#And once again I am being given platitudes for it

[damiemontclair]

My sister has done it this time. I'm moving my stuff to my parents bathroom. I am sick and tired of her shit and I am outta here.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - A Jealous Man - Mal de Mer

Mel learns the hard way that wounded pride comes at a high price.

At least, where Silco is concerned.

tw: possessive behavior, conflict.

Mal de Mer on AO3

Snippet:

Trust me, he'd said.

I do, she'd replied.

The irony is not lost on her: her trust, like her marriage, has led her into a trap.

And, like any trapped animal, she lashes out.

"This your idea of compromise? An ambush in plain sight?" She hears her voice crack, and hates herself for it. "I would've given you anything. All you had to do was ask. But no—you'd rather skulk around in the shadows. Scheming like a—"

"You call it scheming. I call it strategy."  Silco's hands, guiding the wheel, are steady. "Or did you expect me to stay on sufferance? My city's trade—its lifeblood—tied for generations to your Hexgates. My future hinging—year after year—on accords written by your Council. Bureaucracy, backtracking, backstabbing. A charade of concessions, with Zaun's dignity as the cost?"

"Charade?" Her face goes hot, then cold. "Is that what you see this voyage as?"

"Worse. I see it as a farce." His knuckles, she notices, are whitening. "You, playing at being my wife. Putting on a show for all your guests. The men and women who've undermined my city at every turn. And what do you do? Peddle your smiles to grease their palms. Force my hand, and force yours, and force everyone else's—all to keep the peace." His laugh is pitched low. And yet it slices through the air. "Peace. If this is the price, I'd rather go to war."

The pain, like a needle, pierces Mel's skull.

She'd known, since the voyage began, that he was angry. That he was sick of the hollow platitudes and hidden barbs. But she'd thought, with her efforts this morning, that she'd successfully mitigated the damage. Diplomacy, rather than daggers—all to the goal of keeping the status quo.

A false premise, she realizes.

Zaun no longer recognizes the status quo. Not when the city has an undersea fortress, and a fleet of ships, and a web of trade routes.

"This—this is politics," she tries to reason. "You've seen me do this countless times!"

"That's precisely the point."

"What point?"

"You." It is a sibilant hiss. "Doing this. Every. Damn. Time."

"Silco—"

"You have a gift for it, Mel. I won't deny." The wheel spins beneath his fingertips.  The craft veers into a narrow canal, bordered on both sides by towering cranes. "I've always enjoyed it. How you can turn a crooked cause into a straight road. Turn a cutthroat into a charity case. But have you stopped to consider—just once—that I don't want to be your charity case? That watching you play nice with those leeches and bootlickers, day after day, makes me sick? That I'd rather toss the lot of them overboard than have you sacrifice a shred of yourself for my city's coffers."

"I am a Councilor," Mel protests. "My duty is—"

"Your duty is to be my wife!"

The whipcrack timbre cuts off the words in her throat. For a moment, Mel can do nothing but stare. His expression—the slow hardening of muscles, the creeping chill of mismatched eyes—is as remote as a dying star.

In her mind's eye, she sees their wedding night: her ruined silk underthings a breadcrumb trail between parlor and bedroom. Thinks of Silco, a phantom silhouette in the gloom: on top of her, inside her, filling her, all burning eyes and biting kisses and sweat-slick skin. Thinks of the aftermath: of him cradling her in his arms, his fingertips tracing the scratches his teeth had gouged, his whispers a cool balm to the fire his touch had lit.

"We'll get there," he'd promised her, again and again. "Just give it time."

"Time," Mel had whispered, clinging to his neck.

"All we need. All I ask."

"You could ask for more."

His chuckle had grated deliciously against her skin. "I'm greedy, my sweet wife. I take what I want."

And she'd smiled, and let him take.

Wife.

The word, entwining with sensuous tenderness, now constricts like a noose.

"My wife," Silco repeats, quieter, but with an unmerciful intensity that cuts her to the quick. "Not the prop to humanize me in front of hysterical prudes like the Dennings. Not the pincushion to hide behind when Cevila Ferros slings barbs about my bloodline. Not the bargaining chip to trot out when Hector wants to renegotiate a loan, in exchange for a few harmless gropes. Certainly not a piece of meat for Garlen and his pack of jackals to paw at in full view—all for the good of my city." A vein pulses dangerously in his forehead. "My wife, Mel. Mine."

Mine.

The word, like a key, unlocks the full dimension of his rage.

She'd known he was a jealous man. Had assumed, in her naïveté, that it was born of a bruised male ego. Because he was a powerful man, who'd risen from nothing. And, like all power-hungry men, he'd sooner hoard her attention than share it.

Now, she sees her mistake: the root cause of his jealousy was never the sharing.

It was the humiliation.

Having a shipful of strangers, in all their privilege, look down their noses at him. To treat him, publicly, with varying degrees of hostility—all because he'd been born in the wrong place, and raised by the wrong people, and bested his own fate with his bare hands. To be regarded, in turns, as a volatile threat, an exotic savage, or a useful commodity—but never as an equal.

And Mel, in the course of a single evening, had condoned the whole circus.

In her mind, she was protecting his interests. In her heart, she was trying to make amends. In her actions, she was keeping the peace.

But in Silco's eyes, she was making a mockery of her vows.

And with this voyage, selling his soul. All to keep Piltover's good standing at Zaun's expense.

Mel's throat hitches. She can feel the miserable tremors of childhood bubbling up. Her fingers clench the rail; the only thing left to cling to. For a terrifying heartbeat, she is a girl again, condemned beneath her mother's shadow.

But Silco is not Ambessa.

And she is no longer a girl.

"I did this," she grits out, "for us."

"No," Silco says, flatly. "You did this for them."

"They're our guests."

"They are the enemy."

"Silco, they—"

"My enemies," he says. "By word. By deed. The difference, Mel, is that both of mine have teeth."

The salt-spray stings Mel's eyes. Adrenaline, cold as seawater, sluices down her spine.

And it hits her:

I am in hostile territory.

"Why have you brought us here?" she says. "What are you planning?"

At the word—us—there is a change in his expression. It is subtle, but unmistakable. Suddenly,  the fluid animation that powers his every move is gone. The man left behind is—not an effigy—but a facsimile of human life. Skin and bones and blood, but nothing more.

Beneath, there is a bottomless void.

And it is very, very hungry.

"I told you," he says. "This is a treasure hunt."

"Silco—"

"I've given them the bait. Now, they're hooked. All that's left is to reel them in."

[invye]

How They Met [1/3] - MiShanks

[CoraMiShanks Fix It AU]

I think it's time I write up my thoughts about how exactly Mihawk, Shanks and Rosinante met and outline the start of what will become their relationship. And since I am pathologically incapable of writing short posts, I'll cut it into three, so I can take my time.

Mihawk & Shanks [this post]

Mihawk & Rosinante/Corazón [link]

Rosinante & Shanks [link]

- Mihawk & Shanks -

The first meet in Loguetown, as they so often do. At the point of Rogers' execution Mihawk's exploits have pinged the Marine's radar once or twice, but he has not been given a bounty of his own yet as there were bigger fish to contend with. Mihawk attends to pay his respect to Roger as the Marine's greatest challenger, shoes that he doesn't expect - nor wants - to fill, but will aspire to anyway along his way to becoming the World's Strongest Swordsman.

He doesn't expect the reaction of the crowd to Roger sending them out to find his treasure, given that Mihawk himself doesn't care about treasure at all. Roger hasn't even taken his last breath yet and the pirates of tomorrow are running to be the first ones out at sea. It's a bit disrespectful, honestly. On top of that, crowds really aren't Mihawk's thing. At all. And he didn't bring Yoru (that would only have gone wrong with the amount of Marines all around), so while he's desperately trying to keep his cool and get out of the crowd's way, his mind is growing increasingly more frantic.

That is until he quite literally stumbles over Shanks. Mihawk recognises him immediately (really, it should be illegal to give minors bounties, no matter what crew they belong to), red hair, strawhat, planted like a rock in the moving crowd, the only person in sight to actually shed tears. Mihawk blessedly stops thinking (panicking) and instead starts acting. Grabs the kid, who no doubt would be the Marine's first target three minutes from now, and gets them the hell out of there, leading them away from the port instead of toward it.

They don't talk as Mihawk ducks them into an alley when the Marines start running by. It's not the best hiding spot, but with Mihawk playing up the bored noble act, shielding Shanks from direct view, its enough that the Marines don't look twice and keep going. Mihawk ends up handing Shanks his handkerchief, faintly hears himself giving a platitude about Roger having been a great man, and once things calm down he makes his exit, without looking back even once.

In the months following after, Mihawk is one of the many many new pirates who receive bounties during the rush onto the Grand Line. Shanks is elated when he finally gets to put a proper name to the man who helped him instead of thinking of him as Hawkeyes (he likes Hawkeyes though, and that nickname might already be stuck given how much he has asked around for him... Whoops).

Mihawk doesn't care for his bounty. Doesn't care for being a pirate either, but there's plenty strong people to fight among the pirates now, and a high bounty does attract interesting challengers... Also he does still have some unfinished business with the Marines, so.

Mihawk's bounty skyrockets as he's given the Marine Hunter epithet. Shanks turns around to newly recruited Benn and says: "This is gonna be our swordsman!" and Benn can't do anything but raise his eyebrows in open questioning of Shanks' sanity. Then again, he doesn't follow Shanks because he thinks he's sane.

It takes another year for Shanks to track Mihawk down. It really wasn't an easy task with how Mihawk seems to just go wherever the wind takes him, but he finds him none the less.

"Hawkeyes!!" Shanks yells (and Mihawk has a sudden epiphany about where that epithet came from, because he's heard it being whispered behind his back, but no one has used it to his face yet), "Join my crew!!!" "No." "Why not?" "There's nothing a crew could offer me." "I want you to be my swordsman though." "You carry a sword of your own." "You're better." "Obviously. I'll be the World's Strongest Swordsman before long." "See! That's why I want you on my crew!" "No." Had Mihawk known Shanks a little better at that time, he would have been worried about the sudden silence and the contemplating look on Shanks face. But he didn't, so he simply turned to leave. Then: "Will you join me if I beat you?" And Mihawk can't help but laugh.

They do duel after that. Mihawk thoroughly unites Shanks' behind with the sand under their feet. Shanks is weaker than him, a little off balance (might be the recent growth spurt [actually is mostly due to Shanks being flustered at realising he really likes Mihawk's laugh]), but his technique loudly speaks of his upbringing. It's exhilarating. There is a telling spark of Haki that Shanks is actively holding back and Mihawk can't wait to see what he can do when he decides to fully unleash it. Mihawk ends the duel by telling Shanks to keep up his training and try again a couple months from now.

Shanks is back the next month. He still loses, but from then on the duels are a regular thing, only becoming more frequent until there is barely a week going by in which they don't cross blades.

When Shanks eventually manages to eek out a win (by going all in with his Conqueror's Haki rather than his swordsmanship), he doesn't ask Mihawk to join the crew again. They've already long understood that if Mihawk ever is to join, he will do so on his own time and volition. Until then they will have their duels.

(Shanks is working on making Mihawk stick around for drinks every now and then, it's only a matter of time.)

[kingedmundsroyalmurder]

Blue Castle Book Club 2.0 - Chapter 8

Valancy goes to bed that night, having rudely (“rudely”) told Cousin Stickles that she wouldn’t do as she was told any longer. And she stays up all night remembering her life and coming to terms with how little of it is left.

Fear, John Foster tells us, is the original sin and a wretched way to live. Valancy, in her long night of reckoning, realizes that for the first time in her life she is no longer afraid. She does not fear death and, stemming from that, she does not fear the future either. All her life she has been afraid of the future, stretching out interminably before her, but now it has a termination point, and that termination is imminent. And so she is no longer afraid.

What she is, though, is resentful. Which is not an emotion she has really allowed herself to feel up until this point. She has been policed so strictly that – until now – she has self-policed her thoughts without even being told to. But now she doesn’t care what her family thinks and she doesn’t care about their rules and she is free to have feelings no matter how un-ladylike that activity might be, and none of her feelings are positive. She stays awake all night in a memory spiral that will be intimately familiar to most of us, running through everything bad that’s ever happened on an endless loop.

And boy does she have a lot of memories to choose from, none of them pleasant. During this long night, she cannot think of a single good thing that has ever happened to her. And every time something good might have happened, someone comes along and spoils it, ruining things forever.

(As an aside, I do love her clear-eyed imagining of what her obituary would be like. You can’t really say, no one particularly liked her and she didn’t have any friends or accomplishments in an obituary, so hers absolutely would have been filled with vapid platitudes. And she didn’t even begin thinking of the funeral service, which would be given by Dr. Stalling and probably include words from Uncles James and Wellington and been generally dreadful all round.)

She comes to the conclusion that, “I’ve just been a colourless nonentity,” which I am mostly pulling out because it’s nice when authors confirm for you that the pattern you’ve been tracking is something they did on purpose. But more than that, the colors in Valancy’s life, when they emerge properly, will be deeply associated with nature. Valancy has never been allowed to be in nature – she has spent her whole life stifled in the red brick house filled with dead things and pictures of dead people. For Maud, who has such a clear throughline in all her work about the power and value of being in nature, being colorless is being cut off from the natural world, which is equivalent to being spiritually dead. Valancy isn’t physically dead yet, but in a real way she’s been dead for years already.

Once again, I wish someone had introduced Maud to the idea of magical realism and let her run with it, because there is fantasy hovering just beneath so many of her stories (or just straight up in the text itself, if I understand Emily correctly) and I think she’d have done an incredible job of weaving magic and mundane together.

Valancy catalogs her many disappointments and ends on the final fact that she has never loved anyone in her entire life. Which is a marked shift from a couple chapters back, when the thing she was lamenting was that no one had ever loved her. A subtle but important distinction, and one that will carry forward through the text. Valancy is no longer beholden to the good opinion of others, and so she is now focused on what she herself hasn’t done, as opposed to what hasn’t been done for her. We start the chapter with “not even her mother loved her” and we end it with “I’ve never loved [mother]”. Valancy has gone from object to subject in her own life.

And we end with the only known instance of your 3am feelings being objectively correct. Valancy decides she is done lying and done appeasing and from now on will do nothing that she does not want to do. She quotes a poem called “The Freeman”, by poet Ellen Glasgow, published in 1897: “Despair is a free man—hope is a slave.” (Fun fact: according to Wikipedia, Glasgow suffered from chronic heart problems. No clue if Maud knew that or if it’s just a weird coincidence.)

Here is the poem in full:

THE FREEMAN

“Hope is a slave, Despair is a freeman”

A vagabond between the East and West, Careless I greet the scourging and the rod; I fear no terror any man may bring, Nor any god.

The clankless chains that bound me I have rent No more a slave to hope I cringe or cry; Captives to Fate, men rear their prison walls, But free am I.

I tread where arrows press upon my path, I smile to see the danger and the dart; My breast is bared to meet the slings of hate, But not my heart.

I face the thunder and I face the rain, I lift my head, defiance far I fling— My feet are set, I face the autumn as I face the spring.

Around me, on the battle-fields of life, I see men fight and fail and crouch in prayer; Aloft I stand unfettered, for I know The freedom of despair.

Colors mentioned:

Red moon

Creamy yellow net

Wreath of red roses

Pink dress

All things that colourless Valancy either fears or doesn’t get to have.

[jaggededges123]

Eighthcest apology kiss PLEASE 🗣️🗣️🗣️ - octakiseronliker

(i put most of this under a cut because it got uhhhhhh really quite long)

You are a cheap sacrifice. You have always known this; it is in your name. Serve and sacrifice and hope that you do not die, this time.

Hot, stabbing pain sears through your soul, as you wait, as your soul being halfway to death fuels your necromancer. There is nothing for you to cling to, here--no faith, no anchor. Every platitude you were given by the clergy as you trained and pumped your body full of things to make it more palatable to a child that hadn't even arrived then--it is all useless here. There is nothing but cold so profound that it wraps back around to boiling as far as your pain receptors are concerned, and the slowly encroaching madness that you must fend off alone, lest you remain adrift from yourself and be rendered permanently insensate.

This is part of the bargain you made in being born; this is the weight of being selected for the blood that pumps through the veins you are not presently attached to. You die, and are resurrected, and die, and are resurrected, all without ever being buried or being mourned.

Just when you fear that you cannot hold on any longer, that voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, sonorous and ecclesiastic: Brother Asht, I bid you return.

It is relief, but a paltry one; your trial is nowhere near over yet. Navigating from where you are back to where you should be is like walking through a maze with ever-shifting walls and a blindfold over your eyes. For some reason, here, it also feels as though there are hands clawing at your feet, threatening to trip you up or drag you permanently out of life. Your only beacons are the smell of ritual herbs drifting into your nose, and your necromancer's familiar refrain consistently floating around you.

You are Colum the Eighth, and this is what that means: you find your way back from hell to the one who put you there, every single time he calls you back.

You breach through the base of your spine, as you were taught; your disk is somewhat slipped there, and it is easiest to wiggle in through the flaws in yourself. Once you are back inside yourself, you reconnect to your organs. It is like flipping the generator that powers the entire Octavian cathedral--everything lights up all at once, and it's overwhelming and painful to see everything thrum to life again.

When your lungs reconnect, when your jaw forces open again, you splutter and cough like your soft alveoli are filled with water from the River. Your eyes come online, but the sensory input is agonizing, and your pupils take refuge by rolling back into your skull. You breathe in smoke that reeks horribly, now that you have a nose and not only a soul. The way your breath comes in short and punchy, combined with the conversational hum of the room, beats against your skull like so many hammers, and the coughing itself is cacophonous.

There are two warm, small hands holding one of yours, and your entire arm seems to arc with electricity from it. The pressure from your leathers is unbearable. If you weren't so busy trying to simply breathe, then you would tear it off of yourself.

To your side, you hear: "Fifteen minutes. You're getting tardy."

...You have a headache, and cannot say anything in return to Silas Octakiseron, Master Templar of the White Glass.

Those two warm, small hands leave yours only when you are moderately well situated in your own body, and when the idea of opening your eyes again doesn't make you want to pluck them out. Your necromancer leads you up to your unsteady feet, and the familiar sharp ache-pain in your lower back centers you like nothing else.

"I am glad," Teacher murmurs from your other side, "that you were able to make the journey back, Colum the Eighth."

It sounds ominous coming from his lips, and you don't want to respond. Silas does, in your stead.

"Thank you for your wisdom, Teacher," Silas says, though his voice suggests that he will be disregarding whatever their enigmatic host told him. "We will be leaving now."

Finally, when you cannot put it off anymore--Silas is not holding you and walking sightless is not a skill you have mastered--you open your eyes properly.

The first thing you see is the face of your necromancer. The first thing you notice is the plum-bright mess of bruises around one of his eyes, and you worry. You do not open your mouth because it still feels as though it is filled with bees, but you do worry. Your eyebrows crease together.

The rest of Silas's face is blessedly unchanged; whatever occurred while you were gone appears to have been minor. His face is sharp like a knife, but you can still see what little baby fat he had ever had, as gaunt as necromancers always are. He is made softer by virtue of wearing his hear down, with his headband already in for the night. You can see the innocence in his calf-brown eyes, though you would be a fool to mistake the edges there for something entirely ingenuous and artless.

Silas inclines his head and turns around, and you follow him in silence. You do not know where he will take you next. You're only just now remembering that Abigail Pent and Magnus Quinn are dead, the reason why you had been asked to vacate your body in the first place.

When Silas Octakiseron stops walking and you stop half a step behind him, it is to your surprise that you have arrived at your quarters. It seems strange, to your mind which is only just now falling back into place enough to think, that there is not more to do. There are bodies, somewhere. Your numbers have been reduced by two.

It is not the first time you've seen death, and you very much doubt it will be the last, but it is bizarre that everything is so still in the wake of two souls departing permanently for the River.

You follow Silas into your quarters, and--this too is uncommon, only reserved for when you have not come back from the River entirely "correctly"--Silas helps you remove your armor. What a world, in which the necromancer helps the cavalier dress himself for bed instead of the other way around. It's shameful.

"Your eye," you at least manage to mumble, as that purple shining thing returns to your field of vision, the eye small in its nest trained on one of the straps of your leathers. "Silas, your eye."

"You will duel Protesilaus the Seventh for it." Silas's gaze flickers to yours, and he looks somewhat ashamed of himself for a moment. "It would not have been fitting to resolve the manner any other way."

"I understand."

He does not care to talk about it. You understand that much.

Silas helps to dress you for bed, though he does not help you into the sonic cleaner for once. You are glad of it; if you were to be subjected to the vibration right now you think you might shake entirely apart. You, in turn, help him dress for bed as much as you can in your current state. Your fingers do not obey well, and the phantom one on your left hand aches something awful.

He does not scold you for your failings, this time, at least not out loud. You catch him glimpsing at you when you pull his hair a bit taking it out from inside his nightgown, but you do not know what it means.

You sit down on your cot when you are done, your bulk crashing down heedless of the way the ancient springs scream underneath you. Your heartbeat has, finally, begun to steady itself. That process too is tardy this time, just as Silas said you were. You stare blankly at the wall, waiting inertly for Silas to say the evening prayers; he had been interrupted, you think, by the news of the Fifth's untimely demise. He will start over, you are sure.

Silas Octakiseron kneels in front of you, and it shakes you from your stasis. You blink.

"Brother Asht, are you well?" he asks.

You do not lie. You, Colum Asht, never lie--the most you do is avoid inconvenient truths by omission. You have no escape route here.

You sigh, and you feel it all the way from the bottom of your lungs to the numb tip of your tongue. "Not tonight, Silas."

"Do I need to relight the incense?"

"I don't know if it would help," you confess. It feels like a confession, and it makes Silas's face pinch in a way you do not like.

Suddenly, for some reason you cannot fathom, perhaps for a reason that only the most well versed in the Tome and well steeped in the Kindly Prince's goals can understand, Silas Octakiseron crowds you in. He crawls in between your thick, heavy legs--you have not seen him debase himself by crawling in nearly fourteen years--and he reaches up to your face, as though in supplication. His uncallused fingers press over the shorn part of your hair, cradling your still dimly aching skull.

You realize, in a flash of clarity, that he looks like he is seeking penance. You realize that in the moment before he does what he does.

And what he does... is kiss you.

His lips are soft against yours, especially in comparison to yours. Silas, as he is in all things, does not hesitate a moment; he presses his lips against yours, and even you, in your necromantic ineptitude, can feel the way some of his residual thalergy slips into you.

You take a breath, through your nose, while he kisses you. The oxygen does not burn all the way down. That is how you know. The phantom ache in your hand fades somewhat, as Silas tilts his face and presses again, more aggressively.

You are sure that the purpose of this kiss must have something to do with necromancy, and yet, your head tilts in the opposite direction, so that you can kiss him in return. Your heart flutters, though it shouldn't. You almost wish it wouldn't. It would be easier.

But your life has never been easy.

Silas breaks away from you after a few more moments, though he stays so close that when he speaks, his breath still enters your mouth, where you drag it yourself into your lungs, a fading echo of your master.

"I am sorry, Brother Asht. I will call you more fervently, next time."

He is killing you, slowly and agonizingly. You do not know if what he does is right, any longer, or if he drags you both through the mud for his own purposes misaligned with those of the Lord’s. You fear that your own heart is not right, for what you've done with and for him. You fear for nearly everything you have worked to uphold your entire life.

And yet, you love him still. You love him more desperately than you have loved anything else in your life. From the moment he was born and placed into your embarrassingly unprepared arms, until the moment you are released from his service in death, you have loved and will love him.

What a horrific paradox.

[beelzlikes]

Gods I still can't get past it. This is why I can't have relationships with other people, platonically or romantically or otherwise. Cause we have to look at the FACTS of what actually happened:

I was at work in my office building, finishing up my work. This person knocks on the door and sticks their head in. They're wearing mostly all black, looking pretty casual, they set their backpack on the ground and introduce themselves by asking if I work here.

I say yes, and they proceed to recruit me into a union because of course I'm going to support unions. They give me their card and I immediately notice the they/them pronouns, and I can feel myself actually start to blush. Here is someone who is very cute, and I don't have to immediately write them off as being straight like I would with most male presenting people.

They give me their card, I sign a union pledge with my phone number on it, we both leave the office.

A few days later I get a text from this person asking if I'd agree to a tele-survey. I agree, and we schedule to talk in a day or two. In the meantime, some OTHER guy from the union SHOWS UP AT MY HOUSE asking me to sign another union card. I tell him I already filled one out with so-and-so, and they look surprised, so I fill out a second card just in case. (How the fuck did you know my ADDRESS if you didn't already have my info on file somewhere? Like what?? Whatever.)

Phone call with Cheshire, they ask me several questions about unions and supporting unions. Innocuous conversation that I sweat bullets through and talk a mile a minute because I can't control my emotions. At the end, they tell me of an event happening in the city and I agree to go.

I go to the event on the day, it's crowded, I sign my name on the pledge and leave, anxious that this person might be there and see me and want to talk to me so I I'm not even at the event 5 minutes before I'm out of there.

Weeks of silence from both of us. Why would I contact them? I have no reason to.

THEY have a reason to: their job, so they text me last week asking if they could add my name to a letter being written to the board. I agree. I wait a day, watch a dumb bl movie that kindles some semblance of feeling in my heart and at NINE O CLOCK AT NIGHT!!!(Why?! Why?! Why did I do that?) I text this person asking if there are any up coming events for the union I might be able to attend.

They tell me there is one in a week on the 19th and ask if I could make it. I ask them if they are going to be there. They say yes. I respond: "Then I wouldn't miss it!"

Like a dope. Like a dingus. Like a fucking moron. Way too forward, way too explicit. My intentions are bald-faced and staring you right in the eye, I could barely have made it any clearer that the only reason I wanted to come was to see them. It SMACKS of desperation. REEKS of lechery.

They reply kindly with: "Right on, I'll let you know where"

Silence then. For days. Time enough for me to come to my senses. Here's the facts: they only approached me in the capacity of their job, they only ever contacted me out of obligation to do their JOB, and any platitudes or niceties on display are the same they would have given any other CLIENT as an employee should. And some stranger sliding into their DMs is the last thing anyone on the job wants to deal with.

I made this person up. This person is real, yes, but they are not the same person I have built in my head. I don't know the reality of that person, all I am operating on is my own imagination. And I've deceived myself that way before, and I won't do it again.

So yesterday I texted them. Told them I'm recanting my previous statement. I like and tell them something's come up and I can't make it to the event.

They ask if I want them to keep me updated on future events. I say no. They don't respond. I delete the text thread and their number along with it so now it's impossible for me to contact them again. And once again, I get to be the savior. I saved that imaginary person from having to deal with me in any capacity. And I saved myself the inevitable pain of when it all comes crashing down around me.

So you see? It was a mistake to contact them in the first place. Had I not texted them asking for future events, they probably would NEVER have texted me again. I was a name on their list they checked off, and now needed to move on to the next person to recruit to the union. How dare I? How DARE I even THINK about them when for all I know they don't fucking care?

I'm disgusting. I want everyone to just leave me alone! If I'm alone, if there's no one to distract me, the I don't have to feel anything. Anything at all. I don't want to feel anymore, I want to be numb, I want to be a lifeless robot you wind up and throw out when your satiated with it.

[reidscanehand]

The One Where Derek Finds Out

Episode 3 of The One Where Everyone Finds Out 

Spencer Reid x BAUfem! Reader

Also, once again, heavily implied confirmed Morcia. Because, once again: she is his GOD GIVEN SOLACE. 

TW: mentions of losing a loved one, cursing, mentions of crimes by unsub

So! This is the first one that’s low key based on a request and I’m so excited, however, I need to clarify the timeline here. Here’s the situation, I’m about to utilize some PRECIOUS moments from season 8, however, I’m going to need us to, as a group, imagine that Maeve’s death happened before these events. We good? Alrighty then. Thank you to the anon for this request: Hi! First of all, I love your writing, something about your style is so comforting. I thought of a request I’d love to see your take on whenever you have time (I’m excited to read everything you’ve already got in the works :)). I think something set around the FBI baseball game at the end of S8E6 would be super cute! Whether or not this sparks inspiration for you, I’m looking forward to reading everything you put out!

Also thank you thank you thank you for the support on the first two chapters! I have loved writing and working on this series and I’m so glad that you guys seem to feel the same way! Thank you for being the best little community ever - love you bunches xx

They’re sitting at her favorite Thai restaurant and Derek’s halfway through his peanut chicken when Penelope drops what she clearly believes to an absolute bomb. His Baby Girl is a clever gossip, if anything, borderline Jane Austen-esque in her ability to drop platitudes and witty tidbits at appropriate moments, giving them more pungency and entertainment value than one would typically expect. He’s thrilled that their dinner date has taken her mind off of the frustrations of this morning, but he can sense that she’s holding something back. Nothing bad, but a juicier piece of gossip. She’s burying the lead on purpose. 

“So, I have some news,” she finally says as she spears another piece of crispy tofu from her pad thai before looking up at him. He smiles at her excitement. 

“And what’s that pretty lady?”

She smirks to herself bringing the piece of tofu almost to her lips before nearly whispering, “Reid and Y/N are in love with each other.” She takes her bite of tofu, reveling in what he knows is a slack jawed expression. 

“Reid?” Derek asks indignantly. “Reid and Y/N? Alex Blake’s TA, Y/N?”

“Yes,” Penelope says after swallowing. She narrows her eyes at him a little, “And she’s been with the team for almost a whole year, Derek, she isn’t just Alex Blake’s TA anymore.”

“Don’t get your pretty little panties in a wad, Miss Thing,” he teases. “I know that Y/N is a very valuable asset to the team. I never said she wasn’t. However, I will say that I think you’re definitely wrong.”

“I am not!” Penelope exclaims so emphatically that a few of their fellow diners turn to look at the both of them. Derek meets their eyes with a tight lipped smile of apology before meeting her gaze again. 

“Princess,” he chastens, gently, “I know you don’t want Pretty Boy to be lonely-”

“You do not get to call me ‘Princess’ after you say I’m wrong!” she whisper yells, much to the relief of the others in the restaurant. “And you didn’t see them today. If I hadn’t interrupted, they would’ve had a big ole makeout session in the kitchen.”

“Nuh-uh,” Derek disagrees. “Reid? Our Reid? Making out?”

“I know you also saw him making out with Lila Archer in a pool of all things,” Penelope parries, spearing another piece of tofu. “It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

“We both know the same semi-germaphobe, right?” Derek laughs. Penelope pouts adorably and Derek sighs. “Baby Girl, I believe you saw what you saw, but...I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Just this morning we were talking about how he’s still grieving.”

“I’m not getting my hopes up, Derek, you didn’t see them! It was so obvious - I can’t believe they don’t know-”

“What do you mean, they don’t know?” Derek asks, putting down his fork and leaning forward.

“Whoa,” Penelope jokes at the action, “this isn’t an interrogation, my hunk of burning love.” He smiles, but stays forward, cocking an eyebrow. “You just - you’ll have to see it for yourself, I’m sure, but...they’re in love, Derek. They just don’t know it yet.” 

He smiles tenderly at the adorable, blond angel in front of him. He takes her hand on the table and smiles at her. And it might be the fact that she looks just so incredibly hopeful, but there’s a part of him that hopes she’s right. 

~~~

Derek makes a promise to himself that he isn’t going to push Reid for information. He makes Penelope promise as well, but after Las Vegas, he has to repeat this promise to himself like a damn mantra every time he sees the two of you around the office. What he sees in Vegas is only an inkling, anyway, he constantly reasons to himself, but it was an inkling, nonetheless (really, it’s way more than an inkling, but he doesn’t want to push Spencer). 

The case in Las Vegas is extremely stressful. Most of the BAU’s cases tend toward a stressful nature, but this one is a child abduction, meaning that time feels far more sensitive than it usually does. The parents are receiving ransom calls from the kidnappers, as well as torn bits of their daughter’s clothing shoved into their mailbox every morning. The team manages to catch the culprit behind the fabric, a paid off delivery man who proves completely unhelpful. Cases involving children are always difficult for every team member, but this is the first abduction Spencer’s dealt with since Maeve. He’s even more on edge than usual, which isn’t exactly helpful. Spencer barks one too many times at the local police chief and Hotch relegates him to working on the geographical profile in a fairly obvious act of time out. This, of course, only serves to piss Reid off more, especially as the rest of the team is sent away on other leads, leaving him to ruminate all alone. You and Derek are assigned to track down the missing girl’s nanny who is, rather suspiciously, not answering her phone. Looking over the evidence, it becomes clear that this woman might be the unsub or, at the very least might be the strongest connection to the unsub, meaning this is now the most dangerous lead to follow. It’s certainly the most dangerous task you’ve been given in your time with the BAU, typically handling more of the academic sides of the case with Spencer and Alex. Derek makes the executive decision to suit the two of you up in kevlars just in case. As the two of you prepare to go, he can feel the anxiety rolling off of you in sheets. He checks in with you a few times and you assure him that you’re fine, but when you’re about to leave the station, you pause. Derek looks down at you, an odd expression playing on your features.

“What’s up, Pretty Lady?” he asks. It’s unlike you to lose momentum on tasks, or, at all, really. You look up at him and open your mouth, only to abruptly close it again and look away on a small sigh. 

“Um,” you murmur, “could you…” You trail off. You allow your eyes to flicker towards the board that Spencer is staring at. You look for such a tiny moment that Derek would’ve missed it were he not such a good profiler. 

“Could you give me one second?” you finally ask, looking up at him with such a pained expression that he’s a little concerned. 

Derek nods slowly, “Of course.” You nod quickly, stepping back slowly before turning around and scurrying to Spencer. Derek watches as you timidly tap Spencer on the shoulder. The young man turns around, the furrow in his brows unknotting as he takes in your nervous expression. Derek can’t hear what you say, but watches, almost in awe as you whisper something only to throw your arms around Spencer’s middle. The genius looks astonished for a millisecond, before wrapping his arms around you tightly. He considers the action for only a moment before placing a gentle kiss on top of your head. You pull away, slightly uncomfortable now, but Spencer pulls you for another quick hug before you dash back to Derek. Derek has the decency to look away for a moment, to pretend he didn’t see what he just saw. 

“Ready,” you breathe, breezing past him through the doors. Derek looks back to where Spencer is standing, unabashedly watching you go, completely unaware of Derek’s study of him. Spencer nods to himself before taking a deep breath and standing up straighter, a new look of determination on his face. 

Derek swallows, oddly moved by what he’s just seen. He’s not sure it’s the full-blown love Penelope’s so sure about, but there’s something deeply touching about the amount of pure, unadulterated care you’ve just exhibited for each other. But, it’s not love, right? Surely, not. 

~~~

So, it’s definitely full-blown love. Yeah, you and Spencer are in love and neither of you knows it, though Derek is not at all sure how it’s possible. It’s so goddamn obvious that it’s almost painful that neither of you is aware. It’s in the halftime of the Secret Service versus FBI baseball game and Spencer is only playing because he owes Derek a favor when it happens. The game is not going...well. The FBI is down by one run and Spencer hasn’t made a single hit. He’s alright at playing defense on second, but when it comes to batting he’s borderline hopeless. The quick practice Derek had managed to force him to hadn’t helped much and had really only made his nerves about the game worse. Following another embarrassing round of batting, when half time is called, Spencer darts off to the public bathrooms, clearly trying to hide his nerves. Derek gives him a few minutes before he decides to go after him. The bathrooms don’t have doors, but rather a small alcove-like entrance. As he approaches, he notices you walking in, mustering your courage before you follow Spencer in. Derek pauses in the alcove, just able to see inside, though still concealed from you and Spencer. Spencer is leaning over a sink, crying, as you approach him. You pull him into a hug and he sobs into your shoulder.

 “It’s not that bad, Spence,” you assure him. Derek almost walks in and interjects, almost wants to help encourage his friend with you, maybe crack a joke about how you don’t need to be in the men’s bathroom, but then Spencer releases another small sob and he doesn’t want to interrupt on such a private moment. “Aw, Spence,” your breathe. 

“This is so embarrassing, Y/N,” Spencer rasps. “It’s just as bad as I remember. I’m just always going to be the pathetic, skinny kid that can’t do anything.” His voice is slightly muffled now, as you hug him. Derek watches as you square your shoulders, pulling back from Spencer, your hands on his shoulders.

“Spence,” you begin, “you’re not an athlete-”

“Well, thanks for that, Y/N,” Spencer replies, awkwardly. 

“Let me finish,” you continue. “You’re not an athlete, but you know what you are? You’re a genius. You’re a goddamn FBI agent, a man with three PhDs, hundreds of solved cases under his belt. You’re a magician, you’re a godfather, you’re a friend. And you’re the best person I know.” Spencer sniffles again and Derek finds himself swallowing against a lump in his throat from where he’s eavesdropping. It’s not exactly a confession of love, but it might as well be. 

“You might never be an athlete, but you’re not pathetic and I absolutely refuse to hear you talk about yourself like that. Don’t listen to a thing those Secret Service guys say, okay, Spence? You just have to get out of your head. You can do anything you set that big, beautiful mind to; I’ve seen you do it. You just have to believe in yourself.” There’s another pause and another sniffle before Spencer replies. 

“I don’t know if I can, Y/N,” Spencer mutters, the pain apparent in his voice. You sigh and smile at him, looking down before leaning up and giving him a kiss on the cheek. Spencer’s eyes grow comically wide, his cheeks turning nearly fuschia. If it wasn’t so incredibly sweet, Derek would laugh. 

“Well, then,” you whisper, clearly a little overwhelmed at what you’ve just done, “at least know that I believe in you. Always.” You awkwardly pat him on the shoulder before excusing yourself, giving Derek just a moment to scoot out of the alcove before you exit the bathroom.

“Oh, Derek,” you say, a blush growing on your cheeks as well. 

“Y/N,” he nods in greeting, barely containing his smug smile. 

“Um, Spence should be out in just a sec,” you hurry out before dashing back over to the stands with the rest of the team. As if on cue, Spencer walks out of the bathroom, a new look of conviction on his face paired with an absolutely enormous grin.

“Let’s play a baseball game!” Spencer exclaims enthusiastically, clapping his hands once. 

“I think you mean, ‘let’s play ball’, kid,” Derek laughs. Spencer nods, the smile never leaving his face, and Derek can hardly fault him for it. Pretty Boy’s got far better things to think about than some inter-bureau baseball game. Because Spencer is in love with you.

~~~

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[kechiwrites]

spit or swallow

Dentist!Eijirou Kirishima x Patient!Reader

wc: 1.5k

“he works diligently above you, latex gloved hands occasionally brushing your nose, jaw and throat. He’s nothing less than gentle with you, angling your face where he needs it with feather soft touches and honey smooth direction.”

warnings: afab reader, fantasizing about your dentist, a lil bit of praise kink, biting, oral sex, size kink if you squint, swearing, dick slapping but like make it tender, we’re light on warnings today y’all, 18+ 

author’s notes: kirishima....thank u to my lovely betas @lady-bakuhoe​ and @rivendell101​ yes i kept the arm hair thing in, im a simp ♡.

There is absolutely nothing sexy about being a dentist. The visual of Dr. Kirishima up to his elbows in spit and god know what else is hardly erotic. But there’s very little you can do to stop the shivers that tingle down your spine at the sight of his bare forearms, revealed to you by the careful and precise folding of his doctor’s coat, dusted with fine black hair and corded with muscle when they reach over your face to adjust the light or peer at your x-rays. Your tongue is still thick and sweet in your mouth from the liquid he'd given to you in a little blue cup. The taste was just barely spearmint and you wish you could chase it with the sharp tang of his sweat. You wish you could wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down to you, bite and kiss and suck at the skin under his jaw you're becoming so familiar with. You want to create a flush so deep you find it blooming over his skin when you undo the little white plastic buttons of his dress shirt.

While you're musing, he works diligently above you, latex gloved hands occasionally brushing your nose, jaw and throat. He’s nothing less than gentle with you, angling your face where he needs it with feather soft touches and honey smooth direction. You get the distinct impression he’s a mellow guy, tossing easy smiles to anyone who meets his eye and he certainly doesn’t seem very intimidating. Even still, you can't help but think about the stretch. There's not a doubt in your mind that Eijirou Kirishima D.D.S. is packing like he's on a two month vacation. His shoulders are impossibly broad and when he escorted you through the bleach white hallway all you could think of was letting him loom over you and drag the heavy weight of his weeping cock up and down the plush skin of your face. You wish he would push past the softness of your lips and urge your head further and further down his length until the tip of his dick touches your fucking brain. You want him to spread your pussy open between latex covered thumbs and bury his tongue in you, let his unnervingly sharp teeth catch the hood of your clit.

You want him to hurt you.

You’re lost in the visual of his hands around your throat when he calls your name, trying to get you to angle your chin just a bit further downward. When you finally comply, he whispers “Good girl” and it takes every single bit of your self restraint to stop yourself from whimpering at the image the phrase conjures. You screw your eyes shut and behind your lids, Dr. Kirishima is holding you against the padded chair by the back of your neck, sinking his teeth into the exposed skin of your shoulder, hip, thigh, leaving aching, perfect half circles in their wake. He keeps you in place with one hand, and presses his cock against the throbbing heat of your cunt, not quite hard enough to enter, not yet. Instead he’s content to tease you into begging for it. And you do, you pant out platitudes and pleas for more until he blankets your body with his own, weighing you down as he pushes into you, fucking deeper and deeper until your slick covers both of your thighs. He fucks you with four fingers in your mouth, pushing down on your tongue while he calls you his favourite patient. His perfect patient.

“Am I hurting you?” You open your eyes in an instant, and the dentist is hovering above you, eyebrows furrowed with concern. You aren’t even sure how long your eyes have been closed, but the light overhead stings a bit and you blink owlishly before speaking.

I fucking wish.

“No, no I’m fine.” You steeple your hands together in your lap and try to shake off the reverie.

“Great, well we’re all done here,” he pulls his mask down to hang around his neck and blinds you with a beaming smile, before you can even feel guilty, the dentist spins around in his bone white office chair, rummaging in a shelf before coming back to you, with two closed fists held up for your choosing.

“Pick one.” When you can only respond with a confused tilt of the head he explains, “A treat for my favourite patient. I know you aren’t exactly lollipop age but…” Dr. Kirishima continues to speak but the sound of his voice is drowned out by the roaring in your ears. You interrupt him mid-sentence and tap your hand against his left and he opens his wide palm with a flourish to reveal a bright yellow sugar free wrapped candy and a packet of floss with a smiley little cartoon tooth emblazoned on the front.

You aren’t quite sure how, but you know it’s mocking you.

You take the gifts from his hand, trying hard to ignore the feeling of your fingertips dragging against his open palm. There’s maybe one hundred filthy thoughts slamming against the walls of your skull produced by the feel of his skin against yours, and honestly you’re just thankful they’re not readable in your eyes or pouring out of your fucking ears. You clear your throat and do your best to smile at Dr. Kirishima, swivelling in the dentist chair to place your feet back on the ground once he scoots back enough for you to stand. You gather your bag and coat while he rattles off what you need to remember; “easy on the sugar, red wine and coffee, brush twice a day, floss as often as you can, etc.” With the dentist now out of your immediate line of sight you can force yourself to calm down. Your heart rate finally returns to a steady pulse in your chest and a centering deep breath brings you back down the rest of the way. While you shove your hands into your coat pockets to check that your essentials are all accounted for, you can hear Dr. Kirishima quietly issue directions to the waiting dental assistant in the hallway. Finally back in your right mind, you turn with your things in hand to thank your dentist, half relieved and half disappointed to be leaving his close quarters, only to slam bodily into the hard planes of his chest beneath his thin dress shirt.

You stumble backwards and it’s the quick movement of Dr. Kirishima’s hands (one cemented around your forearm and the other on your hip) that stops you from colliding with his tray of instruments.

“Are you alright?” He questions you, palms iron hot against your skin, even through your clothes. His voice is just a bit too loud for how close you are to each other, and you shift backwards in his hold to look into his eyes. In the shuffle, you’d pressed both of your, embarrassingly, sweaty hands against his shoulders, one of them fisted tightly in the lapel of his doctor’s coat. Still, even as you blabber assurances to him looming above you, neither of you move to let go, opting instead to remain stock still, as though the slightest disruption could make your position any more inappropriate than it already was.

Kirishima’s hand tightens on your hip just the tiniest bit and when he opens his mouth to speak to you, your gaze focuses on the exceptionally vicious point of his canines. You force yourself to meet his eyes again, just fast enough to catch him staring at your lips, parted in surprise at the collision.

Slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, Kirishima draws closer to you, and for a second you think he’ll kiss you, but instead his cheek brushes over yours, lips meeting the curve of your ear, warm breath rushing against your skin, eliciting full body shivers. The grip you have on his shirt turns to iron and you urge him closer, narrowing the minimal space between you until your chest is pressed so firmly against his.

“I-”

Whatever he was going to say is cut short by the sound of the office door swinging open, heralding the dental assistant’s return. Thankfully, Kirishima’s assistant has their eyes on their clipboard, addressing you by your last name and rattling off the best date for your next cleaning. While their attention is split you force space between yourself and the man holding you. When they do finally raise their eyes, looking for confirmation, you bob your head in agreement, hoping to god they’d give you a form, or receipt or anything to remind you of the details currently being divulged only to be drowned out by the thud of your own heartbeat.

“I’d actually like for her to come in earlier, if possible, we didn’t get the chance to do a polishing today.”

Both you and the assistant blink at the doctor, and slowly his cheeks redden under your stare.

“If that’s alright with you?” He coughs, folding his arms over his chest.

It takes you a second to understand what’s going on but when you do, it snaps your willpower in half.

“Next week then! I’ve got time, if you do.” You reply and Dr. Kirishima’s answering smile is blinding in the best way.

“Sounds perfect.”

[ranboo5]

The Syndicate manifesto - a breakdown

I’m seein misconceptions go around again so I’m gonna break down the Syndicate manifesto. It, once again, got long, so ’s under the cut

This Syndicate is formed to serve as a network for fellow Anarchists to meet, exchange information and cooperate in the mutual pursuit of Anarchy and the fight against Tyranny.

We shall have no Leader; no Member shall be compelled to act against their will.

No Member shall reveal information about the Syndicate to outsiders.

Technoblade shall serve as the Recruiter to induce new Members into the Syndicate with Approval from a majority of Members. 

This is not a complicated manifesto; it is a mission statement, a restrictive statement/statement of the members’ rights, a single rule, and a codified procedure 

Please note how the mission statement that describes what the Syndicate is describes it as formed to serve network for fellow Anarchists. It’s a superstructure for people with a similar goal to commiserate if they so choose. What is that goal? The pursuit of Anarchy and the fight against Tyranny. 

It doesn’t even say “government,” technically! It says “Tyranny”! That word choice and sentence strucure is meaningful because it is contextualized: the fight against Tyranny is something that goes with the pursuit of Anarchy, and it’s something that someone who is an Anarchist would choose of their own volition to pursue (italicized pt further supported in next part), because they would want to perhaps join a network of other people who chose the same. Since the Syndicate is explicitly a “network to cooperate,” the implication is woven in that its members will cooperate in helping each other combat and thus identify Tyranny, and seek out and thus further codify Anarchy. These words have meanings not because they’re defined, but because the implication is they will be defined by the members through equal discussion; this is almost certainly intentional, because it gives the power to define those terms to the people and their case-by-case judgement rather than to the superstructure! With this one paragraph it’s immediately clear how the Syndicate is fundamentally different from the other factions on the server, and why it is not a side like people accuse it of being: all the Syndicate is, conceptually, is a superstructure that serves the people within it as a tool. The Syndicate is essentially a table to discuss at for the pursuit of a general goal. It’s a forum. It’s an enjoyers Discord server 

The second sentence hammers this home. They don’t have a leader, they don’t need a symbol, and, most importantly, no member shall be compelled to act against their will. The power is given strictly to the members; no one and nothing has power over any of them in any capacity. They cannot be coerced. The people and their will comes before the side. 

This is also such an important line for peerpressureduo especially -- note that Techno pens the manifesto and Ranboo explicitly comments on this line when it’s given to him. These are such moments of self-actualization when for reasons evident in the duo name these are active things these characters have struggled with! Technoblade who’s had to act against his interests and at least once actively against his will and Ranboo who folds immediately if you ask him firmly enough! 

These two points -- no coercion, and mutual cooperation -- are also points on which the Syndicate puts its money where its mouth is, concretely, in the actual first meeting streams, with Ranboo and Niki respectively 

When Ranboo shows nerves Technoblade backs off from the [backs you into an alleyway] bit he’s doing, saying explicitly that they’re not trying to make him do anything, and even when after the meeting Ranboo still has his concerns Phil reassures him again that no one is going to hold him to any promises irt the Syndicate and that he’s not obligated to anything. Whether Ranboo has fully processed this is admittedly arguable, but he is actively reassured and shown that “no member shall be compelled” isn’t a platitude -- it’s a concrete, actionable standard that will be applied to him 

(This also shows character development that comes with ideological codification and healing from Technoblade! “Technoblade acts coercively sometimes” arguments aren’t wrong he literally did intimidate Ranboo into giving back his armor their first interaction and now that he has explicitly codified an anti-coercion ethos Technoblade is making an active, conscious effort to be aware of the effect he has and not leverage it! The fact that Ranboo is explicitly his friend now as opposed to a govt official who abetted in Techno’s execution also contributes (and wow! Abetting in Techno’s execution... against his will... sounds like smth this is explicitly helpful wi--) (I’m sorry I care peerpressure and I am so, so tired of hearing arguments about Technoblade, one of the most blatantly reactive and dynamic characters, being static))

Meanwhile, when Niki is standing back letting Philza and Technoblade make the pitch, Technoblade actively invites her over to stand with them. She is one of the Syndicate; the members of the Syndicate will actively encourage and enable her to be included and heard and to prevent her from being sidelined. It’s a priority. She’s a priority. An actionable promise has been made her and is being upheld; this is especially important to Niki, considering her history with factions that left her in the dust to die and that never considered her and her agency and empowerment a priority 

The only “rule” the Syndicate has for its members directly is less of an enforced rule and more an agreement, around a point that can easily be explained. Don’t Talk About Fight Club, for security reasons; the last line is really just a detailing of current logistical status quo and not very ideological but is important to how it operates 

Tl;dr: - the Syndicate manifesto lays its mission statement and modus operandi out clearly - anything that isn’t stated outright follows from the clauses, which are concrete and actionable - it’s unique also from most of the other factions on the server in that it explicitly and actionably keeps power in the hands of the individual members, rather than of any particular one or of a system - it doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is: a superstructure meant as a tool to serve the people, like a forum or a table  - you could say it prioritizes empowering people, not sides, 

- 

EDIT: There was a typo in here and also I fucking misremembered what “commisseration” means :freezer: 

[shimmersing]

Constellation

Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M, Gen Relationships: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Male Republic Trooper, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Republic Trooper Characters: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Qyzen Fess, Yuon Par, Parkanas Tark-Lord Vivicar Additional Tags: Angst, Tython, Emotional, Mentioned Mutual Pining, Fluffy, Sad, Melancholy Returning to Tython after shielding the last master suffering from Vivicar’s Force plague, Aitahea is faced with more struggle in her efforts to heal the Order and keep the Force in balance. Tired, injured, and longing for someone she can’t have, perhaps ever, the lines of her responsibility as a Jedi and her own convictions begin to blur. As Aitahea nears the end of her quest to save Yuon Par and the other Jedi Masters, she’s confronted with painful revelations and answers that only give rise to more questions. Shouldering the lives and minds of Jedi across the galaxy – alone – may prove to be more than Aitahea can bear.

Part Three

AN: I highly recommend you read Impending, a once-upon-a-oneshot that snuggles right into Constellation here, between parts two and three. Enjoy!

May the Force be with you.

Standing in the airlock, Aitahea let the echo of Erithon’s voice roll over and through her, like she might flow through saber stances during practice. Six syllables, like the spiral of a breath, a last sigh of hope to cling to in her fierce exhaustion and anguished determination.

It was the first time they’d spoken since Alderaan; everything else had been missed calls and quickly dashed-off messages. She’d mentioned her return to Tython, but not her weariness, loneliness, or how since leaving Alderaan, the only dream she’d remembered on waking was of him, humming Star by Star and stroking her hair. As far-flung as they’d been, she had doubted he’d see her injuries in a grainy holo.

Instead, she’d simply listened.

Erithon’s mother and sister had given him no end to their questions about the “princess” - as his youngest niece had gleefully declared - having seen their gala appearance splashed across the holonet. He’d explained with proud reticence that he had been harassed into calling to say hello for them, but he hoped she was doing well, of course.

See-Too had whirred politely in the common room entryway, a subtle warning that the other crew had begun stirring in response to their arrival. Aitahea had gently interrupted Erithon a final time, thanking him for calling, but she was needed urgently. He’d nodded, evidently used to the same, and then… “May the Force be with you.” She hadn’t even had a chance to reply, to wish him the same, before the call had disconnected, and she’d been alone again in the dark.

Minutes later, the Luminous had docked to Vivicar’s stolen ship, though Sia had only done so under protest.

“I don’t fucking like this, Ai.”

“There’s no other way, Sia. I trust you to keep the Luminous safe.”

“Yeah, me too, but what about you?”

Aitahea had pressed her lips into a tight line and turned away from her friend, unable to offer anything more to assuage Sia’s concern or her own guilt. The Progress had made all reports on time, presumably under Lord Vivicar’s control, so no one in the wider Republic knew that anything was awry.

Qyzen had refused to let her board alone, though she’d helplessly argued for it. They both knew she was still healing, only maintaining the shielding by a hair’s breadth. Vivicar’s ruinous intrusion on the ritual had done more damage than Aitahea had been willing to acknowledge. Sia had muttered under her breath something about needing to get a kolto tank installed in the med bay.

The Progress was shrouded in flickering darkness, the black of deep space. The stars still glittered, but coldly, distantly. Aitahea wasn’t certain what they’d find on board; there were many lives, but they writhed beneath a shadow grown powerful. Qyzen waited beside her as the airlock cycled to admit them to the hijacked ship.

The first rush of soldiers took her off guard; she flinched at the sight of Republic insignias below fevered eyes and slack faces. A growled warning from Qyzen brought her back to the task of disabling them with as little harm as possible.

It all horrified her, this perversion of so many things she held dear. The horrible stain of the dark side flowed on the ship and everyone aboard. She could barely hold it in check, growing steadily more vulnerable as her shielding was meticulously assaulted.

Vivicar was blessedly silent until Aitahea reached the first computer console. When he finally spoke, it was like being plunged into dark water. The consular reeled, fighting to keep her fingers on the control panel and not digging into her own temples.

I wasn’t sure if you’d be foolish enough to come aboard, Aitahea. But I can sense your presence.

Aitahea swallowed hard against a wave of nausea. “And I sense a man tormented by the past.”

You are blinded by the light side. You can’t understand what you face.

Biting back a sharp retort, Aitahea shoved away from the console – she didn’t possess the necessary slicing skill to coax open the blast doors from there. She could cut her way through the thick durasteel with her lightsaber, but time felt too precious.

Nearby were a few barrels, each with a combustion risk label splashed across it. She could fling them into the door using the Force, but it would be violent and destructive.

Oddly, Aitahea found she didn’t mind that so much right now and lifted a hand. The explosion was terrific, throwing back her hood. The wave of heat quickly grew so intense Aitahea had to shield herself and Qyzen until it abated.

As they stepped through the hissing, superheated breach, Vivicar’s voice echoed in a hateful thrum. Come to me, Jedi. I’ll show you how light can be snuffed out.

Aitahea swayed briefly, closing her eyes. There was no part of her that wasn’t in anguish. If this wasn’t already snuffed out, what could possibly be worse? She felt alarmingly close to knowing exactly what.

May the Force be with you.

It was Erithon’s voice this time, no tainted whispers, just her own beautiful memory. A light in the dark. She could follow that through this horrific present; through anything, perhaps. Aitahea opened her eyes, signaled her companion, and forged ahead.

Most of the unwitting fighters in their path could be stopped with a Force wave, tumbling them unconscious but mostly unharmed to the floor; but the squad leaders would be hardier – she knew from experience.

The first squad leader, a hulking being of indeterminate origin, was waiting for them at the first intersection, alone. The soldier didn’t fall for Qyzen’s feint and instead hoisted his cannon toward Aitahea, spraying cryogenic fluid. She flicked it away, readying her lightsaber to deflect any shots from the holdout blaster she knew he’d be hiding.

Qyzen shifted into an effortless and decisive strike, taking advantage of a seam in the trooper’s armor. Aitahea shuddered, feeling the soldier’s perception flare out, leaving nothing but gleeful darkness seething in every shadow.

“Herald?”

“I’m fine,” she bit out. “Let’s proceed.”

After navigating a few more hallways, they located the secondary computer terminal. She’d barely set her fingers to the keypad when Vivicar splintered her thoughts.

Tell me, Aitahea, what was it like? Letting your life force drain away to shield a stranger from me - how did it feel?

Aitahea frowned at her suddenly balled-up fists, unclenching and resettling her fingers on the keys before replying. “Painful, but I endured it.”

Pain makes us stronger. And the pain I have endured is beyond your comprehension.

That is why I have won.

Her throat seized, but even after swallowing hard, no words came to her, all her skillful, diplomatic platitudes absent.

“Hunt is not over until beast is skinned, dark thing,” Qyzen rumbled. The console began blaring a klaxon warning, and droids began pouring into the room.

You will understand soon. If you live that long.

“Your power and tactics have brought you this far, but no further.”

Until now, Aitahea had imagined Parkanas Tark as a youth, bright with potential and the Force. But the being that turned to face her as she dragged herself toward the bridge was aged, wretched, and twisted by the dark side.

“This battle was decided before you stepped aboard.”

“I’m tired of your delusions,” Aitahea hissed, past exhaustion and numb with pain. “Explain yourself.”

Vivicar gave her a mocking bow. “As you wish. My plague isn’t just a disease; it siphons power from its victims. With the proper rituals, that power can be channeled. Soon, the combined strength of your Masters will make me the most powerful Force adept who has ever lived.”

The pressure against her shielding intensified, thousands of threads – lives, she realized – suddenly pulled taut. Trembling with the strain, Aitahea took a step forward. She hadn’t come here to bicker; she’d come here to help.

“Turn away from this path, Parkanas. The Order can help you.”

Vivicar laughed.

“Oh, Aitahea.” This time, she visibly flinched when he used her name. “Parkanas Tark died long ago. Even ‘Vivicar’ is merely a skin to be shed. Parkanas offered himself to me on Malachor Three, to crush the Order that destroyed us. He embodied my spirit.” He lifted his hands, a seething glow thick with the dark side writhing around him. “I am no lost Jedi, no ordinary Sith Lord. I am Terrak Morrhage.”

“You can turn away from this path, Parkanas,” she beseeched, fumbling for words while he stalked toward her. “The Order can help you. Just… just come home.”

“No one can oppose me, certainly no child, barely more than a Padawan.” He grinned, ghoulish and without remorse as he ignited his lightsaber. “I am beyond flesh… beyond death!”

Aitahea realized tears were slipping from her eyes, her vision blurring. She was so tired. “No one is beyond the will of the Force,” she whispered, uncertain who the platitude was meant for.

Morrhage laughed again, a sound like plasteel shredding. “I will crush you, Aitahea, and your shattered body will fuel my rebirth!”

For a fleeting moment, she thought of running. Simply turning about, dashing to the safety of the Luminous. She questioned the choice she’d made on Tython, to come here carrying so many injuries, so much guilt and fear. Should she have stayed to heal? She remembered what the Noetikon of Secrets had explained, that the Jedi Master who had created the shielding technique had given his life to end Morrhage’s first plague. Was Morrhage right? Had the light blinded her?

Aitahea took a breath.

The light didn’t blind. Light revealed, left no shadows to hide in. Light nourished; light gave everything yet lost nothing. Light was right now in this moment, not in the past, and would always be in reach in the future. If light called, light would answer.

Aitahea called out.

“Parkanas! I know you are there; I sense you!” Morrhage ignored her outcry, continuing to advance. Aitahea sucked in a breath, ignited her lightsaber, and took a defensive stance. “Help me stop this monster, Parkanas, please!”

Morrhage attacked with spectacular brutality, thousands of years of rage and hatred against Aitahea’s weakened shielding, against her physical self. The Jedi parried and dodged, evading strikes she couldn’t hope to block. Qyzen Fess did what he could to aid her, but Morrhage was fixated on Aitahea. Her body quailed under the assault, shredding her determination. There must be another way…

Morrhage’s next attack struck true, and Aitahea lost a few moments to fiery agony searing across her left side. Reckless with pain, she flung out a wild, violent Force wave that sent Morrhage to the floor and left several nearby panels crushed beyond recognition. A few precious seconds passed while she waited, panting, for her vision to clear.

The fallen Jedi, the false Sith lord, struggled to his knees, glaring death toward Aitahea as she approached.

“Impressive, Aitahea, but my victory is already complete. My plague has spread farther than you can imagine. Jedi Masters across the galaxy are succumbing to it as I speak. The plague binds these Masters to me. Hundreds of them… the heart and soul of your order.

“You feel it, do you not, Aitahea?”

No lies this time; Aitahea could indeed feel the mingled torment of hundreds more Jedi as Morrhage siphoned their lives for strength. Every crack in her shielding, down to the smallest hairline fracture, screamed in agony.

“Kill me, and you will kill every Master I have ever infected. Every one! Shielded or not, they are still bound to me.”

Aitahea dispassionately placed the blade of her lightsaber at his throat. It felt like someone else doing it. She spoke in clipped tones, her voice unrecognizable in her own ears. “Free those Jedi, Morrhage. Now.”

“And if I refuse? Will you cut us down? What choice do you have? You cannot let me live, and I am deathless.” Morrhage leered, his dark victory seemingly assured, and took one more jab: “Your shielding talent cannot harm me. You’ve lost!”

Everything went silent and impossibly still. Your shielding talent cannot harm me. Of course not. It was never meant to harm, only to heal, to offer a path toward the light that anyone could take at any time, without judgement, without conditions, just… a welcome home. The path that she’d longed for, that she’d tried to circumvent over and over, a path she could not offer until she, too, chose it.

Aitahea lowered her arm and deactivated her lightsaber. “I can save you, Parkanas.”

Morrhage reeled back as Aitahea drew the Force around her. The effort would not be without risk, but it was the path that lay before her. Another stillness enfolded her, this time of peace, willingness, and release. Fighting had never been her forte or focus; she was a healer, with words and hands and her lightsaber only when absolutely, undeniably necessary.

Now, she isn’t simply performing the shielding ritual; she is part of it, wholly within and throughout, a numinous space that feels like a Coruscant ocean, like the forests of Tython, like warm sun and a hand to hold on Brentaal, all at once.

Now, she realizes how to bring it full circle; she must allow the Force its will, stop trying to control it, and just let go. Light spills through the cracks in her shielding, and everything is suddenly and wonderfully illuminated.

May the Force be with you.

Parkanas – and it was with every certainty him; the sudden burst of hope where none had been the moment before was unmistakable – went flying backwards, away from Aitahea and leaving the vulnerable spirit of Morrhage isolated before her.

The spirit howled in fury. “No, this body is mine! Damn you, Jedi!”

Aitahea noted with detached amusement that she was levitating, Morrhage’s furious tirade a soft rumble in the background. She felt untethered, undefinably light. Closing her eyes, Aitahea exhaled a long breath and stepped softly down to the floor.

“When my strength returns, no matter the years – I will destroy you,” Morrhage snarled, but Aitahea was already walking toward Parkanas, feeling her own strength returning. She brushed past the raging specter, and in a few more moments, it had disappeared.

Qyzen had already lifted Parkanas Tark to his feet. He had a hand to his head, and Aitahea allowed a thread of sympathy to unwind, a guide to the path she hoped he would be able to take, too.

Parkanas Tark stared at her with open disbelief. “I’m… still alive. You spared me.”

She half-smiled. “Healed you.”

“My mind is…” Parkanas shook his head again. “Clearer now. But – it was your duty to kill me and destroy Morrhage.” His eyes – still smoldering amber, revealing a bitter internal strife – begged for an answer. Why?

“Too many Jedi have been lost already.” Aitahea lowered her gaze, the barest of brief moments to grieve for those lost. “Including Parkanas Tark.”

“Perhaps he deserves another chance, but…” Parkanas’ voice trailed off, adding in a pained whisper, “I cannot return to the Order.”

Swallowing hard against the lump in her own throat, Aitahea pressed. “Tython has its hidden places. Its forests.” That half-smile danced across her lips again, and for a flickering moment, she was light years away. “You could find peace there.”

“I could… go home.” Parkanas grew still, eyes distant and filled with evergreen leaves and rushing water. After a moment, he startled, reaching out to grasp her hands. “But first, Jedi, listen. Take this warning in exchange for my life: You can’t trust the Order. Or the Republic.” Aitahea drew breath to contradict, but he continued. “You may be their heroine now, but they will abandon you, too.”

Aitahea pulled away from Parkanas’ frantic grip, shaking her head while she scrabbled for a coherent thought. “Why…What do you-” Nothing coalesced, leaving her once again a diplomat with no words.

Parkanas held her gaze. “Remember that.”

“We felt it! A massive shift in the Force. The Masters you saved have reported a sudden improvement in their condition. The plague is over, thanks to you.

“And… I sense Parkanas Tark. For the first time in many years. How can that be?”

Aitahea nodded at Master Syo and glanced sidelong toward Parkanas, who was being assessed by Tharan and Holiday. “You can ask him yourself, Master. When he returns to Tython, he can answer all your questions.”

Her companions had dashed through the ship as soon as she’d signaled their safety. Bringing medical equipment to help with the injured and traumatized crew, Prelsiava Tern had even dragged along a protesting See-Two.

“I told you there’d be plenty for you to do; look at that console! It’s completely trashed! Go on, get on it,” Sia had ordered, and the affronted droid had conceded, tottering over to examine one of the smashed panels.

With the logistics managed, and a scant few moments to tuck away the memory of Parkanas’ unsettling words, Aitahea had commed the Council, Master Syo answering with his victorious statement: We felt it!

“Well done, Aitahea. The Jedi Order owes its survival to you.”

Relief swept over her like a wave. “It’s my privilege to serve.”

“Hurry home. We’re waiting for you.”

Aitahea felt nearly presentable again by the time they arrived on Tython. She’d had her injuries treated. She’d eaten and bathed. She’d slept, mostly dreamless but for dappled sunlight and burbling water.

As they touched down on Tython, Aitahea marveled at the incandescent radiance of the Force within the hallowed walls of the Jedi Temple. Each Jedi shone like a bright star, a constellation she’d missed terribly beneath the weight of the shielding. Even Qyzen shimmered, kindling with satisfaction and pride. Beneath all, the grand symphony of Tython itself soared.

In the Council chamber, Master Yuon, Master Syo, Master Satele, and Master Jaric were waiting. Schooling her expression into practiced serenity, Aitahea dropped into a bow, only lifting her gaze when Yuon spoke.

“You have saved untold lives through your defeat of Lord Vivicar and destruction of the plague.” Aitahea felt Yuon’s pride in every syllable.

Even Master Jaric was smiling. “There’s a title reserved for the most prestigious among us, whose wisdom and skill safeguard the galaxy. It hasn’t been bestowed in thousands of years.”

Aitahea became keenly aware of her flushed cheeks, suspended between delight and disbelief, and nodded in vague acknowledgment.

“You have proved worthy,” Master Syo declared. “Now, the Council names you Barsen’thor, warden of the Order.”

Absurdly, Aitahea’s thoughts turned to how much she’d enjoy reading about the other Barsen’thor that had preceded her. Would the archive even contain that knowledge? How many thousands of years? Who were they, who had they set out to be, and what had they done to arrive where Aitahea herself now stood? The Force bloomed with assurance. “I will do all I can to live up to this honor.” Aitahea clasped her hands, sweeping into a low obeisance.

“I never imagined your potential would take you so far.” Yuon beamed, and Aitahea returned the expression as she lifted her head.

Yet concern laced Master Syo’s next words: “And not a moment too soon. We have need of you. The Council has received word that the Republic is facing a new threat.”

“We need time to prepare a war council,” Satele clarified, much to Aitahea’s unspoken relief. “The Supreme Chancellor himself will be attending.”

“I stand ready, Master,” Aitahea assured.

Accepting her pledge with a nod, Syo nodded towards the doors. “Take time to record your journey in the Jedi archives. History must know of your actions.”

Aitahea blinked, more surprised at her own surprise than anything – of course there should be a record of the current Barsen’thor as well; that’s the first place to start, obviously – and almost missed Master Syo’s final words. “We will contact you when the war council is ready. For now, the entire Order will know that there is a new Barsen’thor among us.”

After a round of congratulations from each of the Masters, Aitahea and Qyzen left the Council chamber, ostensibly to bring her story to the archives.

“Scorekeeper smiles, Herald. Is great honor your people give you.” He gestured broadly, sending a few initiates scurrying out of the way. “Points beyond measure!”

Her heart sang with gratitude. She’d trusted him as her ally, her second, her friend; and he’d returned that trust hundredfold. Questioned and advised her, criticized and coddled her, but never judged her. Steadfast and patient, always. If what they had done brought points-beyond-measure to her, he’d have the larger portion by far. “We hunt together, my friend. Whatever my score, you share it.”

Qyzen paused, abruptly turning to face her. Traffic streamed around them; Temple life carried on. “Is… a noble thing you say. My thanks, Herald.”

“My thanks to you as well, Qyzen. Thank you for…” For protecting me? For challenging me? For warning and guiding and validating me? For seeing me when even I could not? “…for everything.”

“Must share the story of this hunt with your Order. It is good to share knowledge.”

Aitahea thought of the Noetikons, the immense value of them for so much beyond the lore and history of the Jedi. Even after becoming one with the Force, they had set alight a path for so many Jedi after, herself included. Like she might, generations from now.

Blinking back tears and knowing full well she couldn’t have hidden them if she’d wanted to, Aitahea smiled. “Then I must make yet another request of you: that you tell the story with me.”

Qyzen regarded her for a long moment, long enough that she began to fret that she’d somehow stumbled into an insult. “You are Scorekeeper’s Herald,” he said solemnly, “and you are true Jedi.”

Aitahea nodded, feeling and breathing and illuminating the Force around them.

“I’m home.”

Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

[a-d--a-s-t-r-a]

Until2022′s Guide to Catching Up When You’re Drastically Behind in Study:

I. Assess the damage

The first step in the plan is to confront how bad the situation is and then make some calls about what you can realistically achieve in the time you have left. 

List everything you have to do, down to exact detail - don’t write ‘catch up on readings for Virology’, but instead note down every chapter. This will make it a lot easier to gauge how much time and energy you need for each assignment or exam, and will help to motivate you as you work through. 

Use an Eisenhower matrix to sort these tasks:

Important and Urgent: Any and all compulsory assignments, exams, tests, etc. 

Important but Not Urgent: Lectures for upcoming exams, compulsory readings or labs, etc.

Urgent but Not Important: Additional homework or tasks that are due soon but aren’t worth much, like logbooks or small quizzes

Not Important and Not Urgent: Additional readings, nice lecture notes, and other ‘good-to-haves’

Now cross out everything that you can afford not to do. That’s going to be everything in your ‘Not Important and Not Urgent’ zone, and probably all of the things in your ‘Urgent but Not Important’ zone. I know that it’s annoying not to get everything done, or to sacrifice the 5% that you could have gotten, but unless you can do it in 10 minutes and it’s really worth it you simply don’t have the time to spare here. 

Having said that, if a class has lots of small assignments due, don’t overlook them because they’re not worth much on their own - make sure you take a look at the overall percentage left to go in that subject. If you can dedicate a whole day to just that subject and smash through all those assignments in one, you’re crossing a lot of work off your list. For example, I have weekly quizzes and 2% labs in my Pathology course - if I’m behind, I’ll dedicate a whole day and do all of those assessments. That’s 20% out of the way and a big leap towards catching up. 

II. Tackle the low-hanging fruit

Seeing the product of countless days of procrastination is probably pretty daunting right now. I could offer you platitudes here but it’s a lot easier for you to actually take some action and feel better about it yourself, so:

Do everything that will take you less than 10 minutes to complete. Reply to those emails, the messages in the assignment group chat, upload your peer assessment, do all the little things you need to do for someone else. That should cross out a big chunk of things from your list, and you’ll be left with the important stuff like finishing assignments and studying for exams. 

If you’re panicking (seeing the huge list of stuff which you have to finish in an impossibly short time will often do this!) then try an easy square breathing exercise. Breathe in for a count of 4, hold for a count of 4, exhale for a count of 4, hold for a count of 4, repeat. Splashing cold water on your face is helpful too, as is having a glass of water. Do not use this time to procrastinate! It might sound like a good idea to relax by watching Youtube or Netflix, scrolling through Instagram or playing a video game, but you’re going to be sucked back into the procrastination game that got you here in the first place. 

III. Create your plan of attack 

You’ve left it too late to be regularly revising, so our plan of attack is basically going to be: cram every subject consecutively. This is the best way to get everything done when you’re pressed for time like this - don’t switch tasks or subjects. Interleaving subjects is great when you’re on schedule, but right now you don’t want to spend quarter of an hour getting into the groove of a certain subject and then switching before an hour has passed. 

University is just one assignment after another, no breathing space in between, especially towards the end of the semester. All you need to do is work out what’s due first and what’s worth most, order everything according to those criteria and then focus on the first assessment until you’re done. Once the assignment is handed in or you’ve sat the exam, then you can move onto the next task.

If you have two different assignments due for different classes on the same day, plan ahead so you can dedicate a full day to each subject instead of working on both at the same time. 

Plan out every single day - make sure you’re scheduling in time to eat, shower, sleep, and take breaks as well as to study. Be specific when planning your time out each day as to what tasks you’re hoping to achieve - don’t allocate too much time to any single lecture, but at the same time, be realistic about how much you can cover in one hour. 

Choose wisely based on what you do or don’t know. There isn’t much point in spending this precious time revising the things you already know you’re good at, so suck it up and schedule in the hard stuff first up, but be prepared to move on if you can’t get it down. You’re far better off going into the exam knowing 10 things badly, than 1 thing really well, so focus on the basics and if you have time to learn the more complex details then go back and do that later. 

You also need to be flexible and prepared to adjust - sometimes an assignment will take longer than expected or a day just won’t be as productive as you thought it might be. Don’t panic, just re-plan and shift things around so you keep moving in the right direction. 

IV. Grind it out 

Now that you have a clear idea of what you need to achieve and when, it’s time to get it done.  

For once, you shouldn’t need to worry about simple procrastination. You’re  probably already panicking, so turn that anxiety into motivation which will fuel you and let you focus for long time periods. Fear can be a great driver - when the threat of the exam is looming over you, it’s amazing how well you can knuckle down, assuming you don’t want to fail. 

Pack a bag with everything you need - your laptop or tablet, your charger, headphones, a water bottle and a travel mug, snacks and meals for the day, and anything else you like to have with you when you’re studying. Then take yourself to the library, the local coffee shop, the office - wherever you like to study, but don’t sit at home. There’s too many opportunities for distraction and you cannot afford that right now. Being in an environment where other people are working will motivate you to do the same. 

If you’re working on an assignment, the best way to get things done quickly is to let go of any preconceptions of doing a great job, or having a perfect draft, and instead just focusing on having a draft. Bash out the worst draft you’ve ever written, fill it with run-on sentences and spelling mistakes. But make sure you finish a draft. Then all you have to do is edit it, and it’s a lot quicker to do it this way than it is getting bogged down in the details before you’ve even begun. 

When you’re studying for exams, the number one way to learn is through active recall. There is no point in wasting time writing out a full set of notes if you’re two days out from the test. Even if you feel like you don’t know a single thing, start off straight away by testing yourself - do past exams, drill flashcards, try and write outlines or mind maps and then check your notes or textbooks and fill in what you’ve missed. If you don’t know the answer or you get it wrong, look it up and try to understand it, and then test yourself again in twenty minutes. 

It’s important to strike a balance here: don’t overextend yourself, but don’t continually take breaks. If you think you need a break, you probably don’t. Take two minutes to stretch your legs and drink some water, but do not pick up your phone. If you’re starting to feel mentally fatigued, especially after a few hours, it can be helpful to switch locations - go outside and study on a park bench, or shift to the dining hall. Sometimes the change of scenery is all you need to feel refreshed. 

V. Rinse and repeat

This is your life now. Make sure you stick to a regular sleep schedule - aim for at least six hours a night - because otherwise your fatigue levels will seriously impact your memory, retention and critical thinking abilities. It’s not worth the few extra hours you might get in, and you probably won’t be productive anyway. 

Remember that the advice I’ve given you here is based on what I do when I am severely behind, not how I study on a daily basis when I’m on top of everything. These tips aren’t all great for long-term learning, but are the most efficient way to cram when you’re behind and under pressure. 

You’ve got this. 

[silkling]

Hi! I remember you said you liked angst. So... Can you write another fanfic on the AU where the rescue bots were found by the Autobots, with the following plot: Blades is forced to repair one of his comrades, who was seriously injured in battle?(either Chase or Heatwave, your choice) 👀

Ooh, I like this idea! Imma do it. I’m going to make it worse though. Just because. Apparently I really like hurting my favorite characters. Go figure, huh? Also, for those who didn’t read the first, this fic is in the same verse as this one.

Also, beware that there will be descriptions of graphic injury, so be wary if that’s something that upsets you.

———————————————————————————————————

The stars were silent. They always were, of course, but during the Ark’s recharge cycle the silence was all-consuming. Blades was in the rec room, sitting in the little viewport alcove that took up a small portion of the wall. They were passing by the same star system where the Sigma had been found by the Autobots, all those stellar cycles ago. 5 vorns or so had passed since then, which felt both like an eternity and like no time at all.

Blades knew Cybertronians lived a long time. In reality, 5 vorns was barely any time at all for one of their kind. But for Blades, who had once only ever known what it was to save lives, the past 5 vorns that he’d spent learning to take them had dragged on and felt almost unbearably long. He hadn’t actually killed yet, but he’d already learned how do so with a blaster, how to do it by hand, and even how to get in close and use a blade. Apparently, he was particularly talented at that last one. Given his name, the Protectobot found it rather ironic.

“Blades? What are you doing up? You do not have any duties this night cycle.”

The motorcycle startled, his engine revving and his processor snapping to attention at the unexpected voice. He hadn’t killed any bot yet, but he’d been in many, many, many battles now, some of which still gave him nightmares. He’d developed battle protocols very quickly after joining the Autobots, and now took being surprised as poorly as most of the others did. His optics sharpened and focused on his unexpected visitor with unnerving intensity, before his sighed and relaxed, tense armor plating loosening once more.

“Chase.” he greeted. “I know. I couldn’t sleep. I was remembering that last battle.”

“Ah.” Here, his friend’s voice softened, and the blue and white bot walked over to join him. He nudged the slimmer youngling aside until there was room in the small alcove for them both, sitting opposite from his friend and letting their pedes entangle. “I understand now.”

And he did. The last battle had been fought on a young planet, one with plentiful energon mines, and where the local species were still primitive. It had been a difficult fight. Blades, like always, had fought on the front lines with Hot Spot, Groove and Streetwise. Chase and Heatwave had been nearby, too. Somehow, they always found themselves fighting near each other. As with most of their battles, Boulder and First Aid had remained behind at the Ark, away from the battle proper. It hadn’t been a very unique battle, at first. Then the Deceptions had unveiled a new weapon. It had destroyed the planet, and every life that called it home had died with it. The Autobots had been too late to realize what was going on. They hadn’t been able to stop it, only flee before they too fell to the new weapon.

Blades had taken it particularly hard. The small motorcycle was a deeply empathetic bot, and it had hurt him to know they they had brought their war to another planet, and that it had resulted in the destruction of that planet and the loss of the lives there. Chase couldn’t blame him. All of Sigma-17 had felt that loss particularly hard. For all they had become soldiers after being awoken from stasis, all four younglings were still Rescue Bots at spark.

“We will simply have to stop Megatron next time and destroy his weapon before he can ever use it again.” Chase said after a moment of silence. He knew Blades wouldn’t be reassured by useless platitudes.

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, distant. “Yeah.” he repeated, sounding a little more present as his optics hardened. “We will. He can’t do that again.”

Blades turned to meet his friend’s gaze, chin lifting. “We won’t let him do that again.”

Chase smiled, nodding. “No, we will not.” he agreed.

Blades relaxed completely then, sighing and shifting until he could lean into Chase’s chest. “Thank you, Chase.” he whispered.

“Of course.” he said, his arms coming around to press the smaller bot to his chest. “I will always be there to support you, when you have need of it. I am your Amica, after all.”

That was another thing that had changed in the past few vorns. Blades and Chase had always been fairly close, since they found they balanced each other out quiet nicely. Even before stasis, they’d been close friends. Blades appreciated Chase’s calm, peaceful logic and found it helped bring him him back from some of his nervous breakdowns, and Chase found Blades’s natural easy-going and sociable demeanor soothing and helpful at understanding situations which normally gave him pause. It had only taken them a couple vorns after coming out of stasis to formally perform the ritus and become Amica Endura.

Blades laughed, his hands raising to curl across the arms pressed to his chestplate. “Yeah, you are. And I’m yours. You can always count on me, Chase.”

A small smiled tugged at his lips, and he turned his gaze to the stars outside the viewport, in his chest, his spark pulsed, warm and fond with affection and belonging. He knew that Blades was feeling the same right now, both younglings basking in the quiet peace and comfort of each others’ presence.

“I know.”

Outside the Ark, the vast expanse of space stretched on. The billions of stars shone brightly, and life moved ever forward. Time ticked on, and though this moment was calm and soft, there would be many moments to come that would not be. What the future held exactly, only Primus knew. All his children could do now was hold on and ride out the storms to come.

——————————

When it finally happened, Blades would later reflect that he was surprised it had taken as long as it had. But then again, First Aid and Ratchet would probably have done their best to keep it from happening, to make sure his own emotional turmoil wouldn’t cause him to falter. They couldn’t stall it forever though, because this was War and at the end of it all that only meant he would have been forced into a situation like this eventually.

The orn had stared out like most other orns. The only difference has been that the Ark had landed on a planet that apparently was fairly rich in energon. The planet was also largely uninhabited, save some plant life, so they wouldn’t have to worry too much about harming the local inhabitants. Everything had been going well. They’d managed to collect energon, enough to halfway fill one of the storage hangars, and had been in the process of mining more when the Decepticon attacked.

Blades still wasn’t sure where they’d come from. Maybe they’d landed the Nemesis on the other side in the planet and travelled the rest of the way themselves. Maybe the Nemesis was still above them all, and the ‘Cons had just made planet fall on their own in order to attack. Either way, Megatron and his soldiers had showed up, and once again a battle had begun. Blades hadn’t been near his team or his brothers when the attack had begun, so he hadn’t been able to join them for the fight. That had made him nervous, but he’d fought anyway, shooting at any Decepticons who got close and using the terrain as cover.

It hadn’t been long before there’d been a call for medical attention, and Blades had reacted on instinct. He’d sprung from behind the large stone he was hiding behind, following the call until he came across Cliffjumper and Arcee. The other two-wheeler was unconscious, a shot leaking energon from her neck. Blades had been quick to get Cliffjumper���s help to drag her behind another nearby outcropping, and he’d settled down to begin triage care. As soon as he’d been assured of her survival, he’d swiftly ordered the red mech to bring her to the med-bay. Usually, he didn’t have the rank to order other bots around, but he’d found that all the Autobots would tend to do what he told them when it came to medical matters.

He’d turned to rejoin the battle when Sunstreaker had dragged his twin around the outcropping, dropping Sideswipe with a snarled demand to fix him. Blades hadn’t taken offense. They were split spark twins. They shared a spark bond with each other, like he did with his brothers. It wasn’t the same exact type of bond, but it was close enough that he understood the panic. He’d fixed the severed fuel lines, patched up the sparking wires, and welded the gashes in red armor before telling Sunstreaker to get his brother out of the battlefield. Sideswipe wouldn’t be able to fight further with his wounds, even though Blades had managed to repair the damage completely. He’d need to recover.

It had seemed that, after that, the Autobots must have figured out that the outcropping was where emergency triage was being done. They’d probably passed the information along their comm. system while Blades had been working on Arcee. After the Twins, Blades had found himself busy with many bots. Most had only surface level wounds, injuries that needed a quick patch so they could rejoin the fight. Others needed a full field repair and a retreat, like Sideswipe had. Blaster had been dragged to him by his Cassettes in critical condition, and Blades had had to quickly patch the life threatening damage, then order Ironhide, who’d come in to get a leaking fuel line patched, to take the host mech to Ratchet and First Aid immediately.

Once he’d done that and turned to his next field patient, he’d caught sight of blue and white armor. His processor was deep in its rescue and medical protocols, so much so he initially tuned out all his surroundings. It wasn’t until something in the back of his mind whispered that the shade of blue was familiar that he paused, taking in the full extent of the damage. It was bad. The bot’s chest was the worst off. It looked like they’d been hit point blank with an explosion. The metal armor of the chestplate was melted and twisted, with large areas gone altogether. Blades could see into their chest and realized that even their internals were damaged. The fuel pump was dented and had been pierced with a shard of blue armor, there were several sparking wires and spurting lines, and worst of all, the bot’s spark chamber was caved in and cracked. The motorcycle could see the weak glow of the bot’s spark. That wasn’t even all the damage. The poor bot was missing a leg, and it looked like one of their arms had been practically shredded. Even beyond that, most of the bot’s frame was dented or damaged in some way. Blades could barely pick out the paint job under all the damage.

Even so, his processor started screaming louder as he realized that, despite all that, the colors and patterns of that paint were familiar. Blades froze, his spark almost spasming with dawning horror, and he turned his gaze up to the bot’s face. As soon as he locked onto the slack face, saw the darkened optics that he knew should be a glowing amber, he couldn’t hold back the agonized keen as his medical protocols stuttered.

It was Chase.

His next vent came out in a harsh whine, and he couldn’t take his optics off the slack face of his Amica. Blades almost jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Jazz looking at him with a grim expression. The Third in Command nodded his helm at the prone form of his teammate.

“I know it’s tough’.” he said. “But ya gotta take care o’ him. If he don’t get the care he needs now, he ain’t gonna survive the trip to old’ Ratch. He needs you, mechlin’, so don’t spiral now.”

Blades stared at him for a sparkbeat, and then jolted as if he’d been physically shocked. He turned back to Chase, trying to ignore that it was his Amica who was wounded and dying in front of him, and got to work. He took in the damage once more, fingertips transforming into the tools he needed, and with a hard vent he forced his emotional processes to mute themselves in his processor, letting medical response protocols rise to the surface uninterrupted. Abruptly, his previously distraught EM field went blank and numb, making the bots around him wince with the suddenness if it.

Jazz stepped back, a flicker of regret in his visored optics. He recognized what Blades had done. He’d shut down his emotional response core. It wasn’t something the average bot could do, and he suspected the youngling only knew how to because of his medical training. The only other bot he’d seen do that was Prowl, and the Praxian had to do it if he wanted to come up with his tactics without crippling himself emotionally. Luckily, the emotional core could be brought back online later, but he knew it was never a pleasant process for the bot who had done so to come out of the emotional numbness. He only regretted that Blades had found it necessary to do so in the first place. No youngling should have to do something so drastic. It wasn’t right.

In front of Jazz and the other Autobots who were gathered behind the outcropping for minor repair, Blades worked on. He ignored the sounds of weapons fire and destruction beyond the small safe haven he was huddled in, focusing only on the task in front of him. He had to make sure Chase survived. He had to.

Failure wasn’t an option.

——————————

The rest of the orn passed in a haze. Blades was aware of things distantly, but wasn’t processing anything emotionally. He knew Jazz took Chase off to the Ark as soon as he’d ensured his friend wouldn’t die in the next few groons, until Ratchet or First Aid could get to him. After that, things happened quickly. He’d patched up the other bots around his outcropping who’d only needed minor repair, but he’d had no major patients after that. And then Megatron was calling a retreat, and Ironhide had come to guide Blades back to the Ark. None of the older bots seemed upset at the two-wheeler’s numb demeanor. He was in shock. He knew it. They knew it. They didn’t hold it against him.

Once he had been safely delivered to the starship, Ironhide had gone off. Blades wasn’t paying attention to where he’d gone. Maybe some of the others were gathering the last of the energon. Maybe everyone was preparing for take off. He wasn’t fully aware, wasn’t fully processing his surroundings. He drifted along in a haze, until he found himself in front of the medbay doors. That was when his focus sharpened. Usually after a battle, he’d join Ratchet and his brother in the medbay and do his part to help. He needed to go in.

The only thing making him hesitate was Chase. His Amica was in there. He’d done all he could on the battlefield, but had it been enough? Could he face it again?

He would have to. He stiffened his spinal strut and steeled his resolve, then stepped forward and the doors opened. He stepped into the medbay, his optics roving over the occupied berths, until they landed on a trio of berths by the far wall. On one, there was a familiar blue and white frame. Chase. On the second, a red mech lay prone and limp. Heatwave. On the third, a bulky green bot was resting on his side, unconscious and unaware. Boulder.

No.

Blades’s spark screamed in agony. He could see some of the damage from here, but he couldn’t see it all. Heatwave’s lower half looked like it had been crushed under something extremely heavy. The metal armor was dented and almost flattened. Blades could also see that the red mech’s optics were blackened and shattered, if if they’d been hit by a blaster bolt. Boulder wasn’t much better off. His entire back was a melted, twisted mess. Blades could see his spinal strut poking out of the ruined armor. There was so much energon. All three of his teammates were covered in it. It almost looked like they’d decided to incorporate pink into their paint jobs.

An agonized keen tore its way free from his vocalizer, and and medical protocols he had been ready to engage fell away under the onslaught of emotional anguish. He didn’t notice how First Aid had gasped and pressed a hand to his chest plates the second he’d noticed Sigma-17’s damaged states. He didn’t hear his brother call out to him in concern as he keened. He didn’t see Ratchet curse and begin to turn towards him, looking both irritated and worried.

He did, however, feel the hands that clasped his shoulders, the chest that pressed up against his back. He startled, drawing in a rasping gasp, and then he felt a soft warmth wrap around his spark. He knew that presence.

“Streetwise.” he whimpered, twisting to stare up at his oldest brother with wide, over-bright optics.

“Hey, Blades.” Streetwise gave him a small smile. “Let’s go, yeah?”

“B-But I have to stay. I need-“

“Ratchet and ‘Aid can handle it. This was an easy battle. They handled a lot worse than this before you came along.” he cut it. “You won’t be of any use in the state you’re in, Blades. Besides, I’m fairly sure it goes against medical code to come in and treat patients when you’re covered in filth from outside.” he said sternly.

Blades made to protest, but the soothing pulse in his spark from First Aid distracted him enough that Streetwise was able to guide him out of the medbay. He started gently ushering his brother towards the communal washracks, making sure Blades didn’t run into anyone in his shocked state.

“Streetwise, I gotta go back. They need me, I-I can’t-“

“None of that now. You did plenty today. Blades, let them handle it. Your well-being matters too. Right now, that’s actually all I care about. Your team will be fine. Have faith in Ratchet and ‘Aid, yeah?”

Blades whimpered, but he didn’t have the chance to argue further because that was when they came upon the washracks. Hot Spot was there, and he grimaced when he saw the state of his brother, but he forced a smile a moment later and reached out to rub Blades’s audial fins in a way he knew the smaller bot liked. The finial under his fingers quivered faintly, and Hot Spot wrapped a hand around Blades’s wrist to tug him into the washracks. He’d managed to get the others out earlier, and they’d been fairly understanding when he’d explained that Blades was in shock and needed a proper cleaning.

“Come on, bitty Blades.” The largest Protectobot whispered. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah? You’re covered in energon, that can’t feel good.”

Blades went stiff at his brother’s words, looking down at his frame and noticing for the first time that his armor was covered in energon. Chase’s energon. A pained whine was pulled from his vocalizer, and Hot Spot winced when he realized he’d said the wrong thing.

Streetwise shot the bigger bot an unimpressed look, but both knew that talking to Blades now would be useless. The smallest Protectobot, though not by too much, had always been prone to worry and panic. Blades was an anxious bot, it was just part of who he was. It meant that sometimes, his worry overcame him and he spiraled. His brothers could always tell when that happened, because his spark pulsed almost frantically and they could sense the overwhelming panic through the bond. When Blades got like this, he lost awareness of his surroundings. They’d long since learned that the best way to soothe him was to use the bond and send comfort and safety along it, to wrap their brother’s spark in feelings of love and reassurance and peace, and pull him out of his panic that way. Thankfully, Blades didn’t spiral often. He was overly nervous, sure, but he’d never let it stop him from doing what was needed of him, and he’d learned to not let it control him. That didn’t mean his emotions didn’t get the better of him sometimes, though.

Hot Spot gently tugged them all over to one of the cubicles, where he’d already grabbed the items they needed. With all three of them in there, it was a little crowded, but they could make it work. The spray of solvent was turned on, and Blades barely twitched as it hit his frame. Neither Streetwise nor Hot Spot were bothered as their younger brother remained silent. They worked together to clean up the mess that was Blades, using wash rags to wipe away the dirt and energon, and then smaller brushes to get in between the armor plating and into the transformation seams. It took some time, especially with Blades so unresponsive, but eventually they had him fully cleaned and dried, and were tugging him back towards their berthroom.

Blades himself was still in a daze. The energon was gone from his armor, and that certainly helped, but he couldn’t stop thinking of his teammates in such dire condition in the medbay. He couldn’t get the image of Chase’s broken frame on the battlefield out of his processor.

Blades was a gentle spark, perhaps even more so than his easy-going flyer brother. Groove was a pacifist, and Blades was deeply empathetic and his brothers knew that he felt things on an emotional level far more keenly than they were really able to grasp. The rest of the Protectobots had been able to adapt to the War, especially since their introduction to it had been more gradual. But Blades, who had always hated seeing anyone hurt, to the point he’d taken any extra classes he could at the Rescue Academy just to be able to help as many others as he could? The War was hard on him. He’d adapt, in time, but with how sudden his introduction to it had been it would be a while yet before the violence stopped making him so upset.

The trio eventually arrived at their berthroom, and when the door closed behind them Blades felt Streetwise and Hot Spot move away from him. A klik later, he felt another frame press against him, and a pair of arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. It took only a beat for him to recognize Groove. He whimpered, his fingers twitching and clinging to the copter bot. Blades felt soothing warmth wrap around his spark from the bond, coming from all four of his brothers. Love, warmth, assurance, and peace soaked into his spark, and Blades let out a broken noise as everything from the day crashed into him.

Groove crooned gently, tightening his grip on his younger brother. “Easy, Blades.” he whispered. “We have you. We won’t let you fall, yeah? Just let it out.” he soothed.

Blades shuddered, then sobbed and clung tighter to his brother. He felt Streetwise press up against his back, and Hot Spot’s arms came to way around them all. The four of them stood there for a while, Blades sobbing and gasping as all his panic and worry rushed through him at once. He hadn’t been able to really process it, before. That was the danger of muting ones emotional core, as he had done earlier. It meant that he’d need to handle the emotions he’d blocked off all at once instead of steadily and as they came. So, he was forced to stay in his brothers’ hold, letting them keep him from falling as everything crashed into him. For many breems, he wept into Groove’s shoulder, his own shoulders shaking with the force of what he was feeling.

But, finally, his cries petered out, and then he was just venting harshly, shaking faintly in the aftermath of it all. He felt Hot Spot smooth a hand down his side, then come back up to rub his finial before his biggest brother spoke.

“How about we watch some of that old drama we used to like before the War? We still have the whole series downloaded on the old travel holo-pad. I know you missed a lot of the episodes that came out while you were in stasis, bitty Blades.” he said.

Blades reset his vocalizer, wincing at his staticky and rough his voice was even after doing so. “You have the whole series of But a Chance?”

Streetwise hummed. “You bet we do. We kept downloading the new episodes that came out after…” he paused, trailing off. Blades knew what he was talking about. “Well, we kept downloading the new ones. Never watched them, though. Not beyond the ones that came out before them Purge.”

“Didn’t feel right. Not without you there to make all your little comments.” Hot Spot quipped.

Blades huffed a weak sound of amusement. “You still watched some without me, though.”

“Awe, only a couple, bitty Blades.” Hot Spot smiled. “Not too many. So? What do you say?”

Blades gave another huff. “Yeah.” he agreed,

“Good, because I’ve already got it set up.” Groove said cheerfully.

“Presumptuous.” Streetwise teased.

“Shut it. You’re the one who told me to prepare for a Blades Cheer Up Night.” Groove snipped back.

“We all knew it was time for a Blades Cheer Up Night. Why are you sparklings arguing?” Hot Spot asked playfully.

“I’m older than you.” Streetwise said, frowning.

“Only by half a breem.” Hot Spot sang.

“And I’m not a sparkling!” Groove protested.

“Hush, little brother.” the two older Protectobots said at the same time.

Blades giggled weakly. “Yeah, hush. The big bots are talking.” he rasped.

Groove turned an offended look on him. “We’re all older than you. And bigger.” he sniffed.

“I’m prettier though.”

There were noises of outrage around him, and Blades felt his lips quirk up. Even as Hot Spot tweaked his finial in retaliation, he just felt his smile relax a little more. His spark was still heavy with grief and fear, but already it felt warmer and lighter. He didn’t protest as Streetwise eventually got the other two to simmer down, pushing them all towards the large berth. At the head of the berth, the holo-pad was set up on a small desk. As soon as all four brothers were settled, Groove started the episode Blades remembered having left off on, and they settled down to watch.

Things were peaceful, for a while. They got another episode in, and Blades couldn’t help himself then as he watched the characters go about on screen.

“I’m sorry, Clearview did what now? That’s stupid. She’s stupid. Why would she even do that?”

“Well,” Groove purred. “It could be because she’s actually-“

“No!” Blades hissed, drawing back a pede and planting it firmly in his brother’s hip, sending the flyer tumbling off the berth. “No spoilers!”

Groove cackled, but crawled back onto the berth and flopped on top of his younger brother. “Okay, okay. Have it your way.”

“You two are being far too loud for anyone else to enjoy to show.” Streetwise said blandly.

“Blame Groove.” Blades sniffed. “He started it.”

“You’re the one who kicked me!” Groove squawked, outraged.

“I will not be spoiled! Bots who spoil the show for other bots recharge on the couch, remember? That’s the rule!”

“Well, we don’t have a couch.” Groove said smugly. “So there.”

“We have a floor, don’t we?”

“I’m not recharging on the floor!”

“You are if I make you!”

“Try it!”

“Fine!” Blades huffed, and proceeded to launch himself at his brother.

Groove yelped, not expecting Blades to actually go through with it, and the two wrestled on the berth before their elder brothers pulled them apart. Streetwise grabbed Groove and rolled on top of him, while Hot Spot dragged Blades into his lap and wrapped the motorcycle in his arms.

“Hush.” he admonished. “It’s show time now, not wrestle like feral sparklings time.”

“We’re not sparklings!” Groove and Blades protested in unison.

“Then stop acting like it. Now shut up and watch.” Streetwise said, though they could all hear the grin in his voice.

There were grumbling protests, but the two younger bots obeyed and went still. After another couple episodes, they were released to drape across each other. Time wore on, and the Ark slipped into it’s nightly recharge cycle. By this time, Blades’s brothers were in recharge themselves, curled around and on top of each other while Blades himself continued to watch the drama. He was waiting, after all.

Another groon passed, and the door to their berthroom opened. First Aid trudged in, exhaustion hanging from his frame. He went straight for the berth, tipping right into it and not even bothering to get his legs in. Blades huffed a laugh, gently tugging his younger brother up into the berth. He reached out to turn off the holo-pad, then refocused on First Aid as the youngest Protectobot cuddled firmly into his side. He knew his brother was tired. Pit, he could feel the depths of First Aid’s exhaustion over the bond. But he had to know.

“‘Aid? Are they…?”

“They’re fine.” First Aid mumbled. “They’ll make a full recovery. You don’t have to worry, Blades.”

All at once, the last of the fear and worry left him, and Blades released all tension in his frame with a heavy vent. “Thank you.” he whispered.

First Aid hummed softly. “‘Course. They took care of you when we couldn’t. I won’t let you lose your team if I can help it, Blades. ‘Specially not your Amica.” he mumbled, his words slurring towards the end.

Blades smiled, his arms wrapping around the little medic as First Aid nuzzled into his embrace. “Yeah.” he murmured. They really had taken care of him. “Recharge, ‘Aid. You need it.”

“You too.”

“I will.” Blades agreed. “Goodnight, little brother.”

“‘Night.” First Aid made a sleepy, content churring noise. “Love you…”

Blades blinked, then tightened his grip around him. “Yeah.” he whispered. “Love you too.”

He watched his youngest brother drift off into recharge, then offlined his optics ans let himself drift off as well. Just before he fell unconscious, he felt Groove roll on top of them both, and Hot Spot’s arms coming around all three of them. From the other side of the largest Protectobot, Streetwise’s hand came to rest on Blades’s head, his thumb twitching against his finial.

Comfortable and warm, his frame and spark both surrounded by the peace and love of his brothers, Blades drifted off into recharge, his rest easy and quiet with the reassurance that his Amica and his team would recover. His spark was warm with the sheer joy, adoration, and contentment that pulsed all along the bond, and his rest was easy and undisturbed.

Beyond the walls of the Ark, the stars were silent.

———————————————————————————————————

And here it is! What did y’all think? For those who don’t remember, the Purge that Streetwise mentioned was the massacre of the Rescue Bots.

Also, poor Blades. He has it rough. At least he’s not alone, right?

Let me know how you liked that! If you want more of this verse, I might expand on it after I take care of more prompts. (Or you could request a specific scenario yourself.)

Until next time, folks!

[fizzychocolatemilk]

The Sky is Blue (...and Kacchan Loves Deku) (Bakudeku Tropetember Drabble)

Some of you might remember this preview that I said that I was putting on the back-burner. Well...I realized that I had a free space day for tropetember, so I was like, “Why don’t I finish this fic for that?!” So I finished it. Enjoy! AO3 link  here.

The realization wasn’t a surprise. It was a quick, “oh, I love him,” but it didn’t catch him off guard. It was a universal truth, like the sky is blue or his hearing was going to go if he didn’t wear noise-cancellers with his hero costume. It was a normal day, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping happily, and Katsuki was with Deku. They were training, they usually are, but today the sun hit Deku’s hair just right and gave him a golden halo that made him look like an angel when he smiled and reached to help Katsuki up. “I love him,” he thought as he accepted the hand being offered to him, thinking nothing of the realization. It was obvious. The sky is blue, time stops for no one, and Kacchan loves Deku.

After the realization, he thought about Deku more if that’s possible. He sighed fondly when he saw him laughing with his friends; he borrowed notes from Half-n-Half or Ponytail because he could spend entire class periods admiring Deku’s reflection in the window next to their seats; he was more proud than frustrated when Deku ended up pinning him multiple times in a row during their sparring sessions.

He still encouraged Deku and he was still the best partner he could be for someone with a timeless quirk like One-for-All, but his love now encompassed his every action in a way that he never noticed before.

That’s why he noticed when Deku started pulling away.

.

.

.

It was slow at first. Deku started by making excuses to skip their hangouts every so often. First it was, “Denki-kun asked me for some help with his quirk theory homework.” or “Ei-kun wanted me to show him a new training regimen that I came up with to maximize his quirk.” 

Then the excuses became more elaborate and more often, “Ocha-chan wants Shou-kun, Tenya-kun, and I to go to the mall with her to carry bags,” “...The girls want to give me a makeover...” or “Umm...Hanta-kun just sent me a text saying that he needs my help...because he taped himself...to a tree...by accident!”

While Katsuki was very understanding about these disappearances even though he knew that Deku was lying to him, it hurt his heart that Deku didn’t want to spend time with him enough for him to lie to his face. He wanted to get angry, wanted to rage at Deku for just getting up and abandoning them, abandoning what they were starting to have—but he couldn’t. Deku had every right to choose who he wanted to spend time with; Katsuki had just thought that their friendship was worth more than flimsy excuses and missed hangouts.

.

.

.

Katsuki had been going through the motions for the past week. Deku had eventually stopped giving him excuses and just started skipping their meetings. Shark-face and Raccoon-eyes had invited him to several “squad” sessions, but he told them that he wanted to train or that he had homework. Most of the time, he layed in his bed with his eyes closed—imagining shiny green curls, a smile that rivaled the sun, and constellations of freckles under a clear blue sky until he eventually fell asleep.

He always woke up with tears running down his cheeks.

.

.

.

The next week Katsuki sat next to Deku at lunch.

Usually he sat with his squad, but he wasn’t going to give up Deku without some sort of fight. After a week of living in a grey malaise where nothing really mattered to him, he realized that Deku was his world. He would chase Deku to the ends of the Earth, shoulder every tear to see him smile, and do anything, no matter how humiliating, to see him laugh. Kacchan loved Deku, and he was going to live by him until Deku told him to leave, no excuses.

Deku had been talking and laughing with his friends, but he was blushing when he turned to look at Katsuki. “Kacchan? Are you okay? Do you need something?”

Katsuki’s heart melted at the compassion that Deku was displaying. He’d missed him so much. At that point, he was blushing slightly as he replied, “I’m fine, Deku. I just...wanted to sit by you today. Missed you last week, nerd.”

He swore that steam started coming out of Deku’s ears when he said that. Deku was stuttering incoherently, his hands were flailing without purpose, and his face was so red that it rivaled Shark-face’s shitty hair.

“Nerd?! Are you okay?” Katsuki placed a hand on Deku’s shoulder and the back of the other on Deku’s forehead. “Shit, you feel a little warm. Should I take you to Recovery Hag?”

If it was possible, Deku flushes harder, which only makes Katsuki more worried. But then Half-n-Half interrupts them. “He’s in perfect physical health, Bakugou,” he says with a barely noticeable teasing smile. In the background, Floaty has broken down in laughter on Glasses’s shoulder.

Katsuki furrows his brow but doesn’t get angry. “Then what the fuck is wrong with him?!” This just makes Floaty laugh harder.

The Candy-Cane faced bastard just smiles knowingly, “You should ask him that.”

Deku had apparently gained enough coherency at that point to blurt, “Why don’t we spar tonight, Kacchan! Normal place, normal time!”

Katsuki’s eyes had shot to Deku when he’d started talking, and his heart started doing a victory dance when Deku invited him to spar. After weeks of excuses and another week of nothingness, Deku had finally agreed to spend time with him again! Katsuki didn’t realize he was smiling until he heard a choked gasp from his right.

Deku was once again incoherent, and he was staring at Katsuki like he had killed Deku’s mother. Katsuki caught himself and softened his smile (he couldn’t find it in himself to stop smiling completely...he was so ecstatic) before slightly nodding at Deku in confirmation of their plans. Deku’s flush got redder for some reason. Katsuki flushed too under Deku’s continued attention as he turned back to his food. What was going on in the nerd’s head?

.

.

.

Katsuki arrived in the grassy field of their usual sparring location right after class. Sometimes he and Deku would spar at night or in the morning, but the afternoon was the most convenient. 

Deku hadn’t arrived yet, so Katsuki plopped down onto the vibrant grass and looked up at the sky. It was still breathtakingly blue. It reminded him of Deku. It reminded him of the day he realized his love. He smiled serenely while thinking about his nerd, his gorgeous eyes that Katsuki wouldn’t be able to adequately describe if he was given a thousand words, his smile that radiated sunshine and brightened Katsuki’s day at a mere glimpse, his bountiful kindness and optimism that simultaneously scared Katsuki and made his heart melt. Deku, Deku, Deku.

“Kacchan?” Deku had arrived, “Oh my goodness, you haven’t been waiting too long right?! I’m sorry!”

They were inconsequential words, but every one made Katsuki realize more and more how much he had missed his Deku. “I would wait forever for you,” he blurted. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but the words were the truth, a truth that Katsuki was no longer scared to share. “I would chase you to the fucking ends of the Earth, do any-shitty-thing to make you laugh, defeat hundreds of the most depraved villains to see your smile….Deku...Izuku….I love you. I love you so much it hurts, so much that I cannot fucking hold it within myself anymore. You have no obligation to return my feelings or even to be my friend—but I had to tell you that you mean so fucking much to me. My world is you, and without you, I am nothing.”

Green met red for a moment, a moment which conveyed the truth behind Katsuki’s words, before Izuku broke into tears.

Katsuki leaped up and pulled Izuku into a hug, rubbed his back and whispered platitudes to him until he stopped crying. They stood in silence for a moment, just holding each other, before Katsuki broke the silence, “Deku?” They needed to have a conversation.

“...Kacchan….You—How could someone as amazing as you love someone like me? How could I love you right back? I—Kacchan, what about me is there to love?”

Katsuki’s heart ached with the final question, but he asked, “Can I kiss you?”

Izuku nodded against Katsuki’s shoulder, and Katsuki held Izuku’s face in his hands before giving him the sweetest kiss he could muster. It was both of their firsts, so it wasn’t very good, but Katsuki could feel Izuku’s insecurity and he hoped that Izuku could feel Katsuki’s all encompassing love.

Soon enough, their kiss broke as Izuku had broken down in sobs again. Katsuki pulled him in and placed Izuku’s head on his shoulder once again. After another stretch of holding each other and listening to Izuku’s cries, Izuku lifted his head and smiled at Katsuki before saying three simple words.

“I love you”

Izuku reached up to cradle Katsuki’s face in his hand, and Katsuki's heart warmed up as they kissed again. The world has simple truths: the sky is blue, Kacchan loves Deku….and apparently Deku loves Kacchan too.

That’s it! I hope you enjoyed! I’m considering making a part two from Izuku’s perspective...let me know if that’s a good idea. I’ll see y’all later!

[whump-a-la-mode]

Gilded Cage - Part 6

This one is a little bit shorter, but I hope you guys still enjoy! It’s pretty intense.

Last time, our custom choice won out: Option C. However, there were still quite a few votes for both A and B. On account of the voting, Villain will attack Hero specifically.

Thanks to everyone for all their suggestions. There’s a lot, so I’m not going to name them all, but you know who you are, and thank you!

Now, let’s see our Villain suffer >:)

CW// Imprisonment, collars, shock collars, villain whumpee, (fantasy) steroids, extensive discussion of fire, torture, beating, blood, ambulances, being unable to breathe

You make fire. That was all you were, once. Before they knew your name. The pyrokinetic. The arsonist.

Villain felt their heart catch in their throat. The heat was suffocating them, now. Their breath had turned to steam. In tiny puffs, it escaped through the sides of their mouth-- though they could not be quite sure if that was real, or not.

They were Villain. Not a prop. Not a doll.

They cast their gaze, once more, out over the people looking on. The innocents that Hero claimed to work so hard to protect. To care so much about. The city.

And yet, it was Hero who had brought the firebrand to this place.

Kerosene welled up in their veins, flooding their heart, stretching ventricles until they threatened to explode. This flame, they had been forcing it down for so long. Their mouth tasted like gasoline, now. Gone were nervous, stuttering platitudes.

Heat warped the edges of their vision, now. It was not hard to imagine the stadium, torn apart by overwhelming, living heat, charred at its very core. It was harder, in fact, to see it in its current state. Unburnt and horrid.

Fixing it would be so simple.

The steam from the edges of their lips turned with such speed to licking flame.

You are afraid of destruction.

But were they? How long had they lived for destruction? How long had their name appeared in headlines next to addresses that now stood as rubble?

The pyrokinetic. The arsonist.

Villain lifted their head, heat-scarred vision gazing to the world around them.

The people.

They wanted nothing more than to tear this stadium to rubble. To leave it nothing more than a patch of scorched Earth. Nothing but bones.

But...

If warmth is not evil, then why are you? 

These people, they depended on warmth. They spent their lives in their heated homes, until the warmth of streetlights and phone lamps. In the all-consuming heat of ignorance.

They did not know. They were under Hero’s sway, just as everyone was. Caught in the thrall of pleasant lies.

The lie of a reformed villain, smiling for the camera.

But could a villain ever truly be reformed? Through therapy? Through torture?

Villain did not know. These people did not know either-- and they did not deserve to die. They did not deserve pain.

No. This villain had a much better target to pursue. For a moment, just one, the heat of their own flame made it almost feel as though their neck was devoid of collar. A split second of freedom.

It was all the taste they needed.

I thought that you deserved to understand that. Do you understand?

Yes. They understood.

The chill of Hero’s voice was no longer marred by the sun. Amplified by their microphone, it rung out:

“We all know what Villain had done. I know it better than anyone. But bloodshed is never the answer. Harming Villain would make us no better than them.”

Villain did not realize that they had seized the microphone, not until they felt the plastic begin to warp beneath the contours of their fingers. The steam they called a voice threatened to melt the device’s metal head, too, as they spoke to it:

“Then I’m sorry to see you’ve sunken to my level.”

The crowd was silenced. Hero’s smile twitched.

“What?” Villain sniped. “You say my name so much, yet you get upset when I actually speak?”

Hero’s smile fell. There had been fury below it, all that time, but now it finally lot its spotlight.

“So, do it.” The pyrokinetic, the arsonist backed up a step from the podium, turning to face the audience. “You’re so proud of having tamed me. Why not give everyone a live demonstration? Show them exactly how you did it? Go ahead! It’ll be a special treat.”

The corner of the podium, where a certain Hero’s hand had been grasping, shattered into wood splinters. A moment later, podium turned to projectile, polished oak flying towards Villain with a furious force.

It only managed to sail a few inches, before it turned once again from podium to ash.

Finally, finally, Villain’s flame escaped.

They had not so much as noticed the security personnel, rushing towards the stage, but they quickly stopped being a concern. The ring of flame, several feet in height, that sprung up around the stage’s base provided more than enough protection.

“You aren’t going to do anything? Not going to protect your precious city? Not going to show everyone just how heroic you are?”

That did it.

At last, the microphone gave in, turning to melted plastic beneath Villain’s hand. But no mic was needed to project Hero’s furious scream to the world.

Said scream was followed almost immediately by a strangled gasp. It must have taken all of Hero’s will, to grip their hand around Villain’s neck without snapping it.

The latter struggled to gargle out a few more words, but their voice had been already stolen. The solid ground below them, too, was taken, as the hand about their neck lifted them nearly a foot from it.

“You ungrateful piece of shit!”

The two met eyes, brutal flaming gazes, for only a second, before the stage’s facade was shattered by Villain’s body, flung like a ragdoll through it. They filled their lungs with panic croaks, attempting to clamber to their hands and knees, but there was no time.

All around, news cameras zoomed in as a single kick from Hero flipped the broken Villain onto their back. The boot did not wait to make its next attack. To the panicked crowd, the snapping of ribs sounded horribly like a gunshot.

A shot that sounded, again and again, until the flame spilling from Villain’s mouth was thoroughly replaced by coughed-up blood. Any feeble attempt at a counter-attack was quickly and utterly destroyed by yet another stomp.

Every snap, every break, filled Hero’s victim with utter, frigid cold. Heat spilled onto the stage’s floorboards in the form of scarlet, seeping through the cracks and dripping to the grass below.

The audience was screaming. At first, Villain thought it to be cheering. They expected it to be cheering. But it was not.

All those people, thousands of voices, all mixed together in terrified choir, all sounded off:

“Stop!”

Villain was afforded no time to think about this development. The second kick in their side was worse than the first, shifting already shattered bones and sending them flying to the lip of the stage’s front. Far too close to their own flame that still raged, yet had begun to flicker.

Sidekick had wanted a show, after all.

The absence of the next attack was almost as painful as if it had struck.

Had Villain’s eyes not been sealed closed by agony, they would have seen two of Hero’s teammates, grasping them by the arms, holding them back with all the might they could muster.

Sidekick had wanted a show, and Villain had given it to them.

There, on the floorboards, skin feeling to be ice, they gasped. Their lungs screamed for air, air that they could not provide. Instead, any particles of oxygen that could be brought in were accompanied by a rush of crimson.

Pain wasn’t enough to describe the feeling.

When they at last managed to open their leaded eyelids, they found their ring of flame, protecting them from the world around, to have shrunk to half its height, revealing those who tried to breach it.

They were not soldiers. Not guards.

No. They were civilians. Citizens. The city. Teenagers and teachers and office workers and mechanics. Some beat at the flame with spare articles of clothing, while at least one had managed to acquire a hose.

Villain could not let them in. They would ruin the show...

But their eyelids were so heavy. Every blink carried with it the effort of pushing a boulder uphill.

A coughing fit was what finally sapped that last shred of their energy, leaving the ring of flame as only a memory and a ring of burnt grass.

They closed their eyes.

The hands that laid upon them, now, were not those of newspeople or torturers. They were so kind. So unimaginably gentle. Truly kind, more than the facade of a plush duvet. Moving them to their side, opening their airways. Hastily removed sweatshirts, pressed against their bleeding wounds, all accompanied by quiet voices:

“I’m a doctor. It’s okay, they’re breathing.”

“Can we get an ambulance?”

“We already called one. I sent my wife out front, she’s going to bring the medics back here.”

“Am I pressing hard enough?”

“A little harder. We need to stop the bleeding...”

“Are they going to be okay?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

All indistinguishable, but all so terribly kind.

By the time Villain heard a voice they recognized, they finally felt as though they could once again breathe. Constant pressure on their wounds had turned to quickly moving hands, deftly wrapping their injuries with torn shreds of clothes.

The voice they heard... they did not know if they were glad to hear it or not.

“Villain.” Sidekick muttered, nearly whispering to their ear. “You did good. You did so, so good. Are you ready to go with us? Are you ready to be free, again?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

What should our Whumpee do? It’s up to you to decide!

There are two options, each one leading to a separate story branch. Alongside each option is a question specifying what exactly will happen. Answering this question is completely optional, but it is great if you have any particular ideas! Otherwise, feel free to just put a letter.

To vote, feel free to use any means you would like to contact me. Replying or reblogging this post works just fine, as does PMing me directly or sending me an ask. I am unsure when I will be writing the next part, so as long as the next part hasn’t been posted yet, voting is still open!

I will choose the story path based on which option has more votes, and will choose whichever answer I find the most interesting to base the next part upon. The choices and questions for this part are as follows:

A) Yes, you are ready. Go with Sidekick - Even if going with Sidekick, should they be trusted? B) No. Going with Sidekick is not freedom. Go to the ambulance - Where should Villain go afterwards?

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me. This is my first time doing anything like this, so I apologize if it’s odd or confusing ^^

[wordsnwhiskey]

Is It Living If You've Left Your Life Behind?

Pairing: Dave York & GN!Reader

Summary: Thanks to you, Dave escaped the showdown with McCall. You planned to take him to a safehouse on the other side of the country where he could recover and get started on living a new life. In order to do that though, he has to leave his wife, his daughters and his life behind. He can't help but wonder, is it really living if he has to leave his life behind?

Rating: T for Language I guess

A/N: This is my late submission for @autumnleaves1991-blog 's Writer Wednesday. I got into my feels tonight and Dave was calling to me. It's my first time writing for him and this is a different take on Dave than I'd normally go for. A softer/angstier Dave but honestly, given this situation where he survives? I don't see classic Dave shining through, at least not until something kicks his ass into gear. The man is injured and more than a little lost. Also, I'll probably edit this later, it's 03:30 and apparently I have a knack for posting things when I should be asleep.

Masterlist | AO3

There was nothing but the open road ahead of him as he sat in the passenger seat, a permanent grimace affixed to his face. His pain ebbed and flowed but at least that meant he was alive. Alive with nothing but the open road ahead of him and his entire life behind him.

Dave really only had you to thank for that. A life debt for a life debt even if it meant he no longer had his life, not really at least. His girls were well over a thousand miles behind him, everything he’d known and loved, he’d likely never see again. You were the only thing Mac hadn’t counted on and even though Dave had lost religion a long time ago, he thanked whatever god or higher power out there that you had kept your head about you during the showdown.

He had been furious at first that you hadn’t tried to kill McCall, only stalled long enough to get him and yourself out of there under the cover of the storm. His anger had quickly dissipated though, you had made the right call, of course. He still had trouble seeing out of his eye, a concussion from being blown off of his feet and plenty of bruises complemented the odd cut or two Mac had managed to land. Things would have been a lot worse had you not intervened.

You glanced over at Dave, hunched over, curling himself into the passenger window. Dave fucking York. He had really gotten himself in it this time but you couldn’t find it in yourself to blame him. In this industry, shit decisions had to be made all the time and Lady Luck was rarely ever kind. People died, that was the business. What else was the married father of two supposed to do when he was cut loose? Assimilate? That kind of thing wasn’t for people like you or Dave York, not really. McCall was too high up on his high horse to get enough oxygen to his brain and too blinded by his own grief to see it.

Then again, you were definitely biased.

“How’s your pain level?”

You asked, and were met with a withering glare, his newly-crooked, hawkish nose only served to further accentuate the harshness in his eyes.

He hadn’t talked much during the already several day trip. Not that you needed the conversation, but you understood better than anyone he knew who was still alive aside from the man you were fleeing from, what this felt like. You hated how people romanticized it, leaving everything behind and starting over. It never worked that way. Your family and friends lived and died and you couldn’t be part of any of it. And now Dave, Dave had two daughters and a wife but they might as well be poison now. Poison to his mind, torture to think about. Poison to the touch if he ever went to see them again, because surely McCall would be watching them from afar, waiting.

The same thoughts seemed to be on his mind, from the corner of your eye you could see him slump further into the window, clutching a small photograph he had pulled from his wallet. For all that he was, former agent, mercenary, murderer, assassin, he was still a family man, a soft man at heart and going into hiding away from this family had just as much likelihood of killing him as McCall did.

“I’m not going to see them again am I?” Dave murmured as he stared down at the photo, thumb grazing over his daughters’ faces.

You opened your mouth then closed it again, contemplating giving him platitudes or the truth. He chuckled at your reaction, a hollow sound devoid of any humor.

“Spare me the bullshit.”

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened and you let out a sigh.

“I don’t know Dave. If McCall winds up dead then yeah, that’s an option. I haven’t been back to see my family but I don’t have the same… things anchoring me somewhere or drawing me back.”

Silently, he turned to resume watching the passing orange and brown landscape fly by.

It had been about another two hours since he last spoke and he had been so still and quiet, you thought he might have fallen asleep.

“Why’d you do it? Why are you doing this?”

His voice is gruffer, made thicker from the knot of emotion in his throat. It startles you out of your own reverie.

“Do what?”

“Why did you bother saving me? You could have made it out of there and been in another country by now. Fuck, you could have dumped me at a hospital anywhere along this godforsaken road and still be in another country by now.”

You frowned, somehow you had hoped his relative silence meant you would be able to get through this journey without delving into any sort of feelings.

“It crossed my mind, on both counts.”

He raised an eyebrow, not so much in surprise that you had thought about it, more so that you hadn’t gone through with it.

“I didn’t have any part in Susan’s death so McCall would have stopped hunting me eventually.”

You spared him a glance, he was staring at you intently, analyzing.

“Is this the part where you tell me you love me?”

You scoffed and looked at him incredulously then shook your head.

“No, it’s even more pathetic than that, Dave. You’re probably the closest thing to a friend I have and we’ve tried to kill each other before.”

That got a small laugh out of him, because really, what was more ridiculous in their line of work than friends?

Probably having a family. Dave grimaced as the thought echoed in his mind.

“We were the best at what we did.”

He said, with an air of nostalgia and you nodded in agreement.

“And the worst, somehow even with us each taking on contracts for the other, here we are, still living.”

The small smile faded from your lips at his silence and lack of a response. Your gaze fell on him again as he shrugged his mouth and sighed.

“Are we? Is it living if I’m leaving my life behind?”

This was not the Dave York you knew. Occasionally, you had seen the wry humor, and suave exterior give way to the side of him that accepted “New Hamster” as an answer instead of “New Hampshire” but not even that remained. The Dave next to you had all of those layers peeled back. He was raw and unsure.

You didn’t answer him for a few minutes, honestly there wasn’t much of anything you could say that wasn’t a load of shit. You were both too practical for pep talks. Moreover, it wasn’t a question you had even stopped to ask yourself. The answer and the journey to that answer was a dangerous one.

“I- …. It’s the best option you’ve got right now, Dave. It’s a pretty fucked situation, my advice? Take it one hour a time and if you can manage that, take it one day at a time.”

“An hour?” Dave shook his head and rubbed his stubbled chin with his hand. “All I’ve seen for hours is dirt and sand. While Mac is probably watching Carol and the girls like a fucking hawk.”

You pursed your lips, and eyed the upcoming sign detailing the available lodging and food at the upcoming exit.

“Well you’ll have the inside of our next motel room to stare at in another hour.”

Dave slipped back into silence and you simultaneously welcomed and detested it. Things were simpler without him getting all philosophical on you and contemplating what made living actually living. It hardly mattered though because he had already gone and planted that damned seed inside your brain.

You pulled up to a not entirely shitty motel and paid for the night before going back for Dave who was waiting in the car. The room wasn’t terrible and after a thorough check, you could at least confirm there weren’t any critters who would be keeping you company. At least there were two beds.

After a dinner of pizza from the diner down the road you had taken Dave on a detour to the gas station to get a burner phone. In your haste to put as much distance as possible between you and McCall, you hadn’t bothered to get him one earlier. Once that was finished you both headed back to your room to unwind.

Dave sat in one of the rickety chairs at the small table that seemed to be actively trying to shed it’s veneer layer. With a sigh, he went to work stripping and reassembling his pistol. It was calming, relaxing for him. All of the pieces had a purpose, an order, to be pulled apart then reassembled, very much unlike his life right now. Nothing had purpose or order and everything had been pulled apart, leaving him broken shards to piece back together.

Hours passed and by the look of him, you figured Dave’s fingers might have gone numb from the repetitive movements and his eyes were drooping, well his good eye was drooping more than normal since the one McCall had nearly managed to gouge was still a little worse for wear.

“Dave, get some sleep. You’re no good to me or yourself if you’re half asleep.”

You know he’s been fighting sleep for a while now, he does every night just like he fights the pain you’re sure he’s feeling but refuses to take anything for. For the first time since you two set off, you’re not annoyed by it. He’ll sleep soundly at least once he let’s exhaustion take him. All the better for what you have planned.

It wasn’t until 01:00 that Dave was finally asleep soundly enough that you felt you could get up without waking him. Quietly, you made for the table, using the flimsy pad of paper and pen there to write a note before you walked out the door and shut it behind you. Thankfully, the city you had stopped in was populated enough that rideshare services were available and in less time than you had figured, you were on your way to the airport.

Dave woke up and immediately knew something was off. It was too quiet and there was too much sun trying to peek through the curtains for it to be the usual time you both headed out for the day. He sat up quickly and grabbed his pistol, then looked around the room for any signs of danger until his eyes fell upon the pad of paper on the table. A sharp pain arched through his skull when he stood up, a remnant of his concussion. He took the note in hand and began to read:

Dave,

I figure, if I’m lucky, I’ve got 4 hours on you. If I’m really lucky, I’ve got 6. Anything more than that and I’m disappointed in you, Dave.

He looked up from the note at the digital clock on the nightstand, it read 07:30. A wry grin threatens to take shape on his lips. You’d be disappointed.

I’m not going to make this some sort of sappy letter. I don’t have time for that shit. You were right. It isn’t really living if you’ve left your life behind. Out of the two of us, you’re the only one who really has one to miss. The only way you get to go back to Carol, Molly and Alice is if McCall is out of the picture, so I’m going to give it a shot. I left you enough cash to pay the room through the week and then some. If you don’t hear from me after a week, call the number at the bottom of this note and tell him you’re cashing in a favor for me. He’ll help you out. Might even know someone else who can help with your family. I left you the car, keys are on my bed.

Good Luck.

Dave’s throat went dry and then he saw at least four shades of red before he finally calmed down to assess the situation. Then all at once, it was like ice had been poured in his veins and things began to shift into focus.

What the fuck was he doing?

This entire time he had been wallowing, perhaps well earned, but he should have been planning. He had let his grief for the loss of Susan, the storm of emotions he felt seeing Mac still alive and a simple job that had spun drastically out of control, completely cloud his judgement. He was just as well trained as Mac, but he had let his anger and emotions get the best of him on that watchtower, he couldn’t let that happen again.

Dave moved quickly and methodically as he collected everything he needed from the room and headed out to the car. He really shouldn’t drive with his eye being what it was but he only needed to get to the airport and he could make it that far at least.

He couldn’t let Mac kill you, like Ari, Reznik, and Kovac. Family.

Like hell if he was going to let the closest person he had to a friend get killed.

If anyone was going to kill you, it’d be him, just for you trying to pull off something as stupid as this.

He knew this was the best move though, Mac wouldn't be expecting an attack this soon this time, the attack wouldn't be in the middle of gale force winds on Mac's home turf. You... and he would have the upper hand this time.

Dave got through the airport with relative ease thanks to him having TSA pre-check, no one bothered to ask him about his eye which he did his best to hide with a baseball cap.

He sat down and waited for his flight to be called. Mentally, he began going through the disassembly and reassembly of the rifle he had with him at the watchtower to help focus himself and pass the time.

The PA system broke his concentration and alerted him that it was time to board. Dave was tense when he finally got to his seat and sat down. His jaw was set in concentration as he started to come up with a new battleplan and weighing his options. Yes, he was injured but he'd been through worse on missions and come out on top.

At least one person was going to die by the end of the week and he'd be damned if you and him weren't the last ones standing.

Thanks for reading, tagging a few people interested/who might be interested:

@wheresarizona @pascalsimp @beesting77 @boxdyeblonde @lackofhonor @kaybrownies @agentwhiskeypussyindulgence @elegantduckturtle @janebby @faithkeeper-81 @doin-stuff @danniburgh @pascalslittlebrat @mothandpidgeon @mouthymandalorianalso @phoenixhalliwell @kesskirata @starlightmornings @wyn-dixie

[staysaneathome]

This Was Not A Dare, Reigen

Jon glares at each of the— the suspects traitors in front of him, tape recorder clutched tight in one hand.

Martin, wringing his hands uselessly, eyes wide and beseeching. Tim, fists clenched hard enough for his knuckles to go white and returning his gaze with a death stare of his own. Sasha, arms folded to form a barrier between Jon and herself, expression a perfect mask of concern. Reigen, radiating disappointment in every one of his gestures and quips. Elias, eyes weary, fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Some intervention this is turning out to be.

Jon wants to scream. Wants to reach out and shake someone, anyone, until they admit he’s making sense and it’s the rest of the world that’s gone mad.

Every single one of them (except Martin) could’ve killed Gertrude. He knows he has no proof that they did, but he has no proof that they didn’t either, can’t they see that? If they don’t want him to suspect them, it should be easy for them to actually give him proof of their innocence (like Martin did), instead of just repeating platitudes of “you know this isn’t acceptable adult behavior, Jon” and “you’re better than this, Jon”.

Who cares about knowing better or acceptable behavior when it’s your very life on the line? He’s half tempted to throttle the con artist, see how dignified or adult he is when he’s the one with a murderer on his tail!

…Not that Jon is a murderer. It’s just the principle of the thing, is all.

“Jon,” Elias says, tone soothing in all the ways he doesn’t want it to be. “This is absurd. This goes far beyond an unhealthy work environment. I’ll admit it’s partly my fault for letting it get this bad, I should have intervened earlier.”

Reigen cuts in with a hand gesture that is as effusive as it is dismissive. “That doesn’t make his behavior okay, Bouchard-san. It may be bad here, but Jon chose to follow me, Tim and Sasha, and yell at Martin, rather than going to the police or paying a detective, like Herlock Sholmes or something.”

Jon sputters. “Wh- It’s Sherlock Holmes, not—and he’s fictional!”

Reigen blinks sleepily, one eyebrow raised. “Oh? That doesn’t sound right. Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Jon all but shouts, rapidly reconsidering his stance on braining the sardonic little git with his tape recorder. “Don’t you even—an-and you’re deflecting again! Just like with your ridiculous ‘haunted gun’ nonsense!”

“I’m not!” Reigen says, clearly deflecting. “I’ve seen this kind of thing loads of times as the number one psychic. When a weapon kills lots of people over 100 years, the bad energy gets bigger and bigger until the gun grows an evil spirit and is hungry—”

“I refuse to believe Gertrude Robinson was murdered by a sentient blunderbuss!!”

“Be that as it may,” Elias interrupts, shooting them both a stern frown. “This is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about, Jon. Given how badly it’s affected your work ethic, I will be taking direct action to ensure it does not continue.”

Jon can feel his shoulders hunch almost against his will, dread pooling in his stomach at the thought of whatever punishment is about to be unjustly inflicted on him.

Only Martin looks half as worried as he feels, glancing between him and Elias nervously. By contrast, Tim looks downright triumphant, smirk nasty and vindictive. Sasha’s somewhere between those two, not openly celebrating his soon-to-be-downfall, but not acting like she’d lift a finger on his behalf either, though he’s unsure why that feels like it should surprise him. She’s always been as neutral as Switzerland.

Reigen, oddly enough, has more in common with Martin than with Tim. He’s staring at Elias like he’s waiting for a bit of news he knows he won’t like.

Jon thinks he’d appreciate that more if he wasn’t about to be unfairly lambasted simply for trying to stop a murderer and bring justice for an old woman who probably died frightened and alone. Much like Jon probably will once he’s been hobbled by whatever Elias is about to say next.

“Such as by restricting access to the archives from members of the public who are ultimately doing you more harm than good.”

…Wait.

What?

“What?!” Tim, Martin, and Sasha echo.

Reigen glances between them all, blinking in confusion.

Jon shares the sentiment entirely. His punishment is…for someone else to be removed from the archives? Someone he doesn’t employ or even like that much, no less?

He must have misheard, surely.

Though maybe not, given how Tim looks aghast, glancing between Elias and Reigen. “Okay, no, Reigen’s clearly not the problem here—”

“I’m very sorry, Tim, but Jon has made several remarks about the disruptive nature of Mr. Arataka’s presence in the archives.” Elias sighs. “From the arguments like the one we just witnessed to the nonsensical purchases of oddities inspired by his presence, such as Duolingo subscriptions,” Meaningful glare at Jon who resists the urge to clutch his phone guiltily, “That are now billed on the Archives’ expenses, it unfortunately seems as though he is dragging down productivity for all of you as an active stressor.”

“But we’re much better equipped to take statements from people who don’t speak English because of that!” Martin protests, stepping forward. “Isn’t it an advantage to have a more, more international perspective for our work?”

“One positive in a sea of negatives does not an advantage make.” Elias says, sounding infuriatingly like he’s misquoting something. “And really Martin, how realistic is it that this would help in more than a few isolated cases? I expected better from you.”

Martin’s face crumples, and his shoulders hunch, making himself smaller.

Jon finds his own mouth opening to—what? Say something? What would he even say?

Luckily, Sasha intervenes before he can dig his own grave further. “That’s as may be, but he’s a wonder for morale. He and Jon are funny, not anything serious, and I don’t think we’d have come to you about Jon‘s behavior unless he encouraged us to—”

“Which only fits into the delusion where Jon feels an outsider is rallying his subordinates against him, which is not good for his paranoid outlook.” Elias replies calmly. “And it’s never a healthy work environment when one employee feels the others are making them the butt of a joke.”

“I’d say that’s not as bad as when the boss feels he has the right to violate everyone’s privacy whenever he wants to just ’cause he’s feeling sad!” Tim growls.

Elias begins to answer, before Reigen finally speaks up.

“Sorry,” The con artist says carefully. “But you are…«I know this one…» banning me from the Archives? Yes?”

“That is the long and short of it, yes.” Elias says, grudgingly

“Why?” Reigen challenges, eyes hard and searching. “What have I, personally, done that’s wrong here? What behavior do I need to correct?”

There’s a moment of silence. The whirring of the tape recorder sounds uncomfortably loud.

“Mr. Arataka, are you currently under the employ of the Magnus Institute?” Elias asks, brow furrowed.

“Ah, no, no, but—”

“Are you looking to become employed by the Institute at this point in time, as a prospective member of the Archival Staff?” He fires off rapidly.

“Su-Sorry, but if you could just go a little slower—”

“Then I am afraid that unless you’re looking to fill out an employment contract or a Statement form, we cannot help you, Mr. Arataka.” Elias spreads his hands wide. “We are an academic institution, a place of research and learning. The Institute cannot allow for social dalliances on company time, especially not when those visits are negatively contributing to the work environment and the wellbeing of our staff.”

Tim throws up his hands, “I-I cannot believe this!”

Reigen’s mouth works soundlessly for a moment.

“Arataka is my…what do you call it? First name?” He says, at last. “Using it in this context is…inappropriate. Please call me Reigen, if you would, Bouchard-san.”

“Of course. My mistake, Mr. Reigen.” Elias does have the decency to look somewhat abashed. “Though, regrettably, I am going to have to ask you to leave the premises within the next twenty minutes, or I will be forced to call security.”

Reigen nods, jerkily, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Jon almost wants to call out to the fraud as he turns to go, grab him by the shoulder, pick another argument, something. He knows he should be happy, be glad that this thorn in his side will finally stop bothering him, but instead he just feels—befuddled. Off-kilter.

What happened to the man who once spent three hours arguing for the “spiritual effectiveness” of entirely performative and useless rituals, saying that ensuring his clients left his office fooled and contented was better than actually uncovering genuine supernatural forces and learning all there was to know about them? Why is he going so-so easily now, when he’s made Jon fight tooth and nail in every debate he’s had with the so-called psychic?

At the door, the con man pauses.

“Bouchard-san. You said I could come back if I had a statement to give?”

Elias shifts in his seat, looking bemused. “W-well, yes. That is a service we do provide. Of course, the statement would have to be genuine, and verifiable as such before we let you back into the Archives.”

“We don’t even do that for most of the rubbish we do take,” Tim mutters under his breath, and though Jon is glad he’s not the one being shot a quelling look, he does have to agree.

The con man turns back.

He’s got that smirk on his face that immediately puts Jon’s hackles up on instinct, prepared to argue against whatever inane point he’s come up with now to defend his phony psychic title.

“Gotcha.” Reigen says, far too cheerfully. «Ja ne.»

Then he strolls out of the office, as cool as a cucumber.

Jon could even swear he hears him whistling as he makes his way down the stairs.

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

“I’d do him.” Sasha pipes up, unhelpfully.

“Sasha!” Martin hisses, scandalized. “D-don’t you have a, a—”

“Oh, I don’t have to worry about that.” She remarks, far too blasé for someone in a newly committed relationship. “Tom’s heard about him too, and he agreed he’s just our type.”

“And I’m not?” Tim jokes, but there’s a hard edge to it that Jon’s found himself increasingly familiar with in the past few weeks.

Sasha shrugs with a mischievous little smile, as if that mattered very little to her.

Elias coughs. “Right. Well. Whatever your relations to Mr. Reigen are, please try to limit them to outside the workplace in future.”

The rest of the intervention is surprisingly subdued. Elias gives Jon access to the footage from the cameras in the rest of the Institute, and Tim bodychecks him on the way out of the office, muttering about how nice it must be to never face any consequences for his actions. Sasha follows, the way she won’t meet his eyes a condemnation in its own right.

Even Martin doesn’t say anything to him, just bites his lip and hurries past back down to the Archives. It doesn’t sting. It doesn’t.

Even as he settles in to watch and rewatch the CCTV records of Gertrude’s last week alive, Jon can’t shake the ridiculous feeling of foreboding that’s dogged him since Reigen left.

Most of him wants to say it comes from the fact that despite the fact that Reigen has not appeared in any of the camera records for the Magnus Institute before he started his term as Head Archivist in 2016, isn’t banning him from the Archives just letting the con man run around London with impunity, with no way for Jon to ascertain his movements or motives? That instead of solving a problem, Elias has just given a potential murderer free reign to escape?

But a small part of Jon, one that never could deny the sensation of being watched, that is frozen in second-hand terror whenever he reads a Statement, knows, Knows that it this stems more from the idea that the fraud will actually accomplish what Elias has unwittingly challenged him to do.

The illogical but pervasive surety that he will do so.

Jon’s not sure if he’s more afraid that Reigen Arataka will vanish entirely, another unfortunate victim become an unsolved mystery.

Or that he’ll come back, and bring whatever he’s managed to unearth on his insane quest with him.