#and EVEN better is the fact that they’ve either told him or he knows them well enough to recognize that

[gold-onthe-inside]

pair programming - part ii

navigator

who? spencer reid (s3) x analyst!reader summary: what happens after your roommate and better half is shot on the doorstep of your building by her date. turns out, you're support network seems to have more nodes that you'd thought. content warnings: reference to guns + gunshot injury, surgery, blood word count: 2.1k a/n: realised after writing this that reader has more interactions with everyone on the team than she does with penelope oops

Spencer handed you a cup of tea, sitting down beside you in the hospital waiting room, the rest of the team milling around, waiting for news on Penelope’s surgery. You hadn’t said a word about what happened, the team relying on a police officer and a paramedic’s account while you sat there in catatonic shock, blood staining your white shirt, your hoodie doing more work in hiding it. You could still feel the blood on your hands, stained from pressing down on Penelope’s gunshot wound.

Spencer didn’t know what to do or say, just pressing the warm beverage into your hands, Emily and JJ murmuring in the corner.

“Has anyone told Morgan yet?”

“He isn’t answering the phone.”

“Is she?”

“Still in shock. Hasn’t said a word.”

“And Penelope?”

“All we know is a gunshot wound to the chest, and that they’re operating now.”

Spencer’s eyes are still on you, a shell of yourself, unable to reconcile the person he sees with the person he knows. He knows you deal with threats far greater than the ones they do — they’ve just come back from arresting a cannibal, you prevent military secrets getting out and uncover espionage attempts. But it’s from the safety of a digital interface, the day to day of it so mundane that it makes him want to pull his eyeballs out. Your job doesn’t get you shot. Technically, Penelope’s job shouldn’t have gotten her shot either.

No-one was paying attention to him, or to you, which is why he’s on his knees in front of you, aligning his gaze with yours, and does one of the few things he knows how to do; explaining. He put the tea down on the floor, taking hold of your hands, your eyes distant, your fingers cold. If he couldn’t do anything for Penelope, maybe there was something he could do for you.

“When the brain experiences trauma it has an affect on the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous system.” He said the words quietly, a distraction technique to bring your focus to something, even if it was nothing. “The physiological response is a fight or flight response. When your brain is unable to process the situation, it freezes in an effort to protect your mind and body. You might feel numb, or cry, or rage. You might just sit there, emotionally unable to move. You might dissociate, and feel like nothing around you is real, or that it‘s actually happening to someone else.” He squeezed your hands, hoping for a response. It felt like you weren’t even there.

“I can’t imagine how scared you must be, and I’m not going to try and tell you that everything will be okay, because it may not-,” and he hated saying the words, they felt like a lie in his mouth, but it was the truth “-but whatever happens next, I am here. I won’t leave, not unless you ask me to.”

“I can’t lose her,” you whispered. Thank god, Spencer thought as he looked at you again, and while he knew there wasn’t anything he could say that would make it all better, he also knew that the fact that you were finally verbal was probably a positive. You hadn’t said a word in hours.

“I know,” he said quietly. The team still milled around, waiting, the hospital buzzing with activity, but he felt like the words were just his and yours, the intimacy of the two of you cocooned away from the world.

"I don't..." You struggled to get the words out. "She's all I have." He watched as the tears welled in your eyes, watched as they fell down your cheeks. He wanted to reach out, to brush them away, and he hesitated, wondering what he possibly could do to comfort you.

Instead he pulled you towards him, wrapping you in his arms, a hug, and hoped that he wasn’t being too forward, and you crushed yourself against his chest, hugging him back. He ran a hand up and down your back as he held you to him, his cheek against the side of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he didn’t know if he was apologising for Penelope’s injuries, or the fact that he couldn’t save her, or that he hadn’t been there, or because there was nothing he could do to make it better. He was just sorry.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to background check this guy?” you asked, offering Penelope your eyeliner as she finished curling her hair and she rolled her eyes.

“God, you sound like Derek,” she retorted spitefully and you frowned. It was unlike her to be say his name with such anger, when it was usually said with love, fondness, occasional lust, and just in an overall dreamy fashion. A part of you had always wondered if there was more to their relationship than just platonic friendship.

“Alright,” you replied, letting it go. Penelope was a grown woman, she could make her own decisions… and was also equally capable of running a background check as, if not more, thorough as you would have. You tried not to look at the mess that your shared bathroom had turned into, make-up supplied and jewellery scattered over the counter, leaving her to do her thing. “And I better not get a text saying you’re bringing him upstairs,” you called out as you leave.

“This is just wrong,” you murmured, looking at Penelope’s pale, all but lifeless body, tubes running from her nose and arms, wires strapped to her chest, the suite silent but for the steady beep of the heart monitor. You still hadn’t moved from the foot of the bed, willing yourself not to cry. You were not going to be one of those family members who couldn’t get a grip of themselves. You especially refused to become a blubbering mess in front of her co-workers.

“I know,” Spencer said softly, wanting to take your hand again, but holding himself back. He still never knew where he stood with you. Hell, he didn’t know how to process what was going on for him — the only thing he knew he had to do was stabilise you, never mind himself.

You finally manage to put one step in front of the other, going towards Penelope and Spencer could see your hand shaking as you gingerly took hers, the way you blinked back tears, almost refusing to breathe because you were convinced the only thing that would come out would be a sob. Spencer swallowed, moving to draw the curtains over the windows, closing the doors so it was only the three of you in the room, and kept his back turned as you finally gave in to the squeezing grip your lungs had on your heart, sinking into the chair as you cried, gripping the hand that wouldn’t squeeze back.

You started awake when you felt a large hand on your shoulder, shaking you gently, and it’s Aaron standing over you. “Sorry,” you mustered, wiping away dried tear tracks and he simply pulled up a chair beside you.

“I know it’s been a long night,” he said softly, leaning on his knees, looking at you kindly. “But we need your help.” He watches you nod, taking in a deep breath.

“Anything,” you said, a lot calmer now.

“We need to get some kind of identification on this guy,” Aaron told you, his voice measured and even and a part of you was jealous you couldn’t be as calm as he was, and partly angry that he could be this calm with Penelope this way.

“She said his name was Colby,” you said, remembering the joke you had made when she told you.

“Like the cheese?” you asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically and she scoffed.

“Do not ruin this for me,” she retorted, pointing her laptop charger at you like a wand. “He’s cute and he actually likes me. Do you even remember the last time I’ve been asked out?”

“That doesn’t mean you should go out with anyone who asks,” you replied. “I mean, what kind of person doesn’t turn on auto-save?” It earns you a glare from her and you quieten, turning back to your book.

You shook your head, trying to focus on your screen, set up right beside Penelope, refusing to leave her side even as she slept, and neither did Derek or Spencer, the former practically breathing down your neck. You glanced up at Spencer, a plea in your eyes to get him off your back, and he makes a pitiful attempt of asking Derek if he wants to go get a coffee with him, which he denies and so Spencer shrugged, so you let out a breath, focusing on what you were doing.

“There’s nothing on a James Colby Baylor,” you said, sounding tired, running a hand through your hair, then settling it back on your keyboard.

“If he knew Penelope was FBI, then maybe he used a pseudonym,” Spencer offered, his hands in his pockets, standing across from you. “Try using the same combination of letters, JCB.”

“I’m gonna need more parameters than just three letters,” you retorted, looking up at him.

“Check anyone who rented a white sedan in the last 24 hours,” Derek said, still leaning over you and you desperately wanted to hit the both of them. Repeatedly. Instead, you check car rentals across the city matching the description, matching the restaurant that they had gone to, adding your facial recognition program to look for blonde men with blue eyes. “Plus some kind of job in the justice department. Try law enforcement, former military, stuff like that,” Derek added. “He knew enough to use legal terms, but not enough to know city attorneys don’t try criminal cases. Law school dropout, failed the bar exam—”

“Jason Clark Battle,” you told him, pulling up the picture of him and you swallowed. That was him. The guy you’d seen run away from the front of your building after you heard the gunshot. Your hands curled into fists, oblivious to Derek calling Aaron about it, charging out the door. Spencer didn’t particularly want to leave either of you, but he muttered a quick, ‘Be right back’ before disappearing.

You handed Derek a mug of coffee while Penelope slept in her own bed, the door left open in case she needed either of them. He’s set up on your couch, a blanket and pillows, his gun set on the coffee table, a single light left on so he can read the file. “Can’t sleep either, huh?” he asked you and you shrugged, taking a seat on the corner of the coffee table.

“He shot her on the doorstep, Morgan,” you said quietly. “If I hadn’t been at home…”

Morgan placed his hand on your knee, warm and comforting, and even though you had made fun of him being here, calling him Penelope’s ‘guard dog’, deep down, you were glad he was here. “There’s a lot that went wrong that night,” he said smoothly, his voice low. “Don’t eat at yourself worrying about how it could have been worse.”

You huffed a little. “You mean like you’ve been doing?” you asked, looking at him pointedly and he narrowed his eyes at you.

“You sure you aren’t a profiler?” he asked, noticing the slight hint of a smile on your face as you shrug.

“I guess we’re both wired the same way,” you said, instead of the retort you had lined up in your head. “Protecting the people we care about, blaming ourselves when they get hurt.” You glanced at Penelope’s room, her open door. “She’s all I have, Morgan.” And maybe it’s the late night, the anxiety coursing through your body, the thing that makes it impossible to sleep, that starts in your head and works its way to your chest, but you can’t seem to stop yourself. “She’s everything. My emergency contact, my medical proxy… Hell, if I died tomorrow, everything I own goes to her. She’s my family. If I lose her, I have no-one.”

Derek lets a beat pass, watching you, and you can tell he knows something you don’t, because he said, “You have people. Even if you can’t see them.” You frowned a little as he went back to his file, clearly unwilling to say more, and you’ve never been one to push into personal space. Instead, you go back to your room, left with his cryptic words.

[upsidedowneye]

not me thinking about how dh’s wet little dragon boy instincts might look into any gifts that you give him and see them as courting gifts. no sir.

[criminalamnesia]

that 141 x reader you just did was so good! i need to know what happens next. like after reader is better, do they stay in the military? stay in 141? or do they take a discharge? I’m not the original ask but it was just so good.

love your writing btw!

thank you! here’s part two :)

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

you were beginning to hate the infirmary.

the white walls. the moans of pain. the smell of bleach and blood.

the reminder of why you were here. of who put you here.

your friends. your family. your team. john. johnny. kyle. simon.

you’d told the doctor to not let your teammates in, and she had tried, but there was only so much she could do. she couldn’t monitor the door all the time, and so a week after waking up from your coma, john price is sitting at your beside once again.

his hands are clasped together, knuckles white with the intensity of his grip. he’s leaning forward, elbows resting on the bed, hands under his chin. his position conveys his regret and worry. he looks like he should be in church, knelt between the pews and spewing silent prayers to a god that isn’t listening.

you haven’t spoken to him since he sat down ten minutes ago. the second you saw him step inside the infirmary, you knew he was there for you. there to try and speak to you, to apologize.

fuck him and his apologies.

you turned your head to the side, eyes staring at the white curtain separating your bed from the next. you studied the stitching while you listened to him breathe next to you. he hadn’t spoken either— just sat down and watched you.

it made your skin crawl, how he thought this was okay. how he thought this would be the way to get back into your good graces.

he clears his throat then, a sound you’ve heard a million times before. it makes you want to gag now.

“love,” his voice is soft, caring. you want to hit him in the jaw.

“can we talk? please?”

you don’t turn over, don’t even spare him a glance. you keep your gaze trained on the curtain. the only giveaway that he has your attention is the fists you clench at your sides.

he takes the silence as an invitation, that bastard.

“what happened—” he begins, then grunts. stops. takes a second, then begins again.

“what we did,” he says, and you roll your eyes. “it wasn’t right. the intel was from a trusted source. we—” he sighs then, and you can tell he’s rubbing his temple. he did that when he was stressed. when he was anxious.

“we were wrong to believe them over you, love. and im— im sorry.”

silence ensues. you don’t give him any indication that you’ve heard what he said. he sighs again, inhaling deeply.

“you’re still part of this team. johnny and gaz, they’ve been sitting outside this damn room like sentries. can barely pry ‘em away for drills.” he chuckles then, but it’s sad. pitiful. mournful.

“there’s nothing we can do to make this right,” he tells you. you’re still mulling over what he said about johnny and gaz. still hung up on the fact that he didn’t mention simon at all.

simon, who did the most damage to you, both psychologically and physically. simon, who shared your bed. simon.

simon, who is too much of a coward to face you for his crimes.

“but we want to try,” price is speaking again. “if you’ll let us.”

he stops talking. waits a beat, then two. then, you hear his chair scrape. he’s getting up, and that’s when you turn your head to face him.

he looks bad. bags under the eyes, skin pale, beard overgrown. you think he deserves this. deserves worse than this. his eyes meet yours, and they widen the tiniest bit at the attention you’re showing him.

your voice is full of venom as you speak.

“nothing,” you seethe, angry tears blurring your vision. “will ever undo what you did to me. what he did to me.”

price knows you’re talking about simon. the whole team knew you were a thing. hell, when they’d strapped you to that chair and debated who would ‘interrogate’ you, they hadn’t even thought to include simon. why would he want to torture the person he loved?

to their surprise, he had volunteered to take point.

“when i get out of this bed,” you continue. “im gone. and i never, never, want to see any of you again, or else im putting a fucking bullet between your eyes.”

the captain doesn’t speak. you can see the remorse on his face. you couldn’t care less about his feelings.

he gives a short nod, and without another word, he turns and leaves the room.

after john��s visit, no one else tries to visit you. you no longer catch glimpses of kyle or johnny outside the infirmary door. you’re glad they’re starting to get the hint.

but you’re still getting flowers. you don’t know where they’re coming from. sometimes they’re dropped off by a nurse, other times they appear in the morning after a restless sleep. there’s never a note. never anything to suggest who would be leaving them.

you know it’s one of the 141, but you don’t know exactly who. you feel certain it’s not simon.

but, unbeknownst to you, it is him. he knows you don’t want to see him— to see any of them. price had told them all about what you’d said to him during your talk.

price had also told them that he’d already started preparing your transfer papers. that had caused an uproar from soap, who’d quickly been quieted by a saddened price.

simon had expected it. expected worse, actually. he knew that if the roles had been reversed, he wouldn’t have been as merciful as you. it made him hate what they’d done to you so much more.

there had been the tiniest doubt in his mind when all the evidence pointed to you. he hadn’t believed it at first— and then things became damning. everything pointed to you. trusted sources were pointing their fingers at you, and everyone listened. he had listened.

he had volunteered to torture you because he’d been angry. rage he hadn’t felt in years bubbled to the surface of his skin, and he wanted to tear you limb from limb. how dare you come into their lives— his life— and betray them so substantially?

simon didn’t trust easily. he was battered and broken and scarred. shattered and malformed pieces hastily glued back together. he let the team in. let you in. let you see his face. let you into his bed. let you into his fucking heart.

and you turned around and drove a dagger into him. or so he thought.

he thought his anger and actions had been justified. thought he was doing the world a favor by butchering you. but he was wrong. the team was wrong.

he finds himself regretting how he hadn’t listened to your pleas, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

he knows the chances of you forgiving him, of letting him back into your life, are slim to none. but how could he not at least try?

you’d know each other for years. been together for years. all of it thrown away because he still knew the hurt of betrayal all too well. because it was too easy to fall back into the mindset that it was him against everyone. that the only person he knew, the only one he could rely on, was himself.

so he left flowers. your favorite ones. and he did so without making you face him, without apologizing or groveling. it was the least he owed you.

a month after your coma, you were finally allowed out of the infirmary. you were still healing, skin still tender and bruised. pink, jagged scars lining your skin; eternal reminders of the pain you’d been subjected to.

you’d been given a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, which you’d pulled on with much fuss. every time you struggled or stumbled, you found yourself getting angry. angry at the men who did this to you.

the anger was going to eat you alive, at least that’s what the psychologist that had been dropping by to see you had said. she’d told you you need to let it go, and you’d laughed in her face.

how do you let something like this go?

you didn’t know. you didn’t think you were strong enough to do that. not a good enough person to forgive the men that had carved into you.

once you had dressed, you shuffled out into the hallway. you’d profusely denied an escort, and the doctor had reluctantly acquiesced. she’d let you go, with just the promise that you’d keep your iv hooked in.

so here you were, trudging down the halls of the base, iv pole rattling along behind you.

you could feel eyes on you, but no one dared to get too close. you were glad. you didn’t want more empty apologies and sympathetic words.

you still remembered the way to price’s office like the back of your hand. you doubted you’d ever forget it.

time and time again you’d found yourself here. sometimes, getting reprimanded. others, congratulated. a few times you’d shown up in tears, and price had let you in without a word.

now you were standing outside his door, trying to contain the rage in your veins.

you raised a hand. knocked once, firm and loud.

“come in!” price called from inside.

you were already twisting the door knob, pushing into the room.

your eyes found price first. he was leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. his hat was absent from his head, instead resting beside him on the desk.

and then you noticed simon.

he was wearing all black. his hands were covered, bones decorating the black gloves. gloves you’d seen many times before. gloves that had been pressed to gunshots, trying to stop the bleeding.

the lower half of his face was covered, allowing you to see from his eyes up. his sandy blonde hair was ruffled.

you quickly turned your attention back to price.

“love, what are you doin’ here? you should be in bed—” he began, but you waved a hand as you stepped further into the room. you pulled your iv pole in behind you, then kicked the door shut.

“don’t talk, just listen. i still mean what i said when you came to visit. the only reason im here right now is because you haven’t put in for my fucking transfer.” you hissed.

the captain’s eyes widened, his face taking on a sheepish expression at the revelation that he’d been caught. simon stood quietly beside him, eyes trained on you. you ignored him.

“love, i didn’t want to do anything before you were ready—” he began. you cut him off.

“bullshit! you didn’t want to do anything because you don’t want me to leave. you want me to forgive you, right? hear you all out? come back and be a happy little family again?”

the room fell eerily silent as you stared at the captain. your heart was roaring in your ears.

“put in the fucking transfer, john.” you finished.

he reluctantly nodded. he inhaled, his eyes glancing at his lieutenant briefly, before he spoke again.

“of course, love. ‘m sorry.”

you didn’t say anything else. you turned to go, your back to the men, when simon’s voice cut through the air.

“you should be respectful to your captain, sergeant.”

you froze as you took in his words. was he fucking serious?

you didn’t turn around. you trained your eyes on the door as you spoke words through gritted teeth.

“you should watch your tongue, lieutenant, before I fucking cut it off.”

with that, you pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway, slamming it loudly behind you.

author’s note:

apologies for the wait! I hope everyone enjoyed! (this is being posted before proofreading, so I hope it’s okay— I’ll read through it later, it’s just late and im tired lol)

[heeseungiez]

love letter | hyung line (0)

— a teaser

your whole life, you’ve only known one thing: relaying love letters. but what happens when one of those letters is addressed to you?

— pairings! heeseung x reader; jay x reader; jake x reader; sunghoon x reader

— featuring! enhypen members, haewon from nmixx, yuna from itzy and possibly other idols

— genre! romcom, high school au, found family, fluff with a tiny bit of angst (?)

— author’s note! i’ve really been loving family by choice so far and the whole love letters plot inspired this fic, sooo 🤭

— tags! open

check out my masterlist !!

“Here,” says a girl you recognise from your year. Jang Wonyoung holds up a carefully wrapped letter with cute drawings on the outside. It also smells very sweet and fruity, like lemon and peaches.

“To whom?” you ask automatically, grabbing the letter without studying it further. To you, it’s just another one on top of many, many more. 

“Park Sunghoon,” she replies, a giggle leaving her lips at the mere mention of the boy. You fight the urge to roll your eyes. It’s not that you don’t understand— okay, you don’t understand, actually. Sunghoon never shows any interest in any girls whatsoever, and yet they keep trying to approach him or give him love letters through you, and honestly, you’re tired.

“Fine. But I can’t guarantee he will read it nor respond to it nor that he won’t simply throw it away,” you say in a monotone because it’s an automatic response that leaves your lips every time you receive a letter. You might as well be considered a customer service worker — an office worker, really — with the way you deal with them. 

“I know. But thanks anyway.” Wonyoung smiles at you because realistically, she’s nice. From what you’ve heard about her, she’s great. So you’re a bit put off by the fact she’d show any interest in Park Sunghoon, of all people.

Sighing, you put the letter in a paper bag that has a sticker of a penguin on skates on it and Park Sunghoon’s name written right underneath. The bag has been with you for years by now. You made it back in fourth grade, probably, so it’s a miracle it still holds on. Especially because it’s already overflowing with letters from this morning.

Next to it, you glance at the other three bags. One with a sticker of a golden retriever and Sim Jaeyun in glittery letters, one with a black cat holding a knife and Park Jongseong written in cursive on it, and the last being a basketball sticker with the name LEE HEESEUNG in capital letters. 

This is what you get for befriending your neighbours, you guess. But seven-year-old you wanted to have older brothers, and seven-year-old you did not know that once you grow up, something like love and crushes would exist in your world. Until you did grow up, and you learned the hard way what it meant to be the so-called little sister of four decently looking boys. 

None of which have ever shown interest in anyone, ever, as far as you can tell. Or they simply haven’t told you anything about their love lives which, honestly, you prefer. It’s enough that you have to relay love letters to them, having to hear about them actually dating someone would be far worse. But somehow you doubt they’ve dated anyone — unless they’re much better at keeping secrets than you thought. Because the whole school would be taken by storm had anyone found out. Even if it was just the old janitor who found either one of them hiding in the broom closet with a girl, the whole school would know by the next day if not within the next hour. 

To put it simply, they’re popular.

Park Sunghoon, the figure skater whose entire life has been spent mainly on ice. People at school call him the ice prince for the obvious reasons, and the less obvious ones, where he just regards everyone as if they’re beneath him unless they’re his friends or, well… you.

Sim Jaeyun or Jake, the football prodigy and team captain who moved here from Australia and therefore has an Australian accent and is bilingual which, for some reason, girls love. He’s also the nicest person anyone could ever meet, so that might also be a factor. A golden retriever in human form, people say. The only reason you like him is because he’s been bribing you with snacks since middle school, though (said jokingly… maybe). 

Park Jongseong or Jay who, on the other hand, moved here from the United States and is known for his love of music and bands and guitars and the fact he can play the instrument. He’s in a band with some other guys from school, but you’re not all that familiar with them since Jay mostly keeps them away from you, for whatever stupid reason he’s made up about protecting you and whatnot.

And lastly, the oldest of the four, Lee Heeseung who is the basketball team captain and a huge nerd which girls also love? You’re half-convinced that if he were partially blind and had to wear glasses, the whole school would fall apart with the amount of people trying to catch a single glance of him. (Yes, he wears fake glasses sometimes, so maybe you’re speaking from experience.) He’s the guy you’d go to if you need help with school but he literally does not have any time in between his so-called game time, which is punished by death if interrupted, studying, and basketball practice. The only way to receive help with studying from Lee Heeseung is to either (1) study exactly what he is studying or (2) be you. 

Someone shoves another letter right in front of your face.

“Who?” you ask without looking up. But the letter is waved in front of your face with such violence that you roll your eyes, sigh, and look up. You’re met with the sight of one of your best friends, Kim Sunoo, whose cheeks must be hurting from how big his grin is.

“It’s not for them,” he says giddily, dropping the letter on your desk.

You study it for a second, noticing one glaringly obvious thing.

To: Y/N.

It’s addressed to you.

“Who gave this to you?” Your eyes widen as you turn to Sunoo with question marks in your eyes. But the boy shrugs, clueless.

“I have no idea. It wasn’t exactly given to me, you know. There was someone who just bumped into me without saying sorry or turning around, and they dropped this. So, obviously, I had to check what they dropped and well… it turned out to be a letter addressed to you,” Sunoo recalls the story, dramatically motioning with his hands to emphasise the whole scene.

You grin, staring at the letter.

“For me?” you ask yourself, your eyes fixated on the name written in neat handwriting.

“Open it,” Sunoo encourages you.

“Open what?” A new voice joins the conversation, and your smile grows even brighter at the sight of Yang Jungwon, your other friend, and class president.

“Look!” you say, grabbing the letter to wave it in front of his face. “I got a letter. Can you believe it? Me. Not the guys, but me.”

“Are you sure it’s real?” Jungwon asks sceptically, his eyes narrowed. “What if someone’s making fun of you?”

“Why are you so pessimistic?” Sunoo frowns, looking at Jungwon. “I think someone likes Y/N. It was about time, too. Her life needs to stop revolving about those four.” It’s not that Sunoo has anything against Heeseung, Jay, Jake or Sunghoon personally, but he’s not fond of how much time you spend doing things that are seemingly just for them. Like constantly dealing with their love letters. It seems that your entire existence at school is as the girl that talks to them.

“I’m not disagreeing, but still. It’s a bit weird that the letter came out of nowhere.” Jungwon shrugs, ending his point there. He connects his lips together in a thin line, and you know that he won’t argue any further.

“Should we maybe open it with Yuna and Haewon, too?” you ask, your eyes never leaving the letter. “We need more opinions.”

“At lunch?”

“At lunch.”

“Fine. But I’d still be careful.” Jungwon sighs, shaking his head. “If the person can’t give the letter directly to you, they’re not really worth it.” It’s funny how Jungwon just managed to indirectly attack every single girl that has ever made you relay a love letter without thinking much about it.

“You sound like Jay,” you point out anyway, making a face. Sunoo hums in agreement. 

“That’s not a bad thing.” Jungwon nudges your shoulder with a soft laugh.

[aboutcustardcreams]

Time Ticking, Patience Thinning

Here’s another chapter that I hope you enjoy 🫶🏼 please lemme know if you do~ would make my day!

previous chapter

“What’s your name again-? I didn’t quite catch it the first time.” 

When the boy opened his mouth to answer Agatha’s question, your gaze instinctively shifted to him. What happened next took you by surprise. As he began to speak, a shimmering sigil materialized above his lips, silencing his voice entirely. Your brows furrowed in confusion as your gaze slowly shifted to Agatha. 

“Interesting,” that’s all she said. 

"What do you mean?” 

“Nothing to shout about,” she waved it off, giving you the hint of keeping that detail about Teen a secret for now. “Anyway, I can’t promise I’ll remember your name.” 

Her words caught you off guard, and it took everything in you not to burst into a cackle. Even so, a tiny puff of air escaped your nose, almost sounding like a snort. Agatha turned to you then, her composure always impeccable, infuriatingly so. 

“We better get going now,” she brushed past you towards the front door, or rather, the spot where it used to be.

You smacked your lips at her nonchalance. If you weren’t in such a rush, you’d invade her personal space right there and now, capture her lips with yours to wipe off that knowing grin from her face. 

Instead you only said, “I drive.”

She didn’t object to that. In fact, she preferred it when you were the one behind the wheel. It gave her the liberty to let her hands wander over your skin. 

As you slid into your car, Teen's eyes sparkled with the hopeful anticipation of claiming the shotgun seat, but Agatha cut off his enthusiasm rather quickly. 

“Be a good pet and sit in the back, will you?” 

The boy shot you a sideway glance and you muttered a soft ‘sorry’ in his direction. Resigned, he slid into the backseat, clicked his seatbelt into place,and slouched in quiet defeat, arms crossed over his chest, reminding you of his young age. 

“Maybe on our way back you two can switch-”

Agatha didn’t even let you finish, “Or maybe not,” she muttered sarcastically. 

You sighed and started the car, with no clear destination in mind just yet, “very mature.”

She didn’t respond to that and simply hummed.

“So, where are we going?” Teen asked after a bunch of minutes. 

You looked at him from the rearview mirror, “for starters we do need a Coven to walk the Road.” 

He looked like a child on Christmas day, “you’re taking me to your Coven?” 

With your eyes back on the road, you hummed, “Uhm, not exactly.”

“We never had one,” Agatha clarified, “I mean, not for long anyway.” You glanced at her briefly, wondering what she might say to the boy next. For a fleeting moment, you thought she might blurt out the entire truth right then and there. But it wouldn’t be like her, so you brushed the thought aside almost as quickly as it came to you. 

“They annoyed me,” she said with a dramatic tut, “so one day I woke up, feeling inspired, and turned them into dust.”

You nearly veered into the opposite lane when she said that, your knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t entirely a lie either. Yes, she had killed her Coven, of that there was no dispute. But what she left unsaid were the reasons that forced her hand, reasons that probably nobody knew, that’s why people were so quick to come up with the ‘witch killer’ nickname. 

Teen looked terrified and uncertain what was to say next. And Agatha, being Agatha, looked quite pleased with it. 

"That’s not exactly how it went,” you mumbled, giving away the hint that there was more to say, without actually saying it. You stole a glance at Agatha, her smile teasing, slightly amused by the familiarity of the situation. There you were, once more, doing your best to clean up her reputation. She told you many times you didn’t have to do it, but you couldn’t help it. “What I can say is this: they’ve blown the whole ‘witch killer’ thing way out of proportion. Agatha isn’t a bad person.” 

Sure, you couldn’t deny the fact that Agatha killed witches, more than a few. But survival had a way of sharpening its edges, forcing impossible choices. She killed to save herself when no one else would. She killed to save Nicky. And later on… she killed to find a way to save you. It’s long overdue that people knew the truth, yet you knew it wasn’t your place, at least not only yours, to spill it. 

When Rio sent the Furies after you, they took possession of your mind, twisting reality until it was unrecognizable to you. Their voices inside your heart hurt in the most inexplicable way, but you resisted, you vowed to. You never fully understood how your condition affected Agatha and Nicky, because whenever you had a fleeting moment of clarity, they chose to savor the time together rather than tell you how much it hurt them to see you like that. During that time, Agatha’s killings increased but you wouldn’t know. She didn’t need to kill witches to heal Nicky, though. The moment you used your magic to bring him back to life, the curse had been lifted and with it, Nicky’s illness. But your magic had come with an unexpected price to pay. Rio had warned you, but you refused to listen. 

Noticing the way your eyes dimmed, Agatha slid her hand above your knee. She knew you too well to figure out exactly where your thoughts had gone. You were blaming yourself again. And she couldn’t let you do that. 

“Don’t listen to her, Teen. She has the tendency of picturing me softer than I really am,” despite her serious tone, the way her hand squeezed your knee, told you a whole different story. All she wanted was for you to let go of your sense of guilt. “When it comes to survival, you’ll do whatever it takes— anything. I hope it never comes that far for you.” 

Teen considered those words in silence. Your version compared to Agatha’s and it all just clicked. You were protecting her and she was protecting you. In that moment, he decided the rumors about the two of you didn’t matter, whether they were true or not. From now on, he would form his own picture of you both by living in the present and watching you do your thing. 

“I think it’s sweet that you found each other and stuck around for all these years. Centuries, I presume. In a way you form a Coven of two–” 

Your heart warmed up at Teen’s words. It was kind of cute to think of it that way. Your lips spread in a smile and so did Agatha’s, but more because she was amused by the whole thing he just said. Sure, she agreed with him- the fact that there was a bond between you two was true. An understatement, to be frank. You went through so many things together that the sole thought of parting ways for whatever reason felt now like a complete idiocy. You belonged to her like she belonged to you. 

“Teen, I’m sorry to cut your enthusiasm, but she and I are in a relationship. That hardly makes us a Coven.” 

“It makes us a family, though,” you pointed out. 

You caught something flickering in Agatha’s eyes, a shimmer of emotion, maybe even vulnerability. Had it been just the two of you, she might have let it linger, but with the boy in the car, she felt uneasy. So she averted her eyes, focusing on the passing landscape to her right. 

Noticing her hand slip away from your thigh, you pouted. Stubbornly, you reached out and placed it back where it belonged and when she turned, your lips curled up once again in a mischievous grin. Agatha snorted. That sass of yours— 

“There’s no time to be namby-pamby, my love. I need you to be focused.”

You rolled your eyes, but chuckled, “Fine. Wouldn’t want you to lose your only chance at surviving against the Salem Seven.”

Agatha's expression twisted into an exaggerated version of your own, mimicking your tone as she repeated the words you just said. The effect was immediate and both you and Teen burst into laughter, incredulous on your part. 

“I don’t sound like that!” 

“You do,” she insisted, lips twitching in a smirk. 

“I think she did a pretty good ‘you’”, Teen added, only fueling your mocking disbelief and Agatha’s enjoyment. 

“Whatever, I’m done with you two.” 

Your eyes squinted towards a peculiar building standing in the middle of nowhere to your left. You decided to try your luck there, took a rapid turn and parked right in front of the building, your instinct telling you there was a potential witch in there. The faded sign hanging above the door caught your eye, and you read it aloud: Madame Calderou’s Psychic Readings. 

Agatha clasped her hands together, before rubbing them as if she was plotting something mischievous, “Right. Seems like we are here.”

Teen’s interest piqued once again, “You think there’s a real witch in there?”

Before you could respond, Agatha preceded you, “we shall see if she knows the witchy handshake first.”

“Oh my God– there’s a witchy handshake?”

You let out an exasperated sigh while Agatha giggled to herself. It was so easy to play with that boy. “Teen, she is pulling your leg. There’s no such thing as a witchy handshake. Honestly that would be so demeaning.”

“Such as flying brooms or pointy hats,” she agreed with you. 

“I like flying brooms,” you retorted, as you three walked up towards the building. 

Agatha draped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into a squishy, however affectionate embrace, “Course you do,” she purred, “next you’ll be telling me you want to adopt a black cat as familiar.” 

“I already have a familiar, thank you very much,” you pointed out, “a nice turtle that your bunny keeps bullying shamelessly.”

Agatha gasped dramatically, but you knew it was just an act, “he doesn’t! Take it back–” 

“He does,” you chuckled. “And no, I won’t.” 

“Uhm, we are drifting off here,” Teen interjected, with an awkward smile. He pointed at the building, making both you and Agatha shift your attention back to the reason why you were there. Gather a Coven of Witches. 

“Right,” she took a mental note to return to the subject another time. 

You nodded, stepping forward to open the door. Holding it wide, you gestured for Teen to go in first. He slipped inside without a word, rather excitedly actually, and as Agatha approached, she brushed past you, but not before her fingers slid into yours, her hand fitting perfectly in your grasp. 

A small, teasing grin tugged at your lips. “I thought we didn’t have time for sappy moments.” 

“Don’t be such a brat,” she whispered into your ear, in a cheeky tone, you didn’t miss. Couldn’t, if you tried. 

*

“You’ve been under the influence of another, haven't you? Someone you hurt,” the clairvoyant started, her voice solemn as she took in Agatha’s blue eyes. The smirk of confidence that had tugged at Agatha’s lips faded as soon as she realized that Lilia Calderou wasn’t a fraud and knew who she was. You gave Agatha’s hand a tentative squeeze, a way to let her know you were there– that everything was okay. Her fingers tightened around yours in response. 

“And she paid the price, too. They took your agency, but not hers,” she continued, her eyes landed on yours as you frowned uncomfortably. You never blamed Agatha for anything and you certainly wouldn’t start now just because a clairvoyant said so. “I feel it, your magic. It’s restless, volatile and quite dangerous. It should not exist.” 

You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms over your chest, “Here we go again,” you muttered, voice laced with dry sarcasm. Agatha snorted out a low chuckle in response to Lilia’s words, “You know nothing about her talent, so I’d suggest you to be quiet about it.” She never cared about what other witches thought about her, but whenever it came to you, she would completely lose her mind, if someone dared to judge who you were, basing their opinion on a prejudice as old as the world. 

“So you’re a witch?” Teen’s question came in a hopeful tone.

“Divination witch is my guess,” you replied before Lilia could. 

A mischievous grin tugged at Lilia’s lips. “If you intend to overstay your visit, I’ll have to charge you again.” 

“Oh, I think you can grant us another ten minutes of your time,” Agatha groaned, “It’s not that there’s a line in here or something.”

In response, you saw Teen bow his head to wipe the grin off his face. You, on the other hand, made no effort to hide yours. 

Annoyance was evident in her eyes, as she retorted, “whatever you want from me, I’m not interested,” Lilia stood up and without another word, she stood and disappeared behind the curtain at the back of her shop. 

You and Agatha shared a knowing glance. 

Teen appeared more disappointed than concerned, “Now what?” 

“Now we persuade her.” 

To preserve Agatha’s life, it was essential to gather some magic and you would have, no matter what. So you stood, eyes flashing with a newfound calm mingled with determination. Agatha noticed and smiled. She loved you for so many things and that behavior of yours, was just one of those characteristics that reminded her of why she chose to stick by your side so many years ago. 

She gave you a nod of her head and followed you, as you took the lead. On the other side, you found yourself in what could loosely be called an apartment. A single room stretched before you. To the left stood a corner kitchen, its countertops cluttered with mismatched utensils, jars of herbs, the faint glimmer of copper pots, and a kettle she just turned on, probably to make herself some soothing tea. 

“Join us,” Agatha insisted, as you and Teen kept looking around. “Honestly the way you live is kind of disappointing. You deserve more and better than whatever this place is…” Her gaze drifted to the far end of the room, where a mattress leaned against the wall, probably to save up space. 

You wondered if there was a toilet hidden behind it. How low could a witch go?

The clairvoyant’s gaze flickered with hesitation, her lips pressed into a thin line as Agatha’s words sinked in. The shrill whistle of the kettle cut through the silence, drawing her attention and causing both you and Agatha to roll your eyes, when she spun around. 

“Lilia–”, you couldn’t do this all day.  

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” when she turned to face you, her eyes locked onto yours, sharp and intense. You could tell she was conflicted, exasperated even. “I won’t make the same mistake and fall into Agatha’s manipulative ways. They say you endured the Furies’ wrath because you did and yet here you are, still standing by her side. I don’t understand that.”

To say you were shocked was an understatement. 

She had no idea what she was talking about– Agatha had nothing to do with the Furies. For some odd, infuriating reason, nobody knew a thing about Rio Vidal, instead: the true cause of everything. Instead, according to the stories, it had always been you and Agatha all along, so whatever bad thing came your way, Agatha bore the brunt of the blame. You were sick of that. 

Teen was in shock too, he didn’t speak, but a part of him ached to defend both you and Agatha. He’d read about the Furies, knew the torment you endured for years, but not for a second had he ever believed Agatha was responsible for it. It just didn’t sit right with him. It couldn’t be.  Not when Agatha looked at you the way she did, as if you held all the stars in the sky just for her. As if you were everything she had left.

Watching you from her peripheral vision, Agatha recognized clear signs of your struggle. Your jaw clenched tightly, your hands curled into fists at your sides, and your lips pressed into a thin line, “If you really think Agatha is somewhat responsible for what happened to me, which by the way is none of your business, maybe you lost your talent–”, your words hung in the air, adding to the already tense atmosphere lingering in the room. 

Lilia looked somewhat self-conscious about what she said and how they affected you, yet she didn’t apologize. However, she held herself back from responding to your bitter remark about her.

Agatha’s lips stretched into a sad, tight smile the moment her fingers brushed against your forearm, and you failed to meet her eyes, “hey– don’t go there again. It’s not worth it,” she cooed, voice firm, yet veiled with the usual fondness she only reserved to you. You clenched your eyes shut for a moment, your magic sparkling at the tips of your fingers. Lilia was right about one thing: your talent could be dangerous especially when wielded by a witch emotionally distressed or simply pissed off, like you. 

“You’re right,” you sighed, “Look, we are going to walk the Road. The Witches’ Road. And we need a divination witch, but the choice is yours. You can keep living your eternal life in this kind of shack you call home or try to go back on top. Be a witch again.”

Lilia’s mouth almost dropped, then. “The Road is a death wish.” 

“I survived,” Agatha waved with a grin. 

“And yet you’ve got no power.”

“That’s why I need to walk the Road, again. To restock.” 

Lilia swallowed thickly. The offer was appealing and yet, she was uncertain. Agatha was, after all, known for having betrayed her entire Coven, at a very young age too. “How can I trust you won’t take my power at the earliest opportunity?”

Before Agatha could say anything, you stepped forward. “She won’t. I guarantee it for you.” Despite your growing distaste for Lilia at this moment, your principles held steadfast: no more witches would die because of Agatha. Or you. That was a promise you intended to keep. “You seem to know very well what Agatha’s capable of, but my question is, are you just as familiar with my talent?”

Lilia almost found it amusing that you’d question her knowledge about witches of your kind. “I do. At least to some extent,” she clarified, “I know what a necromancer witch can do. And I also know you’re not a killer,” she finished on a softer note. 

“Agatha isn’t either,” you pointed out.

“Well, isn’t your loyalty sweet–”

Your lover took a step ahead, stretched out a hand, and moved you behind her, the moment your magic intensified around you and her, “Look, you’re right, I’ve got a reputation, I can’t help with that–” she trailed off, gesturing animatedly while doing so. “I don’t have time to persuade you into believing my intentions are genuine. Time’s running out and if you’re not willing to tag along, then fine. I’ll still Walk the Witches’ Road, restore my powers, and get my life back. Just remember that the path you’re currently on leads nowhere.” 

Her words were convincing enough, but it was the small piece of paper she was holding that truly caught Lilia’s attention. You hadn’t noticed it before, nor were you sure where it had come from, but the realization struck quickly. A smirk tugged at your lips as everything suddenly fell in place.

That was an eviction notice.

“Even if I were to accept, you’d still need more witches.”

Agatha had a solution for that too. She grinned from ear to ear, “I was hoping you’d use your witchcraft to come up with a list of names. You can do that, can’t you?” 

It was a rhetorical question, she knew she could. 

Lilia’s lips stretched into a defiant smile, “give me that,” she said, snatching the piece of paper from Agatha’s hands, along with a pen that lay on the table. She didn’t even have to think about the names, they were already there, poised on the tip of her tongue or rather, the pen. 

When she handed the paper back, both you and Agatha went as pale as a sheet. It couldn’t be. At the top were your name and Agatha’s, followed by Lilia Calderou, Jennifer Kale, Alice Wu Gulliver, and, finally, Rio Vidal.

[gliphyartfan]

I've been thinking about this a bit and wanted to know your opinion, but every time they involve Reader and The Chain in an isekai, Reader knows the Links from video games.

But what if she/he/they knew about The Chain through The videogames, the comic and the writings it reads on Tumblr, just like we do? A Yandere content writer or consumer of said content, Reader will know how to read the signs and avoid becoming obsessed with she/he/they

Or no

Or you can choose to make them obsess over You, why go back to the stress of modern life where everyone is doing everything they can to survive? Why not just stay and pretend ignorance? Why not be pampered to the extreme and never lift a finger again? Sorry for the people who got hurt in your name, but you didn't know any of them deeply and you didn't witness the scene either, so why bother with something that doesn't affect your new life? Of course You would have to pretend to be stubborn so they don't suspect And being very good to them, but that is already returning the affection they give you, a reward for what they do for you...,all that sounds much better than worrying about working, saving, paying bills...

this is such a juicy premise, won’t lie. A self-aware Reader who knows everything about the Chain.

Like…Wild would blush furiously if they casually mentioned cooking all the stat-boosting meals he used to make.

Or Legend would probably be smug if they quoted his exploits from the games or stories or how people talk about his adventure decades after they were told.

Hyrule might be freaked out at first (like, people know of his journey??? People know about HIM???) but would eventually see it as proof Reader was meant to know them on a deeper level.

and all of them would take it as a personal challenge to live up to every expectation Reader’s have of them.

Now…let’s think about it a bit

Reader would know exactly what’s happening when they catch the boys watching them too closely, when their protective behavior ramps up, or when they subtly isolate Reader from others. They’ve read this all before, heck, Reader might’ve even written about it.

They’d immediately try to keep a safe distance, avoiding favoritism or letting them get too close. But let’s face it, The Chain isn’t going to let that happen. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

They’d be hyper away if Reader’s behavior. The second they start acting evasive, they’ll probably see it as a sign that they’re scared of something and need even more of their ‘protection.’

They might ‘accidentally’ stumble upon Reader’s escape attempts, but make it look natural enough that Reader can’t tell if they are actually aware of their attempt or if they actually stumbled upon them.

Now~ if Reader either consumed or written yandere content, then they are painfully aware of how the chain react to resistance. Every attempt to push them away just makes them cling tighter. Reader is caught in the trap of knowing too much, and that knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to escape.

In fact, Reader would probably overthink the chain’s habits and words and stuff like that (if they are an overthinker.)

Hyrule’s innocent smile, Legend’s sharp tongue, Warriors’ charming words. They ARE genuine.

But they’re also all masks, and Reader would know it. But they also know that the chain will use every trick in the book to keep them if they get a hint that Reader wants to leave.

If they ever find out Reader knew about them from games, comics, and fanfiction? Oh, it’s over. They’ll think it’s destiny, that Reader was meant to be theirs.

Like, I can genuinely see Sky say something like ‘You’ve always known us,” and he’s say it with a gentle, almost eerie smile. “You were always meant to be here.”

And everyone KNOWS if Sky makes such a decision, then they are ALL gonna be stubborn too.

And…

if Reader DECIDES to play along, well can anyone blame them?

Modern life is stressful. Bills, jobs, societal expectations, don’t even get them started on the chaos around the world.

it’s all exhausting. Reader would realize they could have a life of comfort and adoration if they just… stop fighting it.

Sure, they might have some murderous tendencies, but Reader’s read enough fanfiction to know how to keep them happy. Play along, stay on their good side, and reap the benefits of being their one and only obsession.

And if Reader is an introverted who doesn’t like being near too many people and prefers to stay home. Then even better for them! (Both Reader and the Chain)

Reader would make a conscious effort to pretend ignorance. When Wild smiles just a little too widely or Twilight’s growls seem directed at someone standing too close to them, They even feign obliviousness when they see a bit TOO much red on their clothes. (Though Reader would probably find a way for them to NOT kill anyone. Beat the hell out of? Sure no problem. Kill? eeeeh…not so much.)

Reader would reward their affection with kindness. compliments, gratitude, maybe even initiating a hug now and then. It keeps them sated, like giving treats to a pack of overprotective wolves. (Twilight is definitely doing the growly growls of happiness when Reader runs their fingers through his hair.)

Like…Reader knows they’ve probably already done a lot of terrible things in their name, but… well…Reader didn’t witness it, and it doesn’t affect their day-to-day life. It’s easy to compartmentalize when they treat them like royalty, their sole focus on keeping Reader happy.

Time would bring them tea, Warriors would ensure they’d never uncomfortable, and Sky offers you soft, soothing music. Wild hums and cooks. Why go back to stressing about rent when Reader can have this?

I mean…they’d have to pretend to be stubborn at times, just enough to keep the chain from getting suspicious. Let’s face it, if Reader is too accommodating, they might worry they’re hiding something or question why they aren’t more wary.

The trick is to keep them believing Reader is slowly being won over. Let them think their affection is working, and they’ll continue pouring their energy into doting on them rather than spiraling into paranoia.

[lionheartedmusings]

hi everyone! i talked about my new "dream job" very briefly a few times, but turns out you really shouldn't count your chickens before they hatch. i debated not saying anything multiple times, and frankly perhaps i should've kept quiet, but i refuse to let this situation eat me up and i feel like the community also deserves some transparency on some things that realistically, you'll never get unless people speak up. i want to preface this by stating very, very clearly that everyone that i met in the studio on a personal level is incredibly talented, passionate, and kind. all of them deserve much, much better than the way they get treated. i applied to be a writer for quackity studios / qsmp and got an email back on the 18th of january. i interviewed for the position on the 23rd of january, and entered trial period on the 28th after signing an "nda".

early during trial period, i asked one of my supervisors about payment and was told they weren't responsible for that and didn't know, but would get back to me as soon as they knew which never ended up happening (i do not blame them at all, they’re incredibly busy people). i should've pressed further, but as someone in a very, very sensitive financial situation and someone who loves the qsmp and admires the talent of everyone who poured their heart and soul into the project, i chose to wait and expect the best. i was officially welcomed into the studio on the 10th of february, and while i waited to be contacted regarding a contract or payment, i had to once again ask (even after i was already working) about payment. i was redirected to "the" head admin as it was him who handled payment, and had to wait days for him to log on so i could add him as a discord friend and ask about my salary. during that conversation, which took almost a week from start to finish, i was asked multiple times if i'd worked professionally as a writer or freelancer (to which the answer was no) before finally being offered between 200-250 dollars (which i later found out shakes out to 170€) per month. i had to ask how i was being paid, and of my own accord provide him with my paypal email in hopes of a response as he never made it clear to whom i should send it. i was incredibly lucky compared to so many members of that team, because i did get paid for my work over that month, even if it felt like i had to beg for compensation that had been promised to me before. it was an awful salary, but i was desperate and so excited to be a part of the team that i accepted the conditions. after léa's tweets, the response "jay" posted, and quackity's emergency stream, i heard once from a supervisor that things were on hold but we'd be informed of any changes. to this day, there has not been any communication either publicly on the discord server or privately, even though i asked a supervisor privately for any possible updates on anything. there's been absolute radio silence. i want to add that i do not in any way blame my supervisors for any of their lack of communication, as they've been nothing but kind and caring towards me and i imagine they'd say something if they could. i have nothing but the utmost respect for them. a few days ago (and i apologize for not being precise with the date but i wasn't checking these things closely as i had no reason to) i noticed that my access to just about everything on the server apart from the announcement channel had been removed, and the only role i retained was the main "writer" one. upon checking, the other writers on the team still retain all of their previous roles. for some reason i do not know nor understand, my access got removed without any sort of word, communication, dm, anything. anything i've ever learnt about this situation, i learnt in the middle of the night live on twitch.tv while i waited to see if i still had a job or not. the only reason i can find for my access being removed and not the other writers is the fact that i'm friends with pomme's admin. i do not know if that is why, it's merely my own speculation, but it's the only link i can see that would lead to that decision. i hope i'm wrong, but hope hasn't gotten me very far in this yet. yesterday, i quit.

i only applied in the first place because i love the qsmp. i love this community, i love this project, and i genuinely and wholeheartedly wanted to help build it as well as be able to in some way support myself while being creative. i'm not making this post because i hate quackity and want to see anything burn — i'm just exhausted, and stressed, and losing sleep over a business that ultimately does not care for the people that made it a reality. i could not in good conscience not say something, because while i was very lucky that my time there was short and while i made friends there that i believe i will take with me for the rest of my life, i've never been someone who can sit and watch others be mistreated so blatantly and just ignore it. i honestly and sincerely hope that moving forward, things change, but after what i've seen i have very little hope left in me. this isn't just about the exploitation of people, or just about not providing people with payment for their work — it's about treating other human beings who are killing themselves and working themselves to the bone with the very minimum of care and respect. it's about people who made the qsmp what it is being discarded and disrespected constantly, and who live in fear and anxiety. these people deserve to be treated well, and that lack of respect hasn't changed regardless of any "announcements" made. my heart and full and complete support goes out to everyone who is dealing with these very unfortunate circumstances and treatment (my dms are always open if you ever want to reach out), to léa for being so incredibly brave and putting herself in the line of fire for the tens of people still in the studio, to all the actors and the twitter teams for the absolute silence they've received as payment for their hard work over almost a year, and to pomme's admin who despite what's going around on twitter has not received any contact from anyone in the studio yet, and deserves so so much better.

it’s my most sincere hope that qsmp thrives and conditions change, because everyone there deserves that. everyone there deserves to be treated like gold because they’re some of the best people i’ve ever met. i wish it didn’t feel like we have to put ourselves in the line of fire publicly for any sort of response because clearly staying silent hasn’t helped anything.

please, support the people who spoke out and support the people still in the project. they're the ones who made the qsmp the qsmp. they're the ones you should be standing with first and foremost.

[no-less-than-a-god]

“May I ask a question?” The Lamb’s voice carries easily through the Afterlife, and if The One Who Waits hadn’t just watched them die (an attack that they were too weakened to dodge, an arrow piercing their chest), he would have startled at how it echoes around them; Aym and Baal didn’t have such foresight, and both of them jerked, ears flicking and tails fluffing up for only a moment before calming.

“I have told you, Vessel,” The One Who Waits answers, as the Lamb grows close. “You are free to ask anything of your god.”

“Who are these two?” the Lamb asks, and gestures to the disciples on either side of the god. Having been directly referenced, both of their ears prick up, and they stand as straight as they can, alert and curious.

“They’re my disciples,” The One Who Waits replies, “gifted upon me as kits.”

He does not mention his sibling’s name, or the fact he knows it was them. It hurts to think about it, even now.

“Do they have names?”

The god makes a motion with his chained wrist, and addresses his keepers. “Speak freely, and introduce yourself to the Lamb.”

“Baal.”

“Aym.”

“Are you two brothers?”

“Yes,” it was Baal who replies, his brother’s head tilting as he answers. “Twins.”

“Who’s older?”

There is a pause. Both disciples look upon each other silently, before turning back to the Lamb they towered over.

“I think,” it was Aym who speaks this time, as he points his staff towards Baal, “he’s older.”

“Huh…” the Lamb trails off then, before speaking up again. “Who’s better at fighting?”

“I am,” both of them reply simultaneously, and then shoot each other a look.

“I beat you last time we sparred,” Aym says.

“But I had beaten you thrice before that,” Baal counters.

“Twice,” Aym corrects.

“Thrice,” Baal insists.

In a sudden move, Aym pounces on his brother, staff brandished. “I’ll show you who’s a better fighter!” he yells, and the two throw themselves off to the side, bickering and fighting.

Both the Lamb and The One Who Waits watches the brothers for a few moments, before the Lamb looks up at their god.

“Apologies, I seem to have caused that,” they say.

“They fight, it happens,” the god replies. He does not stop his disciples, or reprimand them from fighting in front of his vessel. Instead, he watches with amusement.

“It’s entertaining, most of the time,” he adds. “I’ve been keeping track of who wins.”

“Who’s winning, then?”

Beneath the veil, The One Who Waits begins to smile, and he turns back to the Lamb.

“They’re tied.”

-------------------------------------

“May I ask what happens to the offerings I give you?”

“My disciples eat the fish.”

“You don’t?”

“I cannot.”

“Would you like me to send other things, then?”

“The fish is adequate, Vessel. You do not have to.”

“Do you know what fish they prefer, then?”

“Aym prefers swordfish; Baal prefers tuna.”

“And you?”

“...It’s been too long for me to remember the tastes, but I remember being partial to salmon the most.”

-------------------------------------

“Does it hurt?” they ask, sitting among the ethereal ground. The One Who Waits watches them, as they peer up at him.

They look so small.

“Does what hurt?” he asks in return, although he has a speculation.

“The shackles, the chains. Being bound.”

The One Who Waits remains silent, contemplating, before he speaks honestly. “They have pained me for so long, I take no further notice. I have been forced to grow used to the unbearable agony; it no longer affects me as greatly as it once did. Is there a reason you ask, Vessel?”

The Lamb, The One Who Waits surprisingly finds, is silent. They’ve looked away from him, and suddenly, they’re standing up.

“I’m ready to go back,” they claim, and there’s a tremble at the end of their voice.

Ignoring that they failed to answer his own question, Narinder raises his bony arm, chainlinks clinking together, as he resurrects them.

Later, watching through the crown, he sees the Lamb descend upon the stone statue of Heket with their oversized hammer, smashing it to pieces.

Even as it rebuilds itself, the hammer brings it all down in a fit of rage, until the Lamb is doubled over with fatigue, panting and sweating.

Eligos brings their demise two days later, and neither god nor vessel speak as the Lamb looks upon The One Who Waits.

Thank you, he wants to say, for your rage. For caring. You did not have to do that, but you did. 

But he says nothing.

-------------------------------------

“Do you know how to play knucklebones?”

“I’ve watched the rat play it, many times. And I’ve watched you play it, many times more.”

“But do you know how to play?”

“I do not.”

“Can I teach you?

“With what dice, Vessel?”

“I have some in the crown. I can teach Aym and Baal too, if they want.”

“I’m sure they’ll enjoy it.”

-------------------------------------

“Have you always had a veil?” the Lamb asks, resting in their god’s hand. They had requested to lay down, after a painful and quite literal run-in with an explosive fiend. They sit up, a curious tilt to their head.

“I acquired one not long after my ascension to a Bishop,” The One Who Waits replies. Nearby, the sound of staff clacking together continues as the twins spar. “There were complaints of my gaze being uncomfortable. Unnerving.”

The Lamb pauses, before they softly ask, “May I see?”

“The veil?”

“Your face.”

A century ago, a request as such would have given him pause. He would have declined, and sent the Lamb away.

Instead, he slowly brings his arm up, and leans down. The Lamb ducks under the veil, and for the first time, the god and vessel make true eye contact.

Red meets white. The One Who Waits looks, unblinking, as the Lamb stares back into his eyes.

Something touches his nose, and it twitches involuntarily at the unfamiliar sensation. It takes the god a few seconds to realize it’s the Lamb’s hand.

The Lamb smiles, gently. “Your eyes. They’re a pretty red.”

The One Who Waits’ ear flicks.

“Like camellias. Or fresh blood. It’s nice.”

“Vessel,” the god whispers, because they’re so close. “I ask you to stop talking.”

The Lamb leans against The One Who Waits’ nose, and all he can smell is them. “And I ask,” they reply, their smile growing, “is that I can continue praising my god’s bea-”

“Lamb-” The One Who Waits interrupts, and it comes out soft. Something warm curls in his chest, around his unbeating heart.

“What shall become of me, if I don’t stop talking?” the Lamb asks in a whisper. 

A purr threatens to rip itself from the god’s chest.

“I’ll send you back to your followers,” The One Who Waits replies.

The threat is empty, and both of them know it.

-------------------------------------

“Was Kallamar your elder or younger brother?”

“Elder.”

“And Heket was younger. Does that mean you were the middle sibling?”

“Yes, I was in the middle. Two came before, and two after.”

“May I ask what it was like, having siblings?”

“I assure you, Vessel, my experience with siblinghood is most definitely different from the norm.”

“I rephrase: May I ask what it was like for you, having siblings? May I know more of my god’s past?”

“Draw close, Lamb, and I shall tell you.”

-------------------------------------

“Shamura spoke to me.” 

The One Who Waits flicks his ear, half because of hearing his sibling���s name on his lamb's tongue, half because they sound nervous.

The Lamb continues speaking. “They told me something. A name.”

The god freezes. He stills so suddenly, not even his chains clink. It's silent.

He knows what name Shamura had spoken. He wasn't watching the Lamb during their crusade, but he knows.

He remembers, faintly, his name uttered in vain, in fear and disgust. In hatred, or indifference.

“Were they telling the truth?” the Lamb asks. “Is your name Narinder?”

Reverence. How long ago did someone last say his name with such reverence?

“It is,” he replies, and he pretends his voice doesn’t tremble at the end.

“Can I call you that?”

The answer comes at once, without thought or hesitation, “Yes.”

“Much easier to say than your title,” the Lamb smiles a little, “right, Narinder?”

His own purr surprises him, and he watches as the Lamb’s smile grows into something soft, something fond.

Off to the side, Baal and Aym shoot their master a strange look.

-------------------------------------

“What do you plan to do, once you’re free?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve been trapped for almost a millennium, Narinder, surely you’ve thought of something?”

“I’ve had ideas in the past, but they’ve changed. Now, I’m unsure.”

“I can help you think of something, if you want.”

-------------------------------------

Narinder, The One Who Waits, has dreamed of freedom for centuries. All he’s wished for, as time passed in his eternal prison, is that he could be set free.

The Lamb’s arrival to him, covered in chains and looking ragged, had filled him with ecstatic bloodlust.

They were it, his key. With them as his final sacrifice, he’d be free.

That thought would keep him gleeful, a comfort. With their death, he’ll find his freedom.

But something changed.

Now, the thought fills him with dread.

With their death, he’ll be free.

For the first time since he was shackled, his dreams aren’t filled with revenge, with tearing himself free and escaping.

For the first time, he becomes weary of his own domain.

He doesn’t want the Lamb to die.

He doesn’t want the Lamb to die to free him.

He wants them alive. He wants them to stay, sleeping against his claw and chest, saying his name, peering under his veil.

He doesn’t want the Lamb to die.

Which is why, when they bow to him, his crown in their hands, he cannot find the words he’s dreamed of saying for centuries, the words he’s supposed to say.

It’s why, fists clenching, he says, “No.”

Good afternoon, I woke up and chose violence today! More specifically, I decided today I would write short fragments of interaction between narinder and the lamb during their vessel years

also. lore :)

anyways if anyone's curious I listened to "Home" by Pinkshift while writing this

[kinardsevan]

A hand written note for bucktommy if it inspires 💙

(literally stole this one from my parents)

Evan keeps one of them in his locker at work. Another in his wallet. A third is framed on his nightstand. Tommy actually got jealous about it when he realized Evan had kept them in such a way, so he’d ensured he left one on Tommy’s nightstand a week later. And coffee mug. And on the rearview mirror in his truck. 

. . . 

He’s coming off a long shift the night it happens. He and Tommy have barely seen each other in the past week, given the fact that they’re coming through the end of wildfire season, so Tommy’s shifts have been more scattered and run into overtime. Evan really hasn’t had it easy either, even though the 118 has been fighting from the ground. So after ten days when Tommy calls him halfway through his shift to let him know that he’s finally getting a few days off, it takes everything inside Evan to not run out of the firehouse.

Still, by some miracle, he manages to make it through the next twelve hours, although by the time he’s standing in the locker room, changing into his civvies, he’s practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Clearly Tommy’s schedule finally matched up with yours,” Eddie jokes as he tosses his clothes into his bag. 

“It’s been a week and a half, Eds,” Evan replies, tossing his toiletry pouch into his duffel. “Do me a favor and don’t call for twenty-four hours?” 

Eddie laughs at him as Evan hoists his bag up his shoulder, rounds the bench. “Sure, Buck. You and T have a good night. Don’t tell me how it goes.” 

Evan waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder as he walks out of the locker room and out of the firehouse, already dialing on his phone. When he gets to the jeep, he tosses his things in and starts it up, settles his phone on the dash when Tommy picks up. 

“You just get out,” his boyfriend asks, skipping the pleasantries. 

“Yeah,” Evan replies, pulling out of his parking space. “I may have told Eddie not to call for the next twenty-four.” 

Tommy’s laughter is audible. “Not a bad idea, Buckley.” 

Evan can’t stop the smile that tugs across his face or the pink that dusts across his cheeks as he heads for the road. 

“I’m like twenty minutes out,” he tells Tommy after a moment. 

“Okay cool. I just got to that little Italian store we like, so I might be a few minutes later. Gotta pick up some provisions. Plus they just got the good mozzerella in.” 

Evan groans softly. “Making me wait even longer to see you?” 

Tommy chuckles again. “All in due time, sweetheart. I shouldn’t be much longer. You can call me when you get there if you want.” 

Evan frowns, but doesn’t argue. 

“I can hear you pouting,” Tommy comments. “Soon, Evan.”

“Okay,” he responds, acquiescing. “Soon.” 

Tommy ends the call after that, and Evan focuses on his drive. True to his word, he’s across town in the promised time limit, pulling into Tommy’s driveway and yanking his bag from the passenger seat and crossing the yard to the front door. He practically hops onto the front step, slipping his key in the door to let himself in. 

Inside the house, Tommy has left a few lamps on to light his way. He leaves his bag by the door with his shoes, where Tommy usually drops his own duffel, and then heads towards the kitchen. Still, as he starts to head towards the fridge, he’s suddenly stopped in his tracks.

Post-its are everywhere. The fridge, the counter, the vase of mostly-dead flowers Evan bought two weeks ago. 

All with the same message. 

I love you.

His heart clenches as he reaches out for one of the yellow sticky notes plastered to the fridge, his vision blurring with tears as he reads the black sharpie. It’s written in Tommy’s better penmanship, like he didn’t just hastily scrawl it, but actually took the time to write each one out carefully and with purpose. 

They’ve been dancing around those three words for weeks now, even if it’s been months that they’ve been felt. Still, neither of them wanted to jump the gun on it, and selfishly, Evan wanted to find his own way to make it special. Everything about their relationship has been handled with such care from the beginning that he didn’t want it to be a quick thing. He wanted to put the time and effort into not just saying how he felt, but showing it.

Clearly, Tommy has beaten him to the quick. 

“I had this whole thing planned.” 

Evan turns then, sees Tommy leaning in the doorway towards the bedroom. He’s smiling back at the blonde with adoration. 

“W-what?” 

Tommy nods. “Bought all this food and these candles. I was going to make a whole thing about it. And then the wildfire happened, and the flowers I had on hold died, and because I couldn’t pick up the food, they refunded my order.” He strides across the room as he talks, sliding his arms around Evan’s waist. “And then I just couldn’t keep it in anymore. Didn’t want to wait another minute to tell you.” 

Evan hiccups a sniffle as the tears in his eyes finally run down his face, Tommy pressing a kiss into the side of his neck. 

“I love you too,” he rasps, clasping a hand tight around Tommy’s where it’s resting on his hip. “Kinda wanted to go first, but you stole my thunder.” 

Tommy laughs softly against his neck, continuing a row of kisses down Evan’s collarbone before he finally pulls up and turns the younger man in his arms, getting a full view of him. He lifts a hand and brushes it through Evan’s hairline, down his cheek, under his chin, pulling Evan into an open-mouthed kiss. The blonde moans into it, looping an arm around Tommy’s neck and cradling his head, keeping him close. There’s no rush to break apart, taking one another in and rebuilding the map of each other’s mouths. When they finally do break apart, they still remain in each other’s space, Tommy nuzzling up against the space in front of Evan’s ear, laying light kisses beneath it. 

“I love you so much, Evan Buckley,” he murmurs. Evan shivers, both at his breatha and the confession being stated out loud. He sniffles again, buries his face in the shoulder of Tommy’s olive henley. 

“Might love you more,” he rasps, clinging tightly to his boyfriend. Tommy chuckles and shakes his head, trailing his fingers up and down Evan’s back. 

“That’s debatable. Might have to split the days of the week,” he replies. “Can’t be at a disadvantage.” 

Evan just sighs against him, turning his face into Tommy’s neck. He closes his eyes and inhales Tommy’s scent, letting himself be wrapped in the knowledge that this isn’t just his boyfriend now. He loves Tommy, and Tommy loves him. 

When he finally pulls back after a few minutes, Tommy brushes his thumb over Evan’s cheeks, wiping away the tears there. 

“You good,” he asks. 

Evan nods. “Mostly.” 

Tommy furrows his brow at him. “Mostly isn’t a yes.” 

Evan can’t help the smirk that crawls across his face. “Well, my boyfriend and I haven’t had sex in almost two weeks. Been itching to get dicked down for days now.” 

Tommy chuckles at him, even as his pupils dilate and he leans forward, leaving light kisses on Evan’s lips.

“Well then. We’re just gonna have to do something about that.” 

[just-a-girl-who-loves-tmr]

Headcanons

Recovery, Post death-cure, safe haven

(I’m sorry in advance)

Tw: depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts/attempts, self harm, panic attacks etc

Thomas

- This man has some extreme survivors guilt from everything.

- He gets flashbacks, especially in dreams, of him working with WICKED, helping them build the maze and having to watch his friends through the beetle blades.

- He feels responsible for everything his friends went through in the glade and for not trying harder to help them (even though the others have continuously told him that they don’t blame him and it wasn’t his fault).

- Even through the scorch, he feels guilty for not doing more to help because if he had only acted faster, they might not be there at all.

- He sometimes has panic attacks because of this and on the worst days he wishes he could have died instead of his friends because he feels like their deaths were his fault.

- Occasionally he turns to self harm, believing that he deserved to feel the pain he put his friends to.

- Newt found him once with the knife in his hand and immediately stopped him, cleaning the cuts and making Thomas promise never to do it again because nothing was his fault and he doesn’t deserve to feel pain.

- Newt then makes it a regular occurrence to draw little butterflies on Thomas’s wrist and arms (iykyk)

- Newt got really worried the first time Thomas had a panic attack in front of him because he didn’t really know what to do to help but he slowly figured out little ways to calm him down.

- Taking him to a quiet, familiar place, helping him breathe, making him tea and cuddling up with a blanket and a movie on in the background

Newt

- I think I already covered this in another post but being sick is a huge trigger for Newt. He gets super edgy and Thomas can tell. He continuously checks his arms just in case the veins are black

- I’m convinced he’s got Emetophobia (fear of throwing up) because it triggers memories of when he had the flare and he felt nauseous all the time.

- His immune system is weaker than everyone else’s so he gets sick a lot more often than the others and even a simple cold would have him shivering in bed all day with tea and five blankets

- Newt also doesn’t like to acknowledge the fact that he’s sick because he doesn’t want people fussing over him and asking him if he’s okay so he will just say ‘I’m fine’ as he’s actively throwing up.

- He usually distances himself whenever he’s ill because he’s scared that he’s not cured and is going to snap and hurt someone but Thomas isn’t having it.

- Thomas will wrap him up in a blanket and hug him until Newt stops struggling to get away and melts into a little shivery puddle in Thomas’s arms

- Once he’s finally accepted that he is ill, Newt becomes very very clingy towards Thomas and stays in bed all day with tea and a hot water bottle

- I also think Newt and Brenda would be really good friends in the safe haven because they’ve both had the flare before (obviously Brenda was cured relatively quickly but still) so they can relate to each other and Newt sometimes feels like Brenda’s the only one who really knows what he went through, so he talks to her about it when he doesn’t want to go vent to Thomas or Minho

- He has a lot of nightmares from when he was a crank, often dreaming that he had died or else had cracked and hurt someone and more than once has woken up screaming with tears in his eyes and blood in his mouth because he bit his tongue so hard.

- His broken leg gets better over time but it never fully heals. Jorge told him that he should really be using a cane or a crutch but Newt done right refuses either because he hates people making a fuss over it and he will still work even if the pain is so bad he literally has to hop around (Thomas isn’t having this either and drags Newt to bed and massages his leg for him)

- Newt still had suicidal thoughts. They aren’t as strong as they were in the glade and he doesn’t seriously consider trying anything but it’s always in the back of him mind. Thomas is the one who gets him his little safety pin necklace because he knows it’s something Newt struggles with ( and yes Newt did cry when Thomas gave it to him. Tell me I’m wrong)

I will do Minho, Gally, and everyone else but I’m splitting it up into different posts just so y’all aren’t waiting forever <33

[katanablue]

Was going through a massive doc I have of prompts and came across one that gave me a brain blast.

Set after Leo leaves to Central America, a year or so when Raph becomes the NW.

Warnings: Angst, hurt, little to no comfort, Raph yelling at you and vice versa, no happy ending

You had an inkling that your boyfriend was the Nightwatcher, you don’t know exactly when or what it was that gave you that unsettling feeling in your stomach but you just knew.

His sleep schedule was all kinds of messed up, more so than usual. He seemed angrier and more on edge, patience seeming to run thin for everyone.

Including you.

Never mind the fact that he always seemed to be sporting a fresh bruise somewhere on his body. It’s not like he can hide them from you either since he only wears protective pads and his mask. He tells you that it’s from patrolling with his brothers or from sparring with Splinter. If that were the case then why didn’t Mikey or Don have the same bruises? Why did Raph seem to divert your attention away from the topic whenever you tried to pry more?

But then again, who are you to not believe him, your boyfriend has never lied to you before so why would he now?

Still, it’s just another piece to the mysterious puzzle, one that seems to be never ending the more you try and put it together.

Deep down you knew. Knew that he was out there alone and putting himself in these dangerous situations without any help. Whenever you saw a story on the news about how ‘The Nightwatcher Struck Again’, you’d immediately turn to look at Raphael to gauge his reaction, hoping that maybe you can pick up any subtle sign on his face.

But he kept himself stoic, expression blank as he listened to the coverage.

You had asked Donnie, Mikey and even Splinter if they’ve noticed anything off with him but all they told you was that he was struggling with Leo’s absence. It’s believable, because that’s what they believe.

Casey didn’t know any better, saying that Raph was just having a hard time adjusting with the lack of crime fighting and order between him and his brothers. Just because Shredder was dead, didn’t mean that crime stopped. In fact it was at an all time high; especially with the Purple Dragons now trying to take over every inch of city they could.

Then the late night appearances started happening.

It wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to show up at your apartment unannounced prior to Leo leaving. Nowadays he only showed up when he was battered and bruised, looking as if he just got out of a dogfight. And at first you didn’t ask, having tended to some of his injuries before. You presumed that he had a scuffle or two with one of his brothers or maybe he and Casey just got a bit too rough with one another.

That’s when you vaguely recalled hearing Mikey talk about how Splinter forbade them from doing any patrols until Leo returned.

You nearly asked him one night right then and there when he showed up on your fire escape at 3 a.m, splattered in bruises and cuts, nearly halfway unconscious. You had hauled him in and laid him on your bed, on the verge of tears as he bled onto your sheets. You begged and begged for him to tell you what happened but he refused, just wanting you to clean him up and go to sleep holding you in his arms.

And you listened of course, not wanting to push and risk having him shut you out completely. But that night replayed constantly in your head and it’s what drove you for your next course of action.

It was driving you crazy not knowing, and it made you plan to deliberately put yourself in danger just to see if he would come and save you.

Luckily for you, you only had to put yourself at risk just once.

It’s over before it even really began, a long chain weapon zipped right in front of you and into the skull of the thug who attempted to rob you at gun point. You gasped and shielded your face, turning away from the man who was cradling his bleeding head and trying to get up off the floor. You heard a loud metallic thud somewhere in the alley, the footsteps getting closer to you.

You looked up right into the eyes of the infamous Nightwatcher.

It felt like time stood still as he looked at you, alarms ringing in Raphael’s head as he tried to figure out why the hell you were out so late at night.

You practically screamed at yourself to look at him entirely, take in his whole form before he left. Your eyes roamed haphazardly over him; from his metal helmet, down his right arm, all the way to his gloves—

“Hold your breath.”

You hardly had anytime to register his words before he snapped something to the ground, a cloud of gray smoke enveloping your vision. You covered your nose and mouth with your hand, shutting your eyes and waving away the smoke. He ran past you to snatch up the goon, not even sparing you another glance as he hurried out the alley. You went after him blindly, seeing the guy tied up to a light pole and just barely catching the Nightwatcher pull off on his all too familiar motorcycle and drive away.

You went back into the alley, searching the ground until you found it; the capsule. You’d seen these before, not many people, let alone any crime fighters use this type.

And you remember exactly who the mutant was that showed them to you.

As soon as you got home you texted Raph that you needed to see him, hardly giving him any time to respond before you called. You were urgent in your message, pleading for him to come over and explaining that you almost got robbed but were saved by the Nightwatcher.

You felt awful because it felt like you were lying to him, luring him into a trap.

In a way you almost were, because you practically had solid evidence that he is the Nightwatcher. It’s like you acquired the last piece of the puzzle and all you had to do was put it into place.

Raphael knew what you were doing and he hated it. Hated that he allowed himself to be so careless, hated that he got himself into this predicament in the first place, hated that he knew that if he didn’t go to you then it would make him seem like the worlds most horrible boyfriend.

There’s a part of him that hopes you haven’t put two and two together, that you were just in dire need of some comfort after a nearly traumatic event. But when he takes that first step on your fire escape and looks into your window, seeing you standing there like a nervous wreck…

He knows you know.

The silence is uncomfortable, like a thick heavy blanket that makes it nearly impossible to breathe. You feel like there’s something wrapped around your lungs the longer Raph goes without saying anything. He can see one of your hands clenched into a fist, your shaking barely visible and he wants nothing more than to close the distance between you two, scoop you into his arms and kiss you breathless to distract you.

Eventually you can’t take the silence anymore, opening your hand and tossing the smoke capsule onto the carpet between you two.

It’s like the blanket doubles in thickness when his eyes land on it.

“Where—“

“Don’t. Do not fucking lie to me, Raphael.” You keep your voice steady, forcing yourself to maintain your composure and to not completely lose it at your boyfriend.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out harshly, fingers flexing against his palms as he looks between you and the empty smoke pellet.

“I can explain.”

“Why don’t you say it first.”

Another deep inhale, followed by his hand coming to run down his face.

“You’re the Nightwatcher.” Your tone gets softer but it doesn’t lessen the impact of your words nor the tears that start to line your eyes.

You hate how Raph is able to keep up his poker face, like you didn’t just reveal his longtime secret of the past year.

He only gives you a simple nod and that seems to finally break the dam.

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Can we please talk about this tomorrow?” He asks, straining as he tries to keep calm.

“No,” You say, actually appalled that he would have the audacity to say that. “You need to explain yourself—“

“What the hell is there to explain!” His voice raises in volume, hands going up in the air in exasperation. “I’m protectin’ the city, I’m keepin’ people safe, I’m doin what I’ve always done!”

“But by yourself, Raph? Are you crazy!?” You fight back, holding back your anger and tears as your emotions start to overflow.

“Listen, I’ve been doin’ just fine, okay? I don’t need you breathin’ down my back now that you know.” He rolls his eyes when you scoff, folding his arms over his plastron and shaking his head.

“You don’t want me to be concerned? News flash, Hothead— that’s what loved ones do!” You couldn’t believe this, that he’s somehow turning this around on you when he’s the one who’s been lying about his late night activities for so long.

“Whatever,” He sneers, waving you off with a flick of his hand and turning towards the fire escape.

“Don’t you dare leave. We’re not done talking about this.” You step closer to him, your slipper crunching over the empty capsule as you get closer to him.

“What the fuck else is there to talk about? Hm? Because I’m sure as hell ain’t gonna stop bein’ the Nightwatcher.” He growls over his shoulder, not even giving you the respect of saying it to your face completely,

This isn’t Raph, not really. This isn’t the turtle you’ve come to fall in love with, the one who used to take you for rides around the city on his bike at random intervals of the night or the one who surprised you with a big bouquet of your favorite flowers waiting on your fire escape with a card that said ‘happy birthday, sweetheart’ right at midnight.

Not the same Raph who held you close and kissed your tears away the first time you made love because you were so overwhelmed by everything. He held you close and whispered nothing but praise and adoration for you, waiting until you showed him that beautiful smile before he took you to a pleasurable new height.

The same Raph who definitely had his faults whether it was by accidentally hitting you a bit too hard during training or the one who’d shut you out but immediately open up once he was ready.

You know that Raph is still somewhere in there, hidden within the castle of walls and laying beneath all that anger and hatred he’s built up over time due to Leo being gone.

There’s a brief fleeting moment that passes in your brain that maybe you should’ve been more patient with him, that if you had just waited out a little longer then maybe he would’ve told you instead of you having to confront him like this.

“You know what, no, how bout we talk bout the fact that you put yourself in danger! Just to prove something that you already knew! Are you fuckin’ thick in the head?” Now he whirls around to face you, his brow set so deep that all you want to do is reach up and smooth it out with your fingers.

“It’s not like you would’ve told me if I asked you! You could hardly admit it just now—“

“My business is my fuckin’ business, okay?” He gestures towards himself, tapping at his plastron and glaring down at you. “And you need to learn when to stop stickin’ your nose into shit that ain’t yours!”

He hates how he’s letting his anger consume him, letting it take over and manipulate his body like a puppet. He feels himself start to get out of control and he knows he’s got to get out there before he says something he’ll regret.

“Fine,” You croak out, the quiver in your tone not going unnoticed by him.

But it seems it’s already too late.

“You want me to stop getting in your business?”

Shit shit shit, don’t say it.

Please don’t say it.

“Wish granted. I’m done.”

You turn away so you don’t have to see the way Raphael’s face fall at your words, how his brow immediately smooths out and how his lips part in shock.

“Wha— no, sweetheart. You can’t—“ he reaches out towards you and just faintly grazes your arm. His heart falls to his stomach when you pull away, like his touch burned your skin and you had to get away before it spread like wildfire.

“I will not stand by and watch you throw yourself in danger, night after night, with absolutely no backup. I will not be waiting by my window every night, wondering if you’re going to show up with one foot on deaths door. I respected your privacy but only asked that you be careful and be mindful about what you’re doing.”

Raphael stares hard at you, fingers clenching into fists as he chooses his next few words wisely.

“So that’s it then? It’s over?”

You can tell he’s doing all he can to not break down and beg for your forgiveness. Even the next sentence being on the tip of your tongue has you shedding tears, wiping them away quickly and willing yourself to finish speaking.

“You pushed me away, refused to even give me the grace to tell me what you were doing, instead having me back you up into a corner and practically force it out of you.” You inhale shakily, saying it before you can fully stop yourself.

“It’s over.” You whisper, crying more freely now.

He looks at you crestfallen, shaking his head in disbelief as your words rings over and over in his head. He doesn’t say anything as he turns away from you and back out the window. He looks over his shoulder one last time, hating that his last memory of you is going to be you standing there heartbroken with a tear streaked face.

He wants to scream and shout; at you and himself. He wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you while he pleads for you to forgive him and that he’ll do better, that he’ll work on his vulnerability more. He tells himself that all you need is space, that with time you’ll take him back and you can go back to the way things were. That you can adjust to him being the Nightwatcher.

“I’m sorry.” He leaves you with that, jumping off the fire escape and disappearing into the bleak night.

You believe him and that thought makes you cry even harder.

[screamintoad]

Silanche kid-Alaric Vanrouge

I liked both vers so take em. RSA pride and Diasomnia pride

“I was hoping to attend NRC like my sister but…maybe I fit in better here.”

Voice claim: TBA

Character info

  Alaric is a quiet and sometimes timid young man. He prefers his own company unless he’s around people he likes. Sometimes others will find him curled up somewhere taking short naps in between longer classes. Sometimes the third year students will poke fun at him because they know his sister went to NRC but he always brushes them off, until they find a snapping plant in their dorm rooms a few hours later. Despite that though he’s a straight A student, he’s quiet but he’s learned a lot from growing up in Briar Valley and around the royal family. He actually talks a lot to his roommate, especially about books they’ve read or are reading. 

  His household is quite large since it’s him, his older sister, his parents, grandpa, and great grandmother all living together. Not including the animals. But, he wouldn’t have it any other way. His mom told him about when it was just her and her grandma living together with their old dog and he’s always thought about how lonely they both must have been. At home in Briar Valley he’ll be all over town, from helping at his mama’s bakery, to his granny’s flower shop, to hanging out at the castle when Silver is on duty. 

Fun facts: Aroace icon. Certified mama’s boy. He doesn’t want to become a knight but he would be around his sister when she was training so he learned some things that way. Blanche and Granny Primrose made sure to teach him all about plants and botany, y’know, just in case. When he visits home, him and Fleur have a tradition of going on a trail ride past a waterfall that they’ve dubbed the “Fire Fall” because at sunrise the water appears golden-orange, then they’ll race back home and the winner chooses their next activity. 

Basic info

Age: 16

Height: 173cm/5’6 during first year, 185cm/6’ at graduation 

B-day: February 2nd (Aquarius) 

Dominant hand: left

Family: Blanche and Silver (Mama and Dad), Fleur (sister), Lilia (grandpa “old man” for funnies), Granny Primrose (great grandma “granny”)

Nickname: Lil bat (by family), Ricky (by friends)

1st year

Class B

Club: Horseback riding club

Best subject: Botany

Hobbies: Gardening, reading, baking

Pet peeve: People who can’t mind their business

Favorite food: His mama’s cooking

Least favorite food: His grandpa’s cooking

Talent: Tending to plants

Character dynamics

Fleur: Thick as thieves, they’re inseparable when either of them comes home. Even as kids he would always follow her around. If he’s busy with something then she’ll be the one to find him and hang out until he’s finished. 

Jane: Opposites into best friends. He doesn’t encourage her late night visits but he always hints that it’s okay. 

Luna Howl: If he has bite marks they’re from her. Somehow she always drags him into her and Jane’s shenanigans, yet he never complains. 

Joey Howl: Big bro. But seriously they’re close as well, he helped push him into confessing to Fleur. 

Mika Bucchi: Roommateee. They spent the first week at RSA in complete silence, until Alaric saw him reading one of his favorite books and got so excited he asked about his thoughts on it. Ever since then they’ve talked to each other a lot more. He still forgets to warm him when Jane visits. 

HOWL SIBS BELONG TO @blood-red-bumblebee AND MIKA BELONGS TO @twtysevapr

anddd extra tags: @gimmeurmoneyagh @babyghoul138 @bunniehunn @angelwishess @moonyasnow

@skibidibabygirl @justm3di0cr3 @midnightmah07 @beneathsakurashade @4necdote

@theolivetree123 TELL ME IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED OR NOT

[ineffablelara]

Series Loki, Avengers Loki and the "real Loki"

Okay so, I've been wanting to write about this for a while now, I always see people talking about how much they love series Loki because that's where he's most comfortable with himself— and I agree, I love him too and I think it's great that he learned to accept more some aspects of himself and got more comfortable with showing vulnerability to others as well as allowing himself to make meaningful connections with the people around him

BUT

Saying that Avengers Loki is not the real Loki just tells me you don't really understand Loki as a character at all

I'm part of the few people who don't entirely buy into the headcanon that Loki was brutally tortured by Thanos in the 1 year gap between Thor and Avengers, I think he did went to very bad places but it doesn't make sense to me that Thanos would break physically and mentally the man he was sending to lead an army on a different planet to get him an infinity stone, I believe he had to fight for his life after his fall and Thanos probably submitted him to a very rigorous training like he did with his daughters (yes, one could argue that that was tortue but let's be fr, it's on a whole different level)

Anyway, my point is: Loki didn't attack Earth against his will, he was angry and hurt, feeling betrayed by his family and dealing with an identity crisis, he was livid, he went through hell after his fall and now he had a chance to cause some trouble for Thor and Odin and he was going to take it

I don't believe Loki really cared about Thanos' philosophy and the whole "freedom is a lie" thing, he was parroting what Thanos told him to cause some dramatic effect but I don't believe, not even for a second that he gave two fucks about it, again, he wanted to make trouble and to cause damage, he wanted to hurt Thor and Odin bc he felt hurt, he didn't care that innocent people were going to die, he didn't even think about them, he just wanted to channel his anger and to piss off his family, and ykw?

That's the real Loki

Because Loki is not some perfect little angel who was forced to do bad things against his will in order to survive, Loki is a vengeful God, a being of chaos, a master of magic and sometimes... an asshole

Sorry, he's not the little baby we all like to pretend he is sometimes, yes there's lots of pain and shame and sadness inside his heart but that doesn't erase the fact that there's some ugly parts in his personality, that's what makes him so complex in my opinion, he's not necessarily evil but he's also not necessarily an innocent baby either, he said it himself:

Believe it or not, that applies to him too!

Avengers' Loki shows us the "ugly" parts of himself—parts many would prefer to ignore. But sorry to break it to you: that was the real Loki too.

Some might argue that the whole "God of Mischief" persona was merely a facade to hide his vulnerable, weak self, but I disagree. I believe Loki did use his title to build walls around himself and keep others at a distance to some extent. However, things aren’t just black and white—Loki is the God of Mischief, whether people like it or not and that means he thrives in chaos sometimes

I mean, he even tells Mobius, "Sometimes our emotions get the better of us," when talking about the New York attack. I know some people don't like that scene because it contradicts their headcanon of Loki being tortured and forced to go to Earth, but personally, I love it. I never liked the idea of Loki having so little agency in Avengers. And yes, I know the Mind Stone was influencing him, but that’s the key—it was influencing, not controlling

I think what I’m trying to say is this: some people don’t truly understand who Loki is. They’ve created a version of him in their minds and reject anything that contradicts it. Refusing to acknowledge the darkness within him only proves that you don’t fully appreciate him. You can love series Loki and say that it's the more mentally healthy version of the character, but please don’t claim that Avengers Loki is his worst version—or that it’s not the real him.

Maybe I'm being annoying but it just hurts every time I see posts trashing him and saying that he's the worst Loki ever, to me that's one of the most fascinating depictions of him precisely because we see how malicious, cunning and calculating he can be, he has so much range and I genuinely feel sorry for all the people who can't appreciate that

[purble-turble]

okkie pallet cleanser time, i bring fluff and when i think nezha first started to genuinely fall for mk. so back in the breakup/rebound arc one of the things that really got nezha feeling butterflies was a huge night out MK had planned for him. Now, the Celestial realm does have a lot of parties, especially birthday bashes and banquets, but as you can imagine most are pretty dull formal events and are really only for show. The private dinners Nezha has with his family are better, but they are still mostly formal and always lacking in a way Nezha couldn't really explain. this year was different tho, when mk found out about his birthday he instantly wanted to do something special. Nezha still didn't know much about the modern stuff in the mortal realm and had expressed interest when mk told him about the city's nightlife. so the next time Nezha was granted a day off mk surprised him with a huge night out as a late celebration for his birthday.

he took him shopping for some stylish clothes to wear out first, and then spent the rest of the day and well into the late night taking him around the city. scenic areas and historic landmarks, community gardens or art alleys, cafes and arcades, the night market, bars/nightclubs, etc. mk had made a detailed list of places Nezha had either expressed wanting to see or try, plus places mk thought he might enjoy or just wanted to share experiences with at. and if they couldn't do something, something went wrong or nezha wasn't as into it as hoped, no problem! there was lots of other options. he of course saved up a lot for the night because he wanted to treat the prince. the sponsors he has now helped a lot money-wise. not that Nezha let him pay EVERYTHINg mind you.

it was easily the funnest and most exhausting birthday nezha could remember having in centuries. MK, who was known for being reckless and impulsive, had put so much obvious thought and care into making sure Nezha had the best time; giving him new experiences while also respecting his comfort zone. he spent the whole night with a growing warmth in his chest.

he didn't even care when he finally went home and got scolded about him being slightly tipsy and it being 3 in the morning. hell for days after that he walked about with a soft content smile and a far of dreamy look in his eyes. his much more cheerful mood overall confused the hell out of everyone, especially his father and brothers and they briefly were concerned their youngest was sick.

Ohh this is too cute!! 🥰

The dark stuff is fun and intriguing, but when there’s fluff it’s just ₊˚⊹♡ aaah it’s so good!!!

I think MK really going all out and taking charge of making sure Nezha has a good birthday is super in character for him. It’s also another way of him expressing how much he cares about a person.. as we’ve seen from MK, he’ll do just about anything for his family. He runs himself ragged for them at the barest opportunity, so when he gets the chance to do that sort of thing for Nezha too- after they’ve been together and Nezha has been so supportive and helpful about his feelings about all that Pillar of Heaven drama- well, he really thinks the Lotus Prince deserves someone to take care of him, too! So obviously it’s gonna be MK who does so!!

Anyway, yeah Nezha is not used to being so looked after. It probably makes him feel loved in a way he didn’t realize he could be loved. Sure he’s got family, and they’re not trying to kill each other anymore, but just the fact that that has to be mentioned kind of reveals the issue with seeking the affection he’s starved for from them… so when he has MK, with how thoughtful and full of life and love the Monkie Kid is, well he’d probably do just about anything for him too~

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

The Dark Hour is already creepy enough on its own, and being in the hospital is also plenty unpleasant without any other factors. The two experiences combined are so much worse than the sum of their parts. 

The eerie silence is what he hates the most, he thinks. Normally the hospital is full of noise, day and night: the rumble of carts or bins or stretchers being rolled through the hallway, keyboards rattling at the nearby nurses’ station, muffled squeaking from the rubber-soled shoes that all the staff wear. All of it’s gone, replaced with a blank stillness that makes Shinjiro’s skin crawl.

It’s the first time he’s been awake for the Dark Hour since landing here. Normally, between rehab and scrambling through half a year’s worth of schoolwork, he’s so wiped at the end of the day that he can barely make it to nine before crashing. 

But not tonight. 

Tonight he gets to discover what it’s like to be dropped into the premise of a really shitty ghost story, because there’s no way he’ll be able to sleep while the rest of the team is out there facing the final Shadow. 

It won’t be just the Shadow, either. Shinjiro knows Strega better than all of them, and he knows for a fact that they’ll be there to get in the way. This is the only chance they’ve got left, after all. Plus, Takaya would never waste the opportunity to take a dramatic last stand, the theatrical jackass.

…

He should be there. He only got to help with one of the huge Shadows, and that doesn’t even come close to pulling his weight. He knows he’s got no one to blame but himself for that, and it leaves him feeling even more useless.

“Dammit…” Shinjiro grits out, draping his arm over his face. While he was on the streets he’d barely given any thought to S.E.E.S. and what they might be facing elsewhere in the Dark Hour. He’d been sure that Aki and Kirijo could handle whatever fights they decided to pick just fine without him– better without him and the liability he posed. Every new member that Aki told him about was another reason Shinjiro didn’t need to fret over it. 

It’s ridiculous how quickly his tune changed once he’d come back. It’s ridiculous that it changed at all. He’s seen first hand how well the team had been doing without him, how tough and crafty and powerful they’d become as a unit. Now he knows for certain just how little they actually need his help, but suddenly he can’t stop worrying. 

If any of them get hurt, and there’d been something he could have done– a shadow he could have wiped out before it had the chance to attack, a hit he could have taken–

A light flashing in the small gap between the closed curtains catches his eye and his thoughts grind to a halt mid-spiral. Shinjiro sets his teeth and levers himself out of bed so he can shuffle to the window. He slides the curtains aside– and stares.

Just what the hell is he looking at?

The familiar view of the Moonlight Bridge is defaced by the huge– thing floating above it. Shadows are always kind of nasty, and the one large Shadow he’d fought was definitely weird, but nothing like this.

It’s gigantic for one thing. The Shadow in September had been big, sure– as in room-sized. This one is closer in scale to a building. It’s so huge that even from this far away he can make out a surprising amount of detail.

He kind of wishes he couldn’t.

The Shadow dangles from a contraption that looks cobbled together from a bunch of stolen holy symbols– but that’s just about the only thing holy about it. He can’t see quite well enough to be sure, but he’s got a sickening hunch that it isn’t rope or chains that the shadow’s body is hanging by– that’s its skin, pierced and pulled taut and straining against gravity. Its neck droops at a disgusting angle, stretched out and loose. The whole picture is just…foul. It might actually be one of the most disturbing things he’s ever seen in his life.

Shinjiro keeps his eyes glued to the Shadow, grimacing, his whole body tense, until it hits him that it’s…not doing anything.

It just floats there. It doesn’t attack, it doesn’t move. Nothing. 

Before he can wonder what the hell is going on, another flash snags his attention. Lighting claws upward like it’s trying to tear down the swampy layer of clouds that always appear from nowhere during the Dark Hour.

Aki. 

It can’t be anyone but Aki. Arisato’s electric attacks conjure up ball lightning, blue-tinged like St. Elmo’s fire. Amada creates singular golden bolts that strike with sniper precision.

Aki’s lightning is as wild and intense as the person casting it: a huge, erratic net of eye-searing white that leaves everything in close range fizzing with static. He’s too far away to feel that charge, but the hair on Shinjiro’s arms stands up anyway.

The commotion is on the complete opposite side of the bridge from where the Shadow is idling away. Unless someone has suddenly turned traitor, it’s easy enough to guess who they’re fighting. 

A gout of greasy-looking smoke plumes upward– yeah, that’d be Jin and– damn, who was Jin’s Persona? Phobos? No, Moros. The fire it wielded always stank of oil and machinery and belched out filthy black smoke like a coal furnace. Another blaze of light– not Aki this time; it’s more a glow than a lightning snap, and buttery gold like sunlight. Amada. 

It takes him a second to even fully process what happens next. At first he thinks there’s something wrong with his eyes– but it’s not his vision failing, it’s the light being sucked away from the space surrounding the fight. Koromaru’s Curse attacks look nothing like that, and neither do Arisato’s.

With an unpleasant jolt, Shinjiro realizes that he’s never actually seen Takaya’s Persona before. He doesn’t even know its name, let alone what it’s capable of– but of course the bastard specializes in Curse magic. If Amada is on the front line, that could be a disaster. Goddamnit.

And all he can do is stand here and pray that the rest of the team doesn’t underestimate them.

I should be there. I should be helping, not sitting on the sidelines. Haven’t I done enough of that?

The presence in the back of his mind pushes back against those thoughts in a way that reminds Shinjiro of getting a stern but gentle talking-to. It urges him to stay put, radiating calm despite still being so unfamiliar. 

It’s so odd to reach back into that place in his head where Castor used to be penned up and find concern for his well-being. The only thing Castor had ever been concerned about was where to find his next opponent. Castor was always spoiling for a fight, and if he didn’t get one then he’d been more than willing to take his increasing hostility out on Shinjiro. Or, as it turned out, on anyone unlucky enough to be close by.

The memory has nausea clawing at him for a second, but it gets tamped down again and replaced with more of that warm, almost paternal reassurance. He doesn’t actually feel a phantom sensation of a steadfast hand on his shoulder or anything like that– but he can definitely imagine it.

Not that he has any paternal references to cross-check with, of course. He can only assume this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Shinjiro gently rests one hand on his chest. “I know I can’t do anything…” He murmurs into the darkness. His breath fogs up the window just a little. “But it still makes me anxious.” 

A feeling of understanding washes over him, and Shinjiro smiles slightly. Of course he gets it. ‘I am thou and thou art I,’ or whatever it was he’d heard before. 

The fireworks from the battle with Strega suddenly stop. The fight is over, but there’s nothing to clue him in on who won. Shinjiro stands frozen in the nerve-shredding silence, waiting. After a small eternity the Shadow starts to move, tilting downwards like something on the ground has caught its attention.

And then that unmistakable, sky-filling lightning that could only be Aki’s handiwork.

That’s that for Strega then. Shinjiro can’t help but smirk. He never should have doubted his team.

Whatever it is they’re attacking, it’s not the Shadow itself, but it’s definitely connected to it. The thing gives a sudden lurch and loses altitude, swaying crazily on its horrible fleshy tethers. It drops again, then crashes to the ground, out of his line of sight. For several minutes all he can see are wild flickering lights that make the bridge’s architecture seem to twist and thrash like it wants to join the fray.

The Shadow hauls itself back into the air; the others knock it down again. The pattern repeats, and then–

It all stops.

The atmosphere shifts in a way that makes him kind of light-headed, almost like the air surrounding him suddenly weighs less. The moon is still far too big, though. It still glows poison green.

Why is it still the Dark Hour? They’d done it, hadn’t they? 

Another minute drags past without that giant nightmare Shadow rising triumphantly back into the air. Shinjiro squints, trying to pick out anything that might give him a better idea of–

His forehead meets the chilly windowpane with a soft thunk. Scowling, he buffs away the smudge left behind with the sleeve of his hospital gown.

They had to have beaten it. This has to be just a last gasp, like a squid still thrashing its arms even after you’d cleaned out everything that would keep it alive.

He tells himself this, but it doesn’t completely soothe the doubtful itch at the back of his thoughts.

Something tugs on his Persona’s attention, and then he can hear Yamagishi’s little bell voice as clearly as if she was standing right next to him.

“Aragaki-senpai? Are you awake?”

Right. He’d forgotten that he’d asked Yamagishi to contact him as soon as the battle was finished. Thank god she actually remembered. 

“That was a hell of a lightshow you guys put on,” he replies. The relief in his voice is naked and obvious to him, but for once he doesn’t care if they can hear it too. “Who could sleep through that?” 

“Wait, HUH?” Junpei’s voice sounds slightly further away than Yamagishi’s, like he’s standing over by the door maybe. “You saw all that?”

“I can see the bridge from my window, dumbass,” Shinjiro laughs. “Kinda hard to miss.”

“Hey, I dunno what kinda view you’ve got, man! The curtains are always closed!”

“...You got me there. Fair enough, I take it back.”

“Now there’s something I’ve never heard from you before. Junpei, I think you just witnessed a miracle.”

“Shut up, Aki.”

“We were just discussing how to celebrate our accomplishment,” Kirijo slides in smooth as silk, like she can just smell that they’re about to start testing her patience. “Iori proposed that I order sushi. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

“Anything beats hospital food,” Shinjiro says with feeling. He is never going to take having access to a kitchen for granted again, even the dorm’s postage-stamp sized one. “Definitely won’t turn my nose up at sushi, though.”

“I already told Mitsuru you’d want salmon.”

“God, of course you’d remember that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Aki sounds baffled and almost offended, like Shinjiro had suggested he might forget his own name. There is absolutely not a sentimental knot damming up Shinjiro’s throat in response to that thought. No goddamn way.

The fact that they want to include him in this little celebration at all only makes the knot tighten. He hasn’t done nearly enough to deserve something as nice as Kirijo-bought expensive sushi. 

But he knows that if he says anything, it’ll just cause an argument. Because all of them are even more disgustingly sentimental than him, and every bit as stubborn. 

In the background he can hear Aigis prompting Arisato for a victory cheer. His idea of one turns out to be ‘let’s eat,’ which Yamagishi parrots with confusion, Junpei with manic delight, and Aigis with her signature stoic enthusiasm. Shinjiro can practically hear Kirijo shaking her head, equal parts fond and bemused, when she speaks again.

“We shouldn’t keep you up any longer. I’m sure you’re quite tired.”

Fatigue immediately drags on his limbs, as though she’d reminded his body of its own exhaustion.

“Yeah, I’m pretty beat. Stressin’ out about you thrillseekers is hard work, y’know?”

“I am keenly aware of how taxing that can be, yes,” she says, her voice as dry as a salt-flat. Aki has the decency to sound sheepish when he laughs at that, but Shinjiro does not. “Rest well, Aragaki.”

“Hey, you too. You’re the ones who earned it.”

“Night, Shinji,” Aki says, warm and affectionate. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure thing.”

“Goodnight, Aragaki-senpai,” Yamagishi chimes in. “Everyone is so excited for you to be back!”

“Yeah,” Shinjiro says to the silence of the hospital room, after the connection through Juno has already dissolved. “Me too.”

[4urvalidation]

A CASE OF LIMERENCE | Chapter Four

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

A/N: I literally cannot explain just how much joy writing this brings me 🥺 This chapter especially! Making all these little social media posts and messages is taxing but so so fun! Hope y'all will enjoy this as much as I did writing/making it ❤🥰

TW: underage drinking, mild sexual content

Two weeks pass by in a blink of an eye and Leni could be exaggerating - after all her arrival here was nothing short of a disaster - but meeting Sarah’s friends has somehow made everything ten times better. Getting to know them is quite possibly the best thing that has ever happened to her. And no - she is most certainly not being dramatic despite what her mother has told her in the past couple of days. 

Rose and Wheezie are still nowhere to be found or heard from. 

And so is Rafe. 

Well, that’s not true - according to Polly he was last seen shopping for groceries. He had his airpods jammed in his ears and seemed to be very deep in thought. She tried approaching him, but got shy all of a sudden. Tess likes to think that despite everything she has said so far, Polly did in fact approach him, but he didn’t recognize her so now she’s both embarrassed and humiliated. 

“Whatchu thinking?” JJ’s breath on her skin tickles. She turns to look at him and their faces are barely inches apart. “Cause I’m thinking we should grab the rest of this to-go and head back to the beach. This dude on TikTok said there’s gonna be some killer waves this afternoon and I really wanna ride ‘em all.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Same.”

John B and Pope say almost in union and JJ takes this as a sign to go on ahead and holler at Kiara who is standing on the complete opposite side of the restaurant and very clearly working. 

“Kie! Hey! We’re leaving!” She squints her eyes in their direction, her hands full of dirty empty dishes. “Ready to hit your first wave today Berlin?” He then turns to Leni - his smile as bright as the sun shining right above him and she’s about to return the enthusiasm when she suddenly remembers: she already has plans.

“Sure, but… I… forgot I made plans.” Her smile is a sour one; she feels like such a traitor whenever something stupid like this comes up and she has to ditch her brand new friends in order to sit in hell with her old ones. 

“Tess and Polly?” Sarah says from across the table, her face matching Leni’s now wavering smile. 

 “Yeah… I’ve already cancelled on them twice-”

“Well you know what they say, third time’s a-”

“I can’t do it again, Jayj. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“You don’t want me to drop you off a block or something away from the Club?” JJ’s voice tears Leni’s gaze away from the conversation she,Tess and Poly had the previous day. Sometimes, she doesn’t even know why she still bothers. Do they even like her? “Leni?” He calls out for her and when she finally looks at him, the corner of JJ’s lips are spread into a wide grin, but not even the wildest of eyebrow wiggles are able to hide the very obvious concern in his voice. 

Leni shakes her head, “What? No. That’s stupid. You can just park over there and I’ll be on my way.” 

Relief colors his entire face just then and yeah - he is cute. She lets her gaze linger on him for a second longer; contemplating whether she should reward him for driving her with a small kiss on the cheek, but something changes her mind. 

They hug goodbye - quickly with the tiniest bit of reservation from her part and then, as if zero awkwardness occurred she leaves JJ’s car. 

“Finally.” It’s the first thing Tess says to her when she approaches their table. Much like last time, their coffees are almost finished and when the waiter comes to take their second order, Polly gleefully orders an entire pitcher of mimosas. 

The drinks come in and Leni doesn’t say yes when a very full glass is placed right in front of  her. 

But then again, she doesn’t say no either. 

Tess and Polly begin informing her on all the brand new gossip they’ve learned in the past couple of days: Kelce has started seeing Phoebe - a girl Leni for some reason is supposed to know because of a falling out she and Tess had during Midsummers ages ago. Topper - for the millionth time - considered dropping out of Duke to become a pro-surfer, but his evil mom allegedly threatened to cut him off so he’s still going back to school in the fall. 

“And I’m planning this year’s Midsummers!” Polly exclaims happily.

“Oh my god, Polly, that's amazing!” Leni says at the same time Tess mumbles harshly, “And how exactly is that going for you?” 

The smile almost instantly disappears from Polly’s face. “There’s no need for you to be a bitch Tess. It’s not my fault the order got fucked up, okay?” And then, as if none of this ever happened, she’s back to her happy, giddy self. “You’re coming right?” 

“Yeah, of course. It’s this weekend, right?” 

Tess snorts. “It was supposed to, but someone’s order got fucked so it’s been pushed to next Friday.” 

“Oh.” 

Oh. 

Next Friday it’s Leni’s birthday. 

Well - technically it’s on Saturday, but since she was born on the first stroke of midnight, her parents created this tradition of sorts where they celebrate it on the night before. This way Leni gets to welcome her birthday with those that mean to her the most. And although somewhat close, Tess and Polly aren’t exactly the first people she wants to turn nineteen with. 

“Have you decided what you’re gonna wear?” She asks the girls and that’s all it takes for the two to forget the argument they had mere seconds ago. Instantly they pull out their phones; their wish lists filled with cute flowy dresses that perfectly match the event’s theme. None have made their final choice yet and when Leni reveals that she too still hasn’t picked her outfit, they are more than happy to take Tess’ dad’s boat so they can do a little shopping on the mainland.

“Holy shit!?” Polly yelps out of nowhere, “Sofia’s in Tampa?”

“What? Let me see that.” Tess practically yanks the phone out of her hand and now Leni is sitting there, silently watching as they goggle over the Instagram story of someone she’s never heard of. “What the fuck Polly? You follow her?”

“Only through my burner!”

Tess grabs her own phone just then, types furiously and presses the brightly lit screen straight into Polly’s exasperated face, “Then why the fuck is your main our only mutual!? (“It was an accident!”) You literal psycho!”

“Uhm, guys…” Leni’s voice barely manages to push through yet another one of their hushed arguments. “Who… who’s Sofia?” 

“Oh, she’s this girl from The Cut, Rafe used to fuck around with.” Tess says. 

“They weren’t fucking around! She was literally his girlfriend! (“His girlfriend?”) Yes, his girlfriend! Like -”

“No. No. That’s not true. I literally asked him. Last fall, remember? Topper’s Halloween party? You were too busy hooking up with Ellis Carter (“Ew Polly, you hooked up with Ellis Carter?”) I literally said the same thing Leni. Anyways, while you were too busy sucking Ellis’ greasy dick, I was asking Rafe about his little yacht girlie. And do you know what he said to me? (“No! I was too busy sucking Ellis’ greasy dick!”) He said no way, no chance, not even in a million years! “

“Tess! They were dating. Like-” Just then, Polly slides her phone to Leni, desperate to get someone on her side. “Look!” Without wasting a second, Leni begins scrolling through Sofia’s profile. Not because she’s super interested in what Rafe’s alleged ex might look like or in the photos she posts of herself or of him or of the two of them together…

After what feels like ages, Leni finally gives Polly her phone back, “She’s pretty.” The words force themselves out of her mouth, but barely get registered by either of her friends. Tess and Polly are yet in another hushed argument, but unlike the one before, this doesn’t seem like it’s going to be resolved any time soon. 

Silently, Leni stares back at Polly’s phone, particularly at the photo from Sofia’s Instagram that she last opened. She stares at it until the screen goes black. Until the chatter in the table right next to theirs goes silent and all she can hear is Rafe’s name being chanted in whispers. 

Like a manifestation of her wildest desires, Rafe Cameron strolls in and Leni could simply be imagining it, but suddenly the whole place becomes unnervingly quiet. As if his presence had taken everyone’s breath away.

Or that may just be Leni. 

“My god he’s hot.” Polly’s dreamy sigh brings her back to earth. 

“I can’t believe you fucked him.” Leni’s voice feels rough against her throat. Sandpapery almost. 

“I can’t believe it either.” 

She tries her best not to stare in his direction, but it’s virtually impossible - he’s sat himself directly in her eye line, making it rather difficult to look at anything but him. By this time, Tess and Polly have completely made up; their little arguments long forgotten and probably never to be mentioned again, until one of them does something stupid like hook up with yucky Ellis Carter. 

Or Topper. Polly orders a much needed second round of mimosas and soon enough, they’re back on track. This time they’re talking about Ruthie - the girlfriend Topper sporadically cheats on with Tess. But only when Tess feels like it. After all, Ruthie is her friend - kinda - and the last thing she wants to do is hurt her feelings. “Or god forbid break them up.”

Leni stares at her suddenly lit up screen. 

News? 

What kind of news?

She doesn’t like the way her heart reacts when she presses that send button. 

Tess calls her name, grabbing her attention for a brief moment, but then her screen lights up again and none of it matters, “I’m sorry what?” Gingerly holding the phone in her hands, she asks her friend to repeat what she just said, but it’s pointless. Tess’ mouth is moving, but the words are blocked by the sound of Leni’s incredibly loud heart beat.

Leni swallows. 

Almost instantly, her gaze flies in his direction, hoping to catch him red handed or something, but he’s already raced her to it. Those deep, haunting blue eyes are fixed on her with such intensity, Leni is convinced he can see right through her. And because the thought is racing through her mind, she almost immediately looks away - if their gazes don’t meet he won’t be able to see the breath catching in her throat.

She can feel his molten gaze bear holes in her entire body as she does her best to type the rest of the message without her hands shaking. Once finished, Leni tries to steal a glance at him; catch him in the act per say, but once again he’s one step ahead of her.

The only difference this time is the way his eyebrows quirk upwards when she reads the text and looks back at him. Something about that subtle gesture sends Leni’s nerves flying; she no longer feels unnerved about this entire exchange, but rather… irritated. 

But then again, what was she really expecting him to say?

Rose was right. 

He is relentless. 

Who knows what he did to get a hold of her number and really - does it even matter? As long as he never finds out where she is staying Leni is going to be alright. And about that of his number, well, she can always block him.

As a matter of fact, she can block him right.now.  

(She doesn’t.)

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