#Cursed with the tendency to draw things only on the far right of my lined paper notebook

[whelkspares]

Soul master for the soul. On lined paper of course, why would I ever draw anything on proper paper

[rumblelibrary]

The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1  -  Chapter 2

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and sex. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: The story is placed between season 1 and season 2. Thank you for everyone that encouraged me to keep going. I have to wait for my local drop of serotonin to get fully Laszloed to go through this.

Lyra’s Contellation, Illustration taken from Uranographia by Johann Bode

Routine. Routine is comfort. Habit stabilises the character.

If you follow a routine, you won’t ever be victim of imprudence, of evil jokes of fate. The stability earned through calculated and repeated actions brings a sense of fulfilment that forbids other thoughts to come bashing in, breaking rules, breaking hopes that a solid scheduled routine forbids to have. I take my time to begin this week, I planned the things to do, the next steps for the case, the people to meet, the resources I am allowed to contemplate. I feel good, I feel back to myself and the events of the weekend seem far from me and my own perception. I probably got ahead of myself, carried by some instinctual though and random rush of emotion, to be always in contact with the same people and mostly kids probably doesn’t help my stance in the presence of other adults. I feel silly now reading back the last page, I felt tempted to tear it off, but to keep it there should be a small memento of not losing my temper so easily. I read it over and over and I know I am not as charmed as I thought I was. I am just lonely. I have always been and it is normal to face ups and downs even for a man of my age who is more accustomed to it.  To desire a partner is a natural instinct, to find somebody attractive is meant by nature, it is the body calling for the natural fulfilment of the reason we are put on this very Earth.  But even in a state of nature my own condition would be forbidding me to be part of the natural process of growing my own kind. I am the type of male that would be excluded because of his impossibility to give the protection to the pack, therefore it is just more reasonable to me to adapt to my condition. No matter what my Potentia generandi might be (the ability to procreate).

With all the smugness that characterises him, Niki showed off that he passed my challenge. But to be really of an help to his antics I didn’t show any kind of surprise. I treated him like he did the bare minimum, like he didn’t prove me any kind of superiority. He has a natural attitude toward challenging the figure of power, he is trying to overpower me, but I won’t satisfy his need. I have noticed he has a very technical brain, he finds ways to solve problems in ingenious way and not by throwing himself into the task. I proceeded giving him to work on a clock, an old broken one we had in the institute, one of the kids hit it with a ball years ago and nobody ever worked on repairing it. I gave him the clock, a couple of screwdrivers and a book. He called me a number of German names I won’t transcribe, but it gave me a certain amount of satisfaction. If my intuitions are right, I am sure the clock will be repaired by next week.

Analysis of the victim’s body through John’s eyes. The drawings and sketches are as detailed as I requested, all of this thanks to you joining him. I deal with art critic section, I am used to notice these things. You assure me, you play yourself low and I wonder why, nevertheless you did notice things neither John or I did, which pleased me. It fooled me, distracted me from my purpose to not give in to your witchery, as I leaned closer watching your pale hand move across the pages tracing this or that line, showing how this must be done with the killer on this side and not that side, with words so deliciously elaborate, your way of composing your speech is compelling, you could sell the drawing of a kid like it was a Botticelli. I noticed the shape of your hands, the way you move them, I wonder if you play an instrument, or played, some habits just stick with you through life. I focused on taking notes, your ideas and instructions giving me a new point of view, a new stimulus. What if that is the only way the killer can communicate? Or what if this is the communication that works for him? Could our killer be mute or deaf? Or that’s how society made him feel? This man, or woman, needs a listener and I am afraid that now, since he got our attention and the public’s, he won’t stop. Another killing could be just as close.

Scheduled: meeting with the parents of Alex Garel for new admission, Monday next week at 11 am. Love at first is a fetish and like all fetishes it is based onto an object that hides a deeper meaning, like gloves mean hands, to love at first sight means to see somebody that you think, and think only, to have the chance to share not only a sensual kind of bond, but an intellectual. Love at first sight is based onto not knowing someone well enough, but having the time to idealise most of that someone. I can see why I feel this attraction, using a particular phrase that Sara often mutters when investigating: you tick all the boxes. I know you do, your beauty is everything but conventional, you’re the kind of face that painters would paint and musicians would write hymns about, but any animal on the street would never be allowed to see. You have the grace of the body and the fire in the eyes, and then you speak. When you speak, I realise, you could bring the world to its knees. Also, you never speak out of context, and if you do it is to ease somebody’s position. You do it often with John or with Stevie, you say something really silly in order to put them back to a place of comfort. Some women would call it self deprecating, but I see that you only pick wisely your fights and your wins. You don’t need to earn your peace and quiet by neglecting, but by lifting up the others. I wonder if you do it with me too, if your silences are just you allowing me to be in a better place while instead your judgment is tearing me apart. I shouldn’t care, but I keep wondering, sometimes I take my time to answer you, I analyse every shade, every peculiarity of your question, I am looking for sarcasm, for a condescending voice, for something to hang on and bare you open. To prove myself you’re not perfect. But deep down I know that you do, you judge me and you do well.

Mother never said so. That’s what one of the girls in my care said today. Ursula. She is tough. Skin as thick as an alligator and the tendency to pull her own hair at night or when under a massive amount of stress, enuresis alongside erratic episodes of mutism. I tried the soft approach, it didn’t work. She is too accustomed to be indulged. Therefore today I pushed her a bit overboard, I teased her over opinions on the female body, the female role, she is only 12, but she is soon to bleed, she knows, I can tell from the way she clenches to her skirts, from the way she looks at me as a threatening figure. I am the incarnation of danger to her. Under her steady silence, I pushed a bit more, asking how her mother taught her to be nice and submissive. Does her mother tells her she is going to be a good wife? The phrase, which I reported at the top of the page, surprised me.  What is her mother teaching to her then? What closed her so much, locked her soul away, making a small bird like this choose the silence and the retirement of self inflicted pain over, what? Mankind? Or just Men? Is that even a curse? Should I cure her from a truth that her own mother whispered to her ear one night before bed and made a child decide that the world wasn’t a place to share her time with? Am I the man supposed to teach her that men are worth of trust? In the eyes of modern society, who measures its own value over the modesty of the women, she would be a champion, but at what price? I can’t in any way let her parents bring her back home after our recent meetings. Nevertheless, I have to make up my own mind on how to give her troubled soul ease without making her believe in fables. I, as a man, regard myself not worth of any of the trust they expect me to teach her.

In all of my years practicing with people’s feelings and traumas, I challenged myself to find those same traumas within my own mind. It is a tricky game, terrible, anguishing at times. But it straightens me, the pain of others, the pain of kids mostly, so unadulterated and pure, breaks the curtain between me and the lies that I often surround myself with. Pain is made of method, you can open it up, you can scrutinise it, part it piece by piece dividing it in sectors and, partitions, centre part, side part, heart of the problem. Pain is reliable. Happiness is not. It is random, cruelly sudden, unexpected, it washes over you in such deflecting way only to leave you alone a moment after ashamed and alone. I saw you again today. You were in a table full of what I could only guess as your former university colleagues, I saw pain in you, not heavy but constant. Annoyance, a bit of sadness. Your head titling on side and your eyes drifting on the left, you’re imagining something away from them.  A place? An object? Or maybe someone? Your hands play circles at the bottom of the flute of your drink like kids do, your smile only one sided. I don’t see you speak at all, only listen.  What could keep your voice down? I almost gulped down my own breath as you looked up and I realised how I must have looked. I was having lunch on my own, in a very private table and even entertaining myself with a newspaper on the side. I wish you didn’t, but you came over, your eyes shining.  Did I save you? Or maybe I was just a good excuse to leave that painful meeting behind. Don’t be so nice to me, it is not healthy. Don’t look at me like you expect anything more from me than me listening. I won’t smile back at you, I won’t give you care, attentions or thought. I won’t lean for your perfume, I won’t obsess over that dress you wore, that pin that adorned your neckline keeping your undershirt in place, a silver robin, I remember. I won’t remember the number of the buttons on the side of your glove, three. I won’t observe the little moles just under your ear. A small constellation, I later realised, hidden between your ear and the beginning of your neck. I don’t need to check in my books. It is a constellation. It is Lyra. Why? Why you must be like this? Are you the Lyra? Are you the instrument of Orpheus come to me to drag me out of Hell? The Tartarus holds my soul and you should know already, I am not worth the quarter part of Eurydice to be saved and she never came back anyway. I won’t be now recollecting the way your teeth sunk in the inner side of your cheek when you apologised for the annoyance.  You apologised twice, I ignored you both times with a raised hand to request peace and silence. I am not letting you in.

Reserved: Tickets for Wednesday’s evening Traviata by Giuseppe Verdi. The guest female lead promises a beautiful show.

Leonardo, as I am learning through Paul Valery essay, is who I would define as a figure of projective identification of the Subject or, to better explain it, of the knowledge of the Subject that formed and grew through the use of sketches in the experience of the Artist. I have always thought that the finest form of art was the representation of knowledge duly undressed by any personal identification. Leonardo, instead, proceeded to represent the figure through the essence of the artist, a representation technically unlimited on objects and symbols and that keep expressing the transformation and development of Leonardo’s own being.Some artists are testimony of the destruction of the world, of the loss of eternal beauty over decadence. And then you have Leonardo, who creates an art that is the gravity of the world’s system, of the nature, of thoughts and abstractions. I wonder if our killer does the same, if the way they presents the victim through their own personal view, if what we can read there it is their stories, their pains, their needs. Their happiness and troubles. What are they trying to tell me?  I need to know, I need to know to save a life, of course, but I also need to know to be able to sleep at night. Hair, hair are the epitome of femininity in any era. I keep studying Ursula and her habit to pull the. I took notes on it: she picks them by the bottom, slowly separates them until she gains an amount her mind defines satisfactory and then she rolls her finger and pulls, she does it until her finger is empty and there are no hair left. I find her process incredibly interesting. In men’s case the display of physical attributes is not as vital, a beard can be appreciated but does not modify the power of seduction of a grown man. On the contrary, for women hair are a vital part of their attractiveness toward the opposite sex, society sees the hair of a woman as part of their vital characteristics, also in ancient times for a woman to cut her hair or have her hair cut was a sign of deep separation from the society. Only heroines or whores wore that mark and the association of the two is so rooted into the way society always parted the role of a woman in two that it is nauseating to think of. I am still fearing to let Ursula go away, the repulsion that she is showing toward her own body makes it difficult even for me to crack her shell open as a man, but my deepest worry is when that hate will take a scarier and deeper tool on her. How a girl with such  a fear of what her body can do, like sex or pregnancy, can endure in the future to have an husband? Or even to be courted by anyone?

John is helpless and I admire him for that. He doesn’t hide it, he just is. He is vulnerable and exposed, he is an open well bursting with doubts and feelings and troubled waters. He is genuine in a way I could never be. Maybe that’s why I despise even more him talking about you, how he sees you every morning, how you greet everybody, how you behave even with interns, how you like your coffee.  Your talents, your wits, how you said this and acted like that and reasoned through him. How you forbid him to drink even when he felt tempted. How you stayed late over to help him collect all the informations I requested him to get. To him. Not to you. The evil demon of envy scratching in the back of my head screaming like a siren out in the sea, he demands to be heard, he demands to be allowed a part in this game. I won’t allow him that. I won’t allow myself any of that. This is a pure game of chess, if I give in a pawn now, I will lose my knight, and I know it. I advice him to not be so closed minded when he praises you, only to get surprised by the charms of a natural logical mind. I find a way to hurt him, he is an easy target, I look at him as his eyebrows twitch and he summons his patience on me. He lost the plot about you already, his bruised pride taking over. You won’t come into my life.

“Un dì, felice, eterea, mi balenaste innante, e da quel dì tremante vissi d'ignoto amor.”  (“On a day, happy and ethereal, you appeared in front of me and from that day, trembling, I lived on an unknown love”)

The words of Alfredo in the first act of the Traviata keep running through me, a chant that won’t let me go, almost painful. The Opera House, that was my hiding place, a place where in plain sight I could let out myself, unleash. The catharsis of the characters involved running through me, I didn’t need anything but their voices and those musical instruments to let out my fears, doubts and anger. When Alfredo came to the scene tonight, the lights were strong and slightly pinkish, the performer bursting out of the seams with passion. My eyes diverted only to see you there. Alone. Those blinding lights gave you the the radiance of a vision singing the notes of greek myths and heroes, that dark blue evening clothing rang through my eyes like it was a bright yellow, the little shiny details that adorned you so clear against the heavy lighting to look like transparent pieces of water collected to adorn your beauty. I wasn’t me, but Alfredo, and I was helpless against you sitting so far and yet too close from me. I was naked in front of thousands. I am aware of the effect you have on me and our last conversation was barely regarded as one. This is infatuation, this is the pure work of a lonely mind and not something worth of any of all the words that I am dissipating here. Yet. I saw you cry at the climax of the opera, Violetta, the protagonist, heartbroken falling on stage consumed by pain and regret for her lost love and ultimate sacrifice. Your eyes shone as you tried to hide the tears and collect yourself. Through my binoculars, I saw your throat tremble and gulp down something more than just a sigh of pain. Your jaw clenched, your gloved hand moves to hide your shaking lips. I reckon, I have never seen such sad lips look more inviting. You look at the wall on your side breathing through your nose and not even that can save you by the strength of the voice of the soprano. You’re defeated and so you brought a fine silk handkerchief to your eyes, your shoulders bent inward in self defence.  The Opera won. It won you like it always wins me. I wonder if you felt like this because of a past lover, somebody that broke your heart and made you feel wrong in any way.  And because of that little wonder it is even more clear to me why I am a man worth of no trust. Because for a moment, I know, I wished to be the one that broke your heart. That gave you just the pain you’re inflicting on me so mercilessly by offering intoxicating kindness and beauty.  To own your thoughts, tears and shame. To be the one man you have to look away from. I want to own all of that and, maybe, I will be freed of you the day you’ll be just another human being that hates Dr Laszlo Kreizler.

Tagged @cazzyimagines​ @lieutenantn​ @handmaiden-of-mischief​ @thesunflowersutra​ @zemomybeloved​​ @fictionlandslanddreams​ @charistory​ @greeneyedblondie44​ @apparrio​ @hb8301​ @whatawildone​

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[lochsides]

If I Can't Have Love, I Want Power Review

Where do I even begin with 'If I Can't Have Love, I Want Power'? It is such a good album, it's almost criminal. If I had to pick the best album to be released this year, IICHLIWP would be it. Halsey has always been an excellent songwriter, that was never even in question, but it has been proved once again, in case anyone wasn't paying attention. IICHLIWP is an album that covers so much depth in sound and in lyric. The dichotomy of the Madonna and the Whore, as they said in their announcement of the album, is an overarching theme of IICHLIWP and it is articulated so consummately. The references to pregnancies and childbirth are more subtle than I expected but that's what makes them so genius. This is an album where every lyric is intentional.

My favourite songs are ‘The Tradition’, 'Bells in Santa Fe', '1121' and 'Ya'aburnee'. More detailed thoughts on each track are below the cut. Trigger warnings for sexual assault and miscarriages.

The Tradition — This is the first song on the album and Halsey had already fucked me up so there's that. I got full-body chills listening to 'The Tradition'. The production is masterful. There is this darkness that settles in early and ebbs and flows beautifully, not only throughout the song but the album as a whole. 'The Tradition' already sets up so many of themes of this album, but what a way to talk about sexual assault. I am in love with the entire chorus line but I think my favourite lyric is ‘she got the life she wanted but now all she does is cry.’

Bells in Santa Fe — The transition from 'The Tradition' into 'Bells in Santa Fe' was so smooth I didn't even notice that the songs had changed until I looked at my screen. I don't think I could actually describe how much I adore this song if I took up the rest of my life doing so. The production is absolutely God-tier. Everything from the way it keeps building throughout the song to the percussion to the piano on the second chorus and the distortion towards the end is so perfectly done. You will never hear me rave about production this much. What a fucking song! On top of all that, you have the lyrics that are so powerful. When they said 'cause who the fuck would chose this?' it reminded me of my favourite Manicsong, 'Forever... is a long' where they sing 'how could somebody ever love me?' so that stood out to me. I love the cadence on 'secondhand thread in a secondhand bed with a second man's head' but the lyric 'better off dead so I reckon I'm headed to Hell instead' is probably the one that hits the hardest. My escapist, runaway tendencies felt very exposed by the entirety of the pre-chorus.

Easier than Lying — The way she emotes on ‘you lair, you don’t love me’ is fucking everything. I needed to start with that. It’s my favourite aspect of the whole song. And then there is that obvious callback in the bridge. ‘Easier than Lying’ is the punk sound we were promised of IICHLIWP and they delivered. The Grungy electric guitar, the bass, the production!!! This one goes hard and it makes no apologies of it’s anger.

Lilith — ‘I’m disruptive, I’ve been corrupted, and by now I don’t need a fucking introduction.’ I mean what could I possibly say after that??! Honestly, I love the duality of how this line could be about Halsey but it could also be about Lilith, herself. There is a selfishness to 'Lilith' that I love. When you connect that to the mythology of Lilith preying on pregnant women and the context of this album — it's just got so many layers. Halsey's mind!! I love the sound of this song. The production has a classic rock flare to it. Those drums are so clean and the bass accompanies it perfectly. The smoothness of their vocal on this track is very pleasing to listen to.

Girl is a Gun — I'm not going to lie, this song isn't for me. I get it. The message is right up my street but the overall sound of it just isn't what I personally like. I do love their little laugh at the start! The lyric 'it's a shot in the dark, I'm not a walk in the park, I come loaded with the safety switched off' is my favourite.

You asked for this — This song is really interesting because they gave us a pop punk sound, pushed it to the back of the track, really grungey guitar riffs and all, but their voice is so light and delicate almost, very airy in a way that stands apart from the backing track. I really like it. To me, it's like an emphasis of the message of 'You asked for this'. Young women are oftentimes forced to grow up too soon and 'be a big girl.' Society forgets, I would even say purposely overlooks, that they are 'still somebody's daughter,' one of the few things that is used to give value to a woman. We've all heard people throw the phrase "but what if it was your daughter/sister?" into the conversation when discussing women that have somehow been abused by the patriarchy. 'You asked for this' also calls attention to how when we're younger, all we want is to be grown up but how unaware we can be of what it means to be a woman in this world, the trauma that comes with it.

Darling — The guitar in this song and it’s almost-country sound are what sets this song apart from the rest of the album. ‘Darling’ is a lullaby for their child, but it tells a story of their struggles. It is honest in a way that feels private. Motherhood sounds so good on them!! This song is just a collection of things I love in music. 'Darling' is soothing and it sounds like comfort, in both melody and lyric. 'Foolish men have tried but only you have shown me how to love being alive' is perhaps the softest lyric on the whole album.

1121 — I expelled a heavy sigh when I heard ‘1121’ it absolutely took my breath away*.* This song is a truly moving ode to an unborn child. So many people talk about how they had never known what unconditional love really meant until they had a child. Halsey tells it as such: ‘you could have my heart and I would break it for you.’ I love their vocal styling on this song so much, going between their lower register and those beautiful falsettos in the chorus. The overlapping on the bridge of ‘please don’t leave, don’t leave me in the shape you left me’ and ‘I’m running out of time to tell you, I’m running out of things that I regret’ and ‘you’d never, you told me’ really capture all the wide array of emotions felt by pregnant person upon finding out they are pregnant when they’ve dealt with miscarriage. Her voice emotes the fear of losing another child, the regret of the ones she's already lost, the promise, almost desperate, of the opportunity they have right now. All of these feelings are brought to life further by the production of the song. There is so much depth in '1121'.

honey — Pop punk wlw anthem check. Halsey suits this sound so much. This track, the production, the instrumentation, all of it catered to their voice so perfectly. The sound is so refreshing and yet so classic. I adore the melody. It’s unsuspectingly catchy. I wonder if there are links to ‘Lilith’ with ‘she’s mean and she’s mine’ or if I’m just reaching. Either way, a song about a love that is a little chaotic and wild, sign me up!

Whispers — Whispering on a song called 'Whispers' might be obvious but I'm a basic bitch so leave me alone, I loved it. Lyrically, 'Whispers' was the song that I saw myself in the most. When she said 'camouflage so I can feed the lie that I'm composed,' I just felt far too exposed for comfort. Same thing with 'I do not know me.' And that's what art is supposed to do. The instrumental is haunting and dark. The way they create tension by adding in one instrument at a time. The production is amazing. Top 5 shit right here!

I am not a woman, I'm a god — Not only does this song have the catchiest hook, it’s literally ‘I am not a woman, I’m a god. I am not a martyr, I’m a problem. I am not a legend, I’m a fraud so keep your heart ‘cause I already got one.’ That hook right there tells you everything you need to know about this song. ‘I am not a woman, I’m a god’ acknowledges that one needs not be a woman to create life. They are claiming power to their gender identity through relation to Godliness. Even in the other lyrics, they talk about being ‘a different human in a new place’ or ‘a better human with a new name’ (this line in particular draws direct parallels to trans experiences). Both times, they specifically use ‘human.’ The production of this song is designed to be a single. It’s got the signature darkness of this album, tells the listener where Halsey is at sonically, and it’s a total banger.

The Lighthouse — The way this song just comes in swinging right away with the distortion and the heavy guitars is exactly what I expected from this album going into it for the first time. Very modern punk rock. And the lyric doesn't pull any punches either. 'From a tender age I was cursed with rage,' like c'mon!! I love the melody and her vocal inflations throughout the song. This is the longest song on the album but it doesn't drag. The change up right before the outro really helps with that. I find that outro so interesting. The contrast between the instrumental constantly building but their voices staying so far in the back on the track creates so much tension that is relieved in the best way possible with 'Ya'aburnee'.

Ya'aburnee — ‘Ya’aburnee’ is the perfect conclusion to this album. Halsey said in their Apple Music interview that IICHLIWP is about the power to choose and by the end of the album you realise that they choose love. This song perfectly embodies that. It’s familial. The entire chorus talks of seeing yourself in your kin and the circle of life. The second verse is a clear love letter to their partner and it makes me emotional, knowing their romantic history as we do, to hear them sing ‘wrap me in a wedding ring.’ I love how the lyric ‘you will bury me before I bury you’ is not only a statement of their hopes that they don’t have to live in a world without their loved ones, a statement of how parents should never have to bury their children, but it almost sounds like a protective promise that they will do anything to ensure their loved ones are kept from harm so as not to need burial. The softness of the instrumental on ‘Ya’aburnee’ is feels like unwinding from the rest of the record. It’s such a beautiful song.

[spencers-renaissance]

tell me how to balance my coins

Summary: When Spencer falls down the stairs one morning he decides not to tell anyone, his insecurities about not being enough winning out. Too bad insecurities don't matter when they end up trekking through miles of barren land on a search and rescue mission, and his injuries finally become too much. The team knows exactly how to make it better.

Tags: hurt!spencer, whump, hurt/comfort, hiding medical issues, insecurity, angst with a happy ending, fluff, team as family TW: self-esteem issues

Pairing: GEN / Spencer Reid & Derek Morgan

Word Count: 3.2k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

Set in S1 but there's no Gideon because he didn't really fit the plot, so it's just the five other field agents here. This entire fic was inspired by this post by @i-write-whump so credit goes to them for the premise! Title from this poem by Zahraa Surtee <3

Maybe it’s embarrassment that stops him from telling the team. Spencer runs headfirst into dangerous situations every day, puts his life on the line repeatedly and escapes unscathed more often than not, but his nemesis this time is the single flight of stairs in his apartment building he descends each morning.

He’s later than he usually is, and already feeling a little flustered from both his toaster and coffee machine breaking, leaving him with a cup of instant coffee and an overripe banana from breakfast, which only makes the situation worse. As if lying sprawled out in a public stairwell wasn’t bad enough. He gingerly pulls himself up, catching a glimpse of a “Caution: Wet Floor” sign he somehow missed, and winces as pain floods his body.

His ankle is screaming at him, throbbing and burning, and for a moment Spencer has to close his eyes against the gut-wrenching pain of a twisted ankle flaring up his calf. A couple of thankfully undisturbed minutes later, the pain eases enough for him to open his eyes and inspect the damage. It’s already swelling slightly, and he’s certain he’ll be covered in bruises by tonight if the aching of his entire body is anything to go by.

For a brief moment he considers calling Derek or Penelope or someone else on his team; maybe even calling in sick, but he quickly pushes that thought away. It’s not embarrassment that stops him from telling the team. It’s a good cover story to keep him from addressing the real reason, but it isn’t the truth.

The truth is that the only time he ever feels valuable is when he’s contributing to a case. That cruel voice in the back of his head will waste no time in piping up, telling him how worthless he is, what a burden his friends see him as, how insignificant he is to the team if he doesn’t suck it up and head into work.

Fighting back the tears burning hot behind his eyes with ardent determination, he drags himself up by the stair handrail until he’s upright. His ribs ache and his ankle burns something fierce, but he compartmentalises it, breathing deeply and taking a few tentative steps, one at a time until he’s limping towards the train station.

The moment he walks into the bullpen, JJ grabs his elbow. “You’re just in time, Spence,” she says, marching towards the briefing room with a pace Spencer can’t quite keep up with. “We have a new case. Rural Kentucky.”

Everyone’s already seated at the round table, and no matter how much he tries to disguise his limp, putting far too much weight on his battered ankle, he can’t get it past a room full of profilers.

“Hey, pretty boy, you alright? You’re limping.” Derek’s tone is light, carrying the cadence of joking banter, but he can see the concern in his eyes, and that’s just unacceptable. He can’t have people worrying about him: he’s not worth their pitied looks or vapid attempts at comfort, especially not when they have a far more important case to be focusing on.

He slips into a seat, and manages to conceal a wince at the movement of his ankle swinging forward. “Oh, uh, I just stubbed my toe pretty hard on the way in.” It’s not convincing even to his own ears, but luckily it’s enough of a time-sensitive case for JJ to barrel on regardless, drawing everyone’s worried glances away from him and towards the board full of grizzly crime scene photos.

Even though he’s been on the team for close to three years now, he still feels like the new kid. Elle is newer than him, but she’s still far more confident in her place on the team than he is. He suspects that’s probably because someone like Elle doesn’t have trouble fitting in anywhere. It’s never been quite that easy for Spencer.

Pushing his insecurities aside like he always has to do in these meetings, he reads the case file thoroughly before offering his own contributions. The unsub is snatching young women from bars and clubs and holding them for weeks before leaving them to succumb to the elements in the rural countryside of Kentucky. With a missing woman and the expected deadline for the unsub dumping her fast approaching, they don’t waste any time in boarding the jet and flying the short way to West Kentucky.

It’s a short enough flight that there’s no time for personal conversation — no time for Derek (or anyone else for that matter) to confront him about his blatant lie and obvious injury — since they spend the whole journey discussing the case. Thankfully, throwing himself head first into theories and hypotheses keeps his mind off the pain a bit, but he can’t fully keep it from bothering him.

He’s just thankful that he has enough experience in disguising his true emotions that no-one’s attention is drawn to him by poorly hidden winces.

They dive straight into the investigation when they arrive at the sheriff’s station, everyone laser focused on finding Marissa Williams. By mid-afternoon, though, Spencer’s gritting his teeth as he forces himself to persevere through the pain despite it increasing incrementally every hour, and he curses himself for not being able to dedicate 100% of himself to the case. If he can’t help everyone find this woman, then what is he good for? His stomach twists at the thought.

“You gonna tell me what’s really going on, Spence?” Derek asks him as it approaches 4pm, cornering him at the coffee machine.

Spencer looks around as subtly as he can for an escape, but he quickly succumbs to his fate. “I’m fine, Derek,” he promises. It’s so far from the truth he wants to cry.

The concern in Derek’s eyes only intensifies at that. “Seriously? You’ve been quiet this whole case, I catch you wincing when you think no-one’s looking, and you’re still limping. A stubbed toe wouldn’t do that, kid, and you know it.”

He sighs, knowing the jig is up. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, Derek.” He’s not sure it’s the truth, but it’s close enough to it that it doesn’t bring burning tears to the backs of his eyes.

Derek’s about to say something when JJ calls out for him. They both turn to look at her, Spencer feeling relief flood his chest, while Derek’s expression quickly morphs into one of frustration, sighing heavily as he curls his hands into tight fists.

“This isn’t over,” he says, levelling him with a serious look before walking back over to JJ, leaving Spencer to stir his bitter coffee in peace. It definitely doesn’t make him want to cry.

They finally get a break in the case at nightfall, a call on the tip line combined with their profile leading them to a secluded wooded area down by a small river. Knowing there’s nothing more for them to do at the office, Hotch gathers them all up, insisting they join the search party to find the poor, beaten woman currently suffering exposure, awaiting their rescue.

Spencer’s heart sinks as everyone gathers their equipment, and he’s almost relieved when Derek speaks up.

“Reid can’t go,” he insists to Hotch, only barely in earshot of Spencer. If he doesn’t go out in the rescue party, then he’s still served his purpose hasn’t he? He helped with the profile that narrowed down the area she’s likely to be in, he worked the case until this point, he can rest and still be worth something. Right?

Besides, it’s not exactly like he can don the heavy walking boots everyone else is pulling on. If he goes out, he’ll have to wear the same loafers that have been squeezing his swelling joint all day, and that’s hardly going to work. Hotch will let him stay back, and for once, he’ll accept the rest he’s offered.

His hope is quickly dashed. “We need all the manpower we can get,” Hotch says, clearly distracted in the same way he has been throughout the entire case. Spencer likes his boss but he has a tendency to wear blinkers when on a job, not noticing anything that doesn’t pertain to the ultimate solution. “He’ll be fine.”

Derek sighs again, clearly frustrated.

“I’ll be fine,” he says as Derek comes over to sit with him, not sure who he’s trying to convince. His ankle is still burning in pain. The last time he checked it, it was bruised and swollen, tender to the touch. It’s nothing short of a nasty sprain.

“You stick close to me, Spencer. I mean it.”

He can’t help the small smile that crosses his face, genuine happiness warming his heart at the concerned protectiveness of his friend. “Sure, Derek,” he says softly.

The pleasant temperature of the mid-Spring day drops to almost freezing as the sun sets, the moon and stars taking over the clear night sky. Even Spencer’s thickest coat isn’t enough to keep him from practically vibrating with the force of his shivers as they trek across the miles of terrain, staying as quiet as possible to listen for anything that could indicate their victim’s whereabouts. They’re spread out a little, but for the most part they all walk reasonably close together, the beams of their torches criss-crossing as they fight their way through the windy countryside.

Thankfully, it’s only a couple of hours into the search and rescue mission that a call crackles over the radio, telling them that Marissa had been found, beaten and weak but alive. Spencer can’t even bring himself to feel any kind of victory or relief, nothing being able to penetrate the haze of pain he’s in. Everyone else chatters happily enough as they converge back together for his silence to go mostly unnoticed.

His obscurity doesn’t last long, though.

“Are you ever gonna tell us what happened to your foot, Spence?” JJ asks, raising an eyebrow at Spencer’s heavy limping and Derek’s worried hovering. By the second mile of their walk, Spencer had given up trying to hide the limp, instead focusing on gritting his teeth and breathing through the pain as it flares up his leg.

She’s clearly voicing what everyone else is thinking, judging by their worried expressions. Part of him wants to give in and tell the team, but the part that wants to continue to hide his embarrassment away, the part riddled with fear and insecurity wins out. He stubbornly shakes his head, closing his eyes tightly. In the kind of terrible timing so emblematic of the life of Spencer Reid, in the short second he has his eyes closed he manages to stumble into a small divot in the ground, and he trips, twisting his ankle all over again as he falls down.

His vision whites out, the pain suddenly all-consuming, punching nausea through his stomach and he can’t help the cry he lets escape as he lays helplessly in the grass.

“Spencer!”

Derek crouches next to him, laying a hand on his shoulder as he checks him over frantically, and Spencer can’t help but lean up into it, craving the kind of comfort he can only get from his best friend. Hotch joins them quickly as JJ and Elle stand close enough to offer support without crowding him.

“That’s it, Spencer,” Hotch says firmly, blinkers well and truly off by now, “you need to tell us what’s going on.”

As the blinding pain slowly fades into something minutely more bearable, Spencer forces his eyes open to face the team. “I fell down the stairs this morning,” he finally admits, sullen and teary. “Pretty sure I sprained my ankle.”

Hotch wastes no time in gently rolling his trouser leg up, exposing his ruined loafers and the bruised, swollen joint to the torches of his teammates. Derek audibly winces as he positions himself behind Spencer, supporting his back as his tired, aching body starts to collapse.

Hotch levels him with a stern glare after he finishes his tender inspection of his ankle. “Spencer, it was incredibly irresponsible to hide something like this. You not only put yourself in danger, but you put the rest of the team at risk, too—”

He doesn’t get any further in his lecture before the tears he’s been holding back all day, finally spill over and a dry, sudden sob, his bruised and aching rib cage heaving as he starts to unravel at the seams. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Softening immediately, Hotch puts his leg down gently and shuffles closer, taking Spencer’s hand in his. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m sorry for yelling,” he says soothingly, watching as Spencer presses closer into Derek’s hold. “You’re not in trouble, I’m just worried about you, Spencer. Why didn’t you tell us you were hurt?”

He squeezes his eyes closed again: it’s as much dignity as he can hope for when his face is crumpling and he’s sobbing on the cold, hard ground as it nears midnight. “I just… I just wanted to be worth something.” It’s an admission he’ll regret later, he already knows that, but he’s so so tired and all he wants is the comfort that only his team can provide.

Derek pulls him into an even tighter hug before anyone can react, holding him against his chest fiercely while his hand plays gently with his hair. “Spencer, you are worth something whether you’re injured or fully intact, you hear me? We’d love you with a broken leg, with a bad case of the flu, if you quit the team tomorrow and decided to never work again. But most importantly, we love you now, kid. No matter what. Nothing can change that, alright?”

“He’s right, Spence,” JJ says softly, sinking to the ground along with Elle. “I know you think we only tolerate you because of your brain and what you bring to the table on a case, but you’re so much more than that. We love your nerdy rambles and your awkward waves and the way you love so openly and protectively, no matter how many times you’ve been hurt before. We love everything about you, Spencer.”

“Yeah, if you’re hurt, Reid, we wanna know,” Elle chimes in, sounding a little hesitant as the one who’s known him the shortest amount of time, but firm in what she’s saying nonetheless. “I know I haven’t been on the team that long but this is a group of people that watches out for one another, that supports each other, that builds everyone up leaving no person behind. That includes you, Spencer Reid, even when you don’t feel like it.”

“Everyone is right, Spencer,” Hotch says softly, still holding his cold and shaking hand protectively in his gloved one. “I’m just sad that you still prioritise your work over your own health. You are not this job. You are an incredibly talented and multi-faceted person that oftentimes needs a little TLC, and until you’re willing and able to do that for yourself, we’ll be here to do it for you, okay?”

Tears are streaming down his face as he nods, feeling warmer than he has all day despite the cold dark night they’ve found themselves in. The strangest part about it all is that he’s actually starting to believe them. It’s not like they haven’t all said similar things before, but hearing them all vehemently corroborating each other’s stories, hearing it all laid out in front of him as they promise him with earnest expressions that they’re telling the truth is doing something to shift the leaden weight of insecurity and low self-esteem that presses on his chest each and every day.

“Now, come on,” Derek says. “Let’s get back to base and I’ll go with you to the hospital to get you checked out, make sure it’s nothing more than a sprain.”

He shifts behind Spencer, using his already firm hold on his waist to help gently pull him up to a standing position, taking most of his weight as Spencer whimpers at the pain that swiftly reignites at the movement.

Derek turns around and bends at the knees slightly as Spencer leans on Hotch, before looking over his shoulder, his signature grin returning. “Hop on, pretty boy.”

“What— Derek! I’m way too heavy!”

Everyone immediately breaks out in amused laughter, even Hotch chuckling fondly.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Come on, Spencer, you’ve gotta weigh what, like, 140lbs? 150? You can’t exactly walk on that ankle anymore and it’s the only way we’re getting back without calling for a search and rescue team of our own.”

“Reid, I’m pretty sure I could give you a piggy-back ride,” Elle points out, raising her eyebrows. “Just let him carry you back.”

Let us take care of you is implicit enough in everyone’s words and expressions that it doesn’t really need to be said, but Spencer hears it anyway.

Hotch helps him up onto Derek’s back and they begin the long trek towards the search and rescue base, and Spencer’s never appreciated the easy banter they all share more. Hotch is visibly relaxed with the case solved and his youngest team member soon to be taken care of, so he joins in with the conversation, his light and happy expression that he only ever wears around his family or the team on rare days and nights off, replacing his focused frown.

Spencer clings on tightly to Derek and presses his face into the space between his neck and his shoulder, closing his eyes as he listens to the conversation, the vibration of Derek’s laugh and the shameless flirting between Elle and JJ taking his mind off the pain that throbs in his ankle with each step Derek takes.

When they finally get back to base, they all gather round the ambulance that’s been designated to take Spencer and Derek to the hospital.

JJ steps forward to give him a hug first. “Love you, Spence. Let us know what they say, okay?”

Hotch surprises him by stepping forward and wrapping him in a hug as well, forgoing the macho pats on the back for a short but close embrace that feels fatherly enough for tears to prick the back of Spencer’s eyes. “We all love you, Spencer. Remember that okay. And actually listen to what the doctors tell you. Morgan, you’re my eyes and ears.”

“Well now I want a hug, too,” Elle says dramatically, squeezing him in a tight embrace for just a moment before stepping back, lining up with JJ and Hotch to present a united front of people on his side.

“We’ll see you both in the morning,” Hotch says as the paramedic starts prepping for the journey, moving Spencer onto the gurney and rolling him in.

“Hope they don’t keep you too long!” JJ calls just as the doors close, making them both chuckle.

Derek takes his hand in both of his, staying out of the paramedic’s way as she quickly places a line of mild painkillers before sitting back, knowing that there’s not anything more she can do for Spencer until they get to the hospital.

Derek must see the anxious look on Spencer’s face, because he’s quick to reach a hand out and brush his cheek gently. “Hey, I’ll be with you the whole time. I’m not gonna leave you on your own, okay? You’ll be alright, pretty boy, you’re gonna be just fine. I promise.”

And on the flight home the next morning he realises that Derek’s promise was kept. He’s fitted out with a crutch and a temporary wrapping around his ankle, resting comfortably with his head in Derek’s lap while his foot sits elevated on a pile of cushions carefully built by JJ, surrounded by people who swear up and down that they love him while proving it to him in a thousand little ways, and he’s really not sure it gets any more alright than that.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @jellejareau @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic-not-stupid (taglist form)

[alyss-spazz-penedo]

So this is not actually the next part of the unedited v!Wind fic but I got the sweetest anon ask in my inbox and like, suddenly *m o t i v a t i o n,* y’know?

So have this sort-of one-shot, set in some nebulous hypothetical future of that fic. Idr if I’d brought up the possibility of Phantom traveling with the boys before (I really need to find time to reread what I’ve written), but this would be set after they'd been past that point for a while.

Nonny, I hope you enjoy <3 This one’s for you! (And the amazing @w1lmutt, of course.)

TW: cursing, bleeding and self-inflicted harm. Nothing graphic, I promise. (Also, the hero boys being stupid martyrs, but that’s practically par for the course.)

They manage to make it to camp before Phantom explodes.

"What the fuck, old man!" the boy snarls. He grabs Time by the collar and drags the taller man down to his level. Time lets him, which only serves to incite the boy further. "What the hell do you think I am? Some kind of charity case?" He spits.

Time says nothing. He doesn’t even have the decency to wince when Phantom jostles his broken arm.

"Look. At. Me!" the boy demands, punctuating each word with a small, ineffectual shake. "I am more than just another one of your failures! I make my own damn choices! I can deal with their consequences! You are not responsible for me, who the fuck do you think you are?"

Time shakes his head, still too calm to be doing their youngest’s temper any favors. He doesn’t look at Phantom like the boy’s a perfectly capable hero in his own right, and Phantom cannot stand that. "I understand that you-" the man begins.

Phantom decks him.

"That’s enough!" The others step in then, pulling them away from each other. Time, however, won’t stop looking at him like that.

Phantom rips himself away, snarling. He needs to get out of here.

He stalks off before he can do something really rash, like go for his sword.

~o0o~

"You here to lecture me?"

Phantom kicks his feet in the air from the branch he’s perched on, eerily reminiscent of the first time the heroes had met him. His eyes are dark.

"Not gonna lie, I was expecting the captain or the puppy," the boy drawls.

Four sighs. With a quick burst from his Roc’s cape, he climbs his way up to a branch nearby, settling so they’re vaguely facing each other. "You did go too far."

"Fuck off," Phantom growls, jabbing his blade at Four threateningly. “He was asking for it.”

Four eyes the blade, then its wielder. "You shouldn’t point that at someone you don’t intend to use it on. It’s a weapon, not a toy."

"If you think I’m merely playing around, then man have I got unpleasant news for you."

Four sighs. "I know being babied sucks, but watch what lines you cross," he tells the younger boy bluntly.

"Oh, shut up. What would you know?"

"Who do you think got the brunt of the group’s mother-cucco tendencies before you came along?" Four points out, dry. In the ensuing silence, he ticks off, "I'm the shortest of the lot, and sometimes that means they like to pretend I’m not mature enough to handle ‘adult things’," he makes air quotes with his fingers. "Meanwhile Hyrule regularly overextends himself, but he’s got one of the best senses of when to cut and run, so he’s better about tolerating the fretting and gets hurt less frequently than, say, the Champion. And Legend gets out of most of it by being an asshole." A pause. "Though even he has the good manners to thank someone who saved him, however roundabout the Vet might be about it."

The boy looks nearly contemplative, under the stubborn mulishness. Four lets the silence sit for a minute. Then, lightly, he tacks on, “Though if you’re trying to pull a Legend to get out of being fussed over, I should warn you: that ship has long sailed for you.”

Phantom stares at him with that fantastic pissy face he makes sometimes. “Was that a boat joke,” he deadpans. Four grins at him, quick and impish, and the boy rewards him with a groan. "The sailor puns are getting really old."

"You're not the one who gets to decide that," Four giggles. Then, "Feeling better? Ready to face the music?"

"Absolutely not." But the kid climbs out of the tree anyway, no threats or violence necessary. Four will count it as a win.

~o0o~

Back at camp, Phantom marches up to Time. With everyone else not-so-discretely looking on, he makes a show of leaving his sword out of easy reach and points at the ground.

“Sit,” he orders, as though the armored hero were a very large dog.

Time stares down at him. “If you mean to hit me again, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” he says wryly. Phantom scowls.

“Sit, you big lug. I know a spell for that arm of yours, and I’m not doing it with you standing over me. You’re too tall.”

Time lowers himself to the ground obligingly, even as he prods, “A spell, hmm? What exactly does it do?”

Phantom, somewhat alarmingly, snaps his fangs over his fingertips hard enough to draw blood. “It’s not quite a healing spell, but it’ll get rid of that shiner I gave you, and probably patch up your arm too. Gonna use your magic to do it, though.” He lifts bloody fingers to his own face, dabbing marks on his skin with a hesitance that speaks of relying on borrowed memories, before pausing. “Close your eyes, old man. I’m not teaching you this spell, you’re an idiot who’ll misuse it.”

“So pushy today.” Time closes his one eye, reluctant but confident that the others will stop the boy from attacking him if it comes down to it. “I don’t see what the problem is. It sounds useful; it’d be good to take some of the burden of healing off Hyrule.”

“You would think that,” the boy huffs, right before wet fingers brush at his cheek. Time twitches away with a faint grimace.

“Are you bleeding on me now,” he asks, plaintive. Phantom huffs.

“Don’t be a baby; it’ll flake right off. Quit moving.”

The man exhales slowly, obviously uncomfortable. But despite his suspicions and reservations, Time doesn’t move and he doesn’t ask. He merely lets the boy do as likes, lets him keep his secrets. This, Phantom knows, is Time’s own kind of apology.

He’s not above taking advantage of that.

The former villain dots a final smear under the hero’s eye, then immediately presses his wide sleeve over his work, obscuring the design from the curious eyes of their audience.

“I’m starting it now,” he warns.

Time feels a tug on his magic—much smaller than he was expecting. A song on his Ocarina might cost him the same amount. The pain in his eye and then his arm ebbs away, pulled somewhere by the spell, and the dampness on his face ashes off right off, as promised. Time raises a hand to scratch at the lingering itch even as he opens his eyes.

“I still don’t see why-” he begins. Stops.

Phantom turns away swiftly, but the boy is standing too close to hope to hide the bruising on his face. Bruising he did not have before.

Time seizes the boy by the arm before he can flee. He drops that arm just as quickly when Phantom yelps in pain, registering too late that it’s the same arm Time himself had just had broken—had just had healed.

“What have you done,” he hears himself ask, even though he already knows.

Phantom rocks back on his heels, trying for nonchalance and failing badly at it. “This isn’t something I plan to do often,” he huffs, refusing to look Time—or anyone—in the eye. Time clenches his jaw hard enough for his teeth to creak. “You can suffer from your own mistakes. But if you’re gonna take a blow meant for me, again-”

“This isn’t happening again,” Time cuts in, cold down to his bones. He needs to nip this in the bud, right now, or it'll only get worse as their battles grow harsher. “I forbid it.”

Phantom gets a mulish look on his face. Time feels his horror mount as the younger hero growls, “Just try and stop me.”

Time grabs the kid by the shoulder—the uninjured one this time. What does he need to do to make the boy see sense? “Do not use that spell again, Phantom.”

“Let go of me,” Phantom snarls, futilely trying to claw his way out of the older man’s grip. Unfortunately, Time doesn’t think he could make his own fingers loosen if he tried. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite. Don't pretend you wouldn't do the exact same thing if literally anyone got so much as a scratch on them."

"That's-" different, he almost says, but he recognizes that it would be exactly the wrong thing to say right now. He deflates ever so slightly, just enough for Phantom to rip himself free and start rubbing at his arm, shaking faintly. A distant part of himself remembers the boy's issues with touch guiltily. "What made you think that was remotely acceptable? Why do you even know a spell like that?" He demands, side-stepping the accusation with what little grace he can scrounge up in his rattled state.

In his own display of blatantly dodging around a topic, Phantom looks away and snaps, "Gee, I wonder why Ganondorf would possibly know a spell that let him pass off wounds to hapless victims. Such a mystery for the ages."

The silence is deafening. Too late, Phantom snaps his mouth shut, realizing he's said too much.

"Are you saying you used a fucking torture spell on yourself-" someone begins.

"Why in the world would you even-?"

"Are you actually out of your mind-!?"

"When I said 'thank him' this is not what I meant-!"

"We're not all this bad, are we? It's just the two of them?" Warriors groans loudly, looking pained. At his words, Twilight whips around just in time to catch sight of the terrifyingly thoughtful look on Wild's face.

"Cub, don't you even think about it-!"

"ENOUGH!"

The bellow comes from, surprisingly, Hyrule. The boy scowls at them all disapprovingly.

"Wild, dinner's burning," he starts, very evenly. The aforementioned hero takes the chance to duck his mentor's fretful clutches, scampering over to the fire.

"Phantom, congratulations, your arm's broken," the wandering hero continues, voice more than dry enough to make up for his homeland's lack of a Gerudo desert. "That means I'll be working on you instead of our leader. Do not-" he interrupts preemptively, jabbing a finger forward and speaking over the boy's attempts to protest. "Just. Don't. We're out of potions, and that means I look over everyone that gets hurt. I'd be looking at that arm if you'd gotten your injury naturally. I'd be looking over Time right now if you'd been a bit less hasty with your ritual. And I think we'd all prefer it if you didn't use that spell again, or teach anyone how to do it."

A glance around the clearing reveals a show of nods, no one disputing Hyrule's words.

Phantom tries to cross his arms before dropping them with a wince. "You can't actually stop me," he sulks at them all. The pout really brings out the bruising on his face.

"It would be hard to, yeah," Sky agrees, soothing. "But it should be fine if there's no need for you to use it, right? Because Time," he shoots a Look at their stoic leader, "isn't going to do something reckless like throw himself in front of a monster with no shield again, right?"

Time grimaces faintly. "I'll try," he promises, which—from the looks on his companions' faces—isn't nearly good enough. But they all recognize that it's entirely honest, and the best they're going to get out of him tonight.

So ends the incident; they let the matter lie there, awkward and ignorable, and move onward with their evening.

OMAKE:

Phantom corners Twilight during his watch shift.

"Tell me you have blackmail on that idiot," he hisses. His request comes out like an order.

There's no need for their youngest to clarify who he means. The rancher pats the kid on the head, just once, like he thinks Phantom's cute but also knows he bites. "I'm not giving you blackmail on Time," he replies cheerfully. The younger hero has far too much influence on the man already. "You'll use it for evil, which I'm afraid goes against my personal code of honor. So sorry."

Phantom narrows his eyes, letting the needling slide entirely. "So you do have dirt on him," he divines.

Twilight rolls his eyes. "Leave him alone, brat. Do we need to have this talk again? Quit tormenting him."

"I'm not. Blackmailing him into self-care will only be good for him, promise."

"You can't honestly think that'll work." A pause. "Or that we haven't tried it already. It doesn't work."

"Bet you I could do it." Phantom's eyes have that disturbingly obsessive gleam in them again. "Bet you I've thought of something you haven't."

"Uh huh. And what would that be."

"All have to do is threaten to snitch on him." The boy's grin widens mischievously. "To you."

"..."

"Come on, think of it," the sailor wheedles. "He hates you fusing over him. It's why you never give me those don't-touch-my-almost-dad talks while he's still in earshot, yeah?"

Twilight's face does a funny little twitch.

"I know it, you know it, and I'd bet good money the others know it too," Phantom presses on. "How much more self-preservation do you think we could squeeze out of him if we pretend that the alternative is me giving you more reasons to shoot him worried looks all day and do that hovering thing you like to do?"

The older hero appears to consider this seriously for a long, long moment. Phantom leans in, eyes wide and imploring.

"...Nope. Still not telling you anything." Twilight tries to keep his face stern, even as a traitorous twitch pulls at the corner of his mouth. "You're not going to trick free blackmail out of me that easily."

The boy deflates. "Screw you," he grumbles. "It would've worked. I know it would've worked."

Twilight ruffles the grumpy kid's hair. "It was a nice try," he offers, and accepts the kick to the knee he gets in return as his due.

(In his bedroll across the clearing, pretending to be asleep, Time feels something tight and anxious in his chest finally begin to relax. He's nearly giddy with the sheer relief of his epiphany.

That's how he'll keep Phantom from pulling stunts this stupid again. Tell Tetra.)

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Not Your Average Love Story (SPN x CM)

Sam Winchester x Spencer Reid

Word Count: ~3490

Warnings: Show-level violence, but that’s about it! It’s bizarrely fluffy. 

A/N: My first square for @cmbingo​: “meet the parents.” This is essentially a rewrite of Supernatural 12x01, “Keep Calm and Carry On,” except Spencer and Sam are adorable dorky murder boyfriends. 

Thanks to @fangirlxwritesx67​ for the read-through! 

 When Spencer realizes he’s in love with Sam, he’s on a plane, hoping to make it to Kansas before the sun goes dark. 

He looks out the window at the too-orange light, thinking, this is a weird twist for a love story. He turns that thought over in his mind and realizes: love. 

Oh. 

It takes him by surprise, for some reason, but only for a second. He’s starting to get used to surprises. 

* * *

Spencer has always been self-aware enough to realize that his intellect and his lack of social skills would not make it easy to strike up a traditional relationship. Then, of course, you factor in his obsessive tendencies, his attachment issues, and the stresses of his job, and it’s not actually surprising that he made it past the age of thirty before he fell in love for the first time. Considering how that ended, it’s definitely a surprise — if not a minor miracle — that he’s made it this far with Sam. 

Then again, nothing about their relationship has been predictable. Spencer never guessed he’d meet his future partner while dissecting a dessicated brain. 

Ever since Spencer Reid met Sam Winchester, his life has been one surprise after another. 

* * *

The third unanswered call makes him nervous, but he figures Sam must be asleep, or at least he should be asleep. If Spencer finds himself doing ninety mph in his tiny rental car, it’s mostly because Kansas highways don’t seem to follow the usual laws of physics. They’re flat and endless and eerie in the grey pre-dawn light. 

The moment he opens the door, Spencer knows something is wrong. He spares a wishful thought for his Kevlar, and then he draws his gun, falling automatically into the too-familiar stance as he silently descends the stairs. 

There’s blood on the floor. 

This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. 

* * *

Spencer tends to spend a lot of time visualizing hypothetical problems and their solutions. He’s good at imagining all the potential outcomes of a particular scenario and calculating their likelihoods based on given variables. He frequently does this at night, instead of sleeping. 

In other words, he worries a lot. 

If he were in a normal relationship he would probably worry about normal things. For example: whether Spencer was misreading the situation, whether it was okay to run a thorough background check on them, and what to wear on a date. What would their first argument be about? What would their parents think of him? What would his mom think of them? 

About thirty-six hours after they met, Sam saved Spencer’s mom from a wraith; first impressions don’t get much better than that. 

The normal worries were rapidly eclipsed by Sam-specific worries. For example: what if he got cursed, what if he got possessed, and were there angels or demons after him this week. Why couldn’t Dean either drive a little slower or get a car with less antiquated safety features? How would Spencer help if Sam got hurt on the job? Should he tell the B.A.U. what he’s been learning about the supernatural? 

He does end up telling them everything; Sam and Dean show up at a crime scene, Hotch almost arrests them, and it turns out that one of the serial killers they’ve been hunting for a decade is actually a skinwalker. 

But the point is that when Spencer sees blood on the floor, he isn’t surprised. He’s visualized this scenario — and several hundred variations on it — before. 

* * * 

He hears a raised voice in the library and takes the steps two at a time. There are two complete strangers there, a blonde woman aiming a gun at a man, and Spencer’s training kicks in before he can figure out why she looks familiar. 

“Federal agent, hands in the air,” he barks. 

He can see the split-second when the woman thinks about turning her gun on him, but she seems to think better of it, and she sets the gun down slowly before putting her hands in the air. 

“Who are you?” the man demands. “What did you do with Sam?”

“What — Sam?” Spencer asks, panic rising in his throat. “Spencer Reid, FBI. Who —” 

“You’re Spencer?” he asks, brow furrowed. 

Spencer realizes: “You’re Castiel.” 

“Whoa, whoa, hey, gun down,” Dean interrupts. “It’s okay! She’s okay, Spence!” 

“Dean? You’re alive?” Castiel grabs him before he can say anything else.  

Spencer lowers his gun slowly. He’s starting to hyperventilate. He wants to know how Dean is still alive, yes, but he’s watching the way they embrace, the smile on Cas’s face and the way Dean’s shoulders seem to drop like he’s relaxing for the first time in a long time, and all he can think about is — 

“Can somebody tell me where the hell Sam is?” Spencer asks, voice cracking embarrassingly. 

“He’s not here,” Castiel says.

The woman looks between Cas and Spencer, eyes wide, and it’s not clear who she’s talking to when she asks, “Who are you?” 

“He’s my —” Dean starts.

Cas cuts him off by saying, “He’s Sam’s —” at the same time Spencer blurts out, “He’s an angel.” 

“Come again?” the woman asks, and when she sees the way Dean shifts nervously, she adds, “Not that, I don’t care about — you said angel?” 

“Angel. You know. Wings, harp.” 

“Not actually,” Spencer tells her, just as Cas scowls and says, “No, I don’t have a harp.” 

“Cas, Spencer,” Dean says, and he pauses, swallowing hard. “This is Mary. Mary Winchester.” 

Spencer and Cas speak in unison again, Cas in a gruff monotone as Spencer’s voice goes squeaky: “Your mother?” 

Of all the things Spencer has worried about, he never thought he would never have to worry about making a bad first impression on Sam’s parents. Sam’s parents are dead. 

Except… apparently not. Apparently Sam’s mom has been resurrected, and Spencer just pulled a gun on her. 

“Nice to meet you,” Mary says softly, with a tentative smile. 

For a second he freezes, staring at her, and his mind starts racing, recalculating, replanning, getting his worrying done after the fact, and Spencer has no idea what to say. He never made a plan for this. 

“Nice to meet you,” he responds, flushing. “Um. Sorry about that.” 

“I’d have done the same thing if I were you.” She smiles, and she doesn’t look much like Sam, but the kindness in her eyes is so very familiar. Spencer’s breath catches. 

“She’s not kidding, shoulda seen the way she pinned me when I tried to introduce myself,” Dean grumbles. Then he turns to Castiel and says, “Tell me what happened to Sam.” 

As Castiel starts to explain the details, Spencer calls Penelope. 

“FBI, office of the brilliant but under-caffeinated,” she says, slightly less chirpy than he’s used to, and Spencer realizes how early it is. Oops. 

“It’s me.” 

“Oh! Boy genius! They did it, huh? Hotch called us back in, like, as soon as the sun came back on, because apparently criminals don’t stop just because the world is ending, or whatever, but he wanted to give you a day at least — hey, are you okay? How’s that handsome lumberjack of yours?” 

“Sam’s missing,” Spencer says without preamble. “I need your help.” 

It takes Penelope approximately a minute to find the car and identify the driver, but the identity of his passenger is a little more elusive. She types away, keys clattering ceaselessly in the background, as Spencer yawns. 

“Got it! Okay, I have a cell number. If you call her, I can track it. You ready?” 

“Dean, give me your phone?” Spencer asks, holding out a hand. “You stay on the line with Penelope. She can tell you as soon as she gets the address.” 

“I can make the call,” Dean says. “I want to have a word with this bitch.” 

“Dean,” Spencer snaps. “First of all, I’m the only person here who’s trained in hostage negotiation. Finding people is literally in my job description.” 

“This isn’t a fuckin’ bank holdup, this is my brother,” Dean retorts. “It’s my job to take care of him.” 

“If you call her a bitch and start in on your threatening macho bullshit, she’s going to hang up, or worse, she’s going to believe you, and then she’ll be trying to get you before you can get to Sam. I know how to talk to people like this. If I can convince her I’m scared, that I’m not a real threat, she might give something away.” 

“But —” 

“Secondly, the only people who know you’re alive are in this room right now, which means you’re our best chance to take her by surprise when we get there, so shut up and let me do my job.” 

“You really think you can find him,” Dean says, and it’s not a question. He holds out his phone with a look of begrudging respect.

“Yes.” 

Spencer thinks, I have to. 

* * *

People aren’t all the same, but if you could quantify the concept of normal, if you could look at it statistically, most people would fall within the standard deviation. Most of their lives take an even, predictable shape, Spencer thinks. There are plenty of other people like them, and they seem to fit with each other, too, interlocking in an easy way that Spencer has always envied. 

Spencer’s got all these awkward uneven edges and strange angles. He’s not normal, and he’s always known that. 

For a long time, he doesn’t think he’ll ever find someone who’ll fit easily, not without changing him, trying to reshape him in some way. He doesn’t want to change, but he gets lonely. Most people (friends, let alone lovers) don’t last long before they get sick of his quirks. Some try longer than others, but one way or another, there’s always some jarring part of him that doesn’t match what they want. 

What if they like to sleep with the windows open, even in the winter? Or if they sleep with the air conditioning cranked up in the summer? Spencer knows he should be better about compromising on little things like that, but he really prefers things a certain way. He knows it’s neurotic. He can’t help it.  

Spencer is used to people staring blankly when he starts talking, but at what point will it drive someone away? When will they stop pretending to care about his Doctor Who opinions? When will they get bored of his info-dumping? 

And then there are the really difficult questions. How does he tell someone he used to be an addict? What if he doesn’t want to tell them about being kidnapped and tortured? What if he does, and then they start asking questions? How does he explain his PTSD, or his nightmares, or his bedtime routine of triple-checking every lock and setting his gun within arm’s reach? 

At first, when he met Sam, Spencer worried about arguments and parents and all the other normal things, but more importantly, he worried about himself. He wondered which of his irregularities would finally make Sam give up on his attempts to fit Spencer into his life. 

Neither of them sleep much, but when they do end up sharing a bed, Sam has his own routine; while Spencer checks the locks, Sam draws warding symbols, lines each window and door with salt, and sets his gun within reach. He likes the windows closed and the thermostat above 68, because, he explains simply, “Lucifer runs cold.” 

Speaking of Lucifer. Sam understands addiction, kidnapping, torture, PTSD, and nightmares, and he doesn’t ask Spencer to tell his stories before he’s ready. Sam has stories of his own. 

Sam also has his own Doctor Who opinions, and those opinions were the cause of their very first argument. Sam is wrong, but Spencer loves that he cares enough to argue. 

The first time Spencer started rambling about serial killers, he noticed Sam frowning and cut himself off, embarrassed, ready to apologize. Sam just pulled out a journal and asked him to repeat what he’d said, so that Sam could do more research on the subject later. 

Sam doesn’t expect him to change. He doesn’t try to re-shape Spencer. His life is just as weird, and by all logic they shouldn’t fit, but they do. And Spencer doesn’t feel any less himself, but suddenly he realizes that he must’ve changed along the way, because he can’t imagine his life without Sam any more; if they can’t find him, his absence is going to tear Spencer apart. 

* * * 

It’s a tense car ride, to say the least. 

Hell of a first impression, Spencer thinks again, glancing at Mary’s pale, worried face in the rearview. 

Castiel and Mary are in the backseat, and they’re trying to make small talk, but Castiel seems to be about as good as Spencer at the whole “casual conversation” thing. Sam’s told him so much about Castiel, Spencer feels like he knows him, but they’ve never actually crossed paths before. 

And then there’s Dean, who’s got his jaw clenched, staring straight ahead. Spencer gives him directions, and he grunts or nods, but he doesn’t say anything else. 

Dean intimidates the hell out of him, but they’ve always gotten along fine, maybe because Spencer’s never yelled at him before. He’s very aware that arguing with Dean Winchester is usually fruitless at best (and deadly at worst), but he’s never been good at holding his tongue when he’s upset. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer manages to mutter eventually.  

“Huh?” Dean looks at him, frowning. 

“About earlier. I didn’t mean to — um.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Dean says gruffly. 

“I was upset. I’m sorry.” 

Dean shrugs, and he hesitates before adding, “You were right.” He looks as surprised to be saying it as Spencer is to hear it. 

Spencer blinks at him a couple times before hurriedly saying, “Turn left. There.” 

Cas and Mary are having a quiet conversation about the weirdness of technology, and Spencer is about to join them when Dean speaks up again. 

“Garcia — she said something funny.”

“Uh oh.” 

Dean snorts. “Nah, not like that. Before she hung up, she told me not to worry. Said of everybody she knows, Sam probably has the second-best odds of escaping any poor sap who tries to abduct him.” 

“Second best?” 

“That’s what I said. But apparently that title belongs to you.” 

“I wouldn’t bet on it. All I can do is talk myself out, he’s stronger.” Spencer gives him a crooked attempt at a smile; it feels awkward on his face, but he means it when he says, “He’ll be okay.”

* * * 

The funny thing is, Spencer has been in this situation before. 

When it was Maeve, though, he panicked, because all he could think about was how she must feel: scared, helpless. Spencer has too much empathy sometimes. Imagining Maeve’s helplessness made him feel like he was drowning. 

This is different. He’s not exactly zen about the whole situation, of course; it feels like a piece of him is missing, but he’s clear-headed, because he knows that Sam is anything but helpless. He trusts Sam to take care of himself.  

Aside from the supernatural element, Sam’s job is astoundingly similar to Spencer’s, and he’s astoundingly good at it. The Winchesters have consulted on a couple cases, now, for the B.A.U. (Spencer’s still not sure how Hotch manages the paperwork) and they try to find cases in the same general area as wherever Spencer winds up, so they’ve gotten to work together a few times. Sam’s sheer competence at his job might be the most attractive thing Spencer has ever seen. 

Spencer used to imagine a quiet, mundane romance. He always just assumed he’d find someone whose life was more normal than his, and he was resigned to the stress it would cause in a relationship. He’d forget to call, he’d miss dinner, he’d have to cancel plans and be absent from so much of what constituted a normal domestic life, and his partner would be left at home, alone, all too aware of how much danger Spencer could be in, helpless to do anything about it. 

Instead, Spencer found Sam. Spencer never has to feel guilty about missing dinner, because Sam isn’t at home worrying about him. Sam is out there saving the world. 

Sam is not going to wait for Spencer to rescue him; he might not even need rescuing, at this point. Instead of worrying about what Sam is doing and whether he’s scared, Spencer can focus on his own plan. 

* * * 

He and Dean circle slowly around the house. They spot the entrance to the basement, and Dean almost runs right to it, but Spencer grabs his arm and points to the sigils around the door. 

Spencer notices movement through a window next to the back door, and when they creep up to get a glimpse inside, he sees two women. One is the blonde — the brains of the operation — and the other is stockier, clearly the muscle. 

After a quick conversation in whispers and gestures, Dean sneaks around to the side of the house opposite the basement, and a second later Spencer hears him shout. He waits a couple seconds and glances in the window again, and sure enough, the bigger woman is gone while the blonde is watching something on a computer monitor, looking agitated. Security cameras, maybe. 

Spencer is about to go inside when he sees the blonde start, look around, and grab a cattle prod. Then she’s hurrying toward a door, sliding back a heavy deadbolt, and Spencer sees a dark stairwell that must lead to the basement. 

He slips through the door and follows her. 

For a split-second, the scene in the basement almost stops his heart. Sam is lying on the floor, completely still, his head surrounded by a puddle of blood. 

But before Spencer can really process what he’s seeing, let alone react, Sam is in motion: lashing out, grabbing her by the throat, shoving her against the wall. Spencer descends the stairs quietly with his gun at the ready, trying not to make any noise that might distract Sam right now. 

Sam doesn’t need his help. There’s blood on his damp clothes and his arms are shaking as the blonde goes limp in his grip, but he’s alive; he doesn’t need Spencer’s help, and Spencer isn’t the slightest bit surprised. 

When Sam turns and sees him, he doesn’t look surprised either. He just smiles, all dimples and sparkling eyes in spite of his obvious pain as he limps over. 

“Sorry that took me so long,” Spencer says casually, trying to control his grin. He doesn’t want to holster his gun yet, so he keeps it trained on the woman and hugs Sam one-armed. 

Sam wraps his arms around Spencer, holding on tight. Spencer rests his forehead on Sam’s shoulder, taking a second to breathe as he feels missing pieces sliding neatly into place. 

“Love you,” Sam says, and the words sound like a sigh of relief. He pulls back, and he looks surprised, like he didn’t actually mean to say that out loud. 

Spencer’s about to reply when he sees the woman struggling to her feet, reaching for her cattle prod, and so instead he says, “Look out.” 

Sam steps sideways to give him a clear shot. Spencer shoots her in the thigh and she screams as she falls to the floor. 

“See how you like it,” Sam tells her, with a vicious little smile. 

“I love you too,” Spencer blurts out. 

For a second they both pause, grinning at each other like idiots, their surroundings forgotten.

Then there’s a sound from overhead, and Sam asks hurriedly, “The other one. Did you take her out already?”

“Dean’s got her,” Spencer tells him. “We should check on him, then we can come back down and deal with — Sam?” 

At first he can’t figure out why Sam’s mouth drops open like that, shocked and disbelieving. Then he remembers. 

“Dean’s alive?” Sam asks, a smile spreading slowly over his face. Spencer nods, wrapping an arm around Sam’s ribs, supporting him as he limps gingerly toward the stairs. It feels like he’s forgetting something.

There’s another noise, and then Mary is in the doorway, looking down at them. 

Oh. 

Sam turns to Spencer silently, like he’s waiting for confirmation that she’s real. 

Spencer nods. “Yeah. So — um. Surprise?” 

Sam doesn’t actually seem all that surprised, because… of course he doesn’t. He blinks at Spencer a couple times and then he grins. 

“You met my mom before I did,” Sam says, breathless and amused, and grabs the banister to haul himself up the stairs. Spencer laughs and follows him, smiling to himself. 

It’s not your average “meet the parents” scene, but somehow, it fits Sam and Spencer perfectly. 

Nothing about their love story has been normal. Why start now? 

.

.

.

[shadowsfascination]

Shadamy Swordland | Ch 2 | Sacred Arts

“I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth on the count of three, but you’re not to make a sound! We wouldn’t want to draw any attention to us, now do we, lass?”” The stranger now held a dagger dangerously close to her throat. Amy felt the cold steel against her skin and didn’t dare exhale too deep, terrified it’d cut into her flesh. Unable to nod in agreement, she could only widen her eyes in good hopes the other understood. “One… Two… Three.” She felt the gloved fingers slide away from her now dry mouth. Automatically she gasped and panicked, the sharp lines of the dagger pressing into her throat with every shallow breath. “Good girl. Now, let’s have a chat.” The other said, stepping in to face her, still holding the dagger in place. Amy looked up in astonishment to a creature with a sensual vibe over her. Their manner of speech aligned with the smug grin on her face. She wore a dark coat with fabric that seemed to hug her body in a way that barely left anything to the imagination, her sharp shaped wings the only thing uncurved about her physique. How could she have missed her when she scanned the place? “Then talk!” Amy snarled.

She tried to keep her voice down. The woman pulled back the hood of her coat onto her shoulders, revealing her white skin and big ears. Her lips were full and her two sharp canine tooths drew Amy’s attention.

“Why so rushy? Oh, that’s right! You have to get back to your dorm in time so they won’t notice you’re gone. Imagine all the rumours you’d cause!”

“If you’re so worried about my reputation, you could let me go, you know?”

The bat suppressed her tendency to mockingly laugh in her face and shifted the dagger to her slightly press into Amy’s muzzle.

“You’re too naïve. Ah, where are my manners?! I haven’t introduced myself to you yet.”

“I’ve been wondering about your manners as well.” Amy angrily hissed at her.

“You don’t want to go down that road with me, dear.” Her voice turned dark and serious. “On the topic of manners: it is wildly indecent that a member from a low-rank family such as yourself is in a romantic relationship with a high-ranked knight, who happens to be your trainer as well.”

A cocktail of frustration, fear and disgust roared inside her, sending tremors to her limbs. If she weren’t tied up, she’d teach this woman a lesson.

“…And quite a passionate one I must say.” The bat lowered her eyelids and locked eyes with her, clearly trying to get under her skin. Amy felt her cheeks redden in both embarrassment and anger, feeling exposed and violated by how much this stranger knew about her and Shadow. “H-how much do you know?”

“More than enough to offer you a deal.” “Let’s hear it.” Amy said unwillingly. She added scepticism to the tone in her voice.

“Rouge!”

Shadow rushed in without warning and knocked her over with force, taking both of the females by surprise. He pushed the bat down, one of his hands clenched around her neck, the other pointing out his magnificent sword at her. She struggled to escape his hold and failed, but still managed to cock a smile, unnerving Shadow and Amy.

“So, you’re coming to save the day after all, my lord.” ‘They seem to know each other,’ Amy quietly muttered to herself. “Cut it out!” Shadow yelled angrily. He increased his grip on her. “Are you hurt?” Shadow asked his student. She shook her head at him, never been more relieved to see him. His courtesy towards her sent a rush of adrenaline to her chest. She watched how he confidently moved to master his opponent with his muscular arms. Amy loved how strong and masculine he was, but was suddenly alarmed when she saw this ‘Rouge’-woman seriously struggle to breathe.

“H-hear me out, Shadow!”

“You’re unreliable and corrupt to the core! Give me one reason why I would listen to you!”

A series of coughs and grated voice followed from her almost clenched shut throat in attempt to get him to listen to her. They turned into background sounds when his girlfriend called him to order, afraid he’d push it too far. The grip on her neck reduced at once, grasping both of her wrists instead now. Shadow then lost his balance when she suddenly disappeared underneath him and he tumbled unto the floor. That darn bat with her endless number of spells!

“My, my. It seems you have forgotten how well I know my ways around the sacred arts there, knight.”

Rising to already to lash at her again, he was dumbfounded when he turned around. His girl gasped and let out a high-pitched squeak, seeing how the dagger of the woman lightly scratched her neck. He sighed and lowered his sword. “Put it in the sheathe!” Rouge ordered. Reluctantly he obeyed.

How things could become this ugly in so little time?

“Talk.” He sneered at her, crossing his arms.

“Here’s the deal: you two are going to help me out. I’ve had enough of being an outcast! My clan is on the edge of perishing. There’s not enough food, we’re poor and being used as a doormat, looked down upon and being abused way too long now!”

“How is that our problem?” “I’ll tell you: It became your problem the minute your self-discipline failed you and ya couldn’t keep your hands of this one here.”

Shadow’s eyes narrowed, disgusted by the way she portrayed him, but didn’t bother to go against it. “But of course, that all depends on how determined you are on keeping this a secret, Shadow.”

“That’s dirty! You are just loving this, aren’t you?” “You think you know me so well! I wished I wouldn’t have to do this, but I have no choice. I have to find the gemstone!” “It’s always been about luxury and prestige with you. If you’d ask me, you got what you deserved.” “Well, I am in fact not asking you, so keep your rude opinion to yourself. This isn’t about jewellery! I’m at the point where I can’t even feed my children properly anymore!”

His eyes widened in shock. He didn't know that she had kids now. “If I had simply asked for your assistance, you would’ve for sure rejected my request- that is IF you even were to hear me out in the first place. There’s no other way for me to get what I want but to blackmail you. Am I wrong?” Rouge’s bright blue orbs glistered even more brightly through the tears that filled her eyes. Amy couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for her. “Probably not.” He scratched the squills on his head in discomfort. “There’s someone who can help me and my clan to get out of this horrible situation. I need to bring him the infamous turquoise gemstone for his plans to work and the two of you are going to help me, seeing how you’re able to perform special skills and all…”

Shadow seemed to understand what she was talking about.

“What gemstone?”

“Oh, you haven’t told her? This ought to be even more interesting than I thought.”

“The special skill I performed earlier is only a sacred art spell. It’s no big deal.” Amy stated in confusion.  She did not understand what was so special about it.

“And what do you think is the source of the power allowing you to do so?” “I haven’t given it much thought actually.”

“Well then, I’ll assume you are familiar with the legend of the gemstone that was used by greedy men with a thirst of power to let destruction befall our realm in the past. The one they tell you scary tales about in kindergarten, the one which’s tremendous power is a great taboo and the use of it a violation of the law.”

Amy nodded. “That’s the one.”

“That makes no sense! It’s supposed to be sealed away in a faraway kingdom. There’s no way that could be the source of power providing us the magic of the sacred arts.”

“That’s what they want you to believe.” She pointed in the direction of the academy. “Wherever that blasted stone is located, its’ range of power has an enormous scale. Its’ influence reaches our realm, providing a mysterious power, a power all the sacred arts are based on. In fact, you’re not that different from me, a dark mage.” …

“Especially him. He seems to know his way around spells I can’t even decode, let alone perform.” “Nonsense! Shadow would never use dark magic!” “It is in fact true, Amy.” Shadow heaved a sigh. He grunted and let out a soft curse under his breath, shifting his gaze away from Amy when he saw the painful look on her face. This was not the way he wanted her to find out about this.

“And you didn’t bother to tell me?!”

“I didn’t exactly have the time, now did I? Tonight’s the first time I have ever performed a sacred art spell around you. It’s complicated…”

“I’m listening…” “As much as I’d love to listen to the two of you argue, the sun is about to rise. Once your secret is out, you’ll be useless to me,” Rouge interfered. Shadow and Amy shared a glance, silently admitting they did not have a choice but to help her. He unfolded his arms and held out his hand to the bat.

“Wonderful! We’ll meet again here tonight an hour past curfew. Don’t be late.”

Shadow ignored her, hating to be ordered around by anyone but Amy and long wishing for this nightmare to be over. He walked up to Amy and untied her to rub her sore hands, only shifting his gaze up to hers once. She kept eyeing him in a mad way and he knew that look on her face meant trouble for him. “Now warp her back to her dorm so she’ll be back in time, will ya?” “Just because we’ll be working together does NOT mean you are to interfere in our relationship. Stay out of it!” “Heh!” the bat cocked a self-complacent smile. “Relationship…Who would’ve thought?” She nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders in disbelief and closely walked past them to the ladder, briefly touching Amy’s shoulder. “You’re his weak spot, lass. The only one I could ever find,” Rouge whispered.

The bat spread her wings and flew off into the distance leaving a beaten, chagrined Shadow behind with an upset Amy. Shadows hopes on a calm, peaceful day evaporated like snow on a sunny day when he realized he yet had to spend the day practicing swordfights with her. Reading someone wasn’t one of his qualities, but her offended mood was so evidently present, there was no doubt he misunderstood this time. She brushed off the dust and straw, dressing herself in her cloak. Arms crossed and boldly making him catch her gaze before she left, she made him a wordless promise: she would not go easy on him.

Fire and torments, this is not happening!

_______________________________________

< Previous chapter: read here.

> Next chapter: read here.

________________________________________

My head’s been feeling a little fuzzy over the last few days. I have no idea if this is a good follow-up to the oneshot right now xD Let me know your thoughts and whether you would like a third chapter(: I have written the draft for that already.  Send me a PM for typo’s, ideas or feedback if you will. I am an amateuristic writer and English is not my native langauge^^’ LOL.

[regrettablewritings]

Animatic/Storyboard Music

Got bored/procrastinate-y on coloring in this ultra intricate card for my mom. So I’m just gonna make a list of songs I think make for good animatic material. Because why not/I wanna foist my musical tastes on people/ @locke-writes got me in a music binge. For the most part, it’s just gonna be me explaining the meanings or the vibe or what they generally tend to be used for, but really it’s mostly subjective so imaginate whatchu wanna.

“Trust Me” - The Devil’s Carnival Originally depicting a story about the Scorpion and the Frog, it’s the perfect song for when you want to depict the dynamic between a gullible or at the very least more grounded character and a figure whose intentions . . . may be less than pure. Or good for anyone, really.

“The Dismemberment Song” - The Blue Kid I have a playlist dedicated to songs whose content and sound are just . . . not married to one another, but got a weird flirtationship situation going on. Anyway, I’ve seen people say that they like to imagine it’s sung through the POV of a scorned housewife who’s finally Had Enough™️. And . . . They’re really not wrong for it. Really, though, it’s just the right song for when a sadist is just ready to gut a fucker but is disturbingly jolly about it.

“Love Me Dead” - Ludo Continuing with my trend of songs about people in less than ideal situations, “Love Me Dead” is straight to the point: The relationship is just awful and the guy gets nothing from it, but he can’t help but be hopelessly in a state of adoration for the woman he’s latched on to (“You’re born of a jackal! YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL!!”)

“Constellations” - The Oh Hellos There actually isn’t a plot to this song, it just feels really good (as all songs by The Oh Hellos are prone to be). However, if you feel a need to portray the concept of having to reorganize your thoughts after realizing that maybe they weren’t what you initially thought, and then coming to the conclusion that even though everything changes as a result, you’ll be alright? This is the song for you.

“A Kindling of Sorts” - The Oh Hellos An instrumental piece that is like . . . It’s related to another song of theirs about nationalism called “Torches”, so make of that what you will. (I personally have been using it to imagine storyboarding an opening for an animated The Witcher series.)

“The Other Side” - The Greatest Showman I know everyone and their mom has used this to portray situations like villains trying to get good guys to join their side. But I dun curr, it’s a fun song. That, and I like what Emilyamio did with her interpretation. It’s fun. For a basic rundown, know it’s another song about two characters’ dynamics being explored, with one coming to the other with a proposal that they join them in whatever endeavors they have in store. It’s often portrayed as something evil, but it really doesn’t have to be, as the original context was more about letting loose than anything.

“The Thief and the Moon” - Shawn James A much more mellow piece. Simple and straight to the point: A thief tells the Moon that he plans on stealing her light to shade the world in darkness. The Moon insists that the thief would only doom the world by doing so, to which the thief clarifies that he doesn’t care; if the world is shrouded in shadow, it means he will be able to steal with more ease (“My very existence is a race to attain wealth”). Disgusted, the Moon essentially curses the man with a warning that his greed can and will bring about his end -- and leave him to be forgotten by the rest of mankind, once it happens.

“Villainous Thing” - Shayfer James I’ve seen people say that this song is about singing to a cadaver but I can’t quite find anything confirming that (translation: I’m too lazy to look too into it). Regardless, it’s a fun ditty that yet again portrays someone with less than pure intentions encouraging someone to join him in some good old fashion villainy, as they’ve clearly endured their fair share of hardships and surely wanted to do evil anyway (“You’ll find no ever after here, it’s clear that isn’t what you came for“).

“Necromancin Dancin” - Bear Ghost Straight forward and fun as fuck: A necromancer apparently seems to cross classes and try his hand at barding by not only raising an army of the dead, but by also making them dance in order to make conquering the world easier. Because . . . a body doing Disco Duck isn’t scary, I guess.

"Aquaman” - Walk the Moon A song about one half of a couple wanting to become more involved in their relationship, but still having some nervousness about doing so. If you somehow haven’t heard this song yet, you gotta because it’s the cutest shit.

“Jenny’s Tale” - Ren I’ll be brutally honest, it’s about a woman named Jenny who just wants to get home after a long day of work and an unfortunate encounter with a 14 year old named Screech who gets way in over his head. As in, like, a death happens. That being said, I need. Like. An animated music video of this song. I imagine this shit in gritty charcoal or painted on glass, it just needs this. Somebody who isn’t me who knows what they’re doing, please look into this.

“The Curse of the Fold” - Shawn James As cheesy as it sounds, it basically boils down to not giving up or yielding. But what makes it so cool is the fact that Shawn James makes all his songs basically sound like a western gothic soundtrack. Which helps, because he admits that the title is also a reference to poker, in which giving up too often or too easily can often rob you of a delicious reward gained through perseverance and sacrifice.

“Thank God I’m Not You” - Himalayas I prefer to imagine this for an arrogant asshole of a character. Because that’s exactly what this song is about: They’re a liar and a thief, they’ve been called the son of Satan, and yet they consider themselves lucky -- ‘cause at least they ain’t you! If you have a character in mind who’s a delightful, punchable little shit, this is probably either their anthem or at least on the playlist you inevitably made for them.

"Passerine" - The Oh Hellos So there’s a common trend in The Oh Hellos’ discography that tends to explore the two founders’ experiences with faith and their growth in how they understand it or recognize it. With “Passerine”, the concept being explored is the experience they had when it came to taking a step back and realizing just how many of their supposed “fellow Christians” were actually doing some rather unchristian things, so to speak. When they “prune[d] their feathers”, it became clear that they had less in common with certain people proclaiming to be Christian while also spouting bigotry and greed. However, the desire to move away from such influences comes with the feeling of being torn, as moving too far away from the Bible leaves the singer feeling as though she is betraying something she holds dear. As a result, “Passerine” symbolizes not a breakage from faith, but a breakage from blind faith as they understood it, and the inevitable feeling of being torn that comes along with expanding upon how one views their beliefs and those around them. It’s therefore not uncommon to see Good Omens animatics using this song. (Something I also noticed is that throughout the song, you hear pieces of “Constellations”. TOH have a tendency to reference previous pieces, and considering “Constellations” is a song about changing perspective and the meanings we apply to them, it fits in beautifully with a song about reevaluating one’s stance.)

“Like the Dawn” - The Oh Hellos As stated before, a lot of TOH’s discography draws inspiration from their faith. In this case, it’s an outright retelling of the Garden of Eden, specifically when Adam awoke to find Eve had been created. What makes this iteration stand out to most, however, is that the singer is female, which seems to change the vibe you get. It sweetens the feeling of wonder we often forget the first man might’ve felt upon seeing somebody made for him, creating an air of beauty yet comfort with such lines as “And like the dawn, you broke the dark and my whole earth shook” or “You were the brightest shade of sun I had ever seen.” Even without the awareness or an interest in religious influences, it still manages to be a very feel-good song -- which is the mark of an overall good song in general!

“Confession” - RED Dealing with the constant battle of feeling ashamed that how you feel on the inside isn’t in sync with how you present yourself on the outside. That you should feel bad for smiling out at the world while screaming and thrashing -- like it’s a lie. But you can’t help it: It’s what you’re accustomed to. Though it does end on a hopeful note with the singer deciding that they want to reach out for help and rid themselves of this feeling of pain they have inside.

“When I Grow Up” - Matilda . . . Only if you want to cry. Seriously. When you’re a kid, everything seems difficult but you’re positive that once you grow up, everything will change: You’ll be tall enough to climb the trees you were too small to, you’ll be able to carry everything because you’re stronger, you’ll be brave enough to fight the monsters hiding in your room, you’ll finally have all the answers. . . . But life isn’t that simple. We wish it were, but it isn’t. There’s this bittersweetness about this song, about a sense of purity we unfortunately grow out of where we think things will be just the same enough for us to do what we want when we want, but things are more complicated than that. We still struggle to reach, to bear the weight, to not be afraid, to have even a fraction of the answers. But! We’re reminded that just because we’re told life isn’t fair, doesn’t mean we have to take it. After all, nothing changes when nothing happens. And even beyond that? It helps to remember that we’re never quite done growing up; there’s always more to learn, so remember to be patient with yourself.

“Hand Me My Shovel, I’m Going In!” - Will Wood and the Tapeworms This is . . . a song. The lyrics are honestly kinda all over the place and shooting rapid fire, making it a bit difficult to discern what exactly the singer is going on about. It makes for a pretty crazy song that suggests somebody’s going unhinged, which is apparently precisely the intention?? I’ve seen a lot of people interpret this as a song about a guy who is already at a low point in his life but nonetheless is going, “. . . I bet I can go deeper. Hand me my shovel.”

“No Reason” - Beetlejuice God if i had a youtube channel the segment i would spend on this song would be so juicy just ripe and thicc with thoughts and feelings i tell ya rich like a fresh fatty peach the apple that tempted Eve and gagged Adam yes ‘Nother song that explores the dynamic between two differing people and their worldviews. At its simplest, “No Reason” is about two opposite ends of a spectrum coming to a head: Idealistic and hippie-dippy Delia is convinced that everything happens for a reason, while cynical and depressed Lydia asserts that everything happens at random and it doesn’t matter anyway because we’re all going to die. And even though the delivery is ultimately a comedic one, you get more insight as to why one another feels the way that they do: Lydia, as we’ve previously learned, has recently lost her mother to an illness, which has left her depressed and feeling invisible (a theme in the show); whereas Delia’s failed marriage and desperate attempts to nonetheless be happy have left her dependent on the idea that these things had to have happened for a reason, otherwise, her pain would’ve been for nothing. What’s important is that neither side is actually appointed as the winner, with the song ultimately ending that the universe is random for a reason.

“Barbara 2.0″ - Beetlejuice Without spoiling anything (or at least too much), “Barbara 2.0″ is about growth. It’s about learning to put your foot down after a literal lifetime of being passive out of fear of what might happen and just accepting that nothing will happen if nothing happens -- but that doesn’t make whatever happens good.

“Bleed Magic” - IDHKBTFM It’s either about a killer or a vampire. No, seriously: When Dallon Weekes was asked about what the story of the song was, that was his answer. I personally prefer to think of it as a vampire or demon of some kind, given that the song came out around Halloween. Perfect for yet another example of somebody (likely supernatural) having an upper hand on an unsuspecting mortal. ...I have way too many of these on this list, I swear I don’t have a problem —

“Feel Good Drag” - Anberlin A toxic relationship of sorts. In that it shouldn’t be a relationship to begin with. Depicts the singer being approached by an ex, who seeks a one-night stand while her current boyfriend is out of town. However, the singer is aware that trying to continue anything regardless of the situation is a moot point: Even when they were together, their relationship was doomed from the start, and nothing about that is going to change -- especially now.

“Soviet Trumpeter” - Katzenjammer (It’s kinda difficult to work with this one but I’ve seen people work with less or stranger.) Based off the life of one Eddie Rosner, a Jewish Polish trumpeter whose fame within the USSR unfortunately faded due to the Soviet Union’s heavy censorship. Even if nothing is to be done with it, it still paints a melancholic picture of a talented man’s skills being largely unknown as a result of things beyond his control. All wrapped up in a song that denotes a strange deterioration in a way I can’t quite place.

“Apple Blossom” - The White Stripes On its face, it’s a very sweet song: The singer encourages his beloved to be vulnerable enough with him to tell him her troubles and to let him “sort them out for [her]”. She’s clearly saddened, and seeing so distresses him to where he insists that he will do whatever he can to make her happy. However, the tone of the song and certain lines make it easy to twist into yet another song of a character attempting to seduce somebody into a state of vulnerability . . .

“You’ve Got Possibilities” - It’s a Bird, It’s a Plane, It’s Superman The one singular song people actually liked from this forgotten musical. Perfect for when somebody intends on giving somebody else a makeover. Y’know, after totally roasting them on their posture and clothing. If you want to add a lil something extra, know that the context is that a lady wants to give Clark Kent a makeover, insisting that in spite of his schlubby appearance, there’s gotta be something underneath. I repeat: She is telling this to Clark freaking Kent.

 “Still” - Anastasia In the context, the show’s antagonist (not bad guy, there’s a difference) finds himself torn between obligation and personal interest: Does he fulfill his duty and live up to expectations set upon him by his father and the society he’s been selected to help uphold? Or does he let a woman he has become fond of go? Is she truly as innocent as she claims? Or is she well aware of what she’s doing? And every time he thinks he’s reached a conclusion, he can’t help but thing, “But still . . .” Good for when you want to portray a character conflicted between obligations of politics and what their heart wants.

“Two Nobodies in New York” - [title of show] Two young men plan on entering an upcoming theatrical festival but struggle with what to even submit. This song in particular focuses on them trying to figure out what to even write, the concept of fame, and if wanting the certain things that may come with fame can mean anything from being sell-outs to getting a sitcom. It’s admittedly specific, but it’s a cute and funny interaction between two guys who are, for the most part, actually in sync with their thoughts and anxieties. For the time being.

“Into the Unknown” - Idina Menzel Look, I refuse to watch that movie. I just do. But I will take this song over That Other One any day. Mostly because I personally like to imagine that the singer in this song is about to embark on a Pixaresque journey after accidentally leaving her home during the night of The Wild Hunt, accidentally separating her spirit from her body and thus giving her a very limited time to get back to it before she remains a soul trapped in a whirlwind of ghosts forever. But first: Let’s sing about that strange howling that coaxes her so.

“You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid” - The Offspring I sure do long songs that can characterize a shithead . . . Anywho! The smoothest way to go is just to portray some cocky, manipulative shit who’s used to just lying and cheating their way to get what they want before slipping away without any consequences -- to a point. There’s the option of portraying the betrayer’s comeuppance, but there’s also the frustratingly delicious option of just letting them get away with whatever to lie another day.

“Why Should I Worry” - Billy Joel When in doubt, go to earlier Disney. Because like it or not, they had some bops. And when in the need of portraying a happy-go-lucky (probably idiotic) doofus and his more neurotic or cynical friend going about their life with the former just Mr. Magooing it while the latter suffers more realistic consequences? You go with this song. If you want. That’s just me.

“Transformation” - Brother Bear For when you want to invoke a mystical or otherworldly feeling. There’s really not much more I can say except to encourage you to listen to it and watch the scene if you can find it. You’ll get the vibe.

“No Girl’s Toy” - Raggedy Ann and Andy: A Musical Adventure It’s a big shame this movie is relatively unknown and never got a proper VHS release or anything -- mainly because the music in this cult classic is definitely stuff I could see becoming standards. I could see people performing “I Never Get Enough” for little shows, or recycling “Blue” for a different show. Thankfully, somebody was able to upload a clear enough sounding recording of “No Girl’s Toy”, so at least we have that. In context (just...follow me on this), Raggedy Ann’s brother, Raggedy Andy, has had enough of being subjected to “girly things” while in the nursery. Additionally, though, the way the song was written means it can also be interpreted as just a guy who refuses to let himself be yanked around regardless of how thick the sugar being laid on him is. . . . If you wanna poke fun as a character for trying to appear tougher than what he is, here’s the song. (That being said, Andy is a sweetheart at the end of the day. No amount of tough-fronting will hide that.)

“I Enjoy Being a Girl” - Flower Drum Song (It is by sheer coincidence that this song follows the above.) Really, it’s exactly what it says on the tin: The singer enjoys being a girl and what all it entails for her. She loves her feminine form, she loves the attention she gets, she loves dolling herself up, she loves frilly dresses, and she hopes to one day marry a guy who enjoys “having a girl like [her].” And honestly? Good on her! Love whatcha love, lovely! Seriously, though, it’s a cute song for anyone who just wants to indulge in some girliness.

“Chip on My Shoulder” - Legally Blonde Come on: It’s Legally Blonde. You know what this bop is, or at least have an idea of it. But since I love this song, I’ll indulge: Disheartened by her failure to both win back her ex and succeed in the fast-paced environment of Harvard, the normally bright-eyed Elle is ready to call it quits. That is, until junior partner Emmett gets involved. Unimpressed by her story, Emmett reveals that he got to where he was by busting his ass due to having a chip on his shoulder from his rough beginnings — and maybe a chip on the shoulder is exactly what Elle needs to survive. And as somebody driven by spite, I can appreciate that kind of message. Anywho, it all in all is a song about growth and learning how to be “driven as hell” to keep up with an opportunity that may not be easy to take, but is not one to be passed by.

“What Do I Need with Love?” - Thoroughly Modern Millie “What Do I Need with Love?” asks exactly that: He could date a different girl every night of the week if he so wanted, and never once had any desire to go steady before. He considers himself lucky to have never fallen for anyone -- until now. Which he’s not! He’s not in love. ...He totally is and, by his own admission, he’s got it bad it’s terribly adorable.

“Interlude IV” - Zach Callison The entire album is actually a narrative about a failed relationship of Callison’s and I’m sure the other songs are just as great fuel for animatics -- I’m just too caught up on listening to this one over and over. Sometimes, we just wanna listen to Steven Universe cuss and be openly furious. Seriously, though, even without the context of the rest of the story, you get the idea well enough: A spiteful Zach decides to get back at the one that broke his heart in such a painful way, whereas a well-meaning friend insists they just leave it be and move on. While this technically would be the better and healthier option, Zach is just too far gone with rage to let it go and decides to take care of things by himself.

“Evermore” - Beauty & the Beast Look, I know the remake wasn’t anything crazy. But also I don’t honestly care too terribly much. Besides, this song was nice and it really gets me after that key change. We all want a royal doofus to be enamored enough with us to let us go for our own happiness but still know that their life will forever be changed because they met us. Animate that shit. Over and over.

goddamn this list is long lemme just stop this now byyyyeeeee

[tinycaprisun]

a song about it raining somewhere else

title: a song about it raining somewhere else characters: chuck taylor x trent beretta word count: 3822 part: 1/1 warnings: mild cursing, and like that’s kinda it? maybe mild angst? but also i’m a baby and it becomes fluff by the end? a/n: howdy, this is not another i’m back i’m back piece as much as it honestly is. no, see this time- this is actually a gift! 2 days ago was @trentjinshi’s birthday and i wanted to write him something! so i sat down for like 6 hours with my goopy goblin gay brain and spit out this obvious magnum opus. so, like, don’t hate it please. also hugest happy birthday to emil again!! yeehaw... i’ve technically already sent this to u

You know, of all days to have the soul crushing realization that you’ve secretly been in love with your best friend, Trent should have expected it to happen on Valentine’s Day.

The man had garbage luck anyways, and good things seemingly never happened to him. So when Chuck animatedly told him he had a date that night with some girl, Trent’s heart shouldn’t have blown apart like he had been shot. Sure, he pretended to be supportive of his buddy, returning his radiant smile despite the effect never reaching his eyes, And yeah, he wished him all the best, telling the taller man he hoped it went well.

But did Trent mean any of that? Fuck no! He was dying on the inside, mourning the loss of a relationship and love he didn’t even know he wanted! Perhaps he should have considered himself lucky that he didn’t start bawling his eyes out on the spot. The New Yorker had a tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve, so the crying really was not out of the question at that moment. But he contained his feelings somehow, moving on through the rest of that afternoon like he was trudging through a snowstorm. Slow, cold, and slowly dying from the inside out.

So that led him here, sitting in his car as the rain started to come down, refusing to turn the damn thing on. He didn’t want to go back to his hotel room. Because if he did, it would remind him of the obvious. He went home alone tonight.

Chuck wasn’t alone. His friend had a probably beautiful person with a perfect personality sitting across from him at a fancy restaurant. A person who wasn’t him. Why couldn’t Trent be his perfect date? He would laugh at his jokes, softly hold his hand as they walked in from the parking lot, pull his chair out for him, admire him like he was the sun-

A harsh banging came from his left, rhythmically tapping against the glass of his car window in time with the rain drops. Trent’s head jerked up from where it had defeatedly slumped against the steering wheel to see who was trying to get his attention.

It was a security guard, holding an umbrella in one hand and wavering him off with another, politely telling him to leave the premises as the arena building they were at was closing. To be honest, getting a ticket from not leaving and instead rotting in that parking lot forever sounded like a far better time than he was having. But, he didn’t have a choice. Story of his life.

Trent started up his car, quickly leaving off into the vast night with only his thoughts to keep him company. And that was rapidly becoming annoying. The singular thing on his mind was one person, and how all this time, his feelings were so obvious. Every time he even glanced in his friend’s direction his heart rate would spike. Before now, he had chalked that up to coincidence or - considering it was Trent and how his body loved to torture him - underlying health conditions. Evidently, it was neither of those things.

One would think he would catch on to his festering crush sooner; considering he thought the entire world of Chuck and whenever he had to go more than a few days without seeing him, he would get a weird sense of longing to be back in his presence, but nothing ever wanted to work out that way. Life thought it would be much funnier if Trent felt like he was being ripped apart at the seams by a simple sentence.

Between the still processing of what it even meant to have a crush on your best friend, and knowing that right now he was out with some other person having the time of his life, Trent was not feeling great as he drove down the freeway. Grumbling under his breath, he flicked the radio on to fill the car with something other than his problems. A song the brunette had never heard before crackled to life, being about part of the way through.

By the time we get there, everybody will be drunk The chairs will be on tables and the band will be unplugged We're gonna look real good, but we're gonna look real rude I'm sorry I'm not sorry that I'm-

Fucking perfect! The last person to mess with the radio in Trent’s car was Chuck, and bastard left it on one of his stupid country stations. Trent didn’t even like country music! That didn’t stop him, however, from a few days ago when they were driving from city to city and let Chuck put on whatever he liked, even if it was something he was going to hate. He would make tiny sacrifices like that all the time for his partner, because he knew it would earn him one of those sunlit smiles. Trent really would do anything to make Chuck happy, and had been since they met.

Late to the party with you Oh, who needs confetti? We're already falling into the groove And who needs a crowd when you're happy at a party for two? The world can wait 'Cause I'm never late to the party if I'm late to the party with you

It... It was a love song?

“Throw me off a fucking bridge.” Trent mumbled to himself as he exited an off ramp. Seriously, who out there was tormenting him and making him have possibly the worst day ever? What omnipotent being did he piss off? He thought he was an alright dude, not getting into other people’s business and sort of keeping to himself. Most days he made an attempt to be somewhat nice to others and never did any of that vile or cruel shit. And yet, he was cursed to drive home while listening to a love song in a genre that he hated, and only helped to remind him more of his best friend.

Let's promise when we get in that we'll try to get right out Fake a couple conversations, make the necessary rounds These kinda things just turn into "Who's leaving here with who?" But I just want 'em all to see me come in late to the party with you

Wasn’t that a funny line. Wanting others to see the person you’re with because of how much you loved them? Trent understood that. Whenever he would go anywhere with Chuck, he would always want people to know he was there with him- whether he realized it or not.

He could talk for hours about him. It could be the simple telling of a funny story, or gushing about how good he was in the ring. Or how great of a friend he was. That made Trent wonder about what Chuck would be like if they were together. His mind wandered, dreaming up scenarios and infinite possibilities as he pulled into his hotel’s parking garage.

The musing didn’t stop when he killed the engine, happily ending that fucking song that was starting to piss him off with how cute it was. Trent pushed himself out of the car, gathering his singular bag from the trunk and wandering inside through the rain. Which, if anyone was curious, was even worse than it was when he left. It was coming down in buckets now, being slung into the New Yorker’s face by the wind.

Checking in was easy enough, having the briefest of conversations with the man at the desk who happened to have a thick southern accent.

Chuck had an accent, but only when he drank a lot. It took about 3 and a half beers for it to come out, but by that point he didn’t care all that much to hide it. He wouldn’t be trashed, as he was a pretty solid drinker and had made putting strong shit back a hobby over the last few years. Trent knew exactly how it sounded, though. A smooth Kentucky accent that always caused him to punctuate the last word of his sentences and pronounce certain things differently. Never anything like “y’all” or something southern like that, after all Chuck wasn’t that dime store cowboy they worked with.

The thing Trent remembered the most about Chuck’s accent was how he said his name. He would draw it out, almost like he was whining, except it was low in his voice and always accompanied by a wide grin. One that’s toothy like Cheshire Cat, and annoyingly sweet like bubblegum. Trent idly wondered if he tasted like bubblegum too, but the thought turned vivid fantasy was interrupted for a moment by the elevator reaching his floor.

The brunette slowly approached his room, still partially entranced by the ideas he had created in his mind as he unlocked his door and slipped in. From there, it felt like he wasn’t even alive anymore. Not in a morbid sense, but as in he wasn’t participating in the concept of reality at that moment. Trent was so disconnected from his actions, it was almost as though he was outside of his body and looking in from somewhere else. So much so, that when he snapped out of his revere from his phone buzzing, he was lying in bed wearing only his boxers.

Not that what was on his phone was of any importance to him. All Trent saw were notifications for things he didn’t care about, the only thing sticking out was a short text from Orange sending him more condolences over his current “issue”. Damn, he was acting like someone had died, not his friend’s heart being broken. Trent didn’t bother responding, tossing the device back on the bedside table and rolling over to face away from it.

The alarm clock on the other stand read “10:17 p.m.”, blinking at him like the piece of shit was broken. It also only now occurred to Trent that he had never turned the lights on while he was basically astral projecting. So he was bathed in darkness, with the only illumination being that digital clock and the street lights below outside the window.

Was he going to fall asleep at a respectable time? Because deep in his bones he could feel the shroud of tiredness creeping through him from all of the emotional energy he drained today. And with that, Trent grabbed one of the unused pillows and wrapped himself around it, cuddling it tightly and not bothering to get under the bed covers.

Maybe if he tried hard enough, Trent could pretend the pillow was something else. --

Who in the hell was knocking at his door at - the New Yorker stopped his angry brain tirade to peek at the clock again - 11:53 at night? He had only gotten to sleep an hour and it was cut short by who knew what. If this was Orange coming to tell him he had broken another hotel microwave by “forgetting to take the metal spoon out of his mac and cheese”, Trent was going to fucking kill him.

Getting up from where he lay, Trent stumbled blearily across the room to the door. In those few seconds, it processed with him that his hair must have come untied while he was sleeping because it was messily draped around his shoulders. Among that, he was still only dressed in boxers, riding rather low on his hips. Maybe he had a restless sleep even though it was quick?

He didn’t care what he looked like though as he slowly pulled the door open with a yawn and blinked from the harsh light flooding in from the hallway. Trent prepared to open his mouth and berate his shorter friend when he heard a sniffle come from in front of him.

Chuck was standing on the other side of the doorway, soaking wet from the rain. By the look on his face, it seemed as though he had been crying as well, with red eyes and a running nose. His eyes didn’t meet Trent’s as he all but whispered, “H-hey, man.”

Did the longer haired brunette care that his friend was ice cold and drenched from head to toe? No. That was why without words, he dragged his friend into the room and hugged him tightly, letting the hotel door slip closed on its own. Chuck didn’t need to be told twice to hug back, nearly crushing Trent from the strength of his shaking arms.

They stayed like that for a good while, with Trent rubbing soothing circles into his back and letting him rest his head on his shoulder when he began to weep again. That was before he slowly drew back, silently taking Chuck’s hand and guiding him to his bed so he could sit. Trent grabbed the comforter and wrapped it around his friend, figuring he could just use a blanket later when he needed to sleep.

“I... didn’t even tell you- what’s wrong..?” murmured the Kentuckian, slouching in on himself and bringing his knees up so they were closer to his chest. He must have been really cold. Trent paused for a moment, looking with a pained yet sympathetic smile.

“Don’t need to. You’re upset, and I gotta fix that.” He wasn’t sure who hurt him, or even what, but just let it be known he was going to destroy whatever it was.

“Well, uh, t-thank you?”

“Yeah, dude. I-” Love you. “Care about you. You’re my friend and shit. Hurts to see you cry.” With that, Trent carefully maneuvered around Chuck and hopped off the bed to go rifle through his clothes for something dry he could wear. And- probably some pants for himself. When he first opened the door, he couldn’t help but notice Chuck gave him the slightest look up and down, with his cheeks going red afterwards. Trent assumed it was only because he was cold, and the warmth from his bedroom had fucked with his internal body temperature.

While digging through his bags trying to find some of the clothes he always packed for his friend - and if it were any other day than today, Trent would have told you it was because he was just being a nice guy. He knew better than that now. - Chuck began to talk again. “Date ditched me...”

“They didn’t show up?”

Chuck sighed. “No, she did. But- when her ex came around... She would’a rather been with him.”

Trent grabbed the extra clothes and stood, turning around to face Chuck who was staring off into the corner. Considering how already destroyed his heart already was from earlier, he was a bit surprised it still had a few more pieces that could shatter at this sight. Coming back over, he set the pile to one side of him, then sat back down on the other. “Chuck...”

“I don’t know what I expected? Every girl, or hell- every guy, I’ve ever tried to date has never worked out for me. I don’t get it.” Oh, Trent should not have been so happy to hear those words. Well, he wasn’t happy to hear most of them, and was hurting for his friend, but two of them in particular stuck out to him like a sore thumb. Every guy. That meant Chuck had been on dates with men. That meant, even though it was fucked up to think about this at the moment, that Trent still had a chance.

“You just haven’t found the right one, man. None of those assholes from before deserve you anyways.” Chuck brought his gaze back over to Trent, eyes glassy and expression- disbelieving. His hair was matted to his head, still wet in some places, but mostly stuck in small spots to his forehead. Everything else about him was still about the same caliber as that, slowly drying and clinging to parts of his body that weren’t being disrupted by the comforter.

“Or maybe I didn’t deserve them...” Something- came over Trent then. There wasn’t a word for the mix of emotions he felt upon hearing that. But what he could feel were his hands taking either side of his best friend’s face and holding his head up to where he would look him in the eyes.

“That’s not true, you and I both know that. Anyone in the world would be lucky to have you.”

Chuck honest to god laughed at that and tilted his head. “Name one person.”

Fuck. For all intents and purposes, the answer he desperately wanted to give was ‘Me’, but that never came out of his mouth. Instead, it was like Trent was suspended in fear, unable to say what he wanted for the thought of being rejected. Or somehow even worse, him thinking it was a joke and getting upset with him. So, Trent said nothing, trying to think of a different response that would be true, but didn’t give himself away.

That was the nail in the coffin, though. Chuck took his silence as an answer, unable to provide a single person who could possibly want to be with him. The other man shook Trent’s hands away from his face, hurt welling up in his eyes with a grimace as he moved to grab the clothes that were gotten for him.

“See,” Chuck hobbled to a standing position, holding the clean garments close to his sodden chest like it was going to protect him from the pain he was feeling. Trent, just say something, anything, he yelled to himself whilst watching Chuck shuffle over to the bathroom and pull the door open. He flicked his eyes down to the floor for a moment before coming back up and locking onto Trent’s. “No one could ever love me...”

“Chuck-” Trent was too late, Chuck had already disappeared into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. And God damn it, his stomach had sunk to the depth of his being, twisting and turning like he was going to be sick. He should have said something. Even if it meant ruining the only thing he really had left to care about. There was his job, his other friends, his family and that; and while they meant a lot to him as well, he truly believed in that moment, and probably for some while now, that Chuck was his world.

As goofy and kind of bullshit as it was to hear, that’s what he felt like. That this guy he’s known for a good chunk of his life was his sun, moon, and every star in the sky. And Trent knew he’s never felt that way about another person. He knew that no other person on this Earth - or fuck, any other planet - could beam at him when they pull an upset and win a match together like he could. No one else made his chest feel warm whenever they complimented him quite the same way that Chuck did. There wasn’t a soul who had the same giggle, the wit, the determination, the personality- fucking any of it. No one had quite what his best friend had, and that was why he loved him.

Trent had no idea how long Chuck was going to be in there, or if he was ever going to come out. Knowing him, he could stay in there all night, not wanting to face the world again- let alone his friend. Even still, he got up from where he was and placed himself a few paces away from his bathroom door. Within his head, he hyped himself up, vowing that no matter if he got scared or felt like everything was going to go wrong, the New Yorker was going to tell him the truth.

Approximately 4 minutes later - if you asked Trent it felt like 10 years - Chuck finally emerged from his hiding place, dressed in some of his friend’s clothes and with shockingly drier hair. Not sure why he was so surprised that he had run a towel through it or something, but that didn’t matter. The taller man seemed confused as to why Trent was standing at the door, but before he could ask what was happening, Trent said, “I do.”

Chuck squinted at him with a, “What?” but it came out choked off and shaky, like he wasn’t prepared to speak.

“You said no one could ever love you, and that’s not true. Because I love you,” He wanted to protest, but now that Trent was talking, he couldn’t stop. “And I didn’t realize it until today, but I seriously am so in love with you that I don’t think I could picture my life without you. You mean everything to me and I would do anything for you just to see your beautiful smile or hear you say my name. And I know it sounds like I’m lying and that I’m trying to make you feel better, but I’m not. If I think about it, I feel like I’ve loved you forever but never realized it, and I wish I could have known sooner. Because you need to know that you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and I would be the luckiest guy in the world to even have a chance with you-”

“Trent-”

“I love the way you purposefully send me a string of those stupid emojis over text because you know it annoys me. I love how you can make anyone feel better with just one smile and your passion for loving others. I love how much you love animals and how every dog you see, you consider kidnapping-'' Trent had become so caught up in his declaration that he hadn’t noticed his friend had moved from in front of him and Chuck’s lips were on his.

Before he could even do anything; not even get a gasp at the sudden action, Chuck was already pulling away, breathing as if he had just run a mile. His face was bright red and his hands were holding either of Trent’s arms as he searched his face for a reaction. Or anything really.

“I- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” It felt as though Trent was living in one of those shitty romantic comedies he secretly liked to watch, because he was the one who cut Chuck off while speaking with an somehow even more desperate kiss. He felt him respond almost instant, bringing one of his hands up to Trent’s face to cup it gently as his own arms latched cautiously onto Chuck’s hips. And that was where they stayed, for who knew how long, but every second of it was exactly where they wanted to be.

You know, of all days to have the life-changing realization that you’re secretly in love with your best friend, Trent - and Chuck for that matter - hadn’t expected it to happen on (the day after) Valentine’s Day.

[petra-deserved-better]

Prompt from @himebee-5 Rivetra list.

“Petra getting injured/aggressed and we see her trying to overcome the trauma with some help of Levi and the squad and her other friends (Nifa/Nanaba)

(There was also the other prompt about Petra having a panic attack on the other list that I combined with the above but I forgot to write it down sorry!)

Pairing: Levi x Petra

Cannonverse

2795 Words

——————————————————————————

It had been two months since the incident on their last expedition, one month since she’d been deemed well enough to return to active duty. She loved her job, she’d been desperate to get out of medical and back to work. It was what made her present situation more frustrating, this couldn’t keep happening, every time she promised herself it would be the last time and every time she was wrong.

Sooner or later someone was going to notice. The thought terrified her. They would think she was weak, that she wasn’t ready to go outside the walls again. They’d give her desk duties!

The thought of that alone caused Petra to take a few deep calming breaths, the worst had passed already but her heart was still pumping a little too fast, her ears ringing a little too loud.

She flushed the chain of the toilet cubicle she had been hiding in, just in case anyone was outside wondering what she was up to. She walked over to the sink and splashed some cold water on her face. Her reflection in the mirror was a sorry one, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes swollen from panicked tears. She splashed more cold water on her face, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself, if she waited just a few minuets more it wouldn’t be obvious she had been crying, she just hoped no one had noticed her absence yet.

The door to the women’s bathrooms swung open, and Petra cursed her bad luck as Nifa walked in, she paused when she saw Petra and cast a critical eye over her appearance.

“What’s wrong?” Nifa asked softly, but the spark in her eyes showed that the softness would melt away if she thought someone had wronged her friend.

Petra loved Nifa, outside of her squad she was the person she was closest to in the whole of the survey corps but that didn’t change the fact that she was the last person Petra had wanted to run into. Nifa was altogether to intuitive and right now Petra had a secret she needed to hide. It was part of the reason she’d been avoiding Nifa since she came out of medical a month ago.

“My injury was hurting a bit after training that’s all.” Petra said quickly, it was the first thing that had come to mind. She was a terrible liar so she’d gone with a half truth. Her injury did ache mildly when she trained now, the excruciating pain of the first week or two of her recovery was still fresh in her mind and so she thought the excuse was plausible.

Nifa arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow at her and Petra felt her stomach drop a little, she knew Nifa wasn’t buying it.

“Is Captain Levi working you too hard, because I can tell Squad Leader Hange to speak to him if you want?”

“No!” Petra cried a little too loudly. “No, honestly he’s not.” She laughed a little self consciously.

“Are you sure? You know Hange isn’t scared of him like the others, she’ll tell him to lay off.”

“Please don’t.” To her dismay Petra felt a lump form a little in her throat as she spoke, she was a crier at the best of times, but at the moment she just couldn’t seem to keep her emotions in check. She cleared her throat and gave Nifa a weak smile. “Honestly, Captain Levi isn’t working me too hard at all. If anything he’s going easy on me which he never does.”

It was the truth, she’d practically had to beg him to let her return to active duty as early as he had. He barely gave her half the exercises he had before her accident when they were training and seemed to be always finding excuses to send her off on stupid errands instead of getting her to do laps or push ups with the squad. He’d even mentioned her staying behind when they went outside the walls again next month. It made Petra sick just thinking off it. He’d been there when the titan had grabbed her on their last expedition outside the walls, he’d seen the whole thing, he was the one who’d sliced the nape of the monsters neck seconds before it had been able to swallow Petra whole. He hadn’t treated her the same since, he was disappointed in her she was sure of it. Every day she lived in dread that he was going to tell her she couldn’t be part of his team anymore, and then what would she do. She had planned to devote herself to this fight, she was devoted to him, life without her captain seemed meaningless.

Which is as why it was important that her squad mates and her Captain never found out about these episodes she kept having. No one could know the truth.

“Petra,” Nifa’s voice came out softer than usual she reached out and squeezed Petra’s arm. “I just want you to know, if you ever want to talk about what happened on the last expedition I’m always here.”

“Thanks, but really I’m fine now. I Just can’t wait to get back out there.”

Nifa huffed, Petra was pretty sure she knew she was lying.

“Ok, just promise me you’ll be gentle with yourself, some injuries take longer to heal than others.”

Petra nodded and rushed out of the bathroom as quickly as she could, Nifa was kind but she didn’t know what she was talking about, Petras ribs were healed, she was fine, she just needed to get back out there and show everyone she could fight titans without making any mistakes this time. Then she would be ok, then she would be back in control she told herself. She just had to get through the next few weeks without anyone noticing how far from ok she really was.

XxxX

The titans hand was huge and it loomed over her. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t breath, she could barely think her heart beat was pounding so loud in her ears. The gigantic hand inched closer slowly, if she could have moved she could have got out of its way but she couldn’t make her body work, her arms and legs were heavy, tied down by invisible weights. She opened her mouth but she couldn’t even scream. White hot pain spread through her chest before the titans hand had even reached her. She could smell the stale stench of its breath. The pain in her chest grew worse, her throat ached as she desperately gasped for air that she couldn’t seem to get into her lungs. In a few short seconds it would be over, this was it, she was going to die! If only she could move, she just needed to…

Petra sat up in bed with a strangled cry, tears were streaming down her face and her heat beat was still wild in her ears, but she was in her room.

“I’m safe, there’s no titan. I’m safe, there’s no titan.” She closed her eyes tight and repeated the words over and over until she felt the panic begin to subside, only then did she dare open her eyes again.

She took a moment to anchor herself into her small room. She looked at each item carefully, her desk, her chair, her little trunk that contained her uniform and some civilian clothes, her boots sat neatly next to her door. She looked at the slim line of dawn light that peeked through the gap in the curtains that hung on her small window. She told herself over and over that she was safe. When she finally felt calm she cursed the fact that it had happened again. The attacks were becoming more frequent.

She was still shaken when she went to breakfast later that morning. The boys on her squad were more like brothers than friends. Usually she reveled in their lively banter but today it grated on her nerves, she felt jumpy. She told herself she was being ridiculous, she was in the middle of the Survey Corps headquarters, there weren’t going to be titans hiding round corners waiting to grab her. She needed to get a grip. Her squad was doing fitness training today and she could barely wait to get started. She knew that once she was doing her workout her mind would be focused and she would feel better.

“Hey Pet!” Oruo clapped his arm round her shoulder and Petra felt herself jump out of her skin. She knew it was an over reaction but she pushed him away harshly anyway.

“Jesus Oruo are you trying to give me a heart attack.” She snapped.

Oruo held up his hands defensively. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared.” She said sharply.

“Are you ok?”

Shit. She knew Oruo was often misunderstood by people because he had a tendency to show off, but Petra had known him since they were five and knew him better. He was loud and a little bit of a smart mouth but he wasn’t stupid. He’d been asking her if she was ok on an almost daily basis these days and although she knew him well enough to know his heart was in the right place she didn’t have the mental composure to keep telling him she was ok when she wasn’t.

“Get off my back Oruo you’re not my keeper.”

She knew she was being unfair but she was rattled, she was jumpy and she was scared if she tried to answer his question she just might tell him the truth. To make matters worse she saw Captain Levi entering the mess hall, she couldn’t face him right now either. She grabbed her coffee and stood up.

“I’m going to go get some laps in ahead of training.”

She left quickly before any of the boys could ask awkward questions.

XxxxxX

This was why she loved to train, she thought as she ran laps around the training room. Her mind was focused, the slight burn of her muscles as she ran was a welcome distraction.

She was entirely focused on the task at hand. That in the end was her downfall, she hadn’t heard anyone else enter the room, she thought she was entirely alone, when she caught sight of the shadow of another person in her peripheral vision it was her undoing.

Her brain jumped to the most unreasonable conclusion, there was no rationalising, no sensible thought. It all happened too quickly, her mind screamed one word at her.

Titan!

She was in the forest again, and she didn’t see the Titan in time again, and it’s hand grabbed her again squeezing the life from her, inching her towards certain death inside its stinking mouth.

No,no,no,no,no.

Her heart raced wildly, her hands tingled, her vision blurred, she could hear the sound of herself sobbing as if she was listening to someone else.

She wasn’t sure how long it had been when the panic finally began to subside. Slowly her surroundings came back into view. She’d some how managed to get herself to the corner of the room, her knees up to her chest her arms curled protectively around herself. As she blinked to clear her vision the sight nearly made her wish she was truly back in the titans grasp- There staring at her with his usual half lidded expression was the one person she hadn’t wanted to see, Captain Levi.

“So, how long have you been having panic attacks?”

Petra’s mouth fell open as she tried to think of an excuse, some explanation. But there was no way she could explain away what he’d just seen, her secret was out. She dropped her head back down into her knees in despair. She heard the Captains footsteps walking away. She waited for him to return. She wondered if he would bring Hange or just one of the nurses who worked in medical, she wondered if they would let her rest some more or discharge her from the military altogether. She felt thoroughly miserable.

She barely registered the sound of his footsteps returning till he was practically in front of her, she summoned up the courage to look up and to her surprise it was still just the captain. He handed her a glass of water and Petra took it numbly.

To her immense surprise the Captain then sat down on the floor next to her and handed her the handkerchief he kept in his pocket.

“Thank you.” She said quietly as she took it from him and wiped the trail of tears from her face.

“You should drink that.” He said indicating the glass he’d handed her.

Petra obediently sipped her drink.

“How long?” He asked again.

“Oh, well, um, actually…” Petra faltered, as she wondered how she could down play what he had just seen without lying. She knew without a shadow of a doubt she could never lie to her Captain.

“Tch, tell the truth brat.”

Petra smiled slightly, she wasn’t sure how her Captain always managed to make the insult sound like an endearment.

“Since the incident on the last expedition.” She said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry Captain.”

The Captain let out a long sigh and Petra closed her eyes and waited for him to tell her the words she’d been dreading, that she was off the squad. Instead to her surprise she felt his hand pat the top of her head, just for a split second, so quick she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it.

“People don’t almost end up as Titan shit and then just carry on like nothing’s happened. If I’m honest your lack of reaction was starting to concern me.”

Petra sighed, it felt like a weight had been lifted from her chest now someone knew the truth, it would almost be worth the consequences, almost. She glanced at her Captain, he was looking off into the distance, it gave her the confidence to look at him more closely she studied his profile trying to remember every detail of his face for later. Her chest felt hollow at the thought of not working under him anymore, not seeing him every day.

He turned to look at her, the sudden directness of his gaze made heat rise in her cheeks and Petra had to look away. She swallowed and took a deep breath, her father has always told her there was no point delaying the inevitable.

“Sir, I completely understand if you want me off the squad.”

“There are teas that can help,” he said as if he hadn’t even heard her. “Of course they only help with the symptoms. You need to actually talk to someone about them, rationalise your fears in order to really conquer them.”

“Yes sir.” She replied quietly head still down.

“In the mean time you can still train as normal but I don’t want you going out on any expeditions until your better understand.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes met his, her heart skipping a beat barely allowing herself to hope.

“You mean I’m not off the squad.”

“Why would you be off my squad?”

Joy bubbled through her, she felt dizzy with relief, without thinking she threw her arms around her captain. She only recollected how completely inappropriate her actions where when she felt the Captain jump at the contact. She pulled back, the Captains eyes were wide with shock and if Petra had been feeling more herself she might have noticed the blush that coloured his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry sir!” She said clapping her hands over her mouth in embarrassment. “I was just so sure you wouldn’t want me within a mile of the squad when you realised how weak I’d become.”

He frowned at her. “You would never have made it back from so many expeditions if you were weak Ral.”

“Yes but I almost didn’t make it back last time and now I’m a mess.”

An almost imperceptible dark shadow passed across her Captains face as she spoke.

“Well just make sure that doesn’t happen again ok, that’s a direct order. Speak to Hange she’ll be able to point you in the direction of a suitable Doctor.” He said standing up.

“Yes sir.” She replied also standing. “I’ll go speak to hange now.”

She left feeling lighter than she had done in the last two months. She had no idea that she had struck terror into the heart of the man she left behind for the second time in as many months. First when she’d almost gotten killed by a Titan and second when she’d spoken of leaving his squad.

[theheartsmistakes]

The Last Night Part IX

Lengthy Author’s Notes Warning: Hi everyone. I woke up this morning with an incredibly heavy heart. I contemplated postponing the next installment of The Last Night because my head just hasn’t been into writing this week surrounding the horrific death of George Floyd and the national uprising that it justly caused. My heart is burdened, my thoughts are racing, and I’m grieving for the black community around me. I just want to say that I stand with anyone who experiences or has experienced the daily and ongoing injustice of hatred or racism. I do not personally know what this is like. I will not pretend to understand. But I do know that it needs to end. And it ends with us. Enough is enough.

I want to be an author one day. That is my dream, my aspiration, my driving force. I don’t believe that I have a lot of power to enact change at the moment, but I hope one day I will have a voice that invokes empathy, respect, and awareness through my writing-- the same way Cassandra Clare has spoken out on issues of racism, homophobia, gender inequality, prejudice, intolerance, injustice, bullying, and other forms of hatred through her writing. 

This is probably my shortest chapter yet, but I hope it offers you a brief break from the harsh reality of what is going on. I promise to double my word count for the next installment. Be safe. Be brave. Be bold. And above all else, be kind whenever possible. If anyone needs anything, please do not hesitate to reach out. 

“People aren't born good or bad. Maybe they're born with tendencies either way, but its the way you live your life that matters.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Glass

Part IX

A flash of light caught James’ eye from the witch light he held in his hands. While everyone else ran to Thomas and Alastair, James stepped away and walked over to the rain gutter where a sword lay in the gathered water. A sword that James would recognize anywhere.

He picked up Cortana, having only held it once before. A wave of fear washed over James. Wherever Cordelia was, she was without it. He could understand why Cordelia treasured it the way she did. It wasn’t just about birth right or ownership. The sword exuded strength and honor. A light blade, but perfectly balanced. She’d called it something else once, after she’d lost it in battle and James returned it to. He couldn’t remember the words she had used in her native tongue, but he remembered it meant ‘mouse’. He’d meant to ask her why she’d named it after such a small, inconsequential creature, but his mind had been on other things and the question eluded him. When he returned it to her again, he’d remember to ask her.

James was the last one to reach Alastair. He came to stop behind Thomas who already had his stele out and was carving quick lines into the skin on Alastair’s arm. Anna had her ear down to Alastair’s mouth, her face twisted in concentration. When she sat up again, James saw how ashen Alastair had become.

Anna started pulling at Alastair’s clothes, searching for the injury that produced the halo of blood around his shoulders and torso. With the tip of her knife, she sliced the buttons clean off of his shirt and ripped it open. Dark bruising formed around both sides of his rib cage, but there was no injury or blood to be seen.

“Where is it all coming from?” Anna demanded. “Quick, Kit, help me flip him over.”

“Are we sure it’s safe to move him?” asked Christopher whose glasses had slid down to the edge of his nose. “What if it’s a spinal injury?”

“Matthew stabilize his head,” said Anna, as she and Christopher started to tilt Alastair onto his side.

“Wait,” shouted Matthew. He pulled his hands out from beneath Alastair’s neck. The witchlight that burned in the street beside him illuminated the blood covering Matthew’s hands. “I think I found the source.”

Thomas cursed and started drawing irates at a quicker pace onto the now exposed skin of Alastair’s chest. The rune would burn bright for a moment before disappearing into his skin like a flame being submerged underwater with nothing left after except a pale white scar.

“We need to get him to the institute,” said Anna. “He’s lost too much blood and only the Silent Brother’s can help a head injury. Matthew, Christopher, help Tom—“

Before she could finish her sentence, Thomas had lifted Alastair into his arms, holding him close against his chest despite Alastair’s wet clothing and the blood. As Thomas stood, Anna and Christopher stood with him.

“Has he said anything?” James finally asked as he turned to follow them towards the car. “Did he see Lucie?”

“He’s been unconscious,” said Anna and stopped to snap at Matthew. “Come on. We’ll need you to drive us back.”

“Who's going to stay with James?” asked Matthew, as he stood up from the street.

“It’s all right,” said James. “I’ll be fine. Take them back to the Institute and alert my parents that Lucie has gone missing and that I suspect it has something to do with Belial.”

Matthew nodded and moved to follow the rest, but quickly turned back around to James. “The Belial? The demon-grandfather-no-one-speaks-of—“

“Do you know of another?”

“Matthew!” Anna yelled from the automobile.

Christopher now hung over the engine and was half submerged in the contraption.

Matthew quickly turned back to James and pressed his witchlight into his hand. “If it truly is him, be sure to kill the bastard this time.”

James nodded and watched his parabatai run back towards the car just as Anna turned over the engine. A burst of steam escaped the motor, but it rumbled with the same  life as it had before. James spoke a quiet prayer to the angel Raziel for Alastair. He’d known Shadowhunters to die from far less injuries than the ones Alastair had sustained and there was no saying how long he had been lying in the street alone.

As James looked down at the blood stain on the cobblestones, drifting in rivulets down the street towards the gutter, James felt his chest constrict. If they found Alastair in the state he was in, what condition would that leave Cordelia? Cordelia who fought her way out of Belial’s clutches and stabbed him in the chest. What should have been a devastating blow, and it was, but not enough to kill the demon. What sort of vengeful punishments would he do to her, not only because of what she did herself, but also because of James’ resistance.

James cursed. He should have known. What had he missed when he was investigating the different possibilities of who his grandfather could be? He’d spent countless hours in the library scouring over every piece of literature he could find on the princes of hell and while most authors spoke of the demons with almost admiration, as if the princes wrote their biographies themselves, not one article, not one page mentions how to properly kill a prince of hell.

While filled with uncertainty about many things, there was one thing that James knew for certain. Belial was merciless and he had Cordelia and possibly Lucie.

James looked to the sky and opened his hands out to his sides. The corners of the world were starting to turn a dark opaque blue with the rising sun as the stars began to disappear with the moon.

James raised his arms wider. “If it was my attention you wanted,” he said, quietly at first, “you have it. Let them go.”

An owl cooed from the roof of one of the buildings behind him, but otherwise, the world remained silent and still. But James could feel the presence of someone watching him, listening closely, unseen. There, but not there. Hidden behind a veil into another world. And he knew his audience.

“I’ll do anything you ask!” The words tore from James’ lungs. “Anything! Just let them go.”

Still no answer. No reply. Not even a chill underneath his skin.

“Belial!” James turned slowly in a circle. “You cannot have Lucie. You cannot have my sister, you bastard!”

Cortana rattled in James’ hand as a large flash of light and whip-like crack echoed in the silence of the empty street sending James a few steps backwards. He heard a thump and groan. He spun around to find a dark pile moving and shifting in the dull morning light.

James gripped Cortana in both hands and raised the blade to his shoulder as he slowly approached the intrusions when he saw the flash of crimson hair mixed with mousy brown curls.

“Cordelia.” A voice whimpered from the pile. “Cordelia, stay awake. You need to stay awake.”

“Lucie?” James slowly lowered Cortana.

Lucie looked over her shoulder at him. Her face was covered in soot and streaked with tears. James looked from her to Cordelia lying unconscious beneath his sister.

“James!” Lucie pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. “James where are the others? Where’s the car?”

James couldn’t tear his eyes away from Cordelia even as he answered Lucie’s questions. “Alastair is injured. They rushed him back to the Institute. Is she—?” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.

Lucie went back down to Cordelia. “She’s badly injured. I should have thought— all I could think about was getting her away from there and this was the last place I remember being. James, if we don’t get her back to the institute quickly, she will die. She will die and there will be no way to save her.”

James kneeled beside his sister and carefully lifted a limp, lifeless Cordelia into his arms. Her hair was tangled and covered in an orange sand. Dried black blood marked the corners of her mouth. Black veins ran underneath her skin. She was cold against him. The warmth that once radiated from her was waning like a flame consuming the last inch of a wick.

With her body held tight against his, he ran towards the carriage, grimacing at Martin’s body lying cold in the street. He used his shoulder to push open the door wider and carefully carried Cordelia into the cab.

Lucie followed in after him and sat on the bench with Cordelia’s head in her lap.

James took a moment to brush a strand of hair away from Cordelia’s cheek before he looked back to Lucie. “Do you have a stele?”

She shook her head. James reached into his weapons belt and drew his own. He pressed it into Lucie’s palm. “Start drawing runes on her. Healing, blood replenishing, strengthening, all of them. Hold tight to her.”

Fresh tears streamed from Lucie’s eyes as determination set into her expression and she started drawing runes into Cordelia’s skin: on her palm, her forearm, her collarbone, and anywhere else she could reach.

Lucie caught his hand before he could leave. “Hurry James,” she sobbed. “She can’t die.”

“She won’t,” said James darkly.

James stepped out from the carriage and closed the door security behind him. He climbed up onto the driver's seat and took the reins with a quick snap against the rump of the already agitated horse. The carriage jolted as he pulled hard on the left rein, leading the horse in a wide circle and back onto the correct side of the road.

The sun had begun to rise in the east, but the beautiful dawn was lost on James as if it existed in some far-off place, some other morning where James was not barreling through London with Cordelia inches from death in the carriage. Someplace where Cordelia was not cold and quiet no matter how much James bargained for her life. If she would live, he would give up anything. If she could only live, he would marry her. And not just for a day, a month, a year, but for as long as breath entered his lungs and left his body. He would love her and love her well. If only she would live.

(If you’re just joining us, here are the other parts)

Here is Part I

Here is Part II

Here is Part III

Here is Part IV

Here is Part V

Here is Part VI

Here is Part VII

Here is Part VIII

[kcrtia]

PARK MILES &&. PERSONAL LAPTOP

synopsis — he’s wallowing in his own self pity, unsure of how he feels for his long time childhood best friend. he opens up his laptop and watches the old videos they had filmed together, most of which were just kiha. he finds that it cheers him up a little, just enough to motivate him to get back on his feet and to choreography something meaningful. mentions — @bemyuse  word count — 1719 it has no business being this long tbh but my ramblings really out here

table of contents —          A. empty apartment          B. empty apartment and kiha          C. opening his laptop          D. butterflies          E. watching videos of kiha          F. choreographing a song he composed

A.     he lets the inexplicable feeling of drowning overwhelm him, but he doesn’t allow for the sudden flush that cascades over his features to take away from his unnerving persona. a facade he still manages to keep up even within the confines of his own home. his living space, a lot more empty than what he had anticipated. his mother calling every other week to remind him to buy a good set of chairs, a dining table and remember to invite kiha over regularly. a scheme she has been trying to partake in, ever since he had departed from the crescent dorms. there at least, his manager would decorate the dorms or with the help of the members, decorating their living quarters as they pleased and he was but the lucky freeloader that would assume the luxuries of an already decorated home.

    but here was different, he was on his own. the bleakness of the white walls and the lack of colour adorning his apartment, he stuck out like a sore thumb in his all black attire. the television sat on the floor with it’s wires trailing close to the wall, his gaming consoles stacked on top of the other, pushed to the side just far enough that he can view the full screen. a baby couch he had managed to swipe up not too long since moving out, one that his neighbours had thrown out into the hallway on one of his nightly strolls to find sanity.

    a finger gently pokes at the baby coach that laid sprawled in front of his neighbours door, it was still in good condition. and he thought to himself, what a waste. shaking his head disapprovingly as he dragged it back to his place, tossing it into his vast living room. a centre piece, beside the grand piano that once belonged to his deceased father, now shoved to the corner of the living room. and he’s much too big for the baby couch, though he had no other chairs, except for the stool in his bedroom that sat under the table, that, he too, had stolen from the old crescent dorm. the stool, that too, having been from one of his neighbours. the only true possession he owned was the priceless bed he had custom made for his tired soul. a soul so tired that even his physique began to feel the sudden famish of fatigue.

B.     the numerous rooms in his apartment, all empty. it was a wonder why he had even chosen to move into such a large space despite never utilising it all. maybe somewhere, etched in his mind was the idea of one day... maybe one day, just maybe, kiha would want to come in and share it with him. to share this safe space, albeit, bleak and empty, he was sure that kiha could brighten up anything. he has already done so with miles, surely his apartment would pose no such obstacles. but somewhere, wedged in the nooks and crannies of his soul was an insatiable fear of the impending rejection that he would go through. the uncertainty and the imposing nature of having been slapped with a hard no. miles couldn’t risk putting his pride on the line like that, not yet at least.

    and his mother knows her son’s tendencies, and so she calls upon kiha to check up on him. his own protests having shut down kiha’s attempts of questioning his apartment and his design choice. it was one of the main reasons why he had tried so hard to keep kiha away from his apartment for the longest time. excuse after excuse and now, he found himself wallowing in the same baby couch he had found in the very beginning of his move. his knees pulled up to his chest, and his back slouching against the small backing that barely supported him. arms wrapping around his knees, as his head rests against his forearm. his gaze falls to the tiled floor, the feeling of drowning returns.

    he wasn’t sure what had brought on this random sensation, he wanted to scream but he hadn’t the energy left, he wanted to cry but no tears would fall, he wanted to punch things, to curse, to bruise up his knuckles but he has fallen ill to the lethargic beckoning of his dying soul. the light inside of him, dimming, any more and he would have lost his resolve. he was confused more than anything, this feeling was so foreign, too foreign. and so, he closes his eyes for a moment, letting the stinging feeling against his dulled hues burn for a moment. he hasn’t let himself rest for days and this was the first signs of despondency that he had felt so overbearingly, in a few weeks — no months.

C.     his gaze falls to the laptop on the floor by his feet. he moves, albeit slowly, feeling the weight of the thing pulling onto his tired arms as he rests it atop his knees. he pulls back, his postured improving slightly, as he opens up the screen. immediately wincing at the sudden brightness that sends a pang to his weary hues. a finger is quick to lower the brightness, and he decides that maybe doing some online shopping could help ease the pressure on his reverie.

    he opens up the browser, and immediately is greeted by his own instagram page, one that had a recent photo of the two together. they had visited somewhere he had been wanting to go for a while now, only having waited for both their schedules to subside before asking kiha if he wanted to go on a spontaneous day trip. this elicits a gentle smile to spread across his features, absentmindedly he finds himself feeling at ease just by looking at kiha on his screen. kiha is special. he scrolls through his own posts, he couldn’t help the smile that continually grows on his features, a sudden flutter moves at his core and he shuts his laptop closed in one swift movement. no. you shouldn’t be allowed to feel this way. you’re not allowed to feel this happy looking at him.

D.     he’s confused and he doesn’t know what to do, he’s going against everything the industry had dictated to him was wrong, no... this is right. he lets the butterflies subside, the sudden elation in his chest receding alongside the sighs that leave him but the fluttering doesn’t stop. neither does the flitter in his chest and he attempts to hold his breath, maybe this’ll stop the feeling he feels for kiha. his breath draws short and an exhale leaves from his lips, a closed fist tenses as white knuckles peer through and before he could register the pitter patter of his cages again, he strikes himself in the stomach. masking the butterflies with a stunted punch to his own gut, he feels the discomfort from the impact for a bit before letting it settle and he feels the trickling of wings flickering against his insides and he strikes again. this time, harder than the last. perhaps he has gone insane. insane enough to punch away the butterflies he felt for kiha. but not insane enough to admit his own emotions. was this truly confusion or perhaps, just denial?

E.     he’s holding his head now, is this confusion or denial? two questions that weigh heavily on his shoulders, enough to break the bones on his back. he hunches over the laptop on his knees, takes a deep breath and surrenders to the feeling, opening it back up. he tries to fight the smile that instinctively graces at his corners whenever he lays eyes on kiha, even if it were just a picture of the other. the warm feeling he gets, flustering even the dullest of hues as they sparkle slightly against the moon’s rays that peek through the curtains of his living room.

    he continues to scroll through his pictures of kiha, icloud full, the notification that pops up receives a raised brow, his finger hovers over the trackpad clicking to clear the banner. instead, an entirely new window opens, and he finds himself faced with videos of kiha he had taken during their spontaneous day trip. the video starts to play, and the smile on his features only grows, crescents start to form as a huff of a chuckle leave from his lips. seeing kiha made him... happy, was this wrong to admit? he shuts the thoughts out, choosing to indulge in this moment, even if the bliss he felt was temporary at best.

F.     moments pass, and he closes his laptop again, this time placing all his anguish, all the flittering in his centre, all the confusion, all the denial, all the emotions... into something more worthwhile. he retrieves his phone from his jumper’s pocket, places the headphones by his consoles over his ears, and he turns the volume up, high enough that it begins to drown out his own thoughts. gravity, something he had been working on religiously throughout the past few weeks with only the thought of kiha echoing in his reverie. a project he had kept to himself, a way of working to distract himself, to be away from crescent, from kiha, from the confusion, the denial, the feeling of drowning.

    he pulls himself to his feet, gently kicking the baby couch to the side and he takes a deep breath, allowing himself to hyper focus on the now. on the current. in the current. and he’s dancing in the dark, letting the track dictate his movement, the backdrop falling to the foreground and the ambience sets in his cerulean veins. ardour lacing his form, and he finds that so much time had past. how long has it been? what time is it now? the concept still hazy to him as he lets the beads of sweat ball at his temples, the song on repeat and he stands unmoving. the tints of dawn weaving through the curtains, hitting the floor beneath, illuminating the dark room.

    yet, the one constant still pasted in his mind — kiha. at least now, he’ll have something to submit to yuseong’s choreographer and creative team if he ever felt the need to. and if he had the guts, to kiha.

[phcking-detective]

Find Familiar, ch 1/2

Nines casts the spell and feels the magic pull from their soul. They need this to work. They don’t know what else to do.

They hear nothing, but perhaps the animal is simply quiet. The summon circle contains a perch and a large bathtub, painstakingly levitated all the way to the highest floor of their tower. Even a small area filled with sand. Just in case.

A wizard never knows what form their familiar will take until they summon it.

Nines doesn’t dare open their eyes. They need this to work. They are the most brilliant wizard of their generation and likely several before and after as well, but their brilliance is purely academic. All magic comes with a price, of course. That is why they’re ... like this.

Why bright lights give them migraines, and they cannot stand to be touched, and can only wear certain fabrics, eat certain foods, sleep under EXACT conditions. Why they can understand ancient languages and cursed tomes better than they ever could read a face.

It is their Price, and they need--

Nines opens their eyes and stares resolutely at the empty summoning circle. The spell had worked. They felt it take their energy and a piece of their soul. It had cast.

But out of all the beings on this plane and sixteen others, none had answered.

Very well. They don’t need help. They never have.

A first child for inheritance, a second for insurance. A third for luck, a fourth for the middle. Fifth for work, sixth for status. Seventh to fulfill a prophecy.

And an eighth child to be tithed. Two parents, presumably, and the eighth made exactly ten, one-tenth of the family and all they owned given to the church so that they gods would look favorably upon them.

There was no point in a child after that. No prophecies or tithing, and certainly no inheritance left over after carving it up for seven others first. No one ever needed a ninth child.

And Nines has never needed anyone else.

***

Three days and nights after casting the spell, Nines has eaten few enough meals to count on one hand. The sand has not been swept from the floor, and they have not managed to drag themself from their studies long enough to utilize the bathtub for its actual purpose.

But they’re fine.

It’s fine.

They are the greatest wizard of his generation, and they will ... survive. Perhaps not live, not as others do, not in happiness. But they are not dead yet and he has no less than twenty-two contingency spells if death does dare

KNOCK

Nines looks up from their manuscript for the first time in so many hours, they don’t know if the sun is setting or rising. The crystal ball embedded above the door glows green. Someone just solved their first riddle.

Well. Surely the second will

DOOR

Nines stands, then almost collapses from the black spots overtaking their vision. That was too fast. No one should have been able to solve the second riddle that quickly.

MAT

Nines draws their wand and faces the door as the third and final crystal ball lights green.

Knock knock knock.

“Hey. Hey! Hey, asshole!”

... what? They must be dreaming. Yes, an unexpected social visit from a villager capable of bypassing all his wards is surely the stuff of nightmares.

“Either let me in or shut the fuck up!”

The indignity of being accused of speaking when Nines hates speaking, particularly to “people,” infuriates them enough that they forget their wand entirely and throws open the door to berate the--

The much smaller man glaring up at them.

Not small enough to be a dwarf, although he certainly has that ... stockiness. Perhaps a mixture of human and dwarf, but. Even half-dwarves have beards, while this man just has some rather scruffy stubble and a scar across the bridge of his nose.

“You don’t smell right,” the man informs them.

He shoulder-checks past Nines before they can respond. It’s only due to their momentary bout of dizziness that they don’t smite him immediately for that. Or when he circles around the large living area, sniffing at things like a dog.

“Should’ve expected it to be bigger in here than out there,” he says to himself. “Still kind of small though.”

“I do not receive visitors,” Nines replies as coldly as they can manage.

They have accidentally frozen people before, simply with the freezing burn of their anger, yet their magic lays calm and docile inside their chest.

“Good, I fucking hate people,” the man says.

Nines makes some sort of very undignified noise in the back of their throat at that. The man continues wandering about their space, finally sticking his entire head inside their cauldron.

They’re hallucinating. That last alchemical potion must have--

“Don’t you have any cooking pots?” he asks.

Nines doesn’t answer so they don’t have to admit the answer is no. They will not be judged by some--some vagabond, a dirty ugly little man who is--IS BAREFOOT?

“You don’t have shoes,” Nines says, as if that is the important part about a strange man breaking into their home.

“I wiped my feet, fuck off.”

Nines looks back toward the door. All three crystals glow a fading green as the wards slowly reset themselves.

They did not originally mean to bar all the villagers from visiting them forever. They simply wanted any guests to have basic manners. Knock on the door at the first floor before entering, close it behind them so leaves didn’t blow into the stairwell, and wipe their feet on the mat at the top.

Clearly, Nines had expected far too much of the general public.

Nines turns back to see the man filling their alchemy cauldron with water. Although they sterilize it thoroughly after each use in order to prevent cross-contamination among potions, they scrounge up enough hope past the exhaustion to ponder if maybe they had forgotten to do so in the haze of the last several days.

Unfortunately, the man’s flesh does not melt from his skin as he scrubs it out with a rag.

“What are you doing?” Nines asks.

“I’m hungry and you don’t have anything else to cook in,” the man says. “At least we’ll have leftov--”

“Get out of my tower!”

The man looks up and scowls at them. “You’re the one who kept fucking calling me, bitch. Make up your damn mind.”

The realization leaves them light-headed.

“I ... I didn’t ...”

The black spots creep back again, except now they can no longer accurately be called “spots.” They take up far too much of Nines’s vision for that, then consume it entirely.

Something warm and solid catches Nines before they fall. Their hands grab at whatever they can reach out of an instinctive need to hold onto something--fabric, skin, fur. Fur? Not quite. Hair, maybe. Very thick hair. Dwarf beard? No, only stubble. But very thick hair somewhere, somewhere, oh in the middle. His ... chest?

“Ow, quit pulling on that.”

“Furry,” Nines says, because they are very intelligent and also the greatest wizard of their generation.

“Yeah, moon’s close to full. Damn, you’re a gangly bitch, aren’t you? Where’s your fucking body fat, you need to eat more.”

Nines mumbles his very clever retort into his pillows. Oh, his pillows. They’re in bed. That’s nice. Their bed is soft and warm and good.

The other Warm Good thing wrapped around them lets go.

“Nooo.”

Nines pulls it back. Furrier now. They’d secretly wished for a dog. Obviously, a feline familiar would have been more practical, and certainly more in line with their introverted tendencies. Dogs need too much attention, and walks, and they drool and shed. Cats only do one of those things, and if they summoned a black one, the hair would just blend into their robes anyway.

But still. Some part of them had hoped ...

“All right, fine. Fucking bossy. Scoot over, bitch.”

The Warm Good thing piles into the bed with Nines, but there is still entirely too much skin. Nines does not go to bed with people. Certainly not with skin showing. They want--they need--

They want a dog.

They need a person.

Of course. A fully animal familiar could only do so much for them without thumbs, and monkeys are horrendous. Only a real person would be smart enough to take care of them the way they need it.

But a person-familiar ... unheard of. Impossible. No one had ever summoned a human before, and it would be grossly unethical regardless.

Nines crows with the proof that they really are the greatest wizard of their generation, and likely several before and after.

“OK, so you’re good with me being a werewolf, right? Because if you start crying about a monster and get a bunch of pitchforks up in here, I’m pissing on all your robes.”

A werewolf. Half man, half wolf. Brilliant!

“So. What’s your name?”

“Nines.”

“Fuck, humans are still doing that? Your litters are bigger than ours, goddamn. And popping them out one at a time like that?”

The werewolf shudders. Nines pets over them, much more fur than skin now.

“Was two of us,” they say, all filter gone with how tired they are. “Twins instead of just the last eighth. Connor, Connor was ... just ... a second quicker.”

“What, so they threw you away?” he asks, the question nearly a growl.

“Tech,,nicaaally,” Nines slurs. “They did him too. Gave him. Away. Just, pretended to love him first. It’s, s’crueler. I think. At least I, ahhhhh. I always knew.”

“Phckin’ hue-mens,” the werewolf growls.

“Mmhmm.”

“Miiine.”

That is the last word he can growl out before the transformation completes. Then Nines receives the dog they wanted. Like this, it is far easier to feel their familiar’s mind at the edge of their own, to recognize the bond for what it is.

Good boy, [name].

It’s Gavin, dickhead.

Adequate boy, Gavin.

The wolf huffs. Go to sleep. I’ll feed you soup in the morning and maybe you won’t be so hangry.

I only want potatoes and carrots. NO celery.

Go the fuck to SLEEP.

Nines does so.

--

The wolf licks their face only after he’s absolutely certain they’re unconscious. The dumb human just smells dehydrated.

He didn’t want to come at first. Didn’t understand what the ache in his head was in the first place, or why he kept feeling hungry no matter how much he ate or that he had to pee for four hours straight.

Just that he needed to go, go this way, this way, this way!

Fucking asshole wizard summoning him like he’s their goddamn dog.

(But it’s not like he has a pack of his own. Not like he has anything better to do. No one to protect or feed or cuddle.)

(And this human obviously needs his help.)

He’ll only stay for the moon, just so he has a safe place to sleep it off away from angry villagers convinced he’ll “deflower” their women--who already smell of sex by the way--even though he really prefers men.

And this one wizard, apparently.

Gavin licks Nines again. The human already smells way better with his scent on them, and this is the most luxurious bed he’s ever curled up in.

He can spend the night. Make some breakfast. He’s hungry, right? Wouldn’t make sense to leave a good meal behind.

Yeah, he’s just staying for the food.

***

***

One of my lovely followers recently commissioned a second chapter! It’s rated E for Explicit (sex scenes). Subscribers to my Patreon get early access to all my commissioned fics 2 weeks earlier than they’re posted to AO3 or tumblr ^^

[side-effect-of-the-meds]

Oh my, I need to know what is going to happen with Niko and Kev after Kev panicked

Winter spends the night picking the pieces and gluing Niko back together again. They wipe the tears from his face and convince him to stay right where he is until they come back. They’re only gone ten minutes but it feels like ten years so Niko buries himself in a nest of Winter’s sheets. When they make it back upstairs with a shit ton of food, their chest aches bc look at him! He looks like a literal child hiding from his father. That’s when they send the text message to Kevin. It’s not that they mind Niko staying over, they’re just so upset bc he’s in so much pain. Platonic cuddles ensue bc neither of them have confessed yet.

Kevin is crying as he curls up in Aaron’s arms. Amalia is still very angry at her father but he’s crying now so she sits with him too. None of them really know what to do. Niko doesn’t know about his biological parents yet and neither of them are keen on telling him just yet. Instead, Aaron holds Kevin until his tears run dry and tucks him into bed. Amalia decides she’s going to spend the night in her dads’ room so she gets tucked in beside him. 

As soon as Aaron leaves the room, Kevin calls Niko. It goes straight to voicemail. Kevin curls up around his daughter and tries not to cry again. 

Aaron calls too and, right before it can go to voicemail, Niko picks up. 

“Niko.” His name came out in a breath Aaron hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

“Dad.” The crack in Niko’s voice shatters Aaron’s heart. He’s never heard Niko sound so hurt. 

“I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you get some sleep, alright?” Aaron couldn’t see him but he knew Niko was nodding. Sometimes, when things hurt too much, Niko had the tendency to shut down. His brain stopped functioning and he forgot how to speak. Selective mutism was something that often accompanied anxiety but, with his new medication, Niko’s episodes were getting fewer and farther between. Aaron worried his bottom lip between his teeth. How far back is this going to set him? It didn’t matter. They’d figure it out. They always did. “Can I talk to Winter?”

“Sir?” Winter’s voice was softer than freshly fallen snow. 

“How’s he doing?”

“He hasn’t spoken since he got here. Ko, had to write down what happened.” Aaron cursed. “I’ll bring him home tomorrow morning. How’s your husband?” Winter’s voice went tight. Unlike Aaron, whose anger raged like a fire, there was something frigid about Winter’s anger that sent chills down his spine. 

“Kevin feels terrible.”

“He should.” And the line went dead. Winters in Washington were harsh and unforgiving. Winter Aziz was no different. Aaron slipped his phone into his pocket and scrubbed a hand over his face. Tomorrow morning was going to be Hell. Cracking the bedroom door open, he slid in and got changed in the closet. He tossed his phone onto the nightstand before climbing into bed. Kevin’s arm wrapped instinctively around him and Amalia scooched closer in her sleep. It wasn’t long before sleep dragged Aaron’s eyes shut, leaving all his problems for the morning. 

Sleep didn’t come quite so easily to Niko. Trapped in the confines of his mind, he struggled to explain to Winter why everything hurt so much. It didn’t seem to matter though. Winter knew everything there was to know about him. They knew that the sting of Kevin’s slap was nothing compared to the complete and utter betrayal of Niko’s trust. In the background, an old bollywood movie was playing but neither Niko paid it no attention. Instead, he found himself quite content to stare at Winter. Reaching a careful hand out, he buried it into the messy mop of curls atop their head. They turned to look at him then. 

“Pretty,” he managed to struggle out. A flush of color crept up Winter’s necks and their cheeks went pink. Every time Niko began to think Winter was as beautiful as they could get, they went and proved him wrong. Niko let his hand fall out of their hair and trail down their cheek.

“Niko,” Winter said, a note of warning in their voice. He let his hand fall away entirely. He watched in silence as they stood and drifted around the room, getting ready for bed. They’d already dragged him out of bed to brush his teeth and sat him down on a stool in the tub to give him a very quick bath. That had been a rather interesting ordeal. 

Winter had commanded Niko to strip down to his boxers and sit down on the stool. As always, Niko did what he was told. He’d watched as Winter rolled up their sleeves and stripped down to their own boxers before stepping in behind him. With gentle hands, they’d washed his hair and scrubbed his body. A little soap had fallen onto Winter’s nose, something that had only become apparent to Niko as they’d shifted to stand in front of him. Immediately, he found himself filled with the urge to kiss it off. Without thinking, he’d caught their face in his hand and drew them close. It was only at the last second that he realized what he was doing and managed to change his motion from a kiss to blowing the bubbles off their face. Winter’s laughter had filled the bathroom as they swiped the last of the soap off their face. They’d helped Niko out before handing him a towel and some clothes and sending him on his way. 

Laying in bed, Niko wondered if there’d ever be a time when he wouldn’t want to kiss Winter. He highly doubted that. Maybe one day he’d grow the balls to actually do it. The lights clicked off but the moonlight streaming through the open window illuminated Winter’s form. Some days, Niko truly believed that they had been crafted from the mantle of one of the moon’s craters and given life by the light of its rays. There was something so otherworldly and ethereal about Winter that he could think of no other explanation. He’d told them as much once and they’d laughed. 

“No moon could shine without the light of their sun,” Winter had replied. 

“Who’s your sun?” Niko had asked. Winter hadn’t said anything, opting instead to brush one of Niko’s stray curls from his face. Oh. Niko’s face burned brighter than any star at the implication. 

There were times when Niko let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, Winter might like him. It was a stupid thought to have and Niko knew it couldn’t be true but... it was just such a nice thought. A future with Winter was nothing more than a daydream, a reverie with which Niko had spent so many endless hours envisioning that it might have been enough to constitute a lifetime on its own. 

Niko rolled over onto his side to give Winter space on the bed. If he dared to lay facing them, there’d be no chance of him getting any sleep at all. On more than one occasion, Niko had wasted the whole night studying the soft curves of Winter’s face. The bed shifted slightly beneath Winter’s slight weight. An arm came, wrapping around his torso and drawing him in. Niko’s heart nearly stopped when Winter laced their hand through his and pressed it to his chest. 

“Goodnight, Nikoshi,” they mumbled into the back of his neck. It took every ounce of his will to control the full-body shudder the heat of their breath elicited. There really would be no sleep tonight for him, would there? 

Amalia woke first. Normally she’d be content to lay there between her dads but today was Saturday and on Saturdays, she watched Fish Hooks with Niko. She scrambled out of bed, careful not to hit either of her dads on her way out. She padded across the hall to his room. The door was wide open and Niko was nowhere to be found. Her chest tightened as she tiptoes downstairs. The living room and kitchen were empty too. 

The door alarm chimed and Amalia rushed to the foyer in time to see Winter step in with Niko not far behind. Amalia raced up to her brother and flung her arms around him. 

“Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go,” she chanted. 

“Where?” Niko asked. 

“We’re going to miss Fish Hooks,” Amalia whined as she tugged him towards the living room. A look passed between Niko and Winter. “You’re Imzadi can come too,” Amalia said. Niko made a strangled noise as he looked at her in horror. 

“What’s an Imzadi?” Winter asked, shutting the front door. 

“Friend,” Niko replied quickly. Amalia grinned up at her brother, content to watch him squirm. She took his hand and led him to the living room, Winter trailing behind. The three of them sat down on the couches and watched tv until they heard the familiar shuffling of their father on the steps. Niko went rigid and the memories of the day before flooded her mind. 

Kevin stopped short at the sight of Niko on the couch. Having Niko home was like having a thousand-pound weight taken off his chest but the glare Niko gave him now seemed to weigh even more. 

“Can we... talk?” Kevin asked quietly. He watched as Winter tightened their grip on Niko’s arm but he shook it off as he stood. Kevin followed silently after Niko as they headed for the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” was the first thing out of his mouth. Niko looked unimpressed. “I’m going to show you something and you can not tell Amalia. She’ll find out in her own time.” With those words, Kevin tugged his shirt off to reveal the mess of scars that ran along his torso. He heard Niko curse under his breath. 

“How-”

“Who,” Kevin corrected. “When I was very young, my mother died and I was sent to live with a friend of hers. Tetsuji Moriyama was not kind to me but his nephew was. Riko was like a brother to me and the only family I’d ever known. There’s a lot of things about the Moriyamas that I need to tell you but now is not the time. Neil and Jean are coming to visit this summer. I’ll tell you everything then, but now, what you need to know is that my brother hurt me. It started with small things: hitting me when he got mad, shoving me when I got in the way, and then it escalated to-” the words caught in Kevin’s throat and he swallowed hard. He shut his eyes then. “To this,” he said, gesturing the scars that crisscrossed his torso and raced down his forearm. He couldn’t bear to look at them.“Riko tried to ruin me and, for a second, I thought that you’d ruin Amalia too.”  

No answer came. Not a verbal one at least. Instead, Kevin felt Niko’s arms wrap around him, crushing him close. Hot tears seared Kevin’s skin. He held Niko tight. 

“I’m not him,” Niko choked out. 

“No,” Kevin agreed. “You’re most definitely not.” 

[vesuviannights]

mm could i ask for Julian's and MC's first time, somewhere mid story? they somehow catch a moment for themselves and are so lost in desire they can't think straight. MC has a tendency to bite and scratch (how very convenient for Julian), esp when coming

Hello hello hello hello!!!!! This was so fun to write, working with that sliver of self-depreciation always lingering when you’re playing Julian’s route, trying so very hard to convince him that it’s okay he’s ALLOWED to be loved and love people. I tried so very hard to remember a specific part of the story to put this in, but in reality I can’t remember those specifics and I didn’t have the time/passes to go and check, so I’ve done my best. 

Julian/You. Gender neutral reader. Lemon.

This is the story of Julian’s and your first time, brought about by fingertip kisses and Julian insisting that you get some rest. 

**

Before she leaves on errands of her own, Mazelinka sends the two of you out for groceries—bread, clove, some other vegetables you can’t remember or pronounce but which Julian seems familiar enough with.

As you enter the marketplace you split in the crowd to avoid being noticed together, but you are always keeping an eye on him. Before you separate—before he pulls his hand out of yours, and murmurs an apology he can’t manage to look at you while giving—you breathe a quiet spell to keep track of him, and follow the tug of the tether that now exists between the two of you as he weaves in the opposite direction.

It’s nearly sunset when you find each other again just by Selasi’s stand, already packed down for the day. You try to take his hand again, partly to make sure you don’t lose each other but also because you are nothing else if not stubborn, but he just shakes his head and takes care to walk a little further ahead of you as you weave your way back so that you can’t try again.

When you are back inside, he takes the bags from your hands and places them down on the table, beginning to unpack with an unreadable crease to his brow. It is not the frown he makes whenever he is trying to solve a problem, but it is also not the one he makes when he is trying to figure out the exact words to keep you at arms-length and (in his eyes) safe. Somehow, you are not comforted by the absence of either frown.

As he is pouring the satchel of crushed clove into one of Mazelinka’s empty jars, you step up to him and place your hand over his. He stops almost immediately, and you do not miss the slight shake of his hand that seems to slip further into his body the more time that passes.

“You should rest,” he tells you. “We have a long day ahead tomorrow.”

“I will rest when I am dead,” you return, and if he is offended by the playful tone to your voice, then he doesn’t show it.

“Rest is important. How else will you be well and happy enough to help me the way you keep insisting on doing?”

“Well, I could think of a few different ways.”

You wait for the blush. The stuttering. Maybe even a scolding look that tells you that your words are too far and he’s tired of telling you how bad he is for those around him.

But none of those things happen.

Instead, he places down the satchel and turns to you, holding your one hand in the two of his. He stares down at it, tracing the lines of your knuckles, that same unreadable frown on his features. His jaw is a little tighter now, the shadows under his eyes a little more pronounced.

He exhales, and it is a shaking breath that moves through his whole body as he lifts your hand to his lips. He kisses your fingertips, first your index, then your middle, and then finally all. In his action, you’ve been pulled close enough to see the way his chest is fluttering from his shaking breaths and racing heartbeat.

“Julian,” you whisper. “Please.”

You stare down at where your fingertips are resting against his parted lips, held there by his hand and the small circles his thumb is drawing against your wrist. His other hand smooths over the small of your back, pulling you in by your waist so that so much more of you is touching—perhaps more than he was aware of, or that he has ever allowed before.

“You should most definitely stop us,” he murmurs to you, his words slow and a little distant, as though he rethinks each one before saying it.

“No,” you answer. “I don’t think I will.”

Your lips touch, slow and sure, tasting not for the first time but seemingly with a new weight to them. You sigh into the kiss as his hand buries itself in your hair, cupping the back of your head as he moans into your mouth.

You swallow the sound greedily, and the moment you do things seem to blur, movements become a little quicker. The kiss becomes fast, heated, impatient as he presses your hips a little closer together, grinding into you, groaning your name.

You spin, tripping over your own feet a little in the process, and he catches you against the wall. His laugh shakes both your bodies as he presses his face into your neck, and maybe he’s just a little delirious from the lack of sleep and the insanity of your past few days together, or perhaps it’s all just from the taste of you, you don’t know. But you do know that you are in the same way, and that you meant your words—you won’t stop this, and you won’t let him try.

You both undress in a flurry of clothes, shirts and belts and boots kicked off and forgotten somewhere near the foot of the bed. He struggles to get his trousers off his long, uncoordinated limbs fast enough, and curses under his breath as he almost careens right through Mazelinka’s wall when he trips.

Now, it’s your turn to laugh. He swivels around to face you, at first wide-eyed and surprised as he takes in the sight of you—dishevelled hair, leaning back on your elbows, eyes twinkling—then throws you an uneven grin before falling down, naked and ready, onto the bed with you and pulling you into him.

He is beneath you, one hand cupping your knee and dragging it up the length of his body so there’s more of you for him to press up into, more of you touching him in every place that feels good. He groans, says something in a language you don’t know but you think might not even just be one, he’s so lost in the feel of you. You know you hear your name, and inflections on certain words say that maybe he’s also cursing, that damn pirate’s tongue.

He rolls you onto your back, the length of his body eclipsing yours almost completely. His cock falls hard and hot between you, and he moans softly as he thrusts it against your thigh, the friction making him tremble.

“Please, Julian—” You beg from between your teeth, so you can at least pretend you aren’t demanding it of him. “Please, if we never get another chance—”

He nods, like he knows that your words might be true, and like he knows that you’re both too lost in desire to think rationally and realise that there will probably be many chances, or that having no chances is the safest route for you, at least in his eyes.

He kisses you again, swallowing your whimpers as he reaches down between your legs to where you are already trembling, hot, ready for him. Your thighs part a little more at his touch, and he sinks a little further into the space between you, until the hard length of his cock is resting right where you want him.

Your hips push up toward him, the heat of him running along you as you throw your head back. Your nails are sinking into his shoulder blades as you beg for him to fuck you, but you’re only halfway through your words as he gasps and nods and promises you yes, he will, he will.

He sits the two of you up so that you’re straddling his lap, keeping you locked to him with his hands at your waist as you grind against him. His cheeks are flush with his arousal, the tips of his ears pink as he eyes the way your lip catches between your teeth, the way you writhe in his lap as you wait impatiently for him to do as he promised.

And when he does, oh, the feeling is so exquisite. Your nails sink a little further into his shoulders as the head of his cock presses into you, sinking in inch by slow inch as both of you shake from the knowledge that it will never be fast enough, that you might never be close enough.

When he’s fully seated inside of you, face pressed into your neck, he wastes no time in beginning to move. His thrusts up into you are long, deep, and pull aching moan after aching moan from you as you drag your nails down the skin of his shoulders and arms, trying to find more leverage to pull him deeper into you.

He curses—this one is definitely a curse—and the word is strangled, a little high pitched, the pain seeming to fuel him on even more.

“Oh love, that feels so good, so good—”

With a grin, you sink your teeth into his shoulder again and he keens, his hands scrambling at your waist to pull you closer. Your foreheads meet, and he’s fucking you like he could never tell you how much your touch means to him, or how even though his feelings for you are eternally lodged in his throat and ready to spill out at any given moment, he hates the part of himself that might never be happy that he gave in to you and to himself instead of staying away from you like he said he would.

When you start to shake above him, when your teeth are scraping against his jugular, when your nails have left a patchwork of lines across his back and shoulders and chest, he reaches down to find you, his deft hands coaxing you toward your already building climax.

“Will you come for me, my love? Will you scream for me?” He asks. You, eyes closed, lips parted, breathing uneven, nod, because it’s all you can do. “Let me hear every beautiful noise you can make so I can commit every single one to memory. I need them so much, please—”

As you crash, his cock still fucking you even as you squeeze and shudder around it, you sink your teeth into his shoulder, barely aware that you might be tasting blood. He cries out, a match to the whimpers and cries as you come. He joins you a moment later, the warmth of his seed filling you, marking you, leaving you lightheaded, dizzy, sated.

As the world slowly starts to come back to you, he won’t pull out of you, not even when you both have a little of your breath back, not even when he kisses your cheek and rolls you both onto your side to pull you into his chest.

As he traces the line of your spine with shaking fingertips, his cheek resting on top of your head, you think you feel him smile. You try to find the energy to tilt back and see it—see if it’s a true smile, if it’s without that internal, eternal struggle he seems to have about giving people pieces of himself as though it would put them at risk—but you are too sated, too warm, too comfortable in his arms.

Just before you drift off, his last words come to you in a quiet murmur, confirming that maybe that smile you couldn’t lift your head to see wasn’t quite so tormented after all.

“I’m quite glad you refused to stop us.”

“So am I.”

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

ATDT!AU Post-Escape Halloween thing 3-5 (or more)

It was no surprise that the pumpkin carving competitions in the nearby towns of Mt. Ebott had become the toughest ones any one had ever seen, and the humans and monsters on the surface could only imagine what kind of pumpkin-carved chaos was taking place within the underground itself.

To walk into anywhere that was holding a pumpkin carving competition within fifty miles of the mountain was to walk into a wonderland of carved-up chaos! Even without toonkind’s tendency to have their skill levels exaggerated to extreme highs and or extreme lows, a vast majority of the citizens in the underground either used to be talented professional animators in life or were taught by them. And while hollowed-out gourds weren’t their usual medium, it was a welcome change of pace from using ink. (Aside from the Ink Demon, nobody ever used the stuff for drawing anymore. And some would happily avoid it altogether if they didn’t need it to live like humans needed water.)

Most submissions were less jack-o-lanterns and more art sculptures made out of multiple pumpkins; like the drum set (that could be played just like a real one), the life-size projectionist that played recorded screams to anyone who came too close (Luckily for the SSSB, Norman had found it hilarious and asked Cameraman to take a picture of him with his ‘twin’.), the five-tier wedding cake (which sadly contained no real cake, and didn’t even have pumpkin pie inside it!), the ten-foot-tall dragon that shot out real fire (Don’t ask the wooly triplets where they got the flamethrower...), and the headless horseman complete with a pumpkin horse (But more impressive was the puzzle you had to solve to see the piece itself).

Others thankfully, only used one pumpkin, but they weren’t any less impressive; some people carved out classic art pieces like the Mona Lisa or The Creation of Adam (curse you toon instincts), a lot of people carved out scenes from the bendy cartoons (old habits die hard), while others...

“Hey! Charley! Charley! Look! My Pumpkin’s done!”

The spider child was happily bouncing up and down as he ‘waited’ for the Butcher gang boss to look up from his own work, luckily he only needed to wait one and a half seconds.

“Excellent Job, Edgar!” Charley smiled and patted the excited spider on the head. “It looks just like Barley!”

“Really?”

“Yep! And I can tell you’ve really worked hard on it. Why don’t you go find him and show him while I put the finishing touches on mine.”

“Okay!”

The spider happily scampered away with his Jack-o-lantern in hand looking for Barley. He knew that the pirate was still somewhere in the pumpkin tent so Edgar knew not to leave it. But that still left the question of where in the tent was the pirate.

“Hi Mr. Simmons!” The butcher gang kid waved to the passing human. “Do you know where Barley is?”

“No, sorry Edgar, but I’m just here to judge.”

“Okay, thank you anyway.”

“Although you might want to try the left side of the tent!” Mr. Simmons called out after the spider “There’s a hot chocolate and cider stand over there and it’s pretty popular.”

“Thanks for the tip!”

He happily went over to where Mr. Simmons had pointed. The cider stand itself had a line that was far too long for a little ruffian (Or anyone who had things to do) to wait in and he didn’t see Barley anywhere in it so he looked elsewhere.

As he searched, he saw many different works, from the classic ‘jagged smile and frowning eyes’ Jack-o-lantern to the weird and extraordinary pieces. One guy even made a renaissance-style mural of the ink people being freed from Joey’s machine entirely out of discarded pumpkin guts!

Speaking of Joey, the pumpkin sitting down on the table in the corner looked just like him...

Curiously, the little spider went closer to it to try to figure out who and why anyone would carve that without adding some kind of insulting depiction, but those questions instantly died out as he saw the pumpkin’s artist return with a hot chocolate in hand.

“Hiya Mr. Inkwell! Are you carving a family portrait too?”

“Huh? Oh this? I mean... Technically yes but no. I just thought it would be funny to make this and tell everyone that I just carved a di- -anyway, what’s with that little pumpkin of yours?”

“Me and the rest of the gang carved each other!” Edgar held up his own pumpkin for the Ink Demon to see. “I carved Barley, Barley carved Charley, and Charley’s carving me!”

“Well good job kiddo, your old men must be so proud of you.”

“Did Mr. Joey Drew carve you too? I didn’t know he was still around!”

“...That’s because he’s not... (Or at least, if he is, than he’s probably not happy about being reminded about everything he’s lost.) Anyway, I don’t have family.”

“What about Henry?” Edgar put his pumpkin on the ground to count on his legs. “And Sammy, and Mr. Conner, and Ms. Allison, and Bendy, and Mr. Pluto...” He fell to the floor with a gentle thud as he ran out of legs to count on. “Aren’t you guys all family?”

The on-model ink demon raised an eye in confusion.

“No, what on earth gave you that idea?”

“Henry loves you and tried to take care of you in the studio, Allison seems to enjoy gardening with you, before Sammy went to the asylum, he sent you a bunch of flowers with two cards and you cried for almost two months straight...”

“zip it!” The Ink Demon slapped his hands over the spider toon’s mouth before sighing, knowing that he probably wont let this ‘family’ thing go without an explanation. “...You know how Mr. Simmons and Ms. Simmons were family, but aren’t anymore because Ms. Simmons was being too mean to Mr. Simmons?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t deserve have a family because I was too mean to mine.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry, Inky...” Edgar wracked his little arachnid brain for a solution... “I got it! What if you join my family? We’re rough and tough and we’ve seen your worst before and aren’t scared of you! Not even a little bit!”

The Demon was slightly taken aback. Him? Join the Butcher gang? The trio that was meant to be his number one enemies? Did the spider kid lose his mind in the studio?! Surely the other two members would have the common sense to turn him down, right?

“Why don’t you ask your dads first to see if it’s okay with them.”

“Okay!”

Edgar grabbed Inky’s hand with one front leg and his pumpkin with the other and continued to hunt down Barley.