#since all of their mental healths are so precarious it's best for everyone to have a buddy in case of anything bad

[multishipper-baby]

Having more AU and eakwynn brainrot, as expected.

[micvick]

Between the Sea and the Sand

Themes and Warnings for this chapter: Death and violence, Mental health struggles, Poverty, Cultural and racial discrimination, Familial loss, Forced participation in violent events, The text contains mild profanity and colloquial language and words in spanish.

Disclaimer: English is not my first language, and most of this text has been translated. The original text in Spanish is this: "Entre el mar y la arena".

Normal text: Spanish, Highlighted text: English

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

The awakening in Puerto Cabello brings with it the penetrating smell of the sea, but this morning, the salty scent seems more ominous. My father's absence is palpable; I miss waking up to his tickles. I used to hate it, but now I miss it more than anything. I still haven't accepted that he's gone, and my brother Kai must already be on the boat. After my father's death, my best friend Annie's dad gave him a job as a helper on his boat. He's probably there now, working hard in the early morning light. Anxiety gnaws at me because today is the Reaping. Every year it's torture watching my friends go and not come back. They're always from our port because we're poor people. The only way to live for us is to ask for tesserae, and now it's my turn, my first year in the bowl. But my thoughts aren't centered on myself. The shadow of worry looms over my older brother, Kai, 17, whose name has been entered into the Reaping more times than I can count. In our toughest times after my father's death, all we could do was ask for tesserae, but he never let me take one, to the point that now his name is in the bowl 32 times.

Annually, the prospect of my brother leaving me in this brutal place horrifies me. Since our father's departure, Kai has become the family's pillar. It's just him and me, and if he doesn't survive these games, my existence hangs by a thread. In District 4 in Puerto Cabello, our home, life is tough, and survival becomes even more precarious. We're just one of the thousands of islands in District 4. We're nothing more than a place where people who shouldn't be here live. We're Hispanic, so we should be dead like the others in South America, but a few of us survive. Now we live here, in a place where we barely eat once a day and live off fish and seaweed. The only ones who live moderately well in this port are those who have businesses, and sometimes not even that, as mostly they live in houses with all their relatives together, although that's better than living in a house with just one room, one bathroom, and a roof almost collapsing. As I got up and dressed in my best clothes with a bracelet an old friend gave me, I saw the television that only serves to watch government programs and saw an announcement about the Reaping and what time it would be. That annoyed me, seeing how the presenter laughed and the people around him shouted with joy.

It's undeniable that the Hunger Games are considered a monstrosity by everyone. Instead of using their resources productively, the Capitol chooses to watch children fight to the death for events that happened 68 years ago. It's stupidity, as well as unfair, because our people's names always come out, a Hernandez, a Gonzalez, a Mendoza, since we're the only ones who desperately need tesserae. Interestingly, all the Latinos who go die, it's like you step into the arena and you die if you're Latino. One of the few Latinas I saw who won was Noorena Colinas, who won the 60th Hunger Games. I remember her very well because she always refused to speak English inside the arena. She always spoke her language, and it was the first games where the Capitol was forced to put subtitles because she was super interesting to the Capitol's audience. First, she fled to the forest, and with her machete that she grabbed a while later in the Cornucopia, she finished off each of the tributes on her own. When only she and a boy from District 2 were left, while fighting with the female tribute from District 5, he was very badly wounded. But he didn't realize something: Noorena was above him on a tree branch covered in blood from her previous victims, and when he least expected it, she with her machete cleanly cut off his head and declared herself the winner of the 60th Hunger Games. But still, it seemed depressing to me. She was praying all the time, always killed the tributes in ways they didn't suffer, and when she won, she broke down in tears and never appeared again as a mentor. This is unfair, girls and boys sent to die, and even though I don't agree, the government of Panem has no problem killing children like me.

I prepare to go to the Plaza de las Flores, grab my bag, and fill it with pearls that I got while walking on the beach near my house, hidden in a mini forest. Only I know about it, because no one wants to go there because of the mutts, and not normal ones, giant sea creatures, that can devour you as soon as they see you, but they haven't attacked me, I'm invisible to them. I grabbed a handful of pearls to exchange them for basic food at the square to have one more day of food. My destination is to meet my best friend, Annie Cresta, a Cuban whose laughter and warm hug are a balm in these dark times. And it always has been. When my father died, she was with me at my house for three days along with her mother. She gave me her lunch at school and comforted me whenever I needed it.

I go to the square and quickly go to a jeweler. He looks at me and greets me as he invites me into his tent. "Let's see, my girl, what do you have?" I showed him a bag full of pearls. "I can't believe it, where did you get so many?"

"I can't tell you, sir, you know they'll shut down my business." Anyway, entering that place is a death sentence.

"Well, my girl, how much do you want for them?" he said as he took money out of his cash register.

"With that amount of pearls, I think they would be like 300." I said, that would be enough for a week, but my brother eats a lot. He's tall and very strong and robust. He eats twice or even three times as much as I do, but his job warrants it. He gave me my 300 and shook my hand.

"Have a good day, girl, take care," he said as he stroked my head.

When I go out, I set out to look for Annie. They always give me my lunch for free there, black beans with rice and shredded meat. They always give me all kinds of food, and I appreciate that more than anything. At Annie's food stand, shouts and laughter can be heard from the entrance of the square, people dancing along with peacekeepers with their families eating. I enter the tent and there is Lucía, Annie's mother. She is counting the earnings while Annie hands me an empanada. "Chama, take this, you look malnourished," she laughs as she ruffles my hair.

"Yes, yes, Annie. As if I had ever experienced malnutrition with all those delicious dishes they prepare here," I reply with a smile. She has a quite particular sense of humor, she always tells me I'm skin and bones as an excuse to give me more food than I should. But she brightens up my day every day, and more so on a day like this. She was very nervous last year because

because she was eligible for the games for the first time that year. She spent her time praying every night, and I spent the two days before at her house because she was so nervous, and we didn't sleep those nights. Luckily, she wasn't reaped, but this year she's still nervous. She thinks I don't notice, but I know her so well that I even feel like I can read her mind.

"And are you excited for the party?" Lucia comments with sarcasm in her voice. "It's starting in two hours, so get moving and get ready. Today you should be more dressed up than ever, something formal like a dress," she says while looking me up and down. She doesn't do it unpleasantly; she has the same sense of humor as her daughter and her whole family, but it's like a Hispanic tradition, laughing to keep from crying, laughing to avoid suffering.

"Oh, ma'am, you know I don't have dresses. The only one I have is my mom's, and it's from her wedding. Today I'm not getting married, you know," I reply, trying to keep the mood light. But I would never wear my mother's dress for something like the reaping; I will never in my life wear it for anything. It's the only thing that holds the memory of my mother, and you can see her personality in it: a white dress with edges that simulate waves, with open sleeves and a light blue on each edge, and very shiny. I wouldn't be able to wear it, maybe at my wedding, but I don't want to get married. That means children, and I don't want to have them just to see them die.

Annie touches my shoulder, pulling me out of my thoughts, and says with a contagious laugh, "Don't worry, girl, I'll lend you a dress. Remember, I'm rolling in dough and have a bunch of dresses." It's a bit true; it's just that her seafood business became popular, and they even opened a restaurant downtown. Still, they refused to leave their home here. They say they belong to the port and won't leave unless it's necessary.

"Okay, if you say so, let's see," I agree, and Annie takes me by the hand to her house. Her house is in front of the square, and it's a huge house where Annie's whole family lives: her grandparents, uncles, cousins, great-grandparents, etc. She lives on the third floor with her mom, dad, and four brothers.

We climb the stairs until we reach her room. While she searches among her dresses, she continues talking to me about the latest news from the district, trying to dispel the tension that hangs in the air.

"Did you hear that Finnick Odair has another girlfriend? She's a redhead who lives in the rich neighborhood. Finnick sure doesn't waste time with the rich," Annie comments while she fixes my hair into two ponytails.

"Well, Finnick always had a weakness for redheads." All the time I've known him, he's always had that thing for redheads. He even told me once. I remember, we were in one of the many hidden coves near my house. We were talking about how a guy was pretending to court Annie, and the topic of what kind of boy or girl we like came up.

"Annie, what kind of guy do you like?" I said while eating ice cream. I remember that at that time neither she nor I could afford such luxuries, but Finnick bought us ice cream, just because he wanted to, not expecting anything in return.

"My type of guy is tall, muscular, tanned. Mana, you know what my type is."

"Your type is Mr. Carlitos' son," Finnick said, laughing. She grabbed a handful of sand and threatened to throw it at him, but in the end, she didn't do anything.

"And you, very cool guy, what's your type? No lying, lies and you get sand in your face," Annie said. He just laughed.

"My type is girls with a tan skin, brown eyes, freckles, and who are redheads." Finnick stared at me intensely after saying that, no idea why. Annie just burst out laughing and touched my shoulder.

"And you, girl, what's your type?"

"I don't have one," I said while playing with the sand. Suddenly, I feel a piece of sand fall on my head. I turn around and see Finnick. He said to me, "L-I-A-R." I grabbed a handful of sand, and we started a sand war. I miss that. I wish we had never drifted apart.

Annie was looking at quite a few dresses, but none seemed to convince her. Finally, at the back of the closet, she pulled out a light blue dress with shell design at the bottom of the dress and with sparkles on the neckline. "This dress is made for you," she says as she hands it to me to put on. It's very beautiful, too beautiful for someone like me to wear. "You should wear it, you'll look so beautiful. You'll look like a princess," she says.

"No, girl, I can't wear this. You should wear it." After I say that, she rolls her eyes.

"It's not a question, you're going to wear it," she says without giving me a chance to say anything else. Then she turns around and grabs a small box. When I open it, I feel like crying. It was my mother's necklace. We had to sell it after my father's death, a beautiful necklace with a mermaid holding a bluish-green stone that my mother wore all the time. "Happy early birthday."

"But how did you get it?" I was sobbing as I held it in my hands.

"I paid a guy with 4 zeros the amount you sold it for," she said while laughing and hugging me. "Should I put it on you?"

I nodded, and she put the necklace on me. I couldn't stop crying. Now I have more debts to repay her; rather, I will never be able to repay her. "Girl, this looks perfect on you." I look at myself in the mirror, and yes, I actually look somewhat pretty. "You're like a mermaid; you sing very well and swim better than anyone in this district. It seems like you could live in the water perfectly." I blush slightly at her comment, and before I can say anything, she takes my hand and says, "Come on, we've talked too much and the reaping is about to start."

With the borrowed dress, we head together to the Plaza de las Flores. The music and excitement increase as we approach the heart of the event. The reaping is about to begin, and although the fear persists, Annie's company gives me the strength to face what is to come.

On the way, I met my brother. I went and hugged him, and he hugged me back with more force. He had a small bag in his hand.

"What's that, brother?" I asked curiously.

"They're tequeños. Since it's going to be your birthday, I want you to gain like 5 kilos." It's a tradition for poor people like us to feed the next birthday person until they can't eat anymore. It's like a reward for staying alive.

I was eating them when peacekeepers directed us to the lines with the other children. I was almost in the front row, and the Plaza de las Flores is enveloped in a gloomy atmosphere as the reaping ceremony begins. The sky is cloudy, casting unsettling shadows on the faces of the District 4 residents. Annie and I grip each other's hands tightly, feeling the weight of uncertainty looming over us.

The District 4 escort, with his extravagant attire, steps onto the stage. He is followed by Mags and Finnick, victors of past Hunger Games, along with the mayor. I make eye contact, and he immediately winks at me. He was always this ridiculous, always trying to flirt with all the girls in the district. I just rolled my eyes and continued paying attention to the ceremony.

Silence takes hold of the plaza as he begins to recount the history of the dark days and how these games were made to punish the districts. Every word seems like an ominous echo, resonating in my heart. When it's time to announce the female tribute, the escort starts making jokes that don't quite fit at the moment. Then he says, "Ladies first." A chill runs down my spine as he pulls out the small slip of paper. I have a bad feeling.

"This year's female tribute is…" The escort takes a moment that seems endless before saying, with a voice that cuts through the air, "Marina Fernandez."

"No, this can't be real. This is impossible. How, why?" Annie says, looking at me horrified. I feel like time stops. The stares focus on me, and a mix of resignation and terror leaves me paralyzed. My heart beats hard, and the certainty that the Hunger Games stretch before me like a dark abyss consumes me. A peacekeeper pulls me toward the stage. I don't want to go, I'm too young to die, that's what all the tributes say, but there's nothing they can do. But in that moment, I find Kai's eyes in the crowd.

My brother's gaze reflects terror and shock. The anguish on his face doesn't go unnoticed. The possibility of losing me is as real as the Arena itself. The terror grows stronger and stronger. I'm not ready to face what's coming. The Capitol cameras focus on my face, and I know that every gesture, every expression, is being scrutinized.

The escort prepares to announce the male tribute. The air becomes denser, and nervous glances are exchanged among the district residents. I feel a commotion, but I'm so stunned that I don't realize my brother is advancing toward the stage.

"This year's male tribute is…" The escort hesitates for a moment before saying, "Kenji Ishika-" Everyone turns to see my brother shouting and making his way through the crowd.

"I OFFER MYSELF AS A TRIBUTE," he said with a desperate voice.

"Boy, I think you got a little ahead of yourself. Well, it doesn't matter. Come up on stage, please."

My heart sinks. The crowd reacts in shock. The Fernandez siblings. The people in the Capitol must be moved. This is cruel, but I can't say anything, because if I do, it will be worse for us. My gaze meets Annie's, paralyzed by surprise, and in her teary eyes, I see that she knows we won't make it out of this.

The reality of the tragedy hits me hard. My brother and I, condemned to the Hunger Games. Kai advances to the stage with determination. Our eyes meet, and in that moment, I know he will do whatever it takes to protect me, and that terrifies me. We will die because of me, all because of me.

The Plaza de las Flores plunges into a sepulchral silence as the Fernandez siblings face our fate. Darkness looms over us, but amidst the tragedy, the people around us start singing a song, a song that was used in ancient times to demonstrate pride. That gives me a spark of hope, but it's just an illusion of the deadly fate that awaits me.

[normal-thoughts-official]

This feels like the mortifying of being known, except I'm still mostly unknown, but desperate times (replaying ilitw) require desperate measures, ajsjsjdhjs I'm Identity Thief Anon (and Chilenon but I already told you that i think)

Anyways I NEED more thoughts on ilitw (if you can, if you already got too tired of it obviously you dont need to answer or anything)

I JUST REALIZED IN THE "INTRO" OF EACH CHAPTER MR RED MAKES THE SCREEN DARK WITH HIS "HAND" I CAN'T BELIEVE I DIDN'T CAUGHT IT BEFORE !!

Also I think there are plotholes about Ava ? But maybe not, pls tell me if you have any idea of her timeline being friends or friend-ish with the group, because she didn't know or didn't remember mr red but she was in the woods a few times? Idk maybe I got confused

And what do you think of Lucas's mom, like we barely get info on her but do you have any thoughts? (I still think the teacher was a jerk and Im glad the snake bite him ajsjs)

Also I do have the choices app hacked now (not sure if I told you or not before sorry) and I need to know

Do you get all the weapons / info / pet companies when you play?

Because when I first played I did but now I'm not sure if I want Everything-Everything because I want a bit more of pressure ? Like to feel even more concern for everyone, but also it feels like a waste not getting everything and I do want all the info so maybe not just all the weapons ? Idk, so I was wondering how did you played

And I was curiously if you ever ended up playing Perfect Match?

Okay, that's everything I think, sorry if this is like creepy or anything (?)

♡♡♡

Also Andy is still the funniest guy

[ID: Andy from ILITW smiling and saying, "Yeah, I know. I don't mind that you're Asian, either". End ID]

You had NOT told me that you're chilenon, although you did tell me that chilenon and identity thief anon were the same person. Hello! It's nice to see you. I've missed you a lot, I even thought of turning anon back on for you but unfortunately people are unbearable and turning off anon improved my mental health and general tumblr experience SO much

It's been a hot sec since I last replayed ILITW but from what I remember Ava does remember Mr Red? She even tells Stacy "you know damn well he wasn't imaginary" when she calls Mr Red their imaginary friend.

As for Lucas' mom... Now that's an interesting question. Again it's been a hot second, but I did rewatch the scene where MC finds out about Lucas' pills on youtube, which I'm pretty sure is the only scene where he talks about it in depth, and I think she has the potential to be pretty interesting

Like... The whole "she came to the US as a kid, was poor, worked 3 jobs, built herself from the ground up" story sounds pretty fucking traumatic to me, and I think it'd be interesting if that was the root of her.............. shortcomings as a mother

Lucas says that his parents "can't hide how disappointed they are" in him, but I'm not gonna take that at face value because we never see them interact except for a one-sided phone conversation. I'm not saying he's lying or making shit up or exaggerating to be clear, I just don't think Lucas is in the best place to evaluate his worth and the perception other people have of him right now. We know what anxiety is like, you assume everything means people are judging you, and you are actively turning whatever you see into proof of that

Not that she didn't push him very hard. She obviously did and it was traumatic as fuck and just, what the fuck, lady. I just think he may be misinterpreting her reasons for it. His mom had to suffer a lot to be able to survive, nevermind thrive, especially considering that she was a brown immigrant woman in the US. And I think she's kind of scared that she could lose what she built at any time, because it still feels so precarious, like if she ever took a break from all her stuff she'd be back to square 1. And I think she knows that, as a brown queer kid, Lucas will have to work twice as hard to get half the recognition, and I think that prospect scares her

Which is why I think that she pushes him so hard - because she wholeheartedly believes that he needs to if he's ever going to "make it". Unsure what "make it" means to her, but the truth is that in her experience she only had two things: horrifying poverty and back-breakingly hard work. So... I think that, in her head, if Lucas is not killing himself studying, he's gonna end up like she was at the beginning. And with him being a brown man there are other worries associated with that, like racial profiling with the police and etc (not that non-men don't have to worry about that, it's just more common among them)

In short, I think this might be coming from a genuine place of love and caring and just... Unprocessed trauma leading her to think this is the only way to make sure her son has a good life. And I think she could be a very interesting character to explore in that sense. Just... Pushing herself so hard because she feels like she's in a constant race against poverty, always looking behind her back, never truly believing that she can keep the good things she's earned

With that being said... Girl, go to therapy. She's rich as shit now so she can afford it. You're ruining a perfectly good Lucas. Look at him, he's got a pill addiction

In short, Lucas deserves better, but I like to believe that this is coming from a place of genuine love and care for him, especially because I think that's more interesting than just pushing him super hard for no reason. #Lucas'MomGoToTherapy2023

As for the weapons and info... The first time I played, yeah, because I wanted to have all the information possible, you know? Like I wanted to enjoy everything there is to enjoy about the story. But when choices matter I do always make a playthrough later where I make the same choices but without any diamond ones, just to see if I would still get a good result. I'm competitive :p and then if it doesn't matter I just get the ones I really want to or am curious to do. Like I'm not gonna go on the Connor dates cuz I don't give a fuck. But if I want to do something I see no reason not to, unless it's to test myself

I'd say just do what you want, tbh. There's no reason to feel like you "should" get everything, and it's fun to have a bit more pressure as you said. It's kind of sad that Choices keeps making diamond choices have a massive impact on the characters' wellbeing because it's frustrating both from the side where you don't use them (cuz you know... fuck you) and on the side where you DO (because I want to date Lucas but I also want to feel like I EARNED my good ending).

And I did end up playing Perfect Match! I can't believe I hadn't mentioned that to you before. I really liked it. Polyamory rights. Sloane is the best. I had fun daiuhsaiudhaiudash

And it's not creepy, I'm happy to have you <3

(And yes, Andy is perfect. But I'm biased)

[whenisitenoughtrees]

If you’re still doing these, 33 with Moceit? ALL the fluff with perhaps a little dash of angst?

@thatoneloudowl i was gonna do a dash of angst but then i knocked over the angst jar and spilled a couple cups so. there is a little more than a dash. but the ending! is fluffy! don’t worry!!

for 33. Sometimes, I just want to cuddle, okay? Is that so bad?

Title: like a puzzle (we fit)

Word Count: 3,328

Content Warnings: mention of disordered eating, self-isolation as a form of self-harm

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

These days, Patton wanders the mindscape like a ghost. Frankly, Janus is beginning to find it annoying.

Or at least, he would, if the sight didn’t make his heart clench, didn’t make his stomach turn, didn’t make some unidentifiable emotion rise up within him, threatening to spill out before he even lets himself acknowledge it. And he’s not acknowledging it, if only because doing so while Thomas’ mental health is in such a precarious position is a risk he’s not willing to take. But that’s not enough to stop him from watching Patton out of the corner of his eye, not enough to stop him from tracking his movements, from taking in the way he seems—

Well. Bereft seems like a good way to put it. Bereft of his usual spark, his usual joy. And bereft in another way, too, because as the time passes, Janus realizes something else: Patton is isolating himself.

It’s fairly obvious, at least to him, so he’s surprised that none of the others have picked up on it— or perhaps they have, and they’re ignoring it, but that seems like a level of maliciousness that he doesn’t think that the so-called “light” sides are capable of. Because Patton is suffering, and he can’t imagine that they would let him go on in this way if they knew, even if they are angry with him. So, they’re not cruel, just oblivious, and if the situation were any different, Janus might laugh about the fact that he of all sides is the only one to recognize that something is wrong.

But this is no laughing matter.

Patton’s face is pale and drawn, his eyes watery, his smiles wan and fake. He’s grown thinner, too, if Janus isn’t mistaken, and that is yet another cause for concern; Patton is not the best cook in the world, but that has never stopped him from trying. The fact that he’s stopped cooking, perhaps even stopped eating, is worrisome, and the worst thing about all of this is that Janus isn’t entirely sure what to do about it.

He knows self-care intimately, all of its practices, all of its uses. It’s his job, and in theory, getting Patton to take better care of himself should be easy for him. But Patton has always been particular about deserving things, and Janus doesn’t know that he’s reached the level of relationship that would allow him to persuade Patton that he doesn’t deserve to be treating himself this way. He’s not sure that he’s could convince him of it outright, and while he thinks that manipulating him to come to that point of view might be doable, the idea leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Already, his judgment is being clouded by sentiment. He wishes that he were more upset about it than he is.

But whether he knows what to do or not, something needs to happen, and an opportunity arrives soon enough. He’s lounging in the common room— and the fact that he has the freedom to do that now is still nothing short of spectacular, frankly, not that he would ever admit as much out loud— when Patton comes down the stairs, bleary-eyed, and goes to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. He watches, curious, as Patton passes him with barely a glance.

It is instinct to follow him. Patton doesn’t seem to notice his presence, so he leans against the doorframe, observing quietly as Patton fumbles a glass from the cabinet, almost dropping it, and sticks it under the tap to fill with water. He considers saying something when Patton gulps down half of it in one go, and again when Patton sighs, bracing himself against the counter. But it feels like an intrusion, somehow, and the words won’t come.

So, he doesn’t say anything, preparing himself to jump in the moment that Patton turns and sees him.

Patton turns and sees him.

“Hello, Pa—”

But Patton flinches violently, and Janus is cut off by the sound of glass shattering on the floor. All thoughts of having a cool, measured conversation fly out the window.

“Shit,” he says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— here, just let me—”

He steps forward, choreographing his movement so Patton can avoid him if he wants, but Patton is staring at the ground, his eyes wide as they flit across the glass now scattered on the tile. He doesn’t react as Janus takes his elbow, guiding him away from the glass shards, and he doesn’t react when Janus snaps his fingers, getting rid of the mess entirely.

Janus’ concern grows.

“Patton?” he asks. “Patton, are you with me?”

Slowly, Patton blinks. His gaze comes into focus, and then he smiles, a smile so clearly plastered on, so clearly fake that it sits like a physical weight in Janus’ gut.

“Janus!” he chirps. “Hi! Sorry about that, I’m not sure what came over me. Guess I’ve got a real case of butter fingers today.” He waves his hand, holding a Butterfingers bar between his fingers, and Janus frowns. He knows a deflection when he sees one, though he’s less certain that Patton realizes that he’s doing it in the first place. By now, he wouldn’t be surprised if it’s an ingrained instinct.

Look away, Patton is saying. Wasn’t that a funny joke? Pay attention to the joke, not to me. I’m alright.

“I should be the one apologizing,” he says. “I startled you.”

Patton laughs. “That’s alright,” he says. “Really, I guess I just wasn’t paying enough attention. Was there something that you needed?”

He maintains a blank face with an effort. “Do I need to have a reason to spend time with you?” he asks, and there is the first crack: a moment of bewilderment passing across Patton’s face, as if he can’t possibly believe that someone would want to be around him for the sake of his company. It’s a familiar look, a bitter one, one he would never admit aloud to having seen in his own mirror.

“Of course, I would love to talk to you,” he continues. “But only if you’re amenable.”

Patton squints at him, and this, too, is familiar ground, as Patton tries to figure out whether he’s sincere or not. He waits patiently as Patton’s expression folds into something just a little more genuine, tinged with relief.

“Sure,” he says. “I’d love to talk for a little while.”

Something sour coats Janus’ tongue; a half-truth, then, though which half, he can’t tell. Patton is almost as practiced in lying as he is, though his are so often self-directed. But for now, he will take the admission at face value, and as he walks over to the couch, Patton follows, settling on the cushions next to him, and that is what is important.

“In all honesty, I wanted to know how you were doing,” he says, keeping his voice as gentle and sincere as he possibly can. It doesn’t come naturally to him, but somehow, it is easier when it is Patton. Easier to open up, easier to express his true concerns. Easier to allow himself to care, and he wishes he didn’t have to read into that, but he knows very well what it means, even if he’s shelving it to be considered at a later date. “It’s been some time now since the wedding, but I couldn’t help but notice that you haven’t been spending much time around the others lately.”

The wince is so quick that Janus half-wonders if he imagined it. But no— it was masked quickly, but it was there.

“Well, you know how it is,” Patton says. “Everyone’s so busy lately, me included! You know, with Nico and all.”

Janus feels his chest fill with warmth at the mere mention of the name, though he keeps his infatuation off his face as well as he can. There is not a single side in the mindscape that isn’t taken with Nico, completely and utterly, and Janus is unashamed to count himself among their number. Nico is who Thomas wants at the moment, after all, and Janus is always eager to let Thomas act on his wants.

But bringing him up now is nothing more than another distraction, one that he sees through immediately.

“I don’t know at all,” he agrees, “But, Patton, I can’t help but feel as though this is something else.” He flicks through a couple of options in his mind, wondering what will get through to him the best. After a moment of consideration, he reaches out and places a hand on Patton’s arm. It’s awkward; casual physical contact is not something he’s particularly practiced in. But Patton doesn’t seem to mind it, or at least, he doesn’t move away, though he appears a bit startled. “You’ve moved past busy into outright avoidance.”

Patton’s jaw works. “I’m not avoiding—”

“Patton.”

Patton stops and looks at him for a moment. And then, he slumps in on himself, like a marionette with its strings cut. “Am I that obvious?” he asks, and he sounds so miserable that for a moment, Janus wants nothing more than to wrap him up in his arms and hold him until his pain goes away. An unusual instinct for him, but perhaps it makes sense; Patton has always liked hugs, as far as he knows, so it’s not unreasonable that his first thought would be to offer one.

His drive for self-preservation goes far beyond preserving himself, after all.

“Not really,” he says, “but you know how I’m so terribly unobservant.” He pauses, and then goes on, more quietly. “I won’t force you to talk to me if you would rather not. But we’ve had the conversation about repression before. Multiple times, if I remember correctly.”

Patton laughs, but there’s no warmth in it. Just something sad, self-deprecating.

“No, no, you’re right,” he says. “And I know it’s not good, I just—”

He waits, and Patton draws in a breath.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, “about my mistakes a lot, lately. And I— I understand that it’s okay that I make them, and that I can’t be perfect, and as long as I try my best to fix things and do better then it’s alright, but it’s just that— Roman’s been so happy lately, you know? Because he finally got something that he wanted. And it just sort of hit me that I’ve been keeping him from having that for so long. He hasn’t been happy in so long, and I’m not even sure that anyone’s been happy in so long, and it’s all my fault because I’ve been saying that it’s wrong to want things for yourself, but it’s not really wrong at all and I know that now, but I just don’t know how to—”

“Patton,” Janus says, squeezing his arm, “please, breathe.”

Patton stops, looking at him, which isn’t exactly what he meant him to do, but he’s breathing, at least.

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding them?” he asks. “Because you’ve been worrying about this?”

Patton glances down, his hands twisting into the hem of his shirt.

“I just don’t want to hurt them again,” he says, voice small, and Janus is surprised at his own flash of anger. Who it’s directed at, he can’t say. The others, perhaps, for letting it get this bad. Himself, for not seeing it sooner.

“I understand that,” he says, “but even if you weren’t letting yourself magnify your missteps, which you are, by the way, you can’t possibly believe that they’d want you to hurt yourself instead.”

Patton jerks. “I’m not—”

“Oh, you’re not?” He breathes out sharply through his nose, trying to regain some of his composure. If this were any other side, he would feel comfortable in berating them from dawn to dusk, but Patton is too fragile for that right now. Even he can recognize as much. “Patton,” he says, softer, but firm, “when was the last time you ate?”

Patton’s brow furrows. “This morning,” he answers, “or— no. Wait. It had to have been— no, that’s not it either.” The corners of his eyes pinch as he tries to work through it, and while Janus has to admit that it is some relief to know that he hasn’t been denying himself food on purpose, the fact that the question is a difficult one at all is still very concerning.

“I—” Patton stops, stutters. “I guess I haven’t been very hungry lately. I didn’t think it had been that long—”

“It’s alright,” Janus interrupts, even though it isn’t, because there is an edge of panic beginning to creep into Patton’s voice, and he would like to avoid that if he can. “Well, we can work on it, at any rate.”

Patton’s hands are trembling. He pauses, considering for a moment, and then reaches out to take them in his. The contact is startling, despite the fact that he initiated it, and judging from the way Patton stills, the sentiment is shared. It is almost enough to make him pull away again, writing the venture off as a bad idea, but he doesn’t want to give Patton the wrong impression, doesn’t want him to assume that he stopped for any reason other than his own hangups about touch.

“That is,” he says, “if you’ll allow me to help. I can’t force you into anything. Ultimately, you’re your own person. Or rather, your own part of a whole person. But that means that the decision is up to you.”

Patton doesn’t reply. He’s staring at where their hands are connected, his face twisted into an expression that Janus can’t even begin to describe, and a horrible suspicion enters his mind.

Self-isolation can be a form of self-harm, too, and Patton has always been so tactile by nature.

“How long has it been since you last touched someone?” he asks, and Patton startles, yanking his hands out of Janus’ grip like he’s been burned. Janus tries not to let it sting.

“That’s not—” he says. “That’s not a big deal. I can— I don’t have to— and I didn’t want to bother anybody, so I—”

“Right, because asking people for a bit of physical contact is such a bother,” he says, his voice veering sharper than he intends.

“Isn’t it?” Patton asks, and Janus rears back at his tone. “Everyone’s dealing with their own things right now, so why should they have to help me on top of that? And besides, I’m clingy, and nobody—”

“Who told you that?”

Generally, he refrains from trying to murder his fellow sides, if only on the principal that they’re all needed for Thomas to function properly, but if it turns out that one of them has caused this, that one of them has called Patton clingy, made him think that seeking out affection when he needs it is somehow wrong, or a burden on others, then he refuses to be help responsible for his actions.

“No one had to tell me that,” Patton says. “But it’s true, isn’t it? I’m too much, and I’ve been trying to be better about that too, but it’s just—”

No.

No, no, no.

“No,” he says. “It’s not true. You’re not too much, not when it comes to things like this, and anyone who has ever told you otherwise is wrong. No—” He raises a hand when Patton goes to cut him off, though he doesn’t actually exercise his silencing ability. Repressing Patton now would be the exact opposite of helpful. “And that includes yourself.” He reaches out and takes Patton’s hands again, holding on tight. He can feel how tense Patton is, how every muscle in his body has stiffened.

“Please,” Janus says. “Tell me what you want.”

Patton’s eyes well up with tears. His lips quiver. The silence stretches on.

And finally:

“I— sometimes, I just want to cuddle, okay? Is that so bad?” It’s a whimper, a plea, and really, Janus is absolutely going to kill each and every last inhabitant of the mindscape for neglecting Patton like this, for allowing him to believe that something so simple as cuddling him would be a chore, would be too much. He’s going to kill them, but later, because here and now, Patton needs him more than he needs any acts of violence, no matter how well-deserved.

“Of course it’s not,” he says, and hopes that the sincerity comes through, hopes that Patton doesn’t assume he’s lying. “Come here.”

And even as he draws Patton closer, he begins to panic. He has never done this before, never been asked to do this; generally, the others have always assumed that he likes his space, and usually, that’s true enough that he’s never bothered to correct the notion. It’s had the added benefit of keeping Remus at arm’s length when he’s difficult to handle, but he would be lying— ha— if he said that he’d never considered the drawbacks before now, never let himself wonder what it would be like to have someone else so close to him.

He’s never cuddled. Never been cuddled, never cuddled someone else. So really, he is possibly the absolute worst side for Patton to be stuck with right now.

But he’s what Patton’s got, so he tugs Patton up against his chest, wrapping his arms around him. Patton makes a noise, something between a gasp and a whine, but it only takes a second for him to melt into the touch, all of his weight landing firmly against Janus’ body as he goes limp as a ragdoll.

It’s an awkward position. He doesn’t know anything about cuddling, but he’s fairly certain that it’s supposed to be more comfortable than this.

He wonders if the fact that he feels like his skin is on fire is typical, or if that’s just him. A consideration for later, maybe, though his heart is beating almost too fast to ignore.

“Here,” he says, “let’s—”

He pulls back, heart panging at Patton’s soft whimper, but he settles himself on the couch, a sprawling position halfway between sitting and lying down. He beckons, then, and Patton wastes no time before lurching forward, draping himself along Janus’ body, and this— this feels right, somehow, their limbs slotting into all the right places, curving against each other, and Janus places his hands on Patton’s back to keep him in place. Not that he needs to; Patton doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere.

Patton tucks his face underneath his chin, resting against the hollow between his neck and collarbone. Janus has to suppress a whimper of his own. He’s never been touched there. Not ever.

He feels himself melting into Patton just as much as Patton is melting into him. It’s new, and strange, and a bit terrifying, but he doesn’t want it to stop.

Patton lets out a sigh, long and low. “‘M sorry I was being dumb,” he murmurs, words barely intelligible.

“It’s not dumb to be scared, or to have self-doubt,” he replies, though it’s a struggle to make himself coherent. His brain feels mushy, his thought processes slow, like wading through knee-deep water. “You’re wrong, of course, but it’s not dumb.” He pauses. “And it’s definitely not dumb to want someone to take care of you.”

“‘M glad you’re here,” Patton mumbles. “I’m glad it’s you. Thank you, Janus.”

Something in his chest bursts, warm and brilliant, and he doesn’t think it’s the contact.

“Of course,” he says, fighting to speak past a mouth that has gone very dry. “Anytime.”

Patton shifts, snuggling closer, and he wonders if Patton realizes just how much he means it. Because he does, perhaps more than he has ever meant anything else.

He’s not ready to say it, yet, though. Not yet ready to make it known, to open himself up to that. So, for the moment, he holds Patton against him, and lets him rest. Safe, warm, and though unspoken, loved.

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[thotinshield]

Danny’s Bagginshield Fic Recs (2021)

I haven’t done a fic rec in literal years, and I keep meaning to, but then I... don’t. This is a massive list - so I will put it under a read more to save your dashes.

Modern AUs

A Remover of Obstacles by MistakenMagic

"Dis often chided her older brother for being a misanthropist. She did it so often it had become a term of endearment. It was true that Thorin struggled with people; he struggled to form and maintain relationships. Dr. Grey had diagnosed him with this and Thorin hadn’t the heart to tell him this wasn’t a symptom of his PTSD, it was a symptom of his personality. He exercised a sense of apathy with almost everyone he met… But Bilbo was different. Thorin actually found himself wanting to know more about him."

(Note: This fic deals with a lot of mental health stuff, panic attacks, etc, so please please mind the tags.)

By Request by HildyJ

As a musician, Thorin's life can be summed up in tempos. For instance, the concerto he's perfoming on Friday is Allegro - quick and bright, followed by Andantino - slightly slow, and then back to Allegro again.

On the other hand, his relationship with his cute neighbour? Larghissimo - very, very slow.

Stepping Stones by misplacedkisses

It feels like it's fate Thorin's trying to resist, his destiny, his bloodline.

Fresh out of inpatient, Thorin's struck with the urge and maybe it's fate (or therapy) that has him stumbling into a late-night cafe instead. It may be the start of a new life.

Write Me Down Easy by lucyraebrown

Bilbo Baggins, a simple man with a wish for something more than his life teaching high school English, is obsessed with a famous author by the pen-name Oakenshield. Although he knows the future is dim for his chances of finding out about the man behind his favorite book, it's reassuring to know someone has the same thoughts about the world.

Fix-its 

I'll Die to Care for You by thehufflepuffhobbit

His gaze landed on Mahal's eyes once more. "You did your best, Thorin." It was tempting to look away; he wanted to deny that with everything he had. It certainly didn't feel as though falling into Gold Sickness and then dying was doing his best. Mahal smirked, as though he knew Thorin's desire to contradict him, and pinched his cheek before walking over to a table. "Aye, I didn't think you would believe me. I'm not lying, it certainly could have gone better. More according to my plan, but I know you really did try."

"Your plan?" He didn't know if he should ask, really. Knowing that his Maker had set a course for him, he didn't want to think about the ways he had done everything wrong. There were too many examples of mistakes in his long life, too many opportunities that he had missed that had probably been planned for him from the beginning.

Or:

Mahal feels like Thorin fucked up his legacy and gives him a do over.

Roses of Iron by Porphyrios

Two years after Bilbo returned from his adventures, he's made his peace with being back in the Shire. He still wonders what might have happened if things were different, but figures all that is behind him now. A mysterious visitor turns out to be someone he never thought he'd see again, and he's shocked by the news he hears.

Beside Myself by bliboboggins

"What are you doing? Just who do you think you are?" Startled, Bilbo turned around slowly. And there, in a familiar patchwork dressing gown, brandishing a fire poker wildly about, was... Bilbo.

i wouldn't have danced like that with any but you by Percyjacksonfan3

Thorin has survived the Battle of the Five Armies but his relationship with Bilbo is uncertain and precarious, especially in the newly reclaimed kingdom of Erebor. With Kíli set to marry Tauriel, and the Dwarves of Erebor still holding prejudice against outside races, Thorin must choose between his nephew's happiness or his own.

Though he believes sending Bilbo back to the Shire is for the good of everyone, he and the rest of Erebor are thrown into turmoil when 5 years later his nephews secretly plot to bring Bilbo back. Coming face-to-face with Bilbo again makes it impossible for Thorin to stay apart from him any longer- but is Bilbo still willing to be with Thorin once more after he broke both of their hearts?

A Matter of Payment by heartshapeddog

"And Thorin rose from the little table, keeping Bilbo’s fingers crushed gently in his own, and went down to his knee before him. Bilbo was struck with the likelihood that no creature greater than a farm-dog had lowered its head before a Hobbit since the birth of Eä until this very moment. He looked down, fascinated, at the crown of Thorin’s head, bare of royal circlet, and felt at once humbled and strong.

“I swear it,” Thorin said, and Bilbo thought of the vows from Elven history, of the type which followed the oathkeeper to the ends of Arda as a deep and binding magic. Then, he took Bilbo’s knuckles up to his lips. The rasp of his beard and his soft mouth were shocking in their immediacy and contrast. Bilbo could not help his racing heart."

Feet that Wander Have Gone by WednesdaysDaughter

“Run away with me.”

Bilbo turns to see who would say such a cowardly thing only to realize it was his own traitorous mouth which has run away with his heart: They’re already down the mountain and past Mirkwood by the time he realizes no one has objected.

“What a delightful solution my dear boy,” says Gandalf who looks to the east where the eagles are skimming the horizon.

Other AUs

between synapses and circuits by MistakenMagic

Different diagnostic results slowly trickled through and Thorin swiped them all to different corners of the screen depending on their relevance and evidence of abnormality. He paused when a particular chart appeared and smiled to himself.

“What?” Bilbo murmured, sounding genuinely worried.

“Your heterochromia,” Thorin explained, meeting Bilbo’s green and blue gaze. “The irregular algorithm that causes it has been running for almost half a century.”

“Most mechatronics offer to fix it for me,” Bilbo said, looking away, seeming suddenly self-conscious.

“Then they’re idiots.”

(Note: I just love MistakenMagic’s works. That’s all. This one is good and she writes angst so so well.)

past one hundred thousand miles (feeling very still) by childishinquiry

Commander Thorin Oakenshield is the leader of the first Mars mission, Project Golden Eagle, with twelve crewmen. Back on Earth, Specialist Bilbo Baggins is their communications specialist. Making history is easy; it's much harder to deal with falling in love with the person on the other end of the signal.

Hallowbit by batherik

As simple pawn shop owner in the human world, Bilbo isn’t all that thrilled to find himself lost in Thorin’s magical undead kingdom. Lured there by an old man dressed in grey, who turned out to be a wizard, Bilbo is charged with doing a job no one wants to do: fetch the King’s head from the corn maze. The King often loses his head when his temper boils over.

In the House of a Skinchanger by Bardic

Thorin and Company have finally reached a safe house after a few crazy weeks on the road. After three days of goblins, orcs, and a massive bear that's chased them into the home of one of Gandalf's acquaintances the Company is quite exhausted and quite tired of surprises. Unfortunately for them, or fortunately there is another staying there.

Master Baggins is not who the Company expected to find, especially when he claims to be one of the only outsiders Durin allowed a title and a rank to. Although that's the least surprising thing about him.

Thorin makes some discoveries and has some observations.

Basically an AU where Bilbo is a skinchanger and the Company meet him at Beorn's on accident.

It Runs In The Family by Imagined

At first, Bilbo is very glad to hear of the new alliance between Erebor and the Shire. He is even more excited when he learns that some of his family members are coming to the Lonely Mountain to discuss the details.

That is, until the dwarves (and Thorin, who is decidedly not and never shall be his) start getting along a little too well with one of his more adventurous cousins, and Bilbo starts doubting about his place.

[razrbladekiss]

Tyrants | Chapter Three - Presage

WORD COUNT: 2.4k

WARNINGS: Brief mentions of Wendy’s drug use. Nothing explicitly *bad* goes on here, just some of the usual SOA shit is hinted at. :) Tig <3

MASTERLIST

Ninety degrees was horrendous. Ninety-six degrees saw Isla spiraling toward a fully-fledged mental breakdown, desperate to climb out of her own fucking flesh and melt into the parking lot outside of St. Thomas.

Seeing the Sons sporting leathers, hoodies, and long-sleeved shirts underneath their cuts made her skin crawl, too.

She'd thrown on the flounciest summer dress she owned, thin and wispy, and she was still roasting to death underneath the Californian sunshine.

It felt like they were living in the fucking ass-crack of hell.

Though, with their current state and Charming's infestation of ATF and other federal agents, hell wasn't too far off the mark.

"Thanks for the ride." Isla expressed her gratitude as she slid off of the back of Tig's bike, pulling the helmet away from loose blonde curls.

"No problem, baby--you good to get home, yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm meeting Gem here, so she'll take me back to T M in time to pick my car up," she confirmed, readjusting herself.

She couldn't risk Tig Trager getting an eyeful of her asscheeks today. Not again, anyway.

"Perfect. See 'ya later, beautiful." Isla leaned in for him to peck her cheek--which was habitual for the pair--and she did the same.

Her smile was wide. She was beaming. "Bye, Tiggy. I love you."

"Love you too, kid." He reciprocated the smile, squeezing her hand as she broke away and padded toward the steps, brushing her fingers through wind-tousled strands.

Things were, for the first time in about a week, finally looking up. Resuming a sense of normality, perhaps.

She and Trager had been on precarious terms since that day, and had been avoiding one another altogether. Which, for them, was strange.

Days went by without even so much as a word being uttered between the pair, no backhanded comments, or even sideways glances.

Usually, they'd be bickering like kids, arguing nonsensically until Clay or Chibs broke them apart--but it was all just their little bit of fun. Because they bounced off of one another.

They lauded the relationship they shared because, really, it was one of the strongest.

He'd been her official favorite since the very day that they met--he and Bobby were the two she liked to talk to whenever she felt that she couldn't confide in her father.

But the last few days were so fucking hard. She was struggling with the weight of all that she did, coupled with the stress of not being able to discern Tig's current feelings on her.

And after she'd lashed out, had bitched at him for no fucking reason, she was pretty certain that Tiggy didn't want to know anymore.

That was thrown out of the window this morning, however, when Isla's clutch blew out, and she needed a ride from the garage to the hospital to see Abel.

Of course Tig was there for her. He always would be.

"Hey." Isla spoke softly as she held the little blue bear close to her chest. "I stopped by the gift shop on the way up here--Jax said he's already got bears and balloons comin' outta his ass, so I thought what's one more?"

Gemma couldn't help but smile, gesturing for the blonde to sit with her opposite Abel's isolette.

"He'll love you for it," she joked, though she knew that she was appreciative. For her company more so the stuffed animal.

With their commitment to the club and the current battle against the ATF, Jax and Clay weren't as hands on as what they usually would've liked.

Of course, Teller was at that baby's side whenever he got the chance to break away from SAMCRO, but he wanted more. He wanted the satisfaction of knowing that his little boy was being provided with the best possible care at St. Thomas.

And he was. He absolutely was. But he needed to know--for his own peace of mind, he needed to see that. So, his mother was there every waking fucking moment, giving him that love he could only get from his Grandma.

"How's he doing?" Her query was braided around a whisper, worried she'd disturb Abel's peaceful rest. "Jax said he should be coming home soon."

Gemma simply affirmed with a nod, gazing affectionately at her grandson.

It was heartwarming to see so much love, so much adoration from a woman who had a reputation for being a fucking cunt--thus proving that Gemma's main priority was her family, and their health and happiness.

That, somehow, made Isla love her even more than what she already did.

It also made her a tad jealous of Jax and the fact that he still had his mother in his life.

"He's gettin' stronger and stronger everyday. Tara said he'll be set to leave Friday--"

"Tara?" Her brow lifted as she put the bear amongst the pile of gifts. "I thought she was a doctor, I didn't think she had anything to do with the babies?"

Gemma's smile faltered a little. "She's a pediatric surgeon. Been takin' care of Abel since the start."

"Oh."

Now, she would've known that if she'd taken the time to visit her best friend's kid since he was born. But she hadn't--she hadn't even considered taking a trip over to St. Thomas to check in on Jax's baby.

And it was for the simple fucking reason that she couldn't bear the thought of facing Wendy and having to be nice to her. Especially after what she fucking did to that poor little boy.

She subsequently landed her own flesh and blood in the hospital after shooting heroin while pregnant? And she wanted Jax to pardon her for it?

Isla wasn't a hateful person, she didn't care about what people did in their spare time because that was their time.

But the moment an innocent person was harmed due to the carelessness of others...That was when she felt a scathing animosity.

"She's good with him." Gemma stated bitterly, snapping Isla from her ire-fueled daydream. "Kills me to say it, but she's a gem. A real fuckin' star."

"I'd bet. She was always good with kids."

"Yeah?" Suddenly interested, the older woman crossed over her arms. "Who's kids?"

Finally, Isla took a seat beside her on top of plush blue leather.

"A few of the girls we were in high school with had kids pretty young and Tara was usually super keen to hold them, or just hang out at their places whenever we weren't at school. Or it could've just been the wannabe doctor in her, now that I think about it."

"She's pretty maternal," Isla hummed in agreement, "but I'm glad she and Jax never had kids when you were teenagers--I don't know how that would've looked for him."

Suddenly, she was staring at Gemma like she had two fucking heads.

"I don't trust her." She elaborated, drawing another confused glance from Isla. "She and Jax would have been a fucking disaster had she stayed--"

"And things worked out so much better with Wendy?" A little more vehemently than intended, the blonde asked.

Now Gemma was the one shooting dirty looks.

"Look, Gem, I'm just saying. Jax and Tara are history now, yeah? You don't have to trust her. Just thank her for what she's doing for your grandson because when he's outta this place, you won't need to worry about her."

"And you're so sure about that, huh?" Skeptically, she asked. Arms folded over. "You know what they're like--like two fucking magnets or something. They always find a way back to one another."

That line gutted her.

It hurt her--it was agonizing--but she wasn't sure why she was so beaten by it. Because it was the truth, wasn't it?

Tara and Jax were, at one point, the strongest couple she'd ever known, and when it fizzled out he was fucking broken. She hadn't seen him so downtrodden since JT had passed, and he was suddenly left without the strength and guidance of his father.

She was his everything. Isla was a fool to think he'd be able to see her back in Charming and not feel something for her. His first love.

"I think we should throw Abel a homecoming party on Friday--if he's coming home then, that is." Gemma shifted the topic of conversation, getting to her feet.

"Absolutely. I'll help."

"Yeah?" She asked a little doubtingly, reaching over to pick Abel up. "You don't have to--I know you work Friday's."

Isla waved her off, standing beside the brunette. "I do, but it's no bother. If everyone's gonna be there, then I wanna show my face too. Offer a helping hand of some sort."

"Alright, perfect," Gem stated softly, holding the baby close to her chest. "When we get back to T M, we can figure out what we need to get."

"Sounds like a plan--" Isla was cut off by a soft knocking at the door, irritating her a little bit because she'd only just gotten there and hated the idea of having to leave already.

She made a mental note to stop by a little earlier tomorrow.

"Hey, sorry to bother you--" Tara stopped herself when she needed her estranged friend, almost dropping the clipboard she was holding against her chest.

Isla Telford was the last fucking person she expected to see today.

"Hey," with a fake smile, she greeted.

The tension was palpable.

Gemma felt the irritation washing over her favorite of the duo, urging her to turn her attention back toward her grandson before she said anything to worsen the situation.

Because she would've.

"Uh, I've gotta run a few tests on Abel before we determine that he'll be ready to leave this week, if that's alright?" Tara gestured to Gemma, ignoring Isla's presence.

That stung a little bit.

"Yeah. It's fine." The response was blunt. Terse, to a point.

"Great."

Isla realized that she wasn't wanted in that space any longer. She grabbed her purse, turning toward the door. "I'll meet you outside."

"Yeah, alright," Gemma put the baby back into his crib, smiling at Isla. "You want my keys?"

"I'll wait on the steps--I'm gonna smoke--"

"Before you go," Tara cut in. She cleared her throat, trying to smile--but she just couldn't.

Telford sensed where it was going, however. There wasn't a reason for her to stop Isla in her tracks, in front of Gemma no less.

She wondered how long it'd take for it to be brought up.

"Thanks."

Gratitude genuinely swept over the doctor, letting Isla know she was truthful in her acknowledgment--or, was it more like a form of praise? Because Jax definitely told Tara what they both did for her, and she was astounded that the woman would even float the idea of helping out.

It was a strange notion. To know what she did--when she looked and acted like that--was fucking weird. And nobody would've believed her if she said that Isla helped to dispose of a dead body, which did make her laugh a little.

She knew how to hold, load, and fire a pistol, but she wasn't capable of committing the unspeakable the same way that Jax, or Chibs, or Clay were capable of it.

But she was slowly earning her title as 'Daughter of Sgt. At Arms/ Man of Mayhem.' And she wasn't sure how she liked that.

"You're welcome," she spoke plainly. "Hope everything is alright now, Tara."

"It is."

"Good." Her retort was immediate, laced with that same genuineness the other woman expressed. "You free this coming friday?"

Hesitantly, she nodded.

"If all goes to plan--and Abel is good to come home--we're gonna throw a little party for the boy," Gemma confirmed with a nod. "You wanna swing by? Everyone'll be there--Donna, Ope, their kids, Wendy, the rest of the Sons. You should come. It'll be nice for everyone to see 'ya again."

Wendy's name falling from those pink lips, in such a positive light, maimed Isla. She and Jax were starting to get along a little bit better now, but she was still wary of that woman.

"Yeah. It'll be great," the older woman added.

Tara felt cornered. She knew that she wasn't really wanted, and she also knew that was a way for Isla and her menopausal best friend--old enough to be her fuckin' mom--to keep the doctor as close as possible without explicitly saying that they wanted to keep an eye on her.

"Sure. I'll stop by."

"Brilliant." Gemma conceded, slipping past the pair. "Address hasn't changed, sweetheart."

It was passive aggressive, sickly-sweet, and it was Gemma to a fucking T. The woman was loathing every second she had to spend with Tara Knowles and she wasn't even trying to hide it.

But it didn't have to be for very long, she thought.

"What was that all about? Why'd she thank you?" Gem queried as they got outside, passing the lighter to her left.

"For not breaking her fucking neck when I had the chance to all those years ago, probably."

Isla sparked her cigarette, pacing alongside her as they headed toward the car.

"That's bullshit."

"How so?"

"Just is." She could read Chibs's little girl like a fucking book. "But I won't press--if it's something between you and Tara, I don't care to hear. Just lemme know if it goes south. I can put a bullet in her for you, baby."

Isla would've laughed had she not known that Gemma was deadly fucking serious about blowing Tara's brains out.

But it was a relief. For her to give it up just like that--uncharacteristically so--was a kind of relief that she never thought she'd feel from Gemma Teller.

She was used to being protected. Used to being viewed as the one that needed to be shielded from the horrors that shrouded the Sons. But Isla wasn't innocent, nor was she fucking stupid.

The security was appreciated, however. Because, lately, things just didn't seem to be going too great for her.

And, if she'd learned anything, they'd only worsen from here on out.

"You don't have to go full mama bear mode, Gem. I'm a big girl."

She laughed, turning to face Isla.

"I know," smoke blew from her nose, "but you've gotta protect the ones you wanna keep close, y'know? The ones you love."

The tip of Gemma's boot pulverized her cigarette into the sidewalk as she fished for the car keys, avoiding eye contact all together.

"I haven't been able to protect everyone I've wanted to from the shit that goes on in this town, honey, but I'm really tryin'. And I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you or my boy."

[titularkilljoy]

Black Coffee

Summary: Spencer had changed since prison. And no one seems to be able to help.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Strong language, mental health struggles, angst

Author’s note: Inspired by this post. Also, this is my first time writing for a fandom. So, don’t be gentle. Be brutally honest. 

Spencer was different these days. On that much, everyone could agree.

Everyone on the team walked on eggshells around him now, myself included. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to be there for our friend who had just gotten out of a three-month stint in prison; it was quite the opposite. All of us were waiting with bated breath for an opportunity to help. None of us wanted him to bottle up all his frustration and end up throwing books at the bureau walls again. As it was, he refused to acknowledge it or talk about it, and as a result, we all talked around it, trying to profile him without making it too obvious; trying to help him without him catching on to the fact that we were trying to help him. All in all, it was a Herculean feat. Every time he detected the slightest ounce of what he deemed to be pity, you could see his hackles raise, and an impenetrable barrier would form around him. That was incredibly unpleasant for everyone involved.

Spencer and I had been close, once. Extremely close. We had confided in each other about everything. I think he had always appreciated the fact that I never treated him like an all-knowing alien or a socially awkward little brother. It probably helped that my feelings for him were far from brotherly. But he didn’t need to know that.

Regardless, our close bond seemed to be a thing of the past. I had been there to welcome him back to the outside world on the day he was released. My heart was fuller than it had ever been, with love and relief and grief, and I had thrown my arms around him without a word. He had been stiff in my embrace for a few seconds before I felt the familiar warmth of his arms clutching me tightly. I had sighed deeply. I had missed his touch.

Since then, however, he had shut himself off. I had tried to give him space, to let him resolve those issues , which he clearly did not want to speak to me about, on his own. When that didn’t seem to work, I decided on a more hands-on approach.

For a week, I had been trying to muster the courage to follow through on that decision. But every time I tried to broach the matter, the emptiness of his gaze and the rigid set of his shoulders would stop the words in my throat. I felt like I was trying to speak to a stranger. Worse than that– I knew how to deal with traumatized victims and witnesses. Spencer was neither of those and both of those at once. Besides that, he was the ghost of my best friend. Every conversation felt like trying to breathe new life into a relationship long gone dead and cold.

Right now, he was alone in the break room. On the surface, he seemed to be going about his routine like a normal person. But to the trained eye, it was horrifying. Because he was pouring himself some coffee. A black coffee. With one sugar. Knowing him like I did, the sight was bleak, and it spurred me into action.

I set my shoulders and walked into the room. He lifted his head and nodded at me in greeting. I sidled over to the counter and set my gaze firmly on the pot of coffee as it if contained all the secrets of the universe. He leaned against the counter, staring at the opposite wall while blowing on his coffee. I cleared my throat. There was a palpable tension in the air. Maybe it was just me. He certainly didn’t seem bothered. I, however, was choking on it.

“Spencer,” I tentatively began, “I was thinking, maybe we should talk?”

I cringed at my own words even as I said them. I’d spent a week working on this and the best I could do was some sitcom staple dialogue?

Spencer’s eyes darted over to me, brow furrowing in curiosity. “About what? Is this about the case?”

“No. No, it’s not about the case.”

That seemed to be the wrong answer. He heaved a frustrated sigh and rubbed a hand over his face.

“(Y/N), we really don’t have time for–-“

Another deflection. Except this time, I was expecting it, and wouldn’t accept it.

“Yes, we have time, Spencer. We’ve apprehended the suspect. We saved a victim. Today we’re doing paperwork”, I pointed out, “and this is definitely more important than paperwork.”

“If this is a personal matter then we shouldn’t be talking about it here anyway,” he said in a clipped tone. He was getting defensive.

“You’re right, Spencer.” That took him by surprise, and I was rewarded with his grudging attention.

“You’re right. This conversation shouldn’t be happening here. Except, you’ve been dodging my calls for a month. You pretend you’re not home when I show up at your apartment. You won’t even say a word to me that isn’t about work.” I let the frustration I felt bleed into my words; he needed to know this wasn’t a profiler’s attempt to poke and prod at his psyche. It was just me, and I wanted my best friend back.

“I’ve been busy,” he hedged, but there was a trace of guilt in his eyes. He had never liked seeing me hurt, after all.

“Don’t lie to me, Spencer,” I practically begged, “You’re shutting me out. I know you’re struggling. It’s so damn obvious that you’re struggling. I just want to help you. I hate seeing you like this.”

“I’m not asking you to! And I don’t need your help,” he spat with a scowl. “I’m not struggling. I can do this job just as well as you or anyone else on the team can, if not better.”

The sting from those words was overshadowed by my incredulity. “Are you serious? Spencer, this isn’t about the fucking job!” I cried in frustration. “This is about you. I care about you. You’re in pain, and I don’t understand why you won’t let me help. You used to tell me everything.”

He let out a dark chuckle, placing the mug back on the counter and standing up straight. For the first time in what felt like forever, he stared right into my eyes. Except I would have given anything not to be on the receiving end of that stare. It was so full of malice and bitterness; it was so unlike my Spencer.

“You’re so fucking transparent,” he began in a low tone, and my eyebrows shot up in surprise. Spencer wasn’t usually one for expletives, especially not at work.

“You claim to be worried about me, but you’re really only worried about yourself. You’re lonely, and you can’t form a real connection with anyone. Now that you don’t have me as your emotional crutch, you’re projecting those issues onto me. Typical.”

My jaw dropped against my will. “Spencer, that’s not fair,” I managed to whisper around the lump in my throat. But he wasn’t done yet. Nostrils flaring, he towered over me menacingly.

“Oh, it’s not fair. What isn’t fair is you trying to jeopardize my already precarious position at the FBI by bringing this kind of petty drama into my life. Not everything is about you.”

“I never said it was!” I practically yelled, shocked into anger.

“Yes, but you clearly think it is. You’re not actually worried about me. You just want things to go back to normal. You want me to be the old Spencer again. Sweet, naïve Spencer who would have gladly let you string him along for his entire life. Admit it.”

“String you along? What the fuck are you talking about? How about the other way around? And it’s fucking rich that you’re accusing me of not being able to form a meaningful connection when you’re the one who’s so scared that we’re going to reject you that you’ve completely shut us out. Your fucking family who went through hell and back to get you out. We don’t care that you’re not the same Spencer. No one expects you to be! But I’m sick of all of us talking around the big fat elephant in the room and I’m scared I’m going to find you drugged up and dead on the floor of your apartment one day!”

We were right in each other’s faces at this point, and I was breathing heavily. Surrounding us was a pregnant silence. Spencer’s face had settled into an unreadable mask that I desperately tried to decipher anyway.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was cold as he delivered the killing blow.

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about it. So, I’m not going to talk about it. That’s my decision. You’re not entitled to my confidence, (Y/N). Not anymore. Just leave me alone.”

Every word was well enunciated, and I knew he meant them. He was done with me. When he stormed out of the room, I collapsed back against the counter, trying to call out his name but my vocal cords refusing to cooperate.

I didn’t know how I felt. When your body suffers a massive injury, it numbs you for a while, to protect you. You often don’t even realize you’ve been hurt. But after the numbness fades, your entire body feels like it’s on fire. I supposed that was as good a way as any to explain what was happening to me at that moment. Something so monumental and world-shattering had just occurred that I was being given a few moments of numbness as a reprieve, before the pain would inevitably consume me.

I remained rooted to my position for uncomfortably long time before I realized several pairs of eyes were focused on me, trying and failing to be subtle at it. Overcome with a sudden wave of nausea, I rushed to the restroom. Splashing some cold water in my face, I stared at myself in the mirror.

Well, I thought, that backfired pretty spectacularly.

I closed my eyes and came to the grim realization that prison had left some indelible scars on Spencer. We had all been turning a blind eye to it–- we’d been hoping against all odds that Spencer’s endlessly resilient innocence would be preserved, even in the face of solitary confinement and selective memory loss. After all, the man had literally died and been resurrected, once. He had fought a drug addiction all on his own. He had been parenting his schizophrenic mother since he was a child. He was strong. If anyone could come out of this intact, we had reasoned, it would be Dr Spencer Reid. Being faced with clear evidence to the contrary was a bitter reminder that life always managed to snuff out light and goodness wherever it was found.

I kept my head down on my way to my desk. I made it halfway before I heard Hotch call my name. Garcia was at Morgan’s desk and she offered me an anxious, pitying smile. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. I turned and met his sympathetic yet firm gaze squarely, summoning a confidence I did not feel as I took the detour into his office. What other choice did I have? Life had to go on.

                                ___________________

The next two weeks were tense, to say the least. Spencer and I could barely stand to be on opposite ends of the briefing room with each other. Hotch, perceptive as always, was gracious enough not to pair us up on either of the two cases we worked in that time. I threw myself into the gory details of case files and victimology, refusing to address the fact that I felt like I had lost a limb. I couldn’t succumb to that. Not quite yet, at least. Spencer, for his part, remained inscrutable, although I noticed Morgan and Emily trying to talk to him on more than one occasion. I appreciated their support, but Spencer had made himself very clear. There was nothing anyone could do.

I was dead on my feet when we finally wrapped up the case in Seattle. Derek Morgan needed to learn the meaning of the word “no”, because he still dragged me to some pub I can barely remember the name of. The memory loss could probably be attributed to the blackout drinking I embarked on that night. I drank, downing whiskey shot after whiskey shot until I lost my inhibitions and started giggling and singing along tunelessly to the music, then I drank some more until I felt comfortable enough to dance, and then I kept drinking until I hit the stage where I started sobbing. I usually knew to cut myself off before then. That night, though, my senses seemed to have left me entirely. To curb the sobbing, I drank some more, and that was about the point where I blacked out.

I woke up the next morning in a hotel room, ruing the day I was born, but there was an unopened bottle of water and some aspirin on the table, next to a note from Emily saying she was downstairs with the others. I gingerly caressed my forehead, groaning, before forcing myself out of bed and into the day.

The dark sunglasses I wore did little to make me feel better, and the teasing from Morgan about my alleged shenanigans the previous night did even less to that end. I boarded the jet with a grateful sigh, relieved that I could just curl up and go to sleep.

Alas, that wasn’t what the universe had planned for me, it seemed, because moments after I had nodded off, a hand on my shoulder gently shook me awake. I opened my mouth, ready to yell at whoever it was, but what came out instead was an embarrassing squeak.

Because standing in front of me, clutching a Starbucks cup, was none other than Spencer Reid.

He looked different. Different, and familiar. There was no tightly wound coil. There was no steel in his eyes. There was only warmth.

I eyed the cup in his hands curiously. Had he taken to tempting diabetes with his coffee once again? Had this mess all just been one long sugar crash?

He looked immensely sheepish as he murmured, apparently mindful of my piercing headache, “Can I sit?”

I nodded dumbly, enraptured by the sight of him sinking into the seat across from me, his knees almost knocking into mine. Was I just having a really good dream? Was I still drunk?

“(Y/N),” he whispered, and it felt like I’d travelled back in time. To back before our fight, before prison, before Mr Scratch, before Cat.

“I owe you an apology. Several, actually. I– you have to know that I didn’t mean any of the things I said. I was just lashing out. Textbook defensive behaviour.” He paused, watching me. I just stared back at him. I could only imagine what he saw on my face that made him continue even more gently, if that was even possible.

“You’re my best friend. You always have been. And you were absolutely right when you accused me of being worried about rejection. I- I’m not the same, anymore. I’ve never been particularly fond of myself, but now, I don’t even recognize myself.” He sounded miserable, and all I wanted to do was hug him. I stayed put, though. He looked like he really needed to finish what he had to say.

“I feel…darker, somehow. And I didn’t want to infect you with that. I didn’t want to hurt you. And instead, I hurt you more than I possibly could have if I’d just let you help me. I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry, (Y/N), I–“

“Spencer,” I finally interjected, and slowly, deliberately, reached out and took one of his hands in both of mine. “Yes, you’re an idiot,” I conceded, trying to hold back the relief that was flooding my entire body, “but I’ll forgive you. If you promise you’re not going to pull that shit again. I’m serious, Spencer. You’re hurting yourself, you’re hurting me, you’re hurting the team. We need you. I need you”, I said vehemently, and that was as close to a confession as I would get. At least, for the foreseeable future.

His face told me he heard the unsaid, and the dark guilt clouded his face once again. He was remembering what he’d said to me. String me along, he’d thrown out. Steady determination chased the guilt, and he opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

“No. Not now. You need help. You know how I feel about you. But we can’t right now. It’s not fair to either of us.”

He looked like he was going to protest, but I tried to convey as much sincerity through my eyes as I could. We’ll have our chance, I tried to tell him. I’m not giving up on you, so don’t give up on me, I implored.

Slowly, he nodded. For the first time in half a year, my heart felt light. I knew there would be plenty of hurdles to navigate, but for now, the promise of his company in doing so was enough.

“Besides,” I said seriously, “we need to talk about this bad habit of ours.”

The bafflement on his face was familiar, and I grinned, biting my lip.

“Having these intense conversations in front of everyone in the FBI absolutely has to stop,” I clarified, staring at each of the other people on the jet pointedly. They were doing a very good job of looking busy. Morgan had a smirk on his face. I caught his eye for a second, and we shared a smile.

My comment made Spencer chuckle. “I’ll, uh- I’ll let you get back to your nap then.”

“Oh, thank God,” I groaned dramatically, pulling the blanket over my head to block out the dim light.  It served another purpose; as I listened to the soft cadence of his retreating footsteps, it obscured the smile which threatened to rip my face in two. Morgan would never let me live that down.

[bentforkent]

to the moon and to saturn - chapter one

spencer reid x fem!reader

navigation and summary 

word count: 2753

no content warnings 

next chapter

seven

“you’re boring.”

“no, i’m not, y/n!”

“you never want to play pirates with me!”

spencer’s hair is long and his glasses are sliding down his nose. the light seeping into y/n’s room from her large bay window is muted by the white sheet covering it. the sheet rests precariously over a chair, forming a blanket fort carefully engineered by spencer, and haphazardly constructed by y/n. there are throw pillows tossed throughout the fort, and spencer makes an attempt to straighten them whenever he gets the chance.  whenever he comes to y/n’s house, ringing her doorbell with a backpack full of books, they work together to add on to their secret hideaway. the white sheet is the newest addition, especially designed to let more natural light into the blanket burg. this follows a poor mishap where a lamp y/n had left on too long burnt a hole through her carpet.

previously, the pair had constructed a stuffed animal room, a reading corner, a designated snack area. y/n’s starting to run out of linens. the fort has been standing for weeks now, y/n’s parents very rarely involved enough to enter her room, giving her and spencer free reign to create their own imaginary worlds to play in undisturbed.

except spencer, with all his practicality, isn’t particularly adept at the “playing in imaginary worlds” part. y/n can’t comprehend that. it’s simple for her to slip into a different universe, enjoyable, even. she’s begged spencer to play mermaids, bank robbers, fbi agents, firefighters, princesses---you name it. spencer indulges her for the most part, but y/n can always tell that he’s not that into it. he’s much fonder of tucking into some obscure poetry book, reading aloud when y/n requests. she never comprehends much of what he’s saying, but he reads so confidently that it fills her with glee anyways.  

for seven year olds, it’s clear to outsiders that they both don’t quite act their age. y/n, with her big doe eyes, dreams too much, her escapism both her greatest asset and most fatal flaw. spencer’s a stickler to the realistic, his pragmatic nature an unconscious choice that gives him a beautiful worldview but will make him grow up too fast. for now, though, the children don’t worry about that. they worry solely about balancing each other out and the purity that comes with being in youth.

y/n is splayed on her back on the floor of the fort, where her scratchy carpet is covered with a fluffy pink blanket. her hair fans out around her head in a halo. spencer’s physics book is closed and set gently in the corner, and he’s attempting to braid a small chunk of y/n’s hair. “pirates is my least favorite game,” he says.

“what about knights?” y/n angles herself to look back at him. she’s far too young to execute a soul searching gaze, but the way her eyes strain to scan his face comes close. she takes note of his facial expression giving away his inner thoughts. the way his lip quirks up indicates that he definitely does not want to play knights with the girl in front of him, but the softness in his eyes tells y/n that she’s won.

without another word, they crawl out from their blanket fort and jump onto the bed. “my armor is blue,” y/n says, unsheathing an imaginary sword and holding it up in joust. “knight armor was typically made of iron or steel, and there was no way to make it blue in the late 15th century,” spencer piped up, mirroring her actions. he likes playing at y/n’s house. his parents would never let him jump on the bed. y/n’s parents let the two of them do a lot of things, spencer thinks, and he’s never heard them fight like his parents do either.

“cool, spencer!” y/n says enthusiastically. she’s always enthusiastic when he tells her a fact, even though she rarely really understands him. she knows people are terrible to spencer because of his intellect, and had made a pact with herself when they first became friends that she would never ever ever be mean to spencer for being smart. “we can pretend, though. yours can be blue too!”

“okay,” he replies, and y/n begins to coach him through the game, attempting to loosen him up a bit. they play, bouncing around on the bed and wielding fake medieval weapons until the sun begins to go down and spencer remarks that he needs to go home before dark or his mom will be upset.

y/n reluctantly lets him leave, knowing that he has a lot less fun at his house, but finding comfort in the fact that he’ll come back the next day.

spencer and y/n spend every day together, without fail. they’re young, and they don’t know much about life, but they know that they’re the only people for each other. they’ve been inseparable since y/n had toddled into spencer’s first grade class and heard him reciting a john lyngate poem. her favorite book at that time was a brightly colored picture book, so she was both fascinated and confused by the boy in glasses in front of her. that day, they’d sat together on the bus and chatted the whole way home. the pure elation that occurred when the children realized they shared the same bus stop was unmatched. y/n, who’d just moved to las vegas, was relieved she’d met a friend in her new hometown.

she didn’t really meet any other friends after associating herself with spencer. he’d warned her that being his best friend was basically social suicide, but y/n was already attached to him like superglue. once, a girl in their class had tried to invite y/n to sit with her at lunch. the girl not-so-subtly made it clear that spencer was not invited to the table, and y/n had shut that down quickly with a swift spoonful of red jell-o down her shirt. spencer decided then that red jell-o was his favorite.

to sum it all up, in super simple terms, y/n and spencer were close. and everyone in their town knew it, including their parents, although both sets of adults were generally nonplussed about what their children were involved in as long as they were alive and surviving.

y/n’s parents aren’t neglectful, per se. she’d just had to learn how to fend for herself very early on. y/n’s existence had been an accident, and although she didn’t know that in explicit terms, it wasn’t hard to figure out based on the lack of maternal instincts from her mother. y/n’s mother sat on the back porch of their house a lot, looking out at their tiny, barren backyard with a cigarette in hand. her father went away on many business trips, coming back to greet the family only with a pat on y/n’s head before he padded up to the bedroom to slip into bed. one day, y/n would realize the intensity of the mental health problems both of her parents were suffering from, but as a child, the adults in her life just felt far away.

spencer’s parents were similar in a sense that they weren’t the best. rather than the silence that settled over y/n’s house, his home filled with argument. it’s why he found solace with y/n, with their blanket fort. y/n’d offered to let him live with them constantly, but spencer couldn’t leave his mother. his father? he couldn’t care less. but his mother...as much as spencer longs to spend his days curled up in y/n’s bed, reading, he knows above anything else, he’s got to protect his mother.

after closing the door behind spencer, y/n skips to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. her and spencer had made fresh lemonade the day before, squeezing lemons y/n had stolen from her neighbor’s tree. spencer had been in charge of the sugar, and he’d added way too much. the pair tried it, though, and liked the super sweet taste.

y/n fills her glass with ice, having to stand on her tippy toes to reach it in the freezer. after the cup is filled with the sugary beverage, she takes a second to peer out of the window and check on her mom outside. y/n expected to find her in her usual plastic chair, cloud of smoke encircling her. but she wasn’t there. this was odd. she sets her sweating glass down on the table, and wanders upstairs to get a location on her mother.

loud moans float down from the top of the stairs, and y/n, ever naive, follows the sound to its source. the stairs creak under her feet, her house old and probably close to crumbling. y/n pushes the door to her parents’ room open with both hands, and is immediately sick at the sight. at seven years old, she doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, but she knows that whatever she is seeing is wrong.

william reid, spencer’s father, is laid naked next to her mother, also fully exposed. they’re startled by the door opening, shocked to see young y/n standing there, witnessing their adultery. the three of them are in a trance, suspended in surprise. y/n’s brain is moving a mile a minute, she knows, but she can’t seem to form any cohesive thoughts except “this is not right.”  it feels like forever that y/n is holding eye contact with william before her mother speaks. “y/n,” she starts, but y/n doesn’t stick around to hear the end of the sentence. she’s out of the bedroom and out of the house in 30 seconds flat.

as she runs down the suburban street, she’s barely aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks or the pain in her feet. she’d forgotten shoes. she runs, runs, runs, hair flowing behind her. she runs until her thoughts catch up to her. where can she go? she realizes that her body had been taking her straight to spencer’s house, but she couldn’t. how could she look him in the eye? how could she tell him that her own mother is responsible for his family falling apart? how could she ever even be near him again? stopping in the middle of the road, y/n lets out an anguished scream. a ferocious scream. a scream that claws its way out of her chest. and then, sufficiently exhausted by both her physical activity and her emotional despair, she turns back the way she came and begins to trek back towards her house.

- - - - - -

“penny, i have no clue how you do your job,” y/n says, handing the blonde woman before her a hot macchiato in a to-go cup.

her hair is longer now, her eyes more weary. the wonder she felt as a child is long gone, sucked out of her on that fateful night. y/n hardly thinks about it anymore, but that night after she had gone home, her mother made her pack her bags and took her as far away from vegas as possible. as far away from spencer as possible. she never saw him again. it’s been almost twenty years since she’d last seen the geeky boy. the loss of her childhood best friend was a dull wound now, one tucked safely in the back of her subconscious. sometimes she wonders how he turned out, but their time together feels more like a dream than a memory.

y/n moved away from her parents as soon as she turned 18, straight to washington d.c.. with no money, no degree, no friends or family, y/n turned to her work. she got a job in a tiny coffee shop, and the elderly lady who owned it took her under her wing. her name was janice, and she was an old, childless widow. y/n’s kind disposition filled a void janice had given up on trying to fill, and the two became a fierce pair. janice provided y/n with the apartment above the shop, higher-than-minimum wage, and when janice passed five years later, y/n inherited the coffee shop itself. she’d been owning and running it ever since.

it was at this shop that she met penelope garcia. penelope frequented the kitschy coffee place before work, and had gained quite the soft spot for the raven-haired owner. the two of them chatted every morning as y/n flitted around behind the counter, making whatever caffeine-filled concoction penelope had ordered. eventually, their friendship progressed past casual small talk at y/n’s work into wine-filled sleepover nights at their apartments.

“my job is hard, my friend,” penelope replies, shuddering. “some of the stuff i see gives me the heebie jeebies.”

“yeah, like dead bodies.” y/n turns and begins making her own personal coffee to start the day, penelope leaning on the counter in front of her. “heebie jeebies is an understatement!” y/n faces penelope again and grins, pouring copious amounts of sugar into a mug that janice had used while running the café.

“you know, y/n, i only know one other person in the world that takes that much sugar in their coffee,” penelope remarks while she watches the barista stir her obscenely sweet coffee with a wooden stirrer.

“hmm, they must be my soulmate, then,” y/n says. penelope’s ears perk up at that. she makes her way to the door, and y/n raises her mug in lieu of a wave. “have fun at work, pen! see you at your place tonight! i’ll bring wine!” penelope responds with a witty goodbye and heads to work, just the jingle of the bells on the door to signify she was ever there.

-----

penelope saunters into the behavioral analysis unit office 30 minutes later, cup of coffee long empty. “good morning, babygirl,” derek says.

“i’ll show you a good morning, hot stuff,” penelope deadpans, walking through the bullpen to greet all of her coworkers. penelope’s so bright that she immediately lights up the dreary BAU.

“spencer!” she calls, prompting the shaggy haired doctor to look up from his desk.

“good morning, garcia,” he says with a small wave.

“this morning, i got coffee at my favorite place,” penelope begins to gush, “and the barista puts just as much sugar in her coffee as you do!”

spencer doesn't understand why garcia is telling him this until she continues.

“this particular barista happens to be super cute and also one of my closest friends.”

spencer shakes his head with a laugh. “no, garcia, i’m not letting you set me up again.”

“okay, the first one was not good, i’ll admit.” she perches on the edge of his desk.

“but i actually know this girl! and i love her!”

spencer shakes his head again, giving penelope a light, joking push off of her seat. “no,” he emphasizes, and garcia gives him a dramatic sigh.

“okay,” she says, dragging out the word. “i’m going to go to my lair now to give you time to

think about it.” she presses a kiss to the top of his head, and with a ruffle of his hair, she floats to her office.

i’ll convince him, she thinks. i mean, how could i not? coffee aside, the kids are perfect for each other. she doesn’t know how she missed the blatant similarities between them. penelope’s usually very perceptive, and that makes her really good at setting people up. i might as well be cupid, she thinks, except for that one date i’d sent spencer on. she chooses to ignore that one. a minor lapse in judgement.

penelope pulls out her phone to text y/n.

penelope (7:56): y/n, my love, my light, i have found the most perfect guy for you

y/n (7:57): no penny, not again

y/n (7:57): remember the last date you set me up on?

oh yeah, penelope remembers. she’d sent both of her friends on two completely separate, shitty dates. maybe cupid wasn’t the best nickname for her.

penelope (7:59): you’re right. ugh. ix-nay on that idea then

she attaches a lot of sad emojis, then tucks her phone away. there goes that. penelope tucks that idea away, into the depths of her brain, and forgets about it.

[binbogummy]

I Looove the dynamic of Habit Kamal and FK. Thank you for writing so much for them! I was wondering... What do you think Kamal's first impression of FK was? At the habitat he was so anxious and he seemed to helpless - I can't help but think FK helped him become a better and more confident person after the big event happened... But what about before that

• He'd been fighting with himself about the whole situation ever since it went down. Maybe he was too harsh with Habit, he was a pretty sensitive guy after all. He'd been far to nice with him for far to long and that hadn't gotten him anywhere. The things he was doing weren't right, none of it even made sense for a mental health retreat!

• Why even put an ad out looking for a dental assistant if you weren't going to be doing any dentistry. Kamal swallowed hard at that thought, pushing away the fact that he might already know the answer.

• Bor-Habit was unhinged sure, but he wasn't a bad person, that was something Kamal at least thought he was sure of. In fact, that was the only reason he'd stuck around for as long as he did.

• It was too late to change things now though, right? He could just put all of this behind him and move on with his life. All he had to do was walk out the gate and never come back. Unfortunately, he found himself unable to complete that simple last step. Because if something really was wrong, then he'd have moved on being one of the only people that could have stopped it.

• Kamal's conscience wouldn't let him leave but his anxiety made him too damn scared to actually do anything. So he settled on a substandard inbetween; waiting it out to see what would happen.

• It had been what, a few weeks now since his fight with Habit and things in the Habitat had remained monotonously unchanged.

• The Doc himself had gone eerily silent on top of that. Maybe that was for the best. Knowing Habit; the big guy was probably sulking in his office, too frustrated and uncomposed to actually do anything. Those weird little PSAs even stopped airing and Kamal started to feel hopeful that maybe Habit was actually giving up on this whole silly idea.

• Then you showed up. He didn't even know the Habitat was excepting any new members. Habit had even mentioned cutting off applications to see how this first batch of "patients" worked out. He could only assume this was the doctor’s way of trying to kickstart things again. Smashing all hope that maybe this place was actually going to shut down. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little annoyed by a new arrival considering his current situation.

• After a few days the rumors started to make their way up to his spot on the balcony. Looks like this new member has been making a name for themselves.

• Along with this rise in activity came the return of the PSAs. This time around though, something wasn't right. Boris was getting annoyed, Kamal could tell. Hell, you'd have to be a moron not to be able to.

• Kamal actually figured that would be it for you. You'd see the not so subtle threatening messages and go into hiding just like him and Wallus. However the very next morning Borbra was excitedly showing off her brand new Y'owl to everyone on the terrace. Unfortunately the purveyor themself stayed up all last night trying to catch it and wasn't around to join in on the fun.

• It didn't really seem like much at first but day after day things in the Habitat started to change. He never went down much further than the apartments but Lulia kept him pretty well informed and the PSAs alone gave him enough information to figure out what was going on.

• Soon the Carnival and the Lounge reopened as well and it almost seemed like every day more and more color was returning to the dreary Habitat. People eyes gave way to a kind of spark when they'd talk about you and anyone that crossed you path seemed to have a sort of glow around them.

• You and Habit had this weird little rivalry going on. It was terrifying but hilarious. You'd improve something around the Habitat and Habit would follow your action up by trying to show you up or by denouncing your behavior.

• Apparently you'd been refusing to eat anything from the lounge and your snarky comments about the poor supply management must have been overheard because by the next day the lounge received what, according to Jimothan, was more stock than the lounge had room for.

• That's what was so funny about it! Habit didn't care about making people happy, at least that's what Kamal figured at this point. He was just childish and jealous that you were doing his job better than him!

• It wasn't long after that that he'd finally get the chance to meet you himself. Not to sound rude but you didn't look like much at first. You were surprisingly normal looking compared to the other people around here. You didn't seem to pay him much mind either when you stepped up to the highest part of the balcony, gazing out over the edge through the missing bars.

• He could only assume it was you, the person everyone had been referring to as the flower kid. You didn't look like much of a kid per say but he guessed the term of endearment matched your actions. Maybe you were some kind of beatnik?

• If it wasn't for the way he unconsciously gasped when you leaned precariously over the edge you might not have even noticed him.

• You looked nervous at first but his own anxious prattling seemed to help you loosen up a bit and soon you got to talking. Gosh, you were a weird kid. Definitely not the type of person to find in a self help resort of all places.

• To think...you'd actually find him a tooth brush. To be honest, up until that moment he didn't think he cared what you were getting yourself into. But after helping him fix his teeth you just collected yourself calmly and went to move on like it was no big deal. In that moment he couldn't think of the last time someone had just done something for him. So he spoke quite unceremoniously in what he assumed was his own half assed attempt to talk you down from the mountain you didn't know you were climbing.

"Habit?" You questioned him as if not understanding what he was getting at. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure that guy wants to kick in my teeth", you continued half joking."

"You'd be surprised how not far that is from the actual truth." Kamal mumbled quietly. So you weren't oblivious to Habit's annoyance.

"I'll be honest, I don't know what I did to piss him off but if he wants me to leave he can ask me himself." Your tone wasn't challenging, it sounded more confused than anything. "I've been here almost two weeks, I just really want to talk to him at this point."

"Careful what you wish for, kiddo, but.... Kamal paused, "he's really not that bad a guy when you get to know him."

"Hm?"

"Heh, never mind. I do got a question for you though. What's someone like you doing in a place like this in the first place? You've obviously got enough positivity to share." His question seemed to catch you off guard and you looked to be searching for an answer. After a moment however you just shrugged wordlessly. "Fair enough fair enough."

• A while after that you made it a habit to stop by and say hi to him when you were making your rounds around the Habitat. It hadn't occurred to him how much he'd actually began to worry about you until you pulled a particular stunt.

• You came up to say hi like you usually did but instead of heading down to the apartments you stared wistfully over the edge of the balcony. He was about to tell you to be careful but didn't get the chance when you jumped through the missing bars and down into the courtyard.

• Kamal rushed down the ever daunting stairwell at a speed he didn't think was possible only to find you standing unharmed at the bottom. How did you - did he just - why??? 

• After that he regained the courage to start walking around the Habitat again. He didn't have to worry about Boris coming down. The big guy talked a big talk when he was behind that puppet but Kamal new him well enough to guess he wouldn't be coming down from his tower any time soon, at least not while you were still here.

• Apparently at some point amongst your little back and forths with Habit you even staged a little mock election for president of the Habitat. While it started out as a one sided joke on your part, Habit actually went through the trouble of having the fake campaign posters Putunia and Tim Tam had made around the Habitat torn down and replaced them with ones of his own. (All of which were quickly vandalized with marker mustaches and devil horns)

• While the whole thing started as a joke, it was just a testament to the fact that you had the whole freakin’ Habitat on your side, even those stupid Carlas. All you had to do was ask them and they'd let you into restricted areas or even forgo escorting you to your room at "beddy time" when you'd try to stay up. 

• The whole beddy time situation was something even he was too scared to mess with. You on the other hand didn't seem to mind ending every night passed out in the courtyard.

Kamal settled down pretty early one night and was just dosing off when he was startled awake by a distant scream. Had he been more awake, he'd have surprised himself with the guts he showed as he rushed out into the dark without a second thought to find the owner of the voice. He hadn't even made it to the stairs when a body crashed into his own. After stumbling for a moment he finally focusing on the panicked figure in front of him.

"Kid, what's the-"

Before he could finish you lurched away from him. "Kid, kid! It's okay it's me!" He spoke quickly, reaching out to steady your shoulders before you tripped over yourself

"K-kamal?"

"Yeah, it's just me, little buddy..." He gave you a reassuring smile as you finally seemed to be taking in your surroundings "Was that you who screamed? What happened?" Unfortunately this question struck the wrong cords as you quickly seemed to remember why you were running in the first place.

"Th-there was this-this...thing...down in the courtyard!" You backed away from him a few steps, pointing down the stairwell.

"Calm down. What kind of thing?"

"Some kind of, I don't know...some kind of shadow thing!" If you weren't still freaking out you might have noticed the way Kamal's face straightened in realization as soon as those words left you mouth. His attention was soon turned back to you though as he shifted into damage control mode.

"Okay, you're okay though right y-" Just then Kamal noticed the way you had been holding your left shoulder, his eyes trailing up to the small abrasion on your head above your temple. "Wait wait wait, did Ha- did this "shadow thing" do that to you?!"

"N-no, but I-", you were interrupted by a rush of lightheadedness but was steadied by Kamal before you could fall over.

"Lets...get out of the open and get you patched up, this "fresh mountain air" is giving me a headache. You can tell me the whole story once your nerves have settled a bit. " You could only offer a shaky nod, stumbling a few times as he seemed to be leading you in the direction of his room.

After instructing you to sit on his bed, Kamal got to work cleaning up the small wound on your head. It wasn't actually too bad, just a shallow scrape with a lot of bruising.

"You see a few hours ago Tim Tam snatched Millie's golf club and stashed it somewhere in the courtyard. We searched for it all day but we couldn't find it anywhere and Mil was getting really upset so I promised her I'd find it for her by morning..." Kamal listened quietly, putting a bit of pressure on your sore shoulder to see how you'd react. "It was getting dark and I was about to give up, but then I saw it up in that big tree by the corner."

"Don't tell me; you climbed up to get it, didn't you?"

"I...yeah. I'd almost made it the whole way up when I started feeling groggy and after a minute I must have blacked out, cause the next thing I know I'm on the ground looking up at the stars.

"You fell out?! Is that why you screamed?"

"No-no, I couldn't do anything at first, I was so out of it." The color drained from your face as you continued. "My vision was fading in and out but I think the pain in my arm was keeping me awake. It hurt so bad but I still couldn't move....it was terrifying."

"Sounds like it..." Kamal finished his inspection and sat beside you when he noticed your growing discomfort.

"That's when I saw it. It was out of the corner of my eye at first but it kept getting closer. I thought for sure I was hallucinating, because I couldn't hear any footsteps and the next thing I know it's standing over me... It was...some kind of...shadow. Then...it reached down and-and started trying to pick me up! That...that must have been enough to get my adrenaline pumping cause I screamed and kicked it right in the stomach! Then...I pulled myself to my feet and ran..."

"And that's when you ran into me huh?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry I just..."

"Don't apologize, I'm glad ya did actually. Your shoulder should be okay, just a little sore for a while, try not to sleep on it, kay?" You once again responded by nodding quietly.

Shoot, you were really shaken up...not that he could blame you. It was a bit jarring actually; to see the infamous flower kid so scared. Stupid Habit and his stupid laughing gas. Stupid him for helping that maniac load the stuff into that stupid machine!

While he had all night to sit there and curse himself out, he was brought back to reality when you stood up beside him.

"I should probably head back to my room... Whatever it was was probably just another one of Habit's tricks to get me to follow curfew anyways." One thing Kamal was sure of; he was not a fan of the despondence in your voice.

"Actually!" He jumped from his spot to stop you, "Why don't you crash with me for the night? No reason to got trudging around in the dark."

"That's sweet but I'll be fine really."

"Ayy, c'mon it's no trouble. I'll sleep on the futon. 'Sides, won't it be kinda fun throwing the green guy for a loop? You ain't out and about, you ain't in your room; he'll be up all night tryin' ta figure out where ya went!" While Kamal never considered himself good a cheering folks up, the small smile you cracked had to count for something.

"Only if I get to sleep in the futon, I don’t want to impose..."

"You're twistin' my arm here, kid, buuut...I guess I can compromise, for the sake of irking a common enemy." The small laugh he got out of you mad him feel happier than he would have been able to admit with a straight face. You really had a way of making folks care about you, kid, and he was no exception.

• That night shared something in common with the night of the Big Event

Kamal was scared, he was always so scared; until he saw someone that was just as scared if not more than him. It's easy to be scared when the only person you're worried about protecting is yourself. But even after finding out Habit was involved that night, seeing someone like you beat up and frightened because of him made him angry. The same went for seeing you walk out of those gates, mouth bloody with Habit in tow.

• He's always going to be a little angry at himself for it taking seeing your courage the night of the Big Event for him to fully realize it. He never would have thought himself brave enough to almost uppercut Habit, let alone have the patience to invite him to come along back to his place with the two of you afterwards at your request.

[mythgirlimagines]

Now that today is Tuesday, I’ve conjured up a fresh new talentswap! Give a warm welcome to Myth, Former Ultimate Child Caregiver!

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BACKSTORY AND TALENT

Myth’s parents work at an orphanage, and as such, she was born and raised around little kids. She may have 3 biological sisters, but emotionally, she has close to 53 siblings. Myth bonded especially with a rough-and-tough street rat the same age as her. However, when Myth started to get older, the orphanages funds began to falter. Myth’s parents had no choice but to send their strongest orphans to ”aikido training” in order to earn them money. And sadly, Wyre was amongst the strongest orphans. Myth was deeply hurt by the loss of her childhood friend, but she had to remain strong for the rest of the orphans. Many other Ultimates also visit Myth’s orphanage in order to assist her in caring for the children. She claims she can do it all by herself, but deep down, she appreciates the extra helping hands.

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RELATIONSHIPS

Wyre Anon, Former Ultimate Assassin Aikido Master

Wyre has been Myth’s friend ever since Wyre was first brought flailing and screaming into the orphanage. Myth is only one able to calm a little Wyre down from her outbursts, even to the present day. Myth is also the only one who knows of Wyre’s secret identity as “Ryuuken”, a highly dangerous and violent assassin, and regularly controls Wyre in case she can’t fight her violent nature.

Anon Scar, Ultimate Adventurer

Scar, or “The Crusader Of The Mortal Realm” as she refers to herself, is well-known for traversing across dangerous terrain and through precarious situations. Scar is also a big hit amongst the kids at Myth’s orphanage for her bombastic anecdotes regarding her travels, abliet with Myth and Fusion translating the more complex parts of her speech. Scar will never admit it, but she has a soft spot for the ”Spawn of Heart”, as she calls them.

FU5-10N (aka. Fusion Anon), Ultimate Robot

Originally built for the purpose of being a science museum’s tour guide and mascot, FU5-10N has since being upgraded to look after little kids as well. While some more skittish kids may be a bit unnerved by this 6,3 metal man, the fear quickly dissipates when said 6,3 metal man starts telling dad jokes and science trivia. Myth quickly got along with the metal man for their shared love of puns. However, FU5-10N is also the only one besides Myth who knows of Wyre‘s true talent.

Fusion Anon II, Ultimate Cosplayer

Fusion II is well-known across conventions for her impressively accurate craftsmanship regarding her costumes. Fusion II regularly acts sarcastic and ”too cool for school”, but Myth and the kids quickly busts down her snarky exterior to reveal a massive nerd deep down. Because of Fusion II’s talent, she can not only repair the orphan’s torn clothes and plushies, but she‘ll improve them and make them at least “20% cooler”. She’ll never admit it, but she lives for the orphan’s smiles and words of gratitude.

Just Anon, Ultimate Artist

A natural prodigy when it comes to all sorts of art forms, Janon very quickly establishes himself as a cynical and lazy jerk. Or at least, around adults and kids his age. When around people younger than him need his help, he’d always there for them in a pinch. Unfortunately for him, Myth regularly teases and praises Janon for his soft spot towards the orphans, claiming that he should start working here full-time. This usually earns her paint splashed in her face.

Sparkle Anon, Former Ultimate Magician

Sparkle, or “THE SPECTACULAR SPELLCASTER, SPARKLE“ as she refers to herself, might just hold the record for the most bombastic and elaborate magic tricks ever performed on stage. Myth’s relationship with Sparkle goes back more than half a decade. In fact, Sparkle got her start entertaining the kids at Myth’s orphanage. Myth regularly volunteers herself to assist Sparkle in her magic shows. Even as an adult, Sparkle still hasn’t lost her sparkling and eccentric charm. She lives for the thunderous roar of applause and the tsunami of smiles from her loving audience.

Egg Anon, Former Ultimate Supreme Leader, and Wet Sock Anon, Former Ultimate Astronaut

While Myth normally would allow anyone to help out at the orphanage, these two are the exception to this rule, and it’s not hard to see why. Egg has but one goal; to brainwash children with cursed thoughts and indoctrinate them into their cult. Their twin, Wet Sock‘s main goal is to extend the reach of their cult to outer space. Myth speaks for everyone at the orphanage when she says that Egg and Wet Sock’s cursed images and concepts  are hazardous to a child‘s mental health.

Curious Anon, Jr. Ultimate Anthropologist 

Just like with Scar, Curious’s stories of their worldly travels entice the children of Myth’s orphanage. And Curious as a person is an equally pleasant experience, for they are tranquil, mild-mannered and easy to get along with. Myth regularly tries to set up Curious with Janon, knowing that Janon has fallen hood-over-heels for them. But despite Curious’s knowledge on the foreign aspects of humanity, romantic feelings seem to be foreign even to them. 

Anon Nerd, Former Ultimate Tennis Pro

Unlike other Anons, who frequent the orphanage for the kids, Nerd is after the adorable caretaker, not that he’ll ever admit it. However, Myth knows her romance and would stop at nothing to get Nerd to admit his feelings for her. Not even getting her lip busted by a Mach 2 tennis ball or getting bashed in the head with a tennis racket would stop this girl. She can and will get this tsundere tennis champion to confess, even if she has to suffer scouter burns in the process.

Eldritch Anon, Ultimate Detective

Years of working in law enforcement has left this diminutive detective panicky, hostile and distrusting of just about anybody. Ever since Eldritch heard of an assassin hiding out in the orphanage, Eldritch will stop at nothing to find the assassin hidden among the orphans. But in the meantime, Eldritch has to shake off pesky kids who think he’s one of them. Myth has to save Wyre‘s bacon on the daily from this paranoid detective who wants her incarcerated. 

Dream Anon, Ultimate Pianist

Having been attracted to music ever since she was a baby, Dream dominates piano competitions year after year with her energetic and triumphant tunes. She regularly wheels her piano around town looking for places to perform at, which is how she happened upon Myth’s orphanage. Performing for the orphans gives Dream a rush of euphoric feelings that winning competitions could only hope and dream to achieve. And the cute detective that frequents the orphanage with her isn’t half-bad either.

Iris Anon, Jr. Ultimate Inventor

Despite her clumsy and goofy demeanour, Iris has a 7-year winning streak at her hometown’s regional science fairs. Famous for inventing and marketing a new and improved version of Moon Shoes called Astro-Uggs, Iris regularly shows off her inventions to the children of Myth’s orphanage and even donates some of her inventions to Myth in hopes of improving the living conditions of the orphanage. Iris hopes that her inventions would make the world even better and more awesome then it already is.

Purple Anon, Ultimate Maid

With a selfless attitude and an overly formal vocabulary, Purple regularly comes to the orphanage to assist Myth in caring for the children. Despite Myth claiming that she doesn’t need the extra help, Purple insists that it’s the least she can do. Purple always tries her best to help the kids, but most of the children have no idea what she is saying due to her old-fashioned and complex vocabulary, which requires Fusion to translate for her.  

This series revolves around Myth and Fusion trying to prevent the other Anons, Eldritch in particular, from finding out about Wyre‘s true talent. However, Wyre doesn‘t do a very good job at hiding her true nature and soon, everyone else but Eldritch finds out. So now, it’s Everybody Else vs. Eldritch.

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APPEARANCE

Myth wears glasses and has undyed hair in two low and long pigtails, held up by green scrunchies. She has a matching green headband with yellow stars and pink hearts and a heart shaped ahoge, designating her as the protagonist. She wears an oversized pink hoodie with yellow details and a smiley face on each pocket, over a blue shirt with multicoloured shapes on it. She also has a necklace with a green clover in the center. She wears a red belt that holds various stuffed animals and a yellow belt that holds a first aid kit. Her long and light blue skirt has various patches sewn in and on her feet, she wears red Mary Janes.

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PERSONALITY

Despite what ChildCaregiver!Myth’s fashion sense would suggest, ChildCaregiver!Myth is more serious and almost monk-like in her tranquilty. Being surrounded by children since birth has caused ChildCaregiver!Myth to grow into a caring, calm and empathetic soul. She is also known to offer sage-like advice on how to deal with loss and abandonment, having dealt with abandoned and parentless children. However, ChildCaregiver!Myth has a bad tendency to overexert herself and spread herself too thin, something also caused by being surrounded with kids. She can be a bit stubborn on insisting that she doesn’t need help and can deal with this all by herself, much to the concern of the volunteers. If I had to compare ChildCaregiver!Myth to a canon character, I’d compare her to Kirumi.

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Finally! I’ve finished ChildCaregiver!Myth! Let me know what you think of this talentswap!

-Fusion Anon

—

Well the kids I babysit sure seem to like me, so this is a good talent haha!

[desroundtree]

Words - Spoken and Written

My muscles feel it, the normal heaviness that accompanies any movement from point A to point B. My spirit usually tries to finds a way to feel light, to strive for a certain levity that is associated with happiness and laughter floating on breezes. Lately, there is no finding that space. It’s lost with all the tears I’ve shed, the time that’s gone and the memories I don’t have the energy to make.

I have been really sick for the last six weeks. Sicker than I have been during the pandemic which was  pretty bad to begin with. The constant stress had all of my conditions in constant flare meaning everything I have is working overtime to make me feel like complete shit. During these six weeks it has been nothing but paranoia, fear and to be honest unexplained illness. Aggressive symptoms and inflammation, extremely precarious mental health and emotional feelings, everything being more than it needs to be. Ever.

Eventually, weeks after an ER visit I was diagnosed with bilateral pleural effusions as well as pericarditis - two conditions typical for Lupus patients when the disease is active.

I am still under treatment. Why? Because I’m still experiencing symptoms of pericarditis (tachycardia meaning an elevated heart rate for no real reason), my lungs still don’t feel right on the left side where the pleural effusion was worse. Still trying to figure out exactly why this disease is doing its best to make me feel my worst. It’s obvious the pandemic hasn’t helped, stress does nothing but aggravate autoimmune conditions and since I have a slew of them I have been sick everyday since last year. Even with the walks, even with the meditation, even with the naps and baths and different therapies. Even with all of the positive things I’ve done to try to alleviate my symptoms or help myself, I have failed.

I still don’t feel well and my body is showing me that I am right. My kidneys continue to struggle, so much so that even a high dosage of oral steroids wasn’t enough to stop my feet from swelling to two times their size. An emergency IV infusion of steroids was necessary to stop whatever the Lupus was attempting to do to my organs. It’s scary as it always is and shows me once again how close my mortality is. Closer than yours is even with Covid out there in the world.

Covid just makes my experience all the more scary: because I can do all the things but needing other people to do the things has been a huge disappointment. All the other things that aren’t easy for me either. But I do them. It’s weird how I feel the responsibility to my family, and even further than that, to everyone else, to do what just feels like the right thing. 

I am worried. It makes sense for me to be worried as my heart and lungs are pretty important and Lupus changing their functionality is just beyond my realm of comprehension. My kidney issues, even the anxiety and depression are things that felt almost like a morbid rite of passage, most Lupus patients have kidney issues, most suffer with issues surrounding their mortality, most have issues with acceptance of loss. We struggle, and it’s not just physically.

I wanted to write because I have felt stuck in a way that felt suffocating. My words have felt like they’ve been trapped in my heart, my mouth, and on my fingertips. I’ve spoken more on Instagram because it has felt comfortable there and authentic. At least my frustration, sadness, anger and of course my happiness too - is on display in a way that just feels right. 

Writing on the other hand felt preachy as I described it to a close friend. Writing about my illness has never felt forced or like a chore. Yet, I felt like no one wanted to hear this story over and over again. No one wanted to read my words that express pain and things they don’t understand. Things they too are afraid of for me and because of me. Writing about my disappointment feels old but also feels like something that I need to do for me, regardless of what people really want to read.

It’s strange. It became a love hate relationship with writing the words but not speaking them.

I’ve found that I needed to understand how I really felt about what was happening to me before I could put the words in on paper, for the world to read. Even though it’s real to me, it feels real when I write it, as real as it did when I spoke it. Maybe I was the one that lost the interest in my written word, I'll never know. Right now, communication is what feels right and whatever way it takes for me to get there is the path I am willing to walk. 

[piermanwalter]

Thief’s Apprentice: Fashion of Various Classes of the Living and Dead

IN GENERAL

Buttons don’t exist in Veilheim because they haven’t been invented. There is no need for buttons because the living tend to first lose their fingers to the plague and aren’t dextrous enough to use buttons. Revenants are sewn into their clothes and never take them off unless they get totally destroyed, so they have no need for buttons either. 

Revenants and the living have different attitudes towards metal. For the living, gold-plated things and gold alloys look the same as pure gold. Revenants can sense substances, so if they wear gold, they prefer to wear pure gold. The alternatives are just sad.

Some professions wear an unofficial uniform, to be easily recognised, and also because these clothes are practical for how they work, and also because I can’t be assed to make a custom model for everyone. For example, shepherds never have prosthetics to advertise their ready supply of meat. Judges wear tall crowned helmets because they are literally and metaphorically higher up than anyone else in court. Reapers heavily armor their ankles to prevent accidental dismemberments and are shirtless, to show that their terrifying metal tools are for farming, not fighting, and also to prevent living reapers from suffering from heat, and also because reaping is an awesome and sexy job.

Revenants move their prosthetics by imbuing them with their souls, and the same happens with clothes. Since fabric is organic and made to store the original being’s, whether it be a silk worm or a flax plant, soul, human souls can’t make a good enough foothold in the material to move it. Still, revenant clothing is integral for sensing and personal esteem, so changing is more like a surgical procedure. Wearing a new outfit feels like nerve damage. Your skin and subcutaneous fat has died, so you were peeled and replaced with more skin and fat, and you can’t feel anything until your nerves heal. 

The debutante penchant for inventing new fashions and constantly changing clothes is similar to plastic surgery. There is the same impression of frivolous spending and vanity, but also advertising the size of your soul that enables you to be comfortable with your new outfit within hours, and also the strength of your resolve to have your skin replaced over and over. The debutantes may be capricious and wasteful, but they are not cowards.

THE DEAD

The dead in Veilheim like to wear wool heavily dyed in bright colors with metal, such as Mercury Red and Cobalt Blue. This is because revenants don’t see and instead send out tiny pieces of their souls to feel distance and substances. Their impression of color is based off how concentrated various substances are, so while the living may see fabric as too saturated with dirt to identify color, revenants can feel the copper in the fabric and know how green it is. 

Wool, as the hair of sheep, carries plague so it’s considered unsafe for the living to wear. Revenants wearing plant-based fabrics is seen as selfish. It’s also considered rude for revenants to wear multiple colors or patterns, because it forces people to expend more of their soul to see all the colors and recognise you. The long ribbons, while stylish, also serve a practical purpose. Since revenants don’t feel or have a sense of balance, if the ribbons are pointing in a direction, that’s probably where down is, and if they are waving a lot, there might be wind.

Quail Racer

As our exemplar of revenant poverty in Veilheim, Quail Racer doesn’t wear clothes, has no remaining flesh, and her prosthetics barely keep her together. Based off how tall she is and how healthy and unwarped her bones are, Quail Racer must have caught the plague late in life and died soon after. Her memory and mental faculties are so bad that she can’t obey orders or find any gainful employment. Instead, she devotes herself to taking care of, racing, and betting on quails. Quail Racer is seen as a cautionary tale of what happens if you die before your time, but she has more money than it may seem. Instead of spending it on herself, she spends it on quails. 

You can argue that revenants with poor mental faculties and a stunted understanding of the world are more carefree and can devote their time and energy to their own happiness instead of the well-being of the city as a whole without guilt, but they can only live so long like this before wearing down into senseless bones, and are often victims of crimes, ranging from petty robbery to being kidnapped for secret illegal slavery to being taken apart for raw materials. Quail Racer is much beloved by the quail racing community, so nothing too bad has happened to her yet.

Practical Cartographer

Practical Cartographer tries to present as the average Veilheimer in order to spread news of the great city to other travellers. His prosthetics are better than most can afford up front, but some revenants purposefully put themselves into debt to get a better body. Since Practical Cartographer scrounges his map materials from garbage, his business has almost no operational cost and he is no longer in debt. Most revenants of average means died before before the plague rendered them bedridden and were not rich enough in life to learn an intellectual craft, and so have a clear career path in manual or industrial labor. Although somewhat skilled and artistic, Practical Cartographer’s maps are so obviously mass-produced at low quality that for census reasons he counts as a common industrial laborer instead of an artisan, something that other people mock him for, but he doesn’t care about.

Often poorer revenants wear more pieces of clothing, so that if one piece gets destroyed, they don’t have to replace their whole outfit. Conversely, richer revenants often wear clothes in a single piece so they can flex on replacing an entire outfit. This is not an ironclad rule, so whenever Practical Cartographer gets hit with, “Why do you dress like a laborer?”, he can hit back with, “I dress like the Veiled Goddess. Are you calling our Goddess a laborer?”

Master Computer

Master Computer was spoiled in life and given the best education in finance and math, and after she died, it would be a terrible waste if she didn’t make a name for herself. Although she was not severely infected before she died, she has worked around her terrible short-term memory via prosthetic devices and communicating mostly via writing. Computers are hired to do a lot of math and take detailed records, and can be identified by the abacuses, plumb bobs, clocks, and other devices attached to their heads. Since Master Computer sends out her subordinates and apprentices to measure and record things, she has no measuring devices and is instead rigged with a huge opulent abacus with gold beads to do calculations as quickly as possible. 

She is rich, but not monumentally rich. She can afford to wear lots of gold, but not as much gold as turbo plutocrats like the civil servant triumvirate. Instead of spending on fine materials, she instead spends on prosthetics. Most cities in Surenia rarely have revenants deciding to look much different from a regular living human, but in Veilheim, where death is normalised and the finest prosthetics are made, revenants can be gigantic and/or recast in bizarre inhuman shapes if they can afford it. Master Computer can be seen and heard from far away, towering over most people and clicking and clacking her gold abacus beads and her 11 metal legs.

THE LIVING

To avoid excess plague and toxic metal exposure, the living in Veilheim tend to wear undyed plant-based fabrics. It’s fine for the living to wear patterns because they can see. Some late stage plaguebearers decide to wear metal dyes anyway because they figure they will die of the plague before they get metal poisoning. Organic dyes are also worn, but revenants can’t see light, so the finest of murex purple dyes comes across to them as a nasty greenish brown. If revenants are bad at differentiating organic substances, how do they see hair and skin color? Revenants can sense the souls of others and can get an impression of how a living being looks based off their own self image.

It’s good to keep track of your bones as they fall out. After you die, you can get them reattached. People heavily ravaged by the plague used to plait them together with ribbons, but as painkillers, health care, and prosthetics for the living improved, previously bedridden people could walk around, so the new fashion is to wear your bones wired to a ring for convenience.

Kaolin

It’s very tragic when a child gets the plague. Some children are born to plaguebearing mothers, and are guaranteed to die within a year. Some children get infected on their own and can no longer live with their family in the plague-free district. They lack the strength to endure years of being consumed by plague, and are guaranteed to go mad after they die, so plaguebearing children are allowed to go wherever they want and do whatever they want within reason. Since the children aren’t expected to live long enough to grow taller, they get one new outfit and that’s it. What remains of their lives is devoted to fun. A special hollow tower was made for them to throw themselves into when they can’t stand it anymore. Sometimes children who are too far gone to climb the tower will beg for passerby to kill them. This is horrible, but the alternative is to wait for children to slowly die in agony on their own, and then the resulting mad revenants will wreak havoc. Another alternative is rounding up plaguebearing children and killing them, which nobody wants to do.

Kaolin is smart enough to understand how precarious it is to be a plaguebearing child and has plans to return to sanity after dying. This is one reason why Kaolin is so interested in the bros: two of them have child-sized skeletons, but they are mostly not mad. Someone cared about them enough to raise them after they died.

Kios

Kios was lucky enough for the plague to first affect her spine, so she is guaranteed some level of sanity after she dies. After a life of working in breweries, farms, and distilleries, Kios has a very good understanding of plant fermentation and preservation and now spends most of her time on street corners in the market district smoking outrageous amounts of opium, playing board games, and giving fairly good perfume mixing and vegetable pickling advice. There’s no guarantee how she will turn out after dying, but Kios assumes she will become a farmer or reaper or small-time distiller or working in Agriculture Scientist’s office. 

The living want to show off how infected they are, but at the same time want to stay otherwise healthy. Hands and feet are often bandaged because they are most easily damaged. Heads are also bandaged because the thin skin of the scalp is always sloughing off and ears are leaking infectious fluids. It’s a point of pride to get the plague in a more unusual place. Kios thus has a very good reason to wear a backless dress. She lost a fair amount of her hands and feet, so she has a pretty decent ring of bones.

Astragalus Rambush

Rambush owns most of the aforementioned breweries and distilleries. As the first living person to owe taxes under the new law, he maintains an air of superiority over revenants complaining about getting stabbed through the ribcage because he got away with paying one third of what he owed by getting stabbed through the hand that was already lost to plague. His nose and lips have rotted off, but he can’t cover them otherwise he will suffocate and drown in infectious fluids, so everyone just has to deal with that. 

Rambush expects to have some level of control over the family business after he dies, and uses his status as a plaguebearer to negotiate favorable deals with revenants for his family, even though he hasn’t seen most of them since he got the plague. By wearing a cloak that is purple to the living and patterns visible to revenants, Rambush hopes to be at least partially purple to everyone, even though it’s technically an assholish thing to do. Although metal prosthetics are starting to be made for the living, they were designed for revenants and are very hard to use. Since Rambush lost an arm and a leg, his ring of bones is impressive and frightening to behold.

[alexsfictionaddiction]

12 New Thrillers To Take You Through To Autumn

As the nights start to draw in, you may find yourself hankering after a chunky darker read to match the view outside. Maybe you’ve still got a cosy staycation on the horizon before the end of the summer and want to throw yourself down a twisty path of secrets and lies. I’m a magpie for good, page-turning mysteries and complex, well-written characters, so I wanted to share my favourite 2020 thrillers with you in the hope that you’ll find something intriguing. Enjoy and stay safe! -Love, Alex x

1. Dead To Her by Sarah Pinborough.

In the sun-soaked, wealthy social circles of Savannah, Georgia, Marcie Maddox has finally managed to establish herself as the centrepoint of this lavish, sumptuous world. Then her husband’s boss brings a beautiful new wife back from London and Marcie’s place in Savannah society begins to look a little precarious. How far will she go to maintain her position and keep the wandering eyes of her husband firmly on her? Flawed, unpredictable characters and curveballs everywhere, Dead To Her is a revenge thriller that incorporates sun, sex and superstition.

2. Invisible Girl by Lisa Jewell.

When vulnerable 17-year-old Saffyre Maddox goes missing, the entire Hampstead community have their own ideas about what happened to her. With local reports of sexual attacks on young women, Cate Fours, mother-of-two and wife of Saffyre’s former psychologist Roan, has her suspicions about Owen Pick, the odd single man who lives opposite them. Invisible Girl is unnerving, twisty and highly addictive with believable characters who you both suspect and empathise with. A unique, mind-fuck of a domestic suspense novel.

3. The Octopus by Tess Little.

Despite not having spoken for ten years, Elspeth is invited to celebrate her ex-husband Richard’s 50th birthday at his stunning LA mansion, so she is surprised to discover that there are just seven other guests in attendance. The next morning, Richard is dead and of course, everyone is a suspect. Including Richard’s pet octopus Persephone. This strange, heady mystery has strong Christie vibes and explores the haziness of memory, the horrors and repercussions of abusive relationships and the dangers of power.

4. Nothing Can Hurt You by Nicola Maye Goldberg.

When a student is killed, her boyfriend confesses citing temporary insanity. His acquittal rocks the community and everyone has questions, creating a relentless search of justice and explanation. Inspired by a true story, this riveting mystery reads like a collection of short stories, as we hear from a multitude of voices of varying degrees of closeness to the victim. Focusing on gendered violence and white privilege, it’s a very timely haunting read.

5. The Search Party by Simon Lelic.

Sadie Saunders has been missing for a week and the whole town thinks she is dead but her brother, boyfriend and three of her friends are determined to find out what really happened. However, the search party quickly takes a dark turn and all of them are under suspicion, when secrets gradually start to spill out. Stephen King-esque character dynamics and a completely unpredictable ending, The Search Party is a claustrophobic multi-layered mystery that will keep you hooked.

6. Imperfect Women by Araminta Hall.

Nancy Hennessey has been murdered and naturally, her two best friends Eleanor and Mary suspect her secret lover to be behind it. When the investigation turns up nothing, Eleanor and Mary each struggle to deal with their grief amidst questioning how well they really knew Nancy. Imperfect Women features highly frustrating characters and an intensely intriguing mystery with themes of motherhood and lifelong female friendship. A stark reminder that life rarely sticks to our plans for it and that we should learn to love our imperfections gives this dark story a glimmer of light.

7. You Let Me In by Camilla Bruce.

Reclusive writer Cassandra Tipp has disappeared and no one knows whether she’s dead or alive. She has left her huge fortune and a manuscript addressed to her niece and nephew, full of instructions to follow and the truth behind all of the gossip and rumours that have haunted her life. Elements of magical realism and Gothic horror thread through this gripping original and imaginative novel.

8. Heatstroke by Hazel Barkworth.

During a sweltering summer, 15-year-old Lily fails to come home one afternoon. Her English teacher Rachel’s daughter Mia is Lily’s best friend and Lily’s absence leads Rachel to confront some painful home truths. Thought-provoking and intense, Heatstroke follows a woman’s mental spiral and obsession, exploring mistrust and power in an atmospheric setting.

9. The Wives by Tarryn Fisher.

Despite never having met them, Thursday has always known that her husband Seth has two other wives. Then she finds something that suggests a very different narrative to her husband’s life than the one she thought she knew. Be prepared to be taken for a very twisty unsettling ride through the depths of a complex polygamous arrangement and everything that entails in this compulsively readable thriller.

10. The Other Girl by C. D. Major.

Set in 1940s New Zealand, Edith has been locked in Seacliff Lunatic Asylum for 15 years, since the tender age of five. When her entire ward burns down, a new doctor Declan Harris begins to question whether Edith’s childhood stories have any truth to them. This fascinating historical thriller offers a unique insight into the horrors and injustices within a broken mental health system and throws in a haunting Gothic vibe for added creep factor.

11. Keep Him Close by Emily Koch.

When Alice’s son Lou is found dead, Indigo’s son Kane is accused of his murder. In an attempt to find out why her boy died, Alice befriends Indigo, keeping her true identity a secret, as Indigo fights to clear Kane’s name. But how long can this secret stay buried? If you like a few tears mixed in with your domestic drama, Keep Him Close is the moving, tense and sensitive read for you.

12. The Silence by Susan Allott.

When the disappearance of a neighbour from decades ago yanks Isla out of her lonely Hackney life and back to her childhood home of Sydney, Australia, she starts to question everything she thought she knew about her family and community. Is her father really capable of the unspeakable? Do the secrets run deeper into the past than anyone imagined? Set across two time periods, The Silence is a literary debut that is dark and slow-burning with heartbreaking Australian history to feed your thoughts.

[experimentalmadness]

Visitation

More Harvey Dent and OC nonsense featuring my trash-fire of a character, Jacky Ripley. This is still set prior to any villain shenanigans on Harvey’s part, but only just. Jacky tries to sneak into the hospital to see him after the attack, but things go...wrong.

No real warnings, but a content check that an unstable character does refer to herself in less than great mental health terms.

---

It was late. It was raining—as usual. And she was making stupid choices on purpose.

The hospital looked like something out of a nightmare. Stark, backlit with a glowing fluorescent from the ER  driveway. Jacky was soaked through her jeans and sweater. Her hair was plastered to her face even with the hoodie up.

Cop cars littered the parking lot, lights flaring without sirens making it look like even more surreal.

Jacky couldn’t feel her feet, couldn’t feel her legs. Didn’t really notice as she approached the building. She couldn’t go inside. That clarity kept her grounded in only mild stupidity instead of outright suicidal idiocy. Scaling a building at 1am in the rain was not her favorite task, but she had done it countless times before for work.

She’d have to mount the ledges and sidle along the entire circumference.

She couldn’t ask which room he was in.

Miri told her she shouldn’t go. Couldn’t go.

Gilda had left ten messages on her phone since last week.

Jacky, I know I can’t ask…

Jacky, he would want….

Jacky, please answer….

Jacky rushed over to the bushes to vomit. Hands and knees, stomach cramping so hard and so sudden her back arched in pain. Her throat burned, her eyes watered. It tasted like the bottle of whiskey she had downed in earnest. Funny, she didn’t feel drunk. She felt more sober than she had in her entire life.

Climbing the hospital felt even more impossible now with her limbs shaking every which way. She could barely see through the rain. Just as she was psyching herself up to make the first jump even thought she’d probably miss, fall, and break even bone in her stupid body; she was hoisted off the ground by one leg. With a grunt that gave way to a dull scream, Jacky went flying upwards through the rain, shooting straight up to the roof. She bobbed precariously over the edge of the building, headfirst. Her first thought was this was certainly odd, the second was that if she died right now it would be quick.

“I’m surprised it took this long for Moroni to send someone to finish the job,” a grating voice growled at her in the darkness.

“I...who…?” she couldn’t see through the rain and shadow, and being held upside down certainly did not help. “I don’t work for Moroni.”

Something pushed her, causing her to spin round, facing the skylights. “Falcone then.” A shadow moved past the lights, and the voice spoke with authority. Whoever it was it knew her old boss. Age-old reflex made her anxious until Jacky remembered everyone in Gotham knew her boss now, and knew exactly who she really was. Three months out of prison was not long enough for people to forget the Ripper case.

But whoever this was, was no cop.

Jacky had an inkling. It did not comfort her.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

“The string of dismemberments at Flannigan’s begs to differ.”

How did he know about that? No one should know about that for the next five hours by her own calculations. She kept her mouth shut. He had no proof. Moroni’s men deserved it. She’d killed her career and put a price on her head in the same stroke, and she’d do it again. Jacky felt wild in a way she knew wasn’t the whiskey. She kept the crazy all shut in, but tonight it just had to come out. She’d made it hurt. She’d done it special; crazy only came out when Falcone wanted a message sent. This one was the first time she’d done a message all of her own.

“I wanted to see Harvey.” Crazy went right back into its box as she heard his name out of her own mouth, desperate, raspy, pathetic.

“Why?” The Batman jerked on the line keeping her suspended.

Because if she hadn’t told Harvey to stay away from her after her release from Blackgate she’d have known how in deep he was in going after Moroni. Because if she hadn’t bought into Harvey convincing her she still had a chance, that she could be a better woman, she wouldn’t have stopped working for Falcone and she could have heard about the hit. Because if she hadn’t lied in the first place she’d be a normal woman inside the hospital taking care of her friend. Because if she just had minded her own business the first day that stupid man had come into her shop she wouldn’t be here right now….

“I just wanna know how he is.”

“That line might have worked on the nurses, it won’t on me.”

“It’s the only line I got.”

Jacky was exhausted. She swung out and back from the roof to the abyss, her head going numb from being upside down so long. That was it then. Her grand plan to sneak into Harvey’s room, no muss no fuss, and back out was a bust. Batman didn’t make a move to haul in the line. She was sure he was going to drop her off in one of the cop cars below and tell the others to arrest her on trespassing, and hell, why not add murder to the list of offenses. No sense in being coy now.

“Is he dying?” Saying the fear out loud made her stomach cramp up again.

Silence from the Batman. He still thought she worked for Falcone. He still thought this was some play for ulterior information. He wasn’t going to believe her and he was right! He shouldn’t. She’d spent so much time lying and playing innocent shop girl no one should believe her ever again. And here was a fitting punishment. For the first time Jacky struggled on the line. The drop of crazy made her dizzy. It was only to be used for Miri’s sake, for the family, for money when she could make it work for them. “If he’s dying I just wanted to see him before...you don’t have to trust me. You can arrest me. I just need to know. Tell me...TELL ME, OR I’LL…”

“Or you’ll do what, Jacqueline?”

The sound of her full name gave her pause. Batman finally lowered her to the roof, cutting the cable and letting her fall in a shivering heap. She pulled herself to her feet, balling her cold hands into fists. “I’ll make it hurt.” Now that, assuredly, was the whiskey talking.

But it was going to hurt. She hoped it did. She deserved it.

Jacky winced when, instead of a punch, a hand descended on her shoulder. The strength of the grip was frightening. It rooted her in place, but offered no violence. “He’s not dying, Jacquline.”

“Oh, that’s good,” was all she managed before she burst into tears.

The hand on her shoulder was all that prevented her from giving way and sinking to the floor. Harvey wasn’t going to die. Things could still be okay. She’d be going back to Blackgate, but that was where she belonged anyway, no point in running from it. She could write to him in prison, but she wouldn’t. Because she was a coward in her core.

“S-sorry. Thank you. You can arrest me now,” she sniffed, straightening, looking up directly into the masked eyes of the Batman.

“Come with me.”

The hand never moved from her shoulder as she was shoved along. Batman booted open the roof access hatch and forced her down into the stairwell. Everything echoed inside. The rain falling off her clothes, her skin, plinking onto the metal stairs. The thick boots the Batman was wearing in lock step with her own, softer, sneakered tred. And he never said another word, just marched her down flight after flight. Around and around.

Back to prison. Miri would be so upset. She had forgiven her once, Jacky doubted she would a second time. She had tried to be a good sister, the little double act she had between their shared bakery and her night errands for Falcone had only been for her sake. But this city beat most people down eventually and Jacky knew at some point the killing hadn’t really ever been just a paycheck had it?

At least Gotham hadn’t claimed Harvey. It had tried. He’d still show them. That was enough to live with. She hoped Gilda would be alright. Maybe she could sneak one quick phone call to at least tell her how sorry she was she had stayed away. The DA and his wife shouldn’t be seen in the company of a convicted killer. She had just been trying to help. She’d only ever just wanted to help.

The white light of the hospital blinded Jacky for a moment, but Batman kept her moving. Nurses and doctors parted in quiet shock as they made their way through. No one was going to argue with the Batman, especially not when he was holding a perp. The brand of killers he brought in were on another level far beyond her. Maybe she should feel flattered. Mostly she just felt tired.

They stopped at a door, that grip tightening to levels that made Jacky grind her teeth. “If you try to make a break for the window,” he growled. “You’ll be caught before you hit the ground.”

“What?”

He opened the door, shoving her inside, releasing her. She could feel him still in the darkened room. This was not an arrest. There were no cops in here. Just the steady beep of a heart monitor and…

“Harvey?”

For a man who always made life feel so much larger than it actually was it was so much harder to see him lying in the small hospital bed than Jacky had anticipated. She waited for some trick from the Batman, turning back to face him. He only stood in the shadows, watching. She allowed herself to move towards the bed.

Gauze and mesh covered the left half of his face, his neck, and his arm. She knew the extent of the attack from the news. There would be scars. And that was the best news ever, because scars meant he’d be alive.

She jumped when he shifted on the bed. Jacky hadn’t counted on him being awake. She didn’t want him to see her! She backed up into the dark. “Jacky?”

His voice was not his own. Maybe the acid had damaged his vocal chords.

Caught, she stood in limbo between the bedside and the door. “Hey.”

“How did...you get...in?”

“Light breaking and entering. I...I didn’t mean to disturb you. I know I shouldn’t have come, but…” If she cried again, warning or no warning, she was going to throw herself out that window.

“Shut up,” he snapped, grabbing her hand. “I’m glad to...see...you.”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I don’t think I can stay long, my escort won’t let me,” she gestured back to the moving shadows behind her. “But you’re gonna heal up fine.” This was the part where she was supposed to say she was grateful he wasn’t dying, or dead. Where she said because he was the most important friend in her life and losing him was unfathomable. But she didn’t.

“Doctors...won’t let me see. It’s...not good...is it?”

“Think how intimidating you’re gonna look in court. You’ll win by default.”

A gurgling, raspy, laugh was her only reward. “Think you can...stay?” His hand gripped her tighter and Jacky almost wanted to tear herself in half.

“Don’t think my escort is gonna let me, Harv. I...I did something bad tonight. I’ll probably be back in Blackgate by the time you get out of here. And I’m sorry. I let you down.” She could feel him staring at her. His one good eye, searching hers, that grip pulling her closer.

“What did you do?”

The grip on her hand turned into a claw, nails digging into flesh so hard it hurt. He didn’t sound angry, and she didn’t stop him. “Got some of Moroni’s guys. It was worse than what you brought me up for. I’m sorry, Harvey, but they deserved it. I only wanted—”

“Payback.”

The pain medication was what made him sound so cold. Just the drugs making him a little confused.  Even in the dark she could see the outline of a smile that was and was not his.

“Jacky, we always knew...there was a reason...we liked you.”

[purplesunrisefanfic]

Black, pink, purple !!

Black: Would you want to live in one of the fictional worlds you’ve created?

So since I write fics, I take this as being about the cannon world I write for...and who would want to live in that world, right? Right?!

Er, so actually possibly me...! I know that’s crazy but I’ll try to explain the appeal. So I honestly believe that if you go to a different form of living, the form of loving we evolved for, instead of a modern society that values everyone kinda being the same, much of my “disabilities” go back to being a positive thing that compliments a diverse grouping:

A Circadian sleep “disorder” where I naturally don’t sleep until 3am at the absolute earliest isn’t such a “disorder” in a situation where you need someone to do the night watch and have someone who is fine to do it every night without getting sleep deprived, is it?

A different type of brain where you can hyperfocus for extended periods of time on one thing without noticing that you’re hungry, thirsty, tired or uncomfortable? Not so bad when you are in a precarious living situation and are often hungry, tired, injured et cetera.

A brain where you tend towards being very precise, detail-orientated, you absorb information readily and are able to remember minute specifics of things that you take a special interest in? Kinda handy when there isn’t a row of stores on the high street that can fix any particular problem you have.

I also think that a lot of co-morbid mental health problems I have stem from not being able to just be in my natural state in these ways. I am so grateful that I’m on meds, for example: I honestly feel that having medication for my delayed sleep phase disorder is the thing that gives me a chance a regular life, a chance to be able to go for many more kinds of work than otherwise. But. These are ultimately contextual problems, not fundamental “flaws.” If sleeping late had no stigma attached, if it could be made useful like I’m certain it was back when we didn’t have safe houses where we could all sleep at the same time, if working hours for a range of jobs were more flexible, then I wouldn’t need it in the first place. Having to try and operate differently to how you naturally tend to takes a toll that I feel certain contributes a great deal to my depression and anxiety. I really don’t believe that, I’m a radically different world and lifestyle, I would be stuck with them for life in the way that I probably am in this world.

(PMDD, on the other hand, is bullshit in any context and can honestly go fuck itself backwards on a busy roundabout.)

Obviously overall I’d probably get infected and die and so I’m not sure that I would trade in the life I have rn, but actually I would think about it tbh.

Pink: Which of your characters would become your best friend?

I am not super secure about the idea of people wanting to be my friend, to be honest. But that aside, I could see myself being friends with Dina, she seems more honest about and connected to her authentic emotions than Ellie or Abby, so I think we’d be able to have good conversations.

Also, she has a habit of kissing her best friends and I’d be into that...💕

You overlapped with @simplygrimly so my answer for purple is on another post (I’ll tag you)

[bbq-hawks-wings]

More Hawks HCs!

I feel like the Hawks tag has been a little bare as far as HCs go for a little bit so throwing my hat in once again while I wait for dinner to cook between stirrings.

Finances:

Hawks grew up dirt poor - like concerningly poor. Now that he's rolling in the dough he literally has no idea how he would ever spend it all.

What's more, he doesn't WANT to spend it willy-nilly. He grew up with the mindset that money was a responsibility, not a luxury. He takes his responsibility very seriously.

When he started hero work and immediately shot to the top and saw his checks swell at breakneck speeds, the first thing he did was hire a finance manager to make sure he planted his money into investments instead of burning through it or letting it sit stagnant.

He has a diverse enough portfolio that should he be out of work for good today he still wouldn't need to work another day in his life if he didn't want to.

But now that he's settled he makes a point to donate large amounts to charities focusing on underprivileged families and children in particular.

He tries to keep it under the radar, though. Part of it is him desperately trying to avoid the top hero spot but another part is a genuine sense of humility trying to do what's right.

He actually ended up with a personal procurement staff at his brand consultant's suggestion. People who are clearly paid enough money are often expected to act like it, and he almost caused a scene when he was on a live interview and learned the actual cost of his ensemble that had been picked for him.

He looked somewhere between horrified and absolutely going to be sick (Do you know exactly how many rotisserie chicken dinners that could buy?!?!), but he recovered and got someone else to hold his credit card for him. Now all he does is tell them his tastes in clothes, furniture, etc. and they find and buy it for him so he doesn't have to look at the price tag, and they only get something when he speaks up to mention it.

He has good people, though. They still try to keep costs down for his sake. He still buys all his own food, though.

Still, some habits are just a little more deeply ingrained, and he practically breathes the "reduce, reuse, recycle" mantra. He's often praised for taking care of the planet; but honestly he's just so thrifty deep into his bones it hurts to be wasteful.

He also can't help but resent people (often entitled people born into money) who don't understand how fortunate they are and take everything, especially people, for granted.

Family:

Hawks was an only child (wait and watch Horikoshi throw an enormous family in my face later) and lived with his mother, father, and grandmother.

Gran-gran was his favorite playmate, and the two were thick as theives. She was the one who really cemented many of his key values as a person as well as taught him how to fly.

His grandmother was not a conventionally attractive woman. She had pronounced, almost masculine features; a scowl that could send people running, wild hair, and a long, prominent nose. She looked like a tengu, though the wings on her back also earned her the mean nickname of "harpy" from time to time as well.

Hawks' good looks are thanks to his late grandpa - a guy with a much more bird-like quirk.

Gran-gran was clever, though, and tough as nails! She wasn't afraid to make her grandson earn all his victories in their games, but she was also doting and praised him when he did well or did his best.

God, what he wouldn't do to spend just one more festival with her watching the fireworks again. He misses her more than even he realizes.

Hawks' father did his best to provide for his family, but the financial hardships got on top of them more times than he's proud of. Sometimes it was hard for him to look his family in the eye.

His mother also tried to bring in money with odd jobs, but often ended up sick and having to rest at home. Her telekenesis quirk was what gave Hawks his quirk's competitive edge to it.

Hawks always wanted brothers or sisters, but it was never financially in the cards for them. To this day he loves big families, and the sight of parents juggling three or more children always makes him smile.

If he hadn't been taken away to boarding school for his training and separated from his family, they probably would have bonded even closer and continued to grow again. He'd hoped for that when he agreed to it; but he didn't understand the depth of the situation or the greed/desperation of the Hero Public Safety Commission.

Personal life:

Hawks is too busy for a pet, but that hasn't stopped him from wondering what kind he'd get if he could.

He really does just get along well with birds, so he'd probably get one, but a smaller one that probably wouldn't outlive him. He couldn't do that to the poor thing, nor could he only get one. Bare minimum he would ever get of any pet is two because even if he wasn't as busy as he was he probably still couldn't necessarily give a social bird the time it needed to be happy. Friends are a must.

As much as he loves the personality of the larger birds, he knows it takes a lot of patience to live with them on top of the life span thing, so he'd probably get some parakeets or cockatiels.

He'd be lying if he didn't admit getting chickens has crossed his mind on several occasions.

If he had to pick a fuzzy buddy, though, he likes ferrets. When they're not bouncing off the walls full of energy, they're out cold for a good snooze. (That's the life!)

Learning how to play an instrument is also on his bucket list. He knows it's so basic, but he would love to pick up the guitar. He doesn't expect to be any kind of amazing musician and his singing voice is less than stellar; but he'd just like to be able to play some of his favorite tunes for himself from time to time.

He's an easy person to like, but he is not easy to love or live with. Much of his darker personality traits come out the more time he spends with people. They aren't "evil" traits, by any means, but much more like survival mechanisms developed by the lifestyle forced on him that are clearly unhealthy the longer you look at them.

Like his instinctual need to control any given circumstance or interaction. It's not something he does out of malice; but it becomes obvious if you look close enough. He doesn't feel like he has agency over his own life, and people on all sides are always trying to take advantage of him.

He also ever so subtly changes his persona depending on the situation and company present. It's such a habit at this point even he doesn't realize he does it. We've seen before that he can expertly read a room and react accordingly.

Hawks is also used to putting up emotional barriers between himself and people with potentially meaningful relationships to him. Whether consciously or not, since losing his family he's afraid of losing people important to him again.

This poor man is also unbelievably touch starved. His childhood was filled with affectionate hugs and roughhousing as it was one of the few things they had in spades. Now, not only is he alone in the middle of a VERY "hands-off" society, he has his public image to manage as well.

Someone get this guy a therapist, seriously! He's too close to the situation to realize how precarious and easily compromisable his mental health state is, but on all sides are people that would discourage him from seeking therapy because it could be considered as being "weak" where mental illness is stigmatized.

Hawks has only been truly furious once in his life as a adolescent. It was terrifying for everyone there at the time as he completely let loose and lost control in the heat of the moment. He tries to keep himself reined in since then, but as with many other things doesn't realize he may be making it worse by bottling up his frustrations and shoving it down.

That isn't to say he's incapable of deep, meaningful relationships - romantic or platonic - but the amount of firm patience and persistence needed from the other party nears sainthood. He craves those relationships and NEEDS them, but he's deathly afraid of losing them as well as being vulnerable and taken advantage of.

If he got even just one or two people that could truly love him unconditionally like that, that would be enough for him to completely reprioritize everything. His hero's heart was born out of love and uncertainty about tomorrow as a child; and Commission or not he would have become a hero in the end anyway. As a grown man, that kind of love would drive him to be a force to be reckoned with the kind that would make his past accomplishments pale in comparison.

To be clear, a good friend or a lover would not "fix" him, but would certainly help and encourage him make the time and space he needs to examine and work through his own issues he's let bottle up for so long. There just isn't much pushing him to do so while he's as isolated as he is.

(I've made myself really sad now...)

He's a generous friend and lover, though, once he allows himself to open up. Though from an outside perspective Hawks really doesn't need much - just patience and time and attention - to him it's everything, and he'll do nearly anything to show his gratitude for it.

(That's a little better)

That turned out way longer than anticipated, but here ya go! I promise I'll get back to writing (haven't forgotten those kiss prompts!) soon. I have a commission and a painting to finish, but now that baby takes regular naps I can finally take time for me again!