#how does the timeline work? no clue

[redbean-nom]

theory. the girl clones aren't altered jango clones, they're arla clones (this may also be why omega is blonde)

[frankmillerturnonyourlocation]

Em Farrow (tentative last name for dhsab si…..) makes a point of attending a book club at a college they don’t attend, for at least the first part of the storyline. It’s how they established and maintain a small civ friendgroup while living in the city and working under the ELE.

It’s just generally assumed by the other members that Em is a student, but when asked directly (hey, what year are you, anyway? you’re not graduating, are you?) they’ll admit to being a dropout. (nah, I failed out, haha. But Samantha said it would be alright if I kept showing up to our meetings, everybody say thank you Sam) (pan, over a chorus of thaaank you Saaaams, to the quiet club treasurer everybody loves who is a little embarrassed by being singled out and certainly isn’t going to make a fuss and REVOKE an invitation even if she’s pretty sure she never offered one because that would be RUDE and make everything worse)

[felassan]

David Gaider on Fenris, under a cut for length:

"Fenris. Now, DA2 is a story all on its own but I'm not going to go there other than to sum it up as "we had just over a year and a half to make this". It's why I only wrote one follower, Fenris, and although it'll make his fans mad: I probably shouldn't have. Let me explain. The way we'd approach making the followers is brainstorming a list of concepts covering first the array of gameplay classes (and sub-classes) and then making sure they each have some skin in the game when it came to the story's conflicts - ideally having characters on both sides of the major ones. Why? You can't make a player care about the world, but you can make them care about characters who care about the world. It's the easiest way to provide hooks into a conflict, outside of it knocking on the player's door. Heck, it's probably better than that. Players will burn the world for approval. After that, we'd decide things like romances/sexuality. Then the writers would pick who they'd write. I always let my writers pick first. I figured they do their best work when it's something they're inspired to write... and they got so few chances at ownership, I wanted to give it whenever I could It's why I (reluctantly) let Patrick wrest Cole from my grasp in DAI, a character I'd created in Asunder. It's also why I let Jennifer take Anders in DA2, who I'd started in Awakening. In this instance, it meant I was left with the angry elven warrior character who nobody else appeared to want."

"It should have been my first clue that something was up. The second was how the artists had zero clue what to do with him. The art concepts were all over the place - from mages to crows to... well, even weirder. No matter how hard I tried to explain the idea, the artists simply didn't seem to get it Does this mean he was a bad character? Not exactly. Just an idea that probably deserved some re-examining. You can tell when an idea has a certain spark, and part of that is being easy to communicate. Sadly, there wasn't time for any re-examining even if it'd occurred to me. And it didn't, not yet. If it had, if I had time, maybe I'd have re-booted him as a templar. Someone pro-templar rather than anti-mage, who could give a personal hook into Meredith and give the templars some badly-needed humanity. But this falls into the shoulda-woulda-coulda category. I had a follower to write. Quickly. I struggled, at first. It was hard to get away from "Fenris hates everything, all the time". It felt very one-note, and I didn't know where to take him. My third clue, I guess. I also wasn't sure if I was the right person to write a former slave. I did know that couldn't be the center of his story. I did know trauma, however. How it can eat you up. How the hate and resentment is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies. How it can infect your relationships. Fenris's trauma isn't my trauma, obviously, but here I dipped into a more personal part of myself than I'd ever done before."

"It gave me the center of his story I was missing, but wow was it uncomfortable. In a good way, maybe. I likely wouldn't have, if I hadn't been so desperate. In a way, I think DA2 had some of our best writing *because* of the timeline. It was raw, with little time to sand down the interesting parts. I wouldn't have done the "Fenris doesn't talk to you for three years" thing if I'd known we were going to cut all the reactivity initially planned for the time jumps. When that call was made, I campaigned to cut the jumps to a year, but there was no time for the revisions it'd need. So, um. Awkward. I used to get asked where the name came from, and I... don't remember? Obviously it's derived from Fenrir, but I don't recall why we picked that. Someone pointed at Fenris the Feared from Joe Abercrombie's books... and I did read them, so maybe the name lodged in my head? Wouldn't be the first time. Casting Fenris turned out to be easy. He was the first time I requested a specific VA and got him. (The other times were Merrill and then Solas, my two "I want these specific Welsh actors, please".) Why? OK, if you must know, I'd played a bit of Final Fantasy XII. I heard Balthier. "Yes, that." 😅 And Gideon Emery was a delight, as it turned out. Consummate professional, and that lovely gravel in his voice... good god. Bite the knuckles. There was a struggle to find the voice at the outset where I did my best not to say "just pls do Balthier" but he found Fenris on his own and it was amazing. Overall, Fenris turned out better than he had any right to, considering the rocky start. He had a lot of soul, a vulnerability forged by pain that struck a chord with a lot of players, and I'm glad. Do I regret anything? Probably having him live in a corpse-filled mansion that would never update. That's a hindsight thing, though, as again the cut to reactivity over the time jumps came late. Outside of that, maybe letting the player give him back to Danarius? Poor shock value and a waste of resources because almost nobody took the option. Good evil options are ones that are tempting to take. And the lyrium tattoos. Interesting concept, but they're probably why you'll never see Fenris in a future DA. He requires a custom body, and the tattoos make that expensive. It's why I put Fenris in my 4th DA novel - the cancelled one. Don't fret, though. He died in it, so this way he lives on. 😉"

[source thread]

User: "Wait wait how does he die in [the cancelled novel]??" David Gaider: "Gloriously, after taking up a cause he didn't believe in at first but then made his own, one that allowed him to rediscover what it meant to be elven." [source] David Gaider: "I’m not sorry about the novel cancellation. I’m the one who cancelled it. I am kinda sad we couldn’t make it work, though. Considering it was after I left the DA team, it would have been my final DA hurrah." [source] David Gaider: "From my perspective, it was kind of "well if you're never going to use him again, let me at least give him a proper send off" and the story required a glorious death... but I get that's not the story his biggest fans would want (which is Hawke + Fenris 4ever), so it's just as well." [source]

User: "You all did some incredible work with such a tight deadline" David Gaider: "I'm of the opinion that even if we'd had only another six months to bake, DA2 would be remembered as a classic and not either a flawed gem or underbaked sequel, depending on who you ask." [source]

David Gaider: "Just to clarify the "they're probably why you'll never see Fenris" thing, as it's spawned commentary: 1. It's the reasoning as was explained to me back then. 2. Obviously, if Bio *really* wanted to, they'd find a way around it. But it was a complication that meant he couldn't be included casually." [source]

[sincerelybubbles]

first time shy bay reader takes down a unsub like fighting wise and the team is all like that tiny soft thing just did that

soft hands, strong heart warnings: cannon-typical violence, child kidnapping, happy ending!!! paring: hotch x shy!reader wc: 6.9k

I really took this and RAN I hope u enjoy despite how long it took to finish <3

||||

It's been a long day. You woke up late after a night of restless sleep, already cranky, only to take the jet to help with a child kidnapping.

The jet hums low beneath your feet, a steady, thrumming vibration that does little to soothe the exhaustion creeping up your spine. Your fingers tighten around the file in your lap, eyes scanning over the unsub’s profile again and again, as if some new revelation might emerge if you look hard enough.

The case is grim. They always are, but something about children going missing twists a deeper, more painful knot in your stomach. A six-year-old girl, last seen playing in her own backyard before vanishing without a trace. The parents had been inside, only distracted for a few minutes. Just long enough.

Just long enough.

You shift in your seat, forcing yourself to unclench your jaw. Across from you, Spencer mumbles statistics about abduction timelines, but his voice fades into the background, white noise alongside the engine. Morgan and JJ are discussing the search grid, Emily nodding along, throwing in suggestions. Rossi and Hotch are quiet, deep in thought, but you can feel the weight of their presence.

You’re normally content to listen, to observe, but something sits uneasily in your chest. The tiredness, the frustration, the sheer helplessness that simmers every time a child is taken. You want to do something.

"Landing in twenty," the pilot calls back.

You swallow, fingers tightening around the case file one last time before closing it. Twenty minutes until you hit the ground running. Twenty minutes until you find the first real clue.

Twenty minutes until you bring her home.

As soon as the wheels touch down, the tension in your chest tightens like a coil, winding and waiting. You barely notice the shuffle of your teammates gathering their things, their quiet discussions about strategy and protocol. Your mind is elsewhere—on the little girl’s photo still burned into the back of your eyelids, on the parents who must be unraveling with fear, on the horrifying reality that she could already be lost.

You take a slow breath and try to shake the thought.

You’ve been doing this long enough to know that fear is useless if you let it swallow you whole. You need to focus. You need to trust the process.

The others move with ease, their routines carved into muscle memory. Morgan and Emily fall into step ahead, their hushed voices blending into the background noise. Reid flips through the file, lips moving soundlessly as he recites information under his breath. JJ is already on the phone, likely with the local PD, while Rossi speaks lowly with Hotch.

And then there’s you.

You feel the weight of your own presence—or lack thereof. You know you contribute, you know your skills are valuable, but you can’t shake the nagging feeling that you’re always just a few steps behind them. Not as seasoned as Rossi, not as commanding as Hotch, not as sharp as Spencer or as fearless as Morgan.

A breath. Then another.

You push forward, following them down the jet stairs into the thick summer heat. The moment the air hits you, heavy and humid, it cements something in your bones.

This isn’t about you.

It’s about the little girl who needs you to be better than your doubts.

You wipe your palms against your pants and fall in step beside Hotch, listening as he updates the team.

“The local PD has set up a command center near the family’s home,” he says, his voice steady, unshaken. “The father is cooperative. The mother is distraught, but JJ will work with her. We’ll split up—Reid, Morgan, and Emily will coordinate with local officers to rework the search grid. Rossi and I will speak to the parents.”

You wait, knowing your name is coming last.

Glancing down at you, Hotch says, “you’re with me.”

Something tightens in your chest. He doesn’t offer an explanation, but he doesn’t need to. You know he trusts you to handle difficult conversations, to read between the lines of grief and guilt.

You nod, and just like that, the team breaks apart, each of you moving toward the unknown.

You don’t know what’s waiting for you at that house.

But you know you’ll be ready.

||||

The car ride is quiet, the kind of silence that isn’t uncomfortable but sits thick between you and Hotch, filled with unspoken thoughts. The distant hum of the siren-free police escort ahead of you blends with the rhythmic tap of his fingers against the steering wheel—measured, thoughtful. You let the movement lull you for a moment, eyes blinking slowly as exhaustion presses against the backs of them.

He notices. Of course, he does.

“You didn’t sleep well last night,” he says, not a question, just a statement. His voice is softer than it was during the briefing, less BAU Unit Chief and more Aaron.

Your head tilts toward the window as if that will shield you from the knowing look you can feel on you. “I’m fine,” you say, though even to your own ears, it sounds weak.

Hotch doesn’t press immediately. He never does. Instead, he lets the silence stretch, lets the words settle between you before he tries again. “You’re running on empty.” His voice is even, but there’s a thread of concern woven through it.

You swallow, unsure of what to say. Because he’s right. You’re running on the fumes of caffeine and resolve, and you know better than anyone that’s not sustainable. But what else are you supposed to do? Sleep through the knowledge that a child is missing? That time is slipping through your fingers with every second you waste on rest?

“I can handle it,” you say, quieter this time, as if that will make it more true.

Hotch sighs, glancing at you briefly before returning his focus to the road. His jaw is set, but there’s no frustration in his expression���just understanding.

“I know you can,” he says, because he does. He’s seen you push through exhaustion before, seen you carry the weight of cases without breaking. But that doesn’t mean he likes watching you do it. “That doesn’t mean you should have to.”

His words settle somewhere deep, somewhere vulnerable you don’t often acknowledge. It’s been a long time since anyone has told you it’s okay to take a breath. That you don’t have to bear everything alone.

Hotch keeps his eyes on the road, but his voice drops just enough that it feels like a secret meant only for you. “You don’t have to be invincible.”

Something in your chest pulls tight at that. You open your mouth to respond, to deflect, but nothing comes out. Because what are you supposed to say? That you don’t know how to let your guard down? That you’re afraid if you stop moving, even for a second, the weight of everything will catch up to you?

You don’t have to say anything.

Hotch already knows.

Without a word, his hand drifts from the gear shift to rest gently on your knee—brief, grounding, a quiet reassurance before he returns it to the wheel. It’s nothing, and it’s everything.

You don’t thank him, but he doesn’t need you to.

You just sit in the quiet, and for the first time all day, you let yourself breathe.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy. You let yourself sink into it, into the warmth of the car, into the soft hum of the tires against pavement. But reality is cruel, unwilling to let you drift too far, and Hotch is still the one beside you—ever watchful, ever focused. He lets you rest, but only for so long.

“We’re working against the clock.” His voice slices through the quiet, steady but firm. “Every hour that passes, the chances of recovery drop. The parents received the ransom demand at six this morning, which means the kidnapper has been in control for over twelve hours now.”

You blink against the haze clinging to your mind, forcing yourself to straighten. The exhaustion dulls, edged out by the weight of the case settling back onto your shoulders. You know all of this. The case was laid out in agonizing detail back at Quantico, in the rushed debrief on the jet, but hearing it again—like this, in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, with Hotch’s voice carving it into your mind—it makes the pressure feel suffocating.

“The demand was for two hundred thousand,” you murmur, rubbing at your temple. “It’s not about the money.”

“No,” Hotch agrees. “If it were, the amount would be higher. The parents could afford more, and the unsub knows that.”

The word tastes bitter on your tongue before you even say it. “Control.”

Hotch nods, gaze fixed on the road ahead. “They’re enjoying this. They want to watch the parents suffer, to dangle the possibility of return in front of them just to pull it away.” His fingers flex against the wheel, and something flickers across his face—anger, maybe, or something darker. “They won’t give her back. Even if they get the money.”

You don’t respond immediately. You don’t have to. He’s right, and you both know it.

Your stomach twists.

A missing girl. Eight years old. Her favorite color is purple. She was last seen wearing her school uniform, a plaid skirt and white blouse, her hair tied into two braids with lavender ribbons. The ribbons feel like a knife in your ribs, something small and innocent and so utterly helpless.

You could still be too late.

The thought makes your pulse spike, your fingers curling against your thigh. Your mind is still slow from exhaustion, sluggish with the weight of too little sleep, but the dread cuts through it like a blade.

Hotch notices. Of course, he does.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “We still have time.”

You nod, but it feels hollow.

Time. Such a fickle, cruel thing. Time only matters if you can use it right.

Hotch exhales sharply through his nose, reading your silence for exactly what it is. He slows the car just slightly as the road curves, voice lowering even further. “We’re going to find her.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, just for a second. The words are meant to reassure, and maybe they do. Maybe they don’t. But he says them with certainty, and right now, that’s enough to cling to.

The tension is suffocating, coiling tight in the space between you. The lull in the conversation feels fragile, like it could shatter at any moment. You shift in your seat, trying to shake the haze from your mind, trying to prepare yourself for whatever comes next.

The case isn’t going to get easier.

And neither of you have the luxury of slowing down.

||||

Another hour passes. Time ticks, a constant reminder, and the team gathers together near the parents after yours and Hotch's initial interview.

The house feels hollow.

It’s not empty—far from it. The parents sit on the couch, pressed together like they’re trying to hold each other up, faces drawn and pale. Rossi and Prentiss hover near the windows, speaking in hushed tones as they wait for Garcia to dig up more on the family’s history. Reid sifts through financial records at the dining table, eyes flicking between printed bank statements and his own notes.

And then there’s Hotch.

He stands near the fireplace, arms crossed, brow furrowed in that way that means he’s thinking—assessing, planning, pulling every thread of the case into something solid. You’re beside him, posture tense, exhaustion settled deep into your bones. The interview had been long, draining. Watching the parents crumble under the weight of their own grief, their own fear, had been like standing in the center of an emotional storm with nowhere to go.

You haven’t spoken in a while. Not since you wrapped up the last of your questions and let the silence stretch, heavy with unsaid things.

The mother sniffles, curling further into herself. Her hands tremble where they clutch a framed photo of her daughter, fingers ghosting over the glass. “She—she’s afraid of the dark,” she whispers, voice wrecked. “She can’t sleep without her nightlight.”

You swallow past the lump forming in your throat.

The father rubs a hand over his face, drawing in a shuddering breath. “You’ll find her,” he says, more to himself than to any of you. “You have to.”

Before anyone can respond, the phone rings.

The room freezes.

For half a second, no one moves. The shrill sound cuts through the air, deafening, slicing through the fragile quiet with cruel precision. The mother gasps, clutching the picture frame tighter, and the father lurches forward like he might reach for the phone himself.

Hotch reacts first.

He turns to you, gaze sharp, controlled. “Answer it.”

Your heart lurches.

There’s no time to hesitate. You push forward, crossing the room in three quick strides, and lift the receiver before the call can go to voicemail.

“Hello?”

A low chuckle hums through the line. Slow. Calculated. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“You picked up,” the voice drawls, smooth as glass. “I was hoping you would.”

The breath you take is slow, measured. You adjust your grip on the receiver, grounding yourself in the weight of it.

“You were hoping I would,” you repeat, voice steady, even. There’s a slight edge to it now, a sharpness lurking beneath the surface. “That’s an interesting way to phrase it.”

Another chuckle, this one richer, like he’s savoring something. “You don’t sound like her mother.”

Your eyes flick toward the woman on the couch, shoulders shaking, husband gripping her hand in a white-knuckled hold.

“I’m not.”

“Hm. And here I was expecting tears. Begging.” A pause, deliberate. “Disappointment doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

You don’t react. You won’t give him that satisfaction.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, mind working, peeling apart every word he says. He wanted the mother to answer. He wanted the display of fear, the helplessness. This is about control, about knowing he has the upper hand—not just over the little girl he stole, but over her parents, too.

But he didn’t get what he wanted. And that alone is a crack you can widen.

You exhale, slow, and when you speak, you lace your tone with something just shy of boredom. “Did you take her for attention?”

Silence. Then, “Excuse me?”

You lean against the desk, crossing one arm over your stomach, settling deeper into your stance. Your exhaustion fades, burned away by adrenaline, by the sharpness of your mind locking into place.

“I mean, the whole charade. Calling the parents, expecting tears—seems like you’re looking for something. Maybe validation? You want to feel powerful?” You hum, tapping your fingers against your arm. “Let me guess—you don’t get that very often.”

His breath sharpens.

You hit a nerve.

Good.

“I wouldn’t be so arrogant if I were you.” His voice darkens, but there’s something underneath it. Something unsettled. “You don’t know who you’re talking to.”

You let a beat of silence pass before responding, voice smooth. “You’re right. But I will.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. You imagine him, wherever he is, gripping the phone tighter, jaw clenching.

“You’re not as quiet as you think,” you continue, calm, firm. “Not as untouchable. You think you’re in control, but I promise you, this won’t end the way you expect it to.”

His breath catches, just barely.

He wasn’t expecting this.

You glance up. Hotch is watching you, unreadable, but there’s something behind his gaze—something steady, unwavering. Approval, maybe. A flicker of admiration.

The unsub exhales, long and slow, like he’s resetting himself. “I have to say,” he murmurs, voice smoother now, masking whatever crack you created. “You’re much more interesting than the mother. I might just keep you around.”

Your grip tightens slightly, but you don’t flinch.

Instead, you smile.

“Good,” you say, letting just a hint of a challenge seep in. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Silence stretches across the line, taut and expectant.

The unsub is recalibrating. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, the way his initial fantasy—the one where he controlled every step of this conversation—has been thrown off course. He thought he’d be speaking to a broken woman, pleading and desperate. Instead, he’s getting you.

And you aren’t playing his game.

You hold steady, spine straight, fingers firm around the receiver. The air in the room feels thick, but your mind is sharp. Clear.

He exhales through his nose, an amused scoff. “You sound so sure of yourself.”

“I am.” The words slip out smoothly, unshaken.

A beat of silence. Then—

“That little girl is very polite,” he muses, shifting tactics. “Very quiet. She doesn’t cry as much as I expected.”

A test. A provocation.

Your stomach twists, but you don’t let it show.

Instead, you adjust your grip, tilting your head as if in casual conversation. “She’s smart, isn’t she?”

The unsub doesn’t answer right away.

“You wouldn’t know, would you?” you press, keeping your tone even, thoughtful. “Because you don’t really see her. She’s just an idea to you—a piece in your game. But she’s real. And she’s waiting for us to find her.”

His breath hitches—just for a fraction of a second, but you catch it.

He wasn’t expecting that.

“You like control,” you continue, relentless now, peeling back his layers with careful precision. “That’s why you called. You wanted to hear her mother break. But instead, you’re stuck with me. And the longer you stay on the phone, the more you’re giving me. I wonder if you’ve even noticed.”

A sharp inhale. You struck something deep this time.

“You think you’re clever,” he sneers, but there’s a shift in his voice—tension creeping in, subtle but unmistakable.

“I think you’re predictable.”

Silence.

It stretches so long, you think for a moment he might hang up.

Then, quietly, “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

You press forward, voice steady, unwavering. “I know exactly what you’re capable of. And I also know this: you wouldn’t be calling if you didn’t want something.”

Another pause.

Then, softer, a low murmur, almost amused—almost admiring:

“I like you.”

Your pulse spikes, but you don’t let it show.

You force yourself to breathe slowly, evenly, like this is nothing more than an ordinary conversation. “Good,” you say simply. “Then maybe we can work something out.”

Another stretch of silence. Then:

“We’ll see.”

The line goes dead.

You lower the receiver slowly, pulse thrumming, the weight of what just happened settling over you like a heavy blanket.

“Garcia,” Hotch says immediately, voice cutting through the tense air as he brings his own phone to his ear.

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m working on it!” Garcia’s voice crackles through the speaker, high with urgency. “He’s using a burner—signal’s bouncing between towers. I’m trying to pin it down, but he’s slippery. Give me a sec.”

You exhale, pressing the phone to your sternum for a moment before setting it back on the receiver. The pressure of all the eyes in the room—Hotch’s, Morgan’s, Spencer’s—is suffocating. The energy, once hot and commanding while you had control of the conversation, shifts violently back to its usual state. Your shoulders curl inward before you even realize it, fingers fidgeting at the hem of your sleeve.

Morgan’s voice breaks through the thick tension first. “That was impressive, tiny.” His words are teasing, but his eyes are serious, scanning you in a way that makes your stomach twist. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

You duck your head slightly, heat creeping up your neck. “It—It’s just the work.”

“She did well,” Hotch interjects, voice firm but calm, cutting off any further attention on you. There’s something final in the way he says it, like it’s not up for discussion. It settles something in your chest, just a little.

“Yeah, well, let’s hope it’s enough to find this guy,” Morgan mutters, hands settling on his hips as he shifts his focus back to Garcia. “Talk to me, baby girl. Tell me you got something.”

Garcia hums in frustration. “I’m working on it. He’s bouncing his signal like a kid on a trampoline. But, but, but—” she draws out, voice lilting, “he stayed on the line longer than last time. Which means he’s getting comfortable, which means he’ll do it again. And when he does…”

“We’ll be ready,” Hotch finishes, nodding.

Spencer, who’s been pacing subtly behind you, suddenly speaks up. “Did you hear the background noise?” He’s staring into the distance, gears turning, hand twitching slightly as he sorts through information at breakneck speed.

Morgan frowns. “What background noise?”

“There was a faint echo—small, but noticeable. It suggests he’s in a space with a lot of reflective surfaces. Could be a warehouse, a basement, maybe an abandoned building.”

“That narrows it down to about a hundred places,” Morgan replies dryly, crossing his arms.

“It’s something,” Spencer counters. “And if Garcia can get a radius from the signal—”

“Which I’m trying to do, but some of us aren’t literal human computers, Doctor Genius,” Garcia cuts in, voice full of affection despite the bite.

“We need him to call again,” Hotch says, shifting his attention back to the phone, back to you. “And when he does, we keep him talking even longer.”

You nod instinctively, but the weight of what just happened presses down harder now that the adrenaline is ebbing. You shrink back slightly, fingers twisting together, stepping just an inch closer to Hotch as the room moves around you.

On the other side of the room, Emily sits with the parents, her voice a steady murmur as she soothes the mother, who is shaking, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“We’re going to find her,” Emily tells her, voice sure, unwavering. “I know this is unbearable. But your daughter is smart. And she’s strong. We will bring her home.”

The mother nods, but she’s glassy-eyed, staring past Emily as though seeing something far away. The father is stock still, hands fisted on his knees, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful.

The weight in the room is thick, suffocating.

Hotch glances at you, just briefly. His hand lifts for half a second—like he might touch your shoulder, reassure you—but he stops himself. Instead, he steps just the smallest bit closer. You feel the warmth of him beside you, steady, grounding.

The phone is going to ring again.

And when it does, you’ll be ready.

||||

The hours bleed together, each one a tightening noose around the room.

It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since the girl was taken.

The parents sit stiffly on the couch, eyes hollowed by exhaustion and fear. The mother hasn’t moved from her spot in hours, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she’s holding herself together by sheer will. The father stares at the wall, jaw clenched, the muscle twitching every so often.

The team is quiet. Not still, not stagnant—but quiet.

Morgan paces, jaw tight, his fingers twitching at his sides. Spencer has a legal pad in his lap, the pages covered in scribbled notes and probabilities, but his pen has stilled. Emily leans against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room, though there’s no real focus behind them. Garcia is still working, rapid keystrokes and occasional murmurs filtering through the speaker on the table, but even she sounds subdued.

And Hotch.

Hotch stands near the window, arms crossed, staring out at the darkened street. He’s gone still in a way that unsettles you—like a coiled wire, all wound tension and too-sharp focus.

You sit on the edge of the armchair, hands folded in your lap, fingers pressing tightly together. You feel small, not in the way you usually do—but in the way that makes your chest ache, in the way that reminds you how big the world is, how cruel.

Because the clock is running out.

You know the statistics.

If a child isn’t found within the first twenty-four hours, the likelihood of their survival plummets.

And you know everyone in this room knows it, too.

The air is thick with it, with the unspoken, with the weight of reality pressing in around you.

And then—

The phone rings.

The sound shatters the heavy silence, sharp and shrill. The mother gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. The father lurches forward as if he might grab it himself, but Hotch is already moving.

He snatches the receiver up, pressing it to his ear. “This is Agent Hotchner.”

A pause. His expression hardens.

He turns, holding the phone out to you.

Your stomach lurches, but you don’t hesitate. You push to your feet, moving on autopilot, reaching out and taking the phone, pressing it against your ear.

“Hello?” Your voice is steady. Quiet.

And on the other end of the line—

A slow, ragged breath.

Then—

Laughter. Low. Amused.

“You again.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Me again.”

You grip the phone a little tighter, forcing yourself to stay steady. Every second that ticks by is precious—Garcia needs time to trace the call, and you need to pull as much information from him as possible.

The unsub breathes out another quiet laugh, like this is some kind of game.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” he muses, casual, unaffected. “Soft. Sweet. Not like the others.”

A muscle in your jaw ticks. You don’t react—don’t let him hear the revulsion curling in your stomach. That’s what he wants. A reaction. Control.

Instead, you let out a small, careful breath. “And what about her?” you ask, voice even. “Is she sweet, too?”

From behind the phone, Hotch shifts. You don’t look at him, but you can feel the weight of his gaze, hear the near-silent hum of approval at your angle. Keep him talking. Make it about the victim.

The unsub inhales sharply through his nose.

“She cries too much,” he mutters, tone shifting. “Won’t stop. Won’t listen.”

Your fingers press tighter around the receiver. You push past the disgust, past the flare of anger clawing at your ribs. You don’t have the luxury of emotion right now.

“You don’t like that,” you say carefully. “You just want her to listen.”

Hotch nods once, subtle. Encouraging.

The unsub exhales, slow, considering. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Exactly.”

You risk a glance at Hotch. He holds your gaze, then mouths, Location. Push him on location.

You take a breath, then lean forward slightly, as if it will somehow ground you. “She can’t listen if she’s scared,” you say, keeping your tone gentle. “She’s just a kid. She doesn’t know what you want from her.”

Silence.

Your pulse hammers in your ears.

“You don’t want to hurt her,” you press, voice just a little softer now. “If you did, you would’ve done it already.”

Hotch’s gaze sharpens.

The unsub hums. “Maybe I just like having someone who listens.”

Your stomach turns.

Morgan paces a few feet away, tense and impatient, but Spencer is watching you closely now, eyes narrowed in thought.

Behind you, Garcia’s voice comes through the speaker, urgent but quiet. “Almost there,” she murmurs.

You grip the phone a little tighter.

“You don’t have to be alone,” you say, and you mean it in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. “But you know this isn’t the way to fix that.”

Another long beat of silence.

Then—

“She’s quiet now,” he says, almost proud. “She finally stopped crying.”

Something in your chest goes cold.

Hotch steps forward, just a fraction, voice low as he murmurs just loud enough for you to hear, “Ask him why.”

Your fingers twitch. You swallow once, pushing past the ice curling around your lungs.

“What changed?” you ask, keeping your voice even. “Why is she quiet now?”

The unsub sighs, almost dreamily.

“I helped her,” he murmurs. “I made it better.”

A sharp knock of dread slams into your ribs.

And then—Garcia’s voice, suddenly louder, urgent—

“I’ve got him.”

Chaos erupts around you the moment Garcia’s voice crackles through the speaker. The team is in motion—Morgan’s already halfway to the door, Spencer on his heels. Emily gives the parents one last firm reassurance before following.

Hotch doesn’t move. He stays close, his presence steady as a hand at the small of your back, silent but solid.

But you barely register any of it.

Your fingers tighten around the phone, knuckles aching.

“What do you mean, you helped her?” Your voice wavers, but you push forward, desperate. “Is she hurt?”

The unsub sighs again, like this is some slow, indulgent conversation instead of a nightmare. “You don’t listen very well,” he says, almost amused. “She was crying. I helped her stop.”

A cold dread drips down your spine, settling like lead in your stomach. Your breath hitches, throat tightening around panic.

Hotch takes a step closer, so near now that you can feel the quiet warmth of him, grounding. “Keep him talking,” he says, low and measured, though there’s an edge beneath it. “We’re almost there.”

Your pulse thrums loud in your ears, but you swallow, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Tell me how,” you say.

The unsub exhales, as if indulging you.

“I held her,” he murmurs. “Just for a little while. Let her cry it out. You’d be surprised how quickly they go quiet when they feel safe.”

Something about the way he says it—the ease, the fondness—makes your stomach churn.

“She’s safe, then?” you push, voice thin. “She’s still with you?”

A pause.

Then, the unsub chuckles. “Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”

Your fingers tighten so hard against the receiver that they hurt.

Hotch is still watching you, reading every minute shift in your expression, every small tremor in your voice. His gaze sharpens, but he nods. Keep going.

“I just need to know,” you whisper. “If she’s okay.”

The unsub hums, something almost pleased threading through the sound. “I think you care too much.”

Maybe you do. Maybe you always have.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, you inhale, slow and shaky, and push out, “I just want to make sure she’s not alone.”

Another pause.

And then—soft, quiet—

“She’s sleeping now.”

The exhale you let out is almost staggering.

Your eyes squeeze shut for half a second, shoulders sagging just slightly.

Hotch watches the tension shift in you, something unreadable flickering through his expression before his voice cuts through the receiver, low and firm. “We’re on our way.”

And for the first time, the unsub hesitates.

You hear it in the way his breath catches, in the faintest rustle of movement.

Hotch tilts his head, eyes locked onto yours as he mouths, Now.

You straighten.

“You don’t want this to end badly,” you say, and this time, there’s no fear in your voice, no desperation—just quiet, steady certainty.

“You want her safe,” you continue. “You want to be heard. And I hear you. But if you don’t let us help, if you don’t let her go—” Your voice lowers, soft but firm. “This won’t end the way you want it to.”

The unsub doesn’t respond right away.

For the first time, you think he might actually be listening.

The unsub doesn’t say another word.

The silence stretches too long, each second stretching, coiling like a wire pulled too tight.

Then—click.

The line goes dead.

You barely register the sharp breath you pull in.

Hotch doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”

You don’t even realize you’re shaking until the phone slips from your hand, caught swiftly by Hotch before it can hit the ground. He presses it into your palm, fingers briefly covering yours, grounding you.

The moment breaks as he turns, striding toward the door. You force yourself to follow, feet moving before your brain fully catches up.

The house blurs past you in streaks of warm light and worried whispers—Emily’s voice soft as she steadies the mother, Spencer murmuring something to Garcia through his headset. Morgan is already outside, loading his gun.

You climb into the passenger seat of Hotch’s SUV, heart pounding too fast, too hard. The door slams shut, and then—motion.

The car surges forward.

The headlights cut through the darkness, the road a rushing streak of black and gold. Streetlights blur past. You grip the edge of your seat to stop your hands from trembling.

Hotch doesn’t speak right away, but you feel his eyes flicker toward you between glances at the road.

“You okay?” he asks at last.

You swallow hard, nodding. “Yeah.” It’s not a lie. Not really.

Because you don’t have time to think about how your hands won’t stop shaking, how the adrenaline crashes over you in dizzying waves, because none of it matters—not when a little girl is out there, waiting.

Not when you’re this close.

Hotch presses down on the gas, jaw set, gaze fixed ahead.

Neither of you say another word.

Not when you’re this close.

The SUV screeches to a halt behind the others, tires kicking up dust from the abandoned lot. Before Hotch even shifts into park, you’re unbuckling, reaching for your gun, muscles tensed and ready. The second your feet hit the ground, the cold night air burns in your lungs, but you don’t stop moving.

The unsub’s hideout looms ahead—an old auto body shop, rusted-out cars littering the perimeter like grave markers.

Morgan and JJ are already at the front, weapons drawn, pressing against the wall beside the garage door. Spencer lingers near the back with Garcia still in his ear, voice clipped and urgent. Emily signals you and Hotch over with a sharp tilt of her head.

“He’s inside,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Garcia got a hit on the utility bill—only one active line. Place is condemned, but someone’s been paying to keep the power running.”

Hotch nods, eyes scanning the structure, piecing together the fastest way in, the safest route to the girl. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until he speaks.

“Morgan, take the east side with Prentiss. JJ, cover the back with Reid.” His gaze cuts to you, unreadable in the dim light. “We take the front.”

Your fingers tighten around your gun. He doesn’t ask if you’re ready. He just knows.

You nod.

Morgan counts down on his fingers—three, two, one—

JJ and Reid disappear around the back. Morgan and Emily dart right.

Then—Hotch moves.

And you follow.

The door groans as he forces it open, but you barely register the sound before you’re inside. The air is thick with oil and rust, the scent clinging to the back of your throat. Somewhere deeper in the shop, a light swings, casting sharp shadows over the scattered tools and overturned furniture.

Then—movement.

A door slams. Footsteps, hurried.

Hotch is already moving toward the sound, gun raised. You cover his six, every nerve in your body firing at once. The walls are too close, the ceiling too low.

Then—a scream.

High. Frantic. Small.

You don’t think.

You move.

Hotch shouts your name, but you’re already sprinting, rounding the corner just as a metal door swings open. A blur of movement—a man, dragging the little girl with him, his grip bruising around her arm. She’s sobbing, twisting, trying to fight him off.

Rage lights through you like a match dropped in gasoline.

You raise your gun. “FBI! Let her go!”

The unsub whirls, yanking the girl in front of him like a human shield. “Stay back!” he barks, voice wild, desperate. His other hand dives for his belt—

A knife.

Your heartbeat slams against your ribs.

You don’t give yourself time to think.

You move.

Your gun lowers.

Your feet propel you forward.

The unsub barely has time to register the shift before you’re on him.

You grab his wrist, twisting hard—he yells, grip loosening just enough for the girl to stumble free. Hotch is there in an instant, scooping her up, shielding her behind him.

The unsub snarls, wrenching his arm free, his other hand swinging with the blade—

You duck.

Pivot.

Your elbow slams into his ribs. He grunts, staggering, but he’s fast. He twists, knife flashing—

A sharp sting.

Pain lances across your shoulder.

You hiss, but don’t falter.

Instead, you use it.

You let him think he has the upper hand. Let him shift his weight just enough—

Then—

You strike.

Your knee slams into his stomach. He doubles over—another sharp twist, and his arm is wrenched behind his back. The knife clatters to the floor.

A second later, his body follows.

You plant a knee between his shoulder blades, chest heaving, wrist cuffs already in your hands.

He thrashes beneath you, but it’s useless. He’s done.

The adrenaline fades in sharp, ringing waves.

Then—Hotch’s voice, steady, sure.

“You okay?”

You finally look up.

The girl is clinging to him, small fingers curled tight into his shirt. Her eyes, red-rimmed and wide, lock onto yours.

You manage a nod. “Yeah.”

And for the first time in hours—maybe in days—

You believe it.

The ringing in your ears fades, replaced by the sharp sound of the unsub’s heavy breathing beneath you. His fight is gone, limbs slack against the cold concrete. You barely feel the sting in your shoulder now, too focused on the small, trembling girl clinging to Hotch’s side.

Her sobs have quieted, but her little body is still wracked with tiny, shuddering breaths. Her fingers stay twisted in the fabric of Hotch’s suit, white-knuckled, like if she lets go, she might disappear all over again.

You move before you can think, hands still shaking as you lift yourself off the unsub.

“Hey, sweetheart,” your voice is softer than you expect, almost drowned out by the distant sound of sirens. “You’re safe now.”

She blinks up at you, eyes glossy, bottom lip wobbling. The fear is still there, lingering, stitched into every muscle of her small frame. She doesn’t let go of Hotch, but she looks at you, really looks at you, as if trying to figure out whether she can believe you.

Hotch murmurs something low and reassuring, and after a few more rapid breaths, she hesitates—then releases his jacket, reaching for you instead.

The shift is instant. Your arms wrap around her tiny frame, her warmth pressing into you, her face burying into your shoulder. She still smells like the remnants of whatever cheap detergent clings to her pajamas, mixed with the salty traces of tears.

“You did so good,” you whisper, rubbing slow, gentle circles along her back. “You were so brave.”

Her small hands fist into the fabric of your shirt. You feel her exhale, a long, shaky breath against your collarbone. She’s exhausted, clinging to the safety of your arms like a lifeline.

Hotch’s presence lingers beside you, solid and steady. His hand brushes light against your back, grounding, a quiet reassurance that you did well, that she’s okay.

That you’re okay.

The sirens grow louder. But for now, you just hold her, murmuring soft reassurances into her hair, letting her feel safe, letting her know she’s not alone.

And as she finally relaxes, small body growing heavier with exhaustion, you know—

She believes you.

||||

The jet hums softly beneath you, a low, steady vibration that should lull you into sleep, but adrenaline still lingers in your veins. The weight of exhaustion is creeping in, though, settling in your limbs, making your muscles ache in a way that’s oddly satisfying.

Across from you, Morgan is still shaking his head, his arms crossed over his chest. “Nah, nah, nah. There’s no way. You’re messing with me.”

Emily grins, elbowing him in the ribs. “Oh, it happened. I was there. It was beautiful.”

Morgan points at you, eyes squinting in suspicion. “I need a play-by-play. Right now.”

You shift uncomfortably, glancing at the others for help, but Spencer—Spencer of all people—looks offended.

“You took him down physically?” His brows are furrowed, arms crossed, and it’s the closest you’ve ever seen him to pouting. "I thought you me and Garcia were together as physical-dodgers."

“I—” You open your mouth to remind him of the plenty of times he's gotten into fights with unsubs, but Emily cuts you off.

“She did it so smoothly,” she says, eyes practically sparkling with pride. “Just wham, and he was down.” She claps her hands together for emphasis, making Morgan flinch.

Rossi chuckles, sipping from his ever-present glass of scotch. “Kid, I gotta say, I didn’t think you had it in you.” His tone is warm, amused—proud. “That was some impressive work.”

Morgan groans dramatically, shaking his head again. “Man, I thought you didn’t even work out.”

You blink at him. “I—I do.”

He throws his hands up. “Since when?”

“I don’t know?” You shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “Always?”

Hotch hasn’t said much, but you can feel his gaze, steady and unreadable, watching the conversation unfold. When you risk a glance at him, his expression softens just enough for you to catch it—the quiet admiration, the almost-smile playing at the corner of his lips.

He’s proud.

That thought alone sends warmth creeping up your neck.

Morgan groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “This is ridiculous. I need to reevaluate everything I know about you.”

Emily leans back, smug. “Should we start placing bets on who she’s gonna take down next?”

Spencer mutters something about unfair advantages, and Rossi laughs into his drink. The conversation shifts, the teasing continues, and even as your body finally starts to relax, letting the exhaustion settle in, you can’t help but steal another glance at Hotch.

His eyes meet yours, and for just a second, there’s something unspoken between you. Something warm, something steady. Something good.

You look away before you can dwell on it, but the feeling lingers, settling somewhere deep in your chest.

Home.

[audliminal]

Survivability Bias Pt 5

Masterpost Ao3

“So hypothetically,” Superboy begins, glancing over at Robin. “Say I met another meta, and they, like, needed a civilian identity...” He trails off, listening intently. Trying to get anything from Robin's expression is pointless - between his skill at maintaining his composure, and the expression obscuring mask, there's not a lot to be read on his face. Instead Superboy focuses on his heartbeat, which speeds up the smallest amount as Robin turns away from the tablet he'd been working with, and settles his full attention directly onto Superboy.

“Hypothetically,” Robin repeats.

“Yeah. You know, in theory, if that ever happened.” Robin stares at Superboy for a moment, presumably reading everything that's missing from his own face in Superboy's.

“Well. In theory, the Justice League has the means to grant any meta hero a full identity. Is this about you? Because honestly it's insane that they haven't bothered yet, and I will straight up make you one right now if you-”

“No, it's not about me,” Superboy interrupts. “But like, you could do that? Without the Justice League’s support, I mean?. Like, say if this hypothetical person really didn't want the Justice League knowing about them?”

“You met a meta who doesn't like the Justice League.”

“I don't think it's really about the Justice League specifically. I mean, they definitely don't exist, but if they did, then I would say that the second I showed up they were bracing for a fight. Like before they even saw who I was.” Robin sets his tablet to the side without looking, and leans just a touch towards Superboy as he talks. It's honestly wild, he thinks, how the other boy can manage such intense eye contact through white lenses, but, well, that's the bats for you.

“Theoretically, I could absolutely make this person an identity, if they did exist. But I would want to meet them first.”

“Cool, cool,” Superboy says leaning back into the couch. “I offered to introduce you and they said they'd consider it. I think, maybe they don't trust adults very much, bc they asked if you were our age.”

“Theoretically?”

“Exactly.”

* * *

Though the specific details as to when the founding member first became acquainted, it was only after multiple incidents of near-worldwide devastation that they realized the necessity of an organized front.

The details of the forming of the Justice League should be fascinating, if only for the revelation that world-ending disasters are, apparently, relatively common in this universe. In a way, it’s a comforting thought. Memories of Dan sit as heavily as ever in Danny’s mind, especially now that he’s effectively lost his family, just like in Dan’s timeline. Of course, here there’s presumably no risk of him getting fused with Vlad, so probably that specific threat isn’t likely, but - well, if it comes to the worst and Danny does go mad, there’s at least a reasonably good chance that the heroes here will be able to stop him.

On the other hand, this also means that if the heroes turn out to actually be evil or whatever, he has less chance of getting away. Of course, Superboy hadn’t really seemed evil, but Danny really has no clue if he would even be able to tell. Sure he’d known Vlad was a nightmare from a mile away, but Vlad wasn’t exactly subtle about his obsession with Danny. Evil steeped in calculation would surely be harder to spot, wouldn’t it?

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” someone says from behind Danny. “But are you going to be using that computer for much longer?” Danny blinks, staring back at the teen who’s looking at him nervously. Danny glances over at the clock, but it’s now reading 2:30, which means that he’s been here for like three hours already,and he really hasn’t read much of anything in all that time.

“You can have it,” Danny says, pulling back to shove his notebook into his backpack.

“You sure, man? I don’t wanna chase you off, but I really could use it. Physics project, you know?” 

“Yeah, I get it. Wasn’t really making much progress anyway. Might as well take a break.” Danny says. He never got to take physics in school, but he remembers struggling with lit class enough to understand the sentiment. And he really isn’t making any progress, if he’s been staring at the same Justice League page for multiple hours.

“You working on a history project or something?”

“Yeah.” It’s close enough to the truth.

“What teacher d’you have? It’s pretty cool that they’re letting you do it on the Justice League.”

“Oh, uh,” Danny quails for a moment, focusing on closing the tab so he doesn’t tell the kid he’s not going to school. After all it’s probably reasonable to assume the laws about delinquency are the same here. “It’s more about the meta protection acts than like, the Justice League itself. And I’m not really local, so...”

“Ah, that explains why I don’t recognize you,” the other teen grins.

“Yeah,” Danny says, stepping back so the other teen can take over the computer. “Well, good luck with your physics project.”

“Thanks, man, and good luck with your meta-acts essay.” The other teen turns his attention to the computer as Danny steps away, heading for the library exit. Clearly research isn’t going well today, and Jazz would definitely yell at him for trying to force his brain to focus when it clearly doesn’t want to. He pauses outside for a moment, trying to remember what Jazz said to when your focus was shot. Obviously part one was to take a break, but he’s certain that she’d had more to say than that.

He thinks he remembers her going on a rant about monotony, and boredom, but he doesn’t really feel bored. Actually more than anything he feels wired and anxious. And anxious means he should...

“Turn slow tigers into fast tigers,” Danny mutters, gaining a deeply confused look from the couple other patrons standing outside the library. He ignores them, though, and starts heading for the nearby park, so he can do some stretches. Fast tigers means he has to exercise, which he would usually complain about but- well, his routine has definitely been a lot less active since he got here. Other than the train crash the other week, Danny’s been spending most of his time sitting and reading, and while it’s been insanely nice to have nobody hunting him, honestly the idea of exercise sounds almost horrifyingly nice.

He does his best to run through the kind of stretches he remembers doing in PE, warming himself up as best he can before starting to jog the little looping path. The jeans make it a little more annoying than he remembers in PE, but luckily they’re kind of loose, so they’re not too terrible to run in, and Danny has no intention of going very fast. There’s too many people around even if he wanted to, and he does his best to be polite and not in the way as he jogs. it doesn’t take long for his breathing to go heavy with exertion, and as he finishes his second circuit, Dannyt relaxes into it, and just lets himself run.

Thirty minutes later, Danny is feeling markedly more tired, and he lets himself slow to a walk. His heart is thudding rhythmically in his chest, the occasional stutter only more prominent in the heightened pounding, and his legs feel a little wobbly, but he keeps walking, The sweat he’d worked up feels gross against his clothes, so probably he could’ve gone about it better, but Danny figures a whole thirty minutes without worrying about his existential situation is more than worth feeling gross for a bit. His usual tactic of sneaking into the local gym while it’s closed isn’t gonna cut it during the day, so he’ll have to wait to shower, but in the meantime, he can walk off the remaining adrenaline, and decide what to do for dinner.

* * *

“Hey, did you really mean what you said about me having a civilian identity?” Robin looks up as Superboy sits in the air beside his work desk.

“I have four different identities, ready for you to choose from,” Robin says.

“Wait do you just keep possible identities around in case anybody needs them? Is that, like, a Bat thing?” Superboy leans over to examine the tool Robin had been working on. Like everything else he uses, it’s emblazoned with a bat insignia, not that the marking does anything to help identify what the little machine even does. It’s ridiculously small, definitely not any kind of weapon, unless Robin’s been tinkering with the idea of murderous nanobots, which honestly wouldn’t be that shocking. Of any hero Superboy’s ever met, Robin seems uniquely predisposed towards mad scientist-type stuff.

“I keep exactly two emergency identities on hold, but those are separate. I was talking specifically about identities for you.” Superboy freezes, turning his eyes back to Robin, who looks at him like this is a perfectly normal thing to say. Superboy is at least ninety percent sure it isn’t, but what the hell.

“What the hell,” Superboy echoes his own thoughts. “Why would I ever need four identities?”

“You don’t need four, you need options. There’s no point in giving you an identity you hate.”

“Okay, but people don’t get to choose their names? So why would I care.”

“Most people don’t choose their names because most people receive them when they’re babies, but everyone has the ability to change it later if they decide they don’t like it. You have the unique advantage of being cognitively developed enough to have a say from the beginning, and you should have the opportunity to use it.”

“Huh...” That’s actually kind of sweet. “Do you like your name? I mean, like, that’s not why you don’t want to tell us, right?”

“My name is adequate,” Robin answers slowly. “It’s mine and I am... accustomed to it. The reason I haven’t told you my name is because it... implicates the other bats, and Batman considers that to be a significant security risk.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess that’s fair. Could I see the names you were thinking of?”

“Certainly,” Robin says, pushing back from the desk. “Let me get my tablet.”

* * *

“Uh, Superboy?” Danny shouts, trying to ignore how fucking ridiculous this feels. “Are you, like, free to talk? I think I want to meet your friend.” He’s hovering in the sky about a mile out from his town, in as close to the middle of nowhere as he could manage. He’d done a bit of looking into Robin this morning, before making his decision, and what a wild discovery that Robin was a name that had been held by multiple individuals. It makes him think of Dani, and he almost hopes that wherever she ends up, she might use the name Phantom too. After all, if anyone else rights to it, it would be his genetic clone.

Danny has no clue if time is flowing the same here as back home, but with any luck his friends have managed to orchestrate Dani’s escape too. It was always going to be a little more dodgy than Danny himself- his death being inherently tied to the portal had meant it was a bit more responsive to him than it otherwise would be, and that detail had been pretty quintessential to the rewiring that had needed to be done in order to send him to an entirely different universe, but they’d been hoping that her nature as a post-portal clone would mean that she had a close enough tie to the portal to send her through as well. Not that Danny would likely ever get to know for sure.

The soft rush of air alerted Danny to someone’s arrival, and he just managed to keep himself from falling into a defensive posture as he turned to look at the newly arrived Superboy, and the other teen being carried in his arms. Danny recognized the other boys outfit as that of the current Robin, who was now staring at Danny through a pair of disconcerting white-lenses set into a domino mask.

“We were free so I figured we’d just come meet you?” Superboy says with a nervous grin.

“Yeah, that’s, um, kind of obvious. Should we land?” Danny’s pretty sure that none of the Bats have flight, and like, as much as flying is cool as hell, Robin doesn’t look particularly impressed by it.

“That would be preferable, please,” Robin says, confirming Danny’s thoughts. He nods, and heads for the ground. Superboy follows just as quickly, and a moment later they’re all gathered on a gravel road in farmland.

“So, uh,” Superboy begins, once he’s deposited Robin on his own two feet.

“You told him about me before,” Danny says. Superboy may have had plenty of time to fly over here, but there hadn’t been enough of a delay to have explained the situation to Robin just now.

“It was an entirely theoretical conversation,” Robin offers dryly, before Superboy can respond.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that he was asking if I could theoretically help a meta acquire an identity if they were uncomfortable with the Justice League. Nothing of it was mentioned to anyone else and he told me no details about who any theoretical metas might be.” Danny blinks, taking a moment to process Robin’s explanation. In a way it makes sense, and he can see why Superboy would want to make sure that what he was offering was even possible.  Besides, it’s pretty obvious already that they both really trust each other.

“Okay, sure. I guess I get it.”

“I would like to know why you’re concerned about the Justice League, though, if you’re willing to share. If there’s anything illicit happening-”

“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” Danny cuts in as soon as he realizes where Robin’s going. He’s suddenly glad he’d already decided to explain his situation in more detail. “It’s like, I’m not from here so my shit is entirely unrelated? It’s just, they’re -you’re?- associated with the government, you know?”

“And your government is a threat to you.”

“Honestly, everything was. But they can’t get to me here. It’s why my friends- that’s why I’m here.”

“Okay, but are you sure you’re safe? Because like, space travel is a thing, and if you need protection...” Superboy trails off, looking concerned.

“I mean, it should be fine? Even if the GIW did manage to figure out inter-dimensional travel, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to figure out where specifically I went, so yeah.” Danny really doesn’t want to think about a GIW that’s gone inter-dimensional.

“Well if they did manage to make it here, they would be breaching the meta protection acts if they tried anything, so I hope if that does happen you inform myself or Superboy.”

“Yeah,” Danny laughs. “It’s honestly been kind of crazy trying to wrap my head around the idea I have protections here?”

“That’s understandable. Plenty of meta-individuals have complicated feelings about them, even if they grew up here.”

“Oh?”

“Well, just because it’s illegal to exploit or discriminate against someone doesn’t necessarily mean it doesn’t happen. And metas who have been treated poorly often have trouble trusting in the protection acts.”

“Or sometimes you just didn’t get that info programmed into you and then you have to adjust to your understanding of history being manufactured,” Superboy mutters under his breath. Robin doesn’t react at all and Danny’s pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear it either. The implications are a bit concerning, but Danny’s not about to press him on it.

“Yeah, I mean that’s kind of where I am, I guess. I think I’d like it if you’d be willing to make me a legal identity? I’m basically homeless at the moment, so I’d like to be able to get a job or something. But I’d really rather not end up on the Justice League’s radar yet. You guys seem nice, but databases are- a lot.”

“Easy enough. I can actually do it all with my personal resources, so the info never goes anywhere near the Justice League’s databases. We just need to determine what name history you want to have.”

“I mean, I’d like to keep my name, if possible?”

“Sure, What’s your name?” Robin tilts his head.

“Danny Fenton.”

[sourholland]

click

azriel x fem!reader

a short sorta and angsty, im halfway through a court of wings and ruin so this doesn’t really sit in a timeline but i was inspired to write. as always, requests are always open

If there was one thing to be absolutely certain about when it came to Azriel, it was his utter devotion to Mor. The yearning that bled through that stone cold facade. It was almost as if his desperation for her prevailed above all else, even after so many years.

Rhysand had alluded to his hope that the mating bond would someday click between the two of them. You wondered if perhaps he thought if it did, maybe all of that longing wouldn’t have all been for nothing. The way he looked at her was unlike anything you’d ever seen, causing you to ignore the small twinge in your heart that came with the sight of it. Over the years, you had come to terms with the fact that his feelings were unchanging and deep-rooted through centuries of shared trauma.

Having only been with Rhys’s inner circle for a few decades, you were much younger get than the rest of them. He had anointed you as emissary of The Night Court when you came to him seeking asylum within Velaris, born to The Court of Nightmares.

Mor was much like you in that way, she was a sister to you at this point. When Feyre came, you felt so overjoyed to have another female to connect with. Even Amren had taken to you, in whatever capacity she knew how to.

Amren was who had observed the soul tie between you and Azriel, how she was able to—you had not a clue. The feeling of the potential bond had weighed on your heart for a few years, however he never spoke of it so you had chalked it up to being a mistaken feeling within the hollowness of your chest. She picked up on it very early on, she spoke to you candidly.

“He loves Mor,” said Amren, unabashedly.

“I know,” you responded chastely. “She knows, he knows, I know. That is that.”

Amren stilled for a moment, her legs tucked under her as you both sat on the floor of her apartment and mulled over information for your meeting at the House of Wind that night. A flicker of emotion passed her cold eyes, meeting her gaze and sharing a look of understanding. She needn’t say it, she pitied you in whatever way she could muster up.

“He doesn’t know,” you said after a moment.

“Yes,” she let a knowing sigh escape her lips. “He does.”

You say nothing. Truthfully, you knew that he suspected. You simply gathered that he was doing the same as you were, ignoring it in entirety. Yet, you remained on speaking terms with him as he continued to watch Mor like she would someday change her mind.

“I will say this only once, mostly because I do not wish to meddle in the inner workings of your soul,” she finally said. “If he wishes to grovel at the feet of someone who will never have him in the way that he wishes, let him. It is a pathetic waste of life, if that is any consolation.”

Once you departed from Amren’s apartment, you walked along the streets of Velaris soundlessly. There were children playing in the streets, you greeted some of them sweetly and nodded along. She was right, Azriel would not change for anyone but himself at this point.

He was late to dinner that night, whatever business he was attending to had somehow held him up. He came in after everyone was already sat and eating, chatting and laughing a bit. He took the empty seat beside you, mentioning a few things to Rhysand and speaking to Feyre about his plans for the following day.

“How did it go between you and Amren?” He suddenly asked you, beginning to shovel food onto his plate.

You simply responded with the sound of cutlery scraping the bottom of your plate. He thought that you had not heard him, repeating himself again as his shadows danced around his shoulders and the edges of his wings. The third time he repeated himself, there was an edge to his voice that brought you out of your thoughts to meet his eyes.

Click.

There it was. The bond. The god awful fucking mating bond. It felt almost ironic, like fate was giving you the middle finger. Azriel stilled, his eyes completely locked onto your own. It felt nothing like you’d imagined, despite already knowing deep down.

Only Amren had fully recognized what happened, eyes almost appearing shocked. She said nothing, but could not pull her own stare from the interaction.

His shadows began to drift towards you, a sick feeling lurching in your gut and causing you to drop your utensils. The clatter caused everyone to look up and to both of you, your chair nearly falling behind you as you could not stomach to be in the dining room any longer.

Azriel couldn’t even go after you, he only sat in silence with unmoving eyes. He hadn’t even blinked, almost as if the confirmation sent him into a complete and utter state of shock.

[snorlaxlovesme]

alright everybody, it's time we talked about Hostage. (buckle up because this is going to be long, but it'll be worth it)

season 2 episode 8 of Link Click was one of the most confounding episodes in the entire season while airing. starting with Lu Guang's insane boat crash/martial arts smackdown rescue of Cheng Xiaoshi and ending with Cheng Xiaoshi diving into a photo to possess Lu Guang to get answers for his actions, from start to finish it was a wild ass ride where we, the fandom, AND the characters spent the whole time questioning Lu Guang and his motives

and...puzzlingly... didn't really get an answers by the end of the season

Lu Guang wasn't granted any post-climax time to explain what happened that day from his perspective, and while Cheng Xiaoshi was possessing him he didn't get any answers because he literally WAS Lu Guang, just doing whatever the hell he thought he needed to do.

the thing about Hostage that has always felt extremely off to me, is that we DO get explanations for Lu Guang's actions during the episode, but they're from people wholly unqualified to be giving them.

Captain Xiao finds Lu Guang's phone, hidden in a folded towel, and concludes that Lu Guang had left them clues. Qiao Ling, after seeing that Lu Guang had taken a photo that night, came to the conclusion that Cheng Xiaoshi must have been the one possessing Lu Guang during his deranged rescue plan at the pier, seeing as Lu Guang wasn't an adept fighter at the dojo and he was acting extremely impulsive. She even goes so far to say, later in the episode, that Cheng Xiaoshi HAS to dive into the photo, because it's already happened, and needs to follow Lu Guang's words to not change the timeline.

all of these assumptions, to me, are horseshit

I refuse to listen to ANYTHING Captain Xiao says. one, because he simply does not know these kids and should not be making assumptions about them, and two he is in fact the worst cop in the world. and Qiao Ling, bless her heart, has only found out how their powers work mere DAYS ago and doesn't understand the nuances of them at all

so I'm gonna debunk all that nonsense and explain to you what Lu Guang's REAL actions were that night, and what was up with that cryptic photo he took

now you might be thinking, Kelly, you're not even starting in the right place, because those weren't Lu Guang's actions, they were always Cheng Xiaoshi's, just in Lu Guang's body!

FALSE. on two counts! we have evidence of Lu Guang and Cheng Xiaoshi performing the act of escaping the hospital differently. Lu Guang does not use the kettle to break the window to distract the cops. we're not sure what he uses, but that kettle is still there.

Lu Guang also places his phone face down in the towel

while Cheng Xiaoshi places it faceup

so by the end of the episode we have literal, physical evidence that these two performed this timeline differently, and therefore it was not "Cheng Xiaoshi the whole time" like Qiao Ling tried to misinform us to believe. i also have another Big Brain post [x] that explains why Lu Guang being an impulsive, supposedly "good" fighter during that pier rescue scene are both in-character for him.

(and if we wanna get really nitpicky about how an injured Lu Guang could have raced across town in his condition, i simply believe that Lu Guang was smarter about it that Cheng Xiaoshi, and probably took a bus or cab. Cheng Xiaoshi, pure of heart and dumb of ass, ran because HE physically could while inhabiting Lu Guang's body. our injured catboy did not sprint across town while holding his organs in place)

so if we already have all this cold, hard evidence stating that Lu Guang really is THAT bitch and did all that shit on his own, what the hell is my problem? why can I not let this episode go?

BECAUSE I WANNA KNOW WHY LU GUANG TOOK THAT PHOTO

Captain Useless seems to think that Lu Guang took that photo as some sort of helpful clue left behind for the gang

but what, pray tell, was this photo supposed to tell us without someone with Lu Guang's powers there to interpret it? without Lu Guang to tell him what to do, Cheng Xiaoshi left to his own devices knows just as much as himself as he does possessing Lu Guang

and, the bigger question, is if this was supposed to be some sort of almighty clue for the gang, why did he not text this photo to either Qiao Ling or Cheng Xiaoshi before escaping the hospital? he took the time to text Qiao Ling the location of the boat, did he not? why not the photo too? seems like a crappy way to clue someone in, to take a photo and save it on your password protected phone that you just went out of your way to hide from plain sight

because that's the thing! after the season finale we discover that Lu Guang's password is literally a reminder of his dive, or even more specifically, a reminder of his trauma. we KNOW that he didn't share his password with Cheng Xiaoshi, he just just happened to figure it out on his own

so tell me how Lu Guang expected this trauma-password protected phone, with it's one singular picture, to get in the hands of Cheng Xiaoshi, hmm? riddle me THAT

so we've established by now that 1. Lu Guang's actions in the beginning of episode 8 were indeed his own and 2. that photo was never meant to be seen by Cheng Xiaoshi, who shouldn't have known Lu Guang's passcode

given the trauma-passcode, we have to believe that the only person ever meant to see this photo was Lu Guang. i've made ANOTHER post previously [x] stating that Lu Guang might have used his powers in a way we haven't known possible, by taking a photo and using his Blue Eyes White Dragon powers to see 12 hours into the immediate future

plausible, but not what i'm about to propose now.

because I think Lu Guang took that photo as a contingency plan

listen, the only person who had ANY credentials to theorize what Lu Guang was up to that night was his trusted partner. while Qiao Ling and Captain Xiao spouted their nonsense theories, Cheng Xiaoshi said the only smart thing that entire brainstorming session

and I think Cheng Xiaoshi was right. he wasn't wrong in assuming this photo was a Save Point of sorts, the only thing he was wrong about was who would be using it

the only other person in this show capable of diving into a photo, we find out during the finale, is Lu Guang

we also find out in the finale that powers are transferrable, and it looks like they transfer when the owner of that power dies in someone else's arms

Lu Guang took that photo that night NOT for Cheng Xiaoshi to find and use, but for LU GUANG himself to use. i believe Lu Guang firmly believed that Cheng Xiaoshi was to die that night, and he would do everything in his power to make sure he had a chance to change it again if he needed to.

that meant:

1.taking a photo on his phone as a Save Point.

2. hiding his phone in the hospital bathroom so it could not be taken from him or busted later in the night. and

3. racing to where he knew Cheng Xiaoshi would be, so he could either

4. a.) rescue him, or b.) ensure that during CXS's death, the diving power was transferred back to him so he could do the night over again.

Lu Guang took that photo as contingency plan to save Cheng Xiaoshi's life should he get killed that night.

but that plan was botched when Cheng Xiaoshi used it instead to possess Lu Guang, because each photo can only be used once.

which might also explain why Lu Guang was SO DISTRAUGHT when Cheng Xiaoshi was shot

they had deleted all their photos earlier that week to prevent the twins from possessing them remotely

that was the last photo Lu Guang had taken. the ONLY photo on his phone. if Cheng Xiaoshi died that night, there would have been no Save Point to return to

[sualne]

Crocodad AU Story overview from mid prologue to the end of Arc 2, checks out the current timeline of published comics to remember where we left of. Does not include the Strawhat whereabouts. Anything is up to change but that's the gist of it.

Warning for blood, injuries and general angst.

Luffy is easy to read as autistic and dyslexic in canon, i wanted to see what it would be like accumulating learning disabilities in an AU where he's expected to study, the struggles that comes from it. Again, disabled ppl being disabled is important to me, all that.

Not mentioned here but Luffy is upset with his father already with his constant plotting, all the plants are dead now and there's a lot less ppl outside when he goes out with Robin. He doesn't fully understand what's going on but know it his fault and in order to take over Alabasta. On multiple occasions he makes it clear he doesn't want to be prince or have anything to do with Baroque Works.

That feeling of helplessness born from Crocodile's disregard for his feeling and really, own sense of personhood, is a problem through the whole of the story until Arc 7 when Crocodile has to face the fact that his kid is a whole person. The actual quote in my note is "once again he's incapable of seeing luffy as his own capable (unhinged) person".

Also Miss Mini Sorbet gets injured trying to protect Luffy when he's being tied up, that's how she gets her scar and why Crocodile insist she's not a bodyguard.

Unlike in canon Luffy doesn't magically recover from being stabbed, he still magically survive and recovers pretty well considering he's been impaled but still, i like when things have a little bit of consequences health wise. The exact nature of his new condition stays a mystery until Arc 4, though there's plenty of clues through the arcs.

Arc 2 is all text. I didn't want to draw an entire crowd of ppl fighting but there's lots of vivid imagery in my mind.

[natureboy96]

Rhysand is Tamlin's abuser

I've been enjoying crackshipping and fun posts for the past few months, it's far more pleasant to interact within fandom this way I've found, but this thought came to me last night and it won't leave my head, so I simply have to go for another rant/long post about it.

The discussion about what happens Under the mountain is largely focused on what happens to Feyre, which is understandable as she's the POV character; the problem is, what happens there isn't about Feyre at all. Everything UtM is designed to break Tamlin, especially torturing Feyre. And Rhysand is a large part of that.

While Rhysand is sexually assaulting Feyre, he's also psychologically torturing Tamlin. Can you imagine how horrible it would be, being forced watch and witness this fragile human you've come to love, being turned into a sexual prop and toy, forced to dance and drink and vomit and dance again, every night for months on end, knowing that the slightest twitch could end up killing someone you care about, or hurting Feyre even worse? I wouldn't put it past Amarantha to leave Feyre with a few less limbs if Tamlin grimaced.

And the thing is, Rhysand not only knows that he's hurting Tamlin, but that he's doing it intentionally. He explains fully that he wants to protect Feyre, yes, but also that he wanted to make Tamlin suffer, to make him feel hate and pain. All those horrors that Rhysand drugs Feyre, so she doesn't have to witness it and be scarred by it? Tamlin has no choice but to look, and not react, and Rhysand knows it. Tamlin doesn't know anything about Rhysand's "evil mask" during and after UtM and only sees him for how he presented himself; a sexual predator who worked as hard as Amarantha did to break him, and continued to trigger his trauma after they were free.

But Rhysand has a grudge for what Tamlin did to his family, yeah? A grudge he's been holding on to for at most over four centuries (due to the lack of dates and timelines, the only clues we get for when things went down between their families was that it was after the war 500 years ago, and a few years after Tamlin "matures" as Rhys says it, which could be as early as Tam being 18 or 19) And that he doesn't know all the details about! a grudge he's had centuries to try and find out the truth about, but that he's chosen to assume the worst about Tamlin instead, and that ended with Tamlin's family dead in retaliation.

Rhysand being angry for what happened to his family (after getting revenge in retaliation) does not justify months of psychological torture.

And then in ACOMAF, instead of taking any accountability for the pain he caused either of them, he at most justifies how he treated Feyre, and entirely ignores the pain he caused Tamlin. Worse yet, he goes on to villainize Tamlin for dealing poorly with his PTSD, trauma that he had a direct hand in causing, and actively antagonizes him further to make it worse!

Tamlin should be held accountable for the pain he caused Feyre, and I would argue he pays for it well more than his actions warrant. Rhysand never takes or is held accountable for any of the pain he causes, not to Tamlin or Feyre (and later not to Nesta either). Beyond feeling bad in a monologue or again justifying his actions when confronted by the High Lords, he never has to answer for the harm he's caused and its handwaved away almost immediately on being addressed.

Rhysand and Tamlin hurt each others' families, Rhysand abuses Tamlin, who later abuses Feyre, who later abuses Tamlin back, and then the Night Court abuses Nesta, after she abused Feyre when they were poor and starving. It's just a cycle of abuse, but only some characters ever pay any actual, tangible price for it.

All of this is to say, I have found myself having far more sympathy for Tamlin reacting poorly to his PTSD than the person who gave it to him with psychological torture and then villainized him for it.

[ostrichlady]

I've watched season 2 of arcane many times now, and that last scene of Viktor and Jayce never fails to amaze me. Once you know exactly what's going to happen after a few rewatches, you start noticing little clues and symbolism across the show which make the scene so much more delightful but that's not even what makes me feel so impacted at the end of it. With all the sincerity I hold in me, this is one of the most beautiful and purest depictions of love I've ever seen.

The scene sequence works so well. It's perfect. It's raw and tender and caring. Overflowing with all the abstraction of what love is.

The artistry is breathtaking. The colours of a ruined world contrasting with the lively shades of flowers against Jayce's stone figure. The clean blue from the sky, the polished and ancient figure of mage Viktor against the rough edges and vibrancy of defender Jayce.

The celestial colours of their bodies detached from any materialistic accessories, Jayce's face being so much warmer in contrast with Viktor's much paler complexion. The gold from the different souls, the thin strands of consciousness gathering at one moment. Galaxy in its most humane form if that's even possible.

Everything is beautifully harmonized to fulfill one goal, which is to frame the connection of Jayce and Viktor.

I can't get enough of looking at Jayce's face throughout this whole scene. His eyes speak for his heart louder than anyone could comprehend. Understandment, care, longing, affection. A need and a want to let Viktor have his love. He's telling Viktor that he's there and he won't leave again, wherever Viktor goes, he will too. And Jayce knows Viktor isn't like him. Viktor won't simply take love and gulp it down.

No, Jayce understands that he has to do it slowly, wrapped in tenderness but full of determination. It stands out to me just how, when reaching for Viktor's shoulder, Jayce's hand hoovers for a little bit before grabbing it. He's giving time to Viktor, but he's also assuring that he's there. For him. With him.

Viktor is confused, is scared, his eyes are desperately looking at what he has done, and what it could've become, how could it be that he had been so wrong? And why was Jayce talking to him about wanting his partner back when Viktor himself doesn't know if he could be anything remotely similar after everything? Why was this man overflowing with so much affection when Viktor was, until a few seconds ago, trying to get rid of it all? Viktor gets taken down from this polished, higher power mindset and is thrown right at the core of human emotions, barely able to hang on to it.

But it's okay because Jayce will hold Viktor until he can stand for himself. 

Jayce tells him it's okay. He does it by looking at him dearly. By holding his open hand carefully. By placing the gem in it securely. No matter what happens, it is okay. 

The gem is reactive and powerful and holds so much to it. Their lives, their projects, their dreams. Magic in raw form, full capacity.

When both of their hands are placed on what started everything, they both look at each other one final time. This is it. They know what's about to happen. But it's okay. It really is. Because there's nothing else they can do to fight their destiny this time. Because there's really no point fighting this time.

Jayce pulls Viktor, a call for him. I'm here. 

And Viktor responds to his call. I know.

They are together.  They've always been together, their connection preserved into a small gem stone. Into so many others, across so many other possibilities and timelines. Whether it failed or not, it has always been there. Raw and sincere.

This time, despite the circumstances, it did work. Not everything is perfect, but it doesn't have to be. That's the beauty of it all, as Jayce said himself. The world will keep moving even after they're gone. Broken as always, but never stopping.

Theirs souls are intertwined across what we call time and space. If forever has an ending, then it will be rewritten. Their love is bigger than any terms we might choose to describe it. Their bond is far greater than any anomaly or magic blast.

They're safe, embraced by the deepness and vastness of the universe. Nothing will separate them. It started with them and it finished with them. Always them, only them. Together as partners.

[trippinsorrows]

with me + part five

authors notes: hi! you guys are so freaking awesome and sweet and like gawww, so grateful for such kind words and support!

so i realized that i used the wwe names for jimmy, jey, naomi, etc. that was my bad. i'll be using their real names moving forward for the sake of flow and consistency.

also keep forgetting to state that current timeline is 2023. like, this chapter is fall 2023. everything, so far, post breakup for joe and reader has been 2023. i plan to follow that timeline, so make of that what you will.

i hope this chapter isn't too boring to people!

warnings: fluff, language, suggestive content

song inspo: with me by destiny’s child

words: 5.7k

tags: @pixiedust4000 @southerngirl41 @yolobloggers @msbigredmachine @wonderingfashion

“So, are we just going to continue to ignore each other?”

You’re not sure how, but you sense his presence long before he even says anything. And instantly, your mood is dampened, not that you were in the best spirits to begin with. You didn’t get much sleep the night before, for reasons you cannot fathom. But, it’s annoying as hell, especially when you have an ex turned fuck buddy who can’t seem to get a fucking clue ready to confront you outside of your daughter's preschool.

Sighing heavily, you pull out your phone to play around with your lock screen, because you really don’t have anyone you need to message in this moment. But, he doesn’t need to know that. “Not now, Amir.”

“Because you’re so busy?”

“Because I don’t care.” One thing you’ve learned about yourself over the years is that once you’re annoyed with someone, there’s no filter on your mouth and you cannot be held liable for what comes out of it. “Now, please, go away.”

He just looks at you, sun shining down on his waves and chocolate complexion. It’s unfortunate outside of his looks that he’s an overall trash partner. Decent friend. Shitty boyfriend. “You always do that shit, you know? Pull and then push. It was kinda cute when we were kids. Now, it’s just annoying.”

You were standing outside of Callie’s preschool, waiting for the kids to be dismissed, waiting for your little girl to come running out with a smile on her face, request on the tip of her tongue. It’s usually something small like wanting to show you what she learned in school. Lately, it’s been the same.

Can I call Joe?

A part of you feels bad for the amount of calls he probably gets in one day just from Callie alone. She took your offer for her to call him whenever he was available to another degree, not that he minded. He took as many as he could, listening to her talk and talk about whatever happened to be on her mind in that moment. And you let her.

What kind of mother would you be if you stopped her from talking to her dad? Even if she doesn’t know that’s who he is. 

It’s been almost two weeks since he left, and she clearly misses him. You often overhear her asking about when he’s coming again. You also receive those questions. It’s something you and him discuss via text but haven’t landed on a date yet. 

Communicating with Joe is also something that’s still an adjustment. It’s not as difficult or uncomfortable, because it’s almost entirely about Callie, but still. 

“If that’s the case, why do you bother?” You manage a less insensitive tone, even if you know good and well you’ve never led this man on. Amir has always heard and believed what he wanted to believe. That was the problem. He never listened to you.

“Because I fucking care about your annoying ass, duh.”

His delivery, the tone, and cadence. You laugh. It’s probably inappropriate at the moment, but it does bring a smile to his face as well. “Softie.”

He moves closer to you, arms crossed. “I’m serious, Y/N. You know how I feel about you. How I’ve always felt about you.” 

Leaning against your car, you respond as calmly as you can, “and you know I’ve always made it clear I’m not looking for anything more. We had our time, Amir. It didn’t work out. Now we just help each other get off. I don’t know why you keep trying to make it more than what it is.”

“A date. One date,” he implores. A waste of time, because your answer is no. It’s been no and will continue to be no. “You haven’t even given ‘adult’ us a chance.”

There’s a headache in your near future, one that’s reminiscent of past ones only Amir seems to induce. It’s interesting how he went from indifferent asshole to clingy asshole. You almost miss the earlier version.

Chocolate was supposed to be good for the soul, so why was he so draining to yours?

“Amir…..” You try to pick your words carefully and be mindful of your tone. “This is getting real old. I think we need to stop messing around, because we’re clearly not on the same page.” The next part is something you probably shouldn’t share, but you call yourself trying to be open and clear. “Calista’s dad is back, and we’re trying to navigate coparenting, so—” 

“What?” He stops you, shock written over his handsome face. “Are you serious? You’re letting that motherfucker back in ya’ll life?”

This time, it’s his tone that jumps, accusatory and harsh. You immediately grow defensive. “You don’t know him.”

“God, why do you defend him like this? Is it that Stockholm Syndrome shit? He left you. He left you and his kid. What kind of man does that? And you’re just letting him back in? Just gonna jump back on his dick? Letting him around Callie? She’s old enough now to remember when he decides to leave again. I don’t get how you don’t see that. You her mama. You supposed to look out for her.”

And now, you’re done trying to be nice, trying to be mindful that he’s still another human being with feelings. Because one thing you never have and never will tolerate is someone insinuating you’re not looking out for your daughter. You’re not perfect, but you know that you’re a devoted, dutiful mother. 

“It’s obvious comprehension isn’t your strong suit, which I should have known based off the fact that I always had to help your dumbass do your homework back when we were in school.” All bets….off. “My baby? My life? My pussy? All my business. You don’t get to judge the decisions I make for my child nor the role that her father has in her life. That’s between me and him. Keep your nose out my fucking business. Don’t worry about me hitting you up anymore. That’s dead.”

Your rose will do just fine. Hell, there’s gotta be at least one other eligible bachelor in town you could fuck if absolutely need be. But, you know damn well you won’t be messaging Amir anymore. He comes with too much baggage. It’s not worth it. You refuse to let a nigga whose height starts with a 5 stress you out.

True to his nature, he starts gaslighting you. Typical Amir. “There you go overreacting and shit.”

“No, I’m not. You’re trying to question my parenting when you don’t know shit about shit.”

He sucks his teeth, rolling his eyes. This was why people used to say you had a temper in high school. Because of him. Because he loved to tell people what you said but never what he did. Always tried to make you feel crazy. Truth be told, you’re stupid for even opening that door with him again, even if it’s just for sex.

“Whatever, Y/N.” He turns to walk back over to his car. You really wish his damn sister would change her work schedule so she can pick up her son instead of this asshole. You’ll catch a case fucking with his dumbass. “I’ll wait for your text.”

He’ll be waiting. “Fuck you, Amir.” 

You should be more mindful of your language at a damn preschool, but Amir has managed to get under your skin, something that hasn’t happened since you were in college. You know a good part of it is because you’re sleep deprived, but you also know it’s partially because of his dig at Joe.

You understand the optics seem to indicate that he’s a deadbeat, but you’ve expressed to Amir countless times that it was a complicated situation. He didn’t know the specifics, but you made it clear Joe didn’t abandon you or Callie. That’s just the narrative Amir keeps running with, and now with Joe being back in your life and especially in Callie’s life, you’re not gonna let it continue. 

“Mommy!” Your head snaps to see and feel Callie run up to and hug her body against your leg. “Boo!”

Shit. Did she hear any of that? You hope not and paste on a smile that’s hopefully authentic enough to sell that everything is fine. “Callie Bear.” You lean down and pick her up, kissing her cheek. “Did you have a good day?”

She nods and starts explaining the activities while you buckle her into her carseat, trying your best to calm down and not give away your high stress levels in that moment. Callie is super perceptive, and you don’t want to ruin the obviously great day she’s had.

And sure enough, as you’re putting on your seatbelt and starting up the car, the golden question is shouted with pre-excitement. 

“Can I call Joe when I get home?”

Smiling at her through the rearview mirror, you answer, “yes, you can.”

In the almost two weeks that have passed since Joe’s departure, not one day has passed that Callie doesn’t asks to call Joe or just outright helps yourself to her iPad to call him. Sometimes several times a day during the weekends. And she’ll talk to him for as long as she can, as long as he’s able to hold a conversation with her. You’ll give it to him, he’s done an exceptional job handling all of it. On some level, you wonder if you should set some restrictions or time parameters, but how do you limit how much a daughter interacts with her father?

Callie rejoices at your approval and requests for you to put on the Disney playlist you made specifically for her on Spotify. 

The drive, no more than 10 minutes, consists of the two of you singing along to a few Disney tunes. It’s a bit of a tradition between you, a way to bond via your shared love of Disney. A love that ties not only you to her but to the women before you. Your mom and grandma. 

Arriving to your apartment complex, you decide to leave your work bag in the car. It’s Thanksgiving break. You most likely won’t do any work until the day or two before having to return.

You do carry Callie on your hip and swing her bag around your shoulder, walking the two of you up to the second floor. Sometimes, you regret not accepting the apartment they had available on the first floor. The older you get, the less your joints like to cooperate, your almost 15 years of cheer probably taking a toll on your body. 

And just age in general. 

But your regret quickly turns to a level of gratitude when you reach your door. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Dropping Callie to the floor, she’s of the complete opposite reaction, gasping and smiling broadly. 

“Look mommy, more boxes!”

The smile is strained but you manage to maintain it, sticking the key in the door, unlocking and pushing it open.

She walks in, and you place her bag on the floor near the door, one foot keeping it open. “What do you think it is?” She asks as you pick them up and bring them inside, kicking the door closed behind you.

You know exactly what it is. What it all is. 

Gifts.

From Joe. 

In his absence, you’ve had several deliveries waiting outside your door when you got home from work and picking Callie up. And all of them were for Callie, gifts of variable nature but all of them things she loves. Disney, stuffed animals, dolls. Essentially anything that could make a 4 year old feel like she’s won the lottery. 

She’s literally bouncing on her toes, already with her kids scissors in her hands. 

When the hell did she grab those?

“Can I open them, please? Please?”

A part of you wants to say no, save them for christmas gifts, though you’re almost entirely certain he’ll have another set of gifts for her then. And it seems almost cruel to make her wait over a month when she knows there are presents waiting for her.

“Sure, but….” You scamper into the kitchen and grab your adult size scissors, returning and showing her. “Let mommy cut them, and then you open them.”

You don’t need this child accidentally cutting herself. Again, medical bills are not in the budget, especially around the holidays. Money’s already tight to some extent. 

Not that….not that it’d be much of an issue with Callie. You’d never fix your moth to ask Joe for anything, especially not financially, but if it was something involving your daughter, you’re pretty sure your tune would change. It would still bother you to ask for help, but you know he’d have zero qualms helping you out.

He’d probably pay for it in its entirety.

Your proposition pleases her. “Okay!” She places her scissors on the nearest flat surface and sits down, legs crossed, bouncing impatiently. 

Chuckling, you glide your scissors across, careful not to open anything. You want to save that moment for her and your plan. 

Once done, you place the scissors on the kitchen island and reach for your phone. “Wait before you open, baby.” 

Immediately, she frowns and scowls, “whyyyyyy.”

Rolling your eyes, you sit on the floor too to be at her eye level and open Snapchat. “Okay, now.” 

You hit record and watch intermittently through and outside of the screen as she opens the boxes, smile permanent and excitement palpable. She especially gets excited when she pulls out a freaking box of the new Little Mermaid and all of her sisters. More….dolls. 

“Look, mommy!!!” She then grabs a doll who has a surprisingly similar complexion and curl pattern to hers, holding it against her face. “She looks like me!”  

“She does,” you agree, realizing it’s a customized American Girl doll. Damn. Those things can run up to $200. You weren’t stupid, knowing Joe’s probably spent more money on Callie alone in two weeks than you’ve spent all year, but just how much has he spent?

It’s when she opens the final box, surrounded by nothing but toys and packaging that you’re already dreading having to stuff all this in your trash bin, “what do you say, baby?”

Callie hugs the American Doll close to her chest and directs to the camera, “thank you, Joe!” She gasps and adds on, “I miss you, but mommy said I can call you tonight!”

You hold back your giggle and agree, adding, “after she helps mommy clean up all this.” 

Her smile drops, pout returning, “I hate cleaning.” 

Snickering, you mutter, “you and me too, sis.” 

You end the video, save it and enter Joe’s chat to attach the video, adding a message.

You: You’re spoiling her, Joe. 😫 This is the third delivery this week alone. 

You’re able to clean up some of the packaging and throw it away before your phone chimes with his response. Callie has grabbed the amount you expected her to grab and discard. Her attention span is trash at the moment. She’s a child surrounded by toys. It’s expected. 

Joe: She's my little girl. Of course, I’m gonna spoil her.

Joe: There should be another one by the weekend. If not, let me know.

You sigh aloud, this man is gonna have your place looking like freaking KB Toys.

You: Omg

You: ….You know I live in an APARTMENT, right? Just where the hell am I supposed to put all of this stuff?

It’s sweet he’s so keen on gifting her these things, but he also has to realize you’re not living in a mansion in Malibu. And despite having a child who leaves messes wherever she goes, you do your best to keep your place tidy. 

 If you didn’t know Joe, didn’t see how easily he connected with Callie, you’d maybe accuse him of trying to “buy” her love. But, you know that’s not the case, know that he clearly just wants to make her happy. You just hope he knows that he does that all by himself, no gifts needed. 

Joe: She has a whole playroom.

You: Yes. Playroom, not Toys-R-Us. 

Joe: 🤷🏽‍♂️

You: 🙄 You’re aggravating.

He doesn’t say anything after that, so you decide to finish cleaning because at some point your child wandered off, most likely to her playroom to add all her new stuff with her slightly new stuff. Taking advantage of the alone time, you also decide to text your mom to figure out thanksgiving plans. Specifically, what drink, dessert, and/or condiments she wants you to bring because you damn well know she won’t ask you to cook.

She still hasn’t forgiven you for that accidental fire that one year.

And it’s when you’re sitting on the sofa, also starting to think about black friday plans that your mind wanders, your anxiety grows out of nowhere.

You’ve taken the approach to not have any say in Joe’s relationship with Callie, to intervene only when absolutely necessary. And as that hasn’t hasn’t occurred, you’ve not done so. You let him and her do their thing. But a small part of you wonders if you should put some parameters around Callie. She calls him several times a day, Joe, who spends more time on the road than there are days in the year.

You know he wants to establish a relationship with her, but that can be done with boundaries. Anxiety getting the best of you, you grab your phone and shoot him a text. 

You: Is it okay if she calls you today? I know it’s been a lot, and if too much, just let me know. I’ll talk to her. 

His reply comes almost immediately this time around.

Joe: She can call me 100 times. I don’t care. I wanna talk to her.

And instantly, the anxiety is almost non-existent. Deep down, you know this is what he wants. He wants to have interaction with her, and incessant Facetime calls are the only option with his crazy schedule, so it’s what he takes. It’s what he wants. 

Pleased and no longer stressing over an issue that was never an issue, you lock your phone and place it back at your side. A quick glance at the clock reminds you that it’s almost time for Callie’s bath. 

A couple minutes later, your phone dings with a text notification. From Joe.

You open it right away. 

Joe: This weekend. Don’t tell her. I wanna surprise her. 

You have to read it a couple of times before it registers. He’s coming back in town. This weekend. As in less than two days. You’re excited at this, happy as well. For Callie. But also, for yourself. Why? You haven’t a clue, well, maybe there’s a slight clue, but you don’t want to acknowledge that right now. 

You simply want to focus on the fact that you’re happy your daughter will be happy her dad is town. 

Who cares that you will be too.

________

Joe’s just walked out the bathroom, having showered and almost entirely prepped for bed when his phone rings. 

Moving over to the hotel nightstand, he’s surprised when he sees Callie’s smiling face filling his screen. A glance at the clock in the corner of his phone reads 11:06, which means it’s 9:06 her time. Well past her bedtime. What is she doing up?

Curious, and regardless, he answers the phone. It takes a second for the connection to finalize when it does, he’s instantly smiling, mostly because it’s Callie but also because of her setup.

It’s obvious she’s under a blanket, a flashlight in the corner illuminating the space, a stuffed animal in her lap. 

She’s the first to speak, her voice both loud and hushed in a way only she can do. “hi!”

“Hi, sweetheart.” He can’t help but ask almost immediately, “what are you doing up?” As he told you, he’d talk to her 24/7 if he could. And even though this call is unexpected and appreciated, she’s also a 4-year-old kid who needs her sleep.

Her little shoulders lift in a shrug. “I can’t sleep.”

Nodding, he follows up with, “where’s mommy?” 

“Sleeping,” she answers with a level of disappointment. “I don’t wanna wake her up. She had a bad day.”

“Really?” Joe moves around so he’s laying on the bed, on his side, phone propped on the nightstand. “How do you know?”

“Cause–cause she was yelling at Mr. Amir, and–and he was yelling at her too.”

Joe hasn’t a clue why, but that instantly upsets him. Who the fuck is this Amir person, and who the hell does he think he is to raise his voice at you? Around Callie of all people.

“Who is Mr. Amir?” Joe hates asking her all of these questions, but it’s also hard not to. 

“The basketball coach at the school for big kids.” She’s caressing the fur of the stuffed animal in her lap. “Aunt Mariah said he was mommy’s boyfriend when she was a big kid.”

“Really.” It’s not really a question as much as it is a general statement. Joe doesn’t know why he’s suddenly annoyed, not with Callie, but the entire situation. And definitely this Amir person even more now. He’s an ex. He dated you. It shouldn’t make him feel any type of way, but it does, and he hates that shit. 

He hates a man he’s never even met.

“I don’t like Mr. Amir,” Callie suddenly announces with a scowl. Same, kid. Same. Joe looks at her, seeing so much of you in her right now. He knows you’ve mentioned how you see a lot of him in Callie, but when she’s glowering like this, she’s 100% her mama’s daughter. “He made mommy mad today.”

“Has he ever been mean to you?” Joe has to ask, because he’s also realizing a part of him is upset at the thought of Callie being around men. You’re a grown woman and allowed to do what you want, but bringing men around Callie….that’s an absolute fucking no. 

He doesn’t give a damn if he’s only been in her life for two weeks or two minutes. She’s his daughter, and outside of himself and family, who you date should be kept far away from his daughter.

Joe mentally prepares to have this conversation—potential argument—with you. 

“No,” she answers, slightly calmer. “He doesn’t like Disney.” She says it like it’s a sin, like it’s almost inconceivable for anyone to not like Disney.

Playing along with this, Joe gasps, grateful for the distraction that is Callie’s intricacies. “He sucks.”

“Yeah, he sucks,” she agrees, nodding. Joe has to keep his smile to himself. “Do you say bad words?”

The randomness and topic change take him by surprise, but he’s learning that you weren’t exaggerating when you said Callie was filled with incessant, unrelated questions. “Sometimes.” 

“Mommy does too,” she reveals. “Grandma says Jesus doesn’t want us to say bad words, but I heard grandma call Ms. Beverly from church a bitch.”

At that, Joe can’t help his laughter. Her delivery, the punctuation she puts on the word ‘bitch’, to how she seems to not even process that she’s just said a bad word. It’s hilarious. “Well, sometimes grown ups say things we shouldn’t, and you just make sure you’re not saying things you shouldn’t.” 

“Okay,” she agrees, almost sheepishly. And then, a yawn. “I’m sleepy.” 

Joe knew she was from the moment she called, but he had a feeling she just needed to get the whole Amir thing off her chest. She doesn’t seem like the child who likes to or even can hold things in, which is preferable. “You should try to go to sleep then, sweetheart.”

She wipes at her eyes, expression suddenly saddened. “When are you coming back? You’ve been gone a really long time.”

He’s torn in this moment, wanting to tell her that he’ll be there this weekend but also not wanting to get her hopes up in case something comes up. There’s few things that could come up to keep him from going to see her, wrestling be damned, but still. Life has a way of lifing. So, he goes with the safe yet disappointing answer.

“Soon, I promise.” She’s clearly indifferent to this answer and doesn’t say anything, instead shifts on her bed, moving to lay down. “You should really try to sleep, Callie.”

Eyes starting to blink, clearly her exhaustion catching up with her, she asks, softly, “will you stay with me till I fall asleep?”

Her request tugs at his heartstrings. “Of course, sweetie.” 

Seemingly pleased by this answer, she closes her eyes, and he watches. He stares at this tiny human whose existence he only learned about not even a month ago yet would do anything to make happy. Joe thinks about Callie constantly, finds himself smiling at the thought of some of the Snapchat videos you’d send him of her in all of her randomness. She was so entertaining, so full of life, a genuinely happy kid. His kid. 

And it’s why he’s going to find out more about this Amir guy and why Amir is having any type of interaction with his daughter. 

________

Joe: You should know she called me last night.

You’re in the middle of perusing early Black Friday deals, needing to budget for that now and taking full advantage of Callie being down for a nap. However, you frown, reading his message, not understanding why he’s stating the obvious. You were there when she asked for the iPad and when she returned it after the call was finished.

You: I’m aware….

Joe: No. After that. 

Your eyebrows arch together, confused.  

You: What? when?

Joe: It was 11 my time, so 9 yours.

You gasp, typing away, wondering how the hell she snuck in your room and managed a whole ass Facetime call without you hearing shit. Were you really that damn exhausted?

You: What the hell was she doing up at 9? What did she say?  No wonder she was crabby this morning. 

Joe: She said she couldn’t sleep.

You: A bad dream?

Joe: Naw, said you got into an argument with someone named Amir earlier that day and didn’t want to bother you….I think it was bothering her.

Your stomach twists at that. You had a feeling she’d overheard the incident with Amir, but you prayed that you were wrong. Clearly, you weren’t.

Joe: Who is Amir?

You pause at Joe’s question. Why is he asking this? What business of his is Amir? Irritation washes over you, but is waned by realizing he’s probably asking because of Callie. As her father, he has a right to know if you’re with someone, because for all he knows that someone could be around his daughter. 

You really are trying with this co-parenting thing.

You: A lot of things. A pain in the ass being the most recent one. 

You: We dated in high school and college on and off. He’s the basketball coach at our local high school. 

It’s more information than probably what’s necessary, but there’s this small, conflicting part of you that wants him to know you have no ties to Amir. That there are no feelings there and haven’t been for literal years. 

That you’re not with Amir.

Joe: Are you dating him again? Why were you arguing around Callie?

The interrogating is getting old, but you’re trying to play nice. Coparent peacefully. His delivery is off, but he has valid questions.

Sorta.

You: No. We just….we fuck around from time to time. He tries to make it more than what it is.  Was about that. 

You: I was waiting for her to be released from pre-school, and he picks up his nephew for his sister. It just happened, and I didn’t know/mean for her to hear.

Honestly, you’re more worried and concerned about Callie and how to approach this with her without making her feel like she was in trouble. Yes, she knows damn well she shouldn’t be on the iPad that late at night, but can you really be mad at her for talking to her dad about something that upset her?

Joe: You bring him around her?

You absolutely can be mad though at her dad who’s about to make you cuss him out next too. All of the questions are becoming too much. He gets to be concerned, but he doesn’t get to micromanage and invade. 

Feeling petty and recalcitrant, you type out a reply that you should probably think twice before sending.

But fuck it.

You: No. I only ride his dick at his place. 🙂 

There’s a small ounce of regret for being so crude, but not a whole lot. He knows how you are, or he should, at least.

To some extent.

But your phone rings again, and you find yourself staring mouth agape at his reply.

Joe: You may ride his dick, but you had my kid. Clearly, only one of us knows how to please you. 

Your face is burning hot, and you hate how you shift in your seat. Why the fuck would he say that? You want to say it’s inappropriate, but you also opened this door. 

Is he entirely wrong?

Slapping away that wild ass thought, you focus on the real conversation at hand here. It takes a couple of rewrites before you ultimately decide to change the subject. 

You: I’ve never bought any man around her and never will that’s not you, if that’s what you’re asking. 

You’re grateful to see he’s also agreeing to change the subject.

Joe: It is. Thank you.

Rolling your eyes, you send a text back, getting back to being annoyed at his 21 Questions. This is a two-way street, and since he’s opened this door, why not?

You: You know that goes both ways though. I don’t want her around any bitches.

Joe: Seriously? 

Joe: There’s no one for me to bring her around. 

You…..you don’t know how to feel about that, don’t know how to feel about the bit of relief you feel at this message. Why should you feel relieved? Even if there was, that’s his business, and he’s allowed to….do whatever it is that he does.

It reminds you and brings you to your next topic. 

You: What about your wife? We need to figure that out as well. She’s eventually going to need to know about Calista and will probably be around her at some point. I get she’s your wife, but I’m Callie’s mother, I need to be there whenever you wanna introduce Callie. I need to be involved in that process as well.

He doesn’t reply. 

________

Joe doesn’t really get mad. 

Not often at least and definitely not outwardly. 

It’s always been his thing to never let anyone have access to that “button” that triggers his anger, and for the most part, it works well. 

Except for when it comes to you.

You’ve always been able to trigger many things for him, anger being one of them.

He knows he should have spoken to you in person about the situation, or even over the phone. But with the craziness of his schedule and differing time zones, he just decided to message you, and while it didn’t go horribly, it didn’t go great. He knows you’re annoyed with him.

Hence your crudity. 

Joe also refuses to admit that the thought of you fucking this kid pisses him the fuck off, even though you’re not together, even though he has no right to be upset. 

But goddamn that doesn’t make him any less upset or annoyed at the thought of someone else touching you.

“Uce?” Jon asks, standing at the door before inventing himself in Joe’s locker room for this week’s Smackdown. “You ready to talk man?”

At that, Joe looks confused. “Talk about what?”

“Whatever it is that got you all worked up.” The twins have always been very perceptive, even back when they were all kids. Joe might be good at hiding his frustration from others but not them. The difference between Jon and Josh though has always been Josh has the wherewithal to not say anything. 

Jon hasn’t caught on to that just yet. 

“I’m fine,” Joe dismisses, hoping it’s enough to dead the conversation, even though he knows better. 

“Lie detector determined that was a goddamn lie.” Jon can be pushy, but he means well, and truthfully, Joe doesn’t have a strong desire to outright shut down this conversation. A different perspective is always beneficial. 

Usually. 

So, he explains it all, starting with his call with Callie and ending with the text exchange between him and you.

“I see,” Jon nods, clearly absorbing all of this information. Finally, he concludes, “so you’re jealous.”

That’s the first thing to evoke a genuine laugh out of Joe since his exchange with Y/N. “I’m not jealous.”

“And I’m not a twin,” Jon dismisses. “Look, Uce, it’s obvious you still got feelings for ole girl. You ask me, I don’t think you ever got over her—”

“I didn’t ask you.” 

“--Now you sitting up here annoyed cause she fucking Coach Carter nephew instead of doing something about it.” Joe rolls his eyes. “I mean have you even told her about you and J—”

“No,” he interrupts, swiftly. “Not yet, at least.”

Nodding, Jon speaks again after a minute of silence. “All I’m saying is ya’ll got the history, got the connection, got the kid too! Don’t see why you need to be letting Jesus Shuttlesworth steal your girl.”

At that, Joe chuckles. One thing his cousins will always be good for, especially Jon, is comedic relief. Even some sound advice from time to time.

“Thanks.”

Joe is, surprisingly, thankful for the equally surprising advice from his cousin. He’s not entirely sure if he’s really jealous or just overreacting for a reason he hasn’t quite uncovered, but he is starting to lean more on the side of he does still have some level of feelings for Y/N. 

It’s not a complete shock. He had a feeling when he reacted so strongly to just seeing your picture. It was the whole Callie situation and finding out how you kept her from him that made his vision murky. 

But, as his relationship with her strengthens, the clearer he can see. 

The clearer his feelings are becoming. Now. it’s just a matter of figuring out what to do with said feelings.

And find out where you stand as well. 

Joe remains quiet, thinking more and more how this might end up being an eventful trip.

[avelera]

Genuine question—why do you think the person who saved Jayce as a child was Victor? I’m hearing league people say it was Ryze, but of course I want to believe it’s Victor. Even if it is actually Ryze, I can still stubbornly believe it’s Victor in my heart, but I’m wondering if you have a better reason for me to do so?

From the beginning there were a lot of signs that the mage who saved Jayce was Ryze, but there were a lot of signs that it wasn't him too, like the fact Ryze has blue skin, which people conveniently forget.

You have to understand though, when Arcane S1 first came out, there was a lot of speculation about how many League champions would be included, because there are literally hundreds of League champions and Arcane only includes a few. So people were looking for hints and clues about who was in it and the mage does strongly resemble Ryze at least in terms of his archetype.

That said, I should note that as an Arcane-only fan, I was speculating that the mage might be Viktor back in S1, because it makes a better story. With Ryze, it's just a random act of happenstance and an easter egg for game fans, Jayce got lucky when a mage stumbled upon him in an impossible snowstorm and inspired his life's work. With Viktor, it's less random and more purposeful that Jayce got saved under impossible circumstances, because now it's by someone who cares about him.

(Personally, my take is that it was a random wizard in one lifetime, which is Wizard Viktor's timeline, and then because it was such an unusual event it was Viktor in every subsequent timeline because in most timelines otherwise, Jayce dies. But that's just me.)

But look, there's no debate about this anymore. Arcane established that it wasn't Ryze. It was Viktor, end of story. I'm not even sure why people would try to debate you on this?

[thoughtfulchaos773]

Were Carmy and Syd texting a lot and spending a lot of time together during this time?

I ask because the text from carmy is very casual and sarcastic, there's familarity and humor involved when she asks if Fak has real tools. (Carmy knows this much because he asks for faks real tools when he's ready to fix their table)

Back to the timeline and chance where they spent time together: Sydney comes back to work with Carmy in December (the holiday song that plays at the beginning of 1x08).

2x01 is in March, and at the end, it's 18 weeks until it's open. 2x02 pasta is 12 weeks til open- they had a month to spend time together.

So they have 1.- 3 months to talk- 3 months to discuss plans for the bear, the budget, and plans for renovation from December to March. 3 months to get to know each other.

The another month to spend together before he reunited with Claire.

The scene where Sydney asks, “Still good to jam on menu later?" It’s clear they’ve bonded over brainstorming in the past.

Then there's that moment when Carmy turns back to her once he says, "Yes, chef." It felt like Sydney was about to chime in, too, (maybe asking if she left something at his place??) but then Marcus swoops in and interrupts just as he stood between them a scene later when Carmy asks her if she wants to work at the apartment.

Another thing when Carmy says this- it's the apartment, not my. I believe this was a specific detail.

It seems like Sydney was at his apartment for the first time 2x02 BUT he says the apartment like she's been to his place before.

She walks in and looks around the apartment—does it look different from the last time she was there? It seems messy. She looks at the remote on the table, the crooked curtains, and the nail on the wall—maybe there was a picture there when she went to the apartment last time.

They spent time together, but it was mostly work-related. Aka scrunchie portal, she also asks him if he's still thinking about the chaos menu.

This show loves to play with time, so what if we get a timeline episode of Sydney and carmy being actual partners before season 2 starts or the weeks between 2x01 and 2x02? We still get clues about how close they're getting with the matching sweaters, we know this because this was the one and only time Sydney is comfortable enough talking to carmy about her father with Carmy in the beginning of the episode.

Closer than we thought, perhaps?

[inbarfink]

So when I wrote down that Big Undertale Meta Post about how Sans probably doesn’t remember RESETs at all and why that’s cool - I got a lot of responses to the tune of ‘that’s probably canon but I’m still gonna enjoy Sans Remember fics because of the angst’. And, well... first I want to emphasize that those are very good and correct responses! Like ‘I acknowledge might or might not be in the text but I am also gonna explore alternative ideas Because I Enjoy Them’ is a Good Damn Position to have! Transformative Fandom is Transformative on purpose! Engage with the text and it’s various analyses but don’t let it chain your creativity or fun!

It’s just that… all of the people saying that they prefer Sans Remembering ‘for the Angst’ make me think that maybe folks are kinda ignoring the incredible angst potential of Sans NOT remembering.

My original post focused on how cool it is that Sans manages to be so on-top-of-things even though he doesn’t remember anything - but let’s not ignore the fact that this situation is also grim as shit.

Through some mysterious super-science or whatever, Sans has managed to discover that his timeline is being RESET and altered constantly (before the Player came along, Flowey had already managed to basically 100% the entire Underground) and he has no memory of what's going on and what exactly is being altered. 

He knows he might’ve gone through the same day over and over and over again thousand times but he’s simply not aware of it. It’s all the helplessness and lack of forward momentum of a classic timeloop and none of the benefits of memorizing occurrences or acquiring extra information. That’s exactly the thing that drove him into his depressive spiral.

That line always strikes me. It’s like… Sans suspects that without the meddling of capricious immortal time gods, he’d be a much happier and motivated person. But he doesn’t know for sure, because he can’t remember how he was in some distant ‘original timeline’. He is essentially fighting to avenge a version of himself that might not even be real.

Like, yes, it is very impressive and badass how well Sans trained himself to notice every tiny little hint that might indicate that a RESET happened - but it’s impressive because the deck is stacked so heavily against him. And it is very impressive and badass how Sans managed to turn his weaknesses into strengths during his Boss Battle - but it’s impressive because these are usually huge weaknesses. Trying to work to solve a timeloop that you can only infer is going on through context clues is quite a hopeless and desperate mission!

Another bit in the Sans fight that I often think about is his unique reaction if you kill him and then RESET to Fight him again.

With how skilled he is at reading expressions, Sans probably knows what that ‘weird expression’ means, he knows the Player killed him once before and is here to try again. And yet he still goes along with the same attack plan he has, the one he knows killed him in that previous timeline. Why? Because he doesn’t know where the flaw in his plan was exactly, he can’t even begin to guess. So he has no choice but to go along with the plan he knows did kill him, because that’s the only thing he has. 

You know, the thing about Sans, is that he always plays his cards very close to his chest. It’s very hard to tell what exactly he’s thinking. That’s probably why so many people do believe he remembers RESET. If any non-Flowey character remembered RESETs, only Sans would be remotely able to hide it so well. But for me? It makes me wonder how much of his Troll who Knows Too Much persona is a bit of an act as well. 

You know, Sans’ deduction requires some keen observational skills - does he ever second-guess his conclusions? Living on constant high-alert that something has been reversed or that someone knows something they shouldn’t requires fostering a lot of paranoia, and that can’t be healthy for him. Is he ever overcome with doubt on whatever something was really an indication of a timeline RESET or not? How does he feel when he realizes something horrible happened on a previous timeline (for example, his brother dying) but he doesn’t know about the context to feel sure that he can stop it from happening again? 

I also think about it in terms of his relationship to Papyrus in general. Sans tends to hide so many things from Papyrus, especially in timelines where the Player is particularly kill-happy...

In part it’s about his perception that Papyrus’ kindness and pacifism is born from naïveté and thus the only way to preserve it is to hide the cruelty and harshness of the world from him (Undyne also does that). But also, with the paranoia and helplessness Sans lives in every day - is it any wonder that he might believe that ignorance is bliss?

I do truly think it’s beautiful how fandom can experiment with cool non-canon ideas! There are probably so many great emotional angsty ideas tied up to Sans remembering RESETs! I just feel it’ll be a shame if people ignore just how dire and depressing Sans’ canon situation also is!

[andradrawsstuff]

An au I came up with bc I’m coping and I’ve seen too much sad stuff recently

The sacred timeline? Deadpool x Wolverine reference haha

Just a silly idea inspired by ep 7 that came to me out of nowhere bc I’m coping with how it ended and I’ve seen so many things that are rlly sad and I just want all my bbs to be happy so im gonna self-indulge for a bit

Also mostly from Zaun POV rather than Piltover

^ Quick sketch of 20-something Viktor adopted by Silco and Vander <3

- Silco gets the letter and him and Vander make up

- Young Viktor meets Silco instead of Synged and is adopted by Silco and Vander (parents are dead rip)

- Becomes an older brother figure to the kids, especially Powder and Ekko

- Vi doesn’t die in the explosion like in ep 7

- Powder brings the crystals home and shows them to Viktor

- Viktor’s interest is piqued and sneaks into the apartment to explore the building after the kids tell him what they saw in there

- Coincidentally meets Jayce trying to jump

- “Am I interrupting?”

- Jayce doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore after his work has been taken, but Viktor admires his genius and invites him to help in the undercity instead

- Jayce introduced to Silco and Vander as Viktor’s “friend” from topside who has nowhere else to go but wants to help out

- They’re skeptical at first, not knowing his intentions

- Jayce meets the kids and realises they are the ones who caused the explosion, but Viktor intervenes and tells them that they’re all here now so just accept it and move on - plus Jayce has nowhere else to go

- Jayce and Vi start connecting more (and become the disaster duo)

- Zaundads notice random things start getting fixed, an unintentional thing that Jayce does: he sees something broken and repurposes/fixes it

- But when he fixes things he usually leaves a trace of how it was broken (idk how to explain but the example when they don’t get rid of the cracks in the table but fill them with gold)

- Viktor notices and points to Jayce, making Silco and Vander more accepting of him

- They also notice how good he is with the kids and how close he and Viktor have gotten

- They participate in the innovators competition

- They start to study and develop Hextech to help the people of Zaun

- Synged creates shimmer and works with Finn and the his lot, which eventually starts becoming a problem

After the time skip

- Piltover and Zaun are on better terms, but there are still tensions between them

- Hextech is developed for the undercity rather than Piltover (they still almost end the world lmao but it’s ok they figure things out through the power of love 💀)

- Shimmer is becoming a major issue that starts spilling into topside, with the scientists trying to find a way to combat it with Hextech

- Mel meets Jayce and Viktor, interested in their work and combating the shimmer problem

- Jayce, Viktor, Silco, Ekko and Powder also work together now

- Jayce and Viktor are lab partners

- Jayce, Viktor and Silco help with medical research

- Ekko and Powder are Heimerdinger’s students at the academy

- Vi is a sort of authority figure in the undercity, with Vander teaching her how to run things

- Works with Sevika and helps her out

- Meanwhile Caitlyn is sent to investigate a case involving shimmer on the border between cities

- Vi and Sevika go to investigate too

- Vi meets Caitlyn

- They start working together on the investigation as figureheads for their cities

- Vi takes Cait to the undercity to look for clues

- They run into Jayce, where him and Cait reunite

- Powder and Ekko participate in the innovators competition

- Ambessa hears about the shimmer problem and visits Piltover, creating tensions between her and Mel

- Mel realises that she’s only going to create more trouble, so she starts working to lessen the tensions between cities and crack down on shimmer

Uhhh idk what next but I’ve edited this a couple times to add more stuff

Currently rlly busy with assignments so I don’t have time to write a whole fic but I’m jotting down ideas and I rlly wanna do some concept art for this idea 🙏

I might also do some headcannons soon ✨

[f1amboyant]

Babe you didn’t even have to mention it.

EXPLAIN THIS CARCAR AU

(Please)

Hi, babe 🧡 I should have known this one would interest you 🤭

Okay, okay, let me explain this TP!Carlos x driver!Oscar 🧡 (it's driving me absolutely crazy, btw)

So. Somewhere along the timeline, Carlos stops racing and gets into engineering and he is damn good at it. He definitely gots the brain for it and if he can't race (because he's too soft on the track), he definitely can get behind the scenes. He is so goddamn good at it that he becomes the youngest team principal at McLaren. He is so so very good but also, he gets into that position at the worst moment. The team is at its lowest, they have to start over basically. Also, all eyes are on him because no one truly believes he can do a good job (he is so young) and does he really deserve to be there (maybe his dad bought that job for him). So there's a loooooooot of pressure but Carlos keeps his head down and does his job and he is good.

And then comes Oscar. Rookie, extra talented Oscar. Carlos was the one who wanted to recruit him. And here he is. And they... They clash (they collide). They are both extremely hard working and very talented but they don't seem to agree on anything. Oscar isn't afraid to speak his mind when he thinks Carlos is wrong, and vice versa. And people around (in the team, in the paddock, in the media) thinks they are going implode, that something bad is going to happen, that they are going to ruin all the efforts from the team to go back on top. Except. Except they actually work extremely well together. They clash and they bite, but they actually push each other to do better. They catch mistakes for the other that others around never realize. And so it's very tense but it actually works.

Oscar quickly develops a huge crush on Carlos (because that man is too handsome and Oscar has eyes, he's not blind, thank you very much). And he could turn shy, or flirty or something with Carlos but no. He resents that man for being too beautiful and to give him thoughts. How dare he! He can't keep thinking about him but he's not gonna do anything. That's his boss!

Carlos isn't doing much better. He probably has a competency kink. And well. Oscar is very very competent. So yeah, he would very quickly fall for him too. But there's already so much pressure on his shoulders, he's not gonna add "dating an employee" to that.

So mutual pining. Threat of forbidden relationship. All that.

One bad bad race weekend (thanks @curiousthyme for the wonderful idea), Oscar is defeated and frustrated and refusing to talk to anyone and especially to Carlos. Carlos calls him into his office to talk but Oscar refuses to talk about it. "You could do better things with your mouth," he taunts. And Carlos is so so tempted, but no. Nothing is going to happen. And Oscar is angry, it's not real, he doesn't really want it, right?

After that incident, Carlos looks even more at Oscar, looking for clues that maybe, just maybe, Oscar wants this too. And maybe they could... But no. Even if they both want it, this is not something that can happen.

Until they win. They win!! Carlos gets on the podium with Oscar, drenching him in champagne. Smiling, hugging, screaming their joy because they fucking won! And at the after party, drunk and delirious with joy from the win, Carlos kisses Oscar. And Oscar kisses him back. Bites him. They fall into bed together. They don't care anymore.

They're gonna care very much the morning after, when it's all gonna down on them. What they've done. Angst! Pining! All that jazz 🫠

What's gonna happen next, I'm still gonna have to think about it 🤭

But yeah. This is my carcar au idea 🧡