#my craft stash once again proves its worth

[bzedan]

Hey losers.

She’s done!! I am not a swords guy but I looked at a lot of pictures and told myself it didn’t need to be perfect, just give off the right vibes. And she can hold it!!

I’m not a big doll modder so I’m proud of how she turned out. Let’s be honest I was mostly in it for the arm and the arm rocks.

(Her journey is on here under #doll mods if you’d like to see her various stages.)

[m1d-w1nter]

Our revenge

~

SUMMARY: sometimes love isn’t meant to be, tommy shelby x fem reader

{masterlist}

~

The night was so long gone by now that a new day was already threatening to emerge. It was still late enough, however, for the world around you to be nothing but a hazy blackness, broken only by the delicate moonlight that had managed to pierce through the trees. The forest air was as silent as the dead, the gentle breeze their final and defeated breath, and beneath your bare feet the mud was thick and cool, squishing like soft clay between your toes. 

Someone was approaching from behind, the crack of the undergrowth and quiet breathing making its way towards you. You were always told to be on your guard if you strayed this far away from camp, but there was only one person that could possibly be approaching you. Even after all these years you still recognised Tommy Shelby by the sound of his footsteps. “Kushti divvus.” You murmured gently in acknowledgement of his arrival, the words so quiet they were likely to be carried away into the night. He would hear every word though. It was a talent of his- one that scared you- to always hear every word you spoke, even if they’d not yet even left your lips. “You left.” He replied bluntly, voice low and velvety, seeping through your body with power enough to make you weak at the knees. You weren’t surprised he’d noticed you leaving, and somewhere within you the girl you’d once been was even hurt that it had taken him this long to follow. You had wandered away from camp hours ago, seeking solitude within the woods and finding it in a small clearing. You hadn’t wanted to be there at all, anticipation for the evening making you sick all day, but your father had insisted that you were present at least to greet them. You’d given in to his demand, but the moment they all turned up and his eyes found yours, and years spent on burying emotions suddenly became wasted, you’d turned and fled. 

Twigs began crackling again as he approached, the long shadow that he cast across the ground slowly coming to rest beside yours. You refused to look at him, but you could still make out his face in the corner of your eye, startling blue eyes gazing over you, lips pressed into a cold line. Tommy’s hand came up suddenly to your face, the pad of his thumb brushing beneath your eye and up onto your cheekbone in one long stroke. You snapped your head to the side to glare at him. “You’ve been crying,” he muttered, thumb still pressed against your face, “why?” “Xoxamno.” “I’m not lying,” Tommy said, moving his hand to let run it down the side of your head, smoothing your hair and capturing the base of your neck. “You have been crying.” You moved instinctively towards him, leaning into the touch of his hand and bringing your face closer to his, though managing to stop just before your foreheads could touch. You had longed for him for so long that the feeling had become a part of you, but it didn’t mean you wanted any of this. You were supposed to have forgotten him, to have let go and moved on. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. But Tommy Shelby never gave up on what was his, and you had always belonged to him; heart, soul and body held tightly in the palm of his hand. Let me go, Tom, you tried to plead, though those weren’t words that left your mouth. “I’ve missed you.” You breathed instead, one of your hands finding the fabric of his shirt and balling it within your fist. You clung to the fabric and pulled at it aggressively, angrier at him than you’d ever been in your life. It wasn’t fair that he could do this- that he could undo all that you’d worked at so desperately with just the brush of one thumb. You knew this was like a game for him, that he found pleasure in how easy it was for him to make you weak. To anyone else the pair of you were like stone, unbreakable and unmovable, but to each other you were nothing but soft words and gentle caresses. As you pulled at him, his body came closer, until you were pressed so close you might as well have been one. You face moved to the side to avoid any accidental collision, temple pressed to his cheek and the sound of his breathing in your ear. He took calm breaths, deep and slow, as though every step of this dance had been exactly to his planning. And it likely had been. Tommy’d had years to craft this moment, and with such a cruel possession over you it was as simple to make you follow in his movements as it was to make your heart beat only for him. You knew you wouldn’t sound so calm to him, that your breathing was scattered and pained- as if when you’d drawn him close he’d sent a knife through your stomach. You wouldn’t put it past him. Your mother had warned of the changes war would create, the scars it would leave, and that he was rumoured to be even deadlier than before. You’d shrugged her off, however, because it made no difference to you. Tommy had been your poison since the day you first met him, and if his method of murder was only more brutal than before- well, you welcomed it with open arms. It was only what you deserved. “Is this your revenge?” You whispered to him, hand releasing his shirt fabric and sliding up to play with his open collar. “‘Cause this is how you’ll kill me, Tom.” Whilst he kept one hand firmly on your neck, the other- previously stashed in his trouser pocket- now brushed over your waist and came to rest on your lower back, gripping firmly. You were painfully aware that you wore nothing but cotton combinations and a shawl half-draped over your shoulders, legs and arms bare and prickled with goosebumps. It didn’t really matter though- he’d seen you in much less. “I don’t want to fucking kill you,” he mumbled back, angry at your words, “I just want to hold you.” “You don’t get to do that anymore.” You spat with unexpected venom, slipping from his grasp and pushing him back. You’d always possessed a talent to read people’s faces with ease. From the emotions they revealed, to the ones they buried deep inside them, nothing was a secret from you. But standing in the dark, where it was impossible to fully make out Tommy’s face, you couldn’t decipher how he felt, and that made you nervous. You were at his mercy, whether or not he would choose to be merciful at all.   Tommy took a step forward to approach you, but you took one back in response, your hand rising towards him in warning. “Why are you doing this?” He all but pleaded, the reflection of the night sky sparkling in his eyes like tears. “Why are you doing this?” You countered, “this isn’t supposed to happen again.” “Bullshit!” His voice rose up suddenly, but like a wave crashing on the beach he drew back in just as quickly, running a hand through his hair in embarrassment. It had never been that short before, you noticed, glancing at the sides that were shaven thin. His hair had been thick the last time you’d seen him, when you’d run your hands through it and pulled him towards you to kiss him, tears running down your face and between your lips. He’d changed just as much as you had, you realised, and it was a painful thought. You knew things could never have been as they once were, but this seemed to confirm it. “What happened then means nothing now,” Tommy continued more softly, “I kept my promise, I came back-“ “And I told you not to.” You cut in, with a tone harsh enough to cut skin. The words stung you both as much as they had when they’d first been spoken, unforgivable and unforgettable- and yet Tommy seemed perfectly content in living an existence where you’d never hoped for his death. In this he had become the definition of naivety, though perhaps a romantic might describe it simply as love. He strode forwards in a few steps, seizing you before you had a chance to retreat again. One hand took grip of your bicep roughly, the other effortlessly capturing your flailing hands by the wrists, leaving you trapped before him. It was a terrifying display of power, proving that Tommy had the strength and the ability to do whatever he pleased. If he wanted, as he did now, it took only the slightest effort to have you pinned helplessly before him. But you knew not to be afraid. You’d learnt to never fear Tommy long ago, when he’d sworn he would let you kill him before he ever really hurt you. His standing here now gave enough proof to how religiously he kept his promises. He’d made his way through hell to be come back to you and heaven help whoever came between. “I told you I never wanted to see you again.” You continued, hoping scorned words might be enough to chase him off. “And yet I’m here anyway.” “To spite me?” You questioned. “To forgive you.” He replied. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, save it for someone who’ll take it.” Tommy shook his head and kissed your knuckles with the tenderness of a couple ten years married. “You deserve everything.” He said, staring into your eyes, “I’ll give you everything if you let me.” You recognised those words. He’d said them once before, in a lifetime long gone, on a cold afternoon when he’d ridden into camp on a black horse with the look of death in his eyes. They have no right to your life Tom, you had pleaded with him, they started this war, let them die in it. Begging, crying, kissing him until your lips were swollen and holding him with the threat of never letting go- it made no difference. And when that didn’t work you turned to hatred instead. You had hissed words made to frighten him- that you hoped he’d never come back and prayed the choice he was making was worth loosing you. But still he held you close, cradling you, kissing you and telling you he’d never loved anyone more in his life. Then he’d ruined everything by asking you to marry him. I’d rather burn in hell than be the widow of a man who dies a meaningless death, were the last words you’d ever spoken to him, walking away and never looking back. The silence as you both relived the memory was thunderous, and riddled with the pain of two broken hearts. You knew it was down to you to break the quiet- and to break his heart again. “We’ll be leaving for Ireland at the start of the month,” you explained to him, “Da wants us to leave before the snow sets in ‘cause we’re travelling all the way to Trawbreaga Bay. We’re going home.” “No.” Tommy said, and though you imagined it was supposed to be a demand, his voice broke in pain and it sounded more like him begging. “We’ll be gone for at least two winters, Tom. And Da wants me married by summer, so I might not even come back.” Tommy closed his eyes, dropping his head against your chest and his grip on you tightened furiously. You twisted one of your hands from his grasp, running your fingers through his hair and brushing your fingernails down to the nape of his neck. “I can’t loose you again.” His voice cracked under pressure as he mumbled into your shawl. “You choose to let me go once, you can do it again.” He shook his head and then lifted it slightly from against you, moving his hand from your bicep to part your shawl and expose the top of your chest. He pressed a kiss against your collarbone, and then to the side of your neck, before moving your hair to the side to kiss beneath your ear. His lips were warm and tender, and as he drew nearer to your mouth, kissing your cheek, you could smell the whiskey and tobacco that he always tasted of. Before he could reach your mouth, though, you put your fingers on his lips to stop him, pushing his head away. “I need you.” He spoke, bottom lip brushing against your skin. “You can’t belong to someone else.” “I belong to nobody but God,” you ran a thumb along his lip, “and you are no God, Tommy Shelby.” He pushed your hand away and pressed his forehead against yours, both of your eyes shutting so as to allow you to drink each other’s touch in. Tommy took grasp of both sides of your face, holding you tight against him. “I am more than a God.” He challenged with a low and forceful voice. “Not to me.” You whispered, apologetic. “I don’t worship you any more.” You took hold of his chin and drew his lips against yours, placing the softest kiss upon them. He knew better than to try for more, so stood limply as you untangled yourself and stepped away from him. You turned to walk away, but something within you made you stop and twist back around. You closed the distance between the two of you once again and kissed him tenderly against his cheekbone, one final time. He took hold of your hand, linking your fingers together in a desperate last attempt, but you simply slipped from his grasp with a sad smile, disappearing into the forest like a ghost in the night. You were dead to each other after all. Some things were just never meant to be.

~~~~~

(02/03/2021)

[sleepmybeauty]

someday maybe me

so I wrote this like a hundred years ago (directly after finishing Open Heart, which feels like an eternity ago). It’s the first thing I’ve written to completion (by my standards) in...5+ years, so. be gentle? cool, thanks. I actually kind of like this piece and I’m hoping you guys will, too :D  

Title: someday maybe me Fandom: Choices: Stories You Play; Open Heart. Pairing: Cassidy Valentine (MC)/Ethan Ramsey, past Ethan Ramsey/Harper Emery. Word Count: 2,054.

Cassidy walked the halls of Edenbrook with confidence, making her way to Ethan’s office (Dr. Ramsey’s office, she reminded herself). Sienna had mentioned seeing him in the cafeteria and that he was looking a little...well, like death warmed over, were the exact words she’d used. Cassidy wasn’t shocked; considering everything she knew about Dr. Ethan Ramsey, she had no trouble believing he was exactly the type of doctor that would leave his own health as an afterthought when he had patients to take care of.

She arrived at his door and paused before knocking, lecturing herself on appropriate behavior, acceptable resident-attending relationships, and professionalism. She reminded herself to keep things brief and impersonal. She was here to determine the health status of her direct supervisor and nothing more. 

Cassidy raised her hand to knock, dropped it, and promptly threw all her carefully crafted arguments out the window. 

She and Ethan could not express the feelings they both still obviously had for each other; they could not act on the attraction that was still simmering between them. But that did not mean that, as colleagues (albeit unequal colleagues), they couldn’t be friends. It didn’t mean that she couldn’t be alone with him in his office, in a completely professional way, and spend some time taking care of him if he wasn’t going to make the effort to take care of himself.

Even if Ethan was just overworking himself, as a friend, Cassidy could certainly discuss that with him; try to impress on Ethan what Naveen (Dr. Banerji, she chided herself) had come to realize after they’d figured out what was slowly killing him: that even the important work they were doing with the diagnostics team wasn’t worth your health and happiness. Something Ethan still needed to learn, by the look of things.

Lecture completed, Cassidy knocked on Dr. Ramsey’s office door but didn’t bother waiting for him to grant her entry. 

As she stepped around the door and closed it behind her, Cassidy was greeted with exactly what she’d expected: Ethan was supine on his couch, one foot on the floor as if he were just about to drag the other one off as well and attempt to get up. His head was raised slightly to ascertain who exactly was entering his office without permission and his expression was wavering between annoyance at the intruder and weariness. Cassidy met his gaze and only just caught the relief there when he realized it was only her and he wouldn’t have to get up after all before he threw his arm over his eyes and relaxed back into the cushions.

“Do you need something?” Ethan asked quietly. Probably just a cold, nothing too serious, Cassidy thought to herself, cataloging his visible symptoms; he didn’t have many, just the general exhausted edge to his words and the obvious sloth of reclining on the couch in the middle of the day. But Elijah had mentioned the mild case of strep that was making its way through the nursing staff and strep throat didn’t present with many overtly visible symptoms...

“Dr. Trinh mentioned seeing you in the cafeteria earlier today and...well, that you were looking a tad under the weather,” Cassidy continued to look him over as she approached, stopping at the end of the couch and leaning against the armrest. Might not be sick, might just be working too hard after all. But pushing himself too hard would make it that much easier for him to get sick if he wasn’t already. “I just wanted to check on you.” 

“That’s very considerate of you, rookie, but I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep very well last night.” Ethan answered, covering his mouth to muffle the cough that escaped as if to immediately prove his claim wrong. 

“Because of that cough?” Cassidy asked, standing up straight, stepping over his foot still on the floor, and coming to stop by his head. She rested the back of her hand against his forehead and while he didn’t stop her, he did protest the action.

“I’m not sick.” Ethan claimed defensively, the cough coming a little harder this time.

“This fever you’re running would suggest otherwise,” Cassidy withdrew her hand and looked around the office, wondering if Ethan might have a thermometer stashed somewhere, or maybe a strep test. She turned back to find him looking at her and froze, losing her train of thought completely. Cassidy could remember those eyes staring at her with such longing, could feel her heart yearning to see that expression on Ethan’s face again. She blinked hard and tried not to react to the thoughts flying through her head, reminding herself that Ethan was sick and didn’t need her emoting all over him right now.

Ethan’s slightly pained expression from that sickness snapped her back to reality before her mind could wander too far down the road that they weren’t allowed to wander down (sometime she whispers to herself, not yet, and thinks of the day when she’s no longer an intern or a junior fellow and they’re finally on equal ground). Cassidy stuffed her hands in her coat pockets and let the moment pass, hoping Ethan hadn’t noticed her momentary distraction. His eyes fluttered shut again, letting the protest die on his lips, and she signed quietly through her nose. 

“You likely have strep, Ethan,” she said softly, fisting her hands in her pockets to keep from brushing her fingers through his hair (sometimes Cassidy laughs at the two of them, so confident that they could just go back to the way things were before her suspension, so sure of themselves and their ability to ignore this constant need to be close). “It’s been making its way through the nursing staff. Let me run a rapid strep test and prescribe you some antibiotics--”

“I told you, I’m not sick,” Ethan grumbled, attempting to sit up. His next brilliant idea would likely be to go back to work and she wasn’t going to let that happen. Cassidy put her hand on his chest and gently pushed him back down to the couch, sitting next to him to try to keep him there.

“Do you think if you say it enough times, it’ll magically be true?” Cassidy’s tone was maybe a little too hard and it got Ethan’s eyes open again, a forbidding expression overcoming his fatigue momentarily. 

“Watch your tone, Rookie. I’m still your boss.” Ethan chided her. In the next second, a coughing fit came over him and when it was finished, she could see his resolve start to waver, as if the effort of scolding her was just too much for him. 

“You’re also still sick. Hiding in here or trying to work like usual is only going to make things worse,” Cassidy could feel his chest rise and fall with his breathing (sometimes she wonders if he’s seeing someone, if there’s anyone who gets to touch him like she used to, if he went back to Harper now that she’s not Chief any longer, now that they’re on equal ground--) and she quickly removes her hand and clasps her hands together in her lap. “Even if you don’t have strep, you have something. Going home, drinking plenty of fluids, and getting plenty of rest is your best option. And you know that.” 

Ethan sighed heavily through his nose and Cassidy could see the surrender in his eyes. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Ethan mumbled, admitting defeat. “Help me up, rookie, I’ll--”

A loud knock on the door interrupted Ethan and they both looked over, Cassidy wondering who it might be and Ethan just hoping it wouldn’t be someone needing his help.

“You want me to get it?” Cassidy asked as she stood up, motioning to the door behind her.

“Help me sit up first,” Ethan dropped his other foot onto the floor and held his hand out for Cassidy to grasp. She took his hand and gently pulled him into a sitting position. Cassidy stepped back and took a second to examine him once more but wasn’t subtle enough to keep it from him this time. “Whatever I do have, I’m not about to expire on you right here; go see who’s at the door.” Ethan rolled his eyes but the small smile that just barely graced his face hinted at his appreciation for Cassidy’s concern. Or at least gentle amusement at her worry.

Cassidy walked over to the door and pulled it open, a faintly inquiring look on her face for the person on the other side. When she saw it was Harper Emery, her mind skittered a bit and her mouth dropped open, to say what, she wasn’t sure; her thoughts jumped right back to her earlier musings, wondering if Harper was here for professional or personal reasons. Cassidy closed her mouth and greeted the Chief of Neurosurgery politely, “Hello, Dr. Emery,” and reminded herself that it was none of her business either way.

“Dr. Valentine, hello. Is Dr. Ramsey…?” Dr. Emery trailed off, having not been prepared for someone other than Ethan to answer his office door.

“Yes, of course, he’s just over here,” Cassidy opened the door further, gesturing behind her at Ethan, still sitting up (barely) on his couch in the corner of the office. Dr. Emery walked over to Ethan and looked him up and down, performing the same subtle examination Cassidy had been repeating for the last ten minutes (felt like an eternity, being so close to Ethan and not being able to touch him more intimately than a hand on his forehead or his chest, not being able to just take him in her arms and comfort him--). Cassidy stayed by the door, starting to distance herself from the situation. 

“Well, Ethan, I was going to ask you to consult on a patient for me, but you don’t look fit to diagnose yourself, let alone anyone else in this hospital.” Dr. Emery smirked at Ethan, folding her arms over her chest as she waited for his response.

“For christ’s sake, I don’t look that bad.” Ethan muttered, rolling his eyes again but this time with a slightly more acidic edge. When it warmed Cassidy’s heart to see it, she decided that now was the time to make her exit; she couldn’t start to resent Edenbrook’s Chief of Neurosurgery for something as simple as joking around with her longtime friend and colleague (and ex-boyfriend, maybe current boyfriend, rein it in, Valentine).

“I was trying and failing to convince Dr. Ramsey to go home,” Cassidy gripped the door handle tightly on the outside of the open door, grateful that neither Dr. Ramsey nor Dr. Emery could see her whitening knuckles. She smiled at Dr. Emery, hoping the older woman wouldn’t think it odd for Cassidy to be checking on her boss so attentively, and nodded at the senior doctor as she started to back out of the office. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck, Dr. Emery.” 

Ethan looked over at her as she was leaving and said quietly, “Thank you, Dr. Valentine, for trying to help. The saying ‘doctors never make good patients’ is prevalent for a reason and I’m no exception.” A corner of his mouth twitched up and his eyes softened as he watched her and it took everything in her power to stop herself from throwing Harper Emery out of his office and just taking Ethan home herself.

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Valentine, but I think I can handle him from here.” Dr. Emery glanced over at her with an absent smile but quickly turned back to Ethan, dismissing Cassidy completely. 

“You’re welcome.” Cassidy responded quietly and stepped out of Ethan’s--Dr. Ramsey’s office, closing the door quietly behind her. She did not linger outside in the hallway. She did not wallow in her sad thoughts of ‘someday’ and ‘not yet’. She snagged her pager from her waistband as she felt it go off and thanked whatever gods were listening for the distraction of a patient that needed her help.

Cassidy walked back through the hallways of Edenbrook briskly, her confidence still intact but her heart heavy in her chest. So much for impersonal, Cassidy rolled her eyes at herself and shook her musings from her head as she got back to work.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Two Hundred Forty: On a Sailing Ship ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Blue Waves and Black Flags ] [ AO3 Link ]

What can he say? He’s just following in his ancestor’s footsteps.

When young, Sasuke - like his predecessor Madara - had been enrolled in the royal naval academy. Of course...Madara’s reputation - that of a traitor turned pirate, stealing the navy’s finest vessel before disappearing into the waves - makes being an Uchiha in the navy rather...difficult. Sasuke found himself the subject of whispers and rumors wherever he went. He’d been prepared for it, thankfully. His family has long suffered in the shadow of Madara’s actions, and attempting to prove their continued loyalty despite the man’s betrayal hasn’t been easy.

But Sasuke is determined to be a top naval officer and bring his family pride...and wealth. The noble house of Uchiha has fared worse and worse over the years, and his brother’s health wanes, too. If they’re to find money for a doctor, then he’ll need to earn his keep, and then some. And with Itachi unable to sail the seas himself, Sasuke does so in his stead, returning home with stories to help fuel his brother’s imagination, as if he could be there, too.

He graduates with top marks...much like Madara had, but a few years older in scale. Assigned to his first ship - a frigate flying the Senju colors - he does his duties with zeal and eagerness to prove his family’s honor and loyalty to the crown.

But...it’s not all smooth sailing.

Even now, despite his top marks and honors, he’s looked down upon. Spat at. And more than once, roughened up slightly before officers break up the brawls. Each one chips at his determination, stoking an all-too-familiar temper.

A temper like Madara’s.

More than anything, he wants to be able to fight back. To match punches and snark. But he knows any slight - even if in his own defense - will only tarnish his and his family’s reputation further.

But even the most well-cared for lines will snap when faced with too much tension.

“Urgh-!”

Back slamming into an upright, Sasuke heaves for breath, barely ducking beneath a swinging fist. When knuckles instead smear across the wooden beam as he dodges toward the stairs to the deck, a holler and string of oaths follow in his wake. Scrambling up, he dodges fellow sailors in a bid for freedom -

- only to run headlong into an officer.

The collision has them both reeling, Sasuke knocked back onto his haunches as others manage to catch his unintended target.

“What in the blazes -? What is going on here?” he demands, seeing Sasuke’s clothes sullied and ruffled, the other sailors coming up behind.

“Just Uchiha refuse causing trouble, sir,” one offers, grinning.

“I’ve done nothing!” Sasuke insists. “I was just trying to do my rounds when they jumped me, sir!”

Looking down his nose, the officer sneers. “A likely story...one can only take an Uchiha’s word so seriously…”

“Sir, I swear to you, I -”

“You know, I believe we’ve had enough of these incidents, Uchiha. Over and over you’ve instigated trouble -”

“Sir, I -!”

“And,” he cuts in, ignoring the young man’s attempts to defend himself, “I have reached the limit of my patience with you. You are hereby dishonorably discharged from His Majesty’s royal navy, and you will be escorted off the ship once we reach the harbor. Until then, you will remain in your quarters for the remainder of the journey. Is that understood?”

Devastation is plain across Sasuke’s face. Dishonorably discharged...unable to even defend himself, already declared guilty because of his name…! What justice is this?

...but it’s clear as day: there will be none. Sins of the father...or, well, ancestor at any rate.

Well...if they’re to judge him by his surname only...then by God, he’ll give them what they’re looking for.

He can only hope his family will forgive him, but...no longer can he sit and take this abuse. This injustice. If he’s lucky, they’ll be told he drowned at sea.

Odds are? He will.

Finding his feet, he’s oddly calm, looking to the officer dead in the eyes. “...understood, sir.”

“Good. Now, down to the -”

Reeling back his left arm, Sasuke decidedly decks the officer in the jaw, the impact making his knuckles ache. But to his satisfaction, the man goes down hard...and doesn’t get back up.

For about three seconds, the entire deck pauses in stunned silence. And it’s those three seconds he uses to his advantage. Turning on a heel, he sprints for the nearer railing, leaping out into one of the jolly ships along the stern. With a draw of his sword (thankfully still buckled to his hip), he makes quick work of one line. As the boat tips downward, he manages the second, and it plunges down into the water, bobbing haphazardly before stilling.

Within a handful of moments, crewmen gather along the edge of the ship, sails full and quickly leaving the little boat behind. A few still manage shots that zing into the water around him, none nearly accurate enough to do him or the vessel harm. And already he knows it’s not worth turning about a ship that size for one rogue crewman.

So as the frigate makes its way on toward the harbor still a few days’ sailing away...Sasuke stands and pants in the belly of his boat.

...well, that went better than expected.

Collapsing onto a bench, he lets his sword clatter along the bottom, not yet motivated to sheath it as he sits. A few islands pepper the horizon, and he might have some hope of reaching them. But this craft has no supplies...just oars, and himself. Word of his actions will reach his family...he can only hope they’ll understand. Someday, he’ll return to tell them the truth of what happened this day.

But first, he has to make it to some shoreline alive.

Shrugging out of his coat, he takes up the oars, swivels into the right direction...and starts to row.

And row...and row…

By nightfall, he barely makes it to one of the tiny land masses, barely a stone’s throw across. Exhaustedly tugging the boat up past the tideline, he collapses atop the sand, chest heaving for breath. His mouth is dry...if there’s no fresh water to be had in these isles, he’ll soon be doomed either way. But for now...sleep is his most required necessity, and he quickly fades into darkness.

As the sun rises and pinches his lids against the light, it takes a moment for the previous day to wash back over him. Up he sits, taking in his surroundings. Not far off are other islands, varying in size. His current perch is barely a sandbar, just enough to get him off that boat and keep from drifting heavens know where. His stomach is aching with hunger, throat dry as the sand. But he determinedly fetches his vessel, touring around the islands and deciding on one he hopes will have some means of survival. At the very least, a stream empties out into the ocean along the sand - there must be a spring…!

Again he stashes his boat up the shoreline, following the water until he comes upon said spring. Careful not to overdue and vomit, he slowly sates his thirst, sitting and enjoying the shade of the trees clustered around it. A few plants he recognizes as edible are nibbled, contemplating his next move. His best bet is to be picked up by another vessel...but he’ll have to be careful. Punching a naval officer isn’t exactly something that will see him well-treated next time he finds himself in the capital.

But, these waters are oft-used for trade. He’ll figure something out. For now, he has the basics he’ll need to survive until then. The rest he has time to plan.

Meandering back toward the beach, he perks up as he spots crabs scuttling along the sand. Now that would make a good meal…! Making his way out after one, he manages to get ahold of it without getting pinched. “Sorry, mate...but that’s just how...it…” Glancing aside as something catches his eye, Sasuke quiets.

There’s...a woman. Just...standing along the beach. She looks just as surprised to see him, a basket held along an arm. For a long moment, the pair stare at one another. Even from this distance, he can see the pale shade of her eyes, wide in shock. Her hair is long, dark, and straight as a blade down to her hips.

But before he can offer a greeting, she drops her basket and takes off...toward the water?

“Hey, w-wait!” Does she live here? Is there a town on this isle he was unaware of? “Miss, wait! I just want to -!”

Into the waves she runs, looking back almost fearfully over her shoulder. As the water reaches her waist, she just...disappears under the surface.

Having made it to his knees, Sasuke stares in utter confusion. What just…?

Then, with a leap, the woman - no, a fish? - breaks through the surface before diving back under.

Shock earns a holler, staggering back to his rump into the shallows. Was -? Did she just -? But that’s -?

Dark eyes stare out into the ocean. That...that wasn’t possible. Things like that don’t exist. But...he could have sworn she was…?

“...the sea and sun are getting to you, Sasuke,” he mutters, mopping a hand over his face. “There’s no such thing as mermaids.” Hauling himself to his feet, he heads back up the beach, intent on catching more crabs.

And there, spilling clams, crabs, and even a few fish...is the woman’s basket.

...she was real.

Staring at the spoils, Sasuke isn’t sure what to think. But those greens are hardly filling, and...well, it’s right here...surely she won’t mind? If she’s even more than a figment of his imagination? So, taking up the basket, he stuffs everything back in, and makes to start a fire.

...this is far more than he ever bargained for.

                                                         .oOo.

     Well, Hinata's BARELY in this one, but...it was getting long, and I'm running out of time before I have to run! Busy busy, blegh      This is - again - technically yesterday's entry. Life is still not giving me enough time to catch up, and I still have more to do today OTL SO we'll see what I can get done tonight when I get back. Either way...I'll be honest, I'm a bit eager to be done with SHM and focusing just on THIS challenge again. A month of double drabbles has been a bit much. I love both, but...yeesh xD      Anyway, have some pirate AU! Kinda sorta. He's not a pirate yet. But uh...it's looking like he might be. Yet another idea I'll have to try to continue at some point...but not now lol      But yes, thank you for reading! Someday I'll catch back up :'D Thank you for your patience, and for reading!

[italicwatches]

Comic Girls - Episode 01

Oh, fuck it. I was gonna watch this sooner or later, and while I have a lot of options on the board, I really want some craft anime right now, and I’ve got a good action/slice-of-life back and forth rhythm going too. So anyways let’s watch some girls make manga and probably have plausibly deniable romantic feelings towards each other. It’s Comic Girls, episode 01! Here we GO!

-We begin, at…A crosswalk, in Fukushima, on a quiet day. A small pink-haired moeblob sits in a car, being driven along, until a cherry blossom hits her cheek. She is very pink and very moeblob. …And then she learns that her latest manga submission did badly, when the editor gives her a call. How badly, you might ask?

-She’s bottom of the pack. The readers hate the art, the plot, the writing, and think the author can’t write high school girls worth jack shit. So our moeblob, having gotten dropped off from the car, just straight up collapses. Alas, poor Kaos-sensei, who cannot write high school girls despite being a high school girl.

-I’m not entirely sure how she ends up at the steps of a shrine, with a small army of stray cats coming to comfort her. The editor can tell this girl has potential, but god, she needs such thicker skin if she is ever going to survive…And there’s only one way to get her through a crucible without her cracking.

-Hard cut to some other girl getting a similar offer. Why yes, it’s an all-female manga artist dorm. This girl, a very free and loose blonde who…I think…Is she eating three parfaits at once? So suffice it to say she thinks this possibility over long and hashe’ll do it!

-Then we have two more girls…Who are also high school aged.

-Really.

-I just…Like, you’re putting them all in their own dorm. The entire point is they’re all working professionals, or trying to break into the industry. Considering I’ve seen about three different uniforms, I’m pretty sure we’re not going to spend any time actually going to anyone’s school.

-So what purpose does making them high schoolers serve at this point?! Ohhh my god just take me back to anime about working adults in an industry. New Game was total fluff but at least it wasn’t trying to have its schoolgirl cake and eat it too.

-Sorry, sorry, back to the show. These girls are further along the path, with one just getting serialized, and the other still deep in the grind by the sounds of it. Also they’re already tenants at the dorm.

-…So the moeblob’s a secret pervert.

-Okay that’s not entirely fair. We cut to Kaos that night, and she has tons of slightly ecchi heroine figurines in her room, and is getting all “mweeheehee” about being in an all-female manga artist dorm. Now let’s peer into her mental image of what it’ll be like! Yeah she could never survive in a stylish environment like that. Let’s try again the next morning! What if they’re all super intense serious artists? She’d crack there, too. But maybe they’re all a bunch of impassioned nerd rookies like her? A bunch of rookies all getting rejection letters every day would just be depressing.

-…Aaaand she just missed her train because she was lost in her own head. Alas, poor Kaos.

-And that’s how she ends up hauling her schoolbag, with her laptop in it, and her Rintiq tablet, down the road the old fashioned way. Wait, a Rintiq? Jesus, she has a totally-not-Cintiq? Did she just splurge All The Holiday Money, or do her parents believe in her dream that much? Like, shit, I thought I was super lucky when I got my entry-level DSLR at her age, and that was like half to a third of the price and was at a time when we were making money hand over fist.

-Oh and it’s at the top of a hill, too. Or perhaps I should say, she started at the bottom of several hills. But eventually, she makes it…And sees the landlady…And has a panic. Especially when she’s seen as a small tiny grade schooler and not the serious high school girl she insists she is. And the landlady just, isn’t, hearing it. …You know, I almost made a joke at the start about our moeblob not knowing how high school girls act because she was only in middle school.

-Also it turns out that the dorm is going to get a top-to-bottom remodeling in about a year, so there’s a timer. This iteration of the dorm isn’t long for this world something something high school experience cherry blossoms SYMBOLISM

-Anyways the blonde from before is Kaos’s new roommate and she gives zero fucks. And Kaos did not expect to be sharing her room with anyone. Meet Koyume, who has already gotten out the snacks and the paper and the pencils and really what else do you need? So Kaos’s real name is Moeta Kaoruko. …I’m sticking with Kaos. You need all the help to sound cool that you can get. Oh and Kaos gets all teary-eyed.

-“I’m sorry! Do you not like donuts?” Look if this kid doesn’t like donuts I am OUT.

-No she just doesn’t know how to handle being treated like a cute little moeblob. …How are you not used to it. Look at you. You’re 3 feet tall and your hair is pink with overly elaborate cross-pattern decorations in it. There’s no way.

-Eventually things calm down and we see the core problem Kaos is facing. In short, she lacks good anatomical studies. And if she tries to use her own body…Well, 3 foot tall moeblob. Great for bubbly comedy. Bad when you’re trying to draw a stylish, gorgeous high school girl, the kind of girl who could get scouted for a modeling job. She just ended up looking like a Mario Bros. movie goomba.

-Contrast Koyume’s problem, which is that she’s great at drawing cute girls, but terrible at drawing handsome boys. And she’s a shoujo romance artist. …So that’s not great. She just has no experience with guys to draw on… I mean, there’s an easy solution to that, Koyume. It’s called yuri and it’s the hottest new trend. You take a girl, and you have her fall in love… With a girl. (Or sometimes a bear.)

-But yeah both of them got pegged hard for their limitations by their editors, and so ended up here, and Kaos’s panic has Koyume panicking and soon they’re both just holding each other and sobbing. HEY! No crying in the dorm!

-Actually they meet the two senpais from before. And cling desperately to these two who Made It. So here’s Irokawa Ruki, the purple haired one who just got her porn serialized, and Katsuki Tsubasa, who has blue hair and is an intense shonen manga artist. Did I say porn? Yeah Ruki draws ecchi and freaks out about this tiny infant baby hearing such things. Kaos is not handling being treated like a mascot very well…Which is when Ruki gets ideas of what could be done putting the kid in a costume. Terrible, terrible ideas.

-Ignore her. So what has you two freaking out? Koyume got a debut and freaked out about not getting popular enough to survive…Stop, stop right there. The goal is not to be the best, or at the top of the charts. The goal is to get to keep drawing manga. You did well enough to debut. You have enough potential that your editor thought coming here was worth doing. Buckle down, work hard, and prove them right! The only way to achieve your ideal is to draw, draw, draw, with passion and fire! I knew there was a reason to like Tsubasa. And now, off they go.

-To their room, where Ruki is all trying to convince herself not to do things to that sweet innocent moeblob, and Tsubasa’s got inking to do. But she’s also really intrigued by firing up some rookies, even if they’re technically the same age.

-And soon that first night calms, and settles. Food is prepared, Kaos gets some time in the bath, and she’s left able to slowly process her doubts…Until the landlady reveals that the kitchen opens RIGHT to the bath so she can just summon everyone to food. Kaos has a panic.

-Episode 01: “I Got the Worst Results on the Survey!?”

-Okay, cut to time for bed! Koyume is gushy about Tsubasa being so strong and manly. Again, yuri. Kaos is already thinking of how Ruki seems like everything Kaos wants to be. Experienced, cool, stylish, curvy, attractive, makes her feel funny in her girl parts…(Wait, what was that last one? Stylish. Uh huh, sure thing.)

-Also they both get to thinking about what a real serialized pro’s room might look like…And that’s how they end up going over to see Ruki and Tsubasa’s workspace. It’s…Well, I mean, it’s a room. And Tsubasa is busy working to meet her deadlines, as Ruki gets ready to give one last push, putting her hair up and stuff…Which is when our rookies remember the whole porn thing and go looking for Ruki’s stash. Ah HA, what’s this lewd cosplay school uniform?!

-Her, her actual uniform.

-And all these rabbits?! Kaos knows rabbits mate like, like rabbits! Ruki, just, just like rabbits, you guys. Koyume wants to know where’s the perverted research material for drawing perverted manga?! Kaos counters that Koyume shouldn’t judge, maybe Ruki is just such a good pervert she can draw right out of her darkest fantasies without inspiration material!

-Ruki would like out of this now please.

-In fact, Kaos bets that under those baggy clothes, Ruki is super busty! Wait how did we even…Koyume wants to find out for herself and get a feel! And that’s how she goes for Ruki’s chest and finds it surprisingly padded and Kaos starts drawing the scene in front of her for lack of other ideas. How did we even get here. But the girls are finally made to apologize…

-And Ruki’s life story comes out. She sent in a manga about cute animals aimed at hitting the kid’s market. But her drawings of the human protagonist were so unintentionally erotic that she ended up getting sent to their 18+ division instead of their sad-onion division and serialized under the pen name Big Boobies <3 Himeko. She’d quit or start over, but now she has fans looking up to her, and their heartfelt admiration make her keep pushing. Big Boobies <3 Himeko-sensei, you’re really cool!

-Of course, with all of that, Tsubasa is behind the clock, and so soon everyone’s pitching in to try and do what they can to help…And so Tsubasa gives the rookies the tones to do, a classic grunt-labor job. Except she’s so deep into the weeds that she’s not unhooking what things like “unleash the dark energy” mean for her standard approach. Good news, Koyume knows what to do. Bad knows, Kaos doesn’t.

-But it’s because Koyume has fallen in love with Tsubasa’s manly manly charm. Anyways, thus begins the raw grind to get this chapter DONE. Koyume is doing really well, and is swiftly lost in Tsubasa’s praise. While Kaos is quietly freaking out because she’s going way slower. Not only is she less experienced, but Kaos learned digitally, and so dealing with all the analog tools is a whole new process for her. Aaaand that’s how she ends up messing up the panel. Oh god, oh god, get the white ou—THAT JUST DRIPPED AT THE WRONG SPOT

-…Kid you’re freaking out. Back up. Back up and breathe. Kaos falls into despair…But okay, this can all be fixed. Tsubasa just gets FULL SERIOUS, which also lets out a little bit of her old chuuni side. When she needs to totally concentrate, she inevitably ends up in cosplay of the characters. Whether that means we’ll be seeing more costumes, or if eyepatch and cape is just her Concentration Outfit, remains to be seen.

-Either way, Koyume is incredibly attracted to this serious stern look, as Tsubasa quickly fixes the lifework and gives Kaos a quick pick-me-up for her hard efforts. Koyume wants that kind of praiiiiise. …Oh god look at the clock. It’s time to get EVEN MORE SERIOUS!

-How do you get more serious than cosplay? First, by wielding the legendary three-pen style, like Manganora Zoro-sensei. Then, by TAKING OFF THE COSPLAY! Wait but then…

-Alright back to the grind. Kaos pushes hard, and is also starting to see…Just how far she might come if she stays here with these pros…Also she makes another mistake and Tsubasa has to fix it. Apologize when the chapter’s submitted, not before!

-And eventually, eventually, with the sun ready to rise, it’s DONE. Tsubasa flips through, confirms, and promptly lays down on the ground to collapse into unconsciousness. There’s a ton of passionate, intensity and yet kindness in this girl…It’s no wonder she’s able to draw shonen manga like she does…While Kaos here is just, so nervous, and awkward, and full of doubt, and she’ll never have any friends…

-Stop, stop right there. The dark inner thoughts are coming out. Also Koyume already considers you a friend. Ruki just needs more time to get to know Kaos, and Tsubasa is mumbling stuff about comrades in her sleep. The point is, you’ve got people on your side, rookie.

-Eventually, everyone’s just done, strewn out around the floor and trying to catch a few precious hours of sleep…

-Until that afternoon, when Kaos can confirm to her editor that she’s making new friends and feels like she’s making real progress! That’s good, that’s good. …What’s not good is your latest manuscript which is just not up to snuff to be put into the magazine as a one-off. Sorry kid.

-Credits!

…That got more dense than planned. And I didn’t even spend time detailing processes! We’ll see if things loosen up now that I’m not having to introduce everyone next time, in episode TWO of Comic Girls. Wait for it!

[rebaobsessivelywrites]

The Profiler in the Therapist (ch 5)

You can find this entire fic here on AO3.

Fandom: Bones (TV) and Criminal Minds (TV)

Entire Fic Description:

Dr. Lance Sweets is no longer the innocent eager psychologist he was a little over a year and a half ago. His time as a prodigy profiler at the BAU was a blessing. His time in a serial killer's basement was not.

Now, scarred but healed, Sweets is 'retired' to calmer job in the FBI as a therapist. As he helps others, he helps himself. But... is it enough? What will he do when one of his most fascinating (unwilling) patients asks for help on a case? How will his new team take his past as his secrets slowly start to come out?

Entire Fic Warnings: cannon-typical violence, past torture, panic attacks, PTSD, serial killers

Chapter word count:  2,762

Chapter warnings: nothing? let me know if I’m wrong

Summary: Part 2 of social fluff plot. Pottery scene ahead!!!

Please read the fic! First chapter, previous chapter, next chapter, master list. And let me know if you want to be tagged.

The next day, Spencer and Lance toured various campuses in the LA area, including Caltech, and attended a few lectures in the spur of the moment. That afternoon they caught a flight from LA-X back to DC and parted ways. Sweets’ day didn’t end there, however; he met Rossi at his rather large house and proceeded to receive his customary weekend Italian cuisine lesson a day late, before catching a cab back to his apartment building. Tired, satisfied, and pleasantly full, he crashed and slept soundly.

The following morning, he settled into his office, filed the work he had completed over the weekend, and rolled with the familiar pattern of his day. The sun rose to its zenith above the building as he greeted patients and performed a few routine evaluations. Finally, just before lunch, Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth arrived for their session. They, of course, immediately jumped into their current case, discussing the unpleasant discovery of a decomposing body by a couple out on a romantic outing.

“What a shock for that couple, huh?” Booth commented, “I mean they slide naked into the hot mud bath and the skeleton pokes her in the… you know—”

“Anus,” Brennan finished.

“Bones!” he turned to give his partner a reproachful look.

“What? It’s a clinical term for that part of the body, Booth,” she frowned back at him.

Internally, Sweets shook his head at the insistent bickering. Sometimes the pair behaved like children. Or maybe Reid and Morgan when they were being particularly special. “Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth,” he cut in. They turned to look at him. “Would it be fair to say you use work to avoid confronting your personal issues?”

“What?” Booth huffed, “Because I don’t what to talk about the…” he trailed off and gestured vaguely.

“The anus,” Brennan supplied again.

Booth frowned at her again, “You really like that word, don’t you.”

Sweets swiftly cut in before thing could be pulled father off course, “Do you ever discuss something that isn’t attached to work?”

“Well,” the agent protested, “It’s better than talking about the…” he trailed off again.

“The anus?” Sweets filled in this time.

“What is it with you two?” he asked in exasperation

“Well, Sweets could be right; we talk a lot about work,” Brennan put in. For a moment, Sweets was mildly shocked that the resistant scientist was agreeing with him. It was practically too good to be true.

The discussion continued, of course, with them protesting that they talk about unrelated people and do unrelated things, but Sweets was able to easily point out that they were all connected in some way to their jobs and that they rarely talk about their personal lives and issues. He finally leaned forward and got to the point, “I’d like to see you guys in a social situation. A situation where work is a taboo subject.”

“What, are you going to send us to a restaurant and watch us through a one-way mirror?” Booth snarked.

“No,” Sweets shook his head at the agent’s antics, “An evening out—the three of us and a friend of mine.”

“A friend?” Booth asked in surprise, pausing as he leant forward to grab the colorful squishy toy Sweets had taken to keeping on his coffee table. It was, of course, from Garcia’s special stash.

“Thank you,” Sweets said dryly, “For your vote of confidence in my social life, Agent Booth.” He frowned slightly at him, but sighed when he saw Brennan looked curious too. “She’s a technical analyst. However I’m going to refuse to let anyone talk about their work.”

Booth turned to Brennan and decided sagely, “They need someone to buy them beer.”

“You want us to go on a double date?” Brennan asked, now quite indignant.

Sweets frowned at that. Does she think I’m dating Garcia? Why would she think that? Before he could say anything on the matter, however, Booth jumped enthusiastically into the theory.

“Yeah, listen, why don’t you just go on the internet like all the rest of the kids?” he advised snidely, gesturing at him with the hand holding the colorful squishy ball.

Sweets slammed his metaphorical head into a wall.

Why was he working with these two? He knew he loved helping people as a therapist, but the forensic anthropologist-agent pair made him question his sanity for turning away from serial crime.

Psychopaths were so much simpler.

Forcing himself not to reply to the comment, he sighed, “Ok, how about this: if it goes well, I’ll withdraw my concerns. I’ll release you back into your environment.” He winced internally as soon as the words left his mouth. Agent Booth was going to—

“What are we? Brook trout?”

Yup. There it was.

Brennan, however, frowned in thought for a second, looking between the two of them, before smiling. “Fine,” she agreed suddenly, surprising both her partner and her therapist. Sweets couldn’t help smiling back; he was far more pleased than he’d admit that the scientist had conceded to his idea.

After a moment of silence, he turned to her partner—who was squeezing the poor ball he still held violently— and pulled the card he knew the agent would be unable to resist: “Agent Booth? Unless you think that’s too much to prove…”

Booth narrowed his eyes at him, and it was clear he knew Sweets was pushing his buttons, but he gave a cocky smile and agreed, “Fine,” before turning to Brennan and adding, “I’ll show him I have nothing to prove. Bring it on, Sweets,” he challenged the psychologist, hurling the squishy toy at him. Sweets caught it with ease.

He really hoped this would be worth it.

--

“Dr. Sweets,” said therapist answered his phone absently, eyes still on the notes and forms spread across his desk.

“Hey there, Junior,” a warm voice came across the line.

“Morgan,” Sweets smiled, putting down his pen. “Let me guess, you have a case?”

The profiler chuckled, “You’ve still got it, Lance. And yes, we do. You’ll probably see it if you turn on the news; it’s a family annihilator. He’s killing the families of deployed soldiers.”

“God,” he breathed in horror.

“Yeah,” Morgan agreed somberly. “We’re headed to Hampton.” After a beat of silence he continued in a forcibly more upbeat tone, “Anyway, Garcia wanted to call you to let you know about the case, and that you might have to post pone your outing, but once I heard about it I decided to call you instead… mainly so I could tell you not to go painting. From what I’ve heard—”

“Yeah, I know,” Sweets sighed, “Booth would not appreciate that. I’m just struggling with ideas.”

“You should try something like… ceramics,” he offered hesitantly, “It’s probably hands on enough for your agent and will satisfy Garcia”

The therapist blinked in surprise, “When have you done ceramics?”

A moment passed and Morgan cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh,” he started, “I had a girlfriend in high school who was into pottery, and she drug me along several times.”

Sweets couldn’t help laughing at that.

“Hey,” Morgan huffed, voice full of mock-hurt.

“Thanks, Derek,” Sweets finally offered after he caught his breath, “That’s a great idea.”

“Glad to help,” the profiler returned warmly. A voice said something in the background and Sweets recognized it as Rossi. Morgan murmured something back. A second later, Morgan’s voice came through the phone again, “I’ve got to go, Junior.”

“Ok,” he agreed, “Good luck on the case.”

“Thanks, Lance,” he sighed in a way that clearly meant they needed it, “We’ll keep you posted.”

After he hung up, Sweets considered his phone. He should research pottery classes and then call up Dr. Brennan and schedule a time. Knowing his old team and how they worked, they’d likely be done with this case by Wednesday. Thursday night would probably be safe….

--

The pottery shop was a pleasant space—it was decorated in warm earthy tones with individual stations spread comfortably around the space so no one had to socialize with anyone beyond their own group. The teacher’s station was on a raised platform in the center, but the teacher herself only settled there occasionally, preferring instead to move between the groups to help anyone who was struggling. Several groups appeared to be regulars and were crafting incredibly complex pots or sculptures, while others appeared to be new and relatively clueless.

Sweet’s group was, of course, one of these groups. The four of them were having a varying amount of fun with the novel activity. It was new to all of them except Dr. Brennan, who was reminiscing on the last time she threw a pot. Booth was on the station directly across from her and was rolling his eyes a bit as he added clay to his slowly forming lump. The agent had been highly resistant to the idea of ceramics and had, upon arriving, refused to try the ‘spinning thing,’ proceeding to sculpt instead (to the delight of their teacher). Garcia, who was across from Sweets, had been extremely excited at no only meeting Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth but at learning pottery too. She was currently quizzing Brennan about Colombia as she determinedly shaped her clay into something resembling a pot. Sweets himself was observing the interactions with interest and his own attempt at pottery in dismay.

Garcia glanced over at him and immediately caught on. “Relax, Sir Sweetness,” she huffed with a roll of her eyes, “It looks wonderful.”

Booth gave an incredulous chuckle, clearly at the nickname—or at least that’s what Sweets hoped—and Brennan looked over before giving a slight frown. “It looks fine,” she agreed hesitantly, confusion marring her tone.

A beat after Brennan’s positive comment—when Sweets was busy being surprised and Garcia was busy beaming at the confused anthropologist—Booth took the opportunity to jump in from left field. “Are you sure you aren’t dating?” he prodded with a cheeky smile.

Garcia immediately transitioned her attention to the other half of the investigative team. “What, me and Lancelot?” she asked incredulously. “Like I would ever cheat on my brilliant sugar plum.” With that she huffed and turned back to her pot.

Lance took pity on Booth and turned to explain, “Pen is dating a co-worker.”

Garcia let out a satisfied hum, “We’re an unstoppable hacker duo.” A beat later she looked up at Sweets with wide eyes, and pointed accusingly at him, “But we aren’t allowed to talk about work! Shame on you, Junior.”

“Yeah, ok,” he chuckled, “That one’s on me.”

“So,” Booth ventured, “Sweets really has no one?”

“I wouldn’t say that, no,” Garcia disagreed, “He has us—all of his friends from his old job—and honestly, we’re basically family.”

“That’s an interesting perspective,” Brennan mused, “There has to be an extraordinary level of trust for strangers to become that close. I mean, from an anthropological stand point—”

“Spencer would like you,” Garcia interrupted, a thoughtful expression on her face, “The two of you could probably drone on and on about culture and facts and studies…”

Brennan blinked in surprise, “Is he a scientist?”

“He has doctorates in engineering, chemistry, and mathematics and bachelors in psychology and sociology,” Lance supplied, a proud note in his voice.

“How old is he?” Booth asked, pausing his sculpting to stare.

“Twenty-nine,” Sweets smiled at the dumbfounded agent.

“But,” Garcia jumped in, “That’s misleading because our bonafide genius had all of those degrees seven years ago.” She smirked at Sweets, “See, that’s why Lance is our junior genius.”

Sweets shook his head—both in exasperation and fondness, “I can’t believe you and Morgan still call me that.”

“Oh, Junior—it’s a term of endearment. My chocolate thunder was a genius in his own right when he coined that beautiful nickname.”

Booth gave the tech genius a mischievous smile, “I think I agree with Penelope on this one, Junior.”

“Agent Booth, please,” Sweets sighed. While the therapist was pleased with the Agents’ shift in attitude, he really did not want his patient to call him Junior.

Dr. Brennan was apparently thinking along the same lines as she frowned at her partner, “Booth, I believe you told me once that nicknames are meaningful only from a small subset of individuals and condescending from anyone else— much like how I tolerate your nickname for me but refuse to let anyone else call me ‘Bones’.”

Booth turned to blink in surprise at the anthropologist, but any comment he could have made was cut off by Garcia. The technical analyst was grinning from ear to ear. “That is so sweet!” she gushed, instantly making both partners uncomfortable, “I do the same thing with Morgan, my chocolate thunder. He calls me baby girl. Of course my sugar plum, Kevin, was put off at first and the department insists on putting us through endless harassment classes, but our nicknames just stuck.”

“Do you have nicknames like that for everyone you know?” Brennan interrupted, a note of horror in her voice.

“Yes,” Sweets put in dryly, answering for his friend, “She does. Usually quite a few for each person, too.”

Garcia simply smiled at that. She was inordinately proud of all her nicknames—given and received.

A moment of silence passed where everyone returned to their creations and Sweets observed them with interest. It only lasted for a minute, however, as Booth looked up and glanced at Sweets before smiling slightly.

“Uh, Sweets,” he offered, “Your, uh, thing there is drooping.”

Sweets glanced down to find his pot, which he had been rather proud of, tipping slightly to the side as it spun around and around. “Oh, come on,” he huffed in exasperation. Of course his first attempt at pottery would literally fall over on him.

Booth, however had no such concerns, grinning happily and brandishing his finished clay figure, “Look at my horse!” It was… a stunningly realistic creation.

“Wow!” Garcia exclaimed in surprise and awe.

Sweets couldn’t help agreeing, “That’s amazing, Agent Booth.” For someone utterly opposed to the idea of ‘making’ anything, he was obviously not only enjoying himself, but possessed a natural talent.

“Very impressive,” Brennan eyed her partner’s creation with clear incredulity. Sweets would not be surprised to discover she had reached the same conclusion as he had, albeit without any ‘useless’ psychology.

“Yes it is,” Booth agreed triumphantly, picking a piece of stray clay off of his creation and tossing it at the anthropologist. Brennan flinched and gasped in surprise, before ignoring Booth’s hurried apology and swiftly grabbing some clay and retaliating. In a matter of seconds, Brennan’s pot was ruined and the two had devolved into chuckling messes, tossing clay back and forth like toddlers.

“Hey, Lance,” Garcia called, redirecting his attention from smiling at the pair to look at his friend… who was wielding a handful of clay.

“Pen!” he managed to gasp in surprise a split second before he was covered in a light layer of wet soppy clay. The perpetrator started cackling evilly, and that could not stand, so Sweets shrugged his mental shoulders and hurled a piece at her in revenge.

A few minutes later, the four were gasping for breath as they laughed on the sidewalk outside the pottery shop, having been succinctly kicked to the curb. Sweets managed to right himself after a few moments, and found Booth leaning against the wall chuckling at Brennan who was smiling in a slightly confused manner and holding a helplessly cackling Penelope upright. It was a rather surprising sight. Rather like the night itself. It hadn’t been what Sweets had intended, with this little social outing, but it was fulfilling all the same.

Sweets found he couldn’t regret it, even if it meant he had to follow through with his promise to cut the interesting pair free from therapy. They deserved it, even if he still didn’t understand how they worked together.

As Booth rounded up their little group and herded them down the street, towards some favorite restaurant of his, Sweets found himself smiling. Garcia glanced over her shoulder at him and gave him a knowing look and a wink.

Sweets huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes at her, but found he agreed with the sentiment. He may be ‘letting them go’, but this… this was alright. Lance only hoped the interesting pair would stay in touch. Maybe they’d even bring him a few cases.

Yeah.

He smiled wider, watching Brennan start up a lecture on something Booth had said.

A few cases would be good.

[scriveyner]

shining like the stars p87

Keith inhaled a long breath through his nose, looking around the curve of the arena's wall. It was a polished white stone, once immaculate but now covered with scuffs and stains and actual chunks taken from it; the edges buffed down to prevent additional damage. It was also a good fifteen feet high -- not out of the realm of possibility to scale thanks to the jet boosters on their back, but the added security of a dome sat atop the ring prevented any thoughts of escape. The dome itself was made of a translucent material that let daylight filter in from the planet's star, but tinted so they couldn't see their audience. Keith could hear them, though, his sensitive ears twitching at the dull murmur of alien voices speaking an alien tongue.

                                                   Read on AO3

Lance was leaned casually back against the wall, arms folded. The guards had taken their cloaks, checking for additional weapons and attempted to take their bayards but the weapon had a self-defense mechanism of returning to the digital storage system within the suit, so they could not be entirely de-armed. Keith felt naked without the foul-smelling cloak he had been wrapped in, his purple furred face and large ears protruding from his dark hair now available for all the world to see. He flicked his ears again, canted back, a display of his current emotion that he couldn't stifle.

"It'll be fine," Lance said, recognizing Keith's unease. He was entirely unconcerned, he didn't even smell nervous. He also didn't have the distant recollection of being lined up as small children for their carer's amusement, forced to fight until they couldn't stand any longer. Keith shuddered and pushed that memory back behind its wall, because he wasn't that person any more, no matter the color of his fur. "So we fight the Prince's dudes, prove our worth, and go home. Seems easy enough." Lance gestured to the ring in front of them, empty save for its walls and the doors at the other end, where their mystery combatants were waiting.

"Lance," Keith said warily, hands loose at his sides, hands curled into fists. "When we get out of this memory core, I'm gonna fucking deck you."

Lance looked insulted. "Hey, this isn't my fault."

"Yeah it is, Mister Oh Look We're ~Paladins~," Rian muttered from behind them.

Their third wheel was sitting in the loose, gritty sand, his back to the white stone wall and hands draped over his knees, head tilted forward. Rian had put up a fight before he'd been thrown in behind them, protesting the entire time that he wasn't with them. The guard had little sympathy for the Altean, muttering something about Galra sticking together, and shoved Rian unceremoniously through the door that Lance and Keith had walked through of their own accord. Keith glanced back at him, felt the sting of a familiar scent and Rian glanced up, golden eyes narrowed.

Aside from the eyes, and the fangs he had developed, Rian also had a soft fuzz over his features that only showed as a very pale purple in direct, clear sunlight. The rest of the time it simply looked the same tone of his skin. "So this is one of your candidate for Paladin trials, right?" Keith said, to keep himself distracted from the buzz of conversation above and around him, threatening to overwhelm. "What can we expect?"

Rian snorted, and looked back down at the sand. "They'll send in gladiator bots first, which are usually easy pickings. They save the prisoners for last."

Lance tilted forward. "Excuse me? Prisoners?" He glanced at Keith, who shared the same expression. "What prisoners?"

"Galra, usually. The planetary defense force eliminates every scout ship that comes this way - we're on the edge of a far quadrant, and there are a couple irregular black holes and a dwarf star that's ready to go supernova between here and the regular trade lanes. Ships just disappear in the Far Worlds, everyone knows it." Keith got the impression that if Rian had ears like his, he would flick them nonchalantly. "Galra don't deserve to live, anyway."

"Paladin trials are just gladiator combat," Keith said, amazed. "Seriously?"

"This is the last one," Rian said. "You gotta be good enough to survive this far."

Keith felt sick. He looked at Lance, who looked a little ill himself. "What the hell," Lance said. "I'm not executing their prisoners for them."

"Then they'll kill you," Rian said. "And maybe we can get out of this fucking nightmare." He folded his arms over his knees and rested his chin on them, curled into a small, dark ball. Lance and Keith exchanged glances again, and then looked across the expanse of the arena, toward the large, closed doors. With a low, creaking noise they started to shift on their hinges.

Coran kept half an eye on the monitor feed from the training bay. He'd left it up, the memory core in the corner of the picture, just so he could jump on it the moment he saw the Paladins tumble out of the ancient machine. However, it was not the main draw of his attention at the moment, instead watching the large, zoomed in monitor as the Galra cruiser broke orbit with Eaphus, engines powered to their magenta-hued fullest. To the left of his main screen he had visual feeds on both the Black and Yellow Paladins. "Looks like they're heading for you now, Paladins," he reported, hand flying over the translucent controls at his fingertips. "Princess, what's your status?"

There was silence from the audio-only feed on the right side of his display. Coran's eyes darted to it, widening slightly. "Princess?"

"I'm fine, Coran," Allura's voice was calm but soft. "There are more guards in this portion of the ship, I must be careful." There was another silence on the line, but he could hear the click of boots on tile, either Allura's or someone else's, he couldn't be sure. "Do you still have the commlink location feed up?"

He did. Coran brought the map up, showing a cross-section of the prison ship based on antiquated blueprints. "The Green Paladin and her brother seem to be separated," Coran reported, tapping a button to locate Allura on the map by her comm transmission as well. A small pink dot appeared, closer to one of the green dots than the other.

"I'm aware of that, thanks," Allura said. "Pidge should be heading back to where she stashed the Green Lion; it's her brother I'm concerned with."

The other dot, in the bowels of the ship, had been stationary a while. "He seems to be a few levels down." Coran squinted at it, and frowned. "He hasn't moved in a few dobashes, he could be in trouble." A pause. "You should be cautious, Princess."

"Thank you, Coran, I will." Allura didn't say anything else, and she must have cut her mic because he couldn't hear the feedback from footsteps or the soft hum of background noise from the Galra ship. Coran glanced back up at the main screen; then flicked his gaze over to the left. Hunk was staring into the video commlink nervously. "So Allura found Pidge?" he asked. "What about Matt?"

"No time to worry about Holt now," Illianya's voice came from the second audio feed, directly below the Princess's. "The cruiser has started discharging its drone starfighters. It's time to party."

"Pidge, are you aboard the Green Lion yet?" Shiro asked, and Coran's eyes flickered to the map he still had up. The small green dot was moving quickly in one of the top levels of the ship. There was a rustle and then Pidge's voice came through the commlink, in that same hushed, cautious tone that Allura had.

"Not yet," she said, and the dot on the board went stationary. "I might be a few ticks, there seems to be a small problem. Tiny one. Pretty inconsequential." Another click, and the static dropped out of her audio feed, the tone clearer. "Yeah, definitely a couple minutes. Hang on."

"Hang on?" Hunk said, a rise in his voice. "Hang on?"

"Pidge, what's going on?" Shiro said, voice level.

"There's - oh, I think it's about fifteen if I'm eyeballing it correctly --" a pause on the line. "Sorry, seventeen. Guards around where I stashed Green."

Coran felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. "Are they aware they've surrounded a Voltron Lion?" he asked, watching the Princess's pink dot descend lower into the bowels of the enemy ship.

"I don't think so," Pidge's voice had dropped further in tone. "I have her cloaking shield on, plus the particle barrier -- it's the barrier that's causing the problem, the guards keep kicking it and it sparks but doesn't reveal what's behind it." Another pause, and then a derisive snort from Pidge. "I knew it was strange that there weren't that many guards patrolling, their buddies must have radioed them in to come look at this crazy anomaly in one of the launch bays."

"You'll have to create some sort of distraction," Coran said. "Perhaps if you can craft a Viluvk whistle-"

"Relax," Pidge said, and though her tone was soft it was calm. She popped up on a video commlink display to the right of Coran's screen, above the audio-only feeds for Allura and Illianya. "I've got this, it'll just take a couple minutes." She winked into the display and held up a finger, about to start typing into the small keyboard displayed above the forearm of her armor's gauntlet, where the camera was.

Then, abruptly, a loud klaxon started blaring in the background. Pidge's face froze, then she flung herself back against the wall, the camera angle spinning dizzily. "Pidge? What's happening?" Shiro said, and Pidge reached down and disabled the camera just that quickly; the klaxon still blaring through the now audio-only channel. "Pidge?"

The frequency of patrolling guards escalated the deeper into the ship that Allura ventured. Galra architecture hadn't changed much; the long, curved hallways did not feature smooth uninterrupted walls; instead every few meters there was an almost decorative divider. It gave the hallway the appearance of running down the inside of a vertebrae column; with the main power conduit running along the ceiling like the spinal cord itself. Allura rested her shoulder against one such divider, her hand flat along its edge. She had a regular plasma pistol in her hand, not a rifle, and she kept it close to her chest.

Two guard robots, completely automated, clicked past. They were going the opposite direction, their backs toward her. The lumbering robots did not seem to do an automated sweep -- just walking in a straight line down the corridor in a long, exaggerated loop. If an escape alert went out it would be different, their scanners would detect any lifeforms in the corridor that didn't belong there; but for the moment at least, there was no need to even think that someone would be stupid enough to infiltrate the prison ship.

She found the slim figure clad all in black not long after. He was standing, clear as day in a corridor, where there was an access computer. It was beside a large, heavy door, that like led into the cell block area where the most important prisoners were kept. He had one hand resting on the console, and his face was angled up, the glow of the screen reflected in the opaque curve of his dark helmet.

"Matt!" Allura said, relief flooding her voice despite herself. He jumped a little and turned, but she couldn't see his face behind the tinted visor. "We've got to get out of here, did you free any prisoners?"

He shook his head and touched the side of his helmet, which dimmed the tint so she could see the features that were all too similar to Pidge's. "No, most are kept behind far more complex cell blocks than even the ship I escaped from." He folded his arms and looked at the small monitor, which showed a split screen of at least a dozen cells, full of aliens of all shapes and descriptions. "Dad's not here, though," Matt said softly.

Allura stared hard at the monitor. Because of its size, it was hard to make out the distinguishing features on most of the aliens, but very few were even bipedal, nevermind Terran in form. There was a pull inside her chest - they were inside the Galra ship, a few blast doors from freeing the prisoners, she couldn't be standing here even entertaining the suggestion that they turn and flee, even with Voltron in danger. "Is there any way to get to them?"

"Not without a master key," Matt said. "I don't have access into this terminal, if Pidge is still rooted in to that main system we might be able to get in a backdoor, but without a Galra even present to unlock the console..." Matt put his hand forlornly on the red handprint, but its glow did not change. "All we can do is look at them."

"Maybe not all," Allura said. She set her blaster on the console and took a deep breath. Then she placed her hand on the handprint, and focused.

There were Alteans of the noble house who had centuries to hone their craft, making the transition between species easy and nearly instantaneous. Unfortunately, Allura hadn't had time to learn under any of the masters, and her shape shifting ability was a little more clunky and a lot less subtle. She couldn't just change the chemistry of her hand, but her entire body as she assumed a Galra's form and features, growing in size beside her companion. Her flight suit was modified to keep up with her Altean DNA and as she grew her suit grew with her, keeping its snug fit and not stretching out nor tearing. As the change completed, the handprint scanner suddenly beeped affirmatively, and unlocked the console - not that Matt even noticed, staring bug-eyed at Allura like he'd never seen an Altean shapeshift before. "What?" she said, self-conscious and little sharply.

"How did you..." Matt gestured at her. "How did you do that?"

"All Alteans have the ability to shapeshift," she said. "We are a chameleon-like race-"

He shook his head emphatically. "I've never seen Rian or Ilya or any of the others do that."

The references to others - other Alteans - made her smile despite herself. "No one has shown you this ability? I suppose it's not needed as much around others of our kind." She tapped the console. "I don't know if we'll be able to get them all to the flight bay before anyone discovers what we've done, but..." she typed several commands quickly into the now unlocked-console, opening all the cell doors. They were able to get a first-hand view of the surprise, and wary delight on the alien features of the Galra prisoners as they realized that the system holding them in place had been compromised.

"Quite simple," Allura said, and moved to tap the final commands, unlocking the doors of the cells without camera feeds. Abruptly, the last one was labeled something in Galra she didn't have time to try to translate, and when she flipped the lock on that cage, alarm klaxons went off immediately. "Oh," Allura said, quite calmly given the shrieking sirens, "Quiznack."