#but at the same time nearly nobody mourns him

[i-am-but-a-beta-fish]

is this about the hok or myself? the answer is yes.

[modelbus]

why do requests when I can post the most random things in existence?

Pairing: CEO!Simon Ghost Riley x Gn!Reader

Workplace Hazards

"I'm resigning."

The jerk of a head, and dark eyes meet your light ones. 

There should be books written on the way those dark eyes narrow at you, daring you to contradict his next words. Knowing you will. But nobody else understands these patterns, these games, quite the same way you do.

You suppose that makes you the would-be author of the books.

"No you aren't." His voice is solid, leaving no room for arguing.

You find room anyways.

"Yes, I am."

I'm the absence of an immediate response, your eyes dip to his desk. You walked into this office with one plan in mind, and you’ll be damned if it's ruined because he's easy on the eyes.

His wooden desk, as usual, is neatly organized. A stack of perfectly crisp papers sit under an elegant pen, right next to the keyboard connected to his computer. Your eyes carefully avoid looking at the placard sat on his desk.

You knows what it says anyways. The same thing is on his door that you barged through just minutes before.

Simon Riley - CEO

Finally, your eyes flick back to him.

"And why the fuck,” he says, voice carefully measured, "would that be?"

"You know why."

Simon’s—Mr. Riley’s—jaw clenches, a muscle ticking. 

When you were hired into this office, nearly everyone had warned you that this very man was, simply put, an asshole. And he was. 

He yelled at workers, he refused to budge. There were days where his glare was so strong you were terrified that standing in his sight for too long would kill you.

But it didn't. Not when his eyes softened, not when his voice became gentler than you ever knew possible.

"Humor me." It's a demand more so than a request from him.

You sigh. “Just let me resign. Let me quit."

"Why the hell would I do that?"

You have to swallow to stop yourself from repeating your earlier response. He knows why. You both know it better than the backs of your own hands. 

Simon raises an eyebrow, motioning for you to speak with a pissed expression. You don’t.

He runs a slow and deliberate hand through the carefully messy blond hair on top of his head, making you glance away. This felt like a slap in the face to you, to everything you were trying to do.

"I'm not letting you resign." Simon says slowly. “You’re not resigning.”

"I'm not asking you to let me." You immediately respond.

It's his turn to look away this time. Almost instinctively your eyes fall down to the slope of his neck, past the scars, further to the silver chain necklace.

Your lips, pressed to the soft skin of his neck. He was all you could taste, all you could smell. He was going to kill you, just like this. Suffocate you with everything he was.

If his hands didn't get you first, that was.

"If this is over the other night, I can assure you-"

"It's not." You say stiffly. "Well, not entirely."

The other night, when every last wall between you two came down.

Simon Riley was an enigma at best, and the world's biggest dickhead at worst. To everyone that wasn't you, that is.

Because somewhere along turning in reports and weekly check-ins, something shifted. Something that turned into walks home, idle chats, you knowing his childhood friends called him Ghost.

True surprise flashes over his face before it's gone again. Faintly, you wonder if anyone else would've caught that emotion. Another part of you mourns the idea that someday, someone else will.

"Then what is this about?" 

You take a deep breath. "The rumors."

"The... rumors?" He repeats, an edge of confusion overriding the control.

For a second, you pause, realizing your mistake. Of course he didn't listen to the office rumors. Idle gossip around here would never be his style, no matter what happened.

He didn't know the rumor going around.

"What rumors?" He repeats, and something's shifted in his voice now. Panic. He's panicking. Simon Riley never panics.

Simon pushes himself halfway to his feet before you manage to find your words again.

"The entire office thinks I'm sleeping with you for a promotion."

He collapses back down into his chair.

You’re left to stand, wondering if this is what the wreckage of a car crash looks like. Maybe it'd be easier if it was a real wreck. Not... this. Not whatever's been going on between you and him.

It's will-you and won't-he, a vice-like grip on your heart that you just can't seem to shake. It's the memory of his laugh, low and smooth, the first time you made him laugh. It's his goddamn lips against yours.

You think you might kneel over dead in his office.

"Ah." He says, missing his usual eloquence. "They're just rumors."

"Partly true rumors."

You meet his eyes, daring him to deny it. He doesn't.

From the second his hand landed on your waist that night, you both knew you were too fragile to forget what was going to happen. Going back was never an option.

"But the others don't know that. Just fucking ignore them."

You shake your head. "You don't get it. These rumors may not touch you, but for me—"

"If anyone's giving you shit over them, tell me." He's quick to speak, pure anger in his voice. He's pissed at the very idea. 

"You can't change 7.8 billion people, Si- Mr. Riley."

"Don't do that." Before you can even ask him to elaborate, he stands. "Don't step back like that, don't reduce me to Mr. Riley again."

This time, you have to fully turn away. How are you meant to quit him like this?

"The rumors can and will ruin my career." You tell the photos on the walls. They're of places, not people. Simon Riley doesn't do photos of people.

"No they won't."

"I've been working my ass off to show people that I've earned everything I've gotten. I'm not going to throw that away on- on-"

"On me."

You wish you didn't know him well enough to detect the undercurrent of hope. You wish a lot of things that can never happen. 

You wish you couldn't hear his footsteps rounding the desk. His presence behind you is like a force of nature, a gravitational pull you can't get rid of for the life of you.

"You promised you wouldn't run away from me."

It was a stupid promise to make to him. 

"My job comes first and you know it. It's the same way with you."

"At least give me the dignity of looking at me." His hand lands on your arm, tugging you around to see him. "I'll get HR off your back, so stop trying to quit."

"It's not HR!" You exclaim, frustration overtaking you. 

"Don't lie and tell me you suddenly give a damn what the others think." He glowers at you, eyebrows lowering as a frown tugs at his mouth. You frown right back at him.

"I do when it's my job on the line."

"Bullshit. They-" he makes a motion to his door, "-don't decide shit here. I do. And I'm not going to let you go."

"Actually, I decide what I do with my life, which is why I'm resigning." 

His expression drops, falling from anger straight into despair before he fixes it. Your heart leaps into your throat.

Simon still has his hand on your arm, and you’re all too aware of that. Every point of contact you have right now prickles with electricity.

"You're throwing away your job. This is the stupidest move I've ever seen you make, and you've done a lot of stupid shit."

"Actually," the words are flowing out of your mouth before you can stop them, "I think the stupidest move I've made was kissing you."

His hand drops from your arm like he's burned, like your words struck him as a physical blow. You regret them immediately, but it's too late.

"Simon, wait—"

"No." He shakes his hand, steps back, adjusts his tie. "If you regret it so much, you should've stopped a long time ago."

You stare helplessly up at him. "I know." You murmur. “I know."

After a long moment you clear your throat, holding out a pink paper. "My letter of resignation."

He takes it, glancing over it. 

For just a moment, you think he'll actually let you go. Let you walk away from him and this company like nothing ever happened between you two. Like you didn't see him and love everything he gave you.

And then he rips it in half, crumbles it, and tosses it out the window.

"Get back to work." He says roughly, turning away and walking the few steps back to his desk.

"I'll print another." You threaten uselessly.

"And I'll rip up another." He raises his eyebrows at you.

"I'll send twenty to your house."

"You show up at my house, darlin’."

You could kill him. Right now, with your bare hands, you’re so tempted to lunge.

This is dangerous.

This is what led you to the other night, the addictive rush they found existed between you two. You should step back. Try again later, maybe call a workers union or something.

But you won't, and he knows that better than anyone else.

"Why are you like this?" You exclaim. The cocky cover he hid under was infuriating.

Simon Riley was like a goddamn sink hole someone tried to cover up. You break through the first layer of assholeness to find another layer of cockiness.

And when you break through that one, there's nothing to stop you from falling.

"Why are you so insistent on making a stupid decision?" He snaps back. "We fucked. The office thinks they know. So what?"

"So it'll ruin me!"

"And it won't ruin me?" 

You scoff, rolling your eyes. your arms cross over your chest at the pure nerve has to say that.

"Please. You're the CEO, your job is—"

"I'm not talking about my job."

Your breath catches, and you’re suddenly aware of how hard you’re both breathing. Simon takes a rugged breath in, eyes on you.

"What do I have to do to get you to stay?"

You could have anything and everything. You know that if you asked in this moment, he'd offer everything.

It's power you never wanted.

His connections could get you meeting celebrities, and as the CEO he could promote you to places you never thought you’d get. His offer of bribery was too good for a person to pass up, even with the current rumor. 

But...

His eyes, normally so reserved, are soft. If eyes were truly windows to the soul, his windows were wide open.

"This isn't because I'm the CEO, right?" He murmurs into your hair, breath warm. 

"No. Not this."

You swallow, and shakes your head. "Nothing."

"Don't let this rumor ruin this."

"Ruin what?"

You tilt your head up, eyes locking onto his. You need this response more than you’ve ever needed anything before.

Because you woke up and left him. 

You didn't talk about what happened between you two. Not when you saw each other in the office, not when you sent him a cat meme and he sent you a dog meme. This thing between you didn't have a name, and you were shriveling up.

You watch him swallow, suddenly put on the spot to define what you are. 

And he can't.

So you turn away, moving to leave his office. What's the point of listening to him if he doesn't even know why you shouldn't leave? 

Simon moves quicker than you though, placing himself between you and his office door. 

"Si—"

"I want to take you to dinner." He says, and you stop talking. "I want you to get dressed up nice just for me, and I want to go on a date. On a thousand dates. And I want to kiss you during every one, take you home, and wake up next to you. I’m not built for it, love, but I fucking want it.”

More. 

He wants to be more.

He takes a step closer to you, and you don’t even try to move or step back.

"I'm the CEO." He breathes, tilting your chin up. "I get everything I want, except you, and it's driving me so fucking crazy."

How are you meant to respond to that? Is there even a response yoj can give? 

There's raw emotion in his voice, his touch. For someone who you’ve seen yell at coworkers with no remorse, he's only been painfully gentle to you. 

So you do the only thing you can: you wrap his tie in your hand and tug him closer, crashing your lips onto his.

He presses you into him with a hand on the small of your back, greedily taking everything you’re giving him. After a moment he pulls back slightly, eyes searching yours.

"Don't kiss me like this is goodbye, love."

"Isn't it?"

"Fuck no." He says fiercely. "I'll tell the office, the entire goddamn world, that we're together and to leave you the fuck alone."

"They'll think I'm only where I am because I'm dating the boss."

"Are you happy?" He asks abruptly. 

"I- what?"

"Are you happy?"

After a moment, you dip your head slightly in a nod.

"Then why do you give a fuck what they think?"

Before you can respond with some logical response, he kisses you and all thoughts fly from your head. Your grip tightens on his tie, and he grins into the kiss slightly.

"So?" He questions.

"...I withdraw my letter of resignation." You sigh after a beat.

"There we go."

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

Just want to say: a, I admire very much that you've figured out a healthy way to work on your fics that allows you to have fun with it. And also b, am very excited to hear that you are getting there with pez! It has fully given me brain rot ever since I read it last year, there is just such a lack of content for the highly specific trope of using time travel as a device to explore extremely unhealthy levels of self loathing.

I just adore everything you're doing in it. Neither midoriya is anywhere approaching okay for any portion of the fic and I love rereading and mining into all the subtle characterization pointing to that. It's a bit like nhtycth in that some really goofy funny stuff is often hiding some really fucking worrying things, but the fact that characters DO do that stuff—that todoroki uses his teaspoon's worth of extremely stunted social skills to bludgeon his friend's door open and help him, that a rpf shipping war is an actual source of drama despite how goofy the sentiment seems on the surface, that about half of what jon says is deeply worrying and the other half is extremely funny and there's a lot of overlap between the two—really lifts the tension and brightens the universe. It's sort of similar to what you did with gerry, in that endless misery isn't nearly as painful as the ups and downs of a life that, when you step back and zoom out, has something deeply and horribly wrong with it.

(jon sort of reminds me of spider-man in that he uses human to deal with trauma and stress, except I don't think he at any point realizes how fucking funny he is. He's just there, in a home depot, gnashing his teeth because he's got so many bodies to dispose of and this cashier sure is taking her time.)

I really, really, really have had trouble finding fics that take everything midoriya has dealt with to task. It's a hell of a thing to live 14 years as a disabled minority, have it heavily shape your existence, and then one day you wake up and you realize you're...not that, or at least, nobody will ever acknowledge you as that again. You've lost all claim to it. Those experiences that shaped who you are? Dust in the wind. 14 years of pain and life might as well be buried in the ground for all the good they do you. Nobody's going to cut you any slack or quarter, you've gotta simply work harder, be better. And now when you do that you get the results you wanted, so that's fine, then. That's good. There was something wrong with the you before, and there's something right with the you now, and if the transition is a little rough, well that doesn't matter, you're the same as everyone else now, so it's your own job to fill in whatever gaps you need to.

I really can't get over how mentally fucked it must be for midoriya to run into quirkless people, run across quirkless issues, and be silently caught between, incapable of speaking his mind and too scared to do so anyway around those he can trust.

Also I should mention, I'm just very excited for bakugou to get back from the gym. He's been there like a year I hope he's getting a good workout in.

Me realizing that it’s been a year since pez dispenser debris:

I feel like there’s just this very specific type of grief that Izuku has to grapple with in the span of pez dispenser debris that I’m just obsessed with. He’s sort of silently mourning who he could have been, when 1) he has to present like there’s nothing lost to maintain his secret and 2) the entire world is constantly inundating him with the message that there was nothing lost.

Like. I don’t want to get too deep into it because it risks spoiling things and I do have major plans to continue it (I’ve loved this story for so many years before I ever even hit publish), but the emotion that Izuku’s feeling right now is so much more complex than “I hate who I used to be and want him to stop existing” or “I just want to keep my secrets.” And I think the way he interacts with Mirio is the biggest evidence of that.

Izuku’s placed himself at the very center of the Quirklessness debate with his support of Mirio. He fights for Quirkless heroes, very publicly, to the point where he’s not even graduated yet but considered to be one of the most prominent voices on the matter. If you took a poll of Quirkless people as to which hero would be most supportive of them pursing their own career in heroics, Izuku would be right at the top of the list. When it comes to Quirklessness itself, he’s nothing but supportive.

But he didn’t tell Mirio the truth of his own Quirklessness.

Out of everyone, Mirio’s the one everyone expects to know, despite him being a relatively newer relationship compared to someone like Iida or Uraraka or Todoroki. And I tried to imply that he’s sort of the one who knows the most about Izuku out of everyone save All Might.

Like, we’ll get into how much exactly Mirio knows soon, so I won’t divulge what, if anything, Izuku has told him. But we know that Mirio knows, weirdly enough, that Izuku is deeply fucking haunted. He knows that boy has many violent ghosts in his bones. He finds it hilarious and will tell their realtor about it. Izuku told him about the discontent spirits who died in a violent passion and live on inside of him before he told him about his Quirklessness.

And I just feel like one of those things is a little bit easier to discuss than the other.

Izuku has decided to keep his own Quirklessness quiet in a way that surpasses secrecy about One for All. If it was just about OfA, he could tell people he didn’t get his quirk until the entrance exam, and it wouldn’t even be a lie. He’s purposefully obscuring his own past as Quirkless even as he takes a forefront of the Quirkless hero debate with his open support of Mirio.

And the fact that he’s at the forefront of this debate in and of itself requires a difficult dichotomy. He is the world’s most vocal proponent for the first Quirkless hero. He is a known figure in the Quirkless community now.

He isn’t considered one of them anymore. He’s an outsider coming in.

It must be such a strange, odd sort of grief to come to the people you were home amongst for most of your life and be greeted as a stranger. To return home, and to be welcomed in for the first time, and to not even be able to tell people that you’ve lived here all your life and don’t need a tour.

It’s a sort of death of self, I think. And I think Izuku never expected to have to grapple with his own ghost.

[meekmedea]

Haven't been able to get him out of my head today, so enjoy some snippets of him in the time travelling clemmie au ~

Based on a previous ask by @tumblingghosts about Hector entering the narrative.

I.

Once he could have confidently said – he will never choose you over me. But Hector has been gone a long time and Max is no longer the same–

Max. The name tastes bitter in his mouth. Volumnia’s work. Only she had ever called Maximinius such.

Hector misses the days when it was just Magnus and him.

~~~~

II.

Is it better or worse that he has no home to return to?

Because his home – their home, the one Cleopatra and him had decorated, the one where he’d kissed his wife and son goodbye before he’d gone on that trip – it’s gone.

The war took it. Along with Cleopatra and the last memories of his life.

All he has now is his name, Maximinius had insisted on it, even as Volumnia protested, arguing about logistics.

And well what Maximinius Ravinstill wants, he usually gets. He's stubborn like that.

So on a gloomy day in October, Hector Dovecote is declared alive in the eyes of the law. 

~~~~

III.

Some days, looking at his son is hard. They’re nearly strangers. A son he never got to watch grow up and had a family of his own.

To all the people who say his son is his exact mirror, Hector wants to tell them that they are blind. For he sees Cleopatra in Endymion’s every move.

From the way he takes his coffee to the way his brows furrow when he’s trying to solve a particular problem. And how can he forget – the piano is all Cleopatra, for Hector never had a drop of musical talent in his blood.

`

And his granddaughter – she is clearly her parents’ child and he is so very proud of his son.

But she is also a stranger to him. With his son and him, they had Cleopatra. With his granddaughter, Hector doesn’t know where to begin.

He is willing to get to know her, but with all that’s going on, he’s ashamed to say that he has not put in as much effort as he should have. Cleopatra would have had his hide had she known.

`

Just as things begin to die down and people stop asking after his miraculous return to society, she says, “Grandfather, may I confide in you about something?”

Except the words that come out of her mouth are not ones he had expected.

In a way, she is like him – neither of them belong to this time.

And as he pulls more of the story from her, Hector feels a pang of jealousy that she got to live a full life where he could not. But it doesn’t stay for long, for he knows her life was not an easy one. There is a different type of burden on her shoulders that he wishes he could carry for her.

~~~~

IV.

Cleopatra would have bundled up their granddaughter in her arms, known the right words to say and do. She’d have approached it differently, but because his love is no longer with him, he must do it his way instead.

“I don’t follow–”

“Just swear it. Promise me that when I die again–” He ignores the way the President flinches. “–you will keep my son and granddaughter safe.” Especially from Volumnia.

“Hector.”

“Swear it, Magnus. Swear it on whatever affection we shared during our friendship in our youth that when I die, you will keep them safe from anyone who wishes them harm.”

“You foolish man.” But when Hector refuses to budge on that matter, the man sighs and agrees. “Very well, you have my word.”

~~~~

V.

For reasons that nobody else can fathom, Hector and his granddaughter visit District 11 often.

The President frets far too much on such excursions. Maximinius is hard to fit into a category these days. He’s not quite Hector’s Magnus, nor is he Volumnia’s Max.

`

It is here they can mourn for things that were and that never will be.

“I am beginning to forget their faces,” Clemensia admits one day. “What kind of mother am I to forget the faces of my own daughters?”

Hector squeezed her hand gently. Whereas Cleopatra's memory lives on in his son and granddaughter, Clemensia isn’t afforded the same luxury. The more they change, the further her future strays from what she once had.

`

“Do you think the pain ever goes away?”

He still thinks of Cleopatra night and day. And of all the what ifs had he not gone on that on that fateful trip. “No, but we learn to grow our life around the grief.”

~~~~

Edit: part 2 here

[joanofexys]

jo i need to know more abt angel's trauma

Angel angst!!! This boy is so packed full of trauma and I'll dig it all up

tws for pretty much everything in AFTG ever

At four years old Angel's mother goes missing and he starts becoming the target of his fathers abuse. His father's treatment leaves him scared and confused. He's beyond spoiled once his mother goes missing. Suddenly his father bringing home gifts nearly daily. But every time he makes a mess, he's too loud, he cries, he complains he's being hit. If his father comes home and seems to be having a bad night he could be being given a new toy and in the same breath receiving 10 new bruises.

CPS was contacted for the first time when he was five years old by his kindergarten teacher. She had seen bruises, he was a lot quieter than other kids, flinched at things no one else did. When he got scraped up on the playground he wouldn't even cry. But when they show up at the door they meet a very charming, but tired, father, mourning his missing wife. He welcomed them in to a slightly messy, but still well kept, house with his quiet son who hid behind his legs. They asked to speak with Angel alone and sat down with him at the kitchen table.

"Did you find my mommy?"

There's silence for a few minutes. Because how do you tell a little kid that his mom's probably not coming home? That you're not here about his mom but because they have to ask if his other parent is hurting him? And when they do ask all Angel does is deny, deny, deny.

"Are you gonnna take away my daddy too?"

They leave. Nothing happens. And if Angel doesn't get hit that night for doing a good job, well, nobody but him knows.

CPS gets called a few more times throughout the years. Angel gets good at lying. His father has father has perfected the grieving widow, single dad act. By age eight it escalates from just getting hit. Things are thrown, he explains away the visible cuts as accidents on the playground. He dropped a plate while his dad was at work and tried to clean it up by himself. The cuts lead to nasty scarring under his shirt, they all keloid, and even when they heal they still hurt.

Sometimes he'll get a week or two where his father's hand is light. Where nothing gets thrown. Maybe a few days where he doesn't get hit at all. Of course he doesn't know it then but it was always following one of his father's murders.

And then he's 10 years old. Alone in a hospital bed with a cut up face and more broken bones than he's ever had. And everything hurts. And he wants his mom and he hates his dad. When the strangers step into the room he's old enough he knows no one will ever come with news about his mom and he's angry enough that he won't lie about his dad. And he's ten and all he wants is to never see his dad again. He doesn't care about any of the charges they're talking to him about, about them pressing him to confess that this had been happening for years, and he especially has zero interest in sitting in a court room and having to look his father in the eye.

He meets his first foster family before he's even discharged from the hospital. He was quiet when they first met him. They knew he was in rough shape but thought he would be easy enough. They're nice. A white picket fence type of family. Angel hated them. They were the polar opposite of what he was used to and he thought that was what he wanted. But when realized it was something he missed out on for the past ten years, something people just got while he had to be taken out of his home to get it, he was just so mad. Seven months. Seven months of therapy, of being taken out of classes to see counselors, of family vacations. Seven months of yelling that they weren't his family, of slammed doors, of fights on the blacktop. He left his "siblings" alone for the most part. Preferred to ignore them. Kept his fights to other students at school. But the last month he started yelling at them too. Never tried to hit them or physically hurt them but he certainly intended to be mean. The behavioral issues became too much for them and that family decided to let him go.

He doesn't care much for his other foster families. He knows he won't be staying with them for long. That he causes too much trouble. His next one has a dog. A chocolate lab. He likes the dog. His foster brother in his next family has a cool guitar. He tries to teach Angel before the two of them split up and move to different homes. There's the little girl when he's 12 who's even angrier than him. He likes that she's angry. He hopes she'll do something with it. One of his foster siblings gets the head torn off their teddy bear by their foster family's son. They leave it in the backyard. Angel steals some of the mom's sewing supplies and messily stitches it back on. The head is crooked and doesn't have enough stuffing. But when he puts on their bed their face still lights up. He's in detention near constantly. He ignores the look on foster parents faces every time one of them has to pick him up. There's the house that says a prayer before every meal. The house that always has fresh flowers on the counter. The house with the broken grandfather clock that chimed at random times. The house that fed the stray cats. Little things that differentiated every foster home, things that were unimportant when he was only with them so shortly, but things he remembered regardless.

Then he was 14. Two months in with a new family when the police showed up at the door. He's sure some kid got fed up with the fights and their parents decided to press charges or something. Instead they start asking about his dad. No elaboration on what it's about at first. And he's 14 and he's scared and he's being pressed to talk about a man who he hasn't seen in the past 4 years who nearly ended his life. And then they bring up his mom. He's 14 and he's angry at the world and he puts on that stupid tough guy act all the time, but he's never really stopped wanting his mom. They found her. She's dead. His father's confessed to her murder and the murders of 12 other women who resembled her. Does he know anything about it? They don't get far. He's sobbing, hyperventilating, begging for his mom. They offer to let him testify. He doesn't want to. He doesn't show up for the trial at all. The news mentions that Matteo Di Fiore, convicted of murdering his wife, Sofia Di Fiore, and 12 other women has a son. No name is ever given. He's a minor and he's already been in the system for years.

He gets home from the police station at 3 in the morning, following 7 hours of questioning, and promptly wrecks his room. Destroys books and toys and any other sentimental item he held onto from former families. He breaks two vases, cuts up his hands bad. They scar. Within the week he's placed somewhere else.

And like the flip of a switch he's that quiet kid again. Like his concerningly quiet 5 year old self. The eldest daughter in his new foster family, going into her senior year, decided that teaching him to play Exy was a good chance for bonding and could get him out of his shell. He had no reason to say no. He makes the high school team as a backliner and they play through that school year together. He's with that family for 5 months before one of the parents has a job opportunity and they have to move out of state for it. They offer to start adoption process, take him with them, but he doesn't want to leave.

He meets Harper Shaw later that year. Second semester, biology, they're 15 years old. She sits in front of him, they become lab partners, and study partners after that. He thinks she's a genius. Part of the cheer team and top of her class. She knows nothing about him, about who he was. It was a relief. He asked her prom, she said yes.

8 months together and then they find out she's pregnant. And it's terrifying. Harper wants to keep the baby. Angel isn't going to tell her to do otherwise. They're together for a little while before they realize it's just not gonna work that way and they decide to co-parent. A little while later and they're welcoming Phoebe Sofia Shaw into the world. Angel has never been more scared in his life. He thinks he's gonna be a terrible dad, he's determined to be a halfway decent one.

They get through high school. Angel's still flitting through foster homes, but he's half moved into the Shaw's place. It's overwhelming for them both. They try not to fight about it. He tries to remember how to breath when Phoebe cries. Tries to remember that he can always call Harper's parents to take Phoebe for a bit if he ever needs a moment. Harper gets accepted to college, Angel never bothered to apply to any. She'll make the move to PSU, he'll go with her and start working full time to support them.

Then he's called into his coaches office and David Wymack is sitting there. He knows the foxes. How could he not? One of their star players was in the news for his connections to the mafia. They had, by some miracle, won finals. He asks for some time and with Harper's encouragement he, stupidly (in his opinion), signs the dotted line.

Starting college is so much worse than he imagined. Andrew fucking Minyard put together who he was and why he fit the bill for the foxes before he even moved in for the summer. He has no clue what he wants to study or what classes to even take. Phoebe is entering the nightmare toddler stage where her favorite word is no and nothing seems to make her happy. Wyamck and Abby and even Bee seem more than happy to help out with her when Harper can't take her and he's stressed beyond belief but that only does so much.

He spends most of his time pacing in the court building or fox tower's hallways on the verge of tears, silently begging Phoebe to just go to sleep. People are assholes about him being a teen dad, people are worse to Harper. It brings back some of his temper. He might not be with her anymore but she's still his best friend. His work load is worse than he expected, yet nowhere near what Harper has on his plate, and keeping his grades up is a struggle. Surprisingly, it's Kevin who proves to be the most help with that. He loses a lot of sleep and ends up spending most nights at either Wymack or Abby's place because there's only so much, being woken up in the middle of the night by a screaming toddler, that most college students can take. He seriously considers dropping out multiple times in that year alone.

And this is hella long now so we're gonna wrap it up there, but I promise Angel doesn't drop out and he really loves his daughter and he loves the foxes too and it all works out.

[friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin]

I wrote this short story a while ago and I still like it. My friends hate it and I enjoy tormenting them lol, I thought I’d share it here

How to Grow Strawberries

It’s very simple to grow strawberries if you follow the steps.

So a strawberry is covered in seeds, you know? So you take off the seeds and eat them, they’re very good, obviously.

Once the strawberry is picked clean, so to say, you’ll want to twist it and pull it in half. Inside, there’s a little goop, a sort of liquid. Pinkish. Now you may be a tad put off, seeing as nobody really wants a little goop in their strawberries, but don’t worry.

Once you take out the goop(which you should) you can eat the strawberry and it’ll be delicious.

Now if you look closely in the goop, you’ll see a sort of shape inside, moving and twisting as living creatures often do. You then place this into a microwave, heat it up for a few moments, and it’ll begin to grow.

Raise your new child for their formative years and well past then, until you have an almost fully grown darling strawberry boy. You love him dearly(of course), and part all of your knowledge onto him.

Eventually, you send him out on an errand. You place the keys to your Berry truck in his hands, seeing as you have taught him how to drive, and ask him politely to fetch strawberries. Him, being a kind and thoughtful son, obliges.

He drives off to the strawberry factory(where they are made), marvels at the new sights and gets down to his work. He plucks as many strawberries as he can possibly pluck and loads them all into the back. The truck is full now, nearly to bursting, and he is satisfied with his work.

He walks back to the front of the truck and climbs in, beginning to drive back home.

It is night.

On the highway, driving carefully down winding mountain roads, he hears whispers come from the back of the truck.

The strawberries know him; he is their brother lost and changed. They call to him, and their mournful voices are recognized somewhere buried deep within. They beg him to speak to them. They miss him so.

He pulls over.

The truck is nestled between the road and a flimsy fence, past that a thousand-foot drop down sharp and rocky hills. He flings open the truck’s back doors, where the strawberries lie. He rips one open, though he does not know why.

The liquid inside breathes, reaches out to him, and he is sick with how familiar it all feels.

Miles and miles away, you call him, worried about his safety. His phone rings, and he tears his eyes away from the goo to stare at it. Your name, your face on the screen, ringing and ringing in his ears.

His eyes flicker back and forth between the strawberry and the call. Cars rush past, sounding so close and so far away at the same time. He wonders what would happen if one hit him.

Almost deliriously, he stares down at his palms, now stained with strawberry. The call rings out once more.

He pitches his phone over the fence and slams the truck doors shut.

The truck continues down the highway.

Hours pass as he travels, though the direction is not familiar. He follows the whispers of fruits, so close behind him. They tell him to go faster.

He pushes his foot harder onto the gas.

Soon, there are cops trailing close behind.

He wasn’t speeding, far from it. They were searching for him.

You had offered a description up when you called them, in your worry. They promised you he’d be found.

They recognized him, in the pinkish-white truck hand-painted with strawberries.

They pursued, shouting at him to stop and slow down. They would talk things over, bring him back home. You’re worrying your parent, boy. What are you doing this for?

His brothers tell him to turn right. He does.

The mountain is far behind now, as the truck barrels through a grassy field.

Cop cars aren’t meant for grass. They follow him, still, but slower.

Their shouts grow louder. He hates it when people yell. He always did.

His brothers’ whispers are gone now, and the grass is growing taller as the truck barrels on.

His hands are shaking on the wheel. He feels the tears well up in his eyes, and he leans down, leaning his head on his knuckles. He is human enough to give up.

Look up. His brothers whisper. Look.

He does.

The sunrise breaks the dawn in shattering rays of light, multicolored sunbeams sweeping the darkness from the sky. Waves of reds and oranges and yellows fill the air, and the field is tinted with it, glowing like a sea of gold. He cries. It is from somewhere far beyond his soul.

The cops are closer, almost to the back of the truck.

The strawberries sound like they’re centimeters away. Let go, they say. Let go.

He takes his hands off of the steering wheel.

The grass is high and beautiful as it closes around him. The truck disappears in moments.

It’s quiet now, save for the police sirens.

The cops search for him in their little cars, though they give up fairly quickly. The grasses are like a maze.

They did, eventually, find the truck. On its side, completely empty. No driver.

They pace for a few moments, talking amongst themselves. Mostly about what they’ll say to you. What will they say to you? They pace faster.

A swarm of butterflies rise into the air, and it begins to rain.

The butterflies melt beneath the raindrops, disappearing as if they were never truly there, yet real all the same.

The cops stare at the sky, scratching their heads, and the grasses twist around them too.

In a far more peculiar manner, like dishcloths propelled on twirling strings. They’re never seen again, either.

You receive the news, grimly summarized, from the police chief. He was rather distraught, not as much as you were, more on the side of disturbed. He had lost two men, or so you had heard. To what, he didn’t know. Neither did you.

You mourn. Of course. Your misery brings you to starvation, and that in turn leads you to hunger. Miserable, clawing hunger. You must allow yourself to eat again.

A quick order on Amazon, and the package is at your house. Blueberries. You eat a few. Once your hunger is satiated, for a moment, you’ll want to open the remaining blueberries. Inside, there’s a few seeds. If you plant these seeds, and offer them adequate care, they’ll grow.

Into strawberries, that is.

It’s rather simple to grow strawberries if you follow the steps.

[realcatalina]

King and his mother?!

In Christ's College Chapel, Cambridge is 16th century stained glass window, a rare example which survived nearly intact. It is thought to be done in 1505. On left is Henry VII. And the woman on right is Margaret Beaufort. In the most unexpected outfit.

Read further for more.

In middle is St. Edward the Confessor,

on left King Henry VII wearing his armour and crown, already grey-haired.

i just love the silvery part of his armour and also these portculises.

Green behind him probably has to do with tudor colours-green and white.

But it is the female figure on right which caught my attention. It is said to be lady Margaret Beaufort, who was very involved with Christ's College in 1505. Hence it is very logical to asume it is her.

However if you play with image a little bit to see the woman's outfit a bit better...you will realise woman is dressed extremely sumptuarily.

The cloak is held in place by white rope ended by tasle-standard design for female cloak of the time. But this vivid blue colour could be one of blues made using snails as dye...very expensive, on par with purple. The pillow beneath her feet is in same colour, cloth before hr crimson-also very expensive.

So what is the golden part? Her gown+wide sleeves of that gown.

Her headwear seems to be plain black, but otherwise it is pure sumptuousness...not at all what we would expect lady Margaret to wear.

Thus i questioned whetever or not it might be Elizabeth of York instead, however i doubt it because of the shape of coronet. It doesnt match Henry's crown and we have depictions of CoA in crown matching her husbands. Plus these wide sleeves are more consistent with 1510s, they wouldnt become part of English fashion until at least mid 1500s, after Elizabeth died. (As far as i know.)

But then Margaret and the college were in 1505, so it makes sense.

Yet I always imagined that her simple outfit we know from portraits had something to do with her swearung celibacy in 1499.

Can somebody please check records of her wardrobe? Because this is way after and she is depicted truly lavishly. But you know-she got her son on throne after years of struggles and worries. Which one of us wouldn't then want to enjoy her golden years?

You know we had similiar thing with Margaret of Austria. She had so many portraits of herself in simple outfit, looking like true mourning widow and didnt want to remarry after two dead husbands. So people mistakenly think that is all she wore all the time, even though it was not so.

Unfortunately the image is also bit dirty and scratched or worn of in places. I imagine that originally it looked more like this:

I know that at the very top we have lines consisting with white chemise, then black line which could be black kirtle, then line of large pearls(maybe ment to sit on edge of black kirtle) then golden line is probably edge of golden gown...but right under it imo is edge of ermine surcoat.

Which obviously would not be showing over lower parts of golden gown.But normally there is no band running across in middle of the chest-imo that is damage.

Then obviously her blue cloak is held in place by pieces of white rope(typical of the time)-ending in tassel.

That is how i interpret it and this is the best version i could come up with:

One more thing. I do not know which one of these is correct:

With or without u-band.

U-band on forehead occurs in gable hoods of 15th century. After 1505, the vast major women would long since have abandoned it. Like a decade prior.

Yet she was over 60, so i cannot rule out that granny who nobody would have dared to criticized-because she was mother of the king- would have gone around in something way out of fashion.

But then...she has no visible paste and that is consistent with 15th century too. Yet the gown is strongly against it.

So this is bit of contradiction, based upon just this small detail.

But who knows, maybe it is simply dirty in the most unfortunate of the spots and conicidently looks more like u-band, while it might be bit of hair showing.

I hope you have enjoyed this and tell me what you think.

[robjn93]

i think an important arc that implicitly brings to life the parallels between broken brucebat and azbat is year 3, the one from batman 436 to 439, the one that sets the seeds for the introduction of tim drake, because it creates an interesting comparison between bruce and jpv/azrael at their lowest, both tampering with their 'base of operation' to disrespect the legacy of the inhabitant.

with bruce, for example, his inability to process jason's death got him ridding the manor of any sign of jason's existence and instead fixate on his role as batman. not just the crime fighting side, but the mythos as a whole - to the point where he almost called nightwing 'robin'. hanging onto the mythos that is so important to batman, ignoring bruce's wishes to mourn his own son. he is rejecting bruce’s side completely, the compassionate man who loved his children, and replacing it with the image of the strong, brute batman who pushes everyone bruce has ever loved away.

for azrael, the need to find an identity and carve his own path on the mythos brought him to desecrate the batcave by introducing a shooting range with batman’s enemies as targets, because jpv has been taught that batman would never kill, making the suit shaped based on azrael’s, a judge and executioner, what batman was never supposed to be, and tarnishing his relationships with robin and commissioner gordon.

azbat’s relationship with robin is especially interesting because the suit being a symbol of hope could only be achieved by the cloth being used, the circus costume, filled with pain and grief but also sweet memories and hopes for a new life, for dick grayson as ward and helper of bruce and batman. that very suit was now being rejected by azbat, because ‘batman needs a robin but azbat needs nobody’ and, in the same place where dick grayson was shown the light, the suit of batman, for the first time, now tim drake was being nearly choked to death by azbat gone berserk.

but then there is it. bruce ‘successfully’ manages to witness zucco’s death, what batman has always tried to teach dick against, betraying his robin, the way azbat has finally destroyed tim, showing his 'worthlessness' in the face of the true strength of azbat and kicked him out of the cave, betraying his robin, and their vulnerable side comes out. they shudder at the idea that they might have ever wished for what had happened, clinging onto the morals that become more and more warped and confused, onto their job as batman and their duty to gotham.

‘taking the cowl off’ was the only thing that could save them, tho with azbat was more literal. in bruce’s case, questioning the usefulness of a batman without a robin was a clear sign that his work was not needed, not in those conditions, that he put a child (tim) in danger because of his own recklessness, therefore ‘taking the power from batman’.

[navree]

this is dc twitter discourse at the moment so i thought i'd ask your thoughts on it do you think red hood jason hurting children is ooc/a bad writing choice???

And this ladies and gents is why I avoid DC Twitter because I don't think I've seen any good takes there ever, no matter where you are. Sometimes people post panel compilations that hurt my heart, that's the like the only good thing to come out of it, I don't even click on the MAWS hashtag if it trends while the show is airing because last time I did it was people bitching that 25 year old Slade did not look or act the same way that current in his forties Slade does (not to mention, how can you complain about MAWS Slade? he's the best part about the show how did anyone not just fall over laughing with delight the second he showed up and proclaimed himself to be literal Slade Wilson?).

With that said, yeah I would consider that to be a bad writing choice. Talking about characterization for comics is hard because, as I've mentioned, comics is an incredibly decentralized creative medium in a way none others are. Movies, TV shows, novels, they all tend to have a main core group of people or even just one solitary person in charge of the creative direction, and for a lot of them, a very finite "this is where we start and this is where we end" mentality that comics do not. These characters have had constantly changing creative heads, with new directions and ideas for characterization attached, since their inception, and they've all been around for a very long time. This is why comics are kind of the only medium where you can, in fact, really pick and choose your canon, because the canon has changed so much depending on who is in charge at a giant company. Like, canonical eighties Batman characterization would be considered super OOC for someone writing canonical modern Batman, and vice versa. So talking about characterization is hard, especially with Jason when nobody has had any idea what to fucking do with him for decades at this point. But, when it comes to Red Hood Jason, there is something I consider gospel canon, which is the Under the Red Hood arc, since that is what nearly all subsequent canon imaginings of Jason take from. That is our gold standard here. And based on UTRH, yeah, Jason harming children is out of character and it is bad writing.

When Jason comes back, he has two very clear goals. Goal one: the Joker's gotta die, preferably Batman kills him so Jason gets concrete proof that he was loved and mourned (Jason is not mentally healthy so his thought process doesn't make sense just roll with it), but Jason is fine killing the man himself, so long as he dies. Goal two: essentially fulfill Batman's mission in a way where it actually accomplishes his goals. Jason outlines this pretty specifically in Batman #641, he tells Bruce "You. I'll be you. The you you're supposed to be." Jason's goal as the Red Hood is to make Gotham better (in his head), safer, and cleaner, but unlike Batman he is willing to take that goal as far as he can and will kill if necessary. What he wants is to just take Batman's mission to its logical extreme. Eradicate the various elements that have caused suffering in Gotham throughout the years, just with more permanence than Batman does, and less of a focus on rehabilitation, because you can't rehabilitate a dead person. And as part of this, Jason does not act unnecessarily. When he kills, it is people who (arguably) deserve it, and it is never innocents. It is always the criminal element, and people he believes are past the point of no return, as well as those who might be trying to stop him in that. His mission statement is literally "Death will come to those who deserve death, and death may come to those who stand in my way of doing what's right." and he means that. This is not a character you've created to then go out and harm children, because kids have not done anything to deserve it, and they are not the cause of the issues that he is trying to eliminate.

There's also the fact that Jason, even in his early Red Hood days where editorial just decided that he's a straight villain now, was never someone who went after kids, but in fact actively tried to help them. He makes it a point to tell his people that they do not sell drugs to kids and that if they do, he'll kill them (along with telling them not to get previously clean people hooked and only sell to repeats, which also paints him as someone who isn't just hurting others willy-nilly). The first person Jason ever kills, as seen in Red Hood: Lost Days, is a man who was involved in child trafficking, and he does it specifically because he wants to save those kids and future victims from him, and considers him scum of the Earth as a result (I think his name was Egan? Egon? idfk I don't reread Lost Days because I find their whole "look at fully adult Talia fucking the mentally ill sixteen year old under her care who is reliant on her for everything, how sexy" shtick abhorrent, and using Talia as their child rapist doubly so). So Jason, even at his most villainous, at his most "this is a bad dude" characterized, is someone who deliberately avoids harming innocents because it's not compatible with his mission or his personal code, and includes children very specifically in that.

It is also out of character and a bad writing choice because of Jason's own childhood. You might think a rebuttal to this is "Jason wants to kill/hurt criminals, what if kids are criminals" well guess what Jason was a kid criminal! It is actually illegal to steal parts off of people's cars, even if that person can afford it because he's Batman (to say nothing of the multiple very heavy handed hints dropped that Jason solicited as a prostitute during his time being homeless, which is also a crime, it is illegal and he would have been picked up by the cops for it if found out). Unless you want to argue that Jason thinks he himself should have been taken out with a Glock at the big of age of eleven for doing illegal things in the name of survival, you can't say that Jason's philosophy would allow him to harm children and remain in character or decently written, you just can't. Like, your other gospel for Jason's characterization should be his original Robin run from the 80s, since that's literally what introduced him to this world in the first fucking place, so duh. And there's nothing in that characterization to suggest that he would harm anyone unnecessarily, especially kids. Like, Robin Jason spares Two-Face's life, after having found out days ago that Two-Face murdered Willis Todd in cold blood; he tries to save Sheila Haywood's life after she straight up helps murder him; this isn't someone whose characterization allows for him to hurt children later in life. Especially once you factor in his struggles as a child, and how that most likely just breeds empathy for other children, especially children who are having a hard time.

Now, I can guess that some of this comes up in discussions of one of my most loathed subjects, the stupid bad stupid dumb stupid attack on fucking Titan's Tower. Now, even beyond the fact that the stupid attack on stupid Titan's Tower is less about Jason wanting to beat up children and more his specific issues with Bruce and the concept of Robin that can't be transplanted to other people, the attack itself is bad writing. It is out of character for Jason. It does not jive at all with his stated characterization and motivations that he himself outlined (also the only other closest thing to that is his fight with Mia Dearden, where he's pretty tame in just warning her to leave vigilantism and straight up beats her twice before letting her go relatively unscathed of his own free will, just saying) and it makes no sense. His issues are that the Joker is alive and Batman didn't do anything about it. Why the fuck would he care about Tim? Tim means nothing to him, he never even met the little dude, he doesn't have an issue with him. He doesn't even have an issue with the idea of Robin being passed down because Jason literally said he was perfectly content to not be Robin and just be Jason, and his problems don't arise from Robin! The issues at the heart of Jason's conflict with Bruce hinge on the Bruce and Jason relationship of father and son, not Batman and Robin! And not fucking Tim! Tim means nothing, he is a nonentity. The only reason this fuckass plot exists is because DC didn't know what to do with Jason and threw shit at the wall to see what would stick, similar to what we saw with that dumb plot with Nightwing from this time that also has similar issues, in that why would Jason care enough to cause problems for Dick, he doesn't have an issue with Dick, he legit interacts with Dick in UTRH and he's fine! (a better writing decision would have been post-UTRH Jason immediately writing the entire Batfam off and treating them as hostiles whenever they wander into Crime Alley and them having to regain his trust back/him agreeing to let down more and more barriers as time goes on and they all reconnect, but I was like seven when all this was being written so DC didn't seek my input) The fucking dumb Titan's Tower thing that people are gonna use to prove that Jason hurting kids isn't bad writing isn't even about Jason, the only reason this shit gets trotted out again and again is because Tim Drake has a lot of fans who are absolutely convinced their poor uwu baby has suffered more than Jesus when the only person in the Batfam who's suffered less than him is, like, Alfred (although I can make the argument that Alfred has still suffered more by having had to put up with Bruce Wayne almost singlehandedly for most of his adult life). It exists in people's minds even tho it is objectively bad writing and out of character for one of the main players because fanon Tim has to be the most special boy ever (and also because these people wanna use it to make Tim interesting which is impossible because nothing can make Tim interesting).

Jason hurting children deliberately is, indeed, bad writing. It is, in fact, incredibly out of character. It does not compute to his explicit motivations and how he was characterized in the stories that have since been used as a jumping off point for his characterization ever since. And ultimately, the thing is this: if Red Hood Jason is just trying to do Batman's job better than Batman, who is he doing it for if not children? Who is he trying to clean up Gotham for, make Gotham a better place for, if not her children? And if that's the case, as it obviously is, why on Earth would him then harming her children be any kind of good character writing or coherent characterization?

TL;DR, yes it is.

[timeskip]

657 words, a series of drabbles about the royal guards and Meruem coming across death's (literal) door! This was for @greedislandchallenge a while back!!!

(one)

Pitou wakes and immediately turns to look for an enemy. They died painfully, all broken limbs and blood dripping from their face, but they find themself alone and unhurt in this strange void, only a single door in front of them. Their death is not graceful, but here they are, walking toward the door of death.

“Do you want to come back to life?” a voice whispers. It sounds like that man—Kite, Pitou remembers.

“No,” Pitou answers, touching their fingertips to the door. “Why should I want to? I served my purpose.” Why should they choose to be reborn, to become something after they were reduced to nothing?

They push through the door and do not resist.

(two)

Youpi knows he could reincarnate, but he doesn’t care.

He wakes up coughing the feeling of blood from his lungs, and raising himself back to his full height. He is no longer small, and he mourns this change. He gave up his body to the king happily, and there is no greater honor in his death.

“Do you want to come back to life?” The voice is rough, but confident. Knuckle, the name comes to Youpi.

Youpi has never cared for reincarnation—he wasn’t human, so why should he think about something like that? Rebirth would solely be to protect Lord Meruem, and while Youpi still doesn’t know how exactly he died, he knows instinctively that this was the ending for all of them.

But Knuckle’s voice makes him pause. Knuckle had awakened something inside Youpi, a rage that boiled until it exploded, and then the gentle calm of the aftermath. Why had Youpi spared Morel, when Lord Meruem had reprimanded him for the choice?

Youpi hesitates. He wavers between the beast that he knows he is, and the human he feels he might have become.

Ultimately, he doesn’t answer. Rebirth has never been on the table, so he simply pushes through the door, alone.

(three)

Pouf ended his life crying on the ground, and he wakes up the same way.

He chokes back to waking, tears still streaming. He knows, instinctively, that he is the last Royal Guard to die. There is nobody left to protect the King.

A voice drifts into the void. “Do you want to come back to life?” Komugi asks, nose blocked like it was when she spoke in the world of the living. Pouf wonders—how long until she, too, dies? How long before the King kills her as well?

But no, the King will never. That was simply Pouf’s wish for him.

“You knew nothing,” Pouf spits at this imaginary Komugi, though he knows he’s alone. “You changed him irreparably! I should have killed you—let the King know only defeat! Let him kill me! It would have saved us—saved all of us.” Tears are streaming down his face now. “Yes—if it’s to protect the King, I will come back to life. If he’s already gone, then let me die now.”

The door swings open without Pouf ever touching it.

(four)

Meruem has been here before.

After he was nearly killed by Netero, he woke up here, and he did not walk through the door. No, he’d heard a voice and known that there was something he was missing, someone he had to return to—but when he awoke, it was missing.

She was missing from his mind.

This time, he knows the deal he's making. He can come back, one way or another—but only if he has the will to be reborn. This time, there is no Pouf and Youpi to bring him back in his original body, the body of an unkillable king.

But he has always been mortal, after all.

He walks through the door without waiting for the voice to ask the question—he already knows his answer. He knows that his Royal Guards are waiting, and that soon he will be joined by the one he lived his last moments with.

[maggie32432]

Alive (Emily Prentiss Imagine)

The team eventually finds out that Emily Prentiss is actually alive after she 'dies' and upon her return, the team finds out that you, a fellow member of the team, and Emily have been secretly married. Emily Prentiss x Wife!Reader

It's been weeks since anyone could get more than two words out of you. The death of Emily hit you harder than it hit anyone else, even though the team went through their own share of grief after losing her. She sits at the conference table next to Spencer, looking up at a very disheveled-looking Hotch. "What's this all about?" Morgan asks, "Seven months ago I made a decision that affected this team. As you all know, Emily lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle. However the doctors were able to stabilize her,"

You glance up from where you're sitting and a light returns to your eyes that had been gone for months. "What?" "She was airlifted out of the States. Her identity was strictly need-to-know. Once she was well enough to leave the hospital, she was given several identities and moved to Paris. None of these identities we had access to,"

Y/N stands up, fully backing away from the table, arms wrapped around herself. "What the hell, Hotch?" Morgan demands and JJ wraps an arm around you, though you feel as though you could faint if Hotch said another word.

"Baby, you alright?" Morgan then asks as he and Rossi glance to look at you and the tears streaming down your face, "What the hell!?" You then exclaim, nearly going up to get in Hotch's face.

"We buried a body!" You yell, your hand being dragged back by Penelope, though the tears are welt up in her eyes as well, "I'm sorry...I take full responsibility," "No! That's not good enough! You made us and me grieve and think we would never see her again! You made us mourn!" "I know she was your roommate, Y/L/N. I'm sorry"

"I'm actually her wife," A voice says,

Silence falls in the room as everyone looks up to see Emily standing there in the doorway. Just as you remembered her as if no time had passed. Her shoulder-length hair, dark eyes, perfect lips and nose. "Emily," You breathe, and before anyone can react to what Prentiss just said, you had walked across the room and kissed her as forcefully as you could manage.

Her hands touch the sides of your face, cradling your skin. Never in a million years had either of you ever thought you'd get to kiss in Quantico...or even outside your home.

Now an awe had fallen over the group not only at the sight of Emily being alive but at the fact that two agents on the same team had been in a relationship all this time. Two women who seemingly were the closest of friends, but nothing more. Even Hotch's face had a look of shock nobody had ever seen him have before.

"Wife?" "We got married last year," You whisper after the kiss breaks, through you are unsure whether or not you can ever let her go again, "I'm so sorry," "Shut up," You say, kissing your wife again, just feeling her skin against your own.

[springcatalyst]

NINE TO NINETEEN FOR MILO FOR THE OC QUESTIONS PLEASE MON DOUDOU!!!💗💘💗💘💘💞💘💗💘💗

YESS THANK YOU MEIN BELOVED! <3<3

ignore that this took like... weeks :^

9. Do they give tough love or gentle love most often? Which do they prefer to receive?

Milo is not a tough love kind of guy at ALLLLLL. He grew up in a really close-knit household and community; grandparents and parents and siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews and that's just his HOUSE. He is well accustomed to and comfortable with that kind of easy sweet caring for people that made him a very good caretaker of the little ones, and he learned it because he experienced it. 'Tough love' doesn't really make sense to him.

10. What fact do they excitedly tell everyone about at every opportunity?

I'm remembering now that I think I've rbbed this game before and got this one for Milo, and I think I said then that he would share the astronomical knowledge that he learns from his childhood friend Sumaya. She's big on it, he just likes the stories that come with the constellations, but they swap them back and forth until they're both well-versed in both fact and fiction. Going from student to teacher in that sense, then, lets him not only test what he retains from her, but share it with someone who otherwise might not know it, as she did with him. Especially after they've parted, though it's a bit more mournful, then.

11. If someone was impersonating them, what would friends / family ask or do to tell the difference?

Trick question! Milo spends all his time in his hometown doing an expert mix of hiding who he is and being as genuine as he can that it would be nearly impossible for anyone to tell the difference! Milo wears his heart on his sleeve which would make it incredibly easy for anyone who's watched him for a bit of time to impersonate him except for when he doesn't, at which time he conceals it so well nothing appears amiss! If you want an actual answer though, it would have to be a 'does the imposter lack memories' situation. Specific moments that Milo would remember, but nobody else would really know, that sort of thing. Sumaya could ask where they went in the mountains to stargaze, his grandmother could ask what she made for him on his 14th birthday, Reiji could ask where they met, Suna could ask what's the first conversation they had that didn't need a translator. That sort of thing. He's sentimental like that, he'd remember.

12. What’s something that makes them laugh every single time? Be specific!

Physical comedy. Part of the reason he's so good with kids is because he's got their sense of humor. In that same vein, he's easy to get with stuff just being unexpected. It's the one way he's genuinely a little childish, i cant think of a good example, but he would get a kick out of those old slapstick comedies, you understand.

13. When do they fake a smile? How often?

this is another that i remember answering before. that is, often. because friends and family know a milo that smiles easy and often, and so when he doesnt particularly feel like it, he must still do so- easy and often- to obviate anyone peeling back the layers.

14. How do they put out a candle?

This is probably supposed to be a more complex question but man, just blow it out. He's not some fancy bitch with those cap things and he's not cool enough to do the thing where u lick your fingers and pinch it out. Just blow out the flame, bro. easiest solution

15. What’s the most obvious difference between their behavior at home, at work, at school, with friends, and when they’re alone?

He holds a quieter sort of air when he's alone. It's allowed to fall when unwatched and when it does it often falls far. He simultaneously hates being alone and needs it desperately: he prefers company for... the company but also because it keeps him occupied. He's a man who doesn't enjoy being alone with his thoughts. But he also needs that, because it's the only time he's allowed to slip. It's a tricky push-pull that doesn't have an easy answer. Let me actually answer the question: around people, doesn't really matter who, he is brighter, cleaner, easier. This only gets messier when he's alone, or in very, very rare circumstances that he avoids at all costs.

16. What kinds of people do they have arguments with in their head?

inch resting. He's not the type to wish an argument, you know? He doesn't find a ton of vindication in like... tearing someone down like i think we do when we imagine arguments. The thing about milo is that he never feels wronged by others, he always has some 'oh well they MEAN well', and that's assuming he doesn't just think he's in the wrong. The things he believes in enough to argue about are never things he thinks about until they come up.

17. What do they notice first in the mirror versus what most people first notice looking at them?

teehee I've answered this one b4 too. he sees a mask slipping, a scar, exhaustion in a way sleep can't fix. others, though, they just see the smile he makes sure reaches his eyes.

18. Who do they love truly, 100% unconditionally (if anyone)?

God, everyone. I don't think he knows any other way. He loves people quickly and easily and once you get there it's stuck there forever. No amount of time apart or festering wounds will change that. Anything and everything is forgivable, because they're good people, really. He believes very completely in the inherent good of people, has only ever encountered very, very few that this belief wavers in.

19. What would they do if stuck in a room with the person they’ve been avoiding?

Ah. It would be a reluctant and yet long-awaited reunion. Truly he's avoided the whole town- but for succintness this could be either sumaya or his grandmother. the former, a longtime friend, they knew each other better than anyone, and something changed when the mask slipped. the latter, he looked up to all his life, learned from, grew with, and left before he could really see the consequences of his actions. so to be back with either one would be... the consequences, i guess. hes been missing them as long as he's been avoiding them :)

oc ask game

[terrania]

ONE SOUL BETWEEN US

A STORY ABOUT TRAUMA, QUEERNESS, AND EVERYTHING

WRITING SAMPLE:

Andrea first felt cold, half-smooth wood beneath her, in a curved set of planks. A low soft symphony of crickets stirred her, before she was jolted up the rest of the way by the deafening siren of a passing helicopter. Seeing the scene around her, she couldn’t help but find a slow chuckle escape her lips- waking up on a bench in the middle of the night, yet again.

5895 WORDS LONG

ABSURDLY FAST-PACED

CW: CHARACTER DEATH ALLUDED TO, EMOTIONALLY INTENSE SCENES

PLEASE CONSIDER READING

ONE SOUL BETWEEN US

A STORY BY JOAN

It felt like a thousand years ago, but it felt like just yesterday, too- doesn’t it always? Like that maxim- “changing the course of your life forever.” Everything she did from that point was because of it, in some way or another. In every action, she could still feel that pain, the echoes of the horror from that day, the guilt and anger in tandem.

It always shocks a community when that happens, but of course it wasn’t in a positive way. Not in that Town, after all- not in the town that, itself, killed him. People mourned for maybe a week, and by the time a month passed, nobody had even really changed from it- maybe they acted a bit more vindictive, or a bit kinder to her and the other couple people who knew him, but it never really added up- and soon enough, she was able to feel that same overbearing density in the Town’s air he did again, and she knew she couldn’t stay.

Maybe none of this would’ve happened if they didn’t find his body in those woods, or if the guy he met when he got into the City didn’t rat him out, or he didn’t slowly starve and become delirious when he came back. Maybe all of it would’ve happened anyway, and they’d be in the city with him now. What was certain was that she had no option but to escape when talk of him died down, and talk of her queerness returned in kind, when they started harassing her girlfriend again, when they started asking her to just “move on,” as if her life would ever be the same. Well, now it really wouldn’t. They’d do it right this time.

~~~

There it was, 1330 Edmund Blvd, a massive apartment building, dingy but with bright light shining through its windows. Emma texted her that address when Andrea was finally done crying behind that Waffle house after completely blowing up during her job interview, ending just shy of getting the cops called on her. While she was sad she couldn’t finish what she wanted to say, she could still be glad that she didn’t have to talk with the pigs- they’d identify her immediately, sending her and Emma back to the Town they were raised in. 

PART ONE

When she stopped sobbing, she saw that the golden hour light had turned red-orange, and the lot around her was empty, the heat from the pavement sticking only to her worn shoes. There was still heat from the road in her, heat that stayed in her chest and throat, all the way here. Now, the sky had made its way to the silver hour with only a trace of the afternoon at its edges, and as Andrea glanced at it, she realized that, for once, there were no stars within that sky, where they once were in the Town. The people rushed along the sidewalk around her, but she knew nothing of any of them. She knew nearly nothing of this City, even still.

1330 EDMND BLVD

As Andrea approached the building, she noticed Emma immediately, directly in front of the glass door, leaning next to the buzzer. In front of her shirt- still dirty from that fall on the road to the city- she had a black, worn fabric jacket, with a university label on it- one that Andrea didn’t recognize at all. The conviction on her face was as clear as the fear, but as she noticed Andrea, she immediately shone with relief.

Confused about the situation but happy to see her, Andrea simply asked “Emma?”

“Andrea! God, I was getting so worried.” Emma certainly seemed to be, but if she was, why did she leave Andrea in the lot in the first place?

“You know you don’t gotta worry about me, Emms.” Andrea attempted to say this with enthusiasm. “That said, are you okay? The hell’s up with these apartments?”

“...Right,” said Emma, adding a light, anxious chuckle. “Look, we... we should talk.”

“Yeah, looks like we oughta.” “Look, Andy. I know you want this to just be... us. I know we’re in this together. I know we’re better than where we’re from, and as good as where we’re going. I know we have to do it right.”

“...But?”

“But it’s killing you! I, I mean look at you, you haven’t eaten in two days, your shirt’s ripped through... you just spent two hours breaking down behind a waffle house?? Five days ago, you- you were promising to protect me! You were saving me from that Town, the way we always had to! Where the hell’s that Andy??

Andrea’s fists clenched. The hell did Emma think that the Andy protecting her was when she was working her ass off to get food and a job? “I am protecting you! That’s why you’ve been eating my last meals! That’s why I’m getting this job! I’m doing all of this for you!”

Somehow, Emma looked even more unhappy. Her eyes squinted and peered down, and she gripped the side of her sweatpants. “You’d... You’d die for me, wouldn’t you?” It didn’t come out as a genuine question, but more as a realization on her own part- and in a low, quiet tone of voice, yet still like there was disdain worthy for such a practice. “You’d die for me,” a grand accusation in an inexplicable sense, a declaration of guilt in an angle Andrea couldn’t even understand. In spite of it all, she still answered with her heart. “Yes. Yes, Emma, yes I would.”

“Of course you would. You’re so, so focused on creating this world for me, and forcing the rest of the world out. You keep refusing to stop- you’re letting yourself die, right now, just to make it a margin better for me. You’re trying to be a goddamn martyr!”

“Emma. The hell is wrong with that??”

Emma’s face was red now. “What’s it going to take for you to realize that my “ideal world” you’re dying for needs you in it???” It ended as a shout, piercing through Andrea’s forehead, dissipating in the saliva building in the back of her throat, settling in her stomach. She doesn’t cry. She wasn’t about to start.

Silence passed between the two of them. The sound of those crowds going by and by and by. A plane landing in the distance. The screech of a car horn.

Finally, Andrea found the words within her. “Emma,” she said- in a deep, gravelly voice so she didn’t start sobbing- “why are you in front of this building?”

“This can’t work!”

Emma pushed it through a choked sob, and hunched a little on the step. “We can’t do this alone. You can’t do this alone. So I got some help.”

That’s when it clicked for Andrea. The golden light coming from the doorway. The black jacket. That sense of conviction Emma came into this with. She did it, what they’d promised each other they’d never do, above all else. Here she was, in front of the house of a stranger she decided to trust, in the city, away from her. She’d chosen to stay here.

“Emma. Emma. Emma.” A look of guilt passed through Emma’s face. She knew exactly what this meant to Andrea.

“Emma. You know what happened to Spencer.” “Yes. Yes, I know what happened to Spencer.

“We saw him die, Emma. We saw him die. And now you wanna die the same way.” it was as cold as Andrea could muster, but the exact same way she was to everyone but Emma. “Andrea. In, in those days that Spencer was trying to get out again, to get back here, to where we are... you know how focused he was on escaping?” Andrea stayed silent.

“I saw him stop eating. I saw him do nothing- think of nothing- but getting out. I saw him care about nobody but us- not even himself.” Andrea’s heart beat faster. The light behind Emma was blinding. “Then, I saw him die.”

There was nothing Andrea could say, now, nothing left but to wait for what Emma was about to say. Of course, she knew exactly what was next. Emma would hold her hope close to her chest, take one more shaky step silhouetted by the light, and ask...

“No,” Andrea blurted out.

Tears finally burst out of Emma’s eyes. “Andrea, please!”

There was nothing else Andrea could think to say. There was nothing more important in the world than saying it. “I’m not going to go with you. I’m not going inside that house, and I’m not going to give up on making a name for ourselves.” Her face reddened. “And no, I’m not a martyr because I’m doing it all for you. No, I’m not starving, and no, I’m not fucking destroying myself!” 

Andrea’s gaze was blurry as the last shouts left her. Her head pounded against her eyes, the bursts of pain finding their way out of her, any way they could. The crowds outside were so, so loud. Emma, though, couldn’t say a word.

“You’ll get that soon. You’ll come back for me, and you’ll see how well I’m doing, and you’ll understand. Text me when that happens, and until then, don’t fucking talk to me.”

She turned around. She didn’t glance up to see Emma’s reaction. She didn’t let herself look back at that apartment building. She just kept going where her legs took her, not knowing where she’d end up. She had to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but with her.

PART ONE COMPLETE

Andrea shut the door of Emma’s room, immediately jumping and falling, full force, on her bed. She rolled over and let out a loud, excited wheeze, filling the room with pure electrical joy.

Emma giggled, which she knew to be an immensely comforting sound in Andrea’s ears, that got her heartbeat to pick up once again. “Oh my- hehe- GOD, what’s up with you?”

Andrea slid up on the bed to rest her back on the bed frame, trying to maintain a Coolguy pose despite her obvious earnestness. A fiery blush lit up her face- she was high enough on life to overdose. “Dude, I’m just realizing that the last thing my brother will ever hear from me is telling him to fuck off!”

Emma hopped right onto the bed as well, stretching out in the sunset’s fading sunbeams. “He’d better, after outing you to your parents!” She did a sort of scamper over to where Andrea was half-sitting, cozying up against her side and burying her face in her chest. This was the woman who’d protect her from the town. This was the woman who’d bring her to the city... Holy shit, tomorrow. This was their last day in this town!

“God, this still feels unreal.”

“Hmm?” Andrea glanced down from the window she was peering through. Despite the mundanity of her response, she looked at Emma with such warm reverence, with such hope...

“Like, this being our last day in this town. These people...” Her eyes widened. “they have no clue!”

Andrea let out a burst of laughter, sliding down a bit on the bed and turning on her side to Emma. Her expression, though, became a bit more anxious for a moment, and she took a deep breath, calming down the best she could.

“...Hey, we’re completely sure about this, right? If you ain’t, now’s the time.” She averted her gaze, putting on a cautious smile.

Emma expected this, honestly. This was probably the last moment before the two of them were fully committing to the plan, the last chance to drop out. Admittedly, Emma was a bit nervous about this, and there were still people from school worth talking to, people who’d probably miss them, an entire world they were leaving behind...

But Emma looked at Andrea, and saw every moment the two of them had had together, Andrea’s drive to protect her and her own drive to make Andrea feel loved, and the desire within her for this girl was too strong, too ecstatic for her to say anything other than...

“We’re in this, Andy.” The kiss that followed was a burst of bubbly electricity, a moment of pure, ecstatic togetherness.

~~~

Andrea turned to Spencer. “Dude. I’m saying that you’re getting somewhere with this, but that you can still goddamn do it without starving.”

Spencer raised his head from where he was lying on the bed. “Cmon Andrea, you know I’m fine.” “I can see you, man. You’re goddamn emaciated.” Andrea felt childish trying to be kind like this. They’d never had this kind of serious conversation before. Spencer finally sighed and got up. “Look, Drea, it’s hard to eat in this house, when I only get the chance around my family. You know that.” The bags under his eyes were all the more apparent.

PART TWO

Andrea slowly stepped to the bed from the window. She knew better than to get angry here, but this had to be said. “If you can handle being around your family for just the one week, we’re golden. We’ve got a place to stay, we’ve got fake documents, we’ve got goddamn everything.” She moved up to Spencer, intensifying her expression. “For the love of god, last that one week.”

“I’m gonna, Andrea,” Spencer said, defeated. “Just trust me.” Andrea wished she could.

NOWHERE, EVERYWHERE, THE ALLEYS

She walked and walked and walked. Her head hung low, and her movements grew shaky for moments, but she continued. Building after building passed, dark and imposing, the signage shadowed, hardly visible, and the roofs impossibly high. Andrea was a shrub on the side of the road to the passing cars, a pebble to the skyscrapers, a blur to the planes. The crowds had mostly dispersed, and she didn’t spare anyone who was still out a glance. Andrea was alone on the streets.

The shelter was about a quarter of a mile from here- the shelter, where she could rest, where she could make it to the next day, and make a recovery. The shelter, the one place her route could lead her, her only option, her savior. There was nothing more to it- nothing to think on, nothing to be done. She could keep going like this. She was about to keep going like this.

So she went, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, and watching those facades. Her head began to ache in spite of herself, and here she realized that she hadn’t had any water since Waffle house, three hours ago now. She could, she supposed, have gone in the apartment just to take some water and dip- she’d love to, honestly, but her future was this way, and the shelter had a water cooler, anyway. Still, without anything to drink, or anything to buy water with, her vision started to blur, and her steps became heavier, as her back hunched, and her mind went into a haze...

But she snapped out of it. The air and the lights were crisp  again, and her eyes were set on the path forward. 9 more crosswalks, now. Tomorrow was within grasp, and that tomorrow would be a better one- even without Emma, she could make that day’s interviews, and she could thrive soon, she could make it all better. It was all about to get so much better.

But it can’t get better for Emma.

What?

Not without you.

...Sure, but it could’ve gotten better for her if she did come back with Andrea. The choice to forsake her was ultimately made by Emma- she chose to stay where it’s safe, to not commit to the life that the two of them had so earnestly planned, and now she was facing the consequences. Andrea’s steps quickened. She began to breathe from her mouth, tasting the warm city air. Besides all that, Emma would inevitably see Andrea’s success, and return to her. Tomorrow would be better. Andrea would survive.

You act as though you are completely above her. Wasn't she who you were doing all this for? She could adapt. She could support herself, too. Her rubber soles scraped on the concrete. Surely, one wouldn’t suspect that Andrea had lost the drive to continue for her own sake at this point? She still had the motivation to live, to make it better for herself, and in all honesty, she was convinced enough of this goal to see it through, as she always did. She wasn’t just someone who gave up at the first sign of hardship. I mean, she was a better person than that. Better than...

Than those who failed before you?

Oh, god- no, she was-- Andrea blinked. Her surroundings were suddenly far quieter. Her eyes refocused, and she noted that the one source of light around her was from the windows of the surrounding buildings, and that the pain in her legs had vanished, with a fuzzy, null feeling replacing it. From one side of her, the alley seemed to stretch out, windows and trash bins and concrete, again and again with no roads or visible endpoint- and from the other side, the same. The air was heavier. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t fucking right at all. You aren’t doing this for yourself alone. 

No reaction? Just going to keep prattling?

You can’t outrun your shadow.

The sky above her was starless, but now even the moon was under cover of cloudless, indefinable shadow. A few wisps of clouds- orange from the glow of the streetlights- passed above. That... must’ve meant she was still in the city. That must’ve meant that she was just lost, and she could find someone, and get directions, right?

So Andrea moved one foot forward, continuing past gold windows and concrete floors, glancing left and right for someone behind a window or for any other sort of opening, somehow knowing for certain that the next window, the next step, would be the one that brought her out of this, back to the streets, back to the shelter. Her thoughts looped in this fashion like clockwork as her legs’ movements grew a tentative franticness, and soon the windows passed with such speed, the walls with such ferocity, that-

You can’t check for anyone inside. You’re paying attention to nothing more than your own struggle.

So? The way forward was more important. Yet you still wish for the presence of another.

As if on command, the windows glowed brighter- yet at an angle that brought the shining path of their light to the ground. Andrea’s steps quickened once more, glimpsing at each pane to see nobody silhouetted against the light, but feeling eyes on her anyway. Andrea would find someone, eventually. If Emma didn’t return- which she would- she could meet someone else.

But is there anyone you can really love?

In this City? There’s probably someone for her. This was a dead sprint now. Somehow, Andrea wasn’t tiring as she took each step. As her body bounced and bounded, she spotted something- another building, far taller than all those surrounding her- such that its roof was higher than she could make out- lit up with golden windows, right at the end of the alley. A goal. A hope. 

Though it felt impossible to quicken her pace, Andrea was moving faster despite herself, eyes trained on nothing but the points of light before her. Just a couple minutes now. It was time to get out of here.

Listen to me. There is not a single person in the city that you would accept.

Bounding and bounding. Each leap monumentous, each drop like a simple tap on the earth, like running on clouds. The past is within you. You remember every person in the Town deeply. Deep enough that everyone you meet will remind you of one of them. 

Her vision was a camera with the field of view at its minimum, a single static image of that tower. There was nothing around her but the end. The tower swallowed the space around it in her eyes, and her vision was soon concentrated on one single window within it, everything she could perceive, everything she knew, being within a wash of golden light. She was filled with hope like water fills a tall glass, joy spilling out the top of her.

You will never know someone you even *like* if you continue like this. You’ll always find something wrong with them. You’ll never let them really know you.

The gap between her and the building was infinitesimal. This was it. This was it.

If someone were to know you, they’d know that you’re destroying yourself, and if they really care about you, they’ll try to help you through this. You’ll never let yourself be helped, and you’ll always scorn those who aren’t close to you. Do you get what that means? Do you get what this is all *leading to?* You’ll never know anyone again. You’ll never get where you really want to be. If you continue like this, the time you have left will be measured in weeks. You can’t keep going.

On that last bound, just before the end, Andrea felt a horrible, inevitable presence on the toe of her right sneaker, and the unmistakable sandpaper texture of concrete scraping on rubber, and her left leg finding nothing to support it, as she moved through the air, head sailing infuriatingly closer to the building as she barreled to the ground. She anticipated another scrape of concrete, the pain of impact, to feel her skin torn from her forehead...

But she opened her eyes, and saw that there was nothing.

PART TWO COMPLETE

Listen to me. The mind’s modus operandi is absorbing data from the world, to grasp a fuller picture of everything there is. The mind stores memories where they can become information, information where it can become one’s beliefs, beliefs where they can become identity, identity where it can become one’s self, all the way to the deepest layer of the psyche. You are the culmination of everything you’ve experienced, from memory one onward. That’s not all, though.

Your mind hasn’t just picked up on memory or information. There’s more at play.

There is a strong, strong force in this world that wants you dead. There are a thousand thousand Towns like your own, oppressing a hundred million people like yourself. There are an insurmountable sum of lawmakers, a thousand million people who desperately want you gone, a vast majority who will never understand you or your people. The world, in large part, hates you. But there’s more at play.

There’s a weak force, but a large one, that wants you to succeed. There are another thousand million people in the world who love your queer kind, who wish to protect you, who will always remain sympathetic to your plight. There are so, so many ways that your people’s love, your pride, moves back to yourselves, through art and relations and policy. Within this great love, something can manifest- something intangible. Something undefinable. Something compassionate. Something the mind can pick up on. This force is within you. I am within you, and my will is that you feel the same love that so many people have for you. Be strong. I love you.

Andrea felt, within that void, a presence- an intangible gesture like a tight embrace, made all the more abstract by her seeming lack of a body. There was, for a moment, nothing- yet at the same time, there was everything.

~~~

Andrea blinked. She was on a sort of concrete block, facing a long, dark alley that stretched far into the distance- the walls, floor, and sky meeting at a single point. Closer, there were two structures, made of the same concrete, between the alley and her- dividers, like the sort you see on highways. Her knees had a dull throb to them, and she felt the effects of exhaustion viscously flowing within her bones, but she found the strength to get up, anyway.

PART THREE

Moving nearer to the divider, a second glance at the tower revealed that the lights behind the windows were now all off, a dull blue in place of their illumination, and cheap blackout shades blocking their rooms. The tower was monochrome and brutalist up close, like someone turned a parking garage into a skyscraper. There weren’t even support beams near the overhang housing the block on which she woke up, which was actually built into the wall- a bench, maybe? There was nothing more than that potential bench and a single door, miniscule around the swath of concrete on the wall they were attached to- and the door appeared especially small, being the sort of door that separated rooms within houses, complete without so much as a lock. Andrea took a deep breath, looked once more at the infinite alley, and reached toward the knob.

37 ALBATROSS RD

Treading across the carpet, Spencer tentatively turned the knob for Andrea’s room. In the short span of time before she noticed him, he could take her room in- smaller than average even for the town, walls painted off-white, containing a bed with a metal frame, a small bookshelf, a smaller desk, hardly better than the type you’d see in schools- and not much else. Clothing covered the gray carpet, and golden-hour light came in through the windows. The shelf was of a sort one would expect to see in a kid’s room- old tchotchkes Andrea must’ve taken from her mother, coins and similar trinkets, and a small collection of books- seemingly organized by reading level, that petered off around the fourth grade. There was a disparity of mugs and bowls around the desk, surrounding a single, ancient-looking laptop with around 20 tabs loaded, the City’s tourism website being the open page.

Gasping a bit as she noticed his presence, Andrea turned to Spencer, giving an immediate light sigh of relief when she saw him. “Spence. Good to see ya.” “...Sure, likewise.” Spencer felt something bitter settle in his throat immediately, despite the conversation only having just started. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting going into this, but he wasn’t expecting her to be this... casual, right out of the gate. It had been a while since the last time the two talked, after all. A very long while. “...Drea? Are you feeling okay?” This came out annoyingly curt, a habit he was trying to break out of- that sort of curtness, that professionalism, the overwhelming cold confidence of it all... those were his last impressions on Andrea and Emma. Despite everything, it was easy for Spencer to feel a bit angry at himself for maintaining that habit all the way to the grave.

Andrea’s voice instantly woke Spencer from this train of thought. “Never better.” Spencer could notice the obvious signs of having been better in Andrea, showing up in the same spots that they had for him- eye bags, low, gravelly voice, clearly not eating enough- and giving the impression that she’s almost drifting in and out of consciousness, like you’re part of her waking dream. Once again, Andrea piped up mid-thought: “So, you’re here because...?” The bitterness in his throat moved to his stomach, flowing dark and deep, like oil. She was just as curt here as he had been, just as confident. 

...Hm. Actually, that pattern made sense in Spencer's mind- same dictation, same goals, slowly dying the same way... Spencer knew what he did wrong the first time, so that would mean... “Alright, Drea, just so we’re on the same page... Two weeks ago, you tried to get someone to help you in the city, and that person ratted you out to the authorities.” Andrea’s previously glassy gaze shifted to a more attentive one. It was already clear that she wasn’t going to enjoy this conversation.

“...That’s right. Anything else?” Same curt tone of voice he was using, too. God, that was hard to talk to- pure dismissiveness, like shouting into the void. Spencer reminded himself the best he could that there was a part of Andrea that cared- there had to be, as long as part of him did.

“...And now you’re holed up in your room, not letting anyone else even be concerned about you.” If he was actually talking to his past, almost-dead self and not Andrea in his position, that’s when the past Spencer would tell the current Spencer simply to fuck off, but-

Andrea rose from her chair, making a point of looking Spencer directly in the eyes. She was still squinting, but with an expression conveying far more resignation- deeply unhappy that she was about to say this, but finding no other option, pushing her friends away to feed her work, again just like--

“Listen, Spencer.” Her tone was gravelly, again- a tone Spencer remembered her using on her parents when they were in a bad mood, or the cops on rare occasions, if only to deal with them all a little faster. “I’m tired of all these people trying to tell me that they know me, that they know what’s good for me.” She rolled her eyes a little. “I’m tired of everyone telling me I can trust them, that everything’s gonna be okay. I’m tired of goddamn pretending I can be helped, that there’s people... worth trusting.” Something flashed in her eye for a moment, and her expression became glassy again- “...Aren’t you?”

...No, he wouldn’t stand for this. Spencer shut his eyes tight, breathed in, breathed out, and swallowed hard. This was it. “You’re gonna call it coincidence when it kills you.” The room was instantly silent, a sudden lack of chirping birds or car engines outside the window. “I know I did.”

Andrea was visibly caught off guard. “...Excuse me?”

“When you see that you could’ve gotten help. You’ll say that since you got hurt once asking for help, and once not asking for help, it was random chance either way, that you couldn’t’ve prevented it.” 

“...Spencer, what the hell...” Andrea tensed up. Her pupils contracted, and her gaze started flitting around the room. The dread within Spencer finally lessened, the oil singeing on the edge of hot, hot hope. She was starting to get it. “...What... is this?” Somehow, she managed to say that with a slight chuckle, the sort you use to maintain your authority in tense situations that question it. She was beginning to look dizzy, instinctively moving to hold her chest, staring just below the middle distance of his eyes.

“Andrea, asking for help isn’t what killed me.” Spencer stepped forward, holding onto his hope, making his stand. “Being betrayed didn’t kill me. The Town didn’t kill me.” 

Tears were welling up in Andrea’s eyes, shock across her face. Spencer took one more breath.

“What killed me wasn’t choosing to get help. It was choosing not to get help. It was choosing not to let Emma force me to rest, not to let you help me scope out opportunities. It was choosing not to eat, choosing to bury myself in my work...” He shuddered. “Until there was nothing left, and that nothing walked out into the woods and died.” His eyes began welling up, too. In this moment, he remembered those two gay idiots he tried to save all that time ago in full- their struggles, their joys, their love for each other. For better or for worse, he died for them. He was going to make that death worth it. “Andrea, I could’ve asked for help again, and I would’ve survived. Please, no matter what- Emma needs you to survive. Whatever... set this up needs you to survive. I need you to survive.”

Andrea broke down crying, and at the same time something clicked behind her eyes, like she finally remembered. She ran to Spencer, practically tackling him as the two fell onto the fake ghost-memory of her childhood bedroom’s low-quality mattress. She held him for dear life, like he could slip away again at any moment, like he was that ending, that goal she was searching for.

“I fucking missed you, Spence,” she gasped through choking sobs.

She was back, that baby-gay butch he’d done it all for. Spencer knew, once again, that she’d do great things, that she’d finally bounce back. “I missed you, too.”

The two stayed like that for a long time, but a finite one. Slowly, light filled the room, and Andrea passively felt her perception start to fade, this dream of a body being forgotten, bit by bit, by her real one. Andrea knew they were leaving without saying goodbye again, but this was goodbye enough. They’d see each other again, anyway.

PART THREE COMPLETE

Andrea first felt cold, half-smooth wood beneath her, in a curved set of planks. A low soft symphony of crickets stirred her, before she was jolted up the rest of the way by the deafening siren of a passing helicopter. Seeing the scene around her, she couldn’t help but find a slow chuckle escape her lips- waking up on a bench in the middle of the night, yet again.

For the first time since... Since the night before that Waffle House Breakdown, which would be a great name for a band- Andrea was thinking straight. Checking her phone- and feeling a wave of pride for Emma, for not having tried to message her again, which would thereby enable her after that ages-ago argument- Andrea saw that this park was only 3 blocks away from that apartment, 1330 Edmnd Blvd. Feeling crisp, clear moonlight on her skin, seeing those city lights surrounding her, stretching out her sore, sore legs, Andrea took one more deep, deep breath, filling her lungs as much as she possibly could. This was a breath that meant: Thank you. I’m going back.

3 more blocks. Not everything would be okay, but it’d be survivable with Emma by her side. It wasn’t going to be that solution for everything she strived for, but it would be enough.

~~~

Warmth fluttered between the two embracing lovers somewhere on Edmnd street, yet somewhere far from it. Within deep primordial darkness, physical form ceased relevance, the energy of their spirits entwined shining bright through the dark. Spencer’s love, the love of those thousands of allies, the love of each other- everyone was within this moment. They were together again.

Made with love by Joan

Thank you so much for reading, I put so much of my heart into this... I hope I can spark even a little of the absolute joy that went into it within you. Remember how many people love you, just for existing!

Special thanks to:

Kayla

Sofia

Owen

Sam Charlie

My parents

The lovely people at my Art Of Writing class

The small, urethrally beautiful community we’ve cultivated on the Jumbo Josh discord server

My influences creating this, that being the great visual novels by NomNomNami and The Echo Project, as well as Disco Elysium

The oceanic bundle of love and energy that is the queer community

Anyone that I’ve missed! You all rule unequivocally 

And you! You the audience member! You’re the best and I love you!

If you enjoyed this, check my blog out. This is the first real piece of art I've made, but i'm down to make some more in the future. One more time, thank you for everything.

[oh-nostalgiaa]

Hello, @asteroiideae, it's me, your R1 Crew Secret Santa! It's been a pleasure writing for you, although I had to take a big chunk of time to recover from a fun lil illness and this isn't nearly as long as I would have liked it to be!

The prompt was pretty much to write whatever my heart desired (a fun AU) and I was inspired by @carr-crashh-heartss-archive's lovely pirate au waves & the both of us, so have a sequel of sorts! I wish I could've sent snippets along the way but that would have ruined the pirate aspect! I really hope you like it and happy holidays to you. <3

You can find this fic on A03.

come back with the waves

The sea sometimes called to Captain Cassian Andor.

But he no longer heeded that call. Could no longer return to the man he had once been when sailing had been the very blood running through his veins. Decades worth of hard work and egregious injuries had taken their toll and against his better judgment, he had been forced to retire.

The same brutal battle that had seen a cannonball strike throw Cassian from the crow's nest to the deck below, breaking him into a thousand metaphorical pieces, his crew - Jyn and Bodhi and Chirrut and Baze and Kay and others they had picked up along the way - emerged victorious, the supposedly unbeatable, unsinkable Death Star sinking beneath the blue, blue waves, taking her villainous Captain Krennic with it.

They should have been celebrating the new beginning they (and every pirate ship from Scarif to Naboo) were being given now that other pirate hunters were going on the run - or would, if they knew what was good for them) but instead they were mourning their dead and quietly praying that their brave captain would pull through.

First Mate Kay deferred to Jyn, who ordered the Rising Hope to Takodana, where Cassian could receive the best medical care possible in the shortest amount of time. To Maz, who always knew what to do.

Even so, Cassian's condition had been touch and go for quite some time, and nobody knew whether his broken bones would heal correctly or at all, if he would walk, if he would wake a fraction of the man he had been before. The main crew stayed behind to watch over their captain, the others released to other ships, to new pursuits, to return home if they so chose. But there was no question for Jyn and Kay and Bodhi and Chirrut and Baze - they were going to stay until their Captain woke, they were going to stay at least until they knew he would recover.

So they sat with him and read to him, told stories and reminisced, prayed over him and sang to him, pleaded with him to just wake up, sat with each other in the reassurance that this was not all in vain. And the day that he finally opened his eyes was a day full of tears and cheering and thanking whatever deities that watched over pirates like them for allowing him to come back.

Cassian's recovery, however, was long and painful and not without its fair share of setbacks and complications. He fought tooth and nail to learn to walk again, and while he depended heavily upon a cane to get him places, was able to see Chirrut and Baze off to Jedha, where they planned on housing and teaching children orphaned by the piracy wars. And by the time Bodhi set off as navigator to intrepid young explorer Luke Skywalker, Cassian could walk without it (for short distances), only curling an arm around Jyn to keep himself steady.

Still, six years post-injury, Cassian still felt aches and pains deep in his bones when the weather dipped low, could foretell the brewing of a storm off the coast well before it ever reached land. Oh, he heard the call of the wild waves, but he could no longer answer in the ways he used to. He could dip his toes in from time to time, on the good days when his ever-present pain was minimal. He could walk along the beach on the calmest days when the wind wasn't whipping hard enough to make him unsteady on his feet.

He could sit on a blanket and teach their four year old daughter everything he knew, show her the wonders of the treasures the sea sent to them from time to time in the form of shells and stones and washed up driftwood. They would watch for whales and dolphins to breach the water's surface, imitate the barking of the seals, the calls of the seabirds soaring overhead, study crabs and snails and starfish and whatever else they might find on their shore adventures.

And on the clearest nights - if the weather allowed - they would all lay out under the blanket of the night sky and watch for shooting stars, Cassian teaching Asta how to look for constellations, telling her what they were meant to signify, but also making her eyes light up with wonder when he shared the myths surrounding them. He was slightly more restrained when regaling Asta with tales from their days at sea, but that didn't much matter, she knew enough and was bright enough with a vivid enough imagination to fill in the gaps.

Cassian certainly couldn't move with as much grace as he once did, but when Asta begged for him to swordfight her, he always obliged. Asta, Queen of the Pirates, always won easily, giggling madly at the way her silly papa crumpled to the ground and dramatically begged her for mercy. And for all his fears about not having the capacity to be a good father, when he glanced up at his wife and her gently rounding belly, he was reassured that despite his faults and the inevitable ups and downs they faced, he was doing just fine.

They were doing just fine.

With Kay living nearby ( "Someone's got to watch over the pair of you, and I'm the best man for the job") and letters coming in on a fairly regular basis from Bodhi and Chirrut and Baze, it was almost as though the little family they had cobbled together was still as strong as ever

Maybe it wasn't exactly the life Cassian had ever imagined having for himself - or even living long enough to have - but he wasn't sure that he would change a moment of it. Not the loss or the heartache or the pain. All of it, everything, was just leading him to where he was always meant to be. No longer fighting to see the next day, but living fully and loving with his whole heart.

With Jyn and Asta and their baby on the way.

Safe and happy.

[florida-star]

Oh my god 0lease tell me.abput Bumblenose

ABSOLUTELY MY FRIEND

This fucker. this absolute bastard man.

i have so much to say about him that would spoil the story but honestly i dont plan to make it a comic, its just my own silly fanclan ANYWAYS. heres a rundown of his story for u anon <3 tysm for asking abt him so i can ramble on abt my story

so he’s always been a jealous fucker and when his clanmate Sootstripe reveals she’s pregnant, hes furious. not because he liked her, but because he liked her mate, Lionclaw, and thought he was too good for her. to calm his jealousy and such, he has a fling with a kittypet named Bonnabelle, and soon brings a young Cricketkit into camp. nobodys questions him, as their clan has been raised on the belief that any cat is welcome, regardless of origin, and will not be questioned on it

a few moons pass and he’s given one of Sootstripes kits as an apprentice, Darkpaw. and to try and make this shorter, one day he snaps and kills Darkpaw. another apprentice, Creekpaw, witnesses it in a ravenpaw fashion, while hunting. Bumblenose notices her and forces her to be silent about it otherwise he would kill her the same. she, being stubborn as hell, tells her brother Badgerpaw, the medicine cat apprentice, who Bumblenose would assumedly never kill.

nd basically their story is finding some way of getting Bumblenose to be exiled but its proving extremely difficult as the leader, OrchidStar, and Bumblenose are very close, and she trusts him with her own lives

so shortly after Badgerpaw becomes Badgerwillow, he rounds up all the cats he trusts most. his sister Creekpaw, Darkpaws brother Slushpaw, and bumbles son, Cricketleap, and reveals to the other two the truth. Slushpaw immediately trusts the med cats words, while Cricketleap is shocked his father would ever do such a thing, but eventually comes to realize its all too true

so they confront him(minus cricket) aaand suddenly the whole camp is on fire. someone from another clan set their own camp on fire for reasons i might explain another time but it spreads to their clan at that time, so they all have to run and abandon it

while trying to escape, bumblenose, badgerwillow, and cricketleap get stuck in one area and the badger further confronts bumblenose. he attacks badgerwillow, saying he ‘had his reasons to kill darkpaw’, and is about to snap the medicine cats neck when hes thrown off by Cricketleap.(for reference, Bumble is average cat size and Cricketleap is a fucking behemoth. mainecoon size. bumble got launched.)

Cricket yells at his father about how horrible what he did was, begging him to explain why he did it, why did he kill his own clanmate? And at this point, Bumble doesn’t care now, thinking hes about to die and attacks his son, not wanting to go down pathetically. it leads to Bumble getting himself killed by the two, and they escape the flames, telling the clan that Bumblenose hit his head while trying to escape and died that way. hes mourned, but the clan soon comes to realize he is nowhere to be found in starclans realm.

*btw the reason creekpaw and slushpaw still have their apprentice names is due to OrchidStar. she refused to name them after they nearly died trying to fight an alligator all on their own. their reason was they wanted to try and speed their apprenticeship up, buuut they just got very banged up because of it.

[ladymegwelles]

marguerite "meg" anne welles, lady welles

the nightingale

Marguerite Anne Welles, named for Marguerite of Navarre and Anne Boleyn, was born into a glittering world of splendor that masked dark swirlings underneath. Her parents were of a modest upbringing, from families with enough money and influence to place them in an acceptable place in their respective countries’ nobility, but not so high that greatness was ever expected to be thrust upon them. Henry Welles was the youngest son of an earl, spending much of his time at his family’s estate in the country until his father found him a placement at the court of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon. French-born Colette Clement secured a place in the court of Navarre as a girl, one of many young noblewomen to receive training under the tutelage of the great Marguerite. Navarre was where the events that led up to their daughter’s life began.

Colette Clement and Anne Boleyn became fast friends; both possessed intelligence, cunning, and wit that charmed those around them, and Anne’s ferocious nature was often balanced with Colette’s heart of gold. The remained thick as thieves through their travels, which eventually brought them to the court of Henry VIII, where Anne caught the soon-to-be-infamous royal’s eye.

The two women were once again members of the same royal court, except this time, it was Anne who was queen. Colette served by her friend’s side, rejoicing in her victories and mourning her tragedies. Colette and Henry wed not long after the King and Anne; the friends fell pregnant nearly a month apart in the fall of 1533, and the ever-idealistic Colette called it a blessing from God - their daughters would grow up together as their mothers had.

The first years of little Meg’s life were idyllic; her parents had married for love, and were as attentive to their daughter as their duties could possibly allow. Though they tried for more children, it proved futile; this would disappoint nobles who yearned for more power and prestige, but the Welleses were content with the child and life that they had. They shielded Meg from as much as they could, sending her to Hatfield House with the King and Qeeen’s blessing to be raised alongside Princess Elizabeth. Meg’s earliest memories featured not only Princess Elizabeth and their playmates, other noble children, but Prince William and his companions as well. Elizabeth’s parents would visit on occasion, and Meg delighted in nothing more than bobbing a tiny curtsy to the queen, all the while searching behind Anne for a glimpse of her mother’s smile, warm as sunshine.

The year 1540 brought a painful change; all of a sudden, Henry and Colette did not visit. Notes to them, in Meg’s untidy, childish, penmanship, went unanswered. The Welleses had fallen victim of the sweating sickness, leaving Meg an orphan at the age of six. Her father’s family had all predeceased him and nobody knew anything of Colette’s family in France; in a great act of kindness, Queen Anne petitioned the King to take Meg on as a ward of the crown, protecting the few interests that her late father left behind and further securing a place in Elizabeth’s household.

Though deeply saddened by the loss of her parents, Meg continued to bloom in the Princess’ household. She seemed to balance the young royal, as their mothers had done for each other, and with access to the greatest education a woman could come by, she blossomed into a kind, intelligent young woman. She buried herself in books, both academic and otherwise, losing herself in fanciful stories of young lovers and faraway lands. She admired the Princess and her mother, the Queen, and tried to learn all she could from being in their presence.

Henry VIII’s death flipped England’s world upside down; in a flurry of activity and protocol, Elizabeth’s household returned to court for her brother William’s coronation. As she stood with Elizabeth’s other ladies as the crown was lowered onto William’s head, she could see both sibling’s demeanors shift; they had all known this day would come, but perhaps not so soon. All of a sudden, they were children no more; the days of frolicking in the gardens at Hatfield House were over, and a new era was dawning.

Meg is fiercely loyal to Elizabeth and her family; she is extremely aware of how fortunate she is to have grown up in their care, and for her proximity to royals as a member of minor nobility. She cares for the Boleyn-Tudor siblings as if they were her own, and for Anne as she would a second mother, as the Dowager Queen was now her only connection to her own parents and lineage. Though subject to Elizabeth’s strict guidelines, Meg still dreams of her ideal life - swept into a beautiful romance, making a true love marriage match, living peacefully and happily with her loved ones by her side.