#like I personally never fully got on board with the Doctor as a subject of romance

[existentialflirt]

I'm feeling a little...hmm...down. So I'm gonna exercise and maybe poke at my drafts and asks. Idek. Or just watch season 4 of Dr. Who. I will never be a proper Whovian because I've only liked 9 and 10 and haven't watched it since Tennent left. Tbh, I've considered watching the Matt Smith Seasons, but idek idek, y'all I think I just really like David Tennent and Christopher Eccleston.

[corn-fanfiction]

quam amiterre ludum (losing the game) James Moriarty x OC

Chapter One: losing the game

Description: "To begin it plainly, she had loved him." This is what Anora chooses to believe, true or no, after the events at the Falls of the Reichenbach. It begins with her covertly taking her recently deceased brother's place at university and meeting Professor James Moriarty. It shifts into a web of illicit acts, crimes, and a game of shadows. How it all ends remains to be seen.

Fic rating: M | Chapter Rating: T

Author Notes: does she finish SAVIOUR COMPLEX? No. Does she finish Old Country for No Men? No of course not. Does she continue If We're Lucky? Don't be silly! Obviously the correct answer is to begin an entirely new fic born of brainrot and hyperfixations. She's not sorry either. (She is me btw).

CW: mentions of scars

To begin it plainly, she had loved him.

Or, at least, that is what she believed.

It is easy to believe that one has had the wool pulled over their eyes, that the rose tint coloring their world made them into fools. That a poisonous and ruinous mixture had somehow been sneaked into them without their knowledge or consent. It is much easier, more comforting to believe this, rather than the likely truth that it had been a series of conscious choices. That a part of that person is poisonous and ruinous.

Anora still is not sure which was the reality of her life before the Reichenbach Fall.

It began with the death of her brother. Joseph had only just received a scholarship to the newly opened Queen Mary University of London, studying mathematics and chemistry. They were subjects that Anora and Joseph both found themselves fascinated by since childhood. They would spend their summers in the country digging through riverbanks for critters and fossils. It was on Joseph's twelfth birthday that their parents gave to him a chalkboard for the study. He and Anora would spend hours upon hours challenging each other with mathematical equations. Anora would have to stand on his stack of textbooks to reach his height to the board. Life remained that way- simple- until their parents died aboard a sunk passenger ship bound for Italy.

Joseph, aged thirty, was older for a student. But he had also been abroad at the time of their parents’ death, so when he returned, he applied for a scholarship. A degree at a prestigious university meant connections and almost guaranteed post graduate work. It meant money for Joseph and Anora, since their parents were no longer able to supply it.

But Joseph never got to go to school. A week after his return to London, the doctors diagnosed him with consumption- the sort that doesn't always show until it already has a person's lungs in its bloody grasp. Joseph died two days later.

For Anora, it was simple. She was built without much curve but a narrow waist and firm shoulders. She could pass as a man of thirty easily, though she was twenty-eight and would look younger regardless. But she had Joseph’s old clothes, his scholarship, a mind to match, and nothing to stop her.

So, with a thick vest, waistcoat, and short hair, Joseph Leeds began at Queen Mary University of London at the start of fall semester.

-

The church is empty when she enters, save for a sole occupant. He sits with his hands between his knees, looking up at the stained glass, his cane resting against the end of the pew.

Anora gathers herself what she can and approaches the doctor from behind. The memorial plaque catches her eye.

“My condolences.”

The doctor jumps a little at her sudden intrusion of his reverie. He speaks before he sees her fully.

“Sorry?”

Once he catches sight of her her, though, the recognition settles in and he sets a steely gaze on her.

“Detective Holmes, I mean. I'm sorry for your loss. Truly. I always thought he was a great man, perhaps even a good one.”

She sits at the pew opposite his and tries to look as earnest as she feels. But the confusion that is paired with her honesty seems to come out as well, making for an understandably wary John Watson.

“Right. I suppose propriety dictates I should offer the same sentiment to you.”

“Nothing proper about any of this,” she chuckles breathlessly. She fidgets with her nails in her lap. There's no one here to judge her for it. “I didn't want him to die.”

“Nor I your professor. Though I expect it's for different reasons.”

Anora bristles at some buried accusation. “Do you think? Because of my emotions and your sense of righteousness?”

Doctor Watson opens his mouth, then closes it. He sighs.

“It doesn't have to be this way.”

No, it doesn't, and Anora knows that. She feels it in her bones that still creak under the weight of an explosion.

“I'm sorry. I've lost so many people in so short a time. I'm alone so often that I can forget how to speak to someone. May I ask you a question?”

His eyes light with the natural curiosity of a doctor…and of a good man. “Of course.”

“Did you…I mean, I know he wasn't buried, but…”

He seems to understand. “They never found a body.”

“Did you look?”

“It was left to local authorities; I wasn't allowed near the investigation.”

Anora nods away her disappointment. “I see.”

“Why do you ask?”

She feels traitorous tears begin to prick at her eyes. “It gives me something to think about. I spend my nights alone, Doctor. Cherish that you do not.”

Watson nods. “I do cherish it.”

“Good. Oh- and I meant to say, congratulations, to you and Mrs. Watson.”

The shock of her knowledge of Mary Watson's pregnancy shows plainly on his face. “How do you-?”

“Word gets around,” she says coyly, then stands and smooths her skirt. “I want you to know that I don't resent you, though it would be dishonest to imply I don't envy you.”

He stands to match her and grabs his cane.

“I'm fortunate enough to have an enviable life,” he says and extends a hand. Anora takes it and they shake.

“Goodbye, doctor. Hopefully you'll not be troubled with me again.”

She goes. He watches her, hesitates, then says before she leaves,

“Anora? I- at the risk of sounding piteous… Would you like to join Mrs. Watson and myself for dinner?”

She turns around and regards his caring face. “You do sound piteous.”

“There's no reason for us to be enemies.”

“Nor is there reason enough for us to be friends. I wonder, sir, if you'd be so willing to extend an olive branch if I weren't a young woman. I chose to be with him. It was a job I took on willingly.”

Watson seems to think on this for a moment before settling on a response.

“The offer stands.”

He doesn't seem to play games the way his partner had. Neither of them do, really. Both matched in the fact that they could never match their counterparts in moves and countermoves. Anora comes here in sincerity and Watson responds in kind.

“A time and place, then.”

-

The time is seven in the evening the following day. The place is the Watson residence.

Earlier in the day, Anora finds herself going through her closet, attempting to find a dress that speaks formal but without too much effort. Not that she has many options. In total she has two evening gowns. Everything else is trousers and shirts and a handful of loose skirts. Any high society raised with her was abandoned the moment she became her brother.

In her shift she paces her bedroom floor. No longer in the dormitories of Queen Mary. No longer enrolled at Queen Mary, in fact. But that's in the past even now. Anora fingers the locket that hangs from her neck and sits

between her breasts. She thinks of him. Many things make her think of him.

It isn't so much that he had seeped into every aspect of her life like one might think. When you love a person like she had, it's easy to see them in the world around you.

It helps that the truth of this soothes the sting of its consequence.

She settles on a green gown that covers most of her skin. After the explosion, she doesn't like showing much. Too many scars prompt people to ask questions and she can only look at someone dumbstruck for an answer so many times. She keeps the locket on though.

The doctor and his wife have taken residence in a nice two story in a part of town removed from much of the construction. It looks to be a good place to start a family.

A maid greets her at the door and takes her jacket. It's weeks from Christmas and London is freezing. In all her dealings with the doctor and the detective, Anora never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Mary Watson. She's very pretty, with small features and freckles coloring her face. Her pregnancy is showing under her blue frock. Though the choice of clothing is surely for comfort, it still makes Anora feel overdressed.

“Miss Leeds! I've heard so much about you,” Mary says. Anora's sure she means it well but it's too ironic an opportunity to pass.

“I'm sure,” she jokes. Mary seems to understand this immediately and turns sheepish.

The doctor comes to greet her.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Leeds. We haven't had the pleasure of entertaining guests yet.”

“Then I feel honored. It's a lovely home.”

“This way, please.”

The Watsons lead Anora to a dining room that's still in the throes of renovation, but is cleaned up enough for company. John Watson pulls a seat for Anora and pushes her in. As she adjusts her skirt and gathers her bearings, and once the Watsons have sat, she notices a fourth place setting.

“Are we expecting another?”

Mary's polite smile drops and Watson casts a look over Anora's shoulder. She follows his gaze and is honestly more surprised than she's ever been in her life. Because standing behind her, no worse than bruised up, is Detective Sherlock Holmes.

Immediately, Anora shoots up from her seat and bumps her back into the table. Though she has no real reason to fear him, it is like seeing a ghost, and Sherlock Holmes has every right to be a vengeful spirit. Doctor Watson and Mary make moves to help Anora gather herself but she's able to do it on her own and puts plenty of distance between herself and the man she believed to be dead.

“I'm flattered, Anora, truly. But I'm not here to haunt you.”

Holmes sits at the empty seat at the head of the table. John and Mary both lower themselves with hesitation, leaving only Anora standing. Her grasp on the back of her chair is so tight that it manages to absorb the tremulous shaking of her body. What began as shock has dripped its way icily into a sickening fear. Though it makes no sense for his character or sense of law, she feels certain he's going to kill her.

The cook brings out their plates. Holmes greets the dinner with a pleased “ah!” and tucks his napkin into his collar. Once she realizes no one is immediately out to hurt her, Anora eases herself back into her seat but doesn't go anywhere near her food.

They go on eating in silence for far too long. Only the awkward clattering of silverware and the snoring of a dog can be heard.

“So, Anora, how are your studies?”

Anora realizes that she's been staring holes into the patterned tablecloth when Mary pulls her attention. The bizarre nature of the question, or rather it being asked in the middle of such bizarre circumstances, leaves Anora befuddled.

“I- I'm sorry?”

“Your schooling. John tells me you transferred to the University of London. How are you liking it?”

Anora watches Mary with uncertainty until she decides the question is being asked in earnest. Instead of answering, she turns to Holmes.

“What's going on? How are you- I mean, how long have you-”

“We knew it was only a matter of time before your guilt drove you to visit my memorial, thank you, by the way, for your sympathies, so we waited for you to broach the conversation first. From there it was simple. Watson is unceasingly charming when he wants to be,” Holmes explains. Watson catches the end and looks offended.

“I'd like to think I'm charming more often than not.”

His wife puts a reassuring hand on his.

“So, is this some sort of sick joke? This doesn't make sense, I saw you die.”

And remembering so vividly that night makes Anora's chest tighten.

“You didn't, actually. Watson tells me you two didn't go to the trouble of checking we fell into the Falls in the first place. Supposed I'd grabbed onto a ledge.”

“Yes, and suppose you can breathe underwater,” Anora snaps. Holmes chuckles but she's thoroughly unamused. “It is funny to you! How dare you?” Anora pushes herself from the table again, this time throwing her napkin onto her untouched plate. “I did everything I could that night! It was you who drove me away from that balcony. I could have helped you. I could've helped him-!”

Anora stops herself with a hiccuping cough as hot tears fall down her face. She turns away from her audience and covers her mouth to muffle the embarrassing noise of her anguish.

“He never would have left with you,” Watson says. Anora grabs her napkin and dabs at her eyes with it. The audacity for the detective to be so cruel, for them to talk about him like-

Anora stills; drops the napkin. Turns back to the table shakily.

“But- if you're alive, then…”

“And now we come to the climax of the show, the reason for the facade. Miss Leeds, your beloved professor is in fact alive, and you're going to assist us in finding him.”

[phoenixyfriend]

Sugar, Spice, and a Heart to Entice

AKA: Jango Fett speedruns a romance with someone who should be his enemy. (It's okay. We know he makes bad choices.)

Note: Ahsoka uses the pseudonym "Ashla" in this fic. Warnings: slavery, references to drug use, crude sex jokes, undressing of an unconscious person (for medical reasons)

----

The girl that they shove into the chains next to him is... worrying.

(Well, probably a girl--he'll adjust later if it turns out he's wrong.)

She's not that much younger than him, he thinks. It's hard to tell, with the way her skin is taut over muscle and bone, too little water and too little sleep, and probably not enough food for whatever labor she's been doing. He's also, admittedly, not great at gauging ages in the first place, and certainly not for Togruta. Still, he thinks it's safe to say that they're close in age, and that she's probably younger than him.

She's lucky, by some measure. The spice ship is terrible, but it's probably better than the fate tog girls are usually subject to in this industry. They're hazardous conditions, and violent ones, but Jango's yet to see a slave here stripped of their clothing for anything other than a whipping.

He thinks it's probably a matter of money. That kind of violation lowers the profit margins, he imagines. Spice is more lucrative than anything, and pain is a better motivator than... well.

So she's lucky, by that measure, and that measure alone.

They clap her in bindings before he even sees her, even though she's unconscious, and bring her sometime in the night cycle. Jango doesn't have a lot of pity left in him, but some goes out to her. He won't say she's too young for this, because nobody is ever old enough for slavery, nor do slavers have any compunctions about selling babes in arms, but Jango would wager she's already led a hard life.

She's fairly covered, but what little is visible shows enough old battle wounds that he can't imagine she's stayed off of battlefields. He knows how to read a Togruta's markings for stress history, too, and hers tell a story. Her facial marks are thin and delicate, and he'd say they're certainly more complex than the average; the striation on her lekku and montrals is thin and jagged, like marble. It's pretty enough, but it's also a sign of the fact that her life has likely been anything but easy. Some of it might be genetics, and he hopes it is, but with the scars he can see... he doubts it's much.

"Keep that one alive," the overseer orders, eyes on Jango and hand gesturing at the tog girl.

He leaves.

Jango isn't sure what they're hoping to get out of putting her with him. The room is built for four, yes, but they usually don't try to have anyone share with Jango. Maybe they ran out of room, or just assumed Jango was the most likely to know field medicine, or just figured there wouldn't be any trouble until she woke.

As he gets closer, his confusion grows. The tog's got burns all over, ugly ones that aren't going to heal cleanly without bacta. They're going to get infected, as likely as not. He hasn't got much besides water in here, but the overseer's left behind a box of what looks like bandages. If he's lucky, there's burn cream in there.

(He's not lucky.)

He works slowly, careful of every movement. He builds up a story in his head as he does, based on the wounds he finds and what he starts to notice of the clothing. He can't see all the details, not in what little light he has, but there's plenty to notice.

He hadn't realized, with how dim it is, but most of what she's got on as an outer layer is hardened leather, real leather, not synth. There are attachment points for armor at the shoulders and hips, and he thinks he sees signs of wear for vambraces and greaves. She's no Mando'verde, not with how he can see that the fabric at her torso and upper legs is intended to stay light and flexible and uncovered, but the crafting of the leather layers is familiar. He thinks she might have contacts among Mando armorers.

She might even wear beskar, if she's impressed the right person.

The wounds are recent, and unfamiliar, and he thinks she was probably fought into chains, rather than bought in them. She's a captive, not a purchase, or maybe... maybe they just found an unconscious woman, and decided that she was worth keeping.

He thinks she lost a fight, or won but with great injuries, and just... stumbled off and collapsed. He gets the feeling no one on board the ship could have fought this woman, except for himself. It's not based on much, not until he can see her move, but he's got good instincts for that sort of thing.

Jango keeps his assessment of her torso quick and clinical, not even bothering to mentally apologize for stripping her bare. This is medical, and he's not a doctor, not even a field medic, but he's professional nonetheless. Even though there's nothing in the box but bandages, not even the burn cream he'd hoped for, he'd still rather know if there's a broken rib to worry about. He doesn't want to wait for her to wake up and then find out she's got a punctured lung, even if he can't do anything about it. He finds bruising, but... he thinks that if anything is broken, it's hairline at most.

Lucky, he thinks again, in the unluckiest situations.

She doesn't wake that cycle. It's all he can do to get some water in her, dripped into her mouth in a trickle, but it's something.

----

When the Togruta girl wakes up, it's sudden. Jango is wiping down her lekku with a wet cloth in hopes of staving off a fever, kneeling next to the bunk. She opens her eyes, stiffens with a sharp breath, and then twists off the bed. Before he's fully processed this, her legs are up and around his neck, and then he's being wrenched to the side and onto the filthy ground, cheek grinding down into the grit. He feels a bony knee press into his spine, and the growl of a predator.

"Where am I?" the tog girl demands.

"Spice ship," he says, and oh but this place has ruined him for fights; he's having trouble breathing from whatever she's done to him, and she doesn't even have the use of her hands. "Deep space. You're in the slave cells. Don't mess with the collar, it'll explode if you try to remove it."

"Spice refinery?" she repeats, sounding completely baffled. He gives her a second to process, but she blindsides him. "Someone got me in their hands and they went for spice slavery?"

"As opposed to..." he really hopes she gets off soon.

She doesn't answer him immediately, and he can't get a look at her face. He gets his arms out to the sides, plants them to the floor, and shoves back. She doesn't fall off, but she does slide to the side to sit on the floor.

The expression she's got is best described as 'shell-shocked,' he thinks.

"You don't know me," she says, faint and confused. He shakes his head; he's pretty sure he'd have recognized her if he'd known her at all, given the time he's spent cleaning her wounds and trying to keep her alive. She laughs, breathless and a tad hysterical. "You don't--fuck. You don't know me. That's... great. Okay. Okay, I can work with that. Don't know how they missed it, but okay."

"Bounty on your head?" he guesses.

She smiles, thin and unpleasant. "Something like that."

"Thought as much. You're built like a fighter." He intends it as a compliment, but he doesn't think she takes it as one.

"I've never had a choice otherwise," she says, and when she next looks around, it's to find a place to sit. She pushes herself up to the thin mattress of the cot behind her, and Jango mirrors her on the cot across the room. It's not his bed, technically, but it's not like there's anyone to complain. She frowns at him; it's not a rude look, he thinks, but an attempt to put something unfamiliar in place. "What legion were you with?"

He blinks at her. He's been part of an army, but never one that big. "Legion?"

"Were you with special forces?" she tries again. "Or--wait, did you even get off Kamino before--"

"I'm not whoever you think I am," he tells her. "None of that means anything to me. I know what a legion is, but I've never had reason to be part of one."

"But you're..." she trails off, brow furrowed. "I guess just a similar face, then."

"To who?"

"The clones?" she hazards, as if that clears anything at all up. "I have no idea where we are; maybe the war holos never made it out far enough for you to know what they looked like..."

"Which war?" he asks, because he feels like he'd probably have heard of a war that used clones, especially one that had enough holos spread around for this woman to expect him to know what the clones in question look like.

"The... the clone war," she says hesitantly. "With the Separatists?"

None of that means anything to him.

It must show in his face, because her brow furrows, and her eyes go wide in a way he doesn't like. He can't tell if her skin's losing color or anything, but he's pretty sure the curl at the tip of one lek is a sign of anxiety. He's not sure how to help, but part of him already decided he liked this woman, just on the suspicion that she was friendly to Mandalorians.

(It's been a solid year and a half since Jango has had anything approaching a friend. He may be, subconsciously, a little desperate.)

"What's your name?" she asks, voice pitching in discomfort, and tight as a garotte.

"Jango Fett."

She closes her eyes, clenches her jaw, and... he can't see, can't know if she's trembling, but he thinks she is. She lets her head fall back against the wall, and breathes in sharply. It's a shaky breath, and he doesn't like that much, either.

"Fuck," she repeats. "No wonder--fuck."

He gives her a few seconds, but she doesn't elaborate. He asks another question instead. "Do I get to know your name?"

Her eyes crack open, and then she sits up straight and looks him over. Her lips purse, and she comes to some decision, though he's at a loss for what. "Call me Ashla. She/her, if you'd rather stick to Basic."

Fake name. Alright. She mentioned a bounty, so it's probably about that.

"Well met, Ashla."

She laughs, empty and painful. She swears in a mix of Huttese and Mando'a, and a few languages he doesn't even recognize. The Core accent on her Mando'a is strong, but he thinks whoever taught her might have been from Concord Dawn.

"How old are you, if you don't--"

"I'm twenty-one," she says. He was right; she's only two years younger than him. "At least... fuck, okay. What's the date?"

He tells her, and she screws up her brow and mouths something to herself. He's not entirely sure what.

"How long ago was..." she trails off.

"Was what?"

She presses a hand over her eyes. "I don't know what year it is."

Ah. Well, he can help with that much. He tells her that, too.

Ashla drops her hand. She visibly mulls it over, eyes on the underside of the bunk above her. He has no idea what she's thinking.

"Why aren't there other people in this room?"

"Weak ones couldn't sleep because I'm 'too intimidating,' and the rest kept trying to throw their weight around." He shrugs at the look she points his way. "I'm not dumb enough to start a fight with a bomb around my neck, but I'm not letting someone knock me around so they can earn a reputation."

She purses her lips, but lets it lie. "You let me take you down, then?"

"You had the advantage of surprise," he says, and doesn't bother to list every other advantage. She's better fed than he is, has spent less time in spice-suffused air, was unconscious and resting while he was awake to keep an eye on her fever. He's got the feeling she already knows.

When she speaks again, it's low and in fluent Mando'a, heavily accented though it may be.

"You'd get out of here eventually," she tells him, eyes half shut. "But you'll get out faster with my help, Mand'alor."

His stomach twists.

----

"They are either very stupid, or very cheap," Ashla mutters a day later, when he's supposedly helping her change some bandages. It gives him the excuse of leaning in close.

"Probably the former," he says.

She grins, and then stiffens and hisses out a low breath as he pours some of the stolen whiskey over one of the burns. It's not a real disinfectant, but it's the best they've got at the moment. Jango still isn't sure how she managed to get it from the overseers without them noticing, but he's quickly gotten the gist that she's a fair shot sneakier than he is.

"What did they do?" he asks, and she huffs out a laugh.

"I need you to promise you won't try to kill me," she says, and he stills.

She seems to be waiting on his response. Great. "That's not an auspicious start, Ashla."

"Eh, I've survived more than my fair share of people trying to kill me. No offense, bro, but I could take you," she says.

She's probably right in their current circumstances. "Let's hear it."

"I left the Jedi Order when I was seventeen."

The whiskey bottle slips from his fingers.

An invisible hand catches it, and it settles quietly on the floor of their cell. No guards will come running. It's a damning sight, for him.

A Jedi.

A Jedi who--who left.

Jedi committed Galidraan, but she left three years before that, but she was--was--

She has her back to him, trusting.

Or just arrogant.

She phrased it that way on purpose, phrased it so he'd know she left before he--before--

"I was framed by my friend for a terrorist attack," she says, and he can't find his voice to tell her to stop talking. "And sentenced to death by a non-Jedi military tribunal for it. By the time they figured out I wasn't guilty, I'd already been kicked out."

He forces his hands to his knees, grips at the bones that are too close to the skin, and orders himself to breathe.

Ashla turns on the spot, blinks at him. "I'm telling you this because it's how we're going to get out."

"Your people killed mine."

"I wasn't a Jedi when Galidraan happened," she says. There's more she wants to say, he's sure, but she keeps the words locked behind her teeth. That might be a good thing.

"And I'm just supposed to trust you?"

"Only for long enough to get out of here," she tells him. She shrugs, easy as anything. She's done this before, maybe. "Trust me, I have plenty of reasons to hate you, too, but I'm a little more concerned about getting this ship taken into custody, and having all the slaves freed."

"And you can just... make that happen."

"I told you, they're either stupid or skint," she says, with that same disarming grin. "I had lightsabers on me, and they kept them on the ship. They haven't drugged me since I woke up. They put me in normal cuffs, Jango."

He hates the way his name sounds on her tongue.

He hates the fact that he sees her plan already.

"You don't even need me," he points out, resisting the urge to try to kill her here and now. He doesn't have his armor. He doesn't have weapons. He's good, but she's got the Force and thighs that can crush a bantha skull.

"I'm not exactly... legit," she admits with a grimace. "Once you're back in Mandalorian space, you at least have an identity. People that will give you a place to stay. A chain code."

"And you don't."

She smiles, brittle. "Give me a week to scope out what I need and get us out of here, and maybe I'll explain."

A week. Fine.

And once they're out of here, and he has a blaster and a meal and a good night's sleep, he'll handle her.

----

He hates the fact that he likes her, still. People had already noticed, even just one day in. The first time someone notices he's giving Ashla the cold shoulder in the workroom, they joke at him about her not putting out. He's known her one day, and they think--

He stops the thought in its tracks.

Jango doesn't start fights here, but he is tempted.

"Oh, he wouldn't dare," Ashla simpers, sweet as spun sugar. "I bite."

She smiles, every pearly white tooth on display. The fangs near glint in the light. She eyes the speaker, squeezes the tool in her hand. Her tendons strain, but the metal bends with a creak.

The overseer shouts for them to get back to work.

Jango steps closer to her, lets his elbows brush against hers, and glares off anyone that tries to get too close.

"I don't need protection," she mutters to him from the corner of her mouth.

"I keep my word," he replies, hating himself for it.

He said he'd have her back. He may hate what she is, but... she left the Order. She's not a Jedi anymore. If he thinks it enough, he can believe it.

----

There's always a camaraderie in shared suffering. Jango is aware of this, and he feels his fondness for Ashla grow against his better judgment. They're both slaves on a spice ship, and he can't change that. It makes him tolerate her more than he sensibly should.

She acts like a Mando soldier, sometimes. She's not at all like Haat Mando'ade, but she knows some of the jokes that Mandalorians grow up with. She walks like a woman used to beskar'gam. She knows a drinking song or two.

(They don't waste the whiskey. It's for injuries, not intoxication.)

"I had brothers, once," she tells him, late at night. "A lot of them. They had a Mandalorian parent, sort of, but he'd never seen fit to really... let them have the culture. I lost them all, mostly to slave chips, and a few to just normal deaths, but... I learned what I could about Mandalore, after, for their sake. In their memory."

It's not a terrible reason, he thinks.

"Irony for you to end up in chains, then," he mumbles, and she barks out a sharp laugh.

"Tradition, more like," she says, and explains before he can ask for her to keep talking. "My... teacher was born a slave, and I... have a suspicion he ended up back in chains after we lost contact. His teacher was enslaved at least twice that I know of."

"Shitty tradition," he says, because there's nothing else he can think of.

"Could be worse," she tells him. This time, she doesn't elaborate.

----

He likes her more than he should.

----

He likes her so, so, so much more than he should.

----

She steals datachips when nobody's looking, using the Force instead of her fingers. She wraps dismissal around her like a cloak to access computer terminals without anyone but Jango noticing. She slips spice into the drinks held by guards and overseers.

She moves through the ship like smoke, in the dim lights of the false night.

Someone notices. Someone always notices, in Jango's experience, but they have no idea who's doing it. They lock down the cells for the sleep cycle, turn down the temperature, leave all the slaves shivering in their beds.

He pulls Ashla into his cot without hesitation, fits their bodies together to conserve heat, and ignores the rest. They're both soldiers; there's no shame in survival for those like them. The lekku at her back drapes over his neck like a scarf, and he almost wants to laugh.

He's pathetic. His men would be so damn disappointed in him, sharing bunk with a Jedi.

"You're thinking too loud," she mumbles, shifting somehow closer. The chill clings, creeping in through the thin clothes and thinner blanket, but he feels like it's bearable with Ashla here.

----

When they enact the plan, it's so much quieter than Jango would have run it. Ashla holds his hands in the early morning, before anyone is awake, and smiles. When she closes her eyes, sinking into a light meditation, the collar around her neck just... comes apart. Nuts and bolts and curves of metal float about her like a wretched parody of the mobile hanging above an infant's crib, and then land quietly on the nearest cot. When she opens her eyes, hazy and distant, she looks at his throat, and frees him with a thought.

It's a heady thing, freedom.

"Come along, Fett," she goads, almost crooning the words, backing out of the cell with his hands in hers. Nobody is awake yet, or at least they shouldn't be. Her words curl in the air like something cloyingly too-sweet, and he's sure it's her way of trying to piss him off. It's only working a little. "We've work to do."

Said work involves slipping past guards with a Jedi's timing, commanding them to sleep with a whisper and a poke to the forehead, and drugging the ones that she claims are resistant to Jedi tricks. The work is, as such, mostly hers to do. They hide the bodies, but the alarm goes off by the time they get to the weapons locker.

That's fine, because the weapons locker is where they were headed.

"Oh, hell yes," she hisses through a grit-tooth grin, and a matched pair of lightsabers float to her. Jango turns off the energy field by the time they reach her, and she hooks them onto her belt. Beskar plating follows, exactly the pieces that Jango had guessed from wear and tear. It's real beskar, too, not even an alloy, and Jango doesn't ask the questions on the tip of his tongue. She straps it on in practiced movements, without hesitation and almost without thought.

"See anything better than what you got off the guards?" she asks him. "Or did they all take the best blasters for themselves?"

"The latter," he says.

(His eyes trace over the armor she wears, and while she does wear it well... he's jealous.)

(He misses his armor.)

(Envy is unbecoming of anyone, but he thinks he can be afforded a little leeway.)

There are people in the hall by the time they exit, a dozen blasters at the ready.

The people in the hall are... not a problem.

Ashla had called it the Sword and Shield maneuver, when walking him through her experiences working in a Mando/Jetii team. He'd laughed, because the saber was the shield. She'd smiled at him, and he'd cursed himself for it.

If he'd had his armor, they'd have been able to move forward as a pair of unstoppable monsters. As it stands, they're... still doing that, really, just a tad slower.

"You're a Jedi!" one of them shouts. "You're supposed to be diplomats! You're not supposed to kill!"

Jango could laugh at that horrible, horrible lie.

"I am no Jedi," Ashla says, and the words cut through the air like something she's said a million times, and will say a million more.

Jango could do a lot with that line, tucked away in his memories for later.

There's a moment, though, where they're stuck at one end of a hallway, and the door to the bridge is just on the other side, and Ashla grins at him, a challenge in every inch of her body, and asks, "You wanna see something cool?"

He can't help it.

"You planning to show off, Jedi?" He can say the word without flinching, and it's... absurd. It's absurd. What in all the hells is she doing to him?

(He's been told that war makes for strange bedfellows, but he's long known that trauma does the same.)

He takes cover when she moves, and oh, does she move.

Ashla's a whirlwind, dangerous as anything and beautiful in her careful, precise violence. She knocks people out, more often than not, but there's more then one dead body left in her wake. It appeals to something in him. She flips and twists and throws people with the Force. She slices and kicks, and smacks people across the face with the blasters she lifts of their comrades. She headbutts at least two people, and then jumps to bounce off the ceiling and back down so she can land feet first on an enemy.

He hopes he'll get his common sense back when he's had time to put himself together, because the sight of those sabers doesn't make him flinch. After all he's been through, after all his nightmares, it really should. The sound alone should have him shivery and shooting.

Maybe there's just too much spice in the air.

A head drops to the floor in a different direction from the body it had previously been attached to. Jango's throat goes dry in response.

When Ashla stands at the end of the hall, a saber in each hand and the floor behind her littered in both bodies breathing and bodies bereft of life, she looks back at him over her shoulder. She deactivates her swords, and smirks. She's smug, and she makes smug look very, very good.

"So," she says. "Verdict?"

Fuck.

----

The bridge is easy enough to handle. They land the ship on a Republic planet, one with relevant authorities and at least some reputation for actually handling things with a degree of kindness and transparency. Ashla does the talking, letting Jango lurk behind her. She lies.

"Half-truths," she later tells him, in a low voice. The smile she wears is amused and self-assured, just a twist at the corner, and the slightest of pouts. He can't see it, when she leans in to murmur in his ear. "I certainly used to be a Jedi. They don't need to know this wasn't an officially-sanctioned infiltration."

Her breath hits lightly against his ear, and he wants--he wants--

"Have a comm code for any old friends?" Ashla asks, stepping away. Her face twists unpleasantly. Frustration, he's sure. "I've got credits, but no contacts."

He eyes the little pack she's got around her waist. "Stole that from the slavers?"

"We'll consider it payment for services rendered," she tells him, with an impish grin Jango wants to kiss off of her face, because apparently he's kriffing suicidal and wants to bed a Jedi. "I'll give you most of it, if you want. Call it the two years of backpay they owed you."

He snorts before he can stop himself. "Just one year, sorry."

"Oh, it's hazard pay," she insists, blinking innocently. "Dangerous conditions having been what they were, of course."

She presses a comm--probably also stolen--and a few credits into his hand, then loops her arm through his. She sets off at a lazy walk, ignoring the people who stare at them with distaste and disgust. "We'll find a hotel. We'll shower, with real water, and fancy soaps, and a little sonic just for the clothes. I'll run out and get you a basic outfit, and then we can go shopping, and once that's done, and you've had a chance to comm a companion, we can reunite you with your buddies, and you can go hunting for your armor, and I'll split and--"

"Stay."

She tilts her head at him, though she doesn't stop walking, and he feels his face burn. He hopes it's not visible. She hums lowly. He can't learn anything from it. "You hate Jedi, though, and I might not really be one anymore, but I'm still more Jedi than not."

"You wear beskar and speak Mando'a," he says. "You helped the Mand'alor. You're halfway to being one of mine already."

"One of yours, huh?" she mutters, eyes somewhere distant. He doesn't know what it is that she's seeing, but he's gotten used to it. "Alright, let's have this conversation again after you've had some sleep and clothes and a good meal, yeah?"

He can take that compromise.

----

"What do you mean, you're from the future?!"

[juniorgman187]

Fighting Fire With Fire (Reid Fic)

Summary: Reader must lower her pride after a date goes wrong and the only one who can rescue her is her mortal enemy - Spencer Reid.

A/N: This was a beast of a fic to write. It’s been in my WIP since September, and I managed to go from 11 pages to 22 pages in three days. It is now my longest fic thus far. I am insanely fucking proud of it and I hope it does well. Category: Angst Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid Content Warning: allusions to ‘catfishing,’ allusions to abduction, dub-con to taking provocative photos, alcohol, mentions of bruises, jealousy, carrying hug which implies weight of Reader (lmk if I missed anything) Word Count: 11.7k

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

I tried to play nice; I really did, but there was no getting through to him. Everyday started and ended with us fighting fire with fire.

Maybe the reason the two of you butt heads so often is because of how similar you are.

That’s what the team would say when Spencer and I got into one of our daily (sometimes hourly) arguments. 

They constantly encouraged us to get to know each other so that we’d finally see the likeness, and until recently, I wasn’t opposed to the idea. I was willing to do whatever it took to get him to like me. However, as previously mentioned, my willingness quickly dissipated in light of recent events. 

Voluntarily spending more time than necessary with him would be a recipe for disaster no doubt. 

Somehow, in a matter of a month, Reid decided that he simply did not enjoy my presence, which was the nice way of putting it. 

To be more crass, he loathed me to no end.

Initially, I was operating under the assumption that he wasn’t fond of change, and with me joining the BAU, the change was too much too fast for him, but after four weeks, his attitude toward me never deviated. Yet again, I made another excuse for him, arguing to myself that people are allowed to not like me. I could respect that, but where he lost my respect was how he made a conscious effort to remind me of how much he despised me. Even when I was at my nicest, he still treated me like a scelerate. 

If there was a prize for gaining a mortal enemy in the shortest amount of time, I guess I already won that without even trying. He hated me with a burning passion, for reasons unbeknownst to me, despite the fact that all I’d ever try to do was be his friend. 

For far too long, I kept denying the part of me that knew making peace with him outside of work wouldn’t go well and it’d simply go down in history as another failed attempt of mine to form a bond with him, so it was at this point that I decided to face the facts. 

He didn’t make it easy for me, either. It was hard having to be kind to someone that was only ever out to get me. 

He would constantly correct me but only after I said something incorrectly, just so he could prove me wrong. 

“If each police officer patrols a street, we’ll be able to cover the entire comfort zone.”

“Actually, we’d need three more officers if we want to cover the entire comfort zone. There’s still 2.347 miles that are unaccounted for.”

I never understood why he couldn’t just say his piece before me so that I didn’t look like an idiot, but I suppose that was the point. 

And he had this infuriating, unwarranted habit of judging my taste in cinema and literature. Anytime I told Emily or Derek about a movie I saw or told Rossi about a book I read, he felt compelled to share his antagonistic opinions as if I asked for them in the first place. Sometimes even spoiling the endings for me!

“Rossi, I just started reading Doctor Sleep!” I was so eager to tell Rossi that, so much so that I’d become blind to one dark cloud’s own eagerness to ruin the fun. 

“The hotel burns to the ground, but the ghosts don’t die with it.” 

He said it with such monotony and nonchalance, not even bothering to look up from his own book to watch my reaction to his menacing act. He just didn’t care!

The list of reasons not to like him truly did go on and on, so it was almost insulting how people would compare the two of us. 

They’d bring up the congruence in intelligence, the same affinity for reading, and closeness in age, but it only made me madder. The last person I wanted to resemble was Reid, except today, I gained another glaring similarity to him.

“Look at you two. Did you plan your outfits or something?” Emily playfully pointed out after I walked into the conference room. 

I eyed the doctor sipping at his cup of coffee who swiveled around in his chair to see what everyone else was seeing. Just from a short glance, I spotted his navy blue button-up with white polka dots that was nearly identical to the color and print of my dress.

“Well, looks like one of us has to go home and change.” His lips grew into a mischievous smirk behind the rim of his mug. 

Was that a joke? Did Spencer Reid make jokes now?

“Ha ha. Very funny.” I facetiously remarked, taking the only open seat at the table which was next to the jokester himself. 

“I’m kidding. You look really nice today.” He alleged without a hint of irony. He was complimenting me now, too? It was so unfamiliar that it felt like uncharted territory, possibly even a trap.

“Why? Because I’m dressed like you?” I wasn’t going to fall for his words now, maybe the version of me who would do anything to gain his approval would have. She would’ve smiled and said ‘thank you,’ but this me was going to challenge him if that was the last thing I ever did. “Bit of a narcissist are we, Dr. Reid?” 

“Mmm maybe,” He wagered, tilting his head from side to side as if to contemplate the possibility. “Or maybe I just really think you look nice.” 

Without even thinking, my heart skipped a beat. I was utterly repulsed by how I let his words have any effect over me. I couldn’t believe that he’d actually managed to fluster me with mediocre flattery. 

It felt like years that I had to sit next to Reid at the round table before Hotch dismissed the team for the flight.

30 minutes later, and we were on the jet. I’d taken one of the seats at the table opposite Derek and Emily, with Spencer beside me. 

Little things like this I could handle, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before he started bothering me. Morgan was listening to music and Emily was turned around in her seat, facing the back to talk to Rossi. Reid was playing himself in chess, and it took all of my self-control to not be a total asshole and knock the board and its pieces over and into the aisle. Luckily, I had a good enough distraction. 

Grant: can you ft tonight?

Me: we’ll see. i might have to work overtime. 

For the months that I had been talking to Grant, I was deliberately ambiguous about my job because I wasn’t exactly keen on telling him that I worked for the FBI and that I might not be able to FaceTime him since I was in the process of investigating a series of homicides. That’d surely scare him away and I was never one to flaunt my government job anyway.

Grant: you look stunning today

Me: you haven’t even seen me today 

Grant: don’t need to. 

Grant: you’ll always be stunning to me. 

“Who keeps texting you?” 

I looked up from my screen to see Reid fixated on his game but still engaged in my business. 

“No one,” I harshly replied, making a conscious decision to turn my phone on vibrate so he wouldn’t hear the chime of my text notifications.  

With one nimble side glance, Reid eyed my screen. I nudged him away with extra force.

“Nosy much?!” 

This stunned him. He wasn’t used to my coldness, he probably expected me to smile in a chagrined manner and not confront it - as I would have done - but now I was fighting back, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he liked it. 

I knew he could read fast, but how he managed to look at my phone so quickly it was like he never even moved his eyes - I didn’t know. Somehow, though, he managed to capture Grant’s entire username, and I didn’t doubt that he caught my entire conversation with him, too.

“Who’s Grant?” The name rolled off his tongue like he was insulted to even be saying it. 

“No one.” 

He didn’t respond soon after I said this, which I misinterpreted as a little victory for me since I almost believed he was going to drop the subject, but in true Spencer Know It All Reid fashion, he just kept going. 

“‘You look stunning today B-T-W. You haven’t even seen me today. Don’t need to. You’ll always be stunning to me.’ Doesn’t really sound like a ‘no one’ to me.” His recitation of my entire PRIVATE conversation with Grant embarrassed me. 

Did I forget to add his eidetic memory and speed-reading ability to the list of reasons not to like him?

“Shut up!” I nudged him, this time using much more force than the last. I was becoming more and more inclined to push over his ridiculous chess game so that he’d finally take me seriously. 

“Oh, really clever by the way. Vaguely insinuating that you ‘might not be able to call him because you’re working overtime’ just so you don’t have to disclose the true nature of your job.” Spencer’s sarcasm was thick.

“Are you just jealous because the only date you’ve been on was a fake one with a serial killer and not even your actual girlfriend while she was alive?” My reference to Cat and Maeve caught the attention of the entire jet. 

Each member mentally rolled their eyes thinking ‘Here we go again.’ And if that wasn’t their reaction, they were certainly cringing at the fight that was ensuing. 

Things had been suspiciously good between the two of us today so it was about time we argued. We were due for our daily quarrel.

“Oh, that’s right! The only girls who like you are victims in our cases.” Now this comment was referring to Lila and Austin. (I had Penelope to thank for filling me in on all of Reid’s ‘entanglements’ after I was first reassigned).

“Really? You wanna go there?” He sassed back, diverting his attention away fully from his chess game now. “Do you know how many people get ‘catfished’ when using online dating websites? Or the statistics on how many people are raped, assaulted, or murdered by said ‘catfish’?” 

“I’m not stupid, Reid. He and I have been talking for months. We’ve been on calls and Facetime before, too. We’ve just never met in person. Sound familiar?” 

“What Maeve and I had is not at all comparable to what you and this ‘guy’ have. And just because you’ve seen his face before doesn’t mean he’s not a serial killer or operating under an alias.” 

I had to scoff. Who was he to label our relationship valid or not?

“What’s it to you anyway? We all know you’d be ecstatic if this guy turned out to be a serial killer or catfish. You’d get to rub it in my face and say ‘I told you so.’” 

This touched a nerve. He hated it when I attacked his nice-guy facade. 

“Is it so hard to believe I’m actually concerned for your wellbeing?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Fine. If you think I don’t care about you, then don’t come crying to me when you realize he’s not the guy you think he is.”

“Oh, trust me, I won’t! It’s not like you’d be able to protect me anyway, Pretty Boy.” I sneered, using Morgan’s nickname for him as an insult got to him, and I could see it in the way his jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. 

Hotch had to interject now. “Alright, (y/l/n), Reid, that’s enough. We need to focus on what’s actually important.” 

I settled back down in my seat, facing forward and avoiding eye contact with Reid. 

“Have fun on your date,” He muttered under his breath. “Hope you survive it.”

Bastard.

For the rest of the case, I was on edge. Deliberately avoiding him was a much harder task than one might think. I had to wait at least ten minutes for my coffee, so I wouldn’t be at the machine when he was there, and if I had to guess, he probably took longer just to make me wait in agitation. I had to awkwardly squeeze into a new spot beside Rossi and Hotch when we were delivering the profile. I had to ask not to travel in the same SUV as him. 

And this exhausting routine went on for days. In fact, I’d managed to almost go the entire case without interacting with him. That was until Hotch sent us both in the field to apprehend the unsub. 

“Are you sure?” I asked with clear reluctance. 

“Are you questioning me?” Hotch replied sternly. 

“No, sir.” 

I was already on thin ice being the new recruit, so I knew better than to question any of Hotch’s orders. And as miserable as working with Reid was, I figured he’d at least ease up on the hostility when we needed to be professional. Evidently though, even in the field, he wasn’t willing to work together with me. 

It was a quick decision, not careless in the least, however. The unsub had locked himself in his warehouse and refused to leave unless we were brave enough to drag him out of there ourselves. The ultimatum he gave specified that only one of us could do it and we both agreed that I should go in, seeing as he’d underestimate my strength as a woman, and I’d have the upperhand when I inevitably apprehended him. 

However, he also explicitly told us that I couldn’t come in with a gun - it had to be an even playing field. 

“You are not going in without a gun,”  Reid ordered. 

“We don’t have time to argue about this - I have a spare on me, okay? There are three hostages in there, two of which are children.” Without giving him a chance to respond, I handed him my gun and holster.

Had I let him waste a single second more of my time, we wouldn’t have been able to save the three hostages and successfully arrest the unsub. I saw this as a victory and I was almost willing to celebrate it with him, but it wasn’t long before he let our enmity tear us apart again. 

When we got back to the precinct, I went to the locker room to change, then suddenly, Hotch came in. 

“I’ve been informed that you went in unarmed against a fellow agent’s orders. This matter will be discussed in my office when we get back. I should warn you, (y/n), you do not want to make this mistake again.” Hotch left me with those foreboding words, and I knew, I knew immediately that Reid was to blame for this.

If I took a look in the mirror of my locker, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I saw that my face was turning a bright shade of red. I was fuming - bursting at the seams from the anger building within me that was desperately fighting to escape. I could imagine myself as a cartoon character with steam blowing out either of my ears. I was about to go on a rampage, and no one - absolutely no one - could stop me. 

The last straw was hearing him come in. This was my opportunity to unleash what was already boiling. 

“What the hell, Reid? ‘(y/n) went in unarmed.’ Seriously?!” I undid the velcro on my vest so hastily out of my blind rage that the spiky side of the velcro strip nearly sliced my finger. “Are you trying to get me fired?” 

“If that’s what it takes to make you realize how stupid of a choice that was, then yes, I do.” He was so calm and collected in his inflection that it angered me all the more. 

“What are you even talking about? What ‘stupid choice’? You knew I had a second gun on me. And even if I didn’t carry it, I still would’ve had my vest on. I wasn’t going in unarmed or unprotected, so why would you tell Hotch that?” 

“In the time it would take you to assess the danger, react, and then reach for the gun at your ankle, the unsub would’ve been able to shoot you twice - if not more. That’s going in unprepared, which is going in unarmed.”

I scoffed in disbelief that he was actually reprimanding me. “Are you kidding? This is all based on a technicality? Did your eidetic memory somehow forget about what happened with Maeve? Because my memory didn’t. I know for a fact that you went into that warehouse without a vest or a weapon. And unlike you, I had a spare and my vest. AND I actually apprehended the unsub. Did you stop Diane?”  

This crossed a line and I knew it, but it was too late to take it back, and clearly, it was much too late to repair any relationship I had with him. We were far beyond the point of no return. 

He was so mad that he didn’t even answer me. The only response I could gauge was from his body language, which by the looks of it, all the signs of anger were plain on his face. He clenched his jaw so hard I could hear his teeth grind. Even his nostrils flared so primitively. His eyes narrowed down at me with a glare that said, ‘I’m the predator and you’re the prey.’

“Yeah, exactly.” I spat when he stayed silent. 

I turned around, starting towards the exit, but I was too furious to stop there, so I spun around and unleashed the remainder of my wrath that had been dying to come out. 

“Look, I get it. I’m the new kid around here, and it sucks when someone new comes in and changes up the team dynamic, but any mistake I make, or any mistake Hotch thinks I make, could send me packing. You’ve been working in this unit for years, and even if Hotch questions your choices, he won’t reassign you. He won’t even threaten it. He’s willing to overlook your mistakes because he knows that what you have to contribute to the team is too vital to let go, but I haven’t even had my chance to show him what I have to offer. So when I do make a mistake, there is nothing for me to fall back on, nothing to redeem me, and no safety net, but you? You have years of experience on your back to break your fall. So don’t you dare act like you’re doing me a favor by reporting my ‘mistake’ to Hotch. You might be costing me my dream job, and if you think that makes us friends - think again.” 

I stormed out of the locker room seeing red. 

This war was far from over. 

_ _ _

“You’re clenching your fists again,” Emily said under her breath. I was grateful that she said it in a hushed tone, otherwise she might’ve revealed my lingering anger to the whole jet, which wouldn’t have been good. 

I immediately unclenched them, opening up my hands to reveal small, dark C shaped imprints on my palms from where my nails had dug into them. 

I should’ve expected that she would’ve learned at least one of my tells by now. I did have many after all. Cheek biting, fist-clenching, leg bouncing. 

“Something bothering you?” She probed quietly. 

She set her book down to give her undivided attention to this conversation. That was enough to tell me that an excuse like, ‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ would not suffice. She wouldn’t be satisfied until I told her the truth, which I surely did not want to tell. So I settled for a half-truth.

“Hotch wants to talk when we get back.” 

From my peripherals, I saw her knit her brows together in confusion. “Is . . . is that it?”

“Mhm.” I lied. 

“But that’s not enough to warrant the fist clenching. Cheek biting - sure - you do it when you’re anxious, but not fist-clenching. You only do that when you’re angry about something.” 

“Oh, so you have figured out all my tells,” I smirked.

“Pfft, I figured them all out the first week you got here, but I won’t tell you the rest, otherwise you might try and hide them from me,” She joked. 

I shook my head playfully. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m just worked up about something - it’s nothing you need to worry about though.” Habitually, my eyes looked right up in his direction. I caught a glimpse of him sprawled against the couch, sleeping. He was lucky I wasn’t ranting about the little stunt he pulled earlier to Emily. He should be thankful that I was even trying to protect his reputation to her at all. 

“I get it if you don’t want to talk about it, but it does help. Take it from me, someone who really only trusts myself, you shouldn’t hide what you feel.” 

What you feel. 

I clung onto those words. 

What was I really feeling? 

Was I upset that instead of receiving praise for the arrest I made, I was scolded like a child? Was I angry that Hotch believed what Reid had to say about my “problematic behavior” instead of believing in me? 

Or did I feel betrayed that despite my best efforts to build a bridge, Reid was tearing it apart brick by brick? Burning it to pieces with the fire of his rage?

“Thanks.” I bleakly said to Emily. I would’ve told her the truth, but it didn’t feel necessary at that moment. If anything, it just would’ve reflected badly on me. 

Truthfully, she was the closest thing I had to a friend in the BAU, and if I wanted a permanent spot here, I needed to make more of them - and fast. 

“Hey, (y/n), we’re all going down to O’Keefs tonight to celebrate. You wanna join us?” Morgan asked, walking up the aisle and crouching down beside my seat to talk to me. 

“Oh, I wish I could, but I have to talk with Hotch when we get back,” I explained, smiling politely. 

“We can postpone the meeting till first thing Monday morning. I need to go home and be with Jack, anyway,” Hotch added. 

I didn’t realize he could hear me from where he was sitting, which made me all the more nervous that he might’ve overheard the entire conversation between me and Emily earlier. 

“Looks like I’m free,” I looked back at Morgan. “Does the offer still stand?”

“Anything for you, sweet cheeks.” He winked. 

Judging from the lightness of the atmosphere, everyone, except maybe Hotch and Rossi, would be celebrating at O’Keefs - including Spencer. 

I think I might’ve actually preferred to be scolded by Hotch tonight, instead of being silently glared at by Spencer, but it was already too late to revoke my confirmation of presence. 

Because, if Hotch could hear me from where he was sitting, then Spencer could, too. 

He already heard I was coming, and there was no way I was backing down.

_ _ _ 

In spite of the fact that I could barely hear myself think over the loud chatter and blasting music, I could still feel the rage radiating off of Spencer. You would think with how long his nap was on the jet, he wouldn’t be so cranky, but I guess he just couldn’t sleep off his disdain for me after our minor altercation. 

I wondered if the team could see it, too. The way he was burning a hole into me with his fiery stare. The tension was palpable, as it has always been, but remember - I’m not the one who wanted it that way. 

He started this. I was only making the feeling mutual. 

“So what about you, (y/n)? Are you seeing anyone?” 

I tried to hide my growing smirk behind the rim of my beer, but I knew I couldn’t hide much from them. Of course, right across from me, Spencer was glaring at me expectantly, waiting for the answer he already knew. 

“Oooh, look at her - she’s blushing! Spill.” Penelope ordered, beating her palm on the table so enthusiastically it shook all the drinks on it.  

“Well, there’s this one guy I’ve been seeing for a while,” The second I started speaking, I noticed Spencer rolling his eyes. I figured his apprehension was the only response of its kind that I would receive, but I was very mistaken. 

“How did you two meet?” Penelope giddily asked, nearly jumping up and down in her seat. 

“A dating app, actually.” 

The table went completely silent, and I immediately felt my stomach drop. It was as if I’d just said something very wrong. With just a quick glance in front of me, Spencer was basking in this. 

What a dick.

Emily hesitated to ask. “...Have you two met in person before?” 

Now it was my turn to hesitate to speak. “No, not yet.” 

I took another sip of my drink even though I wasn’t thirsty. I just wanted to hide any part of my face I could to shield myself from the five sets of eyes burning holes into me now, rather than just the one. Trying to make matters better, I spoke all too quickly, nearly sputtering on my beer. “I’m completely safe, though. Nothing sketchy’s going on, I promise.” 

“Of course,” JJ agreed. “We totally trust you,” neglecting to attach the cliche, ‘It’s him we don’t trust.’ But if she had, it would’ve spoken everyone’s bubble thoughts right about now. 

“Just be careful, mama.” Derek’s response felt the most sincere, and I honestly believed he was happy for me, but it didn’t change how much their judgement initially stung. 

For the rest of the night, I didn’t talk. No one noticed. 

Except maybe the last person I wanted to notice. 

I quietly slipped away somewhere in the night when the conversation was at its highest precisely so they wouldn’t question where I was going or if I was okay. If they had asked, the truthful answer to the former would’ve been ‘just outside to get some air’ and the latter ‘no.’

The cool breeze drifted through the door like rising fog and for the briefest moment in time, I felt suspended in the space around me - I’d finally caught my breath. That feeling wouldn’t last long, though. 

I’d intentionally gone outside to compose myself until I came back a person who wasn’t on the verge of tears, but apparently, trying to pull myself only resulted in my falling apart. A ball of yarn unraveling is the closest comparison I can draw to what I must’ve looked like, crying quietly on the street.

“I figured I’d find you here.” 

It was the mere sound of someone’s voice that shocked me, but it was the person whose voice it was that led to the frustration that followed. 

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be inside talking to the team of people who also agree with you about Grant?” 

He was too much of a nuisance to warrant exchanging eye contact with so I simply stared forward as I spoke and wiped the tears away that were still pooling on my lower lash line. I hoped he hadn’t actually seen me crying, but from what I could tell, he was probably standing there long before he said something. And if he was truly looking at me as deeply as it felt like right now, then he’d have noticed my bloodshot eyes, flushed cheeks, and unending sniffling. 

“Is that why you disappeared back there? Because you’re upset they didn’t exactly like the idea of your relationship?” The pain in the ass really tried, he really tried to get me to look at him by facing me and making these gestures with his hands that should’ve gotten my attention, but instead, I stayed put leaning against the wall, keeping my line of sight straight ahead. 

“(Y/n), they weren’t insulting you or judging you -”

“Then why did it feel like it?” For the first time since he’d joined me, I’d looked at him. I didn’t even mean to and I had every intention of denying him that privilege for the entire duration of our conversation, but as soon as I asked him my question, we locked eyes, and I saw it written all over his face. 

He felt sorry for me. 

Now, he could clearly make out how distraught I was from this unobstructed view of my face that was kindled by the dim, flickering yellow glow of the streetlight beside us. And he kept staring, looking into my eyes to read me just as easily and just as quickly as he read a book. 

“All we want is for you to be safe,” His voice crackled momentarily, and it actually touched some part of me for how genuine it sounded. “We weren’t trying to judge you or to insult you, and I’m sorry if it felt that way, but if we want your safety, and you tell us about something that could be potentially harmful, then of course we’re going to be apprehensive about it. That’s how people that care about you should react.”

“So are you saying that I don’t care about myself because I’m engaging in something risky?” Isn’t that the most ironic statement of this year? The definition of our job was risky, and even if this wasn’t the safest relationship on the planet, it was nothing like what we put ourselves through everyday being in the field. 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying -”

“So what are you saying?” I dared. He shook his head and sighed like he was about to give up, but I needed an answer. “No, please, do continue. Finish what you were gonna say. Since you apparently know everything, 187. Please go ahead - tell me what you think I should do.” 

Tell me what you really came out here to say, I ordered him with my eyes.

“I think I respect you more than you respect yourself, and that’s really saying something. Because if you actually liked yourself as much as I do, then you would realize that subjecting yourself to this nonsensicality of a long-distance relationship is not only dangerous - but insulting to your worth, too. You deserve more than that, (y/n).” He couldn’t have been clearer when he murmured a low and firm, “Much more.” 

The world was spinning on its axis too fast for me to process anything he said before snapping back at him. “So what exactly is it you want me to do?”

With utmost clarity in both annunciation and intention, he told me, “Break up with him.” 

Not a shadow of a doubt in his words. 

Then, like the phantom of the opera himself, he vanished back into the bar, but even if he had stayed, I wouldn’t have had anything to say to him. I was simply rendered speechless.

Circling back to my previous argument, I questioned once more why was it any of his business anyway? I was allowed to do as I pleased and I most certainly did not have to listen to him. And I didn’t. 

But I should’ve. 

_ _ _ 

My Monday morning meeting with Hotch wasn’t nearly as fire and brimstone as I thought it would be. It did however feel like the equivalent to an “I’m disappointed in you” parent speech. In some ways, I related to the average teen who was grounded. Except instead of my phone being taken away, it was my freedom. From now on, I could only follow executive orders that had been given to me. At least for the time being. 

It was clear that, deep down, some part of Hotch knew what I’d done was the right call, but he couldn’t give me any favors. Not until they were deserved on my end. 

Walking onto the jet after our meeting, however, felt more juvenile than the punishment itself. I was a kid again, re-entering my classroom after using the restroom, only to have all eyes on me as I came through the door.

As per usual, the only empty chair was next to Reid. There’d been too many instances of this happening to think it was just a coincidence. At this point, I had to assume it was by design. Whose design however? That I didn’t know.

“Hello, trouble,” He sang when I took my seat. 

I could only assume that this new nickname was based on what took place in Hotch’s office - thanks to him, need I remind you - but I didn’t care to know the origin because that would require talking to him, and for several reasons, that was the last thing I wanted to do. The first of which was what happened less than three days ago. An event we both hadn’t mentioned yet, and I hoped we never would. 

I took every preventative measure in the book. I changed seats with JJ. I moved to the couch. I even started reading in the little hallway between the kitchenette and bathroom of the jet to avoid sitting beside him, but against all my best efforts, he always found a way to bug me. When there’s a will, there’s a way. After exhausting any real reason he had to talk to me, he had to get creative. 

“You’ve been on that same page for four minutes and twenty-seven seconds.” I heard him say when he walked up to the kitchen to reach for the pot of coffee. Almost expecting I’d ask him what he meant, he added the explanation casually. “It never takes you more than three minutes and twelve seconds to move onto the next page. So either you’re not understanding the material or you’re not actually reading.”

It was utterly hilarious of him to imply that either of those things were definitely the answer. “What if I’m just taking my time reading this page, genius? Ever thought of that?” 

His eyes turned into slits as he leaned in closer to examine me. “You’re blinking rate just increased, too.”

“Stop!” I screeched childishly, pushing him away by his shoulders in an attempt to get him off my back, but he was far from off my back. No, he was right against it. More specifically, his hand was on the small of it. 

Leaning in so close that his lips were practically pressing on the shell of my ear, he whispered, “Come find me when you’re ready to tell me the truth.”

He didn’t need to know his words or actions had any sort of effect on me, so I kept the most stoic facial expression on, and I didn’t say a single thing back. He turned back around to leave with the hand on my back being the last thing to go. His lingering touch caused a shiver to run down my spine while paradoxically burning my body from the friction. 

I was disgusted with myself for having let him elicit any sort of reaction from me, even if he wasn’t aware of it. 

“Yeah ... well, d-don’t expect that to be anytime soon,” was my poor attempt at a retort to shut him up.

“Whatever you say, trouble.” 

_  _ _ 

Personal space can be a wonderful thing. Much less so when it’s invaded, however. 

After what felt like the longest flight ever, all I wanted was to take a shower and go to bed. My wishes were granted when I was able to wash off the stress and exhaustion and slip into a blush pink satin pajama set Grant sent me that I’d been meaning to wear. The plunging neck of the tank top was lined with lace and adorned with the tiniest little bow at the center. To match the shirt, the hem of the shorts were lined with lace that trailed up the small triangular slits on the side of the shorts, where at the vertex of them was the same little bow detail. For such a pure and innocent color as baby pink, you’d think it’d be somewhat less revealing. The longer I started at myself in the mirror while wearing it, the more aware I’d become of the intentions behind why Grant had sent it.��

How cute, I thought, rolling my eyes.

Gifts should always be appreciated, if for no other reason than the effort put into it, but this just felt slimy. There was obviously no valiant romantic intent behind the negligee, which spoiled the delight of receiving something out of the blue from him. What’s worse was that I wasn’t even sure how to thank him for something like this. 

Me: thank you for the pajamas. they’re so cute!

Lying was easier over text message, in case you were wondering what the perks of a long distance relationship were. 

Grant: good, I’m glad you like them. are you wearing them right now? 

But sometimes, when you should lie, you don’t. And you regret it later on - take it from me. 

Me: yeah, they’re super comfy

Grant: great! i wanna see them on! take a pic 

As if to compensate for the indisputable hatred I had for this lingerie and what it stood for in our relationship, I did the only thing I could think that would make him think I really liked them. That I felt good in them. 

I took pictures - not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, Yelp review pictures, though - provocative ones. 

In the same breath I went to take them, though, Spencer’s words rang through my head. 

You deserve more than that. Much more. 

Shaking off the thought of Spencer, I decided against what the little voice in my head that sounded too similar to his would’ve said. 

To add to the illusion, I situated myself within the hotel sheets and used the front camera to capture my chest that was very much on display in this top. In the middle of rolling around the bed, trying to find the angles that wouldn’t show my face of dejection, the door opened. 

Instantaneously, I clawed at the sheets until they wrapped around me like a towel. I was ashamed to admit they provided more coverage than these ‘pajamas’ did.

My shriek of shock must’ve sounded familiar to the stranger intruding on me because no sooner did I scream than they questioned, “(Y/n)? What are you doing here?”

Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. 

“Spencer, what the hell are you doing in here?” I grumbled, struggling to maintain a tight enough grip on the sheets that would keep them from falling and unveiling a sight I desperately did not want him to see. 

“I asked you first.” 

Boy, if you only knew how badly I wanted to slap that smirk right off his face. “This is my hotel room obviously. Your turn.” 

Returning just the same tone, inflection, and vocals, he imitated me. “This is my hotel room obviously.” Like one of those magic tricks he’d show Henry or Jack, he miraculously flashed a room key between his index and middle finger that wasn’t there before. 

“No, that’s impossible.”

“I opened the door, didn’t I?” That damn smirk was still there when he asked this. Maybe, just maybe, if it hadn’t been so condescending, I would’ve thought his sarcasm was ... attractive. Disgusting, I know. 

“Well, if you actually plan on staying here, then you’re sleeping on the floor or the couch, got it?”

My question went unanswered until I turned around to follow where he’d traveled in the time that I spent pondering how this happened. Now perched at the window, sitting on the arm of the chair in a way that chairs weren’t meant to be sat on, he continued to stare silently at me. 

“What? What is it?” I urged. 

“What’s going on with the …” He made a side to side sweeping motion with his key card. “Bed sheets?” 

Consciously, I shimmied the fabric further up my body. Seeing as there was virtually no way to escape an honest answer, I confessed. “If you must know ... I’m wearing p-pajamas.” My own body was rejecting the shameful admission causing the word to stumble out of my mouth. 

He didn’t need to know any more than that to gather what kind of garments they were. He already figured it out.

“Did Grant give them to you?”

I almost rolled my eyes at the implication. “What makes you say that?” 

“Because I know you,” He punctuated every word perfectly. “And I know that you wear big shirts and sweatpants to bed because you don’t see the point of spending money on clothes that are only made for you to sleep in - especially if they’re clothes that make you uncomfortable like these ones clearly do.” 

Although, I greatly despised the fact that there was even a little bit of a chance that I might’ve agreed with him, I still defended Grant. “It was a thoughtful gesture.”

“Thoughtful, right,” He scoffed. “And which head was he thinking with?” 

I was baffled he had the gall to say such an innuendo. “Spencer!”

How dare he? So what if Grant bought me something provocative because he was physically attracted to me? At least someone was. 

Despite the ferocity plain on his face, he chose not to pursue this conversation. Visibly biting back on words he knew would hurt me, Spencer managed to sound remarkably genuine when he promised me, “I won’t look if you don’t want me to.” 

I want you to, was my very first thought. Oh, God, that’s so fucked up, was my second. 

He underlined his sincerity by turning fully around until he was facing the window. “But we should probably put the sheets back on the bed if you plan on sleeping on it.”

He was so patient as he waited for me to remove the cloth from my body. It almost made me feel guilty. He didn’t grumble or gripe, nor did he pressure me to do it at all. So by rights, there should’ve been no reason for me to take so long to let the barrier fall - he wasn’t looking at me. But I was just so goddamn embarrassed. 

This wasn’t me, and even he knew that. 

“You can turn around now,” I mumbled quietly once my safety net of a bedsheet had abandoned me. My arms were crossed over my chest and my thighs were pressed so tightly against each other as if to limit the surface area that Spencer could scrutinize. 

That never came. 

He did look, I could tell that much. But it wasn’t a look I’d ever seen before. It wasn’t rage or annoyance or pity. It was a look of lust. 

A look that made me positively weak in the knees. A look far more sensual than even my racy garments. 

“I’ll just sleep in Morgan’s room tonight, okay?” He offered once he finally broke out of his incapacitation. Grabbing the two opposite corners of the sheets that I was holding, it was a team effort as we arranged the covers where they belonged. It was probably the longest period of time we’d ever worked together without fighting or talking at all for that matter..

Not a single word was exchanged between us while Spencer gathered his things to leave for Derek’s. The room started to feel dangerously empty in the stillness. 

When he slipped past me to make his way out, I caught his upper arm, successfully pulling him back around.

I could’ve been sweet, I should’ve. But that wasn’t our thing. So I settled for what came naturally to us and what would set off the least amount of red flags - I didn’t play nice. “As long as you promise not to hog the entire bed with your behemoth body, we can sleep together -” Catching the words as soon as they came out and what they could’ve implied, I began backtracking. “Sleep in the same bed. Sleep as in rest. Not sleep as in … anything else.” 

Then, in one of those rare moments- he laughed. He actually laughed. Like a real, hearty, sudden laugh. “I know what you meant, (y/n).” 

I’ll never forget the smile that followed the world’s greatest laugh either. 

Oh, God, I’m so fucked up. 

_ _ _

Spencer’s POV

Domesticated animals are smarter than we give them credit for. Studies have shown that pets can actually sense time; They know when it’s time for their owner to leave for the day and when they’ll be coming home, too. 

Animals aren’t dumb - and neither was I. 

Like a dog sniffing out their owner’s imminent absence in the home, I could tell (y/n) was leaving the hotel room for the night. If her current state wasn’t convincing enough, then her behavior throughout the entire day supported that theory just as well. 

Whether it was her phone, the clock on the wall, or her watch, she was evidently keeping a close eye on the time. She did it so often, though, that you would think she would just use simple deductions to figure out what time it was by estimating the time it was when she last checked, but nope. She rarely let more than a minute go by without monitoring the clock.

My suspicions didn’t end there. What’s more suggestive was the anxious fidgeting. She had her tells of anxiety - everyone does - but this was a level of stress I’d never seen her exhibit before, not even in the field. 

She kept cracking her knuckles, even when she’d exhausting all the popping noises she could from them. Her leg-bobbing was another big tell, too. I tend to sit on tables rather than in the chairs at said table, allowing me to feel the earthquake occurring on the precinct floor. Her leg was bouncing up and down so vigorously it was practically shaking the room. 

I would’ve asked her what she was so impatient about, but I feared I already knew the answer.

Grant.

And if I never heard that name roll off her tongue again, it would be too soon. 

That didn’t mean I couldn’t ask where she was going, though.

Pretending to read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I barely let my eyes venture far off the page when I loudly asked from the window seat, “So where are you going tonight, trouble?” 

The faintest sound of a chuckle erupted in the bathroom, most likely from the nickname I hadn’t let die yet. 

“Nunya,” was her ever-so mature answer. 

I didn’t want to give her the chance to say ‘nunya business’ like I knew she would, so I quickly interjected with a monotone, “How clever of you.” If she wanted to be a child about this, then so be it. 

“Let’s see. You brought your good heels out of your suitcase, which you only wear on special occasions. And you put on a different perfume than the one you usually use, so I’m assuming it’s new. ... If I didn’t know any better, trouble, I’d say you’re going on a date.” 

She peeked her head out of the bathroom doorway to say, “You’re creepy, you know that?” 

Seeing the small portion of her face that was embellished with a smile would’ve been enough if only I knew what dress she was hiding in behind that wall. I had yet to see that part of her ensemble, but if I had to guess, it would break my heart. 

“Just saying,” I casually lied while clearing my throat. 

“Well,” I heard her begin from within the bathroom. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Grant is meeting me tonight.” 

Kill me now.

“I thought Grant lived in D.C.” Not that that would change much if he was already here. 

“Yes, he does, but he’s driving all the way here to meet me. Seeee,” She drew out the word. “Would a serial killer do that?” 

I refrained from giving the obvious answer: Yes. 

“Well, I hope you don’t plan on bringing him back here. Otherwise, that’d be terribly awkward, don’t you think?” My allusion to the possibility that Grant would come back here to find me in her bed was borne from the intentions that were a complete contradiction to the words I’d just spoken. It, in fact, wouldn’t be terribly awkward. No, it would be fun. For me at least. 

I would have loved to have seen the look on his face, and the worry on hers as she tried to explain who I was and why I had any right to be in (y/n)’s gravity. 

The room went silent again while I stayed on the same page of my book and, unbeknownst to her, waited for her to enter the room. How long she was taking was starting to worry me, though. 

“Need any help in there?” I called out.

“Nope,” She said through a strained voice that proved she was indeed struggling with something. 

“Really?” I asked once more to give her another opportunity to lower her colossal pride. “Cause it sounds like you need help.” 

“Nope. I’m good.” Liar. 

I knew her too well. I counted down to the exact second when she finally scrambled to ask, “Can you help me zip up my dress?”

“Yyyup.” I’d already resigned to the fact that I would have to help her, bouncing happily off the bed when she finally admitted it and letting myself lose the page I was on as I tossed the book haphazardly behind me. 

I was forced to join her in the bathroom for it was already hard for her to humble herself enough to ask me for help, so she certainly couldn’t be expected to lower her pride again and walk out to a place more convenient for me. 

The first thing I noticed was that it was a space clearly not made for two. It was so cramped that I ended up right against her in order to fit. The second thing I noticed was how she made no movements to distance herself. She was so close to me that I could actually see the little hairs on the back of her neck standing up from where my breath ghosted on the area. The sterile smell of hotel bathrooms had been replaced by the flowery, aromatic scent of her new perfume, and my heart broke all over again. 

Using the back of my fingers, I cast a barely-there caress on her neck to stroke her hair out of the way to clear the path of the zipper. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood up again. 

She liked that.

“So do I get to know where you’re going?” I reached for the zipper on the small of her back. “For safety purposes, of course.” 

“Aww, you looking out for me, Dr. Reid?” She teased in a seductive tone while gathering her hair into a makeshift ponytail that for the shortest second recorded in time might’ve reminded me of a constantly recurring intrusive image. 

“Always, trouble.” 

The zipper fastened with absolutely no resistance all the way to the top. My eyes flashed to the mirror to catch her expression, which told me everything I needed to know. 

What a pretty little liar. She didn’t actually need my help. 

Comprehending that the realization dawned on me, she gave me what she knew would shut me up. “We’re going to The Rooftop at Lamont’s.” 

How effortlessly she slipped past me without a thank you or a glance in my direction served as a rude awakening.

“Well, you should take an umbrella with you. It looks like there’s gonna be a storm tonight.” This was my small way of coming to terms with the reality of the situation. 

“Eh,” She waved my suggestion off with a dismissive hand. “We’ll be fine. Oh, and don’t even think about stalking me!” She warned before exiting the room.

In the blink of an eye, she was gone - my peace of mind having left with her. 

_ _ _ 

The amount of sleep you need varies for each person and is affected by several factors. However, for most adults, 7–9 hours per night is the ideal amount. And I was slowly reducing that optimal quantity, hour by hour, until there was none left. 

I would continue to sacrifice my sleep so long as I was awake for her return. If she’d asked why I was still up, I would lie. Though I wouldn’t look half so pretty as she did when she lied. 

Losing rest seemed like such a small price to pay to make sure I was fully alert in the event that an emergency happened, even if I would suffer the consequences in the morning. But hey - that’s what caffeine is for, isn’t it? To re-energize oneself after staying up to guarantee one’s enemy’s safety. 

Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly why Kaldi invented coffee in 750 A.D. 

Besides the thunderstorm, my mind also made great company for situations like these. Granted, the visions it would project kept me up for a reason - they were all so awful. 

There was simply no projected reality where things would turn out alright. 

If she had the time of her life on her date, she would come back to throw it in my face that I’d been wrong, and her admiration for Grant would have deepened. 

Or if he stood her up, she’d be devastated, but instead of letting me console her, she’d push me away as easily as she always did.

In a more neutral instance, perhaps she would admit it wasn’t as great meeting him as she thought it would be and the relationship would fade out for innocent reasons. Even if that seemed like the most favorable circumstance, she would eventually grow to resent me for planting the seed of doubt in her head in the first place.

But nothing- nothing I could have imagined would be as treacherous as what actually happened.

At exactly 1:09 a.m, my phone started to ring. I can’t explain to you what it was, but I just knew - it was her calling, and it wasn’t even her number.

“(Y/n)? Is everything okay?” 

If she said something beforehand, I couldn’t hear her because the storm was too loud and her voice was too quiet. “Did I wake you up?” 

I reassured her with a tone I didn’t even recognize. “No, no. I was awake. Why? What’s up?” The line went quiet again, forcing me to prompt her to speak in order to find out if she was still there on the call. “(Y/n)?”

“Spencer ...” She choked out a hoarse sob. “I need you. I need you to come get me, please.” 

My eyes clenched shut at the dreadful sound of her sorrow, and I jolted into action. After scrambling to gather the keys to her car that she’d left behind, I fled the room faster than ever before. 

“I’m on my way, (y/n). Stay right there. You’re at The Rooftop at Lamont’s right?” 

The poor thing took the longest pause in history, either from shame or disorientation. “He threw me in the back of his car and drove me all the way to D.C. I …” Her breath caught on her dry throat again. “I, um, I managed to escape and now I’ve barricaded myself in a payphone booth. I haven’t called the police yet. You were the first person I thought to call. I just, I just needed to hear your voice.”

My knuckles turned an unfamiliar shade of white when I gripped the steering wheel, picturing her caged up in a rectangular box, dialing my number instead of 911 just so she could hear my voice.

“Everything is gonna be okay. I promise you. My ETA is 1:28. That’s in 19 minutes. Are you okay being there for that long or do you want to find somewhere safer?”

I could no longer distinguish the difference between talking to her right now and talking to a victim in distress. I was speaking with the same tone and inflection but feeling a sharp pain in my chest that wasn’t there before. 

“I can stay here. Just ... don’t hang up, okay?” The fact that the possibility of me abandoning her over the phone even crossed her mind was more than enough to get me to drive well over the speed limit. 

The list of traffic infractions only grew from there because honestly? Screw my safety or anyone else’s. Her’s was the only one that mattered. She was the priority. 

She was my priority. 

Throughout the entire call, I kept repeating, “You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Frankly, it was something we both needed to hear. 

It was both the fastest and slowest 19 minutes of my life. Time no longer felt real when I finally found the payphone booth that boxed in my troublesome girl. No sooner did I drive up to the sidewalk than I ran out of the car to sprint the short distance to free her from her coop.

“(Y/n)!” I shouted, swinging the door open and throwing caution to the wind in the process. Immediately, she dropped the phone, not even bothering to replace it onto its receiver. 

The pouring rain had stripped her of her dignity. Mascara ran down her face in pigmented streams of black. Her curled hair was dampened into strings. But worse of all, it hadn’t washed away the darkening bruises on her skin.

“Oh my god, Spencer!” She cried as she ran into my open arms. 

Her body collided with mine in such a gentle manner that I had to wonder how that was possible at all or if it was a figment of my imagination. Was our collision actually that gentle or did it seem that way because of how good it felt to have her arms and legs latch around my entire torso, crossing and connecting somewhere in between?

With one arm under her thighs to hold her up, I pulled her impossibly closer to me by cradling the back of her head with the other hand. 

Her small hands found their way into my hair, a new sensation I tried not to indulge in so as not to let my attention stray away from the little life I was holding in my arms. 

She was so cold. 

Shivering from my warm embrace, her teeth chattered as she whispered, “I’m so sorry, Spencer. You were right I should’ve listened -”

“Shh, it’s okay, (y/n),” I said with the hopes that I could make the pounding heart that was thumping against my shoulder settle down until it reached her standard heart rate of 67 beats per minute. 

After a second of just holding her wordlessly, she spoke again. 

“I don’t wanna fight.” She surrendered so easily to me that I could hardly believe this was her at all. 

“I don’t wanna fight with you either.” 

That was entirely true. Fighting with her was the last thing on my mind. The first was getting her into my car. 

It was easier that I imagined it would be, but then again, it’s easy to do things when you’re motivated in this way. 

Before I loosened my hold on her to shut the passenger door, she squeezed me a little tighter, as if to be absolutely certain this was real and not some cruel dream.

“Thank you,” She hummed into the crook of my neck. From where her shoulder was digging into my throat, I couldn’t exactly respond verbally, so I settled for rubbing my hand up and down her back comfortingly. 

“Let’s take you home,” I basically said to myself seeing as it was too quiet to be discernible. 

“No,” She shook her head rapidly. “Take me to your apartment.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to go back to the hotel right now. I need to be somewhere I feel safe.”

My apartment is closer than the hotel, I reasoned, pretending it was the logic of it that made my heart swell and not the statement I would fixate on for the entire duration of the ride there. 

I need to be somewhere I feel safe. 

And that’s wherever I’m with you.

_ _ _ 

Reader’s POV

Porcelain wall tiles gleamed back at me, mocking my wretched misery. They were much prettier than me, but then again, anything else would be prettier than me right about now.

I certainly wasn’t the belle of the ball in my bare naked state. The fact that I was sitting in a pool of my own washed off dried blood didn’t help either.

I would’ve looked away from the bright white walls, but where else were I to look? Into the pair of eyes that I was deliberately avoiding? The ones that were staring a hole through me right now? No. I couldn’t bear to meet those eyes. So I kept looking forward at the mean walls - those mean, mocking walls.

“Is the water warm enough?” He asked, dipping a finger into the bathwater to test it himself. 

I watched as his hand snuck into the tub and swirled around some water, causing soap bubbles to revitalize. 

For a reason I didn’t know nor could remember at this given moment, Spencer drove me to his apartment. That memory of why I was here was fuzzy, but the rest following my arrival was more vivid. Perhaps because it was all unfolding right now.

“I think I should go,” I murmured. The bathwater had gone cold, and the silence was too deafening. If I didn’t leave now, then I would be trapped forever. 

I leaned forward with my knees still pressed to my chest to protect my modesty while I tugged on the silver drain plug of the tub to release the suction.

“You can’t go home. You’ll be alone again, and who will be there to help you that time?” 

“I don’t need anybody’s help.” I responded curtly. 

“Then why did you call me tonight?”

“Why did you answer?” 

He was stunned by how I didn’t miss a beat with my question, stunned enough to purse his lips in contempt. “Should I have declined your call then? Said ‘no’ instead and let you fend for yourself? You know what - my bad, (y/n). I sincerely apologize that I care about you.” 

I scoffed at his factiousness. “No, what you should’ve done is whatever the hell you wanted to do. But clearly, since you said ‘yes’ and came to my rescue like I’m some victim in a case - you wanted to be there. I could chalk that up to you having a hero complex, but I think it’s time for you to admit you just wanted to see me at my worst so you could throw it in my face like you’re doing right now.”

He clenched his jaw in fury, muttering under his breath, “I should’ve left you in that booth.” 

This crossed a line, but I was just as ready to cross it, too. 

“But I bet you liked saving me. Seeing me as a damsel in distress that you could white knight. You like that, Spence? Does my weakness settle your deep rooted fear of inadequacy in strength?”

Shouldn’t have done that. 

For a second there, I was sincerely scared of the response I might’ve just elicited, so I shot up from the tub and grabbed the towel on the rack, quickly wrapping myself in it and avoiding Spencer’s gaze the entire way out of the bathroom.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Judging from the loudness of his voice, he was right on my heels, following me close behind. 

“You’re smart. Figure it out.” 

“God, why do you have to be such a pain in the ass? I don’t want to leave you like this.” It never failed to amaze me how he could both show disdain and concern for me in the matter of a sentence. 

“Well, you’re not leaving me like this - I’m leaving you like this.” My clever remark angered him more.

Seemingly from out of nowhere, Spencer called out from the end of his hallway, “What are you so scared of?” 

Reaching the end of my rapidly fraying rope, I spun around to throw my arms out to my side in just the same defensive manner as he did. “Nothing! Maybe I just don’t wanna be stuck in the apartment of the man who hates me! Can you blame me?” 

He ran a hasty hand through his hair, pulling at the strands out of pure irritation. “Why do you keep saying I hate you? How can any of what I’ve done for you tonight suggest that?”

He’d chosen his words carefully and for that, he was smart. His inclusivity of the word ‘tonight’ meant I could only reference his actions from the past few hours, which wouldn’t help my case, as opposed to the months and months that he’d given me the cold shoulder, which would have helped my case. But again, he was smart - he had me in a deadlock. I couldn’t accept defeat, but what could I possibly argue against his point? 

My body literally shook from the power of the deep groan that tore through my chest. “God, what do you want from me, Spencer?” I wanted nothing more than to be far, far away from him, but my body was resisting all those urges. Lunging forward, I pointed the sternest index finger at him, staring the most unforgiving glare into his soul. “Tell me - tell me what you want! Because when I was nice to you, you-you treated me like shit. And then when I stopped being nice to you, you still treated me like shit. So what -” I had to laugh to alleviate the sheer rage I was feeling. “What the fuck do you want from me? Because it’s like no matter what I do, it’s just not good enough for you!”

His eyebrows had furrowed and his eyes softened. He didn’t look angry whatsoever. No, he looked hurt. 

“Not good enough for me?” He leaned down to my level to look right into my eyes. “You are everything … everything to me.”

With one last breath, I cried out in anguish, “Then why? Why do you hate me so much?” 

He gulped back the lump in his throat - the last barrier that kept him from telling the truth. 

“I ... I never hated you. I just need to be in control of my thoughts and feelings at all times, otherwise, I feel-I feel like I’m going crazy. Like I’m on the verge of a psychotic break that I’m genetically predisposed to have. But when you came around - I lost all my control. You were inhabiting my dreams, you were stealing my sleep, occupying more and more space in my brain until there was no more room left to take. God, I think about you all the time, and I literally cannot physically stop it. I have no control anymore,” and somehow him saying that sounded something like an ‘I love you.’ 

“The only thing I could control was how I treated you. I thought being awful to you would get you to despise me enough to make me despise you, too, and while it was easier to be angry at you, it was so much worse having you hate me.”

“I never hated you, Spencer.” Never. 

“You should have,” He rasped. “I know I don’t deserve you, but I wish to spend every day proving that I want you. Oh, I want you so bad,” He sharply inhaled through gritted teeth, and I unconsciously laughed in return. His pain wasn’t funny in the least. What was amusing was knowing that he had the same excruciating longing for me that I had for him. 

“I don’t want control anymore if it means I can’t have you.”

He leaned in so carefully that I almost didn't register the movement at all. Our hearts were pounding to the same synchronized beat. We were the shore and the tide one in the same. Our breaths would draw in and out, in and out, as he held my face so gently. We were still the shore and the tide, but more than anything we were drowning in the ocean of ourselves. The rising waters of his admiration threatened to flood every empty nook and cranny of the room until it swallowed me whole. All I could feel was him, everywhere, filling absolutely everything. 

“Wow ... I finally got you speechless,” The cocky bastard hummed happily, letting his words vibrate on the smallest part of my lip.

“Oh, shut up,” I declared through a smirk I needed to fight off before finally closing that nearly imperceptible gap between us. 

All the forces in the world couldn’t tear us apart after we connected. They were no match for the force Spencer’s hands had as they pulled me impossibly closer. The pressure might’ve even been unbearable had it not been for the velvety pair of lips giving me back all the oxygen it stole from my lungs just seconds ago. They were so soft, like freshly washed sheets, like biting into cotton candy, like floating for the first time, feeling utterly weightless in water. It’s sweet, it’s so effortlessly sweet. 

Not nearly as sweet as the words that followed our parting. 

“Not enough for me?” He repeated, recalling my previous claim. “You’ve had me since the day you walked in, trouble.” 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

fingers crossed this fic doesn’t flop!

complete taglist: @muffin-cup @s1utformgg @no-alarms-no-surprises-silence @jemimah-b99 @justanothetfangirl @kylab @rainsong01 @calm-and-doctor @inkstainedwritergirl @rexorangecouny @ashwarren32 @carooliina @fortheloveofcriminalminds @watermelongubler  @obsessedmaggiemay @k-k0129 @aperrywilliams @eevee0722 @spencersmagic @spencerreid-mgg @half-blood-dork @goldeng1rl8 @just-a-bunch-of-fandoms @random-human-person @masumiyetimziyanoldu @dreamer-writer-fangirl @kalamitykait @jinxy175 @apolloroid 

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[nymphigeon]

From me, to you || 07

♤ Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

♤ Genre: fluff, angst, romance, hybrid au, hybrid!Taehyung, detective!reader

♤ Words: 2.5k

♤ Rating: PG-13

♤ Warnings (for this chapter): Mentions of hybrid abuse, swearing.

♤ A/N: Surprise! I'm really sorry it took me this long, but I finally found the time and drive to write again :) Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Synopsis: A story in which he has never known love, so you’ll give it to him.

Series masterlist

06 07

"What do you mean this hybrid doesn't exist?"

Her eyes are wavering with an unspoken fear, perhaps caused by the bitterness my questions holds. I'm not happy, and she knows.

“It’s just, the chance that a dangerous breed such as the tiger hybrid would escape our system is basically zero..” The gaze she held on the computer screen unsurely moves my way. My expression must've instilled another layer of anxiety to the already existing one, as her mouth abruptly stops moving and her pupils dilate.

“Go on, explain.” The tone of my voice softens a bit as I notice her visible discomfort worsening. Even if there is no way that I’ll get any information from this place regarding Taehyung and his owner, I would still like to know why they’re both not showing up here.

Eun-ji takes a few deep breaths to stabilize her voice. As she does her posture slowly relaxes just a little and her eyes lose some of the nervousness they held before. “Because the first ‘successful’ tiger hybrid ran rampant after killing their creator, anyone who still breeds or creates them is being watched very closely by us, as well as by some other institutions.”

Perhaps it’s my lack of reaction that causes her to trail off at the end. Though I’m not judging her or her story, unlike she may think. To encourage her to continue, I give her a nod, tilting my head to show interest.

“The regular citizen isn’t even allowed to have one, needing special training to handle them. It’s like that for most hybrids that find their origins in wild animals. Creating tiger hybrids obviously requires a lot of knowledge when it comes to playing with genes and breeding them…. Well there are only three organization that are authorized to do so. All the resulting hybrids are registered and chipped.”

The explanation, which turns out to be a lengthy one, gets broken by a shuddering breath leaving her lips. She composes herself, clinging on to the little confidence she has left in her line of work to speak about the rest of her clarification.

“Of course people have tried to do it themselves, but those d.i.y operations have always ended in disappointment. If not taken proper care of, with substances only a board certified hybrid doctor can provide you, the pregnancy will fail. These are no easy practices they are dealing with.”

After the girls’ last words I give myself some time to think, letting a silence full of tension fill the room. It must be obvious that my mind is somewhere else at the moment, as the other girl in the room does her best to stay quiet. I don’t need much time however, my thoughts having quickly rearranged themselves as they were trained to do.

“So what you’re saying is, since tiger hybrids are hard to ‘create’, if you will, there are only a few people who actually manage to bring them to life. And so those few people are kept under close watch, as are the hybrids they successfully wake, am I correct?”

Eun-ji nods affirmatively, clearly happy that I seem to understand the situation. “So there is absolutely no way that someone without authorization has had a decent attempt at either genetically merging a human together with a tiger or getting a tiger hybrid pregnancy to be successful?”

Perhaps there might be a bit of scepticism in the question I asked, as her attitude immediately changes into a defensive one. “There is not! Whatever hybrid you’re searching for either gave you a false identity or is not a tiger hybrid at all, which would seem rather unlikely. I told you they get chipped right? Why not go look into that.”

“He doesn’t have one. We already had a hospital take a look at him, they didn’t find anything. ” The statement seems to shock her, the gears in her head instantly turning as to find an answer to this riddle. She however can’t seem to get one.

“They can be removed, can they not? They’re just under the skin. If someone decided to just cut it out they could. Terrifying, but plausible. Either that or one of your faithful authorized employees has been leaking information to outsiders.”

This is where Eun-ji seems to give up. Her shoulders sagging and a heavy sigh leaving her lips. “There would still be the problem of the missing equipment, test subjects, practice… How would you even get hold of fertilized human eggs to play around with? But I guess that wouldn’t be totally impossible. As for cutting it out… There would be a noticeable scar. The implants are always put in the same place, it wouldn’t be hard to miss.”

I make a mental note stating to ask Taehyung about all of this when I get back. If anyone knows how he got onto this world it would be him. “Is there a possibility that you could have someone look into it?” The girl nods in defeat, paying more attention to the ground than to anything else. “I’ll see if I can get someone on the case. I’ll have them contact you if we know anything.”

After those words she turns around in her chair, facing the monitor that had already put itself into sleep, and turns it off. Taking a notepad out of the drawer to her left, she quickly writes something down with the pen from her breast pocket. “I’ll get on it right away. Would you like me to walk you back to the exit?”

I shake my head. “No It’s okay, I’ll find my way back. Thank you for cooperating.” Eun-ji gives me a small smile, followed by a bow and walks out of the room taking the note with her, presumably immediately keeping herself busy with the extra work. Not wanting to waste any time I copy her, walking myself back into the direction we came from. Turns out it proves quite easy to find the exit by myself.

It’s already far past dinnertime when I make it back to the office. Not many of my colleagues have remained in their seats, most of them opting for a nice meal with their families. The few that have stayed behind are mostly known to live alone, quite like myself.

I quietly knock on my supervisor’s door, but when no response emerges from within the room, I can safely deduce that she too has already returned home. “I’ll have to write her a report about today later..” I mutter to myself, before stepping away from the door and instead heading to the cells at the back.

Technically the arrest period had already ended for Taehyung, as the law wouldn’t allow us to keep him locked up for any longer without any charges being held against him. His cell however technically was never locked and so even now, he is free to go wherever he wants. Though it didn’t change the fact that he still has no place to go to.

“Good evening. Had anything to eat yet?” He just chose to stay here and we accepted it. “Oh, hello! Yes, that tall handsome bulky man gave me something earlier, I can’t remember his name. He said something about it ‘being the best shit in town’.”

I slightly giggle at his quote, knowing immediately who it belongs to. “That definitely sounds like something Namjoon would say. What did he give you?”

Taehyung looks a lot better than he did yesterday. The stress of the interrogation seems to have completely worn off, instead traded for the sweet bouncy personality he used to show around me.

“Umm it was something in the shape of a circle and it had meat all over it… Oh! I think he called it a pizza? It was delicious!”

“You’ve never had pizza before?” The words leave my mouth before I actually get the chance to process them, causing me to instantly regret ever even opening my mouth. These days are stressful enough for him as they are, he doesn’t need a painful reminder of the life he never got to live on top of that.

The question doesn’t seem to hit him as hard as I though it would though. In fact, his demeanour doesn’t seem to change at all. Although sadly, it doesn’t make his next words any less painful. “Nope! When I first got adopted all they would feed me was wet cat food. It wasn’t great, but at least I got my three meals a day. The foster family I stayed at after my first owners mysteriously disappeared didn’t actually have the money to even take proper care of themselves, so at that time all I would get was whatever was left of their dinner that day, if there was even any left. It was mostly just greens. The lack of meat made me real sick at the time.”

He pauses talking for a second to look up at my face through the metal bars. The content look on his face quickly changes to one of worry once he catches my eyes. It’s no mystery why, I know I look at him pitifully. Even if he may not wish for my concern, I am only human. I can perfectly hide it when I need to, but this is not one of those cases.

“There it is again, that sad look on your face…” He sits up straight on the side of his bed to fully observe me, a tilt of his head giving him away. I send a sad chuckle his way as I reach for the door of his enclosure, inviting myself into the small space with him. He doesn’t object.

“Is it that obvious?” It was meant more as a way to lighten the mood, not as an actual question that needs answering. He still does however, giving me a simple slow nod. “You don’t need to feel bad for me.”

“Someone has to. You deserve at least that much.”

There’s a chair neatly placed under a small desk in the room. It used to be quite lively, with all kinds of bright colours blending into each other. It was a little positive additive into the dark grey room, but after all the anger that has been acted out on it, it no longer has that same shine.

I pull the chair out to place myself upon it, straddling the seat while I rest my arms on top of the back rest. Facing the tiger I use my arms as a pillow to lean my head on, making myself comfortable on the creaking furniture.

“Say, Taehyung, do you remember anything from when and where you were formed?”

He seems slightly taken aback at first, though quickly regains his composure. He also doesn’t immediately answer, first taking some time to think before coming back to me. “I was born a hybrid to two purebred tiger hybrids. They did their best trying to care for me in the little time we got to spend together, but seeing as it happened on a breeding farm getting to spend time with my parents wasn’t the plan. I got sold off pretty quickly, as soon as I learned to hold my first few full conversations.”

“Do you… Would you happen to know what happened to the farm? To your parents?” I fail to hide my apprehensiveness, needing too much space to form a careful approach. This shouldn’t feel like an interrogation to him, I never even announced one. There is little reason for him to answer me, the vital information from his side has already been given anyway. Nonetheless, even though I probably shouldn’t be doing this right now, I can’t just miss this opportunity.

“I heard my adoptive family talking about how the place was burnt down a while later. Most likely the police had caught a hold of it and they had to delete their left behind evidence. Both building and hybrids.”

Despite talking about the death of his parents, he seems to tell the story with relative ease. Probably not having much connection with the far past, his brain too young to truly hold on to the memory of them.

“They were successful too, as the case got dropped faster than lightning. It wasn’t long before the general public forgot about it too, believing it was just another misunderstanding. Besides, hybrid lives weren’t as important anyway.”

The amount of rights hybrids had when they were first created back in the day were close to zero, only strictly being seen as objects to show off whatever possible wealth one may have had. For a while there was even a popular theory going around that hybrids didn’t actually have the ability to feel any kind of emotion or pain. The genetic puzzle wouldn’t allow for it, as it had been tampered with to an extreme extent. This only built on the carelessness shown towards them, slowly chipping away at their sanity.

Although the rumours were wrong, they came from a place of truth. Facial expressions were rare for hybrids, as was the ability to speak. Most of them couldn’t even keep up with regular humans, exhaustion quickly taking over the little anger they could show. Scientists hadn’t yet quite figured out how to perfectly combine the pieces of genetic code and so hybrids were more like living dolls in the eyes of evil humans. Having no voice to object and barely any means to actually hurt anyone, it wasn’t much of a surprise the selfish nature in humans came to rise.

Luckily, or depending on how you look at it, sadly, these first generation hybrids were never able to reproduce. The doll like hybrid features eventually died out with the rise of the newly perfected pieces and the theory was debunked by a group of scientist who actually did care about the hybrids’ wellbeing. Those hybrids had lived through countless punishments, and every single one of them had hurt. A lot.

Right now hybrids in a lot of ways are superior to the rest of us. Having the combined senses of both animal and human alike, society has reluctantly given up on trying to contain them. They are still to be bought and owned, but no longer to be treated like dirt. The smartest of hybrids have even already gotten complete freedom to do as the please, no longer having to be bound to a human to roam freely. However, those unable to pass the close to impossible tests aren’t so lucky.

“I’m sorry about what happened.”

Taehyung gives me a reassuring wave of his hand, effectively trying to lighten the mood, along with a sad smile. It wouldn’t take a trained professional to know he still longs for his parent’s presence, even if he may do well hiding it.

“It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.”

That doesn’t make the situation more okay, but I hold my remarks back. For now, that might just be for the best.

Taglist

@suhappysuho @intellectualxprincess @sana-b @littlewolfieposts @nellaphine @the8luvr @deathkat657 @elenaramos1 @namjoonies-dimple

[blackmissfrizzle]

Just Right (2)

Part 1

Characters: Angel Reyes x black!plussized!reader

Chapter Summary: As he gets trained Angel starts feeling feelings.

Chapter Warning: Fluff, smut

A/N: Again shoutout to @starrynite7114 for being a wonderful friend, sounding board, and muse. Thank you girlie 😘

A/N (2): Since I got a chapter left, I’m gonna post one chapter a day.

If you want to check out more of my work here’s my masterlist and if you want to be notified here’s my taglist.

Divider Cred: @firefly-graphics​

Photo Cred: @blessedboo​

Angel was wrong and you were right. He hated you. While he was dying from the suicides you made him do you were standing there eating a taco and drinking water.

“Ain’t that enough?” Angel looked up at you during his break. “Nah, you’re gonna keep running until I feel skinny.” You took another bite of the taco.

“You’re fucking evil.” He lifted himself up for the next round torture. “I mean you could always use the safe word.” You shrugged nonchalantly.

Angel glared at you for your suggestion. He promised himself he would never speak Adelita’s name again and that’s why he decided to use it as his safe word during training. That way he wouldn’t give up. “Fuck no!” He shivered and started running again.

That’s exactly how training went for weeks. You push Angel until he voiced his hatred for you and then you pushed him some more. But in the evenings, you were each other’s company except for the occasional appearance by his brother and dad.

During this time Angel got to appreciate you more. You were attractive, funny, smart, and kind. How in the hell did he not see that before?

He was down in his garage working on his bike when you entered. “I always wanted to know what was in here.”

Angel shifted his gaze from his bike to you. He had to hold back a groan. Dressed in an oversized T-shirt of his team and shorts, a messy bun and your glasses with a plate of cookies in your hand you looked delectable. Again, he questioned himself on how Adelita was the one to capture his attention when you were right there all along.

“Ummmmm…cars.”

“Okay, smartass.” You chuckled as you rounded the corner. There you found Angel crouched on the ground working on a motorcycle. You weren’t able to see it earlier due to one of his cars blocking it. “Oh my god,” your fingers caressed the vehicle. “I didn’t know you had a bike.”

This wasn’t something Angel was used to. None of the women he dealt with including Adelita shared an interest in it. “Yeah, she’s my pride and joy.”

Finally standing up you got to enjoy Angel’s shirtless body. Yeah, he’s worked out shirtless before and you had to keep your composure then, but this, this was different. Maybe it had to do with him working with his hands or maybe it was because of his low-slung jeans that hugged his hips. Either way you were a mess.

Taking a deep breath, you purged your mind of any dirty thoughts of Angel Reyes. “Dude, you gotta take me for a ride.”

“Yeah?” Angel smiled at you, while wiping the grease off his hands. No matter how hard he asked, Adelita never agreed to ride with him, but here comes you and you’re practically begging him.

“Hell yeah! I mean I do have a fear of wiping out so I’m gonna be clutching hella hard.” Having your own bike was too nerve-wracking for you, so you settled for riding with someone, but the fear was still there.

“Don’t worry,” Angel lifted your chin and then stole a cookie from the plate. “I wouldn’t mind your arms wrapped around me.”

Your cheeks heated up. Every now and then Angel would make these types of comments, leaving you in a ditzy state. You have to convince yourself that that’s just how he is. From his interviews you could tell Angel was naturally flirtatious and charismatic.

Clearing your throat, you decided to change the subject. “So, what are you doing up this late? Don’t you have a game to rest for?”

Angel scratched the back of his head and knelt down to start working on his bike again. “Yeah, it’s just,” Angel threw his head back and let out a deep exhale. “What if I’m not ready? What if my knee gives out?”

Your heart cried out for Angel. Setting down the plate, you crouched down next to Angel and lifted his chin. “It won’t. I cleared you, the team doctor cleared you, and Coach Losa cleared you. You gotta trust the process, you gotta trust yourself.”

Angel tucked some stray hair behind your ear. “You’re amazing you know that, right? Practically a saint. Saint Y/N.”

“Oh no no no. I’m far from a saint.”

“Oh, so you’re one of them girls?” Angel arched his eyebrows suggestively.

You swatted Angel’s hands away. “No, I am not! I’m a good girl.”

Angel’s chocolate eyes darkened as his voice got deeper. “I know you’re a good girl.”

Your thighs clenched at his words. Now all you could think about is Angel on top of you calling you a good girl while he’s giving you that pipe.

“Anyway, why are you over here so late? Don’t you have a roster of men to be hitting up and making to take you out?” Angel knew you were single or at least he hoped you were. Every weekend you were here or with your parents and unlike everyone else your nose wasn’t stuck in your phone.

“Boy, I am single as Pringle.”

“Why?” Angel just had to know. You were too perfect not to be worshipped.

“Umm,” your phone buzzed, and you pulled it out to see a text from Rio. Smiling you texted him back and put your phone away. “I guess I just haven’t found the one, as corny as it sounds.”

He shouldn’t pry. It’s none of his damn business, but it was eating up at him as soon as he saw you smiling into your phone. “Who was that?”

“Oh, just Rio.” You threw out like nothing.

Of all the names, Angel didn’t expect that one. Turning away from you, Angel continued working on his bike, giving you the cold shoulder. “It’s getting late. You should go to bed and talk to Rio.”

The switch up was dizzying. One moment Angel was warm and soft and the next he was cold and hard. You just knew that it was best to leave him to sort out his feelings alone. “Well, I leave the cookies there if you want some more. Good night,” you said softly, feeling hurt.

When Angel heard the door closed, he kicked his toolbox across the room. Leave it to him to hurt the one person whose been by his side the whole time. “Way to go, Reyes.” Angel palmed his forehead, already thinking of a way to apologize.

Angel’s first game back was nerve wracking. He was playing safe, not trusting his knee fully. If he didn’t get it together right now his team would lose and be out the playoffs. “Hermosa, you gotta talk to him.” Bishop pleaded with you.

Hopping down from the stands you sat next to Angel on the bench. Feeling you next to him, Angel slid down to get away from you, but you just followed him to the end of the bench. “You go any further and you’re gonna end up on your ass.”

“Can’t you take a hint and go away?”

“Aww, someone’s cranky.” You pinched Angel’s cheek and he slapped your hands away. “Don’t be doing that shit on national tv.” Flicking his ear, you whispered in it. “Then stop acting like a fucking baby and do what needs to be done.”

Angel storms off from the bench and goes to the water cooler hoping to shake you, but you followed him anyway. “God, you’re like a fucking fly. So damn annoying.” Coco, Angel’s teammate and best friend was drinking his water when he heard Angel. He was about to defend you, but you held up your hand letting him know you got it.

Slapping the cup of water out of Angel’s hand you got in his space. “I’m not here to fucking coddle you, Reyes. I’m here to push you. You’re not a loser and I’m damn sure not a loser. So, what are you gonna do? Prove everyone else right and let your career go down in the drain or make the biggest comeback ever?”

The whistle blew signaling it was time for Angel to get back on the field. Angel kissed your cheek and snapped his helmet back on, running backwards to the field. “You know if the physical therapy thing doesn’t work out, you should ask coach about joining the coaching staff.” Rolling your eyes you flipped him the bird and he just laughed.

Bishop came up to you and put a headset on you. “Not the pep talk I was expecting, but it got the job done.” You nudge his shoulder and watched the team get a down. “What can I say? My mama ain’t raise no bitch.”

Bishop chuckled as the two of you watch Angel get the most yards he has in the entire game, making victory that much closer. He turned around and hugged you. “And maybe Angel is right. I might need you on my coaching staff.”

“Let’s get this W first and then we can talk about my salary.” You nudged Bishop’s shoulder.

There were 30 yards and one down left. They really needed a Hail Mary.

The whistle blew and for a moment you thought that Coco was about to get sacked, but the ball left his hands before they got to him. It was over. Coco overthrew the ball, there was no way Angel could catch it. You couldn’t watch this, it was making you too anxious. But then you heard the screams and you removed your fingers from your face. Angel caught the ball! He caught the freaking ball and was almost at the endzone with no one behind.

“AND THAT’S GAME LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” The announcer informed over the intercom. “ANGEL REYES MAKES THE COMEBACK OF THE YEAR AND LEADS HIS TEAM TO THE GAME WINNING TOUCHDOWN AND TO THE PLAYOFFFS!”

Caught up in the commotion you were jumping around with the team on the sidelines, but suddenly you were lifted off the ground. “Oh my god, we did it!” Angel spun you around. “Don’t you mean you did it?” You giggled as Angel set you down on your feet. “Nah, mi dulce, we did it. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you.” Angel kissed you on the cheek, but then he was pulled away for a post-game interview.

Gilly came up to you and wrapped his sweaty arm around your shoulder. “Get ready?”

“For what?” You arched an eyebrow at him. “To become the hottest commodity in sports history.” Then he left to join his teammates, leaving you to contemplate the next step of your career.

After the game, Angel made you go out and celebrate with the team. He claimed you were just as important to their success, even though you insisted you had nothing to do with it.

Man, these dudes can drink. “Slow down, Angel. Its not off-season.” You took his beer and finished it for him. Angel just sat back and smiled at you. “You’re right, let’s go.”

“Let me go to the restroom real quick.” You hopped up and ran to the ladies’ room. His friends gave him knowing smirks. “Cut it out.” He pointed to them.

“Nah, its not like that. We’re proud of you ‘mano. She’s a good one.” Coco smiled as you came back up to the VIP section.  

Angel couldn’t keep his eyes off of you as you came up the stairs. The heels made your legs seem longer, the shorts made your ass look extra delectable, and the crop top bralette made it hard for him to keep his eyes off your cleavage. “Ready?”

“Yeah, lets go querida.” Angel took your hand and led you down the stairs to the rideshare pickup spot.

“You ordered the Uber yet?”

“Nah, I got something better.” He led you a couple of feet down to his motorcycle. “For real?” You squealed. “Yeah, I thought we go get some ice cream and then I’ll take you for a ride.”

Jumping up and down, you hugged Angel and kissed his cheek. “Oh my god, thank you! You’re the best!” Angel snapped the extra helmet on your head. “It’s the least you deserve. C’mon, hop on.”

Giddily you got on behind Angel, but you were tentative about wrapping your arms around him tightly. Already being pressed up against him was tantalizing enough. “You’re really gonna fall off if you hold onto me like that. Hold on tighter.” At his insistence, you followed his directions. “Good girl.” He said as he revved up his bike.

It was everything you wanted and more. The wind wiping through your hair, the zipping in and out of lanes, and the vibration of the bike underneath you.

Once, Angel got the ice cream, he took you to his favorite spot in the city. It was the biggest hill overlooking the city and also a well-known makeout spot for kids.

“Cloud 9, huh?” You lifted your eyebrow to him as you went to sit on the big rock out there. “Don’t think you’re gonna get lucky mister.” Angel chuckled and lifted his hands in surrender. “Never. My attentions are pure. Its all in my name.”

Kissing your teeth, you lightly shoved him. “Boy, you are far from an Angel according to the blogs.”

“What do the blogs say?” He asked lowly, taking his ice cream cup from you. “According to them you are exceptionally blessed and your tongue isn’t just used for talking.” Angel had a shit-eating grin, but you just had to wipe it off his face. “But I think its all bullshit.” You smiled at his dropped jaw and wiggled in your seat to celebrate for catching him off-guard.

Angel invaded your space and whispered against your skin. “You could always find out for yourself.” Nervously, you began laughing and mushed Angel in his face. He had to be joking.

Sensing your uneasiness, Angel changed the topic. “So, all this time together and I’ve never asked you how you got into physical therapy.”

“Oh, easy! My dad was a war vet and on his last tour he got seriously injured. Man, when I found out I buried my head in books looking for a treatment plan. His PT asked me more than once if I wanted his job. And the rest was history and now I’m working at the VA.”

“Wow, you sure you’re not the angel?” Could you get any better, he thought. Opposite of Adelita, your kindness didn’t come with stipulations. You gave with expecting nothing in return.  

“Mmm, maybe,” you stretched out your body and yawned. “Sleepy, cariño?” He brushed back some of your hair. “Noooo,” you yawned out.

Angel took your ice cream cup and threw it in the trash. “Yes, you are, sleepyhead. Let’s go home.” You allowed Angel to move your body however he pleased. The tiredness was already seeping throughout your body. “Hold on tight. I’ll have us home in no time.”

Racing down the street Angel got you home quickly, though you weren’t as tired as you were earlier. The wind whipping you in the face woke you up some more.

“Thank you for tonight, Angel. Everything was perfect.” You didn’t know if it was the sleepiness, the alcohol, or just the heat of the moment, but whatever it was it led you to kiss Angel. It only lasted for a couple of seconds but as soon as you tried to back away he pulled you back in for a much longer, much more passionate kiss. “Come to bed with me,” he sorta asked, sorta ordered you once he let you up for air.

You nodded at him and he picked you up. “Angel, put me down! You’re gonna hurt yourself going up these stairs while carrying me.” Angel stopped mid-stride and tilted your chin to get a good look at you. “I don’t know what type of dudes you messed with before, but I ain’t them. I can handle of this,” he smacked your backside making you yelp. “Entiendes?”

“Mmhmm,” you nodded, nuzzling your face in his neck. Angel finished his trek to his room and laid you on his bed. Leaning back on you elbows, you appreciated Angel’s look for the night. He wore a simple black tee with ripped black jeans, but the pièce de resistance was his chain. There was something about it that made you hungrier for him. “Keep the chain on,” you meekly ordered him while he was taking off his clothes.

The corner of his mouth quirked up as he crawled over your body. “Yeah? You like it?” You nodded your head and bent down to kiss you while his hands slithered to your shorts to undo them. His fingers slid down your panties and right into your weeping core. “Shit, this all for me baby?”

“Yesss,” you mewled, your legs already thrashing against the bed. “How long has it been, querida? It’s a struggle to get two fingers in.”

You shook your head no, too embarrassed to tell him the truth. “Tell me.” He nipped at your chin. “Or you don’t get to cum and I wanna make you cum, pretty baby.” Angel stopped his fingers, even though he desperately wanted to continue.

“Please Angel,” you ran your fingers up and down his back. “Nah, baby. You gotta tell me first,” he kissed your pulse point. “Alright, you huffed, “three years.”

“See it wasn’t that hard.” Angel began his ministrations again. “We got three years to make up for.” The rough pad of his thumb found your clit and he began rubbing little circles.

“Angel.” You cried out and held onto his wrist. “God, you’re beautiful. You think you can handle another finger?”

It slipped out before you noticed. “Yes daddy.” Angel eyes darkened and he crashed his lips into yours, swallowing your cries. “Fuck, you’re gripping me so tight. Daddy’s gonna fuck this little pussy up.”

The delicious stretch from his fingers and the never ending assault on your clit had you on cloud nine. “Daddy, I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered, circling your hips. “Cum then.” Angel pressed all three fingers against your walls, triggering a white hit explosion you never felt in your entire life.

“Suck ‘em.” Angel tapped his fingers against your lips. Opening them up, you took them in your mouth catching a hint of metal due to his rings. You swore you tasted better on his fingers than on yours.

“Take off your top.” As you did what Angel said, he slid your shorts and panties off.  While he took off your heels, he kissed the inside of your ankle. “I can’t wait to have this dangling in the air.” He fingered your anklet.

Pushing your knees to your chest, Angel slid down your body. He took a deep inhale of your pussy, committing your scent to memory.

The first lick was a little tentative, like he was sampling the goods first . But after a couple more swipes, he had your whole clit in his mouth making you go crazy. “Mi dulce, you just became my favorite meal.”

The combination of Angel’s tongue on your bundle of nerves and his fingers sliding in and out of you was maddening. “Oh no, not another one.” You said to no one in particular. Angel chuckled with your clit still in his mouth. “Oh yes, another one.”

Grabbing onto his raven locks, you tried to pull him up, but he hunkered down instead, Angel wrapped his hands around your hips and pinned you down, diving deeper into your folds. “Fuck Angel! I’m I’m I’m,” it felt like a dam broke as your orgasm overcame you.

Then the damn demon wouldn’t let you go. Angel continued to eat you out even though you already came and was beating down on his back.

Finally Angel came back up for some air and the sight before you was beautiful. His beard was glistening all because of you. Your essence was dripping all over his beard.

“Give me a taste, daddy.” You ordered Angel, crooking your finger. “As you wish.” Angel came up and kissed you. Your tongue swiped at the seam of his mouth. Angel complied with your silent order and opened his mouth, where you and him fought for dominance.

Keeping Angel focused, your hands traveled to his boxers, setting his dick free. “Oh my!” Just from the feel of it, you could tell Angel was hung. Guess those blogs were right. “Are you gonna fit, daddy?”

Angel laughed and reached out for a condom. Slipping on the condom, Angel tapped his dick against your clique. “Ohh, he’s gonna fit.”

Feeling confident that he gathered enough lubrication to slide in. “Fuck, mami, you’re tight.” Angel bent down to swallow your whimpers. As hard as it was for him not to cum, the pain had to be worse for you.

“I’m not hurting you, am I baby?” Angel didn’t dare to begin to move once he was fully seated. “No. I need you to give it to me, Angel.”

Angel pecked your lips and sat up on his arms with his hands on your hips. “This pussy is mines now! You ain’t going nowhere after this.”

He began brutally snapping his hips into yours while singing your praises. ‘Cum on my cock, pretty baby.’ ‘You make the cutest sounds while I’m beating this pretty pussy up.’ ‘You look so beautiful coming on my dick.’

Angel intertwined his fingers with yours and nipped at your lips. “Angel please let me cum.” He took your bottom lip and dragged it it in between his teeth.   “Not until you tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Mines,” you gasped as he hit a new spot. “I knew there was a little brat in there.” Angel wrapped his free hand around your throat. His cool rings starkly contrasted the heat emitting from your body. “You like that shit, huh?” Angel commented when he felt you clench around him after he put his hand on your neck.

“Whose. Pussy. Is. This?” Angel growled, punctuating each word with a harsh thrust. “Damn it, yours Angel! It’s all yours!” You scratched down his back.

“Damn right it is,” he bit on your shoulder. “Cum on daddy’s dick, pretty girl.”

Throwing your head back, arching your back you let the orgasm wash over you. “Angel,” you screamed clutching onto him. “I’m right here, baby.” He kissed you all over face, letting you know he was right there with you.

“Shit,” Angel groaned, his strokes began to get sloppy. “I’m gonna cum, baby. Where do you want it?”

“In my mouth.” You just had to get a taste of him, especially since he already knew what you tasted like.

Quickly both of you got off the bed. You on your knees and Angel hovering over you. Throwing the condom off, he began stroking his veiny masterpiece he called a dick. “You’re gonna look so pretty with my cum all over your face.” Angel stroked your cheek lovingly like he wasn’t just about to paint your face with his load.

Out of nowhere, you got jealous of Angel’s hand and instead of letting him jerk himself off to completion, you wrapped your mouth around his dick. “Oh shit,” Angel moaned, throwing his head back. “Keep sucking Daddy’s dick like that.” He buried his hands in your hair as he tried his hardest not to fuck your face.

“Aww fuck, I’m gonna, I’m gonna, shit!” Angel exploded in your mouth, making you take every drop. But you didn’t stop after that, you kept sucking and swiping across his tip. Angel had to push your head back to get you to stop. “Think that’s funny?”

Wiping the corners of your mouth you smiled up at him. “Yeah.”

“Nasty bitch,” Angel pulled you up by the hair and kissed you, loving the taste of himself on your tongue. “So, did I live up to the blogs?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know. I need to conduct further research.” Angel pushed you back onto the bed. “That can be arranged.” He smiled as he climbed back on top of you to ensure he blew past your expectations.

Tagging: @ourlittlesecretsoveragain​ @starrynite7114​ @sambucky8​ @mygirlrenee​ @richonne4life​ @readsalot73​ @chaneajoyyy​ @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat​ @jassydwill11​ @otomefromtheheart​ @miss-nori85​ @xsweetdellzx​ @cherryblossomgirl20 @ljstraightnochaser​ @my-rosegold-soul​ @angrythingstarlight​ @brattyfics​ @lovebennycolon​ @langiinspirations​ @chibsytelford​ @trulysuccubus​ @spookys-girl​ @sesamepancakes​ @brownsugarcoffy​ @thesandbeneathmytoes​ @fvckthisbxtchup​ @theartisticqueen​ @vsfavs​ @woahitslucyylu​ @angelreyesgirl​ @blessedboo​ @marvelmaree​ @ifoundmyhappythought​

[xmalereader]

Billy Hargrove X Male Reader

|| TWO ||

-

|| Masterlist ||

| ONE — TWO

-

Summary: Reader is new to Hawkins, his parents had just moved into the new house and are trying to start over from there old lives. But what if reader can’t? He’s still a messed up kid who’s tired of pretending to be happy...and that damn mullet head of a ghost won’t stop following him around!!

Warnings: angst, fluff, death, slight gore, PTSD, language.

-

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“Tell me y/n, how is Hawkins treating you?”

Y/n was sitting across from his therapist, the therapist that his parents hired for him in case his mental health got worse. Hearing his therapist ask him that question makes him rolls his eyes. He hates this and he hates his parents, he was fine and he’s always going to be fine. He doesn’t need a therapist to tell him what to do or what not to do, he can take care of hismelf.

Sighing deeply he leans back on the couch. “Besides the smell? I’d say it’s alright,” he shrugs his shoulders. “It’s small and quiet but I like it that way, I don’t have to interact with anyone but myself.” He answers, giving the therapist a glance with a small frown on his face.

His therapist nods along to his words as she leans forward and sets her notebook down. “Your parents have told me that you’ve been speaking to someone named billy, is that right?”

Of course his parents would take notice of that, but like it even matters. “Yeah his name is billy.”

“And who is billy to you?”

Y/n rubs his temples in frustration. “Billy is a dead person that follows me around—a little annoying but he grows onto you.”

He really didn’t care if his therapist thought he was crazy, I mean; he’s been to a mental hospital and he knows what crazy is. He actually witnessed one of his friends go crazy on a doctor and used a spoon to try and gouge his eyes out...pretty funny actually, that was the most fun that y/n had seen that day before they took him away and sent him to his room.

“He’s a ghost?” Y/n nods in response, “I’m a little surpised that you aren’t freaking out about it.”

“Its my job to listen and besides I’ve heard crazier things.” She chuckles out and leans back in her chair, watching y/n closely as he took laughs. “I hate to say this but I miss the asylum.” This catches his therapists interest. “And why’s that?”

Y/n shrugs. “I mean its less lonely and I get to meet people that understand what I am going through and I don’t have to deal with my parents, its like all of my problems go away...had some really good friends there too, they were nice and crazy too.” He plays with the strings of his hoodie as he stares into space, his eyes suddenly narrowing. “The weird thing about them was their names.”

“Names?”

He nods and his eyes focus on the therapist. “They were named after numbers, like as if they were test subjects.” He mumbles out as his therapist makes note of this. “What about you? Most patients at mental hospitals go by different names, did you perhaps have a nickname between these friends of yours?”

Y/n thinks back to those other kids and remembers how different they are and how they were all just weird—freaks actually. “They called me Reaper—“ he smiles a little. “They thought it fit me becuase I was able to see the dead and reapers can see deaths and collect souls, expect mine is minus the soul thing.” He explains, smiling at the nickname that his old friends gave him before he was sent back home to his parents.

“It was nice being with them but at some point I had to go home.”

“Y/n?”

He looks up at her.

“How long were you in there?”

Y/n hesitates, licking his lips as he answers her. “Two years.”

“Thank you for coming Y/n, I’m glad that you took the time to come and talk to me.” His therapist stands up from her chair as she closed her notebook. “Our next appointment will be next week, same day and time.” She reminds him as y/n stands by the doorway and nods slowly. “Yeah, got it..” he grips the door handle and bids her a small goodbye before leaving, he makes sure to rush pass the front desk and outside. He’s quick to leave the premises.

“That was some deep stuff back there.”

Y/n groans and looks to his right to see billy standing next to him. “Yeah well, I can’t force you to leave now can I?” He points out with a forced smile. Making his way towards his bike , he grabs his backpack and unzips. “Your parents are really forcing this on you, huh?”

“Well what can I say? My parents think that they are helping me when really they are must making me go even more crazy and besides they have no idea that my appointment just ended, which is why I brought my bike in case they did forget—which they did!” He exclaims in anger and zips up his bag, putting his backpack on and taking his bike.

“Besides you can relate to me, right?” He gives billy a devilish smirk as he hopes onto the bike.

Both Billy and Y/n had gotttan to know each other to the point where they both knew everything about each other. Billy had told y/n about his abusive father and his mother who left him, he’s already met his step sister once back at the arcade but not his parents yet and he doubts that he’ll ever meet them.

As y/n bikes down the empty road he narrows his eyes at the street signs and makes a left instead of a right. “Home is that way!” He hears billy shout but he ignores him as he keeps biking and heads down a hill. The road was lonely and empty, he could sense a strange presence nearby and he can’t help but feel a little freaked out.

It doesn’t take him long to arrive to his destination as he slows his bike down and jumps off, walking towards ‘starcourt’ the mall that had burned down almost a year ago. The place was boarded up and fenced up too but that never stopped y/n from finding a way inside.

He leans his bike up against the fence and hums. “Sure..” he gives himself a shrug as he climbs and jumps over the fence, landing safety as he adjusts his backpack and grins.

“We can’t be here!” He waves billy off, “shut up.”

Y/n walks up to one of the boarded doors and sighs, looking down he sees a small hole—big enough to fit his hand through it. So, without thinking he sits on the floor and lifts his leg up, bending it back as he kicks on the hole, making it big enough to fit his whole body through.

Once the hole is big enough, he slips his backpack off and throws it in first. “Y/n...” he hears billy say in worry as he climbs through and coughs at the sudden dust. “Will you calm down?” He coughs out, picking up his backpack once again and reaches inside for a flashlight, turning it on he flashes the light around the place. “This is where you died right?” He blurts out.

Billy stands frozen next to him asking him, “how did you know that?”

Y/n lets out a small sigh as he flashes the light infront of him. “Lately I’ve been getting this strange feeling when I’m around you.” He turns to face billy giving him confused look. “I just can’t—I can’t seem to know why...so, when you weren’t around I would go on walks and sometimes I would walk here—“

“This is far from home though.”

“I know but something keeps calling out to me here and now that I am here, I know that this is the place that you died in, I can feel it.” He whispers, walking around the now empty mall as he flashes his light around, trying to see if he can find anything useful. “How did you die?” He suddenly asks, catching billy by surpise. “I already told you, you dont want to know.” He rolls his eyes.

“Okay yeah, you told me the same thing months ago but now I want to know.”

He stands infront of Billy, crossing his arms over his chest as he waits for an explanation. The two have nothing to hide from each other since one, billy is dead and can technically see everything that happens in y/n’s life while Y/n has to wait until billy decides to open up on his own but now...now he needs to know who billy really is.

Billy can only glare at him until he starts to speak. “I gave up my life to protect my sister and her friends and in teh end I got myself killed.”

Y/n narrows his eyes at him, their was something that he wasn’t telling him. “Billy. The truth. Now.”

Billy can see the desperate look in his eyes but he just can’t talk about it, he can’t talk about the day that he died he just couldn’t. He shakes his head and steps away from y/n. “I’m sorry.” He says in a soft tone before disappearing from y/n’s view.

The other teenager sighs and groans loudly, stomping his foot in anger as he turns around and begins to walk quickly through the mall. If billy didn’t want to talk to him then fine, he’ll just have to figure it out on his own.

The walk around the mall was tiring, the place was huge and two floors and yet, he finds nothing about the events that happened here. Kicking an old rusty can as he walks around the first floor. He flashes his light towards a few stores, raising a brow he grins. “Hey look, a gap.” He says to himself as he approaches the store and jumps over the counter that was in the way. “Whatever happened here must’ve been bad, they didn’t even clean the mess.” He mumbles, bending down to pick up a discarded yellow shirt before sighing and tossing it to the side. “There isn’t anything good here.” He whispers, stepping backwards and fully Turing around to jump back over the counter.

Before he can call it a day he sees something black at the corner of his eye.

Frowning, he turns to flash his light his light towards the center of the mall where he spots a large black spot. He doesn’t hesitate to make his way over. He walks around the large black spots and raises a brow. “Is that...dried up blood?” He slowly bends down to take a closer look at the dried up blood, reaching out with his hand he uses two fingers to touch it.

Once his fingers touch the black smudges he feels himself get lightheaded and pulled into a trance.

“Billy!”

“Take that you sick son of a bitch!!”

Gasping, he looks up with wide eyes to see a large creature standing over him—no them, he wasn’t alone. He looks around to see billy standing over a young girl, noticing the look of anger in his eyes as he tries to choke the girl to death. Hearing loud explosion he looks up to see more kids on the second floor throwing fireworks at the creature, hearing it roar in anger as It tries to get to the kids. “Were running out!”

“Keep distracting it! We can’t let it get to El!”

The place was in chaos, y/n could barely catch up onto what was going on. All he can hear were the explosions and the teenagers screaming at each other as they try to help one another. The noise was too much for y/n that he reaches up to cover his ears and close his eyes as he tries to stop himself from getting a panic attack.

“Y/—“

Who’s that?

“Y/n!”

Someones calling out to him.

“Y/N!!!”

His eyes fly open as he gasps heavily, stumbling back as he sees billy standing infront of him. “Y/n can you hear me?!” He was shaking and breathing heavily, his eyes were wide open in fear as he tries to focus on billy. “Hey, count with me.” He hears him say as Billy begins to count outloud for him to hear.

“One.”

Y/n’s breathing is getting heavier.

“Y/n! Come on and count, now one!” Billy shouts out.

“O—one...” he hears himself breath out as billy nods rapidly.

“Good! Good!! Now, two.”

Y/n continues to repeat after billy, focusing his eyes on Billy’s as the two count with each other.

Once they reach ten, y/n was able to calm down. His heart wasn’t beating anymore and he felt calmer, now that billy was here with him.

“What—what was that? What did I just see?”

“What are you talking about? I leave for ten minutes and when I come back I find you passed out on the floor! Next thing I know your waking up screaming!” Billy exclaims as the two stare at each other in confusion.

Did billy really not see what he saw? Was he imagining it all?

“I—I saw you—you were standing over a girl, she was young and maybe around fourteen and you were...you were strangling her and you looked angry.” He breaths out. “Then I saw this huge looking creature, it was all gooey and it had sharp teeth it was also angry...” he explains to billy, looking up at him to see a look of fear on his face. “Billy, what did I just see?”

Billy opens and closes his mouth, shaking his head becuase he knew that it was impossible for y/n to know all of this. The freak had just moved ot hakwins so, how did he know about all of this? This stuff wasn’t announced on the news, they only told the people that a fire started in the mall and nothing else. So, how does y/n know about this?

“Billy—“

“Hey!! You’re trespassing! This is private property!”

Y/n gasps as he spots a few cops by the entrance, groaning he stands up quickly and grabs his flashlight. “I am not getting anything else on my criminal record.” He growls out as he makes a run for it, heading deeper into the mall as he hears the cops chasing after him and shouting at him to stop running. “Criminal record?! What else have you done that is this bad?!” He hears billy yell as the two run through the mall and head up the second floor. “This way!” He hears billy say as he takes him through the back doors of one of the stores, going through the back as he looks around. “Do you know where your going?!”

“Yes!”

The two make it back onto the first floor and quickly find an exit. “Hurry!” Billy shouts as the two make a run for it into the woods.

Y/n was panting as he runs, his lungs were burning and his legs were slowly giving up on him. “We can’t stop or else the cops will get you!” Billy is quick to approach y/n and helps him up, taking his hand as he guides him through the woods. Once they were far enough he makes sure to find a secure place to stay hidden in as y/n slowly sits down on the floor. “I think we are good.”

“What is the matter with you?! Criminal record?? What else have you done to get yourself into trouble?!” He hears billy shout.

“In case you forgot, I just got out of a MENTAL HOSPITAL!!” Y/n shouts back in anger.

“That’s because you can see dead people! Btu you must’ve done other too like maybe kill someone or—“

“Billy.”

“—maybe you tried to murder someone because you wanted to expirment on them or something or you ran over someone with your car?”

“Billy!”

“What?!”

Y/n slowly lifts his hand up to show billy that he was holding his hand. “your still holding my hand.” He whispers out. “Billy, your dead...so how are you touching me?” Billys own eyes widen as he takes in the realization.

“Holy shit.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

Three Gates - on ao3 (for content warnings check Ao3) - on tumblr: pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7, pt 8, pt 9, pt 10, pt 11, pt 12, pt 13

- Chapter 14 -

“I would like your advice on something,” Meng Yao said to his mother.

Meng Shi was wearing silk again, rich colors that suited her – she had fully recovered from the serious illness she’d had a few years back, something for which he would be forever thankful to Qinghe’s doctors because he knew she wouldn’t have made it if they were on their own –  and a fur-lined jacket that made her look especially comfortable. She finished pouring the tea and smiled at him.

“You do?” she teased. “Still, after all these years?”

“I’m never too old for your advice,” he said and kissed her on the cheek before sitting down.

The weiqi board in the corner was midway through a game, he noticed, and was glad: Sisi was terrible at weiqi, and the only other person who routinely played against Meng Shi was Nie Huaisang. Things between them had grown better as he’d grown older – he loved to paint, to play, to keep birds and raise flowers, and those were the things Meng Shi liked the most.

It was good to see them spending time together. Meng Yao hoped that Meng Shi could show Nie Huaisang how to forgive, and to remember how to be as carefree as he had once been.

After all, Nie Huaisang had taken up what had once been Meng Yao’s duties, during the war, all the intelligence work and strategy, the battlefield clean up and the politics, and it had left its marks. Indeed, if Meng Yao had been anyone other than Nie Huaisang’s dearly beloved brother, he would probably be the subject of a decade-long plan of utter obliteration right now, good motivations or not – in fact, he was pretty sure that Nie Huaisang had one already plotted out, and was still considering it an option if Meng Yao didn’t make regular deposits on the infinity of fans he apparently owed him.

(The brat wouldn’t take duplicates, either. Meng Yao had put in an order for someone to send him an entire ship’s worth from Dongying in the hopes that that would earn him a little credit. The relevant someone being Wei Wuxian, who was off exploring the world with Lan Wangji - possibly for no other reason than to get away from the rest of them all teasing them about the long and overly dramatic way in which they’d confessed their affections for each other.) 

Still, Nie Huaisang had forgiven Meng Yao, even if he hadn’t forgotten, and they were most of the way back to being as they had been before – which admittedly was closer than he’d ever been with Meng Shi, who Nie Huaisang seemed to treat as a casual acquaintance instead of a mother. He treated her about the same as Sisi, actually, and usually acted as if he thought Meng Yao and Nie Mingjue were his birth parents instead of his brothers.

And possibly Lan Xichen as some sort of rich uncle he could (and routinely did) extort for gifts.

(He still called him ‘pretty gege’, though he’d recently started up several debates – mostly monologues –  as to whether Lan Xichen ought to now be called ‘er-ge’ and Meng Yao ‘san-ge’ according to their ages, being that he was now part of the family, or if they should just all go ahead and get properly married already so that he could call him ‘sao-zi’ instead. They’d all collectively decided to ignore him.)

“Is it about those sworn brothers of yours?” she asked, lips curving up into a smile that was entirely unlike the practiced ones she had once used most of the time, a real one that was a little bit crooked, and that made it all the more beautiful in his eyes.

Meng Yao batted his eyelashes at her. “I will of course let myself be guided by Mother.”

She laughed. “I think it’s a good cover,” she said. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, now, and she didn’t try to hide it with make-up or anything else. Meng Yao treasured every blemish and imperfection. “You three can spend all your time in each other’s pockets, putting each other above everything else, and no one will question it – or, well, question it too much.”

“Let them talk,” Meng Yao said. There would never come a day when people didn’t whisper about him behind their sleeves, calling him the son of a whore, and nothing he could do, no matter how hard he tried, would stop it. He could only adjust his own thinking and ignore them, at peace in his heart with the knowledge that they were wrong about him. With the knowledge that he was better than they were or indeed would ever be.

Perhaps there was something to Lao Nie’s old exhortation after all.

“But do they have something to talk about?” his mother asked, arching her eyebrows at him. “You retire to the same room to sleep, but I’ve never seen any of you walking strangely the morning after – what are you waiting for? Actual marriage vows?”

“The sworn brother oath served that purpose,” Meng Yao said dismissively, just as he’d explained time and time again to Nie Huaisang. It was just as permanent, after all; they would be bound together in this life and the next, each name forever placed alongside the others in the annals of history. “And we’re just moving slowly.”

He’d explained, in the end, what Wen Ruohan had wanted, what Nie Mingjue was, what that meant; he didn’t want to keep it hidden and risk anyone later thinking that he was taking advantage.

He didn’t want to keep even one more secret from his lovers in this lifetime.

Nothing. Not even surprise parties.

Nie Mingjue hadn’t cared one bit about finding out that he was a furnace, because of course he didn’t; he was still an idiot after all these years. Lan Xichen, at least, had been rightfully alarmed – neither he nor Meng Yao wanted to risk harming Nie Mingjue by accident, no matter how much he argued that his cultivation was high enough that he wouldn’t even notice a setback, and anyway that he trusted them not to try to steal away from him.

Nie Mingjue had finally convinced them to try, the night after they’d taken the oath. Emotions had been running high, and they’d all fallen into bed together, their blood running hot.

It had been – an experience, to say the least.

Sex was pleasant, something Meng Yao knew intellectually from his days in the brothel and personally from the few experiences, male and female, he’d forced himself to have in order to ensure he didn’t have any demons in his heart on the subject. He’d been glad to confirm that although he liked it well enough, it wasn’t so good that he would become addicted to the feeling, descending into dissipation and cruelty the way his father had.

What they’d shared together on that night, however…that wasn’t just sex.

That was something he could become addicted to.

Meng Yao had insisted on a strict moratorium on any further activities until they could process what had just occurred, and it had been telling that neither Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen had argued.

It had been mindblowing, a combination of overwhelming physical pleasure and emotional satiation, and then there was the spiritual ecstasy of cultivation – Meng Yao’s own cultivation, never especially strong, increased at an almost frightening pace for the next week, and Lan Xichen had confirmed a similar effect had occurred for him. Nie Mingjue’s cultivation seemed just as high as ever, unharmed, but obviously they had to do more research before they did anything else lest they accidentally cause harm to him somehow.

That meant they were back down to the basics, limiting themselves to rubbing up against each other at night and offering each other helping hands, given that Meng Yao and Lan Xichen weren’t willing to do anything together if it meant excluding Nie Mingjue – though recently they’d figured out that Nie Mingjue could narrate pornography without batting an eyelash with that frankly magnificent voice of his, and also that he liked telling people what to do (they knew that already, but still)…

They were going slowly. That’s how Meng Yao thought of it, and it was fine – he had no doubt that they’d figure out how to move to the next step sooner or later.

Sooner rather than later, given how quickly Lan Xichen was pouring through their respective sect libraries; apparently sexual frustration was a very effective motivator for him.

“If you’re sure you’re happy,” his mother said, and he smiled. “You seem to be. I’m glad.”

He nodded.

“So if it’s not about that, what do you want advice on? You haven’t needed to consult me on political matters in years. A-Sang would be better at that.”

“It’s not entirely political,” Meng Yao said, “though it’s not entirely apolitical, either, and don’t worry, I’ll consult Huaisang as well. Nevertheless, I wanted your views on the subject. You see, a rather complicated situation has arisen…I’ve been made an unusual offer.”

“An offer? A-Yao…”

“I know, I know,” he said, smiling. “Be careful of offers from strange men, especially bad men, and this is exactly that. But I still thought it was something worth considering. After getting the benefit of your insight, of course.”

“Well, then,” she said. “Now I’m curious. What’s the offer?”

He gave her the letter that he had received and drank his tea while she read it, her eyes going wide and then even wider.

“So,” he said, when he judged that she was done. “What do you think? Do I look like a ‘Jin Guangyao’? Or should I tell my father to go commit anatomically improbable acts on himself?”

“A-Yao…”

“I’m serious,” Meng Yao insisted. “This was always your dream, well before it was mine: whatever you decide, I’ll do. If you’d like for me to claim what should have been mine from the start, I’ll do it, though obviously if he thinks a mere name is enough to convince me to leave Qinghe in favor of Lanling he’s got a nasty surprise coming his way. But if you want me to tell him to his face that I’d rather be your son than his, I’ll do that too.”

He leaned back in his chair, and smiled.

“After all, I already have everything I want.”

- END -

[rigmarolling]

Top 5 Things That Will Kill You In the Victorian Era

If you’ve ever spent more than two seconds with me, you know that I live and breathe the fog-choked air of Victorian London. All day. Every day of my life. 

See, in many ways, the Victorians were the first version of us--overwhelmed by rapidly-changing technology (and its awful effect on the climate); dealing with incredible wealth gaps; grappling with rising crime and faster travel and out-of-control media and the whole, “God is dead, oh no” thing. 

Also, everything was trying to kill you.

Like, literally almost everything.

From your clothes to your doctor to your canned food, here are the top five things that will kill you in the Victorian era.

5. Other Victorians

If the rise of penny dreadfuls (cheap magazines stuffed with horror stories for us morbidly-inclined goth types) was any indication, Victorians loved them some true crime. 

And there was no shortage of subject matter to choose from: depending on where you ventured in London, at least, you could be subject to anything from pickpocketing to mugging to violent assault and, of course, murder. 

There were a few reasons for this:

For one thing, the population in London alone increased by millions in the 19th century, and approximately no one was prepared for that. So, to accommodate the rapidly-booming population, the wealthy folks in charge reached out and lovingly ensured the masses of the disenfranchised poor were taken care of by redistributing resources and education and access to opportunities that improved lives on a both a personal and social level.

Lol, no, I’m totally kidding; they shoved them into slums and tenement buildings and pretended they didn’t exist.

So of course, there was a rise in crime, because if you have five kids and you can’t find gainful employment and your family will starve if you don’t steal that basket of food over there, or that purse that lady left sitting over THERE, what are you going to do? You’re going to steal the food and the purse to survive, Jean Valjean, I understand, I do.

Except the powers that be did NOT understand, and instead routinely espoused the idea that if people were poor, it was because they were morally bankrupt, or inherently bad, somehow, and the “criminal classes,” as they came to be known by the growing Victorian middle and upper-middle classes, were simply considered genetically bad to the bone and therefore undeserving of assistance.

Basically:

So ANYWAY.

Crime was on the rise and there were multiple efforts to stop it with varying degrees of success, but big city usually = big crime, especially when there’s a massive gap between the one percent-ers and THE REST OF US, WASHINGTON.

Ahem.

All that crime? The booming news industry loved it. The press ate it up and then spit it back out in salacious headlines that never even bothered with journalistic objectivity, like this gem:

I mean. Full disclosure: I, too, agree that cutting off a woman’s head, arms, and legs and then burning them is “awful, inhuman, & barbarous” but just...maybe...maybe tone it down? Just a bit?

No? Okay.

See, here’s the thing: crime sells. It always has. And papers went nuts with full illustrated spreads about the latest brutal murders so you could sit in your parlor and get anxiety poops thinking about how the butcher down the street looked at you funny the other day and oh, God, you’re probably next, oh God.

The most famous murderer of the era, was, of course, Jack the Ripper, which was just the orchestral climax of a hideously corrupted society that had bubbled into naught but a festering carbuncle, an ulcer upon the very soul of man, trussed up as a city of industry, but which is merely Salome, dancing with the Lamb’s head upon a platter and sending us all tumbling into a fiery pit.

....Ahem, again.

Some popular ways your fellow Victorians could kill you included: dueling (with swords but usually with revolvers), stabbing, garroting, and, probably the most popular method of the era, poisoning.

Speaking of which...

4. Anything dyed that hip shade of green

In 1775, a guy named Carl Wilhelm Scheele invented a new shade of green, cleverly called Scheele’s green, and it instantly became a hit. Pretty soon, manufacturers and tailors were dyeing everything this color. 

Look at it. Bright, airy. Calls to mind a fresh, spring meadow. (What’s that, you ask? Well, before the Industrial Revolution belched out black smoke onto absolutely everything, there were these things called plants and grass and they were all over the place and you could frolic through them and it was very nice for your serotonin levels.)

I mean, listen, this isn’t really my color because anything vaguely yellow-ish makes my already yellow-ish skin look especially jaundiced, but it’s a lovely shade:

Besides using it to create beautiful dresses and tasteful waistcoats, they used it inside book covers:

And it was a super popular wallpaper color:

They had green candles and green cups and green kitchenwares and green paint.

But while Carl Wilhelm Scheele didn’t exactly murder anyone (even though he has three names like every serial killer ever), he sort of, accidentally, indirectly, kinda...did.

Because that springy dye contained every Victorian black widow’s favorite method to dispose of a troublesome husband: arsenic.

Scheele, of course, had no idea--no one did--so I’m fully exonerating him here, but the poison nonetheless started to take its toll.

Reports began to surface of kids getting sicker and sicker and then dying in their green wallpapered rooms; of fashionable ladies rocking those green dresses at balls and then ALSO getting sicker and sicker and breaking out in horrible sores before dying. 

They even used this stuff to dye food green, so of course, anybody who tucked into Victorian green eggs and ham also, you know. Died.

And if they DIDN’T die, they got cancer, because if arsenic doesn’t kill you, it will give you cancer. And then kill you.

Eventually, as science advanced and went, “HEYO, there’s literal poison in this stuff,” consumers were like, “Well, shoot, this summer’s hottest beach shade just killed an entire boarding school,” and Scheele’s green finally fell out of favor.

It was, however, used as a pesticide up through the 1930s, so...way to use the...leftovers? I guess?

3. Your canned food

Hey, now that we’re on the topic of deadly chemicals being where they absolutely should not be, let’s talk about canned food. 

In the Victorian era, it was the new Hot Thing (next to arsenic green). You mean I can can my food now? Like? Forever? Oh, only for a few months. Okay, cool. Still cool. 

Above: Road trip snax.

Food preservation methods had existed long before canned meats and veggies and soups, but canned everything really started to gain traction around the middle of the 19th century, and people were stoked. Remember, the population exploded; people needed new methods of obtaining cheap food that didn’t spoil immediately. So: cans to the rescue! 

Recycling hadn’t really been invented, though, so today, archaeologists constantly find giant Victorian trash pits filled with empty cans.

You know what also hadn’t been invented? Consumer health and safety boards.

So guess what was in the tin cans themselves? 

No, no, don’t worry, it wasn’t arsenic.

It was lead.

Which, in case you weren’t aware, is also very, very bad for you.

So bad, in fact, that today, scientists are pretty sure lead-lined tins of canned food were partially responsible for the deaths on the disastrous Franklin Expedition, an ultimately futile trip to discover the Northwest Passage lead by Sir John Franklin in 1845. Every single man on board the two ships stranded in the Arctic died, and in the 1980s, when scientists discovered perfectly mummified bodies (GRAPHIC, if you don’t like that sort of thing, but awesome if you do) of some of the sailors, one of the mummies contained insane amounts of lead. They later tested the cans found scattered across the wreck site and whoops, they also contained insane amounts of lead.

Above: Some of the tin cans from the Franklin Expedition, which contained items like salted beef, vegetables, tea, lethal amounts of lead, and Chicken of the Sea.

Granted, other factors contributed to the Franklin deaths, like, you know, being stranded in the Arctic and starving to death, and also tuberculosis, but lead-lined canned food certainly didn’t help things along.

2. Your doctor

Here’s my advice if you’re in the Victorian era and you’re starting to feel sick: do not get sick. Just don’t. Because then that means you’ll have to go to the doctor. Which probably means you will die.

Hospitals in the 19th century were deadly. Often even more deadly than just staying at home, according to Dr. Lindsey Fitzharris, author of The Butchering Art. Nobody knew how to treat anything, really, because medical understanding of biology was in its infancy and antibiotics didn’t exist yet, so you were absolutely, definitely going to get some kind of infection the second you stepped foot in a Victorian hospital.

Above: The surgery, where nobody has any idea what they are doing, ever.

Doctors weren’t trying to kill you on purpose--they just didn’t know any better. And it super duper didn’t help that common treatments for everything from the common cold to tuberculosis included taking mercury (which kills you) and blood-letting, (which can also kill you) the tools for which are shown below:

Those might look like fun doodads for your astronomy class at Hogwarts, but they’re actually vials and a really, really sharp needle that pricks you until you bleed out a critically dangerous amount of blood into those vials. 

The (ancient) school of thought behind blood-letting was that draining patients of “bad” blood would rebalance their “humours” and get rid of the icky thing that was making them sick. We might laugh at it now, but if you don’t know any better, logically, it makes sense.

Medically, oh my God, it’s the worst.

So if Doc didn’t bleed you to death, he might try surgery--done without anesthesia or antibiotics (until good old Dr. Lister came along--read The Butchering Art!), and then ship you and your amputated stump leg off to the hospital ward where, instead of healing, you’d get wheeled through hallways stained with every bodily fluid imaginable into rooms filled with people coughing up every bodily fluid imaginable, some of which would get into your leg stump, infect it, and then kill you dead.

“But what about medicine?” you ask. “Can’t I just take medicine?”

Sure! Just be aware that it definitely contains morphine and probably contains cocaine, or mercury, or arsenic, or sulfur, or pulverized bits of ancient Egyptian mummies (I am not kidding. True, the latter had started to fall out of favor in the 19th century, but, like. Stop).

Above: Hard drugs, but just for you.

You think I’m joking?

Above: PARTY TIME.

Sometimes, a doctor would just advise that you move to a “more temperate climate” like Rome or Spain if you were feeling chronically ill, which might help you get a tan and COULD help if you had sucky lungs, but eventually, you’d just die anyway, because what you really needed was a strong antibiotic or antiviral medication and the closest you were gonna get was Mrs. Hopplebopple’s Temperance Tonic, which was probably filled with ground up baby bones and just so much heroin.

And don’t even get me started on Victorian surgical tools:

Open wide.

1. Water

There are three rules in this life: don’t watch any Adam Sandler movies except for maybe Anger Management, don’t eat the yellow snow, and do not, ever, for any reason, ever drink water in Victorian England.

That’s because it was about as clean as a Victorian hospital. 

Meaning it wasn’t. At all.

Victorian water--of the Thames variety--contained:

Cholera, one of the deadliest killers of the era and bad water’s favorite roommate.

Poop, human and otherwise, because a functioning sewer system? I don’t know her. (At least, not until the 1860s.)

Pee, human and otherwise, because nothing says, “Jolly Old England” like an open trench of piss rolling through the city.

Dead things, like animals, fish (which are animals, so why am I listing them as a separate thing?), and, occasionally, humans.

Chemicals, which spewed forth from the great factories in billowing, bubbling, belching rivers of sludge. (Ha! Omg, yes, I was an English major!)

The Thames was so filthy that Londoners called it “Monster Soup.”

Above: Same.

In 1855, scientist Michael Faraday (who was also kind of hot; tell me I’m wrong), wrote a letter to the Times about the disgusting state of the river:

"Near the bridges the feculence rolled up in clouds so dense that they were visible at the surface, even in water of this kind. ... The smell was very bad, and common to the whole of the water; it was the same as that which now comes up from the gully-holes in the streets; the whole river was for the time a real sewer."

Tl;dr: “It smelled like ass.”

In fact, it got so bad, so putrid, so horrifically clogged with every disgusting thing your mind and your butthole can possibly conjure up, that it lead to one of my favorite things to read about in the world: The Great Stink of 1858.

Yes, that’s the real name. I did not make that up. History is incredible.

Above: Summer vacation, 1858.

The summer of 1858 was miserably hot in London. And the Thames was miserably clogged with poop, and pee, and chemicals, and dead things, and, uh oh, cholera. During July and August that year, the smell wafting from the river was so offensive that Parliament was actually adjourned because everybody kept throwing up. Cholera devastated the city. The water was killing London.

Faced with either the prospect of living with a city-wide vomit-and-diarrhea smell for the rest of forever OR finally cleaning things up, the government actually did something right and chose the latter. They contracted civil engineer Joseph Bazalgette to overhaul the city’s sewer, to which Bazalgette, pinching his nose, responded, “FINALLY.” 

Above: Joesph Bazalgette, savior of the London sewers and purveyor of a truly beautiful mustache.

Bazalgette proceeded to build the London sewer system still in use today. His efforts greatly reduced the number of cholera deaths, cleared the Thames of its Cronenberg-esque muck, and ensured that poop goes where it’s supposed to: way the hell out of HERE and way the hell under THERE.

Water sanitation still had a long way to go, though, which meant you either had to boil your water to kill the bacteria in it, or you could just drink alcohol instead, which was the safer option but which would also leave you very dehydrated and also, if imbibed excessively, would leave you very dead.

So really, you were doomed in some way no matter what you did, and if that isn’t the moral of the entire Victorian story, then I don’t know what is.

[wyofabdoms]

Undercover I Do - Chapter 5

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: While on an undercover assignment posing as a married couple, you are attacked and nearly assaulted. Upon waking, all you remember about Javier Peña is what you remembering seeing from two photographs of the two of you posing as the happily married couple. As you struggle to regain your memories, Javi struggles with his own feelings for you.

Rating: Mature (Eventual smut)

Warnings: fake/pretend relationship, married and undercover trope, temporary amnesia, hospitalization, blood and injury, swearing, awkward Javi, unrequited feels, mentions of sex toys, feelings, pining, 

Word Count: 3132

Notes: You're released from the hospital, and Javi sets up house. While doing so, he stumbles across a couple of things that make him feel all kinds of ways!

Read on Ao3

You were released from the hospital two days later under the stipulation that you were to rest and were not to return to any kind of active field duty until fully cleared by the doctor and his medical team.  Over the course of those two days, some of your memories had seeped back in, like figures appearing through thick fog and slowly taking form and shape.  But, it seemed to you, not any of the really important ones were returning.  You remembered now some specific events from the last two years of your time as an agent: big busts you had made, critical incidents that had ended badly for your agency, colleagues that had been lost in the line of duty.  You had been able to recall many details of your work against the worst of the drug cartels in Colombia from the last two years and even further back...but most memories of things from the past three or four weeks were still a grey void with nothing in them, not even shadows to hint at memories waiting there in the fog.

You were rarely alone at the hospital: if Dixon was not sitting at your bedside, then Javi was there in her place. Between the two of them, you had managed to scrape together some large pieces that were missing about your relationships: you had worked with Dixon earlier in your career in San Diego and when she had risen in ranks and earned a seat down here in the thick of things, she had brought you along with her.  You had the feeling that she viewed you as a bit of a protege and you felt confident that the memories you had of her support and backing of you were true.  Memories about your relationship with Javi proved to be a bit more difficult to get confirmation on.  While both Dixon and Javi were very willing to discuss and confirm anything you asked about your mentor, when you inquired or asked for clarification on your history with your husband, both agents seemed to hesitate for a moment before answering you.  Dixon was more guarded than Javi and the older woman would often change the subject as quickly as she could when you asked her about your husband.  You got a distinct sense that she did not approve of your marriage to the man you had been partnered with during your time here.

You remembered that was how you had met Javi; you had been assigned as his partner.  You remembered the earliest days of working with him: how he had flirted with you and you had rebuffed him, how there had been moments when your partnership had skated the line of something more.  But it was only the older memories that seemed to come clearly to you...the closer to present day you came, the emptier your memories became.  You had tried to remember when exactly your relationship with Javi had made the jump from work partner to life partner.  When and how had the two of you told each other how you felt?  And you had zero memories of a proposal, a wedding....no memories at all of how it felt to touch and be touched by the handsome man who spent hours sitting in comfortable silence next to your bed. You couldn’t bring yourself to ask him questions about those things...not yet.

Surprisingly, Dixon was the one who escorted you when you were released.  After the older woman saw you carefully buckled into the passenger seat of the car, you inquired as to why Javi wasn’t the one driving you home.  Dixon’s eye flickered behind her dark sunglasses, and she mumbled something about him getting your apartment ready for you. She assured you that he would be waiting at your home when you got there.

Your home.  For a moment, your stomach sank, thinking about how you would be going back to a place that was foreign to you but was supposed to be a safe haven, a refuge, the home you shared with a husband you were supposed to be in love with.  Would you remember any of it?  Would anything that you found there help jog anything loose in your memory?

You could only hope.

***

“Fuck!”

Javi growled as he struggled to keep a box from teetering off the pile of other boxes that it was precariously stacked on.  His hands were full of his clothes on hangers, halfway between the box he had just removed them from and the clothing pole in the closet.  He had been struggling most of the morning with lugging half of his possessions down the two flights of stairs of their shared apartment building and trying to make it appear as though he had lived in this apartment for longer than a few hours.  Both he and Dixon had agreed it would be best for her to return to familiar surroundings...but they still needed to keep up the premise that the two of you shared a life together.

Javi had never given much thought to domesticity.  The closest he had ever come was Lorraine...and the brief moment of introspection he had had when he had seen her those several years ago at that wedding.  Thoughts had crossed his mind then: what would it be like to have a wife, to wear a ring on his finger, to have promised himself to someone forever?  To have a future that was shared with another person?  To make important decisions with another person and not just on your own?  To have 2.5 kids and a house?  But he hadn’t spent too much time dwelling on it simply because none of that was really who Javi was, was completely unimaginable to him.  He had never once really thought that sort of life would ever be one he would want, much less be able to live.  And, quite honestly, he wasn’t all that sure that that kind of life was one that he deserved.

Now, it seemed, life was playing a little gag on him: turns out maybe there WAS a way for him to see if married life was for him...although he did hate the fact that his partner had had to be injured in the process.  

One thing he was certain of at the moment, though: if getting married and divvying up and combining possessions was as big a pain in the ass for real as it was for this farce?...Well, that was a strike against matrimony in his opinion.

At first he had merely grabbed a small duffle bag full of items; things he thought he might leave at a woman’s house if he was spending the night or a weekend: a change of clothes, toiletries, firearm.  But when he had let himself into her apartment two floors below his in their building, it had struck him that that wasn’t going to be good enough. 

Her apartment was lived in.  Unlike his own, which he realized now seemed a little sterile and cold, her’s was warm and (though not a word he often used in his vocabulary) cozy.  She had artwork on the walls, shelves full of books from all different genres...even a few board games and some well-worn records on the record player stand. He spotted a rolled up yoga mat under a bench beneath the window and a couple of handwritten recipes and smiling photos tucked under bright magnets on the refrigerator. Her bedroom smelled of lavender and soft vanilla; the bed was neatly made (again, unlike his own) and dirty clothes resided in a hamper rather than tossed carelessly into a corner. The spare room that served as an office housed neatly organized work related content and photo albums of people from home, holiday decorations stashed under the guest bed; her closet had her clothes neatly organized (by color, who knew!?). He had quickly come to the conclusion that he might need to put a bit more effort into this charade.

So he had proceeded to spend the next several hours being swept into a whirlwind of imagining what a shared space would look like if the two of them were actually married.  He had started with the few books he had in his own apartment; a few biographies, some car magazines and a ratty copy of “The Art of War” and “The Hobbit”.  He had jammed them onto the neat bookshelves in her living room before returning quickly with some of his own records: some Cumbia records and an Eagles album, which he shuffled in with her own Steely Dan, Creedence Clearwater and Three Dog Night. 

He didn’t have much to contribute to the kitchen besides a few bottles of whiskey and a bottle of tequila next to her own bottles of red wine.  He had pulled a photo taken when he graduated from high school from his wallet and placed it on the fridge next to one of her with her huge family.  He paused a moment to assess the contrast in the two pictures: her in the midst of her five older brothers and parents, all wearing matching Christmas sweaters...him standing bashfully and stiffly next to his dad, who grinned proudly at the camera, one arm awkwardly slung over a teenage Javi’s shoulder.  The bathroom didn’t take long, either.  He added his razor, a bottle of Old Spice, and his toothbrush and comb; he glanced into the medicine cabinet as he placed his deodorant there and eyed what looked suspiciously like a package of prescription birth control...his mind started to wander and he slammed the cabinet door shut, heading back upstairs to his apartment for another load.  

He had strong-armed his clothes still on the hangers into some file boxes to make them easier to carry down the stairs, then had hauled shoes, underthings, suits, jeans, and (what he had not really realized until this moment) a ridiculous amount of the same style shirt in different colors downstairs and was now trying to wedge them into one half of her closet, trying to make it look like they had been there for a while and doing his best to not become buried by the haphazardly stacked boxes.  Once the last set of shoes was stuffed into the closet next to a pair of sky high red heels he had never seen her wear before, (he was CERTAIN he would have remembered those) he opened the dresser to shove his socks and underwear into a drawer and gulped. Staring back at him was a drawer full of his partner’s bras and panties.  

For a moment he felt like a creep pawing through her underwear drawer, but he steeled himself and carefully nudged the sensible pieces of cotton material to one side of the drawer.  As the material shifted, he spotted a brief flash of red lace and something that could be black and leather, but he refused to investigate any further; he could feel his face flushing and his heart pounding harder.  He dumped his own underwear into the drawer and shoved it closed, sighing with relief and opening the next one; socks wouldn’t cause his mind to wander into dangerous territory nearly as badly!  He carefully shoved the rolls of clothing to the side to make room for his own once again and felt his hand hit something.  His breath hitched as he uncovered what was very obviously a vibrator.  Next to it was a tube of lube and a small box about the size of a deck of cards.  Try as he might, he could not stop himself from carefully tilting open the lid of the box...Javi was quite educated when it came to knowing his way around a woman, but he was clueless as to the purpose or use of the two small colored balls nestled into the velvet inside of the box...although he was pretty sure he at least knew where they were supposed to go.  

His mind clouded with images of his partner stretched out on the bed behind him, bringing herself to orgasm using these items and he felt himself harden in his jeans.  He let out a puff of air and carefully nudged the items to the other side of the drawer, reburying them beneath the socks as they had been before.  He piled in his own footwear, then shakily closed the drawer, still trying to blink away the images playing out in his mind.  He wondered what her face would look like as she came apart.  What did she sound like?  Did she cry out when she reached her peak?  What would his name sound like tumbling from her lips in the middle of her climax, what would she taste like…?

He stormed out of the bedroom, furious at himself for going down that path.  He felt like a pervert, getting so turned on after snooping through her personal effects.  He was angry at Dixon for insisting that they do this; but he was frustrated at himself, more.  He shouldn’t be going through her things like this.  He splashed some cold water on his face from the kitchen sink and trudged back up to his own apartment, pacing for a while once he got there, trying to both ease his erection as well as determine what else he should bring with him back to her apartment.  His eyes settled on the shoulder case that had been retrieved from the house that had been used in the undercover operation.  He pulled out the two framed photographs that had been next to “their” bed; the photos that she had referenced when she had first woken up.  He stared at them, thinking that if he hadn’t been present at the time they had been taken, he would have believed they were real, too...that they were actual photographs of two people madly in love with each other.  

Maybe…

No.  He stuck both pictures under his arms, grabbed another box filled with work files, tossed his favorite ashtray and lighter in the box along with one or two small tchotkes, a couple of coasters and a small plastic plant from the window sill, and made one more trip down the stairs.  He dispersed the items randomly throughout her apartment, thinking to himself that it at least gave a more unified image of two different people existing within the same space.  

He hauled the box of paperwork into her second bedroom converted into an office space and plopped it down on the desk, taking one or two folders and strewing them about the top of the desk, again in stark contrast to her own organized, neat piles.  It started to reflect their separate desks at work now, which he found convincing.  He sat in the desk chair for a minute and quickly shuffled through the small desk drawers, double checking for anything glaring that might be difficult to explain.  As he opened the bottom drawer, his eye caught a blue leather bound notebook.  Flipping through it, he saw pages and pages of writing in his partner’s familiar handwriting.  As he thumbed through, he was startled to spot his name on one page.  He carefully flipped back, scanning the writing and was surprised to find that it actually appeared quite often.  He turned a page and began reading from the beginning:

“Everything sometimes feels so incredibly heavy here.  The job, the humidity, the pressure of being a woman in this man’s arena.  I hate it!  I hate that I have to be strong all the damn time.  I hate that it feels like I can’t seek the same comforts as other women...even if I have insisted that it be this way.  I’m so grateful and proud of myself...most of the time...like 95.5% of the time.  The other times, I just wish I could let myself cry when something heartbreaking happens.  When someone says something scathing that hurts my feelings at work.  When I watch Javi go off to sleep with yet another woman.

Javi.  That feels so heavy all of the time, too.  I can’t seem to ever level myself out when it comes to him.  Some days he drives me absolutely insane and I want nothing more than to bash his face in with a paperweight.  Other days, I just want him to put his arms around me and hold me.  Not do anything or say anything, just hold me tight…because he is, truthfully, the only single person that I trust.  

And yet, am I fooling myself in saying that...in saying that I trust him?  Because do I really?  If I really trusted him, why don’t I just go to him?  He only lives two floors up.  Why can’t I knock on his door and fling myself into his arms and kiss him and feel what it’s like to press my body against his?  Why can’t I bring myself to do that?  Well...probably because I don’t really ACTUALLY trust him...not with that part of myself.  Javi is the man I want having my back in a shootout...but is he the man I want to be next to me every night when I fall asleep and every morning when I wake up?  I dream about him sometimes...about him being in my bed with me, but we’re usually not sleeping...we’re doing everything but.  I dream about it and then I wake up feeling empty because he’s not there, because it wasn’t real.  The emptiness is heavy, too...”

Javi clapped the journal shut, feeling his stomach churn.  He shouldn’t have read that and guilt thrummed through him.  These were her private thoughts; never meant for anyone else but her to read.  Once again he felt like an intruder and he loathed himself...Dixon...that asshole Ortiz...for putting both of them in this situation.  He dragged a hand over his face, growling low in his throat.  He looked down at the box at his feet, still open with a few files and the two photographs staring back up at him.  He reached in and took out one framed picture, sitting it upright on the desk: the “engagement” photo.  He took the “wedding” picture out and then tossed the journal into the box, carrying both items from the home office.  He carefully set up the photo on a bookshelf in the living room, then put the lid back on the box and headed back up the stairs to drop the box off in his apartment and lock up.  Before he left, though, he made sure to slip the freshly cleaned gold band onto his left ring finger.

His wife would be coming home any minute now.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8,  Chapter 9, Chapter 10,  Chapter 11,  Chapter 12,  Chapter 13

[weirdthoughtsandideas]

do you have any fic ideas you've had that you never mentioned to anyone so far?

I have a lot of fic ideas for lots of fandoms and idk which ones I mentioned and which ones I didn't.

For Violetta I had this idea for a Stranger Things AU once - basically I had seen someone do a ST AU for another fandom once and I got inspired, and the basic plot was that all of the main characters had magic powers in one way or another. Basically they all grew up in a lab but escaped. That, or they were in a lab as kids, but got adopted/their parents took them away from the place. I don't think I talked about this mostly because I couldn't really figure out the whole plot, so I couldn't lay it out and explain it. All I know is that it would be really edgy (since like, they are tested in labs and shit) and not as kid friendly.

Another AU I idea I had was both with Violetta and SL and it was an asoue au. Basically, in asoue there's a plot with people setting things on fire and are after other people's fortunes and when I saw SL I was like "lol this reminds me of asoue" - but I also wanted to include Violetta in that somehow, so I tried to plan it out. I think I have written about it somewhere here before but what's good about asoue is that it's VERY easy to structure AUs - it has 13 books (and if you watch the Netflix show, 2 eps per book) all with a similar formula. The characters get to a place, do stuff there, the villain arrives and fucks shit up, they escape or the villain escapes, repeat (though, it's not like that every book, just for the first few and then things go wild) And every single time there's one thing that's special for just that book, for example in one they are in a hospital where the villain kidnaps one of them and tries to perform surgery on her while her siblings have to dress up as doctors to save her. In another one they're in a boarding school. In another one they are burning down a hotel. Anyway, it's just very easy to just keep the formula but change characters.

So like I had an idea that two from Violetta and two from SL got to be foster children at Sharon's house, since she's canonically after someone's fortune and stuff, and the villain in asoue is after their fortune aswell. She does a bunch of crazy shit and the kids get relocated somewhere else - maybe with another adult from either Violetta or SL, until Sharon comes and fucks shit up again (in asoue, the villain sometimes kill the other guardians, but idk if Sharon is gonna do that. Then again, she's capable of murder so like. Why not). There's gonna be more characters that they meet on the way, especially in the boarding school where they'll probably meet a lot of other characters. I haven't thought about it fully, but I have a slight idea at least. Let's see if I'm ever gonna do something with that.

Uh - and then there's some fic ideas I have that are essentially pretty smutty, and I haven't mentioned it because, idk, some people don't wanna read that. Like I have no problem at all writing smut, in fact I am quite a sex positive person actually - though I always tone it down on the internet due to... well, not everyone wants to read everything :) But if you read some of my fics you know I can't help to slip in some dirty jokes... point is, I know that most people would be okay with it, and with smut you're always warning people beforehand so if they don't wanna read, they don't have to. But every time I have posted any chapter that's a little more "intense" or a fic that I have had to rate Mature (though I haven't always rated it M for smut, but for other reasons) I just feel nervous as heck. I have never gotten a negative comment though, since if people don't wanna read, they don't read. Also people have requested smut drabbles plenty of times so like, it's not like i'm out of touch with the subject. But yeah I have some ideas for some smuttier fics and I have just not mentioned it lol, and chances are if I ever post them I won't mention it here either and just post it and let people find it themselves lmao

[xxrainstormxx]

Save it for the Doctor. Spencer Reid x Reader.

(A/N: this is based off a writing prompt. "You're... beautiful." "And you're concussed") Word count; 2,475 Part 2 (edit: my pleas for requests for stories are not reaching people so I will beg here. If you want a oneshot I’ll write it. Prompt or no prompt.)

I had heard a lot about the recent murders. I even had seen a few almost survivors on my mom's operation table, yet somehow I was wrapped up in the middle of it. Smack in the middle. No normal citizen even knew the FBI was investigating the murders and yet I was being interrogated. The man who sat in front of me was just mean, he wore a serious look and his eyes never moved from the narrow eyed glare he gave anyone who walked by and especially gave me. I was happy to cooperate, but the minute I was under fire I was fed up and wanted a lawyer. I was no killer, I had no upper body strength to move a dead body and believe me, I would know how much a dead body weighs thanks to my mom training me. I was a tired college student trying to get my damn degree so I could move on with my fucking life. And I was not in the mood to be interrogated when I could be working on my thesis. The mean man, Agent Hotchner I believe was just staring. I guess waiting for me to break or some shit like that? I don't know. I wasn't talking first. I didn't care anymore and this resulted in a match of silently staring waiting for the other one to speak. This went on for what felt like an hour but was probably closer to at least three minutes, I just sighed, "I cave." I sighed muttering curses as I shifted in my seat. "Go on, ask your questions I have a thesis to write and I would like to go home to continue it," I reluctantly urged on. He leaned forward in triumph I think as he demanded answers from me. "Where were you the night of Synthia Robbin's disappearance (Y/N)?" he began dwelling on the poor girls name. It made me frown, she was a 13 year old girl, a child, and she was gone. Kidnapped and found dead. It made me sick to think of what could happen to her. "So that's what this is about?" I hissed disgusted with the accusation "I was at the library with Emmalin." the mention of my sister's name made him further darken. "Your sister, correct?" he inquired. I rolled my eyes, "Yuduh" I sounded sitting back. "All your time is accounted for?" he continued leaving me puzzled for a moment. "There were maybe ten minutes in between where she left to find a book." I murmured unsure if the truth was the right thing to say as he stood and pulled out a file and threw it on the table making me flinch. "What about the night of Chris Bennidict?" he asked "A s-sports game" I stuttered "A baseball game I think. Rockies vs Rangers." I said shaking a little as he threw down that files some of the pictures falling out of the boy, shot twice. "Eunice Quiet, Quiara Basson, Basen Unice, Lynch Gryse, and Philip Jence!" he got  louder with every file he threw at me. "You were near by every single scene and you fit most of our profile" he concluded the pictures that fell out made me physically sick. Children, those poor babies. I sobbed and turned away gagging, he wasn't convinced it was real but I knew it was and up came the vomit that was caught in my throat.

I had no doubt I fit their profile but I worked part time at a daycare. Children were my life line, and it mad me sick to see them hurt. He answered a call and left the room leaving me there to cry over the pictures. A brunette woman walked in and sighed taking me out of the handcuffs attaching me to the bolted down table. "Come on sweetheart. We'll get someone to clean up that." she sighed very tired, I wanted to know why. They brought me out to the main area of the station and sat me down. They slowly cuffed me to the desk and I cried softly. I looked across the station to see Emmalin "Emmy!" I called but was ignored causing me to frown. So I shut up and listen to whatever raving was in my defense, "My baby sib? A murderer?" she asked "well... it isn't that hard to believe," she said making my jaw drop. "They've always been a little too obsessed with the idea of death." A lie, I had an emo phase and so did she, "Introverted" well partially true. "and well she creeps out her friends," she finished causing me to stand suddenly, "Liar!" I shouted "You fucking liar!" I cried ignoring the pain and stress on my wrist the hand cuff was causing. I was now a 45 degree angle due to the cuffs keeping me in place. She seemed genuinely shocked i was there. "Why are you trying to pin this on me. Your own sister!b You were with me everywhere we went and those bodies were found. Why aren't you being questioned too? Did you lie? Did you say I was the only one there?" I screamed as I was sat down. She hissed at me and most of the agents took notice. Agent Prentiss, the nice brunette sighed and walked to my now horrible sister and asked her to follow her into a different interrogation room. It felt like hours that I was sat there, and a curly haired man was sat in front of me just reading, or what I thought was faking, really bad faking. "Why are you even sitting here if you're just going to pretend to read?" I asked the "doctor". My mother was a doctor and I didn't believe this boy was any kind of doctor. I had gotten to know his name as Doctor Reid and I wasn't allowed to call him an agent so I had no other choice. He just looked at me thrown for a moment before shaking his head "I'm not pretending" He stated as he shifted "No one can read that fuckin fast ya damn liar" I muttered not necessarily hostile just a little vexed. "I can. Did you know that our unconscious minds can process sixteen bits of information per second? Our conscious minds, however, can process sixteen million?" I sat back unimpressed "You are... absolutely insane" I laughed "Insane, perhaps but I'm not being accused of murder." he stated, and my smile that i worked so hard to get disappeared "You think I did it too." I muttered, it was meant to come as a question but instead it came as a statement. He shook his head "Not fully, while you do supposedly fit the profile our profile, our unsub wouldn't inject themselves into the investigation. The one part that doesn't fit" he said sitting back and crossing his legs turning to the board filled with evidence, and all those pictures that made me sick sat right next to the happy photos of the children in their school uniforms smiling big. I tried to focus on those "Well maybe your profile is wrong, cause this is sick." I hissed "(Y/N), you're here most likely because you were in the wrong places at the wrong times. Kids being picked up and murdered minutes apart from each other, while you were out with your sister at those locations? It's not very probable."

I just sighed knowing he was probably right "There aren't many coincidences when it comes to murder" he stated "Out of uh... curiosity what is an unsub? No normal person knows that is." I muttered as I tried to avoid the board, the thought of being in those places, not helping those kids, not even having a clue what was happening made me sick. "Unknown Subject" Dr. Reid said mumbling "Why aren't you uh... looking at the board. I thought you'd be proud of your work." He said as if to egg me on. I rolled my eyes "Those pictures make me sick." I muttered "I work at a daycare, it's my job to protect kids not watch them get hurt. I don't wanna see dead fucking children!" I shouted realizing I probably sounded fucking crazy and definitely like a kill. I hung my head in shame. "I know... I know it isn't fair to blame myself for what happened to those kids, but being in the places of the crime, the same night it happened, it makes me feel like I could have and should have done something. Something other than just sit there and wonder." I whispered "Yeah I feel guilty now but, not of what you think" I whispered looking to the board once more focusing on the pictures of the children when they were alive. "Sweet innocent babies... Never done anything to anyone. Probably were crying for their mom." I whimpered at the thought "They didn't deserve any of what happened" I looked away once more thinking about the mothers. "Moms.... Their moms" he stood up as if he had a damn epiphany nearly knocking me backwards in the chair. "Morgan, it's not an attack on the children it's an attack on their mothers." He said starting to put of pictures of older women. "think about it. They all went to the same cafe every day. It wasn't the day care, so it can't be (Y/N). They wouldn't see much of the parents" he enthused writing things down that I could not decipher because his hand writing was absolute shit. "But wouldn't that just give them more reason? They think these women are bad mom's for working instead of taking care of the child, and wants to teach them a lesson?" making him shake his head "That's stupid, if they wanted to make them suffer they'd just kill the women themselves, it'd be much more efficient and wouldn't lead to them doing the one thing they would dread doing!" he said circling one name on the board. Emmalin. "That's also sexist. Women work, children can't go with. Why would I have a fucking problem with that" I shouted across the room. "Who fits the profile while also holding these sexist values." Reid stated more than asked pointing to Emma's name again. "Oh dear god." he sighed "But my sister isn't a murderer!" I cried. "She's connected to the murders... and she's made it clear she doesn't think women should work." Morgan stated and went to the interrogation room. "You are a life saver (Y/N)" Reid said kissing my cheek out of pure joy, and I slapped him as a natural instinct and turned red "Shit! I'm sorry! I'm not used to boys doing that if they aren't being creepy! But at the same time that was really fucking creepy" I yelped as he held his face and laughed "No it's fine. Got too excited to fix what felt like a huge mistake." he said, and when I say I turned red I mean red. This was the first time I'd seen him as a human. Not a super genius, not as an agent, not an asshole. Just a normal guy with pretty eyes, a good jaw line, soft hair, and the sweetest smile I had ever seen. The blush was apparently very clear on my (skin color) skin because he hummed and smiled "Did you know blushing is speculated to be caused by a sudden rush of adrenaline making our blood pump faster." I giggled a little "Is that why you're so flushed?" I asked as he blinked not understanding just how damn pink he was after that rant. "Guess so." he shrugged. the door opened and out came Emmalin and she grabbed a ceramic vase off a desk and slammed it down onto Reid's head and ran away quickly. He fell to the floor because it was a heavy fucking vase, and I freaked out as he hit his head on the desk on the way down.

"Shit!" I yelled as half of them chased my very obviously guilty sister and I sat in shock as two of his friends rushed over to help him. Morgan uncuffed me and I blinked "Spencer?" Agent Jareau asked worried and I sat down next to him sitting him up and grabbing a water bottle slashing it on his face "Do not fall asleep." I said firmly "You could very well have a concussion." I said as an ambulance arrived quickly, he was cearly not feeling good because of the way that he was acting. I was worried about how sick he looked. He threw up half way to the hospital so I was told. I went with because I didn't feel safe with my sister on the run and an Agent in the hospital. Well I guess he wasn't an agent he was a doctor. The doctor, not Spencer, came out and i stood with the other two very worried. "He'll be fine. He has a mild concussion." as i thought "but he's awake, and on some pain medication. I take it you all know the situation and his limitations in the field?" he asked and Morgon and Jareau nodded "You can go back to see him now" he said and stepped aside "come on" Jareau said quietly to me "oh. Agent, I don't think he'd want to see me." I said quietly. "I'm sure he would like to know you came. You won't make a very good profiler if you can't even tell that Reid enjoys your company. And call me JJ, it makes it easier," she said giggling and pulled me right back with her and Morgan. "Hey man" Morgan started "What happened?" he muttered groaning in pain. "You got hit with a vase, took a pretty sweet fall, and got a concussion" JJ hummed arms crossed as she leaned on the wall. "Shit." he muttered making me giggle. "Oh hey!" he said when he saw me. "I want water, and jello" he muttered making small lip smacking sounds. "Morgan and I will get it" JJ laughed leaving me in a very awkward situation. "So umm.." I began before being cut off. "You know.. You're beautiful" he said staring at me causing me to snort "And you're concussed." I laughed shaking my head "Well, a concussion based on the severity doesn't necessarily affect your judgement of a person especially if it's a first time thing. I thought you were beautiful long before I was concussed but you were a suspect. Suspects being beautiful, hard to comprehend sometimes." I laughed "You're a dumbass" I snorted "But I-" he blinked and i walked over pecking his lips. "How about a date sometime? I'll give you my number" I said quietly. "Yeah... okay..." he whispered. "A date."

[thanksjro]

More Than Meets the Eye #3- Robots in the Vents, Because It’s Not a Roberts Story if It Doesn’t Happen at Least Once

So, the duobots are having a hell of a day.

Shock, our resident obligate belly-sleeper and newly-single robot, laments the passing of his buddy, leaves a vial of innermost energon by his body- a practice that will be expanded upon later- then covers up any and all traces of their having worked with Prowl. These are the inside guys Prowl called after he flipped that table in issue #1.

As Shock tracks down the tracer Ore was supposed to be planting instead of being eaten by the quantum drive, he comes across that sparkeater that got mentioned last issue.

That is his brain.

Then he explodes.

Which brings us to the scene we left in issue #2. Sparkeater on board the Lost Light, which is full of sparks that probably would prefer not to get eaten.

Holy shit Cosmos is huge. I don’t remember him being that goddamn big.

Rodimus thinks that this whole sparkeater thing is really neat, and he’s happy to be a part of it, but he’s not so thrilled about the prospect of subjecting the others to this event, so he orders everyone to find a friend and go to their rooms until he and his select few sort this whole thing out. He doesn’t tell them about the sparkeater, because that’s some scary bullshit to throw out there less than a day into the trip.

Everyone files out, Swerve having forgotten about Tailgate, who’s having a minor wardrobe malfunction. Since he doesn’t have legs at present, he calls out to the one other guy he knows on the Lost Light.

Tailgate really knows how to pick ‘em.

Over with the dead body, everyone stands what is probably unadvisedly close to the scene of the crime and Ratchet performs a quick and dirty autopsy. The boys discuss the validity of Red Alert’s theory that this was caused by a sparkeater, with the mention of Rewind’s grainy footage making the creature seem like the Cybertronian equivalent of a cryptid. Probably less Fresno nightcrawler and more chupacabra. Ratchet tries to get everyone to focus for two goddamn seconds, when Trailbreaker picks up Shock’s brain module, knocking everyone right back off track again with the discussion of Rossum’s Trinity, the idea that the spark, brain module, and transformation cog are all interconnected, and damage to one can cause the others to shut down.

Ratchet’s had just about enough of this lot, but he gets through his examination.

This is the issue Alex Milne started drawing the insignias in himself as opposed to the previous practice of IDW having them put in in post.

Rodimus, however, wants to show off his new toys as it were, and asks Chromedome to take a gander. Chromedome wearily obliges, having Ratchet pop the brain back in Shock’s head so he can do his thing. Every other person on this fucking ship is a doctor, you see, and Chromedome is no exception- he’s a mnemosurgeon.

(Yes, my spellcheck DOES lose its mind every time I type that.)

Chromedome takes his terrifying pointy hands, jams them into the eye sockets of this corpse, and gets a brainfull of Shock’s final moments.

This is such a cool panel, and I went and ruined it for myself by realizing the upper left portion shouldn’t be visible, seeing as the brain is already outside Shock’s head, without any sort of cord connecting it to his body.

Back upstairs, folks are moving into their rooms for the surprise lockdown. Cyclonus is being a pal and is carrying Tailgate, because I’m pretty sure the little guy is just about the only person who’s talked to him in a non-hostile fashion in the last couple of months, and that really gets old after a while.

Those legs sure are something, Hoist. Is it just, like, a rule that a certain percentage of Transformers designs have to be at least somewhat unintentionally horny?

The two find a room, and then Cyclonus remembers that he’s not supposed to show things like empathy until later in the series, and drops Tailgate on the floor unceremoniously.

Meanwhile, over with Skids and Swerve, the pair’s found something truly wonderful- a fully-stocked bar. Swerve’s always wanted to run a bar, and this just might be his chance to chase his dreams.

Swerve is the punching bag for MTMTE, in case you couldn’t tell.

While Swerve is not-so-subtly crying for help, Skids is busy enacting another Roberts writing-staple- the robot in the vents. See, Skids has hit his bad boy phase; he doesn’t play by your daddy’s rules, so he’s gonna sneak out and do generally whatever pleases him, because he’s got a big honkin’ chunk of memories that just aren’t there anymore. Apparently that’s all he needs to go AWOL.

As Skids lifts himself up into the ceiling to fulfill his destiny as a vent-pest, he asks Swerve if he listens to music, which is met with a negatory. Odd, given his later characterization, but maybe he’s more into contemporary works.

The ass poking worked! Swerve is now the proud owner of one whole entire friend!

Back with the corpse crew, Chromedome’s finished his assessment of the body, and agrees that there’s a sparkeater amongst them. This is a huge fucking problem, to put it lightly, both in the sense of actual, physical danger, and the metaphysical space of the Lost Light itself.

Are we sure this thing didn’t just see this ship full of over 200 war veterans and say “that’s some good eatin’ right there” and snuck on board? Because if I were a horrific monster that was drawn to pain and emotional trauma, I’d absolutely consider the Lost Light a gold mine.

As Chromedome lays his head in Rewind’s lap, the others weigh their options. Sparkeaters go after the brightest sparks, then work their way down, so this thing is probably on the move as they speak. The thing’s eaten recently, the sparks haven’t completely digested, and that means they can’t just shoot it, because then it’ll explode, and we’ve had enough of that for one day.

Rodimus has everyone else go to hunt the thing down, while he and Drift hang out here in the basement. When Ultra Magnus questions this plan of attack, he’s brushed off, though Rodimus appears to imply that he thinks he’s got the brightest spark on the ship. Probably all that Matrix nonsense he went through.

Back upstairs, Animus gets shot with the irony gun and gets his soul vored.

This is what happens when you tell lies, kids. Your lemon-lime flavored soul gets eaten by the mecha-Krampus.

Whirl, who had locked the door to the habsuite, which is why Animus was out in the hall to begin with, realizes that something seriously messed up is happening, and does what he knows best, i.e. shooting first and asking questions probably never.

Good thing Trailbreaker is there to keep Whirl from exploding the entire ship, employing the help of his forcefield ability to contain the barrage.

In the resulting chaos, the sparkeater escapes, having triangulated its next meal, and it’s not Rodimus.

It’s this dweeb.

You can tell he’s in his office, because he’s got a landscape painting in there. Landscape paintings are pretty much the only decor allowed in doctors’ offices, I’m pretty sure it’s, like, a law or something.

Luckily, Rung decided to get threatened by a space-cryptid directly under a vent, so Skids can save his skinny little butt. Good job, Skids. Proud of you.

Back with Tailgate and Cyclonus, little dude’s just finished explaining his whole deal. He’s still trying to figure out what the hell happened during his dirt nap, so Cyclonus tries his best to fill him in on the several million year war. Keep in mind, Cyclonus wasn’t exactly there either, so his whole explanation probably isn’t the best. He wonders out loud which side Tailgate would have gravitated towards, had he been around for the massive mess the Autobots and Decepticons made.

Meanwhile, back in the GODDAMNED DUCTWORK, Rung and Skids are crawling as fast as they can to escape the sparkeater, though they can’t be that worried about it, seeing as Rung answers a phone call on his weird body-harness phone setup. Rodimus tells the two of them to head for the engine room, so that the sparkeater follows them down. Rung doesn’t seem too thrilled about this plan, but what’s he gonna do, argue with a potential space-pope?

Skids punches through a vent into the elevator shaft, then uses his grappling hook- which I want to say is never seen again after this issue- to lower them down in one of the most well-known crotch shots in the entire comic series.

Iconic.

They land on top of the elevator, and Skids yells at Brainstorm to punch the "E for Engine Room” button. The sparkeater bursts in through the ceiling, and Skids and Rung book it out of there, leaving Brainstorm to his inevitable demise.

Or not.

Rung and Skids have made it to the engine room, so now it’s time for the next portion of Rodimus’ plan, which is really only a small tweaking of what Rung was doing earlier- instead of being a moving target, he’ll be playing the role of stationary bait, as Rodimus holds him like a fucking crucifix made out of people, urging the sparkeater to come take a bite.

Up on the bridge, Perceptor gets ready to kick on the quantum engine, as per his captain’s request. Sure hope this plan works, because if they lose Rung, I don’t think they’ll ever find another therapist, thanks to the apparent ratio of 1:1/3 of the entire population of Cybertron.

The sparkeater lunges, Rodimus throws Rung off to the side, and he and the beast wrestle, Crocodile Dundee style. Perceptor initializes the jump, and, because they’re in the danger zone for the quantum engine, they get sucked in.

Rung seems a little miffed, but I’d say this is a win for Team Rodimus, even if those arms of his are toast. It’s cool though, he can get new ones.

Smashcut to Rodimus and his sick new arms, as he finishes explaining just what the hell happened to Magnus. Magnus isn’t quite as jazzed about the whole “used our therapist as a worm on a hook” thing as one would think, surprisingly, but Rodimus isn’t in the mood for a lecture. Off in the background, Tailgate’s getting his butt fixed, curtesy of Ratchet. Tailgate’s talking up a storm, regardless of Ratchet’s rather cool reception to the chatter.

Tailgate did some thinking while everyone was locked in their rooms, and he’s made a decision, based on his limited understanding of the Autobot/Decepticon war.

I guess Cyclonus forgot to mention the fact that there isn’t a single Decepticon on this ship for a reason.

[obviouslyelementary]

Family - Data & Picard

Summary: After First Contact, Picard goes to check on Data and assure him that they can talk about anything, now that they both share the feelings of being assimilated by the Borg.

Warnings: light angst and heavy hurt comfort; dad and son feels;

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

First contact was successful. The Borg had been destroyed in the past, and would not assimilate the humans until way later in the future. The Borg Queen had been killed, at least the one they had encountered. And now, they were back home, to the 24th century, everything somewhat back to normal.

The main difference was that Picard was now sure he needed way more therapy before he could actually engage in any Borg related missions again. Star Fleet had been right, he was not ready to be face to face with the Borg again. Hadn't it been Lily, he would have destroyed humanity for vengeance, and probably got everyone killed in the process.

But now that everything was back to normal, now that they were home and heading to to base 001 for repairs and a well deserved vacation, he found himself with one more duty to fulfill.

"Will, you have the bridge" he said, standing up from the chair, and Will immediately took his post with a nod. Deanna watched as he moved away, standing up for a moment.

"Sir?" she asked, always concerned, probably feeling how he was feeling, but Picard smiled at her and nodded.

"Don't worry counselor. I will be back shortly."

She gave him an uncertain nod and allowed him to leave the bridge. He took the turbolift, heading down to sickbay, and made his way through the hallways, paying no attention to the officers and civilians walking around him. They had had several casualties, and the medical team was working on the double to get the few crewmembers left out of the Borg machinery.

But that was not why Jean-Luc was heading there.

He made his way inside sickbay and towards the recuperation isle, where he could see some familiar faces. Geordi was there, working double with some nurses, and on the table laid Data, now almost completely fixed. Jean-Luc approached the group, watching as Geordi attached the last patch of skin to Data's face and smiled.

"You're good as new friend" he said, and the nurses were quick to move away and help the other patients. Data slowly sat up again, blinking and touching his own face, with a slight discomforting expression before looking up at Geordi.

"Thank you" he said, and Picard could feel the honesty in his words. Geordi nodded.

"You're welcome. I should go back to work" he turned, and was surprised to see Picard there. "Captain!"

"At ease" he teased, smiling at his chief engineer. "Go back to duty. I came here to see our patient."

"Of course sir. I will leave you two alone" Geordi said, smiling at Data and then heading out of sickbay. Data looked at Picard, seeming confused, and tilted his head.

"I was about to return to the bridge sir" he said, but Picard shook his head.

"Could you accompany me to my quarters? I wish to speak to you in private" he said, and Data gave him a nod, following the captain out of sickbay so they could leave the nurses and doctors alone. The walk towards Picard's room was completely silent, even though he felt as if Data wanted to say something. He didn't indulge it until they were safely inside the captain's quarters, and with a nod, they both sat down on the couches, facing each other.

"Would you like some tea sir?" Data asked, politely, but Jean-Luc shook his head.

"No. And don't address me as sir or captain while in here... this is a very personal conversation, I don't want ranks influencing our talk" he said, sighing and crossing his legs. He did it when he was relaxed or very uncomfortable, and this time it was the latter.

"Of course" Data agreed, and then tilted his head. "May I ask why we are here? What is the subject of our talk?"

"The Borg are the subject of our talk" Jean-Luc said, and Data gave him a nod, accommodating himself on his seat. It could be a sign of discomfort, one Picard knew very well. "As you probably know, you and I had similar experiences with the Borg, and I want to talk to you about... that."

"You mean because both of us were assimilated against our will, and seen by the Borg Queen as more than just pawns?" he asked, unsure, and Picard nodded. "I see."

"Data... I don't know if our experiences were the same, or even as alike as I am thinking them to be" he admitted, and then sighed. "But it is clear that despite years of constant therapy, I still have not fully... gotten over what happened to me while in the Borg collective. I believed I was past it, but I was wrong. And now I want to make sure you don't make the same mistakes I did."

"Captain... I mean, Jean-Luc. Believe me when I say that our experiences were far more different than you imagine" Data said, in a calm manner. "Despite having human feelings, such as fear and happiness, I do not experience the same responses as does human psyche. Individuality, for example, is valued to me, but not inherent, nor maddening. It would be much more difficult for the Borg to integrate me in their collectiveness, and indeed it was, because I was not fully integrated at any moment. The only way they could have me was if I agreed to, the reason why the Borg Queen appealed to my human wishes. So I can assure you that I am not, in any way, traumatized by what transpired."

"Forgive me Data when I say... I find that extremely hard to believe" Jean-Luc said, looking at Data, his bright yellow eyes and his now completely android-like complexity. "I too believed I was fine the moment I was released from the Borg collective, and it took me months to admit that I was not, indeed, fine. I am not here to tell you to feel bad, not in the slightest. But I would like you to know that first, you should seek a therapist, and second, if you ever need someone to talk to, someone to share your thoughts and feelings with, I will always be open to listen. No matter how dark or upsetting they might be."

"I see... I must extend the offer to you as well" Data said, softly. "You are always welcomed to talk to me whenever you need."

"Good" Picard smiled, and Data smiled back. "If there is anything else you wish to talk about, ask... before we return to the bridge, feel free to do so."

"I... do have a few questions about, well, this mission in general" Data admitted, and Picard nodded, holding his knee with his hands. "First of all, the auto destruction sequence. You were not the one that had the idea, were you?"

"No. Worf was the sensible one" Picard admitted, with a dry chuckle. Data gave him a nod.

"Why did you come back for me?"

The question was sincere, quiet but not hesitant, but made Picard freeze on the spot. He looked up at Data again, finding his yellow eyes fixated on his own, with a curiosity that seemed to hide something underneath. The question itself was so offensive to Jean-Luc that he needed a second to process it, to perhaps understand it better.

"What do you mean, why I came back for you?" he asked, still somewhat incredulous, and Data tilted his head.

"For all you knew, I was assimilated. The ship was about to explode, you wouldn't have enough time to get into one of the escape pods. Not only that, but I heard you. You were going to sacrifice your humanity, your individuality, to save me. You were going to assimilate into the Borg collective as the Queen's equal. Why? I was the only one on board, and you could have found another way to stop the Borgs in case the plan failed. Why would you sacrifice your wellbeing for me?"

Jean-Luc stared at Data, waiting for some kind of joke to come out of his mouth, or an apology for such an absurd question, but it never came. His mouth opened and closed several times, a bubbling anger filling up his blood vessels together with a feeling of extreme sadness he never felt before. Empathy was never his strong suit, but seeing Data question his own worth for rescue was a bit too much, even for him.

"You... don't see any value on your own person, do you, Data?" he asked, because he was still baffled, and didn't know how to answer such an absurd question. Data seemed taken aback at the question, leaning away and looking to the floor.

"I... of course I do sir. I know I am the most advanced type of technology humans have ever made, and I know I have a place in this vessel, but-"

"Would you be questioning me if I had sacrificed myself to save Will? Deanna? Beverly? Geordi? Worf?" Picard asked, his voice now showing the signs of anger he was trying to push down, and Data shook his head like a shy boy.

"No sir."

"Then why are you questioning me when I sacrificed myself to save you?" he said, his voice deeper, angry and upset. "Don't you see any value, any worth on your own being, commander?"

Well, back with the ranks. That was how Picard showed he was mad.

"I do sir" Data said, and then slowly looked up at him, looking like a boy who had just made something wrong and was now seeking forgiveness. "I am sorry captain."

"No... stop" Picard said, shaking his head with a sigh and reaching out, taking Data's hands on his own. "Don't apologize, Data, I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get angry. But that question is absurd and even a bit revolting. You are part of the crew, Data. It is obvious I would do anything to save you."

"I saw what you did while I was in the collective. You killed one of the ensigns" Data said, his hands holding onto Picard's firmly. "Should you not have killed me too?"

Oh guilt. What a delicious feeling to have.

"I killed him because I was blind with rage and want for revenge. Because I only saw Borg when there was an ensign. I was wrong to do that to him" Picard admitted, and it was harder than he made it seem. "But I would have never killed you, Data. You are... you are family."

Family.

That was it.

Data was silent for a moment, holding Jean-Luc's hands on his own while he thought, tilting his head until a smile showed up on his face, a shy one, small and gentle but honest and happy. He gave Picard a nod, and a squeeze on his hands.

"I... believe you are my family too, Jean-Luc."

"I'm honored you think of me as such" he whispered, giving Data's hands another squeeze. "And my offer remains. If you ever need to speak to someone about what happened while you were being kept with the Borg, while you were in the collective... don't hesitate to talk to me."

"I will not. In fact... if I may" Data said, and Picard nodded, leaning back and letting go from Data's hands. "I believe that... one thing happened while I was locked up with them that bothered me deeply."

"What was it?"

"Did the Borg Queen try to... copulate with you, sir?" Data asked, shyly but loud enough to hear, and Picard stared at him with his eyes wide in surprise, before narrowing down in anger.

"What did she do to you?"

 The rest of the talk was, well, uncomfortable, and although Jean-Luc knew he was no specialist, he made sure Data was comfortable to talk to him about anything at all, including... that, while also making appointments for them both with Troi, once a week.

Once the talk was finished, and Picard felt himself a little less angry with the Borg for hurting Data, he allowed them both to go back to duty, but not before a very human ritual.

"Mister Data, have you ever had a hug?" he asked while they got ready to leave his quarters, and Data gave him a look.

"I have sir, a few times. Why?"

"Well, I was wondering if you would like another" he said, smiling, and Data looked at him surprised but clearly interested.

"I have never been hugged by a man before. And specially not one I consider do highly as you, sir" he said, and Picard nodded, walking closer to him and chuckling.

"I am awful at this... but you know, I will give it a shot" he admitted, raising his arms and wrapping them around Data's middle. He pulled the android closer, despite his initial hesitation, but soon the android's arms were wrapping around his shoulders, and his head found a comfy spot on Picard's shoulder to lay upon. Jean-Luc felt himself calming down almost immediately, never expecting a hug from his android officer to be so warm and inviting, but finding that he would not mind hugging him more often.

When they finally broke apart, probably after a way longer time than most hugs were kept, Picard looked at Data and smiled upon seeing the relaxed expression on his commander's face.

"Your hugs bring me a high level of happiness and comfort, Jean-Luc" Data said, softly, and Picard gave him a nod.

"I have to agree, Data. We should do it more often. Now let's go back to work."

"Yes sir."

Data walked out of his quarters, and Picard smiled as he walked after him, delighted by his reaction.

Data was precious, and if he could, Picard would never allow anyone to hurt him again.

[blacksurvivalnostalgichanges]

My Take On What Kind Of Student Each Character Is

minus the ones that we fully know about and the ones i didn’t wanna write for

~

Adela: She’d be the student that’s very prodigious on a certain subject, but not be very good at most others. Like, she needs help in english, or P.E., but once science class hits she becomes coveted as a project partner. Of course, the moment that someone pulls out a game board she either gets in and demolished everyone else, or is actively let out to level the playing field.

Adriana: She’d be a big troublemaker, the type you see getting switched from classes or on detention at least once until the first half of the year’s done. Everyone knows her as THAT kid. She’s the student that shoves an eraser in the outlet to make the classroom lights go out. She’s the student that burns something, but no one knows what, just knows there’s a suspicious burning smell, flustering the teachers and supervisors. Those are both real stories I have from highschool, by the way. Neither were caused by me, though.

Alex: He’s the kid everyone forgets exists. Either because they’re never present in class and eventually become that one name everyone laughs at because “oh hah the teacher hasn’t realized courtney’s NEVER showing up”, or because they just don’t talk much and turn away or bore folks trying to socialize with him.

Arda: He’s the kid that’s really smart, but everyone gets kinda creeped out by him. Someone looks for him as a kid, and finds him looking at the ground far too close to an anthill. They ask him what he’s doing, and he gets on this weird rant on how ants live and how life is precious but fleeting. People often want him to be in their group on group assignments since it guarantees an A, but fully expect the assignment to not go pleasantly.

Aya: The narc. The tattletale. That kid that no one tells anything to. Beloved by teachers and supervisors, but others usually aren’t that fond of her. Probably gets bullied over it, and eventually gets a huge complex over how she can’t actually make them stop by talking to authority figures. 

Barbara: She’s the kid that knows a lot about how to use the computers when it gets to that. She’d be really good at arts and crafts projects, and get good grades, but be secretly utterly bored by literally everything that doesn’t have that sort of physical building-up and get really excited and happy when tech class starts, or the arts teacher makes an assignment where she can make things beyond drawing or writing about old artists she doesn’t care much for.

Bernice: He’s the really depressed, existencial kid. Bummer to be around. Makes a joke about death that makes everyone fall silent. One of his classmates became a psychologist and sent him their card.

Camilo: The one dude that folks either know as the guy that gets with lots of people, or as really self-absorbed. Passing grades but only that, probably.

Cathy: The kid that wants to be a doctor. Always has bandaids and antiseptics ready, gets called on whenever people get hurt pretty bad (presuming the nurse’s office isn’t available or her school doesn’t have one). 

Chiara: The jehovah’s kid that tries to get their friends to go to the church. Type to show up to a friend’s house on a Sunday, and try to get them to go with her to the church. People usually try to just quietly ignore it or try to just be a good influence on her, since they don’t know how they’d decode her from it.

Daniel: Him being the goth kid’s a given, but he’d also be that really artistic kid that folks admire (because dang his art’s so good) but also get kinda weirded out by. Voted Most Likely to Kill Someone.

Echion: He’s that dude that randomly fights people for no reason, actually winds up creating harm, gets suspended, then next day a teacher starts talking about how everyone should’ve been more patient with him despite the fact that he was hurting people. (hoping this isn’t relatable)

Eleven: She’d be that student that’s always letting others borrow their stuff, has a bunch of friends she helps with school stuff when they don’t get it, and is generally too nice for this world. I know her backstory involves her friends all being fake and only there for her dad’s influence but I’m going to willingly ignore that and say folks love her and are her friends without influence from her dad. Shhhhhh.

Eva: The student that makes jokes during classes, either whispering to friends or out loud when the teacher allows it. She probably doesn’t like science.

Emma: You know that kid that would bring a book about magic to school? And do magic tricks for people mid class? That. Except she’d actually commit to it for more than a week. Teachers hate her.

Fiora: Sword lesbian. She’d likely have average grades mostly, but excel in P.E. Probably in the student council, maybe as the president with Jenny being the vice president because Fiora would trust her with that sort of thing.

Hart: She’d be the type to go through school sort of in a “i gotta” type of motivation, then after graduation you find out she made a mixtape.

Hyejin:The kid that would be able to help deprogram Chiara because she’s also religious but knows the line. I feel like she’d be the arts and crafts kid too, maybe have her dream job be psychology.

Isol: The kid that’s causing mischief, but in a sort of quiet sneaky way. The kid that made the school administration make a huge fuss trying to figure out who the fuck made the classroom lights go out, or stole something. A week passes. No one even knows who the fuck did it because he’s that good.

Jackie: Openly wanted to be a doctor. Everyone silently suspects she’s the murder doctor type.

Jan: The kid that’s really nice and chill. Then he does pushups with no effort and everyone realized that he’s actually really strong and could probably break them in half if he wanted to. Someone asked him why he works out so much. He answered “to pick up big dogs easily”. Nadine nodded in understanding.

Jenny: The theater kid. Probably isn’t that interested in most classes until either english or art decides that making a play would be interesting. Fiora would be really supportive of her and show up every rehearsal, and record the plays every time.

JP: Okay, we kinda know how he was in school but i still wanna harp on it? Like, he hacked into the school system to get test answers. He definitely emasculated every other kid that wanted to cause mischief. And whenever someone got angry at him for it he probably just tricked them into a ligma joke. King. Legend. He probably got held back though. 

Lenox: She probably wouldn’t kick too much fuss in school, be kind of generically nice and fun, but nothing special. Until they meet her post graduation years later and find out the path she took and they now have a good ice breaker.

Leon: The only kid that got excited for swimming classes. Probably has stories about times he went to the beach. I think he’d also be the kid that feels REALLY pressured to get good grades and doesn’t feel happy enough with anything under a ten.

Li Dailin: Got caught doing drugs in the bathroom. Probably is the one who’s picked to organize events.

Luke: The kid that gets really annoyed when people touch their things because of cleanliness. Everyone asks him when they need hand sanitizer because he always has it. Also probably is the kid that makes jokes over what the teacher said.

Magnus: The guy that’s always smoking right outside school. Got caught doing drugs in the men’s bathroom.

Mai: The kid that’s known to be kind of snobby and annoying, that people kinda stay away from. Probably has plenty of material but never lets anyone borrow it. Not even the people that she knows won’t try to steal it. 

Nadine: The cause of the dog that keeps showing up into school. If the school had a mascot she’d likely be the one taking care of it. Also the kid that becomes coveted when teams are being made for sports.

Nathapon: Gets in detention because he won’t fucking put away his phone ever and filmed the classes.

Nicky: She’d probably actively look for fights, but only ones where the other person did something to deserve it. For example, she sees someone bullying the teacher, trying to steal their things, and she’d get into a fight with the person to make them stop. (That story was caused by me. ....oh god is that why i like hyunwoo)

Rosalio: Jock, but a jackass.

Rozzi: Voted Most Likely to Kill Someone. Everyone kinda stays away from her because she looks so threatening, but as the year goes on everyone finds out she’s actually kind of a dork and the facade winds up getting undone. She gave the teachers food as a goodbye gift before graduation.

Shoichi: Very first day, the teachers do the ‘what do you want to do when you grow up’ thing and he says he’ll become a business major. The kid that’s kind of annoying, but since they’re smart the teachers don’t care unless they become fully disruptive.

Silvia: She’d be the kid that gets bullied over not being very smart. She asks obvious questions, tends to not pull her weight on group projects, that sort of stuff. Though, I think she wouldn’t be the type to get low self esteem over it, I think she’d let it slide every time and keep her chin up. She’d likely have a lot of friends because of that carefree disposition.

Sissela: Often misses school, does it online, or leaves early because she’s always sick. May or may not take a depression leave at some point. While her getting bullied over her fragileness might be expected, it never happens because if anyone even tried to bully her, half the class would defend her because DUDE SHE’S JUST A SMALL BUT SWEET KID LEAVE HER ALONE

Sua: The kid that LIVES in the library. The moment a book report is needed she winds up having to help everyone get it. Incapable of being teased because she just takes everything as her sweet gentle self and never actually gets hurt from it.

William: Jock. That’s it.

Xiukai: He’s the kid that sneaks in food during class. The food equivalent of the kid that everyone gets candy from. He once ate soup in class and Nadine yelled “I SMELL MEAT! SOMEONE HAS SOUP!”. No one believed her.

Zahir: Another guy who’s pretty smart, but kind of weird. He never gets any meme reference. He rarely tries to reference any memes he does learn about, but when he does everyone thinks that it might be best that he doesn’t use them often.

[flyandfamousblackgirls]

6 Things Intersex Folks Need to Know About How We Perpetuate Anti-Black Racism

1. The Segregation in Our Intersex Movement Is Real

The intersex movement has been mostly white since day one. Consequently, it’s necessary to ask ourselves if we’ve inadvertently created an atmosphere that urges Black intersex people to put aside their Blackness — and the oppression linked to it — in order to focus on our collective goals.

In creating this type of environment, it appears our community hasn’t yet been able to connect the dots between Black and intersex people’s oppression — which Saifa reminded me are both rooted in state violence — and our liberation.

Black intersex folks who’ve lived in isolation and have dealt with segregation in their daily lives shouldn’t have to contend with similar experiences once they’ve finally found, and entered our community.

I’m not talking about highly visible institutionalized segregation like the Jim Crow era when Saifa’s uncle, who was also intersex, was forced to sleep outside on the porch of his hospital after a surgery.

I’m talking about the low-key, harder to detect, segregation.

The kind that just takes for granted that the majority of people in the room will always be white. The type that may have a few Black and Brown faces sprinkled here and there, but on a vanilla frosted cake. Is there a path forward?

Sean Saifa Wall, a Black trans intersex activist and collage artist based in Atlanta, reflected on this question by looking back on his time spent as the former board president of an intersex non-profit. Saifa captured why increasing representation shouldn’t be the endgame.

“I think I made the mistake of thinking we need more people of color… but what does institutionalized white supremacy do? It brings in Black or Brown faces who won’t challenge white supremacy — and that’s how white supremacy perpetuates itself. You don’t need white folks to perpetuate it, you just need folks who are invested in white supremacy.”

When I was younger and mistakenly believing that whiteness was the norm to strive towards, I ended up internalizing racist ideologies and, as a result, never fully connected on a truly deep BFF level with my Black friends. Perhaps our movement, and its longstanding quest for acceptance, has created a similar divide.

The global intersex activist network consists, to my knowledge, of less than only 5 Black intersex activists. One of them is Saifa.

2. One’s Race and Intersex Identity Overlap

Born amidst racist flames that attempted to level his neighborhood, Saifa was brought up whilst his borough, The Bronx, was attempting to rebuild itself.

“When I was younger,” Saifa recounted, “I realized I had a different body. Then, due to interactions with NYPD, I was made to know that I was different in another way as well.”

As he got older, Saifa came out as queer, intersex, and trans to a mother — and a world — who wasn’t always ready or eager to respect his intersecting identities. Regardless, his Blackness, sexuality, and intersex identity were always interwoven.

“I cannot separate my intersex identity from my Black identity,” Saifa said. And he shouldn’t have to.

Unfortunately, I’m afraid our community hasn’t figured out ways yet to allow people to show up as their whole selves.

For instance, on the international level, it’s become a known issue that intersex activists from African countries don’t get similar amounts of representation, or speaking time at gatherings. And nationally, our support group meetings rarely, if ever, have been led by Black intersex folks or had sessions dedicated solely for Black intersex community members to come together.

It’s only in the past few years that single Black folks are sitting on boards, or in staff positions of our organizations. There’s also never been, to my knowledge, any Black clinicians present at our Continuing Medical Education (CME) sessions that happen before our support group conferences each year.

Race, especially as it relates to anti-blackness, feels as though it’s at times an elephant in the room.

For me, this elephant peeped its head out when I realized it had become a tradition for one of our non-Black community members, who I love and cherish dearly, to sing Macy Gray’s “I Try” — in Gray’s uniquely raspy voice — at the annual talent show, which is supposed to provide a fun contrast to the rest of the conference.

The audience, if it’s a diverse year, might have a handful of Black folks. This year, there was only one person. I can’t imagine how isolating that experience might have been for them.

And this bring me back to the story I shared at the beginning, about the person who had Obama on a hit list.

Often, racism perpetuates itself by wearing the mask of a “joke” or “fun,” but racism is never a joke and the mask just presents one more hurdle in calling racism out.

It’s time us non-Black intersex people become more aware of our whiteness problem.

We need to keep having difficult conversations about race and oppression every step of the way.

Most importantly, we need to show up the few Black intersex people we do have in our small community, and check in with them to see if there’s anything else we could be doing to have their back.

We can challenge white supremacy in our movement just by asking Black intersex folks in our community what they need to feel safer in our collective spaces.

For our movement to be successful, it’s imperative that Black intersex folks feels they can participate as whole persons.

3. We’ve All Been Dehumanized

The list of atrocities against people of color, especially Black folks, carried out by the medical industrial complex and other agents includes: “the father of gynecology” using enslaved Black people as surgical research subjects, being disproportionately targeted by the US’s eugenic sterilization program that served as a catalyst for Nazi Germany’s and today’s “population control”policies, and the shackling of pregnant women inmates — who are disproportionately Black — in labor delivering children whom they most likely will be immediately separated from.

Likewise, intersex people have been rendered hermaphrodites and featured in freak shows, gawked at as monsters to at on TV, disproportionately put up for adoption, pumped with artificial hormones, robbed of their reproductive organs and genitalia, selectively aborted, raped, and brutally murdered.

Lynnell, a Black intersex lesbian activist, was born intersex but raised male by a single mother in a low-income household. She grew up in Chicago’s mostly Black, hypersegregated, South Side where her family — unlike mine on the North Side — was forced to deal with the effects of the city’s racist public policy and divestment responsible for the destruction of local economies, public schools and affordable housing.

Hyde Park, a pocket of wealth and whiteness on the South Side and home to the University of Chicago (UofC) Hospital, is where Lynnell’s mother took her as a child for doctor appointments.

Lynnell shared memories of that time stating, “My mom wasn’t given the tools she needed to make informed decisions.” As Lynnell grew older, she also “wasn’t taken seriously at first by [her doctors] either.”

Low-income and single mothers of color, labelled unfit by society, experience discrimination. Lynnell’s mother went to U of C seeking care, not charity, for her child. Seeing a golden opportunity, Lynnell’s doctors manipulated her mother’s financial status and turned the situation into a charity case anyway.

“They told my mom they were doing her a favor because they weren’t charging her.” In the doctor’s mind, they were participating in an equal trade with Lynnell and her mother.

To Lynnell, it was torture. “For eight years, every summer, for at least a month, I was put on different drugs, experimented on, given unnecessary procedures and manipulated.”

Exploitation of marginalized people by the MIC for their gains, especially in teaching environments, has been well-documented. Exploitation specific to Black intersex patients has yet to be researched. Lynnell’s doctors, I imagine, took one look at Lynnell’s mother and decided a poor Black woman wasn’t powerful enough stop what they had in store for Lynnell.

“I don’t know many white people that were used as guinea pigs like me,” Lynnell said.

4. Doctor’s Aren’t the Only People Attempting to Erase ‘Difference’

Intersex people are pretty familiar with secrecy, shame and stigma thanks to the pathologization of our bodies. As such, it’s important we have spaces to process our stories with each other. Yet, it’s important to note that as oppressed people, we are still capable of participating in the oppressing others.

The few times I’ve witnessed our community attempt to break down white supremacy and talk about racism, white intersex people successfully shifted the conversation, almost immediately, back to a conversation that centers them and their experience with intersex oppression.

Spaces where intersex people get together and talk are rare, so it makes sense why someone would want to relate and process, but in doing so, we are inadvertently preventing Black intersex folks in our community from expressing their unique experiences.

Saifa recounted a time when he “was trying to bring up the topics of anti-oppression, racism, etc., in the movement and people lost their damn minds. People were like, ‘we cannot hear it.’”

He also shared, “Anti-black racism showed up when I went to South Carolina on behalf of the MC case [a lawsuit involving the parents of a young Black intersex boy and his doctors] and one of the lawyers was condescending, talking down to me as the only Black person in the room. I was constantly pushing back against his patriarchy and racism.”

He continued, “I feel like people don’t care about issues related to anti-black racism in the intersex community.

“I think there’s some intersex people who really see those intersections, who really are affirming of people of color, but for the large part I feel that the level of anti-black racism awareness ranges from hostility to apathy.”

I asked if people ever seemed to care and he replied, “When funding is involved. That’s when people start to care more. Or, when a group wants some representation of diversity—but I found they wanted a Black face, but weren’t necessarily committed to issues around anti-Black racism.”

As a movement, we can’t only focus on these issues when funding dollars are at stake. That tokenizes Black folks.

Instead, we have to stitch anti-Black racism training, and education around white supremacy, into the fabric of our work together.

Saifa pointed out, “In the world, I’m confronted with anti-Blackness, and it’s par for the course, but it’s particularly more devastating when it’s from intersex people. Why? Because I think, ‘Oh, you understand.’

“Or at least I think they understand, until they say or do things that’s really racist and are unapologetic about their racism.”

5. We Need an Intersectional Analysis to Combat Racist Stereotypes

One of the white people present at Lynnell’s first intersex support group meeting recently told her that she was “afraid” of her at first, “because [Lynnell] had on leather and dark sunglasses.”

I asked Lynnell why she entered that support group meeting dressed in leather, sunglasses, and the rest of her leather daddy alter ego outfit. She responded, “Because I was the only Black intersex person there.”

Lynnell shouldn’t have to feel the need to protect herself like that in a room that was supposed to feel like home, a room where she was supposed to be able to let her guard down amongst people with similar experiences.

Unfortunately, this is the type of thing that can happen when a community doesn’t have a firm commitment to operating with an intersectional lens — one that places its most marginalized folks at the center.

Lynnell needed to protect herself at a support group, and in doing so, made a white person feel afraid, circles back to my main point.

We need to place Black intersex folks and their particular needs, struggles and desires at the front and center of our intersex activism.

If we don’t, we risk ostracizing Black intersex folks, again, within spaces meant to be a reprieve from shame and stigma.

6. Confronting White Supremacy Means Confronting Disembodiment

Disembodiment, or feeling detached from your body, often happens as a coping mechanism in response to intense trauma. Intersex activist, Mani Mitchell, once described it as feeling like a “floating head tugging around a body.”

Saifa, someone I admire for their commitment to somatic healing work, believes that white supremacy is rooted in disembodiment “because you have to be disembodied in order to not allow your self to be impacted by the inequity or suffering of others.”

Regardless, Saifa thinks it’s “imperative that white intersex activists feel their feelings regarding any shame they may have as they interrogate white supremacy and its brutal history.”

“It’s only fair that white intersex activists start to acknowledge, as much as their embodiment can hold, the shameful and disgusting emotions that come up after hearing the bitter truth and realities of Black folks and people of color.”

“Doing this work is difficult,” he acknowledged, “and it can bring up things we’d rather not have to face about ourselves.”

Still, non-Black intersex folks need to “confront those feelings and allow themselves to be impacted, then hopefully they can be motivated to action, and allow that empowerment to impact others.”

In taking Saifa’s advice, we can create positive ripple effects throughout our whole community. Doing the work to steer our movement towards becoming an intersectional, anti-racist, intersex movement is a win-win for everyone involved!