#lol Echoes community sound off who’s not dead

[thunderyonder]

💞Rinea my beloved💞

[ryuuaka713]

Bungou Stray Dogs Dead Apple: “You used corruption, believing in me? How Beautiful.” A “DISSECTION” OF THE SCENE

I mentioned before in one of the posts by @nataliaphantomhivesblog​, where we were discussing about the corruption scenes in BSD, that the scene in Dead Apple is my favorite. So, I decided (like any SKK trash) to make an “analysis” of that scene, just to make a point why I like it the most compared to the other corruption scenes (as if this post is the definition of being productive like I’ll just wasting my time rambling here LOL)

I divided this post into two parts. Part 1 is the more difficult one where I am attempting to write some “character analysis”. While Part 2 is more about how the scene is composed (it’s pretty boring. I’m sorry)

I will NOT include the infamous Lap scene (I know. I know. We all love that moment. But I would rather focus on the scenes before that).

Side note: I do not specialize in film or literary critique, so really this whole post is just for fun. Thus, why I put quotes on the analysis. Take this is as my personal opinion where I’m attempting to make sense by making it sound “fancy”.

But anyway. Here it goes:

In every Corruption scene, the thematic notion is always Trust—as in Chuuya trusts Dazai well enough to use his ability so long as he is present to nullify it. It is a very life-threatening process, especially for Chuuya since Corruption, despite being one of the most powerful abilities, can cause self-destruction the longer he uses it. So, Dazai should keep a close watch on him at all times, and then even giving him a sense of comfort to compensate to Chuuya’s worn-out body and for his efforts. This is the same trajectory in all 5 episodes of Corruption, but out of all of them, what stood out the most (for me) is the scene from Dead Apple. 

This scene has amazed me ever since I first watched the movie. And while it just shows their infinite trust, the whole execution of this scene evokes more than just that thematic concept. What I see in this scene is something that all of us have already witnessed, but there is something unique in the way Dazai nullifies Chuuya’s corruption, and their dialogue may be just them bantering and yet, their tonality is different. It is as if, we just touched a moment that is reserved only for these two and we just happened to have the privilege to witness it. In other words, there is a sort of familiarity (or intimacy) and gentleness going on at this very moment—it is cathartic. This is what I want to look into—like how did we come to this?

PART 1: His Proper Partner.

In the Japanese version, ever since the episode where Chuuya made his first debut, they call themselves “aibou” (相棒), referring to a one-on-one partnership. While “nakama” (仲間)can also refer to a partner, it has a different connotation in which the closest English equivalent of that term would be “comrade” or “acquaintance”. The closest English equivalent of “aibou” is, to no one’s surprise, “partner” (or “pal”). And it makes sense, considering that the first kanji (相) can mean “mutual”, “together”, or “each other”. So, to have Dazai and Chuuya referring to themselves as that, it just manifests their familiarity on each other.

And in their case, their “familiarity” is both their advantage and disadvantage. It is a “disadvantage” because they use it to get on each other’s nerves (both in comedic and serious situations).

However, it also serves to their advantage, especially when they have to cooperate in the battlefield. This comes into light in the Lovecraft Episode where they executed Operation Shame and Toad—Chuuya acknowledges Dazai’s tactical mentality, whereas Dazai (as he referenced Chuuya’s mastery in martial arts) let’s his partner do the grunt work. Interesting enough, this is the same episode we first see Chuuya’s Corruption (but not the first time he uses it).

Using Corruption stipulates that “familiarity”, especially in Dazai’s part who has to be present to monitor Chuuya’s physical state, therefore he is aware, not just the consequence in using Corruption, but also of Chuuya’s limit. This explains why Dazai declares that he is aware of Chuuya’s moves and “breathing pattern”, otherwise, as what he himself says, he “won’t be a proper partner”.

What is witnessed in the Lovecraft Episode is the standard protocol that Soukoku uses when they are at their last resort. So, it is not a surprise that we get to witness Chuuya using Corruption, again, when he saves Dazai in Dead Apple, except it is done differently.

Even though Dazai is ten steps ahead of the enemy, the situation is still risky and even more complicated in Chuuya’s part since he is using his ability WITHOUT Dazai present. And that he has to save Dazai first before he can get it nullified. With that being said, it requires a careful approach, one in which they know the other’s moves—Dazai knows too well how Chuuya would react. For instance, the manga version of Dead Apple demonstrates how Soukoku communicates in their operation using “codes”. As such when Dazai got himself kidnapped, no one knew about his whereabouts until Hirotsu mentions about Dazai buying a microscope (to which it leads them to a dead end). However, Chuuya—upon remembering that Dazai teases that he needs a microscope in order to see him—demands to see that microscope, breaks it, and finds the transmitter. It is a well-planned strategy in Dazai’s part where all it takes is to leave helpful clues for Chuuya to pick up and catalyze the operation. In the Dead Apple movie, he does it again:

Indeed, for the audience, it is not new to see Dazai planning ahead and having ulterior motives behind his actions. It is not new to see Chuuya executing his plans and understands his motives either. But seeing these two working together despite those four years of absence, and without physically communicating is beyond human comprehension. Almost like the microscope scene, Dazai is not there to directly tell him about his plan. Chuuya doesn’t know about the antidote until that punch as his only “clue” is that Dazai is working alone, so he sees that something is amiss.

Seeing the critical state of Yokohama, Chuuya knows that he will use Corruption, but seeing Dazai’s corpse, it gives this uncertainty on whether they can make it out alive or not. And yet, what did Chuuya do? He jumped off the plane and activates his ability, knowing that there is “no time to chicken out” or else Dazai’s plan won’t work, and they’ll end up dead. Even if it means doing the job to protect the city, it still takes guts for Chuuya to work and place his life on someone he “hates”. Despite those 4 years of absence, the scene in Dead Apple just manifests that they never doubt each other’s capabilities. And to further validate this, let’s check out their dialogue:

           Dazai: You used Corruption, believing in me? How beautiful.

           Chuuya: Yeah I did. I believe in your disgusting vitality and craftiness.

           Dazai: That was a somewhat violent way to wake up Snow White.

           Chuuya: Tch. You’re the one who hid an antidote your mouth knowing I would punch you.          

Not only does this scene perfectly parallels to the Lovecraft episode where we see Soukoku bantering while still in a critical situation, it also emphasizes the degree of their trust and how that trust has taken root from their familiarity.

Dazai: You used Corruption, believing in me? How beautiful.

Chuuya: Yeah I did. I believe in your disgusting vitality and craftiness.

Dazai’s first line is the main idea of their partnership, echoing Chuuya’s quote from the Lovecraft episode: “I used Corruption because I trust you”. This is a vital aspect in their relationship since it has been stated before in Fifteen and Stormbringer that “no one has trusted Dazai”… until Chuuya comes into the picture. Ever since their first teamwork against Rimbaud, Dazai finally has someone he can rely on both in strength and assurance, even smiling at the fact that Chuuya doesn’t even deny his proposal but merely asks for his reason.

With that being said, then it is appropriate for Dazai to say that line, touched by the idea that Chuuya still constantly trusts him. It just reminisced so much from what they have as children that it seems to this day, they never forgotten about it.

On the other hand, in Chuuya’s end, he confirms that trust and provides a reason, which is appropriate since Chuuya is Dazai’s “reason-living” like in Fifteen:

Chuuya’s line—“I believe in your disgusting vitality and craftiness”—is very similar in the excerpt from Fifteen, and this just shows how that line from the movie indicates his familiarity to Dazai. By “familiarity”, I mean that he knows his partner’s mental process and motives (as I have mentioned above). In this case, it seems like Chuuya has seen something that he and Dazai have in common: the desire to live. Of course, the latter always craves for death, but with his new viewpoint on Death, his mission in fulfilling Oda’s wish, and the fact that he is tethered to someone who wished to live, Dazai just couldn’t die. And Chuuya, being his constant companion, knows this. This is why Chuuya “believes” that whatever plan Dazai has on mind, it will always work, and in the scenario in Dead Apple it starts by taking a leap into Corruption—which is ironically, the very thing that could kill Chuuya, and by extent, would cause Dazai’s death if the plan is not well-thought or if they don’t work together. By referring to his “vitality and craftiness”, Chuuya is acknowledging his familiarity on Dazai, admitting their “rotten relationship”, and justifying his trust on him.

Dazai: That was a somewhat violent way to wake up Snow White.

Chuuya: Tch. You’re the one who hid an antidote your mouth knowing I would punch you.

Another interesting thing I find in the dialogue is Dazai’s line: “That was a somewhat violent way to wake up Snow White”. Fans think that this is Dazai flirting, where he is implying that he wants to be kissed by Chuuya the same way the prince does to Snow White. For me, I think this little dialogue is more than just fanservice since it makes sense, not only in the context of the movie containing motifs of a “poisoned” apple. I think the reference of the fairytale in this dialogue not only foreshadows his “death”, but it also highlights their dynamic whenever they work together with Dazai acting childish and Chuuya knowing that he is actually being serious (or the fact that he cracks some jokes in most Post-Corruption scenes). This is still related to the whole “familiarity” theme that I have been rambling about; as mentioned before, Dazai and Chuuya would use whatever they know about each other just to rile each other up. These moments are generally meant for comedic effect, but these teasing and bickering can serve as their advantage.

Similar to the microscope scene I have mentioned, Dazai makes that microscope comment seem like a childish joke on the surface, however, Chuuya picks this up as a clue and sees his real motive. This kind of synergy is seen again in the prologue of the movie where Dazai jokes about Chuuya getting hit by bullets when he is in close range of the enemy, and yet, the latter takes it as a warning that an ability-user is nearby. We really don’t know if Dazai leaves a Snow White-related clue for Chuuya before the events in Dead Apple (it would have been pretty cool tho), but that dynamic in the microscope incident and prologue is very similar to that dialogue we see in the movie: Dazai is being playful, but Chuuya sees and calls out his ulterior motives. This is how Soukoku works!

PART 2: The Art of Catharsis

The relationship of Soukoku in the battlefield is one of the best teamwork we have seen in the anime. Both parties are synchronized in the way that Dazai’s brains and No Longer Human, and Chuuya’s fighting skills and Corruption perfectly compliment each other. Moreover, we also see the basis of that partnership, and this is something that the creators want to highlight in this scene (in other words, how did the animators deliver this dynamic?)

In my opinion, I think the words “gentleness” and “cathartic” fit in this scene. To start off, before this moment takes place, we have witnessed Chuuya fighting the Dragon.

That scene was intense! Chuuya activates Corruption, generates into pure destruction with him yelling Dazai’s name (despite the fact that he is not supposed to be in a proper mindset). The way this scene plays out is interesting; in the shot, we see the two main figures (the Dragon and Chuuya) mostly in red—which is a very vibrant color—in contrast to the blue and green background. By using the color that pops out, the attention is on them, and it is topped with the amount of action in that moment. Not to mention, the background music, containing a rock music and a rap, elevates that energy. It is a scene that heightens the adrenaline, so the audience can empathize with Chuuya—understanding him as a character that is full of life, and also his hastiness to kill it before he runs out of time.

When that fight is over, we notice that the music alters into a string orchestra. This is a very good change because the tempo is slower—a direct contrast to the rap music—as if it is slowly bringing the audience down from the hype in the fighting scene the same way Chuuya slowly goes down and hovers Dazai’s body. The music immediately stops right on cue when the punch happens, then the audience is left in silence. Usually in films, silence is used for the purpose of anticipation. In this case, the anticipation is placed on whether Chuuya’s punch and/or the pill worked and saved Dazai.

The transition from the white background into a blue background should indicate that Dazai is alive. And yet, the animators did this subtly rather than showing Dazai’s face (like in Season 1 episode 1), just so the audience is still in the state of anticipation (add that with the white noise in the background). Furthermore, there is a fairytale quality in that shot, like this is similar to when Sleeping Beauty (in this case “Snow White”) wakes up, that’s when the colors in the castle come back.

Getting close to that iconic shot, I love how the animators keep the “camera” in the same place (Chuuya’s face), that way we can further empathize with Chuuya by seeing a close shot of his state: he was at his limit! But as soon as the blood starts moving away from the screen, we can see a bandaged hand moving to his face. And then, finally!

Words cannot describe how much I appreciate the details of that scene, especially on Dazai’s gesture. He moves his hand slowly but quick enough to nullify him right on time. Not to mention, he does not just touch his cheek but rather cups it (look at the shape of his hand!). One can say that the gentleness in Dazai’s gesture is the exact opposite to Chuuya’s punch, and this sort of contrast further highlights the catharsis in this scene. In other words, after all of that intensity with the fight and seeing Chuuya’s bloody state, it is relieving to see that familiar hand touching him, indicating that Chuuya can rest. And seeing that we witnessed and empathize with him, we know what it feels like.

With that being said, that’s why the third shot above where the hand is fully placed on his cheek and he made a short gasp is my personal favorite. It is the contrast in Chuuya’s face where we can still see “Corruption”, and Dazai’s hand to which he activates “No Longer Human”. I have seen some people complaining about how they want to see Dazai’s face in this scene; personally, I think this scene is animated brilliantly as it is. It is only fair to see a close up of Dazai’s hand to indicate that he is nullifying “Corruption”, after all, “No Longer Human” is works through touch. To top it off, the beauty in “not seeing the face” is more powerful because it leaves more to the imagination—we don’t know specifically what kind of face Dazai is making, but the way that hand moves alone is enough to tell us what he is thinking at that moment. And finally, upon contact, we see Chuuya making a slight twitch—this is when Corruption recognizes No Longer Human and deactivates. This is when Chuuya recognizes that familiar touch and knows that his partner is finally awake, so he can finally rest.

Then we have that iconic shot! Like the one I mentioned above, the camera stays in one place, only this time, it is a long shot, so the focus is on them (thus they are on the middle). Interesting enough, there is no background music in this scene, and we can’t see their expressions. Usually, in this anime, when a character is seen faceless, in order to determine what they are thinking are feeling, the animators would usually make them do a gesture or a dialogue.

In this scene, where everything is silent and their faces “unseen”, our focus goes to their exchanges. Both Mamoru and Taniyama use their “bedroom voices”, and I think it is appropriate considering that their dialogue contains a deeper meaning in regards of their relationship. In other words, as mentioned before, it may seem like another day of bantering, but with their tone, there is something sincere and intimate in what they are saying. Also, the playfulness in Dazai’s comment and Chuuya’s response hits different compared to their other moments of constant yelling. You really don’t need the close up of their faces in order to see that they are at peace in each other’s company.

In addition, the color scheme of the scene is predominantly blue, which makes sense, not just because of Dazai’s ability, but also because it highlights the serenity in the scene. The blue color, the orb, and the bandages that glide silently are animated in a way that they buffer out the red that we have seen back with Corruption, and also indicates a sense of “protection” (which is later seen in the lap scene when Dazai has to protect Chuuya from the fog). In short, the ambiance perfectly fits with how Dazai is there to give Chuuya a sense of comfort in Post-Corruption, letting him rest so that he can compensate for all that he did.

**********

The scene in Dead Apple is something that lies in between of the familiar and the new—we have seen Dazai and Chuuya in this situation before, we know how they function as a team, and we know the level of risk they are taking. But this is something that we have never seen before; like subtleness in his gestures, the softness in their tones, and the fact that these two are in a position where they are saving each other, which becomes part of their instincts. They show how much they trust each other by knowing how much they knew of each other. They acknowledge the fact that their fates are tethered regardless of the years of absence. And finally, it is not just the Prince saving Snow White, but rather: the Prince saves Snow White and Snow White saving him in return.

OK, I just literally fried my brain. If you’ve read this far, I thank you so much for your time! I am so sorry if this is too long. I welcome for any critiques or discussions. So yeah, that’s my ted-talk

[aggressivelyclueless]

ouija board

in which it gets out of hand. . . but only a little

warnings: v spooky

(heads up this one’s kinda long, whoops lol)

(@qoinq-qhost u were looking for more danny being a lil shit? vvvv)

Sam was just about ready to get the seance rolling.  Thundery and weeping outside, candlelight inside - it seemed like a good night for it.  This time around, there were four of them: her, of course; Felicity, from third-hour, had brought the board; her bestie Star (who Sam had almost uninvited, as she hadn't been deemed goth enough, but she owed Felicity a favour and letting this slip was it); and Star's boyfriend-of-the-week, Jake (also not goth, and very much on thin ice).

They sat clustered together on the full-moon rug in Sam's room, a jumbo bag of Chex Mix forgotten on the floor by Jake's backpack.  Only the little brown bits were left.  "You're host," Felicity was saying, scooting up into a proper cross-legged sitting position and centering the board on the carpet between them.  She produced the most important piece - the polished wooden planchet - and dropped it into Sam's waiting palm.  "You start."

Star opened her mouth, almost thought better of it, and then asked, "Are we going to get a demon?"

"That's not how this works," said Felicity, shooting Sam a look to keep her quiet.  Felicity had the tolerance for questions like those, and the patience not to be cross.  "We're not summoning demons.  We're communing with the dead.  There's a difference."

"Is it still going to be scary?"

Sam bit her tongue.  With luck, it would be, and she wouldn't have to deal with Star's antics next time, whether they were at her house or not.

"I don't know," said Felicity, "Maybe.  We've never done one at this house before.  We might not get a ghost at all."

Sam shrugged, setting the puck down in the center of the board and keeping her first two fingers on it.  The others scooted closer, getting comfortable, and followed suit.  The candleflames throughout the room were perfectly still.

"Is there anyone here with us tonight?"

For a moment: nothing.  She glanced up into the empty air, as if she could spot a slinking shadow on the wall or a flickering shape hovering by the ceiling.  She couldn't, even though she wanted to.

Then the slight pull of the token under their collective fingers, and the drawn scraping sound as it crawled slowly across the board: YES.

So they weren't going to come up empty tonight.  She glanced over at Star, wondering how intense things would get before she'd bail.  Sam was certain that, at some point, she would, or maybe she was getting her hopes up.  Star didn't exactly look like goth material.  All things considered, this was probably the wrong scene for her.

But she had owed Felicity that favour.

"Why are you here, spirit?" Felicity asked, shifting a little in place.  Right to the point.

The planchet under their fingers was still.  Sam knew the rules better than anyone: if the ghost chose to answer, it would have to tell the truth.

The ghost chose not to.

Star's eyes darted to Felicity, but there was a hesitation before she spoke.  When she did, the words were wrung-out and barely there.  "Ask him if he's friendly."

"You ask him," said Jake, nudging her with an elbow.  Between the four of them, he was the least invested in the endeavor, seeming more bored than anything.  He shrugged, trying to scoot his letter jacket a little higher on his shoulders without having to take his fingers off the puck.  The jacket refused.

"Okay."  Star took a deep breath, turning her eyes back to the board.  The planchet, for the time being, rested on YES.  "Ghost," she said, somewhat uncomfortable at directly addressing the dead, "Do you mean us harm?"

Immediately, she could feel the wooden puck go cold under her touch.  It slid off YES, veered partway across the board, and went still again.  The chill at her fingertips vanished.

"Don't like the looks of that," muttered Felicity.  "Sam, you think we should call this one off?"

Sam gave it a moment of consideration.  "I don't know.  Maybe, but not yet.  Let me try once."  She cleared her throat.  "Spirit - will you tell us your name?"

The planchet didn't have to think about it this time.  Star could feel the cold tingling in her fingers again as it moved, slowly but deliberately, and spelled out: JAMES.  She frowned.

"What's your purpose here, James?" Felicity ventured, but the ghost revealed nothing.  The silence stretched on; finally, she sighed.  "Doesn't like me much, does he?"

"I don't know," said Star, which she thought sounded better than a flat-out no.  It didn't do any good; Felicity was already looking a little put-out, and Star reached up with her free hand and patted her on the shoulder.  "Don't feel bad.  We still like you plenty, even if that silly ghost doesn't."

Sam fought back a groan of distaste.  Whatever Felicity saw in Star, Sam was seeing none of it.  She wanted to tune Star out, didn't want to see her so distracted as if communing with the dead was a mere game.

If things started to hit the fan, Sam was sure she'd never want to come again.  In fact, she was starting to count on it.

But would provoking the ghost be worth it?  "James," she said, still contemplating it, "Why are you here?  What is it you're seeking?"

The puck meandered for a moment, as if conflicted.  It rested on the empty part of the board between F and S, turned around, and aimed mostly toward H.

That was when Star jerked her hand back, as if the planchet had burned her.  All of a sudden she seemed to be paying attention; Sam wondered if she had finally realized what, exactly, they were dealing with.  Whether she did or not, it was too late.  She'd disrupted the connection.

Sam had never seen it, but she'd heard the stories of what happened at sessions when someone did that.

Every single candle around the room went out at once.

"Star, what the hell," said Felicity, "Remember how earlier I said you couldn't do that - "

Star's already-high-pitched voice was pinched.  "Sorry, sorry!  It's just it got cold all of a sudden, I thought he wanted me to - "

Sam scowled in the dark.  "What are you talking about, no it didn't - "

"It did so!  Just now!"

"Oh for fuck's sake, I knew we shouldn't have invited you - "

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

The flash of lightning through the window made the ghost into a spindly and angular silhouette, floating in the air by the glass and jolting Star and Sam both out of their argument.  The planchet on the board, still under six fingers but by now forgotten, shot out from under them and flew across the room, bouncing off the side of the desk and skittering somewhere under the bed.

Oh, it was hitting the fan now, all right.  "This is your fault," Sam hissed through her teeth, glowering in Star's direction, but already her mind was racing to find a way to appease the disturbed spirit.  She'd held plenty of seances before, but generally found audience with lesser or fragmented dead.  Only twice had she been forced to close a session early.

Never had she met such an angry spirit before - and not only was it angry, it was in her room.

"Ideas," Felicity snapped, in an effort to keep Sam from boiling over, and in the same effort to keep Star from tears, "What do we do?"

"Run, maybe?" said Jake, but the sharp and thunderous BANG from the walls around them cut him off.  His eyes darted to the door, but it slammed itself shut before he could get up to his feet and make his escape.

"Hold on a sec, guys," said Sam, "Jake, sit down, we're not done yet - hang on, I said!  I got a flashlight."  She groped for her backpack, brushed over one of eight plushy spider feet, and yanked it unceremoniously into her lap.  Half-unzipping it, she produced the promised flashlight and clicked it once, twice, a handful of times in quick succession as nothing happened.  "Shit.  Shit shit shit - "

"There," Star whispered, her eyes fixed on the shadowy side of the room behind the bed.  She pointed with one manicured finger, making the rest of them turn to look.

The ghost was only there for an instant, hanging in the air as a smoky and ill-defined shadow against the hazy grey light from the window, but flickered away an instant later.  The pounding rain outside almost masked the haunt's staticky and echoing laughter.

Felicity put a hand over Sam's and tried not to squeeze it too hard.  Her fingernails dug in a little anyhow.  "Do you think we can still close this out?"  She didn't sound too hopeful.

"No," said Star, with a sudden and bone-chilling certainty.  "He's staying."

Sam looked over at her, agape.  How can you know that? she wanted to say, but her mouth had gone dry and she couldn't force it to move.  Star's eyes were on her; just for a moment, Sam swore there was a glint of something behind their usual blue-grey, but it was there and gone before she could be sure.

"We're staying," she said again, and this time Sam heard the echo in it, and this time the glint of green in her eyes lingered.  The ghost had her, appearing as a dark and swaying wisp in the air behind her, hands on her shoulders, keeping her still and calm.  Her eyes - the ghost's seyes - were on Sam, and a sudden, absurd thought struck her:

Isn't James his middle name?

The knot of rising terror in Sam's gut broke, and cold tingling relief poured over her.  For a moment she let it, willing the adrenaline to fade and the pounding heartbeat in her ears to settle, and then shifted gears.

That sonofabitch, I'll kill him for this one.

"No, you're not."

Star's head and the shadow's head cocked to one side in unison.  "No?"

Sam was locked on the spirit but her voice was directed at Felicity (and Jake, but to a lesser extent).  "Come here."

Felicity hesitated.  "What, are you serious - ?"

"Come here," Sam snapped, setting her first two fingers on the center of the board, ignoring the fact that the planchet was still misplaced somewhere under the bed.

"I don't like this," Felicity whispered, but followed Sam's lead regardless.

Star's fingers came out and rested gingerly on top, and Sam was certain that, underneath the veneer of shadows, the ghost was smiling.

"You listen to me, James," Sam commanded, with a seriousness that made Felicity and Jake both flinch, "You'd better get out of here."

Star's mouth turned up in a smile.  "And why's that?"

"Because if you don't, I'll banish you into next week."

"Sam," Felicity breathed, "I don't think that's such a good idea - "

"I'll do it," Sam reiterated, cutting Felicity off.

The smils on Star's face widened.  "Promise?"

Then the fingers on the board were moving, overcome by a pins-and-needles sensation that turned the board to static beneath them, and came to rest solidly over GOOD-BYE.

"See you then. . . "

Sam looked over and Star looked back at her with those big blue eyes.  She didn't seem distraught but Sam had to wonder how much of what had happened she'd remember.  She'd heard on several occasions that those puppeteered by the dead didn't tend to recall the influence, and Star wasn't horribly upset.

Still - she felt that ghost had crossed a line somewhere.  Crashing a seance, fine.  Overshadowing at said seance, even if he'd picked the least-favourite attendee?

That didn't sit right.

"You okay, Star?"

Star blinked once, twice, then cocked her head to one side and smiled.  "Of course I'm okay," she said, as if she hadn't been overshadowed at all, but the next thing out of her mouth, spoken with the utmost certainty, sent a chill down Sam's spine.

"He wasn't really going to hurt me, you know.  He let you win."

- - - -

Sam shut the door as the others left and then rounded on the ghost.  "I know you're still here.  There's no way you'd dip after a stunt like that."

(Damn right I wouldn't) said the shadowy thing under the bed, hauling himself out of the darkness a moment later.  In the light from the ceiling fixture overhead, the shadows fell apart, relenting to his more human texture and shape, and he shook the dustbunnies off once he got up to his feet.  In his hand was the forgotten token that went with Felicity's board, and he held it out to her.  "This is yours?"

Sam grabbed it from him, and only then did he get the impression that she wasn't entirely happy with him.  "You could have given me a heads-up, y'know."

"Hey, I was in the area, thought you could use a hand.  For goth cool points, or whatever."  Danny shrugged, leaning back and half-sitting on the side of the bed.  "I mean they do think you can scare off a real ghost now."

"And what the hell was with you overshadowing Star?" Sam went on, and at last the dopish grin at the corner of Danny's mouth vanished.  "So, okay, maybe I didn't want her to come.  But that doesn't mean you get to - "

"Wait, wait, hold on," Danny put a hand up in concession, "I didn't - well, I mean I did, but.  Listen for a sec, okay?  You don't like her, fine.  But I think something's up."

"Something's up," said Sam, nonplussed.  She crossed her arms, leaning back slightly in the desk chair and making it creak.  "You overshadowing people as a joke is what.  And whatever you were telling her in there, guess what  She remembers it now."

"That's what's up," said Danny impatiently, "I didn't tell her anything."

That made Sam pause.  "What?"

"You heard me.  But that's not it, let me say something else too.  I swear I'm not making this up: she saw me the second I drifted in the window.  I'm invisible and she's looking right at me.  The whole time.  It was like she was watching me."

"Bullshit," said Sam, wanting to believe it was.

Danny shook his head.  "You heard what she said.  After you banished me into next week."

"That you let me win," Sam recalled slowly.  In the moment, it had struck her as dumb-chills naivety on Star's part, but the way that Danny talked made it sound like she was serious.  Perhaps she'd just wanted to think that Star was that stupid.

"She knew it, and I didn't tell her.  I'm dead serious, Sam, she practically invited me to overshadow her.  I didn't even have to go all the way in her.  You saw it."

Sam had most definitely seen it.  "And what does this mean for the rest of us?  Or for you?  You're gonna tell me - what, she's going to miraculously guess you're half-ghost too?"

"I don't know - but you saw her the same as I did.  She wasn't scared of me.  Hell, I gave you guys a name and she was the one that didn't call me by it.  Like she knew it wasn't quite right."

"I get it," said Sam, thinking that maybe she would have been just as well off not calling him that either, "But what are we supposed to do about it?  Are you saying we should invite her onto the team?  Or what?"

Danny sighed, running a hand through his hair and letting it come to rest on the back of his neck.  He shrugged helplessly, his gaze picking out dustbunnies and imperfections in the floorboards at his feet.  "I don't know yet.  Keep an eye on her, maybe.  See if she starts saying things.  She's not as stupid as she looks, Sam.  Low bar, I know, but the last thing I need right now is somebody else to have to watch out for.  I know you don't like her.  I'm not asking you to."

He met her eyes then,  and the earnestness in them struck her.

"Just, don't let that put her in the way, okay?"

[leupagus]

aw, yay prompts! Star Wars/Rogue One - Luke/Bodhi and summer hook up AU or urban street magic AU. Or Jannah/Rose - Heist AU. Or Rivers of London - anything with Molly for that food truck AU. Definitely just pick and choose as interested, or I can send these as separate asks, lol

Star Wars - summer hookup & urban street magic AU

Bodhi ducked down another alleyway, pulled off his hoodie and tossed it in a convenient bin. Then he took a deep breath and turned around, hands in pockets, trying to look casual. It probably wouldn't work. yn had been trying to teach him about sneaking around — "it's called spycraft," she'd sigh at him — but Bodhi couldn't ever shake the feeling that he was always himself, no matter who he was pretending to be.

Sure enough, he turned right out of the alley and ran smack into the someone.

"You all right?" said the voice, concerned and warm and — familiar, but who the hells did he know in this godsforsaken city? Other than the Jedi, who hopefully was still back at the square with his thumb up his arse.

Bodhi looked up into the face of — "Luke," he said, his face going hot and gods, this is why he shouldn't be given any kind of responsibilities! He was good at Imbuing, not Wayfinding; although maybe this was an aspect of his abilities, that ensured he'd escape the Jedi but get caught by the one person he'd like to see even less.

Though that wasn't accurate, really, it was more that he didn't think Luke wanted to see him, after that night last summer and waking up the next morning to an empty bed and—

Bodhi was still mid-spiral when he caught sight of the rest of Luke's getup — a black cape and black suit underneath, one hand loosely cradling a saber.

Luke's eyes were wide and blue and still just as beautiful as Bodhi remembered. "Oh, shit," Luke said. "You're the Rogue?"

"You're the Jedi!" Bodhi protested, but even while his inner Jyn was screaming at him to run or kick Luke in the balls or pull that stupid cape over his head, he could feel himself starting to smile.

Because Luke was beaming at him, radiant as the sun. "Well," he said, tossing his straw-blonde hair out of his face, "I had to get your attention somehow."

Star Wars - Heist AU

"Please put your heads on your hand," said Rose, trying for "calm and authoritative." She might have even hit it.

The woman opened her mouth, then closed it again. "You mean my hands on my head?" she offered, and demonstrated.

"Right, yeah, sorry. This is my first day," Rose said, which probably wasn't the right thing to tell a robber? But also she could hear Finn in her earpiece telling her that he was thirty seconds away and also that she was doing great, which was reassuring, even if the woman in front of her was still holding the...whatever she was holding. "Um, actually if you want to put the thingy down on the floor, that would probably be good," she added.

"Oh god," she thought she heard Finn mutter, as he put on an extra burst of speed.

"The thingy," said the woman, sounding a little offended. "Honestly, if you can't even—"

Just then another woman, white with her hair up in odd little pigtails, came careening into the room. "Let's go!" she yelled without slowing down.

"Catch," said the first woman, throwing the thingy at her.

It was gold and kind of heavy, and Rose dropped it immediately, but they were already gone. "Well, fudge."

Finn's footsteps echoed in the hallway and he burst into the room, holding a taser in one hand and a flashlight in the other. "You okay?" he asked, breathing hard.

"They got away," she said. "Um, I don't know if they were really trying to steal—"

Just then the police started turning up, and the fire department, and all in all it was almost an hour later when Rose was shown the thing that the woman threw at her, now safely ensconced in an evidence bag. "It's a — oh shit," she said.

The detective, some old guy with an accent that might have been Midwestern or might have been just lazy, gave her a slight smile. "Yeah, it's oh shit all right," he agreed. "And guess what else they left behind."

The next morning, Finn came in with an actual physical copy of the Boston Globe; there on the front page was the two of them and Director Organa at the impromptu press conference in front of the museum. Underneath the photo was an array of each returned art piece, or at least pictures of what they'd looked like before. Rose had seen some of the rolled-up paintings and knew it would be months, if not years, before any of them were ready to be displayed again.

"We look good, though," she said, and Finn handed her some copies of the paper so she could send them to her sister and parents.

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum Return Heist was the subject of months of news stories, three documentaries, and a Netflix miniseries, but it wasn't until almost five years later, when Rose matched with a beautiful woman who liked crossword puzzles and base jumping on Nerdster, that they had the first indication of who exactly had brought the artwork back.

Rivers of London - food truck AU

They always came at dusk, the two of them looking like something out of a supernatural anime about demonic domestic staff. They systematically worked their way through the entire menu, which took them about two weeks, and if the rumours were right, then they'd bugger off.

The food truck community, insofar as there is one in London, operates mostly through mutual follows on social media, uneasy alliances at the various festivals and fairs that require our services, and ruthless undercutting when it comes to the best spots in the City to ply our wares during the lunchtime rush. But word gets around about certain customers, and it went around like wildfire about these two. They always paid cash, tipped lavishly, and only the man ate, but the woman would sit or stand next to him with a notepad, scribbling furiously as he quietly talked to her — describing the food, maybe, or plotting world domination. It was generally understood that they were a pair of stone cold freaks who you prayed would just finish up their weird assessment of your food truck and leave.

Only, the day before they sampled the last item on the menu — one of our sides, a fried plantain that Bev swears could make the dead get up out of their graves with demands for seconds — I let them know that there'd be a special on offer tomorrow.

I could hear Abigail snickering behind me as the gentleman — with those suits and that cane, it was the best epithet I could come up with — lifted an eyebrow. "Indeed? And what will this special be?"

"Well, it's special, isn't it?" I said, laying on the Kentish Town charm with a grin and a shovel. "You'll have to come back and try it. Otherwise you won't have a complete understanding of the menu."

The woman nodded, solemn as ever, but the gentleman looked suspicious. "Until tomorrow, then," he said, with another squint at me.

Abigail joined me at the window to watch them go, arm-in-arm into the fog like something out of Casablanca. "So has anyone figured out what website they work for?" she asked.

"I don't think they do," I said, as the fog swallowed them up. "I think they're just weirdos."

"Weirdos you invited back for a special that you haven't even invented yet," said Abigail, with the kind of insight that makes her a great line cook and a really annoying cousin.

"Well, good-looking weirdos," I allowed.

[leo-gold-hotchner]

The Sinner -6

I had a bad cold and problem with my uni a bit. I hope you guys are all safe and stay healthy!

Last part til the epilogue, thanks for everyone who stayed with this series. I realised I’m not fit to write a long series with chapters lol

I admit I like to see Hotch suffer... but in the same time I want him to be happy

Criminal Minds BAU x Gender Neutral Reader

Word Count: 4k

Warning: Swearing, perceptions of suicide, blood, death, torture, UnSub Reader

“All warfare is based on deception.” – Sun Tzu 

“You are the UnSub.” 

“Am I now? There’s no concrete evidence to pinpoint me, is there Agent?” 

“It’s all circumstantial, I know I can’t accuse you now.” 

“So this is what, off the record?” 

“Why did you give us the hints?” 

“You know the answer, you know why I’m doing it.” 

“He wants me to kill you on the spot.” 

“Did he now. He’s the bigger fish. Why don’t you be the fisher?” 

“And you be the bait?” 

“He wants me, doesn’t he?” 

“I don’t make a deal with criminals.” 

“I’m not a criminal, yet. No charge no verdict yet. Well, Agent Hotchner, are you up for fishing? In the end, the fisher will be the only winner.”

                                                  -BAU-

 “Detective!” 

“Yes?” 

“Could we talk privately?” 

“Yes, what is it?” 

“I’m going to gamble with my life, will you help me catch them?” 

                                                   -BAU-

7th Day 

With a throbbing head, Hotch finally returned the world of living. The light was too bright for his eyes, he frowned and groaned, hearing some voices. This wasn’t what he planned, being battered by something. He shook his head to shake drowsiness, instinctively he tried to use his arms, but they were tied behind. His memories played back what had happened before he lost his consciousness, and with widened eyes he scanned the room he was in. 

There were other people too, who were just like him, tied on the chair. The other three were in the dark, while Hotch was just under the bright light. However, even in dark he still could see two women gagged, and one man limped over the chair lifelessly. He thought one of the women resembled the woman who was taunting him at the alley. A man under the dim light, he looked about to die with yellow liquid slowly flowing down from his skin. No, was he already dead? Hotch’s nostrils flared as he now detected the smell of burned flesh. He then looked over the other two, they were trying to untie the rope, wriggling and wresting but it was useless. Where the hell was he? With an echo of footstep, and sudden brightness blinded him. 

“Finally, you’re ready to join the world of living, aren’t you Agent Hotchner?” The familiar voice, but unlike before there was madness in the voice. “Take your time, as you know you’re not on my list. I won’t hurt you.” 

Hotch blinked a few times to adjust himself to the light, his ears perked up as he heard a sound of dragging. He saw L/N straddled on a wooden chair, comfortably placing arms on the back of the chair. 

“I had to change my plan because you arrived. I’m just surprised Robertson contacted the BAU for help. I mean, he’s too prideful to ask for help from others. Especially you lots.” The scientist shook head a little with an amused yet sneering smile. “But then he called you to catch me, didn’t he? He wanted you to kill me.” Hotch didn’t answer, just gazing the orbs which amusement and madness mingled together. “Alright, silent treatment.” 

L/N stood up, and the agent’s body tensed as he studied what the scientist was doing. His eyes followed the scientist’s whole move, not even glancing at the two women in the respective corner. L/N dragged the chair which the man who looked about to die in front of Hotch, ignoring the two women who were glaring daggers at the scientist. 

“Meet José, José meet Agent Hotchner.” L/N introduced the men as if they were in a social gathering, Hotch shuddered inwardly. José couldn’t even open his eyes to see the agent, he was barely breathing. Hotch held his breath for a moment as the smell of burn flesh and blood surrounded him. “This is, Acedia, the Sloth, who is about to die.” L/N said cheerfully as if talking about a recent good movie to a friend. “They say a person who committed sin of sloth is put into a snake pit.” The scientist wrapped an olive-coloured long cloth on both hands. 

“Don’t.” Hotch’s head shook lightly, looking at the scientist pleadingly. This isn’t what supposed to happen. 

“Why not?” 

“It’s not worth it. Is killing this man worth for your time in prison? Your death?” 

“Tell me, agent. Have you killed before?” L/N asked with interest as the scientist wrapped the cloth around José’s neck delicately as if wrapping a fragile china. The man finally opened his tired eyes, looking frightened. Even if the man suffered horrendously, he wanted to survive, he wanted to live. 

“Yes.” Hotch looked into the frightened man’s eyes, guilt washing over him for cannot helping the man. The man was screaming for help silently but he couldn’t do anything. His hands were tied, only allowing him to watch the man to suffocate. 

“That’s as an agent isn’t it?” The scientist grabbed the cloth tightly, ready to pull, “what about as a man? Have you killed?” 

Hotch’s jaw tightened, his mind replaying the day when he killed Foyet with his bare hands. This person was trying to convince Hotch, to justify the all murders. 

The scientist rolled eyes as Hotch didn’t answer. “Then I’ll do the talking, you just listen.” With strength, L/N pulled the cloth to opposite directions to tighten the cloth around José. José let out a pitiful chocking sound, his feeble limbs struggling against the scientist powerlessly. “Look at him, Agent Hotchner.” L/N’s breath was a bit shortened from pulling the cloth, ignoring the agent’s plea for not to kill. “This man, is one of the reasons why my husband died.” José’s eyes soon rolled back, his limbs slowly falling. “I know your friends are coming for me.” The scientist finally released the grip on the cloth, kicking the man’s lifeless body along with the chair to the ground. “I’m sure you knew Robertson was going to kill you and he is involved.” L/N smiled thinly as Hotch looked up. “He’s the boss of this organisation. I want to bring him down.” 

Without a warning the scientist pulled out a Glock and dragged one of the women. The woman had blonde hair with stunning blue eyes, but her eyes were filled with hatred and fear. 

“I don’t want to kill him unlike others. However they thought, the scums I killed were afraid to die. But Robertson is more afraid of public knowing his crimes. Always worrying about this good reputation. I’m not going to make him a martyr who was killed by a killer for chasing me. I want people to know what he’d done and accuse him for everything he’d done. These two are Ira, Agent Hotchner. They’re assassins working for Robertson, killing many people who were in Robertson’s way.” L/N ungagged the woman who started to say something vehemently in a foreign language after spitting on L/N’s face who wiped it without anger. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, and, sadly, I don’t fucking care.” The scientist drawled in disinterest, then with loud bangs, a couple of bullets were embedded into the woman’s both knees, making her howl in pain. “We don’t have much time, Agent Hotchner. Help me, then you can arrest me.” 

“I don’t make deals with criminals,” Hotch gritted his teeth. In the back of his mind, he was battling with himself. Will this be another Foyet? Will he lose another family because of him? He didn’t want to lose anyone because of his action. Hotch didn’t want Jack to suffer because of who his father was. 

“Okay,” L/N shrugged as untying the woman, kicking her out from the chair who hissed in pain. “You had your chance, Agent. You kicked the two chances I gave you, you didn’t grab it. I’ll kill them, but their blood is also on your hand.” 

“Liar! You said you would help us get rid of him!” The woman spat, trying to crawl and stand up. 

“I said, if you lure Agent Hotchner, I’ll make Robertson pay. Not help you kill him.” The scientist rolled eyes while gesturing towards the woman to face Hotch. “I know it’s hurt but please do try to kneel in front of our honoured guest.” L/N sighed as the woman didn’t comply, so the forensic just kicked the back of her knee and grabbed her hair roughly, facing Hotch. “Look at her, Agent. This is the face of a killer. You insist I shouldn’t kill them and put them in the prison. You saw the list, she killed them along with her,” L/N pointed the back with a thumb. 

“If I make a deal, will you not kill her?” 

“It’s too late for that, isn’t it?” The scientist smiled lazily. “Don’t feel guilty about it, Agent. She’s just another killer just like me.” Blood splattered on Hotch’s face, silent wailing of a woman in the dark echoing the room. Blood slowly gurgling out from the head, her face probably ruined and won’t be recognised. “Are you disgusted because I killed her? Or are you disgusted because you’re powerless and couldn’t save her?” 

                                                  -BAU-

Rossi clenched his teeth as he felt Robertson’s smug smile from behind. Everyone packed, and was following the veteran profiler outside the station. As if Rossi was going to let Hotch pay for what the Police Captain did and for his own foolishness to gamble with his life. He lost too many people dear to him, he was not about to let Aaron die. No one talked as Rossi drove and everyone followed silently, the younger profilers were curious when Rossi brought them to a hotel. 

“Our lovely Captain might be listening to our conversation if we discuss anything in there,” Rossi said quietly as they were in the hotel lift. 

“I thought you had to book to get a room?” Reid read the drink menu of the hotel roof café on the lift wall. 

“Money, Spencer.” Rossi smiled smugly for the first time after Hotch’s disappearance. Prentiss and Morgan snorted, and JJ hid her smile from her friend. 

As they arrived at the room, they quickly set up everything. Morgan turned on the laptop so they could communicate with Garcia who was asking them if they found their Unit Chief. 

“For now, he’s fine, I believe.” Rossi replied, taking his jacket off. “If Robertson had Aaron, he would’ve showed us Aaron is captured.” 

“Then who has Hotch?” Morgan asked in frustration, walking in a small circle like a caged angry animal. He already knew the answer, but he had to ask. 

“The UnSub.” The older profiler shook his head. “Hotch suspected someone, but he kept it himself, saying it was dangerous for now to speculate. It’s my fault he’s not here with us, I should’ve asked him. I don’t know where he got the notion.” Rossi frowned deeply. Aaron was the leader of the team, but that didn’t mean he had to take all the burdens and responsibilities. 

“JJ and I have a theory, and we think it’s one of the forensic team.” Prentiss quickly explained why they thought like that and picked a few names who’d been helped the investigation or attended the investigation. It was a rough theory, but right now, they needed everything even a smallest thing to save their leader. 

“Hotch’s been awfully interested about F/N L/N, didn’t he? He’s been asking about L/N to Lee or others.” Morgan asked the team, though his eyes were on Reid who could remember everything. 

“He did, whenever he was gone, he was usually talking to L/N.” Reid narrowed his eyes as he searched his memory of the past seven days. 

Everyone looked at Morgan when his phone echoed, tensed up and wanting it to be their Unit Chief. “Morgan speaking,” the muscular agent answered the call. 

He furrowed his brows and hastily turned on the TV. As he changed a few channels, there were news talking about Robertson being involved in an organised crime. Everyone couldn’t take their eyes off from the news as the news send out a photo of the police captain, a letter sent to the broadcasting station was being read off by the newsreader. 

“Where’s Robertson now?” After silence, Morgan hung up the phone and banged the table with his palms. “That was Santangelo, he said Robertson rushed out before the news. He and Lee are on their way to catch up to Robertson, but I’m not sure if they’re close.” 

“Pen, check the captain’s phone record!” JJ quickly asked her friend who yelled ‘on it’ over the phone. JJ pointed the television with her thumb. “Does it mean now the Internal Affairs will be involved?” 

“Perhaps,” Rossi shrugged. “It was a matter of time really.” 

Reid quickly skimmed the letter and a list on the screen before it could disappear from the screen. “Those are the list from the Kim’s journal. It’s just a copied version.” 

“Anyone can access the journal if he or she works at the station.” Prentiss nibbled her nail. “It could be anyone, but it may be the UnSub, wanting to expose Robertson.” 

“If it’s the UnSub who sent the letter, why not kill Robertson? The UnSub’s been killing others. Does the UnSub have an ulterior motive?” Morgan questioned. 

The team was starting to mind mapping what they knew, the gears were slowly but efficiently starting to roll. Reid took out a large white paper and a marker to draw some information that could lead to their UnSub. 

 “If the UnSub sent the letter and the list to accuse the Captain, then they want to publicly denounce Robertson. They’re socially annihilating Robertson’s reputation.” Rossi crossed his leg while supporting his cheek with his fingers. 

“This is clearly personal to the UnSub. The victims were killed in controlled anger, everything has been calculated and resulted in how the UnSub wanted. Denouncing the ‘good’ captain via media shows the UnSub loathes him enough to humiliate him publicly, perhaps including the police.” Reid glanced at the news which was still going about the respectable police captain and the alleged crimes. 

“The UnSub is closed to Robertson, they planned to kill the victims to warn him that there’s no escape for him. They know Robertson would choose death rather than his crimes exposed to the public,” JJ added. “Do you think he will kill himself?” 

“It’s possible, but right now, I think it’s more like Robertson went to kill the UnSub himself. By killing the UnSub, he’d say he was wrongfully accused by the UnSub.” Rossi shook his head a little. “But before that we’ve got to know…” 

“I got the phone record! And it’s spooky.” Garcia’s loud voice cut Rossi’s sentence. “The call was from Nikola L/N, and he’s been dead for three months.”  

The team looked at each other, recalling Detective Nick L/N being the forensic scientist’s husband. The said detective was shot dead, though they didn’t know the detail. But it seemed the puzzle could nearly be solved with that information. 

“Tell us about the detective’s death, we need detail here. Go into the police database. We need to know everything to save Hotch.” Rossi urged the technical analysist knowing she’d hesitate about it for a second even though she’d hack CSI or other agencies for her team. 

“Ur, yes, well, just give me a second.” As Rossi expected there was hesitancy in her voice, but for the Unit Chief, she’d do it in lightning speed. “He was found at his home, but it seems there had been a debate whether it was suicide or armed robbery.” 

“So, they don’t know?” Morgan crossed his arms over his chest. 

“No, the report later states it was robbery. But the state of the body looked like it was suicide. The detective was shot dead, but his body was in the bathtub in cold water. Let me send it to everyone’s tablet.” In a minute the screen of the tablets simultaneously turned on as the tablets received the report. 

“How come that was concluded as robbery? It looks like suicide to me.” Prentiss raised her brow, tilting her head to the side. 

“The house was totally in mess and according to L/N, some items were gone when it was reported.” Garcia replied helpfully, and JJ shot her head up from her tablet her eyes locked with the brunette’s. 

“Did L/N have any alibi?” 

“Yeah, was at the station when it happened and everyone who worked on that day saw L/N.” 

“Wait,” Reid frowned as he drummed his right elbow with the other hand. “I think he was killed just like the others. It’s possible it’s neither suicide nor robbery.” pointed the photos of the victims with the marker. “Remember when I told you why they were killed in such manner?” 

“It’s how the Seven Sins are punished in Catholic.” Prentiss replied matter-of-factly. “Yeah, and envy is punished by being drowned in freezing water.” 

“Oh my.” Garcia gasped. 

“So, you think L/N killed the detective, the husband.” Morgan mused as he raised his brows. “Making it look like a robbery by messing the house and tell them a few items are gone. Being a forensic scientist L/N might know a thing or two to confuse the investigation.” 

“Maybe,” Reid’s eyes quickly scanned the report on his tablet. “The residue from his head does look like suicide. But, there had been dragging mark on the floor… And, no blood was found?” 

Rossi finally said after hearing from his colleagues. “What if it’s been set to look like a robbery?” 

“That’s what I said?” Morgan gave the older man a little frown. 

Rossi gave a little huff of laugh at the younger man. “No, what I meant is, what if it has been a suicide and the UnSub or whoever it was, set the place looked like it was an armed robbery?” 

“Why would anyone do that?” Garcia asked over the phone. 

“There are many perceptions on suicide, some people see suicide as a sin, or some thinks it’s dishonourable and a coward’s way. But there’s also a view that suicide is a way to be freed.” Rossi filled the technical analyst with a shrug which she couldn’t see. “Let say L/N is the UnSub and Detective L/N killed himself. In that case, I think the suicide had been set up as an armed robbery to look like the detective didn’t die from ‘dishonourable’ death.” Rossi just nodded at the younger profilers. “I know it sounds strange but there’re lots of people with different perceptions and views.” 

“Well, if that’s the case, L/N will know how to confuse the investigation.” 

“But the only connection we know is that Robertson got a call from the detective’s phone.” Prentiss shook her head. “How does the detective’s death connect to this?” 

“What if the detective had a connection with the organisation? It might explain why Robertson ran out after answering the call from that particular phone.” JJ frowned at her team. 

“Do we have any other choice than talking to L/N?” 

                                                  -BAU-

The front door of L/N’s house was wide open, and its doorknob was lifelessly loosed downward as if someone entered with force. It was Lee’s suggestion they check L/N’s house first when they lost the sight of Robertson’s car. His mentor gave him a strange look, but Lee just shrugged and said Agent Hotchner gave him a little tip before he’d gone missing. Santangelo and Lee looked at each other in alarm, and took out their respective gun and entered cautiously. With his gun in his hands, Lee moved stealthily around his friend’s house. He’s been in this house several times, but currently the house emitted ominous aura. It felt different from the last time he visited the house. No one was there. 

The older man called Lee when he found an opened trapdoor leading to underground inside the garage. Lee never seen the trapdoor before even though he’d been to the garage before. A grey mat was lying next to the trapdoor as if the mat finally wanted to reveal the existence of the door to Lee. The two men nodded silently and headed down, trying not to make any sound. It was rather deep, and they were both surprised to find how one could dig such underground. His friend once mentioned about the renovation before, but he wasn’t sure if that when this underground was built. In distant they could hear several murmured voices including something like groaning. As they walked further, there was bright light where they could recognise the voices. They were still talking as if they didn’t notice the two men. 

Santangelo and Lee hid themselves under the shadow of water tank and a dark shelf that were full of tinkering staff. Robertson was there as Lee said, and Santangelo couldn’t help but feel betrayed by the ‘good’ captain everyone believed to be. From the shock of seeing his friend with a gun pointing down at a woman on the floor, he couldn’t even blink or breath for a short moment. His friend, with a gun standing just like a killer. While the veteran detective readied himself with his gun and recording device behind the tank, Lee pointed his gun towards the captain and watched where this was going. Robertson was standing in front of L/N who was shielding a figure behind L/N. The source of groaning was from the woman under the L/N’s boot who was very much bloodied from assault. But Lee wasn’t sure if the woman would live or die soon from the state. 

“It’s done, L/N. You’ll never win this game.” Robertson growled like a furious animal. 

“This is all game to you isn’t it?” L/N spat while watching Robertson with a contempt look. “That’s why you called the BAU. Probably called them because you were curious who was killing your ‘associates’,” the scientist air quoted, “then as it kept escalating you were worried about being exposed of your deeds. Go on Captain.” L/N smirked and threw the gun to the far corner. “Kill me and say the world you were falsely accused, and everything was staged by me.” 

“F/N L/N, Bill Robertson, you’re under arrest.” 

Both Santangelo and Lee emerged from the shadow holding their guns towards Robertson. With a surprised look, the Captain whirled around and in that brief moment he chose to shoot Lee first. But before he could fire the gun, Lee didn’t miss that tiny movement of Robertson’s finger and the young detective fired his gun, aiming Robertson’s hand. Lee’s heart thumped loudly as the bullet grazed his cheek and Robertson howling with pain, crouching to ease the pain in his hands. L/N looked at the detectives with widened eyes, then laughed hollowly. 

“Well, Agent Hotchner, the fisher wins. Rather anti-climactic if you say.” 

Without a word Lee took out handcuffs and L/N simply held the hands. Santangelo kicked the gun and called the ambulance, looking down at the Captain in despise. Not long after several footsteps echoed the underground and soon the room filled with the other BAU agents. 

Santangelo and Rossi talked while waiting for the ambulance for Robertson. Reid and Morgan quickly went to Agent Hotchner to help him on his feet, especially Morgan lending his shoulder to Hotch. JJ and Prentiss went to see the woman in front of Hotch and L/N but shook their heads to the others. There were two more bodies in the room, but just with the first glance, they all knew both of them were dead. 

“I guess no dinner for me tomorrow,” L/N said to Lee who gritted his teeth. “Just a day longer and I would’ve made to the last dinner with you guys.” 

“You could’ve told me what was going on.” 

“What’s done is done. Nothing can change the past.” L/N looked back for a moment and with tired eyes Hotch looked back at the UnSub.

@evans-dejong

[x-nerdingss-x]

Your Turn

Summary: 1943. Janus is employed as the town's telegram boy.

Context before the story if you don’t know what a telegram boy is (if you do, you can continue reading): It's basically someone, typically a young child or teenager and men who couldn't enlist or be drafted due to medical conditions or religious beliefs, who isn't drafted for fighting during WW1 or WW2, works like a postman, except their job was to deliver letters to families with members that were sent from the member's officer/higher positioned commander.

These letters weren't typically sent from the solider themselves telling their family of their experiences in the war front, but news such as the family member who fought either died during action, M.I.A (Missing in Action; normally from running away during battle or their body cannot be retrieved and therefore missing) or P.O.W (Prisoner of War; typically captured by enemy lines and like M.I.A, usually never returning back to family).

Usually telegram boys worked in towns or cities, but were generally avoided by the community because their job was to bring the unfortunate news of disaster from the front lines to the home front. They would also serve as a comfort tool for grieving families that were affected by the letter, but also delivered last letters written by the soldiers, photographs, jewellery and money - anything with value that is to be sent to the families as a memoir.Hopefully I taught someone something new today lol.

Happy reading-

(You can read this on Ao3 under XxUnknown_IntrovertsxX)

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1943

It was early morning in a remote town, the sun rising from behind the hills with pale blue and purple colours swirling together to paint the new day. Yet to be hot for the townspeople, many were outside to do their daily activities before it got too warm, the summer heat too unbearable for anyone. Of course, it wasn’t sandy, with grass growing lightly in muddy hills near outback huts many made as homes. A light breeze blew over to the town, the heat slowly growing closer.

On a bicycle, a teenage boy travelled to the town’s post office to collect mail for the day. Putting on his black newsboy cap, the boy also wore a black and yellow striped cloak to protect his skin from the dangerous sun, yellow gloves to prevent sweat slipping from his bike handles. He said thank you to the post man behind the counter, and bid them farewell as he buckled the letters at the back of the rack of his shiny yellow bike. Yellow, so many people could see the boy clearer.

Except, that was the issue. The boy rode on his bike, and others in his town went inside their homes immediately. He would admit, it hurt the teen a little; he only wanted a few shillings like the workers in his hometown. Mothers pulled their children away from the boy, and the yellow teenager even glanced at a parent who pointed to the boy, giving the child a disapproving wag of their finger and told them to stay away from him. He knew what he was doing was the unthinkable for any family during these unprecedented times, but there was no use for being a newsboy in a small home either. Adjusting his cap, he looked onward and visited the first house.

He knocked on the door, holding a mustard splatter of an envelope in his grip. Waiting for the mother to open the door, the boy hummed as he knew who owned the house. Mrs. Realeza. Her son Remus was a friend of the boy and Roman a mere acquaintance… although someone he wouldn’t particularly talk to. The letter in his hands twisted his gut inside. He knew exactly what it was, and he gulped down his feelings. Knocking again, he rocked on the balls of his feet and tilted his head from the lack of response. What he was aware of however, was the mother was behind the locked wooden door, holding her breath with her hand covering her mouth. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and the boy knew she was the same as every other mother he had to encounter. It was still a saddened thought to consider.

The telegram boy was not supposed to know she was there.

“Mrs. Realeza,” The boy said, keeping his voice firm for the mother despite threatening to waver. “I know you’re sobbing from behind the door, but I think it’s best to know the truth.”

“No Janus, please go away - If I don’t read it, then the truth doesn’t exist.” She could feel her body shake uncontrollably, her soft whispers of denial were heard through the door. Janus mumbled to himself, controlling his own attitude for what the letter meant. In truth, he didn’t like his job, much preferring a different job; but he also felt a sense of justice when he gave the townspeople these letters. It would spare them much grief if they knew when the news came, instead of waiting for someone non-existant to return home after years of fighting a war.

“Mrs. Realeza, I don’t have two letters for you. You should know which son it is-”

“I SAID GO AWAY - NONE OF MY BOYS ARE DEAD! THEY ARE TOGETHER, THEY ARE ALIVE-”

Janus huffed, leaning his face against the crack of the door instead. “I am legally not allowed to open your letter, and even then I am against such manners. I could read it for you, with the permission of course.”

She wept quietly, wiping a tear from her eye before getting up to open the door. The mother knew what the boy was doing, and even if she hated him and his job, she couldn’t help but remember that one of her sons is a close friend of the telegram boy. He shouldn’t feel such pain or sorrow from reading the letter first hand; it was just his job to deliver them instead. A click echoed through the crack of the door, and Janus stepped back to allow room for the mother to see him properly. Clutching on the letter firmly, he had another hand behind his back. She took the first letter, and Janus waited until she read the first letter to reveal his second hand.

“Oh Remus… my baby boy…” She whispered in disbelief, her eyes dashing through the lines of the letter. Janus sniffled quietly, snaking his second hand to her. Held was another pale yellow envelope addressed to her, and he frowned when he caught a glimpse of her disbelief. Hiding one side of his face, he revealed the white, discoloured pigment of his skin and looked at her with his blurry eye instead. He couldn’t bear gazing at her grief. Hesitantly reaching out for the second letter, the mother screamed in pain as the boy recoiled from the sound, shoving the letter to her before rushing off to his bike to escape her fury.

“YOU LYING SNAKE! YOU SAID THERE WAS ONLY ONE LETTER. BOTH MY BOYS ARE GONE - YOU LYING SON OF A-”

“I had to lie, because you wouldn’t open the door otherwise.” Janus hopped onto his bike and prepared himself to dash off.

“NEVER STEP FOOT ON MY PROPERTY. CONSIDER THIS THE LAST TIME YOU’LL EVER SEE THIS HOUSE AGAIN.” She slammed the door, effectively shutting the boy from any connection he had to the family. Janus swallowed his bubbling tears, taking his hat off to give a moment for both the lost lives of Roman and Remus. His hat hovered over his chest, covering his heart with his head down. He may not have liked Roman, but even he felt a sense of sorrow for his lost life.

Two letters down, and sadly just a few more to go.

-*-

Biking around the small town, Janus took a moment for himself to find the next house. He felt the cool, metallic chain around his neck bumping into his chest, a necklace hidden under his shirt. He didn’t have a moment to think earlier, especially after reading the first letter he had to deliver, but now only one person was stuck in his mind during the whole fiasco. Janus knew fully well of the necklace, a photo of his Patton, the faith of his journey. From meeting each other in their childhoods, both boys felt a separation between them when Patton was drafted into the war just a little over a decade later. It was a shame, since Patton was 18 and Janus fell short being 17, but he promised to join Patton as soon as he could, just so they could be together again. Just a few months, Janus could be deployed to where his friend is.

He much preferred fighting than delivering the fate of those who are gone.

Janus arrived at his next house, preparing himself for giving the next letter. He also knew who this house belonged to as well, being an ex-friend of the boy. What he didn’t know was he was deployed to fight, and it didn’t sit comfortably with the knowledge that he was also gone into the hands of death. Knocking on the door curtly, he waited for the ex-friend’s father to open the door and receive the letter. It should be better; in Janus opinion, to get it over and done with. He didn’t want to suffer through the grieving process of Virgil - he doesn’t want to admit that he already cried when they departed, to only cry again when it’s fact that they’re both completely separated.

The dark oak door opened to reveal the old man, and Janus gave him an awkward wave to the man. “For you, sir.”

Unlike Mrs. Realeza, the old man gently took the letter from Janus’ jittery clasp, already aware of how uncomfortable the situation was. “Thank you, Janus.” His face curled up unnaturally, his eyes squinting to hold in his tears. Virgil… his son…

Janus had to pray for Mr. Ansia’ that night. He already knew he lost his friend, but he couldn’t dare think of how hard it was to lose his son. He would admit, he didn’t have a close connection with Virgil, and bowed down respectfully to his father before trailing off to the next house. Janus wanted the meeting to speed up, rather leaving to deliver the next letter before lunch than to remember the ex-friend that just died on the battlefield with the friend's father standing emptily on the porch. Even if Janus didn’t like Virgil, he would be a fool if he ignored the few happy times they did share. Janus would be a bigger fool if he denied that the same happiness would arrive again.

-*-

He went back on his bright bike, but didn’t speed off as quickly as the wrath of Mrs. Realeza. Instead, he rode slowly. He took his time, recollecting the memories of Virgil and taking his moments to remember him as a fallen man. It was ironic; their arguments were always about worth, and Janus can safely claim that Virgil held more worth. Despite his unnerving energy and negative views of the world, he also faced the challenges to prove something else entirely, and the yellow boy couldn’t help but respect that courage. It wouldn’t be long now; he’s counting the days till he can be in the battlefield and see Patton again.

His heart fluttered when he thought of Patton, a small smile curling in his lips and closed his eyes to imagine the soon-to-be encounter. What could he say? Oh how he missed him. He missed the golden curls, the baby blue eyes and toothy smile the other would wear a lot. He missed the blue shirt and grey cardigan hugging his shoulders, but Janus couldn’t wait to see him again in his military uniform, wearing it alongside him with pride. The boy didn’t notice he went off trail to the next house, and turned into a small corner to where it should be. A shortcut, in a sense.

Unlike the previous three letters, he didn’t recognise the next house as well. He only saw a boy walking inside it once from the way home from school, a year or two above his own. Janus only started high school whereas the other looked like he was attending for a while, far too tall for his already short legs.

Arriving at the house, he took a few minutes to gaze at the place before stepping foot to break the news. Familiarising himself with the neatly tended gardens and swing set on the porch, he also noticed how it was made from brick compared to the lazy wooden timbre for structure. An outdoor lamp sat coolly under the shade, small flickers of light bounced from the electricity the house swam with. He was far too distracted, never noticing the parents who chatted together near the fence of the front yard. Taking a glimpse of them, Janus could tell the older boy wasn’t just an ordinary student. With a house that looked neat, tidy and well mannered to his parents, Janus could assume he was rich.

The mother had her hair wrapped onto a bun, wearing an all black dress with a cardigan to protect her forearms. She had a large hat on top, with black and blue feathers puffing the look. The father looked no different, except for the dark blue tie and white shirt tucked under his black pants. If Janus had to guess, they looked rich; possibly a scientist or business owner. It would make sense if the older boy could continue learning for so long, since many high school dropouts like Janus had to quit from the lack of money to continue.

“We assume you’re the telegram boy?” The man asked, strolling over to him. “I’m afraid you’re a bit too late, since we just came home from his funeral.”

Too late?

“What has to come I say,” The mother said. “We would appreciate what his officers said though, check if he managed to make any colleagues while fighting.” She neatly folded a handkerchief she held onto a pocket of her dress. “Come inside, I’ll get us some biscuits to pass the time.”

Beckoning him to come, Janus propped his bike against the wooden fence and followed them past their blooming garden. It didn’t sit right inside him, as if he was intruding inside a home of someone who passed rather than like he was a guest. A little funny though… the parents didn’t seem so shocked or surprised by their son’s death, almost like they expected it to come.

China plates were displayed in the cabinet by the kitchen, which was down the hall from where they all entered. It was a big house, like it was small from the outside but bigger on the inside. Janus could spot the living room just a few metres away, with a fireplace and television - wait, television? How rich are they? He wanted to sneak away and inspect the television, never imagining to see one for himself. Of course, it would be considered rude, and he was named Janus Classy Sanders for a reason; named from Patton, who he wore the title with pride.

“We never thought he'd come back in the first place. Despite our protests for him to stay, he wanted to join anyway for the opportunities granted for him after. He even said if he died, we would collect the military funds he organised for us.” His father said when he strolled to the kitchen. Grabbing some drinks and glass, he settled them on the table and waited for the teenager to join them in the room. “We don’t even need the money, thinking of giving it away in fact.”

“Perhaps you’ll want it dear? You look like a smart boy. Would you say you wanna go to university? It would be nice for a kid from this town to go to one anyway if he wasn’t the one to do it - a shame, since you’re the only kid in this town left.” The mother quipped, changing from her black to a cosy blue. Janus blinked from the odd behaviour, but thought nothing of it.

“I stopped high school just a few months ago because we couldn’t afford the classes. Working for the money is fine,” He said.

“But we insist. Logan would’ve wanted the money to go towards an education than to nothing anyway - he was going to be a teacher you know? Teaching children who couldn’t afford schooling anymore.”

Logan?

“I mean, if it’s a good cause…” Janus trailed off. He would admit, he would like the money and actually finish what he wanted to be in the first place, a lawyer, and Patton always said to strive for opportunities if it meant for the better. “Would you both like the letter?” He asked.

“Oh sure,” Janus handed Logan’s father the letter first, waiting patiently as he scanned the letter from the officer first. A simple message, nothing grand or extravagant. “It seems he only had a letter from the officer, dear. No comments from anyone else, friend or colleague.”

Both Logan’s parents took a moment of silence, frowns evident in their faces. A sense of melancholy washed over the room, and Janus gulped down the unforgivable sadness. A tear welled up in their eyes before either of them could mutter, wiping them off quickly and returning to a blank, apathetic look they mustered in front of the telegram boy earlier.. “Shame…”

Janus bowed his head before taking his leave, after they explained how the funds would work. After the discussion however, Janus noticed the sun rising steadily north and bid them farewell, his mind curiously checking them from behind the walls to sense any distress. He knew some families held a ‘front’ in front of the boy, acting as if it’ll comfort him from the terrors and reality of war. His head sunk when he heard a female wail from behind closed doors, knowing this was the reality as well.

-*-

“One more letter, just one more,” he told himself when he got back to his bike. The seat was warm and the metal too hot to touch with bare skin, but he hummed when he picked the letter up to see who it was for. “I wonder who it’s for…” He sang the last line.

J. Sanders.

From: US military division, officer T. S.

Janus ceased his eyebrows when he noted the letter, ensuring it was a telegram instead of a normal letter. He knew it should be a telegram, delivering them to almost half his town, but he never received mail anyway. Not even Patton sent him letters for a few months now, so what could this mean? Strolling to the undercover shade with his bike, Janus plopped himself on a grassy hill nearby Logan’s house to read the letter. He should’ve probably given it to his mother, as it could’ve been a relative who had their tragic demise (although, did any of his family join the war?)

He took out the necklace that had Patton’s memory and clutched on it. At least it felt like he was there with him to read the letter alongside him; he was always better when it came for emotional support. Slowly tearing the letter open, he took note to keep the envelope in a decent condition, so if his mother were to read it later, then the letter should be nicely protected. The yellow mustard of a colour was boring into Janus’ mind, and he yanked the letter from the envelope before he could overthink the contents. The worst that could be was Patton, but that’s his mind spitting nonsensical ideas.

Opening the envelope, he slowly rubbed his thumb over the page, the ink print trailing over the touch. All he had to do was read the first letter of the note, and the strong, cold-fronted boy to other widows/vilomahs/orphans could now feel the same feeling of those who grieved: the loss of someone they deeply loved.

Janus. C. Sanders,

Patton Walds, a member and soldier of the US army in participation in WW2 is M.I.A. His father was killed in gunfire just a few weeks earlier, and is suspected Patton was missing since 1st November, 1942. If there was no letter written during those few months, then it is safe to claim he is missing in action. As a dear friend, it is to commemorate his loss, as it is recorded of his lack of family to write to. Contents are included in this letter, such as a necklace he disposed of before his missing report, as well as letters that were kept with that necklace.

Sorry for the loss, and may your prayers be heard.

Officer Lieutenant T. S.

Janus blinked quickly, a tear shedding onto the paper held in his hands. He quickly wiped his face to avoid smudging the ink, knowing his mother should read this with him later. A small cry left his mouth, his throat closing up and his breaths quickly pacing into short gasps. Patton - Patton, no, his friend, why? They were meant to meet just in a few months, they were so close to seeing each other again. Janus took a few deep breaths before he could empty the envelope’s contents, a letter and necklace left to show Patton’s last moments of existence. A pain gripped inside his chest, and he tugged on his hair when more thoughts of his disappearance flooded his mind. Why? Why?

A golden chain fell onto the lively grass, although it felt like nothing when Janus skimmed over the long blades of green. His touch felt numb against the chain, skipping the cool, cold chain and instead opened the locket that hung with the necklace. A photo of him was printed onto the locket, with Patton hugging him from behind. As he closed the locket, he trailed over the faint graving of a love heart printed onto the metal. He slid the locket off the chain, and took off his own necklace to add the new locket beside his. His photo of Patton, with a swirly snake engraved instead was together with the heart of his friend.

Janus picked up Patton’s last letter, his expression curled into a scowl when he whimpered out the pain inside him. The words became a blur to him, from both his watery vision and his mind’s struggle to comprehend the scenario, let alone the words printed on the page. He didn’t want to read it - he couldn’t read it. Soon a small wail tugged inside him, clenching his fists as he curled up into a small ball. He was alone in this remote town, the summer sky blazing over his dark clothing and slowly burning his skin. The boy didn’t care.

Now, he supposed; he knew how the other families felt. Logan’s parents were right, their words spat like facts instead of a simple statement. He is the only kid left in this town.

It was his turn to grieve.

[illnessfaker]

[ cw: f-slur, rape mention ]

no reblogs pls. this is a long vent.

haha not to be a hysterical faggot crippled shut-in freak or anything but the way ppl talk abt the defensiveness around the f-slur that some gay/bi male users (and some transfem users) on here as if it's some kind superiority pissing contest thing and not primarily about...respecting the boundaries and experiences of those gay/bi male (and transfem) users. like...being on this site as a fag-adjacent person (i say that half-jokingly because it sounds silly on one hand but on the other that's the most accurate descriptor of my gender identity, lol) is becoming increasingly draining and upsetting with how "progressive" homophobia against gay/bi men is apparently becoming, like, a meme among lgbtq people and that's acceptable somehow bc lgbtq people aren't cishets or because it's "only online" and therefore doesn't matter.

like idgaf abt ppl who aren't gay/bi men (or transfem) using the f-slur in every single context possible. if they're affectionately referring to their gay/bi male (or transfem) friends with that word (so long as said friends are comfortable with it) that's one thing. who cares. i even rb'd something where a cis butch (iirc) lesbian was talking about a gay man she knew who she was affectionatly calling a faggot and the things she said warmed my heart. if they're throwing it around at every opportunity or using it as an edgy insult against random strangers on the internet, that's another. the users on here who do the latter also regularly display behavior that like...shows a pretty clear disdain for gay/bi men (or transfem ppl) not apart of their online or "irl" circlejerks and echo chambers, and that is in no way disconnected from their love of using the f-slur, lol.

the "it's only online and so it's unimportant uwu go outside" thing also really feels like such a spit in the face as someone who both lives in a rural area full of cishet white men with guns that might try to kill me if i walked out of the house in drag (not to mention i live with my bf and his family and his parents are homophobes themselves i'm sure), and is also someone with health issues that usually keep me at home and in bed when i'm not working. i didn't always live here but even in my hometown the only "lgbtq space" i had was the high school GSA which didn't do shit other than the day of silence and was attended by people i did not feel safe around (e.g. my ex-friend who was very emotionally manipulative and ended up raping someone.) i don't have any other lgbtq spaces to go to other than online ones. if i never joined tumblr i might still be a self-hating cishet girl, or i might be dead, who knows. like, i've accepted at this point that personhood isn't something i'm allowed in (outside of my whiteness) so fuck me i guess if we need to but the idea that other young, impressionable, and/or traumatized lgbtq people who only can meet other lgbtq people and learn about lgbtq things online for whatever reason don't deserve to have us make an effort on cultivating internet spaces that are as accessible and safe for them as possible, or that their experiences and feelings are somehow unimportant is just...vile. like ofc not everyone needs to "pander" to "logged on" disabled fags like myself maybe but if you have any kind of large following on social media maybe consider that the things you say and do on said social media have like...an actual effect on other people instead of pretending that it's "just online" and therefore consequences for your actions either don't matter enough (to you personally) or somehow don't exist.

but going back to the fag thing, most popular lgbtq tumblr users on my dash i see nowadays just...simply do not give a shit whatsoever about gay/bi men, to the point they're normalizing "progressive" and "acceptable" homphobia against us bc they've convinced themselves due to the bigotry some gay/bi men (often cis, white, and wealthy mind you) exhibit we are "the cishets of the lgbtq community," despite horrific violence still being committed against us every day and despite other lgbtq people being capable of engaging in that violence themselves. ppl make thinly veiled jokes and memes where the punchline is men having sex with each other or effeminacy as if those things aren't primary avenues for gay/bi men being abused, assaulted, and killed (including acts of abuse and assault of a sexually-driven nature), as if said jokes and memes don't serve to normalize the mentalities that drive homophobic hate crimes. it's not like...a coincidence that most lgbtq people who makes these jokes aren't gay/bi men (or transfem). this doesn't even get into how things like homophobia and anti-effeminacy can pretty much boot certain gay/bi men from manhood...or womanhood...or any place in gender altogether.

call me exlusionary if you want but i think it's fair to say that the chances of people who aren't gay/bi men (or transfem*) facing the repurcussions of those mentalities in any meaningful way, the chances of these people actually having lived as or going to live as "faggots" is any meaningful sense is slim to none, and that's why they're so comfortable participating in this shit, and that's why i'm triggered(tm) by them "reclaiming" faggot (which doesn't really involve reclamation bc calling random strangers on the internet or gay/bi men you hate a slur isn't reclamation you morons), because frankly if you're not apart of either of those groups, you're just not a fucking faggot. it's not your word just because some rando on overwatch called you it for picking hanzo in comp. period. end of story. it's also just extremely absurd to try and claim faggotry as something you experience while...readily and happily engaging in homophobia and fag-hate (which isn't synonymous with the former term but i'm talking abt ppl who probably seldom ever engage which discussions and theory surrounding how homophobia instrumentates itself in society - or at least that which doesn't conform to their worldview). within the gay/bi male community there's plentu of masc "straight-acting" gays who weaponize this shit against fem gays and they (should) get held accountable in the same way. you're not special.

and god, being told my gendered experiences as a fag-adjacent person where (white) cafab women are fully capable of engaging in social forms of "oppression" against me and other fags in undeniably gendered ways is somehow an outlier and therefore not reflective of broader social by (white) masc urbanite tbros with definitively more social standing than i'll ever have in my life, as if i somehow developed this understanding of gendered violence just based off my own life and not...the reported and sometimes even recorded experiences of countless other fags who get mocked and silenced because anything that deviates from a watered down, shoddy cis feminist take on gender is fake news(tm) or bordering on saying misandry exists (like no it doesn't exist but acting as if homophobic shit like anti-sodomy laws, for example, has zero to do with gay/bi men's manhood is just nonsensical). convos on here abt gender being mostly dominated by (white) cafab women or sometimes (white) masc trans guys is such a mistake lmao.

anyway i'm tired and stressed and pretty done with having "acceptable" homophobic shit shoved in my face on a daily basis both online and offline but nevertheless i must persist because i'm not lucky enough to have anywhere else to go, really. just...think critically abt ur actions regarding gay/bi male sexuality and gender-stuff pretty please. please.

( *disclaimer just in case that i definitely don't see transfems as some "type" of gay/bi men. there are transfems who identify with gay/bi manhood and/or faggotry. there are transfems who don't. that's entirely up to them. thank u. )

[bigprettygothgf]

Why would u id as a commie when places North Korea exists lol. Are u that dumb or are u just being performative on tumblr to be relatable

Rabies is the fifth studio album by Skinny Puppy. It was released on November 21, 1989 through Nettwerk. The album notably features Ministry frontman Al Jourgensen (credited as Alien Jourgensen) who performed electric guitar and vocals on several songs. The album spawned two singles, "Tin Omen" and "Worlock", the latter of which becoming one of the band's most recognizable songs. The cover art was made by longtime Skinny Puppy collaborator Steven R. Gilmore. In 1993 the CD edition was reissued by Nettwerk to correct mastering errors in the original release.[1]

Rabies was a commercial success for the band, but received mixed reviews from critics upon release, several of whom drew parallels between the record and Ministry's style, both favorably and unfavorably. A joint tour with Ministry, KMFDM, and My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, dubbed The Mutants of Rock Tour, was planned but ultimately cancelled when Skinny Puppy ended its commitment to the project.

Recording and production[edit]

Most of the band's previous albums had been mixed and produced by the group's "fourth member" Dave "Rave" Ogilvie. For Rabies, lead singer/songwriter Nivek Ogre brought in friend and Ministry frontman, Al Jourgensen. Ogre had met Jourgensen during the recording of the PTP song "Show Me Your Spine" in 1987. Ogre later toured with Ministry (Ogre can be seen and heard on the In Case You Didn't Feel Like Showing Up video and CD) and would also go on to provide vocals for Jourgensen's side project Revolting Cocks.[2][3] The other two members of Skinny Puppy, cEvin Key (drummer) and Dwayne Goettel (keyboardist/synthesist), did not approve of Jourgensen's takeover, creating a "glacial coldness" between the band members.[4][5] A couple years following the release of Rabies, Key mentioned to Alternative Press that he believed Jourgensen's motive for assisting in the album's production was to try and break up Skinny Puppy.[5]

Much of the album had been written before Jourgensen was officially involved, though Key has mentioned that the process was influenced by the notion that Jourgensen might join them in the studio to "jam." The group took into consideration what type of music Jourgensen would be interested in making, thus writing guitar heavy material such as "Tin Omen,"[5] a song which makes reference to the Tiananmen Square protests of 1989.[6] "Fascist Jock Itch," also written with Jourgensen in mind,[5] was inspired by an incident between Ogre and a few skinheads. Ogre states that he had been approached by the skinheads who then proceeded to question him regarding his "loyalty towards communism" (prompted by a small Red star on his pants). Feeling threatened, Ogre pushed one of them away and a short scuffle ensued.[3] Other songs on the album, such as "Worlock" and "Choralone," have been described as being more "pure" to previous Skinny Puppy material.[5] The song "Hexonxonx," a song which criticizes the use of oil (written in the aftermath of the Exxon Valdez oil spill of 1989),[7] has been described as being an exemplary mixture of "twisted humor and Throbbing Gristle-like experimentation", while other entries from the album have been noted for their novel use of sampling.[8]

The song "Worlock" has been played on every tour after its conception. A Roland Harmonizer was used to create the vocoder-effect during the chorus. Samples of the song "Helter Skelter" by the Beatles are mixed with an excerpt of Charles Manson singing the song;[9] the excerpt comes from the 1973 documentary Manson.[10]

Release and promotion[edit]

The original CD release on Nettwerk (and the licensed version on Capitol) was mistakenly mastered with Dolby B noise reduction, which resulted in a muffled sound. In 1993, the album was digitally remastered and re-released on Nettwerk.[1]

Only one promotional video was produced for Rabies. The "Worlock" video was primarily a rhythmically edited string of horror movie clips featuring outtakes and clips from the band's earlier video, "Stairs and Flowers" (from the album Mind: The Perpetual Intercourse). The video, which opens with a "Rated X" graphic, was intended to be a critique of the concept of censorship in America.[3] Many of the movie clips featured in the video were from films made by controversial Italian filmmaker Dario Argento, whose work has a reputation for being heavily censored by US distributors in order to gain "R-Ratings" from the MPAA.[11] For the "Worlock" video Skinny Puppy included footage deleted from the US versions of such Argento films as Deep Red, Suspiria, Tenebrae, Phenomena, and Opera. Other films included in the music video include, The Beyond, Hellbound: Hellraiser II, Bad Taste, Dead and Buried, Luther The Geek, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, From Beyond, Death Warmed Up, Eraserhead and Altered States.

Due to the graphic violence of the horror film clips used in the video, and also copyright violations, "Worlock" was subsequently banned by MTV, and did not receive any television airplay.[12] In 1992, Skinny Puppy released a compilation of their music videos, but "Worlock" was noticeably absent. According to Nettwerk, the video was omitted partially due to copyright problems and also because of concern the video would be banned by other countries which might find the video's content obscene.[citation needed] However, in recent years the video has been widely bootlegged among fans on the Internet. "Backing" videos for "Tin Omen" and "Choralone" were produced for the Too Dark Park tour in 1990, and have also been spread on the Internet.

A limited run of promotional mechanical pencils were made and sent to college (and possibly other) radio stations along with the album. Shaped like a syringe the pencils were white with black lettering "SKINNY [PUPPY]" and white on black lettering "RABIES". They were approximately 4 inches in length.

The Mutants of Rock Tour, which was to include a quadruple bill including Skinny Puppy, Ministry, KMFDM, and My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, was to begin on December 27, 1989. However, according to Key, the tour was called off when Skinny Puppy collectively decided to pull out, citing concerns regarding the band's then uncertain situation. Key suggested a potential line of shows for the summer of 1990, but expressed little faith in any tour supporting Rabies ever happening.[13] Ogre ultimately joined Ministry's tour for The Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Taste.[14]

Critical reception

Since the album's release, reception from both critics and fans has been mixed. Alternative Press said Rabies was more of a Skinny Puppy/Ministry hybrid and was not representative of the group's best work.[5]

Tim DiGravina from Allmusic stated that Rabies was a solid release, even though he felt the band was not performing "at their peak". He goes on to praise the album's implementation of movie dialogue, particularly commending its use in the songs "Worlock", "Tin Omen", and "Rivers". DiGravina was, however, less impressed by Jourgensen's contributions, asserting that the same qualities which made The Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Taste a good album were not suitable for Rabies.[8] Trey Spencer from Sputnikmusic was less favorable, calling the record one of the group's "low points". He was critical of the album's use of simple (and sometimes "formless") song structures and claimed that the sampling brought nothing meaningful to the table. Spencer was more receptive to the song "Worlock", calling it the band's "defining moment", but concludes by saying that "the rest of the album consists of two good Industrial Metal songs, three average songs, and five songs that aren’t worth wasting your time on".[18]

Beth Fertig of The Boston Globe panned the album as "just another festering collection of noise", but pointed out the use of humor on songs such as "Fascist Jock Itch" as a positive element of the band's music.[15] Daniel Lukes of Kerrang! said that despite a "handful of undeniably classic tracks", the album comes across more as a collection of "Ministry B-sides" than a typical Skinny Puppy record.[16]

In a positive review from the Los Angeles Times, writers Jonathan Gold and David Kendrick list Rabies as an essential industrial album, calling it a "slightly atypical" offering that "also rocks a little harder".[17] This sentiment was echoed by CMJ's Brad Filicky, who called the album "a masterpiece of the industrial genre".[21] Jean Carey of the Tampa Bay Times praised the album, calling attention to the use of sampling, the song "Worlock", and Ogre's vocal work, which was compared to a "crazed Jimmy Durante". Carey concluded by saying that "Skinny Puppy's willingness to experiment and change makes [Rabies] well worth a listen".[19] Mark Jenkins of the Washington Post thought the album was less theatrical than their previous efforts, but concluded that the album's "groove is as solid as any the Puppy has ever fetched".[20]

Personnel[edit]

Nivek Ogre (vocals)

cEvin Key (production, engineering, mixing, various instruments)

Dwayne Goettel (production, engineering, mixing, various instruments)

Dave Ogilvie (production, engineering, mixing, backing vocals)

Al Jourgensen (production, engineering, mixing, guitar, additional vocals)

Greg Reely (additional engineering, special thanks)

Marc Ramaer (additional engineering, mixing)

Ken Marshall (additional engineering)

Cyan Meeks (vocals and lyrics on "Rain")

Keith Auerbach (mixing on "Fascist Jock Itch")

Jeff Newell (mixing on "Fascist Jock Itch")

[verannaca]

(One Last) Chance.

whoa, another fic?? someone better stop me

anyway, when i was writing Some Things Change, i’d had this overwhelming urge to delve further into everyone’s feelings and reactions, as disney has a tendency to half-ass human emotion?? there are consequences for actions; this is known. i wanted to explore consequences and how they’re dealt with - delving into Anna and Elsa like this isn’t something I’ve done before, but it was fun. hopefully it’s well done :’)

i’m definitely an anna fan (not just because we have the same weird name); she’s a character that helped me on a personal level when i was in a time of need. i’ve never really related to nor liked Elsa but i do try really hard to understand her perspective, and i like her more now that i’ve explored her character.

this fic is very pro Anna and Elsa! it does not favour one or the other. that said, if you are an Elsanna shipper, leave. This is strictly platonic and sisterly and i don’t want y’all fucking it up lol

Warnings - this fic contains: characters with ptsd, emotional trauma, mentions of neglect including child neglect, mentions of panic attacks, detailed anxiety attacks, mentions of severe loss/death, and details of grief. I know these warnings sometimes sound ridiculously intense compared to what the story really is, but i’d rather be overdramatic than underdramatic. (fic is about double the length of the last one, and it takes place after the events of Frozen2, so this is your spoiler warning??)

Also, I can’t believe the feedback on my last story?? i’m so pleased :’) anyway, i’ll shut up now. enjoy.

Anna had been Queen for a few weeks, but those weeks hadn't been peaceful. She had so much to say, and never the time to say it. Until, one night, it all comes out, and suddenly, Elsa is faced with a horrible reality: her sister isn't okay.

XXX

All she could hear was the sound of ice cracking and shifting. The sounds echoed throughout the ancient glacier; it was deafening. Only barely could the sound of footsteps be heard as she made her way across the ice. She knew it was too late. She was shivering; terrified— she'd never felt the cold before. Her hands were so cold, she could barely move her fingers. Her hair had turned white and her skin was beginning to frost over. Is this the end? 

She had to do this. It's what's right. It has to be. This voice had been calling her for months; it was time to find out the truth. She could've told her sister. She should have told her sister. But she was afraid of frightening her. Afraid of bringing more trouble into her life. 

That didn't work. Anna had to know these things. She had to. She couldn't function otherwise. Her anxiety wouldn't allow it. Elsa knew this, and yet, she kept another secret. 

It would've been fine—Anna was understanding. It all would have worked out, but then Elsa did the unthinkable.

She pushed Anna away. 

Again. 

That was the last time they'd seen each other. They'd fought; Anna was desperate to protect her sister, and in the heat of the moment, Elsa was unable to communicate clearly. She couldn't explain that Anna couldn't come with. That it required magic; that it was dangerous. No. If Anna knew that it was dangerous, she definitely wouldn't have let Elsa go. 

But Elsa needed answers. And now, she was alone. Unable to communicate with the living. She was freezing; dying; alone. Her guilt became overwhelming when she realised that she wasn't going to return to her sister. She had found what she was searching for, yes, but was this sacrifice worth it? 

She couldn't move. It was dark, and so cold. Her legs were frozen; the ice was spreading up her body. Her hand froze in place; with her free one, she called out her sister's name and sent her an important piece of the past. 

And then, she was gone. Frozen solid. Breathless. Dead. 

The look of horror on her face was something that could never be unseen. This wasn't supposed to happen. She promised. 

The glacier was still loud; the sounds of the ice became haunting. It was overwhelming. The voice of the siren that called to her began to fade back in, but that peaceful call turned into a scream. A loud, high-pitched scream. 

A male voice faded in; “Anna! It's okay! You're dreaming!” 

Anna’s eyes shot open and she bolted upright, gasping for air. There was a faint squeak in her voice with each breath she took. She was quickly wrapped in a tight embrace—this wasn't the first time she’d woken up like this. Kristoff had barely been sleeping these days; he'd hold her until she was asleep, then he'd watch her for hours. 

Three years they'd been together, and he'd never seen her so distraught. They talked about this recurring nightmare of hers—there were two of them, set in two different caves. 

She didn't know how she knew that Elsa suffered a similar fate that she herself did three years ago, but she knew. She knew in the moment; she felt it. She knew her sister died alone; that she'd experienced something so intense; something she could have never imagined. And Anna was devastated. It gutted her. All she wanted to do—all she'd ever tried to do was protect her sister. And she failed. 

Elsa was alive. She was okay— she'd found herself. She had decided a few weeks ago to stay in Northuldra; she felt more at home there. Anna was happy for her sister, and more than understanding. She wished her all the best, and spoke to her often. 

But what Anna always failed to mention or show was how angry she was. 

Her fiancé knew. He had to hear all of it, all the time. He wanted to listen, though. He wanted to help her cope. It was important to him. He'd always put her first; to her, he felt like the first person to truly see her. To truly see and hear Anna. 

She'd always been kept in the dark. She was always the last to know about anything and everything. It stung, badly, especially when she discovered her parents met their demise because they were searching for answers about Elsa's abilities—yet another thing that they failed to tell their youngest daughter. 

Anna wasn't selfish. The exact opposite. She put everyone else before her. Always. When they found the shipwreck; when Elsa pulled up those memories, Anna was devastated for her sister. She knew how agonising it must have felt. 

But Anna needed care, too. Those were her parents, too. And their last thoughts; their last exchange was about Elsa. 

It hurt. It hurt more than she would've liked. And even after such a tragic discovery, Anna couldn't resonate with her sister. No, Elsa had to push her away, and Anna found herself alone again. 

And god, was she angry. She had never been so angry. 

How could she be left alone? After everything? Why would Elsa do such a thing?

It was in that cave that Anna hit her low. The lowest she had ever felt. She'd never felt so helpless; so pained. She was reprocessing the loss of her parents; she was trying to not be angry at them, but it was difficult. They left her with nothing. Then, she had to process the loss of Elsa. Her sister; her universe; her other half. The only person that mattered. And that thought hurt her in a different way. What about Kristoff? He mattered; he was her best friend, and she left him behind. And Olaf—the only good thing from her childhood; her last beacon of hope and light was gone. Because of Elsa's decisions. 

Anger. A high level of anger that she couldn't seem to get past. 

To add to it? She had no home to return to. She knew she had to break the dam; she knew her kingdom would most likely be wiped out. 

She cried alone in that cave all night. She clung on tight to the satchel that contained her mother's scarf and what remained of her frozen friend, and she cried. She grieved. She may have slept at some point, but her dreams seemed to fade into reality. Nothing felt real. Nothing felt right. 

And it was in that cave that Anna realised: she was worth fighting for. Yes; Anna was valid. Anna was worthy. Anna would be okay in time. She was more than a spare. She had to see that for herself. She had to stand for herself; trying to put motivation behind destroying her home was impossible. She couldn't get up for that. 

No. She had to get up for Anna. Because Anna deserved better. 

And so, she did. It was too much to handle at times; she fell over her own feet as she struggled to step. But she managed. She found her way out of the cave and tried to do the next right thing. 

She never told Kristoff that she had contemplated her life. He didn't need to know. She was reckless; challenging death. She needed to see how close she could get. It was when she almost didn't stick the landing as she leaped off the falling dam that she realised she didn't want to die. 

Mattias had saved her. And then, she was safe in her lover's arms. 

Just as she was right now. In her bed, in her bedroom, in the home that wasn't destroyed, being held by the person she loved the most, and although her heart was beating too fast and her palms were sweaty, she did feel safe. 

It was just a nightmare. 

They stayed in silence for a while; they'd already discussed these events to the point where Kristoff was beginning to have the same nightmares. But his were about Anna being alone in that cave. He loved Elsa, truly, but he knew Anna was the one who had really suffered. 

So, he held her. He held her until she fell asleep, then he laid her down and held her until the sun came up. 

It was Friday. Kristoff had guided Anna through the morning and early afternoon; he was worried about her well-being. They'd agreed to be completely open with each other, and Anna was able to talk about her deepest darkest feelings, fears, and secrets, and not feel like prey. Elsa was coming that evening for their typical weekly catch-up and game night. The first few times, Anna had been excited to see her sister. They both had so much to share. But Anna was tired now, and Elsa was a reminder of her pain. 

She didn't let it affect their evening. She wouldn't ever dream of making Elsa feel anything negative. She understood. 

But sometimes, she wished Elsa paid more attention to her feelings. She wished her sister could be as loving as attentive as Anna was for her. Sadly, that just wasn't the case. 

It had been storming all day, typical for this time of year. Anna and Kristoff had met Elsa just outside the gates, as they usually did. She greeted them both with pleasant hugs and greetings, excited to see them. Time flew by for her in the forest; the weeks felt like they lasted only a day. 

It was during their reunion that Elsa made a quick comment; “let's get you both inside before you freeze to death!” 

It was a half-hearted joke; a casual comment; completely harmless. Kristoff only noticed enough to chuckle; he and Anna were definitely cold, while Elsa wasn't even wearing proper shoes. The cold truly didn't bother her. 

Anna wasn't so amused. In fact, the comment triggered something in her brain that made her scowl at her sister. Elsa was oblivious as she made her way to the castle, linking arms with the new queen as she walked. Anna forced a smile and went alongside her—now is not the time for a fight. It was just a comment; it was harmless. 

It was careless. 

As they'd began to warm up and make their way down the great hall, a light conversation had begun, though Anna barely said a word. 

Freeze to death. 

She pictured Elsa alone in that cave, turning to ice as life left her body. She pictured herself fighting through a nasty storm before she too froze solid. It sent a shiver down her spine. She could still feel that cold, even after three years. She remembered the sensation in her chest as she began to froze; she felt the ice burst in her heart before the world went black.

There was nothing funny or casual about freezing to death. 

“Are you going to talk to me, or are we already playing charades?” 

Another joke. It was light; pleasant. Anna looked at her sister, who had a warm gaze in her eyes, and a light smile across her face. But that smile faded when she felt the chill in Anna's stare. They slowly stopped walking and stood still, staring at each other. 

“Is everything all right?” Elsa was concerned—she’d realised then just how exhausted her little sister looked. She was beautiful and made-up; her rich auburn hair was neatly tied in a bun, and although she wore no makeup (she never did), her eyes did seem bright and alert. But they were also very tired. Elsa tried to keep the mood light; “it's exhausting being queen, isn't it?” 

Anna forced a smile; “it's not as bad as I thought it would be, but yes. The days are long, and the night's longer.” 

They slowly picked up pace again. Kristoff stayed on Elsa's left side; Anna on her right. He’d remained silent to give them a chance to communicate, though he knew how to read his fiancée, and could tell how tense she was. 

“You do get used to it,” Elsa replied, placing her hand on Anna's. Their arms were still linked. 

Anna side-eyed her sister. She had so much to say, but mentally talked herself out of it each time. It would be so much easier if I didn't love you so damn much. She knew Elsa meant well, and she knew Elsa had suffered much on her own. That didn't change how Anna felt overall, but it kept her from saying something she'd regret. “I think we should keep things simple tonight,” she chimed in. “Maybe cut the evening a bit shorter than usual.” 

Elsa didn't seem fond of the idea, but she also didn't want to intrude. “We can definitely play it by ear, if you like. I have nowhere to be; this is our night.” She pulled Anna a bit closer, tightening her grip around the younger woman's arm. 

Anna pulled her arm back, though, to Elsa's surprise. The redhead instead crossed her arms over her stomach and kept her gaze away from her sister's direction. 

Elsa wasn't a people person, but she knew body language—especially this particular stance. She grew worried. “Are you sure everything's all right?” she prompted, walking close beside the queen. 

Anna nodded distantly, then looked at Kristoff. She took a breath and said, “I have some things to do that I forgot about earlier. Would you please escort my sister to her chambers for the evening?” 

Elsa was quite taken aback. She knew how mature and capable her sister was, but Anna never spoke like a queen when it was just the three of them. Why would she? The blonde looked up at her soon-to-be brother-in-law with a questioning gaze—they exchanged a look for a brief second before he nodded at Anna; “of course.” 

As the redhead began to head off, Elsa gave chase. She took Anna's arm and turned her around so they were facing each other; it wasn't aggressive, but was full of worry. “What's up with you? I'm worried.” 

Anna almost laughed, but she contained herself. “I’m fine,” she said simply. “But I have duties to tend to.” 

She tried to walk away, but Elsa held her tight, desperate for an explanation. “Hey, wait. We promised to communicate, right? Talk to me. Please.” 

Anna raised a brow. Don't be mean, she thought to herself. Even to your sister. But her control was lacking. “You...want me to let you in now? Isn't it a bit late for that?” 

Elsa—and Kristoff—could hear the sting in her voice. “Anna—” 

“You expect me to drop what I'm doing just for you?” She hissed. It was accidental; her tone. She wasn't a mean person; she wasn't rude. But her anger was rising. 

Elsa looked hurt, though her surprise outweighed her pain. “I'm sorry for whatever I did—” 

Laughter. Anna took her arms back; “what you did? Jesus, Elsa, where do I even start.”  

“Anna, maybe we should take a break,” Kristoff suggested, stepping in. 

The sisters both replied with a mutual, “no, no,” but Anna's was a lot harsher than Elsa's. 

“Should we start with the same old bullshit?” 

“Anna—” 

“Or is that history now? Yeah, I suppose we can bury thirteen-years of pain with three-years of companionship. That balances out beautifully. Oh, and how about recent events? That voice that you failed to tell me about? Or maybe that fact that we saw our parents last moments and it was all about you?” 

Elsa had crossed her arms by this point; shoulders raised. Her eyes teared up more as Anna’s voice got louder. Kristoff stayed silent. She needed this. 

“I suppose we also shouldn't then mention that I buried them alone! That they were my parents, too! That I'm not just your spare! But that'd be too much, right?” 

Anna took a step closer to Elsa; her heels against Elsa's flats made them the same height, and they were able to make direct eye contact. 

“You manipulated my love. You wouldn't stop for five fucking minutes to explain what was going on. I needed you just as much as you needed me. And how did you care for me? You pushed me away. Again.” 

“I had to.” Her voice was soft; broken. She was pained—she hadn't seen Anna like this before. Ever. It killed her. Did she really make her suffer alone? How could sweet, happy, bubbly Anna be depressed? Anxious? Lonely? 

“I know you think you did,” her voice was stern, but shaky. A tear managed to escape her eye and run down her freckled cheek. “But you have no idea what you put me through.” She didn't mean to yell; “I thought I had lost EVERYTHING.” 

Elsa winced at the volume, but kept her stance. 

“I had nothing. And you LEFT me ALONE, Elsa! The last time we'd spoken, we fought. That goodbye-hug lost all meaning after you'd forced us into that boat! I was so ANGRY! And not once—not ONCE did you ask if I was okay.” 

“Gods, Anna, I—” 

“NO.” The redhead held up a stern finger, silencing the older woman. “It's my turn. You shut up.” 

“Anna.” Kristoff's voice was gentle and understanding. It grounded her. Pulled her back to reality just enough to make her aware of her words. 

The queen took a deep breath; her finger curling in as she made a fist. She let out a shaky breath, not breaking eye contact with those glossy, ice-blue eyes. “My parents died. I was alone. You were all I had, and I didn't even know what you looked like. I tried so hard to be strong, but that was a darkness I never thought I'd get out of. And then...” she trailed slightly, anger turning to pain. “When I was alone. In that cave. After watching and hearing our parent’s final moments; Olaf, the only friend I had left—because I never thought I’d see Kristoff again after I left him to follow you... He flurried away. I watched him die. I held him as he died, Elsa. And he was all I had left—of my childhood, of my home, of you. And you were gone. Just like mama and papa; you left and were to never return. I thought Arendelle was gone. The dam had to be broken; I couldn't have ever imagined that you would've saved it.” 

Elsa let out a soft, shaky breath. “You had nothing.” 

Anna nodded ever so slightly, pursing her lips to hold back her tears. Her voice was barely a whisper; “nothing.” 

The blonde lost her gaze as she became aware of her tears. She quickly wiped them away, holding her hands over her mouth as she stared at her sister. 

Anna couldn't decide if she felt better. She'd said almost everything that she needed to say. She looked deep into Elsa's eyes, not wanting a response just yet. She wanted her to think. “No matter what, Elsa,” she said softly, “I love you.” 

After a brief moment, the queen turned and walked away. Elsa and Kristoff watched her go, and although the older sister tried to follow, Kristoff held her back. “Give her space,” he said gently. “Let her breathe.” 

Elsa looked up at her friend; “did I say something wrong? Tonight? To trigger this?” 

He shrugged lightly. “Maybe. Maybe it was that comment about us freezing. She's been delicate lately.”

Of course. It had to have been that comment. Elsa placed her hand flat against her stomach as she felt it churn. “I have to talk to her. I have to make it right.” 

“With all due respect,” Kristoff began, holding her attention to keep her from following Anna; “whether it's fair to anyone or not, there is thirteen—maybe even sixteen years’ worth of damage that has to be fixed. Anna loves you more than anything; she'd be willing if you are, but above all else, you have to remember that her feelings are valid.” 

Elsa nodded, though she was rather lost in thought. All those years, she thought she was suffering alone. She thought Anna was being cared for; loved. But she wasn't? She was alone? 

They worked. Their parents worked. They were royals, sure, but they were also dealing with Elsa's magic. Who raised Anna? Who taught her to be queen? Did she truly only have the portraits on the walls to talk to? Was she really neglected for all those years?

It hurt. It hurt more than anything. Elsa brushed away the original plan of a game night—that could wait. Fixing their family was far more important. She knew she had to give it time; she knew she had to think. Things wouldn't be resolved tonight, but she could start the process. She could prove to Anna that she cared. And they'd work at it again next week. And the week after. And Elsa could visit more often. This could work. This could be okay. 

Right? 

XXXXX 

Game night didn't happen. They didn't even have dinner together. Anna had locked herself in her room; something that made Elsa's blood run cold. She'd knocked only twice over the course of four hours, desperate to be acknowledged, but the queen had no interest. She had more to say, but kept her words simple; “go away, Elsa.” 

It wasn't meant as revenge. Anna wasn't trying to be petty. She just needed time. How much time; she had no idea. But at this rate, no conversation was going to take place before the end of the day. It was already long past sunset; the outside world was dark, cold, and quiet. A perfect place for Elsa to think. 

She'd seen Anna open the door for Kristoff; the two disappeared into their chambers a couple of hours ago. Elsa wasn't one to eavesdrop, despite how desperate she was to talk. She couldn't bear to pace around the halls of this massive castle; so, she went outside. She’d made her way down to the water, sitting on the large rocks, watching the gentle waves. Snow was falling rather heavily; the temperature well into the negatives. Her dress was of her own creation, though a new design; her shoulders and arms were entirely bare, alongside a lot of her chest and most of her back. Her hair was still white from the events that took place in Ahtohallan, but it was a small change from the platinum-ash blonde it was before. Despite her thin attire, she wasn't cold in the least. She was shivering, but that was caused by the emotion she was struggling to hold. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but her cries were silent. 

She loved Anna. More than anyone, or anything. She thought it was obvious. She'd always gone out of her way to make sure Anna's happiness was number one. What she'd failed to realise was that Anna had emotions other than joy. The redhead had always been a little ball of sunshine; Elsa wholeheartedly believed that nothing could dim that light. To find out Anna had been in pain for sixteen years of her twenty-one years of life... 

Agony. It was agonising. Like losing someone you love. Elsa pressed her hands hard into her stomach in an unconscious attempt to stop the pain she was feeling. She still hadn't learned how to handle emotion—she was shut off from humanity for so long, she forgot what it felt like to be human. To just...exist. Anna kept her grounded; kept her real. 

But that whole time that Anna was caring for her, she herself was in pain. She pushed her own feelings aside to care for Elsa, and the blonde had never noticed. She knew Anna was selfless, even before the at-the-time princess sacrificed her life for the sake of her sister and her kingdom. But this was on another level. This was nearly two decades of suffering that she endured for Elsa. 

A sob escaped her throat so suddenly, it startled her. She shrieked and jumped in response, slowly crawling off the rocks and onto the snow-covered ground as she let herself sob freely. She’d hoped that the snow would muffle her cries; the last thing she needed was someone coming to check on her. No one ever checked on Anna. 

The pain of those long years came rushing back. Oh, how badly she wanted to throw open that door and hug her sister. How badly she wanted to sing back to her; to tell her jokes and teach her and love her and tease her. She wanted to grow up with her, and that was stolen from them. She wasn't allowed to be the big sister she'd always dreamed of being. She wasn’t allowed to hold her best friend. They weren't allowed to discover the world together. They never got to roam the kingdom in their teen years and gossip about romantic interests. They never got to explore too far and get in trouble for it. They never got to laugh, or fight, or sing—they didn't see each other. They were strangers. 

And then, suddenly, they were together again. And just as quickly as that, they were apart. That pattern seemed to continue. 

Elsa thought heavily about their relationship; she tried to find the flaws on her side; things that she could control. She’d noticed a pattern of her own; it seemed that every time Anna tried to communicate with her, Elsa ran in one way or another. To Elsa, this was a simple defence mechanism—it was hard for her to communicate. Often times, she needed to take what was said and think on it before she could reply fairly. But to Anna, it was the same story: she was being shut out. 

Elsa realised that she had to work hard to be different for Anna. Not to disregard her own feelings or history, but to meet her sister in the middle. You gave up so much for me; surely, I can sacrifice a few boundaries for you. I can learn for you, Anna. 

She stared blankly across the fjord, though her view was obstructed by her tears and the falling snow. She brought a shaky hand up to her eyes to wipe them as dry as she could; she was a bit surprised that the tears weren't frozen. She'd never truly understood how her power worked; even after her discoveries and the comfort she found within herself, it was still difficult to understand something so otherworldly. 

Anna never struggled to understand. Not once. Their problems were never based around Elsa's powers; when they fought, Anna didn't care about the temperature in the room. She didn't care if the windows frosted over. She wasn't afraid of her sister; Elsa's magic was just a part of who she is. It was that unconditional love and treatment that truly helped Elsa come to terms with herself. Hearing a similar message from her mother only added to that. 

But now, she had complicated feelings towards her parents. If they neglected Anna, how could Elsa forgive them for that? 

They were only human. They did their best with what they had. They tried. 

And they're gone. That’s a history that can't be fixed. And most importantly, that isn't Elsa's responsibility. No; she has her own damage to fix. She can only control herself. And now, she had to make the first move. 

XXXXX 

She’d cleaned up a bit. She had to gather her thoughts. It was hard; finding the courage was so hard. She got a rush of anxiety every time she thought about knocking on that door again—being rejected by the person who had constantly tried to reach her hurt on a whole other level. What have I done? 

She sighed and shook her head. “No. You can fix this,” she said quietly to herself. Verbal reassurance had always been more helpful for her. It pulled her out of her head, and eased her anxiety just a smidge. “Just talk to her. She needs you. You can do this, Elsa.” 

A knock came at her bedroom door. Elsa turned, surprised; she called a delicate, “come in.” 

A moment passed, then the door swung open and Anna stepped in. Elsa felt her heart leap into her throat, and simultaneously, her stomach dropped. Yet again, she failed to make the first move. “Anna. I was just coming to see you.” 

The redhead seemed surprised, but it was gentle. “You were?” 

Elsa nodded and gently hugged herself; “I mean, I was trying to find the courage to come and see you.” It was difficult to admit for some reason. 

Anna smiled ever so slightly as she shut the door behind her. “Well,” she took a few steps closer and gently crossed her arms for comfort. “Beat you to it,” she half joked. She had changed into her nightgown; her auburn hair fell loosely in an elegant flow half-way down her back. 

“Again,” Elsa said softly, defeated. “I'm s—” 

“I'm tired of apologies,” Anna interrupted, voice still quiet. She’d failed to make eye contact as she spoke. “Words have lost meaning over the years. Certain words, at least.” 

Elsa nodded distantly. She didn't know if she should speak, or listen. 

Anna took a breath then looked at her sister, also defeated. “I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I've never lost myself like that before,” her voice faded out a bit on that last part. “I didn't mean to raise my voice; it was immature, and I'll make sure it doesn't happen again—” 

“No.” 

The queen tilted her head, slightly taken aback. Elsa's voice was stern. It surprised her. “No?” 

The blonde moved closer, expression showing her desperation. “No, it will happen again, and that's okay. You have every right to be upset and you should never apologise for being human.” 

Anna smiled lightly again. Those words were extra important coming from Elsa. “I just don't want to hurt you.” 

“Your honesty will never hurt me, Anna,” she replied. “That isn't for you to worry about, anyways. You've got to speak up for yourself. Always. Even against me. I want us to be able to talk—gods, I want us to be able to fight and make up as sisters do.” She paused, then continued when Anna said nothing. “Things don't have to be perfect all the time. And things aren't going to fall apart if we have a falling out. We have to learn.” 

Anna’s gaze fell as defeat rushed over her again, and Elsa noticed. It sent her into a panic, but she tried to contain it. Did she say something wrong? Is she missing something? What does Anna need? Is it ruined? Is it over? Anna's going to tell her to leave and they're never going to speak again? No, she wouldn't do that. Would she? If she decides she deserves better; if she decides that— 

Elsa was ripped out of her thoughts when she was wrapped in a tight embrace. Her arms instinctively wrapped around her sister and they held each other close, relaxing. 

“I have spent my entire life petrified that I'm going to lose those that I love, and that's all that seems to happen.” 

Her voice was so delicate and pain-filled that it made Elsa's tears quickly return. She tightened her grip around Anna's petite frame, and buried her face in the crease of her warm, freckled neck. 

Anna stared blankly towards the wall. It still felt weird to be in this room; to be on this side of the door. The weirdest part was that there was someone in that room all along; she hadn't spent those years just talking to a door. There was another lonely little girl on the other side, who lived to hear the voice of her baby sister. 

Anna tightened her grip, too. Tears welled in her eyes, but she swallowed them as best she could. “You were my light, too. The only thing I lived for. The thought of someday meeting you was all that got me through those lonely nights.” 

Elsa’s fingers curled in as she grabbed at Anna's hair and clothes; she tried to contain her emotions, but couldn't, and cried on her sister's shoulder. 

Anna felt her move in her arms; she knew she was crying. It made tears escape her eyes, too. “I know you're broken. I know you've been through hell, too. I just wish we could walk through the flames together.” 

Elsa nodded; “we will.” Her voice was broken and weak; she sounded nasally due to her crying. She held Anna even tighter, if that were even possible. “We will always do this together, Anna, I swear. I'll never leave you behind again.” 

Anna wanted to smile at the thought, but couldn't. How could she believe such promises? The first day they'd spent together, Elsa said the same thing. Together. Then again as they travelled to the forest. Then again as they—

“Prove it.” 

A beat passed, then they mutually pulled out of the embrace. Elsa kept a hold on Anna's upper arms, but the redhead took her own hands back and crossed her arms again. They looked at each other with tears eyes; cheeks red and puffy. Elsa looked genuinely upset, whilst Anna almost looked betrayed; broken and distrusting. 

“Prove it,” the queen repeated. “Don't just say it.” 

Elsa nodded distantly; “I will. But—” 

“No buts.” She shook her head, clearly unimpressed. She wanted to be understanding. She wanted to be soft. But she couldn't let herself. Not this time. “I know you're learning, Elsa, we both are. We've had the same amount of contact with people; the same amount of practice. But I'm not a stranger. I'm not someone you met on the street; I'm your sister. And I know we grew up apart and we have much to learn about each other, but we spent the first five years of my life together, and I want us to be close again. And I know it's not realistic—we were young, but we could still—” 

“Anna.” 

The queen stopped. She’d started rambling. She did that sometimes. It was very Anna. She smiled sheepishly; “sorry; I get carried away.” 

Elsa smiled warmly; “I want us to be close, too.” She thought for a beat, then when they made eye contact again, she continued; “I am sorry; truly. I had no idea. There are so many things that I wish I had done differently; for both of us. I wish I could take all your pain and turn it into something beautiful for you. I wish you hadn't spent so long alone— I'm so sorry for the consequences. For your anxiety and your depression and your fear of abandonment—for everything that affects your daily life, I am so sorry.” 

“You get it,” Anna replied quietly, offering a weak, lop-sided shrug. “You get it because you feel the same in some way. We could understand each other. We could help each other. But I'm so afraid to talk to you sometimes; I'm so afraid that you're gonna shut me out again that I almost don't want to get close to you. I can't handle any more pain. I just can't.” 

Her heart broke again. Anna was right about one thing: they do understand each other. That was one thing that really bothered Elsa, was knowing that the pain she'd always felt; the pain she'd always tried to protect Anna from had been there all along. They really were in the same boat. Elsa gently ran her hands up and down Anna's upper arms, then took a tight hold of her. She looked deep into her aqua eyes; “Anna.” 

The redhead sniffled. She knew what words were coming; she'd heard it all before. It was different this time. Elsa was trying. Elsa heard her, and saw her, and accepted her. That’s a step. But was Anna really willing to give her another chance? 

“I promise from now on we will do this together.” 

Each word was fully pronounced; her tone was stern; she was serious. 

“We will work through this together.” 

One more chance to make things right. It was only fair; Anna herself had been lacking at communicating, too. It was a mutual ordeal. This chance would be for them both. 

“Are you willing to try? To work at it? To truly let each other in?” 

It would be a lifelong healing process. Or so she figured. There was too much history, and surely the future would only be busier. Anna was queen now; she did have duties to tend to. And, she was engaged. She was soon going to be a queen and a wife. She saw children in her future; her near future. It was easy to picture; life with Kristoff was more than ideal; they had incredible communication skills following their engagement. They’d sat down and talked out everything. They were always on the same page, even if they sometimes had disagreements. 

A queen. A wife. A mother. A sister? 

Could she handle all of those responsibilities? Was she ready? She was only twenty-one. Her future without Elsa looked easy, as much as that pained her. It felt easy; the idea of moving on. Building her own family and her own legacy. She was Arendelle's hero; this was her forever home. Did Elsa have a place in Anna's future? Elsa made it clear that Anna had a place in hers. Was that mutual?

The queen looked at her sister, and Elsa looked back at her, awaiting an answer. 

Are you willing to try? 

Anna smiled warmly. “Of course.” 

[troped-fanfic-challenge]

Who will be on the CHOPPING BLOCK!?

Four fics were written following a [Modern AU Theme], including [Superheroes] and [Found Family], with a character focus on [Raven Reyes]! Voting  determined the 2 who would continue in this competition….

We had four (4) INCREDIBLE fics  this round, but, unfortunately, not everyone can move on to the next  round. In this round, two (2) authors are on the CHOPPING BLOCK! Thank  you so much to all the authors who participated, and, to the authors who  were Chopped, we hope you’ll consider joining future Chopped events,  and we are so happy you decided to be a part of Chopped Madness!

Our reviews can be found under the cut!

The two authors who have been Chopped are:

@teeandsnowflakes​:  Author of if you choose to fly [Raven/Echo/Bellamy] [Rated M]

Qualifying Round Fic: Gunning for Glory

Round 1 Fic: like dust behind the wagon

Round 2 Fic: make a wish (count to three)

@kinetic-elaboration​: Author of Hands the Burn [Raven/Clarke] [Rated T]

Qualifying Round Fic: On the Ground and What Bellamy Found There

Round 1 Fic: Release

Round 2 Fic: The Taste of Hope

---

Now that you have been Chopped, all the fics you’ve written in  Chopped Madness have been revealed and you can post about your fics!  Don’t forget to tag us!

But don’t be discouraged if you were Chopped this round (or unable to  participate)! We’ve created a non-anon collection, where you can submit  your fics if you would like to write for other rounds, keep pace with  the writing period, etc, in a non-competive way! That’s where you’ll  find us!!!! We’d love to read your fics and will gladly share them on  our tumblr! The non-anon collection can be found here! To submit your fic to the collection, simply enter ‘chopped_non_anonymous’ as the name of the collection when uploading your fic!!!

Non-Anon AO3 Collection Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Chopped_Non_Anonymous

To all the remaining Chopped Madness Authors, we hope you’re excited  for ROUND 4, which starts TONIGHT, 12:00am (EST) DATE!! Please be  sure to check our google doc for theme and trope explanations! Good  luck!

@teeandsnowflakes​

Mod Review: LOVE this trio! Our first ever Poly fic for Chopped! We love that this is an origin story fic, and that it isn’t just immediate that she gets her powers! Building the characters and their relationship makes everything else have more weight later! Everyone visiting her in the hospital was such a great use of found family! It really pulled at the emotions of a loved one being hurt!We really enjoyed that there is a hint towards the Big Bad and what evil Raven will have to compete with, and its almost a throw away. Also, Cage Wallace and Dr. Tsing are always great villains when you pull them into modern au’s! Raven getting powers from the explosion is so cool, and we love that she wakes up as an astral projection and thinks she’s dead! It was a nice touch, to show that superpowers aren’t common in their world, and that she wouldn’t have any way to really know what was going on! Also, if we woke up outside our bodies, we’d think we were dead too lol. Plus, Raven as an astral projection sounds so pretty!! The trio exploring Raven’s powers together is so cute! The found family was really well developed in this fic, so when we find out that Monty and Harper are missing, it really hits home! We especially enjoyed the quote, “Raven, however, can’t get the image of the two dead in a ditch somewhere out of her mind. They’re her family. Losing Monty and Harper would be like ripping out a piece of her soul.” We loved that you took that opportunity to make it textual that they’re her family, even though it was already so clear from the dynamic. It really makes it feel more serious. Them getting grabbed on the street is SO creepy and unsettling! The way you used Cage’s powers before you explained them was excellent! His powers not working on her when she’s astral projecting is such a cool detail! It makes Cage’s powers seem more nuanced, control of the body, not the mind/spirit! It also is a nice little note for later that Raven’s powers might be bigger than they seem! We loved that you used the earlier information we got about Raven’s powers, that there isn’t a distance limit, to allow her to go out and seek help from Bellamy and Miller! A nice way to tie the character building and the plot together, and it shows that you really spent time crafting what her powers would be, and that all of the work you’d done up to that point had a purpose! Raven being able to control Tsing was EXCELLENT! Such a fun twist, and nice way to prove that her powers are indeed bigger than they assumed, and that she can do so much with them! And that ending!! So good! We’d love to know how Raven found out she could fly, so cool!

@kinetic-elaboration​

Mod Review: The summer camp/retreat vibes was such a unique take for this round, and it worked so well! The imagery you used to express what the camp was like was awesome, very hippie and cute. We also loved the introduction of the Super Seven! A superhero team is the perfect ‘Found Family’, and we loved that the focus of the story was them trying to rebuild their team! The character description of Finn was excellent, describing him as not quite a brother or a boyfriend. It was a great way to explain Finn and also their relationship! “After the funeral, she came home again, threw the flowers out the window, thought she might set herself on fire—she was so cold and numb and so hot all at once—then felt two rapid bursts of flames blast from her palms.” This explanation of her powers was so cool, and this is a great power for Raven to have. We loved the backstory of the Super Seven, Jasper and Bellamy finding her, her moving in with everyone, the description of their home and how the world saw them one way, but when they were together they were just a regular family. It offered such a human take on superheros that you don’t see often, and we really enjoyed it! “Forgiveness isn't something we can turn on and off either," Raven snaps. The words feel like the fire from her hands did, the first time: uncontrolled and uncontrollable, random and violent and frightening and cathartic all at once.” Raven’s outburst here was so good, it was such a great way to really show the conflict the characters were having! Plus, the uncomfortable nature of sitting in a circle, expressing your feelings to a group of people that used to know you better than anyone was so well communicated! Octavia being in Scotland and being SO bored such a fun touch! We loved the use of the Mountain Men, and the nods to canon, especially with what happened and how Clarke and Raven got to the place they were in this fic. It feels very true to character, and not just because it was pulled from canon. The ending was so good! We loved that you gave the characters space to talk about their issues, and reunited them as a family in the end!!

[shit-she-wrote]

Genre: Fantasy, Fairy Tale

Summary: Little Red Riding Hood through the eyes of the wolf, with a twist.

Word count: 2789

Trigger warning: n/a

Author’s note: I was planning on making this creepier, but it ended up kind of sweet lol. I hope you like it!! (also, I’m reawakening my kofi account, if anyone’s interested in buying me a coffee, by chance 😅)

Fearless

a short story

There is a tale going around in my village, old as time itself. It appeared one night, like a cold brisk air at the coming of winter, groaning with pain and hunger of a ferocious beast, a grand wolf, that occupies the deep nearby forests. They use it to scare children into obedience, but not even the bravest men and women take it lightly. Should you go out of your way, the wolf will catch you. Should you talk to a dark stranger, it is an evil wolf in disguise.

I know this, because I am the wolf.

Some may wonder what goes through the mind of a beast, and many cannot decide whether a beast could possess a human mind at all. Not one that lurks in the shadows, surely, not one considered being nothing but teeth and bloodthirst. I, however, beg to differ. My eyes may be adapted to the dark, my fangs may tear through flesh, my claws leave scraping marks upon the ground I walk on. But I once was human, fragile and clumsy and in bed by moonrise. I too feared the tales of horror echoing through the village streets, so what am I to do now, that the tale of horror features me?

I am forced to wonder, if nothing else, whether all the monsters I feared as a child had been like I am now. Lost, afraid, only longing for a restoration of whoever they might have been. I still hope to encounter them on my aimless wanderings and I howl at the moon each night in hopes someone would howl back at me. An instinct, other wolves would call it, should they have a sapient mind, but I call it a prayer. A prayer to no one, a cry for help no one understands, and I only desire to belong somewhere again. Old monsters have moved on, however – or perhaps, they never existed, and I am the first true monster around these parts.

A monster. What a peculiar name to call oneself. Peculiar enough to forget my own name in the process, as years have gone by since someone had last called me by it.

There is an addition to my tale, however, one that is never included when someone uses it to petrify children. It is a bright addition, a sun ray to my world of darkness. It is one of a fearless young woman, who has looked straight into the wolf's eyes and wasn't afraid. A woman who knew how to break my curse.

I know this, because she is my savior.

I heard her before I saw her, dry branches crumbling loudly under her nearing steps as she wandered too deep into the forest. I growled into her direction, low and menacing, hoping she would understand that she was headed toward the lair of a beast and turn around the second she realized her mistake. Ignorantly, she still kept going – or maybe, she was walking with too much purpose to turn back at my warning. To evade her instead, I stalked away from my prey, a hare I had caught that I still hadn't put out of its misery. Blood drying around my mouth, I lay low behind a nearby bush just as she walked past, clad in a cloak. It was so red it burned my eyes, so red it shocked me.

Ever since I had been turned into a creature, my vision had not been quite right, you see. So many colors I had once been able to see disappeared from my wolfish eyes, making the forest I lived in pale instead of lively, and all the ripest berries yellow instead of pink. But there she was, ignorant of my presence, clad in a color I could finally recognize. Not even the blood of my wounded hare had been so bright.

I crouched down, claws digging into the dirt for leverage as she noticed my dinner. She stopped, looked down, a bright smile akin to sunshine immediately replaced for worry. She kneeled down, unsure of what to do. She wanted to help him, I knew, and despite my awe with all of her colors, I was prepared to snarl, to lung at her, to make my small dinner a feast. But then, she did something inexplicable, something that shook me beyond anything I had ever seen. She hushed the weeping hare and raised a stone, bringing it to its head with a precise strike.

"You do not deserve the pain," she told him, and my ears twitched, the sound of her voice sweet and comforting, like a blessing. Curiously, I raised myself up again, peeking over the bush to reveal myself. Startled by movement behind her, she turned around, her eyes wide and frightened as they met with mine.

She did not run. That was what had amazed me the most. Most people are creatures of movement, immediately jumping to their feet, and then they either pull out their knives or run for their lives. But she did neither. She remained, frozen in place – no, not even frozen. She simply remained, kneeling in front of my dead hare, eyes never leaving me. After the initial shock had worn off and she saw that I was merely regarding her, even the fear left her eyes and, for a second, I thought she could even see the humanity within me.

She stood up slowly, carefully, her every move precisely thought out. Throwing away her stone, she picked up the basket she had with her. She smiled; such a peculiar thing to do when in presence of a beast.

"I am sorry to disrupt your dinner," she addressed me. Again, I was surprised by the courage in her voice, with the lack of a shudder from her vocal cords. I could sense no distress from her, as she could plainly see no danger in me. "However, my friend, I have something much better in store for you."

I snarled, trying to appear threatening. Who did she think she was, talking to me like she knew I, too, once walked on two feet! Who dare she not fear me! Did she not hear the stories about me? Did she not care that she was in the presence of the very thing people had certainly warned her about?

She walked toward me like a deer would walk across a dewy grass field; peacefully, as if there was no danger in sight. It began to frustrate me, how little fear she had.

"What big eyes you have," she told upon coming within my reach. She kneeled down, in awe of me, and I stepped back on instinct, to remain out of her reach. How could I know she carried no knife behind her back, how could I know she wished me no harm even when her calm demeanor told my heightened sense to not be afraid. "They're like fallen stars. I bet one can see them from far away."

I growled lowly, showing my teeth. That ought to bring out her true colors. If a human was not afraid, then they were surely looking to hunt me down. This was all a trick, I convinced myself. But I would harm her before I she'd have the chance to harm me, and I wanted her to be sure of that.

Still unafraid, the woman in red leaned back, sitting on her heels, to put a safe distance between us. Not out of fear, but out of respect. She was still dreadfully unafraid, even if she did not move any closer.

"What large teeth," she continued, looking sad. "No wonder everyone fears you. No wonder hunters roam the forest, wishing you dead."

But do you wish me dead, I wanted to ask, for I did not know what she wanted to tell me. I only knew words when they were screams, only knew people come closer when they tried to harm me, only knew safety when I was alone.

She leaned closer, her hand reaching forward. I ducked back, away from her touch.

"Don't be afraid," she told me. "I wish you no harm."

What do you want, then? I wanted to ask. What, what what?

She reached out to me again, but this time I let her fingers graze my grey fur. Tenderness was the only thing I felt; she did not grab me, she did not brandish a weapon. She just kept smiling.

"Come on," she said, finally standing up. "I came to take you home."

Home? What did she know of my home? It was a forgotten place, lost and discarded decades ago when I was cast out of a human life. There was no other home for me than the one among the tall trees of the deepest forest.

She began leaving the same way she came, only stopping once she realized I was not following her.

"Come on, silly," she repeated, a chuckle on her breath. "I cannot help you if you do not follow me."

So, reluctantly, I did. Curiosity got the best of me and that dreadful ounce of hope made my heart flutter. Home. She was talking about taking me home, about ending this torturous life. Could I believe her? It all sounded like a ruse in disguise, but my fluttering heart kept following her, willing to be deceived.

She pranced around the forest like magic: aside from a bright red coat in my pale blue-yellow world, she walked as if she communicate with every tree and strand of grass on the way. She seemed to move everything she passed like the softest breeze, breathing life into the sleeping forest. Should anyone see her, they would certainly fear the power she must have contained. Don't go into the woods at night, frightened villagers would cry. A witch that can move entire trees lives in there.

I saw in her who I had been looking for all this time. A fellow beast.

Less frightening and more powerful than I could ever be, but a beast nevertheless. She had no sharp teeth, nor glowing eyes, nor claws that could tear through flesh. Her human disguise was perfect, but I could see right through her. A rogue demon, a monster. A thing to behold, a thing to fear. Clad in a red coat of magical wool, carrying potions and poisonous herbs and hexes in her basket.

Fearless was the only word to describe her with. Not because courage had been placed into her cradle, but because she knew of nothing more terrifying than her own self.

"We are almost there," she said, her voice a sweet melody in contrast of her image. Stopping at the finally line of trees, she looked at me over her shoulder, suddenly somber as if something important awaited us beyond them. "You should go first."

I did, unafraid of what awaited me. Death, perhaps? Might as well be. My once brown fur was almost completely grey already, and since I had not died of old age yet, murder might as well end my cursed misery. Although, there remained a chance of this witch truly meaning me no harm, in which case I was taking my first steps toward a home I had craved for so long.

I stepped out into a clearing, charmingly dark and blue in my eyes. In the middle of it, a small cottage stood, only one window illuminated by a candle burning inside. Before it, an old woman, with long silver hair and deep wrinkles on her face, dressed in old, wool clothes.

I knew her. Something in my gut told me that she was the home the woman in red promised me, that she was the home I longed for. There was something familiar on her face, in the way she held herself, but I could not quite place what it was, yet.

I stalked forward slowly, the red-hooded woman's soft steps right behind me, and I could see recognition, then love spread across the old woman's face. She smiled, she shed a tear, and once I was close enough to see her face plainly illuminated by the soft light from the inside the cottage, I felt like smiling and crying, too.

"My brother." Her words were soft, breathless. She took a step forward, then another, then kneeled in front of me, fearless in her absolute confidence that I truly was who she thought me to be. Her movements were slow and croaky with joints weak from age, and her wrinkled hand reached out to me. I willed to come even closer on my shaky paws, disbelief clouding my brain. Upon her touch, her affectionate caress, I truly was home.

Something warm fell upon me. Red, I noticed as I looked to the side with the corner of my eye. The younger woman's coat.

"You know what to do," she said to my dear sister, the bottles in her basket clinking as she rummaged inside of it. Brandishing a small bottle, she stepped toward me and dampened the fur behind my ears with a few drops from it. Then she moved away and I looked at my beautiful sister, who kept smiling and kept crying tears of joy. She leaned forward and kissed the top of my head – an act of fondness I had long since forgotten.

"You are home again, brother dear," she said. She spoke my name, softly, carefully, as if afraid it would shatter upon her tongue. She repeated it once, twice, three times, and with each vowel, I could feel myself changing.

Firstly, my claws turned into flat nails, then my paws into hands, human hands with long fingers. My fur fell away, and only soft skin remained attached to me, soft and wrinkled with age – I was nearing my sixtieth birthday, after all. My fangs shortened into teeth, my snout lengthened into a nose. My tail vanished for good and colors returned to my eyes.

For the first time since my youth, I was human again.

Shuddering, I crawled into myself beneath the red coat, naked as the day I was born beneath it. Reborn. Yes, that is what I was. An old man, reborn into a life he had lost.

Steadying myself on my knees, I looked down at my hands, then brought them to my naked chest, then face. I could not believe it. How ... No, I did not care how. I only cared that it happened.

Looking around me, I could see my perception of the world around me had changed as well. Everything was so much quieter, so much darker. When I looked back at my sister, I could not see her as clearly in the dark as before but, my god, I could see her in colors!! The warm orange from the faraway candle on her face, the purple scarf around her neck. My lips stretched out into a smile and I let out a laugh, my first laugh in decades! My sister laughed as well and leaped at me, hugging me as tightly as she could.

"Come," she told me as she helped me up, tears of joy unstoppable on her face. "Let's get you inside. I have clothes ready for you, and supper."

I wrapped the magic red coat tightly around myself and, once aware of the wool soft and warm around myself, I stopped. The coat. I looked down at it, then remembered the woman who had worn it. Glancing around, I could no longer see her.

"She does that," my sister said, seeing the unspoken question on my face. "Comes and goes as she pleases. Never stays for supper."

"Who is she?" I asked, my voice coarse from lack of usage.

"Who knows," my sister replied. "But she is quite fond of this coat she has lended you. She will definitely be back for it. You may try asking her everything you want to know then."

Then we went inside, went home, and thus ends my tale of horror: the tale of the big bad wolf that rummaged the woods, the tale of the wicked witch in a red coat who befriended him, and the tale of an old spinster who lived on the edge of society, considered mad for thinking her dead brother was still alive somehow. For no one has ever seen the wolf again, the old woman has been reunited with her long lost brother, and the red coat has disappeared without a trace from my closet one evening.

And the fearless, red-hooded woman? Well, I am sure she is still saving monsters from themselves as we speak, turning tales of horror into happy endings.

[startrek-writings-for-the-soul]

Space Cadet | Reader insert | Part 1/?

Words: 1222

Pairing: ?

Warnings: lol idk

Your vessel was about damn ready to break in half. The aliens tractor beam pulled you to one side but the Enterprise pulled you the other way. You could hear the strain on the metal framing as it snapped and groaned.

"Uhhhhhh Jim? Could you, i don't know, fucking stop?" You babbled into your communicator, eyes fixated on the hull's pressure reader.

"What? Absolutely not!"

"Well I guess I'll just fucking float around in space then."

"What are you talking about?" He seriously didn't understand the danger you were in. The danger he was putting you in.

Of course it wasn't his fault you were in this predicament. It was you who had volunteered to rescue the people stranded on that ship. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a trap. What was meant to be a standard rescue turned into attempted kidnapping. The aliens turned their power back on as you neared their vessel and began pulling you in.

"I really hate the sound the ship's making, Jim. It's going to snap in half if you both keep pulling me like a game of tug of war!" Your voice shook, it was unintentional but couldn't be helped.

"Don't worry, okay? Our tractor beam is stronger."

"I'm starting to think it would be better to beam me the fuck up-"

"Language." Did he just fucking interrupt you?

"...Language? Language. I'm going to die Jim." You said drily, "is that really necessary??"

"I'm just saying, uh, there's a lot of people on the bridge and we can all hear you-"

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE JIM!!!" You screamed, at which point the awful sound of air being sucked out of the ship started. You turned around in your chair, eyeing the small gash at the other end of the console. The size of the vessel you were using was tiny in comparison to the two ships each trying to get you. And the gash, which was growing rapidly, would soon split the whole thing in half.

"Beam me up right now..." You whispered almost inaudibly. Breathing became more difficult and the air grew cold as it was sucked out into the vastness of space. Securing your ugly spacesuit came as more of an afterthought as you watched the crack grow.

"We're working on it." Jim said.

"Well," you started through gritted teeth, tears streaming, "Please. Hurry."

The heavenly light of the transporter had barely appeared before, with a sudden and violent twist, you were ripped out of the ship.

Space was so dark. And you were spinning in circles, unable to see up or down. Unable to see the Enterprise. The light that had comforted you moments ago had been lost.

"(Y/N)! We can't find your signal!"

The voice was far away. And then you realized with horror that your communicator, the glorious tool that would connect you to the Enterprise, was floating some distance away from you. Making its way out of reach. Tears fell faster down your stony face. To say you were in shock would be an understatement.

Faintly, you called out, for help.

"Jim...?"

Light envelopped your form, transporting you from the death blanket of space to the interior of a newly refurbished... bedroom? It wasn't alien, in the sense that it wasn't unfamiliar. It WAS alien however. The style distinctly Vulcan. The ceiling was high and the bed was large but plain. Simply coloured walls and lifeless decorations.

"Welcome." Said a voice. It was familiar. Turning around you saw a tall vulcan in ceremonial robes and a hood. Their face was hidden from view.

"You may take your helmet off now." The figure said with a hint of amusement. But how could that be? Slowly you removed your helmet and gloves before wiping your face of tears as best you could.

"I can't see your face."

The figure nodded. "Correct."

"Um... may, I? See your face, that is?"

The figure was still for a moment before pulling the hood back. Definitely a Vulcan. In fact, I knew this alien.

"Oh, well hello Spock. I didn't realize I was on the Enterprise."

"You're not."

"Wow okay. Mind elaborating?"

"You are dead, (Y/N). This isn't real."

"I'm sorry... what?" Suddenly your knees gave up, the day's stress becoming too much.

"It's important you understand this. I am Spock, yes, but I am only speaking to you through your mind. I'm not here."

"Vulcan mind meld." You whispered. He nodded and motioned for you to sit on the bed. "So, if I'm dead, how are you doing this?"

"You are clinically dead but we are unsure why. I have come here to ask you questions, to find out what happened while you floated in space for three hours."

How was he so calm...

"Three hours??"

"Yes, but your mind still functions. That's how I'm here. I am sorry this is happening to you (Y/N), but if you wish to live we *must* begin soon."

He was serious. Serious in a scary way, a way I haven't seen him in before. I thought about not helping, about asking him to leave and tell the others to pull the plug. But that wouldn't be fair, would it? They had found your body, had gone through the trouble of having Spock mind meld with you... You had to live. Or at the most, try.

"Okay. How do we start?"

Spock got up and began pacing the room, "What is the last thing you remember?"

"Uh, I don't know... Being surrounded by light, probably. But I'm not sure if that was real."

"Being surrounded by light? Did this happen before or after you left the ship?"

"It happened after I heard Jim's voice. You know, after he said something about losing my signal. My communicator was floating away and I couldn't grab it."

"Yes, that's right. We couldn't even see your body out there."

"You couldn't? When I was violently thrown from the ship, I'm pretty sure I was headed in the direction of the alien ship. Didn't you have visuals on that ship?"

He seemed confused and then, after a few blistering seconds, he nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes we did. But we couldn't see you. Perhaps you were hidden behind your broken vessel."

"But it ripped to pieces so fast. I bet it isn't even salvageable! Surely you would've seen me before 3 hours were up. Unless... They got me. And that was the light I saw. And then I blacked out and they put me back out in space and now you're in my brain and now I'm probably infested with alien roaches or-"

"Please. Slow down. Breathe." His face was hard, eyes straining.

"Is this, taking too much out of you?"

He sighed, a strange visual.

"I have been here too long but there is much to do."

You stood up and grabbed him by the shoulders. His face jerked up in response, eyes wide.

"Go. I will try and figure things out on my own and then once you're able to, come back. We will figure this out together. Thank you, Spock."

He nodded and suddenly he was gone. The room you were stood in began to morph, change into something more familiar. Spock's final words to you echoed in the air as you found yourself seated in the rescue vessel.

"Be strong."

[comicteaparty]

May 16th-May 22nd, 2020 Creator Babble Archive

The archive for the Creator Babble chat that occurred from May 16th, 2020 to May 22nd, 2020.  The chat focused on the following question:

What are you trying to show or tell with your story that you find to be underrepresented?

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

-Mind control/mind reading where both people are okay with it. I like themes of trust -"Superpowers" without secret identities. Because researchers aren't always evil goddamnit! -Portraying people who hurt others not as card-carrying megalomaniac villains but as pitiful and broken people. I haven't gotten to this part of my story yet but I hope I can do it well when I do. -Queer characters but they never say that they are or talk about it in any way. Yes I know I'm probably the only one who wants this

Also, maybe the idea that you don't need to "do anything" with your life for it to be worthwhile? But I'm not sure that I believe this myself

Deo101 [Millennium]

Mostly I'm trying to write about love, and I hardly think that's underrepresented! But, I'm also trying to show a bit of my own personal disabled experience, and I find that the kinds of things I've experienced are hardly represented at all. so, I think I'm trying to show a sort of hope and positivity for things that I think are usually pitied and viewed negatively, which I wish were done more.

chalcara [Nyx+Nyssa]

I just wanted a good ol' classic Eddings-style fantasy romp, but with characters that would usually be cast in the "evil" role, without going the "misunderstood" route.

Plus I wanted to write about shitty family (born, found and married) and that you do NOT have to forgive them in the slightest to move on and better your life.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Hmm... One of the main things I want to express with Whispers of the Past is that after past traumas, you may not be the same, but eventually, you can be okay again—even if your "okay" of now, is very different than your "okay" of the past. Normalcy isn't a constant. It shifts with time and becomes something new. A new stasis. A new peace. A new normal. I don't know if I've ever seen another story show this in this way. Another underrepresented theme in WotP is that of the hero choosing mundanity over the amazing. When the quest is over, and all is said and done, and the big baddie has been vanquished, the hero doesn't become ruler, or claim bountiful riches, or sail across the sea to find new lands. No, the hero returns to a world that is familiar and unremarkable. The hero would rather just be an average person.

shadowhood (SunnyxRain)

-Fanfiction. I’m very surprised there hasn’t been a webcomic talking about what it’s like to create fanfiction! But overall the culture involved around it and being a creator. -The relationship and hardships of having a stepparent/being one. Particularly stepdad/stepdaughter relationships -Anger as a reaction to trauma. I see a lot of trauma portrayed as mostly sad, but I want a story where the heroes feel anger, where it’s seen as both a motivator and a detriment -The hardships of dating as someone who’s both touch aversive and on the grey spectrum. Not everyone would be as wonderful or understanding, but it’s important to be around people who are and will stand by you.(edited)

eliushi [a winged tale]

This is why I gravitate towards all these stories made by independent creators I think. So many personal and poignant messages. I’m with you there on the queer characters Eightfish. I want a society where it’s fine to be what you wish and respected to be who you want to be. I think having more positive ways of showing how we can reach that sort of openness can be helpful. In AWT I further explore: - characters in STEM fields and approaches to research design - informed consent and what that means - how to live even when things are falling apart around you, when things are falling apart within you - navigating through crushes, confessions and friendships!

Wow the beginning sounds like the objectives at a science lecture and you won’t be wrong thinking so

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

For my Hybrid Dolls comic, there are several things I want to explore: - Psychological trauma and the effects or damage it can give, without proper treatment. -Writing queer characters without them needing a self discovery episode. But I know some identities are better to be upfront? But in the story, they simply live normal or exciting lives - Narcissism in a relative that one doesn't have to forgive. Being treated as invisible or judged by age, birthright. - Other Concepts of love explored. Attraction that isn't conventional romance. - Friendship bonds between girls, and my own take on an eccentric quirky girl lead. - Being unapologetically feminine, girls who doesn't need to feel like being 'one of the guys' I'm aiming for more character variety in historical fiction, instead of yet another story of a girl 'defying gender norms' by raised as a boy/disguises trope in other similar comics. So the women in my story, use their wits and charm.(edited)

DanitheCarutor

I complain about this all the time, so I'm just going to do a quick overview since I'm sure everyone is sick of it. - Abusers can be smart, popular, generous, charismatic and subtle. I'm kind of sick of them always being portrayed as really obvious, and sometimes really stupid, while there are people like that it's not very practical for them all to be like that. - General mental health stuff. More open representation of it, that it may be something you'll live with for the rest of your life and how that's okay. - Trauma, how it can change you, make you lose sight of the person you were and make you lose interest in things you used to enjoy. (this is coupled with mental health) - Non-romantic relationships with a queer cast. While this is showing up more in fantastical indie works, not very common in slice-of-life type of comics. I can only imagine this is because readers would find it boring or too mundane (can't tell you all how many people tell me my comic is boring. Lol), but being a person totally sick of romance in everything I wanted to do something focusing on family, friendship and the relationships we have with ourselves. - You don't always heal completely. I've already mentioned this, but I want to put a focus on how someone who's been through a lot of shit doesn't alway heal completely, and that's okay. I see in a lot of media where people just overcome their issues, and they live happily ever after with everything all perfect, I want something along the lines of "we still got a long way to go, but we're doing better and we're happier than before". - Not having labels for everything. This sounds like hipster trash, but I don't see the point in putting labels for every character. Like, I put labels for them, mostly during Pride, but it feels pointless in the comic. Apollo is happy to say he's a gay man, but with Julian they're not interested in categorising themselves, all they want is to be comfortable and I don't see nothing wrong with that.(edited)

LadyLazuli (Phantomarine)

For me, it’s the importance of communication and empathy, and the dangers of its absence. And it’s something I’ve had to think about a lot recently, being more active on social media Everyone’s got their reasons/methods for cutting people off, but I’ve never been a huge fan of a point-blank communication cut unless it’s absolutely warranted. And I’m not a fan of instant demonization when someone messes up or does something I don’t agree with. People are people. We’re all different and we all mess up and we all can change. Keeping lines of communication open is essential for allowing that change, or else we all get locked into little echo chambers where anyone outside is automatically The Worst.™ In a world where everything has gone to hell - and may go further yet - how can things heal when no one is even listening to each other? Where the other side is automatically at fault no matter what? It’s something I grew up struggling to understand (maybe because I grew up outside Washington DC, lol), and really affects me to this day. And if you do end up protecting yourself with silence, how can you still allow other perspectives to be gleaned? I don’t quite have the perfect formula for it. But unless someone is genuinely trying to cause harm, I try to at least attempt to understand where they might coming from - whether I accept it or not. Otherwise it’s so easy to see a lot of people as monsters. It’s a complicated topic for sure, especially nowadays. But yeah. Something like that

Miranda

Hmm that’s an excellent question. Well, a big thing is the varying effects of trauma and ways to handle it. Mainly how burying the past and ignoring traumatic events can affect someone. Also that villains can be people we relate to that just take an extreme way of reaching a goal that most people can understand And how shared experiences can bring people closer (not a unique one) I also want to portray queer characters that are not solely defined by their queerness and don’t have to announce it to everyone.

Tuyetnhi (Only In Your Dreams!)

- Having some talks about the implications of asking what you wish for and the potential consequences that comes with it. - Having more unappologic Vietnamese things happening in the comic. Giving representation to some common things that most Vietnamese Americans (or Asian Americans) can face in terms of relationships, roles, etc. Also since er i'm also directly affected by this, how does the Mixed-Asian Identity plays about it too.(edited)

hmmm I think another thing is that I want to bring up that men who express themselves in a more feminine form is valid and there's no shame that comes with it (positive masculinity hell yaaaa). Also same about expressing characters who are also queer but aren't defined about it either. it's just what they are along with their other interests and goals.(edited)

sierrabravo (Hans Vogel is Dead)

wow, this is a great question! I'm trying to be better about interacting here so I'll give it a shot. My comic is a historical fantasy set somewhat in Interwar Europe/WWII Europe and partially in a fantasy world based on the Brothers Grimm fairy tales. -War stories/histories that aren't about the actual experience of combat: most memoirs and diaries of soldiers I read doing research are about the day-to-day activities, meals, sleeping habits, and random thoughts instead of fight descriptions. It really bothers me when people zero in on in-depth battle maps and obsess over what kind of rifle was used by whom when, when I think it's much more interesting and important to look at the mindset of who was fighting, why they were fighting, and what emotional effect it had on everyone involved (including civilians!) -Asexuality, especially asexuality in history, bc it tends to "disappear" in the historical record as people who may have been ace before that label was widely used tend to not self-identify as it. I'm ace, people in the past were ace, it's a history I'd like to talk about more! -gryphons, they're cool monsters and I think they should be used much more than they are haha

eliushi [a winged tale]

I agree sierrabravo. I find it’s the personal, down to earth, close perspective accounts in historical records that resonate the most with me. Gryphons are also awesome!

snuffysam (Super Galaxy Knights)

I feel like there's two separate answers for Super Galaxy Knights Deluxe R (http://sgkdr.webcomic.ws/comics/) The first is what SGKDR represents compared to other webcomics. To me, a major thing I wanted to show with Super Galaxy Knights was a new style of creating webcomics. Animation is underrepresented as a storytelling style, sure, but the main thing I thought was underrepresented in the webcomic space was a "seasonal" method of storytelling. Like, most webcomics I see are either "each page is its own thing" or "it's one big long story, with chapters mostly there to split up different scenes/locations". I very rarely see webcomics build to a major climax in the story, then a resolution, then introduce a brand new conflict. The second is what SGKDR represents compared to other action series (specifically shonen manga/anime, as that's what SGKDR riffs off of the most). I can only think of one shonen story with a female lead, I can't think of any with an explicitly LGBTQ+ protagonist (i only know of one implied one), romance is usually handled very poorly (characters usually get paired with the protagonist due to being female and in the same room, with very little actual relationship building), there aren't many varieties of character motivations besides "pursuit of power/status" of some kind, power scaling usually gets way out of whack, and I... I dunno, I love those kinds of stories, but it just gets tiring after a while. So, I wrote my own that had all the things I wanted in it.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

@sierrabravo (Hans Vogel is Dead) I totally agree with the difficulty and importance of talking about ace representation in a historical setting! It's extremely difficult to talk about when asexuality was so unknown at the time. I'm eager to see how you handle it!

eliushi [a winged tale]

@snuffysam (Super Galaxy Knights) can you speak about

I very rarely see webcomics build to a major climax in the story, then a resolution, then introduce a brand new conflict.

I find slice of life/ some really long mangas with continuous streams of antagonists/web novel like formats use this too but unsure if that’s what you were referring to?

I am also looking forward to more ace representation in the webcomic world

snuffysam (Super Galaxy Knights)

Yeah that format is the sort of thing I was talking about. It's out there, but I don't see it very often.

eliushi [a winged tale]

Ah gotcha! Thanks! I recall some slice of life high school ones I’ve read years ago that have that sort of narrative structure (which feels like the story can continue forever).

Erin Ptah (BICP | Leif & Thorn)

There's a recurring trope in SF/F where the robot/AI/golem learns that it wants to have free will and make its own decisions. Or there's a biological species that are assumed to be "natural servants", and inevitably you get to the reveal that they're not actually any different from humans in terms of wanting self-determination and independence. If you think of this as a metaphor for relationships between different groups of humans, then yeah, that's the obvious outcome! But one of the great things about SFF is that you can write things that aren't just "direct metaphors for real-world issues, with spaceships and dragons thrown in for flavor." So in But I'm A Cat Person, I wanted to write something about, what if there's a group of beings who really aren't going to develop free will or self-determination? What's the reasonable, ethical way to deal with that? ...also: there's a ton of nonbinary characters in webcomics these days, but at least I can say BICP did it before it was cool.(edited)

Erin Ptah (BICP | Leif & Thorn)

Leif & Thorn, meanwhile, has a regular old "character forced into servitude, who definitely has independent thoughts and desires that are being controlled" situation. And there's no "Master has given Dobby a sock" loophole they can exploit for a quick fix, so they have to keep up a long-term process of double-talk and rule-bending, to communicate Leif's actual feelings without getting him in trouble. The "realistic language barriers with no convenient universal-translator to get around them" situation -- which, in this comic, is one of the biggest Underrepresented Things I wanted to explore -- makes it that much harder...

Capitania do Azar

I gotta commend you on that, @Erin Ptah (BICP | Leif & Thorn) because you're out there serving my bilingual needs

kayotics

Ingress Adventuring Company is all about the hero after they've finished saving the world, which I think is pretty underrepresented. It's not a quiet contemplative story, since there's still a lot of fun questing stuff going on, but I'm trying to make it clear that this all takes place after the main character has done his big saving the world quest and is still trying to figure out his place after supposedly settling down.

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

I love that Kay

Toivo feels like he has so much history behind him

sssfrs (JOE IS DEAD)

I'm trying to represent orthodox/religious jews because I almost never see my community represented in media. There are orthodox Jewish characters that will be appearing in Joe is dead. In future comics I want to try to plan the story more around including more religious Jewish characters because there still aren't that many in my current project

Also mental illnesses, like trauma and intellectual disability I want to represent my own experiences with it

There isn't as much of a distinct lack of that in media but it's good to have in stories(edited)

Also androgynous lesbians

Nutty (Court of Roses)

With Court of Roses, I'm trying to tell a fantasy story that's for older audiences but proving that Mature Fantasy doesn't have to be ultra gritty. People have each other to depend on, the world isn't bleak, and not every noble is greedy, peasant is starving, etc. I know a lot of fantasy likes to take from realistic Medieval Europe, but the freeing part about making my own world is that it doesn't HAVE to be like that. Their religion is different, more accepting, and again, people are more focused on looking out for each other and having a good time.

Mature themes are still present, such as murder, banditry/pillaging, alcohol, traumatic experiences, etc. but my goal isn't to present them in a darker fashion.(edited)

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I wanted to make something influenced by my culture (Korean) without heavily drawing from the mythology. Mythology is just one facet of a culture, yet a lot of people who haven't read it expect HoK to be all about Korean mythology just because it wears a metaphorical hanbok. No. It reflects the traditional aesthetics, but more importantly, the cultural values and the unspoken rules of the society, regardless of whether I agree with them or not. Related to that is body language. I don't want my non-American characters using American body language, such as shrugging, or American ways of using eye contact, etc. I want to show them using (mostly) Korean gestures, sitting, standing and walking like Koreans. I always feel like there's a huge missed opportunity when friggin' aliens use American body language in sci-fi! I understand why people do that -- it makes the work more clear/accessible to English-speaking audience. But in HoK I'm taking the other path. It's a challenge for sure, but I would not have it any other way.

On a more thematic level, I really wanted to explore deeply hurtful experiences that happen in genuinely caring relationships. It's not about good guys vs bad guys, it's not about a nice person being hurt by someone who just doesn't care. Those stories certainly are valid, just not what I wanted to do with HoK. This story is about people who love each other, but don't always know how to communicate their love or needs.

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

I am also looking forward to more ace representation in the webcomic world

@eliushi [a winged tale] I agree, the ace rep is a challenge I would like to take on, I'm also curious how it will work in historical times? Even tho I'm ace,I'm still learning new innovative things(edited)

eliushi [a winged tale]

It’ll be important to dig deeper and research into what things were like if you want to capture the authenticity of the period you’re writing in! I’m sure there are personal accounts or documentation of these lived experiences.

Capitania do Azar

I see all these beautiful answers and I almost struggle to find something other than those to say I guess for O Sarilho https://www.sarilho.net/en/ I wanted to write a weird love letter to where I live and how I see my country (tho I'm glad I got other places I love in it too). To my knowledge, we don't get much like that, or at least that's not from a city perspective which is not what I'm trying to go for, at all. There's a lot of tiny cultural things that I want to touch that may be invisible for people who are not from here, but I'm glad that I'm including them for those three readers in the back. Linked to this, in a way, is the fact that I get really tired of those white/gray Sci-fi stories where everything is super clean and super white and technology is absolutely overwhelming and organised. I want Sci-fis in the woods too. And finally, there's something about the way violence is portrayed a lot of times that almost makes you feel like human life just is that cheap. I really don't want to go that road, I'm doing my best to tell a story about war in which death still leaves a toll and violence affects everyone involved

TL;DR I WANTED TO PAINT MY HOUSE

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

And finally, there's something about the way violence is portrayed a lot of times that almost makes you feel like human life just is that cheap. I really don't want to go that road, I'm doing my best to tell a story about war in which death still leaves a toll and violence affects everyone involved

@Capitania do Azar This is so beautiful (and tragic). This is something I also hope to express in my work. Super underrepresented message surprisingly.

eliushi [a winged tale]

I enjoy exploring sci-fi beyond the current conventions and absolutely love your setting shizamura!(edited)

Capitania do Azar

Thank u I really love Sci-fi but I don't appreciate that it has become associated with a very specific aesthetic because tbh I find it very limiting

DanitheCarutor

@Capitania do Azar That is actually really refreshing! Horror and action are so packed with glamorized death and violence, you can get really desensitized. The only stories I've ever seen that take those things seriously are war movies based on real life events, like Saving Private Ryan, (which my grandpa, a Korean War vet, said was the most accurate portrayal of what war was like.) and even then you get flicks that totally glamorize the whole thing. I really admire you wanting to put that sense of gravity onto the violence and death in your work, also I love when creators want to tackle war in all it's "too close to home", upsetting realism.

Capitania do Azar

I really love Saving Private Ryan, it is a very nice portrayal with a great message: nobody wants to be here

DanitheCarutor

Yes! I love Saving Private Ryan too, it was nice seeing a movie that didn't make war look like some fantastical bs.

[astxriism]

Blood Moon Rising

Title: The Morning After

Summary: Not a man, nor a beast but something more. When Rowan awakens to find himself thrust into a world hidden from him for years. Finding himself a part of a pack, and to uncover the mystery of his heritage and the two people that seemingly know him better then he knows himself. A prophecy on the verge of fullfilment; will Rowan be able to face this new life and the people in it? Or will his destiny be to much for him to bear?

A/N:I’m not sure what this is or how long it will be but I figured I’d go with it until the plot bunnies leave me alone. Also, I love werewolves or anything supernatural  lol. So there will be elements of other supernatural beings in this as I continue but the focus will be the Blood Moon pack (aka Catalyst kids)

As they continued to walk, in silence. Rowan wasn’t sure what he should say or what to ask. His mind going a mile a minute, filled with questions. So rather than voicing his concerns he chose to take in the world. A world,  that looked new to his eyes.  He had always had 20/20 vision but this was so much more. Colors were bright and crisp. So much so, he could make out the details of the leaves several feet above him. If he focused, Rowan could see rabbits scurry into the underbrush a hundred feet ahead of them. His sense of smell heightened as well. The scent of dew clung to the air. Mixed with the musty odor of damp dirt underfoot. A hint of smoke too; even though there was no fire in sight.  Rowan felt stronger, even as they walked at a moderate pace. He knew with a certainty that if he wanted to take off running he could. Muscles prime and ready to send him bounding forward with ease; sprinting for miles on end.

Instinct, it was all on instinct that Rowan comprehended this.  That he understood he was more than a man and yet not quite a beast. Not in this form. Dark eyes peeked over at Leo; who was a  few inches shorter than himself. But the power, and authority that rolled off him in waves was palpable.  

Alpha. The word sounded in the back of his head and a part of him. The part of him that was now tucked away, his wolf knew this.  If Leo gave him a command he would do it. Without thought or hesitation. Rowan would listen and obey because regardless of physical stature or prowess. Leo was in charged, Leo was in control. Leaving Rowan unable to do anything  except.

Submit.

A frown marred his features. Fingers grazed the side of his neck. An image flashed in front of him.  The large brown wolf, bigger than all the others. He had been running next to him, trying to pass him. His wolf wanting to test the limits of this new life it had found, to run and run and never stop.  

No, stay with us.

The the command wasn’t given in words but still, his brain could only understand it from that point of view.  Yet, his wolf ignored it, only to garner sharp teeth sinking into his neck.

“You bit me.”

It wasn’t a question or even an accusation – though it should have been.

Leo gave a curt nod, “You didn’t listen. It could have been worse.”

“ Worse then you trying to snap my neck with your teeth?”

“ Please, it was a nip at best. Besides, greater wolves have died for a slight like disobeying an alpha. I could have killed you for lashing out at me.” he said

Rowan scoffed then an incredulous look in his eyes. The 'lashing out' as he called it was a knee jerk reaction. Vaguely remembering how his wolf clawed at the other. Swiping   at the black wolfs chest. Only to feel the other’s jaw clench down harder.  Or, at least that’s what he thought. The previous night was still missing gaps, but his wolf was telling him so.

“ You didn’t say anything.”

“The pack doesn’t communicate with words Rowan,” he explained.  Though, given the furrow of the other mans brow; he didn’t think he should have to.

“ I gave you a command, you ignored it. Which I understood, it was your first night.  The first time with your wolf, I remember my first shift. It's an exciting time.” he mused. A whistful expression on Leo’s face.

“ Your wolf wants to explore and do and see all it can. To test his limits, but you’re basically a pup. Running off on your own before you’ve had time to get to know him is dangerous.  The pack doesn't work if the wolves don't listen to their Alpha but as I said, I understand this is all new for you.”

That was an understatement.

There was so much to learn, one minute he was normal and now... now he was a beast. Part of Rowan knew, that the communication was more internal. Given through grunts and growls. Rowan's human mind putting the what he remembered of it, into words. It was a mind fuck, but he also knew Leo was right He’d understood the command.

“How do you know, that I ignored it?”

“I’m the alpha, it’s a thing. Be happy that I haven’t forced you to submit to me, yet.”

Well, that didn’t sound fucking ominous at all.

Rowan didn’t say anything else after this; not because he didn’t want too but because they were no longer alone. He could hear the voices growing louder the closer  they got to his “welcome party”. Deciding that he would leave his questions for his alpha for another time. Rowan watched a young man bounded towards them, a goofy-ass grin on his face as his eyes darted between the pair of them.

“About damn time, Lu thought you two got lost but I  told her there was no way.” He grinned extending his hand toward Rowan as he smiled. “Damn, your huge. Names Ben, but everyone calls me Radish. Welcome to the pack ”

Rowan raised a brow taking Ben’s hand,  giving it a firm squeeze. “Why Radish?”

Ben gave a shrug of his shoulders, “Beats the shit out of me, but the name stuck plus it sounds cool.”

Leo chuckled, “Would you get out of here. Go tell Jude I’ll be along in a bit.”

Radish gave them both a salute before bounding back up and over the small hill. Once they reached the top Rowan’s eyes widen as he took in the crowd.  There had to be about thirty-some-odd people spread out. The smell of smoke from earlier; was the different campfires in the small encampment. People were laughing and drinking the carrying on like it was some kind of party.  Wasn’t it still pretty early in the morning?

“Come on, might as well meet the rest of the pack.”

A part of Rowan wanted to protest. Instead, he followed after the man unopposed.  Would it be like this all the time? He didn't like the idea and yet he did?

The party was in full swing, the crowd parting as they made there  way. Rowan greeted by smiling faces of his fellow pack members. A few shaking his hand, while others seemed almost intimidated. Giving short nods in his general direction be for flittering off. something he could only assume due to the fact that he was walking alongside Leo.

A group of women passed him, giggling and whispering to each other. Soft fingers brushed against his abdomen. A pair of grey eyes making contact with his darker irises. She gave him a wink continuing on her way with the others. His eyes followed after her.

"Okay," he began finally looking towards Leo once the woman disappeared into the sea of bodies. " -I'm thinking this might not be so bad." he grinned. Leo for his part chuckled clapping Rowan on the back.

"Leo,"

The voice caught his attention, as he watched her approach. Long, dark, cascading curls bounced behind her as she ran. The billowing skirt she wore dancing with the breeze. Rowan found his breath catching in the back of his throat as he watched her. The scent of sunshine and jasmine clung to her body. She was quite breathtaking, Rowan wanted to know her. To know all he could, it was a short-lived idea though. Watching as Leo scooped her up into his arms; giving her a passionate kiss. Rowan looked away from the couples happy reunion. Refusing to delve deeper into the fact, he didn't know if he was jealous because Leo was kissing the beauty. Or because the beauty was kissing Leo.  

When they finally pulled away, Rowan was a little startled as their eyes met. Another group of images appeared, during the phase. The light brown she-wolf who had stayed close to him. Reassuring him. Letting his wolf know it was okay that he was okay.

" I remember you," he murmured surprised and yet not. Her eyes, it was a dead give away.

The woman's bell-like laugh echoed in his brain. Committing the sound to memory because he didn't want to forget it, ever. Excitedly, she took his hand, her touch lingering for a long while. Rowan's eyes shifting towards Leo but he was looking down at... his mate? The pair exchanging a look, as if communicating something. As quick as it happened though, they were both looking at him once more. Which, he liked a lot.

" And I you,  Jude Sari. Welcome home Rowan." she beamed

Rowan smiled in returned, thought it faltered a little as she let go of his hand. Now, wrapping both of her arms around Leo's waist.

Yeah, he needed a drink.

"Guess, I'll go mingle like  boss man said." unable to take the awkward - whatever it this was between the three of them in that moment.  He could feel his wolf stirring inside him; it was unnerving. So with a tight smile, he turned in search of a drink... or two.

"Have fun!" Jude called after him watching Rowan walk away as a few females and males approaching him now. Her body stiffening as they watched the exchange.

" Easy love," Leo said kissing the top of her head as he watched along as well. " We still have to wait for Angelica to test him, to be sure."

Leaning into his chest she shook her head,  " It's him, can't you feel it?"

He could, it was the same pull that he had meeting  Jude for the first time. That tug had been instant, it was instant with Rowan. Still, he didn't want to leave anything up to chance. They would have to wait and see what Angelica said first. After that, they could go from there.

"We’ll know for sure soon enough."

[everlarkficexchange]

A Father Figure

Written by: @wingletblackbird

Prompt 44: Their love was forbidden in more ways than the obvious one (older!Peeta). Their love conquers all even with revelations that destroys other person relationships. AU. Toast babies for extra cookies. [submitted by @animekpopxx]

Betaed by: @jroseley

Warnings: Minor references to pedophilia, although there is none present in this story.

Rating: General. (If you’ve read the Hunger Games you can read this. lol)

A/N: This submission has four chapters and a little over 17k words. I have one more chapter and an epilogue, (with the extra-kudos toastbabies), left to write. However, I also have a couple other EFE fics to work on before the deadline, so I’m submitting this now. Hopefully I can compete this fic by April 7th, but if not, I should be able to finish it in the next month or two. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter One: Guardian Angel

I have never felt lower in my life, never felt more desperate. You’d think it would be the day Dad died, but that was just the harbinger of ill tide. It’s amazing how quickly things change. You never see it coming, like a sucker punch, every plan you ever had, every thought you took for granted, gone with the ash. When Daddy died it was so hard to understand. The words, Daddy died. Daddy died. Daddy’s dead. echoed all through my head, bouncing around the walls of my skull, mere sounds which garnered no understanding. I remember holding Prim tight, like I might lose her too, and Momma held both of us as we all cried and cried. I remember nuzzling my head into my mother’s breast and breathing her scent in, comforted. At least we had each other. I clung to her, our only rock left, our refuge. The next morning came, and Momma wouldn’t get up. It was like thinking you were holding onto driftwood in a flood, only to realise it’s sinking metal. Your refuge is torn from you, was never a refuge at all. You flail, and choke on water, can’t even make a noise. There’s no air, only panic, and terror, such terror. It imprisons you like prey lured to a dead end, rushing this way and that, trying to bolt; the terror and panic in their eyes…my eyes…crippling them. Desperation. You swim or die. I tried to swim, while holding Prim above the powerful waves. It’s so hard to manage even yourself against the tide. So here I am, soaked to the bone, drowning, and the icy rain falling is still warmer than the chill in my soul, the desperate ache in my ribcage, as I scrounge for scraps in the garbage bins in town, but there is nothing. I am nothing. The mines took all of us.

  A raw, wrenching cry rises up in me. I keel over with it. There’s no food. We’re done. I failed. It’s like I can feel the severing of my life’s thread. I am dead. Soon everyone will know it. I’m only eleven, so close to tesserae, but I have no energy and no hope. The merchant’s trash was my last shot, but there’s not even trash for me. My knees buckle, but I can’t stay here, so I crawl through the mud to the meagre refuge of an apple tree by the bakery. I bet I look like those stragglers that lie down and die in the meadow. It’s a beautiful place to die. Maybe I’d go too if I had the energy. This apple tree will have to do. If only it had fruit.

  I sit here under it, too raw for tears, as the water drenches me, and my fingers and lips turn blue. I don’t dare look at the bakery. The smell of it is cruel enough, to look and see inside the warmth, the light, and the food–all the food, mountains of food–not for me, would be too much. It would be the final confirmation I am nothing, will never be anything, locked out, not worthy to even eat the scraps. No one cares about Katniss Everdeen; no one cares about the Everdeens at all. All the people Momma healed, and all the people Daddy stood up for, worked with, not one of them had a care to return the favour. No one. It hurts. I close my eyes, unable to get up and face my sister with her hollow cheeks, and cracked lips. Does she even understand how bad it is? Gentle Prim who still cleans Daddy’s shaving mirror everyday like that’ll somehow bring him home? Maybe they’ll send me to the Home, but hopefully I’ll die long before I have to face the failure embodied in a broken Prim. I was supposed to protect her.

  I’ve almost passed out from the hunger, fallen asleep from the cold, when I hear slushy footprints walking towards me. It’s probably peacekeepers, or maybe the baker is running me off, or someone’s going to drag me to the Community Home. I muster the energy to open my eyes, and turn my head over expecting to see a cruel face, a harsh twist of sneering lips, instead I am greeted with a smile. It is a gentle, kind smile. Not the kind that is fake, or is so peppy it ignores reality, or is just really forced, but the kind that comes at the end of a hard day when there’s really no joy to be had, except you see someone you love…and you smile. I can’t imagine why this man’d be smiling at me like that. I feel nervous.

  He kneels next to me in the mud, ruining his slacks. The rain is drenching him now too, plastering his blonde hair to his head, but he doesn’t seem to care. He looks to be about mid-twenties, fair with blue eyes, like most people in town. He looks healthy, nothing like me. I just want to know what he wants. Get this over with.

  “You’re Katniss, right?” The man, Mr. Mellark I suppose, looks at me earnestly, and he seems sincere, concerned. How does he know my name? I tense and I nod vaguely.

  “Jack Everdeen’s daughter?”

  I nod again, and tears fill my eyes at the words, at what seems like the compassion behind them, at the recognition, the gentleness… at Daddy. His eyes seem unbearably tender. He sighs.  

  “I’m sorry about your Dad. He was a good friend of mine.” He shakes his head. “I should have visited, but…I didn’t want to make things worse for you.”

  What he means by that, I couldn’t say.

  “How do you mean?” He hesitates a moment, and I worry he won’t answer, but he meets my tentative gaze.

  “I used to trade with him, bread for squirrels and the like. He was a good man. I liked him. We talked sometimes.”

  Yes, that makes sense. It would have been around the entire district if some townie walked up to our house. He’s right; it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea. I’d wonder what everyone else’s excuse was, but talking to someone, anyone at all, who seems to care is warming me in spite of myself.

  “Here.” He pulls a package out from under his jacket,  and presses it into my hands. It’s bread, I realise: Three loaves. The tears overflow. I am overwhelmed, shocked. No one just gives food away in Twelve. I look up for a catch, but he just smiles sadly. “For your father’s sake,” he says. I can accept that.

  With a sudden spurt of energy, I lean over, grasp him in a quick hug, mutter, “Thank you,” and dash off back home. I think I hear him say, “Anytime,” with remarkable sincerity, but I’m not sure. Either way, his kindness is unparalleled.

  When I wake up the next morning the world feels different, warmer, not quite so hopeless, not quite so alone. It’s like Mr. Mellark’s kindness has stayed with me, penetrated me. Still, I know something is going to have to change. I can’t just keep reacting, hoping for more people like Mr. Mellark, (if they even exist). My pride won’t take it anyway. You don’t sit back and let people hand you stuff. You work for it. In the back of my mind, I take pride in the words Mr. Mellark said, how he identified me: You’re Jack Everdeen’s daughter. I am, I think, and Daddy wouldn’t want me to quit, lie down in the dirt. When I spy a dandelion on my way to school, I know how we’ll survive. The spring truly returns to my step. I look back at Prim who’s trailing behind me, holding my hand, and smile.

  It takes some time, of course, to be sure I know all the edible plants off by heart, to know where and when to find them without Daddy watching over my shoulder, but soon the woods are

my refuge. I find food there, sustenance, comfort. As the seasons change, I spend hours upon hours in the summer practicing my shooting, making more arrows, storing food for winter. Between my poaching and my tesserae, we are managing. Prim brings my mother out into the sun more, and the return of meat to the house slowly seems to rouse her from her stupor. Prim gives her some kind of medicine that’s supposed to help. I guess it works. Momma’s not the same, but it’ll do. She’s functional. Prim is thrilled. Hugging Mom over and over, and smiling, like she’s back from the dead, which she may as well be. Me though, I hug mom stiffly, once, but I don’t know what else to do when she looks at me with sad eyes. The damage is done. I can no longer rely on her. Things have changed. They’ll never go back. Where’s the use in pretending? Her arms are no longer my refuge. There are the woods for that. That will have to be enough. It’s not that I hate her. It’s just that I can’t pretend to be younger than I was forced to grow to be. I don’t fit that niche anymore. I won’t nuzzle into her a chest again. I can’t need her, don’t know how to trust her. I’m glad Prim is happy. I keep my thoughts to myself.

  It is about five or six months after the incident with Mr. Mellark that I see him again. We, Gale, a boy I became poaching allies with over the last month, and I, have excitedly hauled up our first ever deer into the butcher’s, and are just leaving with the cash. I’ve never seen so much before, I can only imagine what more I would’ve gotten if the doe had been intact. Even better,  I now know I can trade with the butcher for currency if I need to, so it’s a good day when Mr. Mellark walks out from the back room.

  “Hi, Katniss,” he greets cheerfully. “Aunt Rooba just told me about that deer you and your buddy shot down.” He nods at Gale as he says this. “If you ever get a squirrel, feel free to come down to the bakery, or better yet, actually, just come to my place.” He rattles off an address I quickly try to memorise. “My brother’s not too keen on trading.” He winks, pats me firmly on the shoulder, says he’s glad to see I’m doing better, acknowledges Gale politely, and heads back to the bakery. He’s humming a cheery tune. All in all, it’s a short exchange, but I feel a sense of pride go through me that he didn’t make a mistake in giving me that bread. You’re Jack Everdeen’s daughter. I can get him that squirrel.

  Gale doesn’t look nearly so pleased I notice as we head back to the Seam. His brow is furrowed, and his fists are buried so deep into his pockets they seem to bow his body forward. His breathing is strained.

  “What’s your problem?” I ask, probably more defensively than I needed to.

  “He is my problem.” Gale huffs, and there’s no doubt to whom he’s referring. “It’s sick. His type. Worse than Cray.”

  “Worse than Cray?” I am utterly confused. Cray gives desperate women a pittance to warm his bed. How could Mr. Mellark ever be compared to such an odious man?

  “Haven’t you heard, Catnip?”

  “Heard what?” I’m getting mad now. Gale can be patronising at the best of times. It’s clear he thinks I’m just some little kid he had better put up with. Gale stops in is tracks, and pivots around to look at me intently. His rage matches mine.

  “They say he gives out food to starving kids, but in return he expects them to…stay over…at his place. You get what I mean? They say that’s why he’s never married. He has preferences.”

  Unfortunately, I know what he’s hinting at, and it taints the memory of Mr. Mellark giving me that bread right when I most needed it. Is this why he wants me to come to his place? Is he really worse than Cray? Does he expect something? It’s hard to believe. His smile, his warmth, had seemed so genuine. Now I worry I’ve been played for a fool.

  “I get what you mean, but we trade with Cray too, and I’m not going to turn my nose up at a bargain that could help my family. Besides, my dad used to trade with him. He can’t be all that bad.”

  Gale shakes his head like I’m so naive, and it pisses me off. He presses forward against the cold wind. “Suit yourself, Catnip. I just don’t like it. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “I won’t!” I snarl. He’s reaching to touch a part of me that is far to vulnerable for such callous exposure. We part ways quickly after splitting our haul. My good mood killed.

  The next morning I rise before dawn and shoot a squirrel determined to know the truth for myself. I am absolutely dwarfed in my father’s leather hunting jacket I insist on wearing, no matter how pathetic it seems. I stomp into town gripping the handle of my knife in my pocket. I doubt I’ll need it, but still, I feel uptight. I draw in a quick breathe to fortify myself, and knock on the door.

  “Katniss!” Mr. Mellark exclaims looking thrilled to see me, his eyebrows comically risen on his forehead. “Wow! You came faster than I could have hoped. Why don’t you come in?” He opens the door wider and gestures grandly for me to enter. “I’ll just get something for you.” I’m tempted to say I’ll wait, but it seems rather rude to a man who has been so seemingly kind.

  His house is bright. I wonder if he’s decorated it himself. There are beautiful pictures, sketches, and paintings on the walls. Most look like they could be from Twelve. But some look like the scribbles of children which feels makes me feel like I’ve swallowed stones. He leads me into the kitchen and I can see breakfast is on the table. I have interrupted him, as well as two children I’m pretty sure are from the Community Home who are sitting there. I almost throw up.

  “How many squirrels have you got me? And how would you prefer I pay? Bread or coin?” He asks. I try to shake myself out of my horror. “Katniss?”  

  “Umm…Just the one squirrel, and, um, bread, please.” I am utterly unable to take my eyes off of the children in front of me. They look about five and six. I think I really might puke.

  Peeta just nods agreeably and goes to a bread box at the counter where he pulls out a loaf of sourdough which he places neatly in a paper bag and hands over at me.

  “Katniss?” He asks again. I must really look bad.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” I panic. “I just…I’m not used to being up this early.” He chuckles at that.

  “Yes, the early mornings are hard to get used to.” He glances over at the children who are shyly pretending not to look at us. “You two done?” His voice is jovial.

  “Yes, Mr. Peeta.” The young boy mutters, and grabs the hand of the little girl I assume must be his sister. Peeta looks back at me, because somehow I haven’t been able to move myself out of there as quickly as possible. “I don’t suppose you mind walking them back to the Home? I’m running a bit late.”

  “Yes, of course.” I seize my chance, and grab the boy’s hand, and he pulls his younger sister behind him. I nod goodbye to Mr. Mellark, and dash out the door.

  Watching them though, they seem shy, but not…harmed in anyway, and I wonder if I’m overreacting. Mr. Mellark didn’t seem horrible, hadn’t propositioned me for anything, but then again not everyone who is awful looks like it. Yet I find it hard to believe though that my Dad would have traded with someone who was a pedophile. Cray is awful, but to use children…

  “Do you like Mr. Mellark?”

  “Uh, huh.” It’s the girl that answers. “He’s nice. He lets us eat until we’re full sometimes, and if someone stole our place, he gives us a bed.”

  “Does he ever…hurt you? Make you do…funny things?” How am I really supposed to phrase it? Does Mr. Mellark fondle you? Give you food and a roof over your head in exchange for satisfying his sexual perversions? I can’t even begin the process of saying it out loud.

  “No.” The boy stops walking and stares forcefully up at me. He seems intently serious, more than his age should be. “There are a lot of people like that, but not Mr. Mellark. He’s really nice.”

  “Sometimes he bakes cookies with us!” The little girl pipes in. The boy sighs at her optimism, and when his Seam grey eyes properly meet my own, I see an abject loss of innocence. I wonder what he’s seen. I wonder what he’s been through.

  “I know what you’re really asking, but he’s not like that, and don’t ever let noone say otherwise.”

  After that he won’t say another word, but his sister rambles on and on, about how Mr. Mellark had tucked her in at night, and told her a bedtime story, and how it was so warm, and they actually had enough blankets for once. I feel incredibly relieved, and also guilty for even doubting him: The Kind Man With the Bread.

I take to trading with Mr. Mellark–Peeta, he insists I can call him–about once a week or so. I keep an eye on him at other times too, and as the weeks pass I notice a variety of regular children who frequent his property. Mostly they are children from the Community Home, but there are others who are from truly broken homes who stay over at Mr. Mellark’s when they need a warm roof over their heads. The most he’ll ever ask is that they make their bed, or help him with breakfast. There’s a sixteen year old called Jude, Peeta’s known since he was about eleven, who runs errands for him. Peeta’s never even asked. Jude just looks up to him that much, or owes him that much, I suppose. Peeta’s become every stray’s older brother and father. I see him playing soccer with them in the backyard, or teaching them chess on the porch. Once he bought a young girl a new dress she was desperately in need of, and she proudly twirled it for me. I can easily see how he got such a terrible reputation. No one is going to think well of some Townie who hangs around with Seam children, giving them food and warmth, especially ones who are impoverished even by our standards. No one gives away food here, especially crossing the class lines. Clearly there has to be something salacious. No one’s that nice. Peeta is though, and he’s made a pariah for it.

  “Why do you do it?” I ask him one morning when he invites me in. It’s one of those rare mornings he offers to have breakfast with me and the Home kids aren’t there too. Maybe that’s why it’s also the first time I accept.

  “Do what?” He seems genuinely confused.

  “Help all those kids. Most people wouldn’t. And you must know what they say about you.”

  He laughs at this, and shakes his head.

  “Oh yeah, I know what they say. I didn’t plan it, you know.”

  “I didn’t think you did.” I mutter a bit annoyed at the idea that he might be laughing at me, but he just tugs on my braid good-naturedly and I feel my ire melt a bit.

  “It happened sort of gradually, I guess.” He shrugs and spoons up a bit more oatmeal. “I noticed that there were a lot of kids digging around the trash cans. Mom hated it, used to run them off, but I felt bad. Children were starving, and she would go and yell at them,and threaten to call the White Shirts, and I’d give food we had to the pigs.” He’s not laughing now. He’s looking far-off like he’s playing out a distant, painful memory in his head. “So I started to leave food out for them, and when I got older, got a place of my own–anything to get away from Mom, to be honest–I noticed a young boy on the street. It was winter, bitter cold, I knew he probably wouldn’t wake up again if he fell asleep out there, so I brought him in. That was Jude. He was the first. It all snowballed from there. They kept coming, I’d see them on the street, locked out of the Home, and I couldn’t turn them away. We’re supposed to protect children, take care of them, not hit them, not watch them starve and freeze to death” His words drag me back to when I was the one starving and freezing, and I am so lost in the echoes of despair and gratitude, I almost miss the words he whispers next. “Or get thrown into arenas.”

  “Is that why you never married?” The reference to the Games draws the question from my lips before I even have time to think. Having already decided myself never to love or marry for precisely that reason, if no other, I find myself quite sympathetic.

  “No, not really. I’m just picky.” He picks up his bowl and mine and goes to the sink where he starts washing them up. I stand and grab a towel to help dry. “In town, a lot of people marry for advantage. Oldest son inherits, others apprentice out, often marry the daughter inheriting another business, so on and so forth. My parents have a marriage like that.” I look at his profile and see a tensing in his jaw, and I can tell this topic is difficult for him. “They don’t like each other very much, and mother’s bitterness spills over everywhere. I swore that would never be me, even if it meant the mines.”

  “But it didn’t?” This seems intrinsically important to me. I would not want to see Peeta in the mines. I wouldn’t want to see anyone in the mines, but Peeta is the nicest man in my life now that Daddy’s gone, and that makes the image ten times worse.

  “No, Ryen hated the bakery so much he apprenticed out to become a blacksmith, so I didn’t have to worry too much. The bakery can support both me and my brother. Still, to be on the safe side, it would’ve been good for me to marry well. I just never met any woman who I thought I could be happy with. They either don’t approve of me or what I do, or we have nothing in common, or I’m not attracted to them, or as the youngest and least financially secure son, they want nothing to do with me.”

  “I’m sorry.” I say, and I am, because even though I never want to marry and never want to have kids, I am sad that such a nice man seems so alone. He flicks water up at me clearly unencumbered by such thoughts.

  “Don’t look so gloomy, Miss Sunshine,” he teases. “Do I look unhappy to you?”

  “No.” He drags a smile out of me, and gives me a loaf of bread to trade as I leave, telling me to drop by “anytime,”. The little girl I met when I first traded with him, I’ve learned her name is Sarai, runs up and gives him a hug.

  “Morning, Little Angel!” he greets, and I realise Mr. Mellark never needed to be a husband to be a father. When I hug Prim in my arms that night, I realise I’m not much different there.

  After our conversation that day, I do try to drop by every once in awhile. I tell myself it’s to make sure he’s okay. The truth is when I have my bad days, just walking by his house makes me feel better, reminds me that in the crushing grinder of life, there are people who will care. Someone who’ll listen. I’ve noticed I have an unfortunate weakness for kind people, but it is New Years Eve that ruins me.

  I go to visit Peeta and wish him a Happy New Year when he invites me in saying he has a present for me. Inside there seems to be a little party going on. There is music playing, and I glance into the living room to see Peeta has clearly tried to bring some holiday cheer into his kids’ lives, but it is not the living room he takes me too. He takes me to some kind of office or studio where he presents me with a picture frame deliberately turned upside down. I turn it over and there is a beautiful painting of my father. The expression captured is perfect. The woods look incredibly real. His eyes are shining as brightly as they did in life. I realise Peeta must have painted this, must have made all the pictures around here. I’m impressed at his talent but that is lost behind the well of emotions which have broken through the dam I have built around them. Mom looks at the picture of Dad all the time, but I haven’t been able to bear looking at his visage since the day he died. Now he is here in front of me. Tears stream down my cheeks. I don’t know how it happened, but Peeta’s arms are around me as I sob and sob and sob. I’ve been trying to be brave so long, I haven’t really cried.

  “Shh. Shh,” he whispers as he rubs my back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I shudder and gasp as I try to find the words. I settle for shaking my head and snuggle deeper into his chest as his arms encircle me. I haven’t been held like this since the day my father died, and I feel safe. I feel small, not like a bug about to be crushed under your foot small, small like a chick under their mother’s wing. The thought makes me shake and cry harder. I’ve missed this. I’ve needed this.

  “It’s perfect, Peeta. Thank you.”

  I pull away reluctantly and through watery eyes I see blue eyes meet mine. Something flops and rises in my chest; I know now, I will never be able to claw this man out of my heart, the guardian angel my father sent from beyond the grave.

Chapter Two: Loneliness

About a year and a half later, not long after I turn fourteen, I discover Peeta has ambitions far beyond what I’m sure anyone else could have imagined. As always, I don’t see it coming. Not much has changed over the year and a half so much as it has grown. Gale trades with Peeta too now, although his disdain for anyone from Town remains uncomfortably evident. I drop by sometimes for breakfast or supper, bringing trophies from the woods like berries, or wild onions, here and there, so Peeta doesn’t feel like I’m using him. I share parts of my life. It’s nice, to have someone to talk to outside of school or hunting. Madge and I don’t really talk much. Gale and I are only just learning to. And it is this undeniable passage of time that spurs the conversation I never saw coming.

  “I have a proposition for you, Katniss, now it’s spring.”

  I have to swallow quickly before answering.

  “What sort of proposition?”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind taking some of your time in the woods to look for some sizeable flood banks, or moist valleys, you know, places water accumulates, and the soil looks good?”

  I’m so surprised by the nature of his question my spoon is left suspended in the air.

  “Why?”

  He places his palms flat on the table in front of him, and draws himself up for what looks like a discussion he’s going to feel passionate about.

  “Jude’s aging out of the Reaping this year.”

  I nod.

  “And I obviously don’t want him going down the mines.”

  I nod again because I have no idea where he’s going with this.

  “I also rather hate the tesserae system, and how dependent we are on the Capitol for rations in general.”

  Oh, this is getting dangerous. I swallow.

  “Everyone in Town depends on the Capitol for supplies to continue their trade–that’s a huge part of the reason no one from the Seam can buy from us, the prices are too high–and it’s also what keeps us Town-folk at their mercy. It divides us completely, and still I know people starve everyday.”

  “Your point,” I say tilting my chin down for a stern look, because this topic of conversation is dangerous, and while I would expect it from Gale and his rants, I am not expecting it from Peeta, who prefers to talk about homework, or my relationships with my family, or other safer topics of conversation a man in his mid to late twenties might ask a young girl he looks out for.

  “My point is that I want to change that if I can. I’ve been planning this for years, actually. I want to see if maybe we can farm in the woods. Get our flour from our own sources. Then we could open a bakery at the Hob, and sell at prices people can afford, cut out the middleman. It might help a lot. Of course, no one from the Seam is going to want to buy from me, and while I think if the alternative were tesserae or starve, most would, I thought maybe Jude could do it? And that way I don’t have to worry about him either.”

  “You’re crazy.” The way I say it though sounds nothing short of awestruck. “You really could hang for this.”

  He gives this about a second’s thought which either proves he’s not thinking this through, or he’s thought this through so much he’s already made up his mind. Knowing him, both could somehow be true at the same time.

  “I could, but I’m one person. Children starve to death everyday.”

  “What about the children you’re already responsible for?” I note even as I am saying it that technically Peeta isn’t responsible for them. The Home is. The Capitol is. The District is. But they are so inadequate, Peeta has stepped in.

  “I know. I know. It is a risk. It’s a gamble. I just don’t see any other option I can live with in clear conscience. This is way bigger than that, and no matter what I do, there are risks we face.”

  I can’t say he’s wrong, and who am I to argue with him when I risk my life everyday to feed Prim? I could hang for it, be shot for it, and if that happens, what’ll happen to Prim? But if I don’t she might starve and still die, or take tesserae and be that much more likely to die. It’s like Peeta said. It’s a gamble. It’s a risk.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  I don’t mean to sound callous, but business is business, and this is risky business. Peeta doesn’t seem to mind. A wide smile returns to his face. In truth it annoys me at times he seems to find my stern-negotiating-face adorable. I don’t want to be associated with adorable. I am not adorable. Regardless, he agrees to pay me a certain amount to find the land for him, and if they succeed in growing anything, he’ll give me enough grain to match my monthly tesserae rations. While it won’t mean I’ll be able to stop taking out tessera, since I split everything with Gale, it will mean decreasing the number of times I have to put my name in each year. I probably would have agreed to this scheme anyway, but there’s no way I could turn down a deal like that.

  As it turns out,  Peeta really has put a lot of thought into this farming scheme. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Perhaps it’s part of being a  bakeer–the way he gets up at three every morning and methodically kneads dough–but deliberateness permeates his being. Peeta is as steady and solid as the earth he means to till. He’s been stockpiling barrels, and building airtight containers to store flour in. He’s been looking into long-term storage. He has a contact in Eleven, (how I dare not ask), who got him corn and wheat seed. He asked his blacksmith brother to make him several hoes, (and laments he couldn’t find a domesticated horse or ox even if it were possible to bring such a creature past the fence), and has even made arrangements with the Goat Man to shovel his manure which Peeta plans to use as fertiliser. Never has it been more obvious to me what a planner Peeta is. Since I usually react to things and don’t generally think past tomorrow, it’s rather mind-boggling to see the lengths to which one man can scheme. Peeta has even grilled Greasy Sae on what she can remember from before the Dark Days about farming in the area. Peeta’s decided to plant corn in the spring and summer, and then wheat in the fall and winter. Who knew wheat just sort of stayed packed under the snow and waited to be harvested come spring? I didn’t. Now I do.

  Peeta has this way of talking about things that keeps you interested. Like when he talked about why he convinced his Aunt to give him chickens. I didn’t know gluten is what made bread stick together, and any flour he might get from corn, or even acorns, would need something else to make it stick. Hence, the eggs which he got from his Aunt, the butcher, who can occasionally get animals into the district. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I have little particular interest in the making of bread, and I had no idea there was so much to the subject of flour, oil, sugar, water, and yeast, but there is, and I listen, because he is interesting. Peeta asked if he was boring me, and I told him he wasn’t, but it wasn’t really because what he was saying was interesting, but his eyes lit up, and his arms gestured, and his humour was on point. His entire countenance took on such an animated, light-giving quality, I’d dare anyone to not have been absorbed. It seemed too important to him. Peeta has tendency to wrap you up in his enthusiasm, and make you smile in spite of yourself. It’s infectious. I almost hate him for it.  

  He is truly pouring his all into this crazy scheme. He only works part-time at the bakery now. The rest of the day he is out in the woods, by the river, in the valley, hoeing the land. He’s crazy. He is. There’s no other word. It’s insanity. I worry all the time wild animals are going to savage him, but he carries several knives, and he has a hoe, and I’ve taught him how to scale a tree fast, (which was hilarious because he’s stocky and definitely wasn’t made to scale trees, so much as haul them home for fuel), so I tell myself he’ll be fine. For the first two weeks though, come schools end, I race into the woods to make sure he’s okay. He teases me when he notices.

  “Worried about me?” He chortles.

  I roll my eyes as he tugs my braid and splashes me with river water. I pretend I don’t care. I can sort of see the humour of a girl who barely reaches up to his chest crouching in trees to keep an eye on him, but it’s harder to not get aggravated when Prim joins in the teasing.

  “It’s alright,” she says one day when I meet her after school to tell her where I’m going. “I’d run into the woods with Peeta too.” I immediately tell her off as she giggles. She is ten; I don’t know where she gets all this from. I point out that Mr. Mellark will be thirty come November, but she keeps laughing and later has mom tell a story about how her first crush was on the carpenter who was an older guy too. I huff and storm outside. Don’t they know why I worry? What Peeta has done for us, and still does for us? Of course, I’m worried. Of course I keep tabs on him. Maybe it’s just that I know nothing good stays. It’s nothing to do with crushes on older, stronger men. The problem is they’ve got me so worked up, I question every natural observation I have that Peeta’s arms are strong, and look good when they flex, or the way his shirt sticks to his skin when he sweats, or the way his hair shines gold when the light hits it just right. It’s normal to see these things when you look at someone. It doesn’t mean anything, but I head home when my keeping tabs on him results in me seeing him strip off his shirt and pour cool water over his head. There were many trails of water to follow over his chest, droplets that cascaded down him and dazzled in the sun, and he didn’t know I was there so it wasn’t fair.

  On weekends, and everyday come summer, the rest of Peeta’s pseudo-family join him. There is Jude, who is the oldest, and Jet who I know from various conversations over the last year is seventeen, and lives with his mom who is an alcoholic. Then there is Colleen and her brother Cole, who are fourteen and twelve. They were orphaned in the blast that killed my father. Finally, there are the babies of this group, Sarai and her brother Elliot, who were the first of Peeta’s foster kids I met. They don’t help much with the plowing, but they’re up bright and early every morning when the time comes for planting the seeds. I dare say it keeps them out of trouble. I help out too when I can, which always earns me a huge smile from Peeta that makes it hard to maintain eye contact with him. I refuse any form of payment pointing out that this is an investment for me too. Truth is, I just wanted to. Seeing them all work so hard tugs my heartstrings. Contrary to popular belief, I do have them. The corn grows fast, and high, and waves in the wind.

  It sometimes takes me time to find where they are working since Peeta has divided the farming land into sections. He hopes that’ll reduce the likelihood of damage to his crop than if they’re all in one place, and of the Capitol clueing into what’s going on with the two or three acres or so of land they’re farming. I have to say I agree. It was only a few months previously Gale and I had seen two people fleeing the Capitol only to be captured by hovercraft. I hadn’t told anyone but Peeta. Prim I couldn’t tell for fear of worrying her, and the same went with my mother. I don’t want to risk her checking out again, but Peeta, he is the one person in the world today I would say I trust unconditionally. That’s why I told him about the cabin by the lake my father brought me, in case he wants to fix that up to store grain in. He seemed terribly touched I’d told him, and I was glad he’d understood what it meant to me. Sometimes I go to the lake and see the work done and while it saddens me that this place is no longer my own, I am glad that my knowledge, my life, might now sustain others. (You’re Jack Everdeen’s daughter.)

  Gale cautions me about getting too involved in all this.

  “It’ll be great if it works out, Catnip, but if it doesn’t, don’t go wasting your time with it. We’ve got our own mouths to feed.” I hate he has a point, and reluctantly agree. It doesn’t end there though. Another time he points out, “And don’t go giving away our trade secrets either. We don’t need that kind of competition.”

  Again I agree with him, but a bakery isn’t going to compete with us, and I’ve known starvation too well not to help when I can, especially when I know what help has meant to me, and even more so when it is the person who helped me when I most needed it.

  “Stupid Townie,” Gale mutters. “If he wants to help out, fine, but the woods are ours. He’s stepping in where he doesn’t belong, trying to take advantage of us, thinks we can’t do better, but what else is new?”

  I get where Gale is coming from. I really do. We’ve been at the backdoors of people who will give us a pittance for our work, because they know we can’t really say no, especially when the law is on their side. It’s frustrating to say the very, very least, but I resent even more the notion that Peeta Mellark is like that when he is the one out here sweating under a hot sun, and working so hard I know I saw blood on the handle of his hoe. I also know that blood is there because he gave Jet his own gloves, and never let on a hint to his own pain. Peeta is staking a lot on this venture. I tell Gale so, and before I know it we’re in a flaming row. I generally try to avoid rows with Gale, or wait until we’re done hunting. They scare off the game, but I can’t help myself this time. There is a lot of huffing, arm-waving, and finger-pointing, and Gale calls me a naive child, again, and eventually we just stop unable to reach an accord. He’s only two years older, I wish he’d stop acting uppity. The truth is, I should have seen this coming. I’ve been called a halfie a few times, and that’s one of the kinder words out there. It doesn’t matter how much my mother does as a healer in the Seam, and I am proud of her for that if nothing else, she is still from Town, and people still skirt around her. It’s no different for Peeta. Gale is sceptical. He always will be, I think. It exhausts me.

  It works though. The corn grows, is harvested, dehydrated, and stored to be ground into cornmeal. I take Sarai and Elliot through the woods with massive buckets to get acorns to supplement that as well. One Sunday in October, Peeta invites me to join in a celebration in the woods. I am told I can bring my mother and Prim if I want to, but something in me hesitates and I seek them out alone. When I arrive I find a massive bonfire, and Jet playing something on some kind of wooden instrument. There are some cookies to snack on, and everyone is milling and dancing about the flames. I stop in the shadow of a tree just to watch them as the night grows darker. It’s strange this group of people. Seam colouring aside, they don’t look like a family, and Peeta doesn’t even have that. Jet is the only one that has anything merchant to him, blue eyes, because he’s the product of some Townie looking for fun without responsibility. Jude is lean and thin faced, but Jet is circular and short. Colleen and Cole look related of course, but their hair is blunt and straight, as are their noses. Then the youngest, Sarai and Eliot, well they have an impish look to them, even as serious as Eliot can be. Peeta sticks out like a sore thumb. Yet there is a harmony to this group, a joy, and a hope that unites them as they join hands and spin around and laugh together. They seem bound by something beyond anything I’ve experienced before. It makes something in me ache. I want to join in, but it feels dangerous to do so. I am not a part of this, and celebrating something scares me in a way I don’t fully understand. It seems risky, even as I wish it.

  “Katniss!” Elliot has spotted me. “Come on!” He runs forward and pulls me in. Jude hands me a cookie. It’s delicious, and I can’t help but smile. Soon Sarai who had been enjoying a piggy-back ride by Colleen runs over to get me to dance with her, and her joy drags all of us in as we spin and spin around. Half way through a twirl I lose my balance and Peeta catches me. All I notice is his warmth, his strong arms and chest, and then his blue eyes and his smile, and I forget to breathe. The urge to move forward is so overwhelming I shove him away.

  “I-I’m sorry. It’s getting late. My family’ll worry.”

  “Of course,” Peeta nods, apparently finding nothing the matter with my reaction. I suppose maybe I’m just that awkward. “Give them my regards.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I turn away to hug the youngest one’s goodbye and dash off trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that my mother and Prim were right.

  I avoid him after that. It’s stupid, because it’s not like he’d care, but I don’t know how to act. I trade with him as always, but insist that with winter here, I’m needed elsewhere so I don’t stay. Peeta looks concerned, but I brush him off and he lets it go. I encourage Gale to trade there more often. Gale notices and asks if Peeta has done anything wrong, but he really hasn’t. Gale doesn’t believe me, of course, but he lets it go for which I’m grateful.

  I am, however, kept up to date on everything that’s happening in Peeta’s life by Colleen. For whatever reason she has decided we are friends now we’ve been to a bonfire together. I discovered this when she decided to sit with Madge and I and lunch. I don’t discourage it though, it wouldn’t be particularly nice, and I also know Colleen, like me, doesn’t have many friends. Still, she’s a chatterbox which is an odd change since I think Madge and I are friends-of-a-sort, because we both don’t like to talk. Colleen isn’t shallow though, and her conversation does cover things that are at least relevant or interesting. I don’t think I could’ve bourne a gossip. Funnily enough, the injection of a talker to our group seems to have done Madge and I a bit of good allowing us to actually acknowledge that we are, in fact, friends. She drags us both to her house to teach us to play the piano, which is a huge laugh to say the least, and she talks us into bringing her to the woods. It’s been so long since I’ve done anything besides hunt and trade and work, I never realised how much I missed it. Short of some joking with Prim, or family time at New Years, I haven’t just had fun since my father died. It fills me with a deep ache in my heart. My father and I used to spend time together just singing with the mockingjays. Sometimes, he would seat me on his lap and teach me to sing in harmony with him. Silly songs. Folk songs. Love songs. I learned them all, and now waching Madge laugh as Colleen fudges up her part of Heart and Soul, I almost feel I could cry. For the first time, it doesn’t feel quite so much like death and loss, but life and growth. The cracking of a shell I’m out-growing.  I’ve never considered that new life comes in to the world to us with pain, so much as I have fixated on the losing of it.

  Gale and I stop trading with Peeta as of November. We split the grain he gives us between our families, and go straight to the new bakery in the Seam if we need bread. Greasy Sae has partnered with it to give it even more legitimacy, if such is a concern in a black market, and it is gaining popularity quickly. I am told there was a problem with the other bakery at the Hob. The system worked where children could sell there tesserae grain for coin, and that grain would be milled down and baked and sold at the Hob. Before Peeta, that was the best most people could hope for for a bakery in the Seam. With Jude selling now, fewer people were buying tesserae bread, or even having to sell as much tesserae grain for coin. Jude and Jet had almost come to blows with the other baker, I think his name was Mr. Salter, before people came to break it up before the Peacekeepers were forced to actually remember they were on duty. Peeta sorted it out by arranging to pay the Salter family help him mill down his grain, since it’s hard for them to farm, bake, and mill, all by themselves, and now they’ve settled into a reluctant sort of truce. Jude has not been condemned to the mines.

  But death comes anyway. It’s unstoppable. Colleen looks sombre come February.

  “Did something happen?” Madge asks, concerned.

  “Peeta’s mother died.”

  None of us say much after that, but after pacing around the woods guilty, I visit Peeta for the first time in four months. When he answers the door he looks dreadfully exhausted. His eyes have a haunted quality to them, and his hair seems simultaneously lank and uncombed. There is stubble where he is usually so clean shaven.

  “Hey, Katniss.” He mumbles and motions for me to enter.

  “I, um, heard about your mother.” I offer tentatively as I place several squirrels on the table for him.

  He sits down and sighs with weariness that is soul-deep.

  “Yeah, it’s no surprise really. She’s been sick for awhile, and had stroke a few years back besides.”

  I hadn’t known that she was sick. I should’ve known that. Guilt is rising steadily in me, as Peeta emotionally runs his hand through his hair which waves in a way that makes it clear he’s been doing that a lot today. I have never seen him sit with such a slump in his shoulders before. Not knowing what else to do, I decide to cook the squirrel. I remember how hard it can be to move when you lose a parent, how simple tasks can seem monumental. I’m not a brilliant cook; I’ve never had much opportunity to learn, but I think I can handle a stew. Something about the smell seems to wake Peeta up and he enters the kitchen as the stew is bubbling.

  “Thank you.”

  I just nod. Saying “You’re welcome,” seems trite somehow. This was the least that should be expected. I have been a poor friend to him.

  “I didn’t expect it to be so hard,” he continues as he sits down, his voice has this hollow quality to it. “She and I were never close. I was her disgrace…but now that she’s gone. I guess, I don’t know, there’s no way to ever make it right. Not that it was ever going to be made right, of course. Ever. So what’s the use in–” he waves half-heartedly with his hand, unable to articulate himself for once. All I do is hand him over a bowl of soup. You can’t go wrong with feeding someone, right? I pass him a spoon, and I can tell something’s wrong by the way he stares at it, turning it back and forth before his eyes like it is the key to some kind of puzzle. He drops the spoon and covers his face with his hands. His sobs are mostly soundless, but I can tell they are there by the shaking of his shoulders. They wrack his whole body.

  After a time, I hesitantly place a hand on his shoulder, and start to rub his back. This seems to help a little. I’m half tempted to sing to him, like I would to Prim, but he’s a grown man and that feels strange so I restrain myself. It hurts to see him like this. I’ve never really registered how alone he is. He’s here, in this house, alone, even though he has a father, two married brothers, and several nieces and nephews. It is I who comforts him. I can feel my heart swell with the absurd need to cradle and protect a man so many years my senior. When he calms, he gently places a large, warm hand over my small one, and smiles. I smile gently back.

  “Sorry to do that in front of you.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Thanks for the soup. It helps. The kids’ll be in soon, and then I’ve got to go meet with my brothers and Dad about the arrangements.”

  “If you ever need anything, please just…let me know.” I say the words earnestly and hesitantly, because I’ve never considered before that I could be of any real help to Peeta Mellark. His face lights a slight amount anyway, and he seems more like himself. He tugs my braid lightly and musses my hair and says he’ll bear that in mind. The gesture squeezes my heart in a way that pains. I know what I’ve always known, that he sees me as a cute kid, the daughter of a good friend, but it’s better that way I think as I walk home. There’s no reason that should hurt me. If I ever had to be attracted to anybody, best to be attracted to someone way beyond me. Peeta is older, from Town. It could never work. He’d never notice me, so I have nothing to fear. I can, however, be a partner to him, and more than just in trade. Gale and I share the burdens of having to help support our households. It makes things easier. I can do the same with Peeta, and bringing him some of Prim’s old clothes for Sarai is a good start, because no one deserves to shoulder the burdens of a family alone. I mean to bridge that gap however I can.

  Chapter Three: Artless

“Why art?” I remember asking Peeta shortly after I’d first started trading with him.

  “What do you mean why art?”

  “I mean…no offence…but, isn’t it a waste of time, even money?”

  Peeta took his time in giving me a response. It was something I always appreciated about him. He never belittled me, and spoke to me with respect. When he answered he was still sort of staring into space.

  “You can starve physically, but your soul can starve too. You can survive, but have no reason to live. Art feeds the soul.” He pauses and looks over at me. “You know how when you’re tired you can sit down and not want to get up again? You can. But you don’t. You can give up.” Immediately I am brought back to the apple tree where I had sat lost, weak, and weary. I could have gotten up, as I proved when Peeta gave me the bread, but before the hope he gave me, I wouldn’t have believed I could at all. I had no defense. “Art gives rise to hope, and validation of pain. It’s important, Katniss.”

  I nodded, content to never bring the topic up again, but after a lull in the conversation I thought was over, Peeta added one final thought. “Your father used to sing all the time. I always loved to draw, but I dare say he taught me the power of it.”

  I still haven’t truly sang since my father died, not to anyone other than Prim. I once stood at the edge of the lake my father brought me, not long after that talk with Peeta, and considered opening my mouth and letting the song that flooded to the back of my teeth pour out, but when I saw the mockingjays, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sing and know they would take up the call and sing it again, and again after me for who knew how long. I knew singing again without my father would crack through some barrier that dammed the grief in me, and if I started, would I stop? And how could I bear the mockingjays carrying my pain onward and onward and onward, magnifying it for all to hear? I am too small for that. Too weak. So I don’t sing.

  It hadn’t stopped someone else from their own brand.

  It was In the spring, shortly before my sixteenth birthday, that I first noticed it. Graffiti on buildings depicting the faces of fallen tributes, or supporting the miners, or deriding the excesses of the Capitol. I’d never seen anything like it before. We usually try to forget the Reaping exists during the rest of the year, not like we ever do of course, but we tuck our heads down and move on. I’ve never seen anyone calling attention to it before, honouring those we’ve lost. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but Gale loves it, of course.

  He thinks it’s great to stir people up, take down the Capitol. I want to point out that it’s useless if we’re all by ourselves, one tiny district, but know from experience he won’t listen. He says it would be great if some Townie got reaped so maybe they’d fight alongside us. In truth, I never dreamed he’d get his wish.

  I am a mess the 74th games. It is Prim’s first time, and even though the odds are most in your favour the first time, somehow it feels like the worst. I jerkily lead her up to the counter where peacekeepers are taking blood for their records, and guide her through the process. I hardly even noticed when they prick my finger. When I tell her I will find her immediately after the ceremony is done, I know I am reassuring her as much as myself. I love Prim like I love myself…more actually.

  Colleen is waiting for me in the area for sixteen year olds and she grasps my hand tightly. I know she is as worried for Cole as I am for Prim, but she’s been through this a couple of times already. I’m not used to this kind of fear. I squeeze her hand back in solidarity and appreciation. She offers me a tight smile I can’t bring myself to return. I stare fruitlessly at the bowl and beg it will not call my name, not Prim’s name, or Madge’s, or Colleen’s, or Cole’s, or Gale’s, and muse that in spite of my best efforts, I care far too much. I don’t want it to be anyone, but I can’t stop that, so I must protect my own. There is a tension in the air, as Effie Trinket quickly reads the name more intent on maintaining her tenuous grasp on her wig then appreciating what she’s doing.

  “Flouer Mellark!”

  And a fifteen year old girl from Town is reaped: Peeta’s niece.

  Colleen and I exchange looks. I can read in her eyes what must be in my own. Was the Reaping punitive? It must be even worse for her, because Mellark is her last name now too. Peeta had adopted them all a few months ago when Jude’s Bakery took off. Colleen grabs my hand even tighter, so much so I fear the circulation must be cut off, but I do the same to her. WIll it be Peeta’s nephew, or will it be Cole, who is the only other boy Peeta cares about who might be eligible? Or if it is about trading in the Hob, what is it’s Gale? My breathing loosens when it’s a boy from the Seam, Terrence Carter–but it’s still horrifying to see it is a twelve year old boy. Twelve year olds are seldom Reaped, but when they are, they come from the  very back of the crowd, a longer walk, a longer torment, as if the Capitol wants to rub it in our faces what they do.

Tears are streaming down Colleen’s face now, and the moment we are cleared to leave she runs to find her brother, as I run to find Prim. I clutch her in my arms, breath her scent in, run my fingers through her hair. I need to know she is here, real, in my arms.

  “Oh, Katniss,” she sobs, “how awful.” I can only imagine how this felt to her. I had tried to comfort her, comfort myself, saying her name was only in there once, but so had Terrence’s been. Besides, she knows who the Mellark’s are and that drives it home too. No one is safe. How can anyone choose to go through this?

  “Hush, Little Duck,” I say as I pull away and tuck in her shirt again. “How about we bring them some strawberries?”

  She nods and wipes her tears with the back of her hands. Mom is here now and she hugs Prim too and squeezes my shoulder with her free hand, a teary-eyed smile on her lips.

  Gale is waiting at the edge of the crowd, and I motion to my mother and Prim to go on home first. I give him a hug, the first we’ve ever shared.

  “Congratulations.” I whisper, trying to remind myself to also be grateful I’ll never have to worry about him being Reaped again.

  “Yeah, it’s great,” he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Maybe he’s thinking about Rory who will be eligible next year. I know I am. “Who’d have thought it’d be someone from Town? Maybe now they’ll know what it’s like.”

  “Don’t joke like that Gale.” I glare at him. He doesn’t comment on it.

  “So,” he puts his hands in his pockets, and rocks back and forth on his heels, “I was wondering if you’d like to celebrate with me?”

  “Celebrate?”

  “Yeah, everyone who’s aged out this year. We’re all meeting in the meadow. You want to come?”

  There’s an urgency in his eyes, and a nervousness in his tone that make me think this must be more important than I realise, but my mind is at the Mellark house, so I don’t think too much when I reply.

  “Of course, I’ll be there. I’ll meet you after dinner.”

  “Great!” His eyes light up, and his smile is wider than I’ve seen in ages, and I am happy for him, so I try not to let my distractedness show as he walks me home and prattles on inanely. I nod and hum at appropriate intervals, a practice I am well-versed in given my conversational skills are nil at the best of times.

  When I knock on the door with the basket of strawberries in my hand, it is Jet who opens the door for me. He motions me in, and I don’t comment on the shadows under his eyes. Inside, Sarai is softly sobbing in Colleen’s arms; Cole, next to her, has his eyes closed and is leaning on her shoulder. Eliot is stiff as board on the sofa. Jet sits down next to them, and rests the strawberries on the table. No one eats them.

  “Is he still at the Justice Building?”

  “Yeah,” Jet’s voice breaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Jude and his wife’s with him. Or were. Family didn’t want the Seam there.” He sighs and rests his chin on his clasped hands.

  I stand there awkwardly until the door bursts open. My heart falls when it is Jude and Maria not Peeta.

  “He’ll be here in five minutes.” Jude explains awkwardly.

  “How bad was it?”

  “His brother punched him across the jaw.”

  “Shit.” Jet groans.

  “Language!” Colleen reprimands him pulling Sarai in closer. He ignores her and goes up to thump Jude on the back in masculine affirmation. Maria announces she’s going to make dinner and courteously thanks me for the strawberries. I feel out of place as Jude flops down next to Jet. I’m the only one standing, but this isn’t my house, and I doubt it would be polite to sit. Maybe I should go, but I don’t feel I can do that until I see Peeta.

  He walks in not long after, and already there is the beginnings of a nasty bruise on his left eye. His movements are slowed; his exhaustion is evident.

  “Dad,” Sarai rushes over to him, and he kneels to the floor to grasp her in a tight hug. He closes his eyes so tightly I think he must be hiding tears. As the others gather around, I slip out the door feeling like a voyeur.  

  I almost don’t remember I agreed to go to Gale’s celebration, but halfway through washing the dishes after a silent post-Reaping meal, I head off to the meadow.

  Gale is already there. A few people are playing some upbeat songs, and I can tell the Ripper’s liquor has already started to be passed around the large crowd of eighteen year olds.

  “Catnip!” Gale waves me over, and introduces me to his friends, Thom, Bristel, Jason, and Axel. “You all know who Katniss is, of course.” He gestures towards me proudly, but all can think is that of course they know who I am. I know my reputation. The surly, halfie, criminal who can kill you from a distance. Daughter of the the Townie healer, with the sister with the fair features. Other. Alien. Jack Everdeen’s daughter.

  I am deeply uncertain why Gale wants me here. I am useless with conversation, and I don’t know anyone here. Gale and I spend time together in the woods, but we’ve never done much outside of that. But then I realise maybe that’s the point. I won’t be able to see Gale terribly much after he enters the mines. He’ll only be free on Sundays, so I try to put my best foot forward which I think he appreciates.

  I don’t know how well I do, there’s only so much one can say about the weather, the seasons, and the coal. It’s an unwritten rule not to talk about the Reaping, but I still I detect a general sentiment that “at least it’s a Townie this time,” and “now they’ll know what it feels like” which makes me uncomfortable in it’s callousness. They’re all just children. I dance a few dances, and almost have fun, as much as one can at theses sorts of things where you’re never told what you have to do, and what’s expected of you, which leaves someone like me hanging awkwardly wondering how many gaffes they make a second. The only comfort I have is that initially, I can follow Gale’s lead as he drags me around everywhere to introduce me. Once I exhaust my sparse reserves of small talk I cautiously retreat to a corner while Gale takes swigs out of one of the several bottles of white liquor making its rounds. I wonder how long I’m obliged to stay here before I can go home politely. It has been a taxing day and all I want to do is sleep.

  As it gets colder and darker, I wrap my arms around myself and realise I forgot to grab a sweater before heading out. My Reaping dress is thin and short-sleeved. I decide I’m just going to go home when Gale notices my discomfort and slips his jacket around me saying he’ll walk me back. Behind him some boys who notice the interaction jeer and wolf-whistle. I’d shoot them a glare, but I am honestly too tired to care. We are just up at my doorstep when Gale grabs my arm.

  “Listen, Catnip, we’re both older now, and I’ll be in the mines soon.”

  I wearily lift my eyes up to his to hear him out when he grabs my cheeks and pulls my face up to kiss me. I can smell the liquor on him. I am so shocked it takes me a moment to respond. I shove him away with both hands and run inside, trying to ignore the dismayed look on his face. I feel like the ground is rocking under me, and I fall to the ground once I am inside. I wrap my arms around my knees and finally, finally give into my tears. How could he kiss me like that, when he knows how I feel about it, without even asking, and on a day like today when I see what could be all my worst fears realised?

  Prim is a sleep, but Momma comes to the front door. She must hear my crying.

  “Oh, Katniss,” she whispers sympathetically, and wraps her arms around me soothingly rocking me into her chest. It’s been years since I’ve allowed her to hold me like this, not since Dad died, and it turns a key in my chest that makes me sob all the harder. Somehow it feels good. Momma plants a kiss on my head.

  I drop Gale’s jacket on the Hawthorne’s doorsept early the next morning, and go squirrel hunting. Gale, fortunately, is not there. He’s probably still hungover. I work quickly, and soon I am at Peeta’s with fresh meat.

  “It’s not to trade.” I murmur when he opens the door. He nods me in and says I don’t have to do that. I already brought them strawberries. I decide to pretend I didn’t hear him since I don’t know what to say.

  “The kids are still asleep then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It is still quite early.”

  “It is.”

  The stuntedness is more than I can take, so I address the obvious issue.

  “You’re eye looks bad. Is it true your brother hit you?”

  “Yes. It is.” He looks away at the kitchen. “Do you want breakfast?”

  “Sure.” But I know he’s trying to change the subject.

  “Did your brother think it was punitive?”

  “Yeah.” His back is to me at the stove so all I can see are clenched muscles and slumped shoulders.

  “Do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know. They could’ve reaped any of my children if they wanted to do that. Not my nieces. It could just be a coincidence, or maybe they just didn’t want to be too obvious. I don’t know.” He sighs and his hands still. “Either way it doesn’t matter. Over this last year, fewer people than ever have had to take tesserae, which means the odds were less in favour of the Merchants than ever. So either way….I suppose you could argue it’s my fault.”

  I frown, uncertain which side to take. “Are you going to stop?”

  “No,” he shakes his head firmly. It’s the strongest gesture he’s made since I arrived. “I knew the risks when I started this. More people starve everyday then are reaped every year. The bakery helps with that. I just never expected to have to face the consequences so…soon.” He’s gripping the edge of the counter so tightly now that I can see his knuckles whiten. I can’t help myself. I go up and wrap my arms around him, and he reciprocates. We stand there for a few moments until he extracts himself murmuring a thank you.

  “So, how are things for you?” He finally asks, and I grant him the reprieve. There’s nothing more to say in any case. Sorry doesn’t change a damn thing.

  “Gale kissed me.” I blurt out. Against my will I scan his face for a reaction. I don’t know what I was hoping for, but all I get out of him is raised eyebrows.

  “And you didn’t like it?”

  “No!” I cross my arms. “I’ve told him time and again I don’t want marriage or kids. I told him yesterday morning before he even tried. What’s wrong with him?”

  Peeta chuckles which contrasts to the stain of grief that remains on his face. I hate him for laughing at my plight.

  “He’s an eighteen year old boy, Katniss. He’s just survived his last Reaping. He’s got his whole life ahead of him, and he wants to share it with a remarkable woman. He overstepped his bounds. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “I’m not remarkable.” I grumble. Peeta places a hand on my shoulder and turns me to face him directly.

  “Yes, you are.” I pretend I can’t feel myself blush under his stare.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” He reassures me touching my cheek in a friendly manner. “Tell Gale how you feel, and if he’s as good a friend as you say he is, then he’ll come around, and accept it.”

  “I just hate all the presumptions!” I hate that I’m whining too, but it is so annoying. “Everyone assumes we’re together. I never thought he would just assume too! And now I’m getting older, and the mines are looming, all everyone seems to talk about is boys and marriage.”

  “I suppose they figure partnership makes it more bearable.”

  “Not me.” I scowl. He laughs lightly.

  “Don’t worry about it. Look at me!” He says as he flips eggs that have been frying in the pan too long. “I’ve never married, and I’m doing just fine.” I crook my lips at that one.

  “You’ve adopted a bunch of kids and have a terrible reputation.”

  “True!” He taps my nose with his index finger. “So don’t be like me.” Then the glint leaves his eyes, and he remembers what happened yesterday. I reach out and grasp his hand. We stay like that a long while as the eggs cool to rubber.

  Gale and I don’t talk again until the day after the bloodbath. It’s clear he’s been avoiding me. When we finally meet up again in the woods I rail at him for kissing me and not even having the guts to face me afterward. I hadn’t appreciated splitting my haul with a man who wasn’t there. He at least has the decency to pretend to look ashamed, but I know he isn’t because he says it was just because he had a bit too much to drink, and had originally planned to “ease me into it.” Whatever the Hell that means. I’m not known for being fickle.

  “I know you don’t like the idea, Katniss, but I also know you hate the mines. They might turn a blind eye to you poaching, but only if you’re working too. What are you going to say when you turn eighteen? Are you going to go down the mines?”

  “I could say I’m a healer like mom!”

  He laughs. “Yeah, like that’s going to work.”

  “It might!”

  “Never mind. Let’s just get on with it.”

  I hate that he’s probably right, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t like being talked down too like that. It is a very tense hunt.

  Flouer Mellark dies in the bloodbath. Peeta leaves the bakery in Town.

  Every time I got to trade in Town I can feel the resentment. I can feel the glares at me, even worse than usual for being from the Seam. I can also feel anger towards the Capitol though. It’s palpable. The Mellarks, Peeta aside, are a respected family here.  Meanwhile, at the Hob, Sae starts up a fund to sponsor Terrence. He is killed by the Careers on the fourth day.

  No one knows what to do with the coin. We hadn’t had a chance to send it in yet, and Sae hadn’t exactly been keeping records of who gave what. It is Jude who suggests they send it to Rue. When we see there isn’t quite enough yet to get her something decent, he convinces Peeta to ask for donations in Town. I am deeply sceptical, but Peeta rallies his few friends and so angry are the people in Town at the Careers and the Capitol, they donate, and we send Rue some bread. When she receives the bread that is obviously not from her District and thanks us, and everyone in the crowd cheers. I notice the Peacekeepers grip their weapons tighter. I notice Gale is grinning.

  We all root for Rue to win, and she lasts longer than I think any twelve year old has before, but she dies when the Careers smoke her out of the tree she hides in. Her death is cruel, painful, sadistic, and brutal. Everyone looks traumatised for weeks. Mockingjays with Rue’s face are found in alleyways making everyone stew. I don’t know if it’s one artists or several that grafiti the District, but they stir us up. Our only consolation is that for once someone from an outlying District wins, someone we actually like: Thresh. If you can call it a consolation when it is a rallying point. There is a curling in my stomach that tells me I need to ask Peeta a few pointed questions, but I decide it’s better not to know.

  Chapter Four: Catching Fire

Summer break begins soon after the Games end, and I don’t see much of the Mellarks. All of them disappear into the woods from dawn until dusk to harvest the wheat. I keep an eye on them intermittently between my own prolific hunting. Summer is when you store up for Winter. Everytime I see them, they are hard at work. Jet and Peeta do the scything. Colleen and Cole bundle, and the youngest two rake. That’s just the beginning of course; they also have to thresh and winnow what they’ve gathered. After that, they’ll have to prepare the land to plant the corn. Whenever I catch them working, I invariably think of Thresh, and how skills like this had helped him survive. He knew how to handle a scythe; he knew how to survive in the forest of grain they provided for him. I wonder if the Gamemakers had planned to have an outlier win this year, to keep things from being too boring. It seemed a bit of an advantage for anyone with farming experience, like people from Eleven raised in fields of grain. I wonder if they’re regretting it.

  Thresh has been a difficult victor to say the least. His shout, “For Rue!” when he made his last kill has been taken by the District as something of a rallying cry. I’ve seen the phrase graffitied everywhere. During his victor interview, much like his tribute interview, he really made Caesar work for every word. There was seething resentment in him, and tears that shone hatred in his eyes when he saw Rue die. He made it clear he thought anyone who participated or enjoyed that kind of thing was monstrous. It didn’t matter how much the Capitol tried to edit his interview. There really was no salvaging it. I worry all the time about the consequences for him, but so far he’s still around. I can’t imagine what the Victory Tour will be like.

  Gale is thrilled by what he’s seen. Ever since he’s started down the mines, he’s been even more of a ticking bomb than ever. Resentment spills out of his every pore. He was made for more than back-breaking minework in unsafe conditions for which he gets a pittance.

  “Don’t you see, Catnip! This proves that the other Districts feel the same way we do!”

  “Maybe they do, Gale, but we’re all still trapped by fences.” I wish he would be rational. “Do you even know how you’d communicate with them? Let alone ally with them?”

  “Thresh is coming here on the tour, isn’t he? We can get him a message then.”

  “How? How are you going to get close enough to him?”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “All we need is a signal. Someone to shout from the crowd we support him.”

  “And get us all killed.”

  “They can’t kill all of us, Catnip. Where would they get their coal?”

  “Didn’t save Thirteen.” I point out cynically.

  “Look, we’re all on camera. Maybe they’ll edit it out in post-production, but maybe other Districts will see what we did too.” He looks down at me in frustration. “I don’t know why you’re fighting me on this, Katniss.”

  “I’m not! But there’s no point in having this rebellion if it doesn’t work. I’m not risking my life, let along my sister’s and mother’s on some fool’s scheme!” My chest rises and falls with each rapid breath. “When I’m sure you’ve thought this through, maybe I’ll consider joining.” He internalises this. His eyes are watching me in a manner that is calculating, and, for once, I can’t fathom what’s in the recesses of his mind. Do I know him as well as I think?

  “Alright, Catnip. I will. I’ll give you a plan. It’s simple. We get to Thresh. He gets word out to the other districts, other victors, maybe. We make bows, weapons, grab the tools from the mines, take the Peacekeepers. The miners are angry, Katniss. We’d do it. If we can coordinate that with the other districts, we could take the Capitol.”

  “They. Have. Bombs. Gale!” I spit through gritted teeth.

  “We have a victor who is an ally in the Capitol.”

  “And?”

  “Maybe he can cripple them somehow.”

  “It’s a bit much to hope.”

  “All at once, maybe, but if we plan this over a few years. It could work.”

  It might. I reluctantly concede to that. We spend the rest of out time in the woods in silence, but I can tell from the distant look in his eyes that Gale is scheming. Right before we leave, he shocks me with that he says.

  “Your friend, Madge, the mayor’s daughter.”

“What of her?” I ask cautiously. Gale’s never liked her.

  “She’ll be at the banquet when Thresh comes here, won’t she? She could get a message to him, discreetly. Could you talk to her about it?”

  I muse over it a bit, but Madge has mentioned her Aunt Maysilee a few times. I know she has a rebellious spirit in her, it’s evident if only in who she choose to befriend. And, in truth, as careful as I’ve learned to be, I want to end these Hunger Games. I want to rebel. I tell Gale I’ll talk to her about it. Something this simple is small, not likely to hurt anyone, but could have impact.

  I broach the subject with Madge when she joins me gathering in the woods. She looks intrigued.

  “I’ll need to be able to tell him what kind of support to expect.” She muses. “You’ll need to know how many miners are involved, how far they’re willing to go, but, yes, I’ll certainly do it. Actually,” she adds hesitantly, but I see pride in her eyes as she raises them to mine. “My family has been rebels for ages.” Then she bites her lip, before adding something that confounds me. “Just tell Gale to be careful about running his mouth in the mines. New shafts should be fine, but I’m pretty sure the Capitol bugs them to make sure there isn’t anything treasonous that might translate into action. I can’t be sure, but I’ve heard it speculated that that’s why there was that accident years ago. The one your father died in.”

  “You mean…?” Could it be possible? My father poached. He was hardly a law-abiding citizen, but I had never considered he might have been a rebel in the revolutionary sense. I suppose it could explain the lack of support we received afterwards. I still don’t doubt it was because my father’s marriage was so unpopular, because everyone was too wrapped up to care, but now there might be another reason as well.

  “Yeah.” Madge nods. “I don’t know much, but my aunt and your mother were friends. I think that’s what got your mother into it, when she saw Aunt Maysilee die.”

  My mother, a rebel? I can hardly imagine it, but then again, she did leave everything she’d ever known to marry me father. She’d been brave once, rebellious. I feel a stirring of desire to know her again burning up inside me warring with the urge to keep her at a distance to protect myself. A war that has been going on in earmest since she held me after Gale kissed me.

  I’m going to have to talk to her.

“Yes, it’s true.”

  “Seriously?” She says it so casually. Yes, it’s true. I feel my mind spinning, but at the same time it’s like it’s falling into place, being screwed on right, because it makes a bizarre sort of sense.

  “You were rebels?”

  “Yes,” my mother nods again. She sips her tea before she elaborates. We’re both sitting at the kitchen table. Prim is out with a friend. Despite the fact that we are talking about Dad, or perhaps because of it, Momma seems more animated than ever. “I grew up thinking, if not nasty things, than superior things about the Seam.” She explains. “I never imagined I would ever visit here, let alone live here. But one day, your father showed up, asking to trade meat for antibiotics. A boy had been horribly whipped, and needed help. My father refused him, but I admired his courage in coming there. There was something shining in his eyes. It was well-known that my family believed in doing business only with those who had the coin. Your father went on about how the young boy was the only child left to a widowed woman. Something about the entire scene touched me, so I followed your father out. I got him the medication. That started everything.”

  “You said you met when he came to trade plants with you?”

  “I did. The whippings back then were terrible. After Haymitch won, new peacekeepers were brought in, and the punishments were absolutely barbaric. My parents said we shouldn’t help; the people involved were criminal, and it would only cause trouble. The truth is, I wanted to cause trouble. I watched my best friend die a horrific death on live television. Haymitch tried to help her; they were allies. I thanked him for that once.” She quiets as she becomes lost in a distant memory. She shakes herself out of it. “I was angry at the Capitol for what they’d done, and I was sixteen so sneaking out to heal the backs of those who were whipped for defying them seemed a terribly grand idea.” I can see it now. My mother, before grief diminished her, sneaking out to help those in need. I’m proud of her, I realise. “I told your father I couldn’t help him with Capitol-grade medicines again, so I looked through the Plant Book, and told him which herbs to gather. I suppose I realised interacting with all these Seam families that they weren’t so different, the depth of the unfairness. It’s not often someone from Town is Reaped, but now that I knew how devastating it was…I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to face that all the time.” She shrugs, takes another sip of her tea, and concludes. “So that’s how I fell in love with your father, and, yes, eventually, we joined organised rebellion.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” I mumble. I twist my head trying to process what I’ve just heard. Momma reaches out to grasp my hand.

  “It was nothing I meant to hide from you,” she says softly, “but first you were too young, and then…”

  “And then…” I conclude, knowing exactly what she means.

  “When Jack died, I feared it was my fault,” she whispers. “Did I get him killed?”

  For the first time in years, I go up and wrap my arms around my mother. I love you, I think to myself, because I do. My mother has never turned anyone away, has always healed everybody, and I know, once she came back, she did all she knew how to do for us. Slowly, haltingly, those words cross my lips, and as we cry together, our tears intermingle.

  Afterwards she lifts a trembling hand and wipes my tears away.

  “I understand why you’re so reticent to have children, you know.” She says tremulously. “Your father and I waited years to have you, until things were safer. I knew better than most do how to avoid a pregnancy. But, sweetheart, I never regretted marrying your father, or having you and your sister. There’s things I wish I’d done differently, but I’ve never regretted it. And if I hadn’t done it, I know I would have always wondered, and that would have been worse. I don’t know what happened between you and Gale, but if he isn’t for you, then he isn’t. I rejected men too, but if you’re afraid…be honest, and consider if it’s worth the risk. I’d never take back what I had with your father for the pain of his loss. And you’re not alone, not like before. Prim and I will stand by you, if nothing else.” She closes her eyes and I touch her hand, the one that wiped my tears. “If you do want to talk to me about that, Katniss, I can listen.” Then she moves to wash up the dishes, and I help her dry. Momma’s like me that way. She says what she has to say, but she’s not wordy. The silence between us communicates what we cannot. It is not shards of ice that let in a chill wind, but a warm chord that hums between us.

  I warn Gale about talking in the mines, and about what Madge says, and it fires him up. In light of what I now know, I also try to corner Peeta to talk to him, but even past the harvesting and planting season, he’s hard to find. When I come over with some clothes Prim has outgrown, Colleen greets me at the door, and encourages Sarai to try them on. As she excitedly does, Colleen confides in me that Peeta has been distant ever since the Games. He throws himself into his work, and barely surfaces at the end of the day. He’s gone early in the morning.

  “It’s true,” Sarai confirms as she gathers up the clothes that don’t fit her anymore. They’ll likely one day be Posy’s. “He doesn’t tell stories like he used to.” Colleen brushed back her little sister’s hair comfortingly and something rends in my chest.

  I go home and stew for hours before marching into the woods to find Peeta. He’s there, sure enough, and I storm up to him hissing at him to come talk to me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I reprimand as soon as we are out of Jet’s earshot.

  “Farming.” He replies blandly, although I detect shock in his eyes at my dressing down. I suppose it’s true I’ve never dared talk to him like this, then again, have I ever had to?

  “I’ve barely seen a peep of you in weeks,” which hurt more than I want to admit, “and now I have to hear from Colleen and Sarai that you’ve been all checked out?” I fight the tears forming in my eyes, because it brings back uncomfortable memories. “I’m not your daughter, and even I haven’t appreciated not being able to talk to you, how do you think they feel?”

  “I’m sorry.” He stammers. “I-”

  “I really don’t care.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Just stop. Do better.”

  I storm off, but he follows me, and grabs me by the left forearm twisting me around.

  “I am sorry,” he speaks earnestly. “I hadn’t realised I was hurting you or them. I just…I don’t know. Whenever I’m upset, I work.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I have ever since I was a boy, kneading bread is a good way to work out anger. It’s always worked before, and it means things get done that…appease people, I guess.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work now though. I hurt all the time. It never goes away, and now Maria’s pregnant, and-

“Maria’s pregnant?!”

  “Yes. And I can’t help wondering what’s going to happen, and if maybe I’ve screwed up, and my brother won’t look me in the eye, or talk to me, or accept anything from me, and then I go home, and wonder if I haven’t condemned every single one of them. I just…” He looks skyward and blinks rapidly. I know he’s trying not to cry, and I don’t know what to say.

  “Is it true you’re part of the rebellion?” I blurt out instead. He looks gobsmacked again. It seems to be a day for it.

  “Yes. Did you figure out from the art?”

  “Partially,” I admit, “but Mom told me today about how she and Daddy were in with the rebels, and you said you knew him, and you said he taught you about art. You said he used to sing. It reminded me of the Hanging Tree, and how he used to sing that, but Momma would tell him to be careful. So, I just wondered if…”

  “If that’s how we met?”

  I nod.

  “No. We met because he traded with me, but he was the one who brought me into the Rebellion. I felt like I had to get involved.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of Jude, I suppose, and the others when they came. So many children starving, I can’t feed them all. Even with the new bakery, I can’t feed them all. Then, I realised I was a father, and how could I be a good father, if I turned a blind eye to something threatening my kids?” He sighs and looks deflated. “My mom used to hit me. My dad did nothing. The Games are worse than being hit, and I couldn’t do nothing the way he did.” He shrugs his shoulders. “That’s how I got in.”

  “Just tell them that then.” I say. “They’ll understand that you’re fighting for them. You’re all in too deep now.”

  “Do you think they’ll forgive me?” He whispers, and in the curling of his torso I can see what it had cost him to admit this. The family he was born into turned against him. Does he expect the one he created will as well?

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. I forgave.” I pause. “And I’m not always good at that.”

  He smiles. “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  He laughs. “Yelling at me. I guess, I needed it.”

  I lean up on my tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek and head home.

Rebellious sentiment spreads quickly. The idea of trying to make contact with other districts proves popular, and while not everyone is willing to join in actively now, they do say that if the Districts unite, they’ll fight. Our district is small so we’ll need a lot of the population to fight, but with the addition of Peeta’s farming, there’s more self-sufficiency, and that means more people who see hope. Which means there’s a shot. I tell Madge everything and she dutifully promises to relay the information. Gale’s ambitious and he hopes that maybe if they show something on camera, it’ll get through during the mandatory viewing, reach more than just Eleven. I don’t know who organises it, or how it’s decided, but when the Victory Tour finally comes, a recording goes off during Thresh’s clearly scripted speech of Rue’s four note tune, and someone shouts For Rue! And gets carted off. Thresh nods in solidarity. We are all put under curfew.

  Regardless, Madge is able to get her message to him, and Thresh tells her District Eleven had an uprising after Rue’s death, and are chomping at the bit for freedom. And having been on Tour, he can confirm that other Districts are angry too. Word is quickly spread through the mines, and soon people are whistling various four note tunes in solidarity.

  Gale is extremely eager.

  “Don’t you see, Catnip!” He exclaims. “It’s closer than ever!” He crows in the woods, and I let him. In spite of myself, I am excited too. “Maybe a couple more years, and we’ll have them. We’ll have them.” I smile at his enthusiasm, even if I think it’s a bit premature.  “And what about us, Catnip?” He turns around and looks at me with shining eyes.

  “What about us?” I hedge. All the delight in his exclamations dies.

  “I know you’re worried about having kids, Katniss, but if we built a whole, new, better world, it would be different.” He says it so hopefully, almost confidently that I can’t bring myself to crush him. Besides, I don’t know if he’s wrong. Without the Games, with access to food and Capitol-grade medicine, I really wouldn’t object to having kids, but the idea of opening my heart like that hurts. I do consider it though, I already care about Gale, care about a lot of people, maybe there’s no stopping it. Momma’s right too, we aren’t nearly so helpless now. So I say,

  “Maybe I can be different.”

  And maybe I can, but when I dare to dream, since I’m dreaming anyway, I dream of blonde hair and blue eyes. Even though I know it’s as likely to happen as pigs flying.

  It’s Peeta who first tells me about Thirteen. It is Madge who confirms it. It’s a game-changer really. Weapons are an issue for us. We don’t have a whole lot to fight with. Knowing someone could supply us with arms helps. If every district, or even of most districts, can take their Peacekeepers, we’ll have a shot at the Capitol. It’s sensitive knowledge though, and not something we can blast around which makes recruitment difficult. I don’t do much of any of it, but Gale rales in the mines, and Peeta is working on it in Town with a friend. I provide a listening ear to them both. One thing everyone is nervous about, riled up about, is the upcoming Quarter Quell, and both Gale and Peeta are using that to their advantage.

  But Winter is difficult, even more so than usual. Most people become so intent on heating their homes, and overcoming illness, we know we’ll have to wait until spring to really start the conversation up again.

  Eliot drags home another girl from the Community Home. She’s three years old, adorable, and her name is Crystal. She’s recently orphaned. After a couple months, she’s one of the many who fall ill. She’s still far from the last. Mom and Prim are gone all hours of the day and night for weeks trying to keep on top of it all, but there’s not much they can do. It drags on and on. There’s speculation it’s punishment, biological warfare from the Capitol, but we don’t know and it doesn’t matter. Either way, it changes nothing of our reality. I spend a lot of time at the Mellarks for support. Crystal coughs and sputters and tries to breath. We feed her as best we are able, and hold her head over steam to help her breath. We try to bring her fever down, and soothe her cough. Nothing works. Finally, I hold her and sing. It’s all I can do. Peeta stands in the doorway as she falls asleep. I see tears stream down his face.

  She is in the ground come March.

  “This is why I don’t want kids.” I mutter to Prim as we both cry in bed.

  “That’s stupid,” she mumbles. “You cared about Crystal; she wasn’t yours. If you stop caring, I don’t think you’ll like yourself very much.”

  I don’t know how to answer her, but I still feel a bit validated in my opinion when there is the Reading of the Card for the Quarter Quell.

  “As a reminder that they only endangered their most vulnerable by rebelling, this years tributes will be Reaped from only the twelve year old population.”

  My mother gasps. Prim cries. I stare.

  Gale storms up to me and tells me to meet at the Mellarks for an emergency meeting. There I see Gale and Thom, a couple of other miners I know by sight and not name, and Peeta and his friend Melissa Donner. I gather these must be various cell leaders.

  “We need to start the uprisings in May, before the Reaping.” Gale starts off the conversation, “People are furious about this. It’s perfect timing. They want to stomp us down, but we’ll rise up.” The conversation spirals from there. People are only just starting to recover from the harsh winter; we don’t have the numbers yet. It’s hard to organise a community of thousands. That’s why next year was more feasible. Just because Twelve was ready, didn’t mean all the other Districts were and so on. I agree to wait and Gale glares at me, but I don’t see and alternative.

  Things don’t really fall apart until Gale and Peeta get into an argument. Peeta makes a reference to offering the Peacekeepers the choice to surrender, and Gale says it would endanger lives.

  “Not all the Peacekeepers are bad, Gale.” He points out. I think of Darius and agree.

  “If the White Shirts want to join us, that’s fine by me.” Gale growls back. “But I’m not giving them another opportunity to get one over on me.” He is met by enthusiastic agreement. “It’s Us v. Them.”

  “How are they going to know to side with us, if we don’t offer them a chance?” I can see by the tenseness around Peeta’s eyes that he is angry, but his voice is carefully modulated and even. “We shouldn’t kill without mercy.”

  “It’s war. Sacrifices have to be made. They’ll shoot with us or against us. That’s their choice, but I’m not taking any kind of risk that loses this for us. Anyone who sides with the Capitol is the enemy.”

  “I’m so grateful to know, Gale, that anyone who even looks like something you don’t like is the enemy. It’s a wonder you’ll talk to us Townies at all. But, of course, it’s because you get something out of it, allies. I wonder what you’ll do when being allies with the Capitol benefits you more than not.”

  Gale swings a punch and the meeting is quickly ended as we break the two men up.

  “Are you alright?” I ask Peeta as he sits back down. He seems to need more from me than Gale.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You didn’t seem to be at your best.”

  “I think Dad’s sick.” He whispers and I walk over and hug him tightly where he sits. “It’s no surprise. Dad’s getting on anyway. He’s almost sixty. It was really only a matter of time.” Releasing my hold a bit, I card my fingers through his curls trying to soothe him. When I’m done I caress my hand down his jaw. He stops my hand and looks up at me. There’s a focus in his gaze that’s raw, even new, and I immediately become aware of how close he is, how fast my heart is beating, and how my breath started for just a second. I don’t know who does it. I think I do it. But it’s the easiest thing in the world to press my lips to his. Slowly, oh, so slowly, our lips move, part in a gasp of pleasure, so light and tentative, like dragging your finger against a flower petal. Then closer, I press closer, feeling his hands on my hips. I change the angle of my head, and he bursts away. Footsteps pad down the stairs.

  “Dad, is it over? Is everything okay?” Cole sidles up to us rubbing at his eyes, and we burst apart.

  “It’s fine, son.” He ruffles the boy’s hair. He bounces his eyes past me, and I know we won’t be talking about this today. “Just a disagreement in method. You should be in bed.”

  I take that as my cue and awkwardly say my goodbyes.

  Peeta doesn’t meet my eyes at the door, and I wonder if I’ve ruined everything.

TBC….

[i-write-about-anything]

Abandoned Part 3

Prompt: Dean is forced to be a single father after the reader left them. Three years later she shows up out of no where. (bc there’s always fics of girls being single mothers to Dean’s kids and bc i saw this episode again and thought of it overnight lol)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: Daddy!Dean (let’s face it, it’s a damn warning.) Vomiting? Violence.

PARTS:

1 - 2

A giant yell erupted in the abandoned warehouse. Sam and Cas looked at each other before nodding, they didn’t need any words to communicate, sure they hadn’t done this in years but their instincts were still there. Sam moved to his left while Cas moved to his right, they followed the screams, hiding behind a few boxes when they distinguished were the screams were coming from. Sam looked at Cas before nodding his head towards (y/n), her body lying on the floor, twisting in pain as the witch twisted her fingers, a huge smile on her face. “You know, they told me you were back in town. Didn’t think you were stupid enough to lead us straight to the boy but I should have known better, you were never a smart one.” She closed her fist and (y/n) whimpered out in pain.  

“Please, just leave him alone. He’s just a child.” (Y/N) cried out.  

“Your child. You need to be thought a lesson, you can’t escape me, you will serve me until you die.” The witch whistled causing another one of her servants to walk out, Mason in her arms as he kicked and screamed.  

“Please! Please let him go.” (Y/N) stood up as fast as she could. Sam looked at Cas who pursed his lips, fear in both of their eyes. (Y/N)’s tears mixed with the blood that was pouring down from her head making her look terrifying to Mason. “Please.” She begged.  

“Sam, Castiel. You both can come out now.” (Y/N)’s eyes widened as she looked around for them, her eyes landing on Sam who came out from behind the boxes, his hands on a gun that was quickly knocked out of his hands by the witch. Sam sighed lifting his arms in the air. “You really shouldn’t have come. Although I did expect the other Winchester to be here just as much.”  

“Let go of my nephew.” Sam clenched his jaw moving closer to the witch who laughed. Cas walked behind Sam causing (y/n)’s eyes to soften. She had prayed for him for as long as she could remember. His eyes met hers before looking at Mason.  

“Don’t even think about it or I'll blow both their heads off.” The witch looked at Mason before looking at Cas.  

“Put him down, please.” (Y/N) spoke softly. “I’ll do anything you want me to.” She whispered out causing the witch to laugh.  

“You’ll do whatever I want regardless of the outcome my dear. I warned you and now you need to be taught a lesson.” She took Mason into her arms. Mason looked at his mother, their eyes meeting for the second time this night.  

“Mommy?” He whispered lowly.  

“Please! Let him go.” (Y/N) pleaded, her eyes releasing more tears. “Please.” She repeated before a gunshot echoed in the empty warehouse. (Y/N) ran straight towards the witch grabbing Mason from the injured witch.  

“Mommy?” Mason cried into her shoulder as (Y/N) hid behind a wall.  

“It’s okay, everything is going to be okay.” She hugged him into her, the blood and tears from her face slipping onto Mason’s clothes. She cried as she kissed his head, she had never imagined herself holding him, not since the day she was forced to leave. “It’s going to be just fine, I won’t let anyone hurt you.” (Y/N) spoke softly, her tight embrace holding her son. She closed her eyes not wanting to see what was about to happen to her or her son as footsteps got closer. Mason yelled when he felt arms around him.  

“Please, no.” (Y/N) cried out holding Mason closer to her body. “Please!” She screamed louder.  

“Give me my son.” Dean slurred out. (Y/N) opened her eyes and looked at Dean, he was angry and the gun in his hand didn’t make her any less scared. “Give him to me!” Dean yelled before a hand landed on his shoulder.  

“We have to go.” Sam spoke looking at (Y/N) on the floor before giving her a hand, her arms still holding Mason. Dean glared at (Y/N) but before he could say anything she was dragged out of the warehouse by both Sam and Castiel. Mason didn’t let go of his mother the entire drive home and Dean’s eyes focused on only the road. His jaw was clenched and (y/n) didn’t dare to look his way. The pain she had been experiencing faded for just a second when her eyes landed on her son. She had always dreamed of being here, in the front seat of Dean’s impala with their son but never did she ever think her dream was going to be like this. Dean’s hard face was caused by two reasons, one sitting right next to him and the other resting in the pit of his stomach. He had gotten half sober when he heard the loud bang that came from Mason’s room. He had gotten completely sober when he found Mason in her arms. He was fuming, he had gone years keeping this life away from Mason and (Y/N) shows up for a day and he’s in danger. He hit the brakes when he pulled into his driveway, the same one he and (y/n) once shared. She didn’t bother to look at him once he shut of the car, in fact she didn’t even make the effort to move. Both the pain that raided through her body and the fact that her son was clinging onto her wasn’t helping either.  

“I need you to give me my son, get out of this car, and go as far away as possible. I don’t ever want to see you again, forget about us the way you did four years ago.” Dean’s eyes landed on Mason whose eyes were wide, his head resting on (y/n)’s chest. “Now, I need you to leave now.” Dean’s voice rose before his hands were on Mason, (Y/N) couldn’t fight back, she had no right to and even though it hurt her to see Mason scream as he was getting separated from her, she gathered the only energy she had left and opened the door.  

“Where do you think you’re going?” A Scottish accent scared (y/n).  

“Please.” (Y/N) begged while holding her stomach.  

“No, no. This is Rowena.” Sam appeared behind the red headed woman. “She’s going to help you.” Rowena smiled at (y/n) whose eyes were spilling tears.  

“Looks like your life is tied to the witches, good thing I showed up otherwise you’d be dead right now.” Rowena took a hold of (y/n)’s hand. (Y/N) looked at Sam who nodded her way. “I’m a good one, trust me.” Rowena’s Scottish voice sounded as they walked towards Dean’s front door.  

“No.” Dean stepped out of his house, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re not bringing her inside, I already told you I don’t want anything to do with her.”  

“What is the matter with you? She’s the mother of your child.” Rowena put her arm around (Y/N) and although she didn’t know (y/n) personally, Rowena felt bad for the injured girl.

“She gave up that title the moment she decided to leave us. Now I’m not going to tell you all again, leave, and never come back.” Dean walked into his home, shuttling the door behind him before locking it. Sam looked at (y/n) who’s eyes shifted to the floor before her body finally gave out. Sam managed to catch her before she hit the floor and he sighed before helping her into his own car.  

“We must heal her, she won’t make it if I don’t.” Castiel looked at Sam who just nodded before driving away from Dean’s home. (Y/N) woke up only three hours after Cas healed her, her eyes were met by Sam’s worried ones.  

“Why did you leave?” Sam fiddled with his fingers cutting straight to the point. He had asked himself that question so many times in the past years and he wanted it answered already.  

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.” (Y/N) sat up from the couch as she rubbed her neck.  

“(Y/N).” Sam sighed closing his eyes before clenching his jaw.  

“I had no choice Sammy.” She looked down at her hands. “I woke up that night to Mason crying, just like any other night. But when I got to his room, she was there, making him float. She laughed when I grabbed him. I didn’t know who she was, I didn’t know what she wanted and I don’t know how Dean didn’t hear me yelling for him but I did. She threatened to kill Mason if I got in her way to get to Dean, she told me Dean had killed her sister and she was coming from him. She found us, she found us even after we faked our deaths. I wasn’t going to let her get to Dean so I did the only thing I could and scarified myself. I knew how much Dean’s death would affect you, Jodi, Cas. My death would have gone like nothing.”  

“Except for Dean, for you son.” Sam interrupted and (Y/N) wiped away the tears she hadn’t felt drip out.  

“I wasn’t going to let her kill Dean! And call me selfless but Mason was better off with him and his family. But I was surprised when she took me and made me her bitch. I tried to run, to come back but she found me, she always found me and every time she did, she’d threaten Mason and Dean. I had been searching for years to find a way out and I did, that’s why I came to you. I knew I couldn’t do it alone and if you and Cas wouldn’t have come for me, I wouldn’t be here. I told myself I wouldn’t bother you or Dean, not until I was in the safe. I’m sorry I came to you.” (Y/N) looked down and Sam sighed.  

“We thought you left, that you didn’t want to be a mother to Mason, that you didn’t want to be with Dean. Mason asked for you all the time.” Sam looked at (y/n) before she sighed.  

“I would have never left. You know happy I was with them. I just wish Dean would let me explain to him, that he’d let hug Mason. I missed them Sam, I missed them so much.” (Y/N) finally broke down crying into her hands until Sam himself wrapped his arms around her. Sam sighed looking at Castiel for some kind of reassurance but it never came. Back at Dean’s house, Mason’s never-ending tears continued as Dean tried his best to calm his son down. Mason tossed around Dean’s arms crying for his mother and that only angered Dean causing him to release a monster of words, something he swore he’d never do.  

“Your mother left you! She didn’t care about you. That girl isn’t your mother, she’s no body to you and the sooner you realize that the sooner you’ll realize who’s been there the most.” Dean’s voice was loud causing Mason’s screams to stop as he looked at his father, the look of pure hurt dripping from his small eyes.

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice made Dean’s head spin and before he knew it Mason ran to Cas, his small arms wrapping around Castiel’s legs. Cas sighed putting his hand on Mason’s small back. Dean sighed running his hand through his hair before emptying his stomach on his son’s bed. 

___

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