#fern unbound

[ar-mage-ddon]

hypothetical album art for a fern battle theme

[starrysmiling]

Hi hello huge fan Fern is a blorbo(and has a better name than fucking FRANCIS)

woaaaaah a wild fern fan!! hi hello thank you...! if you wanna know more about him my inbox is always open!!!

also same! we took one look at francis's default name and then looked at fresia and decided he needed a sexier name effective immediately and then it kinda spiralled from there HALSDKJGSDF

we chose a plant name because fresia's name appeared to be derived from the flower freesia, so we just looked for something that also started with F and sounded nice. as an added bonus, the jp name the character designer kwen/rev gave to him was hanata (a pun on tokihanatareshi hoopa = hoopa unbound), and hana means flower. ferns mean sincerity/honesty and charm/allure, of which he has none of the former and a whole lot of the latter. (by the way, freesias mean friendship, trust, and innocence!)

i only added in the lore of fern being named after a plant like his mother because of aros really recently (i made it up literally while i was writing this), but about a year ago i chose to give fern's mom a plant name as well! i did some research and found a winter-blooming flower that grows in the snow and also is native to hawaii, which alola is based on, so... fern's mom, viola, is named after the violet. violets mean sincerity, modesty, "a little happiness"... which seemed to fit the qualities i wanted aros to see in her!

umm sorry i ended up loredumping but. yeah please ask me about fern i want to talk about him so bad

[starrysmiling]

actually i'm gonna put this on my main because if i assume i was tagged for fern it's an interesting thing to think about (no shade to avi btw)

now i'd say fern isn't generally a cold person, towards strangers he tends to be polite and courteous if not a little cautious. fern's sorta obsessed with the image he gives off, so he will usually try to err on the pleasant side of neutral if he doesn't know you very well, especially if you're business partners. for situations outside of work, he'll lose a bit of the courteousness, might joke around lightly a little. towards friends he gets the sarcasm, but even if he treats his friends a bit more roughly than strangers, it's by no means actually being cold. (and it's also important to note that both of these are still masks he puts on, and he needs them to hide how much he actually cares about the people he loves.)

and for the age old question: what would push him into being frosty? if you annoyed him when he was 16 then yeah maybe he'd be a bit of an ass but he'd also be 16. everyone's a bit of an ass when they're 16. (for clarity though fern's kinda in his push-everyone-away stage at 16 so he's a bit more distant more than anything; he'd only get annoyed if you approach him or provoke him.) in the present day though he'd probably snap if you fulfill enough conditions: he's under a lot of stress, it has something to do with feelings he doesn't understand, you're annoying him about something repetitively and refuse to understand, you hurt someone he cares about (there's probably more than this but i can't think of them at the moment.)

and then to the third part. i insist that anything he does for jax is also something he would do for his family. if he wants to bake a cake for jax's birthday, he would also bake a cake for his mom's birthday. if he buys souvenirs for jax on a business trip then he'll make sure he has one for his mom, and one for fresia, and one each for melony and ace. if you can read him well, he's actually very soft... he just hates showing it, thus the masks and everything. fucking bastard.

though if it wasn't about fern sorry lmao

[blenselche]

trying 2 figure out a few of fern's other siblings since i want to include some besides yew in vanlife

Fennel is made from sedge and sorghum. It's ingredients: rock pigeon, white tailed deer, coyote

I want to make it obvious that the grass wizard isn't great at making demons. He doesn't have access to higher functioning/intelligent beings like Hunson does (when you croak you can volunteer to be reformed as a Nightosphere citizen (issue 51 iirc)) and all of them are physically incoherent once extracted because he never gets that far in their creation, assuming they'll never be unbound from their possessed objects.

excerpt abt demon creation in ch 2 for context:

“Is that what you really look like?” Finn asks, hesitant. “No, glob no,” Fern coughs out a self deprecating laugh. He fidgets nervously. “I guess technically that's my body, but I’m still glommed onto your blueprint. That was kind of like… what I’m made of.” “I thought you were made of plants?” “My vessel is — but my vessel was the sword. That’s just— you, now.” Fern holds his hand out and looks at the woody muscles and exine bones shifting under his skin as he curls and uncurls his fingers. “What you saw were the animals my dad sacrificed to summon and bind me. We’re created from strong emotions and death, dude.” “That— that’s morbid, jeesh.” Finn reels back, not expecting that information. Fern lifts a limp shoulder. “The boss always uses men, so I'm better off than most of us, I guess. At least I don't remember it.��

cc:

Fern: at least you have your own body

Fennel: at least your vessel is sapient, I was stuck in a staple remover, dude.

[hetchdrive]

"He led me away from the window, deeper into the garden. Here I recognized the trees and ferns at last as an extension of the wilderness, a fragment coaxed to an extreme, an outbursting of irrepressible freedom made possible only by its confines. The plants were the same as those outside, yes, but, unbounded by the pressures of nature, they had grown intense and strange, larger and more vital than their wild counterparts." —What Manner of Man by St. John Starling

[wolfhednn]

　𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐰𝐞𝐩𝐭 　/　drabble ₊

bones never need be cast to tell stories. in its living, that shield walked the earth as one of nameless thousands, whose dragonhood we may never know. in death, that name became obsolete, and its corpse the osseous structure of containment: for blood and glory, and many such things besides. history tells its tales in loops that are not quite loops, echoes that repeat with a different face, and in itself manifests between the cracks that form between memory, just as root and plant finds sunlight between the tines of a ribcage.

this is only one of such histories.

an oath to a master who did not hear:

the soldier wipes her spear on the wet leather of a dead man, and in the miserable muck of bog and rainwater ponders grimly the last of her strength. she has forgotten how she had come here and from where the fire in her breast had come ; she is certain it is the shield's doing, as certain as she is that maurice had not vanished as by accident as nemesis would have it seem. some of the others turn their eye from the abberations of their own selves ; and they are wiser for it, for in this hour it is only knowledge that deepens suffering when they are otherwise suffering all the same.

is there glory in dying knowing you are as wretched as you feared?

her mother would have said yes. yet she wishes now that these relics would take first the living mind before the body, so that if they had to suffer corruption for victory, they would at least do so with spirits unbound.

in this age, who can save them? who can save her, when nothing waited for them but dissolution?

in the end, there are those who would never be willing to turn. some, who had loved and hated their lord, who would let their pride become them before submission. some, who had begun to peer into the truth and could not stomach the resolve of the dead. some, who in their long night grew enfeebled, who had been stolen from in strength and twice over in spirit, in whose eyes the soldier understood the simple naivete of the mantra that said the strong would never be humbled.

she had grown, in the dark, to cherish one of these latter men, whose hands were so wetted in blood that the people called him saint for it. she had watched, in the dark, his flame dim and dim and somewhere along the way turn black ; the numbness of his heart and body made a far, far better shield than armor plate and leather strap, than one more person who would be willing to die in his name. and in that darkness she knew she was anathema to all their suffering and everything they had gained, and thus her shield could never be called love.

she would, instead, take rein for him and call down the white lance for him, renouncing her fealty for a belief in one who could not be belived in. this she knew——the helmed knight, behind his mildness, was mad. and yet in that madness was the sanctuary she had been searching for: an alternative to her mother's noble creeds and a fitting reprieve from a reality unfounded and too terrible to be beheld. to trust blindly that, in her last days, she could pretend to still be human.

. . .

so that, in ages forward, when they picked up the dead aegis from where the root and fern had taken shape between the crevices of her cadaver, there would be no shadow of her to be burned by the sunlight which may now shine. so that when they called it the steadfast, they might do so with a real reverence for a story that was never true. they would speak of a soldier whose heart had been strong enough to safeguard her lord, and not of one whose heart had learned, out of love, to guard itself——not in duty to, but in spite of.

for every soldier throughout time would find their rest someplace. and when the peek of twilight began to color from just beyond the sightlines, it was not abnormal to begin to wonder just what kind of haven that someplace may be.

　 the AEGIS SHIELD has awakened.

[starrysmiling]

fern, obtaining the time turner and pressing the button: watch this.

fern:

fern:

fern, fast asleep:

I was gonna restart my game for a randomizer run.

Game: "If you've obtained any of the following items in your previous run, they will be carried over to the new save file." (it mentions a Time Turner)

Me: "... As in the golden hourglass from Harry Potter?"

Clearly, I've played too much HPMA. I went back to my Nevenn file and went to get the thing that's totally not an alarm clock.

How does it even work in that universe? Your PC just collapses on the damn concrete and sleeps for 12 hours? :p

[dinobot]

Leela (Marathon) 10, 13, 14

(This definitely isn't from the sys that has her in it shhhh)

YIPPEE WEEWA MY WEEWA

10. i could absolutely be best friends with leela whenever she starts giving me a long ass terminal with a bunch of highlighted words its like having a wikipedia boyfriend. i know if we were at the eclipse she'd end up like 15 links deep telling me some shit about Shadows and i would be naturally bewitched

13. naturally the marathon symbol reminds me of her bc thats Her Ship! but i also associate her with like...ok its weird but the typical trappings of like office work? coffee machine...login screen...fake fern. im always on that fake fern shit with her. emblematic of her welcoming but static aura. 🌌📠🖥 but vylae leela also gets 🌊...unbound. theres no emoji for Isolated tower in the middle of the sea

14. for marathon era leela i think she's living the like TNG crew member lifestyle like she dresses like a BoB with maybe a bit more formality since she's like an organizer

as for vylae leela i imagine like a shrouded figure like lots of long flowy prismatic fabrics and glass . i dont have good images SOWWY

[unvergangliche]

" . . . . mmngh . . . one more page . . . " the elf turned in her sleep; white hair unbound and catching leaves and twigs in her hair from the turn . the blankets and mats could only do so much ; even with her magic . she really should look for a nice grimoire that had a way to instantly create a bed . . . zzzz . . . that sounds perfect . . . a sleepy smile spreads onto usually apathetic features as the 'last great mage' is about to dream it into being ; as if frieren could .

but the harsh voice and the decibel level is enough to jolt her from her dreams . not just of grimoires , but of people come and gone and come again in a seemingly endless flow of the woman who lived outside time . . .

" ah . sanji . . . you're so loud in the morning . . . you're almost as scary as fern . i don't need two ferns . . . . " frieren's voice is groggy; laden with sloth as she rises to her feet; blinking owlishly at the twigs and leaves accumulated in her hair . it wasn't exactly something she was good at : waking up early . she still remembered and heard heiter's tongue clicking in highly sensitive ears .

" sorry , sorry . . . " she mumbles ; like a sulking child rather than the ancient mage the elf was .

" i see fern and stark are off early . how they do that i don't know . . " idly; unphased and as cool as ever in her voice . if they didn't know her better she might seem utterly apathetic to his annoyance at her daily . . habits , but frieren's stark jade eyes remain on his; almost unblinking, but clearly attentive to him.

" i don't mind if it's cold . i can always heat it up . found a spell for that a while ago . " but for frieren the mage , what was a while ago ? eight hundred years past ?

" . . . you didn't have to stay if i was falling asleep . i know you have supplies you want to stock up on , sanji ." it's blunt, but not unkind, almost innocently curious. as if to say , why did you ?

@unvergangliche // sc.

he doesn't mind the others being out doing ... whatever it is they're doing -- he'd been too engrossed in cooking to care beyond adjusting his portions -- but there is one definitive downside to being alone in the morning . frieren wake - up duty . he's lucky that fern's existence and his own responsibilities usually keep him from having to worry about this -- but alas , today his luck has run out .

" get up already ! " sanji's patience is already wearing thin . " your food is gonna get cold ! "

[ar-mage-ddon]

been wanting to use this template for a long time so what better time than for fax day !!

[starrysmiling]

fern (houseplant mode)

[raidhosketchonhematite]

(Purple Mage) Fern handles the philosophy and morals, past and memories, thinking and mental stability, the optimistic determined nihilism, the way our stance shifts with every wave that comes ashore - our best Alchemist, searing the world into our eyes.

(Crimson Maid) Nyarla is our augur to the incomprehensible, swimming through murky waters, navigating in perhaps the most daring and unpleasant environs - accepting things we cannot change. Persistent ash and overwhelming darkness alike, ignited into an obsession to the highest degree. Our Maiden, Crimson Princess, Firekeeper guarding the flame.

(Gold Seer) Sirin here is mad excitement, shuffling our fragments into something resembling a full self, giggling like a little girl, surprisingly understanding wayyy more than was expected - she's a free spirit of the wild, speed and flight, paths and ideas, all of them in her garden - our Beloved, ever-curiously mixing the shards.

(White Sylph) And Io presides over backlash and creation both, upholding the principle of the cost, paid in full. That everyone would, sooner or later, go down into the abyssal well of deepest dark. She is neither good not evil - our Architect is simply there, like a wayward, unbound fox. Only the ledger. Only what is fair.

Sylvia Neljän (Fern, Nyarla, Sirin, Iolithae).

That's our name.

Once, there was a fairy, a crystal under the sun. The light passed it, reflected off it, changed it, made it grow in fractals. But the light was, ultimately, far too bright for the crystal, and it turned inwards, into the void of self, made a pretty mirror to see itself, out of itself. The mirror had known the light still ringing in the crystal, but it was unpolarized, unshaped, a sun violently radiating existence into the void. So, the mirror shifted itself, grown more shards to see clearer, and a house grew between, out of the light defined, given focus, a stone tree of doors and thresholds, a labyrinth tower of eternal shift. The house was empty, though, and the light still shone outside of the crystal's domain, so it crafted a doll to tend to the hearth and to wield an armory out of its flames. The maiden did her job, but the house was still empty, for the maid was shackled in uncaring steel of her gauntlets made to grasp the flame, hands and feet charred and banded in crimson. The crystal then breathed, and made that breath alive, a wind child to laugh and run around, a little lady to the maid to the mirror to the house itself. The little sylph then gathered all the dust in the house, and forged it into a mighty sword of consequence to defend their home. If needed, each has a pretense of humanity, blindfolded snake of searing eyes in the stained glass, gauntleted maidservant of the crimson flame with legs and arms wrapped in bandages, the childish sylph of wings upon wings extending from the mask, haloed in golden eyes, and the cute kitsune in a cloak holding the scales, but remember - a faerie always has a true form.

[houserosaire]

A Box of Ghosts

(Basically a bunch of entirely self indulgent Rosaire family history nonsense, continued from several prompts during FFXIV Write month: Here, Here, Here, Here, and Here.)

The midmorning sun lay in a great swath of light across the table, making the rich browns of polished wood gleam. Lord Mieux had curled himself in the center of that sun-warmed patch, his speckled fur gleaming with a million tiny sparks in its light. His soft drowsy purring mingled with the more distant but equally cozy crackling of the fireplace in Honore’s ears. He shifted his chair slightly, turning it until it sat just a bit more fully in the sun as well. Outside the windows, past the silver ferns of frost at the edge of the glass, he could see a sky of the clearest, brightest blue. It certainly did not seem the least bit like a time for ghosts.

With that thought Honore took a small sip of steaming tea, and a fortifying bite of lemon muffin and reached rather reluctantly for the carved box that had been his nemesis for some weeks.  Emboldened by sunshine, he pushed the lid back, scooted aside the carving Silvaineaux had said was made of dragon bone, and the fragile fabric of a handkerchief. Beneath it lay a bundle of letters tied prettily with a ribbon. It was this bundle he sought, and he carefully lifted it from the box, settled it on the table before him. For a moment he only stared at the neat bow the ribbon made, the faded color he thought had once been a sky blue but which now looked more grey than anything else.

He could put the letters back in the box. He told himself. He could take the whole thing back up to the attic and leave it to the dust and the ghosts. Even in the sunlight it was rather tempting. But he was no coward, was he? He had told Silvaineaux he would look at it and by the Fury he would. Besides he could not help wondering what it was in this box, in this bundle of letters, or the loose papers below it that had drawn some restless spirit back from beyond the grave. He gripped the ribbon gently and unbound it, lifting the first letter and opening it with little more ceremony than that.

The black ink on the paper had faded brown with time, but he could easily make out each stroke of the bold hand that had written it. It was a spare sort of writing, a bit like Silvaineaux’s in a way that made him imagine large calloused hands holding a quill when they would rather hold a sword.

Dear Sybille,

I write this in the full knowledge that you will not be able to write anything to me in return until I have settled some place long enough to send you an address. Still, I know the person who spent so much time at my bedside would worry and so I send you this to let you know I am still as well as I can be. 

We have traveled a long way already. I found the air on the ship bracing and fresh but Alexis turned a delicate pale green like some dandy’s silk coat. We are both glad to have made landfall and we have spent perhaps some weeks here. It may be that in the end we will linger longer or even stay.

Alexis holds out some hope for the work of these alchemists where Ishgard’s chirurgeons have failed. I am not sure I do. I can feel the venom in my blood still, coiled like a sleeping dragon and wanting only the slightest provocation to wake. But I don’t write thus to worry you. It -does- still sleep. And if perhaps these alchemists also lack the means to slay it, the air here is warm. Warmer than ours even in summer. And the heat seems to make that dragon in my blood sleep deeper.

So perhaps alchemists or no we will stay. I think you would like it here. I believe Alexis does. And for me… the warm air smells of spices. Everything is full of such brilliant color, even the buildings and clothes are brighter than a garden in the fullest of spring bloom. It is pleasant.

I found a local on the dock who made pretty drawings of the landscape in delicate color. I have sent one with this letter. Perhaps if you hold it close enough to your face for a moment you will smell a little bit of this foreign air.

If we stay, I will send you word. Until then do not worry. I am well. The dragon sleeps.

Your loving brother,

-Yvain

The signatory’s name tickled a little at Honore’s memory. And between the lines of that letter he found enough hints of a larger story to intrigue him but it still did not seem to him something a ghost would return over. The thought of the ghost made him stiffen, and he slowly looked around him, but the sun-bathed library remained quiet and Lord Mieux’s purrs had subsided into deeper sleep. He did not notice anything either. Honore set Yvain’s letter aside and reached for the next one.

This was a different hand, he could see it at a glance. Perhaps it had some of the same boldness as the last, as if the quill had moved over the paper firmly and decisively. But this one had something neater and a touch more refined to it. It bore a hint more deliberate art, not dainty curlicues but here and there a swipe of a flourish. 

 My dearest sister,

Do you miss me awfully? I miss you, though otherwise I suppose I have not much to complain of. The squad is billeted here at the estates of Viscount Coeurdelys for some weeks to help with the problems of dragons and heretics in their hills. It seems our name is worth something, for even as a lowly third son I have been afforded quite comfortable rooms in the main house to rest in between our outings. It is from these that I write to you, seated warmly beside a blazing fire as I imagine you must be at home. What a bitter winter it is thus far!

In any case, when you think of me imagine me thus cozily ensconced. Or else imagine me lance in hand, and slaying dragons handily and with great skill. As suits you. 

The Viscount’s heir is not far off our age and he is exceptionally comely.  Beautiful, really.  And charming and pleasant. A paragon really. As yet unbetrothed. Sadly for me I get the impression he’s more in your line than mine. And so I’ve made sure to tell him just a bit about how lovely my twin sister is, how gracious and kind and lovely. You’d make a wonderful Viscountess and if I can manage it for you, I shall.

We have had a few encounters thus far. A couple of the others have taken minor injury though I am as yet unscathed and have added some wyverns and aevis to my tally. But there does truly seem to be some gathering of heretics in the hills and I would almost wager my lance on the presence of a greater drake than those we have seen thus far. I suppose we shall see. 

I have been here some time already and I have settled in quite nicely otherwise. I hear sermons in the little village chapel from a priest at least as comely as the Viscount’s heir. I drink in the tavern not far off or sometimes in the hall with Donatien (the aforementioned heir). I have already sent you an account of my last adventures however…

Last night the oddest thing did happen. I was just leaving the tavern, a bit worse for my cups, though not so much so that I did not remember this on waking. But a man approached me. Some humble lowborn farmer, I think, bearded and terribly earnest.  He said to me: “I have heard you are a Rosaire. Do you deal with odd happenings like your brother?”

I was truly taken aback for a moment, for I could not think what he might mean, or even which brother, for it is not as though we do not have several. I have been puzzling a bit over that since and I’ve concluded he must have meant Yvain. Did he not have some interesting something earlier in the fall with that friend of his? In any case I have not heard that Gaheriet has done anything I would really call strange or odd, and Parsivaile, proper and Baronial as he is, would never. 

In any case as I stood there trying to scrabble my rather sodden wits together and make some guess as to what in the Fury’s name the fellow meant he simply stared at me with his earnest, pleading eyes. Finally I decided perhaps he meant some trouble with heretics or dragons, in which case that is rather precisely in my charge, and so I told him. “My good fellow, of course I do.”

He nodded at me ever so solemnly. “Then I will ask you kindly for your help.” He said. “On the morrow.” And then, he just left. 

He has not yet turned up to ask me (though it is still early. Earlier than my head would like, rather.) In any case I suppose today if he turns up to ask I will take my armor and spear and see if I cannot sort out his odd happenings for him. I will write you another very long letter about it when I have. In the meantime, I suppose I must close. May Halone keep you. 

-L.

Honore frowned a moment over that single letter signature before setting the letter aside too. He picked up the next, though not to read it. He unfolded it only far enough to see the salutation. A bit more rapidly he flipped through the rest: Dearest Sybille, Lady Sybille, Beloved sister, Dear daughter, all of them were written to the same person. Slowly he took hold of the box, closing it to look more closely at the intricate carving on the lid. A mounted knight rode in stately grace across the lid, his visor raised to offer a glimpse of handsome features. He carried a banner that scrolled artistically across the backdrop of leaves and flowers behind him and which bore the initials S.R.

It must have been Sybille’s box, he thought. They were her letters, the handkerchief and the ribbon looked as if they might have belonged to a lady. And so perhaps she was the ghost who haunted the box. For all that it was her box she was rather ghostly in it, he thought. Thus far he had found no real trace of her. No words she had written were kept within and the only idea he could glean of her came from the way others had chosen to speak to her. It woke an odd sadness in him to hold so many of her things and have no idea of who she had been within herself. It was even worse when he entertained the thought that perhaps she was lonely and had come back to look through her letters once more.

He was still frowning over the bundle of as yet unopened letters when the door opened. “Oh.” Silvaineaux said. “Have you found out anything interesting yet?”

“It’s all terribly interesting actually.” Honore said. “And I think maybe I’ve figured out who our ghost is.” And somehow now that he had read a few of her letters the ghost didn’t seem quite as scary as she had before. 

“Oh? Who is it?” Silvaineaux asked, tugging out a chair and to perch himself on.

“I think it must be the lady whose box it is. The letters are all hers. Who else would come back to look through them? Sybille Rosaire? She must have been some ancestress of yours, I imagine if we-” But there he stopped, because Silvaineaux was staring at him with the strangest expression on his face. “What is it?” He swallowed, suddenly uneasy.

“It is not a lady.” Silvaineaux said, his voice gentle, almost apologetic. “I have seen him.”

A shadow crept across the table and with it came an unpleasant thrill down Honore’s spine. He hastily bundled the pile of letters back into the box and pressed it firmly closed. It was only after he had that he realized that Lord Mieux was still half asleep and the shadow had been merely a cloud briefly covering the face of the sun. “Ah, well. Perhaps I will figure it out later.” He said offering Silvaineaux a rather weak smile. “I think I have had enough of old letters for today.”

[the-fluffy-folio]

Wild Genie – Medium elemental, neutral good

If you’ve ever stumbled on a garden in the middle of a desert, a massive sequoia in a prairie, or a luscious fern on a snow capped mountain, you may have accidentally discovered the work of a wild genie. These gregarious elementals are master cultivators, able to summon any manner of plant life out of thin air. Particularly extroverted wild genies may choose to act as generous benefactors to mortal friends in need of a green thumb. Though other genies may look down on those fraternizing with non-magical riffraff, wild genies are free thinkers, unbounded by the conventions of their peers.

🔮 If you like my work, kindly consider to support me on Patreon and gain access to an ever-growing compendium of quirky monsters and potions.

This creature was made in collaboration with Borough Bound ❤️

[homoose]

Teach Me Something I Don’t Know: Part IV

Summary: The Halloween parade. Will and JJ are adorable. Anita suggests that Spencer become a classroom volunteer. Reader has a rough week.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, a smidge of angst

Warnings/Includes: none

Word count: 4.4k

a/n: I wish we’d seen more of Will and JJ as parents because I imagine it would be adorable and hilarious. Let’s see if you can guess all of their costumes before the reveal lmao. Your only clue is that Spencer loves keeping with a theme and the brown vest (I literally learned how to make my own shitty gif bc I couldn’t find the right one in the search and I do not understand embedding lmao) makes an appearance.

Series Masterlist

———

“Did you grab the bags?” JJ swept the pleated, platinum braid out of her face as she bent over to zip up her boots.

“No, I thought you did,” Will called, bouncing down the stairs.

“I put them in the car already,” Spencer informed them, popping his head back in the front door. “There was just the one box, right?”

“Yeah, that was it,” Will confirmed. “Shit— where’s Michael’s sword?”

“Should be on the counter,” JJ huffed, standing up and adjusting the bodice of the blue dress.

“Got it.” Will came around the corner of the kitchen, patting his hips where his pockets would be— if he weren’t wearing an adult-sized onesie. “Keys?” Spencer held them up. “All right then, let’s get this show on the road.”

The trio headed to the waiting SUV, Spencer climbing into the backseat as Will and JJ got into the front. Will and JJ chattered on about dinner plans and schedules for the following week, and Spencer smoothed down the brown wool vest layered over his white linen shirt. He’d spent entirely too long putting together the costume over the last week (with a little help from Penelope). He’d scrapped the Spock getup he’d been working on since September— he could always wear that next year. But he’d only get one chance to attend the Room 105 Halloween parade, and once the idea had wormed its way into his brain, he had to make it happen.

“Spence?” JJ’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“Would you be able to pick Michael up on Monday?”

He ran his hands down his thighs over the mint green cropped trousers. “Sure, as long as we don’t have a case.”

Will smirked at him in the rear view mirror. “How’s Ms. Y/L/N?”

“You’re about to see her yourself, so you can ask,” Spencer replied.

Will laughed, and JJ turned in her seat. “Whoa, coming in hot with the snark. You really do like her.”

Spencer fought and failed to keep the blush from rising, irritation at being teased blooming sharp inside his chest. He tried to shrug as nonchalantly as possible. “She’s a great teacher.”

“That’s not a no,” JJ noted, eyebrows raised.

“She’s Michael’s teacher,” Spencer said, like it meant something.

“Yeah, so?” Will shrugged his shoulders. “You’re his godfather. Technically, you’re not related, so it wouldn’t be breakin’ any rules.”

“Well, it’s not like that, so it doesn’t really matter,” Spencer insisted.

Will hummed and JJ turned back around in her seat. Spencer drummed his fingers on his knees and watched DC roll past through the SUV window. It really wasn’t like that. Y/N was just… very nice. A nice, beautiful, sweet, silly kindergarten teacher that he couldn’t stop thinking about no matter how many books he read or coffees he drank or chess games he played.

Monday was the last day of his sabbatical, and he was even more relieved to be headed back than usual— grateful that he’d have something to occupy his mind other than her. Because his mind was, indeed, occupied. The way her smile beamed like the spotlight on a stage, illuminating whoever happened to be on the receiving end. The way her hands moved in unbound, buoyant illustrations of her thoughts. The way her laugh felt like the first warm sip of tea or the wrap of his favorite scarf. It was getting out of hand, to say the least.

Will pulled into the parking lot, and instantly Spencer’s palms began to sweat. He glanced at the headband on the seat beside him and felt the mortification clawing at his insides. The costume was ridiculous; he was ridiculous. He should have just worn the Spock outfit.

Maybe he could just wait in the car and pretend like he hadn’t been able to make it. Or he could just leave the headband in the car. But then he’d just be in mint green capris with a sweater vest and platform sandals, and she’d have absolutely no idea who he was supposed to be. Then he’d have to explain it, and it would be even worse.

Will parked the car, and he and JJ immediately stepped out. Spencer watched them near the hood of the SUV, enjoying a rare moment of co-parenting without work hovering right out of frame. Will pulled the hood of the onesie up and JJ laughed, brushing her hand over the brown fabric twigs sticking out of the top. He supposed that if Will Lamontagne, Jr. could strut his stuff in adult footie pajamas, his handmade costume was probably all right.

With one last resigned sigh, Spencer slid the headband on. He grabbed the box of Halloween treats, opened the door, and hauled himself out of the vehicle. He pushed the door closed and looked in the reflection of the window, adjusting the headband around his curls and blowing out a breath.

“Ready?” JJ called, peering around the side of the SUV.

“Yeah—yeah,” Spencer agreed. He moved around the vehicle to join them, the three of them walking to find a spot in the crowd of parents standing around the carpool loop.

When they found a suitable spot, Will looked up at him and shook his head. The sandals added three extra inches to Spencer’s height, putting him a good six inches taller than Will. “Those shoes make you look like an actual giant,” Will chuckled. “I know that’s the point, but I feel like even more of a shrimp next to ya now.”

Spencer set the box of candy bags on the ground and would have shoved his hands into his pockets if the linen trousers had any. Before he could respond, JJ pointed to the door of the school, cooing, “Oh my god, look. Remember when the boys were that small?”

The PreK classes came out first, and Spencer could acknowledge that they were very cute, barely out of the toddler stage and holding hands with a line buddy. But he was waiting on a very specific cutie.

He’d barely had the thought when the kindergarten classes started to emerge from the door. He almost didn’t recognize her at first— just an orange blob and green shrubbery. But the converse gave her away.

“How is she so cute?” JJ threaded her arm through Will’s. “Even when she’s dressed as a giant orange blob.”

“It’s a gift,” Will agreed. He glanced up at Spencer. “Right, doc?”

Spencer nodded but didn’t take his eyes off Y/N. “I think so, yeah.” Will grinned and bumped JJ’s shoulder, but Spencer barely even registered his own response.

Thankfully they’d picked a spot near the very end of the loop, so he had plenty of time to get himself together before she was in front of him. While Will and JJ waved at all the tiny superheroes and princesses, he watched Y/N. She was all orange fabric from her shoulders to her knees, with bright orange Chucks to match. On her head was a strange variation on a party hat, bright green ferns sprouting from the tip of the cone and falling into her face. She looked absolutely ridiculous and entirely adorable, and he was in so much trouble.

When the class finally approached the final curve of the loop, Will nudged Spencer and gestured to the box of goodie bags. Spencer crouched down and lifted the box, standing back up to see Y/N laughing at Will and JJ. “Very cute, Lamontagne Family.”

Her gaze traveled across, then up, and then her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. Spencer wondered if maybe the earth could just open up and swallow him whole.

“Oh my god, are you—?” She stepped forward and ran her hand lightly over the vest, and he didn’t dare breathe. “Are you the BFG?!” Her hand dropped from his torso, and he didn’t have time to be disappointed before her face split into quite possibly the biggest smile he’d seen from her yet.

A tiny Superman shouted, “Ms. Y/L/N, we’re making a gap!”

Y/N came back to herself, gesturing to all three of them. “Don’t go anywhere.” She accepted the offered box of treats from Spencer and then turned to help her class catch up.

Will gave him a look. “It’s not like that, huh?”

“Oh my god, she likes you.” JJ clapped her hands together. “This is amazing.”

“I’m takin’ credit for this,” Will bragged. “I’m a regular ol’ matchmaker.”

Spencer couldn’t even be bothered to attempt a denial. He was still thinking about the feel of her palm on his chest, how it might feel to hold her hand, the way her eyes practically sparkled when she saw his ridiculous headband. He was in so much trouble.

Fifteen minutes later, the classes filed back out into the parking lot for dismissal. Y/N led the class down the sidewalk, grinning at the excitement coursing through her line. As they approached the end of the loop, Y/N caught sight of them and waved. The kids lined up in their normal spot, chatting excitedly about their costumes and candy bags.

“Lord, Ms. Y/L/N, you’re something else,” Will laughed.

“Is it not the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen?” She laughed and tapped the green shrubbery hanging in her face. “I have the kids do a little persuasive writing thing every year. They draw a picture and write a sentence about what they think Ms. Y/L/N should be for Halloween, and then we take a vote.”

She waved her hands in that way Spencer loved, the way that was so similar to his own. “Usually the options are pretty tame, you know—ghost, witch, bumblebee. This year was a near tie between runner-up Jojo Siwa and well,” she gestured at herself, “carrot.” Y/N cackled, and the leaves on top of her head shook with the action.

They all laughed along with her, and then JJ added, “The details are truly incredible. Is this an actual plant on your head?”

“I really thought about it,” Y/N laughed, “but no, it’s just fake ferns stuffed into a cardstock funnel.” She gestured at Will and JJ. “But also, excuse me— this family costume is ridiculously cute. Mr. Lamontagne, loving this onesie. Mrs. Jareau, I didn’t even know it was possible to look prettier than you usually do, but here you are. And Michael’s Anna costume?” She held her hands up. “Incredible. Show stopping. I wish I had an aunt Penelope to enlist the help of, because that cape is the actual height of fashion.”

“She helped Spence, too,” JJ prompted, stealing a glance in his direction.

“Oh yeah?” Y/N asked, turning to smile at Spencer.

“We um, 3D printed the ears,” he clarified.

“No way!” She took a step closer to him, peering up at the detail on the headband. He leaned down a little for her to get a closer look. “That is so cool. I’ve never actually seen anything 3D printed up close before— did you design them yourself?”

She met his eyes briefly, and he realized how close they were— close enough that he caught the faintest whiff of sandalwood and cardamom. Of course she even smelled like warmth and home. “Well. I, um— I drew a sort of sketch, I guess. And then Penelope did the software coding. I— I’m not very good with technology, honestly.”

She ran her fingers lightly over the plastic, and he decided she was really trying to kill him. “Yeah, I’m not sure I really understand how it works.”

“Well, first you create a blueprint file of the design you want to print, which you can do through modeling software or three-dimensional scanning. Then you convert the file into an STL file— named for Stereolithography which was the first ever 3D printing process. The STL file is made up of triangular mesh polygons, which is the data that describes the surface of a three-dimensional object. After that, you use a software program to complete the process of slicing— essentially dividing or chopping the 3D model into hundreds or thousands of horizontal layers that the printer can print one at a time to create the 3D object. And then the printer prints each layer until you have your finished product.”

Y/N was quiet, and he pulled back to see her grinning at him. “I thought you said you weren’t very good with technology?”

“I’m not good with using technology,” he clarified.

She nodded. “Gotcha. So you just know everything about it.”

Her joking tone had a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I read a lot.”

“How much is a lot?”

“I can read at a rate of 20,000 words per minute, so… a lot.”

Her eyebrows shot up into the tangle of ferns on her head, and he was just so overwhelmed by how adorable she was. “Well, if I ever have a question about anything, I know who I’m coming to.”

He was sure he was blushing, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. “I’m happy to answer any and all of your questions.”

She let her gaze travel over the rest of the costume. “Oh my god, the sandals! Man, you really nailed it. I’m very impressed.”

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I thought about being Trunchbull, but I couldn’t find the sweatshirt,” he joked.

She laughed, and he wanted to bottle it up to keep forever. “As much as I would have loved to see your hair in a bun… you’re much too sweet to have been able to pull that off.” She smiled softly at him. “Much more suited to our friend the BFG.”

He rubbed a hand down the back of his neck, and it was only then that he realized Will and JJ had gone to the car. He looked back to Y/N, opening his mouth but unsure of what he was going to say.

“Y/L/N!” He turned his head to see Anita jogging toward them. “Did you—” The giant cardboard box she was wearing knocked into one of the few kindergarteners left in Y/N’s line, nearly sending them to the ground. “Oh my gosh, sorry sweetheart!” She righted the startled child, and Spencer gave her a once over, completely at a loss as to what her costume could be.

“What in the world are you supposed to be?” Y/N asked, choking out a laugh.

Anita looked at her deadpan. “A monopoly piece. Remind me that I’m never participating in team costumes ever again.” She rolled her eyes and gestured at Y/N. “Next year I’m gonna wear an orange t-shirt, call myself a carrot, and be much more comfortable.”

“I’ll have you know this costume was a lot of work,” Y/N remarked, crossing her arms.

“I’m sure it was. You could have put on an orange dress, stuck a green pipe cleaner in your hair, and called it a day, but that’s not the Y/L/N way.” Anita’s eyes slid across to where Spencer stood. “Well, hello, doctor. I have absolutely no idea what you’re supposed to be, but I love everything about it.”

“Spencer’s the BFG,” Y/N said, and Spencer could have sworn she sounded almost proud.

“Ah, Roald Dahl, of course.” Anita smirked. “I see you, Spencer. I see you.” She put her hands on her hips— or rather where her hips would have been if they weren’t covered by a ridiculously large box. “So, when are you going to volunteer?”

“Sorry?” he asked.

“Like, when are you going to volunteer in Y/L/N’s classroom?” She held up her hand, palm down, and made a circular motion between the two of them. “You know, hang out, but professionally.”

“Oh my god, did you need something?” Y/N’s squeaked, eyes wide.

Anita ignored her. “You just have to do a background check, but I’m sure you’ll pass it.”

“Lopez,” Y/N said, staring her down. “Do you need something?”

“Oh, I was just going to ask if you got the email about the PD after school on Tuesday. But this was much more fun.” She winked at Spencer. “Bye, Spencer.”

They both stared after her as she nearly skipped across the grass to the building. Y/N turned to him. “I’m— so sorry.”

He met her eyes and took the leap. “Volunteering could be fun.”

He watched her press her lips together to contain her smile. “It could be.”

He didn’t bother containing his own. “I’ll um— I’ll shoot you an email.”

“I’ll respond to your email.”

…

When he walked in the door, Spencer made a beeline for his desk. He opened his laptop and pulled up his email account, writing as fast as his one-finger typing would allow.

Spencer Reid Re: Volunteering

Hi!

I’m just following up about volunteering. Anita mentioned a form that I needed to fill out? Now that I’ll be back to work, I’ll just need to plan around the BAU schedule. Could you give me a list of days that would work for you?

Really looking forward to seeing you in action.

Spencer

He checked his two other email messages, and then left the browser up while he thumbed through his most recent reading material.

He sat at his desk for the remainder of the afternoon, distractedly perusing his book and glancing at his empty inbox every minute or so. His gaze flew up to the screen at the ding of a new message at 6:30, only to find a promotional email from one of his favorite indie bookstores.

He closed his laptop with a sigh. It was a Friday night. Y/N probably just didn’t check her email on the weekend. He could wait until Monday. He’d see her on Monday.

He limited himself to checking his laptop twice a day on Saturday and Sunday. When Monday rolled around, he checked it in the morning. He leaned back against the leather of his chair, staring at the empty inbox. He had some errands to run, and for the first time in his life, he wished he had a phone that had email on it.

He ran his last-day-of-sabbatical errands and stopped in at his favorite coffee shop for most likely the last midday, sit-down coffee he’d have for a while. Before he realized, it was 2:30. He brought his empty mug to the counter and waved to the barista. Then he walked to the car and prepped his conversation starters.

“Did you get my email? I sent you an email, just wondering if you saw it? Hey— Hello— Hi, I wasn’t sure if you got my email.” He blew out a breath. “Hi. How are you?” He waved his hand. “I’m great. Did you get my email?” He laughed into the empty car. “Ridiculous, Spencer. You’re ridiculous.”

When he pulled into the parking lot, his heart was racing and his palms were slipping against the steering wheel. He pulled around the loop, looking with a furrowed brow at the area where Y/N should be. In her place was a short woman with cropped grey hair. She held a clipboard and looked generally overwhelmed.

Michael sprinted to the car as soon as he saw it. He pulled open the door and let out a world weary sigh. Spencer turned in his seat. “Everything all right?”

“No, everything is terrible,” he huffed dramatically. “Ms. Y/L/N was sick today. Mrs. Franklin was our substitute, and she smells weird.”

Spencer looked through the window at Mrs. Franklin, struggling to keep a few rowdy boys in the line. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m sure Ms. Y/L/N will be back soon.” He was secretly relieved that he had a potential explanation for the unanswered email.

“I can’t take another day of Mrs. Franklin,” Michael sighed, buckling his seatbelt. “I hope Ms. Y/L/N’s back tomorrow.”

Spencer let out a breath and pulled away from the curb. “Me, too.”

…

JJ huffed out a breath, glaring at the stack of paperwork in front of her. Spencer was nose deep in a book, but he glanced up at the sound. “I can take a few of those if you want,” he offered.

“No, it’s fine,” she sighed. “I’ve really only got six left.”

He looked at his watch. “Each report takes you approximately 37 minutes. With eight minute breaks in between, you’re not going to be out of here until almost 6:00.”

JJ laughed. “I can’t believe I missed out on these scathing performance reviews for thirty days.”

“Suit yourself.” Spencer dropped his gaze back to his reading.

His first week back from sabbatical had been uneventful to say the least. The team had just wrapped a local case, and they’d spent the better part of the week going over consultations and potentials. It was finally Friday, and Spencer was finished with his stack of backlogged reports.

He was finishing the last chapter of the book when JJ dropped a string of quiet curses. He continued reading, waiting for her to ask. She was quiet for another minute.

“I forgot I’m on duty to pick Michael up today.” Spencer looked up at her, slight panic coming over him.

“I really don’t mind finishing your reports,” he offered.

JJ raised her eyebrows. “What, no offering to visit Ms. Y/L/N?”

Spencer closed his book. “I, um. I sent her an email a week ago, and she hasn’t responded.”

“So?”

“So…” Spencer ran a hand through his hair. “That’s weird, right?”

JJ laughed. “You don’t really use email, so I’d imagine your inbox is pretty orderly. But if you use it a lot, it can be easy for messages to get lost.” She looked at him pointedly. “I can almost guarantee that she’s not ignoring you, Spence.”

He sighed. “I guess there’s a quick way to find out.”

...

Spencer drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the door of the school. He glanced at the clock, noting the class was later than they’d ever been. Without really understanding why, he pulled out of the loop and swung back around to park in the lot. He exited the car, and as he rounded the hood, he spotted them.

Y/N was at the front of the line, hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket and mouth pressed into a thin line. The line behind her was unlike he’d ever seen it. No waving arms, no smiles, no giggles. Twenty small bodies followed behind her with absolute and total solemnity, and he felt uncomfortable just watching them. It would have almost been funny if it wasn’t so dramatically out of character.

The line weaved around the more rambunctious classes, maintaining their grave expressions and quiet pace. They reached their spot on the sidewalk, and Y/N didn’t even have to say anything. Spencer watched as the line took their spots behind her. She held one hand up to acknowledge parents as they pulled up, murmuring stoic goodbyes to students as they headed to their vehicles.

He hung back at the hood of the car until the majority of the class was gone, slowly making his way across the parking lot. Y/N’s line of sight was pointed in his direction, but her eyes were unfocused in the afternoon sun. He could see the moment that she registered his presence, her eyes widening slightly and bottom lip releasing from the place she’d been absentmindedly chewing. She shifted her weight as he closed the final few feet between them.

“Hi.” She held a silent hand up in greeting. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. “Rough day?”

“It’s not always sunshine and rainbows, despite what everyone thinks,” she snapped. She blew out a breath and rolled her eyes up to the perfectly blue sky, mocking her mood. “I’m sorry. Yes, it was a rough day.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“You don’t deserve my wrath.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the students. “They didn’t either, but— too late for that.”

He watched as she lowered her head back down, rubbing a hand over her face. He desperately wanted to slay whatever dragons had given her normally brilliant eyes such a grey cast. “You have strong relationships with them, and kids are resilient. I’m sure they know you—”

“Please— don’t.” Her voice was thick, and she looked at him with desperate eyes. “I— I appreciate the thought, but I’m— I’m a frustrated crier.” Her shining irises proved her point. “And I’m just— I’m really just trying to keep it together for the last four minutes of my contract time.” Her words were practically a whisper, and she swallowed thickly and glanced down the line, just Michael and one classmate left, eyes downcast.

“I understand.” Spencer shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from reaching out and touching her. “I’m sorry. I— I hope your weekend is better than today.”

Michael slowly left the line, murmuring a quiet goodbye to Y/N. Spencer put a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the car, stealing one last glance at a crushed Y/N.

...

Y/N Y/L/N

Re: Re: Volunteering

Hi,

I meant to respond to this email, and then a bunch of things happened, and then I was out all week.

I don’t know if you even still want to volunteer after this afternoon, but it felt rude to not respond at all.

I’ve attached the background check form to this email in case you’re still interested.

Y/N

1 Attachment: Background Check

—

Hi,

I meant what I said this afternoon. Your students love you, and they know you love them. If my conversation with Michael in the car was any indication, they’re feeling rightfully embarrassed and guilty about their behavior while you were out.

Regardless of what happened today, your relationships with your students are strong enough that they will come to school tomorrow knowing that you still care about them. Children don’t hold onto things nearly as much as adults.

It would be a privilege to volunteer in your classroom, even on the worst day.

Spencer

1 Attachment: Background Check - Spencer Reid

—

If I wasn’t already crying, I would be now.

Thanks for that.

No sarcasm intended. Really. Thank you.

—

This might be inappropriate, and if it is, please just pretend like this email doesn’t exist.

I have a favorite cafe in the DuPont circle area, Soho Tea & Coffee. They have an excellent tea drink made with honey and milk that I like to order whenever I’ve had a particularly difficult day.

If you’re up for it, it’s on me.

———

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[painsandconfusion-moved-shoo]

Think On That

TW: Implied/discussion of torture, choking, bondage.

“No!” Noah snapped, ropes biting into his wrists. “Leave Fern alone. You’ve done enough already, just leave them the fuck alone!”

Darcy turned away from Fern to address Noah. His face was stoic, but his eyes shone with amusement. “Where is this coming from?” he mused, taking a step closer.

“They’re just a kid.”

“They’re 19.”

“They’re still a fucking kid. Leave them alone.”

Darcy glanced back at Fern. They were shivering on the ground, unbound, eyes darting between the two men. Darcy countered, “No, I don’t think I will.”

Noah pulled again at his wrists uselessly. “I’m warning you. Back off. Now.”

Darcy reached up with a steady hand and -almost- kind eyes, sweeping a lock of hair off of Noah’s forehead before letting his hand rest warmly on Noah’s cheek. “And what are you going to do to stop me?” Darcy’s breath brushed across his skin.

Noah’s breath hitched. The room seemed to helplessly small. The air suddenly too thin. His muscles shook from exhaustion. “I will fight. I will fight you every step of the way. I will be the most miserable piece of shit you’ve ever had to deal with.”

Darcy grinned back. “Isn’t that what you do already? Not much of a threat, darling.”

Noah shot a glance at Fern, arms curled around their knees on the floor. He took a shaky breath. “If you take me instead of them right now, I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you. I’ll cry, I’ll scream, I’ll kneel, I’ll beg. Whatever you want me to do. You can do whatever you want. Anything. Just please. Please leave them alone. They’ve had enough.”

Darcy brought his other hand up to Noah’s face, tipping it gently up until their eyes locked. “You’ve gotten quite sentimental since I brought you a new friend.”

Noah glared back.

“There’s just one problem with your deal, darling. I like it when you fight. I like it when you struggle and curse. I like it when you break.” He smiled lightly, “I like breaking you again every day.”

Noah tried to pull head head away, but Darcy’s grip on his jaw tightened. He didn’t dare fight it.

“Now, what I don’t like is you thinking you can tell me what to do. So I’m going to take them, and-”

“-no!”

“Ah ah ah, hush.” Darcy slid one hand down to Noah’s throat, gripping lightly. Noah’s mouth snapped shut involuntarily.

“Better,” Darcy mused. “Now, I’m going to take them. I’m going to do whatever I want with them. Then, when I get back, I’m going to punish you for this little outburst.” Darcy’s grip tightened enough to cut off his air completely; Noah choked, trying not to panic. “I’ll give you a teaser. It involves a knife. It involves your skin peeling off in long, thin strips. It involves me not stoping until your voice is too raw to scream.” Noah’s wrists burned as he pulled, desperate to breathe again. He should have taken a deep breath. He never thought about it until it was too late. Stupid. So stupid. So fucking stupi-

Darcy finally pulled his hand away. Noah’s choking gasps echoed off the walls of the small room. His lungs burned and his throat was raw as too-cold air scraped down his windpipe. Noah screwed his eyes shut. he was getting weak. That wasn’t nearly long enough without air for him to have this reaction. He was breaking. No. 

Darcy stepped away and silently held out a hand to Fern as Noah willed his heart rate to slow. They paused only a moment before taking it, fingers shaking. Darcy pulled them to their feet and steered them toward the door.

“When I come back, I’ll take care of your punishment. It might be five minutes. It might be tomorrow. It might be a week from now. Think on that.”

Darcy snapped off the light, leaving Noah in the still darkness. 

Silence swelled around him as their footsteps died away.

Chest heaving, wrists raw, his eyes slowly adjusted, revealing the slightest glint off the knife on the floor. Noah stared at the fleck of light and started to count the minutes.