#I want to own them very badly but I can’t afford to but them at the moment so I went to Barnes and noble and just looked at them

[artificial-condition]

About to start book three ❤️ 💕💖❣️💞🫀💚💛💙

[assaily]

Feeding the fandom some more. :)

Working Title: Hide the Morning from the Stars Colloquial title: Mute Five Themes: I don't even know anymore

This is a Very rough draft. Like so rough I don't even think my tensing is consistent throughout. This is Five's loneliest first year of retirement ever. And also him hanging out with Grace.

Major warning for the beginning for suicidal thoughts and behaviors.

~Post Mute~

Five takes the gun out of his mouth, his tongue flexing against the heavy iron tang of metal. The weight of it is familiar and cold in his hand as he sets it down on the edge of the sink, his shaking fingers pressing the safety back into place.

He’s just being dramatic. It’s all those teenage hormones mixing badly with all the trauma Five honestly didn’t think he’d live long enough to have to deal with. Oh,  and one hell of a hangover. That’s all it is, dramatics. If he thinks for a minute, plans this out, he realizes how horrible of an idea it is.

He can’t make Mom clean his brain matter off the walls. That would be cruel, even for him. Dramatics. Besides, his siblings would hear the gunshot. He doesn’t really want them to find him. Klaus would summon him before he had a chance to cross over and they’d give him a ream of shit for making such a mess. The idea of being yelled at again is exhausting.

“Can’t you have done this at a hotel or something?” He can imagine them saying to his corpse, scoffing and shaking their heads in disappointment. They’re right, of course, he shouldn’t do this at home. 

He sighs, closing his eyes against the judgment staring back at him through the mirror. He tries to settle the shaking in his body but can only seem to draw it in, not vanquish it. He’s never really calm anymore. He wasn’t much before, but at least he could pretend.

These days it feels like every defense he’s ever built for himself has been stripped away, leaving him raw and naked and fragile in ways he can’t compute. It makes him nasty and hateful, covering himself in glass so that the moment someone reaches out, they bleed. He wants to be normal, he wants to be able to have a conversation with his siblings without thinking they’re judging him, and without picking a fight. He wants to scream and cry and beg them.

But he’s not sure what he would beg for, only that he wants something desperately, but something else inside of him, something old and stalwart and terrified refuses to let him ask. So he picks fights, he’s nasty without knowing why, and his siblings hate him for it.

He opens a drawer below the sink and tucks the little ruger beneath a pile of clean washcloths. This used to be his and Ben’s bathroom, but he’s the only one that uses it now. The others don’t really come up here, even less now that the honeymoon period has passed and they have no desire to keep him company anymore. 

Allison mostly lives in California now, Viktor lives out there too, but they both come to visit every couple of months, staying for a week at a time. Diego lives outside the house with Klaus, and recently Luther found a job that would pay him enough to afford his own apartment. He hasn’t moved out yet, but he’s actively looking.

This is what Five wanted, them living their lives and moving on, but he has to remind himself like he forgot. He wanted to give them the opportunities he never had, and he succeeded. He’s not sure why it feels so terrible now, but he suspects it’s only a symptom of the sickness sitting like a rot in his bones.

He makes a point of not looking at himself, wetting his hairbrush under the faucet in an attempt to tame his bedhead. The scratch of the bristles against his skin hurts, so he pressed harder.

Allison and Viktor are at the end of their visit, and everyone is in the house. They’d be gone by tonight, and the house would go back to the coffin it was without the others, but in the meantime, Five wanted to look at least a little put together for them. He doesn’t want them to worry, but with the constant arguing he figures he can get away with less and less grooming.

His hair is getting long and he hasn’t really had the energy to cut it yet. It’s getting a little annoying, the way it falls into his eyes and curls at the nape of his neck. He’d go to a barber if he thought he could get through the encounter without snatching the scissors away and ending the life of the poor girl unlucky enough to draw the short straw.

When he finishes, he finally looks back at himself. He still looks like garbage, his skin an unhealthy pallor, accentuating the dark circles weighing down his eyes. The water managed to tame some of the mess of his hair, but it’s obviously greasy, flakes of dandruff like ash on his scalp. His reflection glares back at him, anger and disappointment like a stone in his stomach.

He really is a dramatic bastard. Today of all days, he figured he’d leave it in the drawer. Playing the wishing game with all his siblings home. He can’t even deny that of the cry for attention it is. Disgusting, really. His siblings could probably smell him rotting from here.

He considers a shower. It would make him feel better, a little more human at least, before he goes downstairs and has to pretend at it. The idea of getting wet, and having to put his clothes back on with wet skin makes him grimace. He doesn’t want to be cold either, because he can never seem to get warm. No use making it worse.

He flicks the light off and  cracks the door behind him as he leaves. He shuffles back to his room to find something cleaner to wear. He should have washed his face, but now that he’s away from the mirror, he doesn’t have the energy to go back to it.

Mom keeps an ever revolving source of clean clothes for him, so that part of his routine is easy at least. He doesn’t have to think too hard about it, it’s the middle of winter so that means layers, and Five likes layers. They don’t really keep him warm, but that’s normal. No, he likes them because it’s a little like putting on a suit of armor. It’s just fabric, but it still manages to trick some animal part of his brain into thinking he might be a little safer. No more warm, but far less likely to freeze.

Which is an odd quirk, considering his insistence to play the wishing game every fucking morning.

In his defense, he doesn’t usually pull the gun out. He usually he just stares at the whelp in the mirror, wondering why the fuck he’s still here when he feels this horrible all the time. Then he bucks up, cleans up, and moves on with his day.

The ruger is just… He put it there in case of emergencies. Doesn’t hurt to have a few weapons hidden around the house in case the commission decides to come knocking again. He’s not sure when he started pointing it at himself. It’s a bad habit. There are better ways, less violent ways. Ways that don’t make a mess for his family to clean up after him.

He’s just being dramatic. That’s all it is. Nothing more. Being a teenager sucks. He remembers how much better things got when his hormones weren’t through the roof, making his emotions sharp and fragile all the time, making the loneliness so much harder to ignore.

This too shall pass, he would always say to himself. Over and over, like a prayer to an unloving universe. Please, just let it pass. Five is pretty sure he doesn’t really want to be alive anymore, but he also hates wanting to die. It puts a grayish filter on everything, on every thought and interaction. He’s alive, and hates living. Worse than surviving and already feeling dead. There’s a certain numbness to the in-between space of not wanting to be alive, but not wanting to kill himself either, and he yearns for it now in the throes of a worse agony.  

But again, he’s just being dramatic. Pesky hormones. This too shall pass and all that. 

He dresses quickly, changing from yesterday’s sleep rumpled long sleeves and sweaters into cleaner ones. He reuses a layer, the fabric of a knitted shirt warm in his nearly numb hands and it’s not something he wants to waste. The bottom hem on the back is dirty, and there’s a food stain on the front of it. It still smells vaguely like the alcohol he drank last night, but he puts it on as a middle layer. His hands are easily swallowed in the outer layers, and he has the idea some of it might belong to Diego. He stole a number of garments from them all last fall, and plans to give them back at the end of spring, if he makes it that long.

Spring still feels so far away, it’s hard to think that far ahead.

Five looks like shit, and he feels like shit, but he still dares Diego to say anything about it when he arrives downstairs. He walked the first part, then warped the last floor into the kitchen once he got close enough. The air was warmer down here, the heaters worked better on the ground floors, and no one had lived in the upper floors until recently. It was his first winter home, and he almost wonders if it’s worth trying to fix. Might be easier to just move, but he likes his bedroom high above the street. He spent a lot of last summer drinking on his fire escape; it’s familiar in a wildly unfamiliar world.

“Hey,” Diego greets, giving him an appraising look but not saying anything about the fact that Five’s wearing one of his sweaters.

Five nods a greeting before he busies himself pulling a mug from the cupboard and getting a cup of coffee. The pot’s still on and half-full, likely courtesy of Mom, so it’s a short lived distraction. He almost wishes he put something in his coffee so he has an excuse to linger without making it awkward.

“I heard you and Allison got into a fight last night,” Diego says, a hint of sardonics in his voice. “Well, pretty sure the whole block heard.”

Five grimaces behind the rim of his mug, throat too tight to take a sip. It seems he’s always fighting with someone.

“Nothing to say, huh?”

Five’s pretty sure he said enough last night, regardless of how little he even remembers. Might be time to lay off drinking, even as he already wishes for something to put in his coffee. He shrugs his shoulders, throat still tight and getting tighter. It’s almost hard to breathe and his head is pounding.

Diego sighs, sounding exhausted. “Look, I’ve been talking the othe–”

Five doesn’t hear the rest, pulling himself through a tear in space. He stumbles out the other side, managing to set the coffee on his desk before his knees buckle and he topples to the floor. He lays there for a while, wheezing softly and trying to catch his breath. There isn’t much going through his head, besides how grateful he is that he saved his coffee. There was no way in hell he was going down for another.

-

He helps Mom with chores in the evenings, usually after Luther’s gone to bed and the house is painfully silent. She hums while she works, washing the dishes and cleaning up after dinner. Five sits in with her, finishing up any leftover in the pots or pans. He follows her like a ghost back upstairs, and helps her fold laundry. The laundry room is usually pleasantly warm, and Five sometimes dozes off listening to Mom hum, sprawled out on a table.

When she’s finishes with all that, she heads into the library and settles down on a couch someone had moved there in the months following their return. This is a newer part of her routine, one that Five created with his presence and can’t make himself feel bad about. The blanket draped over the back is a deep verdant green and pleasantly soft texture.

Mom settles on one end, picking up a book from the table besides the couch. He’s not sure when she started reading, or if she always did that and he just didn’t remember. For some reason it makes her seem more human. Sometimes she reads heavy tomes of obscure information, sometimes it's children’s fantasy.

Five collapses onto the couch beside her, leaning his weight against her side and sighing in the deepest relief as she wraps her arm around his shoulders. He beyond caring at this point, and Mom’s not one to judge. He rests his body against her’s for a while, breathing with her simulated breath, forcing himself to relax and finding it hard.

He still can’t get himself to stop shaking, and now with an arm around him, his vulnerabilities and hurts come bubbling up like blood from a wound. He can’t pull it in, his hands shake horribly in his lap, and clasping them together just seems to make it look worse.

She never opened her book, and she senses his distress instantly, something he hates and can’t help but be grateful for. She doesn’t ask him what’s wrong, merely pushes the book away and turns toward him to give him her full attention.

It’s too much and he nearly begins to sob. 

She shushes him gently when he swallows it down, one of her hands tracing his cheek before pulling him to rest his face against her. He wraps his arms around her back, clinging to her like a child, like he never had before and feels so stupid to do now. He can’t stop himself, it all hurts so much and he just wants it all to end. This doesn’t make him feel better, but it makes him feel something else beside the horrifying nothing eating at his bones.

She runs a hand through his hair and down the nape of his neck. He feels her hand pause and come back to his kneck, searching for his pulse. He pulls away, both out of confusion, and to allow her more access. Her face is neutral, but she frowns minutely at him before tucking his head against her.

“You’re experiencing heart palpitations,” she says, not at all asking.

He was ignoring up until now, the way his chest was tight and his heart was doing uneven little leaps and lurches. It was hard to get a full breath in, constricting in his throat, too. He nodded against her, swallowing hard when the words refused to come.

“You’re temperature is a little elevated. How are you feeling darling?”

Horrible, he tried to say, but while his mouth worked around the word, his throat spasmed silently.

[multifandomfanficss]

Home Is Wherever You Are P6

Adrian Chase/Vigilante x Reader

With a very heavy emphasis on platonic!Christopher Smith/Peacemaker

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 7

Adrian Chase Masterlist

Prompt: When the device fails, you and Adrian go to a friend for help.

Warnings: mentions of August Smith, cannon typical Peacemaker violence and language, homophobia

A/N: Sorry I skipped a week! It was a very intense and demanding week. I was actually getting lifeguard certified! Thank you guys for all of your support on this story. Enjoy!

“What the fuck do you mean he left?!” Harcourt yelled. She wanted you back just as badly as everyone else, but as the team leader she had to make the hard choices and she couldn’t afford to lose anyone else because of this mission.

“He’ll get there. He’ll find them and he’ll find a way back.” Economos sounds optimistic for once in his life.

“Since when have you become so optimistic?” She asks.

“I can be surprising!” John huffs.

September 13th, 1994

You wake up to an empty bed. It all must have been some fucked up dream. You had to get Gut and Chris out the door for school. Adrian should already be there. Diane would have driven him into his first day this morning. Your eyes blur with fresh tears about to drop as you rise from bed. Your vision clogged by tears, so you don’t see Adrian’s suit peaking out from under the bed. You trip over one oh his shin guards and hit the floor. You hear footsteps race up the stairs.

“Are you okay?” Adrian busts open the door.

“Yeah I’m fi- what are you wearing?” You look up to find your boyfriend in one of Diane’s old baking aprons.

“My mom’s apron.” He says as if that’s obvious.

“I mean why are you wearing it?” You question, as you start to stand up.

“Why? It’s because it’s floral and lacy and technically for a woman isn’t it? I didn’t think you’d been in the 90’s that long, but-“

“No, you can wear it, but like were you cooking…or…” You trail off.

“Sorry. I just spent too much time with teenage Chris.” He sighs

“He saw you?”

“Yeah and he kept calling me voice message guy. I don’t even know what that means.” He looks at you in confusion.

“Don’t worry about it! You know Chris! Always a dick!” You blush, trying to change the subject.

“He’s more of a dick than I remember. I made him breakfast and I didn’t even get a thank you! He just called me Nancy and left with Gut for school! That’s not even my name!” You pull him into your embrace.

“Baby, he’s calling you gay.”

“Okay? He’s not wrong. I am queer. I don’t just like girls. He’s queer too. What’s the point in bringing it up at breakfast?” Adrian questions.

“Well, I don’t think he’s fully come to terms with or maybe even realized that yet. He’s still technically living with his dad and it’s the 90’s. Everything is gay in a weird way. I know it sucks, but we have to allow time to breathe and change. We’re the ones out of our time here. We can go beat up homophobes and not mess up the timeline in our own time.” You kiss him. The 90’s are a shock to him since he doesn’t remember them very well. They were a shock to you too, but he’s just been thrown into it. You had over a week to adjust. It’s not pretty. Discrimination never is, but when you know better times are coming, you can’t do anything that could risk your better future. Home isn’t perfect, but it’s a little better than this. Fighting homophobia now would be like traveling back in time to fight segregation or women’s rights. It’s such a big fixed point in time that if you mess with it, you could change everything and you have no guarantee it would be for the better. People always talk about time travel like it’ll be wonderful. They never stop and think about all the awful responsibility that comes with it or how it affects your morality. “And before you get the idea no, you’re not killing his dad.”

“Why not?” Adrian asks.

“Because if you kill him that would affect history too much. We have no idea what that could do to Chris. We may never stop the butterflies or any other major threat in the future because maybe Chris didn’t become a hero or maybe he followed in his dad’s footsteps while mourning. Peacemaker as we know him would probably cease to exist. Do you know how many people he’s saved? They could all be dead. Emilia could be dead. That could start a whole different chain reaction. I wish we could kill Chris’ dad now, but who knows what kind of chaos that would cause to the timeline. We could completely break it.” You remind him.

“You’re right. Let’s just get out of here before we fuck anything else up.” He digs around in his pocket for the time travel grenades.

“Were those just in your pocket?” You ask.

“Yeah. I’m not an idiot (Y/N). I wasn’t gonna let them get lost or stolen.” He hands you one.

“Why does mine have a light on it?” You ask.

“It’s supposed to.” He informs you.

“Then why doesn’t yours have one?” You ask.

“Oh fuck! I thought I heard a crack when I sat on it earlier, but I was really hoping it was just the chair.” Your jaw drops to the floor as he gives you one of his famous Adrian Chase ‘I fucked up’ faces.

“Does that mean we’re stuck here?” You ask. He grabs his suit and starts going through all the pockets.

“It’s gonna be fine because Adebayo gave me a piece of paper with the address for the old ARGUS headquarters. They’re gonna help us which means under no circumstances do we need to freak out.” He reassures you.

“Oh shit! Adrian!”

“What?”

“No, not you. I’m sorry. Well, sort of you, but little you…I have to pick him up from preschool later. He has a half day today. I forgot. If I don’t do it nobody will.” You remind your boyfriend.

“What if we go, figure out a plan, pick up little me and go back later if need be. We need what? A battery? It can’t take that long.” Adrian suggests.

“Okay. You’re right we’ll probably be fine. You agree and head off to the address.

When you arrive there you find a little girl sitting on a bench doing homework. She’s all by herself outside of ARGUS headquarters.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” You ask her.

“I’m homeschooled. My mommy says traveling with her is a better education.” She smiles, kicking her feet, filling in the next math problem.

“So you travel a lot?” You ask her. She nods.

“Where have you been?” Adrian asks her.

“I’ve been all over North America, most of Europe, and a ton of places in South America, but my mommy goes all over the world for work.” She tells you. You get a better look at her homework to see she’s doing math at a level that you assumed she was years away from. She looked like she was doing basic middle school math, but couldn’t be more than 7 or 8.

“Is that math hard?” You asked.

“Not really. It’s kinda boring though.” She shrugs.

“Woah! Looks like we have a little artist in our presence!” Adrian points at a dog she’d drawn in the corner of the page.

“I love dogs and I’m really good at drawing them! One day I’m gonna have so many!” She beams.

“Leota!” You hear her name being called from the doorway of the old ARGUS headquarters.

“You guys seem really nice maybe we can go exploring sometime together!” She says before running off.

Suddenly everything makes sense. Both you and Adrian proceed to laugh.

“Everyday this feels more and more like a fever dream.” You say, walking inside.

As soon as you walk in you start looking for any excuse to be there. Looking at the front desk person only ten steps away you didn’t plan this very well.

“Why did we think coming in here with no plan was a good idea?” Adrian asks you.

“It was your idea!” You remind him.

“You followed it!” He argues.

“It’ll be fine just think think think think think…” Your eyes scan the mailboxes in the entry way until you see one you recognize. No fucking way.

You pull Adrian up to the front desk.

“Who are you here to see?” They ask.

“We’re here to see John Economos.” You smile.

“And who should I say is here?” They ask.

“Some old friends and colleagues.”

The front desk person gives you a key card which will only let you take the elevator to John’s floor and gives you instructions on how to get there. When you arrive he isn’t ecstatic to see you, but that’s fair. He doesn’t even know you yet.

“You’re not my mom bringing my lunch.” He groans. John may only be 27, but his attitude is still the same.

“No, we’re not, but we need your help.” You start.

“Why should I help you?” He asks.

“Why shouldn’t you help us?” Adrian retorts.

“There are literally so many reasons. I’m not losing my job over this.”

“Trust me. You won’t.” Adrian laughs loudly over a joke that would go over John’s head.

“We have to tell him the truth.” You tell Adrian.

“What truth? I don’t even know you people.” John says.

“I thought you said nobody can know…”

“Well we kinda have to tell him about the time travel device in order for him to be able to fix it.” You remind him.

“So let me get this straight. You two nutcases think you’re time travelers?” John laughs.

“I can prove it! We’re friends and you have to believe me because I know you have an 11th Street Kids tattoo on your arm that you got at a Hanoi Rocks concert in Finland when you were 14!” You tell him.

“That’s not the most difficult thing to find out about me. It’s literally written on my skin.” He rolls his eyes.

“Well here’s a picture of us in the van and here’s a picture of you feeding Eagly. I actually took that one while you weren’t looking because you get annoyed when I say you like him. Here’s a pic-“

“That’s enough, Adrian!” You push his hands down, hiding his phone from John’s view.

“You’re the one who said we could tell him!” Adrian says, getting frustrated.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just worried about him learning too much about the future.”

“So what? I’m supposed to believe you because you just because you taught yourself the new Adobe Photoshop 3.0 to get ahead on your job resume? And then stuck it on what?…a digital frame?” John is annoyingly skeltical, but it is still his first year at ARGUS. He hasn’t seen everything his older self has yet. You sigh.

“Catch.” You toss him the broken device. “If you can fix this and send us home I promise we’ll be out of your hair for the next 28 years.”

“So who’s the idiot who broke it” Economos asks, looking it over.

“It’s not broken broken though, right? Can’t you just like recharge it?” You ask.

“Dude the power source is crushed. What did you do; sit on it?” John questions.

“…No” Adrian lies, poorly concealed behind an exaggerated expression.

“Can you fix it?” You’re hopeful.

“No, I can’t fix it. What do I look like? George Jetson? This is some weird power source that I’m pretty sure doesn’t even exist yet.” John says in his classic pessimistic tone. Good to think some things never change.

“Well then how do you know it’s the power source?” Adrian challenges him.

“There’s an on/off button” John says, bluntly.

“We’re never getting home…” You sigh. Adrian picks up your hand as a gentle reminder everything would be okay. It was something you two often did when he saw you becoming a bit anxious and you needed something to anchor yourself. At least you had him back.

“Well I might not be able to fix it, but I could probably amplify the field of one device to be able to take two people, but it would take a little bit of time.”

“How long is a little bit? I have to pick up the kid I nanny from preschool.” You ask Economos, concerned about Adrian’s younger self.

“Oh no! You can’t just dip on me. I’m not putting my job at any further risk for a 3 year old.”

“Well that 3 year old grows up to be 30 and meets you and then proceeds saves your life more than once, so I’d rethink that. Without that 3 year old most of us would probably be dead.” You defend Adrian.

Your adult boyfriend proudly smiles and waves at your younger friend.

“Gross! You’re nannying your fucking boyfriend?!” Economos is appalled.

“I didn’t have a lot of choices, okay!” You defend yourself.

“Yeah, tell that to Freud!” Economos laughs at his own joke.

“We’re not going back in time again. We’re trying to go forward in time.” Adrian missed John’s joke, but to be fair his tone has apparently never in his life been easy to read.

“He’s using a figure of speech, babe.” You smile, squeezing his hand. “I have to go pick up his younger self at preschool. Are you gonna help us or not?” You ask.

“Come back by tonight and I should have this all figured out. Let’s just hope for everyone’s sake, my theory works.”

[multiplicity-positivity]

Hi !!! Um okay. So..

I know how this sounds kinda? Idk may just be paranoia. But.

I have some OCtives that are not my OCs and also some are based off of.... adopts....

What should i do when we split ocs based off of adopts? I know obviously i shouldnt use any art because i didnt pay for them, but i am afraid. Like.. what if that headmate doesnt want to change ( and they shouldnt HAVE to but. ) ?

same with OCtives. Most ocs i have let the owners know before leaving, and they understood but idk. I still feel weird.

hey, so headmates often can’t help who they are. and as we wouldn’t expect a factive or a fictive (whose source is often someone else’s original character) to change their appearance for the benefit of others, we feel similarly about this. because introjects can’t help who they are.

now, this isn’t us saying that any system who creates headmates gets a free pass to create headmates based off of any adopts they see that they want to own but don’t want to pay for. in general, we think that would be a selfish and mean thing to do.

this is a tricky situation, and we can’t say for sure that we have the best solution here, but the things that come to mind are…

- you could buy the adopt or pay for the design. then it is yours to use as you wish, and you can make art for your headmate to your hearts’ contents. if you cannot afford it at this time, perhaps you could speak to the artist and see if they would be willing to place the design on hold.

- you could explain the situation to this octive, and see if the two of you could collaborate to create a new appearance for them. you can unleash your creativity by drawing, writing out descriptions, or making picrews and see if anything sticks.

- you could let this headmate live their life without forcing them to change… without drawing them, getting commissions of them, or trying to depict them physically like the adopt or oc they are based off of. let them live their life and discover more about who they are as an individual. and if they ever reach a point where they notice some differences, in name, appearance, identity, what have you, then y’all may feel more comfortable with depicting them in art.

we are wary of saying “just go about your business with this headmate anyway and hope that the original artist doesn’t see that their design was taken without their consent,” because, while it’s true this headmate deserves to live as themselves as they see fit… this could definitely end up badly, for both the headmate and the artist who created their original design.

we know that none of these solutions are ideal, but we feel like it’s important to consider the original creators in these situations. ocs and adopts are inherently different from characters found in published works. the designs of the former may have strong personal connections and connotations with their creators, and the designs of the latter are meant to be purchased and used by others. while it’s true, the characters within published works may be personally very significant to their creators, by allowing others to interact and engage with their works, they are subjecting their characters to the interpretations of others. we feel like personal ocs are different in this regard.

so sorry if this response got rambly and doesn’t make much sense. if anyone else has any advice to share, it would be most welcome.

[thebunnycruise]

Less of a question and more of a comment, Im sorry if its in the wrong spot lol, I just had to say this. I promise it’s not a hate comment, and sorry for the length.

I have never in my life seen something that has made me feel so physically ill. I feel genuinely sick reading this, and mentally exhausted from it. I have never read anything that has ever made me want to do something about these topics so badly. I hate this comic, and feel every fiber of my body crumble that I can’t do anything to help these women. It’s such an uncomfortable and painful feeling to see such heinous acts being done to people who i know are just down on their luck and never deserved this. I hate to sound cliche, but this was the eye opener of the fucking century.

You should be proud of your work, you’re doing something that I haven’t ever seen work as effectively and as potently as this.

One question I guess; I unfortunately can’t donate, but what else could us readers do? This comic destroyed me and I’m genuinely desperate at this point to see some happy ending come out of this, and I don’t know what I can do.

Thank you for this question! And sorry for ruining your mood, I think... TL/DR: Giving a shit is free. I recall this one lady being interviewed by a local news reporter regarding her views on the homeless problem in her neighbourhood, and she said something that stuck in my mind: "The more I have to [pick up] human feces, the less empathy I have." I think that one comment really hit home why we're at this point in society. People connect with the characters on the Bunny Cruise because we see their backstories, how they got to where they are, what they've lost along the way, what they dream of for the future, and how they've suffered in trying to reach for that dream. But, even though we know the guy OD'ing on the sidewalk passed out in his own sick must have had a life, have dreams, it's not something we think of in the moment. The difference between the Cruise and real life is that the girls have each other to support them through it, but we will walk over or side-step the heroin addict on the sidewalk without a second glance. That "mentally drained" and "physically ill" feeling is the cognitive dissonance talking. It's when we're forced to confront an perspective that challenges our way of thinking, or in this case, face a fear that perhaps the only difference between us and 67, 10, the twins, or that guy on the sidewalk, is just pure luck. For a lot of us, this is something very uncomfortable, and it's much easier to put it out of our heads and move on with our lives. And politicians take advantage of this fear and apathy far too often. Famously, Mark Sutcliffe (Calling you out, asshole), the recently elected Mayor of Ottawa, campaigned on zoning land for more large, single-family homes rather than more compact, affordable housing. He called it "preserving the community and keeping it safe", but we all know what that really means by now. Or they will call for increased police spending and promise to be tougher on crime (which Sutcliffe also did). Because having bad luck or being neglected and abused by capitalism is a crime now... I think the easiest thing to do, is to just think about it, and speak up when the issue comes up. All too often, things like homeless shelters, affordable housing projects, and safe injection sites, don't get built because people don't want to think about the people living on the fringe of society. But the thing is, people with nowhere to go have to go somewhere.

I donate to a women's shelter because I've worked with women fleeing violence in the past, and it's an important cause for me. I also realize that I am in a very fortunate position to be able to pay rent and have a little left over to put toward charity work. But speaking up and spreading the word is free. The next time someone wants to veto a safe injection site project, speak up against them, ask them what millionaire real estate firm is lining their pockets. Vote for that city councilor campaigning to build shelters and affordable homes. Have a relative who says "the homeless deserve what's happening to them"? Shut them down, ruin that christmas dinner. They sound like a dick anyway.

It's not much, but I think if we can all treat our fellow humans a little better instead of kicking them to the curb, we can make a bit of a difference in the world.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️

🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸(this may or may not be my favorite)

Hope you have fun at your Music Festival, may it being you the best comfort and inspiration ✨️

Thank you so much! Other than hurting myself immediately, it was very fun!

74 for ⚡️:

—-

“Oh,” Buck realizes. “Okay, well I guess those are two separate things to think about?”

“Well, until they’re not.” Eddie says.

“Meaning?” Buck asks, frowning.

Eddie feels like a buzzkill. He doesn’t want to bring the mood down. It’s just now that he’s been thinking about it all, wanting it all so badly, the more he’s realizing it’s not exactly a snap of the fingers, simple achievement.

“Well, when do you want a kid?” Eddie asks.

Buck scratches his chin thoughtfully.

“I’m not picky,” Buck shrugs after a moment. “Like whenever you feel is good for you. But the longer we wait, the bigger the age gap with Chris. That would be my only concern.”

Eddie nods. “I agree with that. So then, we need a bigger house sooner rather than later.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I guess we would.”

“Which we can’t exactly afford while paying for a wedding and helping Adriana with your loft,” Eddie says.

Eddie watches the variables stack behind Buck’s eyes.

“Right,” he says.

“So we have to figure that out and really think about the order we want things.” Eddie adds. “Be realistic, you know?”

For an uncomfortable moment, he thinks of the arguments he used to have with Shannon. Talks of plans or the future causing one or both of them the spiral a little. Stuck in their own fears and needs and flaws. He used to hate when it felt like Eddie was trucking forward the best he knew how, and her questions and concerns seemed to claw him backwards. Even if they were probably all incredibly valid, in hindsight. He doesn’t want Buck to feel like that about their future.

Luckily, Buck doesn’t seem upset.

“You’re right,” Buck exhales. “That’s complicated. All of this is expensive. Having a baby will be expensive for us too.”

“There’s different options for that,” Eddie says.

He’s done some research. Probably not as much as Buck has done.

Buck nods. “For sure. Yes. I’m not set on any one thing.”

“I’m not trying to be a downer,” Eddie tells him. “I really want this all as badly as you.”

Buck smiles sympathetically. “Eddie, I know. I know you do.”

“I just don’t want this to come up later and us feel in a corner or unsure what the other wants.”

“No, you’re right.” Buck agrees. “So what do we do?”

“Figure out what we want to prioritize most, I guess.” Eddie shrugs.

“That makes sense,” Buck agrees. He thinks on it for a moment. “Well, I really want to be married to you. I don’t want to delay that. But I also don’t need it to be complicated or expensive. I’m happy with something small.”

“I don’t want to delay it either,” Eddie agrees. “And, honestly? Small and easy sounds good. Intimate sounds good. I’d rather spend the money on a house or on a kid.”

“Okay, so there. We do that, soon, then work on the rest of it?” Buck suggests.

Eddie nods. “That was easy, I guess.”

“Well, I try not to make things difficult,” Buck shrugs.

—- 54 for 🧟: —-

“Thank you. I promise you won’t be hurt.”

Hen and Bobby exchange a concerned look. Buck steps forward towards the police cruiser, not looking to be dissuaded.

Athena holsters her gun and hurries towards the cruiser’s back door. Buck follows behind her, running the signs of infection through his head. The ones they were told over and over look out for on TV, on the radio, on the internet. Until none of those things worked anymore.

First sign, a yellow tinge to the whites of their eyes. Like jaundice.

Second sign, profuse sweating and restlessness.

Thirds sign, fever and delirium, characterized by a staunch refusal to hydrate.

Fourth and finally, rage and aggressive behavior. Biting. Seeming inability to feel pain.

After that, they just keep going until they burn themselves out. If they can cannibalize enough other people, they can persist for a few months maybe. If not, the dehydration gets them pretty quick. It’s like they run themselves to the ground. The most Buck can hope for is that eventually they all will. And the virus will somehow be gone.

Between exposure and the end stage, can be anywhere from eight hours to a day. If this girl is forty-eight hours through, there's a good chance she won’t turn. Buck thinks. Hopes, anyway. Just because he’s never heard of it doesn’t mean it isn’t possible. Athena opens the back passenger door and steps aside. Buck looks inside the vehicle, to where two kids huddle, frightened, inside. A boy of maybe nine or ten. And a teenage girl, not too much older. The girl is laying, shivering a little, her head on a pillow on her brother’s lap. He’s got two skinny arms over her, protectively. Buck sees a long, patchy bandage job on the girl’s leg, extending up the majority of her calf. That’s where she must have been scratched.

“Hi, there,” Buck says to the kids calmly. “I’m Buck. I just need to look at your sister, okay?”

The little boy tightens his grip over his sister’s shoulders.

“Let him help, Harry,” Athena tells him. “He’s going to help us.”

Buck smiles as best he can, through his nerves. He tries to look disarming. He’s literally armed, though. So that doesn’t help.

Harry relaxes his grip so Buck leans further into the cruiser to check on his sister. May, was it? He reaches and, hesitantly - like she might turn and bite him - places the back of his hand across her forehead. It’s clammy. Hot. She’s definitely feverish. But her skin isn’t very sweaty and, while she is shivering, she seems to be otherwise still.

“Can you open your eyes for me?” He asks her.

She does. She tries.

—- 51 for 🚨: —-

“Just do what you can,” Bobby says. “It’s not your fault that this-”

“Got it.” Buck, clearly struggling, interrupts. 

“Oh my god he did not,” Hen exclaims. 

“What?” Bobby asks her. “What did he do?”

Eddie flies around the pool deck, abandoning his task. He scrambles to a small, open spot of ledge beside Hen and looks over, down at Buck and Alan. His stomach drops as he sees the end of the line, clipped to the backboard haphazardly, swinging uselessly a few feet from the tree. Buck is no longer attached to it. Instead, he is disconnected, positioned in the tree, underneath the branches that are suspending Alan, wedged at such an angle that his back is holding Alan up. 

“Oh fuck,” Eddie exhales. 

“What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Bobby demands, coming up behind Eddie. “Were my instructions not clear?”

He realizes that Buck cannot hear his chastizing and repeats this into the radio. 

Which, fair. Because Eddie would also like to know what the hell Buck is thinking. He is too horrified to be properly angry about. Like if he so much as twitches, Buck will fall and be killed. 

“Now he… won’t fall… Before the choppers… Get here…” Buck answers. 

“That idiot,” Hen seethes. “That absolute idiot.”

“Why would he do this?” Eddie mutters as quietly as he can. 

Hen whirls on him.

“Maybe he learned this from the man who cuts his own line forty feet down.” 

Well… Okay. Eddie supposes he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. But that had been a little boy. This is Alan. As shitty as that is to think, Eddie is thinking it. It’s Alan and it’s Buck. Eddie can’t lose Buck for anything. He simply couldn’t bear that. 

🔸🔸🔸

Between unclipping himself and air support arriving, roughly three and a half minutes pass. Really, it’s not that bad. He’s absolutely going to make this argument to Bobby. It’s not that bad. 

Which, sure, is also sort of a lie. It’s agonizing, for one. Buck’s back and neck muscles are on fire, quivering, by the time he is relieved by a team which includes a pilot everyone but Buck and Eddie seem to recognize. And who Hen doesn’t seem entirely happy to see, despite the necessity of his arrival. It’s also sort of terrifying. Every time there’s a strong gust of wind or Alan shifts unconsciously, Buck is nearly thrown off balance. His foot could easily slip. Then they’d both be dead. 

Buck doesn’t want to wind up a heap of broken bones at the bottom of this tree trunk.

---

138 for 🩸:

---

It happens quickly. Not unexpectedly or without warning. But quicker than Eddie expected, nevertheless. 

On a Monday morning in the beginning of February, after days surrounded by his son, Buck, and Sophia, celebrating birthdays and reunions, Eddie is left entirely alone for a day. It shouldn’t be an issue. It isn’t really an issue. He’s used to being alone. He got very, very good at it out there. That’s actually probably what the issue is. 

He’s a little fucked up now, maybe. 

Now, after nights spoiled by sharing a bed with Buck, and waking up to hugging his son, and moving about the day under the constant presence of his sister’s snark, the moment everyone is gone, Eddie feels hollow. Hollow and cold. Buck leaves first for work. Then Sophia leaves for work herself, taking Chris to his first day back at Durand on her way. Which Eddie can’t do because they can’t know about him. Buck and Sophia are the only people listed to drop him off or pick him up. So just like that, Eddie is home and purposeless. Waiting on them. Wondering if it has all just been a dream. 

Of course it’s not. He knows he’s being dramatic and anxious and they will, all three of them, come back. First Sophia and Chris, this evening. Then Buck tomorrow morning. It will be okay. Except, actually, then it will just happen again. Again and again and again, day after day, as their lives move around them, and Eddie is trapped in fugitive limbo. 

He tries things to pass the time. He gives it a little effort. He cleans the house. He exercises. He even meal preps. Which really, for him, is a sign of desperate boredom. But it’s something he can do to make himself feel like a useful father again. Still, he has hours to himself. 

For this reason, he does something he might not usually do. The only thing he can think of, really, to stem the increasing listlessness in him. 

He calls May. 

She gave Eddie her information when they visited her. And since then, with Chris returning and demanding a way to contact Eddie no matter what, Buck has made sure Eddie has cell service. In case Wi-Fi is ever not an option. So he calls May. 

“How do you do it?” He asks her, the moment she picks up. 

“Eddie? Do what?” 

“Hi, yes. It’s me.” Eddie says. “Sorry. How do you deal with all the time? Hiding.”

“Oh. Well, how did you do it before?” 

“I was surviving,” Eddie explains. “My hours were filled with trying to not die. With trying to get stronger. Now I’m just sitting at home, doing chores, waiting for people to come back.”

“I get that.” May replies. “I felt like that for a while, too. Probably put a lot of pressure on Harry to spend all his free time with me.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs. “Unfortunately Sophia and Buck have to work to pay for my child, who has to go to school. I don’t know who to bug. Other than you, evidently.”

May laughs good-naturedly. 

“Well, you can bug me all you want. You’re kind of the only other person I know who gets it. Other than some online connections. But that’s not the same.” 

“Thank you,” Eddie says. “Really.”

“To answer, getting an online job helped,” May says. “And I’ve been reading more than ever. Got back into art, which I haven’t done since high school.” 

“Are you telling me to get a hobby?” Eddie pretends to be offended.

“Pretty much.” 

“It’s a fair suggestion,” Eddie admits. “I guess I’ll look into it.”

“Do you want me to ask my mom to try and get fake papers for you? So you can apply to a job online as someone other than yourself?” 

Eddie’s not sure, after his time at Dispatch, if he’s meant for working on the computer. But it may be his only option, all things considered. Who is he to turn away a chance? 

“That’d be great. Thank you.”

“You got it.” May says. “And maybe we can do something one of these days where you’re on your own. If that’s not weird. I know some safe places where we could almost be normal.” 

“That sounds really nice,” Eddie admits. “You’re right, if it’s not… Weird.”

“Guess it’ll just have to not be, then.” 

Eddie smiles. “Thanks, May.”

When they end the call, he already feels a bit better.

💧💧💧

Work is just automatically better now that Bobby knows the truth. Like instantaneous.Bobby claps him on the shoulder when they greet in the morning, a warm, almost apologetic smile on his face. 

“Glad you’re back,” Bobby says. 

It could be about the eight days it’s been since Buck last worked. Or, it could be that they’re back. The way they used to be. The way they should be.

Hen, Chim, and Ravi notice, too. If Eddie’s dumb fucking replacement Andy does, Buck doesn’t know. He doesn’t pay attention to that lemon. But Buck’s actual team, his family, shoot Bobby and Buck weird glances all morning. To the point that Bobby calls Buck into his office for an impromptu meeting. 

“We should tell them,” Bobby says. 

“About Eddie and May?” Buck asks.

“Yes.”

Buck swallows, uncertain. “Why haven’t you told them about her, yet?”

“Because I couldn’t tell you,” Bobby replies.

Buck’s chest hurts a little. 

“Oh.”

“We can trust those three. Plus Karen and Maddie. I mean, I’m surprised you haven’t told Maddie yourself.”

Yeah… He hasn’t even called her in well over a week. He’s fairly certain his quick answers to her text inquiries weren’t good enough. Fuck. He knows he should have told Maddie. He knows he should have confided in her from the start. 

“It’s hard, now. Now that I haven’t.” Buck admits. 

“I know what you mean,” Bobby nods.

“We could tell them,” Buck exhales finally. “If Eddie is on board.” 

“Talk to him,” Bobby says.

[twst-hottest-takes]

Hi! If it’s alright, could you elaborate on the Vil being badly/inconsistently written thing? I absolutely agree that Book 5 wasn’t the strongest, but I’ve always chalked that up to that story trying to balance too many characters (and their arcs) and taking away valuable time in the process. Having to balance 7 characters instead of the usual 2 or 3 did its number on the book’s ability to explain Vil’s overblot and character in my opinion.

Verily! I shall try!

Vil Schoenheit is a character whose story is undercut by the attempts to make him more complex than he needs to be. His important traits have been explored better in other characters, and he lacks tragedy. He also lacks meaningful flaws and conflicts which would make him an otherwise compelling character.

Vil has no problems. He hates being treated as second best and being typecast as a villain, and this is a fine enough starting point for his character. However, he also has the ability to tell his agent, "No, I'm not taking those roles anymore. Stop considering them." He actively does this in Chapter 5. If Vil was dependent on his work as an actor to maintain his celebrity status and he couldn't afford to turn down whatever roles he was considered for, that would be different. If he was written as though he's trying to change his image to not be typed as a bad guy anymore, this would make more sense. But he's not. In the flashback that's supposed to explain the more complex instances that led to his trauma and eventual overblot, Vil is treated as though his beauty has cursed him to his fate as a villain. But that doesn't make sense. Vil upholds himself to these beauty standards. He isn't forced into them like Jamil and Leona's familial circumstances. He isn't compulsive about them to the point where he is comically vain like Riddle's obsessive rule following. What they ultimately put forward for Vil's reason for overblotting is that his greatest desire is this:

Someone is not familiar with Devil Man.

This statement is nonsensical. It’s the height of irony that Vil, a character based off of a classic Disney villain, in a game that profits off of the popularity of villains, is sick of being typecast as a villain, because he wants to watch the lights fade "like a hero." Vil has been in the entertainment industry for practically his whole life. He MUST know that villains don’t always lose. He MUST know that not every story has a happy ending. He MUST know that villains and the final curtain are not mutually exclusive. Vil is ordinarily written to be so incredibly put together and level-headed that it seems unbelievable that he would not have considered as much. He does not need to be a hero to be the last one on stage. It is even made explicitly clear that Vil is not looking to be seen as heroic or striving to find his own version of the happy ending. He just wants the catharsis.

Prior to this very moment, what the audience is shown is that Vil prizes his beauty and strives to be the fairest. When added to his natural good looks, this is presented as a curse that results in him being limited in his casting choices due to his ethereal appearance and he is made out to be upset by how these constant villain castings reflect on him as a person. His desires contradict each other and make for a decent set up for a well written “man versus self” conflict. Imagine Vil struggling to come to terms with the fact that he lives in a world where his impossible beauty standards for himself and his desire to play heroic roles simply can’t coexist. However, the inner struggle of trying to balance these two very strong and contradictory goals he has placed on himself is not what stresses him out to the point of attempting to murder Neige and then overblotting. What stresses Vil out is the ego bruising he takes by not being in the limelight until the very last moment (i.e. being treated as anything other than the best).

It would really only take a few alterations to the text and character interactions to make Vil into someone worth pitying and even cheering for. Some small changes that are well within the limits of the chapter that otherwise has so many characters and story beats that it is easy to say that there simply wasn't the breathing room to give Vil proper characterization. The reality is that the story wasn't interested in giving Vil a dynamic character arc, or even exploring simple themes. Vil is a vain mess of his own making who has no one to blame but himself for his failings and will forever be inferior to Neige until he learns to acknowledge and address his flaws.

And that is all I have to say on the matter for now. I hope this elaboration has helped to answer you question at least a little!

This is definitely not the end of my ramblings regarding why I so vehemently dislike this character, but I leave it here because I wanted to keep this as concise as I could. I hope the point I am making comes across and is easy to understand. There are always more elements to Vil that I can rant and rave about later.

~Until then. . .

[jadedbutler]

Who else up terrorized by Moriarty no yuukoku

Sherlock encountering William at a Crime Scene (TM) what happens next may sadden you

Moonlight bleeds through the white muslin curtains billowing over the open balcony windows, silhouetting his slender form.

All the other lights in the manor have been snuffed out. He’s resting back against a nightstand by the window, cigarette poised between the elegant, gloved fingers of one hand still dripping wet with noble blood. The other hand loosely grips the blade sheathed in his cane. 

A cruel wind outside howls. The dark coat draped over his narrow shoulders flutters from the draft. He tilts his head slightly, and the moon caresses his delicate features, the slight down-turned curve of his mouth, the pale lashes dipped over his eyes. Breathtaking – the very portrait of a fallen angel, isn’t he?

“Fancy meeting you here~” Sherlock says casually, as if he’s not breath-taken, sidling up next to him. Careful not to step in the puddle of blood soaking the thick carpet, courtesy of the cane-sword, of course. Doesn’t exactly take a master detective to piece that one together.

The Lord of Crime, William James Moriarty, doesn’t acknowledge him right away. He purses his lips, not-quite pouting as he exhales a thin stream of smoke into the darkness. The tobacco somewhat masks the smell of carnage and kerosene surrounding him.

Although he’s a mere half-metre away, he’s so, terribly distant. Look, but don’t touch. Fragile in the way a broken window is fragile – come too close, and you’ll get yourself hurt. Sherlock wants so badly to cup that porcelain-cut face in his hands, brush away the tears he cannot shed. 

Instead, Sherlock gestures with his own unlit cigarette, perched between his middle and index fingertips. “Got a light?” 

The carmine eyes that finally rise to meet Sherlock’s gaze catch none of the moon’s light. None of the sparkle that had once danced in his irises, when he looked at the golden ratio or chatted at length about puzzles and mysteries. Now, dull and dark as the stains on the carpet.

Liam treats Sherlock with a wordless smile, raising his cigarette to his lips and tipping his head forward, offering. 

Sherlock leans in, pressing the end of his cigarette to the cherry of Liam’s, and they both inhale in unison until an orange ember blossoms between them. 

A lingering pause, ash-scented and bitter. 

Liam breaks first. “Are you here to arrest me, Mr. Holmes?” he asks in those deceptively demure tones of his. “I’m afraid that I can’t afford to formally cross your path for a little while longer.” 

Sherlock pulls back and sighs out a mouthful of smoke. “I’m hardly here on pure motives,” he holds up the earring he’d snatched from the cellar, presumably right before Liam had blessed the entire house with blood and combustible liquid. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? Liam.” 

The earring is a delicate thing – silver-backed and smithed into the shape of a leaf and stem, bearing tiny pearls as the bells of lily-of-the-valley. “It seemed like a simple request at first,” Sherlock drawls, flicking his hand so the tiny bells chime. “Finding this thing.”

Liam makes an obliging gesture with his smoking-hand. The grip on his cane does not ease for even a moment. 

Sherlock begins: “A young heiress from a neighbouring company is making her debut in society, and loses an earring – a gift from her late mother – the night after attending an event at a young lord’s manor. She’s set to leave London tomorrow, and wants the matching set before she departs.”

“Oho. Perhaps it had fallen off sometime during the festivities,” Liam murmurs, sliding his red gaze away from Sherlock and into some fixed point in the room’s shadows. “It’s easy to lose things in the fray.”

“ Perhaps ,” Sherlock snorts, batting his hand. “Except the young lord won’t let her search the premises the next day. Pretty stingy considering he was just throwing a party.” 

“I imagine he had some cleaning to do. It would be shameful to let a guest see the state of the place after such an eventful night.” 

Sherlock gives Liam a sharp look. He feels a tug at his mouth, and bites back the smile threatening to creep across his face. This feels far too much like the times Sherlock would ramble on to Liam about other cases and puzzles they’d solve together. 

“So the young lord happens to have a rather high turnover rate for servants, some who quit because of dreadfully low wages, and others who go missing entirely. A real piece of work, he is.”

“ Was ,” says Liam, softly. 

“Of course,” Sherlock continues, ashing into a cigarette case he’s untucked from his pocket. Can’t afford to leave around circumstantial evidence and get pinned as an accomplice, even if Liam is clearly going to burn this bloody place to the ground. “The case had your handprints all over it. A lost earring leads to a decadent noble who starves his staff and toys with them in his spare time.”

Liam takes another contemplative drag of his cigarette. Smoke curls around his unwavering smile. “The young lady will be glad that you’ve retrieved her precious jewellery for her.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled I’d pulled it from the corpse of the hapless dead servant who had nicked the damn thing,” Sherlock scowls, snuffing out his cigarette entirely.

“By the way,” he jerks his thumb back, “I had to give Scotland Yard a tip about the servant’s body in the cellar, so you should wrap this up before you actually do get arrested.”

Liam lowers his hand, cigarette held loosely between his fingertips. “I see,” he says, and dammit all if he doesn’t sound just a little disappointed!

Sherlock hisses out a sigh. “Y’know, Liam, if you want to see me, you know where I live. You can drop by any time.” Then, in a voice softer than he’d intended, so low that it almost breaks: “You don’t have to do this.”  

“On the contrary,” nothing about Liam’s tone or expression betrays him, but Sherlock still feels a profound, aching loneliness grip his heart, squeeze tight. “This is all I can do.” 

Curse this rank, corrupt society, for making Liam think this way about himself. 

Curse Liam, for choosing the shadows and blood, for hurting himself, for staining his hands with this worthless lot.

And curse Sherlock, for leaving him behind, slipping out into the night through the balcony while Liam stays behind and drops his cigarette onto the kerosene-soaked floors, drowning the accursed manor in flame.

Next time, next time will be different. Sherlock won’t let Liam stay a puzzle he can’t solve.  

I've linked the fluffy follow up here if u want to see it 😮‍💨✌️🚬

[anonymousewrites]

Logos and Pathos (Book 3) Chapter Twenty-Five

TOS! Spock x Empath! Reader

Chapter Twenty-Five: Scheming Psychics

Summary: The Platonians decide they want Bones and (Y/N) to remain with them, but Bones and (Y/N) don't want anything to do with them. Of course, that angers the Platonians.

            “Enterprise, acknowledge,” said Kirk, pacing. Finally, the Platonians had stopped forcing him to hurt himself, and now Kirk was attempting to contact the Enterprise to get an escape route. “Enterprise, come in.” He huffed. “I cain’t raise them.”

            “Obviously, Parmen does not wish any contact made with the Enterprise,” said Spock, crossing his arms. That did not bode well for (Y/N) (who was, quite frankly, Spock’s highest priority).

            “He still needs the ship’s medical stores,” said Bones.

            “To shut out any knowledge of his brutal treatment of a Starfleet Captain,” said Spock. His eyes went to (Y/N). “And to prevent any alert on their intentions towards our crewmates.”

            “We need to get through to them,” said (Y/N). “We can’t let the Platon—” (Y/N) stiffened and stood alongside Bones.

            “T’hy’la?” said Spock, on alert.

            “We can’t control our bodies,” said Bones, narrowing his eyes.

            A moment later, Spock and Kirk stiffened and moved jerkily towards the door with them. It seemed the Platonians wanted to see all of them.

l

            The group stumbled into Parmen’s room where he and Philana sat on the dais together, the King and Queen on their throne. Their emotions of superiority and amusement at the Starfleet officers being under their control flooded the room.

            “Gentle spacemen,” said Philana, rising to address them. “We are eternally in your debt.” She waved a hand at some artifacts beside her. “We have some trifles for you. Please accept them as tokens of our gratitude. They stem from the very source of our information.”

            “To our noble Captain, the shield carried by Pericles, as a symbol of gallant leadership,” she said, and a shield rose up and floated into Kirk’s hands.

            “To our silent and cerebral Mr. Spock, this kithara to pluck music to soothe his ever-active brow,” she said, and the kithara levitated to Spock.

            “To the physician Dr. McCoy, who saved Platonius and my spouse, this ancient collection of Greek cures, penned by Hippocrates himself,” said Philana, and the scroll flew to Bones.

            “And last, to Mx. (L/N), who calmed my husbands delirium and saved his mind, a laurel wreath to symbolize the Muses, inspiration of art and the expression of the soul,” said Philana.

            The laurel wreath landed on (Y/N)’s hand, golden leaves matching their bright eyes. They wanted to reach up and take it off, but a force kept their hand down.

            Kirk stepped forward. “Has the Enterprise been released yet?”

            Parmen waved a hand. “Captain, wait. I know what you’re thinking. My humble apologies.”

            (Y/N)’s eyes narrowed. There was no sorrow in his emotions.

            “You were badly used,” continued Parmen. “In my own defense, allow me to say that my illness was more profoundly disturbing than I myself realized. I am sure, Captain, that you, too, have been out of sorts and have been driven to fits of temper and rage. Unlike you, however, what I think and feel, whether for good or ill, is instantly translated into reality. So, please, find it in your heart to forgive me.”

            “Certainly,” said Kirk, but he was focused. “Has the Enterprise been released yet?”

            “It will be shortly,” said Parmen.

            “Then good day,” said Kirk. “And thank you for the presents.” If letting Parmen act like he hadn’t hurt Kirk meant that he could get his crew to safety, Kirk would do it.

            “Not at all,” said Parmen. “But there is one final request. After my nearly fatal infection, it has become obvious to us all that we cannot afford to be without a skilled physician. And, clearly, our abilities become unwieldy without control of our emotions. Therefore, we should like you, Dr. McCoy and Mx. (L/N), to remain.”

            Spock narrowed his eyes slightly.

            “I’m very sorry, but that’s impossible,” said Bones shortly.

            “We won’t leave Starfleet,” said (Y/N).

            “Your duties will be extraordinarily light,” said Parmen, continuing without paying any attention to the response he’d been given. “You shall be freed to read and meditate, to conduct research, to create connections with the people of Platonius—” (Y/N) flinched “—whatever you like. You will want for nothing.”

            “No,” said (Y/N) levelly.

            Parmen sighed, and his emotions sharpened in frustration behind the veneer of politeness. “We should like to keep it cordial, but, uh, we are determined to have you stay, Doctor, Lieutenant.”

            Kirk stepped forward, protective of his crew. “Dr. McCoy saved your life, and (L/N) mitigated the dangers of your powers.”

            “I am losing my patience, Captain,” snapped Parmen.

            “And you consider yourself a disciple of Plato?!” snapped Kirk angrily.

            “We managed to live in peace and harmony,” said Parmen darkly.

            “Whose harmony?” remarked Spock. “Yours? Plato wanted truth, beauty, and, above all, justice.” All things my T’hy’la upholds.

            Parmen shook his head and sighed as if dealing with a child. “My dear Mr. Spock, I admit that circumstances have forced us to make a few adaptations of Plato, but ours is the most democratic society conceivable. Anyone can at any moment be or do anything he wishes—even to become ruler of Platonius—if his mind is strong enough.”

            “Your planet uses people because they are too lazy to truly use their minds to do anything,” said (Y/N). “For having such an advanced civilization, you have to rely on bullying Alexander for entertainment. You can barely think for yourself, let alone have a democratic society.”

            For a negotiations specialist, they do have a significant talent when it comes to, as the humans say, “poking the bear,” thought Spock.

            “Oh, come now, we are not children,” said Parmen. “In your culture, justice is the will of the stronger. It is forced upon people by means of weapons and fleets of starships. Our justice is the will of the stronger mind. And I, for one, consider it a vast improvement.”

            “We don’t use our weapons for the kind of brutality your practice,” said Kirk.

            Parmen narrowed his eyes. “Farewell, Captain,” he said coldly.

            Kirk was all to happy to comply, and he turned away with Spock. “Come on Bones, (L/N).”

            Parmen raised a hand, and (Y/N) felt their body lock into place.

            “Doctor? (Y/N)?” said Spock.

            “We can’t move,” breathed (Y/N), trying to rid themself of the horrible feeling of being out of control of their own body.

            “They’re going to keep us here no matter what,” said Bones.

            “Captain, go while you still can,” advised Parmen threateningly.

            “We’re not leaving until McCoy is released,” said Kirk.

            “This is not the Enterprise,” snapped Parmen, and his anger flared and burned into (Y/N). “You are not in command, Captain.”

            “Oh, why even discuss it?” said Philana, almost bored with the whole ordeal. Irritation, however, remained, and that was dangerous. “Get rid of them.”

            “Oh, no, my dear,” said Parmen. “That might offend the good Doctor and pretty Lieutenant.” He glanced at Kirk and Spock. “You wish to stay? By all means. You can help us celebrate our anniversary. In the process, I hope we can persuade you to join our tiny republic.”

            “You won’t persuade us,” said Bones icily.

            “We’re not interested, and we never will be,” said (Y/N).

            “Oh, I think your opinion will change,” said Parmen.

            He twisted his hand, and Bones and (Y/N) were pulled towards the dais. They were forced to stand beside Parmen and Philana stiffly. Parmen directed his hand towards Spock and Kirk, and two green laurel wreaths fell at their feet. Spock and Kirk resisted the force of Parmen’s abilities, but they bent and stiffly placed the wreaths on their heads. Their gifts flew to the side to give them a wide open space.

            Alexander began to play the drums. Spock and Kirk bowed, straightened, and began to skip around each other. (Y/N) felt sick to their stomach seeing their friend and love forced to perform like jesters for Parmen and Philana

            “I’m Tweedledee; he’s Tweedledum,” sang Kirk.

            “Two spacemen marching to a drum,” sang Spock stiffly.

            “We slithe among the mimsy toves and gyre among the borogoves,” said the pair together, helpless to stop. They bowed again, and tense smiles were pulled onto their faces.

            The doors behind them opened, and Aristos walked in. He cast a glance at Spock and Kirk and smiled as if this was normal and alright.

            “A show and you didn’t invite me?” remarked Aristos, walking up to the dais.

            “We had hoped things would go more smoothly,” sighed Philana, bored.

            Aristos tutted and looked at (Y/N). “You don’t want to stay in this paradise?”

            “No,” said (Y/N), narrowing their eyes.

            Aristos’s gaze darkened, and he leaned in. “A pity. You, such an incredible psychic, could do so well here.” He smirked. “But I’m sure you’ll learn to enjoy it.”

            Spock’s eyes narrowed at how desiring Aristos’s eyes were as he looked at (Y/N).

            “Can we get on with things?” sighed Philana.

            “Don’t get upset at me, Philana,” said Aristos. “I’m just here for the sights.” He glanced at (Y/N).

            “They’re not staying,” spat Kirk as he was forced to the floor. “No matter what they do to us—”

            Parmen raised a hand, and Kirk and Spock went flying across the floor.

            “Spock! Captain!” cried (Y/N), trying to move forward. Aristos’s fingers tensed, and they were frozen in place.

            Parmen curled his fingers, and Kirk spoke. The words were pulled from him unwillingly. “Being your servant…what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend nor service to do till you—”

            “Stop it,” said Bones. “Don’t do this to them.”

            “Bones, (L/N)…” Kirk gritted his teeth and managed to speak his own mind. “No matter what he makes me say or do…the answer’s…no.” Parmen raised a hand, and Kirk groaned.

            (Y/N) winced. They could feel the pain Kirk was going through as Parmen used him as a puppet. “No, Parmen!” they said worriedly. Their eyes went to Spock. They didn’t want to know what would happen to him next. “Stop it!”

            Parmen just continued his torture, and Philana smirked as Kirk contorted in pain. Aristos watched in amusement. (Y/N) was sick with the amount of joy the Platonians felt at seeing another person harmed.

            “Well, Doctor, Lieutenant?” said Parmen.

            “I…I have my orders,” said Bones, remaining strong.

            “We’re not staying with you,” said (Y/N) resolutely.

            “Then the show continues,” said Aristos, pouting as if he was saddened to see the Starfleet officers further in pain. “Maybe we should bring the other one in?”

            (Y/N)’s eyes widened. Spock!

            “A wonderful idea, Aristos,” said Parmen, raising his hand.

            Spock stood from the floor while Kirk lay flat. His hands moved like a ballet-dancer, and he walked towards Kirk’s prone body. Then, he began to dance. He tapped his shoes on the ground around Kirk’s head.

            (Y/N) sucked in their breath. They hated to watch Spock be forced to perform in an event he would never choose to. It wasn’t Spock.

            Parmen, Philana, and Aristos just smirked and smiled. They were pleased with the torture they enacted.

            Spock clapped dramatically and jumped over Kirk. He nearly landed on his head. But the dance didn’t stop. Spock couldn’t stop. His foot kicked over Kirk’s head before lowering towards his face. Bones and (Y/N) tensed. Spock shook with the effort not to move. Finally, the Platonians let go, and he fell back to sit down. He panted with the strain and pain.

            (Y/N) wanted nothing more to run down and check on him, but they couldn’t do anything. They were stuck in place beside the Platonians, the torturers of the people they loved.

            And then it got worse.

            Laughter forced its way out of Spock’s throat. A grin was pulled across his face, and he couldn’t avoid the expression of emotion. (Y/N) felt sick to their stomach, and they wanted to run to their dear boyfriend, calm his emotions, and help him recover. (Y/N) watched in horror as the laughter continued uncontrollably. They knew Spock was hating the entire experience. He lay back on the stairs and continued to laugh.

            “Stop it!” shouted (Y/N). “You have to stop this. He’s a Vulcan! You can’t force emotion out of him!”

            “Oh, you must be joking,” said Philana, tsking.

            “Well, we can’t let him die laughing, can we?” said Parmen, raising his hand.

            Spock’s laughter turned to sobs. (Y/N)’s heart ached, and a deep-rooted anger continued to brew and build within them.

            “Stop. It,” said (Y/N).

            Aristos cocked his head. “You’re very attached to him, aren’t you?”

            “Let him go,” repeated (Y/N), angrily.

            Aristos’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like that (Y/N), the pretty and powerful empath, was already taken. It made his desires that much harder to attain. He curled his fingers, and Spock’s body was wracked with sobs.

            “I said stop!”

            (Y/N) snapped. A wave of psychic energy rolled off of them. Pure empathic energy surged out around them, and their eyes burst with gold. The Platonians jerked as their emotions were forcefully shut down. Spock let out a breath as the sadness being wrenched from him was quelled. He could once again control his emotions. And it was thanks to his T’hy’la.

            However…all the Platonians eyes went to them, and (Y/N) felt their anger and interest redouble as they stared at the empath who had abilities on par with their own.

            (Y/N)’s heart sank into their stomach. They had protected Spock this time, but they had a sinking suspicion they had just made the situation worse.

l

            Having been “graciously” returned to their quarters, the group was left in tension. Kirk and Bones hovered to the side and glanced worriedly at Spock. He had his fingers laced and was staring ahead of himself solemnly. He had been through…quite something.

            (Y/N) knelt beside him. “Spock?” they said quietly.

            Bones and Kirk exchanged glances and stood carefully behind them. They were worried, but they knew that it was best for (Y/N) to approach Spock to help him.

            “I trust they did not attempt to harm you, T’hy’la,” said Spock.

            “They hurt me by hurting you, Spock. You know that,” said (Y/N).

            Spock’s eyes were downcast. “I am…displeased that you had to witness such a scene.”

            “That was not you, dear,” said (Y/N). “And I am never ashamed of you for displaying emotions.” They smiled. “That being said, I know you don’t want to. It isn’t you. So I understand that this was difficult.” They held up two fingers, offering a connection but allowing Spock to decide what he was comfortable with at the moment.

            Spock reached out and touched his two fingers to theirs. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to enjoy his t’hy’la’s warm, familiar aura. In the storm of motions the Platonians had conjured within him, (Y/N) was the calm he needed.

            “Thank you, T’hy’la,” he said, gazing at them. “For interfering and for now.”

            (Y/N) smiled. “Of course, dear.”

            “However, I admit that the Platonians have still evoked a great…hatred in me,” said Spock. He looked at Bones, then Kirk, then (Y/N). “I must master it. I must control it. I must.”

            “I know.” (Y/N) kept their fingers against his. “I know.”

            “I won’t let everyone keep getting hurt,” said Bones resolutely. “I’m staying. Having one of us stay could appease Parmen enough that they’ll let you all go.”

            “You can’t,” said Kirk sharply.

            “And it won’t work,” sighed (Y/N). “By showing my empathy back there, I really proved that I’m the type of psychic that they want.” They sighed. “I made things worse.”

            “You did not make things worse, T’hy’la,” said Spock. “The Platonians already wanted you. That is through no fault of your own.”

            “I’m still putting you all in more danger,” said (Y/N).

            “Well, we’re all staying together,” said Kirk decidedly. “No one is leaving anyone behind.”

            Bones nodded. “Alright, Jim.”

            “Yes,” said Spock, nodding.

            “Of course,” said (Y/N). They stiffened and stood.

            “(L/N)?” said Kirk.

            (Y/N)’s body moved without their will towards the door. “It seems I’m going somewhere.”

            Spock moved with them and took their wrist in his hand to hold them still for a moment. “T’hy’la, we will get away from here. You won’t have to say.”

            “I trust you, Spock,” said (Y/N), smiling before their body moved out of the room. The door slammed behind them.

l

            (Y/N) entered a smaller chamber and found Aristos on his own within.

            “Welcome, Lieutenant,” said Aristos. “Or can I call you (Y/N)?”

            “I’d prefer ‘lieutenant,’ and I’d feel more welcome if I hadn’t been forced to come here,” said (Y/N).

            “Calling you with my abilities was the simplest method to bring you here. It was more efficient than going and interrupting your time with your friends,” said Aristos.

            (Y/N) felt the heat of his anger at the mention of “friends.” “I thought your civilization was a polite one. And yet you can’t ask a simple question or respect free will.”

            “I thought you’d appreciate efficiency,” said Aristos. He smirked. “You know, keeping such company suggested so. A Vulcan is an unusual choice of companion. Especially for an empath.”

            (Y/N) crossed their arms. “Spock is a Vulcan, yes. But he’s actually civilized and a good man.”

            “I can be a very good man,” said Aristos, walking towards them.

            “You have yet to be a decent on,” responded (Y/N). “And my answer to staying on Platonius won’t change just by flirting with me.”

            “Who said I was flirting with you? I’m just being a gentleman,” said Aristos, smiling.

            “I can feel what your emotions are. You hide nothing,” said (Y/N).

            Aristos reached up and brushed his fingers over (Y/N)’s cheek. He was quick to pull back, though, not giving them a chance to use their abilities. “You are so clever, even when you’re arguing with me. And beautiful.”

            (Y/N) batted his hand away, and instantly, their arm froze. They could speak, but their body refused to move. “Don’t touch me,” they said.

            “I know you believe we just want you because we want a new psychic on Platonius, which is true, but you’re so much more than that,” said Aristos, fingers hovering over (Y/N)’s cheek. “I mean, yes, an empath is so new and exciting, and it could be quite something if combined with our abilities, but you’re also just…darling.”

            So still shallow. (Y/N) was incredibly unimpressed and annoyed.

            “I’ve always wanted to have someone like you. Powerful, pretty, exciting,” said Aristos. He sighed. “The people on Platonius…I’ve known them all for centuries. It gets so boring.”

            “That doesn’t mean you can keep me here,” said (Y/N).

            Aristos smirked. “I’ll make sure you find a reason to stay.”

            “Hurting my friends just makes me want to fight you more,” retorted (Y/N).

            Aristos’s grip on their chin tightened. “Yes…You and that Vulcan once more. You care far too much for him.” He smirked, and (Y/N)’s heart dropped at the darkness in his emotions. “I’m sure we can make it quite clear that resisting us won’t end well for him. Perhaps that’ll be your reason to stay.” He leaned forward, and (Y/N) was smothered in his emotions. “And then I’ll show you just how much Platonius can be enjoyable.”

Taglist:

@a-ofzest

@grippleback-galaxy

@genderfluid-anime-goth

@groovy-lady

@im-making-an-effort

@unending-screaming

@h-l-vlovesvintage

@neenieweenie

@keylimeconstellation

@wormwig

@technikerin23

@ilyatan

@nthdarkqueen

[plotting-against-you]

Pain in the Neck

Fandom: One Chicago

Characters: Jay Halstead, Will Halstead, Ellie Halstead, Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz, Connor Rhodes

Summary: Ellie gets a nasty migraine, causing her to end up at Med.

A/N: Based on a prompt sent to me by @chrisevansdaughter. Not exactly what you asked for but I hope you like it just as well.

Warnings: Vomiting (not graphic), symptoms of migraine

Ellie sighed as she looked out the window of her private jet and watched her hometown come into view. It was something she was grateful for as the stiffness in her neck was starting to intensify and she just wanted to get off the plane and back into her own apartment.

It had been several weeks, months even, for this last chunk of her tour and now the whole crew were headed home for a two month break between tour locations. Though Ellie loved her fans and the tour experience they were all having, she couldn’t wait to be home with her family and friends for a while.

She looked up as the pilot put the seatbelts sign on for their landing and closed her eyes. Once she got home, she’d feel better.

…

The blonde groaned as she laid on the couch listening to her texts come through. Her neck had not gotten better when she got home. In fact, it had worsened into what she now knew was a gradually forming migraine.

She hated being sick, especially at times like this. Though she knew she was on break and could manage a few days of illness, there was something else entirely she couldn’t handle. Just as the thought crossed her mind, her phone rang, making her groan again.

“What?”

“So that’s how you answer the phone now?”

She rolled her eyes at Jay’s response, but winced as it shot tendrils of pain through her skull. “Sorry, tired.”

He was silent for a second. “You okay?”

Ellie sighed. This was why she couldn’t afford to get sick. She had two overbearing older brothers breathing down her painfully stiff neck.

Before she could answer, however, the phone was pulled from her hands and she was lowered into a horizontal position. “Dude, she’s got a migraine, leave her be.”

Ellie smiled as her husband pulled the throw blanket up over her shoulders and kissed her forehead, all while hanging up on her brother. He knew she loved them, but also knew she hated how badly overprotective they were. She had pointed out on numerous occasions that he was the same way, but he simply shushed her by pointing out that he was her husband and it was his job.

…

A few hours later, Ellie blinked and realized she had fallen asleep. Then she realized something was wrong. She squeezed her eyes shut again and breathed deeply, trying to stave off the nausea that had come on very suddenly.

She felt the couch dip and a hand run itself through her messy tendrils of hair before landing on her forehead. “No.”

Mouse sighed. “Babe…”

Without warning, Ellie jumped from the couch. Mouse immediately stood to steady her and then she was running for the bathroom. He winced as she threw up for several minutes then crouched as she leaned back against him.

“You do not tell them about this.”

Here he winced again, an apologetic look in his eyes. “They’re already on their way over.”

Her eyes looked beyond betrayed. “What?”

He nodded. “Will called Jay to ask why we weren’t answering and Jay told him about your migraine. They know how bad those can get for you and he wants to check on you.”

She groaned. “No…”

“Hey, they haven’t seen you in months. They’re worried. You can’t blame them for that.”

Sighing, the blonde nodded. “I suppose. Take me back to the couch? I think I can take more medicine now.”

‘At least then maybe I’ll sleep through their visit.’ She thought to herself.

…

Ellie whimpered as she listened to the quiet voices at her front door. She adjusted the ice pack that was behind her neck and understood that she’d have to be awake for Will’s medical check of her and her head, which had gotten increasingly worse since she woke up. Her medicine wasn’t working, the lights were piercing her skull as if they were an icepick, and the ice, which was usually her saving grace, was making everything worse.

She knew what the boys would say but had no intention of listening.

She was an international superstar, after all. There was no way she could be seen in the hospital. The media, and her well-meaning fans, would go insane and that was the last thing she or her crew needed.

The minute he laid his eyes on her, Will sighed. “Ellie…”

“No.”

He crouched and ran his hand over her forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“It’s just a migraine. I need sleep and then I’ll be fine.”

Jay snorted. “Have you seen yourself? I’m surprised you’re even stringing words together at this point.”

She tried to glare at Jay out of sibling instinct, but immediately cried out at the pain that and pressure that rushed her brain. Because of this, she missed the look that went between the three most important men in her life. She also missed Will moving out of the way and Jay picking up his phone as Mouse grabbed a blanket to drape over her.

“Sorry, babe.” Mouse whispered as he lifted her up. “Choice is out of your hands now.”

“But…”

“Jay’s got security downstairs and he’s got Hailey calling Tree to get ahead of the media. Just breathe and focus on pushing that pain away.” Will said softly as they hurried out the door.

‘I guess I’m headed to Med anyway.” Ellie sighed and let her eyes slip shut.

…

The next time she opened her eyes, she was aware that the lights her dimmed and a beeping noise was coming from her left. Realizing she had probably passed out from the pain, she squeezed Mouse’s hand, which was tightly held in her own, and sighed.

“Well, this sucks.”

A laugh came from next to her and she glared up at Connor. “Hey. You’re not supposed to laugh at your patients.”

He nodded. “For you, I’ll make an exception. Welcome back.”

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again.” Mouse told her.

Ellie nodded. “I’m sorry. What’s the verdict?”

“A migraine.”

Ellie blinked at her friend. “That’s it? I could have told you that!”

“See how you’re feeling better? That’s thanks to us. You needed heavier meds than your regular stuff this time. It’s a good thing they brought you in when they did, or you’d have probably had to come by ambulance.”

Ellie shuddered at the thought. “Definitely not how I want to make an entrance.”

“No, I’m guessing that would be by janitor’s cart.” Connor quipped.

“Will you be quiet? No one knows about that for sure.” She hissed.

This time, Jay laughed from the corner. “El, everyone knows about that.”

She winced again, though this time it was from being caught. “Yeah, I guess you’re probably right about that.”

Though she hated to admit it, she was lucky. Between her husband, her brothers, and her friend, she was able to get the help she needed and though she was sure it was all over the internet by now, all she cared about was that the pounding in her skull was gone. If it hadn’t been for their hounding and overprotectiveness, it could have been worse and she was grateful it hadn’t gotten that far.

“Thanks, Connor.”

She watched as he left and then turned to the other three men. “So, when can we go home?”

Rolling his eyes, Will smiled. “Do you guys really hate the hospital that much?”

“Yes.” She and Jay answered together.

“Fine, fine. I’ll get you those discharge papers from Connor or Maggie.” As he walked out he ducked back inside the room. “And maybe a janitor’s cart to get you out of here as well.”

“Shut up!” She laughed and shook her head.

Even when she was sick, she could count on her brothers to make fun of her. That, at least, made her feel normal for the first time since being home.

[victoriadallonfan]

Favorite and least favorite Taylor Moment(tm).

Favorite?

I like the moments where Taylor drops all the lies and pretenses and is just very human. There’s a moment where she sees Tectonic hug his friend Gully with brazen love and care.

And she wants to cry so badly because of how genuine of a friendship it is. Only to realize that she can’t even afford to cry, because she doesn’t feel safe/comfortable showing that sort of emotion to her Undersiders.

Like, sure, Rachel and Lisa would probably be gentle with her (in their own ways), but it says a lot about how Taylor felt about them as a whole in that moment.

Least favorite?

I think the Triumph and Regent body snatching moments are my least favorite, if only because I don’t think WB did enough to really have characters or Taylor herself confront what she did. I think having people compare her tactics to Heartbreaker would have been a really fucked up but fascinating dive into how Taylor justifies it.

[fleetstreetpies]

TW: mental health problems, psychosis, open and graphic discussion of my hallucinations and delusions, mental health meds, mental health med side effects, medical inaction, medical malpractice.

Content under the cut.

Good god it’s happening again. It’s getting REALLY bad again.

I’ve been on a mood stabiliser for about a year now, and I’ve been VERY open with my psychiatrist about a lot of the complications I’ve faced, like needing my dose increased, nausea and headaches from increasing my dosage, persistence of mania, night terrors, delusions, etc. And now the delusions and hallucinations are worse than they were. They’d gotten better for a while but now here I am and good gods, I want it to stop so badly.

I want to not see things and people melting slowly. I want to not perceive that people have been replaced by near identical clones. I want to not perceive that some people are just my mother in elaborate disguise. I’d make it all stop or go away if I could, and when I was a younger man I tried, though when I tried I fully thought that I was God and could control the universe with just my thoughts.

I’ve been trying to talk to my psychiatrist about it. I need to get my mood stabiliser increased, sure, and I know that. But I also desperately need to get on an antipsychotic. And I think she thinks I’m malingering.

Do people actually think that folks with these problems are faking this? Malingering is relatively rare, and by all means, infuriating for all parties. But do the professionals genuinely think that we’re malingering? Because I’d bet (if I had money and were a gambling man) that it’s way harder to fake than you’d think. People who do that whole malingering thing unequivocally baffle me. Antipsychotics are extremely expensive and I cannot believe people would genuinely be willing to buy them and fake it for sympathy. I can’t afford 880 dollars per refill no matter how hard I try because I can barely make rent in a month (at least I get my meds through the school pharmacy where they cost way less).

So what even is the point of some other person faking it? To sell their prescription drugs for a profit on a black market? To gain sympathy? To get some kind of disability benefits?

I just need for my psychiatrist to fucking listen to me for five seconds and to actually fucking help me for once in her goddamn life when all the other doctors or professionals in their white coats and clean blouses and blazers won’t. I need help because they all fucking refuse to help me and my psychiatrist is supposed to help me. They took a vow to “do no harm”, but that vow is useless when their own inaction or bias is the cause of the harm. It’s pointless and futile! Why take a vow when you don’t even listen to the people you swore to help?

Medical inaction is ableism. Medical inaction is malpractice. Medical inaction is to be complicit in the deaths of so many mentally ill people.

Doctors say “do no harm” but they leave the mentally ill to suffer and die because “what if they’re faking it?” That’s a poor excuse to deny people adequate (read: potentially life saving) treatment and healthcare.

Shame on the pharmaceutical industry, shame on doctors, shame on malingerers, and shame on everyone complicit in the ableism, incompetence, inaction, corruption, and denial that kill.

Shame on you.

[leoleolovesdc]

Okay, so there’s this guy, I don’t know his name yet (it’ll probably be Jess, so that’s what’ll call him), and he was a pretty problematic teen, so after doing a lot of stupid shit back in his hometown his parents decided to send him away to live with his grandfather so he wouldn’t go to juvie. Living with dear old grandpa was terrible, but it did make him learn something: You either chill out and stop acting out or you learn to get away with your stuff. He did the latter.

Now Jess is on his early twenties and still living with his grandfather (let’s call him Stuart for now) because he can’t afford a house of his own and Stuart refuses to help him with the money. By this time, Jess’ cousin, Matt (who’s like 12), comes to town to spend the summer with the. It’s pretty awkward since Jess and Stu already don’t get along and neither of them want a child taking even more space.

While Stuart already wasn’t the best parent for Jess now that he’s older, even less patient and didn’t even agree with having to take care of another kid he is an complete ass to Matt. For the first couple of moths Jess doesn’t really care, but as it gets worse he starts growing annoyed at the situation. One random night he’s at home chilling and hears some noises coming from Matt’s room, he goes up there and finds Stu slapping the shit outta him, so as a very emotionally stable person his first instinct is to grab the nearest knife-y object around (some scissors from Matt’s desk), sneak up on Stuart and stab him on the throat. The guy falls on top of Matt and Jess stabs him four more times in the back.

This is a badly written summary of what the first episode/chapter of something I plan on writing someday will be. It’ll eventually be written on Matt’s pov with a way more shady and suspicious approach on who is Jess and what is he up to, but for now I did as vey straight forward to give context on the character since he’s the one that will make the narrative actually start.

I’m actually posting this more for me than anyone so I’ll remember the details and stuff.

[sl-newsie]

Behind Masks (Dr. Jonathon Crane x OC) Ch. 10: A Favor

Time passes much faster in Gotham. In the blink of an eye it’s already been two months, but my plans have progressed triumphantly nonetheless. After that night in the morgue with Dr. Crane I hightailed it to my apartment and cleared out anything that would trace unwanted investigators to me. 

After a quick Internet search I discovered my hypothesis was right- my record has been wiped from every system. As if I was never employed in Metropolis. Only a few colleagues back home tried to find me… and were either silenced through bribes or blackmail. So I drained what money I could from my account and found a small apartment in the high-society part of Gotham. Expensive yes, but it’s also allowed me to blend in with the very people I’m trying to exact revenge on. A few fancy dresses and a haircut made perfect camouflage. 

I’ve kept my promise to Ivy and contacted her through written notes passed through the underground. I’m already infiltrating high society, might as well know good contacts from the slums as well. If anything they are far more reliable than the esteemed rich. After a few weeks Nigma sent me his own message- appropriately in the form of a riddle. He’s hiding out in an abandoned library.

What’s remained an unsolved riddle is what’s become of Dr. Jonathan Crane. I hear whispers from those underground that he’s been selling his fear toxin to the black market. To the mafia. I find it funny to see a highly regarded psychiatrist like him turn into a mafia drug dealer. Another side question is if he still remembers me- but I stop thinking too deeply about that. 

“Everything alright, Ms. Prentiss?” The elevator man in front of me asks.

I shake my distracting thoughts away. “Not at all, Marcus. Just overthinking, is all. How’s your wife?”

The poor man shakes his head as the elevator rises towards my apartment. “Elaine’s condition hasn’t gotten worse, but it hasn’t gotten better either. And we can’t afford many more treatments. We still have debts to pay to Falcone.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “If there is any way I can help, please let me know.”

Marcus offers a small smile. “Thanks, Ms. Prentiss. But you’re too young to get caught up in this. My advice? Get out of Gotham.”

You have no idea how badly I want to follow that advice, Marcus. I miss my old home in Metropolis. I miss seeing trees, grass… Not a concrete nightmare. But if I left that would mean I would be leaving these poor citizens behind. I don’t owe them anything, but I can at least make a difference by ridding the city of the people who are destroying their lives. The people who destroyed my life. Throughout the past months the rise of mafia crime has been rising, more proof that I need to stay.

“Maybe someday, Marcus.” The elevator dings and I step through the open doors. “Goodnight. Say hi to Elaine for me.”

He nods. “If only everyone here was as caring as you. Goodnight, Ms. Prentiss.”

Goodnight, indeed. Now it’s time for the real nightlife to begin.

I unlock my door and step into the dark apartment, the only light coming from the city lights in the window. That’s the only highlight about this costly place: the view is breathtaking. No wonder the rich snobs love it here. I shed away my business attire and slip on my nighttime uniform: black leggings, black jacket, and army boots. 

Now comes the fun part: sneaking out. When I first got here I scoped out a way to slip out the window. After a few guesstimations I purchased a pulley system to transport me to a nearby fire escape. The adjacent building is unoccupied so no one pays any attention to me. Everyone is too busy worrying about Batman.

That’s the other piece of juicy news that’s been floating around: Gotham has its own vigilante. The media has been eating it up like candy. Every night there’s a new report about criminals being turned in by the masked man. However I have my own agenda to attend to.

Everything I need is in my knapsack. I unlock the window and lower down to the fire escape. Tonight’s weather promises perfect conditions for my research. It’s not stalking, it’s research. I climb down to the pavement and check the paper map. Three red Xs, three targets. My first stop is a few blocks away, just past this parking complex. The best lookout point is on the 10th floor.

Ding!

Once again another set of elevator doors open and allow me out, only this time the situation keeps me much more alert. Was that a car driving by or a tank? No matter. My presence is to remain discrete. No use poking into business that’s not mine. I grip my knapsack and begin walking through the echoing building.

“...wasn’t for freaks like you!”

What?

I stop in my tracks and poke my head around the column to see a gruff man come storming right past me. He’s dressed in black, almost like Batman. He fails to notice me and keeps walking until he’s entered the staircase. Who was he yelling at-?

It can’t be. It is.

The Dr. Jonathan Crane sits slumped against the wall. His face is barely visible in the shadows but I can tell he’s been busy. His hair is unkempt and his suit is slightly more worn than it was in Arkham. He's missing his glasses. His Scarecrow mask lies a few feet away. Part of me urges myself to walk away without a second thought. The other half… it thinks differently.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

The fear doctor doesn’t move an inch. One might think he’s dead. The only thing he does to acknowledge me is shift his eyes over to look at me. Same calculating stare, same piercing blue eyes. 

“I heard Batman cornered you in a parking garage a few weeks ago,” I gesture to our surroundings. “Just like this one.”

Dr. Crane lets out a small hum. “Your information is correct.”

“Another drug deal gone south?” He nods slowly and I shake my head with a somewhat taunting smile. “My my, how the tables have turned. Now instead of being head honcho of Arkham you’re doing business with the mob.”

“Quit the mockery, Dr. Prentiss. Unlike you I’m not exactly welcomed in society after the incident at Arkham. By the way, how did you manage that?”

My instincts tell me it’s safe to approach. If he does have any fear toxin on him then I have a gas mask at the ready. 

“It’s called being nice. Unlike you I have much friendlier methods of infiltrating Gotham.”

Crane sees me walking closer and almost seems to freeze up, nearly inching away like a startled animal, but he’s quick to regain a confident demeanor. How far has his mind gone these past months?

“What brings you to this supreme location?” Crane asks sarcastically.

“Research,” I answer simply. “I imagine you’re headed back to wherever it is you call home now since your friend just walked off? What’s that all about?”

Crane’s face flinches into a sneer. “That wannabe thinks that it’s people like me who are tearing Gotham apart. I’m trying to save it!”

Despite his quick outburst I keep a straight face. “By methods of fear.”

He slowly nods. “Exactly.”

“You haven’t changed a bit.” I check my watch. 10:30. “Nice to catch up Dr. Crane but I do have things to do.”

I do a mock goodbye bow and keep walking to the other side of the building. Quit feeling sad, Prentiss. He doesn’t miss you, you don’t miss him. We settled our agreement- And yet Crane is following me.

“Dr. Crane, I advise you to turn around and walk away.”

He doesn’t stop and catches up to me. “No, I like this. Dr. Prentiss, the once-goody-goody psychiatrist, is now sneaking around like a rebellious teenager. How’s the whole ‘raging Hell’ scheme coming along?”

“Better than your drug deals,” I reply smoothly.

We reach the end of the parking structure. Across the street is an apartment building that houses one of my targets: Lawrence Thompson. The filthy lawyer who was supposed to, but failed, to defend me. Instead he turned halfway through the legal process and tattled a mouthful of lies against me. 

“Picking out your new luxury apartment?” Dr. Crane asks. He’s standing next to me- almost too close for others’ liking. But it’s fine with me. He’s been close enough to administer toxin into my veins, he can stand next to me as a temporary colleague.

“It’s not your place to know, but it’s part of my research,” I answer and note the time when I see the scum in the window. 10:34. 

Next to me I hear Crane hum. “Are we replacing ‘revenge’ with ‘research’ now?”

Since when is my life his entertainment? “Don’t you have a place to stay?” I ask with a slightly lazy tone.

He scoffs. “When I worked at Arkham I had an apartment. Obviously now that I’m an escaped convict I need to find lodgings elsewhere.”

I tilt my head. “So you’re homeless?”

“I’m temporarily unhoused. There’s a difference.”

“You’re in serious need of an upgrade.”

Crane leans away and avoids my gaze. “I don’t want your help.”

I clap my hands together and nod. “You’re right. You don’t want it, you need it.”

Out of nowhere the doctor lurks even closer, backing me against the wall. My pulse skips faster… though whether it’s through fear or excitement is unclear. 

“You forget I’m the one who caused you to face your greatest fear,” he murmurs.

My eyes never blink and I keep a steady face. “Do you expect a thank-you card?”

His brow furrows in confusion. “Wait a minute. You’re glad? That’s the first time I’ve had someone thank me for poisoning them.”

I went through a whole year trying to suppress my grief for my parents. His fear toxin gave me the push to overcome it. For the past month I haven’t once thought about my parents’ death.

Thompson appears in the window again. 10:41. So it takes him 7 minutes to take out his trash. My work tonight is almost done. Now I just need to scope out the other side of the building.

“Stay. Stay, Crane,” I say as if talking to a dog when I hear him behind me again. “Stop following me!” He murmurs something but I can hardly hear him. “Come again?”

“Um… does an offer for potential lodgings still stand?” He asks with a hint of nervousness.

Don’t help him. Do not help him! He’s nothing but trouble. If I allow him to stay in my life then it will only cause delay. How can I possibly trust this psycho enough to let him stay in my apartment? I’ve made it this far by myself-

“I’ll pay for it,” Crane speaks up when he sees my disagreeing expression.

“Money is not an issue. Try again.”

 He licks his lips and rethinks his offer. “If you let me stay, I will owe you a favor.”

My eyes narrow. “What kind of favor?”

Dr. Crane leans in with the same stern eyes. “A favor that might save you if you’re ever in a pinch and need help.”

Do not help him! But in Gotham a favor is worth more than a million dollars. I can’t afford to ignore it. Even Ivy’s mentioned how profitable allies can be in this city.

“Fine. You can stay with me, but on my terms.” I point a warning finger and get up in his face. “No stealing. No fear toxins. No slitting my throat when I’m sleeping. And! Keep your hands to yourself, or I will gut you like a fish.”

Crane doesn’t flinch. “Deal.”

[yukidragon]

What Will be Jack's reaction if MC go to therapy?

I feel like I’ve touched on this topic briefly in a couple other posts, though I only found one of them. Maybe I need to see about getting a search engine feature for my blog. The amount of headcanons and information I have in them is getting way bigger than I ever expected it to be.

Anyway, onto the topic at hand. I think it all hinges on why MC feels the need to get therapy. If they are mentally unwell in a way that they can’t handle on their own, and it’s too much for him to help them, then I think he would support them seeing a medical expert. You go see a doctor when your leg is injured, so why should be any different if it’s your brain?

If the reason MC wants to go to therapy is because of Jack... Oh my is he going to try his best to talk him out of it. Even if their reason for going is for something else, I can see him cautioning them against talking about him to the therapist. No one else will understand them and the special connection they have, but that’s okay. They don’t have to. There’s nothing wrong with them and their relationship.

I don’t think Jack’s presence relies on a mentally ill MC. I think his presence simply relies on them needing him around. There are other ways to encourage them to need him without leaving them to suffer from an illness, and he wouldn’t want them to feel bad like that.

I do think that the MC is having a rough time of it mentally. They might even be depressed. Some of the thoughts they have about themselves indicate that they struggle to care about themselves, and Ian cheating on them hurt them very badly. They might do well with therapy, though that sort of treatment costs money, and I don’t think they can afford it, not if they’re forced to rely on their cheating ex for clothes and the place they’re staying.

Jack cares about MC, so no doubt he’ll do whatever he can to help them get better, no matter what their issue is. If they need to take medicine, I’m sure he’ll dutifully remind them whenever it’s time to take them or ask if they remembered to take it. He would be there to listen to them and their problems, and he’s taken psychology courses in the past so he would have some experience in helping them talk through their issues.

I believe that Jack would support an MC who needs therapy. He just won’t support anything that might threaten his relationship with his sunshine. If the therapist winds up finding out about him and, heaven forbid, try to convince them to let him go and that he’s not real... well, he’s going to need to make sure they won’t tell his sunshine such lies ever again.

@channydraws @earthgirlaesthetic @sai-of-the-7-stars @cheriihoney @illary-kore @okamiliqueur  

[elias--jensen]

[ colin morgan, cis male, he/him ] — whoa! ELIAS “EJ” JENSEN just stole my cab! not cool, but maybe they needed it more. they have lived in the city for 5 YEARS, working as a FRONT DESK MANAGER. that can’t be easy, especially at only 32 YEARS OLD. some people say they can be a little bit STUBBORN and SNARKY , but i know them to be AMBITIOUS and LOYAL. whatever. i guess i’ll catch the next cab. hope they like the ride back to BROOKLYN! — (jessie, 30, est, she/her, none)

Name: Elias “EJ” Jensen FC: Colin Morgan Age: 32 Sexuality: Bisexual Pronouns: He/Him Birthday: May 11, 1991 Zodiac: Taurus  Birthplace: Cranford, NJ Current Location: Brooklyn, NY

tw verbal abuse

FAMILY

EJ grew up in the suburbs of middle class America. Picture perfect families surround the hell hole he was living in. Some on EJ's first memories are his parents fighting in the living room. Their voices would echo through the home, but Nat was there. Natalie is his older sister. His rock, his protector, his home. She would squeeze him close to her chest, and tell him everything was alright. Even if it wasn't. Finally once their parents got a divorce, they would spend their school year in Jersey with their mom. And during the summer they would be with their dad in the city. During this time in his life, he was very angry. At his parents, at the world, at himself. It took years and a lot of family therapy to work past it, but it lingers and bleeds into his friendships and relationships.

OCCUPATION

Always known for kissing ass, EJ seemed to thrive in customer service. He knew how to plaster on a smile and to read in-between the lines. From a young age, he was always working and trying to make money. He wanted to grow up so badly, and to be on his own. In high school, he found a love for music. Blasting the speakers as loud as they could go, and singing on the top of his lungs. It was the pipe dream he followed for a long time. To his parents disapproval, he dropped out of college to travel with a band he had auditioned for. The problem with pipe dreams, as his father would say, "They always fail. You need to be realistic." When EJ found himself sleeping in his childhood home, with his mother and her boyfriend of week in the kitchen, he knew his dad was right. After applying for any place that was hiring, he landed an interview for a front desk job at a Holiday Inn. With that smile and a lot of luck, he got the job. Until he had the money, he would take the train into the city. But as soon as he could afford it, he found a room in Brooklyn. Whenever he has the opportunity, he plays open mics here and there. But he's had to put his love of performing on the backburner.

CONNECTIONS

Natalie Cruz, 35, EJ's Older Sister

Natalie is EJ's rock and wants to know everything that's going on in his life. She would fuss and worry over him, even lecture him when he got in trouble. As much as it annoyed him, he needed her. They needed each other. Nat is almost like a second mother to him, but it's hard for EJ to admit that. Plus she has her own babies to look after. She has a 3 year old daughter named Maeve and a 1 year old son named Mateo. She's married to her partner, Valerie Cruz. They been together for 7 years. She stayed in Jersey and he visits them as often as he can.

Judy Byrne, 56 and William Jensen, 54

Looking back, it was a miracle and curse that his parent's marriage lasted 10 years. EJ's parents were the exact opposite, and it over time they hated each other for it. His mom was very outgoing, but his dad was more shy. His dad loved getting to their destination, while his mom would find any reason to stop and look at the view. It was hard to believe there was a time they got along. They met when his dad was studying abroad in Ireland. "Almost like a fairytale, it was love at first sight." His dad would say, reminiscing about people they didn't exist anymore. After the divorce, EJ didn't really have a relationship with either of them, as much as they tried. It got easier as time went on, and they all grew up. His mom never remarried, and his father is on his 3rd marriage. EJ's relationship with his parents now consist of awkward phone calls, and showing face at holiday parties.

James Anstead, 33, EJ's Childhood Friend (WANTED)

The first time they met, James was standing at their front door and tears in his eyes. A few minutes earlier, a ball had flown through their window, glass shattering everywhere. His mother had made him come to their door to apologize. All EJ could think about was how James was able to kick the ball that far. That not only did he find out they were practically neighbors, but he found his new best friend. Throughout their whole lives, they stayed partners in crime. Even now when they don't get to see each other as often, he would drop everything to help James.