#like Julia has to be halfway down that wall

[just-a-tiny-goldfish]

Something I still don’t understand to this day is how Orellia being a short b✨✨✨ was able to pin Julia to the wall

[randomperson99sworld]

Ruffled Feathers 🪶

~ Part 21 ~

Summary: Julia Morgan, Bobby's niece, has always been a royal thorn in Dean Winchesters ass since the day they met 1 year ago at Bobby's memorial. She wants to be a hunter, he thinks she's a dumb kid playing dress up. Will she always be seen as an unwanted load in Dean's eyes or will he see something more?

Pairing: Dean x OC

Warnings: Age gap, language, sexual themes (used lightly), physical abuse (Not by Dean).

Word Count: 1,032

A/N: Thoughts on the chapter? Statutes as always, this story is cross posted on Wattpad. Happy reading! ♥️

After cleaning up the aftermath of the vampire nest, Julia glanced over at Dean, noticing the tension still lingering in his body. He was usually quick to bounce back after a fight, but something was off tonight, something darker. She wiped the blood from her hands with a rag, tossing it into the trunk before leaning against the Impala.

"We should go get a drink," she suggested, crossing her arms. "You know, to unwind."

Dean gave her a sideways glance. "Not sure that's a good idea, Jules."

"Oh, come on," she nudged. "We just wiped out a whole vampire nest. I think we've earned it. Besides, I'll even let you lose at pool. What do you say?"

Dean hesitated, but the banter in her voice tugged a small grin from him. Maybe blowing off some steam wasn't the worst idea after all, especially with everything going on with the Mark. "Alright, fine. But I'm not gonna go easy on you."

Julie smirked "Wouldn't dream of it."

They drove to a nearby bar, a dingy little hole-in-the-wall spot that looked like it hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint since the '80s. Inside, the lights were dim, and the smell of cheap whiskey and smoke hung thick in the air. A perfect place to unwind after a hunt.

Julia immediately spotted the pool table in the back and grabbed two cues. "Let's make this interesting. Loser buys drinks."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You sure you wanna take me on? I'm pretty good at this."

"We'll see about that," she shot back with a grin, racking up the balls.

The game started, and as they played, their usual back-and-forth banter flowed easily. Dean made a few good shots, but Julia held her own, surprising him with some impressive moves. Halfway through the game, she sank a tricky bank shot, and Dean narrowed his eyes.

"Where'd you learn to play like that?" he asked, leaning against his cue.

Julia smirked, lining up her next shot. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Dean chuckled, shaking his head as she sank another ball, inching closer to winning. It didn't take long before Julia was lining up the final shot. She gave him a cheeky grin. "Looks like you're buying the drinks, old man."

"Old man?" Dean scoffed, watching as she sunk the eight ball with ease. "You cheated."

She laughed, tossing her cue on the table. "Nope, you're just rusty."

Dean grumbled good-naturedly as he made his way to the bar. "Alright, alright. What do you want?"

"Surprise me," she called over her shoulder, turning her attention back to the pool table to rack up another game. But as she was setting up, a guy close to her age approached, sliding up a little too close for comfort.

"Hey there," the guy slurred, leaning against the table with a smirk. "You look like you could use some company."

Julia frowned, stepping back slightly. "I'm good, thanks."

The jerk didn't take the hint, moving closer. "Aw, come on, sweetheart. Don't be like that. We could have a little fun."

Julia's patience thinned, and she crossed her arms. "I said no."

But the guy wasn't backing off, and before she could say anything else, Dean appeared behind her, drinks in hand, his expression dark. He set the glasses down on a nearby table and stepped in between Julia and the creep, his voice low and dangerous.

"You heard her," Dean growled, his eyes cold. "Back off."

The man, unfazed, sneered at Dean. "What are you, her dad? Relax, old man, we're just talking."

Dean's jaw tightened, and he felt the Mark of Cain stirring beneath his skin, the familiar heat rising in his chest. "You got three seconds to walk away before I make you regret it."

The guy laughed, clearly not understanding the danger he was in. "Yeah? You gonna make me, gramps?"

That was all it took. Dean's fist flew before he could stop it, connecting with the guy's jaw in a sickening crack. The man stumbled back, clutching his face in shock, but Dean wasn't done. He stepped forward, his hand shaking as he grabbed the guy by the collar, ready to punch him again, harder this time.

The Mark surged inside him, a dark, violent urge that was almost impossible to control. He wanted to hurt this guy, to keep hitting him until the anger disappeared. His vision tunneled, the blood roaring in his ears as he raised his fist again.

But before he could land another blow, Julia stepped in front of him, her hands on his chest. "Dean! Stop!"

Her voice cut through the fog, pulling him back to reality. Dean froze, his fist hovering in the air, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked down at her, her wide eyes staring up at him, filled with concern.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the tension thick between them. Dean slowly lowered his fist, his hands trembling as he let go of the guy's collar. The creep scrambled to his feet and bolted out of the bar, leaving them standing there, the weight of what had just happened hanging heavy in the air.

Dean took a shaky breath, his heart still racing from the adrenaline—and from something else, something darker. He looked at Julia, guilt flashing across his face. "I... I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," Julia interrupted gently, her hands still resting on his chest. "You didn't hurt me. But, Dean... you've gotta get control of this."

He nodded, swallowing hard, the weight of the Mark pressing down on him. "Yeah... I know."

Julia let out a sigh and slowly pulled away from him, giving him space to breathe. "Come on, let's just... sit down and finish our drinks. You could use one after that."

Dean nodded again, rubbing a hand over his face as they walked back to their table. His knuckles were raw and bloody, but the real damage had been done inside. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep the Mark from consuming him, but he was damn sure going to try. For her sake, and for his own.

[finite-breakpoints]

a little too late (Angstpril 2024, #12)

Julia's been dreading this, as much as she hates herself for it.

"It's not like I'm gonna move across town or anything," Siv had said -- as reassuringly as he's capable of, which isn't always saying much. "But this project feels like it should be its own thing."

That was half a macrocycle ago.

He's not moving across town. Not even leaving the garage, really, just over to the new wing they've just finished. It's a well-designed space; bright and colorful and open, with those giant panes of mirror-glass windows along the wall.

About ten cycles ago, he'd finished moving his equipment over. About half of that crowded workshop now fits comfortably in one corner. A set of tools on the workbench, a few half-finished sketches pinned to drafting tables, several still-packed boxes.

"…So what do you think? Too much?"

He sounds like he's been overthinking this -- it's your shop, what I think about it doesn't matter; you were the one who decided you needed a whole separate space and an apartment to yourself--

Nope. Not going there.

"It's beautiful. Absolutely perfect for you, too." Julia cracks a smile. "Not a drawer in sight, huh?"

"Yori's idea. Should help me keep track of everything a little better." He shrugs nonchalantly, self-aware enough at this point to know better. "Should being the operative word there."

"Wouldn't count on it. You'd lose your own disc if it wasn't attached to you."

"Rude. But yeah, y'know what, I guess that's fair."

"She's not wrong! I've seen you lose datapads while they're still in your hand." Yori sets a box down on the nearest workbench, then raises an eyebrow. "Okay, look, this has been bothering me all cycle. Your hair's up off-center."

"Does it matter?"

"If you want to be seen with me in public, yes."

"…Alright, alright." Siv laughs sheepishly, reaching up to re-adjust the clip holding it back. "Better?"

"Slightly. --Do you want your light-sculpture stuff down here, or up in your office?"

"Uh… good question. I hadn't thought that far ahead."

"Office, then." Yori grins, clearly up to something -- Julia's seen that look enough from Siv to know it means trouble. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Just leave my tools alone--"

"No promises."

"Yori."

"I'm kidding. Don't burn out any circuits over it -- I know better."

"Sure you do." But he doesn't argue with her -- just rolls his eyes as she walks away. "Sorry. What were we talking about?"

"Nothing, really. It's fine." Julia shrugs -- when was the last time they had talked about anything that actually mattered? "It's been weird, not tripping over each other all the time."

"Yeah. A little bit. But we'll get used to it, and it's not like I'll never be around. I'll walk you back -- I'm pretty sure I forgot a datapad in your apartment."

It's just the other side of the garage, but it might as well be the other side of the Grid.

There are worse things than a stray datapad. The empty spaces, where the shelves used to be, that greet them when they walk through the door. The silence at the start and end of every cycle. The simple reality of this apartment being hers, not theirs.

"Heh. Go figure." And sure enough, there it is, sitting abandoned in the chair by the window. Siv picks it up, frowns at the blinking red charge-level light, and tucks it into his bag. "Thanks for the help. I'll see you later."

"No problem. And hey--"

He's halfway across the room now. Quiet exits, as always. "Hm?"

Julia knows this is a bad idea, but some stupid, impulsive part of her can't help it. You don't have to leave -- but it's a little too late for that, now. He's already gone, has been for half a macro -- on to the next adventure.

"…I love you," she says instead. So much. Enough to let you go. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah." He stops in front of the door -- really stops, not one of those five-tick pauses -- and offers her the smallest of smiles. "Love you, too."

He means it, in his way.

And then the door closes behind him.

[ghostbustermelanieking]

67 for the kiss prompts 👀

of course it's another safehouse fic! warning for some self-loathing on the parts of jon and martin. 

67. When One Stops The Kiss To Whisper “I’m Sorry, Are You Sure You-” And They Answer By Kissing Them More.

Jon's on the phone with Basira in the other room. Martin can hear the rise and fall of his voice through the walls. He halfway wishes he'd said yes to Jon's offer to put her on speaker—he wants to know how bad it is. Wants to know exactly how badly he fucked up when he followed Peter into those tunnels (in more than just the obvious ways). 

Jon's said it wasn't his fault. Said that this morning, over the eggs he'd scrambled on a whim that were going cold on Martin's plate, covering Martin's hand with his: "It wasn't your fault, Martin. It wasn't. I-it wasn't even just the Not-Sasha, it… Trevor and Julia…" And then he'd stopped, a pained expression on his face, and Martin knew he wasn't the only one feeling guilty for everything that happened at the Panopticon the day before. 

The reality of Jon being here is still so new, so strange, after not talking for months, for a year, what with the coma, and the Lonely… Martin doesn't think he ever even had Jon to his flat before this; he thinks he suggested it once, after a drink one night, if Jon wanted to come back and have some tea, and Jon had politely said no, thank you, with a look in his eyes that made Martin think maybe he was thinking about all the kidnappings. So, yes, this is the first time Jon's ever been here. After months of silence, months of Martin talking himself out of going down the hall and talking to Jon, telling Jon how glad he was that he's alive, how sorry he was that he couldn't stay, how much he hated this, every bit of it… After it all, Jon came for him. Peter's dead, and there's no reason for them to stay away now. 

It's a relief, beyond what Martin will ever be able to articulate, but it's still strange, after all this time. Waking up in his bed to find Jon lying on the other side, stiff and tentative under the covers. To find Jon in the kitchen after a shower, making eggs and tea. To have Jon halfway holding his hand. Even after everything—after that period before the Unknowing where they were really sort of friends… this is surreal in a way Martin can't really explain.

Jon had actually held his hand all the way out of the Lonely, all the way back to his flat. Had reached for it over the expanse of Martin's mattress and held on. Martin doesn't remember him letting go. He doesn't remember ever wanting him to. It's a good surreal, he thinks. It's good. 

Jon comes out of the kitchen, now, his hand clutched around his phone, his face grim. Martin startles a little, his hands clenching together in his lap. "H-how was it?" he says. "Is it… d-do they have any sign of…" (Basira had filled them in on Daisy last night.)

"No, no, no sign." Jon sighs a little. Sits down on the couch beside Martin, so close their knees bump together. He doesn't meet Martin's eyes. 

Martin feels a habitual lump of worry rise in his throat. "You can tell me, Jon," he says, in case Jon is trying to shield him somehow. "It's… it's bad, isn't it?"

"I… yeah. Yeah, it's not good." Jon looks at him finally, his expression suggesting that’s all he’s going to say, like he’s going to try and protect Martin no matter what Martin says. “Basira… Basira says they’ll blame me,” he adds. “Again. She says they were already asking questions, they… sh-she said they’ll be looking for me again.”

" What? " Martin's aware his voice sounds insulted, and he is, on Jon's behalf, framed again for murders he didn't commit. (Well. Jon did kill Peter, but. Martin's not mourning that, not at all, he deserved it, and Peter isolated himself enough that the police shouldn't be looking for him. And the thought of Jon being blamed again for something he didn't even do…) "You didn't do anything, h-how can they blame you?"

Jon laughs a little, quiet bitterness in there. "It's easy. A-and it is my fault, sort of. I'm the one who antagonized Julia and Trevor. I'm the one who… who kept that stupid table, and then destroyed it and let that thing out. I'm the one who…" He stops. Winces, shakes his head a little. "I-it doesn't matter," he says. "Basira's sure they'll blame me. She says I need to get out of London." 

Martin latches onto that, his heart leaping in his throat. Maybe he has no right to be this concerned, considering he's holed himself up for months, ignoring Jon and working with Peter for a plan that didn't even do anything —but he can't help but panic at the idea of Jon leaving again, going somewhere else, somewhere where they can't keep him safe… Not that Jon isn't entirely self-sufficient, he's been fine all this time, he's saved Martin, and not that Martin's been doing a good job at all, considering everything, Jon came into the Lonely because of him and could've just as easily been lost, and it would've been his fault. But after everything… America, Ny-Alesund, the Unknowing, every time Jon went somewhere and Martin didn't, and something horrible happened, and Martin just… 

He tries to force the panic out of his voice, tries to speak levelly when he says, "Leave… leave London? And go where? "

"Scotland, apparently. Daisy has a safehouse that she… that she obviously won't be doing, and Basira said…" Jon swallows hard, looks away. "Well, she said I should leave right away. She said she would bring me the key here, and I should leave on the next train." 

"Oh," says Martin. A part of him is nearly shouting, Don't go, don't leave me here, but this is ridiculous, Jon has to go, and he can't ask… not after everything Jon's done… (But he doesn't want Jon to leave, he doesn't want to be alone again.) "I… y-yeah. Yeah, that's best," he says, because he can't, and he'd rather have Jon alive and somewhere else than arrested or dead, again, and his throat is closing up a little. "If they're looking for you, you should leave as soon as possible." 

"Right," says Jon. "Right, a-and I would…" He's staring down at his hands, intently, like he's trying to find answers in the lines of his palms. Martin is thinking absently that he does that, too, and isn't it funny how many habits he and Jon share that he's never realized, when Jon looks up abruptly. He's got an expression that's almost shy on his face; he says, "I-I was wondering if you'd like to come with me."

They're quiet for a moment.. Martin's staring; he thinks he definitely might be staring. His mouth might be hanging open. Jon starts talking again, too fast and stammering and anxious: "O-obviously if you don't want to, th-there's no obligation, of course, i-it's just that I… well, I haven't seen you for such a long time, Martin, and w-we just started talking again, and I… I thought you might want t-to get out of here, maybe, the Institute, it's… and I don't want you to be alo—" 

Martin kisses him. Leans forward, just like that, and abruptly kisses Jon, cutting him off mid-sentence. Jon makes a little sound, a punched-out gasp, and his hand moves up, resting suddenly against Martin's jaw. 

It takes a moment for Martin to fully connect his actions— Jon just asked me to go to Scotland and You just kissed him —and he pulls away abruptly. "I-I'm sorry," he says wildly, thinking I should've asked, thinking Martin, you idiot, just because he followed you into the Lonely doesn't mean he wants to… 

Jon's looking at him. His eyes are dark and wet and full of some emotion Martin can't place, and he's just looking at him. His hand is still on Martin's jaw, his fingers warm against Martin's chilly skin. Martin's eyes dart to the side—to Jon's fingers, his bitten nails, resting against Martin's cheek—and then back to Jon. "I'm sorry," he says again, and Jon shakes his head, just a little. Rubs a thumb over Martin's cheek. 

The gesture is enough to make Martin want to break. Just shatter in a dozen little pieces inside. He's not sure what to say—his brain, wildly grasping, comes up with, "Are you sure you—" And Jon leans forward, just as abruptly as Martin did, and kisses him again. Kisses him gently, sweetly, with a sort of underlying desperation that sounds like it did in the Lonely last night. We need you. I need you. His hands are still on Martin's face. 

Martin makes a little sound of shock. Fumbles up with shaking hands to cover Jon's hand with his, to grasp it gently and desperately (the way Jon is kissing him) and not let go. Not this time.

Jon's the one to pull away, first, just far enough to rest his forehead against Martin's. He laughs a little, nervous energy, and doesn't let go of Martin's hand. "You don't need to apologize, Martin, you…" He laughs again, quietly. "I'm very sure. I am. I've been wanting to do that for… quite a long time."

"Oh," Martin says faintly, his thumb tracing the line of Jon's palm. "You have?"

Jon nods, his forehead thunking lightly against Martin's with the motion. Martin chuckles. "Me… me, too."

"Oh," Jon says softly. He squeezes Martin's hand. 

Martin looks down at their joined hands (on his knee, now), leaning into Jon a little. (Just a little.). "Yes," he says, and there is no tremble, no hint of hesitation in his voice. He's sure about this, maybe the surest he's been in a long time. "Yes, I'll go to Scotland with you."

[a-simple-gaywitch]

Composed of the Elements

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary:  When a case takes the team to (Y/N)'s home town, her best friend Spencer helps her leave all the baggage behind.

Title Song: Sweet as Whole, Sara Bareilles

Word Count: 2705

Warnings: high school bullying, brief mentions of a case, smoking

“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.” -Oscar Wilde

~

You walked into the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and your phone in the other.

“Morning, (Y/N),” your best friend, Spencer, called from his desk.

“Morning, Spence.” You sat down at your desk. Before you could get settled, JJ announced a case.

“We’ve been called in to a small town in Indiana,” JJ said, clicking on the slide projector.

“Wait. When you say small town…” you said, feeling your body tense.

“We’re going to (L/N)’s hometown,” Hotch confirmed. After going over the details of the case, he said, “Wheels up in thirty.”

Spencer reached for your arm, but you were up and moving to the bullpen before he could catch you. He watched as you grabbed your bag from your desk, ignoring Morgan’s attempts at conversation. Your usual peppy, outgoing self was gone, replaced with a stranger.

When the team gathered on the jet, they discussed the case together. You sat at the back of the cabin, staring out at the clouds, tapping on the table in front of you.

“Hey.” You looked up to see Gideon sitting in front of you. “Are you okay?”

You shook your head. “I never thought I’d be going back there. I thought I could leave and never look back.”

“Hey, I know it isn’t easy, but we need your help. You know this town and the people in it. That can help us.”

You sighed and stood up. “Fine.” Walking over to the team, you said, “One thing you need to know about these people: they don’t like outsiders. At all.”

“What do you mean by outsiders?” Hotch asked.

You scoffed. “Anyone who isn’t born and raised in the town. Even if you’ve lived there for years, if you weren’t born in Newton, you’re not to be trusted. You’ll see first-hand when we meet with the local PD.”

“What about the victims?” Derek asked you.

“I knew both of them in high school,” you said, flicking through the file. “But I don’t know what anyone has been doing with their lives.”

Spencer couldn’t help but notice the sadness in your eyes. Despite his aversion to touch, he reached out and rested his hand on top of yours. You were his safety net. He loved you, as more than just his best friend.

~

When the team got to the police station, you stuck to the back of the group while JJ and Hotch made introductions.

“Detective Miller,” Hotch said, holding his hand out. “I’m Agent Hotchner. You’ve already spoken to Agent Jareau. This is SSA Gideon, Dr. Reid, SSA Morgan, and SSA (L/N).”

“Wait. Little nerdy (Y/N) (L/N)?” the detective said, finally noticing you. “Wow, who would have thought you’d come back to Newton?” You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes down.

“Do you have a place we can set up a case board?” Spencer asked, noticing your unease.

“Sure.”

“Did you know the victims well?” JJ asked him.

The detective nodded. “We all do. Kelly’s my son’s teacher. Julia and I dated in high school. Our kids are friends.”

“Does everyone in town know each other well?” JJ asked as she helped you pin the crime scene photos to the board.

“Of course. We’re like a family. When your town only has 300 people, you have to look out for each other.” You couldn’t hold back your scoff. “You have something to say there, (Y/N)?”

“She’s Agent (L/N) to you,” Gideon interrupted. “JJ, Julia Coleman’s family is here.”

~

“You look different,” Detective Miller said to you as you worked late to help nail down the profile. “You look good.”

“Detective Miller-”

“Come on, you can call me Tim.” He stepped closer to you. “You don’t have to be so professional.”

“Excuse me,” you said, though it was no more than a whisper. You slipped out of the room and stood outside the precinct, leaning against the wall. You pulled a small box out of your jacket pocket.

“Since when do you smoke?” Spencer asked you, coming up next to you.

You lit a cigarette and took a drag before saying, “Since high school.” Seeing Spencer’s concern, you said, “Relax, I haven’t for a while. It’s only when I get really stressed.”

“You know, each cigarette takes about seven minutes off your life.”

“If it’s seven minutes I don’t have to spend with Timothy Miller or anyone else from this damn town, then I don’t care.”

“What did he do to you?”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Come on, (Y/N), it’s me. Talk to me. Please?”

You looked at your best friend’s pleading eyes and sighed. You put out your cigarette and said, “You know I didn’t have a good high school experience. After my mom died, my dad moved us to his childhood home. I moved schools halfway through the first semester. I was the weird new kid who wore all black with braces and clunky glasses and was way too into Stephen King books. I was an easy target.” You cleared your throat. ��Julia and Tim were my biggest tormentors. When they dated, it was worse.”

“What do you mean?” Spencer asked.

You chewed your lip. “Tim asked me to the prom when he and Julie were on an off period of their relationship. I got so excited, like an idiot. I mean, I knew he didn’t like me in that way. After all, why would he?” You laughed, but there was no joy behind it. Spencer felt his heart clench at how you saw yourself. He thought you were the most beautiful, amazing woman to ever exist.

“But I thought at least I’d have a friend, you know? I rented a dress and did my hair, all that stuff. Tim said he was going to pick me up. He never came.” Your eyes burned with tears at the memory. “The worst part was, my dad didn’t know there was anything going on. After-after my mom died, he gave up. When he wasn’t working, he was drinking and smoking.” You shook your head. “Tim just brought all those feelings back.”

Spencer reached out and wiped the tears off your cheek. “You didn’t deserve any of that. No one deserves that.”

“Carrie was my favorite book in high school. I wonder what that says about me.”

“Why don’t we head back to the hotel?” Spencer offered, holding his hand out to you. “Rest might help us with the case.”

~

The next morning, the team discovered there was another murder. Misty Lincoln had been killed in the same way as the other two victims. Spencer was graphing the geographical profile while you sat at the table, staring at the crime scene photos.

“You see something?” Hotch asked you.

“I’m not sure. Uh, could I- could I take like two hours? I think there might be something that’ll help us in my dad’s old things.”

“Sure. But you’re not going alone. Take Reid with you.”

You knew better than to argue with your boss. “Yes, sir.”

When you and Spencer got into the SUV, your fingers started tapping the steering wheel as you drove, letting muscle memory guide you. You pulled into the parking lot of a storage facility. Spencer followed behind you as you passed row after row of storage units. When you finally stopped, you flipped through your keychain until you found one you were looking for. You hadn’t spoken to Spencer since getting in the car back at the station, and he was starting to worry.

After you opened the door to the unit, you looked at Spencer. “After my dad died, I moved all his stuff here. I got rid of some stuff, of course. What would I ever do with an old couch that had more cigarette burns than upholstery?” You ran your hand over a white garment bag. The golden lettering was faded, but Spencer could still make out the word bridal, and what he could infer was the word boutique from the few remaining letters. “Some things I just couldn’t get rid of.”

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Spencer asked you, picking up a picture at the top of an open box. You were between who he could only assume were your parents, and you all looked happy. You looked just like your mother. The small you, who couldn’t be much older than 8, clung to the woman’s side. Your father had his arm around your mother’s waist. It all looked very domestic.

“Sure,” you said, digging through a box at the back of the unit.

“Why have you been acting so different since we got here? I mean, you’ve been acting so meek and timid, which isn’t you. I once heard you threaten a cop that you would, and I quote, ‘shove your foot so far up his ass that he would taste the mud on your shoe.’ What’s going on?” He set the frame back on the top of the box.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess… I spent so long trying to distance myself from this place and when I came back, I was back to being a scared little 15-year-old.”

“But, you’re not, (Y/N). You’re strong and confident.” It was then Spencer heard you sniffle and noticed you were crying. “(Y/N)?”

You wiped your face. “Sorry. It’s just… I worked so hard for the image of me that you all see and-and I’m just so afraid that being here is going to erase all that. I worked so hard at the Academy to form an identity that wasn’t this and-”

“(Y/N), (Y/N), hey,” he said, taking your hands in his. “Breathe. Our image of you is not going to change just because your old tormentors are here. I- uh, we, the team, we love you. You’re our family. I think Garcia would riot if Hotch ever tried to get rid of you.” You chuckled at that and it made him smile. “Now, how about we get out of here and work more on our profile?”

~

When you got back to the precinct, Hotch asked you, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yeah.” You pulled an old yearbook out of your bag. “All the victims are from the same graduating class, and they were all in the same extracurriculars. Look.”

“We’re ready to give the profile,” Gideon said after flipping through the book.

Your team gathered the police department to deliver your preliminary profile.

“We’ve come to the conclusion that our unsub can only be a local,” Spencer said. “He-”

“There’s no way,” Officer Miller interrupted. “No one in this town would do that. Besides, why would I trust this walking stick insect over the people I’ve known my whole life? You’re wrong, Stick-Bug.”

“How dare you,” you said, stepping forward. The rest of your team stepped away. They knew what was coming. No one would say it, but they all knew how you and Spencer felt about each other. “How dare you talk to Spencer that way. Captain Bell invited us here to help you find out who’s murdering members of your community. You have no right to talk to my family that way.”

“Your family? These people are your family?”

“A family is anyone who makes you feel loved, and by that definition, yes. These people are my family. And if you ever talk to any of them like that again, I will bring your life crashing down around you with one simple phone call.”

“Oh, look who’s finally got a backbone,” Tim laughed. “Little (Y/N) thinks she sounds all big and threatening.”

“It’s not a threat, Timothy, it’s a promise,” you said. “And I’m sure Captain Bell would take you off this case if I told him you have a conflict of interest. I’m sure he’d love to know you’d had an affair with one of the victims. You and Julia never could stay away from each other, could you?”

Spencer fought a smile at seeing you return to yourself, as well as seeing Timothy’s face pale. He chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to think of a way to thank you.

~

The case was finally over. Like always, Spencer had been right. The unsub was a guy from your graduating class who felt the women from your class shunned and mistreated him. Thankfully, you were able to sympathize with him and get him to come in without any extra violence.

Hotch was giving the team the night in the hotel before heading back to Quantico in the morning. You were flipping through the channels on the hotel’s TV, already in your pajamas by 8:30. You finally settled on some old reruns of Friends when there was a knock at your door. You groaned and extracted yourself from your blanket cocoon and trudged over to the door.

“Spence? What are you doing here?” you asked after opening your door to reveal Spencer, still in his work clothes.

“Come with me, I want to show you something.”

“Spencer, I’m in my pajamas-”

“That doesn’t matter. Just, come with me. Please?”

You tugged your old sweatshirt on and followed Spencer down the hallway, to the elevator.

“Where are we going?” you asked him.

“It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?”

“You trust me, right?”

“Of course, I do, Spence. You know that.”

“Okay well,” he covered your eyes with his hands and guided you forward. He dropped his hands and said, “surprise.”

You were standing on the patio of the hotel’s restaurant, the tables had been pushed to the side and lights were strung up all around.

“Spence, what’s all this?” you asked as he gently pulled you to the center of the patio.

“A way to say thank you,” he said. When he saw the confusion on your face, he said, “For sticking up for me at the precinct. I know it must have been hard to stand up to Detective Miller. And-and I remember you telling me that you don’t have many good memories here, and then I thought about your prom story, so…” He held his hand out to you as music started playing. “May I have this dance?”

You smiled and took Spencer’s hand. He rested his free hand on your waist, and your free hand rested on his shoulder as the two of you gently swayed to the soft music coming from the patio’s speakers.

“How’d you pull this off?” you asked him.

His smile was a bit sheepish. “Morgan and Garcia helped me pull some strings.”

“Of course they did. Garcia is the all-powerful puppet master.”

Spencer laughed as the two of you continued to dance. When Spencer heard you sniffle, he stopped and pulled away.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He brushed a tear off your cheek. “Did I do something wrong?”

You shook your head and smiled at him. “No. It’s happy tears.” When you saw that Spencer still looked confused, you explained, “I never thought I’d have someone in my life who cares about me this much. I mean, look at all this. You did this just to make me happy.” You rested your forehead against Spencer’s and wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers playing with his hair. Spencer’s arms wound around your waist, pulling you closer.

“Of course I did. I love you. I-I mean, I care about you. Because you’re my best friend and-”

“Spence,” you said, stopping his rambling. You pressed a soft kiss to his lips, lingering for just a moment.

Spencer’s brain, which usually worked at three times the speed of the average person, slowed to practically a halt. You had just kissed him. The girl he’s been longing for just kissed him. She kissed him . You were about to say something to him when his brain finally caught up and he kissed you back.

When the two of you pulled apart, you said, “Well, I guess my prom was worth the wait.”

Spencer smiled at you and kissed your forehead before continuing to dance with you.

~

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." -Anais Nin

[litafficionado]

Four Questions with Garielle Lutz:

I’m extremely beholden to Garielle who took the time to respond to my silly, garbled, childish, intrusive questions. You can purchase her latest book Worsted here and here, among many other sites.  --------- Q.  You've attributed the resuscitation of your literary career in quite considerable measure to your teacher and editor Gordon Lish. It seems like you guys are particularly close, even as you seem to have largely confined yourself to Pittsburgh(mostly driven by your erstwhile teaching career but also by your liking the city over time). How does it feel to hear someone like Gordon speak so highly of you, “I think there’s more truth in one sentence of my student [Lutz] than in all of [Philip] Roth. Lutz gives [herself] away. “The speaking subject gives herself away,” says Julia Kristeva. I thoroughly believe that. What you see in Lutz, [her] lavish gift, is [her] refusal to relax [her] determination to uncover and uncover. It is, by my lights, quite wonderful, quite terrific.[…]Lutz is entirely the real thing?” Does one feel vindicated? How do you navigate the waters of self-effacement and self-indulgence as a writer and as a person? A.  I haven’t had a literary career before or after studying with Gordon Lish.  I don’t think one finds one’s way to him in hopes of launching a career.  Anyone with vulgar ambition along those lines would have been shown the door pretty quick.  I would never presume to be close to Gordon or to feel that I am part of his life other than in my role as a student. He dwells in another realm entirely. I attended his classes and tried to grasp, to the best of my abilities, the things he was saying about how to get from one word to the next.  He also talked about how to free a word from the constricting range of its permissible behaviors, how to drain it of every sepsis of received meaning, until there is nothing left of the word but the skeleton of its former self, just the lank, gawky letters sticking out this way and that, and then how to fill the thing up again, to the point of overspilling, but this time with something that would never have been allowed to belong in there before, and then see whether the word, now close to bursting, can hold up and maybe have a new kind of say.  I’m always surprised and relieved whenever Gordon says anything approving about anything I write.  I think that for a lot of his students, his opinion is the only one that counts.  

Q.  You've said, "A typical day goes like this: noon, afternoon, evening, night, additional night, even more night, furtherest night, then bedtime, though I don’t have a bed or furniture of any kind.” Have you always been a lychnobite, sensing the overwhelming superabundance of life after the sunset or is it a relatively recent development facilitated by your retirement from teaching? Do you consider yourself in any way to be a minimalist? Does your room bear any resemblance with a sparsely lit opium den where all exchanges happen at the floor level?

A.  I think the pandemic has had a lot to do with it.  Lately I’ve been up until five, sometimes six.  But I’ve always found mornings the harshest and ugliest part of the day (maybe it’s just because of the place where I live, but I never open the blinds anyway).  There can be something awfully scolding about a sunrise the older you get  Evening seems to extend every form of leniency, and in the dead of night, expectations go way down, which is where they maybe ought to stay.  I do spend all of my time on the floor, but my apartment doesn’t bear any resemblance to an opium den.  It’s more like a crawlspace or the back of a  dollar-store stockroom.    

Q. Even with your reputation of being a page-hugger than a typical page-turner, how do you decide which books to read apart from your line of work? Do you try to keep it largely in the familiar territory, like exploring the oeuvre of a time-tested writer? How does one unshackle oneself from this constant niggling that one ought to read so many books? Here's Ben Marcus: “When I was in graduate school, there was this sort of cautionary adage going around by the poet Francis Ponge that we can only write what we’ve already read and one way to hear that is you’re just sort of doomed to kind of regurgitate everything you’ve read and so if you’re just reading all the popular books, the books everyone else is reading, in some sense you’re maybe unwittingly confining yourself to a particular literary practice that’s gonna look pretty familiar. I remember at the time thinking, okay well if that’s true, if I’m just fated to that, then I’m gonna read things that no one else is reading. I loved to just go to the library and pretty randomly grab books, because I think for a little while, and I’m kinda glad this passed, but I really just had this feeling that a writer just consumes language and just sort of spits it out. So it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t have to be a great novel for it to be worth-reading. And I still read very little fiction in the end compared to non-fiction, essays, works of philosophy, science. And the other sort of dirty secret is: I don’t finish a lot of books. I just don’t care enough. I only finish a book if I have to or if I really want to. And, often, I’ll stop reading a book three pages from the end. I think that as writers, we probably feel a lot of pressure about what kind of a reader to be, what kind of a writer to be in, and we feel this shame, like “I haven’t read DH Lawrence, I’m such an asshole.” You begin to feel like you’ve these deficiencies and you gotta make them up and you never will and a lot of it is just kinda tyrannical. Of course, obviously, we must be naturally motivated to read and read and read and read but I guess I just started to notice that…I got a lot of my ideas by just reading…e.g. a gardening book…like the weird way a sentence was structured.” Then there's Moyra Davey: “Woolf famously said of reading: “The only advice … is to take no advice, … follow your instincts, … use your reason.” A similar thought was voiced by her elder contemporary Oscar Wilde, who did not believe in recommending books, only in de-recommending them. Later, Jorge Luis Borges echoed the same sentiment by discouraging “systematic bibliographies” in favor of “adulterous” reading. More recently, Gregg Bordowitz has promoted “promiscuous” reading in which you impulsively allow an “imposter” book to overrule any reading trajectory you might have set for yourself, simply because, for instance, a friend tells you in conversation that he is reading it and is excited by it. This evokes for me that most potent kind of reading — reading as flirtation with or eavesdropping on someone you love or desire, someone who figures in your fantasy life.”“What to read?” is a recurring dilemma in my life. The question always conjures up an image: a woman at home, half-dressed, moving restlessly from room to room, picking up a book, reading a page or two and no sooner feeling her mind drift, telling herself, “You should be reading something else, you should be doing something else.” The image also has a mise-en-scène: overstuffed, disorderly shelves of dusty and yellowing books, many of them unread; books in piles around the bed or faced down on a table; work prints of photographs, also with a faint covering of dust, taped to the walls of the studio; a pile of bills; a sink full of dishes. She is trying to concentrate on the page in front of her but a distracting blip in her head travels from one desultory scene to the next, each one competing for her attention. It is not just a question of which book will absorb her, for there are plenty that will do that, but rather, which book, in a nearly cosmic sense, will choose her, redeem her. Often what is at stake, should she want to spell it out, is the idea that something is missing, as in: what is the crucial bit of urgently needed knowledge that will save her, at least for this day? She has the idea that if she can simply plug into the right book then all will be calm, still, and right with the world. […] Must reading be tied to productivity to be truly satisfying […] Or is it the opposite, that it can only really gratify if it is a total escape? What is it that gives us a sense of sustenance and completion? Are we on some level always striving to attain that blissful state of un-agendaed reading remembered from childhood? What does it mean to spend a good part of one’s life absorbed in books? Given that our time is limited, the problem of reading becomes one of exclusion. Why pick one book over the hundreds, perhaps thousands on our bookshelves, the further millions in libraries and stores? For in settling on any book we are implicitly saying no to countless others. This conflict is aptly conjured up by essayist Lynne Sharon Schwartz as she reflects on “the many books (the many acts) I cannot in all decency leave unread (undone) — or can I?”” What way out do you suggest? Do you deem it worthwhile to eschew any shred of obligation and be propelled in any direction naturally? Like you said you found grammar books and lexicons more engaging and enjoyable than the novels.

A.  I seem to remember that in some magazine or another, James Wolcott once said “Read at whim.”  That has always sounded like the best advice.  And I assume it means to feel free to ditch any book that disappoints.  Like Ben Marcus, I’ve had experiences of abandoning a book just a few pages from the end, but I often don’t make it that far in most things anymore.  I came from a long line of nonreaders, so I’ve never felt any guilt about passing up books or writers that so many people seem to talk about a lot, and I don’t expect other people to like what I like. Some books I’ll start about halfway in and then see whether I might want to work my way back to the beginning.  Others I’ll start at the very end and inch my way toward the front, one sentence at a time, and see how far I can go that way.  I seem to remember that in The Pleasure of the Text, Roland Barthes recommends “cruising” a text, and maybe something like that is what I’m doing at least some of the time, if I understand what he means.  And every now and then I’ll read  a book straightforwardly for an hour and afterward wonder whether the time might have been better spent staring off into space. Too many books these days seem ungiving.  It’s the ungivingness that disappoints the most.  A lot of contemporary fiction has the gleam and sparkle of a trend feature in a glossy magazine, and I can appreciate the craft and the savvy that go into something like that, but I am drawn more toward stories and books that demand being read slowly and closely, pulse by pulse, the kind of fiction where everything--what little might be left of an entire blighted life--can pivot on the peal of a single syllable. Q.  I'd like to ask you so many questions. But let this be the last one for matters of convenience. Also, in a capitalistic world, one's enshrouded with guilt for taking one's time without being remunerative in any way. Among the books and films that you recently encountered, which ones do you think deserve rereads/rewatches? A.  I used to feel like the woman you’ve described so movingly above, someone who questions her choice of books almost to the brink of despair.  At my age, though, I no longer have a program for reading, a syllabus or a checklist, and I’m okay with knowing there’s a lot I’ll never get around to.  I’m happy being a rereader of a few inexhaustible books and chancing upon occasional fresh treasure.  The one book that has shaken me the most in the longest time is Anna DeForest’s  A History of Present Illness, which will be out next August.  It’s a blisteringly truthful novel written with moral grace and unsettling brilliance and an awing mastery of language.  A couple of recent books I have read in manuscript, books that totally knocked me out with their originality and uncanny command of the word, are Greg Gerke’s In the Suavity of the Rock (a novel) and David Nutt’s Summertime in the Emergency Room (a short-story collection).  I haven’t watched many movies in the past few months, and the ones I watched aren’t ones I’ll probably be rewatching anytime soon.  

[quicksiluers]

Sorry about the inherent angst with this one but 41 with Grant/Sherman, Thank you!

ok so FINALLY....we get to this one, the living person/ghost au and boy...the angst with this one was fun It's kind of AU in a sense, cause I mean ghosts, but it takes place a few years after Grant has passed away!

So yeah, have fun. I think this is the longest one? who knows, I can't keep track

Gray clouds blanketed the sky, light rain falling on him as he walked along the sidewalk. The streets were empty, the poor weather keeping most residents within their warm homes. Sherman pulled his coat closer to his body, hands stuffed deep into the pockets. He had forgotten his gloves. Minnie would be upset. She had chided him the other day for forgetting them and he had reassured her that it wouldn’t happen again.

What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

A small brick structure appeared over the low ridge ahead. He felt his chest tighten, mouth set into a hard frown.

Grant deserved better than that.

Each step felt like it was weighed down, his feet dragging. During his previous visits, he was occupied by others wishing to pay their respects. At first, it wouldn’t bother him. Listening to them recount stories of the general brought some relief, a soothing feeling that comforted him for a time. That soothing slowly crumbled into annoyance. He wanted to be alone with him, to suffer alone. Remembering their times during the war, the small smiles, laughs, touches…

Sherman shook his head, cursing under his breath. It was selfish. He had no right to tell others to leave when they were grieving.

If anything, he was the coward who couldn’t visit Grant while he was alone. He had tried, talked himself up multiple times, and conveniently found another thing to do. Each time he would make the plans with himself, dread clawed at him. His chest would tighten up, heart pounding in his ears.

It was only when Sherman was standing at the foot of Sheridan’s grave, looking into the freshly dug ground, that he realized that he was scared to visit Grant. He would have to admit that he was gone. Out of his reach forever. Something in him cracked as he stood there, tears rolling down his aging face.

As Sherman approached, a soldier on guard turned to him, giving a small salute. At least they still had guards around this place. “Sir,” the young man nodded, Sherman returning the gesture.

“You can stand down Captain,” he ordered, trying to keep his voice gentle, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

The young man’s hand came down slowly, posture relaxing slightly, “No disturbance General. You’re more than welcome here.”

Annoyance prickled within him. Of course, he could be here. Had this child even known Grant? If anything, he should be the one telling the kid to run off.

You didn’t need to be so harsh Sherman.

He let out a low breath, allowing the annoyance to ebb away. He could still picture the brunette’s disapproving look, though a small smile tugged on his lips. There had been too many times when he’d overreact and Grant would pull him back. It was one of the many things he…

“Would you mind Captain, if I had a moment alone?” Sherman asked, his eyes trained on the red structure. There was some wear to the bricks. He’d have to bring that up with someone, to make sure everything was put together properly.

“Of course sir.”

When the young man was out of his sight, he took a step closer to the temporary tomb. A chill ran through him. It seemed like yesterday when they sat together in Grant’s home within the heart of the city. A blanket was wrapped around Grant’s shoulders, a blue cap atop his head. He was the man Sherman knew, had stood side by side for years, and yet he wasn’t. The bags underneath his eyes were deep, the coughing fits wracking his body. That firm, strong voice that he followed through so much had grown softer. When Sherman brought up a story from the war, a familiar warmth shone in Grant’s eyes that thrilled him. He would have done anything to bring life back to his...to his dear friend.

His hand rested against the brick, fingers lightly scratching the rough surface. They were so much more than that. No one could know. He had tried to forget, chalking it up to their younger years. Yet there were still times when he yearned for those arms to be wrapped around him. Stealing quick kisses while on campaign, Grant’s hand briefly taking his own after a meeting. Shared glances, stories around the campfire, those strong lips overpowering his own.

Sherman’s face flushed, resting his forehead lightly against the wall, “I don’t know why I thought coming up here was a good idea,” he whispered, a shaky laugh passing his lips, “I...I miss you. And I…,” he swallowed the words, unable to say them outloud.

The wind began to pick, a chill in the air sending a shiver through him. He fought back the grief that threatened to take him over, stepping back from the tomb. Sliding his hand into his inner coat pocket, he carefully cradled a small collection of flowers. There was nothing special about them in particular, ones he had found along the way.

It was something he had seen Grant do while they were campaigning through Mississippi. When he had asked the young general about it, he talked about how he had grown interested in them while he was away in Mexico.

‘It was silly,’ he shrugged, spinning one briefly in his palm, ‘But I thought Julia would love them.’

‘Did she?’

A playful gleam shone in his eye, ‘We’re married aren’t we?’

“A ridiculous story, Grant,” Sherman muttered, crouching down to lay the small bunch of flowers. He tucked them between the grates of the entrance, eyes locked on the sarcophagus sitting within the walls. How much longer was it going to sit in there like that? He deserved more than this. Everyone knew it. And yet nothing was done.

His hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms. Standing up, he took a few steps back, anger building up within him. This was what the people gave to the man who saved the Union? Who kept the country together? It was pathetic, a disgrace. The committee members who were supposed to be working on his resting place did nothing. A group of good for nothing’s. If he ever got his hands on them...

His heart was pounding in his ears, breath coming out in short, harsh gasps. Calm. He had to be calm.

Taking a deep breath, Sherman exhaled slowly. He closed his eyes, paying special attention to the rhythm of his heart. As it slowed, he felt exhaustion creeping upon him. He wasn’t young anymore. The swift shifts to anger that had seemed like second nature to him during the war drained him now.

“Well Grant,” he paused, eyes roving over the small tomb. He licked his lips, chapped from the cool weather, “I’ll...see you again. Maybe the weather will be warmer.”

Only silence was his answer. How very Grant.

Sherman turned and walked away, making his way back to the city. He brought his hands up to his mouth, blowing warm air into them. It would be a long walk, but it would allow him to clear his head.

At the entrance of the tomb, the small bunch of flowers swayed lightly against the ground. One was pulled away from the others, rising up and through the bars. A faint outline of a hand gently cradled it between their fingers.

“Sherman…”

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

He spent the rest of the day busying himself with business around the home. Minnie and the other girls would be out for the night, promising to see him the next day. That had been fine with him, the storm of emotions within him making him more restless than usual. Each time he sat down to write a letter, he ended up scratching out the response halfway through, throwing one sheet after another in the bin beside him. Nothing brought him comfort.

It had been a mistake going up to the tomb. Sherman slumped down into his seat within his study, running a hand through his hair. It was thinner than he wanted it to be. Ellen had teased him about it years ago. He still had the letter when she told him not to give it out to anyone who asked for it.

She was another person who left him too soon.

The wind whistled outside, a faint light from the street lamps along the sidewalk creeping along the floor. Sherman pulled his robe tightly around him, a shiver wracking his body. That was odd. It was rare for him to feel a chill like that when he was in his pajamas. He had made sure the fabric was thick for the cold winter nights. He glanced back at the window, a few specks fluttering by. Snow. He frowned at the prospect. Winters in the city could be miserable.

Grumbling, he rose from his chair, hugging himself to keep warm. He made his way across the room toward the fireplace, sighing in relief at the small bit of warmth. Gently he grabbed another log, throwing it on top of the pile, embers bursting from the remnants. A wave of heat rolled over him.

“Sherman…”

His head spun around, eyes darting around the room. Nothing seemed out of place. Was there anyone else in the house?

Shaking his head, he turned back to the fire and stocked it a few times. That should keep the room warm for the time being.

“Got yourself hearing things,” he chuckled, standing up and stretching his back. It had most likely been the wind.

“Sherman…?”

Everything within him froze. No. He refused to believe it. That voice...it couldn’t be possible. Every hair on his body felt like it was standing on end.

It was coming from behind him.

He didn’t move, unsure of what to do. If he turned around, what would he find? His mind was playing tricks on him. That’s what it had to be. It couldn’t possibly be…

Slowly, ears ringing, he turned his head. At first, he saw nothing. Just the wall and windows behind his desk, the tree branches swaying from the window beyond them. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His eyes trailed around the room before they froze on the back corner. It was darker than the rest of the room and he squinted to make out what was there. A faint shimmer.

No. It couldn’t be. Maybe he was mad.

From the shadows, the shimmer took shape. The blue over his coat was faint, practically see-through. His chestnut brown hair was as full as it had been during the war when Sherman would run his hands through it in private moments. Strong, blue eyes staring back at him.

“Grant…?”

His mouth felt dry, unsure of what he was seeing before him. It was as if the man hadn’t aged a day since the end of the war. But he knew that wasn’t the case. Sherman had seen his sunken cheeks, the pale sickly skin burned into his memory. This couldn’t be…

Whatever it was stared back at him, tilting its head slightly. A small smile tugged on its lips, “You’ve gotten old.”

Whatever doubt he had evaporated. That voice. No one else had that voice.

Without thinking, he quickly crossed the room. He stopped a few paces away from the figure, suddenly unsure. It looked so real as if he was actually there. And yet…that unfamiliar chill settled over him.

“How…are you really…?” He stopped, staring down at the form. Everything about him looked realistic. Yet he knew it couldn’t be, there was no possible way. The uncertainty left him speechless, shaking his head, “I…”

“I am…well,” the form, Grant, raised his hand up, turning it over a few times, “Mostly. I’m here in a way.”

“But why do you look…”

His faded blue eyes looked up at him, an eyebrow slightly raised, “How do I look to you?”

Sherman raised his own hand but stopped himself. What would happen if he touched him? He feared that if he tried, the form would fade away. That couldn’t happen, not so soon. If this was all the time he was going to have with him…

“Like you did at City Point,” mumbled Sherman, pulling his hand to his chest. His heart felt like it was going to burst through it, though he wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or joy, “How can that be though…”

“Well…it could be what you want to see,” reasoned Grant, watching him. He nodded to himself, seemingly happy with the explanation, “Yes, I assume that would make the most sense.”

“What do you mean by that?” Sherman asked, eyebrows pinched together.

“I’m just assuming that it has something to do with your own emotions. Maybe, I appear like this because it’s how I looked in your…I guess what would be your happiest memory,” Grant scratched his hand against his jaw, hand-pressed into his hip. A thoughtful expression formed on his face and Sherman couldn’t help but smile. He had seen it so many times during meetings.

It really was him

Whatever nerves were holding him back melted away and he stepped forward, reaching his hand out. If he could just for a moment maybe feel him…

His hand passed through what would have been Grant’s cheek, a burst of chills snaking up his arm. Sherman gasped, his mind going blank as he tripped over himself at the sensation. He fell forward through the form, landing on his knees. His hands were planted into the carpet, body wracked with the same chills.

“Sherman! Sherman, I…”

Gritting his teeth, he tried to push back the cold creeping into his skin. Why had he fooled himself like that? Did he really think he would be so lucky, so fortunate, to be able to do more than talk with him again?

Grant was kneeled in front of him, his hands hovering over the older man. Sherman’s gaze met his, blue eyes mixed with concern and sadness. It was cruel. He was right there in front of him and yet…

“I’m sorry, Sherman I...,” Grant ducked his head, strands of his hair falling in front of his faint face. He pulled his hands back away from Sherman, somehow curling into the “fabric” of his pants, “I’ve made it worse.”

“No, I should have known better,” objected Sherman, shaking his head. The cold sensation faded away, a tingling and prickling feeling left behind. A throbbing of pain came from his knees. He’d feel that tomorrow. The thought made him laugh under his breath, Grant’s worried gaze fixed on him, “This whole thing…I’m just so happy to see you. There’s nothing you could do to make it worse.”

The brunette watched him, searching his face. Slowly he nodded, “If you say so,” he conceded, the few strands of hair distracting Sherman. Unconsciously, he reached out to brush them away before Grant pulled back, concern rushing to his face, “No, Sherman, it’ll…”

“I don’t mind it,” Sherman argued, “even if I can’t do it. Just let me...,”

A worried expression watched him, Sherman’s hand hovering inches from the outline of Grant’s head. With a sigh, Grant moved closer to him, the faint outline of his hand reaching up to Sherman’s hand, “Fine, but if it’s too much…,”

A light feeling pressed to his skin, leaving behind the same tingling sensation. The cold crept at the edges, but it didn’t seem to have the same effect when Grant was touching him. His hand came over the top of his, somehow guiding Sherman’s hand closer. The feeling was dizzying, almost like he was actually there. As his fingers combed through Grant’s “hair”, he was brought back to the two of them in the hotel in Cincinnati.

They had laid together in a tangled mess, Sherman’s hand carding through the brunette’s disheveled hair, Grant leaving lazy kisses along his neck. At the time, they hadn’t known it would be the last time they would see each other for a year. At that moment, it was just them. He felt Grant’s calloused hand reach up, pulling him closer and kissing him softly, Sherman melting into him.

“Sherman…”

The older man was brought out from his reprieve, unsure when he had closed his eyes. Opening them, Grant stared back at him with a sad smile. Sherman’s hand was clasped between his own, seemingly placed on Grant’s lap. He wasn’t sure how that worked, but he didn’t care.

“It’s not fair,” Sherman grumbled, shaking his head.

“What’s not fair?” Grant asked, tilting his head. He seemed fainter than he had before. Sherman knew they only had so much time.

“That you’re not here. You should be the one…”

“Don’t say that,” his interruption surprised Sherman, the familiar flash of determination in the other man’s eyes, “It was my time. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to take my place. That sort of suffering…I would wish it upon no one.”

“So you would have yourself bear it all?” Sherman growled, “You were the best of us. Yo-you should have…”

“It was my burden to bear Sherman,” insisted Grant, frowning at the older man, “We don’t get to decide when w-“

“But it’s not fair!” he yelled, pulling his hand back harshly. The cold sensation snapped back with him, a shiver going up to his spine, “Y-you, and then Phil…and then Ellen, you all just…”

Something wet rolled down his cheek, but Sherman paid it no mind. His emotions whirled like a storm within him. Everyone was taken too soon from him. And each time he had to be strong, the grizzled, determined general to push on through. Locking away all that pain. But at some point it became unbearable and this…having Grant so close to him and yet not being able to hold him. To feel his lips on his own, to care for him…

Was he being punished for what happened during the war?

Grant’s broken expression stared back at him, unsure of what he could do. Sherman pushed his face into his hands, wiping away the frustrated tears. His breaths came out in quick succession. It was becoming hard to breathe.

“Sherman, Sherman you need to…”

An odd sensation pulled at his arm, “Dammit! Sherman please,” those blue eyes were fixed on him, swimming with concern. Sherman felt himself gasp, trying to remember the breathing exercise his doctor had instructed him to do when he was short of breath. Nothing came to him.

Suddenly, a burst of cold felt like it slammed him in the chest. Crying out, Sherman fell back into the carpet, coughing harshly into his hand.

What the hell had that been?

Grant’s faint figure took over his vision, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do, are you alright?”

“What,” Sherman coughed, trying to rid himself of the cold, “What did you do? Christ...”

“I didn’t think shoving my hand in your chest would work so well…”

The sheepish expression on the man’s face rid him of any annoyance. He chuckled at first before it slowly developed into a full laugh. It was painful how Grant that was. His mind was brought back to the war, where he would sit back and watch the brunette direct hundreds of men with ease. The plan was always there, but he would be willing to shift things around until the end result was what he wanted, even if he was unsure of the methods.

It was hard not to fall in love with him.

Slowly, the laughter cracked, tears rolling down his cheeks. The grief he had kept at bay finally broke through and flooded over him.

Drowning. That’s what it felt like. He didn’t know what to do, was lost within the waves crashing down on him. It was all too much. But he deserved it. This is what the families of the men he had led to their deaths must have felt. Why had he been allowed to live on when better people passed away?

The familiar cold sensation pooled around his cheek. Cracking open his eyes, trying to wipe away the tears, Grant looked down at him. His mouth was moving, but Sherman couldn’t hear it. His ears were ringing.

“…man, I should have stayed away. If I had known…”

Panic came over him. “No,” his voice cracked, “No, don’t say that.”

Grant’s concerned expression didn’t change, “But Sherma-“

“No,” he sat up quickly, the world tilting slightly due to the dizziness. He blinked a few times, trying to focus his gaze. Grant sat back on his “knees”, pulling his hand away with him. Sherman tried to reach out for it, fingers passing through too easily, “Don’t say that please.”

They sat together on the ground in silence, the whistling wind echoing throughout the room. Grant’s face was turned away, the wall of books behind him more visible than they had been before. Time was slipping away from them. There was so much Sherman wanted to do, so much to say. These couldn’t be their last moments together. Those memories were already painful enough.

“I missed you so much,” he licked his lips, voice rough from the coughing. Grant’s head tilted toward him, blue eyes watching him warily, “I couldn’t...after they put you in tha-that tomb...I couldn’t bring myself to…”

“But you did visit,” Grant countered softly, moving closer to him. If he had physically been there, their knees would have been pressed up to each other, “I know that much. I could always sense you in a way.”

“Never alone though,” argued Sherman, sitting back on his knees. His eyes flickered over the brunette’s face, the youth he remembered so vividly. Between the presidency and cancer, he had aged so much in those last years. Lines of worry that had only just begun during the war cracked all over his face. Those were gone now, replaced with a sadness that Sherman was unfamiliar with, “I couldn’t bring myself to come alone until...until Phil and then...Ellen, with them both gone…

“I was scared,” the admittance tumbled out, Sherman looking away from Grant’s gaze, “The idea of you not being here...it was unbearable, I couldn’t bring myself to deal with it,” he scoffed, shaking his head, “How pathetic does that sound?”

“I don’t think it’s pathetic,” the voice was close, just above a whisper. He felt that chill on his cheek, shivering, “I think I understand more than you think.”

He turned, realizing how close they were. His breath came out in puffs like it did when he walked with his girls along the streets in the city on a cold day. Grant’s gaze was soft, a sad smile pulling at his lips. A phantom feeling brushed along his cheek, Sherman almost leaning into it. Was it really Grant or was his mind playing tricks on him?

“I love you,” Sherman whispered, desperate to touch him. Just for a moment. Was that too much to ask for?

“You mean ‘loved’,” Grant chided quietly with a smile.

“No,” he shook his head, staring into his faded blue eyes, “I love you. I’ll always love you.”

Grant looked over him silently, his mouth turning into a small frown. Sherman stared back at him, daring him to challenge him.

Nodding, the small frown melted away into a soft smile, “And I love you, Cump.”

They seemed to move at the same time, Sherman leaning forward, aching to feel his firm lips again. A wave of cold overpowered his mouth, seeping through him, and he let his eyes close. If only for a moment, he could feel Grant on him, guiding him.

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

“Papa? Papa, you must wake up…” The voice cracked through the darkness, his eyes slowly blinking open. He closed them quickly again, not adjusting enough to the sunlight seeping through the windows. A warm pressure shook his shoulder lightly, “Papa, please you know the doctor said sleeping at your desk was not good for you…”

Sherman groaned. What did doctors know anyway?

Slowly he opened his eyes, sitting up and stretching slightly. Every part of him felt sore, “When did you get back Minnie?” He fought back a yawn, leaning back into his chair. When had he fallen asleep last night?

His daughter looked down at him with a mixture of annoyance and concern, “I just arrived back when you didn’t join us for breakfast. Did you forget our plans?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. How could he have slept through that? It was something they always did when most of them were together in the city, “I must have been more tired than I thought.”

“Did you leave a window open somewhere?”

“No,” he replied in confusion, raising an eyebrow, “why?”

“You’re so cold. Maybe with the fire going out and you not having a blanket…,” her eyes lingered on the burnt-out embers within the fireplace, eyebrows furrowed, “Please don’t do that again Papa, you know how cold it can get.”

An odd sensation came over him, but Sherman couldn’t place it. His fingers lightly brushed his lips, their small chill sending a shiver through him.

“Oh,” her voice alerted him, his eyes trained on the small flower between her fingers. Minnie’s other hand was pressed lightly to a stack of papers sitting at the corner of his desk, “This is a cute flower Papa. Where did you find it?”

“I…,” he stammered, his mind reeling. What was all that last night…? “When I was walking through Central Park yesterday.”

Minnie placed it gently on the desk, picking up one of the papers under her hand. Her eyes flickered over it, a small smile crossing her face, “Are these all the letters that General Grant wrote you?”

His eyes were trained on the stack, the edges of some of them worn from time. When had he pulled those out?

“They are...,” his voice trailed off, gently grabbing one from the pile. His thumb lightly brushed over the paper, his eyes dancing across the page.

“He seemed to care about you a lot, Papa.”

“He did,” Sherman muttered, cradling the paper carefully. It was one he cherished, pulling it out occasionally while they had been apart for that long last year of the war. His eyes lingered over the ending. He bit his bottom lip lightly, fighting back a small smile;

How far your advice and suggestions have been of assistance you know. How far your execution of whatever has been given you to do entitles you to the reward I am receiving you cannot know as well as me. I feel all the gratitude this letter would express, giving it the most flattering construction.

Those faded blue eyes from the previous night appeared in his mind. Heat crawled onto his face, accepting that it hadn’t been a dream.

And I love you, Cump.

“And I cared for him as well. Very much so.”

[sincerly-kate]

Shattered Glass (Malcolm Bright/Whitly x gn!reader)

A/n: This story is inspired by two things; a two-part series by @wreckofawriter​ and also my experience with family . If you want me to remove it (wreckofawriter) then I will, but I don’t mean to copy your amazing work.

Warnings: Angst to fluff, Malcolm trying his best (not really a warning but that needed to be put out there, HE ONLY TRIES HIS BEST), also talk about poor mental health! (Such as Anxiety, description of an anxiety attack (this is based off MY experiences I’m not trying to generalize them!) and slight depression)

Don’t read if you’re not done season one! All spoilers are under the cut just in case (Eve is mentioned, iykyk)

Summary: You and Malcolm have been dating for a few years now, you share with him all of your sides- or so he thought. How will he react when he sees you crying when you think he can’t see you? How will he feel when he realizes that you guys are more alike than he originally expected?

Y/s/n = Your Siblings Name

Y/m/n = Your Mothers Name

y/n = your name (just in case this is your first fic)

Words: Just over 3,000 (😅😅)

I was listening to this song as I was writing this: If the World Was Ending- JP Saxe, Julia MIchaels

You always knew that Malcolm could see the real you better than anyone else, he could see straight through your facial expressions and little habits. It was his job after all as a profiler, he couldn’t just turn it off when he was with you and that was understood between the two of you. The last thing you wanted was for him to change in a world that treated him differently already (no thanks to his father).

But there was one part of you that you tried to keep from Malcolm at all costs, and that was your family.

It wasn’t because you didn’t trust him with that knowledge, but it was just a side of you that you’ve never been able to let anyone see. To see how hurt you were by their words, how little you were respected by them, how small you felt anytime you tried to be yourself around them. You couldn’t tell him any of it, you hoped that he would believe your lies, cause you knew that his family was way worse than yours; so you just kept it all inside for no one except yourself to see. The last thing you wanted was for him to feel guilty for confiding in you after all these years.

You felt him nudge your shoulder, which brought you back to reality. You were a Reporter, and a very god one depending on who you asked, and Malcolm needed you to help him drag out a killer for a case. He was profiled as overly confident and a borderline narcissist, so Malcolm was certain that if you talked about him on the news, saying that they had him in custody that he would contact either you or the station to say you had a fraud. Malcolm was going to be by your side the entire time, just to make sure they wouldn’t go after the most important person in his life-,not again; he wouldn’t know what he would do if you were taken away from him like Eve. He would do anything in his power to make sure that he wouldn’t go after you, since you matched most of his previous victims.

“You alright?” He looked at you slightly worried, he was always concerned when you got too deep into that head of yours, he wasn’t sure what caused you to be constantly thinking that you’re not good enough, but he wasn’t going to press the matter. He rubbed your thigh as he sat next to you, to keep you grounded.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like I’m about to be indirectly talking to a serial killer on live television, and possibly get a target on my back for doing so.” You nervously laughed as you looked down at your feet, your leg bouncing up and down to the rhythm of your rapidly beating heart.

“You don’t need to do this; you know that right?” He placed his hand on your cheek, caressing the side of your face with his thumb repeating the motion to calm your nerves. “I can ask Ainsley; she’s done this before-”

“Malcolm, I’ll be alright. I always am.” You gave him a tight-lipped smile; you knew it wasn’t very convincing but that’s all you could muster up at the moment.

He wasn’t convinced, you could tell since he gave you his doubtful that he’s given you on more than one occasion but he was cut off by another voice before he could call you out on it.

“C’mon Bright, they’re about to go live.” Gill said as he lightly grabbed his arm to get him out of the shot, and he complied.

“Live in 3,2,1...” You were given the cue as you took a deep breath and put your ‘TV face’ on as you liked to call it. “Breaking news tonight, the NYPD have confirmed that they have someone in custody who’s been known to the public as The angel of death, nothing has been said by police if this truly is their killer but after the past week of The angel of death terrorizing the city, police are led to believe that this is him.”

You took a pause to make it look like you were listening to someone through your earpiece, that was intentionally visible to the camera, then carried on with the broadcast.

“I’ve just gotten a confirmation from our sources that it has been officially confirmed that they have The angel of death himself in custody and will be setting a court date to be announced later. Now back to Ryan with politics.”

The second you heard the ring that signaled you were no longer on air, you slumped over in relaxation. You crossed your arms on the table in front of you and leaned your head, that now felt lighter than air, on top.

“You did amazing darling, that should get the killers attention for certain.” He said to you as the sound of his shoes got closer to the desk the kissed the top of your head and slowly rubbed your back to release more tension that he knew you were holding.

“I didn’t really- “You tried to correct him as you lifted your head, but Malcolm refused to let you get close to finishing that sentence of yours.

“Nope- you just brought us our killer baby; you did a hell of a lot more than most would’ve in your shoes.”  You loved how he was always able to reassure you, and how he did it without a second beat.

You turned to look up at your loving and supportive boyfriend in admiration and a warm smile slowly painting your features, “Whatever I did in a past life was so worth it.”

“What?” He slightly laughed at your statement, looking at you now with a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

“To deserve someone like you and be lucky to call them mine.” You stood up from your chair and moved closer to him to close the distance between his lips and yours, you could taste the slight cherry flavor of the candy you knew he had earlier. As you two break apart, you can still taste it on your own lips.

Unfortunately, this moment doesn’t last as long as you two wanted it to, because both of your phones go off. His from an unknown caller, and yet yours is somehow worse.

You look down to your phone saying Mom, you sighed at this and then looked at Malcolm, or where he was, already on his phone, most likely talking to the killer himself next to Dani, Giles and JT.

You excused yourself to another room for some privacy that you knew you were going to need. You were only halfway to the quiet room when you answered your phone; you knew that was going to be a bad idea.

“Why in the hell did you think that was a good idea y/n?!”

You sighed and with a tight-lipped smile replied with, “Hello to you too mom, haven’t heard from you in a while.” You then slowly closed the door behind you.

“Don’t give me that lip! I am your mother, I deserved to be treated with respect! I never get this from y/s/n.”

You dropped your head down in defeat, you always considered the problem child, ever since your sibling came into the picture. Before that everything was relatively fine, but you never blamed y/s/n though; it’s not their fault your parents decided that you could fend for yourself at the age of 8.

“Yeah I know, but it was for a case- “Once again, she decided to cut you off.

“A CASE?” she shrieked into the phone, making you pull the device away from your ear.

“Yes- “

“Now I knew were selfish, but I never thought it was this bad. I could tell that it was staged, are you seriously putting yourself in danger so they could contact you for some ink?”

You were absolutely shocked by her words; she thought that you risking your life was selfish? So, you could save others, that made you selfish? You felt the pressure of tears build up as a sickening pit was building in your stomach; she always knew the words to say and never in the good way. “No, that’s not- “

“No, I get it, you’re too damn stupid to see past your own needs. I have no clue where I went wrong with you.”

The minute you heard that, you hung up the phone. You couldn’t care less about what she would’ve said after that.

You hit your back on the wall as you slowly walked backwards and slid down to the floor. You pulled your knees up to your chest and placed your head down.

You must’ve been sitting there for a while as there was a rough knocking behind your back, on the door. ‘They must’ve been knocking for a while’ you thought.

“Y/n! Are you in there?” Malcolm. You must’ve scared him to death, without even thinking you stand up and open the door for him.

Behind the door was Gil, JT and Dani accompanying Malcolm. “Shit guys, sorry if I scared you.” You laughed humorlessly but stopped once you saw all their concerned faces.

“Y/n, you alright?” Gil asked, who was more of a parental figure than your own, but you couldn’t ever tell him that. Not because you were scared it would go to his head, no, he wasn’t like that. You just didn’t want it to become awkward since he already needed to worry about Malcolm, you didn’t need him to constantly worry about you on top of it.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” You said then realized you still had massive tear stains on your cheeks and puffy eyes from your previous phone call, you forgot to wipe them away before you opened the door.

‘Dammit y/n’ you scolded yourself for making the four of them all worry.

“Um you got somethin’ right,” JT then motioned to his whole face, Dani then elbowed him in the side for his unhelpful comment.

“Oh!” You wiped the sides of your face, “I’m fine guys, just got something in my eye.” You smiled at all of them.

Your head then turned to Malcolm, who squinted his eyes at you. You could tell didn’t believe you at all; he knew all your tells. You could tell that he was going to ask later, but you were sure as hell going to avoid it if you could.

Unable to deal with the silence anymore, you pushed by all of them, apologizing as you went, and walked out to your car. You were done for the day anyways, so you wanted to go home to Malcolm and yours’ apartment.

~

Once you got through the door, you let the dam in your mind open. The flood gate of tears rushed, and there was nothing you could’ve done to stop it; not that you really wanted to anyways. Your hands shook from the rush of emotions going through you, but you forced down the inevitable panic attack until you got to the couch. Your hands continued to uncontrollably shake, and you curled up in a fetal position with your favorite blanket wrapped around you like a tight hug. The words of your mother echoed throughout your fogged mind.

“I knew were selfish… you’re too damn stupid to see past your own needs…”

It just wouldn’t stop. It was like a massive wave going over a surfer; nothing could be done about it, you just needed to ride it out.

You heard a muffled noise coming from behind you but being so caught up and immobilized in your thoughts, nothing could’ve dragged you out of this one, not this time.

 A pair of arms grabbed your shoulders, and there was enough fight left in you to push them away and run into the corner of the apartment. You could slightly see a male figure coming near you, and all you were capable of doing was whimpering and curling up in what you had deemed your safety blanket.

“Y/n… talk to me… happened at… were worried…”

You tried to make out the familiar voice- Malcolm; that’s the only person it could be right? It didn’t matter to you right now; the voice of your mother was stronger than your own thoughts, it always had been.

You felt a thud right next to you, and smelt the subtle sent of his cologne, it brought you back to your senses slightly, but not enough to stop your uncontrollable shaking and tears. He nudged himself closer to your body, and you instinctively laid your head on his shoulder. You could feel yourself calm down, but you knew it was because he was here. Yes, he was helping you ground yourself through the small gesture, but it was mainly that you were embarrassed of him seeing you like this and could feel your body force away the attack.

As you begun to trust yourself to speak, you turned slightly towards Malcolm, a numb look coated your features. “Sorry you had to see that; you shouldn’t have had to.” You spoke meekly, looking down at your still slightly shaky hands in your lap.

“Y/n, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

It was once he said that sentence that you knew you needed to come clean about the one secret that you had left from him.

“But I do, I’ve been selfish.”

“How darling?” He said while slowly petting your head, the way you’d comfort a child.

“I didn’t want to tell you, cause you already had so much on your plate, with this case, your family, and I- I just didn’t want to add my family on top of it.” He understood that this must’ve been eating at you for a while, because you normally bottled all your feelings until it broke; unfortunately, that’s why you both got along so well. He never wanted you to feel like that was necessary when you were with him, but how do you bring that kind of thing up?

“What about your family?” he spoke softly. You never spoke about them, hell he’s never even met them but now he felt deep down that he was about to find out why.

“Am I selfish to you? Am I someone you really see yourself with in the long run?” Tears begun to fill your eyes again, and a crack in your voice was evident to Malcolm that you believed in what you were saying about yourself.

He felt a pang of sadness for you in his chest, that was quickly turning to anger at whoever made you feel like you were any less than worth the universe. He composed himself before he responded to your question.

“Far from it, you are the most selfless human being I’ve ever met. There’s now way that a selfish person would’ve done what you did today; going in front of thousands of people and calling out a killer like that, like a badass.” He nudged your shoulder, where he got a slight giggle out of you. It wasn’t a lot, but it was better than nothing.

“And absolutely can I see you with me later on,” He took a deep breath before he continued his statement. “I love you y/n, and if I ever lost you… I don’t even want to think of who I would become. You’re the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.”

You immediately rushed into his arms and embraced him so tightly, afraid that this was all some massive cruel dream, and you’d wake up another day without him knowing. You stayed like this for a moment before Malcolm piped up,

“So, you wanna tell me why the most beautiful person to ever walk the earth is currently crying on our apartment floor at nearly 9 pm?”

You both chuckled at this, as you unwrapped yourself from his arms to look him in his beautiful blue eyes. His eyes were still filled with an underlying anger, but mainly held concern towards you.

“You know when we were at the news station today? And you got a call from the killer?” He nodded, encouraging you to continue.

“Well I also got a call, but it was from my mother. We got into an argument, since she saw the broadcast, and words were said.” You knew that the fine details were going to be said eventually, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it.

“And, what did she say baby?” He answered in a voice that was barely even a whisper, he looked you up and down; most likely looking at your body language to see if you were going to try and lie, but he could tell that you were going to be honest.

“That I was selfish, dumb, questioning where she went wrong with me.” You sniffled and looked to your hands, terrified to see Malcolm’s reaction. Not because he might yell at you, but at what he might do to your mother now that this was his first impression of her.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Was all he said after some silence.

“You have your own family shit to deal with, I didn’t feel like it was fair on you to dump mine on top of it. I didn’t want you to lose anymore sleep than you already do over something that I need to deal with.”

“…”

“Malcolm? You’re scaring me.” You looked up at him to see him looking out the window, his face glowing from all the nightlife neon lights across the street; he looked so angelic, more than he normally did.

“How didn’t I see this any sooner? I don’t care that you didn’t tell me y/n, I don’t care that your family is screwed up as well. I do care about the fact that I couldn’t help you through it.”

“But Malcolm it wasn’t your fight-” you tried to defend your reasoning, but alas he needed to correct you once more before the night was through.

“You’re right; it’s our fight. To hell with our parents, we’re not our parents; we are our own people. So, from this moment on, I promise to be completely transparent with my baggage as long as you are with me. We can break our constantly bottled-up feelings together.” He gently picked up your hand and laid a kiss on top.

“turn them into shattered glass.” You nodded as you spoke, a smile slowly coming back to your face.

“Just like shattered glass.” He nodded back, returning your smile.

And just like that, the two of you sat down on the couch, cuddling and watching movies as dusk carried on into dawn.

A/n: I hope you guys liked this, I always loved Malcolm’s character and Prodigal son, and with my life being slightly hectic at the moment this was a nice change of pace. Hope you have an amazing day or night, depending on where you are! 💙

-Kate

[batfam-rewrites]

Batfam During Quarantine: Training Day

Thanks so much for the amount of love the last post got!I’m sorry it took me so long to post this next one, school and other stuff started to get in the way, so to make up for it I added a surprise arc at the end. I might start doing theses in chunks to save time and fill in any gaps where I don’t post as much because of school. Not so sure yet but it’s just an idea. I hope that if you read this you enjoyed it! I am going to try and post more frequently now that I’m almost caught up with my school work.

Damian: Good morning Tim! I made you breakfast.

Tim: What do you know? Why are you calling me Tim?

Cassandra: Plus three large hot cups of coffee.

Tim: What’s going on? Why are you guys acting so weird?

Cassandra: No reason. Just want to be nice.

Tim: Nope. That’s not it. What did you guys do.

Jason: Done making Tim’s bed! I’m off to steam his suit!

Tim: WHAT THE SHIT IS GOING ON???

Cassandra, Damian, and Jason: *in unison* We just want to be nice. *all three surround him in a big hug*

Tim: THIS IS SO WEIRD!

Dick: *walks into the breakfast room* Morning Tim! How’s it going?

Tim: NO! ALL OF YOU LEAVE ME ALONE! *storms out of the breakfast room*

Dick: What did you do to Tim?

Jason: We have no idea.

Damian: The dude is losing it.

Dick: *gets face to face with Cassandra* Cass, do you have something to say?

Cassandra: We woke up early and decided to be nice to Tim for no reason.

Dick: You guys are evil. Go have your fun.

All three run out of the room.

Jason: TIM LET US LOVE YOU!!!!!!

Daily Briefing

Dick: Hey, Babs doesn’t know your here. I don’t want her to get jealous or something so could you please join the zoom call from another room.

Helena: Sure, I understand, lover.

Dick: No, we aren’t going through that again.

Helena: I make no promises.

Tim: You know you’re going to be in deep shit when Barbara finds out, right?

Dick: I’m in deep shit anyway.

Tim: Very true.

Dick: *begins the zoom call* Hey everyone, so if you can’t tell, Huntress has arrived to help out. Now, to everyone at the manor I created a schedule for when to work out. They should be completed before patrol. For those of you at home, I trust that you made your own.

Barbara: Yep!

Kate: Please, I’ve been training much harder than most of you guys since I was 6.

Harper: Yeah, sorta did. Not able to do much because I’m not at the cave.

Dick: That actually leads me to my next point. Harper I made a schedule for you because Bruce, Alfred, Selina, and I found a way to have Cullen inside the mansion without him finding out who Batman really is. Cullen already knows the alter egos of Red Robin, Spoiler, Orphan, and Nightwing. Everyone else is a question mark, so we will allow you to enter the mansion. When Cullen is around, we all will have to restrain from talking about our vigilante work. Have everything ready by next week. Once you arrive you’ll have to quarantine in your room for two weeks.

Harper: Awesome!

Dick: Today there has actually been no crime in Gotham City, so far, so we’ll take a day off, but if something comes up, cases will be assigned as they normally are. So everyone, after training, feel free to relax but be ready in case something pops up.

Dick and Jason

Dick: *turns on his training playlist, first song being “Devil in I” from Slipknot*

Jason: You know what, if this is the kind of stuff you have on your playlist, I might actually enjoy training with you!

Dick: I have 357 songs on here.

Jason: Damn!

Dick: What did you expect, I listen to every genre!

Jason: Really! I should actually start listening whenever people talk.

Dick: Remember that next time Bruce yells at you for shooting someone.

Jason: I’m just saying, if I mistake someone’s knee cap for their head, is it really that bad?

Dick: *laughs* Yes!

The two stretch a bit before moving on to pommel horse.

Dick: Figured you’d want to get this out of the way first.

Jason: Fuck you!

Dick: Just think of the music, and not falling.

Jason: *goes for a loop on pommel horse and bangs his legs against the pommels and falls* AHHHHHHH!

Dick: Maybe I should take pommels off first?

Jason: That’s an option? Then yes, please do so!

Dick: *quickly takes of the pommels then goes for a magyar, a triple russian, flare, spindle, press handstand one and a half piro, and flawlessly sticks his dismount*

Jason: Show off.

Duke and Damian

Dick and Jason had been training for an hour and fifteen minutes before Duke and Damian walked in. After stretching, the two began to spar.

Dick: Duke! You made a mistake when choosing your partner.

Jason: Nah! My boy Duke will show Dami who’s the boss.

Duke: I honestly like my chances!

Damian: Good Thomas, your over confidence will be your doom!

The two begin to fight. Damian dives right for Duke, rolling out and uses his momentum to go for a front flip and kick Duke in the chest, however Duke evades Damian’s strike and trips him after Damian lands.  Damian gets back up though, thrashing at Duke. Duke dodges each strike and finally jabs Damian in the gut a few times and kicks him in the chest. That would be the only fight out of the three they had that Duke won. 

Afterwards, Dick began to teach him the basics on both high bar. Duke was able to catch on very quickly and by the end of his training on high bar he was learning how to do kips and flyaways. Dick and Duke also decided to tumble together so Duke could learn the basics and some advanced skills too.

Damian spent the rest of his time trying to out do Jason. When Jason was using 100 lb weights, Damian would use 120′s. When Jason ran 5 miles, Damian ran 6. 

Jason: Dami, you’re going to be extremely sore. Take it easy.

Damian: Easy? *huff* Let me *huff* remind you that *huff* I was also trained *huff* by the League *huff* of Assassins. *runs to the garbage to throw up* I am superior *huff* than all of *huff* you in every way.

Jason: Okay bud. Well, I’m about to spar with Dick.

Damian: I’ll fight Grayson, too. *jogs up to Dick while moaning in pain* *huff* Fight me Grayson. *huff*

Dick: I’m not going to fight you. You look like you’ll pass out.

Damian: I’m *huff* fine.

Dick: Throw a punch at me like you normally would without groaning in pain.

Damian: *starts to punch but his fist his Dick like a soft tap* Ahhhhhh.

Dick: Go rest, take an ice bath, eat a lot of fruits, and drink a lot of water.

Damian: Okay, *huff* but only because *huff* you said so.

Dick and Jason then started to fight and after they concluded, Dick took the trash bag that Damian hurled in and tossed it out. An hour later Duke concluded his workout.

Cassandra and Julia

Cassandra: Woooo! Are you ready?

Julia: Your enthusiasm is a little bit concerning.

Cassandra: Yeah, but just deal with it.

Since she arrived to the mansion Julia has not let herself stop her routine. She has been training as much as she has been since her days in Britain's Special Reconnaissance Regiment. However as soon as she saw Cassandra doing freestanding handstand push-ups while doing an inverted crunch, she knew she had to up her game.

Cassandra just ignored the list Dick gave her for the most part and did the craziest exercises she could think of. When she started strength conditioning, she ran to the still rings and tried to do what she saw Dick doing once. She tried an azarian to an iron cross but immediately fell through the rings. it took her twenty minutes but she finally made it to the iron cross and rolled backwards into a planche. An hour later she finish conditioning and waited for Julia to finish so the two could spar.

Julia: Okay, you ready? *walking over from the treadmill*

Cassandra: More than ready! Lets do this! *she started bouncing on her toes like a boxer*

Cassandra won all three fights within a matter of minutes. Julia almost had a chance in the second one where Cassandra lost her balance, but she reacted too slow as Cassandra regained it and knocked Julia to the floor.

Selina and Helena

Selina focused more on her agility during her cardio workout than anything else. I mean, it’s definitely something that she takes pride in so why wouldn’t she?

Helena: Hey, can I ask you a question? *throwing punches toward Selina*

Selina: Sure! *dodges each strike, jumps off the wall, and dives over Helena’s head*

Helena: What’s the situation between Dick and Barbara? *grabs Selina’s torso and slams her body down*

Selina: Oof. *gets back up from the floor and sits down with Helena* Don’t think of it. Dick is all sad that he has to stay at the mansion without Barbara. I wouldn’t even try to approach Dick about the situation because he’ll act even more weird then when you arrived.

Helena: That explains this morning.

Selina: What happened?

Helena: I said hey and he replied with “Hey, what’s up, gir......friend, lady. Girl who is a friend and a lady. Saved it.” Then, just for fun, I pinched his ass and he jumped up and screamed. 

Selina: You’re playing with fire, I don’t blame you for pinching his ass though.

Helena: Hold on, it gets better. After that I leaned towards him and he started leaning over the table and asked, what’s wrong lover. He then stepped to the side and said “Nothing, nothing.” and started walking backwards saying “coolcoolcool” until he reached the door.

Selina: Why bother messing with his head?

Helena: Because it’s fun. Plus I still feel like there is something there. 

Selina: Very well. Now that you have that out of your system let’s head to the showers.

Helena: You won’t tell Dick, right?

Selina: What you just told me is between you and Dick. I will not interfere in any way.

Stephanie and Tim

Tim: *walks in tired as hell* Hey Steph. You ready?

Stephanie: Yeah!

Tim: Alright. Cool.

Both Stephanie and Tim go to do their separate training regimes. Tim however, being extremely tired started to move very slow during his workout. Halfway through his work out he stepped out to grab a five hour energy shot and started flying through his conditioning list that Dick made. 

Tim: You ready to spar? *jumping around like a rabbit, then lands sideways, falling to the floor only to get back up*

Stephanie: *looking at Tim like he’s a crackhead* No, I think we should skip the sparring match today.

Tim: No, come on let’s go! *grabs Stephanie's wrist and drags her over to the sparring arena*

Stephanie: Tim your going to hurt yourself. Instead of sparring let’s take a nap.

Tim: Come on, sleeping is for people who have don’t have tragic backstories. Let’s fight!

Tim tries to throw a few quick jabs but Stephanie quickly sweeps Tim’s legs causing him to fall. Stephanie Runs forward pointing her fist at his throat.

Tim: Owww! That’s abuse! You abused myself! Why are you mean?!

Stephanie: Tim, when was the last time you slept?

Tim: Ummmmm........... Tuesday?

Stephanie: Okay, training is over, go let yourself rest.

Tim: Pffft. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. 

Stephanie: Okay. *text Dick* Hey Dick, we have a code yellow.

Dick: *text back* On my way up.

Tim: You know I like to live by the words of the Beastie Boys anyway. No sleep ‘til Brooklyn, and because I have never been to Brooklyn, I am not obligated to sleep.

Stephanie: You have a problem!

Tim: No, *points his finger dramatically at Stephanie*  you have a problem.

Dick: *walks in* Hey Tim, I have a case I want to work on with you.

Tim: *to Stephanie* See, now I can’t sleep.

Dick: We’ll take the Batmobile.

*3 hours later*

Dick: Okay, we just entered Brooklyn. Now go to sleep!

Tim: No fair, you tricked my brain.

Dick: SLEEEEEEEEP!

Tim: NO!

Dick: Why are you staying up all night?

Tim: Because, I don’t want anything to change! *starts sobbing*

Dick: It’s okay, you’re alright. *pulls over to the side of the road*

Tim: No I’m not. Everything is changing and I don’t want it to. I don’t want to fall out of my habits because what about when things get back to normal. Then we have to build those habits again, and what if while we are readjusting someone dies because we weren’t ready. Plus, there is so much stress with helping Bruce keep his company from falling, trying to finish my homework, training, and patrolling the nights where there is more activity. 

Dick: *embraces Tim in his arms* Look change is going to happen whether we like it or not. It’s not what happens that shapes who we are but how we react to the changes that occur in our lives that do. The world is never going to be the same after this pandemic is over, so you could either adapt, or repeat your mistakes. It’s okay to not be okay. You are not alone, you have all of us at the mansion to talk to. Another thing that you have to keep in mind is that people are going to die. We both knew that the moment we signed up, and sometimes there is nothing we can do about it. All we can do is learn from what happened to stop it from happening again. You also need to get some sleep. I know you are under a lot of stress right now, not going to lie, but you have it worse than all of us right now, but how do you expect to save others if you won’t take care of yourself. 

Tim: *starts calming down*

Dick: I’ll talk to Bruce tonight to see if he could cut you some slack. I’ll find a way to help out too now that we aren’t patrolling as much. Just make sure to take care of yourself.

Tim: Okay.

Dick: Smart, toit.

Tim: Stop it Peralta. *begins to laugh*

Dick: *laughs pretty hard* Now get some rest, I’ll wake you up when we get back to Gotham.

Tim: Okay. I guess.

Black Mask, Hush, Two-Face, and Jason Bard

The night was very silent as Roman Sionis looked upon Gotham from the building. It was quiet, empty, peaceful, and disturbing. Hush walked into the room, followed by Harvey Dent and Jason Bard.

Black Mask: Congratulations, you found your way here.

Jason Bard: You’re pretty easy to find when you want to be.

Black Mask: Or is it because no one else is on the street other then your snitches.

Jason Bard:......

Hush: You called us here. What do you want?

Black Mask: Look out at the city. Tell me what do you see.

The three men walk forward towards the window.

Two-Face: Fear.

Hush: Silence.

Jason Bard: Caution, and paranoia.

Black Mask: You are all correct, but you missed one thing.

Two-Face: Stop playing games! What do you want us to see?

Black Mask: Opportunity.

[trillian-anders]

first blood

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

warnings:  angst, general asshole-ness.

word count: 4.6k  

description: part 3 of 5. how did you become ransom’s glorified babysitter? and why the fuck are you keeping this job? who knows. you hate it, you hate him, but... the money. 

note: tumblr is being super shitty rn so I can only post on mobile, but I really wanted to get this off my desk! will add a read more and properly link later 💕

prequel to the assistant && four christmases, spoiler free loves. 

You have to do this.

You have to do this.

You have to do this.

You don’t think your eyes will ever feel normal again. They were dry and scratchy. There were no more tears to shed. You’d buried your Mom two months ago, but you didn’t know how it would ever feel okay. She did everything for you and Julia. Everything. She worked hard, made pretty good money, allowed you to have a part time job and just focus on school. Julia was in this really nice private school, she played the cello now for fucks sake. She had friends and was talking about maybe starting soccer soon, but after funeral costs and your sister’s tuition the life insurance money was running out.

You had to sell the house.

You’d moved the two of you into a small apartment right outside of Chinatown. Not the safest area, but not the most unsafe either. You’d be fine. You had each other, and she needed you to do this. You had to do this.

For her.

You sat uncomfortably in the cheap office chair, sitting across from a woman with too many papers on her desk, everything sloppily arranged around a couple of potted succulents and a framed picture of her and her three kids, no spouse.

“So your last job was in tutoring?” She asked you. You shifted nervously in your seat, nodding your head,

“Yeah, I tutored a high school student in English and Math.” You needed some water. The cheap pencil skirt and blouse you were wearing made your skin itch. She types into her computer some more.

“So why are you here?” She asked, “Why not continue tutoring?” A few more clicks and then more typing.

“The family I worked for paid me pretty well,” You admitted, “But she’s graduating this year and they didn’t need me anymore, I don’t really,” You cleared your throat, “I don’t really have much job experience outside of that and I need to start making money now… I’ve put out job applications but haven’t really gotten any luck.” Not with the income you needed anyway. The woman nodded. The plaque on her desk said her name is Stacy Chandler.

“Alright, here you are.” A printed page, address, date, and time. A job. Clerical work. Data entry. You have to do this...

-

“How was your last day of school?” Julia sat heavily at the kitchen table, backpack slumped on the floor next to her. She buried her face in her arms.

“I’m never going again.” Came muffled from her mouth. She lifted her head to look at you. The beginnings of puberty. You’d recently gone bra shopping for the first time. Real ones, no more training bras. You’d recently taken her to the dermatologist for her acne, but she’s not good at remembering to put on the expensive creams you bought. What a hard time. You don’t envy her.

“Luckily for you,” You smiled, placing a fudgy brownie in front of her, “You don’t have to go back for three whole months!” She rolled her eyes heavily, taking the brownie and disappearing into her room presumably to sit on her computer until dinner.

She was feeling the absence of your Mother just as you were. You weren’t sure what to do here. You loved your sister and you know she loves you too, but in the last few months it’s just been closed doors and a few parting sentences. Only because you had to work so much. Only because she spent a lot of time at friend’s houses where you’d think she would feel normal for a while. It would help ease the burden of being in your mid-twenties and suddenly feeling like a single mother. Of course you can sleep over at Mila’s house, her family is going to their cabin for the weekend of course you can go!

You didn’t know what to do other than keeping her in school and alive. You weren’t ready for this. But the only other option was your estranged aunt who reeked of mothballs and was constantly asking you if you were married, or dating, or ‘You’re Mother wouldn’t have wanted this’. No. It was very clear that your Mom wanted the two of you to stay together, and that’s how it’s going to be.

This summer she was going to spend with her friend Mila at their family’s lake house. Mila’s mother was a stay at home mom with six kids under the age of 12 and would be planning to spend the summer pintresting activities and projects with them while simultaneously getting out of her stuffy-old 10 bedroom, 8 bathroom mansion. Lucky her. Lucky Julia.

The apartment would be empty without the 12-year-old pre-teen for three months, but Julia has really been looking forward to it. Her bags were packed and ready by the door.

You hugged her tightly in front of Mila’s house, burying your face in her hair, partially not wanting her to go, but otherwise knowing that she’s going to have a better time than you could ever provide her. “Okay, you can let me go now.” She shifted in your arms, trying to pull away.

“Just another minute.” You mumbled, pulling her in tighter. “I’m gonna miss you.” She laughed,

“I’m gonna miss you too.” The two of you pulled apart and you tucked her hair behind her ears, cupping her sweet face.

“I love you,” You said very seriously, “If you ever want to come home just-”

“I’ll let you know.” She was getting impatient, the car Mila’s mom was taking to the lake house, a beautifully large black Range Rover sat packed next to you, they were waiting. “I love you too.” She slowly backed away towards the car.

“If she gets homesick, my husband still comes back every week for work so he can bring her home if need be,” Andrea was her name, Mila’s Mom. “She’ll be fine.” Andy was really nice. She made a lot of the food the two of you had eaten in the early days after your Mom’s death. Her gentle reassurance soothed you slightly. It made driving away a little easier, but it didn’t stop the tears that fell as you entered your apartment, alone. For the first time in a while. You didn’t have to hold it in anymore.

You sunk down against your front door, staring out into your living room, tears rolling down your cheeks in the silence of the home. Dirty shoes lined up against the wall, throw blanket hanging halfway off the couch, dirty dishes from breakfast still in the sink, and somewhere you’re sure under all of it was the will to pick yourself back up.

You just didn’t know if you were ready for that quite yet.

But you did it anyway.

More clerical work. More data entry. More bills going half paid and others being ignored all together. Student loans you didn’t even want to think about from a school where you hadn’t even graduated. Medical bills you didn’t even know where to begin paying back, itchy stockings, and uncomfortable shoes. With every day that passed you reexamined your life. How did you get here?

A new job, a new office. Temp assigned, but you knew who worked here. The building that housed it stood tall against the Boston skyline. Contemporary. You sat comfortably in a cushy office chair. The plaque on the desk read Linda Drysdale, CEO. And you waited.

You hadn’t seen the Thrombey’s, let alone the Drysdale branch of the family, for five months. Zero contact. Joni had talked to you last, thanking you for helping Meg, but also trying to sell you eye cream. “You really should invest in taking better care of yourself.” Which was her kind way of trying to tell you that you look old. Thanks.

You couldn’t imagine what Linda would want you for. You’d been doing some filing, they were transferring all of their documents to digital and hired extra help to do so, you were one of three hired from your particular temp agency, but yesterday she had called you personally and asked you to come in for an appointment today at 3 pm. And here you are.

Waiting.

There was a portrait of her family on the wall. Linda herself sitting in a high backed intricate chair, her husband Richard standing to her right, and to her left was her son, Hugh. He went by his middle name Ransom. They were stone faced, serious looking. This painting seemed ridiculous. If you didn’t know the Thrombey’s you’d think it was there to be ironic, as a joke, a play on what rich families were like.

But they were a rich family, and this is what they were like.

Linda was self-serving. She only ever talked to you when it suited her own interests and as soon as she was satisfied she would quickly direct her attention somewhere else, to someone more important. She used you to get what she wanted and when you served her purpose you were gone. She had no time for anyone, only her father. Anything for Harlan.

Richard was a predator. He was always making an uncomfortable comment about either your body or your face. He stood uncomfortably close at times and liked to settle a hand on the small of your back. He was a well kept man, throwing his wife’s money around like it was his own. He kept a money clip of hundreds in his pocket.

Ransom was a piece of shit. He was a self-centered egotistical asshole who was sure to make your life a living hell every time he saw you. There was always a comment, a jab at your clothes, your hair, the fact that you are poor. He once ‘accidentally’ threw your cardigan away because, “I thought it was one of those fucking rags you dust with, I didn’t want it touching my burberry.” He, like his father, felt predatory. Something about being a rich white man just really got them going, and the money clip with the hundreds… a learned habit.

“Alright,” Linda’s voice came from the doorway, you turned slightly in your seat. She was on the phone, “Well we will send Michael out to show them the properties instead, I’m sure we’ll find something they like.” She gave you a finger, hold on, even though you’d been sitting here patiently waiting for her for close to twenty minutes now. “Okay,” She continued, “Sounds good.” Sitting down in her chair, tapping a few keys to illuminate her computer screen. “Alright now, bye-bye.” She took her phone from her ear, looking down at the screen before placing it face down on the desk and smiling at you.

You knew that smile. She wanted something.

“So, Y/N right?” You nodded, “I see you’re looking for work.”

“Well, I’m with a temp agency right now but-”

“Would you like something a little more permanent?” A permanent job? The Thrombey’s had paid you very well to tutor Meg, better than you were making now. Granted you had only worked 15 hours a week when you were tutoring her, so $20 an hour didn’t seem like that big of a deal, but if they were looking for something, anything full time…

“Absolutely,” You smiled, shifting in your seat, “I’ve had trouble being hired because my-”

“Okay so you’re going to need Ransom’s number, and you’ll start tomorrow.” Your smile dropped.

“Ransom needs a tutor?” You asked skeptically. She laughed.

“No, he needs an assistant.” She gestured towards herself, “I can’t keep telling him when or where to be for family events and he has a fairly active social life so I’m gifting him an assistant for his birthday.” Oh.

“I uhm,” You really didn’t want to work for Ransom. You REALLY didn’t want to work for Ransom. “How much would it…?” You trailed off nervously.

“My father paid you $20 an hour to tutor Meg, yes?” She asked, typing something into her computer, no longer looking at you.

“Yes, he did.” You moved trying to see what she was typing without bringing too much attention to it. She was drafting an email.

“So I’ll pay you the same. Ransom will set hours for you and decide what days of the week he’ll need you and what else he wants you to do,” She waved her hand dismissively, “Cleaning, cooking, whatever.” She scribbled on a post-it before peeling and handing it to you. “Here’s his number and address, you can go over the particulars of your job tomorrow morning.” You opened your mouth to speak again, ask her the million and one questions you have but before you could say anything she dismissed you, “That is all.” She said. And she was done with you.

She got what she wanted. And now she wanted you to leave.

So you did.

“Well,” He grinned, “Linda really scooped you up from the bottom of the barrel, huh?” You stood on Ransom’s front porch. The only texts you sent and received last night were ‘What time do you need me to be there?’ and an hour later the reply of ‘11’. The scumbag was standing in the doorway, leant against the frame, looking down on you. In more than one way.

“Can I come in?” You asked. You really didn’t want to do this. But a $12 an hour temp job versus $20 hour stability… hard to beat. He smirked, pushing off the frame before looking you up and down, turning to disappear into the house.

“Take off your shoes.” What a fucking joke. His house was a mess. Clothes thrown haphazardly around, a pile of dishes not in the sink, but on the counter. Abandoned cups, tv was rolling on in the background, some political documentary. The house, while contemporary and clean, well kept on the outside. The inside looked like a frat house during rush week. You didn’t want to take off your shoes in fear that you’d step in vomit or something worse.

He grinned off to the side, “Had some people over last night.” He explained, drinking what looked like orange juice from a coffee mug. The vodka bottle that was capless on the counter led you to believe that orange juice wasn’t the only thing in the cup. “You can start by cleaning up.” He gestured around, sinking back down into the sofa. “I’m sure I’ll think of something else you can do when you’re done.” The fucking prick.

You shut the door a little heavier than intended, slipping your sneakers off and placing them by the door. “You’ve got a laundry room?” You asked, he didn’t look away from the television,

“Basement.” And he was done with you too. The tone was very, don’t talk to me. Which honestly you were grateful for.

You cleaned up his messes, the red solo cups that littered almost every surface in every room, laundry was running in the basement, dishwasher working hard to sanitize the first round of plates and cups that could fit, the others waiting patiently in the sink as you wipe counters and dusted picture frames, the thick film of unappreciation. He didn’t care about his house, his furniture, the art that cost more than your apartment that lined his walls. His clothes, while having an extensive closet, some were threadbare and with holes.

He didn’t care.

And it made you angry.

You thought of the furniture you were able to keep from your Mother’s house, well oiled and kept. No scratches. The fabrics of the couches and chairs carefully cleaned and maintained.

His sheets were stained and you were unsure when the last time he had washed them actually was. The dampness made you gag. It wasn’t long before you were cleaning under his feet. His ankles crossed and feet resting on the coffee table as you straightened the area around him. You felt his eyes on you, briefly, but ignored it.

“Do you have any real clothes?” He asked suddenly. He stood from the sofa, rounding it to pull the vodka bottle back out from the cabinet you’d placed it in, pouring heavily into the coffee mug before leaving the bottle and the orange juice carton he followed with next to it.

“These are real clothes.” You stated, coming behind him to put the items away. He scoffed,

“I’m important,” He claimed, “I go to parties, events.” He took a large mouthful of the screwdriver he’d just made, “You can’t wear clothes like that if you’re gonna be babysitting me the whole time.” You rolled your eyes,

“I don’t have to go. You set my hours, I don’t-”

“As much as I love the whole, ‘I’m poor and don’t care what I look like’, thing you have going on,” Ransom laughed, “You’re gonna be around me, and as a reflection of me, you need to look presentable.” He gestured to the demin shorts a t-shirt you were currently wearing, mismatched socks on your feet. You felt your face flush. “And slap a little makeup on.” You rolled your eyes at that. Fucking dick. He smirked when you didn’t reply, turning back around to leave you and disappeared upstairs.

He didn’t come down for a while. In that time you’d finished cleaning the living area, the house looking a complete 180 from where it had been when you’d originally entered, it was nearing dinner time. Your stomach was growling and you’d realized you had been cleaning for five hours without stopping.

You didn’t get to enjoy the sense of accomplishment because Ransom came down the stairs not a moment later, dressed for his evening. If you didn’t hate him so much you’d drool. He looked good. Patterned slacks, chelsea boots, a lightweight white button down, blazer over one arm. “Let’s go.” He said, not stopping on his way towards the front door.

“Where are we going?” You felt gross, covered in grime from cleaning, sweat dried on your skin you knew you probably didn’t smell amazing, hair frizzed up in a bun. He didn’t answer you, continuing outside. You sighed heavily, throwing the pair of socks you’d just matched back into the laundry basket before slipping your shoes on and following him outside.

“C’mon!” He yelled from the front seat of his beamer, sunglasses on his nose, he was annoyed with you. Whatever. You sat heavily in his passenger seat, the dickwad not even giving you time to close the door before he was speeding down the driveway.

“Where are we going?” You asked again. One hand on the wheel, the other’s fingertips brushing against his lower lip he looked at you from behind his sunglasses.

“To dinner.” He smirked, looking back towards the road as you merged onto the interstate.

He was a fucking asshole. If you hadn’t thought he was before you definitely knew now. You were surprised the hostess even let you into this place. It was expensive, and you were very, very underdressed. Point taken Ransom. Thank you. Fucking prick.

He took glances at you ever so often, seated a few feet away from him at the long banquet style table that housed all of his ‘friends.’ Gorgeous women and equally as gorgeous men who had money to burn. You weren’t sure any of these people have ever worked a day in their life, much like Ransom himself. You’d met a few of them before, briefly, when Ransom would show up and ask Harlan for money before disappearing for a week, one or two of them would be in tow bragging about going on some guy’s yacht or flying out to some private island.

Regardless, they weren’t talking to you. You were a strange interloper, easily ignored, but only after a few poked fun at the stray dog at Ransom’s heels. It only stung a little bit when he laughed with them. You were wildly uncomfortable. You poked at your deconstructed salad, the little bits lined neatly up on the plate, a smear of salad dressing beside it. This menu was ridiculous. Why were you here again? You were so hungry and this was not your speed at all. Ransom’s booming laugh met your ears and you could feel the anger rising in your chest.

Fucking asshole. You hoped he would choke on one of the olives in his martini. His eyes met yours momentarily and he smirked. He fucking smirked, cheersing you with his martini before it met his lips again. You could kill him right now.

The money.

The money.

Technically you were still working. As the sun set behind the horizon. You’d been at work, technically, for about 10 hours. That’s $200. Okay, you can do this. You can do this.

You know he did this to embarass you. He made it clear when you’d pull up to the restaurant to give you a taunting look. Whether the dinner was already planned or he had planned it after the conversation about clothes and makeup earlier was anyone’s guess. You had the feeling it was the latter.

He’d paid the bill after all.

The entirety of it.

You’d wished you’d ordered more.

Afterward a giggling girl took your place in the front seat, you glared at the back of her head from the back seat,

“Ransom.” She whined, leaning over in her seat to press her lips to his neck, “I want you to fuck me.” Lips around his ear, sucking the lobe into her mouth. You shifted your gaze to the window, the city landscape passing your eyes as you’d pulled into another valet parking, a bar this time. A nice one.

Ransom and the bubbly girl from the car ride over slipped hastily into the bathroom, he’d sent you a dark look before leaving you to your own devices. Looking over the cocktail list while sitting uncomfortably on a bar stool while your boss was fucking a girl who’d laughed at you for being a ‘dog’ earlier in the bathroom of a bar that had a $20 old fashioned and their most expensive wine came with a thousand dollar price tag.

“You lost?” Another smirking asshole, sidled up next to you at the bar as you took a sip from the beautifully balanced old fashioned you’d tacked onto Ransom’s tab. He was handsome, the guy bothering you, almost everyone in this room was handsome. The lights low and romantic, candles on every table and across the bar, soft music played from the piano across the room where a man sat gently stroking the melodies to create the ambiance of the room. Close, cozy, romantic, and dark enough to forget yourself in.

“Oh c’mon honey.” The man slipped onto the barstool, thighs spread wide around you as you face away from him, his hand meeting your back. “I can help you find what you’re looking for.” His breath reeked of alcohol. You glanced over at him,

“I’m fine thank you.” Another sip, damn this drink was good. He chuckled, moving in closer, drifting a hand down to your thigh.

“Don’t be like that.” He laughed, “You obviously don’t belong here honey.” His hand traced your bare thigh, “You’ve gotta be wanting some company.”

Ransom had returned face flushed and you could almost see a tiny bit of white on his nose, but it was quickly rubbed away. He sat on the opposite end of the bar, the girl from earlier taking his lap. He looked down at you briefly, he had to have seen how uncomfortable you were, how this guy was breathing down your neck. He ignored it, ordering a drink from the bartender.

“I don’t want any company,” You shoved the man’s hand away, “Have a great night.” He leaned back in his seat, downing his drink before leaning back over to put his face in yours.

“Fucking ugly bitch.” He spat, standing from the stool, “Tryna give you a little charity here, you could've at least been grateful.” You wanted to leave. He shoved your shoulder slightly as he walked away from you, no doubt going to bother some other unsuspecting woman in his radius.

You needed some air, taking the last sip of your drink you’d scooted back from the bar, walking by Ransom to take your exit, walking out into the summer night. It was early summer. It was still only 60 at night. A chill went through you. You hadn’t expected to be out so late, the comfortable denim shorts and old ratty t shirt you’d chosen to wear had obviously been a mistake for this day. Ransom made sure to make you see that.

The bar was on the harbor, and it brought in a breeze that caused goosebumps to rise on your skin. You checked your phone, the battery almost dead. Julia had been texting you periodically, but not as much as you would have liked. You scrolled through the most recent messages, you asking how her trip was going and what she was up to and her stilted replies. She was busy you supposed. She didn’t need you, but right now you really needed her.

This night has been a massive blow to your self-esteem. You’d never felt more ugly and unwanted in your life. You just wanted to go home, but Ransom wasn’t done yet. You looked at him from the window, his fingers were gone between that girl’s thighs, they were both drinking expensive cocktails, completely oblivious to you.

He’d watched you exit, not giving it much thought it seemed, because he hadn’t made any motion to bring the night to a close, but you weren’t really expecting him to. It was Ransom’s world and you were just living in it. You worked for him. And you wondered if this is how every day is going to be from here on out. You really don’t know if you could do this forever, but you knew you didn’t want to go back inside.

So you didn’t.

Thankfully Ransom stumbled out about thirty minutes later, girl from earlier on his arm. “Let’s go.” He said. Valet pulling the beamer around he threw you the keys, “Take me home.”

He sunk down in the back seat, high and drunk. His words almost incoherent. Her’s were no better. They sloppily attacked each other in the back seat, indecently. And you were pointedly looking anywhere but in the rearview. Soft grunts and moans made you uncomfortable for the fourth time that night. Your skin crawling in unease as the girl’s giggles turned into breathy moans. Your foot sunk against the gas pedal in hopes you’d get back to his home faster, tears welling up in your eyes. The cry on the way home was going to be so good. So cathartic.

The gravel crunching against the wheels of the car was a sweet relief, so was the haste in which you left the keys in the car, running and skipped to your own car. His eyes met yours through the darkness as he was leant up against his car door, slacks loose around his hips, the girl’s lips attached to his neck as her hand worked quickly between his thighs. He smirked, waving a sarcastic ‘good-bye’. You turned your eyes to the road, cranking up the radio as you began to cry.

You didn’t want to do this anymore.

A text came through right as you finally laid down in your own bed, snuggling into the covers, ready to forget the night.

See you at 9.

.

.

.

taglist // @littlechillies @hellizhelusive2 @notbexmader @marvelouspottering @whitequeenasitbgan @Thegraylaway @readermia @i-believe-in-unicorns-and-you @princess-evans-addict @perplexed3001 @Diedrashouseofpain @hailmary-yramliah @sleepycvpid @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @starlywars @gifsbysimplysonia @rocknbasil @imnotelasticheart @wannabegonnie @d1sconnect3d @heyguyz13 @unimomajo @this-is-serenaa @steviemae @bemysugarbean @truefangirlheart @babiiface95 @mydarlingharry @elzzin​ @bookish-shristi​ @saturnki​ @jennmurawski13​ @geeksareunique​

[flysafepapi]

can’t fill the hole inside of you with money, drugs and cars

Part two.

Part one

Tagging: @portiaadams @glensidesghost

Another short one, sorry, I’m incapable of writing consistently for long amounts of time. But what I lack in word count I make up for in update speed.

“What am I doing here?” He keeps his back to the wall, even as he walks around the room, looking around like there’s nothing at all to be concerned about. Everything’s absolutely peachy, getting out of prison and taken right to who just might be the two most notorious gangsters in the country isn’t a huge red flag at all. “If you’re going to kill me, at least make it quick.” He’s still wearing the clothes he’d been wearing the night he’d pulled the trigger on Thompson, the ones they’d apparently kept for him when they’d made him change into the prison uniform. The guy that’d picked him up hadn’t even let him stop anywhere to change. Not that he had anything to change into, but the option would’ve been nice. “And if you’re expecting me to beg for you not to do it, you’re probably going to be waiting for a long time.”

He doesn’t really remember them, but he’s heard enough to fill in the blanks. Meyer Lansky and Charlie Luciano. Julia had told him that his father had known them, once. It’d taken a lot of asking before she told him anything about it, but he knew that she was very aware that he’d never get to know these things from his own parents, and he wasn’t above using that to his own advantage.

“We’re not gonna kill you, kid, Jesus. Lighten up a little, would you?”

“I was told I was getting released and when I walk outside, there’s a complete stranger that puts me in a car and brings me here. What else was I supposed to think?”

He watches the two of them share a look, talking without even speaking, and wonders how long they’ve been around each other if they could fit a whole conversation into a few pointed glances.

“Alright, maybe that was a bad idea. Tommy, can I call you Tommy?”

“That’s my name.”

Meyer hesitates for a second.

“Right. Tommy. We heard about what happened.”

He figured they had. There was no reason for them to wonder what had happened to him, it’s not like either of them were close friends with either of his parents. There was no lost sleep from them, not over him. He wonders if Julia still looks for him, or if she’d heard the news. If she has, she hasn’t visited or sent a letter. He pretends that doesn’t sting a little.

“So this is, what, a little meeting to congratulate me for killing Nucky? Taking out one of your rivals for you?”

Charlie’s been quiet, for the most part, but he speaks up now.

“Actually, we wanted to offer you a job.” He sounds calm, like there’s nothing strange about the fact that he’s gotten Tommy out of jail just out of the goodness of his own heart. As if there weren't dozens of other people that couldn’t have filled whatever job opening they have in mind.

Tommy doesn’t buy it for a second, but he’ll play along. For now.

“What kind of job?”

“The kind that pays. I’m guessing your prospects weren’t that great, even before the,” Charlie waves a hand, “Thompson event.”

Meyer clears his throat and taps his fingers on his knee, eyes flicking between the way Tommy tenses and Charlie’s languid sprawl across his half of the couch.

“And I suppose you’re just offering out of the goodness of your heart.”

Meyer can almost pinpoint the moment the meeting starts to take a turn for the worse, and cuts Charlie off before he can retort.

“A good business decision, that’s all.”

He can tell by the shrug that Tommy doesn’t believe him.

“Can I take a while to think about it, at least?”

“Of course. Take a few days. We’ll be waiting for your answer.” Meyer stands to show Tommy out, but he’s already halfway through the door, so he just sits back down with a sigh.

“I think that went well.”

He doesn’t even need to turn to know that Charlie’s grinning, pleased with himself.

“It could’ve gone worse,” Meyer says, still unsure of whether or not they were doing something they should. “Time will tell. What else can we do but wait?”

“He’ll be back. Trust me.”

Meyer rolls his eyes and takes the cigarette Charlie holds out to him. He doesn’t need to say that he already does. They both know.

[rubickk7]

First Line Fic Meme

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line, then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

I’m a whore for fic memes, so here I go. I have 15 stories, so here they all are. Thank you for the tag, @lizardkingeliot!

The Only Exception (with the floppy hair)

“You need us to go where, now?” Eliot leans back in his chair, clasping his hands in his lap as he quirks an eyebrow at Margo. She’s been feisty since they started the high council meeting, more so than usual, and he’s not sure why.

“The Fillorian Fucking Festival.” She tosses down a paper in the middle of the table with a sigh, and Quentin reaches over to slide it his way.

Eliot glances at it before focusing back on Margo. “Why are you so unhappy about this festival?” he asks. Profanity flows out of Margo like breathing on her best day, but the downward tilt to her mouth tells Eliot there’s more going on here than just her colorful vocabulary. “Oh, is it one of those things where they require a representative from the court so we can approve their goat or cow sacrifice? Well, not it; I did the last one and you know the ruckus it caused when I snuck that goat away to sweet freedom.”

Surprise Dick Energy

Kady leaned heavily into Alice’s side, whispering into her ear. “He does realize that if he fucks this up, he’ll loose like, 25% of his liquor supply?”

“I won’t be fucking this up,” Eliot responded to her, his tongue peeking out between his lips, his fingers moving. A dozen or so liquor bottles, filled to various levels, hovered in front of the group, circulating in a lazy pattern a few feet above the table. The entire group appeared to be holding their breath as the bottles slowly descended and gently clinked back on the surface. There’s silence for a moment, and the group burst into applause.

Professor Coldwater: Social Maladjustment 101

“Quentin, please sit down.”

“I'm not going to fucking sit down, Henry. You have to let me go back, I need to see him.”

“No. You seeing him is what got you into this… mess in the first place.”

Quentin snorts, running his hands through his hair. He can feel Penny and Pearl’s eyes on him, and he glances at Penny. His eyes are tight, worried, his mouth set in a thin line. Pearl’s face is much the same, although she’s alternating between looking at Quentin and flat out glaring at Penny. With the way her arms are crossed and how she’s leaning away from him, it looks like Quentin’s relationship—and probably his career—aren’t the only things in tatters.

Relationship . What the fuck has he done.

No Job is Too Big

Quentin checks the text on his phone, making sure he’s at the right place. He’s already running late; hopefully the client won’t be too irritated.

“35, Margo Hanson,” he mutters under his breath, walking down the hall until he arrives at the blue door. It’s painted TARDIS blue, different from the other doors in the hall that are all a boring beige, which brings an immediate smile to his face. He shoves his phone in his pocket, adjusts his messenger bag over his shoulder, and knocks on the door.

He’s standing outside hardly five seconds when the door is yanked open by the most beautiful man he’s ever laid eyes on.

you said the words, and they altered the universe

“It’s beautiful out here.” Quentin closes his eyes and smiles, letting the breeze blow over his face. When he opens them, having to blink against the brightness of the afternoon sun glinting off the water, he looks to his right and sees Eliot eyeing him in that speculative way of his, just like he had when Quentin had stumbled onto the Sea with his hair mussed and mouth agape.

“It has its moments,” Eliot agrees, taking a final drag off his cigarette before tossing it in the blue water. “Come,” he says simply, striding away, and Quentin does, because what else is he to do?

Eliot leads him down a flight of wide stone steps that lead down to a handsome Victorian boathouse, right on the Hudson. The magically-influenced weather is warm, sunlight heating his skin in one fashion, and the presence of Eliot heating it in another.

craving is just another word for need

“No, there are no... Starbucks in Fillory.” Quentin rolls his eyes, sitting down on his throne. He kicks at a stray rock, sending it skittering across the floor. They’re scattered all over; the throne room had taken quite the beating when Quentin swept in and killed anyone that stood in his way.

“If there were, I would have destroyed them,” he adds, crossing his legs. He surveys Eliot—or the thing inhabiting Eliot’s body, anyway. There is no way any Eliot in any timeline would ever let his hair get that greasy or wear… that.

“Now who the fuck are you and why the fuck are you here?” He eyes him, the Eliot-that-isn’t, up and down, frowning. “In this body? You’re not… him,” he says, his lips thinning. He has memories of the Eliot he knew, memories that once were important… back when he was weak. He doesn’t need that shit anymore. He doesn’t need anyone or anything.

Jamba Juice

“There is no way that’s what it says.” Penny picks up the parchment, holding it close to his face, like that will make the fucking words change. “I mean, I’ve seen some fucked up magic, but this…”

so tell me 'bout your sins (and shock me with their luridness)

“When are we going to the beach?” Margo sits back in her chair, crossing her arms and fixing Eliot with that one-arched-eyebrow look that can only be perfected by months of wearing an eyepatch.

Flexible Office Hours

“You’re late, Mr. Waugh.” Professor Coldwater glances up from the paperwork on his desk, frowning slightly as Eliot strides into the classroom.

“Sorry,” he says, shrugging. “Lost track of time.” That’s a total lie, Eliot knows exactly what time it is.

Quentin sighs, standing up from behind his desk. “Shut the door,” he says. “So we won’t be disturbed.”

i might write you down (so i can watch you leap up off the page)

Eliot turns the book over in his hands. It’s longer than the first one, but not as long as the third. It had taken him a month to finish The World in the Walls, and he’s halfway through this one.

This is Me Trying

He’d never actually been in the building where faculty lived, the ‘teacher dorms’ (although he’d come close once with that Practical Applications professor his first year, who’d disappeared not too long after). As he climbs the stairs that lead to the individual bedrooms on the second floor, he understands why most teachers elect to not live here. He’s pretty sure he and the person he’s walking towards are the only ones in the entire building, and the blank walls and silence in the common areas don’t reflect much personality.

if I get burned (at least we were electrified)

Julia c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y steps into the cottage, her legs wobbling slightly. Julia wears heels almost daily, but six-inch stilettos are still a challenge. How she allowed herself to be talked into wearing these, she’ll never know. “They’ll make your legs look amazing,” Margo had promised as she’d shoved the shoes into Julia’s hands.

Quentin Coldwater and the Universal Truth (That a Slytherin as hot as Eliot Waugh would never be attracted to a Hufflepuff such as himself)

Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

The thought pulsed through Quentin’s brain as he stood in the back of the Great Hall, the eyes of a few hundred students in black robes looking his way. His dreams of being sorted at Hogwarts had included a lot of celebration, happiness, and magic. But no vomit.

French Toast

Eliot reclined back in his seat at the breakfast table, his eyes focused on the TV mounted on the wall across the little tiled area he referred to as ‘the breakfast nook.’ Some old rerun of ‘What Not to Wear’ was on, and he chuckled as the hosts commented on the unwitting contestant’s mom jeans. He took another bite of bacon as his roommate, Quentin, shifted in his seat across the table.

A Fillorian Knight's Tale

Quentin and Julia gazed down at Sir Mayakovsky, who was splayed against a nearby tree trunk. The greenery and life of the nearby forest made for a stark backdrop to the sight in front of them - Sir Mayakovsky was unmoving, with no response to their pleas for him to get up and make his way back to the lists. There was also the most horrible smell upon the air.

I tag @hoko-onchi-writes @stormscoming@mixtapestar

[lemondropsssss]

“Hello Geralt.” By some strange miracle his tone is even, his hands don’t shake, and Jaskier doubts even Geralt could suss out his anxiety.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt looks different. Ragged would not be an incorrect word for it. Geralt’s hair is greasy, the white streaked grey from lack of washing. He’s dressed all in black par the course, but his shirt has seen better days and his cloak looks like it’s coming apart at the seams. Geralt is without his armor, but his steel sword hangs on his belt and Jaskier knows he has at least three knives hidden somewhere beneath the mess. He looks older, and more exhausted than Jaskier has ever seen him.

What is most curious is his companion. He can’t be more than fourteen, but why would Geralt have a young boy with him? He wears a loose shirt and worn trousers, and a cap covers his head. He looks up at Jaskier from under a too-big cloak, and he’s struck by all too familiar emerald eyes. There is only one green-eyed fourteen-year-old who could possibly be following a Witcher. A Cintran princess thought lost to the world.

He meets Geralt’s gaze and they have a quick nonverbal conversation over her head, Geralt confirming his suspicions of her identity with a curt nod. The ease and familiarity of their communication digs like a knife into Jaskier’s gut.

“We were hoping you could...” Geralt pauses, and Cirilla wastes no time in digging an elbow into his side. “We were hoping you could help us.”

“Help you.” He repeats, just to make sure he heard correctly. Not at all because asking had made Geralt’s face contort in ways Jaskier hadn’t thought possible.

Geralt sounds off a grunt and a short nod, which he supposes he should have expected from the Witcher.

“What kind of help do-” Jaskier is cut off by a door banging open down the hall, and the loud sounds of students spilling into the walkways. Geralt curls a protective arm around Cirilla’s shoulders, tucking her against his side and out of sight of any passing students.  

“We shouldn’t talk here. The University is safe enough, but walls have ears, and you carry precious cargo.” He nods towards Cirilla. “Right then. Help. You need to go to Number 6 Cheeseman Street. Tell Beatrice that you’re friends of Julian. Here, take this,” He tugs the heavy silver signet ring off his middle finger and holds it out to Geralt, “So she knows I sent you.”

“Who’s Julia- Wait. You’re not coming with us?” Confusion is evident on Geralt’s face, and the knife in Jaskier’s gut just cuts deeper.

You’re doing it again says the cruel voice in his head, You’ll give and he’ll take until there’s nothing left of use to him. And then he’ll run off with his sorceress and his child while you wither and die like the weak pathetic mortal man you are.

“You came at the end of this class, Geralt, but I do have another one today. Funny, how schools work on a non-Witcher-centric timetable, isn’t it?” Geralt looks reasonably chastised, and Jaskier can’t help but feel a spark of vindication at that. “I have responsibilities here that I can’t just abandon. Go and wait for me. Bea will take care of you, and you’ll be safe there.”

Geralt watches Jaskier turn on his heel and walk back into his classroom with a feeling akin to longing in his gut. He hadn't realized how much he had been missing the bard until he was standing in front of him. He was struck with the sinking feeling that their friendship may not have survived the dragon mountains after all.

“Here,” He grunts, passing Ciri the signet ring. If he’s disturbed by this new, different Jaskier he doesn’t show it. He can't show it, not around Ciri. She needs him, and he would die before failing her. Geralt knew Jaskier might have still been upset after their disastrous parting, but the changes he saw in his old friend were not what he had expected. He wore somber clothes, had shorter silver swept hair, and no open smile; the man who had come out of that classroom didn’t seem much like the Jaskier he remembered.

They collect Roach at the front gates, and begin the trek towards Number 6 Cheeseman Street. Ciri is quiet as they walk, toying the ring between her fingers. It’s been a long year, and Geralt knows she’s more tired than he is. He leads her through busy city streets, keeping her tucked close between him and Roach, finally coming upon the quieter richer streets favored by nobles and the prissier academics. Of course Jaskier would know someone here.

They reach Number 6, and Geralt pauses and situates Ciri half behind him before he rings the bell. It’s another minute before the door is opened.

“Yes?” An older woman asks. She’s short and stout, her more-grey-than-brown hair pulled back into a neat bun. There’s a softness to her, a kindness around the eyes, even as she frowns warily at them. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman Jaskier normally fell into bed with, but it’s entirely possible the bard’s tastes had changed.

“Are you Beatrice?”

“I am. Can I help you with something?”

Geralt motions to Ciri, who holds Jaskier’s signet ring out to the woman. “We’re friends of Julian’s,” Ciri says, and Geralt can see the older woman softening at the sight of both the ring and the child. She inspects the ring for a short moment, giving a long sigh and muttering something about bringing home strays before stepping aside to let them in.

Beatrice is a force of nature, and it isn’t long before Geralt and Ciri have both been bathed, scrubbed, changed into clean clothes, and settled at the kitchen table with bowls of hearty stew and fresh brown bread. Roach is taken two houses down to be stabled. Bea, as she insists they call her, assures him she’ll be well taken care of. Their bags are brought back to the house and settled in their connecting rooms.

This is all done in the span of an hour, and it’s all Geralt can do to just let it happen. The woman doesn’t seem any particular threat, though he has put an idle thought towards what happens when whatever lord of the house shows up. He knows Jaskier has friends in all sorts of places, but he doesn’t know of any noble who would be happy to find an unknown Witcher at his table.

They’re halfway through their second helping of stew when Geralt hears the front door open, and an even tread making its way toward the kitchen. A moment later, Jaskier appears in the doorway. He looks over them both with a sharp eye, and Geralt feels strangely vulnerable under his gaze.

“Here you are, dear,” Bea hands Ciri another large slice of bread for her soup, and then passes another to Geralt. “Get in here,” She orders, and Ciri’s gaze snaps up, just noticing another has joined them. “I’ll not be bringing you supper to your room later, you’ll eat here with your guests.” It’s not a negotiation. Jaskier grins, holding up his hands in a sign of peace.

“Yes ma’am.” He sinks into the chair at the head of the table, and Bea puts down his own bowl of stew and bread. “I should have warned you, Witcher, Bea does have a tendency to over feed her guests; you and your companion are bound to roll away from the table.” Jaskier winks at Ciri over his bowl, and the girl offers a small smile in return.

“I am sorry dear, in all the commotion we were never properly introduced.” Ciri stills, and her gaze shifts to Bea in the corner before flicking back to Geralt. “Bea,” Jaskier calls out when he realizes her worry, “Would you mind giving me and my guests the room?” The housekeeper huffs but leaves, with a stern warning to Jaskier about what will happen if he lets the bread burn. It’s only when Jaskier can no longer hear her footsteps that he turns back to Ciri. “I admire your caution, little one. An important skill to learn when one travels with a Witcher. I wish you no ill will, and I can promise that no harm will come to you in this house.”

Ciri looks back to Geralt for confirmation, and he gives her a short nod. Jaskier feels a mild pull of hurt at the familiarity of their silent conversation, and quickly tucks it away before either can notice.

“Ciri,” She says quietly, sitting up just a little straighter as she does. “You can call me Ciri. But we use Fiona around everyone else.”

“Then perhaps you should remain Fiona during your stay here. I trust Beatrice with my life, and she’ll probably spoil you rotten as long as you let her, but it will be safer if she doesn’t know your true identity. Information is powerful, little one, but no one can let spill a secret they don’t know. I am very happy to see you safe here, Ciri.” He says her true name softly, and when she smiles at him the sight practically melts his heart.

“Who owns this place?”  Geralt interrupts, earning himself a scowl from Jaskier. “Not another lord you’re cuckolding?”

“It’s a bit hard to cuckold oneself, dear, but I supposed I could give it the old college try.” He’s smiling and his tone is light, trying to mask any hurt at the dig.

“What, this is yours?” Ciri asks, looking around the expansive kitchen. “Bea said it belonged to Master Julian, but Geralt said your name was Jaskier.”

“Yes, well, it’s been over a year and she still refuses to drop the ‘master’ part. I did try and tell her it wasn’t necessary and then she got very offended and didn’t speak to me for three days.” Geralt is giving Jaskier his dopey-what-the-fuck-are-you-on-about look that once upon a time would’ve made his knees weak. Now it just makes him sad.

“Well then, let me introduce myself properly. Or, reintroduce, as the case may be.” He stands and bows low to Cirilla. “Professor Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, formerly known as the Bard Jaskier, at your eternal service.” When he adds an extra flourish Ciri giggles, and the sound tugs at his heart.

Geralt is watching him with a frown, and Jaskier meets it with a raised eyebrow himself.

“You never said you were a Viscount.”

“You never asked,” Jaskier points out, folding himself back into his seat, “I’ve told plenty of other people my name. Truly, twenty odd years and it never seemed strange to you that a woman would name her honest to gods son Buttercup ? It’s hardly my fault you weren’t paying enough attention.” Geralt opens his mouth to retort, so Jaskier shifts his attention back to Ciri. “It’s very good to have you here, little one. I came to sing to you a few times for your birthday, though you were quite young then, so I don’t expect you’d remember.”

“No, I remember you. A little, at least.” She pauses, tilting her head to think, “I remember grandmother didn’t like that grandfather had invited you.You brought me a carved wolf, but grandmother screeched and I wasn’t allowed to play with it. I didn’t know why. I liked your songs, especially the one about the lion cub.”

Jaskier laughs. “Yes, while Eist and I had a friendship of sorts, I can’t say your grandmother was overly fond of me. I think she worried I would tell you stories of a mighty Witcher who would one day come to claim you. Perhaps a wolf was a little too on the nose.” He grows somber, and reaches out to cover her small hand with his. “They were good people, your family. I am sorry they are gone.” He squeezes her hand, and gives the princess a reassuring smile that she returns, albeit shakily. “I admit I worried for you, when I heard of Cintra’s fate. It makes me very happy to see you safe here with Geralt.”

Jaskier can feel Geralt’s gaze on him, but he does not meet it. They finish their meal together, and Ciri warms to Jaskier quickly. He jokes and trades silly stories with her, Geralt grunting or adding short corrections to the ones about their adventures together. Soon enough Ciri is falling asleep in her stew. Jaskier sends her up to bed, bidding her goodnight and watching as she ascends the stairs to her room.

Geralt is still sitting at the kitchen table, watching Jaskier. His gaze is careful, his eyes follow Jaskier as the man collects two cups and a bottle of wine.

“I assume you still drink,” He says, setting a cup down for Geralt before sliding into a chair. He pours them both glasses before sitting back with a heavy sigh. “Go on, then. You’ve got that look in your eye. Does the mighty Witcher Geralt of Rivia have something to say?” It was much easier to keep his tone level with Cirilla there. Now he can’t keep the bitterness from his words, and they leave a bad taste in his mouth. He tries to wash it away with big gulps of wine, but it doesn’t help.

Geralt grunts instead of a real answer, and Jaskier huffs a laugh into his cup. He drains it, and pours himself another.

“You’re different.” It’s quiet, almost so quiet Jaskier can’t hear it over the crackling of the hearth but he does.

“Yes, well, that is normally expected of us humans. Change. Personal growth. That sort of thing.”

"Personal growth. Huh. I half expected you to offer to sing Ciri to sleep. Regale her with tales of the White Wolf."

Jaskier's answer is to huff a dark laugh into his cup and continue drinking with determination. At least he can be good at some things.

“Where’d you get the money for all this?” Geralt asks after a long silence. There’s a hint of accusation in his tone which Jaskier bristles at.

“Fishing, technically. And taxes, I guess, you’d really have to ask my sister.” At Geralt’s confused look he sighs deeply before explaining. “I’m a Viscount of a coastal estate, Geralt. I make money by having other people fish and then taxing them for it. Is this really the first thing you ask me? Eighteen months and all you have is a question about my business practices?”

Geralt doesn't answer, and that only helps to fuel the anger growing in his belly. The wine isn’t exactly helping, but he isn’t going to stop drinking it. They sit in silence, Jaskier drinking and Geralt watching him. After what feels like an eternity, Jaskier heaves a sigh and stands.

“Right, well, if you’re not going to say anything I’m going to bed.”

“Jaskier, wait.” He almost doesn’t. He almost leaves, but that voice. It haunts his fucking dreams, and he can’t say no to it. But he doesn’t turn around.

“It’s Julian, now, actually.”

“Julian, then.” The voice is closer now, and Jaskier had forgotten how quietly his Witcher could move. A hand tugs at his shoulder, turning him back around to face Geralt. His face is doing something Jaskier had never seen before, and on anyone else he’d say it was regret. “I wanted to...” He trails off, and Jaskier tugs his arm out of Geralt’s grip.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

“Damnit, bard. You don’t make this easy,” The man growls out, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I am sorry. About what happened on the dragon mountain. About what I said. I was angry, and you were there. I didn’t mean it.” It’s more of an apology than Jaskier had thought Geralt would be capable of, but it does nothing to repair the gaping chasm between them.

He still needs things from you, the insidious voice in his head whispers, Once you give him what he wants he’ll leave you. Haven’t you learned anything? He doesn’t care about you. You’re a burden to him. You don’t make this easy. How pathetic.

Jaskier offers Geralt a tight smile, taking a small step back. “The mountain is in the past. What happened there doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t need to worry, I understand what this is now. I’ll help you, and as soon as you’ve both rested and resupplied you’ll be on your way.” He says it with some amount of finality, as if that would make it any easier to get out.

Jaskier will help Geralt, because there really isn’t any version of reality in which he wouldn’t. But he knows now not to make their arrangement out to be anything more than that; an exchange of goods and services. He owes Geralt more than his own life is worth, and helping him and his Child Surprise now is simply a way to pay back that debt. As long as he remembers the status quo he should come out the other side unscathed.

“I bid you goodnight, Witcher.” Jaskier’s voice is steady when he speaks, thank all the gods for small mercies, and he’s almost halfway up the steps before Geralt’s reply reaches him.

“Goodnight, Julian.”

.

@itsthedemonsboi @naominami ya’ll asked to be tagged

here is part one, part two, and the full story on ao3

[justahopelessssromantic]

Hi I was wondering if you could do a request where the reader served with coco in the army and they had a sort of thing but nothing serious. And then the reader goes to find coco for protection after something happens in her life and then loads of fluff. Sorry it’s long and if you don’t have time don’t worry. Thanks ✌🏻

*I’m sorry if this isn’t what you quite had in mind, actually when I was about done with it I started thinking I kind of took it another direction than you were intending. My mind just took the idea and ran a little crazy with it so again I’m sorry if this wasn’t what you were wanting. Thank you so much for the request and sending your great idea. I hope you enjoy and I hope there’s enough fluff for ya! The beginning is a little intense and angsty so I hope you don’t mind and if it’s too much for anyone feel free to skip past the whole flashback scene it will be in italics. Anyways thanks again and I hope you like it! Let me know what you think ❤️😁*

*gif not mine*

Warnings: Violence, blood, gore, death, trauma, physical and emotional abuse. Fluff in the second half.

~Flashback~

On the top floor of an old building laid Coco as he looked through his scope out one of the busted windows. You were beside him crouched with your back against the wall, rifle in hand as you chatted casually even though everything about your surroundings was anything but casual.

“The first thing I’m gonna do when I get home is take a long bubble bath,” you moaned imagining the hot water soaking your sore and tired muscles, “And then I’m ordering food from every restaurant I’ve been craving, all of them at once,” your stomach growled as you thought of the countless burgers, pizzas, steaks, pastas, and deserts you had been so desperately craving as of late, “And I’m gonna just lounge around in the fluffy robe stuffing my face as I binge whatever crap show may be gracing my tv screen that night.” You chuckled

Coco chuckled, “Oh, is that all?” He teased as he surveyed the building across the way, searching for any movement, “When I get back I’m buying the most expensive bed I can and sleeping, forever. My back is getting real tired of the shitty excuse for beds we got here.”

“When I get back home, I’m going to take my wife out on the most romantic date,” Jefferson said from the other side of the room as he kept an eye on the back of the building, “And then I’m taking my kids to an amusement park, going all out, no stops.”

“And when is Sarah due?” You asked. Jefferson was a proud family man and he was quick to tell everyone he met all about his wife and kids. You thought that was sweet, it’s how he kept them close he would say.

“Just two more months,” he grinned as he looked back at you, “It’s a girl.” His smile widened, “Gonna name her Julia.”

“What’s that? Four girls now?” Coco asked, “Damn if you don’t get killed out here they certainly will.” He joked.

“It’s definitely scary,” he quipped back, “I’m outnumbered in my own damn home.”

You shook your head laughing as you stood up and made your way to Jefferson. You got about halfway when there was the shattering noise of glass, your smile vanishing instantly at the sound as you caught sight of a small object flying into the room from the corner of your eye landing right beside Jefferson.

“Jefferson!” You screamed as you ran towards him, hoping to be able to do something, anything to save him. The image of his family flashing before your eyes, and his.

It all happened so fast, before you could get far there was a deafening boom and then you were being thrown back violently, your body crashing against the hard floor. You couldn’t hear shit, just a loud persistent ringing that made your head feel like it was going to explode, as dirt, blood and debris rained down all around you.

“(Y/L/N)!” Coco called out over all the noise, and his own ringing in his head, “Fuckin’ answer me dammit!” He coughed violently as he searched through the cloud of dust, his lungs filling with the polluted air.

All he could see was blood and limbs. Fuck this wasn’t good. His heart hitched as he started to fear the worst but then he heard it, it was faint but enough to alert him, a cough. He tread carefully in the direction of the sound when he saw a body, your body. His heart immediately dropped to his stomach. There you were laying across the ground, covered in blood, some yours and most Jefferson’s, and the bottom part of your right leg just below the knee was missing, blood gushing violently from the mangled appendage.

“Shit!” He said as he scrambled over to you. Kneeling beside you he looked to your face, your eyes closing, “No! C’mon stay with me, stay with me (Y/N)!” He slapped at your face trying to bring you back to him.

Opening your eyes you groaned. The pain in your leg was intense and your eyelids were heavy as they tried to stay open. You saw Johnny and mustered out a smile that came out more as a grimace.

At least he was okay.

“Fuck, good,” He breathed out a sigh a relief, “Stay with me ok?” He pleaded as he turned his attention to your most obvious injury.

“Jefferson…” you croaked out. He just shook his head, telling you all you needed to know. There would be time to mourn but for now you had to push the thought away.

You would think with each loss the pain would get easier, but it never did.

The searing physical pain returned your attention back to your own injuries, most importantly your leg, “Cruz my leg,” you moaned trying to move, “What’s wrong with my fucking leg!?” You tried to sit up, to see the damage, but he placed his hand on your chest keeping you down.

“Don’t. Just look at me, okay. Keep your eyes on my face,” he instructed. Taking his knife out he cut a strip off your already torn pants as he returned his attention to your leg, knowing he had to act fast before you lost too much blood.

“Oh god, am I gonna die?” You whispered as you tried to keep your eyes open, fear setting in, “I can’t die. I can’t have the last thing I see in this world be your ugly mug,” you joked pathetically trying to distract yourself from the gnawing fear that was threatening to consume you.

He snickered half heartedly,at least you still had your shit humor, as he tied the piece of fabric tightly around your leg as a tourniquet, “Then you fight, you hear me? You don’t want this face to be the last thing you see, then stay alive.”

Nodding your head you tried to keep your attention on his face, taking in every detail, trying to commit it all to memory, to keep your mind busy and active before it became too much and your eyes drooped shut.

Once he was done he scooted over and gently placed your head in his lap. Acutely aware of your breathing and all of his surroundings, he murmured a quick prayer to whoever may be listening, “Don’t let me fucking lose her.”

You two had a bit of a fling but your relationship would always be a friendship first and foremost. You were his best friend, his right hand and he was your left, a true team. Losing you would be like losing a part of him. This life was hard enough he didn’t think he could survive that.

He stayed with you until help came, and then refused to leave your side until you were at the hospital where all he could do was sit in the small waiting area for you.

Your last day in the hospital was the last you had seen that ‘ugly mug’ of Johnny Cruz.

~End Flashback~

Now here you were outside the gates to his place of work, hoping he would take you in and provide you with some comfort and protection, even after the long years of having lost touch.

You felt awful now but at the time after that traumatic experience you cut him off, but in your defense you cut everyone off. You were so angry at him, Jefferson, the world and mostly yourself.

You couldn’t help but think it should have been you that day who was killed, you didn’t have a family or anyone to go home to, Jefferson did. Meanwhile the same thoughts consumed Coco. It should have him too or at the very least it should have been him who lost a limb and not you.

You were in a dark place for a while after that.

Then you met Paul, and everything seemed so great. He took care of you, helped you out with everything, you could always lean on him. But what you didn’t realize was that he fed off your brokenness, your need to be taken care of and when you started to snap out of it, get yourself back, he felt threatened, which turned to physical and emotional abuse.

The small rumbling of a scooter alerted you to the presence of a man as he pulled up beside you wearing a sparkling red helmet and goggles.

“Can I help you?” He asked with a kind smile on his face.

“Yes, actually,” You replied, fiddling with your hands nervously in front of you, “Do you know if Johnny Cruz is here?”

The man’s smile grew as he replied, “Yes, I’ll let him know he has a visitor. Chucky by the way,” He extended his hand out, shaking your hand rather excitedly.

“(Y/N)”, you smiled back at him. You noticed his prosthetic hands but didn’t say anything, knowing not everyone was comfortable sharing their stories, however still you wonder just what had happened to the man.

“Come on in,” he said as he drove into the the yard and parked his scooter before bouncing off into the building.

You took one last look back at your vehicle, contemplating turning back around before sucking it up and walking through the gates towards the building you had just watched Chucky disappear into.

Chucky burst through the doors just as the guys were getting out of Templo, the large smile never leaving his face, but that wasn’t unusual for the strange man who had become family to the club.

“Where’s the fire, Chucky?” Bishop asked as he watched the man practically bouncing in place.

“There’s a woman here to see you Johnny Coco Cruz,” he said addressing Coco, “very pretty.” Chucky added.

All the men turned to look at Coco but he was just as confused as them. He didn’t know of any women who would come looking for him here besides Letty but Chucky and all the guys already knew her.

“Another baby mama?” Angel teased as he walked past and behind the bar to grab a beer, popping the top with a satisfying snap.

“I fuckin’ hope not,” Coco groaned as he tried to think who could possibly be looking for him.

“She said her name was (Y/N).”

Coco’s heart stopped for a moment . He hadn’t heard from you in forever and hadn’t seen you in even longer. You were the last person he was expecting to see here in Santo Padre.

“Did you say (Y/N)?” Angel asked as he passed some beers around, “Wasn’t that the girl you had a fling with while you were serving?” He recognized your name as Coco often talked of you and your time together.

“It wasn’t just a fling,” Coco said reflecting on your time together.

“Well what are you waiting for, hermano? You can’t just leave her hanging out there all day,” Angel said, “I’ll go get her.” He always wanted to meet you, having heard so much about you. He was curious to know the face behind the legend.

Before Coco could stop him Angel was strutting out the front door, Coco and the rest of the men trailing behind as Chucky stood back and watched.

“Coco you never said she was a fucking babe,” Angel remarked, as he stepped out the door, his loud voice catching your attention.

Coco stepped out just behind Angel as he stared at you standing just a few feet away, a smile instantly gracing his face. You looked good, great even, just as he remembered as you stood there staring back at him, matching his smile in every way.

He bounded down the stairs rapidly before pulling you into a tight hug almost knocking you back and off balance. You wrapped your arms around him just as tightly clinging on for dear life, “I’m so sorry I was shit at keeping contact,” you muttered into the embrace.

“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter, you’re here now,” he reassured you before he pulled back holding you at arms length to get another good look at you, you doing the same.

“Looks like you got a little chubby,” you teased, “One to many beers?” He looked anything but that and you could see the toned muscles of his arms through his shirt, still you couldn’t help yourself from giving him crap.

“You’re one to talk,” he teased back, the banter between you flowing as naturally as if you had spent no time apart.

“Hey! I lost a good chunk of weight, or do you not remember?” You grinned at him.

He chuckled, “Good to see your humors still shit. I’ve missed that, missed you.” He said earnestly.

“Yeah and I missed your ugly mug,” you teased some more,bumping his shoulder with yours.

“Yo Coco you gonna introduce us or what?” Angel called from the top of the steps.

Wrapping his arm around your waist he led you up the stairs introducing you to his brothers. The taller man who had been talking was up first.

“Angel,” he smirked, shaking your hand firmly, “It’s a pleasure. I’ve heard a lot about you. Maybe we can get a drink some time and you can tell me your side of things?”

“Don’t pay any attention to him. He flirts with anything with a pulse,” Coco said.

“Wow I don’t know if he should be offended, or if I should?” you laughed.

“We could be offended together,” Angel offered with a wink.

Laughing, you rolled your eyes. This guy really was a flirt.

Ignoring Angel and leading you past him Coco introduced you to all the other men as you meticulously memorized their names. They were a good group and you could feel the familia bonds between the club. It made you happy to know Johnny had found such great people to call home, he deserved that more than anyone you knew.

Family didn’t always mean blood.

“How about we get you a drink,” the older man Taza offered as you were brought further into what you learned was the clubhouse and sat at a table. The atmosphere was cozy and welcoming, Mayans decorations littered throughout. You liked this place.

You chatted effortlessly with Johnny and told him how you were hoping to make Santo Padre your home as well before recalling war stories and tales as all the men listened intently to your recollections.

“I wish I could have been there,” you said, referring to the time when Coco shot the cigar out of an officer’s mouth, “That guy was a right prick, I can just imagine his face! Fuck I was so jealous when I heard that story.”

Coco laughed as he shrugged it off, “It was nothin’”

“Really? I think it was more than that,” you challenged, a mischievous glint in your eye.

“Yeah? And what’s that?” He asked, leaning on the table towards you awaiting your response.

“I think you just couldn’t stand to be there without me.”

“Well it definitely wasn’t as fun without you. I lost my partner in crime that day,” he said referring to the day of the incident, “my best friend.”

“Hey! I thought I was your best friend!” Angel called out from the bar, interrupting your moment as he feigned hurt.

“The choice between your dumb ass and her? I’d pick her too,” EZ joked, dodging the coaster that Angle flung his way.

The two brothers bickered a bit as a beautiful young girl came through the front door swinging her back pack onto the nearest chair, “Fuck it’s been a long day.” She groaned walking up and behind Coco, “Who’s this?” She asked looking at you.

“Leticia this is my old friend (Y/N),” Coco introduced, “Letty’s my daughter.” He informed you proudly.

You smiled to yourself, laughing internally. All those years ago he was teasing Jefferson about having daughters and here he was with one himself, “I didn’t know you had a daughter. It’s nice to meet you,” you said smiling at Letty.

“Nice to meet you too,” She smiled before giving Coco a kiss on the cheek and heading back into the kitchen for a snack.

“It’s still kind of new,” he explained, “I’ll tell ya later, it’s kind of a long story.”

You nodded understandingly. There was so much to catch up on, so much had changed whether it felt like it or not.

“At the risk of sounding like an asshole,” Angel spoke up again as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“That ship’s sailed a long time ago, hermano.” Creeper interrupted before taking a swig of his beer.

Angel shot him a glare before turning his attention back to you, “As I was saying. Can we see the leg?” He knew how you lost your leg, that being one of the stories Coco had shared although not in great detail and was a little curious.

You shrugged and stood up, “Sure,” you really didn’t mind anymore and were proud of serving your country, it was all just a part of your story.

You pulled up the leg of your jeans showing off the metal prosthetic and exposing your tattoos you had just above it.

“Nice ink,” Gilly commented as the men looked over your colorful display. On the front of your leg you had a special tattoo in honor of Jefferson. His wife eventually reached out to you and you ended getting along with her well and became close with her and their children. With her approval you had his dog tags tattooed and then a flower for her and her daughters each surrounding it. They all picked out the kind and color and the young girls loved getting to be a part of it.

You did your best to do right by them and make sure they were taken care of. You sent them birthday cards and money and were hoping to someday have enough saved up to take them to an amusement park and go all out just as he had planned to do.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Coco exclaimed as he stood up from his seat and walked over to you starring at your ink, but it wasn’t Jefferson’s he was looking at but that of his and yours catch phrase which you had inked on the back of your leg behind your knee in black ‘I’ve Got Your Six’. “No way,” he whispered in disbelief.

“What?” You asked as you looked at him confused, you didn’t know what the big deal with having a tattoo dedicated to him would be.

Stepping in front of you he took off his cut grinning before turning his back to you and lifting up his shirt showing off his very own ‘I’ve Got Your Six’ tattoo inked in black on his back.

You stepped over running your hand across the words grinning yourself now, “Wow we got fucking matching tattoos without even knowing it,” you chuckled.

Letty watched you and Coco from the kitchen. She didn’t know the whole story but could tell there was something between the two of you and she couldn’t help but ship the two of you together. You were a perfect match for Coco and if she had to help things along the way then that’s exactly what she was going to do.

“So where are you staying,” She asked as she walked into the room, “Cause you should stay with us. There’s plenty of room.”

“Oh no. I don’t want to be intruding on anyone’s life,” you tried to protest holding your hands up, “I was just gonna get a motel room or something, until I found a place.”

“Nonsense,” she insisted, “You can’t stay in some shitty motel room. Right Coco?” She looked to him for support.

He had thought about offering himself but wanted to be respectful of Letty’s privacy and space. Since she was the one who offered though he figured she must have been cool with you and thought why not. It wouldn’t be the first time you stayed together, “Yeah. We got plenty of room.”

“Okay,” you agreed, smiling at him and Letty.

“Well with that settled I’m gonna head home and get stuff ready. I’ll see you there!” She kissed Coco’s cheek once more goodbye before heading out the door.

—————————————————————————————————————

You chatted and hung out around the clubhouse for a few more hours before deciding to call it a night and following Coco back to his place.

Opening the door he led you into his home where Letty greeted you with the biggest smile, “This way,” she said, leading you down the hall, “You can stay in Coco’s room for now.”

“No that won’t be necessary. The couch is quite fine with me,” you tried to protest for the second time that night.

“Just take the damn bed,” Coco said from behind you, “I’ve slept on far worse than our couch.”

“Go ahead and get settled and I will order some food,” Letty said before dipping out of the room and back down the hall.

Plopping your bag on the bed you sat on the edge giving it a couple bounce checks, “So is this the best bed money can buy?” You asked.

“Best bed my money can,” Coco chuckled before sitting down next to you, “So you gonna tell me what’s going on?” He asked. Turning serious he placed his hand reassuringly on your thigh as he looked at you, “I know it’s been years but I know you better than I know my damn self. I can tell something’s up.”

“It’s nothing,” you said as you looked at your hands folded in your lap.

Lifting your chin up he raised your face to look at him, brushing the stray tear that betrayed you off your cheek, “Remember we said no secrets? We tell each other the truth even when it’s difficult.”

You nodded, “I just feel so stupid, I mean I’m a fucking marine.” You glanced down before looking back up to meet his eyes once more, the deep brown feeling so comforting and familiar, “I left my ex,” you started, “And I don’t think he will try to find me but I’m not sure.”

“What happened?” His jaw clenched but he kept his voice even as he took your hand in his.

“It all seemed so perfect, he helped me through all my trauma and shit, when I was at my worst. I guess I felt like I kind of owed him but then things turned bad, he got violent.” You explained, “I had to leave, to get out of there before he killed me or I him.”

“You’re safe here, querida.” He reassured you by pulling your head to his chest and holding you close, “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. I’ve got your six, always have and always will.”

Running his other hand down your back he added, “And if that fucker ever shows his face around here I’ll kill him, or at the very least help you dispose of the body.”

“Thank you Cruz,” you said, pulling away and looking back at him.

He kissed your forehead before standing up, “Anytime,” he smiled, handing you his hand and helping you to your feet, “How about we go see if the food’s here.”

Leading you down the hall and to the living room you smiled at Letty as she sat on the couch. Sitting on the opposite side Coco followed and sat between you two wrapping his arms around the both of you, his two favorite girls in the world.

“So what are we watching?” He asked as you and Letty both started a passionate discussion about the show that was on the tv, laughing and sharing your theories with each other.

He smiled to himself listening in even though he had no clue what the fuck you were talking about, he was just happy that the two of you were getting along and happy to have you back in his life once more.

Everything Taglist: @jad3djay @fairygardenss @carlaangel86 @briannab1234

[comradelup]

Julia would never describe death as enlightening. Quite the opposite, actually. Maybe… endarkening…. Point is, she never knew death until she died.

She opens her eyes on the shore of the astral sea. She feels bruised all over, and half her mind is still fast asleep. Groggy. That’s the word for it.

The sunless grey sky is above her, and the sound of lapping waves fill her ears. Sand surrounds her on the ground, and it’s almost comfortable, even if it may be getting in her hair. She doesn’t want to move, so she doesn’t.

A weird sense of familiarity washes over her as lazy as the waves. She’s been here before, right? Or perhaps she’s seen one too many friends and comrades die for death to be confusing and scary. Her most likely theory is that The Raven Queen does this to people to ease them into death after trauma.

She recalls the events before her death. Kalen returned with vengeance to blow up Raven’s Roost. She bets he was bitter about his loss and decided to erase any memory of his weakness. Well, he got his revenge. Julia tried to get as many people as she could out, but a whole building fell on her as a result. One of the two leaders of the revolution is dead. She’s only happy he didn’t get Magnus.

Magnus… she remembers him. A cheerful carpenter, a loving husband, a great crewmate.

Wait. What?

The memories trickle into her mind like a summer creek. The two of them in flowing red robes, standing somewhere up high. On the deck of some ship, but on land. Above land.

The Starblaster.

There were others too. Beautiful twin elves, a plain-looking human, a crunchy dwarf, a wallflower of a human, and a gnome captain. Their names hit her like arrows to the chest.

Taako. Lup. Barry. Merle. Lucretia. Davenport.

It comes back faster now. The flow quickens. The eight of them, on the Starblaster, on an endless mission. Images flash in her mind. Good times, bad times, laughter, love, screaming, crying. Life and death alike.

They were running from something, running to something else. But… what?

At least she knows why death is familiar. She’s died before. An explosion, an accidental poisoning, turning to a statue… death is an old friend in a way. She remembers her friends dying too. The four judges killing everyone but Lucretia. That time everyone but her, Lup, and Lucretia died so it was months of girls’ nights. One year the twins died and everyone else tried to cook like them but couldn’t, because who can cook like the twins?

These memories don’t quite feel like her own. She’s missing something. Lup and Barry trying to understand the chemical makeup of the Light of Creation. Merle dying so many times talking to John. Magnus died in the first cycle at the hands of The Hunger.

A weak groan escapes her and she closes her eyes. This is giving her a headache, trying to think through the static. Static… static…

Fischer! Her eyes snap open, arm frozen halfway to rubbing her temple. Death really is enlightening, the voidfish’s power doesn’t work on the dead. Somehow she forgot everything, or at least everything in Lucretia’s journals.

Oh, poor Lucretia. Now that it’s coming back to her, she remembers Lucretia bringing her and Magnus to Raven’s Roost, trying to hide her tears. She told them, this is where you’ve lived your whole lives, it’s not much, but it’s home. Julia retroactively corrects that no, the Starblaster is home, Lucretia is home, along with the rest of the crew. Lucretia must have erased their memories of their mission, but Julia can’t quite remember why. She can’t bring herself to be truly angry though; she loves Lucretia too much to be.

She starts to remember more recent details too. Lup… Lup went missing. She’s nowhere to be found, even with Barry and Taako’s rigorous searching. She went missing after the eight of them made the… the… the Grand Relics.

The dam breaks, and she knows everything— the Light of Creation, The Hunger, oh stars.

She lets her arm fall and stares up, letting all the sadness show on her face. The world might end, and no one else but a dead woman will know how to stop it. Not even, right? All she knows how to do is run away. This plane will be consumed and feasted upon until there’s nothing left, and she’ll be destroyed right with everyone el—

“Um, Julia?”

Julia cranes her head back towards the sound of the voice. Upside down, she sees a pair of fancy shoes and the hem of fancy slacks. They step closer and Julia looks up at the sky again as a face comes into view.

“You’re Julia Burnsides, right? Are you okay?” the man asks, and he’s handsome. Not the same rustic and warm handsomeness of Magnus, but a sharp, well dressed handsome. It isn’t her thing, but it’s hard to not admit that this guy is a looker. His long dreadlocks are pulled back in a half up half down style, and some of them fall over his shoulder as he looks down at her.

“I’m Julia,” she says, and her voice is raw. She coughs into her hand and he looks sympathetic. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Kravitz. Let me help you up.” He holds out a hand, and she takes it. It’s cold as shit but she doesn’t comment on it as he helps her stand.

Her body doesn’t like being vertical apparently. She now knows her bruises are the incorporeal equal of the injuries sustained from her death, and they make all movement painful. She wobbles a bit when on two feet and balances herself on Kravitz’s steady hand.

“Thanks,” she mutters through the pain, because her parents didn’t raise a rude girl.

“Of course,” Kravitz says, taking his hand back and using both hands to hold onto a sharp scythe taller than him. It’s actually about Julia’s height, as she stands a good few inches above him.

“There’s a bit of… an issue here,” he continues, “When a person dies, they either go into the astral sea or the eternal stockade. Or, in special cases, to the Raven Queen herself to discuss joining her retinue. You shouldn’t have ended up here.”

He’s saying a lot of words at once. Her head’s still swimming. She feels dizzy. Remembering a century all at once after a falling building killed you is… tough to handle all at once. And it's not the position she should be in when discussing… what was it? Death crimes? He mentioned a stockade, right?

“I… I should…” She brings a hand to her head and rubs the part of her temple that isn’t super bruised.

“You don’t look good, here.” Julia’s staring at the ground, blinking and trying not to sway, so she doesn’t see what he does. She hears fabric ripping, and he puts a cold hand on her shoulder.

“Step right through here,” he says, voice quiet. He seems tuned in to her headache and is accommodating, for which she's thankful.

She follows his direction, through a portal of sorts. One second she’s on a beach, the next she’s in a throne room, four stories tall. The floors and walls are black marble with an iridescent sheen to them. The far left wall is floor to ceiling windows, showing off the astral sea. It's beautiful, swirling rainbow waters with millions of lights floating above the surface. The sky is grey, but not like it’s covered by clouds, it’s naturally grey. Not a sun or cloud to be seen. In the window sills are ravens, hopping around or snoozing or watching her. All of them are silent in the presence of their queen.

The Raven Queen is hard to perceive. She is in the back of the room, on a large throne. Shadows cover that end of the room, so she can’t see the queen’s face. She does know she’s huge, though. Tens of feet tall, Julia guesses she’d be almost as tall as the throne room if she wasn’t sitting. She’s wearing an impeccable dark suit glittering with gold accents and jewelry. There are rings on her gloved fingers and bracelets on her wrists, and her hands sit on the arms of the throne. One leg is crossed over the other, letting a dark flowing cape pool at one foot.

In her presence, Kravitz kneels. Following, Julia does the same. He says, “My Queen, I found Julia Burnsides on the shore of the astral sea, disoriented and in pain. I don’t know what her soul’s fate is, so I come to you for guidance.”

Julia stays quiet, looking at the floor. She can kind of see her reflection, and sees that her face isn’t as beat up as it feels. In fact, it’s completely free of injury. She’s also wearing her IPRE robe. Huh.

After a moment of silence, The Raven Queen speaks. “Julia Burnsides, you have died twenty-two times, including your most recent death.”

Julia looks up to the queen and sees Kravitz staring at her bewildered out of the corner of her eye. She can’t see the queen’s expression, but her voice makes her sound accusatory. So Julia nods, unsure of what else to say.

“Yet… you have entered the Astral Plane every time. You also never escaped the plane. That is an anomaly.”

“I can explain, your majesty.” Julia remembers other Astral Planes too, with the occasional alternate death deities. At least in this plane, it’s The Raven Queen and not that other one, The King of Death and Insects. She hates bugs.

“Please do.” The queen waves a hand, and two armchairs appear, with a coffee table in front of them. Julia takes the silent invitation and moves to sit down in one. Two mugs of tea appear and she takes one. What's most strange is Kravitz seems more confused than her as he does the same. Julia must be a real edge case.

She takes a sip of tea and feels the warmth travel down her throat into her stomach, then spread to her whole body. It seeps away the pain and clears her head, making her sigh in relief and relax into her seat.

“Now,” The Raven Queen says, “explain your deaths.” She holds up a palm in her direction and pushes it towards her. Julia feels a breeze blow past her as a Zone of Truth appears around her. Admittedly, she’s developed a familiarity with it thanks to Merle, but she lets the spell affect her this time. She has no reason to lie to a queen.

“I… I don’t know where to start,” Julia says. If only she had Lucretia’s journals and could read them to the queen. “Do you know about the multiverse theory?”

She goes on to explain everything from the beginning. Where she's really from, the Light of Creation landing on her home plane, and the original mission of the IPRE. The Hunger and how it interrupted this mission, the cycles that brought her and her family from the dead. She even explains that this is the first death where she wasn’t put into the astral sea. (Except for that one time she and Barry ended up in that plane’s stockade, though. It was only an experiment gone wrong, after all, so why include it?)

All of this is new information for The Raven Queen and Kravitz, but it feels new to Julia too. For some of the details she says them without thinking and then reflects on them. Taako made a fake Light of Creation? Oh right, he did!

After she’s done explaining, she sits back, taking a big sip of her tea. Her cup never seems to empty and for that, she’s glad, because every sip brings back that warm feeling in this cold, dead plane.

Kravitz looks bewildered and intrigued by the story, but also says nothing. The Raven Queen is quietly contemplative for a moment, then says, “Those relics are causing a lot of death. You created them?”

Julia flushes. “Yes, your majesty, but we didn’t mean to cause wars. The Light of Creation needs to be needed, so we tried to make intriguing objects. They ended up using the people wielding them instead of the other way around.” She looks down into her lap, staring at the tea swirling in the mug. Voice low, she adds, “We would never do that to so many innocent people.”

She can tell she brought down the mood of the room, evidenced by Kravitz’s kind of awkward look as he clearly doesn’t know how to make her feel better. She can’t bring herself to care though. Maybe ignorance really is blissful, she was happiest she’s been in decades when all she knew was Raven’s Roost.

“Things like this are rarely intentional,” The Raven Queen says, her tone somber. “These objects, they are an affront to the nature of life and death. They are an insult to my domain.”

“You’re really good at cheering people up, you know that?” Julia deadpans, apathetically staring at her drink. Kravitz stares at her with wide eyes.

“I am saying this to ask: can you stop these objects from killing people?” The Raven Queen asks.

“I… imagine that we could. We’ve handled the Light so much that we are more or less immune to it’s craveability.”

“I’m sorry, ‘craveability?’” Kravtiz interjects. Julia nods, sipping her tea.

“So your living crewmates could put an end to these wars?” The Raven Queen asks.

“They’re the only ones who can,” Julia says.

The Raven Queen is silent for another moment. Then, “Until all Grand Relics are collected and disposed of, your family’s bounties will be called off.”

Julia sighs, relieved, and sags into her seat. Then sits back up. “But what will happen to me?”

“You cannot influence the Prime Material Plane anymore. You have the option of joining the astral sea, or lessening your family’s sentence by serving time yourself.”

“But their deaths are like mine. They didn’t escape the Astral Planes willingly and you technically can’t punish them.”

Kravitz looks at her like she’s walking into a volcano and expecting to live. She gets it, she knows she’s talking back to a goddess, but she doesn’t care.

“Lup Hallwinter and Sildar Hallwinter are liches, and they will be punished accordingly.”

“Just call them— ugh—” Julia huffs a sigh and sags into her chair in frustration. She puts her cup down and says, “They did it ethically, for the greater good. Lup and Barry were able to do so much good without death to stop them!”

“There is a reason death stops them. Everyone thinks they have a good reason to cross me.”

“You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them!” Julia shouts, standing. Kravitz stands too, scythe at the ready. Julia pays him no mind, pointing a finger at the queen. “You OWE them!”

The air is still. Kravitz is ready to strike at the queen’s order. Julia doesn’t give a shit. Goddess or not, she can’t act like she knows Barry and Lup enough to just declare their fates. Other liches? Yeah, they’re almost always corrupt and selfish, but what Lup and Barry did is selfless if anything.

“There is no point in arguing. Make your choice.”

Julia raises her chin defiantly. The same look she’s given corrupt warlords and wealthy industrialists, the look she’d give John if she met him rather than Merle. The queen is unmoving and Julia knows her effort is futile, at least now. She crosses her arms. “I’ll serve their sentence.”

“It’s decided then. Julia Burnsides, you will begin training as a Reaper, serving the sentences of Lup and Sildar Hallwinter. Reaper Kravitz, you will train her."

[irelise]

Fic “Behind the Scenes” - Alex Rider

Trying to dip my toes back into writing, so I thought I’d ramble about some fics I’ve already written! This started off as ranting about my title choice and how they’re usually Final Fantasy XIV songs I butcher in order to forcibly fit the fic, but it expanded into musings about things that didn’t make the cut into the final fic, and potential sequels/things that happen down the line.

Just doing Alex Rider fics for now since that’s my current active fandom, but drop me an ask if there are any fics you’re especially interested in from any fandom!

Starting off with: Time (2368 words, gen, Alex & Yassen focused) aka my untagged Inception-flavoured AU where the plot twist was that it was a dream all along That said, this title was probably one of the easiest to come up with and was obviously from the main theme of Inception, Time! Which is fantastic like the whole movie aaaa i love Inception AUs and this fic is probably the one I’m most likely to expand into longfic if I dredge up the motivation from somewhere. It would be a mission style fic, possibly a heist, where Alex and Yassen are seemingly working together in order to steal some valuable intel from another group. Of course, it’s all a dream! Through copious dream symbolism and mind fuckery the real mission was set up by MI6 for Alex to extract intel from Yassen, who by this point is steadily losing his grip on dreams and reality after months, possibly years, spent under sedation.

Yassen has a few tricks up his sleeve, though. He’s aware that he’s (probably) dreaming and he can see the fractures in Alex’s resolve after such a long time of being used and manipulated by MI6. It would only take a little nudge to get Alex to defect -- or, at the very least, to escape.

So while Alex is busy trying to extract information from Yassen, Yassen is trying to do the opposite: inception.

The rest below cut for length and also because they’re nsfw since most of my writing was for the kink meme! Warning for general fucked-upness and unhealthy relationships

at the end, on a dusty road  (8154 words, Yassen/Alex) aka the reputation sabotage fic, aka where’s part 3b?!

Title from Origa’s Polyushka Polye:

The wind scatters your brave songs Across the green field. Songs of the past, Leaving them alone with your glory, And right at the end, on a dusty road…

i just wanted something wistful and Russian about past soldiers and fading glory ok....... I came pretty close to titling the fic leaving them alone with your past glory but decided it didn’t make much sense out of context.

ANYWAY my first Yalex fic! Very much inspired by a hodgepodge of comments on Discord about how MI6 would react if they ever saw Yassen paying Alex visits in the middle of the night - “Could they be exchanging information?” “The whole night? Maybe the answer is something more obvious...”

ANYWAY the ending at the moment is pretty open - there’s two main ways I see it going:

1) Yassen comes back shortly afterwards, realises he had fucked up colossally, stays and helps Alex rebuild even though Alex (very justifiably) no longer trusts him. Very slow reconciliation and healing but ultimately happy ending.

2) aka the one where I broke Nanibun’s shipper heart over Discord: Alex and Yassen eventually reunite, but it isn’t until years later, when Alex is nearing middle age and Yassen has faded into obscurity. Alex managed to pick up the pieces of his life and even moved on properly from MI6, and now lives a fulfilling life. Married, 2.5 kids, white picket fence, the whole lot. So what if his marriage is more for partnership than for love? He’s content with the direction his life had taken and has strong ties to his community. He even managed to forgive Yassen, even though it took him a long time.

He and Yassen meet for the last time in a sunlit cafe in spring. Alex looks at Yassen and sees only a stranger with lines crinkling under his eyes.Yassen is getting old, he realizes. He thinks he should be happy that Yassen even had the chance to get old, but all he feels is relief that their paths had diverged. Alex is done with that life and he can never trust Yassen again. All that old passion had burned away to nothing, not even a flickering flame. Even though the initial parting had been painful, Alex had managed to find peace long ago, and he hopes Yassen will be able to do the same. But it's a distant, unemotional hope, the sort of hope you'd have for a distant acquaintance you haven't seen in years. The type of well wishes that are etiquette more than actual sentiment.

He's glad when their drinks are finished and Yassen melts away into the chattering springtime crowd, one final dangling chapter of his life closed at last.

.

...............or, 3) Alex throws himself into increasingly dangerous situations in an attempt to feel something and dies young.

(part 3b is coming someday i swear! it’s the alternate path where Yassen has second thoughts, tells Alex the truth, and doesn’t send the sex tape to MI6)

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Lemniscate  (3562 words, Julia Rothman/Yassen) Not a whole lot to say about this one, except after I finished I realised it was really similar to another fic I previously wrote which also involved a young man desperate to reinvent himself completely being taken advantage of by his superior............ i have a Type

Title - I was jamming out to Locus while writing this which is a song all about an inability to escape from cycles - When fighting back right out of this system/Means falling back right into this space ; When falling back is better than simply/Falling back into pieces again  - but it was long and unwieldy so I thought about shortening it to Moebius but that was a bit overdone... In the end I settled with Lemniscate which is also an infinity symbol, Moebius-like shape. Mostly it’s a reference to how Yassen never quite breaks free of his “cycle” even though he’s with Scorpia now - he was Sharkovsky’s slave and bedwarmer and...now he plays basically the same role for Julia Rothman. (Just with a bit more murder and moral erosion!)

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This probably needs a special content warning - major character death (gun suicide from the second Russian roulette scene), gore, necrophilia

closing the circle (3650 words, John Rider & Yassen) aka is it still a gen fic if there’s offscreen necrophilia?

This was originally written for a kink meme prompt for corpse mutilation + necrophilia but then the John and Yassen plot thread kind of took over and I never actually ended up writing the gory stuff oops since it was too out of place compared to the rest. So everything below can be considered not “canon” since the fic diverged so heavily from its original plan (which is why the section numbers skip around - I cut out Yassen’s bits). But if you’re curious, here’s the details for what I originally planned to happen to Yassen (well, his corpse) and the Sharkovsky family, copy-pasted straight from my notes and full of as much karma as I could stuff in:

Yassen’s death, Sharkovsky shoves his fingers in the bullet hole and spits on the body in disgust. Yassen regains consciousness halfway through this; he can feel what Sharkovsky is doing

Ivan comes running in, attracted by the sound of the gunshot. Sharkovsky tells him to do what he likes with the body as long as it’s disposed of in the end. Necrophilia scene? Afterwards Ivan disposes of the body by locking it in the cellar alone with the Dalmatian for a few days

Yassen starts getting his revenge. Ivan is the first to go when he comes to let the Dalmatian out – the Dalmatian savages him and tears out his throat before it’s finally shot. Yassen’s bones get buried along with the Dalmatian. Ivan’s body is kept in the cold storage room in the basement where they kept the old food taster’s body while they decide what to do with him.

Maya, Sharkovsky’s wife, is next. She passes away in the middle of the night. Sharkovsky wakes up next to a cooling corpse.

There are whispers that there is some sort of curse. One of the maids talk about finding blood on the carpet of Sharkovsky’s study. She’s the next to disappear. Some other workers stop turning up.

Finally it’s Sharkovsky’s turn. He dies of poison. The dacha burns down that same night.

A Scorpia agent was sent to tie up loose ends (Scorpia didn’t know Sharkovsky is already dead); Yassen kills him too. He has no loyalty to Scorpia and just wants to be left alone.

Hunter is sent to investigate. He and Yassen talk, in the end, Hunter invites Yassen to come with him, Yassen agrees. But when they leave the dacha and Hunter looks back, he finds that Yassen is gone.

And an excerpt:

Yassen is dead. He does not remember dying. There are some things the human mind tries to shield itself from, and the memory of a bullet traveling through bone and brain to erupt on the other side in a shower of gore is one of those things.

Yassen is dead. He had hoped death would mean oblivion. At his most naïve and optimistic, he had hoped death would mean reunion. Happiness. A return to simpler days.

He discovers, instead, that death is not so different from life, except he is even more powerless now than before.

There is a body on the floor of Sharkovsky’s study. Its hair had once been pale white-blond, but now it is matted with coagulating blood. That same blood spreads in a dark pool against the carpet, clotting the fibres together into ugly clumps, stiff and flaking. The fire in the hearth is still burning sullenly. Its light glistens against the grotesque strands of viscera splattered against the ground, the furniture, the wall. A round hole had been punched into the side of the corpse’s head, piercing bone and brain. That was how the man who had once been Yassen Gregorovich had killed himself. The fingers of the corpse remain loosely curled around the old-fashioned revolver that had been the instrument of death.

The only living person in the room rises slowly from his wheelchair. Sharkovsky’s skeletal face is twisted into an ugly grimace of anger. He totters over to the corpse, nudging it with the tip of one polished leather shoe. “Waste of time,” he says coldly. “Ruining a perfectly good carpet, and for what?”

In a sudden fit of temper, he lashes out with a kick. Once, it would have been strong enough to break several ribs (Yassen knows from intimate experience). Now, the corpse merely flops limply to one side. It incenses Sharkovsky further. He drops heavily to his knees, breathing harshly, and backhands the corpse across the face with one shaking hand.