#trust is for suckers paranoia pays off!

[mazeyphaedra]

hc that after the last stand, the bad kids always carry revivify gems on each of their persons

[maibabbling]

An Essay About Kousuke

Sharing it here too because why not.

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I’m a sucker for grey characters.

He’s really interesting and personally, he’s my favorite. I love him so much.

And to all of the Kousuke haters who’s going to come at me.

No, I’m not saying he’s innocent. He did do horrible things, treated those around him horribly, teared Nol down, tried to sabotage him at every opportunity and the list goes on.

Neglect, abuse, and trauma do NOT justify his actions. But you’ve got to understand that from his point of view, they WERE justified. In his mind, he did the right thing. He was protecting himself, his family, and the company.

From a young age, Yui told him that everyone is out to get them, everyone will use them, take advantage of them, that he can’t trust anyone but her. She ingrained this sense of fear, of paranoia inside him ever since he was a kid. She crafted in him this twisted belief.

She took advantage of his starving for love and turned it into something so devious, so harmful. She made sure that Kousuke saw Nol as an enemy, an intruder who wanted to leech off them with his mom. A competitor who wanted to take what was rightfully his. She made him fear the only person who ever gave him the healthy, unconditional love he always earned for. She made him think that he was unworthy of his father’s attention and love, that he needed to work harder in order to deserve it, that he needed to be just like him.

So he stuffed down these needs, these passions, these emotions and worked as hard as he could to reach Rand, to make him look his way.

And now look at him as he is an adult, he’s paranoid of everyone, always on edge, anxious,  can’t adapt to stressful situations, unable to manage healthily his emotions and can’t function properly on his own.

You can placate the person, but not their emotions, nor their needs, and certainly not their mental state.

I’m worried for what’s coming for him, his future is nothing but bleak.

With the way it’s heading, I can assure you that Kousuke will go THROUGH IT. It will only go downhill for him from now on. How will he manage to cope? How can he? He doesn’t even know HOW TO. The only coping mechanism he thought worked (aka eating sweets) wasn’t actually ever one.

How will he cope with the realization that it wasn’t the sweets that calmed him, but the drugs that Yui, his own MOTHER, fed him through it? How do you even manage to come in term with the knowledge that your own MOTHER, the one who’s supposed to love you, to protect you, has been drugging you for many years, if not your entire life? That she’s been manipulating you and using you all this time? Add to that the fact that your reality is based on an entire lie.

The utter betrayal at him finally realizing what a wretch Yui actually is is crushing him and will continue to do so.

Now WHO is he supposed to trust?  How does he know they’re not in cahoots with his mom? Even his chef was on it. If he can’t trust his own hired help, then who can he?

I really hope he won’t distance himself from Hansuke as an attempt to protect him from Yui because he's the only one he has right now and I don't want to see what will happen if he isolates himself from him.

I do believe that he’ll move to Japan to take up the CFO position during the 4 years timeskip as a way to get himself away from Yui. But OF COURSE she’ll use this as a mean to isolate him further, to make him rely solely on her. His vulnerability will make things easier for her to play the perfect role of “Mother Dearest”.

Honestly I won’t be surprised if she decides to pay him “surprise visits” with the fake pretense of “checking up on him”. That’s so messed up because that means that in addition to the self-hatred, guilt and emotional turmoil, Kousuke will have to live in literal fear and paranoia of his mother popping out of nowhere in his house, even in Japan.

(Seriously imagine how traumatic it’ll be to go home and find the very person who drugged you, whom you were trying so hard to get away of sitting on the couch of your living room with a cup of tea in their hands.)

She could use this fear as a mean to keep him under check, as a way to remind him that no matter how far he’ll try to run away, she’ll always manage to catch him. He’ll never be able to escape her grasp. Nothing good ever comes out of fighting against her. (That woman belongs in a horror movie hands down)

After all, the end justifies the means. For her, the final aim is so important that any way of achieving it is acceptable, any actions needed in order to reach that goal are justified, be it moral or not. Be it even drugging her own son, controlling every aspect of his life, and playing everyone around her like a fiddle. Even having Kousuke was probably in her own interest. She doesn’t feel an ounce of love for him. To her, he’s nothing more than a way to achieve what she wants, a pawn that she’d discard like nothing if proven useless.

I do wonder one thing. How is he going to hold on for 4 more years? Like HOW??? It hasn't even been one week and look at the state he's in. Wrapped up in a blanket like a wet cat. He can't cope. He doesn't know how to, so he's leaning towards alcoholism. (He'll parallel Sim-Han in way.)

He'll likely fall into depression, and live the next 4 years of his life miserable and haunted by his horrid and unjust treatment of Nol, by the fact that he caused someone's death, although indirectly, by not believing the girl who got SA'd.

We still don't know what EXACTLY happened back in his college days but we all agree that Yui had a big hand in it and is probably the one who staged it all in an attempt to bring back Kousuke, who started to get loose and act like a person of his age. She needed him to work for her, to become her loyal little knight again. To rub salt into the wound more effectively , she also released Nol from the mental health institution at the same time, reminding him that he can't let go. He doesn't have the right to.

How can he, when there's a threat to his position as the heir, to his father's attention and love?

So he came back to her, like a dog returning to its master. Everything turned out as she wanted, still, she needed to keep up the act, to feed him lie after lie. So what if she had to drug him in order to placate him? What of it? After all, she can do MUCH worse. She'll do anything to keep control.

What has me worrying the most is his reaction to the fact that he is not Rand’s son. He is not Nol’s brother. He tormented Nol out of jealousy, fear that he’ll take his position as heir. Turns out that HE is the one who never even had the right to take up Rand’s position.

HE never even had the chance to have these features he desired so much.

HE is the one who tried to take something that was not rightfully his. HE worked towards an empty goal.

HE has no value without others approval, without his family’s name and the company’s.

HE is nothing.

He’ll have an identity crisis.

Am I able to see him go through all that? NO.

I want to protect him from that bald witch and throw him in therapy ASAP.

But yeah we’re not getting that anytime soon are we? Not until we pass all of our time skips.

It gets worse before it gets better. But that’s another level of worse.

I hope that in the end, once he’s been through it back and forth, and once he’s gotten years of good therapy, he’ll be able to heal and find his very own self. I hope that he’ll retake piano, an activity that he enjoys not for others; but for himself, something that’ll allow him to feel like a real person, something that’ll help him unleash his repressed emotions.

My lifelong wish is to see him SMILE again. I want to see him happy, I want to see him laugh and have fun from the bottom of his heart.

As for now, I guess I’m only going to see that in my dreams.

I'm going to excuse myself and cry in a corner.

SOB

[delimeful]

hold my body down (2)

chapter 2 of this fic!

warnings: arguing, mild violence, cult mentions, mild gore mentions

-

Virgil stared at the man, his mind blank. What?

“That’s-- great?” Roman tried, his voice cracking in the middle with bewilderment. The human beamed, beckoning with his hand. Roman reached out and Virgil slapped his hand back, glowering at him.

“What have I said about accepting help from random friendly men?” he hissed, eyeing the stranger warily. Roman flushed, shoving him slightly, but notably didn’t try to move forward again.

The man-- Patton’s smile didn’t falter, but his hand dropped slightly. Virgil refused to feel bad. For once, he was completely sure that his level of paranoia was necessary for the situation.

“Oh, that’s okay,” Patton said, folding onto his knees to sit on the edge of the bag’s opening. “I can just explain from over here. I would come to sit in the bag with you, but last time I did that I got held hostage and Logan put a ban on interacting with terrified strangers without his direct supervision.”

“That, uh, seems rather fair,” Roman offered, still wildly out of his depth. Virgil rolled his eyes, a hand on the hilt of one of his daggers in case the stranger made any sudden moves.

“Who’s Logan?” He asked, eyes flickering up to what little he could see through the opening.

“Oh, he’s the one who rescued you!” Patton said cheerily. Virgil broke out into a cold sweat immediately.

“Rescued?” Roman echoed in disbelief. “Are you talking about the giant? Because I’m pretty sure he just abducted us against our will.”

“No, no, it’s not like that!” Patton insisted, only confirming Virgil’s theory that he was probably brainwashed and/or had Stockholm syndrome. Or both. Or a variety of other, worse options, such as yet another cult member or another giant in disguise.

“Easy, Virgil.” Roman laid a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Uh-- Patton, was it? If we’re not being… y’know… kidnapped and imprisoned, do you think you could back up so we can get out of the bag?”

“Of course!” Patton answered, popping back to his feet. “I’ll be right out here, take your time! I’m sure the last couple of hours have been rough.”

Virgil tried not to snort. Rough was one word for it. His amusement died a quick death when Roman began moving towards the opening. He latched onto the other man’s arm like a steel trap. “I don’t trust this.”

“You don’t trust anything,” Roman retorted automatically before softening. “It’s okay, I’m just checking to see what’s out there. Won’t even get out of the bag, on my honor.”

Virgil reluctantly followed him, grabbing onto him tightly as though he could keep anything out there from hurting him by yanking him back into the bag.

Roman ducked his head back under the cloth a moment later. “Okay. Bad news, there is absolutely a giant still out there. Good news, he’s all the way over across the room, reading a book. He is steadfastly ignoring both us and Patton, who waved at me.”

“What.” Virgil clutched at his hair. “What is going on?”

“I suspect we’ll have to ask Patton that. If we want answers, we’ll have to go get them,” He said, patting Virgil on the back encouragingly. “Don’t worry, my Dark and Stormy Knight, I’ll keep you safe.”

“My job,” Virgil grumbled, not releasing his grip on Roman’s wrist as he led the way out of the bag.

Everything was huge. He should have expected it, seeing as this was a giant’s home, but it still threw him off. They were on a huge table, in a huge living room, and the giant was indeed across the room with a huge book, pretending like they didn’t exist. From this distance, Virgil could actually take in all of him without feeling like he was going to pass out.

Patton was sitting a few feet away, and beamed at their approach. Virgil barely tore his eyes away from the giant long enough to nod distractedly at him. “Hi again! Are you guys okay?”

“We’re… fine,” Roman said, uncertain. “I think we’d just like to know what’s going on?”

“That’s totally understandable!” Patton replied, sympathetic. “I was pretty jittery after Logan first brought me here, too!”

“Oh, great,” Virgil muttered to Roman. “Serial kidnapper.”

Roman shot him a look before turning back to Patton. “He brought you here? Could I ask… why?”

“The same reason he brought you two here! I was in danger.” Patton glanced over to the giant with a fond smile before leaning in secretively. “To be honest, I think he was even more worried than I was! I was sort of stabbed at the time, though, so I guess that makes sense.”

“How were you ‘sort of stabbed’? You’re either stabbed or you’re not!” griped Virgil, who was possibly feeling more snappish than normal after one of the most stressful experiences of his life.

“My goodness, you were stabbed?” asked Roman, who had always been a sucker for a dramatic tale.

Patton tugged up the edge of his shirt, displaying a nasty-looking scar that curved around his side and stomach. In Virgil’s professional opinion, there was nothing ‘sort-of’ about a wound like that; it had been meant to kill. “Yeah, the people you met in town, they’re a cult! And they wanted to do a blood sacrifice for the monsters in the woods, and I wasn’t exactly well-liked, so…,”

“They stabbed you and left you for dead?” Virgil finished, a bit of anger leaking into his voice despite his determination not to sympathize with this guy.

“But I didn’t die!” Patton waved his hands a bit as though in celebration. “All the monsters in the woods had already been scared off when Logan moved here, and so he was the one who found me and helped me recover!”

Roman glanced over at the giant again, a speculative look in his eye that Virgil absolutely did not approve of. He scowled, his grip on Roman’s wrist tightening slightly.

“Right, and he just did this out of the goodness of his heart?” Virgil snorted dubiously. “I wouldn’t believe that from another human, let alone someone with a literally huge advantage over us. If your story is true, why didn’t the cult try to gut us? For that matter, if he’s not into human sacrifices, why wouldn’t your buddy over there just tell them to stop? Or, y’know, not kidnap us in the first place?”

“Well, hold on--,” Patton tried, but Virgil was on a roll.

“How do we know that this isn’t some elaborate setup? If he has the magical capabilities to heal a mortal wound, then wouldn’t it be easy for him to enchant a captive into believing that he’s just doing what’s best for him? Before, you said there were other people brought here-- what happened to them? Do you even know?”

Across the room, there was a sharp clap as the giant firmly snapped his book shut.

“They left,” Logan said firmly, the first words that they’d heard from him. “And if you continue to harangue my housemate, I will ask you to do the same.”

“Logan,” Patton said, a little exasperated.

Virgil felt a chill run down his spine at the sight of those huge, dark eyes locked onto him, but he plastered his best snarl on even as he dragged a protesting Roman partially behind him. “We’d be glad to leave, but someone put us on a table ten times our height!”

“Virgil,” Roman tried, but Virgil didn’t have the luxury of not paying attention to the pissed off giant in front of them.

“There’s a staircase down to your left,” the giant informed him coldly, “so if you are intent on watching your companion die from organ combustion, you have my utmost permission to leave.”

Logan!” Patton chided, a lot exasperated. He turned back to them. “He doesn’t mean it like that, I promise.”

“Really?” Virgil snapped, crowding Roman back further. “Because it sure sounds like he just outright threatened to kill us if we leave.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Logan pinched the bridge of his nose before rising easily from his chair and reminding them all just how big he truly was. “This is why I let Patton handle the talking. I don’t know why humans always insist on making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

Virgil’s heart jumped into his throat as the giant approached, a thousand potential ways they were going to die flashing before his eyes. Behind his back, he flashed Roman a hand sign that meant ‘run for it’, and then released his friend’s wrist to draw one of his knives threateningly.

It was a pointless effort, but he’d known since setting out with his prince that one day he’d die for him.

Sure enough, the giant moved with that same uncanny speed he’d shown in the clearing, and simply grabbed Virgil’s forearm between his fingers as easily as one might scruff a cat, preventing any stabbing.

When Virgil immediately went to grab for another knife with his free hand, he found himself abruptly lifted and maneuvered, and couldn’t help letting out a startled yelp. The giant had essentially flipped him onto his front and settled one hand on his back as a weight, leaving him pinned and the giant firmly out of stabbing range.

More concerning was the fact that he could now see Roman, who hadn’t moved more than a few steps, and not just because he was a stupidly loyal, headstrong idiot. The prince seemed almost dazed, his skin shiny with sweat as he glanced between Virgil and Logan. Something was wrong. “Roman--!”

“You’re beginning to feel it, aren’t you?” Logan said, his cold tone thawing slightly as he looked down at Roman. “The cult of that town has only grown more... inventive with every cruel sacrifice they attempt. Rather than physical injuries, they’ve turned to blood curses, which has made my life exceedingly difficult.”

“Blood-- Blood curses?” Roman managed, looking more pallid by the moment.

The giant set a free hand down, palm up in offering. “I can reduce the effects. If you give me sufficient time, I can unravel the curse entirely, though brewing a countercurse will likely necessitate a drop of your blood.”

“Why go to the trouble?” Roman asked haltingly, meeting Virgil’s frantic gaze for only a moment. “What do you want in return?”

Logan sighed. “If you insist on applying such intentions to my actions, you can call it compensation. It is because of my presence that the cult continues to leave ‘offerings’, and thus your current state is my fault.”

“Then why not just do it?” Roman asked, staring at the offered hand with clear suspicion. Virgil was almost proud.

“Patton has gone to great lengths to teach me manners for interacting with smallfolk,” Logan replied dryly. “The first of which being ‘don’t grab.’”

There was a brief moment of silence as they all looked to Virgil, who was still pinned and sorely wishing he was in biting range of Logan’s hand.

“Manners don’t apply if someone is trying to stab me,” Logan added, a beat late.

Patton waved from where he was half-hidden behind Logan’s arm. “It’s true, my lessons did make an exception for stabbing!”

“Let him up,” Roman requested, his voice lacking its usual bravado. He still appeared concerningly ill. “He won’t stab you, right Virgil?”

Virgil grumbled something uncomplimentary under his breath, before sighing and going limp. “All I want is to protect my prince. If you actually mean to help him, I won’t stab you.”

“Now that stabbing is off the table, I’ve gotta say, it’s knife to meet you,” Patton chimed in, his grin audible in his voice.

“Patton, please,” Logan groaned, lifting his hand off Virgil to instead massage his temples in exasperation. “You’re going to disturb our guests.”

“Aw, are you sure? I think my jokes are stabsolutely hilarious!”

Virgil ignored the ridiculous byplay between the two of them to scramble to his feet and hurry to Roman’s side, ignoring the way Logan moved his arm slightly to be between him and Patton. “Roman, are you okay?”

“Are you? You’re the one who just got gently tenderized by Bignoramus over there for the second time today,” Roman countered, matching Virgil’s whisper.

“Fine, stupid question, clearly neither of us are okay. Are we really doing this, though? We could still run.”

“I’m… not sure we can, actually.” Roman’s hand hovered over his chest, face drawn tight with pain. “They definitely did something to me, and I doubt either of us will figure out how to fix it or get aid in time. … Look. This may be my only option, but you don’t have to--”

“Can it, Princey,” Virgil cut in, dragging a hand through Roman’s hair roughly and ignoring his resulting squawk. “Where you go, I go.”

“Even there?” Roman asked, tilting his head toward Logan’s palm somberly.

Virgil looked over to Logan, watching the attentive way he was listening to Patton speak and contributing words of his own. The giant could have done away with any of them at any point, and he hadn’t. That wasn’t enough to really trust him, it could still all be part of some scheme, but... it had to count for something.

If it was the only thing that could help Roman, Virgil could push aside his fear and his anger.

“Even there,” he answered, and led the way onwards.

[alfredosauce50]

Hi! I was wondering if you could do some Romano + Prussia x royal reader (separate) headcannons? I'm a sucker for a good forbidden romance and would be happy to see what you want to do with it. Thank you!

Yes, of course! Sorry for the kinda late response--I got carried away writing other things. What a coincidence that I've been doing a lot of exploring in fantasy! The reader is referred to as she/her.

Forbidden Romance Headcanons - Prussia and S. Italy

Prussia - The earnest pickpocket and sheltered princess

Unfortunately, Gilbert is on the wrong side of history. As an albino, he's been an outcast ever since he was born. In an age of superstition and class divide, his parents had no problem abandoning an extra mouth to feed. Especially when they were a demon with magical powers. Left to fend for himself as a baby, he only ever survived thanks to the generosity of an old neighbor. When they passed away due to old age, he had to get on by himself on the streets. Stealing, lying, whatever it takes to get some quick cash. And he's been doing it ever since he was five.

He loved fairytales ever since he was a kid. His guardian always told him these stories before bedtime, after all. They said it was good luck to give the princess a flower, and he remembered this a few years later during the royal parade in town. Pushing through the crowd of onlookers, he held out a small dandelion hoping you would take it. Before the guards could swat him away, you took the flower with a smile. All you remembered from that time was a small and dirty face gleaming up at you. And, of course, a pair of striking red eyes you would never forget.

In his adolescence, he became a thief with quick hands. It wasn't until he took on the most dangerous job of all did he make himself a public enemy. Stealing the royal family's jewels. And he would've gotten away with it if he wasn't forced to take a detour through the princess's bedroom. Unbeknownst to him, you were wide awake. Immediately, you recognized him as the little boy from that day. Without thinking, you hid him in your wardrobe until the guards left. That was the start of a strange friendship forged between two people from two worlds--a dirt-poor criminal and the well-loved princess of a thriving kingdom.

He visits you from time to time by climbing up the side of the castle. When he first did it, you practically throttled him by his collar, screaming, “Do you have a death wish? They'll throw you to the lions if you get caught!”. He simply responds with, “The awesome me never gets caught! That's why I'm here, ja?” Soon, this becomes routine until you learn to trust him.

Gilbert loves gloating about his adventures as a street rat, whether it's about singlehandedly beating up gangs of bullies or outrunning the palace guards. As a sheltered person of royalty, his stories reflect experiences alien to you. But it opens your eyes to things you've never seen, and it's very fascinating.

If he's not telling grossly exaggerated anecdotes of his greatness, he'll bring in board games and cards he “borrowed” from his friends. You've never played with them before as your parents deemed them unrefined. It fills him with pride to see you enjoying yourself so much, especially when he's teaching you how to play.

You don't go out very often, so he always brings back little trinkets and souvenirs. When you found out he stole them all, you would hit him on the head and tell him off. “Where did you get these from? Stealing and giving these to the princess--do you know how stupid that sounds?” Then, you would pinch his cheek until he tears up and admits his wrongs. “I-I thought you would like them, okay? I wanted to give them to you as a present...” The next day, you would accompany him to the shops he robbed and pay the owners back.

He gets upset and embarrassed when he realizes those gifts aren't gifts at all. Not when you paid for them yourself! One of the ways he shows affection is through giving gifts, but that unfortunately clashes with not having money. So he's eager to make something out of himself, even if he has to work as a bottom feeder and face unfair treatment for what he looks like. When you find out, his boss gets one hell of a time dealing with you. After that, he uses whatever small amount he earned to buy something for you.

As he grows out of his old habits, he becomes more honest. In fact, he's so determined to prove himself that he shows up one day with a homemade board game scribbled out on a spare piece of parchment. He's nervous and twiddling his fingers, and that's when you know you have to help him get back onto his feet. He's so touched by your kindness that he shows you a secret he's been hiding forever--he can do magic. It's one of his skills that let him become so good at stealing in the past.

After some practice to touch up his abilities, you try convincing your parents to let him work in the palace as an all-rounder. With the magic dancing in his fingertips, there's nothing he can't do. He has a green thumb, good reflexes, and the horses in the stables listen to him better than the caretaker! He can't forget that you encouraged him to let go of his doubts and previous identity as a petty thief. There's nobody in the world he looks up to more.

On the night of your eighteenth birthday, he's invited to a ball to celebrate. Once again, he finds himself anxious to see you in your dress, especially when he's quite glammed up himself with his suit and hair slicked back. While you teach him how to dance, he tells you he looks ridiculous. But you think otherwise and make it explicit. That's when Gilbert realizes he's completely smitten with you. He embarks on another journey to improve himself until he thinks he deserves you.

South Italy - The plebeian pâtissier and renegade royal

War has ravaged the kingdom and eaten into the state's reserves, leaving inflation rates at an all-time high. The suffering middle and working-class take it up to their rulers in a coup d'état, killing the king and queen. And now, they're searching for the princess amidst the chaos of an ungoverned dominion. Romano couldn't be more indifferent to such a cause, only ever caring about putting food on the table. He works day and night helping out his family's bakery, making what he can to get by. However, he's forced to take a side when he finds a girl on his doorstep on the verge of starvation.

Unable to turn away someone in need, he nurses you back to health. However, he does so with spite, wondering to himself why he has to give what little he has left to a princess. When you feel better after a few days, he's eager to send you off but changes his mind as you leave. Romano can't bear to let you face certain death, or worse, knowing how bitter the townspeople are about the unpopular war. So he welcomes you back with a sharp sigh with his head turned away. “Alright, alright, you can stay. Now stop making that pathetic face, you spoilt principessa--it's depressing.”

He relays a few house rules as conditions for keeping you around. You have to help him with chores. Cooking, cleaning, sewing, everything. Considering you always had someone doing those tasks for you, you're hopeless at it. He'll swat your hand and show you how to do things right with an annoyed scowl. “No, no, no, no, no! You're doing it all wrong. This is how you do it. What do they even teach you in that palace, huh? Books? Maths? Books about maths? Well, they won't keep you alive, you know!”

Because he's so observant and strict, he's a good teacher, and soon, you get the hang of everything. Before, he had to open his mouth to correct you every few seconds, but now, he can just watch you do his work with his arms crossed. It's a little demeaning to have someone watch your every move, but inside, he's relieved you're finally fitting in and not a complete waste of his time and resources. In reality, he never wanted to send you off and hoped he could just handle an extra mouth to feed. Not that he'll ever tell you.

When you're out and about, he makes you wear a cloak to hide your identity. When he's forced to interact with people, he'll hold you close and play everything off without arousing suspicion. Even if your hood falls off, he won't react--he's screaming inside in panic, but he's a great actor when he needs to be. You're totally not the princess, just a crazy similar doppelganger. The cloak is there so that people don't make a fuss. When they leave, he'll turn to you and scream how much of an idiot you are. But really, he was just worried to death--and you have a feeling he was. So you hug it out and leave him cussing with a red face.

As you two grow closer, his cousin Antonio notices how much he cares about you despite his efforts to hide it. It's a problem. He approaches him and warns that if people found out he was hiding the princess, he would get killed with her. Romano heats up and screams, telling him that he already knew what he got into the second he let you into his home. When he's asked why he's still keeping you around, he responds with, “It's not fair that her parents fucked up, and she has to face the consequences. Just like how I never wanted to run this stupid bakery--I wanted to be a painter, not burn my hands in the kitchen all day!”

Unbeknownst to him, you overhear the conversation. The next morning, he discovers that you're gone and loses his head. While he's screaming and crying, he's swarmed with the possibilities of what happened to you. He's a bit of an overthinker, but his paranoia is deserved--were you taken away in the middle of the night? Are you even still alive? He spirals down a path of self-loathing until he confronts how much he misses you, then his regret of never being frank with his feelings. Romano didn't understand what he had until he lost it. To say this was a wake-up call--to be more honest with himself--would be an understatement.

A week later, you return unscathed. Turns out, you left to stay with the owner of a paint shop owner your family always supported and bought from. You present him with a gift of some high-end oil paints, brushes, and canvases. When he sets them all down, he'll pull you into a tight hug, and once again, tell you how stupid you are. While he has you in his coils, you smile to yourself as you pat his hair, happy that you also got something in return. Some transparency. “I just thought I'd give you something... For all the trouble.” You'd say, and he'd shush you with a few hard kisses. “You were never a trouble. I wanted you to stay, so I'm more to blame than you.”

As the political situation of the country calms down, so do the anxieties of angry neighbors pounding on his door. You return to his home much to his content. Now that you're just as good as him at icing cakes, you spend more time running the bakery. This gives him some time to paint, and he can't be happier. Once you both get settled, he discovers another hobby on top of making art. Making coffee! The bakery evolves into a café lavishly decorated with his paintings, and it becomes the most popular establishment in town. You both realize how overrated it is to want to be anything more--you never bring up your title ever again.

[whump-town]

Cracks in the Ceiling

little hurt LOT comfort

my version of Route 66 bc how are you going to cut him open and give such minimal comfort?? like damn

Morgan’s tearing through the open case file in front of him, attention more or less on his teammates debating the case openly around him. His head is pounding, there’s this ache fixated on his right temple that no amount of Tylenol has managed to dull. If it weren’t for the pain he’d lean over and make Rossi aware of the fact that he’s 100% certain that Hotch slept in his office last night. He’s no snitch but this is the second time this week and it’s a pattern of behavior that has never been good in the past. It’s a behavior worth noting. For now, he decides to leave it. The others are gathering, filling into place, everyone’s mostly in their usual seats at the round table. He isn’t alerted or even too worried about Hotch standing rather than sitting, dark eyes darting over them. It’s probably nothing, Morgan shakes his head, not a big deal.

They jump into the work, Morgan keeps quiet. He’s got some things scratched into the margins of his file but he’ll bring them up now. Nothing worth stating just yet, not even proper observations but maybe Reid will have something to spitball. “--as you know, the amber alert is…” Morgan looks up, frowning at the sound of just how breathless Hotch is. As if he’s just run a marathon or taken down an Unsub by himself. Morgan looks the man up and down. The stark contrast of his boss’ pale face to the red of his tie. Morgan frowns, “Hotch?” He’s already on his feet, heart hammering, standing just as Hotch rasps an “excuse me”.

“Aaron!”

Rossi gets to him first. Kneeling right down on the ground, no reservations left for personal space. Anywhere else, anything else and it might have been funny. Rossi is so careful about himself. He won’t get his shoes dirty and he’s not putting creases in his pants let alone kneeling on the ground and risking wearing down the material around his knee and yet here he is. Placing a crease in his shoes at the toes and digging a knee in the, no doubt, filthy carpet. His clothes don’t matter, he’s paying them no mind as he calls Hotch’s name again. Begging-- “Look at me! Aaron? Aaron!”

It’s all snippets, no solidity.

Rossi’s rough palm, his skin radiating an intense uncomfortable heat against Hotch’s cheek. The rings on his fingers biting with their chilled metal, startlingly present in a haze of sensations he can’t name. All too much information for his brain, warmth and the chill, and how heavy his diaphragm feels as he draws in breathes.

Bright lights, rocking, and back and forth. White, bright white dancing from one eye over to the other.

“Mr. Hotchner?”

Drugs. He can feel them in his veins, thick as sludge crawling up his throat.

“Mr. Hotchner, can you hear me?”

Pulse is thready.

He’s not responding.

He can see Rossi-- it’s not worry pulling his face down, it’s hopelessness. A deep realization that he can do nothing, that he’s powerless and clueless. He can do nothing but sit there as the paramedics work, providing no commentary, having generally no idea what to do.

Starting lactated ringers.

Systolic is dropping.

BP is 90/60.

Systolic is his heart, which Rossi knows isn’t good. His blood pressure runs low, he takes medication for that. Maybe… Maybe he just didn’t take his meds this morning. That’s an easy enough explanation. No need to think the worst.

But the worst is what they get.

Foyet returned from the grave. Sometimes it’s like that man never really left. Hotch still looks over his shoulder, wakes up in the middle of the night thinking about him. Catches himself thinking like a trapped animal, reflexively isolating himself. It was only a few months but the paranoia is something he’s never been able to shake. He put his family at risk, lost Haley and Jack for months, and every time he was alone with a team member Foyet could be watching and if Foyet wanted to… he couldn’t even keep a serial killer from breaking into his home. He’s nearly lost all of them to serial killers, what’s he really going to be able to do to stop Foyet from killing them?

Back from the grave?

It’s like he never left.

Garcia approaches the bed slowly, put off by the stark contrast of the bags under Hotch’s eyes, and the intense pallor of his face. The only reassurance he’s even alive is the fog, the oxygen mask flushed with each of his shaky and choked breaths. “Sir?” She slowly reaches down and takes his right hand in both of her own. His hand is freezing, limp, and heavy in her hand. Lifeless. Even his veins look wrong, the colors aren’t right.

Settling herself with a deep breath, Garcia runs her thumb across his knuckles. Trying to draw some sort of stability, some consciousness to the madness buzzing around them. The hospital alight with all the wrong sorts of energy.

His head is turned slightly to her, lips parted as his breathing labors on. Leaving his lungs in harsh rasps. His left arm is curled limply around the light pink basin in his lap. It makes her stomach ache to imagine him alone back here, even if he wasn’t awake.

“Ma’am,” a nurse steps into the room, followed by two men on each of her sides. “They’re ready for him in OR 2. We’re going take him there now.”

Garcia nods, hands shaking a little harder than she’d like at the thought of him going somewhere she can’t watch over. This isn’t the same as the field. There she can hear what he hears. She’s right there with them but… “O--Okay,” she whispers, nodding tightly as she gently lays his hand back down on the bed. She looks him back over once more. Memorizing all that she can and biting back the emotion working up her throat. “Take care of him,” she says, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “He’s really important to me.”

The nurse stops, ignoring the other two men as they place all the machines they can around and in Hotch’s lap. She squeezes Garcia’s arm gently, “he’s in the best hands.” She nods, a small sympathetic smile in place. “We’ll take care of him, ma’am. I promise.”

Garcia nods, “okay.” She has to trust them and she can do that. She believes in medicine. She understands it. He’s going to be okay. Eventually. Not right now but soon and she’ll stay with him for as long as she can.

“Hello?” She answers her phone on the second ring, her hands shaking so badly she misses the answer button the first time. Her eyes stay on Hotch, watching and struggling to keep up with the fast pace of the staff pushing him down the hall. Distracted enough to not even care that it’s Morgan calling her and that she should greet him with their usual luster. She just can’t find it in herself to conjure it up right now.

Morgan greets her a second later, a mind centered on just getting this case over with. He can’t think about Hotch. Can’t get distracted. “Hey, Baby Girl,” he says, pulling the phone back and hitting the speakerphone so JJ can hear. “It’s Morgan. How’s Hotch?”

Garcia really wishes she hadn’t worn heels today. The heels along with her much shorter legs are making it really hard to keep pace with Hotch. “He’s still out,” she informs him. Which kind of sucks. She’d feel really good right now if she’d just seen him awake. To talk to him. He’s always really good at calming her down. “They’re taking him to surgery.”

Morgan sighs, shaking his head. Damn, he’d really been hoping whatever this was to pass over as the flu. “Okay,” is all he says, hoping his disappointment doesn’t write itself all over his body. He clears his throat and tries to shake this awful feeling in his gut. “Alright, well, we need you to look through Samantha Wilcox’s text and email correspondents.”

Garcia nods her head, hoping what he’s saying actually sticks in her brain. She’d hate to have to call back and tell them she didn’t catch a word being said. Not after promising Dave, she would be okay to stay behind with Hotch. “Okay.” She agrees, “what am I looking for? Anything in particular?”

JJ’s voice cuts through and that takes Garcia by pleasant surprise. “She’s been in touch with her dad.”

Oh. Garcia thinks. That’s probably not good.

“And check vicap,” Morgan adds.

Garcia had seen the doors coming and the nurses and doctor’s throwing on scrub caps from down the hall. She’d seen them but she hadn’t thought this was where they part. Nervously, her eyes flicker over to Hotch. Maybe it’s better he’s not awake to see her like this. The last thing he needs is worrying about trying to soothe her nerves. “W-Why,” she stops as a nurse sympathetically directs her to.

She doesn’t hear a thing from then on. Her ears are ringing, words coming from the line but she doesn’t hear it. She just stands there. “They just took him back,” she manages. He’s gone from her sight. The hall is empty. It’s just her standing here.

For the sake of appearances she finds a seat in the waiting room, tries to manage deep even breathes. Remain calm. But Morgan’s request doesn’t take that long, he doesn’t even try to stay on the line with her. The conversation dies the second she tells him Hotch is in surgery and no one’s told her anything.

Out of boredom, unable to sit still a moment longer while her mind replays the pain of the day that it happened. Being forced to stay at her desk while knowing, while having listened as Emily explained the mess in his apartment. The tumbler shattered on the ground. Clear, composed Emily Pretniss’ voice trembling, the shattered glass in her throat. Not enough blood to know he’s dead but not enough to survive.

She goes to the gift shop to distract herself with the signs and clothes for expecting parents, for balloons that wish parents and grandparents a speedy recovery. So that she can stand amongst the aisle of teddy bears and t-shirts and exist in space and time that feels mute, feels non-existent.

She buys herself a sucker shaped like a heart and Hotch a teddy bear with a t-shirt that says “I love you” because he’ll pretend to hate it. He’ll hate the attention maybe but it’ll keep him company. After what Foyet did to him she gave him a troll, it’s all she had on her when was finally able to get to the hospital to see him. He was asleep by the time she got there, the doctor gave him sedatives. He got agitated after Haley and Jack left, tore stitches in restlessness. They set up a schedule, made sure he wasn’t alone after that.

She placed the troll in the palm of his hand, curled his fingers around it. He gave it back when he returned to work. She found it on her desk with a note, a simple “Thank you -H”. What a silly man, she’d meant for him just to keep it. She slipped it back into his go-bag the second he wasn’t watching. He got the message then.

It’s still in his go-bag.

The recovery room is filled with the sounds of heart monitors.

It’s good. Logically, Penelope Garcia knows it’s good but she’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Yet she’d fought rather bravely to get here, to be allowed someplace she should not be. Listening to the crowd of heart monitors softly ringing out the promise of ongoing survival, she feels hopeful. She’s not naive enough to feel safe.

She’d watched them extubate him. She’d stepped into the room a little prematurely, seen him attached to all those machines. Watched his chest rise and fall under the guide of the ventilator. Slivers of his eyes present as a doctor talked to him, guiding him through the process. He gags and chokes, still absent of mind as they move him. By the time anyone pays any attention to her he’s already back under the pull of the drugs. Asleep. They move him on the bed, settle his arms back to his sides and pull the blankets up to his chest. He’s no more than a body to manipulate.

“He’ll—He’ll be okay, right?” She’d seen the doctor extubate Hotch and her chest hurts at the sight of him. He’d been so limp as they pulled that tube out, coughing and curling into himself. Unaware of everything around him, he’d wrapped his arms around his chest. He’s as pale as the bedsheets he’s laying on and her protective streak wants nothing more than to gather all six feet of him up into a comfy blanket and cuddle his pain away. “Is he in any pain?”

The doctor clenches his teeth, taking a breath like he’s either uncertain or afraid to tell her the truth. He places his arms over his chest, “there was a lot of internal damage.” But he’s still chewing on what he’s really afraid to admit to, turning it over. Weighing the pros and cons— “We lost him on the table but—” panic strikes the happy blonde like a hand. “We got him right back, ma’am. He’s responding appropriately to the medication. Your friend is tough, his recovery is already coming along nicely.”

Garcia lets out a shaky breath. “Is there anything I can do? You know, until you move him?” They get hurt all the time and she tries really hard to stay objective, to keep coasting along because that’s always what the others do. Emily never loses her head and Hotch always stays in the field, takes care of more than his share of the work. So she can do that, she’s capable of that.

The doctor smiles, “yeah. When he wakes up, his throat’s going to be pretty agitated. Try to get him to drink some water. It’ll help later, make him stronger when the nurses come around wanting him back on his feet in a few hours.” He extends his hand for her to shake, “and I’m sure with you here, Agent Hotchner will make a speedy recovery.”

Garcia blushes and shakes his hand.

“So,” the doctor stuffs his hands in his lab coat. “Are the rumors true?”

Garcia frowns, tilting her head.

“Did he really…” the doctor’s eyes move to the man on the bed. He shakes his head, “was it really a serial killer that did all that to him?”

Garcia pulls in a heated breath, she’s an even-tempered woman. She’s not going to be hot-headed about any old thing but why would he even say something like that. With Hotch right there. Just as she’s about to lay into him Hotch mumbles something from the bed, turning his head and blinking heavily as he takes in the darkroom. She can’t make it out but he shakes his head and makes a clumsy pull at the nasal canal under his nose, trying to dislodge it. She throws the doctor a dirty look and moves to his side, calling his name. Garcia takes his hand, “what? What is it, sir?”

He frowns, tight. Grimacing as he swallows, adam’s apple bouncing as he shakes his head again. He looks at her, eyes drooping before his lips part, his mouth clumsily forming her name. He pushes at the nasal canal again, his discomfort obvious. “Is he here?” he rasps. “Foyet?”

Garcia curses that stupid doctor but she knows it’s not his fault. Old injuries and old scars. “No, honey,” she soothes, her thumb running over his knuckles. If he weren’t so high, so bogged down with the drugs he wouldn’t be so confused. He’d fuss over her endearment but instead, he leans closer. Turns his face towards her, trusts her. “Foyet’s long gone. He can’t hurt you. You’re safe.” The news seems to be surprising at first but she can see the moment he remembers. Foyet is dead. It puts him at some ease, helps but he’s still visibly uncomfortable.

She releases his hand, her heart breaking at the soft sound he makes. His panic swells as she steps to the side of the bed, going to the water pitcher. She pours a cup, holding it up so he can see what she’s doing. He shakes his head, making another clumsy tug at the oxygen canal and successfully moving it this time.

“Take a sip of this and I’ll bring you a strawberry milkshake later,” Garcia promises with a kind smile. “Come on, sir,” she urges. “One sip of water for your favorite milkshake?” She places the straw to his chapped lips and smiles when he takes a tentative sip.

He manages to raise his left hand, struggling to form a good hold on the cup. She lets him have it though, her palm just under it in case he drops it. “I don’t like strawberry milkshakes,” he rasps, sipping slowly at the water working numbers on his raw throat.

Garcia smiles, “I know sir.” She reaches up and lightly taps a finger against his temple, “I was just making sure they didn’t scramble your brains, that’s all.” She takes the cup back, noticing him slowly losing his grip, fighting the anesthesia still coursing through his veins.

He grins sleepily at her, eyes falling shut. “No more scrambled than usual,” he jokes softly.

She grins and takes his hand in her own, squeezing his limp fingers. “Oh, but that’s why we love you, sir.”

He nods, eyes shut as he slips back under the lingering anesthesia. “Garcia,” he mumbles, fingers curling around hers. “You don’t have to stay.”

She shakes her head, “I’m not gonna leave you back here all alone.” She looks around, he may be fighting sleep and will most likely spend his hour back here asleep but it’s creepy and she knows he wouldn’t leave her. “It’s kind of scary back here,” she admits and squeezes his hand. “And you wouldn’t leave me back here all by myself so don’t expect me to leave you.”

Hotch grumbles something under his breath she can’t quite hear but she takes it as his usual self-deprecating, overbearing nature sort of thing and lets it slip. “Get some sleep, sir.”

He doesn’t remember a word of their previous conversation.

A nurse comes in and they run through all the same old stuff. He’s given a pink bucket even though he doesn’t express he’s nauseous, still clutches it to his chest. Pink plastic rubbing against the surgical staples, he’s afraid breathing the wrong way will split him open. The morphine is making his head fuzzy, makes his dreams weird and his thoughts overwhelmingly rippled. But the world distorts a little and he sees Garica sitting there, all of the brightness in the world scribbling away on her notepad so that she can make sure he abides by every word they advise. He feels a little better with her here.

“Mmm,” he’s leaning into his side but he perks up a little when he hears the nurse say something about food. Tells them he can’t eat anything for the next forty-eight hours. His noise draws their attention, the first real reaction he’s had since this all began. “No milkshake then.”

Garcia frowns at him and then the nurse. She reaches over and squeezes his hand, “sorry, sir.”

He clears his throat, pressing the bucket harder into his stomach. “S’okay.” He really doesn’t care about that. The main concern right now is not throwing up. A battle that it feels like he won’t be winning.

“Mr. Hotchner?”

He cracks an eye open and knows that a good stretch of time has just passed. There are no markers for it within the room, the blinds are shut on the one window and there’s not a visible clock within his line of sight but intuitively he knows.

“I need to change your bandages.”

He nods, faintly able to recall this part of the healing from years ago. The constant monitoring, the bandage changes. Sucks. All of it. “Garcia?” they ask him if she can stay. He doesn’t want to do that to her but he also doesn’t want to force her away. “You don’t have to stay.” He finds her in the mix of people, around the sound of gauze being opened, and things shuffled around. “Take a break,” he manages a sliver of control. “Get some fresh air.”

She shakes her head.

“Garcia.” They’re waiting on his permission, to go on or kick her out. “Penelope,” he whispers, “you don’t have to look. You don’t want to.”

She frowns, standing to contest his nonsense head-on. “Sir, you’re one of the three most attractive men I know.” She stands there and dares him to say otherwise. He’s a good bit older than she is but she knows an attractive man when she sees one. She’s not blind.

He smirks, too loosely for it to be entirely of his volition and nothing to do with the drugs. “One of three, huh? That makes me the third?” She rolls her eyes and he waves her off, makes a motion for her to go. “Go eat, Penelope. Call Morgan. Get out of here.”

She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want him to ever leave her line of sight again but she nods and listens.

Morgan tells her everything with the Wilcox case went decently. They got the dad and the girl made it out alive. She tells him Hotch is awake, facing this new disaster with his usual stoic ways. They end the awkwardly, neither really in the headspace to play around.

He’s asleep again when she comes back. Gown askew across his shoulders, leaving his collarbones scandalously out in the open. Makes him look naked but she can’t look away. Under all those layers, suits that haven’t really changed in the decade she’s known him, he’s deceivingly pale. She can see muscle, the way it lays, and yet the soft corners of him. Years of fatherhood having worn him down in places softened him in others. He’s gained weight but this has set him back again and she realizes that if she’s looking at his too-thin body here then he’s lost weight before her eyes. How long has he been sick?

Visiting hours are over, she’s supposed to be making her goodbyes for the night. This sullen feeling in her stomach only doubles, makes her feel sick. She can’t leave him. Don’t they understand that? He’s in no state to be left by himself. “Sir?” she whispers. She touches his hand and he flinches.

His sleepy frown deepens but he hears her whisper for him again. He hums, eyelids too heavy to lift fully. “Mhmm?”

“I have to go,” she says. “Visiting hours are over.”

He hums again, nods.

She takes advantage of his current state leans down and kisses his forehead, hugs him while he lets her. “I love you, sir, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She takes a moment, his eyes still closed, to move his hair off of his forehead. “Are you okay? Will you be okay?”

He nods, swallowing thickly against the dryness in his throat. Facing the next few hours alone sounds miserable but he’s more than mastered the art of sleeping off stays in the hospital. It’s going to be a long night but not an impossible one.

“Oh,” she mumbles, “okay.” She moves to gather her stuff when she remembers the teddy bear. “Sir?”

He opens his eyes, just sliver but he’s there.

“I thought… maybe…” she places the bear in his lap. “To keep you company?”

He smirks, “thank you, Garcia.” There’s something about the way he rubs at the bear’s ear, softly and entirely content that gives her hope. He’ll be okay, she knows, but that doesn’t stop her from worrying. He looks up at her, that same lopsided grin she’s seen all afternoon. The drugs will wear off and she’ll be left without that smile again. Having to barter her way into sad grins instead.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she promises.

“Not until you’ve had breakfast,” he mumbles. “Eat first.”

She can’t help but smile even if she intends to listen. “Yes, sir.” So bossy. He’s lucky he’s cute or she’d have smacked him up the side of the head by now. She leaves, it hurts and she really, really doesn’t want to but she leaves.

He’ll be okay, she knows that.

And he is. There’s no good way to measure the day’s passing but a nurse comes in and tells it’s eight o’clock and that someone called the nurse’s desk asking for him, a name that came with a badge. Which confuses him but that really only leaves a small group of people, he assumes that means the team is back home.

It’s not them.

She gets there at nine o’clock and it’s only her badge and artfully mumbling something about Interpol that gets her back. They know he’s a federal agent and she’s betting on that. She’s always been good at poker.

He’s sleeping when she finds him, the only light in the room coming from the heart monitor. She wishes she knew how to read it, how to understand what the numbers mean so that she might be able to get a better grasp on the situation. All she knows is what Morgan told her over the phone but that seemed crazy. Hotch wasn’t even sick, Morgan said he was fine. Maybe a little off but he’s Hotch, he just simply is off.

“Emily?”

She steps into the room, following the sound of his sleep-disturbed voice.

“What’re you doing here?”

He’s obviously confused, frowning at her more than happy to see her. The morphine always gives him crazy dreams, he’s probably assuming that’s what this is. “I know I’m not your favorite,” she mumbles sarcastically, “but you don’t have to make it so abundantly clear.” With an eye roll, she sits herself down on the edge of the bed. For a moment, as his tired brain processes what she’s said, she fears what she fears every time she comes home-- that things between them have changed. That distance hasn’t made him fond but rather angry or has changed one of them so drastically that they no longer know one another.

He groans at her, shaking his head and grumbling her name in that bothered way he’s perfected over the years.

With a smile, she knows nothing has changed. He still manages to say her name like “leave me alone” meant to be taken as an endearment, an invitation to stay. “It’s okay,” she assures, tapping the back of her hand against his hip. “No hard feelings.”

He hums, not going to even bother with refuting any of her statements. That’s the beauty of their companionship, they never really have to say anything. That’s what she’s so afraid will change because she knows that if one day she comes home and he can’t read the “I love you” hidden in her sarcasm and the “please, don’t scare me like that again” in her playful proximity then that’s it. She can find the words for Reid and she’s always been able to suck up the physical comfort for Garcia or JJ but she just can’t with Hotch. She tried so hard after Foyet to be able to say something, to wrangle up comfort, but she just couldn’t.

But there was a moment, one night when the world seemed to be drowning in a rainstorm, that she woke up sick. His abdomen was still ablaze from Foyet’s attack, too fresh for him to be up and moving around. He’d followed the sound of her getting sick to the bathroom, making his slow way down the hall held upright by the wall. Moving forward only because stopping would cause him to fall. He didn’t leave her once he understood the noise just settled down on the ground beside her, back leaning on the bathtub. Neither said a word but she looked over at him and she saw all the comfort he couldn’t manage to bring to words. His worry etched across his face. She was supposed to be taking care of him and yet they’d ended up shoulder-to-shoulder waiting out a storm on the bathroom floor.

She has a fever-hazed memory of waking up with her head on his shoulder. A glass of water against her knee and the warmth of a heating pad against her stomach. No idea how he did it or when but they never spoke of it. Never had to. Somehow someone she can’t even manage to tell that she loves or that she even remotely feels concerned for turned out to be one of her closest friends. The asshole she once thought untrustworthy. He’s still an asshole but it’s one of those things that you just learn to look over.

Makes him interesting.

“So,” she says with a sigh, “you gonna scoot over or what?”

She gets another blanket out of a cabinet she sees in the corner of the room, distracts herself so that he’s certain she doesn’t see him moving. That’s what she’s talking about, there’s no communication needed. He can move himself over a little bit but it’s painful and he’s weak and he doesn’t want her to see that. She also knows he runs cold and won’t share his blankets with her. Loves her enough to share his bed but she’s yet to encounter someone he loves enough to share his blankets.

“What happened to your arm?” he can see it once she moves away again. A simple sling keeps it pinned to her chest, he assumes she’s either dislocated or been shot. Wonders why she didn’t call, why she didn’t tell anyone.

She sighs, he can’t see her roll her eyes but he knows that sigh and knows she’s done it even if he can’t see. “This prick,” she tosses the blanket on his legs as she climbs up beside him. “He kicked me, sent me down a flight of stairs.” He can tell she’s more embarrassed than hurt, which is good. She puffs out an agitated breath but despite this is very gentle as she gets closer to him. Hyperaware of the wounds she can’t see.

Her warmth is alluring, despite himself he leans closer, and she doesn’t say a word when his cheek comes to her shoulder.

“I’m okay, though,” she finally states. Moves some of her blanket over him, checks again that he’s comfortable. Which she assumes he is, or he wouldn’t be sleeping. “Clyde had given me three weeks off, told me to take a break. That’s why I came. I promise I didn’t take any unnecessary time off.”

He hums, appreciates this addition. She knew he would.

Her throat is sore where it catches the words she doesn’t know how to say. That she’s missed him terribly or that she loves him or that when Morgan told her what happened she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think or move. He takes her hand and she has to pinch her eyes shut so that she doesn’t cry and he squeezes her hand.

He’s missed her too.

He loves her.

He’s glad she came.

“Go to sleep,” she mumbles.

He hums.

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

The others come in at six, pilling into the room in dirty clothes from the day before and sore from the jet ride home. They’re too tired to speak, to do anything more than grumble and shove at one another to get through the door. As they pile in they take stock of the sight before them. Emily’s dark bruises, the black eye that the night had hidden from Hotch. Her hand still holding his. Hotch breathing, laying there entirely whole. Slowly returning to his normal colors.

They have questions, concerns to raise with both sleeping parties, but those can wait for a better hour.

They settle down in the room, squeezing together on chairs.

Morgan sees Hotch wake a little, a soft shift in his breathing.

“Back to sleep,” Morgan whispers, trying to keep the others from hearing. Hotch’s face pinches, mouth opening to ask the question Morgan already knows. “Everything went fine. Samantha is safe, no one got hurt.” He glances at Emily and shakes his head, “go back to sleep, Hotch. We’ll talk in the morning.”

And it settles once again.

Nothing but the soft sound of sleeping agents.

[springsteenicious]

WRITING PLAYLIST #2 of 5

This one is for @those70scomics‘ fic, Jackie Stargazer (ao3 / ffnet). Keep in mind, I put this together. None of these songs are approved by MistyMountainHop, I just think they fit the vibe of her excellent fic. And I would like her to know that she has veto power over this playlist, meaning that if there is a song she feels does not fit on this playlist, she can tell me to take it off :D 

I will also be adding to this as more of the story is published. Each time I add to it, I’ll make a post with the tag ‘Jackie Stargazer Playlist,’ so if you don’t want to see these, block that tag. 

Listen to the playlist on Spotify! (Let me know if that link doesn't work, Spotify was being weird.)

Number of songs on the playlist (currently): 24 songs

Bands/artists: Cheap Trick, Deep Purple, Ezra Furman, The Kinks, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Pink Floyd, Rainbow, Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow, The Dead Daisies, Black Sabbath 

Significant Songs: All. So, under the cut is my explanation for each song, or just the important lyrics. 

Downed by Cheap Trick - I’m gonna live on a mountain / way down under in Australia / it’s either that or suicide / its such a strange strain on you / Ooh, I got a mind / Over you it's not the first time / Ooh, I got a mind

Mean Streak by Deep Purple - This song is about Ro. It’s a kickass song and the lyrics fit her (and Hyde) very well. --- She drive me crazy gets inside my brain / She spun my money down the drain, ohh / So I roll over for my reward / How much can I afford? / She says, "Just a little more" --- I can't take this no more / Tried so hard but I can't get through the door / Because one smile from those eyes / And I stand there paralyzed / And she says, "You better beg for more I mean / Get down sucker you know what I like"

Perfect Strangers by Deep Purple - I am returning / The echo of a point in time / A distant face that shines --- I am the echo of your past

Black Night by Deep Purple - The whole song is relevant to Jackie. 

The Queen Of Hearts by Ezra Furman - See this post. 

Destroyer by The Kinks - Again, relevant to Jackie. --- She said, man, there's really something wrong with you / One day you’re gonna self-destruct / You're up, you're down, I cant work you out / You get a good thing going then you blow yourself out / Silly boy, ya self-destroyer / Silly boy, ya self-destroyer / Silly boy, you got so much to live for / So much to aim for, so much to try for / You blowing it all with paranoia / You're so insecure, you self-destroyer

Serve The Servants by Nirvana - Teenage angst has paid off well / Now I'm bored and old / Self-appointed judges judge / More than they have sold --- Serve the servants / That legendary divorce is such a bore / As my bones grew they did hurt / They hurt really bad / I tried hard to have a father / But instead I had a dad / I just want you to know that I / Don't hate you anymore / There is nothing I could say / That I haven't thought before

Heart-Shaped Box by Nirvana - Just. This song is so good. And can be very easily applied to JS. --- She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak / I've been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks / I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap / I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black --- Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet / Cut myself on angel hair and baby's breath / Broken hymen of Your Highness, I'm left black / Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back --- I got a new complaint / Forever in debt to your priceless advice

Rape Me by Nirvana - Self-explanatory. 

All Apologies by Nirvana - What else should I write? / I don't have the right / What else should I be? / All apologies --- I wish I was like you / Easily amused / Find my nest of salt / Everything is my fault / I'll take all the blame / Aqua Sea Foam shame / Sunburn freezer burn / Choking on the ashes of her enemy

Corduroy by Pearl Jam - This song is amazing and I could write so much about this and how it fits not just Jackie but Hyde too. If you listen to the song and follow along with the lyrics, you’ll see what I mean. 

State Of Love And Trust by Pearl Jam - State of love and trust as I busted down the pretext / Sin still plays and preaches, but to have an empty court, uh huh / And the signs are passin', grip the wheel, can't read it / Sacrifice receiving the smell that's on my hands, hands, yeah / And I listen for the voice inside my head / Nothin', I'll do this one myself

Once by Pearl Jam - I admit it / What's to say / I'll relive it / Without pain / Backstreet lover on the side of the road / I got a bomb in my temple that is gonna explode --- Once upon a time / I could control myself / Ooh, once upon a time / I could lose myself, yeah / Oh, try and mimic / What's insane / I am in it / Where do I stand? --- Ooh, once upon a time / I could love myself, yeah / Once upon a time / I could love you

Release by Pearl Jam - Again, relevant to Jackie. Just look at the lyrics. 

Black by Pearl Jam - Like Corduroy, if you follow the lyrics while listening you’ll see why I put this on the playlist. 

Paranoid Eyes by Pink Floyd - You believed in their stories of fame, fortune and glory / Now you're lost in a haze of alcohol soft middle age / The pie in the sky turned out to be miles too high / And you hide, hide, hide / Behind brown and mild eyes

The Thin Ice by Pink Floyd - Again, Jackie. And again, just pay attention to the lyrics. 

Stargazer by Rainbow - I will be completely honest with you, I chose this mostly for the title. The song is kind of a stretch, but if you look at the lyrics a certain way, the wizard is kind of Hyde. Anyway, I kept it on the list for the chorus(es): Where is your star? / Is it far, is it far, is it far? / When do we leave? / I believe, yes, I believe

Still I’m Sad by Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow - See the stars come fallin down the sky / Gently passing, they kiss your tear drops dry / See the wind come, softly blow / Your hair from your face --- For myself my tears just fall in the dust / As I search in the night and find they're lost / See the wind come gently blow / Time into my heart / And the rain comes falling down / While were apart / Still I'm sad

Unspoken by The Dead Daisies - Mostly because the lyrics fit, also there is a Degenerate Matter song with this same title --- In the oneness now you realize / Lost your compass and I sympathize / In the darkness now you fade to grey / In the stillness you will make your way / Oh, I can hear you breathe / Unspoken, you gotta let go / Unspoken, you're out in the glow / Unbroken, you let it all flow

Like No Other (Bassline) by The Dead Daisies - Don't breathe in the air on the dark side / It's a lie, you will go insane / You fall down, down deep in the landslide / Who am I, who am I? / You lose your head in the music / Move up and kiss the sky / You slip away and refuse it / Do or die, do or die

Come Alive by The Dead Daisies - Come alive / You can start over / Now take me by the hand and come alive / Gotta break your malady / You got to live your life free / So come alive

Resurrected by The Dead Daisies - Stare in the mirror, lines on my face, yeah / I wonder where the time has gone / It's been a long hard road out from the grave / But I keep a moving on / I been up, down, turned around / Kicked hard to the ground / Keep a coming back again / From the ashes, from the flame / I'm here to light the fire again / I'm back, resurrected

Paranoid by Black Sabbath - Sadly, this is yet another Jackie song. --- I need someone to show me / The things in life that I can't find / I can't see the things that make / True happiness, I must be blindMake a joke and I will sigh / And you will laugh and I will cry / Happiness I cannot feel / And love to me is so unreal

If you have questions about the songs or don't get why I put them on, feel free to ask!

[teawithkpop]

[M] - PhysCom - Pt 5

pt 1 - pt 2 - pt 3 - bc 1 - pt 4 - pt 5 - pt 6

Pairing: BTS - OT7 x Reader

Rating: Mature [18+]

Length: 9.1k words

Genre: PhysCom AU - smut with dashes of angst, and a shitload of romance and complicated feelings,, uhuhu (porn with plot??)

Warnings: mentions of sexual acts, swearing, mentions of sexual abuse/manipulation, mentions of non-consensual sex - (these are both mentioned very briefly in the chapter and do not center around any of our main characters, but please be cautious if this is a sensitive topic for you!)

*meme voice* ah shit, here we go again.

thank you everyone for your patience regarding this update!! <3 I appreciate you for waiting patiently and for all your love in the meantime! I hope you enjoy ^^

-------

"Please, will you take this vacation?"

You stare at Namjoon, at the desperation written on his face as he begs you to accept his offer, and a war wages within your heart.

On the one hand, you have no good reason to believe him, not after you’d heard him and his members discussing you behind your back like they did. The key could be a fake, his little theory could be a ruse to let your guard down so you won’t put up a fight when he finally sends you packing.

On the other hand, you’ve never had reason to doubt Namjoon up until an hour ago. He seems to have always looked out for you, always appreciated your work. This could be a genuine plea for your cooperation in a bigger picture, like he claims.

But the shadow of doubt still covers you. The sound of him and his boys squabbling so carelessly, taking a vote on your future. You can’t let that memory go so easily.

“Never trust your client. They will only betray you in the end.” The words of Madame run through your mind again, as if confirming your fears.

You want to believe Namjoon. But you need to protect yourself before anything else.

You slowly break away from his grasp, taking the key and tucking it into a pocket on your belt. “Kim Namjoon...” you say, your eyes cast downwards.

He seems more relaxed now that you’ve taken his peace offering, and he tilts his head to the side, listening intently. “Yes?”

Your brain claws desperately at a strategy, at anything you could use as leverage. But all you have are words. What can you say? What protection do you have left? You’re putting yourself at his mercy.

“During my time in this house... I have learned many things about you and your members. Things I don’t think you want the public to find out about.”  Lies. He knows it. You know it. The only secrets you know are their kinks, which aren’t exactly damning to their characters. Even if you did have dirt on them, who would listen to you? 

You continue, though your voice sounds uncertain, even to your own ears. “If you’re lying to me about any of this, then I swear...  I’ll do what I have to, and... ensure that you pay for your mistake.” You try to imbue strength and determination into your words, but your heart isn’t in it, and you’re sure he can tell. You can’t even meet his eyes. You have no fight left in you. You’re like a frightened animal that’s been backed into a corner.

Fuck. You’re just so tired of this, of everything. You’ve been through too much recently with not even a moment to catch your breath, and you’re just… exhausted. You’ve tried, you really have. You’ve done your best, you’ve gone down swinging. But you can’t do it anymore, it’s all too much...

You feel numb as Namjoon wraps you into his arms. When did he come over to your side of the table? You don’t remember, you can’t think clearly.

“It’s okay.” Namjoon’s breath is warm against your cheek. “You can rest now.”

Can he read your mind? You must look so pathetic, your body shaking as he holds you tightly, like you might float away.

But right now, you don’t care. He’s seen you at your worst already. You choke on a quiet sob and your fingers twitch, longing to reach up and hold him, to reciprocate...

“Alright, has everything been sorted?” Yeji’s arrival carries away those ideas, and Namjoon pulls away from you with a gentle pat to your shoulder.

“I believe it has,” he says, and he stands up to greet her as the two of them start to wrap up the details of your agreement. Their words turn to buzzing as the rest of the meeting passes by in a blur. You're too dazed to pay attention, too numb to feel anything but a vague sense of resignation as papers are signed, handshakes are given, and your fate is placed in his hands.

Before you know it, you’re back up in your room again. Whatever farewell that Namjoon had probably wished you as you shut the door had fallen on deaf ears. You can’t process anything more right now.

-------

The first few hours of your sentence pass by in silence, tears slowly trickling down your face as you lay on your bed. Your brain slowly works through its state of catastrophe. Dimly, you worry that you might never pick up all the pieces. Some have blown away in the recent whirlwind of disaster, some are stained, irreparable, all of them worn from being taped and glued back together, over and over again.

You feel broken.

Is this what they wanted? To break you?

You roll over onto your other side, uselessly wiping the tears from your face as fresh ones spring to your eyes to replace them.

You know, somewhere inside yourself, that you can’t just sit here and throw a pity party all week. But damn it, it’s been a while.

You just need a little time. Soon, you’ll be back on your feet, you tell yourself. You’ll bounce back, just like always. You’ve never failed before.

But what if you do? What if you fail yourself, fail the boys? Fail your family, yet again? You want to curl up and never move for the rest of your life. The craggy void of failure at your feet has you nearly paralyzed, afraid to misstep. Afraid to get that last strike and finally be sent home.

You groan. You’re so exhausted and frustrated of picking yourself apart like this. There's no point in agonizing over what ifs.

You’re here. You’ve arrived at rock bottom. Now the question is where to go?

It feels eerily calm as you sit up in bed and survey your surroundings. No noise pierces the utter stillness of your bedroom apart from your own breathing. It’s stifling.

By now, it has to have been at least a full day since you came upstairs, right? You feel like you’ve been laying on this bed for ages. You grab your ComGear to check the time, and whimper in despair.

It’s only noon. About two hours since the meeting.

After another brief bout of agony at this revelation, you take a second look at the screen and are surprised to see over a hundred notifications. You expect it to be due to the group chat, but a fair amount of them are actually from your clients. You don’t bother to open each conversation, but merely look over their previews - the most recent messages they sent you.

[   Kim Seokjin   ]: please try to get some rest, alright? [  Jung Hoseok  ]: I’m sorry… truly. please enjoy your time off. [     Park Jimin    ]: just let me know! ^^; [  Kim Namjoon  ]: Promise. [    Min Yoongi    ]: you know where to find me [  Kim Taehyung ]: enjoy your vacation, jagiya~ ♡ [ Jeon Jungkook ]: are you coming down for lunch?

All of them messaged you, but it doesn’t make you feel any better. It hurts to see them pretend like everything’s fine and see if that makes it better somehow. It looks like most of them didn’t even try to apologize for what they did to you. Maybe you really aren’t that important to them after all.

Could they see through your attempts to befriend them all this time? Did all of their kindness to you mean nothing? Is that how they treat all of their employees?

You feel tears threatening again, and you wish you had a friend to talk to about all this.

Then it occurs to you that maybe… you do.

You flick over to the group chat, where you see that the other PhysComs are now talking about some webtoon and sending memes to each other. You tap on Sascha’s profile again. The same page greets you, the same blank profile picture and call button as before.

Yeji had said that the chat was real. If that's true, then the people in it must be who they claim they are, right? You do trust Yeji’s word, but you need to find out for yourself. You’ll never be able to fully accept this undercover group chat as a reliable resource until you know for sure.

Hey, if you’re suspended anyway, what’s the harm right? What are they going to do, fire you?

You bark out a sob of a laugh, and your finger hits the button before you can stop yourself. Yes, this might be a bad idea, and yes, you shouldn’t risk putting yourself out there on the hope that it’ll connect you to a friend, but you need to know the truth. You’ll feel better if you know that there’s still someone in this world that truly understands you.

It rings. And rings.

As the ominous buzzing stretches on through the silence, your worry starts to return. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. If the chat room is somehow compromised, you might have just given yourself away, someone high up in the industry could be tracking your location at this very moment from your cell signal or something, or maybe-

“Hello?” Sascha’s voice rings clear as a bell through the phone, and you almost start crying right then and there with relief.

“Sascha?” You can barely utter her name as all your memories of training together hit you like a sucker punch in your already fragile state.

“Oh! Hey, sweetie! How’s it going?” she replies in her chipper way, a smile in her tone.

“... It’s really you,” you whisper, pressing your fist to your pursed lips to keep your emotions at bay. “Sasch.”

“Of course it’s me, silly goose.” Her laugh is bright and airy, just like you remember it. “Who else would it be?”

You wait a beat, scouring your mind for a test to prove your paranoia wrong, just in case. “What… what did I give to you on our last day together?” You ask imperatively, waiting with bated breath for her answer.

It was not something either of you would easily forget, though most people probably would. It’s also the best test you can think of, as anyone else would assume such an important day would go hand in hand with a meaningful keepsake or an important gift.

“A sandwich,” she laughs. “Pastrami and mustard on rye. You shared it with me to celebrate reaching our target weight that month. Though you never let me pay you back. I would have preferred ham, you know.”

Your shoulders visibly relax. It’s Sascha, all right. Compliments and complaints in the same breath. It’s as if hearing her voice, hearing the confirmation that it’s really her, turns on a faucet inside you that had long since dried up.

“Sascha… so much has happened.”

You didn’t fully realize how lonely and isolated you’ve been until this very moment, now that you have some true company. Your story comes spilling out, every sordid detail, and Sascha listens attentively to what you have to say, just like she used to during your training days.

“So, now I’m in my room, and… I don’t even know how I’m going to get through today, let alone a whole week,” you confess, hugging your stuffed rabbit to your chest.

“Let me get this straight.” A while into the call, you’d switched to video chat, and Sascha appears to be doing some yoga stretches while catching up with you. “You have seven men in that house, all of whom you’re supposed to pleasure sexually, and they’re giving you a paid break from pleasuring them?”

You nod. “Awful, isn’t it?”

Sascha’s face twists. “You know, I think you may be viewing this all wrong.”

Your brows furrow. “Excuse me?”

“Hear me out for a second,” she continues, now angling her warrior pose so she’s facing her camera. “When was the last time you had a real break?” She quirks an eyebrow, dipping out of frame to switch poses, her blonde hair spilling over one shoulder in a loose braid. “One where you didn’t even think about work?”

You stare blankly at the camera. You’ve had no such days. You’re always looking to improve yourself to maintain your high marks. “Um…”

Sascha laughs and flashes you a fond smile. “You were the same way in training. You know how many days a week I work?”

You feel shame start to curl in your gut. “How many?”

“Three,” she replies. “And the reason why is because we have like six Primary PCs here at the dorm.” She blows a stray lock of hair out of her face. “There are thirteen boys to satisfy at any given moment, so we each only tackle two to three at a time, and our coverage is considered thin! Most groups have at least one Primary per client.” She reaches down to touch her toes, her ass shimmying in the air, and you snort. “And that’s not even counting our Secondaries! We're practically a fucking harem over here!”

You sigh, chewing on your lip crankily. “What’s your point?”

She pokes her head up to shoot you an equally cranky glare. “Remind me, how many boys do you tackle?”

“Seven,” you mumble. You know what she’s getting at, but it’s something you don’t want to admit, even to yourself. Maybe… objectively… you do need a break, even if you don’t want one. Maybe you’ve been overworking yourself, biting off - or in this case, perhaps swallowing - more than you can chew.

“Right! That’s half the amount of our clients. Doing the math, you should have at least three Primaries there, but it’s just you.” You see Sascha’s leg rise up behind her in some sort of bizarre stretch, and her voice sounds strained with the effort of holding the pose. “I’m not saying you can’t handle it, babes. I’m just saying that... you do a lot for them. Maybe this will be good for you.”

Hearing someone put it so rationally makes you feel like maybe you’ve been overreacting. Namjoon did tell Yeji he wants to keep you, but it all still seems... off, somehow.

“What about the whole vote thing? And Namjoon’s deal?” You bring up your last few defenses at her argument, your hand resting subconsciously on the pocket of your belt containing the key to his studio.

“Oh no, that’s all highly suspicious.” Sascha blows a lock of hair out of her face as she comes back up and lifts her arms over her head. “But what’s happened has already happened. So I think you should make the best of it, and take this time to rejuvenate yourself. Just keep an eye out, and if those bastards try anything, you send them to me.”

You laugh. “Rejuvenate? How am I supposed to do that?” You roll your eyes at her playfully. “Yoga?”

Sascha props a hand on her hip. “Don’t joke. Yoga is a very valid form of rejuvenation.”

You giggle at her stoicism and she cracks a smile too before continuing. “But seriously, honey! It breaks my heart that you’ve been working so hard, you don’t even remember how to have fun. Come on, what did you do in your training days to relax?”

You think back and try to remember. Most of your memories from training are a blur of hard work, endless studying and practice. You’re about to confess that you really have no idea, when a single memory breaks to the surface, and like a dam, it releases a flood of other times you’d taken breaks. Sneaking out to get snacks, late night adventures, stargazing on the rooftop, all of the rare little pockets of time that you could call your own, and they all had one connecting factor.

“Music,” you breathe, feeling like you just stepped out of a time warp. “Listening to music, really, really loudly.”

Sascha laughs, a proud smile adorning her dimpled cheeks. “I think you know how to kick off your vacation, then.”

You find yourself grinning, too. “Thanks, Sasch.” You feel like maybe you should stay on the line a bit longer. You two really have some catching up to do, even though once you’d started talking, it had felt like no time had passed since you’d last seen her.

But Sascha makes your decision for you, blowing you a kiss. “There are tons of music streaming apps. Go crazy. And call me if you need anything, okay?”

The simple act of her being supportive of your wellbeing has you feeling overwhelmed all over again, but this time, it’s not from emotional distress. “Thanks, Sascha. Same to you.”

You’re about to end the call when you hear a door open on Sascha’s end of the line. She looks off camera and a smile pops up on her face. “Antione, come over here!” She yells, running off screen and returning a moment later, dragging a boy behind her, who seems to be grumbling in protest of her manhandling. “Antione, say hi! This is Antione from the group chat.”

The guy seems more than a little ticked off at Sascha, but when he catches sight of you on the screen, his mouth falls open.

“Oh… hello.” He flashes a smile, and his icy blue eyes are now filled with wonderment. “You’re the Primary for BTS?”

“Hi,” You wave a little awkwardly. “Yup, that’s me.” You can’t help noticing how strikingly similar he and Sascha look. With those crystal eyes and buttery blonde hair, you could mistake them for twins, the only difference being Antione’s thinly framed glasses next to Sascha’s 20/20 vision. But you suppose he wouldn’t really need glasses to have sex, they’d surely get knocked around or broken if he left them on. He probably wears contacts for work.

In fact, his similar appearance to his coworker can’t be a coincidence, especially if they’re both Primaries for their clients, and it leads you to believe that perhaps all of their Primaries bear a resemblance to each other, so that any combination of fuck dolls could be considered a set. From this, you suspect that their clients may be into incestuous role play, or perhaps they like the idea of fucking someone’s “sibling”.

Not concrete evidence, but it’s not a far reach. You’ve seen plenty of stranger kinks.

You’ll have to ask Sascha about it on your next call with her, as you’re sure she’ll ask you more about what things your clients usually request of you. With one girl among seven men, she might presume that they enjoy gangbanging you.

She wouldn’t be wrong, of course.

Kink talk was a common pastime among your peers during your training. You all had been trained to analyze a person, what makes them tick, and how it’s related to their psyche. It had always fascinated you from an academic standpoint, even though some of your fellow trainees would prefer hearing about the dirtiest cases, regardless of the psychological factors that went into it.

“Is all going well? You feeling any better about all this?” Antione’s kind voice tears you out of your thoughts, and you give him a brief, grateful smile.

“I’m getting there,” you reply. “Thank you for all your help. It’s been… a lot to take in, and I’m glad that you recognized that, and helped me ease into it.”

“Not a problem. I’ve been in that position before, and it takes some adjusting, for sure,” he replies.

“That’s what she said.” Sascha snickers. “Alright, stop flirting, you two!” She shoves Antione offscreen, and the boy yelps at once again being pushed around. “Call me if you need me, babes! Have fun! Bye!”

Sascha reaches over and ends the call, and you’re once more on your own. But you don’t feel as isolated as before.

As long as you have your ComGear, you’ll never be alone again.

The thought makes you feel warm inside, though you scold yourself for being so sentimental. You need to recharge, or how did Sascha put it? Rejuvenate.

It doesn’t take long for you to find a decent music streaming app, though it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore the buzzing as your clients keep messaging you. You realize that the notifications might interrupt your music once it starts playing, so you reluctantly open all their chat threads, only to mute them.

There. Now it won’t buzz anymore. They shouldn’t care if you left them on read. They want you to rest, right? You huff derisively and start searching the vast music library, trying to recall what you used to listen to back in the day to pump yourself up.

It dawns on you while you browse that you haven’t listened to any music for the past six months, apart from whatever the boys are rehearsing at any given time. The sound always reaches you whenever they practice, even if they’re rooms away. Though their songs aren’t too bad, they’re still not something you had chosen to listen to.

You hadn’t taken any time to be yourself, since you were so busy trying to be what they want from you.

You feel a vague sort of sadness when you think about it like that, imagining it happening to someone else, but you’re too subjective of the situation to really feel sad for yourself. You hadn’t take time for yourself, however you still climbed the ranks, earned their favor, became their only Primary. You’d achieved your goals.

But at what cost, asks a little voice in your head. What did you lose to win your dream job?

And are you even happy with it? Or is it just the satisfaction that you crave? The satisfaction that you would feel after achieving any other goal? The satisfaction of a job well done?

You shake your head. Whoa there. Too deep.

This is the most mental airspace you’ve had in forever, and it’s starting to show.

You don’t waste any more time trying to remember your old favorites, and instead tap on a “Hot 100 Hits” playlist. It’ll be interesting to see what people are listening to now. Maybe you’ll find some new favorites.

Sure enough, the first song that comes on is a pop rock tune, with a catchy beat and heavy drums. It makes you bob your head and you feel a surge of instant regret at not making more time for music. You’d forgotten how it can take you somewhere else, clear your mind and help you forget all your worries in a way that sex never can.

You’re a bit jarred when the lyrics kick in, though. They don’t rhyme at all, and they seem a little… stilted, like a robot is trying to sing. Damn, is this what kids are listening to these days? You knew that those singing hologram voice programs used to be a thing, but this seems almost unintentional.

You check the screen and sure enough, it’s a Korean title staring back up at you.

Your auditory auto-translation chip is changing the song into verbatim English.

You start to laugh. The unintended consequence strikes you as ridiculous. It seems that reminders of your job are everywhere.

With a sigh of exasperation, you head into the settings of your ComGear and access the language screen. You turn off the auditory auto-translation, and the song reverts back to the original lyrics, which are much easier on the ears.

Now that that’s taken care of, you turn the music on full blast and stand up.

Alright. Music, check. Now... how to leisure?

You look around and assess your room. It’s relatively tidy, and cleaning it won’t take more than ten minutes. You could work out, you have plenty of equipment. But that’s what you usually do on your days off. Improve yourself for work the next day.

What would Sascha say? Maybe… guilty pleasures? You put your mind to coming up with the most self-indulgent thing you can imagine.

Of course, you immediately think of chocolate.

But you’re not really hungry. To be honest, your stomach is still a little knotted up from the meeting.

Maybe not that kind of self-indulgence. You’ll just feel guilty afterwards. Maybe… maybe something pointless. Something that’s fun just for the sake of being fun.

You whirl around and take a long look at your bed as the music sweeps into the chorus.

Fuck, why not? Who’s going to stop you?

You climb onto the mattress and start jumping. You feel pretty silly at first, but the longer you jump, the lighter your worries feel. It’s as if you’re leaving them in the air with every bounce. The music blasts from your night table and you get a little bolder with your jumps, really putting power into them.

You’re lucky you have high ceilings, as you go higher and higher, you could swear you’re flying. You start to laugh, throwing some twirls into your leaps, and as the music blares, you sing along, off-key and with nonsensical phonetic lyrics.

Your cheeks hurt by the end of the song, and you’re out of breath, giggles falling from your lips as you finally jump down into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

When was the last time you jumped on the bed like this? Must have been when you were young, with your sister.

You feel the same dull ache you always feel when you think of her, though you normally make it a point not to do so. The memory must have slipped past your defenses while you were enjoying yourself.

Lost in your thoughts, you almost don’t hear the insistent pounding at your door, the music and thick walls muffling the sound. You had mistaken the noise for part of the lyrics, as they sounded like gibberish to you. But finally you noticed the person trying to get your attention, and you hurry over to the door as they continue to speak in tongues.

“Neo geogi an-e issni? Yah, mun-eul yeol-eola.”

You pull open the door and are met with the unreadable face of Min Yoongi.

“Gwaenchanh-a? Jeonhwaleul an bad-eusyeossneyo.” He continues to drawl in gibberish, and you merely stare at him, immensely confused.

It clicks for you a moment later, and you hold up a finger to him. “Um, hana… uh, shit, one sec.”

He gives you an equally confused look, and you hasten back to your ComGear to turn the auto-translate back on as well as pause the music. “There, that should do it.” You turn around to see him peering curiously at you.

“You were speaking English,” he says it halfway between a question and a statement. He must be used to hearing you speaking auto-translated Korean, just like you’re used to hearing his words in English.

“Yeah... I forgot to turn my translator back on.” You explain halfheartedly, your shields already locking back into their familiar place. It was a nice, if brief, moment of total freedom, just jumping around to music, but the carefree bubble has popped, and you're once more faced with reality.

Yoongi's eyebrow raises at the mention of the technology, but he merely shrugs a shoulder.

A few awkward moments of silence pass before you realize that he isn't going to explain himself on his own. Something about that, about the expectation for you to move things along, has your hackles raised in irritation.

Just like always, he's expecting you to do all the work.

"Did you need something?" You try to stay professional, even now, but you can't keep the edge out of your voice. All traces of your previous enjoyment have shriveled up and vanished in the face of the man who told your other clients that you were something replaceable.

He prods his cheek with his tongue, his face mask shifting from where it rests below his lips. "You weren't answering your phone," he says by way of an answer.

You stare at him, already growing weary of this interaction. Does he expect you to be as accessible as you were before? You don't plan on contacting any of them if you can help it, at least, not for right now.

Wait, did Namjoon tell them what happened? He must have. But if he didn't, then maybe that's why Yoongi is here. There’s no point in having any more misunderstandings; you have to make the situation clear.

"I'm suspended." Your voice grows quiet, and you look off into the hallway, shame coloring your cheeks. You know you shouldn't be, but you still feel a sting from vocalising your current demotion.

Yoongi gives a hum of affirmation, confirming that he already knew, as his eyes roam over your body. "Forbidden fruit..."

You tense, your body reacting involuntarily to his offhand comment as heat rushes to your core. Your most primal senses want him to give into the temptation and pin you against the wall... No, snap out of it. You’re still mad at him, no matter how attractive he may be.

But thankfully the moment of tension passes just as quickly, and his gaze returns to your face. "It’s a shame I already ate, unlike some people.” A flicker of humor in his eyes. “Here."

He hands you a paper bag, with a takeout logo on the front. You can't do anything but stare at it. It seems that your processors are still down for maintenance.

“You didn’t have breakfast.” Yoongi finally says, after it becomes clear you aren’t saying anything. “You’ve been up here since the meeting.”

It finally dawns on you, though the logical conclusion seems hard to believe. “You were… concerned about me?”

He tugs the face mask up over his mouth, concealing most of his expression. “Jungkook,” he corrects you with a slight cough. “He sent me up here. Poor kid was worried sick about you.”

You hesitate to take the food, even though your stomach is curling with hunger. Is this an attempted peace offering? Does he think this will make things better?

Before you can question his motives, he sighs and shoves the bag towards you. “Take it. You still have to eat, you know.”

You’re tired of fighting, and take the path of least resistance by accepting the bag. “Thanks,” you say, half-hoping that this will be the end of it and he’ll just leave. But the other half still holds the whimsical notion that he actually cared enough to check up on you.

“It’s fine,” Yoongi shrugs again, looking off to the side.

You'd only ever known Min Yoongi as a salacious dom, stuffing you full and showering you in filthy praises. It feels surreal to be standing here now, holding a normal conversation.

After another moment, it becomes clear that his business here isn’t finished, and quite frankly, you’re getting impatient. “Is there anything else?”

At this, he seems to remember his reason for coming. “Ah, yeah. Can I come in?”

Into your room? You blink in dismay, the answer should be obvious to him. “No.”

You think you can see his mouth lift into a smile beneath the mask. “Good. That’s the spirit.” He gives a slight nod, as if appraising your disobedience.

You aren’t sure if this is normal behavior for him, as you’ve barely spoken to him out of character. You know probing him about it will only drag out this interaction, but your curiosity gets the better of you. “What… what are you talking about?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m just glad to see that you have some backbone. You’re usually so willing to follow orders.”

You bristle at this. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. It would have looked like a challenge if it had been more deliberate, but the way Yoongi carries himself is effortlessly casual and careless. "He gave you his key, right?"

It takes you a moment to discern that he’s talking about Namjoon. You nod once, and he scoffs.

"I knew he would. Poetic bastard." Yoongi sighs, then fixes his gaze to you once more. “That means I have to share my studio with him until all this is fixed.” He clicks his tongue in annoyance.

You aren’t sure how to reply, or if he’s even looking for one. If he wants an apology from you, he’s out of luck. Namjoon’s questionable decisions are not your fault.

But he doesn’t wait for any words from you, and instead turns around to go back downstairs. “Anyway, enjoy your break.”

“Wait.” You aren’t sure why you stop him. Maybe because he doesn’t seem like the type to bullshit you. “Min Yoongi.”

He pauses and looks over his shoulder at the sound of his name, an indiscernible expression in his eyes.

Your resolve turns to steel, using the last ounce of your strength to try and get some answers. “Tell me what’s going on. Why is he doing this?”

Yoongi glances up to the ceiling as though thinking of what to say.

His next words do not inspire confidence.

“I have no fucking idea.”

Your shoulders slump down a fraction. You aren’t sure you believe him, but it’s too much effort to hope for anything beyond his word. You can’t handle any more disappointment right now.

Yoongi scratches the side of his temple and gives a weary sigh. “If I could look inside his mind, then maybe I’d have a clue...” He stares at you intently, and his gaze trails down over your body again. You resist the urge to cover yourself, though now you realize you don’t have to resist. Your body doesn’t belong to him right now, and it won’t for the next several days.

Your arms cross themselves protectively over your chest, testing the waters of your newfound independence. “My eyes are up here, byeongsin.”

His eyes widen a fraction at your cheek. He tugs the face mask down below his chin again, a bewildered smile twitching onto his face, no doubt surprised to hear you cursing him out in Korean. “Who taught you that?”

“Taehyung.” You smirk, proud of yourself for catching him off guard for once. You remember when Tae had told you how surreal it sounded to hear you swearing in his language.

“Doesn’t it sound the same?” You ask him, confusion furrowing your brow. “The translator…”

Taehyung shakes his head, grinning from ear to ear and practically bouncing from excitement. “It sounds different! Like… like you have an accent,” he giggles. “Say it again.”

“Shibal.” You repeat the word hesitantly, the syllables feeling strange on your tongue. Mouth shapes for Korean are so different compared to English.

Taehyung bursts into a fit of laughter, clutching his sides as he rolls onto his back. You whack him with a couch cushion. “That’s not fair! You already know all the English profanities.”

Tae’s eyes dance with laughter as he sits back up. “All thanks to Namjoon-hyung. Shit, bastard, damn it to hell, and of course...” He sticks out his tongue, running it over his lips. “Fuck you.”

There’s a flutter in your stomach from the look he’s giving you. You snort and whack him with the pillow again. “Yup, you got all the highlights.”

His hand slides over your thigh. You meet his gaze, that flutter returning as you see the lust swirling like smoke in his pupils. “Jagiya...” His hand grazes farther up your thigh. “I want to fuck you.”

Things had obviously escalated after that, and you might have gotten lost in the memories if Yoongi hadn’t let out a low chuckle, bringing you back to the moment. “Wow. What else did he teach you?”

You grin, about to let loose a string of foul language, but he holds up a hand before you can, waving off whatever you’re about to say. “Nah, forget it. Leave it a surprise.”

“I’m full of them, you know.” You can’t help feeling a little proud.

“I know.” He stares at you for another moment before turning and heading downstairs. “Make sure to eat,” he calls over his shoulder, and soon enough his footsteps fade away.

A warm feeling fills your chest in his absence, and you can’t quite explain why. His last words prove that he must care about you a little, even if he doesn’t try to show it. The Yoongi you just spoke with feels like a completely different person than the one you overheard in the kitchen. Different even than the one at dinner, who suggested Seokjin should use another slut in your absence.

The memory taints the feeling of warmth, and you sigh. Why are things so fucking complicated?

You head back into your room and devour the takeout with less grace than would be expected for a seductress such as yourself, and mindlessly scroll through your ComGear, which is now more of a standard cellphone, exploring all the newly accessible features.

You’ve missed a lot of news, both locally and globally. Celebrity gossip. Politics. Entertainment.

Wait, whoa. What?

New Witness “B” Comes Forward About Sexual Manipulation in the K-Pop Industry

Sorry, what?

You click the article, your mind reeling with morbid fascination. Why would there still be any “manipulation” now that groups are given PhysComs? Why would they need any other sexual outlet, when they’re given vessels that are willing to serve?

  Our witness, who wishes to remain anonymous, has independently corroborated with Witness A’s story. “B” has told us that, like “A”, they weren’t given a choice when it came to filming private sessions with their clients.

  “[Group] told me that it was my job. That it was what I was there for. But they filmed me without my consent. They posted the videos online and made money from it. It’s not right. I got out, but there are still others like me who need help. It shouldn’t matter that sex work is against the law. What these people are doing, taking advantage of us… it should be just as illegal. We need a voice, too.”

  You may recall that Witness A’s shocking story from earlier this month sparked rumors about illegal sexual companions being provided to entertainment companies, a practice which up until now had been considered hearsay.

  However, with this new testimony, it seems that “A” may have had some truth to their story. We tried to contact [Group]’s agency, but they were unavailable for comment.

Holy shit… you had no idea any of this was happening. Thinking on it, it stands to reason that not every PhysCom is treated equally, given the vast multitude of people who have access to them. But where are these PhysComs’ handlers? Why aren’t their networks helping them?

You find polarizing comments beneath the article, most angry that the companies would allow the sex work to take place, very few praising B’s decision to speak out, and some disbelieving that PhysComs even exist. There are also a few very lengthy comments that catch your eye, demonizing the witnesses and making threats towards other companies, should the commenter’s “oppas” be caught in this scandal, too.

You feel uneasy as you click away from the article. The rest of the takeout is put away in your mini fridge, your appetite gone as you try to make sense of things.

That article gives you the feeling that something is happening, not just here in this house, but in the world. Like floating pieces of a magnetic puzzle, you know they’ll all come together somehow, eventually, but you still can’t see the big picture.

You send the article to the group chat, and they confirm that they’ve seen it.

[ PCsv02_svt  ]: scary, right? TT-TT [ PCsv02_svt  ]: I don’t know what I’d do if I were them, poor thing [ PCsv03_twc ]: they should’ve gone to the police [ PCsv04_blp  ]: why did they wait until now to come forward? [ PCsv03_twc ]: if my clients ever treated me badly I would have done something [ PCsv09_$px ]: it’s not always that simple [ PCsv01_svt  ]: yes consider the repercussions… [ PCsv01_svt  ]: an illegal sex worker reporting nonconsensual sex? [ PCsv01_svt  ]: that’s like a robber reporting another robbery

You mull over this as you let them debate the topic. You imagine what it must be like to be in that position, taken advantage of by your clients… you shiver at the cold injustice of it.

There is a certain degree of trust that's employed in any kind of sex work. You're still offering intimacy in some form, which can't be fully given without trust. It must be utterly horrific to see that trust broken and be unable to stop it.

You want to help these people somehow, but right now you need to help yourself. One sea of turmoil at a time.

You click out of the chat and switch to each conversation with your clients, copy and pasting the same message to each of them.

Please don't contact me for the rest of the day. I need time alone.

Since you're suspended, you figure they can't punish you for making yourself unavailable. Though it pains you to think of them relying on the other PhysComs at their disposal. Seokjin already has. You forcibly push away the thoughts every time they bounce against your mind.

With the boys out of the way, you assess your options. You need more information about what the hell is happening, and the most likely place you'll find it is obvious. What did Yoongi say? If he could look inside Namjoon's mind… then he'd have an idea.

You happen to have the key to his mind right in your belt.

-------

It's surprisingly difficult to sneak out of the house without alerting anyone. You left your door locked and music blaring. Between that and the text you sent, you thought leaving from your window would be a piece of cake.

You neglected to account for the height.

Your room is on the third story, too far to jump without damaging yourself. Thankfully, you've seen enough movies to have the idea of fashioning a rope out of extra bed sheets. Unfortunately, bed sheets are not the best rope material. Too slippery.

You mull over what to do for a few moments, and you laugh out loud when you realize that the solution is absurdly simple. Hello? You have literal ropes in among your sex toys. Even better, they're designed not to give the user rope burn, while still knotting like a dream.

It doesn't take long to shimmy down from your window to ground level, and you stash the end of the rope behind some bushes, planning to use it later to return to your forbidden tower.

Disguised in a hoodie, you feel like a spy in an action movie, or a runaway princess, and the thought makes you giggle as you make your way towards the nearest subway station.

It's been too long since you've ventured out of the house. You had nearly forgotten how invigorating the bustle of the city could be. You feel like you’re breathing fresh air for the first time in ages, though the pollution in the distant sky would say otherwise.

It only takes a quick search on your jailbroken ComGear to find the address of the building where Namjoon's studio is located. BigHit Entertainment.

You'll have to be careful not to encounter the others. They probably frequent their record label, and the last thing you need is to bump into one of them. You would have no explanation for yourself as to why you're here. You'd rather avoid the questions.

Unfortunately, it proves harder than you’d think to get into the building. A fingerprint ID scanner meets you just inside the auxiliary door.

Fuck. It’s too much to hope that they have your prints in their database, right? You place your thumb over the scanner, and it buzzes, the sensor light turning red. No go.

Well shit, what are you supposed to do now? You’ve come all this way, and you wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Namjoon’s stupid key.

Wait, why the hell did he give you the key if he knew you couldn’t get into the building? Bastard. You groan and kick at the base of the door. You try your prints again, but none of your fingers grant you access, the scanner buzzing mockingly with each failed attempt.

You’re about to give up when you hear a voice behind you. “Here, let me.”

You swivel around and see Jeon Jungkook place his thumb on the scanner, a to-go cup in his hand and a duffle bag on his shoulder. The light turns green and the door whooshes aside to let him in. The lift in his brows tells you he recognizes you through your flimsy disguise, but he merely gestures for you to go ahead. You sheepishly walk through, knowing better than to question this stroke of good fortune.

Or bad fortune, as it turns out.

"What are you doing here?" Jungkook asks quietly, once you two are inside the sleek lobby. "You said you wanted to be left alone."

"I did," you confirm huffily, still embarrassed about your struggle to get inside the building. "I do."

"Then... why are you here?" He takes a look around the lobby, where a handful of people are milling about. “It’s not really a good place for being alone.”

You chew your lip. This is the most Jungkook has ever spoken to you. You consider coming up with a story, but it occurs to you that you don't actually know where Namjoon's studio is located inside the building. You’ll need a guide.

"Namjoon said I could use his studio," you explain, deciding to include as few details as possible about your reasons for being here.

"For what?" His brow furrows.

Why all the questions? You’ve always thought of Jungkook as timid, more the type to stay out of the way if someone is up to something, rather than grilling them. But for all you know, maybe he gets assertive in the workplace. It doesn’t matter. You have bigger concerns right now. "To release my first single, obviously,” you snark, crossing your arms. "Look, I’m here for research, okay? You can either help me, or stay out of my way."

His eyes widen. He's never heard you speak to him as yourself, let alone this brazenly. But to your surprise, he nods. “Okay. What can I do to help?”

Well, damn. You didn’t think he would actually agree. It could be that he wants to report what you do to the other boys, acting like a spy. But you’re only here because Namjoon gave you that key. He can’t fault you for using the collateral that he gave you, right?

Fuck it, you’re tired of second guessing. Now is the time for action. Fuck the consequences.

“Where’s Namjoon’s studio?” You ask him, an edge in your voice. “Show me.”

Jungkook hesitates for only a moment, and then nods. He looks wary, almost nervous, and you have to wonder why. Even with your confidant demands, he still has the power in this situation, as always. You’re a nobody who couldn’t even get in the door without his help, and he actually works here. He could have you thrown out, if he wanted.

The thought sends a bolt of worry right to your chest, and you decide to do everything you can to not remind him of that fact.

After a strangely tense elevator ride, Jungkook silently leads you down several corridors until you come across a frosted glass door.

“Here,” he says, gesturing towards the door.

“This is it?” You ask to confirm, and he nods.

You take a deep breath and retrieve the key from your belt. His eyes widen as you slot the key into the lock, and with a gentle twist, the handle turns.

“Where-” Jungkook’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, and you turn around to shush him.

“It was a gift,” you explain icily. “Now, if you’re going to help me, then stay right here and make sure no one comes in, got it?”

His lips purse in suspicion and his eyes narrow, but he nods. “Fine.”

Satisfied, you turn back to the door, and it’s only then that you notice the keypad beneath the lock. Clearly the silver key Namjoon gave you isn’t the only way into his studio, as he had previously implied. Some collateral.

More and more doubts fill your thoughts, but you have no energy left to hesitate as you carefully pull the door open and slip inside their leader’s forbidden sanctuary.

-------

It’s much smaller than you thought. Really, only the size of your walk-in closet.

The silence in the room is palpable, the only noise stemming from the gentle purr of electronics. Your gaze gets stuck on all the collectibles he has on display, all around the room, in glass cases and on shelves. Mickey Mouse bodies, with skulls and crossbones for heads. Everything is black, white, and shades of gray.

They make up the only distraction in the room, but they’re everywhere.

You then notice the only clear surface, or relatively clear, as his desk, opposite the door. A grand computer screen sits front and center, with various equipment stacked around it, and a piano keyboard on a tray beneath the glass desktop.

You hasten across the carpeting, and gingerly pull out his desk chair, plush leather with a high back, ergonomically designed.

It feels like a siren will go off at any moment. You aren’t supposed to be here. You’re intruding.

But you need answers. He gave you the key.

You shake off your sense of foreboding and sit down, swiveling yourself into place. A quick shake of the mouse wakes up his computer.

Fuck.

You need a password. Of course. Nothing in your life can be simple.

After a few moments of muttering and seething in frustration, you try to calm down. Okay, so maybe this won’t be an in and out procedure, maybe this will take a little more thought.

Okay, think, think… what would he use for his password?

“It’s ‘monimoni0613’.”

The voice scares you shitless, and you swivel around to see Jungkook poking his head in the door. He gives you a half smile. “And that’s in Korean. You want help?”

You clutch your chest. “Fuck, don’t scare me like that!” You snap at him, though he doesn’t seem particularly intimidated. How does Namjoon even work with his back to the door like this? You’d be constantly looking over your shoulder. Is he really that trusting of people?

Jungkook doesn’t wait for your answer and comes inside, letting the door fall gently shut behind him. “It’s after his dog,” he says, leaning over you to access the keyboard and quickly type in the password. He smells like shampoo.

Your heart picks up the pace as he hovers over you, his eyes trained on the screen. He’s only inches away from you, his necklace dangles in front of your face in a way that you should not find tantalizing.

“His dog’s name is Moni?” You ask, trying to tell your heart to kindly get a grip. You’re on a mission, no time for horniness.

“Well, ah… yeah. Let’s go with that.” Jungkook makes a slight noise of triumph as the computer unlocks, Namjoon's desktop wallpaper greeting you - yet another skull-headed Mickey.

"Wait, how do you know his password?" You can't help but ask. After the ordeal you went through just to get to his inner sanctum, this feels too easy.

"He lets me use his computer sometimes, for gaming, and stuff…" the boy trails off, looking elsewhere as though embarrassed.

"Okay…" You stare at him. "Thanks for helping."

"You're welcome."

There's an awkward silence.

"Go wait outside." You say.

"Yup." He ducks back out of the room, leaving you to your investigating once more.

You exhale once you're alone again. Okay, where to start? You scan his desktop, but the icons are surprisingly neat. A few programs, a few shortcuts, a few folders, all of which prove fruitless.

The folders contain music program files of what appear to be songs still in the works. Although interesting, not really what you're looking for.

Jesus, how could he trust you with all this? You could leak these to the public. You could sell them, and never have to worry about job security again...

He must be fucking desperate to put his entire career in your hands.

Just like your career currently rests in his own.

You shake off the idea of selling the insider information. Although tempting, right now all you really want is answers as to why the fuck he's doing any of this in the first place. Why did he suspend you? Why did things stop? You had a spotless record up until last night, so… what changed?

You check his recent files next, and happen to find exactly what you're looking for.

Theory - draft for proposal

Seems like a solid lead.

You click the link, and a word document opens up. Unfortunately in Korean.

Of course. Of course he would write in his native language, and of course, it’s only your ComGear that translates messages from the boys, you don’t have bionic vision. There are a few random English words scattered here and there, but not nearly enough to make heads or tails of what the document is about. You could use an online translator, but you need a full understanding of this material, there’s no room for error here.

Should you ask Jungkook? No, you should not. He seems innocent enough, but your sense of self-preservation now overrides any trust you might have once given him. You bite back a groan of frustration and instead mutter a few choice expletives through a heavy, weary sigh.

Then you get an idea.

If your ComGear is what usually does your translating, why not just send this there?

You fumble to highlight the document, then copy it and head over to Namjoon’s email. Yikes. Lots and lots of unread. Well, you can’t blame him with his hectic schedule. You skip over a couple of emails at the top that appear to be from law firms, and instead click to compose a new message.

Fuck, this will leave a trail, won’t it? If he checks his sent emails, he’ll see that you saw… whatever this turns out to be.

It doesn’t matter. He gave you access to this room. He knew the potential consequences.

You paste the body of the document, type in your email address and hit send. Not moments later, there’s a chime on your ComGear, and sure enough, an email has arrived. You don’t get much correspondence these days, apart from your network. Well, your old network. Now your phone constantly has notifications from the chatroom. It feels strangely comforting.

Without another moment’s hesitation, you tap the email and anxiously wait for it to load, praying that the automatic translation feature doesn’t fail you now.

Soon, the English text appears, and your worries are put to rest within the first line.

We must build a brighter future for PhysComs.

[versegm]

mmmh thinking about guda and pov outsider cuz you know I'm a sucker for those

- pov: you are a new staff member in Chaldea. It took countless background checks, the most stressful job interviews of your life, but finally, you are here. Overall it’s pretty nice. Sure, a lot of the people here seem, wary, of you (and can you blame them? You know how mage society is) but some are friendly. And you get to work alongside heroes of humanity! You got to speak to Jeanne d’Arc!! Oh, this is great. And the pay is really nice! 

But, ah. The Master of Chaldea. Is. Kind of creepy, to be honest. They always wear a mask and gloves when getting in the staff room, always seem on their tiptoe around you. Not in a paranoia way. On the contrary, they’re always really happy to see you. They’re happy to see most people, in fact. Sometimes you run into them at the cafeteria, chatting up with servants (they even talk to these who creep you out, like Cu Alter or Berserker Lancelot. You don’t know how they do that. You’d spend the whole time flinching. They just seem comfortable.) Sometimes, you see them uncovered- teeth out, corrupted fingers visible, every scars on their skin for the whole world to see. Sometimes you wonder if they’re a Master at all. Sometimes you wonder how are they not one of these spirits, too one of these inhuman and timeless beings that carry the world on their shoulders.

You mention that thought to your coworkers, once. One of them storms out of the room in rage. Another glowers at you like they could beat you up with a chair. A third one, face a mask of disgust, takes a deep breath, and speaks up.

"We know.” And there is something terribly sad in their voice. “We know they look weird. We know they barely sound human anymore. We know they have mannerisms and habits that we cannot possibly wrap our head around.” They twist their hands together. “But trust us. They are human. They are so terribly human. We've been here since the beginning. We’ve seen them before they even had the slightest scar. They are. And they're trying, they’re trying so hard. Their face mask, their gloves, they’re for you. They always try to tone it down around you. They’re trying so very hard to live with themself and to live with us. So, please cut them some slack?”

- pov: You are Chaldea's mailman. Because despite everything, the staff does have family outside of here. And professor Waver gets about five letters a week from his students alone. The place is very secretive and closed off and you know just enough not to pry... till one day you run into someone just, fucking puking their guts out in the toilet, and oh god is that lava?? you assume that's one of these servants you've heard of, caught glimpses off, even you've never really talked to any of them before, save the barest hi-how-are-you before leaving. But this one is really nice, actually? And from that day on they always come to greet you when you drop by. You wonder which hero that is. one Must be quite legendary to end up looking like that. They have yet to give you their name, but that’s fine, you’re good at riddles. Your bet’s on Beowulf right now.

- pov: Your name is Flat Escardos and originally you came here to see your teacher/dad but now you've met someone with the COOLEST fucking scars and you're having the time of your LIFE getting live commentary on them.

[viva-la-fangirl]

Yesterday Part 4

yall got every right to be mad at me. end of the semester was crazy, holidays were crazy and then i jumped right back into my job. BUT I have part 4 here! 

And as always: PART 1, PART 2, PART 3

warnings: bad grammar, misspelled words, cursing, mentions of previous abuse

IF YOU ARE HAVING DOMESTIC ABUSE: National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1−800−799−7233

words: 

The next weeks were a blur of anxiety, sleepless nights and paranoia.

Your mind revolved around your ex. His black eyes always raking over you. The feeling of him kicking you in the alley behind the restaurant where you decided to leave him. You begging him to stop.

There were times where you forgot about him. You went about your day and thought of you and Roger. The tour happening. Planning on which cities you would visit.

Then something would take you out of it. A smell, a sound, a tone of voice from someone passing by and it all came rushing back. Your skin crawled at every thought of him. Even with Roger in bed, with his arm protectively wrapping around you- you would lie awake for hours and wonder if your ex was trying to find you. Roger and the boys had been especially diligent about keeping the paparazzi away from you over the past weeks. Roger nearly yelling at anyone who looked at you for a little too long or even tried to attempt to bring out a camera. It made your heart flutter seeing Roger all protective, but it sank just as fast when you remembered the reason why.

“(Y/N)?” Roger asked. It was morning, the sun was barely up and hidden behind thick gray clouds. You refused to tell him you’d been up for at least an hour, two at the most. 

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” Roger mumbled before pushing his face into your neck. His warm breath making your hairs stand up and your body relax. He had been so good recently, not staying out too late, inviting you to band practice and being attentive, ordering food and going out whenever you needed something. 

You hated it.

Well, not totally. Admittedly you liked the extra attention. Usually during an album you were getting less attention than his drumsticks. It was nice to see a different side of Roger. 

But then again. You hated being paranoid. You hated putting Roger out in the middle of recording. You hated being scared to go out. You hated being scared. Secretly, as you would never ever admit this to Roger, but you wished your ex would find you already and hurt you- just enough to put him back in jail. It was an ugly thought that tainted your mind but, being scared just to go to the grocery was killing you. You missed a time when it was only paparazzi to watch out for instead of a man that beat you enough to break some bones.

It felt as if you were in your own personal horror movie. Walking around just waiting for the boogyman to jump and get ya. 

You laid with bed with Roger steadily breathing beside you, one arm draped around you as protection from the world. With one breath you snuggled closer to Roger who pulled you in tighter. At least for the moment you allowed yourself to feel safe.

If only that safe feeling lasted.

It was a cold day when the world dropped from under your feet. You had convinced Roger to finally let you out of the apartment to go for a hair cut. Truthfully you hadn’t been keeping up with your usual hair routine and it showed. Split ends with lack of color made it look greasy and lifeless. No way you could go to the boys concert tonight looking like this!

The wet but crisp air was welcomed. After being shuttled around from place to place for the past couple of weeks, outside felt like a stranger and the air welcomed your presence. Your lungs relished in non-apartment air drenched in remnants of cigarette smoke or cologne Roger loved. 

“You feeling good love?” Beatrice asked. She ran her fingers through your hair, and massaged your head. For a second you forgot where you were, always a sucker for a good head massage. “(Y/N)?” 

“Oh yes!” you brought yourself out of the trance. “Better than I have. Thank you,”

Beatrice was an old and trusted friend of your from your university days. You weren’t the bestest of friends but she was a reliable one and a killer hair stylist. She could make a raccoon look like Cher. 

“Oh love you should have come in weeks ago!” Beatrice fiddled with your hair. “This is absolutely dreadful- sorry darling,”

“No I know,” You admitted. “Can you help me?”

“Of course darling,” Beatrice smacked on her gum. “Might take longer than normal but you’re talking to the master,”

Beatrice went to work right away washing your hair. The next two hours were filled with mindless talking and laughs. Beatrice went on about her sisters tacky wedding and the silk bridesmaids dresses that resembled bubble gum. You told of you and Roger, how tour was starting up soon and they had a local gig just to break the routine. It was the first time you felt normal in weeks.

While the day to day wasn’t bad, the topic of your ex seemed to always linger in the background- just waiting to pounce. While you trusted Beatrice, you know bringing up your ex would welcome a flurry of questions you didn’t want to answer. For just a few hours, you wanted to be a Roger Taylor’s girlfriend getting your hair done. Not some girl who was assaulted by he ex. 

“I think we’re about done sweetie,” Beatrice smiled wide between her purple lipstick. 

You looked in the mirror and couldn’t help but smile. Beatrice had really outdone herself. Your hair gained it’s color back. It looked fresh and healthy. Beatrice had even styled it for tonight.

“Oh Bea,” you fluffed your hair. “I can’t thank you enough,”

“Roger Taylor’s girlfriend deserves the best!” she exclaimed. 

After paying Beatrice and a couple more goodbyes you walked out the door feeling better than you had in weeks. 

Then came his voice.

“Hey (Y/N),” 

You froze. Keys in hand just about to open your car. Your blood ran from your face and immediately turned to ice. You turned to see him standing a few feet away. He looked worse than he did the last time you saw him in court. He had obviously gained weight. His beard was untidy and his hair was greasier than ever with streaks of gray sprinkling the sides. His snake-like eyes ran up and down your body, it was like a rusted knife threatening to pierce the skin. 

“What no hug?” he pouted. 

“You stay away from me Harrison,” you hissed. Blood pumped in your head so loud you couldn’t hear anything besides the words spoken between you and the guy who had beaten you so viciously you couldn’t remember some of that night. 

“Common hon,”

“Don’t call me that,” you wedged a car key between your fingers just encase. “How- how,”

“How did I find you?” Harrison flashed his yellowed teeth. “Humans are creatures of habit. You always went to Beatrice before a big event and with Queen’s gig tonight- I knew it would be a big event for you,

Queen gig. He knew about you and Roger.

Of course he would you idiot. You’re on the front of every tabloid from here to tin-buck-too. 

“You’re a real piece of shit you know that?” Anger took over. How dare this man come back into your life, a life you had overcome so much for, a life you loved with a man you loved. 

“Harsh words coming from someone who was going to marry me,” 

“I was manipulated into loving you. You hurt me. You belittled me. Then when I wanted to leave and said no to your proposal you beat me,”

“A little misunderstanding is all. I mean you could be a little over dramatic,” Harrison gas-lighted. “I lost my temper one time and you throw me in jail. Now how is that fair?”

“You hurt me. That’s not love.”

“And you think you have love now? With that Roger Taylor?” Harrison sneered. He said Roger’s name so grossly like he was thinking of something disgusting. “I mean common- I might have been a little angry but at least I never cheated on you,”

“Roger has never cheated on me,” You yelled as strong as you could. Before you and Roger got together you knew about his flings and girlfriends. Freddie had ranted about another one of Roger’s girlfriend’s flying off the handle after catching him in bed with another women. You knew about his past. 

“I won’t do that to you,” he promised. 

“How do I know that?” you weakly said. Roger had been asking you out consistently for the past 2 weeks. 

“Because...” Roger stopped. “Is saying you’re different too cliche?”

You laughed hardily. “A little,”

“Then call me Romeo because it’s true,” Roger stepped so close you could smell the strawberries you too had shared while watching a movie. “I know I’m not the best man, I fuck up a lot, I’m impulsive, I’m stubborn, I’m-”

“Roger,”

“Oh yeah. But the one thing I’m not is someone who is going to hurt you. After seeing you in that hospital, seeing how someone who claimed to love you could hurt you that badly- well it made me never want to see another tear from your eye,”

You melted and agreed to start seeing Roger. It was a slow processes but worth it. 

“So you ignore the magazines with him and a bunch of girls around him. Basically begging to be fucked by him,” Harrison shouted.

You had seen. It made your stomach turn but above all you trusted Roger. 

“What you and I shared is a fraction of what Roger and I do.” You stood up straighter. “I’m going home now and if I ever see you near me or Roger again I’m going to call the police,” You quickly opened the car and started it. Your hands shaking so much you could barely hold on to the clutch. 

Backing out Harrison peered into your window and with the radio blaring and a ringing in your ears you didn’t hear him say. 

“See you tonight,”

Tagged: sorry if i forgot anyone i’m not the best at this 

@alexfayer @marveley @mrsmazzello @frenchieswiftie  http://leahluhve.tumblr.com/ @yasnooshka24   @anita-e-taylor @benhardycult @jennyggggrrr​

[antis-delete-your-blogs-pls-thx]

Mouse’s Reclist (#1/?)

Okay, it is time. Time to get working on the incredibly frustrating (but rewarding) task of putting together a fic reclist (the EDM one is next). No, none of my own are going to be on here, I literally know antis would accuse me of doing that for clout. If you want my own fics, DM me :). They probably suck, most of them are really self-indulgent, and I have an update schedule that embodies the slow feeling of trying to download free porn from a dial-up connection in 1997. And your mother is picking up the phone when you’re at the last megabyte and makes you start over. Or something.

I’m going to put a hotlink on the title and probably the author, if that’ll work super easy in a format transfer. Then I’ll post the fandom, pairing, and fic summary in italics, and uh, possibly a small review with some warnings. Keep in mind I can’t be as thorough as the authors themselves, if they’ve chosen to tag at all, because while I do reread these often, I can’t remember every exact trigger. Some of these are fluffy, and some of these are FUCKED UP. Capital F, capital U. Let’s get started. Not organised by fandom or by alphabetical order or by length because my ADHD just says “ONTO THE NEXT LINK GOGOGOGOGOGO” every five seconds. Google docs,,,, stop yelling at my grammar and let me do this thing. There should be about 30 or so under the cut. (Maybe I’ll do more?)

Obviously the first is Three Missing Girls in Madison, Wisconsin by lapsi. This is the Mindhunter Bill/Holden rec that I posted, like, four days ago, and what inspired me to post my own little oneshot drabble. You can check for that in my recs tag for a more detailed description. Let’s just say it’s fucking gorgeous. Everything by lapsi is gorgeous.

Revalations by Anonymous - MCU/Starker/WIP - “I still don’t get it,” Ned says. “How you just... keep being ordinary in spite of all the craziness you’ve lived through. You were in space. You helped Iron Man save the universe. And nobody knows it was you.” His tone softens, becomes almost sad. As though he realizes that what he’s saying is so completely alien to him that he will never be able to understand this part of Peter’s life. “Peter, don’t you want people to know you for who you are?”//An AU where they get the Gauntlet off of Thanos that first time, on Titan. - This is a sort of supremely fucked up but also absolutely beautiful Starker fic with aged up!Peter. By, like, three years, and he’s still essentially Tony’s sugar baby, but whatever. It’s literally an absolute amazing ride.

the spaces between the stars by indigostohelit - Generation Kill/Bradnate - Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick of the USS Devil Dog is returning to Earth with the weight of the world on his shoulders: his captain is incompetent, his crew is half in mutiny, and the mission to a distant star may have been more of a failure than anyone could have comprehended. But on the journey back, something in the ship goes terribly wrong—and Nate may have to bear far more than the weight of the world if he's going to keep his men safe. - Okay, what fandom ancients still remember Generation Kill? Warnings in and of itself for just the general nature of camaraderie on that show. I’m usually a Bradray sucker (remind me to get to those next time), but this was fucking fantastic. Sci-fi mystery AU is my absolute FAVOURITE genre, hands down, all time, ever. And indigo has written a veritable basketload of my fav fics besides, so I can always trust in them.

All of Astolat’s MegOp fic - Transformers/MegOp - ‘Nuff said. She’s the founder of the goddamn site. You’re damn straight I’m going to fawn over her fic. Also it’s fucking good, founding the site aside. I cried. I cried so fucking much. I dripped tears like a sponge.

The White Road by perverse_idyll - Harry Potter/Snarry - One day, comfortably set up in the afterlife, Lily Evans Potter switches on the telly and gets hooked on the Harry Potter show. - Okay, first, this is the only time I’ve literally ever seen one-sided Snily where Lily was the one pining. Anyway, the summary explains the premise, but doesn’t do it justice. Lily watches down on the many possible universes that contain her son’s future from a comfy spot in the afterlife. The relationship between literally everyone in the fic and Severus is… exquisitely-detailed and heart-wrenchingly painful. I’d die for this fic, so I could read a million versions of it in the afterlife.

Rapture by mia_ugly - Harry Potter/Snarry - Snape sees the man, for the first time, on his twenty-fifth birthday. - I fucking bawled my eyes out the first time I read this. And the second. And the third. Dumbledore gives Harry a time-travelling watch for his birthday. A watch that travels to a young Severus, who Harry gets to know. On a pretense, of course. And then he falls in love with him. They both do. It’s absolutely agonising angst, but it has a happy ending. It will fucking pack a punch though, so get the tissues ready. This one is perhaps my favourite Snarry fic of all time. Period. Please don’t pass it up. The writing is so fucking amazingly-crafted. I would sell my soul to write like this.

Shell Game by forthegreatergood - DCU/Superbat - Batman wants Superman. Superman wants Batman. Eventually they'll get it sorted out. - An absolutely spot-on identity porn fic. As cheesy as the summary sounds, this fic hits hard. And it has sex pollen. Who can resist sex pollen? Pun intended, maybe.

Every Superbat fic by Susiecarter. - DCU/Superbat - Susie is a friend of mine (fucking,,, don’t know how I managed that one, apparently I write good enough fic for them to read,,, astonishing), and one of Superbat fandom’s greatest contributors. One of DCEU fandom’s greatest contributors, in fact. Everything they’ve written is a masterpiece. But the ultimate fav? as to which may be the true. Hands down. IDENTITY PORN GALORE.

The Long Hangover by CoffioCake - DCU/Superbat - Clark knows he should take a break: His powers are on the fritz, he feels like shit, and Batman’s treating him like a liability. But Gotham's villains seem to have it in for Metropolis' Big Blue Boy Scout and Clark won't just wait around for answers. Batman might be the world’s greatest detective, but Clark Kent is one of the Daily Planet’s most tenacious reporters.//This is definitely a job for Superman. - Okay, I can’t promise another Superbat won’t show up on this list. I’m a sucker for it. I’m also a sucker for case fic. Which is this. It’s so good. So good.

No Glory (and everything else in the HP fandom) by ObsidianPen - Harry Potter/Tomarry/WIP - The Dark Lord divines what Harry Potter is in the Forbidden Forest, and revelations lead to incomprehensible consequences. Lord Voldemort has won... and the dystopia is damning.//A tale of a fallen hero, dark desires, and a Dark Lord's obsession with something he has lost and finds himself unwillingly lusting after: a soul. - This is a Voldemort wins!AU. A fucking delicious one. If only my own Tomarry could aspire, by god. The imagery in this is so vivid I could swear it was painted on my eyelids. The concept of soul magic and interpretations on Horcruxes is unique and perfectly-executed. Honestly, everything Obsidian has ever written for HP is perfectly-executed. I would probably consider this the definitive Tomarry/Harrymort fic. Seriously.

It Cages a Demon by TripleX_Tyrant - Rick & Morty/C137cest/WIP - When Rick captures a powerful being from a demonic dimension - a demon with the ability to devour thoughts - Morty's consciousness is pulled into the demon's cage. Rick must go in after him before Morty's consciousness is completely consumed. But this isn't what the inside of the cage should look like. And if Rick wants to save Morty, he'll have to survive in a place where paths are unclear and monsters manifest.//Rick knew his own mind was complex. But he wasn't ready for this. - A goddamn Silent Hill-style horror mystery AU??????? FOR RICKMORTY? Yep, you heard me. And every second of it is liquid gold. It’s also gory as all fuck and pants-shittingly terrifying at times, so read at your own risk. But if you can risk it, please do. It’s honestly the best execution of C137cest I’ve seen outside of Harmon’s own damn writing lmao.

The Book of Secrets by Are - Downton Abbey/Thommy - With a war of words and wills, Jimmy Kent and Thomas Barrow embark on a strange romance. Set Post Christmas Special. - Thommy is another rare-ish (now, post-2016) pairing that I would die for. And everything Are has ever written for the pairing could kill me and I would thank it. But TBS is the best. Jimmy finds Thomas’ diary (and poetry book), which was also the diary (and sketchbook) of Courtenay before his passing, and learns more about his past and his innermost thoughts. It’s the most haunting, heartbreaking, poignant fic in the pairing. It ends well, but the journey you’ll take from the first chapter is one I would pay money to experience for the first time again. I literally couldn’t even breathe for a while after this. Lapsi’s fic has the same effect, so if you’ve worked through that one by now, be prepared.

Mad Man by griseldajane - MCU/Thorki - In all the years they spent together, it never occurred to Loki that there might be a time when Thor would not be available to him. The god of mischief conceals himself, coming and going as he pleases, doing what he wants.//That Thor might one day do the same never crossed his mind. - All the mindfuckery a Convinced-You-Were-in-an-Insane-Asylum-the-Whole-Time!fic entails and more. If you have issues with dissociating from reality, this is probably a bit much, because it absolutely nails everything about derealisation, delusional thinking, and paranoia. GOD, if you’re willing to let your mind take that battering, though, it’s a damn work of art.

Switch by Ceres_Libera - Star Trek/McKirk - The life and times of Leonard H. McCoy MD/PhD … If Leonard McCoy's life could get any fucking weirder, it would be … Jesus, he didn't even want to think what that could possibly mean, because it's already been too fucking weird to make any kind of rational sense.//A Starfleet Academy story, set in the ST:XI universe. - The ultimate McKirk fic imho. We’ll get to my ultimate Spirk fic in a second. Please do read this. It’s everything you could want out of an Academy!fic. Especially a roommates/UST!fic. 

Black Mirror by DarthNickels - Star Wars/Gen - The Ghost crew returns to the Lothal when they hear the Empire is investigating the Jedi Temple there. They learn Vader is alone and decide to take him out-- but what they find could change the course of Galactic history. - What, you think I don’t read Gen? I read Gen!!!! Look at all this Gen I read. Put simply, Dad!Vader redemption arc set in the Rebels era. FUCKING,,, what more could I ask for,,, literally. What more?????????? Sci-fi mystery??? ASKING FOR MORE WHOMMMMMST’VE????

The Lotus Eaters by aldora89 - Star Trek/Spirk - Stranded on the planet Sigma Nox while searching for a missing away team, Spock and Kirk find themselves pitted against a disturbing native life form. With the captain out of commission on a regular basis and Spock struggling to preserve his stoicism, staying alive is difficult enough – but when a slim chance for escape surfaces, their resolve is truly put to the test. Together they must fight for survival in the heart of an alien jungle, and in the process, uncover the mystery of the planet’s past. Slow build K/S. - Here’s that aforementioned ultimate Spirk fic. Okay, what, it’s sci-fi mystery again. Give me a break. You just heard how much I would absolutely die for it. Seriously, there is no Spirk fic I adore more than this. I mean, I adore an absolute shittonne of Spirk fics, but this one is my raison d’etre.

In Good Company by weialala - Naruto/Sasunaru - This will sound a little ridiculous, no matter how Sasuke phrases it. I see dead people is embarrassingly tacky, and I'm half-spirit seems like something Sakura might say when she's stoned sky high. So he settles for a shrug. - Sasuke sees dead people. Sasuke bonds with the goddamn fae. Kuchiyose no Jutsu taken to the fucking max. An epic that does what The Last pretty much couldn’t. Shippuden who???

The Boy Who Died A Lot by starcrossedgirl - Harry Potter/Snarry - Harry’s always been known as The Boy Who Lived. Only Severus knows that this is a lie. (Or: a portrait of Severus Snape, in seven acts.) - Oh, there’s Snarry again. Bite me. This is my second (third? Tied with the White Road?) favourite Snarry fic. Time travel, almost Groundhog Day style. Severus has to go back and fix every mistake Harry makes that leads to his untimely death throughout the seven books. I honestly could believe this is what really happened, and we just don’t know otherwise because Rowling hasn’t deigned to make this shit up and put a woke spin on it yet.

Kisses Cursed by The_Fictionist - Harry Potter/Tomarry - Fairytale AU. Loosely inspired by Beauty and the Beast.//Some said he was once a man, cursed, and some that he sold his soul to demons and became one in turn. Others said that such evil as he could never have been human. That he was instead a nightmare, left lingering upon the earth a very long time ago.//Harry just knew it wasn't safe to walk near the Riddle House after dark. - Not just a fairytale AU, but a MYSTERY(!!!!) fairytale!AU. Okay, who’s gotten that I love mystery by now? This one is amazing, no matter how many puzzle pieces have slotted into place. The ride is a wild one and a great one. My second favourite Tomarry fic. I’d rank more of The_Fictionist’s higher, but they’ve deleted a lot of their old stuff, despite me absolutely adoring it.

United States v. Barnes, 617 F. Supp. 2d 143 (D.D.C. 2015) by fallingvoices & radialarch - MCU/Stucky - The Associated Press @AP//Winter Soldier set to stand trial for Washington D.C. massacre and treason apne.ws/1og6SWE - Both an epistolary/media fic and a case fic? Sign me tf up. Came out mere seconds (I exaggerate a little) after TWS, which I instantly fell in love with in theatres (still my fav MCU movie, folks). Details what a trial would be like for James Buchanan Barnes, should the MCU function more like real life, all in newspaper/tweet/blog form. Best way I’ve seen epistolary!fic formatted, tbh. Only on the AO3, huh?

The Mirror by cloudyjenn - Supernatural/Destiel - When Dean touches a strange mirror, he's whisked away to one alternate reality after another and it doesn't take him long to realize the universe is trying to tell him something. - I love dimension hopping. And it’s for my first ever hardcore fandom (besides Pokemon), too! I usually see dimension hopping more in sci-fi and superhero fandoms, so it was nice to see it in fantasy, too. A million alternate dimensions where Dean and Cas are in love. It’s definitely a message. :eyes emoji:

Stay With Me (home is where your mind is.) by sara_holmes - Marvel/Stony - Where Steve doesn’t quite die, ends up stranded in the multiverse and would quite like to know how the hell so many versions of himself ended up sleeping with Tony Stark. Well, that’s going to make things a tad awkward when he gets home. - Speaking of dimension hopping in superhero fandoms. This is honestly the most interesting way I’ve seen dimension hopping played out. Or rather, dimension consolidating. Steve ends up in a purgatory-style void populated only by other versions of himself from throughout the Multiverse. Like the Mirror, there’s definitely a message being sent here about how many versions of him are doing the do with a certain genius playboy billionaire philanthropist. 

Thicker than Water by StarkatHeart - Marvel/Stony/Superfamily - Neither of them would admit it, but blood does count for something.//When Peter Parker discovers his biological father is actually none other than Tony Stark, it's not exactly news that's well received. By either party. But they're Avengers. They're teammates. They'll just have to work through it. ...Or maybe just ignore it. - On a completely different note from Starker, or not-so-different, depending on how depraved you like your fic to be flavoured, Peter as Tony’s biological son. This is pure Superfamily, not a hint of fucked up incest to be found. Though if anyone has any fucked up incest recs, I’m down to get my dirty paws on them.

the undiscovered country by indigostohelit - Shakespeare/Hamratio - It's 1959, and the mayor of Chicago is dead. - Remember how I said indigo had written some of my fav fics before? Yeah, 1950’s Americana!AU Hamlet, with added Hamratio. It is as good as it sounds.

All of astolat’s GoT and Thor works TBH. But please don’t pass up her Thorki, especially not Chaos War and Revelations. 

Reaching as I Fall by apokteino - Supernatural/Destiel - “Service to God was the meaning of existence; service to Michael is nothing but slavery.” Castiel is part of an underground network helping angels fall, in resistance to heaven. At the same time that a fallen angel by the name of Dean Winchester turns up, some of those in the network are murdered by Michael’s forces – there’s a spy. What does Dean have to do with it? Who is Dean? And why are they hunting him so fiercely?//A story about love, family, and choice. - Let me introduce you to my favourite AU concept from all of SPN fandom. No, I won’t spoil it. Needless to say, I’ve tried to write it myself a thousand times, and only succeeded in a thousand false starts. Maybe one day I’ll get around to it. Plus, I always disagree with these authors, anyway. Dean is totally a bottom. ;P

I Got a Soul but I’m Not a Soldier by starandrea - Supernatural/Destiel - AU: Castiel is on the road (saving people, helping things) when he meets Dean and realizes that his soul is different - and not just because he's the pastor's son. - Here it is again, my favourite trope (well, I’d call it a trope, if there were more than a dozen or so fics for it). If you haven’t read RAIF, I’m wondering if you’ve caught on yet. ;P.

Chosen Man by Sineala - The Eagle/Marcus x Esca - The son of the man who lost the Eagle of the Ninth would never be allowed a first command of his very own fort, would he?//Marcus is posted not to Isca Dumnoniorum, but to a wretched and run-down garrison north of the Wall. There he finds that he is the new centurion of a group of scouts and spies, all of them British. He has few supplies and no experience. His men distrust him. His superiors despise him. His second-in-command is an incompetent drunkard. And the local tribes are determined to kill all of them.//But the worst thing of all is one of Marcus' soldiers. He is an enigmatic, dangerous, and insubordinate man by the name of Esca, who makes Marcus yearn for terrifying things he has never before wanted and can never, ever let himself have… - Sine pretty much engineered the Eagle fandom. 

I followed them from the Eagle and into all their other ventures, too, and when they started writing for Stony I practically screamed in excitement. PLEASE read their Stony, if it’s the only Stony you ever read.

The Leonardo Effect by Phoenike - Assassin’s Creed/EzioLeo - To Ezio’s best knowledge, Leonardo's idea of debauchery was staying up until morning with a bottle of wine and too many sketching supplies. But why would the gondolier have lied? It was a heavy accusation. In both Firenze and Venezia, mere allegations of unnatural conduct had condemned men to be pilloried or hanged. - My favourite EzioLeo fic of all time. Everything Phoe has ever written is a gem, but this one takes the cake. Have I said that already? A lot of cake is being taken. Please read. It’s the epitome of what makes EzioLeo good.

Naked to Mine Enemies by mundungus42 - Pirates of the Caribbean/Sparrington - The Pirate Code doesn't expressly command its adherents to repay debts that bridge life and death, but the Code is more of a set of guidelines, anyway. Sparrow/Norrington, set after At World's End, ignores all films released thereafter. - A classic fic for a classic ship. My ship pun both is and isn’t intended. I’d read this one over and over. Okay, I already do. Whenever I go back to Sparrington, I go back to this.

The Persistence of Iron by Sylvia - Marvel/X-Men Cinematic Universe/Cherik - Waking up in a lab with no memories and a blue-eyed stranger calling him by someone else's name is only the beginning of Erik's problems.- Sci-fi mystery. You don’t need to ask me to clarify at this point, do you? Cloning tech? CLONING TECH? DE-AGING CLONING TECH? So many favourite tropes.

Take the Heat Out of Me by quipquipquip - DCU/Jaydick - Lost Days!Jason trolls Officer Grayson!Dick in Blüdhaven. Dick counter-trolls with the power of love. (It's super effective.) - A classic Jaydick fic. I think it was quip’s last foray into fic. Under that name, at least. What a bang to go out with.

Don’t Quote Me by TKodami - DCU/Superbat/WIP - Bruce Wayne has weathered scandal before, and Wayne Enterprises can handle another publicity crisis. What Bruce can’t handle is one crashing up against his plans to infiltrate Lex’s estate. Set during Batman v. Superman. - There’s that more Superbat. I’m sure… one day… the author will finish it. It’s a goddamn sex tape scandal!fic. Glorious.

Speaking of, every Superbat fic by Liodain. 

In This White Wave I Am Sinking by queeniegalore - Generation Kill/Bradray - He felt like he wasn’t really living, like he was in an in-between state, something that came between war and real life, something like purgatory. - The atmosphere for this is consistently beautiful and bittersweet. 

Okay, that’s about it for now. Save for an honourable mention to one of the fics that I started off with in the SPN fandom. I’d honour some more, but most everything’s been purged at this point. Come on, 2012!fandom, stop hiding behind how “cringe” you think shit was. I want my fic back.

Pull Me Under by AwesomeDistractions -- a Destiel handprint!kink WIP.

And finally, the most honourable mention, the first slash fic I ever read, from the Pokemon fandom, of all places. Originalshipping horror/mystery!AU. Wow, my tastes have always been, well, my tastes. Believe it or not, best place I can find it is a Waybackmachine archive of a creepypasta uploading site that went defunct a while back. I never found out the original author. But here it is, Missing, the first ever slash fic I stumbled across.

If you guys want more, I can definitely provide more. I have thousands of bookmarks. These are just my very, very favourites. What ones are still remaining on AO3, anyway. This is why I save most in PDFs. Though there are a few completely lost to time, and I’m pretty sure the OTW says fuck you to Waybackmachine, which. Uhghgh. Please. I want my nostalgia rush back.

[unabashedly-here]

Summary: Y/N has been living on the streets for a few months now and finds a temporary home near a street market where pickpocketing is common practice. She might have contributed to the reputation as well, but she had to survive somehow. Peter Parker, once a nobody, is revealed as Spider-Man by Tony Stark and given a place on the Avengers. It was his dream come true, but being locked away in the Avengers Compound was not the fantasy he envisioned. After trying to sneak out, Peter finds himself angering a vendor in the street market where he catches the attention of Y/N.


Word Count: 2.1k


Warnings: swearing, threats.


masterlist // next chapter 


Like every morning, despite how the weather might have been, the streets became quieter as the people went inside. Well, quiet for a city. It is never truly quiet, after all. In the quieter parts of the city, the bustling streets changed into the quiet neighborhood it will most likely remain until the end of the day. Only a few people remained, like a woman walking her dog, cursing herself for going out without a proper jacket, a couple with a stroller, just glad that the baby has stopped crying, and the man fumbling with the papers in his briefcase before running down the street and hoping his boss will be in a good mood. Even then, they soon disappeared, leaving only you. You were dressed in a black coat that did not completely shield you from the cold, but you weren’t bothered.


You were far away from where you have been staying for the past few months. The night before, you started walking and didn’t look back once. It was quite cold, but you didn’t really care. Fumbling with the pack in your pocket, you managed to get the last cigarette out. Your lighter wasn’t as new as it once was, but the black lighter did its job. As well as providing a bit of warmth, the cigarette also managed to calm your shaking hands. Taking a few long drags, you smiled slightly and leaned back on the bench.


As you started the walk back to Greenwich, you realized just how quickly your last cigarette went. Looking at the butt in your hand, you remembered when your mother first found out that you smoked. It was after a party and you came home, not trying to hide the unmistakable scent at all. Her expression was unreadable, almost as if the smell transported her somewhere else. The disappointment in her voice wasn’t enough to get you to quit the habit, but it did make you perfect hiding that you smoked. Nothing made you quit, not even your mother’s death. 


Your hands started shaking slightly and you cursed yourself. The nicer neighborhood slowly shifted into the gritty neighborhood you knew and hated. Your cigarette butt was thrown on the ground, joining the many others littering the sidewalks. Maybe the taxes were supposed to keep the streets clean, but you didn’t pay taxes so why would you expect it? Shoving your hands in your pockets, you slouched your shoulders and kept your head down as you walked past the slightly more active part of the city. It was just not a nice activity, compared to where you found yourself this morning.


The street market seemed friendly enough if someone was a tourist, but the nice enough exterior hid what really went on. Stealing and pick pocketing were common occurrences in the market. A purse gone there or some food stolen there. Tourists who are not overly cautious normally leave the market with a few less things without ever knowing. You should know. You contributed to quite a few of these minor acts of thieving.


Most of the time, you stole food to live off of. Maybe you took some money when it was out in the open, but you rarely stole things like rings, watches, or phones from unsuspecting people. Stealing was your last resort to survive on your own, but you didn’t feel particularly hungry right then. The effects of smoking on an empty stomach might hit later and you couldn’t care less. Finally you stopped in front of an abandoned building. There used to be a For Sale sign, but it was long since kicked over. Anyone else might have been scared to entered the old factory with untold terrors and creaking floors. Checking to see that no one was noticing you, you ducked into the building through a hole that was covered on the inside by a piece of old cloth. 


You rarely spent the night inside unless it was too windy and you needed the walls to shield it. More likely, you were hanging out on the roof which gave you the perfect view of the shitty place you called home. Four months ago, your mother died in a car crash and, to escape being put into the foster system, you ran away. The two of you weren’t very well off financially and there wasn’t a lot of money to take before you left so you had to make do with what you had and learn to survive. Tears prickled in your eyes and you aggressively shoved them away. Living by yourself in an abandoned factory and stealing until you were eighteen and not legally considered a runaway. ‘Mom sure must be proud of me,’ you thought bitterly. 

A sound from the market place below interrupted your pity party. Curiously glancing over, you saw someone with their hood up getting pushed around. “Poor sucker,” you muttered to yourself, prepared to rest a bit after your night away. Whatever was happening down there was none of your business and the guy had to learn not to wander into bad areas if he couldn’t defend himself. The ruckus continued as you glanced one more time. Someone you vaguely knew had a grip on the guy and anyone from a mile away could see the threats coming from his mouth. There were oranges all over the floor and the guy had one in his hand. Debating with yourself, you shook your head and stated, “Fuck it.” 


While you found yourself in a nicer neighborhood early that morning, Peter Parker was planning his escape from the Avengers Compound. Ever since Tony Stark revealed to the world that he was Spider-Man, he had been trapped in the compound everyday with school work and training. Sure, it was cool, but Mr. Stark was very strict about letting Peter leave to visit his friends. He only really let him visit Aunt May and only when he was with him. Well, Ned managed to save up his money to get the Lego Millennium Falcon and wanted Peter to hang out for a bit. Mr. Stark said no, but Peter was determined. 


Karen helped him alter FRIDAY so that Mr. Stark would see him training for the next few hours. Not wanting to draw much attention, he packed his Spider-Man suit and went out in normal clothes. It took him a while to get into the city, but he managed after an hour. It had been a long time since Peter was in the city and, although he remembered most of the streets to go down, he thought he saw Happy further down the street. It must have been paranoia, yet he dared not to take any chances. 

He pulled his hood up and turned suddenly down a street. 
The street he went down was full of markets and he dared not look at the vendors in the eye. Peter was fully aware he was in a bad part of New York so he just had to get through quickly without drawing too much attention to himself. With his head down, he managed to get through most of the street. It wasn’t until a vendor noticed him and tried to stop him. Peter violently jerked in the other direction only to bump into another guy. The burly fellow merely shoved Peter away. His reflexes kicked in and he steadied himself. Peter caught his breath and took another step. 


A stand selling questionable looking fruit was in front of him, but Peter’s reflexes, which were still high wired from his little situation, saw that it was going to fall after a girl accidentally knocked into it. The oranges went everywhere, much to the vendor’s dismay. Peter managed to pick a few up quickly and walked closer to hand them over. The man looked at him with pure hatred and placed a meaty hand on Peter’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t run away, thief,” he threatened, “I’mma show you why people know not to steal from me.”


“No, sir,” Peter said meekly, trying to hand over the oranges, “I was just trying to help.” He would be able to easily get out of the man’s grip, yet the man would know something was up and Peter just wanted to get out with no issue. His nose crinkled at the man’s foul breath as he tried to smile, as if that would make the man trust him more.


“Oh, sure. People like you just want to “help”, do you?” His sarcasm was practically dripping from his voice. “Do you think I was born yesterday?”


Based on his nearly graying hair and the wrinkles around his eyes, Peter could have guessed. “Seriously, I don’t want trouble-”


The man scoffed, “Think I wanted this either?” His grip went down to Peter’s wrist and his beady eyes seemed focused. He wouldn’t try to break his arm, would he? He would heal, but then Mr. Stark would definitely know that Peter had snuck out. Before he could slip out of his grip, he heard someone very close. “Oh, there you are!”

 He turned to see a girl, seemingly his age. You were expertly dodging people as if you’ve had years of experience. You weren’t necessarily dirty, but Peter could only guess that your home, wherever it might be, wasn’t the best. Your clothes were worn down and smelled like smoke. 
However you might have looked, you seemed to be talking to Peter and you might just be his way out of this. “Uh, yeah!” he tried to say confidently, “Here I am!” 


Your eyes sparkled mischievously and you subtly winked at him before turning to the man, still gripping Peter’s wrist. “Axel, this is a complete misunderstanding!”


“Are you telling me that I’m stupid?” Axel growled, his hand tightening. “You better head out, Y/N. I have no problem with you, but, if you stay, I might.”


Peter worriedly looked at you. He didn’t want someone to get hurt for him. He had to use his powers even if that meant getting in trouble with Mr. Stark. Before he could do anything, he jumped when you grabbed his free hand. “I’m not saying you’re stupid,” you said calmly, “This is my cousin, Damon. He just doesn’t know how things are done here.” Looking around, your eyes met Axel’s in a knowing glance. “His father is a police officer. You don’t want the police here more often than they already are, do you?”


The fire in Axel’s eyes died quickly at the mention of police and he dropped Peter’s wrist as if it burned him. “Okay, just keep him out of here,” he tried to threaten the two of them. 


“Ah, don’t worry,” you reassured, “He won’t be around here much longer. Damon’s just here to pick something up.” With that, you led him away from Axel who began picking up the oranges and mumbling. Quickly, you dragged him to the edge of the street and took a side street to an abandoned factory. Turning back towards the boy you just helped, you noticed how, even though his fiddling hands and facial expressions suggested an awkward teenage boy, his body language was deliberate, as if he was aware of everything going around him. “That’s a main street,” you mentioned, gesturing to the street next to them, “You’ll be fine there. I wouldn’t come back.” Looking back into the vendors, you stated, “Axel holds grudges like no one you would believe.” 
The boy only nodded so you went towards your makeshift entrance. 

Checking to see if any police were passing by, you met the boy’s eyes. He seemed still surprised to be in this situation. The two of you stared at each other for a while until you realized just how tense he was. The boy was on edge and seemingly jumpy as hell. “Hey, it’s okay,” you tried to comfort him, “It’s over now.” With that, you went into the factory without looking back. You just wanted to plan for how you were going to eat later.


Peter looked back at the busy street and took a small step before looking back at where you just entered. Why were you hanging out in an abandoned factory? It seemed suspicious and Peter knew, that if he didn’t go inside to check out what was going on, it would be the only thing on his mind. He quickly sent a text to Ned, saying that he couldn’t make it, and moved the cloth out of his way. You were wrong, to say the least. It was far from over.

[tobitatsuu]

𝔣𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔰 ★ ; leaf

starter for @ethnosphered

𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘪 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱  ? ( 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑 ) , 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘪 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘱 ? 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙨 𝙬 𝙚  𝙚  𝙩. 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 …         𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘺 ( 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 )                  𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘪'𝘮 𝘢���𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵         h e r e …

💀 ★ —

                 “ wrench , ” daiki grumbles around the dwindling cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. curled tail thumping, meowth swats the tool. the wrench scrapes against the concrete floor of the garage and daiki swipes at the handle before it slides under his bike. he’s fixing up the old fatboy, just some routine maintenance on the trusty matte-black machine  — brake check, oil change, tighten the chain . . . replace that fancy headlight before it burns out completely. daiki wags the wrench, as if to say: thank you, meowth!, and barks teasingly over his shoulder. “ see, at least someone is helping . ” the aluminum trashcan in the corner of daiki’s garage rattles violently. pikachu  — who has earned himself the nickname, scram, because that’s all he responds to, since that’s all daiki ever tells him to do  —  conducts a ritual, fast-paced investigation, bolting around and cramming his little triangle nose in every inch and corner of the garage. it’s quite counterproductive, but as long as the electric-rat bastard doesn’t knock over his coffee, daiki doesn’t mind so much. he just tunes it out.

daiki rolls his eyes and puffs on his cigarette. the radio on the cluttered shelf by the door drones on with incoherent static and out-dated rock music. he still hums along, meowth purring behind him and cleaning its paws.

an emergency signal vibrates from the radio; three long pulses that make daiki flinch. the cigarette falls from mouth, the wrench slipping as he cranks it. meowth’s ears perk up and the white hairs on its neck and back stand on end. pikachu darts to a different corner of the garage — breaking news! we’re coming to you live from saffron city where there is a state of emergency ! police are reporting that multiple burglaries have taken place and incidents of arson have been conducted by — a group of people in black clothing. t-team rocket? team rocket ! the city is under attack ! 

shit.

team rocket is back, and closer than daiki’s comfortable with. shit, he thinks again, with a sigh of sour acceptance. “ no skin off my fuck-ing back, i guess , ” daiki grumbles, picking up his cigarette and giving it one last puff before flicking the dead thing elsewhere.  “ kanto, huh? back to square one, are they ? ” daiki readies his wrench again, scoffing and his braid sways as he shakes his head, “ suckers . ” 

team rocket had tired itself out, and at this point, daiki can’t muster up any more fucks to give. the hiding place he found in goldenrod —  for a pretty sweet deal, too — has finally been furnished into a home and there’s no trouble here, nothing to lock his doors about, but he still does. the ruffian antics of the bridge bike gang have nothing on the terror of the big, red R. threats from the short-tempered, jackboot bridge bikers are child’s play — besides, they run their mouths and fill his pockets with cash and vices and, well, those rocket admins really taught him how to please, how to keep himself in line. blood and once-fleeting sanity were a steep price to pay when considered it was all bartered for one big gotcha! moment. in your face, gi-o-van-ni!  — nah. daiki’s watched team rocket lose so many times, it’s lost its appeal. their defeat will always remain in the cards, the winning hand. 

not only does daiki need to collect a few parts from the cerulean city bike shop, but his inherent hunger for trouble gnaws at his stomach — what’s the saying? once a rocket, always a rocket! — a detour to saffron city is in order — i’ll make it quick! — just to check out the scene of the crime for himself; to find out if team rocket is really the culprit; to see if they have just as many screws loose as they did when he ditched them. new recruits don’t seem like anything to worry about; they’re just more cogs in giovanni’s grandiose machine. suckers, they are. 

the rock music on the radio settles to a harsh hum in the background and meowth starts making warning-sounds in its throat. the sunlight casts a human-shaped shadow, looming over daiki, but he doesn’t  — no, refuses  — to look up. paranoia stiffens his body, knots his throat. his fingers ache around the handle of the wrench. staying on his toes is true instinct, for trust is a nasty bitch. strangers have never been kind to daiki; no good ever comes from them.

“ you’re on my prop-er-ty. spit it out, or scram . ”

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, KAT! You’ve been accepted for the role of OTHELLO. Admin Rosey: I am unashamed to say that, when I read the application, I went absolutely buckwild. My usual decorum and professionalism was compromised for a good while because I simply couldn’t get over how beautiful this application was. It’s so difficult to write an  application that is impactful from beginning to end but you, Kat, absolutely nailed our favorite conflicted son, Odin Bello. His story is one that I thoroughly enjoyed and you took him and gave him such a vibrant, chaotic pain that I was truly swooning. I am overjoyed to welcome our beloved Othello into the fold. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Kat

Age | 24

Preferred Pronouns | She/her

Activity Level | I think I’ll be able to get on quite a bit! At least two or three times a week, but likely more!

Timezone | EST

How did you find the rp? | I originally came across it in the lsrpg tag, I believe! My friend Taryn recommended it on her blog as well (and I’ll do anything that woman says tbh). Current/Past RP Accounts | These are links to inactive past accounts! https://neosy.tumblr.com/ https://grchcmisms.tumblr.com/ https://99gael.tumblr.com/ https://halogenq.tumblr.com/

IN CHARACTER

Character | Othello, Odin Bello

What drew you to this character? | Oh, to be applying again so soon after I claimed I needed time to find a new character! Originally, this was true, but when Odin opened up and I gave him a reread (and not that it truly makes a difference but, oh, the realization of the face claim change to Trevante Rhodes, be still my beating heart,) I realized there was yet another gem in the midst, another man in such a gorgeous roleplay that catches my breath in my throat and sends my heartbeat fluttering.

I’ve always been a sucker for a good heart and bruised knuckles.

Such beauty and chaos, such destruction and uncertainty, an aching heart that slips through your fingers as you struggle to grasp it, begging it to hold still. He shakes and struggles with nature and nurture, who he should be and who he wants to be, and more importantly, what he’s become. He feels the remorse and pain of it everyday when he wakes and each night he goes to sleep – for a time he managed to be person he worked so hard to be. It crumbled under his feet and his developing insanity, the rumble of his father’s ways breaking the ground under his skin and causing something of a snap, a moment of true obscurity. He hates himself for it, but he cannot yet again break his mold, he cannot become someone else. His will is cracking, his heart breaking.

Give me his nuance, give me his pain, give me his turmoil, and oh, please, give me his struggle; the desperate gasp of collapsed lungs and a tattered chest. I cannot stress how beautiful I find him, the feeling in my ribcage so solemn at his childhood and forthcoming, his painful attributes and breaking spirit. A man who shows his kindness through terror and bloodshed, so intent on being a good person that he’d tear the throat of a thief with his teeth.

Yes, I’ve found love.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | Where do you see this character developing, and what kind of actions would you have them take to get there? 3 future plot ideas would be preferable.

MEN SHOULD BE WHAT THEY SEEM //

Oh, can the flash of his teeth brighten a room. His smile is bright but, these days, so rarely genuine. He no longer knows who he is truly fighting for, what side of the coin he lays on with his copper spinning on its side in a never ending spiral. He does not know where he belongs, nor, who he truly is and it plagues him in a way that’s all too familiar, a way that feels like his mother’s comfort and his father’s recklessness, the smell of alcohol on someone’s tongue when they speak and the feeling of a caress on skin. He needs to make a choice, a permanent decision for once in his life, pick his path and follow it to the end instead of cutting through the woods once more. Who are you, Odin? His own face in the mirror becoming more unfamiliar in each passing day, a building anxiety and insanity, a hurricane creating a disaster inside him. Who are you?

His reflection tired, tainting his handsome face and false expressions, a hunger growing just under the surface, a desperation so hot; who will you be?

FOR SHE HAD EYES AND CHOSE ME //

Delilah, oh, how she filled something inside of him, and oh, how he tore into the filled space as if rabid, as if being whole was too much to bear, the filled space too heavy, and the paranoia of losing it all creasing his forehead and melting in his palms.

So he did what he does best, and he ripped through the plaster and insulation like a hammer, shattered the glass and caused the empty space to bleed. It hasn’t stopped aching, despite his insistence that it has healed, sometimes he still wakes with his shirt soaked in blood, drenched in suffering. How can he learn to forgive? He learned his lessons but the morals cannot seem to stick, the weakness he caused in his own self and the horror he caused for the woman he loved – loves, still finding its way through his mind and heart. He seeks self forgiveness just as much if not more than he seeks hers. He cannot move on without finding solace or closure but those are two things so hard to capture and accept. Sometimes, he feels so much like his father with his past misgivings it stirs disgust.

It’s time to repent.

THE GREEN EYED MONSTER //

Ivan is a scab, an infection that Odin refuses to treat. He’s become cautious, wearily aware of betrayal in the past and more on the horizon. He has a feeling, a ponderance that keeps him up at night, the sends shocks through his veins. He hates to think of his friend, his family, as a traitor, as a monster in disguise seeking to antagonize the worst parts of Odin himself, but it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore. It scrapes the back of his mind, creates an itch that he cannot scratch no matter how deep he digs, no matter if the skin starts bleeding, it won’t go away. How does he cut out another piece of his life, another piece of himself so vital? It feels like he is losing those most important to him, that they’re all turning on him and it creates nothing but fear, more paranoia and uncertainty.

He wants so desperately to be wrong, but knows what will happen if he is not.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | As you say, no one is safe. I’d be more than willing!

IN DEPTH

Please choose between the interview or the para sample (or both, if you like!)

In-Character Para Sample:Note: This is inspired by both his biography and the original play of Othello.

His knuckles have long since scabbed over but it still stings when he bends his fingers, gripped tight on his steering wheel.

The whispers echo in his ears, hollow out his skull, and glaze his eyes so he is barely paying attention to the road. It’s late, the highway nearly empty at three thirty in the morning, the lamps leaving the car tinted yellow, a glow off the black paint and seeping into the sunroof. His windows are down but still he keeps the air on, the radio off. His phone vibrates in the cupholder of the center console and he ignores it, his foot pressing harder on the gas until the wind is whipping through his vehicle almost dangerously.

The law be fucking damned, today he was an officer of only vengeance and a broken heart.

He loves her so much he tastes venom, feels his teeth growing sharper in his mouth, his distaste makes no noise but if it did it would be a growl, feral and unhinged. He is not his father, but he does understand him. Words of infidelity set him on fire, lies and hopelessness and ‘I should have known better, I should’ve known better’ making his throat raw, eyes burn. He doesn’t cry, not anymore, but he hasn’t wanted to like this in years.

He heard them speak of it for weeks, heard mentions and hints but blinded himself with hope and loyalty, faith. He repeated the words of her vows and the sound of her heartbeat, how she feels tucked into the sheets with her face pressed into his chest, her back into his, and repeated that it couldn’t be true, but he had forgotten himself. The words broke through all at once like a floodgate and so had the betrayal, and he had terrible thoughts, thoughts that scared him.

He could wrap his fingers around her throat.

No, but he couldn’t, not even in hatred and broken trust could he hurt her with his own two hands. He tightens his grip and a scab cracks, but it’s old enough that it does not bleed, instead revealing something of a white scar beneath. He eases on the pedal for only a moment, long enough to catch his breath before the phone goes off again and his foot slams to the floor.

I am a devil, I am chaos, a man of hurt and cruelty, raised to be so with bones created for disaster. Do not step on me, do not lie to me, I will ruin her, I will be so,– I will be cruel.

His hurt reverberates in his chest and it feels like a sob shaking but it will not break, face angry and hands shivering. He loses himself in the cloud of obscurity created to help him destroy all he’s built, an excuse to become a monster once again, to level all the good he’s done with chaos and destruction. He wishes he hadn’t been waiting for this somewhere buried heavily in his mind, he wishes that he hadn’t been searching for every reason to snap, every excuse to abandon the perfect image he’d created, but he was sick.

He jerked his wheel onto an exit ramp at a dangerous speed, foot easing off the pedal once again but only slightly, just enough to cruise into a gas station, an aggressive spin of his wheel and foot on the break that causes the car to jerk to a stop.

Then, his fists slam his wheel, body doubled over, frustration causing him to kick the underside of his dashboard as he hears something break where his foot lands, and he yells until his lungs bruise.

Extras: I made a tag for him here! Hopefully I’ll have more on it by acceptances: this: https://hypnosreigns.tumblr.com/tagged/character:%20odin%20bello

[nikxation]

Scars

Summary: Scar (noun) - a lasting effect of grief, fear, or other emotion left on a person's character by a traumatic experience 

Word count: 2,038

Warnings: Mentions of blood and violence, Paranoia, Sleep deprivation, Panic... Just... a lot of pain

AO3

Not all injuries are created equal.

Six years later, and he knows that one thing for sure.

Some burn and fester. Others don’t leave a mark.

Some color the skin in blotches of purples and blues. Others drip red and red and so much red.

Some he can see coming from miles away. Others are an unexpected sucker-punch that leaves him gasping and grasping for a lifeline, for air.

Some heal in as little as a day. Others leave jagged scars, reminders.

It’s a punch that maybe turned out to be a little more than just that, leaving cold metal buried in his shoulder up to the hilt, his shirt stained crimson as rivulets stream down his fingers.

Gotta stop the bleeding first. Old, torn-up shirt should do the trick. Use that bottle of whiskey in the backseat nabbed from the convenience store to clean it. Needle and thread in the glove compartment. Bite down hard and try not to scream too loud in case—

In two weeks, he could cut the thread out.

In four, he’d picked off the majority of the scabs.

In a few months, all that was left was a thin white line.

It’s one of many.

He’s not sure what, exactly, they’re meant to be reminders of.

The memories are recollection enough.

The nightmares more so.

He can imagine that, at this rate, he’ll be covered from head to toe in thin, white reminders within another decade.

A lot of guys like him are.

It’s the nature of the life, he guesses.

Not that he ever wanted this—

Pain comes easy. It’s not fun, but it’s quick, and it’s easy to forget once the day is out. Pain is tolerable.

It’s the healing that takes forever, and that’s what he can’t stand.

It’s slow and tedious and requires a certain delicacy that he never could understand.

Which is why he’ll still hop back in the ring not even a few days after taking a hit that made his ears ring and his teeth rattle in his skull, throwing punches through the fog in his stupid brain until a fist he swears he saw coming, he swears it, sends him down to the mat so hard that he doesn’t even remember hitting the ground.

He eats well that night.

And the next.

His head feels like cotton and words come a bit slower than they did before, and maybe it feels like there’s something pushing against the inside of his skull and making the back of his eyes hurt.

But it’s the first burger he’s had in months that he’s actually been able to pay for.

And if losing can get you so much money…

Maybe it’s worth it.

Maybe.

Sometimes, he lets himself forget the thin, white reminders, just for a moment.

It’s six years later. Six years, and he still remembers how cold the concrete was when he was tossed out onto it, his things landing in a heap next to him. Six years, and he still remembers the color of the curtains when two hands, twelve fingers, yanked them closed…

Red and red and so much red.

His memory was never the best anyways.

~ ~ ~

He wakes up.

He never went to sleep, but he wakes up anyways.

It’s the first piece of the puzzle that clacks on the floor before the rest of the box is flipped upside down and unceremoniously dumped on the tile around him, a barrage of pains and fears and questions slamming into him before the haze of sleep has fully cleared.

He wakes up.

At this point, he’s almost surprised he can do that much anymore.

Up.

A soft sigh morphs into a pained groan, and he remembers for the umpteenth time why his blood is practically nothing but coffee at this point.

He wakes up, and the first thing he knows to do is to take inventory. Even if he doesn’t know what the final picture is supposed to be, the least he can do is sort the puzzle pieces and go from there.

Find the edge pieces. Build the frame.

His fingers are frozen, but his palms are on fire, hash marks of red running jagged lines across the skin. Barbed wire. Again. Nothing works, and the machine is probably halfway fueled at this point.

Tender spots scattered across his back and shoulders and arms and legs and more places than he could reasonably count.

His head pounds.

A hard pressure behind his right eye, the taste of copper in the back of his throat.

A twinge of pain in his left ankle.

There are only 3 corner pieces.

Sort the middle pieces by color and shape.

The postcard was in the mail days ago.

Where’s the first journal?

Drain the machine again before something worse can happen.

Ran out of gauze a long time ago.

Half a bag of coffee grounds left can he make it that long?

So cold.

Every piece is the same color.

Can’t even trust his own body anymore.

Crossbow. Need the drawstring even tighter.

When was the last time he ate som—

Every piece is the same goddamn color. Count the sides.

Cut the phone lines. No blindsides, no distractions, no leverage.

Can’t trust anyone.

Always check the eyes. Remember to check the eyes. Always check. Always ch—

1 2 3. 1 2 3. 1 2 3. 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2312312312312312312312312—

He wakes up.

He never went to sleep, but he wakes up anyways.

He wakes up to a nightmare.

The puzzle pieces were never going to fit together anyways.

There are only 3 corner pieces.

He wakes up.

He…

He wakes up.

~ ~ ~

In the end, a postcard is all it takes.

A small piece of cardstock, two words scrawled in frantic handwriting that doesn’t entirely belong to a brother that left him that he left ten years eleven twelve an eternity ago, an address in the corner.

It… hurts. More than he thinks it should. In ways he could never expect.

The first time he was in a gun fight, his name was Andrew, and Rico had to help him stitch up a bullet graze on the side of his face. It wasn’t pretty, but Rico was good, and it looked decent enough in the end, no matter how much his eyes watered and how badly his jaw hurt when all was said and done.

Vivirás, Bola Ocho.

You’ll live.

They were halfway to the border when they’d realized he’d left the money behind on accident.

He doesn’t remember the punch connecting with his jaw as much as he remembers the fire tearing across the side of his face as the careful stitches ripped through.

At the time, he’d never felt anything so painful in his life.

Just thinking about it is enough to make the side of his face itch and burn even now.

Rico had tossed him a needle and thread, told him to go fix himself up again before they reached border patrol, that the money would just be a debt for him to pay off.

It’d taken him close to thirty minutes to get it done, his blood- and tear-soaked fingers shaking and slipping on the needle the entire time. Thirty minutes.

A punch to the face. A postcard in the mail.

Not much of a difference if you really put your mind to it.

Healing takes forever.

It’s been an eternity, but he guesses those stitches still weren’t ready to come out.

The postcard was slipped under his door anyways.

It rips open something raw and ragged, some gnarling and twisted seed of resentment that still looks surprisingly like hope when he shuts his eyes and recalls a beach covered in glass and a boat on the rocks, shouts of “high six” bouncing around his head like echoes from a distant past life.

He wants to be mad.

He should be mad.

He is mad.

It feels like betrayal, the way he wants to rip the damn summons to pieces, and yet he’s already throwing the few things he owns into his bag and grabbing his car keys to head out the door.

He’s mad, damnit. He is.

High six?

Don’t leave me hanging…

He drives at least fifteen miles per hour above the speed limit the entire way there.

~ ~ ~

It’s the day before he gets a soft knock on the front door, but he already can’t remember the last time he shut his eyes for more than a moment. The last time he ate. The last time he set foot outside. The last time his entire body wasn’t numb from the cold. The last time he’d spoken to another living person. The last time he’d had something to drink besides black coffee. The last time he hadn’t been in some kind of pain—

Sleep has become the enemy.

He has the cuts and bruises to prove it.

Sleep is dangerous.

It’s a war fought in the fearful silence, the stretches of time when he’s too exhausted to pace and is just trying to brew another pot of pure bitter caffeine, when he’s watching the knots in the wood walls and they start to watch him back so he digs out a butter knife and saws an “X” over them and then swears he’s forgotten something, and didn’t he just make that pot of coffee why is there mold, and he swears he’s forgetting something, so he makes a new pot and paces a new rut in the floor boards until he can’t remember what he’s sworn he forgot

There’s a page in the third journal that he’s completely scribbled out. He doesn’t remember scribbling it out. He doesn’t remember, but he remembers writing and the eyes and yet he can’t even read what he wrote and he lost his red ink pen so long ago so what was he writing with—

The coffee’s done, but it’s barely warm and he drinks three cups anyways before pouring a third (?) and carrying it in shaky hands back to his study to work.

It’s easy to forget about yourself when there’s so much more on the line.

Why make a sandwich when a cup of coffee will do so much more good?

Coffee staves off the demons for a little longer.

The clock on the mantle ticks off every second he wastes not figuring out a way to stop—

He can’t sleep, so he counts the seconds instead.

Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Eighteen. Nineteen.

The clock is skipping, or is that what records do? He doesn’t remember. Fiddleford used to listen to music. Not him. He wonders how he’s—

Eighteen. Nineteen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Eighteen. Eighteen. Eighteen. Six. Eighteen.

He has to think. He hasn’t lost yet. He’s still awake. He’s still awake. He’ll never remember falling asleep but he’s still awake. He hopes he hopes he hopes He’s still awake.

Open another window.

He put the postcard in the mail a week ago maybe he should be looking for a more reliable option.

Stupid stupid stup—

This is too important. How could he think to trust him of all—

Stop.

His foot stills, the tap-tap-tapping on the wood floor going silent with it. The house is quiet, the only sounds coming from the howl of the wind against the exterior walls, the wood creaking and groaning with each gust of the blizzard.

Don’t open a window. The snow could… Someone could…

He needs to think.

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. Eight—

He blinks hard, shaking himself to clear his head.

He… He needs to think.

A sip of lukewarm coffee. The bitterness settles in the back of his throat.

He needs to think.

~ ~ ~

Thirty years.

It’s almost funny, he can’t help but think.

Thirty freaking years.

There’s not greeting, no thanks, not even a smile, just another unexpected—

…

He still remembers how badly his shoulder burned all those years ago.

Consider the scar a reminder.

Thirty years, and the first thing he does is…

He can’t believe he expected anything different.

[orchids-and-fictional-cities]

but monsters are always hungry, darling (preview)

(( Edit, because it’s no longer just a preview: === HERE IT IS ! === ))

Hullo! A while back (either here or on AO3) I mentioned working on another big collaboration with @iruutciv​, whom you may remember as the supremely talented artist from ‘All the Lonely People’ and ‘And Miles to Go Before I Sleep’. This is a bit of a preview of that project, the first chapter of which should be going up in the next 25-30 hours or so. So if it piques your interest, watch this space, etc. etc. :)

Some more hints and notes before the main event:

1. It’s an AU in the style of hard-boiled fiction, a genre I’ve been itching to write for a long time now! 2. Its main pairing is going to be Viktuuri (which is probably not that much of a surprise). 3. It’s dark. It’ll have an Explicit rating. And it’s DARK. In comparison, ATLP was a rom-com. 4. It’s going to be a multi-chaptered fic. Quite a long one, though that depends on your definition of ‘long’.  5. GUYS IRU’S ART FOR THIS PROJECT IS / IS GOING TO BE SO AWESOME OMG OMG:

Fic preview under the cut!

It was the same story the world over, and that story never changed: it’s always the forbidden fruit that tastes the sweetest. ‘Sweet’ wasn’t the word Viktor would choose to describe the dregs of gin that he swirled in the bottom of what should have been a coffee mug, but words burned and died at the back of his tongue with every swallow anyway, so what was the point? He couldn’t remember if this was from the unmarked bottle Mila had smuggled into the office from a ‘friend of a friend of her uncle’s’ back in Germany, or left over from the batch Christophe had distilled in his bathtub for Halloween. But good alcohol had a way of making him forget to care about its origins. It made him forget to care about many things.

So when the phone began to ring at just past seven on his wristwatch, it was hard to care about that too. Makkachin, his poodle and the only good thing this life ever had to offer him, lifted her head up from where she’d been resting it on his feet, blinking sleepily at him. I know, he tried to convey as he ruffled her ears with his free hand. Maybe they’ll go away.

They didn’t, and the ringing continued.

Sighing, Viktor downed the rest of his gin and pried himself away from the table. His apartment was a glorified shoebox on Delancey Street overlooking a row of dumpsters down below, and it took all of five and a half strides to get to the phone. He dragged his feet the whole way, because there was only one person in this city who knew his number - it was the same person who’d insisted on paying extra for a private line anyway, because leaving your work at the office was a luxury that you signed away from the moment you started out in this industry.

“I thought I had the day off,” he said once he finally picked up the phone.

“Good morning, I’m doing well, thank you.” Any derision in his employer’s response was lost in how the man always spoke as though he were dragging his words through gravel. “Have you been drinking?”

“No,” Viktor lied. His eyes were smarting, and he remembered now that that ‘hair of the dog’ had been the last of his liquor, and that his apartment was now completely dry. Damn it. “Please tell me this call isn’t about paperwork.”

“It’s not. Have you heard?”

Makkachin nosed at his hand. Viktor obliged her and let her lick the salt from his fingers. “I feel as though I’m about to.”

His boss had always been a man of measured sentences, and Viktor understood the paranoia that came with conducting shop talk over the phone, private line or not. But there was only so much information you could get from not so many words, which was how Viktor learned only that there was a murder last night - when wasn’t there a murder in this city, that was the better question - and for some reason, the Feltsman Detective Agency had officially been invited to consult.

“Sounds like a mess,” he said at the end of it. “Why don’t you give it to Mila? She’s been hungry for a case since her last one went cold. Tell her it’s my Christmas gift to her.”

“Trust me when I say that I considered that option. It would have been preferable, considering your… circumstances.”

‘Circumstances’? Was that the term they were using now? Funny how just a week ago, it was ‘accident’ that was being thrown around, and a week before that, it was a far uglier word altogether. Maybe time just diluted everything in the end. Oh, but that wasn’t really true, was it? God, he wished it was.

“But I’m afraid neither of us has a choice. They requested you by name.”

“Who did? The police?”

He got a grunt that sounded vaguely like assent. “They said it looked like something that would benefit from your expertise.”

What expertise? “Why?” he asked instead.

The voice on the other end of the line spoke three words by way of reply. Three simple words, and all of a sudden, he was two years younger, standing in the middle of an opulent living room whose walls threatened to swallow him whole. And he was ‘making amends’ with a man who was more legend and whisper than flesh, who could have snuffed out Viktor’s life without so much as looking up from his morning newspaper. God fucking damn it. 

“How on earth can they be sure?”

“They can’t, of course. But they were insistent that you go visit the crime scene, and I promised I’d at least try to make that happen.”

“Uh-huh.” Viktor rubbed at eyes. He was already feeling the headache, which had greeted him from the moment he woke up and he’d tried in vain to chase away with a little more gin, start to come back with a vengeance. “Right.”

“That could be the end of it, for all we know.” Through the lull in their conversation, Viktor thought he could pick up on faint strains of Christmas music from the radio in the background. Emil must have already come into the office. “Listen, I hate this just as much as you do. If you could just drop by… confirm their suspicions, call it, and bill them for half a day. You could be home before the snow hits. Well before Christmas.”

When did that ever matter? Viktor bit back the retort that was already sitting on the tip of his tongue, and tried to rationalize it somehow. A few hours out of the apartment wouldn’t kill him. Besides, hadn’t he been against this stupid forced vacation, which was starting to feel more like a suspension every time he thought about it, from the very start? Maybe that was something. “I’ll be up in a bit.”  

“And Vitya?”

That right there was another loaded word. He could count on one hand the number of people who ever used that nickname with him, and on one finger the number of people who still did. As with all words, it was used sparingly, and Viktor found that he could never see what was coming on the other side of it. Sometimes it was warmth, which came in terribly short supply nowadays. Sometimes it was anger, or frustration, or an entreaty born out of something desperate, an attempt to sweeten a sucker punch a second before it came. Sometimes, it was this: don’t die. For the love of God, please don’t die. “Mmmm?”

“Sober up a bit before you go.”

[uniquesmalltreasures]

About the fake!sim-troopers (Red vs Blue S15E8 spoilers)

Let’s start with disclaimers: I’m shit when it comes to conspiracy theories. Half of the time I’m onto something, the other half I’m just bullshitting and hyping other people with my paranoia. So I have a 50% success rate.

That said, I am quite torn about the new Blues and Reds. Because I could like them so easily and trust them so easily and… And I was one of the suckers who loved and trusted Felix. So yeah, now I’m way more wary of new characters who “just want to help”. And with the season so keen on all these plot-twists, I am not trusting anything.

Now I want to focus on those supposed sim-troopers and what we learned about them.

They’re good, military good – they have strategies and equipment (or are good enough with technology to build something up themselves) and they’re working together like a nicely oiled machine. That’s why I call this bullshit. We had seen how the training and selection processes for PF sim-troopers looked like back in S14, they wouldn’t have picked people like that, no way in hell.

All in all, we know that those guys, sim-troopers for PF or not, they are impersonating the Reds and Blues. They wanted others to think they were the originals acting on behalf of Chorus, they are still trying to impersonate them with their personalities, speech patterns, and overall behavior.

Hell, Kai knew something about this was off (S15E2) – she insisted that someone has to set the story straight – and I don’t think she just meant the Blues and Reds (it’s almost painful to write it in that order) being fakes, but also how UNSC was involved with the story in the first place. Sure, she just goes off and rants about conspiracy theories so Dylan just shrugs her off as crazy, but God, does she make a point. The whole thing feels like a staged thing, more and more. Dr. Grey (in S15E14) could easily see that the Blues and Reds were fakes and that they have their own hidden agenda in the whole conflict.  

Which brings me to another thing, which seems to be a theme for this season, for throwing hints in conversations you pay attention to for the wrong reasons – this time focusing on what Dylan told Kimball: People are quick to jump to conclusions. They see something or hear something and fit it into a preconceived emotional box (…) It’s up to people like me to find the buried truth and expose the real facts.

The only way to interpret that is to think about how the fakes are operating – especially after meeting the real Reds and Blues. They act like they’re all long lost brothers to themselves, trying to win their compassion and trust. Another group of sim-troopers screwed by Project Freelancer? Of course, the others would feel sympathetic towards them. But we already see Tucker having problems with this whole situation, picking up some clues and calling it weird.

First of all, we have the Blues and Reds attacking Dylan and Jax just like that – (ignoring for a second the fact they “apologized about this later”). Why? Why didn’t Dylan try to figure that out? And actually, doesn’t Dylan have all files and intel and recordings connected to PF? If there is no trace of an alternative set of sim-troopers, how can anyone believe what they’re saying it’s true? (And she does have the information, according to what she told Carlos in S15E3). The fact that the former Agents went MIA since the Blues and Reds are operating is worth investigating. It pisses me off that we don’t have numbers.

We have new sim-troopers and no idea how many Agents are missing, so we can’t compare the numbers. Sure, we can assume the missing Agents are the new Blues and Reds and in their ploy they’re just saying that all Agents are in trouble with UNSC, but it still doesn’t answer why the fakes were attacking the UNSC bases (and later Dylan) – I doubt that if they were really sim-troopers screwed by PF, they have any good feelings for PF and their Agents, not to mention the Director, so why are they trying to warn the real Reds and Blues and their Freelancers?

(Isn’t it curious that Temple had removed his helmet like it’s no big deal? Dylan mentioned that the helmet Temple left could be traced back to PF, so yeah, it was no coincidence it was left there at the site of the assault.)

Did Dylan’s talk with Packard really result in peace for Chorus? Like seriously, the Peace talks are over?  Or Did the fakes just lied to make the Reds and Blues get off them? What is their new strategy Temple was about to reveal?

And the fakes? They got so many of the shit wrong. Like the weapons, they’re using, or how they behave – I’m looking at you, Surge and the way you follow the command of a dirty Blue – and where the hell is the fake!Girf? Is he dead? (for example: if there had been simulations for them could he somehow wound up dead instead of Church and that made the Blues and Reds mad?) Like on the surface it’s all okay – Bucky acts like Tucker and almost copies his catchphrase but it’s kind of cringy and made me wince.

Also… The whole RvB story, the whole idea for PF goes back to two things: AIs and Church.

We have a message, which had been bounced by relay beacons, all over the galaxy, only to be picked up by Chorus. So we can assume that was the aim: to attract Kimball's attention because there was almost 100% probability of her passing the message to the Reds and Blues.

The message they received came in one way or another through Santa, who would know if there was something fishy about it – I am 100% sure about it. Kimball would ask a thousand questions before deciding this is a message that needs to be passed along. She admitted she can’t trace it’s origin and so did the fakes, but they added that they think Church is being held as a prisoner by the UNSC? How is that possible? Wouldn’t Wash know how many AI’s were made, thanks to the perfect memory of Epsilon? The memory of every torture Alpha had to endure so they could create a new AI? We still don’t know if the message came from Church – Alpha or Epsilon, or if it’s even a pre-recorded message from the past.  

Like Spencer said: Intention is no matter, only consequence is true form.  

Let’s get back to the Prologue (S15E1): we have the Blues and Reds attacking UNSC supply depot, being cruel and thoughtful and quite efficient. We have the toys – which makes us make a connection with Caboose – and then we see a Sarge’s and Tucker’s doubles-  Which immediately shifts our attention from the dialogue, which is quite important in my opinion. We get a set of rules from one soldier to another (their commanding officer to a rookie perhaps?):

Rule no.1: Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. (translation: Don’t do shit or else expect shit to be done to you)

Rule no.2: Every other person (…) is literal garbage. Don’t talk to them, don’t listen to them, don’t become cute friends with them.

Rule no.3: Keep your radio on, at all times.

I watched the recent episode with that set of rules in the back of my head, which made all of Temple’s speech more suspicious. All this plot with fighting UNSC and drawing out the real Reds and Blues? They paint it as a logical story: but it’s not. If the fakes knew about PF, why didn’t they just move on after it ended? Why didn’t they come forward after the article Dylan wrote about taking down the Director? Why didn’t they try to contact the other earlier? Why are they almost exact replicas of each other (minus Grif and Kai)? It’s easy to see that the Blues and Reds want our gang to trust them – so they tell a good story, fight alongside each other and take shelter together. It breaks rule no. 2 and plays into rule no. 1 almost immediately. We’ll see if they will have any sort of contact with Wash and Carolina under that water.  

And where the hell are the counterparts to Grif, Kai and Doc? Hell, where is Doc?! 

Taking all that into account there are 2 possible outcomes:

1. They’re telling the truth. Yeah, those are really sim-troopers, created to resemble the real Reds and Blues, but instead of being a band of idiots and jerks, they were trained like Agents, so if the time came, they would be able to take them down. If the real Reds and Blues were able to fight Tex and Wyoming and win against them PF had to see their potential. PF wanted better soldiers, capable ones, so they created the Blues and Reds. So basically this is what happened after season 5 and after our Reds and Blues were relocated to new outposts, etc. But after PF crashed, the Blues and Reds found new purpose and now they just want to fight against UNSC, who targeted them. But if this is true, they will ultimately betray the Reds and Blues – because they were the reason they got selected as sim-troopers and got into this mess in the first place. So they will get rid of them for revenge.

2. They’re the missing freelancers, trying to impersonate the Reds and Blues, because that proves to be quite efficient and successful and in the process they’ll get rid of them and take they place, taking their fame along. Or they just want to take revenge on everyone: Hargrove and the Project and the sim-troopers as well.

Neither of these scenarios is nice. But because it seems almost obvious that we’re having another betrayal arc in the making, I have the feeling that I’ll still be wrong.