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poetskings · 18 days

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@jegulus-microfic | May 3: rush | 1.8k

James is in a rush to get to work, until he meets someone that makes London public transport less awful.

James is running late.

It had been a morning of little catastrophes; James slept through his alarm, his clothes were still damp from where he’d done laundry a little bit too late the day before, and Remus had drunk the last of the coffee so naturally James had to call in at the local coffee shop rather than getting it at home.

All of this to say he’s spectacularly late.

He’s got a meeting at eleven and unless some minor miracles occur and public transport actually functions for a change, he’s going to be fifteen minutes late.

He fires an email off to Lily all but begging her to cover until he gets there (she says yes, because she’s an actual literal angel and James would drop dead if he had to function a day without her) and power walks to Camden Town station, because even as late as he is, full on running is a bit too undignified.

The one small mercy of him running hideously late is that the tube station is pretty quiet – there’s only a handful of people waiting on the platform. James puts his headphones on and takes out his book, zoning out as he waits for the train to arrive.

It doesn’t take long; the Northern line is generally reliable outside of rush hour, so James finds his way into a carriage and sits down, preparing to read for the rest of his commute.

That is, until he glances around the carriage and his vision catches on the person sat opposite him.

He’s quite possibly the most attractive person James has ever laid eyes on; all dark hair and thunderstorm eyes and oh, his hands. They’re delicate and decorated in rings and gripping onto a pencil as he sketches.

James has always been a hopeless romantic; ask any one of his friends and they’ll tell you that he falls fast and hard. He’s attracted to shiny things; to pretty things, and this boy sat across from him is all of that and more.

It takes everything in him to not go and sit next to the stranger, but even he can acknowledge that it’d be a bit weird. So he completely forgets that he should be paying attention to his book and instead opts for glancing up at him every minute or so after making some vague and half-hearted attempt at reading his page for the fifth time in as many minutes.

And then James’ world shifts on its axis.

He glances at the pretty stranger to find him already looking. James offers a small smile, aborting an attempt at a wave when he’s already halfway through the motion.

The stranger laughs and it’s possibly the most gorgeous sound James has ever heard in his life. He wants to hear that sound forever. He watches as this divine creature raises his hand before mimicking his aborted move, and James is gone.

He wants to sit on this train forever and make eye contact with this angel who’s decided to grace the Northern line at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday.

The stranger breaks eye contact first, going back to whatever he’s sketching, and James wants to see those storm cloud eyes again but is equally enthralled by the graceful movements of his hand as it drags a pencil over paper.

James has always liked hands, sue him.

A few more minutes pass before James summons the courage to say something. He doesn’t know how much longer the stranger is going to be on the tube, and for all that today has been absolutely awful, he thinks, if he believed in a god, that he would believe that this was divine intervention.

He takes his headphones off, ready to give the stranger his full attention, only to realise that he’s humming under his breath. It’s liquor-smooth and James wants to drink it in forever. He doesn’t recognise the song but he doesn’t want it to end. It’s his new favourite song, he thinks.

He clears his throat and the stranger stops humming, blinking up at him. James offers a small grin again, walking over familiar ground with him. This is what strangers on the tube do; this is normal. Then he veers off course.

“What’re you humming?” he asks. The angel across the carriage raises an eyebrow, shutting his sketchbook before standing up. He steps closer, closer, and James thinks he’s stopped breathing.

He pointedly looks at James’ bag, which is on the seat next to him, and James is suddenly all limbs and no grace as he moves it as quickly as possible, drawing that laugh out once again. James wants to wake up to that sound; it’s a shot of espresso to his soul.

He offers James an earphone, and James is helpless. He takes it as the angel speaks to him for the first time.

“It’s Dreams by Hana Vu. She released an album today and I’ve fallen in love.” He tilts his head back as the song washes over him and James is only half listening, instead focused on the long line of his neck. James has fallen in love too, he thinks, but with a man, and not with a song.

James lets the song play as he continues to stare. It’s only when the stranger turns to look at him that he realises that the track has come to an end and he’s expected to say something.

“My name’s James,” he offers, and he’s sure it’s not what the stranger wanted, but it’s all he has. He is hollowed out of everything and anything that isn’t the man on the train with him.

The man raises an eyebrow but nonetheless offers his own in return. Regulus.

After that it’s like the floodgates open. This stranger has offered James his headphone and his name and James would be a fool to not make the most of this opportunity.

He’s only half paying attention to the stops as they fly past, the eleven o’clock meeting barely even registering as a thought. He hears the call for Tottenham Court Road but Regulus is talking about his course at UCL, about how he wants to be an artist but he’s promised his parents he’ll at least try to stick out the law degree before blowing his future chance at earning money to smithereens.

James quickly glances down, firing off another email to Lily and apologising profusely but something important has come up that he simply cannot miss.

He talks about how he never really knew what he wanted to do until Lily mentioned journalism. The two have set up a small independent media organisation that he loves and can’t wait to build up. Regulus looks genuinely interested, and James has waited for what feels like forever for someone to look at him like that.

James loves his friends, he does, but when he was younger he established himself as a class clown, and his wants very rarely get taken seriously. It’s nice to have someone take him seriously, to care about his hopes and dreams and to ask intelligent questions about his plans for Sectastra Media. He knows that Lily is the real brains of the business, but he’s not completely ignorant, and Regulus seems to get that.

Tottenham Court is a distant thought, and he knows it runs contradictory to the passion he’s had for it when talking to Regulus, but this man sat beside him is magical and James doesn’t want to miss this.

Their conversation winds through countless topics and James cannot remember the last time it felt this easy for him to exist in his own skin. It’s only when he starts to get a slew of messages that he realises that they’ve been on the tube for nearly forty minutes. He glances apologetically at Regulus and calls Lily back, fully prepared for a thorough bollocking, which even he can admit he deserves.

He glances at the boy next to him and prepares himself to admit that he should’ve gotten off the tube three stops ago when he sees Regulus frantically firing off a text about how he’s not going to make the contracts lecture and can someone please send him the notes.

James doesn’t even try to hide his smile as he nudges Regulus. “Running late too, huh?”

Regulus startles slightly, a rosy flush creeping up his neck, and it’s the most gorgeous thing James has ever seen.

“I was meant to get off at Warren Street.”

James stops breathing. He stops existing. His entire world has narrowed down to the contours of Regulus’ body.

Warren Street was two stops before Tottenham Court.

The words are out before James has fully processed them.

“Go on a date with me?”

Regulus looks startled, like he can’t quite believe this is real. Silence starts to stretch.

“I was meant to get off at Tottenham Court. Go on a date with me?”

Regulus starts breathing again and James’ world starts turning again.

“Alright,” he says, and it is soft and tentative and oh so fragile and James wants to frame this moment.

The pair get off the tube, waiting for a new train to take them in the opposite direction. Something has shifted between them, and James lets his fingers brush against the back of Regulus’ hand, feeling the cool bite of his rings.

Regulus doesn’t move away.

The second train comes and they don’t even consider sitting anywhere other than next to each other. James and Regulus has become JamesAndRegulus, and the conversation flows and something rare and precious has been created.

Tottenham Court approaches, and Regulus breaks conversation, turning so that James can no longer see his sketchbook as he writes frantically across the page.

He tears out the page, offering it to James. It’s a sketch of him; rough around the edges but James knows what it means. In the top right hand corner, a number is written in delicate cursive.

James looks away from the drawing, finding Regulus biting his lip, that beautiful rose blush drawn across his cheeks.

James is helpless; so far gone and without any desire to find his way back to the person he was before he stepped on the train this morning.

“Thank you,” he says, throwing his bag over his shoulder. He pulls his phone out, immediately plugging Regulus’ number in and sending a text to the angel on the tube.

Regulus nods and says, “you’re welcome.”

The tube doors open on Tottenham Court and James makes his way to his office, feeling lighter than he has in months.

Lily will rightfully be fuming, and James knows that it’s nearly midday, but he thinks that perhaps he wasn’t late after all.

He was right where he needed to be, right on time.

#jegulus #regulus black #james potter #starchaser #marauders #marauders era #sunseeker #jegulus microfic #dead gay wizards #si writes #microfics but each time i write one it gets longer #watch me write a full length novel still calling it a microfic #also go listen to hana vu’s album it’s incredible thank u x

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syoddeye · 2 months

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useless, part three

Part three (and the finale!) of my submission to @glitterypirateduck's O, Captain! Challenge. As a reminder, I rolled a d100 to select three prompts. I finally used my third prompt.

42. The story spans over a period of 10 or more years

14. Opposites attract

66. Price or Reader is auctioned off for a date as part of a fundraiser

cw: one pregnancy mention (Reader does not get pregnant, has never been pregnant)

Read Part One, Part Two. Tag list: @v1x3n @kiranezra

~4.2k words, Price x f!Reader. This is the most self-indulgent shit I've written in awhile. Please enjoy.

It's past midnight when you limp through the front door of your flat, dropping belongings and articles of clothing alike, shedding both the weight of personhood and your eighteen-hour day. You set your keys down on the end of the counter, ignoring the thin folder for the umpteenth time. James will undoubtedly text about it in the morning, his patronizing messages more reliable than any alarm clock. A half-hour commute home, and you didn't even glance at your phone in fear of accidentally seeing another email from his lawyer. Solicitor. Whatever.

Hamhock slinks out from his lair beneath the bed, weaving between your ankles when you drag yourself into the bathroom.

"Hello Hammy," You whisper, eyeing the newer crop of gray hairs near your roots with a weary neutrality. Definitely the fundraiser's fault. Your hair started to change long before this year's planning began, but this is the longest period you've gone without dyeing it. One thing to thank James for. Not only did his departure give you a crystal clear focus, it freed you from his ridiculous expectations. He'd've commented the moment he spotted the wisps of silver, then casually worked something like anti-aging cream into the conversation.

The prick poisoned the well, and now the only man in the world for you currently lies at your feet. How it should've been from the start, really.

After checking the orange menace's automatic feeder, you slip into bed, allow him to assume his nocturnal throne—your armpit—and plug your phone in one-handed. Your eyes glaze over at the sight of notifications, thumb swiping by muscle memory, and set an alarm. With two weeks left until the big day and more than a hundred unsold tickets, you need every moment you can get. You sigh, counting the tasks of the day ahead instead of sheep.

You'll sign the divorce papers tomorrow.

Naomi practically forces the granola bar into your hands. The assistant stage manager and the props lead—the younger woman is the glue to your glue. A newer fixture at the Bramble Theatre, she was you to an extent, maybe a decade ago: fresh-faced, eager, and optimistic.

"I didn't like how you were looking at the wax fruit."

"We should swap the oranges for plums. Or pears."

"We've been through this. The oranges fit the palette, from the paintings to Dotty's–oh, quit pulling my leg."

You grin, then jut your chin at the stack of slips in her hand. "Are those the waivers? Did all the volunteers sign?"

"Yes, I can post headshots today on socials, so that should boost sales."

"Good. That's one fire extinguished," Rubbing your temple, you lean back in your chair. "I feel gross about it, though. I mean, we run shows that are hundreds of years old, but a date auction? Why don't we raise a guillotine out front and sacrifice effigies to raise money?"

Naomi blinks and whips out her phone. "...Okay, one, I'm noting the effigy idea for next year, but two, the auction won the vote, and everyone participating volunteered."

You grimace. "I know, it's just–"

The sudden opening of the door to your shoebox office interrupts. Theodore, business manager, director, and occasional movement coach, bursts in. Everybody's a multi-hyphenate.

"Terrible news!"

Wonderful. A new fire. You squint, chewing, and watch Naomi try to stifle a laugh valiantly. "Whatever could this be about?"

The older man slams his palms onto your desk, his layered pendants tinkling. "I've punched the numbers, including a best scenario, stars aligning–"

"Teddy. Out with it."

"–we're going to be £40,000 short. Even if we sell out, even if we raffle off the company like cattle, we are circling the drain!"

The tired amusement leaves your body, and in its wake sits a five-digit number and the distant idea to schedule a salon appointment.

The annual fundraiser for the theater, your hard-won home, is a dramatic, demanding, and near-disastrous event every year. The theater has continuously operated a hair above the red, but the laundry list of expenses from the last year cannot be ignored. The new light rig, the stage flooring replacement, the curtain repairs—they never stop. Sponsors and grants only go so far.

Originally, you took this job for its laughable but slightly higher pay and because running around like a madwoman between four gigs at a time wasn't as thrilling or charmingly bohemian as it was in your twenties. Your livelihood depends on the playhouse's success. And the economy. And the general public's attitude toward the arts. All wildly variable. It made you resourceful, and already, you were composing a mental list of people to politely bully for pledges promised in years past. You need time and a phone charger.

"Teddy," you set the half-eaten granola bar down. "Go get ready for afternoon rehearsal. Naomi, cover for me today?"

"'Course."

Theodore swipes his spindly fingers over his brow, nodding fervently at your resolve. "If anyone can pull it off, it's you. Do tell if there is anything yours truly can do." With a flourish, the director departs your office, but Naomi lingers.

"You know if it's donations we need…"

You shake your head, immediately knowing what she intends to suggest. "Out of the question."

"But think of her–"

"I'd rather debase myself and resort to dinner theatre."

"I'm just saying–"

"Naomi," You stress. "I am not calling my mother."

She frowns. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Are you really so proud you wouldn't leverage your family's connections to save the Bramble?"

It makes you pause. As usual, she's right. Irritatingly so. You could take another salary cut, but you'd need to find a flatshare, a humiliating idea. Hammy wouldn't survive it, the sensitive thing. You sigh and dismiss her with a wave.

"Fine I won't rule it out. But I'm going to shake down half the city first."

An hour later, you've managed to secure a percentage. Not too shabby, but far from the goal. You take a break to read James's team's latest, vaguely threatening missives and entertain the idea of withholding your signature until he makes a donation. What's a little extortion in the name of art?

You know it's wrong to delay this ugly process. How close relief is should you simply sign the papers. But it's another failure, another black spot in your life's ledger. Another dream crushed beneath the boot of reality. With a wave of bitterness, you type out a curt reply, ensuring you will sign the papers and ask them to arrange for a courier tomorrow.

Naomi's suggestion takes advantage of your mind's lethargy, testing the strength of your will and stubbornness. The last time you phoned your mother was months ago, on the anniversary of dad's death. The old man took his last bow five years back, and it destroyed the last bridge between you and your formidable mother. In retirement, she still holds court with major political players stateside…and across the pond.

Before you let your loathing catch up, you pull up her contact card and dial. It's after noon in D.C., the middle of the week. You might get lucky and reach her voice–

"Is everything alright? You're not in the hospital, are you?" Her donnish, sharp voice hurtles you through time and space to your teenage years.

"No," You answer with gritted teeth. A headache waits in the wings. "No, I'm fine, mom."

"Then why are you calling?"

This is why dad handled conversations. You stand, swiftly shutting the door to your office and locking it. "Can't I just call my mom?"

"Of course. Historically, you do not," There's a low murmur of chatter in the background. She's at a luncheon or at the club. "So I assume there is a reason."

Having an ex-ambassador for a mother is a joke. All that practised charm for everyone else in the world, none of it reserved for you. "Okay, yes, there is a reason."

"Thought so. Well, darling, what is it? Is it James? Don't tell me you're pregnant."

You return to your desk and eye the bottle of bourbon on the corner. "No. James and I are divorcing, remember? This is about my work."

There is no acknowledgement of the separation. Instead, your mother pulls the phone away from her mouth, excuses herself from wherever she is, and the background noise dissipates.

"Your work."

"Yes, the Bramble? Look, we're two weeks out from our big annual fundraiser, and–"

"Oh, you need me to write a check." The clicking of her heels halts abruptly, and if you didn't know any better, she wilts. "Fine. How much do you want?"

Your face heats with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. "I am not asking for money. If you would stop interrupting me…Ugh, mom, I need help contacting some of your old friends here. If there's anyone you know looking for tax deductions or a pet project to brag about, the Bramble is in a bad spot financially."

In the past, whenever the theatre and, by extension, your chosen profession came up, your mother took the opportunity to lecture. She reminded you of the wasted opportunities she afforded you. She brought up your old schoolmates and their current positions. And most insulting of all, she always, always compared you to a certain soldier. Bracing yourself for her monologuing, you reached for the bottle.

"Why didn't you open with that, darling?"

Your fingers close around empty air, and you nearly pitch out of your seat in surprise. "What?"

"Send me the information. I've been meaning to reconnect with some old friends. When is the fundraiser?"

"In two weeks," You repeat, scrambling to pull up your email on the ancient desktop. "Tickets are–"

"Email it. I'll book my flights today and let you know when I'm getting in."

Your hands hover over the keyboard, and your neck protests the angle it bends to keep your phone lodged between ear and shoulder. "Oh, no, mom, you don't need to come."

"Nonsense. I'll, of course, make my own donation, and as a donor, I ought to see where my money is going."

Christ. For the Bramble, you remind yourself and exhale. "Okay. You do that. Listen, I have to get going…but mom?" It kills you to say it. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome. Oh, this will be so much fun. I haven't visited since before your father. You know, on the topic of reconnecting, I happened get an email from the Prices the other day, and John–"

There it is. You kick into fourth gear, rattling off your exit. "I've really got to run. Thanks again mom, send me your flight info. Love you. Bye!"

You feel like you've run a marathon and dodged a bullet. And yet, as you send the email and file the waivers, your mind snags on your mother's words. On a name. His name. It's not the first time your unhelpful brain's waylaid you with a trip down memory lane. Admittedly, it's happened more since James asked for the divorce. Most nights, if it isn't life's stresses hounding you, it's an endless parade of what-ifs behind your eyelids.

What if you studied economics instead? What if you stayed in America? What if you hadn't gone to that stupid New Year's party? What if you hadn't kissed John? If you didn't get on the train?

The people in your circle frequently speak about living life without regrets. It's a romantic notion and a highly unrealistic one.

Your phone buzzes—Naomi. You're needed. Pushing the past where it belongs, back on a dark shelf, and head out to put out another fire.

Three days before the fundraiser, your mother lands in London and hosts you at her hotel for dinner. Playing catch-up is a professional sport with a whirlwind of names you barely remember and memories you remember very differently.

You pick at dessert, listening to another story.

"–and he was so insistent that that school of yours was a breeding ground for monsters, and I told him, isn't that what's needed in today's society? People need thick skin in politics and business. You'll be happy to know, though, he bought four tickets to the fundraiser."

You don't remember who you're talking about but smile and nod. It's a tough pill to swallow, your mother's success at rallying old friends with deep pockets. Teddy's practically in love with her despite having never met her, popping his bald head into your office to sing her praises whenever another pledge arrives.

Your response is rote. "That's wonderful, mom. Thank you."

She prattles on for another half hour before you decide it's time to return home to Hamhock and burn the midnight oil on the fundraiser's date auction. You asked the company for fifty-word bios and actors, bless them, struggle to contain their self-praises. When she finally pauses to take a sip of wine, you rise. "I should head home, lots to do–"

Ignoring you outright, her head turns, and she grins. "There you are!"

Following her gaze, your brow lowers in confusion until you clap eyes on a trio headed in your direction in the company of a server. Very briefly, you consider the melodramatics of matricide. You've been set up.

Mr. and Mrs. Price look well for their age, puttering toward your mother. They are greyer and a little shorter, but the warmth is there.

John, however…

The universe is intent on humbling you.

The hair is the first thing you notice. Short, kempt, and annoyingly a dark shade of brown. It's crept southward onto his face in a beard of a choice style. There is comfort in the finer details that clarify as he nears. He hasn't escaped time's passing with a face marked by crow's feet, frown lines, and forehead furrows. Beneath his shirt, there's a slight suggestion of a belly, though, with his thick arms and the narrowing of his waist, he's clearly a wall of muscle.

The worst part is how infuriatingly kind his smile looks. It's the beard. Softens him. Once an arrogant prick, always an arrogant prick.

John rumbles your name in a whisper, reeling you in for a polite peck on the cheek. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

You're years beyond fifteen and twenty-five, but how swiftly the impulse to snark resurfaces is alarming. Maturity tempers you. "You look good, too."

After a few minutes of greetings, the two of you are tasked with heading to the bar to fetch drinks. Wholly unnecessary what with a server, but it's a clear command to let the 'adults' talk for a spell. Nevermind being shy of forty. John's quick to try conversation when the order's in.

"You haven't changed a bit," He observes, leaning against the bar beside you.

"Now there's something a woman wants to hear after a decade." You huff, casting your eyes across the restaurant, finding it difficult to look at him. The dark blue of his sweater makes his eyes pop.

"Fourteen years, actually," He corrects. "Drinking martinis, actin'…"

You snort. "You're half right. The Martini half."

His elbow gently knocks into yours atop the bar. "Apologies. My mother told me you'd been in My Fair Lady last summer."

That draws your attention. "No. The theater put it on, but I'm the stage manager. I haven't been on stage in ages." Your eyes flicker to the table, then back to him. Heat crawls up your collar. What other information has your mother passed along? Glancing down at your bare ring finger, you turn the conversation. "Not so different from a Captain, I reckon. How's that going?"

John squints a little, and his mouth pulls into a familiar smirk, tugging at old strings in your stomach. "Can't complain."

"Riveting stuff," He chuckles at that, a deep rasping sound, and you find yourself grinning. "Don't suppose that bit of clandestine, secret agent-type shit your mom's talked about?"

"Secret agent?"

"Yeah. Mentioned it in a Christmas card maybe three years ago?" You smile triumphantly into your glass. Seems both your mothers have a penchant for dressing up the truth.

His jaw works a tick, and something heavy passes behind his eyes. "Well, 'm not. Not exactly."

"Let me guess. If you told me, you'd have to kill me?"

He refocuses some, and a short laugh leaves him. "Something like that."

It's all painfully familiar, but it feels different with a little more life under your belt. His mere presence keeps you on your toes, yet you haven't felt this comfortable in months. For all the history and tension, talking to him is easy. A silence passes, the drinks arrive, and you ferry them to the table.

The night passes better than you expected when you first saw the Prices. They express belated condolences over your father, you chat about the fundraiser, and John politely navigates questions about his work. It frightens you when he briefly mentions Piccadilly to know he'd been there in the carnage. Part and parcel of military life, you guess.

"John, be a gentleman and walk her to the station," His mother chides as the five of you congregate in the hotel lobby.

"He doesn't need to do that," You hastily say. Not again.

"'Course."

There is something dreadfully giddy to how your parents wish you both goodnight.

At least you do not need to take his arm this time. Still, there is no way John isn't thinking about that night. Not when that look of quiet desperation he wore is seared within your memory. It's silly, but you peeked at his hands earlier, and like yours, they're naked.

You break the silence to fish. "How long are you on leave?"

"A week. Got in yesterday."

"Do you normally visit your parents?"

"Often."

Doesn't mean there isn't a woman in his life. 'Often' is not 'always'.

"Visit anyone else? Friends?"

He chuckles. "Sometimes."

You roll your eyes. "You know, you haven't changed much either. Aside from the beard and smoker's lung. Still a stunning conversationalist."

John smirks down at you. "Picked it up in the army."

Oh, yes. He remembers.

The conversation lulls, and the walk is short. You figure John's keen on a repeat when he wordlessly escorts you to the platform. But today's not a holiday, and the station is reasonably busy. He watches like a hawk, nonetheless, when you check the time.

"Brings back memories," He quietly comments.

Nodding, your thumb rubs where your wedding band used to rest. "Sure does." You respond and meet his gaze.

You studied theater, moved back to London, went to the party, and kissed John. You didn't regret those choices—only one.

The invitation flies out of you as your train emerges from the tunnel.

"Do you want to meet Hamhock?"

"He's…certainly orange."

"Don't rush to spend all your compliments at once," You glare, arms full of Ham, then coo at the cat. "John's jealous because he's going grey in the beard."

"I am not."

"Saw them on the Tube. Can't those from me," You tease and set the cat down, giving your kitchen a quick glance. A silver lining of work eating up your schedule is that you last cleaned two weeks ago, and it's held.

"What're those on your head then?" He gestures with a finger and toes off his shoes.

"Details of a person ageing gracefully." You play it confidently, but part of you holds a breath.

He hums and sidesteps Hamhock. "Suits you. It's pretty."

Maybe inviting him over is a mistake. The bolt that runs through you from the compliment pokes at something you thought buried. "What a gentleman," You try to inject as much sarcasm as possible, but your voice quivers. "I'll be right back. Sit tight?"

You leave John in the kitchen to retreat to the bathroom to regroup. Come on, you scold yourself over the basin for getting worked up. It's just John.

And yet, what remains of your confidence perches on a cliffside at the sight of John pointedly staring at the folder of your copies of the divorce papers on the counter. Fantastic.

His small smile is genuinely sympathetic. It's enraging.

"Y'know, I knew you were married…When I didn't see a ring at the hotel, though, I wondered."

Your chest tightens, and you shove the folder into a bookshelf. "Yep. Finalized the divorce two-ish weeks ago."

You're not in the mood to be reminded of your failures.

"Sorry it didn't work out," John murmurs.

"That's life. That's how it works sometimes," You exhale, then force a smile. "Want a drink? Bourbon? Wine?"

He lets you change the subject, and you let him have a glass of whiskey.

You sit on opposite ends of your short couch, Hamhock acting as a gentlemanly barrier. The conversation rekindles itself after a few fingers of liquor, and eventually, John migrates to the floor, idly playing with the cat. You confide in him about your worries about the event and whether the funds raised will be enough, and he listens. There is no condescension, no bulldozing. Not a trace of smugness at all when he makes suggestions. You don't realize how you've slipped into an old, practically ancient formation until he peers back, eyes creasing from laughter. You're fifteen again, and it is useless to deny it – you are regrettably in love with John Price.

"Can I confess something?" He suddenly asks as your cat waddles off with a catnip toy in his mouth.

Your heart lurches. "If it's a crime, I'm a terrible conspirator."

"No. Nothin' like that, but I lied earlier." He chuckles, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. "My mother didn't tell me about My Fair Lady."

"What do you mean?"

John turns sheepish. "I came an' saw it when I was on leave last summer. Thought I'd surprise you, but I got to the theater and lost my nerve."

Instantly, you pick through scraps of memories from the production. There is no way you would have known he was in attendance, not with how hellishly busy you are.

"You, Captain John Price, lost your nerve?"

Color blooms high on his cheeks, and he turns on the floor, rubbing his neck. "I knew you're not acting but I didn't know how to mention it without soundin' like a prick." His eyes look soft. Different from how they looked that night in his parent's garden. Steady, unwavering, but soft. "I know I'm not good with words. I seem to have a talent for making you angry. But I really am happy to see you. Didn't think I'd get another chance after how I bungled it all those years ago at the train–"

At your grown ages, the angle of the kiss is inadvisable. The two of you fix it without parting, and his hands cup your face when you're finally standing toe-to-toe.

He touches your foreheads together when breathing becomes necessary. "Change anything?"

You don't answer. You lead him to your bedroom and exile the cat.

The fundraiser goes off with a predictable amount of hitches. The caterer is an hour late and forgets half the hors d'oeuvres. The bar runs out of red wine early. Two actors from the children's company slap-fight on stage. Nothing you, Naomi, and Teddy can't fix with elbow grease and stage magic. The caterers re-course. Naomi calls in a favor from her bartender girlfriend. And the children forget their quarrel when they're called upon to defeat Captain Hook.

What you are not prepared for is one of the actors calling out sick, leaving you one date short for the auction. You waste an hour trying to convince one of your fellow techies to step in.

Naomi corners you when you stress-eat a comically tiny piece of toast swiped from a tray.

"You know, if one person is all we need…"

"Your girlfriend won't be mad?"

"Ha-ha, don't get cheeky. C'mon, isn't it time you got back out there?"

You suppress a smug smile. Naomi has no idea. Nobody does. You've gotten back out there and then some.

"Did I not tell you I was grossed out by the auction?"

She's relentless. "Are you really so proud you wouldn't debase yourself a little for the Bramble?"

"Absolutely not."

You'd said it with such conviction, so it's a puzzle when you find yourself waiting in the stage wing, makeup hurriedly refreshed. It takes all your courage and grace not to stumble to Teddy's side when he calls your name. He improvises an introduction on the fly, and you nearly laugh when you realize this is the first time you've been on the stage, under a spotlight, in years.

The bidding opens, and you hold your breath, letting it go when a few unfamiliar voices call out numbers. A humbling embarrassment clutches you by the throat. But then a paddle raises more confidently in the front row. The light is bright, but you know whose hand hoists it high.

He collects you at the end of the night as you lock up.

"There's my prize."

You can't stop the grin that splits your face. "It's just a date, John."

"Yeah, doin' things a bit out of order, aren't we?" A glimmer of his younger, puffed-up self shines through, and his hand envelops yours.

As you walk, your elbow digs into his ribs, "What will our mothers say?"

"That a big deal to you?"

"To some people."

"Well, love, you're not 'some people'."

#ocaptainchallenge #john price #john price x reader #john price x f!reader #price x reader #price x f!reader #lieutenant john price #cw alcohol #i love love #i love corny shit #i needed to write something soft okay?#lightly edited bc i don't think i'll have time to write tomorrow and the deadline is tomorrow!

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alagaesia-headcanons · 3 months

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I have a ride or die headcanon that little Murtagh was obsessed with Morzan’s dragon. He absolutely loved him.

Murtagh sees him often enough from a young enough age that he’s never scared of him. So naturally, he’s absolutely enamored with the huge, beautiful, glittery, fire breathing monster that hangs out outside the house. He’s kept at a distance, but he’s still the dragon’s biggest fan. Murtagh’s very upset to learn that he doesn’t have a name which feels very unfair to him, so he musters up all his creativity and dubs him “Red”.

Morzan doesn’t always travel with his dragon when he leaves the estate, depending on what he needs to do. So sometimes the dragon stays and rests while Morzan is gone. During one such time, when Selena is also away on a mission, a freshly 3 year old Murtagh escapes his nurses and goes to Red. He’s careful at first, testing the waters gently, then getting increasingly close and comfortable with him when Red seems utterly unbothered. He’s no more than an ant next to the dragon’s enormous size. Murtagh is immediately in love, clambering all over him and constantly babbling to him, undeterred by the lack of response.

The servants do eventually find him after a frantic search. Morzan’s dragon doesn’t like any of the staff, so despite letting Murtagh nestle into the crook of his foreleg, he snarls and snaps at anyone who tries to get close enough to retrieve him. The servants are stuck in a grim dilemma, because no one’s willing to test the limits of a gargantuan, irascible dragon, and they don’t have anything to bribe Murtagh with that’s cooler than said dragon, so he refuses to budge. They’re absolutely terrified the dragon will kill him, either inadvertently or not.

After three full days of Murtagh glued to Red’s side, remaining miraculously unsquished, Morzan returns. The servants are in a cold sweat, stuttering and shaking like leaves in a storm as they try to explain that his son is fine, there’s no need for alarm, but there may be just a small issue. He goes to his partner and does with insulting ease what the staff have fruitlessly tried for three days, he steps right in and scoops Murtagh up. He looks completely unkempt and ignoble, dirty and scraped from being outside the whole time, giggling unrepentantly and singing Red’s praises.

To the servants great luck, Morzan finds this all quite amusing. Carrying Murtagh back to the house, he accuses, “Trying to replace me as the dragon Rider, are you?” and Murtagh cries, “Yes! Take me flying!” Morzan says that he will, but it never happens.

Selena is less thrilled when she learns of this, also afraid that the dragon might kill Murtagh in a moment of annoyance. But Murtagh adores him and she can’t reliably keep him away, so she tries to accept the incongruous match. Red doesn’t show any perceptible warmth to him, and yet he makes the effort to keep tabs on him and stops him from doing anything too dangerous. Of course, since the banishing of the names stunted his mind, the dragon doesn’t have any nuanced opinion of Murtagh, but he can recognize that his little ant feels incapable of malice and he comes to like Murtagh in the way he can. Learning of Red’s death on top of the loss of both his parents utterly devastates Murtagh.

After a little while in Uru’baen, Tornac asks Murtagh which parent he was closer to, and Murtagh tells him Morzan’s dragon. Tornac takes a very long, very strained breath, thinking Oh dear gods help me I have so much fucking work to do.

#eragon #inheritance cycle #murtagh #morzan #selena #morzans dragon #tornac: im gonna be the best parent this kids ever had if only because the bars so fucking low #murtagh is privately so jealous of eragon when he meets him and saphira #his determination to be polite and not impose is all that kept him from begging on his knees for a ride #murtagh: i dont want to be Anything like my father #murtaghs brain: i want a dragon i want a dragon i want a dragon i want a dragon i w #fucking dork

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throwaway-yandere · 10 months

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What HaPpEneD aT 10:10? (Yandere!"Gepard Landau"/Reader)

Scriptwriter's Note: I implore you to remember what happened at 10:10. And once you do, come talk to three of my associates. For now, let her help you recall what's going on in the present time. You can remember the time, but we need you to remember the murder weapon, who killed who, and the motive.

Synopsis: Trapped in Serval Landau’s basement for so long, you made a deal with the Sampo to escape confinement. As it turns out, your timing is never impeccable. Aka: a Belobog "murder" mystery. (A/n: ansy here, have fun trying to guess what happened! But please. PLEASE do not read this if you're sensitive to the topics below ⬇)

CW: Yandere and horror themes, "most unreliable narrator AND reader ever" - sam, violence, amputation, mentions of domestic (physical) abuse. His smile is stiff as a board. There’s a portal at the end of the story, your choices matter (there are 2 possible endings). Welcome to the Back Alley.

A murder was announced to occur on Saturday, October 2, at the Golden Theater’s back alley, around 10:10 AM.

It was an unidentified note. Short and crudely pasted cutouts from old magazines were its contents. Many believe the Astral Express put it together as a twisted joke. It’s no coincidence that the clocks' little hands near the theater were also forever stuck at 10:10. No one took it seriously. Additionally, a nearby bookshop used this opportunity to "hype" its mystery books by joining the bandwagon. While the Silvermane Guards officially took the "threat" as if it didn't exist, others transformed it into an event by creating crime scene props with March 7th and Stelle serving as the main judges.

Who'd even investigate such a note when the Golden Theater doesn’t have a back alley?

By 5:00 AM, that silly note was not at the forefront of the Silvermane Guards' minds.

It was you.

Sampo shakily exhaled a quick "heya, friend," as his legs continued to speed past the Silvermane Guards, who were all very much ready to fire. The merchanr was forced to inhale sharply and slightly elevate his voice as he worriedly fixed his attention on his 'package.'

"Y-You're good, aren't you?"

Inside the shopping cart (who knows where he got that) he had been pushing was a wanted person. A bit feverish, you nodded without much commitment. Even the slightest movements relieved the dubious merchant as he picked up the pace, avoiding the stray "warning" shots that were fired near.

Today, you didn't awaken in the house where you were held captive. There were no mechanical noises or loud drilling. However, your morning did begin with your flesh awkwardly molding against the metal grid patterns of the shopping cart. There was no complaining when you realized it was your old friend Sampo who had carried and set you down. You didn't even consider asking this man where he was taking you.

Days earlier, he had paid you a covert visit and explained his strategy. So you concluded that he was the one who made the "false" murder announcement public. He also implied that little Hook made the note. Your gut tells you that even while it makes sense to assume that she is the author of that absurd announcement, it doesn't seem to be the truth. But at that point, your fears of being tubed with immoral equipment vanished and you felt gratitude rather than alarm. Not that you'd ever figure out that I made it, anyways.

"S-Sampo…" You groaned, not moving from your position as your friend fished out his homemade bombs from his pocket. "W-Where are you taking me…?"

Anywhere is better than her basement.

"To Nat, of course!" You needn't tilt your head to know that he was smiling wide. "Is there any other doctor more reliable than Miss Natasha?"

You'd insensitively joke about Vache Harrower, but your strength betrays you. Not like he'd give you a chance to drop some smart-alecks when he timed his bombs right.

Just a few short seconds after, your best friend rolled his smoke bombs on the floor and made a larger dash. You heard a tremendous boom from the back, and a silent malicious voice in your skull hoped for injuries.

They worked with her.

Jolting you up, Sampo made one swift left turn and another to the right, making sure that the last remaining guards that trailed you both were lost in the haze. He didn't stop running, but you can tell he's getting tired. Sampo is a merchant, not the sister of the ex-Captain of the Silvermane Guards.

Your nose scrunched.

Serval Landau… that paranoid woman and lousier liar…

The oldest Landau used to be your best friend along with Pela. She had treated you as though you were Gepard's twin at times, much to your discomfort. Even her parents referred to you as their kin.

Since you had no one to care for you as a child, the Landaus happily raised you. Had you not rejected their offers for adoption, your life certainly wouldn't be where it is now.

Back "home", Serval would make suggestions that you were more of a Landau than she’d ever be. In turn, you’d cock your head and look unamused. Then act more like one, you’d reply. Yet these forceful encouragements do not reach her.

Even when you beg her to let you out of the house, she won��t let you.

We’ve been over this before, she’d reply. I can’t let you out on your own. You’re missing your right leg, what if that man finds you?

You’ve never understood that logic. Who was she referring to, your old boss?

Her brother died a year ago.

You once liked him. You'd even go out of your way to say he was worthy of anyone's trust.

Was. That was before you knew that deep in the recesses of his mind that loyalty was the beginning and end of Captain Gepard Landau's character. Uniting men under his leadership, he sought only the best for his beloved Belobog.

Your mind drives memories of Gepard away and you can no longer remember what transpired to cause this. After all, you undoubtedly considered Serval and Lynx to be sisters, but you never thought of him as a brother. You can't exactly pinpoint why you treated him like that since the very beginning.

Based on your shattered memories, you were stripped away of your position as his aide. Serval claimed it was because you didn't harbor traits of self-preservation. She made a show of how unreliable you were on the field, that you were hysterical and a "liability." Their relentless critique went on for half an hour until the higher-ups had given in to her demands.

Worse, they permitted her to surveil your movements 24/7. Using your amputated leg as an excuse, she effectively put you on house arrest– not your home, but hers. She's not an effective caretaker either, despite her attempts. Serval's use of transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation is far more brutal than what a normal practitioner would do, but no one can hear your complaints except for Molly. Her tests are never comfortable. And you loathe this.

She acted like your loss of a leg turned you into damaged goods that only the siblings can see value in. That her giving you a prosthetic was a sign of love rather than a shackle.

They said you were “hysterical”, and that you should be forgiven for whatever sin you’ve committed.

Insulting.

Insulting. Insulting. Insulting.

"H-How closer are we to the underground?" You gripped the cart, your heart racing at the speed.

Sampo coughed after accidentally inhaling his smoke.

“S-Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t change the direction of the cart–”

“What?!”

“The cart won’t turn!!!” Sampo screamed.

With each passing second, the gap between the cart and the theater narrowed. Your heart raced as this was your first experience of real danger after being sheltered for a year or so. Even though you were aware that Sampo had no control over the impending crash, you still glanced at him expectantly.

He smiled, drop-dead nervous and boyishly sheepish.

"Give me two minutes!!!"

"Give me two minutes, Captain!!! We still need a few more."

You beamed, holding your axe to chop wood for your comrades in the Outlying Snow Plains.

At first, you weren't trusted with heavy weapons. Luckily, being "weak" is a curable ailment for everyone. And the cure is called hard work and extreme effort. That, and an axe.

You were the very definition of a model soldier and he found himself incredibly lucky to finally see you join the Silvermane Guards. You had an excellent posture; you were a sharpshooter and a wonderful axeman– even your breathing looks rehearsed.

And for a damn good reason.

When the Height's economy sneezes, the underground catches a cold.

Unfortunately, that means children as young as you were had to bear the flames.

The Landau parents had taken a shine to you after taking you as a servant from the orphanage. Your captain's father adored you, even though his never-smiling voice had not once indicated his affection. Captain Gepard bears resemblances from his old man in appearance but not his military demeanor; you were the one to hold that torch.

It was through Mr. Landau you learned how much metrics and timings make a difference between an animal and a human being. You grew from someone who skitters away dynamically like a gas particle to a person grounded with instructions on how each step in a stride must be measured to perfection. Growing up with the Landaus was by no means a happy life, but it made you more keen on what constitutes "proper living."

To you, being hit by vases and chairs for failing to fold Mr. Landau's clothes in exactly the way he wants them to be was preferable to dying in the streets with your grandmother with nothing to fill your stomach other than the restaurant trash cans nearby. And you were certain you brought more pride and joy to Mr. and Mrs. Landau than you had to your parents who had abandoned you since birth.

People see Mr. Landau when they look at you and not Gepard.

But that's only because they have never seen the way you behave when it's only you and the Landau siblings are together.

“Working hard, I see,” Gerard said in a light joking manner.

You scratched your neck, embarrassed.

“Nah, I’m actually very lazy.”

“Don’t be so self-effacing,” Gepard smiled kindly. “I don’t miss anything. I’ve heard that you’ve made your rounds and even took on some of Pela’s duties while she’s on leave.”

“Eh, we both know I wouldn’t have done it without Pela begging me to do it for her Tales of– nevermind, Captain.”

Gepard had always viewed your abilities with the greatest reverence and approval. Serval was always quick to emphasize how her "favorite non-blood related sibling" is an "uninhibited performer" before everyone else, so Gepard thought this true in every aspect. You must think of this as writing a song to keep your mind sharp. You lose any sense of reservation once in “the zone”, and if Serval fell for the way your brows furrowed when penning down tunes and lyrics, Gepard faltered when he saw the glint in your eye as you pieced all the information needed to catch Sampo Koski’s whereabouts after your promotion.

He had never told you this, but Gepard always felt weird sensations pooling in his chest whenever he saw you hyper-focused on something.

Or someone.

“Do you think I can catch him, Geppie?”

Gepard ruffled your hair and your face brightened up.

"Never falter, (Y/n),” he said firmly. “For I wholeheartedly believe in your strengths. Catching Sampo Koski will be a walk in the park for someone like you."

To think that your first caught infamous criminal is your last true friend… Destiny surely toys with those who say “That’ll never happen.” It's always a fun phenomenon to write a script about.

“Walk in a park”? Try “crash in a theater”.

“SAMPO!!!”

You yelped, clawing his shirt and yanking his upper body like a wild animal. His heels screeched as the cart faced the direction of the Golden Theater.

And what nestled near the Golden Theater was its Back Alley, a place that exists on the border between reality and myth. Whispers among children weave tales that those who enter the depths are trapped in a journey of confronting their unresolved trauma and guilt. It is believed that the alley acts as another dimension where the lost must face their inner demons before emerging back into the real world, scarred forever by the distorted horrors they have confronted.

And for the first time in your life, you saw it.

You saw a fence that was never there before.

Your heart dropped.

“SAMPO!!!”

He closed his eyes, bracing for the impact alongside you.

Sampo Koski lived by a particular quote: "True happiness always entails the manifestation of the dignity of mankind,”

And only a few knew that it's only 1/3 of the full quote. The next part includes: “and true guilt is the catalyst for self-reflection and the pursuit of redemption–"

Flickering street lights and unmoving 10:10 clocks cast eerie shadows of dawn. It’s said that the people who traverse its trails encounter manifestations of their inner turmoil, a reflection of their deepest regrets. Some emerge transformed, carrying newfound clarity, while others head on a downward spiral.

He wondered which one you would be.

“I’m sorry, (Y/n).”

Sampo smirked…

And let go of the cart.

“But the Back Alley is waiting for you.”

His hands, calloused but clean, tenderly held yours. You felt ice even without a metal ring wrapped around his finger. At that thought, you blinked.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Yes, dear?"

"You don't have a ring on you," you said with an unreadable expression. "Will we ever have a chance at getting married?"

You thought it was funny; he didn't.

We.

What did you mean by “we”?

Him and you?

Or you and someone else?

Surely you and him, right?

But is that really an idea that he needs to know?

The Supreme Guardian was right.

Doubt breeds arrogance.

“W-Well–” Gepard’s breath hitched, awkwardly fumbling his cuffs. “I don’t know about that.”

You muttered. “So the future's uncertain.”

“Of course.”

“Hmm.”

He gulped, realizing that you were mad at his response.

But he can’t let any of this continue any longer.

“(Y/n), I have something I’d like to tell you…”

“Nghh….”

You heard the shopping cart roll towards a wall– must be the same one you crashed onto. As you caught a glimpse of your surroundings, you were astounded to see how foggy it was. The wall-mounted advertisement for a love-matching service is hardly visible. It was impossible to see past the surrounding streetlight, even with "un-smoke bombed" eyes.

Doesn’t look like you’re in the administrative district.

You cannot see a single familiar building from this fog.

No heaters in sight and your breath practically singed your throat. The fog prickled your skin, but for reasons unknown, you did not shudder as a feverish man would’ve. Strangely enough, you felt fine.

You tried squinting at the road again.

Your heart dropped.

... There was no road.

You can't tell if it's the snow and the fog– but there's no pavement towards the exit in sight. It's as if wherever you stood floated. It was a literal dead end. As you peaked into the cliff, you did not see the bottom.

There was nothing there.

Even if you tried jumping, you weren't sure if there would be anything to fall on.

Capable arms wrapped themselves around your form. They were far stronger than your eyelids, which would barely open. Semi-automatically, your hand reached for this person’s shoulder, attempting to reposition yourself from their hold. You can barely make out their face, but their hair was slightly darker. This stranger lacked the envy-inspiring golden allure that the Landaus have.

Not processing that information fast enough, you spoke.

“S-Sampo, wh-what happened–”

You went pale.

No.

You pushed this "man" aside and dropped to the ground, barely maintaining balance on your one remaining leg. The man has now grown to be a towering figure over you, his star-bright eyes peering at you, paranoid. The air felt heavy, laden with a palpable sense of the unknown. Only the sound of your lonesome "real" foot scurrying away broke the silence.

“A-Are you alright?! W-What’s wrong....? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The man sauntered closer. His light but lifeless eyes locked onto yours, piercing through your soul. He had dirty blonde hair and he wore a sweater similar to the one that you never got to give to your best friend's younger brother, but–

“G-Gepard…?!?!”

The man tilted his head.

You squinted, hoping to find solace in a detail you might’ve missed or so.

Finally, your shoulders slackened, exhaling a large white cloud.

“No… You’re… not.”

He sent you a fleeting look of pity before making an awkward joke.

“Do I look similar to a past lover?”

His smile is stiff as a board.

“No— my— my deceased… boss…” You spoke bitterly.

This person, who looked eerily similar to the dead Gepard Landau, stared with red-rimmed eyes. Did he cry earlier? With nothing else to focus on except for the thick fog, you remain frozen in place.

“This is…”

Terrifying, you wanted to say but that would be offensive.

“Impressive…” You gawked, slowly forgetting the vulnerable position you left yourself in. Sharply, you drew a breath. “You look like you could be a Landau.”

Your hand reached to touch his cheek, and the stranger leaned into your touch. Far too engrossed by this encounter, you did not care for his slightly hollow eyes and more than elated expression. It was the bigger picture that you saw.

It was the near-perfect image of the deceased Gepard Landau.

His skin was pinkish and his heart raced.

“Your hand is warm…” He commented softly, face red.

“Your face, your voice— it’s just your hair and your sense of fashion that’s different, and—”

“My name is Gerard,” his smile remains stiff as a board, but there's a touch of friendliness to it. “I don’t believe I appear anywhere near ghostlike.”

You’re inclined to believe that he’s lying.

No one can look THIS similar to Gepard.

And that name as well.

You don’t know what to think.

As you were about to retract your hand, he held it back in place, guiding it closer to his lips. He breathed in. His breath marked the fog. “Gerard” inched closer, stepping his foot near your prosthetic right leg. With little distance between you two, your temperature has progressively grown hotter. It’s uncomfortable watching you both like this. I should’ve closed my eyes.

“See?” He mumbled.

“Can you sense how warm I am?”

“So you’re not Gepard… Or a ghost, I guess.”

You laughed to yourself. You’re not sure about your statement, either.

But while this man may appear friendly, his eyes were a haunting reminder that some things can never truly be left behind.

“As I have stated before, my name is Gerard.”

Even his name sounds like his.

“I-I’m sorry, I was dazed,” You pinched your temple. Without his warmth, the cold bit your cheeks which made you turn around. “T-Thank you for carrying me out of that shopping cart, Gep– Gerard.”

You looked around again. Nothing to see but fog. Far from surprising.

“Gerard, where are we?”

The dirty blonde man laughed.

“The Theater’s Back Alley.”

“The Back Alley?” You scoffed quietly, contemplating on how Gepard insisted to you before that it never existed– and now his promiscuous doppelganger is arguing otherwise. “There aren’t any back alleys around the theater.”

This place doesn’t look like an alley.

It’s far too large for it to fit the description. This must be an abandoned town. Unbeknownst to both of you, way before your time, this place was called Chernobog.

“Yes there is,” Gerard hummed. “It’s where we are now.”

“Then can you carry– lead me back to the main district?” You decided to humor him. “I’m not supposed to be wherever this place is.”

“I wouldn’t allow it.”

“Why not?”

Gerard grinned. His radiant smile baffled you as his demeanor changed from slightly teasing to tender from just the crinkles of his eyes.

“Because I love you, of course. I can't just let you leave.”

You froze.

Why? Why does he speak as if it ever so slightly comes from the diaphragm as he did?

Why does his voice sound so much like Gepard’s?

You thought it was wrong.

Gepard would never say those words.

Not to you. Never.

As Gerard’s casual confession hung amidst the fog, a peculiar heaviness settled on your heart. It wasn't the words themselves that caused this unease but rather the haunting resemblance his voice had to Gepard’s. His voice was rich with authenticity, free of malice, and his confession was short but somehow sweet.

But you didn’t want to hear that from him.

You averted your gaze. A flood of memories had suddenly surfaced at that precise moment, including the hearty sound of Gepard's laughter. It appeared as though the dead had come back to play a cruel game. Unable to bear his comfortable “joke”, you recoiled and feigned deafness, face veiled behind an indifferent mask. Perhaps the Aeon of Preservation may have advocated for this. In a sense, perhaps denial meant safety. Silently, you begged for your thoughts to stop, for the resemblance to dissipate, and for the ache of grief to be buried again.

“Back on the topic at hand, if you wish to exit the Back Alley: I don’t wish to help you,” he smiled.

His smile is always stiff as a board.

“Why not stay here? Are you not a wanted person?”

You glared.

“How did you know that?”

“Murder, right?” Gerard drawled, his eyes softening in what you call disgusting pity. “Someone important. Someone that made you stuck here.”

“Stop making accusations,” you spat, offended by his left-field slander.

“I’m not,” Gerard said. “I know who you killed. How about you? Do you remember who it was?”

Silence.

“But that doesn’t matter now,” he announced firmly. “Why don’t you come with me? Let me shield you from the monsters.”

You froze.

“Mon… sters?”

“Yes, monsters.”

Unexpectedly, a far-off wail of sirens and static radio pierced the air, disorienting. There was nothing to be seen when you lifted your chin to strain your ears in search of the source. Gerard's urgent voice broke through your daze.

"Run."

With a swift and practiced motion, he swept you off your feet, cradling you in his arms back to the position you woke up in. He knew your current prosthetics were not meant for running. A prosthetic limb is like a new fingerprint and Serval would never make your new identity one similar to escapists. At the moment, you had a prosthetic leg for everyday use, and not blades for running.

As Gerard hurriedly carried you through the dense fog, you felt no sense of security as you had before. Something lurked just beyond your line of sight. In an act of spur-of-the-moment bravery, you stole a glance over Gerard's shoulder, and thus, you were paralyzed.

What emerged from the depths of the fog were grotesque “figures”.

Their bodies were mutilated, with their arms hanging loosely at their sides. They reared their heads, twisting and contorting. It was humanoid in stature, blanched and nearly armless. If it were not for some tissues, you were certain they wouldn’t have arms to begin with. Their flesh seemed boiled together like patchworks of human remains. They started to inch closer, their movements disjointed.

Fear coursed through your veins as you realized their intentions were set upon you and Gerard. But his voice cut through, his words not faltering.

"Hold on tight," he said steadily.

“Whatever you do, don’t let them get to you, (Y/n),” Gerard whispered.

“Please, do it for me.”

For the duration of “dawn”, Gerard carried you to safe locations. You have not met a single human person throughout the day. This was a concerning observation after knowing how large the “alley” was. He knew the area like the back of his hand and successfully guided you to hospitals (which, unfortunately, had more of those monsters from before) to patch some minor wounds from Sampo's “shopping cart trip” mishaps.

Before you could walk to the hospital bed, he grabbed your wrist in a tight hold.

“Shhh…” Gerard tugged your arm. “You don’t need to walk. Please, permit me to carry you.”

Despite your whispered protests, he rarely let you move around. Which made sense since your staggering did alert them of your location.

But you don’t like the way he touches you.

Those Gepard-like eyes lingered on you as if he were trying to memorize every inch of your skin. His actions were marked by an unwavering vigilance, always on guard for the slightest sign of danger even when you encouraged him to relax a bit. It was as if he was driven by an unspoken longing or unresolved past experiences. And you've only just met.

This time he made sure to turn off his radio. Suspiciously enough, "Gerard" carried a Silvermane Guard issued radio but it only seemed to make sounds whenever danger lurks by.

You tried not to think about that. Save for the dusty bed and wispy drapes, the posters strewn across the hospital walls caught your attention. The wall didn't have anything else notable other than those prints. They must be the same ones you saw on the streets, yellowed with age. The prints ranged from love hotlines, anger management tips, and a wanted poster.

Your poster.

Unlike the previous ones, this one was preserved thoughtfully, plastered right at the center amongst all the prints. Intriguingly, floral stickers were peppered around your images. Not the childish ones you'd buy for a cheap price, but more refined illustrations. You're not too versed in the language of flowers, but they did look like blue roses and marigolds. If only you could recall what Gepard said about what those flowers meant...

For now, you hazarded an astute guess as to why it was cleaner than the rest, staring unamused at Gerard. He sheepishly smiled, face flushed as he tried not to notice your glare. Gerard seemed proud of his handiwork.

It was nearly cute.

If it weren't for the fact you seriously don't know who he is.

“Gepard—”

“Gerard,” he corrected you in a commanding yet soft tone, ironically similar to your old Captain.

“You don’t have to patch my wounds.”

“Just let me,” he pressed on, wrapping your scrapped arm with gauze. “This was part of my combat lifesaver course.”

You shifted from the bed.

“You’re a soldier?”

…

He didn’t answer.

You tilted your head.

“Are you sure you’re not a Landau–”

“Affirmative.”

He could’ve twisted the gauze tight enough to make you wince in pain, but he delicately wrapped it and added immense pressure not to your wounds, but in his gaze.

“I am not your “Geppie” and I am not your old employer.”

With a voice that commands resolute clarity from you, you doubt he’s telling the truth.

You paused.

“How?”

“How what?” He muttered.

“How did you know that nickname?”

You gulped.

“How much do you know about me?”

You were on high alert the moment he called you by your name when those monsters chased earlier– you have never introduced yourself. Couple that with the fact that he was to accuse you of murder, you didn’t know what he thought of you.

This time, he didn’t smile.

“Enough to know that I love you.”

“You say that like it makes any sense!” You snapped.

“I know everything because you wanted me to love you, and I do love you too. I am not a shield for the people like him. I don't have the burden to protect anyone else, doesn’t that make me a better man for you now? There's no need to make sure the Silvermane Guards are always at the ready. I don't have to worry about pride- about being a Landau.”

He delicately reached out, guiding your hand to rest against his cheek. His softened features conveyed a love for your "warmth", but the pool in your stomach made this experience unbearable.

“My life is reserved for only you. That is my oath.”

You ripped your arm away from him with disgusted eyes.

“Just tell me the truth already!!!”

He looked down, frowning.

“You don’t need the truth...”

Gerard's eyes glistened with a bittersweet melancholy as he watched you, a faint smile tugging his lips. He had a look that says he knew all too well that you are unaware of the depths he was willing to go to protect you. The dirty blonde man reached out, his hand instinctively yearning to rest upon your shoulder, but he withdrew it quickly, his fingers curling inward.

“That’s why you’re here. In this foggy back alley.”

He scooted beside you. Even if he couldn’t bring himself to comfort you enough, you knew he spoke the truth when his voice cracked in a small whisper of: "I’m with you."

Gerard grabbed your hand again and softly kissed your fingertips.

No one could miss his sharp gaze. The man has deluded himself that you were his to protect at all costs. A nature that stemmed from a deep-seated desire to control something that he couldn't acceptably justify. A pure obsession that defied reason at its finest.

You know that look all too well.

But you can’t put a finger as to where you’ve seen it. What a shame.

You looked at your hands.

... Strange.

Since when were you wearing a golden ring?

Your eyes intuitively gazed at Gerard's hands.

All of the sudden, your throat dried.

You're both wearing wedding rings.

“You don’t have to be alone again,” he mumbled. “We can live here. You could plant and look after flowers with me– though I’ve never been good at it. It’d be a quiet life, just as you’ve always wanted.”

“If that’s what you’re offering then you’re no different than Serval,” you laughed to yourself.

His eyes darkened.

Before you could comment on it, he cut you off with another considerate smile.

“You must be hungry. There’s a cafeteria downstairs, I’ll procure some rye bread.”

“(Y/n), babe, where are you?”

You looked up. An alarmed woman’s voice called out.

“... Serval?”

No reply.

The voice seemed to be coming from the door.

“Serval, are you there?”

“(Y/n), i-it’s okay! C-Calm down, calm down,” the voice continued. “Things just happen. I’ll help you okay? Shhh, d-don’t cry, don’t cry, I'm here…”

“What are you talking about?”

“I won’t let it happen. They don’t even have to know you were here. P-Pass the mop now, shhh…”

It made a sound far too damaged to be called a soothing chuckle.

“What are you on about?–”

The broken voice began to sing, sounding as though she had been clinging onto a husk of someone who’s been too far gone.

“C-Calm your nerves, my p-precious friend,

For "tomorrow"'s problems will never end.

In this short song, I s-softly sing,

You're cherished, my dear, in e-everything.”

You reached for the bed railing and supported yourself upright. Prepping your leg for a short walk, you placed your foot down–

THUD.

The door swung open, making you jump slightly.

Gerard came back, his breath nearly stripped away as he sauntered over. His only saving grace was his stamina, but otherwise fear would've dragged him down. There was not a single piece of bread in his hand. I’m glad he came, you would’ve been out of the alley immediately otherwise. And that's not good for us.

The voice was gone.

The sounds from afar now ring more of an animal than a human.

"(Y-Y/n)," he called out. "We need to leave."

You tilted your head, about to question what was wrong but you were cut off by his abrupt scream.

"NOW!!!"

He took you by the waist, carrying you in a way there was regard for your amputation but fast enough to make you feel unease. You gasped as Gerard's hold on you tightened, sprinting out of the "safe location."

"W-What's going on–"

"They're close," he whispered. "They're coming. It knows we’re here."

With one free hand, he pushed down passing cabinets as he bolted. Nothing was on his mind other than to flee with you. You didn't dare look at what was behind. You didn't want to face the truth.

"Gerar–"

Despite your desire not to see these creatures, a lone monster stands at the end of the hall.

It loomed before you, a grotesque fusion of flesh intricately molded together like human flesh sewn tight to a Silvermane Guard uniform, its form twisted and contorted while multiple unnerving eyes peered from its misshapen visage. Although it may have eyes more than you have fingers, you have a sneaking suspicion that they are completely inoperative. Its skin bore an unsettling array of intricate carvings, etched like cryptic scars across its entire body.

Something about its appearance resonated with you.

It slugged closer, staring. As to “where”, you can't tell. Each inch of its body had slits for eyes enough to instill paranoia. At least one pair must've been staring at you. Yet, most of it was on him.

Gerard.

"Tch..." His eyebrows furrowed, troubled.

He ran towards the end of the hall and miraculously swerved to avoid its axe. His pace quickened.

"(Y/n), whatever you do, don't think about why these creatures exist. Even when I'm gone."

“What do you mean?”

“Just don’t. That’s an order.” He said, sounding more of a plea than a warning.

The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly as you struggled to keep up with Gerard's swift pace.

As he ran, questions burned in your mind, desperate for answers. His words echoed in your head, but your curiosity had implicit demand for a shred of understanding. You couldn't help but glance back, catching a glimpse of the creature still in pursuit. It persisted in its relentless pursuit of you, unwavering in its resolve.

"F-Faster!" you gasped between labored breaths. “It’s closing in on us!”

Gerard's expression remained stoic, his eyes focused on the path ahead.

He ran towards a door and pushed it open with a kick. You both stumbled through the threshold, entering what appeared to be the cafeteria, but the sterile scent mingling with the food made that guess somewhat unconvincing.

Gerard quickly assessed the room, searching for any signs of danger. The sound of distant alarms and muffled screams echoed through the corridors.

“Just what the hell is that?!” The words escaped you unintentionally in a mortified whisper.

Gerard cupped your mouth.

You both forgot to close the door.

What a horrible mistake.

The unsettling monster began its search. It emanated shrill sounds that pierced through your ears, making you almost move to cover them. The cries reached a hauntingly high-pitched cry that echoed like metal against metal. The mournful wails never resembled wolfish growls but rather heartbroken cries. Its speech resembles the guttural syllables "I" and "U" in an auditory expression of grief.

It turned around, but it also had eyes on its back.

Cowering in terror, you huddled close to Gerard behind the counter of the desolate cafeteria, seeking refuge from the approaching monster.

As the creature drew nearer, its grotesque eyes fixated on you and Gerard, its elongated limbs reaching out with chilling anticipation. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you heard Gerard’s breath hitch as you both clung to the faint hope of survival.

But to your horror, as the monster approached head-on.

Its rotting flesh bypassed you, swerving past your trembling form, and seized Gerard instead.

“(Y/N)!!! RUN!!”

Gerard pointed at the nearby mop.

He wants you to leave him.

A gasp of terror escaped your lips as you watched in disbelief.

His blue eyes widened, mirroring your panic but worse, as the monster's grasp tightened around him. Gerard yelped, his voice trembling as his fear of death loomed. Its grip was not merciful.

It smacked Gerard against a desk.

Again.

And again.

Blood streamed in his scalp.

The monster took his arm.

And ripped it apart.

And soon.

Nothing.

Thud.

You went as silent as the corpse as you watched it extinguish his life in a quiet finality.

Tears streamed down your face, unable to look away. Maybe it's a trick of the mind, but you were starting to feel a pain from where your leg was removed. Your brain was still convinced that you still had it- and that it is in danger. You feel as if your ankle was angled downwards, hiding from the monster. Such sensations made your skin crawl, especially considering the circumstances. It was not the best time to experience phantom limb pain.

The monster briefly met your gaze as if to mock your survival. It limped away, leaving behind you with nothing but a corpse.

Hours felt like mere minutes before you were snapped out of your prolonged emptiness. Gerard remains on the floor, dead-eyed and bloody. Thankfully, your current PLP was manageable at best but the throbbing sensation distracted you for a while. Your mind was blocking out the blood on his face. It did not process how mutilated it had become, nor did it care to acknowledge his arm that lay on the checkered floor.

His cheeks looked warm, alive.

You fixed his hair.

“Gep– Gerard…”

…

You need to leave.

YOU NEED TO LEAVE.

Since that incident, you've been by yourself in the Back Alley, even though you sense that there may be other lost "people" like you nearby, you chose to act alone despite this.

There's no need for another Gerard.

You followed the walls every time you had the nerve to step outside, cursing Serval occasionally for failing to provide you with a prosthetic running leg. That, and her garbage methods she calls "physical therapy."

You have overstayed your welcome despite not knowing how long you have been in this dense fog. Oddly, you've never experienced hunger in your time here. You are unable to move around freely, and worse, you are unable to scream for help, unless you want the people who are still present in the dense fog to find you.

You don’t have time to grieve for a man you barely knew.

You sighted a police station. Much like every building in this surprisingly large “alley”, it had been abandoned. It looked like the one you worked for, down to the paint job and the door frame. Funnily enough, the door was open, and thus, it was temporarily yours.

What greeted you first upon entering was a creature similar to the monsters you’ve crawled away from– but it did not move.

The still creature lay on the floor, staring at its hand. Its bottom half was similar to a mermaid's. You did not see two legs. When you approached, there was no reaction. You can only presume it was dead. Or that it never had a life to begin with.

You heard radio static as soon as you tried approaching it. But you don't recall ever having a radio in your possession.

“You poor thing…” You found yourself uncharacteristically sympathizing with a monster. The fatigue was eminent in your voice. “What happened?”

You're so stupid. Don't you think that "corpse" looks familiar?

You looked at its other hand and saw it holding an axe.

You took it.

As you brandished the weapon, its Silvermane engravings became more apparent. This was a soldier’s model, one you used back when you were an intelligence officer. Perhaps it will come in handy later.

“I’ve never heard of this station before, then again, I doubt many knew there’s a back alley in the first place,” you scoffed. “But, hmm…”

You turned your head to face the monster once more. You don’t know why you feel oddly calm facing the monster this boldly. With the axe acting as your new makeshift cane, you pushed it down. Nothing happened.

You got back up and took a look around.

For a police station, there were tons of love-related posters hanging around with half of them viciously vandalized. Some of them made you laugh as you read them. The handwriting seemed to belong to someone, but you can't recall whose.

LOVE ISN’T REAL.

I DON’T NEED A MATCH. I JUST WANT ██████.

“Pathetic,” your emotional equivalent of a snort was a slight huff. “And you’re all supposed to be Silvermane Guards? Guess this place was deserted for a reason.”

You hate how you sounded exactly like Mr. Landau just now. Out of all the children in the Landau household, you had it the worst with Md. Landau. Hearing yourself mutter something he would say... you're not sure how you feel about that.

Scoffing, you walked past the corpse and onto the break room.

Missing just a few posters in your way.

IF I CAN’T HAVE ███,

THEN I’LL JUST REMOVE ███ LIMBS.

Hours passed. You haven’t found the exit.

You heard Serval’s voice again. She was apologizing to you. Then, silence.

Nothing happened on what you presumed to be the “next day.” You cried to yourself until you saw the same monster who killed Gerard. It was ready to give chase until suddenly, it stopped when you were incredibly focused on escaping.

You tried thinking about why it did what it did. But it left more questions than answers.

Tore down a couple of posters. They were starting to get to you.

You think there is no exit. You made a quick mention about how Gerard probably knew where it is to yourself, but the same monster must've heard you. You felt eyes watching you and it made it's appearance by narrow alleys. You bolted.

You found another human. But he was long dead. You wondered if he was the same person children loved to talk about. The anxious man who lingered at the gates of the Back Alley. If I remember correctly, Stelle encountered this man before. Wonder what she thought of him at the time.

You heard the radio static again when you approached him. You decided to ignore him for now.

You mopped the man's dried blood. Who knew the mop Gerard pointed at in his last moments had it's use.

He looked stiff as a board. He was reeking, but at least he had a smile on his face.

You obtained a key after cleaning up the puddle.

“Was there ever an exit?”

Nothing happened in this timeframe. But you think you have an idea as to why these creatures exist.

Specifically, why they exist because of you.

How long have you been here? Sorry, I wasn’t keeping track.

You also weren't sure how long you'd been searching the town. Quite frankly, I was getting bored of watching. You tried to play this off like a maze game, constantly following the walls to your right as though it would magically lead you to the exit. Did you know that Lady Luck is not particularly lenient when bestowing favors? Your life here is slowly becoming more stale and your constantly improving ability to strategize your routes to avoid monsters has been making your adventure more of a chore to follow.

It's admirable that you were so tenacious in clinging to life in such a dangerous environment with a single leg, but it was extremely frustrating that you couldn't see this alley for what it was.

As if to cure such boredom, you entered another abandoned building. Turns out, the key you pried off a dead man's corpse fits perfectly. It was a psychiatric clinic owned by one Dr. Kauffman, a licensed therapist who received teachings from Dr. Kang Tu via the Astral Express. I never cared about those people. They're just cashing in on the occult, the easily "hooked", and the disturbed. You harbor at least 2/3 of those qualities. Congrats.

The walls are more notably filled with the same set of posters you've seen scattered around time. This time, you weren't feral enough to tear the posters down. However, you didn't grasp the meaning behind them either. You refused to look deeper, even when you don't recall what would stare back at you.

Mindlessly, you staggered inside a room. There were no professionals inside as far as you could tell without any of the lights on, just a cold sofa. You walked slowly and sat down.

As soon as you comfortably secured a position to take a rest, you realized you weren't alone.

Star-bright eyes followed your movements as soon as you entered the room.

“Gepard?”

You blinked.

“Oh. Gerard, it’s you. I thought you were–” You paused as Gerard shook his head, eyebrows furrowed with a smile that repressed his frustration. “Sorry.”

“Anyway, I’m… confused. How are you alive?” You asked. “Your arm– it’s back. What’s going on?”

Desensitized, you no longer knew what to think.

You're being strangely calm, don't you think?

But one thing was for certain: this “man” is not supposed to be standing.

Gerard pursed his lips.

“Anyway?” He mimicked you bitterly.

“What do you mean “ANYWAY”?!?”

You flinched as he took steps forward.

“You didn’t even care about me, didn’t you?!? It’s Gepard this, Gepard that– Gepard is DEAD!!!”

Gerard screamed at your face, gripping your shoulders tightly.

“Why… Why is it always him first? When I am everything he couldn't be?”

Gerard chuckled lowly.

“I-I was so afraid. I was so afraid that I won’t be able to see you again– that I’d disappoint you– but no, it’s always Gepard first. Why can’t you be obsessed with me in the way you were so– so…”

He cried. Hot tears ran down his cheeks as his shoulders deflated. Gerard cast his gaze to the ground while his hands reached to wipe his sorrows off his face.

“I would die for you. Why can’t you do the same?”

You tilted your head.

“Strange, now that I think about it–” you said nonchalantly.

“Didn’t I watch you die?”

Silence.

You should comfort him.

“Gepard,” you started.

Wrong name.

“No, it’s Gepard.”

Wrong name.

“It’s not the wrong name. I know what I’m saying.”

Wrong name.

I continued to correct you.

“It’s not–” You took a shaky breath. “It’s not the wrong name, you fucking idiot.”

He remains still, quiet.

Almost frozen.

Stiff as a board.

You laughed.

“I get it now. Haha. I get it now.”

You look down, staring at the human corpse. Human corpse? No. That’s not a human. A human cannot die twice.

You get it now.

You’re in the Back Alley.

There are always eyes that watch the Back Alley.

You look above, particularly to no one, but you believed the scriptwriter must be listening.

“He’s listening, isn't He?”

Yes. He is.

It's time for us to talk.

The clock struck 10:10.

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princessmotif · 3 months

Text

related to this post i made about azula's varying respect for her friends and faith in their willingness to play the roles they're meant to in the fire nation, i think it's a really incorrect perspective to say that mai's betrayal was always obvious while ty lee's was shocking. i understand that a lot of viewers felt that way as kids and continue to feel that way as adults because ty lee was outwardly agreeable while mai wasn't, but it's just very shortsighted.

ty lee had to be threatened into joining azula. yes, she played her part very well afterward, but she clearly never wanted to be a part of this team. she manipulated azula constantly with praise and her veneer of stupidity to make azula feel she was loyal and not going to do anything out of line with her role again (i.e. running away again). her betrayal makes perfect sense. she was always looking for a way out; she just thought it would come after the war was won because she didn't see mai's betrayal coming before azula gave the order to cut the cables.

why wouldn't ty lee see the betrayal coming before that? she's very emotionally intelligent, and they all are highly aware of mai's feelings for zuko even if she wasn't. but like azula, ty lee knows that mai is committed to her role. furthermore, mai sincerely likes azula much more than ty lee does. she smiles when she sees azula in omashu, jokes with her, semi-embraces her of her own accord despite disliking hugs, agrees with no fuss to come along on the mission, feels comfortable disobeying orders she dislikes while ty lee clearly fears punishment, scoffs at the idea of azula lightningbending at her as if it's ridiculous, feels comfortable yelling at azula without needing to apologize, and overall treats azula with familiarity and a sense of equality between them. while mai says that she loves zuko more than she fears azula at boiling rock and azula says that fear is the only reliable way [to guarantee loyalty], mai never actually shows any fear or even particularly negative feelings toward or about azula. the only time we see real friction between them prior to the betrayal is when azula dismisses mai so she can tell zuko to stop visiting iroh. mai clearly knows azula is up to something in her desire to talk to zuko alone and that the excuse of mai needing to fix ty lee's braid is a lie, but that's it. even when they're children and azula makes them all play the game with the apple, mai looks at most somewhat concerned about the apple being on fire on top of her head. she doesn't seem to be truly afraid of azula or the fire. she's much more alarmed by zuko tackling her. of course, there are the implicit threats with their actual statuses in society since going against azula is going against the royal family, but we don't ever actually see azula threaten mai or mai show fear of azula.

mai's betrayal is much more surprising given what's actually shown of her relationship with azula and her willingness to play the part she's supposed to in the fire nation. azula is her friend, someone she treats as an equal despite their social statuses dictating otherwise, and the princess of the fire nation. this is why azula is so shocked that mai would do something so flagrant.

#atla #azula #ty lee #mai

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tinkerbelle05 · 11 months

Note

Pavitr x reader

Readers having her period

Now let me take care of you, okay.

Characters: Pavitr x Fem!reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Summary: (Requested) Thanks for the reqs 🧡

Warnings: Period, Period Symptoms: cramps, bloating, vomiting, nausea.

Sundari = beauty

At first, Pavitr was kinda clueless about the whole thing. And you being parts embarrassed and parts prideful, you never let him in to see that side of you. So the most you’ll do is send him to the store and have him pick up some pads or tampons if you really need it. But he always has raspberry and black tea stocked and ready for when your period comes and you are craving it. He was really considerate like that.

And he always offered to do more for you even though he knew you’d say no. Like he’d offer to message your shoulders and lower back. To cook your meals and clean your house for you. It warmed your heart that he’d do all of that for you but you didn't need his help.

You were fine with planning. You cleaned your house the week before and you meal prepped things you know you can eat. You got any important work done and made sure no social plans happened during your period. You’ve been doing it this way for year and you were a pro at it.

That’s what you kept telling yourself as you laid on the ground, withering in pain. That you didn't need anyone’s help.

The cramps were getting too much and you couldn't keep down the pain meds either. And of course your heating pad had gone and disappeared on you as well.

Tears of frustration and pain swelled up in your eyes while you descend into further despair. Your phone was so tempting right now. It’d be so, so easy to grab it and dial Pavi’s number. But it'd be so hard to accept the help that’d come with it.

You couldn't explain the reason but being self-reliant is something so ingrained into who you are as a person. Maybe it's because you’ve been disappointed more times than you can count on your hand? Or maybe it's because you are naturally distrustful of strangers?

But Pavitr isn't a stranger.

He's the love of your life. He trusts you with his whole entire being and he showed you time and time again that a he's reliable person. Maybe you should call him. Despite your pounding heart and shaky hands you do so.

“Hey Sundari, how are you?” he greeted you, sounding cheerful.

“Hi Pavi, honestly I’m not doing too well. Can you please come over?” You asked him and waited with a baited breath for a response.

Immediately his tone changed to something more serious, “Of course I will come. Is there anything that you need?”

You listed off the things that you would like him to buy for you, pausing frequently when a particularly strong cramp hits you. And Pavitr listened to you with patience and understanding. God, that alone made you want to cry right then and there.

Within 30 minutes your front door opened revealing Pav holding a mountain of bags that you couldn’t help but gawk at. What you asked for wouldn’t even make up for half of what he was holding.

“Oh my, are you alright?” He questioned, with alarm in his voice. He dropped the bags carefully on the ground and rushed over to where you laid. “Do you want me to help you walk or carry you?”

“Carry please,” you respond. You closed your eyes a bit and just lent into his hold, he was warm and smelt good too.

A bit too warm but it was way better than the floor. Your back was starting to sore. He walked slowly to your bedroom and laid you on your bed carefully.

He sat at the edge of it and squeezed your arm lightly, “Are you cold or hot?”

You thought for a moment, feeling the air around you. Your legs were burning, it felt like everything was burning and on fire. “I’m really hot,” you muttered out.

He nodded his head, “I’ll find the remote and get you some water, okay? Are you hungry? Nauseous?”

Your stomach felt empty but you also felt really sick. The thought of food made your stomach twist and churn uncomfortably. You shake your head no.

Pavitr hums in response and brushes the sweat from your forehead. “Okay, I'll get a cold rag. Hang tight Sundari.”

He came back a few minutes later with some tea, a cold bottle of water, and a cold rag like he promised. Using the remote that he found, he turned on the AC and placed the cold rag on your burning skin.

“Okay, you rest up. I’ll cook and clean. Let me when you are ready to eat or need anything else.” He told you but a weak protest on your lips.

“Pavi, you don’t have to-.” You started to sit up in your bed, body feeling heavy and weakened from the lack of food.

He pushed you back gently, smile on his lips and twinkle in his eyes, “I don’t have to but I want to because I love you. Now let me take care of you, okay.”

Tags: @sodapopzs, @ellatienesuscosas, @justbeethings, @jam-skullz, @hoeboat101, @butterfi, @dreamxcollide, @sleepdeprivationis4coolkids, @itstooearly-its3am, @eight-cats-in-a-box, @maypersonne, @rosebunny, @midnight-the-shadow-wolf, @emgavi, @sawi-06, @niktwazny303, @nagi3seastorm, @ghostsimp000, @vixqn, @angelzira, @keawio, @nerdyparker616, @jell0buss-37, @mur-docs, @shibble, @somber-starz, @emgavi, @707xn, @cloudstrifefantatic, @yourtsahik, @im-jisoo-im-okay, @1uvvmi, @minimari415, @luci1fer, @centipider, @randomhoex, @universallypeanutpizzapersona, @baddiebehaviourxx, @m4rihrts, @laylasbunbunny, @andhdi68a, @avatarl0v3r, @spider-bren, @wraithlueintheirlittleworld, @ca1ist0, @liuralibrar

Taglist & Masterlist & Reqs Info

Request are open!!

#pavitr prabhakar #pavitr my beloved #pavitr prabhakar x you #atsv pavitr #atsv pavitr x female!reader #pavitr prabhakar x reader #pavitr prabhakar x f!reader #astv x reader #pavitr x y/n #spiderverse pavitr #pavitr x reader #pavitr x you

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sminny-wew · 4 months

Text

Megaman Battle Network but I went back in time and moved a chair (headcanons/musings under the cut)

Everything else is the same but Lan was the one who had HBD, died, and was brought back by Dr. Hikari as Megaman.EXE (anything relating to this concept will be tagged "MegaLan AU" but otherwise he's called Megaman.EXE here)

Hub is a humble, polite, and diligent 5th grader. Greatly admires his dad and wants to work in navi development just like him, but is still a mama's boy. He always goes to bed, wakes up, and gets to school on time. He studies just enough to maintain decent grades, does all his chores, and gets around by skateboarding. Hub has a pretty happy and peaceful life, but something feels...missing. His dad's long work hours and mom's fussing have led him to feel somewhat sheltered and lacking in excitement, and his parents have noticed. So, for Hub's 10th birthday, Dr. Hikari surprised his son with his own custom netnavi: Megaman.EXE.

"Why did Dad name you 'Megaman'?" "Because I'm mega cool! 👉😎👉" [Or if you prefer the Japanese names: "Why did Dad name you 'Rockman'?" "Because I rock! 👉😎👉"]

This Megaman is very cocky and proud of his skills, but not to the point of delusion (he is not immune to fucking around and finding out lmao). It's more a case of him hyping himself up because A) he can do things as a navi that he could never do as a human, and B) he got a second chance at life and wants to live it to the fullest. He hates that he's separated from his family and the rest of the world by a screen, but he's still really happy that he got to know his twin brother at all. Someone's gotta drag Hub out of the classroom to see all the exciting things the world has to offer!!!

Unlike Hub with school and chores, this Megaman has to be prodded into doing navi tasks like file cleanup, software maintainance, etc. He's also not the most reliable alarm clock lmao

This Megaman has a bad habit of leaving the joke program running in the background. Hub keeps turning it off and even tried deleting it but somehow Megaman still has it running most of the time (he knows when to dial it back tho)

Despite slacking on most other navi tasks, this Megaman is still without a doubt very powerful, excels at netbattling, and is very eager to tackle net crimes (he begged Hub to jack him into the oven when it caught fire). He also loves to tease opponents, he keeps it lighthearted when battling friendly navis like Roll or Gutsman but can get pretty sassy against enemies. It's not smart, especially where Bass is concerned, but then again this is still Lan we're talking about. And SPEAKING OF

There were more than a few times where he almost gave away his real identity, whether it be because he made a comment about craving curry or called Hub "big bro" without thinking and tried to laugh it off ("It's because we're so close and you act all responsible and stuffy like an older brother!! No other reason hAHAHAHA ;;")

Once Dr. Hikari gives Hub "Lan.BAT" to save Megaman from deletion and tells him the truth, Hub is definitely still surprised but not as much as he could be ("Man, Hub, you're taking this whole 'dead twin reborn as a navi' thing pretty casually..." "You weren't exactly subtle about it, little bro.")

During the big climax in BN5, Megaman-channeling-the-spirit-of-Lan is mostly serious and focused, but he still can't help but be like "Heh, I look SO cool right now!!" and then the second the powerup wears off he crumples to the ground like he has glass bones and paper skin but it was SO worth it

Megaman is the only one who takes the rivalry with Chaud and Protoman seriously; poor Hub just wants to be friends and not cause problems but alas his navi got the Shounen Protagonist ADHD

Since the dynamic is flipped around, Maylu and Roll don't have the same feelings for the boys that they normally would, Maylu might've had a crush on Hub when they were little but she got over it (also: my house, my aroace Hub)

Also just in general, because he was a little more sheltered than canon Lan, Hub didn't have many friends for most of his life. He still grew up with Maylu as his next-door neighbor and childhood friend, but they weren't as close as Maylu and Lan. Hub avoided Dex b/c he saw Dex as a bully and wanted to stay as far from trouble as possible, and Yai he just didn't interact with due to shyness. But once Megaman entered the picture, Hub became much more social and outgoing. He became closer to Maylu, befriended Dex and Yai, and actively wants to befriend Chaud because he sees that same sense of loneliness in Chaud.

"I know how we can save Chaud!! First I need you to throw me--" "I AM NOT DOING THAT FOR SEVERAL REASONS"

#megaman battle network #megaman.exe #rockman.exe #lan hikari #netto hikari #hub hikari #saito hikari #MegaLan AU #artsy fartsy

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leiawritesstories · 1 year

Text

PART ONE: JANUARY

Masterlist

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings: swearing, fire, an explosion, alcohol, mentions of homicide, other criminal behaviours, mentions of evil people, lots and LOTS of scheming

A/N: hey everyone! today's a holiday in the US, so here's a little present! Enjoy!!!

huge shoutout to @house-of-galathynius for beta reading 🫶🫶🫶

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was past three in the morning when Aelin finally slipped back into her apartment, cursing under her breath as she slammed the window shut, locking out the frigid January air. Winter in Orynth was bitter at best, the north wind intent on viciously slicing through all her layers of clothing, and it had taken her a full minute to warm her fingers up enough for the scanner to read her fingerprint. Shaking stray snowflakes from her thick coat, she hung the garment on the coat rack, unlaced her boots, and gratefully shucked those too, finally able to flop down on the couch with a heartfelt groan of relief, only to immediately jump back onto her feet before the half-crusted blood on her suit could seep into the couch.

She’d spent at least a few hundred dollars on that couch–no sense staining yet another piece of shitty furniture with the blood of some lowdown criminal.

Grumbling, Aelin stalked down the short hallway into the bathroom, flipped on the weak light, and turned the shower tap all the way to the hottest temperature. It wasn’t even that hot–damn cheap ass landlord. This apartment was a piece of shit by her standards, lacking basic necessities like reliable hot water, air conditioning, a functional oven, and decent water pressure. Of course, everyone knew that Aelin Ashryver Galathynius would never dream of coming within five miles of a place like that–no, the well-off CEO was known to live in a penthouse apartment in downtown Orynth, in a sleek modern high-rise that absolutely reeked of money. As far as Boss Galathynius’s standards were concerned, though, the place was perfect. Bordered by the industrial district and the shipping district, the neighborhood was just sketchy enough that nobody asked any questions and just classy enough to be relatively safe during the daytime. It was the kind of place where people kept their business to themselves. Perfect for her…needs.

As the shower creaked and groaned and sputtered out a stream of tepid water, Aelin rolled her shoulders, unzipped the form-fitting black tactical fabric of her suit, and peeled the material from her skin, groaning when she saw just how badly the suit was stained. Fuck, she’d have to wash it, and then get it properly cleaned. Leaving the suit on the floor, she stepped into the pathetic excuse for a shower and turned her face into the spray, allowing the water to soften the splatters of blood on her face and neck. Rutting gods, why in all hell couldn’t there be hot hot water? With this barely-warm water, it was going to take ages to shed her second skin. She sighed and turned the tap as far up as it would go, stood under the water for another few minutes, then grunted and grabbed her soap and scrubbed her whole body, even though the suit and her gloves kept most of her protected from the rather unfortunate side effects of her, erm, nighttime job.

The soap also helped to loosen up the barely detectable layer of synthetic skin laying atop Aelin’s real skin until it started to peel enough that she could get her hands onto it and peel, pulling it away from her body. It came off mostly intact, only tearing in a few places. Gods, this was such an improvement from the early phases–she still shuddered in remembrance of the beta model that flaked into bits and took her hours to remove.

In her own skin once more, Aelin scrubbed herself again, then shut off the shower, grabbed her towel, dried off, threw on fleece-lined leggings and a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and dragged herself into the bedroom to flop onto the shitty mattress for about two hours of sleep.

She woke to her six o’clock alarm, swore at the clock, dragged herself out of bed, and went to scrub her suit as best as she could in the crappy shower. It took the pathetic excuse for hot water ten minutes before it got hot, so she just grabbed the bucket she kept for this occasion, filled it up, splashed in some laundry detergent, and dumped her suit into the mix. Shit, she really needed to invest in dry cleaning.

With the suit at least partially clean–and the water she’d just dumped down the drain significantly bloodier than most people would consider normal–Aelin rolled her suit up tightly, shoved it into a plastic bag, pulled on her boots and heavy parka jacket, shouldered her backpack, and left the building, thankful that the January morning was dark enough for her to go unnoticed amongst the trickle of people leaving early for work. She kept her head down as she deftly wove through the maze of streets, just one more bundled-up citizen among the many.

As the sky slowly lightened from blue-black to steel-gray, Aelin slipped into a side alley and followed the narrow street across into another neighborhood, this one lined with cozy brick buildings and clean-swept sidewalks. She ducked in the side door of a bakery, completely ignoring the “Employees Only” sign posted outside, and muffled a violent curse as she accidentally kicked a pallet of flour.

Irritated footsteps hurried rapidly into the storage room. “How many fucking times do I have to tell you, Ilias, come in the front door before–oh, it’s just you.”

Aelin waved. “It’s just me.”

Nesryn Faliq rolled her dark eyes and flicked on the light. “Can I assume you’ve brought the linens again?”

“If you’d be so kind,” Aelin returned, nodding. “I’ll come take care of them after work today.”

“You know what happens if you don’t,” Nesryn retorted. She flashed Aelin a quick grin. “I’ve got twenty minutes before opening, boss. You gonna do something useful or just stand there?”

Aelin chuckled and followed Nesryn into the warm, yeast-scented kitchen. “I suppose I can spare a few minutes before I have to go do hot boss-lady shit.”

“You CEO girls and your crazy sayings,” Nesryn snorted.

“Keeps the job fun.” Aelin winked. “Gods know we CEO girls need a bit of fun sometimes.”

For half an hour, Aelin organized fresh loaves of bread onto racks, boxed up muffins and pastries, and did a little inventory. Nesryn bumped her hip in gratitude and left a huge iced coffee on the countertop. “I know you need it.”

“Thanks, luv,” Aelin crooned in her best British accent, taking a long sip of the sweet caffeinated goodness.

The baker laughed wryly. “Don’t make too many poor little guys piss themselves, boss lady!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Faliq!”

“Hey.” Elide poked her head into Aelin’s office.

Aelin barely glanced up from her computer. “Yeah?”

The petite woman dropped a slip of paper on Aelin’s desk. “Thought you might want to see this.”

“Mhmm.” Distractedly, Aelin took the paper and set it by her keyboard, not really looking away from whatever she was busily typing. “Thanks, Ells.”

“Aelin.” Elide’s voice was not the kind to be brushed off. “I need you to look at that. Now.”

The steel in her second’s voice jerked Aelin out of her focus mode. She blinked, shook her head, and properly came to attention. “Okay.” She picked up the small paper and scanned the short message, and her eyes widened slightly, the only outward sign of her shock. “What.”

“Go check on it.” Elide grasped Aelin’s hand and practically hauled her to her feet. “I’ll handle anything that comes to your office for however long it takes you. Go. Now.”

Barely remembering to close her computer, Aelin hurried upstairs to her other office, rushing through the security protocols, and dropped into her boss chair. She snatched the small headset that rested in the second drawer of her desk and turned it on. The earpiece was barely in her ear before she was barking commands into the device.

“Boss?” Nox answered within seconds of her ringing him.

“I need to hear the chatter.” Aelin gave no explanation–she knew Nox would know exactly what she was talking about.

“Right.” There was a series of clicks and taps on the other end of the line as Nox found the audio he needed her to hear. “Timestamp: 1147 this morning, Orynth PD Channel 074.” He pressed another button, and radio static crackled in Aelin’s ear for a few seconds before resolving into a few male voices.

He’s supposed to arrive today.

Who?

The special forces officer, you jackass! Didn’t you listen to the captain’s briefing?

The hell would I? He hasn’t said anything useful for weeks.

There was the unmistakable sound of someone swatting someone else upside the head. Whatever. Special forces comes today.

Hope he’s able to get some kind of info on this godsdamn case. A snort. If he can’t, I hope to the bloody gods they toss the whole thing, cuz I’m just about done waiting around for some criminal who doesn’t exist to leave evidence of their supposed crimes.

The hell d’you mean, ‘doesn’t exist?’ We wouldn’t be on this fucking case if the criminal didn’t exist! Stakeouts take time, officer.

Not this much time. That was a new voice, Aelin observed, and she could hear the muffled curses and rustles of surprise that followed this new voice’s entry into the conversation.

Just who the hell are you?

Special forces. Interesting. Aelin filed that little fact away for later.

Fine. Welcome to the investigation. Ain’t shit worth investigating, though.

The special forces officer chuckled sarcastically. That’s what all you morons think, isn’t it?

Who the fuck are you calling a moron?

All of you. I wouldn’t be here if you were competent. Where’s the case file? I need it.

Aelin knew it was bad of her, but gods, she liked this special forces officer. He wasn’t afraid to call Orynth PD out on their incompetence. She listened to the police officers and the special forces officer for a few more minutes before Nox turned it off.

“That’s pretty much all they said within our range.”

Aelin nodded, though her master tech hacker couldn’t see her. “Thanks, Nox.”

“Anytime, boss.” She heard the smirk in his voice. “I’ll keep you posted on their chatter.”

“As you should.”

Aelin was disappointed.

It had been over a week since Nox picked up that first chatter about special forces joining the investigation, and as far as she knew, the team hadn’t tried any kind of infiltration into her headquarters. And Aelin would have known if they tried anything–she hadn’t ascended to the top of the criminal underworld without learning a few lessons. Most of them bloody.

Unbidden, a memory flashed through her mind: the thick coppery tang of blood filling a windowless cement chamber, ropes digging into raw flesh, a man’s leering whisper in her ear. You need to learn how to behave, you little whore. The unmistakable crack of bones. A girl’s scream.

Inhaling sharply, Aelin forced the memory out of her mind, shoving it back down into the abyss where it belonged. She grasped the small framed photograph she kept on her desk and stared into the laughing eyes of the photographed couple, rooting herself in the unfaltering courage of her parents. I am Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not be afraid. The fate of her company, her business, and all of her people depended on it.

She practically slept through most of the workday, bored with the interminable waiting for special forces or PD or anyone to make some kind of move. As much as she wanted to be the instigator, Elide and Ansel had both threatened her with various forms of torture if she did “anything fucking stupid,” as they so graciously put it. Aelin had just held up her hands and sworn innocence. Neither of her dear friends believed her for a second. Still, her promise held–she wouldn’t start shit.

Unless an irresistible opportunity presented itself.

Tap, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap. Ansel’s knock sounded against Aelin’s office door. The Galathynius office, not the work one. Looking up from her laptop, Aelin checked to make sure her low-lit office was all in order, then snapped to disarm the door’s defense mechanisms. “Enter.”

The redhead opened the door. “Boss?”

“Hmm?”

“Got someone here who wants to talk to you. I think you’ll be…intrigued by what he has to say.”

“Hmm.” Aelin steepled her fingers, thinking. “Send him in.”

Ansel jerked her head towards Aelin’s office in signal. Two of the Galathynius outfit’s men, both huge and muscular and bristling with weapons, escorted a bound, gagged man into the boss’s office, dumped him in the chair opposite Aelin, and removed his gag. With a curt nod to their boss, they left the office, taking up guard posts outside the door to make sure nothing unfortunate happened.

Aelin swept a cold gaze over the man, noting his features–brown hair, pale green eyes, decently muscular, about six feet tall, probably had at least three concealed knives if he was as smart as she thought he was–and hummed softly. “Well?”

The man drew in a huge, shaky breath. “Well what, miss–I mean, boss–I mean–”

“Drop the act, smuggler.”

“Galathynius.” He cleared his throat. “Good to finally meet you. My name is Rolfe.”

Aelin arched one blonde brow. “Rolfe. They call you the Pirate Lord because you’ve managed to perfect smuggling into an art that few can detect, yes? Which does a great deal of service to my little business.” She chuckled softly, dangerously. “They also say you smuggle more things than just drugs, weapons, and cash.”

Rolfe simply nodded. “I’m not stupid enough to tell you you’re wrong.”

Casually, Aelin lifted her booted feet onto her desk, languidly crossing one leg over the other. Her shoes of choice were sleek black patent leather boots with a blood-red sole and six-inch stiletto heels that concealed actual stiletto knives. Fashionable and deadly, her favorite combination. “Perhaps not. But you’re clearly also not smart enough to realize I know those bonds aren’t holding you.”

The so-called Pirate Lord laughed wryly and shook off the ropes around his body. “Should’ve known you’d know.”

She smirked. “Get to business, Rolfe. I’m also not a very stupid person, and I know full well you didn’t come waltzing onto my territory just to show off your prowess with escaping bonds.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Galathynius, I know you’re very busy destroying all your enemies and all that shit, and I think I can help.”

“In more ways than just smuggling in my shipments?”

“Yeah.” His pale green eyes were sharp, calculating. “Y’see, I spend most of my time outside of Orynth, working the waterways, and I hear things. Shippers love to gossip.” He cleared his throat. “I have it on good info–took a little torture, but what doesn’t?–that someone named Cairn Wilkins is coming into Orynth in a couple weeks. Apparently the boss he worked for turned up dead a little while ago, and he’s dead set on getting revenge on whoever the hell did it.”

“Interesting,” Aelin mused, her face completely calm despite the rapid speed at which her mind was turning. “He wouldn’t happen to have worked for a certain Arobynn Hamel, would he?”

“That’s the one.”

“Makes sense.” She tapped her scarlet fingernails on her desk. “Cairn Wilkins is a slimy, dirty bastard who always needs someone bigger and badder to follow. Ugly bitch can’t even form a thought without someone to tell him what to think.”

Rolfe snorted. “Sounds about right. Well, he’s got a decent foundation here under the name Wilkins Trading–you know it?” Aelin nodded. “According to the sea talk, he’ll get here on the 27th unless the weather doesn’t cooperate. Probably won’t waste any time starting his little revenge hunt. And he’s not known for subtlety, so you’ll know he’s here.”

“I knew that.” Aelin flashed the smuggler a knife-edged grin that made him (and all the others who’d seen that grin) recoil a few inches. “Cairn always did have a flair for leaving trails of blood and shit wherever he goes; it’s probably some misplaced pride in being a dirty criminal. Never did him any good with the law, though.”

“The ones he hasn’t bought, at least.”

“Indeed.” Aelin swung her feet down and stood gracefully, leaning her hip against the side of her desk. “My thanks for the information, Rolfe. Have anything else interesting to say?”

He glanced at the calendar on the wall. “Your next cargo will be here in four days, right on schedule. Want it delivered to the usual warehouse?”

“As always.” She held out her hand.

Standing, Rolfe shook her hand firmly. “Just one more thing, Galathynius.”

“Make it quick.” She flicked a glance at the clock. “I’ve got somewhere to be in less than an hour.”

He cleared his throat. “Whatever you’re planning for Wilkins, be extra careful. The PD team they’ve got investigating the, uh, murder cases is suddenly a lot more present down in the shipping districts. Special forces is–”

“Involved, I know. Finally bit the bullet and sent over an officer about a week ago.”

“Yeah. This officer, though, he’s not just any special ops guy. I barely even knew he existed until he showed up on the investigation, and I always know all the info about the military. It’s because of the job, of course–can’t risk falling for some stupid trap.”

“Stop blathering and tell me about the man,” Aelin sighed.

Rolfe swallowed. “He’s a Doranellian, trained up at that military academy they have. He’s relentless, demanding, won’t take any bullshit, worse than a bloodhound for his sniffing around. His name is Whitethorn.”

“Hmm.” Aelin absorbed the new information calmly. “Thanks, Rolfe. I’ll be careful.” With that, she opened her office door and let the smuggler out. She lifted her chin at the two guards standing outside her door, who instantly flanked Rolfe, blindfolded him–“for security, you understand”–and escorted him out of the building. She closed her door and returned to her desk, mulling over the details. Whitethorn. For some reason, the name sounded familiar. She’d probably heard her uncle say it.

Uncle Gavriel Ashryver was a good man and an excellent soldier, but he loved to talk about the men he was proud of. It was a wonderful quality in a commanding officer. It was less wonderful when a notorious criminal heard all the information and tucked it away for future…use.

Not that she would ever betray her uncle by using what he’d shared about his soldiers to attack the special forces base, or any other military base. She had nothing but respect for Gav, for the position he held, and for the skill with which he led the special forces branch.

She just had a personal interest in keeping the special forces away from her personal business.

Gods. Fucking. Dammit. Rowan was starting to believe that there would never be a week where he was able to do anything without a murder report. This was what, the fourth one this month? And it hadn’t even been two weeks since he started working on the investigation.

“Where.” Rowan slammed the truck door so hard the vehicle rattled. He stalked over to the pair of police officers standing at the edge of the crime scene, a small part of him delighting in the way they jumped to attention as he approached. “Where.”

“Right here, Lieutenant.” The lady officer lifted a segment of the bright yellow tape marking off the crime scene. “Discovered at 0622 this morning; initial sweep estimates that the time of death was between four and seven hours before the discovery.”

Rowan nodded curtly. “And the victims?”

“We’ve left that to your discretion.”

Finally, someone with a shred of common sense. “Good. I’ll handle it from here.” He didn’t wait for any answer before striding into the garage.

Inside the relatively small, open building, three forms lay beneath a black tarp. Rowan crossed the space, noting the way the cement floor gently sloped down towards the center of the space–probably designed so that any spills from the mechanical or repair work done there could easily be washed down the drain in the middle of the floor. He pulled the tarp aside, assessed the state of the bodies, and sucked in a sharp breath.

Bruises, ropes still tied around the wrists and ankles, slashed throats. So similar to every single other victim in the string of murders the Orynth PD hadn’t been able to solve.

Snapping on a pair of latex gloves and a protective mask, Rowan knelt down by the bodies and carefully scanned the details he could see without disturbing them. His eyes narrowed, his brows scrunching together and forming a furrow in his forehead. That thought he’d had about the MO of these homicides being similar to the previous ones? He threw it straight into his mental garbage. These victims didn’t display any signs of the extensive beating the other victims had displayed, nor did they appear to have been captive for any significant length of time. The only similarity between these victims and the ones he was certain were the Galathynius outfit’s work was the slashed throats. And even that was different in this case–sloppier. Much sloppier.

“Have them sent to the morgue.” Rowan stood and discarded his protective gear. “Don’t rush the autopsies. I’m not convinced this incident is significant.”

“With all due respect, Lieutenant, every homicide should be sig–”

“Wrong.” Rowan snorted. “This incident is tragic, as all homicides are, but I have no reason to believe it’s at all related to what we are investigating.” Before the cop could protest, he held up a silencing hand. “Just send them to the morgue, collect any relevant evidence from the scene, and clean it up. We’re not here to deal with petty criminal shit.”

Which was precisely what that incident turned out to be.

“You’re certain?” Rowan arched one pale brow, half-disbelieving.

“Positive.” The medical examiner flipped through her stack of charts and images until she found the right page. “See this? This is his trademark.” She pointed to the close-up images of the throats. “The incision pattern shows that the weapon used was clearly a serrated blade, and we only ever see serrated blades used when Cairn is…active. My theory is that he’s one of those men who do something once and decide that’s the only way to do it.”

“Classic dumb criminal shit,” Rowan snorted. “All right, we’ll take care of the, uh, cleanup. Thanks, Borte.”

Borte nodded. “Never a dull moment with this process, is there?”

“Hardly.” Rowan rolled his eyes. “I’m starting to wish there was a dull moment here and there, but better to have no breaks than too much silence.”

If there was one thing he’d learned in his years dealing with sophisticated criminals, it was that long stretches of silence meant something truly explosive was about to go down.

On the night of January 28th, Aelin went home after work rather than going up to her private office. Her team could handle anything that passed through. She needed to be home, both for the well-deserved night of rest and for the alibi.

Earlier that afternoon, Elide had dropped a memo on her desk and given a subtle, covert nod as she walked away. The note was short, blunt, and direct.

It’s all ready. Tonight.

She strolled into her building, her heels clicking softly on the polished marble flooring of the lobby, and smiled briefly at the few other residents passing by, all of them well-dressed and practically reeking of money. The building was one of the most upscale apartment buildings in Orynth; rent was astronomical to everyone but the people who lived there. With her salary, she could easily afford the penthouse of this place; however, she didn’t like the whole-wall-of-windows design of this penthouse, so she just lived in a normal apartment.

The elevator ride up to the sixteenth floor was smooth and quick, and she was relieved to see that the hallway was empty. She walked to her door, unlocked it, and let herself in, barely able to wait before the door was locked again before kicking off her heels and releasing a long, long groan of satisfaction. No feeling like sweet relief from those torture devices–she’d never seen the point of shoes that didn’t use their design to hide weapons. A quick glance at the clock on her oven told her she had a few hours before anything…happened, so she decided to indulge in a luxurious hot bath.

Night had fully fallen when she emerged from the bathroom, stretching languidly, and went over to her wine cooler to select a drink for the night. CEO wealth did have its perks, and one of them was the ability to purchase or be gifted the finest wines her money could buy. She poured herself a glass, checked the time, and went to put on shoes before leaving her apartment, locking up behind herself, and going up to the rooftop.

From the rooftop of her building, Aelin could see all of Orynth, the sprawling metropolis glistening with the crystals of the city lights. She leaned against the glass half-wall encircling the perimeter of the rooftop, flirting with danger like she was so fond of doing, feeling the evening breeze stir her loose hair. Her wineglass dangled between her fingers, her hold on its delicate glass stem the only thing keeping it from tumbling hundreds of feet to the ground and crashing into a million fragments. She took a long sip, rolling the rich red liquid around on her tongue to luxuriate in the flavor–a symphony of dark cherry, oak, and just a trace of violet as the wine went down.

The perfect accompaniment to tonight’s…viewing.

In her head, she counted down the minutes, then the seconds. Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven…. Her anticipation built by the second, her heart rate unable to control its excitement. Settle down, she warned herself. No use celebrating too early.

Boom.

Right on time, an explosion. A cloud of thick black smoke billowed up a few miles away at the far end of the shipping district–the Wilkins lot, if she wasn’t mistaken. Blazing tongues of flame followed right on the heels of the smoke cloud, the fire rapidly catching onto the nearby containers and setting them ablaze. The fire only grew, though contained within its boundaries; it took only a minute or two before the mini inferno had devoured what looked to be the entire Wilkins lot and one or two lots nearby, its flames painting the night in flickers of orange and scarlet.

Aelin took another pull of her wine and drank in the sight of the raging blaze, a small smirk curling the corner of her lips as she heard the sirens screaming toward the scene of the fire. Not that the fire department would find anything worth saving.

She’d seen to that.

She remained at the edge of the rooftop until her wine was gone and the fire in the shipping district had been tamed, reduced to curling plumes of smoke drifting away into the January night. The decadent alcohol left a lingering trace of smoke and embers in her mouth, which only made her smirk grow. She knew she’d picked the right wine. Then she stood up and turned away from the cityscape, satisfied with a job well done. Regarding the empty wineglass in her hand, she tilted her head, thinking for a moment.

Then she lazily draped her arm over the balcony wall and let her fingers go limp.

The wineglass plummeted down, down, down through the silent winter night and landed with a crash on the frozen cement sidewalk, splintering into a thousand crystal shards. Curiously, though, glass wasn’t the only thing that rose up as the wineglass crashed into the pavement. No, there was something else, visible only for barely half a second–not even enough time to believe it really happened.

As Aelin’s wineglass shattered against the sidewalk, a small plume of smoke curled up from the impact point, disappearing a blink after it appeared. Almost as if the wineglass hadn’t just broken, but exploded.

Rowan was pissed, and he didn’t give a shit how many of these incompetent PD idiots fell out of his way as he stormed into the police captain’s office wearing an expression that had made more than one seasoned soldier piss themselves. The captain was on the phone with his back turned to the door, arguing with someone on the other end of the line and getting more frustrated with each passing second. After a few minutes, he snapped a string of curses and slammed down the phone, turning to find Rowan standing in front of him, glowering. To his credit, he didn’t jump in terror, just took a long pull of his coffee and braced his hands flat on his desk.

“What the hell do you want, Whitethorn?”

“Sign this.” Rowan pushed a document across the desk.

The police captain grumbled another foul curse. “I’m not signing shit I’ve never seen.”

“If you want this goddamn investigation to get anywhere, Westfailure, you’ll sign the goddamn paper.” Rowan’s temper was already inches from snapping and it wasn’t even eight in the morning–he blamed it on last night’s god-fucking-damned explosion down in the warehouse district. He and the investigative team barely made it down to the scene before the press descended upon it like vultures.

Police Captain Chaol Westfall glared at Rowan for a long minute, then snatched a pen and signed the paper. “If I hear one word, one damn word, about you torturing people, I swear I’ll have you booted off the investigation in disgrace.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Rowan scoffed. He turned and stalked out, heading to his own office in the police building. Since becoming part of the investigation, he’d been set up with quarters and an office on the floor assigned to the investigative team. Convenient, but he still preferred going home to the special forces barracks most nights. Now, though, he was seriously considering just moving into these quarters to be closer to everything. After last night’s disaster, he wanted to be as close as possible.

If he’d been closer last night, maybe that fucking explosion wouldn’t have happened.

He was still fuming over the absolute mess of a scene they’d all discovered when they arrived at the warehouse. The former warehouse, really, since there was nothing but a few scorched support beams left of the warehouses that had stood on the lot. It was owned–was still owned?–by a man called Wilkins, who shipped medications. And cocaine, if the rumors were true. A small part of Rowan hoped he would find some evidence of Wilkins’s less-than-legal dealings at the explosion scene, but there was nothing left. Literally. Nothing. Whatever had caused the explosion, whatever fuel or accelerant had been used, it had burned hot and swift, destroying everything in its path.

It smacked of criminal behavior, almost enough for Rowan to suspect this Wilkins man had blown his warehouse up himself. Except for one thing–the utter lack of vehicle tracks. Usually, when a property owner destroyed his own property in an attempt to claim the insurance money, he cleared everything out via a big truck or some other vehicle, which left definite tracks. There were no tracks in the area surrounding the destroyed lot. None.

Something about that little detail set off warning bells in Rowan’s mind.

“Lieutenant?”

“What?” Rowan turned to face the cop who’d addressed him.

“Over here.” The dark-haired man led him over to one corner of the former warehouse, the most intact bit of the whole place. “We found a scrap of material caught on the pylon; it’s bagged as evidence. Thought you’d want to see it.”

Rowan’s brows shot up. “You found fabric?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Shit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Any fabric that survived this goddamn inferno has got to be made of some seriously engineered shit. Give it to me for analysis, I’ll run it through the labs.”

“But Lieutenant, you can’t just grab evidence–”

Rowan glared at the cop. “I can and I will. Where’s the fabric?”

Reluctantly, the cop went over to the police truck and grabbed a single plastic bag out of the dark armored vehicle. “Here. Don’t keep it for too long, though.”

“Unlike you idiots, I know how to run an investigation.” Rowan took the evidence bag, stashed it in the bag he wore over his shoulder, and returned to his sweep of the crime scene.

The acrid tang of smoke hung thickly in the air, not dispersed by wind or weather or the team of investigators swarming around the site. Something about the smoke caught Rowan’s notice, so he stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, focusing on the scent of the air he drew in. Odd. Typical fires left behind a charcoal-scented kind of smoke, mixed with the odors of whatever had burnt up in the flames. This one had that charcoal tinge, but also something else, something chemical, but not something Rowan immediately recognized–not kerosene, lighter fluid, gasoline, or any common accelerant.

He shouldn’t be surprised. It was clear to anyone with half a brain that they weren’t dealing with a common incident. Or a common perpetrator.

When his brain kept coming up blank, Rowan moved on from the smoke scent, tucking the idea away under “ask the lab later.” He finished his walkthrough of the scene and decided to leave the rest of the evidence collection to the police, preferring the quiet of his office to think about…things. Things like just who the hell could have not only emptied out the warehouse without leaving tracks, but also been able to set up an explosion so powerful it burned a steel-beam building down to nearly nothing. And to go completely fucking undetected, which was still the most baffling part. He, Rowan Whitethorn, had over a decade of experience in solving apparently impossible crimes–both as a special forces trainee and a member of the service–and he kept coming up blank.

This explosion had to be connected, somehow, to the murders, which he firmly believed were connected to Galathynius. It had to be. Call him crazy, call him a crack theorist, but he trusted his senses. Mostly. Right now, he trusted his senses enough to walk into his office, unlock the file drawer, pull out an ugly green manila folder full of random papers, and sift through the stack until he found the one handwritten sheet he wanted. It was a single page of standard, college-ruled notebook paper with a list of names, places, and dates scrawled in his own blocky handwriting. Grabbing a pen, he added the details of the explosion: 27th/28th January, Wilkins lot in the warehouse district, own work? Galathynius? He left the questions there because he wasn’t sure.

A quick internet search revealed that the owner of the destroyed lots was named Cairn, Cairn Wilkins, a businessman whose company dealt mostly in pharmaceuticals. The name sounded familiar, and it took all of ten seconds for Rowan to connect the dots. This Wilkins was most likely the same Cairn responsible for the most recent murders, the sloppy ones. The Wilkins company imported a significant percentage of both over-the-counter and prescription drugs, and Cairn apparently had standing delivery contracts with over half the pharmacies in Orynth. Perfect cover for a drug trafficker! screamed the investigative voice inside Rowan’s head.

He filed that observation away for later.

Grabbing his phone, Rowan pulled up the contact called “Swabs” and hit the call button. The guy on the other end picked up after eight rings.

“What.”

“Well hello to you too, Swabs. No cheerful greeting for your old buddy?”

“Fuck off, tattoo boy,” laughed the scientist. “Hi. Good morning. What the hell do you need?”

“I’ve got a very interesting little piece of evidence I picked up this morning that I need you to analyze for me. Preferably soon. Fuckin’ PD’s breathing down my neck about every little thing I send over to your lab.”

“Course they are. Alright, fine, bring it over and I’ll have test results for you in five, six days.”

“Cut the bullshit, Swabs, I’ve worked with you for too fuckin’ long to believe it actually takes five days for the tests to come back.” While he normally joked and laughed with his forensic scientist colleague, Rowan was not in a joking mood that day.

“Two to three days. No faster unless you want shit results.”

“Good. See you in about half an hour.” Rowan hung up, grabbed his bag, and headed out to the garage, striding towards the black SUV he favored. It was a fairly standard police-type vehicle with tinted windows and armored sides, and with the silver Orynth PD logo on the door, nobody would question his driving or his urgency.

It took him exactly twenty-five minutes to get to the lab. Favoring discretion, Rowan had always preferred to use this lab rather than the one attached to the police department–furthermore, this was an independent lab, which meant that none of the scientists asked questions when the Terrasen Special Forces showed up with another specimen for analysis. He parked, jumped out of the SUV, and instantly regretted not putting on a warmer jacket. Fuck, winter in Orynth was vicious.

“Y’know, parkas exist for a reason,” drawled someone’s voice from inside the lab as Rowan walked through the first set of doors.

“Piss off, Swabs.”

“Oh calm down, tattoo boy. Where’s this evidence of yours?”

“Here.” Rowan withdrew the plastic sample bag and handed it over. “And quit calling me that, Ashryver.”

Aedion Ashryver chuckled and accepted the evidence bag. “Never.” He and Rowan had been classmates in high school and university, and they’d even been in the same class when they both entered the special forces training program. However, Aedion chose to go down the forensics route after the first year of training, preferring the organization of the lab to the chaos of soldier life. He’d remained a close colleague of Rowan’s throughout the years, and as Rowan went on more missions, Aedion received more and more fascinating little specimens for analysis. Aedion knew more about the murder investigation than anyone besides Rowan–he should, since he’d been analyzing all the little scraps Rowan discovered on the crime scenes.

“Text me when you’ve got results,” Rowan called, already heading back out into the snow.

“Will do.” Aedion waved and disappeared into the lab, weaving through quiet, sterile hallways and passing busy lab spaces before he reached his personal lab. He tapped his ID against the reader, and the steel door rolled open, revealing a wide, brightly-lit, high-ceilinged space that hummed softly with activity. Waving to a few of his close colleagues, Aedion went straight for his station, washed his hands, snapped on a fresh pair of sterile latex gloves, sat down, and opened up the evidence bag.

The sample Rowan had found at the explosion site was a small scrap of fabric, its edges rough and jagged like it had been torn off of something larger. From its size and shape, Aedion thought it was a scrap of clothing; it had probably caught on a sharp edge and torn off. He couldn’t figure out much just from looking with his own eyes, though, so he carefully picked up the fabric using a pair of tweezers and laid it underneath his microscope. Adjusting the lens and the focus, he zoomed in on the material. And swore.

Holy fuck. This…fabric? He wasn’t even sure he could properly call it “fabric.” It had Aelin’s name and brilliant engineering written all over it. Fuck, fuck, and double fuck. What was he supposed to tell Rowan? Because…well, close friendship was one thing. Blood relationships were entirely another.

And Aedion Ashryver had sworn many, many years ago to protect Aelin Ashryver Galathynius at all costs. Even if it meant directing others away from her crimes.

Three knocks on the apartment’s front door jerked Aelin from her position sprawled on the shitty couch, half asleep. She grumbled a string of curses as she stalked over to the door and shot a glare through the keyhole. Nobody. Not that she really expected to see anyone–criminals were too smart to stay in direct sight of other, worse criminals. So she unlocked the door, pulled it open about half an inch, and stepped aside. The crappy door banged open not two seconds later, shaking on its hinges with the force of the push.

“God, it’s a shit apartment, but what’d that poor door do to you–fuck!” Aelin shook herself. “Still not used to seeing you in that getup.”

“Fuckin’ cold,” grunted the man who’d just barged into her apartment. Of course, it was the crappy one near the shipping district, not her actual home. He pulled off his dark blue wool hat, shaking a layer of snowflakes onto the creaky wooden floor, and unzipped his jacket. The unmistakable navy blue uniform of the Orynth Police Department clung to his body, the small metal bar over his left breast pocket giving his name and rank.

Cpt. Westfall.

“Shit,” the man groaned, blinking rapidly. “Where’s the bathroom, boss? Got snow in the goddamn contacts.”

“Down the hall,” Aelin returned. “Make it quick and don’t even think about using my good shit, Allsbrook.”

Ren Allsbrook flashed a crooked half-grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it, boss. I like my balls right where they are.”

Aelin poured herself another glass of wine, poured a small measure of bourbon into a second glass, and settled herself back on the couch, both drinks in front of her. It was only a couple of minutes before Ren emerged from the bathroom, his formerly brown eyes now hazel, carrying a contact lens case in one hand.

“Much better,” he sighed.

“Sit.” Aelin gestured to the other end of the couch. “Have a drink.”

Ren sat and slowly accepted the bourbon. “You didn’t poison it, did you?”

“Would I tell you if I had?” Aelin rolled her eyes. “You’re not that stupid, Allsbrook, and neither am I. Have a drink. Update me. I don’t have all night.”

“Sure thing, boss.” He took a sip. “Well, I’m in. It wasn’t even that hard to infiltrate the place–soon as I had this here name and badge, I could go wherever the hell I wanted and nobody asked questions. Pretty soft for an organization that’s supposedly one of the best.” He snorted. “As far as anyone knows, I’m Captain Chaol Westfall, fearless and intrepid head of the investigation into the Orynth Assassinations.”

“So that’s what they’re calling it,” she mused. “Not very creative. Then again, why should I expect creativity from a pack of idiots who can’t find a shred of hard evidence?”

“About that.” Ren threw back the remainder of the bourbon. “This special forces officer that’s on the team? He has hard evidence. A fair bit of it, if I believe what he tells me. Every time I ask to see it, though, he deflects–something about going through the lab for analysis.”

“Interesting,” Aelin mused. “Have you seen any evidence?”

“Oh yeah, there’s definitely some.” He cleared his throat. “Little tiny bits and pieces–ashes, a sample of fabric here and there, a little bit of accelerant, photos of the crime scenes, and the bodies. The bodies are the best evidence we currently have, but the morgue can’t give us anything more than the cause of death and the state of the body leading up to its death.”

“You sounded just like a policeman there, Allsbrook.”

“I do pride myself on getting into character,” he returned dryly, pretending to bow.

Aelin snickered. Ren Allsbrook was a notorious spy, well known in the criminal underworld for his uncanny ability to completely assume every disguise he donned. Becoming Chaol Westfall was just another role to him, except that he had a disguise like nothing he’d ever worn. Aelin’s SecondSkin tech was more than a disguise; it was a nearly foolproof way to become someone else entirely.

“Character or not, you’re doing alright. I suppose I’ll let you stay alive for another week or so, but we’ll see what you bring to your next report.” She drained her wine. “Dismissed.”

“Right.” Ren stood up and went quickly into the bathroom to replace his contact lenses. He was Chaol Westfall when he re-emerged, down to the fingerprints. That was another little perk of the tech–the fingerprints. Since Westfall was a member of Orynth PD, his fingerprints were on file, so it had been child’s play for Ren to slip into the file archives, pull the prints, and get them to Aelin for copying onto the SecondSkin. “See you, boss.”

“Careful of the ice, Westfall.” She unlocked her door and let him back out, throwing him a little nod as he walked off.

Then she locked the door, bundled herself into her winter jacket, gloves, scarf, hat, and boots, climbed through the window, swiftly descended down the rickety fire escape, and strode down the alley, just another shadow–albeit a lethal one–disappearing into the arctic January night.

~~~

TAGS: please let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

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#my writing #until proven guilty #criminal/investigator au #aelin the crime boss au #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #pls check the warnings :)#there is a LOT of illegal activity in this fic and if you aren't comfortable reading that then don't feel pressured :)

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critrolestats · 1 year

Text

Monster Analysis: Warder

Thanks to @nqsoa for this art piece!

First Appearance: 3-50 Red Moon Rising

Armor Class 20

Speed 40 ft

Advantage on saving throws against magical effects

127 damage taken, 8 HDYWTDT by Laudna

Warders are huge, bulbous constructs that the Ruby Vanguard and Paragon’s Call have enlisted to aid them around the Tishtan Excavation. Presumably mass produced and mass distributed among the various entry points to the site, Warders can move heavy crates within their massive hollow forms, but also aid their allies in combat by throwing heavy cargo and unleashing a blast of fire in an area in front of it. (Like putting a flamethrower on a semitruck, we’re sure it seemed very cool at the time of design, though the implementation doesn’t exactly scream practical.)

Compared to the mage hunter golems guarding the Malleus Key (which were first seen in Campaign 2), the warders are designed not for a single concentrated purpose, but to take on many tasks at once, and none of them particularly well. If it’s any indication from the unsurprised Paragon’s Call driver who asked the party why it was down, they tend to break down often enough that they aren’t the most reliable of constructs.

In spite of its limited demonstration of its abilities, the warder did serve as a warning to what Bells Hells can expect to face deeper into the excavation site. Although its total HP is relatively low, its armor class of 20 is much higher than what the party is used to facing. Bells Hells was able to keep the alarm from going up about their arrival, but even warm-up battles such as these in D&D can soften a party up quite a bit before they face much more menacing threats. That said, based on the conclusion of the episode, the warder’s hollow body and obedient brain may also serve as the party’s way in…

#critical role spoilers #critical role #monster analysis #c3e050

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justinspoliticalcorner · 1 month

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Ian Millhiser at Vox:

The Supreme Court spent about an hour and a half on Tuesday morning arguing over whether to make it much harder for the Justice Department to prosecute hundreds of people who joined the January 6, 2021, attack on the US Capitol. It appears, after Tuesday’s arguments, that a majority of the justices will side with the insurrectionists — though it is far from clear how those justices will justify such an outcome. The case, known as Fischer v. United States, involved a federal law which provides that anyone who “obstructs, influences, or impedes any official proceeding, or attempts to do so” commits a very serious federal felony and can be imprisoned for up to 20 years — although, as Solicitor General Elizabeth Prelogar pointed out during Tuesday’s argument, actual sentences against January 6 defendants convicted under this statute have been much shorter, normally ranging from a little less than one year to slightly over two years.

According to the Justice Department, more than 1,265 people have been arrested for playing some role in the attack on the Capitol. Approximately 330 of them have been charged under the obstruction statute at issue in Fischer. One of them is Donald Trump. As a federal appeals court held in its decision in this case, the obstruction statute is pretty darn clear that it applies to an effort to obstruct any congressional proceeding intended to certify the result of a presidential election — like the proceeding that the January 6 rioters attacked. And very few of the justices seemed to agree with Jeffrey Green, the lawyer representing a January 6 defendant, who proposed one way to read the statute more narrowly.

Nevertheless, many of the justices expressed concerns that the law sweeps too broadly and that it must be narrowed to prevent people who engage in relatively benign activity from being prosecuted. Justice Samuel Alito, for example, expressed uncharacteristic sympathy for hecklers who interrupt a Supreme Court hearing — suggesting that prosecuting them under a statute that can carry a 20-year sentence goes too far. Justice Neil Gorsuch expressed similar concerns about prosecuting someone who peacefully conducts a sit-in to delay a court hearing, or someone who pulls a fire alarm to disrupt an official proceeding.

Indeed, Tuesday’s argument had a bit of a split personality. During Green’s time at the podium, most of the justices took turns criticizing his attempts to read the ban on obstructing an official proceeding narrowly. Even Alito, who is normally the Court’s most reliable vote for any outcome preferred by the Republican Party, got in on the game — telling Green that he “may be biting off more than [he] can chew” by arguing that the statute must be read to benefit his client. By the time Green sat down, it appeared that he could lose in a 9–0 decision. But any optimism that the Justice Department might have had early on in the argument must have been shattered almost as soon as Prelogar began her argument. Most of the justices peppered her with skeptical questions, although the justices who seemed to want to limit the obstruction statute struggled to agree on a single legal theory that would allow them to do so. So the bottom line is that this case is probably going to end well for many January 6 defendants, but it is far from clear how the Court will justify such an outcome.

[...]

The Court’s sympathy for political protesters appears to be quite selective

Much of the skepticism Prelogar faced seemed to be rooted in some of the justices’ fears that ordinary political protests may be squelched by an overbroad reading of the obstruction statute. So it is worth noting another decision that the Court handed down just one day before the argument in Fischer. In Mckesson v. Doe, the right-wing United States Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit effectively eliminated the right to organize a political protest — holding that protest leaders could face ruinous financial liability if a single protest attendee commits an illegal act. This decision is completely at odds with a long line of the Supreme Court’s First Amendment precedents. And yet, on Monday, the Court announced that it would not hear the Mckesson case, leaving the Fifth Circuit’s decision in place. It is still possible that the Supreme Court will correct the Fifth Circuit’s error in Mckesson at some later date. But it’s notable that the Court felt no urgency to do so in that case, while it spent the Fischer argument thinking about how to shut down some hypothetical future case where the government may not show adequate respect for First Amendment rights. The Mckesson case, moreover, involved a Black Lives Matter protest, while the Fischer case involved a pro-Trump insurrection. If nothing else, this is a terrible look for the Supreme Court. And it suggests that many of the justices’ concerns about free speech depend on whether they agree with the political views of the speaker.

Based on the oral arguments heard in the Fischer v. United States case at SCOTUS, the right-wing majority on the court is likely to side with Capitol Insurrectionists charged with obstructing an official proceeding.

Combined with this and the refusal to take up McKesson v. Doe, SCOTUS is in the tank for sympathies for right-wing protesters.