#like i have enough to worry about with gravity and all of the physics without struggling with the damn controls

[valeisaslut]

You’ve talked about protective/jealous Ellie, does reader ever get like that?

Old/attempted groupies, bras on stage, signing boobs, the whole gig of everyone, their mom, and their third cousin twice removed wanting Ellie… even though Ellie is so hopelessly and loudly devoted to reader, does reader ever have her moments?? or is she just like. yeah my rockstar gf. whatever.

omg, YES. because the thing is, it’s not just one person. it’s EVERYONE.

ellie is the most famous rockstar in the world right now. the face of magazines. the voice on every radio. the walking, breathing, sweaty daydream of half the planet. old groupies who followed her band since they started are still hanging around, trying to worm their way backstage. industry executives. influencers. random girls at shows who don’t even like her music but are ready to risk it all because they saw one clip of her playing guitar shirtless and blacked out for two minutes straight.

it’s constant. omnipresent. background noise.

you’re used to it. you really are. you trust her more than you trust gravity. but every once in a while... every once in a while it gets under your skin. sharp and hot and ugly.

blurb: ellie’s magnet energy ruining your life (but also making you feral)

you’re backstage. minding your business. sipping your sprite and praying for mercy. it’s meet and greet day, and the milf energy is fucking astronomical. women old enough to have taught you in elementary school are acting like love-struck teenagers. blushing. giggling. tucking their hair behind their ears and twisting their wedding rings as they bat their lashes at ellie like she’s the hot new transfer student who skateboards to school and smells like trouble.

and ellie, god bless her soul, is out here committing war crimes against your sanity without even knowing it.

smiling so wide and sweet, hugging waistlines, signing cleavage like it’s just another thursday night. laughing at corny jokes and setting entire bloodlines on fire like she isn’t singlehandedly responsible for four generations’ simultaneous sexual awakenings.

you’re standing there, arms crossed, sprite forgotten in your hand, watching your life implode. your soul leaves your body somewhere around the second girl who moans a little too loudly when ellie signs the strap of her bra.

afterward, ellie comes bouncing up to you like a fucking labrador, cheeks pink with happiness. "babe! i think her kid is a fan too!" she says, all earnest and proud. you just stare at her. flat. lifeless. spiritually decapitated. you reach into her pocket, pull out the hotel keycard some woman slipped her, and hold it up between two fingers like it’s radioactive.

"ellie." you say, voice low and patient like you’re speaking to a particularly dumb golden retriever. "she slipped you this while you were signing her cleavage."

ellie blinks at you. looks at the keycard. tilts her head like a confused puppy. "maybe it’s for the...gift basket?"

you have to physically resist the urge to throw her over your shoulder and lock her in the tour bus until the world stops being horny for her.

it’s supposed to be a chill night out. you, ellie, the fireflies. a few beers. some pool. just good, low-stakes chaos. but then the bartender sees ellie. the bartender sees ellie and it’s over.

she leans over the counter so far you’re genuinely worried her tits are going to fall out. she smiles with all her teeth and slides ellie a double shot like it’s a marriage proposal. "on the house," she purrs.

ellie, sweet and dumb and oblivious, grins all crooked and says, "thanks!" like she’s been handed a free sandwich coupon at subway.

you’re standing next to her. smiling politely. your eye twitching. internally, you’re shattering a glass in your bare hand like a tarantino movie.

later, while ellie’s busy talking to jesse about the best way to hustle a pool table, you slip the bartender a $100 bill and smile your sweetest, most terrifying smile. "thank you for the drinks," you say, voice honeyed death. "and if you blink at her again, i’m cutting your fucking brakes. have a great night."

the worst one, though, was the radio interview.

huge market. massive audience. ellie sitting at the mic, slouched and grinning, answering questions in that lazy, rough voice that always makes your knees a little weak. and the host—this woman in a low-cut blouse and bright lipstick—is practically dry humping the table trying to get ellie’s attention.

she’s twirling her pen. pushing her tits up higher. laughing breathily at everything ellie says, even when ellie literally just said she once ate an entire sleeve of oreos in the shower.

jesse finally has to kick ellie under the table because she’s too nice, too oblivious, and you’re backstage mouthing "i will kill her" at dina like a mob boss in a netflix series.

dina, without missing a beat, sips her coffee and mouths back "do it. bury the body. kiss her husband goodnight."

it took every single ounce of self-restraint you had not to storm into that booth, grab ellie by the jacket, and announce to the listeners, "sorry, ladies. she’s busy tonight. busy absolutely railing me."

the groupie incident was the worst.

you still don’t know the story. ellie never told you, and you never pressed, because the way she flinched the first time you asked what was that woman's problem made your stomach twist into a cold, hard knot. but you heard the rumors. you saw the woman. the way she lingered near venues. the way she looked at ellie like she owned a piece of her.

you didn’t say a word to ellie. you didn’t make her carry that weight.

you handled it yourself.

you tracked the woman down. sat across from her in a hotel lounge, smiling with all your teeth. slid a check across the table big enough to let her live comfortably for the next 30 years. "you take this. you disappear. and you never even think her fucking name again," you said, voice sweet and deadly.

then you hired private security. beefed up the stage doors. made it clear that if that woman so much as breathed near your girl, there wouldn’t be a second conversation.

ellie noticed the extra guards a few days later. asked, blinking up at you like a confused little golden retriever, "babe, why are there like...so many more security guys now?"

you just kissed her forehead, smoothed her hair back, and said, "you’re too pretty. it’s dangerous out there."

nowadays, people still try. it never really stops.

at bars. at parties. at meet and greets. you see hotel keys slipped into ellie’s jacket. phone numbers scribbled on napkins and tucked into her jeans. business cards pushed into her hand with sweaty, desperate smiles.

and ellie just smirks. grabs your waist. tugs you in so tight you feel her heartbeat against yours. without even sparing them a glance, she says—casual, cocky, devastating:

"i’m already taken, sweetheart. find another daydream."

and it feels like the sun has set itself inside your chest, burning you alive in the best, most holy way imaginable.

you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

and you wouldn’t survive it twice.

[lesbianshadowheart]

Outer Wilds is literally so good if not for the biggest part of the gameplay

[darkmatilda]

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 | 𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer takes care of you after a serious accident.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: hospital, rehabilitation, neck and brain injury, nud1ty

𝐚/𝐧: this is one of the potential endings of my fanfiction "with the light off" which officialy remains open up to your own interpretation. this version written to comfort all the hearts i've broken <3

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 11k

Spencer felt embarrassed by how, just an hour after leaving the apartment, he already wanted to call her.

She had already occupied a near-constant presence in the back of his mind, slipping in like a shadow—elusive and playful—darting between his thoughts, flitting from one corner to another whenever he tried, even briefly, to forget about her. But now? After that night they had spent together?

Spencer knew a lot about obsession. He understood the weight of the word and was acutely aware of its gravity. Yet he couldn’t deny it—he was obsessed with her. Physical contact had always been a sensitive yet profoundly significant subject for him. He didn’t allow many people that close. 

For him, touch was the ultimate proof of closeness and trust. Intimacy bred attachment. This wasn’t about desire in its rawest form—it was something else… though he wasn’t entirely sure what. He couldn’t define the bond they shared.

He felt bored, detached from the world when she wasn’t in it, and the only thing keeping him tethered to some semblance of normality was the thought—the imagining—that at this very moment, they were breathing the same air.

He was starting to think he might be losing his mind.

He held off on calling her precisely to avoid coming across as a lunatic in her eyes. He managed to restrain himself only once he was at work, where the seriousness of his profession demanded it. In a way, though, he felt lighter. Throughout the day, he was buoyed by the thought of their upcoming meeting, the excitement it brought—and the nerves. That mixture of emotions was enough to make the entire team glance at him with curiosity.

Garcia was handing out case files, her hair recently dyed a vibrant shade of red. Rossi, instead of opening his folder like everyone else, was watching Spencer from across the table, leaning on his elbow.

“Did you win the lottery or something?” he asked, so unexpectedly that Spencer glanced around at the others, unsure who the question was meant for.

When he realized the question was directed at him, he swallowed hard. Morgan’s raised eyebrow seemed to challenge him to a duel.

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“Because you’re practically glowing, sweetheart,” Penelope chimed in with a sly smile. “Don’t think you’re getting away without telling me everything later. I’ll get it out of you, don’t you worry. But for now, let’s get started…”

They immersed themselves in the case, but a few hours later, during a brief moment of downtime, he realized he was looking for an excuse to call her. Was a simple desire to ask what she was up to reason enough?

He wondered if she was still at his apartment. He hoped she was. He knew she’d eventually have to leave to prepare for the shift she was starting later that afternoon, but he couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at him about the whole situation with her roommate’s ex-boyfriend.

Realizing he’d been staring at his phone for far too long and that he’d soon need to get back to work, he made a snap decision and called.

But no one answered.

Logically, he reasoned that mornings were probably her time to sleep. Afterward, he tried sending a text message. But by late evening, when he finally returned to his apartment, he was starting to feel genuinely worried.

The question nagged at him: could it have been about the previous night? Maybe he’d done or said something wrong, something that had put her off completely?

Slowly, he walked into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway as his eyes landed on the perfectly made bed. It definitely hadn’t looked like that when he left it.

Then his gaze fell on the slightly ajar safe, and he froze. The combination was incredibly complicated, so he must have left it open when he took out his gun and badge. Besides those items, there was one more thing inside.

He had once again fallen into the trap of keeping Dilaudid close, even though he wasn’t using it. Was it possible she found it, and that’s why she hadn’t reached out?

It wasn’t that he had lied to her about being clean. She had seen how much effort it took for him to talk about it, so she approached the subject with incredible subtlety, never asking directly, but watching him closely, carefully, yet without pressing.

If she had really found it in his safe, she might have felt betrayed. Or maybe she decided she didn’t want to get involved with someone who had such a problem. Perhaps she had seen the whole previous night as one big mistake and then decided to throw him out of her life. Spencer, though it pained him, couldn’t help but feel that he deserved it.

He sat on the bed, crushed by his own thoughts. Something didn’t sit right with the version of events he had imagined. First and foremost, she wasn’t the type of person who would turn him away because of this. Her heart ached to help others; she couldn’t ignore someone else’s troubles. Even if he had hurt her, her immense capacity for understanding would have remained intact. Empathy was imprinted on her, like a deep, unshakable mark.

Driven by a hunch, he reached for his phone to call her again. That’s when he noticed two missed calls from an unknown number, just fifteen minutes ago.

He pressed the phone to his ear, his brow furrowing in confusion as he heard the first sound on the other end… a sob?

The sound went on and on, and Spencer was too confused to utter a single word.

“Who am I talking to?” he finally asked. Unable to stop himself, he stood up. He didn’t even know what was going on or who he was talking to, but he sprang to his feet anyway. His body compelled him, his insides twisting with unpleasant spasms.

It could just as well have been some stupid prank. The problem was, it wasn’t.

“H-hey, it’s J-Jude,” a voice came from the other end. Female, shaky, and choked with sobs so severe that if he didn’t already know her name, he would never have guessed he was speaking to her roommate. He stopped pacing the room. “I-it was me…I called earlier. S-she doesn’t have any…any family, and I didn’t know…I didn’t know who to inform…I can’t handle this on my own…they just took her away again…”

It wasn’t as if the world suddenly came to a halt. It simply became both sharper and blurrier at the same time. Spencer could see that single, bright strand of hair on the pillow with perfect clarity, yet his own legs seemed out of reach. When he looked down, all he saw was darkness stretching below him. Somehow, he was still breathing.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. Later, he couldn’t explain how his voice—those first words—had sounded so composed. “W-who took her… where… and why…?

“I have no fucking idea!” she shouted, followed by a long silence during which Jude took a desperate gasp of air. “I mean, I do, I do know! They just brought her in, but... but suddenly they took her back because there was some kind of…bleeding…”

“...ding?” he blurted out, the first syllable swallowed entirely by his panic.

“No, I don’t want anything to calm me down, I am calm, can’t you tell?” Her voice grew distant, as if she’d pulled the phone away from her mouth. Then it came back, clear and pleading. “Please, come here…”

She hung up. The phone slipped from his hand as if it burned him. In a frenzy, he bent down to grab it, only to drop it again. Finally, he fell to his knees, managing at last to pick it up. As he stood, he felt as though some substance was spreading through his brain—black, toxic, and utterly destructive. Its effects left him barely tethered to reality. He could hear and see, but everything was overlaid with Jude’s words, looping in his mind like printed text on a screen.

The next thirty minutes were a blur.

How could it be logically explained that, in a state of complete detachment from the outside world, he somehow managed to figure out, based on the map of the area imprinted in his memory, which specific hospital she was in? How did his panicked, trembling hands manage to cover that distance by car without causing an accident?

The only thing he knew was that he ended up at the nearest hospital, wearing just a shirt with no outer layer. It was shocking that he even had shoes on. 

He should have been looking for the woman who had called him, demanding every bit of information she had. But somehow, instinctively, his eyes searched for someone else—a familiar face. He prayed it was all some sort of misunderstanding. Maybe he was fooling himself, hoping to spot her among the people passing by. A part of him simply refused to accept the possibility that anything could have happened to her.

Nothing had happened.

She was fine.

Her blue eyes were soaking in the surroundings, their gaze carrying that faint sparkle that always appeared at night. Maybe there was even a smile on her lips. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow himself to imagine what might have happened to her. It felt as though the universe itself should be ashamed for ever entertaining the thought of harming her.

"Are you family?" the man at reception asked. Spencer nodded. "I'm sorry, but I can't provide you with any information,"

"Just tell me, is she alive?"

"I can't…"

"Just fucking tell me…"

"They’re operating on her right now," a voice spoke from behind him. Spencer turned and blinked. Only then did he realize he was in a hospital. Before, he’d only had a goal—an urgent need to get there. The surroundings were just beginning to take shape in his mind. He had never seen this woman before, but he guessed it had to be Jude. Her face was swollen from crying, but she seemed less shaken than during their call. She had probably accepted the sedatives. "Again. First, they spent almost four hours working on her neck… they said she was stable, asleep, but then suddenly there was that bleeding… I watched them take her out of the room right in front of me…"

“Did you see her?”

Unexpectedly, she hid her face in her hands.

“I didn’t know who to call. She mentioned you a few times, and I had your number, and I didn’t know what to do…” she began explaining chaotically, as if it mattered at all. “It’s my fault, you know, all of this is my fucking fault…”

They were standing right in front of the receptionist, blocking his access to others who needed help. Spencer snapped back to the moment, pulling her a few steps aside.

“W-what did you say? That they operated on her for four hours?”

“Yes, the first time…”

So, she had been there for at least four hours. Longer, considering the time needed after surgery before visiting a patient. Pain spread across his chest. While he was wondering why she hadn’t answered his calls, coming to various conclusions, she had been fighting for her life?

He... had been at work, moving around, talking to others, living, while all of this was happening? He felt as if... as if he had betrayed her. It was absurd, even he knew that. Despite the state he was in—tragic, to be precise—he understood just how absurd that thought was. But he couldn’t stop the guilt and shame that washed over him every time he tried to imagine her on the operating table while he had been completely unaware of her condition.

“I need to sit down," Jude muttered, and after a moment, they found themselves on narrow chairs lined along the hospital walls. Spencer barely managed to force his knees to bend, his body to settle into the seat.

He was only beginning to adjust to the foreign gravity that was pressing down on him.

In his head, there was only one thought, one resolution, one desire. The only thing that could save him from losing his mind in this waiting room.

"I need to see her."

"We have to wait," Jude replied, pressing her hand to her forehead. More tears appeared in her eyes. She wasn’t just terrified, she was completely falling apart. "We... we once gave each other permission to access information about our health. You know, in case of an accident. The doctors told me everything. A neck sprain. A concussion. Two broken ribs and a broken forearm." Although her speech had been unclear earlier, when she listed the injuries, she sounded like a movie announcer.

Spencer quickly realized that these words must have been echoing in her head since they were first told to her. The same thing had been happening to him. Each word was like a blow delivered with full force, and his extensive medical knowledge wasn’t helping him avoid panic. He was too aware of the danger and too aware of the suffering her poor body must have endured.

They both squeezed their eyes shut tightly. Spencer felt as though his temples might explode. Waiting. Was there anything worse in the world than waiting? Being stuck in ignorance, teetering between uncertainty, relief, and utter despair? Feeling all of it at once?

"How did this even happen?" he asked the woman sitting next to him.

He was sure he already knew the answer to that question. She didn’t even need to say it. It was enough to see how she dropped her gaze, heavy with pain, and how tightly her jaw clenched.

“She... fell down the stairs.”

Spencer wanted to scoff at the understatement. The real version of events couldn’t pass Jude’s lips, but in some way, he considered that a blessing. If Jude had openly admitted that she had been pushed, he might have crumbled under the weight of the fury flooding him. But for now, his anger didn’t matter. Only the passing time did.

He felt as if he hadn’t taken a single breath since leaving his apartment. Leaning his head back in his seat, he endured what felt like two whole days, then glanced at his watch only to realize that exactly forty-seven seconds had passed.

Time—a relative concept. In physics and in human perception. Einstein had proven it, and so had that particular moment.

He started to fear that he might never leave the waiting room. Memories and emotions began to blur together. He formed a theory: that he had been trapped there for quite some time—weeks, perhaps. Back when another loved one had been on the operating table, and he’d been losing his mind in much the same way.

Could it be that, under the strain of this torturous waiting, he’d lost his sanity? That his brain, desperate for relief, had simply imagined everything that followed? The trip to the library that night, finding himself at her door, the string lights on the Christmas tree, the Venus flytrap, the bar, opening the door that night and seeing her on the stairwell—at once flushed from a night spent at the club and chilled from the December air?

And now that illusion had simply shattered, like a fragment of broken glass. He was back in the waiting room again, waiting, hurting too much—and yet feeling as though he had no right to. His pain was nothing compared to what she was going through. He should be doing something, anything, to make himself useful, to not succumb to the weight of his own helplessness.

When the doctor finally approached them, Spencer almost knocked over his chair in his haste to stand. The doctor, however, focused solely on Jude as he delivered the update, leaving Spencer questioning whether he even existed.

“We managed to stop the bleeding. That’s the good news,” he began, his dark eyes unreadable—at once cool and concerned, with the practiced composure characteristic of people in his profession.

“Thank God,” Jude whispered, rubbing her chest as if trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart.

Spencer, on the other hand, felt no relief. Not even a sliver.

"‘That’s good news,’" he repeated the doctor’s words, drawing the man’s gaze to him. ‘But… but is there something bad?’

That brief moment before the doctor answered felt longer than nearly the past two hours of waiting.

“Due to suspected brain swelling, we had to induce a coma.’

“What?’ Jude mouthed silently. “How… how could she be in a coma? Why? Was that necessary?’

“They needed to reduce the intracranial pressure,’ Spencer replied, the words spilling from his mouth without him even realizing he was speaking. ‘The coma prevents further damage and minimizes the brain’s oxygen consumption. But will she… how long will she…?’

“Only for a few days,’ the doctor assured him, understanding the question he couldn’t quite form. “As long as there are no further complications or additional bleeding. But I can reassure you for now: there’s no indication of that. Her condition seems stable. She was… incredibly lucky. It was a serious accident—a miracle, a sheer miracle—that she didn’t break her spine.’"

For a moment, he couldn’t utter a single word, his throat still tight, and the relief never came. He knew he wouldn’t feel it until he saw her, fully conscious and awake. Until that happened, he would grimace every time he heard the word miracle. 

"When will I be able to see her?" he asked, surprisingly calm and composed. The question was so important to him that his voice didn’t tremble even once. In fact, it was the only thing that mattered right now.

"You’ll need to wait a few hours before visiting. We have to make sure there’s no risk of a sudden deterioration in her condition. Also, only authorized individuals can visit her."

The last part of the doctor’s statement felt almost like a slap in the face.

"How many hours?" he pressed, impatience creeping into his voice. "Two? Four? Six?"

"Please, calm down," the doctor asked, making a gesture with his hand.

“Eight?”

His voice grew increasingly sharp, desperately demanding an answer. The doctor opened his mouth to respond, but Jude interrupted with a question.

"As an authorized person, can I, on behalf of the patient, allow him to visit?" she asked, catching Spencer’s gaze for a brief moment before quickly turning away. "She would want this, I know it."

The doctor shook his head in refusal, providing them with a few more details about the surgery before turning to leave. Spencer watched him leave, something in him wavering between a sigh and a snort. So they wouldn’t even let him visit her? He understood the hospital procedures and rules perfectly well, but when it came to his own case, he hated them with all his heart. They wouldn’t allow him to see someone who meant so much to him, simply because they weren’t bound by blood or a ring on his finger. A ring on his finger… maybe he should lie and say they were engaged?  Although, would it really make any difference in the eyes of the hospital staff?

Before the loose fragments in his mind began to form a plan, he noticed that Jude was staring at him. She had sat down again, pressing her back tightly against the chair's backrest. She hadn’t cried for a while now; a certain relief had settled on her face when she heard the surgery had been successful, but then the old devastation returned, stronger than ever before.

"I won’t be able to visit her," she said, her voice hollow. "Not even while she’s unconscious. And when she wakes up, look her in the eyes. Tell me, how could I do that after everything? After all of this was my fault?"

Spencer turned away and walked off.

He knew that if he didn’t, something inside him would break. He couldn’t stop the anger he felt toward Jude. From what he knew, she had repeatedly refused to report her ex-boyfriend to the police, perhaps more or less aware of the danger he posed. She had the right to do so, theoretically. But that didn’t change the fact that someone else had suffered because of her foolish decision.

In his eyes she deserved the guilt she felt.

Not knowing what to do with himself, he found a place far from her, far from anyone, where he spent the next few hours, hardly moving. Sometimes he observed the relatives of other patients in the hospital, also broken, but he had some selfish feeling that even they wouldn’t understand what he felt. He placed himself on some distant, elite orbit of suffering and felt almost embarrassed by it. 

Pain always makes sure that a person feels as lonely and misunderstood as possible in it. That is when it has the most power over them.

He kept away from the windows, the darkness outside, slowly losing its intensity, putting him into a state of shock and contemplation. Maybe time was a relative concept, but that didn’t change the fact that it existed. Somewhere far away, there was light beyond this waiting room.

For some time now, he had been occupied with a certain task. He was aware of the hours passing and how, with them, his desperation grew. He felt he would go mad if he didn’t see her. The designated time during which the patient should be ensured complete rest after surgery had ended, yet he knew they wouldn’t let him in to see her. But he had a brain for a reason, right?"

He found the room where everything that mattered to him at that moment was. A young doctor was just leaving.

"Excuse me, ma'am,” he approached her politely, trying to appear calm, though his appearance and trembling hands clearly suggested otherwise. “I need to visit this patient.”

“Are you a relative?”

“No, actually…” He knew this was a desperate move and resorting to a lie, but he didn’t care. What was morality in his situation? Just a word. He reached for the badge he had with him and cleared his throat. “I’m with the FBI. I’ve been assigned to see this particular patient; it’s a matter that cannot be delayed."

Believe it or not, but people often lost their minds at the mere mention of the FBI. Spencer suspected that such a young doctor might have some gaps in experience and not know what procedures were in place in such a situation.

The surprised woman took a half step back.

“But she’s in a coma…” she said uncertainly, turning toward the room. “Are you sure it’s this patient?”

“Absolutely. And as I said, there’s no time to waste.”

He didn’t put his badge away, still holding it raised, with a serious expression on his face, as if he were interrogating someone. It was clear she was torn with doubt, but fortunately for him, she decided to give in without consulting the decision.

Spencer almost ran into the room, unable to hold back his impatience any longer. At first, he felt as if in a dream, one where you achieve your greatest goal. However, it quickly turned into a nightmare, all because of what he saw.

Whatever he had imagined, he was not prepared for this sight. 

Especially because before he even noticed her face, the face he was so desperate to see, he first noticed everything else surrounding it. The hospital equipment, the machines and devices monitoring her vital signs. The wide orthopedic collar tight around her neck. The sterile whiteness of it all, obscuring her and making her almost disappear against its backdrop. It wasn’t until he approached the bed, his legs weak and unsteady, that he started to look at her, but again, not specifically at her, but at the injuries. The sight of swollen temples, the sunken eyes, pale and dry lips, skin like a sheet of paper. Every injury on her body caused him unimaginable pain, so intense it almost stopped him from breathing. He felt so much anger and injustice that she had to go through this that he almost wanted to fall to his knees and apologize to her, beg for forgiveness. For what? He couldn’t decide. It wasn’t a need driven by logic, it was something deep inside him.

And that’s what he did, even though there was a place beside the bed where he could sit. He slowly knelt down, his hands touching the edge of the bed, but not her body. After all, he wasn’t about to risk causing her any pain due to his lack of control. But he had such an overwhelming desire to take her hand, the one whose fingers shyly peeked out from under the cast.

"I should have gone with you," he said, after about five minutes spent in complete silence, undisturbed even by his breath, which he was holding back. "I should have. Walked you to the door and made sure you got inside safely. I’m sorry…"

He felt that with his pitiful apologies, he was disturbing her peace. She needed it to fully rest. So, he fell silent again, alternating between looking at her with furrowed brows in tender concern and resting his forehead against the edge of the bed whenever the sight became too painful. While before, time seemed to crawl at the slowest possible pace, now it was racing forward wildly.

In his perception, barely a minute had passed when someone’s presence appeared behind him. He turned over his shoulder, noticing the young nurse who had let him in, and it took him a long time before he even realized it. After all, he had lied to her, saying it was some professional matter, yet she had found him kneeling by the hospital bed.

He quickly got to his feet, nervously rubbing his face.

“For the patient’s well-being, no visits should last longer than twenty minutes,” the woman said surprisingly gently, leaning slightly against the door with her shoulder. An unidentified expression lingered in her eyes, making them seem...warm.

He didn’t answer, just nodded. He no longer felt the need to play that little charade that had helped him get inside. He allowed himself one last long moment, looking at her face, peaceful in sleep. He passed the doctor in the doorway, feeling her eyes turn to him, and he did the same, out of curiosity. She smiled, sadly and with compassion.

"This had nothing to do with any FBI assignment, right?”

Her understanding seemed almost touching. However, Spencer, caught in the moment, quickly withdrew, once again making his way down the hospital corridors, now completely unsure of what to do with himself. He leaned against one of the walls, slowly feeling the fatigue from the entire night spent waiting to see her. He found his phone in his pocket, realized it was already morning, and that… Hotch had called him.

It was a quick collision with the outside world. He called back, as nothing else came to mind that he could focus on.

"Reid," the serious voice of his boss came through on the other end. "Why aren’t you at work, and why aren’t you answering?"

He needed to take a breath before he could respond.

"Sorry, Hotch," he said, trying not to sound weak, but that’s exactly how he sounded. Weak, a little pitiful, and on the verge of exhaustion. "Something... something really important happened, and... I... I won’t be able to come in today..."

Spencer realized he had no idea how to explain himself in this situation.

"I can’t remember the last day you were even late. What happened?" He didn’t answer. "Where are you?" Silence. "Spencer."

"It’s... a personal matter."

There was a brief silence from his boss, and Spencer could almost imagine how he furrowed his dark brows in confusion.

"I understand." His voice was tense, but not with disapproval, which surprised Spencer. More with... concern. Had he managed to read the seriousness of the situation just from his voice? Probably, after all, he was the best profiler Spencer knew. "You’ll need to explain later, but for now... take care of yourself. Do you need any help?”

He assured him insincerely that everything was fine and found an empty chair to sit in, hunched over. A strong pressure formed in his head, amplified by the helplessness and uncertainty about what he should do next. She was in a coma, and according to the doctor, she would be in it for the next few days. And what was he supposed to do during that time? He felt that physically, he could spend another hundred hours on that specific chair. Occasionally stretching his legs. It was his plan, one that seemed more real with every passing minute. At least, until a figure cast its shadow over him.

"Reid," a familiar voice spoke.

He looked up, surprised, at Morgan. His mouth was slightly open in confusion, his forehead deeply furrowed.

"What are you doing here?"

"How... how did you know where I was?" That was the first thing that came to his mind.

"Penelope. How she knew, I have no idea, but I’m starting to suspect that her joke about having us all chipped wasn’t really a joke. But anyway, what’s going on? Hotch told me you called, and you sounded... unsettling."

His friend was watching him closely. His wrinkled clothes, his tired face.

"So... Hotch sent you to find me?"

"Reid, you’re our friend. Did you really think we wouldn’t be worried about you?"

Spencer lowered his head, listening to his words. Derek was silent for a moment, his hands resting on his hips, his tense face scanning the surroundings. After a while, he focused his gaze back on him.

"Who is the person you’re visiting?"

He hesitated before answering, not because he didn’t want to share the information, but because he wasn’t sure how to refer to her. What should he call her? After all, it wasn’t like they were in an official relationship, and the word friend seemed to leave something unsaid.

“Someone... someone very important to me. She had an accident. She has... a cervical spine injury, and the doctors, suspecting brain swelling, decided to put her into a coma for a while.”

Morgan's eyes widened.

“Damn, Reid. I’m so... I’m so sorry.”

He sat down on the empty chair beside him, his face still showing shock. Exhausted, Spencer simply rested his head on his knees, no longer able to keep his posture straight. He felt drained, yet at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to leave—couldn’t leave her…

Morgan’s hand fell onto his back, and finally, then sighed.

“Come here, man.”

With a firm pull, he drew him into an embrace.

Spencer found it hard to admit, even to himself, how much he needed this. No words left their mouths for a long while; only that brotherly, supportive embrace remained between them.

“Have you seen her?” Morgan asked after a while.

He confirmed, but didn’t reveal the circumstances. His friend paused for a moment, as if he wanted to say something but hesitated.

“Okay, listen to me. You need to get back to yourself.”

Spencer scoffed and shook his head, ready to argue.

“Let me finish. I know you don’t want to leave her right now, but with all due respect, you look like death. You need to eat and get some sleep.”

“I can’t,” Spencer replied firmly.

“You’re going to collapse soon. You said she’ll be in a coma for a few days. You won’t make it sitting here, think realistically. No one’s asking you to go back to work, you just need to rest.” He looked at him seriously, knowing how hard it would be to convince him. Finally, he sighed once more. “Do it for her, alright? Do you really think she’d want you to wear yourself out like this?”

He had no ready answer for that. Well, he did, but it sounded like no, she wouldn’t want that.

“I’ll take you home. For God’s sake, you came here without even a coat?”

It's a strange feeling to let someone take care of you. Completely. Derek not only drove him to his apartment but also came inside with him. There was no emotional discussion between them, which he found to be a relief. Silent support, he thought.

His relationship with the other team members had been tested after Emily's death—or at least, that's what he had thought up until now. He had begun isolating himself, not wanting to intrude on their grief or burden them with his own problems. But in reality—something he hadn’t seen until now—it had been the opposite. It strengthened their bond.

The next few days revolved mainly around hospital visits. Somehow, he had managed to gain visiting rights, and the time spent by her side filled him with a certain sense of calm. He could see how stable her vital signs were, and he clung to the doctors’ reassurances that she would regain consciousness in just a few days.

He once read a series of articles and interviews with people who had been in comas. Their accounts sometimes contradicted medical facts and often included embellishments, but a significant number of them mentioned remembering the voices of loved ones and certain sounds.

He didn’t want her to remember only the sounds of medical equipment from this period. But he also wasn’t sure what he could talk to her about. Would she want to hear about the overly salted carbonara that Garcia had forced an entire pot of on him? Or about the abstract mural being painted across from his apartment—something he was sure she would have liked?

In the end, he decided to read to her, though choosing what to read proved challenging. Sleeping Beauty seemed too ironic, even though she would probably laugh about it later. She had once told him Girl, Interrupted was her favorite book, but its hospital setting made him suspect she might prefer something that let her escape this place, even if only in her imagination. The Silence of the Lambs referenced one of their past conversations, but if a doctor overheard him reading it to her, he would surely be banned from visiting altogether.

“All right,” he began one day, sitting down in the chair by her bed. “I know you’re not a big fan of fantasy. And yes, you’ll have every right to call me out on this when you wake up. But still, I hope you’ll like it.”

Arabian Nights was a collection of tales and stories originating from the Middle East, India, and Persia. Somehow, he assumed that the mysterious, often nocturnal atmosphere might resonate with her, even soothe her. After all, night had always been her favorite time of day—the backdrop to so much of her life.

That day, as he was about to leave, he leaned slightly over her bed, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"Tomorrow, I'll read you a romance, how does that sound? But I’ll have to go to the bookstore because, despite your beliefs, I don’t have any in my collection. I wish I’d had more time to get to know your reading preferences better."

During none of his previous visits had he touched her, afraid it might disturb her peace in some negative way. Besides... in the state she was in, she looked so fragile and delicate that he feared even the slightest touch could hurt her. But that time, he simply couldn’t hold back. After a long internal struggle, he placed a very brief kiss on her forehead.

Spencer couldn’t keep his promise. While he did buy a romance novel recommended to him with enthusiasm by a young bookstore clerk, he never had the chance to read it to her.

The next day, he received a message. 

She had woken up. 

*

You didn’t remember much.

Only fragmented scraps. The memories began with a brief moment of complete physical helplessness, a terrible pain in your neck, and a series of flashing lights mingling with raised voices—even shouting. Then came silence, vile and terrifying.

But that wasn’t the end. Something came after the silence.

Softly spoken stories. For some reason, they were comforting. In your mind, only a few blurred images remained—no clear events or words. What you remembered most was that soothing, calm voice. It felt like an embrace, like warm bedding, the first rays of cosmic light piercing through clouds, or the gentle chill of evening air.

It was… beautiful. But it couldn’t last forever. After an indeterminate amount of time, your body decided to reject that comfort and tried to open its eyes. It was an excruciating effort. You sighed with the strain. The first colors and surreal shapes began to appear before you. Slowly, you started to become aware of your existence, yet at the same time, you felt suspended somewhere outside your body and mind—alone and terrified.

The sensations were both faint and overwhelmingly intense, making you want to hide, to somehow cut yourself off from them. Yet you were equally afraid to close your eyes again. You muttered things that made no sense. You remained in this panicked state until two tiny brown points hovered above you, widening with concern. Only then were you able to calm down—at least enough to stop straining your body with attempts to move. Attempts, because your body seemed entirely unwilling to follow your commands.

The fear buried itself deep within you, drilling into your chest. At first, it suffocated you, but eventually, it began to weaken and fade.

This was how the first hours after waking from the coma unfolded.

Weakness, disorientation, mumbling, pain, discomfort, and light sensitivity.

It took a long time before you regained awareness of being in a hospital. Even more time passed before you remembered why. And then, your own condition and state.

You were so incredibly weak that it filled you with disgust, terrified by how much effort even the smallest movement required—like the twitch of a finger or the blink of an eye. Frustrated by it all, you cried, and he cried too. But his tears were born of relief and joy.

Those two specific emotions reached you the latest—only after they transferred you to a different ward, and your thoughts began to clear. Relief and joy. Hand in hand with fear and anxiety. 

It felt so unreal, yet it was real—real like nothing else, and it held you tightly, exactly the way you needed it to.

*

Spencer was aware that her awakening was just another step in a very long journey.

His medical knowledge, modestly speaking, was fairly extensive, and he understood the gravity of the injuries she had sustained. Their first meeting after she had opened her eyes for the first time was nothing like a scene from a movie. She was confused, still drowsy, and as she slowly started to comprehend everything, she was primarily terrified. Her body, after the time spent in the coma, though brief, was extremely weak, and every little movement exhausted her as though she had just run a marathon.

The fear on her face pierced his chest.

He had the impression that none of the words he spoke, almost whispered in an attempt to calm her, were having any effect.

"I... I can't move," she stammered as one of the first things she said. Her eyes intensely focused on his face, searching for safety in it, and he feared he wouldn't be able to provide it for her.

"It's just temporary," he reassured her gently, leaning over her bed and trying to smile, but it came out uncertain, he was too worried about her condition. "The doctors say so, and that's the truth. Your body is just very weak right now."

"Will... will it be like this forever?"

"No, no, it will pass. I promise, it will pass," he nodded fervently. She hesitated and took a breath, as though discovering an entirely new action. But as soon as she did, out of fear, it became fast and irregular. He was terrified that his touch might cause her pain, but he didn't know what else he could do to help her. Gently, as gently as he could, he placed his hand on her cheek, barely grazing it with his thumb. "You'll feel better soon. Really, it won’t be long now. For now... just don’t overexert yourself, please, breathe."

At first, she flinched. He wanted to withdraw his hand as quickly as possible, but then he felt her press her face against it, almost nuzzling into it. A shy tear danced in one of her eyes, barely noticeable.

"It’s good to see you," she said after a brief silence, a soft sigh escaping her lips—almost like a laugh, though it didn’t quite make it. Her breath was still shallow and uneven, but with each passing moment, it seemed to steady as he held her close.

And in that moment, seeing her like that, feeling her presence so close, a smile spread across his face—a smile so genuine, so long-awaited—and with it came the tears he’d been holding back for what felt like forever.

"I feel the same," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You have no idea how much."

*

The orthopedic collar pissed you off like nothing else.

It wasn’t even the discomfort that bothered you, it was just... the collar was such a painful reminder of your condition, a testament to what you had been through. And you were supposed to wear it for another six to eight weeks.

Two weeks after waking from the coma, preparations for leaving the hospital were beginning. The risk of brain swelling had subsided, the injuries were healing, and the concussion still made its presence known, but the pain was no longer as intense. You could even have a normal conversation, which you seized almost immediately, striking up a chat with the teenage girl in the bed next to you, her sad expression tugging at your heart.

Few people visited you; you preferred that the two most important ones could spend as much time with you as possible, rather than inviting coworkers or acquaintances you hadn’t spoken to in months. The two most important people.

Spencer had been with you since the moment you woke up, and as the doctor confessed to you with a small smile, he had also stayed by your side while you were in a coma. You were in shock. Not because he had done it—it made perfect sense, given his caring nature. The shock came from the simple fact that one person could care so deeply about another, about you.

It didn’t take long for you to realize that the moments when he visited you became your favorite part of the entire day. And not just because they revolved around checking your condition, tests, and the first, incredibly light rehabilitation exercises. You simply found yourself waiting for the moment he would appear in that doorway again, holding his coat in hand, smiling.

"Hello, handsome stranger," you greeted him one day, the first day you were starting to feel better.

 Spencer stopped at the sound of that term, tilting his head with an even wider smile.

 "How else did I used to call you?" you mused aloud. "Ah, I used to call you Mr. Mysterious. But I suppose that's no longer fitting, you smile too much to seem mysterious."

 "Because I have a reason," he replied, stopping beside your bed and glancing at the flowers placed there, the ones that had greeted you when you woke up that day. "But in that case, 'Handsome stranger' doesn’t fit either, since you know me now."

"But you are handsome. Half of it fits, so I have the right to call you that. Who... who sent me these flowers?"

"Better question would be, who didn’t send you those?" he muttered, referring to their large number. You could only admire them—the beautiful, colorful arrangements—but you hadn’t had the chance to read the notes and messages attached. Spencer glanced at one of them, his smile fading, though not in a bad way... somehow, the expression that appeared on his face was even more pleasing than his smile. "This... this one’s from my team."

You were simply speechless.

 "They... they even know I exist?"

 "Of course they do, how could they not?" Spencer paused for a moment, looking at you thoughtfully. "They... they were with me the whole time you were in a coma. They helped me keep my head together."

 "Don’t exaggerate," you tried to dispel the sudden serious mood. You didn’t want to delude yourself into thinking he had been that worried about you during that time. 

 "It’s not an exaggeration," he replied briefly and seriously, his face almost motionless.

For a moment, you fell silent, your hands resting on the blanket in front of you.

 "Sorry, Spencer. I just realized I’ve never thanked you for this..."

"What?" he asked, surprised, his brows furrowing. "This isn’t something you have to thank me for..."

"But I feel like I have to. This... this isn’t some small, silly favor. You really did so much for me... I still don’t fully understand why..."

 "You don’t understand why?"

"Yeah," you sighed uncertainly, not sure how to put it into words. "Don’t get me wrong... I’m so grateful to you, it’s just... look at it this way. We didn’t know each other that long, we saw each other rarely. We slept together once. It’s not like you were…obligated to help me."

"I didn’t have to be obligated to do it," he said after a moment of hesitation, circling your bed and sitting on the edge, just barely touching it. "And I didn’t have to know you for years. I just wanted to do it because of how much I cared about you. And if that explanation doesn’t convince you... then..." He swallowed hard. "Remember, you were there for me during one of the worst moments of my life."

“It’s not the same...”

 “Oh, but it is. For me, it is. But I don’t want you to think that I was there for you because I felt like I owed you something. Or that I had to... I don’t know... repay you in some way. That’s not it at all.”

You didn’t answer, something tight gripped your throat. You just tilted your head, overwhelmed with emotion, speechless. The only thing you truly wanted to do was stretch out your arms and drape them around his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder. Spencer sighed, surprised and tense. It wasn’t until a brief moment passed that his hands gently touched your back.

“How much longer are you going to act like I’m made of glass?” you asked.

You knew his caution was justified, but Jesus. You just really wanted to hug him properly.

“Probably forever,” he replied, to which you rolled your eyes.

He was the one to break the hug, but in compensation, he quickly kissed the top of your head. You leaned back against the bed, feeling a pleasant sensation in your stomach. Spencer returned to the flowers to tell you who had sent them all.

“So these are from my team,” he picked up the lost thread, pointing to the arrangement of white and pink carnations. He chuckled. “And I’m pretty sure Penelope picked them out, not just because her name is listed first. White represents perseverance and strength. Pink stands for admiration and respect.”

“That’s really thoughtful. And beautiful. I’ll have to thank them. And these tulips?”

Spencer took the note attached to the mentioned flowers between his fingers.

“From... Jerry.”

“What? My husband sent me flowers?”

 “What?” He jerked his head up in surprise.

You laughed so hard at the look on his face that it made you wince in your ribs.

 “I’m fucking kidding, you fool,” you replied, clutching your side with a groan. “Jerry is the librarian. You should know him. He once asked me what flowers he should buy for his wife, and I suggested yellow tulips. By the way, it's so nice of him”.

You said it affectionately, but it sounded incredibly weak. Along with the pain in your ribs, a headache joined in, and suddenly all the energy you'd had earlier evaporated.

“What's happening? Should I call a doctor?”

“No,” you shook your head in refusal. “I just need to lie down for a moment. Come here.”

Spencer followed your request and sat beside your bed, his body a little stiff, as if in guilt.

"I'm sorry I made you laugh."

"That's probably the strangest thing you could apologize for," you muttered, lying down in the position that was best for your neck, one you almost hated as much as the orthopedic collar. "Well, I guess I could come up with something stranger. Sorry I left that million dollars in your nightstand. It won't happen again."

"I'm not sure if this kind of chatter is particularly good for your condition."

"It helps me mentally, and that's what matters most. Besides, stop complaining."

"How could I possibly dare?"

He fell silent, simply watching you with quiet concern. You closed your eyes for a moment, unsure if you might accidentally drift off. After spending a week in a coma, your sleep routine had become completely erratic. You slept through the nights, mostly because there was little else to do, and you didn’t want to disturb the other patients in the ward. During the day, Spencer would visit, and you wanted to be as rested as possible when he was around.

When he wasn’t there, you sometimes napped during the day as well. According to the doctors, it was one of the best things you could do for your recovery—sleep and rest as much as your body needed.

"Is something bothering you?" he asked.

You hesitated for a long moment, because yes, something was weighing heavily on your mind. Had he guessed, or had he read it on your face?

“It’s just…” you began with a sigh. “You know Jude barely visits me? I mean, she shows up every day, but… she’s so tense and distant when she’s here. She doesn’t say much, and she won’t look me in the eyes.”

"She’s blaming herself," Spencer said softly.

“God, that’s so stupid,” you muttered.

You had a strange relationship with the accident. You thought about it as little as possible, keeping it at arm’s length. You knew Richard had been arrested, but you didn’t want to know the details of his sentencing. In no way did you see any of it as Jude’s fault, and it hurt you deeply to think that she did.

You spent a quiet moment together before Spencer leaned over you again, intending to kiss your forehead.

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to go now,” he said, to which you nodded in understanding.

But then you shifted your head, pulling back just enough to stop him from brushing his lips against your forehead. He looked at you, puzzled, since you’d never minded it before.

This time, though, you wanted him to kiss you on the lips.

He kissed you slowly. You had almost forgotten how he tasted.

After that, you didn’t bother opening your eyes again. You let yourself imagine that he wasn’t leaving at all, and with that comforting thought, you drifted off to sleep.

*

Spencer had felt strange since the morning.

 Energized and excited. In the absolute best possible way.

That day, he could finally take her home. Well, to his apartment. She needed someone to take care of her, and he felt honored to be that person.

The day before, he had made a very important, yet difficult decision. He invited JJ over and confessed everything to her—about the past few weeks and his struggles with relapsing into addiction. He needed to rid himself of that burden. Besides, he had promised himself that as long as she was living with him, not even the smallest dose of Dilaudid would find its way inside. Never again.

In his worst moments, he imagined that his friend would react with disgust—pure, painful disgust—and push him away. Instead, her eyes filled with something strange the moment he began to speak about how he had felt after Emily's death. Over and over, she whispered apologies, as though she were the one responsible for it.

He still missed Emily, of course, and he knew he would always miss her. That was just the way of things—people left, and it was up to you to decide whether you would remember them with heartbreaking despair or with a wistful sigh. In fact, these were merely two ends of the same spectrum, and it was very easy to get stuck at the beginning, unable to move forward.

She was surprisingly quiet in the car and seemed depressed. Actually, it was hard not to blame her. She had spent a long time in the hospital, gotten used to that routine, and the change made her feel lost. Sitting in the passenger seat, she kept her gaze fixed ahead, but not on the road. She couldn’t see where they were headed, which made it difficult for Spencer to tell her something… at least important.

 When they stopped, she furrowed her brow in surprise.

 “Why are we here?”

They were parked under his apartment, and she had been under the impression they were heading to her place.

 “Sorry, I should’ve told you earlier, I really apologize,” Spencer blurted out in one breath, chaotically. “I absolutely realize that this is like putting you in a situation you didn’t expect, but… but when you were in the hospital, Jude found herself a new roommate. She didn’t really know how to tell you, but she had to do it because she couldn’t afford the rent on her own.”

For a long moment, she stared at him in silence, her face a mixture of shock, followed by understanding. She took a deep breath.

 “Okay,” she muttered. “I understand her, I just… I don’t understand why she didn’t tell me this herself.”

Their relationship still remained deeply complicated, put to the test by guilt. Spencer couldn’t say much about it. It was something between the two of them, and he hardly knew Jude at all.

 “I’m also sorry for asking you this so late,” he continued after a moment. “But… you can’t live alone, you know that. Someone… someone needs to be with you over the next few weeks and… I’m willing to be that person.”

Her lips remained slightly parted for a moment.

“You want… no, wait, you want me to move in with you?” It was clearly a rhetorical question, because before he could answer, she started shaking her head. “Spencer, I can’t. I can’t be that burden for you.”

“A burden? You’re not…”

“But I will be. In the next few weeks, I definitely will be.”

He took his hands off the steering wheel, placing them loosely on his knees.

“Can you… can you look at me for a moment?” he asked.

It took a moment before she hesitantly met his gaze. Her eyes were filled with embarrassed tears, tears full of unjust shame. Seeing this, pain spread through his chest.

“If the accident hadn’t happened, would you want to live with me?”

 Her lips remained pressed together, and she sighed.

 “It’s a big decision. Aside from the fact that if it weren’t for the accident, I wouldn’t even have to consider this option…”

“I just want to know if you would want to. Don’t think of it as an option, just as… a completely normal, life decision. Do you think you’d be able to handle having me around every day?”

She couldn’t help it, and her lips curled into a slight smile.

“We could try,” she finally replied.

Spencer straightened his arms.

“In that case, let’s go inside.”

 “No, wait, it’s not that simple! My opinion shouldn’t matter; it’s you who needs to think about whether you want this…”

 “I do.”

She snorted, resigned, not knowing what else to say.

“I can’t even tie my own shoes,” she tried one last time.

“I’ll gladly do it for you. What’s more, I know all kinds of knots. Simple, sailor’s, Chinese…”

“Spencer Reid, you’re impossible.”

For the rest of the day, she tried every possible way to talk him out of his decision. But when she finally accepted it, she struggled to accept his help with tasks she couldn’t do on her own.

 It wasn’t until later that he realized how much she had been pretending in the hospital. He had only seen her for a fraction of her day, and she seemed so positive then. But this temporary disability had really taken a toll on her mentally. He could repeat and assure her, completely sincerely, that she wasn’t a burden to him, but deep down, she still believed otherwise.

So, when two days later, she timidly appeared in the bedroom doorway with the question of whether he could help her wash her hair, Spencer felt like he had won the lottery.

“Sure,” he agreed, probably a bit too enthusiastically, jumping to his feet so quickly that he almost tripped.

She pretended not to notice.

In the bathroom, he slowly helped her pull the shirt over her head, careful not to catch it on the collar still around her neck or accidentally cause her any pain. 

“Be careful not to tilt your head too much, okay?” he asked, wetting her hair with the showerhead. She closed her eyes when a few drops of water splashed onto them. “Sorry!”

“For god's sake, Spencer, you're doing it more carefully than I would have done myself.”

It was true; he was acting as if he were performing some task at work that required absolute precision. He shrugged, massaging the strawberry shampoo into her hair. Foam quickly appeared, smelling sweet.

Suddenly, her hands tightened around the front of his shirt.

“Sorry,” she whispered, loosening her grip. “I got a little dizzy.”

Spencer immediately pressed his hands, still covered in shampoo, to her waist, afraid she might fall. He stared at her face for a long moment, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

And just then, her body suddenly went limp, falling forward.

Terrified, he let out a strangled cry.

“Hold on, please, don’t fall!” he kept repeating, doing everything he could to keep her upright.

Her hands hung limply on his shoulders, the foam and water soaking into his shirt, but he didn’t care at all.

“I’m right here, hold on to me as much as you can. C-c-can you hear me at all?”

He wondered whether it would be better to stand her up or lay her down while he could get to the phone and call an ambulance, when suddenly her weak touch grew stronger, and she let out a soft groan.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologizing. I’m still holding you, can you hear me?”

His heart was pounding incredibly fast as she gently pulled her head away from his chest. He, of course, didn’t let her stand on her own, constantly supporting her body, protecting her from a fall that could be disastrous.

Together, they left the shower cabin, her hair still covered in foam.

“Are you aware that this is how it’s going to look now?” she asked seriously.

Completely unfazed, he wiped the foam from her forehead, which was dangerously close to her eyes.

“I’d rather have you lose consciousness in my bathroom, right next to me, than risk… I don’t know, cracking your head open.”

For a moment, she was silent, the color beginning to return to her pale face, her gaze becoming more alert. He had a strange feeling that she was about to start crying, and since he really didn’t want that, he pulled her close again, in his usual protective gesture. Everything around them smelled of strawberries.

“Do you really have to be this good?”

Spencer snorted.

“I’m afraid it’s just my curse.”

*

“Are these people really arguing about whether a cucumber is a fruit or a vegetable?”

Sitting on the couch, you jumped when a voice spoke right behind you. At the last second, you caught your laptop before it slipped off your lap. You had been reading some absurd discussion on an online forum you stumbled upon completely by accident. And yes, these users were indeed arguing about whether a cucumber is a fruit or a vegetable.

“Damn it, Spencer!” you shouted, putting your hand over your heart, which was pounding in an agitated rhythm. You looked at your boyfriend with a scowl. “You almost gave me a heart attack. How is it possible I didn’t hear you come in?”

He shrugged. Leaning his elbows on the back of the couch, the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealed the skin of his forearms. In that position, he had a perfect view of the screen on your laptop. He had just returned from work, a rainy July evening, his hair slightly damp.

“I wasn’t sneaking around. You must’ve just been lost in thought. Want to tell me what’s occupying that beautiful mind of yours?” He leaned in to place a kiss on your temple.

“Beautiful mind, huh?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Just a few days ago, you told me that if a 19th-century priest heard even one thought from my head, he’d go into anaphylactic shock. Whatever that was supposed to mean.”

"In a big simplification, what I meant is that even though I love you, sometimes your way of thinking scares me."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"By the way, I bought land for Alexander."

Alexander was your new flycatcher, which had grown so much that it completely prevented the other flowers on the windowsill from growing. Due to its conqueror tendencies, you decided to name it after one of them.

"Do you want to repot it into a new pot now...?"

"No. Now you need to come to me."

You set the laptop aside and waited for him to take a seat on the couch. Before fully snuggling into him, you untied and removed the tie from his neck, then unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, just the way you liked.

You sighed almost instantly; his body was more comfortable than a pillow. Warm, with your favorite scent. You rested your head on his chest as his fingers gently combed through your hair.

In the first few weeks after you were discharged from the hospital, you couldn’t even sleep in the same bed. There was a risk that, in his sleep, he might accidentally bump into your neck and cause damage. Spencer enforced that rule strictly, as he did with every precaution related to your health.

Six months had passed since the accident, and for the past four months, you hadn’t worn a neck brace or needed help with daily tasks. But that didn’t change the fact that, sometimes, when you showered together, he would wash your hair just like he used to. Anyway, you were still attending rehabilitation and would need to for a long time, but despite that, you felt like you had fully returned to normal life.

You lifted yourself slightly to look at his face.

"I was walking to the bar today," you began.

You’d been considering going back to work for a while now, and the doctors had assured you there was no reason you couldn’t. You wanted something to occupy your hands and craved the sense of purpose that came with a task. You’d mentioned it to Spencer long ago, so he didn’t seem surprised when you brought it up.

"And? Will they take you back?"

"No. I mean, it’s not that they don’t want to, I just didn’t get there. That’s why I said I was walking and not that I went to a bar. Are you following?"

"I'm trying."

"So, listen to this. I took the subway and got off at that station near the room I used to rent."

The landlord had asked for the keys back shortly after your accident. Your arrangement had been that, in exchange for using the space, you cleaned it daily. Of course, you hadn’t been able to keep up with that anymore.

"...And I don't know, I was overwhelmed by this strange feeling, like I wanted to go back to it. Helping people."

"You help people all the time," Spencer reminded you. "All our neighbors come to you to vent about everything happening in their lives."

"That's true, but I mean, you know, professional help," you said, taking a deeper breath. You couldn't decide whether you were more excited or nervous about the decision. "I've been thinking about going back to uni, Spencer."

He straightened up, almost causing you to slide off his chest. Filled with tension, you watched his reaction closely. You’d spent the entire day wondering what he might say. Would he share your enthusiasm and support your plans, or would he try to talk you out of it, reasoning that you’d dropped out of school once and might not manage it again?

These thoughts were incredibly silly. Spencer—knowledge-obsessed, ever-curious Spencer—would never say something like that.

Instead, he pulled you into a tight embrace, whispering how incredible the idea was. You melted into it completely, feeling more elated than ever and unable to stop thinking about the crazy chain of cause and effect that had led to this specific moment, this particular relationship, and above all, this exact happiness. 

do you accept this overly sweet ending as my apology? :> tagging: @nightfullofparadox @lillaberry @fortheloveofgubler @opheliahotchner @cowboy1ikereid @penelopegarciaismygf

sorry if i forgot about someone!

[halemerry]

So there’s understandably a lot out there examining the painful/emotional parts of this season, but I just wanted to take a second to acknowledge something really important that is a bit... maybe not lighter in tone but something worth celebrating.

Because like, even if he seems a bit directionless and frustrated, Crowley actually is pretty happy this season?

He’s making progress. He’s letting himself have things he wouldn’t have ever before - even if it's not exactly the thing he wants the most. He's letting himself be himself. He's not censoring instincts and impulses to nearly the same degree and it's actually pretty remarkable.

Like, okay, yes, Crowley is pretty lost now that he exists outside the toxic structure he has been operating under for millenia. And, yes his safety net with Aziraphale and the structure they operate in has also crumbled a bit because so much of that structure was built around what they were and weren’t allowed to safely do within the toxic structure. But, I actually do think this season does a lot to show that even if this struggle is very real and has consequences that aren’t all objectively good, freeing himself from that structure is a net good.

He smiles more. He laughs more. He sprawls more. He seems generally more physically relaxed and comfortable trusting his instincts without having to check everything he’s doing or saying against Hell. And this state of existence isn’t dependent on Aziraphale being present either. It’s just him being him and becoming comfortable with what that means.

And it wasn't a snap your fingers bam you're better situation either. It takes work and time to break old instincts. I mean, years have passed and we’re still struggling to let anyone say that we are nice. But significantly his instinct isn’t to snarl or physically lash out. It’s to roll his eyes or half heartedly object or maybe throw in a light growl for old times sake. And, sometimes, the instinct is to grin like a self satisfied loon as you contradict the nice human who implied you were nice.

Crowley is now in a place where his impulses to be kind are things he’s allowed to give into now and, even if he’s doing so under a veneer of snark and sneer, he is letting himself do that. He’s making sure the people around him are caring for ducks properly. He’s admitting he was worried about Aziraphale and cooing at his own car. He’s apologizing for accidentally locking people into coffee shops and openly helping them get out without even stopping to think about how maybe doing so might clue them in that he’s not quite what he seems. He's helping Shax learn her way around earth, even when she’s actively working against him and Aziraphale.

Even when interacting with Jim, who brings out the most of Crowley’s negative reactions and masks, his instincts are just as often to be gentle as they are to be angry. So long as Jim isn’t actively setting off alarm bells in Crowley’s head Crowley is so patient with him. He explains gravity unprompted and proceeds to include Jim in on his planning to get Nina and Maggie together. After his initial explosion at Jim’s presence the next two are immediately followed up by him getting upset and then backing off of Jim. He starts to threaten Jim when he’s reminded Aziraphale is in danger and then nearly immediately backs off of that, acknowledging there’s no point in it. And then, of course, after he nearly talks Jim into jumping out a window and pressures him into extracting more information from his brain he feels guilty enough to then offer Jim an act of care and service. It's such a stark difference from the guy we see even this season needing to put a layer between himself and anything good he does by either denying thanks outright or putting the blame on being under some influence.

And it’s startling how much we see him smile this season and how many different versions of that we get. From the genuine delight on his face when he thinks Operation Lovebird is working to the pleased little smirk he gives Aziraphale through the window when he watches him bring order to the arguing angels and demons in his shop, to the little smile of familiarity when he wonders what happened to Mr Dalrymple - Crowley smiles a lot compared to the first season. And it doesn't matter where he is either. He has a delightful time in Heaven, snickering and grinning to himself nearly the entire time he's prancing around there. And that’s not even getting into his dorky little snort laugh that pops up a few times throughout the season.

And I just. It’s so nice that this show doesn’t want to deny that what Aziraphale and Crowley are doing is hard but also that it doesn’t want to wallow in that struggle either. It never wants to frame that what they earned at the end of season 1 has doomed them but it isn't afraid to show the speed bumps that the system they were in is causing them on their way to happily ever after. They’re allowed to be happy. They're allowed to struggle with getting there. This is allowed to be a good thing for them, even if it sometimes takes work.

[pix-writes]

outside sex w/ Ford 🫣

Ford & outside sex, tried to make it as gender neutral as possible for this one, hope you enjoy!

(18+ MDNI under cut!) NSFW with lots of fluff on the side 😉

I feel like Ford would actually be really into having sex outside, though I don't think he's the kind of person into voyeurism at all! He wouldn't like to have anyone else looking at you in that way and he certainly wouldn't want to be at high risk of getting caught - it's a turn off!

But he does love nature, he loves being in the woods around the falls and knows lots of beautiful and quiet, largely secluded spots as well as all the magical and dangerous sections of the area to avoid. He would like to take you to such pretty locations as a date activity. He's a romantic deep down 🥰 having a picnic by a smaller lake that was formed off of the bigger lake within gravity falls, not a well known spot, watching as the day grows towards sunset? Hearing people far off on the main lake packing up after a full day of activities, tourism and fishing? Sharing some wine and dessert together should you be so inclined? Wonderful! The perfect place to have both a view and not be interrupted.

It starts off as just cuddling and making out on the grass, as the date progresses, but the intimacy builds to more than that, getting a little heated. Something about it sparks something in Ford, he imagines taking you out to more private places, just you and him alone in tranquil nature, where you won't be seen or have to worry about volume (at least maybe, not as much as when you're in the shack). Maybe you could even go camping.

Ford takes you hiking over the falls and ends up getting himself hot and bothered by the vision of you in front of him 😅 when you're walking in front of him, he gets the best view of your ass 😉

And when you need to break for a few minutes, dewy with sweat and out of breath from exertion, his mind is going to other activities in which he's seen you like that.

When the path becomes steep and treacherous he feels a certain sense of fulfilment/pride (?) that you need his help to traverse it, giving you a hand to pull you up or catch you, that you put your trust in him and his reassurances that you'll be fine and you can cross without falling, is something that helps him to feel useful and more secure. I guess it also feeds a certain masculine role (trope?) in him too (mostly in a pure way rather than a negative/toxic way), in being useful and capable to you in such a physical way. In fact he might even be a bit handsy when he helps you, if he's feeling playful enough or if the trip is tiring you out to try and lift your spirits:

Ford places a hand over your ass as you stumble when he helps you up a high step, drawing you into pressing up against him. "Careful, my dear." 😏

"Stanford Pines, you are a tease!" 😑

"I don't know what you're talking about." 🫠

There's a limit to Ford's patience and you can figure it out, most likely, in this scenario! If he can get you somewhere he considers safe and far away enough from any others who could possibly stumble across you, he'll take you as soon as possible.

Or, I kind of imagine a scenario where you're in the woods adventuring, helping Ford with his research of the anomalies, when things inevitably go wrong and you end up in some moderate dangers in fighting and escaping the latest monster of the week, when you end up coming to a stop to catch your breath, the danger now behind you - the tension is palpable!

Both of your heightened states of emotion mean that one of you runs hands over the other looking to see if they're hurt, almost getting into an argument over the details of how things went wrong or how you managed to come so close to getting hurt, maybe Ford ends up frustrated at you not listening to his instruction and taking a risk, either way that underlying tension snaps. There's tears in his eyes -

"You're so stubborn! How could you put yourself in that position?!"

"I saved you from being hurt! I thought I could've lost you back there!"

You end up being pressed up against a tree as Ford roughly kisses you, feeling under your clothes, squeezing and pinching at your sensitive areas as you moan into his mouth. You know what both of your actions are saying; you care about each other, you felt like you might not have gotten out of this alive, but here you both are.

You don't mind being rough in fact, you want it, you want to feel each other, you want to feel alive. You don't care if you get scratched up by the uncomfortable surfaces, and you are almost certainly going to be scratched up.

No matter who is the instigator here, Ford ends up the one to flip you around and push you up against the tree so he can take you from behind. Neither of you even bothered to undress, clothes pushed up or aside or pulled down just enough to access what you wanted.

And god forbid any forest gnome stumbles across you now, as Ford would probably turn them into ashes if they interrupted you! 🤭😳

Don't worry though, more TLC is applied after, once you manage to get back home, Ford being more gentle and tending to any cuts and bruises.

[fridgrave2-0]

I'm tired of pretending that I'm okay with ford being an absolute asshole towards fiddleford and basically abusing him.

first of all, yes, it's not ford's fault that he was manipulated (doubtful tbh) and abused by bill, but that doesn't give him the right to be a jerk who closes his eyes on his friend's deepest traumas. the traumas fiddleford got only because stanford completely ignored his warning and got fidds involved into bunch of shit. like his monster hunting which wasn't even the reason fiddleford went to gravity falls in the first place. he was there to help ford build the portal, not to be a part of ford's anomaly quest. and when fiddleford spoke out against it he was ignored because ford doesn't give a shit about anyone else but himself or his muse. fiddleford got traumatized physically and mentally so deeply that in the need to be able to sleep at night peacefully he completely destroyed his mind to the state that even bill was scared to be in there. and what stanford did? he (the one who couldn't care less about fidds warning him about gremoblin) critiqued fiddleford for using the memory gun and didn't even bother to apologize or say that he's sorry in the journal. god, what am I saying, he didn't even took fiddleford to the hospital after fiddleford feel from the sky through the roof of a fucking barn with a dozen of poisonous quills in his body AND A BROKEN ARM. ford described what happened to fidds in the journal, said he "took him home for a treatment" and the next two paragraphs on the other page is "good news the hyperdrive works" LIKE IS THAT THE ONLY THING YOU CARE ABOUT WHAT THE HELL??? "despite our fortune, I have become worried about my assistant... I myself have survived many monster attacks without trauma, but perhaps F is more sensitive that I realized". no shit sherlock, who would've imagine that seeing your worst nightmares and being poisoned can leave a mark on your mental state. sure it's just fiddleford, he's just overreacting because he's "sensitive"))) /src

ford was ignoring fiddleford's concerns all the fucking time that mcgucket was there with him, he took a superstitious and religious guy with anxiety into the forest with real ass monsters who's no one but ford is used to see. fiddleford was warning stanford about shifty and got kidnapped with his identity stolen by the shapeshifter because ford didn't listen. well, at least this time stanford had bothered to apologize for another traumatic event- ah no, next thing ford said is that when the portal is finished all the traumas fiddleford had been through were "worth it". ford just finds ways to make everything worse

we all know that fiddleford has an addictive personality and that the memory gun is the biggest example of that. what we don't talk enough about is that ford at some point decided that sleeping is for losers, but didn't stop at himself and made fiddleford drink 13 fucking cups of coffee, not allowing him to sleep, what in the future made fiddleford a caffeine addict. ford is not only an overworking idiot who gladly damages his own health, no! he wants fiddleford to be the same and quote "gets frustrated" when fiddleford cares not only about his own, but their both basic needs. fiddleford had to work on the portal, get in the trouble with monsters because of ford, but also babysit this manchild to prevent him collapsing from exhaustion (which is more impossible than building a giant portal into the multiverse)

and here we are, the portal testing. once again (and as always) fiddleford did warned ford about everything. fiddleford was working without breaks for days to make sure if the portal will work, and when he found the flaws, he wrote a whole fucking thesis paper, putting all ford's research into a solid work (not taking even smallest credit even tho he was the one to build the portal. when fiddleford had his own theory in the university, ford helped him to only proof that fidds wasn't going crazy by checking the calculations and ford bothered to take the credit for the whole theory, but fiddleford who was a part and a victim of this monumental theory of weirdness didn't took it because he unlike ford doesn't care only about fame). but what did stanford do? he assumed that fiddleford wanted to steal his fucking fame and backstab him. ford didn't even bother to look at something fiddleford was making for three days without resting to make sure that portal won't hurt anyone in the town and that ford won't end up with empty hand if the portal was indeed a lost cause. stanford coldly dismissed fiddleford like they weren't friends, said that he doesn't really waiting fiddleford for the test of the device that fiddleford did built, and even knowing that the portal was dangerous fiddleford chose to come for the test

and then fiddleford got in the portal and it was the biggest traumatic event for him. it was the breaking point for him from which he couldn't stop using the memory gun. it damaged him so much, that he turned from that bright 30-y.o. man into the familiar to us old man mcgucket in the span of two years. his life was ruined for another 30 years, a half of his life he was a mad lonely guy who lived in the junkyard. the man who could've become someone like steve jobs but much better if only he didn't go to help stanford. his family could've been full, tate could have his father. the incident with the portal was the moment of no return for fiddleford, and what did stanford do?

when fiddleford got sucked in the portal, he thought only about the success of his work, that for fidds it was "a remarkable opportunity to confirm or deny the theory" (which he already did with his pre-test research). he didn't think that it was dangerous on the other side, that the portal wouldn't just disintegrate fidds on atoms. and when stanford saw him speaking in a non-human way, shaking and twitching in shock like fiddleford did after the gremoblin incident, ford decided it was nothing. when fiddleford warned him about the apocalypse because he was in the portal and saw it with his own eyes, ford, as always, didn't listen. he didn't just not care about fidds' condition — he diminished everything fiddleford was feeling and everything he witnessed only because it didn't fit in ford's believes which were based just on bill's words (and for stanford it's not something new to belittle things related to fiddleford. he wasn't taking fidds' dream of creating a portable computer seriously, believing that his weirdness theory was much more important)

and after this, stanford insults fiddleford and his family in the journal. he says that he doesn't regret their partnership (it's not really a partnership if stanford didn't count fiddleford as an equal) and friendship breaking up. "to think I considered him a friend!" I doubt he ever did. stanford doesn't know shit about being a good friend (or even a decent person) to someone who sacrificed everything for him. who did put his life aside to be with ford, who cared enough to stay despite stanford again and again putting him in danger, constantly waving him away and feeling no remorse for that. fiddleford was breaking himself for this guy, he canonically was going through "I am nobody to ford if I don't build stuff for him" (and in the end this is exactly what happened). fiddleford didn't tell ford most of his fears and concerns because he didn't want to bother him. fidds was constantly scared and kept in inside because he wanted to be a "better partner". "if I have an anxiety, I will pop anxiety pills", "I'm gonna get through this". and then he didn't

fiddleford was abused by stanford. he was to stanford that ford was to bill, in some ways even worse. it's fucking wild that fiddleford did forgive ford after 30 years of a neverending madness nightmare with his mind being destroyed so much as like it was the earth in the times of the dinosaurs after being hit by the meteorite. fiddleford had lost literally everything, he wasn't even himself for a half of his life and still fidds found the strength to forgive someone who is responsible for it and who used him with regular emotional neglect. and you know what? fuck this. ford would never forgive bill and fiddleford had every right to stay mad at stanford. ford needed to be stuck in the portal to get his head out of the ass and by that time there were only crumbs of someone who fiddleford once was

fiddauthor and billford both are about abuse and toxic relationships. it's up to you what you like to ship, but we need to acknowledge the fact that fiddauthor isn't some fluffy healthy thing where both are happy. fiddleford was never happy and stanford didn't care about fiddleford and his feelings. they made each other worse and ford ruined fidds' life. THIS is the real fiddauthor

[missriyochuchi]

The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer

Summary: The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer meet in the Jardin des Tuileries after the Opening Ceremony and commiserate about the Olympic Games.

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: Established relationship. Mentions of death.

Notes: I imagined these two like otherworldly beings blessing the games, what with the Olympics being invented by ancient Greeks as a partly religious event. As such, I would have preferred to keep them gender neutral, but because I’m writing this in a pinch and want to be able to distinguish between them without constantly using their names, I opted for gendered pronouns. But nothing about their physical descriptions are particularly gendered; I’m just leaning on the old linguistic quirk lol Also, how tf is there no video of the Flagbearer!? I wanted to gif her/their entrance but couldn’t find a damn thing! She/They deserves more love!

Read on AO3 - Part 2 - Part 3

Darkness cloaks the Jardin des Tuileries. Even the cauldron floating above its center offers little illumination on the ground. Shadows play along the perimeter, tourists passing in the midnight hour, their idle conversations lost to the humid air. The soft patter of rain echoes across the masonry scattered throughout the empty park. Only the occasional creak of metallic plates and restless hoofbeats betray the garden’s solitary visitors.

The Flagbearer looks up at the orange orb in the sky. She marvels at the city’s ingenuity. Decades of oil and gas have finally given way to an electric fire. Only with such technological advancements could engineers even dream of safely flying the eternal flame above the City of Lights. If only the future was as assuredly bright, the Flagbearer thinks. Her gaze drifts back down to the darkness below, the surrounding chill creeping back into her senses. Her horse stirs beneath her and jostles her mind back to the present.

“Easy, Zeus,” she murmurs as she presses her legs to the animal’s sides in an attempt to soothe both their anxieties. “Patience.”

No Olympic Games are ever truly free of political problems, an inevitability of any gathering between disparate peoples, but they weigh heavier on the Flagbearer’s mind now more than ever. Her part in the Opening Ceremony is small but significant, and though she spends less time among the crowds than her eternal counterpart, she catches enough to gauge that tensions are higher than ever before. The darkness of the night seems to encroach and bleed into the darkness in her mind as she ponders human history and her role in it. Before her resolve could lurch under the gravity of her thoughts, the light crunch of gravel announces his arrival.

“You are late,” the Flagbearer intones harshly. She steers her steed to turn around and face the approaching footsteps.

Enough ambient light creeps across the park to distinguish the Torchbearer’s silhouette, catching on the gauzy pieces of his attire bobbing in the breeze. His stride is sure, his stature straight, betraying neither weariness nor arrogance. Only a few meters away, he shrugs and raises his palms out at his sides, teasing, “I did not have a ride.”

The Flagbearer is unmoved but in no mood to quarrel. “How are you, my love?” Her voice floats soft and light through the misty drizzle.

“Exhausted.” His shoulders slump fractionally, perceptible only to his eternal flame facing him. “And you?”

“Concerned.”

The Torchbearer reaches for the horse’s muzzle and runs a familiar hand along his nose. “I hope you are not as troubled as your rider, mon joli cheval.” Zeus bows his long head and huffs in response. His palm runs along the animal’s left flank, lifting once he reaches the Flagbearer’s side. He extends both hands to her gloved ones and helps her to the ground.

“What ails my sweet?” He pinches her chin.

She hums and takes one of his hands in both of hers, squeezing hard enough to convey her worry. “In all our years shepherding these games, did you ever know the atmosphere to be this—”

“I know. The world is—”

“Restless.”

“Yes, and—”

“Not at peace.”

“Never has been, my love.”

“I do not remember it ever being this—”

“Your worries are not unfounded, cherie, but you must redirect your attention elsewhere.”

They circle the base beneath the cauldron, hand in hand. Zeus follows close behind, his reins tied to the saddle. While the nightlife bustles beyond the park’s pocket of silence, the few security guards on duty watch the hooded figures from a distance.

Event organizers had explicitly and numerously instructed personnel not to approach or engage with the Torchbearer and Flagbearer. They were both host and blessing to the festivities, and decades of tradition dictated that a respectful, neutral distance be maintained between the host nation and the two Olympic guardians so that there would be no suspicion of impropriety or favoritism during competition.

The Flagbearer recoils, incredulous. “How can you be so indifferent to the violence and rhetoric—”

“I am surprised that between the two of us, you, in your glittering armor, are the first to lose hope and declare defeat.”

“I have not!” She stops them in their orbit and shoves his hand back to his side.

The Torchbearer laughs. He crooks a finger under her chin and raises her gaze. She sighs and closes her eyes as the backs of his fingers graze her cheek. Her hands come up to open and press his palm to the side of her face, his pressure more than his warmth a soothing balm to her inner turmoil. Her voice is low and leaden when she continues.

“I merely wonder if the gods have not tasked us with an impossible mission.”

The Torchbearer falls silent as he contemplates the Flagbearer’s concerns. She did not interact with humans as much as he did, a natural consequence of their separate roles. While the Olympic torch exchanged hands with every kind of man and woman, the Olympic flag exchanged hands with a significantly select few. As a result, the Flagbearer’s opinion of humanity often leaned towards the optimistic while the Torchbearer’s leaned towards the pessimistic. He had come to know, better than she, the complexities of human nature, their heavenly highs and their hellish lows. They spent decades arguing about the tenuous balance. Now, as he watches his partner’s shoulders sag with the weight of the world, he finds himself despondent that she seems poised to concede to his viewpoint and knows it, knows that she lost this one important battle. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and guides their walk away from the cauldron.

“Plus vite, Plus haute, Plus fort.” The Torchbearer rattles off the Olympic motto.

“Citius, Altius, Fortius, my dear. Latin may be dead, but it is still your mother tongue.”

“‘Ensemble.’ C’est la partie importante. And that is precisely what they are doing and continue to do.”

“But for how long? We do not have a future if they do not, and my darling, I do not see—”

“We cannot predict the future any more than humans can. It is none of our concern. The gods will take care of us.”

“The gods have abandoned us, just as the humans have abandoned them.” The Flagbearer catches the ice in her voice and does her best to warm her vitriol. “We do not exist outside these games, my love. And if these games end, if the world can find no purpose to these communal competitions—”

Silence. The specter of death looms large in their periphery. Every Closing Ceremony marks the end of their days on Earth, a return to a darkness beyond darkness. And every two years, they are reborn and reimagined back into existence to inspire and perform and protect the Olympic Games. Despite the constancy of this cyclical event, the eternal guardians find humans increasingly less hospitable to the ideals they represent. What is sportsmanship to a world where even the rules of war no longer hold?

“Steel your heart as this city has steeled your form.” The Torchbearer steps close enough for the edge of his hood to kiss hers. “The next host cities have been decided, their venues under construction. We still have a future. There is no reason to despair.”

“For now.”

“For now.” He sighs at her obstinacy, but knows not to push further or risk wasting precious moments on a fruitless fight. “In the meantime, the games have begun, and we do not have much time together.”

A smirk plays beneath the Flagbearer’s hood. She perks up at her partner’s motives. “Sixteen days is not enough to spend with you.” She steps closer and brings her forehead to his. She squeezes his biceps, and he rubs her elbows in return. They exchange breaths for a moment of eternity.

“Come.” The Torchbearer takes her hands and swings her in circles. Their laughs echo as they near the horse. “Much of the city has changed since we were last here, and you will not see them if you continue to sulk beneath the cauldron.”

The Flagbearer mounts Zeus and extends an arm to help the Torchbearer take a seat behind her. He presses his front to her back, unbothered by her damp cape. He slides his arms along either side of her waist and rests his hands atop hers on the horn of the saddle. The horse ambles forward towards the city streets.

Buoyed by the Torchbearer’s embrace, the Flagbearer regains a sliver of her hope and optimism. “The Italians will call on us next. Perhaps we will meet a changed world by then.”

“We always do. I wonder what forms they have planned for us.”

“I quite like this form on you, my dear. The cut of your jacket complements you well.”

“As does this armor on you, mon amour.” His hands find the edge of her cuirass and sneak nimble fingers to the suit underneath.

She giggles at the light pressure below her ribcage. “I will miss hearing you speak this city’s language.”

The Torchbearer tightens his hold on the Flagbearer, impressing his being into hers. “You worry about community and forget that we are in the City of Love.”

“Paris is not the world, my dear.” They sway in sync as Zeus carries them towards the edge of the garden.

“Perhaps, but the Olympic Village is, or at least, as close an approximation as the humans are capable of producing. If it is unity you seek, we will surely find a certain kind—”

“You said you were exhausted.” Amusement lightens the Flagbearer’s tone, her heavy mind now fizzy with thoughts of the Torchbearer’s amorous intentions.

“Never enough to deter me from you.” He presses his chin to her shoulder, his words vibrating down the expanse of her armor. “Would you waste the energy of the players’ liaisons?”

Her hood whips to the side as he squeezes the unarmored flesh of her upper thigh. Before she can answer, he takes the reins and brings Zeus to a gallop towards the Olympic Village.

“No more talk,” he heaves with urgency. “I need you before the sun rises and our duties begin again.”

Footnotes:

mon joli cheval - my pretty horse cherie - dear Plus vite, Plus haute, Plus fort (French) / Citius, Altius, Fortius (Latin) - Faster, Higher, Stronger ‘Ensemble.’ C’est la partie importante. (French) - ‘Together.’ That is the important part. mon amour - my love

“The 100% electric flame burns no fuel. The ring of fire uses 40 LED spotlights to illuminate the cloud created by 200 high-pressure misting nozzles.” (source)

According to the engineers who built the mechanical horse, its name is Zeus.

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 35

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 32, part 33, part 34

“So, how’s living in the mansion?” Eddie asks. Stabbing at the Jello cup with a fork instead of trying to eat it.

“Don’t think it’s officially a mansion. It’s just a big house.”

Eddie looks at him skeptical. “Same thing.”

In all fairness, it hasn’t been all that bad. It’s been an adjustment, sure. Any move would do that. Especially one where he barely knew the roommate. But he’s been sleeping better than he has for weeks. Been taking better care of himself. Can do laundry without carting himself to the laundromat and shelling out a handful of quarters. There’s a kitchen where he can start cooking in again. A real couch to sit on and a table to eat at. He forgot how much he missed stuff like that.

“It’s fine,” he says. Really downplaying it.

Eddie nods, seeing through all of Wayne’s bullshit. His stubborn air to automatically dislike anything that he didn’t do or buy himself.

“And living with Steve?” Eddie asks with hesitation.  

Steve keeps to himself well. Gets up for work and leaves peacefully. Never making a big fuss, or really alerting Wayne that he’s there too much. He’s quiet. A little too quiet sometimes.

Sometimes Wayne will wake up and there’s coffee waiting for him in the kitchen. One time he walked in after a shift and Steve left him some food in the fridge. And there’s always a note on the kitchen island letting Wayne know where he is. So, there’s nothing to worry about.

“Also fine,” Wayne responds.

Eddie almost sighs a breath of relief. Like he was hoping Wayne would like Steve. Would get along with him without a fuss. Like he hasn’t been more than cordial with Steve ever since Eddie woke up. They’ve already gotten along better that Wayne would have guessed.

But there was another layer to this. Wayne can approve of Steve as a friend, he certainly seems capable of doing that. The more that Eddie is secretly wanting though, that he’s not so sure.

Steve’s a fine kid. Just one with a reputation. Heartbreaker of Hawkins High. The one that every girl wanted to be with. Who got with everyone he could. It could be an exaggeration. It could be a bunch of bullshit rumors. Wayne wouldn’t, or really want, to know. Steve’s personal life is his personal life. He’s not inclined to share it.

But if that personal life comes back around and hurts his boy. Well, Steve should know what would happen about that.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Eddie suddenly averts his eyes. Finally eating the now massacred Jello.

“Because I know you, and I’ve seen this look before. Didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now.”

Eddie clicks his tongue. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Because he does. But it wouldn’t hurt for him to be wrong sometimes.

“No, you don’t.” Eddie slams the Jello down on his tray as hard as he can. Just letting gravity assist him in making a point. He looks at Wayne with that anger in his eyes that Wayne would really like to avoid.

They don’t need the first disagreement they have since Eddie’s accident to be in a hospital.

“Alright then,” Wayne backs down. “How’s the physical therapy going?”

That starts a new rampage. But one with frustration not directed at Wayne. The doctor taking the fall of what Wayne started. Eddie getting frustrated at the way his limbs keep failing to do the things he once was able to. The way they stiffen up when he strains them too much. Or how the pain can just start shooting through and never stop. Not just for hours, maybe a day or two. Where the pain meds can’t seem to dull them enough where Eddie can stop thinking about it.

It's hard to watch. Has been and will continue to be. There probably won’t be a day where Eddie will be the way he used to. Constantly in some sort of pain. Reminded of the moment his life changed forever.

The visiting hours end, and Wayne has to leave. It never gets easier, leaving. Just marks another tally of the endless line of days Eddie’s been in the hospital. It seems endless, anyway. Even with the talks of being discharged, it still feels like there’s no hope.

He tries to find it. Tries to keep the candle lit for more than a few seconds. It doesn’t always work. But he’s trying.

No matter how many times Wayne opens the front door of the Harrington house, it still doesn’t feel real. He’s been staying there for a week now, and each time the key slides into the lock, it feels like a dream. Or a really cruel prank.

But it’s real. All of this is.

“If you get more flour in my hair, I swear to God,” Steve’s voice echoes down the hall.

“Well than stop making it so easy for me,” Robin’s voice, if Wayne’s remembering correctly, follows.

He unties his boots and places them on the floor mat by the front door. Being very careful to follow the one major rule that Steve had when it came to the house. It was easy enough to follow. He wanders down the hall and into the kitchen. Walking into a mess. Different measuring cups and spoons scattered around the island, small piles of flour and other dry ingredients surrounding it. A pile of dishes in the sink. The slight smell of something that was burnt.

Honestly, he likes it better this way. Reminds him of home.

“Hi, Mr. Munson,” Robin chirps. Eating chocolate chips right out of the bag.

“Oh hey,” Steve looks up from bowl he was mixing. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Wayne nods hello. “What are you making?”

“Chocolate chip cookies,” Steve explains, looking toward Robin. “Because someone wanted cookies but didn’t want to do it herself.”

“We didn’t have any chocolate chips in the house,” Robin shrugs. Pouring another handful of chips into her mouth.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Didn’t believe it the first time and I don’t believe it now.”

He turns around to grab the baking sheets, leaving an opportunity for Robin to steal the spatula out of the bowl. Helping herself to raw cookie dough. Steve sighs when he turns around.

“Shouldn’t you also be scared of salmonella, Miss ‘Rabies is like my number one biggest fear?’” he snarks, searching in the drawer for an ice cream scoop.

“Rabies and salmonella are two very different things.” Robin continues to eat the batter off of the spoon. “How’s Eddie?” she asks, directed toward Wayne.

“Better,” he says with more confidence than he feels. Not being able to ignore the way Steve perks up when Eddie’s name is mentioned.

“That’s good,” Steve says. The gentle click of the ice cream scoop filling the break of silence.

Wayne nods. Feeling the need to cross his arms. “Yeah. The doctor says if he keeps his progress steady over the next week, he should be able to come home.”

Steve and Robin look at him with mirrored hope.

“That-that’s really good,” Steve smiles. “It’ll be nice seeing him outside of the hospital.”

“And hiding,” Robin adds. Throwing the spatula in the sink.

Wayne nods. Still feeling out the awkwardness of these interactions. “I’m going to turn in, just wanted to say hello.”

“Let us know if we’re being too loud. I can always kick her out.”

“Hey.” Robin slaps Steve’s arm.

“Night,” Wayne leaves the room. Swallowing a laugh.

tag list (closed): @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

@devondespresso, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @cheertain, @anti-ozzie, @autumncrocusandladybug,

@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,

@papergrenade, @waelkyring, @sweetheartprincess28, @katouasobj, @astercomoasflores

[pisoprano]

Runaway Catwalker Alternate Scene 2

For my own enjoyment, I've written out two alternate versions of the scene of Runaway Catwalker that takes place on Page 32 and Page 33.

Below the cut, you'll find Alternate Scene 2, which is a non-canonical exploration of a different path. The other non-canonical exploration of an unexplored path, Alternate Scene 1, can be found here. Please see @runawaycatwalker for the canonical update.

I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it :)

The path not considered

Ladybug bites her lip.  “I know you said I shouldn’t worry about what Catwalker did to Adrien, but it just keeps nagging at me.  Like, where did Adrien go when he disappeared?  I looked everywhere and I couldn’t find him.  If Catwalker didn’t drop him down a hole, then he’d have had to flown and—wait…”

“Ladybug?” Chat Noir asks.  “I don’t like that look on your face.”

“I know how he did it,” Ladybug breathes.

“Are you sure?  You might have missed something.”

“I did miss something.  So big that I couldn’t see him staring me right in the face.”

“’Him’?”

“Adrien Agreste.  He’s Catwalker.”

Chat crosses his arms in an attempt at nonchalance.  “Interesting guess.”

“No, it’s not a guess,” Ladybug asserts.  “Everything about him… his mannerisms, the way he speaks, his eyes?  How could I have not recognized it when he was standing right in front of me?”

Chat Noir, standing right in front of her, grimaces.  “And you think Adrien is capable of everything he’s been pulling behind your back too?”

Ladybug waves him off.  “Half of that stuff was just how he treated Adrien.  But it makes perfect sense if he was Adrien—he’s the type of guy who’d toss himself off a building if he thought it’d help someone.  He’s selfless and self-sacrificing.”

“And a liar.”

“So am I!” Ladybug snaps.

“Sorry!” Chat squeaks.  “I just meant… does the thought that Catwalker might be Adrien really change so much of what you think of him?  You’d know where his ability to act ‘perfect’ came from, but I doubt you’ve spent enough time around him to know what he’s really like when the mask comes off.”

“His friends have.  They’ve seen how much Adrien goes out of his way to comfort people who’ve been hurt, to see the best in others and believe they can become better.  The type of boy who’d hand you his umbrella without expecting anything in return.  He’s not a person who could hurt anyone.”

“You do remember that he tried to beat Mayura up with a stick the moment she showed up, right?” Chat asks.

“Oh yeah, I forgot he did that,” Ladybug says, not particularly concerned.

“You... forgot?”

Ladybug shrugs.  “I mean, it’s Mayura.  If Catwalker hadn’t rushed in first, I’d probably have tried to punch her in the face too.  She'd certainly deserve it: it is all her fault that I don’t have you anymore.”

“And if you’re right that he’s Adrien,” Chat Noir says, “that means you can’t have him either.”

“I… I know,” Ladybug chokes out as the gravity of her accidental revelation sets in.  “I know I can’t live with the risk of having Catwalker as my partner anymore.  It probably wasn’t even possible that we could have been good partners in the first place...”

“So you think he was a bad partner?”

Ladybug shakes her head.  “That’s not it.  You weren’t around for this, but Adrien spent three months with the snake miraculous, rewinding time over and over to help me.  That’s three months of proof, backed up by every battle I’ve fought with Catwalker: I physically can’t think straight around him.  Even when I didn’t know who he was, I got so distracted I couldn’t be Ladybug the way I needed to be.”

“I bet there was some way you could have gotten it to work,” Chat tries to assure her.  “Not that we can try it anymore, now that the whole cat is out of the bag.  Allegedly!”

“No, it’s definitely out of the bag, Chat,” Ladybug says, patting her partner’s cheek.  “And he can’t get put back inside.  But maybe…”

A light appears in Chat’s eyes.  “Maybe…?”

“This is a longshot but… what if I brought you back without Mayura realizing it?”

***

“Rena!” Ladybug calls from the trap door.  “Are you still out there?”

Rena Furtive pops out from behind the wall of Marinette’s balcony.  “Still out here.  No signs of Catwalker or any other potentially untrustworthy people secretly trying to spy on your meeting.”

“Good, good,” Ladybug says.  “I need you to make an illusion for me: see if you can turn Chat Noir into Catwalker.”

“Excuse me?”

“I figured out Catwalker’s identity, so—”

“Say no more,” Rena says.  “Give me a minute alone with Chat and I’ll see if we can come up with a solution that will withstand public scrutiny.”

Ladybug nods and sends Chat Noir up onto the balcony, before closing the trap door on herself.

“So…” Rena says, “did you want me to handle creating the illusion, or did you want to keep using your camouflage trick?”

Chat’s eyebrows raise.  “You know?”

“You mean did I see Astrocat fly out of a building Catwalker was in, hide behind a wall several blocks away, only for Astrowalker to emerge from behind that wall a moment later?” Rena asks.

Chat groans.  “I should have known you didn’t get frozen by Oni-Chan with everyone else…”

“All the Adrien posters became Adrien-less before I could get a good look at them,” Rena explains.  “Speaking of, do you know what’s the deal with him?”

“Yes, but I can’t talk about it much.  Just that he can’t come home, but he is alive and well.”

“Good, Nino will be happy to hear that much.”

“Wait…” Chat says as his eyes light up with an epiphany.  “You’re the ‘little birdie’ who asked Nino to look into Catwalker, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Rena admits.  “Who did you think it was?”

Chat avoids her gaze, mumbling, “…Mayura.”

“Hah!  Definitely not!  Nino would rather smash all his records to bits than work for her!”

“I’m not saying he would have known it was her!” Chat protests.  “But at least I can be pretty sure you and Mayura are different people, since I called you while literally looking at her.”

“You should know that I’m still salty that you stole my personal phone number from my flute, even if it did come in handy,” Rena pouts.

“I didn’t steal anything.  I got it legitimately.”

Rena’s eyes widen.  “That raises so many questions.”

“And I can’t answer them right now.”

Rena puts her churning thoughts to the side.  “We do have other things to worry about right now.  Ladybug is still expecting an illusion of Catwalker.  We’ll need to make it look not just good, but perfect.”

Chat Noir grins.  “I think I can handle that.”

***

Ladybug sits on her bed, waiting.  Above her she hears three knocks.

“We’re ready for you!” Rena says.

Ladybug returns to the balcony, where one ‘Catwalker’ stands with hands behind his back and a pleasant smile.

“Good evening, Ladybug.  I’m the new Catwalker.”

Ladybug gives ‘Catwalker’ a once-over.  “Hmmmmmm… No, sorry, this isn’t going to work.”

‘Catwalker’ furrows his brow.  “You think it’ll be too hard to work with this face, even though it’s just me?”

“No, that’s not it,” Ladybug sighs.  “You’re just too obviously you.  Everyone’s going to see that you’re really Chat Noir.”

Rena laughs.  “I sincerely doubt anyone is going to notice a thing.”

“Look at his eyes!  Look at his tail!  Even the way he breathes just screams that he’s in disguise!”

“You only think that because you know who you’re looking at,” Rena says.  “I bet if we showed you the real Catwalker and Chat Noir in disguise, you wouldn’t be able to identify the fake.”

“You’d need to have the real Catwalker for that,” Ladybug points out.

“I can go get him,” ‘Catwalker’ offers.  “He’s not far.”

“We’ll have each one come over here at random, Chat wearing the illusion and Catwalker as himself,” Rena suggests.  “Let’s see if you can really tell them apart, Ladybug.”

***

A catboy with green hair lands on the roof in front of Ladybug.

“Hello, Ladybug, I’m Catwalker.”

Ladybug walks around Catwalker and ogles him thoughtfully.  “Hmm… well… I guess if…maybe…?”

“Yes?” he asks.

“I’m pretty sure I know,” Ladybug says confidently.  “But... send in the other one just to be sure.”

“As you wish,” Catwalker replies with a smile.

***

A catboy with green hair lands on the roof in front of Ladybug.

“Hello, Ladybug, I’m Catwalker.”

Ladybug laughs triumphantly. “Okay, now it’s definitely obvious which one’s which!  The last one was Chat Noir, so you’re clearly Catwalk—” Ladybug pokes his chest, only for the illusion to disappear as she touches a bell, leaving Chat Noir in his place.

“You were saying, m’lady?” Chat asks.

Ladybug’s face reddens.  “That!  You!  He’s!  I’m!”

“And what did I tell you?” Rena says, completely smug.  “He’s indistinguishable from the real thing.”

“Fine, you win!  Chat can become Catwalker!”

“I’ll let Catwalker know I’ll be keeping the ring.” Chat moves to jump back towards where Adrien is supposedly hiding.

“Wait!” Ladybug calls out, grabbing Chat Noir’s wrist.  “I just… I want to say goodbye to him.  Can you send Catwalker here again?  I think I need some closure…”

“Of course,” Chat replies, smiling.  “I’ll send him right to you.”

***

“Are you sure you don’t want to get a peek behind Catwalker’s mask?” Ladybug asks while waiting for Catwalker’s return.

“I’m sure,” Rena says.  “Trust me, it’d be a really bad idea.”

“Ladybug?” Catwalker asks, landing light on his feet.  “You needed me for something?”

“Yes, follow me,” Ladybug says as she leads him through the trap door to Marinette’s bedroom.

“Can you detransform?” Ladybug asks once they’re in private.

“Chat Noir is replacing me permanently, then?” Catwalker asks.

“He is,” she confirms.

“I’m glad.  It’s better that you’ll have someone you know and trust by your side.  Claws in.”

Catwalker’s costume falls to reveal Adrien Agreste.

“Adrien…” Ladybug says, trailing off before gathering her resolve and trying again.  “Adrien, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he says, giving a reassuring smile.  “I always understood why you felt the way you did about me.  And I wasn’t exactly making your job any easier.”

“But I was such an awful partner to you!  It’s my responsibility to be a leader people can look up to and I only ruined everything.  I never wanted to hurt you, Adrien… but I did.  And that never would have happened if I’d just trusted my partner.”

Adrien takes Ladybug’s hand.  “One of the reasons you’re Ladybug is because you use your brain to ask questions about what’s really going on in a situation.  Chat Noir was usually above suspicion since you got to build that trust with him naturally.  I think you only trusted me as long as you did because I was a similar hero and might have subconsciously reminded you of him.  But the second it became obvious that my approach to secrets was fundamentally different from Chat Noir’s…?”

Ladybug shakes her head.  “It’s more than that.  Adrien… I can’t say how or when, but you’ve become incredibly important to me.”

Adrien’s eyes widen.  “I… really?”

“Yes.  I get tunnel vision whenever you’re involved.  More than most of the people I save.”

“Like trying to stuff me in a sarcophagus to keep me safe,” Adrien realizes.  “Or almost giving up your miraculous to save an illusion of me.”

“Or completely losing it when you vanish without a trace,” Ladybug finishes.  “But since you won’t be Catwalker anymore, you can come back home without having to worry anyone ever again!”

Adrien winces, looking down.  “Sorry, Ladybug.  But—”

Ladybug’s heart sinks.  “No…”

“I have to stay missing,” Adrien tells her.  “If it was just about having the freedom to be Catwalker, I wouldn’t have done something as drastic as going into hiding for it.  I still have secrets to keep from someone who knows that ‘Adrien Agreste’ has the answers they seek.  Someone who has gotten close to my friends with no one realizing.”

“Who…?”

“I don’t know for sure yet.  But Chat Noir will have to take the lead in trying to find out.”

“You trust him,” Ladybug realizes.

Adrien smirks.  “Almost as much as you do.”

“I’m glad you have him.  Chat’s the best friend anyone can ever ask for.”

“And he’ll still be the best partner you’ll ever have, Ladybug, even if he’s borrowing my face to do it.”

Ladybug looks down.  “I’m just scared that one of us is going to break character and everyone will find out about him.”

“Maybe I can put in a few appearances as Catwalker?” Adrien suggests.  “If you’re not still mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Ladybug says.  “Not anymore.  Just... if you do show up, don’t tell me when you’re using the miraculous or I’m going to be completely useless in a fight.”

“You’re never useless,” Adrien says, placing a hand on Ladybug’s shoulder and looking into her eyes.  “You’ve been there for Paris with every attack we’ve faced.  Even at your lowest, you’ve figured out a way to win every single time.  And I have faith that you’ll be able to do it no matter which of us is there to help you.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re really good at encouraging people?” Ladybug asks, wiping away a tear.  “Like scary good, it’s almost as helpful as when Chat Noir does it.”

“I’m honored to receive such high praise.”

“You deserve it.  You deserve the world, Adrien,” she says, hugging him.  “I wish I could give it to you.”

“You already have,” Adrien says, basking in the embrace.  “You’ve saved me so many times just by being you, Ladybug.  I could never ask for anything more.”

“If you don’t want anything…” Ladybug muses, “could I ask a favor instead?”

“Anything, Ladybug.”

She looks straight into his eyes.  “Treat Adrien Agreste better.”

Adrien blinks.  “I…”

“I know you’re too selfless to count yourself as a person worth protecting,” Ladybug says, squeezing his hand, “but you have people who love you so much.  We couldn’t bear it if you disappeared and came back broken or not at all.”

“I won’t let anything happen to me— at least, nothing that can’t be fixed with a little miraculousness,” Adrien promises.  “You won’t need to worry, Ladybug: I’ll be back before you know it.”

[felixcloud6288]

Dungeon Meshi Chapter 14

I really loved the title page showing how Marcille does her hair. If my hair was long enough to do it, I'd try it myself. My favorite part is the braid around her ears.

Her actual hairstyle this chapter isn't the same as the title page though. Instead, she keeps the side braids but wraps her long hair into a large loop ending in a ponytail.

I love these little beat panels. The party is so prone to awkward silences and it's always funny whenever it happens. All of them try very hard to be polite but no one ever knows what to say when they know being honest would upset someone.

We've got some info on magic. It requires the user to take care of their hair. And poor grooming can affect how well support magic can work on a person.

Senshi ought to engage in proper grooming to at least make sure hair doesn't get into the food.

There is some light environmental storytelling about the first expeditions to 4F. By the looks of things, the first people to reach 4F had to smash the walls open to actually access the level. Then builders had to come in to build platforms for adventurers to actually be able to enter the floor.

I get the feeling the upper level was either opened first or had to be made so builders could safely haul and drop the walkways into the water.

Since Senshi doesn't have any means of crossing the water, this is probably the furthest he's ever gone down the dungeon.

All his earlier instances of deriding Marcille's magic had some merit to them, but now Senshi is just being a stubborn old goat. Even if his concern about relying on magic too much will harm his ability to act without it being available, the waterwalking skill is a practical solution to the situation at hand.

He's acting like that employee who's worked at the company for thirty years and takes several hours to fill out a spreadsheet because they don't know how to use any of the calculating tools. Then they stubbornly refuse to let you show them how to fill it quickly cause it's the way they've always done it.

The way Marcille applied waterwalking to Senshi implies that the part where she taps her feet was just performative. As long as she hits you with her staff, the spell is applied.

Senshi didn't immediately sink so the spell works somewhat. I guess the waterwalking spell is less "You can now stand on water" and more "the rate at which your body displaces the water beneath your feet is reduced."

I hated physics but I kind of want to go back through topics related to density, waves, buoyancy, and kinetic energy because of this moment. Real quick, buoyancy is the force that fluids exert in opposition to the gravitational force of an object in it. If buoyancy is stronger than the gravitational force, the object will float over the fluid. If gravity is stronger, the object will sink. There's more to it of course, but I think this is enough background for my upcoming ramble.

When Marcille jumped into the water, there was a tiny splish and some ripples formed around the point of contact. So she made physical contact with the water, but her spell prevented the kinetic energy that would transfer to the water on contact from dispersing the water to any degree that would cause her to fall into it. So the gravitational force she's exerting on the water is so low that she can stand on the water.

I know this is one of those "It's magic. Don't worry about it" moments, but I'd love to consider alternate uses for this spell considering what it appears to be doing. If the spell actually reduces density or weakens the gravitational force that acts against bouyancy, could a sinking ship be saved by applying this spell to it or a sunken ship be raised using it? And can it be used with other liquids? Could a variant be made that can let a person float in the air (This would have to be made with caution cause if it works the way I'm describing, it could easily catapult someone into the stratosphere).

Of all people to oppose Senshi's idea of riding a Kelpie across the water, you'd never suspect Laios. He's the one who comes across as the most likely to want to befriend monsters. But it turns out that he has far more sense about things.

Yes, Laios loves monsters. However, he isn't blind to the reality of what they are. In chapter 8, Senshi talked about the care that goes into living in the dungeon and feeling like you're part of it, but he's overstepping his bounds with Anne. By assuming he can tame and ride her, he's not respecting that she is a dangerous creature that should be treated as such.

The initial interaction with Anne reminded me of a Youtube video of a guy sitting by a river and a grizzly bear casually walks up to him and sits next to him. The bear was docile and the guy wasn't in any danger, yes. But it would be a bad idea to walk up to the bear or try to pet it. And the guy in the video was definitely afraid during that interaction because he was sitting next to a grizzly bear.

Laios also seems to be speaking from experience.

The first hint that Anne wasn't as sweet as she seemed is she chewed on Senshi's blood-soaked beard.

Laios saw what was going to happen from a mile away and lassoed Anne's tail just before she submerged. He even looks like he's saying "I told you!" when Anne begins to descend.

After killing her, Senshi decided to prepare Anne's body to eat it. He's not very emotive, but he's genuinely upset that the bond he thought he had didn't exist. He sees himself as part of the dungeon, but even though he helps take care of it, that doesn't mean the monsters are going to treat him as anything other than potential prey.

Maybe he started to realize that he hadn't given her the proper respect she deserves as a dangerous kelpie. Eating her is a way to give respect though. He's not going to leave her body to rot. If he's going to be part of the dungeon, then he should participate in its ecosystem. His eagerness to use the soap Marcille made from Anne's fat might be an extension to that respect.

Marcille knows how to make soap from scratch. Since hygiene and grooming are important parts of magic, she probably was taught how to make use of what's available.

Oh my gosh! He's so fluffy!!

Senshi's stubbornness and insistence on doing things his own way almost got him killed. At least he's willing to be more flexible now. And he's noticing there are some enjoyable experiences that require magic.

SENSHI FLASH!!

back

[theygender]

Still baffled by the time I (MMJ patient, needs cannabinoids to be normal) tried to get CBD and delta-8 for myself and my girlfriend (non-MMJ patient, likes to participate in celebrations without getting drunk) while we were out of state for her sister's wedding.

We were in Missouri. I was looking for CBD stores online, but all of the results I was getting seemed to be for dispensaries. I was heretofore unaware that Missouri had legalized medical marijuana, but I knew that my card wouldn't work out of state. I continue looking until I finally find a listing for a smoke shop that doesn't say dispensary and has reviews mentioning CBD and delta. We drive to the store and I go in by myself.

When I get to the front door of what looks like a normal shop I see a glowing neon green sign with the word "dispensary" and a medical cross on it. "Oh no," I think. "I've made an error. This is also a medical dispensary." Right then, a woman walks out to adjust the signage and I stammer out something about having a card but it being from another state bc I'm not from here so I know I can't go into a dispensary but I didn't think this was one but now I see the sign so I'm wondering if I'm allowed in. (I have not yet had the cannabinoids I need to be normal.)

She looks at me in confusion for a moment before my words finally catch up to her and then responds, "Oh don't worry; we're not legal."

This statement doesn't set off any alarm bells for me. "Ah yes," I think. "She means that they're not a dispensary selling medical marijuana and you don't need legal documents to get in. So they'll only sell things like CBD and delta-8. I'm familiar with this. This is exactly what I was looking for."

I follow her into the shop and ask for CBD and delta-8 gummies. They have CBD, but it turns out they don't have many options for delta-8. She asks if I would like delta-9 instead.

"Hmm," I think to myself. "I thought delta-9 was regular THC. I must be mistaken." Out loud, I ask, "Is that stronger than delta-8?"

"Oh yeah," she replies. I buy the delta-9.

I take the CBD and gradually become more normal. Later we return to the room my girlfriend's mom rented us and I decide I want to have a bit of the delta-9. Not wanting to get too high, I only have half a gummy (15 mg) which is about equivalent to my regular MMJ dose at home.

When it hits, I experience the most extreme synesthesia I have ever had in my life.

My sense of sight and sense of touch are completely swapped. I don't feel touch physically anymore, I'm seeing every sensation as swirling lines of color in my vision instead. I can't see my surroundings through the swirls, I only have a vague sense of them from the way the reflected light feels on my skin. Gravity has shifted on a 90° axis. Down is now left. The only thing preventing me from plummetting sideways off the bed and into the wall is my girlfriend holding me and promising she won't let me fall. She's petting my hair and it's making me see pretty colors. It's not an entirely unpleasant experience.

This—I cannot stress this enough—has never happened to me before.

The next morning, I do some more googling. It turns out delta-9 is just regular THC. It also turns out that marijuana is legal not only medically in Missouri, but also recreationally. So if she wasn't referring to medical restrictions, then what did that woman mean when she said her shop wasn't legal?

I research the brand and find out that it's from a company that uses the "hemp with less than 0.3% THC content isn't classified as a drug" law as a legal loophole by just making Really Big Gummies. "Maybe she meant they only sell federally legal products?" I think. That's a weird way to phrase it.

I look closer at the site. The label on the package seems to match a product that the company stopped selling a significant time ago. The expiration date on my bag is current. The package design also doesn't seem to match any of the pictures I'm seeing of that product. And the gummies don't seem to be much bigger than my normal ones which is strange considering the legal loophole they're supposed to be using.

Ignoring everything else, it's also the most bizarre experience I have ever had on weed in all of my years with it.

What did she mean when she said they weren't legal?

[peydawgz]

saw your requests are open and i was wondering if you could do a lil thing where reader is like a inventor and makes a star projector for siebren?? romantic ofc :] hope u have a wonderful day!! !

You Gave Me The Universe || Siebren de Kuiper (Sigma) x Reader

Thank you for your request!!! I hope you like this!! It’s a little angsty, but wholesome ending :3

You and Siebren were tasked to work on a project together, your brilliant minds pairing perfectly. He came up with the ideas and physics, and you brought it to life. He was for the most part quiet, but he would go on rambles when the inspiration sparked.

You understood the trauma behind his mask. You took notice to the way he’d get lost in thoughts, the fear and anxiety, the shaking anger and frustrations. You were the only peaceful thing to come about his sad life. When the black hole appeared around him, and the gravity began to rise, he thought before there was no way to stop him. The thought of hurting the only one who could understand, oh it was like you had a sweet control over him.

Was it fear? Was it anxiety keeping him from you? You hadn’t seen him in a few days, you assumed he was recovering from his outburst. In the meantime, you worked on your own side project. It was just something small, something to keep his mind occupied and make the music fade for once. You cultivated a tiny machine, interpreting his interest in astronomy to create a holographic star projector. It would follow each moon phase, and could zoom in and out of each part of the known galaxy. You’d put so much work into it, you just hoped he would show up eventually so you could give it to him.

After waiting through your usually workday hours with no sign of him, you decided to pay Siebren a visit and see what was up. You tried to call but he would not answer, you still showed up anyways. You knocked on his door, expecting no answer but it only took two seconds before the door creaked open and the tall man stood before you. He wore a comfortable attire, black long pants and a plain white shirt. He looked defeated and uneasy, making you think perhaps he didn’t want you here. It was refreshing just to see him, though, you were worried of the disaster he could cause.

Without exchanging a hello, you lunged into Siebren’s chest, throwing your arms around him as to heal his saddened heart. He was tense, but completely relaxed at your touch. He sighed and invited you in for tea, happy to see your face as well. He didn’t want you to remember him for the monster he showed you he could be. You sat together and talked, mostly you catching him up a bit before getting to your point.

“I made something for you, to help you rest and strengthen your focus.” You told him. He looked shocked, he must not often receive gifts. Before he could say any mess about you didn’t have to get him anything- you told him to close his eyes. You carefully set up the projector out on the table, and shut off the lights. He had a smile creeping over his face, his demeanor changing into excitement.

“Okay you can open them up now.” You take your seat back next to him. He peeks at first, then opens his eyes and mouth in awe as he stares upon the illuminated ceiling. “You made this,, for me??” His voice is almost childlike in bewilderment, and the stars reflect on his glassy eyes. “Yeah! This way, you can relax, when your mind gets fogged up or if you need to fall asleep.” You responded.

“Fascinating…” he mumbled as he lifted a hand, controlling the coordinates with his gravity powers. As you watched him inspect your handmade device, you admired his happiness in this moment. In a state where all chaotic forces do not control him, his intelligence beams. He names each constellation out loud, like checking off a list he knows all too well. He pulled back so far out of the known universe you were staring into the purple clouds and star pools of your own galaxy, suddenly feeling small.

“You are extraordinary. I can’t thank you enough for this… you know me so well.” He said as he faced you. He pulled you in for another hug, his hands holding the fabric of your clothing like something might steal you away from him. He made a mental decision to keep you away from danger, to protect you at all costs and to also cherish your gift to him. No more running and hiding- he would have to fight with his mind to get it under more control, and was thankful for your help to allow him to see this path.

You were taken back by suddenly his whole body covering you in his craving grasp, not understanding the amount of emotion behind it. He was shaking a little, giving you the impression he may cry or his thoughts were becoming too much. You gently caress his back, and slowly moved up to pet his soft, greying hairs as if to soothe him.

His convulsions were that of being overloaded with affection aggression, his desire making him want to nearly crush you, with how sweet and caring you treated him. All signs in his head were pointing to yes, and he could no longer doubt those emotions any longer. He pulls away slowly, his gaze looking among the beautiful swirling colors around you, your own eyes moving around the room as well. He caught your chin with his fingers, crashing his lips into yours very passionately, like letting go of all that held him back. Your face felt hot, a blush showing over your cheeks as you moved closer for more. Once the kiss was over, Siebren slouched over and tucked his face into your neck, scared to look you in the eye for what he’d done. You thought he was so cute, trying to reassure him with more petting and caressing. He moved back, still looking away shyly, you were supposed to be just a coworker, how could he let himself be so inconsiderate to your profession. He looked sad with what he’d done, guilty even.

“It’s okay! I feel the same. There’s no need to worry about later, we should just enjoy now.” You assured him, always being the bright light in his black hole thoughts. He chuckled, reminding himself to relax again, and he leaned back into your touch to enjoy being in the moment with you.

“I can’t thank you enough for all that you do for me. My affection for you goes deeper than the universe.”

[multi-fandom-imagines8]

Can I request for Anakin Skywalker? The reader is dating him and she is informed of a loved one dying and Anakin comforts her. Anakin was close to her family so he’s upset about it, too.

A/N: sorry it took so long to get to this request. I hope you enjoy it 💜

Warnings: angst, parental death, grief.

Fictober Challenge

As the sun set over your apartment, warm golden hues bathed the living room, highlighting your hunched and trembling form. The message you received earlier felt like a knife to the chest, twisting every heartbeat. Clutching a cherished memento in your hand, your vision blurred with tears as overwhelming grief passed down on you, suffocating and unrelenting.

Anakin had just returned home, and you didn’t even have the strength to look up. 

“Y/n?” His voice, soft and full of concern, cut through the haze of sorrow. He stood a few feet away, his brows drawn together in worry as he took in the sight of you, so broken and lost. The warmth in his blue eyes was tinged with fear- fear of what or who could have hurt you this deeply.

You tried to compose yourself, wiping at your tears hastily, but it was useless. You took a shuddering breath and looked up at him, your lips quivering. “Anakin…” Your voice cracked, and the pain in your expression hit him like a physical blow.

He was at your side in an instant, kneeling before you and reaching for your hands. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice urgent yet gentle, his fingers wrapping around yours. The worry etched on his face deepened as he saw the anguish in your eyes.

You swallowed hard, struggling to find the words. All that came out was a broken whisper. “I…my father…he’s-” The sentence crumbled in your throat, too painful to speak, as if voicing it would make it real.

His eyes widened in shock, and for a heartbeat, he was speechless, absorbing the gravity of your words. Your father had meant a great deal to him as well, like a father figure he had never known. Anakin had never experienced the bond between a father and a son, but after you started dating, your father had stepped into that role, treating him like his own, giving him a sense of belonging and warmth that had been absent his entire life. 

Anakin knew he was gone without you having to utter the words; he felt you, felt your pain as deeply as if it were his own. Without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, as if his embrace could shield you from the crushing pain. His jaw clenched, and his throat worked as he fought back his own tears, his grief entwined with yours. But he needed to be strong for you, even as his own heart broke.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He rested his cheek against the top of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair. “I…I wish I could take your pain away. I wish I could fix this.” The helplessness in his voice made his heart ache even more. He was used to being the hero, to saving people, to protecting you, but this- this was something he couldn’t fight.

Seeing you so shattered broke something inside him. His hands trembled as he held you. “You don’t deserve this,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “It’s not fair. You deserve happiness, not…not this.”

You sobbed into his chest, your fists clutching the fabric of his robes. “I just…I can’t believe it,” you cried, your voice muffled. “It hurts so much, Anakin.”

He pulled you back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away your tears even as his own threatened to spill. The pain of not being able to do more than hold you tore at him, but he forced himself to focus on you. “I know,” he said, his voice breaking. “I know it hurts. But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll get through this together, I promise.”

His forehead pressed against yours, his grief clear in his eyes, but he held on to you with all the strength he could muster.

Even if he couldn’t take away your pain, he would stay with you through every moment of it, sharing the burden, loving you fiercely.

You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest, his arms wrapping around you in protective embrace. He rubbed soothing circles on your back with one hand, not saying anything further, just silently conveying his support. He knew that more words couldn’t heal this wound, and that his presence was just what you needed most right now.

He rested his chin on top of your head, his eyes closing as he continued to hold you, hoping his touch would offer some comfort and solace.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed you, and you drifted off in his arms. He looked down at your sleeping form, a soft, unguarded expression gracing your features. A surge of tenderness swept through him, and he found himself gently brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face, his heart aching with love and the wish that he could protect you from every pain in the galaxy.

Tags: @mother-dragon-and-her-hatchlings @aoi-targaryen

[the-mountain-flower]

Connections

A sequel to Surviving A Lesser Of Two Evils

Theia starts actually learning how to fight, thanks to an acquaintance made during her quest.

In a moment of mutual aid, Theia receives help from a force she thought she'd lost the favor of.

Ao3 link

Content warnings: physical abuse, power imbalance, ableism, guilt

“Now widen your stance just a little, not that much, yeah, like that. You’re less likely to get knocked over if you keep your center of gravity fairly low. Also leg and core strength’s good for that, but that’s somethin’ that you build up over time. Now hold that stance. I’m goin' to throw a punch, so try to block it.”

Theia nodded, grateful to at least be warned ahead of time to prepare.

Sora quickly took up an offensive position, and threw a punch toward Theia.

Theia moved her arms to block the bounty hunter’s fist, and while she did technically manage to block, the force immediately caused her to stumble backward. She nearly kept her footing, but tripped at the last second.

Sora reached forward and grabbed Theia’s arm to keep her from falling.

“Not bad!” Sora said, “you didn’t immediately collapse, that’s a good start.”

“Thanks.” Theia retook the amateur defensive stance. “I’m ready.”

“Good!” Sora was faster this time, but Theia was getting better prepared with each attempt.

The third time Sora threw in a surprise feint which caught Theia off guard, causing her to miss the block and get a fist to her side. She glared at Sora as they offered a hand to help her up.

“What was that for?”

“Just keeping it interesting.” Sora smirked. “Don’t worry, I’m still holdin’ back.”

“Yeah, I can tell.” Theia brushed the dust off of herself.

“Lemme know if you need to stop, okay?”

Theia nodded. “It’s alright. You don’t hit nearly as hard as Shrike.”

Sora shrugged. “Yeah, well, I’m not all for beatin’ up anyone I don’t gotta, even if they’re a nerd-type who’s clearly never gotten into a tussle before. Um, don’t tell the boss I said that.”

“Sure, thanks?” Theia almost laughed, then frowned, “Wait, ‘nerd-type’?”

“Yeah? Somethin’ wrong with that?”

“No,” Theia stepped forward with what she knew was a very intimidating glare, “but how did you know that?”

Sora rolled their eyes, clearly unimpressed with what almost always worked on entitled people who thought they deserved to look through fragile tomes without care for preservation efforts. “I mean, if you’re tryna hide it, you’re not doin’ great. Plus, you kind of just have that sort of bookish vibe, you know?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I dunno, just that you act a lot like the scholarly type. Look, whatever it is, it’s none of my business, so I won’t pry or anythin‘ if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I appreciate that.” Theia had been careful to keep her background a secret, and mentally filed that interaction away to consider later.

“Ready to try again?”

Theia nodded.

Two punches later, and she successfully blocked without getting knocked out of position.

“Nice!” Sora applauded, “You’ll be holding your own against Shrike in no time!”

Theia smiled, though she didn’t really care about ‘holding her own’ against the lead bounty hunter. Just staying intact long enough to ‘hold her own’ against a certain magus.

Though, come to think of it, he didn’t seem like the type who could take a punch very well, either, just use political or magical power instead. Maybe having some combat skills will be a good thing, a potential advantage if nothing else.

Though she was building up the skills needed to hold her ground in combat, Theia had gotten good at catching herself so she didn’t fall on her face or back, so she almost didn’t have to try when she fell in front of Sora.

“You’re definitely gettin’ better- woah!”

Theia saw an opportunity an acted quickly, kicking one leg out to collide with Sora while they were caught off guard. It was harder than it looked, and beneath the leather of their boots Theia could swear she heard a metallic clang.

Sora stumbled backward, and fell down themself. They grinned at Theia. “Awesome!”

Theia smiled as she got up. “I think that’s the best I’ve gotten against you.”

“It sure was! And you saw an opening and took it, that’s great.”

“Thanks.” Theia gestured to where she’d kicked Sora, “Is your leg okay? I’m pretty certain they’re not supposed to make that sound.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s just a me thing.” Sora tapped the side of their lower leg with a fist, producing a reverberate metallic noise. “Metal prostheses on both of ‘em.”

“Neither of them were damaged just now, were they?”

“Nah, they’re pretty strong and well-made. Gotta have ‘em sturdy in this line of work.”

“I see.”

“Think fast!” Sora got up faster than Theia had time to process the movement, sweeping an attack towards her. Theia didn't dodge in time, but was able to break the bounty hunter's tackle afterward.

“Good job. Always best if you can avoid gettin’ got first, but good job on gettin’ yourself out, there.”

“Thanks, I’m a fast learner.”

“Look, boss, I ain’t gonna be the kinda person to tell you how to do it, but I really think you’re goin’ way too hard on her.”

Theia hadn’t been far enough away from the camp to not hear raised voices, but hadn’t been able to make out what they were saying until just now. Her aching body protested at getting up so soon, but she couldn’t risk missing something important at a time like this.

To her surprise, she found Sora and Shrike having an argument.

“You think I got any coddling in the arena? I had to learn how to hold my own in a fight, and that made me strong.”

“Yeah, but you’ve said you knew how to fight before that. She’s got no fightin’ experience to begin with.”

“Most gladiators don’t.”

“Most of them get hurt too badly, or they die. I think you of all people should know that. And Theia isn’t a gladiator.”

Lady have mercy, they’re talking about me.

By now the rest of the bounty hunters had stopped whatever they were doing to stare at the scene. Sora stood in front of Shrike, arms crossed and talking with a confrontational tone. Shrike looked annoyed, possibly even angry, but was keeping a deceptively cool front.

“If she isn’t strong enough to fight back, then there’s nothing else I can do for her.” Shrike retorted coldly.

“You’re not lettin’ her get strong enough,” Sora didn’t back down, “Do you really think anyone can fight well if they’re all beaten up like you do to her?”

“Yes. And I should know.”

“I’m sayin’ that’s definitely not the best way to learn. You can’t expect anyone to run without learnin’ to walk first, if you catch my drift.”

Theia debated stepping in- and she had every right to- but reluctantly decided against it. She hadn’t asked Sora to try and defend her, and they could physically hold their own against Shrike if needed much better then Theia was equipped to at the moment. Right now, she needed to focus on staying intact long enough to face the Dark Avatar when the time came, and her best chance of that came down to tending to her injuries as thoroughly as she could manage, and to not seeking out more unnecessary fights than she already had to deal with. Her shoulder still ached after Shrike had dislocated it only the day before, and her bruised ribs made her flinch with every deep breath.

Still, it felt nice that Sora was willing to stand up to Shrike for her, even if she hadn't asked for it. The other bounty hunters either didn’t care enough to say anything after the first few days, or agreed with Shrike on her methods. Sora was definitely still one of them and no qualms about beating anyone to the ground for payment, but at least they had some kind of moral compass and didn’t take pleasure in hitting unprompted or for no reason, and apparently felt strongly enough to confront Shrike about it. In her position, even with her reservations, Theia definitely appreciated it.

“It sounds to me,” Shrike said coldly. “that you don’t think I’m using my position of authority as her mentor correctly.”

Something flashed in Sora’s expression before they appeared to regain composure. Even those under her command knew to fear Shrike’s retribution. “I’m not sayin’ that,” Sora said, “I’m just sayin’ things might be helped by goin’ a little easier, that’s all.” They stepped back. “But I know when my advice is unwanted.”

Sora was stopped in their tracks, and looked down incredulously at their feet which seemed to be stuck to the ground.

“I don’t think you understand how much I don’t appreciate my authority being challenged.” Shrike said in a low tone, one of her hands glowing with a light gray aura.

“I wasn’t- shit, boss, I didn’t mean it like that!”

Theia gritted her teeth in anger. None of the other bounty hunters gave any sign of stepping forward on Sora’s behalf. If she was in any state to intervene, she would.

I could... no. No, I lost the right.

But... would the Lady really mind all that much, if it were to help another?

Theia took a deep breath, and relaxed the barrier she’d placed on her mind. Only a little, just enough to let in a candle’s worth of light.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Theia focused on the ground where Shrike stood, plotting a karmic variation of the trick the Stone mage had used on her multiple times.

A small light, almost imperceptible if you weren’t looking for it, shone by Shrike’s feet. A small nudge, effective on one who didn’t see it coming, just enough to knock her off balance and make her loose concentration.

“What the-” Shrike stumbled backward, her expression one of surprise and confusion.

Freed from the mage’s hold, Sora took the opportunity given to them and dashed away.

Shrike scoffed, but didn’t follow.

Theia breathed a sigh of relief, then startled at a familiar voice in her head.

Junior Archivist, said the voice of a Dragon, using the title Theia had thought she no longer held, you need not punish yourself for anything.

My Lady?

You were never to blame. And I will always be willing to help, you need only to ask.

I... Thank you, my Lady.

“How’re you holdin’ up?”

Theia looked up to see Sora walk into the tent with a strained smile on their face.

“Relatively speaking? Alright.” Much better than before, though that had nothing to do with her physical state. “How about you? I saw what happened with Shrike.”

Sora’s smile faltered. “It’s fine. Wishin’ my soul barrier included prosthesis, but hey, not like there’s anythin’ to do about that now, so whatever.”

Theia pursed her lips. Sora didn’t even seem like they were going to acknowledge how messed up any of it was.

Of all the kinds of people she had to find herself with, did it have to be this morally-bankrupt lot?

“I’ve heard stories of places that specialize in that.”

“Huh, maybe I should pay ‘em a visit sometime.”

“Has this kind of thing happened before?”

“Eh, sometimes. Though last time the mage in question kinda went for all the metal on everybody so it wasn’t targeted or anythin’, actually I don’t even think he noticed, not that it would’ve made a difference since I was wearin‘ other armor and all of us got stuck on the wall like that anyway- long story. But that kinda thing happens sometimes in this line of work. But you see, there’s a benefit to bein’ a more ranged attacker,” they gestured to the bow and quiver strapped to their back, “get targeted specifically like that less often.”

Hm, maybe Theia should try convincing Sora into a different line of work.

“Speaking of, I’mma go do some target practice, let off a bit of steam. See you.” They waved goodbye and started leaving before Theia even had time to return the gesture.

“Wait,” Theia called.

“Hm?” Sora popped back into the tent.

“I wanted to let you know, your help with teaching me to fight seems to be working. I avoided quite a few hits this time.”

“Awesome!” Sora smiled, and this time it looked much more genuine. “Keep practicing and you'll be holdin’ your own in a fight in no time.” They gave a thumbs-up before leaving.

Left alone with her thoughts again, Theia resumed her line of thinking Sora had interrupted. Her plans to confront the Dark Avatar had different aspects to factor in, now that she knew she still had the support of the Lady on her side. Given the amount of unknown variables at play, that proved to be more than just an emotional comfort to her.

But it still was something that lifted a significant amount of the weight on her chest. Her determination had never wavered enough to shake her dedication, but it felt undeniably good to know she was still supported by the subject of her faith.

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

Me: I'm scared for Theia. I'll write a fic abt and then give her some help from a sympathetic person to make it a little better

Me: this is a one-off character who I only made for the purpose of this

one-shot, I'll probably never come back to them

one Tumblr ask and over 1000 words later:

Me: wow, I really thought I was done with this bit huh

Anyways, glad I was able to give Theia a little better after last time :)

Remember to drink water, eat food, take your meds (if applicable), and get enough sleep. Love you all, and have a great [insert time here]! <3

[goldenavenger02]

ate a sleeve of saltines on my floor and i knew

"I think I hate mum."

The way she said it, so calm and sure of herself without a thread of hesitation in her voice despite the gravity of what she was saying, was the most worrying part of it all to Charlie.

(Hi, couple things. One, inconsistent posting schedule is sticking around due to a few factors. Two, I coincidently posted this on Tori's canonical birthday. Three, Graceland Too by Pheobe Bridgers is actually so Spring Siblings coded that it makes me want to scream. Four, this fic is NOT anti medication, I don't want that to be what comes across. Five, I will get back to posting about Nick and Charlie soon, I just have thoughts about siblings being one myself.) (Sorry for this long-ass author's note. And now, on with the story!)

Tori didn't like having visitors in her flat.

For one, she cherished her time alone. With Michael back in Essex for his rigorous skating training and the rest of her various classmates split up between various parts of the UK, she had come to Edinburgh with a clean slate, a fresh start and no one who had heard about the school she had attended going up in flames.

And for two, being nearly fourteen hours away from where she had grown up meant that unlike Charlie, she had a feeling that it was going to be a much more rare occurrence that her parents would just decide to "drop in" on a Tuesday evening then when her brother went off to uni.

However, being all along in Edinburgh meant that everyone was a stranger to her and even if they were in the same classes or it was one of her professors who happened to be from Truham, she did not want strangers in her home; even the girls she was renting the flat with felt like nothing more than acquaintances to her, only catching glimpses of them when she did venture out of her room and engaging in the same small talk that she figured every other freshman did when they first moved into the dorms.

The "how's it going?", "are you running to Tesco soon?" and "do you want to go to the gym with me?"

And for Tori, the answers she gave were always the same. "Fine", "Yes, I'll pick up more Wheatabix" and "I did my time in P.E."

It wasn't that she was trying to be unapproachable, or "prickly" as Oliver called it, but if her picking up cereal and refusing to go to the gym for fun was being unfriendly, then Tori was more than happy to be alone.

And so, with her Mathematics homework open in one tab and Tumblr opened in another, she was fully ready for a night to herself with a few texts from Michael in between.

Until the knock on her door snapped her away from the screen and to the opening door to see one of her flatmates, Emma with red curls and pale, freckled skin who always asked her if she wanted to join her in the gym, not crossing the threshold into her room with a soft smile on her face.

"Tori?"

"Yes?" She asked, going to the trouble of offering a fake smile, hoping that it would get Emma out sooner but also remembering to at least try and be friendly.

"Sorry to interrupt your studying, but there's a guy here."

"We live with two other girls, and I am not in the business of hooking up," Tori said, gesturing to the small ace flag on her wall that Charlie had bought her a year prior before returning to look directly in Emma's green eyes, "it's not my stray."

"He just looks a lot like that guy in that photo," Emma stopped to point out one of the frames, "so I figured you knew him or something."

Tori examined the frame she was pointing at, but it wasn't Michael she had been gesturing to in that picture from the fete.

"Dammit, that one is mine," she muttered, tossing the frame on her bed before pushing right past Emma to see, sure enough, her brother who was supposed to be fourteen hours away standing in her shared, small lounge, "Charles, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Tori," Charlie breathed, and she quickly assessed that physically, he was fine, which did nothing to quell her confused anger, "I can explain."

"You had better, because when mum finds out you've fucked off fourteen hours away on a Friday, she's going to be pissed," Tori said before realizing that not only Emma was present, but so was Phoebe with her bleached blonde hair that rode down in waves across the entire length of her spine and Mel, whose silver ring pierced into her nose shone brightly against her jet-black hair in a way that made her feel way too small, "come on, we can talk in my room."

And with that, she wrapped her hand around Charlie's much colder one and pulled him into her room before locking the door; she stayed standing with her back against the door while Charlie took a seat on the end of her bed, and pulled in a breath to collect herself before asking.

"How's Nick?"

"How's Michael?"

Tori let out a breath, trying to let any frustration that was wrapped in her confusion about why Charlie was here and relief that he was stable enough to match her sarcasm, before finally cutting to the chase.

"Charlie, why are you in Edinburgh and not Leeds?"

And Charlie, this time, stayed quiet for a few minutes, kicking at a small piece of dryer lint with the toe of his red converse sneakers that had seen better days, before finally meeting her gaze with a much more watery glint in his eyes that diminished most of the relief inside of her.

"Figured mum and dad would be slightly less angry if I came to you instead of going to Nick," he stopped, taking a breath that sounded a lot like he was doing his best not to cry, "so I said I was going to school and got on a train instead."

Tori sighed, finally pulling her back away from the door before depositing herself on the bed, resting her hand on her brother's back and rubbing gently in between his tense shoulders before asking, "do they know where you are?"

"If they checked my phone's location."

Tori pulled in another breath, not as intense as the first one, while never pulling her palm away from where it rested on his spine, before coming up with the solution in her head, whispering it on the off chance that Charlie got angry with her.

"I'll handle mum and dad if you tell me why you left in the first place."

Charlie finally used that as a chance to pull away from her and stand up; for as long as she could remember, or at least until he opened the drum set on Christmas one year, Charlie needed to pace when he was angry like he was physically trying to use his steps in order to push all of his frustration away from him.

When he would finally calm down, however, he would become a deflated version of himself with tears running down his face, like a helium balloon that had flown out of a child's hand and into a muddy field somewhere.

And when Charlie deflated, that was when he would become obsessive and lose his appetite.

"You still haven't outgrown that, have you?"

"Outgrown what?"

"Pacing when you're angry and can't get to your drums."

Despite the anger still in his eyes, Charlie managed a chuckle around the furrow in his forehead that helped Tori's chest feel a little lighter, like the deflating wouldn't be as painful as it had been just two years prior.

It was light enough that Tori didn't fear any repercussions when she stood up from her bed and said, "I'm going to go get us a snack first."

Phrasing it as a statement, as well as offering to share, usually gave Charlie little chance to lash out against the thought and that fact stayed true as he nodded in agreement, giving Tori the chance to walk into the lounge and go straight for one of the bags of microwave popcorn, taking the chance to send her dad a quick text as it spun around endlessly.

Victoria

Charlie's with me. I'm sending him home before Monday, but I think he just needed to breathe. Sixth form isn't easy on anyone.

And with that, she silenced her phone and emptied the popcorn into the pale yellow bowl that she had smuggled from home when she moved out; their mum's anger could dissipate while she handled the current situation.

After all, it was what she was good at.

She opened the door to see Charlie still in the same spot she had left him, towering over her but still looking like he had one, two, even three years prior deep within his blue eyes.

"Is that mum's bowl?"

Tori just brushed off the question, balancing the popcorn on her duvet before shoveling a few pieces in her mouth and letting the salt coat her tongue while saying, "just start from the beginning."

To her surprise, he didn't hesitate to start letting the words spill onto her purple shag rug.

…

Charlie wasn't sure when he ended up lying down on the hardwood floor of Tori's room, her shag carpet under his head; he was sure that when all of the anger about his mum and his eating disorder and his OCD had left him that Tori laid next to him, however.

When he was little, Tori always had snacks in her room. A packet of Gushers here, a sleeve of Oreo's there, it was nice to just talk about the newest episode of one of his favorite shows and snack on whatever she had smuggled into her room while their parents were asleep.

Despite years passing, Oliver being born and all of the mental shit both of them had gone through, not to mention Tori moving all the way to Scotland, she still kept snacks in her room.

It was obvious that she didn't like most people, but he couldn't stop himself from wondering if the food was not just to keep her from interacting with people she didn't want to see, but also for these very circumstances where his brain decided to launch a full blown assault that made even thinking about the growl of his stomach turn into an uneasy nausea.

She had left the popcorn on her bed but had pulled a sleeve of soda crackers from a drawer somewhere, leaving it on the floor.

"Geoff's got me trying some new meds, for my OCD."

"How's that going?"

"It's clomipramine, so it's making me gain weight," Charlie let out a shaky breath, feeling a wave of tears build in his eyes just by saying it out loud, "and mum's, you know, fucking thrilled, but I…I really don't want to replace my wardrobe."

"Charlie-"

"It's also destroying my libido, so I feel like I'm ruining things for Nick and I know it's just the stupid voice in my head telling me that, that Nick could probably still love me even if I was a goddamn worm-"

"Charles," Tori said, clapping a gentle hand over his mouth which only then got him to process just how wet his cheeks were and how angry he still was at his mum, "two things, okay? Let me say two things, and I need you to hear them."

Charlie managed to nod, to will himself not to let the voice of unmedicated anything overwhelm him.

"One, you are correct. Your sap of a boyfriend, like my sap of a boyfriend, would love you even if you were a worm and if he was here right now which he isn't because you paid like, two hundred more pounds to come to Edinburgh instead of Leeds, he would say the same thing that I'm going to say."

She stopped to wait on his nod, but also to pull in a breath.

"Two, if the medicine is having adverse effects, you change it. You know how many different anti-depressants I went through before my brain decided to actually function on Zoloft. You just gotta find what works, even if it pisses mum off, because?…"

Charlie sighed, a little bit of annoyance within, knowing fully well what she was going to say, because Geoff used it one time after he had vented about his mum and she had clung to it like it was gospel.

"Because this is about my brain, not mum's."

"A plus, Charles," she said, offering a plain soda cracker in his direction, "A plus."

He took the cracker, letting it's plainness coat his nerves and wash away the jitters that were just under his skin.

Before he knew it, Tori had pulled her laptop in the floor and cued up one of Twilight films, the half-empty sleeve of cracks still in between them; he wasn't sure which one it was, despite having watched all of them with Nick, but it possibly was the one comfort that his sister and boyfriend shared, so he accepted it and slipped another bite of cracker between his chapped lips.

It was so normal, it felt like home in the way it hadn't felt since the night before they made the two day drive to Edinburgh to help Tori move in; for that brief moment, he felt fourteen again where the safest place in the world was in Tori's bedroom, eating for the first time that day and watching some familiar movie tinged with childhood.

And then Tori broke the silence in between sips of what Charlie could only assume was diet lemonade.

"I think I hate mum."

The way she said it, so calm and sure of herself without a thread of hesitation in her voice despite the gravity of what she was saying, was the most worrying part of it all to Charlie.

"You don't mean that."

"Maybe I don't," Tori shrugged again, "but maybe I do. Maybe I hate the way she brushed off my obvious struggling, maybe I hate the way that she's been handling everything when it comes to you, maybe I hate that she doesn't believe that I even have depression."

Charlie sighed softly; he knew that no matter how tense his relationship with their mum was, the relationship between her and his sister was even more frayed, slowly severing with every small argument until the two of them could hardly even pretend to enjoy the most small of small talk.

"But she's still mum," Charlie found himself gently squeezing Tori's smaller hand, unsurprised when she squeezed right back, "and, no matter how much she fucks up and how often she fucks up, she…she does try, Victoria."

"That's what makes all of it so hard."

Charlie nodded again, letting the soft voices within Tori's computer fill the silence yet again.

At least until a notification chimed and Tori stood up to grab her phone from her bedside table.

"Micheal?"

"No, I silenced my text messages," she said before reaching for an orange prescription bottle settled next to a picture frame, "it's Zoloft time."

Charlie nodded, pulling his phone out of his pocket to see if Nick had the chance to check his phone despite it being late and having a rugby match in the morning.

"Your meds?"

"Left them at home." Charlie responded, sending a quick row of hearts to Nick before tucking it back into his pocket.

"Good," she agreed, settling back onto the floor, taking a swig of lemonade, and resting her head against Charlie's shoulder, "they were making you feel awful about yourself."

"I'll talk to Geoff about it on Wednesday, promise."

"What would you do without me, Charles?" Tori deadpanned, forcing Charlie's brain to instantly and briefly flash back to a burning building and his sister on a ledge and Micheal Holden being the only one who could convince her to let him and Nick take her to the hospital.

He pushed it away, he took in the fact that Tori was here; fourteen hours away and hair that had stayed cropped in a bob since that day he had gone to the beach and barely reachable on a good day but here.

"Don't ever forget that I'm here for you, okay?" He begged, unable to think about his words before they slipped out of his lips.

"Considering you came all the way to Edinburgh to see me, I think that is an impossible task."

And Charlie? Well, Charlie was more than happy with that answer.

[aventurineswife]

I imagine that one of outlander reader's powers is allows them to change physical dimensions and adapt to it, allowing to adapt to the atmosphere, gravity, environment, temperature, composition and other strange phenomena of other dimensions. Thanks to that, they are able to travel in dangerous places such as abyss/light realm in Teyvat, imaginary space, sea of quanta, imaginary tree, etc. safely without worry for post effects.

In genshin, After finding out about abyss and light realm, they end up travelling in it, researching abyssal energy, phlogiston, how to use it, etc. In order to find a way to counter abyss, use knowledge and get rid of it once and for all. After gaining complete knowledge of both, they try to experiment with it, even if they know they are incompatible, they saw that being from light realm, like Apep who adapted forbidden knowledge, vishaps were eventually modified to accept Orobashi's Bloodbranch Coral and how abyss mages/heralds were able to use elemental powers that supposed to be from light realm?

In HSR, reader already knew that honkai and imaginary energy, which is main source of paths, are one and same, they probably know how aeons work and born too. They already have been at imaginary tree a lot of times, as result their knowledge of imaginary physics is much more advanced than Chadwick himself.

The Herta: Behold, for it is I am Herta! A genius who holds a knowledge of imaginary implosion pulse and the one to unravel imaginary leakage phenomenon!

Reader, still stoic: Oh, wow... Congrats, I suppose? *Thinking: I actually already know the reason behind this so called phenomenon. And that imaginary pulse? Just a small grain in sea of imaginary space. But I am not going to tell her. I let the girl have fun and enjoy the fruits that she grown herself instead of giving her mine.*

Outlander Reader sees potential in everything, even in those things that other see as problem. Be it people, theories, objects, etc. It's a strange mix of altruism and way to satisfy their own urges, they like to help people realize their own potential, see them grow and reach their goals, but at the same time, they can't help but wanting to see what kind of results would bring realization of ideas that they see the potential in, be it through arts, experimenting or something else.

Okay yes, this concept of Outlander Reader is genuinely so fascinating—it gives that perfect blend of cosmic mystery and grounded, quiet compassion.

Like, you’ve created someone who’s seen entire laws of reality unravel, walked through impossible spaces, and instead of being prideful or detached, they still care. They still help others discover things for themselves. That moment with Herta? That’s peak Reader energy: they know so much more than anyone in the room, but they’re not there to upstage—just observe, nudge where needed, and let growth happen.

Their ability to traverse realms like the Abyss, the Sea of Quanta, the Imaginary Tree, etc. without suffering mental or physical collapse? That's terrifyingly cool in itself. It puts them on a level where even Aeons or Celestia might glance over and go: “Wait… what are you?”

And the dual nature of their curiosity—wanting to help but also see what happens—adds that perfect little tinge of unpredictability. Like, sure, Reader might fix everything… but they might also push one idea just far enough to see what the edge looks like.

Reader is basically: cosmic researcher, eldritch traveler, philosophical chaos gremlin, and benevolent older sibling all rolled into one. And I gotta love them for it.