#but i cannot find the time nor the inclination to fucking fix it

[proto-language]

don't know how i am meant to keep track of it all (essays presentations applications abstracts meals dishes laundry money societies sports relationships showers dissertations proposals sleeping more than 3 hours a night) without losing the will to fucking live

[ladyofrosefire]

fuck it, bg3 companions shower routine

Shadowheart: Shar hates self-care, but a Shadowheart does take pride in her hair, and a Shadowheart who has learned to be kind to herself can indulge. Long, complicated hair routine, very specific water temperature, and a tendency toward long-ass depression showers. LOVES a bubble bath and will make a whole event of it with flower petals and candles just for her. Will bring a book with a little book tray and a glass of wine.

Astarion: Similarly complicated hair routine. Gotta hydrate the curls, and being dead does not do nice things to your hair. Less prone to standing there staring at nothing while the horrors set in, but prone to scrubbing too hard. Similarly fond of a bubble bath, although without the book or flowers, although he will fuck with an essential oil heater and likes to make his own blends.

Lae'zel: Queen of the 4 minute shower. She has been accused of not even waiting for the water to heat up, but she likes it blistering. Does not actually use 3-in-1, thank you. Having fairly short hair helps. She finds the other companions baffling. Would get bored in a bubble bath unless she had company (rubber duck counts).

Wyll: Sings. If someone called him on it, he would be embarrassed, the first time, for about a minute. Neither wildly efficient nor inclined to standing there for ages and ages and prefers to shower in the morning. Washing his hair is a chance to relax and take care of himself, although before he has his family back, it can be a bit melancholy. He has fallen asleep in the bath before. I feel like he'd love a bath bomb and he'd love the full romantic evening with candles and flowers and music.

Karlach: Please, please someone boil her. Once she gets her engine fixed all the way, she tries a cold shower just to remember what it feels like and keeps up a running commentary about how much it sucks while also not turning up the temperature. Absolutely loves sharing a shower with someone and will also sing. Should not attempt her little jig on wet tiles. May try anyway. Someone should introduce her to proper hair/skin care because if anyone is using 3-in-1, I'm sorry, it's Karlach. Genuinely cannot sit still for a bubble bath unless she has company to cuddle.

Gale: Voted Faerun's Most Likely to Relitigate Arguments in the Shower, Even if He Won Originally. Loves to pamper himself, canonically, loves a spa day, also canonically. You simply are not getting the bathroom back for a good hour, although not all that time involves running water. Plays around with different products and researches the living hell out of everything. Loves a long soak. The only person with a feline in their house to ever bathe in peace. Constantly torn between wanting a book with him when he has a bath and not wanting to get the pages steamy and damp, much less actually wet.

Minthara: Her ideal hair wash involves someone else doing it for her while also having the utmost certainty that the person will not attempt to murder her. If her partner washes her hair for her, she turns into a puddle. She has an incredibly specific lineup of products. If she shares, understand that she has bestowed upon you a great gift. More about bath salts than bubbles and could be persuaded to a sufficiently elegant bath bomb (it would not be a difficult check).

Halsin: Low-flow showerhead user. Hell, he might be the kind of person to turn the water off entirely when not soaking/rinsing out his hair... However, he is not immune to the "shower together to save water" line even though he KNOWS it doesn't work that way. He needs low-scent soaps/etc considering his heightened sense of smell. And listen, this man does not fit in a bathtub unless he goes somewhere special or finds a particularly large one. He made everyone floaty ducks, properly sealed against water damage, and he has one for himself that holds his soap.

Jaheira: Understands that having a chair in the shower is just being kind to yourself and proceeds accordingly. Will revisit arguments she had that day, but despite that has a quick and fairly simple routine. She needs the water pressure to pound the everloving hell out of her back. Loofa on a stick user. Like Wyll, she has fallen asleep in a bathtub, in part thanks to having and using a bath cushion. Truly, the expert on bath-based comfort.

Minsc: Also sings in the shower. LOUDLY. Boo is allowed to sit a shelf out of the way. The best way to get him to use lotion is to give him something that smells yummy. He has similar problems to Halsin regarding fitting in bathtubs. He tries anyway. He has been banned from at least one hotspring for doing a cannonball.

[tahitiwoke]

five times kissed Or Else please 🥰

ONE | NOV. 2017.

you stare too much. she says as she fixes her earring; there is a glance over at him as he tucks his shirt back into his pants, watching indulgently as he buckles his belt, the trace of annoyance in the cut of her jaw easing. she tells him he stares as if it's supposed to cower him, as if he's supposed to prostrate and worry about it, as if he's supposed to give a single fuck about what jane davis may or may not think she's seen.

there must have been something in his scoff because she drops her hands and pivots on a heel to face him fully, the click of a heel meeting the concrete floor. i have neither the time nor the inclination to play negotiator with jane - so reel it in.

her tone is serious enough that he acquiesces. as he finishes the loop of his tie, she stops her ascent of the spiral metal staircase to lean down over the railing, a hand dropping to grip his tie and tug him to her in a deep, rare kiss that smacks of good boy.

TWO | APRIL. 2018.

it's easter sunday and he doesn't come into the office right away, instead choosing to attend the mass at the cathedral of matthew the apostle. he attends confession too, but it's only short and he talks about sin and liars and whether he is trading his soul for a comfortable life. the father assures him it's relative and not for the first time in his life, he zones out.

( he's thinking about a woman, not god, and he does try so hard to be present when in a place of worship; on the way out he makes the sign of the cross and thinks if jesus really was fucking mary magdalene, maybe he'll forgive phil for thinking about any other than the resurrection. the guilt haunts over his shoulder the long walk back to the west wing and he says a hail mary along the way just to be sure he at least makes some sort of effort. )

when he arrives, however, it's not the office he finds himself drawn to on the quiet sunday like he'd planned, it's to the residency. he takes the stairs slowly and quietly and finds her in the kitchen. where have you been she asks and he answers honestly, " in confession. " she laughs at the answer, clearly not believing him, and smirks through a derisive you don't strike me as a man of god. he shrugs. lets it go. she is not the first to make the assumption, it will not be the last time.

as she crosses back around the island, he notices she's wearing a sweater -- soft, cashmere at a glance, the sort that wraps around you like a hug and her skirt is one he hasn't seen before. dark navy. no shoes. she looks... content. armorless. she moves to walk past him and he cannot resist catching her by the waist and tugging her close, a hand slipping to the back of her neck, kissing her as easily as melting into a warm bath.

THREE | OCT. 2018.

there's a bite at his shoulder and another at his side and another on the inside of his thigh, matching the angry purple love bite she'd sucked into the column of his throat that is going to be painfully obvious. frankly, he's marked from head to fucking toe. the smug, self-satisfied look on her face tells him she's done all of it on purpose and is pretty fucking happy with her work.

you look used, she says, teeth tugging at his earlobe as she slips her hands into his hair. he doesn't know how to respond to that - too preoccupied with the bolt of arousal that passes through him at lightning speed - and instead settles for kissing the skin he can reach, her throat, her shoulder, her breasts, and christ, he wants to press her into the mattress and make marks of his own.

( not allowed. a firm boundary. he can suck love bites into her thighs, her breasts, but never anywhere somebody might see and question. and he's reminded of just how much he cannot do whenever some ambassador makes a flirty joke or carroll march slings his arm around her for a photo op. )

" does this sudden desire to shake me like an etch a sketch have anything to do with the intern i was talking to today? " the one that had asked him if he wanted to catch a drink sometime, an exchange claire definitely heard. i like you, phillip, i don't like you that much. but she's pressing back down to kiss him.

FOUR | AUGUST. 2020.

he's exhausted by the time he gets to the residency and stinks of cheap beer, onion rings and nora's over zealous application of perfume. she'd been so excited to see him so he can forgive the way it'll take forever to get out of his leather seats; it doesn't matter. enough people have seen them together. (there's a tug of guilt and horror at having used her that way but it's necessary, an unavoidable evil for the overarching greater good and he's always been the best at distinguishing one from the other. this he can do and it's with practiced ease, no matter how greasy it makes him feel.)

the film of death and disgust which has crawled over him doesn't ease up when he sees her. it's fine. he can be fine about this. there is not a trace of blood on him but after years out of the game, it feels so much like he's been swimming in it, the backslide is vicious and unforgiving, chris's half-scared, half-awed you're a sinister motherfucker, you know that? and phil had played it off a joke at the time, thinking for the short time that this is what he had been put on earth to do: bad things, dirty things, awful things.

claire touches his cheek and asks is everything taken care of? a simple question for a complicated answer but phil nods but says little more than, " how's our boy? " there won't be an autopsy, there won't be an investigation. it'll be open and shut and that'll be the end of it. claire tells him about chris and that he'd followed the instructions phil gave him to the letter and it's good. it's fine. at some point, she leans up and kisses him, at the corner of his mouth, overly aware of the presence of a warm body elsewhere in the house and a still present reluctance to reveal themselves. thank you, phillip.

FIVE | SEPTEMBER. 2020.

somewhere between frustration and anger and resentment and fear and guilt and whatever else they are trying to lay at one another's feet, in the middle of a particularly vicious argument, they end up kissing. it's not pleasant. it's not the normal sort, not even when they're feeling their most internally destructive, this is something else. something close to hitting a boundary.

he grips her hips enough to hurt. he knows, he hears it in her gasp, hears it in the way she hisses as her back meets stone wall, and she doesn't seem to mind when he just tugs her underwear to the side and enters her in a single thrust. it's a quick fuck. hard, up against the cold stone wall of a basement, not far from a cigar burn from years ago. she scrambles at his shoulders and slaps him once, to make him angry and when it doesn't have the desired effect, she yanks at his hair and pulls his lip between her teeth.

[tangent101]

Max Caulfield and Post-Storm PTSD

One thing I find interesting (and have done so myself) is speculating on how broken Max will be in a Post-Storm (either Sacrifice Chloe or Sacrifice Arcadia Bay) setting. While some people (usually those who killed Chloe) like to say "she'd bounce back!" the predominant view is that we have a shattered Max after this who needs a lot of therapy. So I thought I'd unpack this and look at why I look at this this way.

At this point I should add there is potential triggers here. I'll be examining my own PTSD and elements of Max's state of mind that may in fact result in her being in declining mental health in the wake of the events of Life is Strange.

First, let's consider what PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) is, and what causes it. And for this I'm going to start by sharing my own trauma. Because I have PTSD. I gained this after I saw a vehicle go out of control and hit two people and run over two others. The final person was trapped under the vehicle and they had to push the van at an angle to pull him out, do CPR, and... he was dead. Even if EMTs had been right there, he'd not have survived.

I suffer flashbacks thinking of this, though it's gotten better. I will flinch, visualize what happened, and feel nausea. I get tense over this and... well, it's not a happy experience to put it mildly. And I have what is likely a milder case of PTSD. I also developed it despite being in an environment that put me at a lower risk of developing it. And yes, I had minor twinges of PTSD writing this up. Two years ago I probably would have had an actual visualization and anxiety break. So you can get better with therapy and help.

But what specifically is PTSD? According to the website for the National Institute of Mental Health, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) develops in some people who experience shocking or dangerous events, with people who have PTSD feeling stressed or frightened even when they are not in danger. PTSD can occur within 3 months of traumatic events or even have you be fine and then crop up *years* later. And symptoms include flashbacks where you relive the trauma, bad dreams, and frightening thoughts which can disrupt a person's everyday routine.

People with PTSD are easily startled, can feel "on edge," have angry outburst, and have difficulty sleeping. They could go through avoidance of staying away from reminders of the experience and avoiding thoughts or feelings related to the event. Further, cognitive and mood symptoms include problems remembering key features of the event, self-negativity, distorted guilt or blame feelings, and loss of interest in enjoyable activities.

Okay, so how can you avoid PTSD? And how could Max avoid this? Well, factors promoting recovery after trauma include seeking support from friends and family, finding a support group, learning to feel good about your own actions in the face of danger, positive coping strategies, and learning to act and respond effectively even when feeling fear.

And this is the kicker. This is why Max is likely screwed as a result of the events of Life is Strange, especially in a Sacrifice Chloe setting. Because Max blames herself and her time travel for the Storm and all the weird shit that happened. She may very well believe that if she uses time travel for any reason, it will result in the Storm and a lot more people dying. And this will get in the way of being in a healthy environment to avoid PTSD.

First, consider friends and family. Max can't tell them what happened because she has absolutely no proof of what she went through. She can't prove her time travel because if she does then she dooms wherever she is and a lot of people die. (It doesn't matter if this is the case or not, she assumes it is true.) So Max is not going to confide in Warren or Dana or Victoria or anyone. She can't. And she's quite likely going to isolate herself because we have already seen at the start of the game, Max is a bit of a loner who doesn't have many friends.

In fact, her two "friends" are Warren (who she feels threatened by due to his attraction to her, as seen by his inclusion in her Nightmare sequence including learning he doctored photos of her to include himself in the picture, his peeping activities on the second day, and the honestly-creepy "Go Ape" thing), and Kate. Kate is going through her own shit and Max remembers Kate killing herself. Is Max going to unload her own issues on someone going through a lot of shit as well or is she going to swallow her problems so not to trouble her friend? And Warren is someone she feels nervous around and who has engaged in some activities that set up warning flags in her psyche. Further, when she told Warren the truth, he promptly blames her time travel on fucking everything up. In short, she trusted Warren and Warren said "you caused all this destruction." (Even if Max initially blames herself, he reinforces that point of view before Max jumps through the photo to save Chloe.)

Nor can I see her telling her parents. Again, she has no proof. Her parents are overprotective already. If she starts going off on this fanciful tale, are they going to believe her? Or are they going to assume their daughter is cracking and force her into therapy and possibly hospitalize her "for her own good" (and thus she ends up medicated and miserable, having lost her autonomy and agency)? It doesn't matter if they wouldn't as Max will worry this could happen. It is better to never say a thing. So Max internalizes everything. And we already see evidence that Max has done this sort of thing in the past. Max keeps her secrets close to her heart. She never told her parents of the time travel even when she could have had proof. So why tell them after Chloe died?

I have been overcoming my PTSD by revisiting it and working through it. Part of this was guided by therapy. Max would not be in a position to talk about this. And how could she? After all, she didn't find Rachel Amber's body (and we have no proof her body is uncovered in a Sacrifice Chloe setting). She didn't see the Storm. She didn't see most of the incidents. The closest that happened was being in the bathroom when Chloe was shot. And her story of what happened would change from the week that beta-Max was in charge and when Max Prime returned to the timeline. So even if she was talking to a school counselor? She'd quickly learn that her story changed and probably shut up and stop seeing them so not to give away her story.

Remember: Max cannot admit to the time travel because doing so means either killing hundreds of people due to the Storm or being locked away for being crazy because she has no proof.

Next, we have feeling good about her actions. For five days Max had hammered into her skull her actions have consequences. More, those consequences are predominantly bad. Far too often Max has to Rewind to fix things from her actions. If she can't Rewind? That means by acting, she's going to fuck things up. In fact, the fundamental aspect of Sacrifice Chloe states that her action to save Chloe caused all of this destruction. Max is going to second-guess herself constantly.

I mean, if she sees Kate on the roof again at a later point (because women who are the victims of crimes are often blamed by society for the crimes inflicted against them as seen time and time again with how we blame victims of sexual harassment and rape for the crimes committed against them, so of course her church and mother and aunt will continue to blame Kate for what she went through), will Max dare to act? If she does, then she might cause another Storm. She might cause damage. If Kate is on that rooftop again, maybe she was supposed to die. Who does Max think she is by trying to stop Destiny?

So yeah. Max is not going to feel good about her actions. She is going to second-guess herself. She already had that tendency at the start of the game, and Sacrifice Chloe hammers down the truth that action is bad. Better to do nothing and not interact.

We end up with Avoidance. Well, what is the biggest Avoidance? Photography. Max already has a murderer who kidnapped her associated with photography. She remembers being in the Dark Room, being powerless in the face of the man who murdered her Chloe. (Just like she murdered her Chloe. She might not have pulled the trigger, but she caused Chloe's death.) She will see Chloe's death and Rachel's death and her own suffering each time she looks at a camera and remembers Mark Jefferson. More, she knows if she focuses on a photograph she could end up traveling through time and causing the Storm. So she can't even enjoy pictures anymore because they are a threat.

That's not to say that the Sacrifice Chloe setting is all dark and dire. She does have music. She loves music. So if she puts aside the camera she might pick up her guitar and embrace music. (Hannah Telle, Max's VA, once speculated that Max would enter a career in music, probably due partly to her own musical inclinations.) So while she might give up her greatest loves, she might eventually embrace a future in music. I doubt she'd ever play in public but... that might be an outlet for a hurting soul.

Now, I've gone on at length about how dire things are for Max in a Sacrifice Chloe setting, but what about Sacrifice Arcadia Bay? Well, things end up a bit more positive in this setting because she can actually talk about going through some of these things. For instance, Max dug up a body with Chloe. She saw Chloe almost shot by Nathan in the bathroom. She saw Kate attempt suicide (whether or not she stopped it is immaterial to the suicide attempt). She learned that a trusted teacher and mentor was in fact a predator who was kidnapping young women, saw pictures of these crimes, and thus "suffers flashbacks visualizing herself in this setting." She can go to therapy and talk about many things she cannot in a Sacrifice Chloe setting and in doing so she can start to work through elements that could result in PTSD developing.

She can also talk to Chloe about what happened. Chloe knows about the time travel. She knows about almost dying (and Max witnessing Chloe's death multiple times). This gives Max a needed outlet for overcoming her own fears and concerns. But more importantly is this: Chloe is likely to tell Max to face down her fears. Chloe is the person who always pushed Max to try new things. And I honestly cannot see that changing as a result of what they went through.

Max also will learn to feel good about her actions. I mean, she chose Chloe over Arcadia Bay. This is the ultimate action, and while she may feel remorse for those deaths and that destruction... she also knows she saved Chloe and Chloe is by her side. She knows that her actions led to the capture and arrest of Mark Jefferson and saving Victoria Chase's life. Hell, it led to David Madsen (and probably a couple Arcadia Bay police officers) surviving the Storm because they were in the Dark Room at the time of the Storm. Her actions have consequences... and those consequences need not be dire. They can be beneficial.

So the Max of Sacrifice Arcadia Bay has a support group, she has access to therapy and can talk about some of the things she went through, she has someone she loves who believes her, she knows that her actions have benefit, she has someone who urges her to move forward. This isn't to say she won't have PTSD... but she is in a far better environment to overcome this to the point that in Life is Strange 2, we learn (in the Save Chloe timeline) that Max is submitting to galleries and that Chloe is still with her. So she's taking pictures and is in a good place in her life.

Now, what about Chloe? After all, Chloe went through some truly horrific shit herself. Chloe was almost shot by Nathan, she almost got hit by a train, she was threatened by Frank, she dug up the body of a girl she truly cared for, dozens of yards from where she was hanging out regularly, she saw a huge-ass Tornado wipe out her home town and kill her mother... yeah, Chloe's been through some horrific stuff, about as horrific as Max. More, she is in an unhealthy position at the time of the game.

But much of what benefits Max in the Save Chloe timeline also benefits Chloe. She can talk to a therapist. She has Max by her side. She has Max by her side and Max out-and-out chose her over hundreds of people. Joyce chose David over her, and for four years Chloe was in an unsafe environment. Rachel was... Rachel, and she was cheating on Chloe anyway. But Max... Max comes back, she saves her life several times, she helps Chloe time and time again, and at the end she chose Chloe over Arcadia Bay. That is big. That is bigger than big, it is... for once, Chloe was told "you are important." I mean, I'm getting teary-eyed just thinking of how big this is. Chloe has realized just how much Max loves her.

So... Chloe might develop PTSD. She is at risk of it. I think her triggers might similar to Max's - both girls probably will freak over thunderstorms for a while, and both may develop an aversion toward guns... at first I thought they'd differ but really, they'd align fairly well. About the only trigger issue Max would have Chloe doesn't has to do with photography (which is why Chloe is the person who'd help Max overcome any such issues).

[tailorvizsla]

Ner Mesh’la Tracinya

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Armorer Word Count: ~4300 Warnings: Public(ish) sex/fingering Author’s Notes: Y’all probably don’t know this but I thirst for Armorer the same way I thirst for Paz Vizla. You can read this over on AO3, if you’d prefer.

📚 My Master List 📚

Edit: Changed the formatting for story information and added moodboard. A huge, ginormous thank you to Huliabitch for helping me figure out how to make it! ❤️❤️❤️

Din Dumbass Djarin dropped you off with his Tribe in the middle of the night without warning. To you, or to his family. After a very tense standoff where you tell them Din’s full name – the improvised middle one included – and withstand two hours of interrogation while someone tries to contact him, you are allowed to use one of the rooms. Din eventually responds, informing the Armorer that he had endangered you and the Imps know who you are. So, he is keeping you safe until the worst of the danger is over. Fortunately, you have useful skills, and you are put to work immediately.

Today marks your eleventh week with Din’s family. You had sneaked down to the laundry room earlier today and ‘borrowed’ one of Neten’s suits to work in. You figure he will not mind it, considering you caught him red-handed in the kitchen, stuffing caramel cookies up the front of his bucket. The same caramel cookies that Paz Vizla had brought back and warned everyone to not touch.  

You zip it up halfway and tie the sleeves around your waist. It’s hotter than the face of the sun, even indoors, and you don’t give a shit if anyone is offended by the sight of you walking around in a thin white tank-top and a man-sized extra-large flight suit. You then set to work in the workshop, trying to repair the environmental control panel so that the whole ‘hotter than the face of the sun’ problem will go away.

It does not take you long to figure out that the problem doesn’t involve the panel. Listening carefully, you realize that you cannot even hear the fan spinning, even with the power on. That explains why the air is not moving. You let out a huff as you look up at the square grill, well above your head.

Grabbing a ladder, you go unscrew the screws and place them into the cup on the table. Then you grab your bag, push it into the gaping maw, and sort of wriggle up the sloped incline, using your hands and feet to push yourself along. Whoever decided to put the fan this far back into the vent should be dragged out in public and pelted with tomatoes, you think grumpily to yourself.

You just barely fit into the dusty, narrow space. It takes a minute or so to wriggle your way to the fan, where you start testing the connectors. Once you have located the faulty connectors, you yank them out and replace them. As you solder the last connector into place, your feet slip a bit on the incline.

You shuffle yourself forward again to reattach it to the power source. For a single gut-wrenching second, nothing happens. Then the fan slowly starts to spin, spluttering, before it finally chugs up to speed. Thank the fucking spirits. The cold breeze causes a wave of goosebumps to break out across your sweat-slick skin. With that task finished, you begin to wriggle your way back out. When your back half exits the vent, you try to feel around for the top rung of the ladder.

You feel it…and promptly knock it over.

Shit.

The ladder hits the ground with a loud crash. You let out a little puff of air to get the hair off your face and try to figure out what you are going to do next. It’s a bit of a drop to the ground and you don’t want to risk spraining your ankle. Unfortunately, the metal beneath you is dusty, and you start to slip out. You let out a screech.

Two hands clamp around your hips as you fall out completely, landing on the person behind you. They let out a surprised grunt as they catch you, their arms wrapping around you. The two of you stumble back a bit, but the strong person behind you keeps you both on your feet.

“T-thank you,” you say, turning to your savior.

“Perhaps you should secure your ladder next time,” Armorer says, her helmet tilting down at you.

You swallow, noting that her arm is still wrapped around your waist. Fuck, she is so much stronger than she looks. Absently, you rest your hands on her chest plate, feeling the warmth of the bes’kar under your fingertips. For some reason, your heart begins to pound, and heat begins to blossom everywhere. You try to speak, but all you can manage is some sort of pathetic stuttering noise. After a second, she lets go of you, and you take a half-step back.

“Th-thanks,” you manage to say, somewhat coherently once you can manage to breathe.

Swallowing, you take a second to center yourself. Calm, collected, and definitely not soaking wet just from that simple touch. Ignoring that damp heat in your panties, you force yourself to focus on your work.

“Well, the environmental controls are fixed now,” you say in what you hope is a cheerful tone. “Is there anything else that I can help with today?”

You note that her helmet tilts down again.

“The environmental controls in the karyai seem to be damaged as well,” she says. “I must ask – why are you wearing Neten’s suit?”

You let a devious smile cross your face.

“He won’t mind,” you say.

“Why is that?”

“He’s the one who ate all of Big Blue’s cookies,” you say. “Paz already knows, but…he is waiting for the right time to bring it up.”

Armorer sighs.

“I assume you will be taking full advantage?”

“I will wash everything and put it back once I am finished,” you say. “If Neten can’t take a bit of playful blackmail, I don’t think he can withstand what Paz is going to do to him.”

She nods once at you. When she leaves, you wonder why she had come here in the first place. Shaking your head, you clear the thoughts away, and head down to the karyai. There, you find the two vents she had been referring to. One has the same problem as the one in the workshop, so you repair it quickly. The second control panel has burnt out completely.

You scavenge what parts you can from the workshop, finding a few extra chips and connectors. Unfortunately, it is not enough to repair the second unit. You sigh and write a note for one of the hunters to bring back a new condensation coil for it. On second thought, you add a detailed drawing with precise measurements. Some of the hunters are not the best at paying attention to certain things, and you do not want to wait for a third (or fourth) trip out when they invariably fuck it up.

At the end of the day, you are beyond exhausted. Your body is covered in a fine layer of dust, grease, and whatever the hell had been accumulating in the vents. After a hot shower, you go back to the karyai to continue helping around the place. Even when the workday is over, there is always plenty of work to be done. There are always children in need of care – and you are always happy to offer a tired parent a few minutes of respite.

As soon as you come into view, you are swarmed by five of the younger ones, and you let them cuddle into your side, giving each one a bit of attention and affection. Then, mischief fills you as you kneel in the group of children. Slyly, you start handing out very small pieces of candy. The older children immediately sense the presence of sweets and come to grab a piece for themselves.

Then Armorer comes to investigate. The children scatter like cockroaches, their treats secured in pockets or mouths. Rising to your feet, you reach into your other pocket and bring out the good candy. You offer her one of your last chocolates with a sheepish grin. Armorer takes it, much to your surprise, and puts it away.

-

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Armorer finishes putting her tools away. Her shoulders ache, but in the pleasant way that results from hard labor. She banks the flames to keep the Forge at operating temperature. After collecting her toiletries, she heads to the locker room. As she passes by the workshop, she hears a faint strain of music. It is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, with a strong drum beat and lilting string instrumentals. She steps inside to investigate. At the far end of the room, just out of sight of the doorway, she sees you by one of the reflective cabinets.

Not standing, but dancing.

You are dancing quite skillfully. Armorer feels her mouth go dry when she sees the way your supple body twists and undulates to the soft music playing. She often thinks back to that morning when she caught you. She had not been expecting to see your nipples straining at the fabric of your shirt, nor the way you flushed at her touch and your pupils dilated. She lingered, simply enjoying the way you stuttered. Armorer continues watching, a coil of heat in her belly, as your breasts and ass bounce with each movement.

“See something you like, Armorer?” comes a voice from behind her.

She almost twitches.

“Sneak up on me again and I will put my hammer through your thick skull,” she says flatly to Paz.

The older man snorts. He leans in.

“She’s cute,” Paz whispers dramatically. “You sure you can handle a little spitfire like her?”

She only has to look at him. He chortles and nudges her with his shoulder, a show of companionship and support.

“Good luck,” Paz says.

“A good hunter does not need luck,” she responds.

Paz snorts. Armorer ignores him and turns back to you. You are still dancing, though slower than before. It has been far too long since she has had a companion to share herself with.

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The next evening, you find yourself finished early. So, rather than laze around and watch some silly soap opera in the karyai with Revala, you decide to go blow off some steam. You put on your athletic clothes – all elastic and snug so you don’t get caught up in anything – and put your hair up in a braid. You bypass the few machines and head toward the back rooms where people spar. Selfishly, you decide to take over one of the private rooms so you can stretch and do your yoga routine. If you fall over, at least you will have privacy for your humiliation.

“Do you wish to be alone?” a voice asks from the doorway.

“No,” you say to Armorer as you lift your head. “There’s plenty of space for both of us.”

You notice immediately that her helmet is very different than the one she normally wears. It is the same color and has similar features. However, it looks shorter. As she moves, you can see that it reveals most of her cowl. Ah, it lets her move her head without running the risk of dislodging her helmet and compromising what she can see. The one she wears in the Foundry probably functions for more protection against the intense heat of the flames.

“Do you wish to know something?”

You mull over it.

“Nah, it’s a stupid question.”

“Remember the company I keep,” she remarks casually.

You are unable to hold back your snort of laughter. Earlier in the day, you overheard her speaking with Hannah, the cook.

Hunters are not known for their intelligence, Hannah. That is why we must also childproof the top cabinets.

“It’s about your helmet, which is why I held back,” you say quietly.

There are a few moments of silence before she tilts her head. You assume it’s an invitation.

“Is your other helmet ceremonial, or does it offer more protection from the heat?”

“Both,” she says.

You nod. You want to ask more questions, but you figure you would be pushing your luck if you did. You want to spend time with her, not piss her off.

“Would you like to spar?” she asks.

“Sure,” you say. “I will do my best.”

You get to your feet and stretch your arms a bit more. She comes to a halt in front of you, dropping into her fighting stance.

You take a moment to size her up. She is taller than you and outweighs you by a small amount. Armorer spends most of her time in the Foundry, so she has some serious muscles. Not only that, she is a Mandalorian. She has been raised since her childhood to fight people (or so you assume). From what you can gather, Armorer has years of experience on you. You are outclassed in every single way, you think to yourself, as you match each of her footsteps, circling one another.

The only think you can hope to do is to try and outlast her, wait until she is tired, and then try to take her by surprise. They have no idea you are a somewhat-capable combatant. That was one thing Din had made sure of – he drilled you as hard as he could as often as he could. He wanted you able to protect yourself and the kid when he was gone. So, that was your only hope at this point.

She makes the first blow. Armorer is holding back, but it still hurts. You wince.

“If you would move out of the way in time, it will not hurt,” she remarks easily.

You dodge the second one and jab at her with your left fist. You are pretending that you are less skilled than you are. She twists out of the way. She hits you again. You try to return it with several quick strikes. None of them meet their target. When you can see that Armorer is slowing down, you decide to make your move.

With her next punch, you grab her by the arm and pull, flipping her over your hip and sending her sprawling. You surge forward onto her, trying to pin her down. Panting, you manage to get onto her legs, but she is fast. And holy shit, she is fucking strong. She easily rolls you onto your back, even as you are trying to pin her down with your full weight. As she moves to kneel above you, you grab her foot and pull it out from under her, sending her careening onto the ground.

You thank Cara for teaching you that move. Stubbornly, you try to get up, but Armorer decides to end the fight. With one hard shove, she sends you careening onto your front, knocking the wind out of you. You flail for a moment. Then she settles onto you, straddling your thighs as she presses you down into the mat. Her weight on you sends your blood pressure and pulse through the stratosphere.

You try to elbow her, but she slams your arm down into the mat, just barely missing your ear. She catches your other hand and pins it between the two of you, right at the small of your back. You try to roll onto your side, but she holds you down, resting more of her weight onto you to keep you on the ground.

“Recall that I am a hunter. I know when my prey is attempting to deceive me,” she drawls out. “You cannot escape.”

“Yes, I can,” you insist.

“You may try,” she says mildly.

You tilt your head and bite her, hard enough for her to feel your teeth through her thick glove, but not hard enough to cause concern. She smells like spicy smoke and leather, you think to yourself. She inhales sharply in response.

“How uncivilized,” she murmurs.

“Madame Armorer, may I remind you of how many orifices you have threatened to shove your boot into today?” you ask saucily, wriggling as you test her hold on you.

She, of course, does not budge. When her fingers tighten in warning around your wrists, you go quite still, and Armorer leans forward. You almost moan when you feel the firm press of her breasts against your back. Fortunately, you manage to stifle it before you embarrass yourself any further than you already have.

“Stop struggling,” she purrs. “You are helpless here.”

You want so badly to arch against her, to feel more of her strong body against yours. Arousal begins to thread through you, filling your veins with molten lava. It courses deep into your core, leaving you aching and throbbing between the legs.

“Do you wish to submit, little kitten?”

Oh, sweet merciful gods.

The fight leaves you as your brain promptly short-circuits. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Right now, you are on the verge of begging her to fuck you, to do whatever she pleases with your body. All you want is her touch, her hands against you, mapping out every square inch of your body. As she shifts, you let out a little noise, one that she definitely hears.

“Say it,” she says in a coaxing sort of tone. “I want to hear it.”

You inhale shakily.

“Yes, Armorer,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “I – I submit. T-to you.”

She lets out a little purr of pleasure and releases your wrists.

“If you move without my permission, your punishment will be severe,” she says briskly. Then, as if reading your mind, she adds, “I have a paddle, and I will not hesitate to turn you over my knee.”

You let out a squeak.

“I will not tolerate disobedience. I trust you will behave?”

“Yes,” you nod solemnly. “I will behave.”

“Good girl. On your back.”

You obey. She lowers herself next to you, resting her weight on one elbow, looking every bit like a lioness about to pounce. You lick your lips and swallow, letting your eyes trace over the lines of her helmet. Her hand finds your neck, her fingers skimming over your pulse. Obediently, you lay there, hands by your sides as she continues her exploration down to your collarbones and sternum.

“So soft,” she remarks, as she squeezes your breast firmly.

Her thumb brushes against your nipple. You almost arch your back to follow the warmth of her hand. Remembering her threat, you just barely restrain yourself.

“Good girl,” she croons.

A little mewl escapes you as she continues her slow trail downward, her hand pausing on your ribcage. Then dipping down to your waist, making you squeal and twitch as her fingers tighten there. She stops moving, her helmet tilting down a bit. Biting down on your lip, you lay there, your entire body trembling as her hand remains at your waist.

She gives you a few seconds before she skims her palm along your belly. Bypassing your mound, she cups your hip and squeezes firmly, forcing a stuttering sigh from between your bruised lips. By now, your breath is coming in tiny gasps and your panties are soaked through, your cunt clenching wantonly.

Slowly, torturously, Armorer makes her way back up, dragging your shirt up to reveal your sports bra. Hooking her fingers under the band, she eases the elastic up and over your breasts, freeing them from the confines of the fabric. She lets out a low hum of satisfaction. Her hand rises to your lips.

“Take my glove off.”

You reach up.

“Use your teeth,” she says.

You nod in understanding. Locking eyes with her visor, you grasp her elbow gently, and lift your head. You gently bite down on the tip of the index finger. One by one, you slowly work her glove off. Then you pause.

“Do you want me to take it off completely?” you ask.

“Close your eyes,” she says.

You obey once more, closing your eyes as you remove it completely. Mischievously, you lean up and press a quick kiss to her finger, earning yourself a soft sigh. Emboldened by her pleasure, you skim your lips along her palm, pressing little kisses against her calloused skin until you find her thumb, relishing in each intoxicating sigh she gives you. Smiling, you part your lips and gently nibble along the side of her digit. She inhales and pulls away. You let out a mewl of disappointment.

“You disobeyed me,” she says.

You sulk.

“I will be lenient,” she murmurs. “There will be time for you to learn your place.”

Her hand returns to your chest. She cups your breast. The feeling of her bare skin against yours sends a jolt through you, leaving you feeling dizzy and starved for air. She tweaks your nipple, humming as a sob catches in your throat. Swiftly, she treats your other breast to the same delightful torture, wrenching a full moan from you this time.

Her fingers slip under your waistband. When her fingers find your aching, throbbing clit, you whimper, your hips trembling as you struggle to stay still. Her promise of discipline fascinates you, but you need release more than anything else. Armorer traps your clit between her fingers and squeezes. This time, you are unable to hold back. You cry out sharply as you press your knees together. That knot in your belly is so tight it hurts.

“There we are,” she breathes. “Keep making those pretty noises for me, kitten.”

She strokes long, slow, lazy circles around your pearl, wrenching sobs from your throat as she so very slowly works you to the edge. Then she slides further down, tracing around your entrance. Without warning, she slides one finger into your aching, yearning center. You keen as your entire body twitches, your walls tightening around her still finger.

Armorer presses her forehead to yours. You can feel her breath against your cheeks. Automatically, you turn your head and press your lips to her helmet. She laughs, deep and low in her throat.

“Would you like to kiss me?” she asks. Then her voice lowers, growing huskier. “Press your lips to mine? Taste me?”

“Please,” you choke out.

“I thought I would have to work harder to teach you your manners, kitten.”

You whine as she presses a second finger into you and curls them, pressing directly into something that makes you see stars and your back arch. When you’ve come back down, she continues her languid pace.

“So pliant,” she murmurs. “So submissive. Tell me, do you enjoy being told what to do?”

“O-only - you,” you manage to stutter out, as her fingers curl inside of you again.

She hums with pleasure as you tighten around her. Whimpering, you turn to nuzzle her helmet.

“P-please – can I – touch you?” you whimper up at her.

“How could I tell you no?” she asks. “Touch me, kitten.”

You let out a warble of happiness as you finally reach up, touching her arm and hand. Up her arm, to her shoulder. You explore her body, touching the parts of her that you can reach. Sweetly, you kiss her helmet again, pressing your forehead to hers, knowing that it means something to Mandalorians.

She slides a third finger into you, and the knot in your belly begins to unravel. You pant softly against her visor, keening quietly as you spiral closer and closer to orgasm. When you start to reach that peak, you grasp at her, burying your face into shoulder as you sob, your entire body rising up to meet her hand. A white light goes off behind your eyelids as your orgasm strikes, as quick and hot as a bolt of lightning. She continues her pace, prolonging your orgasm, until your body is limp and shaking next to hers. She leaves her fingers inside of you, your walls occasionally tightening around her.

“You did so well, kitten,” she croons.

You dare to press a kiss to her shoulder, tightening your hand possessively around her.

“Ner mesh’la tracinya,” you whisper to her. My beautiful flame.

She inhales sharply.

“You have been listening in on lessons,” she murmurs.

“I want to please you,” you breathe up to her. “More than anything else…”

“You have pleased me so very well.”

She slides her fingers out of you. Blindly, you reach out, grasping her wrist with your hands. Then you gently pull her hand to your mouth and start cleaning her off, lapping up the evidence of your pleasure with short flicks of your tongue. Then you suck each finger into your mouth to ensure it is clean enough to be put back into her glove. Patting the ground by your side, you find her glove, and slowly put it back onto her hand, working it down until she is completely covered once more.

“Can I open my eyes now, please?” you ask.

“Yes, kitten,” she says, her voice a bit strained. “Open your eyes.”

You open your eyes and smile at her. Languidly, you stretch out next to her and continue your slow exploration, wondering if she will let you return the favor. She swallows and pulls back. Before she can speak, you bite down on your lower lip, and let your hand fall to her hip.

“You know,” you say. “I’m finished with all my work today…and you seem to be finished with all your work, too…”

Fuck, she’s got a nice ass, you think to yourself, as you steal a quick grope of her backside.

“…I don’t think anyone would be upset if Alor took some time to rest,” you say sweetly.

“Why do I suspect you have indecent intentions toward me?” she asks.

“I am afraid my intentions are depraved,” you say. “I might even wish to debauch you, Armorer.”

She laughs, a rich, warm sound that sends shivers all the way down to your toes.

“Kitten, you know nothing of debauchery,” she responds.

You sulk.

“I do too,” you insist.

“Mmhmm,” she hums. “Very well. We will retire for the evening.”

She easily gets to her feet. You take her hand and she hauls you up with what seems to be no effort at all. The two of you head out toward the locker room, a thrill filling you at the promise of a night spent in her arms.

[kinetic-elaboration]

March 12: 1x10 Journey to Babel

My favorite Star Trek episode! Possibly my favorite episode of anything... I’m not going to have much of anything deep to say about it but I did enjoy it immensely.

I actually know the opening of this ep really well because I was using it as the basis for a still unfinished AOS-verse fic that I still want to write but it doesn’t get old regardless.

We can relax when the Vulcans get here! Can you though??

Spock’s utter non-reaction to the name Sarek. But inside he’s gotta be feeling a lot, right? I mean at the very least, nerves at the impending awkwardness.

I feel like Sarek is so subtly suspicious in this scene. Like... why is no one acknowledging we’re related? What’s going ON?

And Kirk knows something’s up but he’s not sure what.

So rude! Asking for another guide. That really is a rift.

And then Amanda’s look when Kirk mentions Spock’s parents. So subtle, so confused, so judgmental.

Also this is a great concept for an Enterprise mission.

I think Amanda’s really interested in the ship! So this is where Spock works...

Humans smile with such little provocation... Whereas Spock smiles when Kirk isn’t dead

Lol the parallels with Sarek and Kirk calling Amanda and Spock over. Mr. Spock, attend.

Sarek taught him computers! So adorable.

Mrs.Sarek lol. But she proves the unpronounceable name can be sort of pronounced.

Idk if I believe this whole depiction of Vulcans as patriarchal... It doesn’t really square with T’Pau running the whole planet. Nor is it logical.

Amanda is so glad that Spock has friends!!

I love to see Kirk defending Spock.

Lmao at the idea of Sarek following the teachings of his father. Was he doing that when he took a HUMAN wife??

Kirk and Amanda bonding over their stubborn husbands.

Oh no, the signal is coming from inside the ship!

Kirk is sure loving this.

So Sarek is 102. That would make him 60-some years older than Spock.

Sarek’s vote carries the others! He’s so important.

Now Kirk is trying to charm the aliens.

I just noticed that Amanda asks Spock if she can share the sehlat story. She looks at him and he very obviously inclines his head. He’s okay with McCoy hearing this.

Alive with six inch fangs!!

Sarek being so protective of Spock and his dignity. “He’s a Starfleet officer!!” Honestly so proud of him.

Sarek/Amanda is actually the best ship.

I feel like Spock gets his humor from Sarek honestly. Like the way he talks to the Telluride Ambassador is so similar to how Spock talks to people.

Can’t believe Kirk had to break up a fight between Spock’s dad and another ambassador lol.

Of course Kirk has to be shirtless for the dramatic reveal of MURDER.

Spock doesn’t think Sarek killed anyone. (Even when he kinda throws him under the bus with that “my father is capable of killing.”)

But then there’s Sarek “I agree, I am a very suspicious person here.”

Meditation cannot be discussed with Earthmen.

Sarek had 4 heart attacks and didn’t tell his wife. The nerve.

Sarek and Spock ganging up on Bones. A real bonding moment.

Spock’s blood has human blood elements...interesting.

Spock was researching for Sarek. Idk why that hits me so hard... He finds this really long shot solution, an experimental drug that isn’t even used on Vulcans and just says “okay problem solved we’re going to fix my father now.”

Calling his father by his first name... cold. He doesn’t do that with Amanda.

*Stefon voice* This ep has everything, mystery, intrigue, family drama, diplomatic drama, medical emergencies, shirtless Kirk, and a fight scene!

Poor Spock, on top of everything else, his space husband is injured too.

Now Spock is off to question the prisoner. Eep, wouldn’t want to be that prisoner.

I feel like Spock’s excuse of not wanting to give up command is total Scotty erasure, and seems really flimsy on its face.

The Andorian tells him to think about passion and gain...asking Spock to think about passion!! How dare?

Not a lot of Kirk in this episode but every Kirk scene is gold. He’s being charming again. And he has such devotion to Spock and his family, even risking his own health to make sure Spock can help Sarek--and Sarek hears all of it! We are specifically shown that he’s awake!

Kirk’s face when he looks at Spock in the Captain’s chair is just so loving.

Hmmm I guess no one trusts Scotty around here!

Bones is not encouraging confidence by not knowing what Vulcan blood pressure should be.

Haha just knocked Spock the fuck out. “My patients don’t walk out in the middle of operations.”

“Sir, we stunned the Andorian and pieces just started falling off.”

I love that the inside of Sarek is smoking.

...You know actually the Enterprise did need Kirk specifically to command in this crisis.

How is CHEKOV the next in command lol? He’s 22 and the lowest ranked person there.

It’s interesting that the Orions are the bad guys in this episode.

Spock’s parents can so clearly tell how in love Kirk and Spock are.

“One does not thank logic.”

When Kirk collapses and Amanda moves closer to him, Sarek is still holding his fingers out for a kiss like a lovesick nerd.

Bones gets the last word!

And now Kirk, Spock, and Sarek are going to be recovering in the same room for a while lol.

I didn’t write any notes on the Spock and Amanda scene because it’s just... too much. Too overwhelming. It’s so dramatic, first off, and... Amanda is just so human. You know in some ways she’s assimilate to Vulcan life--how she can pronounce Sarek’s last name and how she thinks the Vulcan way of life is “better”--but she really wasn’t written to e like a long term Vulcan resident imo. I mean when it comes right down to it, she’s very human. I like that but I just think it’s interesting.

I’m a little uncomfortable with like the degree of emotional manipulation... saying she’ll hate him forever, slapping him. But Spock’s excuse looks pretty flimsy when you consider that there are other people who can command the ship. But then... well like I said, there WAS an emergency and Kirk really was the best man for the job so like you do get an example of how not all officers are interchangeable. And I was trying to wrap my head around the argument that this isn’t just a Starfleet position, it’s a Vulcan one, and one Sarek would understand: duty, rules, and the many before the one. So I guess it does make sense, and the tension is appropriate for the scenario.

I also appreciate how the point of this episode was to show, as DC Fontana said, three people who hadn’t been a family for a long time becoming a family again, so you can see all the complexity in their history and how the differences in their cultures blend together sometimes awkwardly, and how hard it is for all of them.

This is the best ST installment for Vulcan fashion. Like, this ep, T’Prng’s dress in Amok Time, and Ambassador Spock’s asymmetrical coat in STXI are the only valid Vulcan outfits. I never got the robes and head coverings thing. Like, are robes logical? I think not. Plus, they are desert people but they are NOT austere, so I don’t get all the dark colors and shit. Vulcans should absolutely all be wearing hot pink wide legged pants and fur-trimmed ponchos; I am not joking. Also I thought Sarek’s outfit was great: it’s simple and professional but still has a lot of color on it; it’s exactly what it seems like a Vulcan ambassador would wear. And they never reach that level in any later installment!!

The Amazon trivia tells me that deleted dialogue said that Sarek was an engineer before he was an ambassador, which I don’t totally get (that’s not... a science...and he went to the VSA right?), but I do find it VERY interesting and I wish I’d known that when I wrote HAICG and had Spock name his son after an engineer.

Next time is Friday’s Child, which is also a great episode to watch and think about HAICG.

[whatwashernameagain]

Keep him safe - Chapter 28

You can read the previous Chapters here: Ch 1, Ch 5, Ch 10, Ch 15, Ch 20, Ch 25, Previous Chapter, Ao3 Link, Lo’s, Pat’s and Virgil’s aesthetics, Fantasy AU You are Magical, I’m dying to be with you

Pairings: Logan/Patton, Roman/Virgil

Words: 11.720

Warnings: memories of abuse, getting startled, mild panic, touching feet, food/baking, mentioned alcoholism. Let me know if I missed any.

Summary: Detective Logan Sanders and his best friend and dorky partner Roman Prince have made a dear friend in the lovely pattisier Patton. Logan however feels a lot more than friendship for the sweet man, even though he knows he cannot possibly have him. Their routine is broken abruptly when Logan finds bruises on Patton’s fair skin and slender wrists he could hardly have received from his costumary clumsiness. Meanwhile his partner Roman has his own demon to fight, which comes in the form of a little delinquent who seemed to have been pulled into a street gang quite against his will. Roman is determined to help the strange young man. It would be so much easier though if he just stopped hissing at him!

Notes: Sooooo I realized I’ve been criminally neglecting my Tag list and I am SO sorry! Please forgive me, I swear to do better. This Chapter was originally supposed to feature Remus already, but I realized it was too soon, Patton needed some more time. A special thanks again to my beloved betas @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 and @hanramz-the-fander, you are both simply incredible!

Chapter 28

Patton felt like his whole body was cut and bruised as he woke up after The Fight. This was not entirely unusual – he’d gotten used to bearing the sharp needle stabs of pain every movement caused in silence, yet this time, he did not have to get up painfully and treat quietly on the tips of his toes in a desperate attempt not to draw attention to himself and to somehow make up for his mistakes before Trevor got out of bed. Usually, he’d try to make breakfast, clean up the effects of last night, make himself pretty or at least presentable and fearfully hope the anger from before had vanished when his boyfriend woke up. He’d hardly dare to make a sound for days and try to smile and soothe whenever he could. He knew how badly Trevor handled those episodes when he lost control and would not want things to slip out of control again or have him falling into one of his depressive episodes over it.

This morning however, he woke to the quiet sound of voices whispering over his head. He smelled tea and laundry detergent and that green smell of a lot of verdant plants and damp earth. A large body was wrapped around him that rumbled against his back very softly, while a thin figure was still curled up in his arms, taking up little space. On instinct, the patissier remained small as a mouse, unnoticed and silent. As he blinked his eyes open carefully, he found that Cat had no such reservations. She and the kitten had spread themselves out in the night and taken up a large portion of the bed displaying soft belly fur while he, Roman and Virgil had shuffled away from sharp little paws and tails in their faces and had now settled at the corner of the mattress in a tangled pile.

Logan was awake already, as he usually was. Bathed in the warm, early morning light and dressed in a handsome, form fitting shirt in pale blue with the sleeves rolled up and top button undone, he looked soft in a way that suggested he hadn’t come online entirely yet. His raven hair was still slightly damp from the shower, curling at the ends. He wasn’t wearing a tie. While he carefully placed three mismatched mugs of tea on the bedside table, he quietly filled Roman in on their work schedule for the week and about how their application for a part-time home office had been granted.

Patton, used to carefully observing men’s moods especially when he was bruised to the bone, noticed dark, tired shadows under his eyes as well as bluish bruises on the knuckles of his right hand. Yet his shoulders and neck seemed to have lost some of the tension the patissier had become used to as they hugged, before the taller man’s muscles had relaxed as he’d wrapped his arms around Patton’s narrow waist. His next breath came more easily.

No one actively mentioned what had been done to him as they sleepily untangled from each other. As soon as he noticed Patton had woken up, Roman distracted him with anecdotes about sleeping with his animal friends (less glamorous than in the Disney stories!). He moved slowly as not to startle the younger man again. Virgil, still unusually quiet, helped settle Patton in the bed and slunk off to make breakfast.

“He’ll be okay, don’t worry, my dearest.” Roman assured him as he noticed the baker’s concerned look. Patton had huddled against the pillows stacked against the headboard and wrapped his arms around himself like a child, tiny and half buried under clean, if fur covered blankets. His honey-brown eyes were wide and wet.

“I’m sorry.” He blurted out. Guilt was creeping into the space behind his collar-bone, coalescing and rising up his throat bitterly. He tried very hard to keep his thoughts centered in this room, but even here, Virgil was suffering when Patton had only ever wanted to shield him from this. He’d spilled his problems into this safe space and now the air was thick with unaddressed emotion. Anger and blame and humiliating questions. Why did you let him do this? He’d been asked by everyone who found out. Shame threatened to drown him in a red hot wave, making him sweat and tremble.

A gust of cool morning-air ruffled his light-brown curls against his forehead. Logan had opened a window and was pushing a lightly furred, colorful plant around its already perfect spot on the windowsill. Its leaves were colored a deep burgundy red with pink in the middle and a light green border around the edges. It looked lovely between his pale, long fingers.

“Roman is right.” The detective muttered, keeping his gaze focused on the pot he was turning this way and that so the light caught it just right. He felt too shaken still to look Patton in the eyes and expose all of his feelings rattling loose and unprotected around his head. The sensation of the fragile cellular structure under his fingertips grounded him and he tried to focus on it entirely instead of the thrumming images of Patton hurt Patton bleeding Patton shying away from him in terror. He was afraid to meet his eyes lest he’d see the same fear again.

“You have no cause for worry anymore, Patton. I hope you understand that we will aid you as you deserve from now on and therefore solve any issue together. Neither you nor Virgil will be without support anymore, just as Roman and I surely will profit from your care. I am certain that no problem can be so insurmountable as not to be fixed by a group of such diverse talents and inclinations as this.” He uttered, trying to keep his voice low and soothing, hyper aware of the wide eyes focused on him.

The weight of the small patissier’s attention felt heavy suddenly. He swallowed hard, trying to chase away his insecurity. He had Patton here, finally, safe in his hands and Roman’s arms and Logan was petrified. He longed to touch Patton, to run his hands all over his body where blues and reds had been spilled under his skin and take the memories of violence and humiliation away. He wanted to replace his fear with trust, he wanted to make Patton smile, he hurt with how much he wanted his happiness.

The memory of his anguish as he’d been beaten to the ground made the detective understand what people referred to when they used overly poetic phrases like ‘gutted’. He could relate to the sensation of having a sharp metal hook driven into the space behind one’s throat, tear deep into the soft tissue of one’s neck and rip out all of the structures that gave stability. His whole nervous system felt torn from his body, impossible as it may be, and he was left with a feeling of being ripped open – tender and vulnerable.

The soft, burgundy colored leaf ripped in his shaking hand.

He took a deep breath, centering himself. Shutting it all away. Patton didn’t need his unreliable urges and needs right now. His features were smooth as he turned to the tangled little family on the bed.

“I believe it would be beneficial to orient our efforts on your needs directly, instead of attempting to presume the best course of action on your behalf. How may we assist you, Patton? What do you need?” He inquired politely, folding his hands in front of himself. Keeping them from where they might not be wanted.

Patton, now curled up against a mountain of pillows against the headboard with a not really awake kitten snoring in his lap, looked frightened at the offer.

Logan’s breath caught on the hook tearing at his neck. Had he demanded too much of Patton already? Had he frightened him with his clinical tone?

“It’s alright, dearest Patton.” Roman soothed. He settled the kitten comfortably in his little friend’s arms and gave him a soft smile.

“Whatever you need is alright. We won’t be mad and we don’t need to understand it to accept that you need it.”

The baker tried to believe his friend’s kind words, but the thing he knew he’d have to do as soon as Logan had offered would make them angry, he knew it. He was frustrating and hurting them and they did not deserve any of it.

He was too scared to ask.

“It’s about him, isn’t it?”

Virgil’s voice was quiet and hard to read. The young man was half hiding behind the door, burrowing his hands deep in his pocket. He sighed, his whole, thin body appearing to become heavier with it. After a long moment, he pulled himself together to face his frightened friend. He wouldn’t fail him again with his anger and prejudice.

“It’s okay, Patton. I get that you worry. You don’t just stop caring about people who hurt you, even if they’re bastards. Even when you should. So, what do you need?”

Oh fuck.

Tears started streaming down Patton’s pale, bruised face. He swallowed a sob, still utterly silent, small and undemanding.

Both Logan and Virgil had frozen, fearful of getting too close, of doing the wrong thing, of having caused -

Roman gave the barista a subtle nudge and Virgil went, offering his arms awkwardly.

Patton burrowed into the embrace gratefully. He loved Virgil so, so much. When he felt safe enough to raise his head, he found Logan crouching in front of him, quiet and patient.

“Please don’t put him in prison.”

The words had been spoken almost too quiet to hear. Patton was clearly frightened to make his request. He knew it would hurt Logan. And it did. The detective looked devastated. Patton still felt threatened by him, even if it wasn’t for his own sake.

Logan’s silence was painful to bear, thought it was not reproachful. Finally, he nodded.

“I will not do anything without your consent, Patton. I promised.”

“Oh. Thank you, Logan.” The slight patissier mumbled.

“There is no need for gratitude, Patton.”

“Yes there is! I know this is normal for you, because you are amazing and smart and kind and so nice to me all the time, to everyone really, but it means so much to me when you say that. You have no idea how important the things you say are. I’m so grateful to you. You’re my hero.” Patton exclaimed, suddenly finding it very important that the older man understood just how marvelous he found him.

Logan flushed brightly.

The group tried their best to understand that Patton wasn’t able to just ignore what happened to Trevor and move on. He at least had to find out if he was badly hurt, so they agreed to find out if he was still in the hospital and how to contact him after they fed him and made sure he was comfortable. Everyone was wound up so tightly, the time to breathe would help them calm down.

Breakfast was marvelous. Patton was better able to enjoy being taken care of now that he found that no one was angry at him for needing to check up on Trevor’s health. He knew they were disappointed that he could not make a clean cut, though. He understood them, too. Patton wished he were able to just close this chapter of his life and walk away. He didn’t know what he still needed to hear to make it happen. Maybe he was just too stupid to know when to stop.

As if sensing his heavy thoughts, Roman made sure to distract Patton. Making sure to keep any weight off his injured ankle, he carried him to the kitchen Virgil had taken over and kept him entertained while they ate the lovely food the barista had prepared. Then, they settled him on the comfortable couch with the kitten and cleaned up the kitchen together to give Patton some privacy to find out how the man that had injured him so badly was faring.

Though he had been feeling much better during breakfast, now that he stared at the number Logan had written down in his tidy handwriting in dark blue ink, he felt afraid once again. Yesterday had been the worst fight he’d had to live though in a long time and perhaps the most disappointed he’d ever been. Just thinking about it made him barely able to hold back his tears. He covered his face with his hands and tried to think of something other than his feral expression, so betrayed, so hateful. He was hit hard by how much he loathed the thought of hearing his voice. How badly he never wanted to see him again. He feared this man, no matter how much he’d loved him. Still, he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t even find out how badly he was hurt. What kind of person would that make him? He was here, cared for so well and Trevor was all alone. No one would ask him how he was but Patton. He had no choice. With shaking hands, he picked up the phone – a land-line – of course Logan would still have one, dialed the number and was connected with Trevor’s room.

“Hello?”

Even though he’d called him, hearing Trevor’s voice was a shock to Patton’s system. It made him freeze for a long moment, heart racing with terror.

“Hello, what is it?” He repeated. Then, more quietly, “Is that you, babe?”

“Um, yes.” Patton muttered. He couldn’t get out more than a whisper. He was tiny and afraid again, guilty and helpless once more.

A shocked flinch almost made him drop the phone altogether. The kitten he’d been left with had pounced on the hand lying in his lap and tried to wrestle with it. It’s tiny tail was sticking straight like a little flag. Patton remembered an expression he’d learned from an Austrian student when he’d studied for his patissier-training in Germany for a few months. ‘Autodromkatzer’ they called the really little kittens, because they’re tails would stick up like the flag-poles at the back those funny bumper cars. He’d always wanted to have one. Turning his hand a little he let the kitten gnaw at his finger with its tiny teeth. It looked proud to have caught him. He tried to focus on the warm baby animal to get through the conversation.

“Babe?”

“Uh, yes. Sorry. Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry.” He stammered. Trevor couldn’t hurt him here, he reminded himself, only the feelings Patton just couldn’t control could. Trevor’s next sentence was enough to send him spiraling with guilt.

“You’re not here.” He sounded shaken. Alone. Patton struggled to find words through the tears gathering in his throat.

“I’m sorry you woke up alone. Are you hurt very badly?”

“Don’t pretend you care!” Trevor screeched suddenly, his voice almost breaking. “You did this to me! You brought him into our lives! How could you do this to us? I wasn’t enough and you went looking for someone better! Is that it? Did you want a better man?!”

“NO, Trevor, I never tried to-”

“Did you sleep with him?” Trevor interrupted. He sounded close to tears now. Patton clutched a hand over his mouth to hold himself together, breathing through the upset emotions for a moment.

“Never.” He whispered miserably. Nothing could eat away at his insides quite like his boyfriend’s suffering. His narrow chest ached so badly he had to wrap a bandaged arm around himself. “I never wanted to replace you, I swear. I love you. I only wanted you to be happy.”

Like a switch had been flipped, Trevor’s tone changed from broken to pleading, manipulating. Patton had never noticed it this clearly before.

“I want you to be happy too, babe. Don’t you see what that man is doing to us? He’s trying to steal you to keep you for himself where he can isolate you. He’s a psycho, you have no idea what he could do to you. Babe, he’s a cop, he can get away with doing whatever he wants with you and there’s nothing you could do about it.”

“Trevor, no-” Frustrated and worried for him, Patton tried to find the right words. He didn’t want him to work himself into a paranoid breakdown and he hated hearing him to upset, yet he couldn’t quite accept what he’d said.

“Logan isn’t like that, he would never hurt me.”

“HE ALMOST KILLED ME YOU DUMB BITCH DON’T YOU SEE?!”

Patton flinched hard, almost dropping the phone. Shaking with sudden terror, he pressed himself against the cushions. Despite being half a city away, he expected to feel the consequences of this explosive anger for a terrible moment.

A movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Logan stood in the doorway to the kitchen, framed by the colored glass and wood. He was clutching a dish towel in bruised hands, looking helpless. His dark eyes were large and worried, telling Patton he wanted to do nothing more than protect him somehow. Roman and Virgil were hovering behind him, frozen in their futile attempt to keep a wiggling Cat from climbing Roman’s back with sharp claws to get to the upper shelves and hover there in wait for unsuspecting victims. None of them looked anything like the abusive, controlling men Trevor was making them out to be. Patton had never seen the irony of his claims more clearly. He gave them a shaky smile.

Scooping the kitten up to his chest and holding it close, he braced himself.

“Trevor, please calm down. I’m so sorry you got hurt, but Logan was only trying to protect me. You left him no other choice. It wasn’t his fault.”

The unexpected reprimand was delivered softly, but it didn’t fail to have an effect. Trevor sounded taken aback. Once again, his tone changed seamlessly.

“You’re right, of course. I’m so sorry, babe. I- I deserve to get the shit kicked out of me, I shouldn’t have hurt you, you’re right, you’re always right. I don’t deserve you and I hate myself for what I did, please, I’m so sorry, I just want you to be happy. I’m so sorry I’m such a failure.” He rambled, his voice thick with tears and desperation. Horrified and a little disoriented at the sudden change, Patton rushed to reassure him.

“You’re not a failure! I’m so proud of you for how you wanted to try to fix things! You wanted to work on yourself and that is so good of you! I believe in you, you can get better! Please don’t say those things!”

Trevor’s response became soft as butter. He sounded so helpless, harmless.

“I can’t do it without you, though! Babe, I’m nothing without you! When I woke up alone I didn’t know how to go on. I love you so much, you’re the most important thing I have, you’re my babe. My love. I’ll try to be what you deserve, I’ll give you everything, I’ll listen to you, whatever you want, just please come home, don’t stay with that psycho. I don’t know what he told you, but he doesn’t love you like I do. He doesn’t need you.”

Patton froze. Yes, he was right. Logan didn’t need him.

His gaze fell on the clean floor at his feet, swept over the healthy plants, over Virgil whose cheeks were gaining color and Roman who was wrestling a confident stray, to Logan who was trying – and failing – to look like he was not watching Patton to see if he needed any help. Nicodemus sat on his shoulder nibbling a nut with both paws. The little animal had been adopted into a flat that was tidy and clean. There was no screaming here, no violent episodes, no broken glass in corners no matter how much Patton cleaned, no odd jobs that were barely legal and that forced Patton to pay the rent for both of them, no accusing looks and threatening, thick silences. Logan had his life under control. He didn’t need Patton in it.

Nothing could have prepared him for the relief he felt. Logan didn’t need Patton to make him eat or shower, to compensate for his unpredictable moods or to satisfy his emotional or physical needs. Logan didn’t need him to survive.

Patton had never truly felt the pressure he had been living with until this moment.

His narrow shoulders fell with an exhaustion that came with finally unwinding. Finally letting go. The thought of not being needed had always terrified him, until he had learned what it meant to be wanted, instead of needed.

“You’re right.” He muttered softly.

Trevor pounced on the change of heart with the desperation of a drowning man, modifying his tone to what he believed would make Patton so what he wanted, as the baker noticed.

“I know, babe. But it’s okay. You made a mistake with that man and you got in too deep with him, but I forgive you. I’ll always be there for you, I’d never leave you. Now everything can be different. Now you’ll come home and we’ll figure everything out.”

“No.”

A long, startled pause stretched on the other line.

“What-”

“I’m not coming home. I’m sorry. I really tried to give you what you need, but I’ll never be able to make things right for you. Only you can do that. Please get help.” He pleaded, making things quick before he lost his courage entirely. And softly, he added. “I love you.”

Patton hung up.

Astonished silence flooded the apartment. Though they had definitely tried not to listen, all three men were watching the patissier from the doorway of the kitchen, baffled at the abrupt cut the gentle baker had made.

The phone slipped from numb fingers and landed on the turquoise cushion with a dull thud. Patton was crying before any of them had the chance to process that he had just effectively evicted Trevor from his life.

His tears were hot on his cheeks and seemed to leave burning lines behind. Yet as he looked up through the haze he found not only endless patience and affection on the faces of the men he’d chosen over his boyfriend, but also awed pride.

They were proud of him.

Though he was crying, he felt nothing but relief.

********

During the next two days, Patton’s overwhelmed body and mind simply shut down. He was tired and drained to the bone by his injuries and the emotional stress his decision had caused him to the point of simply sleeping most of the time. Whenever he woke up, someone was there to fuss over him or at least he had a pet to cuddle. He was fed and cared for and finally, on the third day, he woke up and felt like he finally had the strength to face the world again. It felt like a new day.

That day was a Saturday and from what he could tell from the sounds of the apartment, the others were already awake. The shower was running next door and he could hear Logan’s annoyed voice grumbling and cursing from the bathroom over the running water. A moment later, Roman wailed his complaints about his ignored hygienic needs. Poor Logan really wasn’t safe anywhere.

Through the crack in the bedroom door, Patton saw the younger detective shuffle out of the bathroom in his silk night-gown with the large, smooth fabric adorned by a crimson flowery pattern threatening to slip over one shoulder, arms laden with the beauty products he had apparently not been able to wait for. There were little pieces of cotton stuck between the painted toes to protect the fresh coat of ruby polish. It made him waddle like a fancy duck. Surprised by his own feelings, Patton giggled. The moment the unexpected sound left his lips he knew he’d found his mission for the day. He’d make sure no one would have to worry about him anymore. The most important thing for him had always been to make his family happy and he had not been doing a very good job of it recently. He knew they’d worried and especially Logan seemed to have dealt badly with the knowledge that Patton had been with a troubled man and had refused the offered support. He must have felt very helpless.

He wouldn’t be the cause of any more worry. No Sir. Today, he’d smile and start making himself useful. It was hard to imagine how much they had to care for him in, well, the last few months, really. He’d been such a burden. The memories of Logan’s restrained, worried glances kept piling up in his head the more he thought about it. He’d asked so much of the poor man, how would he ever make up for it? The fact that he had slept away the days in the detective’s bed after literally having to be carried in his arms to safety felt impossible to wrap his silly little head around.

But now Patton felt some new hope. Yes, he was still hurting and yes, he was lost. More lost than he’d even been in fact. During all of his adult life, he’d been with Trevor. He’d always had him to focus on and structure his life around. Now, he was gone, along with the flat and the relationship that had given him stability and purpose. But the end of their life together had not ended Patton’s world as he’d been sure it would. He’d fallen and been caught in the most gentle embrace. This time, his laugh did not have to be forced. Especially considering his lovely Roman was the most exasperatingly adorable thing in the whole wide world for sure!

Having already passed the room, upon hearing the little giggle, Roman retraced his steps and stuck his ruffled head into the room. With the side cut and his uncombed hair standing up in a curled mess, Patton amended that an awkwardly strutting peacock might be more fitting than a waddling duck.

A happy peacock at that, since he brightened like sunshine as his attentive examination revealed his friend’s cheerful expression.

“Dearest Patton, the sight of your lovely face makes my heart soar! How are you faring this fine morning?”

“Morning, RoRo! I’m feeling like a new person!” Patton cheered with his sweetest smile, spreading his arms wide. His cheek was still tender and must have turned to a bluish purple, he knew, and his split lip protested when he smiled, but he didn’t bleed again, which was great.

The look of affectionate relief on his friends face was enough to melt Patton and make him feel so soft. How he adored Roman. He loved the way he looked so cute this morning, caught in the middle of his grooming, or the obnoxious need for attention that had probably made him sneak into the bathroom just as much as the desire for his rose-scented lotion. Sometimes, Patton thought he liked to annoy Logan just to enjoy the fact that his partner would scold him but still so obviously love him. Just to wake up and get to witness Roman harassing Logan during his shower (and most importantly get away with such a thing Patton would have been terrified to do) made him feel blessed and soothed his heavy heart. It was the atmosphere of this place – the sounds in all corners of the flat speaking of people comfortably going about their business. Not to mention the personal touches of everyone who lived here. One of Roman’s pictures hung above this very bed. Patton had looked at it a lot when he had woken up at night. The room was never really dark due to the timers on the planet-shaped lights spread around the room. He’d known about them from Logan’s confession of course, yet during his second night here, he’d noticed another endearing detail. The large image of a black, blue and purple cosmic nebula appeared to wake up in the near-darkness and became awash with a thousand glowing stars spread over the canvass. It was so beautiful and so thoughtful of Roman.

The next day, he’d found a book about renewable energy sources tidily filled with lavender and purple post-it notes in the chair next to the bed. And of course, he saw Logan’s presence everywhere. Though he’d been too tired to stay awake long, he’d examined the collectibles and self-built models of spaceships that had been strung from the ceiling or crammed between the books. Logan would not love to hear them called toys, but Patton still did, in the privacy of his mind. The more he cautiously snooped around, the more he found traces of the kid the serious detective tried hard to hide. There were a lot of detective novels with lovingly touch-softened pages and even quite a few comic books in the very bottom of the shelf. One was missing, probably swiped by Virgil to read half-hidden under the covers of his bed. Patton had wondered, tentatively, in his silly, hopeful moments, if he would be allowed to spread out his roots this way as well. The light gray hair floating through the sunlit patches of air in the bedroom suggested that maybe he already had.

Roman was more than happy to exchange him for his lotion and whatnot and sweep him into his arms, despite the dangerous wobble the cottoned toes caused him. Both he and Logan still insisted on carrying him everywhere, due to his ankle. He had a crutch, Logan had made sure to have everything he might need on hand, but he had never had the chance to use it.

The sleeping ball of fur was simply placed in his lap. It made a soft “Whrm?” noise upon being grabbed by a large hand and continued to sleep.

The living-room was filled with a delightful smell that wafted in from the kitchen like warm fog blanketing every surface. Virgil was humming to the quiet music Patton would describe as adorably punky be-bop. The edgy lyrics always made him think those kiddos needed a hug.

Roman settled Patton on a comfy chair at the long, wooden table in the kitchen where he could easily watch Virgil and wobbled to retrieve his lotions. Virgil stilled as he spotted them, spatula laden with an unflipped pancake in hand and pale feet bare on the clean floors. Pulling his sleep-messy curls back from his face, Patton grinned at him, genuinely happy to see his kiddo so at home and doing something he enjoyed. He had never had such an easy time summoning his smile and covering his aches and fears. And he would do just that! Virgil had been terribly silent and hurt the other day and Patton would make extra sure nothing reminded him of the things that had happened to him. He would not bring his failures and issues into this home anymore!

“Good morning, Virgil! What an eggsquisite day! I’ve never slept butter!” He chirped with perhaps a touch too much cheer, intending to make very sure his friend lost the concerned frown marring his pretty features.

Still, Virgil huffed a quiet laugh, shoulders sagging with relief.

“Morning Pat. Want some tea?” He mumbled.

“Sure! Let me help you, sweetie!” Patton offered, feeling perfectly capable of making his way around the kitchen with his minor injuries. He barely felt the cuts on his hand and arm anymore after Logan had diligently cleaned and checked them every day.

“Nah, it’s fine. I got this.” Virgil waved off his offer, worriedly waving the spatula in his direction to shoo him back into his seat. He looked like he would use it to coral Patton back into a sitting position if he had to. It was an endearing thought. Though he didn’t do well being catered to, Patton could see how comfortable Virgil was with the pancakes baking, the pretty, colorful fruits diced in a bowl behind him on the counter and the eggs bubbling in another pan. He’d claimed this space for himself and was ruling it confidently. The atmosphere was contagious. Patton couldn’t remember feeling so light and calm before breakfast in a long time. He was so proud of Virgil.

Instead of following his ever present urge to work to make the people around him happy and anticipate and fulfill their needs, Patton allowed himself to settle down and watch the fattening raccoon noisily demolish the fruit peels left for it on the counter. A moment later, a thick walled ceramic mug was placed before him, steaming with sweetened tea.

“Thanks a brunch!” He exclaimed, smiling in a way he hoped conveyed just how well he thought the former gang member was doing. He knew his praise made him shy, so he tried to convey his love and pride non-verbally as much as he could. Even so, Virgil flushed and ducked his head.

The sound of a closing door announced Logan’s immediate arrival and caused the barista to grab a grumbling raccoon under the belly and settle it on the floor with its bowl. After a quick wipe of the counter he was back to innocently flipping pancakes by the time the detective entered the room.

A quick burst of white hot fear shot through Patton. Had the raccoon not been allowed on the counter? Would Logan get angry? He’d been feeling very well a second ago, but now he could not help remembering how intimidating the tall detective could be in his rare, intense fits of anger.

The disgruntled glance Logan examined the counter with showed that he was not fooled about the whereabouts of the raccoon, but he said nothing about it. A little smile lit up Virgil’s face as he found that he was allowed to get away with his transgression. Neither man seemed inclined to pay more attention to the situation.

Patton hid a trembling sigh behind his cup, quickly recovering from his brief moment of shock. It was like missing a step and feeling like falling – frightening, but only for a moment. His little heart would slow down eventually.

“Good morning Patton, Virgil.” Logan nodded to the both, trying, and failing, to subtly examine Patton. The patissier smiled brightly at the taller man.

“Heyja Logan! Don’tcha worry, there is muffing wrong with me! Roman carried me here and Virgil wouldn’t let me help at all. I couldn’t hurt myself if I fried!” He joked, pleased with the way the sound of the sizzling pan underlined his puns.

A small twitch of his lip told Patton that the return of the puns was appreciated. He was so glad to see the man’s shoulders loosening. He refused to allow any dark thoughts to enter this flat today. The guilty dreams he’d battled during his tired days and nights had been more than enough. It was time to start over and make his friends smile as much as he possibly could. The mission invigorated him and filled him with a purpose he’d been so terrified to live without. He focused on it completely, finally managing to not feel torn by conflicting loyalties anymore. He’d managed to make a decision that was final and that allowed him to start a new chapter.

Roman joined them just in time to be fed, briefly having to squabble about his chair with Cat who liked to steal his spots in particular to place her paws on the table and creepily stare at everyone.

It occurred to Patton that this was the first time he got to experience a normal day at the flat.

Breakfast in Logan’s household was something Patton had imagined a lot while he’d brewed black coffee before the sun rose and tidily set the table in the hopes of making Trevor eat. He’d wondered what it would be like to see them all sitting together in the morning ever since Virgil had mentioned they ate together.

Very domestic, as it turned out. Whenever Roman wasn’t chatting, Logan and Virgil had short, quiet conversations, like they needed very little space next to the loud young man to understand each other. They all made sure to involve Patton and entertain him, while still trying not to demand too much. He must still feel very fragile to them. Or perhaps they did not trust his sudden good mood. Patton had the feeling he would have to deal with some issues sooner or later, as he always did when he pushed away his dark feelings during happier times at work, but for now he felt freed. There was no going back and for once, he felt too good to beat himself up. There was more than enough to distract him after all.

As the day continued he found that the members of Logan’s household tended to drift apart doing various things on their own without really being alone. Roman read magazines on the couch, occasionally showing the pictures to Patton or gossiping with him and later settled on a cushion on the floor to paint.

Logan would scowl at him and berate him about the growing radius of supplies scattered around him like debris after a colorful meteorite strike after he nearly brained himself from stepping on a paintbrush on his way to the kitchen. He buzzed around the flat with various cleaning supplies before he got busy with his books or laptop in his room or occasionally at his desk in the living-room, though he made his rounds through the flat like a clockwork, harassing people to drink water like a mother-hen. Even the pets were carried to their bowls whether they wanted to or not. Trying to scoot backwards between his feet to escape was pointless. Being a good pet lead to tasty rewards, though. Nicodemus clearly had it figured out long ago and was gazing at the poor, dumb beasts trying to evade the clumsy love and care with aloof pity.

Virgil snuck out of the flat for two hours with a gym bag once but otherwise he drifted through the rooms silently like a pale ghost, making snacks, working in his room or curling up with Patton in the very corner of the sofa to read quietly.

The patissier himself had been settled on the couch with a nest of pillows, surrounded by an odd collection of things his friends thought he might enjoy. Books and magazines, the remote control for Netflix kids, cookies and a tablet for scrolling through Pinterest, and set aside for when his hand was healed more, an adult coloring book and even knitting needles and a ball of rainbow-colored wool, both still packed together in plastic. Logan had left it for him like a reverse thief in the night, blushing bashfully.

Patton awoke from his nap as the shadows lengthened from the mid-afternoon sun. Before they’d all fallen into a food induced coma, Virgil had cooked lunch for them while Logan had diced the vegetables into very tidy squares. The creamy pumpkin soup with garlic-herb baguettes had made everyone sleepy and caused the comfortable silence that was still heavy in the air as Patton rubbed his eyes. He’d slept more than enough during the last few days. Freeing himself from the tangle of Roman’s long limbs, he quietly got up and headed for the kitchen. Though he’d been very well entertained, he couldn’t help the familiar urge that drew him to the workspace. Creating something lovely and tasty was the best way for him to put his mind at ease and he knew very well that too much time to think would hardly be a good idea. It would undoubtedly leave him spiraling with thoughts of who he’d left behind and allow him to remember of all of the threats Trevor had made about what he’d do if Patton ever decided to leave him in vivid detail. With Roman’s cheerful help, he’d already knitted a fair length of a quite uneven scarf in order to keep his mind pleasantly blank, making the kitten fall asleep after exhausting itself chasing after Patton’s wool. Yet, nothing soothed him quite like baking.

Logan had left the crutch within his reach so he now used it to get around. It was no trouble for Patton, since he knew the pain of walking on injured limbs would become ignorable with enough distractions after a while. After quietly easing the lovely doors shut so not to wake Roman snoring noisily on the sofa, Patton dared to roam around the beautiful, brightly lit kitchen like he’d dreamed for so long. The white, classy cabinets and the warm, wooden floor made the space so comfortable and inviting to him. He’d secretly dreamed a lot about what he’d do here given half the chance, and baking was only a part of those daydreams. He wasn’t serious of course. Daring to suggest redecorations in a flat where he actually had no business spreading his issues would be unbelievably rude and he did feel a bit ashamed of his thoughts, but it was just a harmless hobby, he told himself. No one needed to know.

First, he opened the balcony doors to let in the fresh air. There were a few sensible, evergreen plants placed around the sunny space, but otherwise Logan hadn’t done too much with it yet. Patton had so many nice ideas. Colorful cushions and low benches and maybe a pretty fabric pulled over the balcony to shield them from the brightness. And lots of cheerful flowers to go along with the useful herbs Logan or Virgil had planted there. And fairy lights for the evening. Also a few flowers on the table in the kitchen and perhaps some candles in varying shades of blue would made the space feel even more like a home. He could clearly imagine how well his professional, turquoise Kitchen-aid would fit in with the matching colors of the living-room.

He shook his head at his silly ideas. Best not to let a jumbled mind like his run wild, he’d only say something dumb and insult somebody.

Now, what could he bake to make himself useful? Logan had repeatedly said he could, (“‘Make yourself at home’, is, I believe, the correct figure of speech”), yet he was still a little shy about looking around. Would Logan even have baking supplies? He’d never heard him mention it before and he knew Virgil preferred to cook. Best have a look around and find out. Making extra sure to remember the way things were stored so not to make the tidy man mad at him, Patton started searching the cabinets like a slightly nervous kid during Easter. Bending and walking hurt and he got dizzy standing up to the point of almost toppling over, but he could handle that. While he found some useful baking pans and even a muffin-tray, as well as an old set of cookie cutter shapes he was quite intrigued by, the real prize awaited him in the little pantry whose door was discreetly placed in the far corner.

All of the wooden shelves along the walls were neatly labeled and most of the ingredients and supplies were stored in mason jars to protect against moths or stacked in pretty, weaved baskets. There was enough stuff to feed the whole household for weeks. Logan seemed to be a little on the paranoid side, which surprised – precisely - no one.

Curiosity awakened, Patton limped into the little room, examining the sections – rice, grain, soy, lentils, nuts, jams (lots), canned vegetables, oh – baking. Next to large mason jars filled with three different types of flour he found a whole section of the shelves near the back filled with baskets whose contents he was quite familiar with. He found one labeled ‘sugars’ filled not only with brown, powdered and white sugar, but also with an array of sugar-based decorations like sprinkles and a colorful selection of candies. Another box contained various little packages of baking soda, yeast, citrus-, rum- and butter-aroma, several spices like cinnamon, lavender, ginger, nutmeg and other little helpers. There even was a basket containing different kinds of chocolates, chocolate-chips and pure cocoa powder. Everything was still sealed in its original package.

Patton stood for a long moment, hands clasped over his mouth to stifle any sound, and just cried.

Why were they doing this?

He tried to grope for an explanation that did not make him look like a hopeful, deluded idiot. Had Logan or Virgil planned to learn how to bake? Patton didn’t think so. Before his mind’s eye, the image of Logan diligently researching baking supplies was clear as day. He’d gone shopping with Roman – the candies were far too elaborate and playful for the serious man, and perhaps Virgil had come too. Lavender and ginger were hardly part of the basic set. His clever barista had an eye for flavors though.

His lip hurt like a flash of white hot lightning as he bit it to stifle his gasps as he cried, alone in this tiny little room where Logan and his family had created a space for him. He didn’t even know why his tears had come this time, he just felt so overwhelmed. He should be laughing, but all he did was cry. All he ever did was cry. Virgil had had it much harder than him, he bet, but he was sure he’d never been this ridiculous.

Trying to pull himself together only made him gasp harder for a moment. He had to lean heavily on the sturdy shelves, making the glass jars filled with peaches and cherries clink together softly. Yet with the passing minutes, he calmed. Settling his gaze firmly on the supplies bought for him, Patton manage to ignore his dizziness and focus. To his own shock, a wheezing laugh escaped him. His chest felt jumbled and untidy with its storm of emotions, but a few were starting to gain the upper hand. Love, for one. He felt loved and he just loved these men so much in return. They’d made a group effort to give Patton what he wanted so much – what he’d always wanted in life. A place to belong. He was jittery with joy suddenly, and realized he was crying with happiness.

This was what he’d always looked for but had never gotten in his life with Trevor. A home where he was seen with all of his needs and wishes. A place where he was wanted and where he was allowed to just be. Knowing he wouldn’t dare to do it himself, Logan invited him to take space for himself instead of making him reduce his bothersome needs to the bare minimum. Sometimes he’d felt like Trevor’s mental illness had pushed everything else out and had not left enough space in their lives for more than one person, so Patton had to be less than that. Less emotional, less needy, less… himself.

He allowed another laugh, finding the feeling just so nice. He hadn’t indulged in the pleasure of laughing in so long. Grief and elation were so close together right now, he didn’t know how to tell them apart sometimes. His mood swings scared him a little, but then again, he’d always been a little all over the place. Messy.

His hands were salty with tears because he’d brushed them over his tear-damp cheeks, mindful of the purplish bruise. He’d have to wash them extra carefully. Now, time to bake and be well. He was determined to heal.

As he examined the ingredients, he realized that his bandaged hand wouldn’t make things easy for him, but again, what was new? He’d leave the crutch and just hobble around a bit. Like a rabbit. It would be fun.

But what would he bake?

As he rifled through the things he loved so much, the tastes and smells appeared in his mind, combining vividly with everything his fingers touched. The aromas of vanilla, cinnamon, citrus, butter and chocolate were as clear to him as if he were working with them right now. He tidied around himself a little as he thought, putting the packets back in order and turning to rearrange the jars with the various fruits nicely. The glass of cherries landed in his hands again and he thought of the German curse Logan had thrown Roman’s way this morning in the shower. Patton knew some German from his unfortunately brief time learning there. It had been the biggest adventure of his life! He hadn’t thought he’d be brave enough to go through with it, all alone on another continent. But the scholarship had been paid for and he’d just been so curious. Even Trevor, who had been doing better than he had in the last few years, had seen how much he wanted to go. And it had been so worth the apprehension. He’d found the place so quaint with its colorful half-timber houses, old shutters and geraniums at the windows and the people hadn’t been as strict as he’d feared at all. Actually, many had been just as confused as him. And he’d learned most of the popular curses from a colleague. That was something he couldn’t tell anyone of course.

Logan’s dad had been German, if Patton remembered correctly. He wondered if he would appreciate something from home, sort of. He didn’t even know if the detective had ever been there, but considering how well educated he was, he’d probably seen much more of the world than little Patton.

Mind made up and looking forward to getting dirty, Patton started gathering supplies and piling them on the counter – mercifully without dropping any of them because of his injured hand. The German Black Forest Cake was a favorite of Patton’s, even though he sometimes thought it could do with more cheerful colors. The only concession he would make would be to leave out the Kirschwasser, and not only because there was none to be found. Though he sometimes used alcohol to bake in his Pat-isserie, he’d never included any in the recipes he made at home. He’d grown up with the horrors of an alcoholic father and had lived in constant fear of losing Trevor to the same addiction. It was one of the only things he’d ever put his foot down in the relationship. He would have only little alcohol in the flat, if at all.

It was something he’d guiltily looked for in the pantry as well. He hadn’t really gotten to know Logan and Roman properly in their private space yet and he knew how men could show a different picture in public before revealing their struggles in the comfort of home. He tried hard to ignore that some part of him waited for the other shoe to drop. He hadn’t found any hint of a terrible secret yet, though. There was some white wine in the pantry that looked cheap enough to cook with as well as a bottle each of sparkling-wine, Rosè and bourbon pushed into a corner with the gift-cards still attached. The wine was still in its paper bag and the carton of the bourbon was unopened. Well, Patton had had his own fair share of impersonal gifts to deal with, so he could understand the reaction of just sticking them somewhere out of sight.

Reassured, Patton decided to simply heat some cherry jam with water to spread over the chocolate cakes for the added moisture and mix it with almond extract to make some of the bitterness balance the sugar and replicate the sharpness of the alcohol.

After turning on the oven so the batter would have a warm and toasty home, he leaned against the counter to take the weight off his ankle and started measuring flour, salt, baking soda and cocoa powder for the chocolatey note and sifting them into a large bowl. The smell of the cocoa filled the room immediately and rose in the air like a powder soft cloud. Holding his tools carefully so not to have them slip because of his cottony bandage, Patton held his uninjured hand under the sieve as he shook the dry mixture into the bowl and sighed at the silk-like texture on his pale skin. The contact to soft, pleasant materials like yielding flour you could make satisfyingly smooth imprints in with your spoon, cool, brightly-colored sprinkles, or melting chocolate had always created a contrast to his life at home that could pull him out of his head and into the moment entirely. The darkened flour flowed down between his fingers like water, soft as flower-petals.

Pushing the mixture aside, Patton prepared the pan so the cake would come out without breaking into sad little pieces before preparing to separate the eggs. Beating the egg white into a solid cloudy mass and carefully mixing it with the rest of the batter would make the whole thing delightfully light and fluffy. Also, Patton loved the smooth and pure look of egg white clouds growing solid in flowing swirls in the bowl.

Knowing he’d need a little more space to work, the patissier pushed aside the pans quietly while grabbing another bowl for the egg-shells. In his mind, he was already a few steps ahead, which caused him to forget about his precarious grip on the smooth glass caused by his bandaged fingers. The pristine bowl slipped from his hand before he’d really noticed and shattered with a shockingly loud crash, exploding crystal-clear shards all over the ground.

Patton jumped in shock, terror stabbing through his insides like an ice-cold knife. His heart was racing instantly, cold sweat breaking out on his pasty skin. He stumbled backwards, instinctively wanting to hide, as a solid form appeared behind him.

The little patissier flinched hard, barely repressing a shriek as he was grabbed.

“Patton, please don’t be alarmed. I did not intend to startle you.” A calm voice rumbled in his ear.

For a long moment, Patton heard nothing but the deep baritone close to him and knew that he would be hurt with absolute certainty. His whole body trembled as his lungs struggled to work, adding dizziness to panic. He felt terrifyingly helpless.

Yet, the moment of being shaken, being beaten and tossed to the ground passed.

The smaller man’s rabbit-fast heart seemed to miss a beat from sheer relief as he was slowly released from his all encompassing terror. Logan hadn’t grabbed him, he’d wrapped his arms around him and pulled him back so his vulnerable, sock-clad feet had ended up standing on his running shoes, safely away from the sharp glass glinting in the mid-day sun.

Looking down at the image of himself standing on Logan’s feet like a child, Patton had to laugh despite his breathlessness. He was still reeling from his sudden fear, but the way he was being held was just too funny to keep his amusement at bay. Feeling him relax in his arms, the detective helped Patton turn around in his embrace so he could hold on to his shoulders and stand a little safer. Tension seeped out of him as Patton breathed out a sigh that seemed to release all of the tightness in his muscles. He held him closer carefully with his arms around his narrow waist. Despite neither having intended it, the hold turned into a comforting hug as Patton’s forehead fell against the cotton of the navy-blue t-shirt covering Logan’s shoulder.

The taller man had dressed for a run before he had been lured into the kitchen by tasty smells. He hadn’t meant to sneak up on Patton. The way he’d been so relaxed and competent with a soft smile on his lovely lips had just drawn him in. Now there was nothing separating them but two t-shirts warmed by their bodies. Getting lost in the moment, Patton turned his head to lay his cheek on the worn material, finally sinking against Logan’s chest like he should have days ago. They had both been so shy to touch for different reasons. He hadn’t realized how badly he had wanted this contact until now. His friend was so alive and reliable against his body. His chest expanded with quiet breaths Patton could feel warm against his neck and his heart beat a little too quickly against his own. Trustingly, he pushed himself close, liking the way he could feel so much more of the other man’s chest without the layers of pressed fabric between them. Every muscle in his back seemed to respond to the way Patton’s hands ran over them and he was getting absolutely lost in it. He even caused a little shiver in the stoic man that was just so adorably in character for him. He enjoyed that he knew that the detective was blushing even more hotly right now, despite how different the embrace was in some ways. For one, he was taller than usually, standing on the other man’s feet.

Logan ran a soothing, careful hand over the slender back without breaking the secure hold around the waist in his grip. With a little shifting, he managed to take the pressure off of the injured leg. The baker shouldn’t be standing up in the first place. Regrettably, he knew he’d better get him off his feet. He allowed himself a last breath of the pale curls though, smelling vanilla and cocoa and a warmth that came from Patton as much as from his own insides when he pressed him against his body. He was filled with protectiveness and affection so powerful it seemed to seep into every crevice of his being.

“We should avoid aggravating your sprained ankle. May I set you down on the counter?” He asked softly, mindful of how close his lips were to Patton’s ear so not to startle the relaxed creature in his embrace. He was gratified to notice how long the other appeared to need to respond, as if he was too relaxed to process the words. Indeed he could feel the small form grow pliant and heavy in his arms, trusting him to press him closer to hold him up.

“Hmn?” Blinking his eyes open, Patton lifted his face towards his friend, bringing them very close. Despite his bruised face, he was achingly pretty.

“Your ankle.” Logan reminded him gently, his deep voice resonating between them. “I would like to lift you onto the counter in order to avoid pressure on the pulled ligaments.”

“Oh, right.”

Growing more aware of his surroundings, Patton pulled back self-consciously and looked down at the broken glass, instantly pulling his limbs closer to his body to make himself smaller. Guilt coalesced in this chest.

“I’m so sorry I broke your bowl. I didn’t mean to make a mess. If you didn’t want me to clutter your kitchen I-”

“No!” Logan hastened to reassure him, uncharacteristically falling over his worlds in his fear for losing the pleasant atmosphere that had finally made Patton relax. “No, I am happy you are making yourself at home. Please utilize whatever you like. I enjoy seeing you and Virgil use the kitchen. And… I apologize for interrupting you.” He added self-consciously, already feeling a flush climb his cheeks. How could he be so rude?

Patton huffed a little laugh at how sweet Logan was to him. The last of his fear seemed to drain from him like sand running through the cracks of old stone. The more vulnerability the other showed him, the more confident in his wish to put him at ease Patton grew.

“Okay. Thank you.”

With a shy smile, Logan ducked his head. Shifting his grip, he gently wrapped his strong hands around the narrow hips and lifted the patissier up with barely an effort. Patton yelped despite having been warned and held on to the ever shifting muscle of Logan’s shoulders as they flexed under his hands. With a little giggle, he found himself safely deposited on the counter between the ingredients, a flushed, bashful detective standing before him. This time, they were pretty much of equal height. It was almost impossible to avoid eye contact this way, since his usual strategy of looking over Patton’s shoulder when embarrassed failed to work this way. Logan gazed at the tender, hazel eyes for a long moment before he couldn’t handle his shyness anymore. Ducking his head, he mumbled something about checking his ankle if he did not mind and suddenly he was gone.

Having swept the glass aside unceremoniously, he had crouched down and started brushing leftover glass dust from the cheerfully colored socks. Shocked at the sudden, ticklish sensations, Patton laughed in delight and pulled his feet up protectively, hugging his legs to his chest. Logan pulled his hands back abruptly.

“I apologize. May I examine your ankle for additional injuries?” He asked patiently, looking up from the ground at Patton far above him. The little patissier’s breath caught as the humbleness of the gesture sunk in. Logan was literally kneeling before him, keeping his hands loosely folded in his lap as if in prayer. The moment suddenly felt terribly intimate.

Feeling his breath catch in his throat, Patton lowered his feet slowly, wanting the attention the man before him was offering yet feeling oddly bashful. He looked vulnerable like that, settled at his feet as if waiting for a benediction, hopeful and undemanding. Even after Patton had uncurled, he waited for his nod before taking hold of his foot with the utmost care. First, he made sure no glass had caught in the material of his sock before carefully pulling the material down. The air felt cool on his foot in comparison to the warmth of Logan’s hand as he cradled his ankle to avoid moving it after slowly unraveling the bandage that gave him stability. Patton’s breath caught as those long fingers softly brushed over the swollen area.

“I’m sorry. I did not intend to hurt you.” The detective offered immediately, stopping his explorations.

“It’s fine. You’re really- um- really nice about it. Toetally sweet. I am head over heels with how you take care of me!” Patton joked, softly kicking his now neglected feet. He felt good. Fluttery, somehow.

He saw Logan bite back a small smile and allowed himself to enjoy the bright happiness heating his insides. The loving attention seemed to warm his limbs with an exciting sensation washing through him. His friend’s slightly calloused hands closed around his calf to hold him still as he examined his foot, before carefully brushing the back of his fingers over his sole to make sure no glass had cut him or was still stuck to his skin. A shiver ran down Patton’s body that was only partially due to ticklishness. The room had become intimately silent while Logan re-wrapped the still slightly swollen joint.

“You are healing adequately.” He muttered, sounding satisfied. Yet he did not appear to be ready to release Patton. Gently insistent, he made sure to check the other foot for cuts and glass before replacing both socks and even rubbing some warmth into the now a little cool toes tenderly. Patton felt soft.

Logan demanded Patton stay on the counter while he cleaned up the glass, so he kicked his feet softly and watched the unfamiliar scene of having somebody contently clean up for him. Once he was done, he asked for his hand to examine it with a critical glance.

“You should allow your injuries sufficient time to heal to ensure optimal flexibility. Some of your cuts were deep enough to damage the muscle tissue underneath the skin.” The detective complained softly. Despite his criticism, he cradled the smaller hand gently between his own while brushing his thumb over the back soothingly. Patton hunched his shoulders guiltily.

“You’re right, of course. I’m really sorry, Logan. I just get so antsy and then I need to do something, you know? I should have known better, but I have to work whenever you’re not around to take care of me too, so I thought… never mind. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.” He asked in a small voice.

“There is no need to apologize, Patton. I have no right to dictate your actions and I did not intend to lecture you.” He appeared to puzzled over a problem for a moment while he gently rubbed the hand in his grasp.

“I would like to help you fulfill your need for productivity. Do you suppose you would still be satisfied if I acted on your behalf? I am not a proficient baker, but I should be able to follow your instructions with reasonable accuracy.”

Patton brightened instantly, immediately taken by the idea.

“You would bake with me? Really? I thought you wanted to go out. You’re dressed for a run...”

“It is of no consequence. Allow me a moment to put my trainers away and wash my hands, then we may proceed according to your wishes.”

Oh, the patissier was awed by the idea. He loved baking with friends, it was such a comfortable thing to do! He just hoped Logan really wouldn’t mind following his instructions or grow bored or irritable. He was such a patient and skillful man, though. What could possibly go wrong?

As it turned out, baking didn’t come as naturally to Logan as it did to Patton. The detective listened respectfully and attentively, but even though he did as the baker asked, somehow, even the most simple things went differently for him than for Patton. Even during his first task, the egg yolks threatened to break and fall into the egg whites as he tried to separate them, which would ruin any chance of creating a solid structure when beating them. They’d only cracked one egg and already three pasty pieces of calcium-white shells were floating in the bowl. Of course Patton would never dare to interrupt Logan’s efforts. He didn’t want to make him feel bad or risk the anger hurt pride so often brought about, yet he itched with the wish to take a hold of his hands and guide them.

Depositing the shells in their bowl, the detective huffed a frustrated sigh and turned to the patissier.

“Patton, would you please help me improve?”

The smaller man brightened like a flower opening in the sunshine. He hadn’t expected Logan to allow him to show him how to do something, much less ask for support. He instantly felt at ease and appreciated. Once again, he was awed by how confident and composed this man was. It was wonderful not to have to fear aggression caused by a feeling of inferiority.

Once Patton knew his aid was appreciated, they worked together so well. Often, he would reach across the counter he was sitting on and direct the older man’s hands to show him the motions he needed or guide his hands so the cherries would be spread uniformly or the cakes would be cut into even layers by turning the plate as he moved the knife through it. Though Logan blushed and was clearly embarrassed at not performing to perfection, he never snapped at Patton or held his interference against him. After a few hours of companionable baking, Logan had proven himself to be grateful for his advice and guidance and had even made him flush with pleasure a few times by complimenting his skills.

The patissier had been floored by the admiration and respect he’d seen in the detective’s eyes as he’d spoken about skills Patton had perfected or the amount of information he could provide about the process of creating textures and flavors. Logan spoke about temperature, chemistry and components reacting to each other but to Patton, it was just experience and feeling and fun. Baking wasn’t hard, was it? Anybody could to it. Yet, as he scooted close to the man he thought could do everything perfectly and gently guided his motions as he evenly spread the cream around the layers of chocolate cake, cream and cherries, he thought perhaps he could be a little more proud of his abilities.

Their eyes met over the cake, causing them both to still. They were very close.

“I learned a lot from you, Patton. Thank you for your patient instructions.” Logan muttered softly, as if he feared disturbing the quiet that had comfortably settled between them.

The smaller man grinned, his face bright with joy. “Aww thank you! I really enjoyed baking with you, you did such a good job! I’m really proud of how well you did and we worked so well together, I really felt we have a confection!”

Both felt warm with affection and appreciation for the other, smiling softly. The silence between them felt comfortable as Patton showed Logan how to place the chocolate shavings at the side of the cake with practiced ease. His flour-dusted curls brushed along the taller man’s chin. The detective slowly reached up, showing his movements clearly, and brushed them back behind the patissier’s ear with deliberate tenderness. Patton’s breath caught. He’d hardly noticed how close they’d become. His thigh was a warm line of contact with Logan’s hip where he leaned against the counter. He felt very warm, suddenly.

His little heart fluttered excitedly as Logan’s dark eyes held contact with his. He was reminded abruptly of how handsome he was with his dark lashes usually half hidden by black-framed glasses and raven hair contrasting sharply with his pale skin. Despite wearing only a t-shirt and close fitting workout pants instead of a suit and tie, his even features made him look distinguished.

Patton shivered with a sudden burst of pleasure as he realized that his pale brown locks were still woven around the others fingers, causing a lovely, lightning-bright sensation when he moved. The detective let the cool strands slip through his hands with a look of wonder on his face, his touch so soft it felt like nothing more than a caress.

After a long moment, Logan smiled. The expression seemed to light up his whole face and soften his eyes. The usually so serious man looked deeply content in a way he hadn’t seen till today. Patton’s heart seemed to miss a beat and a sensation quite like falling made his whole body feel light and giddy.

———-

Please reblog my work, my darlings!

ART:

Have a disheveled Patton in an oversized sweater to make your day better!!!

Keep him safe is now a Meme together with To build a home which is too cool! Thank you @lemon-the-ups-man

And how adorable and surprisingly deep is this image of Patton with a little smile (and a bruise on his cheek, oh no) by @not-safeforsanders

Look at this cool concept for a cover up for Virgil’s tattoo made by @lissaslifestory! Lots of others helped with tips as well. Its really well thought out and there’s even a drawing!

And there is a picture drawn of it that I just found!!! @doctorwhooian made it and it’s lovely!

FICS:

@broadwaytheanimatedseries  did some work on the amazing first chapter of Keep her safe and made it even better!

THEORIES:

I loved this idea about Roman’s father and his reaction to Ro and the issues he and Virgil could face in high society so much, especially because a lot of people pitched in. Have a look if you like!

Next Chapter

[imbruedinfear-a]

@undeadrphub​ asked: ALL OF THEM FOR JAY

🍍  :    how comfortable is my muse in their body? how do they feel about their height,  weight,  strength,  and body type?  how important is being attractive to them? 

this man would kill to be taller in .0002 seconds if he could. he was bullied for his height, bullied for being severely underweight, bullied for feminine hips, for.. literally anything. he hates it all. as an adult, he’s managed to pull himself out of the underweight category, but it’s solely from muscle. he’s still incredibly thin and small, just as he’s always been. you can’t get him to be comfortable without an oversized hoodie to hide in. he vaguely cares about being attractive, but it’s more ‘i don’t want them to be embarrassed to be hanging out with someone as fucking ugly as i am’ than anything else. if he’s not working or going out with people, he won’t even think of trying to improve appearance.

🍅  :    how does my muse feel about plastic  /  cosmetic surgeries   &   procedures?  is it something they have done or would do?  do they mind if others do it? 

dislike. who the fuck cares about their appearance that much? granted, he’s had a nose job, but it was so he could still fucking breathe rather than cosmetics. he won’t dislike you as a person for it, but he’s going to instantly find you unappealing. it just bothers him for some reason.

🍏  :    how stable is my muse’s physical health?  do they go for regular or semi-regular checkups by a physician?  do they have any diagnosed illnesses and / or take any medication?  how often do they get sick?

stability whomst? he has two modes of health: sick once a year or sick every other week. it depends on how much food he’s been eating and whether or not he’s blown food money on beer. fuck doctors. his overall health is fucked. doctors cannot explain why he doesn’t have x problems and how he’s even still alive after all of the beatings he’s had, especially when it comes to the brain damage. he has seizures, sometimes an arm will stop working for a bit, sometimes he can’t hold anything, sometimes he’ll have a burst of amnesia. he’s a medical mystery to the point there are literal scientific articles on his case, and 98% of the time if he lands in the hospital for something they’ll just shrug it off. it’s gotten to the point he’ll break bones and still not go, because he learned how to fix that fucking problem himself when he was like 12.

🍎  :    how stable is my muse’s mental health?  have they been diagnosed with any mental illnesses and  /  or conditions?  do they have any undiagnosed mental illnesses and  /  or conditions?  do they or should they attend therapy? 

:^) he’s gotten away with murder ( though it was self-defense ) through the insanity claim, which is actually really fucking hard to use. that should give you an idea of his scores on mental exams. but again, he has brain damage, and every single psych he’s ever interacted with has mentioned that they can no longer determine what’s an actual mental illness or what’s just his brain being physically unable to function correctly. he’s never been to therapy, but he’s been tested several times. his scores changed every time, for every section. the only thing anyone’s certain on is PTSD. Depression, Borderline Personality Disorder, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Antisocial Personality Disorder, General Anxiety Disorder, Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder, and Schizophrenia have been heavily considered, but even professionals argue with each other. he’s a medical mystery even in mental health. he needs therapy, but his disorders make him extremely avoidant of it. that is not to say everything i listed is true, nor is it to say there isn’t anything unlisted here.

🍑  :    how meticulously does my muse look after their physical appearance?  do they spend a lot of time on their hair,  makeup,  grooming,  and clothing?  is there a particular reason why they do or don’t?  

oof. how anxious is he? if he’s anxious, he’ll fix himself 1000x times. if he’s not doing anything special, he’ll walk out the door without a second thought. he doesn’t spend a lot of time on anything, but he does make sure he’s well groomed and put together. it should be noted, though, he doesn’t look in the mirror. his own apartment doesn’t have one, and he avoids public restrooms like the plague. his own reflection is a fucking trigger. this is probably why his eyeliner is always smudged.

🍒  :    how much does my muse value companionship?  do they constantly keep people around them,  or do they prefer to be alone often?  do they have or desire to have many friends?  do they see every meeting as an opportunity to make a new friend?  

confusing as fuck. he’s lonely as hell and constantly wants to hangout with people, but he also will have periods of avoiding them like the fucking plague. he loves hanging out! he fucking hates being out! who knows! for the most part, he has a lot of friends in a lot of places and will gladly drink with any group of strangers, but he’ll yeet the fuck out if you try actually getting close to him. he’s alone, always, at home and only around people when working or getting fucked up. having other people around too often, like a roommate perhaps, will make his mental health act the fuck up.

🍇  :    how would my muse describe their childhood?  how much has it impacted the person they are now,  or will become as an adult?  around what age did they or will they start to mature,  and why?  do they wish to go back to their days as a child,  or have they embraced adulthood? 

in his words, it was a great big pile of horseshit on fire. he literally has brain damage from it. he can’t leave his own room without convincing himself it’s going to be his living room, not his childhood home, and sometimes he’ll open the bedroom door and see his father standing there, and then he’ll fucking yeet back into bed. obviously it’s impacted him just a smidge. definitely not full of self-hatred and constantly fighting himself to do shit he likes, absolutely most definitely not traumatized in a million forms and continues to trigger himself because how the fuck do you go about your day not panicking half of the time. IN OTHER WORDS, he was a fucking parent to his brother when he was only 4, he would rather die in the most slow, most painful death than return to childhood. is he even still alive bc he doesn’t know

🍐  :    how intelligent is my muse overall?  are they smarter than the average person,  or less than?  are they primarily self-taught,  or did they acquire most of their knowledge in school?  are they more street smart or book smart? 

if you knew him before his skull was caved in, you would call him a freak for how fast he could think and solve problems. he was the type of genius you’d only heard about in stories, and he pissed off his teachers because he never even needed to be taught. show him the super simple problem once and he knew how to do everything for the next three weeks. he grew up on the streets and read shakespeare for fun. he lost it all. it now only shows rarely, on really good days, when the stars want to align.

🍉  :    which of the four seasons suits my muse best,  and why? 

summer. he literally lived outside most of the time since he was a kid, and summer nights were easiest. outdoor concerts, parties late at night, cookouts and campfires. he also loves storms.

🍌  :    is my muse inclined to help others,  or will they only do it when it benefits them,  if at all?  what makes them this way?  has it ever gotten them into trouble,  or inconvenienced them?

which personality is showing most at the time? he’s gotten accused of rape for helping a woman once. let that sink in. but also, he’s helped so many people he’s protected by half the city’s underworld. who knows.

🍊  :    does my muse desire romance?  is it something they would actively seek out,  or prefer to happen more  ‘  naturally?  ’  what is their love life like?  do they have any exes or past flings,  or crushes? 

o k a y listen. these r getting too hard i literally don’t know ok can i asked which disorder or which personality is showing most at the time for this bc IT CHANGES like everything always does. mostly, he’s,, weird. he actively seeks it out in the sense he’ll go on dates regularly, but he’s not actually trying to find a girlfriend. he’s carefree. also traumatized. really wanted romance until his heart was ripped to shreds and now he’s convinced himself he’s not lovable, too complicated, extremely undesirable, and especially undeserving of it. he won’t let it happen. no one should have to suffer by having to deal with him. if you’re including things that were just for fun and both parties knew it wasn’t serious, he’s had a few girlfriends. if we’re only including serious things, then he’s only had (1) serious boyfriend. They were together for nearly two years, and they split solely because Jeremiah a) didn’t want sex as much and b) didn’t want to try any kinks. def no trauma from that, absolutely doesn’t panic abt not being good enough or wanting it enough or being pleasing or being fun or attractive or too scarred. nope. also totally doesn’t do shit he doesn’t even like / triggers him just bc they want it gotta give it to them. perfectly fuckin’ fine after one relationship.

🍓  :    how is my muse typically seen by others?  does it ring true to who they really are?  does their reputation matter to them? 

our options: 1) aggressive 2) smooth n flirty 3) soft n adorable. he is all of the above. if you’re from the city and connected to the drug world at all, there’s a big ass chance you’re aware he was a major dealer at one point, the son of a psycho serial killer, and connected to damn near every gang in some way. there are few people who would be stupid enough to hurt him, just because there’s probably some member somewhere who’s going to get revenge for it. his rep is pretty positive if ur aware he basically turned the outskirts of the city from a shithole to a really good community. otherwise, u probably just think ‘criminally insane deliquent’. he doesnt rly care about it unless u start asking about his fucking dad.

🥝  :    does my muse have any  ‘  unusual  ’  habits, interests,  and  /  or talents?  do they hide it,  or are they proud of it? 

b r u h i dont fuckin know im skipping this one, he’s just obsessive compulsive about the oddest things

🍋  :    what kind of diet does my muse have?  do they eat regularly,  or the standard 2-3 meals a day?  do they have to be reminded to eat,  or are they likely to remind others?  do they cook,  or have others cook for them?  do they eat healthily,  or not so much?  

no diet. no food. eat if money, starve if none. remember to eat who?? o u mean eat everything. who fucking knows. he can cook really well, sometimes, maybe. pizza and taco bell 4 life. fuck vegetables. fruits are delicious and to be treasured. he mostly eats like shit, if he eats at all.

🥭  :    how important to my muse is their hometown,  or where they’re from?  are they proud of it,  or considered a hometown hero? did they move away,  or do they wish to?

none. no fucks given. still here bc no money to move. would happily fuck off to Paris or something.

[checkyourrealityevo]

IMVU: NUMBER ONE 3D CHAT OR NUMBER ONE CHEAT?

Let me begin this article by saying that I was very hesitant to write it. Mainly because this is not what Reality Check does. But after talking extensively with the subject and doing some further investigation, it intrigued me enough to tackle it.

Let us begin with some context, the subject of the article is about an IMVU user named YukuS, age 35.

For those who do not know what IMVU is, IMVU Inc., is an online metaverse and social game. IMVU was founded in 2004 and was originally backed by venture investors Menlo Ventures, AllegisCyber Capital, Bridgescale Partners, and Best Buy Capital. IMVU members use 3D avatars to meet new people, chat, create, and play games.

It was apparently one of the foundations of 3D chat much like Second life which came after it.

Sixteen years later it is still the number one 3D App on the market.

Now that we know who IMVU is, let me introduce YukuS.

YukuS (her username) became a member of IMVU in 2006. A couple of months later she became what is called a developer.

A developer on IMVU is someone who creates content for other members to use. This can be clothing, pets, apartments, scenery, you name it. When other users create this content, developers get credit which can be used to buy content on IMVU, music, and even exchanged for actual cash.

YukuS had created a substantial amount of content, and by her omission accumulated a substantial amount of credit (by her estimate over one million). She also forged various friendships over the years. From college to her mid-twenties she was an avid user of the IMVU platform.

But like all things, real life stepped in. YukuS got a real job and took part in the real world. IMVU had to take a backseat. But from time to time as she explained it, YukuS would go on and say hi to old friends, make new ones, and then use her years of hard earned credits from content she painstakingly created to go and purchase other content for her avatar.

This is the part of the story where we come to the plot.

YukuS like many of us found herself confined to her home due to the COVID-19 pandemic. So, like many of us, she decided to take this time of confinement to dive back into IMVU. Only there was a problem.

YukuS logged on to find out that her account was restricted.

She had access to log into her account and use her old items, she could communicate with old friends and accept requests from new ones, but she no longer had access to use the over million dollars credits she accumulated, even though she received notifications that her items were still being purchased from users.

She also could not develop new content, which meant she could not upload the new line of products she had created for the last six months.

The reason for the restriction, a missed email requested verification of her email account due to not hearing from her for an allotted time.

YukuS answered the email hoping it would solve the issue. It did not.

She took the next step in reaching out to customer service creating a ticket (IMVU case #03332021) in hopes that they could assist her with the issue. In IMVU’s defense, they like many other companies currently have a reduced staff due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

The customer support person she spoke to was named Glenn.

From her explanation, he asked her several questions to verify that she was the owner of the account which she answered. To her admission, one or two of the questions she did not remember due to it being over a decade since she opened the account.

After Glenn informed her that she missed some questions, his next request was for YukuS to submit a picture of herself holding up her government ID for verification in order to reinstate her account.

This made YukuS extremely uncomfortable, and she refused to do so.

Objectively speaking in the age of digital identity theft, I am inclined to agree with YukuS’s decision. It is a bit of an extreme request especially for a 3D social media platform. YukuS decided to do the alternative, which was send a screen shot of her email account showing that her account was still active and still getting emails from IMVU which also included purchases made by users.

Here we now come to the climax of this tale.

On October 17th, 2020 when YukuS attempted to log into her account, she was unable to. Thinking that she forgot her password she did a reset, except it was not allowing her to log in via her username but her email address.

Finally, able to log in she was in shock and horror (her words) to find that her account was no more. Instead YukuS’s profile of a 35-year-old female originally from New York, USA was replaced by a profile named awe2, a 26-year-old female from Indonesia.

As she researched further, her account was disabled, her content removed from the site, her over one million credits was gone along with items she had purchased over the years. She also no longer had contact with her many friends on IMVU.

By now you are probably saying to yourself, “So what is the big deal, she lost her account. It sucks but it’s not the end of the world.”

The problem is that for someone like YukuS, it is a big deal, it is a huge big deal.

YukuS is a young woman who suffers from a series of mental issues, she needs to take medication and see a professional in order to deal with these issues, and a 3D platform such as IMVU was an outlet that allowed her to deal with those issues.

The reason why I am writing about this is because I know YukuS, she is a friend of mine, and on October 17th, 2020 I had to talk a mentally traumatized thirty-five year old woman reduced to a sobbing child off a fucking ledge in the middle of the worse pandemic in the history of this country where isolation is key.

So as much as I am attempting to be objective with this article, I am a little bit pissed off as I write it.

I am assuming that like everyone else IMVU is supposed to be there for its patrons.

So, what happened?

Why did it fail to be there for YukuS?

Delay in communication is understandable, everyone all over the world are in uncharted waters in regard to this pandemic.

But why the hell would you delete a fourteen-year-old account of one of your developers that housed over one million credits that she earned?

Why would you do this in the middle of a pandemic where social distancing is key, and citizens are urged to stay inside? Where your platform is one of the key platforms of communication to the outside world for people like YukuS?

I never got into the whole 3D avatar platform thing; I have no interest of talking to a girl avatar controlled by a fat guy in his momma’s basement. Nor do I wish to be asked to go onto another chat so I can be coaxed to show my tits (Looking at you Second Life).

The only avatar I was happy to own is my Pokémon GO trainer avatar. Been trying to catch them all since 2014.

As I write this article, I began to realize why I decided to take it on.

I found the Reality Check.

In this time of uncertainty, where we are apart from our loved ones, it is extremely important to try and connect with them, especially with those with mental health issues. Because as much as companies like IMVU, celebrities, and politicians are there for you, they really are not and cannot be.

For all those mentioned, their main priority is to protect their bottom line, their image, or both.

If we’re all going to make it through this, it is our job to take care of the ones we love, it’s our job to pick up the phone, send a text, or do a video chat with the people we care about in our lives, to make sure that they are okay, and will be okay when this all ends.

IMVU from what I can tell failed YukuS in her most fragile moment. The cost for me was over one hundred and forty dollars to Uber Eats sending her wine and Chinese take out so that we can eat and drink together over video chat.

We talked for hours until the wine was done, and our eyes got heavy, but it was worth it.

Later in the afternoon before I wrote this article, I checked in with YukuS.

She will not delete the IMVU app in hopes that someone from IMVU will contact her and fix the damage that was done, but I got her to open a Pokémon GO account.

It will not replace the years of hard work she put into IMVU, but I think she will have more fun especially once the isolation mandate is lifted. Also, with the remote raid passes coming out, she will have a lot of fun getting some shinies and legendries.

To remain objective, I humbly invite IMVU to respond to this article. I and hopefully many others including their current customers would love to hear their side of this story.

Also, YukuS has given me permission to post images of her email to showing only her IMVU activity to confirm that everything in this article is accurate (SEE BELOW).

This has been another Reality Check.

[miladylocksley]

Carry On | Pride and Prejudice

Ok so I may be completely way off or too slow not to have realized this before, but Carry On and Pride and Prejudice parallels???

Let’s start with enemies to lovers.

“We were enemies.” “You were the centre of my universe,” I say. “Everything else spun around you.” 

(Carry On, 506)

“Lizzie,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be accepting this man? Have you not always hated him?” 

(Pride and Prejudice, 272)

Baz and Simon are already on opposite sides before they even meet on account of magical politics. The Old Families vs. the Mage.

Magicians don’t have kings and queens, but the Pitches are the nearest thing we have to a royal family—they probably would have crowned themselves at some point if they’d ever expected anyone to challenge their authority. 

(Carry On, 82)

They want Watford to go back to the way it used to be—a place for only the most rich and the most powerful. 

(Carry On, 83)

Which then grew into a difference of status on account of Baz’s ability to excel at magic and Simon’s struggle to catch up.

What did he say to Agatha? What did he promise? Maybe he didn’t have to say anything. Maybe he just had to be himself. Smarter than I am. Better looking. Wealthier. Fucking horsier—he could go to all her events and wear the right suit and the right shoes. He’d know which necktie went with which month of the year. If he weren’t a vampire, Baz’d be bloody perfect. 

(Carry On, 145)

Lizzie and Darcy were again established as opposites purely based on social class. 

but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. 

(Pride and Prejudice, 8)

And later on, on their snap judgment of each other solely based on their first impressions.

His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again. 

(Pride and Prejudice, 8)

She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. 

(Pride and Prejudice, 9)

Similarly, Baz rejects Simon when they first meet.

I stumbled forward and looked around, and Baz was walking towards me. Looking so cool. Like he was coming my way because he wanted to, not because there was a mystical magnet in his gut. The magic doesn’t stop until you and your new roommate shake hands—I held my hand out to Baz immediately. But he just stood there for as long as he could stand it. 

(Carry On, 167)

From then on, they are kept apart by external forces bigger than themselves.

“What if,” he says, stepping closer, “ I help you find out who killed your mum, then you help me fight the Humdrum, and we just forget about the rest?” “ ‘The rest,’ ” I say, turning around. “Way to oversimplify a decade of corruption and abuse of power.” “Are you talking about the Mage?” “Yes.” He looks pained. “I wish you wouldn’t.” “How can I not talk about the Mage when I’m talking to the Mage’s Heir?” “Is that how you think of me?” “Isn’t that how you think of yourself? Oh, right. I forgot—you don’t think at all.” Simon groans and rakes his hair. “Jesus Christ. Do you ever not go for the lowest blow? Like, do you ever think, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say the most cruel thing just now’?” “I’m trying to be efficient.” He leans against the shelf where I’ve set the whiteboard. “It’s vicious.” “You should talk, Snow. You always go for the kill shot.” “When I’m fighting. We’re not fighting.” “We’re always fighting,” I say, going back to the board.

(Carry On, 362)

“It’s not that I don’t prefer this. It’s that . . .” I sigh. “I can’t even imagine it. My family objects to everything the Mage stands for.” 

(Carry On, 364)

In the case of Lizzie and Darcy, it is the latter��s lack of tact that causes the most trouble but, much like Baz in the example above, Darcy is portraying—though clumsily—just what and whom stands in their way. They come from different worlds.

His sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit. 

(Pride and Prejudice, 138)

“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?” 

(Pride and Prejudice, 139)

We’re now moving on to one half of the couple and their secret crush.

And when I felt myself slipping too far, I held on to the one thing I’m always sure of— Blue eyes. Bronze curls. The fact that Simon Snow is the most powerful magician alive. That nothing can hurt him, not even me. That Simon Snow is alive. And I’m hopelessly in love with him. 

(Carry On, 176)

Occupied in observing Mr Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this was she perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with. 

(Pride and Prejudice, 17-18)

A crush which not only becomes much more, unbeknownst to the other party, but which is left unspoken for so long it becomes unbearable.

“For a long time,” I say. “Hmmm?” he opens one eye. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time. Almost since we met . . .” Snow closes his eyes again and smiles like he’s trying not to. I smile, too, only because he isn’t watching. “I thought it was going to kill me.” 

(Carry On, 356)

“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love.” 

(Pride and Prejudice, 138)

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” 

(Pride and Prejudice, 275)

Though both Baz and Darcy start by trying their utmost to completely deny having any romantic inclination.

“If I’d known it was this easy to get rid of you,” Baz called after me, “I would’ve let you catch up with me weeks ago!” 

(Carry On, 106)

I hated the sight of him—I hated what the sight of him did to me. 

(Carry On, 180)

He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. 

(Pride and Prejudice, 43)

The whole situation does not look to be improving anytime soon for Baz and Darcy when it comes to any hope of reciprocation because Simon and Lizzie—at least in the beginning—never forgive, never forget.

Ebb nods and pets the goat. “To think you used to be at each other’s throats.” “We’re still at each other’s throats.” She looks up at me doubtfully. She has narrow blue eyes, bright blue--brighter somehow because her face is so dirty. “Ebb,” I insist, “he tried to kill me.” “Not successfully.” She shrugs. “Not recently.” “He’s tried to kill me three times! That I know of! It doesn’t actually matter whether it worked.” “It matters a bit,” she says. “‘Sides, how old was he the first time, eleven? Twelve? That hardly counts.” “It counts with me,” I say. “Does it.” I huff. “Yes. Ebb. It does. He hated me before he even met me.” “Exactly,” she says. “Exactly!” “I’m just saying--been a long time since I had to spell you two apart.” 

(Carry On, 90-91)

“Another time, Lizzie,” said her mother, “I would not dance with him, if I were you.” “I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you never to dance with him.” 

(Pride and Prejudice, 15)

I mean duh, ‘cause they keep being dicks. 

I cannot put down the numerous examples of Baz trying to hurt Simon over the years, whether physically through a monster or a magical recording device or with his unforgiving tongue (yes, the double entendre was on purpose), which has understandably rendered Simon paranoid. 

I step out of Niall’s way. “If he’s planning something, I’ll find out,” I say. “I always do.” 

(Carry On, 84)

Darcy keeps being rude or just legit ignoring Lizzie (’cause denial), so how he ever thought she might welcome his addresses is beyond me. Lizzie only meets any attempt at civility with suspicion.

Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion. “You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.” “Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling. 

(Pride and Prejudice, 20)

Thankfully, Simon and Lizzie begin to see their respective love interests in a whole new light. 

Baz’s mouth is colder than Agatha’s. Because he’s a boy, I think, and then: No, because he’s a monster. He’s not a monster. He’s just a villain. He’s not a villain. He’s just a boy. I’m kissing a boy. I’m kissing Baz. 

(Carry On, 343)

There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt in the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression. 

(Pride and Prejudice, 180)

But they still do not know when their feelings began to change. 

The looking at Baz and thinking about the way his hair falls in a lazy wave over his forehead . . . Yeah, nope. I’ve thought about that before. 

(Carry On, 351)

“Why did I kiss you?” “Yeah.” “I guess I wanted to,” I say, shrugging. “Since when?” I shrug again, and it pisses him off. 

(Carry On, 353)

“Will you tell me how long you have loved him?” “It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.” 

(Pride and Prejudice, 270)

But there is not doubt; they are each other’s perfect match. 

“I’m not the Humdrum,” I repeat, when I get the chance. “I’d know if I were.” “What you are is a fucking tragedy, Simon Snow. You literally couldn’t be a bigger mess.” He tries to kiss me, but I hold back—“And you like that?” “I love it,” he says. “Why?” “Because we match.” 

(Carry On, 420)

“What do I not owe you? You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.” 

(Pride and Prejudice, 267)

“It is settled between us already that we are to be the happiest couple in the world.” 

(Pride and Prejudice, 270)

“Well, my dear,” said he, when he ceased speaking, “I have no more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with you, my Lizzy, to any one less worthy.” 

(Pride and Prejudice, 273)

BONUS

How did it take you so long to figure it out?

“Baz,” I say. “My roommate.” “The dead one? With the pretty eyes?” “Yes.” 

(Carry On, 99)

“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?” “Yes, very handsome.” 

(Pride and Prejudice, 177)

I’m a mess, but I’m the mess that you wanted™

“His hair is a mess, and his face is flushed, and he looks like he might go off right there, without any provocation. 

[…] 

All the blood I’ve got in me rises to my ears and cheeks.” 

(Carry On, 290-291)

Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy, which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone. 

(Pride and Prejudice, 25)

Trying—and failing—to be subtle

“It was just flirting,” Baz says. “It’s not like I tried to feed her to a chimera.” 

(Carry On, 277)

Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “You cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. You cannot have been always at Longbourn.” 

(Pride and Prejudice, 131)

They’re all such disasters  

When the figure steps forward, I recognize him at once. Tall. Black hair swept back from his forehead. Lips curled up in a sneer . . . I know that face as well as my own. Baz. 

(Carry On, 150)

They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility. 

(Pride and Prejudice, 180)

Carry On : St Martin’s Griffin (Paperback)  Pride and Prejudice : The Modern Library Classics (Paperback) 

[fanfoolishness]

a stopped clock (Bioshock Infinite)

There’s always a lighthouse.

There’s always a man.

There’s always a city.

***

The mind of the subject will desperately struggle to create memories where none exist…

***

Booker DeWitt stares down at his hands.  They’re calloused, cracked, scarred.  Funny how he still sees blood there even when they’re clean.

He shakes his head.  No matter.  He’s got a job to do.  The rain lashes his hands clean, and in the distance he sees it rising from the churning sea: the lighthouse.

***

It’s a city here, nothing he’s ever seen, maybe New York in a fever dream.  He doesn’t feel so good, but shooting through the air, nearly drowning, and floating in the sky might do that to a man.  

He’s dizzy in the thin air.  He tries to take it all in, but the details slide past him, overwhelming.  Buildings rising impossibly into the clouds, the sun more blinding than it’s ever been, wind chilled like a gust from an icebox, music he’s never heard swirling around him.  The fuck is this place --

“Welcome to Columbia!” a man says brightly.  Booker just scowls, head clearing.  He’s not here to make friends.  He’s never been anywhere for that.

“Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt,” he mutters.  The man eyes him warily.

***

A coin flips, hangs glittering in the air like one of the hummingbirds in the gardens, and Booker wonders what it means, how much it’s worth, whose blood it might buy.  Twin faces politely catalogue his choice and he prowls past them, man on a mission.

***

Ah.  Turns out this city ain’t so golden after all.  

This, this makes sense to him, nose crunching beneath his fist, knuckles splitting, blood fountaining from another man’s face.  It always comes to this, doesn’t it?  He’s a Pinkerton man, brutish through and through, and before that --

The shrieks are in English now, not Sioux, but they end the same way.  

***

Monument Island, the signs all say, but Booker’s skin crawls.  It doesn’t make sense.  What monument needs danger signs, quarantines?  Doesn’t add up.  Yet all he finds in the end, humming and twirling in a library behind iron doors six inches thick, is the girl.

Elizabeth.

***

She’s so damn naive.  

It almost hurts him, that innocence in her wide eyes.  How could anyone get through life so trusting?  There’s a hot flash of vindication he feels when it all goes south in the station, but it vanishes when she flinches away from him, recoiling at the death written into his hands and bones.  She thinks him a monster.  He’s inclined to agree.

The name Anna flits through his mind, but he’s not sure why.  All it leaves behind is a sinking bitter guilt and a rush of anger: seething, volatile, aimless.

Enough.  Elizabeth’s here now, and he tries twisting himself into the man she needs him to be.  Anything to get the job done, right?  

He tries his best.  At least, it’s what he tells himself.

***

“You were there at Wounded Knee.  I can see it in your face.”  Her voice is kinder than it has any right to be.  It cuts him worse than cruelty ever could.

He swallows.  Shivers.  Remembers the smell of burning leather and prairie grass, lullabies in Sioux, bloodied hair dried and cracking in the folds of his hands.  

Fuck, he needs a whiskey.

***

A choice.  Numbers spinning beneath his fingertips.  He’s never flown an airship, but somehow that doesn’t bother him.  New York?  Paris?  He doesn’t know what she wants of Paris.  He’s never been there, never planned to be.  

It has to be New York.  Wipe away the debt!

All he knows is what he’s been told, wipe it away and come out clean, but when she levies the wrench at his head, he doesn’t feel afraid.  He only feels he’s failed, and at least the feeling is familiar.

***

Finktown’s full of filth, but what did you expect for a place with a name like that?  Booker’s seen it too many times.  He leaves dead almost-Pinkertons behind him like shadows seared in the streets.  

Elizabeth’s compassion makes him uneasy.  He wishes he had the words to warn her of the snakepit they’re walking into.  Wishes he knew how to keep that kindness in her eyes where it ought to be.  But words are tools unsuited to his dirty hands, and besides, he doesn’t feel right here. Nose bleeding, head foggy, fucking dizzy.  Something’s wrong.  

He died.  He lived.  He died.  Did he?  He fights it.  There’s something wrong here, something goddamned wrong….

He almost thinks he has it, then, the puzzle, the shape of it, but it slithers away from him before he can pin it down.  He pushes on.  Work to be doing, after all.  Protect the girl.  

He fights through the worst of it, but Fitzroy falls.  It’s Elizabeth’s kind face wearing the blood that’s his by rights, and he’s sick, sick, sick.  Like Wounded Knee.  Like -- like Anna --

His fist is heavy on the door, but she doesn’t answer him.  “I know how this feels,” he tries, guilt coiling in his belly, but the silence grows.  He’s crushed beneath it, condemned, and Columbia’s sins collapse upon him.

***

“Let me do it,” he insists.  He stands over a dead woman cased in glass and for a moment he hears a cry ringing out, sees a sweet face whiter than the blood-blown sheets, remembers her name --

But it’s gone, quicker than he can follow, and he does this thing so Elizabeth doesn’t have to.  He’d do anything, so she won’t have to.

It won’t be New York, this time.

***

Snow in the air, January roaring across the white sky.  The wind sighs in the walls and Booker wanders the asylum, fighting panic with every step.  The faces here are wrong, horrible masks in plaster and doll’s hair, hollow blank eyes.  The thing that gnaws him is how familiar they seem, somehow.  And through it all her screams, so distant he might almost imagine them, but he has to find her, has to save her, has to fucking fix this --

Fire and blood, rage towering in him like he’s never known before, and she’s there.  She’s there.  His hands tremble.  “Elizabeth.”  

He falters with his words; they come out so small and simple.  Not enough for the hurt in her eyes or the bruises on her back.  The sounds he tries are just useless things in a graveled voice, clattering against the floor, and he leaves them there.  Blood will have to speak for him.

***

“Nothing is finished!  You lock her up her whole life. You cut off her finger, and you pin it on me?”  His throat’s ragged with the effort and hatred boils up out of him, a foulness that leaves him panting.  Comstock’s dead, he’s finally dead, and shouldn’t he feel better with the man’s blood on his hands?

But Elizabeth fixes him with luminous eyes and fists clenched at her sides.  “What did he mean?”

He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know the answer to any of it, and the wrongness buzzes in his head.  Can’t think about that right now.  Work’s not done yet.

He wipes his own blood from his nose, and it dries red on his fingertips.

***

Doorways.  Elizabeth’s right.  They’re beautiful, lights in white and gold awash against the inky dark, the sound of waves gentle.  The lighthouses call to him, and their song hums unbroken.  

For a moment he doesn’t know what he feels.  It’s wholly unfamiliar.  Is it… hope?

She takes his hand.  It’s small, but steely, too.  The doors open, and that faintness he called hope dissolves to dread.

Water rushes in his ears.  Voices singing, hymns over a river’s course.  The baby cooing, the way she used to kick her legs just so.  Rain against his face, hard to tell the difference between blood. Or tears.

She’s kind, even now.  He’s so proud of her for that.  Even with it all, she’s better than he ever was.  He knows as well as she does that this, this final choice, is a mercy in more ways than one.  

Her hands are small.  But they hold him down just as well as iron.

***

“Mr. DeWitt?” she asks, giving him a friendly smile.  He is one of her favorites, even though she has read through his file.  Pinkerton.  Widower.  The White Injun of Wounded Knee.  Still, a man’s old life has little bearing once he comes to this ward, and Polly knows she has a calling here for folks like this.

Booker DeWitt gazes up at her, green-glass eyes bright and alert.  She cannot help a moment’s trace of pity.  He always seems to be here with her.  And yet….

“Elizabeth,” he says gruffly.  “Don’t run off like that.”  Though he gives her a stern look, a half-smile edges across his face.

She likes him in this mood.  The male orderlies worry for her when she sees Mr. DeWitt, and she knows they mean well, but he only ever seems to get violent with them.  He is nothing but a gentleman -- well, a gentleman rough around the edges -- when he speaks to “Elizabeth.”  Dr. Bay has encouraged her to play along when Mr. DeWitt falls into these moods. Anything else seems to distress the man.

“Don’t worry, Mr. DeWitt.  I’m here now.  I’ll take care of you.”

A flicker of confusion crosses his face; his mouth thins, lips turning down at the corners.  “Call me Booker.”  He sighs, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands.  The bedsprings creak as he moves.  “Elizabeth, I won’t let them take you.  You understand?”  He raises his head, giving her a piercing gaze.  

It reminds her of someone.  She blinks when she catches it.  The Indian woman that lived near her parents’ farm; she remembers that same steeliness in the eyes.

“Of course, Booker.”  She carefully checks his heart rate, gives him a thermometer.  He keeps it under his tongue obediently, but holds out his hand for her to check.  She turns it over.  As always, the only abnormality is the jagged AD scarred into the back of his hand, long since healed.  There are no new wounds.  Yet he has held this hand to her a dozen times.

He looks at her expectantly.  She sighs, then removes a strip of gauze from her apron pocket and wraps it around his hand.  “Much obliged,” he says.  She makes a note to replace the gauze for the next time she tends to him.

She turns to the tray behind her, then turns back to him, his medications nestled in a tin.  “Here you are.”

Mr. DeWitt looks at the tin, his forehead creased in concentration.  She notices the lines at the edges of his eyes, the gray streaking his hair.  It’s a shame.  He’s no longer a young man, but nor is he elderly, unlike so many here.  Perhaps that is why she sorrows, now and then, thinking of him.

“Salts?” he asks.  They have never been able to figure out what he means when he says this.

“Salts, Booker.”  She hands the tin to him, and he pops them into his mouth readily, cradling the tin in his hand.

Dr. Bay tells her it’s called Korsakoff’s, named after a famous Russian neurologist.  A curious syndrome brought on by alcoholism.  She had never heard of it before coming here.  Anterograde amnesia.  

They don’t know how to treat it, though.  Dr. Bay tries sedatives at a low dose.  Polly isn’t sure they do much but make the man sleep.  She always hopes they will rest his mind, but every time she sees him, there is a new story, usually more fantastical than the last.  She has pieced together some of them.  A floating city.  Strange worlds beset by violent rebels.  A bird that somehow frightens him.  

She remembers Dr. Bay’s notes, the phrase that makes her heart ache.  The mind of the subject will desperately struggle to create memories where none exist…  She scratches down today’s log in his file.

“How did you get to be so good at codebreaking?” Mr. DeWitt asks her, noticing her writing.  

Polly’s mind races, attempting to keep pace with the delusion.  Before she can formulate an answer, though, Mr. DeWitt yawns.  With a start she notices a trail of blood from his left nostril.  

“Booker, you’re bleeding.”

Dr. Bay says it’s something to do with the alcohol.  Hurts the platelets, somehow, makes it hard for them to clot.  She reaches hurriedly for extra gauze in her cart and tenderly blots the blood from his nose.  They’ll have tests to run on him later, poor fellow.  She checks his eye and gum color.  Still all right, thankfully.

“I remember I fought -- Slate and I, we burned the Hall of Heroes -- I died for the Vox --”  He shakes his head, breathing hard.  She lays her hand on his shoulder, hoping he finds it a comfort.  It will only be a moment now.  

“Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt,” Mr. DeWitt mumbles, pupils unfocused.  His grip on the tin that held the medication loosens, and carefully she wrests it away from his fingers before it can drop on the floor.  His hand is warm, the fingers heavily calloused.  

“Stay with me, Booker,” Polly says softly.  He slumps, leaning heavily to one side with his shoulders sagging, and she helps him down the rest of the way until his face meets the pillow.  She pulls his blanket up over his chest.  Once he is asleep she collects a blood sample from him, then tapes a bandage to his arm.  Dr. Bay will need to check his platelets again.  

She carefully notes the encounter in his file, but she is temporarily distracted by the rain drumming against the window, lightning sharp in the distance.  With the aid of its flash she can see the lighthouse far beyond the sound, miles beyond their city.  She shivers.  Something about it seems sinister, somehow.

“Constants, and variables,” says a woman’s voice.

Polly jerks upright.  A man and a woman in rain slickers, both alike, stand beside Mr. DeWitt’s bed.  “Excuse me!  Visiting hours are over!” says Polly indignantly.  She’s quite surprised.  Mr. DeWitt’s only family listed is a wife and daughter, both deceased.

The man looks mildly put out.  “It seems you win this round, dear sister.”

“I told you this one could not be considered.  Far too damaged.  Biology and self-loathing are strange masters, brother.”

“Excuse me,” Polly repeats.

“The file is fascinating, though, you must admit!  I suspect there may be other windows between realities beyond the ones we have made ourselves,” the man suggests.  Polly stares at them in bewilderment.

“The girl may be communicating with him, but I think it is more likely that a mind can only be broken in so many ways.  Eventually, it might happen upon the truth.”

“Excuse me….”

“Such a faint possibility for these particular delusions to be created, unless counterparts are somehow innately connected --”

“You are overthinking it, as usual.  Even a stopped clock is correct twice a day, and in an infinite universe, no single outcome is as unlikely as the next.  Sometimes I wonder if biology might have been as equal a pursuit as physics --”

“Excuse me!  You’ll have to leave!” shouts Polly, standing and squaring her shoulders.  “Mr. DeWitt needs his rest.  How did you get in here?  Was it Alice at the front desk?  She’s always shirking --”

“There is no need to get upset.  We won’t be troubling you again,” the woman assures her.  

“We have seen all we need to see.  We wish you the best of luck in caring for him,” the man says, gesturing to Mr. DeWitt.  “We do apologize for the inconvenience.”

A terrific flash of lightning is followed by a resounding crack of thunder. Rain slams against the window in a mad staccato.  Polly blinks.  The man and woman are nowhere to be found.

Must have hurried out, she thinks, suddenly anxious.  Then she breathes a sigh of relief.  Korsakoff’s, at least, is not contagious.  No need to worry about her own mental state. 

The rain pounds against the building.  Beneath his roughspun blanket, Mr. DeWitt stirs.  “Anna?” he murmurs, his voice gentle.  “Anna?  Is that you?”

Polly frowns at the sight of his sleep-slacked face, worry sinking into the pit of her stomach.  Not again.

She reaches for her gauze, and she wipes away the red.

[awintersrose]

“I do not tolerate a world emptied of you. I have tried.” maybe w/the sanin????

*

*

*

The woods are silent, dark, and still. There is no hint of a solitary rustle of wind, nor the buzz of a single pestilential insect in the stifling summer air. The portent is ill indeed, suggesting either genjutsu or the promise of a natural disaster looming close, and Orochimaru holds his breath, cloaked from sight and patiently waiting, his every sense attuned to the merest change in temperature or sound. This close to home there is no telling what awaits him among the redwoods this close to the Forest of Death, and he readies himself to move at the slightest flicker of chakra in his second sight, or in reaction to a new vibration along his skin. One thing is certain - he will not be caught unaware in enemy territory. And enemy territory it is, now that he has left home for good.

He doesn’t like to think of it as home. Not anymore.

Konoha stopped being home the minute there was no one left in the village who could call him family or friend. He has only returned to seal the shrine and to bring his parents’ ashes to the home of their birth. There are boltholes leading into tunnels that his clan created at the edge of their lands if he can just cross into the territory northwest of the Nara Forest. Even the Shimenawa held their secrets, never truly trusting those who held their fealty, placing contingencies where they needed them in case of calamity. If only he’d known sooner.

Orochimaru places his fingers on the ground sending out a low pulse of chakra to search for the seal, and he finds it several seconds later, once he crosses the border without incident. Then the wind shifts, and metal clinks, at once cold and biting at his throat.

“You know for someone so smart, you sure are stupid sometimes.” Jiraiya’s voice is bitter in his ear, his right arm suddenly snapping closed like a band of iron around Orochimaru’s middle.

The snake summoner nearly laughs, as their position is practically absurd, and one he never truly expected. For a man of Jiraiya’s stature and strength to move with such stealth in this terrain is something to be commended, even moreso if there is a genjutsu at work; it never was his teammate’s strong suit.

“Someone’s been practicing. Be careful, you might even bloody me.” Orochimaru scoffs, daring to lean right into the press of the blade, calling his best friend’s bluff. “Besides, don’t you have some savior to go teach? Some prophecy to fulfill?”

Jiraiya’s grip on the blade doesn’t waver, and its well-honed edge kisses his flesh with a hot sting, but with all the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Orochimaru can hardly feel it. What he notices more is the low rumble beginning in Jiraiya’s chest, and the glaring edge of righteous fury sharpening his sun-bright chakra into something more formidable.

Naturally, his immediate inclination is to taunt the raging bull even more.

“Oh, that’s right. Your savior died. Prophecy is a farce.”

“When will you just learn to shut up?” Jiraiya snaps. “I could literally slit your throat right now.”

“You won’t. You don’t have it in you to kill me in cold blood.” Orochimaru sneers, heart lurching, glad he cannot see the likely pain in Jiraiya’s eyes.

A figure steps out of the tree line. “Or the both of you could shut up and stop fighting one another.”

It’s been at least five years, maybe eight, since he’s seen her last, but it still hurts to look Tsunade in the eye, and she is not letting him look away.

“What are you doing home, Hime? Aren’t there gambling halls missing their favorite moneymaker?” he smiles humorlessly, and he can see Tsunade’s fists clenching hard.

There is hot wetness trickling down his throat and Jiraiya has not let up on his hold. Which makes it equally perplexing when Tsunade speaks.

“Let go of him so we can tell him why we’re here.”

At once, Jiraiya releases him, the irrepressible heat against his back is suddenly absent, and Orochimaru can breathe again.

“I’ve been tracking you for the last year, and I knew you’d be coming home for these.” Jiraiya suddenly produces a storage scroll, and at once Orochimaru is livid, readying for an attack, Konoha be damned.

Their proximity to the Forest of Death will keep anyone in the village from noticing any chakra abnormalities, and if not, well, let them see what happens when the Sannin truly fight one another.

“Stop! Orochimaru, will you fucking listen?” Tsunade charges him, moves right into his face and grabs him by the front of his yukata, and her willingness to approach him unguarded gives him pause.

The sudden tingling coolness of healing chakra eases the sting of the cut at his throat and he looks at her with disbelieving eyes. Her honeyed eyes are shadowed, and she looks drawn and tired, for all that she hasn’t aged a day past twenty-five. Even so, her expression has not lost its fire. “We had to neutralize you somehow. We want to talk.”

“Give me the scroll.” Orochimaru demands, looking aside to Jiraiya. “How dare you touch their graves - the shrine - You knew these were the last sacred things I had!”

Jiraiya passes him the scroll with an easy hand, and crosses his arms. “Give me a little credit, bastard, you act like I wouldn’t perform the rites first. And I did get the blessing of the shrine guardians, so kindly fuck yourself, it’s all safe and sound and just as blessed as it was sitting there covered in dirt and brush.”Tsunade jabs Jiraiya in the upper arm and he winces hard. “Stop baiting him.”

Orochimaru holds the scroll like something utterly precious and slips it into the inside pocket of his yukata as soon as Tsunade releases him. His heart rushes in his own ears and he fights back the rising anxiety that forces his fingers to clutch his sleeves, an old habit he squashes as soon as it rises. “You wanted to talk, fine. Talk.”

He watches as Jiraiya reinforces what appears to be a barrier shimmering along the edges of the periphery, and likely the reason he did not sense either of them when he crossed into this side of the territory. Orochimaru chides himself for his lack of care, but then again, considering this is a barrier and not genjutsu at all, it is possible that he has underestimated Jiraiya’s sealwork. His former teammate has always been good at misdirection.

“We’re coming with you.”

“Excuse me, what?” Orochimaru fixes Tsunade with his gaze.

“You heard me.”

“You’re not serious. This is a trap, a trick, and if you don’t let me go now, the both of you will regret it.”

“It’s not a trick.” Tsunade opens her hands, in a universal sign of surrender. “We can hash out the dirty details later. And so can you. But something is rotten in Konoha and we’re both tired of being used. We’ve lost too much. Now, Shizune’s waiting in Tanzaku, and we’re ready to follow you so let’s go.”

“No, no, no. You two can’t just show up here and ambush me after--”

“Orochimaru,” Jiraiya starts, tone suddenly mild. “Don’t you think it convenient that you were caught red handed working on an experiment you were supposedly authorized to perform, at exactly the right time, by exactly the right person, tipped off by the commanding officer who gave authorization?”

A chill creeps down the line of Orochimaru’s neck. “Speak plainly.”

“Let me say right now that I’m not excusing any of the terrible things you did in the name of discovery, but I’ve seen a lot of the same in T&I and among our own research initiatives. A rose by any other name well… it’s even worse that it was children, but I’m saying plainly that you were Danzo’s scapegoat; it wasn’t a coincidence. None of the screwed up bullshit that has happened to any of us is. I have proof. And I am done.” Jiraiya says.

The truth turns Orochimaru’s stomach, but none of it comes as a surprise, no, a part of him feels somewhat vindicated, as if another reality has been confirmed. Konoha’s elders have always been out to get him, and during such a time and opportunity as that one, when he was able to uncover the key to such a genetic mystery? Of course Danzo lied. He should have known, and perhaps a part of him always did. Even so, the memory of Hiruzen-sensei’s last words to him still raises Orochimaru’s ire, and he has to reign in the part of him that wants vengeance, or his killing intent will alert the ANBU sensors on patrol.

“So, can we go?” Tsunade asks, pulling him from his thoughts. “We can hash out the details in a secure location, but we need to get out of here soon.”

“What did they do to you?” Orochimaru looks at her carefully, studying her reactions.

“Isn’t it obvious? We fell apart by design. Dan was eliminated, deliberately. There is more but I’d rather not talk about it now.” she smiles wanly.

There is a silent dare in her eyes, as if her truths are like a barely healed wound that runs deeper and darker than he wants to know; he wants so much to scratch at that wound until it bleeds again.

For him.

If only that inclination were not eclipsed by the desire to take her small yet impossibly strong form in his arms like he once would have when they were far younger, and she still sought both her teammates out in times of distress. He knows such things may never be again. Not like that. But here they both stand, offering impossibilities.

“You were free to live as you wanted regardless. Why do this?” he asks, golden eyes searching hers.

“Because I do not tolerate a world emptied of you. I have tried.” Tsunade says simply.

At once, Orochimaru finds himself stripped of all attempts at a response, and perhaps this is good, because she continues.

“I have tried, and tried, and tried, and nothing worked.”

Not even Dan? He wonders bitterly.

“I have thrown myself into cups and debt, into bars, and ditches. No amount of drink can drown out the fact that you aren’t here, with me.” She looks at Jiraiya pointedly. “That we are no longer together.”

“Better together than apart,” Jiraiya says softly, an inscrutable look on his face.

“No one can stop us if we will it so. I know there are still many things broken between us and we’ll have it out when the dust settles, but we’re coming with you, Oro.” Tsunade affirms.

“You’re a right bastard, and you still have a lot to answer for, but you’re ours. You never stopped being ours.” Jiraiya says, pulling another scroll from his sleeve. “I managed to salvage these things from your house. The cellar was still sealed after ANBU searched.”

The lump in his throat is an unnervingly foreign sensation as Orochimaru reaches for the scroll, almost incapable of speech. “Thank you for doing that. I didn’t expect that anything was recoverable.”

Jiraiya smiles, softening. “Some things are worth saving.”

Thank you for the ask, Maus dear - sorry it took so long! The story got longer than anticipated :D Hope you enjoyed it!

[Deathless sentence prompts...]

[brother-sebastian-vael]

Important PSA to my roleplay-followers

In regards to some recent events surrounding several people here in DARP, that I care for, I'd like to put out some friendly reminders to all my old and new follower:

1. The mun of this blog does not send negative anons, nor do they condone the practice of sending negative anons. Should the mun of this blog find out, that you practice such cowardice behavior, will they block you and drop all interactions.

2. The mun of this blog is no canon-purist and will not engage any canon-purist in any way, nor do I condone canon-purist attacking canon-divergent blogs in any way (that includes, but is not exclusive to anon-hate and vague-blogging.) The Dragon Age franchise is not a completely fixed world-state. It got retconned multiple times and will probably be retconned even more come Dragon Age 4. Even the game-stories are highly decision-based a lot of lore is purposefully written very vague to leave room for interpretation and in general, when you play roleplay you should be able to use the lore more as a D&D-guideline, unless you want to bore your play-partners to death.

3. The mun does not condone any form of hatred. (That includes, but not exclusively xenophobia, antisemitism, racism, transphobia, aphobia, bi/panphobia, homophobia, any hatred against mental illness and/or disabilities). Should you be caught spreading, or promoting such forms of hatred, you will be blocked and I will drop all interactions.

4. This blog promotes and practices healthy communication. Which means, no vague-blogging, no silent treatment, no badmouthing. If I got a problem with you, I'll tell you upfront. If I don't want to play with you, I'll tell you upfront. I expect the same from you. If I see you practicing any of the above, I might feel inclined to call you out on it, or in the worst case, block you.

5. I do not promote blogs, I cannot safely recommend even to my more sensitive, or insecure followers. If you see me posting a promo, or reblogging a promo-post, you can be rest assured, that according to my knowledge the mun's behind this blog practice all the above rules just as mature, as I do.

If anyone of you wants to reblog this post, to mark yourself as a safe blogger, feel free to do so.

If you want to reblog this post, just to start a fight with me, or think any of the rules above are up for discussion, be assured that I don't give a single flying fuck and am not willing to step down from any one of these rules. At. All.

[the7thshepard]

Life update and some introspection. It is long, and it is super personal. You’ve been warned.

(Sorry to my mobile user followers, you might get lambasted with a long post anyway)

If you’re curious enough to snoop through here, sweet. It means that amidst all of my followers who like and reblog the stuff I like and reblog, you probably give a damn? Or you’re just nosy. Either way, thanks for coming. You’ll need to pull up a chair, I’d imagine. It’s gonna get long.

As of right now, I’m spending Thanksgiving day alone. I’m writing this from the dining table of my apartment in California as it rains outside. I’ve received several invites to do things with friends, but so far have accepted none of them. Part of me knows that I will be sad today because of that, but the other part of me just doesn’t have the energy or wherewithal to deal with other people today. Yet, I’m leaving myself open for any opportunity, should it present itself.

This decade has been kind of a wild ride for me. I’ve spent almost all of it in school. I began high school, graduated high school, started college, switched majors around twice, fell in love, came out, got my heart broken, graduated college, worked for seven months, then started graduate school in August. How did a Kansas boy like me end up all the way in California? It’s actually quite the story.

I had decided my second senior year of my undergrad, way back in Spring 2018, that I was just going to finish with a performance degree and just go home and work for the rest of my life. Whatever job I could find, as long as I could keep it and it could bring me stable income, I was going to go home and give up playing the horn. I been so burnt out on school and everything that had happened around me over the course of my undergrad that I had decided it just wasn’t worth it to continue pursuing. I had wrestled with this idea for the longest time and eventually settled on everyone thinking I’m a coward for getting a degree and just disappearing off of the face of the earth. It was the easiest solution.

But something quite unusual and rather miraculous happened.

October 2018, my undergrad horn teacher, one other horn player from my studio, and I all went to Wichita for the MidSouth Horn Workshop. This was nothing terribly huge - I had been to two before - but what became of it was. I ran into my current horn professor, though, at the time he was not teaching me, nor did I have any inclination that he taught private lessons. My undergrad horn prof. and I ran into him earlier in the spring during the same event in Conway, Arkansas (it was hard not to - he was one of the featured artists of the event). He and I spent about 30 minutes talking about horn playing in the exhibition hall, and I was beyond inspired at that point to continue getting better at horn (obviously something changed in the span of 6 months that changed that mentality, but I digress).

I didn’t think I would ever meet him again, if I’m being 100% honest. But we did. We had run into each other in the student union on the Wichita State University campus. He and my then-current horn teacher had struck up a conversation (I think it was something about what he was up to and if he’d like to play with ESU’s jazz band, since he was on his way through that area in the spring semester). Somehow, someway, the conversation got turned onto me.

“What do you think about grad school?” was the question.

Now, you have to understand, this shook me. My plan was to graduate, go home, and give up. I had no further intention of carrying on playing horn or doing music or any of it. Cowardice.

“Uhhhh,” I stammered. I didn’t honestly think I was cut out for grad school. Sure, I eventually wanted to get my doctorate in something, but that was kind of a pipe dream; something so exceptionally unachievable, that I was better off not thinking about it. “I hadn’t.”

Thus, initiated a 20 minute conversation about grad school and how my now-current horn professor wanted to hear me play and, better yet, attend his school. I’m pretty sure I spent the next like 3 hours waffling about it.

The other horn player that was with us (let’s call him B) slapped some sense into me.

“You should do it, it sounds like an incredible opportunity.” B had said something along the lines of this.

“My main concern is money, etc. etc.” I tried to make excuses back.

“Grad school would be perfect for you. All you really have to do is focus on your playing.” My horn professor told me.

“You didn’t come this far, just to come this far.” B said.

(Slight divergence in the story, my mom just called me as I’m typing this and now I’m having to fight back tears. She sounded so concerned that I’m spending Thanksgiving alone right now. Anyway.)

That struck me hard. I didn’t learn horn just to give up after graduating college. I didn’t play horn for close to 13 years only to run away when the opportunity presented itself. I didn’t quit at any point along the way, no matter how stressful or draining, and I shouldn’t quit now. My mind was made up.

I talked to my now-current horn teacher about how I was interested in studying with him, and about his program and what was offered, etc. He wanted to hear me play but was busy that weekend, so I would need to send him some recordings of my playing. I sent him my senior recital that I played later that semester. Over the course of the next 3 to 4 months, I would graduate from college and then spend the rest of my time working while I finished up the graduate studies application to my school. I was accepted into the program, and got some assistanceship money to help out.

The next 7 months were really nothing to note, as far as this journey is concerned. I worked part time at a gas station, played in a terrible non-paying gig, ended up dropping one of my best friends - a story for another time, but overall, I ended up taking a massive break from my horn. My dad thought that I wasn’t practicing enough and that grad school was gonna kick my ass, but so far, that hasn’t completely happened yet.

The day finally comes. I move to California with my dad’s help. As you can imagine, it’s a whirlwind of a day. Flying 5 hours out, getting my stuff moved in, buying groceries, etc. By the end of the day, its time to say goodbye. Dad can’t stay, because he’s got a flight in the morning for some stuff he’s got going on back home. He tried to fight back his tears, as I am almost about to cry myself. The door closed and now I’m bawling. wow that was a lot of mixed tenses, no im not fixing it, and no i do not take criticism, send tweet

At this point, I felt isolated. I’m in a new place where I know no one and I’m by myself. The first person I bump into is the other horn grad student. He stops by to say hi, I apologize for my terrible playing because I haven’t been playing consistently for the past seven months and oh god I’m rambling. It goes how you expect awkward first meetings to go. The next evening, I meet the two seniors in from the horn studio and a senior clarinet player. I never felt so blind sided by questions, and they were all really chatty. Me, being the awkward human being I am stood there, giving minimal answers, and being overwhelmed by questions about literally everything. Holy shit.

I end up bumping into my now-current horn professor on Monday (let’s call him Prof. A) in the bathroom of the music building, again really fucking awkward. Prof. A told me to go to his office while they finish up the faculty meeting downstairs, and that the other grad horn was in there organizing music. Round 2 is not nearly as awkward, thank god. Around 30 minutes later, Prof. A shows back up and treats us both to Chipotle and a lengthy talk about how we have to be the “heavyweight boxers” of the studio (there was an anecdote in there that makes it all make sense, trust me). Again, holy shit.

The rest of the week goes about how you would expect. It is the week before school after all. I spend most of my time practicing. My roommate shows up. I don’t really run into anyone else in the studio for a few days. Though at the end of the week, we have a horn hang, where most of the studio is in attendance. Super awkward at first, but then it opens up. Then, school kicks off, and its all good from there.

But why am I telling you all of this? Well, first of all, kudos for sitting through my life story up to this point. Second, I think this story is key to a lot of introspection that I need to do. And third, I just need to put this all out there, get it off my chest, you know?

Since coming out to California, I have been unimaginably blessed with perhaps the best family of people I could ever want. I have a great teacher who is helping me be better at doing what I love. I’m surrounded by great, fun loving musicians who want to see others succeed and it’s been such a positive experience being out here. I literally cannot imagine what my life would be like had I not seized this opportunity.

I’ll be the first to admit that grad school so far hasn’t totally met my expectations. I thought that I would immediately get better, that I would excel, have a bunch of friends, get better at playing horn, and maybe (selfishly) find a guy. It wasn’t immediate, and looking back, I don’t think it ever could have been. Because the path I’m on takes work and courage to keep going even when the results don’t seem obvious at all. Also, let’s be 100% real, there was no way in hell I was gonna find a guy within like 2-3 weeks of being here. That’s just not realistic lmfao

Since coming here, I’ve grappled with the feelings of inadequacy and sense of not belonging that come with the territory. Initially, I thought that I was never making progress and that I was never gonna be as good as the other grad horn. I wasn’t a good enough horn player. Why was I here? What made me think that I could make it out here? Thoughts like that. They’ve only intensified as the semester went along.

But my friends have proved me wrong.

The only thing that everyone could and would expect of me is to be myself. Whatever that means, whatever that sounds or looks like. I can’t be anyone else other than me, no matter how tempting it is to compare myself to others. I just gotta follow my own path. This was and still is a hard lesson for me to learn. I don’t think I will ever totally understand it, until I can realize that I am good enough as I am now. I am making progress to get better, but I have to be comfortable with where I’m at now for it to be worth it.

The thought of running away from all of this terrifies me, but it’s a real and almost ever present thought I have. I don’t want to lose the progress I’ve made. I don’t want to turn my back on my friends. I don’t want to give up crazy socks at concerts, ice cream afterwards, playing in horn choir, horn hangs, or just the general screwing around. My horn people are my family, and I won’t turn my back on them because I’m afraid of not being good enough. They have never had reason to think less of me, so I shouldn’t. Even when I do, I’m thankful that they’re there to help me out of my emotional ruts. As long as I am here surrounded by these fantastic people, I will always be good enough and I will always belong.

I didn’t come this far just to get this far. And I will take it all the way. No matter what it takes, because the people closest to me have given me the courage to make it happen.

So, even though I may end up spending my Thanksgiving alone, I’m not alone. I never have been nor will I ever be. My friends, my family, everyone who’s cheering me on from the sidelines, watching and waiting for me to succeed, they’re all with me, no matter how far away they might be. This is what I’m thankful for.

[misfits-of-zaun]

“I suppose you could call it that, yes.”

The young queen's tone remained infuriatingly even in the wake of his animosity, visibly undeterred by this shift towards bitter insults. Still, there was no hint of any inclination to lift the spell, nor any indication of what it was she was seeking to pull from him. The interrogative approach had been dropped for the time being, in favour of a more lulling illusion of reasonable conversation. It seemed she had the primary information she wanted, and was simply dragging out the humiliation as a pointed power play to compel him into more supplicatory obedience. She had him effectively pinioned; he could not afford to bow to her efforts to control him, but he was similarly not in a position to retaliate. Not when she was so coolly resolved to use magic against him in such an insidious and calculated way. Mere weeks ago she would never have dared to turn on him so openly, and the development was as alarming as it was incensing.

"You speak as if some mutual understanding brings weakness rather than strength.”

She was toying with him now. He knew this manipulative angle all too well. Backing off the pressure, seeking to lure him into negotiatiatory discussion that would invariably involve a resolution that gave her exactly what she wanted - namely, his compliant deference, prettily packaged as working together.

She wanted him on a leash. Still, Toffee's sullen silence held, as he abruptly turned away from her and stalked towards the window. The cool night air was refreshing, a chance to breathe without tasting her cloying perfume that so permeated the room.

"Then give me a better solution. You’ve admitted it yourself; there is something in need of fixing.  Things cannot continue this way. Speak with me and perhaps we may find a solution that works better for the two of us. Leave me in the lurch and I’m forced to take matters into my own hands.”

The Septarian merely kept his back to her, letting the silence fester along with the tension. Having been robbed of his dignity and his own autonomy for the sake of her agenda, he retained only two things - pride and sheer, viciously persevering spite.

"...No." The response, when it finally came, was flat and blunt.

Fuck you.

Shoulders taut and braced for the onslaught that the single defiant word would undoubtably incur, Toffee closed his eyes and idly wondered if further coldly vindictive questioning would ensue now, or whether he could actually provoke her into lashing out. Any loss of temper could potentially cause her to lose control over the spell, if it was one that required focus to maintain. Or it could cause her to simply grow too frustrated to continue dealing with him.

Regardless, there were going to be very unpleasant repercussions for refusing to yield, but if he failed to endure them without buckling, it would only set a precedent that she could gain results with this kind of tactic.

It didn't matter if he lost, as long as she didn't win.

Lie to Me

[shirlleycoyle]

Hacks, Bots, and the Pandemic Have Fueled a Racist Class War on Instacart

In July, Roberta, an Instacart worker who lives on the Jersey Shore, got an email from Instacart saying her account's email and phone number had been changed. Her account had been hacked, but the hacker seemingly wasn't trying to drain her bank account. Instead, someone was actively shopping orders on her Instacart account.

Locked out of her account, Roberta contacted Instacart's shopper support (Instacart calls its gig workers “shoppers”), and learned someone had also changed her New Jersey home address to Atlanta and accepted an order at ShopRite for $21.72, according to screenshots reviewed by Motherboard. After resetting her email and password, Diana said someone hacked her Instacart account nine more times between July 1 and July 20, and accepted at least two more batches of orders.

Motherboard allowed Roberta to use her first name only for this story because she feared retaliation from Instacart or being targeted again. Since June, at least 12 gig workers on the grocery delivery platform Instacart have had their accounts taken over by hackers who changed personal information—and in some cases, accepted or shopped orders on their accounts, according to the Gig Workers Collective, a grassroots labor non-profit that organizes gig workers across the country.

Roberta and three other hacked shoppers Motherboard spoke to never learned why their accounts were hacked. "We may not be able to share full details for privacy reasons," an Instacart representative wrote to Roberta in an email reviewed by Motherboard. "But, a dedicated task force is working on investigating this case."  Five of these Instacart shoppers say Instacart deactivated their accounts, effectively firing them, after they were hacked for failing to complete orders they say they never accepted.

Hacked Instacart shoppers worry that their accounts could be used by other shoppers to earn income using their social security numbers that they will later have to pay taxes on. For those who rely on Instacart to pay for rent and food during the pandemic, getting hacked has meant that they don't have access to money for days. Their ratings and cancellations rates (which factor into the algorithms that determine who gets orders) suffer when they regain access to their accounts.

The hacking incidents, the apparent use of third-party bots to secure orders, and new workers flooding the market because of the pandemic have fueled bizarre theories on Instacart shopper Facebook groups, including that undocumented immigrants are taking their accounts and scooping up bundles of orders, which are in high demand. Some shoppers on these Instacart Facebook groups have begun calling minority Instacart shoppers “bots” and “zombies.”

"Literally saw 8 Brazilians (1 or 2 Hispanics and 1 African…it really doesn’t matter the race) at my Costco yesterday shopping big orders," a shopper posted on Facebook in April. "I was just shopping for myself but pulled out my phone to see if I could get a batch. Nope….Ughhh. Literally the most annoying thing ever seeing it in person."

"There is a video circulating on the web of Brazilian hackers [sic] taking orders and instacart does nothing," another Instacart shopper posted on Facebook. "They are people who in the great majority cannot work for the company because they do not have the necessary documents and still fuck with those who want to work honestly."

Another Instacart shopper wrote, "the Bot Shoppers are back here in Santa Clarita Calif. Walking around Costco like Zombies, not knowing where items are and asking Costco employees where to find items. They seem to have heavy accents."

The hacks coincide with a period of rapid expansion at the on-demand grocery delivery platform, which has become an essential service for many immunocompromised and elderly Americans avoiding grocery stores during the pandemic. Since April, Instacart has hired roughly half a million new gig workers and reported profitability for the first time since its 2012 founding. A spokesperson for the company told Motherboard that customer order volume was up by as much as 500 percent year-over-year. During the pandemic, as Motherboard has reported, multiple opportunists have developed automated bots that give gig workers who pay, in some cases, thousands of dollars, the advantage of being able to accept orders faster than those who can't.

As competition for an elusive supply of orders has driven shoppers into fierce competition for orders (shoppers spend hours refreshing their phones ad nauseam in order to find lucrative orders), rumors have circulated widely on Instacart social media forums, blaming the decline of available work and wages on an influx of undocumented, non-English speaking, Latinx (specifically Brazilian) immigrants. Many of these posts claim immigrants have paid for automated third-party bots that hack shoppers accounts, allowing them to shop on Instacart without social security numbers.

Motherboard spoken to a handful of Instacart shoppers who cited this theory, saying they'd either seen an influx of immigrants shopping in their stores in groups (breaking Instacart policy) during the pandemic, using strange apps that didn't look like Instacart on their phones, or else heard about the theories on social media and found them credible.

The theory has divided shoppers along political lines, sparking harsh rebukes from shoppers condemning xenophobia and racism. "I’m seeing so much racism and xenophobia being disguised as 'oh no [sic] the bots.' It’s seriously fucking disgusting," one shopper wrote on Facebook. "I’m sure bots exist but I’m not buying that they’re this massive conspiratorial problem whatsoever."

Despite the flurry of racist and xenophobic rumors, Motherboard has obtained no hard evidence indicating that bots have hacked shopper accounts, or are playing a significant part in the disappearance of work on the app, though the first documented cases of hacked and taken over accounts line up closely with the rise of opportunists using bots to snatch up orders, both began in the early months of the pandemic.

Experts say Instacart shoppers' inclination to blame immigrants and bots, as opposed to Instacart itself for overhiring, fits within a longer trend of scapegoating immigrants and technology, when workers see their earnings dry up. (Motherboard could not corroborate shoppers' claims that bot and hacking services are being purchased primarily, or at all, by undocumented immigrants). Often when workers of color and immigrants enter an industry dominated by white workers, such as manufacturing in the 1960s and nursing in the 1990s, white workers fear their working conditions and wages will suffer. (Compared to rideshare and food delivery apps like Uber, Lyft, GrubHub, and DoorDash, whose workers are often BIPOC and immigrants, Instacart's workforce looks a lot whiter, particularly outside of coastal cities. For years, the app has been popular among working-class suburban moms, seeking work that can be structured around childcare.)

"There's a long history of this. Some of it is racist scapegoating, but some of it is just muddled fear of technology [replacing their jobs]," Jamie McCallum, a professor of sociology at Middlebury College and the author of Worked Over: How Round-the-Clock Work Is Killing the American Dream, told Motherboard. "Yet neither [immigrants nor machines] have really turned out to be the bogeyman they're purported to be. Machines and immigrants don't lower wages. Bosses lower wages."

In fact, data shows that workers fear technology even more than immigrants. "Survey data shows that American workers are more afraid of being replaced by robots than by immigrants, are hesitant to apply for jobs in which applicants are sorted by algorithms, and strongly believe automation will drive down wages," McCallum writes in his book Worked Over.

On August 20, Instacart sent an email to some gig workers and published a post on Medium, explaining that two third-party support vendors that the company works with had "reviewed more shopper profiles than was necessary in their roles as support agents," including the name, email address, and telephone numbers of 2,180 shoppers, according to an email addressed to gig workers obtained by Motherboard.

None of the four shoppers that Motherboard spoke to who had their accounts hacked said they received this email, and a spokesperson for Instacart told Motherboard that no shopper data was stored, downloaded or copied in any way during the security breach. But the shoppers who have had their accounts compromised have faced severe disruption to their incomes.

After days of back-and-forth and waiting, an Instacart representative finally advised Roberta to get a new phone number and email address. "I wasted 30 hours of my life trying to get my account back," Roberta told Motherboard on the phone. "Eventually I just had to change my phone number and email entirely."

"I shop seven days a week. When I was hacked, I couldn't access my account for five days," Sharon, a shopper in Connecticut who had her account taken over in early August, told Motherboard. "I worry if this is going to happen again. I wake up every day stressed about my account. You shouldn’t have to wait five days like I did to have this fixed."

In recent months, the company has also begun addressing the unauthorized use of third-party bots, deactivating shoppers who they believe use these third-parties to secure orders, and partnering with the security platform HackerOne to develop a bot bounty program that combats third-parties their automated tools to Instacart shoppers.

When asked about shoppers who have recently had their accounts taken over, Instacart told Motherboard that hackers could have gained access by way of a phishing text and email or because the shoppers themselves gave personal information to bots in order to secure batches. None of the four hacked shoppers that Motherboard spoke to say they gave personal information to any third parties.

Angie, an Instacart shopper in North Carolina, who was hacked and subsequently deactivated in June, told Motherboard that someone changed her phone number, email, password, and bank account information and shopped two orders in a North Carolina city she had never worked in while she was on vacation in Florida. Shortly after, her account was deactivated due to two undelivered batches.

"I didn't know anything about the hack until I was deactivated. I tried to sign in when I returned from vacation and it was deactivated. I am still deactivated," she wrote to Motherboard. "[Instacart] didn't care that I was a great shopper. They didn't care that someone hacked my account and I could prove it. They didn't care that I had never shopped in these areas or stores. They didn't care about any of that."

Organizers suspect the 12 cases of shoppers having their accounts hacked and taken over are just the tip of the iceberg, considering many shoppers who have been hacked are not active on the platform, and might not notice that someone has accessed their account.

Are you an Instacart shoppers with a tip to share about your working conditions? Please get in touch with the author at lauren.gurley@vice.com or on Signal 201-897-2109.

"The number of times security breaches that have happened on Instacart in and of itself should make people feel uncomfortable," said Vanessa Bain, an organizer at the Gig Workers Collective. "I do wonder if the bots and hacking are connected because they emerged at similar times, but we can't say with sincerity or knowledge that that's happening."

Over the years, security breaches have become a routine occurrence on Instacart. In July, Buzzfeed reported that the personal information of what could be hundreds of thousands of Instacart customers, including names, order histories, and credit card numbers, was being sold on the dark web. Last fall, Instacart shoppers received letters from the IRS with other Instacart shopper's personal information. For years, Instacart (and DoorDash) gig workers have reported having their accounts hacked and earnings drained.

Hacks, Bots, and the Pandemic Have Fueled a Racist Class War on Instacart syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/