#i think it would be better if i tried to forge ahead to figure out what i was doing maybe

[quatregats]

Hmmm am once again feeling the urge to start from scratch on this project and I need to really not

[sugairsstuff]

Hi saw you're looking to write stories and was hoping to send some inspiration your way! I am a sucker for "Who did this to you?" Trope and I'm just in need of more Cassian from ACOTAR on this site. So I'm thinking of a little one-shot story of the reader getting hurt by an ex or a family member she doesn't get along with and the General of the Night Court being Angry about it.

Happy Writing! Can't wait to see what you come up with! 😊

thank you very much for being my first request! and i’d be happy to- sorry if i’m a bit rusty- i hope you enjoy how i approached this prompt!

who did this to you.

cassian x fem reader (a court of thorns and roses)

warnings: mentions of abuse, minor descriptions of violence

summary: you run into an ex who wrongfully treated you, and in his pathetic attempts to beg you for forgiveness he injures you. conflicted, you choose not to tell your mate, both suppressing your right to feel emotional and worried for cassian should he go after the male. but your mate knows you like the back of his hand, and you decide to tell the truth before cassian figures it out himself.

(credit to @cafekitsune for the divider)

You stand at the end of one of the House of Wind’s scarlet-wreathed hallways, thinking only of how grateful you are of your dress’ long sleeves as your left hand rubs your opposing wrist- which throbs with the inevitable purpling of a bruise wrapped around it. Although you know your mate adores when you wear pretty jewelry of all kinds, something tells you that seeing this makeshift bracelet your ex-boyfriend gifted you today in the city would only make your mate’s crimson eyes see redder.

Your chest feels heavy, swirling with a flurry of emotions as you root yourself to the end of this hallway. The sounds of your friends’ voices- laughter- from beyond the grand doorway that stood opposing you overpowered the beating of your heart in your ears, though not the flurry in your chest that leaked into your brain, watering the seeds of your feelings and forging them into thoughts.

Your ex, so unimportant his name isn’t even needed, had ran into you accidentally whilst you were browsing a vendor selling handcrafted bookmarks in the city’s local markets. Once you saw him and made to slip into the crowd in an attempt of avoidance, it was too late, as he was already calling out your name in a tone that began in surprise and evolved into frustation. And when you didn’t look back, worried he wanted to pour his heart out to you, beg for another chance after the wicked ways he’d treated you in your past relationship, he wrapped his hand around your right wrist. He tugged you back, ignoring your sharp shout of both warning and shock as the crowd meandered past you without sparing second glances.

You didn’t really pay attention to what he was saying, your mind already in a frenzied panic as his grip only got tighter the more you tried to pull your wrist back to the safety of your side. His pleading, persuasive tone betrayed the vice-like hold he had on your wrist as he tried to force you to hear him out, hear his babbling of apologies and promises ‘to change’ and ‘to be better’.

By the time you had wrenched your wrist free, so desperate to simply get out of there, your response you threw at him was only a brief shout to leave you alone that came out more shaky than you were going for. Forgetting all your other leisurely plans for the day, you trekked back to the House of Wind, gripping your aching wrist and blinking tears back as you stared at the ground a few paces ahead of your swiftly moving boots.

So now you stand at the end of this hallway.

Thinking.

While your ex himself is old business, the encounter with him had resurfaced memories with him that left a bad taste in the back of your mouth. But they are old memories, you tell yourself to try and convince yourself there is no need to tell Cassian. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, the bruise would heal, and Gods above did you not want to send your mate on a warpath with the destination of wherever your ex lives. As much as you wouldn’t mind seeing he who does not deserve a name get what he actually deserves, you didn’t want Cassian paying the consequences for his actions. You nod to yourself in self-assuring confirmation of your decision.

You’re startled out of your head with the sudden worry you’ve been caught standing and staring at nothing like a lunatic. You glance around to ensure no person nor shadow was lurking, exhaling in small relief as you can’t think of a reasonable enough sounding excuse for your current behaviour. Don’t mind me, just contemplating the meaning of life! You scoff to yourself at your own weak joke, and move forwards until you reach the large double doors.

When you enter, familiar faces turn up to greet or smile at you from their places on the lounge room’s velvet sofas.

“There she is. You’re welcome for babysitting your whining mate, believe me when I say he’s been waiting for you the entire time in here to return from your devastatingly long two hour journey into the city.” Rhysand smirks, joking elaborately in a playful jab at his brother, with one of his hands tangled with Feyre’s in her lap- who sat nearly next to him but mostly on top of him.

“We were just wondering where you were.” Feyre jumps in to avoid the brothers getting into a back-and-forth bicker about clinginess. Her blue eyes twinkle like stars as she leans forwards a little, “So, how much did you spend today?” the female grins, looking too much alike to her mate.

You make your way to Cassian’s side immediately, standing next to the large armchair he was sprawled in rather than accepting his soft invites into his lap. He reaches over to you with both a wing and hand, the former brushing your back and the latter reaching to graze against your fingers. Placing a smile on your face comes easy as you look to Feyre, “Hate to disappoint, I only bought fresh ink and a new book.” you tell her, patting the small leather bag that rests against your hip as your excuse to move your hand away from Cassian’s. One small displacement of your sleeve would leave you having explaining to do, which you really would prefer to avoid.

Feyre whines a complaint in how you need to treat yourself more often to luxuries- as if this family hasn’t done that enough for you- before her attention switches to the male sitting below you, “Aw, sorry, Cassian, am I stealing all the attention away from you?” she teases.

You look down at your mate to see the pout on his pretty lips that elicited Feyre’s joke. One look at him, and you can tell him missing your presence wasn’t actually what was bothering him. Instead, his gaze was focused on the hand you had, apparently not subtly enough, moved away from him. Damn you for underestimating how well your mate knows you.

Cassian’s brows furrows ever so slightly as he looks up at you, a few raven black strands falling free from its messily half-tied state, appearing as though he were deeply pondering something. He looks as though he wants to say something, most likely ask why you’re acting oddly, though instead he rises to his feet and his hand lifts to brush not your hand but gently against your cheek.

Grinning, Cassian turns to Feyre and Rhysand, “Well, call me now the thief of the thief,” he shoots back equally as playfully to the High Lady, “I think we’ll be off so I can give my mate a properly informal greeting,” he jests, wiggling his eyebrows and winking at the two as he stole you away using a large, calloused hand centred on the small of your back.

You know better, though, this is simply Cassian’s way of preventing you from being put on the spot in front of two pairs of prying eyes. Cassian led you through the House of Wind’s corridors, pace slowing to make up for your lack of height in comparison to the Illyrian.

“How was your day, baby?” Cassian asks, his tone too soft for your liking right now. He’s testing the waters, you are well aware, both trying to solidify his feeling something was off and see if you are okay.

“It was fine,” you tell him honestly- well, all the parts without your ex in it. You fail to meet Cassian’s eye, afraid that if you do your mate will see right through you and know for certain you are upset. But this response only makes your mate fall quiet for a beat too long, something rare for the extroverted, energetic warlord. You hear Cassian suck in a breath as you turn a corner, and in moments he’s opening the large carved wooden door to your expansive chambers for you.

Cassian kicks the door shut gently before turning to you. You untie your boots and pull them off before he has the chance to offer to do so himself, and give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. To avoid Cassian getting straight to the point and asking if something is amiss, you deflect before anything is sent, “I’m going to go run a bath. The place’s staircase is brutal,” you joke, speaking without thinking as you notice Cassian perk up a tad.

The male looks more relieved in his body language though apprehensiveness lingers in his gaze as he turns to you with a boyish smirk, “Am I invited to that event?” your mate tries.

You know you pause for a second too long as Cassian’s expression falls slightly and he begins to reel back his comment with something with just as much lightheartedness as there was worry for you, “Or shall I leave the lady to her flowery bubblebath and soap?”

You frown and shake your head. “No, no, it’s okay, I want you to come.” Normally, you’d make a sexual joke to lure him in the hot, soapy water with you, but the burden that Cassian will inevitabley discover exactly what is making things not okay in minutes was leaning over you.

“Okay,” is all Cassian responds with, and you inwardly cringe at how clear it is how simultaneously unsure and sure he is that something is bothering you. That heavy feeling in your chest returns, settling back to where it sat in that hallway as now you feel guilty for confusing your mate over such a small, meaningless encounter with a hostile ex. Or so you tell yourself.

It’s as if a tether is attached to that weight in your chest, giving a comforting tug that pulls some of it off of your lungs. You look up to Cassian, knowing that tether was instead that special little string that tied the beautiful bow of your bond. Your mate looks much more serious now as his deep red eyes flicker with concern, though he still speaks softly, “Come on. That bath’s calling our names.”

You stand rather than sit in the large bathroom as Cassian leans over the luxurious tub, hand testing the water as he makes sure it’s set to the temperature you like the most. You make no move to begin undressing, your arms wrapped tightly around you. The bruise no longer throbs as it sits untouched, but you’re still painfully aware of it.

Cassian eventually turns to you, his large wings extending slightly as he approaches you. Seeing as you are still undressed, his hand traces its way around your waist where two of his fingers catch the string of the dress’ corset, “May I?” he asks, though there are no lustful undertones in the warlord’s deep voice, despite him preparing to strip his lover in front of a steaming bath.

You nod up at him, but place a hand on his wrist before he makes a move. Cassian’s gaze flicks to yours immediately. His brows pinch upwards slightly in gentle questioning.

“Just- don’t freak out. Don’t panic. Okay?” you say vaguely, and watch as Cassian’s expression only becomes more worried. “Cassian.” you say, more sternly.

“You’re scaring me here,” he says, your name trailing at the end of his sentence rather than one of his more playful pet names. When you only look up at him with a pleading gaze, Cassian gives in with a sigh, “Okay.”

Your mate commences, tugging the dress loosely ever so gently. You can tell he’s alert as he stands over you, his wings and scent engulfing you as he peels off your day dress. You watch his face closely as he watches your body. Any other day, and you knew what you’d find there- sweet, honey-dripping lust and warm, intimate love as more of your figure is exposed to him. Right now, though, his brow is furrowed, and he’s looking at every inch of your skin, scanning you for what exactly your warning meant.

Cassian gently tugs the sleeves of the dress off of your arm. His crimson gaze looks to your left wrist, and then to your right wrist.

And then Cassian goes rigid.

You never understood how eyes could darken like the ways they were described to in all the books Nesta reads, but watching your mate now- now you fully understand. Leaning over you, eyes unmoving from the splotchy purple markings around your wrist, you watch as lethal anger fills his vision, you see your mate see exactly the colour of his eyes as pure, vicious anger seeps into his blood and runs it cold.

“Who.” Cassian’s voice is low, quiet. You blink at the husky, nearly strangled-sounding word that your mate managed out. “Who did this to you.” he says, his eyes finally meeting yours, and you see that the look in them has changed only slightly- just enough to show you it is far from you that Cassian is angry at.

You look down, your eyes stinging suddenly as tears brim your eyes and you have no idea why. You don’t answer, so Cassian speaks for you, tone low though not harsh towards you, “Was it him?”

You nod, and open your mouth to speak and curse yourself for stumbling over your words, “We ran into each other at the market earlier. He- he grabbed me, Cass, and he wouldn’t let go. I was so scared. I just ran.” you manage, feeling the cool trail of a tear drip down your cheek. The sight of that alone was enough for Cassian.

He curses, stepping back from you as his wings flare. “I am going to kill him. I swear to every God above, he’s a fucking dead male walking.” Cassian growls, both of you having completely forgotten about your planned bath together as he paces the bathroom like a prowling predator, as if he were plotting right now all the ways he’d make that male suffer.

You move towards him then, tears still running down your cheeks as you set your right hand on his arm, feeling how tight and tense the muscles beneath are. “No, Cassian,” you tell him, “you can’t. Don’t go after him, please, Rhysand can’t play favourites no matter what you do to him,” you tell him.

Cassian looks down at you, the fury in his gaze swirling and settling and then slipping away. He sighs, moving his own two hands to cup your cheeks gently. The large male uses his thumbs to brush away your tears. “Okay.” he says, sounding almost reluctant. “But I still can’t let him get away with this. I won’t.” Cassian tells you, his tone stern yet not harsh in an assurance that he would not let this happen to you ever again. He pulls you close to his chest, wrapping both his arms and wings around you, cocooning you in warmth. Cassian strokes your hair, letting you smoosh your cheek against his chest and listen to his slowed, steady heartbeat.

“I’m sorry for freaking out,” Cassian eventually murmurs once your tears have ceased, earning a small snort and then, blissfully, a laugh from you.

“Don’t worry, I just would rather only him being arrested then both of you.” you respond, and now it’s Cassian’s turn to chuckle. He releases you from his anchoring hold. “We can talk to Rhysand tomorrow, yeah? About the political and civil way to get him punished.” Cassian huffs, emphasizing his words in a joke.

You roll your eyes as you finish undressing, “Oh, yes, how very boring.”

Cassian only grins back at you, joining you once you climb into the tub and pulling you back against his chest, one hand interlocking with yours as he frowns momentarily at the bruising. “My idea of killing him is still up for grabs, though,” he hums.

“Cassian.”

[ramblers-lets-get-ramblin]

When My Time Comes Around- Part Two

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist

Part One | Part Three

Summary: This chapter takes place in the year and a half or so before the beginning of the first chapter. You'll find out everything leading up to you finding Joel dying in the snow.

Rating: E FOR EXPLICIT MDNI 18+

Word Count: 7.3k

Warnings: THIS IS THE SADDEST THING I’VE EVER WRITTEN, major character death, detailed canon typical violence, detailed descriptions of injuries, heavy use of weapons, Marlene deserves her own warning, alcohol consumption, references to alcoholism, child death, child loss, major angst, briefest hint of PIV smut, EVEN THOUGH READER IS NOT PRESENT IN THIS CHAPTER, THIS IS STILL A JOEL X READER FIC

Author’s Notes: Unfortunately, this chapter is a lot sadder than the last one. But if you decide to stick around to the end you will be rewarded with a disgustingly sweet and fluffy happy ending! Also this is my first time writing this much action and it was so fun! Let me know what y'all think about it because I'd love to write more!

A year and a half earlier

The first time that Joel felt even a spark of hope in twenty years, was standing on that roof in Salt Lake City, Utah, feeding a giraffe with his daughter. He felt an unease in the pit of his stomach. It was like he’d swallowed a handful of stones. He didn’t want to move forward with the plan anymore. He didn’t want to find the Fireflies. He never trusted Marlene as far as he could throw her to begin with. But after everything that happened with that man, David, and his group, he doesn’t trust anyone with Ellie. She didn’t tell him the details of what happened to her in that diner in Silver Lake, but it didn’t take much for Joel to figure out where it was heading. He feels so guilty that he wasn’t there to protect her, to save her. He was failing her, just like he knew he would. Just like he told Tommy he would. He tried to tell Ellie that they didn’t have to do this. They could just go back to Jackson and forget about the whole damn thing. “It can’t be for nothing.” She told him. “When we’re done, we’ll go wherever you want. Tommy’s, sheep ranch, the moon.” Joel chuckled softly and shook his head. Even when she was trying to be serious, she couldn’t help being a little shit. “I’ll follow you anywhere you go.” She told him. “We finish what we started.” Joel nodded in agreement, but his apprehension only grew. He told himself that he would do whatever Ellie wanted to do. Joel Miller may be many things, but a man who goes back on his word isn’t one of them. He didn’t feel any sort of loyalty to Marlene or her terrorist friends, so he wasn’t gonna hand her over to them against her will. He felt a bit of probably unearned pride for his daughter, forging ahead, because she might be able to save everyone. He swallows the lump in his throat, shoving the doubt down. At least he’ll be with her, no harm will come to her while Joel is around.

As they continue their trek through downtown Salt Lake City, they stumble upon an old Army emergency medical camp. Joel tells Ellie that he was in one the day after the outbreak. “With Sarah?” She asks.

“No. She was gone already. It was for the this.” He tells her, pointing at the scar on his temple.

“Ah the guy who shot and missed.” She says. “I figured that would have happened later.”

Joel shakes his head. “No second day.” Joel stops in his tracks, but Ellie doesn’t notice.

“Well I gotta hand it to the Army people, they were way better at stitchin’ you up than I was.” She doesn’t notice that Joel isn’t beside her until he speaks again.

“It was me.” She turns to face him. “I was the guy who shot and missed.” He sits on a concrete barrier. He tells Ellie about how he didn’t want to go on after Sarah died. How he was ready to end it all, wasn’t scared, not even a little bit. But he flinched.

“I know why you’re tellin’ me all this.” Ellie says.

“Yeah, I reckon you do.” Joel replies sadly.

“So, time heals all wounds, I guess?”

Joel looks Ellie in her eyes and tells her, “It wasn’t time that did it.” Her voice breaks a little when she speaks again.

“Well, I’m glad that that didn’t work out.” Joel nods at her.

“Me too.” They hop down from the wall and continue to make their way through the abandoned med camp. Joel decides they are done talking about sad things and tells Ellie that he is in the mood to head some shitty puns. He might as well have handed her his rifle for how happy it made her. She starts out strong with an apocalypse joke, they never even notice the men sneaking up behind them. Not until Joel hears the canister hit the ground. By the time he realizes what is happening, all he can do is shove Ellie to the ground and throw his body on top of her. He hears Ellie scream fro him, but he can’t find her. Then, everything goes black.

Joel has no idea how much time has passed when wakes. His head is pounding and his vision is blurred. There’s a ringing in his ears and a knot on the back of his head. The sheets feel scratchy under his face and the smell of mildew permeates the air. The first thing he sees is the spray painted emblem representing the fireflies. then he hears her. Marlene. She explains that her patrol didn’t know who they were. They just saw two people enter that perimeter they had established around the hospital. Later, he’ll come to realize that they knew exactly who he was. She knew she’d never be able to get Ellie away if he was conscious. The first thing he asks is where his daughter is. Marlene assures him that she wasn’t hurt. “Not even a scratch.” She tells him that she’s mostly just worried about Joel.

“Where is she?” Joel asks. Marlene deflects the question and praises Joel for getting Ellie to them safely.

“How’d you do it?” She asks. Joel, still trying to clear the fog from his brain, shakes his head.

“It was all her. She fought like hell to get here.” But Marlene knows the truth. Ellie would have been dead the first day on her own. She never would have made it without Joel. She almost seems disappointed that he made it all this way. Maybe she was hoping it would have been Tess to cross the finish line. Or at the very least, she’d be able to keep Joel on his leash. There’s nobody left to grab him by the collar. Nobody to tell him “down, boy.” If there was one person in the world Marlene doesn’t want to be indebted to, its Joel Miller. “Just take me to her.” Joel says calmly.

“I can’t.” Marlene replies. “She’s being prepped for surgery.” He doesn’t understand.

“What surgery?” He asks. Marlene explains the Dr Anderson’s theory to him. About why Ellie is immune. And how her immunity could be the key to a cure. Something they can replicate in a lab and give to everyone. A real cure, hope for a real future of the human race. A chance to return their society to its former glory. Finally, the gas that has been clouding his brain has cleared. It dawns on him what Marlene means. He gently sits back down on the hospital bed. “Cordyceps grows inside the brain.” He says softly, almost to himself.

“It does.” She confirms.

“Find someone else.” Joel argues, but he knows that there is no one else. Why would they need someone else when Joel was hand delivering Ellie to them on a silver platter?

Marlene tries to comfort Joel. She tells him that Ellie didn’t even know what was going on. She wasn’t scared a bit. She assures him that she won’t feel even an ounce of pain, not for one second. Joel demands to be taken to his daughter. “You take me to her RIGHT NOW!” Joel screams, standing form the bed. One of Marlene’s men jams the butt of his rifle into Joel’s ribs. It knocks the wind from him and he falls to his knees. “Please.” He begs, “you don’t understand.” Marlene has tears in her eyes when she tells Joel that she does understand, more than he knows. She tells him about the promise she made to Ellie’s mom, moments after the girl was born. She promised to save her. She promised to protect her. Joel is the one who doesn’t understand now. How is this protecting her? Sacrificing her for something that might not even work? Joel would let the whole world burn, and everyone left burn right along with it, if it meant he got to keep his girl safe. She apologizes to Joel as her tears fall, and instructs her men to dump Joel on the highway.

“If he tries anything, shoot him.” She orders. Marlene considers her debt paid, having spared his life. The men shove him down the hallway of the hospital. His eyes dart around, taking note of where the pediatric level is. One of the men grabs Joel by his shoulder and pushes him towards the stairs. The lights flicker overhead, plunging the stairwell into darkness every few moments. Joel times it just right so that the next time it goes dark he makes his move. His jams his elbow into the nose of the man closest to him, the one who shoved him. He pulls the man’s arm up and points his gun at the other man. He squeezes his finger over the other man’s and pulls the trigger. Then, Joel yanks the gun from his grasp and shoots him in the knee. The man screams in pain, but Joel could not care less.

“Where is she?” He demands. “Fuck you .” The man responds.

“I don’t have time for this.” Joel says, and shoots the man in the face. He grabs his backpack from the dead man and ascends the stairs once more, just as their radios go off. “ Shots fired .” Joel hears. He knows he needs to hurry, he doesn’t have much time. He follows the signs on the walls, allowing them to direct him to the pediatric wing. The walls of this wing are covered in murals of animals. All bright colors and happiness. He takes down three or four more Fireflies on his way. Finally, he finds the operating room. A doctor and two nurses are prepping Ellie for her surgery. He made it just in time. He steps into the scrub room, rifle raised and ready. The nurses gasp and raise their hands when he enters the operating room. “Unhook her.” He commands. The doctor comes at him with a scalpel. Joel pulls his pistol from his waist and repeats the order. Just before he pulls the trigger, he feels a pinch in his neck, almost like a mosquito bite.

The last thing he hears before the world fades to black is Marlene’s voice. “I’m sorry, Joel.”

Joel wakes abruptly, uncertain of his surroundings for the second time. He's in a bed, in a dark room. He gropes around, locating his backpack and rifle on the bed. He reaches into the side pocket, pulling out a small flashlight, and clicks it on. The LED light reveals a portion of the room. He rotates his wrist slowly, assessing his surroundings. He's in a house, in a bedroom. His head throbs and his throat feels dry and scratchy. The drug that was administered is potent. He can feel himself growing faint again. He tries to stay awake, knowing he needs to find Ellie before it's too late. But darkness engulfs him, and he falls asleep. When he wakes again, it’s light out. Late morning or early afternoon, he guesses. His head is clearer, but his throat is drier than Texas grass in July. Rummaging through his backpack, he finds his pistol and a water bottle Ellie insisted he carry. He gulps the entire bottle and throws it back into his pack. He rises from the bed and puts his pack on. He checks the ammo in his rifle and slings that over his shoulder. With his pistol in hand, he makes his way to the bedroom door. He swings it open and several chairs topple inside. Clearly they were meant to keep someone, or something , out, rather than keep Joel in. Whoever put him in this room wanted to make sure he was safe. Must have been Ellie , he surmises. Eager to leave, he’s anxious to find Ellie and ensure her safety. Surely Marlene wouldn’t actually have let them kill her, right? He calls out her name, but hears nothing in return. Joel checks every room of the house and finds nothing, no one. He rifles through the cabinets and drawers, looking for anything useful, and for anything that might indicate where he is. He found some old mail on the counter. Alpine, Wyoming. How long had he been out? He pulls out his map and finds that Alpine is about halfway between Salt Lake City and Jackson. He walks back to the room he woke up in to see if there are any clues to where his daughter might be.

On the nightstand in the dimly lit room, a lone note lay folded neatly in half. The paper, worn and crinkled, bore a single handwritten word on the front: JOEL. The letters were etched with an urgency that was almost palpable. His heart pounding in his chest, he gingerly picked up the note and unfolded it. The handwriting wasn't Ellie's; it was too precise, too controlled. "Joel," it read, "I'm sorry that it had to be this way. I couldn't let you kill Dr. Anderson. I meant it when I said I owed you. Consider my debt paid for sparing your life a second time. Do not look for me because I will not spare it a third. I know it doesn't mean much, but I truly am sorry -Marlene." Joel's grip tightened around the paper, crumpling it into a tight ball in his fist. He dropped it onto the ground, the bitterness of betrayal seeping into his bones. Marlene, that heartless woman, had taken Ellie. She had taken his Ellie and left him with nothing but dread and speculation about what they could possibly be doing to her. He doubts they are still at the hospital but he has to go back. It’s the only place he might find a clue as to where they are headed next. At the very least, he might be able to rule out where they’ve already been. Surely Marlene is smart enough to know not to go back to any of her old labs, especially those that Tommy might know about. With a determined set to his jaw, Joel unfurled his map, studying the lines and routes to determine the best course of action. He marked his path and prepared himself for the journey. It took him three grueling days to reach Salt Lake City. Three long days of simmering anger and growing resolve. He knew, with a chilling clarity, what he had to do. He had to eliminate Marlene, once and for all. If he didn’t, she would never cease in her relentless pursuit of Ellie. The journey to the hospital was longer than he had anticipated. The last time he was there, he had been unconscious, blissfully unaware of the machinations unfolding around him. He retraced his steps, climbing up to the fourth floor, the pediatric ward. With bated breath and a cold determination, he began his search. He left nothing untouched, scouring every inch of each room. Despite his efforts, he found almost nothing of importance. Finally, he found himself at the end of a long, rotting hallway. He stood outside a door marked 'scrub room'. With a deep breath to steady his nerves, he swung the door open and stepped through. He glanced through the window above the three-compartment sink and felt a chill run through his veins. His blood ran ice cold, the stark reality of the situation hitting him with the force of a freight train.

There she is. Ellie. His baby girl. She's lying on the same exam table where he last saw her, an image that haunts his every waking moment. He gulps, taking a shaky, ragged breath as he steps into the cold, sterile environment of the operating room. The harsh fluorescent lights cast an eerie glow on her form, making her skin look unnaturally pale and waxy. She looks oddly peaceful like this, as if she was simply sleeping. His boots echo softly in the silence, each step feeling heavier than the last. He longs to reach out, to hold her, to reassure himself that she's still there. But the sight of her, so vulnerable and fragile, is too much for him to bear. Suddenly, a wave of nausea washes over him, so powerful that it brings him to his knees. He turns his head just in time, the contents of his stomach spilling onto the cold tile floor. The taste of bile fills his mouth, but it's nothing compared to the bitter helplessness that fills his heart. Joel slides his arm under Ellie’s knees and his other under her neck. He lifts her small, limp body into her his arms. He cradles her close to his heaving chest, and his arms tremble beneath the weight of the world. His world, ripped from him, once again. Joel doesn’t know how to do this again, but he marches on, determined to put his baby girl to rest properly. Not only had Marlene’s doctor butchered her, but they left her, all alone, discarded like a piece of trash.

Joel carries his daughter down all four flights of stairs. His tears fall freely onto her lifeless body. Behind the hospital there is a field, long overgrown. Joel decides that this is where he will lay Ellie’s body to rest. Joel can’t find a shovel, but there’s a pickaxe laying on the ground nearby. Joel sets Ellie gently down on the ground, under a tree. He drops his backpack and picks up the pickaxe. He rolls up the sleeve of his denim shirt to his elbows and sets to the task at hand. He works tirelessly, the pickaxe biting into the earth again and again. As the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the field, he packs the last bit of soil over Ellie. The work is done, but the reality of it all threatens to shatter his already broken heart. The small size of the grave he dug, a stark contrast to the enormous place Ellie held in his life, tears at his heartstrings. Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, seizes him. He wakes with the sun in the morning and gazes once again upon the small grave, and tries to find the will to do anything other than lay there and waste away. He still has one thing left to do before he can finish the job he started twenty years before, after the death of his first daughter.

One week later, Joel passes through the gates at Jackson. He makes a beeline for The Tipsy Bison. When he crosses the threshold he spies Tommy behind the bar. Tommy’s gaze meets his brother’s and when he sees the look on Joel’s face he drops the glass he’s holding. He knows that look. He’s only seen it once before, twenty years earlier. It has haunted him ever since. “Sorry, fellas. Closin’ up early tonight.” He says to the men sitting at the bar as he sweeps up the shattered glass from the floor. They grumble but grab their coats and head out. Joel stands, unmoving, until the last man has left, leaving him alone with his brother. He slides his pack down his arm, letting it drop to his feet. He shuffles numbly to the bar and settles onto a stool. “Joel-“ Tommy starts, but Joel cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“Whiskey.” Is all he says. Tommy pulls a clean glass from under the bar and turns to grab the half full bottle of Jameson behind him. He fills the glass halfway, but Joel gestures for him to keep pouring. He drains the glass in one gulp and slams it back down on the bar. “Another.” Tommy refills the glass and pours one for himself.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” He asks his brother hesitantly, unsure if he’s ready to hear the answer.

“She’s gone.” Is all Joel says as he looks into his whiskey. Tommy narrows his eyes at his brother.

“I can see that, Joel. Wasn’t that the goal? Get her to the Fireflies?” When Joel looks back up, there are tears shimmering in his eyes.

“No, Tommy. She’s gone.” His voice cracks on the last word and his composure breaks. Joel’s chest begins heaving and he presses his palm to it, right over where his pounding heart lies. He could swear that he can feel his heart literally cracking in two. “They-“ he begins but his voice gets caught in his throat. He clears his throat and tries again. “They cut into her fuckin’ head, Tommy.” He doesn’t bother trying to hold back his tears. “They cut her open and they fuckin’ left her there. Left her lyin’ there, all alone, like she was nothin’.” He cries. Tommy is intimately familiar with the despair that Joel is feeling at this moment. He’s been through this with him before, and Joel barely made it out of that alive. Not for his lack of trying either. Tommy knows that he’ll have to keep a close eye on Joel from now on.

“Joel. I’m so sorry.” Tommy says, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Ya should be.” Joel says, taking Tommy by surprise. He shrugs Tommy’s hand off his shoulder and rises from the barstool. He finishes his whiskey and walks out of the bar, grabbing his pack from the floor. He doesn’t know where else to go, so he wanders the streets of Jackson, aimlessly. He comes across the house he and Ellie stayed in for that one night. He vaguely remembers Tommy telling him that it would be waiting for him and Ellie when they returned from their journey. Now he just has to live in it alone, he supposes. He walks through the unlocked door and marches up the stairs. He stops in the doorway of the room he slept in the last time he was here. He spins on his heels and walks into the room next door. Ellie’s room. She was so excited to have a room, she went on and on during their trip to Salt Lake City about how she was going to decorate it. When she found out Joel used to be a contractor, her eyes lit up.

“So you can, like, build shit?” She asked. Joel huffed out a laugh.

“Yeah, I can build shit.” He told her. What he wouldn’t give to hear one of her shitty puns right about now. He failed her, again. Just like he told Tommy he would. as he lays his head on the pillow that still smells faintly like her, he can’t help but to wonder if Tommy would have been able to keep her safe.

Joel spends the next few months finding solace in the bottom of a bottle. He hasn’t spoken a word to Tommy since the day after his return to Jackson. Joel said some things to his brother that he could never take back. He doesn’t feel very inclined to take them all back, either. When Tommy came knocking on Joel’s door that next day, wanting to know what Joel had meant, he was surprised to be met with anger. “If it wasn’t for you, that little girl wouldn’t be dead right now. If it wasn’t for you, Tess wouldn’t be dead right now. You just had to go and get mixed up with those Fireflies, didn’t ya? With Marlene.” His voice was laced with venom as he spat her name. “Then ya just ran away when shit got hard. I had no idea if you were alive or dead, I had to come find you.” He shouted at his brother. Tommy held his hands up in defense.

“I never asked you do that, Joel.”

Joel shook his head and laughed bitterly. “All I’ve ever done, your whole fuckin’ life, is clean up after you. Sarah wouldn’t have been home alone that night if I didn’t have to go bail your sorry ass outta jail.” Tommy opened his mouth to argue but Joel cut him off. “She wouldn’t have been there alone and I could have gotten her out of there quicker. She’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you. So would Tess, and Ellie. You’ve taken everyone I’ve ever loved from me. I’ll never forgive you for that.” Joel slammed the door in Tommy’s face before he could even have the chance to defend himself.

Maria had assigned Joel to patrol duty. Five days a week, he worked a twelve hour shift, patrolling the area surrounding Jackson. Five days a week, he came home to an empty house, took a shower, and drank himself into oblivion. The other two days, when he was off, he woke up to a whiskey breakfast, and was usually passed out in Ellie’s bed by sundown. Joel knows exactly how pathetic he is. Barely eking out an existence here in this wonderful community that he has no desire to be a part of. The friendly smiles he receives as he walks down the street. The ones that are met with glares from Joel. He’s only learned the names of the his patrol partners, against his own will. He’s been through three partners already. The lovely people of Jackson can only put up with his sour disposition for so long, it seems. People don’t exactly cross the street when they see him coming, but they don’t go out of their way to offer him any pleasantries, anymore, either.

One day, about ten months after Joel’s return to Jackson, a patrol came through the gates with a group they had found. Great , Joel thinks, more people to have to avoid. That evening, during dinner, they sit at a table near Joel, along with Maria and Tommy, and their baby. Joel tries not to listen to their conversation but when the woman starts talking about her run in with a woman named Marlene, his entire body stiffens. Tommy takes notice of Joel’s reaction but neither men says a word. Later that night, Joel sits atop his regular stool at the bar of the Tipsy Bison. He doesn’t speak to anyone, not even the bartender. Doesn’t matter who’s working, they all know Joel’s order by heart by now. Whiskey. And keep ‘em coming . Though he doesn’t socialize, he takes notice of who comes and goes, in an effort to continue his avoidance of his little brother. From the corner of his eye he sees the woman from earlier, Sandy, enters the bar. Then, she does the one thing nobody does anymore. She takes the bar stool next to Joel. The guy working the bar, whose name Joel can’t remember, raises an eyebrow. “What can I get for you?” He asks the woman.

“Oh I’ll just have whatever he’s having.” She says, nodding her head towards Joel. Joel looks over to the woman and smiles.

“Hi there, I’m Joel.” He says, holding his hand out. “It’s real nice to meet you.”  A few hours, and more than a few drinks later, Joel finds himself in his own bed, for the first time since he came back to Jackson. He’s laying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, while Sandy bounces on his cock. He’s barely aware of the sounds she’s making, the roll of her hips over his. His mind is elsewhere, formulating a plan. He’s going to find out everything she knows about Marlene. Then he’s gonna find her and he’s going to kill her. The doctor, the nurses, all of her little Firefly friends. He’s going to rip off their wings, one by one. They’re all gonna pay for what they did to his daughter. 

Joel resolved himself to get his shit together after that night. No more drinking. But he had to find something else to occupy his time. Sandy found herself back in Joel’s bed more than once. But if it wasn’t her, it was someone else. Seems like big, bad Joel wasn’t as scary as he liked to think. At least, not to the single ladies of Jackson. Their faces all run together, he gets their names mixed up more often or not, but he’s not the town drunk anymore. It didn’t take him long to get the information he needed from Sandy. They had come across Marlene in Montana. They were attempting to hide from some runners in an old hospital. Marlene and her crew were holed up there as well. Sandy told him that Marlene wouldn’t let them go any higher than the second floor. Whatever they were doing up there, they didn’t want anyone to know about it. She stationed her men at all the elevators and stairwells. Armed to the teeth to make sure they didn’t go where they weren’t wanted. Joel grit his teeth upon hearing the information. He had a pretty good idea of what they were getting up to in that hospital. Butchering someone else’s kid, probably. 

Joel spends the next few weeks gathering supplies. Jerky, rations, ammo. As much of it as he can fit into his pack. On one of his patrols, he came upon a sporting goods store. Somehow, it hadn't been picked clean. He was able to find a map of Montana, and scored a new hiking backpack. Everything sits atop the kitchen table in his house. He doesn't use it for meals, there's nobody for him to eat with. The women that fall into his bed night after night are long gone before breakfast rolls around. He doesn't tell anyone his plan. He doesn't want it getting back to Tommy. Joel figures he will say goodbye to his brother, probably for the last time, on his way out. Joel still hasn't forgiven Tommy and suspects he won't any time soon. He doesn't hold out much hope that he'll make it out of this mission alive. He isn't sure that he wants to. But, on the off chance, he doesn't plan to ever come back to Jackson. He's done enough damage here. 

By the time Joel is ready to begin his journey, a year has passed since Ellie’s death. They had spent almost a year together, traveling the country, camping in the woods, eating Chef Boyardee. When she first joined him and Tess on their trip out west, Joel couldn't wait to be rid of her. God, the way she chattered incessantly used to grate on Joel’s nerves. He remembers a time when he thought he might just feed himself to a clicker if he had to hear one more of her shitty puns. Now, he's spent a year without her, and there is nothing that he wouldn't give to hear just one more of them. He wishes that Marlene would have just done him the kindness of killing him. His life ended when Ellie's did. Once this is over, he'll have nothing left to fight for. Nothing left to keep going for. 

Joel stands at the front door of what he no longer considers his house, and takes a long look around. He mourns the potential that this space once held for him. That day on the rooftop, feeding the giraffe with Ellie, Joel had actually let himself believe that he was going to get a happy ending. Everything he hadn’t dared to think he’d ever have again, not after Sarah, was within his grasp. He and Ellie were going to come back here and make this place something Joel hadn’t had in twenty years. Something that Ellie had never had. A home. Joel would cook dinner, and tell Ellie to be home by 11:00. Then he’d sit up on the couch when she inevitably wasn’t home by then. They’d paint her room and Joel would build her a dresser or something. He grieves the life they would have had together. Joel would teach her to be a better shot, Ellie would go to one of the town dances. He breathes in deeply and takes one last look around. And then he’s out the door, heading across the street. He knocks on Tommy’s door and Maria answers with the baby on her hip. He reaches out for his Uncle Joel, who he has become extremely fond of. “May I?” Joel asks, holding his arms out.

“Please.” Maria says, handing him the baby. “I could use a break. But if he needs a diaper change while you’ve got him, you’re on duty. That’s the rule.” She smiles and steps aside, inviting Joel in. “Tommy! Your brother’s here.” She calls out. Joel appreciates her for not mentioning just how odd it is that Joel has just dropped by, after a year of almost nothing. Of course, she’d bring the baby by to see him, sometimes she’d share a meal with him in the mess hall, wanting to make sure that her son knew his uncle.

“That’s not funny, babe.” Tommy says as he comes out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a threadbare towel. His eyebrows practically leap off his face when he sees Joel standing in his living room, holding his son. “Whaddya doin’ here, Joel?” Tommy asks, eyes filled with concern. Joel wouldn’t be here unless something was wrong. He doubts that his brother had suddenly decided to forgive him, unprompted. 

“I’ll take the baby upstairs, it’s time for his nap.” Maria offers, holding her hands out.

Joel gives his nephew a kiss on the head. “See ya ‘round, kid.” He whispers quietly, giving him a soft squeeze. He goes happily to his mother and Maria gives Joel a kiss on the cheek.

“You take care of yourself, okay.” She says. Joel just nods in response. 

“What’s up?” Tommy sits on the sofa and gestures for Joel to do the same. He shakes his head and hikes the strap of his pack higher up on his shoulder.

“Just wanted to let ya know I was leavin’.” Joel says. He clenches and unclenches his fist absently. “Alright, well, where ya goin”? Tommy asks. “Montana.” Joel replies. Tommy’s brow furrows in confusion.

“Okay, when ya comin’ back?” Joel looks down at the ground, but doesn’t say anything. “You are comin’ back ain’t ya?” Tommy prods. Joel sniffs and meets his brother’s gaze.

“I doubt it. Just wanted to let ya know so you don’t come lookin’ for me or anything.” Joel’s heart wrenches at the thought of this being his goodbye to his little brother. But he still isn’t willing to take back what he said, or apologize for it. Surprisingly, he has no idea that Tommy doesn’t need any of that shit. He just wants his big brother back. If only Joel knew that Tommy blamed himself for Sarah’s and Ellie’s deaths at least as much as Joel does, probably even more. Tommy stands from the couch and walks towards Joel. He holds his arms open and to his surprise, Joel steps into them. He wraps his own arms around Tommy and squeezes him tight. “I love you, little brother.” He tells Tommy.

“I love you too, Joel. See ya around.” Joel pats him on the back a few times and then he leaves Tommy’s house, and Jackson forever. 

It takes Joel three months to catch up to Marlene. He searches every hospital from Bozeman to Billings. He finds little hints of her presence. Spray painted firefly symbols on the walls. Paperwork with scientific equations Joel wouldn’t understand if he’d spent a hundred years in school. Notes that indicate to him that the hack job they did on Ellie was all for nothing. They still didn’t have a cure, weren’t even close to getting one. By Joel’s count, the Fireflies had found at least seven other people who were immune. They had operated on them, same as Ellie. All seven of them had died, same as his daughter. Joel can’t help but wonder if they were left behind, all cut open and exposed, just like her, too. He takes refuge in an old apartment building in downtown Billings. He works his way up to the top floor, room by room, ensuring the building is clear of infected.  Once he gets to the top floor, he finds the least disgusting apartment and sets up his sleeping bag on top of the rotting mattress. It wasn’t the best, nothing like the one back in Jackson, but it was a hell of a lot better than ground. At fifty seven years old, Joel could feel that his bones were getting a  little too old for this kind of roughing it. He pries open the door to the roof and spends his days sleeping and his nights up there, watching through the scope of his rifle. Looking for any sign of life. On the third night he spots them. The building looks like it used to be a minor emergency clinic. Perfect for what the Fireflies need. He watches all night, until the sun comes up. Several men are stationed outside the building, but not too close. He sees Marlene peek her head out of the door once. She calls out to one of the men and he enters the building. Several trucks are parked at nearby buildings. They’re smart not to park them all together. He’s sure they don’t want to attract any unwanted attention. Of course they’re probably more worried about raiders than Joel. 

He sleeps the afternoon away, wanting to be well rested for what he knows is about to happen. The sun is just beginning to set when Joel wakes. He changes his clothes and eats a few ration packs. Then he cleans his rifle and his pistol and takes count of all of his ammo. He tucks the pistol into the waistband of his jeans, at the small of his back. He slings the rifle strap over his shoulder and settles the gun across his chest. His Bowie knife goes into the top of his boot, and his switchblade in his back right pocket. For better or worse, this is it. No matter what, Joel is finishing this tonight. Once night falls, Joel walks down all fifteen flights of stairs. He takes a right when he exits the building. He’s already plotted a path, one that will take him all the way around the building. It allows him to take out each of the four men patrolling the building. Joel is a good hunter. He knows how to be quiet. He’s able to take out each of the men with his Bowie knife. None of them even have a chance to make a sound. Once Joel is certain that the threat outside the building is eliminated, he takes a full lap around the building. He tests every door, every window, finding each of them locked. Not that he expected anything less. Marlene might be insane, but she isn’t stupid. He spies a door that looks a little flimsy, and just as he suspected, the lock pops the second he slides his switchblade in. He takes a deep breath before he opens the door, preparing himself for who, or what might be on the other side. 

Joel swings inward slightly and pauses. He doesn’t hear anything so he opens it all the way and steps into the dark hallway. He swings his flashlight around and finds nothing but a few closed doors. He puts his ear up to the doors, one by one, and hears nothing inside. He places his ear up against the door at the other end of the hallway and hears two distinct voices, speaking quietly. Joel has to be very precise with his decision moving forward. This won’t be like the men outside and he doesn’t have the luxury of using his knife for this. The second he begins shooting everyone will be on him. Everyone except Marlene, that is. They all have strict orders to protect her at all costs, keep her alive no matter who else must be sacrificed. Fuck it, Joel thinks, its now or never. Joel swings the door out into the hallway and gets lucky. It separates the two men and allows Joel to take them out, one at a time, one shot to the head each. Just as he expected, shouts come from further in the building. Joel sprints down the hallway and into a room, hoping that it's empty. Luckily it is. It looks to be an exam room that has been gutted. Unfortunately for Joel, there isn’t anywhere to hide in here, so he stands right next to the door. He pulls his pistol from his waistband and holds his arm out, parallel to the wall. He can hear the men, making their way down the hall, throwing open the door to every room. He steels himself, waiting for them to get to his room. The second the door opens he pulls the trigger. The man goes down. His friend comes in right behind and Joel takes him down the same way. He listens for a moment but doesn’t hear anyone else. He sweeps through the building taking down man after man. A man sneaks up behind him. His right ear is bad, so he doesn’t hear him until the last second. Joel turns around and the man's knife sinks into his abdomen. Joel shoots him with his pistol and pulls the knife out, dropping it to the floor. Finally he makes his way to the most interior room. He tried the knob but the door is locked.

“Joel!” He hears from inside. Marlene. “You don’t want to do this, Joel.” She cries.

“You have no idea how badly I’ve been wantin’ to do this.” He calls back. He steps back and kicks the door open. Marlene and Dr. Anderson are in the room, along with his nurses. In the middle of the room is an operating table. A girl, fourteen or fifteen, lies on the table. She’s unconscious, with a tube in her nose. Marlene stands behind her, with a gun to her head.

“One wrong move and I pull the trigger. Don’t test me, Joel.” Marlene snarls.

“Don’t you do it.” Joel tells her. Dr. Anderson moves toward Joel with his scalpel, eerily similar to the way he had a year before. Joel doesn’t hesitate this time, he swings his arm around and fires. The man drops dead at Joel’s feet.

“NO!” Cries Marlene. 

Before she even has a chance to do the same, Joel shoots her, right in the middle of her forehead. The two nurses cower in the corner, trembling in fear. “You wake her up and return her to her family, in one piece. If she doesn’t have one, then you take care of her. No more experimentin’, no cuttin’ her open.” The women look up at Joel with tear-filled eyes and nod. “I mean it. I’ve found y’all twice, now. I can find you again, if need be.” Joel doesn’t wait for a response, he just turns and leaves the room. He gets into one of the trucks and drives off, as quick as he can, in the direction of the highway. He pulls over to study his map for a moment, trying to decide where to go. The only place he can think of is Jackson. Back to Tommy, to what remains of his family. The truck runs out of gas just after he passes a sign for Cody, Wyoming. He double checks his bandages and gets out of the car, preparing to walk. He only makes it a few miles before the blood loss gets to be too much. He stumbles off the road and into the snow. Then he hears her. His Ellie, calling for him. But he can’t find her.

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[antimonyandthyme]

martian inception au

In Seb’s notebook, in his scratchy scrawl Mark has grown very accustomed to reading:

Side effects – no dreaming

That’s it, no dreaming. Seb doesn’t write, Failure differentiating reality and dream, because any dreamer worth their salt should know which boundaries they strictly do not cross. They create and shatter worlds in their heads and the one thing they give up is the ability to do this without being hooked to a PASIV. That’s not too bad, considering.

But if you bothered to flip the page:

Sub side effects

Entire paragraphs dedicated to specific complications for each role, extractor, chemist, architect, point man. Under forger:

Loss of self

The first time Mark realizes it’s happening, Seb walks by him in a dream. Seb walks by him and ignores him, as if Mark were merely a projection of the dreamer.

Bewildered and irrationally hurt, Mark goes, “Seb?”

His voice is the safety click off a gun. Seb flinches and looks around wildly. Projections aren’t supposed to speak.

It takes a moment before Mark looks down at his hands, and realizes they’re the wrong ones. He turns his back to Seb, and changes to what he assumes—hopes—is the appearance he should be wearing.

“There you are,” Seb snaps. He only gets like this when he’s worried. “I couldn’t find you.”

Mark makes up some ridiculous excuse. Got turned around in the maze, or something like that, as if any of them would ever get turned around in a maze.

Seb looks at him. “Don’t let it happen again.”

Mark doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

--

Ironically, it’s Seb who notices last. He’s not being careless. His faith in Mark is just so unshakable that he doesn’t look back when he hears the fall of Mark’s footsteps behind him. Among the hardest things to forge is a person’s gait. Distributing weight and sound according to the target’s walking habits is an intricate and tedious task. Seb can always tell it’s still Mark, even when he wears a different face.

So Seb doesn’t look back.

Jenson does, though. Coming out of a dream, all of them nearing the final kick, and Jenson looks back.

Mark is wearing a stranger as his skin.

Jenson waits until Seb’s gone on ahead. And then he punches Mark so hard Mark will probably feel it for a week in reality.

“Are you trying to break his heart?”

Mark looks down at his hands again.

“Get your shit together,” Jenson demands.

Mark shifts back, and when he wakes, he places two fingers on his own face, and is surprised to see them appear correct.

--

He forgets his totem once. Forgets it, because the last person he was forging doesn’t have one. So he leaves it behind when he goes to get groceries. Chocolate chips and bananas, because Seb wants to make chocolate chip banana bread.

When he gets back, Seb is waiting for him. He has Mark’s swiss army knife cradled in his hand.

Seb knows every stitch of Mark’s totem. Seb helped create Mark’s totem, reasoned that they could custom the knife so elaborately that no extractor would be able to recreate the exact version which belonged to Mark. Sometimes Mark thinks his totem is better off residing in Seb’s hands. These days he shifts so often he doesn’t need it any longer. In reality his hands stay the same. In dreams, his hands change shape and size and colour.

There, no totem needed. Seb doesn’t even need to worry.

“Mark.” Seb’s voice is wobbly. He’s gone and figured it out. Because of course he has.

Mark places the grocery bag on the table. The veins running atop his hand are as unfamiliar as the hundreds of dendrites splitting out from the Indus River.

“Side effect,” he says.

“No more jobs until this stops,” Seb says. Mark can hear him trying to be authoritative, brave. Seb comes close, and wraps Mark’s fingers around his totem. “Don’t ever leave this behind again.”

Seb’s hand above his. Mark tries to memorize the image, but he’s not sure if it’ll take. Almost trickier than an Inception.

--

Jenson puts his research skills into good use, and finds an island off the coast of Victoria that houses a population of zero. He arranges transport and food and beer to last Mark a month at least. Mark spends the first two days drinking his way through the supplies, and considers radioing Jenson to send more.

He holds up his hand to the sun. It’s gotten severely tanner. Jenson forgot sunscreen. But the shapes are good. The knuckles aren’t sewn together by someone playing at god. The angles won’t cut him open.

Mark drinks away the sting of abandonment. The team’s in Toronto for a job. He wonders who their forger is. He drinks some more.

In the third week he dreams.

Real dreams—they’re confusing. There’s no story, no plotline. There’s no job. There's no point. Mark’s falling down a chasm of mirrors. The faces reflected back are not his own. Mark’s smashing every mirror with his bare hands. Mark’s watching the blood run down in rivulets, real enough to taste.

On second thought, maybe these dreams are the ones that make the most sense.

--

Even after an alcoholic induced state lasting three and a half weeks, Mark’s still capable if he wants to be. He finds a way to get off the island. And then he goes to find them.

More specifically, he goes to rescue them from some botched mission.

“I leave for one month,” Mark says. He’s allowed to be dramatic, and a little smug. He pulls them out of the third layer, and then the second layer, and then the first. Each time with his own goddamn hands. It’s as if he has the strength to bend steel.

Seb doesn’t let go. Refuses to let go even as they exit the dream. Mark looks down at their joined hands. Seb’s hand fits perfectly in his, as it has always done.

Yeah. That looks just about fine.

[penguinmerchant]

Return to Sender--failed attempt

Well, this did not turn out well. I'm deciding to post it anyway because the front cover is so pretty I can't stand it and I'm hoping that maybe if I detail what went wrong it will either help someone else or prevent me from making the same mistake again. So here she is, my first failed binding of the first fic I've ever done for my own stuff (and goddamn I hope that's not a metaphor for something)

Just look at her. Gorgeous. Inspiration taken directly from this version of a Shakespeare book that I found on Pinterest. I just loved the cutout text in gold, the triangle in the middle that seemed like an envelope. Perfect for an epistolary novel, right? And the boyfriend did the graphic design again this time, carrying his burden of knowing exactly how crappy these things are to weed, and made it so that weeding was a particularly easy process. Now, actually getting this stuff to stick---that still sucked. The black went down really easy but the gold took forever to stick down, and I'm not really sure why. It took 30 seconds for the black to stick and probably 6 different sets of 30 seconds for the gold, same heat and everything. If anyone has any insights into how to get this cricut vinyl to act better, I'd appreciate it forever.

(But god, look at it. It's so pretty).

The back.

The spine.

And now to the horrors, under the cut.

So I guess the textblock came out crooked, or maybe I cut it crooked. I don't know where the badness came from, but look at how these endsheets (the beautiful, beautiful endsheets) came out.

Look how far down the left side of the block sits, and how high the right is. And to get it like that, the bottom looks like this:

It's practically falling out of the case. Also these headbands suck. I keep using them because they're the only gold ones I have but they just shred themselves to pieces, I hate them.

It's so bad, you guys. I could not get this block to sit straight no matter what I did. And to make it even worse, I figured out the way that it fit in the least horribly, and made a mark on it and everything, and then promptly attached the cover to the wrong side. I don't think it would have mattered much, but it would have only been like 80% bad instead of 90%.

I think--If I'm guessing here--that I somehow pressed the spine out of whack during one of the glue applications. Because by the numbers--and I did measure this thing about ten thousand times--it should have been even. But I think the spine kicked out in a really funny way that made it so it wouldn't lay flat on the boards, and so when I tried to case it in the spine pushed on the crooked part and wonked out the whole thing. And what I should have done was 1) Make boards that fit the wonkiness, try to even it out a little (even if it would have made the book itself sit funny), or, better yet, 2) redo the textblock and try and fit it into the already made boards. But I didn't. I just forged ahead and now I'm going to have to make another one from scratch because this is my story and I can't have it looking like this, it feels like too much to take that disrespect and/or laziness.

But at least I won't have to set the text again. Look at it. I found different handwritten fonts for each character that I felt like expressed their personalities. Laurent's is tidy and clean but with a few little flourishes.

Damen's is a little looser, a little scribblier.

And then Auguste's is my favorite, it's curly and sweepy and completely over the top.

There's a few more, these were just the most prominent ones. And the whole of the actual text is italicized. I know it's kind of annoying to read but just regular text looked way too jarring against the handwritten flourishes at the beginning and end, and the handwritten fonts were impossible to read once there was more than like, six words. I even tried putting in a typewriter-esque font, but that did not look right either. The italicized font bridged the gap, I think, and it's not too annoying to read in context, honestly.

Ugh, I'm so disappointed, even though I'll probably try to display this somewhere because the cover is so pretty lol. I think the lesson I need to take away from this and remember is that I need to stop when I see a problem come up. I knew from the time that I cut the boards that this wasn't going to work right, and I still went ahead and did it anyway because I thought I could force it and I wanted it to be done. And now I've wasted my beautiful duo cloth, those gorgeous marbled endpapers, and I'm going to have to do this again. Patience is definitely not something I have in spades but I'm going to keep this as a testament to how important it is to take your time and make sure that things are right before continuing.

[paldean-ranger-brandy]

DVD

Send me a 📀 for a recent(ish) memory from my muse.

“No, listen. She’s not a puppy anymore. Well she is, but she’s too old to scruff now. You can’t just drag her around by the neck.” Brandy was walking along the path up to the Paldean league headquarters. Beside her, jaw locked onto a short tree branch Brandy was holding in her hand, was her partner pokemon, Michael. The mightyena gave an angry snarl, somewhat muffled by the branch in his mouth but still loud enough to startle away the nearby tandemaus couples. “No, Michael, you’re not listening-“

“Oh.” A voice came from slightly ahead of Brandy and Michael. Brandy looked up to see who the voice belonged to, and immediately felt her stomach drop. “You must be Brandy. How nice to finally meet you in person.”

It was Geeta.

Chairwoman Geeta.

La Primera.

The person who decided how much funding her job would get.

“I am chairwoman Geeta.” Geeta gestured to herself, closing the distance between the two of them in a few controlled steps. Brandy blinked, and tried her damnedest to look less like a deerling in headlights. Geeta held out her hand, which Brandy stared at for just a beat too long. Thankfully, Michael chose that moment to snarl and shake his head, yanking the tree branch out of the hand that Brandy was supposed to be using to shake Geeta's.

“N-nice to meet you,” she said, snapping out of her shock enough to grab Geeta’s hand. Brandy furrowed her brow, trying to scrape together enough brainpower to figure out how to shake hands properly. Handshaking wasn’t something she grew up with, or ever had to do in throughout her career. She was pretty sure there was a correct grip strength, but what that strength was eluded her. She was also quite certain that she should have brushed the debris from the branch she had been holding off of her hand before grabbing La Primera’s pristine, gloved hand but. She hadn’t.

“I’ve heard so much about you.” Geeta continued, releasing Brandy’s hand and forcing them to realize that they had not been making any eye contact whatsoever for the duration of their introduction. They snapped their eyes up to meet Geeta’s, and then immediately regretted it. Manual eye contact was hard. “What brings you to the Pokemon League today?”

“Oh uh. I- uh, I actually have a meeting to discuss…” Brandy trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the crater wall beside them to demonstrate her point.

“Hm, yes of course. Well, I do appreciate all of the work you’ve been putting in to help us sort that out. It’s very fortunate that the Pokemon League was able to forge such a strong partnership with the Ranger Union.”

This last sentence from Geeta distracted Brandy from her nervousness just long enough for one, single, derisive snort to escape out of their nose. The polite smile immediately disappeared from Geeta’s face, replaced by an expression of surprised confusion. Brandy, realizing their mistake, suddenly seemed very interested in a pair of nearby tandemaus.

“Did you just snort?” Geeta asked.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you most certainly did.”

“I- well, I didn’t mean-”

“Do you think the league is not pulling their weight in this crisis?”

“No, that’s not - it doesn’t matter.”

“I disagree. If there is something that is causing you to hold a negative view of the Paldean League, I would very much like to hear about it.”

Brandy huffed, frustrated with herself. She wished she was better at monitoring her tone. This was exactly why she had been dreading this meeting. “Okay, fine. I-” She paused, taking a moment to try and think of the best way to word her thoughts in a way that wouldn’t harm the union’s relationship with the league. “I think it can be…difficult to view the league as a partner when most of my time is spent cleaning up the issues that are caused by having a pokemon league here in the first place.”

Geeta blinked once, and then tilted her head ever-so-slightly. “Elaborate on that.”

‘I’d really rather not.’ Brandy thought, but plowed on as requested. “I mean, when there isn’t a bunch of paradox pokemon rampaging around the region, most of our time is spent rehabbing and moving abandoned pokemon back into their habitats, chasing trainers away from battling on protected or delicate ecosystems, trying desperately to locate shelters that have the capacity to take in the frankly insane amount of pokemon that are bred and then released into the wild as babies, or enforcing catching restrictions on certain breeds of pokemon that have suddenly become popular." She counted each item on her finger, and then made the mistake of looking away from the tandemaus and back to Geeta. The chairwoman's expression showed little more than restrained concern, but it was enough to make Brandy's hand ball into a nervous fist regardless. "It’s not the league’s fault, exactly, but if you wave a shiny title in front of people’s faces, it’s only a matter of time before at least some of them start blatantly disregarding their duty of care to the world around them in pursuit of that title.”

Geeta was silent, apparently taking a moment to reflect on this stance. “Regions without leagues have a whole host of other issues, from my understanding,” she said, in a tone that did not denote any anger or hurt feeling. It seemed to be nothing more than her simply processing the implications of Brandy’s opinion.

“Yeah, I know. Leagues offer a huge boost in political and economic power, and regions without them definitely suffer from their absence." Brandy ran her fingers through her hair as she spoke. Geeta had looked away to formulate her thoughts, giving Brandy a chance to watch her face closely, awaiting the chairwoman's reaction. "I don’t know. It’s a complicated issue. I think it’s just human nature.”

Geeta nodded slowly at Brandy’s response, eyebrows twitching closer together as she stared into the middle distance. And then she, apparently, came to a conclusion. Her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes refocused on the nervous ranger in front of her, and her polite smile returned. “Well then. I suppose I’ll have to fix that.” She stated, quite matter-of-factly.

“You’re- sorry.” Brandy tilted her head in confusion. Michael, who had been paying close attention to the interaction, imitated Brandy’s head tilt exactly. “You’re going to fix human nature?”

Geeta gave the gravity of this question the consideration it deserved, which evidently took no more than a couple seconds. “Yes. Yes I am.”

Brandy blinked at this. Geeta smiled politely. And somehow, despite the absolutely ludicrous nature of the claim, Brandy couldn’t quite get herself to doubt that this woman was going to be able to make good on her plan. 

“Okay.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Okay…do you want…help?”

Geeta beamed at this. “Your help would be invaluable, I would love nothing more. Perhaps we can set up a meeting to discuss more of your observations on trainer culture in connection to the league?” Before Brandy could respond, Geeta continued. “Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s five minutes to the hour, and we both have places to be. We’ll discuss this at a later date. Thank you for the chat, Brandy.”

“Thanks for listening. It was nice meeting you.”

“You as well. Take care now.”

And with that she was off, hands clasped behind her back as she continued down the path towards Mesagoza, leaving Brandy alone with their thoughts.

‘What the goddam shit did I just offer to help with?’ 

[zapreportsblog]

The Human Who Had No Limits

➥ summary: She wanted to be strong like him - her father. He was able to defeat foes with just one punch and kick and having seen him and his disciple Genos in action she concluded she wanted to be just like him if not better; so at the ripe age of six she started training. Even when her body yearned for her to stop she didn’t she he performed 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and 100 squats, and ran 10 kilometers each day until it happened. A portal done sucked her up and now she’s in another dimension but don’t think that’s going to stop her from training just as hard as her father. Nothing stops the grind, not even man eating demons that apparently want to eat you and demon slayers that want to kidnap you because some dude they work for tells them too.

➥ chapter 4: A Training Journey Unveiled

(Y/N) embarked on a new chapter of her journey, venturing out to train and refine her already formidable abilities. The villagers watched in awe and admiration as she prepared herself for the challenges that lay ahead. Her dedication and strength had left an indelible mark on their hearts, and they eagerly awaited her return, eager to witness her growth.

As she bid farewell to the villagers, a curious child approached her, their eyes wide with wonder. "Hey, Miss (Y/N), how did you get so strong? You're like really strong”!"

(Y/N) chuckled, her voice laced with humility. "Well, it's all about dedication and hard work. I've been performing 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and 100 squats every day since I was six years old. I also run 10 kilometers daily. It's a routine I've followed without fail."

The child's eyes sparkled with amazement as they tried to comprehend the magnitude of (Y/N)'s training regimen. "Wow, that's incredible! And how old are you now?"

Blushing slightly, (Y/N) replied, "I'm thirteen."

The villagers, who had been listening intently, exchanged bewildered glances. They marveled at (Y/N)'s towering figure and her well-defined muscles, finding it difficult to reconcile her age with her physical prowess.

One of the village elders spoke up, his voice carrying wisdom and years of experience. "Perhaps (Y/N) is hiding her true age. After all, her strength and physique are nothing short of extraordinary. She may very well be a goddess, a divine being among us."

The suggestion hung in the air, capturing the villagers' imagination. Whispers of divinity and immortality swirled around them, intertwining with the awe and admiration they held for (Y/N)'s abilities.

(Y/N), caught off guard by the villagers' reactions, chuckled nervously. "No, no, I'm really just thirteen. I may look a bit different due to my training, but I assure you, I am very much human."

The villagers, their conviction unwavering, gathered around (Y/N), their voices filled with acceptance and understanding. "It doesn't matter if you are centuries older or a divine being in disguise. We accept you for who you are, (Y/N). Your strength and your heart are what make you special to us."

Moved by their words, (Y/N) looked into the eyes of each villager, their unwavering support filling her with a sense of belonging. Their acceptance transcended mere appearances, embracing the essence of her character, her dedication, and her unwavering spirit.

With a warm smile, (Y/N) expressed her gratitude. "Thank you all for your kindness and acceptance. I am honored to be a part of this village, regardless of age or origin. Together, we can face any challenge that comes our way."

As (Y/N) embarked on her training journey, she carried with her the unwavering support and acceptance of the villagers. Their belief in her fueled her determination, empowering her to push her limits and strive for greatness.

In the chapters that awaited her, (Y/N) would encounter trials and adversaries that would test her resolve and push her to new heights. Yet, she would never forget the acceptance and warmth of the village, the bond she had forged with its people, and the belief they held in her.

As the sun began its descent, casting a golden hue upon the land, (Y/N) set forth on her training path with renewed vigor and a sense of purpose. She knew that her journey would shape not only her own destiny but also the destiny of the village that had embraced her as one of their own.

And so, (Y/N) strove to honor their belief in her, harnessing her training, her strength, and her indomitable spirit to become a symbol of inspiration and hope—a beacon that would guide the villagers through the trials that lay ahead.

[vaimetanyx]

Finally shorter process post! To think I almost considered applying glue directly to my arms for this part

(Full process under the cut)

[Skull pauldron] [Belt] [Greaves] [Toga + sash] [Wig + Laurels] [Armbands] [Flaming feet] [Satyr Sack] [Stygius v1] [Stygius v2] [Nectar]

Part 1 - Throwing hands with the Supergiant artists I would never actually do that, but the armbands are by far one of the least consistent things across official art, so I had to compile my references and make some very professional notes about it.

Part 2 - Arm ribbon

I almost fully considered just gluing ribbon to my arm for the day, but decided to leave that as a last resort option. To start off with I tried to make some sort of pattern with just masking tape, pulling out my arm hair after I took it off because I didn't plan ahead at all. Unfortunately I couldn't use it to get the right pattern so I made a ribbon, cling wrap and hot glue monstrosity to figure out how the whole thing was going to work.

Since the hot glue was way too lumpy I trialed contact cement, but that doesn't work well on most fabrics. So I used PVA glue on my ribbon segments to make them a bit more rigid, and allow the contact cement to bond better, and then had to try and connect that all while it was on my dominant arm.

I then used a bit of clear sticky tape to make an 'invisible' ring to connect and secure the tip to my middle finger, and added snap button closures with a mix of hot glue, contact cement and tears to try and get the metal to stick. In hindsight I should have gotten thin plastic ones since they don't need to hold my tension, but the metal ones were the only ones I had on hand.

They turned out well, though I needed to use double sided tape on the hand diamond to get it to sit right, and by the end of the day the tape adhesion wears off.

Part 3 - Gold bands

Now I didn't actually get any progress pictures for these because I was running out of time and they were pretty straight forward. They were all made from a plastic bottle, cut and sized, surface sanded, and ends held together with contact cement. The smaller wrist band has a velcro closure otherwise it would never get over my hand, while the large ones just slide up my arm.

Once they were put together they were hand painted gold. I tried to use an airbrush but my airbrush is old and tiny and has so little paint capacity that I gave up after a rough base coat. I just went with some simple designs since they're mostly implied with the shading in my references, though if I could have forged these from actual metal I would have done it in a heartbeat.

In the end, I actually have to remake the red armband since the snap buttons started detaching before I even got to my second con, but that's alright since I've never been super satisfied with how it sits on my arm.

[fistsoflightning]

forge ahead

ffxivwrite2022 04: free day ✧ assiduous adj. showing great care, attention, and effort.

a’dewah & zaya, sort of. 6.0 end of MSQ spoilers. 985 wc.

There was a certain connection, at least in A’dewah’s mind, between gardening and healing—not literally, because A’dewah had yet to meet a race of plant people besides the Sylphs, and they only liked glamouring themselves as Hyurs and Elezen sometimes, but in the care necessary for both. Sometimes he liked to take note of injuries in a similar way he might inspect a plant, putting more focus into repairing muscle and skin than another healer might as he pretended he was simply coaxing a neglected orchid back to brilliance. 

Maybe some conjurers were satisfied with merely throwing a few cures someone’s way without thinking too hard about it, but the last time A’dewah was haphazard with his conjury was when he burned Haruki as a kid, and the people he healed nowadays were already in enough pain and distress without him adding to it.

At least this time they weren’t awake to feel any of it, A’dewah noted, because without a surplus of the usual chirurgeon’s potions and tonics he was sure Zaya would be in excruciating pain even without him messing up. The Ragnarok’s terrible lighting made it a little easier to bear and a lot harder to evaluate, but this—

(broken bones, severe hemorrhage, lingering traces of darkness and corrupted dynamis, erratic heartbeat)

—this was a lot, even for them.

A’dewah exhaled slowly, shaking out his hands as he finished healing Zaya’s wrist, the cut that had been there now little more than a scratch. The worst of their injuries had passed without any worrying developments, but there wasn’t much A’dewah could do besides heal them each day with what little aether he still received through his bond with Suzaku. Any more and he’d be in no better state than Zaya was.

In the past, he might have tried anyways. Now, though, there was someone waiting patiently for his safe return, and A’dewah never liked disappointing him.

He just needed to check how the rest of Zaya’s hand was—he thought they would have learned how to take better care of their hands, considering how much they needed them, but that felt a little hypocritical coming from A’dewah—but before he could reach down to check a calloused hand caught his wrist, wearing a familiar fingerless glove.

“I thought you were sleeping,” he said, exhaustion tamping down the little part of his brain that immediately reacted with stutter and panic, though not fast enough to stifle his initial jump. A’dewah hoped the sudden poof of his tail was obscured well enough by his coat to escape notice.

“I’d be a terrible rogue if I hadn’t learned to fake it,” Thancred replied, pushing a small bottle with gold filigree filled with a familiar liquid into his palm. “Was just resting my eyes.”

A’dewah looked down at the ether, then back up to Thancred’s exhausted face. The shadows that the light of the Ragnarok’s walls cast were still pretty bad, but the ones beneath his eyes were definitely more solid than the rest. “Zaya’s fine, mostly, and I’ll be gone in a few minutes,” he assured him, and flicked a small spell right between the gunbreaker’s eyes as he said, “so sleep.”

Thancred took the Repose with as much grace as he could muster, which frankly wasn’t a lot; he leaned back against the wall with a muttered bold bastard before his shoulders relaxed and his head tipped down towards his chest, fast asleep. Good way to wake up with a crick in your neck, in A’dewah’s experience, but he figured it was less of a problem than making Thancred leave Zaya’s side to lie down. Not even Meteion in the depths of despair and dynamis could make him leave, even when he was scattered into stardust, and A’dewah was nowhere near as hellbent on making him see reason.

He looked back down at Zaya, setting the ether down beside his knee. Speaking of dynamis…

Most of his face paint was already ruined, so he only had to wipe off a little bit more onto his sleeve before his vision blurred, right eye readjusting as the world grew dark, only illuminated by the traces of aether around them. Y’shtola was far better with her aethersight, having lost all her vision instead of just having one eye ruined, but A’dewah could still accomplish it every now and then without getting a giant migraine.

There wasn’t an awful lot to see, given they weren’t on Etheirys, but that made the few sparks of aether in Zaya’s body brighter for lack of anything else to draw his attention. Knowing what they did now of dynamis and entelechies, their aetherial composition no longer looked so worrying, but what little they did have was certainly weaker than A’dewah would have hoped. He knew from the Elder Seedseer that the Scions’ bodies, bereft of their souls, took on similar states of being, but G’raha and their interactions with Hydaelyn before diving into the Aitiascope had proven how rooted Zaya’s soul was to their body, so the only reasonable answer besides death was—

A’dewah frowned, shaking his head like it might rattle the thought out. Zaya was too stubborn to give in when the Lifestream had tried to claim them before, so why would now be any different? Why stay in limbo when they still had a future laid at their feet?

He knew there was an answer to that question, but none that he wanted to consider, so instead he lifted their hand up in his and went back to healing as the aetherlight filtered through the gaps between Zaya’s fingers. Bruised, but unbroken.

"Everyone's waiting on you," he said, almost drowned out by the hum of the Ragnarok. "Come home."

It was barely a wish, hardly a prayer, and Zaya wasn’t awake enough to hear it, but if A’dewah had learned anything from their journeys it was that miracles weren’t beyond reach.

[vynsvision]

The Wanderer's interlude Archon chapter was incredible. [SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT]

Some analysis, reactions, and misc thoughts. Pretty short. :)

First off, I knew he had to change his allegiance to something the Traveler could be comfortable working with, since, as mentioned by Paimon, Scaramouche had kinda been one of their "arch-enemies". Scaramouche/The Balladeer made lots of trouble on our journey, and understandably had a lot to explain, or in most cultures, there would be an expectation for punishment to be served.

But what Nahida (and then the Traveler agrees to) does instead is a really beautiful demonstration of faith in him. Hes got a lot to figure out, and I'm so glad we were guided by Nahida to give him space. I'm glad she respected his requests, decisions, and choices, and helped the Traveler accept them as well, because while we may not agree, we (irl player, Traveler, and Paimon) are far from the right person to decide whats best for him, we (Nahida) get to grant his choices with results.

What Nahida does is remove any judgment that would/had come from the Traveler and Paimon, and show the Wanderer that he has a chance to see what its like to be human, with a clean slate. A slate that doesn't even need to exist. Truly, if you can afford it, you dont keep track of favors from people. I sure as hell dont, unless there's a pre-arranged agreement. I don't look at my friends and wonder how many favors I owe and how many they owe me. I dont expect them to get me back, but I know they probably will if I ask and they can. Thats a huge blessing, and the Wanderer/Balladeer had never considered it.

Also, the Wanderer accepting the Traveler's presence, and even before all this, with the Balladeer's trust and vulnerability with them, really just. Was so incredible to see.

His worldview altered drastically, he took things to their farthest measures, with very little real change after all was said and done. But it was still worth it. Sure, in some respects, it was worth it because he could enact his revenge. But it was also a sort of third chance. A third chance to be human, or rather, to find a new goal to aspire and reach toward, beside even revenge. (Although that will come along the way. As it should. Fuck Dottore.)

And finally, the Balladeer (as the Wanderer, henceforth being known as such) defeating his own puppet- his own, at one point, life's whole ambition- and then looking at the Traveler with gratitude. Deciding to help in the background when he has the chance. And then, what was most impactful to me, really...

Scaramouche, Kunikuzushi, the Balladeer, the Puppet, Kabukimono, the Sixth Fatui Harbinger... the Wanderer... asked us for a new name.

He asked us, someone who does know him well, but we were always at odds with him, because of his own stance on things. And now he's come around, in his own way. Facing the same direction, roughly. Not shoulder-to-shoulder or side by side or even on the same line per se. He us forging ahead and watching our back, now. But he asked us to help him, to give him a new name in this third chance of life.

How beautiful and important.

I personally panicked a bit, since this is such an important moment, at least to me. I was never his biggest fan. I didnt even really want to wish for him until today and I tried him out. (in an event I Flunked.) But I knew I was looking forward to this arc, and it delivered above and beyond. So I wanted to give him a good name.

For now, I settled on a name that first came to mind. I may change it later, if I find a better one. But for now it matches his aesthetic, to me, and who he is as a person. Names are very important to me, as someone who's named themselves a handful of times, trying to find the best fit. I'm glad we can change it (if only once) but I don't think I really ever will.

Anyway. His interlude chapter was incredible. I do wonder if he still has the Wanderer's memories, or if its just the Balladeer's memories. It would be interesting for him to have, almost, a "pacifist" and an "antagonist"'s memories, but I dont think he had many memories as the Wanderer, since Buer was made the moment Rukkahdevata died. So the only way Buer has 500 years of memories is because she's been around 500 years, and also no longer remembers the Greater Lord who came before her.

[writing-n00b]

Chapter 2:

The rainforest canopy stretched over the road like the walls of a cave, leaving only a narrow strip of the morning sky visible between the branches. General Turly and Samson were forging ahead to scout things out, leaving Kiera, Michah, Tabitha, and Annabelle to wait at the top of a hill on the outskirts of town. While the others sat on the edge of the road speculating about what they would find in Kaylu, Kiera drank in the sights and sounds of the jungle.

She didn’t have much time for walks between training sessions at The Academy, and she missed the wilderness greatly. The humid air, the birds calling into the wind and the ancient trees towering high above her head all brought her back to her childhood, when she and Annabelle spent entire days roaming around among the trees. Nowadays, The Academy’s paranoia had rubbed off on Annabelle, and she was afraid of the jungle like everybody else.

An animal huff from behind the bushes startled Kiera startled from her thoughts. She threw a glance over her shoulder, saw that her companions were still deep in conversation, and decided to creep around the bush to investigate without disturbing them.

The sound turned out to be an adolescent hog, lying awkwardly on its side. When Kiera approached, it tried stand up, but its legs faltered and it collapsed in a heap on the ground. The creature let out a little sigh and gave Kiera a wary look. When it turned its head, Kiera could see something odd jutting out from the nape of its neck, and she nudged a little closer to get a better look.

There appeared to be a mass of tangled roots sprouting out of its neck, curling around its body like the legs of a spider. When Kiera pulled out her knife to try and remove it, the creature whimpered and twitched unnaturally, though it was hard to tell if it was because it was frightened of Kiera, or if the mass on its back was causing it pain. At the same time, Kiera noticed a feeling that had been gathering in the peripheral of her mind, a kind of mental pressure that grew more intense as she neared the animal.

Kiera was close enough to touch the hog when an arrow whizzed past her and lodged itself into its chest. A piercing squeal tore out of the animal’s throat. Kiera whipped around to see Tabitha sliding her bow into the harness on her back.

“Good find, Kiera,” Tabitha said, beaming. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to steal your kill, I just figured things would be cleaner with the bow. You can finish it off if you want.”

Blood spurted out of the wound as the hog tried to get on its feet. Kiera found herself dropping the knife and backing away before she realized what she was doing. She shook her head to clear the shock that had flared up within her and reminded herself that hunting was a favorite pasttime for most students at The Academy. It would be weird to admit that she had actually been trying to help the animal.

“It’s- it’s alright, you can do the honors,” Kiera said.

As Tabitha ended the animal’s life, Kiera pointed out the roots sprouting out of its neck. At this, Tabitha mentioned that General Turly and Samson had just come back, and they should show them what they had found.

“You’re lucky all you found was a bloody pig,” General Turly growled when Kiera and Tabitha came back. “I tell you all to stay put, and the jungle freak goes wandering off on her own. You do that during a real mission and you’ll die.”

Kiera glared at him and was met with a look of utter disdain. The General then flicked his mismatched gaze back to the hog and bent over to pick it up, letting a glob of saliva fall onto the grass as he went. It was stained brown with tobacco. He grabbed the hog’s head and lifted it to his chest to display the roots sprouting from its neck.

“This is why we hunt the Tanagiri. Cause if we didn’t, they’d turn nature upside down and twist it. You see something or someone that’s been tainted like this, you don’t think, you kill it. Same thing if you see a Tanagiri. It’s better for everyone that way.”

Kiera fidgeted with the handle of her sword and glanced at the other students. They looked solemn, but they were nodding. Back at The Academy, it was accepted that the only way to bring lasting prosperity to the Claeleth empire was to eliminate the Tanagiri. Most students were ready to kill if they needed to, some even looked forward to it. Kiera couldn’t even look when Tabitha killed the stupid pig.

The General went on to explain that Kaylu had been deserted. He and Samson had charted a pathway through the village, and assigned tasks to each of them to try and figure out what had happened. Tabitha and Samson would search abandoned homes for anything out of the ordinary, Micah and The General would search the perimeter of the town to figure out where everybody went, and Kiera and Annabelle would investigate the rice fields that surrounded the village. With that, they made their way into the town.

Kaylu was little more than a market square, a church that doubled as the town hall, and a number of run-down homes and farms that lay on either side of a jungle creek. It was the last settlement of the Claeleth Empire, sitting at the edge of civilization and the vast rainforest. As they walked through the empty streets, they saw signs that whatever caused everyone to leave had happened suddenly. Fruit and fish were left out to rot. Someone’s front door was left wide open and creaking in the wind. They even passed a horse that was still tied to the cart it had been pulling. Once they reached the center of town, they were about to split up, when they heard footsteps from behind the church. A young boy sprinted out from around the corner, his ragged shirt billowing behind him.

Tabitha seemed to recognize him. “Benji?”

The boy rushed toward her, gasping for air. “I- don’t– know– what’s– happening– to– me.”

Tabitha knelt down onto the gravel street, and the boy stopped an armlength away from her. His dark hair was matted, and there was a patch of blood on his cheek.

“What happened?” Tabitha said.

She glanced to General Turly for guidance, but the man just began to limp to the other side of the boy to watch the scene unfold.

Benji looked over his shoulder like he was terrified something was behind him, then his face screwed up and he began clawing at his sides and back incessantly. “Stop, stop, please just stop. No, no, no, no, please…”

Tabitha tried to lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder, but he recoiled and struck her across the face.

“NO!” He screamed. Then he flung himself at her wildly, clawing and kicking. At the same time, a wave of pressure rushed into Kiera’s mind, like someone was squeezing her head as hard as they could. It was so intense that she fell to her knees. She heard screaming, the sound of a sword cleaving through flesh and an awful gurgling sound. After a few moments, the pressure faded away. When she looked up, Tabitha was trying to throw herself at the General while Annabelle and Michah restrained her.

“What did you do?” Tabitha was saying, trying to fight her way out of their grasp. “What did you do?”

The boy was lying dead on the ground, cut open and bleeding. General Turly’s sword was covered in his blood.

“Look, girl, shut up and look at me,” The General snarled. He lifted Benji’s corpse and shook it in front of Tabitha, revealing a mass of black roots sprouting from the back of the boy’s neck. “He was already gone, get it?”

Tabitha cried out like she’d just been wounded, and The General let the boy’s body fall to the ground. Then Annabelle was helping Kiera to her feet, asking her if she was alright in a soft voice.

Kiera felt herself nodding, though the scene in front of her left her feeling faint. Everyone heard stories about the horrible things the Tanagiri could do, but seeing it in person was worse than Kiera had imagined.

“Their powers are getting more advanced,” The General said, nudging the roots on the boy’s back with his foot. “We need to get out of here. We’ll look for the rest of the village when we come back with a bigger team.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Samson said.

“What are you–?” The General started. Then he followed Samson’s gaze down the street and saw that a horde of villagers was flooding toward them.

* * *

For a long moment, everyone stood stock still, watching the citizens of Kaylu charge. The way they moved was oddly mezmerizing. Each individual was clumsy and uncoordinated, their knees were too straight, or they came up too high, or they bent awkwardly to the side as they ran. But certain movements, twitches and spasms or the bobbing of their heads, passed through the horde like river currents.

“Let’s GO,” Turly shouted, and the troop sprang into action. Annabelle yanked Tabitha to her feet, and they took off the way they had come. But villagers were surging toward them on that side too, emerging from the direction of Kaylu creek.

“Take them out, make a path, and get through fast as you can,” Turly commanded as he ran. The other students shouted in assent, and began to draw their weapons. Kiera felt her hands tremble as she pulled out her own blade. The idea of running her sword through another person sent nervous lightning through her fingers. Beyond that, the pressure in her head was growing stronger with every step. What would happen if she collapsed in the middle of the fight?

“We need your bow, Tabitha, come on,” Turly said. “Don’t you dare choke up on me.”

They were rushing closer, close enough to make out the faces of the cursed villagers. Some looked furious, others terrified, others still were slack-jacked and dazed. Kiera watched a young woman go limp and fall facefirst onto the street, unable to protect herself from a dozen sets of feet thundering over her body.

“Tabitha, start shooting, NOW!”

Turly was shouting something else, but Kiera’s mind was screaming over top of it, the storm in her head swelling until it was unbearable. She was running at full speed when she fell, simply unable to stay on her feet any longer. The villagers’ legs went rushing passed as the road came up to meet her, and she wondered what being trampled to death would feel like.

But somehow not a single foot came down on her. The villagers attacked her companions, but seemed wholly uninterested in Kiera. In fact, they seemed to be taking deliberate measures to avoid stepping on her.

In the odd moment of peace, Kiera closed her eyes and focused on the currents flowing through her head. She could feel them swirling around in the air, blasting through the minds of the villagers like the winds of a hurricane. Was she cursed like them? Was there a mass of roots beginning to grow out of the back of her neck?

She looked around from where she had fallen. Her companions had taken out a few of the villagers, but they were badly outnumbered and more were rushing in every moment. Five of them descended on Annabelle at once, tearing the sword from her hands and pinning her to the ground. Kiera saw a foot slam into her stomach, then she disappeared into the sea of people.

Without thinking, Kiera leapt to her feet and dashed into the crowd. To her bewilderment, the villagers parted for her, even as they continued to fight her companions. Annabelle was thrashing for her freedom against their grasp, and a muscular man with a bristling black beard was kicking her relentlessly.

Kiera rushed forward to try and pull the man off her sister, but he wouldn’t budge. She looked around desperately for someone who could help, and saw that her companions had been brought to the ground the same way. Micah appeared to be unconscious, blood pouring out of his mouth. Even The General was overwhelmed. All the while, the currents were swelling up around her, surging stronger and faster through the mob.

Then the bearded man brought his foot down on her sister’s head, and something inside of Kiera snapped. The energy that had been building up within her head burst outward in every direction. The currents that had been so powerful a moment before were washed away. Kiera caught a glimpse of the bearded man looking totally bewildered, then the world went black.

Chapter 3:

Kiera woke to a faceful of leather armor. Someone’s shoulder was digging into her stomach, and her head was thumping against their back with every step they took. She opened her mouth to ask where she was, then realized with a flash of panic that her hands were bound and dangling. Had the cursed villagers gotten her? Or was she being carried off by a Tanagiri warrior who had swept in after the battle was over?

She decided it would be best to pretend like she was still unconscious until she knew more.

 After a long minute of listening and trying her best to stay limp, she recognized that Tabitha was the one carrying her. At the very least, she was still with her companions. 

“This is good enough,” General Turly said. “Micah, keep a lookout. Tabitha, do I need to show you how to tie someone’s hands, or are you going to do it right this time?”

“Sorry sir,” Tabitha wheezed. The group stopped in a clearing at the top of a large butte, and Tabitha hauled Kiera off her shoulder and onto the ground. Through squinted eyes, she watched Professor Arbor step toward her. 

“Gareth, perhaps we should give the girl a chance to explain herself,” he said. “Would you mind giving me a moment to speak with her once she wakes up?” 

General Turly blocked his path, towering over the professor’s scrawny frame. “Oh, I think she can explain herself fine with her hands tied. You and Annabelle can sit nice and pretty next to Samson.” 

“But don’t you think-”

“That’s an order, professor,” The General growled. “I have my own questions for you. Now, sit. Down.”

After a long moment of hesitation, Professor Arbor began to walk back to Samson.

Annabelle started to follow him, then turned back to Turly. 

“Sir, I swear I didn’t know about any of this, but I do know that my sister is not our enemy,” She said. “Please don’t hurt her.” 

“Go sit down, girl,” General Turly said softly.

[twodimecastle]

fifty bucks & six months.

spencer reid x gender neutral reader new relationship, secret keeping nonsense, 4.5k words, ao3 a/n; turns out i love writing texting fic but tumblr destroys the formatting rip

zero months.

You smile conspiratorially, extending a pinkie towards Spencer and he gives you a skeptical look.

“You know the odds of being found out immediately are-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“Astronomical, I know. I know. But don’t you think it’ll be fun to see how long we can push it?” you wheedle, not caring that your voice sounds more like begging than is strictly dignified because seeing the way Spencer’s nose crinkles in amusement at your heavy handed persuasion is too adorable to pass up. You scoot closer on the couch, tapping the end of his nose with your pinkie finger, letting him catch your hand between his as you continue “I think we’ve got a good shot at hiding it for a little while. It would be like a game.”

Spencer draws your captive hand to his lips, brushing them across your knuckles and watching fondly as you forge ahead in your campaign to persuade him, enjoying the show and the attention too much to tell you he’s already on board. Your eyes are shining with the prospect of the caper, and you’ve made no move to take your hand back from him, and Spencer’s pretty sure he’d be more than happy to sit with you in this moment forever. “I mean-” you go on, gesturing animatedly with your free hand, “you’re like-a really good liar when you want to be. And everyone else always forgets how good you are at it.”

He snorts at that and the sound makes you light up, eyes tracking the arch of his brows, the warmth in his soft brown eyes, memorising the way he looks like this; utterly unbothered, completely at ease. It might be your favourite version of him, but that race has always been a tight one with no clear winner in sight. You have lots of favourite versions of Spencer. Twisting your hand in his, you tangle your fingers together, savouring the way you feel his thumb glide delicately along your skin and the unhidden joy in his face at the simple show of affection.

Time to play your trump card.

“$50 says we can hide it from the whole group for at least six months. If everyone figures it out before then, you win. But if not everyone has worked it out by then, I win.”

The mischievous shine in your eyes is irresistible, and Spencer smiles, disentangling one of his hands from yours to extend his own pinky finger.

“You’re on.”

The words barely make it out of his mouth before you’re colliding with him, pressing your lips to his.

two months.

“So, how long has this whole thing been going on?” Derek’s question catches Spencer off guard, and, based on the way he can see you freeze in his peripheral vision, takes you by surprise as well. Sliding into the driver's seat of the SUV, Derek continues “I hope you didn’t think you were gonna be able to keep me in the dark for long, pretty boy. You should know better than that.”

Following mechanically after him, Spencer takes the passenger seat, trying to frame his next statement as carefully as possible as he hears your door close and the car start. “We were-going to tell you guys-” he begins uncomfortably, glancing back to you for support, but you look just as on edge as he feels. “We were just gonna-keep it to ourselves for a while-before telling Hotch and everything-” he tries again, the mounting tension levering his shoulders higher and higher with every passing moment, but then Derek just laughs, shaking his head.

“Hey, I’m happy for you, kid. For both of you.” He spares a look at you in the back seat through the rear view mirror, and you can feel the tension in your jaw relax, the furrows in your brow straightening out at the note of approval in Derek’s voice. “I’m glad you two finally figured it out,” he says, fondly, and you laugh.

“I bet Spence we could keep it from you guys at least six months,” you explain, reaching forwards through the centre console to link your pinky with Spencer’s, and the touch of your hand releases the last of the tension he had been harbouring as he covers your hand with the other one of his own. He knows Derek clocks the motion, filing it away in his mind somewhere, but he doesn’t care about the scrutiny so much right now. Not when your hand is so warm and comfortable in his.

Derek reaches for the dial on the radio and flicks through the channel, thinking about something, and as you watch, a slow mischievous smirk spreads across his face a moment later before he glances first at Spencer and then at you.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says to you, and Spencer can feel a familiar grin tugging at his own lips as he watches a plan take shape in his friend’s eyes. “I’m happy to sit on this information for a while for a cut of the winnings from whichever one of you comes out on top.” He snorts good naturedly as he continues “I have my own bet to win with Prentiss, so if you two help me win that one, I’ll cut you in too.”

“A quid pro quo of sorts,” Spencer says slowly, and he feels your fingers tighten around his, as you snort softly, and he knows instinctually you’re grinning the same way you always do when you’re winning a game. “I think we can do that.”

Derek grins, turning the music up as he nods, eyes on the road. “Then you two love birds have got yourselves a deal.”

two months and two weeks.

PG: youre not as slick as you think you are ;)

YN: ???

PG: ;))))))))) you should invest in some concealer for your work bag sweetness or tell the good doctor to pay more attention to whats visible in your work clothes

YN: oh my fucking god wait how do you even know thats how that happened

PG: im all knowing and all seeing im like the omnipotent goddess of the fbi

YN: derek blabbed

PG: he sang like a canary but also im an omnipotent goddess im also totally clued in on the whole bet situation with em so for the low low price of every single juicy detail about how this adorableness went down you can buy my silence :)

YN: im getting derek decaf coffee on all coffee runs from now on >:( traitors dont get caffeine

PG: darling sweet angel i need deets all of them like immediately

YN: >:( fine ok so. after that case down in georgia a few months ago? the weird one? with the creepy mother son thing?

PG: omg yuck pls dont remind me im here for the CUTENESS not the MURDER

YN: sorryyyyyyy anyway so spence was like being super weird about it all on the plane and whatever but he was doing that super annoying thing where he ignores it and says hes fine so everyone leaves him alone

PG: YEAH why does everyone here do that ALL THE TIME its SO annoyingggg

YN: ikr its insufferable and like super not subtle ANYWAY. spence was being weird and whatever and i just. refused to let him sulk on his own or whatever like i could tell there was something bothering him and so after work i insisted that we were gonna get like shitty diner food or whatever and watch a movie and he knows better than to say no to me

PG: smart boy

YN: so we got fries and milkshakes and then went back to his place to watch a movie and he was still like weird and silent and like brooding yknow? but whatever just figured hed talk about it when he was ready so i put on a movie and offered to make popcorn and then he was just staring at me and he looked so SAD and TIRED and i thought id done something wrong like the poor guy looked like he was gonna cry and i was panicking over fucking popcorn and then he says ‘why are you always so nice to me?’

PG: oh my god hes like if a sad victorian orphan was actually a triplicate phd holder

YN: i was SO thrown off i was like spencer. spencer were best friends. ive been forcing you to hang out with me for years now why do you THINK im being nice to you its bc i care about you asshole and then. like after another million years after letting me sweat it out over whether hes about to cry for like fucking years the asshole grabs my hand and says. i shit you not. ‘you know im in love with you, right?’ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PG: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YN: anyway hes my boyfriend now :’) dont tell anyone tho gotta win the bet

four months.

Lingering by the elevator, you glance around at the uncharacteristically silent office building, waiting for Spencer to leave the bullpen. The sound of his footfalls drawing nearer makes you smile and you mentally applaud yourself for suggesting the two of you remained behind after disembarking from the plane, taking advantage of the manufactured privacy to take the same car home, back to his apartment.

When he sees you waiting for him, he can’t help the soft fond smile that tugs at his face, as he reaches for your hand, sliding his fingers into yours with a gentle squeeze, the quiet of the building allowing him to indulge in the show of affection. You return the squeeze, leaning your head on his shoulder with a yawn and as he presses a fond kiss to your temple he’s rewarded by a sleepy hum of approval from you that sends a rush of quiet joy shooting through him.

“At least we won’t be sleeping in hotel beds again tonight,” you say, voice weary, and Spencer nods as he shuffles you into the elevator. The doors slide shut and the elevator starts to move and in the moment of absolute privacy, you steal a kiss, tilting your chin up to catch his lips with yours, revelling in the soft huff of surprise he lets out, even as he smiles against your mouth. Even after months, the simple act of kissing Spencer still feels new and thrilling somehow, like you can’t quite believe it’s something you’re allowed to do.

His nose brushes yours and he breathes “unless something big comes up, we get a sleep in tomorrow too,” and the way you beam at him sends his heart racing in his chest, unable to look away from the fondness shining in your eyes.

As the two of you exit the elevator and make your way through the Bureau car park, you tuck yourself against his side, wedging yourself under his arm with a happy sigh, eager to get yourself horizontal and asleep as fast as possible. Spencer brushes his lips against your temple again as the two of you close in on his car, almost free and clear of the office when a voice behind the two of you brings you up short.

“Reid?”

Spencer is reacting before his mind catches up, turning on his heel towards the sound of Hotch’s voice echoing through the parking lot, conscious of the incriminating way you’re still tucked against his side, even as his brain is rifling frantically through any possible excuses for the current circumstances.

“Hotch-” you step away from Spencer, cheeks flaming, not wanting to chance a look at him. “I-we-thought everyone else had gone home,” you trail off lamely, trying your hardest not to balk under Hotch’s ominously impassive scrutiny. A second passes, then another, and the short silence feels like months, or years even as the three of you stand locked in a stalemate.

“I take it the two of you would prefer to keep this under wraps?” He asks, finally, and it registers with Spencer, somewhat belatedly, that Hotch’s tone isn’t admonishing. It isn’t enough to dissipate the tension coiling in Spencer’s muscles just yet, but he spares a glance at you as he nods, and a moment later, Hotch gives the two of you a curt nod of his own. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, a shade of irony colouring his voice. “If you two fill out the paperwork for in-team relationships for me, I’ll keep it to myself. I understand privacy is hard to come by in our office.”

The words take a while to fully sink in, and you’re conscious that you’re standing there blinking and gaping at your boss like a bemused fish for a good few seconds before you’ve composed yourself enough to say “absolutely, sir. Of course. Thank you.”

Hotch nods again, heading towards his own car, and as he passes the two of you, a brief smile flashes across his face.

“Congratulations, you two. Get some sleep.”

four months and three weeks.

Spencer isn’t sure how late it is, but he knows you’re not asleep yet, the faint glow of your phone screen casting faint distorted shadows across his room as your free hand rests lightly on his chest. In the dark blue twilight of his room, the space feels undefined and dream like somehow, the line between his mind and his surroundings blurry or indistinct somehow, and as you huff out a near silent laugh at something on the screen in your hand, a thought rises to the surface of his thoughts like flotsam on an unwanted tide.

The more clinical part of his mind notes the autonomic response in his body, the way his heart lurches unpleasantly in his chest, heart rate rising with an influx of cortisol through his nervous system, automatically rifling through ways to control the anxiety response. Age old instinct surges forwards, starting to push his spiralling anxiety down out of sight so as not to bother you with it, but then your hand shifts infinitesimally on his chest, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his pyjama shirt, and for once his body is miles ahead of his brilliant mind, your name is leaving his lips before he’s really aware of it happening.

Your gaze flashes up from your phone at the sound of his voice, soft and hesitant, and you let the screen go dark as you set it down. You can feel Spencer’s heart hammering against his ribs under your palm, and your brows knit together in concern as you shift closer to his side, tracing gentle circles over his shirt with your fingertips, the repetitive motion intended to soothe, though you’re not sure if it’s for his benefit or yours.

“Yeah, baby?” You ask softly, working hard to keep the rising worry from your voice. After three years of friendship and almost six months of dating, you know him well enough to sense when his propensity for overthinking and catastrophizing is slipping out of his control. You can feel his chest rise as he inhales sharply, whatever he’s about to say cut off by second guessing, doing nothing to pacify your concern. “Spence? Is everything okay?” You ask again.

“This-bet-hiding our relationship-it’s-” he trails off, throat tight as he rolls onto his side, facing away from you, and smushing his face into the pillow, already wishing he hadn’t said anything. You’re the kindest person he’s ever met, but offering up this kind of raw insecurity feels like pulling teeth. Even if it’s you. Especially if it’s you. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to find out if you care about him enough to stay when his racing mind gets the better of him. The pillow muffles his voice as he says “never mind.”

You feel your own heart rate tic up in response to that, matching the wild beat of Spencer’s that you could feel under your palm only a second ago. “Baby, talk to me. What’s on your mind?”

He shakes his head, face still hidden in the pillow. “It’s stupid.”

He can feel the rush of your breath on his back as you sigh, and your voice is almost achingly patient as you say softly “it’s not stupid if it matters to you.” There’s a long pause, and you press yourself against his back, settling close and letting your hand slide over his side to rest on his chest, the heat of his skin sinking into yours even through his thin shirt. In spite of his height, he feels so small as you wrap yourself around him, drawing closer, trying to reassure him without yet knowing what he needs to be reassured of. “Spence?”

“Are you ashamed of-being with me? Is that why you want to hide it?” The words are almost whispered, the sound almost lost against his pillow and your heart sinks, plummeting faster and further than if you’d dropped it off the side of a skyscraper. You should’ve known he might worry about that, should have realised it might have felt that way. Remorse rises hot and bitter in your throat and you swallow it down, trying to steady your voice.

“Spencer. Sweetheart. No. Never. I could never be ashamed. I love you. I’m so sorry.” Your arms wrap more tightly around him and you bury your face against the crook of his neck, the tension you can feel in every inch of his body making you feel more cruel and short-sighted than you already do. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise it might feel like that. I could never be ashamed of being with you, Spence. You’re my favourite person.” He takes the kind of shaky, shallow breath that comes with trying not to cry and your heart breaks a little more as one of his hands slowly moves to cover yours where it rests against his chest, just over his heart.

As his hand rests over yours, his thumb strokes lightly along your knuckles, and he knows you know him well enough to notice the way his hand trembles, just a little, because then your hand is shifting against his, turning to clumsily tangle your fingers with his, holding tighter to him as he tries to collect himself, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as his eyes squeeze shut. He can hear the contrition in your voice as you say softly “I’ve never really liked having people know everything about what’s going on in my life. And I love our friends but-something like this, that’s so-special? So new? I wanted to be able to keep it to just us for a while.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice comes out a little shaky, scarcely more than a whisper, and it’s more than you can take as you pull back and gently force him to roll over to face you. He’s not crying, but his eyes are glassy and you recognise the fight to keep the tears unshed in the tight set of his jaw and the hard line of his lips. Leaning on your elbow, you lift your free hand to gently smooth out the furrows of his brow, letting your fingers linger along the planes of his face.

“Why are you sorry,” you ask gently. “You don’t need to be sorry, baby. Not for talking to me about things that bother you. We can tell everyone else tomorrow, if you want? We can call off the bet. Derek will live. If he’s got a problem with it I’ll turn all his shirts into crop tops.”

He can tell the joke is a last bid attempt to make him smile, to ease his fear, and it works. In spite of the anxious weight in his chest that feels like it’s pressing him into the mattress, Spencer laughs weakly, meeting your eyes, and he watches as a relieved smile breaks across your face, releasing your lower lip from where you’d trapped it worriedly between your teeth. The unmitigated affection that floods into your eyes renders him momentarily breathless as he takes in the moment. You’re still here, still trying to take care of him. Just as kind and steadfast as ever.

“No,” he says eventually, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you down on top of him like a living weighted blanket, letting your warmth chase the bulk of the tension from his body and luxuriating in the way you curl into him, one hand sliding into his hair. “We shouldn’t call off the bet. We still have to take Emily’s money, remember?”

Your sleepy laugh is the last thing he hears before his eyes close and the feel of your body wound around his lulls him to sleep.

five months.

SR: Can I talk to you about something?

DM: you dying or something? that’s a really fuckin ominous text to recieve out of the blue

SR: I’m not dying, why would that be what you assumed? I just have a question.

DM: just a figure of speech but what’s up?

SR: It’s about your bet with Emily. What’re the terms for it?

DM: wym?

SR: What exactly did you two make the bet about? What needs to happen in order for you to win the bet?

DM: does this count as collusion?

SR: Technically yes, but calling it collusion implies a certain degree of illegality.

DM: whatever anyway the terms i made with em were that you’d make some kind of move before your birthday but she reckoned you were gonna need some kind of near death experience to do anything about your crush why?

SR: I’m just making sure I have all the information.

DM: what’s going on pretty boy? you planning something?

SR: Maybe.

DM: not a helpful answer reid is everything good?

SR: Everything’s fine. We’re just figuring some stuff out. Nothing to worry about.

DM: is there something you’re not telling me?

SR: Don’t worry about it.

five months, three weeks and six days.

In the chaos that was the scramble from the briefing room to the jet, you haven’t yet had the chance to speak to Spencer about the outcome of his most recent thesis defence panel. By the time you’ve got a moment to breathe, the jet is underway, coasting across the country towards Montana, the whole team settled in for the six hour flight. You corner him in the tiny kitchen area of the jet as he’s making a mug of mediocre coffee, fingers tapping out an absent minded rhythm on the countertop as the coffee machine whirs, clearly not paying attention to anything outside of his head.

“Hey, boy genius.” He jumps, whirling around, eyes wide with surprise, and you smile fondly. “So?” You demand, and Spencer raises an eyebrow in confusion. You snort, rolling your eyes as you elaborate. “Your defence panel. Did it go okay?”

You’re shifting your weight and fidgeting restlessly with the belt loops on your pants and as he studies you for a moment, it occurs to Spencer that you’re nervous for him over this outcome. The thought brings an almost giddy smile to his face.

“You know this isn’t my first thesis defence panel, right?” He says mildly, deliberately burying the lede, enjoying the way you scowl in irritation too much to answer your question right away, too enamoured with this display of concern on his behalf.

“Don’t be difficult, Doctor Reid. It’s still a big deal.” He just shrugs noncommittally, and you huff, swatting his arm lightly. “So did it go well?” You ask again, eyes narrowing as you try to dissect his microexpressions, trying to discern the answer he seems determined to keep from you for yourself. A few seconds later, he relents.

“I can now add degree number six to my wall.” He confirms. Getting degrees doesn’t hold the same rush of pride for him now, the accomplishment feeling somewhat less exceptional as he acquires more of them, but the way your face lights up with pride for him reminds him how special the things he’s capable of can be. You’ve always made him feel like more than the sum of his parts somehow, like something infinitely more precious than he always assumed he is.

“I fucking knew it. That’s amazing, Spence,” you say, chest warm and full with pride and love, and his almost shy smile in return is enough to make a decision for you in a split second. Your hand dips into your back pocket, drawing something out, and you carefully hide it from view in your palm as Spencer tracks the motion curiously with his eyes.

Your eyes are shining with affection and something that looks like mischief and the way you’re smiling at him is more than enough to divert his attention as you step closer, just barely noticing as you slip something into his hand. You’re dangerously, distractingly close now, and he’s conscious, if somewhat distantly, that neither of you is concealed from the rest of the team, scant meters away in the seating area of the jet. But you’re smiling and close enough for him to feel your breath on his face and suddenly your lips are on his, and even after nearly seven months of being able to touch you like this, it’s enough to make him forget everything else as he melts into the contact, savouring the warmth of your skin and the faint smell of your shampoo.

You pull back a second later, the kiss over almost as soon as it started, but it’s enough to attract attention, and you can hear a belated ‘oh SHIT’ from Emily in the main cabin of the jet. In your peripheral vision, you can see money changing hands, your friends scrambling to react, but you don’t look at them, choosing to enjoy the bemused, affectionate look on Spencer’s face as his brain catches up to the events unfolding around the two of you.

“I was tired of keeping it a secret,” you say fondly, loud enough only for him to hear. “You win.”

Blinking in confusion, he finally tears his gaze away from yours, fingers uncurling to reveal the fifty dollar bill you had pressed into his palm right before you kissed him. The penny drops and he snorts with laughter, shaking his head in half hearted indignation as his other arm loops around you, pulling you in, letting you rest your head on his shoulder, hiding your face from the rest of the team as he kisses your temple, revelling in the way you wind yourself around him in response.

“I was gonna do this in like two days. I wanted you to win,” he murmurs against your hairline, and he can feel your faint laughter.

“Too bad, baby. I’m used to getting my way,” you say, pulling back to steal another quick kiss before peeling yourself out of his arms with a wink, turning to face the onslaught of ‘care to fucking explain that’ and ‘I fucking told you so’ from the rest of your friends, tugging him with you by your joined hands.

[ssahoodrathotchner]

There is a Light That Never Goes Out

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

Summary: you get kidnapped by an unsub and needless to say, it’s not fun

Word Count: 6.9k

Warnings: swearing, blood, injuries, stabbing, panic attacks, kidnapping, hospitals, angst and fluff

A/N: wanted to write something angsty with a happy ending and here we are! the longest thing i’ve ever written

Masterlist

---

In hindsight, things could have gone better. The case itself was pretty straightforward, with the biggest complication being where the hell Michael Robertson was hidden away. However, no man can hide from Penelope Garcia and within six hours of figuring out Robertson was the unsub, she had his location narrowed down to a small farm in the middle of nowhere. Of course, you thought, where else would a guy like him torture and kill seven women.

Pulling up to the seemingly small farmhouse, you and Reid exchange looks before tightening your bulletproof vests. Double—triple—checking your gun, you tune in to Hotch and Rossi giving directions to the team and local PD about breaching the home. Hotch and Prentiss will take the front door, Morgan and Reid the back, while Rossi and JJ have the barn—you’ll take the side door and meet in the middle, easy. Local PD will secure the perimeter and provide backup as needed. Giving Hotch a reaffirming nod, you disperse to your entry points.

Taking a deep breath, you raise your weapon and prepare to bust this door down in hopes that Robertson will surrender peacefully and you can all go home because fuck do you want to get out of Iowa. Hearing Hotch’s signal, you kick down the door in front of you—a welcome plus of your job—and announce your presence. However, you’re met with a hard elbow to the face. Reeling backwards and tasting blood, you only have the sense to cup your now bleeding—and most likely broken—nose with your free hand.

“Motherfucker,” you spit out in pain, the comms in your vest picking up your voice.

“Y/L/N, report,” Hotch demands, voice scratchy through your earpiece.

However, you are unable to respond as Robertson moves towards you and, taking advantage of your dazed state, hits you over the head with a fucking two-by-four once, twice, nope three times before the jagged wood floor is rushing up to meet you as you collapse into darkness. Oh, fuck. You’re out before you hit the ground.

---

As soon as Aaron hears you swear, he knows it’s bad, but one look at Emily has him forging ahead and clearing each room like he is supposed to. Checking in with the other duos, Hotch can’t help but worry when you don’t respond immediately. When he finally gets to the mid-point of the house and the exact spot where you were supposed to rendezvous with him, Emily, Derek, and Spencer, his worries spike exponentially.

“Where’s Y/L/N,” he spits out.

“We didn’t see her,” Morgan answers carefully. “We assumed she found you guys,” he adds, and Hotch grits his teeth.

“Clear in the barn,” he hears Rossi report, and he sighs.

“Y/L/N is missing,” he says, surprisingly calm. “Report to the house.”

Police officers shuffle through the house, and Aaron tries not to let his irritation show. Turning back to the team, he can’t help but notice how worried the rest of them are.

“Our one and only priority is finding Y/N,” he states.

“I’ll get Garcia onboard to coordinate what happens next,” Morgan says, excusing himself from the tension of the farm house sitting room. “Expect some very distressed calls in your futures,” he finishes with a shake of his head.

“Emily and I will re-check the rest of the house, just in case,” JJ supplies, and Hotch nods. Reid, looking uneasy, makes some excuse about double-checking the floor plans of the property before skirting out the door, leaving Dave and Aaron—and some police officers—to survey the bland artwork on the walls.

Grasping the bridge of his nose, Aaron tries to take a deep breath, but he can’t; not with you missing on the property owned by an unsub fucking known for mutilating women.

“Hey,” Rossi approaches from Hotch’s left. “We’ll figure this out. Y/L/N’s a smart girl; she won’t go down easy,”

Hotch can only hope that Rossi’s right, but he trusts you; trusts your instincts as an agent.

---

You come to in bits and pieces. Some part of your brain recognizes that you’re being dragged by your armpits down some rickety stairs and deep into the earth; another part recognizes that your hands are free, which means your gun is no longer in your grasp. Fuck fuck fuck. A particularly harsh blow to your head from the hands of your captor stops any further thoughts. Fuck you, Robertson.

---

Regrouping with the team outside the house, Hotch starts to get agitated.

“What do you mean there’s an elaborate tunnel system beneath the house, Garcia,” he almost yells. “How did you not catch this before.”

“Well,” Reid steps in, “the only plans that include this system are dated between 1910 and 1924 which means that they were built in at least the 1900s and the fact that they do not appear in any property plans since those dates suggests that the subsequent owners either didn’t know about the tunnels, or they actively chose to not include them for some reason which—”

“—which means that we don’t really have a clue as to what the current tunnels look like,” Morgan finishes for him, and Hotch internally blanches.

No, he thinks to himself. I will not lose her like this, not after Haley.

Taking a deep breath, Hotch tries to re-assess the situation, but finds himself unable to breathe deeply. At all. Gasping, he tries to communicate to the team the severity of their situation, but all that comes out is a strangled noise. Vaguely, he hears Morgan clear the room as JJ gently takes his upper arm and steers him out the back door of the house on to the porch.

“Hotch,” he can’t stand to listen to her voice; her calm demeanor only increasing his anxiety about your current situation.

“Hotch,” JJ tries again, harsher this time. “I need you to take a breath; only one, just now, that’s it.”

I can do that, he thinks. And he does; he takes one solitary breath.

“Good,” she encourages, “now do it again, just once.” And so he does, again, and again, for JJ.

Once his breathing is under control and JJ steps back with an appraising eye, he speaks.

“We need to find her,” he gasps out. “We have to; I can’t—” he trails off.

With a softness he has yet to comprehend, JJ looks into his eyes and sighs.

“We’ll find her, Hotch,” she reassures him. “She’s on the property, she has to be, and we’ll find her.”

With a shaky nod, Hotch allows JJ’s words to take hold of him, and he goes back to being the BAU’s Unit Chief. Gazing out on the field behind the house, his resolve is firm; Aaron Hotchner will find you, Michael Robertson be damned.

---

The next moment you remember—thanks broken nose and probable concussion—is your body being roughly thrown into a plastic chair, sans bullet-proof vest, and then your arms and legs being tightly tied down. A rag of some sort is crudely stuffed into your mouth, and you can’t help but gag because fuck does it do nothing to replace the gross taste of blood in your mouth. At least it’s me, you think to yourself, I’d hate to think of anyone else from the team in this position. And with that thought, you drift out of consciousness with Aaron’s face in the forefront of your addled mind. Love, I hope you find me soon.

---

It’s been three hours and Aaron Hotchner is losing his mind. Garcia, to her credit, is working furiously to uncover literally everything she can on Robertson, his family, friends as well as the closest neighboring farms to the one the BAU is currently ripping apart. Prentiss and Morgan have taken to meticulously going through each and every room of the house and barn in hopes of discovering some new and hidden passageway to the tunnel system that resides under the structure. Reid is creating an enhanced geographical profile of the property and those that encompass it, while JJ and Rossi discuss the nuances of Robertson’s profile somewhere with the local cops. Aaron, however, can only seem to scowl at the field of corn behind the house and remember the last moments he had with you before you disappeared.

“Hotch,” he turns when he hears Morgan’s voice. “We’ve got something.”

Heart racing, Hotch nods and follows Morgan out the side door—the one you entered—before stopping just short of the man in front of him.

“Local crime scene techs just confirmed that there’s blood here, and judging from the placement of the drops, it seems that Robertson got the drop on Y/L/N,” he states with a grimace, and Hotch can’t help but scrutinize the ground where your blood has fallen.

“Reid’s got a better handle on what might have happened, but I thought you’d like to see it for yourself,” Morgan finishes, and Hotch nods tightly before moving off in search of Reid. Finding the young profiler in the front room of the farm house, Hotch only has to look at him before he’s revealing all that he’s learned since your disappearance.

“It seems that the blueprints for the house were updated once since the 1920s, which was in 1953, so that’s our most recent map of what the whole underside of the property looks like,” Reid continues. “From what I can tell, there are at least five entrance points, three main walkways, and eight different chambers that appear to function as some form of bunker for the previous owners, and so my guess is that Y/N is being kept in one of the rooms, just like the previous victims most likely were,” Reid pauses. “Not that Y/N will become another victim, I’m just saying that for the sake of the case it appears that—” Emily enters the room and Hotch has never been so grateful for her presence in a room, ever.

“Hey, I don’t mean to disrupt Reid’s briefing, but local PD has found a possible way into the fuckin’ labyrinth out in the barn,” she states, curiously looking over at the map Reid has scribbled onto the property blueprints.

Turning his head sharply, Hotch nods at Prentiss and uncrosses his arms as she leads him out of the farm house as Reid continues to ponder the blueprints in front of him.

---

The next time you rise to consciousness, Robertson is dragging an ugly hunting knife across your collarbones, shoulder to shoulder, and cooing at you to wake up. Weirdo.

“Ah, there you are baby,” Robertson says sweetly. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t wake up for me.”

You let out a groan and through the gag in your mouth—holy fuck does it taste like dirty socks—you attempt to cuss out your captor.

“Now, now, Sweetness,” Robertson chides. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?” and with that terrifying statement, he leans closer to you and pulls the knife across your left shoulder, effectively slicing open your work shirt. Damn, you think to yourself, this was actually one of my favorites. But that’s the last coherent thought you produce because the combination of Robertson’s knife, the searing pain of your broken nose, and your own possibly concussed brain are unable to completely comprehend any more information as the man in question leaves light slices across your upper chest. Thankfully, the rag—sock? —in your mouth muffles your whimpers as you jolt in pain. Aaron, please find me soon you think before the feeling is all-encompassing and your mind shifts to merciful blankness.

---

“I wish I could do more,” Garcia states, but Hotch can only sigh in agreement.

“You’ve done well, Garcia. Let me know if you find anything else,” Hotch states, eyes darting over to the geographical profile Reid is standing in front of, conversing with Emily. The tunnel found by local PD had been a decoy, and they were no closer to finding you.

“Of course, Sir. I’m on it like Sergio on tuna. Garcia out,” and with that statement, the line goes dead.

Putting his phone in his pocket, Hotch walks towards Reid and Prentiss with purpose.

“Reid, have you found anything else about the tunnel system?”

“It appears that there are a series of false entrances that don’t actually connect with the full network of passageways,” Reid states gesturing wildly at the map. “The full system can only be accessed from four different vantage points, but given that this map hasn’t been updated since the 50s, I only have a general idea of where the entryways are given that the buildings on the property have shifted since the last accurate map was compiled.”

“The good news is that two of the entrances seem to be contained within this house, the bad news is that they may have been bricked over by renovations to the building,” Prentiss says with a grimace. “The other two entries are somewhere out in what’s now the fields, so we’ll have less luck finding them, even with all the extra help from the PD.”

Hotch’s shoulders sag under the weight of the new information and he frowns at the agents in front of him. Squinting hard at the blueprints haphazardly tacked to the board in front of him, Hotch tries to make sense of the possible entry points in the house he’s currently standing in.

“Get Morgan in here,” Hotch finally says. “He’s got experience with restoration work and may have a better idea on where the unsub could have taken Y/N from within the house given the structural changes.” And with that, Hotch strides out the front door of the house and leans on the porch railing. Y/N, I’m coming for you, just hold on a little longer.

---

Robertson is a bitch. And he has the knife to prove it.

“So, you’re impotent, that’s why you’re using such a big knife, right?” you taunt him after who knows how fuckin’ long. “You see, we thought you had, mmm, issues, but we didn’t know for sure; this just confirms it.”

He took the gag out of your mouth to hear you scream, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of doing so. However, instead of responding to your jabs, Robertson just drives the knife a little bit deeper into your torso and you let out a hiss in retaliation, throwing your head back.

“God, you sure know how to treat a girl, don’t ya?” you grit out between pained breaths. “No wonder a charmer like you had so many lady friends.”

“They didn’t appreciate me!” Robertson yells. “Just like you don’t appreciate me!”

The next slash glances off your ribs and yikes does it fuckin’ hurt. Jerking away as best you can, you contemplate your options. At this point, you know your only way out is to either escape—as if—or to make Robertson see some semblance of reason. Otherwise, you aren’t going to make it out of here alive. Fuck, you think, I’m so sorry, Aaron. I promise I’ll find you. Or you’ll find me. A particularly vicious cut to your cheekbone draws you back to reality, and once again, you are only able to focus on the pain and Robertson’s maniacal laughter. Creepy motherfucker.

---

Hotch has never seen Morgan so focused. Scouring the blueprints with Reid and Prentiss, Garcia on speakerphone, Morgan works to figure out where the hell Robertson could have disappeared to inside the house. With you. Hotch has taken to pacing the length of the house in order to keep his nerves and his temper somewhat under control; he needs to be alert and ready to get to you as soon as possible. Running a hand through his hair and over his face, Hotch sighs which draws the attention of Rossi and JJ who slowly drift over to him from their place by a window.

“Hotch—” JJ starts but is cut off by a hard look.

“We’ll find her, Aaron.” Rossi tries. “You know that she’s here somewhere, probably giving Robertson all sorts of hell.”

“We’ve seen what Robertson does to his victims, Dave,” Hotch retorts. “He basically slices women to pieces and beats them,” taking a breath, he tries to calm himself. “We need to find her alive,” he finishes softly.

JJ and Rossi share a concerned look before Rossi sighs and steps forward to place a hand on Hotch’s shoulder.

“We’ll find her. There’s no way—” he’s cut off by an excited yell and the three of them swing around towards the source of the noise which happens to be Prentiss.

Morgan’s already moving, stalking into another room and Reid, accompanied by Garcia on the phone, hurries to catch up.

“We found the door Robertson most likely used to take Y/L/N and we’re pretty sure it connects to the full system under the property,” Prentiss explains and that’s all it takes for Hotch to stride off after Morgan and Reid.

Head spinning, Aaron fluctuates between hope and hopelessness. He knows they’ll find you; Robertson can’t hide in the tunnel system, no matter how well he knows them, but he’s most worried about you. We’re coming for you, Y/N. I won’t let this bastard get away with this.

---

Your whole body fucking hurts and you’re pretty sure it’s not just because you started off your captivity with a broken nose and concussion. Your mouth tastes like blood again from how hard you’ve clamped down on your bottom lip to resist screaming as loud as you can. Robertson is cruel, there’s no question about that. You’d seen the photos of his other victims, and now you were undergoing the same things those women did in their last moments. Your entire body feels heavy, and if you weren’t tied down to a chair, you don’t think you’d be able to hold yourself up. Between the blood loss and head trauma, you’re surprised your thoughts are still relatively coherent.

Robertson is pacing in front of you, muttering to himself, shooting looks your way, and absentmindedly gesturing with the knife in his hand. Fantastic, you think hazily, he’s most likely devolving and I’m the only one around. Yay. Sucking in a breath, you wince as the action reignites a dizzying pain in your torso. Letting out a groan, you flinch as Robertson turns towards you, eyes shining with something that makes your heart race a little quicker. 


“Now, baby,” he states with a twisted grin—grimace? —that makes you grit your teeth even harder. “I’m not done with you yet, don’t worry. I still wanna hear you scream for me.”

Here we go again.

“Do your worst,” you snarl at him, and while that’s probably the worst thing to say to a devolving unsub, you’re too fed up and tired to care at this point; you can take it, you have to take it so you can survive. C’mon, Aaron. Where’s my knight in shining armor? Robertson descends on you with renewed vigor, and after the fourth slice to your leg, your ears rush and your head drops to your chest as you pass out. Fuck.

---

The trap door Robertson dragged you down can only be accessed by sliding one of the wooden floorboards back half an inch before it clicks into place and the adjoining boards lift slightly, revealing the way into the tunnels. How Morgan, Reid, and Prentiss figured that out is beyond Hotch’s current thought process because how many times had he paced over that exact spot? As soon as the hatch is lifted, all he sees is blood—your blood—sprinkled on the steps that descend into the darkened passageway. He takes a sharp breath and somewhere behind him, he can hear JJ gasp and Morgan swear.

“Medics are on stand-by,” comes Rossi’s voice from his shoulder.

Nodding tersely and setting his shoulders, he turns to the team.

“Stay alert and stick together. We don’t know where Robertson is, so clear the rooms and move on.” His voice is hard and leaves no room for debate.

“Let’s go get our girl,” Morgan adds, and with that, the team takes careful steps down into the hallway, following Aaron.

---

The first room they happen across is empty, as are the second, third, and fourth rooms. Forging ahead, knowing that they’re only closer to where you are, they continue. Turning a corner, Hotch can hear movement and his heart speeds up. Robertson. Signaling to the team to pause, he gauges the best course of action. He doesn’t know what state you’re in, or Robertson for that matter, and so he has to approach the situation with caution. Gun in hand and stepping to one side of the door, he lets Morgan and Prentiss move to the other. Backed by JJ, Reid, and Rossi, Hotch nods and Morgan kicks down the door before moving quickly inside, yelling at Robertson. Prentiss follows him and then Hotch steps through and freezes.

Robertson is crouched over your crumpled and bloody body looking wild-eyed at the agents in front of him. Hotch can’t breathe. You aren’t moving.

“She’s mine,” Robertson snarls, brandishing a knife at Morgan as he tries to get closer. “Mine!”

“Okay, Michael,” says Rossi calmly, “Let’s figure this out.”

“No. She’s mine! I’m not done,” Robertson’s reply is harsh, bordering on a yell.

“What do you mean you aren’t done, Michael?” Hotch’s voice is cold and flat. What more could Robertson possibly want?

“She didn’t scream! I need her to scream for me!” and with that, Robertson runs the tip of his blade down your already bloody cheek.

The team is stunned, but then Robertson raises the knife in the air over your chest and—

He falls.

Looking slowly to the right, Hotch sees Prentiss, gun raised, and then to Robertson splayed on the ground, blood pooling under his head. Vaguely, Hotch hears Reid calling for medics and alerting the local officers to what just happened. Morgan’s already at your side, turning you slowly, carefully, gently on to your back, and that’s when Hotch rushes to you, gun holstered.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. There’s blood everywhere. Aaron can’t tell if you’re breathing. He chokes back a sob. I’m so sorry, Sweetheart.

“Hotch, she’s alive,” Morgan breathes, and with that, Hotch lets out a sigh of relief and allows himself to fully look at you, blinking a few times to rid his eyes of tears.

Your face is littered with shallow cuts. Your nose is bloody—definitely broken—and there’s already bruising around your eyes. Your shirt is torn and bloodied in so many places, as are your pants. He can see blood leaking slowly multiple places on your thighs, and even more from your arms and midsection. Your eyes are closed.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Hotch presses down on one of the lacerations to your torso, Morgan taking another, and JJ appearing to apply pressure on a cut that’s just a little too close to your femoral artery.

“C’mon, Sweetheart,” his voice shakes. “I need you to open your eyes, Y/N. Have to know you’re okay.”

There’s yelling from down the hallway, medics bustling into the room and taking over. Aaron can’t make himself let go of you, and it takes Rossi’s gentle but firm hand to guide him back and away from you. He can’t stop shaking.

---

You wake, briefly, when you feel yourself being lifted. Squinting, you try to turn your head, as the rest of the world comes crashing back in a wave of sound and movement. Vision blurred, you try and make sense of what’s going on around you.

“She’s awake!” calls a voice from your left, and you can make out the outline of… JJ? They’re here.

You’re shifted around more, and you get the idea that you’re being strapped down to a gurney as medics begin to wheel you out of the hellhole where Robertson held you.

Suddenly, there’s a hand grasping yours, and before your mind can comprehend what’s happening, all you hear is—

“Sweetheart…?” in the most relieved, reverent, adoring, tone you think you’ve ever heard in your life and it’s Aaron holding your hand. He’s here he’s here he’s here. He found me.

“Aaron,” his name leaves you in a sigh. “Y’found me,” you say softly, looking him over.

“Of course, I did, Sweetheart,” he says, just as soft.

“Where’s…?” you don’t want to say his name.

“Dead. Emily shot him,” Aaron answers in a low voice. Good fucking riddance.

You hum and ease back as the gurney jostles you particularly hard. Gritting your teeth, you groan as you head starts to pound even harder. Feeling yourself losing consciousness, you squeeze Aaron’s hand.

“Love you,” and before he can respond, you vision goes black and all is quiet once more.

---

After you get loaded into the nearest ambulance and speed towards the hospital, Rossi confirms that local officers have secured the scene. With not a moment to waste, the team takes off after the ambulance. Morgan calls Garcia to update her on your status and spends a majority of the ride to the hospital convincing her that she doesn’t need to fly over to see you. Hotch stares blankly out the window and replays the entire interaction with Robertson. He saw the damage Robertson did to you—I need her to scream—and can’t help but feel a little bit of pride at the fact that you didn’t give in to Robertson despite the obvious pain you endured.

The SUVs pull up to the hospital, screeching to a halt, before all the doors are thrown open and the team hurries into the lobby. The nurse at the desk looks up to find six disheveled agents crowding around the counter, worry across all of their faces.

“We’re here for Agent Y/L/N, she probably arrived twenty minutes ago,” Hotch states, voice surprisingly calm.

“I can confirm she arrived and that she’s currently being attended to, but I don’t know any more than that at this moment,” the nurse replies, looking at the computer screen.

“Do you know if she’ll be okay?” asks Spencer in a subdued voice.

“The severity of her injuries is yet to be determined, I’m afraid. She has obvious head trauma, numerous lacerations, and possible internal bleeding, but until I get another update, that’s all I can share,” the nurse says with a sad smile.

Nodding, Aaron steps away from the counter. C’mon, Sweetheart.

“Thank you,” comes Rossi’s voice from Hotch’s left, and with that, the team migrates to the largest cluster of chairs where they promptly collapse in exhaustion.

Sitting down heavily, Hotch rests his elbows on his knees and runs a hand over his face. Prentiss drops in to the chair on his left, Rossi settles in on his right. Across from them, Reid and JJ sit on either side of Morgan. Looking down at his hands, Aaron realizes that they still have your blood on them. He glares at them, somehow wishing that if he stares hard enough, it’ll vanish on its own. A hand closes around one of his, and he looks at Emily.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says softly, then, louder, “You guys too, Morgan and JJ. Let’s go.”

It’s then that Aaron looks—really looks—and sees that like him, Morgan and JJ have your blood on their hands as well. With a nod, they all stand. Morgan and Hotch walking into the men’s room while Emily follows JJ to keep her company. Mechanically, the two men stand side-by-side and turn on the taps, starting the slow process of washing away the blood that’s dried on them. Glancing to the side, Hotch sees Morgan, brow furrowed in concentration, as he scrubs under his nails.

“Thank you,” he says, stopping his own motions to fully look at Derek, who turns at the sound of his voice.

“For what?” Morgan asks, slightly confused.

“For going over the blueprints with Reid, Prentiss, and Garcia. For figuring out where in the house Y/N had disappeared. For going above and beyond to find her and— “

“Hotch, you don’t have to thank me for that,” Morgan cuts him off. “I will do everything in my power to make sure this team is okay, you know that,” and with a small grin, he adds “I’m just happy that one of my hobbies was useful for the case.”

Hotch can’t help but smile a little in return, and with that, they go back to washing their hands in a more comfortable silence.

---

Walking back into the waiting area, Hotch is confronted with the sight of Reid and Rossi surrounded by a pile of snacks from one of the vending machines. He pauses for a second, shakes his head, and then continues back to the chair he was sitting in earlier. Once he’s seated, Reid tosses him a bag of something—chips? —which he dutifully opens under the watchful eye of Rossi. Morgan snags his own snack and then leans against the nearest wall, content to stand. A short while later, Emily and JJ return, Emily’s arm secure around JJ’s shoulders, before they too are digging in to the veritable mountain of food that Reid and Rossi managed to accumulate. Sitting in silence—save the crunching of whatever food they were eating—the team takes a second to contemplate and reassess the day.

The sound of Velcro breaks Hotch out of his trance, and he looks over to see Morgan undoing his bulletproof vest. The vests which the rest of them are still wearing. There’s a scramble after that, to rid themselves of their exterior layer, which are then haphazardly stacked on an open seat. Taking a deep breath for what feels like the first time in days, Hotch sinks back in his chair and closes his eyes, head tipped back against the cool wall behind him.

“Anyone want water?” Reid is the first to break the tenuous silence. There’s a chorus of hums and head shakes before he stands and wanders off, presumably in the direction of the vending machines where he first got the food.

“She’ll be fine, you know,” Rossi says looking at Aaron, whose eyes are now open, staring at the ceiling. “She’s tough, tougher than I think we gave her credit for.”

Hotch sighs in response, but Emily is the next to speak up.

“Robertson said she didn’t scream, which…” she trails off, looking at the floor before meeting Aaron’s eyes. “I don’t think I could have done that, not like that. I can’t imagine what that was like for her...”

“I wish we had gotten there sooner,” Hotch finally says. “I wish—”

“No.” Morgan says, a hard edge to his voice. “Don’t do that to yourself, Hotch. Or any of us. We did what we could and we found her alive.”

“I know, but—” Hotch is cut off by JJ this time.

“But nothing, Aaron. She’s going to be okay.” And with that, JJ moves from her chair to the one next to him and gently puts a hand on his shoulder. “She was awake and talking before they took her away, you know that,” she adds softly.

“Hey guys, so I talked to the nurse and—” Reid returns and with those words, Hotch sits straight in his seat, JJ’s hand falling away as his attention and that of his teammates focus on what Reid has to say next. “—and apparently, Y/N only needed minor surgery to repair some internal damage from three of the stab wounds and the other slashes were relatively shallow, so they just needed to be stitched up. She also has contusions on her head from where I’m guessing Robertson hit her to initially subdue her, and she does have a concussion and broken nose, but according to the nurse Y/N only has to stay here for a maximum of three days to make sure that there are no serious effects from the concussion and to keep an eye on her sutures before she’ll be cleared to leave.” Reid’s final statement hangs in the air, sinking in, and once it does, Aaron hangs his head as tears fall down his cheeks. You’re okay. You’re alive you’re alive you’re alive.

Derek immediately calls Garcia to give her the good news and her scream of excitement can be heard by the rest of the team even though Morgan did not have her on speakerphone. Rossi chuckles to himself before looking over at Aaron and his shaking shoulders. Putting a hand on his back, Rossi doesn’t say anything, but instead, provides silent support to the man who almost lost what little he had left.

“Agent Y/L/N?” comes a voice from the desk, and Aaron wipes his eyes before taking a breath and standing and turning with the rest of the team.

“Yes?” It’s Prentiss who replies.

“We’ve moved her to a room; you can see her now,” and with that, the nurse beckons for them to follow her through the set of double-doors that lead further into the hospital. Coming to a stop, the nurse turns and fixes Hotch with a look. “I’ll warn you now, she looks worse off than she actually is, so don’t be put off by her appearance. She shouldn’t move too much because there’s a risk she’ll rip her stitches, but other than that, she’ll be okay,” and with a nod, she opens the door and ushers them inside.

Aaron’s eyes rush to take in your appearance—butterfly bandages across your nose, a few on your cheekbones and forehead, bandages up both arms, and he’s sure there’s more hidden from view. For a moment, he’s taken back to the last time he saw you laying this still. Crumpled on the floor, bloody and unmoving, Robertson with a knife crouched over you, going to kill you—

Prentiss pushes past him, breaking his train of thought, as she moves to your side and gives a low whistle before gingerly taking your hand. Aaron walks to your other side, bending down to place a kiss on the top of your head, and the rest of the team surround your bed, everyone gazing down at your sleeping form.

---

The first thing you notice is the pain in your head, followed by pain that slowly pulses through your whole body, and for a moment, you remember. Robertson, the knife, slicing, slashing, taunting, yelling, don’t scream can’t scream—

But then you feel it. The familiar pressure of Aaron kissing your head and it clears your head a bit. Not with Robertson, not with Robertson, I’m not with that fucker.

“Fuck,” you groan, mind still hazy, pain more intense, as you return to consciousness. “Wh’re am I?” you slur out next, as you blink away the tiredness in your eyes and try not to squint at the fluorescents or the shadows that are sharpening into your team.

Looking to your right, you lock eyes with Aaron, who pushes hair off of your face before smiling sweetly at you and you try to smile back.

“Hi, Love,” you say, voice low and rough. He leans down and kisses your forehead this time, before gently holding your hand.

Realizing you aren’t alone, you look around at the rest of the team, squeezing Emily’s hand in yours.

“You killed ‘im?” you ask, searching her face. She nods. “Good,” you sigh. “He was such an asshole.”

With that, Derek laughs, followed by Rossi. Emily’s shoulders drop as she lets out a chuckle, Spencer smiles, and JJ rolls her eyes with a fond grin. Almost the whole team.

As if summoned by the power of thought, Derek’s phone rings and he answers the call, Garcia’s voice coming through loud and clear on speakerphone.

“Y/N! My poor, poor, goddess divine how are you?” she questions. You clear your throat and attempt to speak, but before you can say anything Morgan is passing the phone to Aaron, who holds it closer to your face. You shoot him a grateful smile before responding.

“I’m fine, Pen. Just some cuts and scrapes,” you joke.

“That’s a lie, Y/L/N and we all know it. Don’t make me ask you again!” she chastises and you roll your eyes, holding back a wince as pain twinges through your side.

“I’ll be okay, Penelope,” you say softly. Another jolt of pain, this time in your arm, almost makes you whimper, but you bite your lip instead. An action which does not go unnoticed in a room full of profilers.

“It’s nice to see you awake, Y/N,” JJ says lightly before shooting a glance at Aaron and then looking at the rest of the team. “But we should get back to the hotel.”

“Bye my lovelies! I’m happy you’re okay, Y/N. Get home safe, please! Garcia out,” and Derek puts his phone away before smiling at you. Reid give you a small wave and Rossi claps a hand on Aaron’s shoulder before they all turn to exit.

With one last squeeze to your hand, Emily lets go and follows the rest of the team, save Aaron, out the door with the promise that they’ll return later.

When everyone is out and the door shuts behind them, you finally let out a pained breath and scrunch your eyes shut with a groan. You feel Aaron smooth a hand over your hair and you try to control your breathing, but it’s hard when your entire body hurts. Slowly, tears make their way down your face and Aaron’s quick to softly brush them away. Turning to look at him, you allow yourself to breakdown in the safety of his presence.

Your breath hitches as the tears fall faster, your head hurts, your chest hurts, everything hurts and you try not to break into a sob, but the tears won’t stop and eventually sobs wrench from your body and you let them. Aaron has tears of his own falling down his face and he holds your hand in both of his, kissing your knuckles, fingertips, palm, whatever he can as he watches you break. He wants to hold you, wrap you in his arms and shield you from the pain but he can’t because your injuries prevent him from doing so and it pains him to see you this way. So he does what he can.

“I love you too, Sweetheart. I didn’t get to say it before you passed out and—” he pauses to take a breath. “I love you so much. So so much.”

“I was so scared—” you gasp through a sob. “Terrified, Aaron. I couldn’t—” you can’t speak through the force of your tears. Aaron shushes you and kisses your cheek, running his thumb over your knuckles.

“I know, Sweetheart. I know, but you were so brave, so brave and I am so proud of you for being so strong and—” he breaks off in his own soft sob. “—and for staying alive. You’re alive.”

Lifting a hand to scrub at your face, you take a few deep breaths, but more tears escape.

“I can’t—” your breath hitches at what exactly Robertson had done to you. “He wanted me to scream so I didn’t, I couldn’t. I knew what he did to the others, and I just thought that—” you take another breath. “I just thought that if I could deny him that, not give in, it would buy you guys time to find me,” you pull Aaron’s hand to your lips, resting them on the back of his hand and closing your eyes to ground yourself.

“And you did,” he replies softly, gently. “When we found you—” he takes his own steadying breath. “When we found you, Robertson was angry, he said…he said he needed to make you scream, and hearing that…I just,” he moves his hand to cup your face, softly moving his thumb over the bandage on your cheekbone. “You astound me, Sweetheart. Everyday,” he finishes in a whisper.

“I love you,” you say just as softly.

“I love you more,” he smiles, and you can’t help but smile back.

You lean forward, then. And he meets halfway, hand disentangling from yours so he can cradle both sides of your face as he sinks into the kiss. One of your own hands finds its place on his cheek and you sigh into his lips. This. This is what kept me alive, you think when he gently tilts your head. I love you I love you I love you. Thank you. With tears slowly drying on both your faces, you and Aaron revel in the comfort of each other. In the words you don’t have to speak, and the touch of the one you love. Through the worry, pain, and fear of the day, this is how it always ends. You and Aaron. Together. Safe. Loved.  

[vimeddiart]

Strangers

Patron-voted fic of my D&D beeflings! Read the previous comic and the first comic for this series for context!

On AO3

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

The zinging cadence of his hammer hitting a new blade usually tempers his fraught emotions and lessens their intensity. The rhythm and beat usually calms him, the heat of the furnace and the steady drip of sweat as well. Except his heart thunders on and his breathing remains irregular and his eyes sting—not from stray embers or errant drops of perspiration—and his agitation grows.

It grows so powerfully that he miscalculates and swings his hammer much too harshly, breaking the blade he was trying to fashion which frustrates him further and he throws down his tools with a clatter, pressing the gloved heels of his hands to his brow.

Lazlo.

Tuhka releases a trembling breath.

Barely a day had passed since he had regurgitated all of the regret and agony of his childhood friend’s death right into said friend’s face before gracelessly fleeing, the bitter taste of tears still on his tongue and Lazlo’s look of resounding disbelief haunting him even here in the safety of his forge.

It wasn’t fair.

Why must he have been forced to carry the burden of grief and guilt for so many years? All those moments of remembrance, thinking of a friend—the only one he ever had— ripped away from the world much too soon, endless nights of pain and suffering, wishing he’d been taken instead...and for what? Lazlo was alive. Had been for perhaps as long as Tuhka had grieved his loss.

How much hatred—or worse, indifference—must Lazlo have harboured to fail in seeking Tuhka out...to reassure him, to reunite with him, to talk with him. They had been family.

Tuhka wrenches off his gloves and tosses them to the side, stalking towards the entrance of his smithy for some air, unable to concentrate anymore on his craft. His hands shake when he grasps the wrought iron gate.

A sound distracts him for a moment, one that carries over on the salty evening breeze that cools the sweat of his brow. Gravel crushed underfoot. It’s gone in an instant and even with his sharp hearing, Tuhka strains to listen for something further, ears swivelling in the hopes to catch it.

It doesn’t take too much investigation to track down the source of the sound once he decides to; a dark figure perched somewhat dejectedly on a boulder that offsets a scenic cliffside path Tuhka often takes to clear his head.

“You didn’t waste your grief, if that’s what you’re bothered about,” the figure says.

Tuhka’s breath leaves him in a rush as he’s met with a familiar blue gaze. He feels pulled forward by some invisible thread and settles himself on the far edge of the same boulder, leaving a bit of distance between them.

Lazlo sighs, drops his head into his hands. “When you left that day and never came back, I...believed you’d abandoned me, that you’d made good on your promise—”

“That was a child’s threat, I never meant to—” Tuhka began, needing to explain despite the betrayal he felt, still very fresh, that had upended years of mourning.

The other tiefling shook his head, dropping his hands away from his face and letting them fall to his lap. “I made a terrible decision, I paid for it,” the spectral left hand twitches and Tuhka notices it properly for the first time, heart squeezing despite everything and mind filling with more questions, “and I...went away for a long time. I didn’t think to look for you...I thought you despised me.”

He releases a mirthless laugh. “I don’t think I would’ve found you anyway. I’d have been looking for someone...quite different.”

Tuhka swallows hard. “I’ve...probably grown a bit since you last saw me.”

This startles a small, but real, laugh out of Lazlo, even if it does sound a little wet.

After a pause, Tuhka gathers strength from the stars and attempts to keep his voice steady. “That day...I went back for you. I did. I wasn’t going to, I was about to start a new life away from those bloody mines and I was so angry with you that I hoped you would stew in them forever...but then I remembered you wanted to get out just as desperately as I did and we swore to do it together so I went back to fetch you.”

Tuhka didn’t dare raise his eyes to Lazlo’s face, staring intently at his own hands grasping his knees even though the image was beginning to waver and blur.

“It was snowing and freezing and I walked through it without stopping, thinking that I would see you soon and whisk us away to a better place, until I saw the smoke from over the hill and I knew you’d gone ahead with our plan without me,” Tuhka let out a shuddering breath, “they said you got crushed in the tunnel along with that bastard foreman. Don’t remember much of what happened after that...just that I’d gone to fetch you and came back empty-handed.”

Tears flowed freely, despite previously believing he had run out of tears to shed. From the corner of his eye he noticed Lazlo wipe his face with a pure, white square of cloth.

“Told you the truth though…” Tuhka continued, after a none-too-discreet sniff, “mourned you like a piece of me had died. Couldn’t think of much else for a good few years,” He runs a forearm over his face roughly and finally turns to Lazlo, raw and exposed, “I would’ve looked for you in a heartbeat if I’d known you were alive. I would’ve.”

Lazlo lets out a sound like an animal in pain, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks that he no longer tries to wipe away. “I didn’t know...I didn’t know— I mucked up my plan and ending up losing everything, I— I was trapped for years without knowing how much time passed, I was...I was isolated from the outside in a way you won’t be able to understand but you must believe me, I never wanted to lose you—”

That final crack in Lazlo’s voice is what forces Tuhka to move closer and wrap an arm around his shoulders, mumbling soothing words until the sobs that wrack Lazlo’s frame subside. It reminds him of when he was younger—and much smaller—when Lazlo would do the same for him after a tumble, a run in with the awful foreman, or when overcome with a sadness he couldn’t understand, much less explain. Lazlo would have been there to comfort him, always.

As if hearing his thoughts, Lazlo lets out a tremulous sigh. “...Tables have turned, hm?”

Tuhka makes a tentatively amused sound in response. There is a whirlwind of emotion to wade through, but he can take this moment just to experience how real and solid Lazlo is. That he’s back.

“A right pair of bellends we turned out to be,” he ends up saying.

“Quite.” Lazlo sniffs, but there’s a small, albeit watery, smile on his lips as he straightens out of Tuhka’s one-armed embrace, and Tuhka tries not to let the empty feeling that remains affect him too much.

Something that has been niggling in the back of Tuhka’s mind takes on more force and the reason finally dawns on him.

“You sound different.”

Lazlo finishes wiping his face with a fresh, white handkerchief and makes a noise, muffled by the fabric.

“Yes, ah...I trained out the accent I used to have and replaced it with a new one.”

Tuhka blinks. “What’s wrong with your old accent? That’s the accent I have! I got it from you!”

“I needed to, ah...move in higher circles of society and I couldn’t very well sound like a common miner, could I?”

Tuhka opens his mouth to argue, a nostalgia for their juvenile arguments filling him in a split second, but Lazlo interrupts, “You know, we don’t have to speak Common if you’d prefer.”

They fall back on Infernal so naturally that Tuhka has to swallow a lump in his throat and keep the waver out of his voice. He never thought he would have this again. He’s a little rusty and out of practice but that doesn’t seem to matter in the moment—it’s like they’re back in the mines, speaking their language out of earshot of the foreman, making plans for the future in a world that was all dreams.

Tuhka tells Lazlo how he adopted Ooria (and not the other way round as she claimed to recall) and how she had helped him find his true self. He tells him about his work, his smithy and how he made a home on this cliff by the ocean. He doesn’t talk about the painful things, like crying himself to sleep every night for years from missing him, or the search for his adoptive mother who was now lost.

Lazlo talks about— what Tuhka suspects is— superficial milestones, his expertise in identifying gemstones, the places he’s visited and the night skies he has lain under and commemorated on his skin. Tuhka notices the glittering constellations peeking out of Lazlo’s clothes and his heart thumps, wanting to ask what made them special enough to wear permanently but he stops himself...still feeling like a stranger. There’s an undercurrent of darkness in Lazlo’s vague statements, of secrets untold, and Tuhka is slightly surprised by a keen disappointment that bubbles within him at not being trusted with them.

There’s a lull in conversation, an impending finality that Tuhka does not appreciate. He refuses to remain a stranger as well, which prompts him to realise that he hasn’t even properly introduced himself yet.

Feeling bold, he holds a hand out in the human way. “Tuhka Turunen.”

Lazlo’s gaze lands on the proffered hand and then flickers up to Tuhka’s face, seeming to weigh his options. He breathes out a laugh and leans forward, ignoring the hand to press his forehead slowly but firmly against Tuhka’s in customary tiefling fashion. An echo of the greeting they shared when they first met as children.

“Lazarus Astrophel,” whispers the tiefling formerly known as Lazlo.

Tuhka smiles. “Nice to meet you, Lazarus.”

They part and Lazlo—Lazarus—clears his throat, “My close acquaintances sometimes call me Laz. You may do so, after all we’re—” a beat of hesitation, “—old friends.”

His vibrant blue eyes are on Tuhka, almost as if expecting him to disagree. Tuhka doesn’t.

“Laz,” he says, smiling, “lot less likely to get mixed up with that.”

The sea breeze sighs around them, ruffling hair and clothing. Tuhka watches as Lazarus gets to his feet.

“It’s late. I should be going.”

Panic flickers through Tuhka. “You’re leaving?”

“I have business in town for a day or two, I’m staying at an inn there...The King’s Cushion?”

Tuhka nods, recognising the name. He gets to his feet as well, unintentionally towering over Lazarus.

“Stars...I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that.” Lazarus grimaces.

“You’re welcome to visit,” Tuhka blurts out, trying to keep any semblance of desperation out of his voice and getting the impression that he failed, “you wanted to commission something, we can talk about that whenever you like.”

After a moment of confusion, Lazarus’ expression clears. “Ah, right, yes, that was what got us into this mess in the first place, wasn’t it? Yes,” he smiles, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

This time when he leaves, it’s with a lot less anger than moments after their first confrontation only days ago, and with a promise to come back. They had once shared everything, even their deepest desires. Now, after fifteen years apart, they’ve become completely different people—the fact that Lazarus came here, willing to talk, making promises to return even if there’s a chance he may not keep them...it’s a start. And that will have to be enough for now.

Tuhka sits back down once Lazarus has vanished from sight down the path and gazes up at the same stars he had begged night after night to return his best friend to him.

He thanks them for listening.

[tennessoui]

#18 Prompt: Ohio in Pre-Slash,16/17 year old Anakin has had a crush on his Master for awhile but knows/thinks Obi-Wan would never return his feels. He's almost completely given up and is think about maybe finding a substitute outlet. Then Obi-Wan gets amnesia while they are stranded on an uninhibited planet. Their Locator Beacon only giving off a general area. Obi-Wans amnesia leaves out the Code, and that he's Anakins teacher so the Boy calls him Master so he MUST be Obi-Wans pet/slave.

ahh so i could easily see this going dubcon and smutty and if i were better i might have gone that way too but instead i made some pining fluff but i hope you still like it!!

18. Waking Up With Amnesia (Hurt!Obi-Wan, underage!pining!Anakin, misunderstandings)

Anakin does his level best to land the ship gently, he really does. But he can’t work miracles here, and the locals had damaged their hull quite effectively when they had shot at them as they descended from atmo.

Friendly negotiations, yeah right. When Anakin gets his hands on these guys, he’s gonna show them exactly how friendly Anakin can be. But first he has to make the landing. And then he has to make sure his master is okay. Failure on either of these fronts is not an option.

His master had just gotten up to go to the back to grab their identification. They had been talking, seriously for once and without anger or impatience laced through their words--he’d said he was proud to have him as his padawan, that Anakin had grown into a young man anyone would be fortunate to know.

Anakin had turned to watch his master leave, his shields raised high but his eyes stripped bare. He’d be eighteen in two months. Somehow he’d made it through most of his time as a Padawan already. With his impending adulthood comes the realization that he has no more time for words of anger or scorn, not directed to his master at least. In a few years at most, Obi-Wan would be free of him by all Jedi rules and obligations.

Now more than ever he has to convince his master to want to keep him around. It’s a grueling task, made more difficult by how terribly difficult Anakin had been in the last, say, nine years. What with his pod-racing, his temper, his pride, his stubbornness--his huge and achingly obvious hero worship turned crush on the older Jedi.

But he can’t lose Obi-Wan, can’t even stand the idea of his master leaving him. The idea of missions alone while his master cavorts around the galaxy without hm--with another Padawan?--is absolutely intolerable. No. He has to convince the Jedi to want him as more than a Padawan. To want him as a friend, as a partner.

(In his wildest fantasies, as more than that, too.)

But now, as if the Force has heard his thoughts and is punishing him, the ship is crashing and his master has been hurt somewhere behind him but he can’t check without losing control of the vessel completely. He just has to--land--on this wide stretch--of karking sand.

It’s not his best landing, but they’re on the ground at least. The first thing he does is, of course, throw off his own landing protector and rush to Obi-Wan’s side, pulling his body out of the mangled remains of their ship and into the light and heat of outside. His master is unconscious, but he doesn’t seem to be bleeding terribly nor fatally. Now, and only now, he thanks the Force.

That’s when he notices the startling wet and spreading red across his master’s usually pristine robes.

Never mind, he tells the Force, fumbling with Obi-Wan’s belt in a panic. He needs to treat the wound, which means he needs to see it, which means he needs to get these outer robes off, as well as his master’s inner tunic.

“If I’m ever undressing you again, I swear to the Force you better be cognizant,” he mutters to himself as he rips at the fabric of the thin undershirt. “So many layers and not one of them protects you from debris, how is that fair?” He continues as he pushes Obi-Wan to the side far enough so he can see the man’s bare shoulder and the cut itself. It doesn’t look deep, at least, but it is long, spanning at least Anakin’s entire hand.

How much bacta do they have? Is their distress beacon working? Does Anakin want it to be working? Half of him thinks no, because what if the locals show up to finish them off? Half of him thinks yes, because he’d love to get his hands on the creatures responsible for Obi-Wan’s current state now.

It’s a very un-Jedi thought, but Anakin can’t even feel bad for it. He goes back into the wreckage of their ship--and he knows already he’s going to hear about this from the Council, as if anyone else could have done better--and grabs their first aid kit.

There’s bandages and bacta and that’s the important thing, he reminds himself. He’ll fix up the wound and then worry about why Obi-Wan hasn’t woken up yet.

But. Well. There’s not a great way to patch it up. The only thing he can think of is to give Obi-Wan’s form a solid thing to lean his head against while keeping his lower back pressed against the durasteel. It’s an awkward angle, but any other would result in Obi-Wan getting a face full of sand, and Anakin wouldn’t do that to his worst enemy, let alone his master.

Look. There’s no delicate way to put it. He straddles his lap and brings his head so it can rest on his chest as he works.

Of course this is when Obi-Wan begins to stir. Anakin tightens his hold on him and tries to send feelings of relief and calm through the Force. He needs Obi-Wan to not startle away from him until he finishes putting on the bacta. They can be embarrassed about this later. They’ll laugh about this later.

“You’re fine, Master,” Anakin murmurs at what he decides to take as a garbled word of confusion. “I crashed the ship, you can punish me later.”

Anakin can feel Obi-Wan’s signature spike around him, but he’s too intent on his task to figure out what specifically his master is feeling.

“What--” Obi-Wan mumbles, hand coming up to brace his head.

Anakin leans back as he finishes, tapping gently on Obi-Wan’s cheek until the man lifts his eyes to look at him. They’re dazed and confused.

“Master?” Anakin asks.

Obi-Wan’s brow furrows. “Master?”

Now Anakin’s getting very worried. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he demands.

Obi-Wan blinks. “You’re...not holding up any fingers,” he says, words becoming clearer the longer he talks. “I’m sorry

“Master,” he says slowly. “How are you feeling?” “Confused,” Obi-Wan says. “And...worried. And sick. Why are you calling me that?” “Calling you what, Master?”

“That. Master,” Obi-Wan looks sick just saying the word. Anakin scrambles up off his lap and kneels in the sand in front of him.

Panic clogs at his throat, making it even harder to force words out. “This isn’t a funny joke, Master.”

Now Obi-Wan looks distressed. “I’m not joking!” He looks wildly around and then clutches at his head in pain. “I don’t know who you are. Who I am. And I need you to stop calling me master because it’s making me feel sick to my stomach knowing that apparently I’m the kind of person who owns slaves because I know it’s wrong.”

Anakin blinks. It’s a lot to process. “You don’t remember?” is the first thing he says. He wants to say anything or anyone or perhaps the Jedi Order you’ve been a part of since you were a baby, but instead what comes out is, “Me?”

“I don’t remember myself, how am I supposed to remember you? Did you expect me to?”

Anakin stays quiet because well. Yeah. He hadn’t thought anything could really truly make his master forget him. Not time, not distance, not anything. Looking at Obi-Wan looking at him now without any sort of familiarity feels like all of his worst nightmares coming true.

His master glances down at his half-dressed state and then back to Anakin suspiciously.

It’s a harsh expression without the fond exasperation that usually hovers in the back of Obi-Wan’s eyes when he sees Anakin.

“What were you doing?” Obi-Wan asks him. “Why were you...touching me?”

“Nothing!” Anakin yelps, knowing that is the worst response he could have given. “I mean. I was tending to you, Master.”

He winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Ah, kark.

“Don’t call me that,” Obi-Wan snaps, looking furious. Anakin wants to explain that he can’t not, that Master is as much as Obi-Wan’s name to him as Padawan is Anakin’s. “You mean to say I’m such a terrible person that I don’t just own a slave but a pleasure slave?”

Anakin thinks he must be blushing to the roots of his hair. “No!” he yells, much louder than he intends. “No, you don’t own me, M--Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan mouths his name as if it’s a new word. Anakin is about to break into hysterical laughter.

“I’m your apprentice,” Anakin forges ahead. “We use Master as a term of respect for our teachers.” He adds, “I was tending to your wound,” just so Obi-Wan doesn’t next think that Anakin was trying to take advantage of him or something. There’s only so many misconceptions he can deal with in one sitting, especially with the amount of panic that’s raging through his brain.

Obi-Wan looks achingly hopeful. Anakin supposes that without the memory of years of emotional suppression training, he’ll be able to see what his master is feeling more easily. He wonders if he could get Obi-Wan to laugh or smile. He’d kill for one unbridled grin from the other man, although there’s nothing joyful about the situation they’re in right now.

“You’re the best man I know, Obi-Wan,” Anakin tells him softly. “I know you don’t remember right now, but I promise you’d never do that to someone. You’re good. And honest and brave and kind and…” he trails off and looks away, crossing his arms over his chest as he’s hit with the reminder of everything he stands to lose if Obi-Wan’s memory loss can’t be undone. “We’ll get this fixed. It’s just temporary. I won’t let it be permanent.” He says the last part fiercely and mostly to himself. “I won’t.”

Obi-Wan smiles, just slightly and reaches out a hand. Perhaps his need to comfort a distressed Anakin is simply instinctive. “I believe you,” he whispers back. “I trust you.”

Anakin beams. And then he thinks of something else. For a second, he wonders about whether or not he should ask the question that’s burning up his mind, but he needs to know now that he’s asked himself. “Ma--Obi-Wan, why did you think that I was. Um. A pleasure slave?”

Obi-Wan’s blush is a thing of wonder. It could single-handedly keep them both warm on Hoth itself.

“Because of how we were positioned when we woke up,” Obi-Wan mumbles, burying his face in his hands. “And because you look like that.” The last part is said from behind his fingers.

Some sort of unfamiliar fire lights itself in Anakin’s stomach. “I look like what?” he prompts, barely daring to breathe.

But this Obi-Wan must not remember why he shouldn’t always be straightforward with the truth, especially to Anakin who he’s said he trusts.

(Obi-Wan trusts him!)

“Beautiful,” Obi-Wan says, so hushed and embarrassed that Anakin almost can’t hear it over the sound of his heart beating.

Inappropriately for their current situation, Anakin wants to crow in victory as the flame inside him grows larger.

Obi-Wan trusts him. At least on some level. Instinctively. And a part of him, stripped of his Jedi code and teachings and lifestyle, thinks that Anakin is beautiful.

He puts a name to the burning in his chest. It’s hope.

[the-final-sif]

Okay, so I think I’ve got a solid timeline of events for villain!Katsuki

Katsuki leaves UA just before the provisional license exam, he’s at the point where he no longer things the hero system can be fixed without outside intervention. He’s done with how the media acts, he’s done with the blame being shifted to victims based on their quirks, and he’s done with the lies he’s been fed all his life.

Prior to this he started researching and planning what actual change would look like and require.

He meets up with Dabi, who’d only let the rest of the league know about the bet a few days prior. He was curious if Katsuki would keep his word or not. Dabi prods Katsuki gently, saying he knew the kid took honestly seriously but he’s still kinda surprised to see him go this far over a bet. Katsuki replies explaining it’s more than the bet. He talks about what he’s seen, and the failure of hero society to change. It’s more than enough to convince Dabi.

Dabi brings him to a secure location, then relays information to Shigaraki. Shigaraki is hesitant, he’s surprised Katsuki came back to them, but when Katsuki explains his side of things, and with Dabi vouching for him, Shigaraki decides to let him in. He can understand what it’s like to fall for hero society. He did for awhile too. Katsuki just needed more time on his own to realize that.

There’s an introduction period, the league is still figuring themselves out and most of them are hesitant to trust Katsuki. It’s about a week before he’s properly reintroduced to everyone and gets the sense that they’re not headed in any particular direction.

After that week, Katsuki decides “fuck that, I’m going to do shit, y'all are coming along” and since Shigaraki doesn’t really have anything better in mind, he decides to go along with Katsuki’s plans.

UA started panicking as soon as they realized Katsuki was gone, but nobody really knows what happened to him yet. Since he took all his stuff with him, all signs point to him having run away.

Izuku refuses to believe that, and most of the class holds out hope for awhile, but as no evidence turns up, more of them start to think it might be true and start discovering the amount of harassment and guilt he was facing.

There’s about a month and a half period in which Katsuki focuses on getting the league in shape. During this period, they do a forcible take over of the Shie Hassaikai.

Overhaul is killed, Eri goes under Katsuki’s care, and the league is established as a much more powerful force.

The Hero Commission is starting to get nervous, but not overly so. Not yet.

After this month and a half, Katsuki makes his first public appearance as a villain.

He’s in an updated version of his costume, most of it has stayed the same, but he’s added what looks like muzzle to the costume that covers his mouth. The muzzle actually functions as face shield/oxygen system so he can move at much faster speeds safely.

Katsuki’s villain debut is a full scale attack by the league on the Hero Commission directly. An event meant that the Hero Commission had gathered in a relatively accessible location, and the villains take advantage.

Importantly, Katsuki is enforcing a policy of limiting needless harm or deaths, because it ruins their message. The league reluctantly agrees, so they’re being a bit more careful than they were before. However, they’ve still got a hit list for this party.

The list consists of officials who they have confirmation deliberately manipulated polices or actions of heroes at the cost of people’s lives, all for some private gain. They do a lot of damage, and manage to kill 7 people on their list.

Katsuki’s first kill happens here. Previously, he’d managed to defeat Overhaul, but wasn’t quite able to kill him. He just wasn’t ready.

Shigaraki took care of it for him, and told him it was fine if he needed time to learn to kill. He was kind and understanding about it in a way that was genuinely weird to Katsuki. Not only because this was all about murder, but it was the first time in his life that he failed and an adult supported him rather than punishing him for his mistake.

At this event, one of the people he takes down tries to appeal to him by offering him a position as a hero to save themselves, and that pushes him over the line. He ends it quickly.

The league escape afterwards, and footage plus eyewitnesses confirm Katsuki was there, and he didn’t say a word to anyone he attacked.

UA, the Hero Commission, and the media collectively assume / sell the story of him having been brainwashed. It’s the only thing that doesn��t make them look horrible.

Aizawa has been weighed down by a lot of guilt during all of this. He should’ve done more, should’ve reached out, but he’d been waiting for Katsuki to come to him. He’s tried to find Katsuki, but Katsuki has purposefully avoided facing him in battle as Aizawa is one of the few people he doesn’t feel like he could hurt or allow one of the other villains to hurt.

The attacks start getting frequent over the course of another month, primarily targeting the people behind the scenes of the heroic’s system, with a lot of other targets of corruption along the way.

On his third attack, Katsuki has his first run in with Izuku, the first of any of his classmates to face him in battle.

Katsuki refuses to speak a word to him, despite the fact Izuku heard him giving directions to Toga, and the two clash.

Katsuki manages to pull ahead in their fight, but he’s distracted from their fight by someone caught in the crossfire. He diverts course to protect them. Izuku was so hyperfocused on Katsuki he didn’t notice the person. It throws him off enough that Katsuki is able to win their fight complete his goal.

After their clash, Izuku’s finally realized Katsuki isn’t brainwashed. Given what happened, he can only assume it really is Kacchan making all these choices, which leads him to reflect on why.

 Between slowly uncovering what Katsuki was suffering through, and watching Katsuki’s actions and their very real impact, Izuku finds himself struggling with the idea of heroes as well. Most of Class 1-A and society as a whole really are.

Shouto & Izuku talk, and Izuku confirms that it really is Katsuki. Not a brainwashed version of him.

At the end of their conversation, Shouto assumes that because it’s really Katsuki, they’re gonna go join him. He defects, and is a bit surprised when Izuku doesn’t follow him right away.

Dabi almost has a heart attack over this, but he can’t really judge.

Shouto is accepted into the league after he and Katsuki talk and he apologizes for not having done anything. Katsuki doesn’t blame him for it, as he understands Shouto had no real sense of what was okay.

Eri gains a new older brother, and she could not be more delighted.

During this period, after the first attack, Hawks was sent in to infiltrate the league. Katsuki can smell the commission on him from a mile away, but tells Dabi to kind of let Hawks in anyways.

The league begins slowly working Hawks out of the Commissions control, before finally after about three months, Hawks realizes how shitty they are and defects properly.

A big part of this happens after Hawks finally comes to terms with the fact that Katsuki isn’t brainwashed, and after Hawks meets Eri and realizes how happy and safe she is with her new family vs how he felt at that age with the Commission.

By the end of that three months, a number of other class 1-A kids and a few kids from 1-B have dropped out of the hero course, or in some cases, UA entirely. The public at large has started to become more disconnected from the hero system as they start to see some of it’s major flaws. The Commission comes under more and more questioning and is seriously losing power.

During this same time, you’d expect to see an increase in crime, but you actually see the opposite.

Katsuki has been very careful and forged an alliance with the MLA such that they’ve been able to crack down on certain types of crime (domestic violence, quirk kidnappings, sexual assaults, etc) while also steadily funneling money into getting social services in theses areas.

This means that you start to see less crime, people feeling safer and more secure, even as the hero commission and system is crumbling.

All of this comes together after a year or two of solid in the form of the government submitting to a major reform driven by figure heads planted by the MLA, but only after the league manages to eliminate the last key figures standing in their way.

Since so many heroes have either fallen from grace, stepped back from the system, or been killed in certain cases, Izuku ended up as an unwilling symbol of peace due to his connection to Katsuki.

Izuku is tasked by what’s left of the heroics system with stopping Katsuki from killing the final major figure whose all that’s standing in the way of the reform.

Izuku, in the end, makes the active choice to step aside, giving Katsuki the key he was given to the room so Katsuki can get to the person to kill them.

Izuku finally decided that he’s had enough of this too, and he’s done defending a broken system based on ingrained ideals that don’t add up.

Aizawa is watching inside the room up in the rafters, he’s stayed a hero of sorts but still functions like he did before.

Inside the room, Aizawa had the chance to cancel Katsuki’s quirk and stop him from killing the person. Instead, he chose to close his eyes and let Katsuki go through with it.

Katsuki looks up to where Aizawa is once it’s done, and Aizawa realizes he knew he was there the entire time. He hops down out into the open and speaks plainly as he always did.

“I’m sorry.” Is all he can really say. There’s so much he’s sorry for. For not speaking up. For letting Katsuki be put through so much. For letting him be driven to this.

Katsuki looks at him for a long, long moment, before he finally looks away and shrugs his shoulders. For the very first time in years, he speaks to a hero. To the only hero who ever tried for him, even if it wasn’t enough.

“S'okay. The problem was bigger than you every could’ve fixed.”

“I should’ve tried. I should’ve done more.”

Again, Katsuki needs a moment to consider that.

“Yeah. Probably.”

There’s silence for a few moments, and then Katsuki’s radio crackles to life. Dabi’s calling him back.

They share one more glance, and Katsuki turns on his heel and walks out.

Aizawa watches him go. There’s nothing else for him to do. His right to change this story ended when he failed to speak up all those years ago.