#this letter is so obviously a forgery

[josefavomjaaga]

A fabricated letter from Napoleon to Joséphine

@gabrielferaud wondered about a fake letter I had mentioned in another post; here it is. It has been included (nolens volens, as it seems) in the "Correspondance générale" - despite huge doubts about its authenticity – as No. CG3 – 5436 :

[no date, but assumed to be written after the battle of Marengo] My dear friend, my first laurel was for my country, my second will be for you. When I fought Alvinzi, I was thinking of France; when he was beaten, I was thinking of you. Your son will give you a dragonne offered to him by General Morbach, who was taken prisoner by him. You see, Madame, that your Eugène is worthy of his father. Do not think me too unworthy to have succeeded this brave and unfortunate general, under whom I would have been honoured to learn to triumph. I send you my love.

The editors of the Correspondance Générale have added the following explanation in a footnote:

Bourgeat was the first to publish this text, but he did not say where it came from. According to him, the letter was written after the victory at Marengo. By a sort of tradition, it is therefore always included in editions of letters from this period. We are following this tradition here, but, along with Chantal de Tourtier-Bonazzi, we doubt that the dating is correct. Alvinzi, the defeated Arcole commander, did not take part in the 1800 campaign. Furthermore, the tone of the document is not consistent with that of the letters sent to Joséphine during the second Italian campaign. ‘One has to wonder whether this is not a forgery,’ concludes Chantal de Tournier-Bonazzi.

One really has to wonder, especially as this letter is part of a book called Mémoires et Correspondance de l'Imperatrice Josephine, published in 1820 by one Regnault-Warin, a novelist and pamphlet writer who, according to his Wikipedia page, was producing this kind of thing en masse. At the time, Eugène was still alive, and he apparently took the pain to write to the "Moniteur" about it. I could not find any reaction of that newspaper directly, but there were several comments in German newspapers from Bavaria to Berlin, (one of them translated below), so apparently Eugène really had protested vehemently.

And when a Beauharnais protests vehemently, it sounds like this:

The Moniteur recently communicated the following letter addressed to it by the Prince, Duke of Leuchtenberg: ‘Monsieur, I have just read a work published in Paris under the title: Mémoires et Correspondance de l'Imperatrice Josephine. I thank the author of this work for the justice he has done my mother by almost always marking the verbal utterances and letters which he attributes to her with the imprint of the genuinely French sentiments that inspired her throughout her life. I declare, however, that there is not a single line in this writing that really came from my mother, not a single line that came from my sister or from me, not a single anecdote concerning my family that corresponds to the truth. I am sorry, Monsieur l'Editeur, that I must speak of myself, or allow myself to be spoken of; but as I do not wish to contribute to the deception of the public by my silence, I have thought it my duty to publicise this statement, and I expect from your justice that you will not deny it a place in your journal. Receive etc. Munich, 15 January 182o (Signed) Prince Eugene.’

Eugène’s protest did not keep other writers to publish similar inventions, the most famous probably the memoirs by Mme Lenormand. But Mme Lenormand wrote some years later, in 1827, and had the advantage that by then, Las Cases’ Mémorial had already been published, and that Eugène was already dead.

Most of this kind of fabricated letters probably come from memoirs.

[wwwduh]

one more time, one more chance ; krbk (orange au)

summary: Bakugou Katsuki, a man who used to live with no regrets, regrets nothing but Kirishima. There's nothing--nothing--he wouldn't do to save Kirishima now that he knows what he knows. But Kirishima is gone, and there's nothing he can do about it. In an attempt to find peace and put Kirishima to rest, Katsuki writes his old self letters detailing how to avoid Kirishima's death. Somewhere ten years in the past, highschooler Bakugou Katsuki recieves a letter from himself. Obviously, he writes it off as some stupid prank. But what happens when a new red haired students transfers to his class and the letters start coming true? (Heavily based off of the manga/anime Orange by Ichigo Takano)

Link for fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58378096/chapters/148688599 Sneak peak below!

Katsuki didn’t believe in all of that supernatural bullshit, but looking back on it, receiving a letter from his future self was pretty fucking damning. 

Frowning down at the familiar handwriting adorning the papers, he chewed on the inside of his cheek, bike leaning against his hip as he steadied it with his free hand.

He flipped the papers to the back, finding nothing but more writing. Flipped them forwards again. Frowned some more. Goddammit, this was admittedly a really fucking good forgery. It looked exactly like Katsuki’s handwriting, down to the thickness of the strokes and the harsh press of the pen against the parchment. Even as he skimmed the slanted kanji, he couldn’t find any irregularities.

It was weird as hell that somebody was trying to fuck with Katsuki by writing him a letter from himself (as if he was stupid enough to believe that shit), but he eventually narrowed his eyes at the papers further before shoving them into his school bag and hopping back onto his bike.

He’d deal with that shit later.

The rest of the ride to his school was short, and the walk to class was even shorter since there was only a small smattering of students in the hallways. He always got to school early so he could nap before homeroom started. It was an attempt—read: attempt—to avoid any conversation with his idiot classmates, but of course that rarely fucking deterred them.

Today was no different, and he groaned loudly as Ashido and Kaminari’s voices bounced back and forth next to him, speculating about the school festival coming up next month. Honestly, Katsuki never really got the appeal behind the festivals. Being surrounded by a bunch of sweaty losers, eating mediocre carnival food and looking at other classes’ shitty exhibits? 

Yeah, no thanks.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled at them, not bothering to look away from the open math book on his desk. He lazily craned his neck a bit, stretching, before he continued. “It’s eight in the fucking morning, how the hell do you already have something to yap about?”

“Rude!” Ashido huffed, leaning down until she was in front of Katsuki’s desk. Pink swarmed his vision and he brought his hand up in irritation, smacking it against her forehead and pushing her away. “Hey! You’re messing up my makeup, Bakugou!”

Katsuki snorted in amusement, using his index finger to jab at her forehead one last time before pulling away, “Makeup isn’t allowed, dipshit. ‘S your fault for wearing it in the first place.”

“C’mon, dude, you’re no fun,” whined Kaminari as he sat on the empty desk adjacent to Katsuki’s. He was sipping away at an apple juice box, swinging his uwabaki clad feet back and forth. What a fucking child.

“And hypocritical!” added Ashido, her curly pink hair falling into her face as she shook her head at him. “You’re not wearing a tie! That’s not allowed.”

“Pretty sure cursing isn’t either,” mused Sero Hanta as he slid into the classroom, tall enough that he was easily spotted above the crowded classroom. He leaned against the wall next to Katsuki’s desk, grinning as he spotted Kaminari and the drink he held in his hand. “Dude, do you have any more of those? I’m thirsty.”

“Nah, sorry man, it was the last one in the vending machine,” Kaminari apologized, holding out the almost-empty juice box. “Want the rest of mine? It’s a little warm, though…”

Katsuki wrinkled his nose in disgust as Sero happily accepted the offer, finishing the juice off with an obnoxiously loud slurp before he crushed it in his hand. Those three were so fucking strange. There was no way in hell he’d ever eat or drink something after them, lest he get some sort of infection or disease from them.

“Hey, why didn’t you offer any of it to me?” Ashido complained, bottom lip pushed out in an obviously overdramatized pout. 

“Because! That’d be weird, dude!” Kaminari spluttered, cheeks going red as he planted his feet on the ground, leaning forwards as his hands gripped the edge of the desk underneath him. “You’re a girl!”

Ashido reached forwards to smack the back of his head with her hand, “Don’t be sexist!”

“I’m not!” The blond explained, looking hurt as he rubbed at his head. “I’m just saying, that’s, like, objectively weirder than Sero drinking after me. Right, Sero? Bakubro?”

Katsuki’s eye twitched as he listened to Ashido and Kaminari. His self-proclaimed friends were starting to give him a headache with their bickering, and if they didn’t stop talking soon, he’d get himself stuck in detention. Relief washed through him as he spotted their teacher walking down the hallway. It was time for class, which meant these fuckers would be forced to leave him alone. 

“Fucking finally,” he grumbled.

His classmates (including his friends, thank fuck) scrambled to get into their seats as Aizawa-sensei walked through the door, carrying a manila folder under his arm and looking slightly more grumpy than usual. The dark purple bags under his eyes were prominent and his frown was etched so deeply into his mouth that Katsuki wondered if it was permanent. Katsuki didn’t think he’d blame Aizawa if it was.

Aizawa stood at the front of the room and glared at the class until their chatter faded. Clearing his throat, his raspy voice broke the silence, “Class 3-A, settle down. I have an announcement to make before I start today’s lesson.”

At this, the class visibly perked up, and Katsuki didn’t have to be able to read minds to know that a majority of the losers were hoping for a free day. Meanwhile, Katsuki didn’t really give a shit about what they did during the day, as long as it went by quickly.

“I’d like to preface this by saying that today is not any different from any other day, nor will it be treated as such,” he droned. He sounded incredibly bored, and Katsuki found himself agreeing with the sentiment, even as the class collectively groaned in disappointment. 

“That being said, we have a new student joining us today.” There’s a long, unamused pause he’s forced to take as everybody (bar Katsuki, obviously) gasped in excitement. Aizawa’s eyes narrowed in frustration as he raised his voice to be heard over the murmuring. “He’s transferring here all the way from Chiba, so he’s probably feeling very overwhelmed, therefore we will at least TRY to be calm until he’s settled in. Understood?”

There are scattered but enthusiastic affirmatives from the students, loud and disruptive.

Aizawa sighed, rubbing a hand over his face in distress as he seemed to fight an inner battle with himself. After a few seconds he resigned himself to his fate and headed back to the door, opening it up and beckoning somebody in.

There’s an awkward scuffling of shoes against the floor as somebody ducked inside, and Katsuki’s first thought was red.

Red eyes, red hair, and red shoes. Even a fucking red omamori knot keychain hung off of the side of his backpack. The boy was covered in it—a garish, tacky vermillion. It’s almost offensive how goddamn saturated it was. The only parts of his body that were spared from the crimson onslaught were his tan, sun-worn skin and their school’s white-and-brown uniform he was donning.

“Hello!” the boy said, and for such a pretty face, his voice was surprisingly rough. Deep, and without the typical squeakiness of a teenage boy’s vocal cords. He smiled out at the class, who were all practically vibrating in their seats at the new kid, eager to meet him and introduce themselves. 

Katsuki caught a flash of white, strangely sharp teeth as the redhead grinned. Hm. 

The boy stood there anxiously, hands gripping the straps of the black backpack on his shoulders as the class studied him. His gaze flitted over to Katsuki’s a few times and Katsuki shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the attention. Did this fucker want something from him?

Aizawa coughed, clearly waiting for the boy to introduce himself, but he never did. Taking matters into his own hands, he lifted his hand to half-heartedly gesture to the new student, “Kirishima Eijirou, this is Class 3-A. Class 3-A, Kirishima. Welcome to our class. If you have any questions with the coursework, feel free to ask Iida or Yaoyorozu for help.”

Yaoyorozu offered a small wave, but Iida rose from his seat to stand and bow his head to Kirishima in introduction. “Iida Tenya, class president! I’d be happy to offer any assistance needed! Welcome to Class 3-A, Kirishima!”

Katsuki snorted at the obnoxious display, and once again, Kirishima caught his gaze.

Kirishima’s eyes widened before he turned to Iida and bowed back, a little deeper than appropriate. When he brought himself back up his face was flushed in embarrassment. “It’s nice to meet all of you!”

Kirishima? Katsuki’s eyebrows furrowed in irritation as he stared at the newbie, the rest of the conversation falling deaf to his ears. Why did that name sound familiar?

Tapping his foot against the ground, Katsuki wracked his mind for an answer. He definitely didn’t know any other Kirishimas, so it couldn’t be that, and he only vaguely remembered a mountain somewhere else in Japan with the same name. Nothing seemed to click.

How did Katsuki know this kid?

“Sit back down, Iida,” Aizawa said, yawning as he reached for a piece of chalk and wrote the name of their lesson on the chalkboard. “Kirishima, you can sit at the desk behind Kaminari. Kaminari, share your books with Kirishima until he gets his own, please.”

As Kirishima cautiously made his way to a welcoming Kaminari, Katsuki rotated his head to track his path. He didn’t look like somebody Katsuki had seen before. There was no way he’d forget that horrible fucking hair, nor the red eyes framed by long, dark lashes. This guy wasn’t forgettable, that was for damn sure.

He glared at the boy before turning his attention to the front of the class as Aizawa instructed them to get out their Japanese literature books. Reaching down into his school bag, he fumbled for his textbook and was met with the sharp sting of a paper cut instead. Normally his bag was organized to a fucking-T, more neat and orderly than Iida’s probably was, so something must’ve been out of place. Katsuki quickly identified the problem as he saw the torn open envelope thrust into his bag. Shit, he’d forgotten about that stupid letter.  Pushing it aside, he yanked the literature textbook out and automatically flipped to the correct page, tapping his foot against the ground as Aizawa began his lesson.

Katsuki found it impossible to pay attention today as their teacher monotonously read from the board. He was continually looking down at the letter, which hadn’t moved from its spot, because fucking obviously . 

The letter sat heavy in his bag, practically beckoning him to read it instead of focus on their lesson. It was nagging at him, and he didn’t know why this suddenly seemed so important. It was fucking irritating. For some reason it seemed connected with their new student, and he was failing to connect the dots.

It was only when Aizawa began reciting a memoir from their text that it dawned on Katsuki. Head snapping towards Kirishima, he glared fervently in suspicion at the unsuspecting boy. When Katsuki had skimmed the letter earlier, in front of the school, there had been two words underlined repeatedly: Kirishima Eijirou.

So it was Kirishima that wrote the letter, then.

What was this fuckers plan? He wanted to get Katsuki’s attention or something? But why would he do that by sending him a letter from himself…? And how the hell would he even know Katsuki?

His foot tapped even faster as he stared the redhead down. The dumbass had just chewed his pen so hard that indigo ink was spilling across his desk and into his mouth. The students who noticed his dilemma giggled as Kirishima coughed loudly, and his ears were a bright red as he wiped at his chin with the back of his hand. Great, he was an idiot.

Again, Katsuki couldn’t help but think that something about the situation was off. Kirishima, even as muscled as he was—not that Katsuki was looking, fuck you—didn’t seem like the type to pick a fight. Even now, he shrunk in on himself under everybody else’s attention. 

Unassuming as the kid was, Katsuki had never let people push him around, and he wasn’t going to start now.

Katsuki barely registered Aizawa announcing that today would indeed be a half-day. The instant the bell that signaled lunch rang and Aizawa left the room, Katsuki shoved himself out of his desk so harshly that his chair slammed to the floor behind him with a loud ‘clang’. Teeth bared and lip curled into a snarl, he stormed forwards and yanked the redhead up by the front of his shirt, “The fuck is your damage, hah? Trying to intimidate me or some shit? I ain’t fuckin’ scared of you!”

“What?” Kirishima exclaimed, eyes as wide as saucers. 

“The letter, fuckwit!” growled Katsuki. His fingers dug into the other boy’s shirt as he shook him roughly, ignoring the disapproving stares of the few that hadn’t yet left the room. 

Hands raised placatingly, the redhead allowed himself to be shaken as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. While Katsuki wasn’t necessarily an expert on people, the bewildered expression on Kirishima’s face seemed genuine. “Hey, man, I don’t know anything about a letter. I just got here.”

Katsuki scowled as he moved his focus to Kirishima’s desk, searching for any sort of evidence pointing towards him being the culprit. Worn pink eraser, unopened water bottle, Kaminari’s textbook opened to a random page… none of this shit proved anything. 

Kirishima was still talking, some happy-go-lucky nonsense about not wanting to start things off on the wrong foot, but Katsuki was too busy in his search to process any of it.

There. Right there, half hidden by the hardcover of the Japanese literature book, was a loose-leaf paper with writing across it. 

Pushing the redhead away, he grabbed the paper so hard it tore a little at the edges. Katsuki zeroed in on every dot, line, and stroke of the pen, and what he found was both disappointing and relieving—it wasn’t him. There was no fucking way it could be. This loser’s handwriting was barely legible. Based off of the strong indentations on the paper glinting in the light, Kirishima had actually been trying to make his writing neat. Which meant he couldn’t forge anything, even if his life was on the line. 

Fuck.

Ears burning in shame, Katsuki grabbed his bag and stalked out of the room without another word. Distantly, he could hear Ashido, Kaminari, and Sero fervently apologizing to Kirishima for Katsuki’s behavior, but he didn’t give a flying fuck about that right now.

So he’d been wrong. Meaning Katsuki had just picked a fight with the new kid for no reason. Even he could admit to himself that it was an asshole move, especially after Kirishima had been stupidly kind in return.

How could he smile at Katsuki while being threatened? Masochistic motherfucker.

But that was the least of his worries now. Determined to find a safe space to figure shit out, he trudged on. Once Katsuki had found an empty hallway that he deemed suitable enough, he ripped his bag open and pulled the letter out of the bag. Maybe it was time to actually read this stupid thing.

Katsuki Bakugou,

This is you from the future. 

Before you freak the fuck out, I already know you aren’t going to believe me. Hell, I wouldn’t believe me, even now. But it’s the truth. And it’s important that you read this, so get over your damn teenage pride and listen up.

I, or we, have always lived our lives without regret. But now that I know what I know, I regret so fucking much. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish things were different. And unless you want to feel like shit every goddamn day of your life, then you should take this seriously.

On April 6th, 2005, a new student is going to transfer to your class. Kirishima Eijirou . He has the shittiest red hair you’ve ever seen and he’ll be seated directly behind Kaminari. He’s obnoxiously kind to everyone, especially us, even though we didn’t deserve it at the time. Kaminari and Sero take him under their wing, and he’ll be dragged along with the others.

No matter what you do, don’t let him hang out with you after school that day.

That’s it.

That’s it?! The fuck was this, some elaborate fucking prank one of his friends set on him?

Katsuki glared at the paper, his eyes scanning the words over and over, searching for any hidden meaning or hint. He could almost hear Kaminari’s obnoxious laughter in the back of his mind, imagining the blond idiot coming up with such a ridiculous prank.

But it didn't make sense. Kaminari couldn’t forge Katsuki’s handwriting so perfectly, nor would he even know how to start. And why Kirishima? The kid had just shown up.

“This is bullshit,” Katsuki muttered to himself, shoving the letter back into his bag with more force than necessary. His head pounded with frustration as he made his way to the bathroom to cool off, ignoring the chatter of students around him.

[sydmarch]

for a couple days i've been wanting to post about the coin operated viewers & my thoughts there but kept getting distracted by other writing until earlier today @frogean asked me about my thoughts on the fishing village wrt; why would evrart gentrify a village full of people who can't afford to live elsewhere when he seems to genuinely care about martinaise, is the thing with the signatures just a ploy to see if harry's trustworthy, etc. & since thoughts on the fishing village tie back into my thoughts on the coin operated viewer i'm just gonna make one big post on both topics.

quick note before i start rambling here: the point of this post is NOT to come to a "evrart's actions w the fishing village good" or "evrart's actions with the fishing village bad" conclusion or to justify said actions. i'm strictly interested in digging into evrart's motivations behind it all & what i imagine was going on in his head while making these decisions.

first - to discuss why evrart involves harry in this whole thing. yeah i do think it's pretty likely that it IS primarily a test of his trustworthiness. I get the feeling that if the signatures were really as central to evrart's plans as he makes them out to be he would NOT leave it to harry to take care of it (even if we assume the most cooperative w evrart version of harry) just wouldn't see him him truly trusting a cop with a task like that ESPECIALLY not when kim's involved and evrart is very obviously aware that kim does not trust him. & harry is very well aware of the possibility that evrart is playing him:

as for why evrart chose this errand specifically as a test for harry, i can't say definitively. maybe this task was chosen because in addition to being a good general test of harry's trustworthiness, evrart wanted to get a real idea of what harry's opinions on this plan are? maybe the signatures really aren't actually important in the grand scheme of things like logic suggests? maybe the signatures are only unimportant because evrart has the letter intercepted? he does explicitly state he's friends with the mail man

so it could very well be the case that if you forge the letter he DOES know about it but doesn't let on that he knows (i feel like it's very likely he knows about the forgery especially, if doom spiral signs it out in the open rather than harry passing the forgery check & doing it in private??). also worth considering where you're mailing it to:

like it's going to evrart's account, not some neutral third party. so any of those things could factor into why he sends harry on this errand. I think it's more likely that if he REALLY just needed the signatures that evrart would've had some of his union guys get on it - although there's also the possibility evrart decided having rcm officer ask for the signatures on his behalf could be advantageous to getting the documents signed. another possibility is that evrart picked up on harry's can opening abilities & thought that having not just an rcm officer but HARRY specifically on the task might be advantageous, in addition to being a good test of his loyalty with those failsafes in place for if harry betrayed him on this one. so yeah i do suspect it WAS at least partly/primarily a test but don't feel like i can say FOR SURE if that's all there is to it & would be interested to hear anyone else's thoughts on this topic.

second - to get into the village situation itself & the coin operated viewer. throwing this screenshot up for some context:

I think it's really interesting how kim disapproves of evrart interfering with this "revitalization project" while also disapproving of evrart's actions with the village (again it all comes back to kim just implicitly distrusting evrart but i find the above especially interesting):

not going to rehash my thoughts on evrart's feelings about/intents for martinaise as a whole here even tho it's relevant to bear in mind but one aspect of that topic i DO think is worth mentioning specifically when it comes to discussing evrart's plans for the fishing village is that (if we take him at face value with the following, & for the purposes of this analysis i'm going to go with that interpretation) yes, evrart IS planning to use the construction noise to push the residents out of the village, but he isn't doing so thoughtlessly or without a plan on where they will end up:

& i DO believe this is his genuine intent because it's in line with his characterization when you consider how he keeps rene, gaston, & leo on the payroll. especially rene where he doesn't just keep him on the payroll where so that he can get by without his pride being wounded too much - he had the guard booth built specifically for rene. it wouldn't make sense for someone who DOES look out for members of his community to this extent to not extend similar consideration to the villagers.

i don't think evrart views his actions with the youth center as gentrification (again i will not be discussing if it actually IS or not - all of this is just my speculation on evrart's own interpretation of things) at least not in the same way that i imagine he viewed the revitalization project in '49. from evrart's perspective he grew up in martinaise, knows everything about the district, has the best interest of the people at heart etc, so why WOULD he allow some design studio to come in and start putting up tourist attractions?

i mean, they're putting up coin operated viewers & that horse statue meanwhile people are living in buildings on the verge of collapse? that kind of revitalization in all likelihood WOULD lead to gentrification and displacement. evrart doesn't want the people living in the village displaced - he wants them properly housed, to have prospects, to live in a district that's more than just a post war ruin. now whether he's actually going about achieving that the right way or not & if the villagers would agree with him here is a whole different topic but yeah.

[mrsbrekkers]

How bout a kaz brekker x blind!reader? 💓

okay so i have never written blind!reader before but but but BUTTT a good idea came to me involving reader being a grisha ( healer ) who had the gift to see someone and what they truly look like if they are physically allowed to be let in? it’s hard to explain, but y a

in this, reader and kaz have known one another for a good three in a half years, they work on heists together, and reader is usually partnered with kaz, as he wants to keep her safe. i S U C K at summaries. also, i was hella distracted while writing this, but it came out somewhat okay? f u c k.

pairings! kax x blind!reader

reader in this is female, but i will adjust accordingly if you’d like me too! just let me know! :)

warnings! really distracted writing, jordie, ptsd, blood, the typical soc stuff, kaz almost having a panic attack, but also him realizing he’s safe there with reader ye. 

i could so make this a series? like going through all the times blind!reader has made kaz come to trust her more and more. haha ha unless...

word count! 2847

ONE SHOT UNDER CUT

GLOVED INTERACTIONS

There were many descriptions given to Y/N about what Kaz Brekker looked like. What color his eyes were. What color his hair was. What his build was like. She could give you an accurate description of Jesper, Inej, Nina, Matthias, even Wylan was easy. But when it came to someone she couldn’t physically map out? She became a bit lost.

Being born without her sight, Y/N had to learn other ways to understand the world. Especially in a place like Ketterdam. Maybe that was why Kaz was quick to take Y/N under his wing. To keep her safe, just as he had with Wylan. But, Y/N wasn’t useless. Being a Healer, she was valuable to the Dregs. Nina was a powerful heartrender, but could only do so much when someone was inevitably hurt during jobs. That’s where Y/N was useful.

In a sense she had her sight, but it relied on physically being able to touch someone. A side-effect of being a Grisha, with abilities that no one has seen before. Her sight may have been gone, but being able to see one in her mind, whether it be blurry or clear, gave her an idea on what one looked like.

That meant Kaz was the most mysterious person to Y/N.

Y/N could describe most of the crows relatively well. Jesper had been the first to let Y/N use her ‘gift’ as Nina called it, with him. Her hands rested on his arms, slowly moving up to his shoulders, the other crows sitting around them to watch.

“You’re Zemeni, but I knew that already. Inej described you as long limbed, she wasn’t wrong.” Inej laughed a bit, shaking her head. “Lean, no surprise, I could make that out. Your eyes are a dark grey, but beautiful. I must say Jesper, you’re rather handsome. Being a handsome decoy seems like it should be a Jesper talent.”

Jesper smiled, looking down at Y/N. “Right on, almost to the dot,” he said, giving his best friend a chuckle.

“Your smile lights up a room. But I also knew that already,” Y/N added, tilting her head as she let her hands drop from Jesper’s shoulders. The crows around them were in awe, and then Nina was moving Jesper out of the way.

“Move handsome decoy, my turn,” She said, humming a bit as she sat in front of Y/N, making the Healer laugh. As she had with Jesper, Y/N ran her hands up Nina’s arms, stopping at her shoulders.

“Hmm, long curly brown hair, your heart beats a bit differently than the rest of our friends. Courtesy of being Grisha, and a Heartrender. You’re also a bit curvier than our friends, but as am I.” Nina smiled, glancing at their friends, who all seemed confused on how Y/N managed to do this.

“Green eyes, piercing almost. As always, like the rest of our friends, your smile lights up the room. But instead of Jesper’s toothy smile, you’re a closed mouth smiler, unless talking to Matthias of course,” Y/N smirked a bit, feeling Nina’s body heat up told her that the Heartrender was indeed, blushing.

Then slowly, all of the crows sat in front of Y/N. Except for Kaz, which Y/N understood. She didn’t pry, but she did begin to wonder what he truly looked like. There were so many conflicting descriptions. Obviously the ones given from people who didn’t like him weren’t taken into account, because most of them consisted of calling Kaz ‘The Grinch’. And while this was probably a good term for his lovely personality, it didn’t seem like it’d match his looks. Kaz wasn’t green after all.

But after a particularly rough job, one that ended with almost everyone scuffed up in some way, shape, or form, Y/N was working herself to the bone. Inej had the worst of it, so Y/N worked on her first at the Slat, and upon finishing, she had Nina sit next to the sleeping Wraith. She stood, huffing as she climbed the stairs to Kaz’s room. He was always the least willing to be healed. He always claimed he was the least beat up, or he could handle it himself.

This time, Y/N knew he wasn’t the least beat up. She’d heard about the gash running up his arm, and the scratches lining his face, which were less than pretty. Entering the room, she crossed her arms.

“I’m fine,” Kaz spoke first, earning a scoff from Y/N.

“I’ve heard plenty from Jesper about how nasty the gash on your arm is, and how your leg has been worse than usual. I can’t heal a bone that’s healed incorrectly, but I can ease the pain,” Y/N stated, moving to stand in front of the desk. Why was Kaz so damned stubborn about things like this? It concerned the Healer. Did he find himself so unlovable that he believed he deserved the pain when he was hurt?

“How are you going to count your Kruge if your arm is cut wide open?” Y/N asked, tilting her head. That made Kaz sigh. She wasn’t wrong about that. It also meant problems during other aspects of his job.

“Fine,” Kaz said reluctantly. He watched Y/N round the table, his eyes mainly on her fingers that softly glided the desk, letting her know when to turn. He’d always found it fascinating how she managed so much without her sight. Mainly how she found her ways around. The way her fingers would move so smoothly across surfaces. Or how graceful she seemed. It was hard to fascinate Kaz Brekker, but she did it effortlessly.

“I won’t touch you, but I’m going to need to be guided to where the gash is,” Y/N spoke, now standing in front of Kaz, who gulped with a shaky nod. He trusted her. He trusted all of his Crows, but her the most. She’d been there when the Crows were down bad. She brought smiles to the team without fail. Kaz could remember the first time they’d met, when his fascianation had started.

The night had been cold, dark. As Ketterdam usually was. After a few months of Kaz having Inej watch over the Healer that lived near the university district, Inej had come to Kaz with news that the Healer, Y/N, had noticed her. It had rendered the Bastard of the Barrel speechless. Someone had noticed Inej Ghafa?

“How did she notice you? Nobody notices you. Even I didn't for the first time, and I notice everyone,” Kaz stated, his tone confused.

“I believe our Healer is blind. It would make sense then, all of her other senses would be on high alert, especially her hearing. Even the most silent aren’t silent to the blind. They notice everything, Kaz. I’m surprised she didn’t notice me earlier,” Inej said, her arms crossed as she leaned in the doorway between the bedroom and the small office.

Kaz stalled for a moment, humming in consideration. It would explain how Inej had been found out. What that didn’t answer was whether Y/N knew who they were. He doubted it, but you could never be sure in Ketterdam.

“Did she know who you were?”

“I’m not sure, I left before things escalated. She said she knew I was there and to reveal who I was and who I worked for. So she knows I’m not some random in Ketterdam. I’m sure she could figure out enough if I’d appeared before her,” Inej said before looking back at the window. She knew she wasn’t followed, she always checked for such. But with the revelation that someone, for once, had noticed her, it wasn’t unlikely that maybe she’d been followed.

Kaz huffed, realizing he’d have to now go and explain to this Healer about how he’d been watching over her for the past few months. He wasn’t even sure why he’d been doing so. Well, he did, she’d be a good asset to have later if he ever decided to actually let it be known that he’d been keeping her safe. It was time that’d present a new reason.

Arriving at the small apartment that the Healer lived in, Kaz knocked Inej behind him, and when the door opened, his dark eyes landed on Y/N.

“I was waiting for you guys to show up,” Y/N said, turning and allowing the two inside.

“You knew we’d come?” Inej asked, entering the small apartment and sitting where Y/N offered, taking the small cup of tea she was handed. For being stalked for the past few months, the Healer was being rather kind.

“I suspected it was The Wraith watching over me for some time. I have learned to feel different presence’ around me. Yours, while I didn’t notice it at first, I began to when one of my papers went missing and was replaced with a forged one,” Y/N said, sitting next to Inej.

“How did you know it was forged?” Kaz asked, raising an eyebrow. Not that Y/N could see that, but his tone, his voice did the accenting for him.

“Kaz Brekker I presume. The handwriting wasn’t my own. I don’t have terrible handwriting, I’ve practiced for years after all, but my handwriting is not that nice. And the paper wasn’t the kind of paper I used. It was a close second, yes, but the letters weren’t able to be felt. That’s when I realized it was forged. It was a good forgery, but I’ve lived in Ketterdam long enough.” That’s when Kaz’s fascination started.

Or maybe it was when Inej had announced someone had noticed her. Nonetheless, that was the day he decided to recruit Y/N officially. It wasn’t hard either, considering she was rather willing too as long as she wasn’t indentured to the Dregs.

“I won’t go with if I’m going to be paying you back for the rest of my life,” Y/N stated, sipping her tea. Oh, and she had to bring her cat. Jesper now called the cat the Crows mascot. Which, the other’s had found weird. It was a cat, not a Crow, but they had changed the name of the cat to Crow. Which made the rest of the gang agree on it. Even Kaz found the cat enjoyable.

That was three years ago.

Since then, Y/N hadn’t let Kaz down once. He’d grown to trust her as he did Inej, even more so as she became his shadow. The person in his corner, his partner. He trusted his shadow.

Sighing, Kaz shook his head, looking over at Y/N and glancing down to her hands. “Left arm, right above my elbow,” he said, watching her fingers flex before moving to hover over the gash that covered a good part of Kaz’s upper arm.

“You know, I still don’t know what you look like,” Y/N said as she healed to gash slowly, making sure the work was intricate and done correctly.

“Brooding, dark, nothing else really to me,” Kaz said, but Y/N shook her head, finishing the gash and humming a bit. She moved her hand slowly up to Kaz’s face, doing a quick brush over to heal the small gashes there. Kaz felt them heal, his labored breath steadying as she moved her hand away from his face.

“I don’t believe that. If there was nothing more to you, I wouldn’t be staying around, Kaz,” Y/N said, bending down, but she felt a gloved hand grip her wrist, surprising her and causing her to jump a bit.

“I can handle that pain, I have for years,” Kaz stated, watching Y/N nod, and while she couldn’t see his hand, her eyes were still on the wrist that was enclosed by Kaz’s gloved hand.

“I may have an idea. A way for me to know what you truly look like,” Y/N said, a smile rising to her lips.

Kaz was almost frightened to ask. No, he was frightened. He knew what that would entail. But he knew what she looked like and she had so many conflicting ideas about what he looked like. He also knew that Y/N wouldn’t cross his boundaries unless he gave explicit permission. He could say no to this and she’d agree and leave with a smile, some words of encouragement to sleep and rest, and later have Inej or Jesper bring up food for him. But sucking in a deep breath, he looked up at Y/N, determining that he trusted her enough for this. She’d never hurt you. 

“Okay, tell me the idea,” Kaz said slowly, his words wavering.

“You can back out at any time, Kaz. If you don’t want to do this, you let me know immediately,” Y/N stated, and Kaz let out a small cough. 

He closed his eyes, nodding to himself before giving an audible, “I know.”

“Your gloves, their the barrier that helps ensure you don’t come into contact with skin. What if I wear a pair, they don’t have to be yours, but a pair of gloves and use them to learn what you look like?”

Kaz tilted his head. It wasn’t a terrible idea. It actually made a lot of sense. He used the gloves as a barrier, as Y/N had said. If she did the same, it would be the same as he had just done with her wrist. He wouldn’t feel Jordie. He wouldn’t feel Reaper’s Barge. At least, that’s what he hoped for. But he’d be willing to try for Y/N. He’d try for her.

“We . . . can try that, but use my gloves. I’m used to the feeling of them. I have another pair in the nightstand by my bed,” Kaz said, watching Y/N smile a bit before moving to grab the gloves in the nightstand. He watched her slide them onto her fingers, seeing they were just a bit big on her, he chuckled quietly.

Y/N let her fingers glide against the desk once more, pulling the chair from the other side of the desk right in front of Kaz. She could hear his uneven breathing as she sat too. “You guide me, just like before,” Y/N said, letting Kaz have control of the situation. 

Slowly, Kaz lifted his hand, taking Y/N’s gloved one into his own. Stalling for a moment he shut his eyes tightly, and for a moment the flashes came to him, but he sucked in a deep breath, opening his eyes and seeing Y/N in front of him, alive, breathing.

He lifted her hands to rest on his shoulders, watching her hum as the vision of him began to form within her mind. He watched a smile come to her lips. She would never know how beautiful that smile was. How beautiful it was to him. How he hoped it wasn’t washed away like his was because of the Barrel.

“Hmm, Dark hair, trimmed at the edges. Inej teased you for it one day, I remember that. You have a sharper face than most of our friends, and a lean build, but more muscular than Jesper is.” Y/N tilted her head, the image in her head finally fully forming.

“Dark eyes, like bitter coffee. Two tattoos. I didn’t know that. I must say, but don’t Jesper this, you’re far more handsome than he is. Maybe you should start being the handsome decoy.” Kaz chuckled at that, and for a few moments he wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t fearful. He wasn’t breathing heavily. He was happy, even if just for those few moments. Happy because of her.

Y/N dropped her hands, pulling off the leather gloves and placing them on the desk. “Certainly not the grinch as some put it,” she added, standing.

“Pretty close to that,” Kaz said, watching her stand.

“Maybe personality wise, but certainly not look wise.”

“Who calls me the Grinch?” 

“Jesper,” Y/N laughed. She remembered hearing Jesper reference Kaz as the grinch at one point. It was where the nickname had probably originated from for others to call the Bastard of the Barrel, and slowly it became known. The room became quiet for some time, and Y/N was the first to break it.

“Thank you . . . for letting me do that, I know it wasn’t easy. The tattoos, what are they of?” Y/N asked then, tilting her head. Kaz took a deep breath in, looking over at the window across by his bed. The one he rarely ever used.

“The Dregs Crow, and an R,” he didn’t elaborate, leaving Y/N to know that was as much as he’d say. She knew what the Crow was for, but she had a feeling she shouldn’t ask much more than that.

“Well, do get some rest. I can’t heal sleep exhaustion, sadly,” Y/N said, laughing a bit. She didn’t see it, but a smile spread on Kaz’s lips.

[xxruinaxxmcu]

Jack Thompson x Reader

What Lies Before Us 

Masterlist (Book 1 and previous chapters) 

Chapter 10

“You don’t really think they want to pull a Lincoln on Truman?”, Jack asked, visibly irritated after hearing Y/N’s explanation about the meaning of the 5th of November.

“I have no idea what it means, if it’s literally or figuratively”, she shrugged, “But it means meddling with politics, that’s for sure. And if Peggy’s intel is right, they already killed a president once in 1901.”

“And you think they work with the mob for that?”, he questioned sceptically. Again, Y/N wasn’t sure about it – after all, all she had to go on was a piece of paper.

“I don’t know”, she replied, “but if you would want to kill someone, having the Mafia do it is arguably the best way to do it. The public can easily be fed an alternative explanation as to why they targeted the person in question, whether that is Truman himself or some other guy in a suit.”

Though they had very little to go on, Thompson decided to inform the Secret Service about it, in order for them to make sure that they did thorough background checks on their members, and to make sure no actual assassination plot would be successful. They needed more time to figure out what the actual plan was, and he really didn’t want it to end with the Commander and Chief being killed.

Y/N attempted to make contact with Lorenzo, but she had to make sure that it would not be seen as a meeting with federal agents, and she didn’t exactly have his phone number. She did remember a restaurant he often frequented when she initially met him, so she hoped his taste hadn’t changed. She pretended that she had found his wallet in the establishment, asking for an address or a number so that she could return it to him. She was lucky – they did have an address left behind, so she went to check it out, making sure she wasn’t being followed or observed by anyone, to verify that it was actually his address. Rather than waiting for him there, which she found too risky in case he came home with another mobster, she decided to disguise her note in a letter that looked like an electricity bill. Which was technically forgery, but who’d check that?

She left behind a post box address to which he could post a letter to, which, again, she found safer than meeting him in person. It would take considerably longer, but then again, it was for his own safety, too.

Jack was still figuring out how he was supposed to have a life next to his job – during the war, combat was all that really mattered. Sure, he had his friends to worry about, to have fun with when they weren’t in action, but essentially, there was no past, there was no future. Everyone knew that they could be dead the next day if they were in the field. But that also meant that whenever he took up his weapon, that was all that mattered – getting that next mile of territory, securing the next position. He thought a lot about home, never getting to see his family until the war ended. Or Y/N. In the first months at the SSR, actually, until he was shot, that’s how he continued. It was always about work, about closing the next case, and it felt like he couldn’t stop for one minute because the world hung in the balance.

Unfortunately, he realised, the world would almost always hang in the balance. If he waited for ‘things to pass’ to have a life, he’d be dead before he’d know it.

“Sousa, SSR.”

“Couldn’t make it any shorter, Danny-boy?”, Jack asked with a grin, placing his feet on his desk.

“Jack. Anything on the Arena Club? Peggy mentioned something about ‘5th of November’.”

“Yeah, apparently it’s some English poem about a guy who wanted to kill the king, but failed”, Jack explained, “it could be what they’ve got in mind. Just that we’re not a monarchy.”

“They’re after Truman?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, genius.”

“Right”, Daniel exhaled audibly, “If we find anything on our end, I’ll let you know.”

“You nervous?”

“What?”, Daniel asked, obviously confused, “Why should I be? It’s politicians and mobsters, Jack, by now, that’s our most common gig.”

“I didn’t mean the case”, Jack specified, “I mean your future.”

“The wedding?”, Sousa asked to confirm, “Uhm, no, I mean, it’s just a change of formalities, essentially. Why’d you ask? Terrified of asking yourself?”

Jack grit his teeth. It wasn’t that he was afraid Y/N wouldn’t say yes, he was just… unsure about the circumstances. “Don’t you wish for your life to be, ya know, less dangerous before tying the knot?”

“Then I should’ve set out to marry someone very different to Peggy, Jack”, Daniel stated amusedly, “a boring life and her don’t really go together.”

Rubbing his chin, Jack nodded, remembering after a second that Sousa had no way to tell that he was, so he added: “Yeah.”

“Look, we might never get a month off, but you’ll be able to find one day to get married. It doesn’t take much. If you’re lucky, your girl won’t drag you half-way across the world to do it, too.”

“Ha, I bet you’re ecstatic to meet Family Carter”, Jack grinned.

“You kidding?”, Sousa shot back, “I couldn’t imagine something more terrifying than that!”

“You’ve probably never been disliked by anyone in your entire life, Danny-boy, so I don’t think you’ve got reason to worry.”

“There was a time I was pretty sure you hated me.”

“Yes, Sousa, I think there was a time where apparently everyone thought I hated them”, Jack retorted, both sarcastic, as well as intently self-aware.

Sousa seemed to think for a second what to say, and eventually he replied: “I’m sure Y/N never hated you.”

Jack scoffed: “You’d be surprised. I’m quite sure the one time I almost knocked a guy’s tooth out because he’d groped her back in high school, she did kinda hate me.”

“You’ve always had a charming temperament, then”, Sousa said and Jack could picture his grin by the sound of his voice.

“My most winning attribute, I’m sure. Had to practice throwing a punch somewhere, I guess.”

“Thompson, you better get your act together after basically arranging my ceremony”, Sousa urged, “And don’t you say ‘when it’s quiet’, because that’ll never happen, clear?”

“Cristal.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“Eventually, sure”, Jack evaded, now very eager to end the call. “Well, Danny-boy, I’ve got to come up with a speech for your day. And call me if you find anything on our case.”

“I’ll beat your ass with my crutch if you don’t get your act together by my first wedding anniversary, I swear to God, Thompson!”

Jack grinned before ending the call. That gave him at least more than a year to play with. Though he doubted that his nerves would dramatically improve over time.

…….

With their plane currently somewhere over the Atlantic, Y/N eyed the water intently. It felt strange heading back to Europe after a few months away, it felt like returning to something one wanted to leave behind for good, but which was a different place already since her last stay.

“You’re fidgeting.”

She looked at Jack, who apparently had woken up to provide her with an analysis of her gestures.

“Didn’t think I’d be back so soon, if I’m being honest”, she remarked, though she was grateful that they’d be headed to London, rather than Paris or Berlin.

Jack tilted his head back, closing his eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“About what?”

“About London. What did you do there? I’ve been there once, for virtually a day, to get Peggy’s – or not Peggy’s – file. What’s it like?”

Y/N didn’t really know how to answer that, it was hard to describe a city.

“It’s… old. I mean, for us, from America, it’s just an old city. They’ve got castles from the Middle Ages everywhere”, she began, and trying to recount the city made her feel less on edge, “they’ve got these very typical townhouses, most, I think, from the Victorian period. They’re drafty as hell, though.” She laughed at the memory of the tiny corridors of the houses, where, for some reason, it always felt like an air current was present. “The river Thames is pretty muddy, I have to say. But they have beautiful bridges everywhere, London Bridge most famously. It has a lot of parks, but be careful. The squirrels inside are so used to humans, they practically want to sit on your shoulder. Otherwise… a lot of the city has to be rebuilt. The Blitz definitely scarred it.”

“How long were you there?”, he inquired, noticing how talking about it took her stress away.

“Several months, for training purposes. It was rather odd, though, considering we were training for something without having expertise to go on. There were no veterans for us to ask about technique”, she shrugged, “We had to make it up on the fly.” She paused: “And then, at the end of the war before being discharged. Was strange to go back there, seems like so much had changed in relatively short time.”

Opening his eyes to take a look at her, Jack continued his questionnaire: “What’s your favourite spot in the city?”

“Not really original, but Hyde Park. I loved spending time at the pond that they built there”, she said with a smile, “It reminded me of Central Park.”

“I bet you sat there reading”, he guessed – and her laugh told him that he had guessed correctly.

“In all fairness, I had to become perfectly fluent in a language. I had to read Goethe somewhere. Da steh’ ich nun, ich armer Tor und bin so klug als wie zuvor, and all that.”

He huffed amusedly. He half-remembered that line coming from one professor way back when, and he was fairly certain that it was in Faust. A book he never bothered to read, even with an English translation available.

“Right, your turn”, she said, “Tell me about your time outside of combat.”

He pulled a face: “A lot less scenic, I’m afraid. In early 1944, we were brought to Camp Pendleton. It was hot and humid, like California is. Were damn glad when we could leave that place, or at least I was. But I guess it helped me in the long run, the weather in the pacific was also hot and humid.”

“Just what you love”, Y/N commented with a grin.

“Yes, so next time Sousa and Carter ask us to fly to L.A., we meet them halfway in – whatever – Kansas.”

“Nothing’s in Kansas.”

“I’m sure we’d find some case there”, he remarked with a shrug.

“You think the Mafia has a new offshore company in Wichita?”, she asked amusedly.

Again, Jack only shrugged: “Maybe they’re interested in planes, too.”

After all the talk of humid and hot weather, London posed the exact opposite. It was mid-November (and yes, the 5th of November came and went without an assassination, confirming Y/N’s suspicion that the riddle was more a hint than a plan), and the weather in England’s capital was windy and chilly – so not that different from New York, to be fair.

And, of course, for good measure, it was raining.

“Merry old England”, Y/N announced when stepping off the plane and pointing to Jack’s hat, “Hope that sits tight, ‘cause otherwise it’ll end up in the Thames, for sure.”

The actual ceremony would be near Green Park, at St. James Church, which was a small, but picturesque church in the city centre. They had flown in with only a night to spare, the next day, they would have to be ready – well, especially Jack had to be ready with his silly (or so he thought) speech that Sousa had asked him to deliver. Why, he still wasn’t quite sure. There had to be a thousand more qualified men in Sousa’s life for such a role, whether from his time at school, or even from his time in the army. Did he really think his best choice was him? Jack Thompson, who called him ‘our biggest yo-yo’ after Krzeminski’s death?

If so, Thompson felt a bit sorry for the guy. But, he was a responsible man, nonetheless, so naturally, he tried to muster up a speech that would at least be considered okay-ish.

“Can I see it?”, Y/N asked once they were in the hotel room as she watched him go over his lines again.

“No”, he replied with a small smile, “I think these types of things are supposed to be surprises to everyone, no?”

“To the groom and the bride, maybe, but not to me!”, Y/N protested, but for once, she was unsuccessful at getting him to falter. Instead, she faltered to his invitation for a kiss.

“Why me?”

“Why he asked you to give that speech?”, Y/N asked back, guessing what he meant, “I suppose you’ve worked together on saving the world, that’s something.”

“No, I meant you”, he sat down on the bed behind him, his gaze interrogating her, “why’d you stick with me?”

“What?” Y/N wasn’t sure if she heard correctly – sure, Jack Thompson was often harsh, and pushed people away, and rude, and conceded, but he was also – well, he was Jack. Why wouldn’t she have stuck with him, when she knew what he could be? “Why are you asking me this?”

He shrugged, as if the question wasn’t weird at all: “Just tryin’ to understand your rationale.”

“I don’t really think about it”, she confessed with a scoff, “I mean, when you do something particularly reckless, like getting shot, then I might think to myself – why did I fall in love with a madman? But on normal days?” She shrugged: “I guess I don’t. I didn’t have a particularly cordial relationship to my parents since adolescence, and being a spy makes any real relationships impossible. I guess you’ve been the closest to a constant I’ve had, and yeah, we argue, but we both love to argue.”

She expected a sarcastic remark back, but was greeted with nothing but a nod. A bit irritated, she sat down next to him and took his hand with a dry smile: “And if it means anything, as much as I stuck with you, you stuck with me for some reason, too. I try not to think about your reasoning, either, otherwise, I’d just terrify myself.”

Now, that was something Jack could really not understand. Because Y/N was Y/N – not only was she quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, though his metrics might have been off, given that ever since high school, he had believed no woman could compare with that. But it wasn’t just her beauty, she was brilliant, which was both impressive and frightening, brave, which was definitely terrifying, strong, arguably even more stubborn than he was, and despite everything she’d seen, been through and even done, she was still kind.

And there he was, the bogus Navy Cross winner with the nightmares he couldn’t shake, with the inability to let people close, the medallist who was rewarded for his cowardice, and the idiot who repetitively trusted the wrong men, getting Dooley killed, getting Krzeminski killed, and nearly causing the Second Coming by siding with Vernon. This really was no competition, and he had no idea why he was still in the game.

……

The two of them left Piccadilly Circus station, and unfortunately, Jack was not yet used to the traffic being on the wrong side of the road, so when checking for traffic, he looked in the wrong direction and was greeted by a very annoyed Brit honking at him and Y/N.

“Why the hell did they think it was smart to drive on that side of the road?”, he complained annoyed.

“First of all – I think they were first, and I doubt your rant will make them switch”, she replied with a grin, “so you might be better off just looking in both directions next time. But don’t worry. Happened to Churchill too, when he visited America.”

The church was already decently filled, most people, neither Jack nor Y/N knew – Angie aside, together with the Howling Commandos, who Jack vividly remembered. Some others, given their accent, Y/N guessed were friends of Sousa’s, possibly from his time in the army. And somewhere in the mix were the parents of the soon-to-be-weds, too.

The two of them were ushered into the front part, as Jack would have to make his way on stage for his speech at some point.

The proceedings began with the onset of music, which muted the talking of all the attendees. Jack, to be completely honest, paid very little attention to the pastor leading the service – in hindsight, he realised that his mother would have been appalled. But he was too busy staring at his notes, eventually earning an elbow to the side by Y/N.

“You’ve done it for Stark with like five minutes’ notice, you’ll be perfect”, she whispered barely audibly.

He only clenched his jaw – these two things could hardly compare. Besides, the speech he had given for stark might just have been the Oxford Dictionary definition for awkward.

What brought him back to reality was seeing Sousa standing in front, obviously nervous, too. So, to be a good friend, Jack tried his best to appear calm.

Peggy looked beautiful. Her dress’ skirt was loose, the top had a beautifully embroidered neckline and bust, and the sleeves were cut just below the elbow. She looked fantastic. Jack knew when the vows were exchanged, though he paid so much attention. And for a moment, it wasn’t that he was thinking about his stupid speech, no, he was thinking about Y/N. Would she be willing to do the same? Did she want it?

He glanced to the side, meeting her eyes and she gave him a bright smile. Did that mean yes? Did she read his thoughts yet again? Or was she just happy for Sousa and Carter?

Then, he had to go. Luckily for him, it was a bit like turning a switch. He might be nervous before, but once he knew he had to run, he’d run. No point in being nervous anymore.

Standing in front of the gathered, in front of the newly-weds, and in front of Y/N, he cleared his throat.

“When I was asked to deliver this speech by Daniel, I have to say, I pitied the guy”, he began with a sarcastic remark, which Y/N could only scoff at, “As our work together doesn’t really leave much time for cordial exchange. But possibly, it’s exactly these moments that test a person’s true character. Repetitively, Daniel has proven to be the man you want on your team when catastrophe strikes, and the man who’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep everyone else safe.” He paused for a moment, looking at Carter: “It’s – unfortunately – a quality Margaret shares, which ends more often than not in a competition of sacrifice. Both of them have saved countless of lives, mine included. There’s very little about either of you that’s conventional, and I’m sure, that’ll be the tale of your marriage, too. Margaret, Peggy, I doubt you’ll ever be what your grandmother might have envisioned her granddaughter to be. It won’t be easy for some to accept that. But one thing, I can say, both as your former boss, as well as – if I may say so – your friend. The US, and the world, can only be grateful for your unorthodoxy.” He gave her a lopsided smile, as she pulled a sarcastically surprised face when he called himself her friend. “Sousa”, he then continued, “we’ve had our share of disagreements in how to run operations, but I’ve never doubted that you’d one day be a great husband. I’m not sure if you’ve gotten lucky, or if I should warn you, probably both, but you know Peggy better than I do – if you expect her to agree with you on everything now, just because she wears a ring, you’re sorely mistaken. In any case, it has been my upmost pleasure to work with the two of you, and despite the name-change, I hope, for the sake of country and president, that we will continue our cooperation into the future. Thank you, and, Peggy, Daniel, good luck, and congratulations.”

He had forced himself to not lose sight of the two, because he suspected that if he had looked at Y/N during his speech, he would have forgotten his lines. Returning to his seat, Y/N gave him a reassuring smile: “See? You did great.”

He returned her smile, though he was curious to know if she had figured out his reason for being nervous. He hadn’t been afraid to screw up his lines and mess up Sousa’s and Carter’s big day, though, if he could avoid that, that’s obviously preferred. No, he was afraid because he knew what he had to do next, and it had nothing to do with his friends’ wedding. Did she suspect anything? She’s a spy, theoretically she could’ve gone through his things without him noticing. But she wouldn’t do that, right? He noticed he was fidgeting with his hands – she had even told him that she knew that he did that every time he was uncomfortable. So he forced himself to stop, spending the remainder of the ceremony being incredibly self-aware of every fibre in his being.

…….

Y/N was a bit confused that Thompson had scheduled their return flight for about 48h after the ceremony concluded, which left one day with hardly anything to do – it wasn’t like they could hunt down leads on the New York Families in London, albeit the crime levels were high in this city, too.

“And you’re sure you don’t want me to call the airline to check if they have an earlier flight?”, she asked the next morning whilst brushing out her hair, “I’m sure Stark could get us on a different one.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure I don’t want Stark’s help”, he scoffed, “he’s the last person I want to be indebted to, and I’m sure McKinley and the rest can handle another 12 hours without my in-person supervision. They know how to reach me, I left them the hotel’s address.”

Y/N shrugged, accepting his decision.

She liked London, despite it feeling incredibly self-indulgent to her spending time here, knowing that they had an open, incredibly important case on their desks back in New York. But she also didn’t want to fight with Thompson over workload, considering he hardly had a life outside of work. His overtime alone would probably be sufficient for a month of holiday, so she kept her mouth shut.

“Thinking about Mr. Hayes and the rest of the goons in suits?”, Y/N guessed during breakfast, noticing Jack’s tense stare into his coffee cup.

He blinked, as if he had barely heard her, but then replied: “Yeah.”

“We’ll figure it out”, she said positively, “I’m sure of that. I’m less sure of how that will affect our company’s reputation, though, considering some of them are basically our employers.”

Thankful that she had went with his half-hearted response, Jack had now paid attention to her and decided to go with it. “That’s true, but I doubt they’d have the leverage to get to us. Unlike other agencies, we actually found our moles. And we brought down Underwood, that should count for something.”

“I hope you’re right”, she agreed with a small smile.

Jack grabbed for his coat and hat, having made peace with his life in that moment. He’d just have to get it over with, because he was in no shape to continue this mental game with himself for longer. And the big downside of dating a spy, so he realised, is that it was incredibly difficult to keep secrets – well – secret. “C’mon”, he said with a grin, “You’ve got to show me the city. All I know so far is a church and a pub.”

“Then you’ve got the top experiences down already”, Y/N replied sarcastically, getting her own coat and hat before leaving the establishment. They were lucky – today, it wasn’t raining, and for it being mid-November, it wasn’t even that cold. They spent the morning around Covent Garden and Strand, before, after lunch, they were approaching Marble Arch.

“That over there, that’s Hyde Park”, Y/N said, pointing at the large park behind the monument.

“The Park you went to?”, he asked, though, in all fairness, he had memorised the name. after all, it wasn’t a long one, and he was cultured enough to know Jekyll and Hyde, so he could easily remember the name.

“Exactly. Practically learnt German under these trees.”

For a while, they walked quietly through the park, headed towards the pond that was built within the park.

“Can’t say life has exactly gone as I would’ve imagined it in High School”, Jack eventually scoffed, “Neither being shipped off to war and fighting an unknown dark matter, nor having to travel to a different continent for a wedding, nor having to hunt down some shady mafia connection of some American millionaires.”

“That last part is arguably the least surprising”, Y/N replied with a grin. “And yeah, neither did I. But here we are”, she sighed slowly, “and with all the drawbacks and the dangers, and all the nightmares… I don’t think I’d change a thing if I could. I don’t want anyone else to do it in my stead, and to be honest, I don’t think I could do anything better than I can do this. Whatever that says about me.”

“Probably that, by all your talk about me being reckless, you’re probably not the most risk-averse person, either.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow: “But at least I try everything I can to minimise it. You, on the other hand, have a tendency to barge into a room of people with the intention of killing you without a bulletproof vest.”

“Now you’re grossly overstating it”, he smirked.

“Nah, I find it a pretty accurate representation.”

She heard him huff in response. “You wouldn’t change a thing?”

She thought about the question for a while, watching the pond in front of them. Sure, there were many things that she messed up on the way, that would have been nice if they didn’t happen. That would have saved her from pain, or that would have saved someone’s life. But she was too realistic to know that even if she hadn’t made a single of the mistake that she did, other mistakes would have happened, and some people still would have been hurt. Possibly, the outcome would have been even worse.

She shook her head: “…No, actually. I think I have made peace with most of my mistakes. And every decision, good or bad, every time I managed to save a life, every time I failed to do it, every time I took a life, it all led me to this place. And I’m content with that.” If she hadn’t made these choices, if she hadn’t entered the SSR – if she hadn’t gone to L.A., then he would be dead. So even if it was irrational, but every mistake was worth it if it got her here. They had given her the chance to save him.

Lost in her thoughts, in memories both painful and joyful, she had completely ignored Jack next to her. Granted, she had seen him move from her peripheral vision, the pattern closely mirrored someone bending down to tie one’s shoelaces, so it didn’t get her to turn her head.

“Well, I would change something.”

“Huh?”, Y/N was brought back to reality, turning her head around – and freezing mid-way. All she could see was Jack on one knee in front of her, grabbing a box from the inside pocket of his coat whilst clearing his throat. She could see his hands shake – funny, why she noticed these miniscule details, even though she herself was in complete shock, she couldn’t say. Perhaps it was that it had become second nature to her by this point.

“I thought of what to tell you, and nothing came to mind. You’ve been with me every step of the way, even on the beaches of Iwo Jima. You know me better than anyone, and to be completely honest, that is actually terrifying”, he cracked a nervous grin, “(Your Full Name), will you marry me?”

Pedestrians had stopped in their tracks to watch the scene. Yes, that was the downside of a proposal in public, but good for them – no one knew them, so at least they’d never run into these people again.

Y/N worked quickly to overcome the initial shock, knowing that she had to say something. She felt a burning sensation in her throat, but she didn’t feel the need to cry.

“Yes”, she croaked – at least, she thought she did, though it wasn’t as bad as she had imagined it – whilst feeling an urge to laugh, “Yes, of course!”

The little gathering of pedestrians that had waited for her response started clapping, which both Jack and Y/N found quite embarrassing, but also somewhat charming as Jack forced his hand to remain still to put his mother’s engagement ring on Y/N’s finger.

Standing up, he kissed her, albeit fleetingly, as he really didn’t want to give the British public a first-row seat into their intimate relationship, but despite the circumstances, he felt like the weight of the world had just fallen off his shoulders.

Y/N had reached for his hand, sliding up to his wrists, and laughed before she whispered: “Why were you that nervous? Did you think I’d throw the ring into the pond?”

“Trust me, I’ve been through every possible reaction in my head at least ten times, and that would not have made the top ten of the worst outcomes”, he replied with a grin.

The crowd started to disperse, until only one elderly man remained behind who walked up to them, sternly looking at Jack before saying: “Good sir, you do understand this was a decision for a lifetime?”

“Yes, sir. I do intend to make it last just as long, too.”

The old man started to smile, before tipping his hat and walking away.

Jack turned around, looking in awe at Y/N – in awe for many reasons. He didn’t quite understand how he got so lucky in life. Sure, he did a job that should count for something, tried to fight the good fight, but he was far from perfect. In some sense, he was above and below average at the same time – his brilliant moments were far above what normal soldiers or agents usually did, but his worst moments were far worse than just little hiccups. They got people killed, or even worse, he killed people that didn’t deserve it. He was moody, and had a short temper, was quick to judge, and stubborn beyond belief. He was quite certain that Y/N could have easily gotten a better deal in marriage, not just in terms of personality, but also in terms of prestige and stability. He hardly exuded luxury.

Nonetheless, he was also just in awe from her reaction.

“I think that is the first and only time I will ever witness you at a loss of words”, he remarked with a grin before leaning in to kiss her again – now, without an audience, it could be just a bit more than a fleeting kiss. But, regrettably, they were still in public and open display of affection was, in Britain as in the US, scorned upon.

“I expected a lot, Mr. Thompson, but I must admit, to my shame as a spy, I didn’t expect this!”

“I have to say, it was also something in between having it planned for a while and a split-second decision to actually do it, because if I had planned it more in depth, I was fairly certain you’d figure it out”, he replied sheepishly, causing her to laugh.

“When did you even find the time to buy the ring?”, she inquired whilst looking at it.

“Didn’t have to, pop gave me the one ma once wore.”

Y/N stared at him wide-eyed – first, she was touched by the sentimental value of the ring, but she also wanted to know when that happened: “What?? But… when? You only saw him that once during dinner!”

“Yeah, and apparently ma should have been a spy, too”, he shrugged, “Cause she wasn’t at all convinced by that co-worker story. So she gave him this to give to me when you two left the room.”

“I can’t believe it”, Y/N laughed, “she didn’t even truly know we were more than friends!”

“She’ll probably be over the moon”, Jack guessed, knowing how often his mother had historically asked him about girlfriends and family plans.

“And they’ll never know that you ended up proposing to the one ‘fishing a bullet out of your sternum’, which is truly unfortunate”, she lamented jokingly.

“Maybe if you’d held on to the bullet, we could’ve made our wedding rings out of it.”

“Thompson!!”, Y/N elbowed him, not mentioning that she, in fact, did hold on to it, “That would have been macabre and probably bad luck! I don’t want a thousand diamonds, but I don’t want to have a constant reminder of death around my finger, either.”

He chuckled, finding her outburst rather amusing. “I’m sure we’ll find something less traumatic.”

……..

The two of them walked into Peggy and Daniel in the hotel lobby, who were just as confused as Y/N had initially been that they were still here, rather than having left right after the wedding.

“L/N, Thompson, what are you still doing here?”, Sousa asked, brows raised, “I would’ve bet you left England as soon as possible.”

“Why, do we seem so partial on New York?”, Y/N asked back, “Of course, no city can truly compete, but still.”

“Oh my God.”

Y/N had been too focused on Sousa to notice Peggy investigating her from head to toe – though her investigation abruptly halted when she had reached Y/N’s hands.

Sousa followed his wife’s stare, only for Thompson to take Y/N’s hand to practically hold it up to their eyeline.

“There you go, Danny-boy.”

“You two”, Y/N said with a laugh, “Are absolute idiots.”

“Agreed”, Peggy chimed in, and all four of them laughed, knowing that both of them weren’t too serious.

“But hey, at least you’ll get to visit the wonderful city of New York at some point in the future”, Jack remarked, picking up on Y/N’s earlier comment.

“Oh, yes, I already started to miss the unparalleled friendliness of New York”, Sousa retorted.

“That’s why we work there and it’s Jack’s office”, Y/N said with a dry grin, “that’s exactly our kind of crowd.”

A/N: First of all, I hope you enjoyed this rather different type of chapter!! Also, yes, all the details about the location in London is the product of first hand experience, as I walk past this church every single day! We’ve reached about the half-way point of book two, I think! So still approx. 10 more chapters to look forward to. I’m so excited for you to read the next - let’s just put it that way. England’s not the only foreign location this story will take Y/N and Jack! As always, every comment, heart and reblog is extremely appreciated!

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[when-we-drive-away-in-secret]

So The Unauthorised Autobiography is absolutely ruining me and my notes on the one are going to be extensive, but here's a little snippet of a theory (that I hope no one has pointed out before)

"Is this letter authentic?"

A very good question, Lemony. Because I was looking at this Very Fancy [insert word for 'writing' that begins with D] and thought, you know, if I look at it for long enough, it doesn't really look all that much like an 'R' anymore. And then I thought, wouldn't it be funny if this initial hid the secret of who actually wrote it (if it is, indeed, a fake)?

So obviously I had to look for one. And maybe I was just staring at it for too long, but I began seeing other letters, hidden within this one. Letters that led me to a specific fire-starter, known to create very convincing forgeries who also has a habit of hiding his real name within his false identities

((Yes, the F is a little bit of a stretch, but no more so than a lot of the vfd logo designs so I'm rolling with it))

Anyway, I liked this fun little coincidence(?) And I thought I'd share

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

The aftermath of Merlin snapping, and yelling at Arthur in the middle of the forest;

Arthur pushes for change, the gang takes bets on when Merthur will happen, and someone, somewhere, is grumpy.

Part 2 of Merlin’s Angry Outburst. 

Part 1   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5

Once Arthur has a first draft of the repeal, the first people he brings in on it (with Merlin’s approval, of course) are the 5 knights, Gwen, Gaius, and Morgana.

(Morgana, who later that evening comes back to Arthur's chamber in tears (Merlin is also there) to reveal her magic, and thank him for not being Uther.) 

All of them enthusiastically agree, after only a little conversation.

Elyan and Leon are the most... dubious, but only because of the practical factor, they don't disagree with the actual repeal.

After months of the gang working in secret, they reveal their best draft to the council. At least half the council are new members that Arthur appointed, the rest are left over from Uther’s time.

They argue back and forth for a while, half vs half. A few of the older members, who were around before the purge, slowly start changing their minds.

In the end, it takes them maybe a month to get a majority, and Arthur overrules the remaining opposition. He is King after all, technically, he doesn’t even have to have a council.

Days after the agreement is reached, Arthur goes out personally to collect a few specific Druids, who had been waiting just outside the border for the go ahead.

It takes maybe another month to go through all the laws thoroughly, changing and editing and altering what needs to be altered. With the help of Arthur's close advisors on the political aspects, and the help of the Druids, Merlin, and Gaius, on the magical aspects (what should be allowed freely, what should be monitored, and what should remain fully banned).

The city celebrates when the announcement is made, they all loved the new King anyway, and had been overjoyed with the drop in executions, and deliberate ignoring of small instances of magic.

After a feast to celebrate the new found freedom among the people, the gang gathers once more, in private, and Merlin tells a shortened version of the story he'd told Arthur all those months ago.

None of them are that surprised (Gaius, Morgana, and Lancelot already knew, of course).

If they hadn't suspected Merlin of being a sorcerer before this whole thing started (Leon, Gwaine, and Gwen definitely suspected) , then they had certainly begun to in the last few months. They cheer when Merlin finishes telling them "just how often I've saved your oblivious arses" .

They cheer even louder when Arthur announces that he would be made court sorcerer, and it would be made official in a ceremony before the week ended.

There are no cheers when Morgana stands.

Curious eyes land on her, probably due to how terrified she looks, but the small encouraging nods and little smiles she gets from her brother (her Brother), Merlin, and Gwen, give her the strength she needs to tell everyone of her magic as well.

They see she is frightened, they imagine how difficult it must have been, being at first Uther’s ward, and then his daughter. They smile gently, and she receives hugs a plenty. Once all the congratulations are out of the way, she sits back down next to Gwen, still shaky and full of adrenaline, but happy.

She spends the remainder of the group’s quiet celebrations with her hand gripped in Gwen's under the table.

(Read this how you want, I personally envision it as the start of something)

So the days draw on, Merlin is announced Court Sorcerer, Arthur hires another manservant and gives Merlin a large set of chambers in the same hallways as Arthur's, complete with all the books on magic Arthur can find, and several of the magical artefacts that had previously been kept locked away (Merlin and Arthur are the only ones who are able to gain access to the room, something magicky I guess).

(No one mentions that that corridor is supposed to be for royalty only. Leon figures they're bound to realise that they're in love with each other any day now, and then Merlin will practically be royalty anyway so... might as well cut out the middle bit of having to shuffle chambers again later on).

The kingdom is prospering, and for months after the initial announcement, and implementations of the new laws, sorcerers and nobles from all over Albion, visit Camelot, to give congratulations to the King.

They give gifts and provide knowledge.

The Druids, however, are a slightly different story.

The ones who had been helping with the paperwork, had been... odd(?) around Merlin. But they respected his wish to keep all of that under wraps, or at least until it was announced publicly.

Arthur and Gaius know the whole Emrys story. Lancelot and Morgana know bits of it... but other than that... as far as anyone is concerned, the newly promoted Court Sorcerer is just another wizard.

The new Druids entering the kingdom are paying brief respects to the Forever King (I mean... at this point, he's still only King of Camelot... which is what he was before the magic ban repeal), before staring in reverence at the Court Sorcerer stood by his side.

They respect his wishes to keep the worshipping and gift giving to a minimum, though they still come to him for requests of miracles and ask him to perform druid ceremonies (blessings and name-givings and weddings and funerals (though they prefer to call them celebrations of life, rather than commiserations of death) and such).

Merlin can only brush off so many displays of such awe before the rest of The Gang demands to know what’s up, at which point he has to come clean about the whole... “Most Powerful Warlock To Ever Walk The Earth” thing.

Much to Merlin’s chagrin (and everyone else's amusement) the Druids still insist on calling him Emrys. The stubborn ones sometimes even go for "My Lord Emrys", which gets them a scowl from Merlin (and barely concealed laughter from everyone else).

Maybe... later on... when Morgana is more comfortable with her magic, after a few months practicing with Merlin (with a supportive Gwen Always at her side) , she is announced as the Court Seer.

Merlin had never had much luck with prophetic visions, but once Morgana’s fear died down, once she learned to let it flow, and breathe through it, the visions come easier, and kinder.

She stops seeing only visions of doom, and worst case scenarios, instead she has dreams of the many paths the future may take.

She does not panic when a path seems grim and dark, for she has a King and a Warlock and Gwen, by her side. Always. And they work through the future together.

So the ban has been repealed officially for around 6 months.

Arthur is a couple months away from completing his second year as King. And he and Merlin are still beating around the bush.

The betting pool for when they’ll finally get together has been growing bigger and bigger. Practically the whole castle is in on it now, with Gwen and Morgana as the ring leaders. Whoever wins... will be very lucky.

(It's Leon in the end, he pays attention, and he know what his boys are like. But he's a noble and has no need for the money, he pays for a few rounds of drinks and donates the rest to one of children's homes in the lower town).

But the war comes first.

~

Camelot has been prospering, and has many supporters throughout Albion, but one of the kingdoms, it doesn't matter which, you decide, does NOT like this.

Scouts and small patrols have been needling Camelot’s borders for months now, and Arthur and his Council (and Inner Council) have been making quiet preparations. They know that some sort of... something, is coming soon.

Especially when Morgana begins to dream of battles and blood and lightening.

They prepare for, and expect, a full scale war, but they hope for some negotiations and a peace treaty with the opposition.

Their hopes are dashed, when a messenger is escorted into the throne room, wearing The Opposition’s colours, with a letter.

Said letter is an angry rebuttal of everything Camelot stands for, full of accusations of abandoning tradition, and spitting in the face of great leaders, of which this soft boy-king should NOT be counted as. 

At the end, there was an official declaration of war.

The messenger boy was obviously scared to death, and once Arthur read the P.S, which invited Arthur to torture and/or execute him to the whatever extent he wants, he understood why. Without any hesitation, he offers the boy a job in the stables, a new wardrobe of clothes, and a servant’s bed in the castle.

After the official council meeting on the matter, setting up war committees, laying out contingency plans, organising the distribution of emergency evacuation plans, and discussing potential aid that could be requested from allies, Arthur pulls the gang together, for their own meeting.

“We knew this was coming, and there is no need to panic yet. Our outer borders are well patrolled, and we’re still getting up to date reports. The city walls hold strong, but I want to send out patrols to warn the villages of what’s coming. Start closer to the border, and work our way in. Leon?”

“My Lord, I have teams prepared for exactly that already, I just need to give the word and they’ll go.”

“Good. Morgana, I need you to try and keep focusing your visions, if we have even a small idea of how they might try to initiate the first battle, it’ll be a huge advantage.”

“Me and Merlin have been practising some new techniques to control where and when I can see, we’ll write everything down, and ask the Druids if they’ve seen anything as well.”

Arthur holds in a smile at the confidence in her voice. He is unendingly proud of how far his sister had come, and made a mental note to tell her that when all this was over.

“Brilliant, keep me in the loop. Gwen, when we’re done here, go and let the forgery know, the Royal Household will pay them extra to push out as much long range ammunition as they can. Arrows and crossbow bolts, we need as many as they can produce.” Gwen nods, and Arthur finally looks towards Merlin:

“And Merlin, I need you to be ready. Don’t wear yourself out too much in the next few weeks, I need you in good condition, if we’re to win this with minimal casualties-”

He glances over at Morgana before he continues:

“If the two of you could also ask the Druids if they have any volunteer healers. Make sure they know they aren’t obligated to come, but any help in the infirmaries would be greatly appreciated.” Morgana nods once more, as does Merlin, before he speaks:

“There’s a camp a couple hours ride outside the city at the moment, we’ll head out at first light-” He pauses and closes his eyes for a second, tilting his head, before looking to Morgana:

“They’re expecting us.”

Arthur addresses the room again:

“Right. I think that’s all for now, anyone have anything to add?”

Gaius responds after a moment:

“My Lord, if I could make a request for a few servants to help me set up supplies for the infirmary? Extensive preparations will need to be made to ensure that I have all I’ll need. Preferably people with rough herbal knowledge, if at all possible.”

Arthur nods straight away, responding:

“Yes, of course, I’ll ask the Housekeeper and the Steward who they can spare this evening, and they’ll be ready for you in the morning. Anything else?” At the silence in the room, Arthur tells everyone to get to work.

Leon marches straight down to the training grounds (Lancelot, Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan following him) to ring the summoning bell and inform the knights of the developments, and their tasks.

Gwen heads straight to the forgery (her and Elyan still oversee work there, but they have employees (and a few trainees) to run it) to give the Kings order.

Gaius shuffles out, and makes his way back to his quarters, already making mental lists of ingredients needed, and work to be done.

Arthur, Morgana, and Merlin are left, the royal siblings thinking to themselves, and Merlin thinking to someone else. Arthur contemplates that the whole mental link thing he had going on with the Druids was extremely useful.

Both his and Morgana’s thoughts were interrupted by Merlin huffing, and clenching his fists as he opens his eyes, obviously unhappy with whatever was said:

“Merlin?” From Morgana has the Court Sorcerer looking up from scowling at the table. He replies after wiping the frown off his face:

“Oh, it’s fine. They just made a... stupid suggestion is all. Don’t worry about it.”

“Stupid? Doesn’t sound like the Druids. What was it?”

Merlin looks mildly uncomfortable at that, and replies slowly:

“It... doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you another time. It’s late, you should practice some meditation and head to sleep, no potions tonight. And remember to keep some parchment and a quill by your bed, so you can scribble down anything you see-”

Merlin stands abruptly and heads towards the door:

“-I’m going to check the wards on the outer wall, and push a little more energy into the wells. I’ll see you both bright an early.” With that, Merlin heads out the room swiftly.

Arthur looks to his sister questioningly, but she shrugs as she responds:

“Who knows. “I’ll tell you later” means he doesn’t want you to know, OR he’s hoping I’ll forget because he doesn’t want either of us to know. He’s right though, I should meditate for a while-”

Morgana stands at this:

“- hopefully I’ll see you before we head off, if not, I suppose it’ll be dinner in the evening. Good night, brother.” Morgana leaves the room gracefully, heading in the direction of her chambers.

Arthur thinks for only a moment, before rushing off, catching up with Merlin as he readied his horse, preparing for the journey to the outer walls:

“I’ll come with you. I find I quite enjoy watching you do magic, and to be perfectly honest, I could do with some fresh air to help me think.”

Arthur pretends to ignore the slight blush that dusts Merlin’s cheeks, and readies his own horse. The two of them ride out of the stables and make the journey down the cobbled roads in comfortable silence, side by side.

They take their time on the journey, and the 15 minutes of companionable silence is finally broken by Arthur, who looks at Merlin curiously, as he says:

“So what did they suggest?”

Merlin looks up sharply at that, broken from his deep train of thought as he dumbly replies “What?”

“The Druids. What was the stupid suggestion?” Merlin’s eyes widen at that, and he blushes once more as he looks determinedly forward:

“Oh. That. I told you, it doesn’t-”

“Merlin...”

“Oh fine! They suggested that I... that I forge a mental link with you. Like the one I have with them.” The sorcerer purses his lips at that, and continues to avoid Arthur’s gaze:

“You can do that? Well... would it be such a bad idea? I mean we aren’t going to be able to meet and discuss things as often as I’d like through this whole ordeal. AND you’re basically the Kingdom’s powerhouse, I’m sort of relying on your magical know-how here. Surely it wouldn’t be a bad thing? For us to be able to converse across the battle fields?” 

Arthur, in an effort to not be hurt, reminds himself that he doesn’t know all that much about magic, and it very well could be a stupid suggestion, instead of one that Merlin is just personally opposed to.

Merlin, in response, looks to Arthur in great shock, before sighing and looking down to his horses mane:

“It.... is possible. And fairly easy, technically. But it would be painful, AND permanent. I wouldn’t be able to undo it after we won. And a temporary connection takes far too much energy to maintain, even for a short time. I just figured you wouldn’t want me in your head for the rest of our lives.” He tries to inject a little humour into his words, but it falls flat, and he just seems sad.

Arthur pretends he doesn’t notice however, and responds quickly:

“How painful are we talking? I mean I’ve been hurt pretty badly before. And... how exactly does it work? Would we be able to read each other’s mind constantly, without the other knowing? Or what?”

Merlin raises his eyebrows in shock at that, and his answer comes out slowly as he looks at Arthur:

“Like... a really bad headache? Imagine the hardest you’ve ever been hit, without passing out. It would last for a few minutes after the connection is initially forged, but would fade slowly over the next day or so. And no. Once the connection is established we wouldn’t be in each other’s head all the time, we would just be able to sort of... project our voices to one another. Other thoughts would be safe, even if you were thinking about me, I wouldn’t hear it unless you were thinking to me... if that makes sense.” 

By the end of his explanation, he’s looking nervously at the King, who is deep in thought:

“Hmm. Ok. I... only if you agree but... it might not be a bad idea. Even after the war is over. There have definitely been times where I’ve needed your opinion on something but you’ve been elsewhere, or we’ve been in the presence of someone else. Of course we’ve been fine so far, if you don’t want to, but-”

Merlin interrupts him, speaking quickly:

“I’m fine with it. I agree, it would be useful. So... I can bring what we need back from the camp tomorrow?”

Arthur nods firmly:

“Yes. The sooner the better, we can do it tomorrow evening, if that’s enough time for you?” Merlin once again looks shocked at this, as Arthur stares at him:

“Oh! Yeah, Yes. That’s fine. Like I said, it’s not particularly difficult, and I can ask Gaius to prepare us something for the pain during the day. Are you... are you sure? It is Permanent.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and huffs:

“Yes, you said that already Merlin. Are you sure?”

Merlin nodded his head decidedly, and spoke confidently:

“Yes. You’re right, it’s not a bad idea. Come on, if we hurry, we’ll make it to the walls, and then to the main well, and then back to the castle, before dark.”

The pair of them hurry their horses, and after another 10 minutes of comfortable silence, they finally reach the City Gates.

The guards give a quick bow, and The King and The Court Sorcerer jump off their horses before handing the reigns to one of the Gate stablehands.

Arthur (and the guards) watch in barely concealed wonder as Merlin presses his hands against the rock of the wall, and closes his eyes.

The golden glow can still be seen from below his eyelids, and he hums slightly as he frowns in concentration, seeming to push into the wall.

Arthur sees a short of... sheen, ripple across the rock, and extend into the sky. Merlin steps back and nods, admiring his handy work:

“They’re holding strong, I’ve extended the height as well. Kilgharrah and Aithusa should be the only ones able to get over it without alerting me now, from the air at least-”

Merlin heads to retake his horse, Arthur following him, before he continues:

“Though I still want to check the tunnels again at some point in the next few days.”

“Of course. Relax Merlin, it’s barely begun, and the borders still hold strong. We’ve plenty of time before things kick off in any way.” He makes sure to speak quietly. A public announcement hasn’t been made yet, and it would be bad if rumours started spreading before The King had time to put together a proper disclosure.

Merlin nods distractedly, and urges his horse to go faster as he heads towards the main well, in the town square. It’s late, not long until sunset, so there shouldn’t be many, if any, people there. Arthur speaks again:

“Why are we visiting the well? I wasn’t aware of any problems?”

“There aren’t any, but once the announcement is made, and once the outer villages are told what’s happening, we’ll have hundreds, probably thousands, of people flock to the city for safety. I just want to make sure we’re prepared for such an influx, and boost our water levels a little.”

Arthur nods at his response, but doesn’t say anything. He chooses instead to admire the man Merlin had become. He held himself differently, more strong, confident in who he was. Just like he had back when he was still a manservant, he served Arthur, and his people, above and beyond his job description. Merlin took upon himself, not only the politics he was supposed to oversee, but the personal safety of both the King, and every Camelot citizen, and he did it all with an alarming amount of grace.

Arthur sometimes catches himself thinking that it was almost as if Merlin was built to be a king. He may not like the spotlight, but he was a protector, and leader, unlike anything Arthur had ever seen before.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you, Merlin. It feels like years ago now, that you yelled at me in a forest.” He says it with a grin, but Merlin flinches. He continues before The Sorcerer interrupts him though:

“Really Merlin. Thank you. You were right, I would’ve got there in the end, but it wasn’t fair for people to suffer in the mean time, and you took the fall in their place. You’re a hero to your people... and to me. You should be proud of your accomplishments, I know I am.” 

Arthur resists the urge to duck his head as Merlin looks at him in bewilderment, a definite flush on his cheeks as he replies:

“I... thank you, Arthur. I always had faith in you-” Merlin begins to grin before he continues:

“-and besides, someone had to knock you down a peg. Perhaps you should hire someone to take you into the forest and yell at you every once in a while.”

Arthur laughs at that, and Merlin tries to push down the blush as Arthur responds:

“Now Merlin, why on earth would I hire someone for such a job, when I already have you?”

Merlin chuckles as he answers:

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, My Lord. Hold the horses, I’ll just be a minute.” With that, Arthur realises they’ve made it to the well, and dismounts as Merlin has, holding both of the horses reigns as he watches Merlin approach the well.

The Sorcerer crouches down, and once again closes his eyes in concentration as he presses his hands into the stone of the well. The glow is a little less bright this time, but Arthur admires it nonetheless.

Merlin finishes quickly, and gathers his horse from Arthur once more, nodding towards the castle.

Arthur follows as Merlin hurries towards the looming building. He wasn’t sure why he was in such a rush, but he only begins questions it when Merlin hurriedly hands the horses of to a stablehand, and continues to run up the castle steps.

Arthur can only just keep up with Merlin, not having the breath to ask him what’s wrong, before Merlin suddenly comes to a stop, catching his breath for a moment to go through a door leading to the highest balcony on the West of the castle:

“Merlin... what.... what are you-”

Merlin wordlessly interrupts The King as he points to the skyline, the sun only a few minutes away from touching the horizon.

There’s not a cloud in sight, and the sky is painted in oranges and pinks in front of them, bleeding into deep purples and blues behind the castle.

Merlin finally mutters, not looking away from the sunset:

“Call me a girl all you want Arthur, but nothing compares to this. It’s beautiful, I come to watch it whenever I’ve got the time.”

Arthur had only glanced briefly at the sunset before looking back at Merlin in wonder, a fond smile on his face (not that Merlin would notice).

He stares at the side of Merlin’s face, the orange sky making the gold in his eyes look even brighter, and the glare of the fading sun making his hair shine. A gentle breeze has Merlin shiver slightly, and Arthur’s smile widens as he responds, so quietly he’s not even sure if Merlin hears him:

“Hmm. Beautiful.” He doesn’t look away.

~

THIS IS COMPLETED! All 5 parts have been posted:)

If y’all want my thoughts on anything specific let me know✌️

[winterscaptain]

constellations.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader

a/n: as usual, an ajf fic that requires very little context. i’m so sorry this took so long!! i was busy thinking about how to quit my job this week and then KIRA CAME TO VISIT ME (we’re being safe and covid-conscious!) so this took a couple of days longer than expected. also - i see your beautiful messages! i will keep chipping away at them :)

you can expect the route 66 fic on tuesday at 11pm pdt!

words: 4.4k warnings: canon-typical discussions of violence, some mention of canon-typical sexual assault, language

summary: as hotch recovers from the explosion in new york, you find yourself more concerned than you expected. (au!2008)

masterlist | a joyful future master list | requests closed!

“The Angel Maker. I remember the case.” 

It’s a fairly normal start to the week, with a case packed and ready for you at 10am. Aaron was out of the field for a week or so with his injuries, but his presence at the round table and the go bag you spotted beside his desk this morning warms you. 

He’s back. Not completely, but that’s better than not at all. 

“They caught that guy.” Reid’s flipping through the case file, but you know he’s got one ear open. 

Rossi’s on the same page, and finishes Reid’s thought. “And executed him.” 

“That’s right,” JJ says. “He was put to death by lethal injection a year ago yesterday.” 

You release a little breath you were holding. “Yesterday?”

That’s a clear enough trigger for a fanatic. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen something like this, either with your tenure at the BAU or in previous case studies at the academy. It was always a little shocking - the lengths people go to complete the work of the devil they romanticize...

Derek throws a finger at you as if to say Exactly. “So we’re looking for a copycat.” 

“Honoring the anniversary of his hero’s death.” Dave sits back in his chair, almost satisfied. You smile a little. 

The confidence of a seasoned profiler. 

Aaron catches your smile, and his lips pull just the barest amount. You shake your head, suppressing a wider grin. 

Funny, isn’t it?

His brows tug. What?

It’s so...normal. And so predictable. You sit back, peering at Aaron over your copy of the file. He huffs (you recognize it as a laugh, though the rest of his face remains exactly the same) and turns his attention toward Reid, who’s still flipping through the file. 

“It says here they found semen at the crime scene. Perhaps locals will get a DNA match through VICAP?” When you follow Aaron’s gaze to Spencer, you’re not surprised to see him already absorbed in the latter half of the report. 

“See, that’s where things get weird.” Her face screws up. “They already ran it, and got a match.” She throws the file toward you, and you open it. 

“If they already have a name, why’d they call us?” Emily’s confusion is swallowed up in your own. 

“You’ve got to be kidding.” You look over at Hotch, who takes the file from your hands. “The match they got back on the DNA is to Courtland Bryce Ryan -” 

Hotch lets out a sharp huff. “The Angel Maker.” You meet his gaze again. 

This is going to be a weird one. 

“Wheels up in thirty.” 

+++

You lean against the back of Hotch’s chair, peering over his shoulder as ideas bounce around the cabin. He’s focused on Reid along with the rest of you as the younger agent spins a theory. 

Derek’s the first one to question his particularly amusing line of thought. “Reid, you’re not seriously floating the idea of an evil twin, are you?”

“No. I’m floating the idea of an eviler twin.” Reid looks dead serious, and Hotch glances up at you. You shake your head a little, and he shrugs before restoring his attention. “Traditionally the concept is good twin and an evil twin. But in this case, it’s evil twin, eviler twin.” 

You swallow a laugh as both Derek and Emily look at him like he’s grown three extra heads all at once. 

Before any of you can say anything, Aaron’s hand rises to his forehead and his face scrunches up in pain. You place a hand on his shoulder from over the seat, patting him for his attention. “Hotch?” 

He hums something that sounds like, “Yeah?”

“Are you cleared to fly?”

He sucks in a breath to cover a wince, and you take that as a no. 

You sink your hands into his hair as he tips his head back against the seat with his eyes closed. The tips of your fingers find the little pressure points around his head, and you lean forward, keeping your voice soft. “Does that help?”

He nods, just a little, and you’re satisfied. You look at Derek over Hotch’s head, and he looks just as concerned as you feel. 

+++

“I give you a legacy. A breath of life from the Angel Maker himself. Those who prayed to forget me will one day see my face and shrink in fear.” Reid recites aloud from the letter, and you listen with your head propped on your hand. 

The sheriff sighs and crosses his arms. “That’s the last thing people need right now.” 

“Reid, how does that compare with the original correspondence?” Derek ignores the sheriff, redirecting his attention to the letter and the genius holding it. 

You jump on Derek’s line of thinking. “It can’t be authentic, can it?” You drop your hand from your chin and lean toward Spencer, feeling Aaron hover over your shoulder. 

“They share some compelling characteristics. I’d obviously like to look at it under a magnification under a better light…”

Obviously.

Hotch’s voice almost startles you, right by your ear. “Best guess, Reid?”

“I’d say it’s authentic.” Rather than looking at Hotch, he looks at you. Your furrowed brow speaks for everyone present. 

“How can it be authentic if the guy’s been dead for over a year?” Looking over at Hotch, you hope he has something better than paranormal speculation. 

He doesn’t disappoint. “It could be an elaborate forgery.” 

“Or,” Reid adds, “it could be a genuine article, just written before his death.” 

You hum. “That's my favorite of the theories so far.” 

The sheriff shakes his head, coming up on your other side. It’s almost comical the way you’re all crowded around the letter. “Mail here isn’t that slow.” 

Derek’s the only one who hasn’t joined you. He’s still happily posted up at the desk, leaning against it with his arms crossed. You glance at him before offering, “Could have been released through an intermediary.”

“You mean the copycat?” Reid asks. 

Nodding, you suggest, “He could be buried in those visitor logs - we’re checking them out now to see who visited Ryan and how often.” 

Derek finally joins you. “That’ll narrow the suspect pool.”

Hotch flinches again and his fingers press to his brow as the front door opens, allowing the rush of a truck to sound through the room. 

“Hotch?”

He waves you off. “I’m fine.” 

Liar. 

There’s nothing you can do. 

+++

You’re with Derek in one of the interrogation rooms, going through letter upon letter from Ryan’s time in prison. “What happens if Hotch actually loses his hearing?” You can’t help the overwhelming notes of concern coloring your voice. “I mean, what are we going to say to Strauss? ‘Excuse me ma’am, if our unit chief goes deaf because he won’t fucking slow down, can he still be our unit chief?’ I mean - “

You shut your mouth as Hotch walks into the room. Shame floods through you. It was more than unkind to talk about him behind his back as it was, and here you were - broadcasting your worst fears about his condition to one of your closest mutual friends. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean -” 

Aaron once again waves you off. “It’s alright.” He comes to rest beside you, and you reach for his arm in apology. 

“How are you feeling?”

He shakes his head, and Derek leaves the two of you alone, closing the door behind him. Hotch looks over his shoulder, satisfied that you’re on your own. 

“Dizzy. Nauseated. Tired.” It’s like a checklist - matter-of-fact and without bias. 

You take stock of him. The cuts on his face are healing nicely, and the bruise on his cheek is fading. The bags under his eyes, though, betray the lack of sleep. “What can I do?”

He shakes his head with something that isn’t a smile if you don’t know him. “Nothing. Just keep doing good work.” 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive earlier.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m just worried, is all.” Your voice tapers off at the end of your thought, just a little embarrassed. 

A little breath leaves his nose, and you know it’s sort of a laugh. “I know.” He presses a hand to your shoulder for a moment before diving into one of the boxes himself.

+++

Hotch walks quickly, and you keep up as best you can as he informs the sheriff, “I have to advise against this.” 

“All due respect, this isn’t your town. I have to convince them that Courtland Ryan is dead and buried.” 

Hotch glances back at you, and you shrug. 

Small towns. Serial killers. What are you gonna do?

The cemetery is relatively quiet, the sleepy town waiting for something to happen with bated breath. It’s not like anyone would be taking late-night walks anytime soon. 

His head tips, and you know he agrees. Nevertheless, he turns back toward the sheriff. “You’re indulging the killer by perpetuating the ruse he’s created.” 

Nice. Five dollar words for the two-bit sheriff. 

“He’s right. It may embolden him. Prompt more murders.” Emily says, watching the proceedings with a discerning eye. You can only agree. 

The sheriff shakes his head. “Celia lost her only daughter to that murdering bastard. We met when I was working the case and had gotten close. I thought we were past all this, but...I guess I was kidding myself.” 

The crane starts up, and there’s a sinking feeling that you’ve forgotten about something as the chains tighten and begin to lift the coffin. All at once, you remember and turn as Hotch steps away, his hand over his ear and the other pressed against his brow again. 

You hover beside him, not sure what to do. Pressing your hands to his forearms, you do your best to shield him from some of the sound with your body. 

He makes a weak attempt to wave you off, but his voice startles you. It’s so small as he insists, “I’m alright. I’m fine. Just -”

“Hotch -”

“I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay. Yeah.” 

You don’t believe him for a second, but as the noise decreases, so does his agony. He removes his hands from his ears for a moment. He’s blinking rapidly, looking simultaneously dazed and far too aware. 

“Aaron…”

He shakes his head. “Don’t. I’m fine. I’m okay.” 

Your lips press into a thin line and you remove your hands from his arms. “Take it easy. I can’t make your life hell if you can’t hear me, alright?”

Your teasing has the intended effect, and he levels you with his signature glare that’s only halfway playful. 

+++

“The victim is Maxine Chandler. The neighbors say she’s lived here her whole life. All twenty-eight years of it.” 

The house is infused with the presence of children - play structures, toys, the whole nine. Aaron voices your thoughts. “How many kids does she have?” 

“None of her own. She runs a daycare. The guy who called 911 came here to drop off his toddler and found Maxine in her bedroom.”

That’s an eventful morning. 

“Well,” you note, “now that we have more than one victim, we can compare victimology.” 

Hotch nods, and you meet his eyes for a moment. “Different data points should help us significantly narrow the profile.” 

“I’ll get JJ to bring us the files on the first victim.” Morgan says, his phone already in his hand. 

“What did you find?” 

The coroner runs you through his findings, and they’re not much different from the first murder, but there is one notable difference. 

“Nine puncture wounds,” Emily notes, her dark eyes roaming over the body. 

You’re close to Hotch, watching them bounce off each other. It’s always inspiring to watch them. As close as you and Aaron are, you were deeply impressed but his professional relationship with Emily. There’s part of you that chalks it up to your age - they are only two years apart. They form their own little age bracket on the team while you, JJ, and Spencer make up the younger strata. 

More often than not, the three of you were able to keep up with each other just like Emily and Aaron. 

“Can I have your pen?” Emily asks.

“Yeah.” Hotch pulls the pen from his inside pocket, handing it over into her eager hands. “What is it?” 

You wait as she doodles something into her notepad before her head whips up. “She did this.” 

“What do you mean?” You’re not following, and you can tell Hotch isn’t either. 

“The unsub. She made this before she made the puncture wounds.” 

Hotch tips his chin, understanding. “That’s why the coroner found paper in the wounds.” 

“It was a template. The Angel Maker did it from memory, but she needed a guide to get it right.” 

You pull your phone out, already dialing Reid as Hotch says. “We need to go back and re-examine each of the patterns. Where’s Reid?” 

“Spence. Hey. We have something for you.” You pass the phone and a little smile to Hotch, who takes both with a grateful look. 

Emily watches the exchange, feeling suddenly like an outsider - almost an intruder. There’s something between you two, always has been, but this moment is such a clean-cut outline of it. You’re constantly anticipating the needs of the other, ready with a warmth and fondness at a moment’s notice. 

She sees it again when he presses your phone back into your waiting hand. You take it and brush past him as he turns over his shoulder to follow you out the door. It almost looks choreographed. In fairness, you’d both done it what feels like thousands of times before. 

When you pause in the living room, both turning at the same time when Derek calls for Hotch, a shadow of a thought crosses her mind. It’s gone before it’s truly there, and she lets it go. 

+++

Reid’s finally cracked it, and you’re all crowded around him again as he explains what he’s found. He profiled the author, figured out the cypher used by the Aryan Brotherhood, and generally made use of his insane brain. The patterns themselves are constellations, woven into every aspect of their relationship. 

You find a smile breaking out over your face as you listen to Spencer spin. Hotch leans over and whispers, “He hasn’t let loose in a while, has he?” You’re standing on his left, of course, just in case. 

Shaking your head, you laugh a little. Emily’s looking at Spencer like he’s from another planet. She pokes him and voices the thought you’ve all had at least once. “He’s so lifelike.”

Her comment gets a laugh out of you and a smile out of Aaron. You’re warmed by it. 

+++

You clear and search Chloe Kelcher’s house, staying firmly attached to Aaron’s seven o’clock position, right off his left shoulder. 

“Alright. We all know what the endgame is. She’s looking for her final victim. She may have already chosen one.” Hotch looks around, suggesting assignments with the flicker of his eyes around the house. “Let’s tear this place apart, look for anything that might tell us who she’s targeted.”

You follow Hotch and Derek into the nursery, noting the stars on the ceiling. The crib captures your attention - the carefully placed onesie indicating the pain of a woman in denial. Your brow crumples, and Aaron steps up beside you, nudging a couple of stuffed animals out of the way as a cursory search. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just...thinking.” The trigger is as clear as a neon sign, and you’re sure much saner people would break down like this at the loss of a child. There’s a silent prompting as he stands beside you, waiting for you to elaborate. “I dunno. I can just see how someone close to reasonable would be in bad enough shape after something like this, not to mention someone as unstable as our unsub.” 

He sighs. “It must have devastated her to think that she could hold on to Ryan by having his child and then lose the baby.” 

Derek hums from across the room, joining the conversation. “Completing his murders became the only way she could hold onto him.”

Something strikes Aaron then - something intangible. He turns and opens the trunk in the corner of the room. Its contents pull your upper lip up in disgust.

With a dubious pair of eyebrows, Aaron notes, “Not the only way.” 

“Guess that answers that.” 

+++

You reach the final victim’s house, and you can only hope you’ve made it in time. Hotch immediately assumes authority, leading collaboration between the BAU and local law enforcement. He assigns Derek to find an opening into the house, while he directs the sheriff to bring all the cars to the front, no lights. 

He finds a megaphone for Emily, and you take your place at his left side, crouched to take the low firing point through the car’s open window. 

“Hit the lights,” he directs, and they do. 

All at once, it’s bright - nearly daylight. Emily starts talking, and you’re singularly focused on the front of the house. The windows, the door, and the curtains are all within your purview. You glance up at Hotch, who glances down at you. He unholsters his weapon, and you bump his hip with your elbow and return your attention to the front of the house

“Go into the pouch next to my extra magazines.” 

You can sense rather than see his frown. 

“Just trust me. Open it.” 

His left hand finds your belt while he continues to scan the area, unclipping the pouch without looking. You hear a huff of laughter as he finds what you left for him. 

“Put one in your right ear and don’t argue with me.” Your voice is still low, but you dropped into the tone you learned from him, only half-joking. 

He rolls his eyes and stuffs the foam earplug in his bad ear before unholstering his weapon. 

“Door,” you warn as the front screen opens.  

“Chloe. Drop the gun.” Aaron’s voice is heavy with authority, and the sheriff backs him up. 

The world slows down when she raises the gun toward you all, and the sheriff fires. Despite the earplug, Aaron immediately collapses, dropping his service weapon at your feet and covering his ears with his hands. You holster your weapon and turn toward him on sheer instinct. 

You retrieve the gun, checking the safety and slipping it into your waistband. When you return your attention to him, he’s almost folded completely into himself, pained groans leaving him. Rossi beat you to him, half-holding him up, but he shifts Aaron to you when you reach them both. 

“Aaron.” You wrap him in your arms and he takes some of his weight as his feet get back under him. He leans into you, and you do your best to support him. “Hotch, are you okay?”

He reaches out, finding your arm and gripping tight. You stay steady, almost in tears. It’s agonizing to see him in pain. 

“I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Liar.

+++

The next day, it’s decided he’ll drive one of the cars home, instead of taking the plane. 

You laugh as Derek throws the keys at Spencer. Hotch steps up beside you, throwing his go bag in one of the cars. Going out on a bit of a limb, you ask, “Want any company?” You keep your voice low, just in case anyone’s listening. 

First of all, you don’t want to out yourself in front of your colleagues - they all know how much you care about him and you don’t want them getting any ideas. Second of all, you know how Hotch gets when he’s alone too long. 

He raises his eyebrows for a second, but Dave interrupts his thought before he can share it with you. “Why don’t you two drive together? It’ll be a better trip with some company and you can’t stand the rest of us for more than three hours at a time.” 

Hotch snorts. “Fine.” He looks over at you and you shrug and throw your go bag in the backseat with his. 

“I’m good with that. What are you thinkin’? Straight through, or are we taking a the scenic route?”

Dave pipes in again. “I think a couple of days could do you both some good. It’s been a long few weeks.” 

You and Hotch look at each other. You look back at Dave. “Good idea. See you Tuesday?”

He nods and joins the rest of the team in the other car, slipping into the passenger seat. 

+++

The car is quiet for the first half hour or so. You’re driving - it’s the only way Aaron can hear you in the car, so you’ll probably nap or post up in the backseat when it’s his turn to take the wheel. 

You glance over at him before you hit the state line. “You’re thinking very loudly over there.” 

A smile pulls at his lips. The heel of his hand supports his cheekbone as his elbow rests on the window ledge. “Am I?”

“Mhmm.” 

He shrugs a little. “It’s weird not driving.” 

“Ah. So that’s why you’ve been silent for the last…” you check the clock on the dash, “thirty nine minutes.” You’re teasing him and he knows it, but it’s also loaded with questions. 

There’s silence, and you wait for him. It’s another thing you’ve learned about him in the last year. Sometimes he’s quiet, but he never avoids you for long. 

“I’m thinking about Kate.” 

There he is. 

You prompt him a little, intrinsically knowing he needs a direction. “Did she have family?”

He nods. “An older sister. She’s flying in from London for the service, but their parents are gone and she wasn’t married, so...that’s it.” 

Still looking at the road, you reach out, wrapping your fingers around his forearm. “I’m so sorry, Aaron.” 

His hand covers yours for a second. “Thanks.”

You pull back, adjusting your grip on the wheel. A question pushes at your lips, but you roll it around in your head before you really consider asking it aloud. 

“You can ask.” 

Your head whips toward him for just a moment. “What?”

“You can ask,” he repeats, the shadow of a smile crossing his face. “I know you want to.”

You concede with a little chuff. “Fine. What happened between you and Kate?” 

“In what sense?” He’s totally fucking with you, and you shove at his shoulder. 

“You know exactly what I mean.” 

He shakes his head. “Alright, fine. There was…” he searches, “a moment when she and I were finished working together on the Scotland Yard case that something...happened.” 

“Something?”

“Well,” he amends, “nothing actually happened, but let’s just say she had a couple too many and made her intentions very clear.” 

Can’t blame her for that one. 

Yeah, and that’s why we don’t get drunk with everyone else. Shit happens. 

You glanced at him, suppressing a smile. “So what happened?”

He shakes his head, and there’s a sort of dry humor in his voice when he answers,“Obviously, she was pretty out of it, so I took her back to her place and made sure she was settled for the night with a glass of water and some aspirin.” A smile cuts through his huff of laughter. You’re not surprised to hear mourning in it, too. “She was miserable in the morning, and called me to ask what happened the night before. I may have...very loosely implied that something small might have happened, just to save her the embarrassment.” 

He pauses, and you know he’s a little reluctant to be this vulnerable - you’re almost sure he never expected to tell this story to anyone, let alone you. 

“The attraction was mutual, so I didn’t feel too bad about omitting the consequences of her…” he searches for a word again, “forwardness. It was - is - something I respect about her both personally and professionally.” 

“Did you ever tell Haley?”

He shook his head. “I told her the truth - that she needed some help getting home, I set her up for the night, and came right back. She wasn’t thrilled, but she and Kate got on well enough that she didn’t mind too much. I think she was more annoyed that I got home so late even without a case, now that I’m thinking about it.” 

You laugh a little. “That sounds like her.” 

“She wasn't always like this, you know.” His voice takes on something a little more pensive, and you settle deeper into your seat to let him know you’re listening, even if your eyes hardly stray from the road. “We had a ridiculous amount of fun together when we were younger - first married, I was fresh out of law school, everything ahead of us, and all that.” He heaves a sigh. “It’s really only since Jack was born that things got...bad.”

He pauses, thinking for a moment. “I wish I could explain the work to her - I sometimes wish she could see it, even though I never actually want her to see the things we see every day.”

You keep your voice light, understanding. “I get that. It can’t be easy knowing that we’re your family, too, and even that’s difficult to explain.” 

There’s silence, and you know there’s a tacit agreement in it. 

His next comment comes a little from left field, but it makes you smile. “She likes you, by the way. She really does.” 

“Good.” You glance over at him. “I’m glad.” 

There’s something he wants to say, and you raise your eyebrows expectantly, knowing he can see it in your profile. 

“Would you want to come over sometime and spend some time with Jack? I -” he exhales, and tries again. “It’s sometimes...weird to have him all to myself.” He laughs a little. “I almost don’t know what to do with him all day when it’s just the two of us.” 

A real smile breaks across your face. “I’d love to.” 

He nods, satisfied with himself. “It’ll be nice for Haley to see you as well. I know she feels a little cut off these days.” 

“Understandable.” 

Another bout of silence fills the car. It’s comfortable. Safe. 

“Thank you,” he says, after a long while. 

You look over, letting your eyes wander down his profile for a moment. “Of course.” 

+++

You stay at a little motel off the highway, pulling over after about four hours on the road. It’s only a little ways back to Fairfax, where you’ll drop him off at home before returning the car to Quantico, but Rossi’s right - it’s nice to take some time. 

In two separate double beds across the room from each other, you wish each other good night in the dark. 

+++

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @wandaswitxh @hurricanejjareau @ange-must-die @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @shrimpyblog @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @good-heavens-chris-evans @davidrossi-ismydad @angelsbabey @gublergirls @writefasttalkevenfaster @venusbarnes @hotchsflower @micaiahmoonheart @ogmilkis @marvels-agents100 @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @joemazzello-imagines @pinkdiamond1016 @pan-pride-12 @lee-rin-ah @sunshine-em @word-scribbless @jdougl-love @sageellsworth05 @nohalohoseok @giveusbackourbucky @writerxinthedark @bauslut @yourlovelynewsbian @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @hotchnersgoddess @buckybau @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @dontkissthewriter @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @ahopelessromantic @violentvulgarvolatile @andreasworlsboring101 @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @bwbatta @roses-and-grasses @lcvischmitt @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @mandylove1000 @garcia-reid-lovechild  @cevanswhre @qvid-pro-qvo @jeor @spencers-hoodrat @infinity1321 @zizzlekwum @katiejuliana @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @this-broken-band-girl @sapphicstars 

[sarahjkl82-blog]

Artistic Instinct: Chapter 6

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 6200 (yup, the words ran away from me!)

Warnings: Language, mention of death.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something!This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

To an untrained eye, need and love are as easily mistaken for each other as the real master's painting and a forgery.

Deb Caletti

Chapter 6

A low lit room- more fitting of an old jail than an art lock up- surrounds you with cool air that tickles the tiny hairs on the back of your bare neck, as you bend over double, digging through the equipment in the abyss of your bag. A gap forms between the waist of your jeans and t-shirt, revealing the tiniest bit of the lace edging from your bra band- a tantalising fact that catches Marcus’ breath, alerting you to his presence, “Hey, you ok?” you ask straightening up, “Did you find something?”

“Yeah, uh sorry. Think I just had a bit of dust in my throat,” Marcus stammers, utterly thrown by that glimpse of your underwear, as he tries to clear his throat and remember the reason he was standing in front of you, “So, uh, yeah, um- we found a couple of signatures from Paul Guillaume and Albert C Barnes- weren’t they the guys we had to look out for?”

Looking over the papers with your cotton gloves still on, you pour over the shaping of the letters that made up the signatures of the possible previous owners, “I dunno. I’m not convinced- the positioning of the letters seem odd- like a crude rendition of someone’s signature. Almost like someone’s faking their mum’s signature to get out of PE class. Only the thing is, you know the movement of your mum’s hand as she signs something because you’ve watched her do it a million times before. Those signatures do not seem real to me, personally.”

Marcus’ eyebrows raise as he crosses his arms, desperately trying to hide the smile that was creeping across his face. “You faked your mom’s signature a lot?”

“Poacher turned gamekeeper,” Élodie remarks as she crosses between the two of you, straightening your t-shirt up where it has caught upon the back of your jeans.

Marcus tries not to let his disappointment show. Calm down, Pike, you’re hardly a horny seventeen year old. But that was how you made him feel and certainly the uncomfortable pressure building in his jeans might prove otherwise.

“I don’t think we will necessarily manage to get this solved today,” you begin, “The section that Élodie looked at dates it reasonably within the time period but those signatures are now tingling my spidey senses. It’s probably going to need to be sent for further investigations at a proper lab. I’m about to look at it using the stereomicroscope- do you want to have a look with me?”

Marcus nods eagerly, earning a grin from you, and you start setting up the pieces you need- ensuring that the video camera is linked to your iPad so Marcus can see everything you are looking at in real time along with you.

Marcus drifts closer to the painting. You haven’t seemed to notice his closeness yet, and he half hopes you don't, as from where he’s standing the aromatically pleasing scent of your shampoo wafts dreamily from the dark shimmer of your hair.

“So tell me more about this piece. I love listening to you speaking about art. You make it seem like I’m looking over the artist’s shoulder as they’re painting it.” Marcus remarks, smiling when he notices the flush creeping over your cheeks that his words bring.

Impressed by your decision to play into his words rather than focus on how awkward you feel at the compliment, he loves how you fan yourself and flutter your eyelashes at him, “Monsieur, you flatter me! Well, looking at this piece it’s not difficult to imagine that Soutine may have had a longstanding beef with food. Though he was fascinated by food and frequently painted these edible arrangements, this stands as one of his most memorable and dare I say, raw interpretations.”

At these terrible puns, Marcus pretends to drum, “Ba da boom tish!”

“Do not encourage her!” Jacques shouts from the other side of the room where he is labeling the bags for the slide samples that Élodie had been collecting, “Once you acknowledge one pun, she’ll ensure that everything she says has one. Queen Nush of the dad jokes!”

“So at the meat of Soutine’s obsession,” Marcus half-snorts, half-groans, intending to encourage you as you add, “You find that a combination of not having anything to eat due to extreme poverty and using what food the family did have to practice Kosher traditions is largely to blame for his playing with his food rather than eating it.”

Marcus watches you flick through your phone so as not to interrupt the finally clear feed from the stereomicroscope focussing on how you bite your lip. You quickly google the Rembrandt that you want him to look at. “The remains of this omnivorous…”

“Oh you’re still gonna continue with that theme, yeah?” Marcus’ feels his lips curve at your humour, shaking his head at the ridiculous word play.

“Oh, I can keep this going all day,” you say with the cheekiest of winks, and Marcus hopes you will.

*****

“Omnivorous obsession,” you continue, “was based on his adoration of Rembrandt whose 1655 Flayed Ox was frequently salivated over by Soutine on his regular visits to the Louvre. Rembrandt’s carcass is noted for its vivid colors but when compared to Soutine’s, which was coated almost daily with fresh buckets of blood by his assistant, Rembrandt seems downright dull. The smell of rotting beef and fresh blood became so oppressive that neighbours called the police, who almost threw away the fermenting flesh before, what I can only assume was the Frankenstein-esque assistant, shooed them away like so many flies covering a carcass.”

“Always with the focus on the graphic elements of art,” Jacques calls out with a snort at your zombie-like impression before receiving a sharp nudge to his ribs to focus on the job Élodie has asked him to complete.

“Art is just a reflection of the things that humanity finds interesting and what can be more interesting to a temporal being than their own mortality or that of the creatures and objects that surround it?” At this statement, you tug Marcus’ coat sleeve away from the piece to come and look at the feed you have set up for him, “Come on you, we’d better focus or Élodie will have my guts for garters for not concentrating on what I should be doing!”

Marcus allows you to lead him over to a black metal folding chair to look at the feed, “So what are we looking for, Mademoiselle Pathologist?”

“Hah, did you just call her mademoiselle? She’s too old for that!” Élodie shouts in your direction.

Refusing to respond verbally to Élodie’s rudeness, you flick a finger up at her and turn back to Marcus, “Madame Pathologist will do- I am comfortable with my age. So what we are looking for are any bits of difficult to detect damage, fading, repairs and the ways paints and other coatings are distributed. Also if there are any strange fibres that we can spot using the double lens.”

Hovering the microscope over the bottom left hand corner, you start to scan the piece, “So what we’re looking for are any irregularities that we might not have picked up on a first scan that Élodie did to take the samples. The stereomicroscope helps us to understand the art in more 3D terms- so we can see something that generally looks flat becomes a landscape of hills and valleys.”

“Why’ve you chosen that corner to start?” Marcus probed inquisitively, wondering as to whether there’s method in your madness.

“Just felt like it!” You shrug and snort at his look of mock horror. “Nah, it’s where the signature is and ‘cos I’m not sure about the signatures on those documents you found, I want to take a closer look at Soutine’s over here. Kinda feels like a sensible place to start.” Your eyes squint as you drink in the images in front of you, snapping up when you hear a small grunt of consternation from your boss, “Have you found something, Marcus?”

“That’s weird. It kind of looks like the signature has been scratched into the art,” Marcus squints at the signature on the screen, reaching over to the table where the possible documents with Guillaume and Barnes’ scrawls lie, “Also, I am not an expert in graphology but the letter e looks consistent across the three names- they all arch at the same point.”

“Waouh- that’s a good catch,” Élodie agrees, pulling Jacques with her to look over Marcus’ shoulder at the finds upon the feed.

Jacques escapes Élodie’s clutch and starts to flit back and forth, checking between the painting and the feed with a mild look of confusion on his face, “This is preposterous. Why have they done the signature in a different medium to the one used to paint it? It’s almost like they want to be caught.”

“It looks like it has been lacerated by a needle,” Marcus scratches at his patchy beard in astonishment, “Spot on Jacques, it’s like they can’t even be bothered to hide their tracks.”

“Ok, I think we may have found one of our fakes,” a smile slowly creeps across your face, “Obviously, we can’t be definite -there are still so many tests that need to be done but I don’t think this is an original,” you shake your head with a half smile, “Élodie, I think we need to organise for this to be couriered back to the labs.”

An excited squeal from Élodie and a soft oof from Jacques puncture the cool air as she flies into his arms, squeezing him in sheer delight. As the pair embrace with joy, you and Marcus are left there- Marcus on the fold out chair, gripping the iPad tighter than necessary- I swear that man never quite knows what do with his hands- and you sitting cross legged on the floor with the stereomicroscope lying in your lap- grinning like idiots at each other.

✪✪✪✪✪

More coffee and cakes are devoured in the aftermath whilst you await a courier to come and pick up the likely forgery- you are not entirely sure that the blood in your body hasn’t entirely transformed into sugar and caffeine at this point. After checking alongside Élodie that the painting had been carefully loaded into a van, you sit next to her on the pavement outside the auction house.

“Do you know where Marcus and Jacques are?” you question as you sink onto the dusty ground next to her.

“Yeah, they’re inside taking an informal statement from the auction house owner before the local police quiz her properly,” Élodie rests her temple to your shoulder, “Today has been wonderful. I really like Marcus - from what I have seen of him. I think this will be a good move for you.”

“I do miss having you here though. Today feels like the first time I have had both of my arms. Since you returned to London, it has felt like a part of me has been missing.”

Hauling a deep breath into your lungs to try to quell that gnawing ache in your belly, you turn to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head, “I am sorry, El. To be honest, I don’t even know where to start explaining what happened or even truly understand how everything fell apart so badly.”

The mountain wind decides to blow an icy gust that cuts through your clothes to the bones of you, “It was a normal undercover job- we’d been watching the comings and goings of the gang from a inside a local greasy spoon for ages-just trying to get a clear idea of what their patterns of behaviour were and it just all went South so quickly.

“Being a tiny caff on an industrial estate by the Thames, it was open 24 hours and the day it happened, it was during the middle of a night shift when the gang decided to up the ante. They’d obviously clocked that we weren’t exactly who we said we were,” you snort softly at the memory, “I mean Jas’ accent was a bit sus for being a short order cook but still.

“The gang openly marched the illegal immigrants out of the container and made them kneel in front of the caff as a lure to us, trying to get us to drop our cover. These fucking innocents just trying to find a better life and the evil fuckers just started executing them- one after the other. Jas just ran out there straight away- dropping his cover without any proper back up, a flak jacket or anything. His stupid, kind self trying to save at least one of them without a backward glance.

“I said the code word so we could have armed back up within minutes but I knew it wouldn’t be there quickly enough,” your voice starts to falter as your throat tightens over the words.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, chouchou,” Élodie squeezes the thigh nearest to her.

“I know but I should tell someone, somewhen. You’re probably one of the few who would understand.”

You pause, squeezing your eyes tight shut as you allow that stagnant, putrid box of memories to reopen, flooding your senses with the foul gangrenous smell of the past.

Having called in backup, you make the decision to slip out of the back door of the caff and run for cover behind the large communal bins. The incessant rain was giving zero sign of stopping and the noise was deafening as it bounced off the metal sides and drummed upon the tarmacked surface. You could barely hear the desperate negotiations that Jasper was trying to make for the lives of these poor, exploited humans.

From here, hiding amongst the shadows, you could catch the eye of one of the kneeling men and signal to him as to when he should try to make a run over to you. He’d reached his little finger out to the person to his right to alert them to the plan. Achingly slowly, tiny gestures had passed down the line of five remaining fellows, from person to person, notifying them of your presence and how you were attempting to save them.

You counted them down and then screamed for them to run. Gunshots rang throughout the air as they made a break for the supposed safety of the bins by you as blue lights and sirens swirled, announcing their arrival between the shipping containers. You counted them as they ran for their lives past you.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

But the gunshots…

Jasper.

As you ran to your former partner’s lifeless form, three more shots rang through the air, taking out the associates who’d been ruthlessly gunning down their illegal chattel. Jasper lay there in the harsh headlight of the armed response unit car, his apron and chef’s jacket were no longer the starchy white that glowed under the strip lighting of the kitchen but his skin had taken on a similar pallid tone as his life force pooled around him, staining the oily surface with a bloody bloom. Knelt there with the grit from the floor biting into the skin of your knees, you held his head in your lap, stroking his cold cheek as a shadow cast across you both.

“He’s gone, Nush.”

Tears course down your face in tiny rivulets and spill into Élodie’s hair, “If I had said yes at Fourvière. If I had accepted the position St Vincent had offered me, he’d still be here. He would still be here.”

After putting a hand on each cheek, Élodie then taps you upon the nose making your red-rimmed, watery eyes look into hers, “You didn’t shoot the gun. You didn’t kill him,” she says so matter of fact that you almost feel an inclination to believe her, “You have to stop blaming yourself at some point.”

“He made the decision to go out there without back up or any protection. If I remember correctly, it was Jas’ decision to head back to London too, effectively ending the freedom you had out here,” she adds gravely, “Everyone has to make decisions, Nush. Ours just tend to have more life or death outcomes and remember, the choice you made- you saved five people.

“As for marrying him, you didn’t want to and I don’t know quite how to clearly say this but you don’t have to marry someone because they ask you. Or because you think it’s the right thing to do. You saying no to him, had zero implications in how his life ended,” Élodie smooths a tendril of hair that has escaped your plait behind your ear, “Your relationship didn’t have a true balance because you spent so long trying to hide it- everything feels so much more amplified if you are constantly watching your coattails.”

Rubbing the exhaustion from the onslaught of emotions from your eyes, you turn to face Élodie, “What if that’s it? What if that was my chance of happiness?”

“Okay so you’re now fully in the ridiculous territory, idiot! So bloody naive,” Élodie rolls her eyes and slaps your knee, “ There’s no one person out there- nobody is perfect for you. There are just people who enter your life at different times and there is a certain compatibility…”

“Like you might want to jump their bones,” you giggle through the snot.

“Yep, that definitely helps! But after a while, other stuff comes up and again, you have to make those decisions whether you want to move to the next one or work at the relationship you have,” Élodie says frankly, “ Your first proper grown up relationship wasn’t ever truly allowed to develop into something normal and healthy but please don’t ever think for a second that is all you deserve or will ever get.”

“More happened than just Jasper’s death,” you confide in your ally.

“I know sweetheart. You tell me when you are ready,” Élodie pats your leg, “You will always have Jacques and I here for you. And I reckon Pierre would take you back in a heartbeat if you ever need to escape Marcus, not that I think you will.” You feel a little confused by Élodie’s last statement but don’t have time to swell upon it as the door to the auction house swings open.

Noticing two figures- one wiry and talking rapidly with his hands, the other broad and showing great interest in what the other has to say- walking towards you, you offer Élodie a hand up from your pavement seat. You feel a gentle hand brushing over your bottom and crane your neck to see who it belongs to, “Well, I’d hate for you to make my car any dirtier,” Élodie winks at you.

✪✪✪✪✪

The trip back to Lyon didn’t allow for any more rest for tired eyes against cool car windows. Excited chatter filled the car as between the four of you, you were all busily beavering away from making shouted calls to the science laboratories in Interpol- calling in favours to get your samples tested first- to fingers tapping on screens, flinging emails back to offices trying to inform everyone who needed to know. Although the journey was far longer, it felt as though five minutes had passed from the moment you’d left the auction house- the exhaustion from your disclosure to Élodie giving way to the adrenaline pumping through your veins with the excitement of having found a piece of the puzzle.

Jacques quickly parks in the Interpol car park, where you all pile out of the car, heading back towards the offices. As you walk together, you hear Marcus answer the phone to Andy back in London, filling him in on the events of the day- thankfully leaving out the parts where he’d talked you through a panic attack or accidentally held hands with him.

You didn’t need anyone else in the London offices thinking you were unprofessional. There were enough of those already.

Marcus. So much of the fear has ebbed away about the new role, and in such little time, thanks to your new boss. This straight-speaking American, who makes you speak up and want to stand up a bit taller. For the first time in what felt like forever, work doesn’t feel like a chore to pay the bills for a small, damp flat in South London. It isn’t so much the work as you know that like the back of your hand- it was that feeling of appreciation.

That feeling that someone sees what you can offer and values your contributions- not just as some rookie in an established office but as an equal. You know you are lucky- you get to use all the knowledge from your art history degree (oh how your family had groaned in consternation- doctor or lawyer- those were the proper options. Y’know, a proper career path not something seen as being so wishy-washy) and use it to protect the beauty of art from the shadier underbelly. Not that you could ever explain that part to your mum or her sisters, who just thought you were in some IT job with ridiculous hours.

In fact, it was the first time. You’d worked your way up from being a rookie with Stephens and although you'd got to work in a field with which you had a borderline obsession, you were still always seen as the new kid, even though others came and went after you’d joined and that got a bit wearing, especially when you’d hit your thirties and as you edged ever closer to your forties, it had bordered on the ridiculous.

But Marcus. He didn’t just listen to what you had to say, he positively encouraged you to speak- never expecting you to hold your tongue or wait for the “grown ups” to stop talking.

“Hey, Earth to Anushka,” those ridiculously warm eyes try to call your attention into focus.

“Sorry, heard you on the phone to Andy and took the opportunity to disappear with my thoughts for a bit. It’s been a bit of a day, hasn’t it?” you mutter as the knuckles of your hands almost rub holes in your eye sockets.

“Yeah, I thought we’d find zip on our first check as a team but that was something else,” Marcus nods, pouting his lips in thought, “I honestly thought it was an authentic piece when I found those signatures- just shows how careful we have to be with these crooks.

“You look about ready to collapse- that sleep on the way over, not help? I was about to ask if you fancied grabbing some dinner together but you’re dead on your feet.”

“Didn’t really get much sleep last night. Was kind of dreading what today would bring but,” your hand extends to squeeze Marcus’ forearm, “But you’ve made today far less painful than it could have been.” You feel a warmth creep through you, blooming from the spot where Marcus has placed his hand on top of yours, his thumb unconsciously tracing small circles upon your skin.

“How about a slow walk back to the hotel, we grab some pizza on the way back and sit and watch Sharknado 4 this evening?” you suggest, still not removing your hand from his arm, ”I need to eat something other than breakfast pastries today.”

“Hmmm, I would say that dinner is the best time for breakfast food but yeah, probably best that we find something a bit more substantial,” Marcus relents reluctantly like a petulant child as Élodie and Jacques turn towards you both.

“Oh, why the sad eyes, Marcus? Has she been mean to you? ” Élodie teases, “We have contacts- we can make her disappear…”

Jacques shoots you a despairing look from under his arched eyebrow. The aching sadness returns in your tummy- you’ve missed them so much and missed out on so many special moments with them, “Oof, hey Nush! This isn’t goodbye- no matter the threats Élodie makes upon your life!”

Élodie leans in to sandwich you between the pair of them, “No, Marcus has given me your phone number and your email address- and he has promised me that even if you don’t respond to my communications, that he will send regular updates.” You look over at Marcus, who sends you a sheepish grin and a slight shrug of his shoulders, flashing that goddamn dimple in his right cheek.

“Élodie, are you going upstairs to get everything ready?” Jacques questions his wife, “ There’s only twenty minutes before I need to pick up Xavier from my parents so I’d probably better head off. Can you grab a taxi home afterwards? Nush, I love you and I will see you soon.

“Marcus, it has been a pleasure. I will ensure that all the details are shared with you in London. Let’s keep the lines of communication open between us, oui?” A firm handshake was not the only thing to pass between the men, as Jacques pats Marcus on the back and they wordlessly share a thought, Marcus’ eyes flickering back to you with a small smile.

“Come on, let’s find food and a film before we collapse,” Marcus beckons you towards him with a wave back to Élodie and Jacques before they head off in their respective directions, Élodie’s hand stroking yours as she walks away.

✪✪✪✪✪

Half an hour later, you find yourself standing barefoot outside Marcus’ hotel room door, oddly nervous about knocking. Your hair hangs in waves around your shoulders, still holding some of the twisted kinks that the plaits you wore it in had formed over the course of the day, face scrubbed but you are second guessing your choice of wearing pjs to your new boss’ room. Not that they were in any way indecent- just a good old pair of cotton jammies from M&S and you’d kept your bra on underneath, because not even the worst war criminal deserves to be tortured by the sight of you with your bra off. Just as you were about to head back for a hoodie to perhaps offer an ounce more decency, the door swung open and a slightly surprised look adorns Marcus’ face.

“Hey, I was just about to check where you were. Pizza’s getting cold and you should probably have something warm in your belly that isn’t coffee today!”

“Oh, I was just going to swing back to my room for a hoodie,” you awkwardly mutter in the direction of the deliciously soft looking man, wearing grey joggers and a white t-shirt in front of you.

A small pout crosses Marcus’ lips, “Come on, if you’re chilly, the pizza’ll warm you up but if you’re still cold after eating, you can grab one of mine- that is if it doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” he checks by lowering his eyes and gently lifting your chin.

Deciding not to keep the pizza waiting, you nod and shuffle past Marcus, the plush carpet deliciously soft underfoot, “I haven’t forgotten that we were halfway through a conversation this morning when El and Jacques arrived to pick us up. You want to tell me why you don’t feel like you are where you feel you should be?” you don’t look at Marcus as you ask him, picking the olives off the top of your pizza.

“I thought you said you like olives?” Marcus questions confusedly as he grabs a slice himself.

“Oh I do, but I’ll eat them afterwards as I like to savour them by themselves,” you giggle at your weird pizza eating habits, “Was that a wish to evade the question? Would you prefer to put on a film?”

“Hah, no! You’re full of quirks, y’know? It’s cute,” he mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“Cute?” you raise an eyebrow at this affectionate comment, “Eh, I dunno. I don’t think you can get to almost forty without embracing your quirks at some point.”

“I just hoped that by this point I’d be married with 2.4 kids, a dog and a nice house. Y’know, settled- never taking it for granted, obviously but comfortable with a family,” there’s a flicker of pain that passes through Marcus’ eyes as he speaks and it cuts through you like a knife.

“How on Earth are you not in a long term relationship with a lucky person? From what you’ve shown me over the past two days, you’re kind, considerate and thoughtful- although you should never tease a woman about her supposed snoring,” you pull an ugly face at him, sticking your tongue out and wrinkling your nose to diffuse the tension in his forehead, forcing him to laugh.

“Oh, I was married once and had long term relationships but neither worked out, sadly,” Marcus shrugs, focussing intently on his next pizza slice, “Can’t the same thing be said about you? You’re a beautiful, funny and intelligent woman and although you are a menace to yourself and those around you with a coffee cup in your hands, I don’t get why you haven’t been snapped up.”

Grabbing the pizza box and Marcus’ hand- pulling them both towards your room, you say, “Come with me.”

Thrusting the pizza box towards his hands, you put the keycard in the door and the light flickers to green. Guiding Marcus by the food container through the room to the balcony, you swing the French doors open to be greeted by a stiff Alpine air and the twinkling lights of Lyon spreading towards you.

“As you know from today, I was here in Lyon before. My partner and I were seconded here to work alongside Interpol on an art smuggling case- that’s how I knew El, Jacques, Pierre and everyone else from this morning’s meeting. We weren’t just work partners, we’d been hiding a romantic relationship for just over a decade in London as we knew that our supervisors wouldn’t allow us to continue to work together,” you clear your throat and see a flash of concern from Marcus seeing how much your hands were trembling.

He reaches for your hand with the lightest of touches grazing your ring and little fingers but not letting go.

Drawing a deep breath, you continue, “You see the beautiful cathedral up there- Fourviere?” you catch Marcus giving a gentle nod as he looks in the direction of your hand, the one he’s not holding, “Jasper asked me to marry him up there. And I, um… I said no.” Your eyes guiltily shift to the left after owning up to your shoddy track record.

“I mean, I did love him but I couldn’t offer him what he wanted or needed from life or from me. We’d hidden too long in the shadows and the thought of trying to explain everything to our families, to our friends, to our workplace was just too overwhelming. I had a lot more to lose than him.

“As you said earlier, our work is very much an old boys network and as a mixed race woman against a white man- who’d got his position due to a bit of nepotism as his uncle was our London boss- I stood to lose so much more. I have always had to work harder and to be a more impressive candidate to be taken as seriously as any white man in the room.”

“Had we returned to London as a married couple, there would have been so many unspoken questions about when we would think about having babies so there’d never be a chance of going any higher for me. And although seeing El and Jacques today- they have it so balanced. El was telling me that they split her maternity leave equally and that even now their baby is one, they have flexi working times so although they have such a little one and such intense jobs, they can still be there for bedtimes and neither of them be sidelined. But I know that’s not how it would have worked with us. Jas would have worked full time and I would have been a simmering pot of resentment.”

You notice that despite your confession that Marcus still hasn’t stopped holding your hand and regardless of the evening chill, warmth spreads through you at the thought that you haven’t entirely repulsed him with your actions.

“Where is he now? DId he ask for a transfer when you headed back?” Marcus gently questions.

“He took the ultimate transfer. We were working together undercover and he was shot multiple times trying to save some people from being murdered,” with a small shrug, you take your hand back from Marcus despite the comfort it is bringing you and cover your face. As you do so, he pulls you towards him, holding you tightly into his chest, resting his chin on top of your head.

With a gentle push back from his broad chest but without leaving his arms completely, you tilt your face up at him, “In fact, other than Jas’ death the bitterest pill was me being transferred out of the department. As you can probably imagine, a lot of shit went down after that night and a lot of the blame from it was laid at my door. Whilst it was all happening, I wasn’t allowed to have any contact with work colleagues and of course, your family can only know so much of what’s going on when you follow our line of work.

“So, I spent eight months in a stupid kind of limbo- being paid full whack whilst sitting at home, mourning a man who I’d been with for a quarter of my life but didn’t want to marry.” Shaking your head slowly, you continue, “That’s why I was a bit of a mess today- I kind of dreaded seeing everyone and how they might blame me for everything that happened with Jas.”

“Shit, I’m sorry sweetheart,” with that affectionate nickname confidently trickling from Marcus’ lips, you look up and smile broadly at him, “I am sorry that you went through all that. I have to be honest, as I am a terrible liar- there is a part of me that is glad that our paths have overlapped- I just wish it could be under happier circumstances.”

“No,” you pat him upon his chest, “You don’t get to our age without some kind of baggage and in our occupation, it’s hard for most people to understand our commitment to our job.”

“Hah, you can say that again- that’s what ended my marriage. That and her new partner,” you scrunch your face in consideration of Marcus’ pain, your thumbs rubbing back and forth, “And the failed engagement is what brought me to London- kept seeing her and the man she left me for around the DC offices.”

“Let’s go toast to those ghosts and our converging paths with what will be now a very warm bottle of white wine and cold pizza,” with eyes widening in amusement you smile at him, your hands still on his chest and his hands on your back, “But indoors as it is fucking freezing out here, no matter how pretty it is.”

“Agreed,” Marcus chuckles deeply, moving his hands to rub some warmth back into your arms.

“Just going to grab a hoodie,” you call over your shoulder as you go back into your bedroom. As you rummage through your bag, you miss the flicker of disappointment on Marcus’s face that he wouldn’t get to smell your perfume on his clothes.

✪✪✪✪✪

“Hey,” that beautifully soft baritone meltingly drifted up from the sofa in Marcus’ room, “Comfy now? I hope you don’t mind but I chose Casablanca instead of Sharknado 4.”

As you cross the floor in socked feet to try and thaw them out from your balcony adventure, you shake your head with a lopsided smile, “Not ok,” but to put Marcus’ raised eyebrow at ease, you add, “It’s my favourite - but you’d better have tissues at the ready as it will make me a snotty mess.”

“Already prepared,” he holds a tissue box aloft, “It does the same to me too.”

Instead of sitting at the other end of the sofa, you grab a glass of wine from the table and slide into Marcus’ side- half sitting up, half leaning against him. He reaches over, pulling your head onto his shoulder, stroking your hair away from your face and there you stay, comfortably curled into his side. Not for the hour and three quarters of the film, but until rays of spring sunshine filter through the blinds the following morning.

Tag list of glory: If you’d like to be added or dropped from the tag list or have any thoughts, thots or suggestions, please do get in touch! I don’t bite hard 🥰

@astroboots @silverwolf319 @lunaserenade @danniburgh @leonieb @mrsparknuts @sirowsky @yespolkadotkitty @agirllovespancakes @tardisfangurl @zukoyonce @absurdthirst @green-socks @pedropascalito @disgruntledspacedad @mouthymandalorian @the-ginger-hedge-witch @lv7867 @songsformonkeys

[kalitera-stin-erimia]

Shitposts about Necronomicon from the Crypt of Cthulhu fanzine

Apparently, Crypt of Cthulhu #23 published the "quote from John Dee translation of the Necronomicon" written by Lin Carter, and in the next issues the readers had a field day with it in the zine's letter column:

[Joseph Curwen (Darrell Schweitzer)]: "I fear that you and your equally illustrious readers have been the victim of an hoax: to wit, the purported passage from the Necronomicon presented by a certain Mr. Carter in the 48th number of your amusing journal. My reasons for recognizing the Falseness of it are these: Primus, that the writer seems to think that one achieves an "archaic" effect by using the wrong word, "bestride" when "astride" is meant, "didst" in the first person, etc. Both Dr. Dee and Alhazred (who was a poet of repute before he turned to the Elder Mysteries) were better, not to mention more grammatical writers than that. Secundus, that when the Yemenite (c. 750 A.D.) partakes of the Black Lotus and views the panorama of the Past, he sees the Third Crusade (late 12th century A.D.), over four centuries in his future. Surely that must have impressed you as curious, Mr. Editor, to say the least? And tertius that no such passage occurs in my use-proven and time-honored copy of the Necronomicon. The careful scholar must reject the whole narrative of the Black Lotus out of hand, not merely because of (obvious) apocryphal elements, but because there merely seems to be no reason to accept it."

[Wilum Pugmire]: "In his "Notes" on ye translation of Dee's Necronomicon, Carter writes how members of ye Lovecraft Circle "...obviously had access to a copy of Dee's Necronomicon..." How can this be so? I always understood that one copy of this translation existed, and was given to Wilbur Whateley by his grandfather. If so, how could those other gents have access to it? If it never was translated, how did Lin Carter get ahold of it? Did he steal it from ye Whateley Farmhouse? Did Wilbur have it with him at ye scene of his death, and did someone get it then and, by means unknown. Carter discovered this and obtained it? I want some answers."

[Basile M. Bourque, Jr]: "In regards to the Lin Carter version of the John Dee translation of the Necronomicon in issue #23, it appears to be from a deliberately inaccurate edition probably printed by the Roman Inquisition about 1650. A late professor of anthropology at Miskatonic University showed me photo-copies off similar material seven years ago. This version while containing some authentic portions is mostly papal doggerel. The clear-cut struggle between the Elder Gods and the Old Ones was apparently an inclusion, albeit unconscious, of Catholic dogma into the forgery. Its purpose was to entrap Protestant scholars. Evidently the spells or invocations (calling up that which is beyond) do not contain puissant protections from that which is called up. In other words, the (heretically) intellectually curious were being led to their deaths or worse. Not a suprising action on the part of an organization which twenty years before had tried Galileo.

Scientific comparison proved the connection. The chemical compositions of the paper proved it a production of Italy or Spain, not England or northern Europe. The actual print was even more revealing. Evidently some of the type font used in the production of this book, when studies under the microscope, is identical to that used by Giovanni Ucello's shop. This establishment regularly published tracts under the sigil of the Roman Inquisition.

Unfortunately I cannot furnish proof of my assertions. The professor, carrying his notebooks, jumped into an operating carding maching on a sheep station in New Zealand while on a field trip. Miskatonic University was unable to locate any copies of his unpublished material. His rooms were totally destroyed one week after his departure in a fire of suspicious origin."

[noise-vs-signal]

“A pact (contract) allegedly signed between Urbain Grandier and the Devil, one of the documents introduced as evidence during Grandier's second trial in 1634, after the Loudun Possessions.

The text is in Latin and is written using mirror writing. Holding a mirror up to the writing will show the normal direction of the letters, so that they can be read. The second photograph above shows the mirror image.

Translated into English, it reads:

“We, the influential Lucifer, the young Satan, Beelzebub, Leviathan, Elimi, and Astaroth, together with others, have today accepted the covenant pact of Urbain Grandier, who is ours.

And him do we promise the love of women, the flower of virgins, the respect of monarchs, honors, lusts and powers.

He will go whoring three days long; the carousal will be dear to him.

He offers us once in the year a seal of blood, under the feet he will trample the holy things of the church and he will ask us many questions; with this pact he will live twenty years happy on the earth of men, and will later join us to sin against God.

Bound in hell, in the council of demons.

Lucifer Beelzebub Satan

Astaroth Leviathan Elimi

The seals placed by the Devil, the master, and the demons, princes of the lord. Baalberith, writer.” - Text from Wikipedia.

This document may obviously have been a forgery, but the Sigils of the Spirits are very similar to those found in texts like the “Grimorium Verum” (”True Grimoire”).

Note that the pact requires rejection of the Church i.e. organised religion, and by extension rejection of the Demiurge, the dualistic false god of authority and patriarchy, who has tried to suppress the Divine Feminine.

By asking these great Spirits “many questions” the devotee will gain knowledge, understanding, wisdom and gnosis.

The devotee does not give their soul away, and will instead join the Spirits in the Underworld/Otherworld upon their physical death.

These great Spirits include Lucifer (Lord of Light, the Titan Prometheus) and Astarte (Ishtar/Inanna/Isis/Aphrodite/Venus).

[daisychvins]

｡･ﾟﾟ･ — introduction.

introducing ... violet’s demise ! aka grayson aka her big brother she’s been wiring money to stay away in europe <33333

name: grayson swag money jeon  age: 22 turning 23 (don’t ask me about his sign that’s for liza to figure out someday <3) gender: cis male; he/him hometown: baltimore, maryland sexuality: bisexual & biromantic

listen i was feeling rlly committed to completing his stats but i’m already over it so don’t ask dont tell xx anYWAYS let’s get on to the juicy stuff hehe

i tend to ramble a lot so this intro is gonna be probably a mixture of paragraphs and bullet points and everything in between but let’s start simple. also i rlly wanna emphasize a massive DRUGS TW bc his character largely revolves around his interest in and addiction to drugs

blackmails

grayson is claiming that he's been in a rehab program for the last year and is now completely sober and reformed when he really was just using the money to party and travel throughout europe.

without his parents paying to support him now, he's had to start dealing to make ends meet and keep up appearances. it’s mostly coke, but he dabbles in harder substances depending on what his connections can get him. 

grayson dabbles with calligraphy and was notorious for forging excuse notes and parent signatures all throughout high school and even now sells forgeries for a quick buck. the most notable of these was xavi’s letter of recommendation that helped him get into yale. 

background

grayson is violet’s older brother!!1 yes, that’s right, THE big brother who’s been out of the country getting LIT (and by lit i mean he’s been traveling europe on a series of solo trips w his parents’ money and doin lots of recreational drugs)

i haven’t fully fleshed out the dynamic he has w his parents but just know it’s ,, bad ASDHFJNK basically the jeons treated their children like accessories and expected them to be their little trophies and grayson just was not having that as a kid!!! so he acted out a lot and obviously got himself into a pretty bad scene (thank u goosie) and is basically the bane of his parents existence at this point <3 yet they still try to appease him to keep him under control but that’s for the family task to work out hehehehe

despite hating his parents, he adores both of his siblings. before the drug use started, he was always a big nurturer and would have done anything for either of them......now he wouldn’t be caught dead praising violet but he loves her in secret from afar HSJDFKG

yeah basically he met goose when he was around 15 i think????? and got introduced to drugs around 16 or 17 i wanna say and by the time he graduated high school he was just....a much different person than the soft big brother he used to be. his parents sent him off to europe pretty much as soon as he turned 18 under the guise of going to school internationally, but grayson obviously knew the truth and understood that he was being sent away so he wouldn’t be his parents problem anymore. 

he basically spent the last four years galavanting europe and just....trying to enjoy it???? but it’s hard to enjoy an extended vacation when u have no family or friends on ur side anymore </3 he basically used the money to stay in hostels and worked odd jobs here and there to stay afloat and keep supplied w the...special goods....but yeah lots of drugs, alcohol, sex, and recklessness but he DID learn a couple languages??? or at least enough to get through some pretty basic conversations in most european countries so <3 guess it’s all okay then!!!! 

anyways idk what else to put here that u won’t just find out in the family task so uhhhhhh idk lmk if u need anything else i guess

present/personality

so now grayson is just vibing at yale obviously ummm he actually got super into writing after high school, especially poetry. he used to carry journals full of just random prose about his addiction and his deepest thoughts, as well as probably some lighter stuff about his love escapades or maybe goose idk...basically he used poetry as an outlet and it allowed him to really ground himself and find his place in the world even if it didnt include who he thought it would SO with that being said, grayson got into yale due to a poetry competition he was a part of. he saw some big fancy competition being advertised and on a whim decided to submit some poem about his struggles with addiction and losing his family (a v raw piece that he didn’t expect to ever see the light of day) and he actually ended up winning! it caught yale’s attention and they invited him to apply and, knowing how much it would probably disturb his little sister, grayson very smugly applied and was pretty stoked to see he got in 

because that poem gained such publicity, it was assumed that he was a survivor of addiction and was writing from a sober perspective. he didn’t want to correct anyone, so he just went with it and has basically crafted this story about his massive success and has become an advocate for addiction treatment and rehabilitation. of course, none of the companies that sponsor him or the events that host him as a motivational speaker know that he’s snorting lines in the bathroom beforehand or dealing to half the elites, but that’s between grayson, god, and the blackmailer !

basically grayson showed back up because of violet’s blackmail being exposed. he was off in europe, unable to defend himself, and with a massive vendetta against his family so he decided what better way to reenter society than by publicly outing himself as a martyr <3333 his plan is basically to bash the family name to fulfill whatever angsty coming of age arc he has in store for him to make up for the pain of being sent away .... really angsty yeah </3 rip grayson 

anyways yeah he’s a total fake. he’s been using his status as a martyr to his advantage a lot, the best example being his recruitment into the elites. he guilted them into accepting him by discussing the PR benefits of recruiting a member that struggles with addiction and how supporting addiction treatment and second chances would be such a good look for them. like he basically threatened to publicly expose them for denying him due to his troubled past and accuse them of being exclusionary so they said boop ! ur in. now the elites are proud advocates for second chances <3333

i would describe grayson as fearless, overconfident, infamous due to his condition being exposed recently, a little gloomy, he’s kind of just got this chip on his shoulder and feels like he has something to prove....he’s gotta be better than his parents, gotta stick it to them and to violet and to everyone who doubts him. he’s a grumpy guy with a massive vendetta and a need for some kind of justice. he just doesn’t know what that is yet. despite all of the bad, however, he’s genuinely a pretty good guy. he’s really goofy and a genuine person, pretty friendly with literally everyone until they give him a reason not to be. basically, unless you are a member of the jeon family he probably likes you or is at least cordial to you (unless we plot differently ofc but u know). he’s just a big lovable dummy with some sweet drug connects and a knack for poetry. he also knows calligraphy but that’s beside the point . 

idk if this is enough to describe him but yeah if u have any questions just let me know hehe

this is probably gonna make things hard but considering violet was just exposed i think that he’s pretty new to yale ???? like probably just transferred in/started this spring semester rather than being here for the entire year/a prolonged amount of time so most of our plots will likely have to be newer/center on him first showing up OR we can establish their connections from pre-europe which is also fine w me....idk i didnt rlly think this timeline through so let’s just plot and see what happens aghbfjnd anyways i included some connection ideas to help us all just in case

wanted connections

i’d say he’s the honorary dealer of the elites aghbdfjn so literally anyone who needs a plug could be a potential connection. we can obviously tweak this and customize it to each character <3

maybe someone who met grayson in europe. they could have travelled together for an extended period of time or even just a brief encounter. he was over there for four years, so the possibilities are endless. 

building off the last one, this same connection could work with a romantic interest. maybe they were romantically involved for a time in europe and fell out of touch or maybe grayson/your muse just left in the middle of the night and they never saw each other again until now and maybe there’s some unresolved feelings/one-sided longing or need for closure. it could also be that they just hooked up whenever this person was in the area and that was that, no strings attached. 

maybe someone who genuinely believes that grayson is actually sober and really admires his strength and idk maybe they’re struggling w their own issues and seek advice from him or maybe they just make it harder for him to actually do his thing bc they’re constantly around and it’s not like they can catch him strung out and acting up 

someone in the literature department or with a background in english or writing. someone he could read poetry to, or share his favorite lines with. someone who’s taken the same professors and can tell him who to watch out for or what to expect. idk i just want him to have someone to share his passions with. maybe a little crush is forming? maybe they’re just friends who share a love of fiction? idk i’m open to literally anything 

he’s sort of a motivational speaker now bc he advocates for rehabilitation resources and stuff so like maybe ur muse saw him give a presentation or participate in some kind of seminar and they called bullshit on him after the show bc they were like,,, bro i literally saw u partying w max and avery last weekend what the fuck are u on about and now they could potentially hold that blackmail over his head hehe......

exes plots are always fun we love angst in this house 

fuck it let’s bring another family member BHJFNGKM no but grayson rlly is a nurturing guy and like....definitely develops unhealthy attachments to cope w his loss of family so he’d love all the sibling-like bonds he can get to kinda numb the pain of “””””losing””””” violet 

if none of these interest you i’m literally so down for anything pls just let me know and i’m happy to brainstorm always <333333 

thank u for reading this....smooch . 

[shannonbussberg]

Shannon Marie Bussberg is a psychopath who caused me great harm in many ways. I'm writing this as an explanation to warn off any who come in contact with her. I'm not trying to exact vengeance on her. The only thing I want from her is the money that she stole from me. A sincere and deep apology, of course, would be nice, but she would never do that. The first part of the writing below largely comprises something that I sent to Shannon recently, and the rest is addressed to you, the reader. Please keep an open mind.

***

(Note: I sent an earlier version of this writing to Shannon, hoping that she would make restitution. She said that she wouldn't, and that she came here to live with me to help me with my depression. Complete BS. Shouldered no blame at all.

Shannon,

As you know, you stole, through forgeries, all the money I had, and you put me in deep shit, not to mention throwing me into tons of debt from all the credit cards you took out in my name. I was in trouble with the IRS over the documents you forged, my credit was nonexistent, and I was psychologically destroyed. You put me in a space that I would never trust anyone ever again. You know all that you did to me, and you never tried anything to make it right.

Although you cost me so, so much pain and suffering, I’m willing to let most of that go financially. But I want recompense for the money you stole and the inflation on that money. Also the damage caused to my teeth when I was unable to afford repairs because of your thefts. Steve might lend you the money--he helped you out financially when you got in trouble for taking money from credit cards under my sister's name. So maybe he'll do that for you now.

(You know, you used to tell me that you're going to Hell. I of course assumed that you were exaggerating. Now I wonder what all other things you're done. An aside: you used to tell me that you would never pay back your student loans, and that as a result you'd have to go to school periodically for the rest of your life to avoid paying the loans back. That did bother me, because it basically meant that you'd be stealing from other students in the future. More recently I saw that you'd somehow got a master's degree. That seemed strange, since you're not a good student--having me do as much as your school and work stuff for you as possible when you were here. So I assumed that you got the degree from online courses, as part of your loan payback avoidance plan. Sure enough I see that your school has optional online coursework.)

If you don’t try to make things right, here’s what I will do. First off, I’ll tell the truth to your whole family. (It was so horrible to have to listen to your mother try to “explain” to me that you were living with me in order to try to “help” me--a lie you told your parents in order to cover the long period while you were not working, while living on the stolen money. Apparently you told her that you were my caretaker of some sort. I'm definitely going to set her straight on that.) My story will be a complete one, and you know that I don't lie. Plus I have *tons* of documents to back me up—everything from police and post office documents, to the forensic document examination report, to copies of the actual documents that you forged. (Plus I became something of a document examiner myself, so that people could see with their own eyes that you’re a forger. For example, doing your school years, you changed the way you form a particular letter--for example, in the forged signature for my last name--in a way that is nearly completely unique in this day and age. And the documents you created have all the hallmarks that document examiners know about forgeries.)

But I will use the internet as well. Social media of all kinds, of course. Forums, relevant sites. Anyplace I can find, with, as before, documents that back me up. People need to know who they’re dealing with in their lives.

***

To the reader: Shannon Marie Bussberg and I live in different states, and met online through a kinky match site. For a long while, we communicated with email and text. Then she told me that she was entering summer school at a prestigious university near me. This was a total lie, as I later learned from them when I was contacting them for writing samples for the document examiner. She ended up living at my place while she pretended to go to school. Then she stayed here with me after school supposedly ended for the term, and lived here for years, meanwhile stealing everything I had (except for a half ownership in the family house). She worked for a little while, but soon stopped, preferring to bleed me while she destroyed me. I loved her, which was a huge misjudgment on my part. In my defense, she hid her lies very well; she is a very good psychopath, and I never noticed any lies while she was here. After she used up all of my money and more, she stole from my sister, who was not in love and less gullible and vulnerable than I. That put the police on her tail, and Shannon, seeing a bleak future ahead for herself if she stayed, went back to Indiana. She, no doubt hoping that everything would blow over and she'd be able to return to continue parasitizing me further, perhaps taking the house (she had wanted to marry me, and I suspect that was the house was her objective for that). I truly thought she was innocent, for way too long. But since she was now back in Indiana and no longer had access to my mail (though she wanted me to send my mail to her, for her to "sort"), a letter from the IRS, telling me about taxes that I knew I didn't owe, was shocking. I still thought that, somehow, she was innocent, but before long I realized the truth. Looking back, I know that she only came to live with me for two reasons: my trusting vulnerability and her unusual sexual proclivities. She never loved me. The bottom line, for readers that encounter her, is that Shannon is a psychopath, is a very convincing liar, and neither looks nor acts like a psychopath. You should skip first impressions, and observe her for a while. I'm particularly concerned for her son, and the effect her behavior has on him.

On to my tidbits directed to Shannon.

⦁ 00, which was our code for a particular form of sex practice. I'm certain that's the main reason that you came to this city. The practice was disgusting and dangerous for me. And you should know that I’ve suffered permanent serious physical damage because of it. Maybe I should describe it in detail, but I'd truly like to avoid sharing it in public if at all possible, even though it gives a great insight into your evil. I'll probably wait for a little while to see whether you're going to make things right, and if you don't, give a more full account. There’s so much related info to tell people, such as the time you tried to drown me in the bathtub. Keep in mind, Shannon, that the story makes you look far worse than me.

⦁ You told the police—TWICE—that I sexually abused you. The irony, of course, is that our roles were exactly reversed. It’s interesting that, when I told the detective that I wanted to press charges against you, he predicted, matter-of-factly, that you would make that claim against me. At the time I didn’t believe him, but he was right. By his statement I guess that many women lie a lot about such things when claims are made against them.

⦁ When you stole the car (yes, OF COURSE I have documents about that as well—and I talked to the prosecutor later), you left a lot of my CDs in there. Then, when I got furious with law enforcement and the judicial system for picking on my poor, innocent (sarcasm), girlfriend, I persuaded you to go to your home state with me so that I could try to straighten things out for you. I don’t know why you agreed to go there, because of course you wouldn’t let me talk to the prosecutor and thereby learn the truth. More important these days is that you wouldn’t “permit” me to go to the police to pick up the CDs from the car, obviously because you were afraid of hearing the truth from them. The result is that I not only didn’t get the CDs, but I didn’t even remember all of the artists and titles, so that I couldn’t replace them. Of course, that's just one of many messes you left behind for me to try to straighten up, such as the reader you stole from the library, the tons of library fines over books you stole, all the services you secretly attached to my landline, and the bill that you ran up on the cell phone that was under my name but that you were the one that used.

⦁ When you decided to screw me over, you knew that any letters and such sent to my address increased your chance of being discovered. So you went to a nearby town's post office, and opened a post office box there. You even added my dead mother's name to the box. I still have the forged federal application in your handwriting.

⦁ One of the writings you left behind was a letter to my money fund, telling them to make you the beneficiary if I die. You sucked up my money so fast and thoroughly that you never had an opportunity to actually send it in, but of course I still have it, with your handwriting. But the take-home message is that you were hoping for my death. Or maybe planning it? If you had played it straightforwardly, you could have just asked me to write it myself.  Back in those innocent days, I would have done it for you eagerly.

⦁ When you knew that time was running out between you and the police because you also stole from my sister, you prepared, behind my back, for your departure. You hid all kinds of your stuff in the attic behind the costumes you and I had gathered. That’s how I got so many writing samples for the document examiner to use. Previously I had written to your former employers for any scraps. Treasure trove, afterward.

⦁ When you left, we stayed in contact for a while, before I knew the full truth of what you had done. You asked me to mail your sewing machine to you, while you encouraged me to drink a lot of vodka so I’d finish the task. And you even had me send you money for food. You used me like a parasite does, knowing full well that I was going to have to go through total financial hell in the near future. What kind of human being does that to someone else? A psychopath.

⦁ I noticed that you were looking for a car right after you left. Which is really, really wrong, because I had no car at this point and you left me with no money for a car of my own. Which makes me wonder: there was a lot of money that we could have used to buy a car before, but instead you insisted on continually getting rental cars (supposedly paid for by your father, but really paid out of the money you stole from me). Why did you do that? Buying a car outright would have made my money last longer, so this makes no sense, even for a psychopath. Is it because it would be more obvious that I alone was paying for the car for the both of us?

⦁ I emailed with your former roommate or friend (was her name Elizabeth?—I can’t exactly remember, although I can dig it up if necessary). She said that you were the most deceptive person she’d ever met. I will give you that—you certainly don’t have the *appearance* of a psychopath, shy and quiet acting and all.

⦁ Afterward, in an email to Stacy, you said that my sister and I were totally screwed up. But neither one of us hurt anyone, while you stole from both of us and destroyed one of us.,

⦁ I remember when we were first started off with emailing back and forth, I was online, both day and night. Later I asked whether it seemed strange that I was always available, and asked what you’d thought about that. You said that you’d assumed I was a genius child, keeping school hours. I was shocked, because we were conducting some seriously kinky conversation. Didn’t you worry about damaging the kid psychologically? Nope, you said.

⦁ An aside: In college, you ran away without telling anyone, leaving people thinking, for a long time, that you were dead. (Documentation is available in newspaper copies online.) When you told me about it later, you showed me a picture of your father during the time your parents spent searching for you. He was exhausted and depressed. But instead of that making you feel bad about what you had caused, you were proud that you had evaded detection. At the time, I assumed that I was reading your emotions wrong. But I now know better.

⦁ I just remembered: Once you and I happened to be driving behind a strip mall after hours. A cop car started following us. You were cool. You suggested to me that I should get out and pretend to be examining the tire tread for a stuck rock. That worked fine, and the cop moved on. I told you that I had been nervous. You told me that you hadn't been, because you always assume that you are smarter than the police. That seemed incredibly arrogant to me. True, you might be smarter than some individual cops. But you don't have their training and experience, the capability to call other police on the radio for backup, and weaponry. Every once in a while you'd let such incredible arrogance show through.

⦁ I remembered this as well. Once you joked, about a woman whose child had been killed, that it was no big deal since she can always make another. After you left here, I read a lot of books about psychopaths, to try to figure you out. The author of one of the books told the exact same joke, as an example of how psychopaths have a lack of empathy. I always wondered whether you told the joke because you had read in the same book, while you were reading to try to understand your own self.

⦁ After the police went to Indianapolis to interrogate you, they told me that you'd agreed to pay me back everything you stole. But you never sent me anything at all. I aim to change that. Please don't make the mistake that if you just ignore this email, I will simply drop it all.

[arecomicsevengood]

“Follow Your Own Star”

Lately I’ve found it hard to shake the feeling that everything of value is being destroyed, but we are being given simulacra in exchange, while we wait, to soften the blow. The relationship between the U.S. economy and what actually has value is basically nil, obviously, and COVID has only highlighted that, but beyond that, being in isolation has brought to light how much of what I consider “real” because it exists outside the bounds of money is nonetheless vulnerable. We’ve been given podcasts to fill our working hours with parasocial relationships where once we may’ve had genuine camaraderie with our coworkers. We’re given desultory political candidates to vote for in the absence of those who would govern in accordance with our actual beliefs. It feels like an elaborate art heist is taking place, where the masterpieces are exchanged for forgeries, and the endgame of those seeking to enrich themselves is to set a bonfire of all that’s made us human, all we’ve invested our true selves into. All this can occur only because our relationships have been made increasingly transactional already. I wondered at the start of quarantine how many couples, with the ability to see one another in the flesh compromised, had switched to having “sex” over Skype, how many intimate relationships were compromised by distance into resembling cam shows. Partly this curiosity was a way of comforting myself, as I came to the understanding that I would not be entering into anything approaching a real romantic relationship for the foreseeable future.

In the context of all of this, reading a book that feels reminiscent of the work of another artist feels like a minor thing, but it slips easily enough into the larger pattern. After reading Roaming Foliage by Patrick Kyle, I thought “Huh, this is very much a CF/Brian Chippendale thing.” Then, after reading Eight-Lane Runaways by Henry McCausland, I thought, “Oh, this is even more like a CF thing.” Both are, I think, appropriate for kids, which Powr Mastrs isn’t, but I also never read Powr Mastrs and felt like the thing that made it good was its BDSM pornography elements. People have been biting CF’s style for years — enough for him to address it with a little note in the third Powr Mastrs book, instructing them to “follow your own star.” Simon Hanselmann admits the similarities between the character design for Owl and a character in CF’s story in Kramers Ergot 5, Hanselmann’s subsequent popularity seems to suggest a moment where something becomes less of a direct influence and more just something that exists generally in the world. It’s art: Inspiration, influence, and appropriation are all part of the game. Reading Hanselmann, I’ve wondered what his work would’ve been like before exposure to his most obvious influences; reading these, I wondered instead if they would still have been made had Powr Mastrs 4 ever come out, to finish out the story and close the system; it feels like, in a transactional relationship between artist and audience, the fact of a work remaining unfinished makes it more socially acceptable to steal from. For instance, think of the debt Alejandro Jodorowsky’s The Holy Mountain owes to Rene Daumal’s Mount Analogue. It feels like an attempt to create something with an ending, to satisfy a desire for the logic to reach its conclusion. The comics fulfill a certain set of expectations, I found them a pleasant enough experience, satisfying on a certain level. However, on a deeper level, I found them completely unsatisfying, because they speak so directly to a sense of unfulfilled potential. They lack the thrill that CF’s comics provide, of totally transcending any expectations placed on them.

Measuring the impact made by CF, Paper Rad, and the Fort Thunder contingent is difficult to calculate, because there were so many radical gestures inside that work, and while some have been metabolized, others have not. The “reclamation of genre material in an art-school context” is maybe the most readily understood. Johnny Ryan’s Prison Pit probably wouldn’t exist were it not for these comics, but that’s such a “who cares” for me, such a dumbed-down and simplistic understanding of what makes these comics good. The silkscreening of covers is close behind, in terms of something that people really ran with. That’s fine, no one owns silkscreening, it looks great. What hasn’t really been reckoned with are the gestures against commodity fetishism. Paper Rodeo is progenitor of the free comics newspaper format, but the work that ran there is so much wilder than what you see in what followed, and most of it was anonymous. I understand why that was a gauntlet that wasn’t picked up, but is still one of the things that made an impact on its initial readership. Similarly, I haven’t seen anyone steal the CF format of the single-sheet xerox, with comics on the front and back. I guess that’s not surprising! But honestly? Sick format.

I’ve just been talking about comics, but Lightning Bolt playing on the floor is its own radical gesture, albeit one with an obvious precedent in the form of Crash Worship. The Forcefield oeuvre is its own thing. Those videos are great! The animation made out of photographing the cutting layers of multicolored clay… I wonder how much of this stuff hasn’t been picked up on because it’s the last stand of working with real world physical materials, before the coming of digital as the default medium for art students to work in. Obviously, the silkscreening has similar roots in physical media, and playing on floors relates directly to how you communicate with people when you’re in the same physical space as them. Real world community has distinct advantages, but many that came after took the trade for the benefits working digitally provides. Anyway. I could write a 33 1/3 book proposal for Lightning Bolt’s Ride The Skies that addresses all this stuff, but I also believe I would not be the best person to write such a book; I suspect those better suited would not be interested.

There is something so exciting about artists whose work feels overflowing with ideas, not just on a level of concept or drawing but also in terms of how the work is presented. That whole Providence/Picturebox crew was so abundant with this creative ferment that when I see others picking up on individual threads it makes sense on a certain level — you want more of a certain thing — but if it’s not backed up by something distinctly unique, as a reader I’m hyper-aware of what’s absent.

These artists also made books, and records, and it was their doing so that brought their work to a larger audience, including me. Not everything has to be a gesture against making money. But at the same time, radical gestures suggest the benefits made in fostering community work out better in the long term than leveraging oneself to be consumed as a commodity does. This is not to suggest that McCausland or Kyle are doing something wrong that will sabotage some sort of grand plan for utopia: I’m really just riffing here. If I buy electronic music mp3s online, I’m not necessarily going to lament the death of live music performance the same way I do when buying the mp3s of a jazz act. Looking at a contemporary superhero comic that feels dire and ugly will make me nostalgic for the Mike Parobeck comics of my youth, but a contemporary black and white zine exists in a completely different universe and might not remind me of anything. Certain things make you miss the world that was more than others.

It’s also worth noting that by all accounts Patrick Kyle has a bunch of people online ripping off his style but I have successfully been able to avoid such people. While Roaming Foliage is consciously modeled after the sort of weird adventure comics of not just Powr Mastrs, but also Brian Chippendale’s If N Oof,  What I am most often seeing and thinking “that’s a ripoff” is the presence of these geometrical patterns which are also similar to design choices made throughout his oeuvre. There’s a chaotic, obfuscatory energy approach to comics that he works with frequently, but so much of his other comics feel dark, melancholy, or paranoid whereas this feels much lighter in its tone. At the same time, compared to the claustrophobia of Don’t Come In Here, having his characters move about makes for an adventure narrative. Watching them wander, interact, and be given quests and goals belongs to this tradition that’s not unique to the Picturebox artists — but the feeling that this fantasy material was arrived at through adventure games like Zelda moreso than Tolkien makes for this sort of… generational level of familiarity, rather than seeming to occupy some sort of Campbellian myth-space, if that makes sense. The strangeness of Kyle’s art, where backgrounds overtake figures, suggests a sort of PC glitching, almost like the Cory Arcangel/Paper Rad collaboration Super Mario Movie, but achieved through photocopier technology of blowing up and distorting images. It is the sensation of a feeling being chased after that makes the book feel less exciting and more melancholy, though subsequently, that darker feeling might make the book slot into Kyle’s oeuvre so much that bigger fans of his might not even notice the resemblance I’m seeing.

McCausland has a list of acknowledgments in his book which includes CF alongside Herge and Otomo. I can sort of see them all, but Herge especially is an influence that’s been so widely absorbed by comics as a whole that I really only feel particularly aware of it in the case of Joost Swarte or something. McCausland’s resemblance to CF is reinforced by things as molecular as a resemblance in the lettering, which is really odd. The figures all have this youthful smallness to them, and I can’t tell if the characters are meant to be young specifically or if it’s just the way he’s learned to draw. I can see Otomo, but it’s definitely approached through the CF filter. Other trademarks, like the rendering of geometric shapes, the patterns of parallel lines, seems integrated, highlighted, by the “racetrack” premise that gives the book its name. However, he distinguishes himself because his work is more constantly busy, with the same general level of detail. There’s also these trees in the background, which seem like they’re rendered as these painted soft grey daubs, a type of texture you don’t see in CF’s darkened pencil work.

His storytelling is different, prone to large spreads, or showing the same character multiple times in a panel as they move across the landscape. (The dimensions of Eight-Lane Runaways are considerably larger than those of Powr Mastrs.) There are nonetheless panels that seem exactly like CF drawings, but with a less cryptic sense of humor. It feels more populist, like it’s based around what a person liked, and in the act of working it out, subtracted the mystery. What would’ve been a detailed “money shot” in a CF sequence is here the baseline level of drawing detail that never gets subtracted from. It’s really fascinating to me how this makes it less good, I think many people would prefer it.

I wrote most of this before learning that Anthology is releasing a new CF book next week. You can order it and see preview images at the Floating World site. You can draw your own conclusions. CF’s on his own path such that you might not even note a resemblance between his new images and McCausland’s. We’re all living on the same planet, orbiting the same sun in an expanding universe, subject to the will of an accelerating time.

[nahte123456]

Marinette Bio-Dad idea, White Collar:Neal

Alright I was doing that stupid fanfic-writer thing where I saw two characters in a short time frame and went “I bet I can think of a story for this”. Those two being Marinette and Neal. I like the whole Bio-dad thing and they do both have blue eyes so I went with it when I found something out, Neal is meant to be around 33 in Season 3 as far as I can figure(it’s said the character is meant to be around the actors age and that kinda works with what Ellen says iirc) and Marinette is meant to be 13.

Neal’s age is an approximate and we know that when he was 18 and ran away from home he did some stupid stuff until Mozzie picked him up. So is it so hard to believe that Neal, fresh from running away and just starting to con see’s a vacationing Tom and Sabine, thinks to try and con/steal some money from them, and starts buying them drinks under an assumed(and older) name. He then learns that they are nice people that seem to just care about him because they are good people and can’t go through with the con, but at that point they are all drunk and attractive young adults and nature takes it’s course and an accident with a condom makes a Marinette that Neal doesn’t know about.

Until a few years later that is. We know Neal was in Paris at one point so in between con’s he remember this nice couple that helped him out for a night and decides he’ll look them up, pop into there restaurant and buy something, maybe they won’t even recognize him. Only to see tiny Mari who 100% has his eyes. And Sabine walks in and she’s not dumb, she recognizes Neal and realizes what he see’s and so he’s invited in and they all have a talk about there daughter.

So Neal starts to give an abridged version of his side of the story when Babynette walks over with a surprisingly good colored pencil sketch of what was, if only by the colors, clearly him. And Neal has a bit of a breakdown at this point, not like a sobbing wreck or anything but he has a host of family issues, pressure from being on the run, and the surprise of a daughter all get to him so instead of some made up story he tells them the truth about the whole witness protection childhood and once he starts he can’t stop until he’s told them everything about being a con, and they were originally his marks and now he’s a master forger and con artist.

Tom and Sabine are...accepting. They don’t really understand either Neal’s need to do these things or the reasons he started but they get that his life was different from theirs, and despite being a criminal he’s been nothing but a good guy to them. So they invite Neal to stay the night and he agrees, eating dinner with the family and bonding with the 3, before sleeping in the guest room.

The next day the adults work out a deal. Neal doesn’t want to be some absentee father Marinette only learns about when she’s an adult and wonders about him forever like he had to, but obviously he can’t just stay for a number of reasons, not the least of which is ‘Burke The Jerk’ getting closer and closer every day. So instead they set up communications, he can call, send gifts, letters, whatever, as long as no big trouble is tracked back to them and no gift or money he sends is illegal. He agrees.

So this goes on and flows into the show until just before Sarah finds out about the U-Boat treasure Mozzie has. White Collar is mostly the same as Neal is still keeping Marinette away from things, and he’s more then sneaky enough to get into contact without being caught, Neal is slightly better off as he was more cautious and he kept more resources to send/liquidate for Marinette.

As for Miraculous, again largely the same overall, Marinette is slightly more confident and knowledgeable about art, she does forgeries as a type of destressing although she always signs them to not get in trouble. The only large change is her having more money for her designing, and that she tells Neal about the Miraculous as he’s far enough away to be safe and he knows better then anyone about secrets and needing to do things.

The change comes after Lila shows up again, I don’t imagine this as a salt-fic(I like salt-fics fine but I don’t think that tone would work great with White Collar) but that is a lot of stress for a teen. Her designing, being bullied, being a superhero, school, just everything. So Neal offers Tom and Sabine a deal, he can take her in for like a month, where she only has to worry about designing and keeping up with school(and Superhero work but with Horse and Rabbit Miraculous that’s also easier without so many people watching). Then Neal and Mari talk and she agrees, she’ll take Tikki, the Rabbit and Horse, some design stuff, and school necessities and that’s it. Just destressing in New York with her father.

Of course Neal being a little shit Neal picks an airport just outside of his range and then at the Burke’s one day he tells Peter “Hey I need your help to get to ____Airport tomorrow, my daughter is coming in and I want to pick her up.” After the freak out from both Burke’s and Neal’s taunting he give a (mostly) complete explanation about his stupid years then finding out about his daughter. To which Peter correctly figures out where some money had vanished in the past and why Neal sometimes went above board to get jewelry and such, to give it to his daughter without any heat being attached.

So Peter agrees to go with him, but El decides she’s going to and rather then trying to both bunk at Neal’s place Marinette can stay in there guest bedroom(Peter’s not thrilled with this sudden information but rolls with it for now). The next day they go to pick up Marinette, who’s cuteness and happiness wins over El immediately although Peter is more suspicious.

After that is a lot of bonding, Marinette shows her signed-forgeries which both worries Peter(she is already far to good at that for his comfort), but also comforts him(even when not selling Neal never so blatantly made sure his work was distinguishable from the real thing), although Marinette does kind of ruin that by stealing his wallet as a “I am Neal’s daughter” thing, same smile to. Neal loves it, El thinks she’s adorable, Peter just knows this’ll mean more work for him somehow.

Over the next week Marinette works on some dresses and meets the rest of the crew. She and Diana get along good, Diana likes her spunk, she and Jones bonds surprisingly well(I want Jones to have a bigger role then normal), and June loves her as much as El does. Mozzie freaks out more then a little at first, but after he gets over it he becomes convinced Marinette will be great and really tries to corrupt her and Marinette does like him in his own zany way.

As for her and Sarah, they grind at first, Marinette doesn’t want to ruin anything for Neal and Sarah doesn’t know how to deal with a child so they kind of both try to pull back without hurting anyone and it all goes wrong but eventually they bond and Marinette asks to make her a dress that looks good and hides her baton and Sarah agrees. Neal’s happy about this but also more then slightly worried about getting teamed up on(it’s bad enough when Moz and Peter gang up on him much less them).

I’ll be honest I don’t have a real ‘plot’ in mind mostly just a bunch of character interaction I think would be great fun. Marinette and El talking fashion, Neal and Peter having a talk on how to deal with a child, and so on so forth.

[hollyberry06]

Well, I’ve hit a bit of a wall with my art, which is just peachy. I really wanted to get my next character Nori done before this weekend, but I know if I continued on with the sketch I have, I wouldn’t be satisfied. Honestly, I think the best thing to do is start fresh and hopefully do a better job. Oh well, my art mood was fun while it lasted! 😊

But I still want to do something significant this week, so I’m actually gonna post something I wrote many months ago. I’m by no means a great writer, most of the time I spend hours writing a single post because I’ve gotten much worse at condensing what I’m trying to say and putting things into words. But I recently posted Rin’s art, so it makes more sense to share it now.

Also I’ve never posted any of my own writing before ever, so I hope yall like it :) I definitely have a way to go before I can be satisfied with my own writing, but posting something is definitely a start.

Rin Lyall- Introduction

An icy chill swept through the wind as we stood around on the rooftops. The sun had barely just risen, and the light was weak, forcing us to keep a closer watch on the streets below. My ears twitched in the cold breeze and my tail shivered, waving around lightly behind me. "Why'd we have to leave this early again? I haven't even eaten breakfast!" Kyro, who was sitting nearby on some of the steadier roof shingles, loudly complained. "You know the delivery guys don't know addresses around here. They come early, we've gotta find them ourselves." I reminded him with a sigh. “Still don’t see why we couldn’t have gotten some breakfast or somethin’…” He continued, rubbing his stomach. Jace, who had been quiet up until now, spoke up in my defence. “Not like we have anything at home. We can pick something up afterwards; the younger ones need it more than us.” He said with a smile in Kyro’s direction. I chuckled quietly to myself. That was just like Jace, staying positive as usual.

I occasionally glanced back at Kyro and Jace who casually chatted to fight away the boredom, but I mostly kept my eyes on the roads, scanning them for any trace of delivery men. It wasn’t too hard to spot them- usually human, usually looking confused, scared stiff or a bit of both. I kept my ears open too, for any unusual sounds or conversations that could be linked to them. “Hey, watch where ya goin, punk!” A gruff, unfamiliar voice called out from below. I looked down and saw a shrewd young man with a big satchel bag over his shoulder. He was being confronted by a very muscular man, who sported a pair of large elf ears and a cigarette hanging from his lips. “S-s-sorry…” The young man stuttered. I took a closer look at the satchel and noticed the loose letters hanging out of the side. That’s him, without a doubt. “Whatcha here for?” “I’m… h-here to deliver some mail…” the young man responded, confirming my suspicions. I quickly turned back to Kyro and Jace to alert them of my discovery. “Guys, I foun-“ As soon as I turned around to speak, I was interrupted by the sight of the boys bickering with each other. “What are ya talking about?! Meat is obviously better than fish!” Jace growled at Kyro. He took a couple of steps closer to Kyro and bared his teeth. “Yeah, and how do you suppose we get hold of it? Fish is the best option, and it’s the easiest to pick up, moron!” Kyro hissed, his ears and hair sticking up on ends. I sighed deeply, swearing to myself that next time I’d just bring Twyla and Torren with me, and strode over to them. “Are you aware that we don’t have time for this?!” I furiously interjected the argument, grabbing both of them by the ears. “What are you two even arguing about!?” “We were talkin’ about breakfast, and Kyro was sayin-“ Jace prepared to explain the reason to me, but was quickly interrupted by Kyro. “I suggested we could go catch some fish before we head back and have it grilled, but this knucklehead thinks that meat would be better! It’s breakfast, not some bulky three-course meal! Plus it costs a fortune and I don’t fancy running from that butcher again!” Kyro didn’t hesitate to put his own argument forth once again. “Guys! We have more important things to get on with right now! Like, the mailman who JUST walked by! Well, he’s probably already managed to get halfway to the pier by now…” I snarled at the boys as I let them go, both of them backed off immediately. I turned around and leapt off the roof, preparing to dash after the mailman down the street. Unfortunately, I hadn’t managed to pick up his scent, so I had nothing to track him down with. Light, quick footsteps came up from behind me and sped past. Jace and Kyro had managed to beat me to the chase, preferring to take their animal forms to quicken their pace and catch the mailman themselves. I sped up to follow the young golden-haired retriever and sleek black cat who led in front.

By the time I finally caught up to them, Jace and Kyro had the mailman cornered in an alleyway so we could talk to him… which must’ve seemed far more threatening than our intentions. It wasn’t hard to miss the terrified expression on the poor guy’s face, so I tried to lighten my tone. I didn’t dare smile, afraid that my sharp incisors might give him a heart attack. “You’re here to deliver mail, yeah?” I asked him. He gulped and nodded. “Got any letters for me?” I pressed further. “N-name…?” He shivered as he asked. “Rin Lyall.” I quickly responded. His shaking hands opened the satchel and began searching through. “G-got one right here, Miss. Gedonelune Royal Magic Academy…” He handed it over to me and I quickly looked at the envelope. The genuine article- a letter from Gedonelune Academy. “Anything else for the same address?” “Uhhh….” He delved back into his satchel and pulled out a couple more letters. “A few… Jace Damarrow, Twyla Elbion…. Kyro Nekoga… and…. Torren?” He pulled out the pile of identical envelopes, all stamped with a professional wax seal from the Academy. “That’s all. Jace, Kyro, let him go…” I instructed the boys as I collected the letters from the mailman’s trembling fingers and stood against the wall. Kyro released his claws from the mailman’s shirt and Jace backed off a little, giving the young man a straight path back onto the main street. Without wasting a second, he sprinted away, his feet barely keeping up with him as he stumbled. “Real nice, Kyro. You practically gave the dude a heart attack.” I said to Kyro as I inspected the envelopes, checking carefully for any tampering or signs of forgery. Knowing this area, it wouldn’t have been a surprise. “Yeah! I told you that you were being too harsh!” Jace backed me up, with a hint of arrogance in his voice. I didn’t look at his face, but something told me he was probably wearing a smug smirk. “You weren’t much better, Jace. There’s intimidating someone, and then there’s practically suffocating them. Back off a little, it’s not like the guy is gonna hurt you or anything.” I retorted. This time it was Kyro’s turn to laugh. Seeing them bicker like cat and dog could get repetitive at times, but I had to admit, it was pretty funny too and I couldn’t hold back a little laugh. “We’ll check these out later, with Twyla and Torren. It’s only fair…” I turned back to Jace and Kyro with the letters in hand. “What now?” Jace asked as he walked closer to me. Kyro quickly dashed up behind and leaned over Jace’s shoulder to interject. “Breakfast?!” He asked eagerly. “Yep, breakfast.” I smirked, leading the way out of the alley.