#the only reason was to give him visions? when his own trauma from a prior discussed point and the stresses and anxieties from it--

[hollowsart]

if you're going to put Mysterio into a story, please do more than "he gives Spider-Man visions" if that is the only thing you're gonna use him for to further the development of Spider-Man's character as a whole.

Why not? Cuz you can literally give Spider-Man visions through so many other means and it won't change the outcome you're wanting. You need to ask yourself: What purpose would Mysterio actually serve besides doing something that another character or situation could do exactly the same as you're wanting Mysterio to?

two examples right off the bat that could serve the exact same purpose in the exact same way:

Scorpion hallucinations from the toxins.

Sleep deprivation + nightmares

There is more you can do with Mysterio as a character and a whole lot more that could be explored with his character and how he could serve and affect the story as a whole, giving him more reason to actually exist within the narrative you're trying to tell. It would be beneficial in the long run to figure out WHY you want a specific character to appear and for what purpose and reasons they should appear and how they specifically over any other method to achieve the goal you need would affect the story and character would affect the story in a meaningful way.

Mysterio is a rich and complex character. If I knew more, I could probably maybe say similar for Scorpion, but if you want Spider-Man to experience visions to further his development with other characters or his overall character and such without fussing over yet another character now added to the mess, you would be better going for the option that doesn't involve another character to keep track of.

idk I just feel like Mysterio deserves more purpose and reason to be used as MORE than just an "object" or a "tool".

there's lots more you can explore with his character and it just feels like a shame to toss him in for little to no reason.

(not that I'll complain much in the end, I'm always happy to see him in general, but my point still stands, though.)

[chalkrevelations]

Ohhhh, my god. Yeah, I have only myself to blame for the way Last Twilight played me in regards to the MorkDay relationship. Because the Night & Day relationship was right there as foreshadowing. And I realize that I've harped repeatedly on the way the narrative framed the accident that damaged Day's vision, but now I realize that it provides a (unintentional?) parallel to the trainwreck of Mork and Day's relationship as it actually plays out vs. the way the narrative treats it.

Day never, not once, accepts any culpability in the accident that damaged his vision, even though he was the one driving the car. None of the other characters challenge his framing that the accident was Night's fault. The narrative, itself, doesn't challenge his framing that the accident was Night's fault. Yes, his reckless driving is shown to be in response to an action of Night's, but not once is Day made to take ownership of and accept responsibility for his own actions and how he responds, which includes driving with his head practically under the dashboard, at night, with other cars on the road. Nobody made Day do that except Day, himself. Significantly, we never hear anything about anyone in the other vehicle or how they may have been injured (or killed?), and I have to wonder how much of that is down to Day's privileged socioeconomic status. (If it had been Mork driving that car, how likely is it that he would have ended up ... well. In jail?)

Neither does Day accept any responsibility for the damage to his relationship with Mork - or the emotional damage he deals to Mork, himself - when he unilaterally breaks things off after figuring out Mork lied about the job opportunity in Hawaii. None of the other characters challenge his framing that Mork has committed the cardinal sin of pitying Day. The narrative, itself, doesn't challenge his framing that Mork has committed the cardinal sin of pitying Day - in fact, it doubles down by making Mork apologize for it in the final episode. Yes, Day's response to Mork lying about the job is in character for him, but Day is never made to take ownership of and accept responsibility for how he responds, including 1) jumping to conclusions about Mork's reasons or 2) withdrawing emotional support from his boyfriend in the wake of Mork's admission of ongoing trauma. Given context clues we get prior to Day jumping to his conclusions, it's clear that Mork had unresolved trauma from his sister's death. But Day mows him down for supposedly pitying Day as surely as if he'd hit him with a car, shuts down any explanation Mork tries to give and withdraws any hope of a mutually supportive relationship by refusing to do the least bit of emotional labor on Mork's behalf, instead banishing him from Day's life. We then get an upbeat montage of Day living his best life without Mork, but significantly, we see nothing about what Mork is going through or dealing with during this same time period.

Day treats both of these men in his life - men who are in some of the closest relationships he can have: a brother, a lover - terribly, while shrugging off his own part in the physical and emotional injuries he blames them for. He never apologizes to either of them for hurting them by lashing out. Instead, he magnanimously forgives both of them for how they've hurt him and expects the relationships to pick up from there as if everything is fine. And indeed, in neither case does the narrative seem to think that he needs to do any work to make up for how he treats them.

Which also leads me to: Maybe in some ways, the accident stands in for the way that Day - and his mother - hold it against Night for not being the supportive big brother they think he ought to have been. But Mork's storyline shows us that it never would have mattered how supportive a big brother Night was, because Mork was repeatedly, exhaustively supportive of Day, and all it took was one misstep for Day to kick Mork to the curb and literally block him out of his life for three years until Mork, himself, came back and pushed the issue while accepting full blame onto himself. Sure, Day wrote that editor's note in the book, but he also doted on that gd fish that Night got him, while at the same time being the most heinous asshole he could possibly be both to and about Night. So if he's going to treat Mork the way he did, why should I think he would treat Night any differently than he did the minute Night made a single mistake, no matter if Night had been (in his eyes) perfect in the past?

I think I'm supposed to believe that Day has learned and grown during his time with a disability - I guess that's one thing I'm supposed to take away from his little speech at the beginning of the finale and maybe from him helping that dude across the street in the surprise gotcha in the last part of the ep? But if I look at what the series actually shows me of how he treats the people in his life, I have no proof that he's not just the same self-centered asshole he started out as - the self-centered asshole he admits to being at one point. Which would be fine - no disabled person is required to be a saint, purified and exalted into inspiration porn by their disability. It's just that 1) the show seems to be trying to sell me on the idea that he's not the same self-centered asshole he started out as, and 2) the show seems to be trying to sell me on the idea that any relationship Mork has with him isn't going to be toxically imbalanced.

And I'm not buying.

[fremiinetistic]

Freminet probably wouldn't leave the Fatui given the choice;

He sees himself as useless without orders, and doesn't know what to do unless given them, he states it himself.

"Orders to me are like a clockwork spring driving me forward, and I don't know what to do with myself without them." Since he was a young child all he knew what following orders. He feels they are the only thing giving him a purpose "Freminet's heart was gradually becoming numb. Orders filled the void and became like a clockwork spring driving him forward."

and who will give him orders if he is his own person free of the Fatui?

Another reason he wouldn't leave is because Arlecchino gave him a life and a family which he said himself

" "Father" changed not only me, but my view of our family, too. Then Lyney and Lynette joined the family... and for the first time ever, I gained some genuine companions. "In a sense he could see her as some kind of savior. She "saved" him from the prior physical, verbal, and mental abuse the old Knave put him through "At first, Freminet assumed that she would rile up a still greater storm of brutality, for he knew that her methods were brutal, and he expected new orders to be given just as pitilessly as they had been in the past. But he soon discovered that "Father"'s way of doing things was utterly different. With "Father,"

the home was a place of refuge for all the family's children, and as such required a collective effort to maintain. It was up to each of them to complete their tasks in the way that best suited them. Even if they failed, they wouldn't be subjected to the searingly painful punishments they had been previously. This taste of freedom finally gave Freminet the chance to breathe deeply"

Yes she is mentally abusing him herself but she gave him a family, an actual purpose, she taught him how to care for himself and that he shouldn't put others before himself

"When I was little, I was taught that we should be ready to give our lives for our family. But when "Father" took control, this philosophy changed. "Father" said that every one of us is important, and we have to value our own lives, be our strongest selves, and stand on our own two feet in this world...",

His vision would most likely be clouded in a sense, as I mentioned before, trauma bonding, and he is just a teenager Afterall his ability to pick up on manipulation will not be the best. And I've mentioned trauma bonds in a prior paragraph, it is possible there would be one in relation to Arlecchino as well, and a symptom of it is refusing to leave or even defending your abuser. he has been brainwashed and blinded into not being able to leave the fatui even if it kills him. He thinks that leaving it will mean he will be killed and the ones he cares for will be put into danger, they have implemented a fear in him that is hard to get rid of because it had been beat into him since he was a child. It is either the Fatui or death, and who would chose the latter? Yes he has gone against their orders which took alot for him, but thats different from actually leaving.

[cienie-isengardu]

I find it hilarious the Grandmaster probably banging Sektor's head on the wall about how loyalty is important and how Lin Kuei principals are absolute since he was baby and he didn't see Sektor might develop a tinge of independence to realize he didn't have to be told what to do once he's in a superior body. I feel like Sektor was kind of just waiting for a chance to seize power from his father and the Cyber Initiative gave him an opening and I feel his programming somewhat deteriorating was actually just Sektor's personality resurfacing above protocol and seeing that his father was no longer necessary.

I feel Sektor was honestly probably waiting for his father to die in the back of his mind prior(maybe he thought the guy would just die of old age or something) but when the Cyber Initiative was in motion and he got converted, this thought came back and eventually it just kind of weakened the loyalty protocols to where Sektor's desire to rule overrode his father's authority and he didn't feel like waiting for him to expire on his own.

The major reason why I have so hard time buying the whole human Sektor's desire to replace his father from MK9’s BIO is that the story mode, alongside other sources, doesn’t give me anything suggesting he was that ambitious or cunning to begin with and even less to think he was the designated heir. Quite the opposite, from the all named Lin Kuei characters from the same game, he is the most obedient one, the most willing to put Grandmaster’s wish over his own well-being and (at least visually wise) easily dominated by the presence of his fellow clan members. When Bi-Han is shown with Cyrax and Sektor, he takes the central place within their little group. When he is out of the picture, Cyrax openly questions Grandmaster’s vision of cyber Lin Kuei while Sektor is on the defensive, as he has no real argument to add to the discussion and Cyrax clearly doesn’t treat him as his superior, especially when Sektor confronted him about not killing Johnny Cage. 

It may be just me, but the human Sektor lacks the initiative that is characteristic for his cyber version. Similarly, for a supposed heir he feels so… subdued and withdrawn, not to mention his father sent him on a very dangerous mission in which the chance of dying was very high. Sub-Zero’s BIO from Deadly Alliance summed Kuai Liang’s choice to aid Raiden in his quest against new threat as “It was highly unusual for the Grand Master to embark on such a dangerous mission” and I think it wouldn’t be too far-stretched to assume Lin Kuei had a similar approach to the Grandmaster’s designed heir.

Sektor is a grown up man in MK9, if he was meant to replace his father at some point, I imagine he would be trained from birth for this duty. However, all the BIO says is that he had no choice about being Lin Kuei, but there is no information he was designed to be next Grandmaster. For all we know, the Grandmaster could have more children than Sektor and even if the man was considered as a potential candidate, sending him to the Mortal Kombat Tournament seems like too much risk - if he died, literal decades of proper education for the leadership would be wasted, wouldn’t it? 

My point is, I don’t think Sektor was seen by his father as the future leader of Lin Kuei - or anything more than an useful pawn, so I can understand that Grandmaster has never considered him a threat nor questioned his loyalty. Especially after automation, as C.I. Project was supposed to perfect the human warriors, not grand them better understanding of trauma and abuse they endured for Lin Kuei's benefit.

Frankly, maybe the fact that his son was so obedient and lacked initiative was the reason why he allowed Sektor to volunteer for C.I. Project - additional sources like Mortal Kombat Legends: Battle of the Realms adds a lot to that feeling of my, as Grandmaster’s explanation - complaint - about human weakness seemed to be solely directed at Sektor, the only cyborg fully presented during the speech: “The mortal body is fragile, weak. So, we enhanced them.”

Maybe you are right and Sektor waited for a chance to seize control and C.I. Project provided it - and the BIO indeed tells the truth that his “ultimate goal is to supplant his father as Grand Master of the Lin Kuei”. However I personally think it was not human Sektor’s desire for power nor personal ambitions that corrupted his programming, as he has never been shown trying to enlist Bi-Han or Cyrax for his planned coup. I think the problem lies in the fact that Grandmaster removed the “flaw” that kept Sektor in check, be it out of love or fear of his father. And once the flaw was subdued, Cyber Sektor could clearly see for the first time that his father is the danger he needed to remove to ensure his own safety, but also Cyber Lin Kuei’s independence. Because this is what you get when you remove humanity from a ruthless killer - no loyalty, no mercy. 

And yes, indeed, there is something hilariously ironic about Grandmaster's blindness to the danger of the C.I. Project and perfecting his own son that already dedicated all his life to him and the clan.

[moostelid]

“Baby Taru in Mondstadt” AU! Pt 1

AU! in which Tartaglia is deaged in Mondstadt as a result of abyss mages. For the first time in years, Childe—now Ajax—is without bloodlust, his once pervasive abyssal corruption buried along with his trauma from the abyss. Now eight years old in an unfamiliar land with clear skies, unbearable heat (to a Sneznayan), and endless green pastures, he is terrified and confused.

With no memories past the age of eight, the poor kid has no clue what’s going on. Ajax wakes up surrounded by crazy adults, yelling about eleventh harbingers, lords, and some Tartaglia person, while trying to grab him. (These adults are crazy; there is no eleventh harbinger yet! Even he, an eight-year-old, from the middle of nowhere, knows that.) As his ambition originated in the abyss, his vision has gone dim. His delusion is also useless, and along with his vision, is abandoned with his adult clothes. Not understanding where he is, he runs from his own men and hides in the nearest building. Unfortunately for everyone, that building just so happens to be the Angel’s Share.

Thankfully for Ajax, Diluc is preoccupied with preparing for the opening shift, and he manages to avoid detection. When the Fatui come knocking, Diluc—predictably—tells the Fatui platoon absolutely nothing and kicks them out of his bar before they can ask questions. When Diluc discovers the boy, his intimidation factor makes Ajax cry. Ajax begins to beg him not to let the crazy people (Fatui) take him. Not good at comforting people, and unable to understand the boy through his tears, Diluc kind of just awkwardly waits for Ajax to stop crying, before introducing himself, & questioning him. Though suspicious of the boy because of his accent, Diluc has decided to hear him out regardless. When Ajax starts to calm down, realizing that the scary barkeeper isn’t doing anything, he tells Diluc what happened, doing his best to answer his questions, despite still being scared of the older man.

Though his story is outlandish, the boy is very expressive and seems to be telling the truth. He seems genuinely clueless and frightened by his situation. Diluc, hating the Fatui, and not trusting the knights, decides to take the boy in for now. Just in case this is a Fatui ploy, he decides to temporarily retire his dark knight persona until he can get a better read on the boy. In the meantime, he’ll ask his network to keep an ear out for him.

Ajax stays pretty quiet after being questioned, still quite shaken, and for a while, they just exist together. While Diluc restocks the bar and prepares for opening in a few hours, Ajax watches him. After a while of just watching, he gains a bit of courage and tries to start a conversation. Diluc doesn’t make a good conversation partner, just humming or giving one-word answers, but, Ajax, spurred on by his responses, continues to talk.

Eventually, Charles arrives, and Diluc asks Charles to handle the opening. That sorted, Diluc goes out the back way and takes Ajax back to the manor with him. Ajax scrambles to keep up. To Ajax, Diluc is the only “normal” adult he has come across since he woke up, so naturally, he imprints on Diluc, following him like a baby duckling.

At the manor, Diluc informs Adelinde of the situation, he instructs her to watch over Ajax and keep him away from his office and bedroom. Satisfied that Ajax will be taken care of, he returns to the bar so he can help Charles, and cover the second shift. Adelinde prepares Ajax a room and then digs out some of Diluc & Kaeya’s old clothes for him to wear. (Sneznayan clothes are built for winter, she reasons, and she can’t imagine a child being comfortable dressed in wool in a Mondstadtan summer.)

Ajax is shy, and unsure of the new adult. But Adelaide is patient, prodding the boy with questions. Upon learning about his love of fairytales, she takes him to the manor’s library. Seeing all the stories, he forgets about his prior shyness, he begs Adelaide to read him something. She obliges, reading him fairytales, and helping him improve his reading skills when he tries to return the favor.

(Author’s Note: Consulting Ecosia, kids start learning to read words at around 7 on average, which is around the start of 1st grade. Ajax is 8, so he would most likely be able to read simple books like Doctor Seuss’s “Cat in the Hat”, and sound out words he doesn’t know.)

TBC…

[riewritten]

CHAPTER 3. A FRAGMENT OF MINE

EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE — DIRECTORY

ERWIN X FEM!READER, ERWIN X YOU, NO Y/N | hurt/comfort, angst, mystery, childhood friends, fake marriage, modern au, parallel universe, reincarnation, mentions of canon, pining commander erwin smith, trauma, manipulation, referenced child abuse, violence, psychological torture

SUMMARY: Aggressive land grabbing from the royal government ensue from one countryside to the other, all allegedly for the prophecy: a tree, vast source of power that'd bring great abundance and prosperity to mankind, is standing among their lands. As the said prophecy holds the answer to the tragic childhood you have no memories of, the guerilla's commander pulls out something he prepared for years to help. AO3 | FANFICTION

WORDS: 4k | Want to get tagged for the succeeding chapters? Sign up here.

A few months prior to the bloody slaughter at Petra’s farm, private goons and Military Police officers released an order for them to leave their land once and for all because a landlord tied to the royal government had bought it. Petra’s father attempted to reason it out as the measly land wasn’t just their livelihood, but something passed down to them by their own ancestors.

You noticed Petra’s eyes tightening while retelling the memory to you hence you held her hand and said, “You don’t have to force yourself on telling this.” She shook her head no and insisted to continue.

The officers were unyielding. Despite the constitutional rights Eldians have for their ancestral lands, a prophecy brought by the church and royalties led them to counter it. The king and the heir were having visions about an enormous power brought by a giant tree that will bring Eldia the greatest abundance known to mankind. It was said to exist somewhere within their lands hence they’re seizing as many as possible. Once obtained, the properties will be used for Eldia's prosperity.

The prophecy was nothing but crack for the farmers who will lose their shelter and livelihood, a foolish reason strengthened by nothing but supporters who can’t even prove their words—further glorified by those who are in power.

And that’s when the Commander came. 

He wasn’t “the Commander” back then, he was just some kid the Strattman traitor brought with her from time to time. However, the young boy had so much knowledge of the law and freely disseminated the information not only for the sake of Ral’s farm case but for everyone around the neighborhood who was at risk to experience the same. He stayed there the whole time—would go away for some errands, but still go back to them at the end of the day. His existence, alongside other guerillas in the community wasn’t new. It’s just that the family only came to completely understand them during the course of dispute. Not only was it hard for mere farmers to have leverage in court, but the municipality was also dominated by merchants eyeing their land.

Nonetheless, the guerillas secretly helped them procure the needed legal support. It was going smoothly since then, that is until one dawn came.

Three loud bangs were heard: one was for Petra’s father who just had woken up to clean the farm. The second was for the concerned neighbor who often comes with him at the hearings, and the third was for their lawyer who generously offered service for free.

“You should’ve just complied,” said the MPs upon having the family rush to the station, “then no one would get into this much trouble.” While the young Petra was there—wailing and begging and screaming. They did nothing but sneer, at Erwin specifically, who went with the poor girl at the precinct, pretending as her relative.

That day, Petra thought that Erwin was too composed for the catastrophe. He is calm amidst the sneers, just as if he's giving her all the leverage to grieve while he confronts the bad guys himself. At the same time, she thought Erwin was one of those who would just quietly sneak away from their case after the situation got too hard to handle. She thought Erwin was one of those rich people who just went to them because they woke up in a quite generous mood.

However, as she and Erwin walk back he asked, “Are you angry right now?”

The young girl sniffed before nodding, “Of course I am.”

“Are you scared?”

She stopped in her tracks and nodded again, now in embarrassment.

“I’m not going to tell you otherwise. Fear is natural for those who’d want to survive. What I’d like you to do, however, is to fight up front. At the looks of it, there’s no chance to win the legal dispute now that they killed the lawyer. I know living in peace will be a great illusion to your family once the land gets taken away, too.”

“What am I going to do, then? I’m willing to throw away my studies altogether to support my family but how would we be able to go further if we won’t win the dispute? There’s no hope for us if we lose!”

“No chance to win the legal dispute but that’s it. Only the legal dispute. Those who are after your land already had the leverage at the court and yet still dared to use the gun. It is them who waged the war first. It’s always been them, always been the case for the other farmers who decided to take arms thereafter to defend themselves.”

“Are you saying we must,” Petra gulped and shuddered at the thought of it, “join the rebels? But my father—”

“Told me to let you decide once he ends up dying. He said he trusts the way he brought you up.” Erwin cut her off. “The units just finished investigating the massacre and we already know who did this to them. An encounter will commence three days from now to make them pay. Moreover, armed units will take the defensive around the area until another legal team comes to the rescue. We’re not going to put you on the frontlines, but for us to do this we must have everyone in the area agree.”

There, Petra realized that she was wrong at Erwin nor at anyone who came to help them in this case. They weren’t doing this just because they woke up feeling generous. They're here because they understand. They’re here to encourage them to fight. She cried then. She cried and cried and bowed her head in gratitude at the man. Erwin let him do so. 

When she was calm and could look at him again he said, “We could all lose in this but we’re going down fighting nonetheless. No need to thank one man.”

After one resolute nod, she finally got the courage to ask, “Why did you join us?” she was about to call his name but then realized she didn’t know it. No one who comes directly from the guerilla would introduce themselves with a name, “I mean, you look like a reputable person somewhere. You’re really young too. Why?”

This time, he finally saw the grim boy smile a bit. His eyes were somewhere far away, “We all had our reasons to embark on a path full of struggles. In my case it was someone.”

“Someone?”

“You must outlive this and pursue your studies. If we win, the unit will help your family in tending the farm,” he replied. Petra thought he might not want to share something personal about himself until he added, “She just started attending traditional school recently. Maybe you’ll meet there someday. I’m sure you’ll get along.”

And thus now, as Petra walked along the outskirts of the underground with you, she smiled at the Commander’s words. He was right. You met at the university as two birds trying to fit in. You really did get along. And now you’re about to embark on the same journey as comrades.

“He joined because of someone?” you asked with curled eyebrows, “I don’t remember one in our town having similar experience as yours. Maybe because Car—someone from there ensured the small-scale farmers would get the privilege they deserve in their lands.”

“Of course, silly. The Commander was talking about you. I only realized it now that I recalled it.” Petra chuckled and added, “While working on our bases, we investigated the prophecy behind Eldia’s prosperity—the one they foolishly reasoned out for their land aggression the past few years. Strange enough, it seems like the royal family is taking it seriously. They had sent their two greatest soldiers for the quest, one of them being your father. That’s the reason why the Strattman traitor took you in according to the Commander.”

Your limbs froze then. You certainly did not know any of this, let alone the fact that Carly is a part of it. However, if there’s someone who needs to hear your questions and complaints, that must not be Petra.

“I’m sorry. Ever since I came here with the Commander, he hadn’t answered any of my inquiries. I just urged him to have you orient me because he seems too occupied to be bombarded with my questions.”

“He must be tensed. Your relation to the case was all but a conspiracy among our ranks. Now that someone just came to get you, you must really be an important asset to the royal family. The Commander told me he’d be the one to elaborate on that, though. For now, I’ll just orient you more with regards to how we work here—" but Petra noticed the sullen look on your face so she considered, “or would it be better if you rest for now? I’m sure you’re tired from traveling and all. It’s almost dinner, too.”

“No, continue.” Indeed, you were getting too tired. She didn’t even get into the gist, but the mention of your father working alongside the royal family seems to churn your guts despite not knowing the reason why. You felt like throwing up. It started when Erwin mentioned that name back at the cafe, too.

“Okay, tell me if you need a break.” then Petra finally started, “The guerillas are categorized into three; the first is citizens who understand the reason why people—impoverished farmers being harassed and displaced by merchants, in particular—are being forced to take up arms to defend themselves. Those people help with logistical support. The second are those who actively work inside the movement all the while living lives on the surface. That’s who I am now. The third and last are those who stay inside the ranks for good, eliminating their identities on the surface altogether. Given your security situation, you must be on the third.”

“No,” your breath hitched, “that can’t be. There must be a way.”

“I know, but this is all for your safety. Until we finish the investigation, you must—”

“How would I be able to investigate what happened to Furlan if I’ll stay inside the underground, completely missing? I need to have Levi and Isabel with me at the very least.”

“Do you not trust the Commander?”

It struck you, then. He repeatedly asked you that question before going here. 

But then again, there are so many things about yourself that you’re knowing just now—things that you must’ve known for years already. Trust is a two-way process, too. You know Carly would never have ulterior motives for taking you in but you certainly didn’t ask to be kept in the dark all this time.

You decided to sigh and keep the concern until Erwin and you talk again. For now, you changed the topic. “You still have lots of things to explain to me," you glared playfully, "all this time I thought you were having a crush on my friend."

Petra laughed out loud at that. “Sorry, I am never a good liar. The Commander was quite amused with it too. But I wasn’t lying when I said I admire him. We all do! When the Commander took leadership, he was able to flourish not only the battle strategies in guerilla warfare, offensive tactics for weapon procurement, and expanding units from the countryside to the countryside. He also ensured that education would reach the most impoverished citizens, so even if they don’t arm themselves, they’d have the basic requisites to protect themselves by the law of the state. Thanks to his years of dedication, the government genuinely treats the guerillas as a threat now. The military interventions involving displacement just like what happened to my family had decreased.”

“Then wasn’t Furlan targeted by guerillas because he’s the son of the newly appointed commander?”

“As much as the guerillas are armed rebels, they only seek those who had done atrocities directly to the peasants and other citizens. Furlan, despite being the son of high-ranking police, was a kind man. He's the only criminology student who often jives in with the community work hosted by the college advocates. Most people in that department often ridicule us, after all. The farmers love him, that's why we’re really devastated by his death. More than anything, the guerillas and their supporters are one for finding justice for a man who recognizes their struggle."

“See? That’s why I can’t sit still in the underground for my own safety. We need to give Furlan justice too.”

Petra held your hand to squeeze it all the while giving you a firm smile, “But we’ll protect each other as we find it out. Talk it out to the Commander regarding your status, okay? I’m sure he’ll understand. You’re the reason he joined us, after all.”

“I don’t think I am—”

“She is the reason you joined, right, Commander?” Petra mused to the man that was now walking towards you.

“Sorry, what?” Erwin blinked. You’re finally at the door of the underground HQ. Erwin specifically asked Petra to bring you here after orientation.

“Anna is quite uneasy. I’ll leave her up to you.” Petra waved you off to the man.

Which was lucky because you didn’t react well to what she just called you. Your limbs tensed immediately. Your consciousness is throwing that name up.

“Are you okay?” Erwin noticed your expression, “You hadn’t eaten since morning. The first thing you must worry about in this situation is your health. You won’t be able to fight if it declines.”

“Petra told me I have to eliminate my identity at the surface and stay inside the underground.” you bit your lip anxiously, “Is there no other way?”

“It's what would protect you from your assailants."

“I know and I’m sorry. It’s hard for everyone too.”

“I understand your reluctance. That’s not the only thing you need to do, after all.”

“What else?”

"You’ll conquer a new identity, one of which includes being betrothed to our highest of ranks.”

What?

“You mean, your wife?”

“Yes, my wife.”

“That’s way too out of the blue,” you muttered horrified.

“As displeased as you are at the thought of it, this is the wisest option I came up with. Don’t worry, I won’t let you do things against your will. All we have to do is pretend—”

You cut him off with your hand, “If someone else was the Commander I’d be bawling my eyes out in front of you right now. I don’t mind if it’s you. I just need to see the rationale behind it.”

“That so? I thought you were about to cry just now.” 

You sneered, “Carly’s downright cruel teasing didn’t go to waste.”

“Well, then. As I said, we released a statement that Anna is within us. You had to be connected deeply to the highest command because if they really are after Anna—” you flinched at the name again so he finally realized, “it's the name that you’re most bothered about, aren’t you?”

“I know it’s a fake identity and all but who is she, even?” your inquiry garnered a change in his demeanor hence you repeated in a stern voice, “Who’s Anna?”

"That's the name your birth parents had given you."

You stopped in your tracks.

"Wrong.” you quickly spat, just as if someone spoke on your behalf.

Why?

“The only name I have is what I'm using right now," you added with a glare.

Why?

Here it is, a fragment of yours. And indeed for the first time in a while, you felt like it really did belong to you. At some point, it did.

But then again, your whole consciousness is throwing that name up. It can't belong to you. It must not belong to you.

"Right? After all, that was what you asked me last time. Who are you, really? Besides being the headline news decades ago, just who are you?" he went nearer. As he scrutinized your features and sensed utter fear, he cupped your cheeks. His face got stern, establishing that what he was about to say right now must be ingrained in you because it’s the only way you could survive. He called your name then, "You are the person you chose to be—this beautiful name you go by, the friends you hang out with, the path you’re about to take at this very moment—you are a person of your own. You don't have to embody Anna again and the thought of it repulses me as well, but you have to recollect whatever she had when she was still you. If they took the bait, that is."

"If they took the bait," you reiterated firmly, "I’m sorry if I sound selfish right now, but I don't want to let go of my life on the surface."

"You don't sound selfish to me. Not at all." he withdrew his hands from your cheek. He looked grim this time, a bit annoyed. "The premise of conquering another identity is the most practical way to keep you safe and yet you're still opting for the risk. I wonder why." 

He saw through it.

You looked down at the floor in guilt.

"You want to serve Furlan justice, don't you? You want to participate in the investigation along with his friends."

"That's the best thing to do."

"Because that's what normal friends would do? That's how a normal person would react upon having their friend dead and normalcy is what would give you a semblance of comfort?"

"Erwin," you gave him a hard look at the slight taunt in his tone, "is that how you see me?"

"It’s a question, little flower."

"I said stop calling me that!” your voice raised, obvious impatience laced the tone, “and Furlan was good to me. If I just went with him that day then—"

"Then you'd more likely end up the same."

"And the least I could do is to not leave them alone! Levi, Isabel, and those who want to give his death justice, I want to be with them in unraveling what happened! What's even wrong with that, when the assailants might be after me as well?"

"Is that what you really want to do?" he took a step forward, urging. You took a step backward until you leaned on the cold underground wall. His composure didn’t teeter at all. Fear started to boil up inside you. "Not because you're still chasing the life you could never have due to your terrible fate?"

"I—"

"I'm asking for your sincerity, and perhaps that wouldn't be too hard to answer if you really have it in the first place," as his voice lowered and the menace in his eyes came more apparent, your fear heightened, "because it has to be clear that I have no other intention here but to ruin whoever dared to go after you. I'm not risking your security with anything else, not even with a measly friend."

Measly friend. That was it, a trigger to replace the fear with disdain. Your hand trembled as it almost went for a slap.

Since when did Erwin start being like this?

“Why are you talking like that? Didn’t you meet him? Didn’t you see how kind of a man he was? Isn’t that encounter enough to understand that he was important to me and I wouldn’t sit still to be protected while his death remains unsolved?”

His face was unreadable this time. 

So then you added, "What you said wasn't entirely wrong, but my desire to be with them during their trying times isn't something to be taken against me. If not for you and your family back there, then I really might've become the person you speak of. I have no clue why our disposition didn't garner the same effect on you."

“Commander, there’s an update in—” Petra cut herself off upon seeing your faces, “sorry, did I interrupt something?”

“Accompany her on the surface. Don’t let anyone see her unless it’s Levi or Isabel. Bring some crew for security.” Erwin turned his back and started walking.

“Erwin, wait—”

“Both of you must be back by early morning,” he didn't say more than that.

You tried to halt him but you just know it's futile. He's always been like this, just as if nothing had happened.

The environment inside Levi’s home upon your arrival was grim, utterly so. There was a piece of paper at the coffee table while he and Isabel sat on the couch. They were deep in thought—confused and seething in anger. Upon realizing that they’re not in the headspace to prepare their own dinner, you’re the one who did.

“His death was gruesome,” Isabel weakly muttered, “there were words written on his cadaver. Fucking words carved on his skin. The one who did that is nothing but deranged.”

“What word?” you rushed in panic, “Elaborate right now.”

“Something went wrong with the plan and my runt was the collateral. The royal family disregards that as they were utterly drawn to the good news—their men did a fruitful job. We’re a step nearer to Eldia’s prosperity and abundance! What’s the credit for? They didn’t even mourn for his death!”

You curled your eyebrows at her, “Who are you quoting, Isabel?”

“Kenny, that bastard! I overheard him lashing out when I visited their house. He knew that the mess he involved Furlan with was dangerous but he still—he still—"

“How did the royal family know they’re a step nearer to their agenda?” 

“I heard the name Anna but it wasn’t clear what role they have in this,” she answered with a sob.

Your gut churned with that, then. Erwin's hypotheses were right; your father must've left something on you hence they were finding you.

Levi passed the paper to you, “We weren’t able to gather shit on what was carved. It’s in a foreign language.”

Foreign language. You utterly hoped it wasn’t the case, but your guts were completely right. You almost fainted upon seeing the content. Levi and Isabel stood in alarm.

"Did you understand what it said?" he gave you a hard look, "No one we know was able to decipher it. No country goes by that language. They’re trying to keep Furlan’s death silent too."

You tossed the paper away and both hands gripped your head. Your breaths went shallow and the words on the paper disintegrated into voices. 

The voices in your head.

“VIRI TUI MAGNUM OFFICIUM FECERUNT!

PRIMUS EQUES APOCALYPSIS ADEST IN FORMA DIABOLI EX ARBORE. QUI EUM EVIGILANTES PERIBUNT!

HOC CORPUS MORTUUM SIGNIFICAT INITIUM BELLI.”

"Hey, what's up?" Isabel held onto your shoulders which you swatted away.

"Furlan w-was killed by—"

"Who?" This time, it was Levi holding onto your shoulders hard. His face was urging and dark, "What the fuck do these words mean? Tell us."

“YOUR MEN HAD DONE A FRUITFUL JOB,

THE CONQUEST, FIRST HORSEMAN OF THE APOCALYPSE, HAS COME IN THE FORM OF A DEVIL FROM THE TREE,

THIS CADAVER SIGNIFIES THE START OF WAR.”

For a while, only your silent sobs and ragged breaths covered the whole room. Isabel couldn't even cry anymore. She was too befuddled with what the words just meant.

“Tree,” Isabel pondered, “was it perhaps the tree pertained by the church—the one bestowed upon humanity by gods?”

"The one for Eldia's prosperity, yes," you answered weakly.

“The piercing in Furlan’s body was too unusual. Perhaps he even got it when he was dead. There was no bloodshed as well. He really just dropped and died. If not for the mark, it’d just be classified as a poor aneurysm.” Levi considered.

Isabel was silent for a while, struggling to remember something, “I messed around with some of my cultist friends before and they kept on defending that the tree is regarded as a source of all beings. In this world, a powerful bearer of that tree exists—the royal family allegedly prophesied that the bearer is an Eldian. If they’re found, we’ll achieve the abundance the tree brings. But then I never heard about a horseman. What is a conquest horseman, even?"

Then another realization daunted you—your mind that was being conquered by the voices.

Bloodshot eyes open, face flushed in horror, you're in utter shock and it seems it will be staying for a while, "I think I've already encountered that devil."

prev | next

[libraryofloveletters]

‘Till My Last Dying Breath

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Warnings: CM level of violence, guns and the use of, mentions of injures, blood and kidnapping and like one swear word. 

Category: Angst 

Word Count: 2.2k

Author’s Note: Some good old 3am Hotch angst, very on brand for me :) 

----

Love was like alcohol. Some people have the occasional drink and they’re happy. Others prefer to stay away from it for various reasons while others need it. Need it to function, to get through the day, to feel something. 

An addiction. 

He was an addiction and one you’d have ‘till your dying breath.

His face, his hands, his touch, his smile, you needed him in every sense of the word. Aaron was the one thing holding you in place and he didn’t even know it. For someone whose job it was to notice the little details, he was oblivious to his own life and your feelings. 

You clung onto his hand as he leaned over you, “hold on, the medics are almost here” his other hand was pressed to your side, covering the gaping bullet wound in your side. “Aaron” you breathe, “y/n, don’t. Save your strength” 

“You can't save everyone Aaron” you whisper, your grip beginning to loosen on his hand.

The panic in his eyes isn't as well hidden as he hoped, the red liquid staining his shirt sleeve and his hand. Your breathing slow and weak, you were slipping and slipping fast. 

“I can save you. It's my job” he breathed, his words barely coming out, he worried if he spoke any louder he’d hurt you more than you were already hurt. Seeing that it was his fault that you were in this position anyways. 

It should have been him. 

An Hour Prior 

“Did you find anything ?” Hotch’s voice carried across the room as you walked back in with Spencer. Spencer shook his head and you opted to actually answer him, “lead was a bust, there isn't even a house there” 

“What do you mean there’s no house?” Derek spat, “Didn’t Garica say there was?” 

“Okay relax, I know she did but there isn't so what do you want me to do?” you rolled your eyes and sat down at the table. 

“Cut the attitude l/n, we’re all tired. Get it together” Hotch said, harsher then he’s ever spoken to you. 

The case was getting to everyone, the team had spent the last five days in a small town in Colorado. They had been looking for three missing women, one had turned up dead and the other was alive but not without signs of trauma and abuse. The third one is still missing and the girl who had survived didn't seem to have answers or remember where she was coming from. The frustration began to set in and everyone just wanted to go home already. Derek was on the phone with Penelope trying to figure out where the missing house really was. The room was quiet other than JJ and Emily going over the theories at the end of the table. “Hotch, Garica’s sending you another address” Derek told him, he nodded. 

“L/n you’re with me, let’s go.” 

You held back the urge to roll your eyes as you followed him out of the station, the two of you drove in silence. You wanted to know why he spoke to you that way, no matter how upset he was, he never did so what changed today? “Seriously, what’s your issue ?” looking towards the man in the driver’s seat. His permanent look of seriousness on his face, his brows furrowed slightly. “What issue ?” 

“Why’d you tell me to cut the attitude? Derek started it” 

“Derek is a grown man, he’s been a part of this team longer than you. Know your place” 

“My place ? Are you fuckin-” 

“Be quiet, we’re here and there’s someone outside” he stopped half way down the street on the other side. The two of you looked at the house that Garica sent the address too. There was a man outside, smoking on the porch, his clothes covered in blood. “Do you think-” “yeah, we go in on my count” Aaron told you, strapping his vest on. 

You weren’t one to wait for directions, hence why Aaron was upset to begin with. He wasn't exactly pleased when you got out of the SUV and sprinted to the house. Gun drawn and pointed at the man, he dropped the cigarette and ran into the house, following after him. 

“FBI! Stop!” you sprinted up the stairs as he ran. The sound of a door slamming and Aaron’s voice in the background were the only sounds you were hearing until a woman screamed. You pushed on the door but it was locked. You tried slamming into it with your shoulder but it wouldn't budge, taking a step back before you kicked the door with everything in you and the door swung open and slammed into the wall. The man’s head shot up, he leant over the girl who was strapped to the chair. 

“Let her go” you tell him, your gun pointed directly at him as you slowly make your way into the room. You take in the room, the smell of old blood and rotting flesh fills your nose, enough to make your eyes water and make you gag. You held yourself together, looking over at the girl. She was strapped to the chair, the rope around her soaked in blood and every inch of exposed skin was now hues of purple, blue and black. There were gashes in various parts of her body, no doubt she had taken the brunt of the beatings as none of the other girls looked as wounded as her. 

“I can't” he whispered, his hand brushed across her cheek, she whimpered. 

“She’s innocent, she didn’t do anything to you” you take a step closer, lowering your gun. Aaron’s heavy footsteps echoed through the house. “What was that?” the man’s head whipped in your direction, his eyes flickering back and forth through the doorway. “Nothing, you stepped on the loose board” your heart pounding in your chest as the man made his way towards you. No matter how many times you did this, it didn't get any less scary. Your gun raised again, pointed at the man who was in front of you, your eyes flickering to the woman in the chair.

“Any closer and I will shoot you.” 

“I’m not scared of you” he smiled mischievously at you

“And I'm not scared of you” you reply, deadpan. 

“You shouldn’t be. I would never hurt a beautiful person like you.” His words sent chills down your spine, not the good kind either. Aaron appeared behind you, his sudden presence startling the man, his reflexes kicking in as he grabs your gun and pulling you towards him.

“What are you doing here? You aren't supposed to be here” the man had your gun pressed to your head, right against your temple. Aaron’s gun was pointed at the man. “Let them go” he tells the man, who again, does not do as he’s told. “Move,” he waves the gun in a sideways motion, “let me go and you can take the girl” he steps forward, pushing your body as he moves. 

“I don’t want the girl, I want agent l/n back” 

The man froze, he was evaluating his options. Let you go and he gets to keep the girl and the other option is to die. There was no way in hell he was going to give up without a fight, “I'll give you the girl and your agent, if and only if you let me go” 

Aaron’s face twisted before it relaxed, almost like he had given in. You knew Aaron better than the unsub did, hence why your beating heart settled when he gave you a look. A look of certainty, of trust. 

“Go,” he stepped from the doorway, “let them go and you can go” 

“Nuh uh, I'm taking them down with me, that’s the only way I know you’ll let me go” 

Aaron nodded, the man pushed you down the stairs with him. “Why are you doing this?” you ask him, the gun was still pressed against your temple it was surely going to leave a mark.

“Doing what sweetheart?” he breathed, his breath hot against your ear making you feel disgusting and uncomfortable. 

“Why did you take those girls? I need to know” you didn't care, you were buying Aaron time. Time to check on the girl, to get back up to the house, to get you out of there. You trusted that man with your life although he was the biggest pain in your ass. 

“I needed them” he gives you a simple answer.

“Needed them for what?” 

“To satisfy my needs” 

“And what needs are those ?” you question him again. 

“You sure are a nosy bitch” he grumbles. 

Aaron’s steps shake the house and he runs down - basically jumps down the stairs. His gun pointed again at the man behind you. “I gave you a chance, you’re still here. Let them go or I will shoot you” Aaron says, the man laughed wickedly. 

“No thanks agent” 

“I’m not asking you again” 

Aaron's gun clicked, the trigger pressed slightly. The man loosens his grip on you slightly, your gun is now pointed at Aaron. 

It all happened so fast, the sound of the trigger being pressed behind you was enough to make you move to the side, the bullet went in through your back and out the front of your stomach. Aaron’s gun goes off next, the sound of multiple shots ringing through the house and the man behind you falling to the ground, the gun dropping from his hand. You were in shock, your hand pressed to your side, Aaron’s gun still pointed at the man as he stepped towards him, kicking the gun from beside him. 

Aaron’s gun clicked once more, a single shot echoes through the house before you fall to the ground with a thud. He turns and you’re on the ground, hand clinging to your side as the blood slips through your fingers. Aaron’s hand replaces yours, his other hand coming up speaking into the coms, calling for medical backup. Your vision blurry and your body weak, you reach for Aaron’s hand. Your blood soaked one wrapping around his. You clung onto his hand as he leaned over you, “hold on, the medics are almost here” his other hand was pressed to your side, covering the gaping bullet wound in your side. 

“Aaron” you breathe, 

“Y/n, don’t. Save your strength” 

“You can't save everyone Aaron” you whisper, your grip beginning to loosen on his hand.The panic in his eyes isn't as well hidden as he hoped, the red liquid staining his shirt sleeve and his hand. Your breathing slow and weak, you were slipping and slipping fast. “I can save you. It's my job” he breathed, his words barely coming out, he worried if he spoke any louder he’d hurt you more than you were already hurt. Seeing that it was his fault that you were in this position anyways. 

It should have been him. 

“Hey, you know I-” you start, his other hand brushes your hair away from your forehead. “No, I know.” he breathes, a small smile on your face. If this was your time, so be it. At least you’d go looking at the man you loved. 

Your eyes felt heavy, fluttering close. Aaron’s hand patted your face a few times, “hey, stay with me. Hear that ?” the sirens blared but they sounded far, you knew you wouldn't be able to hold on much longer. 

You knew you weren't going to make it. 

This was it. 

“Aaron,” you mutter, a cough cutting off your words and the blood spattered onto your cheek. “Y/n?” Aaron called, his eyes glued to you. “I- I,” your breathing was heavy, it hurt to speak. “What is it?” Aaron’s look hurt, the sadness visible on his face, it hurt you to know that you’d be leaving him shortly. 

“I love you” you admit, the last words you’d speak to him.

Aaron’s expression softened, a faint gasp leaving his throat. You look at him one last time. The way his hair flopped over his face, his blood soaked hands, the way his hand felt pressed against you and lastly, the expression on his face when you told him what you had been dying to tell him since you met him. Aaron’s voice rings through your ears, “I love you too” the last words he’d ever speak to you and the last words you’d ever hear. 

A dying confession of love seemed a fitting way to end things. 

You love him and you always will, you loved him until your last dying breath. 

Your love for him was an addiction.

He was an addiction and one you couldn’t seem to quit, one that was with you ‘till your last dying breath.

---

Taglist: @mac99martin @aaron-hotchner187 @fanofalltheficsx @luke-alvez @iconicc @lieberhers @pumpkin-reads​ @katexrichardson​ @sluttytears​ @thelukealvez​ @scandinavian-punk​ @pagetsimp​ @morcias​ @shotarosleftpinky​ @mrs-dr-reid​ @hqtchner​ @averyhotchner​ @willlemonheadsupremacy​ @mggsprettygirl​ @simxican​ @ssa-autumn-hotchner​ @potter-reid​

[alchemania]

Barbara, and Bennett: Toxic Positivity (and how they each exude it)

While it's easy to spot negative toxic behavior, toxic positivity can be harder to recognize and pin down. In this blog, I am going to analyze 2 characters in Genshin and explain just how they show traits of toxic positivity. (I originally was going to include Jean, but I already covered her in an earlier blog so it'd just be redundant)

Barbara Page

Barbara is all smiles and sunshine, trying her best to ensure that everyone is happy. However; she does this to an unhealthy degree and often does not prioritize her emotional wellbeing.

#1: Forcing herself to always be happy.

Barbara's story lines state that she "only allows herself to be depressed for 30 seconds" and that after that, she basically puts on a smile; regardless of what she's actually feeling. She often talks about how good everyone is to her, and I honestly believe that Barbara invalidates her own depression because in her eyes; she has a good life and there's no "reason" for her to be sad, plus if she was sad then everyone else would feel down. She hasn't experienced anything traumatic, so how can she have the right to be depressed? But the thing is, she has: her parents divorced when she was young; and Barbara grew up apart from Jean, leading to a lack of a relationship between the two. While the divorce, based on Jean's story lines, did not seem to have a lot of negativity around it (from what I can tell Simon and Frederica actually split on amiable terms, they just fell out of love with each other), it still affected Barbara in a negative way and no doubt she is hurting from it but she's not acknowledging her pain. All trauma is not the same, this is true. But all trauma IS valid; just because someone is hurting less doesn't mean they're NOT hurting and Barbara needs to understand that her pain is valid and give herself time to process it.

#2: Lack of emotional boundaries

If there's anything that Jean and Barbara have in common besides both being healers, it's that they're absolutely terrible at saying no. In Barbara's hangout, she feels guilty for avoiding Albert and wanting to be left alone despite being emotionally exhausted and even wants to apologise, despite doing nothing wrong. Later on when her fans ask for autographs; she agrees, despite being off the clock and trying to take a break: Aether has to step in personally to get people to go away, and not only that; he has to lie through his teeth in order to do so. If you tell the NPCs the truth ("Barbara is currently on leave, please don't disturb her",) they'll reply "Oh she's on leave? Perfect time to ask for an autograph!" They don't care about her feelings; all they care about is what she can do for them and the worst part is that Barbara lets them treat her like this. It's so bad that the Knights have to constantly step in and rescue her because folks can't get it in their heads that off the clock =/= available; and Barbara feels like if she can help other people that she needs to; to the detriment of her own needs. She seems to think it's selfish to put herself first; but looking out for yourself emotionally is anything but. It's okay to say no, it's okay to tell people you're not available. Just because you're free doesn't mean you're up to engage and there's nothing wrong with that. But like Sister Victoria says herself; Barbara is too nice. She gives and gives and gives and expects nothing in return, and people take advantage of that.

#3: Undermining herself through constant praise of others

In her hangout, she tells you that besides singing and healing, she doesn't have anything worthwhile about her, and then goes on about how amazing you are, Jean as well. Barbara doesn't acknowledge her positive traits, and then when she vents to you she apologizes for doing so, since you were supposed to be hanging out and having fun. She puts a lot of her worth in comparison to what other people can DO, and not actual character. Barbara is a lovely person: she's sweet and kind and loving, but because she doesn't see herself as physically strong or powerful, she doesn't think she's worth a lot.

Bennett

My GOD, Bennett is like the EPITOME of toxic positivity.

1. Allows others to mistreat him and take out their feelings on him because he feels it's his fault they're suffering (essentially, a martyr complex)

Bennett's hangout is a prime example of this where when Royce got angry, Bennett simply let him yell until you step in. Due to his almost perpetual bad luck, he feels that he's responsible for the misfortune of the people around him and since he can't physically do anything about it, he attempts to "atone" by letting himself be emotionally assaulted.

He also puts himself in physical danger to keep other people safe (he figures since he's already unlucky, might as well suffer a little more if it means everybody else is okay, right?), and accepts abandonment as the norm since he's a liability. Bennett does not value his wellbeing whatsoever due to constantly being in danger and he seems to be of the mentality "If I'm going to die, at least let me die protecting everybody" and that immensely upsets me that a KID, who's probably no older than 17, is already considering his mortality.

#2: Not allowing himself to process negative emotion

Just like Barbara, Bennett constantly forces himself to always keep a smile on, only in his case it's more to keep himself from getting overwhelmed about his situation. It's heavily implied in his story that Bennett is afraid that he could die any day (and I don't blame him) and so he lives hard and fast because he feels he doesn't have a lot of time. He's cheated death MULTIPLE times (he almost died as a baby, and he almost died prior to receiving his Vision), and Bennett more than likely feels that one day, he's not going to get lucky enough to escape again; and he'll actually die. His life is an entire string of misfortune and unlike Barbara and her parents divorce, Bennett is aware of this trauma: he simply chooses to take it in stride and forces himself to stay upbeat. Which is just as bad as letting negative emotion completely overwhelm him, it's literally just the other ditch.

Bennett also seems very sad about the fact that his team abandoned him but he doesn't let himself process that either (if you respond angrily to the revelation that his teammates left he'll jump to defend them and insist "they had their reasons"- and that may be true, but that doesn't invalidate the trauma and sadness of being left behind because of something you literally cannot control). Similar to Diluc, Bennett is sort of an Atlas of his own right, but instead of carrying all of Mondstat on his shoulders he's shouldering his emotional wellbeing: he refuses to vent to anyone and bottles everything up because he doesn't want to be a burden; but in doing so he's only hurting himself in the long run.

(Thank God for Razor though it seems like he might be hanging around for the long haul and that makes me immensely happy. I could cry. Please don't let anything bad happen to him and Bennett they deserve friendship)

I'm going to go off the beaten path a bit here but, to all you guys reading this; please remember that:

1. Your trauma is valid, regardless of how "lesser" you think it might be.

2. You are not obligated to give yourself emotionally to other people if you are not up to it. You cannot give what you do not have, and if you're not 100% emotionally wise, you really shouldn't be taking on any more negative energy. It's not selfish to take care of yourself. If people can't respect that then they're not worth your time. Set emotional boundaries and don't budge for anyone. The people who are meant to stay will honor your boundaries.

3. It's okay to be sad! And it's okay to be sad and have no idea why. It doesn't matter if you have a 'good life,' depression doesn't care who you are or where you are on your walk of life and sometimes it hits like a truck. Your sadness is valid and don't be afraid to take the time you need to acknowledge and process your negative emotions.

Please take care of yourselves, friends; and be safe.

Have a good day. 💗

[jadelynlace]

Ink Drinker / Modern Vikings AU [Ivar x F!Reader], Chapter 5

catch up here!

synopsis: Ivar was only meant to be a friend with benefits, but he caught feelings for his older brother’s best friend, and co-worker: you.

pairing: Ivar x F!Reader

***content warning [PLEASE READ]: this chapter is quite gruesome, please read at your own risk. yes this is based off of a trauma call I actually went to, and yes I am sparing some of the sicker details because it truly was one of the worst calls I had ever walked in on. and yes, it actually happened this way and yes, this helps me heal from it. ok, that is all.

author’s note: I’m so sorry.

✎

A sinful noise comes from Ivar’s mouth in the exact moment you entered in through the threshold. Truthfully, the sound sent a shiver down your spine, worrisome as the twenty four hour shift ended and Ivar had chosen to go to your flat last night, not his own. 

“Why are you in my house, Ivar?” You say to him, eyes scanning over his half naked body as it tangled throughout the sheets, biceps set to curling around the rather feminine color of your duvet.

“Good morning to you too,” Ivar says back with a yawn that croaks from his mouth as he pulls the covers back. “Come lay with me,” Your mind rolls ideas between your ears, behind your eyes as you calculate why Ivar willingly came to your empty place the night prior, when he knew you were working yourself to death on the back of a never ending ambulance.

“That didn’t answer my question, Ivar,” Your voices teases him as you walk about the small space, pulling pins from your collar. He goes silent after your statement, moving the blankets to cover his face out of a twinge of embarrassment, not sure how you would take to learning that he felt better here. Felt happier, even when you weren’t home it gave him that sense that he wasn’t alone. You peek your head back to make out the large mound under the duvet, Ivar rolling under it and flopping on to his stomach. Tossing the discarded blues into your hamper, the tags, keys, pins and your tactical belt are all put away neatly in their homes as you pull on a shirt that no longer has a real shape to it. Ivar’s eyes peel open when you creep the covers off of his face, the cold air rushing against his skin and you’re in his vision—not as blurry to his glasses-less eyes as you make way to snuggle into him.

“Don’t want to creep you out,” Ivar says to you lowly, voice hoarse like sandpaper, scratching in its new use and you only turn your head to give him a sideways look. “It makes me feel better to be here,” He finally admits, fingers busying themselves with the loose hem on your shirt as he still won’t look at you. “Makes me feel less alone even if you’re not here,” You want to sigh, you want to cup his cheeks and push them together like he’s a toddler who’s being too damn adorable for your undertaking, but you can’t. These are words that took him a while to finally speak, progress for what darkness seems to leech in his mind at all hours, and now only a sliver of light comes through because he’s telling you how he feels. The reasoning behind it all, the baring of his soul on the bedsheets and stark naked with his emotions.

“You can come here whenever you want Ivar, you know that.” You say back, eyes searching his and they close briefly, sighing in a moment of relief because you’re not throwing him out on to the street for his choice. “Anything that makes you feel better, you should do,” You tell him, a peck to the corner of his mouth as you settle against him. “As long as it’s legal,” You add quickly, picking your head up in haste to move your point across and Ivar only chuckles as you do.

“You know what makes me feel better?” Ivar whispers and he’s climbs over you, pressing a weight to rein over you and you giggle. Sluggish as he moves with his hair tickling your face and he’s finally made the leeway with his figure, bending his forearms to catch his weight.

“What makes you feel better?” You ask him, looking up at this man who is so hopelessly in love with you he doesn’t even care to hide it on his face.

“You make me feel better,” Ivar tells you and the words hardly escape before his lips are against yours. Languid and soft, relishing in how your nails scratch up his back, humming as they press along his skin like keys on a piano and he finally drops his weight. Laying over you as his lips find their place on your pulse point, grazing the skin like thousands of little needles and you let a breathless moan pass from your tongue. Ivar only hums in response as his mouth stays busy, splotching you and navigating the skin to make sure more of the dots will stay hidden when you put your blues back on. His forehead rests on the length of your collarbone, his hand moving around the mattress to find yours. “I’ve never been in love until I met you,” Ivar whispers against you skin, sinking the praise into your pores and it shatters your heart but repairs it just as quickly. Resting his cheek he finally looks up at you, dragging his fingertips down your nose and there’s a low light that’s dancing off of his features, paling his blue eyes as he gazes at you.

“I love you, too Ivar,” You say softly and you mean the sentence with every single fiber in your body. You’d say it until you were blue in the face if it helped to heal every demon in his mind. He smiles as you say it, like he still can’t believe his luck.

“Want you—but I know you’re tired,” He mumbles and his lips take back to the game against your skin and you know he doesn’t mean to try to turn you in his favor. But you tell him about the coffee you had—more than you should have had if you planned to sleep some of the day away and he’s moving back over you again. Worshipping you with each press of his lips, each roll of his hips as he grinds down against your spread legs. He’s not rushed with how he feels you, how he only kicks his pants off and pulls your bottoms off as you undress fully for him, his eyes just watching your skin as he kisses each knee cap and then he’s back over you. Mouth against yours as the tip of his cock brushes against your opening, how that small notion is already so heavenly and when he’s finally pushing into you, you’re holding back on to him. Letting him know you’re there as he moves slowly in the morning light. Heavy breathing and soft mews between the both of you while Ivar brings you to your peek with the rolls of his hips and his tongue on yours. And he falls with you, panting and coating your walls and humming in pure contentment because this is a sensation he never wants to forget, never lose, as long as he lives, sleeping the morning away tangled between you and the sheets.

*

It had rolled into another slow morning left with nothing other to do than mop the bay’s floors and terrorize Hvitserk with unruly sprays from the soap gun. Laughing as he flinched, all but made inhuman noises whenever your aim got closer to his pristine blues. You two had gone on coffee runs, stopping to grab lunch and snacking away with boots up on the benches as another unrealistic drama show flashes from the screen. It was a bright change for the days that you two had spent together, but the quietness was never welcomed completely without the slow thoughts of what was to come lingering behind it. A car into a semi-truck. Hvitserk tipped his head back and groaned so loudly he nearly fell backwards from his chair. At least you were just able to blaze through the streets of town with loud horns and bright sirens and command the authority to have everyone bow to your right of way. 

It was warm, growing increasingly so in the last few hours and the sun hung well above the road. Scattered with the remains of scrap metal, tangled mess of a car and the comically unbent eighteen wheeler. The fire engine met you on the scene, already blinking with two police cars and in your maneuvering to park the rig close, you caught more of the vehicle wreck. A tangled mess of a black mustang and you could feel the blood drain from your face as your heart stopped.

“Hvitserk,” You whine and that snaps his attention from the back the rig as he’s pulling gloves for both of you. “Oh my god Hvitserk it’s Ivar,” You all but yell and he bolts from the back of the double doors to round the ambulance. And then he sees it. And you see it. Your partner takes off, no protective gear as a shield and you grab him, locking an arm to pull him back as a look of panic crosses him like a field. “Focus,” You hiss at him. “Do your job and fucking focus—you’re the best medic on the god damn team and you need to prove that right now,” But you could say the speech until you’re blue in the face, gasping as the words fall with no meaning because Hvitserk is out of control for the first time ever on a call.

“He’s awake in there,” A voice calls from the other side of the car.

“Get the trauma bag.” You call to your partner and then you take off, steel toes rounding the car and there’s no door to open anymore. Just a blown out rear view window that’s already been cut by those jaws. You see Ivar blink and your mind shuts off completely. 

“Hey baby,” His voice rasps when he sees you in his sight, picking his head up while the crushed front end of the car covers his legs like a blanket. Your heart is stabbed with a knife and you can’t worry about that right now, you can’t worry about how you feel because your uniform is telling you that you’re the only hope for the man you so deeply love.

“Ivar keep your head down please, I need you to stay as still as possible.” You tell him and Hvitserk makes his way behind you. 

“We need the take this side off!” Hvitserk’s voice calls to the fire department. The noise of his voice floats behind you and he pulls another fire fighter to aid him in the collection of equipment he’s sending to you.

“What’s that?” Ivar asks you and you’re reaching behind you for the c-collar. 

“This keeps your neck straight, Ivar, it’s very important that you don’t move. How else are you feeling?”

“My legs feel funny,” Ivar mumbles to you as you lock the device around his neck. At his words you peek down for the first time and your stomach rolls. Churning like a great open sea as you see the mess that is before the two of you. There is no clear cut determining factor of where his legs start and the car ends. 

“Ivar can you feel my hand right here?” You ask him as you have it on his thigh.

“I like it when you touch me there baby,” Ivar slurs and it’s a twist of his words drooling from his mouth as he’s trying to stay awake. Even as his body shuts down. Even with the same bastard smirk. You back out slowly and Hvitserk replaces your spot as quickly as he’ll allow; tunneled vision as he asses Ivar’s closest vein and through a shake in his fingers, hooks him up to a line. “What are you doing brother?” He asks and his voice is smaller now, like a child and Hvitserk only sadly smiles.

“This is pain medicine Ivar, so we can get you out of the car. You’re going to get really tired and I don’t want you to fight it, alright? I’ll see you when you wake up.” Are the last words Ivar registers and his world becomes dark.

The hiss of the saw catches your attention as you watch the sparks sizzle on the heated asphalt. Linens down on the stretcher and reflective gear covering you but your body is so cold, chilled and down right hypothermic as the car groans lowly once it is peeled apart. Like bark from a tree as it curls into scrap metal and Hvitserk cranks two tourniquets on each of Ivar’s legs. 

“Helicopter?” You call to him and he shakes his head.

“It’ll be faster if you drive him down to the trauma center. They won’t fly—it’s too cloudy today,” He calls back and you can’t help but think of the ever going joke about how the pilots don’t fly, even with only one cloud in the whole sky. There’s yelling, screams, the buzz of machines and too much noise but Ivar is still asleep, and you find comfort in the fact that he’s not seeing what you are. Your reflective vest catches the sunlight and it bounces into your face, mixes with your tear filled eyes and you wipe them along your sleeve to smear mascara and sweat. As soon as the command comes from around you that it’s safe, the car is stable and you can reach your patient, you waste no time.

It takes you, Hvitserk and two of the largest firemen on the team to pull Ivar from the wreck. Hooking around his arms and you can still smell his cologne over the burnt rubber that takes up home in your nostrils. His legs are crushed, obliterated and shattered and you’re queasy for the first time ever on a call. They drag behind him like dead limbs as he’s sliding up the back board. Hvitserk tears what was left of his jeans in adrenaline as he tries to wrap what he can to stay sterile but the injuries are far too extreme for you two alone to treat. The mess of mangled flesh and your heart breaks even farther as you see the art work on his skin now a waste because you know how Ivar loves his tattoos. They’re smashed and bent and somehow still there and if it were any other call there would be pictures being taken and you would be exchanging glances with your partner. Treating the rest of what he can and Hvitserk pales, because you both know Ivar may never walk again. 

From above his belt, Ivar looks normal—he looks like the man you saw this morning—your Ivar. Obvious contusions from the seat belt and the airbag, torn shirt cut right up the middle as you attach the stickers to his chest. The Like Pak squeezes an already bulged bicep for his blood pressure and it’s dropping quickly. The non-rebreather mask’s reservoir fills with oxygen and you watch the plastic palpate, the fingers in his left hand twitch like they do when he’s asleep. It feels like a nightmare, loud noises and beating sun with clouds that pass and every time shade greats you, you find another injury on his body. The motions come so simply because your mind has gone, sucked out the window and on a vacation because you need to focus on what you’re doing, now more than ever.

Protruding tibia bones look back at you, knee caps that are now mere powder mock you. You see his bones, you see his muscles, you see every inner part of both of his legs stabbed with shrapnel and the glass, raw and cherry colored, and you think you’re going to pass out as you pull the gurney to the machine that grabs it, sucking into the back of the ambulance. Hvitserk jumps back there you slam the doors so quickly, trying to shut that world out to focus on this one. And then you pull the ambulance around and gun it, sandwiching the peddle between your blood covered boot and the ambulance’s floor. Even over the sirens, the blare of the horn you can hear your partner praying. Praying to a God he doesn’t believe in for his brother to live through this as the monitor sings a tune that Ivar is crashing.

“Come on brother—don’t do this to me,” He curses and pulls another vile, cranks the oxygen flow and sends more fluid into his body. “Don’t do this to me Ivar. Not today. Not today, Ivar,” And the tears finally start again in your eyes as you curse the vehicle for not going any faster. For its limit of one hundred and twenty miles per hour on the open lane of the freeway because cars have spread. They’ve parted as this creature screams for them to obey and you see the cop cars ahead of you, trying to pave the way and then the flight car. Your section chief right on your front bumper and you know he can tell its you driving the ambulance. You’re the fastest driver he’s ever employed and now is the time to remember that—and your job as you all carry Ivar’s body from this battle, into a much worse one.

Ink Drinker Tags:

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*please message me to let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list. specifications for series/etc. are also welcomed, as well as feedback.*

full masterlist can be found here.

[kryptsune]

World Building Wednesday! ~Felldritch

🌼I got a request to do a WBW for Felldritch and since there have been updates to the overall world and lore I wanted to make sure this was all in a nice little package! If you have questions and want to learn more let me know the ask box is always open!  So let's get started! Oh and here is a link to the fic! FELLDRITCH

Felldritch

Classification: HorrorFELL

Cult  Alternate “Nicknames”:

Red: Saw Boss: Corvus

Gaster: Sephtis

Asriel: Saber Toriel: Ameria

Asgore: Kirnon

Undyne: Ryx Alphys: Vesh Muffet: Carmilla Grillby: Noire MTT: Faust

Doggo: Croix

Riverperson: Bastet (Tet)

Main Plot Synop: Felldritch takes place after a pacifist run by Frisk. The story briefly goes as follows. Frisk ends up in the Underworld (Underground) and befriends the monsters and wants to set them free. It is basically a way watered down version of WTU in essence. Once reaching the end of her journey the monsters refuse to let her be that final soul. They would rather wait and figure out something else but with her Determination she promises to return to them and set them free. At this point in time she is around 18-19. Asriel sacrifices himself to that end to see her leave through the barrier only for the humans to capture the poor girl after she leaves. They conclude that she is not mentally stable due to her insistence that monsters are real and throw her into an asylum/sanitarium to be “treated”. Nearly 5+ years later and she manages to escape finding herself once again in the Underworld only it is far different from what she remembers. At this point, she is questioning whether anything is real or not. After being “treated” for so long she doesn’t quite know which reality is the true one. As Red (aka Saw) points out:

The Brothers: 

Red: The younger brother of the two. His attachment to Frisk stems into more of a relationship though he blames himself for loosing her all those years ago. This psychological state causes him to throw himself into the problem that is befalling their world. At first nothing seems to combat this intrusive forest and horrifying beasts but he learns to utilize his magic in a different way. Prior to this he is what one would think of a a Red type but after meeting Frisk he promises to not only change his heart but also the hearts of others. Instead of destructive magical ability he follows in his brothers footsteps and takes up healing practice. 

In the world he is known as the merchant, the one that tends to give out healing items in exchange for coin but the bulk of his business relies on talismans or charms to ward off the evil plaguing their home. As far as they all know these magically infused charms are powerful and have incredible protective capabilities. He runs a wagon that travels around the entire Underworld.

In the current timeline he more sympathetic and empathetic. The concept of Kill or be Killed is no longer a factor. This is mainly about survival and for the most part the other monsters are aware that working together is their best option though their heightened paranoia (validly founded btw) makes it difficult sometimes. His personality is lighthearted on the surface, making jokes, and being a good guy. In a way he reminds me of Jester who tries not to dwell on what is going on but is fully aware of the situation. Red wears a blindfold in public to keep up appearances but he has no vision or eye light problems.

Boss: After Frisk’s departure from the Underworld, Boss, takes her words to heart. Unlike the majority of Fell Pap characterization he is very soft. When he feels his brother no longer needs his guidance he begins to feel purposeless until he learns that like his brother he has the magical ability for healing. As Red is the charm merchant of the two, Boss is the apothecary. His design harkens to plague doctors back in the 17th century. He grows all his own herbs and spices but he is particularly fond of tea. He also wears a blindfold just like Red but unlike Red he does in fact have damage to his left eye socket where the teal color of his eye lights no longer inhabits. 

The two combined help their fellow monsters as much as they can but in a world of uncertainty how are you supposed to know who to trust? 

Frisk’s Mental Demons: The psychological toll on Frisk is great as she has been told constantly that she made up her time in the Underworld in order to shut herself away into a fantasy world. A world where she had a family… where she is loved and wanted. This happens frequently as the “Doctors” continuously try to refute her experiences or sensations medically.  Every time she goes to sleep in the Underworld she ends up back at the Asylum tied down kicking and screaming. 

She only wakes up again when she is sedated. Rinse and repeat. The question is… is it real? Or rather which is real. The doctors go on to state that her dark state of mind twisted her original concept behind her “family” making them this eldritch styled horror. He also goes onto explain that the reason she is so drawn and close to Red is that it is her “flirting with death”. That she is accepting that outcome because if she continues to resist treatment she will die and the moment she trusts him in her “fantasy” that will be the end. These kinds of situations happen a lot.

There are also instances when the lines between real and fiction are blurred as Frisk's behavior consists apparently of defensive aggression, auditory, visual, and olfactory hallucination, acute paranoia, anxiety, and PTSD. One such example of this is her apparent psychiatrist, Dr. Cyrus Reycroft, who happens to have an uncanny resemblance to her skeletal friend if he was human. 

The Beasts: Felldritch plays off Eldritch horror aka the fear of the unknown. As Frisk reunites with Red she is subjected to a rather concerning conversation in which he explains the situation they are in. He mentions having crossed into an upside down broken and colorless world which drew both himself and his older brother into. It is implied that the two stepped into a dimensional space that was able to then afflict those within their own dimension. Over time the inhabitants begin to go missing and great otherworldly hellish beasts begin appearing. The inhabitants come to the conclusion that these creatures can not afflict you with their corruption if you can not see, hear, or speak in their presence. This mindset has some rather gruesome implications as inhabitants become irrationally desperate mutilating themselves to adhere to the new "See no evil, Speak no evil, Hear no evil”.

The Occult World: The cult as I keep referring to it as is a group of powerful monsters. After the deposition of the King the other monsters begin to become influenced by outside sources. They begin to believe that any fallen humans are the angels of death and because of this they will kill humans on sight, of course, they want to live in denial of their horrible deeds because monster souls are supposed to be made up of love and kindness. Unlike the cult that wishes to break the barrier, the rest want to stay hidden from the beasts above believing that the humans are to blame for all that has happened.

The senses play a huge roll in this idea as the beasts are rumored to be able to use souls like puppets, as in spys, if they are corrupted. It essentially becomes like a hive mind with the main entity being able to see, hear, and speak through those it comes in contact with. It’s no secret that Red is in fact infected by this entity in some form as this is a quote from the fic:

A set of antlers snagged the velvety cape as he worked the metalwork to release its hold on the material around his throat.

Bony fingers tugged on the bunched up fabric and pulled it back, revealing a charcoal grey sweater underneath. It was soft to the touch but just hidden beneath the wool she caught a glimpse of off white colored bone. There were bits and pieces that had been chipped off, knicks, and cuts. Even before they had met Red had some scars especially around his collarbone but that was not what caused her to gasp. His hood remained over his head as if using it to shield his expression from her view, “See?” He flinched when her fingers traced some of the scars.

She didn’t want to appear like she was fearful of what she was witnessing but her fingers quivered, pulling them back toward herself. A soft whimper of a voice left her, “R...Red…” There intertwined with the magically composed vertebrae of his spine were branches. The same deep blackish red wood that plagued this entire forest. It wove itself through the bone engulfing portions of his ribs, twisting it into chilling patterns. If it was allowed to continue its infestation it would crack his ribcage open in a bloodless gaping fissure. She could just make out that gentle white and crimson glow shrouded by the wood. Was that his soul? There was no other explanation.

It looked like the branches were trying to worm their way toward that glowing heart, pierce it, and absorb it into its oily black, almost pulsating bark. That was only one singular aspect of horror that she was now subjected to. Her eyes followed the trail that crept through the bone following the knots and twists that crept up and underneath where his skull attached to his spine.

The grip that he kept on her hand only tightened while the other shifted to pull the hood off his skull. Her eyes widened, reddish-brown irises wavering within a sea of white. A hand rose to land on her mouth, now agape in a silent gasp. She could see the same strange bark that comprised his antlers exited straight out of his skull. There were fractures that radiated from above the temporal portion of his cranium in concentric circles. The same kind of patterning one would see from blunt force trauma. Only this had pushed out the bone externally rather than internally. His sockets no longer contained those ever dulling carmine eye lights as her own eyes traced the hairline cracks along his head. She could not imagine the kind of pain a transformation like that would have caused him. There were places where the bone had tried to heal and suture itself back together, forming around the bark.

Angel of Salvation (a.k.a. The Eldritch Horror)- What the cult has been working toward is summoning their “savior” with the help of the human souls they are bound to. It gives them extra abilities and power. Each within the ranks is bound to a human soul. Their leader ??? wants to use this power to summon an “angel.” It turns out that is actually an unholy amalgamated eldritch beast/god out for blood instead. Humanity will perish and the monsters will take control of the surface once more. That is the reality. (The cult including Red is told otherwise).

[inamindfarfaraway]

Ideas for the Gauthier-Duong siblings’ akumatized forms:

Kane - Bondsmith

Kane wants to have people’s loyalty and positive regard - themes of entrapment and possession

Has just been denied the love of his stepsister and the right to more family than his mother

Goal is to trap Alison, Noah and Estelle as his loving family - the last push Estelle needs to accept becoming a superhero, because she may typically choose flight rather than fight to defend herself but nobody threatens her dad

Truly loves them and thinks this is the only way for them all to be happy; has a disturbing version of his sweet, excitable kid demeanour

Akumatized item is a keychain with an old photo of him and Alison on it, initially taken off his schoolbag, worn hanging from his akumatized form’s chain necklace with the now blackened photo embedded in his chest armour

Kane acts and seems to Estelle like a ‘golden boy’, wanting to be perfect and make people think he’s perfect to ensure they’ll stay with him (to protect his feelings), his whole outward personality reflecting that, and repressing his negative emotions, now released in full force - wears shiny gold plate armour, a gold mask shaped in a cheerful expression, and black underclothes and tarnished grey skin the armour cannot completely hide

Chain motif representing the possession of people he wants for himself and connections he wishes to preserve and enforce on others - lots of chain accessories, web of chains across his chest converging over the photo that prevents the heroes just pulling it out

Power is to bind people together with magical chains that he can mentally alter the length of - as well as physically restricting movement, gold ones make them get along with the other person and black ones make them reflexively dislike them, affecting only emotions, not thoughts, so people forced to feel good or bad about each other can still name reasons they shouldn’t in a detached, logical way; his plan to get the Miraculous is simply to chain the heroes directly to himself and compel them to give him their Miraculous, since his power doesn’t affect him

Bowerbird defeats him by using Ladybug’s Lucky Charm, a smoke bomb, to obscure his vision (Ladybug and Cat Noir are incapacitated, a black chain between them making them too busy arguing to focus), using her vocal mimicry to trick him into thinking she’s Alison so he lets his guard down, restraining his attacking arm with a perfectly timed Masterpiece before he can attach the chain to her, shackling his other arm with it, breaking the chain net with her paintbrush and smashing the photo

Estelle - Echo

Estelle wants to be listened to - themes of voice, sound and hearing

Feels disregarded and disrespected by her birth parents, especially Violette, and has her trauma from their divorce ripped up to the surface

Goal is to share her sense of loss of stability, security, control and agency with everyone else out of vengeful spite

Bitter, sullen, temperamental, sardonically mocking, essentially Estelle’s worst exaggerated

Akumatized item is her headphones, fused to her head and turned purple with red handprints ‘holding’ the earphones and three jagged crystalline red spikes on the band, constantly blasting music which is generated by her own emotional magic loud enough to faintly be heard externally

Her parents were her entire world and their fighting and divorce her world decaying and crumbling - power affects her environment

Pink skin, long floaty purple dress, long light green hair in pigtails and purple eyes - the colours, clothing and hairstyle she liked and wore frequently when she was eleven, during the divorce, as just prior to akumatization she felt no less helpless than she did then

Motif of red handprints gripping her arms and legs at multiple angles, symbolic of her feeling pulled carelessly and incompatibly in different directions

Doesn’t speak, a red gag stifling her voice

Power is to affect her surroundings through the music she listens to within a radius that expands as her strengthening emotions increase the volume; it differs depending on the genre, her psychological state automatically changing it: a mournful classical track turns the ground into bottomless quicksand (sadness), an aggressive rock song creates indestructible red crystal spikes (anger) and a rousing pop song lets her emit sparkly white light in burning lasers and blinding flashes (joy/confidence)

Bowerboy defeats her by, after repeated frontal attacks fail, realizing the best way to help his sister and save the day is to follow Ladybug’s plan, and distracting her from the safety of a bower while Cat Noir sneaks up to deliver a Cataclysm to the headphones

If they were akumatized in their superhero forms, Estelle would be Flame Bowerbird with a colour scheme based on that species instead of the satin bowerbird and Kane would be Killer Whale, switching the grey and white great white shark for its bigger, more intelligent predator the black and white orca.

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Meeting and Courting Daniel Robitaille

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

(Apologies for the long ass meeting story)

- If you’re expecting a normal, romantic “how I met your father” story then I’m sorry but that isn’t going to be the case with you and Daniel.

- You’d heard stories about the Candyman ever since you were a little girl. You believed in the monster in the mirror way into your 20s, no matter how many of your friends teased you for it. You were never really embarrassed by your fear of him, it made you feel safe, but that safety would soon be destroyed.

- The Candyman had come up in conversation while you were at your boyfriends house. You told him the stories that you had heard and, after seeing your genuine discomfort in the subject, he’d insisted on trying what he called “the game”.

- He’d dragged you off the couch and into the bathroom, pinning you against him while you struggling. You pleaded with him to stop, to at least let go of you if he wanted to risk his life, but no such luck.

- All was quiet for a long moment ...until the lights turned out and a face appeared behind your boyfriend in the mirror. You screamed, thrashing wildly as the man dug his hook into your boyfriends throat. You were finally able to get away as the boy slumped to the floor, plastering yourself against the farthest wall from the man.

“I knew it,” you whispered. “I knew you were real. I knew it.”

- If your previous and obvious fear of him didn’t do the trick, than those words were the ones that stopped him in his tracks. You believed in him. You were the one to tell his story to the boy, and you’d continue to spread it if he let you live.

- The massive man stared down at you for a long moment, saying nothing with an emotionless expression plastered on his face. In an instant, black erupted across your vision and you fell to the floor.

- He reached out to you slowly, his hand hesitating as it moved towards your face. He touched for cheek for a moment before moving his fingers to your pulse point. You’d fainted. Perfect.

- When you came to, you were in the hospital. Police came in and questioned you but all you could tell them was that it was the Candyman. You knew none of them believed you, that they thought it was just an intruder, but you knew what you saw and you were sure he’d be back for you. Oh, how right you were,

- You were paranoid for weeks, fully expecting that the tall man would return and finish what he’d started. …But he never did.

- People asked what happened and you’d tell them the truth. They’d all assume the same thing as the police, that it was just some sicko pretending and that anything else that may have seemed supernatural about the situation was just a product of your trauma. All you could do was give them a weak smile and hesitantly agree as to not seem completely crazy.

- Even if you agreed that it was all in your head, you telling your story did the trick. Rumors circulated and suddenly your whole town was in fear of the Candyman, whether they believed he was just a man or not. 

- Daniel was very pleased. You’d done exactly what he had hoped you’d do, you’d let everything fall into place perfectly. Now for his second course of action. 

- Daniel had been watching you. He’d been watching you ever since your first meeting in the bathroom and when Daniel watched someone, there was always a reason behind his gaze. In your case, he’d decided that he wanted you. 

- The Candyman is sweet, surprisingly so; his voice smooth like honey and his gaze oddly tender for someone who only; at most, two months prior, had slaughtered your boyfriend with no remorse. He feels a bit of remorse now, not for your boyfriend, but for the way you’re cowering before him, eyes wide and horrified, looking ready to bolt at any given moment. 

- But you don't move. Shock, you’ll tell yourself later and granted it’s part of it but another part of it is how inviting his voice is, how his mere presence is wildly intimidating yet comforting at the same time. And that's what makes you even more scared than you were before; the fact that he could make you feel safe. 

- Daniel lures you in, entices you, makes you curious. He’s charming but even you know that “charming” can only take a person so far. When did you begin to sympathize with him? When had you begun to like him? Perhaps it was some sort of Stockholm syndrome?  Or was it something more genuine?

- You surprise yourself with how bold you are when you tell him to leave you alone, your voice firm, eyes glaring even though you’re still somewhat afraid of him. The demand hardly affects him at all. 

“You don’t want that.” He replies, not moving from his stationary position at the other end of the room. His voice sounds as though its right next to you, even with the distance between you. 

“Yes, I do.” Liar. You manage to maintain your composure, fists clenching and unclenching nervously. If he was going to kill you, if that was still what he wanted, it was going to be now. You were not going to entertain his games and if you wouldn’t, then he doesn’t have a use for you, right? 

- Your stomach drops as he begins to move. He says nothing for a long while, circling you, getting closer and closer as his gaze remains fixed on how you. 

“No,” he says finally, stopping right in front of you. “You don’t.” 

- You now he’s right, but you can’t admit that. You can’t admit it because you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t feel the way you do, shouldn’t allow yourself to even entertain the idea of being genuinely infatuated with him. 

- But you are and you know that he knows because he seems to know everything. He reaches forward and instinctually you flinch though he pays it no mind. He takes your hand in his, thumb rubbing over your knuckles before he places a kiss on them.

“But for you. I will.” You close your eyes for just a second and he’s gone. Your house completely empty, no trace of there ever being company. 

- You can’t believe that you’re saying it, but you miss him. You really do, much more than you ever thought possible. You figured that without his constant looming presence, without his influence, your feelings would disappear. But they don’t. And sure it could still be his doing but a part of you knows the truth. 

- So you seek him out on your own accord but not before thinking it through for days on end. You know that once you let him back in, you won’t ever be let go of again. And now, you’re finally willing to admit that that’s fine by you. 

- So you stand in front of your mirror, take a deep breath and call his name. One. Two. Three. Four. This is stupid. This is completely stupid. You shouldn’t-

“Candyman.” You finish as your mind screams at you. Nothing happens for a long moment and you wonder if he doesn’t intend on ever returning or if you’ve just been hallucinating the entire time. 

- You leave the bathroom after waiting for a long while, thinking that, perhaps, you’ve just gotten your sanity back. But your sanity apparently never left since he’s standing in your hallway when you pass through the door. 

- Your eyes widen and you aren’t sure what to say but that doesn’t matter to him as he walks slowly towards you. You let him get closer and closer, let him stand only a foot before you, let him touch your face. And when he leans in to kiss you …you let him. 

- When you have a ghost boyfriend, you’re going to have to sacrifice some aspects of a normal relationship. Pda and dates; outside of your house or somewhere isolated, just can’t happen.

- You know when someone puts their hand on your face and strokes your cheekbone with their thumb? He loves that, whether it’s him doing it or getting it done to him. 

- Hand kisses.

- He adores when you kiss his cheek. Most of the time, his eyes will flutter shut and a small smile will slowly appear on his face. 

- You ready for some fucking neck pain?!?! Daniel’s most likely at least half a foot taller than you so be prepared to have to stare up at him like you’re a five year old and for the aches that come with it. 

- You’ll never have to worry about not being able to reach something again though he may put things of yours in places he knows you can’t reach just so you have to ask him; if he’s feeling particularly playful that day. 

- He calls you darling and my love; little romantic things like that. 

- Calling him honey either to be a bitch or because he insists on you calling him it after you did so without thinking one day. You’d been mortified and had  apologized profusely but he just smiled in response. 

- Lets hope you aren't afraid of bees because there's really no escaping them with him in your life. 

- But, on the note of bees. I feel like he can somewhat control when they appear, like there will always be a few lingering around the room but his entire mouth and chest cavity won’t be a hive unless he wants them to be. 

- He’s adamant on taking care of you, whether that means bandaging you up or just watching over you will you’re sick/upset. Expect him to look after you if you’re ever stung. 

- Beware the hook. While he is quite used to having and using it, accidents happen, especially if you aren’t paying attention. 

- Giving him a helping hand whenever he needs it. I’ll let myself out. 

- He’s a bit difficult to cuddle with but I admire you for trying. Things you should know: 1) he’s a loud sleeper, not his fault but more the cavern that he calls a chest and  2) He has a cavern for a chest. Your best bet when cuddling would be to rest your head on his arm, he sleeps on his back anyways so you can fit perfectly into his side. 

- Occasionally, he enjoys watching you sleep. Seeing you so peaceful is incredibly comforting to him. 

- Existential conversations. You can’t avoid the subject of death with him, specifically your death. He expects you to join him one day and I’m sure you want to be prepared for it when the time comes. 

- As long as you’re living, he’s going to expect you to help him with keeping his name alive. Telling stories of him, petty crimes in the middle of the night, pressuring stupid people into playing his game. You aren't fond of it but you understand why it must be done. 

- Whenever he has to be gone for a while, he’ll leave you a letter, it usually explains very little but it does tell you that he’ll be back. 

- He appears at random and without warning so you’ll definitely get spooked a few times, especially since he’ll either stay completely quiet or announce himself in his deep, eerie voice in the middle of a silent room. 

- Quick meetings in bathrooms or closets whenever you’re out in public. If he can drop in and get a kiss, why wouldn’t he?

- Just listening to him speak. With a voice like his, it’s pretty hard not to pay attention to what he’s saying, unless; of course, your mind is wandering elsewhere because of his voice. 

- Bridal carrying. He quite literally sweeps you off your feet. 

- He has a fondness for helping you get dressed: zipping your dress, holding your jacket out for you to slip your arms through; things like that. His touches always linger a little too long for just a helping hand. 

- He grew up in a time and in a way that taught him that ladies should be respected and treated as delicate creatures so expect him to always be a gentleman when he’s around you.

- He enjoys classical music so if you really want to make him happy, put some on. He may even pull you into a dance if you’re lucky. 

- Domesticity is like a drug to him. He yearns for a wife and a family so anytime you behave like a homemaker or very motherly, he falls even deeper in love with you than he already was. 

- Since you can’t go on dates in the outside world, unless it’s somewhere where no one else will go, you have to be a bit creative with what you do together. 

- Candlelit evenings. 

- Getting your portrait painted. He has dozens of sketches and paintings of you. 

- He likes hearing stories about your life. The way you grew up was vastly different from his own childhood and those differences fascinate him.  

- Constant praise and support. 

- Deep kisses. He likes kisses filled with emotion and passion. 

- Sitting in his lap. It’s really the only way that you can be face to face for an extended period of time. He finds the size difference between the two of you to be quite amusing.

- Gifts. A mink coat, jewelry, roses; you name it and it’s yours. People will wonder who your mystery suiter is and he finds the act of spoiling you to be a wonderful way of deterring competition.

- He finds excessive jealousy to be quite unbecoming whether in himself or others so he doesn’t get angry or impatient with you when jealous. You’ll only realize that he’s jealous when he voices his disapproval in you hanging out with a certain person, telling yo that they’re far too interested in you and that you’re his, only his. 

- If he disapproves of someone, he’ll take matters into his own hands whether you like it or not. That’s one of the few downsides of being with Daniel. Sometimes he’ll just scare them away, other times he do something much more …excessive. 

- While he isn’t an incredibly jealous person, he is possessive. You “belong to him” and he expects you to act like you do, to an extent of course. 

- He understands that you have a life apart of him, one he cannot be involved in, and while he does wish that you’d allow him to lay you to rest with him, he isn’t going to force you.

- Tentatively asking him about the day that he died. He tells you the story without hesitation, recounting it in such excruciating detail that you feel wildly uncomfortable sitting beside him. Even if you’re not usually very empathetic, the way he speaks will force you to tear up; at least a little. 

- He’s lost everything once before and he’s going to ensure that that never happens again, so yes, he’s very protective of you. He’s not above killing innocent people, what do you think will happen to those who hurt you?

- He doesn’t entertain fighting. Yell at him all you want, tire yourself out, he doesn’t care. Once you’re finished, he’ll explain things very calmly and rationally and squash whatever problem you had. Just don’t try walking out on him, alright?

- When he’s in the wrong, It doesn’t take him very long to realize that what he’d done was in poor taste or that it hurt you, even if that wasn’t his attention. He apologizes sincerely and asks for your forgiveness, giving you some time alone if you request it. He’s at your side the instant you’re ready to accept him again. 

- He never says that he loves you in a joking or playful tone. It’s a very important phrase that carries a lot of meaning to him so he always says it with earnestness. 

- You wouldn’t be alive if he didn’t intend on remaining with you for the rest of eternity. Ironically enough, you also wont be alive if he does plan on remaining with you for eternity; at least not for long. 

[artsy0wl]

Maul: A Broken Evil Retrospective

On a Star Wars Amino I’m in, I had made an introspective on why I feel that Maul, while he is a villain is not whole heartedly evil, but broken.  I took from said Amino post, with a few needed edit tweaks.

Chaotic Evil

Of course given the fact he was a Sith and some of the decisions he’s made, I don’t completely want to negate that in this discussion. If we were to use the alignment chart (lawful good, true neutral, chaotic evil, etc), he would probably fit best in Neutral Evil. From my understanding, Maul would fit Neutral Evil as a lot if what he does has to do with benefiting himself. Even if that means using allies (i.e. Ezra initially) and potentially betraying them (i.e. blinding Kanan once the Inquisitors were dealt with). He’ll follow things as he needs and can be calculating when he needs (like his take over of Mandalore). He’s not spontaneous enough or lacks enough restraint to be Chaotic Evil (like the Joker for instance), nor is he as calculating and “lawful” to be Lawful Evil (like say Thrawn and/or Palpatine). With that said, I’d agree that Maul has a darkness/evil in him considering all of the things he’s done. Obviously, he’s not winning any hero points by killing people like Qui Gon and Satine or blinding and attempting to kill Kanan. 

Onto why I feel he’s broken.

Palpatine: Taken From a Young Age and Molded into what Sidious Wanted

Whether it be Talzin offering Maul as a child in Canon or his mother giving Palpatine Maul as a baby in Legends (Darth Plagueis), Maul was caught in a situation that he really didn’t have much control over. Granted, his life may not have been much better on Dathomir, given how the Nightsisters used their male counterparts, but there’s no telling what kind of life he could have had, had he not been handed over to Palpatine. Maul was molded into a weapon as Darth Sidious’ apprentice. And Maul spent most of his younger years being molded into what Sidious wants. Only to be “cast aside” when he is presumed dead. With Sidious being his only form of human contact/interaction, it’s fair to say that Maul feels a level of rejection/abandonment by the only person he had a bond with.

However, rather than having a level of depression because of it, he’s angry about it. For him that seems to be a common response, along with hatred and arrogance (the latter of which was used to explain how he survived the Phantom Menace). Sidious created a weapon out of Maul. And with that, a character with no real coping mechanism or knowing how to let things go.

A lot of, if not all of, Maul’s issues can be linked back to Sidious in some way. Sidious isn’t exactly Mentor of the Year material. Especially with Maul.  Though that could be chopped up to him being a Sith and very manipulative.  He wasn’t the kindest person to the Zabrak pre or post Phantom Menace (both in canon and Legends). Either way, a lot of Maul’s issues are a direct result of Palpatine’s involvement in his life.

If it weren’t for Sidious, Maul would have a normal life (or whatever that would equate to on Dathomir). He would have had his family, would have been more level headed and maybe less cocky, and he wouldn’t have enraged abandonment issues. The amount of grief, trauma, and hatred would be vastly different

Family: He Lost a Brother and a Mother

Let’s be real, thanks to Sidious, Maul’s lost a brother and a mother (two brothers when you count Feral, though he never got to meet him). By the time Savage came around in Clone Wars, we got to see Maul sort of build his character more than say the Phantom Menace (the novels did too, but I can’t say that everyone’s read them). We also get to see Maul exhibit more emotion where, again, the movie lacks as well as the introduction of his family, Mother Talzin, Feral, and Savage. And while Maul may not have been what you’d call an “affectionate” brother, he does care for Savage to the best of his ability.

Their deaths still haunted him years after the events of the Prequel Trilogy and Clone Wars. These deaths stuck with him psychologically to the point that he is still effected by it in Rebels. Which in turn, may have contributed some to him wanting Ezra as an apprentice (among other factors).

Torture After Loss

In Son of Dathomir after Maul tries to get back at Sidious, he is captured after his last battle with Sidious in Clone Wars (season 5). It starts off with Maul being interrogated and tortured by Sidious. He makes it through without faltering and escapes with the help of the Shadow Collective. That being said, we never really get to see where his mindset is. During Son of Dathomir, he gets a lot done, capturing Dooku and Grievous (taunting Sidious and working with Dooku to fight Obi Wan and a few other Jedi before escaping). However, we don’t get to see the mental toll Savage’s death here. Though with everything going on, I guess there wasn’t time.

Now the reason I bring this up, is because part of me felt like I should and the timing. Prior to Son of Dathomir, Maul had recently lost Savage. At the end, he loses his mother. The torture and the scheming in between shows how he didn’t catch a break. And while he was able to stay strong when he had to, they never really explored how the torture effected him, which one would think he would have been.

Obsession, Insanity, Arrogance: Maul’s Faults

I do feel like I address this point. I’ve already kind of touched on his anger and arrogance (synonymously with cockiness). While training Maul, Sidious didn’t consider how arrogant he had let the Zabrak become (according to Darth Plagueis, the novel). This has Maul’s Achilles Heel since the Phantom Menace. While having a healthy dose of pride never hurt anyone, a healthy dose, Maul dose not possess.

His obsession with getting Obi Wan and Sidious is another issue. This really only pops up after his apparent death in Phantom Menace. Because after that point, Maul finds out that he was replaced by Sidious (with Dooku) and that he was bested by a mere Padawan (Obi Wan). I feel like this obsessive tendency is a combination of his feelings of abandonment and having his ego damaged.

And of course, I feel like Maul’s roughly decade long battle with insanity really didn’t help his psyche. While his sanity was restored thanks to Mother Talzin and Savage, I do feel like that’s caused more harm than good. Something like that had to feel draining after getting his sanity restored. He was sitting on a trash planet and on his own. Along with not having anything from the waist down and forced to manage with what he had. Hatred may have helped keep him alive, but his psyche during those ten years didn’t.

He has a lot of internal conflict in an emotional and mental sense. Unfortunately, these negative emotions, obsession and pride especially, cause him more harm than good.

The Ezra Bond: Feeling a Need to Replicate a Connection, Even if He Approaches it Incorrectly

By the time Rebels rolls around, Maul is older and calmer (though still proud). Obviously, he still wants to get back at the Empire for what they (more specifically Sidious) did to him. And at first, Ezra seemed like someone that he could use. This is an element that is prevalent, however, not the only aspect of their relationship.

According to Sam Witwer, Maul’s VA, Maul did have a (platonic) fondness for Ezra. And on top of wanting to make Ezra his apprentice, Maul wanted to emulate a sense of brotherhood between him and Ezra. For example, his phrase in Visions and Voices when Maul says “...We can walk that path together. As friends. As brothers.” How he said it shows how he does miss Savage and wants that family back.

That being said, how he approached this connection could be seen as manipulative and more than likely one sided.  Sure, over the course of Twilight of the Apprentice, Ezra grows on Maul, to the point where Maul wants to make him his apprentice and has an appreciation for Ezra. However, his pride and lack of planning cause a rift between them and there was a lot of mistrust on Ezra’s part, not that one could blame him.

Subsequent episodes show that Maul is hellbent on making Ezra his apprentice through any means possible. 

Maul lost Savage and Talzin, and Ezra was one of the first few people to trust him in years.  I think it’s safe to say that, in Maul’s mind, Ezra gave him a sense of belonging or connection.

Maul’s need for a connection could be interpreted as him trying to find something good in life. However, manipulative tendencies and how he was brought up, hinder him doing that in a healthy and positive way. With Savage, he didn’t need to do anything as they both had a similar plan when they met (Savage being indoctrinated into the ways of the Sith). But subsequent relationships (i.e. Ezra), Maul is at a bit of a disadvantage emotionally and morally. 

Sure, he could relate to Ezra since they both lost people they care for because of the Empire (and by extent Sidious), but manipulation and harming Ezra’s allies hinder a smoother connection. Even if a force bond was eventually made. Ezra, arguably, could have been what he needed for what he wanted and a possible change/redemption/blank slate only for things not to entirely go as plan.

Could Maul Have Something Along the Lines of PTSD?

Now, I could do a mini theory about this as I’ve speculated that with another character before. It’d be an interesting way to look at Maul’s psychology. It’s one last little avenue I thought I’d address before closing this post out. Of course, it’s worth noting that I am not a Psychology major (as interesting as psychology is). I have, however, done some research.

I do believe that Maul, to some degree, may have PTSD. But instead of exhibiting panic/anxiety, depression or easily startled, Maul has more aggressive tendencies and is easy to anger. He still lives with the trauma of the death of his brother (and mother) and flashbacks of that and other events in his life, I’m sure he’d be effected by.

Conclusion

In conclusion, while I certainly think that Maul is no hero, his life experiences certainly effected what kind of person he became. Being raised as a weapon, abandoned, and tortured would bring any normal person way down. And because that was all Maul knew, I don’t think that entirely means he’s evil. Rather, he’s a character who’s been used and abused to the point that he’s mentally and psychologically broken. Unfortunately, that effects his life in ways that make him arrogant, hateful and obsessive. And when he tries to build bonds later in life, he doesn’t know how to in a way that, while laced in trauma, has manipulative and one sided undertones.

That being said, I feel like I should round out this introspective with a little positive. While he’s definitely been through a lot, Maul is pretty resilient all things considered. He’s cheated death and managed to live through a lot of abuse. The fact that he could keep bouncing back shows just hoe resilient and determined the character is.

[whump-town]

The Lies We Tell

Aaron Hotchner has been lied to his entire life. That’s the thing about good intentions...

Warnings:  abuse

The day that Haley’s family moved into the neighborhood is seared into Hotch’s memory.

He was pulled out of bed by his father. The older man slurring his words, heavily affected by whatever cheap liquor he’d been drowning himself in the entire afternoon prior. He had no chance to understand what was being said. He’d gone, regardless, in the direction of his father’s pulling to alleviate the pressure on his shoulder joint. Knowing too much of the pinned, awkward angle would spell misfortune for him.  

Sure enough, his shoulder comes free with a pop and a chocked grunt of pain-- he knows better than to cry out. He suffers through the drunken rant his father’s worked himself into, careful to keep his wounded arm tight to his chest. In the privacy he’s afforded, only after his father’s taken a few blows and has resigned himself to sleeping off his slump, he can reset his shoulder. Should he do it by himself? No. There, simply, isn’t any other option.

With word of the family moving in down the street, the Brooke’s, his father sobers up to put up his best front: loving father who day-lights as a lawyer and spends his nights beating the shit out of his family. That doesn’t mean that Aaron doesn’t manage to “step out of line” just as they’re leaving-- how dare he existed in his home. 

With his ears still ringing from the blow to his head, vision swimming, Aaron Hotchner stands between his mother and father on Brooke’s lawn. His father beams down at him, pride and joy in every area of his face except in his eyes. The only place it matters is the only place it isn’t. The family across from them doesn’t take note of how empty his father’s eyes are or how hard his grip is on Aaron’s bony shoulder. All they see is a family that mirrors their own:

A father, a mother, and two children. 

The Brookes are a good family. It takes years for Aaron to grow out of his contempt for them. By then, his father is dying and the beatings are getting worse. 

“Aaron--” 

He falls hard for Haley Brookes and for some reason she gives the world’s worse pirate #3 a chance. She starts to wonder how a guy like Aaron falls through the cracks. He does plenty of clubs and he’s as sweet as can be. His personality is a little underdeveloped, as are his social skills, and he doesn’t always understand current social things, but he’s funny, and he’s handsome.

And he’s got an awful home life. 

“Oh God,” she reaches for him and quickly realizes that was a mistake. “Sorry,” she whispers, taking a step back. She hadn’t expected the broken sob to leave his mouth when she reached for him. Sure, she’d noticed that sometimes if she reaches for his hand too fast he flinches away. She just hadn’t connected his bruises for… for this.

He’s shaking in their doorway, soaking wet from the rain pouring down outside. It’s too cold to let him stand out there for too long. 

She wracks her brain for what to do and with shaky inhale she forces herself to calm down. Aaron’s always fed off of the energy others give, it’s one of the first things you notice the longer you’re around him. His empathy is high. “Aaron,” she calls softly, extending her hand out of the doorway to him. He still has to step to reach her but that leaves their proximity in his control. 

It takes him a moment but he steps closer and allows his fingers to brush against hers. 

He knows Haley is safe. Haley will help him. He’s struggling. The line between pain and comfort is distorted. He’s scared and it immobilizes him. Rationally he knows-- he knows Haley will help him but he’s afraid his father will see. What if he hurts her too?

“Son?”

Mr. Brookes. He’ll protect them from his father.

“Son, what the hell--” 

Haley steps between them, seeing the way Aaron’s eyes light up at the sight of her father. He’s not in his rational mind. This isn’t his fault. “Daddy,” she warns softly. Mercifully, they pass between them an understanding. Her father hates the Hotchners and he distrusts Aaron and his motivations. But he understands this. He understands where the bruise swelling on Aaron’s right cheekbone came from.

“Let me help,” Haley whispers to Aaron. “Come on, you’ll be okay.” She offers her hand back out and watches as Aaron’s eyes pass between her and her father. There’s another moment, more hesitation but he finally breaks the gap. He trusts her. He’s always trusted her.

Once he steps forward, this time, he doesn’t stop until he’s got both arms wrapped around Haley. He sobs into her collar and she holds him. Pulls him close until he’s practically folded into himself to be at her height. To allow himself to sink into her arms and just be held. 

Haley’s mother brings in a bag of peas, cliche but the only thing they have to reduce the swelling in his face. Mr. Brookes stays in the kitchen, watching from the doorway as his wife and daughter aid Aaron. As uneasy as the situation feels him, there’s a stir of pride in the pit of his stomach at the side of Haley being so tender.

“Shh,” Haley runs her hand through Aaron’s wet hair. He flinches from the touch of the cold press to his cheek, pushing himself closer to Haley. She expects the movement and wordlessly takes the bag from her mother. “It’s alright,” she soothes and this time he sees the bag coming. He doesn’t fight it. 

“I’m right here.” She promises, “always. I’ll always be right here.”

He places his hand over her own. It takes him a moment to realize where he is-- laying in the Brookes’s living room with his head in Haley’s lap. Blinking tears out of his eyes he asks, “do you promise?”

Haley nods and presses a kiss to his forehead, “I promise, Aaron. I’m right here.”

That was the first lie she ever told him. 

___________

He makes it through training. Paperwork comes and goes. He can wrap his head around the cases that hurt the most but... he still stumbles. He’s not figured out how to hide these things from people trained to detect exactly what he’s doing. Jason and Dave are unforgiving. They push and push at his broken pieces.  There’s a moment, suspended, where he can recognize that he has exactly two options: fall apart or tell. 

And the time to make that decision is quickly leaving. 

The silence is building and while he understands that there is nothing wrong with the silence normally, here it is baited. Each moment he allows Dave’s question to go unanswered is another ticking time bomb that allows Dave to come to his own conclusion, however right they may be. 

Hotch doesn’t typically appreciate people getting into his head. He doesn’t appreciate anyone getting into his head. There’s a strange give and take with Dave, though. He’s come to understand a certain level of giving-- personal information as little as a review of his day or, from what Dave wants, an in-depth analysis of his childhood. These things equate to trust and… and, well, love. 

“Well?”

But he can’t say the words. They’re stuck in the back of his throat-- worse than choking. Exactly like choking. He doesn’t want the words there. He wants them aired out. He wants to tell Dave that his father hit him so badly once that he was hospitalized for three days in the ICU. That the hitting wasn’t enough. As he got too weak to hit, the verbal abuse was just effective. 

But there’s no Heimlich maneuver for emotions.

Just growth. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hotch doesn’t dare look up from the paperwork in his lap. 

The question had been if he was willing to tell Dave what it was that had bothered him so much about the family of their almost victim. Almost, being subjective. The boy had still been through the trauma of being kidnapped, it was just some cruel mercy he wasn’t killed. 

And for what? Hotch knew exactly what they were sending that boy back home to.

It’s the same thing he used to go home to.

Dave hums, it’s a specific sound he makes in the back of his throat and Hotch knows exactly what it means. He looks up and Dave just raises an eyebrow and shrugs it away. “I was just wondering,” he mumbles. “I also thought you should know that Jason called child protective services and I have a friend working on getting those kids out of that house.”

So he had seen the bruises.

“Oh,” escapes his mouth before he can bite it down. He nods his head and looks away, afraid of what he might see if looks at Dave for too long. “The father was unhinged,” he profiles. “Those kids won’t survive much longer with him.”

Dave nods, he’d come to the same conclusion. “Can’t imagine what it would be like to be raised by a man like that,” Dave says with a sympathetic shake of his head. “No one deserves that.”

Hotch refrains from nodding or even acknowledging that statement because he knows it’s meant for him. At him. Saying anything is admitting that Dave’s right. 

Clearing his throat, Dave settles his attention back on the road. They’ve got a long drive ahead of them. Plenty of opportunities to have this discussion another time. Aaron’s just starting to hope that’s exactly what’s going to happen when Dave glances over at him.

"When was the last time you slept, " Dave plays his worried glance off by looking in the rear view mirror. Checking behind them. But he doesn't need to be looking at Hotch to know if he's lying or not. The kid looks like shit. He hasn't slept properly in days.

Hotch looks out the window, leaning his temple against the cool glass. "Don't know, " he mumbles. 

Rossi hums. 

"Why?"

Rossi glances at him, for a long hard minute it's a battle of wills. With a raised eyebrow, Dave shrugs. "Just checking in on you, am I not allowed to do that?"

Hotch doesn't reply. He doesn't even look up.

“Kid?”

Dammit. He wants to keep to himself. He wants to just crawl into a hole and act like nothing’s wrong. His childhood was great. His father was a hero. His mother… but he can’t even breathe. Each inhale gets caught in his throat and he can feel panic setting it. He needs to get out of this car. “P-Pull over,” he gasps, fingers going to his noose-- tie. “Pull over!” 

He throws his door open, rushing out and toppling over onto his knees, gagging into the tall grass. A small voice in his head warns of the dangers of a snake, he did grow up in the south, but the way his stomach keeps cramping pushes that thought away. There are more dangerous things than a snake-- he used to live with one.

“Easy,” Dave mumbles from behind him and Hotch realizes he’s now leaning into Dave. Allowing the older man to hold him. “Easy, kid, just breathe.” Through each shuddering breath he pulls in, Hotch can feel Dave rubbing his hand up and down his back. His head is pounding, his ears pulsing. “Tell me next time you’re feeling sick, okay?”

Hotch leans back over, gagging miserably but unable to bring up anything with nothing left in his stomach. 

“Look at me,” Dave asks, handing him a handkerchief to wipe his face off with. “I’m not going anywhere, kid. You can trust me. I’ll always be right here.”

Two months later he retires. Hotch doesn’t even get two weeks’ notice.

___________

He keeps counting. Jason Gideon keeps counting and each time he comes up one short. The radio in his ear buzzes, body counts over and over listed for the personnel looking through the carnage. There are plenty of missing officers, a single swat agent, and-and Jason’s one missing agent. Possible missing agent.

Six agents in… If six agents went in then there should still be-- Aaron. 

Swaying where he stands,  Aaron’s looking at the ruined building before him. His dark brown hair is pushed in disarray atop his head. No amount of gel keeping his crazy hair down. Jason’s always found it an endearing, if not silly, thing for someone so serious to have. But right now he can’t appreciate the cowlicks.

“Aaron,” Jason calls, knowing how the younger man startles when he’s not expecting being touched. “Can you hear me?” The closer he gets the more blood he sees. It might not be Aaron’s. That’s a very real possibility but Jason doubts that the crimson stain on his chest is entirely someone else’s. 

Neither of their luck is that good. 

And Jason knows he’s broken his promise to Dave.

“Watch out for the kid, huh? He…--”

“Get himself into trouble? Yeah, I know. I’ll watch his back.”

Who was watching his back today? Not Jason. He let six agents die. He was stupid. It was a stupid mistake and now everyone else is paying for it.

“Gideon?” Aaron turns to him, confusion pulling his thick brows down. “I can’t--” he looks around them, to the smoke and the building. “I can’t find Morgan. He… I just--” He winces in pain, his left hand touching his abdomen and he pulls it away bloody. He looks up to Gideon, tears in his eyes, “I can’t find Morgan.”

Jason nods his understanding, keeping his slow approach. “That’s okay,” he reassures him. “Don’t you remember? I sent Morgan back to Quantico.” He’s close enough now to touch Aaron and he offers a squeeze to his shoulder. “He’s okay. He’s safe.”

Aaron sucks in a breath, it sounds like a sob but he nods his understanding. His knees start to give beneath him, no reason to keep fighting if Morgan’s okay. 

Jason catches him around the waist just as his knees cave beneath his weight. “It’s okay,” he breathes, shushing Aaron’s incoherent mumble. “You’re okay.” He places his hand over the wound, it’s easy to identify. It’s the only warm place on Hotch’s entire body. The strangled cry that leaves his pale lips rips through Jason. 

His breathing immediately becomes more labored, his eyes slivers. “Hurts…” his face is awfully pale. His skin is clammy. 

“Shh,” Jason looks motions for the medics running towards them to run faster. “I know, I know.” He tries to step back and give the medics room but the moment he moves Aaron grabs his hand. “Alright,” he settles back down, making sure to be out of the way but holding Aaron’s hand back. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m right here.”

The minute he passes out, Jason pulls away. He just can’t do it. He needs to get away.

Hotch spends weeks in the hospital.

Morgan’s there… but that’s because no one else can be. Their unit is dead. They have to start from the beginning. It’s just Derek, Hotch, and Gideon. And Gideon’s off… God knows where. 

The day Hotch is released from the hospital, Jason visits. He stands in the doorway of the room, smiling as Hotch and Derek argue while Haley stands to the side, obviously displeased. He’s always enjoyed Morgan and Hotch’s brotherly friendship. No one was faster at putting the other in their place like the other but let either hear someone else bad mouth them and they’d go down swinging. 

Derek wins the argument and Hotch lets him help him into the wheelchair. When Derek looks up, pushing the feet of the wheelchair so that Hotch can rest his feet on them, he follows Hotch’s eyes to the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he spits.

It’s unkind but Jason’s expecting it just as much as Hotch’s soft reprimand in the form of a Morgan’s name grunted. 

Morgan looks back at Hotch, about to start another argument but they share a glance and before either says anything Haley steps up. “Come on,” she motions for Morgan to follow her. “Just give them a minute.”

Morgan gives Jason the look. It means many things but today it’s a warning. If Jason hurts Hotch, Morgan’s going to do worse to him. Boss or not. 

“How are you?” Jason asks, settling himself on the edge of Hotch’s vacated bed.

Hotch looks down at his hands, nervously picking at his nails. He shakes his head, “I’ll be back at the office in two weeks but they’re not letting me back into the field until at least the end of the month.” He looks up at Jason, “ and I have to pass all the field requirements.”

Jason nods, “that’s good.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “But that’s not what I asked.”

Hotch raises an eyebrow, not exactly playing stupid but not playing along either. “Mmm,” he looks back down at his hands, brows furrowed now. “Haley’s pregnant, she--” he looks up at the doorway as if expecting her there. “She wants me to transfer. Go someplace safer.”

Jason takes this in for a moment, looking to the ground. He shrugs, “it’s understandable. You’re going to be a father, Aaron. Of course, she wants you alive.” He looks down at the floor, in shame or contempt, or just vulnerability. “You’ll be safer anyhow, now,” he adds. “If you decide to stay you’re going to be taking the Unit Cheif position.”

Hotch’s head snaps up, “they-” He looks away from Jason, processing the information. After a moment, he looks back up. “They took your job?”

Jason shakes his head, “no.” He nods his head towards Hotch, “they gave my position to a worthy candidate, whose name I put in the ring myself.” He smiles proudly, “and I am going to watch him build a new team as his senior agent.”

Hotch looks up at Jason and shakes his head but he looks away, unsure of what he’s supposed to say. He knows he can do the job. That’s always what he wanted-- hell, it’s what Dave and Jason both wanted. He just wasn’t expecting it so soon. He’s not sure he’s ready for it so soon.

“You’ll be great,” Jason reassures him. He gets off the bed and crouches down beside the wheelchair. Leaving the two men eye-level. “There’s no one that could do this job better.”

Hotch feels pretty adamant about this. 

“Look at me,” Jason requests. “Nothing is going to happen. You’re a natural leader.”

Hotch nods.

“You’re going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Two years later, as Hotch stands before Strauss knowing that the last year has been an unraveling-- a never-ending list of things that have gone wrong and reasons to fire him-- he wishes Jason were here. He shouldn’t have to deal with all of this alone. And yet he does. 

___________

The world was on fire. Flames licking at the side of his arm and the way his legs refused to properly hold his weight. His knees hitting the gravel and the sting of skin tearing. But he’d sat in something wet. Crimson. 

Morgan was there. He was kneeling beside Hotch, his hand on his shoulder. 

“Agent Hotchner?” He flinches away from the penlight in his eyes. Someone says something and a palm settles across his forehead, this time he can’t move away as the light comes back. “Can you hear me, Agent Hotchner?” 

Morgan stands up from his chair. He pushes himself between the doctor and Hotch. “You’re hurting him,” he accuses hotly. The doctor can’t refute that statement, Hotch is still groaning from the pain spiking through his head. He’s raised his hands to ward off another attack from the light, writhing as he moves his sore body to get away from where he knows it came from.

The doctor sighs. Of course, he understands the proximity of agents. This isn’t his first time dealing with government agents. Things are just becoming tricky. Agent Hotchner’s condition is critical and Agent Morgan understands that a little too well. He just doesn’t understand that his friend’s not going to catch his death with a doctor flashing a penlight into his eyes but he might if his concussion worsens or turns into a brain bleed. 

“Agent,” the doctor says, growing impatient as Agent Hotchner grows more restless. “I understand your concern but your friend needs my help.” He knows he’s won the moment Morgan turns to look at Hotch. “Let me get him something for the pain and we can discuss this some more, okay?”

Morgan looks over to Hotch. 

He’s crying, most likely not even aware of the tears streaming down his face. His hands are pressed over his ears and he’s turned over so that his back is to them. He’s managed to draw his knees to his chest. He’s entirely defensive, his pain is that bad.

“Okay,” the doctor repeats and this time Morgan nods. “Okay.” He steps right up to Hotch’s bedside, gently shaking the agent’s arm. “Agent Hotchner, can you hear me?” He doesn’t shine the penlight in his eyes, he just tries to get some sort of answer out of the other man. 

Hotch manages a grumbled response, it’s too soft for Morgan to catch but the nurse facing Hotch looks up and repeats it. “He’s saying he’s okay.”

“He--” Morgan steps forward about to make sure they understand that’s very much not true but the doctor raises his hand and Morgan stops in his tracks.

“I know, “ the doctor confirms. He leans back over Hotch, “Agent, I’m going to have our very helpful nurse Sarah give you some pain meds, okay?” He pulls at the back of the gown Hotch’s bloodied clothes had been replaced by. He frowns at the road burn he finds but doesn’t comment. “You’ll be feeling a lot better in just a moment.”

The doctor steps to the side and motions for Morgan to follow.

Hotch cracks an eye open, fighting the currents of pain trying to drag him down to watch as the nurse pushing something painfully hot into his arm. It’s clear and his slurred speech doesn’t stop her. She pulls the syringe free and he just watches, that intense warmth working its way up his arm and into his chest. It hurts and it itches but his eyelids start to drop. Impossibly heavy.

Derek appears out of… well, nowhere. Hotch’s eyes move to the left, following the direction from which he appeared but he’s too tired to move his head and really figure out what’s happening. 

“Hey man,” Morgan greets. 

There’s something about the face that Morgan makes as he sits down in the visitor’s chair that sparks a sudden memory. “Kate,” Hotch rasps.

The doctor had just told Morgan that any stress is going to be too much. That Hotch’s heart and body just can’t take it. 

Morgan looks up as the nurse tries to step between them, allowing her through. She places a mask over Hotch’s face, replacing the canal he’d worn just a moment ago. Worse, Morgan recalls, the doctor said he was getting worse. So when he sits down he puts on his best show. 

“Joyner,” Morgan says. “You mean Kate Joyner.”

Hotch manages a small nod.

Morgan has to think carefully about his lie. He’ll have to recall these details later, to make sure the others understand his white lie. More importantly, Hotch has to believe him without a shred of doubt. “She’s downstairs,” Morgan says, which true. He’s just hoping Hotch assumes the E.R. and not the morgue. “You don’t need to worry about her, though,” Morgan says.

Hotch nods, “she’s… she’s okay?”

Morgan pulls in a steady breath, “she’s okay.” He smiles and offers Hotch a reassuring nod. “Get some sleep, man, you could use it.” He reaches over and squeezes Hotch’s hand, making sure he knows he’s not going anywhere.

Hotch can’t fight the drugs any longer. “The others,” he whispers. Morgan can’t hear him. “The others, are they okay?” 

His breathing has become steadily worse and Morgan knows that if he doesn’t shut Hotch up soon they’re going to kick him out. Which may seem like a good thing but they don’t know Hotch. He’ll kill himself trying to get out of bed to make sure no one else is hurt. 

“Everyone’s okay.” 

And Hotch doesn’t need to know any more than that. They’ll catch the terrorist and he can worry about not dying on them. Because Morgan’s not sure he can handle anything but Hotch walking away from this. 

He… He will walk away from this, right?

“Rest,” Morgan whispers. “We’ll handle everything.”

A month later, with ears as healed as they’re going to get and Morgan by his side, Hotch visits Kate Joyner’s grave.

“I’m sorry I…” Morgan can’t look at the gravestone or Hotch so he averts his eyes to the grass.

It takes a moment but Hotch’s voice cuts through the cold air with the thickness of his surfacing guilt. “It doesn’t matter.” 

It did.

___________

Eventually, Dave leaves and Hotch is left with nothing but his previously raised question: what will his son remember about his in ten years? And no answer. 

He falls asleep. It’s not a conscious choice but one his body makes for him. He’s been awake for the upwards of five hours, pushing past the mental fog a little too far. That had always been a problem for him. He could push his body, and he certainly would, but eventually, his brain would catch up. And, just as it had today, would override his determination to keep pushing.

He wakes to the sight of Emily Prentiss. She’s curled up in the visitor’s chair that she’d occupied earlier. Despite the days unraveling, she seems as relaxed as possible. But, then, she’s always held the danger of still water. 

“You should have gone home with the others.” His voice seems caught around his sternum, lower and more agitated in tone than normal. Grumpy. He can’t help it. He’s not sure he could even smile right now if he had to. Not that there’s any reason to. 

He’s completely alone.

She doesn’t pay his tone or attitude much mind but when has she? Given the last two years, he knows she’s grown some traction with the team and… well, they’ve grown closer as well. He knows this with an unfailing certainty when she simply shrugs away his comment. 

Sometimes, they can really test him.

As she does frequently. 

“I did go home,” she clarifies, flipping the page in her book without looking up at him. “And before you ask, I even got a good eight hours of sleep.” 

He rolls his eyes, definitely something he wouldn’t do if not for the hefty amount of strong pain killers being dumped into his bloodstream. He knows he’s been beat, as he often is when it comes to Emily Prentiss, because he can’t disprove she’s slept or went home. 

She reaches up and pulls--what he assumes is coffee-based off of the container-- a cup to her. She sips it and glances up at him. “Besides,” she says, putting the cup back. “I’m taking the first watch. I have to be here even if you don’t want me here.”

He understands well enough. Taking watch is not a new concept but the notion that he’d be on its receiving end is. He also knows she doesn’t mean the Bureau has assigned them to set watch, they’ve decided it amongst themselves. It almost makes the pain in his chest… numb.

He averts his eyes, looking to the ceiling. What’s he supposed to say to that anyway?

“How are you feeling,” she asks, tucking a bookmark in between the pages of her book. She sets it down in her lap, her full attention coming to him, even if he doesn’t want it. “Don’t lie,” she warns. “Your heartbeat is being measured out for me to see and you’re not that good at lying when you’re high.”

Like he’s let his heart rate give away if he was lying or not… besides, they both know lying while high thing is true. He hates that. “Fine,” he mumbles, eyes still on the ceiling.

She hums, “fine.” Sure. He gets stabbed nine times in his apartment after a case sent from hell by a serial killer they have profiled and know will continue to stalk Hotch for as long as possible. His only family has just been sent away for the next to foreseeable future and he’s fine. Just fine.

But what’s she to say. Everything’s going to be okay? She doesn’t know that. Even if they catch Foyet, that’s not going to mean Hotch can still look at himself in the mirror. It’s not going to fix the physiological torture.

She probably shouldn’t but she reaches between the two of them and gently takes his head. “Aaron,” she whispers because this isn’t the time for business casual nicknames. “We’re going to catch that son of a bitch,” her conviction feels misplaced but he can’t even bear to look at her and tell her that. “And you’re not going to lose anyone else.”

He nods, not able to trust his voice. 

He’s exhausted. Too tired to argue with her. 

“Okay.” 

She sits back in her chair and they sit in one another silent comfort. A few minutes pass and she looks up and finds him sleep peacefully. Those brows finally having relaxed and his mouth open. She’ll be right here to keep the demons away and if Foyet decides to show his miserable face? He won’t be ready for the beating she’ll lay on him.

She just has no idea how wrong her promise is. 

Now, she can squeeze his hand and promise him that he won’t lose anyone else. And he doesn’t for a few months. 

Then she finds him crouched over Foyet’s dead body and Ian Doyle claws his way from the grave. 

And he has to bury her. 

He looses her too. 

[shiftytracts]

Stop Wanting More, part 1 of 2 (T/M/A fic)

In which season-four Jon tries to quiet his hunger for live statements by gorging himself on paper ones, and Daisy tells him what she used to do when she got shaky between hunts. Part two here.

…For almost ten thousand words (~5.1k in this half, ~4.3 in the other), beeeecause of course I did.

Content warnings:

Disordered eating (mainly of the statement variety, but mentions also the literal kind)

Nausea, and brief descriptions of prior vomiting

Brief but not-ungraphic description of Jon’s (canon) Boneturning incident—so, injury, very mild body horror

Vague discussion of Daisy’s passive suicidality (in part two)

Animal cruelty and death: Daisy talks about hunting rats for sport (in part two)

—

Jon paused the tape recorder, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe. A statement’s second-to-last page was the hardest to get down. The dull ache that had begun under his ribs twenty minutes before now stretched down far enough to converge with the one in his stiff hips. His pulse throbbed in his stomach; he could feel it swell and recede beneath his hand with every beat. Nausea boomeranged up from somewhere under his navel. He reminded himself he could stop for now, finish this later—and, as always, that thought made him feel even colder than the sludge of other people’s fear pooling in his stomach. With his free hand Jon pressed Record again, and turned to 0101702’s final page. Oh, god, there was barely anything on it. Just the rest of this paragraph and then one more. He kept his eyes on the page, didn’t stop speaking its words, but fumbled blindly for another statement with his fingers.

“Knock knock,” Daisy said as she entered. “Christ—you’re still recording?”

In a flash Jon folded his hands on the table, sat up a little straighter, tried to suck in his gut. “Er—”

“Thought you said you were gonna do one more.”

“I’m almost done.”

“You’ve got another one right there.”

“I…” he considered I’m sorry, but then she’d say For what. “I don’t know what to tell you. It is my office.”

“Yeah, and your home,” Daisy scoffed—“and mine. Sort of.”

“D—did you want…? You’re welcome, to. Sit down, or….”

She did, on the arm of his couch. “I know, Jon. That’s not what I meant.”

“Okay.” To show he’d meant his welcome, Jon pushed his chair back from his desk and turned in it to face Daisy. Hopefully she’d remember he couldn’t ask What did you mean.

“I mean, don’t pretend this is work. How many statements have you had today? You don’t think that one can wait til tomorrow?”

Seven? Or would this one be eight. Jon forced himself to exhale out the portion of gut he’d been holding back since she arrived; it hurt too much to keep sucking in anyway. “A lot. I’m just.”

“Hungry, yeah.”

“Even when I’m stuffed I’m hungry.” He snarled a laugh, and set a rueful hand over his stomach like a fig leaf.

At first he’d tried sating the hunger with garden-variety food. That didn’t help much. Way back when he’d first transferred to the Archives Jon had fallen back into the old habit of forgetting to eat—which, yeah, not great, but, it did mean he remembered well how amazing it used to feel to cram down even a stale biscuit after too many hours’ inanition. All the hidden notes he’d found in yogurt and dry toast. He even remembered tearing up once at the taste of a banana, early in 2016. Before that he’d been sure he didn’t like bananas; afterward, for a short while he’d eaten one nearly every day, hoping vainly to recapture the ecstasy of banana after 14-hour fast. No luck, of course. After a few weeks he’d concluded he still didn’t much like banana as final course of healthy lunch. He’d especially disliked peeling them: how sometimes the stems bent without breaking, and the more times you tried the warmer, softer, more flexible they got. How little strings of peel still clung to the banana after you peeled off its main body, like static when you pull off a jumper. Or like the lint it leaves behind on your shirt. And the way bananas bruise, like people do. All these vestiges of its previous life—reminders it had lived to feed itself rather than him.

Since the coma, all people food—er. That was, all food intended for human consumption—tasted like that chase after a faded spark. Cloying and mushy and… organic, reminding him too much of the garden it came from. And the way it landed in his stomach was far worse. The original banana, the one Martin had pressed on him in the Archives in April 2016, had gone down like nectar, ambrosia, manna from heaven, &c.; the ones afterward, like an unwanted dessert always does. (Cloying. Mushy. A biology lesson mildly tapping its watch.) These days, though, eating regular dinner on a stomach empty of other people’s trauma felt like trying to fill up on cake. Not like cake after fourteen hours of nothing; Jon was pretty sure his 2016 stomach would have welcomed that. But like cake at dinner time. When you’re expecting, you know. Dinner. It gave him the brief, fake-seeming energy of a sugar high, and made him sick before it made him full.

Especially when he was otherwise ailing, for some reason? After Hopworth he’d treated himself to a lie down and a sandwich. The rest had helped, but he’d squandered most of the energy it gave him on the effort to keep the sandwich down. At that moment nothing, not even the coffin, had scared him so much as the thought of what it would feel like to throw up when you had only ten ribs on one side. He hadn’t expected losing them to hurt, at least not for long—had expected the rib to flow out of his skin into Jared Hopworth’s hand like an ice cube through water, which in retrospect was stupid given the testimony of Mr. Pryor in statement 0081103, but he hadn’t had time to reread that one beforehand and at the time Jon remembered only that Hopworth didn’t break his victims’ skin when he pulled out their bones. Turned out that wasn’t much comfort: he’d still had to break the ligaments attaching Jon’s ribs to his spine and chest. It had felt like a bad dislocation (four of them, technically), only instead of the feeling of bone pressing on things it shouldn’t there was an equally violating sense of tissue wallowing in holes that shouldn’t be there. He’d had this horror that if he were sick the flesh would crumple and pop where his ribs used to be, like when you try to suck the remaining water out of a near-empty bottle.

A few months after that he’d caught cold. (A point in the still-human column, Daisy had called it.) You know the first day or two of a cold, before the encroaching mucus takes out your ability to smell or taste properly, how innocuous olfactory phenomena like cheddar and laundry soap suddenly become Bad Smells, on par with the olive bar at a posh supermarket? Well, in a similar way, this one seemed to sharpen the dichotomy in his body’s opinions of people food and monster food. His lack-of-ribs had mostly healed by then though, so either vomiting with only ten ribs on one side did not cause the anomaly he’d feared, or, if it did, it hadn’t hurt enough for him to notice it in the cacophony (pucophony?) of other sensations.

(Daisy liked to play on words, so he’d been doing it more lately. This project the Eye seemed happy to help with, though in this case the suggestion arrived in his mind at the exact same moment as a reminder that, technically, the word cacophony can apply to sensations other than sound only by synecdoche.)

And then, a few weeks ago, when the whole Archives went down with norovirus… well, it wasn’t a fun time. He’d at first mistook the lethargy, weakness, trouble concentrating for signs of hunger—the new kind of hunger. Ms. Mullen-Jones’ statement about the Divine Chains cult hadn’t seemed all that bad, when he’d first recorded it. Scarier than if he’d read its events in a novel, of course; that was just how statements worked. He experienced them more vividly than stories, though less so than the events of his own life. (Because the people they happened to thought they were real! he’d told himself when he first took this job. It’s empathy, that’s all. Nope, sorry—evil magic.) When he read a paper statement these days, though, the knowledge it wouldn’t give him nightmares never quite left him. And he’d thought he was growing desensitized to the kinds of horror most people came to the Institute to report. Coming back up, though—maybe it was the fever, but god, the visions he got on that statement’s way out, of Agape and the soft, sticky hivecorpse of Claude Vilakazi’s followers—the way it made the donut he’d shoved down that morning (in a show of team spirit, god help him) come back up tasting like rotten rice wine—it was worse than the dreams. Worse, he could have sworn, than even the first time he ever dreamt Naomi Herne’s empty graveyard.

While hanging over the bowl of the Archives’ toilet waiting to see if he’d got it all up or if there was still more to come, Jon remembered thinking again of the banana Martin had given him. A few days earlier Daisy had made him watch the video of the I don’t understand this meme and at this point I’m too afraid to ask man vore-ing a banana; Jon had confessed to her, in a conspiratorial whisper-laugh, that for him vore itself had been one such meme until that very second, when the Eye had seen fit to inform him. But when applied to a banana, the term apparently just meant eating it peel and all. In 2016 Martin had broken the banana’s stem and pulled back a section of peel before handing it to Jon, so as to brook no argument. Was it really the banana itself he’d cried over? Not the gesture of friendship, when Jon deserved it so little? The thought of someone caring for him enough that when he got hangry at them they handed him a snack. Martin had been living in the Archives then, like Jon did now. Sleeping in Document Storage—a guest in a room owned by pieces of paper. Those bananas may have been the only thing that felt like his.

A Guest for Mr. Spider was about vore, technically. Not an uncommon topic in children’s literature. Some surmised that was where the fetish came from, though others maintained kinks like that were inborn, and the stories merely alerted their hosts to them for the first time. Red riding hood, three little pigs, little old lady who swallowed a fly. The Leitner touch was only the part where he drew you to his real-life lair and real-life ate you.

Looking back, that was probably the first thing he’d ever admired about Martin—how easy he’d made it look to skin a fruit. Not at the time admired, of course, but in those weeks afterward, when every banana Jon ate made him claw at the peel til his finger joints throbbed.

That stomach bug had struck the Archives with serendipitous timing, though. If he’d not found out how thin abstinence from the Hunt had made Daisy on the same day he’d barfed up a statement, Jon might not have pieced together what their combined evidence meant. Until then he’d put down his own post-coma weight loss to the fact he rarely ate more people food than a donut in twenty-four hours. Lots of avatars were scrawny, after all. Jane Prentiss, Mike Crew, Justin Gough, Annabelle Cane, John Amherst, Simon Fairchild. Jude Perry and Jared Hopworth could mold their respective fleshes however they wanted, so he didn’t count them as exceptions. True, Trevor Herbert’s bulk had struck him as odd; surely a homeless man wouldn’t waste cash on food his body no longer wanted. And what about Breekon and Hope? Did butterflies and a quartermaster’s pen and tongue sustain them? But maybe, Jon had told himself, it was like with alcohol. Maybe the avatars with more flesh on their bones had worked to develop a tolerance for (air quotes, heavy sarcasm) people food, for the sake of their physiques, or. So they could, he didn't know, eat socially? Without feeling sick, like Jon did whenever one of the others brought donuts.

Preposterously stupid, this theory seemed in retrospect. The truth was much simpler. It was like Jude Perry’d told him. She was strong and he was weak, because she fed her god with her actions, while Jon’s had had to resort to eating his flesh.

He wasn’t going back to live statements! That wasn’t an option; he knew that. He couldn’t feed his god with his actions. But he could have more paper ones. Maybe they were like the candles poor Eugene Vanderstock used to bring Agnes—the ones she’d sat over for hours. Hours and hours, inhaling the suffering that made them. They’d kept her strong enough, right? At least in body. All those people in charge of her care, all so much in her thrall—if she’d looked hungry one of them would’ve mentioned it in a statement.

During Jon’s school days, back when he was still trying to learn how to be a girl, this brief window had opened up right around age thirteen where the girls around him had enough self-consciousness to start developing eating disorders? But not enough to keep them secret. Thirteen had been this phase of, like, I’m a teenager now, see? I’ve got the teen angst now—SEE?! Where after they’d finished the day’s maths assignment, or while setting up microscope slides, one could overhear girls swapping self-harm anecdotes and tips for how best not to eat. Anne, whom he’d been almost friends with, went through two packs of chewing gum a day for a while. She would shove three or four sticks at a time in her mouth, then spit them back out into their wrappers as soon as they lost their flavor. Eventually they made her sick, and she switched to chain-sucking butterscotch discs. (Most artificial sweeteners, as the Eye now informed him, had mild laxative properties—including those used in gum.) Other acquaintances had brought comically large thermoses of coffee to school every day, and scurried to the toilet between classes. But it was another polyurious crowd that Jon kept thinking of, these days—the kids who would chug water every time they felt hungry. Trying to fill up on paper statements felt just like that.

He’d never understood that urge until now. Hunger was already a bad sensation; why would it help to add the further bad sensations of nausea and stomachache and cold? But now it made sense: feeling better was not the point. The point was to stop wanting more. He couldn’t get rid of the hunger, exactly—not in a way that mattered. Not the shards of glass in his belly, not the itch in his esophagus like a finger tapping behind his gag reflex, not the way simple motions like soaping his hands made his whole body ache. Not the sharpening of his senses to such a fine point that he jumped whenever Thérèse in the office above him shut her desk’s sticky drawer. (He hadn’t known that was what made the squeaky noise until a few weeks ago when the Eye decided he might like some office gossip. Even now he didn’t know which of the faces he sometimes passed up there belonged to Thérèse. She had no statements to make.) Nor the fog in his mind, though he tried sometimes to blame that on the Lonely. He couldn’t sate his hunger with paper statements—couldn’t make himself full, in the rosy way we usually connote that word. All warm and carefree and pleasantly sleepy. But he could cram the hole inside him with enough stale horrors that the temptation to chase down a fresh one momentarily left him.

And that was the new plan—to stuff himself with paper statements.

Tomorrow would mark two weeks since the day he’d first tried it. Brian from Artefact Storage had a statement to give him, Jon could feel—either Stranger or Spiral, it was hard to tell quite which. Something that caused paranoia. Not a great fit for that department. Good fit for a temple of the Eye, Jon supposed, remembering Tim and Michael Shelley. But Artefact Storage? God help him. He wondered if Elias had done it on purpose, hiring a paranoid man to work in a room full of objects that wanted him hurt. If so it must’ve been this one—this purpose. And on Wednesday mornings Brian manned the place all alone. Poor soul was already clinging to this job by a thread, though (so, Web…? That could cause paranoia too, as Jon well knew). Surely if Jon made him relive his trauma that would break it. Though perhaps that’d be a mercy. And but besides, two weeks ago Melanie had still lived here, and sat all morning between Jon’s office and Artefact Storage. Until she went to lunch. But by that time the woman whose laugh Jon could sometimes hear through the walls (Pooja, the Eye had since told him her name was) would have joined Brian. And it’d just be too weird, too risky, to go in and ask him about it with a third person in the room. Even if it wasn’t also evil.

So he’d read 0132210—the statement of Sierra Talbot, regarding a swimming pool whose depth changed every time she entered it—in hopes that’d make him quit thinking about the paranoid man down the hall. It didn’t, not really; paper statements didn’t take up as much of his attention as they used to. But he couldn’t get up and walk to Artefact Storage in the middle of one. When he finished and still couldn’t think of anything but Brian, he dug out another statement (this one from 1938, regarding a bad penny). Just to keep himself chained to his desk til lunch. And then a third (Liza Ho, attack of the killer seagulls). And by the end of that one he felt too heavy and cold inside to want to go anywhere but the couch. It made his stomach swell until it hurt to sit up straight, and the thought of shoving anything more inside made him feel sick—exactly like chugging water every time he felt hungry.

Basira had said maybe the Web just wanted to keep them so afraid of their own impulses they sat and did nothing so they couldn’t be puppeted. Maybe she was right. He’d never felt more like a spider, with his weak, skinny limbs and bloated stomach. Lying on the couch massaging other people’s horrors into more comfortable shapes inside him. Thank god he’d already given up tucking in his shirts, when he came back after the coma. Jon had worn the same trousers for three days in a row, now—shucked them off at the end of the day, hoping if he left them on the floor that’d convince him they were too dirty to wear again, and then slipped them back on over clean boxers in the morning. They were the only trousers he had that stayed up with the button left unfastened.

(Technically, the noun bloat refers to the feeling of weight or tightness in the abdomen. To describe a belly which has expanded beyond its typical size, one should use the word distended. Though these phenomena can occur separately, most people conflate them under the single word bloated. This trivia had seemed worthless when Beholding told him of it. But now he knew better. Every morning he woke up feeling like he’d had his whole torso replaced with the aching void of space, empty but for silver glints of pain that were the stars. And then he’d look down and find his belly still distended.)

Melanie and Basira didn’t know—at least not officially. They both seemed to have noticed how much more often lately they’d walked in on him recording, but Jon was pretty sure they suspected him less of bingeing on statements, more of pretending to record so as to avoid talking to them. He welcomed this misapprehension.

It was also possible they knew but declined to comment, since. Well, it was kind of a pathetic habit? Physically, a bit pathetic. Morally, though, such a big improvement over compelling statements by force that maybe they figured they ought to let him have it. If so he should be grateful, he reminded himself. Their pity, after all, was humiliating only in principle; Daisy’s teasing and concerned questions embarrassed him in practice.

“Enough navelgazing,” Daisy scoffed, but when Jon looked over at her he could see a smile creeping its way onto her face. “Look—finish the one you’re on, then come over here and I’ll. Tell you a story.”

“I—what?”

“Don’t know if it’ll count as a ‘statement,’” she said, with air quotes; “not much fear in it, more just.” She looked at the floor, then shrugged. “But it seems worth a try, yeah? Might make you feel better.”

“I-I, er. I really shouldn’t?” He meant in case it had a taste of human blood effect, but set his hand on his stomach again in hopes she’d think he meant he was too full.

“Yeah, you should. I want you to hear it.” Daisy shrugged again. “Think it might do you good to know.”

Jon turned back to his desk, unpaused the recording and wrapped up the statement. He’d quit bothering to record end notes on most of these—told himself he could add them in later, like he used to when he’d first taken this job. How proud 2016 Jon would have been to see how many statements the 2018 Archivist got through in a week.

He paused for a moment before standing up, to take as deep a breath as he could manage when stuffed full of paper. The end of that statement had gone down easier, since he’d had that few minutes’ break talking to Daisy, but he still didn’t love the idea of standing and walking. Especially since he knew once he got to the couch he’d be glued there by fatigue. If he didn’t pee now, he’d spend most of the night far enough into sleep to be paralyzed, but not far enough to numb his bladder. He excused himself to Daisy, promising to come right back. Then hauled himself up, with help from his cane and one arm of his chair.

Six limbs it took to maneuver this body now. Two more and he’d’ve gone full spider.

Three quarters of the way to the bathroom—that’s how long it took before the ache in his legs outpaced that in his stomach. He arrived on the toilet seat shaky and out of breath, as always. Months ago he’d given up standing to pee. When you sat you could rock back and forth, and cross your arms tight over waves of quease.

Not much came out, as was also usual lately. As far as Jon could tell, his body now required only enough water to keep his mouth from drying out while recording. Dehydration no longer made his head hurt, so, why bother. Good thing, too, he supposed—the last two weeks he hadn’t needed much non-metaphorical water inside for his body to parse that as needing to pee.

He let his trousers stay pooled around his ankles until after he’d washed and dried his hands. Then pulled up his shirt, to judge from his reflection whether they’d stay up with the fly undone. If he kept his hands in his pockets, yeah. Could you tell the difference, visually, once he put his shirt tails back down? Not for such a short distance. They wouldn’t have time to get disarranged.

It didn’t matter; Basira didn’t even glance at him on his way back, and all Institute staff who didn’t live here had gone home.

Jon opened the door to his office, said hello to Daisy but didn’t manage to look at her, and sat himself down on the other side of the couch. From the corner of his eye (or someone’s anyway) he saw her rise to her feet. “I’m gonna pee too,” she told him, picking her way toward the door; “get yourself comfortable, like you’re going to bed.”

“Where will you sit.”

“I’ll squeeze in.”

“I don’t mind leaving room for—?” Finally he made himself look up at her, in time to see her shake her head. Daisy hadn’t been strong on her feet either, since the Buried; she held herself up now with a hand on the doorjamb, elbow bent so her shoulder leant against that wrist. He regretted quibbling. “Never mind; I’ll just.”

“Really? You’re comfortable like that? You look like a sheep in clover.”

The knowledge came to him before he could ask her what that meant—complete with a nasty visual of what happens in cases acute enough to require rumenotomy. Jon swore he could feel himself swelling to accommodate this tidbit. His eye twitched in discomfort.

“Think I prefer ‘windbag,’ if it’s all the same to you.”

She made a face like that was grosser than what she had said. “You ruined my joke. I was gonna say I won’t let you have any more leaves til you look less like you might explode.”

“Sheep in clover suffocate,” Jon frowned; “they don’t explode. You must be thinking of how they cure them when—”

“Leaves. In. A. Book, Jon. That joke.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” He made himself chuckle.

Daisy sighed and shifted on her feet. “I’ll be right back. Just lie down, alright? Like you’re going to bed.”

Jon agreed to lie down, but couldn’t decide whether to face the wall (as he would to sleep), leaving her to slide in between him and the back of the couch the way she had a few times before when she’d walked in on him catnapping, or whether he should lie on his back, where he could see her as soon as she opened the door. It was important to make sure she knew he appreciated her offer to give him a statement. Or, no—to tell him her story, he meant.

Ultimately he picked the latter course.

“You sleep like that?”

“Sometimes."

“I’ve never seen you sleep like that. You always face the wall.” Daisy crossed her arms, blew hair out of her face. “That for the tummy ache, or for me?”

“Uh….”

“Would it hurt you to face the wall.”

“No, I just.”

“Turn around, then. I’ll squeeze in,” she said again.

“I-if you’re sure.”

He rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth as the cramps in his stomach swirled in new directions. What made it slosh like that, he wondered. While he fought to regain his breath Jon watched Daisy climb up onto the back of the couch on shaking elbows and knees, then avalanche down hands- and feet-first so she fit between him and its cushions. He’d never watched her do this before—always either startled out of a doze at the sound of her thumping down next to him, or simply woken up to find her there.

“You’re just like the Admiral,” he informed her.

“True words spoken in jest,” muttered Daisy. Too quietly for him to hear what she said over the couch’s tortured creaks, but half a second after she finished speaking the words appeared before his mind, in white, all-capital letters with a black background like closed captions on the news. “That’s Georgie’s cat, right?” she said aloud.

“Yes.”

Her knee jostled the cap of his; when it made him gasp she snarled under her breath. “Sorry. Can you move your leg?”

“Yes, it’s fine, just—”

“I mean would you move your leg.”

“Oh.” He did so.

“Thanks. Ugh—you’re cold,” Daisy accused him; “where’s that blanket.” He pointed behind her to the arm of the couch where it lay folded. She shook it out, and draped it over both of them. Reached around behind him to make sure it covered his whole back. Jon tried to ignore the way his stomach lurched every time Daisy’s weight shifted against the cushions. Finally she settled next to him to catch her breath. Their foreheads touched; her stomach pressed into his, though not as tightly as the last time they’d lain like this. “Can you breathe or am I crushing you?”

“Not at all, you’re fine—in fact, if the couch cushions are chafing you too much you can—”

Daisy huffed, and scooted herself in closer to him. “That better?” She set her warm hand down right where his belly diverged from pelvis. Jon tried to keep both voice and tremor out of his exhale. Since the coffin, Daisy’s hands and feet suffered at night and after any exertion from the same excess of heat his sometimes did. So the cold inside him probably felt nice on her hand, if not to the rest of her.

(Like snuggling up to a hotel mattress, she’d described it, after the first time she joined him for a nap when he’d just had a statement. Cold, hard, covered in lumps and dents, and creaks when you roll over on it. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” he’d replied, while praying her elbow wouldn’t come any closer to the crevasse where his ribs used to be.)

“Christ you’re stuffed,” commented Daisy. For emphasis she lifted her fingers, then set them back down on his gut.

“I don’t know what you expected.”

“You won’t pop if I tell you a story?”

“Not literally,” Jon said, blinking.

“Of course not literally,” she scoffed; “you know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Will it make you sick. Don’t want you throwing up on me; this is Melanie’s shirt. If you ruin it she’ll hit us with her cane, and I don’t trust you to hit as hard back with yours.”

“Mine’s shorter and thicker,” he mused. “I don’t have to hit as hard.”

“Stop. Avoiding. The question.”

Jon sighed to show her he capitulated. Then thought about it. He felt cold and sick, but the idea of saying no to a statement made those feelings worse, not better. And the sharp clusters of pain in his belly were harder to sleep through than quease.

“I’ll be fine,” he decided. “It’ll help.”

“Alright. When you’re ready, ask me what I used to do when I got shaky between hunts.”

--

Read part two here.

[hellowkatey]

Febuwhump day 3

Prompt: imprisonment

Warnings: medical trauma

read on AO3!

A Long Way Down

Bright lights pass in quick variables, and it takes Obi-Wan a moment longer than it should to realize he's lying on a stretcher, oxygen mask strapped to his face and wires and cuffs on every available piece of skin. He groans, catching the attention of Commander Cody who is running beside the stretcher.

"Not to worry, General, we are almost at the med bay."

That is exactly why I am worried.

He reaches up slowly to pull the mask off his face as the stretcher slows, looking up at his Marshall Commander. "Cody... what happened?"

"An explosion, sir. Tunnel collapsed," he pauses. Cody already knows his follow up question. "The men are okay. You... Force-pushed them out of the way."

Well, that explains why my body feels like it has been crushed under a ton of rocks... supposedly it has. 

Obi-Wan has no memory of this, but from the grim looks on the faces of all the troopers surrounding him he suspects he 1. doesn't look good and 2. is as bad as he looks.

"How bad?" he asks as they guide the stretcher into the med bay and stop it next to a bed.

Cody looks at Helix, the medical clone who seems to be trying hard not to make eye contact with him. With the penetrating stare of both his Commander and General, Helix finally looks up from the datapad.

"We're gonna have to dunk you, General."

He blinks, letting the words slowly settle into his discombobulated brain. Usually, he would protest. Make a fuss about being fine, because usually, he is, and medical can put their resources elsewhere. Usually, they would lock the doors as soon as he enters-- he glances over and yes, they did. What am I going to do, run? Obi-Wan is fairly sure both of his legs are crushed judging from the odd angles they are at, so he isn't sure how they expect him to make a break for it.

But today, Obi-Wan just lets his head fall back and he stares at the ceiling. He cannot protest because the tightness in his throat won't let him. He's afraid to open his mouth again because if he does his words will turn into sobs and his men do not deserve to see their General cry.

He can feel Cody and Helix's surprise. He doesn't have to look at them to know they are now even more concerned for him now that he hasn't tried to raise hell about being taken to medical. But they also seem to be relieved, so at least he can give them that respite.

He stares at the ceiling as movement begins to happen around him. Medical troopers pulling at the needles and sensors, inserting new ones. It all fades into a blur of hands touching him gently but firmly, frequent pinches and jolts of sharp pain, and the cool stickiness of applicators against his skin. Obi-Wan just stares at the ceiling.

He is fairly convinced that every medical facility has the same designer. Even the Jedi Halls of Healing have walls that are stark white. Sterile white. So bright they rival the glow of the iridescent lights, which is a design flaw in his opinion. Obi-Wan has spent a lot of time seeing these ceilings-- but not because he has spent a lot of time in medical. There is a reason he doesn't like to end up in the med bay, and the reason haunts him every time there is even a prospect of him having to go to see a healer.

Seven-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi had feet too big for his body. It's like he began to hit a spurt, but only his feet realized that growth was the plan and the rest of his body was still figuring out how to stretch his small stature a few inches taller. It gave him the unfortunate nickname of Oafy-Wan, coined by his age-mates who he didn't exactly consider his friends. His clumsiness wasn't horrible, but it was distinctive enough to cause him a bit of trouble when practicing lightsaber katas and doing his physical activity tests.

On this particular day, seven-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi had already had a very bad day. He fell in the middle of a practice spar in front of everyone. He wasn't even doing an acrobatic move or anything, he just fell over his own feet. The roar of “Oafy-Wan” was the only thing he could hear as he stared at the floor in shock of how quickly everything had transpired. Despite Bant's sympathetic reassurance and his other friends trying to overpower the chant, he spent the rest of the lesson trying to make himself as small as possible.

His pouting continued through the day, even to their long-awaited field trip to the Senate Rotunda. He walked with his creche mates, tuning out of their excited conversation of seeing the massive Galactic Senate chambers and instead focusing on the speeders rushing past just meters away from them. He wished to just jump into one and speed away from it all. Despite his prior excitement for this journey out of the Temple, he now wants nothing more than to go back to his dorm and curl up in his bed.

"Don't trip, Oafy-Wan," a familiar snide voice rings in his ear. He turns to see Bruck Chun, one of his age-mates that often leads the cause against him, sneering at him. "It's a long way down."

They're walking along a more narrow section of the street. Just a few meters to the left there is a deep chasm that goes into the lower depths of Coruscant. So deep he cannot see the bottom.

Obi-Wan brushes him away, in no mood to deal with him. "Get lost, Bruck." His arm presses into Bruck's side, pushing him away, which is not to the pleasure of his age-mate. Bruck's eyes narrow, and he jabs his elbow into Obi-Wan's back.

"Don't push me."

Anger surges in Obi-Wan's chest as he staggers forward. He whirls around and uses both hands to push Bruck into the wall of the building they are passing. A few initiates have stopped now to watch them, but as they stand at the back of the group the mass have not noticed their tussle.

"Funny, it seems I'm doing just that."

Bruck runs at him this time, his anger potent in the Force, and Obi-Wan suddenly has the clarity that maybe this isn't a good idea. He jumps out of the way of Bruck's charge, vaguely aware he is standing at the edge of the street now. Bruck skids to a stop.

"Coward," he spits, just as the Master leading their field trip calls for them to stop lagging.

Obi-Wan avoids Bruck's gaze as he passes by him, pointedly smacking his shoulder into his. Obi-Wan sighs, and turns to join the group.

As he turns, he finds himself suddenly caught in the air stream of a speeder that is too close to the sidewalk. He feels his small body lifted off the ground, and he flails in fear at the lack of anything for him to grab onto. A chorus of yelling erupts, most of them either calling his name or Master Vant. Obi-Wan can see the ground, and he tries to position his feet to land there, but another passing speeder sends him into a tailspin.

And Obi-Wan falls.

Even years later as a Jedi Master, Obi-Wan remembers falling down that speeder shaft. When he thinks about it he can hear the screams of his friends as they watched him fall. He can see them peering over the side. Master Vant running up and raising her hand to reach for him in the Force.

Had she reached him a moment earlier she probably could have saved him. But his downward momentum was suddenly ceased as he crashed against a speeder before she had the chance to cushion his descent. And he was met with horrendous pain and the taste of blood. Much like how he feels laying in the med bay now. Everything afterward was a blur.

"Are you ready, General?" Helix asks. Obi-Wan looks past him to see the bacta tank is all set up. Obi-Wan swallows hard, and he says nothing, but Helix takes that as a yes. His stretcher starts to float toward the tank, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the horrible memories come rushing back.

Choking. Obi-Wan expected to wake up in a reality beyond life-- he truly believed he would be returned to the Force, but instead, he woke up choking. He started to panic before he opened his eyes, and when he finally tried to find the reason for his restrictive breathing the initiate realized he can't see either.

He tries to thrash around, but his movements seem to be restricted somehow. Like he is tied up, but he can't feel bounds. His body just isn’t listening to him, which is even more terrifying. He tries to blink through the thick goo that seems to be covering his eyes, but it won't clear. It burns instead. He's trapped in a senseless prison, and he lets his panic radiate outward into the Force. He needs someone to hear him. Find him. Anything.

The Force responds with a collective feeling of shock. He repeats his plea for freedom, and finally, he hears something. Distant talking. Yelling, actually. Frantic. There is the deafening sound of suction, and then Obi-Wan is falling again. Slower than before but in his mind's eye he sees his friends staring down at him. Laughing at him. Oafy-Wan! They cackle. It's a long way down.

He hits the floor. The gel material that once encased him sloshes everywhere. His body curls into a ball and he feels many pairs of hands grabbing him and positioning him onto his back despite his protests. The touches are not comforting. Their goal seems to be to push him right back into the place he just escaped, and he begins to sob in terror. The voices are blending together as his vision begins to tunnel again.

"...sedative wasn't enough."

"How did he wake..."

"Get him back under!"

It was explained to him by one healer that his IV fell out of his arm. Another told him that the dosage was too light. A third said the adrenaline caused his metabolism to spike, making the correct dosage go quicker. Obi-Wan isn't sure why he woke up while in the bacta tank that day, but he suspects knowing the reason wouldn't have changed the panic he feels every time he has to take a dunk.

Obi-Wan grabs Helix's arm as he is about to inject his IV. The medic freezes and looks down at him.

"You have my correct doses from the Temple, correct? For the general anesthetic?"

Helix blinks before nodding. "Of course, General."

"And you know Jedi tend to metabolize quicker as well? You will have someone monitoring my consciousness?"

"Yes sir, we have detailed training from your healers on Jedi care. We will ensure you receive the right dose and don't get too much anesthetic."

He nods with wide eyes. His medic is slightly off in the reason for his inquiries, but it is comforting enough.

Even so, as the drugs begin to take him under he can't help but feel like he is seven again. Faded conversations of the medical troopers become the hushed words between Jedi Healers. The same fear of waking up within the tank again grips him with an iron fist around his already-intubated throat.

Never again could he look at a bacta tank and see it as an innovative medical advance. To Obi-Wan, it is a torturous prison that causes his fear to shamefully make an appearance.

He is positioned into the tank. The transperisteel doors close around him, and already he can feel his heart rate elevating. Why am I not asleep yet? Why am I still awake for this? Am I to do this conscious?

The bacta starts to fill at his feet slowly. He feels the urge to lift his legs and climb away from the rising gel, but his body has already separated from his mind. He cannot slam his fists against the doors and beg to be let free. Cannot scream with the tube down his throat.

As the bacta reaches his knees, he finally feels the heaviness reach his eyes, and Obi-Wan says a last plea to the Force to let him stay asleep for the entirety of his imprisonment.