#the side note is because I desperately want to get into the doctor who fandom but I simply can’t because I’d have to buy something or other

[blurred-honey]

On a side note: i hate streaming services.

On the regularly scheduled program: the good omens to doctor who pipeline should be studied

[fairy-writes]

REMEMBER ME

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Trigun Stampede

Pairing(s): Vash the Stampede x Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Gender Neutral!Reader, Angst, Reader is Short, Use of Various Nicknames (mayfly, half-pint, shorty, etc.)

Notes: I’m still very new to the Trigun Stampede fandom. So please forgive me if I get anything wrong!

ALSO, YES, I’M STEALING THE TITLE FROM COCO

PART TWO HERE

__________________________________________________________________________

When you opened your eyes, you scared the poor nurse checking your vitals.

Your eyes flew open, and you gasped for air. The nurse screams and pushes a button as you pass back into unconsciousness.

When you wake up again, there’s a doctor in a white lab coat writing something on a clipboard when he notices you looking around.

“Ah, so you’re awake then?” He says kindly, and you mumble something incoherent. Your throat is as dry as the desert outside, and you can’t quite remember where you are.

The doctor seems to realize something and chuckles to himself.

“Right, you’d probably want some answers, yes?” You nod silently, not entirely trusting yourself to speak just yet. 

“You’re in the hospital. Your friends brought you here after a nasty hit to the head. You fractured your skull, but it’s healing nicely thus far.”

A fractured skull? 

“Wouldn’t that kill me?” At this, the doctor shakes his head,

“Humans have existed for centuries and dealt with injuries far worse than this one. You’ll be fine.”

“How long was I out for?” You can’t help but ask, almost scared of the answer. The doctor checks your clipboard at the end of your bed and flips a couple of pages. 

“Looks like you were out for about a week, give or take a day or two.” He says casually, and you swallow thickly. 

The doctor notices your brief panic and puts the clipboard down to touch your shoulder, 

“You’re fine. You shouldn’t have any long-term effects from your injury.” He reassures you, and your shoulders sag in relief. If he said everything was okay, you had no reason to be alarmed. You nod with a tight smile, and the doctor seems to have remembered something. 

“Your friends are waiting outside. Would you like me to bring them in?” He asks, and you pause for a brief moment before nodding. 

“Yes, please.” You say, and he smiles from under his mustache, 

“We’ll bring them in one at a time so you aren’t overwhelmed. They are a bit of a rowdy bunch.”

Things go horribly wrong when someone you don’t recognize comes in. 

He’s tall, with floppy blond hair and eyes hidden behind orange glasses. He has an odd-looking prosthetic arm and is dressed in a crimson coat over all black. He looks incredibly relieved to see you. So relieved, in fact, that he all but sprints to your side, leans down, and kisses you on the mouth desperately. 

He tastes like tears and anguish. Like he never expected you to wake up. All of that was well and good, except for the fact that you didn’t know who this was. 

So you push him away, eyes wide, and your shoulders tensing. Confusion colors his features. 

“Mayfly—” You cut him off. 

“I’m sorry… Who are you?”

That was obviously the wrong thing to say. Because it looked like you had just shattered this man’s heart. Like you ripped out his heart and stomped on it. The light in his gaze died, and he almost crumpled to the floor. He slumped into a chair in shock. 

“Mayfly?” He all but whimpered, and you frowned. 

“That’s not my name.” Just then, before you can say anything else, the doctor came back in. 

“Are you ready for the next person?” He asked, and you nodded. 

Anything to get your mind off of the poor blond in front of you. 

Luckily, you recognize the next person that comes through the door. 

“Nicky!” You cheer when you recognize the face of Nicholas D. Wolfwood. He grins and ruffles your hair as gently as he can manage. His Punisher is nowhere to be found. Maybe it’s on the van? 

“You had us worried there, Half-Pint.” He teases, and you bat his hand away, but you’re grinning. 

“You remember him?” Comes a soft voice and you turn to see the blond man again. If possible, he looks like he’s even more heartbroken and upset than before. 

He’s acting like you keep stabbing him in the back with every word out of your mouth. And for whatever reason, your heart aches for him. 

Nicholas seems to notice the tension between you two and frowns, 

“What, you having a lover’s spat or something?” He asks, and now you frown, 

“I don’t even know who he is.” You say quietly, and his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. 

“The hell do you mean? You two can’t keep your hands off each other.” He demands and flicks your forehead. You wince and swat his hand away. 

“I mean, I’ve never seen this man in my life!”

The next two people tumble into your hospital room, and you flinch at the noise. Your name blubbers from Meryl Stryfe’s lips, and she throws herself onto your bed and wraps her arms around you tightly. Roberto de Niro follows slowly behind, offering you a toast of sorts with his flask. 

“I thought you’d never wake up!” Meryl cries, and you pat the short girl’s head,

“You can’t keep me down forever, Meryl, you know that.” You tease, and she looks up at you, wiping tears from her eyes. A wobbly smile crosses her face as the doctor comes back in. 

You are discharged the next day. But not before the doctor has some parting words for you. After mentioning the whole “not recognizing the blond man whose name was apparently Vash” thing, he ran some tests. He diagnosed you with “systematized amnesia,” which was apparently where you could lose all memories of a single person or event. 

Huh… The brain was a funny thing…

Meryl is babbling about what you missed during your coma. 

“Vash rarely left your side, you know!” She chirps, and you glance sidelong at Vash, who is avoiding your gaze. You sit on the left side of the van, with Nicholas stuck in the middle and Vash on the opposite side. Apparently, you used to sit next to Vash, but after everything that happened after you woke up, you weren’t comfortable with it. 

Nicholas is less than pleased. 

“You better get your memories back soon, shorty.” He says before he clambers back into the van after a rest stop. His expression was angry, but you know by how he holds his shoulders and his words that he’s worried about you. He is so concerned, in fact, that he doesn’t complain otherwise. 

You jolt and see Meryl looking at you in the rearview mirror, concern etched across her features, and realize that you never replied. You offer her an awkward smile but don’t say anything. 

If possible, Vash sinks into his coat even more as if trying to disappear. 

It’s cold in the deserts of No Man’s Land during the evenings. You can feel the temperature dropping as you build a small fire. Usually, fires would be dangerous, especially with bandits roaming these parts but it was cold enough to risk it. So, to mitigate the risk, you parked the van against an alcove of rocks and built a fire just at the mouth of the little cave. 

Everyone is snoozing in their sleeping bags while you keep watch when you’re approached by Vash. 

Perhaps approached isn’t the right word. Vash more or less sits an appropriate distance away from you, arms around his knees.

It’s quiet. 

Almost awkwardly so. 

The tension between you two is so thick that you’re fairly certain you could slice through it with a knife.

Until…

“I’m sorry.” You blurt, unable to take the silence and his quick little glances when he thinks you aren’t looking. You can’t take the heartbreak in this man’s eyes. The eyes of someone you feel like you should know but are entirely unfamiliar to you.

But something in your heart yearns for him.

Vash looks at you, uncertainty playing across his face. You look away when his gaze meets yours and down at your fingers. 

“I’m just—I’m sorry for all of this… For not being able to remember… I want to! I do! I promise! But—”

“Mayfly,” He says gently, and you look up to see him staring with something unreadable in those beautiful blue eyes hidden behind orange glasses. He doesn’t scoot closer, almost like he’s not allowing himself to. But he still continues on, “It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s mine. I should’ve made you stay behind. Then maybe—”

Not it’s your turn to cut him off. 

“I’m going to stop you right there. If we really were together, then you know I wouldn’t have sat idly by.” You say sourly, and he huffs out a little laugh.

“You’re right… I should’ve remembered that…” He mumbles, and you smile,

“Looks like I’m not the only one losing my marbles.” You tease. His eyes darken again, and he looks to the dying fire. 

Whoops… Wrong thing to say… 

You sigh and look out at the desert. Well… You look out at what you can see with the van in the way.

“I can see how much this hurts you. I’m so, so sorry I can’t remember.” You whisper, twisting your hands this way and that as you wrack your brain, trying to remember something about this blond man who seemed to love you so much.

Only to end up with a headache and not much else. 

A thump on your head causes you to flinch and look up. 

Nicholas stares down at you with tired eyes. 

“Time for you to go to bed, runt. ‘s my turn to keep watch.” He says with a yawn before glaring pointedly at Vash, who sits ramrod straight when he notices the look. “And you need rest, too, blondie.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes,

“Yes, mom.” You say in jest, and he just ruffles your hair while fishing a cigarette from his jacket pocket. 

But you relent, standing and wrapping your jacket tighter around yourself as you leave the comfort of the fire. The cold sets in soon after, and you snuggle into your sleeping bag as quickly as you can manage. You hear Vash do the same, but his breathing doesn’t deepen, nor does it slow. 

He’s awake, just like you.

At least… Until you fall asleep. 

You dream of a soft caress, gentle lips against yours, and the most beautiful shade of blue you’ve ever seen. 

And you awake feeling confused. 

[kurisus]

Noragami: Final Chapter thoughts

For the last time :') I've been making these for roughly half the manga's runtime, both in chapter count and years. Which is wild to think, but anyway, spoilers under the cut. One final time.

I really spent the first half of this chapter with bated breath alternating between being relieved that Hiyori is okay and grew up to be a doctor and everything, and stressed about where Yato was and where her memories were. Then Yato showed up, and I think I burst into tears out of hysterics. They really got me, I thought he was gone.

That aside, it was an excellent chapter. I was right when I said that this would just be an epilogue and the true suffering was over, but god. god. I'm relieved they gave me that open ending and the chapter was mostly good old-fashioned Noragami silliness. With the expected gut punches.

It's probably a good thing that Yuka never got to reunite with her brother, but at least knows that he's resting in peace. That he was given a proper burial by someone who, at the time, barely knew him but wanted to make things right anyway. Great now I'm crying again.

Hiyori's pocket with the little capyper keychain she bought forever ago. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

Yato's CPR being so intense it cracked Hiyori's ribs. god he was so desperate to save her. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

HER TOUCHING HER LIPS WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Fujisaki getting nostalgic seeing tall grass (as we know from the omake is called kaya) was weirdly touching. Though Father has faded, Kaya is the one that is still remembered. We never got to learn his real name, and while I am still curious about it, I can see the purpose--by not knowing his name, we the readers don't give him a lifeline.

That's not the only fourth wall lean in the final chapter. There was also Yato being able to save himself by becoming a meme, much like how the fandom and Adachitoka have memed on him for years as well.

Back to the chapter, it looks like Father's consciousness had always been lurking alongside Fujisaki's, maybe making him do things from time to time, which is really weird and creepy. Maybe he was dormant until the Yomi arc, but either way he's been doing this to a dozen other guys over the centuries. I'm glad the cycle was broken.

It's hilarious that Fujisaki tries to ask Hiyori out and she's just like haha not interested coo phone be upon ye.

I'm so glad the cherry blossom party has become an annual tradition with even more gods invited to the party. I'm also so glad that Yato refuses to release Kazuma and Bishamon apparently makes it a point to bully him about this whenever she sees him. But also, Kazuma doesn't seem to want to be released. He's just like yeah whatever man I'm glad you saved us. Cheers.

Side note, Kazuma's new glasses look a lot like the ones he was wearing in that 100 years ago flashback of him and Bishamon, around chapter 68 or 69 I think?

So we also get to see the aftermath of what happened to Yukine--he still transforms into a wolf every now and then, because much like how Nora transforms into a snakelike creature whenever she loses control of her emotions, his form is a wolf, and unlike Nora he's always been very emotional. So the nightmares come out and Yato's left with a giant wolf thrashing around in their shared living space lol, but at least his dad is there to hug him :')

WAIT STOP PAUSE EVERYTHING IT LOOKS LIKE THEY SHARE A BED NOW. I JUST COLLAPSED INTO A BALL.

AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH

The panel of Yato hugging him made me lose it again. THEY'RE SOOOOOOOO.

So we never did get to find out what happened to Yukine's father--but as I pointed out in the reread I did during December, I don't think it matters. Yukine wasn't going to exact revenge on him anyway because he's not the kind of person to do so.

The page of Nora reading Hiyori's diary also made me so sad. Hiyori's right--she probably did have parents who loved her, but she never got to meet them. One thing I noticed throughout this manga is shinki habitually chasing something relating to their pasts. Yukine craves a good relationship with a father figure, Kazuma is obsessed with Bishamon because he missed out on marrying a girl he loved, Daikoku acts like a dad to every child he meets because he died before having his own kids, and like Yukine, Hiiro craves the parental love she never had. And as Hiyori pointed out, being given a name by Father was like being given life.

Since we didn't get to see what became of her name situation, but Yukine still bears the Hagusa name, she must still have Mizuchi. If her master is gone, can she still draw borderlines? Does she hang around with Yato and Yukine still? Adachitoka didn't say Kofuku DIDN'T name her, so...

The way Hiyori remembered Yato because of his scent had me SOBBING, yall. She didn't forget, but she did solve her problem and it was solved by people, just like they've been saying throughout the manga. But now, they can be together again. Yato was away from her for some years, and maybe he'll leave for several more (it's been a repeated thing in the manga that he'll insist he has to stay away for her own good), but the point is that even if it's been years and years, she'll always remember him. It's open-ended, but that just means it can be my preferred ending of Hiyori not forgetting but choosing to distance herself. She'll meet up with Yato and Yukine every once in a while living her own, separate, fulfilling life. They've been watching over her all these years anyway.

And so, that brings us to the close. It's as happy an ending as we could have possibly gotten, and above all else, I'm relieved. I've been saying for...years, probably, that I want an open ending, but I really thought it was off the table with recent events.

Final hangups are the same as they were in my final reread (tagged under #Noragami reread on my blog), so I won't repeat them, but the bottom line is that I got everything I wanted out of this ending--except maybe a trio hug? But that interior illustration of the four of them, all smiling and happy, Yato's arm around his sister, made up for that. I kind of wish there was a Yatori kiss for real, but the panel of her touching her lips also assuaged that.

Anyway, I'm not sure what other manga would/will make me unhinged enough to type up monthly thoughts posts for years, but I'll be tuned in to whatever new Adachitoka has coming up. Whether it's a full series, a short series, or just a oneshot, I'll be reading every word. I'm also looking forward to getting the final volume once it releases here, and praying for an artbook announcement.

Thank you for reading! I have some posts to make, some projects to plan, and I'll be diving into the tag once more for old times' sake. This won't be the last of me!

[theglasscat]

20 Questions for Writers

Tagged by @jennyandvastraflint

I love these things because I love talking about fan-fic

1. How many works do you have on A03?

I have 45.

2. What is your A03 word count?

162, 874. Jesus only that?

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Doctor Who but specifically The Paternoster Gange sub-fandom, Oz books, Steven Universe, The Owl House, The Dark Crystal extended universe. In high school I was really into Hellboy II.

4. What are your top 5 fics by Kudos?

1. In the Night We Trust ~ It was a week out from Eda's Requiem and I'm from SU fandom so I was shocked that there was yet to be smut about the two pining grown ass adults and apparently other fans felt this way too.

2. I Thought Maybe We Would Kiss Tonight ~ This one is also horny and about the same characters so the Kudos tracks.

3. Words - My Vastra/Jenny soulmate au. Good. I'm proud of this one.

4. Blankets ~ This one??? The first time I tried to write using my senses.

5. Courting Miss Flint ~ THIS ONE??? I had a crush on a friend in college and didn't know how to act on it. This story about violently anxious women is never going to be finished.

5. Do you respond to comments?

Sometimes, if there's enough to reply to. "Nice work!" I'll forget about probably even though I appreciate it, however "I like how you blah blah blah" will get something from me because I love talking process.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Uuuuhhhh. Of the ones I like, We Speak Our Vows and Sorry Whispers which is the Tavronica wedding fic.

7. What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Blackberry Stone will be I just need to finish it I swear I will finish it

8. Do you get hate on fics?

If I have I am not aware of it. At the time of my life when it would have hurt me the most I was oblivious to it and now it's just like "whatever, I'm not in charge of other people's feelings". On a side note this morning I realized I react to the word "cringe" in much the same vein as those tiktoks about Americans unable to take British gangsters with any seriousness.

9. Do you write smut? If so which kind?

Yes but I don't post as much as I'd like. I don't like to post smut for the sake of it even if I love when others do. I need it to be in character and have something to say about the characters.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest crossover you've ever written?

In general I despise reading crossovers. I will almost always skip unless I really like the author or I'm desperate for more of a character or rare pair.

By most insane do you mean meticulous like my Gentleman Jack/Doctor Who crossover "Never Meet Your Heroes" in which BBC's singular blue waistcoat for leading Victorian lesbians gets referenced?

Or least likely to crossover as in Wonder Woman 2017 and Pat Gang fic in which Etta gets some sword advice from some local spinsters on the eve of The Great War. It's called "Protect it With Your Life".

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of, but I wouldn't be surprised if my work has been farmed to sit in the belly of some great AI beast somewhere.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I'm aware of. If it has I can't think of the example at the moment.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No but I feel if I did I would just tweak the co-author's grammar and characterization and do nothing else. I take so long to write my own fic, I couldn't be accountable to handle another's work in a timely fashion.

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

AU Dorzma. The rest are tardigrades being subjected to various violent science experiments.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Vastra/Jenny laundromat AU. I'm better at Victorian commentary than contemporary commentary.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Sensory writing. Keeping things in character.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Starting with a plot instead of a feeling

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I don't do this really but I'm a fan of using the << >>

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Coin toss for the original Oz books or Syfy's Tin Man (2007) when I was 13. Both were Scarecrow/Patchwork Girl.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

I Keep My Hands, 'Til You Come Into the Water ~ Missing Tavra and Onica and Tae scenes from J.M. Lee's The Dark Crystal Flames of Resistance which is so hyper specific but this is the one I like the most. It came out as I envisioned and wanted it with hardly any typos.

Tagging: @jeejyboard @ragdoll-ren @leiathewarrior @spaceuber @nabatute and anyone else who'd like to do this and of course you don't have to if you don't want to.

[grymmnox]

weekly fic recs #19

woo let’s go

ship(s): kunikizai, soukoku, and ofc some gen fics (p much all of these will have gen fics of some kind, even if i forget to say so)

fandom(s): bungo stray dogs

Oneshots

but you’re a part of me.; pigeonpi - bungo stray dogs

teen and up | 1.2k words | chuuya/dazai | READ TAGS

summary:

he stared at the dazai standing in the corner.

dazai stared right back with that empty eye of his. that smile of his.

he reached out in desperation for what he knew would be the antidote to the pain he suffered.

he reached out in desperation, hopelessness crawling through him like a colony of ants.

hopelessness, because he knew that the antidote was gone.

the screaming would continue.

because dazai was dead.

--

in which chuuya can't sleep.

Morning Light; FallenBrie - bungo stray dogs

mature | 18k words | atsushi & dazai, atsushi & kunikida, akutagawa & atsushi, atsushi & chuuya, ADA & atsushi, atsushi & ranpo, chuuya & dazai, dazai & kunikida | READ TAGS

summary:

Atsushi stares for a long moment, taking that in. “That’s it? I just have to die and I’ll be let go?”

“You’ll exit the loop. Sounds fairly simply but remember the time limit, your healing ability is going to be working against you here,” Ranpo corrects.

“I almost die all the time - “ He laughs, a weight in his chest lifting. “I’m going to get out of here!”

--

Atsushi gets stuck in a time loop and severely underestimates just how dedicated his family is to keeping him alive

england made me; kazarismask - bungo stray dogs

mature | 1.6k words | ADA & dazai, dazai & kunikida, dazai & yosano | READ TAGS

summary:

Dazai Osamu was going to die today.

Complete Fics

Promised Future; Katical - bungo stray dogs

mature | 8 chapters | 17.4k words | chuuya/dazai, chuuya & kouyou | READ TAGS

summary:

It wasn't Dazai who left the Port Mafia and later joined the Armed Detective Agency after a certain incident.

No, it was Chuuya.

A story of continuous searching, touching reunions and building a future.

Incomplete Fics

no man is an island; That_One_Fran_Fan - bungo stray dogs

teen and up | 14/? chapters | 39.8k words | dazai/kunikida, dazai & kunikida, dazai & ranpo, kunikida & ranpo, atsushi & dazai, ADA & dazai, dazai & yosano | READ TAGS

summary:

"It had started with Dazai acting more restless than usual."

Or

Dazai wants to get better.

When I Awake; wildflowertea - bungo stray dogs

mature | 20/22 chapters | 190.8k words | chuuya/dazai | READ TAGS

summary:

Dazai Osamu has been in a coma for exactly one year, seven months, and twenty-two days. But Death still refuses to take him.

Trapped in the space between worlds, and unable to die, Dazai waits, killing what precious time he may have left. And hoping—praying—that his family will pull the plug and move on. He doesn't expect someone to move into his old apartment instead.

Nakahara Chuuya, two-time Grammy awards winner, and freshly unemployed pessimist, has never believed in fate—much less the supernatural. But the lively—if a bit annoying—ghost of his apartment's previous tenant, might just change everything.

act of faith; cherrior - bungo stray dogs

teen and up | 7/12 chapters | 73.3k words | chuuya/dazai, chuuya & yosano | READ TAGS (altho most warnings r in chapter notes)

summary:

Chuuya Nakahara wakes in the infirmary of the Armed Detective Agency with no memories of what landed him there, or why he isn't able to manipulate gravity at will.

Dazai's at his side, tight-lipped about the ordeal and hiding behind his veneer of calm, and lets the doctor inform Chuuya that he'll be staying at the Armed Detective Agency until further notice, the deal already negotiated between their organizations.

Living with Dazai keeps bringing up the past, though, and there's nothing worse than being forced back into old memories where none new can form.

[ can be read standalone; has an accompanying sskk fic, though. ]

[divinefireangel]

They Just Don't Know You

Soft Yandere! Seo Moon-Jo x F! Reader

Disclaimer: This is just a work of fiction. If this piece of fan fiction is offensive to any celebrity, fandom or culture please let me know so I can take it down. Also note that this is my version of a character or celeb, which will vary from person to person.

Author's Note: A 2nd longer fic for our lovely cannibalistic psychopath. I hate that I'm attracted to him. Someone please be my therapist. Or psychiatrist. Honestly doesn't matter. My brain is fucked anyway.

Copyright: Please note that this is my work and if you want to publish this on any other platform, take my permission before doing so. Taking an author's work and posting it somewhere else without any intimation is just disrespectful. I readily welcome suggestions and criticisms. That being said, Happy reading! 🤍

Warnings: 16+ and written for female reader, but all can read. (nothing specified with respect to appearance, etc of reader). Except that I've mentioned reader is short, cuz LDW is tall 🥰. There is a brief mention of sex, but no actual smut. Reader kinda highkey hates on her parents and younger sister. Read it to know. Age gap between reader and Moon-Jo. Slight obsessive thoughts. Manipulative words. I tried to put plot twist in the end, probably you won't notice it 💀. Please please tell me if I need to add more warnings. Do not read if you start to feel uncomfortable. I apologize in advance 🥺

❗❗PLEASE READ WARNINGS ❗❗

Pre-Requisite / Summary: Just a fic based on the song They Just Don't Know You by Little Mix. After watching Strangers from hell I related this song to him for some reason. Reader and Moon-Jo are in an established relationship. And reader's loved ones don't approve.

2.3k ish words My longest fic till date 🥳

" You know that he's too old for you. You can settle for younger, much younger guys for your age sweetheart. If you can't find anyone eligible enough, we will find one for you. And you don't even know if he has intentions of marrying you. What if all he wants is just a fling or some time pass relationship. Hmm? What are you going to do then? "

Sipping her tea silently, Y/N sat next to her dad on the porch swing, listening to all the criticisms he had about Moon-Jo. All his words did was boil her blood. But what could she do when they don't walk in her shoes? They don't know how safe and content she feels when he kisses her like she's the only girl for him in the entire universe. And no point in explaining that to her father anyway. She's tried. And failed. Multiple times.

"Are you done with your tea?" She asks her dad, in desperate attempt to try and get away from him and his words because she knows, and even he knows that it's going to end up in a fight if they continue to speak on the same topic.

Humming yes, he hands her his tea cup which she takes to the kitchen so she can help her mom with dinner. Placing them in the sink upon entering the kitchen, Y/N drags her palms down her face in frustration.

" I could hear what he said you know. Your dad. He's not wrong. Seo Moon-Jo seems like he'll break your heart in three. And we're only looking out for you Y/N. You don't have to go through heartbreak when you can very well avoid it." Her mom finished slowly.

" Why. Why is it so difficult for you to accept the fact that I'm actually in a happy relationship for once in my life. So what if he's much older than I am? He's a dentist. A doctor. A very good profession and he's known and well respected in his neighbourhood too. " Y/N said loud enough for her dad also to hear.

Huffing in annoyance she left the kitchen to go upstairs to her room. Or rather the room she shares with her sister. Of course the door is wide open. The younger rascal is always here for the drama.

Ever since Y/N came out to her family about her relationship with Moon-Jo, her sister has become the favourite child, for obvious reasons. And now eavesdropping with the door wide open? That's a new low. But what else can Y/N expect from such a low life who is literally thriving off her own sister's pain and suffering.

When entering the room, Y/N realizes how big a mistake it was to visit her family. And she did not need such snark from a younger, less experienced child.

"Are you that blinded by " Love " that you don't even see how weird his hair is? A man who isn't an idol or actor doesn't need such long hair. He's clearly a fuckboy. Or man whore. Whichever is right. " She said with disgust.

'She's just jealous. She's just a jealous bitch. They all are.' Y/N thinks to herself.

" At least one of us gets laid regularly. And just so you know, it's absolutely heavenly when he makes me cum over and over on his fingers and his dick-" Y/N said as her tone slowly got lower and darker and her emotion angrier.

Screaming and covering her ears, the younger girl ran downstairs to her mother, no doubt to tattle on her older sister. Rolling her eyes, Y/N started packing her things, all of them, in a bag she took down from the top shelf of the wardrobe.

It's really difficult to leave one's family, but it is clearly getting more and more tiresome to love them nowadays. If it's so wrong to date him, why does Y/N herself not see it? She's a logical and smart young lady. Does her family hate that man so much that they don't even want her to be happy? No matter who she's with. And is it so bad to date a man who's older? Richer? And cares more about her than all of her family members combined?

Wiping the fallen tear stains from her cheek, she just thinks to herself ' They just don't know him. They just don't know him like I do. '

Sending a text to her lover, saying that she misses him and that she's coming back home sooner than planned, Y/N carries her bag through the front door, her parents and sister ignoring her as she leaves and walks out that door one final time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Once reaching their shared apartment, Y/N collapsed into her lover's arms the moment he opens the door, crying her eyes out. Seeing his lover in turmoil, shedding a tear or two of his own, Moon-Jo carries her to the living room couch to cradle her like a child who needs attention.

" They- They said -"

" Shh my darling. I know. " Moon-Jo said, shushing his girlfriend and giving her a shoulder to cry on. Once she's calmed a little, her sobs turning to sniffs, she lifts her head to meet his gaze.

Seeing her sad, tear stained eyes always upset him. More than anything in the world. Running his long slender fingers across her cheeks and jaw, he removes her hair from her ponytail with his free hand and rests it on her thigh.

" Tell me. Please tell me that you won't break my heart like them. That you won't try to tear my world apart like them. " Y/N looked desperately at him, wanting so badly to know that he's not just using her.

Those words, that slipped out her mouth, shocked Moon-Jo, to say the least. What did he do wrong? What did her family fill her head with?

Tilting his head to a little, he looks into her red eyes, trying to read her mind for a moment, all the while she just looked at him with the same desperate expression.

"Please tell me that you will be there when I need you the most. " Y/N whispered so softly, she herself barely heard it. But the end of the sentence, she started crying all over again.

Taking her head to his neck, he stroked her hair and her sides, trying to calm her down.

" Darling. I promise with my everything, that I will never leave you, I will never ever let you go. That I will do anything, anything necessary to prove my love to you. "

"No, oh dear no. That's not, you don't have- have to do anything at all to make me believe you love me. I'm sorry I asked such a stupid question. " She sobbed out.

Shushing her softly again, he rocks their bodies back and forth, till she's calmed and fallen asleep there, in his arms. Knowing that his arms are her only safe place for her from now on, he takes her delicate figure to the bedroom.

Placing her on her side of the bed, he lays down on his. Staring at her stunning face, he feather touches her face with his fingertips, memorizing every curve, every little detail on her, like a sculptor admiring his work and giving it the finishing touches.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

" So, I did a little digging on your sugar daddy. "

" Why?! And he's not my sugar daddy. " Y/N said in disbelief. No. Not her dear best friend too.

" I know you said not to and I'm sorry. But I am worried about you. He made you leave your family Y/N. " They stated with worry and sympathy.

" No. He didn't make me leave them. I left them by choice. They don't see him like I do. And clearly, they hate that I'm happy with him. " Y/N finished as they sat down at the lunch table.

" Y/N..... "

" What? Even you don't want me to be happy? " She questioned her friend in disbelief. Laughing sarcastically Y/N shook her head.

" I've heard rumours! Okay? He was in the orphanage that had that severe fire explosion. And most of the culprits from that incident are MIA. What if he's one of the people who caused it?! " They said in a whisper, worried that the neighbouring people can hear their conversation.

" Do you really think that? All of that is just a rumour. And he's told me about it. He's told me everything. Unlike my parents who so desperately tried to tie me down to an arranged marriage. "

" He's not good for you. I know you deserve better. Okay he may make happy and all but what if he leaves? What if he just uses you and drops you like you were nothing? We're just trying to make sure you don't get hurt Y/N. Physically and emotionally. " They finished.

" This, all what you said, is cheap talk. But it'll eventually wear down because when we get married and have kids and all that in the future, you're all going to look like fools. And I will proudly say ' I told you so '. "

" If that's the case then I am the happiest person for you. Hopefully I won't have to be the one to say ' I told you so'. "

" Wow. I, just- hah. Wow. Just wow. " She paused.

" You know, I really hoped you would be more supportive or at least tolerant enough to have patience and support me with my decision for my love. " Y/N said loud enough for eavesdroppers to hear audibly.

Of all the people she would have to drop, never even in her nightmares had she fathomed that her best friend would be one.

Getting up from the table, she picks up her bag and leaves without another word, and goes to the only place that has love for her and that accepts her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Reaching home, Y/N notices the place empty. Maybe he's at the clinic?

Shrugging off her bag and jacket she sits on the couch for a moment, before her restlessness takes over and she begins pacing in the living room.

Why are people being like this? Do they hate her so much? They barely know him. Why are they treating and accusing him to be such a criminal! He's not. He takes care of Y/N so much. He loves her so much. He provides for her. He's affectionate with her, more than he's told he thought capable. He's become her ride or die. And she, his.

They don't know him like I do. They will never love me like he does.

They don't know about the love they have. The just see what they want to see. Bloody society dictating whom to love and whom to not. Is it so hard to see the love they have for each other? Can't they just let it be. They don't know the turmoil she's gone through recently; they don't know how well he's taken care of her, kept her happy and same enough to not let her intrusive thoughts get the best of her.

Her thoughts interrupted by the door clicking open. Smiling, Moon-Jo enters with a box, surely containing sweets from her favourite bakery. How can you not love someone so considerate, who does things for you without even having to ask.

Seeing the sad look upon his lover's face, Moon-Jo's smile fades into a frown.

" What's wrong my dear? "

Smiling sadly Y/N just shakes her head, conveying that she doesn't want to talk about it.

Placing the box of sweets on the coffee table, the two hug each other, feeling of comfort taking over them both. She can just stay here, forever, in his arms till the world ends.

" Babe. What's wrong? You can tell me anything. Anything at all. I'll take care of the problem. " Delicately Moon-Jo cradles Y/N's head in his palms, making her face up to him, their height difference evident.

Sighing, she moves to sit on the couch, motioning him to do the same. " It's just people. And what they say. My family was one thing, but my best friend, the person I chose as my family " Pausing Y/N breathers the tears back in, " They were doubtful of you today. How can I live knowing that no one will approve of us? " Y/N questioned looking at him.

" Does their opinion really matter that much? So much so that you are skeptical of my affection to you? " Coldly, he moved back from his seat on the couch.

" No! No. Gosh that is not what I mean. Not at all. I love you and I know that you love me. So much. So much so I would die for you. But there are other people whom I care about. Who's opinions matter to me. And I don't want to let them go. As happy as I am with you, I need them too. They give me joy in a different way, that is important. "

" Do I not make you happy? Are you not content with the love I give you? Is it not enough? " He asks carefully.

" That's not what I meant! You love me more than anyone I've known. "

"Then what's the problem? You don't need those people who don't love you. You have me. You will have me forever and ever. I will never leave you. And you will never leave me either. We'll be with each other till the end of the world darling. "

Nodding with a small smile you looked down at your feet.

Unhappy with your action, Moon-Jo pulls your face up by your chin to look at him with such force, it scared you a little, making your heart skip a beat in fear.

" Do you not love me, babe? " He asked tilting his head to a side, his expression mildly offended.

" I do! I love you. So much. " You finished with a soft tone, cupping his face with your hands.

Grinning like a Cheshire Cat, Moon-Jo leaned down to capture your lips with his. Reacting immediately, you kissed him with as much energy and sincerity you could muster, as you head filled with thoughts of doubt.

Had your parents been right? Had for friend been right? Had they all been right all along and you too blind to see?

No. It can't be. He loves you. He's said that so many times. And you love him.

You love him.

You.

Love.

Him.

...

Do you love him, or have you been illusioned into loving him?

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Sovereign Talks (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil Genre: Bit of angst sandwiched between two pieces of fluff Rating: T for language Notes: Another partially/selectively mute reader story! Again, this is somewhat self indulgent, essentially being a self-insert story with edits to make it better for a wider audience. PS Daniela says some stuff that's kinda insulting, though it's out of misunderstanding rather than poor intentions, and she tries to make up for it. Also, some of the descriptions of the reader's muteness might not make sense to everyone, as I'm essentially describing how it feels for me, personally. Summary: Daniela's favorite servant is sweet, charming, eager to please, all the things she wants from a romantic partner. But there's one detail she's never quite understood. An argument, a discussion, an inevitability.

Try as you might, it was nigh impossible to please your employer. No matter what you did, there was always something wrong, and Daniela Dimitrescu was more than pleased to point it out to you. At least her intentions weren’t severe. It didn’t really bother her if you missed a spot while dusting, or if you accidentally stumbled upon a ‘private’ conversation. What mattered to her, at the end of the day, was having material to tease you with, or ‘bargain’ with. She’d approach you slowly, musing out loud about your chores. Then she’d point out a flaw, smirking ever so slightly, before placing a finger beneath your chin. You’d make awkward eye contact, desperate to get out of the situation.

And then she’d tell you exactly what she wanted from you.

Most days it was simple enough. Or at least it had been at the start, when she first sought you out. ‘Carry these books for me’, she’d say, beckoning you to follow her. ‘Make a copy of this poem so I can return the book to Duke’, she’d command. Every single time you were powerless to refuse. Hell, you couldn’t even say anything if you wanted to. So you did as she asked. In time, you came to realize the truth behind her actions, the center of her motivations: She wanted to spend time with you.

You had been baffled, at first, to connect the dots in such a way. But Daniela made no attempt to hide her feelings, letting her touches linger on your skin, smiling without any cruelty when you were near. Once, she had even covered for you after you broke a vase. When you had tried to protest, hands waving, mouth refusing to speak, she had shrugged you off with a simple ‘you are worth the price’. Ever since then, the two of you had been rather close. Sure, she had never officially asked you on a date, but she had held your hand while the two of you read. And she had held you, swaying back and forth, as music played in a distant room. Then there were the times she caught you in the corridor, pressing you against the wall for a quick kiss… or a long one, that is. Certainly that meant something? Otherwise you’d look quite silly, blushing as hard as you tended to.

Eventually your concerns subsided considerably. It took a long, difficult conversation, however, and an argument you’d never forget…

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

“Have you read Crier’s War yet?” Daniela asked, looking at you over her own book. The two of you were in her personal study, near the library, lounging in peaceful quiet. Well, it had been quiet. At her question you glance up, ensuring you made eye contact before shaking your head no. “I think you’d like it. Impossible love between two people from vastly different cultures, who start out opposed… sounds familiar, hmm?” This time you nod, laughing a little under your breath. Then you’re returning to your novel, oblivious to the way your partner is watching you, her eyes narrowed. When she catches your attention once more, it’s with a question you had hoped she would never ask. “Why don’t you talk?”

Trying to hide your discomfort, you practically bury your nose in your book, refusing to look up at Daniela. In response she grabs your notepad, slowly sliding it closer to you. For every second of silence she moves it another centimeter. With a slight groan you give in, snatching it from her hands, but sending her a glare as you do. Quickly you grab your pen and scrawl her a note. Not an answer, rather a question of your own.

“Why does it matter?” Clearly that wasn’t what she was looking for, as she leans back and gives a groan of her own.

“Seriously? I’m just curious. You can laugh, groan, make other, nice little noises… I just want to know how you work,” Daniela explained, frowning all the while. Admittedly, you understand where she’s coming from. But that didn’t mean that you were terribly comfortable with this conversation. In fact, it’s a subject you’ve been dreading ever since the two of you started ‘dating’. How exactly were you supposed to explain your condition? Especially without being able to talk directly through it?

“It’s complicated,” you write, angling the paper so Daniela can read it from her side of the table. But she only spares it a quick glance, before staring hard at you again. “Fine, babe. My mouth feels like static. My tongue is heavy, and trying to talk is like walking when both your legs are asleep. There’s never not a lump in my throat.” Now she’s reading attentively, frown vanishing, replaced by a confused expression. Shifting awkwardly, you internally pray that she doesn’t have any follow up questions. Alas, there are no gods on your side this day.

“Did something happen? Or were you… born like this?” Daniela asked, watching you closely. Frustrated, you give her a pleading look, hoping that she’d get the message and back off. Instead she doubles down. “We could arrange for a doctor to come out here, if that’s what you need. All you have to do is tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t expect you to understand. It’s a multifaceted issue, and-” you have to turn the page to continue writing at this point- “a very personal one. But if you must know, it has to do with my anxiety.” There’s a pause, and for a few seconds you think the conversation is over. The relief that floods your chest only lasts a single moment. Then you’re face to face with Daniela, who’s leaning across the table, eyeing you with an expression you can’t make sense of. Now your heart is racing, leaving you trembling.

“So… it’s not a matter of whether or not you can talk at all? It’s a choice?” Daniela questioned, sounding aggravated. Instantly you’re shaking your head, scowling at her interpretation of your words. “What, you’re saying you can’t even relax enough to talk around me? Your fucking girlfriend?” This was exactly the sort of thing you had been worried about. How could you expect Daniela to understand the way your mind locked your jaw in place? How could she ever realize how terrifying the whole castle was?

“Calm down and let me elaborate, please,” you write, as fast as you can. But Daniela yanks your notebook away from you, tossing it to the side. All you can do is stare at her in shock. This was more than just a misunderstanding, this was her actively sabotaging your only reliable method of communication.

“You want me to calm down? Can’t you see why I’m upset? I just found out my partner isn’t comfortable around me. We could have been talking all this goddamn time! Why haven’t you told me this before? Why haven’t we worked on this?” Daniela was practically yelling now, and both of you had risen to your feet. You’ve backed away a meter or so, only for her to close the space between you, one hand cupping your cheek. No matter how hard you try, you can’t bring yourself to look her in her eyes. “C’mon, please,” she whispered, voice barely audible. Tears are starting to cloud your vision. “Say something. Anything.”

Wordlessly, you pull yourself from her grasp, too overwhelmed to do anything other than let your feet carry you out of the room. Half to your relief, half to your misery, Daniela doesn’t lift a finger to stop you.

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

Two weeks. That’s how long it had been since you ‘talked’ to Daniela. Ever since, she had been avoiding you, and you her. Hell, for three days you struggled more than usual to communicate with anyone because you hadn’t dared to go back for your notebook. In the end someone had found you a new one. It didn’t quite feel the same though, considering your normal one had been a gift… a gift from the very person who had taken it away from you. For two weeks it had felt like every single thing was another reminder of your loneliness. You wanted desperately to fix your situation, but had no clue where to even begin. Until an irritated Cassandra hatched a devious plan, that is.

You weren’t privy to the specific details of her scheme, and could only guess as to her motivations (presumably being annoyed by Daniela’s sulking). All you really knew was that one moment you were following the middle child, supposedly to assist her with organizing something, and the next you were being shoved in an unfamiliar room. Inside, Bela was trying to stall Daniela, making up a ridiculous excuse for her to be there. As soon as you entered, the eldest daughter made a beeline (flyline?) towards the exit. Before either you or your girlfriend could process what was happening, the door had been shut and locked, trapping the two of you within.

“What the fuck?” Daniela asked, temporarily ignoring you in favor of pounding on the door. It didn’t budge, unsurprisingly, but someone outside did yell in response. Not that you could make out what the muffled voice was saying. “Ugh, I swear I am going to kill them for this.” Unable to get out, she finally turns to look at you. In an instant the anger drains from her face, replaced with a bittersweet smile. There’s enough tension in the room to weigh the corners of your lips down. It’s getting harder to breathe, and you can’t quite look Daniela in the eyes. “Hey. Hey, c’mon, if they’re going to be assholes, we might as well make the most of it, right?” She asked, voice a million times softer than you would have expected, considering your previous conversation. With that she moves to sit down, gesturing for you to join her.

“Mmm?” You ‘say’, really just making a confused humming sound. For once, you do want to talk. More than any other time you’ve wanted to. But your tongue was caught in the bear trap your teeth represented, preventing almost any sound from escaping. Still, this is a side of Daniela that you do not often see, with how prideful she tended to be. All it takes to get you to move is for her to pat the spot next to her. Then you’re shifting, blushing hard as you lower yourself onto the couch. Not quite ready to meet her gaze, you stare at your thumbs, twiddling them like an anxious child.

“Bela seems to think that I’ve made a fool of myself in front of you,” Daniela mused, more to herself than to you. One of her hands slides towards you, however, eagerly intertwining her fingers with your own. After two whole weeks of isolation… it’s an amazing feeling. “I said something stupid. It’s been driving me mad, and I have no clue what to do about it. Fuck-” she flinches as she speaks, eyes clamping shut- “I just want to fix this. I want you to feel good around me. I want you to feel the same way I do. More than anything, I want to be your safe haven.”

Your eyes meet, finally, as warmth floods your chest. Words fail you, as they are wont to do, so you leave them behind. Instead you reach for your stars- the body of your girlfriend, pulling yourself into her arms. Even as tears drip down your cheeks, you are smiling softly, overwhelmed by the embrace. Soon enough you can feel Daniela rubbing soft circles into your back with her fingers. She presses a gentle kiss to the side of your head, enjoying the hug too much to pull back even the slightest bit.

“Is there anything I can do? Anything to make you more comfortable?” She asked, for a moment not even realizing the difficulty you would have with responding. Finally connecting the dots, she changes the position of her arms, ensuring that you could stay in her lap while still being able to gesture with your hands. Instead of replying, your first concern is to gently cup your girlfriend’s cheek. Then you place a kiss on her forehead. “You’re my everything, you know that, right?” Daniela whispered, sounding almost in awe. Suddenly you’re possessed by a rush of courage, clearly bolstered by her affection, and you move without thinking. You lean back in for another kiss, hand moving to the back of her head for stability.

Both of you are smiling now, even as your kiss gets more intense, the two of you pressing against each other as best as you can. One of Daniela’s hands runs itself through your hair, before taking it in a loose grip. All you can think about is how right this feels. Your heart is racing, especially as your girlfriend switches to an open mouth kiss, letting her tongue slide across your lips. It catches you off guard, and you need to pull back to catch the breath she had so eagerly stolen. Even then you swear you can feel her pulse pounding just as hard as yours is.

“Sorry, I got a little carried away,” Daniela murmured, embarrassed, worried that you had stopped for a very different reason. In response you shake your head a little, then practically smother her face in tiny kisses. She’s giggling at that, grinning, all of her anxiety fading away. Most of yours does too. Everything feels perfect. So much so, in fact, that you feel something you haven’t felt in almost an entire year: The loosening of your jaw muscles. Clarity unstiffens your tongue, making age-old static clear up. Can I…? You wonder, wanting so desperately to use this opportunity as best as you can. After all, who knew when you’d ever be this comfortable within the castle again. Hell, the thought alone makes you more nervous, and you struggle to think of something, anything, to say.

“L-l… Love,” you stuttered, barely getting the syllable out, mouth feeling incredibly dry, mind racing, hating how it sounds because holy shit you haven’t talked in a year and was Daniela going to hate your voice and forget all about what you were saying and ruin the moment or worse was she going to hate you or thoughts thoughts pounding in your head like a hurricane, because because because-......................... Anxiety, above all else, was an asshole. One that had prevented you from hundreds of conversations, and limited a thousand more. Now, moments after finally speaking, your mind is on the brink of a tear-worthy breakdown. But you’ve said your piece, and by God has it been received.

“Yes, absolutely, fuck baby, I love you so much!” Daniela cried, equally overwhelmed, for a far different reason. She’s holding you as close as she can, burying her face in your neck. Likewise you rest yourself against her, letting your eyes drift shut, happy beyond description. There were still things you had to talk about, yes, and you would once more have to rely on your trusty notebook. Daniela had a lot to learn, to understand, but this was a start. More than that, it was the first step after the mending of a broken bone. Everything to come would be far, far easier, a labor of love done fearlessly.

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

“Should we open the door now? Or at least unlock it?... How long does it take two idiots to stop being mad at each other?” Cassandra asked, leaning against the hallway wall. Meanwhile Bela had her ear to the door, straining to hear what was going on within. Sure, she had gone along with her younger sister’s plan, but she hadn’t been entirely convinced that it wouldn’t end in disaster. Then again, so far so good. No yelling, no (loud) crying, just some quiet words from Daniela. Maybe they’re working things out, Bela thought, starting to smile. And then she heard something she’d never forget…

“Yes, absolutely, fuck baby, I love you so much!”

“We are not opening that door,” Bela replied, suddenly, her ears burning red. She didn’t know how things had gone from so quiet to so potentially dirty in such a short amount of time, and she did not care. Without even a hint of an explanation, she turned to leave, desperate to get certain mental images out of her head...

[scuttling]

(You Want To) Make a Memory

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina Original Female Character Word Count: 19,858 Chapters: 5 of 5 Complete Tags: 18+, NSFW, Amnesia, Anxiety attacks, Sex dreams, Dom/sub, Daddy kink, Praise kink, Unprotected sex, Vaginal fingering, Dirty talk, Choking, Biting, Hickies, Oral sex, Making love, Angst and feels, Shower sex, Size kink Summary: Sophie gets amnesia while working a case and forgets everything from the last two years: her friends, her job at the BAU, and her boyfriend, Aaron. Note: This is a reformatted, previously published work. :)

Link to AO3 or read Chapter 1 below!

The thing Sophie finds most complicated about her work at the BAU is that it’s their job to predict the unpredictable. Yes, they are all highly educated, knowledgeable profilers, with decades of experience between them, and human behavior typically follows patterns that are easily discernible if you have the right training. But even armed with all the information, all the statistics, all the data, there’s one thing they can never really know for certain: what a desperate person will do in the heat of the moment.

The unsub they are looking for is a white male, aged 25-35, who lives alone, has a steady daylight job, drives a red pickup truck, and has a problem with older female authority figures. Sophie could go on and on about this particular type of unsub—she could tell you where he shops, how he spends his evenings, his favorite sport/team/player, probably even what he’ll eat for dinner tonight—but there’s no way she can know how he’ll react to the FBI at his door, or the consequences his actions will have.

The team is canvassing the neighborhood they believe the unsub resides in, and she and Spencer were assigned the four hundred block; they each take a separate side of the street, and work their way down house by house trying to find someone who fits the profile, or knows someone who does.

“Any luck?” Sophie asks Spencer when they meet back up at the end of the the block. He grimaces, uncertain.

“There was one guy, but…” She gestures toward the SUV and they walk toward it together.

“What happened? Profile didn’t fit?”

“He was the right demographic, the vehicle fit, but he wasn’t disorganized. In fact, his home looked like it belonged in a catalog: photos on the walls, decorative items, nothing out of place.” She frowns a little, because it’s clear this guy has raised some red flags for her partner, and she trusts his intuition when it comes to stuff like this.

“And he lives alone?” she asks, confirming. That’s a pretty big part of the profile, considering what he does to the victims. He nods.

“Yes, no indication of a girlfriend or wife living there.” Sophie blows out a breath, leans against the side of the SUV.

“Okay, let’s brainstorm. Maybe... he hires a housekeeper.” Spencer shrugs.

“He didn’t seem like the type, but I guess it’s possible.”

“Alright, well… Okay, so our profile is of a man who kills older women because he has an issue with an older woman who is an authority figure in his life. We thought maybe his boss, but what if it’s his mother?” she asks, face lighting up a little. This theory makes more sense, actually. “What if she comes over while he’s at work, cleans the place up, redecorates, just takes complete control of his life, even his private space, and he loses it?” He nods enthusiastically.

“That is extremely more likely. Now that I think of it, all the photos were of him and an older woman who could be his mother.” Sophie pulls out her phone, gestures over her shoulder with her thumb.

“Let’s head back there; Hotch and JJ are just around the corner, I’ll let them know we might need backup. 412?”

“Yeah—hey, that’s the truck. That’s the truck,” he says with more urgency, pointing down the street at a rapidly approaching red pickup truck that matches the description of the unsub’s. Shit.

“Okay, get in the car, call Hotch,” she instructs, and they both barely make it in before the truck rear-ends the SUV on the driver's side; Sophie’s head hits off the steering wheel hard, and the car rocks, and she looks over at Spencer, a little disoriented, to make sure he’s okay. He’s holding his wrist, like maybe he hurt it bracing himself.

When she gets her bearings, she starts the car, throws it into reverse, ready to apply a little force and potentially keep him from striking again, but he backs up, speeds up, and cuts the wheel to go around them, striking her door and driving past. It’s then that another SUV cuts him off, and Hotch and JJ jump out, guns drawn; the unsub raises his hands, surrenders, and it’s over as quickly as it began.

“Sophie?” She can hear her name, but her head is swimming. She touches the cut above her temple, pulls back a hand covered in blood, but she knows head injuries bleed heavily, so she’s not worried. She’s more worried that she can’t tell where that voice is coming from. It’s like she’s in a fun house, sounds echoing from all sides. “Sophie, can you hear me?” She hums in response.

Kind hands are on her face, turning it toward the sun, and she scrunches her eyes at the brightness. She knows the hands are trying to help, but her head already hurts, and the light isn’t doing her any favors.

“Gotta… get up,” she mumbles, and the hands hold her waist, help her out of the car. Her left foot hurts when she puts her weight down on it, and she almost folds, but the hands hold her up, and she thinks she smiles.

“Reid—is she okay?” That voice is a voice that makes her want to answer immediately, even if her brain hasn’t quite caught up. She stumbles over her words.

“‘M okay. Just my… head.” A different pair of hands hold her up, and her brain is working enough to recognize that she loves the smell of the person attached to the hands. They are serious hands, and one of them sweeps gently over her face.

“Can you open your eyes for me, baby, please?” that good voice asks, and she wants to do anything the voice asks, but her eyes really hurt. She must say that out loud, because the voice says softly, “That’s alright, don’t strain yourself. Medics on the way. You’re going to be fine.”

“Tell him…” She is placed back in the car, can feel the softness of the seat against her back, and it’s nice. “Tell him that was mean… and not to do it again.” She feels lips on her face, turns toward them, sighs when they brush over hers. “Mmm. Or I’m going to… tell his mother.”  When Sophie wakes up, she feels like she’s been repeatedly punched in the head, thrown down a flight of stairs, and then run over by a truck, so, naturally, she groans. She doesn’t dare open her eyes at first, can already see the fluorescents flickering through her eyelids, but her mouth is dry, and since she knows she must be in a hospital, she knows that there’s a little plastic pitcher of water somewhere within her reach.

Cautiously, she cracks one eye, finds the pitcher and a kind looking woman with fair skin and dark bangs staring back at her.

“You’re awake!” she whispers excitedly, and she leans forward for a hug, which Sophie does not return, because she doesn’t know the woman. The woman must feel the tension in Sophie’s body as she sits, arms at her sides, and waits for the hug to end, because she pulls back, concerned. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she begins, unsure of how to put this politely. Her voice is dry, rough, and the woman pours her a glass of water, which she takes gratefully. “I’m sorry, I just… I don’t… Do I know you?” Her face falls, and she looks confused, and then abruptly worried.

“My name is Emily. Prentiss. Does that ring a bell?” Sophie thinks back, tries to navigate around the pounding in her temples, and ultimately shakes her head.

“No, I’m sorry. And I mean no disrespect—I meet a lot of people for work, so sometimes it’s hard to keep track.”

“Where do you work?”

“I work for the FBI. Intelligence.” Sophie takes in the woman’s outfit—black turtleneck, gray pants, boots, government issued handgun—and tilts her head curiously. “And you?”

“FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit.” She pulls her bag closer on the seat beside her, pulls out her credentials, lets Sophie hold them. “Have you heard of it?”

“Sure, of course. I have an interview there next week, actually.” She hands back the badge with a smile. “Small world. Uh, do you think that what happened to me occurred because of a crime, or something? Is that why you’re here?"

Agent Prentiss gives her a sad smile, then stands, pulling out her cell phone. “You know, we’re really not sure what’s going on. Excuse me for one moment, I need to make a call. I’ll get your doctor while I’m out there.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Sophie calls as she heads out of the room, and she pours another glass of water.

When the agent returns with the doctor, she looks tenser, but the doctor just shoots her a kind smile. “Hello, Sophie. I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

“Thank you; I’m glad to be awake. How long have I been out?”

“About two days. You were in a car accident, do you remember that?” She’d catalogued her injuries while alone—laceration to the head, some pain and swelling there; aching wrist, sore but unbroken; bruised ankle, tender but okay to put pressure on—and they are consistent with a car accident, but she shakes her head.

“No, ma’am, I don’t remember.” The doctor frowns, an expression the agent behind her mirrors.

“What’s the last thing you do remember?”

“Um.” She closes her eyes, thinks hard for a moment, but it hurts her eyes. “I was driving home from work, I think? Or about to leave for the day. It’s kind of blurry.”

“That’s alright, don’t press too hard. It should come back to you in no time.” She steps around the bed to pull her chart off the wall, skims it briefly. “We’re going to have to run some scans; I’ll give you a moment with Agent Prentiss, and then I’ll send someone in to take you down to the lab, okay?”

“Sure. Thank you, doctor.” The woman smiles and walks out of the room, leaving her with the clearly unhappy agent. “Is everything okay, Agent Prentiss? You look about as bad as I feel.” The woman sighs, drops back down into her seat, folds her hands in her lap.

“The doctor believes you’re suffering from retrograde amnesia. You don’t remember some things you should remember. Quite a bit of time.” Her throat goes dry again, her heart beats rapidly in her chest.

“That’s not possible. I remember driving home from work… or, getting in the car to drive home from work, just the other day.” She shakes her head like she’s not sure what to say.

“I know, Sophie, but that’s not a recent memory. You don’t work at the Grant building anymore.”

“What do you mean? I’m the Intelligence liaison. I mean, I applied for the BAU job…” She’s wanted to work there since she found out about it, to put her degrees to good use; to get an interview is almost unheard of, everyone told her, but she made the cut, even bought a new suit to wear. It’s still hanging in her closet.

“And you got it,” Prentiss says gently, reaching forward to take her hand. “You and I have been working together at the BAU for almost two years.”

Sophie can’t be blamed, she doesn’t think, when she leans over, reaches for the wastebasket, and promptly vomits.  “So I’m a profiler, and I’ve been one for two years. I work with you and we’re friends,” Sophie repeats as a bit of a recap. Prentiss nods.

“Yep. Those who profile serial killers together, stick together.” She says it with a smile that doesn’t touch her eyes.

“Wow. Okay. I’m really sorry I don’t remember you.” She shrugs it off, and Sophie sighs. “Any other major life events I should know about? Did I get a cat, go vegan?”

“You don’t have time for a pet, and you like cheese too much,” Prentiss jokes, but that does sound like something she’d say. Her face gets serious after that, and she even looks nervous. It makes Sophie nervous, too. “You have a boyfriend.”

That raises her eyebrows.

“I have a boyfriend.” She smiles softly, nods.

“Yes. He’s… it’s funny, because he’s actually... our boss.” Sophie blanches. Talk about a close-knit group.

“I’m sleeping with my boss? That is not like me.” She barely sleeps with anyone, too busy focusing on her career and not that into one-night-stands, but her boss of all people? That’s just plain stupid.

“It’s really not like that, trust me. You two are in love.” Okay, she’s heard enough. Maybe Prentiss is a prankster, playing some wildly hilarious joke on her amnesiac pal.

“I’m in love. Did I actually say that?” She knows herself pretty well, flaws and all, and she’s been a vehement skeptic when it comes to love for… god, as long as she can remember—no pun intended. Prentiss nods, looks very serious.

“Yes, I’ve heard you say it many, many times. You two live together.”

“We live together? For how long?” This can’t be right; one of the things she values most is her privacy, her solitude. She lives a quiet, simple life, aside from being an FBI agent, and she likes it that way.

“About six months,” she answers carefully.

“We’ve lived together for six months? How long have we been dating?” Her voice sounds a little shrill even to her own ears. Prentiss is being very cool about it all, doesn’t so much as blink.

“It’s a year next week, actually. He’s been trying to come up with a surprise for your anniversary.” Sophie feels a little lightheaded.

“Anniversary. Fuck.” She squeezes her eyes shut, which hurts, opens them only so the pain will go away. She knows they’re teary, can’t help it, but she doesn’t want Prentiss to see her like this. She hates being vulnerable, always has. “I can’t remember two years of my life. I can’t remember my own boyfriend, my own job. My friends.”

“I can tell you about them, if you want,” she offers cautiously. “The doctor said it could help, but if you feel like it’s too much, let me know.”

Sophie nods carefully. She wants to know, she needs to know.

Prentiss—Emily—is so genuinely kind. She sits there for an hour, tells Sophie about work, and their team—their friends, because the group is very tight, gets together for dinner and drinks, and they all support each other’s non-bureau endeavors, and she feels so sad that she can’t remember them, can’t recall anything Emily is rattling off so easily it’s like she doesn’t even have to think about it.

She talks about some tough cases they’ve worked on, and how they always end with a cookout or a family dinner so they can remember why they do the hard things, why they keep fighting. She talks about people they’ve helped, saved, brought comfort to. She talks about flights home on the jet, how sometimes they sit in quiet, companionable silence and other times it’s all teasing and laughter and the good things in life.

Then she starts talking about Aaron—the boss/boyfriend—and Sophie does cry, a couple of tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. She’d never imagined in her life that she would be as loved as she is, if Emily’s stories are true, and the fact that she can’t remember any of it is like a knife to the gut. She wants to scream, to make someone pay for what she’s missing, but she knows none of that will bring her memory back, so she dials back the rage as quickly as it came—huh, that’s new.

Usually, her particular brand of anxiety attack would happen right about now, always worse when she’s afraid or angry. She anticipates tightening in her chest, shortness of breath, ringing in her ears that takes forever to go away, but it doesn’t come. She’s able to calm herself with a deep breath, and despite the fact that the rest of her life is a dumpster fire right now, this feels kind of good. It feels like progress, not a story told through someone else’s eyes, but a tangible feeling she can hold onto and think, I am a different version of Sophie than I was two years ago. A better version, maybe. But at least different. That, above everything else, makes it real.

A nurse walks in to take Sophie down for scans, and Emily just smiles, a bit sadly, and tells her she’ll be there waiting when she returns.

It’s a small comfort, something she holds onto as she’s taken down to the lab. When Sophie makes it back to her room, Emily is waiting there as promised, and she has a duffle bag sitting on the bed. “The doctor says you can go home while they wait for the scans,” she says with a smile; she probably thinks it will make Sophie happy, and it does, but the idea of going to a home she’s never been to is a little unsettling. Still, it’s nice to know there are people who care about her who will help her through it, that she’s not alone. That’s not something Sophie of two years ago would have been able to count on.

She smiles back, and Emily helps her change into clothes that somehow still smell like the hospital, but it feels better to be dressed and not stuck in the flimsy hospital gown that always makes you feel weaker and sicker, more injured than you really are.

She hears a voice from out in the hall, a voice that catches her attention immediately, and she walks over to the door, peeks her head out to see if she can find the man it belongs to.

She does, and he is almost too good-looking to be real. Somehow, she both instinctively knows that this man is Aaron, and can’t see how that could possibly be true.

“Emily. Is that Aaron?” she asks to confirm, pointing to the tall, serious-looking, frankly smoldering hot man having a conversation with her doctor at the end of the hall. She peeks her head out the door too, looks toward him with a smile.

“Yeah, that’s him. Do you remember him?” Her tone is guarded but hopeful, and Sophie sighs.

Remember him, no, not in the way she means, but every cell in her body feels alive and on fire just from catching a glimpse of his face, so she’s pretty sure Emily is right and she’s crazy in love with him. And his suit. Who looks that good in a suit?

Her boyfriend, apparently. Who she lives with. Who she’s been with for a year. Her mind is still a little blown.

“I don’t recall any memories of him,” she whispers, as if he can hear her from down the hall, “but, uh. I think my body remembers him.” Emily looks at her, eyebrow quirked, and she blushes. “Or, you know. Parts of it.”

Realization dawns, and Emily grins. “Okay yeah, that tracks. You two are kind of all over each other. It’s an intense vibe.” Sophie takes a moment to imagine that, what it would be like to be in a relationship with this man.

He looks intense, which can be good or bad, with the kind of mouth you could kiss forever, smile against. He’s taller than her by about a foot, which thrills her, and broad, as evidenced by the jacket stretched across his shoulders, which really thrills her. He’s older, maybe early forties, which she doesn’t feel particularly strongly about one way or another, with gorgeous dark hair and eyes, and when he shakes hands with the doctor, silver wrist watch gleaming under the fluorescent lights, her mouth practically waters.

“Earth to Sophie. You’ve got a little drool, there,” Emily teases, pointing to her own mouth, and Sophie groans.

“You didn’t prepare me. You didn't tell me he was hot.” Aaron turns away from the doctor, starts walking down the hall toward her room, and she ducks out of the doorframe, Emily following suit. She puts a hand to her forehead, not in physical pain, but mental pain for sure. “God, this is going to be so awkward. I’ve got a total lady boner for the guy I’m in love with that I can’t even remember.”

“It might be a little awkward at first, but you guys are sweet together. He’s going to be so caring and understanding, give you all the time you need.” She puts her hands on Sophie’s arms, grounding her. “We’re going to focus on trying to get your memories back, but the doctor said you shouldn’t stress.”

“That’s easy for her to say,” she mutters, crossing her arms, “she didn’t forget her big sexy boyfriend.” She hears a soft chuckle from behind her and instantly flushes, which makes Emily grin.

“Sophie, this is Aaron.” She physically turns her, and Aaron is smiling gently, which makes him look even better than when he was serious and expressionless. Her heart thrums in her chest.

“Hi. I’m sorry I don’t remember you. I want to.” She sticks out her hand for a shake, feels dumb instantly, but he takes it anyway, holds it for a moment. His hand is rough, so much bigger than hers, and part of her hopes he never lets go.

“That’s alright. Dr. Bracken is confident you’ll recover all of your memories in time. She’s given me some instruction on ways we can try to jog your memory, but no stress, like Emily said.”

“I guess we’re not considering the fact that losing two years of your life is a little stressful,” she counters, and he laughs again.

“You haven’t lost anything. Just misplaced them for a while.” He steps toward her, like he wants to touch her, comfort her maybe, but freezes, thinks better of it. She’s torn between wanting to get to know him better first and wanting to jump into his arms immediately, so she decides to let him set the pace. “So… Do you want to come home with me?” His voice is soft, hopeful, matching his eyes. “Garcia—our friend, another coworker of ours—has offered to put you up at her place if you’re not comfortable with that, so no worries either way. You have a place to go.”

Her stomach sinks a little at the thought of being anywhere but home, even though she has no idea where that is, and she looks back at Emily, who smiles encouragingly.

“I think I want to go home,” she decides after a moment, and she turns back to look at Aaron. “Is that okay with you?” He nods seriously.

“Yes, of course. I want you home with me. I just wanted you to know you had other options.” Emily slips past her, a hand on her elbow, and finishes gathering up her belongings while they talk. “The rest of the team is going to come over for a little bit, if you’re okay with that. The doctor said it would be a good idea, since you spend most of your time with them, but if at any point it gets overwhelming, let me know. No hard feelings if we send everyone home.”

“Okay,” she breathes, her head already swimming a bit just from talking to Aaron, and he does step forward, then, giving her her space but indicating that he wants to come closer, if she’ll let him.

“May I put this on you?” he murmurs, and opens his palm to display her rose necklace, the one she wears, must still wear, everyday. At least that hasn’t changed. “The EMTs gave it to me when they brought you in. I’ve been holding onto it for safekeeping.” She nods, turns around, and he slips it around her throat, clasps it, brushes a careful hand over her neck to move her hair out of the way. “That’s better,” he says, his breath ghosting over her skin, and she sighs, wants to sink back against the heat of his body; she just knows how comforting it would be, how safe she would feel. Instead, she turns and smiles softly.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” They hold eye contact for a moment, and then Emily appears at her side, making a face like she knows she’s interrupting something.

“Ready to get going?” she asks, handing Sophie’s duffle bag over to Aaron. “I’m going to stop at home and then I’ll head to your place.”

“Absolutely. Thank you, Emily,” Sophie says sincerely, stepping forward to pull her into a tight hug. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I hope I remember more about you soon.”

“I’m happy I could be here, and I know you will. Just give it some time.” She pats her on the back, and then leaves the room.

Aaron carries her bag and leads her out to the parking garage, toward a standard federal issued SUV, and he opens the door for her, closes it behind her with a gentle smile.

Time to go home.

Taglist ❤️: @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal

[blitzturtles]

Title: Guilt

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Stardust Crusaders (set after Golden Wind, given Jolyne's age.)

Pairing(s): JotaKak, JoKa, (Platonic) Jotaro & Jolyne, (Platonic) Kakyoin & Jolyne

Summary: Kakyoin is in the middle of answering one of Jolyne's many questions when he feels something twist violently inside his abdomen. He tastes what he thinks might be bile at rist, but the metallic tinge registers, and,

Oh god, no. Not here. Please not here.

Notes: Involves emergency surgery, chronic pain, preteen!Jolyne, PTSD, disabled Kakyoin, and near death experiences.

-

Here's the thing: Jolyne hates him. It's not a secret, and it's definitely not something that she bothers to hide from him. Jotaro keeps swearing that she'll come around. Says she's just stubborn (like her father is, Kakyoin sometimes thinks with far too much affection for a man that regularly drives him up the wall). There's also the fact that she's a preteen, and kids are apparently just like that at her age.

Here's the thing: Kakyoin would hate him, too. If he were in her situation. He's petty on a good day, and a right bastard on any other. He can't imagine being in her situation. With divorced parents who, while amicable, are both ridiculously successful and constantly busy. And then waltzed in Kakyoin, right in the middle of it. Though 'waltz' is a bit of a stretch. He doesn't do anything like that with his plated spine and braced legs, but none of that matters. The real point is that he gets it.

He does his best to never push more than he has to. For the most part, he lets Jolyne do her own thing, because she's a Kujo and a Joestar. She's going to do what she wants anyways. His opinion be damned, though he does try to reason with her. Hell, he's given into bribing every once in a while. (Sometimes the means don't matter when father and daughter are both happy at the end of the day.)

In short: Jolyne hates him, and Kakyoin understands.

______

Here's the thing: Jolyne finds Kakyoin to be a nuisance. An interference. One more complication to an already complicated life, and she's only eleven. She wants her parents to get over their bullshit (language!) and figure out how to make things work. She wants Kakyoin to go away, but that doesn't mean she wants him dead. Or injured. Even if she did wish him off the end of a pier that one time. Still.

They've admittedly grown to be more friendly over time. She talks to him now, which is an improvement to the chronic cold shoulder she gave him before. Sometimes she even asks him for help, because her dad can be surprisingly useless when it comes to school work (weren't you in school when I was little?) He always seems happy to help, and he never gets as frustrated as her dad.

So maybe she doesn't hate him, but she definitely wants him to go away.

______

Kakyoin is in the middle of answering one of Jolyne's many questions when he feels something twist violently inside his abdomen. He tastes what he thinks might be bile at rist, but the metallic tinge registers, and,

Oh god, no. Not here. Please not here.

He doesn't need to know-- specifically-- what went wrong to know that he's dying. The moment the pain goes from barely tolerable to utterly agonizing is about when his brain lets him know that he's operating on borrowed time.

Kakyoin could have used that warning approximately five minutes ago. Before the pain. Before he found himself in front of Jolyne.

"I'm sorry," he tries to say, hopes the words come out audible enough for her to understand.

There are tears welling up in her eyes, and they fall soon enough. God, he's made Jolyne cry. She's so young. So unprepared. And she looks so much like Jotaro. With panic stricken eyes and fingers that grasp for something to do. Some way to fix this. It makes his chest ache beyond the twisting and shearing that his insides are already doing.

(She looks exactly like Jotaro, in the hospital after the Foundation managed to retrieve them. The way her hands fumble in the air is so much like how Jotaro had reached out desperately, trying to hold onto Kakyoin, in case those had been his last moments. Like father, like daughter, Kakyoin thinks without humor.)

His knees hit the ground first, and that shoots pain up his legs and along his hips. The rest of it ricochets and dies somewhere midway up his spine. It's a momentary distraction away from the agony that is his middle. He reaches with his fingers to press against his stomach, half expecting them to sink inward (into nothingness. There's nothing. Dio punched a hole right through him, and he's going to die.)

Jolyne is yelling. His name at first, then for her father. Again, he's reminded of the day he died. Maybe it's all been a dream. He's waking up now and the end is pressing down on him. The light will follow soon. He knows; he's seen it before.

"Please!" Jolyne begs him, "I'm sorry!"

He is, too. It's the last thing he thinks before his eyes slide shut and the darkness grabs at him greedily.

______

There's shouting and bright lights and something covering his face. He can't make out anything with his vision so blurry, but he thinks he hears Jotaro's angry voice booming what could be an entire room away.

"If you fucking put a finger on him that isn't necessary to keep him alive. I'll fuck-"

"Dad!"

Jotaro inhales sharply but nods to the surgeon one, final time, "His team is on their way. Not a goddamn finger."

______

The Speedwagon Foundation has several doctors that Kakyoin sees on a semi-regular basis. Each is a specialist in their own right, and they're the only reason Kakyoin ever made it home from Egypt. They're also the only ones that regularly work on updating all the augmented parts and maintaining the damaged remains of Kakyoin's organs. They know him inside and out. Quite literally.

The team makes it to the hospital long before Kakyoin comes out of emergency surgery, which means the whole process is extended significantly. The upside (if it could be called that) is that Kakyoin doesn't have to be put under again. The downside is that it means they'll be waiting awhile.

Jotaro does his best to be strong for Jolyne. It's his job as a parent to keep a calm façade and push his emotions to the side. She needs someone to be her reassurance.

He fails miserably.

______

The head of the Foundation team emerges some hours later, looking a little worse for wear. The stoicism past that does little for Jotaro's nerves. It tells him nothing of what to expect.

"Well?"

"He's stable," the doctor answers. "We had to take out several inches of colon this time. If I had to guess, he probably believed himself to be having a flare. He adjusted to the pain until he became necrotic." His expression shifts into an unpleased frown, "He also has two ulcers. Has he changed his diet? Or experienced any new stressors?"

Jolyne's lip quivered as she processed the doctor's words. She thought over every time she and Kakyoin had fought in recent history. Most of it being her yelling at him.

Jotaro's focus remains fixated on the doctor, "What the hell kind of pain is he still having?"

The doctor-- one Jotaro recognizes from previous visits but can't recall the name of-- sighs, "Kakyoin will only allow us to do so much to help manage his pain. I'm not his specialist in that regard, but it's at his request that he's kept on very little in terms of medication."

Jotaro knows that. He knows that Kakyoin doesn't like what stronger pain meds do to his head, but how out of control is his pain that he didn't notice that he was dying? That his body has been rotting from the inside out for an unknown amount of time?

Jolyne shifts further behind him, drawing his attention to her. It's the only thing that spares the doctor whatever response Jotaro might have otherwise formed. He turns to look at Jolyne and is startled by the tears already trailing down her round cheeks. Realization hits him then.

She's eleven, and he's an idiot.

"Hey, hey. Enough with that. He's going to be okay," Jotaro says quickly. He should have- called her mother or his mother or literally anyone. This isn't a conversation she needed to be privy to.

"It's me," Jolyne chokes the words out. Her thin arms wrap tight around her middle, and she looks close to collapsing on the ground.

Jotaro, admittedly, has no idea what she's talking about, "What's you?"

"The stress!" She practically wails.

Jotaro sighs and moves to wrap his arms around Jolyne. He tugs her in against his chest. "That- that's not the kind of stress the doctor is talking about," he glances over his shoulder to see that the man had already dismissed himself. Smart guy.

"I'm always mean to him!"

Jotaro wants to laugh. Not at all because he thinks her words-- or her suffering-- are funny, but because the whole situation feels unreal. He cards his fingers through her hair instead. It's all the comfort he feels like he can offer in a situation like this. With his own resolve teetering on the edge.

"Takes a lot more than that to take out Noriaki," he's lying through his teeth. The whole new family thing might damn well be enough stress, but he's never going to let Jolyne think this is her fault. It's not. Kakyoin is capable of making his own decisions, and being part of their family is one of them.

Jolyne crumbles against him despite the gentle words, so he scoops her up and holds her against his chest. Even at eleven, she's nothing compared to his size. He finds a nearby seat to settle into and lets her cry while he whispers promises he can't be sure he'll be able to keep. Eventually he tries distracting her with facts about dolphins, and that either has some effect, or she passes out from exhaustion. Either way, he's relieved when she snores against his neck.

______

Kakyoin comes to the waking world in a haze. His head aches and his middle feels a lot like it might have been ripped open again. He hopes that whatever happened had been a little more civil than that.

It doesn't take him long to place himself in the hospital. That's good. He isn't dead, and he's not immediately at risk of falling into enemy hands. The beeping to his left is annoying, and he can't see well enough to make anything out on the monitors around him. His vision tends to be the last thing to recover when he's been knocked out for a while. Still, he turns his head to continue to take in what he can make out.

He stops short when he sees two people in chairs on his right side, closer to the door. The familiar hat catches his attention immediately, not that he needs to be able to see at one hundred percent (or his version of it) to know that the man is none other than Jotaro. His size will always give him away before anything else.

Jotaro's head is bowed in a way that indicates he's likely asleep. He's undoubtedly been here awhile. Jolyne sits beside him with her head pressed against her father's bicep. Star Platinum is out and wrapped around both of them. He lifts his hand from Jotaro a moment to wave at him brightly, which is enough to disturb his user's sleep.

"Mm?" Jotaro grunts. He opens his eyes and sucks in a breath. He takes a moment to compose himself, which is fine. Kakyoin thinks he probably looks worse than he feels, thanks to the drugs. He would make a joke about it, but moving still hurts.

"Good to see you awake. How're you feeling?" Jotaro asks. He doesn't move from his spot, if only to avoid waking up Jolyne, but that intense gaze is evaluating all the same.

Kakyoin gives a noncommittal answer, and Jotaro snorts, "That's what I thought you'd say. Good thing we have this." He reaches for the little controller on the side of Kakyoin's bed. He presses the red button before Kakyoin can protest.

The glare he shoots Jotaro is relatively short-lived, and it's hard to be mad when Jotaro looks so damn triumphant, even if it's about something that Kakyoin has complicated feelings about. He decides to let him have this one, considering the fact that he's pretty sure he gave them all one nightmarish scare.

"I'm sorry," he says after a while, head lulling back against the pillows. His red hair spreads out all around. It's longer now than it ever has been, but he hasn't felt the need to cut it beyond a simple trim in years. It doesn't matter, but it gives himself something to focus on rather than the gnawing guilt.

"Don't be."

"I- god, I never meant-"

"Kakyoin."

"If I had known, I would have left the room or-"

"Kak-"

"She was so afraid. And she-"

"Noriaki," Jotaro snaps more than says the name, but his eyes are soft. "You aren't the only one that made her cry in the last few hours, so you're not special." That's not true. Kakyoin is incredibly special, but he needs to make some kind of light-hearted comment before he starts crying. Nobody needs to see that.

"Still," Kakyoin mumbles, but he doesn't continue.

Jotaro reaches out with Star, who clasps his large hand over one of Kakyoin's. He wants to lean forward himself, but he doesn't want to wake Jolyne up. Not yet.

Kakyoin turns his palm up to tangle his fingers together with Star's. He brushes his thumb over the stand's, knowing Jotaro can feel it reflected on his skin.

"I really thought it was a flare," he says after a while, because he feels like he owes some sort of explanation after everything.

"Nori, I really can't tell you how much I don't give a damn about that," Jotaro frowns at his own words, "No, I mean- I care, but- fuck." He scrubs his hand over his face a few times before trying again, "You don't have to feel guilty for this shit, okay? I should have noticed you were in pain."

Kakyoin shakes his head. He squeezes Star's hand to make sure Jotaro's listening when he speaks, "It's not your fault. I deal with this pain all the time. It just- at first it felt like a flare, but I guess I got used to it." And every time the pain worsened, he acclimated until it had nearly killed him.

Jotaro doesn’t get a chance to respond before Jolyne is rustling against him. She opens her eyes a crack and reaches up to wipe at them with her fists. “Dad?”

“Right here,” Jotaro grunts in response. He squeezes her shoulder gently, then retracts his arm to give her space to stretch out. “Kakyoin is awake.”

He watches the fog clear from her eyes. They widen as she processes his words, and her attention immediately turns to the redhead, who waves meekly at her.

“Jolyne, I’m- oof!”

Star quickly gets his hands around Jolyne’s waist, suspending her in the air enough to keep her weight from falling too heavily onto Kakyoin. He lets her down carefully, and the youngest Kujo looks sheepish for her overreaction.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s alright,” Kakyoin says, curling an arm around her loosely in return. He hadn’t expected to be nearly tackled upon awakening. That went doubly so when considering Jolyne as a factor. She’s never hugged him before. Trauma is funny in that way; something he knows from first hand experience.

Jotaro steps up behind her and offers a small smile to Kakyoin, “We’re glad you’re alright.”

“Yeah!” Jolyne echoes, “You scared the shit out of us!”

“Jolyne,” Jotaro’s voice is gruff. An attempt at a warning that falls short. The way his lips pull further upward is a dead giveaway that he isn’t particularly upset by her language usage.

“It’s true!”

“Good grief.”

Kakyoin snorts at the father-daughter duo, relieved to see the two smiling again. Already bickering as per usual. There’s too much snark trapped in the Joestar bloodline, and it always amplifies whenever there’s more than one of them in a room. He��d know, having been on the road with Joseph and Jotaro in the past.

Somehow the back and forth settles into Jolyne rambling about dolphins. She regurgitates facts that-- for the most part-- Kakyoin already knows, but he feigns shock and awe at all the right places to keep her spirit up. It’s more healing to watch her babble emphatically than it is lying around in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. It eases some of the guilt, makes him feel lighter.

Eventually, Jotaro whiskers her out the door. Kakyoin catches sight of Holly, which must mean that Marina is tied up. Holly doesn’t come in, likely at her son’s behest. The woman is a mother through and through, and she can be a bit overwhelming at times. Better to focus all that maternal energy on Jolyne for now.

“You look tired,” Jotaro says when the door clicks shut behind the two. He takes his spot back next to Kakyoin’s bed, pulling his chair as close as he can. His knees grind against the railing of the bed a bit, but the distance allows him to lean forward and get a good look at his partner.

“I could say the same about you,” Kakyoin points out with a raised brow. He still can’t pick up his head for more than a few seconds at a time, and his vision remains fuzzy around the edges; a likely side effect of being drugged to the gills, but he isn’t blind. He can see the bags collecting under Jotaro’s eyes. Exhaustion-- emotional as much as it is physical-- already weighing his shoulders down.

Jotaro snorts an unamused sound, “I’m not the one that just had emergency surgery.”

Kakyoin winces at the reminder. “I’m-”

“If you finish that statement, I’m going to give you a reason to be sorry,” he isn’t. Jotaro won’t hurt him, but the words make Kakyoin close his mouth anyways. For a second.

“Oh, and how are you going to do that?”

Jotaro stares him down for a solid thirty seconds, expecting him to back down. When he doesn’t, the man pushes himself to his feet with an exasperated sigh. “Good grief, c’mere,” his fingers hook under Kakyoin’s chin, and he leans down to press their lips together.

As far as life affirming kisses go, it’s one of Jotaro’s more gentle ones, but Kakyoin feels the thrill of it chasing down his spine anyways.

“I love you,” Kakyoin murmurs as they break apart. He wants to add an apology to the end, but he bites his lip and keeps it to himself for now. He’ll find a way to make it up to Jotaro and Jolyne later.

“Love you, too, Tenmei.”

[usuallyamazinglyaverage]

Side By Side [Ethan x MC]

Hey there, ya lovely people!

I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and got to celebrate the season of giving with your family and friends. To end this year properly, I’m back with a bit of writing :)

I’m not gonna lie, the two months before the holidays were really rough and I had to sort so much shit out. It just kept me from most things I love doing in my free time, including talking with my friends and writing. That’s why this one took me a while to finish.

(Nevermind the fact that I rewrote this fic like two times, but that’s a story for another day)

I’ll most likely take a break from OH oneshots for a while (unless inspiration strikes me), but I am still working on stuff, inluding one or two AUs and fics for some other fandoms. I hope a breather to get my muse back on track is alright with you all ;)

I wish you all a safe journey into the next year - let’s pray it’ll be a better one <3

As always, I apologize for any grammar or spelling mistakes. Please enjoy!

Summary: Big steps in a relationship are always difficult - this one is no exception.

Warnings: Just some light teasing and a bit of language - this is mostly cheesy fluff <3 (I know, I’m surprised as well)

Note: MC of the fic is Annabelle Dawson. I created the header myself, hope it’s pleasing to the eye :) This is set a few months after the end of Book 2.

Taglist:  @perriewinklenerdie @andromedasinclaire @radlovedreamer @amillionmoonsred @hopelessromantic1352 @cordoniaqueensworld @paisleylovergirl  @fangirlingmum @bucket-harrington @lu-ciq @fairyrink @princess-geek @cyb3r-kat​ @whenyourheartskipsabeat @lady-kato @queenof1000days @sunflowergirl05 @jlpplays1 @tacohead13 @the-soot-sprite  @chasingrobbie @padfoot0415 @desiree-0816 @togetherwearerapture @thisperfectmemory @furiouscloddonutpeanut @tabootheunicorn @rookie-ramsey @theroseduelist @drakewalkerfantasy @lapisreviewsstuff @jooous @aworldoffandoms @edgiestwinter @inlovewithrebels @topsyturvy-dream @cerisesayeed-ramsey @i-bloody-love-drake-walker @marywitchjane @adrianrainesworld @zodiacsign1 @silverlitskies @trappedinfandoms @sherlockedmcu @drethanramslay @awhmilkywey @htgawparksandrec @theeccentricbibliophile @mvalentine @desmaranj @schnitzelbutterfingers @colourmeshy @mal-volaris @kaavyaethanramsey @riverrune @honeyandsunfl0wers @humanpokemon @ethandaddyramsey @lilyvalentine @mrsdrakewalkerblog @openheart12 @bellcat2010 @datynasuha  @caseyvalentineramsey @ethxnrxmsey @squishywizardhq @custaroonie @beckaroo @colossalpainintheass @takemyopenheart @justanotherrookie @honeyandsunfl0wers @maurine07  @grandnachoconnoisseur @dr-ramseys-rookie @myusualnerdyself @mrs-raleighcarrera @akshara16 @wingedhairstylemusicweasel​ @alookseeblog​

Song: If You Love Her by Forest Blakk

Ethan tried very hard to not look like he was running – and was failing spectacularly.

Some of his colleagues had to dodge out of his way as he strode through the hallways, white coat fluttering behind him, hands stuffed into the pockets. Slipping into the stairwell, the attending took two steps at a time, reaching the bottom floor quickly.

The atrium was packed, lit by the bright gray sky beyond the ceiling windows - reminding him that he was supposed to be busy in his office right now. Christmas was just around the corner, and after Edenbrook’s reopening, the paperwork had simply piled up, barely giving him time to bring some distance between him and his desk.

He dreaded going back already - but there was something he had to take care of first. Something that felt pivotal for his motivation right now.

Turning his head, Ethan let his eyes wander through the spacious room, from the stairs to the entrance and back again. Finally, he spotted a mess of golden locks, tucked into the usual practical ponytail.

She was with her friends, Trinh and Varma, already dressed in her day-to-day clothes, the strap of her bag slung over one shoulder. The two other women gave her a hug, shooing her along.

Ethan couldn’t help but feel silly when her bell-like, resounding laugh made his heart lurch in his chest, lifting his mood immediately.

Anna turned on her heels with one last wave and headed towards the doors, tucking up her scarf and the lapels of her jacket to ward off the oncoming cold. He waited until her friends went back to their conversation before following her, maneuvering through the crowd and catching up with the younger doctor in the light snowdrift outside.

His hand on her shoulder coaxed a tiny yelp from her, hazel eyes looking up at him with a gratified sort of wonder.

"Ethan? What-"

The older doctor cut Anna off by directing her against the wall framing the entrance, cupping her chin and gently tilting it up for easier access. The kiss was rougher than he would have liked, muscle memory taking over as he nipped on the corner of her mouth.

His former intern, however, didn’t seem to mind, parting her lips with a soft sigh.

Sliding his hands to the back of her jaw, he drew Anna closer, the sugary taste of her dissipating the rest of his stress. He smiled when she grew boneless against him, delicate fingers twirling his tie.

Eventually, they had to come up for oxygen, both drawing away with barely audible hums. Anna’s thoroughly addled expression filled him with an odd pride, her lashes fluttering against her reddened cheeks.

"Is it my birthday?“ she breathed. "Did I accidentally invent the cure for cancer? There must be something I did to deserve this."

"Actually, I just... wanted to wish you a good day," Ethan murmured, tucking a lock behind her ear. "We barely saw each other the past few days. I feel like I can’t catch a break at the moment."

Tenderness seeped into her gaze, liquefying the color to a point where he wanted to drown in it and never come out again.

"Did this help?"

He chuckled. "More than you know."

"Well, feel free to do that anyti-"

"Anna?"

Ethan jumped away from her, whirling around.

This is what you get for leaving your office, a perfidious voice nagged at the very back of his tumbling thoughts.

The tip of his ears flushed hot and he had to force himself to not look away from the woman standing a few feet from them, a grin plastered on her face.

"Hi, gran," Anna offered weakly, pushing herself off the wall. "You, um, you remember Doctor Ramsey?"

Greta Dawson gave them both an impish wink. "Hard to forget this one, right?" She looked between the two for a moment. "You don’t call him 'doctor' usually though, do you? Not that I’m one to judge."

Jesus.

Ethan rubbed the flushed back of his neck, desperately trying to find his dignity among the thick snowflakes swirling from the sky.

He had met Anna’s pint-sized grandmother a little over a year ago, after assisting in an operation that had ultimately saved her life. She was a cheeky, terrifying force of nature, intimidating in a very specific way. Mostly because meeting her had felt substantial – even then. Greta was the only relative Anna had left and as such, the older doctor didn’t want to make a bad impression.

Which he probably just did. Wonderful.

Straightening his shoulders and clearing his throat, he offered his palm. "It’s nice to see you again, Greta." The old woman chortled, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. "Likewise, Doctor Dreamy.“

Next to him, Anna groaned, burying her face against his chest. "Please take me back to work." Despite his still burning ears, Ethan frowned down at her. "Absolutely not. You worked the longest shifts this week." The blonde answered his frown with one of her own. "Traitor."

Her pout was distracting and painfully cute, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the sight. "Go," he urged after a moment of indulgence. "Spend some time with your family.“ The jig was already up, so he leaned down to press another gentle kiss to her lips, this one far more modest than he would have liked. "I’ll see you on Monday."

"I have a better idea," Greta interrupted cheerfully, twiddling her fingers at the two doctors. "How about you join our dinner tomorrow?" Opening and closing her mouth, Anna glanced at Ethan while shuffling her feet. "I mean I... I like that thought. We're making lasagna?"

There was that coyness of hers again, making him wonder if she really didn’t know how utterly charming she was – and that there were very few things that he wouldn't do for her.

"I like that thought too,“ he said, his voice quiet but certain, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze.  “Call me when you get home?“

"I will." Anna brushed her thumb along his scruffy jaw, smiling hesitantly.

"Have fun, Rookie." His blues flicked over to her grandmother, who was watching their exchange with obvious curiosity. "And, ah, you too, Greta."

The old woman winked once again. "We’ll see you tomorrow, Ethan."

“Damn.”

Anna stared into the mirror, grimacing at the smudge of mascara, just below her left eye. Sighing, she slipped the tiny brush back into the silver tube, exchanging it for q-tip to correct the mistake.

Her fingers were still shaky.

Wiping the black from her skin, she tried not to think about the man waiting for her in the kitchen – a hard thing to do when there were reminders of him all around her.

Her toothbrush rested next to his in a tall cup on the spacious sink.

Her towel occupied a shelf next to the shower.

His cologne and her perfume both permeated the air.

Reminders of him – reminders of them. All things she never would have thought possible half a year ago. Usually, the sight of shared commitment was a beautiful, giddiness-inducing facet of their relationship for her. Tonight, she couldn't help but wonder if Ethan was feeling smothered by it all.

Dinner with her grandmother was a step Anna hadn't even considered until she had caught them red-handed yesterday. Greta knew about Ethan, knew about the chaotic circumstances that had brought them together at last, but she had never expressed the wish to meet him in an official capacity.

Just one of the many firsts that he had been a part of.

Taking a deep breath, the young doctor tossed the q-tip into the trash bin, smoothing her hands along the burgundy fabric of her casual dress and her black tights – a last effort to calm herself.

The hallway outside of the bathroom was much cooler, making Anna shiver as she made her way to the kitchen.

Ethan was leaning against the island, his crisp white oxford peeking through his unbuttoned coat. Tapping away on his phone, he uncrossed his legs, dark slacks rustling quietly. He looked a little bit unreal in the dim light. An apparition, summoned by the farthest reaches of her mind.

“You're staring,” he informed her, finally looking up and interrupting her ogling.

Anna tried her hardest not to appear embarrassed, but her traitorous face heated at the comment anyway.

“You look nice,” she muttered, casting her gaze to the ceiling for a moment before meeting his once again.

Ethan chuckled, pushing himself off the island and crossing the distance between them. “You just stole my line.” His eyes swept over the dress, the blue heavy and eager. “Though 'nice' seems very much insufficient.” Stopping a few inches away from her, he pressed a lingering kiss to Anna's cheekbone. “You're stunning.”

The warmth in his voice broke her heart just a little. Anna wrapped her arms around his waist, letting his scent wash over her. Ethan stilled, one of his hands finding the back of her neck and weaving through the loose golden curls there. He didn't say anything right away, granting this moment of respite.

“You're nervous, aren't you.”

Perceptive as ever.

She released a long breath and traced the pattern of his coat. “Not because of the dinner itself.” Lifting her head, she studied his face before pressing on. “I'm just wondering if you're alright. We've really picked up the pace.”

Surprised, Ethan raised his brows. “Are you asking me if I have cold feet?”

“I... suppose I am.”

“Anna.” There was a note of gentle admonishment in his voice, urging her to listen. “You're here every second weekend. Yesterday, I practically begged you to come over, because we're barely seeing each other at work. Does that sound like I'm questioning my decision to be with you?” His lips brushed her temple. “I'll admit that your grandmother terrifies me. But that doesn't mean I don't want to get to know her better.”

“Well, now I feel silly,” she murmured sheepishly.

Ethan huffed out a soft laugh, tickling the shell of her ear. “Maybe I like that about you.” He pulled away, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You and your busy brain.” Lacing their fingers for a brief moment, he nodded his head towards the door. “Ready to go?”

“As ready as I'll ever be,” Anna sighed, letting him help her put on her jacket and lead her out of the apartment.

The drive to her grandmother's place felt far too short.

Her leg wiggled every time they passed another green light, forcing Ethan to rest his palm on it to soothe her. He did so wordlessly, keeping it there until he shut off the motor and offering it to her when they walked up the stairs to the second floor of the apartment complex. She took it, ever grateful for his quiet support.

The blonde fumbled with her set of keys when they reached the door, almost dropping them when it opened on it's own, revealing a her apron-clad grandmother.

“Gran,” she chastised, letting the old woman pull her into a hug. “Were you waiting by the door?”

“Nonsense, dear,” Greta sniffed, rubbing her back with a little too much enthusiasm.

Anna could practically hear the lie in her affronted tone, masking her pained sigh with a small cough. “Right. A preposterous notion.”

“Just as preposterous as denying me this view for past few months.” Her grandmother gestured over to Ethan, who had watched their exchange with a subdued smile. “The women in our family did always have an eye for the finer things in life, I must say,” she mused. “Come in, you two.”

Anna couldn't help but swallow as she watched Ethan hang up his coat and enter her childhood home. The furniture, the décor and even the comforting smell of chamomile and laundry detergent was the same, reminding her of days past.

With him in the middle of it all, it felt like two separate dimensions colliding and forming something she couldn't quite name. He looked both out of place and like he belonged as they followed Greta into the kitchen.

Handing her grandmother the expensive bottle of Château Monbrison the young doctor had chosen from his wine stash a few hours ago, Ethan rubbed the side of neck. “Anna told me this is your favorite. Thank you again for the invitation.”

Greta regarded him with amusement. “That's a very sweet gesture, Ethan. Tell me, how good is your cooking?”

“I -” At a loss for words, he looked over at Anna.

“He's great,” she affirmed hastily, flushing at her choice of defense. “I mean his cooking. It's great. Very good.”

“Wonderful. How about you help me prepare the rest of the lasagna then, my boy?” Her grandmother patted Anna's shoulder. “Could you be a dear and set the table? I've already left the plates in the dining room.”

“But-”

“Snowbell.” Greta brushed a lock out of her granddaughters face. “Don't worry. You'll get him back without even one hair out of place.”

On her way out of the kitchen, Anna caught Ethan's gaze, the two doctors exchanging a small, equally nervous smile before they were separated.

In the quiet of the dining room, the blonde took a shaky breath, trying to sort her thoughts as she moved plates, glasses and silverware around.

She should have expected this.

Anna trusted and loved her grandmother, dearly, but she could be a bit much at times. Then again, she had never taken such an interest in any of her partners. In Canada, she had been too far away to truly introduce her first long-term boyfriend and once she had finally returned to Boston, the relationship was already over.

And Michael – well. Nothing good had come of being with him.

Ethan was the most complicated man she had ever met by far – but he was her future. The thought strengthened every day she spend with him, every time she looked into his eyes and every time he held her close.

It was far too soon to tell him, however.

And that was exactly why she was nervous about the prospect of her Greta and Ethan alone together.

“You've been holding that fork for quite a while now.”

Startled out of her musings, Anna turned around, almost stumbling into the older doctor. He caught her by the elbows, gently prying the silverware from her fingers and setting it down.

“You're done already?” she wondered, blinking at him.

Ethan chuckled. “It's been a little over ten minutes. Lost in thought again?”

“...Can you blame me?”

“No,” he admitted. “But it wasn't as bad as you probably imagined. You're supposed to show me your room, by the way. Something about it being the prelude to embarrassing baby pictures.”

The blonde groaned, hooking her arm around his and pulling him back into the hallway. “Fine. But you better be gentle. It hasn't been renovated since I was sixteen.”

“I thought you liked it when I'm not gentle,” Ethan teased, earning himself a smack to his chest when they entered the room on the far end.

Closing the battered wood behind them, Anna watched nervously as he moved to the middle of the room, his height dwarfing the old furniture to ridiculous proportions.

His gaze wandered over the walls, the faded teal plastered over by posters and photographs. Taking a few steps closer to the scratched up vanity next to her bed, the older doctor plucked a picture from the frame of the mirror.

She fought to urge to take it from him, mashing her lips together.

Her twenty-year-old self in this particular photo looked like a textbook nerd, much shorter locks braided into two pigtails and clutching her acceptance letter for Boston's med school, while she and Greta grinned at the camera.

Ethan reattached the picture with another chuckle. Then, his gaze fell on her nightstand - and on the book sitting on it.

More specifically, his book.

The unassuming cover was well worn, some of the pages dog-eared. Picking it up, he thumbed through it, raising a brow at Anna.

"What?" she asked a bit too forcefully, cheeks burning.

His mouth twitched, eventually losing the fight against the complacent expression overtaking his features.

"Someone’s a fan," he hummed. "Want to me to sign this one too?"

"That depends," the blonde huffed, crossing her arms. "Do I need to undertake another ridiculous task before you do it?“

Grinning, Ethan tossed the book back and crooked a finger at her. "How about you come over here and kiss me, Rookie? You can decide after if that’s asking too much."

"You’re ridiculous," she murmured, walking up to him hesitantly and slipping her hands around his neck with a pout. Something utterly triumphant twinkled in his deep blues as he craned his head down, meeting her in the middle.

The kiss was soft, slow and warm, tasting faintly of toothpaste. Ethan wrapped his arms around Anna’s waist, lifting her from her tiptoes and setting her down on the bed, his lips never leaving hers.

There was a comfort in his body covering her own, the pleasant buzz of it all coaxing a faint moan from her throat.

Eventually, they had to come up for air, Ethan’s nose nuzzling her cheek.

"You know, you're the first guy to make out with me on this bed," she said thoughtfully and brushed her knuckles over his jaw, enjoying the texture of his beard against her skin.

The attending pushed himself onto one elbow, his free fingers mapping the curve of her hip. "I'm not sure how much more information my ego can take. I'm this close to begging for mercy."

"Oh my god." Anna pulled him back to her by his hair, their laughter mingling until they were breathless once more.

Eventually, Ethan rolled off to the side, facing the younger doctor on the mattress. It was oddly soothing, having him share the tiny bed with her. A peaceful little bubble, after the start of what was bound to be an eventful afternoon.

It gave her courage to ask the question sitting at the forefront of her mind.

“What did you and my grandmother talk about?”

Ethan's jaw tensed for a brief second, his palm lifting to find her face.

“She told me about the state you were in the week after I had left for the Amazon.” His calloused thumb drew a half circle. “And to be more careful with your heart this time around.”

“Or she'll put you six-feet-under?” Anna questioned weakly.

“No.” He gave a slight shake of his head. “No, she asked me while offering me a glass of wine. She's just worried, princess. And she has every right to be.”

“Ethan...”

“I can't ever take back what I did, Anna,” he sighed. “We both know that. You forgive me so easily every time I mess up and I shouldn't take it for granted. Even your endless patience will run out eventually.”

“You're worth it. You always were.”

Hazel and blue connected, both achingly soft.

“So are you.”

Unspoken words, unspoken emotions, enriched by the dim light falling through pale curtains, drowning the space in silence and contentment.

“Should we get back?” Anna murmured, careful not to disturb the tender moment with her voice. “My grandmother is probably waiting for us.”

“In a minute.” Forehead tipping down to meet hers, Ethan dragged her close, breathing her in. “In a minute, sweetheart.”

A/N: So cheesy. Was a lot of fun to write though :3

[forbiddenfantasies1]

J/B Smut Swap Fic Recs

There have been so many amazing fics posted in the @jb-smut-swap, but I wanted to share the ones that have really stuck out for me. The amount of talent this fandom has continues to be ridiculous so this is long but in no way comprehensive.

Shocker...I got wordy so it's under the cut. I limited this one to 5 just because I couldn't shut up about them. At least one more will be coming (that's what she said).

with those who know secret things for SimoneBlack, rated E. The premise for Brienne as a sex worker and Jaime, a client who is seeking freedom and trust, could so easily be mishandled. This was anything but. It is somehow simultaneously wonderfully dirty and so, so tender. I lost my mind reading this, and it was worth every throw of my pillow. I'm still trying to understand how it had so much heat with so much heart.

Lines that will live in my head forever: There are several, but I'm gonna go with:

“Do you like to be touched, Jaime?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

Her finger stopped just above his navel, and when she pulled her hand away he swayed towards her. “But you aren't touched often,” she said, warm as a lazy afternoon. He listened for mockery, but there was none, just a fact, stated with quiet empathy.

“No.”

Blue placed her palm – studded with smoothed-down calluses and cooler than he expected – over his heart. “Do you want me to touch you tonight?”

The answer is yes, by the way

what is dark in me illumine for @bussdowntarthiana, rated E. Yall. This fic ruined me for an hour solid. My note on it says "made me want to throw myself through a plate glass window, and then eat the glass" and it's true. Jaime is a bar owner (and an ethical, exiled demon). Brienne is an ethics professor. Their attraction feels so layered, and the vibes of consent, and honor, and acceptance are woven through the smuttiest smut perfectly.

Lines that will live in my head forever: Again, there are so many, BUT this and the scene directly after it will live in my head FOREVER.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. Her pupils are spreading, darkness over the ocean. "I like hard and fast and filthy," she says evenly. "But do you want to know what happens to me when I hear you talk about how you've chosen to make your way in this world?"

He does. Desperately. "What?"

She opens her mouth, then seems to change her mind. "Maybe in this case, a demonstration would be the better pedagogical tool."

That prim word with all those consonants bouncing around in her mouth makes him want to sink his teeth into her. "Please feel free, Doctor Tarth."

(I can't talk about what her demonstration was because it makes me want to break things).

Hush for TwoKnightsOneCup, rated E. This is another that fell in the "Fuck this fic and this writer" category for me. It's a 5+1 structured fic where Jaime is a chopper pilot and Brienne is a researcher in Antarctica, and they're trying to fuck quietly all over the place without getting caught. Stupidly hot with amazing scenery porn, and some singular lines that will have you wanting to throw hands at the author for burrowing into your brain.

Lines that will live in my head forever: I almost picked the part with the belt, but honestly it's so fucking horny on main and I'm trying to have some decorum here. So I'll go with this instead.

“I’m taking these off,” Jaime tells her, his voice a low growl, and Brienne flushes but she lets him peel her thermal tights and underwear down while she sprawls on the bedroll before him, and it feels like flying in low out of the clouds over the frozen coastline for the first time, seeing the glacier rolling down to the water’s edge: the impossible extent of it, the startled sense of wonder. There are fading bruises on her shins and the vivid bright rash of a scrape on her knee, and he marvels at all the colors that make up the endless landscape of her. But then he nudges her knees apart and sees her cunt wet and open for him, smells her, and he realizes she’s not like that pallid, uninhabitable scenery at all: she’s pink and red and alive, almost steaming in the cool air. His mouth waters, and he shoves his arms under her thighs and descends.

But seriously...the part with the belt? Whew.

Lines that will live in my head forever: When they eventually came up for air, he looked at her with a look she’d seen on him in the courtyard every time he was going to go on the offence. Here, she knew not what it meant, yet it still sent a similar sort of anticipation down her spine.

Thrust Exercises for greenmtwoman, rated E. God this damn fic. First of all, it's basically canon divergence with a young Jaime and Brienne. Jaime has been Master at Arms at Evenfall ever since Selwyn lugged his ass home after the Rebellion like the world's mouthiest souvenir. There are three things to know about this fic: 1) Jaime and Brienne are genuinely friends in this. Their history and affection are just so apparent. 2) Jaime plans (beforehand!) to introduce Brienne to strip sparring (!!!) before the bedding. And 3) Jaime is so horny for his wife, y'all. He wants her so bad and there's a moment where he realizes she wants him too that made my heart migrate to my eyes.

“It means, I want you.” Before she could ask, he said, “I told you before, didn't I? Your face is very loud.”

She frowned; he lifted himself on his toes and kissed the knot between her brows.

“I quite like it,” he said, “your very loud face.”

They just like each other so much. I can't stand it.

Light my fire for me, and rated E. I've already recced this one in a separate post, but it's my list and I can do what I want. And what I want is to tell people to read this fic because I loved it so much. Brienne and Jaime are coworkers at a ski lodge, and are celebrating the end of a season. Jaime, bless his thotty soul, is wearing a union suit under his ski wear, and if that isn't code for "wants his dick admired" well then I don't know what is. When their roommates hook up, Jaime and Brienne are forced to share a cabin and if it has so many of my favorite tropes in it, I can barely stand it. I was so, so happy with my gift, and I just want everyone to read it and be happy too.

Lines that will live in my head forever: They stand in front of the fireplace and Jaime backs up half a step, watching her from beneath hooded eyelids as he undoes more buttons of his union suit. He takes his time, and she lets her eyes devour every sliver of skin he slowly exposes – muscled chest with dark blond hair scattered across it, defined abs highlighted by the orange glow of the fire, the V of muscle at the bottom of his stomach that leads her eyes down to the hard jut of his cock outlined by the cloth. He stops unbuttoning just there, sliding the top of the union suit down off his shoulders and letting the arms hang at his sides.

This is literally why I prompted the union suit. All I wanted was Jaime in a union suit with Brienne admiring the shape of his cock through the thin fabric. That's it. The one paragraph hit every dream I had for it, but all the other paragraphs are good too.

[philliamwrites]

Ocean Eyes, Golden Mind

Fandom: All For The Game (Nora Sakavic)

Pairing: Neil/Andrew

Tags: #math nerd neil, #neil with glasses, #no exy

Summary: In which Neil hates his new prescribed glasses until they attract the interest of a certain Andrew Minyard.

Commissioner: Ziegenkind

Notes: Title taken from Billie Eilish’s ‘Ocean Eyes.’

Ocean Eyes, Golden Mind

Dude, it’s just a frat party. Who doesn’t go to frat parties?

     The message flashes Neil’s screen white, its sender none other than his roommate Nicky who is supposed to study for an upcoming test in Public Policy in exactly nineteen hours. That’s what Neil writes him. Nicky’s reply comes instantly.

Those who study tend not to party. You know. Like you.

     Neil leaves him on read. If he wants to party, he’ll lock himself inside his room, two bottles of Jack Daniel’s by his side while watching every existing compilation of cats attacking people on the small screen of his phone. He knows how to have a good time, alright. Not everyone has to set their scale like Nicky: More than once Neil has been the spectator of him coming back to the dormitory completely wasted, but still eager enough to get frozen waffles from the fridge. Being too drunk to put them in the toaster, he usually just climbs up to his top bunk and puts them between his thighs to eat them partially defrosted. It’s this fragile line between genius and stupidity that has Neil doubting if he should fill in a request for changing roommates or just live with the fact that Nicky Hemmick is one special kind of man.

    So instead of spending his night curled into himself, wall against his back and eyes on every stranger distributing awful shots, Neil sits at the Math Tutoring Centre on the west side of the campus and gives group tutoring sessions.

    Math comes to Neil like breathing. Like Bertrand Russel said, not only does Mathematics possess truth, but supreme beauty—a beauty cold and austere, like that of a sculpture. It is sublimely pure, and capable of a stern perfection such as only the greatest art can show. It is poetry—elegant and deep—of logical ideas to create harmony in a written line. Once he tried to explain that to Nicky over microwaved Mac n Cheese with Girls running in the background, clearly overestimating him, because Nicky only stared into space for a few seconds, and replied, “You really need to get laid, man.”

    Reluctant at the beginning, Neil only agreed to join the Tutor Program because his math professor promised to throw in some extra cash. Something about raising the graduate numbers in order to get the board of education off his back. That’s where Neil’s jurisdiction of interest ends, but he has enjoyed it more than expected—the empty hallways, the harsh light of the ceiling lamps, the smell of chalk, the faint echoes of students still lingering in classrooms. There’s this magic about the Palmetto State University at night—a vulnerability that can only live once the sun sets behind the horizon. When else would he find a kid sleeping under a table in the library, or seniors breaking down in tears for exact 10 minutes before continuing their studies as if nothing has happened.

    There’s another reason he’d rather spend his evening on campus, one Nicky doesn’t need to know because then Neil won’t hear the end of it. That reason being 5’0’’ tall chemistry prodigy Andrew Minyard, sitting in the last row of Neil’s math sessions each Friday. He only knows about him thanks to Nicky’s never-ending complaints, but that never really stopped him from throwing a few or more glances in Andrew’s direction. Just curiosity, of course.

    So when he stands in front of the blackboard now, putting away his lesson papers which are full of numbers and equations—the kind that has enough letters to look like sentences—he feels dozens eyes burn holes in the back of his neck, and one pair belongs to Andrew. No one asks why he’s here, but everyone knows he doesn’t need to be.

    In his one year of giving tutoring sessions, Neil has learnt that exactly three types of students exist: Students who are really good, certainly not in need of the extra lessons, but going anyway for some extra ego-buff and unnecessary brain-flexing. The second type is students who are okay, doing their tasks, following the lesson, not really attracting any attention safe for some crude jokes. The last type has Neil questioning his belief in the educational system of the whole state because he doesn’t understand how they are allowed inside the sacred halls of PSU.

    Andrew is a special type on his own—the enigma that keeps Neil awake at two in the morning because he’s desperate to solve it, but without knowing where to start, he’s just running in circles. His fingers itch to solve an equation with multiple variables, to find the solution to a problem and get it off his mind.

    He doubts it will be this easy with Andrew.

    “Before we continue to look at scalar products in R- and C-vector spaces, we’ll consider bilinear and semi-bilinear forms in general, and link them to matrices for their representation to chosen bases.” Neil’s hand flies across the board, leaving letters and parenthesizes that look like bizarre drawings—art in its most complex form. Once he’s finished, he takes a step away, wipes the chalk on his fingers off on his jeans, and turns to his audience. “What happens to this equation with the semi-bilinear form σ?”

    Two hands shoot up immediately. He ignores them; no need to feed their ego, and instead picks a freshman who’s been staring at his phone for the last ten minutes. Making way, Neil moves back to the student’s seats and leans against a desk.

    Is it the farthest place away from the board? It is.

    Is it the closest that will get him to Andrew? Might be so.

    It certainly gives him a good look at what Andrew’s been doing since Neil started—and that is not solving a single task on the paper Neil has handed out at the beginning of the session. Andrew, apparently bored before it even started, has taken out a slip of paper with a sudoku puzzle on it and is solving it against his leg, completely linked out of the instruction.

    Neil tries not to stare too much at Andrew’s bare arms, and instead looks back at the board.

    “Does that look right?” the freshman—Rhys or Rheeze or something like that—asks, turning around.

    Neil narrows his eyes and squints at the board. He can’t make out a single thing, and that’s bad, yes, but his feet betray him, staying rooted where they are instead of reducing the distance until he can distinguish σ from a.

    “Where does the l come from,” he asks. Multiple heads snap in his direction.

    “That’s a j, Josten,” someone says from the other side of the room.

    Neil squints harder. “And the u?”

    “A μ.”

    “No, it’s a v,” a girl next to Neil says, and that’s when the everyone starts shouting about what’s on the board and what isn’t.

    Neil bears it for a solid minute before he surrenders. He pulls a small case from his pocket, opens it. Puts his glasses on.

    The whole room goes silent.

    Neil checks the equation, nods. “Correct. Who’s next?”

    Multiple people stir, one manages to get up, and walks straight into a table leg. Neil questions that ‘straight’, because only then the freshman guy stops staring at Neil and steers his attention to the equation on the blackboard.

    It was a bad idea, and Neil still hates Allison for forcing him to go. She’d dragged him to the doctor last week to get his eyes tested, annoyed by his never-ending questions of ‘What’s written there?’ or ‘Is that a six or an eight?’.

    “They’re my eyes,” Neil had said, arms crossed as he sat in the office and waited for his turn.

    “And it’s me who has to see your ugly squinting face,” Allison had replied.

    Two hours later Neil had finally his prescriptions but that didn’t mean he was free from Allison’s clutches. He would have been fine with some glasses from the dollar store, but she insisted that if he’s going to wear them more than once a day, he should get designer glasses—thin frames and a color that matches his copper hair. She suggested gold. Neil picked black. The look of disappointment on Allison’s face was something that deserved its own painting to commemorate it. But once they’d finally chosen the right pair, she’d given him the very same look most of the students are giving him now—a mix between slight awe and disbelief as if he’s grown a second head. Or owes them all a month’s worth of lunch money.

    “Well,” had Allison said at least, turning away to pack up and go home. “Tigers have their stripes. I have my eyeliner.” She threw him another scrutinizing look over her shoulder. “You have your glasses.” If it was supposed to make him feel better, it didn’t work, and right now he regrets nothing more than allowing Allison to drag him around.

    Neil’s eyes land on Andrew’s sudoku puzzle, now half-hidden under his papers, and he sees now that he isn’t even solving the thing, but simply coloring in the empty squares.

    He takes a second too long and meets Andrew’s eyes staring back at him.

    “Problem, Josten?” Andrew asks with a blank expression, tapping the end of his pen against his monochrome picture of black and white squares.

    Neil wants to see how far he can push until he walks against a brick wall and breaks something. He returns his gaze to the board but feels Andrew’s eyes like a solid touch on the back of his neck.

    After the session, the students hurry outside, still throwing curious glances over their shoulders at Neil and if he could merge with the back of his chair and disappear forever, that would be totally okay. It isn’t until a shadow looms above him that he looks up from his own homework and draws in a careful breath when Andrew towers above him.

    Neil raises an eyebrow. “Problem, Minyard?”

    Andrew’s face gives nothing away, and when he stretches out a hand, Neil doesn’t flinch. His glasses slip off easily, held between Andrew’s thumb and index finger.

    “Nicky told me he’s trying to convince you to join him tomorrow,” Andrew says. Neil needs a second, because that is the most words he’s heard out of Andrew’s mouth.

    “I have no reason to go,” Neil says, his eyes jumping up and down, from the equation that makes his sight blur to Andrew leaning his slender waist against the table.

    “You have one now.” It’s barely neutral enough to not sound like a threat, but Neil stares at Andrew nonetheless, and when he puts Neil’s glasses on, Neil’s heart does a weird stutter. He’s still starring at Andrew when he leaves the room, and no, his eyes don’t stray, they stay on Andrew’s broad back, and if they dip lower it’s because of the light.

    Once he’s alone, Neil takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. Puts his head in his arms and counts to ten in French first, then again in German. His heart still does this weird thing, trying to bruise his ribs from the inside.

    He gets his phone, texts Nicky he’ll go to the frat party tomorrow and puts it away, not interested in his roommate’s reply. There’s still the equation he needs to solve, but for the first time Neil’s heart isn’t really into math, and he is quite alright with it.

[princesses-and-bitchcraft]

i want to ask you a ship too but 1) im not sure what you ship, and 2) every ship im invested in and would ask about is like,,, garbage fire and definitely not as sweet and fluffy as these prompts

soo i checked your ao3 and you have like 2 missy/clara fics and i'd love to see you try to answer these prompts for them adhsfkjshgkj good luck

(also now that ive seen your ao3 name, i think ive seen you in my kudos? maybe? i might be wrong. NO im not wrong! i checked. you have read at least one of my fics. i didnt know that was you)

Akdjghsjgkfhd yeah ever since I've been trying to be more active on ao3 leaving people comments and stuff I've been running into a lot of cases of like. Not mistaken identity per se but a lot of cases of "oh shit I did not know that was you!!!". I'm a bit of a mess about introducing myself to people, in that I mostly Do Not.

Anyways I am in fact a rampant multishipper in pretty much every fandom I ever Consume, first and foremost. Sure I can have Preferences but I easily put that aside. I do not remotely understand ship wars. What the heck people. Two solutions: start poly shipping (✔️) and start multishipping (✔️).

This should be fun though. I do really really love thinking about these two. I don't know what it was that flipped that particular switch in my head but I'm obsessed.

Who is most affectionate: Missy, but specifically in an annoying way. Affection as a way to get a rise out of someone. Weaponized affection, as it were. Especially in inappropriate situations.

Who initiates hand holding: Clara, but also in a vaguely weaponized manner: if Clara is holding Missy's hand, Missy has one less hand with which to Cause Problems. Or so she says.

Who worries more about the other one: also Clara because hello???? Missy is literally always getting into Something. Clara has to leave class early because unit calls to tell her they've got her definitely NOT girlfriend in a prison cell again and would you come and Deal with her or do we need to get the Doctor involved? Missy shows up out of nowhere covered in blood on more occasions than Clara wants to think about. Etc etc etc.

Who is more likely to ask for help: NEITHER OF THEM OH MY GOD!!!! They both will go to increasingly desperate measure of escalating whatever situation is causing an issue to avoid it. They've probably both almost died at least once because of it. The Doctor shows up unexpectedly and hauls them both into the TARDIS once when straits are particularly dire. None of them want to talk about that.

Who is always losing the keys: Clara, but only because Missy hides them.

Who leaves littles notes: Missy, but again, they are usually somehow inappropriate in either content, presentation, or both.

Who can't sleep without the other one: Missy!!!!! I have strong feelings that I will not elaborate on. (Not for any particular reason, I'm just Bad At Words. Depsite. Being a writer.)

Who is more likely to propose: I think you could have a scenario where they have been cohabitating for like a fucking decade or something and STILL neither of them will admit that the other one means anything to them so. Definitely neither of them.

Who introduced the other to their family first: this question is sort of inapplicable. Missy's only "family" is sort of just. The Doctor. And Clara's probably had enough trouble to last a lifetime from the ill-fated introduction or the Doctor to hers. But the idea of Clara somehow being in a situation where she has to introduce and Explain Missy to her family is definitely kind of hilarious.

Who plays with the other's hair: I don't have any kind of opinion here really. Personally I hate having my hair played with, so I mostly just don't think about it lol

Who makes sure the other eats: I think they're both relatively okay at taking care of themselves generally, at least in this type of sense. (Less so in the sense of like. Not throwing themselves into life threatening situations. They're both very bad at that.) So they probably both take turns when the other one is having a Hard Time for whatever reason.

Who is more likely to stand up for the other: I think Clara probably has a chip on her shoulder about trying to sort of Prove Herself to Missy at least for a while and will throw herself into all kinds of unnecessary situations to stand up for her definitely-not-a-girlfriend-I-barely-even-like-her. Conversely, Missy will stand to the side laughing a Clara's misfortunes, perhaps even Actively Antagonizing her along with whoever else, at least until there's an Actual Threat that needs neutralizing. It will be neutralized swiftly and without prejudice.

Who is more likely to prepare a surprise for the other: again, Missy, but inappropriately.

Who makes the other pinky promise certain things: Clara makes Missy pinky promise not kill her on the reg 🤣🤣🤣

Who puts a blanket over the other when they fall asleep on the couch: idk, either/or? Both? I'll take it or leave it I don't care lol

[callboxkat]

By the Day’s First Light

Author’s note: I wrote this on a whim last night. Apparently treadmills are as conducive to ideas as showers. 

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Prompt: Shaking and Shivering

Summary:  In retrospect, Virgil was very glad that his sleep schedule was so messed up. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have even still been awake at three in the morning. As it was, he nearly missed the knock at his door.

Warnings: blood, major character injury, death mention, knife mention, biting mention, mild gore(?), censored swearing

Word Count: 3148

Writing Masterpost!

@badthingshappenbingo​

...

In retrospect, Virgil was very glad that his sleep schedule was so messed up. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have still been awake at three in the morning, watching conspiracy videos on the TV he’d picked up for twenty bucks at a thrift shop.

Even as it was, Virgil nearly missed the knocking. It was very quiet, and after only four repetitions, was gone.

Virgil, ever the paranoid one, paused the video he’d been halfway through even though he was only half sure he’d heard anything at all. His gaze went to the door, and he frowned.

After a moment, he heard a muffled thump. Virgil set the remote to the side and hesitantly approached the front door. He paused, his hand reached out for the handle, then bolted to the kitchen for a knife.

(Maybe he was overreacting.)

(But maybe he wasn’t.)

Back at the door and armed this time, Virgil reached up and slid the cover off of the peep hole. He hesitated again as the image of someone stabbing his eye out through the hole flashed in his mind, then gritted his teeth and looked out anyway, his knife clutched at his side.

It was very dark—of course it was, it was freaking three in the morning—so he couldn’t see much, but there was definitely someone out there. Their head was bowed, and they seemed to be facing slightly away from the door. But that was about as much detail as Virgil could parse.

(He really needed to get the porch light fixed, he’d been putting it off for weeks, why the hell hadn’t he gotten it fixed?)

Virgil hesitated, briefly debated calling the cops, then decided he wasn’t looking to get himself or anyone else shot that night just because he was afraid to open a door.

He unlocked it, leaving the latch in place, and opened the door an inch.

At the sound of the door opening, the figure turned to look at him. The figure who suddenly looked very familiar.

“…Logan?” Virgil said, shocked.

The faint, blueish light from the paused television fell across his friend’s face.

The first thing Virgil noticed was that his friend’s eyes were wide and blank with shock, and his whole frame shook despite the warm night air.

The second thing Virgil noticed was the blood that dripped down from his mouth, and—

And soaked the jacket that Logan held pressed to his neck.

“Oh my god!” Virgil yelled, the knife falling from his hand with a clatter.

Logan flinched back, taking a clumsy step away from the door.

Virgil reached out and grabbed his arm—the one not possibly holding his neck together—to stop him. His skin was freezing. How long had he been outside? “No, no—I’m sorry, you stay here. It’s okay, I’m calling 911.” Virgil pressed his hand over the one Logan already had over his neck, pulling his friend inside. “Come on, come inside.”

“No,” Logan said faintly.

“No, you’re not coming in? What, you want to wait for them on the porch? I need to grab my phone, it’s on the table—”

“No 911,” Logan rasped.

“Logan, you’re literally holding a bloody jacket against your f*cking neck, of course I’m calling—”

“No!” Logan started pulling away, shaking harder, fighting him.

“Okay, okay, fine!” Virgil said in an alarmed voice, afraid that the pressure would come off his friend’s neck, and terrified of what that could cause. “Just come in here and sit down, and tell me what happened, and—and don’t f*cking die in my living room.”

Virgil pulled Logan inside and flicked on the lights, making Logan flinch again, squinting painfully in the sudden light.

“What the hell happened?” Virgil asked, sitting him on the couch and looking him over before his eyes had even properly adjusted.

“I was….” Logan let his words trail off, making no effort to continue.

Virgil reached for Logan’s neck, came up short, and shook his head. “Wait, actually, don’t talk. Let me look at this.”

Virgil’s hands shook as he finally put them on the jacket on Logan’s neck. The jacket felt wet to the touch. He hesitated, then started to peel it back, ready to slam it back into place in a flash. The jacket hardly budged, although Virgil swore he was trying to pull it back as hard as he could.

(F*ck, he couldn’t do this! He wasn’t a doctor!)

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?” Virgil asked, staring at where his numb hands gripped the bloody jacket. “I really think we should go to a hospital.”

“No hospitals,” Logan insisted.

F*ck it, he passes out, I’m calling an ambulance, Virgil decided. “Okay,” he said aloud. “You’ve, um, you’ve gotta move your fingers. A little bit.”

Logan’s hand shifted, and Virgil gingerly peeled back the jacket, his heart racing, and gasped.

A jagged wound marred the otherwise smooth skin of Logan’s neck, like someone had carved a chunk out of it. Or ripped it out.

But… while it was definitely bleeding, it didn’t look like it was bleeding out. It even looked like the flow of blood was slowing as he watched. Which might have been wishful thinking on Virgil’s part, but he could have sworn it was true.

Virgil let out a nervous laugh, making Logan’s gaze drift in his direction. “I, um… I have no freaking clue how, but… I think it must’ve missed the arteries.”

(Or was that veins? …Arteries. He was pretty sure. The things that generally killed you if someone ripped a freaking hole in your neck.)

“That’s good,” Logan said mildly.

Virgil swallowed, looking away from the injury, not wanting to look at it any longer or more closely than he had to. “Yeah. Um, yeah. That’s really good. It’s great. But, dude, this….” Virgil covered the ugly wound again with the jacket, only partially to keep the pressure on. “This has got to need stitches. Are you sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?”

Logan shook his head, making Virgil let out an alarmed yelp.

“No hospitals,” he repeated. “First aid kit. Your hiking one?”

Virgil paused. He did have a pretty well stocked first aid kit, including what he’d need to do stitches, for when their friend group went on hikes on the weekends in the spring and summer. But he didn’t know how to do stitches—those supplies were for Logan to use! And this wasn’t just a little cut!

“Go get it,” Logan requested, still speaking in that mild, detached manner, like he wasn’t quite there, not completely.

Virgil hesitated, then grabbed a blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around Logan, avoiding his neck.

(He was pretty sure that was something you did for people in shock, and he was also pretty sure that Logan was in shock.)

“Wait here,” Virgil said, getting to his feet. “And don’t die.”

He made it back with the first aid kit in record speed. Logan was where he had left him, sitting on the couch, staring blankly ahead. One side of the blanket had fallen down, but Logan held the other in place with white knuckles.

“I’ve got it,” Virgil said, putting it on the coffee table and kneeling before Logan. “Let me… Damn it, I don’t know how to do this, Logan, I can’t—”

“I’ll tell you what to do,” Logan said.

Virgil hesitated, then set his jaw and opened the first aid kit. They didn’t have time to keep arguing. It was worth a shot, right? The worst he could do was kill his friend.

As Virgil worked, Logan rambled off instructions in a dull, lifeless voice, like he was reciting a textbook from memory. Virgil suspected that he was.

Finally, he was done. It was not the prettiest sewing job; but he’d managed not to throw up; and the insides of Logan’s neck were on the inside, where they were supposed to be; so he counted it as a win.

“Thank you,” Logan said softly, watching as Virgil put the supplies on the table, to be washed later when he was done panicking.

“What the hell happened? Are you hurt anywhere else? F*ck, your mouth—” Virgil’s hand flew to Logan’s jaw, where now-dried blood dripped from his lips and down his chin.

“Not mine,” Logan said, staring blankly in the direction of the TV screen.

“Not—what?” Virgil yanked his hand back, somehow even more horrified.

“I don’t know what happened,” Logan said in the same empty tone. His gaze slid over to Virgil, and his voice grew more pleading. “What happened?”

Virgil shook his head, staring. He glanced at his phone, sitting on the table, just waiting for Virgil to dial 911.

“I was walking home from my night class,” Logan remembered. “I took a shortcut.” He paused. “He was….” Logan swallowed. “He….” He gestured at the probably overly thick coating of bandages Virgil had put on his neck.

“He did that to you?” Virgil prodded, dimly noting that Logan’s night class had ended at nine. Not three in the morning.

Logan swallowed. “Yes,” he breathed. “I… There was so much blood. Everywhere. And….” He shuddered. “And I thought I was done for, but… I bit him, hard as… hard as I could. And….” He frowned, then touched his head. Virgil only then noticed the edge of a bruise poking out from under his hairline. “And… and I came here, because you were closest.”

“We’re taking you to a hospital.”

“No,” Logan insisted.

“You’ve got a cut on your neck, some mugger’s blood is all over your face, and I’m pretty sure you’ve got a concussion; yes, we’re going to the hospital!”

Logan surged forward and clutched desperately at the front of Virgil’s shirt, staring at him with wide, pleading eyes. “No. No, I can’t—they won’t believe me.”

Virgil’s mouth had opened in shock at Logan’s vehemence. “I’m pretty sure they’ll believe you got mugged,” he said, as wide-eyed as Logan.

Logan shook his head, let go, and clutched the blanket around himself. He mumbled something to himself, something that sounded like, “His teeth….”

Virgil fidgeted, unsure what to do. He could call his friends, but he knew they would be long asleep by now, and probably wouldn’t even see the notification until morning at the earliest.

He settled for a text, showing Logan the phone to prove he wasn’t dialing 911.

Unsure what else to do other than hope Logan didn’t die from his neck wound reopening or from some other injury Virgil didn’t know about because he wasn’t a freaking doctor and he didn’t exactly trust Logan to tell him if there was one, Virgil got up and got a washcloth, dampening it and bringing it to Logan to clean up his face. He also handed over a large glass of water.

Logan cleaned up his face, put the dirty washcloth in the gallon-sized plastic bag Virgil held out (for evidence), and then drained the cup, not saying a word the entire time. It seemed he was done talking, content to stare at nothing.

Virgil wished he knew how to help.

(He could help by calling a f*cking ambulance.)

(Logan might hate him forever if he called.)

(Logan might get worse if he didn’t call. A lot worse)

(Logan might also freak out, tear his stitches, and die if Virgil did call.)

Virgil buried his face in his hands.

Ten minutes of awkward silence, self-loathing, and fear later, Virgil noticed that Logan’s head had started to loll forward, his eyes half shut and unfocused.

Virgil sat up straight immediately. “Logan—Logan!”

Logan jerked, his eyes immediately on Virgil, confused and alarmed.

(F*ck. He’d just been falling asleep, hadn’t he? )

(Of course he was, it was past five in the morning. Logan usually got up for the day around now, and he hadn’t had any sleep. Because being knocked unconscious sure didn’t f*cking count.)

(Could he let Logan sleep, with that head wound?)

Virgil deliberated for a long moment, glanced over at the miserable looking young man at his side, then stood and silently pulled Logan to his feet. “Come on,” he said, guiding Logan to his bedroom. He shoved the clothes off of the usually unoccupied side of it and pulled back the blankets. Logan got in compliantly.

Virgil turned off the light, lay down on the other side of the bed, set an alarm for an hour later (he wanted to wake Logan every hour, just to make sure he still could).

When it went off, Virgil hadn’t slept a wink.

He reached over and touched Logan’s arm—he was still so cold, even with Virgil’s mass of blankets—to rouse him. “Logan?” he asked, nervous.

Logan immediately jerked awake, scooting back, nearly falling from the bed before he abruptly stopped, staring at Virgil. Recognition flickered in his eyes, and some of the tension left his frame.

“Sorry—sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. You didn’t open the stitches, did you?”

Logan’s hand went to his neck, and he hesitated, then shook his head. “Don’t think so,” he whispered.

“Are you… okay?” Virgil cringed. What a dumb question.

Logan just nodded, not seeming to mind, and lay back down.

Virgil set another hour-long timer, and went back to not-sleeping.

Thankfully, Logan didn’t startle as much the next time Virgil woke him. He still seemed afraid, but not quite so… shell-shocked.

Reassured, Virgil went back to bed. He even managed to fall asleep, this time.

When he woke up, the other side of the bed was empty. The curtains, drawn tight across the windows as usual, hardly let any light into the room, but Virgil could see well enough to know his friend was gone. He sat bolt upright in the bed, looking around.

“Logan?!”

There was a noise from the hall.

Virgil relaxed slightly, but not completely. He got out of bed and padded out into the hall, looking around for Logan and hoping he wouldn’t find him passed out on the floor.

Logan was not, in fact, passed out on the floor. Instead, he stood just inside the bathroom, the door open, his hands gripping the porcelain sink. He was trembling, his skin the sort of pale it usually only got mid-winter.

“Logan?”

Logan turned, and there were tears in his eyes—pinkish tears. The bruise on his head had nearly faded away.

“Don’t come any closer,” he croaked. “Something’s wrong.”

Virgil, who had been walking closer, wanting to help, instead froze in his tracks.

For in Logan’s mouth, where there had once been a pair of dull canines, were a pair of sharp, white fangs.

Virgil’s mouth went dry. “I… you….”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Logan said, shaking his head. He turned back to the mirror, taking in his reflection. More pinkish tears appeared. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Virgil would later be rather ashamed of what he did next. He bolted. The next thing he knew, he was in his room, locking the door behind himself. He even opened the curtains, sending dust everywhere, and more importantly, letting light flood into the room.

He stayed there for the rest of the day, clutching the lamp from his bedside table like it was a weapon, his mind full of static.

That night, when he finally emerged, still wielding his lamp, Logan was gone. The medical supplies he’d used on Logan had been cleaned and packed neatly back into the kit. Virgil stared at the red box for a long moment, ultimately leaving it where it sat.

There were new messages on his phone, texts from Patton and Roman, asking what was going on. Virgil had told them Logan had been mugged, but no more detail.

He left them on read.

Two weeks later, still with no sign of one of his best friends and mounting questions from his other two best friends, Virgil didn’t know what to do.

He’d had some time to think things over, and he was undeniably ashamed.

Maybe Logan was a vampire—as impossible as the idea should have been—but he was still Virgil’s friend. He was still Logan. And he needed help.

Virgil sat down in his room, and after a long, long hesitation, he called him.

He was shocked when Logan picked up.

“Hello, Virgil,” a calm, steady voice answered.

Virgil swallowed. His voice was not so steady as he responded. “Hi, Logan.”

A beat passed.

“I’m sorry,” Virgil said, unsure what else he could possibly say, how he could make up for what he’d done. “I just… I panicked.”

“It’s fine,” Logan said.

“It’s… what? I just ditch you, after that, don’t talk to you for weeks, and it’s fine? You haven’t even talked to Roman. You haven’t talked to Patton.”

There was a shuffling noise on the other side of the phone. “I admit I was at a loss for what to tell them.” The steadiness in his voice wavered. “I’m… having a tough time, coming to terms with things.”

Virgil swallowed. “Yeah, I get that.” He folded his legs up on the bed with him. “Are you, like… good?”

“My neck appears to have healed itself,” Logan said. “I took the stitches out. There’s barely a scar.”

“…Yeah,” Virgil said. Good news about being a cryptid, he supposed. “I get why you didn’t want to go to a hospital, now.” He shifted. “And what about…?”

“I’m adjusting,” Logan said. “It appears I will have to be nocturnal, for starters.”

“Nocturnal?” Was the sunlight thing real?

“I burned myself trying to leave your house,” Logan admitted. “Just my hand, thankfully. But, the sun… I can’t go out in it. And I am certain I will have other, ah, accommodations to make…. I never imagined catching a  rabbit, certainly not for that purpose… but….” Logan trailed off, and Virgil imagined him shaking his head. “None of this feels real. And I don’t know the first thing about—about this.”

Logan never had been a fan of monster movies. It made sense that he’d be completely lost, even aside from the whole vampires-are-supposed-to-be-fictional thing. Virgil thought about his large cache of those movies, and his playlist of cryptid videos. He had a few vampire ones on there, for sure.

“I might be able to help,” he offered.

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then, tentatively hopeful, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You aren’t… afraid of me?”

Virgil recalled his reaction to Logan’s… transformation… with a wince. But this was still Logan, he reminded himself. Still his friend.

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m not afraid. I’ll help you.”

A relieved sigh sounded on the other end of the call. Logan’s calm façade crumbled, and his voice broke. “Thank you, Virgil. I would appreciate that quite a lot.”

[tams-writeblr]

Once I’m gone

Rating: M(ature) Warnings: major character death Category: F/M (main couple), Multi (side characters) Fandom: Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin Relationship: Mikasa Ackermann / Eren Jaeger | various side couples Characters: Eren Jaeger, Mikasa Ackermann, Armin Arlelt, Zeke Jaeger, Hange Zoe, Floch Forster, Ymir, Reiner Braun, Pieck Finger, Historia Reiss, several others will make a cameo Additional Tags: Modern AU | established relationship | toxic behaviour | Eren suffers from Huntington’s disease and tries to settle his matters before he dies | suicial blockhead Eren | aged up characters (by ten years) | suicide tw | depression tw | mental diseases tw | deathly diseases tw | this is clearly not write what you know, but I’m giving my very best to representate the topics as good as I can | this all basically came to me as a fever dream | you remember Thirteen from House, M.D.? I still have a huge crush on her so this version of Eren is greatly inspired by her <3 Language: English (not native, I’m trying my best you guys) Stats: ongoing - Chapter 1/15 - Part 3/4 - 956 of 3652 words Summary: Eren Jaeger knew for years that he inherited Huntington’s disease from his late mother. When he first notices symptoms on him, his long protected plan, to end his life before reaching the critical state of his illness,  awakes. But there is still Mikasa, his girlfriend and the only person in the world he cares about more than about himself, and he can’t leave her alone and grieving. It’s time to find a substitute for when Eren is gone. With the help of a new friend Eren tries to scare away Mikasa while driving her into the arms of someone new.

__________________________________________________

Charlatans and Pills - Part 3/4

<<previous

Three days later he was sitting in the office of Dr. Hans Zoe, his neurologist. A tall grandfather clock in the corner on the left behind their desk ticked lively back and forth and showed shortly before half past twelve. Eren always hated this, but his life mostly consisted of charlatans and pills for the last years.

He never had had a regular job, not that he couldn do one, a lot of people that shared his fate had ordinary jobs until their health wouldn’t let them anymore but Eren could never have settled with something as trivial as an office job. Lastly he was working at a gallery where he had insulted a visitor and got knocked out because of it. Since then he’s been without a job and he actually liked it. That way he didn’t need to beg his principal for getting a day off for the third time this month so he could see his doctor. Without long explanations they didn’t understand it anyway. And with long explanations, they usually didn’t want to keep him as an employee.

Dr. Hans looked intently at the healed up cut on his cheek. “You know Eren, I’ve eventurally cut myself while shaving too”, they said dryly.

Eren couldn’t imagine this to be true when their soft, almost feminime face didn’t show any signs of facial hair.

But Dr. Hans’ face turned stern behind their glasses. “It would be very early for you to develop hyperkinesia. On the other hand…” They took off their glasses, slowly circling the side pieces over their hooked nose and pulled them back on. “it’s not unusual for an inherited Huntington's disease to break out earlier than in the previous generation. Your mother didn’t have a genetically inherited variant, she spontaneously developed the mutation before being born and unknowingly inherited on you. Your mother was 38 when she had her first symptoms, that’s a rather average age. But we always knew, it could be starting earlier for you.”

Eren’s face was without expression. He almost had forgotten his appointment with Dr. Hans but when Mikasa reminded him two days ago he was glad and tense at the same time. Dr. Hans was a good neurologist even if they had an eccentric personality and was married to one of Mikasa’s distant cousins. Without Mikasa he would never have met this doctor who was at his side for almost five years by now.

“How are you, overall?”, Dr. Hans asked and thoughtfully folded their hands under their pointly, smooth chin.

Eren shrugged. “How should I be. The countdown has started. I might be the clam in person by now but ten years from now I’ll probably be nothing more than a slobbering piece of trash that’s on a feeding tube and doesn’t remember its family. Guess what, no thank you, I’m really not wanting that. I’d rather steal Mikasa’s riffle and bang a bullet through my skull.”

Dr. Hans’ eyes widened behind their thick glasses. “Eren! What are you talking about? I must not hear things like that in here or I have to -”

The grandfather clock chimed the half hour and swallowed their words.

Dr. Hans sighed desperately. “Eren, I know it’s not easy for you. I can hardly imagine the psychical pressure but think about everyone who’s loving you and who’s by your side. They wouldn’t want you to throw away the rest of your life as easily.”

Eren still looked at them stoically, trying for an answer, that would satisfy them.

But before anything came to his mind, the door to the office opened without further knocking. “You still got a patient, Hansi?”, a chilly, dark voice asked. “It’s half past twelve, we’ve got a table reserved. Hurry up.”

Dr. Hans threw a smile at the intruder. “I’ll be right with you, Levi. It’s Eren, you probably remember him, Mikasa’s boyfriend. Go and have a cup of tea with Moblit, yeah?”

Eren also threw a hasty glance over his shoulder and saw a well below average sized man standing under the door frame.

“They’ll never give us another table, if we’re coming too late for lunch time, but that’s your loss. I hope Moblit finally has learned to pour a good black tea. Say Mikasa hi from me.” Without further looking at Eren or Dr. Hans, Levi let the heavy door fall shut behind him.

“I’m glad to have him”, Dr. Hans sighed and smiled mildly. “I would never get out of here without him.” But with a stern glance towards Eren they turned back into his worrying doctor. “Listen, I won’t give you a prescription against hyperkinesia, that would be way too early. They only hit needlessly hard on your already gloomy personality. You’ll be good and keep taking you antidepressiva and -” They started scribbling on their pad. “I’ll make it your constraint to go see a psychotherapist. At least once, better twice a week. You know where to find appropriate help, I know he offered you to join his group several times already. I’ll make talk therapy a constraint or else I’ll see what you just said is a reason to make you go to a mental hospital until you’re less suicidal!” They ripped a sheet off teir pad and pulled it towards Eren. It was a letter of referral for a psychologist.

Eren took the letter between two fingers, nobody really could read what they’ve scrawled on it. “All right Doctor”, he murmured impatiently. “I’ll go there. But I can see no use in it, I’ve made up my mind a long time ago.”

Dr. Hans swallowed audibly. “Cut the crap, Eren, you still got plenty of time. I hope your brother can put some reasoning back into you.”

                                                                              >>next

__________________________________________________ Author’s note: Welcome back to part three! I almost forgot to upload this for today, we got a surprise visit for my SO’s brother! What a nice surprise (I don’t like surprises heh...). I my version, Hange is a trans man that didn’t start transitioning until way into his twenties or early thrities and their birth name is Zoe Hans, they just swapped it for Hans Zoe when they started transitioning. And yes, they are married to Levi in this <3 Sadly Levi doesn’t play a huge role in this, but we might see him again in the future! Gotta hurry uploading this, see you for part 4!

[thewatsonbeekeepers]

Chapter 12: Three Men in a Boat [TFP 2/3]

[This was completely missing from my tumblr, via every search function and everything! So I’ve reuploaded - thanks anon for letting me know!!]

This section of the meta is going to deal with the events at Sherrinford – I’ve broken TFP up into three sections to try and get the most out of it. This isn’t just a read through like the first part of the meta, it has a specific structure, much like Eurus’s trials for the boys, so it’s really important to take this bit in one chapter. My hypothesis is thus – that each episode of s4 has been a different obstacle to be broken through in Sherlock’s mind, and that each of them is represented by one of the different Sherrinford tasks. It’s essentially an illumination of Sherlock’s progress through his mind – but it’s set up by Eurus, who is Sherlock���s mental barrier, so these are going to represent Sherlock’s darkest fears about each of the obstacles. Ready? Let’s go.

We take up the episode at the pirate hijacking, which is quite BAMF, but also illuminates a couple of things that we should bear in mind going into this episode. The first is that the transition from a blown up Baker Street to Sherlock and John hijacking a boat without a scratch on them is absolutely bizarre and leaves SO many questions – it’s dream-jumping of the most obvious kind. The second is that water has played a long role as a metaphor through the show, particularly in the EMP sequence, and it’s climaxing now – we are in the deepest waters of Sherlock’s mind.

Mycroft and John working together in the disguise sequence is metaphorically lovely – in the Oscar Wilde scene of the last part we saw Sherlock’s brain and heart finally coming together, and here for the first time they’re working together to give Sherlock the ability to go and confront Eurus. This is what makes Mycroft’s line so powerful. He says:

Say thank you to Doctor Watson. […] He talked me out of Lady Bracknell – this could have been very different.

Comic throwaway? Maybe. But given what we know about Lady Bracknell from the first part, this also has a more powerful meaning – heart!John finally stopped brain!Mycroft from being an obstructive force in Sherlock’s psyche, and they started working together instead to save him. This could have been very different is far more loaded than it sounds. All this whilst creating an image of Mark Gatiss as a Victorian aunt – wonderful.

When we first meet Eurus proper, her similarity to Sherlock is striking. She plays the violin – this isn’t a Holmes thing, because Mycroft doesn’t – it’s Sherlock’s motif throughout. Her hair is like a feminine Sherlock, her pallor and cheekbones match Cumberbatch. For reference, this is a picture of Sian Brooke and Benedict Cumberbatch together in real life.

I’ve done a section on why I think Eurus is the most repressed part of Sherlock’s psyche, and his traumatic barrier to love and life – I sometimes glibly refer to this as gay trauma, but that’s its essence. The similarity between Brooke and Cumberbatch in this scene is really compelling, looking the same but lit and dressed in opposite colours. Similarity and difference both highlighted. Even nicer, the white of Sherlock’s shirt is the same notable brightness as Eurus’s uniform, but it’s hidden under his jacket – a visual metaphor for her being hidden inside him.

Eurus gives Sherlock a Stradivarius as a gift. This should set alarm bells ringing for anybody who has seen TPLoSH. If you haven’t seen The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, please do so immediately because my God you are missing out, but TLDR – a Russian ballerina offers Holmes a Stradivarius to have sex with her so she can have a brainy child, and he declines because he’s gay. (This is not just my interpretation, this is genuinely what happens, just to be clear.) Eurus giving Sherlock a Stradivarius is a deliberate callback to the film which Mofftiss cite as their biggest inspiration; just like the ballerina tempted Holmes to feign heterosexuality, so does Eurus – and both make clear that it’s not without its rewards, which is unfortunately true for real life as well. This moment in Sherlock’s psyche also recalls the desperate unrequitedness of Holmes’s love for Watson in TPLoSH, a reference to our Sherlock’s deepest fear at the moment – he has realised his importance but not John’s romantic/sexual love for him, as we’ll see. So here, trauma!Eurus isn’t just referencing closetedness, but is actively drawing on a history of character repression with which to torment Sherlock – metafictionality at its finest.

The Stradivarius is specifically associated with closetedness, but violins more generally in the show are used to show expressions of love that can’t be voiced out loud – think of John and Mary’s wedding, or the desperate bowing of ASiB. So Eurus, gay trauma that she is, telling Sherlock that she taught him to play is a moment of distinct pain – she is the reason he can’t speak his love aloud, but instead has to speak in signs.

When Sherlock plays ‘him’, rather than Bach, to Eurus (he has a big Bach thing with Moriarty in s2, take from that what you will because I don’t know!), he’s playing Irene Adler’s theme. As a fandom, we’ve generally agreed on associating Irene’s theme with sexual love, which ties in nicely with Eurus’s question – has Sherlock had sex? It’s unanswered. At the end of ASiB, Irene calls Sherlock the virgin, suggesting that he hasn’t.

My favourite moment in s4 without a doubt is Jim dancing to I Want To Break Free. I know it’s the most boring thing to say, but my two greatest loves are Andrew Scott and Freddie Mercury, so it was like Christmas. Here it is also Christmas, but there are two possible timelines. I hypothesise that this refers to Christmas 2010, but it’s absolutely conceivable that it could be Christmas 2009. If we acknowledge that Sherlock is in a coma in 2014, then five years ago is Christmas 2009; however, given that we’ve jumped to 2015 in dream time, I’m going to make the guess that Jim’s visit to Sherrinford is supposed to take place in 2010. This ties up with the idea that this is when Moriarty first started taking an interest in Sherlock, who had never heard of him before ASiP, particularly as this is all in the EMP.

I firmly believe that Jim represents the fear that John is in danger – I highlight this in the chapter on HLV, where you’ll recall we first encounter Jim in the EMP and he sends Sherlock on his journey through the EMP with the words John Watson is definitely in danger – a pretty big sign. Even without this, though, his biggest threat to Sherlock has always been hurting John, whether in TRF or with the idea of burning the heart out of him with Semtex. It’s not unreasonable then to assume that MP!Jim first getting inside Sherlock’s subconscious to represent this fear happens in 2010, when he first meets John. He slips in and stays there, and he melds with Eurus. We see this in the powerful visual of the two of them dancing in front of the glass as Jim’s image slowly becomes Eurus’s reflection – the fear of John dying embeds itself into the gay trauma that Sherlock has stored up, even without him realising it. This ties in nicely with the choice of I Want to Break Free, which is famous for its use of drag in the music video – Jim melding into Eurus is the dark side of queer genderbending that we hate to see. It’s also a pretty fitting song name for an intensifying of repressed gay trauma, even without the association with queer king Mercury.

[A side note to all of this – there were wonderful TEH metas about trains in tunnels being sexual, which isn’t just a tjlc thing but is a well-established idea in cinema – Moriarty’s consistent train noises here seem like a horrifyingly inverted version of that sexual longing.]

Task 1 – The Six Thatchers

The governor is set up as a mirror for John in this task, which provides some helpful context for the episode as a whole. Heart!John makes this comparison himself, by drawing out the similarity between the situation with the governor’s wife and his with Mary, though in this case the governor does kill himself because of his wife – or so it seems. The suicidal instinct matches with everything we’ve learned about John in s4, but I want to hypothesise, perhaps tenuously, that he’s more connected with Eurus than we might think. We know that Eurus has had control of the governor for quite some time, and one of the things we hear her saying to the governor in the background of the interrogations is that he shouldn’t trust his wife. This is an odd thing to pepper into the background when he’s about to commit suicide for her, and perhaps suggests that he’s more of Eurus’s pawn than he lets on, though I grant this may be spurious.

The idea that he distrusts his wife because of Eurus is important, however, because we’ve already seen John engage with Eurus in various forms, but this seems like an extension of E; Eurus, aka Sherlock’s hidden self, has been making John doubt Mary, even before she shoots Sherlock. John cannot know she’s a spy at this point, so it’s unlikely he’s doubting her goodwill; he’s simply doubting her.

Before we look at how the actual task impacts the governor and how that illustrates what’s really going on in TST, it’s worth pointing out that it is the governor’s engagement with Eurus which prompts the entire shutdown of Sherrinford and forces Sherlock (with brain!Mycroft and heart!John ever at his side, of course) to engage once and for all with Eurus. This points to everything that s4 has been telling us – that Sherlock’s understanding of the relationship between him and John, including his power to save him (we’re going to see the governor play the foil here) is what sends his brain into stay-alive-overdrive. Sherrinford is the peak of this.

Summary of the task, for those who hate TFP: Sherlock is given a gun and told he can pick either John or Mycroft to kill the governor, otherwise the governor’s wife will be killed by Eurus. As I’ve written about in its chapters, TST is about Sherlock trying to get to the bottom of Mary and why she tried to kill him – and, of course, the impact this will have on John. In brief, by displacing the shot onto Mary in his mind, he’s discounting his own importance and instead thinking about what it will mean for John to lose Mary. His greatest fear is that losing Mary will break John, and it isn’t until the end of TLD that he recognises that the return of John’s suicidal ideation isn’t over Mary, but over him. TFP presents the horror version, the version of TST that Sherlock’s trauma wants him to believe but which he has to overcome. In this case, Mycroft and John resolve to keep the governor alive in their passivity, but that passivity – Sherlock’s coma – is not enough to keep the governor from killing himself over Mary. This is the most feared outcome from Mary’s death that Sherlock can think of – his fear of losing John combined with John’s love of Mary, which in TST Sherlock is still taking as read.

Double naming in this show should never be neglected, and in this case we learn shortly before the governor dies that his name is David. Again, the dramatic manner in which we learn this (on the moment of execution) draws our attention to it – we know another David in this show.

Yup – Mary's ex who’s still in love with her from TSoT. So even though Sherlock is experiencing the panic of John killing himself for loss of Mary, his subconscious is still pointing out to him that that’s not what’s happening here. This mirror version of John that he has set up, who is broken by the loss of Mary as Sherlock fears in TST, is actually the other man in Mary’s life – even with Eurus forcing the worst possible scenario onto him, this still can’t quite fit John’s character. And so we move onto the second task.

Task 2 – The Lying Detective

This section of the Sherrinford saga is the three Garridebs, the closest thing that the fandom has ever got to a collective trauma. I do think, however, that it’s fully reclaimable for tjlc and means the same as we always wanted it to; I also think that it’s possibly the most gutting part of Eurus’s metatfictional power play.

If you haven’t read The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, it’s quite short and the most johnlocky of the Holmes canon, so I’d thoroughly recommend. For the purposes of mapping bbc!verse onto acd!verse, however, here’s the incredibly short version. A man called Evans wants to burgle Nathan Garrideb, so he calls himself John Garrideb and writes an advertisement from a man called Alexander Hamilton Garrideb (make of that what you will, hamilstans) declaring that he wants to bequeath his fortune to three Garridebs. “John” gets someone to pretend to be a Howard Garrideb to get Nathan out of the house to meet him – he comes to burgle the house but Holmes and Watson are lying in wait. He shoots Watson, and Holmes thinks Watson is seriously injured and so we have this wonderful section:

“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say you are not hurt!”

It was worth a wound–it was worth many wounds–to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.

“It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch.”

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.

“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It is quite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”

Mofftiss have referenced this moment as being the greatest in the Holmes canon for them, the moment when we see the depth of Holmes’s affection for Watson, and so it seems odd to waste it on such a tiny moment in TFP. Many fans, myself included, were really upset to see Eurus drop all three Garridebs into the sea, the implication being that tjlc would never be real, and it was that moment that caused many (including me) to walk away. I came back, obviously, but I completely understand why you wouldn’t. However, I want to map one Garridebs story onto the other to show how they might match up.

The Garridebs that Eurus presents us with are not the three Garridebs from the story. In the story, there are three physically present Garridebs – Nathan, John and Howard – although admittedly only Nathan is an actual Garrideb. Alexander was completely invented by John and existed only in a newspaper advertisement. Evans, alias John Garrideb, is the criminal in the Garridebs story; Alexander is an invention.

So – what happens if we substitute John for Alex in bbc!verse, as in canon they are the same person? This is interesting, because double-naming means that John becomes the killer. Whilst it’s true that John Garrideb is known as Killer Evans for his murder of a counterfeiter back in America, in canon he is done for attempted murder – of John Watson, of course. Here we have a situation where a John is set up killing John. This is exacerbated by the victim in bbc!verse being called Evans; Roger Prescott, the counterfeiter, would have been a much more canonical nod to the books, so we can assume that the choice of Evans is therefore significant. It should be noted that Evans and John/Alex Garrideb are the same person in acd!canon - so killing Evans is a representation of suicide. But, in case we weren’t there yet, the reason that Evans took the name ‘John’ is acd!canon is very likely to be because Evan is Welsh for John – so whatever way you look at this situation, you have Sherlock deducing John killing John.

This is, of course, exactly what Sherlock deduces at the end of TLD, far too slow, when we see Eurus shoot John in an exact mirror of the shot from TST – I explained in a previous chapter why this means that John is suicidal without Sherlock. However, much like the passivity of Sherlock, John and Mycroft in the first task, here we see that Sherlock’s act of deduction is good, but can’t actually save anyone; Eurus kills off our Garridebs moment as Sherlock is left to watch, and it’s notable that heart!John is the most distressed about this. Remember, in the first task Eurus left Sherlock with an image of a John who was suicidally devoted to Mary, and although the Garridebs moment is one which metafictionally highlights the relationship between Sherlock and John, she’s still presenting him with a Garridebs moment in which he is fundamentally unable to save John. This is a direct result of the Redbeard trauma that Sherlock has experienced – helplessness is key to that, and this is what Eurus has come to represent in his psyche. But – Eurus isn’t real, Eurus is testing Sherlock, trauma trying to bring him down, and Sherlock’s job in TFP is to break through the walls that his consciousness has set up for him.

The power in Sherlock saying I condemn Alex Garrideb is heartbreaking, then, because it is Sherlock recognising that he is the reason that John is going to die. Eurus is there to make him confront that reality, which she explicitly makes him do. We get the split-second moment where he thinks he’s saved Alex, and then he’s plunged into the sea – but remember, this is Eurus taunting Sherlock, presenting him with worst-possible-scenarios. TFP is set up as a game for a reason – it is a series of hypotheses cast in Sherlock’s mind by his trauma that he has to break through one by one. Remember, although she’s ostensibly trying to hurt Sherlock, Eurus’s ‘extra’ murders in the first two tasks are aimed at hurting John, which wouldn’t make sense if he weren’t the mp version of Sherlock’s heart.

Task 3 – The Final Problem

Pretty much straight after this episode aired, people were pointing out that Molly is a clear John mirror and that pretty much all of the deductions Sherlock makes here could be about John. Again, we’re seeing Sherlock’s emotions being resolved in a heterosexual context – the presence of Eurus means that he’s unable to process them in their real, queer form. However, if we take Molly to be a stand-in for John in this scene, it may tell us what TFP is about – and the scenario that Eurus presents will be the worst one, the thing that is causing Sherlock the most pain.

TLD/the previous task have shown us that John is in imminent danger, so the transition to Molly Hooper’s flat being rigged with bombs is not a difficult one; we must assume this to be the suicidal ideation that we’ve just deduced. The time limit suggests that Sherlock is running out of time to save him (fucking right he fell into a coma SIX YEARS AGO). Putting Molly in a bad mood isn’t really necessary for this scene – they make her seem a lot more depressed than she would necessarily need to be, and they emphasise her aloneness and her ability to push people away, which isn’t something we know Molly to do. These traits are all much more important in the context of a suicidal John – they paint a much clearer picture of someone who is depressed and alone than we really need for this scene, where it’s not relevant to the surface plot.

Sherlock and the audience believe he has won this task, but of course he hasn’t - there were never any explosives rigged up in Molly’s flat, and it was a ruse to destroy his relationship with Molly. This is what he fears then – what if he’s wrong? What if coming back to life because he loves John won’t save him – it will destroy him and their relationship? The problem to be wrestled with is how to save John – according to the symmetry of these tasks, that is the final problem. We know that the scenario Eurus has presented isn’t real, but Sherlock doesn’t; he is being held up by his inability to cope with interpersonal relationships, and to get to the bottom of that we’re going to need to understand what he’s been repressing – part 3 of this meta.

There’s a wonderful shot just as Sherlock is destroying Molly’s coffin which zooms up and out through a ceiling window, all the way above Sherrinford, as though to emphasise not how remote Sherrinford is but just how deep inside it Sherlock is. Given what we know about the height metaphor as well as the water metaphor, this shot is a pretty clear way of telling us – this is as deep inside Sherlock’s mind as we go, this is the nub. But Sherlock smashing up the coffin has another powerful connotation – he's refusing death. In terms of metaphor, he’s refusing John’s death – there will be no small coffin, because he will not let it happen – but the visual of him smashing the coffin also suggests that he is rejecting his own death. The two are, of course, inextricably linked. Our boys’ lives are tied together.

Epilogue: The Hunger Games

I can’t watch this without thinking of The Hunger Games, I just can’t! But regardless of how much Sherlock seems like Katniss in this section, let’s press on. I don’t count this as one of the typical tasks, because this isn’t Eurus presenting a ‘haha I tricked you scenario’ - far from it. This is Sherlock’s way into unlocking his repression. The key takeaway from this scene, as we’ll see is that trauma has hurt Sherlock, and it’s going to try pretty hard here to mutilate him – but it can’t kill him.

We get a great line from Sherlock at the beginning of this, where he tells John that the way Eurus is treating him isn’t torture, it’s vivisection. Because it’s an experiment? Perhaps. But the more logical way to phrase this would be that it isn’t vivisection, it’s torture. Torture is much more emotionally charged than vivisection as a phrase – from a writer’s perspective, this phrasing is strange because it seems to negate rather than intensify the pain our characters are undergoing. Why, then, would vivisection be more important than torture? Well, put simply, vivisection is the act of cutting someone open and seeing what’s inside – and that’s what we’re doing. This isn’t just an analogy for experimenting on people, it’s an analogy for going literally inside somebody. In EMP world, then, these words are well chosen.

Sherlock is offered the choice – John or Mycroft? Heart or brain? We might initially think that this is Eurus pressuring Sherlock into death, but that’s not the case at all – we know from the early series that Sherlock has survived before (although very unhappily) with just one of these two dominating the other. It has taken his EMP journey to unite them into a functioning entity, and Eurus is bent on destroying that, mutilating either his emotional capacity or his reasoning, the two parts that make him human. This is a good sign, as well, that trauma has been acting on Sherlock through the first three series, when his psyche was dominated by brain!Mycroft - Eurus is keen to revert to that state, when trauma had control. It is touching, then, that brain!Mycroft is willing to relinquish that control and leave Sherlock with his heart, perhaps because this new unity allows him to recognise how damaged the Sherlock he created was. We should also note that this diminishing of Sherlock’s heart is compared to his Lady Bracknell, which we know to be his repression of all Sherlock’s romantic/sexual impulses – except this time it’s less convincing, because his brain doesn’t believe it anymore. What is also devastating is heart!John’s lack of self-esteem or knowledge, the sense that he isn’t useful to Sherlock, which of course will be proven wrong.

[if anyone has thoughts on the white rectangle on the floor, do let me know. It’s bugging me!]

Mycroft says that he acknowledges there is a heart somewhere inside of him – again, this is emotionally powerful in the context of the brain/heart wrangling that we’ve seen inside the EMP. Just as Sherlock’s psyche has tried to compartmentalise them all this time and they’re finally working together, now there’s an acknowledgement that the compartmentalisation into personae is maybe inaccurate as well – brain!Mycroft’s pretence to be emotionally detached is not in fact correct, as we’ve been suspecting for a long time.

Brain!Mycroft also states that it’s his fault that this has all happened because he let Eurus converse with Jim. If you spend any time thinking about the Eurus + Jim meeting, like many elements of this show it doesn’t make sense. There isn’t a feasible way this could have been planned, recorded etc in five minutes, and although it’s true that Jim could have come back to shoot the videos under the governor’s supervision, it’s not clear why he’s so important. Unless he takes on the metaphorical significance that we’ve assigned him, letting Jim see Eurus seems pretty unimportant – he is only the garnishing on Eurus’s plan. Instead, Mycroft is at fault for letting John be in danger – not only did Sherlock misdeduce Mary (although we can lay the blame for that at the feet of heart!John - see meta on TST), his reasoning was blinded and so he missed John’s suicidal urges and the danger to his life. Brain!Mycroft holds himself responsible – all of these EMP deductions are way late, comprised of things Sherlock should have noticed when his brain wasn’t letting his heart in.

Five minutes. It took her five minutes to do this to all of us.

The lighting is dramatic, so I can’t properly gauge Ben’s expression at this moment, but his eyes look crinkled in confusion, just like they are at the moments when a sense of unreality starts to set in in TAB. Indeed, these aren’t very appropriate words for when you’re about to kill your brother; it’s like he’s being distracted, like there’s something important that he’s missing. Mofftiss are drawing attention to the sheer impossibility of the situation – and Sherlock’s nearly there. His Katniss Everdeen move, threatening to kill himself, is the recognition that his trauma doesn’t have that power – it can hurt him and deform him by twisting his psyche into unbalance, like it has before and like Eurus is trying to here, but it cannot kill him. We can see that Sherlock has risen above the one-sided dominance that he began the entire show with when Eurus shouts at him that he doesn’t know about Redbeard yet – that’s not going to change his mind today, but it’s a direct throwback to the days when it would have, in ASiP with the cabbie. Character development, folks.

The shot of Sherlock falling backwards into the dark water links to two aspects of the EMP. One is the continued metaphor of water to represent sinking into the depths of his mind. The water is so dark it looks oily – it could be argued that this is the oil that is corrupting the waters of his mind as we finally cut to the repressed memories. I quite like this reading, though I have little other oil imagery to link it to in the show. The other notable point is the slow-motion fall backwards – instead of showing Sherlock, John and Mycroft all falling, we cut to Sherlock falling backwards exactly like he did in HLV when he was shot by Mary. This is a really clear visual callback. Even though we’re going deeper, we’re linking back to the original shooting, back in reality, suggesting that this depth is paradoxically going to lead us back to the start. To go back to the oil imagery, don’t forget that oil floats on water – although it looks like we’re sinking, there’s a real sense that these repressed memories are actually pulling us to the surface of Sherlock’s subconscious, quite unlike the deep zoom out we saw when Sherlock was destroying the coffin.

And that’s it for part 2 of the TFP meta! Part 3/3 will deal with such highlights as John not being able to recognise bones and presumably getting his feet pulled off by chains. Good thing this is just a dream. See you then!