#if it starts feeling mean-spirited from anyone the thread/whatever will be dropped

[ladyseidr]

horrible muse addition thoughts i've had lately

[ gives mrs. em.ily a canon name ] i'm just doing this for henry. i'm not going to write her. she will not be another elise or jayne. [ comes up with her appearance ] . . . but like what if—

secret muse page but only for Funny Joke Muses that are request only and like half-serious until i write them 3 times and then dedicate my entire life to them and add them as a full muse ( you know how it is )

me being horribly ( jokingly ) angry abt the above idea because if i did this, i would absolutely add ne.ss ( matp.at's cameo ) from the fn.af movie and that would be proving @florietiae right ( i love you )

kinda already did this via the golden fr.eddy page but Evan For Real and also Cassidy For Real. they are absolutely open to interactions but cassidy is kept intentionally vague

once again thinking abt np.md like you know my grace would slay. tell me you know this.

like i could fuck with some x-m.en muses SO hard, i was such an x-me.n girly ( gender neutral ) growing up. like mysti.que? rog.ue? magma?? only problem is i'm like Desperately opposed to writing with Movie Mar.vel stuff ( minus the x-m.en movies specifically ) so i feel like that could be a problem lmao

speaking of, more D.C muses. like sorry that tim is horrifically neglected on this blog but i still think i could write scarecr.ow or riddl.er or—

[mxvladdy]

Hi, I love your writings 💜 and wanted to suggest a prompt, but if it won't hit you or if your requests are closed than feel free to ignore.

What if MC will forget the brother and that they are in relationship (it can be as side effect of some spell /potion etc, but it will last for quite some time, no one knows how long). How brothers will react on that? What they will do to make MC fall in love again, or will they do anything at all? Or they decide that it's the chance to change everything? What if MC won't love them again? I don't know if that can be angsty (I want some angst), or you can do whatever style you find appropriate. Anyway, if you don't feel like doing for 7 brothers you can do only for brothers of your choice (who you feel comfortable to write about, but maybe Lucifer, Mammon and Beel?? ).

Thank you! And have a good day or night!

A/N: 80000 years and a day later I post lol ;.;. Sorry for the wait! I tried something new with this, hope you like :)

So I was going to drop all three at the same time but it turned into 20+ pages of work. So I will post in 3 separate parts since they all turned into beefy boys... Much like their counterparts >:)

Hope you like it!!!

Part One of Three: Lucifer

Magic is a beautiful and powerful thing. It permeates the Devildom like an eternal fog. For the residents, it is as common as breathing. From the strongest of their kind down to the lowest inhabitants, it is integral to their culture and daily life. Mistakes and accidents happen daily with young and old alike learning or experimenting. Magical rebounds and mishaps mean very little to them, especially the brothers. From the Celestial Realms down, they have seen it all.

Sometimes they forget that to you, magic can be a volatile and dangerous.

The crackle of energy and the acrid taste of sour magic on his tongue are his only warnings before things went south. He reaches for you, strong arms moving to shield you from the blowback of energy discharging around you both. Lucifer crouches, turning his back to the explosion to cover you from the debris and dust raining down. The rebound of the failed spell washes over him for a moment turning his stomach on impact. A heavy miasma coats the room. It weighs down his wings momentarily before disappearing as quickly as it had come.

Once the dust settles, the room fills with light-hearted teasing and jabs at the inept caster. Whatever chastising remark he had stuck to his tongue. When he looks down at you the air seizes his lungs in horror. You were heavy and unresponsive in his arms, eyes closed and face slack. Physically, he could see nothing wrong with you, no hair unkempt or dust on your uniform. He shakes you trying in vain to rouse you.

He doesn’t remember fleeing the room with you clutched tight to his chest nor the shouts of his confused brothers all he could focus on was your limp body cradled in his. You weren’t waking up. None of his magic was working, and you were still sleeping. It was like looking down at his brothers all over again. The feeling of dread, of helplessness, had him staggering. You were like his little Lilith all over again, another failure in his unending life span.

The healer's answers do nothing but anger him. Diavolo’s weak speculations drive him into a frenzy. Wait, they want him to wait. For how long was anyone's guess. They say that you just need rest, the human body is unaccustomed to such stresses. That though your body is weak, a human’s spirit is strong. You’ll recover-he had to trust that you would heal on your own. Trust… he had so little of that left to begin with, but he had he gave to you.

He couldn’t lose you. Couldn’t lose this small flicker of hope you brought into his life, of happiness. He didn’t want to be alone again.

So he waits, a permanent sentinel by your bedside. He sits in silence stuck with his sins. His rough hewn palms cover your small hand to warm your cooling finger tips. He strokes them with callused fingers. He contemplates all the little things he could have done differently while he waits. Hells, what he should have done differently. Spells at the best of times were unruly and dangerous and in the hands of a novice? He shakes his head squeezing your hand. He was so stupid to have let you take that course. Why hadn’t he told that weak pissant of a demon off for trying such an incantation? Or at least to take it outside. Was he that bad of a protector? Of a lover? Deep down he wants to be angry at you. That this somehow was all your fault, with your puny human constitution and defenses. He wants to blame you but the moment passes with a gut-twisting sense of guilt and almost shame.

The days move on unceasingly, the clock on your wall mocking him with every steady tick and turn of the hand. With each moon that passes his simmering anger and wounded pride cools to an ice cold fear in his veins. The healers stopped showing up daily, they were at a loss like the rest of them.

No one would say it, least of all around him, but he heard it travel down the halls like an unwelcome guest. The whispered sympathy, the soft admissions of acceptance. He blocks them out, his world narrowing down to nothing but your icy hand and weak pulse. Your room begins to turn into his. His paperwork fills your desk, while he holds meeting over the phone. One hand clutching his phone to his ear and his other always touching you. No one but him is going to take care of you. He refuses help, turning down Diavolo’s increasing offers and pleas of support.

He turns them down each and every time. He will take care of you.

Yet, no matter how much he tends to you and researches you remain inert.

It’s maddening, he was suffocating under the weight. Finally he tips. One night drunk and desperate in his destroyed room he does the last thing he could think of.

The hardwood of his bedroom is unforgiving under his knees. The cold of it soaks through his pants and the harsh grain digs into his skin. But he doesn’t care, he wasn’t looking for absolution anymore, he was begging for your salvation.

It burns him bowing like this. His pride lashes out, roaring like the untamed beast it was as he dives deep searching within himself to find the tattered remains of his former self. Each second with his eyes closed and head bent was tortuous as his pleas fill the oppressive silence of the room. No matter the discomfort of the moment he can only think of you. No cost was too steep to have you open your eyes again.

Lucifer should have known going back to his father would be a mistake. Nothing was ever simple with them, everything was by their rules and their way. Not even being the once most favored son could fix that. Your eyes open, sure. They are hazy with confusion, but also bright and full of life. You were back.

Papers forgotten Lucifer approaches you like he would a wounded animal. He stares in disbelief for a moment before succumbing to his need to hold you. “Amata-” He breathes out in relief into your neck squeezing you closer to him. Lucifer pulls away when he notices you not embracing him back. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. You just took me by surprise is all.” You rub your eyes and smile wearily. “What did I do to deserve such a good morning hug?”

His smile fades, hearts sinking. “Do you not remember?”

“Remember?” Hmmm. You look around you at the clutter of your room. “I- remember being in class, then you over me.” Something must have happened, but for the life of you, you couldn’t recall. He fills you in leaving small blanks hoping to see some recognition in your bewitching eyes. But you sit, nodding along taking his word as gospel truth. “Wow.” You lean back on your pillows. To be asleep for so long, you had so much work to catch up on. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

There was an odd look in his eyes before he nods, rising to his feet. “Of course… for you, anything.” He flees then, choking back a sea of emotions to go fetch a healer to look you over. It was as he expected. You were whole and healthy again, back to your old wonderful self. Except for him. Did you truly remember none of him? Have you really forgotten how he held you at night when you were able to tear him from his works.

How could you forget the words he would whisper to you as you drifted off long after the candles had been snuffled out, the sweat had cooled on your skin, and your limbs loose and tangled with his? Would you ever remember the way he would watch you at school? How he would search for you and watch you with vigilante and hungry eyes. You were not his little lamb anymore. Even after everything he had lost you.

It was what he bargained for with his father it seemed.

He calls a meeting soon after informing his brothers and the Prince of your condition without telling them of his speculations as to why. “We will say nothing.” He speaks standing rigidly while the room erupts with confusion around him.

“Why not tell them?” Beelzebub asked brows drawn low in concern.

“And say what?” Lucifer rubs at his nose pinching the bridge tightly already feeling a dull throbbing growing underneath. “What would it change?” He leaves it at that and retreats to his room. He looks at his dusty chambers and broken furniture from his explosive temper. It is so cold again without you there. This is how it must be. The thought brings a broken whine from his lips. Tt soaks through his leather gloved hand, refusing to be shoved down. He didn’t want to believe he was so forgettable, that something as intimate as his trust and love was so weak in your soul. He had thought surely he had ingrained himself deeper than that. You were in his mind.

He turns to his private libraries that night, looking for any scrap of information he could find. Perhaps the threads of him were there within you, maybe they just needed to be mended. He often forgot how malleable the human mind was, how easily things can just slip from them. Each book on the topic started promisingly enough before piddling off to a dead-end or debunked hypothesis.

He hunts down the student that had fired the spell. If he knew the original purpose of the spell maybe he could recreate the reaction? No, yet another dead end.

He comes to realize one night sitting hunched over on the grimy floor that either your mixed blood had altered the spell's intentions or the fact that since you were not in your original timeline it had changed something deeper within you that none of them had taken into consideration. Or, perhaps-just maybe he truly did make a deal with Father.

Devil below, he hoped that wasn’t true. How ironic it would be that the first time they had heard his pleas to only answer it with more pain and punishment. Either way, he must accept this...eventually.

“You know, if you keep frowning like that it’ll leave permit winkles.” Lucifer ignores his brother, not glancing up from his journals to entertain him. He had recently found more old tomes deep in his studies. “Luci.” Multi-colored nails block his view of his documents.

“Move Asmodeus. I will not ask again.”

Asmo frowns but moves his hand back to his hip. “You need to breathe brother. Take a minute for yourself.” Lucifer snorts dismissively, flipping to the next page. Asmo sighs deeply, his old bones rattling with the heavy gust of air. “You know you won’t find anything in there. We’ve all tried, you know? Read up on fruitless leads and scoured the depths of the catacombs too. Satan’s hands are a mess from rummaging through his books.” He swallows thickly. “Perhaps it is time.”

“Time for what?” Lucifer rises to his impressive height towering over his smaller brethren. “I do not like what you are implying Sakhr.” Asmo flinches, he hates that damn name. He calms the simmering rage underneath his well kept skin. Lucifer was hurting, he lashes out blindly when he is. He always suffers alone.

“I’m not implying anything. We just want-” Lucifer laughs, the hollow sound pulls at the emptiness within Lust’s heart.

“What would you know of my wants?” His ruby eyes lock with Asmo’s. It was a mistake. Lucifer’s presence was imposing at the best of times, but as mad as he was now it was a knee jerk reaction from Asmo to put his guard up. It was a strong defensive mechanism that Asmo took special care not to let slip, but as Lucifer approaches him shoulder hunching and chest puffing up in anger. It took only a moment for his defenses to take over, eyes locking Lucifer saw exactly what he wanted reflected back at him.

He didn’t know what Lucifer saw but he could see the absolute agony etching into his older brother's glassy eyes with each second. Asmo steps back breaking eye contact with a gasp, the trance between them breaking. “I-I’m sorry!” He trembles.

Lucifer says nothing but raises a shaking finger while he collects himself. Finally, he looks up, face impassive once more. He shakes his head and points to the two chairs in front of his desk. A wordless order that Asmo takes. Asmodeus watches Lucifer busy himself with a decanter, broad back turned to him. “You meant no harm,” Lucifer says, voice tight. He turns back with two glasses in hand. “ I-my aggression was unnecessary.” He offers Asmo a glass before sitting back in his throne-like chair with a grunt. They drink in silence.

Asmo swirls the spicy drink around his tongue thinking hard. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He thought he could make things better by offering a shoulder or ear, perhaps tell Lucifer that you were doing well. You didn't seem to notice the hole at the table or in the classroom where Lucifer used to join you and the rest of them to eat or study. They had missed seeing him look so at peace around them. Everything had reverted back to like it was when you first arrived between the two of you, and it was affecting everyone. “Talk to me?” Lucifer blinks.

“And say what?” He peers at his empty glass before grabbing the decanter. “I’m fine? I have meetings piling up and I frankly don’t give a damn anymore. Or the fact that I have yet to cancel the table I had reserved for our anniversary dinner?” His last words waver dangerously before he burns them away with a large gulp of his drink. He sees the look in Asmo’s honey-colored eyes when he looks up. “I don’t need pity.”

Asmodous sniffs, waving away the thought. “Please. We all know better than that. I just want to check on you, and perhaps give you an idea?”

“What idea could you have that I have not thought of?” He asks curiously. Asmo lights up leaning in.

“What if we’ve been going about this the wrong way? We’ve been looking at magic to solve this when the answer was in front of us the whole time. Humans aren’t used to magic, so why look to it for the solution?”

“I don’t follow.” Lucifer puts his glass down leaning back in his chair. Was science what he needed to look at? He had tried that, had talked to human doctors and surgeons that owed him “favors”. They were as unhelpful as the rest.

“We are thinking like demons! We have to think like a human, woo them again. You did it once, surely their attraction wasn’t wiped out, just their memories.” Ahh. Lucifer shakes his head. He had thought of that, staring at himself in the mirror. Many nights were filled with the nagging fears of defeat. If his father had a hand in your recovery could he even be allowed to try again? Lucifer looks back at all the things he said those nights kneeling by your side. It was foolish, what even contract he might have accidentally made had too many open ends, too many half wishes, and clauses.

“I’m afraid I have already thought of that my brother.”

“Then why haven’t you tried? Have you given up?” Asmo is met with silence. “Does that mean the rest of us have a chance?” He gets the reaction he was looking for then. Lucifer’s form shutters, a full body twitch as his body blurs around the edges in warning. “Seems to me like you haven’t given up yet. So what is stopping you.”

Lucifer crumbles under his brother’s worried gaze. Perhaps he could divulge his worry, just this once. “I asked father Az.”

Asmo gasps in surprise, eyes wide in disbelief, then dawning realization. “You think They did this?” Lucifer shrugged, running a hand through his disheveled locks. “They wouldn’t-they couldn’t...could they?” None of the brothers knew what their father was up to anymore, nor if They were even still able to track them. It was an ever present cloud of stress over all of them. While they trusted Diavolo and his protection, the nagging fear was never-ending.

“This is perfect!” Asmo claps his hands together. Lucifer stares at him in confusion. Lust’s smile grew toothy and dangerous. “Do you know what this means?”

“No.” His younger brother snorts looking down at his nails. His mind was running a mile a minute. For as organized and crafty as Lucifer is, he sure had his moments.

“Think about it. If Father did meddle then you have to try courting them again. Defying Father is a talent!” Asmo claps his hands in giddy delight. “Wouldn’t it just chafe their linens if you got back together?”

“And what if They didn’t meddle?”

“Then what do you have to lose?” Lucifer laughs. It was breathy and lifeless at the start but grew in intensity as Asmo’s words sunk in. Why was it when he said it it made sense?

“As devious as ever Az.” Lucifer smiles. Yes, he could win you back easily and reclaim his pride all in one fell swoop. “Thank you for reminding me of who I am.” They were troublemakers, the lot of them and it was time for him to prove it once more that he was the worst of them.

He starts the next day dressing down for once in his long life. He wears an outfit you always complement tucked neatly into a pair of dress slacks you bought him after a date gone awry. He smirked, remembering the tight squeeze of your hand on him on the drive home. The friction of your palm on the smooth material...he tipped his dry cleaner extra that night. “Good morning.” He purrs out in greeting taking his seat at the head of the table. The few brothers around the table freeze for a moment, keen eyes darting from him to where you sat still eating as if nothing had changed. Asmodeus shot him a wink.

“Morning.” You chirp back around your spoon. “It’s good to see you back at the table. Finally got a break from work?” The demons hold their collective breath.

“Yes, you can say that I came to a revelation of sorts.” He hums into his mug.

From that point on no matter what corner you turn on Lucifer was there. A pleasant smile on his lips and an offer of aid. “Thank you for the help!” You drop the large stack of books on your desk with a satisfied grunt. “You know- even though our pack is still somewhat new, if you need help with your work I’d be glad to give you a hand too!”

“Would you?” He hides his predatory grin under his hand. “ Some of the matters I have to attend to will require some long, hard work. It may take up some of your nights.” The flush that graces your cheeks and the warm buzz from his pact mark make him giddy.

“I’m willing.”

Slowly he begins to pull you back into his world. He leaves well placed hints of your past together scattered around his workspace. Your favorite Devildom blooms and treats always seem to be around when you come to offer your help in the evening. He slips old pet names into daily conversations as you scribble notes and transcribe letters for him by the soft light of his desk lamp. Pacing himself was never so hard before in his life. Was he finally cracking through? Or were you falling for him again? It was a heady rush to be sure, the mix of anticipation and thrill of such earthly courting made him realize many things he didn’t see the first time around. He learns all over again just what he loved about you.

He had forgotten how patient you were around him and with his siblings. Your keen eye and attention to detail reminded him just why he trusted you. You flitted about him picking up things he missed and settling brotherly disputes without him having to waste his breath. It was almost like things were going back to normal, minus the cold sheets beside him at night. But he sticks to his plan, finding pleasure in simply learning about you all over again.

It came to an end sooner than he had expected.

“Enter.” Lucifer calls from his overflowing desk. It was finals time once again and the damages done to school property were picking up dramatically. He heard your fluttering heartbeat before you even entered his domicile. It picks up as you approach.

“Am I interrupting?

Lucifer looks up from his work, a grin growing on his tired face. “For you, never.” You smile back, coming closer. You held a mug of coffee in your hands. The beast within him wanted to raise its hackles in triumph and howl. His life must be a divine comedy. This night is playing out just like it did nearly a year ago. Did you remember too? Or was this just how it always was meant to be?

“I haven’t seen you in a bit, and got concerned.” You fiddle with the handle of the copper mug. Lucifer nods, it was true. He regrettably had to put his plans with you on hold, he had spent so much time scheming he had let a few things build up. “Asmo told me you were hold up in here working, and I thought you could use a pick me up. He-he helped me make you some coffee.”

Ah. It wasn’t the same as the first time, but it was a matter of time before his sibling started meddling again. He takes the cup from your outstretched hand. “Thank you, this is much appreciated.” You glow under his praise taking a seat by his side.

“Need any help?” You eye the stack of papers with interest. “I’ve gotten pretty good at reading the fine print.”

“Have you now?” He pushes a small stack of papers towards you. “Very well, I would love your company again.” You take the work with a nod eager to spend time with him again. He watches you work, unable to contain his growing smile before looking down at the cup by his side. The tar-black coffee looks back at him. Oh, how he wished to commend his brother and berate him all at once. It is putrid and stomach-churning but he savors it all the same.

“Is it alright?” You pause watching him drink in. You have never seen him so enraptured by a drink before.

“Yes.” It will be.

[scripts4dreamers]

I literally JUST sat down, pt. 5

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Six, Part Seven

AN: The case stalls, but no one’s willing to give up on you just yet. Characters: Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Aaron Hotchner, Jennifer Jareau, David Rossi. Pairings: Spencer Reid x reader Spoilers: None Warnings: Mentions of crime and violence, alcohol

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

Saturday morning dawned cold and bright but you hardly felt rested. You’d spent the better part of the night trying to squash your panic, curled up under your duvet with your phone in your hand, convinced that the second you closed your eyes something terrible would happen. The facts of the case bounced around in your mind like wasps, angry and frantic, trying their best to get out, but it was no use. You simply had to accept it, someone you worked with was stalking you. They were stalking you and murdering innocent people in some sick attempt to fulfil the fantasy in their mind, and that put everyone in your life at risk.

You’d realized it the night before and the thought alone made you feel sick. Stalkers were, by nature, unpredictable so there was no way for you to know which of your friends would be a target. The stalker could see any of them as a threat and decide to take matters into his own hands. Your only comfort came in knowing that your parents were on a cruise near New Zealand, and all your friends were safe under Rossi’s roof. For now.

You sighed and forced yourself out of bed, pulling on the most comfortable set of clothing you had and shuffling downstairs. As you made your way into the kitchen you were met by a sea of friendly faces and your spirits lifted slightly.

“Morning, Sunshine,” JJ greeted sympathetically, “we were wondering when you’d be up.”

“What time is it?” You asked, accepting a cup of coffee from her gratefully.

“8:17,” Spencer answered, giving you a small smile.

You smiled back and looked around, doing a mental headcount of all the faces at Rossi’s kitchen island, “Where are Morgan and Prentiss?”

“Morgan went to meet the M.E.,” JJ answered, slinging a protective arm over your shoulder, “and Em-“

“She’s still in her room,” Garcia cut in, pushing a cupcake on a plate towards you, “she’s awake but she won’t come down.”

You frowned and looked at JJ for clarification. JJ sighed and gave you a gentle squeeze.

“She’s-uh-she’s taking this whole thing pretty hard,” she admitted softly, “she doesn’t want to admit it, but you know how she is.”

You nodded, “I’ll talk to her,” you said, pushing yourself away from the kitchen island and pouring a second cup of coffee.

You trudged up the stairs, exhaustion tugging at your eyelids with every step. Emily’s room was next to Morgan’s and, before knocking, you just took a minute to watch. Emily was sitting on her bed with her back towards the door, staring intensely at something in her lap that you couldn’t see and your heart dropped.

———————————

Your stomach hurt from laughing so much as you watched the man Emily had brought over scamper off with his tail between his legs. Some real life FBI agent he’d turned out to be.

“That. Was. Brilliant,” you laughed, jostling her with your shoulder, “you, Emily Prentiss, are brilliant.”

“Why thank you,” she smiled, “god sometimes it’s too easy. It’s just too easy with these guys. What, do they think we’re stupid or something?”

It was girl’s night. The first you’d had in months and, quite frankly, you needed it. Your workload was killing you, and the weight of all the death you saw on the regular was making it difficult to find joy in anything anymore. Which was why you had your girls. Emily had dragged you all out to a local bar and plied you with alcohol until you were laughing and giggling like a bunch of preteens at a sleepover. It was wonderful, and you could feel yourself getting lighter and lighter with each passing minute.

“Almost definitely,” you agreed, taking another deep swig from whatever drink Emily had forced on you.

“Or they at least think we’re stupider than them,” JJ clarified.

Emily made a noise of agreement and rolled her eyes, “Which is why I personally have no interest in dating them.”

“Not that we could even if we wanted to,” Garcia pointed out, “I mean, who has time to date with this job?”

“Not me,” you said, “I haven’t been on an actual date in ages.”

“Well I’m sure we can find someone who’d be willing to take you out, Y/N,” Emily teased with faux innocence, “let’s think, ladies; who do we know who’s smart and funny, with a similar work schedule, who Y/N might be attracted to and who already thinks she’s wonderful?”

“Hmm,” JJ played along, “ooo that’s a tough one.”

“I’m stumped,” Garcia agreed, “oh wait! Here’s a crazy idea, what about Reid?”

JJ and Emily gasped, clutching their chests with looks of surprise so melodramatic that you couldn’t help but laugh, despite your embarrassment.

“Oh my god, Reid!” Emily agreed, “It’s perfect, Penelope Garcia you are a genius.”

“But wait, Y/N swears she’s not into him like that, guys, remember?” JJ joked.

“Ooohhh,” Emily and Garcia chorused.

“Well, I guess it’s hopeless then,” Emily joked, slinging an arm around your shoulder and pressing a kiss to your cheek, “you’re stuck with me, Y/L/N.”

You smiled and kissed her back, leaving a lipstick smudge on her pale cheek, “Nowhere else I’d rather be, Prentiss. Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Garcia clapped her hands together in excitement and pulled out a camera, “Everybody say BAU!”

“BAU!” You all cheered in unison, collapsing into laughter the moment the flash went off.

—————————————

“Hey, you,” you greeted, “you not coming down for breakfast?”

Emily’s head snapped up and you caught a glimpse of the photograph in her hands. It was the one from that girls night, one of the last you’d ever had at the BAU. Not that anyone had known that at the time. You could see the resentment in her eyes, and the pain and you felt a sharp stab of guilt for everything you were putting your friends through.

“Garcia’s bought those cupcakes last night, they’re really tasty.” You continued, stepping hesitantly inside, “I could fetch you one if you’d like.”

“I’m not hungry,” she replied simply, “but I’ll take the coffee if you’re giving.”

You smiled and handed Emily the cup, taking a seat beside her on the bed. For a moment you just sat in silence, drinking your coffee together and thinking, but eventually the silence had to break.

“Em I know you’re mad-“ you started.

“Mad?” She interrupted with an incredulous laugh, “Y/N I’m not mad.”

“Yes. You are,” you insisted, “you have been ever since I came back to the unit. I mean, come on, you made me share a desk with Reid so that your purse had its own spot.”

Emily sighed and stared down into her cup, tapping her manicured nails against the ceramic, “Okay maybe I was a little bit mad,” she agreed, “but can you blame me? You left without saying goodbye!”

“I said goodbye!”

Emily rolled her eyes, “Not properly. You never really explained why. One day everything was fine and the next you’d handed in your resignation. It sucked, and I was mad,” she sighed, shaking her head, “and then I blinked and suddenly it’s a year later.”

“Time flies.” You agreed.

“Yeah! Yeah and a year later you still couldn’t tell me you hadn’t actually resigned?” She probed, “How’s that supposed to make me feel? I’ve been walking around like some sort of idiot thinking that you’re gone for good.”

You nodded and nudged her shoulder with yours, deciding to ignore the ‘gone for good’ comment and focus on everything else, “Well, hey, let’s make a deal. After all this is over, we’ll meet up at your tombstone and you can yell at me all you like for keeping you in the dark, deal?”

Emily snorted and you felt the tension lift, “Okay, point taken.” she chuckled. You hummed your agreement and you lapsed back into comfortable silence before Emily continued, “But hey, the desk thing worked out great. You and Spencer seem to be getting along again.”

You felt yourself flush with embarrassment, giving Emily the ammunition she needed to start teasing you mercilessly. It was nice, and familiar and it made you feel grounded in a way you didn’t realize you were missing before.

“You’re so predictable,” she laughed, “making sad puppy dog eyes at each other from across the room all day.”

You shoved her over, which she responded to with an indignant yelp.

“Yeah well, unfortunately we’ve got more to worry about than my abysmal love life,” you reminded Emily, “so will you please come back downstairs with me?”

You stood and extended your hand, which Emily took with a soft smile, letting you pull her to her feet.

“Okay, agent Y/L/N, but only because I’m hungry and I don’t want JJ to eat my cupcake.”

“Mmhmm,” you agreed sarcastically, threading your fingers together as Emily tucked the well worn photo back into her pants pocket.

She must’ve brought it with her from home, you realized with a start. She’d dragged that photo with her all this time.

It made your heart swell and you couldn’t stop yourself from saying, “Hey, Prentiss?”

“Yeah, Y/L/N?”

“It’s still you and me, you know? You’re still stuck with me.”

She stopped, a soft smile creeping onto her face as her dark eyes softened. For a moment you just looked at one another, really seeing the person in front of you for the first time in a year. Then she squeezed your hand and you kept moving.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know that, you sap.”

———————————

The rest of the weekend was as close to bliss as Spencer could imagine while working a potentially catastrophic stalker case. He didn’t know what had happened while you were upstairs talking to Emily, it wasn’t his place, but he knew that you looked happy when you came back down. Emily looked happy too and, when she took a seat beside him, she shot him a knowing wink, which made him blush.

After that, the team was back. Morgan had confirmed with the M.E that the newest victim hadn’t been drugged, and he had indeed been tortured before he was killed. He’d also confirmed that the contents of the victim’s stomach was another grizzly message from the killer; tandoori chicken and sparkling wine, the exact meal you always ordered at the little restaurant you went to after a long case. Everyone had gotten eerily quiet when that came out. But you moved on, going through case files and reports together in the hopes of coming across some common name. It was a fairly thankless task. The only plus side was how much time Spencer got to spend with you, reading files, pouring coffee, just talking in the garden during lunch. Spencer was giddy with it, and Emily noticed.

“Real subtle, Lover Boy,” she teased on Sunday night, as Spencer watched you disappear back into the house for a drink.

He flushed and looked away, “What-uh-I don’t know what you mean.”

Emily rolled her eyes but smiled fondly, collapsing into the outdoor couch next to Spencer, “Sure.”

Just then you’d walked back out, and Emily let the matter drop for the time being. By the time Monday morning rolled in, Spencer finally felt like they had a handle on things. The picture was still murky and undefined, but now they could at least grasp its edges and make out its overall shape. The team had a long way to go, but it was something, and they’d managed to get by with less in the past. Coming in separately had been Hotch’s idea. It was likely that the UnSub was watching the team and coming in together would tip him off to the fact that work was being done outside of the office. Secrecy was their biggest weapon right now, Hotch had reminded them, secrecy and surprise. The UnSub couldn’t know what they knew. Not now, not ever. It was essential to the investigation.

Spencer remembered looking over at you when Hotch said that. He remembered the way you’d looked, the nerves and anger bubbling underneath your calm demeanor, and the way that his resolve had hardened.

“So what have we got?” Morgan had asked, “Officially, I mean.”

Hotch pressed his lips together, “White male, late twenties to mid thirties,” he’d explained, “try and float the idea that we’re looking into an ex boyfriend from high school or college. Anything we can do to throw him off.”

Spencer repeated it to himself like a mantra as he walked through the FBI building and stepped onto the elevator, bound for the sixth floor. As more agents piled in, the hairs on the back of Spencer’s neck stood up and his anxiety spiked. Is it you? A voice in his head whispered as he glanced at the dark haired man from Sex Crimes. Or you? He wondered, as a sandy haired agent with a long scar met his eye. Is it any of you? The doors finally opened on his floor and Spencer practically leapt out, forcing himself not to look back and keep his pace as normal as possible as he pushed open the doors to the BAU.

Spencer was the last to arrive, just as planned and, because of that, you’d already taken your space at his desk. The sight of you looking totally at home surrounded by his books and files made Spencer unreasonably happy and his nerves settled. Or at least, they did until he noticed the particularly devilish look in Emily’s eye, and the lack of a second chair at his desk.

“Emily, where’s my chair?” He asked.

She shrugged, “How should I know?”

You looked up at the noise and smiled at Spencer, making his heart leap into his throat.

“Sorry, Spence, there was only one when I arrived. I looked all over the office but the other one seems to have just vanished,” you explained, pushing yourself away from the desk, “you take this one, I’ll stand.”

Spencer sighed, “Don’t be ridiculous, Y/N, sit down. I’m fine with standing.”

“No, Spencer. I’m already taking up half your desk space. I’m not stealing your chair as well. Sit down.” You frowned.

“Y/N-“

“Spencer.”

“Or,” Emily interjected, with faux innocence, “you could just share the chair.”

You both froze, staring at Emily like she’d just grown a second head.

“Come again?” You asked.

“The chair,” she repeated, resting her chin on her hand, “you could just share it. Instead of arguing and wasting valuable time.” She shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, “Just a thought.”

If looks could kill, Emily Prentiss would be dead. Spencer was considering pouring a bottle of water over her head when he caught your eye and blushed bright red. He hated how easy it was for you to undo him, how quickly he became completely obvious about his feelings towards you.

“We-we can’t share,” you stuttered.

“Why not?” Emily asked.

“Because!” You protested, “Spence is a germaphobe. He’d be uncomfortable sharing with me.”

“I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable,” he said without thinking, “not with you.”

You paused, surveilling him with a kind of softness in your eye that made his stomach all fluttery and weak. Emily watched the exchange with amusement, but didn’t interrupt, just waiting to see what happened as you and Spencer sized one another up.

“Okay then,” you agreed, “let’s...share. Somehow.”

Spencer fiddled with the strap of his satchel, but breathed an inward sigh of relief as the tension passed. The office chair Emily had left you with was a big one, and Spencer didn’t exactly take up a lot of space, but it was still tight. There was no getting away from casual touches, the pressure of your leg against his, the smell of your perfume clinging to your hair when it brushed by him, the low roll of your voice as you hummed along with the song in your head. Almost all of his senses were suddenly filled with you instead of empty space. The whole thing made his brain short-circuit. Maybe he hadn’t thought this completely through. As you read through a case file, Spencer caught Emily’s eye across the desk and mouthed ‘I hate you’ at her while you weren’t looking.

“You’re welcome,” she mouthed back, shooting him a wink as she turned back to her laptop.

You shifted in your seat, sending another rush of scent through Spencer’s nose.

“Is that-” he started, “are you wearing a different perfume than normal?”

You met his eye, a little confused, but played along, “It’s new, yeah. I bought it just over a week ago but it hasn’t been warm enough to wear it, why?”

“I’ve smelled it somewhere before,” he explained, riffling through the evidence box he kept on his desk until he found the right bag. He was acutely aware of your eyes on him as he sliced through the seal, reached in with a glove between his fingers and pulled out the letter that had been left at your apartment. He inhaled, filling his nose with the familiar scent, and his stomach dropped, “I knew it. Here, smell.”

You followed his lead and Spencer watched your eyes widen with horror when you confirmed his theory, “Oh my god, he scented the paper.”

“With a perfume you hadn’t even worn yet.” he continued.

“Which means he had to have known that I’d bought it, and that I’d intended to start wearing it soon,” you followed, “which means he must have been following me that day.”

“And if he was, there’s a chance one of the stores has him on camera. Do you remember when and where you bought it?”

“I do.”

“Get that information to Garcia, we’ll have to talk to the store owners before they erase the tapes, and then she can track your movements and see if anyone’s a little too close for comfort.” he said.

Your eyes lit up with that intelligent sparkle that Spencer had always loved, the one you got in the moments when a case finally started to seem solvable.

“Spencer Reid, you are the key to everything, aren’t you?” you teased.

He opened his mouth to respond, his cheeks already flushing bright red, when Hotch’s door opened and their team leader stepped out, a stony expression on his face.

“Alright everybody,” Hotch’s voice boomed through the bullpen, “briefing room now please. We’ve got a case.”

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

Taglist:  @ourfavoritesergeantbarnes​, @confused-and-really-hungry, @word-scribbless​, @reidloversisforever​, @ashookykooky​, @l0ve-0f-my-life​, @shilohpug​, @tangerinenotions95​, @petitchatonbleu, @pirateismywayofspeaking​, @must-be-a-weasley-92​, @whovianayesha, @holding-on-to-my-youth, @quie-pls, @fear-less-write-more​, @astraea-writes​, @mac99martin​, @word-scribbless​, @levylovegood, @easygoingtheatre​, @purpleraindrops, @eevee0722​, @bisexualdisaster106​, @sgold, @openheart12​, @shilohpug​

[ziracona]

-----The Kid (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, ?)

I don’t remember much. There are jumbled sounds and fragmented images, but I’m not sure if they’re my memories from tonight, or before.

Where am I?

Where am I…

I…

Somewhere…different. Not the workshop I’ve been in. The room is a different color. I’m seeing hazy ceiling through the darkness and a fan up above when I open my eyes. I don’t remember where I’d be, or why it’s different. My head hurts, my arms hurt, my chest is on fire. I’m still dying. Shit. Why did they move me?

There’s someone there, above me—a fuzzy outline. A girl, I think. It’s dark. She sees me looking up at her and pauses. Shit—there’s something in her hand. I remember now; I remember contracting with her. I remember her promising to help me. So why is she bent over my chest with what looks like a long, thin knife? Why is the pain I’m in worse than it’s ever been?

I’m looking at her in search of answers, adrenaline not quite kicked in yet, but about to, when she looks down at me and says, “Don’t move.”

I feel it almost before I hear it. There’s a flash of energy by her hand and the command seal slams into me and I can’t move. I choke on a pained cry as the curse travels through me and freezes me in place. I can feel the mana locked onto my core, like I’ve been frozen solid, turned to stone. It’s agonizing. I can’t even move my head; I can’t shut my eyes; I can’t look away. I can barely breathe.

She’s gonna kill me. I thought this would happen. I thought there must be somethin’ even worse than what they’d already done. Why else send her? Why else get me to agree to anything at all? I had to be betrayed. They’ve been recreating how I died for months now, and that was the only element they couldn’t get. How could I have been this stupid again. I knew the risk. I still don’t know what they’re going to do to me, but I knew the conditions they might be looking for, and still; still. I just looked at a face I couldn’t see, and thought ‘I am who I am,’ and I didn’t shoot. Again.

Again…

I’m scared. I’m terrified. I haven’t been terrified in a long time. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I see Pat, stooping to say, “You did this to yourself,” to me, to make those the last words I hear before I die. I feel it. I feel my heart stopping. I see faint New Mexico moonlight. I smell so much blood. I don’t see my mother waiting for me. I never got to see any of them again. I never got to see anyone again. He was right; I did it to myself, and the Throne took me. I didn’t get an afterlife.

I’m so afraid whatever is happening to me is going to somehow be worse. I don’t know why, but it’s like I’m there again. They say you see your life flash before your eyes. I didn’t. I saw things I never got to make it to crumble away, and there was just…nothing waiting. Nothing at all. It was like watching your soul disintegrate to nothing. Ending. Thread cut. I’d always been promised there was something; I thought there would be. I know now there is for almost everyone. Just not for me.

I don’t want to know what could be worse than that.

I can feel my heart pumping once every six seconds, my core fading, the pathetic trickle of mana I’m getting from the girl that’s keeping me alive. I can feel the blood pumping up from my heart and over my chest with every feeble beat. I can’t look. I can’t move. I can’t speak. All I can do is stare at the girl and wait.

She stares back, and I see horror and shock flood her features in the dim light.

Why?

“No! No—I-I’m sorry,” she stammers, starting to cry, “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I-I don’t know how to use the spells—I didn’t think they’d just happen. I didn’t mean to do that!”

I can’t process that.

She stops whatever she was doing to my chest, and reaches out her left hand shakily and cups my face. I can’t move.

“I-I’m sorry,” she pleads. Her hand is shaking. She’s still crying. She’s scared too, I realize, watching her, confused. My hair’s matted to my head with sweat, and she tries to brush some of it back. It takes me a second to realize that she’s trying to comfort me. I don’t know how to feel, genuinely. I don’t at all. This is…foreign.

But. There’s a faint memory there. Bein seventeen, starved and dehydrated. Dropping near dead on a doorway of a friend’s mom. I hoped she’d help me. I didn’t know. She did. First time since I was fourteen I’d felt like that at all. I don’t think it’s ever happened to me as a spirit.

This girl is young. Maybe about that old herself—can’t possibly be older than eighteen. She’s a kid.

I must have been crying too. Not sure which emotion was strong enough for that—I don’t think it was fear. I think it was shame, having made the same mistake. I think it was feeling betrayed by myself even. I don’t know. But I must’ve, because the girl wipes tears off me with a trembling thumb.

“I-I’m sorry,” she chokes out. She’s struggling to stop crying too, but not quite made it. I’m realizing slowly she was crying because she felt bad. It’s such an oddly endearing thing to picture a mage of any kind crying over. I wish being in agonizing pain didn’t make that so hard to think about. “I really didn’t. I promise. I’m not trying to hurt you—I—I’m not a very good mage,” she explains, tripping over herself with a voice still strained and breaking every few words, “I haven’t had much training—I can’t heal you, l-like I should. I don’t know how.” She starts to cry again in earnest. Starts sobbing on my chest. I want to smile now, I’m so overcome with relief and somethin else, but I still can’t move at all. “I tried! I tried to look it up—I tried to heal you! I can’t! So I—h-have to get the bullet out.” She has to take a second to keep talking at all. I’m getting soaked with tears now. This poor kid is going to dehydrate herself if she goes on like this. “Or you’ll die. But I can’t use magic, so I have to dig it out,” she sobs, face a ridiculous, miserable mess of snot and tears and nothing but earnest agony of her own, “I’m sorry—I know it hurts. I only wanted you to hold still so I wouldn’t mess up and hurt you with the pliers—I didn’t mean to use a seal on you.”

I wish I could nod, or something, but I can’t. The command seal is still digging into every cell in my vessel, and I might as well be a block of wood. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m…relieved. Shit. Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m relieved enough to cry, and my body would like to, but I know she’s going to take that the wrong way if I do, so I fight it back.

Command seals are the worst. I’ve always hated the things. Usually people use ‘em on me because we’re not getting’ along too well, and they either want me to kill someone I don’t want to shoot, or they want me to put my gun to my chest and kill myself. You can resist them a little—I know, because I’ve tried. A lot of times. Depends on the power of the spell, and the spirit, and it depends on your motivation too. Some are easier than others. No one can resist one for long, though. Learned that the hard way too. Got too many memories of someone else making my body move and do something that haunts me.

I try to resist a spell again, now, but not for myself. I think this might be the first time it hasn’t been because I wanted to resist the spell. I can tell now I don’t really need to, probably. But I feel bad for this gal. Digging in with every bit of magic resistance I ever had, I meet her eyes and manage the faintest hint of a smile for just a second, before letting the paralysis take me again.

She stares at me, shocked, then relieved, and starts to cry again, and it’s funny to me. Guess we both want to cry over relief. That’s a couple things in common now.

“Thanks,” she manages, trying to smile back. She strokes back sweat-logged hair from my forehead again in one last little gesture of goodwill, then picks up her pliers, and returns to her task.

Honestly, it’s hard not to let some of the fear back. Dying how I did leaves a guy with a little bit of paranoia in his head. It could be an act. But I know there’d be no point in that, and I don’t honestly believe it was. I just hate being paralyzed. Even stuck with someone I could almost begin to feel something a little like trust towards. God, I never learn. I know nothin about this girl at all. Trust is a lot to put in a mage. I guess I do never learn, but it makes me happy, like that’s a victory. I guess in a way it is. I s’pose it’s okay to be proud of that. Don’t have a lot to my name; might as well keep my disposition.

Got no idea how long being stuck like this’ll last, but it has to wear off in a little while. I believe her about what she’s doing, but that doesn’t make it hurt less to have a piece of metal digging around in my chest. I should try and sleep. It’ll conserve what energy I got left, and I won’t have to be awake for this.

I go with that, once the command spell wears off enough to let me shut my eyes. It’s not until I’m about out that I remember I’ve seen her before. Remember one day a while back, when a kid saw me for a second through an open door, and looked horrified, and I thought it was novel to be looked at with pity again after so long.

Guess it was something a little more than novel.

I think I smile. Can’t believe something good came my way. Usually all I’m a magnet for is misfortune and trouble, and I gotta make whatever luck I want to get.

But I’m passin out from the pain in my chest again, and I’m not sure she’s gonna get that bullet out in time for my core to keep from disolvin, but there’s not nothin looking back at me this time.

It feels good. Like I thought it would. I’m not scared. I think it would be okay if I die like this.

There’s not nothin.

[suttttton]

Kindred Spirit//Crumbling World

Written for @bookish-bi-christian as part of @tma-valentines-exchange!

Happy Valentines Day, Ray! Enjoy your nostalgic timsasha angst!

~*~*~*~*~

In a windowless basement I look across my desk And your smile And your stupid hair And the golden rays of your eyes Become my sun

Tim stares at the poem for a long time. He’d found it on top of a little box he’d always known was in his desk, but hadn’t looked at for over a year now. It was full of cards with little notes from Sasha, printed-out photos of the two of them together. And this love poem.

He remembers when Sasha gave him the poem. He’d just gotten back from a follow-up adventure that had taken him out of the Archives for a couple of days. It had been on his desk when he came back, and he’d read it, grinning the whole way as Sasha determinedly avoided eye contact.

“Not a word!” she’d said when he’d opened his mouth to thank her for it. “I know it’s stupid and cheesy, I just—” her face had been fully red by this point. “I don’t know. I missed you.” 

He didn’t think it was cheesy. He’d been touched. Even as he teased Sasha about ‘the golden rays of his eyes’ for a week straight.

He remembers that. 

But it doesn’t—

He doesn’t—

When the thing that wasn’t Sasha had mentioned her new boyfriend, it hadn’t seemed odd to Tim. He hadn’t felt jealous, or, or hurt. Why would he? He and Sasha weren’t that close. They were work friends, and that was all.

But before that, Sasha had written him a love poem. She’d written him a love poem because he was gone for two days and she missed him. That evening, he remembers, they’d gone back to his place together and gotten wine drunk while watching The Princess Bride. That was Sasha’s favorite movie, which Tim knows because he’d gone through a whole phase of saying, “As you wish,” whenever Sasha made any request of him. Because what he really meant was—

But— 

Tim starts taking everything else out of the box, spreading it across his desk. He starts with the cards, both of them written in Sasha’s messy cursive.

First is the card Sasha had given him for his last birthday. The printed message says, “With Sympathy, to let you know that thoughts and prayers are with you in your time of sorrow.” The inside is crammed with her tiny script, paragraph after paragraph, hundreds of words. It was titled, “A Eulogy for 33.” On the other page, written much larger, “Long live 34! Love, Sasha.”

She’d taken him out to dinner, and when she’d given him the card, he’d insisted on reading the whole thing out loud, even as she’d complained. She was laughing, even as she said, “Tim, I will leave if you don’t stop it.”

Tim stares at that “Love,” for a long time, trying to suss out any deeper meaning from it. Not such a strange thing to write on your friend’s birthday card. She’d cared about him, but he already knew that, didn’t he? The poem said as much.

He moves on to the other card, a Valentine’s day card. There’s a picture of three chickens on the front, and inside it says, “Hope you have a happy Val-HEN-tine’s day!” It was a tradition, between them, bad cards presented with exaggerated flourishes, signed with sickeningly pet names. Tim would sign his, “Your sweetest sugar,” and Sasha would write, “Love, your honeybee <3”

On the inside of this one, Sasha had simply written, “I love you Tim”. Serious and sincere. Tim tries to remember how he felt, reading it. He doesn’t remember finding it strange at all. It had just felt nice. Warm.

He turns his attention to the photos. None of them are polaroids, because of course they aren’t. But they are something. Memories. Evidence. 

The first photo is from the yearly holiday party. Tim is wearing antlers. His arm is around Sasha, and she’s smiling. They’d gone to the party together. But they always went to the party together, and the photo isn’t especially recent. They hadn’t moved to the Archives yet.

Next is a photo of the two of them at a wedding. Tim can’t remember whose. Some distant cousin of Sasha’s. There had been a kitschy photo booth at the reception, and the two of them had taken far too long playing with the props before finally settling down for the photo. They’re wearing oversized sunglasses, a feather boa is looped around their shoulders. Tim had been Sasha’s date then, too. It had been normal for them, going together to parties and events.

The third photo shows them on their first day in the Archives. They’d taken lots of pictures that day, with Jon and Martin and the infamous dog, but this one is just the two of them. Sasha is hugging him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. Close, because they were close. Best friends. And—

The final is from a research mission they’d gone on together. Tim isn’t in it. It’s just Sasha, sitting on a bench at a bus stop. The sun is just beginning to set in the background, the sky turning from blue to white. He’d taken it because she looked beautiful, and he’d gotten it printed because—

Because he loved her.

He had loved her. Every moment he’d spent with her, he had loved her. How could he have forgotten? He had loved her, and she’d been dead for more than a year now, and in all that time he hadn’t thought about it even once.

He looks at the poem again. Sasha had loved him, too.

He wonders what else he’s forgotten, what else that thing had turned his mind away from. Had there been something, between him and Sasha? That would make sense, wouldn’t it, if they’d loved each other? He doesn’t remember anything like that, but… he isn’t sure he trusts his memories, anymore.

The last thing in the box is a friendship bracelet, made from colorful embroidery thread. Sasha made it, during that first week in the Archives, when they were annoyed with Jon and took whatever chances they could to slack off. “Pink for you,” she’d said. “Green for me. And brown for both of us.” The colors clashed horribly, but Tim still liked the way they looked together. At the time, Tim’s hair had been pink (”your stupid hair,” Sasha’s poem had said). Sasha wore a green cardigan nearly every day. And both of their eyes were brown.

The thing that killed Sasha had blue eyes. How had Tim not noticed that?

He picks up the bracelet, ties it around his wrist. Looking at it makes his heart seize up with grief for Sasha, for something he still doesn’t know how to name.

Good.

***

Tim has one tape of Sasha’s voice, and he listens to it, over and over, rewinding and rewinding. He listens to the cadence of their interactions, the closeness that had existed between them.

On the tape, Tim jokes about them being love interests, and Sasha rebuffs him. Tim remembers this, remembers feeling—frustrated? Sad? No. This happened at the beginning of their time in the Archives, before the cards, before the poem,  but after countless nights out and nights in, parties spent paying attention to no one but each other, countless jokes and secrets and traumas shared between them.

He’d loved her.

And even as he listens to her laughing him off, he knows that she loved him.

There was more to it than this tape. Something existed between them, something precious, something wonderful, and he can’t—

He can’t remember what it was.

***

“Martin,” Tim says, cornering him in the break room one morning. It’s early, but Martin gets to work early, these days. Jon is gone, but what else is new?

“Christ,” Martin swears as he spins around, spilling a few drops of tea on the floor as he swerves. “You scared me. I didn’t think anyone else was here yet.”

Tim shrugs. “I have a question. About Sasha.”

“I—Okay,” Martin says, sobering.

“Do you—” Tim doesn’t know how to ask. It seems like such a trivial thing to be asking about. Sasha is dead, and none of them can remember her face or her voice, and Tim wants to know—what? If she had a crush on him? He twists the friendship bracelet on his wrist, steadies himself. “You were with us every day. Did you ever notice anything—romantic, between Sasha and me?”

“Not really,” Martin says.

“Do you know that, or do you just think it?” Tim asks.

Martin blinks. “What? I—” and then he pauses, as he starts thinking about it. “Oh, that’s weird,” he says, after a moment.

What?” Tim says, and his voice is too much, too desperate.

“It—She—” Martin pauses, takes a deep breath. “It’s hard, thinking of specific events. My mind keeps kind of… sliding away. But I think we used to talk about you?”

“Office gossip?” Tim asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No, not—Sorry. That came out wrong,” Martin says. “Did—She wrote you a poem, didn’t she?”

“Yes! You remember that? Hold on—” Tim turns and returns to his desk, grabbing the poem from where it still rests on top of the box. He hands it to Martin, who smiles softly as he reads it.

“Yeah, I—I helped with this,” Martin says. “She—she wanted advice to make it worse. Which—ouch, but… I knew she wasn’t trying to be mean, you know?”

“Yeah,” Tim says softly. That was Sasha. Harsh without meaning to be, never quite thinking through the implications of her words. “Wait—she wanted it to be bad?”

Martin nods. “She wanted you to laugh, and to tease her about it. I mean, that was basically your love language, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?” Tim asks.

Martin hesitates. “I think so?”

Tim is silent for a long moment, staring at the poem. He twists the bracelet on his wrist again. “Were we a couple?”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe,” Tim repeats. “Jesus.” He sits down at the little table, frowning down at the plastic tabletop. How many times did he eat lunch here with her? “It took her face and her voice, and it can’t—I can’t let it take this. If there was something between us, I have to remember, but—” There’s nothing else he can do, is there? If these memories ever existed, they’re gone now. Stolen by the thing that killed her. He slams his hand against the table. “Damn it!” he says, blinking back tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Tim,” Martin says, softly. Tim just shakes his head, and after a moment Martin leaves.

***

Two days later, Tim sneaks into the Archive early in the morning, and there’s a new tape sitting on his desk. For a long moment, he just stares at it, anger rising in his chest. Was it from Jon? Was Jon trying to contact him, trying to send him on some mission?

No, thanks.

He picks up the tape, planning to drop it in the trash. And then he sees the note underneath it. “Tim—Listen to this!” Martin’s name at the bottom. 

Not creepy or foreboding at all, thanks Martin. Nevertheless, Tim relaxes a little. There’s a recorder on Martin’s desk, and Tim picks it up and pops the tape inside, leaning back in his chair.

The first few minutes are nothing but Martin, reading his poetry. Martin’s poems are fine, but Tim somehow doubts that’s all Martin wanted to show him. He keeps listening. And then—

The creak of a door opening. “Goodnight, Martin!” It’s Sasha’s voice. Her real voice. Sasha.

“How hard is it to knock?” Martin says, sounding pissed. “You always knock when Jon is recording.”

“That’s because Jon is my boss, recording actual work in his office. You’re in a storage closet.”

“… Fair enough,” Martin sighs.

“Speaking of Jon, are you going to make your move any time soon?”

“Wha—no!”

“Boo, why not?”

“Putting aside the fact that he hates me, he’s also my boss.”

“It’s Jon. He doesn’t have any real authority down here and he knows it.”

“Still doesn’t fix the problem where he hates me, does it? What about Tim? Are you going to make your move soon?”

Sasha hums. “I think I’m just going to leave it, actually.”

“Oh come on!”

“I just… I kind of like what we have now? We’re best friends, we share everything with each other, and we go out and get drinks, and—and there’s no expectation involved. Or—no, that’s not the right word. It’s like—you know how friendship can’t really survive romance? There’s too much passion, too much give-and-take, too much change.”

Sasha laughs then. “It sounds so unromantic, put like that,” she says. “Who wants a relationship without passion? But—It feels special. Like we’ve found a way to love each other, gently. Does that—that probably makes no sense, does it?”

“No, I—I think I understand,” Martin says. 

“It’s like we’re teetering between being in a relationship and being best friends, and I feel like if either of us acknowledge it, we’ll be forced to choose, one way or another. And this wonderful thing between us will be destroyed.”

Martin hums. “I kind of think you should talk to Tim about it anyway?”

Sasha lets out a sigh. “Maybe I will,” she says, after a long moment.

And then the tape clicks off. Tim sniffs, wiping at freshly formed tears, and remembers.

***

There was this one night, the two of them laying in bed together, fingers intertwined between them.

They were talking, softly because they were both on the verge of sleep. But Sasha kept making him laugh, and he was so happy. So happy that it didn’t quite fit inside him, so happy that he felt nearly weightless with it.

He brought her fingers up to his mouth, and she sighed softly next to him. And the unspoken thing between them felt so huge, so real, so all-encompassing.

“Sasha James,” he whispered, his voice slurring slightly with sleepiness. “You are going to be the death of me.”

“All according to plan,” she mumbled, rolling over to face him with a sly smile. “I have to earn my membership to the assassin’s guild somehow.” 

He returned her smile. And then he leaned in to kiss her, still holding her hand.

“Are you happy?” she whispered against his lips. And that was a ridiculous question, because he couldn’t stop smiling. He could nearly cry with how happy he was.

“Yes,” he said, and he felt her smile in return.

“Me too.”

[willow-lane]

I saw [WILLOW LANE] at a coffee shop in [BROOKLYN] today. I forgot how much [SHE] looks like [MADELYN CLINE]. They are a [TWENTY-THREE] year old [WAITRESS] who’s been in NYC for [A YEAR] now. Every time we run into each other, they are always [SPONTANEOUS AND FREE SPIRITED] but I’ve heard people say they can also be [NON-COMMITTAL AND SELF-INDULGENT]. [OUT OF THE BLUE BY KATIE PRUITT] reminds me of them every time it comes on the radio. / @villagestart​

Hello everyone! I’m Ella and I’m super excited to be part of this roleplay and introduce Willow to all of you, she’s a new muse but she’s based on an old muse of mine so I think I have her figured out or mostly lol. I’d love to plot with all of you, so please like this or hmu. If you want my discord, I’d be happy to give it to you, just ask :D

basics

NAME: ava willow lane

NICKNAME: will, lolo, pillow

GENDER: cis female

PLACE OF BIRTH: burlington, vermont

DATE OF BIRTH: september 28, 1997

AGE: twenty-three

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: bisexual

OCCUPATION: waitress

NEIGHBORHOOD: brooklyn

background

Burlington was a dream within a dream, the station next to heaven. A town in love with itself and whose residents gloated about the wooded land, creased by hills, and threaded by streams. 

The Lanes were living the typical American dream: the big house with the white picket fence, a large backyard and two perfect children. It was dreamlike.

Their kids could count themselves lucky and Willow Lane certainly did for most of her life. As the youngest daughter of a successful surgeon and a renowned psychotherapist who taught at the University of Vermont, she was taught that receiving an education was the only way to get ahead in life.

Her parents made sure to set their kids to success and while most of the kids from her street were out there playing, she was holed up in her room, reading the stacks of encyclopedia books her parents bought me for her birthday. 

As a young child, Willow was filled with a sense of wonder, and encouraged by her curious personality she wanted to learn everything.

By the time she was in the sixth grade, she was smarter than most of the kids in her class, still her parents reminded her every day that she must outrank them all. Her parents took pride in her achievements. They were quick to boast about it in public, but they remained strict in private. Anything less than gold didn’t deserve a place on the wall.

Her afternoons were always full. Whether it was ballet class, french lessons, piano lessons or soccer practice. She had no time for herself.

Then high school started and by then she was overworked. Tired of chasing perfection and only being met with a “try harder”. 

TW: DRUGS, ADDICTION, VOMIT MENTION, PANIC ATTACK: While she was still number one at her school, it was taking everything in her to keep it that way. Her parents didn’t know about those panic attacks she suffered at night or how she threw up before any competition. To them, she was handling well and she was very good at pretending but she also had a little secret. In her sophomore year, she was introduced to Adderall and she was quickly hooked. END OF TW

When she got accepted into a prestigious university, her parents didn’t hesitate to brag about how their kid would attend an Ivy League but Willow was mortified. 

Back in Burlington, she was the biggest fish in the sea but at Princeton there were students who were better and shone brighter than her. 

Maybe it was because she was suddenly cast into a whole new world that was so different from the one she grew up in. Maybe it was because she had harbored a bit of resentment towards her parents for her wasted youth. Whatever it was, by the end of her freshman year, university had swallowed her up. 

TW ALCOHOL, DRUGS, DEPRESSION She got into a bad crowd, drank herself into oblivion, partied harder than anyone, and developed a penchant for bad boys who were much older than her. All this while trying to maintain a perfect GPA. Thanks to her magic pill, she was able to function and not feel guilty about not being as perfect as her parents wanted her to be. After all, she was only trying to recover the freedom that they took from her. 

But this coping mechanism only turned to worse. The more she tried to drown her feelings in alcohol, the harder it came to bite her in the ass. It was clear as water: Willow Lane, picture perfect daughter, was depressed and had been for a while, and now it had caught up to her. 

She was fighting a battle she was slowly losing. Willow was in a constant state of helplessness, staring into the void, and completely unable to pull herself out of it. If it hadn’t been for the upbringing she had, she would have been completely fine with self-destruct. END OF TW

The summer after her freshman year, she came back home and decided to have a talk with her parents. Her parents sat across the table, and they were not celebrating the end of a successful first semester, instead, they were fuming with betrayal. 

Willow told them that she had dropped most of her classes and she explained to them how she was exhausted beyond repair. They were displeased, so disappointed that looking at them was painful. For the first time in their life, their perfect daughter had failed them.

By the end of the evening, her father was livid. Threatened her that if she didn’t take more classes and got excellent grades he would stop paying her tuition. That’s when it hit her. To her parents, she was nothing but an object, an accomplishment to brag about to her friends. That was not love, that was selfish and a wake up call.

She packed up her stuff that evening, went back to Princeton and emptied her dorm as well as she dropped out completely. 

Freedom at last. With only a few bucks in her account, she bought a random bus ticket that took her to Montreal, Canada where she stayed for a couple of weeks, while working as a waitress before she moved to a new location. For the past three years, Willow has been living off a backpack. 

She moved to New York a year ago, but she comes and goes. Whenever she gets bored or too attached to someone she escapes. 

She’s been clean for three years when it comes to Adderall, although she still drinks but only socially.

personality

Despite her strict upbringing, Willow is a free-spirit! She’s always looking for a new adventure and she wants to live her life to the fullest, she doesn’t care about rules or schedules. She lives a pretty hedonistic lifestyle, always chasing a high in life and sometimes that makes her take some reckless decisions. A naturally loving person, Willow is always there to lend a shoulder to cry on or offer to wipe off your tears, however, she does struggle with connections. If she feels a deep connection with someone she runs away as she believes that being attached to someone will tie her up to one place and as we know, Willow lives a pretty nomad life. She keeps coming back to New York because she loves the vibe but when she gets bored or overwhelmed she leaves without warning. As loving as she is, she can also be ruthless and cold, especially when feeling vulnerable. She has a sharp tongue and it’s not afraid to hurt some feelings if that means shattering the pristine image some people have of her.

headcanons

She has a rib cage tattoo that reads “Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.” It’s a quote from Sylvia Plath.

Speaks French fluently and sometimes she likes to pretend she’s a lost French tourist just for fun.

Volunteers at the animal shelter. Because she doesn’t have a set home, she can’t have a pet but she loves animals.

Never has enough battery on her phone and sometimes she sings in the subway to earn some coins because she tends to forget her wallet.

Really good friends with the homeless woman who lives down her street, she brings her food from the restaurant.

Keeps many scrapbooks from the places she’s been.

Sometimes she goes to music stores and plays the piano, one of the few activities she enjoyed as a child.

Loves reading and whenever she’s not getting in trouble or working, she’s at the library.

Wears too many rings, so don’t try to mug her.

connections

Older brother: Willow has an older brother who followed her parents’ plan. He graduated college and now has a very important job. Willow hasn’t spoken to him in three years, even if he’s tried to contact her. She just doesn’t want any ties to her old life, including her family.

“Best Friend”: I put it between quotations because she doesn’t stay in one place long enough to actually form long lasting friendships but this person is the closest to that. She adores them and actually sends them a postcard when she leaves.

Partner in crime: As stated, Willow is pretty reckless and she does a lot of stupid shit but she’s always seeking for someone to be her partner in crime and just go crazy with them.

Co-workers/Clients: She works as a waitress at a restaurant (if your character has a restaurant let me know, bc idk where she would work). 

Neighbor: She lives in a small apartment in Brooklyn with two other roommates, it’s not ideal but it’s what she has.

College friends/hook ups: Oh during her college year, she was a party girl and she made a lot of “friends” (She attended Princeton btw) and also hooked up with a lot of people (f/m/nb), most of them were older than her.

Flirtationship: She is a natural flirt and she doesn’t even try to hide it.

Unrequited: Maybe your character has a crush on her (and depending on chemistry maybe she does as well but since she moves often she tries to ignore it). It’s angsty, it’s fun, give it to me. (f/m/nb)

Hook ups: Y’all know the drill

Bad tinder date: Willow thought it would be fun to go on a tinder date and she proposed some crazy scheme and they both had to spend the night in a jail cell.

Roommates: She lives in Brooklyn with two more roommates.

[lo-55]

Tilt The Hourglass ch. 6

Maul adjusted the small holster against his hip and pulled his cloak tighter around him.

He never would have pegged Fett as being a tailor, but the mando had pulled out a thread and scissors and hemmed the cloak to fit Maul. It fell until halfway down his thighs, where he had pants and boots now. They hadn’t had the time to get Maul a full flight suit or any armor, but he was clothed at last and his long sleeves even connected to finger-less gloves. 

The dark cloak was pulled tight over his head. On his right hip was a small blaster, and in his new boot was a vibro-knife each. They weren’t lightsabers, but they would do. 

He felt wrong to not have his ‘saber against his hip, especially when they boarded the ship. He could sense them as soon as he stepped on board. The bright light’s of two Jedi, two lights he knew well. Kenobi and Jinn. 

He’d recognized Kenobi as soon as he’d seen him, hovering near the ship and looking like a convict about to be executed. 

As soon as he saw him he knew he had to get on board that ship, with or without Jango. 

This was Kenobi. Tiny, although a head taller than Maul himself, he was barely old enough to be out of their silly little temple. Maul needed to see him again.

Maul didn’t know what he was going to do when he saw him. He didn’t know if he was going to stab him or demand answers that Kenobi certainly wouldn’t have. 

Like what had happened. Two years ago, a bit more now, Maul had died and woken again. Decades in the future Kenobi had cut him down and ended a rivalry that spanned a lifetime. Why? Maul hadn’t been able to find information on it. Not that he could risk looking very hard without tipping off his master, mind. 

Still. 

He still had a scar on his hand, one triangle and one square pointed into his palm. One sith holocron and one jedi. Their voices still echoed faintly in his memory. 

Soon, he needed to take another trip to Malachor. Perhaps this time he could take Young Kenobi with him. The boy wasn't a sith. He didn’t have even the sliver of possibility for it that Ezra had possessed. 

Maul had done his best to make Kenobi Fall, and each time he had failed. Even in the end, Kenobi hadn’t hated him. He’d offered him only kindness. 

There was a reason that Maul had tried to get him to help him stop the rise of the Empire. The two of them were equally the best and worst examples of their respective orders. Between the both of them they could have kept Sidious from becoming emperor. True, Skywalker would have had to die, but Kenobi had lost his master, his lover, and Maul didn’t even know how many others. He would have survived losing his Padawan, if it was for the ‘greater good’ or whatever jedi preached. 

He was a good person. Disgustingly so. 

Malachor was a graveyard for Jedi as much as Sith. Maul could use that to convince him if he really had to. 

Jango gestured to him to follow along. 

Maul didn’t like deferring to anyone, but he would play along for now. It was better than Sidious. 

If Maul had ever met someone worse than him he could not recall. 

The pair boarded the ship just in time to see a young human being assaulted by a hutt, the creature’s fat fingers curled around his throat. 

It took Maul a total of two seconds to realize who it was, and by that time Jango had already closed the distance between them and pulled his blaster. Jango levelled it at the hutt’s head. 

“Let the boy go,” he ordered, his voice level. The Force was muffled through beskar, helmet’s especially, but Maul had spent time enough with Mandalorian’s that even with Jango’s helmet firmly in place he could still feel the anger that rippled through him. 

Mando’s and their children. 

“Hah? Why would I do that? We do not tolerate spies here! This is offworld terf, and we will-” 

“Drop. The. Boy.” 

The hutt eyed the blaster wearily before he tossed the body. 

Right at Maul. 

Maul caught him on instinct. The weight of Kenobi almost knocked him down, but Maul held firm. Had Kenobi always been so much taller than him? 

Maul kept a weary eye on the hutt, and Jango, ready to draw his blaster and fire. He could take four of whiphids before they got within arms length, and Jango could take the rest in that same time. 

The hutt cussed them out and made his leave, with the whiphids following along behind him. 

Maul looked down and froze when he found burning blue eyes staring back up at him. 

Young Kenobi was… not what he’d expected. 

He was tiny, for one thing. Baby faced, with all the puppy fat of youth that Maul, even younger than him, had mostly lost by now. He was thin and gangly the way humans’ were when they were getting ready for a growth spurt, and his hair had never been so red in the future. The last time Maul had seen it it had been almost entirely white. Had he always had freckles? 

Maul didn’t know what he’d expected to find in his rival, but what he found was a kid. 

This was not the padawan that had cut Maul down. This was not the knight that had hunted him half across the galaxy. This was not the hermit that had held his dying body by fire light. 

This was just- 

Obi Wan. 

Blue eyes rolled back in his head and Kenobi dropped in his arms. 

Maul looked up to find Jango with his visor tilted towards the pair. He felt bemused. Maul frowned at him and swung Kenobi over his shoulder’s in a firemen’s carry. 

“Shut up,” he snapped at the mandalorian. 

“I didn’t say a thing.” 

“You didn’t have to. You have a very expressive visor.”  

Jango snorted at Maul’s blunt accusation. 

“Perhaps I do. Let’s see if Clat’Ha has a place we can bunk down and check on your little friend there.” 

“He is not my friend!” 

Jango ignored him entirely and picked his way across the floor to the inside of the ship. There were panels missing and wires spilled out across the metal floors like the guts of a massive beast. 

Maul mentally categorized all of the easy access points, vents, weapons, and potential ambush zones. 

Finally they found Jango’s friend, the human woman in charge of the Arconan Mining Company. She took one look at Kenobi, still limp over Maul’s shoulders with a ring of bruises blossoming around his throat, and marched them into a small closet that served as a medical bay. Apparently mining was a dangerous occupation. Who knew? 

Maul let her take Kenobi from him and lay the boy down on a hard cot before she found a bacta spray and some bandages. A medical droid floated near by and glued a cut on Kenobi’s brow shut. 

“Are you alright?” Jango touched his shoulder. Maul twitched, but didn’t break the hold. He glanced up at the blank visor. 

“Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Worry emanate from Jango, amplified by their contact. 

“It’s not always easy seeing other’s get hurt. Especially ade. Children.” 

Maul squinted up at him. “People get hurt a lot around me,” he said slowly, like Jango was a particularly foolish child. “In case you forgot. I would have shot the hutt dead. Or hit him under his right arm. The third lung located there is close enough to the surface that the right pressure would rupture it and he would choke to death on his own blood. At least that young. An older hutt would be harder without a blaster. They’re very annoying.” 

Clat’Ha stared at him over Kenobi’s body before she looked to Maul’s new ‘care taker’. 

“...Jango what the fuck are you teaching this kid?” 

Before Jango could even defend himself  Maul wrinkled his nose at her. 

“He’s barely had me two days.” 

Maul hadn’t even learned that on Orsis. He’d learned that during his rise as a crime boss for the shadow collective, when he’d been forced to kill a few hutt’s to properly send a message.They would obey him or they would die. Maybe he should start building his criminal empire again. 

There was an idea. 

One for later. He needed resources he didn’t have yet, and Jango was as Mandalorian as they came. They wouldn't let a kid go easily. They would protect younglings with their lives if they had to. 

In retrospect, Maul should have advised Kilindi and Daleen to seek them out. But Sidious might have ripped that information from his mind, so perhaps it was for the best that he didn’t. 

Wherever they were he knew they were okay. Kilindi was resilient and Daleen was intelligent. Maul had faith in them. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t worry about them, or miss them. They were his.    

“Three,” Jango corrected mildly. “You were unconscious for the first one.” 

“Ah, yeah.”

Somehow that only seemed to alarm Clat’Ha more. 

What a strange woman.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Maul couldn't tell if he hated or loved this ship. 

 The ship itself was a hot mess, a wreck waiting to happen and it was probably older than everyone on it combined. It was dark in places where the wires needed replacing, and the whole thing was divided between two mining companies. 

The entire thing was saturated with animosity and hostility, and Maul drank it in. He pulled the distrust and anger out of the air and wrapped it up in a little ball inside his chest for later. It was a technique he’d figured out himself years ago. How to skim off the top emotionally. Theoretically it could be used to take an enemies fighting spirit and enhance an allies, but Maul had never really tried to do that. 

He preferred to enhance himself, and he was an assassin and a warlord more than a general. He fought on his own or in small groups in dark spaces, not in open fields with legions under his command. 

His little trick on Mandalore was an exception.

 Maul was even able to drink up the negative emotions that Jinn released into the Force. Irritation, worry, things that Maul hadn’t noticed when he had faced the man before. It was probably because the crew had misplaced a little jedi and everyone was in a tizzy. 

Maul could have ended the confusion, but where was the fun in that? 

Instead he sat with Kenobi. 

The boy had somehow managed to develope a fever and Jango had insisted that he be watched at all times. He’d woken up while Clat’Ha was with him, and Maul was fetching lunch with Jango. Every Time they saw the hutt’s on board Maul had to physically stop himself from trying to kill the slugs. 

Jango seemed to be able to tell how he felt, even though he was about as close to a Force Null as a man could be, and went out of his way to try and keep him from interacting with them. Outside of food runs it wasn’t hard. They were here for the Arconan Mineral Harvest Company, or whatever they were called, and that meant that they stuck to their side of the ship. 

The jedi master, Jinn, was the same. 

Maul couldn’t help but note that the ‘ever compassionate’ jedi didn’t show up to help Kenobi until his fever lowered the boys mental shields enough that his distress saturated the air in the room. 

When Jinn walked in, Maul stayed perfectly still and watched him go to Kenobi. He lay a hand on the boys brows and did… Something. 

Some jedi thing. Maul watched the fever start to fade and Kenobi’s eyes finally flickered open. 

Blue. Fuzzy and somewhat delirious. 

"H-how?" Kenobi’s voice was hoarse and rough. Maul had the distinct feeling that he was intruding on something here. Strangely, he didn’t care. 

"Don't try to speak," Jinn said quietly, "You've had a bad fever, but I've taken care of it. Your wounds turned out to be worse than initially assumed." 

Maul nearly gagged on the raw hope that floated off of Kenobi in response. "Is it really you?" he asked.  

Qui Gon smiled, the first time Maul had seen such an expression on his face. 

"Yes, it's really me."

“Did you come to look for me?” Obi-Wan asked hopefully. Maul nearly snorted. Well of course. This was his master, wasn’t it? Jedi always came for eachother. They were fools like that. 

(a quiet voiced asked if he would not have gone after Kilindi and Daleen if he could have. If he was not himself intending on going to find Savage.) 

Qui-Gon shook his head. “I‘m on my way to Bandomeer as well. I‘m on a mission for the Galactic Senate. Our missions have nothing to do with each other.”

“Still, we‘re together,” Obi-Wan insisted. His voice trembled with faint hope. “You could show me –”

But Qui-Gon shook his head. 

“No, Obi-Wan, that‘s not why I‘m here. Our destinies lie along different paths. Now is the time for you to get to know the people that you will serve. You must forget about me. You must serve the Jedi in ways other than as a Knight. There is honor in that, too.”

He did not say it cruelly, but it was clear that Qui-Gon‘s words struck Obi-Wan like a blow. He tried to hide it, but his eyes were sad and his shoulders hunched. 

Meanwhile, Maul was reeling. 

Jinn was not Kenobi’s master? Was that why he didn’t have that silly little braid? And, more important, what did he mean Kenobi wouldn’t be a knight? That couldn't be possible! Kenobi was the best of their order, he was the first jedi to beat a sith in combat in centuries, and, at the risk of sounding arrogant, Maul was one of the best trained sith in generations. Sidious, and even his master had never gone out and tested themselves against actual Jedi the way Maul had. Even before his dual with Jinn he’d already begun his head count. He had more true combat experience than the both of them, and it infuriated him in ways he couldn't even begin to describe that he still lost to Sidious. 

How could Kenobi not be a knight? It didn’t make sense. 

Was this how it had happened before? Or had Maul and Jango’s presence somehow changed Kenobi’s padawanship? 

Maul hadn’t done much to change the events of the world besides try to stop the massacre at Galidraan. Besides that he had only been at Orsis, and then Mustafar. 

Maul, barely more than a shadow pressed into the corner of the wall, watched numbly while an arconan shyly made his way into the room and introduced himself to Kenobi. Apparently word travelled fast on the ship, and the arconan miner’s had decided that Obi Wan was as much a hero as Maul and Jango for stranding up to the Hutts. 

Not that Kenobi had done much besides get strangled and struck. He even said as much. 

“Well, sit down and introduce yourself,” Obi-Wan said at last, waving the Arconan closer.. “In this

place, I need all the friends I can get.” 

“It seems you are in luck, then,” Jinn said with a mild nod towards Maul. Kenobi’s head whipped around, apparently seeing Maul for the first time. Yellow eyes met blue evenly. He would not look away from this boy. Kenobi looked away first, to the arconan. 

“Our name is Si Treemba,” the Arconan said, perching on a chair. The room was getting crowded. “We know yours is Obi-Wan Kenobi. We would be honored to be your friend.”

When attention turned to him again, he said simply, “Maul.” 

Maul could see the question on Kenobi’s lips, but he didn’t get to ask it. The door to sickbay slid open. Clat‘Ha strode in with an impatient expression, and Jango at her side. He made quite the impression. Jinn’s shoulders tightened and his hand drifted closer to the lightsaber at his hip. . 

“Good, you‘re here,” she said to Si Treemba, who scrambled to his feet. 

Clat’Ha turned to Jinn grimly. “We have a problem,” she said crisply. “Someone has been tampering with our equipment. Young Si Treemba here discovered it on a routine inspection. We have three Arconan tunneling machines in stock, and all three have been sabotaged.” 

“How so?” Qui-Gon asked.

Si Treemba stepped forward. “The thermocoms that monitor the tunnelers‘ hull temperature have been removed, sir. And the coring couplers have been rigged so that they will not disengage.”

Maul didn’t know mining equipment well, but he recognized most of the words. Thermocoms were used on certain stealth ships entering high density atmosphere’s to avoid blowing up when coming in quick and fast. If the ships overheated they would blow. He imagined that the drills did the same thing. 

Then a hutt arrived, and the whole situation turned into a not-so-passive-aggresive show down between Jinn, the Hutts, Clat’Ha and Jango. 

Maul watched it with growing irritation. All their problems would be solved if someone would just kill the hutt. He was guilty and everyone knew it. 

But the jedi wouldn’t do such a thing. 

Maul rolled his eyes when all that came of the argument was hot tempers and bland accusations of specism. Clat’Ha ran off to find her miner’s, with Jango in tow. He shot Maul a look that clearly said ‘stay out of trouble’. One Maul promptly ignored. 

Qui-Gon shook his head sadly. 

“There is a strong hatred between those two. Neither of them will listen.”

Listen to what? Maul rolled his eyes under his hood. The hutt was crooked and after power and the human was probably little better. A touch more concerned about her people maybe, and she hadn’t tried to get Jango to shoot him in the head, even if it would have been easier. 

Joy. Morals. 

“I don‘t understand,” Obi-Wan said. “Why did you let the Hutt go? He may be innocent of the crime of which he has been accused. But I‘m sure he‘s guilty of others.”

“Yes, he‘s guilty,” Qui-Gon agreed. “But Clat‘Ha has her defender. As Jedi, we are bound only to defend those who have no other means of defense.”

It was all Maul could do not to laugh outright. He had seen jedi become generals. What would Jinn have done if he saw their precious defenders of peace fight a war and send men to die on their behalf. 

“Still, one of Jemba‘s crew has to have sabotaged those tunnelers. Why doesn‘t he try to find out who did it?” Obi-Wan asked.

Qui-Gon answered, “Because if one of Jemba‘s men did do it, it will make him look bad before the miners‘ guild. He might be ordered off Bandomeer permanently. He knows that, so he won‘t point any fingers at his own.”

“Ah,” Si Treemba said. “And Clat‘Ha must feel the same. If anyone learned that one of her workers tried to frame Jemba, the miners‘ guild would be furious.”

“But it shouldn‘t be to hard to find out who really sabotaged the tunnelers,” Obi-Wan pointed out excitedly. His eyes were bright with a spark of determination in them. 

Qui-Gon cocked an eyebrow. “This is not your affair,” he warned. “If you went looking for those thermocoms, all you would find is trouble. You must stay out of it. And stay away from the Offworld side of the ship. You‘re not fully recovered yet, Obi-Wan.”

Qui Gon left the trio in the infirmary. 

“...so we’re going, right?” Maul asked without being prompted. He looked at Obi Wan, who did look a bit sheepish. 

“We’ll need to search anywhere a thermocom could be.” 

“They’re small,” Si Treemba said helpfully, and held up his hands to display their size. 

“It won’t be too hard to search most of the ship, but the hutts will make it hard when we get closer to them. Best leave those ones to me, little jedi,” Maul advised. 

“But, I hardly know you. I couldn't ask you to do such a thing.” 

“You’re not asking, and I’m not giving you a choice. Shut up and start looking on this side of the ship, before your master finds out what you’re doing and scolds you.“

Kenobi’s gaze became downcast. “He is not my master. I am not his apprentice, nor am I duty bound to obey him.” 

Maul started to grin. He’d never expected such a rebellious streak from him. Maybe there was hope for the little jedi yet, when he was still this young. 

“Then fuck him. Let’s go to work.” 

Kenobi gaped at him while Maul stood and, with practiced ease, pulled a vent free and vanished inside of it. 

[cyndecreativity]

Zodiac Chronicles - Trouble in Tauri - Ch. 1

Trampled paths carved through a thin layer of snow in two opposite directions, converging on a small schoolhouse that rested by a stream. The wider path led between a pair of farms and into the village proper a few miles off. The smaller path consisted of only one set of very large tracks, boot prints of an unusual size, that led to the small stream and back to the door. Tristan eyed his large tracks as he closed the schoolhouse door and hoped the midday sun might melt the snow enough to obscure them.

Tristan backed away from the door and turned slowly, careful not to bump his horns on the doorframe or any of the other students. The villager children paid him no mind, hanging their heavy woolen coats, hats, and other cold weather gear on the hooks in the mudroom. Several of the girls even seemed happy to see each other, giggling and shrieking with glee, leaning to whisper conspiratorially as they headed to their seats.

The young ones, the calves, moved awkwardly, as calves do, and climbed onto the benches to hang their scarves and hats up. Some preferred to stuff their things into the bins below the benches. After the removal of their hats, one of the calves became surrounded. Tristan just barely made out their young pronunciations of shock and amazement at the nubs protruding from the center one’s scalp. It would be several years for the nubs to turn into anything even resembling horns, but with the arrival of the nubs, that calf become the coolest and most mature among the herd. He reflected on his brief moment of approval when his nubs arrived. And struggled to forget the subsequent frustration and terror from his peers as the nubs grew larger and longer than normal.

Struggling against the memory, Tristan frowned and dropped off his gear on his half of the mudroom. The boys of the class lingered to remove their gear. Ladies first, as the manners say, and the calves have little sense of propriety. Tristan gathered his materials for class, plus an ancient Herbology almanac.

“We didn’t think you’d make it today, Jorgus. Are you okay? What happened to your father?” Tristan’s ear perked up at the voice of one of the other boys.

“Doesn’t really concern you, does it, Seamus.” A thud as the Jorgus, a gangly bull with fresh horns in his brown hair, threw his bag down on the bench under his hook.

Tristan turned and watched Seamus, a sturdy young bull with black hair and a square jaw, furrow his brow. “I’d think it concerns all of us! The attacks have been happening more often, yeah? And with all our Dads-”

Jorgus growled and tilted his head, jerking his horns with agitation. “Seamus, just drop it, okay?”

Seamus shared a look with the other boys, Jorgus’s usual group, and nodded. “We’ll… catch up on the way home, then?” He did his best to sound optimistic.

Tristan watched the boys turn away one by one to leave Jorgus to finish. Mortimer, the youngest among them, his hair still almost white, received a light whack from one of the other boys. Jorgus turned to check on their departure and caught Tristan’s prying eye. He sneered and tilted his horns at him. Tristan started and jerked back to his own preparations.

Part of him wished he could walk home with those boys, to make a group of friends and… do whatever friends do together. He wished he could talk about the orchard with them, about the plants along the path, about their crops, and the state of their land. He wanted to make friends his own age. But he knew how he looked, how they all looked more like his younger siblings. Not just because of his incredible size, but the older Lunars, those that heard the voices, told him he had aged far too quickly, gaining a few years in a few months as a babe. Blessed by the Spirits, they called it. He called it a curse.

He took the last bench at the table in the back left of the large open schoolhouse. This area in the back typically held the eldest students, the ones closer to the front reserved for the younger calves, or most in danger academically. He held the bench in the back for years simply due to his size, too large to sit anywhere else in the room. He might block the view of the other students was the official reason, but mostly he took up a desk and a half on a good day.

Unbidden, he remembered vividly the pain in his chest the day the girl he typically sat next to, perhaps eleven at the time, had complained before class that he had crushed her hand when attempting to use his ink and bone splinter. He barely remembered swinging his arm out far enough to touch her. The teacher had simply calmed the girl down and offered him the bench in the back. As he moved, he watched the girl’s best friend eagerly move up to take his seat with no objections from the teacher. He sat in the middle of the bench and spread out comfortably over the two-desk wide table. He felt his size for the first time and tears stung at his eyes. He looked up as Miss Shaunessy moved to the blackboard and continued with class, though not without offering an apologetic smile. That remained his table for the following four years.

The aging Taurus woman, not old, but not as young as she used to be, walked down the center aisle of the classroom. Wrinkles threatened at the corners of her eyes, a few locks of silvery hair threaded into her hair buns under each horn. She assessed the youngest calves first and shot harsh glances to the gossiping girls as he walked by. At the head of the room once again, she smiled to the class and listed off her plans for lessons that day. Calves first, as their attention span dwindled as it grew toward lunch, then the higher education lessons for the older children.

As the drone of the teacher buzzed in the back of Tristan’s ears, his mind drifted to the work left in the orchard. Wasps had moved into a section of the trees that he would need to discourage from the area. An increasingly common occurrence, but nothing difficult. Fruits and flowers had been scattered under a few trees, easy enough to clean up and add to the compost bin. With the shorter days of the season, he pondered how much light he would have to work with. He opened his almanac and started to thumb absently through the pages, scanning the detailed diagrams as they passed. He paused on a page and studied the flora depicted. It had to be the flower that appeared at the edge of the grove a few days ago. He tugged a sheet of parchment out of his bundle and dipped his bone into the ink well on his desk to scribble the page number down.

At midday, the teacher encouraged them to take lunch outside, the sun shining brightly for long enough to raise the temperature a few degrees. Tristan hesitated in the mudroom as the others filed out with their bundles. When no chuckles or insults found their way to him, he peeked outside and found the ground moist with melted snow. He heaved a small sigh of relief, forced into a sharp exhale as Jorgus elbowed him out of the way. Tristan straightened up to allow the boy and his friends passage.

Tristan turned back to his things and caught sight of the Mayor’s daughter, Isolde, watching him. He furrowed his brow to her, a simple unspoken question. She stiffened, blushed, and turned back to her things to hastily throw her scarf over her head. It caught in her little female horns, the movement too fast or still not used to her horns’ length. The flush moved to her ears as she disentangled the knitted muffler to drape around her neck. He chuckled quietly, despite himself, as she hurried outside with her wrapped bundle of food. Tristan returned to his desk to eat his salad in peaceful loneliness.

Dismissal usually marked a feeling of relief among the students as they darted from their desks and gathered their things. Today, however, the girls from that morning gathered together to whisper again, pointing to Jorgus occasionally. Tristan slowly gathered his books and papers and lifted his inkwell to stopper it.

“I told you to drop it!” Jorgus’s voice filled the small building, startling and quieting the girls for a moment.

His friends, the group of boys around his age, shrunk away again. Tristan looked down to his desk, dotted with splatter from his inkwell, and pressed the stopper in. A bin under the bench in the mudroom held the spare cloths to clean spills with. He lifted his eyes back to the scene as the girls’ whispers grew again. Jorgus unceremoniously scooped up his things before Miss Shaunessy could approach him.

Seamus, Mortimer, Geremiah, and Brandon followed him to the mudroom. Tristan rounded the wall that separated his desk from the mudroom and crouched down to seek the box of throwaway cloth under the bench.

“Oh, and students! Please do not forget to travel in a herd as you head directly home.” A few of the students groaned. “I’m just telling you what I’ve been told, sweetings. They also emphasized not being out after dark. Winter has shorter periods of sun, which means you will have less time to dally. And there is always safety in numbers.” Miss Shaunessy sauntered the length of the classroom as she spoke to fix Jorgus with a particularly intense gaze. He sneered. She turned around and caught sight of Tristan. “Oh, Tristan, I noticed you weren’t paying very close attention during lectures today. Did you need help with anything I covered today?”

He shook his head. Miss Shaunessy noticed far more things than the previous teacher. He grabbed a cloth stained with spots of paint and ink and stood to shake the fabric to her with a hopefully gentle smile.

As he stretched to his full height, she leaned back slightly to keep her eyes on his, but she did not show any fear. She merely smiled back and patted his arm. She shifted out of his way and walked with him the few steps back to his desk. “You don’t have anyone to head home with, do you, dear?”

He shook his head. A silly question.

She nodded. “You do live alone on the other side of those woods… Would you like me to go ask for an escort for you?”

His brow furrowed.

An uneasy smile crossed her face, a mix between nervous amusement and worry. “No, I suppose you’re big enough to handle most things on your own. But you’re still just a boy, despite outward appearances. I just want to make sure you’re taken care of, is all.”

His breath hitched. He vowed to pay more attention to her lectures.

“You mean someone was attacked last night!?” A brown-haired girl with the smallest horns in the group lifted her fist to her chin, brow knit.

Evelynn, the blonde ringleader of the girls and owner of the largest horns, nodded as she made her way to the mudroom. “Isn’t it just awful? And the attacks are getting more frequent. That’s why they want us to walk in herds now.” She gestured to a pair of girls, both younger, as they scrambled for their things. “You heard that right, calves?”

The two girls, Flora and Aishling, chorused a “Yes, sissy!” and proceeded to haphazardly don their layers of clothing. The youngest children moved quickly, faster than their teenage counterparts, thanks to the small growths on their heads not yet formed into horns. Evelynn rolled her eyes and continued on to her hook to don her own set of weather gear. Miss Shaunessy smiled absently at the children and patted Tristan on the arm before wandering back toward her desk.

“But my father told me it was-“ Evelynn glanced at the group of boys across the mudroom and whispered loud enough for them to hear. “-Jorgus’s father that was attacked last night.”

The girls shared a gasp with varying reactions of surprise.

“You keep my name out of your dirty mouth, Evelynn!” Jorgus burst through his group of friends, finger pointed sharply at the ringleader of the gossipers.

Miss Shaunessy stopped in the middle of the building by the firepit. She shared a look with the mayor’s daughter Isolde still at her desk as she turned around. Tristan dropped the rag on his desk and moved into the mudroom. He had no intention of intervening, but his size intimidated most folk, forcing cool heads to arguments.

Evelynn swatted his hand away as she crossed her arms, big brown eyes glaring daggers into him. Her friends fanned out around her to cross their arms at Jorgus, though not all of them had their heart in it. One girl stayed behind, the brown-haired one, and glanced at Tristan.

Jorgus narrowed his dark eyes at Evelynn, his head tilted to brandish his longer and sharper horns at the girls. His friends, too surprised at his actions, took a few moments to step in beside their friend to brandish their horns, smaller than Jorgus’s but still as harmful if used properly.

Evelynn did not appear fazed, thought the tremble of her voice betrayed her. “My father told me that yours was injured last night while they were hunting. He said they had to take him to the doctor because his injuries were so severe.”

All the posturing broke. Whispers of “The Doctor?” moved through both groups, each losing their members to gossip, conjecture, and fear.

“He’s fine. He’ll be home by dinner tonight and tomorrow we’ll work on tilling the land.” Jorgus cracked his neck.

Evelynn’s lip curled. “Everyone knows that the no one comes back from seeing the Doctor.” She grinned, confident in her victory.

Jorgus tilted his head the other way. “Well my dad isn’t everyone else. The doctor told me himself that Pa would be back by tonight.”

Miss Shaunessy stepped slowly down the center aisle toward the two little herds of teens. She caught Tristan’s eye and nodded at him to step down. He lowered his shoulders and stepped back a bit, but remained ready in case Jorgus made the wrong decision.

Just as Miss Shaunessy entered the mudroom, the energy between the herds changed. Evelynn rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Young bulls and their posturing.” She grabbed her things and stormed out the door into the chilly winter air. “Come on, girls!”

Most of the girls shot hateful looks as they grabbed their things quickly to follow Evelynn. Maeve, the brown-haired one, moved slowly to grab her things and hesitated at the door. Jorgus relaxed slightly and straightened his head to glare at her. Maeve squeaked and disappeared through the door.

Jorgus growled and stalked back to his desk. His small herd of friends stayed in the entrance and moved to begin dressing in their jackets and scarves. Isolde hesitated, but returned to packing up her things. Miss Shaunessy heaved a small sigh and trotted down the center aisle back to her desk.

Tristan furrowed his brow. Only Miss Shaunessy, Jorgus, and Isolde remained in the schoolhouse building. He hoped, despite his own solitude, that Jorgus or Isolde had a group to walk home with. Especially if the monster sightings proved to be true. He hoped that Jorgus’s father recovered and that Evelynn’s gossip proved to be only that. But in the case that Tristan’s hope had no basis in reality, he knew the only tangible thing to do. He knew the only thing he wanted his whole life.

“Uh, hey, Jorgus.” Tristan lifted a large hand to wave awkwardly to the young man.

Jorgus jumped at Tristan’s low timbre and backed away, eyeing him up and down as he jammed a few scraps of paper in his bag. “What do you want, cullbait?”

Tristan’s brow furrowed despite being used to the insult. “I just… uh, wanted to tell you that… um, I’m sorry about your father. I know how… how difficult it is to-to worry about your father and, uh… I guess you’re the man of the house while he’s injured. A-and at least you still have your-your mother and your little siblings-“

Jorgus’s mouth lifted in disgust as Tristan rambled, his cheeks lifted to squeeze his eyes into a narrow, his brow furrowed. “What are you rambling about?” He thrust the last of his items into his satchel.

Tristan lifted a hand to the shaft of his horn to grip it and rub absently, a habit from when they had hurt growing in. “If… If you need any help-“

Jorgus spun on the larger boy. “Help!? From you?” He dropped his satchel on the desk. “I can’t believe you haven’t gotten it through that thick skull of yours that nobody even wants you here.” He scoffed. “We’d want your ‘help’ even less.”

Isolde tightened the leather strap on her stack of books and papers. “Jorgus-“

Jorgus shook his head and turned to her, poking a finger at her face. “No, not even from you. Mayor’s daughter, as if that excludes you from suffering like the rest of us. I heard your father is sick. From that plague. The one from before. That it’s coming back.” He looked back to Tristan. “I also heard it’s your fault. You and that foreigner father of yours. Your mother knew about it and cast a spell to protect your land, but nobody else’s. That’s why you’re safe. And we’re not.”

Tristan’s arms quivered. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should’ve just gone home, alone, like every night. He closed his eyes and gripped his horn tighter, his other arm lifted to cover his torso.

“And then you have the nerve! You continue living here, coming to this school, as if you have any right!” Jorgus tilted his head down to brandish his horns again. “You and your father should be driven out of town!”

A sharp pain on his arm startled Tristan. Blood blossomed on the arm over his torso.

“Tristan!” Miss Shuanessy bolted for the scrap fabric Tristan dropped onto his desk.

Jorgus, stunned, raised a hand to touch his horn. It came back red. He shook his head, he muttered something, and grabbed his satchel. Isolde hurried around the desks and stumbled as Jorgus pushed past her to run from the building.

“Come here, poor boy.” Miss Shaunessy pressed the fabric to Tristan’s arm. “That boy… He may be a handful but ever since his horns grew out the way they did…” She looked to Tristan’s face. “Don’t take it too personally. Like you said, he’s having a rough go of it. It was nice of you to try to connect with him and offer to help out.”

Isolde hovered by the edge of the row. Tristan looked to her, chest empty. He never should’ve tried. He knew what the town thought of him and his father. He knew better. Tears welled in his eyes and he pressed his hand to the cloth. Miss Shaunessy released him with the promise of salves or something, but Tristan had to get out. He had to go home.

He moved back to his desk and found Isolde holding his satchel, all packed and tied and ready. He barely registered the act, how she had moved so fast, and accepted his bag. He dropped the fabric and satchel to slip into his weather gear. A stray thought reminded him to be careful of the wound bleeding through his jacket as he only had the one. He growled. All because the town hated him. All because of a stupid rumor.

He grabbed his bag and ripped the door open. The sun had indeed melted all the snow outside, revealing moist and brittle grass. A few groups of kids lingered and chatted as they headed back toward the village. Jorgus’s little herd had waited for him, despite his protestations, and crowded him to point at his bloodied horn.

Tristan’s blood. He stomped down the short stairs. “All I wanted was to help, Jorgus Jones!”

Jorgus spun around at the voice. Terror pulled at his features at the massive bulk of Tristan charging toward him. He whipped back around and moved swiftly for the path that lead back to town.

Tristan growled. He wanted to stop him, to make him understand, to hold him responsible for injuring him. So many emotions threatened to split him open. “Everyone should be allowed to help each other! We’re a community! That’s what it means to be a community!” In his frustration, he looked to the rest of the students that have lingered to gawk.

A loud thud drew everyone’s attention. All eyes turned to Jorgus, groaning on the ground, a large root split through the soil at his feet. He writhed a bit and got to his hands and knees. A shrill chuckle can be heard from further up the path. Tristan caught Evelynn through the blur of his tears, hand in front of her mouth, as she laughed at the unfortunate bull. The rest of her group chuckled, one by one, with varying degrees of mirth. The laughter spread through the rest of the students, including Jorgus’s little herd. He grunted as he stood and bolted down the path, past Evelynn and her friends.

Tristan sniffed and continued to wipe his face, the cold winter air unpleasant on the slight moisture around his eyes. He slipped his satchel over his shoulder and checked the sleeve of his coat. A chill wind whipped past him and his hands hurt. He left his other accessories in the building. He turned around to head back inside and almost bowled over Isolde.

“Oh! Excuse me, Tristan.” She smiled brightly to him, in an uncomfortable way he could not place.

He barely nodded and attempted to move past her.

She gently placed a hand on his arm. He froze, eyes on the contact. He recognized her mitten, knitted by his father some winters ago and sold by the village seamstress Ciara. His brow furrowed. Her other mitten lifted to offer him his forgotten accessories; mittens similar to hers, a long scarf knitted by his father with a less intricate design, and a warm knitted cap that he tied around his horns. He muttered a thank you and dropped his sack on the ground to don the accessories.

She held his items as he donned them individually. “I agree with you, by the way.” He lifted his eyes to her. “We should be allowed to help each other, as a community. I think it’s just awful that we are so discriminatory to those that are sick and injured. Or who have been in the past.”

He nodded absently. Paranoia and fear shook his fingers. He looked up to the rest of the students, those that lingered, and found hateful glares. Isolde, the mayor’s daughter, held high regard among the town, high enough that even her father’s illness did not dull her priority among them. To find her speaking to him? He snatched his scarf and easily tossed it over his horns to drape from his shoulders.

Before she could continue, he hurriedly wandered away from her, down the path to the thick row of trees that separated his orchard from the school. He barely heard Isolde sputter after him, the crunch of dead plantlife under her boots with a few steps. He heard the whispers of the other students, however, and quickened his step. He should know better. And so should Isolde.

[verarians]

A/N : A SMALL ONESHOT OF KIMNAMJOON AND READER A RANDOM AND SPECIAL NIGHT

WARNING: NONE! FLUFF AND CUTE SCENARIO

WORD LIMIT :1,309

UPCOMING UPDATES: MAYBE, MAYBE NOT ^^

SOME WORDS: ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE APPARENTLY ITS MY 3rd, ALSO AM NOT A PROFESSION WRITER (LEARNER) IT WAS AN IDEA LINGERING IN MY MIND FROM LONG AGO ,MAYBE A CRINGE ONE BUT I TRIED THAT WHAT BASICALLY MATTERS, RIGHT?

HOPE YOU ENJOYYY!!!

Never in our 2 months  of dating ,I had ever acknowledged him so much overstraining.Yes he used to be in his study for work but never locked himself for hours. His hard work and diligence always impersonates me but that  doesnt mean I will let  him sacrifice his mental health tho  i doubt  if he reciprocates my feelings or not but keeping it aside i still care for him. Just like that  first day I saw him in the library , to the day I confessed my affection  towards  him, to till date, with every passing moment my fondness  becomes tenfold for him, his charismatic characters and breathtaking beauty never  fails to give me sudden mini attacks here and there and maybe  that's  why  I can't  see  him like this. 

The chaos running in his mind throughout which it is difficult for him to share with anyone makes me feel like I am the guilty one. With every  passing time his tensed face  makes me think of ways to  help forgetting them. The common link which may be helped in surviving this frivolous relationship was our Ideologies  but for quite sometime I had seen it to be distinct too. Those delicate threads which were initially thought  to be bonded together like a rope are now tangled between solitude and inplace replaced with utter silence.

______________________________

 I'm back ! and I will be in my study, he said in a monotonous  voice without sparing a glance at me.Same one line I have been listening  to for the past one week but this time I quickly reached his hand and started dragging him to our shared bedroom. 

No. I said keeping my hands on my waist.

Huh? he asked slightly  confused by my abrupt behaviour and waited for me to continue explaining 

We are going somewhere so freshen up

But where?

To lost in night

His dissatisfaction was clearly visible but just shrugged it off

______________________________

His mouth was hung open in the vivid scenario. The tinted dots scattered all around , it felt like they were playing a monopoly of brightness. The gleaming stars hanging around with the moon, fliring sparks and ethereal beauty but for me his unstressed face with  a line of relief was enough to give me high spirits for tonight

Can we just drop the idea.. he asked

And instead  stay here? i cut him off  in between and asked raising my one brow

To get lost in night . he asked in hope i would  go with his statements, he was curious for my answer and impatiently waited for me to speak tho he didn't  utter a word his eyes and lips showed a pleading look to say yes unaware of the fact that it was exactly what I planned for.

Yeah, that's  what we are here for. I said casually, shrugging my shoulders.

Really ? How do you know I love stargazing?

His mercurial swings give me goosebumps, did he forget that we are dating and i'm head over heels for him tho he didn't  confess but is he too blind to notice that my heart aches when he cries and my heart flutters a beat when he flashes  that dimple smile. He should know that I know each thing  that my love loves. Keeping it aside I looked at him and tried  my best to keep a smile and said

It's all in the mind, now let's go. Nodding he followed me.

Okay, now remove your shoes. I said unbuckling mine.

What? Are you sure? He was dissatisfied  and frowned.

Of course walking barefoot helps rejuvenate and calm the senses and mind. You need to avoid stress and stay relaxed so stop whining KIM NAMJOON  and do as I say. He was taken aback by my sudden outburst but I couldn't care less. I know he will never love  himself half as much as I do and he would never treat himself  right, maybe because of his insecurities or maybe because  of his toxic ex. Whatever the reason is I couldn't  let him suffer alone, he must know that unlike in the past he has me directly or indirectly i will try to be a pillar  of strength for him.

Earth to Aera! he said, waving his hand in front of my face.

Oh! I am sorry I spaced out". He chuckled at my response  and held my hand and interlocked his fingers with mine. My embarrassed face became flushed red and I shook my head  down to avoid his gaze.

"Don't say that you are shy!? we are freaking dating Aera" he asked or told me with his so called 'am shocked and hurt' reaction

" Wait? What? Shy ? And me?" I squinted my eyes in disbelief. 

"Ya i felt like that only" he said staring straight into my eyes

"Then your feelings deceive you because I love you so much Namjoon. I can never be shy or embarrassed  to hold you in your worst" I said and suddenly realized what a mess I made. Glancing towards him I found that he was looking away, peering at the stars.

"Namjoon". I softly called his name , putting a hand on his shoulder. " Look at me Joon"

"why?" he asked with watery eyes. I tilted my head in confusion 

"Why do you love me so much even though  you are aware that I can't  reciprocate your feelings, your love and your affection. Why don't.. why don't  you just leave me and find someone who loves you, who cherishes you not someone like me, worthless, useless"

"shh". I kept my palm on his mouth to avoid saying any further. 

"The fact that we all have flaws and imperfections but it doesn't mean we don't  deserve to be loved and I. I love you" I didn't realise when a tear rolled down my cheeks. I wiped my tears and looked  at him, " What can be stronger than that relation in which one's tears are shredded from another's eye". He hugged me tightly, putting his head on my crook of neck. "I love you too, Aera. Am worst in expressing  but I really do, please never leave me." His words came out as a muffled sound but still they blew my mind."Never ever i will stay here forever, I promise" He broke the hug and gave me his iconic dimple smile.

[monkey-network]

Why Sam & Max IS the Best

Seing a vid by B- Mask on The Devil’s Playhouse and honestly, it made me think a lot about how Sam & Max essentially got everything it wanted as a franchise. For a long time, after playing the third and final Telltale season, I’ve been craving for a season 4; at least one more season after a long time to just give the dog & rabbit an easy string of adventures like old times. But after seeing that video and remembering the beautiful story that was Sam & Max's third season, it made me realize how much the duo was able to offer over the decades and how Telltale’s third season was a definitive send-off. Call this a big brained take, expanding on that video, but to me Sam & Max is what would’ve happened if Calvin & Hobbes was marketed outside its comic strip. 

If you know the latter’s history, you’ll know that Bill Watterson had a strict rule against Calvin & Hobbes being merchandising beyond its comics or continuing in any way after the final comic in ���95. “This isn't as hard to understand as people try to make it. By the end of ten years, I'd said pretty much everything I had come there to say. [...]  I've never regretted stopping when I did.” I’ve always admired Bill’s stance on this, especially after seeing my declining interest in stuff like The Simpsons where I’ve realized that sometimes a good thing doesn’t need to exist all the time, less it becomes a zombie of its former self. With that in mind, it’s amazing that Sam & Max managed to not adhere to Bill’s philosophy yet be able to have the most simple yet cleanest franchises I’ve seen in history.

It was in 1987 when the comics started, a pulp detective comedy centered around the duo basically doing whatever they want to both stop the bad guy in question and get a laugh from the audience. They’re vigilantes at best, antagonists at worst where while they aren’t total monsters, they’ll gladly treat anyone and anything they see as a part of their playground. From the beginning, Sam & Max are kinda the Rick Sanchezes of the late 80s if Rick was more casual and optimistic about not giving a shit. The comic as a whole is actually not big in content, but engagingly dense in what it offers. With lots of cockroaches cuz I guess a bug really had an impact on Purcell. It was clever, happily mean-spirited, sometimes dark, and after 6 years of making the comic, we soon got the biggest hit that is... 

Hit the Road honestly was the key to Sam & Max’s popularity. During the era of Point ‘n Click Adventures, it was the most fitting game genre in existence for the characters. Exploration was always Sam & Max’s forte, their special sauce of the comics outside the duo’s chemistry and bizarre encounters, so to center a game around a cross country road trip where the two fuck around in order solve a case is sheer brilliance. It of course captures the style of the comics, only in bright colors but the most memorable voice acting. This was where they had more of a voice. The game’s popularity would lead to them getting a cartoon which I say works well differently...

While Hit the Road was about the duo interacting with the world around them, the cartoon more adapted the comics where it was about the two getting in different situations; a day in the life if you will. For only 24 episodes, they certainly made the most of adapting the easy going yet absurd aspect of the comics for a younger audience. I mentioned before in a review long ago that it’s Freakazoid’s Pulp Fiction and it still holds up as such, where with this and Hit the Road, it’s credulous to believe that Sam & Max always worked better animated. To get the verbal and lively reaction of our duo is as equally compelling if not more than the subtler yet static page of a comic. And while it’s still a shame that while both the animated series and LucasArts got shut down, the new Telltale Games would pick up the slack and give us the next round of content. 

Season 1 and 2 of the Telltale series go hand in hand where they shrink the scale of Hit the Road in favor of having one off adventures all tied to one big final boss at the end. Many have called them repetitive but I say they work well for they are, with the dialogue and special moments picking up for what could be considered formulaic by design. It’s still Sam & Max, only made a little easier to enjoy the story more. While I wish I could say this for Bone, it was these games that put Telltale on the map; what they were known for in the early era. As such, it’s sad to say that when the third season rolled out, looking back now, Sam & Max was truly reaching its end.

The Devil’s Playhouse is the biggest S&M adventure, one the developers were plotting to make the whole time. While each episode has a different style and scenario, everything plays to one continuous story where for the first time in this series’ history, our duo are actually challenged. Max isn’t just the sidekick, he’s both a playable character in the game and a huge target thanks to his newfound importance. This makes Sam show more concern than usual where the idea of losing his best friend can leave him feel irrelevant to devastated. While the two still fire off jokes at each other and others as usual, there’s the looming threat of them being forced apart; the real antagonist is the story’s increasing rift between Sam and Max. The Devil’s Playhouse essentially dissects the franchise’s heart, finally putting the two’s friendship through the wringer to a point of no return. It all somehow makes sense, both Max’s reality warping ability and Sam as a character on his own especially with the 4th episode. Not everything about the duo is revealed, but enough was where I unfortunately have to repeat that Sam & Max was “at its end”.

Before, our duo literally went to hell and back, fought a variety of monsters and villains, and have bent reality to their will countless times. The two could go on many absurd adventures as possible afterward, but where can you go when you finally rattle the core of the franchise? Devil’s Playhouse ties up not only loose threads for fans of the previous seasons, but flips the script on what the series has built overall. There were a couple times beforehand where the comical shtick was dropped and things got serious for the duo, but they weren’t as climactic and revealing as the third season. As good as it sounds to reboot the series, since the season ends on an optimistic note, to return back to Watterson’s words. “I said pretty much everything I had come there to say.” We got two games with Sam and Max making irreverent cameos and later merch, but The Devil’s Playhouse is otherwise the last we truly see of the two. No official talks of a comeback and for what it's worth, that’s enough.

I brought up the Calvin and Hobbes comparison because Sam & Max is where I say if Bill decided to market the comic, this is what the best outcome would be. From the comics to the games, not only have they got a sense of clean finality but every step of the way, Steve Purcell was there to handle it. Beyond the cartoon getting toned down for obvious reasons, it never felt like Sam & Max was warped to please execs or turn into something unfamiliar. Steve’s vision got to exist through and through with The Devil’s Playhouse being the best finale. Purcell’s moved on and with Telltale’s sour shutdown, I’m not sure how S&M could come back. It’s impossible to think of how this could’ve ended like The Simpsons, Garfield, Spongebob, etc, but it feels like bonafide luck that we got Sam & Max as is. It’s not the biggest comic or video game franchise around, but I can never argue that it’s a franchise that stayed true to itself all the way. I'll never know what the future holds for Sam & Max, if there truly is one anymore, but I at least have some belief that it’ll be there for our boys.

Cuz after all, isn’t that the beauty of this whole series?

[hiddenwashington]

As time goes on, more and more people find themselves stranded in Washington DC, away from their homes and families. But as the seasons change and the weather grows warmer, it becomes easier to see the bright side of things. The sun is shining, the days are longer, and the sounds of birds singing and children playing fill the air. Coats and boots are shed in favor of sandals and t-shirts, students are finishing up the school year, and the relief is clear in all their faces. Young couples and families with children wander the streets, enjoying the sun on their faces, and groups of teenagers lounge on blankets in the parks or by pools.

In an attempt to lift everyone’s spirits further, a letter goes out to every citizen of the city, creamy white envelopes addressed in perfect cursive. Once opened, you’ll find a beautiful invitation, gold writing decorating pure white stationary. A gold bow wraps around the center of the paper, with pressed flowers tucked into the ribbon. And though there are no postal markings, stamps, or even an address beyond the name of the recipient, it is clear upon reading where the invitation came from.

You are cordially invited to Washington DC’s summer masquerade gala, beginning May 16th. Hosted by our own President Leia Organa, the masquerade will take place in the White House. Food and drink will be available to all who attend, and of course there will be live music to dance to. This is a gala, after all, and what’s a gala without dancing? There will be photographers roaming the ballroom throughout the night, along with aerial and acrobatic artists performing in various parts of the White House for your entertainment.

In addition, later in the night, there will be an auction held for anyone interested. There will be plenty of exciting items to bid on, and it’s for a great cause! All the proceeds will go towards improving the city funded housing for those who arrive in Washington with no place to go. In addition, there will be one very special item available that will be revealed as the grand finale!  All we’ll say for now is that it’s something that can grant what many of our citizens deeply desire. We promise that it will be worth the suspense!

This will be a formal event, so be sure to look your absolute best, and don’t forget your mask!

This invitation will grant you access to the White House, so keep it on you at all times!

As the invitations are received and the citizens get excited, rumors begin to swirl. What could this mystery item being auctioned off be? Many speculate it’s some sort of magical artifact. Some say it can return someone to the world they came from, some say that it can restore the lost memories of a loved one, and others still claim it will give you protection against some of the city’s more… dangerous tricks. But no one knows for certain except those involved in the planning, and they aren’t talking. Soon, the whole city is abuzz with gossip, and it only increases as the gala draws closer. Even those who have no desire to participate are curious as to what it could be, and excited for a night partying in the White House!

The White House will be closely guarded by secret service agents the night of the event, and they plan to make sure everyone is on their best behavior. They will explain to you upon entering the gala where you’re permitted to go and what is permitted. The White House itself is decorated in black and gold, with lanterns keeping the room dimly lit, adding to the mystery of who is behind each mask.

The event will take place mainly in the East Room, with bar tables set up in corners for anyone in need of refreshments, and smaller tables spread around both the edges of the room and out in the gardens, and a huge dance floor in the center of the room. There are floral centerpieces and candles in glass jars at each table, and there are silk curtains along the walls. In the State Dining Room, there will be long serving tables full of all the food you could want, extravagantly displayed on silver platters. Feel free to linger there, but know that all the fun will be taking place in the East Room.

The auction will take place in the blue room for anyone interested, with a small auctioneers platform set up on one end of the room, and rows of chairs for the guests who choose to participate. Upon entering the room, you will be given a paddle with your number for the auction. Feel free to exit and reenter at any time, just be sure to keep track of your paddle so you can claim your winnings from the Green Room the end of the night!

Also open are the gardens and the South Portico, for anyone in need of some fresh air. The garden paths and the balcony of the portico are lined with fairy lights, creating a beautiful atmosphere for an evening stroll if you’d like a moment away.

All other areas of the White House will be locked off, and guests are not permitted to access them.

tldr ; a summer masquerade and a mysterious auction are being held at the white house here in dc, a party for everyone to forget their woes, and a shot at gaining something many citizens desire. president organa has arranged a gala for one night, to allow all the citizens a night of enchantments and intrigue! you are invited, along with the rest of the people of washington, to the white house for a night of drinks, dancing and enjoyment! find a date, come with a group of friends, or even go on your own, just make sure you look your best and remember your invitation, or secret service won’t allow you inside!

OOC INFORMATION

hey there angels! welcome to hiddenwashington’s ninth event! we thought it would be nice to do something a little shorter and a little more lowkey after our big event at the beginning of the year! we are so unbelievably excited to get to release this one for you all, and we can’t wait to see what your characters make of it! continue reading below for more information on what’s going to be happening, and please drop a like on this post so we can know you’ve read it all!

DATES :

may 16th - may 20th may 22nd

in character the event will last for only one night, but we guarantee it will be a night packed with fun, excitement and just the right amount of drama!

please feel free to have your characters begin planning their outfits and dates/groups now and get excited! 

WHAT TO EXPECT FROM THE GALA :

below is a short list of things your characters will be able to see and experience once they enter the white house! everyone will have plenty to do and explore, whether their intentions are innocent or a little more mischievous :

a basic layout of the white house : first floor (where the gala will take place) , feel free to explore more following this link , while most rooms will be locked off, that doesn’t mean that guests can’t get “lost”, or sneak off in search of “the bathroom”. just be sure to watch for secret service agents.

food and drink : free food, desserts and beverages will be available to everyone, so please help yourself and enjoy!

dancing : of course this is a gala, so go wild during a faster number, or finally extend an invitation to someone special to dance to one of the slower songs. request songs from the band and enjoy in every way you can!

the gardens : the gardens will be open to the public for those looking for a moment to enjoy the warm weather, so feel free to take a stroll!

outfits : dress to impress, whether in a gown or a tux, whatever fits your style best. and feel free to post outfits and looks now if you so please!

get creative : there are more guests than agents, and they can’t watch everyone, so feel free to explore and slip away if you wish!

WHAT TO EXPECT FROM THE AUCTION :

if you choose to take part in the auction, there is a list of terms that may be helpful right here!

there will be multiple things up for auction, starting from little trinkets and paintings, to experiences and electronics, and finally the most valuable item will be available at the end of the night.

the final item to be auctioned off has been rumored to bring to life what one desires most. be that a loved’s memories to return, a way to return home, a large fortune, revenge on someone who has wronged them, or even peace among everyone. whatever you’ve desired, it can grant just that.

please keep in mind that money is still being used for this auction. make it reasonable for each character. if your muse is struggling for money, they wouldn’t be able to bet over thousands of dollars. if they are swimming in cash, would they help out those around them? will they scheme to steal the final artifact for their own gain? remember, anything is possible, but don’t make it feel implausible. 

TAGGING AND PLOTTING

once the event begins, please hold any and all non event threads. you may pick them up once it’s over, or start fresh with your characters cheerful and relaxed after a magical night.

please tag all interactions/starters/outfits with hwevent09 !!

feel free to have your characters start talking about the gala and auction and discussing it with their friends or potential dates! think of this post as the invitation arriving to your character! all of dc is now aware of the gala being planned and the city is filled with excitement and of course, gossip!

keep an eye on the main for any more information regarding the event, including after it’s begun! 

you are free to decide how your muses feel about the event and what they plan on doing at the gala! but just know that we do ask that every character shows up at the white house that night, even if it isn’t something they’re really excited about. come for the food and drinks, the dancing, your friends or of course, the auction! whatever gets your characters there is fine by us, but the event is mandatory!!

and as always, have fun, get creative, think outside the box and enjoy this fun new event!!! we cannot wait to see where you all take this exciting opportunity! and please, again, like this when you have read it all! ♥

[curiosity-killed]

a bow for the bad decisions: 24

prev | start | next

(on ao3)

chapter warning: alcohol, drunk kisses

“Hey, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, as nonchalant as he can, “hold onto something for me, alright?” Lan Zhan turns to him with a question in his brow, but he doesn’t hesitate to offer out his hand when Wei Wuxian extends his fist. He drops the five nails in a little tinkling pile, and a small furrow develops between Lan Zhan’s brows. Wiping his hands off on his skirts, Wei Wuxian tugs the dizi from his belt and spins it between his fingers. “Yin iron,” he says by way of explanation. It’s not that he thinks he’ll go crazy and start commanding puppets again or something. He’d have to reforge them anyway, try to remake the entire Seal — but he’s never been very good at leaving things alone. For now, maybe it’s better if he’s not the one holding onto them. Lan Zhan studies him a long moment before giving a short nod. The nails disappear into one of his giankun pouches, and Wei Wuxian breathes a little easier.

The kids are still weeping, huddled around a-Qing’s little grave. Watching them, he feels hollowed out, emptied, carved. Lan Zhan stands quiet beside him, but there’s a tightness to his stillness like he’s hiding a stab wound. Taking a breath, Wei Wuxian drags up a smile and claps his hands together. “Come on, kids, enough crying,” he says. “You’re going to shrivel up like plums. Let’s go.” They’re still sniffling, but they scrub their wrists across their faces and nod obediently. Good kids, Wei Wuxian thinks a little distantly. Good kids, to cry for the bravery of a girl they never met, to lament the tragedy of men they would never know. It’s a long walk back down to the next town, and he spends it gritting his teeth against the encroaching thoughts of everything they witnessed. Lan Zhan walks in silence, his gaze downcast. Behind them, the juniors are quiet for the first part of the walk before they start murmuring amongst themselves again. “But what will Song-daozhang do?” cries the Ouyang kid. Endure, Wei Wuxian thinks, or not. He probably will. With Xiao Xingchen’s spirit, fragmented and despairing, in his care, Song Lan will probably keep walking until his feet wear down to nubs. Wei Wuxian sneaks a sideways glance at Lan Zhan, feeling his stomach sink further as he catches the pinch of his brow. He wants to reach out, wants to give his wrist a gentle squeeze or brush his hand against his elbow, draw his attention here and now and away from whatever terrible seclusion his thoughts are folding around him. His fingers curl into his palm instead. Lan Zhan looks so rigid, so brittlely strung. Wei Wuxian thinks of the cast of his eyes when Song Lan turned and walked away, and he looks away. He's been avoiding remembering his death so much he hasn't even thought about Lan Zhan at the time. Now, with the memory of Xiao Xingchen's broken spirit like a weight in his palm, he can't think of anything else. Lan Xichen had said cultivators had tried to summon his spirit with Inquiry and other rituals. He can't know for sure, won't ask Lan Zhan, but he has a feeling these weren't the half-hearted attempts of punks trying to raise a scary ghoul. And he knows the cultivator most skilled in association with spirits. There's a heavy hollow in his chest, in the space behind his solar plexus. He doesn't remember being dead, but he remembers moments of dying. He knows enough about broken spirits to make a good guess at what happened. His soul was already in fragments by the end, cracked and splintered by the Burial Mounds and the war and the Seal and all he'd done to survive. Spirits that badly damaged follow three paths: either they're completely destroyed in death and fall out of the cycle completely, they shatter and disperse till they're absorbed back into the world's qi and either repaired or simply subsumed, or they cling. Stuck to whatever is nearest, whatever is strong enough to hold onto their fraying thread: a loved one, a spiritual weapon, a project the owner spent hours pouring their intention into. Spirits like that, spirits that have been so utterly ruined, don't answer any song. Their music has been broken, the strings snapped, the bamboo split. They don't want to be persuaded, are too damaged to have any desire to pull on. The only way to bring them back is to command them. Drag them back with blood and fierce intent. Lan Zhan spent so many hours after the war searching for music to heal Wei Wuxian, to turn him away from demonic cultivation and purge him of resentment. Did he spend those same hours searching for a way to bring him back, trying to figure out why his spirit didn't answer any call? Did he play for him, waiting for a reply that never came till Dafan Mountain? How many nights did he wait, hoping into the silence? He's grateful when they get to an inn and it's serving liquor. He can't be too reckless in front of the little juniors — some ingrained part of him still fusses at making sure they're safe and keeping an eye out for them — but he can down three bottles at dinner and only feel warm, a little softer. His thoughts don't hook quite as sharply onto the same clawing spirals. Lan Zhan's weirdly permissive, the way he was when they met Nie Huaisang. It's...nice. He can imagine shijie's worried frown, but Lan Zhan is a warm shoulder against him and he doesn't even scold Wei Wuxian for drinking too much in front of his little Lan disicples. Lan Jingyi does, however, scowl at him like he's somehow corrupting their esteemed Hanguang-jun. "I don't see why we can't drink if you can," Jin Ling objects, stabbing at his pickled cabbage. "Because you're a baby, Young Mistress," Lan Jingyi sniffs. "Babies don't get wine." "You!" Before Jin Ling can lunge across the table to Lan Jingyi, Lan Sizhui shifts up a little on his knees to block his access. Jin Ling huffs out a breath and sits back down. "Whatever. Father’s let me try some wine at least," he says. "I bet you couldn't even hold a cup." Lan Jingyi's eyes narrow like he can tell he's being prodded but can't quite figure out an answer. Swishing his third bottle absently by the neck, Wei Wuxian leans his shoulder into Lan Zhan's and shakes his head. "Drinking before you're old enough to fly? Jin Ling, what would your mother say?" he scolds. In his periphery, he can see Lan Zhan's gaze slant toward him as if at hypocrisy, and he hides a snort by taking another drink. "Mother can outdrink Father," Jin Ling says dismissively before freezing, eyes going wide and face flushing. "I mean! My mother isn't a drunk. She'd never—" "Being able to hold your liquor is an important skill in Yunmeng," Ouyang Zizhen says with all the authority of a fifteen-year-old who's probably never been drunk. "Da-jie says you should never underestimate a noble lady with fine wine.” Biting his bottom lip, Wei Wuxian tries not to laugh at the solemnity with which he offers this advice. It's not wrong, really. Shijie had taught Jiang Cheng and him drinking games on the end of the docks when they were old enough. She'd been able to go toe-to-toe with them before the war. He still remembers the first night they all returned to Lotus Pier after the war. How they'd wound up in a pile at the foot of the lotus throne, drunk and sobbing into each other's shoulders. They'd all woken up hungover, heads pounding and stomachs uneasy at the scent of food. For a few moments, though, as he slid into sleep with shijie and Jiang Cheng's arms wrapped around him and each other, he'd felt safe in a way he hadn't in years. "Yunmeng wine is the richest," he informs the juniors now. "Emperor's Smile is the best, of course, but Yunmeng has the most complex flavors. Qinghe's alright but the mare's milk takes a while to get used to."

He pauses, contemplating the liquor he last had in Lanling before realizing the juniors are all looking at him a little funny. There were only two tables left in the room when they arrived, and so their party is huddled around them like ragamuffin sprouts. "Senior Mo, have you traveled so much?" Lan Sizhui asks, and bless him, he sounds genuinely curious. Has he traveled a lot? It doesn’t seem so. He’d always wanted to as a kid, had grown up chasing stories of grand adventures and mysterious lands, but then the war had happened and then everything else and then, well. “When did you travel so much?” Jin Ling demands. “You never left Jinlintai and then everyone said you were locked up because you went mad.” “Jin-xiong,” Ouyang Zizhen hisses, looking appalled. Lan Sizhui’s staring resolutely at his empty bowl, his face white as his robes, and Lan Jingyi’s eyes are about bugging out of his head. Wei Wuxian kind of wants to laugh, but there’s a well of melancholy rising in him, too. How horrible was this Mo Xuanyu’s life? His wrist pangs, and he reaches absently to close his hand around the hidden cut. “What? It’s true and anyway he’s my — well, he was in my sect. So,” Jin Ling says, crossing his arms again. “He is worthy of your respect.” Lan Zhan’s voice is a low vibration through Wei Wuxian’s bones, spreading from the point where their shoulders are still pressed together. He doesn’t speak sharply but firmly, like it’s imperative Jin Ling listen. Wei Wuxian swallows, throat abruptly dry. It’s not like— well. He knows Lan Zhan holds him in — in some kind of esteem. He’s an idiot, but he’s not that oblivious. There was a time, once, when he was bleeding open and snarling at anyone who came close, when he thought Lan Zhan just viewed him as a project to fix, yet another example of Hanguang-jun’s righteousness. But he knows that wasn’t fair, couldn’t even hold onto that anger for too long — not when Lan Zhan got so upset when Wei Wuxian wouldn’t talk to him, not when he insisted he was still his soulmate, not when he stepped aside at Qiongqi Pass. He can’t quite understand why, but he’s accepted the abundance of evidence that Lan Zhan, for reasons comprehensible only to him, thinks he matters. It’s different to hear that aloud, to hear it in firm words and Lan Zhan’s most adamant tone. Something wobbly and warm tips over in his chest, like a jar of wine tilted precariously on edge. As fond as he is of the juniors, he suddenly doesn’t want to stay down here anymore. He wants to be able to hear Lan Zhan say his name again, the way the syllables are so soft and full in his voice. “Hey, Lan Zhan, we ought to check on our buddy,” he says, looping a careless hand around his wrist. “It’s been a while since we played for him.” Lan Zhan blinks up at him, brow wrinkling a little like he's worried something's wrong, and Wei Wuxian can't help smiling back at him. So much is wrong — the whole world's spinning on a bad axis — but he's here and Lan Zhan's here with all this stubborn loyalty and for this one instant, Wei Wuxian's greedy heart doesn't want anything else. He snags another couple bottles on their way up the stairs, and Lan Zhan's frown deepens a little but he says nothing. Upstairs, they set the giankun pouches careful distances from each other and settle into their nightly routine: Suppression, then Calming, then Cleansing, then Rest. It's not a perfect system, but the set works well enough to keep the various body parts from tearing through their giankun pouches as long as they do it regularly. It's gotten more difficult with the addition of each new body part, and now that they've added the torso and arm from Yi City, they wind up playing through each song three times before the pouches finally settle and stop rustling. Humming in quiet satisfaction, Wei Wuxian leans on his elbow and lets his gaze fall on Lan Zhan as he puts away his guqin. He does it all with such exquisite care, such unified focus. Not like Wei Wuxian, whose thoughts scatter and ricochet off each other in all the directions of the wind. He laughs a little, and Lan Zhan looks to him in question. "Hey Lan Zhan," he says, "remember when we first met Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan back in Yueyang?" A hint of sadness enters Lan Zhan's eyes, his eyelashes flicking down as his brows furrow. Wei Wuxian spins the bottle absently within the circle of his middle finger and thumb. "Back then, I thought we might be like them," he says. "You know, going off to fight evil and protect the weak."

He'd been so delighted, awed, over meeting his shishu and his companion. Looking at the two of them, their sure confidence and easy trust in each other, he'd nearly tripped over his own feet to show how he and Lan Zhan were like them. He’d felt something unclick in his chest at the sight of them, understanding like a lotus bloom unfurling. Now, he thinks of Shanghua a white gash across Song Lan's back, and he thinks of Lan Zhan's desperate voice in the rain of Qiongqi Pass. How naive, how hopeful. "Who would have thought such noble cultivators would meet such terrible fate," he remarks. “Ended so miserably for something that had nothing to do with them.” The thought makes him a little morose, dampens the pleasant golden fuzz that’s been filling him. “The world is truly unpredictable,” Lan Zhan says, flat. His fingers brush Wei Wuxian’s, pluck the bottle from his hand as deftly as any pickpocket. Wei Wuxian gapes, staring as Lan Zhan tilts his head back and downs the last of the bottle. “Lan Zhan?” he squeaks. Setting the bottle down, Lan Zhan blinks a little into space. Oh no, Wei Wuxian thinks. He vaguely remembers getting Lan Zhan drunk once in Cloud Recesses and a deep sense of exhaustion from wrangling him. This time, though, Lan Zhan makes no move to get up. His hand moves slowly to prop up his forehead, and he nods forward, eyes closing. Wei Wuxian stares. “Lan Zhan?” he prompts, leaning forward. No answer comes except for Lan Zhan’s slow, even breaths. A laugh bubbles up out of Wei Wuxian, and he claps his hands over his lips to stifle it. Oh no. This is too cute. He reaches out, smiling, to brush a lock of hair out of Lan Zhan’s face. It’s as soft as it’s always looked, sleek and silken against his hand, and Wei Wuxian runs his hand absently back against the crown of Lan Zhan’s head. “So pretty, Lan Zhan,” he hums, swaying a little as he leans against the table to study Lan Zhan’s face. “We really are lucky, aren’t we?” Relaxed in sleep, he looks so young. Wei Wuxian’s seized with an absurd urge to protect him, to bundle Lan Zhan up and take him far away from the world and its greedy, demanding hands. Lan Zhan deserves better. Lan Zhan should never look so desolate, so horribly alone as he did watching Song Lan walk away. “Young master?” Wei Wuxian startles hard enough his elbow slips on the table and he nearly cracks his chin on it. He whips around, a little unsteady and hand tight around his dizi. Wen Ning’s eyes blink at him from upside down through the window. It takes a long moment for him to make sense of the position. “Wen Ning?” he demands. “What are you doing?” A flurry of grey and black, and Wen Ning lands neatly inside the room. He’s wearing a dull blue-grey, the color some of the outer Jiang disciples pick for night hunts or training, and his hair’s been pulled up into a neat bun on the back of his head. Wei Wuxian squints. "I'm sorry, Wei-gongzi," Wen Ning says, still kneeling where he landed. Wei Wuxian frowns, crossing his arms and tilting his head. The shackles are gone from Wen Ning's wrists, which is good, though he still has — well, a lot of questions. Is Wen Ning part of Yunmeng Jiang now? Did Jiang Cheng adopt him? He tries to remember if Jiang Cheng ever mentioned wanting a little brother and finds himself looping back without an answer. "Come on, Wen Ning," he says. "Stand up, won't you?" Wen Ning's head dips lower, so that Wei Wuxian can see the plain grey ribbon wound round his hair. Well, at least it doesn't have lotuses embroidered on it. He'd have even more questions then. "Ah, well then," he says, and flicks back his skirts to kneel. "I guess this is alright." Wen Ning looks up with a jolt, brown eyes going wide. "Gongzi!" he yelps. "No, you mustn't!" He tugs on Wei Wuxian's elbow as if to lift him up to standing, and Wei Wuxian uses that to pull him up as well. He keeps a hand on Wen Ning's arm to make sure he doesn't kneel again and raises his eyebrows. "See? It's much better to talk like this, isn't it?" he prompts. Wen Ning doesn't look convinced, but he stays upright, so Wei Wuxian counts it as a win. Releasing him, he drops his hands to his hips. "Now, what's happened?" he asks. "What do you remember?" "Not much," Wen Ning admits, shaking his head a little. "I remember being chained up somewhere dark. Someone would come check on me, I think. I don't remember what they looked like, but they smiled a lot. I remember them putting the nails in my head." Wincing, Wei Wuxian swallows. He'd hoped that Wen Ning didn't remember that part at least. "It must have been Xue Yang," he says. "He also used nails to control Song Lan." "Why?" Fatigue settles into Wei Wuxian's bones like a heavy blanket. Trust Wen Ning to still question why someone would want to seize power over another, even when faced with the man who first did the same to him. Crossing his arms over his chest, he presses his palm to his inner arm till it pangs just a little. "Probably at the behest of the Jin sect. He was a guest disciple there for some time, Lan Zhan said," he explains. Wen Ning accepts this with a slight nod. There's a dismal cast to his eyes and brow, like he's about to wade into some task he'd really rather avoid. "Jie told me some of what happened since, and I heard from some others," he says. Wei Wuxian brightens at the mention of Wen Qing. For all that she maintained a horribly professional facade of indifference, she was great at gossip. She probably had all kinds of insights into the last thirteen years. "Jie said that the Burial Mounds are gone," Wen Ning says. "Our family...they're all gone." The wind cuts out of Wei Wuxian's sails abruptly, and he inhales sharply. He hasn't let himself think about this. If he thinks about it too much, he'll have to wonder if the seals he painted on their houses gave them any protection or just trapped them where the sects could burn and murder them. His stomach gives a funny, nauseous flip. "Young master, I heard that Jiang-zongzhu killed you," Wen Ning says. He sounds miserable, like he's revealing some great failing of his own. Wei Wuxian's shoulders sink and he sighs, waving a hand. "No, that's not how it is," he says. "Jiang Cheng didn't kill me. It was the backlash of the Stygian Tiger Seal." Has the whole world been left thinking Jiang Cheng killed him? Maybe it's for the best. Yunmeng Jiang had still claimed him up to the end, after all. They would have been in a tricky situation, too clear a scapegoat for the Yiling laozu's misdeeds. If everyone thought Jiang Cheng killed him, at least that would clear some of the blame. At least Jiang Cheng would know the truth. As long as he didn't blame himself, it wasn't such a bad arrangement. "Young Master, you died in such an awful way," Wen Ning says, and then his knees are bending, dropping back down to the floor. "I shouldn't have left you." "Wen Ning," Wei Wuxian gripes, tugging on his arms. "No, enough of that. You didn't leave me. I – I shouldn't have sent you away like that. I never should have threatened you." Wen Ning looks up at him with big, sad eyes that would be tear-filled if Wei Wuxian hadn't taken that away from him, too. Swallowing hard, he pulls on Wen Ning's wrists till he's standing again. His shoulders are still bowed forward, but it's an improvement. "What else have you heard?" he asks, already dreading the answer. Wen Ning looks up, his eyes brightening a little. There's such a terrible earnestness to his expression, that childish hope he'd seen first in Cloud Recesses. He can't help smiling a little reflexively at it. "Ah, young master," he says. "We have a niece! She's very kind and energetic. And jie is expecting another baby. She thinks it's going to be a boy."

Tears sting Wei Wuxian's eyes unexpectedly, and he gives out a shaky laugh. Of all the outcomes in the world, he never expected to see both sides of his haphazard family brought together like this. Even if he never gets to meet this little niece and her expected brother, he knows they're safe and happy. It's enough. "Yeah?" he says. "What are they going to name him?" Before Wen Ning can answer, there's a blur of white in the corner of his eye and then a boot on Wen Ning's chest and then— Wei Wuxian stares at the new hole in the wall where Wen Ning and Lan Zhan both disappeared before shrieking and chasing after. He was asleep! How did this happen? Outside, Wen Ning is picking himself up off the ground while Lan Zhan frowns down at him. He’s left Bichen and his guqin behind and seems to be planning on staring Wen Ning into defeat. It’s not a bad plan, really. No one has as intimidating a glare as Lan Zhan. “Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, what are you doing?” Wei Wuxian bleats, grabbing hold of him around his middle. Lan Zhan turns to him and gives a solemn nod that answers absolutely nothing except that he’s clearly still drunk. Wei Wuxian groans. “Ahh, Wen Ning, are you alright?” he asks, leaning around Lan Zhan’s side. “He doesn’t mean anything by it, he’s just drunk.” “I’m alright, Wei-gongzi,” Wen Ning says. Still pressed close to Wei Wuxian, Lan Zhan frowns and leans a little to the side as if to block his view of Wen Ning. Wei Wuxian has to stifle a laugh even as he wants to groan. Lan Zhan would be so embarrassed if he saw himself. “Will Lan-er-gongzi be alright?” Wen Ning asks. “Yeah, I’ll just take him up to the room and he’ll sleep it off,” Wei Wuxian says. Lan Zhan turns a little towards him, still tucked up close, and it’s like a parody of a lover’s hold with him nestled in the circle of Wei Wuxian’s arms. His heart skips a little at the thought, at the jolt of want that shoots through his chest. To have it be real, to have a reason to hold Lan Zhan like this that isn’t corralling his drunk shenanigans. Clearing his throat, he lets himself tighten his arms around Lan Zhan and look over at Wen Ning. “It’s probably best if we talk another night,” he says. “Be careful and stay safe, okay?” There’s a hint of a smile on Wen Ning’s face as he bobs his head in an emphatic nod before turning and disappearing into the woods. A hand closes around Wei Wuxian’s wrist, and he looks up to find Lan Zhan staring intently at him. “Wei Ying,” he says. “Don’t go.” A giggle escapes Wei Wuxian and he stifles the grin he can feel slipping out. Where is he going to go? “Lan Zhan,” he teases, “what are you going to do? Tie me up so I can’t run off?” Lan Zhan blinks at him a moment, and Wei Wuxian’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Mn,” Lan Zhan says abruptly and reaches up behind his head. By the time Wei Wuxian’s brain has kicked back on, Lan Zhan has removed his forehead ribbon and started wrapping it neatly around his wrists. He watches, mouth parted in silent shock, as the white loops around and around, neatly covering his bracers. Lan Zhan ties it off in a series of knots that look almost like a braid, and Wei Wuxian tests it absently. It’s firm but not uncomfortable, the metal medallion resting just below the notches of his wrists. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Wuxian looks up. “Stay.” His eyes are honest and sad, like he really thinks Wei Wuxian’s going to leave him standing drunk in the forest without his forehead ribbon. Reaching up, Wei Wuxian pats his chest awkwardly with both hands. “Don’t worry, Lan Zhan,” he soothes. “I’m not going anywhere. Let’s just go back inside, alright?” Lan Zhan nods and starts toward the door with a tug on the loose end of the ribbon. Wei Wuxian trips after him, trying desperately to stifle the giggles that keep bubbling up out of him. He feels young again in a way he hasn’t for years, like they’re still just kids in Cloud Recesses, trying not to get caught by Lan Qiren. Only it’s not Lan Qiren who catches them this time. Entering the dining room, they find all the juniors still there — now trying frantically to hide the wine they’ve clearly picked up in Lan Zhan’s absence and gawking at the two of them. “Ah! Hanguang-jun,” Lan Sizhui greets, a little too bright, “how did you—” Right. They’d been upstairs before Lan Zhan kicked a hole in the wall. Wei Wuxian scrambles for an answer. “Lan Zhan heard something outside,” he says, “but it turns out it was just you all sneaking liquor.” He tries to make his voice sound disapproving, but he’s not sure how well it works. He is...not sober. Whoops. Lan Zhan gives a little tug on the ribbons, as if to start toward the stairs, and Wei Wuxian stumbles forward with it. There is a gasp too loud to be anyone but Lan Jingyi. Oh no. All the juniors are now staring at his wrists and the Lan juniors have gone white as death. He knows he read rules about the forehead ribbon back when he had to memorize them all. Something about restraint. Restraint, restraining— “Right! Lan Zhan was just showing me a special use of your clan forehead ribbon,” he says quickly. “To erm restrain fierce corpses when you need to take them back for further study.” “That’s not—” Before Lan Jingyi can finish, Lan Sizhui has clapped a hand over his mouth and is smiling brightly at the two of them. “How clever!” he chirps. “I thank our seniors for showing us such a hidden skill.” Lan Zhan gives another tug, this time more adamant, and Wei Wuxian gives a little wave to the juniors as he’s led up the stairs. They really look horrified, all big eyes and open mouths. Back in their room, Lan Zhan leads him to the bed and sits down carefully on the edge to face him. He’s so serious! Wei Wuxian laughs, letting his hands fall between them. “Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s tone is almost helpless and his fingers are light as a feather as they brush against the curve of Wei Wuxian’s cheek. He looks up, laughter fading as he catches Lan Zhan’s steady gaze. On impulse, Wei Wuxian turns his head just enough that his lips graze Lan Zhan’s palm. There’s a quiet breath, but Lan Zhan makes no move to pull away as Wei Wuxian’s hands lift up to cradle his. “Lan Zhan,” he murmurs against his knuckles. “Lan Zhan, you’re too sweet. Too sweet, too sweet.” He presses a kiss to his fingertips, to the base of his thumb, the point on his wrist where he can feel his pulse jumping. He looks up through his lashes and Lan Zhan is watching him with lips parted, eyes dark and intent. “Do you like this?” Wei Wuxian asks, still watching as he slides Lan Zhan’s sleeve back a finger’s width to press his lips to the skin there. Swallowing, Lan Zhan gives a slight nod. Wei Wuxian hums and pulls him closer by his wrist, hands settling over his chest. His heart’s beating so quickly, like a rabbit racing under Wei Wuxian’s palms. “Lan Zhan,” he says, looking up at him, “tell me. Did you burn joss paper for me?” There’s a beat where they’re sitting there, suspended, Wei Wuxian’s fingers curled into Lan Zhan’s collars and then Lan Zhan moves. His lips are soft, form, his fingers tangling in Wei Wuxian’s sleeves. Wei Wuxian gasps softly in surprise and then presses in, crowds into Lan Zhan’s space.

Gods, Lan Zhan is kissing him. He’s kissing him, all that impossible focus bearing down on Wei Wuxian like his lips are a new field of study, the noises escaping him a new score for Lan Zhan to learn. Lan Zhan is kissing him. Oh gods. Lan Zhan is kissing him. Lan Zhan is drunk and he’s kissing him and Wei Wuxian started this and is kissing back and— He jerks away, shoving them apart with his hands on Lan Zhan’s chest. Lan Zhan stares at him, eyes wide and reddened lips parted as if he were still kissing Wei Wuxian and — and then Lan Zhan’s eyes widen impossibly and he reaches up a hand to smack the heel of it into his forehead. He collapses backwards, unconscious, onto the bed. “Oh fuck,” Wei Wuxian breathes, covering his face. In the morning, at least half the group is hungover — including Wei Wuxian. His head’s pulsing with a fuzzy thickness, like someone’s drumming cotton-wrapped mallets against the back of his eyes, and even breakfast left him feeling queasy. He can’t meet Lan Zhan’s eyes, but he can summon up all his unused uncle instincts and round on Jin Ling as they prepare to depart. “Stop arguing with your uncle when you get back,” he scolds. “Don’t come out night hunting alone anymore. You’re too young! Why are you in such a rush?” “I’m not a child!” Jin Ling snaps back. “That dog Wei Wuxian wasn’t much older when he killed the Xuanwu of Slaughter, wasn’t he? If he can do it, I can beat him!” Recoiling, Wei Wuxian grimaces before reaching back to rub at the nape of his neck. He’s pretty sure that’s not right. They were older than Jin Ling when they got stuck in that cave, and anyway— “Isn’t Hanguang-jun the one who killed it?” he protests. Jin Ling stops short, lips twisting to one side like he’s tasted something bitter. “You and Hanguang-jun… Whatever. I know about the Gusu Lan headband so if it’s going to be like this, then” — he swallows, two bright red spots rising in his cheeks — “just make sure to stay by his side properly. Don’t bring any more shame to Lanling Jin.” “The headband?” Wei Wuxian echoes, feeling some new horror growing in his belly. The headband just means restraint — right? It’s just an old tradition. “Shut up! Stop being so shameless. I’m done talking about it,” Jin Ling snaps. He looks away, crossing his arms. There’s something about his frown, the way his eyes have focused on the ground a few steps to his left that makes Wei Wuxian cant his head, waiting. After a moment, he looks sideways up at Wei Wuxian. When he speaks, his voice comes out small. “Are you really Wei Wuxian?” he asks. Wei Wuxian’s heart stutters in his chest, but he just raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Do you think I am?” Jin Ling studies him a long moment before huffing out a breath and dropping his arms. He looks almost…disappointed? “I don’t know,” he says. “No. Cousin Yu always said he was a great cultivator and you’re clearly not. And jiujiu said he was taller than Hanguang-jun. So.”

He clears his throat and turns, waving his hand in dismissal.

“Behave yourself and don’t, you know, get yourself killed. I guess,” he says over his shoulder. A fond smile curls up Wei Wuxian’s lips at the brusque care. What a little monster. As Jin Ling returns to his own disciples, a Jiang disciple approaches. She’s the eldest of their group, tall and angular with a placid expression that nearly rivals Lan Zhan’s. He’s caught her looking at him funny over the past day, and every time, some sense of familiarity niggles at the back of spine, but he can’t quite place her. “Thank you for assisting us,” she says, saluting neatly before reaching into one sleeve. “I believe Jiang-zongzhu would like you to have this. Our da-shixiong designed it.” The talisman she hands him is familiar, the calligraphy for a different reason. His breath catches, eyes going a little wide as he looks back up to her. “Little pirate?” he asks. Sun Hai smiles abruptly, like a crack breaking through glass. There are tears in the corners of her eyes as she gives a quick little nod. “Little pirate!” he exclaims, something like grief and elation together winding tight around his chest. “Not so little anymore — you’ve grown up so much! You were as little as Jin Ling when I saw you.” The last time he saw her, she’d just hit a growth spurt that left her gangly and awkward and mortified by the lack of control she had over her own limbs. In the last weeks before the Phoenix Mountain Hunt, he’d promised to help her practice modifying talismans in exchange for her not hiding away in her rooms every time she stumbled doing sword forms. Now, she’s lean and tall and carries herself with the kind of grace shared by dancers and swordmasters: fluid, strong, and quick. With her sword at one side and other arm folded at her waist, she looks all grown up. “It’s good to see you, shixiong,” she says, smiling even as a tear slips loose down her cheek. “We’ve really missed you.” Oh. His fingers tighten a little around the tracking talisman in his hand before he catches himself and makes them relax. He gives an unsteady smile. “Yeah,” he says. Clears his throat. “Yeah. Me, too.” She lingers another moment before drawing in a breath and straightening up. With another quick bow, she turns and heads back to where a little cluster is waiting for her, watching curiously. Wei Wuxian watches a moment before turning his gaze back down to the talisman in his hand. He recognizes it, though it’s been a long time. He originally designed it to keep track of a-Yuan when he went racing off around the settlement, dashing away from supervision. Had he sent a copy to Jiang Cheng? He must have. He sent so many absent ideas in his letters back then, anything he thought might be of use, anything that to help make up for the trouble he was causing. His throat feels thick with something, the headache clustering with something unsteady and unsure fluttering in his heart.

[legobiwan]

could you do 18 and 100 for the trope mash up thing? (And if you want two characters, Obi-wan and Hondo?- I got a little confused with your added instructions to the trope mashup)

Circus AU / Accidentally Saving the Day (Hondo & Obi-wan)

Anon, I had to WORK for this one and even did a little research into circus history since I am woefully undereducated about the topic. I think I’ve found an interesting way of weaving these all together and giving a little bonus at the end. Stick with me here, I need to do a bit of an introduction to get this whole idea going. 

For the purposes of this AU, please assume that the Clone War and all the events surrounding it happened directly after Naboo, meaning everyone is about 10 years younger than they are in canon. Also assume that Qui-gon was not killed on Naboo, although that has little bearing on this particular story.

THIS GOT OUT OF CONTROL. I was expecting to write a fun little 1,000 word thing, not a whole AU concept. But here we are, so….uh…

We’ll see what everyone thinks? Enjoy. And good luck  :D

—-

“How are they doing?” Szimon Tesdak asked, thin, long mustache bobbing up and down at the ends.

The other man patted the Pamaradian prancer’s neck, running his fingers through the thick mane of her hair. The prancer shivered, eyes darting back and forth, hooves tapping nervously on the durasteel floor. The man known as Whisp spoke softly in the creature’s ear, the words foreign to even Szimon’s cosmopolitan ears. A few moments later, the prancer settled, nuzzling her snout into Whisp’s shoulder. 

Whisp turned to face Szimon. “They’re restless,” he said. “Fourteen hours in a cruiser is a bit much for anyone to take.”

Szimon waved the veiled criticism away with a flick of his wrist. Yes, it had been a long journey, but the payoff would - hopefully - be worth it. And they needed the credits - or whatever these people were going to pay. 

“An hour more and we’ll be there,” Szimon said with false confidence.

Whisp stood, crossing his arms tight against his chest, the black-and-crimson fabric of his worn travel tunic wrinkling with the gesture. There was a hint of beard on the young man’s chin, something that, when it grew in, would likely age him a good ten years. The man peered at Szimon with grey-blue eyes like he was trying to ace one of those vision tests at a local spaceport agency. Always looking for hidden meaning, he is. 

And sometimes he finds it. 

At least with the creatures, that had been the case. Two years Whisp had been working for Szimon and never had the older circus master figured out the man’s trick. Szimon had spent his life in the circus, from his childhood on Thybaar right up the grand days of the bright Coruscant lights to his now-ramshackle operation held together by thread, petty theft, and the occasional cashing in on favors owed. 

Szimon had seen it all - and more,  but nothing like Whisp and his ability to communicate with the creatures, like he was reading their minds. “The Whisperer,” the other members had taken to calling him. The moniker had stuck, albeit in shortened form, Whisp’s real name - whatever it had been - long forgotten.

“Remind me again why we’re flying out to the Outer Rim for a show? Seems a bit of an expense when we could just as easily round up a few smaller venues for far less hassle,” Whisp said.

“Ah, Whisp, ever the cynic,” Szimon clapped a meaty hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Don’t think of it as a hassle,” he waved a dramatic hand, as if unveiling something from a behind a curtain. “But as an expansion of our operations.”

Whisp cocked an eyebrow. “Hardly difficult seeing as our operations comprised of three planets the past month, two of which we never actually got to land on.”

Szimon snorted. Well, yes, business had been down because of the war. Szimon himself cared little for the politics of the Republic or the Separatists. A government was a government, with all its little games and corruptions, mazes of betrayal, and endless mountains of datawork. No, Szimon Tesdak would never be chained behind one of those desks. 

But many others were, shackled to unfulfilling jobs and lives, stuck in a desert of mediocrity and boredom. That was where Szimon came in. Unhappy citizens tended to breed unhappy revolts. But give them a nice circus, something to laugh at, a little magic that was absent from their day-to-day existence?

It didn’t really matter who was in power. The problems, the outcomes -they were always the same in the end. 

Still, the war had been disruptive to his business and over the past few months, the “Great Thybaarian Traveling Show” had been forced into semi-refugee status as planet after planet was devastated by the conflict between a mechanical and clone army. Circuses were part of avoiding war, not conducting it.

Szimon shook off the dark thoughts with a wide smile. “Come on now, Whisp. We’re going to make great friends on the Outer Rim. My benefactor has promised a large sum, maybe even a sponsorship if we play our cards right.”

“I thought they were pirates,” Whisp retorted, half-smile playing on his face.

Szimon made an airy gesture, chuckling. “Pirates, embezzlers, Hutts. As long as we get paid, I’ll work for the Sith themselves.”

Whisp tightened under Szimon’s arm, which was wrapped around the thin man’s shoulders. Some unreadable emotion passed over his face, a premonition of a storm. After a moment, he spoke, hesitant. 

“I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit!” Szimon exclaimed, shaking Whisp. “Come on, we have to make preparations for landing and I’m not letting Battlebuzz near those controls again.“

—–

“That was a very impressive show, my friend,” the pirate known as Hondo Ohnaka sidled up to Whisp, unceremoniously dropping into the seat next to him, tankard full of green ale. 

Whisp looked up from his own mug, half-consumed, eyeing the pirate warily. “Thank you,” he replied, adding, “I think,” after a moment’s hesitation. It never hurt to be too cautious around pirates. 

“All those acrobats, all the flips and whooshes.” Hondo made an extravagant gesture with his arm, nearly taking Whisp’s head off. “And the beautiful women dancing to such music, it shouldn’t be allowed!” he grinned, giving Whisp a knowing look. ”My men, they enjoy that - some of my women, too!” Hondo cackled, downing the entirety of his pint in one go, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“But you, my friend - with the creatures.” The pirate’s voice turned a shade serious and several parsecs more calculating. Whisp bit his lip, steeling himself to steer another drunken conversation away from this dangerous territory. “Yes, the creatures,” Hondo continued, nearly singing. “Now that was something I’ve never seen before. Most beast tamers use weapons.” The pirate made a few motions mimicking a whip. “They use fear and intimidation but you!” He pointed a finger that almost went up Whisp’s nose. “Ah, it was almost like you talked to them with your mind.”

Whisp gave a forced shrug, his pulse starting to race. He needed to stay calm. Needed to focus on the present, not his anxieties. He laughed to himself, bitter, wholly aware of the gross irony of that statement. “Just an ability I’ve had since my youth,” he said, voice flat. “Better me in the circus than those brutish weapons-wielding tamers you mentioned.” Whisp scowled. That much was the truth. Whisp couldn’t abide by their methods, couldn’t stand the way the pain and fear radiated from the abused creatures. He knew he couldn’t save them all, but if he could give a second chance to even a single Borcatu, if he could find a home for those who had been cast out -

Anger trilled at the back Whisp’s brain, a sensuous, lush melody more tempting than any of the ribald pirate ballads in the background.

Hondo beckoned at another Weequay, grabbing two pints from a serving tray, setting one in front of Whisp in an unspoken command. “Yes, your youth. Tell me about that. Your accent is polished, very posh, very Core World.” Very monied. If only, Whisp rued.

It had been too much effort to try and tame his accent, which stood out amongst Szimon’s motley crew of performers like a neon bell weed in the desert. 

Whisp took a long sip of his beverage, smacking his lips together. The new alcohol was a step higher in quality than the dredge he had been drinking before. He peered to Ohnaka on his right, wondering if he was about to be drugged, kidnapped, or worse. Oh well, he thought, drinking some more of the beverage. Might as well enjoy while I can.

“I was brought up in the Core,” Whisp recited, setting his glass down, not even needing to think about the words he had said them so many times. “My family, unfortunately, abandoned me, so I took to farming in the Mid-Rim as a means of sustaining myself. It was there I discovered I had an affinity for creatures and then did some work in healing clinics before the war broke out. The Republic Army took over all the planetary clinics so I was forced into finding…” Whisp bobbed his head, “more creative ways to apply my talents.”

“Interesting,” Hondo noted, his gaze greedy as he looked Whisp up and down. Whisp’s other hand moved to his waist. So much for enjoying. He fingered the blaster he had hidden under his red and silver vest, neatly tucked away in a shoulder holster. 

Hondo held out a hand. “I don’t mean to cause you alarm, my young friend,” he said with a laugh, sitting back in his chair, kicking both feet up on the table. “You can put your blaster away, I only want to talk business.”

Whisp’s hand tightened for a moment before he raised an open palm in a universal gesture of surrender, his brow furrowed.

“What type of business?”

“What type indeed?” Hondo hummed, rocking his feet back and forth in time to the bawdy, clangorous music. Somewhere on the other side of the room, Tergallian and Lopisa had gotten into a knife-throwing contest with some of the pirates. Whisp had a feeling the Weequay had bet on it and that the pirates were about to lose their shirts, pants, shoes, and who knew what else in the deal. Might have to make a quick getaway if there’s enough of a ruckus, Whisp thought, eyeing the locations of the exits and the best strategies to get there without being shot. 

Again, he winced. 

“Oh, you won’t make it out, I promise” Hondo commented, his expression still jovial. “All the exits are under full guard and I guarantee there’s no other way out unless it’s by my command.” He pressed a finger into the table, all traces of humor gone from his voice. “Unless,” he began after a moment, “you are a Jedi.”

Whisp was off his stool in an instant, blaster in hand. Not wanting a direct confrontation, he pointed it towards the ground, the table hiding the weapon from the view of most of the other pirates and circus members. Off in the corner, Szimon’s eyes grew wide as he made a series of furious movements in Whisp’s driection.

“I’m fine,” Whisp signed back in the strange language of gestures known only to those in this particular circus, an easy way to communicate on stage while looking artistic and also a not bad method of either avoiding trouble or sometimes finding it - if their pockets and stomachs were empty enough.

Hondo clasped his hands behind his head, looking unconcerned. “I did not mean to upset you,” he said, lips quirking upwards as if he had just figured out some baffling puzzle. “Only warn you about my security system. But let us not talk of such things, as they disturb you and as my dear mother always said - “ Hondo raised a finger. “Son! You catch more apidactyls with honey. And if that doesn’t work, you can still catch them with a blaster.”

Not worth the fight. Not even sure I’d win this fight, Whisp sighed inwardly. Knowing when he was outmatched, or at least when to choose his battles, Whisp retook his seat with a muttered curse. 

“Fine, then. What do you want from me?”

Hondo smiled. “Ah, now we talk business,” he shrugged. “Nothing much, my friend. And nothing - mostly - to do with your little traveling show. But the circus isn’t going to pay you forever and a man of your many talents - ” Hondo leaned forward, putting both forearms on the table. “Could fetch a pretty hefty payday if he found himself aligned with the right people.”

Whisp’s eyebrows rose. “Are you offering me a job?”

Hondo raised both arms. “Maybe, if you are willing to - “

“Hondo!” A large, burly man came barreling into the room. At once, the music stopped with a zippered rip of a holodisc jarred from its needle, pirates and circus members alike turning to the wide-eyed, heaving pirate. 

“We got trouble out there!”

Immediately, Hondo came to his feet, blaster in hand. “What kind of trouble?”

“I think it’s the Republic! Looks like them, at least. They’re tryin’ a fall back to our compound!”

“We’ll see about that,” Hondo growled, raising his weapon. “No one takes over Hondo Ohnaka’s compound without my permission!”

—-

Blaster fire rang out from all sides, a multicolored lattice of deadly energy. To Whisp’s surprise, Hondo was near the vanguard of the pirates, shooting at the incoming wave of bright, white uniforms with terrifying precision. The pirates were good, Whisp had to give them that, the transition from unruly drunkards to semi-disciplined guerrilla fighters more seamless than Whisp thought possible. 

“Any ideas?” Szimon asked next to him, the pair huddled behind a large boulder, just out of range of the real fighting. Whisp knew Szimon didn’t care one way or another about who won this particular battle - one of thousands Szimon had witnessed over the years. But their ship - their livelihood and home, not to mention only asset - lay just beyond the front line of what Whisp was pretty sure were the infamous clones. If their ship was damaged, or, even worse, destroyed - they were all done for. 

Whisp took in the scene, applying his natural affinity for tactics that had been first discovered early in his tenure with Szimon, an awkward encounter with the Ruuthian mafia, a highly successful performance, and a jar of…requisitioned heeble eggs belonging to Ruuthian mob boss. It had been his quick thinking that had gotten them out of that mess, a plan so crazy it couldn’t do anything but work. From that point on, Whisp had earned the nickname, “The General,” much to his dismay.

Carefully, Whisp extended his senses, not only his eyes and ears but his other senses, the ones he kept locked away from everyone else - everyone else except his creatures. The creatures didn’t care what his status or title was, if he had succeeded or not, if he occasionally broke some moral law that had been branded into his mind as a child. The creatures didn’t judge - they had never judged and found him wanting.

It wasn’t good. For all of Hondo’s firepower, they were still in the bottom of a cereal bowl in the sandy crevasse, the clone troopers above holding higher ground as they advanced on the compound. It didn’t escape Whisp’s notice that the troopers’ blaster bolts were consistently going wide, aimed to injure or impede, but not kill. Some strange long-buried instinct rose in Whisp’s chest as he watched the men, sensing their similarities, down to a genetic level. Was he was supposed to be on their side? Supposed to be fighting with them, supposed to -

An explosion rocked the compound, bringing down metal, stone, and all kinds of debris on the pirates. Hondo barked out more orders, a line of men running to set up what looked like a short-range missile while the rest of the pirates resumed their firefight. 

I’m supposed to be getting us out alive, Whisp fumed at himself. No more distractions. Szimon’s face was covered in dust and sand and for a moment Whisp almost laughed. The circus master looked the spitting image of the Great Lady Devonna in her full makeup. 

“Are you alright, Szimon?” Whisp asked, helping the other man to a seat. 

“I’ve seen worse,” he growled, swiping debris from tassled gold epaulettes perched on bright red shoulders like two Felucian retrine sparrows. “Just do something, Whisp, I’m not getting any younger here.”

Right. Whisp looked again at the fight, the positioning of the men, their ship. The pirates weren’t going to win an all-out firefight, not like this and Whisp had to assume there would be reinforcements coming sooner than later. It was now or…

Whisp frowned. They could wait for the clones to take over the compound and beg for lenience. But knowing the Republic, they’d probably confiscate the ship. And send them to prison. Besides, Whisp’s own presence might raise too many uncomfortable questions, ones he had no desire whatsoever to revisit.

So much for that idea, he rued, while surveying the scene. The clones were all faced towards the fighting, Hondo’s forces feisty enough to keep them fully engaged. There weren’t that many of them, not a full battalion, for certain, which meant it was likely Szimon’s ship was wholly unguarded and not even considered a threat, as it had no visible weaponry. If he could just…

Whisp closed his eyes, feeling for the familiar energies, the outlines of the creatures he cared for, from the smallest snitmouse to the largest morak. Yes, he thought, connecting his mind with the stampede creatures. They would never see it coming. 

A moment later the earth rumbled, the fighting slowing to a small drizzle of blaster fire as the line of clones turned to the oncoming dust storm that hid the three moraks, now prodded on by Whisp, feeding off of his repressed frustration and anger with the representatives of the institution that had driven him to this life in the first place. Of the people who were trying, again, to deprive him of a home, of a place where he belonged.

Unaware the opaque cloud hid anything living, no less animals whose shells repelled most blaster fire - a well-kept secret known not even in the fancy universities on Coruscant - the clones fired to no avail as the moraks descended, sending bodies flying in every direction with desperate shrieks, the remainder of the forces too startled to return fire efficiently. Three bloody minutes later, the remaining clones ran, retreating, leaving the bodies of their fallen comrades as the only evidence of the failed ambush. 

Cheers rose the pirates as they lifted their weapons in glee, somehow manifesting mugs of ale in their hands only a scant minute after they had been involved in a full-bore battle. Whisp slowly climbed from behind the rock, pulling Szimon up with him. The Thybaarian looked at Whisp as if it was the first time he had ever seen him. 

“Was that you?” he asked, eyes trying to pierce through years of layers, of hidden secrets that were the only true skin of the man known as Whisp.

Whisp laughed, uncomfortable. “What? No, I mean - “ 

Szimon shook his head, still dazed. “I always had my suspicions, you know. Not just the creatures, although I’ll grant you that’s one hell of a trick.” He paused, his expression unreadable. “I figured there was some reason you weren’t up with them in that fancy tower, figured it was none of my business, but now - “ Szimon’s eyes turned calculating. “This isn’t just some parlor trick, is it, it’s - “

Whisp backed away, palms splayed in front of him, as if trying to stop the words from entering his space. “No, I’m not. I - “ he looked around, wild, feeling just like one of his creatures, feral and trapped. He was going to lose his home again, once they found out, it was all going to be over. “I never - “ Something snapped, then crackled with inside of Whisp, like the breaking of an invisible, electric bone, sparking flying everywhere.

“I never was one, okay!” he yelled, stomping his foot. “Never was, never will be! That man - that child - died over ten years ago. This -” Whisp gestured angrily at himself. “Is what I am. Nothing. More.”

They had been certain leave Whisp with that message. Nothing more. Just nothing.

“A fascinating story, my young friend,” a low, baritone voice intoned from behind them. “I would be curious to hear more of it.”

Whisp spun around. The man was - there was no other word for it - regal, imperious, commanding the attention of every being in the valley, as he moved towards Whisp and Szimon, long brown cape billowing in the wind, deep violet outfit a perfect fit on his broad chest. Hondo’s troops paused mid-swig, ale running down their necks, and even Hondo himself craned his head forward to get a better look at the newcomer. 

Fifty blaster rifles rose at once.

The man stopped, surveying the ends of the weapons pointed at him with a disaffected gaze. The compound held its breath, sinews tightening around triggers as an unworldly clarity came over the canyon, as if each atom, each sound wave could be made manifest as a physical, tangible reality. And then the man smirked, wholly unconcerned with his vast disadvantage in the situation as the world returned to its customary blur. Whisp and the others exhaled, noisy phlegm crackling up their lungs, dust tingling in their throats.

The stranger took an unhurried step forward raising one hand. 

“You may lower your weapons,” he addressed the pirates, voice betraying nothing but absolute confidence. It occurred to Whisp then that the man had never been at any disadvantage at all. “I intend no harm,” he added in his deep, patrician voice.

Hondo took an equal, ambling step forward, hands clasped behind his back. He circled the newcomer, a hound sniffing for possible quarry, gazing him up and down, as if he were a incoming shipment of contraband. Then, after a moment, Hondo gave a nod, and the blasters summarily disappeared. 

“My, my we are popular today,” the pirate began amiably. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mister…” Hondo gestured at the other man in question.

“I am here for three reasons,” the stranger announced, ignoring Hondo’s unspoken inquiry. “The first was unwelcome, but unsurprising. My ships were caught unaware, en route from a trade post in the Outer Rim to Jybosti. I carry the identification cards and manifest if you desire proof of my claim. The Republic forced our hand, causing us to land here and engage in an unwanted ground battle which regrettably involved your forces.” The man turned to Hondo, giving an apologetic gesture. Hondo answered with cool regard, his skepticism echoing through the enclosure. Whisp had to agree. No one just happened to go by a place like Florrum without reason. Especially someone like this. 

Still, it wasn’t the stranger that had been one shooting at them. Maybe he was telling the truth. Or at least a part of it.

“Secondly,” the man continued, opening his arms, “I would like to thank you all for, how shall I say - “ He paused for dramatic effect, lifting his chin slightly. Whoever this man was, he knew how to hold a crowd, perhaps even better than Szimon. “Saving the day, however unexpected your heroics may have been.” 

“Yeah, heroes!” One of the pirates bellowed, raising both his blaster and ale mug, several others echoing his enthusiasm with chants of “Heroes!” which quickly devolved into far less elevated rhetoric.

“And thirdly?” Hondo asked, after the raucous had died down. 

“Thirdly,” the man drawled, turning his full attention on Whisp. “I would like to know further details regarding this young man’s story.”

Whisp’s eyes went wide as he took an involuntary step back. “There’s not much more to tell, I’m afraid,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. The words were automatic, a defense mechanism so perfectly tuned, it was nearly instinct. But the strange pressure that had been growing at the back of Whisp’s brain spiked with the lie, leaving a dark, velvet shadow in its wake, something immensely powerful yet a balm to his frayed emotions. It was something…

Whisp gasped, eyes locking with the other man. 

It was something familiar. 

The stranger smiled, all edges as he clasped his hands behind his back, addressing Szimon. “This young man is in your employ?” he asked, brusque, nodding towards Whisp. 

Szimon straightened his jacket and his posture, already sensing a deal in the making as he slipped into tell-tale ringmaster persona. “Yes, sir, best creature tamer I’ve ever seen.”

“Interesting,” the man commented, drawing out the word. “And if he were to leave your employ, how would that affect your operations?”

“Well, I daresay it would be quite the inconvenience,” Szimon began, his confidence building as he fell into the familiar patter of a sales pitch. Whisp barely heard the words, disbelief rising like an angry, red ocean. Would Szimon really do this to him? Now? After everything? 

“…so you see, unless I would be suitably compensated for my losses…”

The grey-haired man leaned forward and whispered something in Szimon’s ear. Szimon’s eyes went moon-wide, his mouth dropping open, words tripping from his mouth. 

“I trust that would be satisfactory?” the man asked.

“I - ah - “ Szimon sent a half-apologetic glance over to Whisp, eyes gleaming with barely-contained avarice. “I think that would be more than fair.”

“Excellent,” the man articulated, ignoring Szimon’s half-gasped ‘thank yous,’ now directing his full attention back to Whisp, drawing himself up to full height. “And you, who are about to enter my employ. What is your name?”

So that was it. No offer, not even a perfunctory question, Whisp’s future once again dictated by the whims of others. Whisp clenched his teeth agains the injustice of his very existence. “Whisp,” he answered, barely keeping the venom from his voice, fists tightening into balls, nails digging into his palms. 

“Your real name,” the man growled. Behind him, Szimon gaped, now looking on with unabashed curiosity, a faint patina of guilt oozing from his sweat-beaded forehead.

Long-buried memories, banished ghosts relegated to an afterlife he had not yet experienced rose in Whisp. He squeezed his eyes shut against the assault of emotions, of the sharp knives of betrayal, the deep pools of loss that threatened to overwhelm him. Had it been so long since he had uttered his own name?

Forcing a noisy breath between his teeth, he steeled himself, meeting the icy gaze of the other man, who considered him with keen, intense interest. 

“My name is Obi-wan Kenobi.”

For a brief second, the Force surged in a strange, dark elation as the stranger’s eyes glimmered with satisfaction. 

“And I am Yan Dooku of Serenno. Come, Obi-wan,” he said, putting an arm around Whisp’s shoulders, leading him away from the confused and quiet scene of pirates, of the doe-eyed stares of what had - for a brief, happy moment - been his family. 

From one family to the next, always a visitor. First the Jedi and Qui-gon Jinn, then Bandomeer. Then clinics, then circuses, and now this. 

With Dooku.

Something settled in Obi-wan’s gut, not unpleasant. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to open to the Force, wholly and without constraint. This felt right, more right than anything else had in Obi-wan’s life. 

“Come,” Dooku repeated, voice warming ever so slightly. “We have much to do.”

[welcometophu]

Not Your Guardian Angel: Chapter 6

Marked Book 3: Not Your Guardian Angel

Chapter 6

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Pels naps on the bus until her phone buzzes with Cheyenne’s description of the afternoon. Cheyenne ‘discovered’ Pels’s absence late enough that Mom was already home from work, and Mom… didn’t seem surprised. She picked up the car from the station, then picked up Cheyenne, all without a word. Pels figures there will be more conversation over dinner, but who knows, maybe Peter will treat her as a ghost, and ignore the fact that she’s gone.

It doesn’t matter. The bus is pulling into Unity’s station, and Pels isn’t turning around to go back now.

She grabs her bag and her backpack, rising from her seat to get in line with the other folks getting off at this stop. The bus will continue on, further into the Adirondacks, but there are almost as many people getting off here as left for the last stop, in Valiant. She’s probably not the only one coming back early from Spring Break, but the others probably have apartments waiting for them off campus.

She really hopes she has somewhere to stay.

As she climbs down, she looks for Jess and Shane, her almost smile falling away as she doesn’t see them. “Shit,” she mutters.

“Don’t worry, they wouldn’t abandon you,” Dad assures her, nudging her from behind so she takes the last step down, stumbling onto the sidewalk. She glares at him, but he’s looking out into the crowd. He points. “Don’t you know him?”

Pels follows the direction of his gesture. “Yeah. He works at Teas Please. He’s one of the servers. He’s a nice guy.”

As soon as she looks, he looks up too, waving as he spots her and then threading through the crowd to get to her. He’s tall, with a quick, ready smile, and one eye that seems to gravitate slightly inward. “Hey,” he greets her. “I’m Nate. We’ve met, remember?”

“I remember,” she says warily. “What are you doing here?”

“Jess’s car wouldn’t start, so she’s had to take it to the garage to get it fixed. She was in a bind and freaking out when I saw her and Shane at Teas Please this afternoon, so I offered to come pick you up since my shift was ending,” Nate says easily. “I can drop you off at her place—”

“No.” Pels doesn’t mean to speak out loud, but the word comes out far quicker than she expects.

Nate blinks. “No?”

Pels looks down at her wrist, at the complications of the soul mark there with its cloud and mountain. Dad holds her hand, his thumb against the mountain, and she looks at him.

“You should go,” Dad says.

“No,” Pels repeats. She tugs her sleeve down over the mark. “Things are really complicated, but I can’t stay there. Jess and Shane were going to try to find me a place to stay, but I know Shane’s staying with Jess right now, because Ángel’s boyfriend is up for break, and I just—I can’t do that. I still barely know them.”

“You barely know me, so if I offer you crash space is that also going to be a no?” Nate asks.

He doesn’t look like he really cares about the answer. Like she could say yes or no and he wouldn’t be offended. Pels knows that everyone on her floor likes Nate. Rory likes Nate. Even Alaric likes Nate, and there are days when Alaric feels like a grumpy, put off by social activity kindred spirit.

“Alaric trusts you so no, that would not be a no,” Pels says slowly.

“Well then….” Nate stops, nose scrunched. “Is that a yes, then?”

Pels’s throat feels tight, and she clutches her bag in both hands, even though Dad is nudging it, swinging it toward Nate to try to get her to give it to him to carry. “If you would be willing to offer me a couch, yes, I would appreciate it. It’s already dinner time, and I can figure out the rest in the morning. I need to find out when I can get into my dorm room, and if it can be any earlier than Saturday.”

“I have room at my house, because I live in Unity when I’m not in the dorms,” Nate says. He holds his hands out. “Do you want me to take that?”

Dad is being insistent and whatever, Pels can give him this. “Sure.” She hands over the bag, which leaves her with only her backpack and that’s definitely easier to carry. She has to look up at Nate—he’s so goddamned tall, but then, when you barely top five feet yourself, everyone is. “I appreciate the help.”

“It’s no problem. My father isn’t even home right now, so it’s not like he’ll notice that we’ve got a guest.” Nate throws her bag over his shoulder and starts walking. “I’m guessing since you mentioned dinner, you didn’t somehow eat on the bus. Want to swing by Teas Please and grab something on the way home?”

“You work there. You really probably don’t want to eat there,” Pels points out. She does a little half step every couple of steps, trying to keep up with his long stride. As fast as Nate naturally moves, she’s glad Dad encouraged her to give up the bag. She’d never keep up if she were carrying everything.

Nate laughs. “You’d think that, and you’d be wrong. Mallory’s never served me bad food, so I actually really like eating there. But I wasn’t planning on staying.” He glances down at her, looking back to where she’s half a step behind him. His stride shortens, and she finds it easier to catch up and stay beside him. “You look like you’re overwhelmed and exhausted and don’t want to deal with people. We can get takeout and go back to my house.”

“I like him,” Dad says. “He’s a caretaker. Let him take care of you.”

Pels has no idea what her expression is—between Dad and Nate it could be anything—but Nate’s brow furrows and he stops dead, just before they step off the walkway into the parking lot.

“If you want to call someone and let them know you’re with me, that’s fine,” Nate says carefully. “And if you’re worried about this being some kind of weird pickup, let me assure you that I am very gay, and my heart is very taken.”

She blinks. “No. I’m not scared of you; just a little overwhelmed. I said Alaric trusts you. Even though you flirt with him. Which I’ve heard about. I didn’t know you were dating anyone.”

Nate presses a hand to his heart. “Said it was taken. Didn’t say it was returned. I am still very, very single. And seriously. Right about now, it’s nice to see someone who isn’t just a customer. Most of my friends are gone, which leaves me with running and an empty house. My father and I don’t exactly get along, so I’d rather be in the dorm, but it just didn’t make sense to stay when the house is right there. Besides, it’s nice running the paths around my house for a week, at least.”

He talks so much.

Pels glances at Dad. While he’s not omniscient—or says he isn’t—he is a really good judge of character, and extremely overprotective. When Dad nods, she says slowly, “Your house is still fine. And picking up food from Teas Please is fine. Just. Whatever. I don’t even care what it is. I’m not allergic to anything, and I’m really not picky. When we get in the car I’ll text Jess and Shane to let them know I made it in safely.”

“Sounds good, then.” Nate leads the way to his car—an old beat up thing that looks like it might be older than either of them. He opens the trunk with a creak and tosses her bag in, and Pels carefully sets her backpack in after that. He settles into the driver’s seat, typing something quickly on his phone before dropping it into the cup holder so he can start the car.

She feels dwarfed in the passenger seat, the seat belt crawling up to her chin, so she grips it tightly at her waist to hold it down. It leaves her typing painstakingly with only one hand.

I’m back in Unity. Nate’s taking me to get food and then I’m going to crash at his house tonight.

She wavers before pressing send to the group chat. As soon as she does, Dad pats her on the head as if to say she’s done well.

I’m glad you made it back safely! My car died on me but I don’t think it’s anything major (I hope it’s nothing major) and I’m getting it fixed. I was completely panicking and Nate offered. He’s a good guy.

Everyone seems to say that. Nate’s the nice guy. The one who’s always there to talk or help or whatever.

I’ve heard, Pels types. I don’t think I should stay in your room while Shane is staying there. She hates the way that makes it sound like she’d stay there otherwise; she wouldn’t. Not yet.

I think we’re doing a big group thing with the guys from Florida tomorrow before they head back on Saturday. They’ve got a really long drive ahead of them. I can pick you up from Nate’s in the morning and you could join us.

Pels hesitates. She’s not sure if Jess realizes how anxious she is about spending time with just her and Shane.

No, she’s not kidding anyone. They’re all aware of exactly how anxious she is. But if she’s with a group, even if most of the people in that group are couples, she can pretend it’s just friendly. Jess is giving her a good out.

Okay.

It’s just one word, and it doesn’t encapsulate any of her worries, like will the cats try to get close to her? But she does kind of want to see them shift. They seem soft, and affectionate.

I’ll text you before I come over tomorrow! I should be getting my car back soon, and I promised I’d pick up food after that.

Pels is relieved that Jess doesn’t say she’s coming to see her after she gets the car back. There may be a tiny bit that’s disappointed that it doesn’t come up, but this way she doesn’t have to say no, either. She has time to adjust to the way her world continues to turn upside down every time she takes a moment to breathe.

Nate pulls into the ten minute parking space in front of Teas Please. “Just stay here.” He pulls up the emergency brake and leaves the car rumbling as he climbs out. “I texted Mallory. She should have something ready for us.”

Pels reaches for her backpack before remembering it’s in the trunk. “Tell me how much I owe you and I’ll get it when we get to your house.”

“Don’t worry about it. Chances are Mallory won’t bother to charge me.” Nate raises a hand, waving as he heads away.

“Stop worrying about going home with him,” Dad says, leaning over the back of Pels’s seat.

“I’m not. If anything happens that I don’t like, I’ve got you to protect me.” That’s the one thing Pels can always be sure of. Dad will step in if she needs him. She’s never actually been alone. She trusts him to make sure she’s safe.

“You have a point.” He looks at her phone, and she wonders if he can read it. She tilts it so the screen is angled toward him. “Are you going to stay at Nate’s again tomorrow, or with Jess?”

“It wouldn’t be with Jess, just in her room,” Pels points out. “Don’t rush things.”

“I’m not. You’re on the right path, just take it at your own pace,” Dad assures her. Pels doesn’t believe him.

She hasn’t touched Jess yet, and she can admit to herself that she’s afraid to. She doesn’t want to know what the next step is with the soul marks, or what it would mean for the three of them. And it’s still possible that Rory and Kit are wrong. Maybe this mountain isn’t Jess.

But when she thinks about Jess—tall, solid, stable, with that small smile and gentle logic—she knows that they’re right even if she still doesn’t understand why.

Dad’s fingers drift over the top of her head, through her curls. “You know, the marks might mean that this time you don’t have to worry about getting your heart broken. This is the time when it’s safe to open up.”

“You say that like it’s easy,” she mutters.

“You say that like it’s not,” he retorts. “There’s a reason it’s called falling in love. There is nothing easier to do than falling.”

“Oh excuse me, I tripped because my dead Dad pushed me into your lap and whoops, there’s my heart, please don’t stick your fingers through it, I might bleed out,” Pels snarks. “Seriously, Dad. Some stupid magical tattoo is no guarantee I won’t get hurt.”

The door opens and Nate puts a bag on the back seat before climbing in. “Mallory has given us enough food to feed a small army,” he says. “Apparently she thinks we’re going to spend the night doing each other’s nails and indulging in girl talk.”

Pels blinks. “Did she say that? Because I don’t think either of us is the type.”

“She said snack while watching movies, which is probably a better guess of how the night will go.” Nate glances at her sideways. “You do like movies, right?”

“I like movies,” Pels agrees. She slides down in the seat, watching out the window as they leave the area closest to PHU and move into the suburbs of Unity. They pass by the high school, then the long wrought iron fence around a graveyard before Nate turns onto a tree-lined street.

He pulls into the driveway of a low, small house. “And this is home. My father isn’t here, but I’m just going to leave the car off to the side so he can get in the garage, in case he randomly shows up. As far as I know he’s working all weekend, but his plans have changed before when I wasn’t paying attention.”

Pels climbs out and takes the bag of food when she hands it to him, carrying that cradled against her front, her backpack on her back. Nate lifts her bag and leads her in through the garage.

“It’s kind of a ranch.” There’s a door in the garage, leading into a small mud room, with one door leading into the house from there, and a set of stairs leading down. “If we go in that way, that’s the kitchen, then the living room beyond, and two bedrooms down the hall. That’s mostly my father’s space.” Nate starts walking down the stairs, and motions for Pels to follow as he ducks slightly to make it through without hitting his head. “The basement’s finished, and I moved into it years ago. It works out better for us this way, and he made over my old room as an office.”

The stairs come out into a long room with two windows high up, sunlight filtering in. The dark red carpet on the floor has seen better days, and the wood paneling is dark. But there are built-in bookcases all around the edges, and a fireplace with a mantel at the other end, next to a high countertop with a fridge and sink behind it. Nate sets her bag on the couch in front of the fireplace, then pats the top of the counter. “I try not to go upstairs much,” he admits.

Once she sets down the bag, and drops her backpack on the floor, Nates pulls their food out of the bag and then grabs plates from cabinets under the counter. “So, quick tour,” he says. “The door closest to where we’re standing is a bathroom. Full bath—there’s even a tub if you want to have a long relaxing soak or something. I’ve got bath bombs, but if you’re stressed the lavender bubbles are best. I’ve got one soak that’s fantastic after a good workout, though. I buy those by the dozen for track season. And it’s almost always track season. Anyway. That other door is my room. I’ve got an air mattress because my best friend Jackie used to sleep over all the time before she went out west to school. I can either put that on the floor in my room, or out here, depending on what you’d prefer. Just don’t sleep on the couch. It’s really comfortable for watching TV and movies, but you’ll get some serious kinks in your back if you try to sleep on it.”

Pels takes in the shelves littered with books and decorated with hanging medals and trophies. The fridge, with what looks like old pictures stuck up with magnets. The fact that this space is completely closed off from the house upstairs. “It’s like an apartment,” she says slowly.

“That’s exactly what it’s like,” Nate says easily. “When my parents bought this place I was still little, and my grandfather wasn’t in good health. My mom thought he’d move in with us, so we got a place with an in-law apartment. He passed away unexpectedly, she took off, and when I turned fifteen I carved out this space for myself. I’m not sure my father even noticed at first. He asked me about it maybe four months after I’d moved everything down. A week later he’d made my old room into an office. It works for both of us.”

“I—” Pels glances at Dad, her hands tight by her sides. “I’m sorry. I have a shitty relationship with my Mom and my stepfather, but it’s better than this.” Not to mention that her Dad sticks to her like glue, but she doesn’t really know Nate well enough to explain that one, yet.

“Which do you think is worse,” Dad muses. “His father, Peter, or me?”

Definitely not Dad.

It’s funny how lucky Pels actually feels in that moment.

Nate nudges a stool towards Pels, and she climbs up, wrapping her feet around the legs because she can’t reach anything else. He just stands, leaning on the counter of what Pels realizes now must have been set up as a bar. There’s a microwave beneath it, but no stove. She wonders what Nate ate for most of high school.

Nate divides a sandwich between two plates, and ladles soup into two bowls, handing one to her with a spoon “Eat up.”

The soup is something creamy with chicken and spinach, and it’s pretty good. She’s surprised to find that the sandwich has peanut butter and cranberries and bacon. She looks at it warily, but after taking a bite she can’t stop herself and devours her half.

Nate laughs a little. “Mallory’s good,” he says. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of food. This is just round one.”

Pels takes another spoonful of soup, her plate empty of sandwich aside from crumbs. “So,” she says quietly. “I don’t know how much Jess told you.”

“Nothing,” Nate says. “Just that you had to come back early for some reason. I figured that’s your business.”

“I don’t get along with my stepfather,” she says slowly. “He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him. He doesn’t like anyone who’s Talented—it goes against his religious beliefs. He and my mom met in the Church, and she grew up very conservatively. I’m not sure how she got involved with my Dad and had me.”

“And you’re Talented,” Nate says.

Pels nods. She figures she doesn’t have to explain exactly how. “Peter and I had a big blowout, and I wanted my little sister to be safe, and she’s safer when I’m not around. So I left.”

“You should probably let her know you arrived.” Dad picks her phone from her pocket, laying it on the counter. If Nate notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“Shit. Yeah.” Pels picks up the phone and quickly taps out a text to Cheyenne. I’m in Unity, staying with a friend of friends. I’m okay. Dad’s with me (when is he not). I’m going to spend the day with Jess and Shane tomorrow.

I’m glad you’re okay! Cheyenne’s response comes almost immediately. We’re still good here. Dad’s pretending nothing happened. I think Mom misses you.

Haha. Pels wishes she could convey exactly how sarcastic that laugh is meant to be. You’ll let me know if anything goes wrong, right? And I’ll get that contact for you to help you learn how to better deal with that thing. She doesn’t want to reference her Talent in text, just in case Mom or Peter picks up Cheyenne’s phone. You have to promise me to talk to them, and don’t get in trouble.

I promise. Can you promise me to at least try with Shane and Jess?

Nate’s glancing at her periodically as she types, and Pels tries not to make faces that reflect exactly what she’s thinking. Dad knocks into her shoulder, and she wobbles slightly on the stool before glaring at him. Dad agrees with you. But I’m not making any promises. We’ll see what happens.

“You okay?” Nate asks.

“Lost my balance.” Pels sets her phone down on the counter, glaring at Dad one more time for good measure before diving back into her soup. “My sister’s doing okay, and apparently my stepfather is pretending I didn’t leave without permission, or maybe that I never even came home for that matter. So that’s good. As long as he keeps paying the bills, I don’t really care if he never talks to me again.”

Nate snorts. “Funny. I’ve said that exact same thing about my own father. Sounds like we’ve got some things in common.”

One disappearing parent, and one they’d rather not talk to. In a way, yes. Except she’s pretty sure it’s not the same at all.

“Was your dad ever nice? Like, before your mom—” Pels cuts off. She shouldn’t be asking. Asking questions invites other questions in return and that could get awkward.

“I think so. I just think—it really hurt him when she was gone, and he didn’t know how to deal with me.” Nate shrugs one shoulder. “I was crushed. He was crushed. We just broke, I guess. Now he ignores me, but he pays the bills, so I can’t say it’s all bad. I have a good job. I really like PHU and the track team’s great. We finished indoor, and the spring outdoor season is just starting up. Dax—one of the guys from the football team—is going to be running this spring. I think he’s going to be good.”

Nate opens another package from Teas Please, and this time cuts a crêpe in two, putting one half on the plate in front of Pels. She uses her fork to peek into it, finding a soft melted cheese along with caramelized onions and mushrooms, and a strong scent of sage. Between that and the cranberries it’s a little like eating a strange turkey dinner, without the turkey.

“Thanks for feeding me.” It’s a complete shift in topic, but Nate runs with it easily, grinning at her.

“It’s part of what I do. I should have grabbed some tea, so we could have tea & sympathy.” As if that reminds him, he reaches up into a cupboard and pulls down a tin and two mugs. He fills an electric hot pot and sets it running, then fills a tea strainer for each cup. “When I was still in high school, I’d run all the way from here to Teas Please and I got hooked on tea like most kids get hooked on coffee. That’s how I ended up working there.”

He leans his elbows on the counter, watching her as she takes a bite of the crêpe and makes a surprised sound at how good it is. “It wasn’t all bad,” he says quietly. “It was hard being a kid in this house, but there were good parts, too. And I’m at PHU now and I’m making myself a new life.”

“We moved all the time, and Peter’s a dick, but it wasn’t all bad,” Pels agrees. “I’ve got the best little sister, and a guardian angel, and well, I’m here now. And you’re right, PHU is definitely a new life. It might be the first time I’ve ever been able to make friends.”

Nate’s eyebrows go up at that, and he stands up straight, hands flat against the counter. “Might be? Don’t think that way, Pels.” He holds one hand across the table, palm up, and wiggles his fingers until she cautiously reaches to take his hand. His fingers close around hers, and he shakes her hand once. “Hi, Pels, I’m Nate, and whether you like it or not, we’re friends now because that’s what happens after I get to be your knight and ride to the rescue.” He grins. “Come visit me when I’m working and I’ll feed you. That’s how it works.”

She withdraws slowly. “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to bring something to the friendship, too.”

“You are actually the first person I’ve met at PHU who even has a clue what it’s like to grow up in this fucked up kind of way,” Nate says quietly. “So yes. You bring something. We get each other, at least a little. So if you need rescuing again, tell me. And if I need rescuing, I’ll tell you. Okay?”

Pels finishes off the last bite of her crêpe because it’s just that good. “Okay,” she agrees.

“Besides.” Nate starts putting his soup away, and packing away his half of the sandwich and crêpe uneaten. He makes a plate of the treats Mallory packed—scones, slices of cake-like bread, and several gigantic cookies. “You’re the first person I’ve hung out with like this since Jackie left for California, and that’s definitely something. I appreciate it, Pels. You might have needed rescuing, but I needed this, too.”

“Funny how that works out,” Dad murmurs.

Pels takes the plate that she’s handed and brings it to the couch as directed. She settles down, feeling small in the hollow that was obviously shaped by another person who sat here often, but it doesn’t feel as weird as she’s sure it should. She pulls up her feet and curls up comfortably, letting Nate talk while he sets up a movie and gets it started.

If having someone here for company and to talk to makes Nate happy, she can do that. Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe this friendship thing isn’t as hard as it seems. Or maybe Nate just makes it seem easy.

Either way, Pels resolves that she can manage to do this at least for tonight.

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[bigskydreaming]

Thank you again and still for all the help and support! I really truly can not imagine making it through the past couple days without it, considering I spent most of it awake and in the bathroom puking from the constant migraines that come with your head not being happy about its bones not being in the right place. Stress aggravates them, or at least my awareness of them, and because of how little work there is currently and how expensive being broke and disabled in LA is, let’s just say, there’s been stress, lol.

I’m feeling a bit better today, or at least I’m making myself pretend that and act like that since I’ve got another appointment at that clinic where I get my juicy and tasty IV bags of nutrients pumped into me since I barely even CAN eat, physically, which combined with the lack of sleep and the nausea, like, also not a great combination.

So, I mean it when I say your donations and support have absolutely been invaluable, everything from a couple dollars to an anonymous message, like, its all amazing and appreciated and invaluable. Yeah. I already said that, whoops, anyway, BUT I DIGRESS.

That’s about all of an update I have there, lol, so in other news, I should be around more today since like I said, I’m feeling a bit better and have possibly plateau-ed on this latest pain level. (My super-annoying superpower....ever since I was a kid I’ve been able to adapt to increases in pain like a pro. As in, being able to manage/function despite it. Course, I still feel it, but give me a day or two to adjust to a new norm in how much my body hates me currently, and then I can power through).

So, like I said, I should be around more today, and I’ll probably be random as hell. Like I’ve mentioned before, my blog is where I spew literally everything from inane thoughts to fandom feels, since its like.....my only social outlet these past couple years and the only way I get to interact with people who aren’t doctors. Expect no pattern in topics until I find whatever sticks and keeps me focused on it enough to serve as a distraction from, y’know, the broke body and broke bank account.

SO! Absolutely feel free to hit me up about anything and everything. ESPECIALLY if you’ve made a donation or sent me something. Like, I know some people who have sent money don’t even follow me or know me at all and are just generous spirits who saw my post somewhere, but for any of you who have sent any kind of support just cuz you like, like me and my rambles, lol, totally feel free to drop into my messages even on anon and say what kind of posts or content from me you really engage with and would love to see more of. I can’t make any promises or guarantees, unfortunately, given I didn’t expect or plan on crashing so hard these last couple days, bleh, and just....literally, like, writing more of the kind of stuff or posts people who have helped me stay alive is pretty much the only way I have of kinda giving at least something back, so I mean, I am happy to pounce on anything in that direction. 

Again, just can’t make any guarantees given how unpredictable my life is and depending on how many people send requests or prompts or messages, etc, but I don’t delete anything of that nature and I usually get back around to stuff EVENTUALLY. For instance, I’m REALLY hoping to finish up two one-shots today, one that’s focused on Duke, Dick and Cass from that prompt you sent me a couple weeks ago, @zee-gee, and the other uh.....that umm, TW/X-Men fusion you commissioned way longer ago than my pride will allow me to admit in public @camelotpark, lol. And like, those posts you see me making to @russianspacegeckosexparty about the changelings project I talk about a lot, like.....Adam basically just sends me random thoughts and prompts about it all the time, and its like a running thread that’s easy for me to pick back up and sink into whenever I see a new one in my inbox and I’ve got enough spoons at the moment to dig in.

Also have a couple other things I want to respond to today while I have the energy and a destined-to-be-longer-than-it-needs-to-be meta about Dick’s positioning in narratives with various other characters and WHY I think it so usually works out that way, and I’m aiming to keep that more like....musing-esque than rant-errific, but uh, let’s see how that actually goes, lmfao.

Anyway, that’s what I have in mind for today, aside from my going to get my IV buffet at ten and emailing and calling people from listings about rooms to rent, but tbh, I might just end up being even more random and sporadic than usual, if I can’t focus on any of those long enough to stay sufficiently distracted today. (Like, my other annoying superpower as long-time followers have heard before, is my ridiculously fast metabolism. I know, “oh no, I’m so skinny, poor me,” but like....its never been about weight gain or loss for me, its about how fast my body processes various medications, meaning pretty much every painkiller I’ve ever tried is largely useless to me, or at most wears off in a couple hours.....whereas my ADHD meds actually provide me MORE relief from the pain than any of them. Basically, they let me actually focus on something OTHER than pain and not get interrupted/distracted by the occasional pain spike that likes to remind me its there and wants my attention......so I mean, I still feel everything that comes with my head being physically out of whack, but for the hours vyvanse is working for me, coupled with some heavy duty pain meds, I can like.....just sorta....not care about it for awhile. Like, it hasn’t gone away but its more shoved to the back of my mind at least. And all of that, I’m happy to stuff in a closet whenever I can, lol).

And that’s enough rambles for this post, I think. LOLOLOL, as if I have a quota. But yeah. Just wanted to express how much your support has meant and continues to mean, and like.....I’m still here and alive and crossing fingers that I’ll hear about an actual surgery date soon, but in the meanwhile like......I’m kinda stuck in a perpetual Limbo, one that’s largely confined to whatever is in hobbling distance from my bed of the day, and as much as donations help me physically, in remaining able to at least stay that way, just, any and all interactions on here help by keeping me engaged with the world on at least some level, and make it so I have stuff to think or talk about beyond my own situation and how I’m not a super huge fan of that.

(Okay, I shouldn’t say any and ALL interactions are appreciated, since I have my fun little runs of anon hate in my inbox, but I mean, all of the above is why they’re not really a big deal to me and never have been. Its like, dude, my own body has been trying to take me out for the past three years, and you think a few insults from an anonymous stranger are gonna do the trick? LOLOL, please. Tbh, the only real negative effect anon hate has on me is that it makes me a bit more snappish and quick to assume the worst than I’d like, when people @ me in a way that I misread as aggressive or in bad faith. I’m aware that my day-to-day temperment is a lot more irritable and open to fights than I usually like to be, as self-control is kinda a big deal to me, and my situation and stress and other shit kinda keep me constantly operating at a level best described as itchy, and none of that is an excuse for any times I read an interaction wrong and go for the throat. I just mean like.....I’m a very blunt and straight-forward person, and I do appreciate when people take a similar approach to me as it really helps keep those misreads to a minimum. Any time someone wants to engage with me in some way, I promise I am SO much easier to talk to if you just....put it out there, whatever it is. Its the games people play online (and in real life) that just frustrate the hell out of me and...yeah. Again, I’m not saying any of that as an excuse or a request for a free pass any time I fuck up an interaction or cross a line, I’m just saying, if anyone’s held back on interacting with me because they think I might snap at them or mistake it for them trying to start a fight, like......just be direct with me. Honestly, thats just....always gonna be more productive when it comes to me.)

But yeah. So that’s the current state of me and all that jazz. Again, I so appreciate everything everyone’s done to support me, not just these past couple days but over the course of these past three years as well. I notice and remember all of it, and its why even though I rant and complain and am critical about so much in society and fandoms and all that.....I really truly am a believer in the idea that there’s more good in people and the world than bad, and the bad just tends to be louder is all. It was especially loud for me the last couple days, the volume got way jacked up, but the goodwill from you guys has been more than enough to drown it out and give me some reprieve.

Alright, shutting up now. All done. The end.

[cobalt-penguin]

y’know what i’m still feeling annoyed and petty, plus i’m stuck inside and it’s storming out so why not type out a checklist of what everyone in TOW did to me.

since i am mean and manipulative, petty and pathetic, and so much more? why not bring up some old beef and give ya’ll something to eat. 

Gansey: tried repeatedly to instigate drama -- if not actively break up -- my OC ships by encouraging -- through IC shenanigans -- cheating and lying. One of these happened while I was on vacation with my family and i still remember crying about it in a hotel bathroom because i thought one of my few ships in the RP was over and I hadn’t even been asked about it. This also included trying to get his OC Tomas to make IC/OOC (hey you can feign innocence when it’s in that dubiously OOC space, until its receptive in which case you can say it was IC the whole time!) at one of my ship partner’s OCs. Made repeated fat jokes at one of my fat characters (the same one they were clearly trying to get away from their partner...hmm...). Claimed I was always running to vague on my personal. Fair enough, I did, but they did the same thing. In poem form. Never answered my message about leaving the RP group because they felt ‘disrespected” by it. Repeatedly including untagged dubcon/noncon elements on the dashboard and triggering me. Lying to Ivy and me about having a full Overwatch party then trying to say “oh it just emptied you can join now”. hid this “FAR” idea from the rest of the RP community and then played coy when they got found out and asked about it by another anon (not me). Made fun of other RP groups in Tumblr tags then, when I asked them and their friends not to, was told “we’re a step above them.” Saying I was excluding them from things when I asked to play OW with them AND invited them to my horror RP group AND, only months beforehand, were inviting them to my Marvel RP??Trying to emotionally manipulate me through threatening to kill characters they had obviously grown tired of playing (probably because their major connections were to me and not their other friends) -- “haha i’m probably going to kill (my oc) idk but doesn’t that make you upset?? what will (your character) even do??” Engaging in nasty “”IC”” interactions with my character, basically telling me, through them, off, and being supported by the entire community in doing so. All of this really hurt me because I considered Gansey a friend and a major inspiration at one point in my life. Someone I non-jokingly looked up to and trusted. I feel like Gansey left TAR, our first RP group, because of how controlling, self-interested, petty, and mean-spirited the admins there were. That they were limiting other people’s creativity while building up their own narrative -- everyone else just there to be their audience. But you and Roman literally became Usa and Jen. Congrats. You lived long enough to become everything you’d rebelled against. And yes Gansey -- I saw all of your messages to everyone. Emotionally manipulating others -- telling them how terrible you are you don’t deserve their friendship, but would like to -- isn’t an apology. Its a tactic. Do better in the future. And despite me “blocking” you? There were a hundred ways to still reach out to me if that was what you really wanted. But let’s be real. It wasn’t. That was part of your gambit to. Goodbye. 

Rosie: asked literally EVERYONE about what had happened with the ““TOW explosion”” except me. never even asked my side of the story. Rosie I don’t even get because the other admins treated her like shit -- making her do all the coding and technical components for the entire RP -- but she was still defending them to the end. Okay. And then to treat Shelly like utter SHIT even though Reyne was running her passive-aggressive mouth off about people who couldn't even defend themselves? Amazing. Yeah, she’s the bully. Your perspective was so twitested by your biases that you were ready to victim blame Shelly just because Reyne had to run at the sight of someone actually throwing their bulltshit back at them. 

Reyne: Like Gansey, frequently indulged in cheating/cucking scnearios for fun -- again, including my own characters without asking or telling me. Don’t think Reyne ever apologized for this, IC or OOC. Dropped ships with me repeatedly -- leaving the group even -- without a word. Passive-aggressive to the max. Made a ship with Gansey just to play out her Teen Wolf OTP -- something that will never not be funny to me, when she called Gansey’s “character” Stiles. Smooth. 

Frankii: Repeatedly dropped me and my characters from plots. Gave me one of the most hurtful comments of my RP community by essentially being like “maybe if your plots and characters weren’t so confusing than more people would want to RP with you.” Invited to join my horror RP group and never made a character. also told me this after Gansey wrote that enormous callout about me, that Roman piggybacked on while the getting was good: “also I'm not here to advocate on behalf of my friend but I really don't think Gansey was trying to be rude last night, they can come off a certain way when they're stressed.” COOL. The rest of Frankii’s message I really appreciated, at the time, but, surprise surprise, then despite us being “cool” they never spoke to me again. 

Laura: I actually really liked Laura tbh but I guess she didn’t feel the same. Some of our interactions back in TAR were actually some of my favorites. I invited her to join my horror RP group and she never made a character. When I asked about this -- and if she needed any help making someone or wanted to leave -- she said she was working on it. Basically stonewalled me over time. Honestly though? Not a lot to say I actually think Laura is a good writer and pretty cool. Its just obvious who her friends were and I, stupidly, thought I was included in that. 

Anna: Actually I really liked Anna too tbh but I guess I vastly overestimated our friendship? It happens. Dropped me from one of her plots -- after talking to me about including me in one of hers because she felt “obligated” basically, from being featured in my own -- without mentioning why or talking to me about it. Invited to join new RP -- refused (not mad about this, just making note of it). Refused to follow my new account when I lost my old one because “lol they’re such a furry”. 

Roman: lmao where to even start. Roman was condescending and elitist literally from the beginning of TAR. barely acknowledged my existence until he had to.I started a plot with an open invitation to the entire RP group, with a deadline so I could start writing. Roman waits until its over and complains that they were left out. I include him anyway. Roman mocks the fact that I ask to tag or outright remove aphrodisiac dust -- because I don’t like seeing untagged dubcon/noncon on my dashboard, it upsets me a lot -- and then goes on a whole thread about it after I go to bed and can’t even defend myself. Apparently told his friends not to invite me to things because he doesn’t like me??? And then he has the nerve to be like communication is key and you can come talk anytime??? While having me on their public “friends” list with a description about me on his blog??? omfg...I literally can’t. To this day. Actually let this image speak for itself.

Everything Else: The repeated, childish treatment of strippers as immoral (””your character is stripping?? my character is so upset and is going to protect them!!”). The implication that characters who were stripping were also automatically sex workers. The continued references to my character, who owned this establishment, as being sleazy and manipulative. Also, honestly, what was with ya’ll adopting some random teenager into your OW groups? That was weird af. And then bringing some random person into TOW without asking anyone and trying to pull rank like “we’re the admin team and we can do whatever we want”. and shit-talking Meg and me in your “open forum” when all we wanted to do was get on with out lives. Like? Who cares? Ya’ll didn’t want me, at least, there anyway, clearly. You don’t get to exclude me then talk about how disrespectful and “wrong” the way I left was..........

Me: I didn’t do everything perfectly either. I know I could be passive-aggressive. I could be self-interested. I could make bitter comments. I dealt with feeling angry and upset by making memes -- which, I’m gonna be honest, I get why ya’ll were upset but I don’t regret either. I had spent so long in TAR/TOW with nobody interested in my characters and plots -- originally because I didn’t vid and played furries but, later, well.........see above -- that I did focus on my own narrative. I wasn’t invited to plots. I didn’t have sexy vampires and boy band werewolves. I played weird characters that didn’t fit the common niche of the cast of an angst and hookup filled supernatural YA novel. Maybe my plots were confusing but, honestly? It was because they were always going to be in the background. I wasn’t disinterested in anyone’s stories. I had just been left out of them for so long -- having to beg to even be a mention in a single mention -- that I had to make my own. I wasn’t there to just be an audience member to be aghast by Roman’s newest quirky boy or Gansey’s newest possessed twink. I was a writer. A member of the community. And, at the time? I thought a friend. Someone who deserved appreciation and respect. 

I know who my true friends are now. We did, ironically, exactly what you did -- we have out own group, our own setting, our own community. 

And I still live with the mean and manipulative things YALL said everyday. Even as an adult -- even with everything I’ve accomplished and am so proud of -- I’m still traumatized by being treated so poorly -- for years -- and not even realizing it. Something I’m still working on -- one of the many reasons I still have trust issues to this day. Congrats. That’s your legacy on me. aNYWAY

byeeeeeee