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wevegottogetaway · 4 years ago

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Thanks fo’ saving my ass tonight

I got so much going on with uni, but I couldn’t resist. If you too are queen/king of procrastinating uni work, you have my deepest support! Hope you enjoyed x

TW: none (except fool language)

Part 2 - Part 3*

Office parties have never been y/n’s cup of tea, the idea of enjoying yourself in the very place people usually count down the hours before they can leave, is rather ludicrous in her humble opinion. Alas as the boss’ personal assistant, she not only had to plan and organize the whole shebang but her presence was also required, supervision purposes and all that. The only solace sweetening the deal for her was that she’d be in charge of the catering too, and y/n learnt very early on that good food and greater booze could make any boring work function at least tolerable.

Now that the festivities are in full swing, conversation flowing almost as heartily as the champagne in the guests’ eager mouths, y/n thinks she did quite well. The vast open space of the office is decorated with taste, the music set at the perfect level as to not overpower the boring chitchat bouncing off its walls, and to her greatest delight, the catering company she hired has truly outdone themselves. All in all, everybody seems to be having a grand time, and y/n decides that’s reason enough to officially relieve herself of her supervisor’s duties.

As she scans over the assortment of canapés, mini-quiches, crudités and other mouth-watering ambrosias, y/n fails to notice the tall figure casually approaching her. She’s in the midst of pondering whether she should try the humous or a cream cheese and salmon toast first, mouth salivating and stomach growling in appetite, when a raspy voice interrupts her inner battle, "I see m’not the only one who’s here just fo’ the food".

Her eyes pop off the delicious hors d’oeuvres to the sight gracing them next and she doesn’t know which is the most appetizing. Because standing a few feet from her is Harry, vibrant smile and pretty dimples on show, as he leans over the verrines platter to pick the best-looking one. He’s wearing an olympic blue floral suit on top of a scandalously unbuttoned transparent shirt, a bold number that would grant anyone else looks of surprise and confusion but looked absolutely divine on his broad frame. Besides, after two years working at the office, everyone had gotten used to his unconventional fashion choices by now.

Y/n quirks an eyebrow in curiosity as she dips a cucumber stick in a bowl of humous, before quipping, "not a big fan of these things?"

Harry lets out a small chuckle in a ‘no kidding’ way, and attaches his emerald eyes to hers, "they’re kind of a drag, if m’bein’ honest."

She smiles at his admission, realizing they both share an aversion for mundanities, "I know right. Like, why party here where everyone has to be on their best behavior when we could be down at the bar without the boss gallivanting around?" she cries out in exasperation and not for the first time, Harry thinks she’s quite possibly the most endearing thing he’s ever seen. His smile widens the tiniest bit at her passionate rant, "my thoughts exactly. Do we even know what we’re supposed to celebrate?" The question makes her laugh, she wouldn’t have known either if not for her involvement in the affair, "well as the person behind this all drag," she give him a pointed look at his jeering choice of word, "it would be weird if I didn’t."

Harry’s face falls at the possibility of having offended her, but his uneasiness quickly dissipates when she starts laughing at him. "M’sorry, that came out wrong," he tells her before letting out a giggle of his own and y/n revels in the moment. The idea of interacting with him beyond the usual ‘here’s the presentation for today’s conference’ or ‘do you have the quarterly report ready’ is rather intoxicating for her already feeble nerves. "Don’t worry, I take no offense, I’m just as bored as you are," she reassures him with a smile, "the party is for a new potential investor, something about wooing them with some ‘corporate fun’. S’a load of bullshit if you ask me".

Harry nods at the explanation unimpressed, his boss’ intentions being the least of his worries. Aside from being the classic douche every manager typically insists on being, the guy has always made his distaste about him pretty clear, so Harry would rather focus on more interesting things. Like how beautiful y/n looks right now, her hair tied up in a loose bun at the top of her head, leaving a few strands to fall around her face. "You look amazing, by the way," he brings himself to say, though he thinks his compliment doesn’t even do her justice.

Y/n looks down at her own outfit then: a knee-length red dress composed of a skater skirt and a backless top that only holds with a couple pressure buttons clasped behind her neck. Her cheeks warm up to match the color of her apparel, betraying the timidity she’s always fallen victim of whenever he happened to be in her vicinity. Y/n’s never been one to shy away from her feelings or trip over her own words when facing her crushes, but there is something about Harry that teleports her right back to her sheepish 13 year-old teenage self. Also, she’s not too keen on office romances and the drama that usually ensues so she’s always made sure to stifle her blossoming attraction and keep their relation work-appropriate. Surely that must account for most of her awkwardness, doesn’t it?

Her eyes trail back to his face and her response comes in a shy euphemism, "thank you, you clean up quite nicely yourself." It’s enough to quirk Harry’s lips in a bashful smile, their complexion evidently on edge as they tread uncharted territories. Professionalism has always regimented their interactions with kind but polite rigidness, neither of them quite inclined to cross that invisible line, but tonight seems to challenge that.

Tonight, Harry is resolute in his infatuation, no longer inhibited from social construct but driven by a quest for knowledge; anything that will help him decipher her carefully shielded crux. Tonight, he endeavors to scrape the edges of her rough diamond to expose the gem encapsulated inside, peel back the stoic layers of her exterior to find her unapologetic and intrinsic nature. Tonight, he is thirsty for secrets and confidential disclosures, and he won’t leave until he’s drained it all out of her. Unless she tells him to fuck off, obviously.

Harry keeps the conversation going as he browns the buffet for a new delicacy to snack on, "so, what would you be doing if you didn’t have to be here?" He wants to know everything, the present and the past, the good and the bad, the superficial and the substance, the messy and the orderly, but he figures he should start by what she likes to do in her own time. The things that loosen her up after a tense week at work, the things that will make her eyes shine with passion as she relates them back to his curious mind.

The question reaches her ears as she takes a sip of her drink, "mmm," she smiles around her glass before placing it back on the table, "-that’s easy. Playing pool with the gang at Gibson’s." Her answer spills without hesitation, a heap of follow-up questions already brewing up in Harry’s brain, but the foreign name is what beckons his attention first, "Gibson’s?" he echoes with a faint rumple pulling the skin between his eyes. Is that the name of a friend? A boyfriend? Out of all the questions he’s contemplated, y/n’s relationship status never crossed his mind. He’s always assumed her to be a single woman, the evidence of a significant other never present in her language and demeanor.

A wave of relief washes over him at her elaboration, "it’s a bar couple blocks from my place. It’s been my friends and I’s HQ ever since we all met." The sentiment has her eyes sparkle at the remembrance of all the happy memories the place hosted, and Harry stores the information in his mental list of all y/n’s soft spots.

"Sounds rad, so you play pool?" he inquires with enthusiasm. He’s been knows to play a game or two in his youth, though it’s been a hot minute since he’s felt the weight of the cue in his hands as he sinks ball after ball in their respective pockets. He remembers the elation of it all, the adrenaline coursing through his veins at each successful strike, and his heart flutters at the thought of ever sharing a game with her; she seems like the competitive type in the most entertaining way possible. Before his thoughts can spiral into much filthier realms, like bending her over the table mid-game when his own skills prevail and she turns into a sore-loser, y/n’s voice rings him back to reality.

"Uh uh, correction," her expression suddenly turns in false seriousness before she proves him right about her competing tendencies, "I win at pool." Her eyes are so full of confidence, a spice of mischief sparkling in their corner, she would have no difficulty persuading anyone of anything that passes the threshold of her mouth. Harry certainly doesn’t doubt her mastery of the bar game, but it doesn’t stop him from challenging her in a slightly elevated pitch, "oh is that so?"

Y/n only grins at the banter, not at all fazed by his taunting remark, "maybe you’ll have to find out for yourself." She reaches for another snack, not taking her come-hither look off his handsome face, and Harry revels in her flirtatious advances, a smug smile taking possession of his lips as he surfs of the same wave of seduction. "Is that a challenge?" he philanders back, fueling the sensual back-and-forth they seem to have embarked upon.

"Not much of a challenge if I know I’ll win," y/n replies with cheek, her self-assurance once again burgeoning like sexy wildflowers sprouting from the ground underneath Harry’s feet, wrapping around his ankle and growing along his body to twine around his spellbound heart. He absolutely loves her unfaltering aplomb, finds it undoubtably sexy but he can’t let her know that just yet.

"Cocky."

"Confident."

They both chuckle at their repartee, enjoying this ping-pong of quick-witted banter they’ve never found in anybody else before. It’s like their intellects were meant to collide in galvanizing forces, the encounter of two fiery psychs too brilliant to one up the other.

Harry is mesmerized by their connection, if he knew sparks would fire this bright, he would have made a move ages ago. "Fuck, you’re something else," he shakes his head in incredulity before confessing, "definitely not what I expected."

Y/n’s chest tingles at his comment, a rivulet of liquid glee leaking through her arteries to pump her heart and her ego full of bliss, "Oh so you expected something, did you?" She punctuates her teasing with a thousand-watts power smirk, and Harry finds it strikingly alluring.

Not about to let her have the upper hand however, a burst of smugness crosses his features as he boomerangs her earlier allurement back to her, "maybe you’ll have to find out for yourself." It earns him a deep jazzy laugh rooted in her tummy and a tinge of pride swirling in his own. He wants to pry laugh after laugh from her belly until her last giggle, only relenting once the muscles in her chest are aching from unbridled joy.

Y/n sighs in content before taking a bite out of a mini-tartlet as she considers how to proceed in this much too flirty conversation. "So what would you be doing tonight, if not for this stupid party?" she returns his first question before realizing, "-wait a sec, what are you doing here if you hate these things so much? My presence was mandatory but yours isn’t."

"I’ll have you know I was coerced into coming too," he quips back in a fake defensive tone, hand pressing to his chest, "Mike from accounting begged me to tag along, he just broke up with his girlfriend so I didn’t have the heart to tell him no." The selfishness of the gesture softens her heart in a goo of adoration, but she can’t let him know that just yet.

"Softie."

"Chivalrous."

His comeback has her giggle, a rejoinder already tiptoeing at the edge of her lips, "see, who’s cocky now?" Her eyes are full of jest and lightness, somehow taking the weight of the party off his shoulders. Turns out, food and booze are not the only remedies for boring work functions, y/n’s company is just as effective if not more, and that’s with the guarantee of a hangover-less comes next morning. Harry is truly happy he decided to make an appearance tonight, a sentiment he definitely didn’t foresee for the night. The realization has him faintly shaking his head in amazement, his lips letting out another whispered "something else" softly enough that it doesn’t quite reach her already inflated ears.

"So did you have any plans tonight?" She reiterates the question not wanting to ever stop talking with him.

There are probably a hundred exciting plans he could have conjured up to come off half as intriguing as she seems to be, but instead he decides to go the honest route, "nah, I would have probably crash on my couch, this week’s been pretty hectic." His truth is confirmed by the faded blackness tinting the skin below his eyes, a proof of hard work and long hours under the heedlessness of a greedy superior. Y/n knows it all too well, having had firsthand experience with her boss’ jackassery. That’s why she directly inquires, "boss giving you trouble?"

Part of Harry is eager to steer the conversation back to more pleasant waters but he guesses talking a little bit about work was inevitable at some point, especially since they both share palpable distaste for their superior. "The maniac keeps giving me last minute reports like I’m expected to work all night along on his bullshit projects," he explains dejectedly before running his hand through his luscious curls in sign of frustration. "Barely finished in time fo’ the party tonight, I had to slip in his office to put the file on his desk, that fucker had already left."

Y/n listens attentively, her chest tightening in empathy at the recollection of his misfortune. She’s very familiar with the embittering feeling that comes with working your ass for someone that barely registers your efforts and dishes the office hours before you can even dream of clocking off. She’s faced the same scenario time and time again, including tonight, when she’d come up to lock the boss’ office hours after he left to get pampered for the party. She barely got time to make the double commute to and from her place, much less spend hours getting dolled up. She does remember the odd file on her boss’ desk though, "oh I was wondering what that blue folder was about, he never usually leave unattended paperwork on his desk."

Harry starts nodding in confirmation before stopping dead, eyes widened in distress, "wait, did you just say blue?" he asks in urgency.

Y/n frowns at his sudden agitation, her mind reeling to try and visualize the state of the surroundings she left several hours ago. She’s pretty positive she saw a blue binder laying there, not that she knows the ramifications of that simple fact, "yes I think so, why?"

The dire nature of the situation becomes painfully obvious as Harry’s face turns into a mess of dread and panic, "oh shit, oh fuck, no no no," the words keep tumbling from his mouth in a ramble of nerves. "So stupid, m’so fucked" he keeps muttering self-admonition in quiet anger, hands griping at the root of his hair.

Concern is starting to fester in y/n’s guts as she takes in his disheveled state, "Harry, Jesus, take a breath, tell me what’s going on," she steps closer to him, one hand softly holding at his biceps as she tries to connect their gazes.

Once his eyes plug into hers, pupils blown out in turmoil, he finally calms down enough to word out his mishap, "s’not the right file on his desk, I only use red binders for the reports." Spinning around out of her hold to shout his stress back to the wall in a loud "fuck!", Harry’s mind is caught up in a swirl of possible excuses to give to his boss, all sounding more ridiculous than the other. He can’t think of way to fix his mistake and escape the inevitable berating coming his way comes morning.

Fortunately for him, y/n is not about to let this happen, "it’s okay, we’ll fix this," she encourages. "What’s on his desk right now?"

Harry looks back at her then, not totally convinced that this all mayhem is salvageable. His boss is never going to tolerate this minor negligence, especially once he finds out the irrelevant material mistakenly slipped amongst his work. "My 14 year-old niece’s english project" the answer comes out as a question, a hint of self-deprecating humor lacing through his words. "Bloody hell, he’s gon’ have my head fo’ that one."

Harry is adamant in his doom, but if anything, y/n is not a quitter. "No he’s not. He hasn’t seen it yet, right? You said he was already gone when you brought the file."

He takes a long breath, "I suppose not."

"Guess it’s a good thing I have the keys to his office then, yeah?" She smiles proudly as a beacon of hope shines on his conflicted face. The forest green of his eyes seems to breath back to life in an endearing revival, effectively tugging at y/n’s heart’s merciful strings.

"Fuck, you’d do that fo’ me?" his shoulders loosen up in relief, the tension slowly simmering down to a gentle buzz, as he envisages the possibility of an illicit break-in. Well, as illicit as it may be, considering they have the keys. Still, best they don’t get caught snooping in the boss’ office, for both of their sake.

"Of course, silly. No questions asked," y/n answers with a smile, and her willingness to put herself in potential trouble, warms Harry’s heart from inside out.

"Y/n, you’re an angel, a life savior," he grabs her shoulders in each of his hands, his gratitude painted all over his soft traits. "Fuck, I could kiss you right now." The words fly out of his mouth without him realizing their significance after spending the last ten minutes coming onto her. And well, y/n isn’t too opposed to the idea either, and she thinks she might hold him to that promise in retribution for her saving grace when the time and space works better in their favor. "Alright Casanova, let’s get your ass out of this mess," she grabs her purse form the table and takes his hand to guide him through the cluster of people milling around the office space, eventually reaching the row of elevators across the room.

As they stand waiting for their lift to come, Harry starts fidgeting with nervous energy, feeling like a kid who’s about to get caught trying to steal straight from the cookie jar. "Shit, alright, we have to be discrete if we want to pull this off," he tells her, not taking his eyes off the room in case someone would look at them and read their plan straight off their guilty-looking faces.

"Says the guy in the flashy suit," y/n immediately counters, in an attempt to revive the playfulness of their synergy. The night was going swimmingly before the whole ordeal, and she’s convinced this foxy little adventure can only add to the appeal of an evening full of surprises.

Harry’s indignation at her dig teeters from his pouty lips, "hey! It’s not that bad." She giggles at his poor rebuttal, and as the doors of the elevator open, they quickly take a few steps inside.

"Harry, that suit is so loud, it could break the sound barrier," y/n teases as she eyes the crowd of people frivolously chatting away, while waiting for the door to close back.

"Thought I cleaned up nicely," he cheekily throws back her words from earlier, letting them resonate within the small confines of the elevator as they make their way up to their boss’ office.

She turns to face him then, a smile spreading on her supple lips, "don’t get me wrong, you look wonderful, just nowhere near decent for a secret spy mission."

Her words have him beaming back at her in a second, his mind fixated on her compliment rather than how impractical it is that his clothes are flashier than the Queen’s; in his defense, neither are y/n’s. "Damn, just got upgraded from nice to wonderful, this night is actually turning around," he chirps as the door open to the deserted hallway of the top floor.

"Alright, more action and less flirting, Styles," y/n playfully chides him. "Go get the right file, while I open his door, we should be quick in case he decides to bring the tour and his special guest up here." She sends him off with a tilt of her chin in what she knows to be the direction of his office, and Harry complies with ease and starts backtracking a few doors down, "yes ma’am."

While he’s gone to fetch the correct document from his office, y/n rummages through her purse to find the key of her boss’ office and unlock the door. Once she’s inside, she makes her way around the imposing mahogany desk commanding the space, and finds the imposter file sitting innocently on the polished wood. For pure curiosity’s sake, she starts leafing through its contents and lets a small chuckle as she takes in the endearing work of a young aspiring writer.

Her reading is interrupted by Harry’s hurried strides when he joins her in the room. "Here’s the damn report," he flings the folder on the desk next to his niece’s, red clashing with blue, mocking him for his slight negligence. As he absorbs the sight of y/n’s face engrossed in the teenage’s fiction, he moves slowly behind her, getting a glimpse at his niece’s whimsical words over her shoulder, before his eyes settle on the bare skin of her back.

Y/n welcomes his sudden proximity, has stranding on end as she feels the soft puffs of his breaths against her neck. "Your niece is quite the writer, does she always come to you for advice?"

She ignores the shivers running down her spine, and gulps when Harry’s voice greets her ears in a deep quiet hoarse, closer than she excepted, "usually, yeah. I was the one who got her into writing, so it’s kinda become our thing, I guess."

She smiles at his softness, "that’s really sweet," and draws in a long breath in a vain attempt to calm her jitters. She can almost feel his presence on her skin though they’re technically not touching, her fingertips tingling in anticipation.

Another frisson travels through her when he responds with a low "mhm," his nose slightly grazing behind her ear, taking in her beguiling fragrance. Jasmine and vanilla, fresh and soft, exciting and comforting at the same time; it suits her perfectly.

"Harry-" she doesn’t know what to follow the whisper of his name with. Careful? Not here? Please don’t stop? At this point, she wants nothing more than to succumb to his affections, regardless of their improper whereabouts.

Harry brushes the back of his index down the smooth skin of her back in a featherlike caress, "thanks fo’ saving my ass, tonight," he murmurs into her ear, before laying a small kiss behind it.

Y/n is exulting under his tender ministrations, her eyes closed to enhance the feeling of his touch. "Anytime," she breathes out as her head tilts backward, a hand coming behind his neck in a silent plea not to let go, and Harry smiles against her skin at her receptiveness, goosebumps of his own blossoming across his body.

His next words are out of his mouth before he can think, "mmm, I owe you a big one," his playful persona resurfacing now that the situation was handled. They snort in unison at the double-entendre, and Harry slides his free arm around her waist to bring her closer to his chest in silent remittance. Y/n doesn’t mind though, she kinda likes this boyish side of him, but she can’t let him know that just yet.

"Gross."

"Hilarious."

Their ping-pong of wisecrack is back despite the tension permeating the air. It’s the kind that speeds heartbeats and moistens palms in lustful anticipation, the kind that curtails people’s breath as their lungs fill up with voluptuous aphrodisia. "Will you let me kiss you? Show you all my gratitude? I really wanna have a taste, love," he pleads for her permission, and y/n is too consumed by desire to deny him, "have it."

In one swift move, he spins around and latches his eager lips onto her. Passion ensues, hands roaming all over each other to find the perfect hold; the back of a neck, the lapels of a suit jacket, a few strands of hair, the curve of an exposed ribcage, it’s all intoxicating but there is always more to explore. Their tongues are caught up in a heated tango of their own, swirling around each other to quench the thirst of passion, licking their lustful way around their mouths.

At one point, Y/n finds herself pressed against her boss’ desk, one leg around Harry’s waist as he attaches his hips to hers in a heated embrace that leaves them breathless upon parting. He rests his forehead against her temple as they both process the intimate exchange, not ready to burst out of this fairy bubble. "Fuck, been waiting to do that for a while," he exhales with a smile, still incredulous at the evening’s proceedings, and the girl nestled in his arms.

"Same," she agrees and gently cups his face to bring his eyes back to hers, barely believing the adoration and warmth swimming within his lovely olive irises.

Harry’s heart feels like a ticking bomb about to implode, the sweet taste of her lips already providing him with a fix he didn’t know he was addicted to. "One more," he demands against her mouth before diving into another searing kiss. This time his hands explore more meticulously, scavenging for other soft spots to add on to his mental list. The dimples in her back right above the curve of her ass seem to rival the area at her side right below the swell of her breast, but Harry is pretty sure he’ll find more sensitive spots in the near future. Hopefully.

Once again, the need for oxygen compels them to part way, but neither of them make a move to separate their tangled limbs. Y/n is reveling in the moment she’s been daydreaming about for months, "so good," she keeps whispering sweet nothing against his lips while rubbing her nose against the bridge of his.

Harry clears his throat as he regains his bearings, realizing that there are still very much in the middle of their boss’ office, a place they are not supposed to be in, doing stuff they’re not supposed to be doing. At least not here. "Let’s get outta here, yeah?" he brushes a strand of hair that fell in front of her face, "you can kick my ass at that game of pool as promised, and I’ll tend to yours once we’re back at my place, what’dya say?"

And well, how can one say no to that?

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles writing #Harry fic #harry styles au #ofc #reader insert #coworker!harry #office au #fluff #flirting #harry styles fluff

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thanksjro · 4 years ago

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More Than Meets the Eye #31 - Ammo and the Anti-Glowup

So, the Lost Light disappeared, stranding all the crew in space in their little escape pods. 200-some robots just lost their homes and worldly possessions. That’s absolutely horrible. What a devastating thing to happen.

Anyway, here’s Drift with a flashback sequence.

No hips, fingers all the exact same length, hockey pucks embedded in his forearms- Rojo, this is a crime you’ve committed. When will the long arm of the law stop your sinful, pancake-shaped hands?

About two years prior to current events, Drift, Riptide, and Pipes- yes, Pipes!- were wandering around trying to find a ship for the space yacht trip. The gang’s here to see who owns the big honkin’ ship outside. Problem is, Drift is unintentionally terrifying because he has a great deal of swords.

Now, you may say to yourself “isn’t it a bit odd that the species that has members who literally turn into guns would be nervous around a guy with swords?” This is a valid critique, until you remember that at least some of the folks who turn into guns were born that way, and Drift was very much NOT born bladed the fuck out. There’s an entire miniseries devoted to explaining this, it’s called Drift. The swords are a choice, one that he makes every day.

Drift is willing to pay an honestly absurd amount of money for the ship, if he can just find the dude with the paperwork- don’t ask where he got the money. Pipes isn’t being terribly helpful in finding them, so Riptide decides that now is the time to start practicing being proactive and pulls a Coyote Ugly.

No, no, he doesn’t.

He does climb up on a table and start yelling for the ship’s owners to reveal themselves, though. Which they do.

Now it’s time for the world-building portion of our comic issue. Let’s learn about chirolinguistics.

Drift, staying true to his Mary Sue nature, uses his near-perfect Hand skills to strike up a deal with the owners of the ship. This would be impressive, if it didn’t just look like the most convoluted hand-holding session in the friggin’ universe.

Still, Drift is rich enough to make Jeff Bezos weep with envy, so the arrangements are made and the lads go on their way, talking some mad shit about the original name of the ship as they do.

So it is revealed to us that the Lost Light is named after a festival for honoring the dead and disappeared, which makes the fact that Rewind and Chromedome were there all the more sad.

Back in the present, Megatron tells Riptide to shut up so they can figure out what the hell they’re going to do about this whole “our home and also ride has ceased to exist” situation. He’s putting an awful lot of distance between himself and the rest of the Autobots as he does it, something that isn’t lost on the more bitter people of the crowd.

But why were we even talking about the Lost Light in the first place? Not to reminisce, believe it or not. See, it’s time for Nautica to get a little panel time, and she’s going to use it to be a massive fucking nerd and explain how the quantum engines work. As she does, Ratchet notes that his hands feel funny. Must be the weight of his hand-stealing sins manifesting itself in his joints.

Nautica explains that the engines run off of improbability- it is highly unlikely, but not impossible, that the ship can reach light speed, and riding the fine line between what can happen and what can’t, results in the creation of power for the engines. If this sounds familiar, it’s because Brainstorm gave us a watered down version of this explanation back in issue #2. If it sounds familiar for a different reason, it’s because this is how the Heart of Gold runs in Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Again, I’m not sure why it is that the British love this concept so much, but there you are.

Oh, it appears someone has a question. Let’s see what they want to know about, shall we?

…Rojo, what the fuck is this.

Our muppety friend here isn’t too keen on how much of a smarmy asshole Nightbeat is being right now, though I’d assume it actually has something to do with the fact that Nightbeat got smacked around with the pretty-boy stick while Getaway very much did not. While the two bicker- there’s a lot of bickering in Season Two- Nautica presents a theory on what happened to the ship; it went too far in the direction of “can’t” and made itself cease to be.

Megatron gives not a shit about quantum improbability, though. He only cares about how they’re going to get out of this mess. Which, y’know. Valid.

Blaster picks up a radio from Rodimus, who tells the gang that they’re to meet up on a nearby planet to regroup and figure out their next move. The call drops before he can get more than a couple Megatron-directed insults in, however. Megatron, in response, tries to be the bigger person, and almost immediately fails. We do get a headcount though, which is good, logistically speaking. This information is communicated to us by way of a splash page full of character head shots. We’ve got 20 ‘bots on board this ship.

Yep. 20. No more, no less.

As our friends approach the planet, we’re informed that it’s actually a Lectureworld- a planet devoted to the study of a single field. Except it’s actually a Smartplanet now, and it’s been privatized by the Galactic Council, so you’ve got to pay to go there. Cyclonus thinks that that’s bullshit, and I can’t help but agree. Crosscut tries to network with they guy about his play, probably because word got around that Cyclonus is rich as hell, when the lights cut out. When they come back on, Crosscut is nowhere to be found.

It’s time for a Whodunnit.

Tailgate immediately pegs Megatron as the culprit in this disappearance, and breaks out a gun over the matter. Megatron thinks that this is absolutely adorable, which only serves to further infuriate our marshmallow friend. I guess he’s still mad about the whole “I was a Decepticon for five minutes and got brainwashed over it” thing, and wants someone to pin the anger on who’s socially acceptable to hate.

Cyclonus and Ratchet both think that Tailgate’s not going about this the right way, but the guy is simply too het up to listen to them. Tailgate suggests that they lock Megatron in the engine room for the time being and-

OKAY WHO LET HIM HAVE THAT

Riptide breaks out his gun, and soon we’ve got a standoff going between the three of them. Cyclonus tries to deescalate, which makes Gears and Huffer break out their guns. Then Hound breaks out his gun, though he seems to be doing his own thing, by pointing it in Nautica’s direction.

Broski, I think that might be animal cruelty.

Megatron manages to shoot Ravage “unconscious” and catches him by the friggin’ throat, stating that he has zero idea how this guy got here. With the heat off the two of them for a moment, Megatron communicates to Ravage to play ‘possum for the time being. Ravage responds, and I wonder exactly how he’s doing that, considering I don’t think he has enough fingers to effectively utilize Hand as a language. Or fingers at all, really.

While this is going on, Cyclonus snatches the gun out of Tailgate’s hand, admonishing him for being reckless about picking his fights. Generally speaking, you don’t want to try to go toe-to-toe with a guy who’s responsible for the deaths of literal billions. Getaway swoops in to comfort Tailgate, calling him gutsy. I wonder if this will become a trend.

Swerve says a thing, as he is wont to do, and it’s made known that multiple folks have disappeared during this incredibly brief standoff.

Wow, Chromedome just fucked off, huh? He wasn’t even in that sequence, just left.

Everyone’s positively baffled by the current happenings. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to who’s being taken. I guess we’ve got a mystery on our hands.

And who better to solve a mystery than a detective?

Nightbeat wrangles all the leftover folks into a corner of the room, so they can figure out what the common denominator is with all the disappearees. He starts with the easy stuff.

And by “easy”, I mean the super-special racism Tyrest subscribed to.

If you’ve read Eugenesis, you know that Nightbeat was also part of the first wave of cold-constructed bodies there. However, the general populace wasn’t nearly as chill about it as they were in IDW. Also, Wheeljack was his dad. No word on if that particular tidbit made it into IDW lore.

It’s at this point that we learn about M.T.O.s- made to order soldiers. They were cold-constructed ‘bots created en masse during the war in order to keep up with the demands for troops. Pretty fucked up, if you think about it, being born to die like that.

Now where have we heard that name before…

Chromedome, can your love life not be part of the plot for five minutes, my guy?

Nautica makes the honestly horrific claim that a lot of folks owe their existence to Megatron being a warmongering fuck, and even Megatron himself seems rather uncomfortable with the idea. Some thoughts we keep to ourselves, Nautica, even if they might be technically true. And even if Ammo wants to tack on his two cents on the matter.

What did they DO to you, Ammo? You’re supposed to be hot! Where are my three-paragraphs of description as Hound stares slack jawed the entire time? I miss Polyhex Wars.

Anyway, it’s Megatron’s turn to get poked with the questioning stick, and he’s not having it. He claims that by revealing his mode of creation, he’s risking a repeat of Functionist ideology. This would be valid, if people weren’t literally disappearing without any sort of explanation as to why. As it is, he’s being a stubborn asshole, but I guess he didn’t get his reputation by being a decent person who knew when to back down, now did he?

It’s at this point that Ratchet remembers he knows all the info Nightbeat’s looking for, and the conversation on Megatron’s birth is shelved for another day. I’m sure it won’t be a major plot point later, not in the slightest.

As it turns out, Nightbeat’s theory doesn’t hold water, and folks are still popping out of existence. We get another splash page, this time with everyone’s mode of creation listed under their names, and we move on to other theories about what the fuck is going on. While Nightbeat has a minor crisis over what the answer could possibly be, the MTOs in the group reminisce on the Ten-Step Program, a series of tests they were put through to make sure they worked well enough to get handed a gun and shoved out the door. Riptide wasn’t a fan.

Riptide has more wood panelling than a 70’s-style ranch house, and I think that’s very brave of him.

It’s at this point that Ratchet remembers it’s been quite a bit since he last shat on religion, and takes the time to do so while informing the reader about Information Creep. This is a concept we’ve seen mentioned previously, during Chromedome’s runaround in Overlord’s brain, but it’s here where we get the juicy implications.

Because memories can become corrupted in the brain due to extreme age, what ought to be objective fact has to be reinterpreted due to missing pieces. This is why nobody knows what the Knights of Cybertron got up to, or if they’re even actually real at all.

The lights go out again, and when they cut back on, Cyclonus is missing, leaving only his sword behind. Tailgate is extremely distraught by this, but Nightbeat gives not a fuck about Tailgate’s impending breakdown. He only cares about the truth!

And then a giant eyeball shows up.

It’s Ultra Magnus, coming to us live from his shuttle, via holomatter avatar! He shrinks down to a far more reasonable size, in a panel reminiscent of the first time IDW readers saw Megatron.

Don’t get me wrong, this is a neat parallel, I’m just… not terribly sure why it’s happening. One could say it reflects a reversal in power dynamics, but that theory gets tossed out the window when you remember that this isn’t actually Verity. I suppose it’s just a cool little thing.

Because the comms aren’t working, Ultra Magnus has been forced to use this avatar to communicate with the folks in the Rod Pod. Megatron asks just what the hell is going on, but unfortunately Magnus isn’t sure either. Then his shuttle disappears, and it’s bye-bye grunge girl Magnus.

It’s at this point that Nightbeat decides it’s time to stop pussyfooting around and get serious. He tells Ratchet to throw HIPPA directly in the garbage and write down everything he knows about the Autobots who crewed the Lost Light. And he does mean everything, as we get the splash page again, this time with lots of neat info on our friends, including spark type.

Spark types will become plot-relevant in the storyline after this, but for now let’s focus on some weird gender essentialism that got slapped into the first print of this issue.

As we know very well by this point, Transformers as a franchise has a tumultuous relationship with the idea of women existing. You would think that the awkward introduction of other genders we got in “Dark Cybertron” would have been the end of things being weird in IDW. However, you would be wrong.

In an effort to explain why genders exist, Roberts had the idea to make it spark-based. Nautica, in the solo print of this issue, has an estriol-positive spark. Estriol is a type of estrogen, which is the hormone that develops and maintains feminine secondary sex characteristics, when present in certain levels, in conjunction with other hormones. Biology

This “spark = gender” idea is, generally speaking, not a great idea to be presenting us with, especially when the writer is a cishet male, because it implies biological essentialism- the idea that a personality trait/quality of a person is innate and predetermined by their biology, as opposed to social, cultural, or individual experiences. Because this story doesn’t exist in a vacuum, it’s irresponsible to reduce the experience of being a woman to a single, physical, unchangable asset, especially when all other assets of the same class have zero effect on one’s gender identity. You don’t exactly see many nonbinary robots running around, now do you? And there are definitely more than two spark types, despite the Transformers as a species being... very binary.

It also makes female Transformers into an “other”, which is a problem that has existed from the very start of the franchise, in some form or fashion, and really doesn’t need to be perpetrated anymore than it already is.

The estriol spark type was removed in the trade edition, and Roberts has expressed regrets over its inclusion, having realized that it was potentially offensive.

Getting back to the story, Swerve, Tailgate, and Ratchet have disappeared, though Ratchet seems to have left his hands behind. His stolen, Pharma-original hands.

That’s still fucked up to me. I don’t think it’ll ever not be fucked up.

Riptide reveals the reason that he wasn’t in Season One of MTMTE was because when he went back to grab a receipt for the ship two years prior, he’d discovered that the original owners were worshipers of Mortilus, Cybertronian god of death, and knew about the nasty little problem that was the sparkeater from the first storyline. When Riptide went to confront them about it, they beat him up so bad he was unconscious for two solid days.

Which is a long-ass time to be unconscious. That might have been a coma, Riptide. Jesus, I hope someone got him to a hospital after this beatdown happened, or at least scraped him off the floor.

With this last piece of the puzzle, we finally have the common denominator in this big ol’ mystery. Everyone who disappeared was on the Lost Light when it took off from Cybertron in issue #1, and everyone left behind- Skids, Getaway, Nightbeat, Nautica, Megatron, and Ravage- didn’t join until afterwords.

Of course, having the answer doesn’t do us much good when everyone is still missing, and Megatron seems to agree with me, because he’s about to throw hands, when Nautica lets them know that they’ve arrived at the rendezvous. Problem is, so has something else.

...

I’m sure it’s fiiiiiiiiiiiiine!

#transformers #jro #MTMTE #issue 31 #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #incoming analysis #overthinking about robots #comic script writing

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loudandsilent · 3 years ago

Text

Yandere! Jeon Jungkook

On the Lookout: Part 1

Warning:The story quoted below is only a story for entertainment and does not demonstrate who are and attitudes of BTS members.Read at your own risk.

This story contains descriptions of abandonment, Yandere behavior, and physical violence.

Author's Note: This is my first story, I've written and rewritten it a million times and I hope you enjoy it. It's very likely that there will be a sequel, but I will only do it if you like it, please give me your opinion. If you have any requests, constructive criticism or questions I will be glad to answer them. Also let me know if you prefer longer or shorter stories, I was really confused about how much I should write. The next story will probably come out next week,which is a request from someone very special to me,so I'll try to do it as soon as possible. See you soon ! 💜

Words: less than 1k

New life,new city,new school and maybe new friends. That's how Y/N's head was at that moment. After her father still in childhood abandoned her mother and her,Y/N's mother tried every way to support herself and the little girl,which unfortunately did not happen as planned . Even with her heart in her hands Y/N's mother sent her to live in Seoul with Y/N's grandmother, as there she believed the girl would have a better life and future than she had in Gwanju. Y/N could feel the trembling in her hands, as that winter morning was one of the coldest the little girl had ever witnessed. Walking towards the school the girl could feel the blood rushing through her veins, caused by nervousness. Her grandmother had informed the girl that that school was attended only by the upper class and that she had managed to get Y/N a place there only because she had an old friend who worked there and because of her granddaughter's grades, which were easily seen to be excellent. When she went to cross a street there was a screeching sound. Quickly the fragile girl's body was thrown forward . Y/N could feel the deep pain all over her body. At lightning speed Y/N heard door slams. It was then that she saw a tall young looking man in a black coat who had just stepped out of a black Rolls Royce.

- The light-skinned man was shouting to the four winds and Y/N was sure that anyone who was more than 500 meters away could easily hear the man's fury against the girl.

- D-sorry - Even though Y/N knew she was right she didn't have the courage to defend herself as he looked too scary for her. The girl couldn't even look at the man, he was much bigger and extremely scary to her.

Before the man could utter even worse curses at the girl there was another knock on the door.

-What is going on here?!- Y/N could see the expensive shoes and uniform pants of the owner of the voice, but she couldn't look in his direction.

At that moment she didn't know, but that voice would terrify her for the rest of her life.

- Young master, you'd better get back to the car, it's very cold out here. - The driver was trying to persuade the young master to get into the car, he knew that the young master's mother would not be at all happy if he became ill.

- So now only I feel cold? You ran over this girl on the first day of school and you want to leave her here? - The boy shouted, he could be much scarier than the other man.

-I'm sorry young master, this won't happen again. -The driver said this with his head down, a way he thought might have an effect to get his pity.

-Hey, are you all right? Do you think you broke a bone or something? -The owner of the most expensive shoes in his house in Gwanju crouched down to his size. Now Y/N could see his face, if someone asked her what he looked like she couldn't even describe him, she only knew that he was for sure the most beautiful guy she had ever seen. The girl looked at him for so long that she started to turn red, automatically in a natural act she lowered her face so he couldn't see her blushing face. But he had already seen it.

- Are you all right? - With one hand he lifted Y/N's chin so that he could see her face.

- I-am- The girl stammered, because of the cold and embarrassment she felt.

- If you say so. - In one swift act he picked the girl up and lifted her, leading her toward the car. He could see the girl's visible reluctance to get into the car.

-The girl was confused and reluctant, her mother had always taught her never to get into a stranger's car.

-Yes, we're from the same school. You're not going to tell me that you haven't realized this until now?- He was looking intently in Y/N's direction. Now that the girl went to realize that the school blouse was the same,she was so impressed with his beauty that she hadn't even noticed.

-You don't have to take me, I'll walk," said the girl walking away from him.

- Of course not, it's too cold and besides I owe you one," he said holding her wrists so she couldn't move away, "stay calm, we're just going to school, my name is Jeon Jungkook and you are? - he let go of the girl's wrists and extended his hand to her.

- Park Y/N - he said extending his hand and squeezing her small hand in his.

- It's a pleasure to meet you Y/N. Here, take my coat, it's cold. - Jungkook smiled at her as he pushed her into the car.

The ride to school was short, about seven minutes. And they remained without exchanging a single word. Stopping the car Y/N could already see many luxurious cars getting in and out and the noise of young people talking and laughing, it was visible that this place was not for her.

- Don't worry, you'll get used to it," said Jeon Jungkook looking in the same direction as her. The "scary" driver opened the door for Y/N who got out followed by Jungkook.

- Thank you so much," she said as she took off her jacket and handed it to the taller man.

- Not at all, good class," she said as she sent a smile in the girl's direction. She just turned around and started walking as fast as possible. Y/N had no idea where her classroom was, so she thought about asking someone, she knew that if she took longer she would be late.

- Hi, do you know where this room is?

- Yes, this is my office. My name is Jung Hoseok, your future classmate," she said as she sent a bright smile to Y/N.

It had been two months since Park Y/N had started going to school and in that time she and Hoseok had become good friends. He was always very kind to her and unlike everyone else he didn't criticize her for not being in a higher social class, just like he was. About Jeon Jungkook, she talked to him once in a while, but the girl preferred to stay away from him since the girl started to have feelings for him, and in her mind Jungkook would never look at her that way, he had a legion of fans in high school that were girls with extremely beautiful faces and bodies and were in the same social class as him. Furthermore it seems that Jeon Jungkook didn't like Jung Hoseok at all, whenever he was with Y/N he was bothered by Hoseok's presence. What he felt for her was just compassion,it sure was.

While Y/N was looking for Hobi in the break, she heard noises coming from a room. She went into the room and turned the knob, opening the door. The sight she saw was horrible and she would never in her life want to witness that scene again. It was two of Jungkook's friends, Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin, who, while one was holding Hobi, were beating him, who already had a pool of his blood on his feet. While all this was going on Jeon Jungkook was sitting on a school chair, just watching this horrific scene.

- What is this? - said Y/N in a loud and clear voice with tears on her face, making everyone there look scared.

-Shit!

Continue ?

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confusedinfj · 3 years ago

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tips for developing fe? i find i can be immature in terms of being kind of a know it all, but i've been working on that. in general, i think my fe serves me okay now that i am learning to appreciate people more. i just wish it wasn't so difficult for me to express my feelings in a healthy way rather than repressing them until they burst.

Sorry it's been a while since you sent this! I found this to be quite a difficult question, and I hope this helps.

In general with lower functions, I'd recommend not focusing on them at all. Focus on character, because that's what you're really worried about here. Fe is (very short version) basically just a natural awareness of society/people and a strong desire to be apart of and connect with that community. Fe might naturally navigate society, but it can easily be manipulative in someone with bad character. In good character, it can be constructive and supportive in society. This question shows you have that desire to navigate society and connect with people, even if relational skills don't come easily to you - so you're already developing Fe! 👏

Tips though:

As for being a know it all (which I was as a kid 😂), you ultimately have to analyse WHY you're doing that. Is it because you like sharing interesting information? That would make it a bid for attention. You can learn a better way to try and befriend people, which will vary from group to group and culture to culture. Are you doing it to try and show people you're interesting? Interacting with people in such a self-distracted way doesn't work. You need to focus on the people in front of you instead, because it will usually help you figure out what to talk about instead. People always like to talk about themselves, so asking questions about their interests is a good start. You're only being a know it all if you're telling them things to show off, because you think you're better than them. If that's the case, you'll have to work out why you think that and ideally change it, because it's not a good starting point for friendships. Appreciation is (and you already know that too!)!

Appreciating people is the most important thing you can do, and that is entirely character related. You have to be able to see the beauty in each person's complexity, and want to know more about them. You have to develop empathy, which is totally separate from mbti.

As someone with high Ti, you might not be primed to be interested in every single person, but that's okay. Even high Fe users interested in every single person, it's okay to click with some and not others. The important part is respecting people in their humanity and being kind. If you follow social protocol, people can't even complain about you being rude. After that, if some people don't like you, it's not really a problem. There's no hard and fast rule for people, every single one will be different. It kind of sucks, but even as a high Fe user plenty of people don't like me 😂

As for the repression part of the question:

I've found part of having high Fe is being aware of how many relationships are actually shallow, and how many people aren't truly connecting with those around them. That means a lot of relationships in your life will just be polite, like at work, or school, or at the shops. It means a lot of people actually don't WANT you to express your feelings, because you don't have that kind of relationship. I know that sounds so mean 😂, but I want to make it clear it's honestly possible that people SHOULD be picking up on your feelings long before you feel you're going to burst. There are lots of micro signs that a person is upset, and a lot of people just ignore them. Sometimes they're not even looking for them, because they're not interested in deeper friendship. I've been horrified how many times people just don't notice when other people are distressed. BUT I'm going to answer the question with the assumption that you meant how can you better express feelings in relationships where people definitely do care and aren't just being awful.

Fe finds it pretty hard to express negative emotions, since it's very conscious of upsetting others. This is the one part of your question where developing Fe is what's needed, but alongside the development of assertive character. Well developed Fe can manage conflict, and recognises it's important to share negative feelings in order to have a true relationship. Otherwise the whole thing is fake. So, while expressing your feelings will likely kill a shallow relationship, it will deepen those with people of kindness and empathy.

So the answer is simple: just say it. I mean, don't scream it or anything, but just... try. Even if you have to cry, even if it takes ages for you to find the right words. You can write it down if you like, but I prefer not to have anything like that in writing. The general rule of thumb is, if it upset you, and you can't stop thinking about it after a few days, you should just tell them. Say, as an example, your friends went out to a movie and didn't invite you. If you think you have the kind of relationship where they truly care about you, you can just say - I was pretty upset I wasn't invited, because it seemed like you were trying to exclude me. (A general rule is that you frame the problem around yourself and your feelings rather than 'you went out without me and that was mean because you're a bully!' 😂). Then they have a chance to clarify or be mean 😋

I don't know if you're prone to oversensitivity, or if you think you are, but even then - your true friends should know who you are. In a lot of cases, communication solves the oversensitivity, because it provides an opportunity for people to explain their behaviour. (example: We didn't mean to hurt you, we thought you said you hated this movie and didn't want to see it with us - and you can be like, oops I didn't mean to say that but I guess I kind of did). It's better to risk sounding oversensitive than to attempt mind reading (because you'll likely be wrong and hurt yourself more).

Repression is a way to control emotions, but it almost always ends in a loss of control. The key to avoiding that is to express your feelings fairly close to as they come, as calmly as you can. Communication is, unfortunately, a skill that can only be developed in practice, not in theory. Although, if you have a good handle on the theory it helps, so you could probably write out scenarios before trying it.

If you meant that you're more prone to angry outbursts, the answer is still in early communication. Try not to think of it as a confrontation, and it might help fix the tone. Bringing up negative feelings doesn't have to be a conflict, it's as simple as saying a fact. Especially since someone who really cares about you should be willing to fix the problem with you.

I'd probably need specifics to be more helpful, but some dot pointers are:

If you want people to leave you alone for a bit, just calmly say you need to be alone for a while because you feel tired/stressed/a bit moody.

If you want people to pay attention to you and they aren't, try telling them you want to talk.

If you're too angry to speak to someone, tell them you're taking a moment to calm down. Don't engage until you can calmly articulate things. If that time never comes and you get angry every time you think about it, just try to say it as calmly as you can.

A lot of people recommend writing down negative emotions if you feel you're oversensitive, because it can help you figure out what can be mentioned. Supposedly, any issue that doesn't need to be mentioned will stop bothering you once it's written down.

Be careful not to mention a long term problem while you're mad about it. If it's something you've been holding on to for a long time, not sure if you should mention it, wait till you calm down again and then mention it's been something you've been thinking about for a while. Avoid saving up issues at all, but if you have it might be better to mention as many as you can at once. Otherwise it sounds like you're just keeping a record of wrongs and stringing it out.

Sometimes conflict is necessary, but that doesn't necessarily mean either of you did anything wrong. Try to look at any issue from that perspective if you can, and it will help you get through it all faster.

If you can't express yourself in a relationship it will ultimately be shallow and unfulfilling. It's never selfish to be genuine (that's not being mean on purpose obvs 😂), and good communication will help the other person open up too.

Sorry if I didn't manage to help at all, and sorry this is so long 👍

#Ask #Fe #Fe development #Cognitive functions #Cognitive development #Intp #Entp #Estp #Istp

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rhys-rambles · 4 years ago

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FIGHT CLUB | 1999

I was introduced to the movie Fight Club around 3 years ago. It wasn’t until recently I’ve become interested in it. So here’s my Fight Club breakdown :) WARNING FOR SPOILERS!!

For those who don’t know, Fight Club is a cult favorite novel that was later adapted into a film released in 1999, directed by David Fincher. Starring Brad Pitt, Edward Norton, and Helena Bonham Carter.

The story of Fight Club revolves around three main characters. It’s told from a first-person perspective by a nameless character that’s commonly called ‘the narrator’, who has a dead-end white-collar job at a major car company and has fallen prey to what he calls the ‘Ikea-nesting instinct’. Dictated by social norms he walks perfectly in line like a docile sheep, which translates into an inauthentic, repetitive and empty life.

He suffers from a bad case of insomnia, which causes him to be neither fully awake, nor fully asleep. Sometimes, he entertains self-destructive thoughts: as he flies around from state to state for his job, he prays for a crash or mid-air collision every time the plane bankes too sharply on takeoff or landing.

During a flight, he meets an eccentric and hypermasculine character named Tyler Durden.

Tyler seems to be the direct opposite of the narrator. He’s a wolf rather than a sheep, disentangled from society, and impervious to social norms. He takes what he wants, without asking, and whenever he pleases. He’s self-sufficient, has no superiors, and doesn’t care about material possessions.

The movie later reveals that Tyler and the narrator are the same person, as Tyler is a product of the narrator’s imagination, that’s probably induced by severe insomnia combined with dissatisfaction with a dull, meaningless existence and a lifetime of repressed urges.

The narrator is addicted to going to support groups for specific illnesses because these give him the opportunity to cry, which seems to be a remedy for his insomnia. The downside of his behavior is that he isn’t genuine; he has no testicular cancer, or blood parasites, yet acts as if he does, so he can reap the benefits of these sessions.

But these benefits come to an end when another non-genuine visitor starts to join the sessions as well. This is a woman named Marla Singer, and her motive for joining these sessions is, and I quote: “It’s cheaper than a movie and there’s free coffee.”

Marla is a self-destructive, chain-smoking fatalist, who’s expecting to die at any moment, but finds it tragic that it never happens. She steals food and clothes for a living and attempts suicide by overdosing Xanax.

Even though the narrator, Tyler, and Marla are totally different personalities, they all live their lives accompanied by a nihilistic undercurrent.

Tyler seems to have figured out what causes this emptiness, and during the course of the story, his solution unfolds. Unfortunately, his character slides from a sage-like father figure to an anarchist terrorist, who’s out to destroy modern civilization. Nevertheless, he exposes a series of harsh realities about modern life that are worth contemplating.

Anti-consumerism

The anti-consumerist stance of Tyler Durden becomes obvious when he verbalizes his concern about the modern way of life. Shortly after the narrator meets Tyler, he discovers that his apartment went up in flames. After this unfortunate event, realizing that he has no friends to call, he calls Tyler. The two meet, and the narrator complains about losing his furniture, and his respectable and almost complete wardrobe. Tyler responds rather indifferently and slightly sarcastically before he begins to express his views on the matter. Quote:

“We’re consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty, these things don’t concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra…”

It becomes clear that Tyler has quite an unconventional view of what’s good and bad. Murder, crime, and poverty are generally considered bad things, while consumer goods like televisions, clothing from a certain brand, products that help to hide aging, enhance bedroom performance, and help us with weight loss, are considered preferable.

Tyler has a contempt for the artificial, as opposed to elements that have been a natural part of the human condition, probably as long we exist. This way of thinking touches upon an ancient Cynic philosopher named Diogenes of Sinope, who believed that modern, civilized life hinders our natural state.

At the end of the movie, it appears that the narrator has destroyed his apartment himself when he was taken over by his alter ego, Tyler Durden. This deed was the first step onto the road of detachment from his property, into a more authentic way of life and to (how Tyler puts it): “reject the basic assumptions of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions.”

The narrator moves in with Tyler, who lives in a dilapidated house with ongoing leaks, power failures, and no Ikea furniture. Slowly but surely, the narrator indeed detaches from his previously destroyed property. “Things you own end up owning you,” Tyler tells him. And this simple piece of wisdom probably hits home, when the narrator realizes that he doesn’t need all these worldly goods, and is actually much happier without them.

Non-conformity

Tyler Durden is a non-conformist, and shows, again, similarities with Diogenes, who not only purposefully lived in poverty, but also rejected social norms. For him, social constructs are nothing more than a superficial layer of culture that represses our true nature.

Diogenes lived in a barrel, Tyler lives in an abandoned building. Diogenes urinated in public, Tyler urinates in the soup of a restaurant.

The narrator, on the other hand, seems to be the embodiment of conformity, as he adapts his lifestyle completely to societal expectations. The problem with this behavior is that we dedicate our existence walking the paths that people other than ourselves have laid out for us. This need to conform, the fear of falling by the wayside, this sickly preoccupation by what others think of us, this necessity to keep up with the Joneses: what an exhausting way of life, just to feel ‘accepted’.

So, what if we stop caring? What if we reject the generally accepted norms, and choose our own values, elect our own leaders, determine our own goals, regardless of the social expectations? This is a fundamental difference between the narrator and Tyler Durden, who puts it like this: “I am free in all the ways that you are not.”

Ironically, later on in the story, Project Mayhem, a terrorist organization led by Tyler that grows out of Fight Club, is a textbook example of conformity, as it’s members wear the same clothes, are absolutely equal, abolish their names, and are referred to as space monkeys that sacrifice their lives for a greater cause. We could say that by rejecting one doctrine in order to be ‘non-conformist’, we often imprison ourselves in another one.

Fighting and masculinity

Fighting and the experience of pain play a significant role in Fight Club. At the beginning of the story, Tyler asks the narrator to hit him as hard as he can. He explains his strange wish by saying: “How can you know yourself if you’ve never been in a fight? I don’t want to die without any scars.”

So, the narrator hits him. Tyler hits him back, and the two engage in a fistfight. Both seem to feel surprisingly pleasant afterward and decide to do it again. Their nightly activities on a parking lot attract the attention of other men, that are also interested in joining these non-hostile fistfights. And thus, Fight Club is born.

It’s widely known that voluntary exposure to certain forms of pain makes us stronger in the face of adversity, which could be a legit reason to partake in these fights. As the narrator states: “After fighting everything else in your life got the volume turned down.”

However, Fight Club is more than just a metaphor for dealing with hardship through exposure: a physical fight, and the violence and aggression that goes with it, resonates with the primal part of our being.

Not only the men in the story are attracted to the violence of fighting; Fight Club as a movie and novel was so impactful on its audience, that real-life Fight Clubs started to emerge.

The story shows an experiment in which the members of Fight Club pick fights with random strangers (and are supposed to lose), which isn’t as easy as it sounds; most people do everything to avoid physical conflict.

But Fight Club makes us wonder if it’s a good thing that we’ve lost touch with these primal tendencies. Should we repress this part of human nature? Or, perhaps, integrate it in healthy and constructive ways?

Self-destruction

When the story progresses, Tyler and the narrator begin to see the world through a different lens. Tyler criticizes the modern self-improvement hype by saying: “Self-improvement is masturbation. Now self-destruction… ”

This statement is slightly confusing, as the increasingly destructive nature of Fight Club, in which faces are permanently mutilated and teeth are knocked out of people’s heads, doesn’t seem to be a sustainable way to live.

But Tyler might be onto something when we look at self-destruction as the destruction of a false self.

‘Self-improvement’ often points to the accumulation of external goods: a better house, a better job, a better body, more money. But why should we endlessly want to improve ourselves? Why can’t we just be happy with how things are, and take life as it comes? Or as Tyler states:

“I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let’s evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”

We create an identity through material wealth, and social status. And as far as Tyler is concerned, this false sense of self must be destroyed, before we are free to do anything we want. Therefore, the ‘space monkeys’ of Project Mayhem live by a mantra which goes like this:

“You are not your job, you’re not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis. You are all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.” - Tyler Durden, Fight Club

Tyler makes a so-called human sacrifice, namely a man called Raymond who works a dead-end job in a convenience store. Raymond wanted to be a veterinarian, but didn’t make it because it was “too much studying.” Tyler threatens Raymond, saying that if he doesn’t start studying within six weeks, he’ll kill him.

In this scene, Tyler points to another aspect of self-destruction: the act of letting go of fears, negative self-talk, and all distractions, so we can fully focus on our purpose. It’s the destruction of everything within ourselves that holds us back from living life on our own terms.

A near-life experience

Many people go great lengths when it comes to pain avoidance. The problem is that running from pain means running from an inevitable part of life.

The prospect of incurring pain makes us anxious, and often leads to self-indulgent decisions. That is: choosing the less painful path, even if a more painful path guarantees more success and pleasure in the future.

Tyler Durden deals with this by inflicting a chemical wound on the narrator’s hand using lye.

As expected, the narrator does everything to escape the pain: he uses visualization techniques he learned at a seminar, and retreating in his cave to find his ‘power animal’. But Tyler slaps him in the face, forcing him to stay with the pain, saying: “This is the greatest moment of your life, man. And you’re off somewhere missing it.”

For the narrator, Tyler has one central goal: he must reach bottom. After putting him through suffering, and destroying his false identity, there’s yet another aspect that must be crushed: hope. Losing all hope is freedom. And, therefore, he must reject what has rejected him: his father, and God. I quote:

“Consider the possibility that God does not like you. In all probability, he hates you.” - Tyler Durden, Fight Club

Tyler states that we don’t need God. That we shouldn’t care about redemption and damnation. And if we’re God’s unwanted children, so be it. Thereby, we lose all hope, but are also liberated from religious doctrine and fatherly authority.

Now we’re truly free. Now we can create our own meaning, and live how we want to live.

Tyler emphasizes the importance of knowing what we want in life. To achieve this, we must be willing to get out of our comfort zone and jump into the unknown without safety brackets.

The narrator, however, has difficulties letting go of security. He begs Tyler to not mess around when he lets go of the steering wheel in a driving car while hitting the gas. Tyler calls the narrator ‘pathetic’, and yells: “hitting bottom isn’t a weekend retreat. It’s not a goddamn seminar. Stop trying to control everything and just let go!”

After an inevitable car crash, Tyler states that they just had a ‘near-life experience’.

Wrap up

Fight Club is a story about rebellion against the status quo and a plea for the simple life. It criticizes the ways in which we are so hung up on security, and material possessions, and how people let social norms dictate their lives.

‘Stuff’ has become our religion. The idols we worship are Ikea and Starbucks. And the more we immerse ourselves in such an empty and unfulfilling existence, the more we start to resemble the things that we produce: manufactured products rather than authentic human beings.

Tyler shows us a way out. And even though his insights are profound, the execution is questionable. Fight Club, and its terrorist branch Project Mayhem, show us how easy it is to oppose one ideology, in order to fall into another, and how a cult-like echo chamber built on rigid beliefs could become very destructive.

Nevertheless, Tyler challenges us to be self-sufficient and disobedient to the authorities that let us down, to live authentically and in the moment, to confront our fears, to boldly step out of our comfort zones, and let the things that don’t matter truly slide.

#fight club #tyler durden #the narrator #marla singer #fight club (1999)#i wrote this instead of sleeping #movie analysis

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something-fanfiction-ie · 5 years ago

Text

Out of the Lion’s Den

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of rape (not against the reader), attempted rape and assault (against the reader) angst, cursing, insults, the usual super dramatic shit you see in the taken down of an unsub

A/N: Wowie wow wow wow, so this is kinda long. And I know I said I was gonna post it like two days ago, HOWEVER! In my defense, I started writing it and then about halfway through I accidentally closed tumblr so it deleted everything I had. So I went to bed defeated. But it’s here now, that’s the important thing, right? Remember to like, comment, reblog, send me asks, and just be your usual amazing selves and give me the attention that my parents never gave me as the oldest of eight. As always, THANK YOU FOR SUPPORTING ME AND I APPRECIATE YOU GUYS SO MUCH!!

___

[ Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four ]

December 1998

It felt good to be back home in Georgia. The wind whipped at the trees outside of the diner you and you best friend were currently catching up at. The waitress, Flora, knows you by name and sets your usual in front of you with a ruffle of your hair and a couple of southern endearments.

“Tell me everything.” Madalyn says, reaching across the table for the ketchup that was placed on your side of the booth. You swat at her hand when she makes a grab for one of your fries. Her laugh is loud and feels like home, making you smile into your drink in a way you haven’t smiled all semester.

“I’d like to preface this conversation by saying that I feel like this would be a much cooler experience if I were the same age as everyone else.” You point out, brushing your growing bangs away from your eyes with an annoyed swat. Her eyes soften with sympathy, swirling a fry into the ketchup tucked into a safe space on her plate. She doesn’t say anything though, knowing that you have more to say.

“The classes are awesome. The campus is beautiful. I learn something new all the time, which was never happening when I was going to school here,” you pause long enough to glance around the room. It’s packed with all kinds of people, from old men clustered at the counter sipping on coffees to construction workers munching on hamburgers during their break, even big families squished into booths and tables for a nice Sunday family lunch.

“But?” You shrug in response, knowing that Madalyn will be able to read you like an open book if you meet her eyes. Across the table, the amateur profiler squints her dark eyes at you with suspicion.

“Everyone just kinda avoids me. The guys are cute, but they’re all nineteen and twenty. Most of the things to do on campus, you have to be eighteen for, so I mostly just spend my time at the library or at Aunt May’s doing homework.” At this, Madalyn stops eating, raising her eyebrows with a cheeky grin.

“I bet your grades are super rad,” You resist the urge to throw a French fry in her face after what she says next. “And besides, I’m the only friend you need in your life.”

“Actually, I have made a kind of friend?” Flora is over before you can finish the drink in your cup, filling the glass with a dark, blue pitcher. When you thank her, she reaches out to pat your cheek, mumbling something about missing you while you were gone.

“Should I be jealous? Is she pretty? She may be a big sister type, but I’m your soulmate.” You laugh into your sandwich having to cover your mouth when you take a bite and the laughter doesn’t go away.

Madalyn has been your best friend for four years, although time seems to have no meaning in your relationship because nobody would doubt it if you told them you’d known her since birth. While most kids in your age group had grown up thinking you were odd, Madalyn had decided that you were just interesting. That interest had turned into a friendship that would span years and miles more than many friendships do.

While the things you both enjoyed, like Leonardo DiCaprio and Ben Affleck, certainly brought you together, it was your differences that made you click like the pieces of a puzzle. Only true friends can debate on opposite sides of an argument and then end the night eating popcorn while watching Space Jam in the living room.

“His name is Harvey.” When Madalyn’s eyebrows go up this time, it is from surprise. You’ve never been one to socialize with anyone of the opposite gender, much less become ‘kinda friends’ with them. Plus, as a young lady of very womanly curves, she’s quite aware of the way some guys cross the line on a regular basis.

“(Y/N)-” You wave your hand in the air, once again pushing at the bangs that keep falling in your face. You should have never cut them in the first place, and you never would have if you realized what a hassle they would be when you started growing them out.

“I don’t like him like that. He’s just a really nice guy, helps me with homework and walks me to a class or two. We’ve never even met up outside of school.” Her eyes are still narrowed, a stray dark wave falling from the hair comb that pins the top half of her hair away from her face.

Eventually, she changes the subject. Trusting that you are smart enough to know when things have gotten out of hand and how to take care of it.

“So why are you growing your bangs out? I thought you liked them. Didn’t you say they make you look more grown up?” You unstick your thighs from the leather booth seat, pinning her with a look that she knows all too well.

“Now that’s a crazy story.” She also makes herself comfortable in her seat, preparing herself for a story. It’s probably a good thing you’re a phenomenal story teller, or else she would have gotten tired of all the stories you tell really quickly.

“So last month a girl comes forward and reports that she was cornered by a man she didn’t know on her way from the library back to her dorm. He held her at gun point and rapes her. It got kinda big, because she was rallying a group of men and women to escort girls around campus. And, I mean, I understand the unease she must feel, and I was sympathetic, but I was kind of confused why there was so much uproar over one rape.”

Having finished your own fries, you reach across the table and steal one from your outraged best friend. Before she can grab it back, you’ve shoved it into your mouth.

“Until a second girl comes forward and says that she reported the same thing happening to her a month ago. The campus, meanwhile, is doing nothing about it. No increased security, no curfew, not even acknowledged them.”

“For two girls?”

“For five,” The pause you take is natural, scooting the bottom of your cup across the tabletop so you could sip from the straw without picking the cup up, but it reads as dramatic effect. “And that’s not even the craziest part.”

One dark eyebrow raised into her hairline, waiting for you to continue the story and also answer the question.

“Every victim was a freshman, so they’re a little on the younger side, they all had the same hair color and style, all had the same body type, all were the same height, all had the same eye color.” This time you do pause for dramatic effect, using the silence to build the tension.

“And all of them look exactly like me. Bangs and all.”

Madalyn leans forward a little, suddenly very worried about you going back next month. As she hurriedly tries to make sure you are taking the necessary precautions during a scary time like this, Flora floats around the diner, stopping to fill up the cup of a single man just behind your booth. All he has is black coffee, a textbook of some kind is splayed open across the table but he doesn’t seem to be too interested in it. Instead, he leans back in his seat, his ears listening to your every word.

“So in summary, I’m growing out my bangs because that’s obviously apart of this dude’s type.” Madalyn doesn’t protest anymore when you reach for another fry on her plate.

“Stop looking at me like that. I’m going to be fine. I’ll even color my hair if you’re so worried.” And the conversation continues, your best friend overly worried about you and your life as a fifteen year old college student, and you masking your fear for appearances sake. Harvey, however, finishes his coffee and asks for the bill.

He thought you were smarter than that. He thought you were smart enough to connect the dots and at least notice that he’d done all of it for you. That you were his everything. Apparently that was wrong. One day you’ll figure it out, of that he is certain.

For now though, you don’t even notices when he passes your table to get to the door.

Present Day

Spencer steps away from the car door, the cool wind hitting his cheeks and tousling his hair. It helps the dizziness in his head, and the nausea in his stomach, but it doesn’t help the sharp pain in his heart. His brain is swimming in all of the information, putting the pieces of the crime scene together like it was a puzzle.

“He left her in the driver’s seat after stabbing her from the backseat, walking around the front before knocking her out and carrying her to his own vehicle.” JJ looks back at the car, peering around crime scene analysts as they hurry about collecting evidence.

“She tried to leave, but her tires spun in the mud.” Rossi notes, nodding to the mud splatter along the sides of your car and the tiny graves each tire has dug into the ground for itself.

“There’s blood in the back.” Spencer finally speaks, looking away from the backseat window and back to his two partners. All eyes flick to the back seat where there is indeed two drops of blood on the floor and a smear of it on the headrest of the passenger seat.

“If he’s in any system then we’ll catch him.” Rossi said, nodding for the techs to collect what they could from the back. Spencer turns back to the car, well aware that there wasn’t anything else here for them the find that would lend them any information as to your whereabouts.

“In a system or not, I will hunt him to the ends of the earth before I let him get away with this.”

Back at the BAU, Prentiss makes calls to your mother and your best friend, Madalyn. Both answer on the first ring, and both are all the more willing to answer any questions that may assist the team in finding the man who had taken you.

“Is there anyone you remember (Y/N) mentioning that maybe stood out to you or her as creepy and stalkerish?” Your mother doesn’t recall anyone, having been focused on so many different cases during your childhood and having been so distant from you since you decided to not become a detective.

Madalyn, however, is quick to answer with a name Prentiss recalls crossing off the list of persons of interest.

“Harvey Morgenstein. They were friends in college, and although it weirded me out because he was a lot older than her at the time, he seemed harmless and I trusted (Y/N). But then he became her agent’s personal assistant all coincidentally and it just seemed too fishy to me.” Prentiss writes the name down, sliding it across the table with a pointed look at Garcia.

As quick as lightning, Harvey’s life history is pulled up between computer screens for both women to delve into.

Harvey is a short man with a wide build that, in earlier pictures, shows him to be more soft than muscly. His hair is dirty blonde but his eyes are two dark circles of coal that seem to pierce through the screen and into the souls of both Penelope and Emily.

“He’s totally not creepy looking.” Garcia remarks sarcastically, eyes sweeping across the information given to her the way Reid’s eyes might fly up and down the pages of a book or a case file.

“Tell me about it.” Emily replies, leaning into the seat designated for those on the team who so wished to give Penelope a visit while remaining off their feet.

“Harvey is a pretty normal guy for the most part. Single child of a Harvey and Lucille Morgenstein. Graduated from Georgetown in 2000 with a major in computer technology, minor in criminology.”

“The same graduating class as (Y/N).” Prentiss notes, her eyes just behind Garcia’s as articles and documents fly around the computer. Where some people talked with their hands, Garcia talked with her screens. The constant tap-tap-tapping of rings and fingers against the keyboard was like the audible churnining of cogs in her brain.

“Yeah, he spent some time as an IT guy at Georgetown before he got a job as a personal assistant. The only spot on his squeaky clean record that I can find is that he was a person of interest in a few rape cases involving some girls on campus back in the late 90’s, but he had alibis for every single one so they let him walk.” The pictures of every victim pop up across the screen in the form of a newspaper article talking about the serial rappings.

Gasps come from both their mouths as the dots connect.

“Call Reid and the others, and then call the agent. I think I may know what is going on.”

A couple of hours later and the pieces are all starting to come together.

Harvey had been the serial rapist from the 90s, attacking women who looked like you out of anger over not having you for himself, and pure obsession. After graduation, he tried to move on by distancing himself from you, but when his mother was diagnosed with cancer he fell back into his old stalkerish ways.

He followed your every move through your agent, who was the only person you spoke to the most outside of your mom and Madalyn.

After a little digging into unsolved rape cases in the area, it was obvious from the victimology and an oddly specific M.O. where he bit each of his victims on the neck, that he had also fallen back into his perverted rapist ways.

Harvey might have been content to stay like that, an obvious self esteem issue keeping him from ever approaching you directly for a date, until a month ago. Not even two days after the death of his sick mother, you and Spencer went on your first date outside of the bookstore. A double trigger.

In a sick and twisted display of love, Harvey started killing people the way you’d written deaths in your books. But with every death you continued to ignore him and see Spencer.

“Eventually it all became too much for him to handle and he snapped, kidnapping (Y/N) and calling to taunt Reid over his victory.” Hotch passed a hand over his face. The sirens blared loudly as they raced for Harvey’s house just outside of Quantico.

“This guy has been stalking her for a ridiculous amount of time.” Morgan commented with a shudder, sympathy and guilt from the earlier interrogation eating at him as the black SUV careens around a corner.

When they bust through his door, clearing each room and finding a creepy amount of pictures and papers about you, they realize that he has taken you somewhere else. And who do you call when you’re at a dead end and you need information?

“You’ve reached Penelope Garcia in the FBI’s Office of Supreme Genius.”

___

Breaking a chair that is nailed to the floor is a lot harder than it sounds, and it already sounds kinda hard.

There was a lot of kicking and hitting and some bruises were definitely starting to form, but the amount of blood coming from your leg was scary. The chances that the knife had nicked your femoral artery were relatively slim, especially given how long you’ve been bleeding, but you couldn’t help but waver on the side of caution.

After several failed attempts of throwing your body into the wood and kicking and hitting and pulling and crying and then repeating the cycle, you managed to pop a leg off. While the base of the leg stayed nailed to the floor, you spent the rest of your time trying to tear the chair from the rest of the legs, when you did you threw the top half against the concrete wall.

Taking two spindles from the back, you quickly scurry back to the mattress and wait for him to return. It’s only a matter of time before he decides to come back down here to taunt you or try something.

In your short time in what Harvey has so lovingly deemed ‘your room,’ you have come to a couple conclusions in an attempt to distract yourself from the excruciating pain in your thigh.

One being that this is not Harvey’s home. Of that you’re one hundred percent certain. Upstairs, you can hear the sound of two sets of feet thudding around. You can only assume this is his childhood home. You remember that his mother had died about a month ago, causing him to resign from his position as your agent’s personal assistant. She had mentioned to you that he planned to help his father as much as he could before he too passed away.

The second being that you were probably going to loose your leg. Any move this way or that sends a thousand knives through every nerve in your body. Your throat is scratchy and sore from how long you’ve been yelling, both in trying to get someone’s attention and in pain.

The light coming from the small window next to the ceiling hasn’t even begun to wane with the falling sun when the door opens again. The chain around your uninjured leg clatters when you pull your knee up to your chest. You don’t even attempt to move the other leg.

Harvey appears in the opening, a tray of food balances in his hands as he shuts the door behind him.

“Find some weapons?” He asks casually, setting the tray beside the lamp as he sinks to his knees on the mattress. Your knuckles are white around each spindle, the inside of your mouth is sensitive to the touch from how much nervous chewing you’ve been doing.

“Get away from me, or I’ll kill you.” You seethe, fighting through the swimming in your head that hasn’t gone away since you woke up here. He gives you a look like you’re a misbehaving child, but it’s soon replaced with anger when you slap him across the face with one of your weapons.

You were hoping the attack would break skin, but all it does is turns the skin over his cheekbone dark red.

Faster than you can blink, he pins both your wrists with one of his hands above your head on the mattress, using the other hand to deftly pluck each spindle from your grip.

“I’ve done so much for you. I’ve given you a room, and a career, and so much more, and yet you attack me.” The wooden spindles hit the wall next to the door, his body lowers to yours in a way you know means more trouble.

“You’re a creep and a perv and I don’t want you to touch me! You’ve done nothing for me. Only for yourself.” In a way that would make any young boy proud to know you, you collect all the spit and bile in your mouth before shooting it into his face. Part of it hits him in the eye, causing him to roar in outrage.

He lets you go, giving you a brief moment of relief, but he only wipes away the loogey before rocking his hand back hard enough to crack against the side of your face. In your moment of disorientation, he flips you to your stomach and undoes the cuff from around your leg. The chain rings against the ground when he tosses it to the side.

His knee went to your back, his hands went to your waist, and the moment you manage to come back to yourself, your fingers clawed at whatever flesh you could find near you. You screamed and flailed as much as you could, the shooting pain of your leg barely noticeable when your body was in panic mode.

All you can think as that this is the kind of thing you read about. People don’t actually get kidnapped and rapped by people they knew in college. But you know that isn’t true either. You are the daughter of a detective, things like this were apart of your everyday life growing up. Just never as personal as you or a friend being the victim. For some reason that makes you fight harder, a sickly feelings creeping into your throat when you felt his fingers brush under the hem of your underwear.

Then a sound pulled you from your hysteria, the door fell to the ground and a swarm of FBI Agents descended upon the concrete basement you still refused to call ‘your room.’ Spencer was the last of them to enter, but the unadulterated fury in his eyes was enough to tell you that was not a decision on his part.

To you, and maybe even everyone else in the room who managed to look at him for longer than a millisecond, he looked like an avenging angel. Every chocolate caramel curl perfectly framed his face, which looked like it was carved out of stone. His jaw was so tense you could slice your finger if your ran it along the edge. The revolver in his hands was unwavering, only growing in steadiness when he caught compromising position you were in.

The sob that came out of your throat was one of relief. Harvey lifted you from the mattress, reaching into his pocket to pull out that damned pocket knife. He held you so close to his chest that it made your skin crawl.

“Harvey Morgensten, drop the weapon.” Morgan’s voice boomed around the room. Harvey held you with one arm tensed around the front of your shoulders and the other holding a knife to your neck.

“She’s mine! You weren’t supposed to be able to find us!” He screamed, you winced away from the shrilling pitch that scraped against the inside of your ear. It caused him to push the knife into the skin over your exposed collarbone, blood beading around the the metal tip. Your heart was hammering beneath your ribs, your hands flexing at your sides, your mind racing for a way to get out of this situation.

Spencer’s lip went up in a snarl, you half expected him to let a growl tear through his chest as if he was a lion standing against an enemy. The hairs on the back of your neck stood to attention when he took a hesitant step forward, his eyes softening for just a fraction of a second when he looks down at you.

In that fraction of a second all of his defenses fall and you can see all the grief and panic in the bags under his eyes and the raw skin of his bottom lip.

“She was never yours, Harvey.” Spencer says, wincing when Harvey responds by yanking you even closer than before. His breath is hot on your neck, his lips so close that they brush against the skin on the back of your shoulder when he speaks.

“She was never yours, Dr. Reid. She is mine, she always will be.” You cry out in surprise, your fingers coming up to scratch at the arm around your shoulders when a pair of teeth sink into the crook of your neck as if you were the victim of a vampire or something equally supernatural and territorial.

The action has the desired effect on every agent watching, especially Reid, who stumbles forward before Hotch grabs him by the back of his arm. They don’t have a shot, not without hurting you. That much you can tell just from the look they share. It doesn’t take a genius to look around and see that the end of every gun in the room is pierced right through you.

It makes you angry. You grind the back of your teeth together when a dark chuckles echoes from behind you. In your mind’s eye, you see it all happening the way you see a scene from a book playing before you like a movie.

Reaching up with one hand, you grab the onto the arm holding the knife. With the pad of your thumb, you shove every bit of strength you have into the soft skin at the inside of his wrist. At the same time, you pull your head forward before sending it reeling back onto his already broken nose. This time, you can feel the crunch of bones as your skull makes contact with his face.

Simultaneously, he drops the knife to the floor with a cry and drops his arms to reach for his gushing nose. Adrenaline pumping through your veins, you manage the couple of steps forward into Spencer’s arms. In a quick and graceful display of surprising strength, he carries you back into his embrace and spins around to shield you from the monster staggering back toward you.

Prentiss is quick to catch him in his blind pursuit for you, twisting both of his arms back without an ounce of sympathy for his pain. The jingle of handcuffs precede the finality of each click around his wrists.

“Everything I did, I did for you! I made your book come to life, I ruined the reputation of those girls, I did it all for you.” Harvey struggles against the restraints, twisting his body any way that he can to get a glimpse of you curled into Spencer’s chest.

You brain is caught between reality and a distant world, everything around you feels like make believe. Only the feeling of Spencer’s sweater curled into your fingers and his hand on the back of your head feels real. Harvey’s voice is like a recording being played three blocks away, still loud enough to hear but not close enough to focus on. He’s hissing threats and insults at Spencer’s back, that psycho-something in him finally snapping under the circumstances.

Somebody is yelling for a medic and there, just underneath it all, is the sound of someone wailing in such a way that words could never accurately describe the intense pain and grief being carried on every screaming sob. As the events from the last twelve hours come rushing back to you, reality takes the reins of your mind.

It’s you that’s crying like that. That desperate, broken sound is coming from your heaving chest. When your leg finally gives out from under you, the pain too much for your body to bare, he was already there holding you.

The screams fade into small shattered sobs just in time for medics to descend the stairs. Their hands are voices are everywhere, medical jargon flying over your head as they pry your hands from Spencer’s sweater. You pull back from every touch, the thoughts in your brain flying too fast for you to keep up.

It takes them a while to get you to the ambulance, but when they do you start to panic.

“Spencer?!” You cry out, unable to move your head too much due to the neck brace and head strap holding you down. It takes only a second for him to come into view, his eyes glassy and his smile watery. His hand slips into yours before they raise you up to the ambulance, your hand is icy to the touch.

The paramedics had mentioned a possible concussion, excessive blood loss, and signs of acute compartment syndrome. The fact that you had remained conscious and walking this long was a testament to your strong will and fighting spirit.

“Don’t leave me.” You whispered, the black around the edges of your vision creeping in despite how hard you fought it. Spencer almost winced from how hard you tightened the grip on his fingers. His mouth moved, but you never heard the response, your mind fading quickly with every second.

“Don’t leave.”

The sound of a heart monitor steadily beeping was what woke you up. Groaning from all the aches and pains that surged up with consciousness, your eyes fluttered open before squinting into the bright hospital lights.

Your mother was the first thing that popped into your field of vision. The last time she had looked at you with such worry, you’d been in the ER after flipping your car into a ditch. In your defense, it was dark and, as a young driver, you over corrected when you hit a patch of standing water.

“Mama?” You pushed up on the bed, the pillow behind your head falling to the space between your lower back and the mattress. Your mom was quick to pick it up and fluff it back behind your head. She must really be concerned. Had they found cancer while you were out or something?

“Oh my goodness, (Y/N), you had me so worried.” Gingerly, you pressed the heel of your hand to the bandage that stuck to your hair and the corner of your head. Brushing the butterfly stitches that went across the cut on your cheek, you barely had time to react before she pulled you into a breath-stealing hug.

The wound on your neck smarted with the movement and you hissed in pain. Your mom pulled back, squishing your cheeks between her hands as tears began to collect on her lower lash line. Your mother was not the type to cry, about really anything, as far as you knew of. So to see her tearing up like this only added to the confusion and shock you were already feeling.

“Never join law enforcement. I thought I wanted you to, but I can’t deal with this kidnapping and near-death nonsense. I’m getting too old for it.” She teased tenderly, releasing your face from the death grip of love to wipe away the tears before they fell down her cheeks.

“When did you get here?” You asked, taking note of all the wires and tubes that connected to your body via IVs and sticky pads. A glance down at your leg eased the fear that you might have sustained a leg wound that would take your leg from you. You didn’t move it for fear of the pain you could already feel throbbing to the beat of your heart.

The bed dipped under your mother’s weight as she sat beside you, gathering one of your hands into both of hers. Scars littered the knuckles that had wiped away your tears and taught you to throw punches.

“I only got here about an hour ago, but you’ve had round the clock protection from the FBI so no need to get panicky. I can see that look creeping into your eyes.” Her own eyes squint a little, those highly observant detective skills kicking in. She’s always been able to read you like an open book, making you wonder if she would have been good at profiling.

Of course she would have, your mother was good at everything she set her mind to.

“FBI?” You’re full of so many questions, but they all fall away when you mom shifts out of your line of sight to reveal the sleeping agent tucked away into the corner of the room.

Spencer is curled onto a hospital chair that is placed into a corner beside the window looking out over the parking lot. His back is leaned against the wall, one shoulder leaned against the back of the chair. One long leg is curled into the seat and the other is stretched out next to the chair. From across the room, you can see the shadows his eyelashes cast across his cheekbones in slumber. Oddly enough, your first thought is of Sleeping Beauty.

The sight is enough to make your heart feel like it’s squeezing around a ball of broken glass. Before your mother can read too much into the mixture of emotions that, surely, skew your features, you look away.

“He’s been here since they brought you in. I met his team, they’re a fine group of agents. You didn’t tell me you were friends with anyone in the FBI.” Before she can say anything else, you clear your throat. Putting one hand, a little dramatically, to your chest you give your mother a look you haven’t used since you were a kid trying to stay home from school.

“Mama, I’m a little hungry. Can you get me something to eat?” It works like a charm. You’ve never seen your mother jump so quickly before, she races out the door like a woman on a mission. It warms your aching heart.

“Maybe you should have tried acting.” Spencer’s voice is groggy with sleep as he sits up and stretches into awareness.

“How long have you been awake?” He meets your gaze, his expression soft and earth-shaking. When you imagined seeing Spencer wake up first thing in the morning, it was never in a hospital room while feelings of betrayal and confusion stabbed into your chest.

“Just long enough to hear your mom talk about my team. She’s a nice lady.” He doesn’t move from the chair, sensing the tension in the room the way only a profiler can. He’s afraid that if he gets up, you’ll make him leave. He doesn’t need to know that he’s right.

“How long have I been out?” You’re asking every question except the one you’ve been dying to ask.

“A day. You had a pretty bad concussion and acute compartment syndrome in your leg. They weren’t sure you were going to be able to retain control of the muscle given how long you were kept hostage with it untreated, but I know you’re too stubborn to let that happen.” The silence that follows is stifling, your eyes interlocked in a battle of wills.

Was this the same man that had accused you of being a serial killer?

You’re the first to look away, fidgeting with a fray string from the blanket thrown over your legs.

“I think we need some time apart.”

“I’m so incredibly sorry.” You both speak at the same time, but your words drain the blood from Spencer’s face when they finally register. He had hoped that, by some miracle, you would forgive him of the unforgivable sin he had committed against you in the name of justice. He understood why you didn’t.

“I just,” The threads of the blanket you recognize from your childhood bedroom bump underneath your fingers when you smooth your hand over it, “I want to forgive you. But all I keep thinking is that none of this would have happened to me if you had used all those brains in your head instead of all the insecurities in you heart.”

It’s like a slap across the face, and yet Spencer can’t help but feel like he deserves it. Even still, none of it hurts as much as the crack in your voice and the tears that you try so desperately to blink away before he can see them.

It isn’t often that Spencer Reid is rendered speechless, but the guilt and heartache have stolen all the words of every language and all the breath from the air right out of his mouth.

“It’s still so fresh in my mind, I think if we distance ourselves then we’ll be able to come back to something rather than trying to scramble to bridge together the chasm that has formed between us.”

He wants to argue, everything in him screams that he needs to fight for you, but the look in your eyes stops him. If you need space, then space is what he will give you. Spencer would do anything to make this right. He wishes he had the intelligence and technology to build a time machine and go back to two mornings ago.

“I understand,” he says solemnly, trying to talk around the hurt in his chest that is growing like a tumor. “But I promised I wouldn’t leave you. I’ll give you space, but I’m only giving you the space of the wall between this room and the hallway.”

And then he’s gone, staying true to his word and sinking to the floor outside your room. When you mother comes back, holding a collection of jellos and cookies and granola bars from the hospital cafeteria, her steps falter at the sight of the young doctor outside your door.

Inside you’re curled into yourself, taking very deliberate breaths into the cotton stuffed pillow you have buried into your chest. You half expect your heart monitor to be screaming for the nurses, but despite a small quickening in the constant beeps, it gives away none of your heartbreak.

“(Y/N)?” You look up, meeting your mothers eyes with tear stained cheeks. Your head is going to be throbbing later, but for now you’re only focused on the sharp pains shooting through your ribs and clouding every other pain in your body.

Between one gasp of air and the next, your mother drops all the foods to the chair vacated by Spencer before rushing to pull you into her arms.

“Can you die from a broken heart?” You whimper, feeling like a small child as you bury your head into her chest. She smells like home, running her hand over the back of your head with gentle shushing sounds.

Outside, Spencer wipes at his own tears, a silent statue of sadness protecting you from everything but himself.

#spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid angst #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer reid imagines #dr spence reid #spence reid #criminal minds self insert #criminal mind imagine #criminal minds

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batfoonery · 4 years ago

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Of Humans and Holding Hands (Strange Hybrid Batfam! AU)

Yes indeed, this is me writing up a Hybrid AU post for Cass, despite the fact that she isn't a hybrid in this AU. I absolutely refuse to leave her out. This is a Respect and Love for Cassandra Cain zone.

Cass had been taught to survive, as a child. Survive the wild. Survive humans. Survive hybrids. There was no real difference to her. All she knew was that David Cain always got that same look on his face, when a hybrid would do something she couldn't. That look which meant hurt.

When Bruce takes her in, when Barbara takes her in, Cass doesn't realize that there are differences between her and her new brothers beyond movements and abilities. Tim is always a bit twitchier, a bit warier of the world around him than the average Gothamite, than the average vigilante, even. He's physically a bit different, but it is easy for her to look beyond.

When she settles into her life, when newspeople and paparazzi swarm her and shout their questions, that's her first clue that maybe her brothers aren't the same, not to other humans.

She asks Babs. Because Babs knows everything, right?

Barbara sighs, a heavy sound, and her whole body sags as if it weighs more than it had in the moments before, as if it had suddenly become drenched with water and soaked like a sponge.

Babs gently winds her fingers amongst Cass'. She explains that legally, and in most the US socially, no. Hybrids aren't on the same standing as humans. It shouldn't make them any less. Because Cass knows. She knows Dick and Tim and Steph, and they've never been less. But in the eyes of the law and of society, they somehow are.

Cass hates it, with every fiber of her being. She doesn't understand. How could they be less? Dick is the most flexible and determined person she's ever met, able to shimmy through areas smaller than his own body. Like magic. Tim is incredibly clever and has a deceptive amount of strength in his tiny body, able to down and haul materials much bigger than himself. Steph is incredibly perceptive and intuitive, she remembers everything and can recall even the smallest detail down to the minutia. They'll never be less.

She takes it upon herself to protect them from society. Not physically, they don't need that. But none of her family members go to interviews without her, none of them are ever caught on camera without her showing up with a glowering glare in frame. It continues on when she gets new brothers, a fierce protectiveness.

The media labels her as a Hybrids Rights activist. She embraces this, works with Bruce and Tim to organize charities. When Duke comes on scene she asks him about how he get the We Are Robins movement rolling, and they work together to start peaceful protests and other activism events.

At home, she loves.

She protects and supports her brothers. She lays out on the couch and holds Dick's hands when he's feeling lonely. They don't say anything. But they're company.

When Jason has bad days, she takes him outside where it's quiet and still. She helps him take out pillows and blankets, and they pitch a tent and make a temporary sete to nap in.

She curls up with Tim in his den when he has nightmares. She always knows, somehow, a tingle in her fingers or her feet that have her shooting up and night to make her way to his room.

She helps Duke find upclaimed rooms to tear into and make nests. Steals cushions from Tim and Jason, to tuck into the closets to pad them and make them comfy.

She learns to help preen Dami. He isn't as fond of her doing it as he is Steph, but when his feathers molt and itch she soothes them down and makes sure he hasn't gotten mites.

One day, Damian shows up at her bedroom door, face red. He asks her to teach him to dance. Ballet.

"Mother... I never saw her dance. When I was little, she told me once that she did, with Father. But I never saw her dance. I don't.... I was taught, briefly, at the league, it was expected, but it's never felt... It's never felt so natural as Aunt Kate says it should." He plays with his fingers, picking at his nails until Cass takes his hands in hers and holds them. She's never felt so honored.

One night, when the boys are out and it's just her and Bruce in the house, she sits and watches the news with him in the sitting room. He runs his fingers through her hair, only pausing when there's a story about an anti-hybrids protest. He pulls her close then, listening when she says that she doesn't understand why any human would feel this way, do these things.

He tells her that not all humans are as human as Cass. He tells her how lucky they are, to have and to know her. He tells her that they're blessed, to be on the receiving end of her love.

And she wonders if he isn't wrong. Isn't it the other way around? In a way, even though they're all equally physically capable, she's never been able to think of herself of anything more than "only human."

She admits this to Duke, one night. He presses her close, smashes her against his chest. Tells her that she is so much more than "only" anything. "You are beyond limitation, defying expectation at every turn. You are so much more than just a human, you're humanity at it's best."

He must tell the others, because the next morning when she wakes up, she's practically drowning in fur and down and blankets and pillows in an impromptu nest constructed on her bed and around her body. And on top of her body. All her favorite hybrids (when did Steph get here?!) piled on her, cuddling against her so she can't move.

And maybe, she reflects, there isn't anything wrong with being human after all. It isn't anything more than an expression of genetics, after all. Something most humans have deep down in them anways. She thinks about it, thinks about her strange little family, and wonders if maybe she's a little more wild than her body shows.

#batfam #batfamily headcanons #batfam hybrids au #cassandra cain #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #duke thomas #damian wayne

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thecottageinthedark · 4 years ago

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Sorting Glass-Maker’s Dragon

I’ve been working on this for a looooong time, and finally it’s complete enough to post. I’m using the Sorting Hat Chats system, basics of which are explained here by its inventors and here by @wisteria-lodge.

A lot of GMD is flexpoints and inferred stuff, but this is, at least, the way I read the main eight.

Chuubo: Snake Primary, Badger Secondary. His Snake ambition isn't immediately obvious because it's backwards to us; he's an Imperator and a god of dream and probably the Spirit of the Age, but those were just things that happened upon him. He doesn't want fame or fortune; he wants a peaceful human life, or at least a human-style one, and his drive to achieve this has literally reshaped the world itself while still being, at its core, all about him.

His Badger Secondary is hard to see because of the one big gimmick in the way; the Wish-Granting Engine, that supposedly allows instant results with no work, and the way he uses it whenever possible. But the thing is, the WGE is both dependent on his Secondary and in some senses what he uses when he can't draw on that Secondary itself.

Badger Secondaries have to mean what they do; they put in hard work when and where they are motivated to do so. For Chuubo, that's not schoolwork, which is where he as a high schooler is socially expected to, and so he gets a rep for being lazy. Where he does put the effort in, is with his friendships, and in 'learning the ways of Fortitude'. With those, he doesn't cut corners. He doesn't pull out schemes. He patiently and consistently puts in the work. His Secondary is on full display in the way he persists in trying to be friends with Leo, even in the face of Leo's hostility. Chuubo doesn't try to win Leo over with subtlety or with grand gestures; he just doggedly carries on offering support, company, and good-natured teasing.

So where does the Engine come in? Think of the Wishing Map. It's the friendships and connections he's worked at creating and maintaining that help Chuubo's wishes to succeed. Wishes based on whim are almost certain to go wrong.

The wish for a best friend is maybe the most telling part of all. Or rather, what happened after it. Because despite having acquired Seizhi through unnatural means, it never once occurs to Chuubo to continue their association by those-to lean on miraculous or mundane coercion and create a relationship that all goes one way. Having acquired someone to love him, he just proceeds to love them back, with a generosity of spirit that is entirely genuine.

Like a lot of Snake Primaries, Chuubo has a Primary model that he uses to fill in the gaps where his ambitions and his loyalties aren't relevant. His is a kindly and expansive Badger Primary. He lives in this model most of the time-until there's a threat to his inner circle or to his hard-won quiet life. Then he'll set the model aside and act from his real Primary to keep hold of what's his. (Being a snake sometimes helps.)

Seizhi Schwan: Snake Primary, Burnt Snake Secondary. Like Chuubo, their huge ambition is for something that most people just get handed on a platter; to be real, to matter, and to be loved. Their Primary and his instinctively understand each other about this-and also understand each other perfectly about the importance of treasuring and being treasured. (They're all but making big eyes at each other and swooning, in fact.)

Seizhi's Primary is somewhat wobbly in one regard; they're the sort of Snake who has kicked themself out of their own inner circle. After all, they reason, they're not real-not yet, at least-so why should they value themself? There's nothing there to value. This is linked to the burning of their Secondary; their supreme and miraculously-enhanced ability to fit into any social context is something that gives them pain, because it's just more unreality. Over and over they reach out, hoping that this time they've found a destiny; over and over, they stop sustaining an Intention, and the whole thing fades away. Even mundane uses of the Snake Secondary toolkit feel tainted-deceit and lies-and that's a problem, because this is the best and most practiced skillset they've got. They're trying to cover up this lack with a Badger Secondary model, because that's what they feel like they should have, what a Real Person would have-the slow grinding authenticity of method. (Possibly this decision is linked to Chuubo being a Badger Secondary.) But they don't like it. It feels like crap. It doesn't even work that well. And when they're in trouble, they drop the attempt to Do Things The Real Way and start shifting and adapting and reacting like the Snake they are.

As of the start of GMD they're still hoping for the magic to happen, to wake up transformed into a Real Person who bears little to no resemblance to the 'fake self' they despise-for the Badger model to smother the Snake to death. The situation's in flux. Under pressure, they might begin to find ways to accept themself for what they are, and realise they are loved already; but it's just as likely that they will crack and fall into despair. If that happens, they'll probably Burn their Primary too, cutting themself off from Chuubo and from anyone else in their inner circle. This they'll frame not as a way to protect themself, but to protect the inner circle. A fake person has nothing real to give. How can they inflict such a horrible creature on the people they love? Might as well feed them fairy food and watch them starve, as do something like that.

That unpleasant possibility aside...unlike Chuubo they haven't yet created a Primary Model when the game starts. They might do so during the course of it, though-they will, after all, need to make a lot of decisions, and they won't always be able to relate those back to 'will it help me become real' or 'will it help Chuubo'. I don't think they're likely to copy Chuubo's Badger for this; it fits him fine, as an inherently peaceful Serpent, but Seizhi is an Actual who has had to fight just to exist, and isn't prepared to lay down arms just because things are now somewhat better. What'd work better for them would be a valorous and fierce Lion Model based on that of their brother Laodemus, or a wider Snake Model with an inner circle encompassing 'everyone I know' or 'the whole of Town'.

Leonardo de Montreal: Lion Primary, Lion Secondary. This poor man.

Oh, he'd love you to believe he's a Double Bird, or a Snake/Bird mix of some kind. He'd probably pick one of those Houses out if he had the choice! But that's...actually for pretty superficial reasons. He likes science so he figures he's a shoo-in for the 'smart person house', he's snappy and standoffish so equally he thinks he's in the 'mean asshole house'. But in the SHC system neither of those really fit.

Let's look at his Primary first. He's not a Snake, right away-because he doesn't have an inner circle and he's okay with that. There's no 'my people, who are most important' and 'everyone else'-even when he's not leaning on his Friendless wound, when he's prepared to concede that he cares about Chuubo or Jasper. If he were a Snake, those two would be the most likely inner circle candidates-but they're not in there. Not because he doesn't care, but because he doesn't do the Snake style caring where his people are the centre of his world and the place he gets his morality.

Where his morality does come from is the Song of Hell, his 'love for the wicked'. It's intuitive, not constructed, and centred in himself, not reliant on others. (When he loses his heart, he doesn't draw up a systematic list of ethical principles to live by instead; he creates the Mechanism of Original Sin, which emulates the feeling of having an internal conscience as well as the function.) And the fact that he's a fallen angel means that at some point in his past he gave up Heaven on ideological grounds. The Song of Hell is just right, and therefore he follows it. Any justifications he makes for that decision come after the fact. And so he follows his Song, and becomes heroic-it's not just Jasper he saves, he's got a whole Thing about helping people. That's Lion Primary.

And though he's smart, he doesn't act Bird under pressure; he charges. He responded to Jade's death by first ripping out his own heart to save her daughter, then marching down to the BA to throw down with its Headmaster. He probably has a Bird Secondary model to help with Science, though-and he uses this model to back up his real secondary. Charge in throwing nightmare devices at the problem.

Natalia Koutolika: Bird primary, burnt secondary that's probably Bird or Lion.

Natalia's frozen heart sounds like a Petrified Snake thing, but it's not any specific person that makes her realise thawing is a possibility-it's Fortitude. And that's not because Fortitude is nice, the way a Badger might un-Burn on being accepted into a welcoming community, but because it's magical. The rules of the universe work differently here...so maybe that means things can be possible for her now that weren't possible back on Earth.

I thought at first her primary was burnt, but...freezing her heart made her lose faith in human goodness, and in her capacity for being happy, not in her ability to discern truth. She trusts her cynical System; actually, I think her looking like a Petrified Snake is down to that thing Birds do where their systems often come out looking like the other Primaries. Natalia has decided that the Petrified Snake morality is the true one...but when she arrives in Town, she reconsiders, and begins to edit.

Her Secondary is where she's burnt. Because part of the cynicism of her Primary System is the idea that there's no point trying. Use whatever methods are available, who cares? They won't work, because you can't do anything that matters-the world doesn't work like that. Most of the time she'll use Bird or Lion methods because those come easily to her, given she's a genius and a martial artist, so it's probably one of those. But then again...she doesn't seem to get any joy from them. I think her Arcs will (hopefully) involve healing the burning-and that could look like learning to trust in her charging or her knowledge base, or like finding that what she really feels Right about is putting in the work like a Badger or thinking on her feet like a Snake. (Burnt Badger secondary would be especially poignant, as it'd be her learning to rely on community as a source of strength.)

Jasper Irinka: Bird primary, Bird secondary.

She starts out with her system based on her mom's Heaven-style Lion primary; it doesn't work, and leaves 'a hole in the world' for her. So she starts looking for ways to make it work by picking up ideas from all sorts of people-her dad, her friends, the Moon Prince and assorted other NPCs-and either adjusting it by adding these in or making a new system entirely. And her matching secondary helps her to do this very effectively. Her Primordial ability to shape herself as she likes by growing limbs that she can then use and discard as she pleases is really Bird Secondary-and the fact that those limbs manifest from other people's Hopes? 'I know a guy' Bird.

Sure, she inspires people. But it’s not a Lion inspiration-being so completely and ferociously her own glorious self that others are attracted to her radiance. Jade probably worked like that, from what we know of her, but Jasper inspires because she deliberately does things to inspire Hope in people, using a toolkit of stuff she’s picked up.

(And of course Leo is fascinated with her-not just because she's 'Jade Irinka's daughter', the shine on that would wear off fast-it's that she's a Double Bird like what he wants to be! And she in turn is loving Leo's double Lion because that's what she thinks she's supposed to be like!)

Rinley Yatskaya: Badger Primary, Lion Secondary. Of course the Storyteller Arc kid gets the 'protagonist sorting'.

Rinley's stated purpose in their playbook is to be the social glue of the party, and their powerset makes them really good at it. They first save then make friends with Prince Eduard despite their family's feud with the Rats, and when they see Iolithae in the Titov shrine, they go to rescue her, because Eduard and Iolithae are people and that matters more than Eduard being a Rat or Iolithae being a dangerous sacred horror. In other words, they're a beautiful Universal Badger. As far as Rinley's concerned, you don't just see someone who's injured or imprisoned and then not help them, even if they're meant to be an enemy on ideological grounds or even grounds of prudence. And to help people, they jump right in and Do Something. That's textbook Badger/Lion.

Principal Entropy II: Exploded Badger primary, Badger secondary.

This guy is just community-building and caretaking all over the place. He shows up, he does the work-as the Angel of Fortitude he's literally fixing potholes and curing peoples' ailments! And he's doing that by going to the people and creatures of his Gardens, calling in favours.

And he's doing it because people are important. The denizens of the Evil Island, the people of Fortitude. 'All things can earn their recompense through love'.

The problem is, though-he's doing the dehumanisation thing that Badgers are so infamous for. He's not going 'some people are Enemies Who Must Die, and therefore are not really People', though, which is the usual form of the trope in fiction. That's the mode of a Badger at war, and E2 isn't fighting a war. He's going 'some people need to be Sacrificed for the Greater Good of the Community'. And that's not an easy thing for a Badger to believe. If he was an Idealist, or Snake who is comfy prioritising an inner circle, he could just hold that belief without problems. But being a Badger, he can't. If he sacrifices people, he has to either feel horribly guilty about it...or stop thinking of them as people.

One big group he tends to dehumanise are School students. School exists to create tools to fix the world. It's okay if he makes students into cursed Hall Monitors, it's okay if he turns SEED students into prototype world-trees and weirding walls. That's what they're for.

He also dehumanises himself. He's Other Than Human, Set Apart. He refuses to acknowledge his needs, and overworks himself-he's even, at game start, nullified two Divine Health Levels to make his Code Novae binding on the Evil Island, meaning that if you can get past his Immortality power he's actually the squishiest PC of the lot. So he's an Exploded Badger, sacrificing both himself and others to his community.

Miramie Mesmer: Bird Primary, Badger Secondary. She shares this sorting with her former self, Melanie Malakh.

Melanie's Bird Primary used the Bleak Methodology as her truth system. Coupled with her persistent, hard-working Secondary, this combination made her a star student at the Bleak Academy-a 'prodigy of hatred and despair'. However, when she left the Academy, things fell apart for her.

At the Bleak Academy she'd been sheltered from experiences or ideas that could provide any real challenge to the Bleak worldview. Because of that, her system wasn't as robust as she thought-and she didn't know how to shore it up or how to cope if it shattered. Which-along with the glass dragon-it did; her time in Town, the things she had seen and done, had led her to doubt the truth of ultimate futility. The last straw was the dragon itself. Melanie, through the work of her hands and mind, had created something that was not futile; a master-weapon that could destroy Town, just as she had intended. The very fact that she was able to do that gave the lie to the Bleak Methodology. Unable to deny this truth but just as unable to live with it, Melanie Fell so hard that-as Strategists sometimes do-she lost her identity and became a new person.

Unable and unwilling to use Melanie's system, Miramie has begun to construct her own, drawing on various sources-the communal and peaceful mores of Fortitude, Hideo Hayashi's belief that even unlikeable misfits do not deserve to be left alone without support systems, the other Archive kids' idea that outcasts should stick together, and Chuubo's Snake prioritising of personal ambitions and loves. Since she's not had much time to do this, it's nowhere near finished-but it looks likely to be robust. It also seems to me that she's likely to be able to edit it as she needs rather than Falling-or, if worst comes to worst, to Fall but get back up as herself, rather than shattering again or reverting into Melanie Malakh.

Her Badger Secondary is a contrast to Chuubo's, as where his is socially based and linked to personal relationships (Courtier Badger), hers is more focused on the more usual definition of 'work', and on community in the sense of history and tradition (Bookkeeper Badger). It's her Secondary she brings to bear on the tasks of setting up a cafe from scratch and helping maintain the Archives. It's also what she uses to keep herself going under the weight of the world's wrongness, to keep making art even though it's doing so that activates her Curse. She just keeps slogging away.

I can also see the Badger Secondary in Melanie's construction of the glass dragon. She sat herself down with Hideo Hayashi and learnt glasswork from scratch, putting in the time and effort to both master this new skill and to bring Hideo himself fully under her control. Simple, honest work, even though used for deeply destructive ends.

IN CONCLUSION:

Chuubo: Snake primary, Badger secondary, Badger primary model Seizhi: Snake primary, Burnt Snake secondary, unhealthy Badger Secondary model Leonardo: Lion primary, Lion secondary. Bird secondary model Natalia: Bird primary (with a system that starts out looking a lot like Petrified Snake), very burnt Secondary that is likely Bird or Lion Jasper: Bird primary, Bird secondary Rinley: Badger primary, Lion secondary Entropy II: Exploded Badger primary, Badger secondary Miramie: Bird primary, Badger secondary

#sorting hat chats #glass-maker's dragon #cmwge #gluubilis #gmd #harry potter #gmd pcs

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hartigays · 5 years ago

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ooh if you’re still doing the fluff/angst prompts could you do 14 + harringrove? I love your writing and you could do something amazing with this 🖤

14. “Get your hands off of me!”

“harrington, what the hell are you doing?”

steve doesn’t answer, not bothering to look up. he’s focused intently on the row of dominos that he’s carefully setting up, his tongue poking out and his brow furrowed in concentration.

“voilà!” steve shouts, finally getting the last domino in place. he claps his hands and rubs them together in anticipation.

billy arches a brow, giving steve a bored look. but steve doesn’t pay him any mind, just tiptoes carefully over the dominos weaving around the living room of their apartment, kneeling down and counting backwards from three before setting them in motion.

it takes all of thirty seconds for the carefully constructed line to fall, but steve still looks at billy with a goofy smile, his eyebrows raised in question. as if to silently ask pretty cool, huh?

“oh, come on,” steve huffs at the unimpressed look billy levels him with. “that was at least kind of cool, admit it.”

“you spent three hours setting that up,” billy points out. “instead of taking out the trash. like i asked you to do earlier. three hours earlier, to be exact.”

it’s steve’s turn to roll his eyes. he spins on his heel and flops backward onto the couch. “whatever. time is arbitrary in quarantine.”

“don’t whatever me,” billy says with a sniff, examining his cuticles. “just clean it up before bed. i don’t want to come out here for water in the middle of the night and break my ass slipping on a fuckin’ domino.”

“fine, mom.” steve tosses a tennis ball in the air as he speaks, making faces at the ceiling like a child. “whatever you say.”

billy moves to lean over steve on the couch, flicking him on the forehead while flashing a toothy grin. “damn right.”

it’s been three weeks since the governor issued an official stay-at-home order. three weeks of binging netflix, playing video games, and scrolling through the same few social media apps over and over.

steve had grown antsy and stir-crazy by the end of week one, needing to find some new activity or another to occupy his mind and body to keep from going nuts.

billy, on the other hand, has kept himself busy with a stack of books about a mile high, and his at-home workout routines. steve’s also been eating better, given the amount of cooking billy’s been doing now that he’s home full time.

while steve bounces from one activity to another, restless and understimulated, billy seems to be transitioning easily into their new way of life, as he tends to do with most things.

steve is only a little bitter.

“how are you not bored out of your mind?” steve gripes. he tosses the tennis ball onto the armchair adjacent to the couch, already tired of it.

billy had moved into the kitchen, and he looks up from the cookbook he’d been flipping through. “i dunno. ‘s not so bad. i can sleep in now, cook dinner more. i even learned how to make paella recently.”

“the fuck is paella?” steve snorts, sitting up on his elbows to stare at billy over the back of the couch.

“it’s going to be dinner tonight,” billy says easily, shrugging. “it’s good, trust me.”

steve just shrugs, flopping back down and closing his eyes. he doesn’t care what billy puts in front of him - the less he has to cook, the better. it’s just not in his wheelhouse.

besides, billy is a natural cook. there hasn’t been anything he’s made that steve’s been unimpressed with. so he leaves billy to do his thing, pulling out his phone and scrolling through twitter, half-listening to the familiar sound of billy puttering around the kitchen.

steve spends a few hours going between napping and mindlessly scrolling through his phone. by the time he pushes himself off the couch with a yawn and a stretch, it’s already getting dark outside. he shuffles into the kitchen, following the delicious smells coming from within.

billy’s still cooking away, his brow furrowed in concentration. he’s stirring something on the stove, poring over the recipe in the cookbook before him. he looks incredibly in his element, moving about with ease, seamlessly transitioning from one task to the next.

steve doesn’t think it’s weird that he could watch billy do this all day. it’s always nice to see someone doing something they’re passionate about with such dedication. and if there’s a secret part of him that has an innate appreciation for billy in an apron, well.

sue him.

it’s not like finding billy attractive is anything new to steve. it’s the 21st century, steve tends not to dwell on those kinds of things. he doesn’t, however, feel the need to clue billy in to those particularly appreciative thoughts about him in his cooking attire.

they’re stuck in isolation together for the foreseeable future. there’s no sense in stirring up trouble or discomfort - they’ve got enough going on already. steve’s not-so-G-rated thoughts about billy and his apron aren’t between anyone but him and god himself.

he just admires from afar, trying to not indulge too often in his racy thoughts about his roommate, who also happens to be his long-time best friend.

it’s no secret, however, that those thoughts had been easier to ignore before, when they spent a large part of their days apart. billy would be at work or in class and steve could always be found guiding himself through his own busy schedule.

as university students, they’d had pretty chaotic lives before the world came to a grinding halt. they were both generally busy with their own lives, and steve had enough going on that he didn’t often have time to dwell on how his thoughts were increasingly crossing the line between friendship and something more.

and just because they’re now together 24/7, with all the time in the world for steve to confront the reality of his little predicament, it doesn’t mean steve is worried. not at all. not even a little bit.

steve has this silly idea that maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll start to believe it.

“smells good in here,” steve comments. he leans up against the counter next to the stove, peering over billy to sneak a peek at what he’s working on.

billy pauses his stirring, scooping a small portion of what looks like rice onto his spoon and holding it up to steve’s lips. he lets billy pop the bite into his mouth, his eyes lighting up at the burst of flavor that spreads across his tongue. whatever it is, it’s delicious. steve licks his lips appreciatively.

“yum.”

billy just nods, looking pleased. “it’ll be ready in about ten minutes. hey, grab me a beer, will you?”

steve grabs two beers from the fridge, passing one off to billy and cracking the other one open for himself. he heads back into the living room, curling back up on the couch and scrolling through netflix.

by the time he manages to find a documentary that they haven’t seen before, billy’s walking into the living room, balancing two plates in his hands. his beer is stuffed in the crook of his elbow, and steve sits up to grab the plate from billy before he can spill beer all over the floor.

“what’d you pick out?” billy asks once they dig in, nodding at the television.

steve swallows a mouthful of food, giving a satisfied hum of approval. “some new nature documentary. i think it’s about whales or sharks or something like that.”

“sounds like a real fleshed-out choice,” billy snorts, but he doesn’t object to steve’s selection.

“hey, you’re the one who’s always complaining that we waste so much time scrolling through the same stuff every day,” steve points out. “i’m just saving us the trouble.”

billy just huffs out a laugh before taking a swig of his beer. “i never said not having to scroll for an hour was a bad thing.”

the lapse into silence as the show starts, watching with meager interest as the intro credits begin. it’s quiet until steve takes a particularly delicious bite of his food, practically moaning around his spoon.

“this is delicious, by the way,” steve says, glancing over at billy. “what’d you say this is called?”

billy’s giving him a strange look, one that has steve’s cheeks heating up and the tips of his ears turning pink.

“paella,” billy answers finally, clearing this throat and averting his eyes

steve stares at billy for a moment longer, opening his mouth to speak before realizing he doesn’t even know what he wants to say, letting it fall shut again.

there’s a weird tension hanging between them for the rest of the night. steve tries not to fixate on it, but it’s hard when he’d picked out the most boring documentary in the history of time itself.

billy doesn’t even meet his eyes when he says goodnight later, after they’ve watched a few episodes and cleaned up the kitchen. steve can’t help but wonder if maybe he said something wrong without realizing it, watching billy retreat to the safety of his bedroom.

steve tosses and turns for most of the night, plagued by incredibly weird and startlingly vivid dreams. dreams about monsters that lurk in the shadows and kids with superpowers and bad men in their secret labs. similar to the ones he had back in high school, back when his life was turned inside out and upside down. only these are brighter, more intense, somehow weirder than before.

there’s a gasp dying on steve’s lips when he bolts upright in bed, the image of a hyper-realistic demogorgon with a decaying human face that he’s uncomfortably sure was barb’s still burned into his mind. he’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his stomach churning. his mouth is unbelievably dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of it.

steve pushes his sweat-matted hair from his forehead, climbing out of bed and padding into the kitchen. he gulps down two glasses of water, trying to will away the trembling of his hands.

it’s when he’s walking back to his room that he slips on something, crashing backward and busting his ass hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. steve’s tailbone collides with the ground first, followed by his elbows, and then his head.

steve groans, pushing himself up off the ground. he feels lightheaded and disoriented, the back of his head throbbing something awful. distantly, steve hears what sounds like a door opening, followed by footsteps.

the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up when someone crouches down beside him. steve can’t get his eyes to focus while he’s this dizzy and the room is this dark. he jumps nearly a foot in the air when a hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“get your hands off of me!” steve yelps, smacking the mystery hands away from him and scooting across the floor to put distance between him and the body hovering next to him.

“hey, hey, steve, calm down, it’s just me. it’s just billy.”

steve squints through the darkness, his heart hammering in his chest. he can finally make out the defining features of the person that is most definitely billy, crouching in front of him and looking at him with a mixture of pure bewilderment and what he’s pretty sure is worry.

groaning, steve rubs the back of his head with a grimace. “ow...”

“told you to clean the damn dominos up,” billy mutters, sitting back on his heels as he tilts steve’s head down, examining the damage. “did you hit it hard?”

steve just nods, wincing as he does. “yeah. hit my ass and elbows harder, though.”

billy huffs out a soft laugh, taking steve’s bicep and lifting his arm to inspect his elbow.

“i think you’ll live,” billy says after a few moments, letting steve’s arm drop. “the hell were you doing wandering around the house in the dark at three in the morning, anyway?”

“i was getting some water,” steve tells him, rubbing his elbow with a frown. “i was having really weird dreams. i feel dizzy, are you sure i don’t have a concussion?”

billy shifts closer, trying to move steve’s mass of hair enough to look more closely at the lump on the back of his head.

“well, you’re not bleeding. if you have a concussion, it’s mild,” billy says with a shrug. “but i think you’re in the clear. what kind of dreams were they?”

steve doesn’t say anything for a moment before giving a halfhearted shrug. “same dreams i always have. they were just, like....super vivid this time, you know?”

“might’ve been the shellfish in the paella,” billy muses, humming thoughtfully. “certain foods can give you more vivid dreams, almost like fever dreams. shellfish are a pretty common culprit.”

billy takes one last look at the back of steve’s head before grabbing his hand, tugging him up off the ground. steve’s head swims once he’s upright, and he tips forward, crashing directly into billy. billy’s arms go around him immediately, holding him steady.

“you okay?” billy asks, his brows furrowed in concern.

steve blinks rapidly, his brain slowly catching up to the position he’s currently in. he feels the tips of his ears get hot, disentangling himself from billy and backing away, putting several feet of distance between them.

“yeah, i - um. sorry, that wasn’t intentional.”

steve averts his eyes, though billy’s stay trained on steve, that strange look from before back on his face. something shifts in his expression, billy giving him a thoughtful look.

“on second thought,” billy says finally, “you should crash in my room. so i can keep an eye on you. wouldn’t want you nursing a head injury alone, in case anything happens.”

“the hell do you mean, if anything happens?” steve questions, his hand flying up to the back of his head. he opens his mouth to ask another panicked question, but it closes quickly once he realizes what billy is offering. “wait, you mean you want me to stay with you? in your bed? like, together?”

“sure, if you want,” billy says, sounding casual while looking anything but. “you know, for safety.”

“for safety,” steve repeats slowly, swallowing thickly. “okay. okay, yeah. do you think i might need - um. mouth-to-mouth? for safety?”

steve’s heart is hammering in his chest before the question fully leaves his mouth. billy just stares at him for a long moment, before cracking a goofy grin, giving him a slightly disbelieving look. “steve, that is the corniest fucking thing you have ever said.”

“oh, shut up. i have a traumatic brain injury,” steve counters with an unimpressed sniff, trying to play it off like his heart doesn’t feel like it’s about to beat right out of his chest. “sue me.”

“right, your horrific bump on the head,” billy nods, fighting a smile. “guess you should come over here and let me take another look. for safety, of course.”

“safety’s very important,” steve acknowledges as he crosses the room, slowly putting one foot in front of the other.

steve stops short in front of billy, hesitating. billy closes the remaining distance, reaching up to gently feel the bump on the back of steve’s head, though his eyes never leave steve’s.

“that really is a nasty knot,” billy says offhandedly, a flicker of concern appearing in his eyes and disappearing just as quickly. “maybe some ice would help?”

“thought you were writing me a prescription for something else,” steve mumbles.

billy looks momentarily confused, before steve closes the distance and seals their lips together. billy yields almost instantaneously, his mouth opening to steve as if they’ve done this a million times before.

now that he’s face-to-face with it, steve isn’t sure how he was able to dance around it for so long. billy’s lips are soft and pliant beneath his, and he kisses steve languidly, like they have all the time in the world and he knows it. he has one hand curled into steve’s hair, the other splayed across his jaw. when billy nips at steve’s bottom lip, it sends sparks skittering down steve’s spine and goosebumps erupting across his skin.

all steve can see, smell, and taste is billy and he’s dizzy with it, unsteady on his feet. which could be attributed in part to steve’s little bump on the head, but he pushes that thought to the back of his mind to worry about later. he sways a little, causing their mouths to break apart. billy takes steve’s hand keeping him steady.

“c’mon, let’s get you to bed,” billy says, his breathing a little ragged. “you can get the full hargrove treatment in the morning, when you’re not borderline concussed.”

“you’re the one who’s getting a medical degree,” steve protests, even as billy pulls him to his bedroom. “i was just following the doctor’s orders.”

“right, well. this doctor is ordering you to lay down and get some sleep,” billy counters. he helps steve climb into bed, scooting in next to him once steve has slid over to give him some room.

billy lets steve wrap himself around him like a koala without protest, only humming softly in approval.

“maybe quarantine’s not so bad,” steve muses after a few beats of silence, yawning.

“you’re just saying that because you get to kiss me every day now.”

“that so?” steve asks, chuckling softly. “guess that means i should get some sleep so i can be well-rested for a big day of kisses tomorrow.”

“go to sleep, harrington,” billy snorts, burying his face into steve’s neck.

“‘night billy.”

“sweet dreams, princess.”

#pardon my lack of knowledge on how to cook things #idk how to cook paella i just made some shit up bc lazy #here u go bby enjoy 💓💓💓#harringrove #stranger things #my fics #ask #anon

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amyscascadingtabs · 5 years ago

Text

look at where we are, look at where we started

He’s seen Amy sleep before, but never quite this close. She’s never slept on him, and he wonders if they’ve ever been this physically near each other for longer than a few seconds at a time. Her head is a warm weight on his shoulder, heavy without being uncomfortable, and he could probably smell her hair if he just leaned down slightly and it didn’t feel like a creepy thing to do on purpose.

Five times Amy fell asleep on Jake, and one time someone else did.

a.k.a. happy (two days late) birthday @johnny-and-dora! 💛

read on ao3

2014, april.

“This stakeout is a bust,” Amy huffs, throwing her binoculars on the moss-green bedspread that covers the twin-size beds in the cheap motel room. Jake begs they won't actually have to sleep in them later. He tried one out for mattress trampoline and it was rock hard, no bounce at all. His knees are still hurting.

“At this point, I bet there isn't even a drug-smuggling ring and Terry sent us out here to mess with us.”

“Woah, woah. Did I just hear this correctly?” Jake grins, turning his armchair towards her. “Amy Santiago, complaining about an order from a superior? This I gotta get on tape.”

“There's a difference between complaining and disobeying,” she remarks. “Come on, you know you agree with me. Nothing's happening over there!”

“Maybe, but now I have the high ground.” Jake stretches out his legs, putting his feet on the wall below the window. One perk of a gross motel room; no one notices if you make it dirtier. “So I’m going to brag forever.”

“Ugh. I thought this stakeout would be better if you talked so I’d have something to listen to, but it's worse.”

“That's hurtful.”

“Shut up, Peralta.”

“Fine.”

She goes silent. Jake tries to focus on what’s happening through the window they’re watching, but as much as he hates to admit it, Amy’s right. The parking lot they're watching is dead as can be, not as much as a sight of any suspects. He and Amy have spent most of the last hour placing bets on which birds will fly first from the nearby dilapidated tree. Amy won. Jake accused her of cheating, to which she simply responded that there was no possible way she could have been in cahoots with the birds, as he had put it. Jake muttered that he didn't trust her. She rolled her eyes at him. She also gave him a smug smile which, for the record, did not give him butterflies at all. It must have been hunger.

Amy giggles at something on her phone, and the weird probably-hunger-feeling flutters again in his chest as he watches her type a reply. Someone - he guesses Teddy - is making her laugh, and Jake feels the sting of some other gross and ugly emotion next to the non-butterflies. He wishes he was the one making her laugh, but this shift is too boring and they're both too tired and the closest he's come today is the cute snort she did when he used his worst French accent to narrate the process of a pigeon strutting around on top of a car for several minutes. It's not enough. He thinks of digging out the peanuts from his stakeout bag and suggesting another nut-throwing competition like the one they had on that roof two months ago, but as gross as the motel room is, Amy's definitely going to ask him to clean up if he gets peanuts all over the carpet, and that's just not worth it.

“How long until the relief’s team here?” He asks her, trying to hold on to the thought of his bed with its good mattress lump and pillows that at least don't smell vaguely of mold.

“Two hours,” Amy groans. “Ugh. That's an eternity.”

“We could sleep for an hour each?” Jake shrugs. “Nothing's happening anyway, and if it does, we just wake each other up.”

“Only if I get the first hour.”

“But it was my idea!”

“I’ll do your paperwork if I get the first hour.”

“Then sold.”

Amy smirks, looking pleased with herself. Jake feels his cheeks heat. The room’s air-conditioning must be busted, he figures, and hurries to pick up the file with information about their suspects before she can see him blushing.

He keeps his focus on the window, on the view of the desolate parking lot, anywhere that’s not on Amy curling up in the armchair next to his. The streetlights have gone on, lighting up the concrete and old cars and allowing him to see clearly just how depressive a view it is. This stakeout truly couldn’t be over soon enough. Jake turns his head to comment on this to Amy, only to find she’s already asleep.

She has shrugged off her shoes and curled up in the chair, hugging her legs for warmth in a way that makes her look less like an adult and more like an overgrown child looking for safety. She’s resting her head on her own shoulder, her mouth slightly agape, and Jake is gripped by the sudden urge to take a picture of her. He has been running low on new photos to humiliate Amy Santiago with recently, and an embarrassing shot like that would make for excellent leverage at some point. He reaches for his messenger bag on the bed, grabbing his phone from the outer pocket, and is just about to open the camera when Amy leans slightly to the side in her sleep so that her head falls on Jake’s shoulder.

Jake freezes. The camera opens to selfie mode, and he sees his own face staring back at him, paralyzed with surprise. He puts his phone back in his pocket instead.

Amy hums in her sleep, a soft, content noise that shapes the corners of his mouth into a small smile. Part of Jake wants to record this, use it to tease her mercilessly for the rest of their days, but there’s another voice in his head that is quietly whispering about how pleasant it feels. Not just pleasant; it feels natural, somehow, like they’ve done this a hundred times before and have a million more to go. It’s an insane thought, yet it’s persistent.

He wonders if Amy does this with Teddy. Then he scratches the thought, because he’s not supposed to be jealous of Teddy. He’s not supposed to care, or even like Amy at all. Really, he’s furious with her for falling asleep like this, because she’s way too close and way too cute and it’s making the irrational hope in his chest bubble when it should be dormant. If he turned his head right now, he could reach to kiss her forehead. Jake wonders what would happen if he did. Maybe she’d never find out, and it could stay his own secret, but there’s also the overhanging risk that she’d wake up and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. It’s too big of a risk, especially considering he’s not sure of the answer himself. He doesn’t know what he’s doing a lot of the time, and when it comes to Amy Santiago, he never seems to be able to figure it out.

It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself. Amy’s with Teddy. Jake’s alone. It’s not like he’s in love with her or anything, and he should just move so she’ll have to change her position and he can focus on something else than the way her breathing sounds and how her hair is tickling his neck. If something ever happened between them romantic-styles, this could be his ordinary life, but nothing’s happening and he can’t go around waiting for it to. He shouldn’t be thinking about it. He can’t be thinking about it.

Jake doesn’t know for how long they sit like that, him staring out the window like the firework display of the century was happening outside to keep from glancing back at his sleeping colleague every other second, but it’s both too long and not long enough before Amy yawns and leans to the other side. It’s too long, because he’s hyper-aware of every passing second, and it’s not long enough, because his shoulder feels cold the second her head leaves it.

“Did I miss something exciting?” She asks when the shrill alarm on her phone goes off, waking her from slumber. “Did anything happen?”

“Nope,” he says, keeping his eyes stuck to the still eventless parking lot to avoid meeting her gaze and trying his best to sound nonchalant. “Nothing at all.”

2015, august.

“So tonight’s a big night for you,” Jake states before tossing his girlfriend the plus-sized bag of sour cream and onion chips and the bag of sour candy he bought just for the occasion. “Tonight’s the night you lose your Die Hard-virginity.”

“Gross.”

“What? It’s true! After this, Amy Santiago, you will be a changed woman, never to see the world the same way again. Virginity’s a social construct, but Die Hard-virginities?” Jake waves his index finger at her. “Those are real. I can't believe you haven't seen it!”

“I already told you, I’ve seen parts of it on TV, and I’ve heard you describe the plot at least once a week for the last six years. Feels like that's virtually the same thing.” Amy opens the chips bag, stuffing two into her mouth. She's already changed into the optimal movie night-outfit - pajama pants, black hoodie, and an old NYPD shirt - and is looking unfairly attractive to him right now. Only Amy Santiago could make pajamas look sexy.

“Oh, Ames.” Jake shakes his head. “You're sweet, but sadly wrong. As excellent as my summaries of Die Hard are, you are soon to be made aware of just how much they pale in comparison to the real thing.”

She rolls her eyes, but there's a certain twinkle of excitement there. “Just play the movie, babe.”

The usage of the word babe, like most other parts of their relationship, is still brand new. They've been dating for three months now, which is as long as Jake was with Sophia before they broke up, and he finds himself comparing the two relationships in his head sometimes, terrified this one will suffer the same fate. He's more careful this time, more vigilant to not let an accidental I love you slip out in case Amy doesn't feel the same way, more hesitant to randomly invite himself over in fear of intruding on her privacy. Most of the time, he's letting Amy lead the way, enjoying the steady growth of their relationship one day at a time. Because it is growing; every day it feels safer, more natural, much like the word babe has gone from feeling like a daunting and heartfelt declaration of love to a casual pet name that makes him feel all warm inside when he hears it.

He presses play on the remote and slumps down on the couch next to his girlfriend, grabbing one of his blankets and draping it over both of them. He found out early on in their relationship that Amy refuses to watch TV without a blanket, partly because she gets cold and partly just out of habit, which he finds kind of charming. It's fun to get to learn all these little details about her - he thought he knew so much, but it turns out he’d barely scratched the surface - but it's just as fun to introduce her to his world when she's actually showing enthusiasm about it.

“I'm just watching this movie because you made me,” she mumbles as she moves closer to him under the blanket, throwing an arm around his neck. “And because I'm a great girlfriend.”

“Nah, you're excited,” he grins. “You can try to hide it, but I know the truth.”

“I mean, I am kind of curious to see what it is you've been obsessing over for the last thirty years.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Whatever,” she sighs, but then she pecks his lips and Jake can't hide the blushing that creeps up his cheeks, distracting him from watching John McClane get off the plane and grab his luggage before going to meet Argyle.

Jake loves Die Hard. He’s loved it since the first time he saw it, at a way younger age than any child should probably have been allowed to, and he can - and often will - quote it by heart. He knows every scene, every line and next to every little mannerism displayed by one of the characters, and yet he’s equally transfixed by it every time. Die Hard, to Jake, is safety. When almost everything else managed to hurt him somehow - when Roger ditched their planned father-and-son days to go have sex with some new woman whose name Jake would never learn, when he and Gina fought over something trivial that would pass in a few days but hurt like a bitch until then, when his mom was forced to work overtime to keep them afloat and he had to make his own dinner for the third time that week - Die Hard never did. Die Hard was Jake’s safety blanket, his escape each time the real world disappointed him, and it remains effective to this day. It cheers him up on a bad day and makes the good ones better. Some would call it hyperfixation; Jake calls it instant life improvement.

It’s kind of like Amy, he supposes as she snuggles into his side, her thighs resting against his and her head leaning on his shoulder the way it always does when they’re watching a movie together. Amy’s an instant life improvement, making bad days easier and the good ones even better. Even Die Hard seems more awesome when he’s watching it with her, which he frankly didn't think was possible, and he turns his head to tell her so when he realizes she's fallen asleep.

At first, Jake’s offended. This was an important night, and he had been looking forward to it for the three days it’s been since she promised him it would happen. You can’t discover the magic of Die Hard if you’re asleep while watching it. Plus, if Amy doesn’t watch this movie, she still won’t be able to understand his dope references, and the confused looks she gives him when he tries one are getting seriously repetitive. He considers waking her up, but then she nuzzles her nose against his neck and lets out a little yawn, and nothing in the universe could make him want to bother her.

Carefully, just because he gets to do those kinds of things now, he turns his head so he can press a kiss to the top of hers. He runs his hand through her hair, silky and smooth against his skin, and smiles as Amy hums in her sleep when he begins to draw hearts with his fingers against her neck.

He almost loses track of the movie for a while. For once, it doesn't bother him, because Amy Santiago is sleeping on him like he's her own personal safe place and Jake doesn't ever want her to move.

He can't remember if Sophia ever fell asleep on him when they were watching a movie. If she did, he knows it didn't feel like this. This feeling is intimacy and honor, something tender and vulnerable that's new and familiar all at once, and he's still getting used to it but he already knows he never wants it to end.

Amy doesn't blink herself awake until the end of the movie. She keeps her eyes open for the last few scenes, watching John and Holly kiss as the limo drives away from a burning Nakatomi Plaza, and doesn’t acknowledge the fact that she’s been out cold for most of the last two hours. Jake decides to have fun with it.

“So what’d you think of the movie?” He asks as he keeps the credits running, knowing she’ll complain if he turns them off.

“Oh, it was great,” she says, a little too cheery. “Loved it! For sure!”

“Really? What was your favorite scene?”

“When John saves Holly from being shot by Hans Gruber,” she decides, not missing a beat. “I think. I mean, there are lots of great scenes.”

“Mm, right at the end. Classic. So what more scenes did you like?”

“The one where John McClane says Yippee Kiyay, Motherfuckers?”

“Also a classic. Any more scenes?”

“The helicopter explosion?”

“Oh yeah, that one’s dope. But what about the luggage area shoutout?”

“It was great,” Amy says quickly. “Super cool. I get why you love it so much.”

“And when Holly knocks out a reporter’s front teeth?”

“Mm, she’s a total badass.”

“And when it’s revealed that Hans Gruber’s real name is actually Craig?”

“Oh, yeah - no, wait, that doesn’t seem right.” Amy pulls away from him so she can stare him in the eyes. “Jake, are you trying to trick me?”

“Hah! I am trying to trick you! The luggage area shoutout and the front teeth are from Die Hard 2! The second movie! And get this - the Craig thing wasn’t even real!”

“I got that, thanks.” Amy groans. “Sorry for falling asleep. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay. I mean, I’m a little offended you think I’m that boring company, but it’s okay.”

“I don’t think you’re boring company,” she tells him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I promise. It’s just been a long week, and I was tired, but I didn’t want to cancel on you because I know how much you looked forward to this. It’s not Die Hard’s fault.”

“Ames, it’s okay.” Jake gives her a reassuring smile. “I promise. But you get what this means, right?”

“What does it mean?”

“It means we’re rewatching it again tomorrow. I’m not giving up until you’ve seen the entire movie without falling asleep, and that’s a Peralta guarantee. I’m not letting you remain a Die Hard-virgin.”

She throws a pillow in his face for that comment, but then she laughs, and it’s melodic and contagious and making him even more certain that dating Amy Santiago is the best thing in his life, even when she falls asleep during Die Hard.

2016, october.

Jake’s been on airplanes before, but he doubts he’s ever been this excited about it. Not even the dull pain in his leg that never quite leaves bothers him right now, nor the old lady in front of him talking way too loud about orchids. Even the fact that a kid has the seat behind him and is kicking him repeatedly in the back is okay this flight, because every single thing that could possibly annoy him pales in importance next to the beautiful woman in the seat next to him.

Jake is leaving Florida to go back to New York today, and Amy Santiago is right by his side. It's a wearier, maybe a little skinnier in a bad way, Amy than he's used to, one that's reading the flight security information with her stress-eyes while chewing nervously on her lip, but it's Amy. She insisted on staying by his side for every day he spent recovering at the hospital, sleeping on an uncomfortable foldout couch if not on the chair next to him, and he wonders quietly to himself when she last had a full night's sleep in a bed. The bags under her eyes and the built-up grease in her hair tells him she desperately needs it. He’s tried to tell her so - every night she stayed, he encouraged her to take in on a hotel to get some proper rest - but every night, she refused and said she wouldn't be able to sleep without him there anyway.

(“God, you're cheesy,” he’d told her once, but she had just shrugged.

“I shot you in the leg not even a week ago. Just let me have this.”)

His protests had been half-hearted anyway. Without her there, the pain was all he had to focus on, but as long as she made him company, nothing else mattered. They’d spent a week just talking, her telling him all about life at the precinct and cases she’d worked in the last six months while he tried to share the odd entertaining story from his Florida exile. When they got tired from talking, they snuggled in his hospital bed while trading soft kisses, and despite the pain from his bullet wound, the week had quickly soared to the top of the list of Jake's best weeks in the last six months.

He's had a good week alright, but now he's finally, finally going home with his girlfriend, and he's never been happier. The moment the airplane lifts, Jake's leaving Florida behind, and in just a few hours, he will be back to breathing regular, non-humid Brooklyn air again. He will be back to his tiny, worn-down but charming one-bedroom apartment, to dinners consisting of proper New York pizza instead of Florida’s crappy excuse for it, to real detective work, and, most importantly, to spending every free moment he has with Amy.

“I love you so much,” he whispers to her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear and watching her smile as she looks up from the safety instructions.

“I love you so much too. Are you sure your leg is okay?”

“It's fine, Ames.” He’s trying not to think about it. It's easy as long as she's there.

“It's just an hour until you can take more painkillers. Hang in there,” she says, gently patting his non-injured thigh as the aircraft starts moving. “You ready to say goodbye to Florida?”

“I was ready to say goodbye to Florida the second I landed,” Jake says, a little too loud. A blond, middle-aged woman on the aisle across from gives him an angry look. He ignores it.

“I'm ready, too.” Amy takes his hand. “Let's go home, babe.”

They hold hands as they lift, watching through the airplane window as the ground gets farther and farther away, Coral Palms shrinking to a tiny speck. Jake vows to never go back. Everything and everyone he needs is in New York, and he can’t wait to sit at his desk again or see his mom or have a bro’s night with Charles. He’s missed it all, even the overpriced coffee and the crowded subway trains, but he’s already starting to feel like himself again, because the thing he missed most is currently leaning her head on his shoulder as she watches them rise above the clouds.

He presses a kiss to her forehead. She smiles, reaching up to kiss his cheek, and then she closes her eyes as the plane keeps rising. It’s only a minute or two before Jake can hear her breathing slow, and not much longer before she’s fast asleep with her head on his shoulder.

She sleeps for the rest of their three-hour flight, snoozing even through the alarm about his painkillers and every pilot announcement. His shoulder goes numb after a while, and he wonders if she’ll have a crick in her neck tomorrow from the awkward angle, but it’s the most peaceful he’s seen her in days, so he lets her be. He’s missed her falling asleep on him, missed being able to breathe in the scent of her hair and hold her so close while she rests. He’s forever grateful to have gained it back.

Amy flinches awake when the plane hits the tarmac, and Jake thinks to himself that it doesn’t matter how excited he is to be back in New York. In truth, he’s already home. He’s been home since the moment he first laid eyes on her again and she accidentally punched him in the throat, and if he has anything to say about it, he plans on never leaving.

2017, october.

Jake hates the nightmares.

He hates how realistic they are, how even though he should recognize them by now, they make his blood freeze to ice and his heart pound each time they return. He hates how often they appear, that his record without them isn't more than three nights in a row since he came home, and that not even the sleeping medication prescribed to him by the psychiatrist he was forced to visit can seem to prevent them. He hates how vulnerable they make him feel, waking up in a cold sweat trying to catch his breath, feeling like he's having an asthma attack and a bad fever all at once.

He hates every single thing about them, but most of all, he hates how they always seem to wake Amy up.

He just can't seem to learn how to suffer through them silently, or maybe Amy spends the nights guarding him, because he swears she's there every time he wakes up from one. Every time, she's there to stroke his hair and whisper to him that it's all okay; that he's safe, he's home, and he's not going anywhere. He loves her for it, whispers it to her when he calms down enough to speak, but he's ridden with guilt. He can handle his own sleep being ruined - he lost that fight long ago - but he draws the line at Amy having to suffer for it.

This night is no different. The dream seems new at first, hurtling him into a green landscape where he's sitting on a bench waiting to meet up with Charles, but when Charles appears, Melanie Hawkins is with him. Jake tries to protest, tell Charles he dreamed of never seeing Hawkins’ face again and could he please make her leave, only to find Charles has turned into Romero and is angling a sharpened shiv at Jake's neck. He tries to take a step backward, hoping to run away, but he falls and lands on his back in the wet grass. Hawkins and Romero are leaning over him, Romero still holding the weapon. Jake feels Melanie’s hair tickle his cheek, flinching as she seems to hover uncomfortably close to him, and it's first when she speaks that he realizes it's not Melanie, it's Amy.

“Jake? Jake, are you okay?”

The wet grass isn't grass - it's his sheets, damp from sweat and tangled around him. Romero is nowhere to be seen, and the figure he thought was Hawkins is really his girlfriend, leaning over him and repeating his name in an attempt to make contact.

It takes more self-control than he knew he had in him, but he manages a nod.

“Another nightmare?” He manages another, reaching for her hand and squeezing it tight.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, pressing it back. “I’m here. You’re safe. Can you take deep breaths? In for four, out for four,” she coaches him, and he follows her instructions, breathing along with her as he’s pulled back to reality.

“It’s warm,” he mumbles when he thinks his voice won’t falter, but Amy shakes her head.

“I think that’s just the panic making you sweat, babe. I can get you a new shirt -”

“No, it’s… I think I’m going to take a shower,” he decides. He’s been taking a lot of nighttime showers lately, trying to wash away the fear and panic that seems to cling to his skin like a physical sensation after each nightmare. “You can go back to sleep, Ames.”

She nods, but he can see her turning on the nightlight as he leaves for the bathroom.

He stands in the shower for a while, letting the warm water run over him and counting the ways in his head that it’s different from prison. One, he doesn’t have to share this shower with a bunch of strangers staring at him. Two, the water pressure’s good and the temperature doesn’t randomly shift from icy to burning. Three, he’s free to steal Amy’s shower gel that smells like pink grapefruit and doesn’t contain as much as a trace of meth. Four, someone’s laid out a towel and a new t-shirt on the floor for him when he gets out. Five, Amy’s waiting for him in the next room. It’s the fifth point that makes him dry off quickly and throw on the shirt before returning to the bedroom.

He finds her sitting up against the headboard, a book open in her lap that she may or may not actually be reading, and the guilt washes over him another time as he notices her trying to stifle a yawn.

“I told you to go to sleep,” he says, and she gives him a half-hearted smile.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to guard me, Ames. It’s fine.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not guarding you. I’m being your partner and making sure you’re okay, and I’m doing it because I love you and I want to.”

“I love you, too.” He sits down on the bed, putting his part of the comforter over his legs and his pillow against the headboard. “And I’m okay. I might be awake for a while, but please, babe - you can go back to sleep.”

Amy watches him closely, giving him the worried look he’s become used to in the last few weeks, but then she nods.

“I’ll try.”

She turns off the nightlight, and Jake settles for playing a mindless game on his phone, letting the repetition of matching colorful figures distract him. Amy rests her head on his shoulder, and it’s almost reflexive when he turns on the yellow light-setting on his phone so it won’t disturb her. The weight of her head grows heavier, and two rounds of Candy Crush Saga later, he can tell she’s asleep.

He helps her lay down, adjusting the pillows so he knows she’ll be comfortable. Then he tries to sit up again, but she reaches out for him in her sleep and frowns, so he puts his phone away and lays down next to her, wrapping his arms around her and smiling as she squishes her nose in the crook of his neck.

They sleep like that for the rest of the night.

2020, april.

There's been a lot of changes in routine in the Santiago-Peralta home since they first found out they were having a baby. Some have been unintentional, such as Amy sleeping in every morning she can and napping at least once per day because pregnancy is exhausting. Some have been planned out in advance, like one night per week being designated to going through a topic from Amy's detailed list of things they need to discuss before they become parents - a list which ranges from nursery themes and sleep training to family holidays and babysitters. Some have been a mix of both, single events becoming patterns, like Jake rubbing the fancy stretchmark-preventing oil on Amy's stomach near every evening or them spending weeknights on the couch drinking tea and reading parenting books together. Their lives are transforming before their kid is even born, after-work drinks at Shaw’s switched for researching the best cribs and strollers online, and Jake is finding that it doesn’t upset him in the slightest. Rather, it’s exciting, and it feels right.

With Amy just having entered her thirteenth week of pregnancy, the arrival of their baby seems far away still, but it’s starting to feel all the more real. Last week’s framed sonogram now takes pride of place on the dresser in their bedroom, put there so they’ll have time to hide it in case Charles decides to stop by on one of his many unannounced visits, and each morning when Jake grabs a new t-shirt he stops and looks at the monochrome picture for a moment.

That’s their child right there, no more than a few centimeters long and only just having gotten all their important organs in place, but somehow already holding so much of his heart.

He’s still nervous about fatherhood. The list of things that could go wrong, unlucky mistakes and faulty decisions he could make, seems endless. He’s scared of not knowing what to do, scared his kid will hate him, and scared he won’t be able to protect them from everything he’s supposed to. He’s scared he won’t feel the instant and overwhelming love that everyone seems to speak of upon seeing their baby for the first time and he’s scared he’ll feel too much of it. The more real it becomes, the more terrifying it gets, and it’s only the excitement that’s stronger. For every tiny onesie he buys, every suggestion they add to the growing list of possible baby names, and every new weekly size comparison to a fruit or vegetable, Jake looks even more forward to meeting this child. He wants to see them, feel them, hold them, and learn everything there is to know about them. He knows they’re the size of a lime this week, that they’re healthy with a nice and strong heartbeat and that they’re wriggling around like crazy inside Amy even though she claims she can’t feel anything yet, but he wants to know more. The 194 days left until their due date seem like an eternity, and at the same time, it’s surreal to think he can count the days until they could be sitting on this couch with their baby.

Tonight, though, it’s still just the two of them. Amy’s parked herself in one corner of the couch and is reading a book on hypnobirthing, while Jake’s at the other end flipping through Bruce Willis’ book on parenthood. He’s not sure if all the advice in it is sound - or in some cases, fully legal - but he figures the more parenting books he reads, the better equipped he’ll be to figure out what’s sane and not. Jake trusts Bruce Willis with his life, but he does have some doubts about whether playing the Die Hard-soundtrack on maximum volume really is the best way to calm down a screaming baby.

He’s watching Amy over the edge of his book, making note of how she’s doing, if it looks like she needs anything. It doesn’t seem like she’s going to be sick, she’s not shivering nor sweating and her lip’s not trembling like it tends to do before she starts crying, but every now and then it seems like her eyes are falling and she has to shake her head to keep from nodding off. He decides to ask.

“Are you doing okay, Ames?”

“I don’t think I like being pregnant yet,” she huffs, closing the book and putting it on the coffee table with a thud. “I’m so tired, I can’t even read. What’s the point of anything if you can’t read, Jake?”

“Sounds rough,” he says, trying not to grin. He probably shouldn’t be making fun of her, but it’s such an Amy thing to be upset with, he can’t help it.

“It is! I’m trying to read up on breathing techniques so I can get this baby out eventually, and that’s what I get in return? It’s like this kid doesn’t want to be born,” she grumbles, touching the top of where her stomach has started to curve ever-so-slightly.

“I’m sure it’s not their fault, babe.”

“I know it’s not their fault, “ she replies, giving him an apologetic smile and a shrug. “It’s okay. I’m just tired of being exhausted, and feeling constantly motion-sick, and I miss being able to have more than one cup of coffee per day. All my clothes are becoming too tight, but I don’t really look pregnant yet, so it just looks like I gained a bit of weight.” She sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be complaining about this.”

Jake frowns. “Why not?”

“Because we tried for so long! I spent ages thinking I’d give anything if we could just get pregnant, and now we are, and I’m whining like some ungrateful toddler who just got told they can’t have ice cream for dinner.” Amy goes silent for a moment, staring longingly at their freezer. “I shouldn’t have said that. Now I want ice cream.”

“Is that code for me to get you ice cream?”

“No. Maybe. Yes. Later. ”

“Just say the word.”

“Do you think I’m being ungrateful, Jake?” She bites her lip the way she does when she’s nervous, twisting her hands in her lap. “Because I feel like I am, and I hate it. I’m so happy about this baby, and I can’t wait to meet them. Pregnancy’s just way more annoying than I thought it’d be.”

“You’re not ungrateful,” he assures her, putting down his book before reaching for her hands and taking them in his. “I promise. I don’t know what it’s like to grow a human with my body, but if it’s as tiring as you describe it - I swear I don’t know how you do it. I’m pretty sure I’d be awful at it if I ever got to try.”

Amy giggles. “Yeah, you would.”

“Thanks for the confidence.”

“Anytime.”

“Point is, babe, you get to complain as much as you want. I know how much you’ll love this child, and that doesn’t disappear because you think pregnancy is hard some days. You’re still doing it. And,” he looks to where he can see her belly beginning to take a rounder shape, the corners of his mouth instinctively turning into a smile. “You look adorable. Full stop.”

She blushes. “I do?”

“You’re the cutest pregnant person I ever saw,” he promises, repeating the same thing he thinks every time he sees her.

“Even when I sweat through my clothes or puke my guts out because I found a new smell I couldn’t stand?”

“Even then.”

“Wow,” Amy laughs. “You really must love me.”

“I really, really do.”

She leans forward, cupping his face the way she likes to do when she kisses him, the way she’s done since the first time she pressed him up against a tree when they were undercover and the way he hopes she’ll do for many years to come. It’s soft without being lazy, firm without being demanding, and his heart flutters as he feels her smile against his lips.

“Do you want me to read aloud to you?” He asks when they separate, Amy leaning her head on his chest. She nods, and he picks up the book where she left it, continuing to read something about the power of wording that doesn’t fully make sense to him while Amy turns around so she’s laying in his arms.

Jake reads until he can hear her breathing slow and even out, telling him she’s fallen asleep. Once he’s certain it won’t wake her up, he lets her hand stray to her stomach, pulling up the tank top slightly and stroking gently over the tiny bump that’s started taking shape.

That’s their child in there, he reminds himself, marveling over the insanity of it all. He still has to pinch himself sometimes to remember that any of this is real, but whatever the future holds, he knows he can’t wait to experience it with them; Amy, and the lime-sized little bean growing inside of her.

2020, november.

Leonel Jacob Peralta isn’t anything like Jake thought he’d be.

He's bigger than he had guessed - Amy won the bet on who could be closest to guessing their son’s birth weight and height - but smaller than he pictured in his head, almost drowning in the newborn-size pajamas with a pattern of grey stars and striped hat. He looks less like the copy of Amy that he’d visualized, but he's not a copy of Jake either, despite Charles’ claims. He's calmer than they expected, having slept through most of his first day aside from the occasional feeding attempt and diaper change, but they know from the moment he took his first breath that he has a powerful voice.

Most strikingly, he is infinitely more perfect than Jake could have ever imagined.

After coming into the world with the sunrise, his son has had a long and eventful first day of life. He’s had visitors, Charles and Holt and Rosa being first in line to meet and hold and fawn over him. He even opened his eyes for a moment while Holt held him, causing Jake to tear up as he dutifully followed Amy’s orders to take a picture. He’s facetimed with his maternal grandparents and several of his uncles, gotten well-wishes on social media from just about every employee of the 99th precinct and has received more gifts than Jake supposes any newborn could really need. Looking at their list of visitors scheduled for tomorrow, he’s come to the conclusion that his and Amy’s son is already way more popular than either of them has ever been.

Leo’s parents have had a long day, too, and a long night before that, but somehow, Jake doesn’t feel tired. Amy’s finally sleeping in the hospital bed next to him, passed out on her side with her mouth open and a little bit of drool on her pillow. Her hair is a mess and her hospital gown has the two top buttons undone, and yet the first word that comes to mind when Jake looks at her is badass. Not a single day goes by that he’s not proud of his wife for everything she does, but after today, that level of pride has skyrocketed past the moon and sun and the entire milky way. His wife is a superhero and their son is magic, pure and undiluted magic that is resting in Jake’s arms.

If this had been an ordinary evening, he might have been focusing on the discomfort of the stiff armchair he’s sitting in, how the temperature of the room is slightly too warm or how he’s getting kind of hungry, but tonight, he’s barely registering anything else. His son is in his arms, opening and closing his fists with full concentration, and he’s watching him with the most focused gaze Jake’s ever seen in a baby. This kid is staring right into his soul like he’s trying to learn every detail and secret about him, and Jake would have been unnerved by it if it hadn’t felt so right.

Jake spent a long time wondering if he was the right person to have kids. He was so scared of being a bad parent, he didn’t dare to dream of what he could have if he were to be a good one. He’s still scared, has accepted he might always be, but he looks into his son’s eyes and knows deep in his bones that he’ll do everything to make sure this child grows up knowing exactly how beloved and important he is.

Jake doesn’t know what fathers and sons do, but he gets to find out, and finding it out with Leo is the only thing he’s ever wanted.

He still doesn’t know a lot about his son, but he’s trying to learn everything. He has his stats memorized, knows he’s six and a half pounds and nineteen inches of absolute perfection. His camera roll is already filled with close-up pictures of his round cheeks, button nose and thick, dark hair that curls a little near his neck. He knows he’s changed their lives forever, and that it’s guaranteed to be for the better.

Leo stretches his legs inside the blanket, trying to wave his arm, and Jake laughs.

“Too excited about the world to sleep, huh? I get you. Sometimes I feel the same way.” Leo gurgles, which Jake decides to interpret as an okay to keep talking.

“I love you so much,” he whispers to his son without breaking their eye contact. “So, so, much. It’s kind of insane. You were so longed for, and so wanted, and it’s crazy that you’re finally here. Especially considering you weren’t supposed to come out for another week,” he jokes, grinning. “I’m just kidding, that was totally expected. It’s your Santiago genes. It’s still crazy, though. I can’t believe you’re here with us.”

He leans down, kissing both of his son’s cheeks for the fiftieth-or-so time that day.

“It’s a scary world out there. I’m sorry about that. But it’s a little less scary when you’re surrounded by the people you love, and your mom and I will do our everything to keep you safe through the scary parts.” Leo yawns, sticking his little tongue out, and Jake can’t help but smile at the overwhelming cuteness.

“We love you. I love you. More than you understand. Honestly, I don’t think I understand it myself yet, but I don’t care. It’s all good, buddy,” he says, nudging Leo’s fist with his index finger until the newborn grips it. “It’s all good, because you’re here with me, and we’re going to be okay.” Leo lets out a tiny squeak. “Yeah, we are. I promise.”

Either Leo’s unconvinced, or something else is bothering him, because the squeaking noises continue. Gently, as if he was handling the finest of porcelain, Jake holds one hand under his son’s head and lifts him so that he’s upright against his chest instead. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, but he’s read that babies like to be close, and Leo does seem happier as his nose presses against his neck. Jake strokes the baby’s back through the blue-and-pink hospital blanket, humming the first Taylor Swift song he can think of - Shake it off, always right. It’s only a minute, maybe two, before the newborn stops fussing, and Jake realizes that his son has fallen asleep.

It’s late in the evening of the early November day Jake will forever have written down as their son’s birthday, and he’s sitting in an uncomfortable armchair in a hospital room in Brooklyn, the love of his life still passed out in bed next to him. Their son is sleeping with his head resting on Jake’s shoulder, like Amy has done so many times before, and he can’t remember ever feeling this peaceful in his life. Leonel is warm and soft and smells as if heaven had a scent, and Jake is so in love.

There had been a time, not too many years ago, where Jake had dreamt about dying a heroic death trying to save the city from evil or working himself to the bone trying to become the most successful cop in New York. Now, every single one of his dreams circle back to the same focal point - a boundless, incandescent hope that he gets to keep being a safe place and favorite sleeping spot for the two people who hold his entire heart.

#team leo but make it original!#brooklyn nine-nine #b99 fanfiction #peraltiago fanfiction #b99 #peraltiago #jake x amy fanfiction #my writing

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grandpasessions · 4 years ago

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'There was nothing left for us here, everyone I knew felt reluctantly guilty for feeling lost, as if being lost was hesitantly, but most definitively, part of who they were.' 'The atomization had gone further than anyone ever thought it would, our own identities had fragmented into various abstractions of consumption; brands, shops, sexualities, traits, habits, software stacks, video games, TV series, cinematic universes, foreign food, reading lists, alternative spiritualities, ironic adherence to tradition, theological LARPing, this is what remained, ashes of reality scattered into the simulacrum for us to pick and choose from. Every morsel of personality and ego had become tethered to a commodifiable life-choice. I no longer knew any-one, only assemblages of pithy statements, purchases, and vices; what was anyone except a culmination of their hedonistic desires and shallowly pronounced social virtues?' 'Once your understanding has been replaced everything else falters rather sharply; meaning in general collapses and everything is transferred into a system of third-party checking, as opposed to personal investigation and belief. Nothing felt as if it were ever mine, nor as if I'd ever earned it, and that's because what was earned was backed by nothing.' '... It just did not stop, not for a moment; the clearest symptom of modernity is that all time was to be filled, and it didn't matter what filled it, as long as there was continual noise, static to be utilized as ignorance of [a] cosmic predicament.' 'Can it be considered sleepwalking if it encapsulates one's entire life? If one is asleep for the entire [e.d], then that quickly becomes one's reality.' 'The reason people purchased things relied on another abstract reason ad infinitum; the reason people did anything likewise relied on the will of another, rarely did one witness a man take it upon himself to act, buy or say something which arose from his wellspring of authenticity, there was always something else controlling his strings. And that's what modernity is, a material labyrinth of puppet-masters who are all interconnected and cordial, a multiplicity of effects trying to hide their causes, because once you get to the cause you can start to question it, until that moment of apprehension, anything you attempt to grasp immediately disappears. At all turns, man is left with another turn.' 'There is a difference between knowledge and understanding and the academy laps up the former without paying a moment's notice to the latter. To understand something is to take one's time, it is to draw its breath, and potentially act in accordance; the academy is bodies without souls, vessels to be filled, and upgraded. Graduate, post-graduate, and lecturer are beings of their own kind, molded by the suffocating atmosphere of strict interpretation. How can one talk of interpretation if there is only one?' 'I could not stand the paths I needed to take to supposedly acquire that which I desired, what I desired among all things, or so I believe at the time, was to gain an understanding of the world which allowed contentment, a teleology towards a personal peace. ... into the heart of familiarity I desired to go.' 'To think for oneself had become increasingly difficult, every structure and institution since birth had been constructed in such a way as to covertly remove all personal responsibility for individuals, and from there had since set up a monopoly where a heart and vision once laid.' 'The plan was a form of neo-asceticism, strip it all back; throw it back in their faces by way of refusal.' 'And therefore those who took interest were these [weird, odd, strange, peculiar] things also, and as such, status did the rest; eventually, all that came of the academy was an acceptance of those alike those accepting, dry, strained, professional and meek; I could call it a racket, but that would be too exciting, for its reality was one of a waiting room, the texts I once loved became cheap magazines strewn over its floor whilst I waited for my bureaucratically monitored acceptability rating.' '... one should only laugh at those who proclaim that truth is on the side of misery, for what can misery be but only understood as a solely human affair; the cosmos doesn't understand misery as much as we don't understand the passions of a boulder. To align misery, suffering, and decay with an abstract bleaker-than-thou truth is to make the same anthropocentric errors as those which you proclaim to hate. Many, myself included, wish there was more horror, for at least then there would be interest in the world.' 'To betray the pro-herd is to revere the anti-herd.' 'What the herd yearns for is not a life, but a pen. Who could blame them? With a pen comes purpose, something easy to moan about. Lyotard was right in Libidinal Economy when he declared that the working-class desire their subjugation - 'the English unemployed did not become workers to survive, they - hand me tight and spit on me - enjoyed the hysterical, masochistic, whatever exhaustion it was of hanging on in the mines, in the foundaries, in the factories, in hell, they enjoyed it, enjoyed the mad destruction of their organic body which was indeed imposed upon them, they enjoyed the decomposition of their personal identity. ... man finds his meaning in the collective in the very same way he finds meaning in masochism, by perpetually perusing his mandatory service, he seeks a greater and greater denial of his desire and potential. Yet, even if he were to go looking for it he'd be too scared to confront it.' 'This is what is comforting about the collective for your common drone, the ongoing, incessant, and indulgent whining and moaning, the oh-so-cumbersome depressions and anxieties brought about by the most minor of stresses and tensions, the adherence to a blank slate of tranquility and extravagance a priori. Lo-and-behold the user finds a shit-smeared socius, bulging at the seams with repressions, constraints, containments, rules, laws, taxes, usury, masters, cutbacks, limitations, diminutions, and attentuations, all of which are gorged upon by willing individuals, not in moments of begrudging compliance, but as purpose, as meaning.' 'I had no connection to nature, to family, to tradition, to root or stem, I was -- as all are now -- my own personal atom of modern ecstasy, economics, and envy. You could state with ease that this was some form of nihilism personal to me, or my immediate surroundings, except it wasn't, that's not how nihilism works. Nihilism is behind it all, there is the gloss of objects and apparel and the illusion of the subject. ... If there is such a thing as nihilism it's so indiscernible from the actions of the average modern man that it eventually begs no division of definition.' 'Where everyone was headed was precisely nowhere, but this too was an empty truism that helped precisely no one.' 'Also, one must cast off all material pleasures, a feat easily achieved for it feels like a virtue, but one must too cast off all material sufferings, the ones they most enjoy, depression, anxiety, malaise, melancholy and despair, those sufferings which are so indulged in on an almost constant basis, so much so that they covertly become pleasures; there's little meaning for modern man other than a common depression; Oh, the suffering! Oh, the despair! Oh spare me your shivers and whines and submit your body to all that is chthonic.' 'I found nothing that could offer me suffering, let alone relief or contentment.' 'I had burned through life's most basic settings at the rate of modern man in overdrive; I wanted more of the more. This had left me feeling alienated and lonely and listless. People who want something have a direction, those who have lost something do too, any cessation can give man meaning rather quickly, but what about an apathetic cessation of apathy brought about by apathy?'

The Methodology of Possession // James Ellis

#james ellis #nick land #methodology of possession #theory #theology #magick

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generallypo · 5 years ago

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“I heard your voice, so I came... Aoba-san.”

Hooo-boy, if that doesn’t get me emotional every single time. Call it my bias for eccentric bundles of sunshine and softness, or my crippling weakness for the secretly-handsome-and-devastatingly-earnest type, but you can’t change my mind: Clear is, hands down, DMMD’s best love interest. Character development-wise, thematically, romantically, he nails every trial thrown at him, gets his man, and proceeds to break your heart in the tenderest, sincerest way possible. I am hopping with Huge Fan Energy, so this post is gonna be unapologetically long and self-indulgent and grossly enthusiastic. Yeeeee.

————

Look, DMMD meta analysis has been done to death, I get it. This game is old. But I think it stands as testament to its excellent production that it’s still a game worth revisiting years later — especially during these times when social contact is so hard pressed to come by and we all rabidly devour digital media like a horde of screeching feral gremlins. (Have you seen Netflix’s stock value now? The exploding MMO server populations? Astonishing.) It’s pure, simple human nature to want to connect, to cling to members of our network out of biological imperative and our psychological dependency on each other. As cold and primitive at that sounds, social contact also fulfills us on a higher level: the community is always stronger than the individual; genuine trust begets a mutually supportive relationship of exchange and evolution. People learn from each other, and grow into stronger, wiser, better versions of themselves.

Yeah, I’m being deliberately obtuse about this. Of course I’m talking about Clear. Clear, who is a robot. Clear, who is nearly childlike in his insatiable curiosity regarding the human condition.

And it’s a classic literary tactic, using non-human entities to question the intangible constructs of a concept like ‘humanity’ — think Frankenstein, or Tokyo Ghoul, or Detroit: Become Human, among so, so many works in various media — all tackling that question from countless angles, all with varying measures of success. What does it mean to be human? To be good? Who are we, and where do we stand in the grand scheme of things? Is there even a scheme to follow? … Wait, what?

Jokes aside, there are so many ways that the whole approaching-human-yet-not-quite-there schtick can be abused into edgy, joyless existential griping. Nothing wrong with that if it’s what you’re looking for, except that we’re talking about a boys’ love game here. But DMMD neatly, sweetly side steps that particular wrinkle, giving us a wonderfully grounded character to work with as a result.

Character Design — a see-through secret

Let’s start small: Clear’s design and premise. Unlike so many other lost, clueless robo-lambs across media, Clear does have a small guiding presence early on in his life. It takes the form of his grandfather, who teaches Clear about the world while also sheltering him from his origins. It means he learns enough to blend sufficiently into society; it also means that Clear has even more questions that sprout from his limited understanding of the world.

Told that he must never remove his mask lest he expose his identity as a non-human, Clear’s perpetual fear of rejection for what he is drives much of his eccentricity and challenges him throughout much of his route. As for the player, the mystery of what lies underneath his mask is a carrot that the writers get to dangle until the peak moment of emotional payoff. Even if it’s not hard to guess that there’s probably a hottie of legendary proportions stuck under there, there’s still significance in waiting for that good moment to happen. And when it does, it feels great.

His upbringing contextualizes and affirms his odd choice of fashion: deliberately generic, bashfully covered from the public eye, and colored nearly in pure white - the quintessential signal of a blank slate, of innocence. Contrasted with the rest of DMMD’s flashy, colorful crew, Clear is probably the most difficult to read on a superficial scale, not falling into the fiery, bare-chest sex appeal of a womanizer, or the techno-nerd rebel aesthetic that Noiz somehow rocks. Goofy weirdo? Possibly a serial killer? Honestly, both seem plausible at the start.

And that’s the funny thing, because as damn hard as he tries to physically cover himself up from society, Clear is irrepressibly true to his name: transparent to a fault. He’s a walking, talking contradiction, and it’s not hard to realize that this mysterious, masked stranger… is really just an open book. By far the most effusive and straightforward of the entire cast, his actions are wildly unconventional and sometimes wholly inexplicable. But given time to explain himself, he is always, always sincere in his intentions — and unlike the rest of the love interests, naturally inclined to offer bits of himself to Aoba. It doesn’t take the entire character arc to figure out his big, bad secret — our main character gets an inkling about halfway through his route — and what’s even better is that he embraces it, understanding that his abilities also allow him to protect what he cherishes: Aoba.

So what if he doesn’t fit into an easily recognizable box of daydream boyfriend material? He’s contradictory, and contradiction is interesting. Dons a gas mask, but isn’t an edgelord. Blandly dressed, but ridiculously charming. Unreadable and modestly intimidating — until he opens his mouth. Even without the benefit of traversing his route, there’s already so much good stuff to work with, and sure as hell, you’re kept guessing all the way to the end.

Character Development — from reckless devotion into complaisant subservience, complaisant subservience into mutual understanding. And then, of course: free will, and true love.

At its core, DMMD is about a dude with magic mind-melding powers and his merry band of attractive men with — surprise! — crippling emotional baggage. Each route follows the same pattern, simply remixing the individual character interactions and the pace of the program: Aoba finds himself isolated with the love interest, faces various communication issues varying on the scale of frustrating to downright dangerous, wanders into a sketchy section of Platinum Jail, bonds with the love interest over shared duress, breaks into the Oval Tower, faces mental assault by the big bad — and finally, finally, destroys those internal demons plaguing the love interest, releasing the couple onto the path of a real heart-to-heart conversation. And then, you know, the lovey-dovey stuff.

Here’s the thing: as far as romantic progression goes, it’s really not a bad structure. There’s room to bump heads, but also to bond. The Scrap scene is a thematically cohesive and clever way to squeeze in the full breadth of character backstory while simultaneously advancing the plot. In this part, Aoba must become the hero to each of his love interests and save them from themselves. Having become privy to each other’s deepest thoughts and reaching a mutual understanding of each other, their feelings afterwards slide much more naturally into romantic territory. They break free of Oval Tower, make their way home, and have hot, emotionally fulfilling sex or otherwise some variation on the last few steps. The end.

That is, except for Clear.

Clear’s route is refreshing in that he needs none of these things — the climax of his emotional arc actually comes a little after the halfway point of his route. When Clear’s true origins are revealed, he comes entirely clean to Aoba, fighting against his fear of rejection but also trusting that Aoba will listen. It’s a quiet, vulnerable moment, rather than the action-packed tension we normally experience during a Scrap scene.

That doesn’t mean it’s prematurely written in — it simply means that he reaches his potential faster than the other characters. Because of that, he’s free to pursue the next level of his route’s development much, much sooner in the timeline: he overcomes his fears of his appearance, he confesses his love to Aoba, he leaves the confines of a largely dubious master-servant relationship and allows himself to be Aoba’s equal. Clear’s sprite art mirrors his emotional transformation all the way through, exposing him to the literal bone — and Aoba’s affection for him doesn’t change a single bit. Beautiful.

The whammy of incredible moments doesn’t just stop there, though. I don’t exactly recall the order the routes DMMD is ideally meant to be played in, but I believe Clear’s is meant to be last. And if you do, I can guarantee that it becomes a hugely delightful gameplay experience — in order to achieve his good ending, you must do absolutely nothing with Scrap. It doesn’t just subvert our player expectations of proactively clicking and interacting with our love interests; it grabs the story by its thematic reins and yanks it all back to the forefront of our scene.

In every route besides Clear’s, Scrap is a tool used to insert Aoba’s influence into and interfere with his target’s mind. Using his powers of destruction, Aoba is able to prune whatever maligned thoughts are harming his target; in any conventional situation, using Scrap is the right choice.

But one of the central problems in Clear’s route is his conflict between the impulses of his conditioning and his desire to live freely as a human would. Breaking free of Toue’s programming is what initially made him unique; growing beyond the rules imposed by his grandfather is what makes him human. In the final conflict scene, Clear’s decision to destroy his key-lock is an action of true autonomy, made with perfect understanding of the consequences and a sincere, selflessly selfish desire to protect someone he loves. In order to receive his good end, you have to respect his decision. It doesn’t matter which option you pick — by using Scrap, Aoba turns his back on every positive choice he made with Clear and attempts to exert his authority over him. This is Aoba becoming Toue; this is Aoba trying to reinstate himself as ‘Master’ right as he approved Clear as his equal. That’s blatant hypocrisy, and it doesn’t matter if Aoba is trying to do it for Clear’s ‘own good’ — that’s not Aoba’s call to make. If you truly wish to respect Clear’s free will, you will stand by. This is the truth of the moment: Clear has no emotional blockages that Aoba needs to fix. Believe in him, just as he believed in you.

The path to his heart is, and always has been, clear. Scrap was never needed from the start.

While Aoba might be the main character, Clear is undeniably a hero in his own route just as much. Tirelessly earnest and always curious, he leaps headlong into the unknown and emerges with his newfound enlightenment. He’s unafraid of weathering trials, even to the point of accepting death, and returns anew from oblivion to a sweet, cathartic ending. That’s about as textbook hero’s journey as it gets — if that doesn’t make him unquestionably, certifiably, unconditionally human, then I will scream.

And only finally… there is the free end. The final CG is like a throwback to our first impression of him: indistinct, purposefully obscured from proper view. But this time, we know better — and so does Aoba. Looks were never what mattered in Clear’s route. If you were patient, and you were open-minded, and you listened… well, what we realize now is that Clear was doing the exact same thing for you, too.

From a carefree, aimless robot-man with only the gimmick of “eccentric ditz” to carry him forward, we get a supremely more interesting character by the end: a man who has graduated from the well-intentioned but claustrophobic conditioning of his childhood; a weapon who has defied the imperatives placed on him by his creator’s programming; a wanderer who has, through unconditional patience and empathy, discovered love, and striven to become a better person for it. Who was it that ever doubted Clear’s character? He’s the goddamn goodest boy that ever wanted to be a real boy. Of course Clear is human. And in fact, he does it better than every single one of the actually human love interests. You can’t change my mind.

The Romance — kindness is really fucking attractive, okay.

Like I’ve said earlier, I have my Big Fan Blinds stuck on pretty tight. I might be conjuring sparks from thin air. But I think every choice was a deliberate creative decision on the writers’ part, and they deserve all the kudos for it — I’m just the lucky player who gets to enjoy it. But aside from Noiz (who I also think is a perfect darling as well — I could go on and on about him), Clear’s route is a model example for consent and healthy relationships in VN storytelling. This is reciprocated on both sides: never does Aoba infringe on Clear’s boundaries, and neither does Clear. They’re sensitive to each other’s needs and concerns; they ask for permission and stop when it isn’t granted (and when it is, boy do they get frisky — I’m not complaining!) I don’t need to say much more, because I think that consent is both fantastic and yes, incredibly hot (the scene in DMMD is tons more sad, go play Re:connect!). Good writing shows off the massive erotic potential enthusiastic consent puts into intimacy, and Aoba’s and Clear’s relationship is honestly a dream playground. The point is, I think Aoba and Clear genuinely do find equal balance in their relationship by the end of his route (and certainly through Re:connect). If you follow through Re:connect’s storyline, there’s even more thematic richness that comes through in the form of Clear’s greatest asset: communication. The couple get to discuss the long-term implications of them being together; they both offer concerns, points, and assurances to the other, and it’s just a soft, honest moment not so unlike the worries of a real relationship. Hearing is kind of Clear’s motif sense, but it’s really great to see that Aoba also subtly picks it up, really flexes his own communication skills to better engage with Clear.

Point is, Clear’s route spoke to me on a lot of little levels. Design-wise, he’s already got a ton going for him, and his story builds upon it rather than against it, enriching his development and grounding him a little more solidly in the DMMD universe (and in my heart). His route, aside from being emotionally ruinous, carries a pretty solid chunk of world-building (only beaten out by Mink’s and Ren’s, probably), and the romance feels organic, healthy, and realistic. He’s not the only one with an excellent route, but he’s my favorite. If you read through all of this, you’re a real trooper and I’m extremely impressed. Thanks for tuning in. Peace.

#dramatical murder #dmmd #aoba seragaki #clear #dmmd clear #long ass emotional screeching #lOL I FORGOT TO DRAW IN THE UMBRELLA HANDLE ahA #fixed

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takingcourage · 5 years ago

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Miscalculations: A Witness AU

Chapter Three

Catch up here: Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two

Pairing: M!Cassian x MC

Word Count: 2,250

Series Summary: After years apart, fate brings Kellen and Cassian together a third time. Can they learn from the mistakes of the past, or are they destined to repeat them once more?

Note: Unlike previous installments, this chapter is from Kellen’s point of view. We’ll catch up with Cassian again in Chapter Four, which I plan to release on Wednesday!

Kellen navigated the streets with ease, her small purse tucked under her arm. As she bypassed the milling crowds, the heels of her boots clicked purposefully against the concrete. On any other morning, she might have been content to run her weekly errands or stop to pick up takeout, but today all she wanted was to make it back to her apartment as quickly as possible.

Out of instinct, her free hand slipped into her jacket pocket to cradle the keychain of pepper spray. Though she’d never had to use it, she had been grateful for the slender canister more times than she could count. Just because Boston was home didn’t mean it was safe.

She’d learned a lot with Cassian that summer. She’d learned even more since.

A chill escalated her spine as she paused at the crosswalk. The thoughts rarely plagued her waking hours, but she still had infrequent nightmares about bloody sidewalks and gleaming knives. Between the murder she’d witnessed and the restraining order she’d had to place while pregnant with Owen, she’d grown substantially more cautious.

If the last several years had taught her anything, it was just how much of life lay outside her control.

With a sigh, she hurried to cross the street, then entered through the front door of her building. As she waited for the elevator, she ran her thumb over the ring of the keychain.

How could Cassian remain unchanged when her entire world had been turned on its head?

He was the same man she’d known before: Genuine. Caring. Much too attractive for comfort. Those vibrant eyes still stared back at her as though she was the most priceless thing in his world. Or, at least, they had until she’d brought up the news about Owen.

Her throat constricted at the reminder of the pain that had been evident in his features. She hadn’t kept their son from him on purpose, but she couldn’t quite erase the sense of guilt that had come over her.

How had everything gone so wrong three years ago? She had been so determined not to let their relationship get out of hand, and yet, theirs had been the most painful separation she’d ever gone through. From what she’d heard today, it didn’t seem that Cassian had fared much better.

Approaching her own door, she left her jumbled thoughts in the hall behind her and withdrew the key from her purse. A smile lit her features at the reminder of what waited on the other side.

“Welcome back!” Harika greeted with a little too much enthusiasm. Her best friend was seated on the couch, keeping careful watch over the toddler playing on the living room rug.

“Hey,” she returned, tossing her keys into a bowl on the kitchen counter. By the time she’d removed her jacket, she felt a small hand prodding the side of her thigh.

“How’s it going, big guy?” she asked, brightening even further to find her son’s smiling face turned up toward hers. “Did you have a good morning?”

Owen took her hand by way of response, leading her back to the rug. Kellen’s initial pleasure at the interaction was mildly dampened by the realization that the child was much more excited for her to see his tower of blocks than he was to see her.

Two was such a fickle age.

Nonetheless, she knelt beside him and studied the architectural marvel he’d constructed. When his work had been sufficiently praised, she turned to address the woman on the couch. “Thanks again, Harika. I owe you a bottle of something very expensive.”

“I won’t let you forget. For now, I just want to hear about your date!”

Kellen rolled her eyes skyward and resisted the urge to respond to her friend with one specific finger. “It wasn’t a date. And it was about as surreal as you’d imagine.”

“Do you think anything will come of it?”

“I’ve got no idea. We’re meeting at the park tomorrow so he can meet Owen. I guess we’ll see where things go from there.”

The other woman humphed. “He’s a good guy, Kellen. And you should have seen the way he talked the other night -- he’s crazy about you. Doesn’t hurt that he’s in the running for sexiest man alive.”

“Harika!” she whispered, hands covering her young son’s ears. He batted his fingers in protest, but she held firm. “Trust me, I know that more than anyone. But this can’t just be about sex anymore.” She pulled her hands back to her lap and rocked onto her heels, surveying Owen’s tower. “There’s a lot more at stake.”

Lowering to the floor next to him, she absently began assembling her own edifice of yellow blocks from the pile. For a couple of minutes, the boy was content to continue building beside her, but she caught the exact moment that a spark of mischief entered his bright green eyes.

“Owen…” she cautioned playfully, pitch wavering as he extended a hand toward her tower. “Don’t knock over my blocks.”

Still reaching for her blocks, he stifled giggles with his other hand as though her admonition had been some grand joke Kellen couldn’t understand. At her shocked expression, he yanked the hand back to his side before being seized with another fit of laughter. Kellen couldn’t help echoing his laughter as it continued.

They followed the same pattern a half-dozen times, but the amusement never grew old. Finally, she reached over and tapped his blocks with a single finger. When she removed the hand without causing any damage, he smacked it over himself, shrieking with delight as the top half of the tower collapsed.

“Ugh. You guys are too cute. I’ve gotta get out of here before I get a cavity.”

Kellen smirked at the hollow complaint. There was a reason her coworker was on the very short list of people she trusted with her son. “We know you love us, Harika.”

“Heeka!” Owen attempted, knocking the rest of the structure into a pile. “Heeka, Heeka!”

“Auntie Heeka needs to head home now, but I’ll see you again soon. Can I get a hug before I go?”

Owen complied, earning himself an affectionate hair rumple from his babysitter.

“Be good, Owen,” she encouraged as she gathered her jacket and purse. “And Kellen?”

She cocked a skeptical brow.

“Please be naughty, for my sake.”

Kellen released a breath through parted teeth, shaking her head at the ridiculous suggestion. “Bye, Harika.”

“Bye!” she chirped before heading out the front door with a wave.

“Bye! Bye, bye, bye,” Owen parroted back, scooping the fallen blocks across the floor in wide armfuls.

He was such a happy kid. Kellen didn’t have a lot of experience, but he was a lot more content than she remembered children being at her parents’ endless social gatherings. If nothing else, she was doing everything in her power to ensure that his childhood was happier than her own.

Maybe that means having his father in his life she mused, unable to keep herself from brushing a particularly long curl out of his eyes. He was in desperate need of his first haircut, but she'd been dragging her heels about scheduling the appointment.

Cassian would have been such a good dad. If either of them was naturally suited to be a parent, he was by far the more likely choice. She’d had similar thoughts many times before, especially in Owen’s infancy when she’d still felt completely unqualified to have a child. Those fears of inadequacy had nagged her intermittently for the first year of her son’s life. It wasn’t until he’d started walking and showing more autonomy that she’d realized she wasn’t failing him. He was his own delightful, goofy self, and all she had to do was be there to support him.

She was trying not to see Cassian’s return as a threat to what she’d built with Owen over the past two years. Her gut told her that she could trust him not to do anything that would hurt her son, but it was impossible to know for certain. After all, she’d trusted him not to leave her too.

“Mama!”

An insistent hand slapped her knee repeatedly until she lifted her eyes from the floor and gave her attention to his latest creation.

The tower was a patternless combination of blue, green, and red, standing more than half the toddler’s height. As he beckoned her to watch, she felt her heart catch in her chest. Would having Cassian back change what she had with her son?

How could it not? She whispered, pulse racing as she watched Owen demolish the tower a second time. Owen’s going to love him. I can’t let him get attached like that until I know he’s here to stay.

Her hand was on her back pocket before she even realized she’d moved. Feeling the firm shell of her phone case beneath the denim, she hesitated. She couldn’t cancel on him. That wasn’t fair.

Cassian deserved to know his son.

And Owen deserved to know his father, even if he was too young to understand his significance.

She tapped a nail against the hard plastic, fighting with the question one final time before pulling her hand away.

As soon as Owen was down for his nap, she made her way to the home office set up along one wall of her living room. It was considerably less space than she’d had prior to her move, but still the best place she had to get work done. Here, with the natural light at her side and the span of industrial brick before her, numbers and logic were as natural as breathing.

Usually.

As her fingers flew over the keys, she did her best to put all thoughts of Cassian on the back burner. There could be no daydreams of his alluring eyes. No reminders of the electric shock that had passed between them when he’d touched her knee. No longing for his ability to make her feel more safe and valued than she had ever felt before...

“Damn it,” she breathed as she realized how far her mind had wandered. “Why did he have to come back now?”

Going to the kitchen for something to drink, she allowed herself a moment to mull through her thoughts of him.

Cassian was the closest she’d come to a relationship since grad school. He was certainly the closest thing she’d had in the last three years, when work and taking care of Owen had left little time for anything else. After a history of problematic men and impulsive choices, he was also the closest she’d had to someone who was good for her.

Or he had been before he’d left.

But in spite of his disappearance, she'd never been able to abandon thoughts of him completely. Her sleepy brain had bewitched her into imagining his arms around her more nights than she could count, and it had been impossible not to compare all of Harika’s ill-fated setups to the near perfection she’d had during that summer. If only she’d appreciated him more while she had him.

Kellen took a long drink of seltzer water, grateful for the burning sensation that the liquid left behind. She needed her senses to be taken up with something that wasn’t Cassian. To aid further, she skimmed through notifications on her phone. She’d deleted most of her social media accounts when she’d changed her number, but there were still emails from work and a pair of nonsense texts from Harika.

Quickly replying to a couple of them, she forced herself back into the chair to continue her work. Engrossed in her task for the next hour, it was a welcome distraction when she heard movement from Owen’s bedroom. Even without his quiet cries, the footsteps progressing toward her would have been enough to alert her that he’d woken up.

Her son was at her side less than a minute later, clutching his blanket with one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other. “Mama,” he called with a voice that was still pitifully broken from sleep.

“Sit with me, sweet boy.” Careful to avoid his toes, Kellen pushed away from the desk and helped Owen climb into her lap. He nestled close, still hot and sweaty from his nap. She kissed his disheveled curls as the sniffling subsided.

Shutting the lid on her laptop, she cast a thoughtful eye over the child in her arms. She took in every detail, from the fingers that held tightly to the collar of her shirt to the long, dark eyelashes that still glistened with the remnant of his tears. Soon, he would be fully awake and craving his independence. The reminder made her pull him just a little bit tighter to her chest.

When Kellen looked back on the last two years, moments like these were the ones she remembered most. They were the ones she was most afraid to lose in the future.

And as much as she had trusted Cassian in the past and wanted to believe in his pure intentions, a sliver of doubt crept in whenever she thought of tomorrow’s meeting. Even if everything went smoothly and all of her fears were in vain, one undeniable truth remained:

Their world had just become much more complicated.

#playchoices #playchoices fanfiction #witness: a bodyguard romance #cassian keane #cassian x mc

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