#I drew from my top surgery savings for this because i wanted to go that much

[thateclecticbitch]

"OMG we're gonna miss you we really want you to be there!" Yeah! I wanted to be there too! Don't take it up with me, take it up with the director. Oh! That's right! You can't. BECAUSE HE QUIT TWO WEEKS AGO.

[topaztimes]

Both of you wanted this so I made it a post lmao @etherealspacejelly @the-rat-1

ERM! I call this the Very Brief Guide To Human Faces (From A Furry Perspective)

Let's start with this guy.

This buddy is the absolute basics of the human face -- I guarantee that if you focused your camera on a version of it you drew, it'll recognise a face, because that's all a human is: neck, nose, under-lip, under-brows (which is also why I make the under-brow coloured darker in my style lol. Cheeky example below)

Anyways! Exaggerating and expanding outwards from these shadows are really important if you're trying to go for realism. But let's keep going with regular anatomy for now lol -- just, if you're stuck, make sure that those shapes are obvious. If they aren't, maybe that's the issue!

(That's what buddy looks like filled in. His brows are raised a bit lmao)

Mads Mikkelsen jumpscare:

(I chose him because his skull is SO OBVIOUS) Now, this is THE cheat code of all time: in the VAST majority of mammals, the inner corners of the eyes are exactly the same width as the widest part of the nose/nostrils. In humans, since we have bones in the front of our jaws, we have another sneaky thing with this same proportion: the CHIN. Wowie!

See? These two buddies have a very obvious line. It's amazing

More things that line up are: Top of ear: top of eye socket, bottom of ear: middle of upper lip Bottom of nose: top of earlobe (where the hole begins) Corner of the jaw: dip of the chin Aaaaand there's definitely more that I can't think of off the top of my head. Oh well

Here's a small turnaround of the head for you... which leads us onto the cranium (REMEMBER that the head isn't a perfect box! It's more like a trapezium prism; that's how you can see the tips of someone's opposite ear when they're facing 3/4 away from you)

THE CRANIUM!!!

This is what a white person's head would typically look like from the side -- they tend to have more flat craniums. I like to exaggerate the shape of the overhang because it makes me happy

Another thing to do with side profiles: the default human has the JAW and the FOREHEAD PARALLEL to each other. It's an epic cheat, because if you know the rough angle of the jaw, you know the angle of the forehead. It's saved me far too many times

This is closer to my own head shape, although it's still very exaggerated lol. In short: anything that isn't the xenomorph's level of head-dome is likely the shape of a real human. Everything can be customised; everything's connected

Last bit: customising the face. You know the default -- how do you change it while still looking realistic?

Remember the line I was talking about? Contains the nose, doesn't include the eyes? You change THAT. You make the nose wider than the corners of the eyes for a big nose, and you make it smaller for a little nose. That's how your brain can tell that someone's had plastic surgery lol (people often get nosejobs without also getting their chin shape changed. There's a lot of variation in eyes, so you don't often notice those if only 1/3 doesn't align)

Same thing with the forehead and jaw being parallel. You want a square jaw? Make the jaw more of a right angle while making the forehead rounder. That's how you build juxtaposition to draw attention to the 'striking' feature.

OKAY omg that was a lot but I hope it helped lmfaooo -- I also have a mini guide for the general body so let me know if you want that too

[thedrarrylibrarian]

Several people have been kind enough to let me publish their thoughts on fandom, community, and queerness to celebrate Pride in the Library. Today's piece is a conversation between @academicdisasterfic and his boyfriend, @saintgarbanzo. If you missed it, @saintgarbanzo organized a fundraiser to help support @academicdisasterfic with funds for top-surgery. This fundraiser has met its goal, and is referenced to throughout their conversation.

In this conversation, @saintgarbanzo is chickpea in bold, and @academicdisasterfic is rooney, in regular text.

chickpea: ok baby. let's talk about the gift economy in fandom. it’s something that's part of our politics but many of us struggle with feeling like our worth is tied to our production, even in fandom. has your fundraising experience changed your understanding of those concepts for you?

rooney: Short answer: yes.

Long answer: I think part of what drew me to fanfiction in the first place was a complete divide from capitalism. It’s such a relief in this world of productivity culture. I started writing purely because I loved it and I never thought anyone would read my fics. But then people did, and that meant everything to me. After this fundraiser, I truly understand why the gift economy is so imperative to fandom. People are doing me a favour by donating to my surgery, reading my fics, or writing fics that I love to read. It still feels overwhelming to have as much support as I did. I haven’t processed it at all, I can’t actually fathom it, and I initially had this dread about how I was never going to be able to repay the fandom for what it did for me - it’s not true for all trans men, but for me, this surgery will save my life. But fic saved me too, and I know the same applies to many. When I thought about it like that, I realised that I would do the same thing for anyone here, and it would make me happy to do it. I’d never think they had to pay off that debt. The difference between capitalism and the gift economy is that one is about power and competition, and the other is about the cyclical nature of community. Debts don’t exist, because we don’t give from a finite pool of resources. We give to each other from an endless pool of infinite possibilities.

chickpea: i had that same realization. initially the only way we felt comfortable asking for help was by offering an exchange, but then the exchange wasn't really necessary. everyone just offered up their resources–money but also their time and talent and attention. i go back and forth between feeling guilty/indebted and trying to remind myself that this is how communities are supposed to function and i can feel grateful without feeling guilty. 

you talked about fandom's resistance to capitalism being an initial draw. what about its queerness? my first fandom interactions were very much based in fandom being a safe place to explore queerness. i want to hear about the relationship between your gender realizations and this community.

rooney: You know, I didn’t even think about it in that way - it was more, “I need a queer space, I want it to be a creative space”. It was so apparent to me, even before I knew I was trans, that whatever community I invested in had to have queerness at its core. Back in 2010 when I was figuring out my sexuality, fandom and shipping on Tumblr became really important to me, so I already knew it was there and when I started to explore it, that’s when a lot of gender stuff happened.

I think so many trans people have a more nuanced relationship with their body than is portrayed as the mainstream trans narrative of just being born in the wrong body. I worked very hard before learning I was trans to love and respect my body, and I’d never call it wrong. But reading about queer men fall in love was truly a lightning bolt moment. I’d always felt like an outsider in sapphic spaces - I’m bi/pan/whatever so I do really love women and femmes, that was never the issue - but I realised that I wanted my partners to be perceiving me differently, that I wanted to be treated as a queer man. I think the transgression and fight against purity culture in fandom was so crucial to it - the feelings of displacement and disconnection aren’t articulated the same way in published literature. One of my first fandom friends was @softlystarstruck who writes amazing trans characters with a variety of bodies and sexualities and genders. That sort of representation, of bodies coming together in all those different ways, specifically in sex, made me feel like there was hope - that transness and pleasure aren’t incongruent but born of the same instinct. We have to desire the things that will bring us joy.

chickpea: i love you

rooney: i love you too baby

chickpea: i love that you talked about displacement within queer communities. we've all seen and experienced queerphobia and racism, the demands for productivity, toxicity, discourse that's both helpful and harmful etc. you're someone in fandom who i really admire for the way you acknowledge and navigate the problematic parts of fandom while still focusing on building community in a healthy and joyful way.

can you talk a little bit about being a trans man who consciously decides to stay in hp fandom?

i’ve definitely struggled with my participation here and your fundraiser has brought up those arguments for me again, because we've harnessed this really material and transformative help for you as a trans person, that was carried pretty much entirely by this community.

rooney: Ooft, the big question. 

First off I have to make it clear that I completely understand trans people who don’t want to engage with the HP fandom, because it’s a fucking hard moral and ethical quandary to navigate. But also, I don’t think anyone, including other trans people, should judge those of us who find the inherent transgression of fandom empowering and freeing. That’s my go to answer.

I understand the ethical problems of HP and its fandom. The series is just flagrantly racist. It’s heteronormative, homophobic, and all around “ethically mean spirited”, as Ursula Le Guin so eloquently put it. But it’s still something that I loved, and more importantly, the fandom is so strong not in spite of the series' flaws, but because of them. The more broken it is, the more there is to fix - and we’ve put in Desi Harry and Black Hermione, we’ve written whole essays on why Wolfstar is canon, we’ve taken terrible things like “house elves love to be enslaved” and written complex, thoughtful interpretations of the relationship between oppressor and oppressed. We’ve fucked with it all. Some hasn’t gone far enough, particularly in regards to the way we think about and portray people of colour. But overall, we’ve improved upon something without a single cent from that work going to J.K. Rowling. I find people in this fandom have had a much deeper understanding of the problems in the series for the longest, because we examine it so critically and closely.

No one’s perfect, but we’re all trying - at least, most of us are - and we’re doing things that make the lives of trans people and other marginalised people better. And I’m a trans person who can attest to that, and I know you are too. Universal maxims like “any engagement with HP is transphobic!” don’t even begin to understand what fandom is, what it does, and why it exists. (Those universal maxims also tend to be hugely influenced by Western morality and the legacy of Christianity)

And yes - my fundraiser, and how this community came together to support a trans person in need, really shows all of it in a tangible way. The people here are here to support and uplift those who need it.

chickpea; i often fall into the trap of feeling like if my resistance doesn't transform my oppressors then it doesn't count. i’ve written posts about racism in fandom and a lot of times i still approach it from the position of like, how do i make this palatable, if i just say it with the perfect tone then it will be more approachable and i'll like, convert the racists. i write it with the idea that i have to reach the unreachable. but over and over what i see is that those posts strengthen the people already on my side. and i think it's the same when we're talking about the effects on queer people of engaging with hp. like, a lot of times the argument is that our silly little stories don't translate into real resistance, because people think of "real" resistance as legislative changes and boycotts, as efforts that transform and educate or punish oppressors. and our trans fanfic isn't convincing any terfs that they're miserable pieces of shit. but it bolsters other trans people. it supports us as individuals in this community. i think that the emphasis on whether or not hp fandom engagement translates to "real world" resistance focuses too much on that idea of reaching the unreachable people. we're here and we're doing it for each other, and i *know* it's effective because every queer person i've met in this community has a story of being strengthened by a fic, or a post, or an illustration.

i want to bring it back to joyfulness  in fandom. how has it encouraged you to cultivate more joy for yourself and others?

rooney: Honestly, I think that idea about remembering who we’re actually doing this for is so important. And also I believe we can plant seeds for change through joy. Because here’s the thing - change doesn’t originate from someone signing a piece of paper enacting legislation. That’s an important part, but that person enacts legislation because they represent their communities. Communities who believe joy is possible are stronger, because they have something to fight for. Joy is essential to resistance. I want to reach my community with my words and make them strong. And perhaps then those sentiments will reach further, because we will feel supported by each other and capable in our own lives of challenging bigotry and violence, knowing we are not alone. I am convinced that is how change happens. 

But I don’t just want to be happy so I can fight better. I want to cultivate joy because I deserve it, because I’m a person. Transphobic rhetoric dehumanises trans people, and that disconnect from our humanity can be internalised; perhaps we don’t feel worthy of indulgence, frivolity, the whimsical and beautiful and luxurious parts of life. Fuck that. Every human deserves access to joy. Treating myself cruelly will not change anything about me - depriving myself of joy when I fuck up doesn’t make me fuck up less the next time, and it doesn’t help the people affected by said fuck up. But treating myself well, indulging my creativity and dreaming and desires, actually does change me. It makes me better to the people around me, and better to myself, which means I have more energy for others and myself, which means I give more - it’s the gift economy, it’s cyclical. 

So fandom just makes me happy because it does. I love watching these dumb boys in love. And rather than try and analyse that or judge it, I let myself accept it, and go with it, purely because it’s joyful and life affirming and connects me with the world in a new and beautiful way. It’s really just the power of storytelling, I think - it calls to something primal in us. Maybe it reminds us that we’re humans in this world that wants us to be more like machines.

Fandom makes me joyful because it reminds me of my humanity, I think. With every fic I read or gorgeous artwork it���s like I’m accessing this part of my humanness that I have to keep segmented and separate from my work life, my life where I have to so much of the time be productive and disciplined. Here, I feel all of my flaws acutely and deeply, and all of my wonders, and it’s soul deep. How wonderful to be a human and to feel so keenly - how preferable to a life of trying to stay in the boring, lonely middle.

chickpea: your soulful intellectual rigor is very attractive

rooney: i think that’s my favorite thing you’ve ever said to me.

chickpea: a lot of times i have to frame my self-care and creative work in terms of resistance because that's the only way i can allow myself to have it. but you are so fundamentally right. cultivating joy isn't only for the collective, it's for me. i need to think about pleasure and joy less as a fuck you to the people trying to crush me, and more as a gift. giving yourself that gift of joy really does give that gift to others, and that's such a beautiful, community building action. 

thank you for the reminder that being in community is about engaging with our humanity. it's a perfect conclusion to our whole discussion. humanity is gorgeous and gross and so is fandom and stories are reflections of that, and those reflections are so special to so many of us.

thank you for letting me trick you into processing your feelings. 

rooney: for the record i encourage all of your attempts to trick me into processing my feelings. 

Thank you both for joining me in the Library. I loved what you both had to say about fandom being a gift of joy to ourselves and community being a gift we give to each other. Thank you so much for the privilege of reading your conversation as a way to celebrate Pride in the Library.

If you want more @academicdisasterfic, be sure to check out his work on AO3! I particularly love his fic like the sun came out, because it so accurately portrays the way people who truly love each other treat each other - with gentleness and kindness and patience.

If you want more @saintgarbanzo, be sure to check out his work on AO3 as well! I love Sweeten to Taste because I'm always a sucker for a beautiful food description, and also because I love the thoughtful and nuanced discussions Harry and Draco have in this fic about justice and forgiveness and what we all deserve even when we've been wronged and when we have wronged others.

🏳️‍🌈 Lots of Love and Happy Pride! 🏳️‍🌈

[sotvtaughtmehowtofeel]

Nothing Bad Here - Part 1

Joel and Ellie return to Jackson, but readjusting to life after being out in the wild for so long isn’t easy. Fix-it fic beginning immediately following the events of “Look for the Light” Note: The Last of Us Part 2 does not happen. Part 2 does not exist for the purposes of this fic.

If you ship Joel x Ellie, keep it away from me/this fic and remember that Joel would fully murder you for it.

Please engage if you enjoy this. Scream about it in the tags (that’s what tags are for). Send me heacdcanons you want to see (I’ll give you credit in the author notes). This show broke me. I’m writing this to preserve my own sanity, let me help you preserve yours.

                                             ------------------------        Joel thought about what he’d told Ellie the entire walk down into Jackson. He didn’t regret lying, and he didn’t feel any guilt. He’d been right to lie to her. The Fireflies had lied to her too, let her go into surgery believing she’d wake back up. Their deaths didn’t weigh on his conscience at all.         He worried that she’d see through him. She was a smart kid. He didn’t deserve the trust she placed in him, but he didn’t want to lose it. He’d nearly died getting her to that hospital, nearly left her alone out there. She’d been captured because of his weakness. He-He drew in a deep breath, pushing the doubt down. She did trust him. She wouldn’t know. He had been right to lie to her.         Ellie didn’t think about what Joel had told her at all. He swore. She’d had time to think about the fact that she wouldn’t be able to help anyone on the walk home. It wasn’t that surprising, really. She’d tried to save Sam and hadn’t been able to. No reason to believe that some fucking doctor would be able to magically turn her blood into a cure. Honestly, it was stupid of her to think she was so fucking special to begin with.         Tommy spotted Joel walking Ellie into Jackson from across the green. He waved and motioned for them to come over, frowning curiously at them. Joel waved at him, but put his arm around Ellie protectively and steered her back toward the home they had been staying in. He frowned, turning his back on Tommy. They’d talk later.         Joel laid his pack on the kitchen table of the house. Ellie dropped her backpack on the floor, taking off her coat and throwing it over a chair. Joel threw his over the supplies left on the table. He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand, turning to Ellie. That town- that fucking town- had been weeks ago. She hadn’t spoken much since then. Something was wrong.         He nodded toward the stairs. “Go take a shower. I’ll heat something up for you to eat.”         Her mouth quirked into a smile briefly, and she nodded, heading up the stairs.         “Take off your shoes!” he called up after her. Her shoes came tumbling down the stairs a few seconds later. “Punk,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head with a smile.         Joel looked around the kitchen, running a hand through his hair. There was one more can of Chef Boyardee in his pack. He fished it out and poured it into a bowl. He glanced up the stairway after Ellie, back at the bowl, then left it on the counter and took the stairs two at a time. The water wasn’t running yet. He knocked on the door.         “What?” Ellie called.         “You all right?” he called through the door.         She snorted a laugh. “Yeah I think I can make it to the shower, Joel.”         “All- right,” he said too quietly for her to hear. Of course she was fine.         He shook his head, heading back to the stairs. He took one step down but hesitated. He took a step toward his own room. He could sure use a shower too. She was fine. She was safe, and she was fine. He sat down at the top of the stairs, shaking his head. He just sat there.         Joel jumped to his feet when the door jostled as Ellie was coming out. Plan was to pretend he’d just been heading down the stairs. Ellie frowned at him, pushing past him to run down the stairs. He sighed and followed her.         A pang of guilt hit him when he saw the bowl of ravioli on the table. He’d told her he’d heat it up. He put it in the microwave, leaning against the cabinet next to it.         Ellie didn’t seem to notice. She was standing at the window, idly drying her hair with a towel. She didn’t react when the microwave timer went off, or when he moved his coat and pack from the table to place the bowl by the other chair. He had to say her name three times before she responded.         She came back to the table, flinging the towel over a chair, and took the fork. She looked at him.         “Aren’t you eating?” He had forgotten. He just shook his head, but she took another fork from the drawer and handed it to him, pushing the bowl into the center of the table. They sat down and ate together in silence. Author 2nd note: I saw a post about Episode 6 saying:          “love love LOVE how this episode portrayed ellie and joel as a pair of feral cats that got picked up off the street and have a tag on their enclosure at the shelter that says “they are bonded and cannot be adopted separately” – tumblr user weirdgirlcore This text post is the entire premise of the fic. 

[subsequentibis]

2, 7, 9 and 10 for laz, sal and john?

wooo let's put this one under a cut!

2. Why does your oc look the way they do? What are your reasons for their appearance?

sal is pretty heavily inspired by most of the tall gangly awkward sweaty weirdo scientist/researcher characters i recall fondly from a lot of media i liked growing up, plus hair that's fun to draw and that mimics the fungus's tendril shapes. she started out looking fairly different as my vtm character, but then i fell a little in love with dev patel (and this was also when i was still drawing her as a man) so she ended up closer to his look in david copperfield. purple is a color that doesn't exist much in nature, or so i've heard, so it can have a mystical/spooky/unnatural feeling to it, especially i think a kind of paler ghostly purple, which is why i chose it for her sweater. similarly i gave her grey eyes because i feel like they give off a slightly unusual or unnatural vibe while also being very beautiful. she gets a turtleneck because i gave her my fear of/discomfort with having my neck touched to an extreme degree, she doesn't even like feeling the wind on it. the rest of her clothes are brown/dark tones to give her an earthy and grounded feel. i'm not very good at thinking of outfits so i made her like a cartoon character that only has one set of clothing but just gave her sensory issues so she has a whole wardrobe of nearly identical sweaters, pants, and jackets for comfort. originally i was going to have the fungus able to chameleon-esque shift color so it would be mimicking her hand and eye almost exactly except for almost imperceptible lines where the tendrils meet, but i ended up not liking that idea so much and gave her gloves & a glass eye to hide the bits that she loses over the course of the story. she's long and spindly because i tend to think of her hunched up and curling in on herself, like she's always felt just a little bit too big and is trying to compensate for it, and also because that's very fun to draw.

lazarus is pretty heavily inspired by john constantine, sam vimes, columbo, hellboy, any cigar/cigarette-chomping long coat-wearing detective or investigator with a dry sense of humor. he's gone through a couple versions actually, he was my character in several different ttrpgs until i settled on him as a detective npc for an urban shadows campaign i ran and that really nailed down a lot for him looks and attitude-wise. grey raincoat to help him blend in a little more with the city, i like to think he could lean against a concrete wall and almost disappear. big stompy boots or heeled shoes because he's short as hell and wants to look taller. red as an accent color for blood/fire/etc. actually i debated red eyes as well for a bit and finally settled on orange because, of all things, pilferingapples drew bahorel with these really lovely orangey whiskey colored eyes and that always struck me as gorgeous. i just cranked up the orange to make them obviously not natural and as a connection to lava. he's a bit of wish fulfillment for me as a trans man - short but with a broader build, fairly strong shoulders and hips but a bit of stomach to fill out between so he's not really hourglass-y at all. hairy all over, big obvious top surgery scars that will get an update to probably look like flames or claw marks soon, and covered in interesting scars. i always wanted to come up with a story behind all of them but i only ever figured out ones for two, one on his knee and the brand on his chest that ties him to his demonic patron. he had a shitty tiny ponytail for a long time because i love getting my hair just long enough to have a tiny shitty ponytail, but his hair started getting longer over time and now i like him with long hair. cringefail facial hair. he cannot grow a mustache to save his life but that's not gonna stop him.

ok so john. john was originally a hotel podcast oc, as in like i had this idea that the owner might have once been a human guy and got yoinked and twisted to fit the hotel's needs. so john was just my design for the owner but a little more saturated, like he goes semi-greyscale when he gets got. i ditched the turquoise bolo tie when i decided i wanted him in underbelly and i'm trying to fill his wardrobe out a little more with clothes that a divorced dad trying to find his feet again after a painful break up might pick for 'fun'. where laz was my wish fulfillment as a trans man back in college, when i was barely beginning to believe i could possibly be genderweird, john is my wish fulfillment as a trans man now. tall, beefy, hairy, big shaggy sideburns. he's got less thought put into him than the others because he's not been around as long, give him a few years to mature in the soup and i'm sure he'll develop.

7. Does your oc have any notable skills or good personality traits? Why did you give them those traits? Why do they exist in-universe?

see prev answer for sal!

lazarus is somewhat similar to sal in that he's quick to pick up on tiny details, but i would call him more street smart than book smart. i wanted the two of them to have a bit of a battle of the minds going on, not quite like death note levels but more like your average columbo episode. laz is in total control of himself at pretty much all times, as well - he is driven primarily by anger, but he's had enough time to figure out how to use anger instead of being used by it. sometimes he loses control but it's rare. he has a good relationship with a lot of people in the underbelly, he makes a point to help out where he can and engages in a lot of favor-swapping. i really want him to be a pillar of the community sort of guy, someone really intensely invested in the space they've helped to build because he's been aimless and wandering in the past and it's no way to live. he's a bit world weary and can come across as cynical, but deep down even if he doesn't believe in the inherent goodness of man, he thinks man can be dragged kicking and screaming towards some kind of goodness.

john is a good natured and good hearted kind of guy, despite his flaws he has a fairly strong sense of right and wrong and he's really fiercely loyal and protective of his loved ones. frankly see that one post that's like 'character that's submissive in the way a guard dog is submissive'. he's lost people and relationships in the past for various reasons so when he finds something that sticks he's desperate to keep them close and safe and intact.

9. In a group dynamic, what kind of role does the oc usually fill? Are they a worry wart? A troublemaker? The straight man?

sal is the worrier for sure and the one who goes home early because she's not having fun. laz is the one you think is the straight man until a third act subversion and then he's either covered in other people's blood or has challenged the biggest guy in the bar to a drinking contest that he will win and then make out with said guy. john is the designated driver.

10. What is your favorite trait regarding your oc?

i love sal's cowardice. it's really meaningful and special to me how little she wants to do with anything happening to her and how she figures out how to deal with it anyway and succeed while never really getting over how much she wants to just go home and get in bed.

my favorite lazarus trait is his anger, because i love a character who lets their rage bubble and boil under the surface while appearing completely calm until they just explode, but like a controlled demolition.

i love john's ability to adapt. when he ends up in the underbelly it's not long at all before he's got a stable job & a place to live & people who call him friend because he just goes with the flow and makes it work. yeah he's got goat eyes and horns and he sleeps on a pile of hay now bc he's too big for his bed most nights but hey, could be worse!

[hesitantadrien]

I decided to redraw an old fandom piece as an original, to use as a portfolio piece, because I'm really struggling to create new art. The only fandomy thing about it is what the character is wearing, and I've always liked the piece, so it seemed like a prime candidate for a redraw. It's essentially a bust in a style similar to art nouveau. Nothing groundbreaking, but it looks nice and I'm hoping it'll help me feel more confident in making something that is actually new.

It feels so strange though. I opened the file, made it mostly transparent, and went to start drawing a circle for where the head should be under the details... But it feels like im tracing someone else's work. Not in a "this is cheating" or "I feel guilty reusing my old art" way, because it's not and I don't-- I think this is a solid strategy to revive the very, very dead artistic drive I once had. The piece is just so different from my current "work" (or maybe lack thereof) that it feels like a different person made it.

Everything I've made, or more accurately tried to make, for the past several years has been made mostly out of desperation. I'm desperate to get into a school, get a degree, get out of my shitty job and into something less shitty at the least. It's killed my creativity over and over, I feel like the very few finished pieces I have made really do look and feel desperate and stressed, that it comes through no matter the subject. Everything recent is poisoned by the pressure of making something good enough to warrant scholarship, to so thoroughly impress someone I haven't met yet that they'll save me from my own miserable life.

This older piece was made because I wanted to make it. Because I thought it looked nice, because it was fun. I knew it wouldn't be for a portfolio ever, and though I wanted it to get social media attention, the stakes were exceedingly low. I wasn't happy with my life when I drew that piece either, but I remember making art all the time, I remember it being easier, something to do for fun. I say I remember it, because I know it was true once, but I don't remember what that feels like anymore.

This isn't burnout, this is something else. I'm 29, trans and too poor to transition, have living relatives but no "family" other than my partner and my best friend, and my life savings is $250 in a jar. I have no degree and seemingly no options, I'm more or less paycheck to paycheck. I work full time and my mental health is so horrific that there's little time for me to complete basic tasks, like eating and cleaning, let alone time to dedicate to practicing art and making new pieces I genuinely want to make. I filled out fafsa and qualify for less than 12k student aid, over 9k of which is just direct loans. I'm already in 10k student debt from being pressured to go to a shitty university fresh out of highschool a decade ago, and my credit score isn't great. I don't want more loans even if I could get them, but I don't have the talent or experience to get an art job without a degree. I don't have a real portfolio, my art is painfully obviously student level. I don't know what to do. I desperately need top surgery and I feel like I'm constantly putting off everything else in my life because I haven't "accomplished" either of these things, because I should be saving for one or the other, because everything costs thousands of dollars and I bring home like $400 a week killing myself slowly in retail.

I have a significant breakdown about my life almost every other week now. I'm really trying to go through the motions of what I should do to improve things, but it's exhausting. Instead of daydreaming about the life I want anymore, I just daydream about joining a cult so I wouldn't have to think anymore (I'm jealous of the Jesus people, it's a new low for me!) or think about really elaborate, convoluted ways to die (there are so many fascinating poisons!) I know I can't live like this forever, but I don't know how to make my life better fast enough. I really do want it to get better.

I guess if anyone sees this and has been in my shoes and lived to tell the tale, tell me what I'm missing. And for the love of god, don't say it's patience.

[mediocre-writerr]

a drop in the ocean [lexie grey]

lexie grey x fem reader

requested by anon: OH MY GOD THE CLIFFHANGER IN LOVE IT IF WE MADE IT CAN WE PLEASE HAVE A SECOND PART I LOVE THE ARIZONA AND LEXIE BOND OVER THEIR LOVED ONE

pt.1

*not my gif*

“So Lexie, do you want to tell me what happened?” Dr. Webber asked, a lawyer present next to him.

Apparently they just wanted to gather more information about what happened that dreaded day and she was deep in the middle of it. The normal day at the hospital, one where you think that it’ll be a perfectly normal day, but it turns out to be your worst nightmare. 

“During which part?” she asked.

“All of it,”

What was there to tell? The most horrific thing that could ever happen at someone’s workplace just happened a couple weeks ago. 

Lexie was back to her worst nightmare, but the day just started like any other. The two of you were in the guest bedroom of Meredith’s house or well I guess it’s not the guess bedroom, but you and Lexie’s room. 

Meredith let you move in not too long ago. It wasn’t the most ideal living situation, but it got the job done. While the two of you at least saved up for an apartment. 

You met Lexie through your best friend Arizona when you transferred from your previous hospital. 

“Darling?” Lexie played with your hair as your eyes were still closed. 

Your eyes fluttered open to see her head propped up by her elbow as she just stared at you. You gave her a tired smile, before grabbing the hand that propped off her head and pulled her to lie back down with you. 

You peppered her faces with kisses and she started giggling, “C’mon, we have a shift in an hour,” you groaned and continued placing kisses all over face, “Love,” she drew out. 

“No, I don’t want to go,” you whispered, pulling her closer to her, “Can we just stay here today?” 

“Unfortunately not,” she said, “You have a big surgery today with Derek and I am on Meredith’s service,” 

You let out a groan, “You’re right,” 

“And that’s how your day started?” the lawyer asked. 

Lexie nodded, “Yeah, just like any other day. Until of course we went to work and I guess I didn’t notice this until after, but when we first got there Gary Clark was already in the building. If he just shot then, well it would’ve been a completely different story,” 

You and Lexie entered the elevators, just as you’re about to go up to the other floors someone stuck their hand out to stop it from closing. It was an older man and he looked somewhat familiar to you, but you couldn’t quite place where he was from. 

“Going up?” he asked and you nodded with a small smile. 

“What floor sir?” you asked, politely.

He looked at the buttons, like he was trying to remember something, “3,” he finally said and you nodded, noticing that he was on the same floor. 

The elevator ride up was quiet, you just held Lexie’s hand, fiddling with her fingers. The elevator dinged and all three of you exited at the same time. 

“Have a good day,” you said and he just nodded. 

“So the two of you didn’t remember Gary Clark and why he was there before, right?” the lawyer brought up again.

“Y/N told me that he looked familiar, but she couldn’t remember where,” Lexie answered. 

You looked at her as the two of you reached the residents’ locker room. Lexie was already staring at you with her beautiful brown eyes. You cupped her cheeks softly before pressing a soft kiss to her lips. 

“You have a good day, okay?” you whispered to her, giving her another sweet kiss.

She nodded, “You do too. Rock that surgery. I’ll see you after work?” the brunette asked in more of a question than a statement. 

“Always,” you kissed her once more before parting ways. 

Mark and Arizona both slide up by your side as you walked down to the attending’s locker room. They had teasing smiles on their faces and you already knew what they were about to say.

“You and Little Grey are really falling in deep, huh?” Mark said, nudging your shoulder. 

“She’s so far gone, we can’t save her now,” Arizona added and you rolled your eyes playfully. 

“Mr. Clark was targeting surgeons, how did he know that Dr. Y/L/N was a surgeon. From Karev’s recollection it looked like he was aiming for the elevator,” the lawyer spoke up.

Arizona cleared her throat before shrugging, “I think Gary saw Y/N talking to Derek. Then it clicked, Y/N helped Derek with the surgery that supposedly killed his wife,”

“Are you ready for the surgery today Y/L/N?” Derek slid up next to you. 

You nodded, putting down the chart, that you’ve read once more, “I was born ready!” 

He gave you a high five and smiled, “That’s what I wanted to hear! I’ll see you down there!” 

You didn’t notice, but the same man in the elevator was there listening to your conversation. Derek was too far away for him to catch up, so he followed you. It was like a stake out or something. 

You went to go ask Arizona a question and that’s when you heard the infamous screams. The loud piercing screams that shook you to the core. 

“We brought Y/L/N back to the OR, we were able to head down there before they closed it off,” Mark confessed, “We had everything we needed down there, except for an anesthesiologist. Y/N was in a lot of pain,” 

Karev placed a rag into your mouth before they started to try and get the bullet out without anything to put you asleep. You closed your eyes as tears started streaming down your face. 

The sweat from all of the pain was dripping down your forehead. You kept falling in and out of consciousness because the loss of blood and all the pain was not doing good for your body. 

Lexie couldn’t bear just watching you in pain, so she ran down with no hesitation, “Lex-Lexie!” Arizona whisper-yelled, following in after her. 

It was too late though, Lexie was already in the OR with her hand squeezing yours. A small smile filed onto your face as the blurry vision of Lexie’s beautiful face filled your vision.

“Hey darling? Can you stay awake for me?” she whispered to you, running her fingers through your hair as you laid on the cool operating table.

You nodded, giving her a smile, but you could tell that your body was growing colder. They finally got a blood bag running through an IV to get you some more blood, but the pain was not subsiding. 

“Where’s Arizona?” you whispered.

Finally, Arizona appeared right at your side, “I’m right here,” 

“Remember when we were growing up and your dad called you a good man in the storm? You always lived by that,” she just nodded, not knowing where you were going with it, “Can you teach me? I’m scared I’m not strong enough. I think-I might abandon ship,” 

Lexie let out a muffled cry at your words. Arizona smiled at you with tears in her eyes. You could tell even from being face to face with death that she was trying to hold it back for you. 

You turned back to Lexie about to say something once more, “I told you, we should’ve stayed in bed,” you joked, trying to get a smile on that sad face of hers.

She let out a watery laugh, “That wasn’t funny,” 

“But you laughed,” 

“You keep fighting, okay? Keep being a good man in the storm,” the brunette whispered to you, kissing your forehead ever so softly, “I love you,” 

“I love you,” you told her, “Arizona, teach me now, please. I don’t know how much longer I can-”

Before you could even finish your sentence, you blacked out. A loud beep coming from the monitor, “Karev! She’s flatlining!” Mark yelled.

Karev started compressions as Lexie and Arizona started going hysterical. Mark walked over to the two girls and pushed them away form you as gently as possible. 

“The two of you need to stay right here. Karev and I don’t need you going hysterical when we’re trying to save Y/N’s life!” 

Lexie was transported back into the conference room with Mark, Arizona, and Alex. The lawyer sitting right in front of them with Dr. Webber at her side. Lexie tried blinking away her tears at the harsh memory.

“Can I go now?” she asked, her voice cracking, and she could tell she was on the verge of a breakdown.

Dr. Webber nodded, “Yeah, you’re all free to go,” 

Lexie shot up from out of her seat and ran to the one place where she knew she’d be safe. She entered the familiar room to see you lying there, your eyes skimming through your favorite book. 

She let out a breath of relief as she entered the room to see you’re still here. Your eyes lifted from your book to see the relief, slowly overcoming the fear. You scooted over in your bed, patting the seat down next to you. 

Your brunette girlfriend didn’t hesitate to come over. She gently slid into your side, clinging her arms around you like a big cuddly koala. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head before going back to reading. 

Lexie couldn’t stand the silence, it allowed for her thoughts to be too loud, “Would it be okay if you read it to me?” she whispered, “Just so I know you’re still here,” 

Your eyes softened at the beautiful girl in your arms. You pressed one more kiss to her forehead before clearing your throat, “I’m learning to deal with that, but yes, I love you. That’s not something I have to work through,” 

[wonderlandhatter]

Shower.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x femSurgeonReader

Summary: You're both exhausted and missing each other so when you get home you and spencer share a loving shower together.

Word count:2511

Warnings: I don't think anything, loads of fluff, Spencer spanks you lightly twice, not smutty though. Reader is a surgeon so the word traumas is mentioned once and a surgery is very briefly mentioned but not in detail.

A/N: The only reason I wrote this is because I want to have a shower with spencer and play with his hair, also I have cramps so I'm very emotional and want love lol.  Hope someone enjoys this.

A/N2: My old account got deleted so I'm just reposting my fics I would appreciate if you could bust this so i could get back to where my account was thank you for your time.

Tagged: @pinkdiamond1016​  

You were exhausted, it had just been one of those days, you know the ones were you never stop, every time one thing got done another popped up. Honestly you blame it on George saying it was a quiet day, a QUIET day, who in their right mind says the Q word in a hospital, we all glared at him when not even a minute later our beepers went off with multiple traumas coming in. Now don’t get me wrong you love a good surgery as much as the next, but you were exhausted and just needed to stop, it was hour 10 of a 14 hour shift and it was DRAGGING on.

Spencer was also exhausted, they had just come back from a week long case, and even though it hadn’t been a particularly long or hard one compared to some previous ones, he was beat, it probably didn’t help that he had been tackled by Morgan, he says he was getting him out of the unsubs way but Spencer swears there were easier ways, anyway, he wasn’t injured badly he’s just got some bruises and is a bit sore.

You knew Spencer would be home when you got there, and you were thrilled, it had only been a week, but boy did you miss him, you just wanted to be around him, you needed to be around him.

When you got home you all but collapsed at the door, but you could see his satchel hanging on its usual hook and that gave you hope, so you pushed through just a little more, you dropped all your things and slipped your shoes off, they could be picked up later right now you needed him, and you didn’t know but he needed you just as much if not more.

You made your way to your shared room and when you walked in you saw a passed out spencer, it was adorable, he hadn’t made it properly onto the bed he just sat on the edge and fell backward, he didn’t even turn the light off just had his arm over his eyes, he hadn’t meant to fall asleep he wanted to see you, but his exhaustion got the best of him. You didn’t want to startle him so you kissed his forehead and went to use the toilet before you would have to wake him.

When you came back you saw your lovely boyfriend rubbing his eyes and immediately smile when he saw you, no words were spoken, they didn’t need to be he just opened his arms and you walked to him, he placed his head on your chest as his arms wrapped around your waist, one of your hands drew nonsensical shapes on his back and the other played with his tousled hair, it was heaven.

You don’t know how long you stayed like that before he spoke, “how was work bub”, “busy, we had multiple traumas, I got to assist in heart surgery so that was very exciting”, he looked up at you still holding you close with a very proud look in his face, he knew how much you worked to get where you are, and it was only a little more to go until you could do solo surgeries. “That’s amazing bub,”, “it was pretty cool” you said with a proud tone looking at him, “you’re pretty cool” he said rubbing the tip of his nose on your shirt. He’s adorable when he’s sleepy you thought to yourself as you chuckled at his comment.

“How was your day love, you look tired”, he simply groaned and buried his face deeper into your chest, you just laughed thinking he’s definitely a boob man, “what happened spence”, “nothing we just didn’t get a lot of sleep, and Derek tackled me”, before you could ask why he abruptly moved to look at you never letting you go, “he said it was to save me from the unsub but I think he was just getting me back for taking all his money at the poker game at Rossi’s last week” after all that he just sat pouting and you tried your best not to laugh,  so you just moved a piece of hair from his face and played with it as you spoke, “I’m sure he wasn’t trying to hurt you Spence, maybe it was the only thing that came to mind in the moment”. He just pouted more, and you leaned down to peck his lips, he tried to hold it back, but a smile broke out in his face, “fine maybe you’re right”.

After another beat of just holding each other you spoke again. “I think I’m going to get a shower, it was a very long and tiering shift, would you like to join me, the hot water might make you feel less sore” you didn’t need to give him a reason to join you, he would have probably asked even if you hadn’t offered, “ yeah id like that” he simply answered with a soft smile.

“I’m just going to go hang up my coat and bag, and then I’ll meet you in there ok love”, he contently hummed in response and squeezed your hips before you both when your separate ways. You hung up your coat and bag, you could have waited until tomorrow, but you liked keeping the house tidy, you weren’t the best at it, but you tried.

That didn’t take very long and Spencer wore so many layers that when you got to the bathroom he was still wearing a button up and his slacks, he looked up and smiled when he saw you and so did you, you walked over to him and pulled him in for a loving and slow kiss, “I missed you “ almost in a whisper, simply a breath away from his lips, “I missed you too” and with that he kissed you again  this one was shorter but it held just as much love, after you lips broke apart you held onto each other while spencer turned the shower on so the water could warm up while you undressed.

You began to unbutton his shirt while he did the same to yours, there was no rush because there was no lust, this wasn’t for sex, you just wanted to be with each other as closely as possible. Once you got to the last button you slid your hands up his chest feeling his toned body, when you made it to his shoulders you slid the shirt of  and he stopped dealing with yours so he could let his fall to the ground once it did he slid yours off too, once in had joined his on the floor he ran his hands down your body through every curve and back up until he slid one to you back and the other to the side of you face were he pulled you in for a kiss, while you kissed his other hand unclasped your bra which made you smile into the kiss, show off you thought.

You broke off so you could let your bra fall off and so you could both rid yourselves of the clothing on your bottom half. He was completely naked now and before you could get to your underwear he slipped his hands on your waist which made you stop and look at him slightly confused, he simply kneeled in front of you and placed scattered  kisses across your belly and hips while he hooked his hand in the waist band of your pants and slipped them off. Once they were at your ankles he began to stand again, and you kicked them off while he kissed your temple.

Once you were both naked you made your way into the shower, you went in first and stood under the water you then felt his hands snake around your waist and turned around to look at him, “hey handsome” “hey beautiful”, you kissed for  a while under the water, it felt good, you could physically feel yourself untense as the hot water ran down your body and as you felt him close to you, he always provided comfort for you.

Spencer reached for you shampoo and began to wash your hair, you just groaned in pleasure as his hands massaged your head, Spencer giggled at you response and moved your head under the water, “close your eyes bub”, it felt amazing, the hot water and his hands in your hair while he rinsed it.

Once he was done he just moved you slightly so you could open your eyes, Spencer picked up the shampoo once again and was going to wash his own hair before you gently took the bottle from his hands , “let me do it” he lovingly smiled at you and let you get on with the task, he had to lean down a little bit because of the height difference but you simply giggled it off, you massaged it into his hair and his eyes pretty much rolled to the back of his head in pleasure, he love when you played with his hair, it was one of his favourite feelings in the world, when you cuddled your hand would more often than not find its way to his head.

He pouted when you took your hands out of his air, “as cute as that pout is, I need you to move under the water so I can rinse your hair love”, so he moved under the water and you ran your hands through his hair, you were on you tippy toes so you could reach. While you were making sure you got it fully rinsed you felt his hands make their way to your waist and squeeze before settling there.

Once you were done you came down from your toes and wrapped your arms around his torso and laid your head on his chest, Spencer kissed the top of your head and laid his head on top of yours while he hugged you properly, you don’t know how long to stood together like that, it could have been a couple minutes it could have been nearly an hour but you didn’t care, you were happy, and you felt loved.

You only moved when you felt his hand lightly smack your bum, you let out a quiet squeal and hid your blushing face in his chest, you felt his chest move as he laughed at your flustered response even at this point in the relationship. “we should probably get out, we’re starting to look like raisins”, “there were other ways to get my attention”, “yeah but I like my way” he answered with one last slap before he stepped out of the shower.

You stepped out of the shower and Spencer handed you a towel, you both dried yourselves, he walked out into the bedroom while you towel dried your hair, as you walked out he was pulling up his plaid pyjama bottoms, god he was hot you thought to yourself as you leaned against the door frame, you admired him from there, water droplets falling from his hair onto his shoulders and running down his toned body, he was perfect you thought, in every way, body and mind, he truly had an incredible mind, you loved it when he rambled, he was so passionate and wonderful when he spoke about something he truly cared about.

You were broke out of your trance by  a very smug Spencer clearing his throat, you looked at his smug smirk and pushed yourself off the door and walked over to your dresser, “shut up”, he put his hands up and his voice went up at least an octave “I didn’t say anything”, “your smugness speaks volumes”, “sorry, but you were practically eye-fucking me over there”, “was not”, you grumbled back while taking out a pair of panties and putting them on, “I was actually thinking about how much I love you”, you finally said while pulling his cal-tech jumper over your head, you loved it because it was so oversized on you due to his height, it reached to your thighs, you also loved that it smelled like him, he had probably already worn it..

“oh, sorry” he said losing his smirk that was quickly replaced with a soft adoring smile directed at your statement, looking at him you walked over and puck your arms around his neck, while his took their rightful place on your waist, “you are very hot right now though” you said playing with his damp hair, “just now?”,  he questioned with a knowing look, you shook your head and went up on your tippy toes and kissed him, “I’m boosting your ego too much Dr Reid” he laughed and simply hugged you closer.

“I’m sleepy” you said slightly muffled since you had your face nuzzled into his chest. He didn’t say anything just slid his hands to your thighs, “jump bub” and you did and moved your face to nuzzle his neck, the walk wasn’t long only a few steps and he was placing you under the covers, you missed his touch already and unintentionally pouted at the absence.

It was only for a minute though, as next thing he was pulling the covers over himself  and pulling you close, you were face to face and he held you close and you held him, ”hi love” ,”hi bub” he replied without missing a beat, you shimmied your head closer  to his on the pillow and moved your lips to meet his. God, they fit so perfectly, it was like two puzzle pieces connecting.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, or lustful, it was slow, meaningful and filled with love and adoration for one another. You separated after a while, spencer simply kissed the tip of your nos.

You then settled by laying your head on his chest, you liked to lay there, it was your favourite way to sleep, you found it comforting to hear his heartbreak. His job terrified you, but being a surgeon you understood he wanted to help people because that’s why you do what you do, and you knew how fulfilling it felt when you were able to save someone.

This by no means stop you from being scared though, but being able to hear his heart beating helped you calm your fears, Spencer knew this, you had never told him but you didn’t have to, he never brought it up though, he truly felt guilty for making you scared for his life but he knew you understood, and now he had something that made him want to come home.  

Spencer held you close with one hand on your back and the other holding your hand, you both liked to fall asleep holding hands, you felt closer that way and right now that’s what you needed, and so, you both drifted off to sleep with tangled legs, interlocked hands and a quiet exchange of I love yous.

It was heaven. It was love.

[amjustagirl]

CHAPTER 2 - FALLEN

Fic Summary:

The sky Oikawa Tooru’s heart seeks is a world away from the earth yours is buried in. You are a fool to trust him with your heart anyway.

Where Oikawa Tooru tries to recapture your heart. 

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3

Pairing: Oikawa Tooru x fem! reader

Genre / Wordcount : Angst (7k words), cameo from MSBY 4

Warnings: One non-explicit bedroom scene.

Masterlist link here!

Tag list link here!

You catch sight of Oikawa Tooru as you bustle through the hospital’s sliding doors, your usual cup of coffee in your hand that you buy on the way to work. He’s seated in the waiting area next to a middle aged man you guess must be his manager, from the way he jumps to his feet immediately to act as a human shield as you call out breathlessly - 

“T - Oikawa? What are you doing here?” 

Tooru’s head swivels around to meet your gaze, and you’re shocked by the lifelessness in his eyes until you glance at the bandages wrapped around his swollen knee. 

Oh. 

You try not to stare, but you do so anyway. The sight of your ex-boyfriend makes you feel as if you’re seeing a ghost, a specter from some past life. You last saw him when he was twenty one, young and proud, wax wings fully spread, a speck in the skies. What a difference five years makes. His shoulders are still broad, and the tilt of his jaw is still proud, but the light in his eyes has faded to darkness, and the pallor of his skin suggests far too much time spent away from the sun. 

Icarus, Icarus. Your hubris has led you to such heights, but look how far you’ve fallen. 

It’s surprising there’s no news of his injury, considering he’s one third of Japan’s trifecta of setters in the volleyball scene’s monster generation. With the Olympics rapidly approaching with just over a year to go, an injury must be devastating, especially to Oikawa Tooru, with dreams of Olympic greatness and victory on his native shores. 

A nurse materialises to usher Oikawa away for surgery before he can respond to the pity in your gaze. You look around. He’s alone, save for his manager. No one deserves to be wake up alone after surgery, so you call after him - 

“I’ll check in on you after you’re done! Gambatte!”

He responds with a thumbs up and a weak smile. 

You flip through his medical files once you get the chance. 

Oikawa Tooru, twenty six. Pro-volleyball player for EJP Raijin previously, currently playing in the Argentinian league. Narrowly missed out on making the cut for the previous Olympics, but went on to represent Japan in the last three World Cups, alternating with Miya Atsumu and Kageyama Tobio. Obviously hoping for another shot at the Olympics, but that’s looking bleak from what you’re gleaning from his medical records. 

His right knee has always bothered him, even during his high school days. Now, a decade later, it looks like he’s managed to tear his tendon to shreds. 

Volleyball is a cruel, demanding mistress, especially for one not born a genius. 

The surgery to repair a torn knee ligament is delicate work, requiring an experienced surgeon, and the road to recovery requires extensive physiotherapy. It’s no wonder he’s resorted to the modern Tokyo hospital you work in rather than returning to his native Sendai to recuperate. The downside of doing so though, is that he’d have to recover alone. 

You wrinkle your nose. He may be your ex-boyfriend, but he doesn’t deserve that. 

The sun is setting when you finally find the time to slip into his room. 

As expected, he’s still asleep. The anesthetic will take some time to wear off. From the looks of the surgeon’s notes, the surgery was a success - though you know from the nature and extent of the injury that his road to recovery will be long and winding.   

So you seat yourself in the visitor’s chair with a hot cup of tea and an onigiri to stave off your hunger at not finding time for a break any earlier. You had an awful day at work today, two of your patients puked on you, another tried to fight you when you drew his blood, and the senior registrar in the ward assigned you a mountain of paperwork that you only just managed to complete, so you give in to sleep yourself as exhaustion settles into your bones.

“Princess?”  

You snap awake at the familiar nickname, ignoring the flush working its way up the back of your neck as you leap to his bedside to check his vitals, only relaxing when you’re satisfied everything’s fine. 

“You’re just waking up after a surgery, Oikawa”. When his forehead crinkles in confusion at the sound of his surname, you correct yourself. “I mean - Tooru”. The corners of his cracked lips tilt up in satisfaction. 

“Will you stay with me?” Tooru murmurs, eyelids beginning to droop again. 

You smile fondly despite yourself. “Do you want me to?” you ask. 

He manages to pout even as he’s falling back asleep. “I asked, didn’t I?” 

You smooth his hair from his forehead, slotting your hand into his. “Fine, fine. Go to bed, sleeping beauty”. 

He huffs an amused breath from his nose before he closes his eyes, contented. Trust Tooru to be shameless enough to cling on to his ex-girlfriend without a shred of awkwardness. You end up staying in his room for hours, watching him sleep.

The heart that you’ve locked away behind bars of bone and steel twitches, just once. 

You frown when the nurse catches your sleeve. “A patient’s looking for you” she says, just as you’re about to go off on a short break. 

“Who?” you reply, wondering whether it’s Sato-san who vomited this morning, or Imai-san whose blood pressure niggles at your mind. You do not expect the nurse to flush pink as she replies - “Oikawa-san”, describing the sweet young man with lovely brown eyes and such a charming voice. 

You slip back into his room when your shift ends. You expect to see a shadow of a man with broken wings, and you do catch a fleeting glimpse of Tooru staring wistfully out of the window, face tilted towards the sun before he turns to you with a wide smile and a pleased - “you came!”  

This is the Oikawa Tooru you are accustomed to dealing with. “Stop flirting with the nurses”, you tell him briskly, bustling over to look at his files. “They have jobs to do, don’t use them to carry messages to me.”

“But I’m boredddd.”

“I’m sure you have volleyball videos to watch.”

“I watched them all day today. ‘Sides, I watched all the matches on today already, twice – and I have plenty of time to watch them a third time. I have plenty of time to catch up with you, I haven’t seen you in so long!”

Five years since you broke up to be exact, but you sidestep that fact neatly, pouring over his medical file instead. His doctors’ notes indicate his recovery is promising. He brightens up when you tell him so, playfully complaining that hospital food is shit in a thinly veiled attempt to steal your food, a habit he’s clearly not outgrown. But you’re not all that hungry anyway, so you split your pork bun in half and hand it to him, dropping into the visitor’s chair. 

“So how’re you feeling?” 

“Like shit. My knee hurts so muchhhh.” 

You shrug, careless. “That’s pretty expected, to be honest.”

“Hmph. I thought they’d have taught you some bedside manners in medical school”, he snipes, though the effect is rather lost when his cheeks are comically round and full of food. 

You laugh, the stress from your day lifting from your shoulders.  

“I seem to forget them when it’s you.”

“So mean”, he pouts, hiding the familiar gleam in his eye that appears whenever he’s trying to analyse his opponents, take them apart. “As punishment, tell me about yourself. What have you been up to these days?” 

You decide to treat him like any old friend, giving him the condensed run down of your professional life,  how you’ve graduated from medical school (with top marks I bet, he interjects), how you chose to stay in Tokyo instead of returning to Sendai (your parents must miss you he says, and you brush him off with an airy they have other children, they’ll survive), how you chose to work in this hospital because you’re considering a specialisation in Orthopedic surgery (because of your grandma, I bet, he says, and you choose not to correct that, using your silence as a lie).  

He in turn tells you about the highlights of his career, how he’s spent a year at EJP Raijin before he was headhunted to the Argentinian league, how he spent four years overseas save for summers back in Japan to train with the national team, how he’s hopeful, even now, of recovering and fighting for his spot on the Olympic roster next year. 

You already knew all of that from news alerts on your phone you never forced yourself to delete, diverting him instead with a question about life in Argentina, nodding as he reminisces about his apartment in San Juan where he gets to watch the sun set over the Andes mountains, the kitchen that he stuffed full of Japanese groceries like daishi and mirin and sake and miso in his first year there just so he has a tangible reminder of home. 

You stop yourself from wondering whether he thinks about the little home he shared with you with such fondness. That time has passed. 

His voice wavers as he spins you stories about his teammates - Matteo, whose family owns a vineyard and taught him to appreciate wine like a proper Argentinian, Miguel, who makes the best empanadas and gets roaring drunk every time they win a match, Gabriel, who takes him to his family’s home in the mountains every other weekend because his grandmother is convinced that a single young man without family in the city will starve if he’s left to his own devices. 

It seems his wings were durable enough for him to soar across the oceans, his grit and determination the foundation of the new life he’s built, whole continents away. 

“It’s funny how the world works”, you remark off hand. “I never expected to see you again.”

His eyes gleam again. “The universe seems to work in funny ways.” 

You start spending breaks in his room, scarfing down your lunch and dinner while he talks your ear off about the horrible sitcoms or ridiculous game shows he’s watched today. You catch him watching a video of Kageyama’s serves and you’re amused when he practically hisses when you comment idly that his kouhai has certainly improved since his high school days. 

You ignore his spluttered protests that service records aren’t everything and besides, his own spike serves have definitely won Japan a game or two last year until, with the air of a boy king, he commands you to sit next to him on the hospital bed so he can pull up a compilation of his serves and his best moments. 

Years might have passed, but you’re still hopeless at refusing him. Besides, isn’t it better that you distract him from the sorry state of his knee? So you do as he says, ignoring the faint flutter of your traitorous heart as he leans into your side. 

“See? I told you my spike serves are amazing?”

“Yes, yes. I already knew that. I watched so many of your practices in university, remember?”

He looks at you strangely. “Did you?” he asks, leaning his head on his hand, eyes boring into yours. 

You think of evenings spent sitting on the bleachers, homework in your lap as you watch as the boy you love builds the strength in his wax wings in preparation for his eventual flight. “Yes”, you admit, sheets rustling as you shift away from him, avoiding his perplexed frown. “You were probably too focused on practice to notice.”

You already know you shouldn’t spend so much time in his room, but you’ve spent most of your life doing what you should instead of what you want to so just this once, you ignore rational thought in favour of sentiment.

After all, he’ll be discharged from hospital in a week, then you’ll never see him again. 

Tooru promptly proves you wrong the day before he’s scheduled to be discharged. 

“I need someone to help me move into my apartment.”

“Hire a mover”, you tell him. You don’t even look up from your notes. 

“Already did”, he chirps, undaunted by your apparent disinterest. “But it’d be nice to have a friend who I know will be nice enough to help poor old crippled me put my stuff away.” Then he grins cheekily, “plus I checked with that pretty nurse – Yuna-san was it? Anyway, she told me you’re off tomorrow, so you might as well spend the day with me.”

There goes your excuse to wriggle out of having to spend your rare day off with your ex. 

“I have a mountain of sleep debt to pay off”, you protest, but faced with wide brown eyes and an embarrassing wobble of his lip, you comply. Still, you manage to get the promise of a free dinner out of him, so you suppose it’ll do.

Tooru doesn’t have much to unpack, a couple of cardboard boxes of clothes and books, probably because most of his belongings are still in Argentina. He laughs and raises his hands in an attempt to placate you when you lift an eyebrow, first at the lack of kitchen equipment in his furnished apartment, second at the weights and volleyball he tries to smuggle in behind your back. 

“You’re not supposed to exercise for at least a month or two”, you cluck your tongue, sighing with disapproval at the furtive look he casts at the volleyball sitting at the corner of his living room.

“I can set while sitting on a stool! Don’t scold me, my heart can’t bear it”. He throws a hand across his face, brow creased dramatically. 

Icarus, Icarus. You’ve already fallen once. Will you seek out the sun again? 

A string of familiarity loops into a knot over your heart. If you close your eyes and count to ten, you can imagine that you’re eighteen again, chiding the boy you love for practicing too hard. But you’re twenty six now, a full fledged adult who should know better than to dabble in sentiment again (especially when it comes to brown eyed boys who only dream of the sun), so you slash through the threads connecting you to him with a flash of your teeth, bury your beating heart deeper into the dungeon you’ve built years ago of white bone and solid steel.  

“Do what you want, but your neighbours will hate you if you keep thumping that damn ball against the wall.” You say, simply, dismissively. 

“No one could ever hate me”, he declares with bravado. “I’ll charm them all with my charm and good looks.”

“Ridiculous”, you huff, dumping the last of his clothing into the cupboard. “Where’s the dinner you promised? I want ramen and gyoza at least.”

“So demanding”, he lilts. “I’ll order in. Tonkatsu ramen with char siu, bamboo shoots, extra spring onions with gyoza on the side?” 

Your heart struggles against its shackles. He still remembers your order.  

“Yes”, you finally say. “You got that right.”

He grins at you cheekily, as if to say of course. 

After you gulp down your ramen, devour your gyozas, you pack up, ready to leave. You have an early shift tomorrow, and you’re already dreaming about your soft bed whilst dreading the cup of coffee you’ll have to down tomorrow morning just to stay awake. 

He catches your wrist, presses the spare key to the apartment into your hand.  “Come back. I want to see you again”, he says, an order and not a plea. 

You are about to make up an excuse, tell him anything but the truth that you suspect it’s bad for your heart to keep seeing him again. 

“Please” - he adds with a tint of fragility to his voice. 

“I’ll be back when I can”, you finally say. 

“Tomorrow?” he looks up at you with hopeful eyes. 

“We’ll see”, you pry your hand loose from his grasp, slip out the front door. 

You stay away for two days, citing your work schedule as an excuse until he wears you down with a barrage of cutesy line stickers aimed at driving home how lonely he is and how much he misses your presence. You’re being dramatic as usual, you text him dryly, but you turn up anyway at his apartment on a Friday night, letting yourself in with an armful of reports and a bucket of oden. 

“How’re you doing? Are you listening to your physiotherapist? Eating properly? Sleeping well?”

“You sound like my mother”, he grouses, rolling his wheelchair to the dining table. 

You flick at his forehead, he slumps back in his wheelchair.  “Stop bullying the cripple’, he wheezes through his chortle. 

“You deserve it”, you retort. “Don’t run away from the question. How’re you feeling?”

“It still hurts”, he admits with a mock sniff. “It should stop hurting by nowwww.”

You push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. “That’s to be expected. Your sinews just got stitched together two weeks ago. Not sure why you’d expect any less.”

“Bah, rude. At least you didn’t say I told you so”, he grumbles, spooning oden into his mouth. “That would be insufferable.”

“Well, maybe you’ll listen to me now that I’m actually a doctor”, you inform him pertly, batting away memories of a teenage boy with hazel eyes shouting indignantly at you after practice in the Seijoh gym.

Tooru snorts. “I can’t believe my eighteen year old self was dumb enough to open my future self up to a jab like that”, he complains, chewing on a cabbage roll grumpily. 

“We’re all dumb at eighteen”, you remark. “You’re no exception.” 

“You were dumb enough to date me”, he teases with a mocking smile.  

Your spoon slips from your hand momentarily. It’s the first time he’s alluded to your past relationship. 

“I was, wasn’t I”, you say lightly, before turning the conversation to Tooru’s physiotherapy sessions. 

You have no wish to delve back into the past, but you’re willing to be his friend since he seems to need one for now.  

Tooru’s knee recovers enough for him to shift from his wheelchair to crutches, which he points at you playfully, mimicking a gun every time you pop by for a visit. He seems to plan his physiotherapy session around your schedule, just so he can wheedle you into paying him yet another visit when your shift at the hospital end, bribing you with a cup of coffee with a hint of chocolate from the café across the street that you’ve never found the time to visit. 

“Thank you, kind sir”, you say, accepting the coffee with a laugh. 

“You’re welcome, my lady”, he answers with a smirk, motioning you to follow him for yet another evening to be spent in his home sitting across him, red ink smeared on your hands as you mark up the reports in your lap. 

His façade that he’s coping with his injury just fine slips every so often. You catch him more often than not watching compilation videos of Kageyama and Atsumu at the World Cup this year with a strained expression on his face, or resting his chin on the windowsill whilst staring wistfully at the birds in the sky. 

He does not confide about his worries to you. You’re not sure you want him to. 

But you can’t explain to yourself the impulse to purchase a bird feeder for his balcony, nor the glow-in-the-dark poster of the constellations that you cart into his bedroom until your heart has to scramble for equilibrium when he thanks you, his smile soft. 

“In exchange for all the coffee you’ve bought me”, you reply, turning away to hide all evidence of your heart’s betrayal, the diffusion of blood in your cheeks.  

A month passes. Then another. 

The crutches get kept in the storeroom. A limp remains, but the degree which his knee can bend increases by the day. His mood improves even further, and you constantly find yourself swerving to avoid his affectionate gazes, his attempts at flirtation. 

“You’re looking so pretty today!” he lilts, fitting his arm snugly into the crook of your elbow as you walk down the neon lit streets of Tokyo. He insisted on this outing, and in the custom of your rekindled friendship, managed to convince you to accompany him on your off day so he can get crepes from Harajuku notwithstanding the fact that it takes forty five minutes on the train and his knee still acts up from time to time.  

“It’s my first time downtown in a month”, you tell him. “Of course I’m going to dress up.” You don’t tell him you spent far too long in front of your closet, tossing outfits on your bed until you found one that complements you just right. 

He buys you trinkets, hair accessories that you’ll never wear, tries to win you ridiculous stuffed toys from the claw machine. 

“You’re wasting money”, you scold, wiping the whipped cream from his mouth. 

“It’s not a waste if it’s for you”, he tells you, with startling sincerity that you still doubt.

He doesn’t mean it, you tell yourself. It’s just Tooru being Tooru. 

You refuse to admit what’s staring you in the face until you have to duck your head to avoid his attempt at pressing his lips to your cheek. 

“Goodnight, Tooru”, you manage to say before you bolt off into the night. You check to make sure your heart is still under lock and key. 

It is, but it beats resentfully. Tooru, it beats against its bars with frightening intensity. Tooru. Tooru.  

You ignore it. You know what’s best for it.

You stay away from him for a fortnight, requesting for a change in your schedule without updating him, taking the other exit from the hospital so you don’t have to see him. You stay away until he manages to wear you down yet again, texting you the most ridiculous conspiracy theories about your absence from his life – you must be abducted by aliens, he texts you once, or your mother forced you to marry some stranger, I can break you out if you just say the word. 

He has a guest, you hear another voice, deeper, filled with gravel and intensity, so different from Tooru’s lighter lilt. You do not mean to eavesdrop, but you don’t want to interrupt Tooru when he has a rare guest over, and there’s nowhere else for you wait save for the dusty front step, so you settle yourself in, pen poised to continue your work. 

“What did the doctor say? When are you coming back for practice?” 

“I’m doing good! The physiotherapist thinks I can try light exercise next week. If all goes well, I’ll be back to practice in a month.”

“Sounds promising.”

“I had a good medical team. And I’m actually resting properly!”

“Shittykawa. Stop sounding so proud about doing what’s necessary for your recovery.”

“Iwa-channnn, stop being mean to meeee!”

Ah, Iwaizumi, of course. You haven’t seen him in years, but you remember him from school, a stoic boy with a good heart. You wonder if he’s changed. 

“Are you planning on heading back to Argentina?”

Tooru answers without hesitation. “Of course”, he says airily. “As long as they take me back.”

Your foolish heart shudders with disappointment. Of course. If you run your fingers down his spine, you’ll probably find blooms of wax attached to his very bone. 

You are about to stand up and leave when Tooru speaks up again. 

“But I’m going to enjoy my time in Japan while I’m back. Did I tell you I reconnected with my ex? She’s great, it feels like I never left.”

The firestorm of blood in your ears nearly drowns out Iwaizumi’s growled ‘piece of shit’ (he truly hasn’t changed after all), the clatter of glassware as Tooru protests that he’s not playing with your heart, he truly cares about you, his sullen silence when Iwaizumi demands what’s going to happen when he leaves Japan for Argentina, when he inevitably leaves you behind (yet again).   

Of course. 

You know his heart longs for the sky. There is no space for you. 

You barely have time to react when the door swings open, Iwaizumi on the verge of storming out. You plaster a smile to your face that does not fool him, but you hang on to it nonetheless, cracks appearing only when he gives you a wide eyed look of sympathy that only pours oil onto the flaming war between your brain and your heart. 

“It’s fine”, you say, and though he clearly does not believe you, he bows and leaves anyway. 

Tooru stares at you, mouth open, stumbling over himself with apologies and demands for you to tell him what you’ve overheard, but you motion for him to just stop with your hand, wave aside his protest that he means what he said, he truly likes you.  

Your heart screeches in delight, but your mind is firmly in the driver’s seat. 

“Let’s just pretend I never heard you say that, and we can continue just as before.”

“As friends?” he says, twisting his lips as if the words taste sour in his mouth. He clutches at your shoulders.

“I want more. I want you.”

Your heart thrums in agreement, but you recall assembling the remains of your heart back into your chest whilst kneeling on the cold bathroom floor half a decade ago. The span of five years should have molded you to view your shared past with pragmatism, but your heart seems to have forgotten its lesson. You shake your head.

“There’s no way you truly want me. I don’t think you’ve only ever had space in your heart for anything but your goals.” 

Your response emerges more bitter than you intend. 

“That’s not true”, he weakly protests. “I care about you.”

Not enough, you refrain from telling him. “Let’s remain friends”, you do say, and he opens his mouth to object again, but at the hard look you give him, he slumps back with a defeated nod.

He tries to respect your decision, never complaining when you keep a careful arm’s length distance from him, though you can feel his heated gaze on you whenever he thinks you won’t notice, hear his quiet sighs whenever you shy away from any accidental touch. He droops when you turn down his invite for lunch with his family when they come down for a visit, citing work even though he knows you’re off for the day. 

Still, it’s manageable and he says he needs you, so you return for visits, at least twice weekly, offering encouraging smiles and friendly words when he returns first to light exercise, then to rehabilitative practice a month later, just as he predicted. 

He carves out time for dinners with you, taking care to ask about your day, preferring to spin you stories about the pigeons and doves and crows crowding his balcony rather than talking about volleyball or his practice. He insists on escorting you to his apartment after work when you allow him to, offering you his arm with a soft smile that disarms you, dissolves any resistance. 

It’s an uneasy equilibrium, but it’ll suffice. 

The careful balance you’ve maintained in the space between you and Tooru is shattered when you find you’re not the only one who’s decided to pay him a surprise visit on a Friday night. 

“Tooru, ya didn’t say ya got yerself a pretty girl during yer break”, a man with bleach blonde hair wolf whistles appreciatively when you step into the apartment. 

“I’m just a friend”, you reply confusedly before Tooru’s shout “Shove off, Miya” confirms that one Miya Atsumu has decided to invade Tooru’s apartment. Well, him and what seems like half the MSBY team, with Hinata Shoyo, Bokuto Koutaro and Sakusa Kiyoomi squashed uncomfortably on Tooru’s tiny sofa, long legs stretched across the living room. 

It turns out the MSBY team just finished a game in Tokyo, and Hinata dragged his teammates to visit Tooru in a wholesome bid to cheer him up. You try to excuse yourself after exchanging nods with Sakusa (he hasn’t changed much from his university days) when Miya Atsumu blocks your retreat with a drawled invite for Izakaya and the promise of karaoke after. 

Tooru mouths playfully at you don’t leave me alone with these clowns (you’re tempted to point out that he’s very much one himself), and before you can even blink, you find yourself dragged along to the nearest Izakaya, impressed by the amount of food each man polishes off - skewers of chicken hearts and cartilage, bowls of potato salad and rice with braised pork belly, listening to stories of their exploits on the national team together, stumbling into the karaoke bar tipsy from the beers that Miya Atsumu pressed into your hand, head heavy enough to allow him to wind an arm around your waist. 

“She’s too old for you, ‘Tsumu-kun”, Tooru trills, inserting himself in between you and Atsumu, mouth taut with aggravation. 

“I’m not old, just a year older”, you roll your eyes, as the blonde setter backs away, lips turned up in amusement. Tooru is not placated, muttering how the younger setter is a douche and a sleeze bag as he drapes his jacket over you like a blanket. You nestle against his side, head on his shoulder as his arm rests protectively around you. 

Atsumu watches this with raised eyebrows, whistling slowly, opening his mouth to remark that he’s never seen Oikawa so smitten before when Hinata interrupts with a chirped  “‘Tsum-Tsum, join me!”, handing him a microphone while bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

Karaoke is the most fun you’ve had in ages. Hinata and Bokuto and Atsumu sing all their favourite anime theme songs with gusto - Atsumu even gets misty eyed when he croons Sparkle by Radwimps, reddening when everyone teases him for being a romantic sap, Bokuto shaking his hips to Western pop hits, Hinata showing off his Spanish skills. Sakusa refuses to even touch the microphone but you suppose it’s a win that he’s even in the karaoke booth with all of you. 

Tooru slaps away Atsumu’s attempts at handing you any further alcohol, forcing you to down cups of water until you are no longer glassy eyed, but still tipsy enough to agree to sing ridiculous K-On songs with Hintata and Bokuto, not stopping even when Tooru whips out his phone to video the entire performance with an indulgent smile. 

“Delete it!” you squeal, losing your balance when you try swiping the phone out of his hands, tripping into his lap instead.  

“In your dreams, princess”, Tooru chuckles, his arms snaking around you like a vise. 

“Anndd that’s our cue to call it a night”, Atsumu quips, herding Hinata and Bokuto out onto the street, Sakusa heaving an audible sigh of relief. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, kids!” he calls over his shoulder, throwing you a wink. 

“I’m technically his senpai, cheeky brat”, Tooru mutters, the irritation in his voice washing away as you giggle. “C’mon, it’s too late for you to get home and my place is nearer to the hospital so you might as well stay over tonight. You can take the bed, I’ll take the sofa.”

You shake your head, arguing that you couldn’t possibly turn an invalid like him out of his bed but he huffs at the insinuation that he’s anything but well, his knee almost whole again. You give in after he convinces you that it’d be more inconvenient for him to escort you all the way to your own home rather than put you up for the night, and you allow him to loop his arm around yours and lead you back to his apartment. 

It’s not the first time you’ve been in his apartment this late, not by a long shot, but it is the first time you’re over with the intention of staying over. The t-shirt you borrow from Tooru hangs off your frame, the scent of the fabric softener Tooru uses is familiar. You would’ve preferred being tipsier to dull your senses, but alcohol would only impair your logic, allow your heart to prevail, so you try to quell the thrumming of your blood in your veins by curling up on a seat by the window with a cup of tea when Tooru emerges from his shower. 

“Ready for bed?” he asks, towelling off his hair, frowning when you shake your head. “It’s late, you have work tomorrow, even if it’s the afternoon shift.”

“It’s fine”, you say without turning your head to face him. “Go to bed, I’ll take the couch.”

“I’m insulted, princess. What kind of a man d’you think I am to make his guest sleep on the couch? ”

It’s less dangerous to ignore him, so you pay him no mind, choosing instead to lean your chin in your hand and look up towards the night sky. It soothes you, the moon an old friend, reminding of five years’ worth of quiet nights spent in your own flat, filtering your younger self into adulthood. 

“What’re you looking at?” He takes a step forward, kneels down next to you. 

“The moon and the stars”, you say dreamily. “They’re pretty tonight.”

A myriad of weather conditions must coincide to allow the stars to even be visible in the polluted Tokyo night sky, but tonight of all nights fate intervenes, the stars align. The sky is cloudless, the full moon hangs heavy, the stars shimmer and dance.  

“Are they?” Tooru whispers. “I haven’t noticed.”

You finally turn to look at him. “Why’re you staring at me?” 

The unconscious echo of your past - a boy and a girl, falling in love under the same night sky makes his mouth twist wistfully, eyes faded gold.

“Because you are my sun, my moon and my stars. I love you better than anything in the sky.”

Your mouth falls open, your heart suddenly roaring, pounding against its restraints. 

“You can’t mean that”, you whisper. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

“I do”, he says, with heartbreaking sincerity. “And I always will.”

Nostalgia, aided by the lingering alcohol in your veins opens the gate to your foolish heart. You want to pretend that you are eighteen again, without a care in the world, indulging in the warmth of his hand on the small of your back, the caress of his breath on your cheek. Your lips beckon his, swallowing the catch of his breath when your hands slide under his shirt. 

“Are you sure about this?” His eyes are hungry, almost ravenous, but his hands still hover at the hem of your top. 

“Yes”, you murmur, pressing open mouthed kisses to the column of his neck. “Please, Tooru - please.” 

He carries you into the bedroom, undresses you with shaking hands, chanting your name with reverence, almost a prayer. His eyes darken with desperation and need, unwilling to allow himself any release until you fall apart boneless, caged in his arms.  

“Stay with me”, he murmurs, after you’ve both cleaned up a second time, tugging you into bed. 

It’s laughable. Five years on, Oikawa Tooru still has the power to make your mind lose all reason (however temporarily). With a single heated look, he commands your heart to break willingly in his hands. How could you not have learnt your lesson? The conversation between him and Iwaizumi merely confirms what you’ve known all this while.

(The sky his heart seeks is a world away from the earth yours is buried in)

Even now, you can see the glimmer of golden wax feathers budding along his spine, gleaming under the pale moonlight. 

You lie under the covers until his breath evens out, then you stumble out of bed. You force your heart to relinquish the keys to its freedom, handing it back to logic and rationality, pulling on your clothing, folding your borrowed clothing aside.  

Tooru mumbles your name, his hand outstretched towards you. “Come back”, he says in his sleep, fragility tinting the edges of his words. 

Your fingers miss the doorknob by an inch. You dash your foolish hopes against the darkness of the room, put on your resolve like armour, leave your spare key on the kitchen counter. 

Without looking back, you slip out into the night. 

​

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 6 - 9

This is a series. Start here. Continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, Honor Bound 5, and the prequel Vera.

AO3

Content warning: post-rescue, referenced starvation, scars, referenced attempted murder, noncon body mod, referenced nonsexual noncon nudity, PTSD, referenced noncon (that didn’t happen), self-blame, flashbacks, hallucinations, unsure of reality

For those of you who pointed out I forgot about Zelda in the last chapter with Vera... thank you!!

~

There was a sense of warmth to the light in the bathroom. Gavin could almost feel it on his skin like the brush of a breath, like the sun on his face. It was nothing like the cold light in the basement. Nothing. Even as his head felt both too heavy and too light at the same time, even as his stomach adjusted to the feeling of being full, he felt the light pressing into his eyes and felt real. 

He felt safe. 

He could still taste what he’d eaten for dinner, savory and sweet and sour, peanut sauce and chicken and noodles swirling together in what may have been the best thing he’d ever tasted. He’d only been able to finish half before he’d sat back, feeling almost too full to move. But Gray said that might happen. Gray said it might take some time for his stomach to get used to eating enough. 

He met his own eyes in the mirror. There were dark circles marking the skin beneath them, and the shadow of a bruise on his left cheek where Schiester had struck him as he dragged him to the gallows. His lip was split at the corner of his mouth. He pressed his tongue to the spot and winced at the burst of pain and the coppery taste. The scars on his face were carved deep, now, puckering the skin around them on the bridge of his nose, across his left cheek, and from the corner of his left eye to the hairline at his temple. The lines were reddish, almost purple, like they had been when they were fresh. It had taken three surgeries with the best surgeons in his parents’ region to make the skin lay flat, before. His face would look like this forever now. He was marked like this forever. 

His gaze dropped to his neck, to the ring of worn, weeping skin where the collar had rested. There were spots where the skin had been rubbed raw from the constant pressure, from Schiester dragging him into place and holding him down while he hurt him. Gavin bit down hard on his lip as he tried to look away from the marks there. As he did, his fingers brushed the scars on his right forearm.

Stormbeck.

He shivered. 

“You ready?” Vera croaked behind him. He jumped. 

“Y-yeah,” he murmured, turning to look at her. She was staring off to the side, her eyes unfocused – as if she couldn’t make herself look right at him. His throat tightened, and he raised one hand to run through his hair. It still smelled like the family’s shampoo. He let the scent wash over him, calming the rapid thrum of his heart. “Yeah, Vera.”

“Good,” she rasped. She stepped forward and plugged the sink, then grabbed the electric trimmer from the counter. “Um. Are you good to, um…” She blinked, and her throat bobbed. “You good if…”

“I can bend over the sink,” Gavin said softly. “That’s… th-that’s fine.”

Vera raised her eyes to his for the first time since… 

She’s not a monster. She’s not going to hurt me.

“O-okay,” she whispered, nodding jerkily. “Good.”

“Vera,” Gavin murmured, and reached out to take her wrist. Her gaze flicked down to the scars on his forearm. She shivered and looked away. “I’m not… Whatever it is you’re thinking right now, I… I didn’t have to… He never…” Gavin blew out a shaking breath. 

Schiester never bent me over anything. Even though I—

Gavin winced at the thought that followed: even though I deserved it.

But he did. Every moment of what happened was recompense, come too late to save any of the twenty-three lives he’d ended before he ever met Isaac.

Vera chewed the inside of her cheek and nodded again. “M’kay,” she murmured, her gaze faraway. “Good.”

She reached for a spacer and slid it onto the blade. Her hands were shaking. Gavin closed his eyes and leaned over the sink, bracing his elbows on the counter. He shivered at the cold ceramic against his forearms. Bent over like this, the collar of his shirt brushed against his face, and he caught Isaac’s scent with his next breath. The trimmer switched on. 

“You still sure you’re okay with this?” Vera said, her voice oddly distant. “I mean…”

“Yeah,” Gavin murmured against the counter. “I don’t… I don’t want to look like… him.”

There was a long silence. The only sound in the bathroom was the sound of the trimmer, and the sound of Gavin’s breaths against the counter. Then, a cool hand settled on the back of his neck, and the spacer touched down a moment later. 

Gavin jerked. There was an electric razor against the back of his head, his hands were tied behind him, he was naked and on his knees on the linoleum washroom in Schiester’s basement. One of Schiester’s men was holding the razor to his head – “he used to cut hair, in his previous life,” Schiester would say, “back before your family destroyed everything good about the world” – and every now and then Alvarado would look at the picture Schiester was holding up for reference, a picture that Schiester would force Gavin to look at while whispering in his ear, “that’s your father, that’s the man who destroyed my life, that’s the man you are, and you’re going to die when I’m finished with you, you’re going to die, you’re going to die, Stormbeck—”

“Gavin?”

Vera’s voice. 

Gavin sobbed weakly, trembling, his knees pressing against the tiles of the bathroom. His wrists burned like they were tied. He shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself, blinking tears out of his eyes. Vera’s gentle hands settled on either side of his face and eased his head up so she could look at him. 

“Gavin,” she said again. “Gavin Uriah. You’re okay.”

Gavin’s heart pounded against his ribs and his lungs burned with every inhale. He reached out and grabbed at her wrists. She released him but his grip tightened, and she hesitantly cupped his face again. Gavin’s gaze darted around the small bathroom as he gasped. 

“V-Vera…”

“Do you need me to get Isaac?” she said evenly. 

Yes.

No.

Gavin wet his lips and forced himself to take a breath. “N-no,” he wheezed. “I don’t…” He swallowed hard. His neck felt so strange without the collar. “I d-don’t want him… seeing this. Please, Vera, don’t… I c-can’t hurt him, he… he hurts when, um, wh-when I hurt.”

Vera sat back on her heels and brushed Gavin’s tears away with her thumbs. “Yeah,” she croaked. “He does.”

“I…” Gavin dragged in another slow breath. The room wobbled around him and his eyes darted around the bathroom. No hose in the corner. No cold white light above him. No rope on his wrists, no knife at his throat, no men holding him down, no collar on his neck, no icy blue gaze on him. 

Safe, like Isaac said. Safe.

Gavin cleared his throat. “Um…” He gripped the counter and dragged himself to his feet. His legs were shaking so hard he could barely stand. Vera staggered to her feet beside him. “M-makes me think of, um… of… him… cutting my hair, and…”

“Shit,” Vera breathed. “I mean, I can… I can try and do it with scissors, I’m shit at it, I mean… you’ve seen Sam’s hair when we’re on the run…” She huffed out a laugh. It sounded forced. 

Gavin shook his head. “N-no,” he murmured. “I… I mean, that’s going to… feel similar, too. And I can’t…” He shook his head. “I can’t just… n-not have a haircut ever again, I…” He raised his gaze and met Vera’s eyes. “Please,” he whispered. She blurred with his tears. “Please. I don’t want to l-look like him.”

Vera’s mouth twisted. “Yeah,” she said heavily. “I don’t particularly want you to look like him, either.” 

It felt so unreal, the half-hearted laugh that bubbled in Gavin’s chest. Everything felt real, and unreal, a dream and a memory and a thing that was actually happening, all at once. Shaking, he pushed out a breath and bent over the sink once again. 

“Just talk to me,” he murmured. “Just… just t-talk to me. I want to hear you.”

“Yeah,” Vera said gently. “Can do, Uriah.” 

Heat bloomed in Gavin’s chest at the name. The trimmer switched on again. He drew in a deep breath through his nose. 

“I’m gonna talk about my puppy, because I’m fucking obsessed with her,” Vera said. Gavin could hear the smile in her voice. This time, when the spacer touched the back of his head, he latched onto her voice, let it pull him out of the memories that threatened to suck him in. He kept his eyes open, staring into the sink. The white porcelain reflected the warm light above him. His fingers gripped the counter like he would go tumbling off a cliff if he let go. 

“So her name is Zelda,” Vera said, her voice sounding a little stronger. She drew the trimmer up the back of Gavin’s head. He shivered with the sound, the sensation. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to hold still. 

“Y-yeah?” he croaked. His fingers ached from clutching the counter.

“Yeah,” she said. “She’s a German shepherd. I got her from someone east of the farmhouse in this place called Eden. This lady breeds shepherds as like… her job.” Another pass of the trimmer across the back of his head. “She breeds them specifically to avoid their hip problems, and for temperament. I told her I wanted a chill dog, but I’ll probably still train her to guard the place.”

“That sounds nice,” Gavin said. His throat still felt raw from screaming, even after—

He wasn’t entirely sure how long it had been since he’d been dragged from the basement. 

If I’m not still there—

NO.

“Yeah,” Vera said with a chuckle. “She’s at home right now. I figured dinner might be a little much for you, and I didn’t want to add to that with a crazy puppy.”

“Dinner was good,” Gavin said weakly. “It was… it was good to see everyone.”

“Everyone was glad to see you, too,” Vera murmured. “I mean…”

“Edrissa doesn’t have to be happy to see me,” Gavin said. The trimmer paused in its path across the top of his head. Locks of his dark brown hair lay in the sink. “She doesn’t.”

Vera drew in a deep breath and let it out. The trimmer moved slowly across his hairline. He lifted his head to give Vera easier access. As he did, he felt the cold press of her teeth against his neck, the white-hot agony as she tore through his throat, the pulse of blood on his skin as he fed on his flesh. He shuddered and whined softly. 

“I’m… I’m sorry she couldn’t make it tonight,” Vera said. “She—”

“It’s… not that,” Gavin gasped. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Ahh…” Sharp teeth flashed at him in the dark and his eyes flew open. 

“Hey,” Vera said, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently pushing him up. “We can—”

“I just want to finish this,” Gavin rasped. He stayed bent over the sink. His breath riffled the short, single bits of hair on the porcelain. “Please, Vera.”

Please.

Everything he was feeling, felt like memories. They didn’t feel like hallucinations. There were no cold blue eyes watching him. 

This was real. It had to be real, or else…

There was a long pause. Then, the gentle touch of the trimmer against his temple again. “Alright,” Vera murmured. “I’m almost done anyway.” She drew the trimmer across his forehead, down the other temple, around his ear. Back and forth across his head, sending showers of tiny bits of hair into the sink. Gavin scratched at an itch behind his ear. Vera did one more pass with the trimmer and then shut it off. Gavin looked into the sink, breathing slowly.

“Gavin?” Vera murmured. “You… you still with me?”

“Yeah,” Gavin murmured. “I’m… I’m here.” He half-stood, until Vera placed a hand on his shoulder again. 

“Hang on,” she murmured. She gathered the clumps of Gavin’s hair from the sink and pitched them in the trash can. “Just a second. You don’t want bits of hair all over you, believe me.”

“I know,” Gavin mumbled. He remembered all too well the incessant itching after the first haircut, how Schiester had laughed – and how Schiester had decided that from now on he’d have Gavin’s hair cut in the room where he was washed, naked and freezing and ready for the hose when he was done. Gavin shivered as Vera turned on the tap and guided him closer to the sink until his head was level with the stream of water. 

“Just real quick,” Vera murmured. “Just to get all the hair off.” She poured a handful of water over the back of Gavin’s head and gently scrubbed. “Yeah, there was still quite a bit left.”

Gavin forced himself to stop gripping the counter. He reached up, too, and scrubbed his head under the tap. He flinched when a stream of water rolled from his forehead and down his nose. 

“I think that’s probably good,” Vera said, and shut the tap off. She gently eased him up. “Here…” As he stood upright, she wrapped his head in a towel and scrubbed at his short, wet hair. She pulled the towel away and dropped it to the floor. 

Gavin felt a wrenching sensation in his chest as he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked so… young. He looked years younger than when he’d been taken, even with the bags under his eyes, with the sallow tone of his skin. He reached up and ran his fingers through the short, soft hair. His gaze wandered over himself and he took a deep breath.

“I… d-don’t look like him anymore,” he murmured. His eyes smarted. 

“Nope,” Vera said, popping, the p. She shivered and rubbed his shoulder. “No. You don’t.” Her lips quirked a bitter smile. “Now I can look at you. Thank god for that.”

Gavin nodded absentmindedly as he ran his hand through his hair, short enough to almost be fuzz. The scar on his forearm caught his eye and he dropped his arm. He shifted his eyes down and swallowed hard.

“Ready to go join the others?” Vera said gently. “I know they’ll want to see the new haircut, too.” This time, when she smiled, it was easier, brighter. Her shoulders weren’t so tense and pulled up to her ears. Her hands weren’t shaking as much. 

Gavin chewed his lip and sank down, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. “Not, um…” He cleared his throat. His skin ached for Isaac’s touch, and the thought of seeing Gray and Sam made his eyes brim with tears, but… he just needed a moment. 

He needed to look at himself and see someone who wasn’t his father. He raised his gaze to the mirror again. He could only see his face; the rest of his body was cut off by the bottom of the mirror. His throat tightened. 

“Okay,” Vera murmured. “Well… okay.” She turned towards the doorway, then paused, turning back. “You… you want the door open, or closed?”

“Open is fine,” Gavin murmured, his hand drifting up to feel the divots of the scars on his face. The scars Schiester had torn open again – after Isaac put them there, more than a year ago now.

Vera nodded once. “Okay. Come join us when you’re ready. We’re all…” Her eyes swam with tears. She pressed her hand to her chest as she swallowed hard once, twice. “We’re all really happy to see you.” Her voice was ragged.

Gavin wrapped his arms around his chest and nodded. “Th-thanks, Vera.” 

Vera chewed her lip, then turned to go. She went around the corner to the living room at the front of the house, where Gavin could hear quiet conversation, the occasional burst of tight, tense laughter. 

Gavin slumped forward and pressed his face into his hands. His eyes burned with tears that would not fall. He scratched at the needle marks on the inside of his elbow, his other hand pressing into his eyes, smearing his tears across his face. It felt real. 

It all felt real. 

Gavin drew in a deep breath and raised his head. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom was a figure – something that looked just like Edrissa. 

Slowly, he sat up straight, understanding crashing bright and powerful through his blood. Her clear, ice-blue eyes bored into him, her mouth twisted in hate. Her pale blond hair was pulled back away from her ghostly-white face. His gaze flicked to the knife held tight in her hand. 

He couldn’t catch the sob before it made its way out of his chest. The tears finally fell, streaming down his cheeks like blood. 

I knew it. I knew it.

Gavin reached up to pull at his hair, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. The short strands slipped through his fingers. Dread slid into his heart, dull and slippery. Right on its heels was despair. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, never taking his eyes off the specter in the doorway that peered at him with cold blue eyes.

“H-hey, Schiester,” he croaked. “You… you really had me going on this one.” This time, he couldn’t muffle his sob as the specter stepped fully into the bathroom and closed the door behind it.

Continued here

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[vampthropologist]

Ultimate Luck 🍀 Nagito Komaeda

Here’s my Nagito HC design! Full details under cut because I wrote a LOT

EDIT: I forgot to add that he’s autistic

HC Details/Additions:

Intersex- Partial Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome (basically mostly feminine body with undeveloped masculine reproductive system and a feminine reproductive system coexisting)

Raised female, but transitioned as young teen. Has not had too surgery, has a small chest and no dysphoria about them but might get it just out of convenience.

Genderfluid transmasc (neoboy usually)

Gay

Ectomorph - Meaning he is extremely lean with little muscle mass. He could eat as much as he wants but his body struggles keeping the wait. It doesn’t help that he simply doesn’t eat that much, to the point of sometimes only eating once a day (Much to everyone’s dismay)

Small chest, slightly larger hips and butt, little muscle, and sickly skinny

Can‘t catch a tan to save his life, but also doesn’t sunburn very easily. He might get some freckles though! They just fade when he’s not outside constantly.

Has asthma, though it’s not as bad as it could be because he took immunotherapy as a kid which helped with allergies. He forgets his inhaler a lot.

Autistic- He stims with his hands a lot, and rubs his patches (different textures). He also verbally stims, but he masks that most. In my opinion, most of his existing personality already aligns with someone with autism, but I won’t go into detail. (Also yes I am projecting with this diagnosis a tad bit but I do not care)

He’s the same height, just wears platform boots on top of that so he’s taller now.

Dry, fluffy, curly hair- He might have ringlets if it wasn’t so dry and sick. It gets bleached by the sun on top of the sickness so it’s extra pale. He probably bleached it at some point just for the heck of it. Point is, he has hair damage

Peircings- Right eyebrow, multiple on ears, used to have nose and bellybutton piercings

Eyes- there‘s no definite pupil how I drew them. This doesnt mean he has eye problems, though I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s to show he has a carefree look most of the time. He also has pale eyes too, which means they are sensitive to light and he would wear sunglasses if he cared about his eye health. Also he wears eyeliner, though it’s nothing special, just a wing or outline. He has under eye bags, whether they’re from his allergies (asthma) or lack of sleep is a mystery.

Injuries- he hurts himself often, so he has a lot of bandages. Usually he has bandages on his fingers, even though he might only have scabs. He doesn’t want to pick the scabs, and he thinks they look cute. The bandage on his neck is from a burn and the one on his nose is a cut. He also has messed up cuticles from biting his nails when younger a lot (another reason for bandaging them).

Hands- bandages from injuries, nail polish (he likes to paint them different colors, and when he starts biting his nails again he puts the bad tasting one on to stop himself, also his nails are very chipped), rings, usually up and in motion to emphasize his speech (he talks with his hands). He also writes reminders on his hands or arm sometimes. He’s ambidextrous.

Jewlery- various necklaces, bracelets, and rings from his travels. He has a belt chain and collects cute charms too. He also has a dog tag with his name on it, though a small corner broke off. He has clover and skull charms, some cuter ribbons and animal shapes (notably a dog one that he doesn’t take out too often) and an intersex charm for pride. He collects bangles, pearls, beads, kandi, and any type of chain or bracelet he can get his hands on. He also has rings on his fingers when they don’t have bandages, usually simpler bands and no stones. He has a ring from his parents on the same chain as his dog tag, but that’s one of the only ones he owns with stones. He wears a choker, and has a belt chain instead of a wallet chain.

Clothing- it’s the same, but the jacket and pants are more ripped up. His sleeves aren’t ripped either, but he has patches on his jacket and pants now. He especially likes the clover one on his right knee. He has patches from his travels as souvenirs, like locations, concerts, or shapes that symbolize something to him.

Shoes- They’re calf-high platforms with chunky bottoms. Lace-ups with scuff marks, but Special because he doodles on them when he gets bored (a lot of things about talents and hope on them, but also daily reminders for himself).

[gumnut-logic]

Wire (Bit 11)

Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4 | Bit 5 | Bit 6 | Bit 7 | Bit 8 | Bit 9 | Bit 10

Bit 11

Written between 1am and 4.30am. Guess who has insomnia again. But eh, we gets fic.

Special thanks to @katblu42 for the plot suggestion that was added into this bit ::hugs:: Also to @janetm74 @scribbles97 and @tsarinatorment for their amazing support ::squeezes you so tight::

This is still whump. Sorry, guys. A little bit of a longer bit this time at 1337 words.

-o-o-o-

Virgil ran a corn leaf through his fingers.

It was the depth of summer and the sky was brilliant with sun, the corn silks drying and brown above swollen husks while the giant flower heads at the top of each plant danced in the wind.

Ever so tall.

Cornstalks rustled as if speaking to each other, whispering his name.

He couldn’t see out of the field. It appeared to go on forever and he didn’t know how he had ended up in the maze in the first place.

Scott had been yelling his name. There had been pain and movement and Grandpa urging him on.

But now there was just the cornfield.

The wind hissed.

They weren’t supposed to play amongst the corn. There were snakes in the field and Grandma did not like losing sight of her charges.

Of course, Scott had dragged him in once.

Only once.

The field was mysterious and exciting. They hadn’t gone far, but Grandpa had discovered them and the fallout had been extensive.

They both learnt that day exactly why they shouldn’t go into the cornfield as Grandpa had found a snake, showed it to them and then listed off exactly what happened to someone who was bitten.

Scott hadn’t been a fan of snakes ever since.

Of course, Grandma followed that lecture up with some extensive first aid training for what to do if you were bitten by a snake.

It had been a long few days after that.

They never went into the cornfield again.

Until now.

And Scott wasn’t here.

Virgil shivered. He wasn’t a kid anymore and had faced far worse dangers than a snake infested cornfield, but there was something more going on here.

He knew it deep in his soul.

His IR uniform was gone and in its place his comfortable flannel shirt, jeans and boots were a stark contrast against the green stalks.

The leaf was rough between his fingertips, silica strong, almost like wire, but sharper, prone to those thin slices like paper cuts.

“Virgil.”

He startled. His name was sudden, yet as whispered on the wind as the rattling leaves.

“Gordon?”

The wind shook stalks and continued to whisper unintelligibly, ignoring him.

Two hands landed on his shoulders.

His gasp was swallowed as those small hands gently turned him around on the spot.

Eyes dark and so like his own looked up at him with so much love any remaining fear evaporated and fluttered away.

“Mom?”

-o-o-o-

Scott stood in a hospital doorway still wearing the suit he wore for the press conference yesterday.

He felt grimy and he was sprouting stubble on his chin to match his lack of self care over the last forty-eight hours or so. He wasn’t sure of the exact number.

Numbers hurt.

The door he was standing in wasn’t Virgil’s. No, he had left his brother for yet another necessary task as the eldest, the protector of his family.

John had offered to do it for him, but Scott felt an irrational and driven need to see that what his brother had given everything for was worth it.

Of course, every life was worth it. That was the Tracy motto.

But Scott was human. Ever more so now he was in pain. And he felt the need to make sure...it was worth it.

The paediatric ward was brightly painted. A stark lie to the children it contained in an attempt to distract them from the pain these halls actually contained.

The tiny figure in the bed was quiet, strawberry blond hair falling over closed eyes. He looked much more peaceful now he wasn’t bleeding.

Scott was grateful Virgil had succeeded in saving the little boy. His name was John and he did look a little like Gordon.

Toddler Gordon.

Despite everything, Scott did smile just a little. At age three, Gords had been an absolute terror. Virgil, for whatever reason, had taken it upon himself to prevent the little brat from killing himself or others and the resultant hilarity of watching his twelve year old brother chase after the three year old was legendary.

Until the day Virgil actually did save Gordon. Fish baby or no, a dam on the farm was no place for a three year old.

Although this was not Gordon, this little boy was just as lucky as Scott’s little fish brother, even if it took the rest of the Tracys to finally get him out from under that building.

Little John had two broken legs, some nasty bruising, and had inhaled far too much concrete dust and fumes. This last coupled with some internal bleeding and a three year old’s tiny body had made it very touch and go. Virgil had protected him as much as he could, but there had only been so much his critically injured brother could do.

But the doctors had saved him and although he had a tough path ahead, Virgil hadn’t risked himself in vain.

It was worth it.

Worth the lax and non-responsive figure in that too white bed on the other side of the hospital.

Scott swallowed hard.

Focus.

The boy’s mother finally caught sight of him and he forced himself to straighten up and feign presentability.

“Mr Tracy!” She hurried over, eyes wide. “Ohmigod, I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

Something must have shown in his eyes because hers widened and she held herself back.

“Come in, sir. Have a seat.” She stepped away and offered him one of the same plastic hospital chairs he had already spent a good part of the day sitting in on the other side of the building.

He held up a kind hand. “No, no, I’m only here for a moment. I just wanted to see how little John was doing.”

The woman’s breath was harsh at the mention and he prayed she wouldn’t burst into tears because he did not have the reserves right now and would likely join her.

She glanced at her son. “The doctors expect him to make a full recovery thanks to your brother.” A pause and he knew what she was going ask. “How is he?”

The image of Virgil lying ever so still, head swathed in bandages from literal brain surgery coupled with a belly full of even more stitches...

“He’s...” Another harsh swallow. “...hanging in there.”

The gentle hand on his arm nearly broke him.

He drew in a breath and mentally shook himself. “Um, I came over here to give you this.” He held out the piece of paper he had signed himself not twenty minutes ago. “When...” He tried again. God, he was tired. “When people heard Virgil was injured he was sent gifts and money.” They were still coming in. His brother was truly loved by the general public. Virgil Tracy and his giant flying green machine. Virgil would smile and wave it off, but really, people loved him. “My brothers and I know that Virgil would want you to have this, to help John in his recovery.” The cheque had a considerable number of zeros written on it.

Her eyes widened as she read them. “My god.” She blinked. “Thank you. I can’t lie. We need this. But...but what about the others?”

“Virgil saved the rest. There were some minor injuries. They’ve all been seen to.” He glanced at the bed. “John was the last one.” Scott blinked rapidly. John’s babysitter hadn’t made it, killed in the initial collapse. John had been very, very lucky.

“Thank you.” And her hands were clutching his arm again.

Scott looked down at her. Virgil would definitely want this. He dropped his hand over hers. “You’re welcome.” Now he had to leave.

She nodded and let him go. But she didn’t step back, only staring up at him.

“Mr Tracy, all my hopes for your brother...”

Scott nodded abruptly, but had no more words. A dip of his head as he backed out of the room and stalked down the hallway.

All his hopes...

-o-o-o-

Next

[dathen]

INTRODUCING: THE MISSING TAPES BINGO CHALLENGE!

What are the missing tapes?  

So much happened after Season 3 and during Season 4 that we didn’t get to see.  With us being limited to Jon’s point of view/whatever force is behind the tapes, many events and character interactions take place offscreen.  The Missing Tapes is a fan content challenge to visit these moments and explore character feelings from new angles.

How do I participate?

This isn’t an event week or tied down to any specific time.  Go for a bingo, or just try a prompt or two!  If you write anything for this challenge, use the #missingtapesbingo tag so others can find it easily.

Many thanks to @somuchbetterthanthat​, @evanescentjasmine​, and @holdthosebees​ for helping me brainstorm prompts, and @zykaben​ for the lovely graphic!

After the cut is a text list of the prompts, from top left to lower right.  I also included a brief summary for context, and episode references for when these are mentioned or implied.  

1.  Others’ PoV of Martin losing his mother - (TMA 127)  Basira tells Jon that watching how hard this hit Martin kept her from pushing him too hard about his plans.  “He tried to stay strong, keep it together, but...that sort of thing...”

2.  Basira finding that she’s the sole survivor of the Unknowing - (TMA 122)  “The others-- Tim--  Is he…?   ...Oh.”  “Daisy, too.”  “I’m sorry.”  “Yeah.”  

3.  Melanie and Georgie rekindling their friendship post-surgery - (TMA 131, 145)  Melanie fell out of contact with Georgie during Jon’s coma, but gets in touch again after escaping the Slaughter.  “Who else is there? I mean, Basira is… heh. She’s been the only one for a long time.”  

4.  Basira and Martin’s phone calls during the Scottish Honeymoon - (TMA 160)  Martin and Basira have regular phone calls while he and Jon are in hiding.  “How was she?”  “Oh, same as last week.”

5.  Basira, Daisy, and Jon going for drinks - (TMA 136, 140)  “You look awful. You try drinking with Daisy again?”

6.  Reactions to the s3 deaths/disappearances - (TMA 122)  Tim’s death, Daisy’s body not being found, and Jon as good as dead.  Not limited to the Archives team (the rest of the Institute? Jon’s extended family? Oliver’s dreams? go wild).

7.  Basira and/or Martin reacting to Peter Lukas vanishing researchers - (TMA 123)  “Rumor is a couple of researchers up on the third floor decided to ignore some of his new directives, and… whoosh.”

8.  Anti-Lonely sleepovers - (TMA 150)  “We’re all well aware that with Peter Lukas in charge of the Institute, [the Lonely] is a very real danger to all of us. We are trying. Daisy, Basira and I, we don’t leave the Institute much anymore, so we do spend a lot of time together.” 

9.  Melanie and Georgie getting together - (sometime between TMA 145 and 157)  “I didn’t-- I didn’t realize you were to-together.”

10.  Basira during the S4 finale - (TMA 158-160)  Left alone after Daisy draws off the Hunters, waiting for Jon to return with Martin, her PoV of the aftermath, etc.

11.  Georgie learns about Jon/starts visiting him in the hospital - (TMA 121)  Georgie regularly visits Jon during his coma and talks to him.  “Sorry about that, Jon, but you really don’t need friends like that.”  

12.  Melanie and Basira trauma bonding during Jon’s coma - (TMA 123)  “She saved my life, John. She saved all of us. I won’t forget that.”

13.  FREE SPACE

14.  Melanie picks up a hobby as part of therapy - (after TMA 136)  (Implied) Melanie is trying a different approach to life as part of her therapy sessions.  “Since when?”  “Always.  I’m...trying to be more open about this stuff.”

15.  Basira or Melanie helping Daisy with physical therapy - (TMA 133)  “Hey, there you are. You’re meant to be doing your exercises.”  “You were out.”

16.  Basira, Melanie, and Martin going out for drinks - (TMA 98, 106)  Started in season 3, but could have also happened between the seasons. “Listen, you really look like you could use a drink. Um, me and Basira were just about to pop out. So...do you want to join us?” 

17.  Daisy and Basira conversations post-coffin - (TMA 132+)  “Basira she’s...she’s been good.  We’re together, so it’s good...if she didn’t keep treating me like a china doll.  But it’s alright.”

18.  Daisy learns Melanie’s name; possible fledgling friendship - Daisy didn’t bother learning Melanie’s name pre-Unknowing (TMA 112), but can’t stand being alone post-coffin.  "He’s gone with Martin and… the other one.”  “Melanie.”  “Sure.”

19.  Melanie moving in with Georgie - (TMA 157)  Takes place sometime between Melanie going to therapy and Melanie recovering from blinding herself.

20.  Archive member ambushed by a jealous avatar post-Unknowing - (TMA 123)  Stopping the Unknowing drew a lot of hostile attention to the Archives from the followers of other entities.  “We made a big noise with the Unknowing and… other stuff and now they’ve taken notice. We’re safe in here, usually. But we don’t go out much anymore.”

21.  Jared Hopworth’s attack on the archive - (TMA 123, 131)  “When we came up through the floor, it was wonderful. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on their faces.”

22.  Melanie and Basira’s dynamic post-surgery - (TMA 131)  Melanie goes through the same struggle with hating Basira because of the surgery as she does Jon.  “I sort of, maybe, hate her now.  I don’t know.  I can’t look at her without my leg hurting.  But what else am I going to do?  ... She deals in ‘intel’ these days, in usable data, assets. Not feelings. Not people."

23.  The team discovering Martin’s stash of tapes - (TMA 151)  “Jon found the tapes you made for him.”  “Shh, shh!”  “Found a stash of them awhile ago. I made sure he shared with the club.”

24.  The Archives team hating on Elias/Peter Lukas together - (Implied)  Nothing causes bonding better than a common enemy, right?

25.  Post-Flesh attack fallout, hurt/comfort - (TMA 123, 131)  “You were attacked. When?”  "About two months ago.  It was the Flesh."  “Oh, god.”  “Yeah, it was bad. We took them all out.” 

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Wash Day

Yall I just really want Trisskel to be a solid couple from like, day one and be happy and in love and hhhnnngggg. I have feelings. (specifically Netflix Triss and Game Eskel) 

Summary: Modern AU Eskel helps Triss with wash day when she cant use her arms. 

Warnings: Mentions of burn injuries and burns in healing process, nothing gorey, just the mention of scabs, temporary dependency, dealing with the shitty mental part of recovering from major injuries/surgeries - not fucking bathing, eskel is not flexible and tries so hard to do things right. bless, lol swearing as is usual

I’d like to put a little disclaimer that I did a bunch of natural hair care research for this but I have no experience save from helping my friend diffuse her hair before class. 

________________

Triss groaned and tossed her phone to the other end of the couch she was perched on, wiping her one good hand over her face. Her burns over her chest still weren’t allowing her much range of motion with her right arm and her hair was starting to drive her absolutely insane. Yennefer was going to come over and help with wash day, but Ciri got in a fight at school, leaving Triss to sit with an itchy, ratted, and, frankly, horrendous head of hair. 

She leaned her head back against the arm of the couch and sighed, not even able to adjust the bun Eskel had helped her with that morning. 

Speaking of…

She scooted over the couch to pick up her phone, tapping the little call icon under his nickname, “Hey, Yen can’t come over tonight. No need to pick up the wine,” she sighed. 

“Are you sure? Nothing wrong with a little treat, babe.” 

“I’m sure. It was more for her efforts than my treat anyway.”

“If you say so… How are you feeling?”

“Less shit than this morning. I’m just tired,” she didn’t add the feeling of hopelessness that went along with not even being able to bathe on her own. He worried enough for the both of them and then some. 

“I’m picking up the good wine. I’ve got one more client then I’m done. Maybe take a nap?”

“Skel…”

“I will spoil you if I want to. Oh! Look! There’s my 3:30! Bye Bug! Love you!” he hung up on her before she could protest.

She rolled her eyes as she lowered the phone into her lap, smiling a little despite her annoyance. 

Gingerly, she made her way to their bedroom and laid down, running the risk of taking out the bun to lay comfortably. She turned on a podcast she told Jask she’d listen to and hoped to zone out at the least, if not actually sleep. 

-

Triss was woken by Eskel stomping in their front door and dropping his gym bag with a dramatic thud. A few moments later she could hear grocery bags settling on the kitchen counter, the distinct sound of wine bottles bumping together reminding her what he probably had planned. 

She ever so slowly tipped over and pushed herself up with her left hand, catching a horrifying full-body reflection in the mirrored closet doors. 

The scabs and little spots that were still bandaged she was starting to get used to, but the rest of her? Looking at herself in sweats that hadn’t been changed in two days, a summer tank top with no bra and coffee stains, and mismatching fuzzy christmas socks was… difficult. Her hair was wild, all the curls stretched out and sticking together in big frizzy clumps that stuck out at odd angles. 

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It had only been four weeks. No one was going to be back to normal after four weeks. Her body was using all its energy to heal, not look put together.

Regardless of her efforts she felt the tears well up in her eyes and her breath hitch with the effort of holding them back. 

It still fucking sucked.

Eskel’s soft touch on her thigh made her jump, “Is it hurting again?”

She shook her head, opening her eyes to see him knelt in front of her with his eyebrows drawn up in worry, “No. I’m okay,” she whispered, pulling herself together and resting her hand over his. 

Eskel tilted his head, “Then what’s wrong?”

“I… I look like I fell down the garbage chute,” she laughed. It wasn’t her usual, musical laugh, though. She laughed because she knew, in the grand scheme of things, it was ridiculous. It felt stupid to be worried about how she looked when she’d lived and, well, laughing was better than more tears.

“You’re always lovely to me,” Eskel hummed, brushing her tears away with the back of his knuckles.

She leaned into his touch and took a steadying breath, “I just don’t feel like me.”

He stretched up to kiss her forehead, “I’m sorry, Bug.”

She just shrugged and squeezed his hand. 

“Yen called. I got a very long lecture on wash day and firm orders to help you wash and deep condition your hair. If you’re feeling up to it,” Eskel flashed that crooked grin she could never resist and she shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

“Are you prepared to follow instructions?” she teased. 

“Babe,” he raised one eyebrow, “the only instructions I don’t follow are on Top Ramen packs.”

-

Eskel seemed to have confused ‘instruction’ with ‘directions’.

“I swear to God, Eskel. You don’t have to read the ‘how to use’ blurb,” Triss groaned, sitting on a kitchen chair they’d moved into the bathroom with dripping wet hair, “Just section off my hair and do what I tell you.” 

“But I don’t want to use too much,” he protested, “This says to use one tablespoon!”

“Yeah! For natural blondes! I have completely different hair and know what I’m doing. Use half the bottle! I don’t care! Just get it fucking clean!” 

Eskel rested his hand on her good shoulder and gave her an apologetic look in the mirror, “I’m sorry. How many sections do you want?” 

“I- it’s not a number. You just- kneel down for me I’ll show you,” she pointed at the floor next to her and sighed, missing Yen more than ever. She drew little lines with her nails through Eskel’s hair as she explained just how to scrub while making the least amount of tangles possible. He watched her in the mirror and pointed to the points on her scalp she was talking about with a look of serious concentration. 

It was cute. Even if he was a little inflexible he really did want to do a good job. 

Conditioner was easier, even combing out the tangles went fairly smooth. They took a break and made dinner, breaking open the good wine. 

Just having her hair down and somewhat bouncy again made Triss feel a million times better. The sweats were exchanged for yoga pants and the tank top for one of Eskel’s sweaters too. It almost felt normal. 

They ate ice cream while he worked the deep conditioning mask through her hair. 

“You sure I’m not using too much?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder to take the bite she held up for him, nice and small so he didn’t get a brain freeze. 

“Fbe moreb fbe bedder,” she tried speaking around a giant bite of ice cream, giggling at the face of confusion he made with the spoon still sticking out of his mouth. 

She swallowed and scrunched her nose at the light brain freeze, “The more, the better. We’ll rinse it out in the morning and I don’t want any dry spots.”

He nodded and waited for her to take the spoon back before getting back to work, “Yes ma’am.” 

“Mmm, I like that.” 

Eskel rolled his eyes as she let down a new section, “Oh do you, now? I had no idea.” 

“Mhm!” she nodded with a proud smile, taking another bite of ice cream and earning a chuckle from him. 

She walked him through a couple rough twists and adjusting the plastic soaking cap before attempting to explain how to tie a headscarf. He was… truly awful. Somehow she ended up almost blindfolded before she just gave up and found him a video to follow. It took him a few tries, but eventually he got it the right level of snug. I 

She tried to tilt her head back to look at him but that pulled at some of her new scar tissue, so she tried another angle and another before she huffed and resorted to standing up to look at him, “Thank you Skel.”

“No problem, Bug,” he hummed, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her nose. 

Triss laid her head on his chest, the perfect height for him to rest his chin on top of her head, “No, I mean it. It… helps. A lot.”

He rubbed soothing circles over her back, swaying them slightly, “I’m just glad I could do something…” he took a breath like he wanted to say something more but settled for pressing a kiss to the sloppily tied scarf. She hummed and leaned into him, snaking her hands around his hips and up under his shirt to rest over his back dimples. 

Triss could have stayed there forever. 

[janeofcakes]

Soulmates: How John Met Sherlock...Again  Chapter 5

Hello, my lovelies. Another post on Saturday?? You spoil us, Jane! I know it's crazy, but I love you all and being in touch again means a lot to me. Hmm. Well, that was more heartfelt than I'd planned. Suffice it to say, I'm in a bit of a mood. I got some bad news yesterday and will know more on Tuesday. I don't want it to keep me from posting because you all DO mean a lot to me and your support does to. We'll just have to see how things go.

---

Sunday morning is awash with breakfast and icing and wrapping Olive’s gift for Mycroft. Sherlock struggles to keep his mind off John at first, but he is quickly caught up in their preparations and Olive’s constant chatter. Soon they are in one of his brother’s sleek black cars and on their way to a luxury flat all too near their own. Of course, another country wouldn’t be far enough away for Sherlock. There were only two reasons Mycroft had become more tolerable over the last eight years and one of them was sitting next to Sherlock asking questions and telling him her plans for the party. When Olive came into Sherlock’s life Mycroft finally believed, once and for all, that his little brother would not use again and would take care of himself. For all the modifications he made for raising a child, his life was significantly more simple without Mycroft’s interference.

Sherlock stares straight ahead, not really seeing the back of their driver’s head or the rear view mirror. He hears Olive as she continues talking at top speed, but is not listening at all. He would never ignore her, of course, and he will pay for it if she realizes he is distracted. Sherlock will risk it though to review the particular thoughts running through his mind.

John is back in London. He does not live far from Sherlock and has a daughter in Olive’s class. Mycroft knows it. He must know it and yet, he said nothing to Sherlock. Not even so much as a hint or, more likely, horning in to advise Sherlock to stay away from the doctor. He said nothing, did nothing. Mycroft could have stopped Sherlock from ever meeting Gracie’s father if he had wanted to. Why hadn’t he?

Sherlock rolls this around in his mind as they turn a few more corners, traversing the busy streets of London. Mycroft has always meddled in Sherlock’s life, always tried to control things. In spite of the improvements to the situation, Sherlock knows his brother would never pass up the chance to keep him away from John. We wouldn’t want you to be reminded of the past and return to old habits, would we, Sherlock? That’s what the pompous ass would say. Sherlock glares ahead unseeing, his grey eyes narrowing and the delicate skin beneath them contracting. Mycroft has done nothing that Sherlock would have expected in this scenario and the most likely conclusion is also the most ludicrous. Can it be that Mycroft wants Sherlock and John to meet again? If he is not actively trying to keep them apart, has he somehow orchestrated John’s move back and their subsequent meeting? The world is seldom so careless.

“Dad?” Olive’s irritated tone breaks Sherlock’s concentration and he looks to her instantly, trying to keep a guilty expression from his face.

“Hm?” Sherlock hums a reply, picking apart what words he had heard her speaking.

“Are you even listening?” Olive asks, her eyes narrow slits of suspicion. Knowing there is no escape, Sherlock opens his mouth to confess, but Olive barrels on before he can say a word. She obviously cares less about what he was doing before than she does about having his attention now. “I’m going to tell them all about Gracie and our pirate adventures in the park and that she likes Nancy Drew and what’s going on with Samantha Jones and…”

“You have so much to tell that they won’t get a word in,” Sherlock interrupts her with a light tease in his tone. “You may have to wait for another time. It is his birthday, after all.”

“Pfft,” Olive blows out a dismissive breath that makes her lips vibrate. “Dad, you know how much Uncle Mycroft likes my updates.”

Sherlock inhales slowly as he quickly considers the truth of her statement. He tilts his head and nods, his lips pressed together and brows arched.

“We’re here!” Olive squeals suddenly as the car comes to a stop in front of a very stylish 19th century building. The little girl throws open the door and leaps out of the backseat, making a b-line for the front door. She has barely taken her fingertip off the bell before the door opens and she dashes inside to find her uncles.

Sherlock follows at a more leisurely pace, making his way to the kitchen. He knows the two men will be there preparing lunch for four together. John’s face invades his thoughts again as he walks. He has more grey than Sherlock remembers, but the blonde is still more prominent. John would disagree, no doubt, but it suits him. He looks very dignified, which is a good look for a doctor. John looks good in general. He is still fit, his eyes still bright and clear, and still the eye-catching blue Sherlock saw in his dreams for years after John left. There are a few additional lines around them, but they are still gorgeous and so is John. God, how Sherlock has missed him and in so many ways.

Finally reaching the kitchen, Sherlock pushes the swinging door open and is greeted by a sight that warms his heart every time, in spite of Mycroft being one of its major players. As per usual, Olive ran headlong into the room and jumped into her uncle’s arms. The result is a penny-clad Mycroft holding her off the ground in a tight embrace as she hugs him to within an inch of his life. Sherlock has to admit he could never imagine his brother as an uncle and certainly not a good one, but Mycroft has adored Olive and his role in her life from the day she was born. The man certainly has changed. Of course, having a lighthearted partner has helped considerably.

“There he is,” Greg Lestrade says loudly with a smile on his face. Olive twists around to look at her father, eyes sparkling silver.

“I told you he wasn’t far behind,” she beams as Greg approaches the detective, reaching for the cake holder in his hands. She turns to Mycroft and tilts her chin up proudly. “I put the icing on your cake myself, Uncle Mycroft. I even tubed happy birthday on it.”

“Piped, sweetie,” Sherlock corrects her as Greg takes the covered container with a hello and a ta. The detective trails behind and places the two bags he is holding on the table against the wall. Greg looks up after depositing the cake on the same table.

“You did?” Mycroft asks with as sincere a smile as he will ever have. “Thank you, my sweet. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Daddy says we have to wait until after lunch,” Olive states in a serious tone laced with excited energy.

“He’s right, you know,” Mycroft says, lightly touching her nose.

“What?” Sherlock cocks his head, wearing an expression of mock surprise. “Would you mind repeating that? Greg, where’s your mobile? I want this documented.”

“You are entertaining as ever, brother mine,” Mycroft says wryly as he returns Olive’s feet to the ground. “Come on, Olive, you can help me check the ham.”

“Can I wear the oven mitts?” she bubbles on the way to the oven.

“Of course,” Mycroft says, motioning for her to hold up her hands like a doctor who has just scrubbed in for surgery. He puts one large mitt over her right hand and another on the left, then tugs on his own and adopts a similar posture. “Ready?”

“Ready and waiting,” Olive replies. Mycroft picks up a meat thermometer and hands it to her. They nod once at one another and bend down to open the oven door and peer inside.

Greg and Sherlock can neither one stifle their chuckles as they watch. After eight years, Sherlock can still scarcely believe it. He turns back to Greg in another minute, observes the man’s curious expression and cocks a brow.

“What’s all this then?” Greg motions toward the bags. 

“Olive insisted we bring gifts and candles,” Sherlock tells him and Greg begins to laugh. “I told her fire alarms may sound if we actually light 59 candles, so we agreed the orange ones represent ten candles each.”

“Fantastic,” Greg laughs, patting Sherlock’s shoulder with one hand. Meanwhile, Mycroft gives his baby brother a perturbed look that vanishes as soon as Olive asks if she can fill everyone’s glasses with ice and water in the last few minutes before the ham is finished. She goes to the freezer as Mycroft fills a pitcher and they both push through the swinging door to the dining room. Greg drops the smile as soon as they are out the door and fixes Sherlock with a serious gaze that genuinely startles the detective, but cocking his brow again is the only hint of the emotion.

“So you saw him,” Greg says without preamble. It is not a question and confirms what Sherlock has suspected since the moment he laid eyes on John Watson in Regents.

“Why?” Sherlock snarls. He might have saved his ire for Mycroft alone, but Greg going in on the deception stings and more than a little. The CDI glances toward the door and squares his shoulders with Sherlock’s, looking into the detective’s death glare without wavering.

“I didn’t know until last night,” Greg’s tone is urgent and in much the same style it is on a crime scene. “Myc told me when he got home. How are you?”

“Why?” Sherlock repeats with no less anger.

“He thought it best you not know,” Greg tells him with a shrug that is somewhere between apologetic and my life partner is an idiot, “but knew he couldn’t keep the secret once Gracie turned up in Olive’s class.”

Sherlock is silent. His anger does not lessen, but Greg no longer shares its focus. That honor belongs to his brother alone once more. Greg eyes his glowering face and shifts his weight back for a better view of Sherlock’s body language. What greets him are muscles stiff with fury and a clenched jaw. Sherlock has told Mycroft many times what will happen if he continues his attempts to control Sherlock’s life. Obviously, Sherlock has not yet made his position clear.

“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” Greg cringes, watching the muscles in Sherlock’s jaw work.

“Yes,” Sherlock glares, not mincing words. Greg squares his broad shoulders and raises his hands, palms out.

“Okay, but let him explain why,” he begins.

“You told me why,” Sherlock snaps, growing tired of the conversation. He blows out a petulant breath and straightens his spine to stand at his full height. For all his posturing, Greg does not even seem to notice. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t say anything about his reasoning,” Greg presses. Sherlock fixes him with narrowed eyes and a look that screams ‘You must be kidding’.

“His reasoning,” Sherlock repeats, annoyed and incredulous. “Oh, for god sake.”

“You’ll want to know what it is,” Greg says lightly, arching his brows. “It makes sense. Well, by his way of thinking.”

Sherlock’s whole face drops into an expression of indignance that says it all.

“I’m not saying I agree with him, or that he isn’t being an ass AGAIN,” Greg admits with a shrug of his shoulder, “but it makes sense. To his…”

“Way of thinking, yes,” Sherlock finishes with a growl. He opens his mouth to launch into a tirade on his brother’s incessant interference when Olive suddenly bursts through the swinging door, followed by the man himself. If Mycroft notices the tension in the air, or Sherlock’s thunderous expression, he does not show it as he and Olive walk straight to the oven.

“It is definitely ready to come out now,” Mycroft is saying while putting oven mitts on Olive again, one by one. “We’ll take it out and transfer it to the platter. Then I’ll slice it while you hold it steady with this.”

He holds up a long, two-pronged meat fork and Olive’s eyes go wide. She nods enthusiastically, chanting ‘yes, yes, yes’ and hops from one foot to the other.

Sherlock and Greg break away, taking side dishes and rolls into the dining room. Within minutes, the four of them are seated at the table and passing around food. Sherlock pushes down his anger and engages in comfortable conversation with the others, although Olive does most of the talking. She answers her uncles’ inquiries about school and the most recent experiment she and Sherlock have done. She tells them about the seeds they planted in a window box they had just installed in the kitchen as part of a science unit, but she mostly talks about Gracie and all of the things they do together.

“Wow,” Greg leans back in his chair, slightly pushing away his plate. “She sounds like quite a best friend. Almost like the perfect one for you.”

Greg turns his head slowly and stops on Sherlock with a pointed expression. The detective meets his gaze and gives a nearly imperceptible twitch of his head in response. Mycroft does not so much as glance at Sherlock, just as he has done throughout the meal. It isn’t that he is avoiding Sherlock’s eyes and with it, his ire, he merely knows his little brother and his “moods” well enough to wait for the appropriate time and place. In the past, Sherlock would have been more than happy to press the issue no matter who was in the room, if for no other reason than to humiliate Mycroft, but not now. Not with an excited child in the seat next to him and especially not on his brother’s birthday when said child is practically falling out of her chair from fidgeting for cake, songs, crackers and presents. 

“She certainly does,” Mycroft says in his usual tone. It sounds condescending when he speaks to Sherlock, but is fond and pleasant when addressing Olive. “You two have so much in common. Have you had your playdate yet?”

His voice rises at the question, but in the way he uses only when he already knows the answer and is actually prodding Sherlock. The detective blinks slowly, not rising to the bait as Mycroft finally glances his way with a knowing expression. Damn him.

“Not yet, but we’re working on it,” Olive replies with a significant nod and raised brows. She tries to wink at him, but only succeeds in contorting her face and deliberately blinking both eyes very slowly. Greg just stifles a laugh, but cannot hide the grin on his face. He clears his throat to cover and begins to rise while reaching for his plate. 

“Why don’t we get the cake, Olive?” he suggests. “You can put all the candles on.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Olive chants, jumping out of her seat. She grabs her own empty plate and turns to Sherlock. “Can I take yours, Dad?”

“Yes. Thank you, sweetie,” he hands it to her and she follows Greg through the swinging door. Sherlock inhales deeply, gathering himself so his annoyance does not spill forth now that he and Mycroft are alone. He lets his gaze slide over to his brother, who is already watching him expectantly with narrowed eyes. Sherlock looks at him coolly and says nothing. They can hear Olive and Greg giggling in the kitchen as they ready the cake and dessert plates. Mycroft keeps his eyes trained on Sherlock, waiting for an insult or snide question. The detective’s face remains neutral as he continues to sit in silence. He will not give Mycroft the easy out of beginning this conversation with a fight, not to mention he has no intention of starting something Olive could walk in on.

Mycroft finally sighs loudly and shifts in his seat to lean forward, resting his forearms on the table. Sherlock cocks a brow and narrows his eyes, lips pressing together in a thin line.

“Sherlock,” the elder Holmes’ tone is back to condescension. 

“No,” Sherlock’s hand shoots up with the command. Mycroft’s brows arch in response. He looks as though he might try to continue speaking, so Sherlock pins him with a glare that demands Mycroft keep his mouth shut. Nevertheless, he parts his pursed lips and draws a breath.

The swinging door flies open as Olive and Greg burst in.

“Happy Birthday, Uncle Mycroft!” they cry together with big grins on their faces. Greg carries the cake, complete with burning candles and Olive holds a tray with a stack of four shallow bowls, spoons and a container of vanilla ice cream. Before either Holmes can react, the merry duo is singing Happy Birthday and placing their wares in front of Mycroft. Sherlock does not join in, but they don’t seem to notice.

“Blow out the candles,” Olive exclaims as soon as the song is over. “Wait, wait! Make a wish.”

Mycroft blows out the breath he sucked in noisily for show and makes quick work of the tiny flames. Olive cheers and claps while Greg leans down and drops a quick kiss to Mycroft’s lips.

“Happy Birthday, love,” he murmurs, his gaze soft.

“I want to pull off the candles,” Olive declares, climbing onto her chair and sitting on her knees for more height. She yanks one out of the icing immediately and places it on the tray at Greg’s direction. Once she is finished and licking icing off her fingers, Greg cuts a piece for each of them. Mycroft gets the first one, but he waits until everyone has been served before his first bite.

“Oh, Olive, this is delicious,” Mycroft smiles at her grin and bright eyes. She shoves her own fork in her mouth and chews. “You and Sherlock really have outdone yourselves.”

Sherlock bristles at the sound of his name on Mycroft’s lips. He ignores his brother’s attempts to draw him in, unsure he will be able to keep the anger from his tone, and eats in silence.

“Thanks,” Olive beams, taking another bite. “I know how much you love chocolate cake and Daddy suggested the icing.”

“Did he?” Mycroft’s gaze turns to Sherlock. The elder watches carefully as his brother makes every effort to maintain a mask of indifference. “How nice.”

“Uh-huh,” Olive inhales the last of her cake and drops her fork on the table. Still sitting on her knees, she hops a little as she watches her uncle daintily slip his from between his lips. “I want to give you my present! Did you get any presents yet?”

Olive shifts her dancing eyes to Greg, who promptly grins like an idiot and glances at Mycroft. Sherlock shifts in his seat uncomfortably as he analyses the expression. Greg ducks his chin down and gives a slight shake of his head, along with a quiet laugh. He appears almost bashful. Oh, god.

Sherlock can barely hold in a disgruntled huff. He is not a prude by any stretch of the mind. In spite of what Mycroft may think, sex does not alarm him. However, that still does not mean he wants to know anything about what happens in his brother’s bedroom.

“As a matter of fact, Greg gave me his present this morning,” Mycroft smiles sweetly at his partner. It is an expression Sherlock never thought he would see on his brother’s face, but seemed instantly natural once he and Greg began dating. Mycroft is still sharp as ever, especially on the job, but Greg smoothed out a lot of the edges in his personal life. Greg had even helped mend fences for the Holmes brothers, a daunting task if ever there was one. He is the other reason Mycroft has become more tolerable.

Sherlock brings his glass to his lips for a drink as he considers his friend, a man he took for an ordinary idiot when they first met, and lets out an amused breath through his nose at how far they have all come since then.

“You mean like sex?” Olive’s voice asks and Sherlock spits his water onto his own cake, fortunately missing anything of consequence. Everyone stares and Olive jumps off her seat with a start. Sherlock grabs a napkin and dabs at all of the droplets he can see on the table around him, mumbling apologies until Greg finally catches his hand to still it.

“It’s okay,” Greg tells him. “No worries.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen at the softness on his friend’s face and immediately dart to Mycroft’s left hand. No ring. That doesn’t make sense. He glances at the pockets in Mycroft’s waistcoat and sees the slight bulge of a small box. There it is. He leans back in his chair and extricates his hand from Greg’s, setting aside the napkin as he moves. 

“I see congratulations are in order,” Sherlock remarks. Greg’s eyes brighten and he claps the detective’s arm.

“I knew we couldn’t hide it for long,” the CDI laughs. “Thanks, mate.”

“Brother,” Mycroft nods somewhat smugly, no doubt because it remained a secret for as long as it did.

“What?” Olive asks as her gaze shifts from one man to another. “What’s going on?”

She puts her hands on her hips and stamps a foot when no one answers, her brows knitting on her wrinkled forehead. Taking pity, Mycroft turns toward her and fishes the box out of his pocket. He holds it out to the girl, who is frozen where she stands, face lit up like it is Christmas. Her palms fly to rest on either side of her face, pushing together until her lips are bunched up comically in between them.

“Actually, he gave me this,” Mycroft says in a tone of quiet anticipation. Olive reaches for the box inquisitively and takes it only when her uncle nods his approval. She pops open the lid as soon as it is in her little hands and gasps loudly at the simple platinum band. 

“It’s perfect!” she squeals, jumping up and down. She thrusts it back at Mycroft, still hopping wildly. “Put it on. Put it on!”

All three men are laughing at this point, Olive’s glee filling the room with light and energy. Mycroft takes the ring from the box and slides it delicately onto his long finger where it rests comfortably like it was always meant to be there. Olive yelps happily and leaps into his arms.

“I’m so happy for you!” she cries and turns to Greg, not loosening her grasp on her uncle. “And you too, Uncle Greg!”

“Thanks, sweetie,” Greg answers, reaching for Mycroft’s shoulder and touching it warmly.

“I want to be in the wedding!” Olive nearly shouts. “Can I be in the wedding?”

“Of course you can,” Mycroft assures her with an uncharacteristic grin, “and you can even pick out the dress.”

“With ruffles?” Olive gasps, hands covering her mouth.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Yahoo!” Olive is off his lap in a second and dancing around the room. Greg and Sherlock laugh as they watch her twirl and spring from one spot to another. 

“We were actually hoping someone else would be in it too,” Mycroft says guardedly, eyeing his baby brother. Sherlock’s smile falls instantly and he freezes in place with his gaze on the elder. “Would you stand up for me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock does not even twitch with an answer. Even Mycroft, with all his secrets and intelligence, seldom surprises the detective, but at this moment, he is speechless. Nevermind he had not expected his brother to ever marry. Hell, he honestly never thought Mycroft would fall in love. Sentiment is a weakness and all that, but the last few years with Greg had certainly changed Mycroft’s opinion on that. This though. This implied his feelings toward Sherlock had changed as well. He had always claimed his meddling was out of concern and Sherlock had seen it for the lie it was, but now. The possibility seemed impossible, even with the evidence right before his eyes.

“Yes, Daddy, you have to!” Olive runs for her father and dives into his lap. Sherlock’s heavy limbs catch her clumsily as she wraps her arms around his neck. “You can wear one of those tax-idoes and stand next to Uncle Myc and I’ll stand next to you. We’ll be beautiful.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies slowly, not wanting to spoil her mood with his true answer, “it will be lovely.”

“Yay!” comes her cheer, only to be silenced with another gasp. “My present. You have to open my present!”

Olive gestures toward Mycroft as she runs out of the room, dodging furniture and throwing the door open. She pops back into view as it swings back into the dining room, a twelve by fourteen inch box in her hands that is wrapped in paper covered with brightly colored balloons.

“I wrapped it myself,” she says proudly, straightening up tall. “Daddy only gave me the pieces of tape this year.”

“My, my. You are growing up, aren’t you?” Mycroft says in admiration and takes the box when she thrusts it at him. 

“Go on,” she flashes a toothy grin, minus the one she lost the week before. “Open it.”

Mycroft smiles mischievously, throwing a glance at Greg and Sherlock, and tearing at the paper. He used to open packages carefully, sliding his fingers along the tape, but Olive made it clear the practice was unacceptable when she was four. 

With the paper gone, Mycroft opens the box and pulls a tall cylinder with sticks glued around its outer surface. The sticks are clearly ordinary twigs one might find on the ground, but each one has been relieved of its bark and stained a lovely medium brown. They are cut to the size of the cylinder, which is actually more of a glass, and glued on vertically so no part of the glass shows through. Small knots are visible on some of them, but the quality of work cannot be denied. Surprise showing on his face, Mycroft looks over the table to Sherlock and then to his niece. 

“It’s a pencil holder,” Olive tells him with pride in her voice. “You always have so many laying around on your desk.”

“Yes, I do,” Mycroft replies airily. “It’s beautiful, Olive. It really is. You made this yourself?”

“Dad helped,” she answers. “We collected the sticks in the park and he showed me how to make them pretty.”

“Well, you have done excellent work, my dear,” Mycroft pulls her close to kiss her forehead. “I love it.”

“There’s more,” Olive hops a little at his side.

He puts the pencil holder on the table and fishes into the box again, pulling out a drawing of three men and a little girl standing around a table with a cake sitting in its center. The cake is brown for chocolate icing and absolutely covered in candles. A few even stick out from its sides and every one of their tops is colored with orange marker. Mycroft can easily tell which man is which by the clothing and can’t help the small smile forming on his lips. His character wears a waistcoat with matching pants, Greg’s has a dark green shirt with short sleeves and blue pants, and Sherlock simply wears his signature long, dark coat. That is what tickles Mycroft the most. He turns to look at the little girl again.

“It’s us celebrating your birthday,” Olives says and points out who everyone is. She points to the cake too. “There’s 59 candles on it. That’s what I wanted it to look like, but Dad said we had to pretend some of the candles were really ten candles instead. I still think this is better.”

“Be that as it may, I think I agree with your father,” Mycroft remarks pleasantly, in spite of her frown. He hands the paper over to Greg who laughs heartily.

“It’s perfect,” Greg agrees. “You have your dad’s coat and hair down to a science.”

“Thanks,” Olive rushes over to hug him.

“And what’s this?” Mycroft asks, pulling what looks like a brown tail cut out of paper. Olive scurries back to his side and starts pulling out more. Mycroft has a blue scarf in one hand that is twisted into a long coil like a blindfold. With an uncertain look on his face, he directs his attention to Olive, who holds up a paper with a brown horse drawn on it in crayon. 

“It’s a game. Pin the tail on the donkey,” Olive explains happily. “People play it at parties. We can all play. I made lots of tails.”

Everyone is still for a moment. Mycroft’s eyes find Sherlock’s and broadcast the need for a conversation before Olive gets too carried away. Sherlock’s face hardens, but he makes no other movement.

Greg, ever the peacekeeper, is the first to move when he rises from his chair and takes the box from Mycroft.

“Let’s put all the bits in here,” Greg begins collecting tails. “You and I can set it up in the lounge, so these two can talk for a minute.”

“Aw, but I wanted all of us to play,” Olive whinges.

“Olivia,” Sherlock begins in a stern voice, but Greg cuts him off.

“We will. Uncle Myc and your dad just need a minute,” Greg takes her hand and starts leading her to the door opposite the swinging kitchen one. He leans over slightly to speak in a fake whisper. “We’ll play once or twice and have the advantage.”

Olive inhales quietly through her mouth and looks back at the Holmeses with shifty eyes. She presses her lips together as if trying to make sure she doesn’t spill the beans and give away their conspiracy.

“We’ll be right in there,” she points to the door and what lies beyond, “just setting up, but NOT playing.”

Sherlock and Mycroft both raise a skeptical brow in unison. Olive giggles, not trying to hide her intentions in the slightest, and looks back at Greg. He flashes a knowing smile at the brothers and steers Olive to the door again.

“Come on. They won’t know what hit them,” he and Olive chuckle together as they pass through the door and out of the room.

Not looking at his brother, Sherlock’s face hardens immediately and he lifts his chin defiantly. The fury fueled by Mycroft’s attempts to hide John from him boils to the surface quickly. The detective parts his lips as he chooses from the words running through his mind. How he has tired of Mycroft’s need to control his life, to “protect” him. He has a tolerance for it no longer.

“You have questions,” Mycroft states in his damned, know-it-all voice. Sherlock inhales sharply and bites off the urge to curse.

“One,” he replies in an even, but strained tone. “Why?”

There is a moment of silence. Enough that Sherlock turns his head to look at his brother. The elder’s eyes are dull and his face bland. 

“I thought that rather obvious, don’t you?” is Mycroft’s only response. 

“You have let me be for years,” Sherlock ignores his words. Growing more and more angry at Mycroft’s carelessness in shattering the peace between them. Of course, he is just as frustrated with himself. Sherlock had been a fool and should have known Mycroft would jump at the chance when the right situation presented itself. Old habits are hard to break and meddling in Sherlock’s life is as central to Mycroft as his nervous system.

“John Watson has stumbled into your path again,” Mycroft’s voice is stern and commanding. Sherlock recognizes it from when he has issued orders to underlings and it makes the detective’s blood heat within his veins. “Even more dangerous than the last time.”

“Dangerous?” Sherlock barks furiously. “I put him in danger. It was not reciprocal.”

“We both know that’s not quite true,” Mycroft says quietly, purposefully. Sherlock nearly flinches at those words. The words of his mortal enemy that had so opened his eyes.

“You bastard,” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse with emotion. He wants to rise, punch Mycroft right in his smug mouth and stalk out of the room, but cannot make his body listen to the signals from his brain. A wave of frustration washing over him, Sherlock tries to gather himself. He pushes out everything other than his anger with Mycroft, but his efforts are derailed completely by his brother’s next words.

“You love him,” Mycroft’s face is stony. “You did then and you jumped off a building. You still do now. You always have.”

Sherlock stares blankly. His lips part with no words, his mind racing.

“But Olive needs you now,” Mycroft continues, his tone growing more forceful. “You do not have the liberty of giving up everything for him again, should the need arise. I thought it best he not be a part of your life.”

“And then Gracie met Olive,” Sherlock says in barely more than a whisper.

“Yes,” Mycroft murmurs. “It was a possibility I had not considered. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock straightens, rising from his chair. He walks to the window and looks out, seeing nothing but a pair of blue eyes. “John wants nothing to do with me. He won’t even let Gracie come for a playdate.”

“I can’t believe that won’t change soon enough, Sherlock,” Mycroft tells him doubtfully. Sherlock rounds on him and clenches his fists at his sides.

“What would you have me do?” the detective demands. “I will never shut him out. I did that once and it cost me everything.”

Mycroft looks into his brother’s determined grey eyes and sighs.

“Be careful, brother mine,” he says in a sage tone. “Guard your heart. Let me help when you need it. Please.”

Sherlock notices Mycroft said when and not if, but chooses not to comment. That conversation is not one he wants to have now. Instead, Sherlock merely fixes him with sharp eyes and nods once.

---

I had a lot of fun with this chapter! The image of Mycroft interacting with Olive in exactly this way fills me with such happiness. Olive holding her hands up for the mitts like a scrubbed-up surgeon and Mycroft playing right along tickles me. And then there’s Greg's line "You're going to kill him, aren't you?" as he cringes at Sherlock - I can see the actors playing this scene to perfection! Lol. I hope it gave you as much pleasure as it did me.

Love, Jane

@johnlock-rocks

[fly-flower-fanfics]

Can you do a Spencer Reid X Reader where the Reader is ftm and binds with ace bandages? The unsub can be targeting transgender people and targets the reader. Nothing too bad to the reader preferably but something happens to make the bandages visable. I know that binding with bandages is bad because I did it until I got a binder.

Sorry this took me so long. I’ve been out of it lately, so this is my first writing piece getting back into the swing of things, so I’m sorry if it’s bad. I hope this is something you were looking for!

Binding Secrets

Spencer Reid x Trans Male Reader

Warnings: ACE bandage binding. PLEASE don’t bind like this. 🥺

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

This case was really stressful to me. It stressed me out more than other cases usually did. I’m sure the team has picked up on it, but I didn’t want to tell them why I was so stressed out. That was my secret and my secret alone.

There was no way I was going to be able to come out to the team. After I’ve gotten top surgery, then maybe, maybe, but certainly not now. Being transgender was a crime, it felt like. It was to this unsub apparently.

It was late and time for all of us to go home. The I could take these stupid ACE bandages off. I felt like my lungs were collapsing; it hurt to breathe. I knew that it wasn’t safe, especially for a job like mine where we have to be on the move a decent amount, but I hadn’t gotten around to buying a binder yet.

I was stopped by Spencer just before I got into my car, though. Part of me didn’t mind because I had a crush on the genius, but another part of me did mind because I was tired, and I just wanted to go home.

“What’s up, Spence?” I asked.

He hesitated a moment, shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I’m worried about you,” he said softly at first. He then cleared his throat. “You’ve been acting different lately, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” I said with a soft smile. Was I? 

“Y/N, I can tell when you’re lying to me. You have a tell, just like everyone else. Please...”

I felt bad lying to him, But I couldn’t tell him. My throat tightened like I was going to cry. “I need you to drop it, Spence,” I said softly

“Why? Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Because I can’t, Spencer!” 

He shook his head, dropping his arms by his side. “This is exactly what I get when I trust someone; it gets thrown back in my face.”

“Spencer, that’s not what this fucking is!” I yelled at him, tears now streaming down my cheeks.

Spencer’s demeanor changed completely as he noticed my tears.

“It has nothing to do with you, Spencer,” I said, wiping at my face aggressively. I hated that I was crying so easily. But I knew it was because of my stress and how close I was to snapping. 

Truth was was that I was scared. I was scared that I would be the next victim. That I wouldn’t be safe in my own home. All because I was trans and some guy out there thought that that was a crime and needed to kill me for it.

“Y/N....”

I shook my head, holding up a hand. “Save it. I’m sorry for yelling at you. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go home now.” With that, I got into my car and left.

The next day, I was really anxious to see Spencer. I had already apologized for yelling at him, but that didn’t change the fact that I had yelled at him.

I went to the bathroom and grabbed my ACE bandage, looking at it sadly. I hated that stupid thing. I could feel it practically squishing my ribs and lungs. I hated it so much. I couldn’t just not wear it though. I didn’t need the team seeing my chest.

I began wrapping it around and secured it in place once I was finished. I took a breath and sighed. At least it wasn’t too bad in the beginning of the day.

I made my way to my car and began to drive to work. The anxiety of seeing Spencer returned. I felt bad. Maybe I should apologize again. I pulled into my parking spot and shook my head. No, if he still had beef with me, he would say so, right?

I walked to my desk and set my things down, going to grab a coffee. As I made it, I was already making a face because I knew how bad;y it would taste.

“You know, I have to make my coffee deliberately bad so I can drink it now,” I said to Morgan, who has just walked in. 

He laughed. “I know what you mean. However, I still like a good cup of joe.”

I chuckled softly and went back to my desk, looking over the case file. We had a pretty good idea who the unsub was. We had just been waiting on Garcia to get the right information about him. 

The team quickly left, leaving Spencer and me behind, as they went to catch the unsub.

My gaze turned toward the genius again. His hair looked soft as it framed his face. His beautiful eyes intently read whatever book he was reading. His perfect hands turned the pages every couple of seconds. 

Best not to disturb him.

I looked over the last bits of information as I was clearing off the board to make a little bit more room when I realized something. The gate. How had we missed that? The gates were his signature, doors to whatever he thought. I couldn’t figure out that part. But it made me realize that now, the team was going after the wrong guy.

I quickly grabbed my coat and ran out to my car. I had to catch this guy before he caught someone else. I swallowed hard as I threw my car into gear. Who else would be better bait for this guy than a trans man like myself?

I made my wait to the gate that was in the last picture and entered the abandoned house. This was where the last victim was found, but we had figured that he liked to revisit the crime scenes. I was just banking on the fact that he hadn’t revisited this one since it had been blocked off for a couple of days.

I drew my gun and tip-toed quietly through the halls. A squeaky floorboard gave away my position, and I froze. Had he heard? Was he even here? I shook my head and continued down the hallway.

I heard a noise from behind me. I turned, but I wasn’t able to see what or who it was before something hit me in the face and knocked me out.

I woke up, dazed and confused. I tried to move but realized that my arms were tied behind me and I was stuck to a pole. I jerked to try and free myself, but it was useless.

The unsub walked over to me, twirling a knife around his fingers. “Y/N L/N, I am familiar with you. The only trans member in the BAU, isn’t that right?” 

I sneered at him, still trying to free myself. “So the fuck what? How do you even know who I am?”

“Oh, I know a lot more than you may think,” he said, walking up to me and lifting my chin with the knife. “But that’s all surprise for later on.” 

He slashed at the sleeve of my coat with his knife. “First, we play a game. It’s called Tell Me The Truth Or I’ll Take One Article Of Clothing At A Time.”

“Long title of a stupid ass game,” I muttered to myself, mentally cringing. Sometimes I hated that I was always so snippy.

He slashed at the other sleeve of my coat. “Got a mouth on you, don’t you?”

His stupid little game continued as I tried my best to keep my mouth shut. But it seemed like no matter what I did, he was slashing at my clothing. There was no sign of sexual assault on the victims, but did he do this to all of them? Somehow, I couldn’t seem to remember anything about this unsub.

My knees shook as fear began to take over my body. What would happen when he shredded my clothing to the point that there was nothing left of them? Would he go to my skin next? One of the victims was all slashed up, I think. I shook my head, trying to keep m mind clear. I needed to be safe long enough for someone to find me.

A hand around my neck made me look up and realize the unsub was behind me now, holding the knife to my neck. My eyes fell to a person standing at the base of the stairs: Spencer Reid. My heart filled with joy. Thank god for Spencer and his big brain.

“Put the gun down or I’ll kill her,” the unsub said, pressing the knife deeper into my throat.

I winced, but at the misgendering, not the knife. 

“He’s a he,” Spencer replied, holding his gun in the same position as he was five seconds ago. 

“I said, put the damn gun away!” 

The knife bit my skin, causing me to cry out. This made Spencer put his gun away. 

“All right, all right, look. The gun’s away. It’s away. Let him go.”

“I’m not letting her go. People like her need to be fixed. They’re mentally ill.”

My stomach tightened at the midgenderment. It sucked because he was going to tell Spencer my secret. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out everything that was happening. Things would be okay. They had to be okay. I had to believe that. I had to believe that I’d make it out of here. I prayed Spencer wouldn’t tell the rest of the team my secret. 

All I ever wanted was to be seen as a real boy...

The next thing I knew, my hands were being untied and there was a slight ringing in my ears. I looked down next to me to see the unsub, dead. Spencer must have been able to convince him to get far enough away from me for him to draw his gun and shoot the guy before either one of us got stabbed.

“Y/N, are you all right?” I nodded, and Spencer pulled me into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay. We’ll get you new clothing. Do you want to come to my house?”

I guess it was obvious to Spencer that I didn’t want to be alone. I nodded silently and he led me out to his car. “We’ll come back for yours later,” he promised me. 

At this point, I didn’t really care. My head hurt from being knocked out, and my chest was aching all over again.

Our car ride was mostly silent, but Spencer spoke up. “How did you know it was him?”

“The gate,” I replied. “Something about the gates never lined up in my head. But then it reminded me of why he always kept the eyes open. They were like portals. To what, I’m not sure...”

Spencer nodded and hesitated before speaking again. “You’re binding unsafely...”

I didn’t know what he was talking about until i looked down. My shirt was shredded, and it was easy to see the ACE bandages that was supposed to be hidden. I cursed myself, squeezing my eyes shut. 

“Please don’t tell anyone, Spence. I don’t want them to know I-I didn’t want anyone to know...”

“Is that why this case bothered you so much?”

I didn’t say anything, but my silence was probably the clearest answer. Spencer didn’t say anything else until we got to his house. He led me inside and sat me down on the couch. 

“I can grab you some clothing to borrow for tonight, but I need you to take that bandage off. You’re going to ruin your changes for top surgery. It can seriously hurt you. it can crack or break ribs and-” 

“I know, Spencer,” I said softly. “But I can’t. I’m scared...”

“My shirt’s will be big enough on you. I promise. And if you want, I’ll stay in my room all night so I won’t see you without it on. You...” He stopped a moment. He closed his eyes for a second before looking at me again. “You can borrow one of my old binders tomorrow. It may not fit perfectly, but it’s so much better than that bandage.” Spencer sat next to me on the couch.

I couldn’t believe my ears. Spencer....Spencer had just come out to me as trans. I couldn’t believe it. He was trans this whole time too? My emotions welled up in my chest, and I felt like crying all over again.

“I love you,” I blurted out. Immediately, I felt myself blush, and I regretted my words.

Spencer only smiled at me. “I love you; I always have.”

I looked down at my lap, feeling a tear drip down my cheek. “Spence, I’m scared... I-I love you. But I’m so scared...”

“Of what?”

“Of what the team will say. That...that you’ll hate me for being trans...”

“Y/N, I can’t hate you for being trans when I’m trans myself.” Spencer took my hands in his. “If you want to leave the confessions alone for tonight, I understand. You’ve been though a lot. We can talk more in the morning when you have a clearer mind. Just promise me you’ll take that ACE bandage off.”

“I promise,” I said quietly. 

Spencer stood and pressed a light kiss onto my forehead. “Thank you. Now let me go grab you those clothing so you can turn in for the night. I’ll be here if you need anything at all.” He got up and began to walk down the hallway to his bedroom.

“Spencer?” I called out.

He stopped and looked back at me from the doorway. “Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”