reader & writer of all things angsty. distinct possibility of 18+ content on this blog. viewer discretion advised.
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cardinal red
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Beneath the clothes were his few personal possessions: namely, postcards and magnets Kevin had bought him while on the road with Riko for press events.
Jean’s favorite, a small wooden bear with a red beret […]
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“I am Jean Moreau. My place is at Evermore. I will endure.”
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thinking about that one reporter that was thinking of Jean’s well-being
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re-draw of this for our little french daffodil <3
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Renee rescuing Jean from Evermore
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THE SUNSHINE COURT SPOILERS/ANDREW MINYARD THOUGHTS UNDER THE CUT
I just finished TSC and I am FOAMING AT THE MOUTH with all of my thoughts and feelings. Nora you are a queen for this and i cannot wait for book 2.
One specific thought i HAVE to get out of my system: When Neil rolled up to LA to cause some absolute havoc (love you babygirl), I was immediately surprised to see he was alone. I was shocked that Andrew would let him go alone, especially if he knew he was going to dabble in mafia/FBI shit.
But then, as I was explaining this out loud to someone, I realized... Maybe Neil wouldn't want to bring Andrew to California, the home of all his deepest childhood traumas, and he insisted he stay back with Kevin as a means of protecting him.
I can absolutely picture an argument where Andrew tried to insist and Neil wouldn't back down, refusing to subject him to that on his behalf.
Anyway brb gotta go read this book 8 more times
(PS can a bitch pls get one (1) andrew/jean bonding moment, i just want them to be friends real bad pls)
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🧽 Receiving a sponge bath - Derek
tw: post-prison whump, spongebath, light med whump
notes: read chapter one of derek's back first for context, if context is important to ya :)
from this ask game
✥ ✥ ✥
Derek Lewis, or what's left of him, anyway, sits on the center of the exam table. His legs dangle over the side, his hands limp in his lap. Looking at him, one might think he was completely absent of thought, absent of the ability to process any of the events of the last few hours. Something in the way he hunches his body, though, just a little bit, or in the way his black eyes, every so often, wander from the floor to the mahogany desk in the corner, to the large canvas paintings, to the American flag hung by the door, and then back to the floor, give Agent Brody Grant hope that, at least on some level, he’s aware that his circumstances have shifted.
He’s been stripped of his clothing, or, if not clothing, of the torn, ratted fabric that was constituting as clothing, which has been placed in a bin to be tested for parasites. So far, he hasn’t spoken.
When they arrived to the makeshift medical unit, pieced together on one hour’s notice in the middle of the night in the Consulate, he didn't speak. He also didn’t speak when he was led down the empty, dark hallway, or when his clothes were removed, or when every inch of his battered skin was photographed.
Now, with a nurse at his side, running a wet cloth over his body again and again, seven, eight, sometimes ten times before satisfied with each patch of skin, he still doesn’t speak.
“Mr. Lewis?” the physician asks, approaching Derek cautiously. Derek’s head lifts in acknowledgement, but his eyes do not.
“You need to drink,” she urges. She lifts his free hand and places a mug of water inside of it, then guides him to take a sip. He does not fight it, but immediately coughs the water back up. The doctor's lips are tight, but she sets the mug to the side.
The boy that Agent Grant collected from within the prison gates was unrecognizable from the pictures in his file. The ghost of the smiling, vibrant boy he had not expected, but hoped for, was deposited at his feet without a moment of hesitation. The guard inclined his head sharply toward the gate, handed the agent a well-loved backpack, and turned on his heels back toward the prison. They hightailed it down the gravel road and into the night, with a singular objective of getting Derek Lewis onto U.S. territory while they worked to understand the implications of everything that had gone down.
The nurse lifts his hand now, turning it over, and works to wipe away months of caked-on filth.
“When did you last access a shower?” he asks, his thumb brushing over Derek’s wrist, presumably to get a handle on what is bruising and what isn’t.
“I don’t know,” Derek whispers. Agent Grant writes it down. It’s not of particular interest, but he’s been tasked with writing down everything, and so far that has been nothing, so he takes what he can get.
“That’s okay,” the nurse tells him, dipping the washcloth in the clean water, wringing it out, and wiping away what can be wiped away. “What about food?” he asks next. No one is under any illusion that Derek wants to talk, but getting him comfortable answering questions may be in his best interest. “When was the last time you ate?”
This time, Derek does not look up. “I don’t know,” he whispers again.
“Are you hungry?” the nurse asks, as the doctor tilts Derek’s head down. Gloved fingers press into dark, matted waves, and Derek’s body curls in on itself, just for a second, before he realizes what’s happened and forcibly adjusts his posture.
“It’s okay,” the nurse whispers, moving to his other hand.
Derek nods, and they finish cleaning him up in silence. His hair is shaved, because it’s the only reasonable way to deal with both the matting and the lice. He’s photographed again, now clean, which he flinches his way through but does not protest. This time, the focus is solely on the injuries. On the scars that run the length of his back, on his wrists and ankles, on his neck. There won't be an investigation, nor will there be restitution, but it may help someone in the future to have these, so they take them. Derek is silent through it, but his suffering, well hidden just an hour ago, is clearer now.
He’s given an IV, because every time he drinks, he vomits. He’s given pain medication, he’s given anxiety medication, and finally, to everyone’s relief, he is given clothing.
He dresses quietly, but he trembles he does, and when he’s led to a cot in the adjacent room, he whispers a hoarse, “Thank you,” before collapsing into it. He’s asleep before he can be offered a blanket, so one is draped over him, and the doctor explains to Agent Grant that between the shock, the medication, and the clear sleep deprivation, it’s neither surprising nor alarming that he sleeps now.
By the time Derek Lewis’s family is called, it’s mid-morning. The Ambassador has arrived, and there’s an air of both celebration and frenzy within the Consulate. This has been something of a win for many of them, and a long-overdue one at that.
And, while it feels like a major piece of Agent Grant's time with the embassy is coming to a close, he can’t help but wonder what the next chapter looks like for Derek. There's no doubt in his mind that Jack will be on the first plane to Turkey, visa be damned, and the thought of their reunion, however tense, however painful it may be, gives him some hope that maybe, against all odds, Derek will find peace.
#I’m—#Derek my beloved!!!!!!!#or what’s left of him!!!!#something about seeing this moment of his life from a third party perspective hits just right#I absolutely gobble down every bit of Derek content I can and this did not disappoint
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THE SUNSHINE COURT IS OUT. RIGHT NOW. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
What the fuck I’m losing my shit
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Place a few characters in a karaoke bar. Describe the scene and what songs they choose to sing.
For Elijah and Grayson
First of all, both Elijah and Grayson would be VIOLENTLY outside of their comfort zone in a karaoke bar, especially if they're the ones on stage.
But given some liquid courage, here is what I think they would sing:
Elijah would surprise everyone by getting up onstage in his all-black attire, black nail polish, little smudges of eyeliner... and then pull out some classic gay shit like Tiny Dancer.
Grayson would also pull a wild card by whipping out some old country music—think Tim McGraw core—and start slurring his words into a southern twang that he absolutely does not have.
Elijah would find it endearing on a level that would require him to down two more shots to keep the feeling at bay.
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WOW I hope you’re enjoying them!!! That series has taken over my brain for two years straight. If you go fast, you might catch up in time for the new book coming out this weekend. :)
All I can think abt is jean trying to cope with the media after shit is said about the Ravens and their treatment.
Someone get this kid to Betsy Dobson. NEOW.
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jean moreau came back to himself in pieces
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I can't believe that on saturday Jean Moreau will be coming back to himself in pieces, dragging himself together like he had a thousand mornings before
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*thinks of a whump scenario at work* *thinks of a whump scenario in bed* *thinks of a whump scenario in class* *thinks of a whump scenario in the shower* *thinks of a whump scenario while driving* *thinks of a whump scenario at the grocery* *thinks of a whu
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This is very unfinished but I needed everyone to see the vision I had
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Thank you so much :,)
POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective
Overlaps with the ending of this piece in Do No Harm. The ending that @hold-him-down wanted. :)
Part of this ask prompt thingy!
His pain sensors awaken before the rest of him. For a moment, that’s all there is; no solidity beneath him, no grounding sensations of hot or cold or soft to keep him tethered. There is only searing agony floating him toward consciousness or toward dark oblivion, he’s not sure which. It starts in his hand, pounding in rhythm like a hammer against flesh, and it plucks to life a memory that pulls him closer to awareness.
The table. The blinding light. The blade.
Flames of agony shoot up his arm and into his shoulder, webbing out into the rest of him like pinpricks of lifeblood, waking him one painful inch at a time. New sensations begin to come into focus. The air settles over him like a cold draft sweeping through the room, cut by the blanket of warmth over his lower half. There is a distinct feeling of restraint, one that sparks a new panic in his racing heart. Jaime tries to move his arms and they catch on the soft circles that hug his wrists, binding him in place.
There are voices somewhere near, just overhead or maybe across the room, he’s not entirely certain. They are low and muffled, high and low blending over each other, and Jaime only catches fleeting bits of sound instead of whole words. He can’t open his eyes to see who they are or what they might want with him, but there is some vague familiarity his mind doesn’t quite latch onto.
When he tugs against his restraints again, he makes the mistake of applying pressure too close to the source of his pain. His throbbing hand cries out, and Jaime tries to as well, though the sound gets caught somewhere in his throat. Please please please it hurts so bad. Please, make it stop. More flashes of the surgery appear behind his eyelids, lighting up his consciousness with memories of blood and bone and vomit, of endless, merciless suffering. A tear slips free from each of his closed eyelids, trailing a stream of wet heat down his temples until the air chills them to an unpleasant cool.
“Your patient’s waking up.”
The words in their sudden clarity reach him like a bottle washing up on shore, the blur of salt water and foam subsiding under the sunlight. He is here, in his body, in the clinic at the Facility, washed up from his own heedless tide of violence and misery and cold, black unconsciousness.
A singular, sharp pain in his good hand pulls his eyes open to the sight of a needle and gentle fingers pressing it into his vein. Jaime, knowing it is against the rules and not being able to stop himself, tries to pull away. A small hum of fear makes it out of his throat this time, though he means for it to be a plea. There is more pain behind that needle, he knows it, in the narrow tube that feeds down from a bag of clear liquid. They want to hurt him more. They want to punish him for how he behaved during his procedure.
Hadn’t that been enough? Hadn’t they gotten their fill from tearing him open and making him watch as his body was pulled apart? But of course not. They always want more from him. All of them, all the time. More more more. More pain, more obedience, more begging, more silence and it’s never enough, just like how it was never enough with Mr. Torley, with Handler Smith, with everyone here who puts their hands on him and expects him to suffer perfectly for their satisfaction.
I’m sorry, he tries to say. Please let me rest, just let me have a break.
“Shhh. It’s alright.” A warm hand closes around his wrist, just below the restraint, pressing him down into the thin mattress. It’s a gentle pressure, not hard enough to bruise the way he is often handled here, but it’s enough to still his resistance.
The needle slips into him as he watches helplessly, bound to his skin with a clear, textured tape that he can’t dream of removing with his arms restrained like this. A few more tears leak out from the corners of his eyes as he braces himself for the renewal of pain that is sure to come.
“You’re alright,” the low voice above him whispers. “It’s okay, Jaime.”
He freezes.
Jaime.
For the first time, Jaime summons the strength to roll his eyes upward, toward the figure hovering over him. The owner of the soft voice and the gentle hands and the apparent knowledge of his name. His former name. His forbidden name.
“D-” His voice immediately breaks off, and he tries to swallow, to wet his aching throat with his saliva. “Do--ctor Tate. How-”
“Don’t speak,” he whispers, sinking down until he is eye-level with him. The hand that was holding him down slips off of his arm, sliding down to his hand and under it. He is holding Jaime’s hand. “You’re going to feel better soon,” he tells him, and some desperate part of Jaime tries to believe him. “We’re going to ease the pain.”
Jaime’s eyes begin to flutter closed again, and he doesn’t fight the darkness that ebbs out to him. Sure enough, it’s only a few seconds - or maybe it’s minutes lost between consciousness and sleep - before the pain begins to subside. It’s a numbness that feels unnatural after so long of constant pain, but he happily gives himself over to that absence of feeling. He feels the tension in his body begin to unravel, thread by thread, until he is floating again. This time, on a wave of relief that carries him back out to sea.
“I’m sorry, Jaime,” he hears as he drifts off. It’s the faded voice of his mother, his father, and of Dr. Tate all at once, blending together in a dissonant chord.
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