#it’ll be ready to rehabilitate in a few weeks

[runawaymun]

Trust me to give myself a musculoskeletal injury on my second time trying a sport

[alphajocklover]

This is me currently and I’d absolutely love to be turned into the straightest, douchiest, big and beefiest jock you got! Thank you for the stories 🙏🏻.

So you want to be a straight, beefy, douchebag jock, right? Actually, scratch that, if I remember correctly you want to be the straightest, beefiest, douchiest jock possible? You aren’t content to be just a jock. You want to be the biggest, best jock around. A real alpha male. That's a good start. All jocks need to be ambitious, especially alpha bro douchebags. I can definitely help you. Well, more accurately, the Douchebag Revolution can help you. I checked a couple of things and I’m absolutely certain that you’re a victim of SAD, a douchebag jock that was turned into a gay nerd using time travel. I’ve talked about both SAD, the Society Against Douchebags, and the Douchebag Revolution before. The revolution are the people who gave me my time machine after all. So this is going to be less about turning you into a douchebag jock, and more about turning you back into the douchebag jock you were always meant to be. Now, there are a few different methods that the Douchebag Revolution uses to help those changed by SAD. One I showed in an earlier post is a serum that combats the effects of the nanobot SAD injected you with. It also includes a pretty strong dose of testosterone and some steroids from the future, so even if you weren’t already supposed to be a douchebag before this will definitely make you into one. Not that someone who doesn’t have those nanobots inside then should use the serum though, that could mess you up. Another is, of course, the time machine. This one is very complicated, because while using the time machine would mean they’d get the chance to stop SAD from changing you at all, if SAD noticed them your entire life would be transformed into a battle between the two groups, and trust me when I say that that can get messy. Time travel is already complicated enough without starting a time war, so usually they avoid that method. The final method would probably be best for you. It’s called Douchebag Rehabilitation. It’s not an instant fix like the others. It’s sort of a… program.  How it works is that the Revolution takes you to a secret facility somewhere in the far future. They use a mix of drugs, specialized training, and seminars that could turn the nerdiest gay guy into a raging douchebag. It usually takes about a week or two, a month at most, and with time travel it’ll appear instant to anyone watching from the outside. They’ll take you away, and five minutes later, the new you will be back and ready to have some fucking fun. This method does take longer, but from what I’ve heard it's actually really fun. You get to spend a whole month working out, meeting fellow douchebags, and banging hot bimbo volunteers. So, let's get you on your way! If this is what you want there isn’t any point in putting it off. I hope you have fun at Douche Rehab!

Ok. Yeah you… definitely had fun, didn’t you. I can tell from the cocky smirk on your face, and your now massive muscles, that the program definitely did its job. How long did you stay there, a month? You’re big even compared to most douchebags! I wonder how many girls you fucked. I hear most fuck at least 20 girls during their stay but I bet a stud like you got up to 40 or something. I’m glad I was able to help you become your true self. I kind of wish you and the other douchebags would stop referring to me as ‘that fag reporter’ though.

[p1x1e-sims]

Henford-On-Bagley, 1940

  It was a few months since Eleanor and Leah came with news of the war, and since then that second Great War had started in earnest. Everyday there were more and more newspapers with flashy headlines, though Gwen refused to let the girls read them. Clerks from the nearest war office set up tables in the town square and called men to sign up. There was even talk that some of the town buildings may need to be used as rehabilitation buildings and makeshift hospitals, if the need arose. 

  But other than the occasional uniformed soldier or stolen newspaper, the Townsend children didn’t notice anything amiss. When Cousin Eleanor first came with the news, Maggie had awoken every night in fear, worrying that men would march up to the doors and steal her father away to the army. But those men never came, and no bombs ever fell, and Maggies fear quieted down, though it never disappeared completely. Just far enough in the back of her head that she could ignore it. 

  Gwen took the girls into down on nice days, letting them run and play while she caught up on gossip or bought produce. Maggie and Ginny never passed up on an opportunity to go, nervous to hear about any news of the war. 

  Their mother ushered them off, telling her girls not to worry themselves about such things. “Go on and play,” She said as she walked toward the town square to chatter with the other ladies. “And stay in my sight!”

  Maggie led the way, immediately leaving her mother’s line of sight. 

  Ginny trailed after her and sighed. “Did you not hear her?”

  “Whatever,” The rowdy girl said, making her way to the outside of the pub. “Hey, let’s hang around here and maybe we can hear something useful instead of Ma’s gossip.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, anything other than who’s marrying who and who hasn’t been in church and who’s secretly pregnant. Jack told me the other day at school that they might start conscripting soon, maybe people are talking about that.” 

  Virginia sighed. “Aren’t you sick of worrying about all that?”

    Margaret forced a laugh, trying to seem more confident than she actually was. “I’m not worried. I just think this war stuff is more interesting than whatever Ma and Theresa and the other ladies jabber on about all day.”

  “You’re lying.” Ginny cocked a brow. “I always know when you’re lying, Mags, we’re twins.”  

  “I am not!” Her twin’s face flushed. 

  “Yes, you are. I think you’re scared.” 

  Maggie knew her sister wasn’t taunting her, Ginny was too serious for that, but it still made her angry. She got ready to smack her, but then heard the creak of the gate that led to the back area of the pub. 

  “And then we’ll ship out in two weeks, right?”

  “Right! Boy, I can’t wait, really! Europe will be so exciting.”

  Two of the young men from town walked out, in crisp new army uniforms. They slicked back their hair and nudged each other with their elbows, laughing like school boys. 

  “It’ll be something to write home about, that’s for sure.” One of them sighed. “Two weeks can’t go by fast enough, I have to leave Henford soon or I’ll go mad, I really will.”

  “Ah, just think about the adventure! That’ll get you through till we ship out. That, and all the girls that like a uniform.”

  The men howled with laughter, turning down the road. 

  Maggie stared at them in disbelief. Ever since she could remember, she had been hearing war stories, second hand accounts from her father about Grandpa  Paul’s time in the war. Everything she had heard had been like a horror story. Men screaming and bleeding and dying, it shook her to her core. Her great uncle Robert had died in the war, and those men could too, and here they were, laughing!

  She stared at the soldiers until they had disappeared down the road. Ginny gently took her sisters hand. 

  “C’mon, let’s go back to Ma.” 

  Later that night, Maggie sat on the couch and twiddled her thumbs. Sam stretched his legs out on the floor, recounting a letter he had received from his stepmother that day. 

  “Your Grandma Katie said everything’s going well in Brindleton. Teddy visited them, said he’s gettin’ married soon.” Sam laughed. “Probably some gangster’s daughter he knocked up, but I’m sure she's a sweet girl. And your Aunt Irene stopped by a few weeks ago as well, Katie said she’s just thriving. Becoming quite the famous talent in Britchester, singing in nightclubs and the like. Hey, you should meet her again one day, it’s been a long while since you’ve seen her. I think you two would get on great. What do you think of that?”

  Maggie nodded. “Mm-hmm. Sounds good.”

  Sam poked his daughter’s knee. “Hey, chatterbox, what’s wrong with you, huh?” He smiled, though it fell when he saw her expression. “Aw, Maggie, don’t be hiding anything from me.”

  “I just...” She took a breath. “I just saw these officers walking around today, and they seemed so excited to go off and fight. And it made me so angry, why would anyone be so happy?”

  “This happened last time, baby. Everyone thought it was an adventure.”

  “Even Grandpa Paul?”

  Sam sighed. “Well not exactly, but even him and my Uncle Robert didn’t know what was in store for them when they went over to Europe. I’m sure all these young men will learn soon enough.”

  Maggie swung her feet. “That means you won’t go, right? You know better, you know what’ll happen, so you won’t sign up. Right?”

  Her father didn't say anything. He didn’t look her in her eyes, which began to fill up with tears.   

  “Daddy? Are you really going to go?” Maggie blinked, embarrassed to be crying. She hardly ever cried. 

  “I don’t know, sweetie, I might.”

  “Then all those conscription rumors are true, aren’t they? They’re going to force you to sign up.”

  “Some places are starting to draft, but I think I’ll be signed up long before I ever get conscripted.”

  “Oh, but why?” Maggie let the tears fall down her cheeks. 

  “Hell, sweetie, if it ever comes to conscription, then it means the army needs every man they can get. And I can't be selfish. I have to do my duty.”

  Maggie began to sob. “You have children! It’s not selfish if you have children!” 

  Sam pulled her down into his lap, hugging her close. Maggie cried into her father’s shoulder, struggling to breathe properly. He stroked her hair in silence and waited until the crying lessened. 

  “I remember when you were born, you little spitfire. You’ve been kicking and screaming and fighting since the day you came into this world. No matter what happens, you’ll be just fine.” 

  “But what about you?” Maggie sniffed. “Will you be okay?”

  Sam shrugged. “I don’t care too much about what happens to me, honey. That’s what happens when you become a father. You care about your little ones more than you ever care about yourself. So as long as you kids are alright, then I’m content.”

  Maggie finally said what had been weighing on her. “But I don’t want you to die. If you die, I won’t be alright. Neither will Ginny or Ma or the boys.”

  Her father sat in shocked silence. He struggled to find the words. His heart hurt for this little girl, knowing he couldn’t shelter her from everything. “Hey, kid, you said it yourself. I know better than those silly officers. That means I’ll be fine, right?”

  Maggie pondered that for a moment. She supposed it satisfied her. “Right.”

Previous | Next

[dreamcatcher139]

It will be okay

Author’s note: I was in the mood for something sad and dramatic, don’t hate me. Big thanks to Shawn Mendes who put me in that mood with his beautiful song “It’ll Be Okay”.

Summary: Rafe has a drug addiction and reader reaches the breaking point (talking about unconditional love really).

Warnings: drug addiction, slight swearing, rehabilitation and overall sadness I guess. Also, excuse my English. 

Let me know what you think!

P.S. I never struggled with an addiction of this sort and I don’t know anyone who did either, so this is purely based on my imagination (I apologize in advance if it’s not accurate).

_______________________________________________

As Rafe started pulling out things from his pockets, firstly laying his phone and wallet on the work desk in your room, a small bag with white powder accidentally fell to the floor. You looked at him in disbelief, his bloodshot eyes instantly filled with regret, an apologetic look written all over his tired and slightly pale face. He looked like he came down from his high just moments ago.

“You brought drugs to my house?” You said sternly, your eyes closing with anger.

Rafe quickly bent down to pick the source of all his problems from the floor and shoved it back in his pocket, as if you would instantly forget what you saw if it weren’t in your field of view anymore. You couldn’t believe he would do something like this, even though you weren’t sure you could predict his actions anymore. His addiction started a mere six months ago. That one night you couldn’t accompany him to a party Topper organized. He gave in to Kelce’s persuasion and tried cocaine for the first time. He did it again at another party only a week later and soon started doing cocaine on every party he attended. Before you could even realize it, he was addicted and started using drugs regularly, not being able to function properly without the substance.

“I’m sorry. I’m not planning on using it here with you…” Rafe started, his voice was weak and tired.

“I don’t care, Rafe!” You hissed, clenching your right fist. You were ready to punch something. Your parents luckily weren’t at home, so you had the liberty to yell as much as you want. “I can’t believe you! You promised me you would quit, remember? You promised me for the hundredth time!” You looked at him, not even trying to hide your disappointment, even though you knew how much it hurt him seeing that emotion on your face.

“And you also promised never to be high when you were with me.” You added defeated.

Panic besieged Rafe’s features, not knowing what would come next out of your mouth. He knew he fucked up. He’s been fucking everything up for a while now, but you were the only one who stuck by his side through it all. His brain was tired and slow, but somehow it managed to comprehend that this might be the last straw.

“I’m not high right now.” His palms gently grabbed your own, but you quickly pulled away from his touch, knowing the power it had over you.

“You look like shit anyway.” You murmured angrily, avoiding his gaze.

You didn’t know how to articulate your feelings. You were angry, sad, disappointed, tired, and finally: terrified. You were terrified of losing Rafe because you loved him so damn much. Yet, you weren’t sure you recognized the man standing in front of you with pleading eyes. You knew that the Rafe you fell in love with and still loved so much was somewhere underneath this shell of addiction, but you could feel him slipping away from you. He has been for the last six months.

It was like trying to keep a pile of sand in your hands, but the spaces between your fingers were too big, no matter how hard you tried to squeeze them and close the small gaps. The grains of sand were always smaller, finding their way out of your grip.

You tried your best to help him, encouraging him over and over again to quit. He would last without drugs a few days at most and then fall right back into his old patterns. You fought about it countless times over the past half-year, and it started to tire you out. Not to mention the number of times you paid off his debts to Barry, afraid of what might happen to Rafe if Barry was waiting for his money for too long. You cleaned his wounds after fights quite a few times to learn that Barry wasn’t really a patient guy. If giving away your own money meant keeping Rafe safe, you always did it without thinking about it twice. He would always thank you, drown you in his sweet kisses, and promise that it would be the last time he would put you in such an ungrateful position. But all the broken promises didn’t shake your hope that Rafe would get better. Every time you would give him another chance and decide to firmly stay by his side, pushing him to try again.

You and Rafe started dating two years ago. You were childhood friends who drifted apart for a few years, only to reconnect again once the raging hormones did their work, leaving you confused by the way you started looking at each other differently. He wasn’t his typical self around you; the rough shield he was wearing in the outside world was always left at the front door when he came to you. He was sweet, caring, funny, and most importantly: he was always honest with you, and he loved you dearly.

You lifted your hand shakily, slowly tracing his cheekbone with your fingertips. Rafe closed his eyes, grateful that you still haven’t run away from him. He felt like a walking disaster, knowing how much his behavior was hurting you, yet couldn’t figure out how to escape his demons.

“Please, you need to seek help.” You urged, your palm now resting fully against his cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered, still not opening his eyes. Your touch was healing for him.

“No, Rafe.” Your voice cracked. “I can’t help you anymore. I tried. You know I tried numerous times.” You couldn’t control the hot tears that started forming on your waterline, threatening to fall at any moment. “I’m just not enough anymore.”

Your feet betrayed you, so you found yourself dropping back to sit on the edge of your bed, face buried in your hands. You were always the strong one, ever since the addiction has started. Not once have you cried about it in front of Rafe. You were angry, and you were stern, but most importantly: you handled him gently, giving him solace when he needed it. You weighed every situation carefully, always giving him the needed dose of encouragement, comfort, and discipline. And no matter how hard you tried, you failed miserably each and every time.

A loud sob escaped your lips, and Rafe swore he heard his heart breaking in two after hearing that sound. He dropped to his knees right in front of you, his arms quickly hugging your body. He held you so hard and close to himself that you almost couldn’t inhale new air between your sobs.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He started whispering, his left cheek pressed against the side of your head. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t even try to deny it. You alone weren’t enough to make him stop using drugs. He knew he had a problem and he wanted to solve it so desperately, but every time he tried quitting for you, he somehow ended up following the same old habit. He hated himself for that. He didn’t care that much about the fact he was harming himself, as much as it bothered him that he was hurting you.

“I’m sorry.” He repeated once again, and you sniffed, trying to lift your head from his chest.

Feeling the wet roads your tears paved down your face were drying, you dared to speak again.

“I’m talking about professional help.”

Rafe frowned. “No, (Y/N). You know my dad…”

“I don’t fucking care about your father anymore, Rafe!” You said frustrated and grabbed his face to direct his gaze into your eyes. You wanted to be more convincing. “He’s treating you like shit. You deserve so much better. And right now you have a problem, and you need real help.”

It was Rafe’s turn to spill some tears, his eyes glossy after your words. You were both well aware of the fact that Ward Cameron wasn’t exactly a candidate for the Best Father of the Year award. Neither this year nor any previous one. He was almost bored with his son, making sure to show that Rafe was his least favorite child. The boy who was trying his best to impress Ward, to make him proud and happy, was always carelessly dismissed and called a disappointment over and over again. His dad was probably the main reason behind Rafe’s addiction. The person, who was supposed to support him and be the first one to offer him help, was the one denying the whole situation and telling his son to “man up”. The way Ward always turned his head away from his son when Rafe would ask for help was making you physically sick.  

Rafe’s head dropped in your lap, his broad shoulders shaking as he cried without a sound. That was that one drop that overflowed the glass. He was scared shitless.

Your fingers got lost in his hair as you gently scratched his head, allowing him to let it all out before you spoke again.

“My mom can help.” You offered.

Your mother was a doctor and had some pretty strong connections, which meant Rafe could go to rehab in a matter of days, and be there without anyone ever finding out about his whereabouts. Your parents loved Rafe, and they realized something bad was happening between the two of you, once worried features became an everyday guest on your face. Your mom heard you crying in your room a few months ago, and after telling her everything to get it off your chest, she offered to get Rafe professional help once he was ready.

You knew Rafe so well you could almost feel all the doubts about himself swirling around his head.

“You are strong enough, and you are brave enough, Rafe.” You started. “I know you don’t think about yourself this way, but you deserve all the love you can get in this world. You are worthy of all the love I can give you. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to love you any more if you keep ruining yourself like that.”

After a short moment of silence, Rafe slowly nodded his head, afraid that his voice might betray him if he tried to speak. He was grateful he had someone like you in his life. Someone who knows his heart like the back of your hand. Someone who understands when he’s silent and can practically read his mind. And when you tell him things like that, he somehow manages to believe every word you say.

His head stayed in your lap, your fingers still running through his messy hair, as the silent agreement entered the small space between you two.

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

Just two days later, you were dropping Rafe off at the clinic, bag full of his things laying on your backseat. You helped him pack the night before, neatly folding his T-Shirts because he was never able to do it himself.

Happiness that he was finally accepting help and fear of losing him for good were fighting inside your stomach the entire time it took you to get there. The songs from the playlist he made for you some time ago were filling the silence in your car, helping with calming down Rafe’s nerves.

“Thank you, baby.” He said once you stopped the car in front of a large building complex.

You offered a small smile, but he was too busy unclasping his seatbelt to notice it. Then he shifted in his seat so that his whole body was turned towards you, his eyes full of concern meeting yours.

“Are you nervous?” You asked, immediately wanting to punch yourself for asking such a stupid question.

“Sorry, of course, you are.” You reached for his hands. “That’s completely normal. And everything’s going to be alright. You can do it; I know you can, Rafe. You’ll be fine. We will be fine.”

You rambled, more trying to convince yourself that everything was going to be alright. Rafe smiled a little, but his eyes remained painted with sadness.

“I’m not worried about me.” He admitted. “I’m worried about you. Actually, I’m scared to death that you won’t be here when I get out.”

“No, Rafe.” You quickly reassured him, your palms that were hovering over his hands flying up to grab his face.

“I promise I will get better. You need to promise me you’ll wait for me.” He pleaded, resting his forehead against yours.

You were familiar with the fact that he could stay in treatment for several months. Your mother also told you about the restricted usage of mobile phones while patients are in rehabilitation, meaning you probably won’t be able to keep in touch for the first few weeks. Although aware of all the downsides of his stay in this facility, you knew you would promise him what he asked of you in a heartbeat.

“I promise.” You breathed out.

Rafe closed the small space that was separating you, gently pressing his lips on yours. You wanted to commit his entire being to memory, not knowing exactly how long he would be away. Although the drugs started changing him, they never overclouded his love or passion for you. He deepened the kiss, wanting to let you know how much he loves you and appreciates you.

Once he pulled away from your lips, he made sure to verbalize his feelings, too.

“I love you so much, (Y/N).”

Your heart still raced whenever he said those words, a smile spreading across your face.

“I love you, Rafe Cameron.”

He quickly pecked your lips once again before he finally exited the car and grabbed his bag from behind the passenger’s seat. Once he closed the car door, you decided to roll down the passenger’s window and tell him one more thing.

“It’s you and me, Rafe! Evermore!” You smiled to encourage him, and he mirrored your expression, meeting your gaze with a genuine, warm smile that managed to meet his eyes at last.

“Evermore.” He whispered and waved you goodbye before you took off.

Are you guys going to make it? Is it going to hurt?

One thing you were sure about is that Rafe was strong enough to pull through this experience, and you were determined to meet him again at the end of that journey.

You just wished you could sedate it, all that fear you were feeling.

Driving back home, you were trying to focus on the good things that would come out of this storm.

You will get your Rafe back.

The sun will rise again.

It will be okay.

[winterscaptain]

permanent.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: just in case you missed it, i published a family tree for the hotchners! at this point, jack is married to bella and living in d.c. she’s a journalist for the washington division at the new york times and is generally pretty awesome. as always, lemme know what you think!

words: 3.1k warnings: language, hospital setting, canon-typical injury

summary: “write your injuries in dust, your benefits in marble” - benjamin franklin. au!december 2035

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next?

“Come on, Soph! Go, baby, go!”

Your daughter is a vision. She streaks across the field, her green and yellow uniform almost melding with the grass as she keeps control of the ball. You can’t see her face too clearly, but you know she’s scanning the field with the same intensity you see in Aaron’s face beside you. 

Isaac plops down on the bench behind you, home from Los Angeles for winter break. “How’s she doing?” 

Aaron half-turns his head, keeping his eyes on the field. “Going for a hat trick - if she makes it, it’ll be her third this season.” 

“Excellent.” 

Caroline, down the field with her choir group, lounges happily between the legs of one of her friends, eating popcorn. When she sees you looking, she waves at you.

You wave back for a moment before your attention’s caught by a collective gasp and Aaron’s hand shoots to your forearm. You turn back to the field, but you missed it. 

Everyone’s moving and you don’t know why. 

With shocking agility for his age, Aaron all but leaps down the bleachers and onto the field. Your eyes search for Soph, but there are too many people on the field, all of a sudden. 

Caroline’s standing on the seat of the bleachers, her friends steadying her with their hands on her arms and ankles. 

There’s a hand, soft and scared on your shoulder. “Mom?”

You open your arms, and your nearly-grown son ducks under it, curling into you as you stand. “Do you want your earbuds?” 

You feel him nod and you pull them out of your bag. His trembling quiets a little after he fits them in his ears. 

There’s a clamber, and Caroline appears at your side. “What happened?” 

“I don’t know. I wasn’t watching.” 

She exhales, shaky and worried. “Where’s Dad?” 

“On the field.”

But where? 

You find Aaron, his salt-and-pepper hair stark in the autumn light. He’s talking to the referee, his brows low. 

You hear sirens. 

+++

“Oh, hey! What’s up, Mom?” 

You almost hate to ruin his mood. 

“Jack, honey, can you get down to the house at any point tonight?” 

You try not to grip the handle above the car door too tightly as Aaron races through the suburban streets, following the ambulance. Soph was definitely lucid when they loaded her up, but definitely in a lot of pain. 

“Ye - Yeah...Why?” 

“Soph’s headed to the ER - something happened on the soccer pitch today and her knee…” You shake your head. “I dunno. Her knee looks really bad.” 

“Fuck. Okay.” You hear him shuffle around and click his mouse - checking his schedule. “I can get down there after my last meeting at four - I’m headed there in a few minutes, but won’t be able to swing any earlier. I’d cancel it, but it’s literally SecDef and the Joint Chiefs and -” 

“That’s fine - I just need someone at the house with the kids until one of us can get back. Elliot’s at baseball practice until six and I’m not sure if -” 

“I’ll be there. I’ll get El and then I’ll swing by for Isaac and Caro if they’re still with y’all down there.” 

You glance over at Aaron and nod. He heaves a sigh of relief and mouths Thank you. 

“Thanks, Jack.” 

“Yeah. See you soon. Love you.” 

“Love you, too.”

+++

When you’re finally allowed in to see Sophia, her eyes are red and puffy with tears. Her right leg is braced and elevated at the knee. 

Her doctor explains the situation - dislocated knee and splintered patella with a torn meniscus and ACL. “This kind of traumatic knee injury poses a couple of issues…” 

He explains that the rehabilitation and surgery needs for both the ACL and meniscus are exceedingly different, and “It’s entirely possible Miss Sophia will experience permanent joint damage. However, we won’t know that until we have an orthopaedic surgeon look at it tomorrow.” 

“What about sports? Can I still play?” Soph tries to sit up farther, but Aaron’s arm shoots out, locking her against the bed across her shoulders. 

The doctor looks hesitant, and it’s all she needs to burst into tears again. Aaron moves, sitting on the side of the bed and wrapping her up in his arms. He looks over her head at you and your lower lip disappears into your mouth as you meet his gaze. 

You shift your attention to your other children sitting patiently behind you.

Caroline’s practically bit her nails to the quick - her hands looking more and more like her Aunt Emily’s as the moments pass. 

Isaac’s been sitting in the wide windowsill for the entire afternoon, his headphones on, staring out the window, his mouth tight and fingers tearing into the foam stress ball you keep in your purse. 

We’ll need another one of those. Or five.

 You get a phone call, and you step out. “Hey, Jack.” 

“Hey. Just got Elliot. We’re headed over to the hospital now. How’s she doing?” 

You sigh and press a hand to your forehead. 

“Oh, shit. That bad?” He asks. 

You don’t comment on his tell pickup. It’s in his blood, at this point. “Yeah. She’s definitely out for the rest of the season, and we’re looking at some long-term stuff, too.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Hey! I’m still here and she’s gonna kick your ass if you keep swearing in front of me, dude.” Elliot shouts from the back and it almost makes you smile. 

“I’m actually inclined to agree with you, Jack. We’ve got a dislocated and splintered patella in addition to a torn meniscus and ACL. It’s going to be a long rehab.” 

You hear a deep sigh into the bluetooth system in Jack’s car. “Well, I’ll stay here for the duration.” 

“No, no honey it’s alright. Your dad is home full-time and you’ve got a huge project reaching critical stages. Your room is all ready for you, but you really don’t have to hang around if you can’t manage the drive every day. And Bella -”

“Bells is looped in. She’s fine. She’s more than happy to tag out if we need to. Her deadlines are really loose right now what with the whole ‘nothing going on in Arlington’ thing this week. She’s heartbroken for Soph and wants to help where she can.” 

“Alright.” 

“Hey,” He huffs, sounding a lot like his dad. “I’ll let you go. I’ll text when I’m outside.” 

“Okay. Thanks, bud.” 

“Of course,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Anytime.” 

+++

Sophia’s sleeping when Alice and Hank come to visit later in the evening. Aaron went home a couple hours after Jack, planning to tag out with you later so you could get some sleep in your own bed before work tomorrow. 

Alice immediately embraces you, all but falling into your lap as you hold her. She’s shaking.

“Is she okay?” 

You push her back, smoothing some wayward edges at her hairline. “She will be.” 

Alice’s dark eyes fill with tears, and you brush them off her cheeks as they fall. 

“She’ll need your help, though. It’s gonna be a long time before we figure out what’s permanent and what’s not.” 

Alice nods and retreats, sitting in the plastic chair by Soph’s side, folding her arms on the mattress and laying her head on them. “Hey, Sofa,” she whispers, though Soph can’t hear her. 

“I haven’t heard that one in a while,” you tell her. Sofa is a nickname Derek gave Sophia when she was little. No big meaning to it, but it stuck. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if she stayed there all night. 

Hank lingers by the door. In the shadow of the room, you could easily mistake him for Derek, but that concerned pull at the corners of his eyes screams Savannah. 

Eventually, he crosses the room and sits on the little lounger beside you. 

He takes your hand and you kiss his knuckles. “I bet this isn’t how you wanted to spend your winter break, huh?” 

A little laugh leaves him. “Maybe not, but little Miss Thing over here dragged me out the door before I could get two words in edgewise.” He gestures vaguely toward Alice and you actually smile. 

“Yeah. In my experience, Morgan women don’t fuck around.” 

“You got that right,” comes a voice from the doorway. It’s Savannah, fresh off her shift and still in her white coat and scrubs. She scours over Sophia’s charts and checks on her before sitting on your other side. 

“Do you want the bad news or the good-but-also-kind-of-bad news?” She asks, almost inaudible. You glance up at Soph but Savannah shakes her head. “She’s out - those pain meds will leave this entire visit a blur.” 

You sigh. “Fine. Hit me with the bad shit.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” 

Savannah rests her elbows on her knees. “I’ve seen a knee injury like this exactly once before. No matter what you do, they can’t and don’t always heal right. She could need a mobility device permanently, even after she’s healed, and I can tell you now she won’t play again.” 

That’s okay. She’s okay. 

Better soccer goes than her life. 

Soccer is her life. 

You only know that Alice can hear everything when her shoulders start to shake. She doesn’t make any noise as she cries. She’s like her dad that way. Hank stands and places a hand between her shoulder blades, but says nothing. 

“Is that the worst of it?” 

Savannah nods. “Yeah.” She takes a breath. “The kinda good news is that she’ll be totally fine no matter what obstacles she may run into. She’s tough. I wouldn’t expect anything less from a Hotchner.”

She snorts. “Hell, I watched you bounce back from crazy life-threatening shit with a quip and a grin.” 

You raise your eyebrows and shrug. “I do what I can.” 

+++

Caroline curls into her father’s side, her double bed big enough to manage the both of them. It feels a lot like when she was little - she’d have nightmares or couldn’t fall asleep and Aaron would come and sit with her until her breath was even and slow.

“Dad?”

“Mhmm?”

“What’s Soph gonna do about college?” Caroline’s voice is small, nearly smothered in Aaron’s shirt. “She already has scouting offers and stuff.” 

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “I’m not sure. We’ll all have to figure it out together, won’t we?”

+++

Aaron steps into the room, closing the sliding glass door behind him. Alice, just as you predicted, snoozes next to Sophia, her head pillowed on her arms. Sophia’s upper body almost arcs around her and she managed to snag one of Alice’s hands in her adjustment. 

Those two…

Maybe he won’t escape the inevitable after all. 

Morgan-Hotchner? Hotchner-Morgan? 

He really only ever prepared to lose his name with Caroline. Soph always seemed far too… herself to take on a new one. 

We’ll see.

You’re asleep in the pull-out chair, your brow drawn and arms crossed over your chest. He approaches you as quietly as he can, putting his go bag down and sitting beside you. 

Much to his chagrin, you startle awake. 

“Sorry,” he says in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

You shake your head. “You didn’t.” Talking through your yawn, you add, “Just had a weird dream is all.” 

Aaron pulls you close and you relent, tucking into his side with a hand pressed to his chest. 

“Did Savannah come by?” He asks. 

You nod. 

“What did she say?” 

You sniff a little, more from the antiseptic smell than any emotional response - that will come later. “Soph won’t be able to play again unless fuckin’ divine intervention or some shit comes along and fixes her knee from scratch, but she’ll be able to move around just fine with a cane or brace or something after a while.” 

Aaron can only imagine it now - fits and righteous anger about getting around the house, watching games from the bench - the list could go on forever. “She’ll hate that.” 

You hum in agreement. “Just another parenting challenge. Already have the rest of the gamut covered neurodevelopmentally, so we were bound to get a physical challenge at some point.” 

“Never more than we can handle.” 

Shaking your head, you note, “This one just might do us in.” 

+++

“I swear to God, if I see you in the office at all this week I’m gonna smash your kneecaps in.” Emily pauses. “Sorry. Too soon?” 

“No, no, it’s fine.” You laugh a little and Soph sits up, her brow asking a question. 

You answer, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “Your Aunt Emily told me she’d smash my kneecaps if she saw me at the federal building this week.” 

Soph snorts. “Nice. We could match.” 

You reach over and tweak her nose. “We already match.” 

“Hey.” Emily grabs your attention again and you put your cell back to your ear. “I’m serious. I don’t want you to be here. Stay home for Soph right now and I’ll sign off on it and turn everything in for you.” 

You roll your eyes. “I can’t believe you turned into Rossi, Miss I’m Past Retirement Age But Twisted the Bureaus Arm to Let Me Work Myself to Death.”

She laughs and hangs up, leaving you and Sophia alone again in the hospital room. She tucks back into her Jello, taking bites that are way too big. 

“How are you feeling, bug?” You brush her cheekbone with your thumb and she shrugs. 

“Can you hand me my headband?” 

You reach over and dig around in her back until you find the wide swatch of colorful fabric. She takes it from you and shoves it over her head, pushing her hair back with practiced ease. 

She’s just like her dad. 

What? Loyal? 

Yeah. But also chronically avoidant. 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

She huffs, playing with her fingers. “I’m fine. I think.” Her breath is shaky. “I can’t really tell with all the meds I’m on, but it feels… really bad.” 

When she looks over at you again, her eyes are glassy, tearful. “I know I can’t play again, maybe not even run.” 

You reach out for her hand, but don’t say anything. 

“Momma…” She pauses, looking down at her blanket. “Momma, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I feel like I only know how to play soccer. I don’t know how - I don’t know if I want to do anything else. I’ve never thought about it before.” 

You run your thumb over her knuckles. “Soph, you can do so much. You have a great strategic mind - you think in these big, creative webs. It’s such an asset.” 

“Don’t profile me.” 

“I’m not profiling you, baby,” you tell her with a smile. “I just know that about you because you’re my daughter.”

Her mouth twists. “Right.” She looks down when her phone buzzes. 

“Who is it?” 

The corners of her lips tip up. “It’s Alice. She’s asking me if I want anything from the drive thru.”

You mirror her little smile. “That’s nice of her.” 

“Yeah.”

+++

“Alright so you have twenty nuggets, large fries,” Alice digs around in the bag, taking things out as she speaks. “And… a vanilla milkshake.” 

“God, I love you.” Sophia wraps her hand around Alice's head and pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her temple. 

Alice laughs, deep from her chest. “Shit, Soph, if all I have to do to secure your love is get you crap chicken, sign me up.” 

“You could get damn close.” 

Aaron watches the girls sit beside each other in the bed, taking turns dipping their nuggets in the sauce. They’ve always been this way, exchanging barbs and affection in equal measure. Symbiotic in the extreme, one is never far from the other. 

You’re home, getting everyone else in bed and settled for the evening. Isabella drove in a night early - Jack’s headed back to D.C. apartment for a series of days-long meetings at the Pentagon regarding his latest project. 

Aaron’s excited to see her. It’s been a helluva thing to see his son married, even more surreal to know and love his son’s wife like his own daughters. 

His phone rings. 

Speak of the devil. 

“Hey, Bella.” 

Sophia looks over at the mention of her sister-in-law, and Alice looks beside herself with delight. As well as being a hit among the parents, Bella’s a winner with the kids, too. 

Some days, Caroline likes her more than she likes Jack. 

“Hey, Pops. Want to tag out?” 

“Sure. I’ll switch with you. How long do you want to be here?” 

He can almost hear her shrug. “Eh. I’ll spend the night. My column isn’t due until the end of the week and I’ve got it covered. Don’t need to work, don’t really need to sleep. Win-win.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do. I’ll be there in twenty.” 

She hangs up before Aaron can respond, so he just pockets his phone and takes the loss. Sophia, after taking a sip of her milkshake, asks. “Is Bella here all night?” 

“Yeah, bug. She’ll be here.” 

Soph and Alice share a look. 

+++

“Well, Bella has more patience than I do,” Aaron says, dropping his go bag at the bedroom door. “She’s stuck with H&M for the rest of the night at the hospital.” 

You laugh, wrapping your arms around him. “I’m glad the girls have company, and fun company, at that.” 

“Fair enough.” 

The two of you quiet for a moment, and you tuck further under his arm, placing your hand over his heart. 

“Aaron?” 

His hand traces up and down your back, slow and steady. “Yeah?” 

“What can we do for her? She sounded so… defeated today.” 

And it’s true. You’ve never seen Soph like that, even at her lowest. If you were honest, it scared you a little. 

“We can be her parents. That’s all. And she’ll figure something out. If she needs to take a gap year, she’ll manage. She and Alice can search for programs together.” He sighs before he continues, leaning back to look at you. 

“All we can do is ask her what she needs and support her as best we can.” 

+++

tagging: @avengersbau @ambicaos @angelsbabey @arganfics @averyhotchner @bwbatta @capricorngf @cevanswhre @crazyshannonigans @criminalsmarts @deagibs @forgottenword @genevievedarcygranger @hotchsflower​ @hotchslatte​ @hurricanejjareau @joanofarkansass @kelstark @kerrswriting @little-blue-fishie @lotties-journey-abroad @mandylove1000 @missdowntonabbey @mrs-dr-reid @pan-pride-12 @popped-weasels @quillvine @qvid-pro-qvo @reidingmelodies @reids-mismatchedsocks @roses-and-grasses @shesbiochem4 @ssahotchnerr @ssaic-jareau @ssareidbby @starsandasteroids @stxrrywildflower @sunflowersandotherthings @sunshine-em @teamhappyme @this-broken-band-girl @ughitsbaby @unicorn-bitch @venusbarnes @violet-amxthyst @word-scribbless @writefasttalkevenfaster @zizzlekwum @iconicc @avatarkorraswife @mooneylupinblack @ssworldofsw @nuvoleincielo @kaemarie23 @violentvulgarvolatile @abschaffer2 @ellyhotchner @rousethemouse @baumarvel @reidtomestyles @dreamsonthewall @jhiddles03 @willlemonheadsupremacy @infinity1321 @messyhairday-me @itsalwaysb33nyou @finnologys @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @hothothotchner @happyvol7 @ssa-holmes @mac99martin @ssahotchner99 @triangularroses @vagabond-ing @itsmytimetoodream @magic_in_the_eyes_of_the_beholder

[lovemesomesurveys]

Does it annoy when someone is really, really obnoxious? Oh, absolutely. I can’t stand when people are cocky, arrogant, and obnoxious.  Do you say 'start' or 'begin'? I think I’ve said “start” more often.  Whose the last person you laughed with? My brother.  Who can make you smile no matter what? My doggo usually can.  What color is your favorite fruit? Yellow.

Do you have any plans for today? Nothing out of the ordinary, just watch YouTube videos, scroll through Tumblr, do some surveys, maybe read, maybe color, sleep... that’s about it.   Have you ever dumped someone or been dumped on Valentine's day? No. Has anyone ever hacked onto your myspace/facebook etc account? No. Do you look like your sibling(s)? We have our similar features. Although, there’s this filter on Snapchat sometimes that makes you look like a man with a goatee and it seriously makes me look identical to my older brother lol. It’s just funny because I don’t feel it’s so apparent normally.  Do you prefer buses or cabs? Neither, really.  Does anyone call you 'babe' or 'baby'? ”Babe” sometimes.  Do you like your eye color? Meh, I wish I had blue or green eyes.  Is there someone you can't get enough? Alexander Skarsgard. ;) How was your week? There’s finally been talk of me just going home and skipping the rehabilitation center I was supposed to go to but haven’t been able to go for various reasons. I was supposed to go July 1st, but there was insurance issues. Then I was supposed to go August 1st to a different, but yet again a few other road bumps got in the way. I’m thinking I’m not meant to go? ha. It’ll be so close, like yeah you’re going, they’re ready for you, and then nope! I’m perfectly fine with that, though, let me go home damnit. They’ve been showing my mom how to do some stuff so she can do it at home, so I hope I’ll be going home soon. I do want to do the swallowing test first and see if I can start a liquid diet and be able to have actual drinks and then work up to actual food. 

Do you keep up with the celebrity gossip? Yeah, but not nearly as much as I used to.  Are you wearing any masacara? No. I’m not wearing any makeup.  Whose the most innocent person you know? I don’t know. Do you check Postsecret every week? I never go on the website, I just come across a Facebook post of theirs once in awhile. Is there anyone you regret knowing? No. Does your best friend smoke? No. Have you ever flown a kite? I think I have once when I was a kid.  Do you throw pennies away? No.  Has anyone ever told you a lame line like, 'It's not you, it's me'? Yes, which I thought was BS at the time, but then I’ve said that before and I  believe it truly was me, so... Do you think you're a fragile person? I’ve become one over the past 6 years, physically and figuratively. I feel so weak in every way.  Are you truly happy right now? No. Do you like all your aunts and uncles? All but one.  Whose the last person you said hi to? My dad just now.  Would you rather stay friends with exes or not? I mean it depends. I’ve tried and it ultimately didn’t work out for me, but that’s not to say it never could. It works for some people. Are your parents proud of you? They say they are. I don’t know why, I feel like such a disappointment and failure.  Are you proud of who you are? No. How many sinks are in your house? Three. Have you ever worked somewhere with horrible conditions? I’ve never had a job.  Do you know all your best friend's secret? No. What's your opinion on ...on what? Have you ever been scared to be home alone? Yeah. Even still, like I’m fine for awhile during the day but I don’t stay home alone at night or overnight.  Is your sibling(s0 a good liar? I don’t feel like they’re habitual liars, they’re pretty good, honest people.  Are YOU a good liar? No. I used to be able to hide my emotions better, but definitely not anymore. I do downplay things and maybe leave some things out, though.  What's the best game show? I like to watch Family Feud and The Weakest Link.  Do you say 'simple' or 'plain'? Uhh, depends what I’m talking about.  Name a time when you couldn't control your anger: It was during a very stressful and long trip from Idaho to California (we went to Idaho because my grandpa lived there and he was sick and dying) and our emotions were high because of my grandpa’s passing. I think there was hanger mixed in there for some of us, too. My dad and I were bickering and I just got so mad because given everything going on it was just too much. I remember actually shaking because I was so mad.  How often do you wash your hands? Often, and I use hand sanitizer often as well.  What's your dream car? I don’t have one. Are you one of those people who want to marry Edward Cullen? No. I was team Edward back in the Twilight days, though, and thought he was cute.  What's something you need to survive, other then the obvious food, etc? My family.  Have you ever been kicked in the stomach? No. What would you do if the president asked you to hang out? Nah, that’s okay. Would you rather never wear hoodies again or never wear T-shirts again? Aw, I really like hoodies and graphic tees, but out of the two I’d go with never wear hoodies. I have so many graphic tees and I’d like to keep getting more. Even though I shouldn’t cause I don’t have room... Do you know how to stop an over-flowing toilet? Yeah. When you're typing, do you type 'tomorrow' or 'tmr'? I type, “tomorrow.” With the exception of like, “lol”, “lmao”. “omg”, and “wtf”, I don’t like shorthand or text speak.  Whose the most kind person you know? My mom.  Did you see the movie 'House of wax'? Did you like it? Yeah. Do you have any special jewlery? I do. Do you/did you like school? Overall, I would say I did. In the midst of it I wouldn’t have said that, though. I got so stressed out, burnt out, and overwhelmed, but I did like some aspects of it. Plus, at least I was being productive then. Since graduating UC back in 2015 I haven’t done shit.  Have you ever dated the same person more then three times? Joseph and I had a complicated, off and on thing for like 3 years.  Do you need to wash your hair? I do. Lol or lmao? I use both.  Can you tell when your best friend is lying? I think so. Do you like writing speeches? No. I hated giving them even more.  Do you have bangs? No. Do you say 'lol' even when it's not that funny? I’ll write it with a deadpan look and all lol. Like now.  What's your favorite perfume? Hmm. I don’t have one particular one.  Have you ever been dumped through text? No, but via Facebook Messenger.  Who doesn't deserve to be so famous? I don’t know. Does your hair get greasy soon after washing it? No. If the last person you kissed asked you to marry them, what would you do? Uh, say no and be like wtf?? That would definitely be completely out of the blue. We haven’t seen or talked to each other in 6 years and he had ended things with me years prior because he didn’t feel the same way about me and didn’t want to commit. Now he just shows up and wants to get married? Nah. 

Do you trust people soon after meeting them? No. What do you order at fast food restaurants? Most likely chicken tenders, but it depends on the place of course.  If you were to have a son, what would you name him? I’m not having kids.  Do you eat fish? No. How many of your cousins are married? Several. Many are in long-term relationships and have a family, just not married.  How many times have you gotten manicures? Once, it was for my 8th grade graduation.  Can you get to sleep anywhere or do you need certain conditions? I need to be comfortable physically and temperature wise.  Do you go to tanning beds? No. Big sunglasses, aviators or normal sized ones? None. What was your teacher's name is grade seven? I had a few teachers, like one for math, one for history, one for science, one for English.  Do you know anyone who recently got engaged? No. What color is your most comfy pair of pajamas? I have several t-shirt dresses in various colors and prints that I like to wear for pajamas and around the house.  Do you prefer to keep your issues private? I’m open here in these surveys, but I keep most things to myself in “real life” and on Facebook. I’m vague and selective with what I share on Facebook. I very rarely post anything at all to be honest.  Is the room you're in right now messy? No. Have you ever had a cat who had kittens? I’ve never had a cat.  What was the last thing to make you cringe? Hm. I don’t recall.  Has a chair you were sitting on ever collapsed? No. What is the most basic thing you know? I don’t know? Have you ever heard the song 'If you seek Amy'? Yes. Do you think watching a birth is beautiful or gross? I’m sorry, but I don’t find it beautiful lol. Does your myspace/e-mail/etc have any x's in it? Back in the day all my usernames and emails did.  What's your favorite kind of math? (Addition, division, etc) Uh, none. I hate math.  Would you rather name your daughter Rachel or Holly? I’m not having kids, but for the sake of the question I like the name Rachel better.  Have you ever ditched a friend for a guy? I kind of did in middle school. :/ Would you like to date a musician? I’m not seeking out one, but if I found a guy who happened to play an instrument I’d be into that. I’d love if they could play piano.  Do you know who Pete Wentz is? Yeah. What's your favorite thing to do on a road trip? Snack and listen to music.  What's your favorite thing to eat on a road trip? Chips and sweets. 

[webrokethe4thwall]

Can you write a Fanfic where Rupert Swaggart finds his own brooch and gets his live back?

Sorry for the wait @the-deku-guy, but here’s your request!

Brooches before Swine

A large man adjusted his trench coat and fedora as he scanned the stalls of the jewelers’ black market. He was not searching for your standard silver necklace or ruby ring, but a brooch. Specifically, a cloaking brooch. Meat Sweats was once again on the hunt for a mystic cloaking brooch. However, even now as he looked over the charms laid out on the table, his hopes plummeted. Several brooches, ranging from simple to ornate to tacky, were lined up, but none of them were mystic.

He had been through all of the black market stalls, antique malls, and even online auction halls. Each location yielded the same result: nothing. The former celebrity chef released a frustrated groan. He had been so close to reclaiming his old life with the last brooch he had found here. If only those two pesky girls—the curly-headed one and the slime-ball—hadn’t stolen it from him and ruined his plans!

And to add insult to injury, they had trapped him in that backwater barbeque studio. Did those amateurs not understand how to properly prepare meat before cooking it?!

“Rubbish, pitchfork-wielding hicks,” Meat Sweats grumbled, stalking away from the broach district. “Don’t know the difference between brine and a bay leaf.”

Regardless of the past, Meat Sweats was determined to regain his fame, his cooking show, and his previous life as Rupert Swaggart. Nothing and no one was going to stop him! …Well, except for his lack of a human appearance. Meat Sweats continued to mutter under his breath. He had seen other mutants—pardon, yokai—with cloaking brooches. Why was he unable to find one? Maybe there was a recall for some kind of mystical enhancement.

“One moment,” Meat Sweats grunted. “A memory stirs.”

He put a fist to his chin as he thought of a past conversation. It had been a few weeks ago with a tiny worm mutant whose name completely slipped his mind. The fellow had said he purchased a mystical enhancement jewel from some mystic shop disguised as a secondhand corner store.

“If that’s the case,” Meat Sweats mused, “perchance a visit is in order.”

That very night, the pig mutant went to the corner store. He pulled his clothes tight to his frame upon entering the store. He didn’t much care if he looked suspicious; he just didn’t want the police called on him tonight. The first thing Meat Sweats saw was some skinny greasy guy standing behind the counter. This fellow must’ve been the cloaked yokai. Meat Sweats took in the man’s lackluster appearance, baseball cap, and vague scent of chevon. After taking a moment to size each other up, the mutated chef decided to break the silence first.

“I heard that you sell delectable jewelry in this establishment,” Meat Sweats said.

“Oh, we sell all kinds of things here,�� the man stated. “Lamps, dolls, and toasters to name a few; but yeah, jewelry is in the mix. The name’s Clem!” He gave Meat Sweats a lazy onceover. “You, uh, looking for something particular, friend? Nudge, nudge.”

“Nudge, nudge?” Meat Sweats asked. “It’s ‘wink, wink,’ matey.” What a peculiar character.

“Clem, get your act together!” The man shook his head in self-deprecation. Giving the password away again because he forgot an idiom. How embarrassing!

Before Meat Sweats could fake curiosity over what Clem meant, the man began shedding his disguise. The now purple goat yokai rang the bell on the counter, revealing hidden compartments in the displays that contained his mystical wares. Clem spread his arms out, showcasing the jewelry on his shelves.

“You said you’re looking for jewelry,” he droned. “What kind?”

“Cloaking brooch,” Meat Sweats stated, tearing away his trench coat. “Can’t really go on live television looking like this, now can I?”

“Wouldn’t really recommend it, no,” Clem said after a low whistle. “I’ve got just the thing.”

He knelt down behind the counter and pulled up a tray laden with stunning brooches. Clem plucked one up and handed it to the pig mutant. Meat Sweats turned it in his metal hands, admiring the star-shaped silver with a shining pink pearl in its center. He pinned the brooch to his collar and gave it a little shine. Soon his body was wrapped up in the soft pink glow of the mystical cloaking energy. Meat Sweats looked at himself in the counter’s shiny surface. It was perfect.

“All kinds of handsome is me once again,” Meat Sweats, now Rupert Swaggart, grinned.

With a wink and kiss sent to his reflection, Rupert threw a few bills at Clem. He had no appetite for goat yokai shopkeepers at the moment. No, it was time for Rupert to reclaim his previous life in full.

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

A few nights later, Mikey upped the volume on his kitchen television. It was time for Kondescending Kitchen, and he was determined to make the perfect risotto!

“Are you ready to unleash the flavor?!”

Mikey came to an abrupt halt. That voice…it couldn’t be! He focused fully on the television. Meat Sweats, disguised as Rupert Swaggart, stood front and center for a cheering audience. Not good.

“Guys,” the box turtle yelled, already reaching for his kusari-fundo, “we’ve got a problem!”

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

Rupert left the stage with the sound of the audience’s queued cheers pouring into his ears. He smirked to himself as he entered his dressing room. It was quite refreshing to hear after months of absence from his television career. The station manager even said that she was going to schedule an interview about his dramatic transformations and his unexpected final return. Yes, his cloaking brooch shining brilliantly on his apron was working greatly in his favor. The chef grinned as he picked up the night’s winning dish: pork risotto.

“Time to savor my victory,” Rupert hummed contentedly.

“Not a chance, Meat Sweats!”

One yellow and four green blurs swept into Rupert’s vision. No, not these reptilian nuisances and that ruinous girl! While Rupert hadn’t done anything more than reclaim his television program from an undeserving rival, Meat Sweats should’ve known that these pains in his tendrils would catch wind of his return.

“Not you rotten eggs!” Meat Sweats snarled, ditching his disguise in favor of his more combat-ready pig mutant appearance.

“You know it!” April defiantly retorted. “Which poor yokai did you steal this brooch from?!”

Now Meat Sweats was genuinely confused.  He was also annoyed, but he had some modicum of integrity. He never stole the brooch. He didn’t even steal the first one! He bought both pieces fair and square. Granted his newest item was from a slightly more legitimate business. Nevertheless, why are these pests coming after him tonight?! He hadn’t even attempted to eat or poison anyone recently!

Before Meat Sweats could state his innocence, the fight was on. Raphael and Donatello charged him head on, while Leonardo and Michelangelo went for his sides. Meat Sweats easily knocked all four of them back with a swing of his meat tenderizer. He nearly missed April reaching for his rose gold cloaking brooch.

“Hands off!” Meat Sweats roared, stepping away from the girl and raising a protective hand over the shining pearl. “This is me own brooch!”

“Oh, yeah?” Mikey challenged. “Show us the receipt then!”

Meat Sweats, fed up with these annoying teenagers that always seemed to pop up in his life, shoved the seedy secondhand shop’s receipt into the smallest turtle’s face. The turtles and girl clearly didn’t expect this response. All fighting stopped, and it appeared the children were taking a moment to process the strip of paper between the pig mutant’s gloved fingers.

“Satisfied?!” Meat Sweats demanded.

“Wait,” Raph said in disbelief. “You actually, legitimately bought a cloaking brooch?”

“How much does one go for?” Donnie asked, squinting at the too small smudged numbers.

“Enough to get the job done,” Meat Sweats stated, stuffing the receipt back into his pocket. “Now, leave me be before I cook you all into turtle soup!”

“Not so fast,” Leo said. “Why do you need a cloaking brooch anyway. You’ve just been trying to eat and poison people this entire time. Did you want to do that when you were human, too, or is it a pig thing?”

Meat Sweats sighed in exasperation. Maybe he should’ve just let the fighting go on until either he passed out or they ran off. It was too late to find out, in any case. Now he had to converse with, ugh, teenagers about his rather tame plans and not-so-tame eating habits.

“Pig thing,” Meat Sweats stated shortly. He rubbed his cloaking brooch and reactivated his human façade. “I’m taking back what’s mine with this brooch. My show, my fame, and my life need my human face. I’m not about to let some mediocre fry cook take over my kitchen!”

The so-called chef the station had replaced him with was barely out of culinary school his skills were so dull. It boiled Meat Sweats’ blood. Whether those pesky teenagers liked it or not, Rupert Swaggart was making a comeback. Kondescending Kitchen needed him! Meat Sweats just needed a human face to rescue it. While some people were accepting of mutants or cosplay junkies, the public eye required a certain degree of discretion.

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” April asked. She gave Rupert a distrustful once over.

“Not a problem!” Mikey interjected. He slid himself between his siblings and the returned celebrity chef. “We’ll just enroll him into my Evil League of Mutants Going Good Rehabilitation Program!”

“His what?” Rupert asked, baffled by whatever the exuberant turtle was rambling about.

“It is Michael’s method of transforming our enemies into allies,” Donnie drawled. “It has been showing promising results for Draxum. Though there may be a learning curve.”

“Yeah,” Leo reluctantly agreed, “but Draxum’s the only one that Mikey has worked with so far. How do we know it’ll work on this guy?”

“That’s easy,” Raph stated, fully confident in his baby brother. “Since we know that Mikey’s program worked on one of the worst people we know, we’ll help him with setting Meat Sweats on the right path.”

“And keep Mikey from getting star-struck,” April muttered, eying the way Mikey fawned over the sweaty chef.

Rupert rolled his eyes. What is wrong with these kids?! Were they seriously discussing the future of his moral status in front of him? He didn’t need to put up with this!

“Don’t I get any say in this?” Rupert demanded.

“No!”

All the teenagers glared at him, except for the orange clad turtle who had stars in his eyes. The audacity!

“Rubbish,” Rupert grunted.

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

For weeks, Meat Sweats was under the unnervingly close surveillance of the Mad Dogs. A ridiculously unsuitable name for those five obnoxious kids. He despised how involved they forced themselves to be in his life. Telling him what to do and what not to do. It was annoying! Don’t eat the mutant silverfish this, and don’t sabotage your culinary rivals that. He was sick of it and was very vocal about his displeasure.

However, the teens didn’t seem to care nor let up in their efforts to conform him to the moral high ground. The chef didn’t know if reclaiming his glory was worth the hassle. At least he didn’t have to waste energy tenderizing their bones anymore. Michelangelo even had a realistic view of his character in spite of his fanboy attitude towards Rupert Swaggart.

The box turtle never expected him to become 100% kindhearted, if he ever became nice at all. However, Mikey did put limits on Meat Sweats and made him stick to some simple moral codes. Rupert just wanted to get his status as “Most Pretentious Chef in New York” back on track. Unfortunately, the youngest turtle did not allow him to perform any of his deliciously underhanded tricks on his competition.

“Meat Sweats!” Mikey admonished. He had just caught the reforming chef about to pour mystic poison into his delightful pizza puffs. Again. “What are we supposed to do with our culinary competition?!”

Meat Sweats released an annoyed grunt. He was getting tired of repeating his supposed mentor’s lessons, but it was mildly better than the intermittent fighting they used to go through.

“Out-serve them with quality meals, not quality poison,” Rupert droned. It was verbatim from one of Chef Mikey’s many “Maintaining Healthy Competition” lectures.

“Exactly,” Mikey said in a condescendingly sweet tone. He took the poison from Meat Sweats’ grip and yeeted it into the distance. “Now put on Rupert Swaggart, and let’s make filet mignon!”

Meat Sweats rolled his eyes at the young turtle’s antics but went along with it. Michelangelo was a decent enough chef for his age, proving his potential by the way he prepared that salmon when two drooling snakes were baring down on them. Rupert Swaggart activated his cloaking brooch and picked up a knife. He may as well humor Mikey with an attempt to mature his talent.

“Not a bad idea, lad,” Rupert agreed. “Filet mignon with roasted asparagus and,” he smirked, “truffles.”

Mikey’s eye twitched at the traumatic memory. “Not funny, sweat sock.”

Meat Sweats laughed uproariously, and even harder still when he saw Mikey’s annoyance growing. It was fun messing with this one. No matter what the chef threw his way, the young turtle always bounced back with an even snarkier reply. He might make a Kondescending Chef out of the boy yet. With no further preamble, the two mutants proceeded to craft a fine meal of filet mignon over roasted asparagus drizzled with mushroom sauce.

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

A month later, Rupert’s program established itself as the most popular food-related show on television once again. Crimes related to a food truck driven by a pig mutant plummeted as the celebrity chef made more public appearances. He had finally achieved his goal. Now Meat Sweats could kick back in his apartment, resting in his easy chair, and let the adulation from his fans inflate his ego, and his wallet, once more. A loud knock on his door broke him out of the moment, and the door being kicked open entirely had the pig mutant falling out of his chair.

“What in blazes?!” Meat Sweats shouted, quickly activating his cloaking brooch.

“Sorry for the door,” April cheered, giving no sign of remorse at all. “But I come baring gifts, and they’re heavy!”

April lifted several plastic bags filled with groceries. Rupert gave the girl an annoyed glare. He got up from the floor, set his door back into place minimal effort, and stared his “visitor” down. The chef didn’t know why she was in his home without her turtle friends, but he did catch the delightful aroma of raw meat, seasonings, and vegetables wafting from the bags in her hands. April immediately went to the kitchen and dumped a few wrapped lamb chops, fresh artichokes, a jar of capers, and several other ingredients onto the countertop.

“What are you doing, girlie?” Meat Sweats asked, dropping his disguise.

He was well used to the turtles’ surprise visits, but they always came in through the window or a portal into the living room. April rarely came by herself, so the chef had yet to learn her favored way of barging in.

“Setting up an apology,” April replied, organizing the meat, spices, and other ingredients.

“A what?” Meat Sweats was taken aback. This teen had been screwing up his life for months. Why was she apologizing now? What was she apologizing for?!

“You’ve been doing pretty good since you got that cloaking broach and went into Mikey’s rehab program,” April snickered. She rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. “And I started feeling kinda bad about trapping you in the ‘Sauce That Hog’ studio.” Meat Sweats frowned deeply at the memory, and April had the sense to move on to the ingredients on the counter. “So I brought over all the ingredients for fancy lamb chops.” She waved the bag of artichokes enticingly. “Including some mystic artichokes fresh from the Hidden City.”

Meat Sweats snorted at the attempt to woo his culinary pallet. He may not spend much time with the girl, but he knew April could kiss up to anyone’s better nature once she found their Kryptonite. His was fairly obvious, and the chef took great pride in flaunting his cooking skills.

“So you thought that catering to me superior culinary taste with mystic produce and corner store mutton would make up for that torment?” He wasn’t going to let April off that easily though.

“It’s actually hogget from my cousin’s farm,” April corrected. “She raises the best meat livestock I’ve ever tasted, so I thought you might like to try it.”

“No kidding?” Meat Sweats, surprised that April knew different types of lamb meat, looked at the wrapped meats inquisitively.

“It’s sheep meat,” April smirked, “not goat.”

“Why must you pun like the blue one?” Meat Sweats grumbled. “Just give me the ingredients and watch me—”

“Unleash the flavor!” The mutant and teenager chorused.

Meat Sweats wasn’t expecting that either. He gave April an odd look. Mikey was his fanboy, so what was her excuse? April just grinned.

“Mikey got me to watch a few episodes from his favorite seasons of Kondescending Kitchen,” she explained. “What can I say? It’s a catchy line.”

“Yes, well,” Meat Sweats countered, “it’s my line.” He knows it was a lame comeback, but he really didn’t know how to respond. One minute he and these kids are at each other’s throats, the next he’s cooking filet mignon and lamb chops with them. He shakes his head and gestures to the other side of the sink. “Hand me my knife block. I want to chop up these artichokes for a marinade.”

“Yes, Chef,” April saluted.

“Cheeky girl,” Meat Sweats commented.

He and April made a delightful set of lamb chops topped with marinated artichokes and seasoned capers. The chef figured that if the return of Rupert Swaggart meant being badgered by those annoying Mad Dogs, then there are worse fates he could have been forced to endure. They weren’t as awful as he dreaded. If he didn’t enjoy being a jerk so much, he may have been tempted to even call them his friends. He still might. Just not when they were around. He had an image to maintain after all.

[lovelyirony]

❛  there is no heroism in war — there are simply things that need to be done.  ❜ with tony and your choice of second person?

If there’s one thing that Tony learned from his father, it was that everyone will idolize the people in war who go too soon. 

Every single Fourth of July, they visited the honorary headstone that was put up for Captain America. Howard waxes poetic about how strong and how brave this man was, and if he gets drunk (which is usually always a given) he talks to Tony about how much he wishes he had a son like good ole’ Steven Grant Rogers. 

“Well, you first went wrong by agreeing to let Mama name me Anthony,” he says, because his words can be just like Howard’s. 

He gets sent to his room for the remainder of that holiday, and watches fireworks that boom with impressive chemical reactions while overlooking the party that his parents host every single year. 

His least favorite holiday is the Fourth of July. He lets people know it, says it in all the fluffy interviews, and he lets everyone think it’s because he can’t make fireworks himself, or that he hates his father’s patriotic legacy, and those are both true. 

But not the real reason. 

- 

This continues for years. Tony is infamous for never celebrating the Fourth of July, especially after his parents’ deaths. 

People speculate. Say it’s “too painful a day.” 

Oh, it’s not. It’s far from painful. Tony simply just...doesn’t care about the day. He makes himself a nice drink, sits on his deck, and stares out at the ocean ahead of him. People ride on boats, there are fireworks going off all day, and he treats it like any other day. 

And then he’s asked for an interview for a documentary on Captain America. 

Everyone and their mother knew about Howard’s obsession; he wasn’t exactly quiet about it. 

He says no. 

“I don’t talk about him,” Tony says over the phone. “But good luck with your show.” 

It makes it to the media. People accuse him of hating America, hating any symbol that represents America, and being a Communist. 

“A billionaire being a Communist,” he muses the next time he’s out in public, and everyone’s microphones are shoved in his face. “I like that logic.” 

Rhodey says that he is now on a watch-list. 

“Aw, a late birthday present for me? You shouldn’t have,” Tony purrs. “How hard did you laugh, honey-pie?” 

“For about ten minutes on and off after that meeting,” Rhodey says with a snort. “I’m just surprised they only have you on it now. Haven’t you threatened at least one government official before this?” 

“I think my body count is ten as of last week,” Tony says. 

“What’d you do last week?” 

“Hm, you’ll find out about it soon enough.” 

- 

When he’s with Yinsen, he thinks that maybe he’ll be a hero. He’ll probably die and no one will ever find him, and then if he sees his father if there’s an afterlife, he’ll probably be proud of him. 

Finally on the same level of Captain America. 

But Tony thinks that maybe he’d like to see a Malibu sunset one more time. See Pepper groan as he ignores yet another set of paperwork, but smiles when he gets it done when her back is turned. Sit with Rhodey at a burger place and complain about everything in life. 

So goddammit, he’s going to skip the whole hero shtick. Wasn’t his thing then, certainly not his thing now. 

Yinsen looks at him with a smile. 

“Ready to get out of here?” 

“Yes, Tony. I think I am.” 

- 

It’s a cruel kind of joke, to be ready to get out of there and mean that your family is somewhere high up, open with open arms. 

Tony grieves for a moment, but he only has one moment to spare before everything goes up in flames. 

It’s enough of an explosion that Rhodey will know without a doubt it’s him. No one with any sort of military training would make that explosion, although Tony laughs as he soars into the sky and realizes that it looks similar to the unfortunate kitchen fire he started during their third year of college. 

He just hopes they make it in time. 

- 

He creates Iron Man again. A better version, honestly...

At least, until the icing thing, which he was very stupid for overlooking, but he’s not going to blame himself too badly for it because he just created a suit that was made for flying. 

He founds out that the man he viewed as more family than his own should never have been trusted, and he nearly dies on a couch that is honestly not that comfortable to begin with. 

- 

He decides people won’t know he’s Iron Man. He doesn’t want to give them that much satisfaction, that much more motivation to kill him. 

He knows he’s not a hero. He also knows that if they knew about Iron Man, most people would probably scoff. Wonder how long this little fad for the rich guy would last. 

Tony doesn’t want people to know he’s doing it, especially not the board. 

When he announced that the weapons manufacturing department was shutting down, he knew that Obadiah wasn’t the only person in power who had the means to subvert things without being caught onto, at least for a few months. 

Iron Man--if he wasn’t directly tied to Stark Industries--had a much better chance of destroying old weapon shipments. 

- 

He wasn’t expecting to become a hero. He also wasn’t expecting people to catch on, regardless of how much Rhodey and Pepper laughed at this at their Sunday dinners. (New thing that they’re trying out, Tony likes it a bit too much.) 

Well, not everyone catches on. 

Fortunately for him, SHIELD doesn’t. They want to know who Iron Man is, if they can sway him to work for them. Tony nearly laughs every single time they send a newbie agent to survey the property or have Agent Coulson visit about every month. 

“You’ll have to be careful,” Agent says on one of his monthly routine visits. They never say what time he’s coming, which is why Jarvis has been given permission to go wherever he likes in their servers. 

Jarvis pretends like he’s not as excited as a kid on a holiday. 

“We’re just asking for a little transparency,” Agent asks, on one of his tirades. 

“Will that be all, Agent?” Tony asks, entirely over this little interaction. He had really been banking on Fury sending in a new recruit, and Tony would get to scare them with his new loud-speaker he’d been working on...

“Well actually-” 

“Tony, you should be on a first-name basis by now,” Pepper says, sweeping gracefully into the room. “Good afternoon Phil, good to see you again.” 

“You as well, Ms. Potts. I hope your business dinner went smoothly?” 

“It did.” 

“I don’t like how friendly you two are,” Tony says, narrowing his eyes. “And Phil? You want me to call him Phil?” 

“You could call me Phillip,” Agent suggests. 

“Who are you, a member of the royal family?” Tony asks. “I hope not.” 

“We’ll be in touch,” Agent says. 

“Don’t be,” Tony says. “We’re fine here. Iron Man’s watching you.” 

"Mind telling me where?” Phil asks lightly, knowing he will not be getting a serious answer of any sort. 

“Well unfortunately, Iron Man signed a very extensive babysitting contract. All hush-hush, you know how NDA’s can be, darling.” 

Agent sighs, and then leaves. 

Pepper looks after him. 

“You know, SHIELD could use someone like you.” 

“They could use something,” Rhodey says with a snort. “They want the suit and leverage on top.” 

“Exactly,” Tony agrees. 

“So? Negotiate,” Pepper says with a shrug. “Make it work for you. You’ve done it before.” 

“We’ll see,” Tony says, diving back into the circuits. “We’ll see.” 

- 

He does not see. 

They tell him that Captain America got defrosted, and there Steve Rogers is in an ice block, at least until they can melt down the ice surrounding his feet. 

Agent is, of course, over the moon. 

“You could at least pretend to be professional,” Tony mutters, eyes not tearing away from the man in front of them. “Where are you going to put him?” 

“Rehabilitation program through SHIELD.” 

“And your plan for that?” 

“On a need-to-know basis.” 

“Oh, so it’ll go terribly. Wonderful.” 

“It won’t go terribly,” Agent says. “There may be some hiccups, but that happens with everything. I’m sure Iron Man wasn’t picture-perfect when you found him.” 

“Of course not, but he isn’t...he isn’t this,” Tony says, gesturing to the melting block of ice. 

Phil turns back to look. 

“I think your dad would be over the moon.” 

“Best day since the fucking Fourth of July for him,” Tony says bitterly, turning away. “I gotta get going. Let me know if you need anything for him.” 

“I think we have it handled, unless you want to send Iron Man over as a bodyguard.” 

“Ha ha,” Tony says sarcastically. “How smart of you to offer. He’ll have to decline due to extenuating circumstances.” 

- 

Of course SHIELD bungles Steve Rogers. Terribly. 

He doesn’t know which history-major-dropout they got to coordinate the room’s details or the details of his life in general, but they did a truly terrible job. 

God, Tony only half-paid attention to his dad’s rants about the “good old days” and Rogers’ whole biography of life, and he could’ve done a better job while drunk. 

But it’s not his job to fix, and he’s more focused on making sure that Iron Man stays busy, because if he doesn’t then SHIELD tends to think he’s bored. (And he is...don’t get him wrong. But not that bored.) 

- 

Aliens. 

Fucking aliens. 

They bring a man back from oblivion in immortality, and now they have aliens. 

It’s one of those things where Tony just says “alright” and goes with it. 

They want Iron Man aboard, and Tony asks where he’s wanted. 

“Just Iron Man,” Coulson says, an apologetic smile on his face. 

Tony shoots him one right back. 

“Because I know this wasn’t your decision, Agent, I won’t be mad at you. Also because you’re one of Pep’s favorite people. But it’s like salt-and-pepper shakers; just having one is sad.” 

That’s all the explanation SHIELD gets, until they learn to ask Rhodey. 

“You have any mechanics that Tony trusts with that suit?” he asks. 

"We have a variety of skilled mechanics that would be happy to help,” the man says over the phone.

“No,” Rhodey says, grinning. “I mean, do you have any that Tony knows and trusts?” 

The phone is silent after that. 

“I thought as much. Well, let Tony know I’m eating his leftovers since he left them in the fridge to help you guys out with the end of the world or whatever.” 

Click. 

- 

The Avengers is a shit-show. 

But Tony is very excited to see one man in particular, and that’s Bruce Banner. Doctor Bruce Banner, if you wanted to get technical. (If you wanted to get even more technical, you could add about six more “doctors” in there.) 

They work well together, and Tony gets a tiny view into how Bruce works, in a sense. 

They found him playing doctor, and he wasn’t exactly happy to leave. 

Tony tells him that he thinks that there’s more to his life. 

“So what, Hulk...saved my life?” Bruce asks, and Tony can tell he doesn’t believe it, can tell how he’s avoiding looking through the glass across the way. 

(Tony’s broken a window that way, having eye contact with himself.) 

“Yes,” Tony says simply. “And I’m glad he did, because I have a lot to ask you about...” 

And then, you know. 

Life happens. 

You make about three too many jokes, and suddenly you and Captain America have this weird tension thing, and then you have to manually turn a fan so the entire ship crew doesn’t die. 

It seems to run on some form of electricity! 

God, what a nightmare. 

- 

Aliens invade. 

Tony learns about how to tell the modern telling of Jonah and the Whale, and he also learns that he never wants to learn anything about space again. 

Hulk also makes a lovely alarm. 

- 

Bruce is the first to move in. 

Well, he’s kind of forced to, but not really, because Tony promises that he won’t actively try to get Hulk to come out for things, and Bruce is swayed by the promise of getting bagels for breakfast. 

- 

Natasha and Clint trail in next, and Natasha says that she told Steve to come to. 

“You didn’t ask me if I was okay with that,” Tony says with a frown. “But I suppose it’s better than whatever accommodations SHIELD pulls.” 

Clint snorts. 

“You got that right.” 

Thor knows he has a place to stay at, should he ever need it. He smiles at Banner on his way up to Asgard to send his brother to alien-jail, or whatever they call it up there. 

Tony doesn’t ask about it.

He and Bruce drive home in one of his flashy cars, and Bruce looks a little lost at all the posters hung up around the city, the ones with a green man grinning. 

“They like you,” Tony says. “Good job.” 

“Not like they hate Iron Man or anything,” Bruce says. “I just...I’m not a hero.” 

Tony nods. Doesn’t say anything. He gets the sentiment. 

(He knows how this will go.) 

- 

Hiding Iron Man is...harder. Admittedly. 

Steve keeps wanting to talk to him about battle strategy, and Tony is at work, so it’s not like he can conference call. 

(Okay well he can, but Pepper yelled at him for wearing the helmet in his office.) 

Natasha and Clint are naturally curious, as they’re supposed to be. The only problem is that both of them have professional training in how to make that curiosity dangerously effective. 

Thor doesn’t really mind, although he keeps making hints that he could take Iron Man to get better armor. 

“Sorry lightning rod, I’ll pass,” Iron Man says on one mission. “Now, where is my favorite doctor...” 

“He’s already back at the Tower,” Clint says. “Said something about wanting to ask Tony a question on his experiment.” 

Iron Man pauses. 

“...alright. I’ll start jetting home, meet you guys there.” 

- 

Iron Man barely makes it into his “section” before Bruce is coming down the stairs, muttering and holding papers. 

“Tony?” 

“Yes, dear!” Tony calls, scrambling to shed off the armor before Bruce could get too close. 

- 

It didn’t work. 

He has one of the gloves still on his palm as he faces Bruce. 

“...what.” 

“Um, just. Trying out the schematics. Of the suit. For Iron Man.” 

“You’re...you’re Iron Man?” 

“Well, let’s not throw around accusations that can’t be proved.” 

“You have literally stated in interviews that the suit is custom-fit to the user,” Bruce says. “I have the magazine that that’s from.” 

“Well, I have a...similar body type?” 

“Oh my god.” Bruce blinks, readjusting his glasses. “Do the others...Natasha knows, right? She has to know.” 

“Absolutely not,” Tony says. “Of course not! Why would she know?” 

“Because she’s a spy, Tony! That’s what spies do!” 

“Well then she’s a bad one!” 

There’s silence for a moment as they stare at each other. 

Tony sighs, heading over to the chairs set aside. 

“I imagine you’ll have questions, Dr. Banner.” 

“Of course I do.” 

Tony gestures somewhere, telling Jarvis to put the lab in blackout mode, no one out or in, and to update Pepper on the NDA situation. 

- 

“Why’d you hide it?” Bruce asks. 

“No one needs to know it’s me. Easier to balance work and home life.” 

Bruce looks at him. 

“Do not bullshit me.” 

Tony looks over at a blue hologram of a project he’s working on. 

“In all honesty, I’d like to say that it’s because of that, but I’ve never actually balanced work and home. It’s just...ugh. It’s personal. Can I say it’s personal, and you drop it?” 

“I mean, you could,” Bruce says. “But I still know that you’re him and he’s you, and you’ve been hiding that you’re a hero for years.” 

“I wouldn’t call it being a hero,” Tony says. “Just tying up loose ends.” 

“And saving the world, can’t forget that one,” Bruce says. 

“Well if you call me a hero, then I get to do the same thing for you.” 

“Hulk is not a hero, he’s a carefully monitored rage monster.” 

“Was that what we were doing the whole time we were up against the Chitauri? Monitoring the Hulk while multitasking? I don’t know if you’ve read the scientific news, Bruce, but none of us can multitask as well as we think.” 

“Not the point.” 

“Yes the point.” 

They stare at each other. 

“Why don’t you want to be known as a hero?” Bruce asks, finally. 

“I’m not the type of person anyone wants for a hero.” 

“And am I?” Bruce asks with a smile. 

“Are any of us?” Tony responds. 

So they sit, and there’s this comfortable familiarity about being the same, looking at things the same, if not for a bit of difference. 

Bruce finally speaks up. 

“So. Who are we betting to be the last to know? Because I think it’ll be Natasha.” 

“Are you crazy? She’s gonna be the next to know.” 

“I don’t know, Clint can be pretty perceptive.” 

“Oh come on. If anything, it’ll be Thor. He’s almost never here, and he never drops by with a message beforehand.” 

“I bet you a smoothie that it’s Nat.” 

“You’re on.” 

- 

Nat is the last one to figure it out. Bruce just shrugs as Tony looks at him, mouth open. 

“How did you...?” 

“I know things,” Bruce says. 

(Not true: he’s been waging psychological warfare on Nat ever since he made that bet because he wanted a peach-mango smoothie.) 

- 

Neither think of themselves as heroes. But sometimes, you don’t think of yourself as a hero even though you are one. (Not that they know that other people’s perceptions hold sway.) 

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Twelve (Zuko x Reader)

Part 11

Word Count: 3,000

Author’s Note: Let’s talk about Azula. I know a lot of people really want a redemption arc for her, and it’s something that’s written a lot in the fanfic community, but (like everything else) I have an unpopular opinion about her - I don’t think she deserves a redemption arc. This doesn’t mean I think she’s a bad character. I actually think exactly the opposite - she’s so perfectly written that I feel changing her to make her any less problematic would ruin her. 

Characters can be great without ever redeeming themselves, and Azula is a perfect example of one of A:TLA’s major themes - that there’s no such thing as absolute good or bad - in that she’s clearly vindictive, manipulative, egotistical, and sociopathic, but the way the series leaves her convinces the watcher to feel sympathetic towards her. It’s such a beautiful destruction of preconceived notions in fiction that I don’t think it needs to be touched. Azula is evil, but I love her that way. 

~ Muerta

Appa’s feet don't touch sand until late evening, by which time it feels like you've been flying for weeks.

A group of about twenty guards is waiting when you land, each of them wrapped from head to toe in white gauze; the woman at the front of the group removes her face covering and introduces herself as the warden of the compound, her expression hard and motionless behind sun-darkened skin. She leads you through a maze of buildings enclosed by high, interlocking stone walls, to an empty store room that’s been converted into a bedroom for your stay. 

“We only have what we need out here,” she explains. “The guards’ bunks are all filled, and we don't typically have guests. I'm sorry we couldn't give you more appropriate lodging.” 

“It's alright,” Aang assures her. “We’re used to sleeping rough.” 

Dinner is composed of a combination of dried meat and pickled vegetables, paired with water from a well in the center of the surrounding block of buildings; you're advised only to use it for drinking and not to bathe, saving it for the guards stationed at the compound. Even after the sun sets, the air feels arid and scorched, the sweat dripping down the back of your neck doing nothing to cool you. 

“It's awful out here,” you remark as you settle into your bed roll for the night. “I can see why Sokka went insane.” 

“Sokka went insane because of hallucinogenic cactus juice,” Katara corrects you, smirking at the memory.

“I can't believe I missed most of that,” Aang laments. “He must've been a handful.” 

“You had more important things to worry about,” Katara softly reminds him. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, placing a tender kiss atop the crest of his head; you look away, your stomach churning uneasily at the intimate display. 

You lay and attempt to sleep for the next few hours, finding yourself unable. The ground is too hard beneath you, your thin blankets too heavy and hot. You toss and turn over and over again, trying to find a comfortable position that seems not to exist. Your mind races and refuses to slow down. 

Despite your guilt over doing so, you go out to the well and fill a small basin, splashing your face with warm water in the hopes it'll make you feel better. Katara joins you a moment or two later, having noticed your unrest. She dips her hands into the water and runs them comfortingly through your hair to cool you off. 

“What's wrong?” she asks. 

You sigh as you lower yourself onto the base of the well, holding your knees to your chest. 

“I'm worried,” you admit in a murmur. 

Katara sits down beside you and rests her hand on your arm. 

“Aang and I won't leave until after you speak with Azula,” she promises. “And even then, we’ll be right outside the room the entire time. You're not doing this alone.” 

You shake your head, afraid to look her in the eye. 

“That's not it. When you go to the Northern Air Temple… they're going to expect me to get pregnant, too. But I'm not ready to have a baby, and I don't know if I'll ever be.” 

Katara curls her arms around you, pulling you into her lap in the motherly way she used to do when you were kids. She strokes your hair, and you nestle into the fabric of her night gown.

“What does it feel like?” you wonder. Your voice is nothing but a breath. “To… have sex?” 

Katara’s hands pause their ministrations. She sits absolutely still for a moment, gazing off as she mulls the question over. 

“... It hurts,” she says after a while, “but only at first. Then it feels exciting. It's sort of like getting hit by lightning, but gently, over and over again. You feel it in your whole body; it's unlike anything else. The best part is being so close to someone you love in a way that nobody else will ever be close to you. It’s like magic.” 

“But I don't love Zuko,” you reply. “I didn't choose him like you chose Aang. How could it be the same for me?” 

“You did choose Zuko,” Katara contests. “Do you think Dad would have forced you into marrying him if you fought hard enough against it? You might not have chosen him because you love him, but there's a reason you're together. I think you will love him. There's something about the two of you that just… fits. I've never been very good with intuition and even I could feel it the first time I saw you together. You will love each other; and we both know Zuko cares about you too much to force you into anything before you're ready. Trust him. Follow what you feel for him.” 

You sigh, shutting your eyes tightly as the weight of the desert heat squeezes down on you; nonetheless, Katara’s hands are chilled as they begin to rework the braid knotted down your back.

“I know he’ll protect me,” you say. “That's all he's done since we met. But I don't know if I want to be protected.” 

“You don't have to be,” Katara tells you. Her voice is soft and serious. “You've never let anyone tell you what to do; not even now.” 

“Keeping that up is dangerous though,” you whisper. “Doing the wrong thing could get me killed - it could get Zuko killed, or you, or any number of people I care about. And I've been really stupid about it up until now.” 

“Has Zuko ever talked to you about redirecting lighting?” Katara asks. 

You shake your head. 

“It's a water bending technique,” she explains. “The idea is that you take your opponent’s force and turn it back against them, but you have to keep your own energy steady to be able to do it.” 

She takes one of your hands between both of hers, pressing it tightly between her palms.

“Keep doing what you're doing,” she urges. “If one of us gets hurt, you can't let the loss break you; you have to use it to fight back. Anyone who wants to destroy you needs your permission to do so.” 

You sit up so you can look her in the eye; her expression is resolute, brows drawn together with  agency and concern. Your arms fall around her, pulling her into a tight embrace; she holds you close as you bury your face in her hair. 

“It'll be okay,” she promises. “You'll survive; it’s what we do.” 

The next morning, you meet with Azula’s psychological counselor before going to see her. 

The center of the compound is devoted entirely to the disgraced princess and her keepers, each of them living within the bounds of a large wall lined with guards every few feet. Her counselor’s home is divided from the main house by an ornate fence, painted red and black and gilded with gold detail; guard houses stand at either side of the gate. 

“This part of the compound is designed to look like a Fire Nation neighborhood,” the counselor explains. “We don't live luxuriously by any means, but a homey atmosphere is important to Azula’s rehabilitation.” 

“How has she improved?” Katara asks. 

You remember her retellings of what would've been Azula’s coronation, how she lost her mind with power and corruption. Thinking back on them, you almost pity her. 

“She's much more stable than she used to be,” the counselor states. “We know her vindictive behavior will never go away and that her condition prohibits her from understanding or feeling empathy, but she's learned not to act on those tendencies. She's also greatly overcome the anger her father instilled in her.” 

“I need something I can use as leverage,” you say. “Zuko’s told me that everything she does is a negotiation, and I need something to trade for her insight.” 

The counselor nods, tapping her fingers against the table you're seated around in thought. 

“The information alone won’t be enough incentive for her,” she concludes. “She’s seemingly lost interest in the outside world or trying to get out of the compound in the past few years, but I have a feeling she’ll use that to try and get more out of you. Perhaps offering her a chance to see her father will hold useful.” 

“She still wants to see him?” Aang gasps, incredulous. “After everything he did?” 

“She blames him for the breakdown she suffered at the end of the war,” the counselor elaborates. “She’s expressed a desire to confront him for years, and I’d like to help her find the catharsis in it without setting her back in her rehabilitation.” 

“We’ve spoken about the possible need for execution,” you say; your voice is meek, the shame making it difficult to meet the counselor’s eye. “Would the threat do anything? As a last resort?” 

“... I don’t know,” the counselor admits. “It truly depends on her mood. She swings between bouts of stability and episodes of deep, manic depression; were she depressed, the threat wouldn’t do much. She unfortunately is always on the brink of an episode, and I don’t think death is much of a fear to her.” 

You nod, unable to respond any other way. 

“Be civil,” the counselor advises, “but don’t let your guard down. She’s improved greatly, but she’s still extremely dangerous.” 

Azula’s home is quaint, consisting of only four rooms, but is every bit the palace she grew up in compared to the rest of the compound. The walls are painted deep, warm crimson, every inch decorated in elaborate murals; in the dining room where you meet, images of giant salamanders curl around pillars of forest and flame - they're terrifying, but as beautiful as any more traditional work of art. 

When Azula enters the room, she smirks at you. You're stricken by the fact that she looks nothing like her brother, her features much softer and rounder, save for her eyes and brow bones which are drawn downward in a permanent scowl; it occurs to you that while Zuko closely resembles  their father (something you've learned he resents), she’s almost a perfect mirror of their mother. Her clothes are simple - a shapeless dress over loose trousers - and her hair is knotted messily behind her head, loose tendrils falling carelessly around her face. Her cheeks are gaunt, years of living on only what the compound can provide clearly having taken their toll. 

“So Zuzu’s got himself a wife,” Azula chirps, sitting down across the table from you. “I suppose that's all you Southern women are good for - selling off to more powerful nations so you don't get yourselves pummeled.” 

You ignore her harsh words, bowing your head respectfully in greeting. 

“Zuko and I have actually known each other since we were teenagers,” you tell her. It isn't exactly a lie, but you decide that forfeiting her game is the best way to defend yourself. “It's an honor to finally meet you, Azula.” 

If she's put off by your deflection, she doesn't show it. She leans forward on her elbows, leering at you over the table like some sort of heinous, bloodthirsty predator; you stare back unfazed, reminding yourself that there's nothing she can do to you if you remain stoic. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of my dear sister-in-law’s visit?” Azula wonders, grinning. “I doubt this is a family reunion given Zuzu’s absence.” 

“We need your help,” you tell her. “We’re facing serious problems with outside opposition and our advisors have failed us; Zuko suggested I come to you because of your intelligence in these matters.” 

Azula scoffs, her sickening smile disappearing as she leans back and crosses her arms over her chest. 

“I may be captive, but that doesn't mean I have to help you,” she spits. “I no longer hold any loyalty to the Fire Nation.” 

“We don't want to force you,” you reply. “Zuko and I are willing to offer something in return for your expertise.” 

“There's nothing you can give me that will convince me,” Azula states. “My brother lost any sympathy I had for him when he locked me up here.” 

“We both know you never had any sympathy for him.” 

Azula’s eyes shoot upward, meeting yours in a chilling glare. 

“He's the eldest,” you continue. “Despite your talent, he was still in your way - if he hadn't been banished, he’d have taken your father’s place. You hated him for that. You hated him for earning your mother’s affection. You hated him for things neither of you had any control over, and all you've ever wanted to do is have control. He defied that. So you took matters into your own hands and tried to kill him.” 

Azula glowers at you, her eyes icy as her face sets into stone. She's not used to being on the other end of this sort of needling; behind her muted, immobile shock, you know she's calculating her next move. 

“It wasn't fair,” you go on. “I've heard what people in the Fire Nation say about you - that you shaped the odds of the war while your father took all the credit. That's why we need you. Zuko himself admitted that he can't do it. This is your chance to show him once and for all who the true heir to your family name is.” 

Your sister-in-law studies you for a moment before tilting her head, the nasty smile she entered the room with returning. 

“Thanks to my shrinks, I'm no longer motivated by personal vindication,” she drawls. “And besides, what good would it do me for Zuko to take all the glory like Father did? He always liked to believe he took after Mother. He's wrong - he's just as cruel and underhanded as the rest of us.” 

At this point, you decide that bargaining is going to get you nowhere. Instead you turn your attention to the murals, standing so you can run your fingers over the scales of the nearest giant salamander; they're so realistic that even their grooves have texture, delicately carved between layers of thick paint. 

“These paintings are stunning,” you comment. “Are they yours?” 

Azula nods, though her expression remains shuttered and somewhat threatening. 

“Since that little brat took my bending, I had to find a new hobby,” she hisses. “When I run out of space on the walls, I'll start tattooing myself.” 

You smirk at her joke, but she doesn't reciprocate. Her eyes narrow, and though she doesn't move from her position at the table, she seems to prowl closer to you, caging you in with the sheer power of her presence. 

“I know why Zuzu married you,” she claims; her tone is matter-of-fact, her golden irises cutting through you. “You remind him of that Southern wretch he used to chase around during his banishment. He was enamored with her. But of course she chose the Avatar over him, since she wanted the alliance for your puny little nation, so it seems he rebounded with the next best thing. He's always been weak that way - falling for anyone dumb enough to buy into that kicked kitten act and let him use them for sympathy.” 

For a split second, her words bite you in a way you don't expect them to. Just last night, you told Katara you didn't love Zuko - now, at the thought that his affections could lie with anyone else, that you could mean nothing more than a placeholder to appease the ache of an unrequited love, your ribs feel as though they've caved in and are crushing your lungs. You do your best to keep your expression void, but the corners of your lips flinch with the ghost of a frown, your eyes fogging with a shadow of fear before you can stop them. Azula grins - she knows she found a weak spot. 

“I heard she's knocked up,” she spits. “Tell me, does Zuzu even bother to fuck you? Or is it just too painful, knowing you’ll never be the woman he loves?” 

The sting in your chest subsides the moment she speaks, the rest of her scathing going unheard as you look her dead in the eye, suddenly unmoved by the attack.

“How do you know that?” you murmur. 

Azula’s face falls. She doesn’t avert her gaze, but instead locks it with yours, frozen as if debating whether or not to admit defeat. It doesn’t matter if she does or not - she’s stabbed herself in the gut.

“How do you know Katara is pregnant?” you ask again. 

You pace forward, pushing back on the way she attempted to close you in with her criticism. Her poisonous grin once again makes a comeback, this time accompanied by a cackle as sharp as a spearhead. 

“You’re in far too deep, little girl,” she lilts. “All of you are. None of you can see the danger that’s been in front of you all your lives.” 

“Tell me what you know,” you command. “If you do, we might be persuaded not to execute you.” 

Azula huffs, tossing her head back as her laughter continues. By this point, the guards standing in the room’s corners have converged on her, taking her by the arms to hold her still; she doesn’t fight, instead leaning into their grip as if the touch is welcoming. 

“Zuzu could never bring himself to kill me,” she jeers. “Sniveling little cad he is. The world isn’t perfect because the war is over, and you’re a fool if you think that my grandfathers were the only men to ever destroy for the sake of their hate. Everyone has evil in them - some of us are just smart enough to embrace it.” 

As she growls out her last words, the guards drag her from the room, her laughter subsiding but her hideous, manic grin remaining splattered across her cheeks. The door slams as she's carried away, and you’re left with nothing but the looming silence of terror and dread. 

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[echidnapower]

EP’s FanFiction Master Post

So this is something I should have done a long time ago on my previous account, but better late than never. For those of you who find me, this is going to be a place where you can find all the fics I’ve written over the years. This will be added to over time as I fight to revive my muse.

It’ll be categorized by fandom, so you can quickly find what you do or don’t want to read. Here we go.

Pokemon

A Valentines Dream Come True -  It's Valentines Day, and a certain redheaded Gym Leader is finally getting to enjoy it with the boyfriend of her dreams. During their time together, they get into a little discussion about dreams, and Ash doesn't wanna tell her his! So to get him to spill, she tells him her dreams...when she finally learns Ash's dream...will both their dreams come true? - Based on a drawing from @miyatoriaka​, which can be found HERE.

AAML: Diamond and Pearl Version -  Follow me as I remake the DP episodes in order and in sequence, all so I can add the biggest star besides Ash himself. Misty! Watch her and Ash's love grow as they go on their journey. The absolute LONGEST story in my portfolio, and you will see my writing evolve the longer you go on. Be prepared for a massive read that even now is STILL going.

All I Want For Christmas Is You -  It's Christmas time and the Ketchum household is hosting a party with all of Ash's friends. But while Ash and Misty dance around their feelings for each other, another Sensational Sister is about to find herself in a situation she never could have expected, but she'll be darned if she lets it slip through her manicured fingers. (Spinoff of @hollylu-ships-it​‘s "A Christmas in Kanto" comic which can be found HERE.

Best Friend -  "Why? Why did I have to be so stupid as to make the mistake of falling in love with my best friend?" - Story told in Misty’s POV.

Blessings From Heaven -  I'm Ash Ketchum, and I'm getting married today! But how did this come to be? Through God's devine planning is how. Here's my story: I'm marrying Misty. - Warning for religious themes, told in Ash’s POV.

I Miss You -  Misty misses Ash terribly, and it's affecting her emotionally as she's more irritable than usual, if that was even possible. But Daisy has a plan to get Ash to come and see Misty again. Will her plan have the desired effect? Or will it cause something she never could've seen coming? - Based on a trio of drawings from the long lost Simply-Nicole. The old art can be found on my dA page HERE, HERE, and HERE.

I’m Misty, and You Are? -  Misty tells the story we all know and love...literally. She's telling the story. Based on artwork from the long lost Simply-Nicole, which can be found on my old dA page HERE.

Keep The Faith - This time it's May and Drew getting married, and it takes place in the "Blessings From Heaven" universe. Warning for religious themes.

Looks -  It's Ash's birthday and all of his friends have gathered together in the woods to reminisce on the time they spent traveling with their favorite Pokemon Trainer. But something's about to happen that could change the way that Ash and Misty look at each other forever…the question is, is it for the better?

Lovesick -  Kenny is feeling strange...he feels like he's sick...but is he really ill? Or is he just lovesick?

Madam Zara -  When Misty decides to get experimental with her appearance, she finds herself in the hands of a world-famous beautician named Madam Zara. With most of Misty's makeovers ending less than ideally, will this be the one to shatter the mold? And how will Ash react? - Based on a drawing and idea from @hollylu-ships-it​ which can be found HERE.

Our Own Sunset -  Ash and Misty watch the sunset together, but Misty's bothered by it. - Set in the AAML: Diamond and Pearl version universe.

Pokeshipping Week 2015 - My first time participating in Pokeshipping Week ever, hard to believe it was five years ago.

Pokeshipping Week 2016 - This year of Pokeshipping saw me collab with @hollylu-ships-it​, you can see the art she put together on her Tumblr page.

Symptoms of Love -  Ash and Tracey are hit by a Vileplume's Stun Spore, and Misty has to fend for herself in order to find a cure. But once she gets Ash back to health, Ash still feels many of the same symptoms from before. Why is that?

Tell Me I’m Pretty -  It isn't easy being the youngest sister, especially when your oldest sister is getting married and you're the only one without a date for the once in a lifetime event. Misty can't help but feel like she doesn't measure up somehow, but a surprise visit from her closest friend is sure to make her feel pretty once more. - Inspired by THIS piece from @hollylu-ships-it​.

The Road Not Taken -  When Ash gets some bad news from home, he goes into a depression and starts doubting both himself and the choices he's made. But luckily, someone is there with him to remind him he's loved and cared about. - Based on yet another drawing from @hollylu-ships-it​. Look at it HERE.

Warmth -  It's New Years Eve, and the recently married Ash and Misty Ketchum are ready to host their first ever holiday party at their home together, but when a snowstorm makes it so no one can arrive safely, Misty is saddened. But will they really end up spending their New Years Eve alone? Or will surprise visitors warm their hearts?

Super Robot Monkey Team Hyperforce Go

Iron Girl -  A robot girl who hates the fact she's a robot...will she realize just how important she is or will she continue to simply wallow in self-pity?

War Between the Living and the Dead -  The war between the living and the dead has begun, and the Hyperforce has to go up against their biggest challenge yet. But with help from their allies across the galaxy, they can triumph! Or can they? This is my take on what Season 5 would've been, plugging plotholes and making sense out of a series that left us all hanging.

Buzz Lightyear of Star Command

Reflections of a Legend -  Buzz Lightyear Personal Log - Stardate 92893.81. I don't quite know how to explain this, or what I'm feeling, so I guess I'll just start talking and tell you what's on my mind. There's someone I just can't get out of my head, and truthfully, I'm not sure I want to. - This is a first-person dive into Buzz’s character.

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Kim Possible

Angels Watching Over Me -  Kim and Ron are going down a dark path that could eventually end in their own destruction...literally, not figuratively. When the Sloth dangles over a cliff that holds their fate in the balance, who will come in their time of need? How about...someone they never could have dreamed? - Based on a true story, warning for religious themes.

Busted -  Hana wants cookie, Hana tries to get cookie, Hana gets caught trying to get cookie.

The Running Back -  All-star Running back Ron Stoppable is about to face the biggest challenge of his life. He's got just a few seconds to win the championship for the Middleton Mad Dogs, but more importantly to him, he's got just a few seconds to make his girlfriend proud.

The True Meaning -  Both Ron and Kim are well aware of the true meaning of Christmas, and that's why they're volunteering at a church's Bethlehem Revisited event to spread the word. Kim's happy to help and all, but...why is Ron calling her such a weird name? - Warning for religious themes.

Trick or Treat -  Kim is pulling a trick on Ron, will it be a great treat, or is he about to suffer the wrath of Kim Possible? He has no clue, yet.

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Fillmore!

A Promising Tomorrow -  Takes place immediately after the end of the episode "A Forgotten Yesterday." Fillmore's lost two of his old friends now and needless to say, he's tired of losing people to the darkness he was lucky enough to escape from. Luckily, Ingrid's there to show him that his efforts to rehabilitate his delinquent friends haven't exactly gone to waste. There's one person who's benefited.

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Miraculous Ladybug

You’re Loved -  Adrien Agreste, Chat Noir, different identities but more alike than he would like to admit. No matter who he becomes at any given time, there's always something very important missing in his life. Will he ever find what he's looking for? Or is it possible he's always had it and never realized it?

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Beyblade

We Are One -  Kai gave it his all battling against Brooklyn and his bit-beast Zeus. Now, after his close brush with death, Kai must summon the strength to go and support Tyson before disaster strikes the world. But there's no way he's strong enough to do it on his own...but thankfully, he won't have to, which is what Kai is about to learn. Sister story to "I Can't Lose You."

I Can’t Lose You -  A week after Tyson's battle against the evil bit-beast Zeus and his trapped blader Brooklyn, the world is slowly making its way back to normal. Kai managed to survive and is recovering in the hospital, and Tyson is getting some much-deserved rest. But when Kenny comes to tell Tyson that Hilary has quit the team, he loses it, and goes to find out why. My first Beyblade story.

Save a Dance For Me -  With the all new BBA launching with a gala to celebrate the occasion, Tyson finds himself in the uncomfortable position of needing to ask someone to be his date. He has someone in mind, but will his greatest beyblading rival get in his way and turn out to be his greatest rival in love?

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Teen Titans

Healing Touch -  With several Titans pairing up, the lingering emotions are taking a toll on Raven's empathic senses and causing her to lose control of her own feelings. When she gives in and does something completely crazy, it's up to Beast Boy to pull her out of a dark place and bring her back to the light. - There is accompanying artwork from @hollylu-ships-it HERE and HERE.

More Than a Hero -  I've learned a lot of lessons under Batman, he taught me everything I would ever need to know about being a superhero, about being Robin...but Starfire taught me how to be Dick Grayson, and she taught me how to fly. - Story from Robin’s POV, accompanying artwork from @hollylu-ships-it​ is HERE.

Robin Rising -  Life is good for Dick Grayson, he's the leader of a team of superheroes he's blessed enough to call his family, and he's about to turn 18 which he figures will open up a whole new world of possibilities for him. But when his old mentor and "father" calls in, showing that he captured a criminal that had eluded the Titans forever, things get flipped upside-down. - Multichapter fic which is part of a much larger universe, plenty of accompanying artwork can be found over on @hollylu-ships-it​‘s account. Go give her a follow and fav.

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Sonic the Hedgehog

A Light in Darkness -  A small band of heroes go back in time to try and prevent a cataclysmic event that would eventually destroy all of creation as they knew it. But what is the nature of this threat? How dangerous is it? And how far will they have to go in order to stop it from viciously destroying all they hold dear? Features a deep cast of Sonic characters, and a very special OC owned by @e-vay​

Anonymous -  For Shadow the Hedgehog, Christmas doesn't mean what it means to his friends and the rest of the world. Instead, he has a self-appointed mission he needs to carry out. But this year, he may find something that he's never really had before, and it could change the way Shadow sees Christmas for the rest of his life.

Christmas Wishes -  For ten years, Amy Rose has only wanted one thing for Christmas, and she's finally come to accept the reality that she'll never receive it. But a conversation with Rouge rekindles her hope and her Christmas spirit. Will she be let down again? Or will her one wish finally come true this year? Read to find out. (Sister story to my other story titled "Anonymous")

Comfort In the Storm -  When a thunderstorm strikes and leaves Cream quivering in fright, it's up to Tails to find a way to alleviate his crush's fears, and maybe even give her a reason to enjoy thunderstorms instead of fearing them.

Cream Adventure DX: Author’s Cut -  A redo of an old story. Cream finds a strange statue in the meadow, and she knows just who to go to to figure out what it is, but she gets more than she bargained for when she goes looking for him. What happens?

Dreams of an Absolution - Silver lays awake at night and reflects on his life in this apocalyptic world Iblis has destroyed...but most of his reflections revolve around a certain fire girl with lavender fur. He wants to be happy with her, but a warzone is a bad place to kindle love, and so every night he lays awake, and dreams of an absolution.

Relations -  Knuckles has a problem. He's in love...but...that presents a very unique problem...or does it?

Running to the Point of No Return -  Sonic is the fastest thing alive, and Amy is told that that's the biggest obstacle keeping her and Sonic away from each other. But what's she supposed to do to keep up with him, when there's NO ONE fast enough to keep up with him?

Scars -  Some things that happen in life leave scars behind that go with us for the rest of our lives. For Miles "Tails" Prower, such a thing happened to him in the depths of space many years ago...the loss of his first true love...though the pain weakens and the scars fade, they never go away completely, and Tails has learned to live with and embrace that fact.

Seven Rings and Five Fingers In Hand -  A redo of the final battle in Sonic and the Secret Rings, Sonamy style!

The Heart of Chao - Chao are adorable little creatures, and they make great pets for anyone who's looking for something to take care of. But there's more to chao than just being cute, they're filled with more heart and love than anyone can imagine, and that can sometimes lead to bringing others closer together. Here are just a few stories of that very thing happening to our favorite characters.

Trapped In This Machine -  Sonic has seemingly fallen madly in love with Amy, but is this sudden romance truly sincere, or is it only skin deep, hiding something sinister underneath? - Inspired by a drawing from @e-vay​, found HERE.

[brokenjardaantech]

absorbance of the deep (chapter 4: that’s him?)

written for a mermay prompts challenge. my prompt is ‘monochromatic.’

previous chapter can be found here.

also on ao3

---

The next few hours passed in a confusing blur. When he came to, he was lying on one of the few foldable lounge chairs in the students’ support office. The lights had been turned down but he could still see clearly. There was no one in his direct line of sight, however he could hear the scratch of pen against paper and the low hum of electricity grinding in his ear, so he tried to sit up, not realising how sore his neck was until he attempted to move it and was punished with the greatest pain he had ever felt apart from that time when he had been ripped away from the ocean for a whole week because his father had insisted bringing them inland for a hiking trip. He hissed and lay back down because he didn’t want to aggravate the injury, and a hand snaked itself behind his head to guide him before he could identify who it was.

‘You shouldn’t be moving,’ it was North. ‘Do you remember what happened?’

She handed him a small dictionary. He would’ve preferred a full one under any other circumstances, the weight of the volume grounding him alongside the abundance of words available to him, but with how weak his entire body seemed to be, he was glad that his friend took that into consideration. Either that or she didn’t bother to find a big one, whichever came first. He didn’t have the capacity to care. What he did care about as he flipped the pages to construct his sentence, however, was the absurdity and danger of what he just experienced. [did - they - seriously - try - to - hang - me]

North inhaled deeply. ‘They did,’ she averted her gaze. ‘They’re still discussing the next course of action, I think. Josh is with them. So is your brother.’

The mention of his twin sent him back to the argument he experienced last night. Scrambling at the dictionary without breaking the pages, he asked, [what - did - he - do]

‘What we should’ve expected from an overprotective sibling,’ North shrugged. ‘Do you want to rest more, or do you want to talk to the teachers now?’

[what - for]

‘They tried to kill you, Simon!’ there was a tremble in the girl’s voice. Her eyes glistened in the low light of the office. ‘Do you have any idea how much trouble those bastards got themselves into? Police are involved! You have every right to press charges against them!’

[and - my - brother - question]

‘Oh for fuck’s sake -’

‘North…’

Both of them were so distracted that neither noticed Josh coming in. Simon didn’t quite jump, no, but for a split moment he felt like his heart had burst from shock, and he decided at that exact moment that he shouldn’t have woken up that early. He did not have the strength to deal with two near-death scenarios within a single day. 

‘How are you feeling?’ Josh asked as he inhaled and folded his arms in front of his chest. The gesture made him look even taller, and Simon wondered if it was a new habit developed from talking to adults. 

[tired]

North sighed and tore her gaze from the dictionary just to turn to Josh. ‘How’s it going?’ 

Since he didn’t need them to hear the conversation anyway, Simon closed his eyes so that there wasn’t as much information pouring into his brain, and his friends’ voices became clearer. Almost as clear as when Markus directly spoke in his mind, but he knew that nothing would surpass it. Then he frowned at Josh’s statement.

‘They don’t want anything to do with the students involved. Expulsion is the minimum.’

‘“Minimum?”’

‘Simon?’

He raised his hand and tapped his finger against his ear to indicate that he was listening.

‘The police are involved. Hope you don’t mind that I talked to them on your behalf because they probably don’t know your tells and how you talk anyway and… they said you are well within your rights to press charges against them. Take them to court, let the legal system decide how they should be punished and rehabilitated. It’ll take money and time but… if it makes you feel safer, we’ll help.’

It took more effort than Simon expected to open his eyes so that he could answer his friend. [what - if - i - do - not]

North muttered a ‘typical’ under her breath. Simon caught Josh glaring at her but he didn’t care about what happened next, because Josh was talking again. ‘At the least, they’ll be gone from here and, quite possibly, this village. Not forever for now because we’re still students, but for most of the year, you won’t even be able to see them. If their parents decide to induce more drastic measures… they won’t be our concern.’

‘Yeah, and when they come back for breaks?’ North’s voice was sharp enough to hurt his eardrums but he was too tired to throw the dictionary at her to tell her. ‘Who’s preventing them from getting back at us? At Simon? Who’s making sure that Daniel won’t end up in the same school as them?’

‘Restraining orders exist.’

‘It isn’t -’

Simon lost track of the conversation as soon as he smelt the sea and the earth, a unique mixture that only meant one thing: Markus was here. He then realised that he did not, in fact, lose track of the conversation, more like both his friends had stopped talking as well as a breeze entered the otherwise stale office and seemingly cooled down their wrath and worries, and it was the only thing he could hear and feel for a few long seconds before a familiar hand was holding his on top of the thin blanket covering him from his chest down and a pair of lips was pressing softly on his own. They won’t bother you anymore, Simon wasn’t sure if Markus was talking to him or it was just his imagination, but it didn’t matter to him because Markus was here with him and therefore he must make things better. I made sure of that.

Tell that to my friends.

He made himself comfortable on the lounge chair as the warm weight on top of him disappeared. The hand remained, though, and he was glad that Markus maintained some sort of physical contact; he was already missing the ocean’s attention.

‘Let me guess,’ North said after quite a while, ‘you’re the person Simon always waxed poetic about, aren’t you? Well, he was talking about the sea but he made it sound like it’s a person. Never thought there’s an actual person there though.’

‘North!’ Josh scolded.

‘This is Josh. Don’t mind him.’

‘Excuse me -’

‘How did you even get into the ventilation? I’ve climbed into some of them before and they aren’t big enough for a guy like you.’

Are they always like this? Markus asked through their bond. 

Sometimes. They’re stressed.

Watch this.

Simon opened his eyes just in time to see Markus dissolve into a puddle of water. Then, against all laws of physics, it slid across the floor leaving no trails whatsoever and climbed up Simon’s lounge chair, spreading out behind Simon without staining his clothes or the chair itself and then suddenly puffing up back into a warm, familiar shape. He didn’t deny that it felt good sitting in the space between Markus’ legs, and it only got better when Markus wrapped an arm around his waist and another around his shoulder to pull him close, possessive and protective as usual. Only at that moment did Simon realise that Markus was shirtless. At the display, North threw her hands up and stormed out, and Josh watched her disappear before turning towards the two other boys in the office. ‘You can go now, actually. Back home, I mean,’ he said to Simon, and then to Markus. ‘I would ask you to escort the two of us but… I don’t think a stranger will escape their notice. We aren’t in a brawl anymore.’

A brawl? Did you fight as well, Josh? Simon wanted to ask, but his own bed at home or the soft sand of his cave sounded much better than the lounge chair he was occupying, so with Markus’ help, he managed to stand up and was transferred to Josh’s side before Markus literally dissolved in front of him and vanished into a cloud of steam. His questions could wait.

‘Was he always like this?’ his friend asked as they slowly but surely walked outside. The sunset was bright and stung his eyes which meant he must have slept for quite a long time considering that he was attacked in the morning, which also meant that he didn’t eat lunch, which meant he probably should eat when he got home, but he didn’t exactly feel hungry so maybe that could wait. He tried to shrug because Josh hadn’t specified what ‘this’ meant, but since one of his arms was swung across his friend’s shoulders and he was still disoriented from being thrust to the harsh brightness of the dusk, all it did was nearly causing him to lose his balance and faceplant on the pavement. Luckily Josh was there to hold him, and they stumbled through a nearly-empty campus until they hit the front gate of the school where North was waiting for them leaning against a car with their bags in her arms, the vehicle a big boxy thing that looked like it could carry a big family with no problem. Just one more city thing that North - or at least, North’s family - possessed.

‘Do I even want to know?’ Josh asked as he stopped by the gate. 

‘You,’ she transferred all the bags onto one arm and pointed at Simon, ‘are not walking all the way back to that lighthouse and you,’ the finger was now directed at Josh, ‘are coming with us. I’m driving.’

‘Since when did you learn how to drive?’

‘I didn’t skip classes for fun.’

Josh turned towards Simon. ‘It’s up to you.’

He indicated the car wearily with his chin without any hesitation. He had never seen North drive before and therefore had no idea how skilful she was, but he was so tired and ready to go home that the prospect of just having to… sit there while others bring him home was more attractive than he had ever thought it would be. Car sickness might be a problem, though, because he rarely had to be on a moving vehicle, but Josh was already fastening his seatbelt for him when he came to, so it wasn’t like he could change his mind anymore. North climbed into the front seat and ignited the engine, the rumble reminding him of the argument that would no doubt take place at home, and suddenly he didn’t want to go back at all. There was another place he would much rather be. Blinking his heavy eyelids open, he flipped open his dictionary and told his friends, [do - not - take - me - home]

Josh might have frowned. Simon wasn’t sure. ‘Simon, I don’t think -’

‘Whatever you say,’ he couldn’t decipher the look North gave him before she turned around and placed her hands on the wheel. ‘Want me to take you to the beach?’

Markus?

I’ll be there.

He nodded, and that was the last thing he knew before the car accelerated and he was lulled into a shallow sleep.

o0o0o

When Simon came to, he discovered that he had been laid sideways on the back seat and was covered by a scratchy blanket. Disgusted by the texture, he swatted the thing away from his body and threw it to the front seat to get it away from his body as far as possible without outright abandoning it onto the ground, and then realised that the car doors on both sides were open to let in the soft, cool breeze of the ocean. North seemed to have parked the car on the beach directly, because on one side was a few metres of sand before it gave way to the road, and the other side was also sand, except he could also see the ocean lapping the shore. There were two chairs blocking his way, but when he leant forward to see if they were nailed into the ground or just placed there, North and Josh shifted their seats to give him the space to get out of the car. He carefully stepped out with both hands on the canvas chairs on each side and somehow managed to land on the sand without tripping on the big steps between the ground and the car’s floor. At this side of the beach, he couldn’t see the setting sun because it was in the wrong direction; it also meant that he wasn’t assaulted by the bright light, which he was grateful for after today’s incident. Losing control was the last thing he needed.

He took a few steps towards the sea before remembering Markus’ promise, and when he turned around, he saw Markus lounging with his legs crossed in yet another folding chair next to Josh further away from the car’s door, his upper body now (regretfully) covered by a black tank top, sipping a blue energy drink from a bottle dripping wet with condensation. Then he noticed that all of his friends (and one more than friend) were barefoot, so he took off his shoes and socks as well, glad that the constraints were gone and he could sink his toes into the soft sand. 

‘Want some soup?’ North asked with a tilt of her head. ‘I’ve got some in the trunk. Canned, of course, and room temperature, but we’ve got water and a stove as well.’

In the distance was the lighthouse he called home, and in the dim light of the dusk, he could faintly make out the light spilling out of the windows but not the people living there. His twin brother hadn’t come to find him yet and it was long past the time where people would remain at school - regardless if they had gone into trouble that day - so he must be at home because there was nowhere to go, the meagre and dwindling number of shops in the village having been closed for the night. Josh had said something about how it was getting more and more expensive to operate a store with less and less revenue due to people leaving the village for big cities, but Simon hadn’t exactly been listening, and the fact that he remembered this much surprised him. So he nodded, stole Josh’s chair when he and North stood up to retrieve something from the back of the car, clumsily scooted both his body and the chair closer to Markus so that he could lay his head on his shoulder and force his leg across one of Markus’ so that he could half-sit on his lap. With Markus’ arm around his shoulders, it was surprisingly comfortable. The sea wordlessly held the bottle in front of Simon in an invitation to take a sip himself, but he declined, recalling the overwhelming sweetness of the energy drink and the sleepless night he had had after Daniel had persuaded him to try half a can, and Markus downed the last of the blue drink in a few seconds, the movements of his throat as mesmerising as it was distracting. Sweet, was Markus’ comment after he tossed the bottle to the backseat of the car. It’s not something we have in the ocean, but I don’t dislike it.

You won’t be able to sleep tonight, Simon warned.

I don’t need it.

North and Josh re-emerged from the back of the car with the things they needed for an impromptu dinner, and the latter only spared them a look before shaking his head and squatting a few metres in front of the car so that they had enough space to set up the stove and keep the food they would cook near themselves. Four large cans of ready-to-eat soup of different flavours - just enough for four teenagers’ dinner. 

‘Which one do you want?’ Josh asked as he unpacked the utensils while North started setting up the stove. ‘And you too, uh -’

Markus cleared his throat. ‘Markus,’ he said slowly as if he wasn’t used to speaking. Then, as if finally realising that he could say his own name, he repeated, this time standing up, ‘My name is Markus.’

They tried to stay out of North and Josh’s way as they read the labels on the cans, , but they stopped once they realised that the other two were actually working around them and therefore needed no accommodations. The four soups were BBQ pork, broccoli cheese with potatoes, spicy beef, and chicken and corn. He could go for the broccoli or corn, but since he wanted Markus to have a choice, he turned his attention towards him. Which one would you like?

Markus picked up the can of spicy beef soup. I have little reference on what they taste like, but I would like to try this one. It looks… promising.

Only if you like spicy food. Does it have spicy food where you live?

We have everything.

Simon therefore tapped the top of the broccoli cheese to indicate his preference, knowing that he was the only one among them who actually liked the vegetable, and while he scrambled to return to his chair before his legs fell asleep from squatting, Markus stuck close to the two humans, helping them retrieve a pot of water from the sea before watching North start the fire and Josh open the can of broccoli cheese potato and placing the can into the pot so that they could heat the soup up. Then it was North, Josh, and Simon’s turn to watch in equal measures of horror and fascination as the can of soup nearly toppled over from the boiling water just to be held in place by Markus with his bare hands. 

He didn’t even flinch from the heat.

‘Well that’s handy,’ North commented at last. ‘It isn’t hurting you or anything, is it?’

A shake of his head.

‘Then help me hold it, will you? I’ll stir the soup so that it heats up evenly.’

Markus’ grip on the can was steady as North did exactly as she said she would with a metal spoon with a plastic handle, and not long afterwards the soup was simmering and letting out a steady column of steam. Taking the can out of the pot, Markus placed it in the middle of the towel Josh was holding before the latter wrapped the fabric around it and secured the towel on the can with a rubber band as insulation, and then he handed it to Simon together with the spoon. ‘You first,’ he said. ‘You deserve it after today.’

Simon accepted the canned soup with a nod of thanks but couldn’t bring himself to eat it. With Markus now helping North and Josh heat up the rest of the soup at the same time, he was left alone to his own device, and suddenly the task of bringing the spoon to his mouth seemed too daunting right now, the warmth seeping into his cold palms through the towel not encouraging him to let go by one bit. He watched as Markus dipped both his hands into the boiling water to keep all three cans steady while North and Josh stirred the soup, kept the ones in the pot safe with one hand while taking out the BBQ pork for North, then the chicken and corn for Josh, and at last, the spicy beef for himself. They all picked their seat afterwards: Josh in the chair originally occupied by North, North between Josh and Simon on the step of the car, Markus back to his seat by Simon’s side. There must be something on Simon’s face, because when they turned around and took a look at him, expressions that he had learnt to associate with worry appeared on their faces, and Markus draped his arm around his shoulders once more, kissing his temple lightly and not pulling back. What’s wrong?

The desire to eat was suddenly back, and he raised a spoonful of soup to his mouth and gave it a few blows before putting it into his mouth. Guess I just don’t want to eat alone.

Although it didn’t feel entirely like the truth, he could think of no alternative to what he was feeling and therefore decided to push it aside for now, and for the next few minutes they ate quietly, the air filled with nothing but the clank (but never scrape) of metal spoons against the cans, the wet squelch of the ingredients when they dug their spoon into the soup, and the low but tolerable buzz of the lamp after North brought it out for more light because the sun had finally set. They drank from the same two-litre bottle of store-bought water so that there was a minimal amount of clutter.

Simon was barely through one-fourth of his soup when North was already finished with hers and she dug around the back of the car once more to retrieve a rubbish bag and tossing her can inside, but he was warier of her expression than anything else. He clutched his soup tighter.

‘So…’ North raised an eyebrow, ‘when did you meet?’

Simon shoved a scoop of soup into his mouth so that he didn’t have to respond. And to be fair, he didn’t know how to answer her question either; was she asking about the first time they made contact, which was way back before she even met him, or was it the first time he met Markus in his physical form, which was a few years back, on the day she gave him his first pair of noise-cancelling headphones? He hated unspecific questions because he usually couldn’t. Luckily Markus answered for him.

‘If you’re talking about our souls,’ it was the slow, steady tone again, one that Simon discovered that he could listen to all day and fall asleep to, ‘we have been intertwined since before the beginning; if you’re talking about our minds, it will be more than a decade ago when Simon -’ he gave Simon’s shoulder a squeeze - ‘offered me his first gift.’ He stared at Josh. ‘You were there, remember?’

Josh licked his spoon. Then his eyes widened. ‘That voice was you? You nearly drowned me!’

Markus’ smile was sheepish. ‘I… apologise,’ he placed his soup in the space between his legs and scratched the spot behind his ear. ‘My control on my powers wasn’t as good back then. I was… excited… to greet my other half.’

My other half, these three words echoed in Simon’s mind as he slowly finished the cooling soup, and he snuggled closer to Markus for warmth when the night chill started to pick up. Knowing that they were made for each other was one thing, but hearing him admit it in front of Simon’s best friends… he felt fuzzy despite the day he had had. Are they still interrogating you? he asked through their connection after he finally finished his soup.

They are very curious indeed, so yes, but right now their focus seems to be shifting towards our relationship. North seems to believe that we are married in ‘underwater’ terms even though I told her multiple times that it does not exist, and Josh only seems embarrassed and just wants to leave.

Simon looked at the water bottle laid with its cap hazardously close to the sand, then the stove which fire had been extinguished some time ago, then finally at the cold, empty can he was still holding with both hands and realised that the warmth was from Markus’ hand placed on top of his, and the weight of the day suddenly dropped on top of him, threatening to suffocate him, to drown him. Maybe we should.

Alright. 

They packed up, Josh taking care of the stove, North making sure that they got all the rubbish in the rubbish bag, Simon folding up the cutlery in a towel and fastening it with a rubber band before handing it to North, and Markus folding up the chairs and loading them to the back of the car together with the lamp. And for a moment the four of them stood there unsure what to do next, and Josh realised the problem they had.

‘Are you going home?’ he asked. ‘I mean, we’re probably a few hundred metres away from your house, but it’s nighttime and I don’t think we have a torch to spare.’

Simon thought of the argument that was no doubt going on, of a tense atmosphere that only served to make him feel more trapped in his own home, of big changes and decisions being made without him. He shouldn’t go back, not when his family would only drag him down. 

He shook his head.

‘So you’re going with Markus?’ it was North’s turn to ask.

He tilted his head upwards so that he could gaze at Markus’ face. Please?

Markus kisses his forehead. Of course.

Simon nodded at North, and she climbed into the car after giving his arm a pat that could mean anything from goodbye to good luck. Josh gave him a hug. ‘You know where I live if you need to find me,’ he said. Then he entered the car as well, but it wasn’t until it disappeared into the distance inland that Markus led him into the ocean, into the cave he carved out just for him, laying him on soft, warm sand and holding him from behind while he succumbed to the weight of the day in a dreamless slumber.

Everything else could wait.

[c-estmabiologie]

this wilting world you’ve wed

Friends and strangers, I’m shaking off the moss to say that Jamie the Gardener absolutely wrecked me and so I had to emotionally decompress with a character study because I love to cry.

circa 1984 & 1998 (-ish)

Also on AO3

Then

Every person has got a story, whether that story gets told or not.

This is a story about a gardener.

As one would expect (or at least hope), plants were easy for the gardener. Plants would tell her when they were in need and it was never all that difficult for her to suss out what they were asking of her. Leaves would wilt and brown and she would know that they wanted watering. Spots would appear and she’d know to search out some source of rot. She could tell when to replant, when to find a sunnier spot, and when to take cuttings. She could coax vigor into the saddest houseplants left to curl into husks next to greeting cards and tabloid mags at the grocers’; she encouraged lilies leaning on shiny plastic picks that read “Congratulations” to hold themselves up by their own strength; she freed African violets from the crackle of cellophane and they would bloom in endless gratitude.

The au pair would bring them home, too, and treat them like puzzles for the gardener to solve. Their apartment became a garden over weeks and months and years. It was never as elegant and manicured as the lawns and hedges of the gardens where they’d first met, but it was a garden nonetheless, tended and tender. Ferns and pothos crowded sills and shelves and countertops.

More than once a day the gardener found herself sweeping potting soil off of surfaces and into her palm like so many crumbs.

“I don’t know about that one,” said the gardener one day, when the au pair came home with a particularly wild-looking ivy tucked into a plastic bag. It had been collected from who-knows-where (a ditch, as it would turn out).

“That one looks invasive.”

But the au pair was insistent.

“So we won’t let it outside,” she said. “I think it deserves as much of a chance as any other plant.”

The gardener relented, as she always would when the au pair asked for something (and she so seldom asked for anything).

The ivy, of course, flourished under the gardener’s care and, as she’d suspected, it was dissatisfied with keeping to itself. It would send tendrils to visit its neighbours. It would bury itself into their dirt and threaten to strangle other, much more polite plants, by their roots. The gardener almost didn’t catch it before it claimed its first, but she did manage to, if not tame it, at least keep it away from her personal favourites. If she sighed and grumbled over the ivy, then she made sure to do it when the au pair wasn’t in the room. Mostly.

Before

“You seem young.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I decided my youth was worth wasting.”

And with that there was a hitch in the conversation. Neither of them seemed to have a problem with each other, as far as the gardener could tell, but they both seemed to have a problem with interviews. The housekeeper seemed the meticulous sort with so many priorities constantly rising up and falling down a ranked list in her mind (to her credit, that last remark hadn’t seemed to put her off the gardener as a job candidate). For the gardener, this format recalled every time she’s had to sit in a chair before authority. The gardener hooked the toe of her boot around a chair leg and watched the housekeeper smooth her skirt out (unnecessarily, the skirt was perfectly kept) with her hands.

It struck the gardener then that the housekeeper was a striking woman. She wasn’t sure why this should surprise her. After all, the gardener wasn’t a tottering old bloke in galoshes like gardeners in storybooks, so why shouldn’t a housekeeper be beautiful?

When she was asked to explain why she was suited for the job, there was so much that the gardener couldn’t say, no matter how honestly she felt it. She knew better than to answer that she’d already decided that the job was as good as hers. She’d already paid a deposit on a little flat above a pub in the village. She’d even bought a plant for the windowsill. A calathea for new beginnings. For the gardener, this was where her story could start. No prologue necessary.

She couldn’t say that she could see the ritual of returning every morning, the house like a touchstone, to tend to things that were hers alone to tend to. The house would be asleep except for her. Just her and the mist that would curl up off the pond and around her ankles.

The gardener had gone so much of her life so far nomadic and unrooted by her choice, and just as often uprooted against her will. Here she felt she might be able to settle into herself a little.

There was a time not so long ago when the very idea of standing still would set the gardener’s feet in motion. In a way it was that same fear that had sent her here, to a village far enough away from, well, far enough from every place that had left her with scars and brick-bruised knuckles and the notion that she was a problem. Since coming to Bly she’d told herself that she was better now at understanding what she could handle until it had felt like truth. By the time she'd found her feet crunching up the path to the manor, she’d begun telling herself that she was sure that she could handle anything.

“Well, for one, you need a gardener. I can tell you’ve been without one for more than a few seasons,” was what she said instead.

“I took a little walk around before it was time to meet. Lots of ferns and old roses. Lovely stuff. But the roses haven’t been pruned in a long time and you could be getting far more blooms with a little tending. I might have to cut a few right to the ground to wake them up. Some of the other plants have gone leggy.

”It’ll take a lot of work to bring these grounds back, and I’ve got a lot of work in me.”

The housekeeper didn’t ask why the gardener’s previous work was odd jobs scattered across so many counties that it looked like she’d hung up a map in a pub and thrown a fistful of darts at it to build her resume. The housekeeper didn’t ask why the only reference the gardener could cough up was a coordinator from a youth rehabilitation programme (the gardener hadn’t spoken to the coordinator for a few years by then. She hoped that she was still at the same place and that she had good things to say, if she remembered the gardener at all).

Instead, the housekeeper looked at the gardener, really looked at her, and said:

“Yes. I believe you.”

Then

The gardener could spend hours removing dead leaves from plants, pulling them gently away with her fingers or pruning them when they weren’t quite ready to let go. For her, it was more than the simple satisfaction of clearing death away to make room for blooms. The gardener understood that dead leaves still draw energy. The plant will work just as hard to sustain what’s dead as new buds and leaflings. Pulling away the dead parts frees the plant to focus on living. That’s all customers cared about when they entered the shop: plants that seemed to be effortlessly brimming with life. They didn’t realize the work that went into it.

Under it all the gardener suspected that people weren’t so different from plants in that way. The trouble with people was that they tended to shield their hurt. They cupped their hands around it and held it close, as if something worse might happen if another person saw. Time and experience had granted her a practiced eye for the subtler signs of human pain. Heartbeat-quick hesitations. Disconnected gazes. Tensed fingers and unspoken words. People weren’t so different from plants, but plants were undoubtedly easier.

The gardener envied plants for their simple existence. She tried to be pragmatic, but she was no different from any other person. She carefully guarded her own anger and hurt (she was so fucking angry and there was nothing to fight) and set them aside, with the briefest nods of acknowledgement, to make room for another’s burden (it was never a burden, not really. She had never met hurt that she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to carry alongside her own). A heart was only four chambers after all, and the gardener would pack them full of everything that the au pair was afraid to feel if she could.

Sometimes the gardener caught herself wishing for the past, a different past, a version of their story where everything was exactly the same except that there was no darkness crouched inside the au pair. On days off she  took herself to the library and pored over microfiche. She made calls to strangers, recommended to her by the cook, trying to piece together a history that had gotten itself tangled up with theirs. She wished to understand, as if understanding might yield a different future. A future that wasn’t a slow and inevitable erosion of days.

But these wishes weren’t practical. They were snatching away minutes and hours. Her only option was to move forward. Each day felt won, perhaps unfairly, a watched pot and all that (the gardener never cared for the expression, but she did regard it nonetheless with a spirit of helpless hopefulness). If she was watchful, nothing might come to pass.

Before

Time passed in that inexorable way that was time’s habit. The gardener pulled her boots on before dawn, and she had hair tangled with sweat and dew, clothes and skin streaked with dirt by the time she found herself in the kitchen sharing tea with the cook and the housekeeper and the family if they were about. It wasn’t happiness, exactly, but it was comfortable. Whatever the gardener was caught in, it didn’t feel like forever, but it had a strange gravity that held her in place.

No, that wasn’t quite right. The manor had a strange push and pull, like a magnet flipping over, or the moon fickly pushing the tide and pulling it back on a tether.

That wasn’t it either.

It was like cigarettes. Like perhaps Bly might not be all that great for her health. And it didn’t exactly leave a pleasant taste. But if she was gone too long, she felt an itch to go back and dig her hands into it and if she didn’t pay attention she’d be into her second pack by noon. At this point in her life, the gardener felt few stakes in being tied to something that might be slowly burning days off of her time on Earth, but she admitted to herself that she did breathe more easily when she dropped off in her own bed each night. The housekeeper had sold her home to live on the grounds. The gardener understood the choice, but she couldn’t imagine it for herself. She didn’t have any reason powerful enough to keep her beyond the sun’s setting. It was too dark then for her to do her work.

She couldn’t place why she felt this way. After all, the family was darling and they fully lived at the manor. They treated her like an old friend and left her alone to do what she wished with the grounds. The children were good in that they were children who demanded nothing of her. She was an audience to their games and storytelling, and they gave her space without her having to ask.

Even so, she managed to carve out secret spaces, something assuredly hers and hers alone (she knew it couldn’t ever really be hers. Besides nature having no owner, the grounds were hers to nurture and nothing more). She found a spot near the edge of the property that was left wild and forested. It was a spot where she allowed herself to just exist. It was a spot where she could be lonely except for the tender night-blooming vines she exhaustively grew from seed every spring.

Then

Were the gardener to rewrite her story, it would go something like this:

There was once a gardener. She’d felt many things before she was lucky enough to feel love. She’d had more than a few regrets in her life, and she’d lost so much, but she never did lose that feeling of love once she’d found it.

Her story, stripped of details and evaporated to its essence, would be a love story.

But the truth was that the gardener would never want to rewrite her story. She knew that one day when she would do the washing up, the memory of shattered ceramic would be a monument. Every reflection would someday recall those first nervous touches and kisses so many years ago. Until then, she would comfort herself with the weight and warmth of the au pair asleep next to her, the reassurance that she was still there. Forgetting any moment felt like a betrayal. If anything, she felt like she should remember everything doubly, a copy to keep, and one to telegraph through her fingertips as they brushed along the au pair’s skin (memorizing this, too). Reminders for them both.

[emy-loves-you]

Sanders Sides AU-gust Day 26: Monster Hunter

In a world where monsters are real yet seen as myth, Virgil is a hunter witch, meaning that he acts as a bridge between humans and nonhumans. It is a witch's job to help benevolent entities and kill malevolent ones. When Virgil accidentally becomes a target, his friend suggests that he rents out his extra rooms to draw off suspicion, since hunters tend to live alone. Virgil didn’t mean to get three monsters for roommates. Virgil POV. Hunter!Witch!Virgil, Shapeshifter!Logan, Werewolf!Patton, Mermaid!Roman

TW: Major Injury, Major Blood Loss (Nothing Explicit)

Day 25 | Masterlist | Day 27

Virgil hissed under his breath as he stumbled through the front door, his hand pressed against his side to help stem the blood flow. He hurried through the house, almost falling over as his vision swam. As soon as he reached the kitchen, Virgil felt his knees give out. He braced himself on the counter, searching through the cabinets.

“C’mon… Dammit, where is it? I swear to- oh, thank god.”

Virgil’s fingers wrapped around a small green bottle with an eyedropper for a stopper. Virgil removed the dropper with shaky hands and used it to carefully apply it to his wound. The drops burned against his skin, but Virgil grit his teeth and kept going. Eventually, The wound stopped bleeding and began to close on its own. Virgil put away the drops and pulled out a new bottle, a large brown bottle with the label: blood replenish. He took out a measuring cup and poured the right amount before downing the drink in one gulp. The drink was extremely bitter and Virgil resisted the urge to spit it out. Virgil stood there for several minutes, gasping for breath as he slowly recovered from bloodloss.

Once Virgil knew he could walk without falling over, he took notice of his surroundings. He went ahead and shut the door, not wanting to let any bugs in. He then went about cleaning up the bottles and bloodstains that he had just created.

Bzzz!Bzzz!Bzzz!

Virgil sighed before answering the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, Virge! How was your mission?”

Virgil groaned. “God awful. The Vampires had apparently made a pact with the local Wendigo. It was a massacre. I had to kill half of the Vampires before they would give me the time of day.”

There was a sigh on the other end. “There’s been a spike of magic all around your area. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Virgil sighed. “They tried to use my blood for a ritual. It didn’t work, but my blood and magic were being flushed out of me for a few hours. I had to take some phoenix tears and a blood replenisher.”

“... You know what that means, right?”

Virgil groaned. “That ever nonhuman in the area knows that there’s an injured witch hiding amongst them? Yeah, I know.” Virgil flopped down on the couch, ignoring the pain he got from doing so. “I can’t leave this place. I’ve gotta keep tabs on the dragon 20 miles north, and this house is covered with my wards. If any malevolent creature with a magical affinity were to enter this house after I move out, I’d be dead by morning.”

There was a pause. “Maybe you don’t have to.”

Virgil frowned. “What crazy idea do you have this time?”

“Okay, hear me out. Your blood and magic are now extremely detectable, so you need a way to mask your magic and scent. It’s also extremely uncommon to see a witch to live with anyone other than their coven, and your house is really big-”

Virgil started to grow impatient. “What are you rambling on about?”

“Just rent out your spare rooms!”

“...What?”

“Humans could help mask your scent and draw off suspicion! The only thing better than that would be non-human roommates, but there aren’t many benevolent non-humans in the area. But yeah, humans! The more the better! Then you can keep your house without drawing attention to yourself!”

Virgil was about to argue before pausing. “That… might work.”

The voice on the other end grew smug. “Of course it’ll work. It’s MY idea!”

Virgil huffed out a laugh. “Yeah,  yeah, whatever. I’ll have to move all of my witchy stuff to the basement, but then I’ll send out an ad for new roommates. I’ll call you after I get the ad out.”

“Hear you then, Virge!”

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

Virgil sighed as he finished cleaning the living room. It had only been three weeks since Virgil sent out the ad requesting for roommates, and he already had all three roommates selected and ready to move in. It seemed like luck was finally on his side.

Virgil sighed his fingers brushed against the wallpaper, where he knew that several dozen intricate runes lay. This house had originally belonged to a witch who would rehabilitate and offer shelter to injured nonhumans. The house itself had dozens of accommodations for different types of creatures, from a lack of dangerous elements, to the saltwater and freshwater pools in the backyard, to the basement used to contain nonhumans that could potentially harm themselves or others. After the witch had died, his son, who had no magical affinity, immediately sold the house. After a few years of humans, the house eventually ended up in Virgil’s possession. Virgil was lucky that most of the house had remained untouched due to the anti-human wards. Sadly, Virgil had to deactivate most of those wards in order to decrease suspicion and allow his roommates to explore the house without hindrance.

Knock knock knock

Virgil quickly moved over to the door, opening it wide. The man on the other side was tall and lanky, with dark hair and pale skin. His black angular glasses framed his dark blue eyes perfectly. He wore a black polo, jeans, dress shoes and a dark blue tie.

“Salutations.” The man said, adjusting his glasses. “You must be Virgil Storm. My name is Logan Croft, one of your new roommates.”

Virgil nodded, ushering the man inside. “Yeah, it’s nice to see you in person instead of video calls.”

Logan nodded. “Agreed. My things should arrive within the hour. Which room is mine?” Virgil quickly led Logan upstairs, making sure to point out the upstairs bathroom before opening the door to Logan’s room. Logan studied the room before nodding. “This should be amenable. I assume we’ll be talking once the others arrive? I would like to have some time to myself until then.”

Virgil nodded. “Of course, man! I’ll be downstairs until then.”

It took around 20 minutes for the other two roommates to arrive. Patton Heart and Roman Knight arrived at almost the same time. Patton was short and chubby, with smatters of freckles and curly blond hair. He had round wired glasses and bright blue eyes. He wore a sky blue polo with khakis, old trainers, and a light grey cardigan wrapped around his shoulders. Roman was taller than Virgil, but not as tall as Logan, with darker skin and well-defined muscles. His hair was bright red (most likely dyed) and his green eyes sparkled. He wore a white dress shirt and pants, with a red jacket and red tennis shoes.

Virgil quickly led the two men inside and showed them their rooms upstairs. He then went to his room, getting ready for the awkward conversation that was bound to ensue. They would probably go over house rules, personal pet peeves and quirks, and overall information about each other. Virgil had already prepared himself for any question he could think of, knowing how difficult it was for him to lie on the spot. Virgil didn’t want to lie, but he couldn’t really say, “I’m a witch that helps benevolent entities and kills malevolent entities,” could he? No, no he could not.

Virgil was going over what he was going to say, when he saw a light go off in the corner of his vision. Virgil frowned, turning towards his desk. /he had deactivated most of his wards, so none of them should be going off, unless-

Virgil gasped as he looked at the glowing runes. Five of the runes were glowing, four of them representing that a nonhuman was in his house. One of those four represented Virgil himself, serving as a base to make sure it was working. The fifth rune showed that Virgil was the only witch in the house. But the other three glowing runes…

None of my roommates are human.

[hillbillyoracle]

Rebooting My Practice

This is going to be pretty rambly, but I always get a lot out of these posts when other people make them so I wanted to make one too.

I hit a point earlier this year, as I started to really see what all astrology could be, when I knew I was going to need to overhaul pretty much my entire practice. For the last decade, I've focused on divination; on doing activities that sharpen my intuition, following up and checking predictions, tracking cards and results to better understand the connection, etc. I did this primarily in the service of my main deity, the Morrigan.

I still work with her, but I'm in a lurch as to how to continue my work with her. I have yet to quite figure out how to balance her general distaste for shrines (with me at least) and deepening my relationship with her in the absence of local folks to read for as I've relied on for years (thanks COVID). I've been praying the Catholic Rosary lately as a way to deepen my relationship with the Virgin Mary and the Saint I'm petitioning lately and I feel her kind of peering in when I do that so I might have to design one for her. I have a feeling whatever I come up with will likely be in a free zine rather than a blog post at some point.

But where that left me was in this weird abyss, where the only really solid things in my practice were like 3 deities (The Morrigan, Hermes, Yinepu/Anubis) I worked with regularly and tarot cards. I think for plenty of people that's fine but I wanted something deeper and more effective. It was around the time that I was rethinking everything that I stumbled on to this post about a magical routine that absolutely enthralled me. It took me another month and ultimately moving house altogether to even begin to piece something together that would set me on the road to something like this. I knew I was not ready but I finally had a picture in my mind something to work towards. Like rehabilitating after an injury, sometimes you've got to do half as much as you think you can before you really take off.

So I wanted to take some time and talk about the way my practice is changing and what the new pillars are slowly emerging to be.

Planetary Petitions

While I don't have the Orphic Hymns for each of the 7 classical planets memorized yet as per the post, I started by doing planetary prayers more days than I do not do them. Thanks to my truly godawful downstairs neighbor at the new place, who's floor shaking door slams throughout the whole night have netted me an average of 3 hours a night, I'm usually up for the first planetary hour of a given day. Hey maybe it's a sign, a big universal push to show the fuck up.

I'm also incredibly lucky I loaded up on some planetary incenses right before COVID when a local store had a huge sale. It's proved well worth it as above all I try to get the planetary incense right, though I did have to default to a Frankincense one when we were first moving in.  I slowly feel like I'm beginning to understand the planetary spirits better but only slightly. I completely see why memorizing the prayer is recommended and I do feel that's standing in the way of me being closer with them.

I have not noticed a huge difference when I petition them truthfully. I get the vibe that it takes time to build up that relationship. Though I'm open to input here - for those who do planetary petitions, what made them click for you?

Saint Veneration + Christian Magic

One thing I put off for many years, though I knew it was coming, was working with more Saints. I knew it'd likely involve having to dip back into Christianity to make it work and I was completely right.

As my partner began revisiting her Catholic roots earlier this year, it got me curious about things like the Rosary, the Chaplet, and Novenas. I was raised charismatic fundamentalist Christian as a child and such things were explicitly forbidden. I remember getting a long talking to when I'd taken to reading about Sainte Jeanne d'Arc. So they aren't loaded for me the way they are for others, but they’re situated in this fundamentally familiar context that makes them feel like meeting a cool branch of the family you didn't realize existed.

I'm finishing a Novena to a Saint I've been praying to in the next few weeks. I am admittedly not as close with her as I'd like to be. I'm trying to figure out how to move forward with her as I'd really like to have her in my life. I will probably reach back out to Sainte Jeanne d'Arc as she's always felt familiar and been good to me. I also keep her prayer card and medallion in my wallet and have for many years so maybe there's more to build from there. It is my goal to have about 3 saints/Christian figures I can call on when I need help. I'm thinking of approaching Mary Undoer of Knots next but I'm worried it'll follow the same path as this current saint.

My partner and I bought Rosaries back in May and I absolutely love it. I've been saying at least a 5 decade rosary for most days but I'm regularly getting in a 15 decade rosary. I really love it and am totally convinced of the beauty and effectiveness of the system. I've come to understand Christianity in a totally different light through praying it regularly.

So that is on going and evolving and I'd love to hear from people who've cultivated close relationships with a Saint or Angel.

Ancestors

One thing that working with Christianity again has made easier is praying to ancestors. I've often felt a bit at odds with my own ancestors as they were not the most supportive of trans and queer people (and I am both of those) but in coming back to Christianity has given me and my ancestors a common language almost. As long as my disagreement with them over my attraction and gender identity is rooted in the Bible, it's been easier to work with them.

It's very early days with ancestor work. I'm slowly working my way through Ancestral Healing by Daniel Foor. But I'm feeling very heartened by it. I saw a post on twitter somewhere, if I can find it again I'll link it, where someone said that the way they started working with their ancestors was just thanking them everyday. And thanking my ancestors is complicated for me, my family like most have their own issues that also go passed on, but thanking them for what I am glad they gave me has been really beneficial.

My partner requested some divination from me when some of her medical issues were starting to get worse and part of the reading involved a strong push for her to investigate her father's side of the family. She got really into genealogy in the process and she's been teaching me a lot. Through that I actually learned my great grandfather's name for the first time - yes that's how out of touch I am with my own family history. But I was thankful to find out.

Through her own research, my partner found out that that branch of her family likely isn't German but actually German speaking Hungarians which was a revelation. She's in the process of confirming but it got us talking about foods and identity and language and how to honor our ancestors more regularly. We're going to try making a nice dinner on Full Moons with dishes that are tied to branches of our family as a way to trying to cultivate a closer relationship with them. I'll definitely update on that as it evolves.

Conclusion + Some Thoughts on Disability

I'm definitely still in the early days of all of this. It's not become quite the foundation I hope it will be yet. I still need to figure out how to continue and deepen my deity relationships. I still need to attempt some different types of spellwork I've been meaning to. And while I didn't talk about it much here, astrology has been playing a huge role in my practice but mostly in a passive way. More of that divination process I talked about in the beginning where I make predictions based on the charts I'm seeing and then double check my work.

I’ve been doing all this while in the thick of a bad flare. Moving plus lack of sleep as meant my disability has been weighing so much harder on me lately. Normally when I’m feeling well enough, I kind of roll my eyes at a lot of the “spoonie witchcraft” posts I see, but for some reason with this flare they just started making me angry and I’m still trying to parse why. I think I just feel like so many are rooted in this performative idea of “feeling” witchy rather than actually helping me with my disability. They aren’t usually focused on practices that either actually treat the pain I’m in or bring my spirit real comfort. 

I’m really hoping to put together a post or possibly a zine that does provide what I always wanted those posts to be. Honestly these pillars here have proven accessible even as I’ve been in some of the worst pain I’ve been in in years. So for any fellow disabled folks who just aren’t getting much out of those posts, I really recommend starting with these. Recite the Orphic Hymn for the day in the corresponding hour. Pray the Rosary or an adapted set of prayers for Pagan prayer beads. Don’t have much money for those? Look up how to make knotted rosaries and adapt the method. Pray to your ancestors and give them some water and a bit to eat. These are doable for a lot of folks even when they’re in bad shape, especially if you take your time with it. Might not make you “feel witchy” but they do some fucking work, that’s for sure. But idk, those are just my thoughts on it. 

So it hasn't all fallen into place yet but I wanted to share what developing a practice looks like in medias res. It's messy, somethings work better than others, but all and all I'm just glad to finally be making meaningful progress again.

[blackaquokat]

The Song You Might Have Been (Chapter 2)

Link to Chapter 1

A/N: Fun fact, Legal Eagle used to be slang for “lawyer,” hence the DA’s nickname. 

You will also notice, this chapter, that I am taking blatant inspiration for a subplot from Shawshank Redemption. Because it is absolutely something my DA would do. And also, there is a scene here that I once wrote in response to a prompt. 

Anyway, thanks for the feedback so far, everyone! I appreciate it so much! 

Enjoy!

--

Apparently Yancy has set up a guard rotation for you at mealtimes in collaboration with his nightly watch. 

Today, instead of Jimmy the Pickle, a slim bearded man who introduces himself as Sparkles McGee (you’re curious about the story behind that nickname) joins you at your table. He’s a little more chatty than Jimmy was, constantly going on about the local prison gossip. Who is sleeping with who, which jobs are preferable, upcoming birthdays of inmates and guards. He doesn’t seem to expect any kind of response from you, which works out just fine, because you have nothing to contribute. This might be handy information to have in the future anyway.

When it’s yard time again, however, Sparkles splits off to his group of inmates at the corner. Just as you’re about to go spend another hour lost in thought or maybe doing some exercises, Sparkles comes back and drags you to his posse. 

He introduces them one by one: a young woman who looks simultaneously bored and ready to kill, “Tiny”; a younger man with a hisp of a goatee and mustache, “Bam-Bam”; a pale, lanky man with gears tattooed to his temple, “Heap-Ass”; and a larger bald man, “Shithole Hank.” The last one is apparently the man to go to for hooch wine, and every time you’re offered a sip, you make a hard pass. Your excuse is a preference for whiskey or lime and gin. In reality, you just haven’t gotten desperate enough for alcohol to drink it out of a toilet.

Once the introductions are made, you once again just sit back and listen as the crew converses amongst one another. With the amount of gossip you catch during that time, you manage to construct imaginary cases in your head where this evidence is used in support of various litigation lawsuits.

It’s a real eye-opener for you, how little of a life you had outside of work that this is the most you can come up with to occupy yourself outside of reading a book.

Speaking of…

“Is there a library here?” you ask during a short lull in the conversation.

The group blinks at you in sync. 

“Um.” Bam-Bam shakes his head. “There’s a book cart with a small selection, and a room about the size of a closet, but that’s about it.”

Your brow furrows. “Is this another case of Warden Murder-Slaughter’s ‘rehabilitation over punishment’ slogan falling flat on its face?”

Tiny snorts. Sparkles shrugs.  An idea forms in your mind.

“Um…” Shithole Hank leans towards Sparkles. “Should we be worried about that look in their eye?”

“Only if it gets us in trouble.”

You decide to ignore that exchange. “Would you guys like to have a proper library?”

This draws some intrigue from your companions. Tiny in particular looks interested in this proposal. 

“How the hell would you manage that?” Sparkles demands.

You cross your arms and try for a confident smile. “You don’t go through years of law school without learning how to figure out contracts and loopholes. If I can talk with the warden, I’d like to at least see what I can do.”

You cut off when you see the group staring behind you with wide eyes. You turn heel to see one of the guards looking you up and down. Rex, your mind supplies. This is Rex. 

“If you want the Warden,” Rex growls, “I can take you to him. But you gotta do something for me first.”

Shit.

----

“What do you mean youse done talked with the Warden?” Yancy demands when you stroll into the cell that evening.

“I wanted to ask him what steps I needed to take to get a bigger library implemented here,” you respond with absolutely no shame whatsoever. 

The meeting went surprisingly well. You’ve got a rough idea of how to go about this, now that you know what the problems are. Even better, you actually did find a copy of Murder on the Orient Express on the cart, so a double-win for the day. You crawl on top of the bedsheets and crack the novel open.

Yancy leaps down from the bunk and glares down at you. “And youse didn’t think to inform me of this plan of youse’s?”

You lift your brow without looking away from the book. “I didn’t think you’d be opposed to the idea of making your home a little more homey by having a more updated collection of books.”

“Of course not--”

“Then what’s the problem?” 

There’s a huff and a growl before Yancy climbs back into his bunk and falls into it more aggressively than necessary. You think that’s the end of it until his head pops down. “What makes you think youse can just waltz into here and demand youse’s luxuries?!”

Ah. Okay, you see where he’s coming from. 

You shut your book and set it down. “Look, I know I’m a prosecution lawyer, but I’m not completely heartless. Yes, I would like a larger collection of books, but don’t the rest of you want more to read too? You look like you’ve been here long enough to read all of those three times. I mean, Rex brought me to the warden in the first place just because he wants a better poetry collection to pick from. He asked for specific authors and poets.”

Yancy does not deny this. 

You continue, “Besides, just because you’re in prison doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to expand your horizons, literature-wise that is. I know books helped me growing up, imagine what they’ll mean to everyone in here.”

Yancy continues to stare at you, utterly baffled. “Youse quite the enigma, Eagle.”

“For...what? Caring?”

He shrugs. A weird sight to watch from someone who’s upside down. “Not for caring, per se. But more...the ‘doing’ part.” He disappears into his bunk again. “Here’s hopin’ it won’t be for nothin’.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think youse the first person to ask for more books, Eagle? There’s a reason that collection hasna been updated since the war. Nobody’s seen it through to the end. They gets discouraged.”

You purse your lips, fingers tapping against your book. “I would think you’d have realized from my reputation. I don’t quit.”

There’s a chuckle above you. A genuine one. “That’s what I’m countin’ on, Eagle.”

---

Yancy is right. There’s a reason the collection has barely grown since the prison opened up.

No one on the outside wants to fund the damn thing. 

That doesn’t stop you. You start writing letter after letter after letter to the state legislature asking (demanding and borderline threatening, really) for the funds needed to make a bigger library. Thanks to your work in the government, and after a quick phone call to Damien to confirm (while he also updates you on the progress on your case), you know exactly who to contact. It gives you something to do. Something really meaningful. It helps to pass the time and helps to keep from feeling helpless about your own situation. 

It also gets you a whole different kind of attention from the inmates.

After Week Two of your letter campaign, Tiny speaks up. You’ve started sitting with Yancy’s posse since they adopted you into their group outside of protection detail. “You really think you can get a library here?”

Seeing as Tiny has barely made a sound in your presence before, this takes you completely by surprise. As well as the rest of the table. You recover quickly. “That’s...what I’m hoping for.”

Tiny’s head ducks, her fingers tapping against one another. “Um...if you do…”

“Yeah?”

“Can we make requests?” she eventually blurts out. “For books we’d like? I mean, do you think we could get children’s books?”

You put down your fork and offer her your full attention. “Did you have a specific one in mind?”

“The Velveteen Rabbit.” Tiny tugs at her braid. “My grandmother used to read it to me.”

You’re overwhelmed with the sudden urge to protect Tiny with your life. Even if you’re pretty sure Tiny has killed at least three people since she was imprisoned and could absolutely kill you if she wanted to. “If that book isn’t included in any delivery we’re given, I will annoy the legislature until they do. Sound good?”

Tiny smiles at you. A small, genuine one. It renews your motivation and you end up writing two letters that evening, in preparation for the next time mail comes along. Next thing you know, other inmates (and even a few guards aside from Rex, much to your surprise) have requests for books they would like available.

Oddly enough, it’s the letter writing and the book requests that finally drive you to ask Yancy how you go about ordering contraband.

“What the hell do youse need contraband for?” He’s sitting cross-legged in the top bunk while you’re trying to draft your next letter on the slab sticking out from the opposite wall.

You hold up the golf pencil you’re using with frustration. “Because these are driving me up the wall. They are terrible. And the quality of the paper here is a nightmare too, it smudges way too easily.”

“So what? Youse want pen and paper?”

Your brow lifts. “That not a lethal enough order?”

Yancy’s smile is borderline feral in its delight. “Youse a lot more interesting than I thought you’d be, Eagle. The guy to go to is Heap-Ass. He’ll get you anything you want. For a price.”

You really don’t like that tone of his. “And? What’s the price?”

“Depends.”

“I don’t do sex favors. Or assassinations.”

“Nah, he’s not that twisted. It’ll either be a chore switch or cigarette packs, somethings in that nature, you know?”

You twirl your terrible pencil between your fingers, feeling a little more hopeful. “That I can definitely handle.”

---

You’ve always known, on an intellectual, common sense level, that prison brutality is absolutely a problem. It’s something you learned in law school from the professors who cared about teaching the kind of scenes law students would actually have to address in their lines of work.

It’s an entirely other experience to watch a rookie guard get too into his job and beat the shit out of a prisoner whose only crime was walking a little too close to the bastard.

Your gut instinct is to run forward and help, somehow. A stupid instinct that would have gotten you killed or at least tossed into the infirmary on a permanent basis had Yancy not grabbed your arm to stop you.

“Hold up there, Eagle.” He pulls you back, a glare fixed on the brutal scene before you. “No need for two of ours to ends up with broken wings, youse hear me?” 

You swallow back your righteous anger and force yourself to calm down. It’s not right, it’s not right, and the justice lawyer inside of you is itching to make it right somehow–-

Yancy must see your conflict and anger. He puts a hand on your shoulder and mutters into your ear, “No worries. Me and the others ain’t gonna let this stand. We’ve got our own system in place here.”

That night, you pretend to be asleep when you hear that rookie guard scream for help. You don’t look to see what happens, who does it, or how, and the next day, when the warden summons you to ask if you know anything to explain why the guard’s body was found in the laundry room, you tell him as much.

When you see Yancy later, he seems almost impressed at your lackadaisical reaction to what took place. “Thought you were all about the law, Eagle?”

You lean on the wall next to him and look out across the yard, watching the other inmates mingle together. “In the absence of the law, I’ll take what justice I can get.”

You can almost feel Yancy’s approval. “I can appreciate that.”

--

Link to Chapter 3 here!

Thank you for reading! Please relbog/comment! If you want to be tagged/untagged for the rest of this series or this pairing, please leave a message in my inbox!

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[kessielrg]

[DA+KH] Bashful

Summary: Inspired by @chibi-mushroom‘s Dragon Age AU for the Kingdom Hearts series, in which Anora (OC/KHUX Player stand-in) meets a mysterious Orlesian merchant named Brain and the duo immediately hit it off. [established Ephemer/OC][hinted Brain/OC][pre Act 1 of Dragon Age 2]

Rating: K+

Word Count: 2,015 words

If you like this story, please reblog!

-

Walking alone in Lowtown gave Anora goosebumps. No small wonder, really, what with her being a woman, and a mage, and being about the right size to simply snatch up without a second glance. She had learned by now to keep her coin in a small burlap sack, wrapped tightly around her wrist and close to her body at all times. If worse came to worse, she could use it as a makeshift weapon.

Every hawker shouting to draw attention to their pop up shops made her flinch. It was almost too loud. It was never this noisy in the Circle, and it had been even quieter at the rehabilitation retreat Ephemer had been admitted to for awhile. At least she could still be fairly invisible in Lowtown- assuming no one tried to kidnap her first. Anora did her best to avoid most of the noise. She eventually found herself at a modest stall that held some basic supplies on offer.

The young woman bit her lower lip as she looked over the potions and wares for sale. She didn't notice that the seller of these items was arranging a few more expensive items in the back. She didn't hear the sound of an odd mewling from something inside the stall, drawing the attention of the stall's proprietor. Anora still barely registered when he came to the front of the stall, looking her over without a hint of bias.

“Is there anything I can interest you with, madam?”

Despite being a gentle, warm voice, Anora nearly jumped three feet in the air. She looked up at the merchant with wide, terrified eyes. She was greeted with gentle ones staring right back at her. No shame, no judgment, just a genuine curiosity.

“Oh, no, no.” the young woman stammered, backing a little away from the stall. Her face was starting to grow hot. Why was she blushing? She wasn't that embarrassed. Was she? “I was just looking to sell some excess healing potions I had. Nothing special.”

“Is that all?” the merchant mused with a teasing grin. He fingered the tip of his fedora and tipped it to her. “Well, I could take a look at them for you. I pay pretty fair coin for a good commodity.”

Anora shrunk a little. She did say she was looking to get rid of her excess health potions. This merchant also seemed to be rather nice. When was the last time anyone was that nice to her? Even Ephemer had to hide how much he cared when he was with the other Templars. Despite herself, Anora carefully placed her burlap sack on the counter, ready for him to inspect her potions and poultices.

“Before we do business,” the merchant spoke up, offering his hand to her, “Let's introduce ourselves proper. My name is Brain.”

“Brain?” Anora repeated in surprise.

To this, the merchant gave a light chuckle. “I have many other names, but I wanted to know how that one would sound on your tongue. Ferelden, right? Kirkwall's seeing more of them by the day.”

Still unsure on why she was so bashful, Anora quickly nodded her head in agreement. Her own arm extended to accept Brain's hand shake.

“I am Anora.” she carefully said.

“The pleasure is mine, Anora.” Brain smiled; his hand gently clasped in hers, and it gave it three shakes before breaking them apart. “Now, let's see what you have in that little rucksack of yours.”

There was a polite little nod from the young woman before opening her sack of healing items. Brain let out a low whistle at the sheer quantity of them. The vials that held the potions gave off a warm, comforting glow as the vial itself revealed the bright red liquid inside. The poultices were made with just as much care; each placed inside a steel tin and wrapped with colored cloth- a date written in black ink indicating when she had made that particular poultice.

As Brain looked over everything, a cold chill ran up Anora's spine that made her look over her shoulder. It almost felt like someone was watching her. Sure, many of the Templars at Kirkwall knew she was a mage, and some were sent to watch her while Ephemer trained or was attending to his duties. But she never actually felt them watching her. Some would go out of their way just to escort her from place to place. Perhaps not kindly, but they definitely didn't hide what they were doing. None of them would try to hide from her if they were sent to watch either, come to think of it. Would they?

“These are neatly made.” Brain noted- succeeding in scaring the young woman for the second time that day. “Not perfect, of course. But pure elfroot? That stuff's in hot commodity around here. It'll be potent, if nothing else.” He then set the potion down to look her over. “Almost too potent for a tiny little waif like you. Are you trying to cure a dragon or something?”

A nervous laugh escaped Anora's lips. In a small voice she admitted, “I am the caretaker to one of the new Templar recruits.”

“Ah.” Brain nodded. “May I ask how?”

The young woman shrank a little as she shook her head. “Long story.” she told him- her voice even smaller than before. Brain observed her, slightly tipping his hat upward.

“Very well then,” he decided with a shrug, “I'll be the last person to judge a person's past.”

Anora offered a faint smile in thanks. For a moment, the merchant simply admired her before turning his attention back to her wares. There was quite a bit of silence between the two as Brain looked over everything. Possibly several moments in, Anora started to hear an odd mewling sound from inside the stand, but Brain had ignored it. The mewls grew louder until something suddenly leaped onto the shop counter.

A shriek almost escaped the young woman's lips when all she saw was something gray with black spots. Brain was immediately at attention, but in finding what had jumped up, he laughed at her. Anora took a moment to regain her breath before realizing that the creature was a snow leopard. But… much smaller; possibly not much smaller than a standard cat. It didn't seem like a kitten, though, and it certainly looked like the pictures of adult leopards in the zoology books back in the Circle. Her demeanor easily went from surprised horror to complete bewilderment.

“Are you afraid of animals?” Brain teasingly asked her, petting the snow leopard.

“I... had a sheltered childhood.” Anora informed him with a wary voice. “But I don't remember leopards being so… tiny, though.”

Brain gave her a little smirk, giving the little leopard a rather absent stroke along its back.

“Ragnar's a special case.” he told her with a bemused voice. “All the fun protective natures of a snow leopard, scaled down to nothing more than the size of a house cat. If you'll believe it, he was the largest of his litter.”

Anora cocked an eyebrow at him, turning her attention back to the small creature. At the time, the snow leopard, Ragnar, turned its attention to her as well. The pygmy leopard left its master to better scope out the newcomer. It sniffed at Anora with interest- something that she tried rather hard not to recoil at. When Ragnar started to rub his head against Anora, the young woman very carefully started to pet him. Ragnar seemed to enjoy this; a small purring noise could be heard from the creature.

“Huh.” the merchant wondered. He placed a hand at the back brim of his hat, tilting it upwards a bit. “He doesn't usually take to strangers that easily. Must really like you...”

“Is that bad?”

Brain looked up at her- a small twinkle shown in his eye as he said, “No. Not at all. It just means that you're destined for great things.”

Anora's eyes grew wide as she looked up at Brain. “Y-you're joking!” she stammered. It was a bit hard to tell, but there was a small blush placed on her cheeks from embarrassment. “You're just saying that!”

Brain let out a light chuckle, throwing up a hand in promise. “Swear on my life it's the truth.” he told her. “And on the official adoption certificate from the Black Emporium. Would you like to see it?”

“No thanks...”

“Suit yourself.” Brain teased with a shrug. “Now, where were we before getting so rudely interrupted...”

Brain continued to go through what Anora had brought with her. As he pulled out a piece of vellum, an inkwell, and a feathered pen to write out a receipt of sale, Ragnar gave a disinterested stretch before deciding to take a nap on the counter. Anora kept her attention more focused on the little snow leopard than to Brain- who was trying to tell her how much coin he was about to give her. He laughed when he caught her near grimace, and he didn't break her thoughts as he gently placed what he owed her into her sack.

“Well,” he finally announced as he tied off the sack for her, “I suppose we're done here. It was nice doing business with you, Anora.”

That finally got Anora out of her trance. Was it really time for them to depart so soon?

“How much longer are you going to be at Kirkwall?” she asked, almost a bit too quickly.

“I might be around for another week or two.” he said to her. “I've finally found good help with my main shop in Val Royeaux, so I'm not expected back immediately. If I give them a fair enough warning, I could linger behind for a bit longer.” Brain then tilted his head at her and gave her a sly smile. “Why?”

Anora immediately looked away. “I-I...” she started to stammer, “I was just curious. It gets rather boring waiting for E- my Templar to finish with his training or duties.”

“You can't wait by Templar Hall for him?”

“Another long story.” Anora bitterly informed him. Brain gave an understanding nod in agreement.

“Business in Lowtown is usually pretty slow.” he then informed her. “Perhaps I could put in a request to change locations to the Gallows for the rest of my stay. Those Templars are always buying potions and such- I might actually turn a profit for once.”

Anora's eyes widened in surprise. “You don't have to do that!” she said. But the merchant only laughed.

“Anora-bird, if the street walkers around here were half as pretty as you, I'd reconsider. But as it stands, I could use a change of location. Perhaps we'll meet up again soon. Who knows in a backwards town like this?”

Again feeling her face heat up in a humble bashfulness, Anora offered Brain a polite little nod. She once more wrapped her burlap sack tightly around her wrist -now a bit heavier from the coin he had given her- before starting to head back. The young woman barely looked up as she scurried to Lowtown's main entrance- and it was by accident that she bumped into someone on the way out. She looked up at who she had run into, and nearly staggered back in a horrified shock.

“Knight-Commander!” Anora gasped. “I-I didn't see you...”

The Knight-Commander did not answer her. Instead, he chose to glare at her with an unreadable expression. Anora let out a nervous laughter as she moved away from him, hurrying back to Templar Hall. With an arched eyebrow, Sephiroth watched her leave before turning his attention to Brain. The merchant, who had been observing Anora for a moment as she parted, had turned his attention to the poultices and potions she had given him. As he admired the slightly glowing mixtures in their bottles, he absently gave his pygmy snow leopard strokes along its back. At this, Sephiroth's eyebrows furrowed.

“Interesting.” he decided, in monotone, before also making his way back to Templar Hall. “Very interesting indeed.”