#obviously i had to take the prompt that mentioned copper

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

COPPER TALONS (V)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER VI ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 7.0k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, mentions of suicide, talk of death, drugs, wounds, self-destructive behavior, fluff?

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“You never told me you had a cat.” Your eyes blink slowly at the sight, taking in the soft smile on the man’s lips as he twiddles his fingers in the air, the front door slightly ajar and the feline's void form tilting its head in wonder. 

Face still loose with fatigue from a sleepless night, you pull at the bandages over your palm absentmindedly; staring. 

“I don’t.” Grumbling, you clear your throat stiffly to dispel the raggedness of the tone, saying again, louder, “I don’t.”

Gaz smiles brightly and spares a glance, though the cat holds his attention.

“Stray?” He asks and you flinch as your finger digs too deep into your wound, shaking out your hand and placing them into the pockets of your pajama pants. 

It was the next morning and you had only just shown your face to the rest of the mansion—instead choosing to waste your time in your room, glaring at the nightstand beside your bed with your phone’s alarms blaring. It was far past 8 o'clock and it was the first time your routine had been broken. 

You felt…displaced. Wrong. Like a piece of fabric stretched too far. 

“Yes,” your lips move, commenting blandly as the Brit’s soft laugh echoes into the foyer when the cat bats at his hand. 

Golden slight ran slickly off the lithe body, black almost amber because of it. Green eyes that widen and tighten. The animal obviously likes the man far better than you—you could never get close without it hissing at you. 

Gaz’s knee digs slightly deeper into the ground, patting the tiny, sharp, head. 

“Sorry for letting him in, little bugger was pawing at the door—didn’t know who it was until I took a look.” The gun is on the ground, and you can imagine what he would have done if someone was there instead of the cat. 

Small trills hit your ears and you sigh, tired. Last night…yesterday…it weighs heavy. It hurts to think, so you don’t.

“I feed it sometimes. Won’t leave.” Your feet turn, taking you closer to the kitchen. The words echo, hitting the empty walls and off the dusty furniture. “Close the door if you want it to stay in, I don’t really care.”

Gaz looks at you walking away in shock, the feline bushing itself on his leg as his hand stills above it. “I…that’s not my place, Ma’am.”

But you’re already entering the junction of the kitchen, nearly hitting your shoulder on the frame on the way to your coffee machine—autopilot. You bite your lip, peeling back your skin. 

Remembering Kyle’s actions from last night made you confused. Burning, the flesh of your hand pulls with the pressure of stitches and you hear the man speaking to the animal, trying to prompt it to leave. 

He told me about his scars, you take down a settling breath, padding over the tile to grab a mug and turn the coffee machine on. The small button under your finger gives way as you furrow your brows. 

“Stitched me up,” muttering, the machine grumbling to life as you open a cupboard. “Sent me to bed.”

You remember his hands on you, guiding you along like a boat at sea. It was…your lips thin. Footsteps come around the entrance and your emotions quickly still themselves.

“He,” an awkward cough, “uh, he won’t leave.” 

“What am I supposed to do about that?” Grabbing your cup you barely glance at the source of your problem, body growing hot at his mere presence. You send a subdued glance over, pausing a moment before huffing silently. “If he likes you he likes you. It’s a cat.”

“Can’t you,” Gaz stares at the feline at his feet as it holds its flicking tail high and begins meowing with a vile insistence, chubby face soft. “I don’t know? Make it go?”

You scoff, putting your mug on the counter. “You let it in, dude, not me.” 

A dry stare is sent your way, but the only thing the Sergeant does is lean down and scoop the being into his arms. Immediately, the loud baying ceases; delicate purrs hitting the walls and bouncing like a ball off your eardrums. 

“Christ, the thing is bloody adorable—look.” You roll your eyes, hearing the coffee machine going off as you shuffle. Grunting, you comply, meeting the green orbs that snap around the room at the higher angle. 

When they meet the pupils, you see them shrink, and suddenly there’s a low growling sound entering the air. Obsidian fur bristles, but you’re not at all surprised. 

Gaz’s eyes widen, and he quickly places the cat back down before gazing back at you as you take the coffee pot. 

“Your problem,” you say blandly, putting the object down on the island and taking your mug with it—filling up the cup and letting the dark liquid almost slosh over the edge. Not wasting any time, you bring it to your lips and take a large gulp. 

A stiff sigh falls, but eventually, Gaz’s form graces the sides of your vision. He goes to lean on the counter. Amber eyes watch the feline as it slinks about, sniffing the walls and the like. The silence that falls almost lets your eyes slip back closed, stuck on the absence of coffee cake and espressos. You let your hands heat on the mug, liking the burning sensation seeping in through your bandages. 

That nothingness reigns for a minute, maybe two. Lips part, hesitating.

“Everything feeling okay then?” His comment is easy, smooth, but you can still pick up that tiny edge of apprehension. 

His hands were kind. 

You blink quickly, dispelling the thought that leaves your brain bleeding. 

“I’m alive.” Forcing out the words, you take another sip and lick your lips. “You think deliveries are off the table too, or not? Could go for a pizza.”

The Sergeant watches you, crossing his arms slowly. Clenching his jaw, he reminds himself to take it easy—you were most likely still going through shock. You had killed someone. 

Obviously hasn’t struck yet.

“I think not, sorry. And I meant how your hand was.” 

“Hm,” you huff, rubbing at your eyes. But coffee wasn’t the only reason you’d come downstairs. Brushing past the question, you prompt one of your own. 

You’d thought over much last night; had stopped yourself from opening your phone and looking at the news with a deep pit in your stomach. What was it about you and wanting to know information that would break you? 

“The two that want my family dead,” you finish off your first cup and fill it back up, this time pausing in your gluttony and sliding an eye to stare at Gaz’s neck. The man stills as he keeps his tongue stuck behind his teeth. At least you were talking, that was good at least. “Yaromir Osipov and Mala Kham, right…? Why would they kill innocent people just to try and get rid of me?” 

You stare hard and you stare ferociously; not answering this wasn’t an option anymore. You’d thrown a knife into someone’s eye—your hands weren't clean anymore.

Were they ever clean? Hell, you didn’t even know anymore.

Gaz blinks, thinking to himself that if there was ever a time to do this that it wasn’t exactly now. But you deserved answers. Especially after everything. 

He nods slightly, eyes sliding to the ground as he collects his thoughts. You wait, fingers flinching over the porcelain of your mug and heart speeding up from caffeine. Garrick’s answers would determine your next play.

Because his hands had been soft and warm; he had spoken to you in a tone you had almost forgotten could be uttered by another person beyond yourself as you spoke in the middle of the night. Trying to calm our mind from another nightmare and needing something to ground you. 

Gaz rubs at the back of his head, fixing his still-bloody cap. His washed camo pants shift as his legs do. 

“Kate explained some of it to you, yeah?” It comes out as a fierce sigh. You nod, watching his forearms under his compression shirt. A tiny meow from the hallway goes in one ear and out the other. Brown sends you a glance before his hands capture the edge of the counter, fingers tapping on the underside of the stone. “Alright. How much?” 

“Just that they wanted someone as a family head and that the easiest way to do that was to kill us. Reinstate someone new that they can control.”

“How much do you think Chicago would make those two? Selling weapons and drugs here?” Gaz speaks in terms you would know, not getting into the proper classifications of smuggling operations. Best to keep it bare bones and not make this worse. “Few hundred thousand?” 

“That’s why I’m asking you, Garrick,” you’re not as volatile today, he admits. Your comments are poking but not digging. Maybe he had finally gotten some headway with last night. But the absence of your sneer makes him feel something different.  “How would I know?” 

“You wouldn’t—because even I can’t envision a proper number. More than I’ll ever see, that’s for sure.” A sly smirk. “And the SAS pays well.” You don’t miss a beat.

“Guess I missed arrogant in your file.” Gaz takes in the way you pick at the bandages on your palm, pausing his own tapping on the counter with a slow halt. “But still, that tells me nothing.”

He turns away and continues, chest tight.

“...What it means is that there’s no place like Illinois—easy docking and shipment storage off of Lake Michigan, bribeable officers,” a lick at his lips, “people willing to sell at higher prices. It’s not just a small piece of the puzzle. It is the puzzle.”

You close your eyes, feeling the steam from the coffee waft over your face. Your heart was skipping beats, but you listened with great intensity. 

“From here products can be sent all over the US by train or vehicle. It’s damn near impossible to stop every transport.” He lets the words sink in, trying not to flip your switch about your father but unable to be dishonest with you. You stay very still as he slows his speech.

“When you take a hammer to a window, Love, there’s still going to be glass stuck to the frame. A single death doesn’t stop this from happening—but it slows it down considerably until the piece is replaced. It’s a right shame it had to play out like this, but,” you don’t fight him for once, just grunt and drink. Wishing you had your coin to twiddle in your grip. His words from yesterday still fly through your brain coupled with the flash of a crimson knife. “But with such a large business, those two need to flush out any doubt in their pocketbooks. And they can’t have anyone know about it.” A nod. “Power and all.”

“They wanted to make it look like an accident.” The realization isn’t surprising as you stare into your cup with a dead glint. Gaz makes a sound in the back of his throat—face gaining tension to it. 

“Affirmative.” All you can do is rub at your eyes and motion slightly with a ‘that’s life’ flick of your hand. The answer just makes the guilt worse.

It’s a long time before you speak again, and you know Gaz can see the vibrations of your hands as you flatten them on the island. Your response to all of this had been decided in the black recess of the night prior; as if ripped from the darkest part of you that had been kept under lock and key. A sliver of doubt. 

That tiny thought of horror. 

What if your father was really all of the things that they had said he was? 

But you owed something to those lives lost and now that it was said aloud it made you want to scream. The knowledge of the murder you had committed lost some of its sharp edges.

“I’m going to go through my father’s things.” Before you can register the neck-snapping expression that Gaz sends your way, you continue with a numb distance. “...but I don’t know what to look for.”

The pressure on your chest is spreading to your shoulders, weighing you down. You flex your hand and feel the sutures pull as Gaz’s mouth opens.

He’s quiet for a minute or so, eyes wide. 

“You’re serious?” The Sergeant stands up fully, straightening his spine. You force down a low growl from behind your lips while you spare a short glare his way. Kyle clears his throat, trying to wipe the slight smile from his visage. “Right, yeah, ‘course you are.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” you need to make it clear. Standing and going to put the coffee pot back in its place, you keep down a slew of yells in your throat. Drumming your fingers on the handle as you slide it into the machine your words are utterly serious. “But if there’s one thing that we can agree on—no one else should have to die for this except the people involved.” 

Gaz nods immediately, agreeing with a swell of appreciation in his blood.

“Can’t argue with that, can I?” A soft huff echoes as tiny padding feet re-enter the kitchen; the black cat striding into the open and suddenly hopping up on the counter near the Brit. He spares a swift glance, but Gaz still feels that high of the job finally going forward. The Sergeant had something to give his team and Laswell. 

This is bloody perfect…

But the man sees the bags under your eyes and the pajamas that still sit on you despite it being mid-day. Shaky hands that brush over your cheeks and the bandages that needed to be changed out. His giddiness halts. 

Vision slipping back and forth over your frame, Kyle takes an internal step back.

…But I can’t put her in danger just because of something we can still do any other day.

“Would we be starting that…now, Love? A lot’s happened, are you sure you’re up for it today?” Realistically he shouldn’t be asking this—he’d been waiting for the moment when you’d start looking for actionable intel on your father’s hub and other contacts. The concern had escaped him though, and he swallowed down saliva as your eyes dug into his neck. You were so…stilled this morning. Like a hound just waiting for something to jump out from the woods. “Not saying we can’t, though, jus’ letting you know we can still do it later, yeah? When you’re better, that is.”

Gaz tries to salvage but his face chest tightens at the awkward speech. 

You snag your mug as you slip past the island, ignoring the sharp hiss from the cat that you grimace at. Brushing past Gaz, you get the soft scent of linen and thistle in your nostrils when. Frowning, you say, “If I don’t do it now, I never will.”

Remembering your sprint yesterday, the next comment that flies from you is more common to your normal attitude, and the Sergeant finds himself—for whatever reason—slightly calming down at that. He gazes over his shoulder and lets you go, the cat pawing at his arm and thrilling. 

“I bit your hand, didn’t I?” You feel your lips flicker up. Try as you might, the comments aren’t malicious. You’re too tired for that—you just want to recall it properly. “Elbowed you in the gut when you dragged me around that corner?” 

“Yes, Ma’am, you did. Screamed quite a bit, too. Heard you two streets over.” Gaz’s lips twitch as you exit the kitchen, calling after but not saying how his heart had stopped when he’d heard you yell his name. “Got a proper pair of lungs, yeah?” 

To stop the small smirk from growing, you dig your fingers into your palm until the pain overrides the dull amusement. 

—

The air around the two of you had seemingly flipped on its head. There was still anger and blatant dislike, but now it was easier to send regular comments like the conversation you had both had outside of your university before the shooting started—a small understanding. Well…more like dull toleration. 

You owed him your life and yet he was the one who had destroyed it at the same time. As you flatten your t-shirt out and exit your room, the irony of it wasn’t lost. But right now you have greater things to think about. 

“Did your father have multiple offices, then?” Gaz asks as he takes a walking pace beside you from his waiting spot on the wall. He’d gotten the cat to leave by placing a plate of cooked chicken slices on the front step while you were getting ready. “Or just the one.”

You hum, “my dad didn’t like to be thrown away to one side of the house—if he was able he’d bring the work to wherever my mother or I was and sit with us until it was done. He really just stored everything in various rooms.”

Gaz nods. 

“Organized chaos?” He laughs slightly. “I’m familiar.”

“Well, call me shocked.” A raised eyebrow moves sarcastically.

“Now, I’m not quite sure if that’s an insult or not.” You only roll your eyes and continue on until the familiar door from last night enters your vision.

In your brain, you wonder if he’s going to bring up the shooting or just wait until you say something about it. The death—the penknife that you know he’s keeping somewhere. 

But what could he say? What could you say? It’s not something that can just be blurted out, your feelings. Right now you’re content to push it away and focus on finding something that could help you make sense of it.

Stepping into the office you’re immediately met with the mess from hours prior and cringe subtly. Strewn papers, blood stains, even the lamp was still on. 

Sighing and forcing down the regretful burn under your skin you move on.

“Your jacket’s on the floor,” you say as you click the light off and get to re-organizing the piles of files and random papers into neat stacks, muscles aching. 

“Was wondering ‘bout that.” Gaz clears his throat and snatches the article up before tossing it onto the old couch with only a single glance. His brown eyes watch as you pick up every item with care, tapping the bottoms of the manila folders so everything sits nice. Your jaw is tight. Not liking that needle in his neck, the man glances away to the floor before he speaks. Asking again, “You sure you're up for this?”

“Would you quit asking me that?” You grunt, turning and putting your hands on your hips. “I can make my own decisions.”

“Well, I’m aware of that,” the Brit grumbles, putting up his hands and shrugging. “Was just trying to give you an excuse.”

“Yeah? You’re making me hate you more—so hurry up and tell me what I’m looking for.” You try very hard to hold back the growing anger, and you somewhat succeed. Flexing your injured hand you close your eyes stiffly and remember Gaz’s hands; his soft voice and his story. 

He had been right. There needed to be a level of solid ground to start this all on.

If I don’t find one document in this office that changes something, at the very least it’ll save me the heartache. But if I do I need to hand it over so more people don’t meet the end of a bullet. And that would mean your father was truly guilty. 

You didn’t know which outcome of this would make you dislike yourself less.

Kyle’s not rising to the occasion. In some strange way, he knows that this was probably because you were acting relatively normal now—so soon. He hadn’t expected you out of your room today at all, really. Wouldn’t have blamed you. Even he was shaken by the event in the park and he was trained for all of this. 

“I would start with shipping ledgers, Ma’am,” Gaz offers easily, coming closer and shifting his feet as you stare tightly at the desktop, eyebrows gradually falling back into a line. “Records and any large increase in funds. Narrowing down the days that crates came in might offer more of a timeline and give a bloody good idea of where they were being sent out from.” 

Reality was all settling in. 

You pick up the first folder from the pile and stare at it, seeing your father’s handwriting on the top of the page and blanking. There were so many things you wanted to ask your dad—wanted to grip him by the shoulders and shake him violently for but that’s just not possible. So, you steel yourself and clench your jaw. 

And you toss the item to Gaz. 

Kyle catches it quickly, bringing it to his chest with two hands and a grunt. His eyes snap to you.

“Before I agree to any of this,” you turn and focus on the scar on his face, being as honest as you can, “I need you to answer one more thing.” A breath. 

“How did Samson Row die?” 

The air stills with low electricity tingling your lungs. 

Gaz freezes, shock evident on his face, “Private Row?” he whispers, “Love, I…I can’t…” You continue to watch, not exploding in anger, not slipping him hard comments like a slap to his face. Brown flies over your expression of eerie calm with weighed shoulders.

That’s confidential information. Gaz’s heart lurches.

Sucking down a calming breath, you whisper out, “Kyle, you owe me at least that much. I appreciate what you did yesterday, but this is bigger than that. I need to know if you want me to desecrate over eighteen years of love and loyalty to a man I aspired to become exactly like.”

Those words are the truest you’ve ever spoken to him and you’re not exactly sure where they came from, either. Like a moth to flame, you breathe life into your conviction.

Gaz blinks, lashes caressing his cheeks as his face heats with an unidentified emotion. There were protocols; structures and levels of authority that far outranked the Sergeant. His gut festers. If it got out that you knew what had happened he could lose his job—get thrown into a black site, even. 

And he’s telling you before he can clear the fog from his brain.

“Suicide.” You inhale a sharp breath. “He…pulled the fucking trigger and they found him in his cell. No one knows who gave him the gun—security footage was wiped. But it was a clean shot to the side of the head with gunpowder residue on his hand.” 

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why did he tell you that? Kyle’s jaw snaps shut, spine going rigid. 

You steady yourself with a hand on the desk, heart running like a stag in the woods. Gaz’s gaze stays on you, but his mind is going in circles. There was nothing he could do to take that information back, and while he could see the realization settle on your face slowly as if a cloth, he just stays silent. Pulse pounding. 

He shouldn't have done that, but how could he not answer the sensitive question after everything that had happened? His own morals were conflicted—you deserved to know. 

But this was his bloody job.

Stabilizing yourself, you clear what you can from the fog of your eyes and flatten your lips, uttering a short, tiny, “Okay,” with nothing more. 

Hand shaking, you pick up the next file on the desk and sit in your father’s chair. Mouth slightly parted as you settle, you rub at your palm as Kyle shuffles. 

Suicide? 

“You can use the coffee table,” you motion with a hand but the Brit lets out a deathly still sentence.

“Love, no one can know about that. None of it is public knowledge.” Swallowing, you nod, barely listening through your ears ring. “Do you understand?” 

Gaz takes another step forward, and you keep your vision firm on the desk.

“Fine, yeah,” a whisper is all you can muster.

Suicide? 

“Ma’am,” Kyle’s jaw clenches with genuine unease, “I’m being serious—”

“Garrick,” he pauses and you put the first bank statement to the side with a slam. Lips pulling back slowly, you grunt out, “I know.” 

Brown eyes dig into your face. 

“...Copy.” 

—

The rest of the work is done in relative silence, and you don’t have much to show for it. Your father’s blue ink signature was on every paper you had gone through—various financial records and important museum documents were now being stacked on the floor due to the little space you had on the top of the desk. Kyle wasn’t faring any better; the coffee table nearly creaking at the weight. 

Over the course of the hours you had both descended into a soft silence of shifting papers and tiny breaths—sighs that were echoed by the other. 

But your mind was ever present on it.

Samson Row had committed suicide in his cell. No one knew how he got the gun. The cameras were wiped. 

You’d tried to make sense of the event and the sudden numbness had bled into a separate state of disgusting pleasure. Was it bad that you somewhat felt…what was that high sensation in your skull…was it…joy? 

He deserved it, you catch yourself believing as you rub at your nose with the side of your hand. He killed Dad. 

Did Row have people inside that could get him what he had needed? That would explain the lost footage and the weapon. 

But they would have kept him in a military prison. Your eyes scan another useless page, tapping the blue signature and sliding it away. Highly guarded. 

None of that made sense. 

Suddenly your mind was filled with too much information—yesterday, the burning sutures on your palm; the death of Samson Row. Kyle being here and you letting him help you. 

As if he knew you were thinking about him, the Sergeant coughs and speaks casually, accent rolling off his tongue. You don’t bother to spare a glance. 

“Your father donated a lot—I had no clue.” If this was his attempt at small talk—speaking about the dead man you worshiped in life and after—it was poor. But you welcomed any distraction…no matter how tone-deaf. 

Your shoulders release slightly with a sound of affirmation, “he sent anonymously to just about every sobriety center in the city.” The man’s back goes motionless from your peripheral vision. “Sober Living, Halfway House…” you trail and move your attention to the following folder as the previous proves itself to be about as informative as a corpse. “Others. He was big on improving run-down neighborhoods too. Bringing life back to the heart of the community, so he said.” Curious, you look from the corner of your eye to Gaz and see his head slightly tilted over his shoulder; listening intently. Your eyes stay on him, gliding over his features while his optics can’t trap you at his neck or scar.

You had never bothered to notice, but you suddenly realized why the woman at the train station had tried to make a move on him. Kyle had a sort of…boyish charm, you could say. 

Not that you cared. You huff and get back to it.

“Most of the neighborhoods he spent fixing up he offered to house the homeless in. Safe to say he was popular.”

Kyle takes down a silent breath, keenly staring at the navy curtain over the window while he thinks. The question was left up in the air to hang over the both of you—why would a man donate to the very thing he’s spreading? Why help the homelessness and the deteriorating streets he was perpetuating? 

“He sounds like he was a good man,” Gaz says it as it is. Picking up one of his own papers he moves it in the air in display. “Half of his income was given away every other month.”

“Helps that my mother was an heiress. We never really struggled financially and my father inherited the family house. I was glad I got to be raised by them. My…my best memories are when we were all together.” 

“...What went wrong,” Kyle mutters to himself, placing the page back down and looking confused at the countless stacks. “None of this is adding up.” 

While he could admit your father was a good man to you he had never expected that to flood into his social life. Was it an act? A way to mask his true dealings? 

But then why half of his total income? That’s not a cover that's…that’s true care and concern.

His head shakes, “you find anything yet, Love? I’m about ready for a break, my eyes are blurrin’ like I’ve been in a heli all day.” 

Gaz’s heart is rapid when you snort, “No. What, can’t handle words? I imagined you as a bookworm.” Brown eyes blink. 

With a raised brow the Sergeant cranes his neck over. 

“And what in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean, then?” 

A small snicker makes his lips twitch with mute humor, nostrils flaring in a small laugh. But still, it’s a small portion of him that manages to speak out. The sentiment is pure, however, and the words are soft-spoken with concern.

“How are you taking this so well—the shooting and the man you killed—I’ve seen my mates fall apart for days straight by witnessing something like that early on.” The question should take you aback, but it was like you had expected it. Gaz had already been hinting at his worry since this morning. 

You lick your lips and grunt, “easier the second time around. And I don’t really feel bad about the guy, I guess.” Your skin crawls as you feel his eyes on the side of your face; eyebrows pulled back. Asking as if a part of you was afraid, you wonder aloud as a piece of insecurity breaks out, “Is that…bad?” 

Inside your stomach, your intestines bunch at the thought of asking this man about anything like that, but…who else was there to ask? Your mother was still in Ireland and while you knew she loved you, and vice versa, you can’t just call her up over an open line. Interaction was firmly restricted. 

Gaz was all there was. 

I’m gonna be fucking sick. 

The Sergeant takes a deep breath and tilts his head, hat going with him. “Tricky question,” he spares a comforting chuff of laughter, but he now knows his actions from last night might actually mean something to you. A small success in the flat ground he’s trying to make—today there had been big steps. “I hate to say it, but I might be biased, Ma’am. The people that I take care of are usually shooting right back at me—don’t really feel anything for them, either.”

To anyone witnessing this interaction, it might have made them raise a startled brow but to you, it might as well have lifted one cinder block from the pile on your lungs. A bitter type of victory. 

Humming, you say, “Trying to make me think you’re a heartless killer”

“Please,” Kyle chuckles, “you already do, Love.” 

For the first time, a genuine laugh barks from your mouth, and a shocked silence strikes like lightning. Eyes wide, your face goes blank immediately as Kyle gawks. 

Very quickly both parties clear their throats with burning faces and get back to work, shuffling papers and re-organizing pikes that had already been organized.

About five minutes later is when it happens.

You’re about to pass off the next document in your grouping when your fingers pause along the printed letters at the bottom of the page as they halt. Blinking, you still your body and the voices that speak to you inside your brain cease like a swift knife had slit their throats. 

Red ink. 

The drastic change registers a few moments later and you’re jumping up.

“Kyle!” You call, and the man snaps to attention, eyes roving the room in an instinctual sweep before he sees your hands waving him over with a brief statement. “This one’s different.” 

You hear his footsteps pound over the hardwood as he quickly comes over to hover above your shoulder. 

“Look,” pointing, you display the signature and set it near the others with blue ink. “It’s red.”

“Ink?” Gaz asks.

Your eyes begin skimming the contents of the page again, looking for something to snag onto.

“My dad was stubborn—if he only used blue ink to sign, then he was only going to use blue ink.” Both apprehension and an infestation of curiosity buzzes in you like a hive of wasps, each insect a small fraction of your feelings that bunch into great swarms of unrecognizable forms. 

You wanted to understand, but to do that it involved taking a hammer to the stained-glass window that symbolizes your family. 

Could you really do that? 

How many people died yesterday? Ten? Twenty? The hissing snake in the back of your skull tempts you as it had to Adam and Eve. How many families are just like yours now?

You grit your teeth and try to find anything important on the document. 

“I’m not seeing anything else,” Kyle speaks lowly, also reading it with firm brows. The contents spoke of a new addition to the Museum in the form of a skeleton of the American Lion found in the La Brea Tar Pits. He sends you a small peek. 

There was nothing else.

Vision rapidly jumping from one word to another, you grow slightly more agitated at the true statement from the Brit. Were you just being paranoid? 

Signed copy of the agreement therein for the continuous upkeep of any and all physical objects/specimens/entities donated from ‘Chiyou’ to the Chicago Museum of Natural History. We look forward to your continued sponsorship and future dealings. 

If the recipient of this document would have any further questions, they are encouraged to content— 

Your eyes flash over the date but quickly dash back. The words dash from you.

“Why’s the date wrong?” Kyle’s body heat leaks into you, staving off the shivers and the shakes that you’re accustomed to. Your hand slaps the paper to the table as you whip open the next month’s manila folder.

“I’m...not following, Love. Date?”

“And the name—Chiyou?” You dig through your brain as well, going a mile a minute as Gaz’s lips go thin. “That…that sounds familiar, and it’s not the name of any sponsor I’ve ever heard of.” Muttering, you peel out the same paper from the following month as well. “And the date. My father always came home early on the fifteenth, he said he just wanted to take a day off sometime in the middle of the month—that’s what he always said. He never worked on the fifteenth but—” You breathe quickly and make a sound of alarm when you find what you’re looking for. “See?” 

More red ink signatures are on the same date every month. Your brows peel far back—a pattern. All copied donation forms are from this strange moniker ‘Chiyou’ and all are different specimens from different eras. 

Ancient butterflies trapped in amber, more bones from different species, and diagrams for displays. 

Brown eyes grow more serious, taking the other pages as you whip out more, flying through stacks like a mad woman. 

“The same date every month, the same person, the same form repeated over and over again with no changes. They weren't all signed individually, they were copied.” You hold one up in the air and inspect the red with a sharp eye. 

Printer ink that blanked in some areas.  

“I’m wagering that isn’t normal for this kind of work,” Kyle mutters, hand bushing yours as you hand him another file. You don’t flinch back, too preoccupied. “Fucking hell.”

By the time you’re all done there’s a group of more than sixty printed copies high with Gaz going through his own with more fervor than ever before, jogging back over and adding his to the pile when he found one. 

You were working together to make this work, a Sergeant and an anger-infested girl. There were quick comments and questions about the other papers, but nothing ever appeared any different.

He doesn’t realize you’re crying until, when he’s reaching an arm over to add his last page, your tear hits the back of his hand. 

His eyes find yours as you glare at the table, palms to the top and lids held tightly closed. There’s a small beat of silence where all that adrenaline disappears from his chest in a fell swoop–like a bug had been snatched into the beak of a barn swallow. 

In a delicate way, he remembers your frigid hands from when he had been stitching you up. How you had been so obviously running on a knife edge. Your outburst in the car strikes Gaz right in the heart as he recalls it.

‘ …made my mother leave me in a decaying house all alone…!’

That was just…unimaginable to him. Alone for three years after seeing what you saw—Kyle’s hand went to reach up and his fingers lightly brush your arm. 

Lids peeling back, your gaze falls to the touch, instantly finding that dark skin lightly digging into your own with bitten nails and picked-off cuticles. You hated how his touch felt, you hated that he was warm and how he was trying to comfort you with no knowledge of how to do so. You hated his stupid job and his horrible ability to keep you safe. 

You hated that he was one of the reasons your father was dead and that now you were going through his things because scores of people were in the morgue with bullets in them. This should not be your job. You shouldn’t have to question whether…

Your jaw clenches and you pull your arm away, standing to your full height and pointedly not looking at Gaz. Shaky fingers push away tears violently. 

“These were printed in my Dad’s museum office—if they kept all of his things I might be able to get into his computer and figure out who this ‘Chiyou’ is and what was being shipped. Whoever it is…” You shake your head and Kyle feels his oxygen get stuck in his throat. “It’s not good.”

Brushing your nose, you sniffle, wiping all the water from your palms onto your pants. Your wound was bleeding, you could feel it, but that was the least of your worries. You had wanted this…right? 

What choice did you have but to want it? 

Kyle clears his throat quietly, the words coming out low. “How about we take a break—we’ve made some good headway in this and Laswell’ll be over the moon with what little we have, yeah? There’s more time for this later.” 

A bitter laugh takes him aback.

“And do what? Sleep?” You look at the ceiling as you tilt your neck farther up. “All I do is sleep, do homework, chug down coffee I don’t even like.” Legs taking a step, you lower yourself into your father’s chair and look at the piles all over the room you could remember so vividly being alive with happiness and soft words. 

This house was supposed to be alive. Now it just screams as it goes through death throes.  

“‘Well,” Gaz chuffs awkwardly, not knowing what to do but still trying as you were in obvious distress; crossing his arms over his chest. “I can put on a football match on my computer if you’d want to watch that?” 

A hopeless groan escapes you as your head hits the desktop. 

“I don’t know, Love, I barely know you.”

“I barely know me,” you whisper to yourself, moving back again and shrugging. “He,” you start and stop, “he can’t really have done this, could he?” 

It’s a terrible thing to have to question the man that raised you—that taught and influenced you in more ways than one. Kyle blinks at this moment of genuineness and he frowns, fingers tightening on his biceps.

“Ma’am, he’ll never stop being your father, okay?” Your eyes spread to Gaz’s scar, watching the darker skin bend and flex with the motion of his lips. The blood in your veins feels thick; like poison. “But there was never any question as to whether he did or didn’t do this. No one else had the means. It was just a matter of time before this was all figured out.” He sighs. “I’m sorry.” 

The Sergeant’s honesty was blunt and forward, yet you wanted it that way, perhaps. There were only so many lies you could tell yourself before you forgot what reality was. Your father had been shot for a reason, and although the lines were still blurred—Row’s strange death, the mysterious individual ‘donating’ what was most likely illegal paraphernalia that resided in the docks, and the very real danger to your mother and you—that was still fact.

He’s dead for a reason. 

“You’re horrible at lying,” you comment dryly to the Brit, voice hoarse. The man’s laugh hits your ears, but you can’t see the way he watches with worry. 

“I’m more of a half-truths kind of bloke if we’re being honest. I’d never lie to you.” Your lungs hold air at the last statement, keeping them trapped like a balloon as your brows go up, but the ringing of Kyle’s phone breaks your silent shock. 

“Sergeant Garrick,” the man answers, and your mind finds itself stuck replaying his reply. He might have found that inconsequential but even the very act of that promise was like taking a silk ribbon and tying it over your wrist. 

Coming from him, you tried to reason that it couldn’t amount to much, but words such as that had always meant a lot to you. 

“Love,” your ears perk up, and you turn your eyes to Gaz’s nose. His lips are straight and tense. You find yourself becoming nervous even if you don’t know why. Kyle steadies himself. “Your mum just landed in the States.”

TAGS:

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[writereleaserepeat]

This was clearly meant to be a bit of a hero/villain prompt, but I made it hero/ex-villain dynamics because that’s where I felt inspiration dragging me. It also ended up way longer than I meant, oops. Slightly pathetic but still defiant ex-villain whumpee, hero caretaker who isn’t exactly sadistic, but he’s absolutely cold and a bit unsympathetic. 

CW for strong language, blood mention, violence mention, abuse mention, nudity, implied past non-con, whumper/whumpee dynamics, medical whump, forced medicating, PTSD, sadistic-ish caretaker. 

~2800 Words

Whumpee blinked open his eyes, low light piercing his skull like daggers, his vision still blurry. A thick fog clouded his mind, and his confusion was so dense it brought on a sharp wave of nausea. His tongue was dry as sandpaper in his mouth, still bitter with the taste of blood, and he could hear the sound of his own ragged breathing. 

For a moment, all he could feel was disappointment that he wasn’t dead yet. 

The nausea spiked again. This time Whumpee heaved, his head spinning as he rolled over onto his side, but nothing more than a thin stream of acid burned his lips as it dripped to the floor. Tears pricked at his eyes, but no, he wasn’t going to cry. Not now. Not until he figured out what had happened and where he was. 

His vision began to clear with every blink, and although the pounding in his head was more fierce than ever, his wits slowly started to return. The familiar weight of a metal collar still sat heavy on his neck, and a tight cuff around his left wrist shackled him to a wall. His body laid limp against a cement floor. Whumpee could feel the cool stone leeching any last bits of warmth from his already battered body, and his bones were still palpable through his pale, bruised skin. 

It was a cell, he knew that much. He’d been in places like this before. He’d suffered, and he’d bled, and he’d almost died, in places like this before. But this cell was new to him. There were no familiar bloodstains underfoot, the copper never having quite washed out. There were no chips in the cinder block walls where he had raked his fingernails down to bloodied nubs. The light overhead was a soft yellow, not the blinding white that had made it so impossible to sleep for those many months of agony. 

And then there was the door. A door, not rusted bars, no taunting glimpse at the hallway to freedom that would never come. This door was towering, solid steel painted white, obviously barred and bolted from the outside. There was a translucent window at eye-level, but Whumpee hadn’t yet found the energy to stand. Wherever he was now - a new prison, purgatory, or hell - it didn’t really matter. The restraints and the collar around his neck told him all he needed to know. 

He didn’t even have the chance to survey the rest of his wounds, both the old and the new, before the groaning sound of a lock snapped his attention back to the door. 

Whumpee grit his teeth and tried to sit up, and he finally pushed his back to the wall to hold himself up. He wasn’t going to take whatever tormet laid ahead without a fight. Even that small motion made him pant from the effort, and it was all he could do to breathe through his nose so as not to give away his weakness. Not that it mattered - Whumpee knew he looked more like a corpse than a human being at this point. There would be no illusions of strength. 

Despite his usually steely demeanor, Whumpee felt his eyes widen when a broad silhouette filled the doorframe, his gaze falling on the muscular arms that bulged beneath a sharp jawline. Whumpee recognized Caretaker immediately as he strode into the cell and his face was fully revealed beneath the lights. The man looked down at Whumpee with a frown before he scoffed. 

“Well, they told me you looked like shit. I didn’t think they meant it.” 

Whumpee bit his tongue as tears threatened to pool again. No. He couldn’t be here with Caretaker. Not like this, not now, not at his utter mercy. With Whumpee so helpless, and with the history behind them, being Caretaker’s prisoner was all but a death sentence. 

But there was no anger in Caretaker’s face. Instead, there was a glint of something that Whumpee might have called sadness if he hadn’t known better. 

“Alright. I don’t think you need me to tell you this, but you’re in our custody now.” Caretaker’s shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh. “I don’t really like using the word ‘prisoner,’ but it’s the most appropriate for your current situation. Do you remember how you got here?” 

Whumpee hesitated, but then shook his throbbing head. He couldn’t remember anything for… well, he didn’t know how long. The last thing he could piece together was transient images of his previous cell, fleeting sounds of his chains dragging against the floor as he waited for his tormentor to return. Those days had all bled together. As for how he got here, to this place where Caretaker stared down at him, he had nothing. 

Another sigh escaped Caretaker’s lips, the sound laden with disappointment. 

“You went through hell to get here, including some pretty serious head trauma, so I guess that makes sense. And now that you’re finally conscious, it’s time to start getting you fixed up a bit.” 

Caretaker stepped into the cell, and Whumpee recoiled in spite of himself. The rough grit of the cinder blocks bit into his scarred back and he pushed into them, expending every ounce of his strength to put more distance between himself and Caretaker, and Whumpee felt his eyes burning with pain and fury. 

There was nowhere to run, of course. Even if Whumpee had been strong enough to do so, his left leg was still crooked from where it had been broken, and the ache of broken fingers would have made it all but impossible to manipulate a door handle, much less a lock. So instead, when Caretaker knelt down just inches away, Whumpee let a soft growl rise in his throat. 

“Hey,” Caretaker said with an easygoing chuckle, “I don’t want to hear that kind of attitude. You’re not really in a position to bargain. We’re going to get you feeling better, whether you like it or not.” 

With that threatening assurance hanging in the air, Caretaker reached forward and grabbed Whumpee’s chin in his massive hand. Whumpee tried to jerk back out of his grasp, but the grip was firm. 

Much to Whumpee’s horror, a hot tear rolled down his cheek and landed between Caretaker’s fingers. 

Caretaker made a disapproving click of his tongue, smiling softening as he peered into Whumpee’s wet eyes. Whumpee tried to find some purchase against the cement floors, anything to hold on to or to leverage himself away from Caretaker’s touch, but his mangled digits gave him no opportunity to do so. 

“Mmm, yup, looks like you’ve got a nasty concussion,” Caretaker said, although it sounded more like he was talking to himself than Whumpee. “Let’s see what other damage we’re dealing with here.” Another weak growl, this one sounding more like a whimper, came from Whumpee’s throat as Caretaker’s other hand began its intrusive journey across Whumpee’s skin. 

Those calloused fingers first probed Whumpee’s neck, tugging at the collar, then snaking beneath it. Caretaker didn’t seem to care when a garbled plea of protest escaped alongside another one of Whumpee’s tears. Next they drifted over Whumpee’s protruding collarbone, the healed fractures of his ribs, the bruised flesh of his abdomen. The touch was gentle one minute, then rough the next, but Whumpee tried to keep himself together. 

That facade fell apart when the touch drifted down Whumpee’s abdomen, then to his hips, then lower and- 

Whumpee hadn’t meant to scream. It wasn’t the rare dignified defiance he allowed himself, no, this was a howl of pure desperation. He just- he couldn’t bear that, not again, not with Caretaker. He’d hardly survived it at Whumper’s hands. This could well be his final undoing. 

“Hey, shhh,” Caretaker soothed as he withdrew his hands. “Relax, Whumpee. You need to relax.” 

Relax? Whumpee wanted to cry out. With the rough fingers off  his body he pushed even further into the wall, as though it would shield him from Caretaker’s unending probe. If Whumpee hadn’t been worried about bone splintering out from beneath his battered skin, he would have at least tried to strike back. Even if it would have been no use, at least he would have done something to protect himself. 

“Listen.” Caretaker’s voice was both firm and gentle, an almost clinical coolness to it. “I need to see what’s wrong so we know what treatment you need. I promise I’ll be quick, okay? I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Another moment passed, and Whumpee realized his body was shaking, tremors wracking his frail frame. In this brief silence, Caretaker bit down on his lip. 

“I’m not like Whumper,” the large man said after a pause. “I’m only going to do what’s necessary to make sure you’re not hiding any injuries from us. But I need you to cooperate so it’s easier on both of us.” 

Caretaker’s hand went up towards Whumpee’s collar. Those steadfast fingers gripped the thick iron ring at the front, ensuring that Whumpee couldn’t pull away. Whumpee swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the metal. 

“Close your eyes,” Caretaker demanded. “And count to thirty. It’ll all be over then, alright? Go on, close your eyes.” 

Whumpee hated to close his eyes. It always meant that he was vulnerable to pain that he couldn’t see coming, that Whumper had an opportunity to strike him by surprise. Caretaker, of course, hadn’t been asking. It was a command. 

So Whumpee closed his eyes. Maybe this meant it would be over sooner rather than later. One… two… three…

The counting did little to distract from that cold, unwelcome touch. It was gentle, though, and it was fleeting, just like Caretaker had promised. And even though Whumpee only associated such an intimate touch with the onset of unimaginable pain, by the time he reached thirty, Caretaker had indeed retreated and released his grip on Whumpee’s collar. No blinding agony had followed. 

Whumpee opened his eyes to Caretaker’s shallow smile. 

“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

Neither made a sound as Caretaker finished his inspection. Caretaker made a few grunts of discontent as we went over each of Whumpee’s broken digits, and finally over the swollen skin of Whumpee’s broken leg. And at long last, Whumpee’s body was his own again, slumped against the wall and free from another’s hands. 

Caretaker rocked back on his heels as he hunted through the pockets of his pants. 

“We’ve got some serious work to do on you,” Caretaker said as he fished out a capped syringe and short vial of clear liquid. “Now that I can get a report to our medical team, they’re going to come in here and fix what they can. If something needs surgery, we’ll take care of that too, which is why we haven’t given you anything to eat or drink yet. You’re going to get some food and water before you know it.” 

As he spoke, Caretaker had uncapped the syringe, and had begun to pull liquid from the vial. Whumpee couldn’t pull his eyes away from it, the substance and the needle glinting in the soft light, both an unspoken threat. Caretaker continued, apparently unaware of Whumpee’s mounting terror. 

“This is ketamine,” he said with a gesture to the vial. “I promise, that’s it. If you don’t already know, ketamine is a great pain reliever and fast-acting sedative. I imagine you’re in quite a bit of pain. I also imagine you’ll give anyone else who comes in here a hard time. It’s why I insisted on being the first one to see you, you know. It’s also why the medical team insisted that you be sedated while they do their work.”

It could have been any number of things in that vial, Whumpee knew, including a litany of substances meant to cause him unbearable agony. And yet Caretaker hadn’t given Whumpee any reason to doubt that claim.  If anything, Caretaker had made one thing clear: at the moment, trying to resist was useless. Whatever pain he was destined for, Whumpee had to surrender to it, and wait for an opportunity to escape at another time. 

“You’re not going to fight me this time, are you?” Caretaker asked as he carefully adjusted his grip on the syringe and held out a hand for Whumpee’s arm. 

Whumpee shook his head. It would do no good to fight now, in this condition. Whatever Caretaker and the rest would do to Whumpee when he was unconscious, well, at least it would be better than suffering it awake. Maybe, blissfully, Whumpee would never wake up. 

So he offered his arm out to Caretaker, unable to look the man in the eyes. This time Whumpee looked down at the floor, not so much as wincing as the needle slid beneath the soft flesh of his inner forearm, aware only of how frail he was in Caretaker’s grip. 

“There you go,” Caretaker said as he pulled the syringe away and capped it. “You’re doing so well. Just relax, and you’re going to feel it in a few seconds. I’m here, alright? I’ve got you” 

Warmth cradled Whumpee’s body as he surrendered to the wave of artificial sleep that swept over him. The pain didn’t quite fade, but Whumpee no longer cared about it. He didn’t care about anything. He fell back into Caretaker’s arms, and the last thing he felt before tumbling into unconsciousness was his head resting in Caretaker’s lap. 

When Whumpee woke, he was still in that same cell, his left wrist still shackled to the wall on a long chain. But the restraint was instead wrapped around a thick black splint. It wrapped around each of his broken fingers, extended up over his wrist, and came to a stop just below his elbow. Three fingers on his right hand were also in splints, tightly bound together and secured at his wrist. 

As the effects of the drug faded, Whumpee saw that his leg had received similar treatment. A solid cast wrapped from his hip down to his foot. It was the straightest Whumpee had seen his leg in weeks, and although the pain still radiated from the break’s epicenter, it was a relief nonetheless. 

Bandages were taped over old and new wounds, the smell of gauze and isopropyl alcohol still hanging in the air. There were spots where the tape itched, and for a moment Whumpee was delighted, solely for the fact that he felt a sensation other than pain. 

Most surprising of all was just how warm Whumpee felt. As he struggled to sit up from where he was laying, he realized that he was on a thin mattress. It was a simple affair, just a layer of padding between himself and the floor, but it was draped in a few thick blankets. Light undergarments shielded the rest of Whumpee’s body beneath the covers. Air kissed Whumpee’s naked throat for the first time in recent memory. It was all Whumpee could do not to cry - the collar was gone. 

As he soaked in this facade of dignity, this sliver of relief, Whumpee looked over to a plate on the floor beside the mattress. Warm food still steamed on a paper plate, and a few bottles of water sat open beside it. And on a small notecard, a message was scrawled- 

“Enjoy. Love, Caretaker.” 

"You're our prisoner, now. You've also just been through hell. So, you're going to get fixed up, whether you like it or not."

[hikari-writes]

『Haikyuu!!』

Fluff Oneshot

Winter Wonderland Collab

❝ Cure For A Broken Heart ❞

Pairing: Goshiki Tsutomu

Warning: Cheating ex boyfriend, past toxic relationship

Genre: F L O O F

Words: 3.6k

Notes:

-F!Reader

A/N: heres another piece for the winter wonderland collab feat baby boy goshiki :3

Winter Wonderland Masterlist

You stomped your way through the shopping district full of couples making out, anger seeping through you as you tried very hard not to yell at those strangers. 

It was hard to contain your anger towards happy couples, especially since you had just broken up with your cheating boyfriend. 

Definitely not a good way to start your Christmas evening.

You rubbed your eyes to get rid of the tears that were welling up in it. You tried to get your mind off of things as you thought on how Oikawa would react when he finds out about your breakup. 

He'll most likely nag you for hours, saying that he knew that your (now) ex-boyfriend was bad news all along. You couldn't help but to heave another sigh. 

Not that Oikawa hadn't warned you about your ex before. He warned you multiple times, even. But you were too blinded by what you thought was love for your ex to even pay any attention to Oikawa's warnings. 

As you kept walking and walking without any particular direction you were heading into, you finally found yourself in an unfamiliar side of the shopping district. 

The place wasn't bustling with as many people as the center of the shopping district you were in just now. There were fewer shops, and the things that were being sold in them weren’t as eye-catching as the ones in the busy part of the shopping district. 

Just then, your feet stopped at a shop that appears to be a cafe. You looked at the shop sign. There, written in a beautiful font, was the shop’s name.

“...Shiratori Cake House.”

You stared at the picture of a swan on the sign board logo. Fits the cafe’s name to a T, you thought. Seeing as how the place is void of any visitors, you figured that there won’t be so many customers in the cafe and decided to enter the cafe to treat yourself to something sweet and take your mind off the aching pain in your heart. 

Truthfully, you could’ve just gone to the cafe Oikawa worked at, since you’re more familiar with that place and you might even got to ask for a bit of a friend discount from him. But since it was CHRISTMAS, the place will undoubtedly be flooded with customers, who were mostly Oikawa’s fangirls, and you didn’t want to be suffocated with so many people while your mind was in total shambles. You needed peace, quiet and a little bit of a sweet treat to mend your broken heart at the time.

As soon as you stepped in, however, you realized that your previous guess was completely off. 

The cafe wasn’t lacking in customers.

It didn’t have any customers to begin with.

You looked around in confusion. You even thought that maybe the place was actually already closed for the day. But you were definitely sure that the sign read “OPEN” before you entered just now. See, it wouldn’t have been weird if business was running slow if this was any other day. But it was CHRISTMAS. Every cafe, bakery and cake shop in the town was swarmed with customers, especially considering the fact that there weren't as many shops like that in your town to begin with.

Your confusion was cut short when you heard a male voice called out to you.

“Welcome, dear customer. A table for one?”

You turned around to see a guy with a black haired bowl cut wearing what you presumed to be the cafe’s uniform greeting you. You sent him a nod and followed behind him silently as he led the way to one of the tables. Considering the fact that he was serving you, you took it that it was still business hours at the time. 

“Take your time, and just call me whenever you’ve decided on an order.”

He handed you the menu and you took it with a curt nod. You didn’t spare a glance at the menu as you stared at the waiter. He noticed your gaze and looked at you with confusion evident in his eyes. 

“Is there something wrong?”

At his question, you found yourself opening your mouth to say something that even you yourself wasn’t expecting to come out of your own mouth. You guessed you could say you said that on the spur of the moment, but what exactly prompted you to say that was unknown to even yourself. Who knows, maybe the stress and sadness you were feeling after having just broken up with your ex made you lose some of your brain cells.

“Can I get a smile from you?”

You asked with a straight face, as if you didn’t just ask a question that might as well be considered as a pick-up line. After blurting that out, you realized how much you actually sounded like Oikawa. Guess being friends with him had made his habits rub off on you too. You internally cringed at what you just said, and was about to apologize to the waiter when you saw his reaction. 

He looked extremely surprised at your sudden request and he was blushing extremely hard, you could even feel the heat he was radiating. He kept opening and closing his mouth, as if trying to say something to you but the vocabularies in his brain just disappeared. It was apparent that he had never experienced being hit on before. His reaction seemed to be contagious when you found even yourself blushing at his reaction, and you were left with an awkward silence as the both of you continued to hang your head low. You gotta admit though, he was pretty cute so that just became another factor as to why you blushed after what you just said.

Not too long after that, another waiter stepped in and pushed the black haired waiter away. You snapped out of your flustered state and looked up at the waiter who just helped the two of you get out of that awkward situation. He had copper-colored hair with a….unique hairstyle.

He heaved a sigh before meeting your gaze.

“Please excuse him, dear customer. Although, I must say, you did break him after what you just said.”

At his statement, your blush grew darker.

“B-broke him, you said...”

You quickly averted your gaze and stared intently at the menu in front of you, trying to distract yourself from the unbearable awkwardness. 

You skimmed through the menu and took a quick glance at the cakes displayed in a window glass. All the desserts looked delicious, sure, but you couldn't buy all of them. Finally, you decided to go with the easiest solution.

“Say, what do you recommend? Do you have any special menu that you specialize in?”

You turned to the two waiters who, oddly enough, were still standing near your table instead of just waiting at the counter until you called over. 

At this question, the black haired waiter perked up, and he seemed like he had finally been snapped out of his embarrassment. 

“If you're asking what we specialize in, I must simply mention our tea! While the tea leaves aren't anything fancy or anything of the sort, the way we *cough* I *cough* brew our tea is enough to bring the full flavour of the tea. I'm sure you'll enjoy it!”

He seemed rather enthusiastic about it,but the other waiter just shot him an unpleasant glare. The black haired waiter quickly shut his mouth up. From the way he said it, you could pretty much deduce that the aforementioned “tea that they specialize in” was brewed by the black haired waiter himself. Nice display of confidence.

The other waiter cleared his throat before speaking. 

“I'm pretty sure she meant what sort of DESSERTS do we specialize in, Tsutomu, not drinks. And to answer your question, we do pride ourselves in our chocolate desserts. I highly recommend you getting the Black Forest cake, but since it IS Christmas, we also have Strawberry Shortcake to offer, if you'd prefer that.”

You contemplated on what to order for a moment. In the end, you decided to go with what he recommended (since he did go out of his way to mention that).

The waiter displayed a small smile that probably meant “Oh thank goodness I didn't waste my time recommending that cake to her,” as he jotted down the order. He didn't say it aloud obviously, but his smile just kinda radiated that vibe, y'know?

You then turned towards the black haired waiter, Tsutomu, you presumed, and gave him a small grin. 

“And I also would like to have this tea that you specialize in.”

His face lit up and he seemed to be blushing a bit. He nodded enthusiastically while the other waiter just gave him a distasteful look. 

The two walked away and you took the opportunity to look around the cafe. It seemed to have a pretty good interior design, and the cakes being displayed also seemed to sparkle brightly. You wondered why there was no customer at all. Probably because of how it's located in a pretty deserted part of the shopping district. 

Meanwhile you were busy looking up and down the shop, the two waiters who were serving you just now whispered to one another. 

“Before you start, let me just make one thing clear. She obviously wasn't actually planning to hit on you from the look on her face, so stop acting like a high school girl who just got herself a boyfriend.”

The copper haired waiter, Shirabu, started. Tsutomu seemed a bit disappointed at this, but he quickly furrowed his brows at him. 

“But still, I was still being hit on by a really PRETTY girl. It's probably a Christmas miracle or something.”

He sighed with a small blush adorning his face, to which Shirabu just replied with a disgusted look. 

“I wonder if she has a lover or not...”

He quietly asked the question out of curiosity. Shirabu looked at him for a moment before glancing at you. 

“Think about it logically, Tsutomu. Today is Christmas. It's basically a holiday for couples to spend their time together. Meanwhile our dear customer right there is, as you can see, alone. Plus, why would she wonder around this part of the shopping district alone if she wasn't preoccupied with her thoughts. She probably either is definitely single from the start and wanted to get away from the busy part of the shopping district which was full of couples, OR she had just broken up with her lover.”

After explaining his guesses (Thanks, Sherlock), Shirabu seemed to realize something and turned to Tsutomu almost immediately. 

“Don't tell me you….you wanted to ask her out or something?? Tsutomu, it was just ONE pick-up line, for God's sake.”

Shirabu frowned at the younger male, expressing his disbelief with a sigh. 

“That's not it!”

He hissed in defense. Tsutomu turned to look at you again who were staring off at the shop's window, silently admiring the falling snow outside. 

“It's just...she seemed sad and I was just wondering if she has a special someone who she can confide in….or something.”

Tsutomu softly explained, his eyes still fixated on you.

“You know what people nowadays call you? A busybody. Why would you care for a stranger anyway?”

Tsutomu gave a silent glare towards Shirabu as he finished brewing your tea.

“Well then, Shirabu-san, if I'm a busybody then you're a jerk. It's called being KIND and maybe you should try it sometimes too.”

“Alright, then, go take this cake to her, if you're SO kind. And DON'T scare her away, you hear me? She's our only customer today and we don't appreciate you blabbing unnecessary stuff at her and making her leave.”

With that warning, Shirabu handed Tsutomu a plate with a slice of Black Forest cake on it. Tsutomu just grumbled as a response and made his way towards you. 

“Here is your order. Please enjoy it.”

Your train of thoughts was interrupted when Tsutomu came back with a tray of your order. You nodded and mumbled a small thank you before picking up the cup of tea. It was freezing cold outside so you figured the hot tea could keep you nice and warm.

As soon as you took a sip from it, you were completely stunned by the flavour of the tea. 

Turned out he wasn't joking or blindly bragging about the tea he made. It was, without a doubt, extremely delicious. The coldness you were feeling was gone in an instant and it felt as if your entire body was filled with the warmth of the tea. 

“It's really delicious.”

You commented and looked at him with a genuinely warm smile. He tried to hide the smile that was forming on his face but the blush on his cheeks was enough proof to know that he was completely pleased with your compliment. 

All of a sudden, you were washed with feelings of nostalgia. Now that you thought back on it, you also always tried your hardest to brew the best tea for your ex-boyfriend. All of that memory seemed like a blur to you now that you know that he probably didn't mean any of the compliments he gave. Heck, you even caught a glimpse of him pouring the tea you made into the sink but you decided that that was just your mind playing tricks on you.

“Urgh, this SUCKS. I came here to forget about him but he still somehow managed to wriggle his way into my mind...”

You closed your eyes and your brows were knitted together in frustration as you thought that. You inhaled the scent of the tea and thankfully, that managed to calm your nerves down. 

“Are you alright??”

When you heard the panicked voice of Tsutomu, you opened your eyes and only then did you realize something sliding down your cheeks.

“What….?”

You touched your cheeks to inspect what it was. Well, even if you didn't, you already had a pretty good guess as to what it was. 

Tears were running down your cheeks in an uncontrollable manner. It was as if the more you tried to wipe them away, the more they came flooding down your face.

Tsutomu was panicking so hard, he felt as though he just lost ten years of his lifespan. Meanwhile Shirabu was glaring daggers behind his back, thinking that Tsutomu had said something to make you cry. 

“I'm terribly sorry, I….”

At this point, you had buried your whole face in your hands, ashamed at yourself for crying in front of these strangers. Just then, you felt a comforting hand being placed on your back, softly rubbing circles on top of it.

“It's alright if you felt like crying. Just let it all out.”

Those words were all that you needed before streams of tears started to pour out of your eyes and a few sobs to escape your lips. The fact that you suddenly remembered how your ex-boyfriend would always tell you to not cry in front of him because he claimed it’d be “troublesome” made you realize how toxic your relationship was.

After a few minutes had passed and you had calmed down, you pulled your hand away from your face before facing Tsutomu. He noticed this and looked at you with a concerned look. 

“I’m really sorry. That was shameful of me to cry in front of a total stranger. Thank you for giving me the chance to let all that out.”

You smiled at him and he retreated back his hand that was on your back. 

“Uhm...if you don’t mind, you can tell me your problems. I believe that it’s better to have someone you can confide in rather than keep it to yourself.”

You looked at him for a moment. Most people won’t really care about a stranger’s problem, so Tsutomu offering that came as a bit of a surprise to you. But if he had offered that, then it’d be nice to accept it.

“Thank you for the offer...Excuse me for bothering you then.”

So you told him everything from how you were burned out because of your work and were hoping to have a nice, relaxing time alone with your ex….and how you discovered he was cheating on you when you went to his place uninvited. You stormed out of there, and walked and walked and walked...trying to get as far away as possible from his place. Then, before you knew it, you found yourself in front of this cake shop. 

Tsutomu listened so intently, nodding his head every now and then to silently reassure you that he was listening. It warmed your heart when you saw how considerate he was being. For once, you actually felt as if a burden had been lifted off your shoulders. 

Shirabu who was sitting at the counter was silently listening to your story too. He made his way to your table and put down a slice of Strawberry Shortcake, claiming that that one was on the house.

“It’s hard to see the truth when you’re too blinded by what you wanted to believe. I’m sure that’s what happened to you too. Whoever that guy was, he clearly is a jerk that doesn’t have any respect for people. How can he be so disrespectful to someone as beautiful and kind as you?”

Tsutomu huffed out in frustration. You smiled at him for a moment before realizing what he just said at the end of his line.

“What...was that?”

You asked with an awkward smile and a small blush adorning your cheeks.

“Huh? I said he’s such a jerk---”

Before he got to finish the sentence, his eyes widened as a realization dawned upon him about what he just blurted out and before he knew it a deep crimson blush was already dusted upon his cheeks.

An awkward silence came upon the both of you and Shirabu who was watching the whole thing heaved an exasperated sigh as he thought on how hopeless the both of you were.

“A-anyways...thank you for hearing me out. And the food here is delicious too. I’ll definitely come back here again and bring my friends as well.”

After finishing your cakes and tea, you got up from your seat and went to the counter to pay for your orders.

“Ah, it’s already so late so uhh.. I think it’s best if I accompany you until you reach the main part of the shopping district.”

Tsutomu quickly got up from his seat and walked towards you. You honestly didn’t want to trouble him any further, but he simply assured you that he wanted to do it himself. Shirabu also nonchalantly encouraged you to take him up on his offer. At last, you did and walked out of the cake shop side by side with Tsutomu. 

The rapid contrast of the temperature from the heater in the cake shop and outside of it made you involuntarily shiver. As you exhaled, you could see your own breath in front of you. You’re definitely curling up under your kotatsu tonight.

The both of you walked in silence, admiring the colourful decorations being put around the district. When you finally reached the more busy part of the shopping district, the both of you stopped in your tracks.

“Thank you for everything today. You’ve been a great help…..Uh….”

You stopped mid-sentence as you realized that you didn’t know what this stranger’s name who had been so kind to you was.

“Just call me Tsutomu.”

He replied as if he knew what was on your mind. You smiled and nodded.

“....Tsutomu, thank you again for today. You can call me Y/N.”

You didn’t know whether it was because of the cold or because he was blushing, but you noticed his cheeks being dusted with pink hues. The same could be applied to you as well as you felt the rising heat in your cheeks. 

You bowed one last time and was about to continue walking when he called out to you.

“Uhm! Y/N...now that I think about it...I uh... I don’t think I caught what your phone number was….”

The both of you stood there in silence, your blush only grew deeper as moments passed by and you quickly responded to him by taking out a piece of paper from your bag and scribbling down your number.

“Here!”

You handed him the piece of paper and hung your head low, too embarrassed to face him. He took the paper and held it close to his chest.

“....I’ll be sure to contact you.”

He whispered under his breath, barely audible to your ears. You nodded and the both of you shared a small, content smile before making your separate ways to your house and back to the cake shop respectively.

That Christmas had been very hectic and you were drained out, but spending your time at the cake shop was an experience you’ll never forget. After all, the cute, black haired waiter there did help mend your broken heart at the time. 

Bonus~

Oikawa totally wasn’t having it when he knew you gave out your phone number to a total stranger. In the end, he nagged you for hours about the danger of strangers and also how he was going to kick your ex-boyfriend’s ass after that. (He, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa and Hanamaki brought you cakes and some games to cheer you up so you weren’t all that bothered by his continuous nagging.)

The End

Gen. Taglist: @vventiis @laylahoran @whootwhoot @mirakeul @kiyorei @instantmiya-main @ourvisty @tamaguchi @cadenceh2o @hidehaskak @yamagucji @ynainnit @tsukisemi @that-chick212 @bakuhoetoedoroki @alysken @ineedsomefoodpls [Join my taglist here!]

Winter Wonderland Taglist: @aii-channn @peteunderoos @jungtoast @nekoclysm @our-tall-slytherin-queen @isabella5 @slippinglasses @yhyucklee @rowley-with-ackerman @lilacnoodles @ineedsomefoodpls [Get into the winter wonderland taglist on this post!]

[lesetoilesfous]

you obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, so let me do it for you. For fenders?!

Ok this got much longer than planned because??? I don’t have a good reason. I wanted it to be Fenris being looked after but I think he has a lot of hang ups about that, and then it spiralled. I hope you enjoy!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders

Tags: urban fantasy, modern AU, established relationship, discussion of past trauma, food-related trauma, mention of past domestic abuse, sometimes your boyfriend is stockpiling because of his Issues but that clashes with your Issues about having control over your life and both of you just have to man up and talk about your feelings, despite that I would categorise this as Fluff

Rating: Mature

“Do you not think this is approaching overkill?” Fenris asks the question lightly, and a little rueful, as he watches Anders begin to unload a quantity of groceries Fenris had not previously thought it was possible to acquire in one trip to the store. Anders huffs, and gestures for him to pick up the rest of the bags as he kicks off his shoes and heads deeper into Fenris’ (their) apartment.

“You obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, so let me do it for you.” Anders says the words over his shoulder, and Fenris falters in the corridor where neither of them have bothered to switch on the hall light, caught for a moment by the ghost of Danarius’ hand on his shoulder, and the echo of his breath on his ear. (“Allow me, pet. I’ll take care of everything.”)

Fenris starts moving again, and tells himself he isn’t shaking off the cobwebs of his past as he does so, but his heart is thumping hard in his chest when he dumps the groceries with a little more force than necessary onto the counter. Anders, with his back to him, startles before shaking off the flinch and continuing to ram items into the freezer. As Hawke would say, Fenris thinks wryly, looking at the paper bags covering every available surface, they both have a lot of baggage. Both figuratively and, in this moment, literally.

“This is coming from the man who lived on instant coffee and pot noodles.” Fenris observes, dryly, as Anders tries and fails to push one of the freezer drawers shut. Without thinking, Fenris crosses around the counter to crouch beside the mage, shoving the drawer shut. He looks up to see Anders outright staring at his pecs, and tries to ignore the pleased flush that rushes through him at that, even as Anders’ turns away, thrusting a finger into the air as he gets up. 

“That! Is different. I was going through something.”

“Right,” Fenris drawls, taking the icy plastic packages of food as Anders passes them to him, pausing to look at what exactly the mage has decided to fill their kitchen with. So far, a great deal of tofu, and other meat substitutes. Fenris wrinkles his nose. “I suspect that I am about to be going through something.”

Anders’ snorts, stretching to open the top cupboards, and the thin ratty t-shirt he’s wearing pulls up over the sharp v of his hips. Fenris resists the urge to kiss the trail of reddening hair just below his belly button, standing instead to put away a truly inordinate amount of store brand cookies into one of the lower cupboards (that he can reach. When Anders had arrived, one of the first things he’d done was colonise Fenris’ long since abandoned top cupboards. He had complained about the cobwebs for days.)

“You’re about to go through something wonderful,” Anders insists, as if neither of them had paused their conversation for even a moment. He gestures with a cartoon of oat milk as he speaks. “We both know I’m an excellent cook.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow, more to tease the mage than out of any real skepticism. “I know you’re an excellent cook so far. Perhaps all you know how to cook is vegetarian schnitzel.”

Anders grins at him and leans forward to press a kiss to his lips, taking the spring onions out of Fenris’ hands. “You know, you’re being very rude to your house-husband to be.”

Fenris laughs, catching Anders’ hips from behind as he arranges a small mountain in the fruit bowl. Fenris presses a kiss to Anders’ shoulder blade, breathing in the fresh scent of detergent and shutting his eyes for a moment as he feels the warmth of his boyfriend through his shirt. Anders leans back into him, and for a moment Fenris thinks he might have succeed in derailing him. But then Anders tips and whirls away from him like a dancer on a spinning top. 

“No! No, I won’t be distracted. I’m not letting a cent of this go to waste.”

Which raised a question, “How are you paying for this anyway?” Fenris asks the question as non-confrontationally as he can. Anders huffs, stacking egg cartons. On the sofa, Libertas stretches, glossy black fur gleaming in the shaft of sunlight she’s managed to find spilling in through the flat’s narrow windows. 

“Hawke. It’s always Hawke. And don’t worry, nothing unsavoury. Just, a favour.” Anders glances over his shoulder as he says it, transparently furtive, thin shoulders hunching a little. Fenris frowns. His boyfriend is, and has always been, a terrible liar. He’s never sure what to think when he’s lying for Hawke. It makes Fenris even more cautious about his next line of questioning.

“I do not know much of what is to be expected in a stable household,” Fenris traces his fingers over the grey formica countertop as he speaks, carefully keeping his attention away from the mage (Anders, much like his cat, tended to be more comfortable when spoken to indirectly.) “But I think that this is unusual.”

Fenris gestures to the grocery bags, which even now the fridge, freezer and cupboards are filled are still full enough of cans and other long lasting goods that they take up most of the kitchen floor. Anders pauses for a moment, arms full of a bag of cans, his back to Fenris. 

“You know, if you were anyone else I would claim cultural difference.”

Fenris says nothing. After another moment Anders sighs and turns to Fenris. His forearms are bare and wrapped around the bag, the hair on the backs of his arms bleached even more blonde with all the time he spends in the sun, skin beneath it dark with copper freckles. A braided leather cord from Isabela, and a colourful threaded one from Merrill, are tight and worn around his wrist, as well as a few more whose origin Fenris does not yet know. 

He looks up from Anders’ arms to his face, though the mage isn’t looking at him, eyes resting instead on Libertas as he chews the inside of his cheek. “Food was a privilege.” He says, at last, shortly. Anders looks back at Fenris, and his expression is dark with an old, familiar kind of anger. “Days, normally. A week, once. When I was fifteen.” Anders’ voice cracks and he clears his throat, walking past Fenris in a transparent effort to hide his expression. Fenris lets him go, and after a moment Anders returns, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He shrugs, and the movement is awkward and unsure. He swallows, and Fenris watches his throat move as he does so. He doesn’t meet Fenris’ eyes. “I just. I wanted to know we had enough. Just in case.”

Anders does look up, then, hesitant and furtive. Fenris feels the tension leave his body like a wave hitting the shore and sinking sizzling into the sand. He reaches forward, crooking his finger under Anders’ chin as he steps closer to him and looks into his eyes. “You could have told me.” Fenris says, softly.

Anders hums, stepping forward and stooping to wrap his arms around Fenris’ chest and rest his chin on his head. “I know.” He says, miserably. “I just got it in my head that if I did you would stop me.”

Fenris’ arms tighten around his boyfriend’s still too skinny chest. Part of him is tempted to leave it here, in this uneasy peace. But the part of him who has spent more hours than he cares to count with a therapist knows that there are thorns yet to cross before he can resolve this peacefully for both of them. So, with the feeling of coughing up fish bones, Fenris manages to makes himself say, “Danarius was always very particular about what I ate.”

Anders stills, as he always does when Fenris mentions Danarius, careful and cautious as a frightened cat. Reluctantly, Fenris lets his arms fall and steps back, turning to heft a paper bag full of canned beans into his arms as he speaks. Anders is not the only one of them who can misdirect. On the sofa, Libertas makes a soft mrrp of question, and Anders coos something softly to her. Fenris hears the rustle of paper as he picks up his own bag and falls him down the hall.

Fenris opens the door to their pantry with his elbow, and bends to start stacking cans on the shelves as he speaks. Above them, the naked electric light bulb buzzes on its rubber cord. “He would not let me choose my own meals. He used to say that I did not know how to properly take care of myself, and that I should let him do it for me.” Fenris purses his lips, and pushes the cans to the back of the shelf, bending to crumple the paper bag in his hand more for the satisfaction of the gesture than any real urge for violence. 

Outside in the corridor, Libertas meows loudly at them both, and Anders bends to scratch her head before stepping out of Fenris’ way as Fenris walks past him. After a moment, hesitantly, Anders follows. Fenris tells himself that it is through no failing of his own that Anders is so jumpy around him. Anyone who has spent time with the mage knows that he is jumpy around everyone, and that the fault lies on other people in darker times. Still, it makes Fenris unhappy to think that Anders is wary of him now. 

Libertas, oblivious to the turmoil in both of her owners, winds her warm body between Fenris’ legs, purring. Despite himself, Fenris feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he bends to lightly scratch the soft fur behind her ears. When he looks up, he catches Anders watching them both with a soft, dopey kind of smile. Fenris catches his gaze and Anders flushes pink, tugging on the loops of gold in his ear. “We really need to get you a puppy.”

Fenris rolls his eyes and straightens, picking up the two remaining bags of cans. “You cannot deal with every potential conversational misstep by promising me a puppy.”

Anders brightens, falling easily into the familiar to and fro of their banter as he follows Fenris back down the hall. “That’s just because you don’t think I mean it this time. Hawke’s mabari is pregnant, Isabela told me.”

Fenris turns on Anders then, holding a finger in the air between them, “Don’t raise my hopes.”

Anders laughs, and holds up both of his hands in surrender before leaning forward to cradle Fenris’ face between them. He leans forward, and his hair falls across his face, casting it in shadow and butter yellow lamplight. “I’m not.” Anders’ brown eyes are warm as he looks at him, and his hands are cool and soft. Fenris waits, patiently, for him to continue, and after a moment Anders’ smile falls a little, and his hands drop to rest lightly on Fenris’ shoulders as he looks about them at the shelves stacked with cans. “I fucked up again, didn’t I?” Anders turns back to Fenris, expression uncharacteristically sincere. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think, and that’s on me. It was bad phrasing, and sort of shit to just assume I could buy a month’s worth of groceries for both of us without telling you.”

From upstairs, there’s the distant bang of a front door opening and closing. Fenris hooks his arms over Anders’, where they rest on his shoulders, letting his hands hang in the space between them. “You could not have known.” He goes on when Anders’ opens his mouth, speaking over him firmly, but not without humour. “I would ask that in future you ask me, so that I can make my own choices about what fills our cupboards for the next,” Fenris raises his eyebrows at the shelves, and shelves, and shelves of cans, “....six months.” 

Anders snorts, and moves forward to press a kiss to Fenris’ forehead, hands fluttering nervously in the air between them like twin moths before settling again at last, heavy and warm, on Fenris’ shoulders. Fenris wraps his arms around Anders’ belly and squeezes him gently, moving to press a kiss to the base of his throat. He feels Anders’ laughter shiver through his chest. “We make quite a pair, don’t we?”

Fenris hums, and pulls back to grab the v neck of Anders’ shirt, tugging him down. Anders’ obliges him with a crooked grin, and Fenris pushes his fingers into his hair, taking the opportunity to pull it loose from its tie. Anders sighs, but before he can speak Fenris gets onto the balls of his feet to kiss him, fingers sinking into the warm, soft mass of his hair. Anders hums and stumbles back, shoulders hitting the shelf, which rattles with cans. Fenris stops kissing Anders just in time to catch the embarrassment rising pink on his freckled cheeks. Fenris smirks at him, just a little, “Well, we are at least prepared for the impending apocalypse.”

Anders grins, pulling him closer, hands stroking his biceps as he does so. “I’d be your bunker buddy any day of the week.”

Fenris laughs, moving to kiss his neck. “You’re ridiculous, mage.”

Anders laughs too, and the sound echoes around the pantry. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

Fenris snorts, and moves to press a long, slow, lingering kiss to his lips. When he pulls back, Anders is looking at him the way people talk about in movies and romance novels, and Fenris almost quails from the brightness of it. But then Anders gives him a hesitant smile, lips red and wet with kissing, and Fenris returns it without hesitation. “Maker help us, I think it is.”

*

(*Fun fact, Fenris and Anders’ cat is a direct reference to @wanderingnork’s excellent series, One and the Same, which I love with my whole heart and you should read.)

[hansoulo]

A Little Longer

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo/Reader

Warnings: cursing, mentions of blood, canon-typical violence, spoilers?? can’t remember which episodes but uhh yeah if you haven’t finished season 1 then some stuff might not make sense

Word Count: ~800 words

Requested: Anonymous

Prompt: “Hold me just a little longer.”

(A/N: oooh lordt we’re really in it now aren’t we... anyways I’m working on the other few prompts thank you so much to everyone who requested!!)

You'd gotten used to his side of the bed being cold. Leaving his dinner wrapped in plastic. Feeling him there with you but never having any proof save the empty coffee mugs he would leave in the morning. It was like you were married to a ghost.

The past few weeks Horacio had hardly seen you. You only ever felt the mattress dip beside you right before dawn broke. Then he was gone. Off with the Search Bloc or the American agents, going who knows where to do heaven knows what.

Humming softly to a love song playing on the radio, you busied yourself with making dinner and tried not to think about the message he'd left on the answering machine two days prior. Lo siento, no sé cuándo estaré en casa. Estar a salvo, por favor. Te quiero. I’m sorry, I don’t know when I’ll be home. Be safe, please. I love you.

I love you, I don’t know, please, I love you, be safe, be safe, I love you, please. The words swam wild beneath your eyelids, the gravel of his voice overlapping and making your head spin. Setting down the knife you had been using atop the cutting board, you willed your hands to stop trembling and took a deep breath, fighting tears. Horacio would come home. He always did. At least, that’s what you told yourself every time you felt him go. It was the only thing you could tell yourself, but lately, you weren’t so sure anymore.

When you heard the front door creak on its hinges, you swore your heart almost stopped.

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

He saw you standing in the kitchen, dressed in only his old button-down and a pair of house slippers, and Horacio thought he had never seen anything more beautiful. Your face was backlight with the glow of street traffic, your eyes reflecting headlights as he stepped across the doorway. You looked… pure. Angelic, almost. So far from all the bloodshed that he could still smell, sticky and bitter on the soles of his boots.

He wanted nothing more than to take you away. Carry you up in his arms, run and never stop until any thoughts of Escobar, of sicarios and shot children were erased by the scent of your perfume.

But he couldn't. Not now, not when he was so close. So instead, Horacio settled for digging his fingers into your hips and pushing you back against the countertop, burying his face into your neck and breathing, trying to wash away the taste of copper from his mouth with every drag of his lips against your shoulder.

He felt like a sinner at the altar, damned but still begging at your feet for something he couldn’t articulate. Not hopeful for atonement, no, he was too far gone for that. Just something to numb his conscience. A carnal respite in your soft hands and even softer smile. Something to tether him to the ground before his soul could float away, out of an army helicopter and into the mountains to lie with the body of a man who’s name he couldn’t remember. So he kissed you.

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

You wrapped your arms around his waist to grip at his back, the granite of the countertop digging into your legs as Horacio swallowed your mouth up in his, drawing out a groan from the back of your throat. It was different. Not so lustful as much as it was… hungry. Needy. A drowning man gulping for the air in your lungs, knocking the breath out of your chest and making your cheeks burn.

You’d grown accustomed to his absence, to not being able to touch him. Having him here again, all rough skin and scraping palms and warm lips, was almost too much.

You pulled away, still holding the fabric of his shirt in between his shoulder blades. Looking at him under hooded eyes, you panted through swollen lips as you tried to slow the pulse rushing in your ears.

“Horacio,” you asked quietly, “Is everything alright?”

He was silent, his eyes burning and his stare boring into you, longing, searching for something you couldn’t place and didn’t think you could give him. It broke your heart.

“Hold me just a little longer,” he mumbled, his voice breaking slightly. You sighed, resting your head against his collarbones. His heartbeat was erratic against your temple when you moved to wrap your arms around his waist, reaching to pull him closer.

You couldn’t give him any assurance that whatever happened would be okay because it obviously wouldn’t. You couldn’t give him advice because you knew he would never tell you what he did. But you could give him this.

Pressing your lips to Horacio’s neck, you stepped into the space between his parted feet. The music was faint over the radio, but you still swayed to it, rocking gently. Just a little longer.

[kickingitwithkirk]

Happy Coincidence Chance Discovery

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Piper, Jared Padalecki x Piper,

Characters: Dean Winchester /Jensen Ackles, mentions of Chad Michael Murray 

Word Count:4367

Warnings: cursing, kissing, nudity, implied sex/genital fondling/teasing 

 *Jared and Jensen are single.

A/N: for @idreamofplaid​  Thanks for the Memories Challenge #plaid and the memories  HAPPY BIRTHDAY JARED🎉

Prompt: Season 11, episode 4, Baby

A/N: Baby is my favorite episode but every time I’ve watched it I kept wondering; Sam’s hook up with Piper the waitress? So this is my fill in that blank with a Jared twist.

Divider: created by @writeyourmindaway���

*No beta all mistakes are mine

Dean drives into the parking lot of a roadhouse just after dusk and Sam looks at the marquee shaking his head in disbelief.

“Are you serious? Dean, it's late, I’m exhausted and..and.. and starving.  And this place. I mean, even Swayze wouldn't come to this roadhouse.” Sam groused.

“First of all, never use Swayze’s name in vain, okay. Ever.” Dean chastises his brother for such a sacrilege, “Second, you don't remember this place? You don't remember Heather, the hunter we worked the wendigo case a couple years ago?”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam partially smiles, remembering that night of fun.

 “Yeah, exactly” Dean taking the same trip down memory lane.

“What, she’s here tonight?” Sam asks, perking up a bit.

 “I texted her, she's working a rugaru case in Texas.” Dean says.

“Actually, she never texted me back. That's not the point, the point is that we have a ton of driving left to do just to go to a town where it's not probably a case.” Dean points ahead, “But in there, good times.”

 “Uh...” Sam hedges looking at the building.

 “But time heals all wounds, especially good times. What do ya say?” Dean looks at his brother hopeful.

 “I say... knock yourself out.” Sam answers with his usual reply and Dean looks away, “I'm gonna find a diner and dig into the lore like Cas did, see if anythings ever happened where we’re headed.”

“Ah man, you really got to learn to have fun.” Dean’s reply was full of disappointment in his little brother.

“Seriously. It’s pathetic.” 

They both climb out of the Impala. Sam grabs his bag from the backseat and starts walking back towards town as Dean heads into the roadhouse. 

***

Sam had walked over a mile looking for somewhere to eat. Being Saturday night he thought there’d be more open but that’s small town living, the streets roll up at noon on the weekends. 

He was about to give up and hike back to that mom & pop gas station he passed for a microwave burrito, preferably bean to get back at Dean, when he happened upon a small, local place, Mak’s Diner. 

Hitching his bag up, he pushed open the door expecting the usual greasy spoon Dean's unerring sense navigates towards and stops just inside the front door.

It was an older establishment, obviously one of those passed down from generation to generation places but to his surprise it was well maintained, despite the C on the marquee being burnt out.

“Evening, have a seat anywhere and I’ll be right with you.” A woman’s voice called out from the kitchen. Sam walked past the counter smiling at only other occupants, an elderly couple having coffee and dessert, heading towards the back where family seating was located. 

As he passed the next to last booth he noticed a closed laptop, several open books with notes scrawled around their margins, highlighted paragraphs and a few notebooks scattered on its tabletop.

He dropped the bag on the seat and shed his jacket before sliding into the booth, fishing out his laptop and the legal pad that he had started making more notes on earlier.

“Hey there, what can I get you?” 

Picking up the menu laying by his elbow Sam glances through it, “Coffee and the Cobb salad, thanks.” He orders closing the menu and looking up to hand it to the waitress. She is differently not what he would have expected to find in a backwater burg like this one. 

Her makeup is understated, nails painted a neutral color and her copper hued hair is pulled back in an elegant chiffon, not a high ponytail or hastily bobby pinned up-do, held in place with a real silver clip, the type that’s handed down as an heirloom.

“Just the Cobb salad?” She asked looking under the tabletop, taking in Sam’s long legs somewhat stretched out under it, boots bumping against the other side of the circular booth. Her blue/grey eyes slowly travel up appraising his body till they meet his.

“Big boys like you need more than a few leafy greens for stamina.” 

Sam felt himself blushing like he was seventeen again. Waitresses blatantly flirt with Dean and vice versa all the time so he’s taken aback by this woman's more than blatant appraisal of his physique.

“I, um, yeah, ju..just the salad.” Sam stammers out.

“Okay, be back with that coffee.” Her smiles genuinely, not that faked for the customers sake one he’s used to.

Sam appraises her retreating figure like she did him. She’s not wearing the nurses white or black rubber soled shoes that’s usual waitress gear he’s seen but a brand of tennis shoes he knows are out of the typical income of career restaurant staff. 

The fifties style, yellow uniforms color is completely unflattering, not fitting her right, way too tight around her bust and hips and far shorter than it should be, her mile long legs on display.

Sam shifts in his seat and tries to discreetly palm down his spontaneous erection but not so little Sam is putting up a fight, making it known it's been way too long since he’s gotten wet and he wants to enjoy her junoesque attributes. 

***

While he is waiting for a page to load Sam hears the elderly couple preparing to leave. He watches as the husband helps his wife into her jacket and gently takes her hand, resting it in the crook of his arm as they slowly make their way to the exit, feeling the pang of loneliness that’s his constant companion.

“Mr. Reynolds’s, hang on a sec,” the waitress calls from the kitchen emerging with a white cake box tied shut, “Auntie wanted me to make sure you got this before leaving. She’s sorry she missed your anniversary party.”

“You tell her we missed her, needs to hurry up and get well.” Mrs. Reynolds remarked as her husband took the box with his free hand. She glanced back towards Sam, “Sweetie, you gonna be okay here with the likes of him?” 

Sam kept his expression neutral, waiting to see how this plays out. He knew people found him intimidating because of his size and being a stranger in a small town, he definitely stands out but not many were that blatant about it.

“He ordered a Cobb salad, I think I can handle him,” she jested winking at him.

The couple bid her goodnight and she went back into the kitchen, Sam realizing they were now all alone. Sighing, he starts reading the info again trying to figure out what exactly their hunting is. Or not.

He was so focused on his research like usual he didn’t acknowledge the waitress standing there with his order.

“Kmm hmm,” Sam’s head snapped up, “must be something really good if you don’t notice the likes of me.” She chided him setting down a coffee decanter and cup.

“Sorry, guess I was kinda caught up.” Sam moves the laptop and notepad over as she sets down his salad and two types of dressing. “Figured you might not be a ranch type of guy so I grabbed the vinaigrette too.” 

“Thanks, I prefer vinaigrette, don’t usually get offered it.” 

“I’m pretty good at reading people which is why I also brought you this,” she set down another plate with a lettuce wrapped, curiously colored and, by the smell, not meat burger with all the fixings, a generous helping of baked sweet potato fries and a green colored milkshake.

“I didn’t order this.”

“I know but it cooks night off and I’m trying some new recipes. Seeing as you're the only other one here, you've been conscripted as my guinea pig.” She slid into the other side of his booth where an identical plate rested, “I wasn’t kidding about you needing more than just a salad. Besides, I hate eating alone, you wouldn’t believe how often it happens. Fuck, where’s my manners, I’m Piper.” She stuck her hand out across the table.

He takes her preferred hand amazed how it fits perfectly in his, “Sam.” 

“So Sam, figure out what you're hunting yet?” She asked nonchalantly as she picked up her burger, “Cause, not being judgey, but that’s some really random shit you got there.” She takes a bite, watches as his expression bounces between startled and incredulous.

“How…”

“Saw your Tarsus 99 when you took off your jacket. I had one as a kid, then daddy got killed on a hunt and I got sent here to live with Auntie, she doesn’t cotton to hunting.” 

Piper picked up a fry pointing it at him, “But what I really wanna know, where the hell did you get that demon blade, ‘cause I’ve never seen one like it before.” 

Sam hesitates, “That’s a long story.” 

“Don’t close till one and I’ve got nowhere to be after.”

Sam decides to deflect instead of answering. “So what is it you do, because you're definitely not a waitress.” 

“Officially, I’m an antique appraiser. Unofficially, I’m helping a wayward hunter who graced my door with something he can’t figure out.”

***

Sam and Piper, after closing the diner, stayed another three hours hashing out the research for his case were now taking their time walking back towards the roadhouse. 

“I’ve been wanting to ask, what’s with that name tag?” Sam noticed early it read Maggie.

“Came with this god awful uniform. Auntie insists that we all adhere to how her daddy ran the place. So when I came back to temporarily help out after her surgery, Maggie decided she was not gonna take orders from someone younger, quit and I got stuck with this. I told Auntie it wouldn’t fit, even with letting out the hem. Maggie was like five-four and I’m over five-ten! 

Ugh! I keep popping these stupid top buttons and can’t freaking bend over without showing everyone my C U Next Tuesday.” 

Sam smiled that nervous smile he got when unsure how to respond to an answer he wasn’t expecting.

“I normally wear this to cover it,” moving her pocketed hands in the light weight, knee length sweater she had put on when they left the diner, “but I have to confess,” Piper turned around, walking backwards, “I took it off when I saw you come in, thought what the hell, been long time since a really cute guy has walk through my door so...” She bit her lip, turning back around as they continued down the lane in companionable silence.

Sam mused over her confession admitting to himself he was interested in her too. He enjoyed sharing different theories and bouncing ideas of what they might be hunting back and forth with her, surprising him with her unique take on things.

Piper might not have been the type he consciously steered towards since Jess but she was comfortable to be around, didn’t feel his usual awkwardness he normally had around most women. 

They arrived at the roadhouse a few minutes later and Sam led her towards the Impala.

“Damn, you brother is a fucking artist, how many times has he rebuilt her?” Piper asked walking around the car, running her hand over the Impalas pristine exterior. 

“To many.” Sam replies, putting his bag on the front seat. “Can I have a look?” He turns to see Piper standing by the trunk. “Um, sure.” Strolling over he unlocks it and lifts the interior wheel well exposing the car's hidden armory.

“Is that a grenade launcher?”

“Yeah, Dean found it at the bunker.” Sam laughed remembering how excited Dean had been when he discovered it. 

Piper shook her head shutting the trunk and hopped up on it, “What’cha wanna do now, go in,” gesturing at the bar, “or hang out here for a while longer?”

“I think I’m good hanging o...”

Piper grabbed his jacket dragging him between her spread legs and kissed him.

It took Sam all of five seconds to process what was happening before his hands grabbed her hips and tugged her to the edge of the trunk, her short skirt riding even higher as she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer.

Sam jerked back as headlights flashing over them, a patrol car drove into the parking lot. He lifted Piper off the trunk and led her to the car's back door dragging  the green cooler out of their way.

Piper climbed in as he hauled it to the trunk and grabs the army blanket Dean keeps then gets in depositing it and his jacket over the front seat.

“Where were we before being rudely interrupted?” Piper asked, sliding onto Sam’s lap and leaning in to resume kissing him. 

Sam tangled his long fingers into her now loose hair pulling to halt her, “What about that patrolman?”

“Won’t be back till closing, around six A.M.”

“That means Dean won’t either,” he says closing the space between them, heatedly attacking her lips.

***

Piper ran her hand over his bare chest, “How long is your refractory period?”

Sam shifted to look down at her, “umm, around twenty minutes.”

“Hmmm, I’m gonna have to see what I can do to shorten that ‘cause we are so doing that more than once again.”

“And how are you gonna do that?” 

Piper stared at him slowly trailing her hand down his torso. Sam’s breath hitched as she lightly teased her fingers across his lower stomach, running through his treasure trail and over to his hip.

Shifting further down his body she continued running her fingers over the top of his left thigh feeling the hard muscles flexing under the skin. She placed both of her hands in between his legs shifting his left one off the seat and bending his right leg back placing his foot flat on the bench seat. 

Piper kneels in the space between Sam’s spread legs continuously moving her fingers in random patterns over the insides of both tights, touching him everywhere below his waist.

Sam closed his eyes groaning loudly, dropping his head back against the window as her fingers played over his balls feeling her other hand travel behind them teasing over his...

“You fell asleep in the fucking car!”

His eyes snapped open startled. Blinking rapidly he sees Dean leaning through the open car window looking at him. 

“Dean what...where’s Piper?”

“What’s a Piper?” He growled out, “Dude, we wrapped twenty minutes ago and I’ve been looking for you, got worried cause you weren’t answering your fucking phone Jay!”

He took a good look at Dean. His foggy brain finally realizing its mistake, taking in the headset hanging around his neck and the ball cap he likes wearing when directing. “Jen, sorry, guess I’m still in Sam headspace, got disoriented for a sec.”

Jensen laughed, “You find one grey hair and suddenly you're getting memory loss and needing naps? I’ll have to remember to have you in bed by nine, old man.” 

“Your fucking hilarious Jack.” Jared shoots back sliding across the seat getting out, “Man, I had the weirdest dream.”

“From the happy noises you were making that was far from weird. And speaking of happy,” Jensen's eyebrows went up as he pointedly looked down.

Jared glances down thinking he’s drooled all over himself only to see the prominent bulge in his jeans.

“Bob’s called a meeting in five but I think we’re gonna be late.” 

***

“I’m telling you it was so real! She was tall with coppery blond hair, tasted like chocolate peppermint and has this tattoo above her...” Jared paused grinning, keeping that specific location to himself, “I’ve never in my life had such a vivid dream like that.”

“Dude, you like petite brunettes.” 

“I know..so why would I make her a redhead?”

“Hell if I know, it’s your giant melon. Maybe all that sugar ribbon you eat is finally getting its revenge.” Jensen snarks as they enter the meeting room.

They were greeted by Bob’s gruff voice, “About time you two showed up. Alright, now that everyone is finally here, we need to get everyone up to speed. We’re having to make changes to the filming schedule.” He pauses looking at him notes, “Jared, don’t need you to come tomorrow for those new promo shots with, what was that new character again?” 

“Y/N Y/L/N, Sam’s new love interest.”

“Right, anyways, writers scraped that idea. As some of you heard, several of our exterior locations got flooded with that last storm and it’s taking time to find new locations so instead of doing blocking we're gonna do a quick read through of the new episode.”

Jared opened his copy of the new script to episode 4: Baby.

Reading the opening scene he experiences deja vu, quickly scanning the first two pages: bunkers garage: Dean washing the Impala, Sam having a possible case in Oregon. Next scene: interior shot Impala, Sam gets a protein shake out of cooler, Dean wants to know about the beer. Next scene: pulling in roadhouse parking lot, Dean trying to get Sam to join him, goes to eat instead, shot from Impala view watching Dean walking. Next scene: daybreak continuing from the view of the car...

“Fuck me.” Jared whispers, catching Jensen's attention. “What’s wrong?”

“This is how my dream started.”

Jensen pulls a yeah right face.

Jared shifted in his chair leaning closer to Jensen, looking directly into his green eyes, “I’ll prove it. Next scene: Dean gets in the car at daybreak and a naked waitress pops up in the backseat with a voice-over from Sam. Dean gets out peeping in the driver's side back window at her getting dressed. Cut to next scene: Sam climbs into front seat buttoning his flannel as he apologizes for having sex in Dean’s car. Dean, happy his brother finally got laid drives off quoting Bob Sager lyrics, playing Night Moves and Sam changing a lyric. 

Jared continued to lay out the entire episode from memory as Jensen flips through the script following.

“Bullshit Jared, someone snuck you a copy of this script, you're totally fucking with me.” 

“Jensen, not this time.”

***

Jared walked back to his trailer aggravated that Jensen won’t believe he didn’t get an advance peek of the script. He can’t shake this unsettling feeling that he was forgetting something important.

He was two steps into his trailer when his phone vibrated. Chad left a voicemail instead of texting, weird.

“Jay man, you gotta do me solid. A friend of mine got the part of Y/N on your show and I don’t know what the fucks happening up there but she flipped the fuck out on me! Need you to check on her, she’s outside one of the guest trailers. And have her call me back after she’s calmed the fuck down!”

Jared snorted, another woman pissed off at Chad, shocker. “The fuck you getting me into this time Murray.” Jared mutters to himself as he heads over to the guest stars trailers and hears a somewhat familiar voice outside of one.

“What do you mean there’s nothing you can do? I get here and now they're telling me they’ve dropped the story line.”

There was a pause in conversation as Jared walked closer to hear more clearly over the lot's noises and was shocked when he saw her sitting on one of the trailer's steps.

“But I signed a contract...what? I don’t remember seeing that in there. So they can just arbitrarily drop the part with no notification, that’s bullshit! I’ve never had a clause like that in one before. I gave up my job and apartment for this!” She gets up and paces around not noticing him. 

“They're giving me the bit part of the waitress in this episode, have a five am call for hair, getting a blonde rinse so I look more like a Dean type girl. I don’t know what the fuck is with these writers, it’s like they don’t get Sam, should’ve left him like Kripke originally created him.” She paused, “paying me what? At scale! That’ll just cover my petrol for the drive back to L.A. Wait, what about my six month lease? Could you check on it.” 

“Oh, giving me two nights at the Hilton. How magnanimous of them,” she sarcastically replies, “can I still get that part on Arrow...cast someone else.” She abruptly ends the call and sits back down on the step slumping over her knees.  

“So, how much of that fucked up conversation did you overhear?” She asked not looking at him.

“Um, almost all of it.” Jared confesses, “I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping but I got a voicemail from Chad,” she looked up staring in disbelief at Jared, “he’s worried and wanted me to check on you.” 

“Fanfuckingtastic, can this day get any better? I’ve completely humiliated myself in front of Jared Fucking Padalecki!” 

Jared can just make out her blushing in the still dimming light. “I wouldn’t say completely, I mean, you could drop your pants and yell Pudding.”

She blinked at him before doubling over in laughter, “Alright, point taken. Still, it’s a crock of shit you don’t need to be bothered with.”

“Chad’s kinda made it my problem. Look, I don't know all the details but maybe I can help, I can call casting..”

“Oh hell no! Thanks but no thanks. Bunch of assbutts on social media were already speculating about how someone like me got the part in the first place. Last thing I need is more ammo for the haters, they’ll tweet something like I had a three way with you and Ackles because I was desperate to get the part back.” 

Jared cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair embarrassed to feel turned on by the imagery she conjured up in his mind. 

 “Mmm, that’d be my wet dream come true, but not the point, they’ll just come up with some random shit.”

Jared understood being all too familiar with the anti whatever’s having been the target himself.

“Okay, how about we go to my trailer,” she gave him a skeptical look, “where you can have some privacy to call Chad back. I’ll get de-Sam’d and we can talk some more or grab a bite if you're hungry.”

“You don’t know me from Adam, what if I’m some psychotic serial stocker nut job?” 

“If your friends with Chad, you absofuckingloutley are Ms. what's your name.” Jared sarcastically remarks given her a mischievous grin.

“Touché, and it's Piper,” Jared froze at her name, “and you’ve been friends with Murry longer than me so I know you’re straight up batshit crazy.” She smarts back standing up, “lead on, oh gallant knight.”

***

Jared walked out of the bath toweling his wet hair sees Piper lounging on his couch still on the phone with Chad.

As he crossed over to the kitchen's fridge he couldn’t help but notice her low rise jeans had ridden lower, revealing the top half of the tattoo just above her..

“Dude, should’a told me Padalecki has a tattoo kink,” Jared tripped over his feet before catching himself embarrassed at getting caught, “Yeah, that was your boy.” She winked at him, “No way in hell I’m ever showing it to you perv.” Jared loudly laughs at that. “Hey, when I get back I’m PA’ing for you till I get another gig. Don’t you dare argue, you got me into this so it’s that or I’m on your couch for a month,” Piper rolled her eyes at Chad’s response, “Yeah, yeah, talk to you later.”

“Is that how you met Chad, working as a PA?” Jared inquired coming over to sit down next to Piper handing her a beer. 

“Yeah, paid the bills while doing auditions, was starting to pick up a few bit parts around LA.” Piper starts nervously fiddling with the bottles label, “I heard about the casting call for a new Sam girl and Murry talked me into trying out for it, so I figured unless I kiss Crowley I don’t have a shot in hell and holy fuck, I got it.” 

She stopped talking but kept playing with the label. 

“Hey, whatever it is you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Jared says gently touching her shoulder in a reassuring manner.

She took a long pull of her beer before continuing. “My Auntie died and I inherited everything, including her debts. I negotiated a smaller settlement but it wiped out all my savings.” She paused draining the rest of her bottle. “I figured it was serendipity..”

Jared is half listening, feeling that uneasy sensation again at that last word.

“...gonna be Sam Winchester’s...”

“If we’re meant to meet again,”

“.. weren’t killing her off after three episodes but then they decided to drop that story line...”

“we will.”

“...I should be going. Thanks for the beer and letting bending your ear, I’m gonna get out of your hair.” Piper gets up heading for the door.

Jared finally remembers.

“I believe in serendipity..maybe you can too.”

He quickly jumped up moving between her and the door blurting out, “I know you said you didn’t want my help but you can’t go, not yet.”

“Okay, why not? ‘Cause any other time I’d be up for some wham bam thank you ma’am but so not in the mood right now.”

Taking a deep breath he goes for it, “So, get this, after we finished filming today, I fell asleep in the Impala and had this dream…” 

***

Jared sat on the couch nervously chewing on his thumb watching as Piper paces back and forth mulling over his story.

She abruptly stopped and sat down on the table in front of him. “So here's the deal, I will believe everything you've told me,” Jared opens his mouth to say something but Piper reached out laying her fingers on his lips, “if you can answer one question.” 

Jared took her hand remembering how it felt so right in his, “Okay.”

“Since you’ve seen it in your dream, what does my tattoo mean?”

“In Japanese, it means happy coincidence,” Jared confidently says sitting back as Piper climbs onto his lap, “but that's the first line, the second one is chance discovery.”

Jared pulls her in, brushing his lips against hers, running his tongue across them so she’ll part them , allowing him access. He can taste the beer they’ve been drinking but there’s that sumptuous flavor of her underneath he finds intoxicating..chocolate peppermint..thinking to himself..

Serendipity.

[razorblade180]

Twin Snowflakes pt 20: Choice Words

“All right everybody, I wanna see some hustle!” Harriet shouted at her students playing basketball. She blew her whistle loudly to get them going for the fourth time. Veronica had learned after the first blow to really dial back her senses if she wanted to avoid ringing in her ears. “Your coach really loves that thing.” Veronica looked down from the bleachers to see Summer stretching on the floor. To no surprise, the girl was pretty flexible, able to get her chest to the floor with her legs spread out into a v-shape. “Make sure to really get around your hips, knees, and lower back. I could tell your body was tight the day I took your measurements.”

Summer looked at the girl annoyed. “I don’t need a peanut gallery. I know how to stretch.” She stood and bent over backwards slowly. The sight of Veronica glaring at her made Summer turn the other way. She wasn’t expecting Valerie to be checking her out. “What the- how long have you been here!?” Valerie started stretching out both arms and wrists. “Well I would’ve been here sooner if I wasn’t waiting for you outside the locker room. You hate going in by your…” Valerie’s attention shifted up towards the bleachers where Veronica sat. “Self… What the hell are you doing here? Come to start trouble?” Valerie cracked her knuckle.

Veronica gave the longest eye roll of her life. “Please don’t make me embarrass you in front of a crowd.” A threat that prompted Summer to point at her while nudging Valerie away in vain. It had been two seconds and Summer was already playing babysitter. She was gonna nip this in the bud right now to avoid an oncoming headache. “No, stop talking to each other. Just shut up. Veronica you’re already on thin ice so don’t antagonize people unless you want actual problems to occur that will involve you being kicked out” Veronica’s attitude got a bit more bored and vexed. “Yeah yeah….” She groaned, annoyed by her situation. “Hard to stay quiet when a loud mouth is just begging to be put in their place.” Summer closed her eyes. Why’d she have to say something like? Valerie moves right past Summer. She wasn’t gonna let that slide. “By all means, what am I asking for?” Her tone was ripe with anger.

Veronica stood up and walked down to get right in the taller girl’s face. “Valerie, you are absolutely stupid. Childish in its purest form; a girl so self absorbed in the opinions of others yet utterly blind to that fact to the point it’s crippling. And for what? Ego? Some distorted sense of pride? It’s pathetic and insulting. I don’t understand why Nicholas is in love with a person like you.” Valerie’s hand swiftly rose half way up to Veronica’s face before Veronica grabbed her wrist. “Don’t ask for something then get made when you can’t handle it. Don’t get triggered by my mention of him if he’s nothing more than a friend. I would think you’d be desperate for him to look at someone that isn’t you.”

“I’d never want that person to be as cold and cruel as you.” Valerie bit back, harshly. “You’re the definition of self absorbed and ego. I can’t even name one time you’ve considered other’s feelings when it didn’t benefit you; besides Nick obviously. You treat Summer like shit.” Summer scrunched her face up as if she had just been called to the front of the class. Why did she have to be the example? Yes, Veronica walked all over and nothing about it ever felt nice, but she didn’t want to be a point of tension. Not right now at least. Veronica burrowed her eyes into her very soul, expecting an answer. “Well? Just gonna let this copper top speak for you?”

Copper top, now Summer knew Veronica was pissed. She wasn’t the person to insult appearance. “I mean you are pretty terrible. That’s putting it mildly. It’s like you always have a thorn stuck in your side, or itching to fight.” Valerie crossed her arms. “Behind that pretty face isn’t anything to brag about. Not even a brain from what I can tell; don’t act like you know. If someone has to watch you so badly then go hassle Nick instead of us. He has patience for it.” Veronica was at a loss for words. She couldn’t help but let out the tiniest chuckle. “Do you not know? Nick didn’t tell you?” Valerie looked at Summer puzzled. “Nick isn’t here Valerie. He’s been sick in bed since the fight yesterday.” Valerie’s face only got more shocked. “Wait, did you know about the fight?” Valerie shook her head. “Nick was in a fight yesterday!? I saw him right before I had to change. We-” Valerie’s words got stuck in her throat. She told Nick that she wanted space, to leave her alone. Did that upset him? No, he’s not the type to lash out. Nick didn’t tell her to honor her request. That idiot! Valerie bit her lip in frustration. She looked at the two girls in front of her. Summer looked concerned while Veronica was enjoying Valerie’s shocked expression. “Gee, it’s shocking Nick didn’t tell you. Can’t imagine why. Well, no I can. What was I saying about pride and being childish? Not sure of what you did but I bet it involves those two things.” Valerie had finally reached her limit with Veronica.”Fuck-”

“Well well well, look what the cat dragged in.”Jordan called out, annoyed by the sight of all three girls. She walked past them with disgust in her eyes and a group of girls in cheerleading uniforms behind her. Suddenly the argument taking place seemed secondary. “Was that attempt at being funny, or racist?” Veronica had to know.”Whatever one you want, fleabag.” That one was easier to figure out. Unlike with Valerie, Veronica did nothing but take a deep breath. Summer had other ideas. “Wanna try saying that for the whole class to hear!?” She shouted with ease. Harriet immediately caught wind of the forming chaos and blew her whistle. “Jordan, hurry up and get your butt over here before I make the cheer team do drills until you can backflip in their sleep!” Jordan picked up the pace.”Fine, nothing of value over here anyways..” she mumbled.

“That takes care of her!” Summer slouched. That plan actually worked! She raised her voice to someone and they didn’t get the chance to do the same. It would’ve been a proud moment if Veronica wasn’t looking at her like she had been the racist. “What? I’m paying you back for yesterday is all. Why are you upset!?” Veronica flicked Summer in the forehead. “Stop assuming. You caught me off guard is all. That bitch is a cheerleader? She definitely has the attitude.” Valerie did her best to hold her tongue on that statement. “Jordan is the leader of the team. Nobody performs as good as her,unfortunately. That alone inflates her ego.” Veronica carefully watched the group of girls get in formation and start doing their routine; specifically watching the way Jordan jumped into a split after doing a handspring. Was that really it? Her posture was good but that landing was far too heavy. She was gonna injure her ankle if she wasn’t careful. Veronica could do way better. In fact….”Hey?” She called out to Summer and Valerie with petty intent. “Want me to deflate her a little?”

xxxx

“Jordan hurt her ankle?” Nick said, clearing space in the messy guest room. “And now you’re taking her spot for the tournament?” Veronica snickered freely. I told her not to attempt an aerial after a back handspring that followed a cartwheel, but she had to prove she was better. Too bad she didn’t have anything to help with balance.” The happy wave of her tail picked up a deck of cards. Veronica opened the box and started shuffling just for the hell of it. This always calmed her mind for some reason. It was a perfect eye graber, displaying how nimble her fingers were and skill in sleight of hand. “So yeah, productive day. Valerie and argued for a moment. Sorry.” Nick nodded, “Nobody threw a punch. I’ll take what I can get.’ He reached for a single card and pulled a joker. The trickster looked like a hysterical skeleton with a sword through him. Nick failed to see what was so amusing. He gave the card back and focused on Veronica’s shuffling. It would be his job to find that card again. “How’d the office conversation go? Must’ve been fine if you’re embarrassing students.”

“Yeah. Your principal is a good man. All I have to do is have a council member by me at all times. Between you and Eliza, it’s basically a slap on the wrist.” Veronica cut the deck in half and started shuffling them separate. The chance of Nick finding that joker was nonexistent unless he caught on to her trick. Every third card her finger grazed was turned intangible and went through five cards before she stopped using her semblance. Finally she held twenty six cards in each hand. “If you can’t find the joker then you go back to bed when I’m done with your measurements.” Those were high stakes. Why couldn’t somebody let him do work!? “And if I find the joker?” Veronica smiled, “I’m at your mercy. You can decide whatever you want me to do.” He didn’t know why but that made him blush. He’d never abuse such power, yet it almost seemed like she expected him to say something outlandish. Veronica waved her hands. “Eliminate half of the deck. You’ll either increase your odds, or make them zero.” Now the pressure was really on. He eliminated the left deck and Veronica fanned out the right. So far so good. The joker was in the spot she always put it, thirteenth card out of the twenty six. She was corny like that. Only her parents and Ruby had ever found the joker when it was the target. All the cards had a reason for their placement. Most people just don’t pay attention through various rounds. Nick finally reached out and picked the tenth card unfortunately, grabbing the ace. “Awww, oh well.” Nick said. “I thought I had this in the bag.”

Veronica picked up all the cards and started grabbing measuring tape. Next was putting her hair in a ponytail and putting on glasses. She barely wore them around others. Being a faunus that couldn’t see in the dark was lame enough. Needing glasses to sew just felt like an extra blow to her fragile faunus pride. “Better luck next time. Anyways, let’s get down to business. Take your jacket off plea-” she had forgotten Nicholas was only wearing a tank top underneath. An audible gulp came from her as she stood in front of him with her tools. Nick spread his arms out for her to start measuring. “Ready.” He said, not realizing Veronica was gawking a little. Her hands studied his shoulders and chest. They had gotten broader. She could tell he’s been putting his all into his training, yet nobody would guess that with the typical close he wore. Slight tension around his right torso intrigued her. Veronica pressed her hands against it to find out that it was actually a little tender. If she remembered correctly, the Paladin had struck this side. Both hands felt their way done to his waistline. It was hard to ignore that his tank top stopped a little about it, revealing a little skin. Veronica’s mind was on autopilot. Half was expecting him to provide helpful advice and get an idea of what to add to his garb. The other half was turned off, logically that is. It was too busy admiring his body. Any designs for him were usually done with previous numbers. Veronica usually doesn’t get the chance to be this close; this intimacy with her clients was always the best way to make something. That’s why she always asks permission to touch them beforehand. Nick realized she had forgotten that rule this time around, but didn’t think he should bring it up. A blush cams across his face. Being looked at like this was a little...intense. Then, Veronica started purring lightly.

Nicholas wasn’t made for this kind of pressure. It was too much! Recent confessions only added to it. Veronica wasn’t looking at him. Veronica was looking at him. “Ummm, Vee?” He said nervously, hoping it was loud enough. Thankfully it was. She snapped out of her daze to meet a blushing boy looking right into her eyes. The overwhelming feeling of insecurity and anxiety was crystal clear in his eyes. Veronica’s face began turning red as her hands left the warmth of his body. She had gotten swept in the moment, choosing to break their gaze by looking away. “Sorry…” her voice now meek, losing any of the commanding confidence it once had.

“It’s okay…” he muttered, unsure of this situation. “I was a caught off guard is all. That kind of attention is pretty new to me.” Veronica went back to taking his measurements appropriately. “New? Girls throw themselves at you all the time. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed?” Nick shook his head. “It’s not the same. They throw themselves at me because of what they can get. Status, money, fame; another guy can have those and they’ll move on. Not like I’m bringing anything else to the table.” His voice trailed off. “Physically, what’s to be desired?” It wasn’t meant to be so somber but it was. To Nick, he was nothing more than a runt. An average looking one at that. If a guy had half the money he had and bulky or tall then they were way better off. It’s only natural to want the best choice. “It’s rude to talk about yourself like that.” Veronica said, her tone a bit more stern and upset than before. “Especially in front of someone who thinks you’re handsome and doesn’t care about what’s in your wallet.” She picked up a pen and paper to write down measurements. Nick assumed he could relax his body for the time being. “Thanks. Telling Summer something like that might boost her spirit.”

Veronica chuckled to herself. “Isn’t that her therapist’s job? Not much of a good one if he’s not doing that.” She put the pen down, annoyed by the thought of him. “Yet my parents keep bringing up the magic man himself. Says he’s a good listener if I need anything.” Nick was sorely confused by her attitude. Oscar is great! “What’s wrong with Dr.Os?” He couldn’t fathom anybody not liking a guy like him. Oscar was such a good man! Veronica didn’t seem to share that opinion however. “I just don’t believe listening to a person’s problems for an hour or two for a week does much. Therapy sounds like a big ploy and his smile is a bait.”

“Huh, well that’s an interesting viewpoint to say the least.” Nick wasn’t aware she had such strong feelings about it. “Well it’s a ploy with some benefits. He’s definitely helped me a bunch.” Veronica looked at Nicholas smile softly as he started running his hand through his hair. “Wait, you’ve gone to therapy?” She asked. He’s never mentioned such a thing. “Of course, when I was younger that is. I had a whole schedule along with Summer. Still check in from time to time.” He sounded embarrassed about that last part. “Seeing your family hospitalized for an incident you caused us heavy stuff, especially when you’re a kid. The only thing more daunting is seeing that person’s face become twisted as they try to kill you. Don’t tell Summer, but Shiva has done more than a little to unnerve me.” He laughed, playing off the severity of it to ease himself. It was clear by the frown Veronica wore that she felt sad for him. “What’s with the face? I’m fine, talking about it isn’t a problem for-” Nick was interrupted as two hands were raised in front of his face. “Ten minutes.” Veronica said with a commanding presence. Nick split her hands apart to see her absolute confidence stare at him. “If you ever feel like you need to decompress or rant like there’s no tomorrow, then come to me. Speak your truth unapologetically for ten minutes and I won’t hold or mention any of it. Deal?”

This was surely a change in attitude. The girl was just talking about how a couple of hours isn’t enough time and here she is offering ten minutes. It was so strange. So spontaneous, yet generous. It was so….Veronica. Nick couldn’t help but appreciate the gesture. He clicked his teeth, “only if you do the same with me. I think you’ll find having someone listen to your problems is precious no matter the length of time.” The offer was expected. “Typical Nicholas, taking an act of kindness to help someone else. Learn to be greedy once and a while. Deal.” She removed her hands until Nick held onto them. Veronica’s brain started frying. He was getting closer, leaning closer. “Nick?” She said quickly. His face seemed so calm as he got close enough for Veronica to feel the warmth of his body and breath invade her space. Her own face became hot. She didn’t know what to do! Nick had completely caught her off guard. Was this a dream? Veronica hoped not or else that meant she still might be in school, or worse, that day hadn’t started. “Calm yourself Veronica! You wanted this for years! Just calm yourself and-” Nick’s head suddenly fell down and rested around her shoulder and chest gently. Veronica looked down at him. “Huh…?” She brought her hand to his face to look at him. Not only was it flushed but it was burning hot! His fever went back up! “Nick! Your fever!” He only grumbled, tired and willing to comply with what came next. “Maybe I overdid it a little. Help me back to my bed?” He might’ve asked but it was more of an obligation. His eyes closed seconds later as he drifted off to sleep. Veronica could only remain still, overwhelmed by her own assumptions. A few seconds later and she would’ve stolen a kiss by mistake. Life truly was cruel for teasing her like that. The girl stood up to support his body and started walking. At least he was light. “Can’t believe this. Why is life like this!?” She cried out internally.

xxxx

Long hallways were a dumb idea. Putting Nick to bed would’ve been done sooner if his family didn’t live in a modern day castle. Walking back to her room was worse, now she was alone with nothing to think about but him. She was glad he passed out after all the measuring was finished though. Proper progress could finally start with his outfit. Hopefully he won’t be too sick. Adding a dust of some kind to energize his body or keep him comfortable might be a good idea. Speaking of dust, Veronica knew it was a must for Summer. The way Nick talked about Shiva made Veronica’s skin tense up. Her single encounter with the woman, if you could call her that, was actually unnerving. “It might be best to tell Summer about that after all. Along with asking questions about Shiva in general. My design won’t be any good if it unleashes a frozen hell. Then I’ll really deserve some nasty looks.”

To think time away from Menagerie would be more complex than staying. The only difference was Veronica was now dealing with other people’s problems. A welcome change in her opinion. She kept walking and came across Summer, who was just about to enter her room again. A white guitar with a paw print on it was in the girl’s hand. “Oh yeah, you did have a dog.” Veronica said aloud. Summer finally noticed her. “Huh? Oh this? Yeah, named this beauty Dolt. Just like him.” She strummed a few cords to give a beautiful sound that filled the hall. How such talent could exist within a person like Summer was beyond Veronica’s comprehension.

“So, you tell Nick about my little water works moment?” Veronica looked at the girl as if she had just spoken gibberish. “I don’t care what you do in the privacy of your own room. That is, unless it deals with that strange dust you’re hiding behind your mirror.” Summer’s heart immediately stops. Veronica points to her own nose and crinkles it. “It was only for an instant but I definitely smelled a painfully potent dust when I entered your room. Actually… it was the same sent as Shiva’s” Veronica admitted, watching Summer get even paler. “Y-You saw- when could you have possibly-” Summer couldn’t keep her head in order. Her body began to shake as her mouth became dry. The beating in her heart began to sound like thunder in her eardrums while her chest felt tight. “I was asleep wasn’t I? What did she do!? Who did she- is she why you want me drinking milk!?” Summer shouted, tears welling up and freezing the moment they ran down her cheeks. “What stunt are you trying to pull!? Don’t listen to her! I shouldn’t have listened to you! All you-”

Veronica pressed her hands hard against Summer’s face. The stinging sensation reddened the twin's face and brought attention to the composed look of acquaintance. “ You need to calm yourself.” Veronica said sternly. She inhaled then exhaled repeatedly for Summer to imitate. The shear cold of Summer’s own skin made Veronica’s hands feel numb. Along with the unpleasant smell of peppermint, it was clear to tell that Summer had been losing herself in the panic. Forget musical talent, Veronica couldn’t figure out how a person like her was still alive. That panic attack looked like it was gonna be the final nail in a coffin. Veronica took Summer’s hand and pulled her inside of her questionably hot room. “Summer, relax…”

Summer tried her best. She bit her bottom lip and took one deep inhale through her nose then out of her mouth. “Okay, okay…” her voice trembled, regaining composure. “I’m alright. Just give me a second.” Summer walks to her bed and lays flat on her back. A light layer of sweat ran down her forehead. Things will be okay. Answers, calming down, and a plan. Then she’ll be okay. “When did you see her?”

“The night I got here. Apparently you passed out without turning on your heater or anything. I bumped into her in the kitchen trying to eat, mainly dairy.” That last part didn’t sit well with Summer. Her eyes narrowed from Veronica’s words. “Don’t look at me like that. I was gonna force dairy into your diet anyways because of our arrangement. If anybody seems to be dancing with danger then it’s you.” Veronica took a good whiff of her surroundings. The scent led her to Summer’s vanity mirror. She reached behind it carefully until her fingers ran across two small vials and grabbed them. The dust glowed a beautiful light cyan color. A few seconds into holding them and Veronica started feeling the cold go through her, making her put it down. She had Never felt dust that was constantly active in any form. “Where the heck did you get this?”

“Penny’s lab. I, I stole it…” Summer mumbled. Guilt didn’t begin to describe how she felt about going through with it. “That stuff made Shiva appear so maybe it can unmake her. Nick and I secretly go out sometimes for me to practice controlling her. Not alone typically. If I learn to use her powers-”

“You’re gonna kill yourselves…” Veronica interjected, her voice colder than the dust. “Give me a break. You’d drag your brother into a situation like that? And I do mean drag, because the only reason he’s going alone with it is because you’re his precious little sister. Ugh, it makes me sick; do you ever get tired of being a burden?” Those words cut a little too close to the heart. Of course she was. All Summer ever thinks about is being on her own. The girl rose up to retaliate in anger, only to be shoved back down with ease. Her entire body was trembling again. “What? More water-”

“Fuck off Veronica.” Summer said through clenched teeth. Her forearm covered her weeping eyes. “What makes you think you can just say whatever the hell you want; of course you wouldn’t understand.” Summer refused to lay down and got up again right in front of Veronica. “It must be nice to be so perfect and unbothered by everything. Do me a favor and stay out of my business.” Blue clashed with lilac silently. How many times have they been at odds like this? More than Veronica cared to count. She could remember how many times Summer looked this angry. Everything about her was shaky, including her clenched fist.

“Relieving tension or contemplating swinging hitting me?” Summer didn’t answer. Not even she could trust her response. As angry as she was, Veronica wasn’t the one she wanted to let it out on. “Can’t decide? Guess I’ll choose for you.” Veronica walked away, opening the door to leave. “Tomorrow, seven o’clock, the both of us are going down to Mantle’s forest. Bring one of those stupid viles with you.” Summer finally stopped tensing up. “What…?”

“You’re brother is still sick and won’t be getting better dealing with you pulling stunts like this. Since you clearly aren’t going to change your mind I guess I’ll fill in. Don’t oversleep, and for your sake, bring your sword. Punches aren’t your style.” Veronica left on that note. She immediately went through the ground and went searching for her. Perfect and unbothered? Yeah right. That couldn’t be further from the truth. She found her mother watching a movie in what was probably a theater room. Yang heard the girl barge in. “Hey sweetie. Wanna w-”

“Get your boxing gloves.” Veronica said quickly. She barely understood what she said herself. “I need to vent, badly.” Yang could see the girl’s eyes burn with emotion. The movie was out on pause and Yang stood up. “Okay. Give me your best shot and let’s mix things up too. I’ll meet you in the garden in five minutes.” Veronica nods and walks off. Yang didn’t know what put her daughter in such a foul mood but Yang was determined to find out. But before any of that she needed to call Blake. A lot has happened the last couple of days that she would no doubt want to know. “Hey Bl-”

“VERONICA STARTED A FIGHT!?” Yang went pale. Looks like Blake already knew about a few things. This would definitely take more than ten minutes.

Part 19

[boog-shitposting-edition]

So I been playing a ton of Kenshi and watched all of the Mandalorian in a single day shortly before and it’s got me thinking about what makes what I consider a good action hero, because there was definitely a time where I thought the phrase “good action hero” was an oxymoron.

I grew up around some angry, unstable dudes who had that bad habit of watching horror movies and opining that in the same situation they would simply shoot the monster with the gun the character was holding. I got some views on the model of masculinity that sees the male ideal as functionally a tool for performing violence, condescension and occasional reddit-approved banter with all other emotional responses pared away or suppressed. This seems like a good way to manufacture a product for performing labor rather than developing a whole functional human being. So I generally veer away from that sort of thing pretty hard.

So I’m resistant to the Mandalorian at first, right? All the ads are basically star wars apocryphica and a power armored fighty gun boy. The last star wars thing I’d seen was The Rise Of Skywalker and my faith in the franchise is low. But it’s been a hot minute, the hype dies down, and my girlfriend is a better and more patient fan than I’ll ever be so we give it a go. And the first thing that really nails it for me is what a DORK the mando is. I’m delighted, his life is violence interdispersed with being an absolute buttfumble disaster. He slips and falls over things he could never have predicted, he burns his life down for a baby he finds in the desert. Pedro Pascal references Boba Fetts stiff menace and plays it off as someone who has no social skills other than stiff menace and it’s FASCINATING. Him explaining to the village woman who is obviously into him that he hasn’t taken the armor off since he was thirteen isn’t a badass declaration of martial devotion, it is the single saddest and most awkward interaction I have ever seen filmed and it hits all the harder for the fact that this is a character I’ve mostly ever seen as an action figure with a spring loaded missile backpack. Instead of being a faceless emotionless action-cudgel, Pedro amps up the body language in his acting to really sell you this heavily psychologically damaged, desperate, viking-space-catholic mess with no life skills other than violence and a devotion to his people’s creed that borders on obsession. Rather than paring himself down making him a psychological fortress, the Mando is an incredibly obvious walking raw nerve (”I’m not sad-” “Yes you are.”) So, Kenshi.

I’ve heard about this game on and off a few years and finally got it a few days ago. It’s been in early access since 2012, appears to be mostly getting finished by its modding community, and glitches like absolute woah. There’s no core storyline, just a post-apocalyptic setting with some surprisingly detailed autogenerated NPC interactions with some options for starting conditions and the sole goal of surviving. It’s essentially a rapid sequence of story prompts hidden underneath a closely interlocked system of XP grinding, survival mechanics and dismemberment algorithms, and is appallingly my shit.

My first run at the game got pretty far, went from a lone confused desert wanderer to a 13 man village running a tidy copper-mining operation to trade with the ant people. In the early game, fight mechanics are basically a death sentence; my first character immediately got her leg torn off by a goat and I had to restart. All skills grow only by excersizing them; you have to fight to get better at fighting, you have to LOSE fights to gain toughness, and when you lose a fight the consequences can range from “these bandits are stealing all your food” to “this monster is eating your leg/heart/head” to “these slavers are taking your character away and your game experience is Different now.” And while I was proud of myself for finding a way to survive, grow and thrive with a low-combat squad, once I tried the basebuilding mechanics that basically just meant my town was a source of free food and money for local bandits while my squad starved to death, unable to abandon our locale. So I got fed up and restarted.

As mentioned the game gives you different start positions; wanderer gives you 1 character, some money and pants. Guy and his dog gives you a dog, which is fun. Exiled officer starts you with good skills and the hatred of your former commander, which complicates things. Cannibal Hunters starts you already in a fistfight with 30 cannibals. It’s exciting times. But I figure this time I’d like to start my squad a LITTLE more capable of defending themselves, so I look at the Holy Sword start; you’re a bandit who starts with a stolen holy weapon, minuses in most skills, no money and a 20,000 bounty on your head from both major factions.

So I proceed to character creation and notice I can pick whatever I want for player species/subspecies with this start. There’s robot people and warriors made of stone and baseline humans and all sorts of fun options, but you remember those ant people I mentioned before? In game they’re called the Hivers, you find ‘em in 3 recruitable varieties (prince, worker drone and soldier) and they have an interesting in-universe quirk; ones that grow up in the hive are pheramone-addicted, chemically wired into the needs and wants of all of their fellows, but if you’re away from your kin for over a fortnight this addiction dries out incredibly fast and cannot be reinstated. Hivers who ever spend any time away from the hive are declared “lost ones,” and are often taken advantage of in the outside world as they long for a new community.

In survival sims I dont often play dedicated fighters, I always feel like being a brutal fight-beast isn’t really in the spirit of finding a niche to exploit and growing from a fumbling plebian to a major power. But I was already starting this game with my ONLY advantage being a nice sword. And the soldier hivers gain a buff to experience gained for melee attack and toughness, and a debuff to literally all else.

Manual labor. Science. Engineering. Farming. Cooking. First aide. In a setting that heavily prioritized your ability to survive using multiple vital skill sets, my character would start with negatives in his skills for putting on band-aids and FEEDING himself. So I gave it a go.

Getting more wild here, it turns out the Holy Sword opening also takes place in a time in the setting with more recent warfare, so a bunch of the starting villages are destroyed and it appears that more of the nearby cities are controlled by the factions that have a bounty on me. So my character CAN’T rely on other people or meet anyone to recruit at first. He can run, he can scrounge and scavenge, and as mentioned above starting characters can take lethal damage from GOATS so he can’t even hunt for food; the only way I was getting a meal was if I robbed someone or ran into merchants on the road I could hawk my salvage to for a scrap of bread.

He eventually finds someone willing to join him on his travels in spite of being flat broke, a shek named Ruka running from a dishonerable loss on the battlefield, and comparing their skills he’s so useless for everything besides combat that I assign him to bodyguard her. And again, this game’s appeal is that the survival mechanics make good story prompts, so imagine that in character.

“Fine, I need a change. I’ll join you.” “Thank god. Lead the way boss.” “What?”

Things regarding my characters bounty are starting to heat up in town, so we head north into hiver territory. We get attacked by bandits and heavily injured, my soldier gets knocked out, so Ruka picks him up and carries him until we find a hive town. I saw these guys all the time in my last playthrough, I survived by selling to them, they’re super friendly, should be fine. Ruka walks into the local shop and before I can have her ask for directions and a medikit the shopkeeper is already shouting- “SKREEE! LOST ONE! GET OUT! LOST ONES BRING MADNESS”

Apparently, my protagonist being a hiveless hiver means there’s a THIRD faction that’s hostile to him; his own goddamn people. Ruka has to leave him under a tree not just outside but like 50 feet from the edge of town, and just has  to hope none of the local wild megafauna eats him while she rushes back in to buy things from the now abruptly friendlier shopkeep.

I’m finally sitting there, having Ruka watch my soldier hiver sleep while she cooks scavanged meat and waits for him to finish healing, that I realize what the story being generated here is and it’s a good one; a Hive soldier whose only skills are violence, frantically scavenging and stealing to survive until he can find the one circumstance where he’s comfortable, sacrificing himself to protect others. He steals a sword that’s obviously important to two major governments, just because he knows it’s powerful and thinks that power will justify his continued existence as a hiveless soldier drone, essentially buying his way back into his people’s good graces by performing his function. Literally wandering the world until he found a single person who was willing to boss him around again and devoting himself to their defense to a state of pathological damage just to feel like he has a hive again. It’s sad. It’s badass. It’s deeply, unsettlingly pathetic.

But I also think it’s what makes a really really good gruff action hero!

Hypercompetence in violence is really interesting when you acknowledge the damage it can do to your humanity in the storytelling! The Mandalorian is unsuccessful in repressing his empathy response so he just tries to tough through the pain it causes him as best he can, until he meets The Child and it snaps. The Hiver is essentially playing pretend at being still valued as a product for committing violence, even in the face of being openly rejected for his previously esteemed role. This stuff is INTERESTING.

TL;DR version, a lot of these “supersoldier raised by the military/fight wizards/karate” characters are super boring and obnoxious when they’re put forward as power fantasies, and really interesting when you realize that being raised by Fight Wizards is why they’ve never had a girlfriend and called their handgun “mom” once.

[eryiss]

Event: LGBTQA+ Month hosted by @ft-wwtdp​

Ship: Fraxus (Freed Justine x Gajeel Redfox)

Prompts: Gamble, Balance, Thirst, Quarrel Accident

Verse: Victorian AU

Alternate Places To Read: Fanfiction, Archive of our Own. Event master list here.

Here’s my sixth group of one shots for the LGBTQA+ month. You can read rest in the master list linked above. Again, this is set in the victorian era, and has some minor period typical values. Nothing graphic, but be wanred of suggestions of a less accepting time. Also, the thirst prompt has sexual undertones. There’s only kissing, but you might want to skip it if that’s not your thing. 

Day Twenty-Six – Gamble (On Yourself)

Gajeel had taken far too many gambles today.

It had been a gamble to cut through the docking area of Magnolia where many people got mugged, even despite his intimidating style. It had been a gamble to let his workmates know he wouldn't be at home, as that might allow questions to begin as to where he would spend the evening. It had been a gamble to even look towards the establishment that he had just entered. Tonight had been a night filled with gambles.

The building looked… normal. Pretty much like every other bar that Gajeel had patronised in his life. For the unknowing, this might have been just a regular tavern. But The Guild – or more colloquially referred to as Fairy Tail – was no such bar.

It was a bathhouse.

A place for men of Gajeel's persuasion to meet in safety. It was filled with all sorts of peoples, and acted as a safe heaven for them all. Men interested in buggery, those who rejected the gender they were born into, and those who didn't conform to what society wanted of them in some other capacity. It was Gajeel's first time in such a place and, despite knowing that he had more in common with the patrons of this bar than any other he'd been in, he felt incredibly out of place. Like a stranger, looking upon something that he shouldn't have seen.

He slowly approached the bar, unaware if the feeling of being watched was justified or not. He was regretting coming here already; he could have stayed home or drunk at a more common bar. He shouldn't have let Laxus tell him of such a place, or convince him to even think about going there.

Fairy Tail wasn't only a bathhouse. There were rooms available for renting upstairs should two men need them, but it was by no means a requirement. It was just a bar where you could be yourself. Laxus had said Gajeel would enjoy himself.

"Hello sir," A woman behind the bar greeted when he got close. "What can I get for you?"

"Erm," Gajeel mumbled, not wanting to be seen. "What d'ya have."

"Oh we have lots to chose from," The woman smiled, speaking patiently. "Anything any other bars have. Beer, ale, lager, wines, champagne if you're so inclined. And, between you and me, I've been practicing my cocktails and I'm getting rather good at them. So anything you might want, I'm sure we'll be able to accommodate."

"Beer, ma'am," Gajeel requested. The woman nodded, and Gajeel took a seat at the bar.

The woman got to work on pouring Gajeel's drink into a tankard, and the man kept his eyes straight on the bartop. He was just coming here out of curiosity and because he had let Laxus get into his head. Too busy trying to look inconspicuous, he failed to notice the man who had walked into the bar and sat beside him with a considerably greater amount of confidence when compared to Gajeel himself. It was only when he spoke that Gajeel realised he wasn't alone.

"A glass of my regular please Mirajane, my dear," A smooth, refined voice said, and Gajeel glanced to his side.

The man beside him was clearly wealthy, as portrayed by his fancy clothing and clean fingernails. When Gajeel glanced up he saw a head of long, silky green hair and a strong jawline. A gentleman then. Looking up further, Gajeel saw striking eyes and an expression of contentment.

At that moment, he was pretty much everything Gajeel was not.

"Give me a moment Freed," The barmaid, Mirajane, commented as she finished Gajeel's drink. "This gentleman got here first."

"And I don't get preferential treatment for being here so often?"

"Driving away my customers? You're lucky you're not charged extra," Mirajane laughed.

The man, Freed, seemed to enjoy the joke at his expense. It appeared that the contrast of Gajeel's discomfort and Freed's easy and relaxed nature seemed to have been noticed by the richer man, who looked to Gajeel with an expression of quiet intrigue. In response, Gajeel turned down and looked towards the top of the bar again, trying not to allow himself to be pinned by the sharp expression of the man beside him.

He couldn't help but squirm slightly. It wasn't often than he was around men with his fondness for the same sex. Well, there was Laxus, but neither man had interest in the other. But Freed, in his slight nobility and smooth voice, was the type of man that Gajeel enjoyed.

In theory at least, in reality the man looking at him made him squirm.

"I think you could only look more uncomfortable if a crocodile was threatening to bite off your toes," The man said to Gajeel, smiling softly. "First time in a place like this?"

"That obvious?" Gajeel asked, looking back to Freed and cupping the beer he's been given.

"It was either that or you're a copper who drew the short straw, and has to come here undercover and you're scared of anyone getting within a foot of you," Freed laughed at his own joke, and Gajeel let out a single chuckle. "With my experience, the police are much too boring to allow a man like yourself in their ranks."

"What d'you mean by that?" Gajeel asked, slightly offended.

"You have a rough beauty to you, sir. From what I've seen, any individuality is whipped out of you and replaced by a baton and a badge," Freed smiled, and Gajeel found himself speechless at the compliment. He had never once been called beautiful, never expected that to happen either. "Freed Justine, a pleasure to meet you."

"Gajeel," He introduced himself, delighted he didn't stammer over the word. He didn't say his surname; that was a gamble he wasn't going to take.

"Oh," Mirajane interrupted. "You must be Laxus friend, he mentioned that you might come by and I'm to look after you. I should have known."

"He thinks I need looking after?" Gajeel grunted, squaring his shoulders a little.

"No. Those weren't his words," Mirajane was quick to correct him. Out of the corner of his eye, Gajeel could see Freed smiling amusedly at the situation. "It's just he mentioned that you might not be used to places like this, and I know that they can be a little intimidating for new people. He just wanted me to keep an eye on you, make sure it didn't overwhelm you or that someone unknowingly made you uncomfortable."

"Oh," Gajeel mumbled. "Well, you don't need to put yourself to any trouble. I can look after myself."

"And if not, I'm sure I can look after our new friend," Freed smiled, before whispering. "Miss Strauss, though a kind woman, is rather a gossip. Harmlessly so, she enjoys knowing things rather than telling them, but she can be rather vicious when she wants to find something out."

"I can hear you," Mirajane stated, her voice less melodic now.

"Thus proving my point, don't you think," Freed smirked, and Mirajane glared at him. "Attend to your customers, dear, I'll keep him company," He then looked to Gajeel. "If you'll have me, of course."

Gajeel reddened slightly. "Ain't got any objections."

After that, Mirajane decided to leave them alone, and the two men began to speak. Gajeel didn't know if it was purposeful, but the conversation never once approached the reason why Gajeel was there. No speak of relationships, identity, or lovers. It started off about the best kind of drink – Freed fighting for wine, Gajeel for beer – which then divulged into what both men did for a living. Then, they just talked about nothing.

And it was good. Gajeel had never really had a conversation in a bar before. Men didn't speak in the bars he usually went to. Men drank, smoke, and sometimes made hopeless advancements on women. This was rather an improvement.

Freed was pretty good company, too. He was interesting, and perhaps the most handsome man Gajeel had laid eyes on. Rather destructively, Gajeel had a fondness for men above his station. Freed was that, most definitely. Refined, well spoken, obviously wealthy too if he was as successful in his career in law as he stated.

"Tell me, Gajeel," Freed said suddenly, finishing his wine. "Have you ever kissed a man before?"

"Erm," Gajeel blanked. The topic had come from nowhere. "Guess not."

"Shame," Freed smiled pleasantly. Seductively? Maybe Gajeel was thinking too deeply about the conversation though. "Would you like to?"

"E-excuse me?" Gajeel stammered. People weren't so forward, particularly when they were speaking about committing a crime. An unfair crime, but a crime none the less.

"Would you like me to kiss you," Freed grinned a little. "You're my type, and I think I might be yours. And I'm rather good at it."

"I mean… is that-" Gajeel was suddenly overwhelmed by the situation.

He hadn't come here to meet a man, or act on his impulses. It was just meant to be a place where Gajeel didn't have to look over his shoulder, and to perhaps drink with men with the same fondness that he had. A safe space, essentially. He hadn't expected anyone to pay any interest to him, let alone a man that would tick off the boxes of Gajeel's perfect man. He had no idea how to deal with such a situation.

Luckily, Freed did. The man reached over, took Gajeel's chin in his fingers, and engaged him in his first kiss.

And it was euphoria.

~~~

Day Twenty-Seven – Balance (And Adjustments)

Freed had always managed to keep his life well balanced.

He had put a lot of effort into forging a strong and reliable career that afforded him a more luxurious lifestyle than most. He had a small group of good friends who had allowed him the social interactions he needed, but also understood that sometimes he needed space alone. He had many hobbies that he often kept up with, be that reading, translations of old languages, or the investigation of antiques. These three aspects of his life were all he had needed, and he'd made sure to give them all the time they required.

With this balance, Freed had been happy. There hadn't been anything obviously missing in his life, nor was there a sense of melancholy. The life he had created for him had been satisfactory. But, with the inclusion of Gajeel, something more had been added.

And that something was threatening to throw this balance off.

Gajeel was unique in Freed's life, in almost every way. He was of a lower class and rough around the edges, something that Freed enjoyed greatly. He was more open with his opinions, lacking the middle class fear of insulting people. He was also more willing to take risks than Freed often allowed himself to be, the brashness of his personality invading Freed's life in a delightful way. It was as if someone had taken a jaw-droppingly handsome hammer to Freed's existence, with the intention of building up something new in its place.

But would this new thing be better, or worse? It was a question that Freed found himself pondering silently as he walked down the road towards his modestly comfortable home, with Gajeel at his side.

The two men had been on a few dates at this point. Well, they had drunk together and shared a single meal, but it was the closest thing two men could get to dating. So far, Freed had kept his interactions with Gajeel limited to these meetings. He was keeping the man at arm's length, because he didn't know if he could risk Gajeel getting closer to him.

But that night, Freed might have changed his mind.

They'd gone to a bar of Gajeel's choosing, which was considerably rougher than anywhere Freed went. They had done almost what they always did, drinking at a bar in the same way friends would. But when, after both got slightly tipsy, drinks had been placed before them, Gajeel had offered a challenge. He bet Freed a tuppence that he could finish his pint before Freed could.

And in that moment, Gajeel was the most attractive man Freed had ever laid eyes on. With a cocky smirk, challenging Freed to a competition, he was irresistible. He had a slightly crook in his nose, his sharp teeth visible, and his piercings glinting in the candle light. If it were acceptable, Freed would have jumped on him then and there.

But he didn't. Instead, he drank. And then he started to think.

They'd shared a few kisses in the seclusion of a dark alley, but that was it. Again, Freed had stopped it before anything further could happen, and it was all because he didn't want to upset the balance of his life. He had spent a lot of time creating a stable existence for himself, and Gajeel posed a threat to it. And now he had to decide if he was willing to risk it. To allow the balance to be upended and recreated with Gajeel in it.

He had to decide weather to invite him in his home, or leave him at the gate again.

Even thinking about it, his gut supplied the answer. Let him in. Gajeel was everything that Freed could have dreamt of, if he was honest. Fun, competitive, cheeky, creative, heartfelt, honest. And he wasn't just looking to take Freed to some secluded room and bed him, he genuinely seemed like he wanted a relationship. That was rare, and Freed shouldn't throw it away.

"Yer awful quiet suddenly," Gajeel commented. "Still pouting about losing?"

"No," Freed laughed. "And I still maintain you distracted me on purpose," Gajeel cackled at that. "Running your thigh against mine is a rather nasty trick."

"Doesn't mean ya don't have ta pay up, does it?" Gajeel smirked.

"I could drink you under the table with a higher quality wine," Freed rebutted, faux glaring while he tried to supress a laugh. This was something Gajeel had already done to him, allowed a more juvenile delight enter his every day life. That was definitely something that Freed wasn't ready to get rid of.

"You wanna take me to some fancy bar and prove it, fine by me," Gajeel crossed his arms, and Freed could see his arms flexing under the fabric of his clothes. "But yer paying."

"You certainly know how to get a drink out of me," Freed commented sardonically.

Gajeel laughed, and pat him on the shoulder with a little amount of strength. That was something that he did often, and Freed had concluded that it was his alternative to a romantic gesture. They couldn't very well hold hand in the middle of the street, after all, so a masculine pat on the back would have to do. When the thought struck him, Freed had to wonder what Gajeel's hands would feel like. Callous and rough no doubt. Rather delightful sounding.

It was then that Freed realised just how ridiculous was being.

He was thinking about what the other man's hands would feel like in his own. He couldn't pretend that this was platonic, nor could be delude himself into thinking this was two men who would eventually use each other for satisfaction.

He wasn't just attracted to Gajeel sexually. There was a romantic feeling too.

Worst still, Freed realised just how patient the other man was being with him. Freed had been the one to instigate the whole damn thing, and at first he had held off getting too far with him because Gajeel was inexperienced. But they weren't just strangers at a bar anymore, they were friends. They were comfortable around each other, and if the suggestive comments Gajeel had started to make were reflective of how he felt, Gajeel was willing to become lovers. And so was Freed, so why the hell was he putting things off?

To keep some sort of balance. What was the point in that? He wasn't keeping himself safe, he was allowing himself to stagnate. If he didn't take a step forward with Gajeel, then he never would. And his comfortable, balanced life would be all he had. And, right now, he wanted a bit of adventure.

"Taking you to a bar seems counter-intuitive," Freed continued, a sudden rush of adrenaline pushing him forward. "I've rather a well-stocked liquor cabinet right here. I can prove my point to you now, if you'd like."

Gajeel faltered a little, looking towards Freed's house as they stopped at the gate before it. He had walked Freed home after each of their dates, as the street was part of his walk home, but had never been invited in before. He glanced at the building, then at Freed, and grinned.

"You wanna be humiliated in yer own home, that's your choice," Gajeel grinned.

Then, as if it were natural, Freed found himself opening the gate to his home and walking down the path. Gajeel followed him, and an electric drumming of anticipation and excitement flowed through him. As he put the key in the lock, he wondered why he had taken so long to let this happen.

And once the door was closed, and Gajeel was pushing him against a wall with his lips, any thoughts of balance left him completely.

~~~

Day Twenty-Eight – Thirst (Of A Nobleman)

Anybody else would just think that Freed had been particularly thirsty. Nobody would have even noticed just how much Freed had been drinking throughout the day, and if they actually had, they would've just assumed that he needed a drink. There was no chance of anyone realising the actual reason that Freed had been continually drinking flute after flute of champagne throughout the afternoon.

Freed also hoped that Gajeel didn't know the reason for his apparent thirst. He would be intolerably smug when he realised it was because of him.

Weeks prior, Freed had been invited to attend a party at a nearby manor house owned by the Dreyar family. Being close with the son of the family, Freed had also gotten Gajeel an invitation. His lover would be there under the guise of a possible business partner that Freed needed to impress. Only the Dreyar's themselves knew that Gajeel was Freed's lover, so the excuse was needed.

And with such an excuse, Gajeel needed a change of clothes.

The man, being an ironmonger, didn't have many luxurious pieces of clothing, and had needed to go to the tailors so the lie of him being a businessman could be believable. Freed had through nothing of it as he'd sent the man to his tailor, expecting him to come back in something more similar to what Freed often worn. He had thought that Gajeel would have some clothes of a nicer fabric and more modern stylings, and that was it.

He hadn't expected the outfit to be so… flattering.

Of course, flattering wasn't the word that came to mind when he first saw Gajeel wearing it. Freed's immediate impressions were that it was gorgeous, gentlemanly, and, importantly, tight. Tight enough to encourage a rush of blood to swell Freed's groin.

And throughout the afternoon, Gajeel had been wearing the outfit. It was a test of patience for Freed rivalling torture, and the man believed he deserved a damn medal for not insisting they find an unused room in the house and buggering the man against the wall like a pair of animals. The urge had been there throughout the entire day, and Freed had only managed to keep his hands off his lover by busying them with something else.

Namely, drinking.

It had been a hellishly difficult task. The formal clothes had been measured to fit snugly around Gajeel, highlight his strong physique. His biceps bulged in his sleeves, his chest was pronounced in his shirt and coat, and his riding trousers had been so damn tight Freed could see the musculature that made up his thigs through them. Freed would have to have a word with his tailor, perhaps docking him some pay for making his balls blue.

What was worse, Gajeel himself had taken to the outfit perfectly. Well, in a sense. He didn't play the part of an aristocrat, but as someone who had fallen into money but stuck to his workman roots. The juxtaposition of the man's luxury against his rough and common personality had an effect on Freed he couldn't quantify.

Forget a medal. Freed deserved compensation for being so patient.

And Gajeel had more torture for Freed yet. Once the party was over, and they had returned to Freed's home, Gajeel had delivered a final blow. He shucked off his jacket and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Now a tantalising vision of his hair covered chest was peeking out, and Freed felt his sanity slipping away.

"Scoundrel," Freed muttered to himself, not expecting Gajeel to hear.

"What?" Gajeel asked, and Freed looked up to see he was grinning.

Freed's breath caught in his lungs. Gajeel was sitting in the armchair that Freed often read at, lounging over the leather with the smuggest expression on his face. His legs were spread wide, and Freed was given clear clarification that Gajeel hadn't worn a codpiece. His arms were bulging in his sleeves and, finally, Freed realised that the bastard knew what effect he had on his lover, and had been making it worse.

"I called you a scoundrel," Freed said again, glaring. Gajeel grinned. "You… you bloody well did all of that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Don't know what you mean," Gajeel grinned. He didn't even try to be convincing. "I just asked for my clothes to be tight cause I like the feeling."

"You… you-" The words wouldn't come to Freed. Gajeel sauntered over to his lover, smirking.

"I thought this party was gonna be full of stuffy asshats, I needed to have a little fun," He grinned, standing over Freed. He leant down, took the glaring man's chin in his fingers and leant closer. "I've never seen a nobleman so thirsty before. The sun must have been getting to ya. Only thing that makes sense, given how hot and sweaty you were lookin'."

"You will regret doing this," Freed muttered, eyes hard. The looming presence of his gorgeous lover above him was starting to take an effect, however. "I will make damn sure of that."

"I'm scared," Gajeel chuckled. "If it makes ya any less angry, I wanted ta jump on ya just as much."

Before Freed could say anything, Gajeel leant down and brought their lips together in a heated and passionate kiss. Freed returned it within an instant, running a hand over Gajeel's strong arms and feeling the muscles flexing over the fabric. He grabbed the collar of the man's shirt and tugged on it sharply, making the man collapse into his lap. The kiss continued as he did so.

"I very much doubt it," Freed snapped against Gajeel's lips.

Gajeel cackled, pressing himself further against Freed as they kissed against the chair. When he felt Freed's hands roaming under his shirt, unbuttoning it without elegance nor patience, he grinned into the kiss. Freed pinched his skin in retort, and Gajeel laughed. He would have to make his nobleman 'thirsty' more often, it seemed.

~~~

Day Twenty-Nine – Quarrel (And The Aftermath)

Gajeel had been homeless before, he could do it again.

It wasn't an ideal situation, but he would get by. Just because he had got used to the luxury of living in Freed's cosy household didn't mean his street smarts had been removed. He had spent just shy of a year on the streets, and he'd made it through well enough, he just had to do it again. It wouldn't be anywhere near as comfortable as his life had been with Freed, but that was okay. He could tough it out until his situation got better.

He'd already found a good spot; under a canal bridge, close to an inn that Gajeel knew from experience would hand out scraps of uneaten food. And he had a trunk of clothing to keep him warm, which was better than what he'd had before. The trunk wasn't his, but Freed probably wouldn't miss it.

Freed. Gajeel felt a little sick when he thought of the man.

They had engaged in an argument in the morning. It was initiated by the most ridiculous of things; Freed had thrown a piece of fruit away that was bordering on rotten. Gajeel claimed it was a waste, Freed said that he wasn't going to eat spoiled food when it wasn't necessary. Somehow, this had devolved into a petty but nasty argument between them both about Freed's middle class upbringing and the contrast against Gajeel's own childhood. It had reached it's nastiest when Gajeel had claimed that Freed was a spoiled bastard without a grasp on reality.

The argument had been left there, as Freed had stormed out to go to work. Gajeel had festered in his anger for a while, before he realised what this argument had meant. He had been living in Freed's home for months, and the man was his landlord. It was unlikely that he would be allowed to remain after their fight.

So he had packed a trunk of his clothes and his items that he could sell, and left.

It was a bad day to do it, as well. The rain was heavy, and the dark clouds made Gajeel think that thunder and perhaps even lightning was coming. But he wrapped himself up in the large coat Freed had gotten him for his birthday, trying to ignore the irony that he was taking comfort in something of Freed's despite the fact he had left the mans home.

The more he thought about their argument, the queasier it made him feel. They had grown up in different ways, but that didn't mean Freed was a bad person. He was a criminal lawyer; he knew the struggles people went through better than most. Gajeel had just been angry – and perhaps embarrassed – that he hadn't been afforded the same luxuries that others had. But Freed wasn't to blame, and he had never been patronising about the difference in their lifestyles.

"Shit," Gajeel sighed, fingers tapping against the battered leather of the trunk he was sitting on. "Really fucked that up, didn't ya."

But it was too late now. Freed was a prideful man and – while Gajeel enjoyed that side of his personality – it was unlikely he would sit back after being insulted. Gajeel should have just kept his insecurities to himself. His stupid pride had lost him his home and his lover.

Leaning against the wall of the bridge, he allowed his eyes to close and was consumed by sleep.

He didn't know how long he had slept for, but when he felt a shaking on his shoulder and woke up again, it was now late enough for the stars to be out. He blinked groggily to see who had woken him, and saw that it was Freed, looking at him with a face of concern.

"How the hell d'you find me?" Gajeel asked, voice croaking.

"I spoke to Laxus, he told me of a few placed you could be, one being here," Freed explained. "Why aren't you at home, Gajeel?"

"Assumed you didn't want me there," Gajeel shrugged; it was obvious, he thought. "Guys don't normally like it when their shagging partner insults them. Thought it was best to leave before you came back."

Freed gave Gajeel a look of many emotions. It started off confused, flickered to annoyance for a moment, and then settled on resignation. He shifted slightly, moving so that he could join Gajeel on the trunk he was sitting on, looking out over the canal that was lit by stars. Gajeel frowned at the action, looking at his lover – ex-lover now, most likely – not understanding his actions.

"You're not just the man I sleep with, Gajeel," Freed said softly.

"Sure," Gajeel scoffed.

"I mean it," He spoke more firmly now. "I understand that a relationship like ours isn't the most conventional, but that doesn't mean it's any less valid. I don't want you to just be my lover – just someone who I know who I can take to bed – I want you to be my partner," He smiled at Gajeel, and looked beautiful. "I love you, Gajeel."

"You do?" Gajeel almost froze at the statement.

"Yes. I have never seen us just as people who can settle the others urges. I've seen you as my partner, the man who, if I could, I would marry," Freed admitted, and Gajeel felt a surge of emotions flow through him. Freed spoke again before he could understand them. "And I think you feel the same way. You've just denied it because it makes leaving easier."

At Freed's conclusion, Gajeel realised he was right. They weren't just having fun with each other, they shared emotions and feelings. They had courted and moved into a home together. Gajeel hadnt allowed himself to think of it that way, but of course that was what they had done.

"Shit," Gajeel mumbled. "I-I love you too."

"Quite so," Freed grinned, and Gajeel nudged him. "And, I'm sure you know, people in relationships often argue. It doesn't mean that one of them moves out and make themselves homeless."

"You don't want me gone?" Gajeel asked.

"Of course not," Freed assured him, smiling. "We will have arguments, of course we will. But, as people in love often do, we just need to get past them. Put aside our pride and come to a middle ground," Freed patted him on the thigh. "And I should apologise. I often disregard your childhood and how it has shaped you, and that's not fair. I shouldn't have been dismissive of what you said, and I shouldn't have gotten so defensive when you challenged me."

"No," Gajeel shook his head. "I shouldn't have made such a big deal about a fucking apple. And I called you a lot of nasty things that weren't appropriate."

"Well, some of them were. I was being rather a bastard," Freed chuckled, and Gajeel grinned slightly. "You have a sailor's mouth when you're angry, don't you?"

"Sorry," Gajeel chuckled.

"It's charming," Freed smiled, leaning against his lover with a soft smile. "We probably should have had a conversation like this before I stormed out, shouldn't we?"

"Probably," Gajeel agreed.

"Come home, Gajeel," Freed requested softly, and it made Gajeel feel warm inside.

Freed was his lover, his partner and his friend. This was something that Gajeel had never expected, and something that he held dear to him. They were good together, Gajeel had always known that, but hearing that his feelings were reciprocated was something that he hadn't thought would happen.

But now that it had, he felt damn idiotic for his actions. For leaving, as if it was an appropriate response. No, he and Freed were adults in a relationship, and they could work though their problems. That was a brilliant feeling.

"Okay."

~~~

Day Thirty – Accident (And Realisations)

It turned out it was true. Life really did flash before your eyes in a near death situation.

A mugging, that's what had caused it. Three men had cornered him in an alleyway, he removed his cane from his person and had started to beat him when he hadn't given them his wallet. He had put up a fight for a small amount of time, but the three of them were strong and outnumbered him. They were armed with impromptu weaponry and had thrashed the fight out of him, leaving him to die most likely.

As he had slowly lost consciousness as blood trickled from his wounds, his mind had supplied a stream of images from his life. Leaving for boarding school for the first time, riding a horse without help, his first dalliance with a farm-boy in a barnyard.

Then Gajeel had entered the stream of memories, and had dominated the experience. He remembered the first time they had met, their first kiss, their first night together, the first time Freed had confessed his love for the man. Smaller things to, like the cocky grin he had when he was issuing Freed some kind of wager, or the nights spent in their shared living room, reading or talking by the fire. Small moments of their relationship that Freed found himself adoring on reflection.

He passed out soon after.

Waking up in an unfamiliar room was disconcerting, and the pain flooding his body was vicious and unrepentant. He hissed at the sensation, and tried to distract himself somehow. The strong hands gripping his own were a good way to do that.

When he looked up, he saw a pleasant looking room. He adjusted his eyes at the open window and saw a street lit by the morning son; the street was familiar, but he was in a part of it that he didn't know. After a few moments he realised this was the same road he lived on, but a different house. Most likely, given the pain he was in, Porlyusica's house; a retired nurse that lived about three homes down from Freed.

But none of that was particularly important when compared to the fact that Gajeel was holding his hand.

He didn't seem to notice that Freed was awake, and it gave the injured man time to smile slightly. Gajeel had always been more cautious about being intimate in public than Freed – the lawyer had enough blackmail on London Police that they wouldn't go near him – so to have him openly touch him in a place not their home was a rather nice feeling. The feeling was soured when he realised why Gajeel was doing it; he was probably worried for him.

"Gajeel," Freed said, voice hoarse. It felt as though his throat were sandpaper.

"Freed," The mans head shot up, his voice tired and slightly croaky as well. "Fuck, how long have you been awake. Shit, here," He reached for a glass of water and handed it to Freed.

"Thank you," Freed smiled as he drank.

"You feeling okay. Course yer not," Gajeel cussed at himself. "Can I do anything for ya?"

"I don't think so," Freed shifted slightly as he sat up against the headboard. "Have you been here all night?"

"Couple nights. Would have been here longer but the old witch sent me away," Gajeel glared at a door, but Freed frowned.

"How long have I been unconscious?"

"Six days," Gajeel said quietly, and it was clear to see that the other man had been worrying for the entire time. Freed gently ran his thumb across the palm of Gajeel's hand in a comforting gesture, and his lover tightened his grip. "What happened?"

"I was leaving my office. Some men wanted money; I didn't give it to them. I'm sure you can guess the rest," Freed sighed, looking at the expression of worry on his lover's face. "I'm okay, Gajeel. I'm alive, and I'm sure that the pain is only temporary. You really needn't worry."

"Should have walked you home or something," Gajeel muttered, and Freed sighed.

"You weren't to know," He said comfortingly. "Has it been a long week for you, without my charming company to keep you busy?"

Gajeel laughed, albeit forcefully. Freed leant over and pressed his head against Gajeel's softly, as close to a kiss that they could do in anywhere slightly public. Gajeel nuzzled into the gesture, and Freed expected that the man would join him in the bed and wrap him in his arms if possible. Gajeel had always seemed to enjoy touch, be it holding hands, kissing, or even just pressing his side against Freed's as they sat next to each other. Perhaps it made things feel real for the man; Freed wasn't going to complain whatever the reason.

"Done a lot of thinkin'" Gajeel admitted. "I ain't ready to lose ya."

"I'm not going anywhere," Freed assured him softly, stroking his hand again.

"Better fuckin' not be," Gajeel said firmly, but was smiling, and it warmed Freed's heart just a little. "Because, well, one of the things I was thinking of was…"

Freed frowned a little when he looked at Gajeel. The man may not be the most blessed when it came to words, but that wasn't what was stopping him. He was nervous about something. That was defiantly unlike Gajeel, he was a headstrong man who often thought before he acted; sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. He didn't say anything though, letting Gajeel think before he spoke again.

"Couple months ago, you said you'd marry if you could," Gajeel eventually said. "And, I realised that I'd marry you too. So, well."

He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small box, which he flipped open. A simple plain ring rested inside of it, and Freed looked at it with shock as Gajeel shifted so that he was on one knee. Freed forgot the pain his body was in, looking at the piece of jewellery with wide eyes. Gajeel gave him a shockingly hopeful smile.

"I know we can't… I mean legally it won't be…" Gajeel glanced down in annoyance of himself. "I love ya, Freed. And I wanna spend the rest of my life with ya, and I was scared that I would be able to for a while. And I know we can't go it in a church, or get it done legit, but I wanna be yer husband. I wanna get married to ya. So, will you marry me?"

"Yes," Freed grinned. "Oh fuck yes."

[ameftowriter]

Trust in the Shallow Alliance (Dr. Stone fanfic)

Part 3 is up and raring to go YAY! This is basically episode 10 in Gen’s POV. RIP Gen XD

Summary: The whole time, ever since he was awakened, he kept dreaming of it, wanting it. He knew it was bad for him. He knew it was nothing but badly packaged sugar water. He knew it was… it was the thing he desired for himself the most. He could live without it, definitely. But he knew even the most stoic of people need even the little pleasures in life in order to actually keep on going.

Gen only mentioned it once. It was supposed to be a lie, but in reality it was the whole truth.

Ao3 | ffnet

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (This!) | Part 4 ???

Asagiri Gen leaned against the tree as he let the exhaustion of the day hit him. He then slid downwards and sat on the soft ground.

He had just witnessed, what possibly was the most incredible thing he has ever seen in his life. The only thing comparable to it, was when he first saw that date carved onto a tree.

It's there… He got it. He got the confirmation he needed.

Senku… this Senku, because of his superhuman grasp on all kinds of sciences, that brought intense fear and paranoia to the Strongest Primate Highschooler, Shishio Tsukasa. He finally truly understood why he was feared so much.

And yet… he could not help but feel… relieved.

Was it because he finally found the man that carved that date?

Was it because he finally believed in Senku?

Or was it because… he finally had faith in Senku…

Faith… in Senku...

“Man.. electricity in the stone age… Hard to believe…” He spoke out loud as he tried to settle these conflicting feelings in him “Right? Tsukasa-chan?”

Did Asagri Gen actually had faith in someone else besides him? Did he actually believe that Senku could actually do what he set out to do? Did he really feel like he could trust Senku…

He put on a marvelous facade to everyone in the Empire of Might that he was an avid supporter of Tsukasa’s ideals.

But even from day one, he knew.

He knew Tsukasa had to be taken down, before he unknowingly brings humanity to ruin. To a point where the petrification would have been a better death sentence. He knew and understood Tsukasa's reasoning but at the same time he realized that it was the craziest thing ever! Culling the adults?! Everyone will turn into an adult one day! Getting rid of the corrupt? Anyone, no matter who they are, young or old, everyone was capable of corruption. If he himself wasn't a good example of that, he'd want to meet them!

But there was no one. No one powerful enough to even stand against Tsukasa. He heard that only Taiju could even take his hits and not pass out due to the force. But that was no comparison.

Senku had little to no stamina. Even Suika, the melon girl had more stamina and strength than him.

And yet… the moment he saw that light. That Flame of Science…

Lack of stamina or not…

Senku is…

Senku...

He gulped down as he felt his cravings for an ice cold cola resurface again.

‘Do you think… he could…’

Gen raised his head as he heard the members of the Kingdom of Science climb up to the Science shed, possibly to retire for the night.

He stood up and followed them to the shed.

But mid way he stopped himself.

It just hit him.

He just unconsciously followed Senku and his friends. He just let himself fall prey to Senku's commands. He just let himself become part of that little group. He just let himself already side with the Kingdom of Science.

Without thinking, he just let himself betray Shishio Tsukasa and the Empire of Might right then and there…

Asagiri Gen could not believe what he just did.

He froze where he stood and let the reality of the situation sink in.

He hasn't even had time to comprehend what happened earlier.

That blinding light…

Senku...

"That means Gen is a bad guy too!" Suika's terrified voice echoed, which got the mentalist's attention.

"Ah… so they're talking about me… and my allegiance" Gen spoke softly to himself. There was something about the little innocent melon girl calling him a bad guy that really stung something within Gen.

"But isn’t Gen the one who saved us from Magma! Then he’s a good guy!" Suika argued. She obviously sounded conflicted.

"Suika-chan. You are so cute and so naive…" Gen lamented to himself, "Oh, how I wish I could…"

"He’s honestly not a good guy or a bad guy." He then heard Senku spoke those words. He felt… touched.

“He’s nothing but a rat, who’s only in it for himself.” Kohaku added bitterly. Gen sighed, as he turned away from the shed and walked around the “Kingdom” and found himself staring at the furnace.

“It actually doesn't matter to me if he's good or bad…" Gen smiled to himself as he heard Senku say that, "At the end of the day, we need him to be an ally of the Kingdom of Science. We’ll have him give a bogus report to Tsukasa, saying that “Senku is definitely dead.” That's the only possible hope we have of winning this."

Gen wondered why he felt so heartbroken when he heard that from him.

'So he only saw me as an opportunity?' Gen bit his lip. But quickly shook his head, 'No… that's understandable… I mean… I… I really don't care if he or Tsukasa lived or died…. Right?'

'Right… I did say that…'

"Listen up Gen!” His attention was instantly grabbed by Chrome who yelled out to him from the shed, “I know you saw the electricity! The light! That’s what badass science at work looks like!”

‘Is Chrome-chan trying to convince me to join their side?’

“So why care about who wins? Why even give a crap whether Senku or Tsukasa has the edge?” Chrome continued his empassioned speech, “‘Cause the Kingdom of Science is obviously the side that’s more fun!”

If Gen could laugh right now he could. Hearing those words from Chrome made him remember something. Something in his past, that he thought he had let go many years ago.  But… he can't just…

“Oh? Is that so? You are the passionate type.” Gen turned around and gave Chrome his realistic fake smile at him and even shrugged his shoulders, “Too bad for you, I don’t really care about that."

‘That's right… I really don't…’

"I'm probably the most superficial man on earth!"

'That's the truth… I really am only in it for myself. Yes… definitely… I am a shallow man…'

"All I care about is what's beneficial to me!"

Gen turned back and walked away. He could hear Kohaku growling at him.  At least in some consolation that he finally managed to make Kohaku believe in his lies.

The lies that he made himself believe in it…

They say that if you tell yourself something many times that you eventually believe in it. A person can tell themselves that they are happy and eventually, for no reason they are happy. A person can convince themselves they're the worst of the worst and they become the worst.

After all there's a grain of truth within every lie in order to make it believable.

That's how Gen managed to fit in the world of showbiz. A little compliment there, a dash of praise, and combined with some sweet words was enough for him to get anyone dancing at the palm of his hand. He was so good at it. He knew how most people think. Mentalism was almost like mind reading except without the actual psychic powers part.

Gen walked to the brand new generator that was made with everyone's effort. He had a role in it too. He was proud of it.

He was proud of the electricity it produced….

His thoughts went back to the light again.

That light that shone brighter than the sun…

The light... that shone upon Senku.

He then remembered why he was here in the first place. What he was sent to do. What side he was already supposed to be on. What he had to do. When he saw that date…

That date that he believed in.

That date that he put faith in.

That date that he trusted…

Trust…

He let his hand touch the copper disc and spun it around mindlessly… he wondered to himself, for tomorrow… if he could---

The next thing he knew was someone threw a powerful punch at his cheek.

The punch was powerful enough to send him off his feet. He tried to gain back footing but the attacker was relentless. Another punch at his face, then at his gut, then an uppercut, then another one to push him down to the ground. It was too dark, but he could see the silhouette of a familiar burly man and with him a midget and another skinny man. Then he saw the burly man raise up a spear with an obvious full intent to impale him with.

"Who….." He already knew who they were… it made sense…

"Why…?" He hopes that he hits the right spot. He came prepared after all. His past experiences have taught him to be prepared for a scenario like this.

But that doesn't mean it still hurts like hell.

Gen swore internally as he felt the spear pierce his fake blood bag. He then let his arm slump on the side as he pretended to be fatally impaled. He contorted his face to a horrified expression. He's already practiced it many times. If his memory serves, he has only done it once before...

"What was that noise?" If Gen could sigh in relief he could, but for now he needed to stay still and remain completely immobile. But was he so glad to hear Kohaku's voice.

Her voice had prompted his attackers to quickly bail out leaving Gen still frozen in his place. He needed to make them believe he was dead. That also meant making Kohaku and the others believe he was. Just for a few more minutes…

He then heard the collective gasps of the Science gang as he dubbed it.

He was so glad to know they’re here…

He wondered why he was…

“Holy crap, what happened here?!” Chrome asked worriedly as he leaned forward to take a look closer.

‘I don’t know Chrome-chan… What can you guess with a long ass spear poking out of my stomach!’

“Dammit…” Kohaku swore as she figured out what had happened, “Looks like he died instantly…”

“This is horrible!” Suika was in tears.

‘Good… that should be enough to make it convincing. Now, if they could all just walk away so I can---’

“Hang on a second!” Senku finally caught up to the two and held on to the spear.

‘Senku-chan! Wait! No!’

He pulled the spear out slowly revealing that it did not pierce Gen at all, rather it was one of his fake blood bags that he placed underneath his clothes to protect himself before he came to the village beforehand.

“He protected himself with fake blood bags…” Senku concluded as he untied the makeshift belt Gen had and even his undershirt. It revealed all the hard work he did to put on himself before he arrived in the village.

Gen just hoped his attacker didn't hear them, he really wanted to make sure they thought that they did kill him. So he could escape in peace.

No one believed in him anyway. Gen was first and foremost a shallow man who was only in it for himself. He kept that image as much as he could as a celebrity. He wanted to make sure that no one would try to exploit him. He was definitely not a naive, bright eyed brat. For as long as he knew everyone he has ever met in his life had selfish reasons for doing things. Hell, even the science gang had their own personal reasons for being here. Why else would they take advantage of his hard work and everyone in the village for that matter.

“He’s got these things all over his body!” Suika felt relieved and impressed by Gen’s ingenuity.

“This is really freakin’ bad!” Chrome was very impressed as well, “I bet he did this before he even came to the village, just in case.”

‘Why are they… impressed by this… don’t they realize… what that meant….?’

“Tch, that’s pretty impressive Gen!” Even Senku was amazed, “You really are a magician to your core. Not to mention a showman.”

‘Senku-chan… everyone…’

If Gen could laugh right now, he could. Unfortunately the injuries he sustained would make it too difficult for him to do so. But in a rare moment, so rare that he doesn’t remember when he has ever done it.

He loudly breathed out a sigh of relief, which surprised everyone.

“Gen!” Suika was close to tears as she approached the magician closer, “You’re awake! Suika is so glad you’re okay!”

“Thank goodness those bad bags you made saved you!” Chrome beamed at Gen, “It would have been really bad if you died, you know!”

‘They’re… relieved that I’m alive…?’

“That was truly an insane thing you did… Mentalist. And that's a compliment.” Senku smugly said as he mentioned the very title that Gen just offhandedly suggested before. It earned him a weak smile from the mentalist himself.

Gen was lifted up by Kohaku, albeit she wasn't the most gentle of people out there, but he did need to get treated, and she was the only one strong enough to carry him. She carried him to the Science shed and proposed to throw him there. Senku quickly stopped her on that idea and had him and Chrome gently carry him up with a rope. It was still painful for him, especially since he kept being bumped into the ladder. But Gen thought it was way better than being thrown up like a sack by Kohaku.

If Gen could protest to Senku and the rest of the team he could. Especially since they had to strip him of all of his clothes, minus his underwear, just to treat his injuries. It was a bit humiliating for him to be exposed like this but the pain of nearly getting killed took over most of this feeling and most of his energy to even try to speak.

Senku then started cleaning his wounds and placed some leaves with some ground up…. Whatever the hell it was on his wounds. It stung like hell. Gen, of course vocalized them but it was mostly ignored. Also Kohaku had to hold him down when it became so unbearable that his body shook and contort from the pain. Everything in him hurts so much that he couldn't focus on anything.

From what it felt like forever, it was finally done. They placed a blanket over him and let Gen rest.

Gen was still grunting and hissing from the pain of his injuries, but was so relieved that they were done.

He could hear them talking. Then he heard Suika jump off from the shed declaring that she was going to investigate.

Gen never wanted to stop someone in his life until now. He didn't want poor little Suika to put herself in danger. Especially with what the brute did to him. But with everything in him literally hurting it was way too much for him to even move his body.

“Su--Suika-chan…” Gen managed to let the words out of his mouth. “No---”

“Let her be Gen.” Senku scolded him, “Just rest, Suika can take care of herself.”

Gen was just dumbfounded. How can he, or anyone with common sense for that matter, could just say that. Suika was like… what he could estimate was like 8 years old or something. How could Senku let a little girl go like that to investigate his attempted murder. If he could strangle Senku right now, he could.

But then, pain took over Gen's senses and he passed out.

Gen woke up the next day to the sound of everyone moving around him. He felt his injuries hurt less, which was good, but it wasn't good enough for him to move much without still screaming in pain. He slightly tilted his head to the side to see Senku rummaging through his bag and pulled out from what he can tell is a toothbrush. He wondered at first how Senku could do that, then he realized that Senku was a scientist and making even the bare basic toothpaste shouldn't be too hard for him.

Senku heard him stir and turned to see Gen looking at him.

"Ah, good morning Mentalist." There goes Senku using that title again, "Nice to see you're alive and well."

Gen weakly rolled his eyes.

"Feeling better, Gen?" He heard Chrome approach him with concern still etched in the young boy's face. It's… made Gen actually well happy… as strange of a feeling as it is. "You got socked in real bad last night. Senku managed to whip up something to treat those bad injuries of yours. I hope you feel better soon okay?"

'Chrome-chan cares about me? Even after what I said to him….?'

"Chrome, I'm heading out to brush my teeth." Senku plainly announced as he walked out of the Science shed, "Change some of Gen’s bandages for me will you?

“Sure…”

This time Gen didn't protest when Chrome carefully peeled off the bandages and cleaned them and replaced them with fresh ones. He was way more gentle than Senku ever was, and he was incredibly thankful for it. Gen didn’t say anything else to Chrome though, he was still taken aback by his words.

By the time Chrome was done they could hear Suika running back announcing that she has big news.

Gen sighed in relief to know that Suika was okay. He closed his eyes as if he was asleep so he could hear the news.

“I figured out who attacked Gen last night!!” Suika proclaimed out loud, “I know who killed him!!”

“Uh, You know he’s not dead…” Kohaku commented which made Gen giggle silently.

“Well, so who was it?” Senku asked her.

“It was Magma!” Suika cried out, “Magma was the one who did it!”

Gen already knew it was Magma. The brute who scampered off when he saw him perform his little novice level sleight of hand magic trick. Suika continued to tell everyone what she overheard. He found out that his overall goal was to kill Kohaku, because apparently she was so strong that it must be sorcery, and not real physical strength. He was even willing to let her and her sister, Ruri, become his women if she begged for mercy.

“I see…”Kohaku concluded, “When Magma came over here, Gen made those flowers vanish right before his eyes. I imagine from his perspective, Gen has to be the mysterious foreign sorcerer that I tried to bring into the village.”

He knew that this village of primitives was incredibly averse to any kind of  unexplainable scientific advancement. He remembered some of the villagers calling ramen a delicious sorcery.

He cursed internally for forgetting that there are people who are adverse to the unexplainable.

“So Magma tried to murder Gen, because he mistook him for Senku?” After hearing those words from Chrome, Gen snapped his eyes open.

“What?! That ape, Magma mistook me for Senku-chan, and that’s why he attacked me?! For the love of…” Gen winced in pain when he tried to sit up, so he gave up on that and just remained lying down. “Shit… it still hurts… I can’t move around like this…”

Gen just couldn’t believe it. Inadvertently, he saved Senku’s ass. he wasn’t even planning on it. He was just only contemplating his options when he was suddenly attacked! It was a huge case of mistaken identity. He was nearly killed because Magma mistook him for Senku! He was still considering joining Senku’s side. But now, he saved Senku, which indirectly makes him a traitor to the Empire of Might and an ally to the Kingdom of Science!

This was frustrating him!

And yet, he couldn’t understand why he felt so relieved…

‘I saved him…. I saved Senku-chan…’

“Got a question for ya, Kohaku…” Hearing Senku’s voice got his attention, “Why would Magma be looking for an opportunity to kill you?”

“It’s probably because--- no It’s definitely because of the Grand Bout.”

Kohaku went on to explain their tradition of having the next village chief, which turned out to be a fighting tournament called the Grand Bout. Gen thought that it was a little unfair that only those who are physically strong could be the next village chief. the thought of Magma being a leader of something or anyone for that matter, bothered the hell out of him.  But when Kohaku continued her story, it made much more sense. Especially her, the Chief’s daughter, was living and and working with sorcerers and outsiders like him and Senku. And how Magma wanted her dead.

Kohaku only wanted to save her sister who was dying of a mysterious illness...

‘Heh… a bunch of misfits…’

Gen shook away an old memory of him being outcasted by society.

He did listen to the rest of the conversation to gain more material for him to use for later. He heard them planning what to do on the Grand Bout and to bring in additional fighters. Even though he knew Kinro and Ginro were prime candidates, and he knew they were already brought in to the Kingdom of Science because of him.

Gen chuckled as he let himself sleep.

The next time he woke up, he heard grunting and shouting noises from outside, he recognized them to be Kinro, Ginro, and Kohaku. He figured out she was training them in order to compete for the Grand Bout which was happening in a month. He saw Chrome sitting by the entrance of the shed. He then heard Kohaku apologize to him, and said how she preferred to train Chrome to defeat Magma but the time limit was too short for them.

Then came Senku joining in throwing a hard sarcastic remark about Chrome having a crush on Ruri.

‘Ah, so Chrome-chan has a crush on this Ruri. That would make sense, considering the situation.’  

“If we can create something with science, that lets her live a long, happy life, that sounds good to me.” Chrome spoke with deep determination. Gen couldn’t help but smile. “Because above all else, I’m a genius scientist, aren't I?”

‘Haha…. Chrome-chan is so passionate. It's almost infectious.’

Gen couldn’t remember the last time he felt that much passion in anyone. Even to him. No, he was wrong. He does remember being passionate about magic and in extension, mentalism… Just hearing Chrome’s words was so refreshing to him…

“So you’re finally changing job titles from sorcerer to scientist, huh?” Senku chuckled. He sounded like he was proud of him too.

“Yup! I’m not a sorcerer anymore!”

“Then let's leave the Grand Bout stuff to the battle team, and while you and I, on the science team, get to work on a sulfa drug.”

“Hell yeah!

‘Sulfa drugs?’ Gen thought to himself, ‘Senku-chan and the others are making a sulfa drug?’

The mentalist doesn’t know much about medicine in general, but even he knew that a lot of drugs are manufactured in a factory and it takes a lot of complicated materials and chemistry. He kinda doubted that they could make one that was comparable to the modern era…

But then again… this was Senku…

His mind wandered to that blinding light again...

Gen gulped his own saliva, he was thinking of that bottle of cola again…

Later that night, the gang sans Kinro and Ginro huddled up together at the science shed as they finished changing Gen’s leaves and bandages again. Suika had a warm damp towel on his head to have him cool off.

“I’m planning on participating in the Grand Bout '' Kohaku declared, “The two brothers and I will be the Kingdom of Science team. We’ll do whatever it takes to keep Magma from winning…”

“Sounds good.” Chrome nodded but when he looked at Gen who was now panting from the pain he grew more worried, “Is he all right? He looks way worse….”

It was because whatever medicine that was placed on Gen’s injuries actually stung a lot. He actually felt much better. Better enough to at least stand….

“I think he’ll be fine.” Kohaku reassured him, “But his recovery’s gonna take longer than we thought…”

“Then that means…”

“Yeah…” Senku finished the conversation, but from his voice, he didn’t sound scared, rather he sounded ready for what’s to come. “It won’t be long before Tsukasa comes around lookin’ for me, and kills me for real."

Gen… was not gonna have any of that. No… he can't let that vicious primate go and kill Senku and the rest of the village like that.

He knew they did nothing wrong. They only wanted to cure a girl with an unknown illness and stop a power hungry madman from ruining their home.

He knew Senku…. Senku was… was…

Gen wants to do something about it…

Much later as everyone retired from the night, Gen was lying sideways, pretending to be asleep, and he kept quiet just long enough to hear Chrome snore. It was his indication that he and Senku were the only ones left awake.

If it wasn’t for the pain of his injuries, Gen would have been shaking from his own nerves.

There was one thing. One thing left he needed to assure that Senku was one to be trusted. Or rather, it was more, it was something he wanted to know.

The whole time, ever since he was awakened, he kept dreaming of it, wanting it. He knew it was bad for him. He knew it was nothing but badly packaged sugar water. He knew it was… it was the thing he desired for himself the most. He could live without it, definitely. But he knew even the most stoic of people need even the little pleasures in life in order to actually keep on going.

Gen only mentioned it once. It was supposed to be a lie, but in reality it was the whole truth.

“Senku… Senku-chan…” He weakly said, as he hoped to get the scientist’s attention. “Senku-chan… can you do it….”

He then felt Senku move and let his body lean closer to the injured man to hear what he had to say…

“Even in this stone world…Could you make one for me?" Gen vocalized his strong desire for one, “Just… One… Cola…”

A bottle of cola… it was one of the few things he indulged himself with when he was still a celebrity back in the modern time. After a show, it was the first thing he requested. His manager knew to leave one in his dressing room. He always has a case of it at his apartment. He would always request it at bars, making them think he was drinking, when in reality he hated alcohol. Even before he became a celebrity, it was something he desired as a child. He celebrated every small victory with a bottle. His parents banned him from drinking it saying its unhealthy and bad for a budding trophy like him. It made him want it more.

An ice cold bottle of cola….

“Yeah. For sure… nobody else can…” Senku responded so casually as he pulled back and sat to where he was before.

It was hard for Gen to believe, but at the same time. He did believe. He had faith in him. He trusted Senku to do this for him.

Gen chuckled as he accepted the truth in front of him.

“Why…” he asked Senku, while he still remained on his side, not looking at Senku “Why would you agree to do this?”

The mentalist panted a bit, “Why agree to set aside some time to actually make some cola for me… You have that… sulfa drug to do…”

“So you heard that huh..” Senku chuckled but he didn’t seem shocked or wavered, “Well why not? I've always wanted to try it.”

Gen actually laughed heartily as much as his injuries let him. He then winced in pain again.

“Senku-chan…” He began again as the pain subsided, “Why… Why do you trust me?”

He was an outsider, even amongst the Kingdom of Science. They didn’t even know each other until just recently. The only reason Senku even knew of his name was through one of his “trashy” books as he said before. Gen was a nobody to Senku. And yet, he was pulled to do manual labour, and was forced…. No… he stayed and watched what they did to the result of that labour. He made it clear what his intentions were, and that in general he was still a danger to Senku. He could still disappear and run back to Tsukasa and tell him that he’s alive. He could still do that…

Asagiri Gen doesn’t want to do that.

But even so, he was a shallow man. He was not to be trusted. He said he could do it. He could still do it.

“Because…” Senku began, “For a dumbass like you, who lies through the skin of his teeth. Why bother helping me?”

“Huh?” Gen doesn’t understand what the scientist is saying.

“If you really were intent on reporting my existence to Tsukasa, you didn’t need to come here and introduce yourself to me or anyone in the village.” Senku concluded, “Which means, superficial reasons or not, you wanted something. Even if it is a silly bottle of cola, you still went here and made yourself known.”

Gen was speechless. Not because of the pain, but because… Senku found out…

“You were that amazed huh?” He could almost just see Senku’s trademark smirk as he said this, “When I made that electricity…”

Gen trembled ever so slightly, as a magician he was trained to always be calm. To be steady… but this…

“You said it yourself, you wanted to be on the winning side.” Senku kept on adding evidence, “Am I wrong?”

Gen laughed again, as much as his injured body could take.

“Senku-chan….” Gen kept on laughing and wincing at the same time, “You’re azy-cray!!”

It only earned him an approving grunt from the scientist.

And with that, Gen went to sleep. This was the most peaceful sleep he’s ever had since breaking out of the stone…

The next day, he was shaken awake by Senku. It was still dawn, according to the scientist at least. He didn’t doubt it, after all he figured out that Senku was the mystery counter.

Senku had taken his bandages and leaves off his body and cleaned it to make sure there was no evidence of him getting treated. Gen felt much better and could move better now without screaming in pain. But even so putting on his multi layered outfit took a while and Senku had to help him. They quietly moved out of the shed as they didn’t want to disturb, sleeping beauty Chrome. He was impressed by the young boy’s ability to just sleep through almost anything.

Senku then climbed down the ladder all the way down. And while it still hurt, Gen followed suit.

This was it.

This was definitely it.

The two quickly understood what needs to be done. They both knew doing it this way, will cover up Gen’s actions making him look superficial to the villagers. To the Empire, as if the villagers were just muscle headed brutes, who attacked him for investigating.

Gen had to go back to the Empire of Might to give his report to Tsukasa that… Senku is dead.

Senku is dead.

Yes, he had to lie to him and his people, that Senku, the biggest threat to the Empire, the King of Science, was dead.

But… Gen then started to doubt, ‘What if they don’t believe me… What if---’

Senku gave Gen a shove. It wasn’t hard, but it still hurt…

“Go on mentalist.” Senku chuckled as he picked his ear, “We don’t have all day. Go!”

Gen laughed once again. It looks like Senku did trust him after all. And in turn, he trusted Senku.

“Asshole…” He turned back and gave Senku a devious smile.

Asagiri Gen then moved one foot, and quickly moved forward to another, and another, until his effort to move turned a full blown run.

He was laughing. He kept on laughing as he kept running through the forest. His trip from the Empire to the Kingdom lasted more than two days, by foot. But now, he’s running. He’s running full speed ahead back to the Empire. He had to do this. He needed to keep running, even when every bit of his body ached like hell, even when he was out of breath. He kept on running, and running, and running…

Gen had never laughed so much in his entire life.

He then tripped over a big root that he didn’t notice. He welcomed it, he welcomed the unfortunate faceplant on the dirt. This would help him. This would help him sell his disguise.

“What the hell am I doing?!” Gen screamed to himself as he quickly picked himself up and continued running.

He didn’t need an answer to that. He damn well knew why he was doing this. He knew….

The faceplant helped in making sure his face was not a face of laughter and acceptance. Instead his face needed to be etched with anger and fear. It was the perfect expression to sell his lie.

After what seemed like forever, Gen had finally arrived at the Empire of Might. He bolted straight to Tsukasa’s lair, only to be greeted by their resident scout and bowman.

An arrow landed next to him, narrowly missing his foot.

“Wait! Tsukasa-chan! It’s me!!” Gen screamed in desperation. His exhausted state helped in this act.

When he realized it was indeed Gen, he let him inside, so he could finally talk to Tsukasa.

“I found a village.” Gen panted heavily as he delivered his report, “Full of primitives…”

“They attacked me!” He coughed a little as he tried to catch his breath, “And I ended up getting a little banged up in the process.”

That was a complete lie. Anyone with eyes could see that he wasn’t just a "little" banged up. But that wasn’t the point Gen was making. He said that in order to make people think less of his injuries, that it wasn’t relevant to the report.

He then raised his head to meet the eyes of the man that could kill him with his bare hands.

“But, I did manage to find out about Senku-chan!” And that's where he got everyone’s attention. Especially Tsukasa.

Gen remembered what Senku promised to him. That bottle of cola…

Senku didn't need to make it for him. He really didn't need to. But no one needed to know that. That light, that date, those were enough to convince him. Nothing else mattered.

Senku… won him over already.

Even if the Scientist didn't fully realize what had happened, he had already claimed a Mentalist in his Kingdom of Science.

The Empire of Might lost Asagiri Gen.

Gen finally ceased panting as he continued.

“Senku… was gone. No trace of him anywhere!” The magician mentalist spoke those words as the tension within the lair had ceased, “There’s no doubt! He’s definitely not alive!”

The rest of the Empire cheered as they were greatly relieved to hear that from him. They were happy that the biggest threat to Tsukasa and his empire was definitely gone, there was no hide nor hair of him anywhere. They approached Gen and some gave him a pat on the back.

His injuries still hurt.

Gen managed to shake them off, saying that he needed to recover from that incredibly long run through the forest. And they let him, as Tsukasa summoned the ones who could give him some treatment.

When he was finally alone, Gen sat on a flat rock, and looked up to the sky. He could see the sunlight coming through the trees and let its warmth envelop his body.

But even then, this light was still nothing compared to the light that Senku made.

The Flame of Science.

And the man who created it.

The man he now trusted, to make that bottle of cola…

“Man, this isn’t worth all the trouble…” Gen sighed happily as he recalled those memories, “For just one bottle of cola?”

“I hope it’s ice cold. That’s the very least he could do…”

Asagiri Gen, wouldn’t want to miss his bottle of cola.

And he's now looking forward to drinking one, pretty soon.

[pkbrand-pk]

Men Pants Online Men Pants eBay Men Pants For Sale In Pakistan

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Completions

In the wake of guaranteeing the nature of the canvas, you need to take a gander along the edge of the completions. Consistently, the more the pants will have propelled completes the higher the cost. In addition, the completions will make it conceivable to separate two pants which appear to be comparable, however which at last are not really so. By and large, I award you, the completion of a couple of pants remain generally close starting with one set of pants then onto the next, it's each of the issues of subtleties. A few brands additionally separate themselves because of these completions, similar to a brand signature. Creases fasten, pocket lining, chain join or bolts, we will filter through each finish:

The creases

The creases on pants are significant, as they will decide the life span of the piece. By and large, great sewing brings about tight, thick join, or more completely adjusted and standard. To check their quality, there is no mystery, simply pull on the various bits of denim and check whether the fixing is there or not. On the off chance that, despite what might be expected, the strings are excessively slender and there is an absence of consistency in the plan, it is not out of the ordinary that the pants won't hold over the long haul. To acknowledge and additionally confirm the quality of the creases, don't spare a moment to turn the pants over and break down the legs within, the groin, the fly or even the pockets. Additionally, it is regularly between the legs that denim faces the most torsion and scraped spot.

The covering of the pockets

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Any individual who has never had pockets with openings at any rate once is a liar (I'm joking, obviously). The reality remains that in the event that you need to save your pants for quite a long while, you should focus on the nature of the coating of the pockets, in light of the fact that indeed, confronting numerous ports and particularly against scraped spot (keys, entryway cash, and so on.), they may wind up being torn or even torn. We will support a quality get together with specifical bolts and/or strong creases and particularly a thick and safe material!

Breakpoint or support

Frequently, over the ports, the back pockets will, in general, disfigure and in some cases even destroy. Erosion and pressure are altogether the more present when you put your mobile phone or XXL wallet, for instance. Right now, is smarter to support pants with a halting point or as here a fortification with an extra crease. It is likewise normal to discover them at the fly (this one is additionally extremely mentioned)

w to pick pants?

HOW TO CHOOSE JEANS?

By Gurvan says "Chamber head gasket", October 06, 2019 (article refreshed on February 27, 2020)

Among all the nuts and bolts of the male closet, jeans without a doubt the person who rules! For a long time, this indigo-colored bit of cotton has been a vital piece of our closet. Crude or somewhat washed, the pants are a bit of character that will age and advance over the ports to receive an excellent patina and a decent wash. To get great outcomes, there is no mystery, it is basic to pick it well. Regularly, we pose inquiries about the texture (Italian denim, selvage? How thick? 11oz or 14oz?), Then come different inquiries regarding the cut, the size and the various completions that we have to pick or not. Try not to freeze, here we will attempt to reveal some insight into every one of these inquiries!

The most effective method to pick pants

Outline

1. The little story of pants

2. The distinctive denim textures

3. The various loads of pants

4. How to perceive quality pants?

5. The various cuts of denim

6. How to pick the size of your pants?

7. Where to discover pants?

1. The little story of pants

Everything begins with two men, Levi-Strauss and Jacob Davis. In 1870 Davis claimed a prestigious Nevada turning business and Levi-Strauss a textured business. At some point, a lady requested that Davis plan strong jeans so her significant other could wear them for more than one work season. She paid development of and he acknowledged. He at that point worked with a move of cotton canvas bought from Levi-Strauss and made common jeans until he had the possibility of ​​adding copper bolts to keep up the texture at certain delicate purposes of the jeans. The thought prompted the structure of progressively strong and increasingly tough jeans. Regardless of whether he just sold a couple of jeans the main summer, the notoriety of his items before long developed and deals expanded. Davis in this manner looked for an accomplice and promptly thought of the person who had sold him the crude material, Levi-Strauss (1872). On May 20, 1873, was distributed the patent-related with this new revelation, entitled "Improvement in Fastening Pocket-Openings". Along these lines, we consider that this date is that of the introduction of the pants. After 1880 (because of the lapse of the patent), different brands assumed control over the idea and built up their own strong jeans. Pants will at that point become the leader bit of production lines and farms before spreading in the second 50% of the twentieth century to most by far of dressings. this date is viewed as that of the introduction of the pants. After 1880 (because of the lapse of the patent), different brands assumed control over the idea and built up their own strong jeans. Pants will at that point become the lead bit of production lines and farms before spreading from the second 50% of the twentieth century to most by far of dressings. this date is viewed as that of the introduction of the pants. After 1880 (because of the termination of the patent), different brands assumed control over the idea and built up their own strong jeans. Pants will at that point become the lead bit of plants and farms before spreading from the second 50% of the twentieth century to by far most of the dressings.

history of pants

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Aren't our American ranchers attractive with their pants and their hatchet in their grasp? (photograph was taken during the 1930s)

The history and cause of pants

2. The distinctive denim textures

Today, the market is loaded with pants textures, to such an extent that you can discover them at all costs. To lay it out plainly, we will recognize two textures of pants: great denim and selvage denim. Note that regardless of whether the most renowned pants are produced using selvage textures, this canvas isn't constantly an assurance of value. Obviously, I'm not discussing Japanese or American selvage textures (like once in the past Cone Mills), yet rather those found at low costs in significant brands. Surely, much the same as us, you more likely than not saw as of late that some quick design brands have taken on the expression "Selvedge" thusly.

Jean selvage japan

Try not to blend tea towels and towels, it is smarter to be cautious what you purchase. Here, we follow the creation of selvage pants in the unadulterated convention!

jean selvage versus selvage

dual account, a couple of months prior, I went to Galeries Lafayette in Rennes. In the wake of halting at a few corners, I moved toward pants and I began to take a gander at it from all edges (since truly, I frequently have this tick). Quickly, I understood that it was neither more nor not exactly a FALSE jean selvage. Within the pants was sewn a piece of texture, unequivocally at the area of the selvage outskirt. I saw it quickly on account of the numerous wires that were standing out. In addition, among the quick design brands that offer selvage pants, we will see that the canvas needs character and that it is frequently excessively dainty. A while later, sometimes (very uncommon), we can run over parts that will age rather well. This to disclose to you that it is smarter to make a stride back and dissect the piece that is in your grasp before propelling and that non-selvage pants (an Italian denim for instance) aren't really lower quality pants than section level selvage pants.

False selvage pants

Alright, Do you see the blemish? (this isn't my finger)

A. Great denim

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We start with the canvas that we locate the most on the pants showcase, the most famous, exemplary denim. Initially, it was a safe French canvas that was produced using fleece and silk from the celebrated city of Nîmes. We are toward the finish of the XIXth century. The canvas is then utilized in the production of work pants. Along these lines, this twill is sent out to California and goes with most by far of gold miners. This is the means by which the legend of denim was conceived (only that).

The correct hand twill

On exemplary denim, this extremely tight weave is produced using a chain colored blue and an unbleached or white weft. The weft strings are interweaved at a 90-degree point with the twist strings. The weave (or weaving configuration) is structured from three weft strings sliding under a twisted string and afterward a weft string ignoring this equivalent twist. The balance of this weave on four strings gives corner to corner lines, a trait of the twill. On most by far of pants, we find what is known as the correct hand twill or S-side twill. Right now, the inclining of the texture runs from the lower left to the upper right.

Italian denim canvas

Jean Norse Projects made in Italian denim: right-hand twill weaving

The left-hand twill

You should realize that a few brands of pants like LEE have decided on a left-gave weaving, which is called left-hand twill. It is essentially the switch of the correct hand twill. This weaving system carries a specific delicate quality to the texture since the heading of turn given to the string makes it conceivable to draw out the angle delicate to the touch.

right-hand twill left-hand twill

A correct hand twill weaving on the left against a left-hand twill on the privilege

The messed up twill

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At long last, there is denim that joins these two weaving methods. It is a canvas that has no particular direction, that is, no correct hand till or left-hand twill. It's known as the messed up twill. A weaving utilized by the American brand Wrangler in 1964 (the 13MWZ model). The objective is to abstain from turning among both ways gave textures, yet additionally to oppose every day scraped spot. The drawing is effectively conspicuous since it is a crisscross that can be seen when turning the part.

[timeoutforthee]

Like It or Not (Chapter 5)

Summary: Logan, Patton, Roman, and Virgil are all struggling in their recovery. Their doctors, Thomas Sanders and Emile Picani think they can help each other out.

Aka Group Therapy AU

Trigger Warnings:  self deprecating thoughts, mentions of calories (no numbers though)

Taglist: @itsausernamenotafobsong,  @sea-blue-child, @iaminmultiplefandoms, @princeanxious, @uwillbeefoundtonight​, @zaidiashipper​, @arandompasserby​, @levyredfox3​, @echomist13​, @falsett0

Read on AO3!

The door was barely closed when Patton jumped up from his seat.

Dr. Sanders considered telling him to sit back down and let him take care of it, but who knew if that would work? Emile had warned him that Virgil didn’t trust others easily, especially therapists. So when Patton glanced at him uneasily, he gave him a small nod, and he rushed after Virgil.

Turns out, he didn’t have to go too far. Virgil was at the end of the hallway, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head resting on his knees. His hood was pulled down, so Patton couldn’t see his face. However, when he approached, he could hear small gasps and could see him shaking.

Virgil was crying.

On instinct, Patton reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched away violently, and Patton yanked his hand back.

Okay, this just got a bit harder. How does one comfort without hugging?

Virgil gasped a little louder, and Patton realized the first thing he had to was get him to stop crying, if for no other reason than to let him catch his breath.

Gently, he sat down in front of him. He thought a moment.

“Why couldn’t the bicycle stand up by itself?”

Virgil didn’t respond, just gasped again.

“It was too tired.”

He paused, trying to think again.

“I littered some pennies earlier today. I hope the coppers don’t come after me.”

Patton couldn’t hear him crying anymore, so he hoped this was going somewhere.

“Do you know why flamingos sleep with one leg up? Because if they slept with both legs up, they’d fall over!”

Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort came from Virgil. They sat in silence for a second, before he slowly tilted his head so he could peek at Patton from underneath his hood.

“What the matter, kiddo? Do your socks have holes in them?”

“Uh, no-”

“Then how’d you get your feet in them?” This time Patton let himself laugh as Virgil smiled, “I didn’t know what to do to make you feel better, so I thought I’d try distraction,” he paused, suddenly unsure, “Did it help?”

Virgil still wasn’t feeling great, but he could at least breathe and stopped crying. Mostly.

“It, uh, it did. Thanks,” He lifted his head the rest of the way, and Patton’s heart broke a little bit. Virgil just looked <i>so sad.</i> His eyes were red and watery still, and the tear tracks hadn’t dried on his cheeks.

Patton pulled the sleeve of his sweater over his hand, and reached up to his cheek, ready to wipe them away. He paused when he saw the look on Virgil’s face.

“Sorry, this is probably weird,” he said, “I just come from a very touchy family.”

“I...don’t,” Virgil says after a while. Patton lifts his hand again and dabs at Virgil’s cheeks as he closes his eyes.

“There you go, kiddo.”

“Kid-I’m the same age as you?”

Patton shrugs. Then he shifts so he can sit next to Virgil against the wall.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Virgil says, staring ahead at nothing, “I very much do not want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about my goals or my family or-”

“Hey, that’s okay,” Patton says, cutting Virgil off before he can work himself into a panic again, “Dr. Sanders won’t make you talk about anything you don’t want to.”

Virgil narrows his eyes, looking skeptical, and honestly Patton can’t blame him.

They sit in silence a bit, until Virgil says, “Hey, Patton?”

“Yeah?”

“Where do you learn to make ice cream?”

Patton turns to him, and his eyes light up like an excited puppy, “I don’t know, where?”

“Sunday school.”

Patton laughs, and his laughter makes Virgil smile.

“Do you wanna head back to the session?”

“I mean, no,” Virgil says, “But I guess if we have to.”

Patton stands up and offers Virgil a hand. He takes it.

^

Dr. Sanders pauses as the door opens and Patton and Virgil walk in.

“Welcome back, guys,” he says, as they sit down, “Logan was just telling us one of his stepping stones towards recovery.”

“Ooh, what’s that?” Patton asks.

Logan fiddles with his glasses, avoiding eye contact.

“It’s foolish, really, but I want to eat jam again.” He waits for laughter. There is none.

“Jam?” Virgil asks. He nods.

“There’s a brand that has the same name as me-Crofter’s-and I’ve been eating it since I was a child. I haven’t had it in a while, because, well…”

He doesn’t have to say it. Jam has too much sugar. Jam has too many calories.

“I’ve been making my own breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past year and a half. Which is fine, I’ll have to do that when I’m an adult, but it’d be nice to just sit down and enjoy a family meal that my mom made,” Roman says.

Dr. Sanders nods, “What about you, Virgil?”

Virgil sighs, steeling himself.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, surely, there’s something-”

“No, you don’t get it,” Virgil cuts Roman off, “I <i>really</i> don’t know. I have no goals. I don’t know what my future is going to be like. Up until, like, three months ago, recovery wasn’t an option. I didn’t even know I <i>had</i> to recover. Life just...was the way it was and I had to deal with it.”

“No goals?” Logan says, “Don’t you know what you want to do after high school? You are a junior, right?”

“Yeah, I am, but no, I don’t,” Logan’s eyes go wide, “My school didn’t exactly care about their students. Plus I wasn’t very smart, or talented in anything, so I just kinda…” <i>didn’t exist</i> “didn’t stand out.”

“Do you think that’ll change since you’re transferring?” Thomas asks him.

“I mean, I’m still not smart or talented, so-”

“Hey, now, I’m sure that’s not true!” Patton interrupts.

“No, it’s pretty much true-”

“Have you ever tried to find a talent?” Roman asks, “You could join the theater department!”

“That sounds awful-”

“Or yearbook!” Patton chimes in.

“But I-”

“Debate team, science club, there are many clubs at our school, I’m sure you’d be able to find something,” Logan says, “Also, if you’re worried about not being “smart,” I can help tutor you.”

“Maybe,” Dr. Sanders cuts in, quietly, “The first thing Virgil should do is some reflecting-”

“Again, sounds awful.”

“Just take some time and see if there’s anything you <i>want</i> to do, that will make you happy. Maybe that should be your first step.”

“So my first step is creating a first step?” Virgil says, “Great. Second session and I’m already behind.”

“This isn’t a race, Virgil, you guys are teammates, not competitors,” Thomas points out, “But you’re in control, here. Is there something you want to do?”

And Virgil goes quiet, because no, there’s nothing. Except...<i>don’t be stupid.</i>

“Virgil?” Thomas prompts and Virgil wonders how therapists do that, how they seem to read minds.

“It’s stupid,” he says, automatically, and he immediately knows it’s a mistake, because Patton looks sad and Thomas is gearing up for another cheesy quote. Thankfully, Logan cuts them both off.

“I want to eat a spoonful of jam, Virgil,” he says, “A victory is however we define it.”

“I...want...to dye my hair purple,” Virgil says and he winces, “I’ve always wanted to, but I couldn’t, and now I can, plus I aIways feel so invisible but now people are starting to see me, whether I want them to or not, I guess, and I I just sorta...want to be in control of how they see me?” he shakes his head, “That doesn’t make any sense-”

“Oh, that would look so <i>epic!</i>” Roman says, loudly.

“Yes!” Patton says.

Which is...not what Virgil was expecting. He turns to Logan, who obviously has to see this is stupid...but Logan just shrugs.

“If it benefits your mental health, you should do it. Good mental health is important.”

“Good point, Logan. And Virgil, I think that’s a very creative way to make you feel like you have some sort of control. However, I do think you should still some reflecting. Perhaps with Picani?”

“Oh…,” is all Virgil can say, “um...cool.”

Dr. Sanders gives a nod, then turns to Patton.

“Hmmm...I don’t know, doc. I don’t exactly deny myself anything, if you couldn’t tell by looking at me!”

Virgil narrows his eyes. <i>Wait-</i>

“So I think the best thing would be for me to just stop with the purging nonsense!”

<i>Wait-</i>

“That...doesn’t sound like a healthy mindset,” Logan says.

“And it definitely doesn’t sound like a first step,” Roman adds.

“Correct,” Dr. Sanders says, and Patton’s smile falls, “What are some things coming up that may be a challenge for you?”

“I...well,” Patton doesn’t want to say it. He <i>really </i>doesn’t want to say it, “I guess the closest one would be...school shopping. For, like, new clothes.”

To his surprise, Roman visibly shudders.

“Oh, I used to love going clothes shopping, but now…,” he shakes his head.

Patton is confused. Roman is a bit thicker than average with broad shoulders, but all of it comes from muscles. Patton, on the other hands, is the biggest one in the room, and none of it is from muscle.

“It’s very common for clothes shopping to be stressful for those with body image issues,” Thomas says, “So, Patton, I think my challenge to you is going to be to reward yourself for getting through it.”

“Reward…? But, that’s not a challenge?”

“On the contrary, I think it’ll be very hard for you to be kind to yourself,” Thomas says, “That’s the point for all these challenges. While we’re working on finding the source of your eating disorders, and grappling with all these feelings that you may be struggling with, you need to be treating yourself as kindly as possible, and this is just the first step. I think the best thing would be to try and make it fun for you.”

“Clothes shopping is a necessity, it’s not fun,” Logan says.

“Well, what’s something fun you could buy?”

“But clothing doesn’t have a feeling-”

“A cape!” Roman says, “Or a crown.”

“Or a onesie,” Virgil says.

“Ooh!” Patton says, “Yeah. I could do that, maybe...if you think it’ll help.”

“With that,” Dr. Sanders looks at his watch, “That’s all the time we have. You can let Dr. Picani know how your goals went.”

[letterfromtrenwith]

Old Wounds - Ch. 3 & 4

Police AU with George/Elizabeth

George faces an uncertain reception on his return to work, and is thrown into the deep end. Elizabeth deals with some professional conflict, and there’s a break in the case.

Ch. 1 & 2

Chapter 3

“Welcome back, Sir.” George started at the voice, finding Sgt. Emma Tregirls smiling at him from behind the reception desk.

“Oh, hello, Emma. Thanks. You pulled the short straw today, then?” Front desk duty was not generally something the relief fought over – dealing with assorted eccentrics, complainers and timewasters wasn’t really anyone’s idea of decent police work.

“Yeah, so it seems.” Emma gave a ‘what can you do’ shrug. “So, how are you?”

“Er…fine.” He knew she meant well, but he was getting a bit sick of people asking that question, not to mention the inevitable way their eyes would stray to his temple afterwards. He resisted the urge to pat down his hair. “The Super in?”

“Far as I know. I’ll just ring up.” He did his best not to fidget while Emma called the Superintendent’s secretary. “She says he’s ready for you.”

Detective Superintendent Ray Penvenen was a bespectacled man in his late 50s whose genial demeanour belied his tough reputation and storied career history. Nearing retirement , he’d settled with only minor irritation into the managerial requirements of his senior position. Nowadays, the higher one rose in rank, the more ones duties consisted of form-filling and being complained at by even more senior officers.

“So, how are you feeling?” George gritted his teeth. “Ready to get back to work?”

“Yes.” That was mostly true. He had found leave extremely boring, but considering the circumstances of the injury that he’d been signed off for, coming back was hardly going to be a smooth affair.

“Well, I’ve got something for you to get stuck into.” Penvenen slipped a blue folder out of a pile on his desk and handed it over. George flipped it open to be immediately confronted with what looked like an overtly-realistic Picasso painting. It took him a moment to recognise the face as male. Fighting a grimace, he flipped through the rest of the pages, taking in the basic details. “You’ve heard about the body at the Tintagel Developments sight, I assume?”

“Yes, although the press seem to be more interested in the historical discovery.” He suspected that was because the police press office was deliberately trying to divert their attention, which meant there was more to this than met the eye. “Has the recent victim been identified yet?”

“Not yet.”

“His fingerprints have been scraped off.” Normally, something like that was a deliberate countermeasure against identification. It was often seen in gangland killings and the like. However, George had seen it under different circumstances. He turned back to the picture of the man’s mutilated face. “Wait...”

“This body has the hallmarks of another Mark Daniel victim.” Mark Daniel was a man arrested five years’ previously for a string of violent murders of men, allegedly prompted by the infidelity of his wife, who he had also killed. While she had been discovered buried in their back garden, the other victims had been dumped in various places all over the district, their faces smashed in with a crowbar, and fingerprints scraped off. Quite why he’d done all this had never been fully established, although as far as George knew, several criminal psychologists and the like had spent the intervening period trying to find out.

George had been a relatively newly promoted DS with MIT when the case came in, working under the team’s last DI, Harry Blewitt. They’d done their best to keep it low-key, not wanting a press and public panic over a serial killer. Daniel had officially been charged with five murders including his wife, but there was some evidence to suggest there might be more victims. It seemed the Tintagel builders could well have found one of them.

“We need to keep this under wraps so far as possible – we absolutely don’t need the publicity, and I’ve already had the Chief Con whingeing at me because somebody from Tintagel’s pestering him. Also, if the press start shouting about this being another Mark Daniel victim, it might damage any further investigation if he turns out not to be.”

“I don’t want to be stepping on anyone’s toes here.” He’d done enough of that in the past. It had basically been his job – and look where that had got him.

“You wouldn’t be.” It took George a moment to process this.

“You mean MIT are still without a DI?” Blewitt had retired before the…incident which had put George on leave, but that was over a year ago.

“Not now, they’re not.” 

~

“Where are we on the identification?” George looked at the five faces staring back at him. This was going about exactly as well as he’d expected. New DI, complete stranger to everyone on the team, shoved in by management at the top of a potentially big-time investigation, taking over from a pair of Sergeants who’d had pretty much free reign up until now.

He had no idea how much they all knew about him exactly, but he bet it was enough not to like him. The Godolphin case had had plenty of publicity, and the police gossip mill would have filled in any official blanks, and likely added a Hell of a lot of embellishment as well.

“Well, obviously the fingerprints are a non-starter. The SOCOs couldn’t recover even a partial.” DS Elizabeth Chynoweth seemed the only one willing to speak up. She’d also been the only one who hadn’t appeared to regard him with open hostility. Perhaps she was just better at hiding her emotions. “DNA’s been extracted, and we’ve put a rush on the results but, well, you know what that’s like. There are a lot of results for mispers, but once the PM’s finalised we might be able to narrow it down.”

“ – “ George hesitated before he spoke. He’d spent several years being perceived as someone who strode in and told other coppers how to do their jobs. Doing almost exactly that on his first day back was not the best idea. “What about the watch?”

“The watch?” It was Chynoweth’s fellow DS, Hugh Armitage, who spoke up now.

“It’s a Rolex Datejust. We’d have to identify the exact variant, but they generally don’t cost less than 4k. That might eliminate some of the mispers. We can also check the watch’s serial number with Rolex Tracker, or the company – if the owner registered it, of course.” There was a predictable pause after this. George couldn’t tell whether it was because they’d already thought of that and didn’t like him thinking they hadn’t, or they hadn’t and resented him coming up with it first.

“That’s a good shout.” Armitage shifted in his chair, looking genuine but slightly irritated at having to admit it. “Joan, can you take care of that?”

“No problem, Sarge. Sir.” DC Pascoe addressed George as something of an afterthought, but he didn’t take offence. She’d been used to deferring solely to Armitage and Chynoweth, and frankly he’d been shown a lot more blatant – and deliberate – disrespect over the years.  

“When does Dr Enys think he’ll have the PM report?”

“He says we can go over this afternoon.” This was Jim Carter, the most sour-faced of the lot. George was fairly certain he’d interviewed him as a uniform about an allegation of excessive force against another officer. He’d known he would always bear the stain of ‘Rat Squad’ even before he’d taken the transfer, but having such an obvious reminder on his first day back was not encouraging.

“Right. Am I correct in thinking that the body’s leg still hasn’t been recovered?” According to the file George had been given, the victim’s left leg had been severed at the top of the thigh, although it was not yet known exactly how.

“SOCOs are still going over the scene, but no sign of it so far.” Chynoweth spoke again.

“That wasn’t part of the Daniel MO, but I suppose we don’t know what caused it yet.”

“It looks fairly neat, Sir.” This was DC Penny Bloom, who seemed to be fighting an internal battle between trying to suck up to him and trying to be equally as stand-offish as some of her teammates. As soon as he’d walked in the door she’d leapt out of her seat and immediately offered to show him to his office, before cutting herself off while asking if he wanted a cup of tea as she caught the eye of Carter.

“From what we can see, yes. We’ll see what Dr Enys has to say. As for the Daniel connection…”

“The preliminary DOD puts him within the timeframe.” Elizabeth – DS Chynoweth, George mentally corrected himself – supplied. “And he might be in the right age range, not that Daniel was especially picky so far as I can tell.”

“Is he still being held at Long Lartin?” HMP Long Lartin in Worcestershire was the nearest Category A prison, Her Majesty’s Prison Service having oddly overlooked the South West in terms of dangerous offenders – or any offenders at all, considering there were no men’s prisons in Cornwall whatsoever.

“Far as I know, Sir.”

“Then call them. We need to talk to him.”   

Chapter 4

“Sarge? Can I ask you a question?” Jim Carter looked down at his lap, more like a nervous schoolboy than an experienced detective. Elizabeth had a feeling this was a question he shouldn’t really be asking, but she might as well hear it.

“Go on, then.” At least the fact she was driving meant she didn’t have to look at him while he asked. She liked Jim, he was a good copper, but he could be a bit headstrong.

“Did they run it by you and Sgt. Armitage? Putting Warleggan in charge of the unit?”

“Yes. DSI Penvenen told us that DI Warleggan would be heading us up – for this investigation, at least. Besides, we couldn’t go without a DI forever.”

“Well, no, but – “ Here it came. “Why him of all people? From the fucking Rat Squad – “

“Professional Standards.” She ignored the swearing. Not exactly unusual in their profession, but somewhat inappropriate in the circumstances. She could tell by Jim’s face that he knew he’d rather overstepped the mark. At least it was better him saying this to her than to George – DI Warleggan, rather. He was her senior officer, too, she had to remember that. Even if he did intrigue her.

“But – It’s just – “

“Professional Standards is a department just like any other, Jim.” Elizabeth understood the hostility the general rank and file felt against Professional Standards, even if she didn’t feel it herself. Policing these days was subject to so much scrutiny, it sometimes felt like they couldn’t breathe without somebody complaining. Having Professional Standards weigh in after arrests, after some crafty lawyer got their client to cry police brutality or some such, after accidents, mistakes, it just piled it all on. But, there were corrupt police officers, despite what some of the more idealistic members of the force liked to think –and if they weren’t routed out, then the public distrust in policing would only get worse.

“Hmmm.”

“DI Warleggan was just doing his job.” A job that he’d nearly died for. When they’d been introduced in Ray Penvenen’s office, she hadn’t been able to help her eyes straying to his temple, where there was just a shadow of the scar tissue hidden by his hair. Everyone knew about the Godolphin case – it had caused enough of a publicity shitstorm as it was; without DI Warleggan’s actions, it would have been even worse. Under normal circumstances, an officer who’d received the kind of injuries he had in the line of duty would be hailed as nothing short of a hero, but as a Professional Standards officer there were some who would always regard him with suspicion, if not outright contempt. Astonishingly, despite everything, Andrew Godolphin still had his friends on the force; the full details of the investigation having never been made public didn’t help. For “operational reasons” – that old standby.

“But – It’s just – “

“Besides, he’s the most senior officer left who worked on the Mark Daniel case originally.” Of the one DI and two DS’ who apprehended Daniel, George was the only one left on the force, despite only five years having passed. DI Blewitt had retired, and DS Nanskervis had died tragically young of cancer, only a year or so after Daniel was arrested.

“But – “

“Look, Jim - ” They’d pulled into a parking bay at the hospital, and Elizabeth turned to look at him after she turned off the engine. “You’re a very good officer, you’ve more than proven your abilities, but in terms of both seniority and expertise, DI Warleggan has you beat by a long margin, so if you make a stink about this, it’s not going to be him senior management will shove onto desk duties, is it?”

“No.”

“No, what?” Elizabeth didn’t want to be ‘like that’, but considering Jim had spent most of this journey questioning a senior officer’s integrity and competence, she thought he needed a reminder of the nature of their organisation. Perhaps she did, as well.

“No, Sarge.”

“Right. Well, let’s hear no more about it.” 

~

Elizabeth had made her first visit to the morgue about six weeks into her probationary period, after she and her training officer had been called to break into the house of an elderly woman whose neighbours had become worried when they hadn’t seen her for several days. It turned out that she’d passed away in her sleep while sitting in her favourite chair by the fire. By the lit gas fire, which had burned next to her for at least a week. Needless to say, the condition of her body was…like nothing Elizabeth had ever imagined. To her embarrassment, she’d been forced to run outside to vomit into a plant pot in the garden. She’d seen a lot more dead bodies since then – and things that were even worse, if she were honest – but she’d never forgotten that old lady.

Some officers found the morgue disturbing, but she’d gotten used to it over the years. Here, the victims of crime, or simply misfortune, were treated with a level of respect many of them had never been afforded in life. Dr Enys certainly made sure of that, as had his predecessor Dr Choake, even if he’d been a pompous arse otherwise.

Originally, they had been due to attend regarding their victim the previous afternoon, but an emergency case of a sudden death of a mother and child had come in, which had naturally been prioritised over their historic case, even though they were likely dealing with a murder. Elizabeth had therefore spent the rest of the day trying to navigate the administrative obstacle course required to obtain authorisation to visit Mark Daniel.

“Good morning, Elizabeth. Jim.” Many people might expect pathologists to be a dour, morbid bunch, but Dr Dwight Enys was the complete opposite of that. Cheerful, pleasant and good-natured, he was a soothing presence for both nervous young coppers and grieving relatives come to identify their loved ones.

“Good morning, Dwight. Did you get anywhere with the two from yesterday?”

“Carbon monoxide.” Dwight shook his head sadly. “I think some of your colleagues are looking into the landlord, but there’s not much to be done now, I’m afraid.”

“Shame.”  After a moment’s respectful silence, Dwight stood up from his office chair and led them through into a spotlessly clean tiled room. Three stainless steel tables stood in the centre of the room; the one at the far end was empty, while two morgue attendants were covering and removing a body from the middle one.

“Possible autoerotic asphyxia.” Commented Dwight.

“Ouch,” muttered Jim as they approached the final table. Dwight drew back the sheet. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at the smell the cloth had obviously been doing something to contain. No matter how well Dwight’s assistants had cleaned the body once forensic samples had been collected the scent of death and decay would always linger.

“What have we got?” She took a subtle step back, not that it helped much.

“Male, white, mid 30s-to-early 40s. Been dead at least four years, but no more than ten to twelve, I’d say. He was in reasonably good health before death from what I can tell – good joints, no signs of disease or significant ill health. The soil in that ground preserved him quite well, so I’ve been able to take a decent look at a few of his internal organs.”

“Cause of death?”

“Well…” Dwight pursed his lips. “There’s the problem. No obvious wounds or signs of violence – apart from the face and leg, but they were both post-mortem.”

“So…”

“So, there was some minor cardiac damage – not really enough to indicate a heart attack, or any kind of chronic illness as I said. The stomach hasn’t been preserved sadly, but what’s left of the oesophagus suggests some trauma from what could be sustained vomiting.”

“Poison?”

“Could be, but can’t say for certain. I’ve sent off samples for testing – they’ll start with routine toxicology, but if that doesn’t turn up anything, we’ll have to get authorisation for further assays.” Elizabeth grimaced at the thought of trying to persuade someone that that expense was worth it. Although, on reflection, that was DI Warleggan’s job now. There were certain things about management she was quite happy to let go of.

“Definitely not suffocation?” Elizabeth had been intending to ask the same question herself – although she’d planned to wait until Dwight was finished – and she knew what Jim was getting at. Mark Daniel had suffocated all of his victims, including his wife, although he had claimed her death was accidental.

“I didn’t say that.” Dwight frowned slightly at being pre-empted. “Suffocation can be difficult to detect after death. Based on the current findings, poisoning is only a strong possibility. So is suffocation.”

“What about the face? And the leg?” Elizabeth changed the subject. Dwight looked less annoyed at her question, and extended a gloved hand to indicate the battered remains of the man’s face. She’d seen crime scene phots of Daniel’s victims, but they didn’t quite prepare you for the real thing – or something very similar at least.

“Both post-mortem. The damage to the face was inflicted with something long and fairly thin with an end on – something like a wheelbrace, probably. Decay’s altered the wounds so it’s hard to estimate the exact shape.” Daniel had used a crowbar, so it could fit.

“What about the leg? Could it have been removed by digging equipment?”

“No. Aside from the fact that we’d likely have found it if it was – they’d barely started digging there, and I had what little earth they had removed searched – there’s no way the cut was made with anything like an industrial shovel. You can’t tell with what’s left of the flesh, but look here at the bone.” He pulled at a magnifying glass mounted on an arm attached to the side of the table. Lowering the lens, he adjusted it until it showed what remained of the dead man’s left thigh in uncomfortably fine detail. “Do you see those little marks there? They’re caused by whatever was used to remove the leg – I’d say the teeth of a handsaw.”

“How long after death? Can you tell?”

“Not precisely, but I’d say not long. Certainly not a matter of weeks or months.”

The doctor had nothing more for them until the toxicology results came back so, promising he’d email them his full PM report by the end of the day, he bid them farewell as his assistants wheeled in yet another body.

“So,” Jim began as they made their way back to the car. “Aside from the leg, there’s nothing to say either way if he’s a Daniel victim or not.”

“No.” But the leg was a sticking point. Daniel had never dismembered any of his victims, so why this one? And if it wasn’t Daniel, then what accounted for the other similarities? Before she could consider any further her phone rang.

“Chynoweth.”

“Elizabeth, it’s Hugh. Turns out the DI was right about the watch. We’ve got a possible ID. And you’ll never bloody guess who.”

[madijuriss-indn241]

FINAL RESEARCH

Who designed it and when was it designed?

The Fitbit was designed by James Park and Eric Friedman in 2007 

What was the motivation? 

The main motivation for this design came from the rise in wireless technology being integrated into everyday life. The founders wanted to use this technology in a new way, with their main focus on their product being used for health and wellbeing purposes. It was not specifically designed to solve a major problem but as the design has been improved they have found this product to be the solution to many different problems in peoples lives. 

Some examples of this are shown on their website where they mention the stories of different people around the world, and how the Fitbit has helped them. Examples of this are; Helping a woman maintain her health when battling with diabetes and another example was with helping someone with their sleep patterns so that they can in turn help others and be better. It can be big or small health problems that can be solved. Promoting good health will always lead to a positive outcome for that person. 

The design was deemed good at the time because there had been nothing like it before, However this has slowly been changing with the rise of other tech companies getting onboard with the same idea and making their own version of the product. Which has lead to a slight decline in the success of Fitbit. 

How did the designer come up with the idea and how long did it take for the design to complete since inception? 

The founders formed most of their ideas off of being inspired by wireless technology and saw a need for this technology in the health industry. The first tracker was properly launched in 2009, two years since the initial idea. The first product was a small clip on device which was later changed and iterated through time, trial and error and feedback. 

Why was it formed that way? Did the designer consider to take any other shapes, structures or configurations? Has the original form been modified?

The initial form was designed to be compact and convenient for use. It was tracked by syncing up to a computer to view your progress, there was no screen incorporated into the design and at that point the app had not been designed either. This initial design went through multiple different models and many changes to get to where it is currently. The form has taken a watch style shape, with a screen included. Not only this but the usability of the product has changed a lot as well. With the formation of the app design as well as different functions of use such as tracking sleep and heart rate patterns to name a few. So this design has definitely changed alot from not only a aesthetic point of view but also the way that it is used. 

How was it crafted, manufactured/ built? Was the method or process believed to be innovative then? Is it still from todays perspective? 

No manufacturing obviously has to go into the digital side of using the Fitbit product e.g the app etc, as it isn’t the physical component of the design. However in terms of the Fitbit itself the sorts of materials that can be found in the design include; Polycarbonate, Silicon, Nickel, Chromite, Magnese and Aluminium. These are all natural resources 

However there are some resources used in the fitbit that are non-renewable which are; Nitrogen, Rubber, Sand, Copper, Silver, Water and Silica 

The making of some of these materials is harmful to the environment, and others end up in landfill after use. This could be a perspective I take when looking to improve this design in a sustainable way. This includes looking at the way these materials are made, the way they are renewed/disposed and any other impacts environmentally such as water use and emissions. 

Who was the target audience? How did the audience/critics react at first? and has this changed over time?

For some of the first fitbit designs it is said to be clunky and only used for the gym and not the office or everyday life. This is something fitbit has tried to improve on however hasn’t quite gotten there as their tracker 4 is still quite a chunky watch style design. 

In Fitbit’s marketing plan you can see that they target their design to people who are 30+ years of age who need more motivation to be active. As well as those who are overweight or those who just want to monitor their health better and are already active. It is purely a tool for personal growth and improvement. 

Is the design still in production use? if so, is the fact noteworthy compared with the competition or similar attempts since it has been made?

The Fitbit is still in production use, and is being constantly improved to keep up/get ahead of other competition. Since the release of the apple watch, Fitbit sales have been on a decline which could be due to the different brands and how they are perceived. Or even down to the execution of the actual product, the materials they use and which technology is more accurate and efficient to use. 

How can the short term and long term impact of the design example, including associated factors, such as introduction of a pioneering process or subsequent changes it has prompted, if any, on our lifestyle, other designers, relevant industries, and the environment be described? 

The impact of this design example has pioneered the idea of using wireless technology in our everyday lives, and has integrated this into daily use alongside the smartphone. It has encouraged people to opt towards buying more pieces of technology to make their lives more efficient and look at doing daily activities such as exercise in a new way that is assisted by a wearable product. 

This has lead to lifestyle changes such as a wider range of people getting involved in taking control of their physical and mental health. It makes this aspect of peoples lives feel like they can be a lot more in control of their progress and more motivated to make a change in their lifestyle. This could be improved to be marketed to another group all together, maybe for a seperate purpose? This could be a good way of completely redesigning this concept. And by including more people it can be less of a wasteful product. 

This design lead to many other companies replicating their own version of the fit bit such as apple, samsung, xiomi and much more. They have all created their own version of the product in hopes of gaining the same level if not more success than the original designers. 

The fitbit has made some impacts on the environment as described before when looking a bit into the types of materials that they use. And how they are made/disposed of and how this can leave lasting impacts. therefore it can be said that some of the processes and materials they used rote fit bit can and should be improved from a sustainability front. As well as transparency. The fitbit website lacks a sustainability information page and shows that there is a lack of transparency in this area. This is something that also should be improved when redesigning the product. 

What was planned and practiced by the designer ahead of the time?

The main aspect that the founders focused on was the idea of wireless technology. And by incorporating this into something that related to health and well being, this was something that was definitely ahead of its time. And anything that came before it that was similar was not as successful as this product as it had just taken off world wide. By supplementing the smartphone with this product later on through creating an app design it soon became an integral part in peoples daily lives. 

What was not fully considered or even missing at the time, has there been any improvements made? 

The design was not fully resolved from a functionality point of view. Looking at the very first concept/design. The product was 

some issues of the newer designs include, not holding charge, and band irritation on peoples wrists. An interesting way of approaching this redesign could be designing a fitbit that almost seamlessly sits on the body, like it is another peice of the human body. It could be made out of live materials that allow for breathability as well as comfort. 

Specifically the fitbit ultra had an issue with the plastic used. The strain put on the product lead it to later become brittle and crack meaning this specific model had to be discontinued. This is just one of the many versions of fitbit that had to be discontinued because of usability issues. which is all a part of the iterative process and they have continued to try and alter the product to make it better in different ways. in this case the product could not be long lasting which is not only a major product issue, but sustainability issue as well. 

How different are todays perceptions, knowledge and values from those of the times? and how likely would they change in the future?

Todays perceptions have changed only slightly. But only because of new products becoming readily available to us on the market that are slightly improved versions of the fitbit. with the rise of social media and people promoting good health and wellbeing online, there is definitely a rise in people taking charge in this aspect of their lives and therefore a need for this product on the market. however I think that from the beginning of the first fitbit being released until now. There hasn’t been too much of a change. There needs to be a bigger change made to the product, a new innovative step for us to change our perception of what it already is. because to be honest the product has only make slight improvements throughout time, and they are basically cranking out the same product each time just slightly different and slightly better. There needs to be another leap towards something new for our values to be changed further. 

Do we have access to better materials, processes and technologies now? 

We definitely have access to better materials, processes and technologies today than we did when the first fitbit was released. There is a rise of sustainable materials being made, as well as alternative processes and technologies that allow for a more sustainable design process/manufacturing process. This could possibly be incorporated  into a new re-designed fitbit to make it much better, more long-lasting and more sustainable as well.

What would you want to say to the designers if you had a chance?

I would want to ask the designers about what they are seeing/accessing in terms of new innovative materials and design processes that could potentially be included in my new design of their product. They have so much access to new technology and processes that there could hopefully be a leap forward in this sector of design (health). I would also love to be able to ask them more about how they got started on their product, as it has originally started from a circuit board in a wooden box. I would love to know how they got from their initial thoughts about this idea to this amazing product and company that has branched and reached so many people around the world. 

https://storymaps.arcgis.com/stories/0c791ce0454b4999b9e962b851e00670 

https://jacquelinesawchik.wordpress.com/marketing-plan-fitbit/ 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fitbit

[everchanginginks]

Sterek: A reunion kiss 😙

Thanks for the prompt, anon! I hope you’ll enjoy this 1k medieval royalty AU that this prompt somehow inspired ;) Read it on AO3

Derek hears them arrive before he sees them. The excited cheers from the crowd carries all the way up to his bed chamber. Looking out through the window, they are mere dots slowly moving across the ground far down below. He anticipates the knock on the door and tries to remain stoic when it opens to reveal one of his servants, despite his heart beating out of his chest.

“Your Majesty,” the servant says. “The knights have returned.”

Derek doesn’t speak, afraid that his voice might betray the mix of fear and joy currently taking residence in the pit of his stomach. He simply nods and leaves the window to take the lead through the winding corridors of the castle, the servant following him diligently. The tension within Derek grows with every step closer to the courtyard. Word of the victory of his army against his power hungry uncle in the North had, of course, reached him weeks ago, but the message carried numbers and not names. He knew of the size of their losses, but not of its greatness. More importantly, he didn’t know which of his knights would greet him once he walked through the doors into the courtyard.

The noise of the crowd is nearly deafening in the entrance hall, his people welcoming the brave knights that had fought for them in a distant land.

For the briefest of seconds Derek thinks that he would slaughter them all without hesitation if it meant that the knight, his knight, waited for him past those doors.

The doors open. Derek is bathed in light and the immediate silence of the crowd. Ten of the knights of his court left a year ago to lead different factions of the Royal Army, but only six have returned. They sit tall and proud on their horses, their backs straight but their weariness evident in their eyes and their hardships visible in the grime caked into their hair and clothing. Derek searches their faces frantically, finding Boyd and Isaac and Scott and… Derek would have fallen to his knees with overwhelming relief if only he let himself. Instead he closes his eyes, allowing himself a second to breathe, to find the king within, the one that needs to speak.

“Please dismount, brave knights. Return to your quarters. Wash the war away. Tonight we’ll celebrate you and our triumphant victory.”

Derek has since long come to terms with the fact that he won’t be remembered as a very inspirational or charming ruler, but his short words are met with a jubilant cry from the crowd yet again as the knights dismount their horses. His knight is embraced by strangers and Derek wishes he could join them. Instead he steps back into the shadows of the castle. No one notices how his hands are trembling.

The same servant that had gone to fetch him upon the knights’ return is the one to follow him back to his private quarters.

“I do not wish to be disturbed before getting dressed for the festivities,” Derek says. “Whatever may happen, it will have to wait.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty.”

The doors close behind him and he waits. The crowd in the courtyard has dissipated; he sees it through the window and there’s no sign of the knights or their horses. He waits until he can’t anymore. He has already waited a year. Twenty minutes or so shouldn’t be a major feat but it feels as such when he finally succumbs and grabs a lantern to light the way through the secret tunnel hidden behind the tapestry a few feet from his bed. His robes drag against the damp stone floor and he has to duck his head if he doesn’t want to hit it against the ceiling.

The chamber the tunnel leads him to is simpler, smaller and warmer than his own.The bed is one he’s well-acquainted with. Most days he prefers it to his own. He wouldn’t ever tell the owner of the bed as much. It would make him positively insufferable.

There’s a copper tub situated in the middle of the room, obviously brought in recently and filled with hot water. The dirty garments of a knight having been entrenched for far too long in battle are dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Previously mentioned knight, and coincidentally the owner of the bed, sits in the hot water, his head leaning back against the edge of the tub. He can’t see Derek, but nevertheless, he still speaks.

“Your Majesty,” he says and it’s enough for Derek to put down the lantern and stride across the room, finally allowing himself to fall to his knees next to the tub, next to the Knight’s head.

“Stiles,” he croaks while reaching for him and his voice is broken and weak, a far cry from the steadiness he had shown in front of his people in the courtyard.

Stiles’ face is thinner, the hollow darkness beneath his eyes deeper and his tousled hair sullies Derek’s fingers with dirt when he buries them in it. Derek can see scars on his naked body through the clear water, scars that weren’t there when he left. His smile is the same though, that glint of mischief, that teasing quirk of his lips that always drives Derek mad with affection, with anger, with lust and with love.

“You worried,” Stiles accuses him gently, a wet hand closing around Derek’s wrist.

“I did,” Derek confesses without shame.

“I told you I would come back to you,” Stiles reminds him. “I promised you.”

“You did,” Derek agrees and he feels the thickness in his throat before his sight is muddled by tears.

Stiles’ lips against his are a familiar comfort. They do nothing to stifle the tears this time, but they instantly soothe the heartache Derek has been carrying with him since the day Stiles left to fight in Derek’s name. Derek releases a shuddering breath when Stiles’ wet fingers cup his cheek, when his thumb drags across Derek’s tears.

“Don’t leave me again,” Derek begs quietly, brushing his nose against Stiles’.

It’s a ridiculous suggestion and they both know it. Stiles won’t have a choice when duty calls. Derek won’t have a choice. He will have to send him away yet again.

“Never, my king,” Stiles says anyway and seals the empty promise with another kiss.

Send me a prompt!

[mancentipede]

Charity

My fic for @primaryconsumer (who did some wonderful fanart) for Handers Secret Satinalia 2017!! It’s also on AO3!

Prompt: Anders is basically emaciated because he spends all his coin on the clinic. Hawke is going to fix that, and either brings or cooks Anders meals constantly. Watching like a…. hawk to make sure he eats it all! Warnings: Mentions of disordered eating/starvation (non-graphic) and some very very brief mentions of tranquility (no one gets made tranquil in this fic ofc!!!)

-------------------- Anders’ clinic was full of people when Hawke arrived that evening, and for a moment he thought he might have walked into the middle of a crisis. However, on a closer look, it was clear that most were healthy, and had come in to shelter from the cold. The whole city was settled well into the winter now, but the undercity had a damp chill to it that never really went away, even in summer, and only got worse in the colder months. The clinic was warm, thanks to the fire going in the middle, and Hawke could smell a stew simmering. It was no wonder it had attracted such a crowd.

Hawke shifted the basket of food on his arm, smiling to himself. Folks down here had it rough, enough to make Gamlen’s little hole in Lowtown seem like a luxury, but Anders had carved out a space here that offered them some relief. A sanctum of healing and salvation. He cared for his patients, spent every last bit of coin he had to making their lives easier. For the people no one else would look twice at- for the people that could so easily have been Hawke and his family, if he hadn't been his mother's son. He had no end of admiration for that. He also had no end of frustration with it. Anders gave and gave and gave but he never took anything for himself, and it was starting to have an effect on his health. He had always been skinny, as long as Hawke had known him. He hadn’t thought much of it at first; Anders was an apostate living in Darktown, working for no coin except what he got through donations. Going hungry was just a hazard of the lifestyle. Lately, however, he’d been deteriorating; cheeks thinning away to nothing, long fingers bony and fragile. He was starting to look worse than some of the people he treated. So Hawke had taken matters into his own hands. A few times every week, whenever he could, Hawke would turn up on Anders’ doorstep like this, with whatever food he could scrounge up. Sometimes there wasn't much. Hawke wasn't exactly swimming in gold, and every spare copper should go towards the 50 sovereigns he needed to get in on Bartrand’s expedition. But Anders had given his maps and his considerable skills towards the expedition, even after they’d failed to help his friend, just because Hawke had asked him. Hawke felt like he owed him- something. Making sure he didn’t martyr himself for lack of a decent meal seemed a fair start. “Delivery for my favourite healer!” Hawke called as he stepped through the threshold, scanning the building for his friend. It wasn’t hard, even with the crowd; Anders was a head and feathery shoulders above everyone else in the room as usual. Anders looked up at Hawke's voice, startled, then smiled as he caught Hawke’s eye. The expression caused the weary lines around his eyes to crinkle up, visible in the flickering light of the fire. Hawke answered with a smile of his own, and felt heat rise to his cheeks as Anders made his way through the crowd. “You really are too good to be true, you know that?” Said Anders by way of greeting as he took the basket from Hawke, eyes on him, mouth pulled up into a lopsided grin, the barest edge of flirtation in his voice. Hawke's face was red from more than just the cold. “Trekking all the way to Darktown to give food to the poor… You'd put a Chantry sister to shame.” “Not hard in Kirkwall,” Hawke answered. The sisters here wouldn't know charity if it bit them on the arse, and if any of them gave him food he'd check for poison. Anders let out a huff of air that might have been a laugh. He smelled of dank air and rot and mostly of Anders, and that Hawke didn’t even have to fight the urge to recoil anymore was. Probably a bad sign. “I appreciate it,” Anders said, sincerely. He pulled up the cloth tucked over the basket and peered in. Today’s delivery was vegetables on the turn that mother didn’t need for tonight’s supper- carrots, turnip, a few parsnips- the kind of thing that would go well in that stew Anders had going. “You’re sure you can spare all this?” “Wouldn't have brought it otherwise, would I?” His mother had been delighted by the idea, just as she’d been the first time he’d told her he was bringing food down to Darktown. Cooing over how generous he was even when times are hard, and his father had been just the same, rest his soul. Carver, who knew exactly which Darktowner in particular he was concerned for, had shook his head and muttered something under his breath. “You've been known to be overly generous in the past,” Anders said, which was something, considering Hawke was here to make sure he didn't starve because he'd given all his food away. Hawke decided not to say anything, and instead bustled over to the clinic's kitchen. ‘Kitchen’ overstated it, as it consisted entirely of a cauldron simmering over a fire and a few sacks of what looked to be barley leaning against the wall. It was separated off from the rest of the room by a few wooden tables, stained and scratched but recently scrubbed. There were a few bowls and spoons, all different sizes and in various states of repair. Anders pulled over a couple stools as he followed, and the two of them sat down and got to work peeling. It was nice. There wasn’t much space in their little corner so they’d sat close together, huddled over a bucket to catch the peel, knees knocking whenever one of them shifted. They’d developed this routine together, since Hawke had started fetching food to the clinic. It reminded him of being back in Ferelden, helping his parents with the cooking. He’d hated that chore; it was boring, tricky work, and he kept nicking his fingers on the knife before he got the hang of it. It had been a relief when the twins were old enough to help. But now- maybe it was just the nostalgia, but it was soothing to go through the motions, following the contours of the root. Let his world just be carrots and turnips and simple, repeated movements for a change. And the company was good. Anders head was bowed, loose strands of blonde hair hung over his face, lips slightly parted. Hawke loved watching him work, whether it was healing or fighting or peeling vegetables. His fingers were long and clever, and he worked in quick, decisive cuts. Hawke wondered if he was using the same knife he’d used on Karl. “They made me do this a lot, in the Circle,” Anders said suddenly, as if answering a question, and Hawke realised he’d been caught staring, “As punishment for… whatever I’d done at the time. Exist, mostly. They made me sit in the kitchen, peeling for hours- a whole Circle’s worth of vegetables, it was awful.” Anders took a pause before continuing. His hands stilled. “The worst part was having to sit with the Tranquil the whole time- that’s who they got to do it, you know. Tranquil and naughty apprentices. I thought they meant it as a warning- or maybe they were just trying to train me up right, for when they used the brand on me.” The last part was spat out, bitter in his mouth, and Anders took a deep, shuddering breath as if to calm himself. Hawke watched him for a moment before he spoke. “And you’re down here, using what they taught you to take care of people who know magic isn’t a sin, who know the Circles are bullshit. Because of you.” Hawke hesitated, then placed his hand on Anders’ arm, squeezed lightly. Anders turned to look at him, a surprised smile stretching across his face. “Yes,” Anders answered, eyes warm and creasing at the edges, and it took everything in Hawke not to kiss him, “Yes, that’s right. Thank you.” Before long, the vegetables were peeled, chopped and thrown into the stew, and all that was left was to wait for it to finish. Anders had wandered off to attend to a few patients, and, after trying and failing to get Hawke to go home-  which wasn’t happening until he saw some food actually pass Anders lips himself, though he kept that to himself- Anders had set him making some poultices, as he was hopeless with healing magic. Father had never taught him, or Bethany; it was too obvious, too tempting to use in public. Which was true then, and true now, but watching Anders work made him feel like he should be able to do more than grind herbs. Maybe Anders would teach him, if he asked. Time passed- Hawke didn’t know how much; he always lost track down here. Darktown didn’t really acknowledge the passings of the day, not like the surface did; morning, noon or night, the sky was stone lit dimly with lamps and lanterns. Anders flitted about the clinic, and Hawke watched the bubbling pot until eventually it was pronounced done. People began to crowd over immediately, so Hawke poured two bowls out and waited for Anders to return. As soon as he did, Hawke thrust the steaming bowl into his hands. He blinked in surprise, and then opened his mouth to speak, but Hawke cut him off before he could protest. “You need to eat, too,” Hawke said firmly. “I should make sure everyone else-” “Everyone else is quite capable of feeding themselves,” Hawke argued, “There's plenty to go around. You don't need to hover over their shoulders, I promise.” Anders huffed, but obviously couldn't think of anything to say to that. He took a seat on the same stool he’s been sat on before, and Hawke joined him. The stew was earthy and warm, perfect in the winter weather, and Hawke knew it’d do everyone here a lot of good. Someone had fetched a loaf of bread, and it was being passed around amongst them. Hawke made sure Anders took his fill of that, too. Hawke kept one eye on the other man as he ate. He’d been half-expecting Anders to tear into it like a man starving, which he was, but he ate steadily, savouring it. Then again, despite the obvious malnutrition, Hawke had never seen sign of him flagging. Benefits of being a Warden, maybe; he had heard rumours about Grey Warden’s unnatural stamina, though it hadn’t been about pushing through starvation as much as its uses in… other contexts. Based on that, he’d assumed it had to be a lie, but maybe there was some truth to it after all. And then there was the possession thing, which Hawke couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around. It obviously allowed Anders feats beyond a normal mortal, at the least. Still, even if Anders could live without eating as much as anyone else, that didn't mean he should. Hawke watched as Anders licked his lips, mopping up the last of his broth with his bread. There was more colour in his cheeks than there had been before, Hawke thought, and that was worth the effort on its own. Content that Anders had a good meal inside him, Hawke decided it was about time he took his leave. Most of Anders’ other guests had gone by now, trickling out back into the streets in a steady stream. The frigid air hit him hard as soon as he stepped outside, and he was unable to suppress a shudder. Anders had followed him up to the porch, and snorted at his reaction. “I'd offer you my coat, but I don't think it'd fit,” He said, grinning, eyes glinting handsomely under the lantern-light so that Hawke had a hard time taking offence. “If I freeze to death on my way home, it's on your head,” Answered Hawke, and went to leave before he felt the warmth if Anders hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. “Thank you for this. Really,” Anders said suddenly sincere, and embraced him. Hawke was caught off-guard, though quickly recovered, returning the gesture. Anders was thin and bony and surprisingly strong, squeezing a little too hard, and Hawke wasn't entirely sure what he was being thanked for, and none of that mattered at all. He held the hug as long as he dared, Anders warm in his arms, and when they parted felt giddy and foolish and really, really wanted to kiss him. “I should- uh. I should get going,” He said, instead. “You should,” Anders agreed, still smiling, and when Hawke turned away and set off back to Lowtown, he barely felt the cold.