: but anyways, this might be weird but I was kinda wondering if i could see what you drew in class today, you didn’t get kicked out so im curious. [unknown number, 17:15]: oh alos i got your number from mingyu lol hope thats not creepy [unknown number, 17:15]: *also

[jihoon, 22:37]: oh mingyu is your bf, yeah i’ve heard about you [jihoon, 22:38]: i can’t say it’s not creepy but here [jihoon, 22:40]: image.0315

[you, 23:04]: only good things i hope, also i can see why you didn’t get kicked out this time it’s nice [you, 23:04]: but [you, 23:04]: from what i can tell, it doesn’t really seem like your style

[jihoon, 23:54]: image.0316 

[you, 23:57]: yeah that’s more like it

—

The third time he sees you is at the end of the semester party. In truth, Jihoon is partly avoiding you. You text him a lot. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t getting mildly annoying. 

He’s talking to Jeonghan and Soonyoung when a tipsy you and an even tipsier Mingyu make your way over to the couch and fall into the cushions. And something about the way you look at each other as if you’re kissing with your eyes. Something about the way you whisper something in his ear and he laughs. Something about the way he whispers something back, taking your hand in his and playing absentmindedly with your fingers. Makes Jihoon think that the two of you are so caught up with each other. Too focused on swallowing each other whole. That the walls could fall and the sky could come bursting into the room and neither of you would bat an eye. 

(Portrait: You And Mingyu Tearing Down The Walls And The Clouds)

Jihoon’s taking out his sketchbook and a pencil before he realizes it himself. 

—

“Hey let’s play a game,” you say while you and Jihoon are waiting for the movie to start playing in the movie theater. “where we each claim pieces of the universe for ourselves.” 

(Portrait: You And Jihoon Each Holding Half The Universe In Your Palms) 

“Sure.” Jihoon waits a moment, thinking which part of the universe he’d like to claim first. “I call the stars.” 

“Fuck,” you whisper into the popcorn, “I want the stars.” 

“You snooze you loose.” 

“It’s my game.” 

“Okay and?” 

You roll your eyes dramatically. “Anyways I call the sun.”

Jihoon: “Moon.” 

You: “Earth.” 

He takes a sip of his cola. “And everything in it?” 

“No just the planet.” 

“Okay… I call the other planets.” 

“That’s a lot at once but I’ll let it slide as long as I get to have Pluto.” 

Jihoon shakes his head in a laugh. “Plutos barely a planet but yeah, go crazy.”

“Bet. And next…” you tap on your chin in thought, “next I want the asteroid belt.” 

“I want the Hubble Telescope.” 

You squint at him. “You’re weird.” 

“Says the one who just called the asteroid belt.” 

You press a finger to your lips. “The movies about to start.” 

—

[you, 9:23]: btw I call all bodies of water [jihoon, 9:32]: that is such a catch all [you, 9:33]: hey you can have rain [jihoon, 9:33]: bruh [jihoon, 9:33]: fine i’ll take rain but i call mountains too [you, 9:34]: i want flowers [jihoon, 9:34]: i want trees and beyonce [you, 9:35]: no way you can’t call ppl [jihoon, 9:35]: so you can call ALL bodies of water but i can’t call beyonce [you, 9:35]: my game my rules [jihoon, 9:36]: it was worth a try [you, 9:38]: oh i got a good one [you, 9:39]: i call music [jihoon, 9:40]: N O [you, 9:40]: we can stop here for today [jihoon, 9:41]: this game is so biased [jihoon, 9:41]: I WANT MUSICCC!!!!!! [you, 9:41]: whine about it more and i’ll call art too [jihoon, 941]: icallarticallarticallart [you, 9:41]: ur welcome [jihoon, 9:42]: u suck

—

“Hey,” you greet coming into jihoon’s apartment, with a frantic text about needing to escape for a bit. Luckily, you explain so jihoon doesn’t have to ask. “We broke up. Mingyu and I.”

“Oh.” 

You shake your head. “It’s fine though. Really.” (Portrait: You and a Lie Detector Flashing Red)

Jihoon opens and closes his mouth trying to figure out the best way to comfort you without coddling you. He settles for, “Do you wanna talk about it?” 

You inhale sharply. “No. Not really.” You sit on his couch and turn on the tv. After a moment, jihoon joins you. 

And it’s 20 minutes into whatever program you’ve chosen to watch that Jihoon finally knows what to say. “Hey,” he whispers, you turn your head towards him, “you wanted the stars right?” you raise a single eyebrow. “Take them.” 

“Really?” you say suspicious. 

“Yeah,” he nods, then with a smile adds, “but it’s gonna cost you.” you roll your eyes knowingly. “I want the sun.” 

You purse your lips in thought. Then after a minute, agree. And so a trade is made: the sun for the stars. 

—

[a/n: undeveloped bit of dialogue that would have gone somewhere] Reader: Are we about to kiss Jihoon: What ew no Reader: Ew? I mean I agree but ew? That’s harsh Jihoon: don’t make it personal Reader: Okay you know I have a bf right Jihoon: Oh my god I’m not into you Reader: Not even a little bit Jihoon: No Reader: Not even like last two people on earth into me Jihoon: No Reader: Ouch Jihoon: You’re the one who asked Reader: Still hurts to hear

—

[a/n: for context before this reader was supposed to give jihoon music] “Do you know how to play?” you ask, fingers ghosting the keys of the piano in jihoon’s apartment. 

“Of course. Why would I have one if I didn't?”

You shrug. “Play me something.” 

He sits down on the bench and plays a tune he memorized years ago. One that starts happy and shifts key into something almost unrecognizable. Not sad, not angry, but a fireball of emotions. Or at least, that’s how Jihoon’s old teacher described the piece.

“Hey, jihoon,” you say as he holds out on the last note of the song. 

“Yeah”

“I’m glad I gave you music.” 

“Oh,” he says, voice turning mischievous, “me too.” He starts playing a new song. 

“Is that-” you sit up slightly “Is that the Wii theme music?” Jihoon hums along. “I take it back.”

—

[renegade-skywalker]

Out of the Abyss, Chapter 13

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2  / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13: Second Selves

After years in exile, ex-Jedi General, Eden Valen (now going by Vale) continues to clean up after Revan and Malak’s mess of a war, only to find herself forever cursed with their unfinished business. As an ill-fated lead brings her to Tatooine, Eden finds that Revan’s mysterious plans go beyond the Republic, beyond the Outer Rim, and into the utter unknown. (A novelization of The Sith Lords and beyond)

Chapter Summary: Vale and Erebus are not the only ones forced to masquerade as someone else as events unfold.

3951 BBY Nespis VIII Spaceport, Jedi Academy

In the moments it took the Echani to cross the archive and approach him again, Erebus drew up what he could remember about the pilot whose ship he stole, dredging up whatever details his mind found worth storing. Despite his usually near-eidetic memory, the images his brain conjured were weak. Though anger often fueled his more brilliant bouts of genius, as a Sith would, it seemed his frustration upon leaving Anchorhead was enough to cloud his recollections.

Smuggler. Thirty-something. Human. Untidy. Broke… like every other smuggler in this damn galaxy. But there were a few things Erebus remembered that stuck out. Wyland Rhel, as he was called, was a fighter pilot during the Mandalorian Wars and had continued working for the Republic until the middle of the Jedi Civil War – Wonder what happened there? Since then, he'd been taking contracts transporting fuel, mostly, but occasionally ran jobs with the Golden Company. A hefty contract, and a risky one. All of this Erebus gleaned from the man's records of payment, which were the only thing he seemed to keep in any kind of order. The data file was easy to break into, so Wyland Rhel was most likely sentimental and all the more stupid for it - after a basic search, Erebus found the date the man had been recruited by the Republic on official record. So despite his current affiliations, Wyland was still sweet on his time as a soldier, it seemed. Either that, or it was the only date in his life, other than maybe his nameday, that meant anything to him and was worth remembering. Among his affects were other IDs, either stolen or forged, undoubtedly used for more delicate operations. That was about all he remembered.

The woman approached the table again, though did not afford Erebus another glance as she nonchalantly flicked through the datapad in her hand.

"So, who are you, another scavenger looking to collect?" she asked almost absently.

Depends on how you define 'scavenger', Erebus thought, because you're not wrong.

"I take it you're Irena," Erebus chimed back. "Charmed."

The Echani's eyes flashed before she calmed, a gloved hand flexing as he circled him, the other cradling her datapad.

"I'm sure one of the others spoke of me, though who we are is none of your concern."

"Yet I seem to be of some importance, I take it."

She scoffed and glanced down at the datapad again.

"We're running a simple background check, is all," she assured him, the calm in her voice wavering as her patience began to wear thin.

"And the Echani have authority in the Nespis System since…?"

"That is none of your concern," she smiled sourly, though she kept her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her this time. "I will be the one asking the questions."

"Alright, so I, a humble Republic citizen, is expected to blindly submit my rights to you because…?"

Normally, Erebus would never be so outwardly snarky, at least not in a position such as this. He was used to speaking with out-of-touch tribes, distant planets far-removed from the Republic or hapless traders who knew nothing of their older wares, and other such ilk. He knew enough to stay away from civilized space when he could, and if he had business here he knew who to avoid and how. But even still, this woman was Echani¸ not a beat cop with something to prove.

At this she smiled, though the pain was clear on her face. She was not trained to deal with the likes of him, at least not in a civil manner.

"It really is none of your concern," she said again, her teeth near gritted. Erebus wondered what had her so rattled that it hardly took him much effort to get a rise out of her. The man across from him let the subtlest of snickers escape his mouth but otherwise betrayed no emotion, looking down, letting his hair mask his face like a veil.

"Alright, alright, just making sure my rights as an honest to Force citizen weren't being taken for granted," Erebus huffed, finding that his voice took on more of a drawl the more he kept going. "How long's this gonna take? I have places to be."

Erebus recalled several military grade crates at the back of the ship when he boarded, his Force Sight granting him view of an array of weapons within. Weapons trade was big money, so however broke this Wyland Rhel was now, he wasn't supposed to be for long. So much for that. Wonder how that sorry smuggler's doing now…

Irena looked him over, seemingly unimpressed but still suspicious. She wasn't buying it.

"And yet, for someone with a busy schedule you still found the time to scope out the sights, I take it?"

"Thought I could score a few extra credits, something to sweeten the deal."

He hoped he sounded convincing.

"Wyland Rhel, thirty-six," Irena started, looking over the edge of her datapad at Erebus, "You've grown paler since your photo was last taken."

The woman turned the datapad so Erebus could see, the screen displaying a man with scarred but dark skin, the color of rich mahogany.

"Can never be too careful," he said, not too suddenly, "Dig even further and you'll find the ID where I hail from Ryloth. Record says I had my lekku cut off."

Erebus chuckled to himself, as if impressed, having seen other men do the same at countless cantinas across the galaxy. As much as he loathed the quality of the drink there, they were the best places to get information. In fact, it was how he learned about the site at Anchorhead.

Irena rolled her eyes and kept scrolling, looking nonplussed enough with the uncanny ID photo. To think the smuggler had several IDs in rotation was not unusual, especially given the rap sheet Erebus' own sister sported now, and for all the galaxy to see. It wasn't exactly a red flag that Erebus himself might be lying.

"Not exactly what I'd call a clean record," she said after a moment, reading the remainder of the file in pensive silence, though it seemed she found nothing of note – or at least nothing surprising.

How did these Echani get in good with the Nespis Police Force? If they had access to their files, could bar anyone from the premises of a location, and a Jedi Temple no less…? Erebus knew that there were people other than Nihilus who would be happy to see the Jedi gone, but at least he knew why. The Echani were not on good terms with Revan after the Civil War, but that was just one Jedi, and by then Revan had already turned.

"It says here you worked with the Golden Company."

At this, she smiled wryly.

"Unfortunately, everything on the premises has been turned over to us, so if you were planning on-"

Irena was cut off by a comm at her wrist, static warbling the otherwise unperturbed quiet. Even the man across from Erebus stirred. He stole a glance, before the man could see, taking in his young face and the lone swipe of dust across his brow, marring his otherwise crisp and chiseled appearance. A scholar, perhaps? A civilian?

"Yes?" Irena lowered her datapad with one hand and brought her other wrist to her lips, speaking directly into the device attached to it.

More chirruped warbling – that's when Erebus noticed the glint in the woman's ear, just beneath her cropped white hair. Whoever was speaking to her was speaking in code, their words filtered to sound like gibberish to anyone else within earshot.

Irena's eyes shot to Erebus as she listened, her gaze sharp though her eyes narrowed. He couldn't tell if they were always this bright of violet or if it was just the wealth of datapads gleaming in the room that leant to their almost ghostly glow.

"I'll keep an eye out," she said finally, her eyes never leaving Erebus. Their eyes locked, and she moved towards him, pocketing her datapad and unsheathing a retractable staff from her belt.

"Don't move," Irena warned, "We have eyes on you. Both."

The man across the table looked down again, as if embarrassed by being called out, and Irena began staking out the series of shelves that surrounded them.

A breach of security? Another unwanted guest?

When Irena was far enough, Erebus relaxed a little, letting down his outer guard to unleash the Force within. After a moment, he could see the archives in his inner eye like a blueprint laid out before him. Stacks of datapads and artifacts surrounded them, some pulsing with more uncertain energy than others. Erebus' blood quickened, his skin growing hot, already desiring to peruse the temple's stores or what remained of it – if he could somehow get around the Echani lockdown, that is. At least without seeming too suspicious. Perhaps his vision led him here to find something, to bring something back. Perhaps there was another pyramid, another holocron, another clue.

"The Golden Company, eh? You a scavenger as well?"

Erebus broke out of his reverie, surprised to hear someone other than Irena talking irately.

The man across from him finally spoke, his voice just above a whisper, but pleasant and calm. Erebus gawked for a moment before composing himself, surprised to find a friendly smirk on the young man's face.

A joke. He's joking.

"The lady pretty much spelled it out, didn't she?" he drawled again, almost forgetting his made-up persona.

"Right," the man laughed, his eyes twinkling as he gazed about, almost unbothered by the restraints on his hands, held tightly against his back. "I figure they can't hold us for long. Even the Nespis authorities wouldn't be able to do this. Unless-"

He stopped himself, laughing lightly. His eyes crinkled ever so slightly in the corners.

"Never mind," he said, "Say, can I- can I ask you something?"

"Can't stop you from asking but that doesn't mean I'll answer," Erebus quipped.

"Have you seen-" the man looked around and lowered his voice, "Have you come across any other artifacts?"

"Other?"

"Other than Jedi."

So, the Golden Company deals with Jedi artifacts.

"You mean, dark artifacts?" Erebus couldn't bring himself to say Sith, as if he would unwittingly out himself.

The man nodded.

Erebus wracked his brain again, recalling a few contracts for ancient scrolls and antique weapons under Wyland Rhel's Golden Company contracts, but nothing that screamed Jedi, or Sith for that matter. He had heard of the organization but only knew that they dealt in rare, high-end goods, often "off the record" and to the highest bidder, whether they be aristocrats or crime lords. If they were after artifacts pertaining to the Jedi or the Sith, things could get… complicated.

Before he could worry, or wonder how he might undermine the group somehow, the man before him spoke again.

"Anything like a holocron? A crystal?"

The hair on the back of Erebus' neck rose. Eden's gift. His work on Tatooine. Grey eyes set in stone.

"Something like that," he answered, "Why, there something here?"

"Perhaps," the man's blue eyes widened, a smirk teasing the corner of his mouth. "I'm a bit of an enthusiast."

"Well, this would be the place to find one," Erebus answered, though he knew somewhere like Koribban might yield more Sith relics than this place. But the man wasn't wrong, and Erebus hadn't lied, either. The Jedi were known for collecting artifacts pertaining to the Sith, both modern and ancient, in an attempt to prevent such things from falling into the wrong hands. As an historian, Erebus thought he might wait before attempting to break into any one of the remaining Jedi temples, knowing they wouldn't be abandoned, or at least believing the Order wasn't stupid enough not to leave anyone behind. He had visited Coruscant and Lothal, and both locations had sentinels still on watch, but he might have underestimated places like this, forgotten cities like Nespis already on the cusp of oblivion.

"I have it on good authority that something originally from Onderon may be here. I figured if the Golden Company sent a, er, representative, that it might be indicative that I was correct," the young man mused, looking around. Erebus, though curious to find the man trusting a stranger with so much information, followed his gaze and found Irena stalking the perimeter of the archive, looking around corners with her staff held aloft and at the ready. "If only I could-"

Another warbling, the sound of static.

Eyes still fixed on one another, now in an unspoken alliance given their shared circumstances, Erebus and the man across from him fell silent, their ears straining to hear more.

There was someone here.

Erebus' Force Sight surged as his curiosity mounted, and not only was the room laid out before him without obstacle but so was everything, and everyone, in it.

The man before him pulsed with life, like anything else might, and perhaps it was for lack of reference but the young man seemed… brighter somehow, though not quite as vibrant as someone strong with the Force. He tried to look for Irena, but then he saw it – someone else.

A soft thrumming emanated from the darker corner of the archives, directly across from where Irena stood, watching but seeing nothing. Irena, he saw, was full of life, but her light was dimmer, duller. And the figure across from her? It shone like a distant star.

Perhaps not all the Jedi were gone after all.

3951 BBY, The Harbinger, Hyperspace

"I hope your stay here isn't too uncomfortable," Captain Maris uttered unsurely as he ushered Vale into a seat across from him in the Harbinger's version of a dining room, which was really just a slightly nicer and smaller mess hall meant for the higher ranks.

"No worries, Captain," she smiled, already easing into the part, "I understand the situation completely. And the room is just fine."

Captain Maris smiled his usual uneven smile, or at least the only smile Vale knew the man to be capable of so far. His chief officer sat beside him, beaming in a way that told Vale smiling was none too common in the Republic navy.

"I'm only here on business, and since I missed the last transport I'm grateful for any assistance."

The words rolled off her tongue almost too naturally, though Vale was not a stranger to playing a part or answering to a name other than her own. She hoped her smile was more convincing than those of her present companions.

"Well, Miss Rissian, we're happy to have you aboard," Captain Maris concluded as a group of recruits brought their breakfast out on serving trays. "And as it turns out, you're not the only one. We picked up another diplomat who seems to have missed the same transport as you. A Republic officer, actually."

Vale feigned pleasant surprise, though suspicion took root in her chest.

"Always good to have allies," she said, laughing lightly, making sure the smile met her eyes in earnest. Picking at the food in front of her, Vale tried not to gorge herself on caf too eagerly, having spent most of the night awake, mulling things over and studying the fake profile Mission had given her. Not to mention, catching up on nine years' worth of news.

Hailing from the Anoat Sector, Vale was to be masquerading as Lan Rissian, a diplomat as well as a shareholder in a well-to-do local mining outfit throwing her support behind Queen Talia of Onderon. The crown was a loyal customer, and as a member of the company's board, Lan was repaying that loyalty with support in the form of credits. Lots of credits. Turns out, this was a mission already in-flux, but the original agent meant to head it was currently MIA. While Mission and Zaalbar would continue to help their Republic contact in finding out what happened to the original plant, Vale would go in their stead, killing two mynocks with one stone. At least for now.

"So, ever been to the Telos System?" Chief Officer Emet asked, dunking a triangle of mealbread into a purple yolk.

"Actually no, I haven't," Vale answered, comforted by the fact that both she and Lan shared that in common. "I figure the Citadel isn't much different than any other spaceport, I take it?"

"Not so much, no," Emet continued, wiping her chin gingerly, "But the restoration effort has put a bit of a damper on the-"

"I apologize for being late," a voice interrupted, and a presence appeared at Vale's side. A woman with wiry brown hair and a dark complexion took the seat beside her, her honey-brown eyes comforting as their gazes met.

"Rell Amara," the woman said, extending a hand as she settled into the empty spot at the table, "The time difference still has me a bit-"

"No worries," Captain Maris cut in as Vale tentatively took the woman's hand in greeting, "This is Rell Amara from Republic Intelligence. She's been reassigned to oversee the negotiations on Onderon as well."

"Popular destination," Vale joked, "I take it we'll be working together?"

The woman named Rell nodded and turned to the rest of them.

"I appreciate your quickness to come get us all the way out here. The Hyperion was supposed to remain docked until tomorrow, but some of its officers I hear were needed elsewhere."

Vale wondered just how much of this she had the clearance to hear, or whether this Rell knew that it didn't matter, somehow.

"Any word on who that might have been?" Emet asked, not keen to stop eating amid her questions.

"That's classified."

A silence hung over them before Rell pointed a finger exaggeratedly and laughed. Looking to Maris and Emet, Vale took the cue that she was welcome to laugh along with them.

"I mean, it actually is classified, but nothing to worry about."

Another recruit – young, fresh-faced, and with lekku still not at full maturity – swept past them with another tray. Once the food was placed in front of her, Rell began to eat with relish.

"Helluva week," she began again, not looking up from her plate, "How have things been for you, Miss Rissian? The last-minute change didn't inconvenience you too much, I hope?"

"Oh no, not at all," Vale said, beginning to ease into her own eating etiquette. She was careful. As much as she wanted to get down to business like the officers before her, clearly used to eating as efficiently as possible and letting the conversation weave itself in, Vale remained composed and proper. She was a business woman, after all. "As long as things keep moving along."

"Agreed," Captain Maris raised his cup of caf, and Officer Emet did the same. Rell looked between them both, her eyes glittering, and joined in.

"Agreed," Vale smiled, also hoping so in earnest.

The rest of their conversation was casual at best, and if anything, Vale felt only mildly out of place. She remembered the nature of the talk, how military folk were used to conversing and how naturally it all still came back to her, but she kept her poise. Thankfully, none of the Republic officers asked her many questions, at least ones she couldn't answer off the cuff such as what kind of caf she preferred or if any moons could be seen from Bespin's gas cloud of an atmosphere (she guessed the answer was 'no').

When they gathered themselves up to leave, Captain Maris promised Vale that he was just a comm away should she need anything and that they were set to arrive on Telos within the next few standard days, asteroids permitting. Vale thanked him, only sticking behind to order one last cup of caf for the road, or perhaps to ask if they could provide a carafe for her room.

"Miss Rissian?"

Rell's voice came from over her shoulder just as Vale thanked one of the recruits on duty, confirming that she could take a thermasteel decanter back to her room.

"You can call me Lan," she said, testing the name even as she said it. Lan. It was a lot like Lena, a name she had on Nal Hutta. Another identity outed, her dirty laundry out there for all the galaxy to see.

"Lan," Rell repeated, bringing Vale back to the present, "Could we- could we talk? About Onderon."

Before she could freeze up, before she could say no, the recruit reappeared at her side with the caf she asked for. She thanked him again, regained her composure, and turned back to Rell.

"Sure," she heard herself say, though she felt just the opposite. "Absolutely."

3951 BBY, Telos IV, Citadel Station

Atton wasn't used to being a passenger.

As a pilot himself, he couldn't help but internally mutter to no one in particular the entire way to Citadel Station. He couldn't help but grip the arms of his seat as the shuttle veered on both the takeoff and the landing, shaking his head to prevent his eyes from rolling all the way back into his skull as they finally docked. It took all his strength not to peer into the cockpit and spy the person flying the damn thing, if not just to give them a piece of his mind.

But he shouldn't complain, no. He couldn't complain. He needed to keep a low profile. Keep his head down and do the work until his debt was paid.

One year down, four more to go.

Besides, it wasn't as if he expected Peragus' modest mining company to have a skilled pilot on hand. They couldn't afford it, or at least, didn't have to. This place liked to cut corners where possible. They knew their staff was made up of people who didn't want to be there but perhaps had to be, if only for the credits. The job paid well – labor laws saw to that. But anything in the way of comfort or luxury was a loss, so anything other than what was absolutely necessary was excluded for the sake of the budget. How else would they cover the hazard pay?

One of the few things the company did afford each employee was annual leave, usually one week's worth, though more depending on seniority or if there was a family to support on the other end of their check. It was the only time spent off-site, as per their contract. Atton had practically memorized it by now, often finding himself absently thumbing through the rules every other night, hoping there was something he missed, some loophole he could exploit. But he had taken this job willingly. It was an attractive prospect, given the pay, but the place was… lacking when it came to entertainment. Perhaps that was for the best.

Compared to what he was used to, Atton's eyes lit up at the sight of a cantina, its neon lights hailing his attention from across the shuttle bay. He had seen flashier and far more interesting places in his lifetime – or his short-lived smuggling career, even – but this would have to do.

Not only was this hole in the wall a potential refuge, it was also a means to an end. Atton had already done himself dirty and made a deal with someone unsavory on-site, promising to smuggle in stolen goods, because if he wasn't a smuggler than what good was he? If he could score some extra cash, he could get off the explosive rock that was the mining facility sooner than he'd planned, and could finally get back to – well, whatever it was he was doing. Either that or he could at least buy himself something nice to keep in his sorry excuse for a bunk.

"Atton Rand?" a Twi'lek asked at the shuttle gates, "From Peragus, I assume?"

He nodded, looking the young man up and down, trying not to get any bad ideas.

"That'd be me," he muttered, almost unsurely. Atton was who he was masquerading now as anyway, and still it felt odd to hear it sometimes, even though it had been a few years. As if someone was privy to a secret identity he didn't want known.

"If you'll just follow me," the young man smiled shyly. The head officer at the facility told him that someone would meet him here, that they would escort him to his abode for the week. Atton almost felt important.

The place was modest, though relatively stark, barren even, but he couldn't be surprised. He was pleased the company offered this much, given how horrid other outfits were from the stories he'd heard. Most were closer to a labor camp than whatever this was. Atton couldn't come up with a proper analogy, and so stood in his new, temporary apartment speechless, thankful there was at least a holoplant in the foyer and the living room. Fancy. The Twi'lek found this an opportune moment to leave, for the lack of conversation if not for the awkwardness.

"Prob'ly for the best anyway," Atton sighed, sinking into an almost ancient couch facing the far window, granting him a breathtaking vista of the backside of a restaurant.

One year down, four more to go.

3951 BBY, The Harbinger, Hyperspace

"Looks like we'll be cruising for a while," Rell smiled at Vale as they rounded on her quarters.

Vale felt the ship jolt slightly, and slow. Outside the window of her appointed room, she saw that the streaked stars of hyperspace had vanished, the view outside marked by unmoving stars in their natural state of ever-present stillness. They were either saving fuel or they were on patrol. She heard that might be the case, and was assured it was nothing to worry about.

"Nice droid," Rell spoke again upon entering the small room, "Selling him for scraps?"

"Something like that," she muttered, tucking the remains of the HK droid that came to life in her shop, calling her Master what already felt like ages ago. "Caf?"

Rell's eyes widened as she nodded appreciatively.

"Please."

The woman was unusual, but not unpleasant. For an intelligence officer, she was oddly personable, and open. She joked readily, the ghost of a smile always clear on her face. Maybe the girl was just nervous.

"Long day, I take it," Vale said, pouring them each a cup and downing her first.

"Tell me about it," Rell agreed, taking her cup, hardly caring whether the liquid was too hot.

"So, you missed your transport as well?"

Rell swallowed the last dregs of her cup, just as eager for caffeine as Vale, and bit her lip.

"Okay, here's the thing," she started, hazarding a glance at Vale's closed quarter doors, lowering her voice, "I didn't miss my transport, but my colleague did... I'm just taking his place."

Two Republic officers MIA. Not good.

Vale poured them both second glasses, intent on Rell's next words.

"I'm here to escort you to Telos, General Valen," she whispered, all mirth disappearing from her face, her stance straightening.

"An escort?" was all Vale could muster, "That's… certainly surprising."

"Surprising?"

"I guess… given the bounty, no, but I'm just-" Not used to this, she wanted to say, but the words couldn't make it passed her lips. "Surprised, is all."

"If it's the secrecy you're worried about, don't," Rell assured her, "You were plenty convincing back there."

"But what about you?" Vale asked. "I thought no one was supposed to know."

"Well, yes, but I was sent by-" Rell stopped herself short, biting her lip again. "Sorry, I am a bit new to this."

"Me too, kid. No worries," Vale sighed, sinking into her couch as Rell lowered herself into the small kitchenette against the far wall facing her.

"I was the one who found your records," Rell admitted, examining the texture of the cup in her hands, "I was the one who brought them to-"

She stopped herself again.

"Nevermind, but listen – as I'm sure you know, the Republic has been looking for you. Revan's orders."

"Revan?"

Rell nodded, solemn. Mission failed to mention that, or perhaps she didn't know.

Revan, of course. Vale shivered. Things didn't feel any better, and the more Revan cropped up the more the ominous, lingering, bad feeling she felt on Tatooine mounted in her chest. Nothing's changed, she thought, suddenly feeling young and vulnerable again, prying Alek for answers and getting none. Just like Malachor.

"Since when did Revan-?"

"She doesn't have clearance to give orders, exactly- didn't, either." Rell answered before Vale could even finish her thought, "But I have it on good authority that the man in charge has been acting on instructions left by her. A failsafe of sorts. At least, somewhat."

"The… man in charge?" Vale raised a brow, though she couldn't say the mounting mystery wasn't more of a surprise.

Rell shook her head, almost laughing, "They really should have briefed me more thoroughly. I'm not sure we're there yet, but you'll meet him soon. He'll tell you everything."

There yet must mean they weren't yet ready to disclose that information, or at least Rell wasn't sure what was classified and what wasn't. She sounded an awful lot like Mission, clear on her orders but fuzzy on the details.

"Okay, okay, so what now? Do we just… wait? Arrive at Telos?" Vale asked, suddenly tense.

"Something like that," Rell replied, "Keep a low profile, play the part. Breakfast went just as planned, I don't think Maris or Emet will have a second thought about you or the mining company you're supposed to represent. We just… need to get to Telos."

"Telos," Vale mused, looking at the remains of her HK droid, the only thing left of her shop.

"Telos." Rell repeated.

"So, tell me something…" Vale suddenly stood again, looking at Rell in a new light. "What- what exactly did you find out about me?"

Rell blanched, her eyes widening.

"W-what?"

"Sorry, I mean to say-" Vale paused, looking for the right words, "I have reason to believe that the Jedi thought I was dead. How did they find me? Who's left?"

Rell appeared to choke on her caf, coughing into her cup as she asked "Dead?"

Vale watched her regain her composure. Rell was trying hard to remain professional, but everything told her she wasn't aware of this information.

"How much are the Jedi in contact with the Republic, exactly?" Vale pressed, hoping this was something Rell could answer.

"It's hard to say how many are left, but there are a few. Not all of them died at that conclave," Rell said after clearing her throat, "I know one keeps in contact with the man you're about to meet."

The man in charge, huh?

"His Jedi contact doesn't happen to be Master Atris, does it?"

Rell shook her head.

"No, I-I think she died. At Katarr."

Atris… dead? She could have sworn the only Jedi vindictive enough to even want to keep tabs on her would be Atris, but perhaps she was wrong. Vale searched her feelings, on instinct, but knew that the Force couldn't tell her anything. She shook her head.

"Bastila Shan?" Vale tried again, venturing another guess. Mission had mentioned her earlier and it seemed like a logical assumption.

Rell nodded into her cup, drawing another long sip.

"I think so," she affirmed. "Her name sounds familiar."

Rell drank the last dregs of her second cup of caf before looking at Vale again.

"I'm not sure if or why the Jedi thought you were dead, necessarily, but all I know is that they were looking for you. You fell off the radar and-"

Rell stopped short, her brows furrowing as she searched her memory.

"They were tracking you, I think. The Jedi, I mean," she continued, "Revan went looking for you and she-"

"Vanished," Vale finished.

Rell nodded, locking eyes with her, her expression solemn but serious.

"That's all I know."

According to the Jawa, Revan had been on Tatooine after she had gone looking for the Star Forge. Perhaps she had been looking for her. But they had also mentioned a dark one. She had originally thought the Jawa referred to Malak, but now? Maybe they were talking about the time she returned with Mission, with Bastila Shan. But perhaps there was another time, too.

Rell looked at the bottom of her cup sorrowfully, as if either hoping there was more caf or more detailed instructions as to what she could or couldn't say.

Rell's chrono watch blipped, drawing both Vale and Rell's attention to her wrist. Rell placed her cup gently on the kitchenette table as she read a message, reading across her display as she rose from her seat.

"A distress signal-" she started.

"A- a what?"

"It's a message from Captain Maris," Rell explained, looking up at Vale briefly before her eyes retreated to her wrist again, scanning the minute readout. "He doesn't know I'm escorting you, or who you are, but he is under orders to alert me if there's a change in plans. If-"

Rell paused again, reading and rereading the report as it scrolled over her chrono's screen.

"I guess I can't blame them for answering, but still-"

Rell rushed over to the small porthole of a window Vale's room allowed, peering out of the comically small oval.

"There- there it is," she said, almost unbelieving.

Vale rushed to her side, and Rell afforded her space to see, too.

In the star-filled barrenness beyond the Harbinger, two ships stood in stalemate in the distance.

"Looks like we won't get to Telos just yet."

[dreaminblue67]

My Supernatural season 13 Sam idea!

So all last season with Mary I was watching Sam try to be the calm voice of reason and in so doing not letting himself show much emotion or anger for the sake of helping Dean work through his Mommy issues…Don’t get me wrong i enjoyed a lot of that story arc. But I love both brothers and would have appreciated more insight into Sams mind given that not only his Mom was back but also Lucifer. annnnnyway… this post isn’t about what I wish had happened in season 12. 

After the finale the idea for this scene has been playing on repeat in my mind. Forgive my poor writing skills… its not one of my strong points:(

**************************************

 I imagine Sam and Dean driving back to the bunker in complete silence after long days of trying to track down Lucifer’s kid, a hunters funeral for Cas, and minds pulling up blanks on how or if they can save their Mom. I see them walking in the front door to an equally silent bunker and just standing there for a few seconds.

 Dean looks at Sam for the first time in hours expecting to find some comfort there, in the rock that his brother had become, and is unprepared to see the blank look in his eyes. 

Dean sighs “I need a drink like yesterday”

He has not seen that look in Sams eyes for a long time and is not prepared to face that, to face what it means, to face that this nightmare is real.

 Sam watches as his brother sighs and walks toward the kitchen. He feels numb and Deans footsteps feel unusually loud in his ears. The low rumbling noises the bunker always makes, the noises that had started to feel like home, are now pressing down on him making his brain feel compressed and foggy.

 I imagine Sam finely deciding to move himself to library the one place he feels like he has any sort of control. He starts pulling book after book off the shelves until there is a pile around his chair like some sort of empty promise. He is heaving at this point his breath coming in short angry gasps. Not sure when he he got so angry Sam pauses in the middle of the room taking a deep breath trying to reign it in…

“FUCK” This is supposed to calm him! This is supposed to keep the order in his mind that he’s worked so hard to maintain! He stands there staring at the work before him feeling nothing of the usual comfort he has knowing that this is his element. Angrily striding over to his computer he opens it and sits down.

 Research starts flowing like it normally does under Sams fingers but its not helping. Nothing is keeping that ball of anger and pain slowly building in his mind from interrupting his train of thought.

 I imagine That after hours of research Sam pushes back from the table and stares at the work he did. He feels nothing. Yet he feels everything. I see him get up slowly with every intention of going to his room for the night but suddenly, as if it couldn’t wait any longer, the wall he had pushed all this crap behind burst in his mind. 

 Sam reels around and smashes his fist into his computer screen! After that he can’t make himself stop! By the time he is done Sam is standing in the middle of the room in a pile of torn books and broken shelves, tears running down his face, throat sore from screaming. He finds himself sinking to the floor no energy left.

******

 Dean was leaning against his bed when he heard Sam yelling from somewhere inside the bunker. Heart in his throat he drew his gun and ran full speed toward the sound with the mantra “not Sammy! not Sammy!” racing though his head. rounding the corner he slammed to a halt at what he saw.

Sam. all those sounds were coming from Sam. He flinches as Sam tears another book out of its binder and throws it across the room tears streaming down his face.

“Sammy?”

No reaction from his brother and Dean doubts he even heard him. The room looks like hell but Dean barely registers that compared with the anger he feels coming off Sam.

 Every fiber in Deans being is telling him to stop Sam to just grab hold and never let go but something is holding him back. An image flashes before him of a dusty salvage yard, of the impala and the raw need to lash out at the things he loved. Of hitting his baby over and over again, because even the one thing that was his the one thing that was completely in his control was failing him!

Blinking back the memory Dean looks at his brother and knows that Sam needs to finish this, whatever it is, in privacy. Backing up Dean leans against the wall and lets out a long shaky breath not realizing until now that his own face is wet. He should have expected this. Sam has been to zen for to long and even when Dean had tried to get him pissed Sam would just look tired and try to help or reason with him.

 Dean doesn’t know how long he stands there but at some point the library had gone quiet. Slowly Dean walks over and peers into the room. Sam is still there but has sunk to the ground, staring straight ahead, barely moving. Dean is glad at least to see that his eyes don’t show the same emptiness that they had before. 

“Sammy?”

Sam hears Deans voice and finely moves his head to look up at him. He expects to see worry or sadness in Deans face but is surprised to just find understanding and so much love that Sam has to look away again.

“Hey Dean”

“Hey”

They are quite for a moment until Sam feels a nudge at his shoulder and looks up to see Dean holding out a glass of whisky. Smiling slightly Sam takes it and Dean settles himself down on the floor beside him and starts in on his own glass.

“So uh.. I kinda destroyed the library” Sam mumbles.

“No shit.”

Sam lets out a small laugh and Dean grins at him. After a long moment Dean looks at Sam again

“Did it help?”

“It didn’t change anything.”

“Of course it didn’t dumbass, but Did it help?”

Sam pauses and looks at his brother and a little of the tightness in his chest loosens as he remembers yet again that he’s not alone in this fucked up life and that even though its all gone to hell again he still has his brother by his side.

“Yes” Sam says quietly “And No”

Dean nods and looks down at the floor trying to think of some deep shit to say when Sam speaks again.

“Your the dumbass, dumbass.”

“Whatever Bitch.”

“Jerk”

[imagining-supernatural]

Avenging Angel: Part 19

Summary: You’ve spent the last five years on a dangerous mission to solve the crime that wrongly imprisoned your father. When the Winchesters find you half-frozen on the side of a mountain, they make it their own mission to save your life and make sure you stay alive. But after five years of uncovering horribly dark secrets, you’ve learned not to trust anyone. Especially people who seem like they have good intentions.

Word Count: 1494

Warnings: None

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6 – Part 7 – Part 8 -- Part 9 -- Part 10 -- Part 11 -- Part 12 -- Part 13 -- Part 14 -- Part 15 -- Part 16 -- Part 17 -- Part 18

Havana_grape:  You find anything on the Cs yet? ~Up6Dn

DifOscneF83Ld: Just the tabloid stuff. They seem to keep everything under wraps. ~t9

You finally got a new lead and you couldn’t even prepare yourself or make a plan. How were you supposed to get into the Covington’s lives if you only knew the most superficial details about them? t9 had managed to pull background checks on so many other people that you asked for. What made the Covingtons so different?

Havana_grape: C’mon, t9. You’re a computer hacker extraordinaire! There’s nothing that you can’t unwrap.

DifOscneF83Ld: You’re just trying to butter me up, aren’t you?

Havana_grape: Is it working?

Havana_grape: I really need something. I’m almost to Cali and I have no idea what to do. This is important to me. You’ve come through for everything else in the past… can’t you do this one little thing for me?

DifOscneF83Ld: I think you’re underestimating yourself.

You thought of Quentin and Celeste. They helped you, and they paid the price from some unknown, unseen source. For the first few years of your investigation, it had been fun and games. But it wasn’t anymore. You knew better. There was something deep and dark going on, and you couldn’t afford to overlook anything.

Havana_grape: Let me know if you get anything.

As you signed off and looked around the storage room, you wondered if maybe you’d been leaning on t9 too much. Maybe you should try to pull those background checks yourself. You trusted t9 more than you had trusted anyone in the last few years, but still something held you back. After all, you had lied to them about being on your way to California. What did that say about your instincts?

*****

*****

“I think you’ve had enough,” the bartender said when you signaled for another shot.

You drunkenly shook your head. “No, no, no. Do I look blackout drunk yet? Keep ‘em comin’ buddy.” With a sigh of resignation, Craig the bartender poured you another shot and leaned against the counter as you continued your drunken ranting.

“I had a plan for my life. Get a good job that I love and buy a dog or two.” You downed the shot and glared at Craig until he poured you another. “I’m smart and I’m pretty! I could have done… anything! I graduated top of my class from MIT, for god’s sake! Then my dad had to go and get arrested and that’s when it all went doooowwwnnhilll.” Your head rolled down toward your shoulder as your voice drew out the last word of your sentence.

An image of the vampire’s head rolling down the hall back at that house broke through your goopy, drunk mind. That was enough to shake you from your reverie and quickly toss back the shot in front of you.

Resting your elbows on the bar, you looked back at Craig. “The funny thing is, I was finally getting some answers. Five years later and things all started making sense in that way that makes the rest of my life not make sense anymore. And the guys I thought were my new friends expected me to roll with the punches? Nosiree! I find out that my entire life has been a lie and I need time to recali-recaaall-reclibr—“

“Recalibrate?” Craig offered.

You pointed at him. “That’s the one. A few weeks is not enough time to recalibr-whatever. So that’s why I’m here, Craig. It’s been years since I’ve gotten drunk, and I figure that since I almost died a month ago, I deserve to get drunk, right?”

Craig looked around the deserted bar and pursed his lips. “If you’re in here on a Wednesday night, then I guess you really need to get drunk.”

“Thank you!”

He poured you another shot just as the door opened and Sam walked in.

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over town for you.” He came over and warily looked at Craig.

“Sam, this is Craig. Craig is my new best friend,” you announced happily, downing the shot.

“Oh, he is, is he?” Sam gingerly took the barstool next to yours and glanced at all of the empty shot glasses scattered around you. “How drunk is she?”

“Says her goal is to get blackout drunk,” Craig answered. “You one of the new friends who sent her here?”

Sam tossed a glare at Craig and ignored him. “C’mon, Y/N. Let’s get you some water and get you in bed.”

“Nope!” You pulled your arm away from Sam’s grip and shook your head dramatically. “I’m not coming with you anywhere. I’m done with you and I’m done with Dean and I’m done with your crazy life.”

“Y/N, honey, let’s go back to the hotel room and talk—“

“Can I get another shot?” You asked Craig, cutting Sam off. “He doesn’t look like he’s leaving and I’m gonna need one if I’m gonna deal with him.”

“Don’t get her another,” Sam ordered.

Craig ignored Sam and poured you one more. You gave him a wide smile. “That’s why you’re my best friend. You would never lie to me, right Craig?” He shook his head. “Sam lied to me. Sam and Dean lied to me.” You turned back to Sam. “It was fine when Braxton lied to me because I expected lies from him. I was lying to him. But you? You shouldn’t have lied to me, Sam. Especially not about my mom.”

“You wouldn’t listen to us,” he tried to defend weakly.

You just scoffed. “You didn’t try hard enough. And you know what? I don’t care anymore. My dad’s not gonna get out of prison.” You looked at Craig again. “He lied to me too, did I tell you that? My dad lied to me my whole life. Braxton thinks I should go talk to him and clear the air, but what does he know?”

“Who’s Braxton?” Craig asked, more out of obligation than any real curiosity.

“My rich, playboy ex. But I’m also kinda engaged to him too. Whatever. You know how most guys just want to get into a girl’s pants? Braxton wanted to get into my past. He was using me. But that was fine ‘cause I was using him. You know, it was probably the healthiest relationship I’ve ever been in.”

That realization sent a boulder crashing into your stomach, sloshing around all of the alcohol you’d consumed over the last hour.

“Oh, god,” you groaned, eyes widening. You stumbled off of your stool and tried to head to the bathroom, but all of your shots hit at once and the world seemed to twist and the floor wasn’t where it was supposed to be. An arm around your waist guided you to the bathroom, and you managed to hold everything in until you were leaning over the dirty bar toilet.

As soon as your stomach was emptied of the countless shots you’d taken, all of your fight left you and you slumped onto the floor, leaning against the sticky bathroom stall.

Sam rubbed your back soothingly, which just made everything worse. “You feel any better?”

“I’m cold,” you mumbled, feeling a chill spreading through your veins. Flashbacks to waking up on the mountain, being unable to feel your body raced through your mind and you shivered violently.

“C’mon.” Sam helped you stand, and you leaned heavily on him as he led you over to the sinks. Craig came in with a bottle of water, which you gratefully accepted and rinsed out your mouth. “Let’s go to a booth and let your new best friend get you a blanket and fix you something warm to eat, okay?”

Not willing to argue, you let Sam guide you out of the bathroom. He shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders before pulling you into a booth and surrounding you with arms.

"Why did you want to get blackout drunk?" Sam asked.

You snuggled closer to his heat and shrugged. "My life sucks and it's all my fault. I figured that was a pretty good reason."

"Wanna talk about it?"

You considered it. After all, you and Sam were kind of dating and he was the one part of your life that didn't suck. "If I had listened to my dad five years ago and let everything go, then I could have been living a normal life right now. I could be married and working for NASA or something. Instead, I spent a whole year with someone I had to convince myself that I liked enough to sleep with and today I almost killed a vampire then you tell me that an angel knows where my werewolf mom is."

The conversation paused while Craig brought over a blanket and a mug of hot tea before heading back to the kitchen for food.

You stared at the steam rising from the mug.  "I could have had a dog by now."

Part 20 of Avenging Angel

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[akagoddammit]

2. Who does your character trust most and why?

Trust has always been a tricky topic for Jessica. Trish used to be the one person she could always count on, for better or worse, the one person she could trust with anything. There was really only one secret she kept from Trish. 

Now she’s unsure. She used trust Nat -- and she still does, but it doesn’t go both ways anymore. Which also leaves things unsure with Clint. Her own past leaves things unsure with Luke, but she wants to believe in him. Tony Goddamn Stark is one of the people she’s come to trust somehow, and at this point, he knows things no one else does. It’s a weird, wild world. 

3. What is a significant turning point in your characters life?

Let’s talk about three big ones.

Her family’s death/arrival of powers. Obviously this changed things for her. She went from being an average kid in an average life, to being the adopted sister of a teen starlet -- plus superstrength. It’s also the first time she had inklings of heroism, when she kept Trish’s mother from hurting her.

Kilgrave. The first time she tried to be a hero, and the first time she failed. Those eight months irreparably changed her, defined her in ways that she’ll never fully escape. It shaped her definition of a hero, and her view of herself. 

Trish’s death.  This changed things entirely. Jessica had nothing left to lose and everything to gain. It pushed her to give up drinking, to try and be the hero Trish had always wanted her to be. She finally had to make a choice, and she’s made the choice to do something about what happened. She doesn’t want anyone else to go through what she had to, and she wants to honor Trish’s memory. It’s all that drives her now.

4. What are your character’s major flaws?

Jessica Jones is 90% flaws. She’s a foul-mouthed, short-tempered, hot mess. She blames herself for everything. She drinks too much, sleeps too little. Her self-loathing becomes self-pity when she falls too far. And she’s abrasive. Manipulative, as a defense mechanism, which doesn’t make it any better. She’s terrified of losing control, so she’ll take it from other people if she has to. She’s angry, so angry, and she refuses to work on her problems more often than not. She’d rather hate herself and make everyone around her hate her, too. Because on some level, that’s easier, easier than trying to be better.

She’s working on it.

5. What would your character give their life for?

Jessica would give her life for the truth. For justice. For making things right. She’s not afraid to die, even if she’s not overly suicidal anymore. She’ll die for a cause, as long as she takes down the bad guys and makes a difference. She’d give her life for her friends, the few she dares to call such. She’d give her life for anyone innocent. 

6. What is your character’s greatest asset?

Jessica’s greatest asset is her strength, but not her physical strength. Her emotional strength, her mental strength. She broke free of a mind controller because his commands went so against her morals. She comes off as hard and uncaring, but truthfully, she cares too much. Her ability to go through hell and come out on the other side of the flames, burned but still standing, is her greatest asset. Her ability to still give a damn is her greatest asset. 

7. What would completely break your character?

Oh, I don’t know this. 

8. How does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?

Jessica tries to come off as cold and uncaring, a bitch who’s only out for herself. But the people who get close to her, who get beyond those walls she puts up so carefully, they know better. They know she has a heart, even if she tries to deny it. They know she wants to do the right thing, no matter how much it scares her. She tries to project someone tough and unbreakable, but she’s more vulnerable than she’d ever let anyone see. She tries to project someone you can’t fuck with, but even the average citizen can probably tell how easily her buttons are pushed. 

9. What is your character afraid of?

Jessica has a lot of fears. Touch is a big one, any unexpected touch can send her into a tailspin. She’s afraid of being manipulated or controlled in any way, and she’ll react violently and viscerally. She’s afraid of men in suits, and the smell of pasta, and fancy hotel rooms.

She’s also afraid of happiness. Because it can be taken away so quickly. She’s afraid of letting people get close, because she’s afraid all they’ll see is her mistakes. The black, oozing shit inside her. She’s afraid of loving anyone, because she’s convinced she’ll hurt them, and she’s afraid to trust because trust is so easily broken. 

She’s afraid that he isn’t really dead. That he’ll come back. She’s afraid that he is dead, and that she’s become exactly what he made her. A murderer. 

10. If your character could choose a different identity, who would they pick?

Jessica would want to be like Trish. Brave, bold, unafraid to give her opinions, and still good and whole and beloved by all. She’d want Trish’s confidence, her iron will, her steadfast moral compass. If she could be like anyone, it’d be Trish. Trish who always knew what to say, how to say it, who could see the right path without even looking and stepped forward without fear. 

A part of her also wishes she could still be a hero, that she could have that identity. That she could be someone that people could look up to, that made a difference. 

And if she can’t have either of those, she wants an identity that is invisible. That exists on the outside of society, just barely a part of it. Unable to hurt or be hurt, because she doesn’t matter. She wants to be normal. 

11. In what or whom is your character’s greatest faith in?

Jessica’s greatest faith, even now, is in Trish. Her sister’s memory is what she looks to when times get hard. She knows Trish wasn’t perfect, but to Jessica, her struggles and how she handled them, only made her stronger and better. The second step of Alcoholic’s Anonymous is: We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. Jessica’s greater power is Trish. If anyone can keep her sane, keep her sober, keep her on the right path, it’s her sister. Even in death, Trish is still the only thing Jessica believes in. 

12. What was the best thing in your character’s life?

The best thing in Jessica’s life were those moments when she actually felt like a hero. When she saved the little girl from getting run over by a taxi, and when she rescued Malcolm. Those little, seemingly inconsequential moments are the ones which made her feel like she could actually accomplish something. Like she could make a difference. Like she could be a hero. 

13. What was the worst thing in your character’s life?

Kilgrave. He broke her down completely, in a thousand different ways. He took her strength and used it to turn her into something she never wanted to be. He ruined the lives of countless people, and she feels responsible for every single one. In her mind, her experiences with him were proof that she could never be a hero, that she didn’t have what it took. Even killing him was just more evidence that she didn’t have that thing, that heart and goodness, that heroes are supposed to have. He didn’t just invade her mind, her body, her home, he didn’t just take her free will and her sanity -- he took her last bit of hope that she could be someone. 

14. What is your character’s biggest nightmare?

Jessica has a lot of nightmares. She dreams about him constantly, sometimes as a memory, sometimes as things that never even happened. But she also dreams about hooded figures, holding her sister down and killing her right in front of her. She dreams that she’s holding the knife. She dreams that she’s running, leaping across rooftops, but she can never get to where she needs to be. She dreams that his hands hold her back, that hooded figures laugh at her, that he whispers at her to smile while she runs. She runs and runs, but she’s never fast enough. 

15. What seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?

Eating breakfast with her family on their back patio. Sitting in her father’s garage, doing homework, and pointedly ignoring him when he tried to teach her about engines. Her mother brushing her hair, while they watched the news. Phil hugging her after he won a soccer game. Eating popcorn with Trish while Ms. Walker was away, her sister falling asleep on her shoulder after the third movie. Moving in with Trish after high school, trying to convince her to go out instead of studying so damn much. Her parents arguing late at night when they thought she and Phil were asleep. Phil screaming he hated her after she hit him. Trish insisting it was just a long night, that the pills and other drugs rattling around her purse had nothing to do with it. 

Buying her leather jacket and a camera with her first P.I. check. Her first case, a typical cheater. The first time she could eat Chinese food afterward without gagging. The first time she spent an entire paycheck on whiskey alone. Her first bar fight. 

Watching Trump get announced, and the redhead next to her buying her a drink. Nat’s knowing little smirk, Clint’s laugh. Taking him to Garaffolos over and over. Hearing Trish talk about Luke on her radio show. Working with Jessica Drew on a random case about a missing mutant. Watching Liss paint. Watching Lilo & Stitch with Gwen. Eating from a food truck with Bruce Wayne. Barry buying her hot chocolate. Her last text to Trish.  The way Stark’s eyes lit up when he showed her the arm he’d built. The way his fingers are always covered in motor oil. How his eyes would sometimes catch the glow of the arc reactor when he was bent down, focused on a project or a problem...