#:[ BRINGER OF HOPE : IC ]:

[fatestouch]

"Humans really are fun beings, aren't they? Once they're born, they're destined to die, as all things are. And yet, they're the only living beings who delude themselves into thinking there's more than that. Some even think they can some how escape, even cheat Death. So many have tried, and all will fail~"

"Well, I know who I can thank for that. On one hand, dear Hope taking my Gift of Sight from then made them so much more amusing."

"If only they realized how fun their despair is themself~..."

[forhope]

   Thats..  A  Sight  He  Doesnt  Like..

[perfectlyoongi]

BEST-FRIEND!JUNGKOOK who holds power-point presentation nights at the end of each quarter. it was his idea, obviously; a small excuse for Jungkook to be able to stay up all night talking to you. the themes were free, many of the chosen ones were absurd, but it was in the fun of that little game that Jungkook delighted his soul. with each power-point you presented, Jungkook saw a new side of you: what you liked, what you didn’t like, what you wanted, what you dreamed of — those nights were a free pass for Jungkook to get to know you better than he already knew. and he would make a point of continuing that tradition of yours. “and today i’m going to explain why you are every flavor of ice cream we’ve ever eaten together. For starters, you can be as sour as lemon ice cream. then…”

BEST-FRIEND!JUNGKOOK who goes to the playgrounds with you at night. when the city was quieter and calm was the blanket that covered every street, you and Jungkook would venture out to the various playgrounds in your neighborhood. they were moments that would forever reside in your tender memories. the laughter that echoed through the park brought a little joy to that grey city; the small screams that were heard in the park woke up the city to a more hopeful reality. the city parks were sacred to you. once again wearing the essence of a child and returning to times of innocence, you and Jungkook played on the slides and swings, a quick game of tag warming you on the coldest nights, pure happiness running through your veins. “thank you for sheltering my inner child. thank you for playing with me and bringing together all the pieces of me that were scattered throughout my heart.”

BEST-FRIEND!JUNGKOOK who tells you that you are the unicorn for his barbie. you and Jungkook had seen all the barbie movies when you were kids and since then Jungkook believed that you were the unicorn in his life. bringer of happiness, your essence was unique: you painted Jungkook’s soul with the softest pinks and the warmest yellows; you glowed with your presence, always so happy and excited to be with Jungkook; you were magic itself spreading across the cosmos, all the stars blessing you with some of their dust to make you as radiant as a unicorn. it was only natural for Jungkook to be the barbie, for the barbie may not need a ken, but any barbie wouldn’t say no to a unicorn. “you leave a trail of magic wherever you go and it is in this stardust that i can find my happiness. thank you for being my barbie’s unicorn.”

BEST-FRIEND!JUNGKOOK who turns all promises into pinky promises. none of you remembered how it started, you just knew that it was a tradition that would last until old age. no matter how important or great the promise was — you and Jungkook would always intertwine your pinkies and seal that promise by pressing your thumbs together. that way, you had to keep your promise, there were no excuses. that’s why you bought a horse mask to wear at your high school graduation dinner. that was why Jungkook used your make-up before his driving test. that was why you and Jungkook would love each other forever — it was written on your pinkies and sealed in your thumbs. “i promise i will always buy you socks with stars when i see them. and i also promise to see the stars with you until the last star goes out. pinky promise.”

BEST-FRIEND!JUNGKOOK who sends you pictures of pigeons saying it was you. the number of pigeons that existed in his neighborhood was fantastic. some brown, others white, some thin, others too round to walk, the truth is that a wide variety of pigeons walk the streets of his neighborhoods. and in all the pigeons, Jungkook remembered the times you fed them on your field trips. in all the pigeons, Jungkook remembered the times you scared away the pigeons just to see them flying freely. in every pigeon, Jungkook saw a memory of you — it was only natural for him to connect your essence to these special birds. “i was leaving the house and i saw a pigeon sticking its head in a water pipe. it looked like you when you’re eating chips.”

BEST-FRIEND!JUNGKOOK who pretends to be your boyfriend when someone messes with you. whether in the middle of the street, in a bar or before entering a store, it didn’t matter. every time Jungkook noticed that you were receiving unwanted attention and that sooner or later they would approach you, he acted quickly. wrapping one of his arms around your neck and pulling you close to him, Jungkook almost instantly adopted a more serious, larger posture. with his eyes fixed on whoever bothered you, protecting you from the various looks and mouths, Jungkook wasn’t afraid to talk to them, to show that you were unavailable and that it was better for them to continue on their way. Jungkook would always protect you, that was a long-established certainty, no matter what he had to do for your well-being. “if you have any problems or don’t feel safe or whatever, i hope you know that i’m always here, okay? use me however you want, but make sure you’re okay.”

BEST-FRIEND!JUNGKOOK who confessed to you when you came back from the grocery store. he had helped you with the monthly shopping, just because he could carry all the bags. Jungkook always made sure to carry the bags, he never let you carry the bags and you knew he would send you to the ground if necessary just so you wouldn’t carry the bags. but at the end of the day, although still carrying the various bags, Jungkook walked more slowly. was he tired? his face was expressionless, he was completely lost in his thoughts. and it was when you were getting ready to ask if he was okay that he took a deep breath and called your name. it would be at that moment. “you know? i really value our friendship, i really do. i think that of all the relationships i have, yours is the only one i don’t want to lose. and i like you too. a lot. how… how the moon likes the sun.”

[katerinaaqu]

Ruthless Justice

This fic is dedicated to my dear friend @artsofmetamoor as a gift! She had also expressed an interest to the events of the murder of the suitors but I decided to take it into a more tragic level; the excecution of the 12 maids and I added some random emotional scene afterwards! You are warned this fic includes dark themes!

The cries that filled the room were deafening. The young ears of Telemachus could not bear them. The slave women were forced to clean up the room from the corpses of the blasted suitors that nearly killed him and took the kingdom of his father. It was the first time Telemachus had killed. He still couldn’t believe it how easy it had been! It was almost easier than hunting wild goats and deer in the mountains of Ithaca! Some part of him had felt a wild pleasure, almost hedonic gladness, when he had stabbed that first body and continued. This hedonism increased by the happiness he felt that he was helping his father, that he was useful. He felt pleasure for this justice that was finally prevailing in the halls of his house; finally the constant harassment and insults his mother and himself had gone through was punished and he had finally found his father. He had witnessed his brain and his ferocity, his dexterity and cunning first hand! So far he had only heard of it from others that had met him and yet now he had actually seen it before him; his father who was no longer at the prime of youth he had managed to clean the hall of 108 men 10 or even 20 years younger than what he was. Some part of Telemachus wondered; how was his father in his prime? How much more ferocity in battle he possessed? How much more wits and wiles could he loom in short amounts of time?

However now that the first thrill of battle had gone, now they had finished cleaning the chairs of the hall with sponges and water, Telemachus was shocked at their own strength and results. He looked around at the hall that was basically full of wrapped bodies; the bodies that used to belong to vigorous, young nobles and his father now stood at the hall, hard as the stones that built that very palace. Odysseus was not a tall man (that much was a surprise to Telemachus, for from the conversations he had heard about his father’s strength and name he had expected him to be as tall as he was, perhaps taller), he barely stood at average height, maybe a little less, but his physique showed the power that his hardships built upon him. His raven hair, which had already started turning silver from time and hardships, was curly like his own and long till his shoulders; those strong shoulders burnt by sea and sun. A thick bushy beard was hiding a strong jaw line and mouth shut tightly closed. However Telemachus particularly noticed his stone look as the onyx eyes of his seemed soulless like glass even if they burnt with hatred and anger. Right now he could see before him a man who lived up to his name; “The Anger Bringer”. Odysseus was indeed enraged; that much Telemachus could tell. The almost full day of slaughter seemed to have created a curst thick like salt upon his face, just as thick was the blood that had splattered it, the blood he didn’t have much time to clean. And yet, despite all that, he seemed to stand naturally within that chaos; like only a war veteran would stand naturally amongst corpses and cries. He remained there as the lamenting women were literally dragged and pushed at his feet as he stood at the podium of the throne. He seemed like a judge; a ruthless judge ready to pass judgment. Telemachus had seen him angry, hopeful, crying, tender and then ruthless in his killing but now he was truly disturbed at the shadow that had passed over his face. He saw then the one that had come from war; the Sacker of Cities… Odysseus looked down at the maidens crying and struggling, as if they were insects.

“I took you to my home…” he said, his voice cold as ice and sharp as a knife, “I gave you a bed, fed you, dressed you…made sure you would want of nothing while you were under my roof… I respected your wishes…never mistreated you and this is how you repay me? By mingling with my enemies…the very men that wished to violently claim my wife and kill my son?”

Every word was a hammer upon a nail. Telemachus felt a shiver down his spine. He wouldn’t want to be to the other end of that look that was for sure! The women seemed pale like bed sheets; like the sheets that were covering the bodies they had gathered with their own very hands. He saw the other two helpers of theirs; the two herders Eumaeus and Philoetius, standing over the crying maidens, watching at their master with pride. Telemachus had never seen so much wild triumph to the old face of Eumaeus’s before. Never.

“Eumaeus….” Odysseus addressed him, “What is the punishment for treason?”

“Death, my lord” his voice didn’t even hesitate

“Quite so…” Odysseus nodded.

He glared at the slave girls like a hawk.

“Normally I should drag you all out and stone you to death!”

Odysseus didn’t have to yell. All he needed was to speak in that low voice that boiled with anger, like the bubbling water in a cauldron. And yet that was more than enough to emphasize his anger.

“However we have caused enough ruin already! And I shall not even spare one single sacred stone of this palace for you!”

One could wonder whether he was about to say he would sell them away or something of similar manner, which would already be cruel enough. However the king of Ithaca said;

“Philoetius! Bring me a long piece of rope! Eumaeus, help me bring these treacherous women out! They shall be hanged!”

The word sounded as terrible as I was clear and the women broke to a woe Telemachus had never heard before (and, by gods, had he heard enough woe in his house ever since he was a baby!). The screeches and the cries they released along with their already blood-painted hands trying to claw themselves out of the swine herder’s strong grip, nearly made him throw up.

“Father!” he protested, “you can’t be serious! They are just helpless women!”

His father’s onyx eyes stuck within his own and Telemachus felt that same shiver down his spine. There was fire in those obsidian eyes! The same fire of earth that had forged the volcanic glass that gave his eyes their color seemed to be now burning deep inside those black orbs; it was though a cold fire that burnt like the ice burns the skin!

“Is the betrayal of a woman less serious than the betrayal of a man?” his voice was sharp as a broken sword; sharpness you wouldn’t know where it would cut you the worst; the actual blade or the broken tip

“N-No…” Telemachus stammered, “B-But…”

His voice was being drowned by the shrieks of the women. He couldn’t stand it.

“Does the dagger being wielded by a woman draw less blood when it stabs you in the back than the one wielded by a man?”

“Father please!”

“Stay back, Telemachus!” his father commanded, pushing him out of his way, “You are not to see this!”

Telemachus felt his heart clench but he held his ground.

“No, father, I shall help you” he said determined, “If I am to become king of this land, I must help justice prevail!”

His father eyed him once more but Telemachus stood his ground. He was Odysseades Telemachus. He had to live up to his father’s legacy. Odysseus eyed him in wonder for one second but he did not protest his request any further. Part of Telemachus had wished he had. However he knew he had to be strong and stand by his father’s side. The cries of the female voices still haunted his ears as they went out to the trees of the garden. Odysseus pointed towards the direction of one of the trees. Telemachus gulped. He knew that tree. He had played so many times around it when he was a kid! He had named it “Troy” at some point, running around with his horse (in other words a stick he fantasized to be his horse when he was five) and he would yell at the people of Troy to open their gates for him, like he had imagined his father would be doing, on occasions scaring the birds that sat on the branches. As he grew older he would climb and sit on them, joining those birds, and looking over to the horizon as if waiting for a ship to appear, as if waiting to see the sails of the 12 ships of Ithaca arriving.

How weird indeed that Odysseus chose that particular tree for the execution hall to be built behind it! Telemachus never made that connection so strongly before!

As the men dragged the women out to their final spot; behind that said tree lay the dome of court where a small, confided space, where the women tied up with one single piece of rope from the throats like cattle being led for slaughter were crying and moaning. Telemachus felt his stomach turn. Oh, Athena, he prayed silently, please give me strength to do what I must! He felt then a gentle touch upon his shoulder; like the sun warming him with his rays. His racing heart slowed a bit in beat and he breathed in deeply. Yes, he could feel Athena’s reminder of his own strength. Yes, he had to do it. He was his father’s son. No one dared to speak at that moment. Apart from the endless woe of the women that were about to be executed, it almost felt like a macabre ritual that was about to happen. The women were forced to their final resting place; the narrow hall that was closed up by the neatherd and the swineherd. Telemachus held onto the end with both hands and sighed again, feeling weirdly calm. It was as if all his essence had gone numb. He was self-conscious that his father was looking at him. He almost felt him regretful as if he tried to release him from his task but Telemachus made a mechanical move with his head to stop him. I am Odysseiades Telemachus, he thought, this is my duty! Instinctually he looked towards the sky.

“May this be no clean death…” he heard himself whispering, breaking the silence and the cries of the women, “…that I take the lives of these women…for they were wishing for my head…both mine and my mother’s…when they betrayed us and lay with the suitors…”

His father made half a step forward. Telemachus had made his resolve

He threw the rope over the dome and pulled with all his might.

The cries stopped to give their place to chocking sounds.

Telemachus didn’t cry. He only sighed and closed his eyes.

Soon the haunting sounds stopped.

There was only the creaking of the swinging rope…

~ ~ ~

Telemachus chocked and coughed as he threw up the little contents of his stomach behind a bush. How strange, he thought, he didn’t feel the need to do that when he killed all those men he hated by his father’s side and yet he reacted upon an execution he performed with his own hands. It was, maybe, because he always learnt to respect women and protect them. Quite frankly he never raised a hand against a woman before in his life. And now he had, with one fateful move he had removed the lives of 12 women he considered helpless. And yet that moment of clarity it was as if Athena was speaking through him; these women are not innocent, he thought she said to him, they betrayed you and your father, they betrayed your mother’s secrets and led to more torment to her. They conspired to kill you.

“Then why…?” Telemachus thought, “Why was this so difficult?”

He felt two warm, calloused hands on his shoulders and looked up. He faced the tired look of his father’s; his face full of the blood of the victims they had killed. In one moment Telemachus felt self-conscious and realized he could possibly look similar to this. He turned his look away in shame. What would his father think? What would he say for his weakness? Instead, though, he heard him whisper:

“I am so proud of you, my son…” the voice echoed somewhere in his soul, “I understand that was not an easy decision to make…”

“F-Forgive me…f-father…” Telemachus stammered trying to stop the sobs that were chocking him, “I…I wasn’t strong enough…”

“You’re wrong, Telemachus” his voice was whispery and yet adamant, “You are strong, much stronger than any man I have seen so far. I understand the task that I placed upon you was not a pretty one or a pleasant one. And yet you fulfilled it with the bravery that many men didn’t show in thousands of wars. I am proud of you…”

Telemachus realized what had bothered him so much; his father indeed didn’t seem to separate women from men before the ruthless justice he threw upon them. Telemachus was taught to protect and respect women. However when Odysseus arrived at the hall and ordered the demise of 12 women with hardly even blinking disturbed him. How much had he changed? This was not the father that his mother was describing…nay, he wasn’t the father he had met in the hut of the swine herder that embraced him and kissed him like he were his own soul. He saw some of that father he met right now, to the father trying to console him but before? A few minutes prior he saw an executioner; not the father he knew and loved.

“But how much do I know him, really…?” Telemachus realized, “I first saw his face a few days ago… What kind of man is he? Really?”

Odysseus patted his son on his shoulders and helped him straighten himself. They walked past the tree where the women still hanged like doves from a hunter’s stick. Telemachus couldn’t look up at the blackened and bloated faces of death. Not Odysseus. Odysseus looked up steadily and steadfast. There hardly was a reaction on his face apart from a wrinkle playing between his eyes. He seemed tired, sure, he wasn’t feeling pleasure he wasn’t smiling and yet Telemachus wondered; does this man have nerves of steel or a heart of stone to look up so calmly? How much horror had he seen so that this gruesome sight wouldn’t make him avert his eyes?

“How…?” he whispered, “How can you take this…?”

His father was silent for one second until he finally decided to talk.

“One can get awfully accustomed to the face of death…when they have seen so plenty of it…”

His voice was almost dead; as if he was just stating a simple fact such as that the sun rises from the east rather than talking about the lives of people. That rubbed Telemachus in the wrong places even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“Sometimes…” Odysseus continued, “I feel like my heart has turned into stone… Sometimes I feel like it has no more space apart from you Telemachus…”

It took him a few seconds to realize what his father had just said. Perhaps not even Odysseus himself had realized it!

“What about mother, father? What about her?”

There was silence for one second. However that silence seemed to Telemachus more cruel than any other eternity in Hades’s kingdom!

“Father!” he urged

“Of course, your mother too…” Odysseus finally whispered, “I love her more than life itself! I did everything I could so I can come back to her…to you…”

“You doubted her!” Telemachus whispered in cruel realization, “Oh, gods! I don’t believe it! You doubted her! Even after everything she went through for you!”

“No!” Odysseus immediately retorted, “No, I didn’t doubt her! Not really…it is just…”

“Just what? I don’t believe you! After all these years she waited!”

“I know this” Odysseus retorted almost calmly, “Or rather I absolutely know now. However I needed to make sure…beyond any shade of doubt. This is why Athena encouraged me to hide who I was from your mother, even if it tore me apart inside…”

“But…why…?” Telemachus was almost in tears and he was struggling really hard to keep them under control. “Why would you even doubt her so?”

They had spent years on their own and for as long as he could remember his mother was always waiting, crying and expecting a miracle. He didn’t remember one day to see his mother genuinely happy. She was smiling or complimenting his accomplishments but he had never seen her truly happy; all their life was darkened by the shadow of his father’s absence; of the lack of information whether he lived or not and now his father said that he had doubt, no matter how small it was?! Odysseus sighed deeply and looked at his son. His eyes were almost pleading even if his voice was steady.

“Son…” he said gravely, “I spent years out there…years of ordeals and pain and…many of them changed me… I cannot say much…not now…however there was someone…a woman…”

He gulped. He almost seemed ready to cry himself.

“She…she did unspeakable things to me…for years I endured hoping to come back to you and your mother… She…she kept on planting doubts in my head for years… I didn’t believe her…I didn’t want to believe her! And yet…yet all those years… Telemachus I couldn’t do otherwise! My brain was rejecting what my heart knew… And so I had to make these two come together… I had to…! Please! Perhaps one day I will be able to explain to you…and then you will understand…”

His father began walking away but Telemachus, in the heat of adrenaline and battle didn’t seem ready to let go. Not yet.

“Does this have to do with some goddess Calypso?”

His father froze and then he saw him turn around and saw another emotion he never saw before; fear. There was pure terror on his face. All color had left it; his eyes as wide as plates.

“Where did you hear that name!?” his father croaked out, “Telemachus! Where?!”

“Father…” Telemachus was more concerned and surprised than pitiful at that moment, “Look at you! You’re pale! You didn’t turn pallid when you ordered the execution of these women and yet you lost all color at the name of that woman!”

“Telemachus!” Odysseus called out desperately

“Tell me what happened father! What does this woman have to do with this?”

“I can’t!”

“Please tell me! What did that woman do to you to make you doubt your own wife?!”

“I can’t! I CAN’T!” Odysseus’s voice rose in a constant crescendo, he held his head with both hands as if suddenly his head was splitting in two

“Father, please!” Telemachus urged, “Who is that woman? Who is Calypso?”

“Telemachus!” Odysseus grabbed the shoulders of his son

Telemachus nearly whelped feeling the unbelievable strength of those hands, squeezing him in almost bruising grasp but he didn’t make a sound. He stood his ground. He was his father’s son.

“Where did you hear that name?!”

“Y-Your friend told me about it…” Telemachus finally replied, “I traveled, father. I myself tried to find the answers that I was seeking…and in my travels I visited Pylos…and Sparta…there I met your old friend… He said he had a dream in which you were trapped at the island with some goddess Calypso, but he didn’t know more… You remember him, don’t you? Menelaus the king of Sparta…”

“M-Menelaus…”

He took some breaths and he seemed to find his composure. He slowly released his son. Telemachus noticed that indeed some color had returned to his face. How much had that woman done to him to make his father react that way?! How many horrors had this man experienced to the hands of that goddess so that he would turn pale in terror even if he was completely unhinged by more than 100 vigorous men?

“Yes…of course I remember… Menelaus…he was one of my closest friends…in Troy.” That little recollection somehow calmed him down, “I…I haven’t heard of him for years… Th-Thank gods that he is fine…”

“He is in good health from what I could see…” Telemachus couldn’t lie, he didn’t know much on Menelaus but he knew that ‘fine’ was not exactly the word that described him, “He misses you a lot, you know… He didn’t speak with so warm words for anybody else…”

A sad smile spread to Odysseus’s lips.

“I remember… Menelaus was a really dear friend to me…”

He passed his hand over his face to mop some of his sweat.

“Forgive me, Telemachus…I really didn’t want this feeling to be inside me in the first place but…please understand me…that’s all I ask. That and some time… I will explain everything when I can…”

Telemachus breathed in, defeated.

“I will not pressure you, father…” he finally said, “I understand it is hard. Forgive me for insisting… It is just…”

His father’s arms wrapped around him. That moment he stopped being the heartless judge. He was the caring father again..he was the one Telemachus first met; the caring, protective father…

“Please don’t apologize…” he murmured to his son’s ear, “You have every right to be angry…you have so many questions… I promise you, my son, I will do my best to answer them all…just not yet…I can’t…not yet…”

He pulled back and looked at his son’s eyes.

“Okay?”

Telemachus smiled sadly. Suddenly his own accumulated frustration from the events of the day was evaporated. He needed this breakdown and somehow he knew his father needed it too.

“Okay” he nodded in agreement.

Odysseus patted his shoulders.

“Good.” He said, “Let’s go in now and we must order to get ourselves cleaned now. We must, sooner or later, cleanse ourselves from this murder for we both look like we went mad!”

Telemachus scoffed a bit. He began following his father; never daring to look back towards that grim execution place.

“She didn’t ask, you know…” he suddenly said

Odysseus stopped and turned around.

“What?”

“Mother. When I told her about king Menelaus’s vision, she didn’t ask. She didn’t make any inquiries. She didn’t doubt your integrity not even for one second…”

He saw his father’s chest palpitating almost suddenly. His face almost twisted with another unspoken sob. He turned around, showing Telemachus his back.

“Thank you…” he murmured

Telemachus managed to see one tear running down his father’s bloodstained cheek. There was so much behind that silent cry! Telemachus knew his father was keeping many things inside; perhaps he even blamed himself for everything. He didn’t know. He only hoped that with that last comment, he managed to give him some peace of mind. Apparently either he was right or Odysseus was a very good actor indeed, for he was back to his previous steadfast and calm self. He was once more the king.

The King of Ithaca

The Anger Bringer.

***

Not much to say here. Homer said most of it before me.

I found it disturbing and interesting how it was Telemachus the one to pull the rope of the execution so I thought to add a bit ore angst to this and show this aftermath whirlpool of emotions that could be going on inside hm.

And of course Odysseus and the years of torment, especially Ogygia.

Also in the Odyssey Rhapsody 17 Telemachus does mention to his mother how Menelaus saw Odysseus imprisoned by Calypso but Penelope didn't react to it much. She either believed not much of it in her sorrow or at the same time she felt no need to react at the name of another woman because she trusted her husband.

Hope you like it.

[thrashkink-coven]

One of the most valuable things that Lucifer has taught me is that being passionate is a virtue.

Lots of folks think that having bad bitch boss energy means being apathetic and stoic, or being unbothered by things and striking down all your enemies with an ice cold glare. Being unreadable and mysterious and unpredictable in a sexy way. I though that when I started working with Lucifer he would teach me how to be cold and distant so that I could ascend beyond any problem because I’m soooo enlightened.

But he taught me the exact opposite. He taught me not to glare coldly at my enemies, but to look them right in the eyes with sincerity and empathy to understand why they are the way that they are, and how to navigate the situation appropriately. I don’t have to destroy my enemies and conquer all, I must know when someone is toxic to me and be prepared to remove myself from those situations or find ways to navigate them in healthy ways. He taught me that I’m allowed to be mad when people mistreat me, I’m allowed to cry and get frustrated. I won’t yell or hurl insults, I’ll communicate how I feel and ensure that my feelings are heard even if not respected. My emotions and intentions do not have to be a puzzle to those who surround me, I have the power to put the pieces together with my words and actions.

And I will loudly and proudly love the things I love, ramble on and on about my favourite books and shows because he’ll always listen. And smile widely when I see my friends. Be cartoonishly and desperately in love with my partner and cherish him like every day was our last.

I’m allowed to be emotional about things that don’t matter, like a character death in a show I like or dropping my last gummy worm on the carpet. I’m allowed to get excited to see the moon or the sun or my cat. I’m supposed to be.

I don’t have to become a master manipulator who hacks into people’s minds to make them secretly obey me like I’m playing chess. I can become vigilant and detail oriented so I can discern peoples emotions and intentions to better connect with them as people and to offer them support wherever I can. I hope the people around me enjoy my company as a real person, not because they secretly admire and envy me.

I don’t need to be cool and calm and in control of everything just so other people can tell me what a boss bitch I am. I’m allowed to need breaks and ask questions when I’m confused. My dedication to my work and art will speak for itself.

Lucifer, the king, the emperor, the morning star, has always been admired for his incredible beauty and inspiration, but never once did he claim to be perfect. Most beautiful, most prideful, perhaps, but always so with all of his quirks and flaws. Even when he falls, he rises again. His intense loyalty and passion for knowledge is what makes him the light bringer. It never had anything to do with a cold glare or strict attitude, it was always an admiration of his love for his purpose. When the angels of the rebellion followed him it was not because he was cold and cunning, it was because he was an inspiration set ablaze in glory. He was warm and light and passionate.

[forhope]

   “  I  mean-  what  else  are  you  gonna  use  it  for?  Nothin’s  gonna  happen ! Besides,  if  something  does  happen  me  and  Astral  will  handle  it!  “

"Yuma? I'd rather not waste my energy turning into...that unless you really..But even then.."

[hcdragonwrites]

Too Close ( A @jttw-monkeybusiness Fanfic)

So this started as one thing and then It grew its own will and became another. I hope you enjoy!

TW: Blood and Gore- Violence as well. If these make you squeamish or can trigger you please read my other works instead!

It was supposed to just be a meal- a simple outing to the market square to buy up some noodles at a shop stand Pigsy had seen on the way through. It was supposed to be simple, easy day.

The market stall exploded in a shower of wood and porcelain as the monstrous thing rose from the stand. Sophie rolled, dodging the flying debris as best she could. A sliver of wood cut across her cheek but she felt nothing. Her mind only had one thing in it.

Oh shit that’s a massive snake.

But it wasn’t a snake. The head that toward from the market as the rest of the villagers fled, resembled a snake. It’s slitted eyes blinked and forked tongue tasted the air. Heat rippled outward from its body. The grasses dried in the damn soil. The earth that had moments ago been anointed with summer rain, cracked and snapped brittle in the sudden heat. Sophie felt her lips dry and her face chap in the change of temperature.

A grunt from nearby. Sophie turned to see Sandy rise from a cast off wall, a huddle Tripitaka in his arms. The snake head swayed, tongue tasting. It snapped its focus to Sandy and coiled its head back. A maw of pink and long silver teeth flew forward. The disciple threw up the discarded wall just in time for the things great teeth to be buried into wood instead of Flesh. Trip was no fool and at Sandy’s nod, escaped beneath his arm.

Sophie could hear Pigsy howling curses nearby from somewhere. The dust was still settling, the dried earth kicked upward as more of the things body was revealed. Fuck it had wings. Four black leathery wings grew from its back at disjointed angles. They beat unevenly. Their wind threw dirt and rocks into the air. The feel of it stung Sophie’s cheek. The Monk reached her then- hand outstretched. She caught it and he hauled her up off the dirt.

Run. Her heart seemed to thrash in her chest. Sophie saw more of the beast being revealed from the ruins of the market. An impossibly long coiled body- legs- more clawed legs. Six of them?- juxtaposed throughout its flesh at odd angles. She felt like she was moving too slow. Moving as if her blood was full of ice.

Those eyes blinked and the pupil widened. Sandy held the things face in his hands, the wooden wall king destroyed. The River demon strained as the thing bore down on him, all saliva and flashing fangs.

It could swallow him whole. Sophie felt a cold shiver run down her back as Trip and her fled. There was nothing either of them could do. They were mortals. This thing was beyond their ken. Beyond their ability. And it could swallow us whole.

Of course fleeing targets attract more attention then prey standing still. The great demonic beast of droughts shook off the irritable ant holding its fangs and dipped its head. The scent had been with the little thing before it but … it had moved. It smelled delectable. The tongue whipped out again, seeking. There- among the fleeing mortals this monster had disdainfully had been serving for the past years in hopes of devouring in return- was the taste. It was a man- a man hand in hand with a women. Two for the price of one. There was an irritable pain at its side but the Drought Bringer simply flicked one of its long claws and flapped its wings higher.

Into the air it rose- away from the sting of the weapons. The town with its simple huts and mud wall fell away. The demon rose up and angled itself. Heat radiated off, burring away the cloud cover and killing trees and greens all around it.

The monk would not get too far.

It coiled.

And struck out.

Sophie and Tripitaka were almost beyond the wall and into the rice fields. The heat had dried those up, killing crops and scattering the water into vapour. Villagers- merchants and Mothers, field workers and Fathers- all streamed to the exits.

They were almost out.

Sophie felt a prickle of fear, a new wave of apprehension swell in her mind. For what- for why- she didn’t know. What made Sophie turn her head then, to look back, she would never know. But she was glad for whatever spirit, god, or instinct made her look back.

A maw full of silvered fangs, of needle tips curved back and outward. An avalanche of heat and horror. She reacted and threw herself sideways. Tripataka, still holding her hand, was dragged with her.

The serpent struck the earth, sending an earthquake outward. Buildings shivered and collapsed. Children screamed and mothers called out. Sophie pulled the monk up beside her, trying to get him to rise. They didn’t have much time. She had bought them but a moment, but a second. They had to move had to get the fuck out of there.

“Trip get up-“ Sophie begged. The monk was trying- it looked like he had twisted something in his leg at the sudden fall. Up up up up up up get up please.

A angry hiss as the earth cracked more. The demon raised its head. It’s mouth was full of stone and dirt. And a few dangling limbs. The creature dropped these and angled it’s head again. It’s body coiled, it’s clawed and displaced legs curling.

Their second was up.

Sophie couldn’t look away- she wanted to- but it was the same feeling a rabbit, over exhausted and run down, experiences when cornered by a fox. The sense of frozen dread. She could no more look away then the rabbit could overcome its fear.

Of course the human mind is a strange thing for the only thing that Sophie could think on was, We didn’t even get to eat the damn noodles we paid for.

Something flashed, a glitter a bit above the serpents head. Like the flash of a moth wing in moonlight.

Wha—

A pillar of black and gold materialized where the flash had been. Such a small insignificant staff.

Sophie knew that staff.

The staff elongated over the monsters head. It slammed straight into the back of the snakes skull. The sound of iron against bone rang in the sky like a thunderclap. The demon cried in confusion and pain- an unholy scream that sent the air to shaking. The staff drove the things face down into the soil, just feet away from Sophie and Tripataka. Bones snapped, the sound of scale cracking beneath the iron rod as it drove down, down, down, down. The earth cracked with the impact.

The pressure was too great. The hide split as the earth could not give anymore and blood came in a spray of red.

The demon, the great Drought Bringer, rolled a bloodshot eye upward. A iron rod ? Was that what fell it ? Something so insignificant. A shadow loomed from the sunlight. Feet pressed on the demons head.

The demon knew this creature - this mild looking and bored Monkey- and felt the contents of its stomach turn to water. Those eyes slashed downward, making the serpent flinch.

The burning heat in this demons gaze—

Sun Wukong knelt on the dying beasts skull the iron staff of Ruyi Jingu Bang resting across one shoulder. Those yellow eyes went from flaming to disinterested as the demonic monkey looked at the mortals.

“I told you the market was a bad idea.”

The blond haired women who had avoided the great Drought Bringers strike, shot up on her legs from the rubble.

“ARE you SERIOUS?!”

“I am. I told you all it was a bad idea.”

“You couldn’t have said that there was a demonic flying snake?!?”

“Do you think the bastard pig would have listened to me if I had ?” Wukong huffed. He swung a foot languidly off the side of the serpents skull. Wukong tapped the golden circlet on his brow. “I would have gotten another headache by this dumb band.”

“WUKONG A WHOLE TOWN WAS DESTROYED!”

“Bah.” He waved his hand at that. “It was gonna be destroyed. This beast wouldn’t have waited any longer to eat again.”

The foot pressed into the gore in the back of the demons spine and a half gasp, half cough, of pain exhaled from between broken jaws. The serpent didn’t remove its eye from the Demon king above it.

It had heard stories. Legends of five hundred years ago when it had been but a hatchling, of a monkey of stone waging war against Heaven. Of almost succeeding in bending that great power into a kowtow.

“WUKONG WE ALMOST GOT SWALLOWED WHOLE BY A FUCKING BIG ASS SNAKE.” Sophie retorted.

“Naw. I had it all under control.” Wukong tapped the edge of his staff now onto the creatures head.

“Though it is taking awhile to die…”

The serpent felt the monkey lean forward. The burning gaze was back now that the simian wasn’t staring at the women.

“Tougher than I thought you were.” His voice had become softer. “Survive a blow - even to just bleed out like a bloody hog- is no easy feat with my staff.”

The pressure from his clawed feet pricked the broken scales long the serpents skin. Those claws were drawing blood. The monkey leaned down to whisper almost sweetly.

“You never were going to get your fangs into them you disgusting worm. Wanna know why? Because I’m Sun Wukong. I am the Great Sage. And your Tale-” the weight of the monkey felt oppressive, his claws digging harder into the tender broken scales. “-your insignificant little blip in history is at an end.”

The monkey foot was the last thing the serpent, the Feiwei, saw before the staff was driven down again into its eye. The blindness as the pupil exploded under the contact and the sharp pain as the staff drove through the eye socket and into the recesses of the skull were the serpents last feelings.

Demonic minds were not like mortals. They did not flit between two threads of disconjointed emotions. The Feiwei knew it’s end and bitterly died.

The demon gave a final strangled gasp as it twitched once, twice and then was no more. The remaining demons eye rolled in its head. Crimson blood wept from the exposed eye socket and the broken skull. It mixed with the dirt to make a black patch in the soil. At the serpents death the air stopped its dry repression and eased in its intense heat.

Wukong stepped off lightly from the dead serpents head. His feet crossed through the bloody wake and up to Sophie who still stood, a bit dumbfounded, over Tripataka.

That was brutal. Sophie thought.

Then her body remembered itself and her stomach seized at the scent of demon blood. Bile burned up the back of her throat.

Please please please don’t throw up. That was the last thing she needed. Sophie pulled Tripataka up.

The monk hissed and winced as his weight tried to take his foot. And crumpled.

“Is it broken?” Sophie worried. She didn’t see any tears in the skin- any blood. Blood.

Again she fought a wave of nausea. The back of the demons neck had been cut wide open- almost as if obliterated- by a single strike. The trauma of the loss of so much bodily mass to a central location, the skull, had been enough to kill it but it had lived on. Just long enough for Wukong to stab it in the eye.

“Not … not broken. Just sprained.” Trip smiled, sweat building on his brow. “Sophie .. thank —“

Tripatakas words died on his throat as he disciple came into full view. And he blanched.

“Stupid beast.” Wukong picked his claws, flicking some of the blood free from their tips. The stone monkey was absolutely painted in crimson, having delivered the blow and standing behind the beast as it fell. Dark ichor dripped from the side of his face, matting the fur in places that the blood was thickest in.

“See Master ?” Wukong grinned- not helping the two mortals as they both struggled with their aversions: Tripataka for violence and Sophie for blood.

“I almost died ….” Trip muttered, the shock coming over him then.

“There there Trip.” Sophie soothed - but she sounded wooden as she also felt her stomach heave. Gods and spirits the blood stank.

“Why does everything bad happen to me?”

“It’s ok Trip.”

“Why is it always devouring they try and accomplish?! Buddha it’s breath stank of rot.”

“Most human eating demons don’t have pretty breath.”

Wukong, oblivious or willfully blind to the mortal dilemmas unfolding before him, swaggered closer.

“Well! That’s another monstrosity down. Solved with violence.” Wukong barred his teeth. His mood was improved from when they had first arrived and none had taken his warning seriously. Not even Sophie. That was an insult. She was lulled in by Pigsy who kept regaling all with the tales of this unique little village.

Utter drivel. Wukong had seen real food wonders- Hell he came from the most fruitful mountain in the world! What could some boiled water and limp noodles compare to the tastes of flower fruit mountain?

Wukong turned, leaning against his staff as he rested it against the ground. “Sophie did ya see that ?”

“Yes.” Her voice was tight as she watched the blood drip off Wukong.

“You didn’t throw up?” He inquired with a flash of teeth.

“… no I didn’t.” Her stomach kept trying to make her mouth open up but Sophie was stronger then that.

“HA! Soft women don’t lie! You look just as pale as when that thing was diving at you!” Wukong laughed, his tail twitching in humor. “How would either of you get by without me?”

“Wukong maybe nows not the time—“ Sophie tried but was brushed over as Wukong puffed his chest up and grinned all the wider.

“I, the great Sun Wukong have saved my master again. Did I not do a great job dispatching the beast for you master ?” It was half mock, half fishing for compliments. He did just slay a demonic multi limbed serpent out of the sky.

“Wukong…”

“Not even praise ?!” Well that was dreadfully disappointing. He expected some sort of good job from the monk.

Sophie wanted to roll her eyes. Can’t he read the room?

“Wukong you did a fantastic job!” Sophie would try and smooth things over. While also not suffering from her flipping stomach. “Amazing. It’s just the — the blood— it stinks. Worse then normal. —“

“I know you are thankful because you have decent sense but I want to hear it from him!”

At this moment Tripataka stood straight suddenly. He calmly limped to one of the bushes. And promptly vomited.

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

Wukong huffed, irritable even in the hot springs warmth. He had a bucket in one hand and a washboard in the other, and had scrubbed the blood free of his clothes. Pants, shirt, tiger skin- it all had to be washed. Of course Wukong had pilfered some soap awhile back from the Market square the Pilgrims had passed through. He had set to work, scrubbing and pulling and worrying over the clothing until it was clean. He knew he had to clean it. He took pride in his looks and decorum. Wukong would have gone to the spring naturally on his own in time.

Wukong twitched the edge of his tail annoyed.

He was aware he was a bit unkempt after saving Sophie and Tripataka from the Feiwei. He had just batted the thing out of the air into the earth. There was bound to be blood and gore after a swing like that. Sophie had given him a brief berating of getting himself cleaned up- and when he had asked and demanded for what was rightly his - praise, thanks, AT LEAST A YOUR WELCOME- Sophie had promised him that she would lavish him in praise if he would just get clean.

Fine. If his Master wouldn’t spoil him in praise and was currently giving his attention to Sandy then the Monkey would wheedle it out of Reader.

Wukong sunk lower into the water, thinking. He hadn’t let the group go into the town without him. Though he had threatened and grumbled and said “fuck that” Wukong had set a double to follow from above, watching. Of course the Pig would follow his nose to the demons lair. Of course he would assure the others that there was no way this could be a demon.

Wukong swore the Pig was out to get them killed half the time.

Well the rest was predictable. As soon as that wiggling worm had taken one sniff of the monk, he had grown all greedy and hungry and hadn’t been able to keep its human disguise.

Wukong had the whole situation under control though- it had just - taken him a moment to wake up from his dozing. The snake had gotten a bit close. Maybe the invisible double had shoved the two mortals just a bit too hard. That twisted ankle of the Monks would take some time to heal. Luckily the village headman had given the group his home- a little but set back into a bit of shaded pine and with its own hot spring - to rest und for as long as needed. And while Wukong had endured the grating reprimand of Pigsy at being late, the monkey had felt a bit smug. His deeds had scored them nice lodgings.

Wukong wouldn’t care about where they slept. The Monkey King could simply find a nice patch anywhere and curl up. The boon I’m his cap though was the absolute excited light sweep into Sophie’s eyes at the mention of beds and pillows and a roof over their head.

Wukong pulled himself out of the water, the steam rising off of his body in the twilight air. It had been enough time since him washing his clothes to his longs soak that, in the summer sun, had dried enough. Maybe not the shirt but his trousers had. The rest would have to wait till morning. Wukong had a Reader to annoy now.

Sophie was in heaven. After the hellish day of demonic snakes and almost getting devoured, Sophie was comfortable and cozy and all too happy to rush to the futon that had been dragged into the center of her little room.

A bed. Clean clothes. A full belly. The horror of the day was an echo but it was still there. If she closed her eyes she could still hear it- still smell the hot breath blasting across their faces.

A knock on her door had her start from the memory.

Who’s that ?

It wouldn’t be Pigsy. The man had passed out hours ago after the steamed buns and broth the village headman had left for them. Maybe it was Sandy? That didn’t seem likely since he was currently nursing Tripitakas twisted ankle. It would be better after the swelling went down.

Did Wukong really take me up on my offer of praise?

“READER OPEN THE DOOR.”

Yep. There was only one stone monkey that sounded that annoyed yet still knocked with the politeness. Sophie stepped to the door and opened it.

And stared just a little.

She had been expecting to see a fully clothed Sun Wukong leaning against her door. What she hadn’t been expecting was a half dressed Wukong with his arms crossed over his chest. And emphasizing that he most certainly did not have a shirt on.

“Where’s your shirt?” Brilliant Sophie. Blurt the first thing that comes to mind. Wukong pushed off the doorframe and past her into the room, giving her a clear view of his pecs, his shoulders, his back.

Pull it together girl and get your mind out of the gutter.

“I had to clean it since you and the monk threw a sick fest at a little bit of blood.” The monkey sat down, crossing his legs beneath him. At least he knows how to make himself comfortable.

“Right…” Sophie watched as Wukong began to slide his fingers through the wet fur along his back, beside his face and over his arms. Grumbling as his nails seemed to catch and pull in the longer bits of his fur. Wukong flexed his arms to reach a spot. The ripple of muscle along his back was unexpected.

Sophie felt her face flame up. I’m glad he’s so wrapped into himself because if he saw what I looked like right now—

“Well I’m clean now but my fur is all snarled.” He snapped. The monkey was currently struggling with a knot of fire at the base of his neck.

“I have a brush you can borrow.” Anything to get my head out of that space and back in line with normal thinking. She crossed the mats and grabbed her bag. Sophie plucked her brush free from its place, walking back to Wukong. She was a bit startled he was watching her, his eyes half closed in thought.

“You know what… this wouldn’t have happened if you had just followed my warning women.”

“What?”

“A mess is what you and Pigsy and Trip caused.” Wukong leaned his head back and let the water still clinging to his fur, drip downward. “All because you didn’t listen to the warning I gave.”

What was she supposed to do? Sophie had been hungry, had been just as trusting of Pigsys judgment of what was mortal and what was maligned hungry demonic pretending to be mortal. She tried to pass the brush to Wukong, hoping that if she gave him what he wanted he would leave off his snippy comments.

The monkey raised an eyebrow at the brush.

“You can take it ya know- it’s as good as any comb you have.” Sophie lifted the brush and ran it through her hair in demonstration. Hers was a simple hairbrush with short bristles and a worn handle from use.

“Back on the mountain many female members of my kingdom would kowtow and beg for a chance I’m about to give you.” Wukong said.

Chance ?

The monkey king closed her hands over the handle. He turned, setting his hands on his knees as his back faced her now. “Not everyone gets the chance I am giving you- so be grateful.”

“You want me to… brush you?”

“Brush my fur.” It was more command then question.

“Alright.”

Sophie began at the tops of his shoulders. The short bristled brush caught in the hair and slide free, leaving it untangled. Wukongs fur was thick enough to be like her own hair and the brush carefully and methodically by Sophie’s hand, worked through the thickest patches of fur. At places she would have to switch to a comb, one Wukong slid soundlessly from his pocket and passed back to her. This was strangely nice… if not a bit intimate. The constant motion of the brush, of the task, was helping her still jittery mind calm and work through the events that had led up to them being here in a house. With her grooming Wukong.

“When did you know about the demon?” It came tumbling from her mouth before she could stop it.

“As soon as we came upon the village.” Wukong answered. He had his eyes closed, tail swaying against the wooden floor. “The townspeople stank of demon. Seems that beast has been feeding them up to try and cultivate some souls.”

“Sounds like how some insects raise other bugs” Like how ants raise aphids.

“Or like how mortals raise cattle.” Wukong commented.

“Mmm” Sophie felt her mind run through the memories again. The serpent lashing out- and her ability to drag Trip out of the way of that strike. Of the great snake lifting it’s head from the broken earth. Of it lunging a second time. We both could have been dead so fast. No one would have known. Wukong had been left behind, Pigsy had been thrown off somewhere. Only Sandy knew what may have happened to them. Sophie’s brushing slowed.

A snap of fingers made her blink out of the memories.

“Speak.”

“Speak?”

“Don’t parrot me.” Wukong opened his eye just a fraction to shoot her a glare. “ Something on your mind, you stupid women. Spit it out.”

“I thought… I thought we were dead..”

“You would have been if I hadn’t come!” Wukong reached back and took her hand in his. The Monkey king moved the brush up to his head where the fur was in a most disheveled state. Sophie started to gently untangle it, careful of how hard or how fast she worked. He may be able to burst from fires and come away without any lacerations but he may not take kindly to a mortal carelessly tugging at his fur. The wet strands moved slowly through the bristles as he talked. “Makes you want to take heed of a Kings words hmm?”

For all his boasting and puffing up, for all his prideful japes and comments… he almost had been too late. If she hadn’t yanked Trip. If they hadn’t run … “You almost weren’t there though…”

“Sophie.”

“Yea?”

He was turned about, facing her dead on before she could blink. Wukongs yellow eyes looked over her then. Little scrapes here and their. No major cuts. Except for the still red and puffy slice along her cheek. Wukong reached forward and ran a thumb over the slice. I should have sent more then one invisible douple.

“You wouldn’t have been eaten.” He would lessen her worry, and reaffirm his abilities. Had she forgotten? He was Sun Wukong- no demon could stop him. “I wouldn’t have let it happen. I would have torn the bastard apart before it got even a flick of spit on you. You or the monk.”

And next time I’ll make sure I leave them with two invisible doubles instead of one.

Sophie had frozen when he brushed his hand across her face. He was being kind, sensing her turmoil over it all. She was about to say something in kind, something to match that kindness.

“It’s my duty to protect the weak mortals on this quest. It would reflect badly on me as King of Flower Fruit Mountain if I let those under my care get devoured by some slimy worm.” Of course he couldn’t resist the opportunity to flaunt his importance.

“That almost sounds like reassurance.” Sophie sighed. She raised the brush up again in silent question.

“It is reassurance.” He affirmed. Wukong nodded once at the brush, spinning back around. “No harm comes to those that are in my care.”

“Well. Then if it only takes brushing your fur for that… I would be happy to do it every night.”

Wukongs tail gave a little flick. They spent the rest of the night talking, trading quips and jokes. As the of cicadas from beyond the doors blended with the soft swish of the brush, a feeling of contentment and camaraderie fell between the two. And something … more grew.

[royal-confessions]

““Kate Middleton dubbed 'chaos-bringer of humiliation and mockery' as 'shining star' fades” and just like that under the bus Kate Middleton goes! I hope she remembers this, I hope she remembers how she was recovering from surgery the tabloids started attacking her. I hope she remembers this next time she starts running her mouth about her biracial SiL.” - Submitted by Anonymous

“Kate was horrifically abused by the media, no one’s denying that, what disgusts me however is that when she saw the same thing happen to Meghan she turned a blind eye because it gave her good publicity as the fragile flower who the angry black woman made cry.” - Submitted by Anonymous

“Meghan should change her ringtone to Karma (feat. Ice Spice)” - Submitted by Anonymous

“When Meghan instructed KP staff to redo their work because it was subpar, they colluded with the Rota to smear her as a bully. Now the entire world is seeing exactly what she saw.” - Submitted by Anonymous

[sallysavestheday]

Tuesday Tidbit

Thank you to @eilinelsghost and @thescrapwitch for the tag to share a little of a WIP. Here's Maglor, getting frustrated as he tries to stage a Grand Production for the Mereth Aderthad:

The first problem is that there are simply not enough children. Among the hosts of the Noldor, only twenty-two remain of the appropriate age and temperament to render Maglor’s vision. He can see it in his mind’s eye as he would have cast it for the stage in Tirion: thirty-six small bodies of perfectly equal height, their hair falling dark and pure against their silken gowns. Lantern-bearers. Wisdom-carriers. Bringers of light. But there are only twenty-two, and those ill-matched – all dark, true, but some tall, some short, more than one halting from an injury on the Ice. Their people are unlikely to beget in the stress of war, and those who have done so guard their children jealously, as treasures far more precious than anything they have already lost to the snow or the flames. The littler ones will not be shared for this festival, nor indeed are they of an age to balance grace with joy, as he imagines. There is nothing for it but to borrow from the Sindar. The children of Mithrim are by nature smaller and lighter than the Noldor; there will be no perfect symmetry. But there is something to a blended rank, a gesture to their hopes for integration. It will have to do.

What's in your workbasket, @melestasflight @a-tehta @littlewhitemouseagain @polutrope @elentarial and anyone else who has a snippet they would like to share?

[forhope]

   “  Speaking  of  Acting  Weird  actually..  have  you  talked  to  shark  recently?  “

"She always like this, oh and tell Astral that i say hi to him too." Rio said when she smiled softly

[em-prentiss]

nothing in the world belongs to me (but my love)

----

“Hypnos is the Greek god of sleep. He’s the son of Nyx, the night, and the twin brother of death. His sons are the bringers of dreams; there’s Morpheus, Icelus, and—”

“Are you telling me a story?” JJ interrupts.

“It’s a Greek myth,” Emily corrects demurely.

Or, 5 times the BAU was a little in love with Emily, and one time she was a little in love with them.

Word count: 5k

----

Penelope

Penelope Garcia doesn’t often have bad days. 

It’s not a stroke of luck, she’s not chosen by the universe. It’s an amalgamation of her best efforts to keep them away. She does what she can, with figurines and and bright colors and pictures of her family forming a protective bubble around herself, but she’s not immune; still, the bad days come. They creep up on her, often catch her off guard. Sometimes, however, she can feel them coming.

This time her period arrives in stormy shades of blue. A darkening cloud hangs over Penelope’s head, growing heavier the more the hours tick by. She dresses herself in her usual color and cheer, holding out a mild hope in finding comfort from the bubbliness of her wardrobe, but try as she might she can’t absorb the same brightness in her voice. Good morning’s are mumbled, her eyes glazed with a thin layer of tears as they skip over her monitors. They dampen her lashes, but she wipes them away before they can stream down her cheeks.

It’s a rough morning, to say the least. The only positive is that the team isn’t on a case, which allows her to sink further into the shadowy depths of melancholy without anyone blowing up her phone. She locks herself in the dark cave of her office and doesn’t come out. 

When she’s finally home, she changes into her pink fur pajamas, orders herself a pizza, turns on Titanic, and bawls her eyes out. Her fuzzy blankets and stuffed animals accompany her on the couch, silent companions to her tears that flow in rivers. There’s a heavy weight pressing down on her chest, one she can’t decipher. It’s suffocating and bone-deep, and crying eases the horrible heft from her lungs, so she cuddles a teddy to her chest and watches the movie with blurry eyes.

The sound of her sniffles almost drowns out the ring of the doorbell. Penelope wipes at her damp eyes and grabs the money, opening the door without looking through the peephole. Her wet lashes feather across her cheeks in confused blinks.

Emily Prentiss is certainly not the delivery guy.

Penelope wants to say that, but she huffs out a sniffle instead. Emily’s dark eyes jump over her and before Penelope can ask what she’s doing here, she’s slipping herself past the crack in her door, sympathetic arms reaching for her.

“Oh, babe.”

The thing about Emily is that she’s more affectionate than she looks. Nobody expects her to say soft words like babe, and nobody would imagine that the lithe lines of her body are really very good for a hug. Her hands are firm as she brings Penelope into her, looping her arms around her shoulders and letting their temples softly knock together. She smells like expensive perfume and though she’s cold, the outside chill lingering on her skin, her embrace is a stellar place to be. The money crumples in Penelope’s fist as she sniffles wetly into her neck.

“Y-You’re not m-my pizza guy.”

“I’m not, sorry,” Emily murmurs. She rubs circles into her back. “But I did bring ice cream. And chocolate. I hoped you’d have whipped cream.”

She does have whipped cream.

For some reason, that makes Penelope cry harder. 

Emily hums in return and squeezes her, but they only last so long in front of the door before she voices her concern over the melting ice cream. Through the fog of her tears, Penelope agrees. They shuffle to the couch—littered with crumpled tissues and overlapping blankets and a colony of stuffed animals—and though Emily’s expression doesn’t shift, Penelope offers a hoarse explanation.

“Sad movies help me cry it out,” she warbles, throwing away snotty tissues as Emily toes off her shoes and takes out two containers of ice cream from her satchel. 

“It’s a good strategy,” she says, cradling the tubs against her chest and flashing Penelope a soft smile. “Cookies and cream or praline?”

Penelope feels her heart tug. The tears still stream hot down her cheeks and she blinks to sharpen Emily’s silhouette, finding patience in her eyes, the small crease of concern above her brows. It makes her want to cry harder. A few months ago, she was fighting tooth and nail to get behind Emily’s steel walls, prodding and nudging to get her to join her and JJ for a quick round of drinks. Now her socked toes tap against Penelope’s rug as she waits for an answer, and the small smile that pulls at Penelope’s lips is the most genuine burst of happiness she’d had all day. 

“You’re not gonna tell me not to eat ice cream before dinner?”

Emily’s nose scrunches playfully. “People generally consider me a bad influence,” she says lightly, “so no.”

Penelope wipes her cheek with her sleeve pulled over the heel of her hand. “I don’t think you’re a bad influence.” She rasps, patting the couch as if Emily is a cat. 

Emily smiles, her brows rising slightly beneath her bangs. She gives a small nod and hands Penelope the ice creams. “I’ll get spoons.”

By the time she comes back—with whipped cream—Penelope has already claimed the cookies and cream as her own. Emily hands her a spoon and makes herself at home in the midst of the stuffed animals. She crosses her legs and takes the praline, shooting whipped cream on top as Penelope restarts Titanic. 

The violin music hits and tears drop off her chin without pause. Emily steadily eats her way through her ice cream while Penelope’s tears soak hers, turning the Oreo as salty as Emily’s occasional commentary. Penelope is too busy crying to hear her. She’s a blubbering mess even before the credits roll, half her tissue box littered across her lap in crumpled balls.

When Emily—dry eyed, perfectly composed Emily—hands her another tissue to wipe her eyes, Penelope gapes through her tears.

“You didn’t cry, how come you didn’t cry?”

“I’m emotionally constipated.” Emily retorts around a mouthful of ice cream. “You want me to cry, put on ET.”

Penelope does. 

By the end of the movie, they’re both crying into their pizzas.

Reid 

Spencer’s mind quiets. 

His shoulders weren’t tense to begin with, but they slump further at the sound of the music, his arm pressing into Emily’s. Warmth spreads from that point of contact, through her silken blouse and his starched button down. The piano bench beneath them almost fades away with the walls of Rossi’s living room; his eyes continually jump from Emily’s face to the fluid, spidery movements of her hands.

“Where’d you learn how to play?” He murmurs quietly, almost afraid to break through the tranquility of her music.

Emily’s brows tick the slightest bit upward. “Mother hired tutors,” she says, not taking her eyes off the keys, though Spencer gathers she’s skillful enough to play for at least a few seconds without looking. Her shoulder presses further into his when she shrugs. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“But you liked it enough to continue practicing on your own.” 

Emily nods. “It…it makes things go quiet.” She says slowly, almost an admission. It gets swallowed up by Für Elise. “Y’know?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, the collar of his shirt tightening and loosening at the thought of being understood. It’s still an uncommon enough feeling that his heart picks up its pace. Spencer gathers his knees on the too-small bench, letting them knock together through his slacks. “Yeah, I listen to them before bed. They help. Not, uh…not many things can make my head go quiet. This does.” He thumbs lightly at a key far away from Emily’s reach, careful not to interrupt her playing. She hums next to him, barely louder than the music, and his body flushes with warmth again. “Hearing it in person is so much better.”

Spencer watches as Emily’s bitten nails press down on the keys, pulling music from the piano as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. Her fingers dance, a few shades darker than the ivory, and though there are stutters and kinks he knows the piece too well not to notice, her music is for the most part faultless.

It feels almost too personal. For her to know the composition of the exact thing that makes him go still, his mind quiet. It’s like she’s cracked his chest open and peered into his heart, the ragged edges of her nails getting caught on the muscle, drawing blood as she traces down the length of it. 

He’s suddenly overwhelmed, something getting stuck in his throat and lodging there. Only air passes through, and a genius who’s never at a loss for words finds himself speechless.

“You could learn,” Emily says, finally glancing at him. The brown of her eyes is like the shock of bitter coffee. “It won’t be easy, but you’re Reid,” she nudges him playfully, her music stilting as her body weight forces him to curve, “you could do it. And I could help, too.”

He gapes, the breath returning to his lungs. “Really?”

“Sure.” Emily stops playing. The echoes of her music hang in the air, threaded through the atoms between them. “With practice and time. Maybe we could rent this from Rossi”—she cracks a grin and Spencer laughs as she gives a small shrug—“it’s not impossible.”

“Yeah.” He’s beaming at her, an excited buzz in his blood even though he knows their schedule doesn’t really allow for what she’s suggesting. “Yeah, that’d be great! Can we start now? I know the beginning of this piece is actually really easy and digestible for beginners because—” 

Emily laughs. She shifts on the bench, facing him. “Slow your roll, hotshot. How about twinkle, twinkle—”

Her mouth snaps shut when a callused hand lands on both her head and Reid’s. Reid frowns; he glances up to find Rossi, pressing a kiss to Emily’s forehead and then his, whispering something suspiciously like bless you little nerds.

JJ

JJ can’t sleep. She doesn’t know if it’s because of the cold or because of the ludicrous amount of coffee she drank in the past few hours; it doesn’t matter, because it’s frustrating all the same. She can fall asleep practically anywhere, so long as she’s wrapped in a blanket.

Not tonight, though.

She sighs and shifts on her other side as quietly as possible. As soon as her head turns Emily’s eyes flutter open, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks when she blinks.

“Did I wake you?” JJ whispers, guilt slow to rush to the surface.

“No.” Emily shivers. “It’s fucking freezing.”

“Yeah,” JJ says. They’re both in sweaters, but she’s in shorts and Emily’s in sweatpants. However, she has fuzzy, calf length socks on and Emily doesn’t. They would balance out, except they’re both shivering beneath the covers. 

JJ fists the comforter with icy fingertips and curls her knees into her chest. The cold sheets make goosebumps rise on her skin.

“Come closer,” Emily says.

“Sure?”

“Unless you wanna die of hypothermia.”

JJ rolls her eyes. She doesn’t think they’re at that point yet, but a little warmth does sound nice. Emily is the perfect candidate; she’s a clingy koala. That’s what JJ’s learned after countless shared beds and alcohol-soaked girl’s nights. 

They huddle closer and meet in the middle, Emily’s leg worming its way between JJ’s thighs. JJ stifles a sigh at the warmth of her sweatpants against her bare skin, the added body heat leaking tension from her shoulders. Their chests press together; heat pools between them as JJ’s head settles halfway between Emily’s pillow and her own. She relaxes despite—or maybe because of—the intimate position, her arm hooking around Emily’s waist as Emily’s hooks around hers. They’re a little too close, sure, barely a few inches between the tips of their noses, but JJ’s too cold to care. She closes her eyes and her muscles loosen back into the bed.

Until Emily’s cold foot touches her skin.

“Hey!” JJ jerks her leg back.

“Sorry,” Emily laughs breathily, the sound intimate and soft. “I don’t like wearing socks to bed.”

“Even in 40 degree weather?” JJ grumbles, silently cursing herself for not checking the forecast before flying out. Goosebumps still litter her skin, the cold slithering in through the walls and the sheets. 

Emily hums in answer. Silence settles again as she quiets, presumably going back to sleep, and JJ tries to follow her. She closes her eyes, tries to clear her mind, to no avail. The dark is thick, the bed is decently comfortable, and she’s starting to regain the warmth in her fingertips, but still, sleep doesn’t come. 

It takes less than five minutes, she miserably notes, before Emily goes slack against her, the fingers wrapped up in her sweater starting to lose their grip. She’s still holding on to the brunette’s hoodie, her nails sinking into the thick fabric. They grow warm as she forces her thoughts to clear.

JJ tries for another five minutes before she opens her eyes and huffs out a frustrated breath.

“What’s wrong?” Emily mumbles. “Too close?”

“No. I just can’t sleep.”

“Mm. Thinking?”

“No.”

“Restless?”

“No.”

“Cold?”

“Not anymore.”

“Well, shit,” Emily says.

JJ laughs humorlessly. 

“What about some sleeping pills?”

“Don’t like those,” JJ chews on her lip. If this crappy motel had something that resembles a gym she would’ve gone to it, but it barely has rooms enough for the team. “Whatever, it’s fine, you go to sleep. I’m sure I will soon.”

Emily doesn’t answer. She’s quiet for so long, JJ thinks she’s fallen asleep. But then:

“Hypnos is the Greek god of sleep. He’s the son of Nyx, the night, and the twin brother of death. His sons are the bringers of dreams; there’s Morpheus, Icelus, and—”

“Are you telling me a story?” JJ interrupts.

“It’s a Greek myth,” Emily corrects demurely. “And yes, I’m saying it in a manner which will hopefully put you to sleep, because we’re snuggling, which means if you can’t sleep I probably won’t, either. And I’m tired. And I’m finally warm enough, and it’s an interesting story.” She scolds, her voice sleepy and muffled half between JJ’s skin and the pillows. “It’s rude to interrupt, Jay.”

Light bursts in JJ’s chest. Somehow this warms her up more than anything. Emily’s attempt at helping though she’s barely hanging on, the slightly chewed sound of JJ’s nickname on her lips. Nicknames are common within their circle—Jayje, Em, Pen—but hearing it like this is weirdly special. Stopped at the one syllable, warm with love. JJ’s heart expands, squeezing out a few quick beats for her drowsy friend and the story—myth—she’s trying to tell her.

“I was just checking,” she says softly, chewing back her smile, “no need to get your claws out. Continue.”

“Thank you.” Emily grumbles. “Anyway, Hypnos was the personification of sleep itself, so he was able to induce sleep in humans and other gods…”

She’s been telling the stories for so long that she’d forgotten how nice it is to be told the story for a change. Emily’s voice is sleepy, a little mumbled, but it’s good for storytelling. Rich and low, raspy around the edges, like honey with bits of gravel swirled in. It’s almost hypnotic.

Bewitched—and properly warm now—it hardly takes a few minutes before JJ’s eyes grow heavy. It’s disgustingly cliche, but it turns out there’s some wisdom in being wrapped up in someone’s arms, being told a story. The warmth of Emily’s voice is steady next to her ear and JJ swiftly sinks into the dark relief of sleep, still twined around her.

Morgan

Morgan likes building things. Fixing things, restoring the old into the new. He’s good at working with his hands—cooking, refurbishing. Building IKEA bookshelves. Which is why he’s currently cross-legged on Emily’s living room rug, surrounded by screws and wooden slabs and an annoying black cat that keeps swatting at his tools.

“Hey Prentiss, get this damn cat out of here!” He yells to Emily, who’s somewhere, doing something useless while he does all the hard work.

“You’re in his home,” her mild voice comes from behind, startling him as she gracefully steps between the screws and sets down two glasses of red on the coffee table. The cat abandons Morgan’s tools and trots to her, his tail in the air. Emily smiles and scratches behind his ears. “He rightfully belongs, you don’t.”

“Oh, well, I’ll see myself out then.”

“Nah, you don’t have it in you,” she calls out as she once again leaves the living room, trailing deeper into her apartment, “Derek Morgan never leaves a job half finished.”

Morgan chuckles to himself. It quickly turns into a grimace when the cat pounces in the middle of the rug, sending the screws rolling again. “Man, get out of here,” he tries to shoo it with the blunt end of the screwdriver. The cat swats back, its claws catching the back of his hand. Morgan hisses.

“Son of a—”

“Don’t tell me you’re fighting with him,” Emily says, her voice a little more strained than teasing. He turns to see her carrying a stack of books half her height, her laced hands flexing under their heft. 

“He scratched me.” Morgan says flatly, sounding more annoyed than he is. The back of his hand stings, but at least the stupid cat hadn’t drawn blood.

Emily drops the books on the floor and blows hair out of her face. “He did? Sorry,” she says, unapologetic. “He does that if you annoy him.”

Morgan rolls his eyes, unsurprised that she’s siding with the damn cat instead of him. “Yeah, yeah. Go get the rest of your books, you nerd.” He shoos her away.

She flips him off and turns on her heel.

Morgan turns back to his unconstructed shelf. The cat is further away now, and there’s a decent pile of screws left that he’ll put to use before going after the missing ones, so he gets to work. 

“Sergio, huh?” He mutters to himself. “That’s too human of a name for a damn cat.”

As he attaches the bottom shelf, he hears multiple thuds weaving through the sound of Emily’s footsteps as she drops stacks of books on the ground. They work in unison; thud, turn, thud, turn. He’s already moved on to the third shelf when a final, lighter thunk sounds on the floor. 

Emily drops down next to him and breathlessly whispers done. Morgan looks up. Bangs have strayed from her ponytail, framing her face in wisps of black. She breathes a little heavy, a shine to her face as she flexes her fingers with a slight wince. Her exertion hardly seems proportional to her small task; Morgan grins.

But the witty comment on his tongue falls away when he finds them surrounded by a labyrinth of stacked books.

Morgan had known Emily was a bookworm. The woman already has two crammed bookshelves and brought him in to build her a third—which won’t fit half her leftover collection, if the stacks on the floor are any indication. That in itself is astounding, but then his eyes catch the foreign titles, the spines etched with strange letters he can’t decipher. He feels his brows raise, admiration taking root as he tries in vain to read them let alone guess what they mean. Morgan counts one, two, three languages—by the time he reaches six he’s wide eyed, practically gaping up at Emily. His heart whispers, woah.

Morgan realizes, with no small amount of pride, that she could give Reid a run for his money. The thought of a comfortably curled up Emily, her eyes hungrily absorbing words in languages he can’t imagine, sends a curious twinge through his stomach. He imagines her reading aloud to herself in the whispered way Reid does sometimes, and the twinge deepens into a pit.

“Damn.” He says mildly.

The faintest of blushes colors her cheeks. “You don’t read?” She demands.

“I read,” Morgan grins, pointing a finger at her, “and I think you might be Reid.”

Emily swats his hand away. She composes herself quickly, but not before Morgan enjoys the way she stumbles, flushing darker as she tries to deny the obvious.

Hotch

The girl still hasn’t let go of Emily. Or maybe Emily is the one still holding on. There’s a protectiveness to her gaze, her hands—though gentle on the toddler’s body—acting as a shield to keep her safe behind. From the moment they found her in the unsub’s house she had clung to Emily, all throughout a checkup in the back of an ambulance and the car ride back to Quantico. Hotch knows well the slow ache that settles from carrying a growing child for too long, but Emily doesn’t set her down. They’re still attached as she perches on her desk, slowly rubbing circles on Sofia’s back as they wait for her parents.

There are crumpled candy wrappers on her desk. Remnants of sugar remain in Hotch’s teeth; he couldn’t refuse when Emily offered out her palm, both her and Sofia staring at him expectantly until he plucked a taffy and squished it between his molars. The sweetness of it lingers, and he shakes his head when Emily holds out her hand again, letting her and the little girl deplete her small collection.

Silence settles over the bullpen. Sofia had been mostly quiet ever since they found her, despite his and Emily’s gentle prodding. Now her forehead is buried in the crook of Emily’s neck, her small fists tangled up in her sweater.

“Emily,” she says suddenly. 

“Yeah, baby?” Emily looks down at her. Sofia doesn’t say any more, but she shivers and huddles closer. Emily swipes the frizzy hair from her face in a tender touch. “Are you cold?”

The girl nods meekly into Emily’s chest.

“I’ll get her a blanket,” Hotch offers.

Emily flashes him a smile as he shoves off of Morgan’s desk and straightens, making his way to his office. His steps echo as he walks up the stairs; the bullpen is deserted, everyone gone home for the night. Hotch is glad about that as he grabs the blanket he keeps in his office. Sofia had been antsy, tense in the midst of the buzz, but now she seems mostly okay.

Which is why he’s surprised to hear a small giggle as he walks back down the stairs.

“—ends to be grumpy, but really he just wants all the cuddles. He’s a big softie.” Emily is saying. One of her arms is secure around Sofia’s back, the other holding her phone as they both look down at it. 

“He’s silly.” Sofia says.

“He is, isn’t he?” Emily murmurs. She looks up at Hotch as he approaches, and though he’s been witnessing it for over an hour now, he’s still struck by her gentleness. Usually she’s blunt, even her humor carrying a sharp edge, but all the sharpness has been sanded down. Ever since they found Sofia she’s been rounded edges and soft hands and coaxing voices. 

He almost feels like he’s intruding, watching her lay her walls down for a small child; like she’s opened the door only for her and he’s shoved his way through. But she smiles at him and he gets the feeling that this past hour has shown a side of her that’ll stay between them. 

He can’t help but give her a small smile back.

As Hotch tucks the blanket around Sofia’s shoulders, he catches a glimpse of a black cat on Emily’s phone. The need to smile wider grows, but he stifles it. Hotch drops his gaze to the little girl now burrowing in the blanket. She’s peering intently into Emily’s phone, reaching a finger out to swipe at the screen, but her eyes are drooping closed.

“She’s getting tired,” he notes softly. Emily tries to peer down at Sofia, but she’s huddled too much into her. “Her parents will still be a while, maybe she can lie down a little bit?” 

“On your couch?” Emily asks.

Hotch nods. “What do you think about that, Sofia?” He murmurs, practically kneeling to meet her tired eyes. Hotch offers a hopefully warm smile, his voice softening further. “There’s a comfy couch upstairs, you can lie down on it and close your eyes while we wait for Mommy and Daddy to come.”

Sofia blinks at him. “With Emmy?”

“With me,” Emily adjusts the blanket around her body, “and Mr. Hotch too? 

Hotch waits until Sofia nods to say, “Mr. Hotch, too.”

+1

Emily is exhausted. She drags her feet across the tarmac, a heavy weariness pressing down on her bones. Her wrist throbs dully beneath her bandage—it twisted when she fell during the chase, her boots slipping on gravel and her hand bearing the brunt of the fall.

The weight of her bag almost drags her under as she climbs the stairs. She blinks and the warm lights of the jet overthrow the darkness of the night outside.

The tips of JJ’s fingers gently press down on her shoulders as she nudges her to the couch. Emily’s tired body obeys. She slumps down on it and drops her bag on the floor, her head falling back as she closes her eyes. All around there are the sounds of the team as they settle down, drop their bags and slip into their seats with a heaviness that matches her own.

Her eyes remain closed until something drops on her lap. Emily frowns and opens them, first finding JJ in her line of sight first before her gaze slides down to her lap—and the blanket suddenly covering her thighs. Emily hazily rubs the soft fabric between her fingers, unlocking her jaw to say thanks when JJ speaks first.

“Lie down,” she says.

The groove between Emily’s brows deepens. “Well, okay,” she murmurs back, though she makes no move to do so. She should, though; her body is stiff and she could do with the sleep before having to drive herself home. “Anything else?”

“Listen to the woman,” Morgan says. The curtains of the kitchenette flutter closed behind him. In his hands is a mug, and Emily distantly wonders how he’d made tea this fast. He holds it out to her. “And drink this.”

So she really does look as shitty as she feels. Shame.

“I’m sorry, did I do something?” At this point, she fears her frown closely resembles Hotch’s. It’s a little difficult for her to digest—both of them hovering over her, JJ’s blanket in her lap and a mug of tea that Morgan has apparently prepared for her in his hands. Yes, she was the only one hurt today, but a sprained wrist hardly calls for all this coddling.

They both roll their eyes, but JJ is the one who speaks. “You’re tired. Lie down before you collapse.”

“Why are you all gathered around Prentiss?” Rossi asks.

“We’re trying to convince her to lie down.” Morgan supplies.

“Lie down, Emily.”

“Okay,” Emily mumbles with an eye roll. JJ’s not wrong—her muscles are practically fusing with the couch. She toes off her boots, accidentally kicks Morgan, and gives them a flash of her—unplanned—mismatched socks before laying down and throwing the blanket over her feet. “Everyone happy now?” She calls out, her head thudding back against the hard armrest of the couch.

JJ nods, satisfied. Morgan raises a brow and holds out the mug.

Emily takes it with her unbandaged hand. It’s chamomile, she discovers. This time she gets the chance to thank both of them without any interruptions, her lips curving up in a wan smile. She drinks from the overflowing tea as they finally leave and sit down, a hum leaving her at the sweetness of Splenda on her tongue.

She swallows the mouthful and feels its heat spread to her chest. It’s good, almost softens the throb in her wrist, and though Emily knows it’s phantom, she drains half the tea in too-hot sips. The thought of Morgan pouring Splenda into it flits through her head; her chest both tightens and expands all at once.

She doesn’t see Hotch over the rim of the mug until he’s also hovering above her.

“I’m lying down,” Emily says, draining the tea and blindly reaching for the table behind her. 

Hotch takes the mug from her hand and sets it down. “Put this behind your head.” He says softly, holding out something dark and crumpled—his jacket.

For a moment she stares, confounded. But Hotch’s expression doesn’t shift; he stares back, expectant, and the armrest beneath her head is too stiff for her to refuse. Emily takes the balled up jacket and uses it to cushion her neck.

“Thanks, chief,” she murmurs.

Hotch nods again, the briefest pinprick of a dimple poking through his cheek. He tells her to get some sleep before sitting back down in his chair. Emily hums an affirmative and tugs the blanket up above her eyes, letting the darkness press down on her lids as she finally relaxes back on the couch. But she doesn’t sleep, though her body screams for it. She’s too warm, her skin flushed with the attention she’s been given for no apparent reason.

The plane takes off and she gets two more visitors. Reid gives her his eye mask, mumbling about improved sleep quality in total darkness, and Rossi hands her a strip of Advil she didn’t ask for but sorely needs.

At the latter she smiles, because she’s said thank you more times than she can stomach. Emily pops two pills into her mouth and swallows them dry, the bitter aftertaste lingering on her tongue. This she can stomach. This she can handle as she turns on her side, hides the glaze in her eyes between herself and the leather of the couch. 

There’s a throb behind her eyes. A subtle shakiness in her body that has nothing to do with the rattling walls of the jet. Warmth over her bones, twinges along her stomach. Love, she thinks as her heart beats too quickly at the revelation. She’s loved and in love and hadn’t noticed until it was shoved into her face with a glaring obviousness that makes it impossible to deny.

Emily swallows down the lump in her throat. She brings JJ’s blanket over her shoulders, slides Reid’s mask over her eyes, and goes to sleep.

taglist: @kllingdaddy @luhwithah @cheetobreath07 @dontemilyyyyme

[forhope]

   :[  @malicedarkened​ asked : Exploding into the pendant with plumes of smoke and chaos, Mist rushed at his brother. Grasping at his arms desperately with a wild and bared expression. "Astral-! I have- there's- something happened." ((  nDBGH tosses a dramatic boi * ))  ]:

   “  Brother?!  “

   Astral’s  aura  flared,  grabbing  hold  of  his  brother  as  it  poured  forward,  order  to  calm  the  flames  of  chaos.  He  let  him  cling  on,  wrapping  his  arms  around  him  as  he  rubbed  a  hand  along  his  back  for  a  moment  before  carefully  pushing  back  to  look  his  brother  from  head  to  toe.

   “  What  has  happened?  Are  you  alright??  “

[fiberturkey89]

Crossroads/Crossroads Carnival AU headcanons(with some additional Skylor)

Skylor is the one who gives the pictures of the Ninja to the Memorial Tent. At the end of the week/night she'll come by and get the pictures back with her spirit, Umber( Utahraptor companion)

She's avoided being inside the Memorial Tent, for personal reasons that is. Even with some friends saying that she should at least see the guys there. She's politely declined always, saying she's busy with the shop or busy with personal chores.

(Before The Merge, her and Kai had shared a moment where they held hands- he offered her some of his power just in case she needed to defend others or herself.. he never came back, and she's refused to use fire, her ability to tap into it fading over the years. She's never been good with loss).

Brad Tudabone managed survive The Merge with his family, and they're the ones who bring the flowers- all of them a mix of different kinds. But generally most people will offer white and red roses. Though there are some other kinds in there too- he'll often stop by at Lloyds, talking for a little bit about what he's done and how he is... He doesn't stay long after that.

Any of the more elderly residents who survived The Merge came together, leaving photos and little statues of Wisp, Flame, Shard and Rocky. Each one by the respective Ninja(Jay, Kai, Zane and Cole) with Ultra Dragon resting underneath Lloyd's statue.

Pixal's there too, the little people of Ninjago recalling her- Skylor happily supplying a photo of her in the Samurai X gear. Her portrait beside Nya's, where lanterns with little notes sat, some hanging off and others surrounding her. For those that remember her too.. a water painted iteration of her Sea Dragons hangs below her.

Geckles primarily tell the story of Lilly, the hero of the Geckles and Munce who battled against Grief-Bringer with her Drake; Sierra. Using puppets hand crafted to tell the story to the kids who watch. The tale ends with the Drake succumbing to his wounds after the climax of his and Lilly's struggle- the hero leaving the mountain shortly after in grief and pain besides selling foods such as cave moss from artifical caves nearby they've managed to grow. Other Geckles hold trivia games for those that wish to test their memory.

Munce hold strength competitions in different games (as seen in the show), and most of their games are generally very action based much like the Formlings- who set up obstacles courses for humanoids and spirits alike. They share stories of their home realm, the spirits of the different regions and their experiences.

The few Ice Fisher's that ended up like many other factions tell their stories, of Wojira and more. Merlopians who managed to snag enough of a catch set them up in little kiddie pools where everyone can come get fish to either eat or keep as pets. (Merlopians do in fact make sure to inform the catchers however).

Serpentine hold plays and dances- in fact there's a whole outdoor stage at the Carnival grounds! Renacting event's and ficitonal stories, letting dancers and orchestra's come to show..

People post Merge were losing hope, those who knew the Ninja personally going, knocking- waiting for a response.. and leaving with none.

Skylor never visited The Monastery once.

[forhope]

   “  But  if  I  do  Nothing  then  it  just  gets  worse!  I  can’t  just  hang  around  and  do  nothing!  “

Weight pushed back to a heel, hands slipped within the cold of pockets as a sigh rattled inside chest.

"That isn't your job, shrimplet."

[ketchupandaxe]

Hi there! Can you do arctic fox and/or tundra wolf npts? (Side note: You could also do cait sidhe but that's just my linktype so I'm not that connected to it) Also you're super cool especially your art like you are so good at art(⁠≧⁠(⁠ｴ⁠)⁠≦⁠ ⁠)

*Arctic fox NPTS!

Names/Nicknames

Snowy, Fang, Snow, Blizzard, Kit, Fox, Fennec, Snowflake, Flake, Chris, Kris, Holly, Berry, Storm, Stormy, Stormi, Frost, Frosty, Ice.

Pronouns

Fox/Foxself, Arctic/Arcticself, Snow/Snowself, Blizzard/Blizzardself, Storm/Stormself, Kit/Kitself, Snowstorm/Snowstormself, Snowfake/Snowflakeself, Paw/Pawself, Claw/Clawself, Tail/Tailself, Fang/Fangself, Frost/Frostself, Ice/Iceself, 🦊/🦊self, ❄️/❄️self, 🐾/🐾self.

Titles

Storm Bringer, Frost Bitten, Fox (pronoun), Clawed Being, Snow Heart, Icey, Frosted Over.

*I hope you like these!

[batwingsandblackcats]

tunes for making your warlock patron your bitch

01. No Me Importa — In This Moment You’re so brave from your side of the glass / And you, you can’t compute, can’t do the math / And you’re, you’re playing god with your remote control / But I already know that there’s a flaw in my code / And the truth is you silently study me / And there are consequences you cannot see / And you ask yourself how did I unplug? / But the simple truth is that I just don’t give a fuck 02. Break The Cycle — Motionless in White Nothing in mind can replace where I have come from / Can someone tell me who the fuck I am? / Now I'm on my knees, try to drain this disease / Repair this machine with unsteady hands 03. FATE BRINGER — In This Moment I did what you said / I did what you wanted / I woke up the dead / ‘Til I was haunted / I danced for you for the last time / I’m not gonna beg / To you any longer / I’m over your drugs / They don’t make me stronger / I won’t consume you anymore 04. Reincarnate — Motionless In White I won’t bite my tongue, I am not afraid / Spineless, a dominion of nothing is all you will reign / You laugh, but what did you create? / Bitch, you’d give a fucking aspirin a headache 05. Roots — In This Moment I thank you for the promises you broke / Always watching, watching while I choke / I thank you for teaching me / Yes, I thank you for your hurting / I bite down a little harder / My blade’s a little sharper / My roots, my roots run deep into the hollow / Strike back a little harder / I scream a little louder / My roots, my roots run deep into the hollow 06. Go To Hell, For Heaven's Sake — Bring Me The Horizon No one wants to hear you / No one wants to see you / So desperate and pathetic, I'm begging you to spare me / The pleasure of your company / When did the diamonds leave your bones? / I'm burning down every bridge we made / I'll watch you choke on the hearts you break / I'm bleeding out every word you said / Go to hell, for heaven's sake 07. As Above, So Below — In This Moment As above, so below / What you reap is what you sow / What you give comes back three-fold / As above, so below / Watch me, watch me float away / I was never yours to save / It all comes back three-fold / As above, so below 08. The Fastest Way To a Girl’s Heart is Through Her Ribcage — Ice Nine Kills Is it difficult to breathe with fate wrapped around your throat? / Well, since you’re sort of ‘hung up’ at the moment, I’ll write your goodbye note 09. Blackbird — Black Veil Brides Hold on to hope / Take back your soul / And they cannot steal the light / That shines from who you once were / You're blood and bones / Left in the cold / So just look into the sky / And you'll become the blackbird 10. Rest In Peace — Dorothy Blood on my hands, what’s done is done / Left you by the road with the crows and the dust / Heart so hollow, deep as a cave / One day I’ll be dancing on your grave / Taking it back, the life you stole / Every little piece you took of my soul / Now I lay you down to sleep / And I pray with the devil you rest in peace

Cover photo by Jason D on Unsplash.