#this is a very kind ask I’m sorry I don’t have a satisfactory answer

[bogcreacher]

New horsts new horsts!! *kicking my feet like a schoolgirl* tell mw more about them

I’m so sorry, in all honesty I just wanted to design some LeafWings. They were originally adopts but I got self conscious about how scruffy they are lol

I know Clearwing at least is connected to Blackjacket and Calyptra’s story somehow. Once I’ve finished the third arc and brainstormed a bit I’ll let you know 👍👍

[oomisluvr]

SPOILED ROTTEN

(SEE: RICHBOY!SAKUSA SPOILS YOU A LITTLE TOO MUCH).

“ABSOLUTELY not.” He deadpans, glaring at you like you’ve just kicked his dog and insulted his mother. It’s not a kind tone, “Don’t ask me again.” 

“Kiyoomi, you always do this,” you seethe, ignoring the discomfort of the round-cheeked waitress holding the card reader, “Let. Me. Pay.”

“Fuck. No.” He returns, redirecting his attention to the server and handing her his card, “I’m terribly sorry about her. Debit, please.”

“Sakusa Kiyoomi.” You say as she scurries off, clearly amused at the battlefield the two of you have created in the center of this high-end, dimly lit restaurant. You wouldn’t be surprised to find a moviestar seated at the table behind you. 

He repeats your name back to you in the same tone you used with him, a handsome grin on his face, “Yes, my love?”

“Stop paying for everything!” You demand, “People already think I’m using you for your money, and you aren’t really helping my case.” You’ve seen the tweets. Some are accusatory. Some are happy for you. None of them attest to your character. 

“Well,” he leans over the table, finding your hands and softly stroking the knuckle there, trapping you in his coffee-cold gaze, “Are you using me for my money?”

“No,” you grumble, a little flustered at his forwardness, “But still–”

He releases your hand as the words leave your mouth, a satisfactory smile tugging at his lips, “Then there’s no issue. Though, I wouldn’t be opposed to you using me for money. I’m a useful guy.”

“Kiyoomi, that’s not the point–”

“As a matter of fact,” he sifts through his wallet to find what he’s looking for, gently sliding it across the table when he locates whatever it is, “I’ve been meaning to give this to you.”

The young waitress returns with a smooth leather checkbook and a pen. He thanks her as she walks off, delivering his signature to the flimsy receipt with a few flicks of his wrist, “What’s twenty percent of two hundred? I wasn’t good at math.”

You don’t answer that, “You can’t be serious. Kiyoomi, I can’t accept–”

“Is fifty dollars enough to tip? Fuck it, I’ll just leave sixty.”

“This is your credit card.”

“You have great eyesight,” he comments, shrugging like it’s nothing, “And I have good credit. Use it for whatever. I’ll pay it off.”

You nearly laugh at the absurdity of it all, “Since when were you so confident?”

“When you started giving me attention,” He grins easily, “I’d do a lot of things to get you to pay attention to me.”

His transparency catches you off guard, “You’re serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he fires back, “You’re too pretty to not be taken seriously.” 

You sigh, face feeling hot. 

“You’re too much,” It takes a great effort to fight back the grin that threatens to break through, to suppress a smile at his ease, “Let’s go home.”

“Why don’t we go find something sweet?” He offers, standing to help you into your coat, “There’s a good ice cream place around here that stays open late.”

Your shy smile gives Kiyoomi enough of an answer. Thanking the staff as the two of you head for the door, he slithers a sneaky arm around your waist.

“I’ll even let you pay,” he flirts, pulling you closer to combat the late-night temperatures, “With your new credit card, of course.”

This was so self-indulgent it's actually ridiculous. Marrying rich is a very real, very serious goal of mine. Hmu for offers serious inquires ONLY <33

[frvnkcastles]

IN A LONELY LOOP ➸ F. CASTLE

Summary: After a long day at work, you snap at Frank, and neither of you really know how to go about it.

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, nothing major I think?

Word count: 1.2k

Author’s note: This one is based on a request I got, I hope I did it justice <3 I’m working on some other ones right now but it’s been a really bad week for me so it might take me a little bit to get something new out. Thank you for the support everyone :)

The door slammed shut behind you louder than you had intended, but as the aggressive clap echoed throughout your apartment, Frank jolted up from the couch where he had dozed off. His eyes darted around before landing on you, and at the welcome sight, he relaxed with a sigh, a hand ran through his hair as he caught his breath.

”Sorry”, you murmured before moving to remove your jacket and shoes. There was a reason behind putting your whole weight into shutting the door — it had been the longest day ever at work and every part of your body seemed to ache, but more than that, your mind was at its breaking point and all you wanted to do was curl up in your bed for the rest of the night.

”Don’t worry ’bout it, sweetheart”, Frank reassured, surprising you by being by the kitchen counter when you turned around. It wasn’t like your apartment was a massive space, but he never ceased to catch your breath with his silent movements. ”Made ya some food. Figured you’d be hungry by the time you get home”, he shrugged, as if it was no big deal. Any other day, you would have found his antics endearing, but today, you didn’t have it in you to praise him the way you usually did.

You nodded and dropped your keys on the kitchen counter, not missing the way Frank’s hand twitched towards yours, but you only realized when you had already pulled back. ”I’ll eat later. I’m not really hungry right now”, you swallowed before hesitating, ”but thank you, Frank.”

He repeated your nod, quietly watching you and you could tell. It wasn’t a surprise — you weren’t exactly being your usual self, and Frank could read you like an open book. Alarm bells were going off in his head at that very moment, and you were just too damn drained to talk about it at all.

”You okay?” he asked eventually, his eyebrows knitted together as he observed you. You bowed your head and sucked in a breath, wondering what answer would be satisfactory enough to promise him he didn’t need to worry.

But he always did, anyway.

”It’s fine. Just a long day at work”, you replied with a weak smile, the kind that Frank didn’t believe for a second. You rested your elbows on the counter and dropped your head in your hands for a moment, taking deep breaths and feeling the tensions of the day slowly leave your shoulders.

”Sure, baby? You know I gotchu, right?” he pointed out, and giving him a knowing look, you tried to put some more effort into your smile.

”I know. I’m just… I’m gonna take a shower”, you decided before pushing yourself off of the counter and heading towards the bedroom, only for Frank to grab your wrist and stop you.

”Hey—”, he began, but you didn’t let him finish.

”Would you stop? I said I’m fine”, you snapped, the anger bubbling up your chest before you could rein it in, venom in each word as you directed a glare at Frank.

A glare that, within seconds, softened into an apologetic, even horrified look. In fact, dread and regret washed over you like a tidal wave, drowning you as you opened your mouth only for nothing to come out. You could see the genuine surprise in Frank’s eyes, and you glanced away in the fear that it would turn into hurt if you looked in any deeper.

His hold on your wrist dropped and he lifted his hands in his own defense, but still, he didn’t falter from your side. ”Aight, ’m sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to push”, he apologized, licking his lips while clearly calculating the situation, you could see it in the narrowing of his eyes and the clench of his jaw. He didn’t seem to be angry, though — you couldn’t say the same for yourself. How could you lash out at him like that?

You wanted to tell him he didn’t need to be sorry, but sure you would only make things worse by speaking a single word, you turned on your heel and escaped into the bedroom, leaving behind a very puzzled and worried Frank. You had never snapped at him like that; in fact, most times, you needed him to push a little so you would open up to him.

As soon as you made it to the shower and under the pour of the water, you burst into tears. You tried to be quiet, but Frank heard you, anyway, and his heart split in two at the sound of you weeping. He sat on the edge of the bed, his leg bouncing up and down as he waited for you, unsure if he was doing the right thing or if he should have left you alone. He respected privacy and peace — he needed those things badly, too, but he had been so sure the two of you had found a pace that worked so well for you both. Now, you seemed to be stumbling.

You hid in the bathroom for longer than you cared to admit, but eventually, you stepped out, still wrapped in a towel and with guilt all over your face. Frank thought you looked like a kicked puppy, and he wanted nothing more than to hold you, but instead, the first thing he did was ask.

”Okay if I stay here with you? I can go to the couch if you want me to”, he promised, his dark eyes soft as he looked over to you, even when you shyed away from his gaze and ducked your head down.

”Please, stay with me”, you whispered, and nodding, Frank promised as much. ”I’m really sorry, Frankie. I—I didn’t mean to… You didn’t deserve that”, you continued, and with a chuckle, he shrugged.

”I shoulda taken the hint, sweetheart. You don’t gotta apologize, I just… wanna know what I oughta do next time. I know sometimes you want me to ask, right?” he queried, reaching for your hand, and this time, you jumped at the opportunity to be touched. You took his hand and squeezed gently, comforted by the warmth and size that enveloped your fingers.

”I do. I don’t know. I—I don’t know how to communicate whether or not I want you to ask”, you struggled, and with a reassuring nod, Frank pulled you in closer so he could lift his hands to your hips and keep you there, his knees on either side of you.

”Would you like a safeword or somethin’? You can, uh, you can tell me stop if you don’t want me pryin’. Until then, I just wanna make sure you’re alright, y’know?” he explained, and with a genuine smile blooming on your lips, you nodded.

”I like that. And I know. I appreciate you worrying about me, baby”, you promised before leaning down to press a kiss onto his forehead. He made a pleased sound and squeezed your hips, making you grin against his skin.

”So, stop or nah? Wanna tell me what happened today?” he asked carefully, and with a hesitant swallow, you thought about it.

”Yeah, I’d like to talk about it. Okay if I get changed first and we cuddle while I tell you?” you suggested, and with a grin of his own, Frank reached up to give your lips a gentle kiss.

”Nothin’ I’d like better, darlin’.”

[ghostoffuturespast]

hey ghostie i was gna get specific for the ask game but I wanna know *all* of it now, the acronyms, the full names, all of em! are they for cyberpunk or other fandoms? no matter how much there is to know, i wanna know! talking about an idea helps a lot, i speak from experience! thanks for the mention, ill get on the wip game soon, too! ❤️

WIP Game Here

Thank you for the ask! I appreciate it :) They are all Cyberpunk 2077 things lol. I’ve largely been a lurker in other fandoms until this one, and this is the first one that finally compelled me to make stuff and that I’ve had the bravery to share. Don’t have many snippets at the moment, all of what I have so far is already out there. Since you asked for all of them though, I shall dish and give you a bit of a peak behind the curtain on how all this got started…

(I’m sorry, this got very rambly.)

And def tag me when you do yours! I will come find you and your wips! 🧡

SIG - So It Goes

(The title is based off the radio song from the game that you can listen to on Morro Rock. Never officially released and credited to the fictional band Fingers and the Outlaws in the game. Officially sung by Ryan Kattner, the front singer of the band Man Man.)

SIG is my current V/River conspiracy theory long fic that I’m working on, and the project is coming up on its two year anniversary. It’s also my first fic. I’m hoping to wrap it up this spring so I can move on to other creative endeavors. There are a lot of art projects, fandom and non-fandom related, that I’ve held off on because of this and I miss those hobbies. I also feel like I’ve been missing out a lot in the writing corner of the fandom too because a lot of new writers have popped up on the scene since I started (back when there was still a monopoly on the tag, but that’s a different story) and everyone else seems to be having fun reading everyone else’s fics, except me… Reading’s complicated for me right now. Writing this had a lot of ups and downs, but overall I’ve loved telling this story, learned a lot, and I’m really proud of it!

I think most people get into fic writing for the ships, the romance, the smut, the processing of internalized trauma, a more satisfactory ending, weird niche interests… And don’t get me wrong there’s a lot of appeal with all that, and definitely those aspects in my own work. But this whole thing got started because of conspiracy theories. I fucking love mysteries and puzzles, so after playing the sun ending and then I spotting Mr. Blue Eyes on the balcony during the conclusion of Dream On, I just about lost my damn mind. I went down the rabbit hole, spent hours reading shards and messages in the game, combed reddit theory posts, and started picking up on all the hints and foreshadowing of something larger looming throughout the game.

I initially didn’t have any answers when I made the decision to start this fic (fuck, high probability I still don’t), it was largely me brainstorming and trying to figure out what kind of story I wanted to write. Seeing if I could even piece things together. But in the process of thinking all that through, I came up with this little theory. I thought it was pretty mind blowing at the time (still think it is) but it’s been my little secret since I got here and I’m very anxious to finally share it.

Most people probably would have just written a theory post and been done with it, but I decided to turn mine into a fan fic lol. Which may or not have been a mistake, we’ll see. This is either gonna be game changing or everyone is going to think it’s dumb and I’m gonna be wearing a dunce cap for the next fifty years.

River Ward. The other half of my reason for writing this fic. I actually wasn’t sure if I liked him at first, it took me a while to warm up to him. But the more I got to know him, the more I started to like him. The more he grew on me. He got hotter over time. Plus, I’ve got a fondness for detective characters and unusual coats, so I should’ve seen it coming.

River’s gotten a lot of flak from this fandom. People claim he’s boring. He’s a cop, so acab. Being unemployed and living in a trailer park with your sister, niece, and nephews isn’t a particularly redeeming quality. I don’t agree with most of those statements, but I do agree with the folks who do appreciate his character, that in terms of development, he absolutely got shafted in the game. This fic is also an attempt to rectify that.

For as underdeveloped as his story arc was, there’s a lot of nuance to his character that I think gets glossed over by the game and most people. We didn’t get much, but out of what we did get, it’s been interesting trying to piece a story together that’s in line with what we got. And I did mention earlier that I like puzzles.

I’ve noticed that a lot of folks tend to lean very hard into the cop aspect of his character, but as far as I’m concerned, River Ward doesn’t give a shit about the law. Conducting an off the record investigation, intimidating a confidential informant, illegally obtaining evidence, breaking into a restricted lab, committing arson for your ex so she can pass a medical exam, conducting another investigation after being suspended; those are not the actions of a man who holds the letter of the law above all else. Those are the actions of man who is determined to get to the bottom of things, and protect people, all while navigating a system that is anything but equitable or fair. They are the actions of a man who is willing to go above and beyond for the people he cares about, even to his own detriment. His own safety. For River Ward, it was never about the law, it’s about justice. And pursuing that sometimes involves breaking the rules.

River is also Pomo. Which is something that was only added in subsequent patches, heavily glossed over in the game, and is only disclosed if you choose to actually romance him. But he’s Indigenous. Native American. And yet he still made a conscious decision to join the NCPD. Given the historical participation by law enforcement and government institutions in North America, and around the world, in the cultural erasure and mass genocide of entire nations, tribes, and communities of people. And given the current state of issues regarding law and judicial enforcement on tribal lands, I think River's character is a rather poignant reflection. Of wanting to good, of wanting the world to be better, but being confined in systems that simply won't allow that. There's a billion other little details I could ramble on about, but his character had the capacity to walk a very fine line of complexities which the game never really did justice to.

Diversity and representation in media are important to me, and I want this fic to reflect that. Being bi-racial, I didn’t get very much of it growing up, so if I can provide representation, even in some small capacity, I think it’s better than nothing. And while I don’t know if I’m achieving that, well, shit if I’m not trying.

I wouldn’t say this story was really meant to be original, but rather to fill in the gaps on the story we got and for me to practice writing. Practice telling a story. CP2077 is a violent game set in a violent world. And I somehow managed to start writing a story that accidentally ended up being a love letter to aikido. (Much to my chagrin. It’s everywhere. In everything. I cannot escape it.) Aikido is a martial art that translates “to the way of peace” or “the path of harmony.” Yet again, another study in dichotomies. How can a martial art, an art form designed to inflict violence, be peaceful? Aikido is as much of a martial art as it is a philosophy. We train to practice and learn that philosophy.

One of the major themes I’m exploring in this fic series is the nature of violence. What it is, the forms it takes, how cyclical it is, that it is a relationship - violence requires your participation. So the question ends up being: how do you break cycles of violence when you live in a world where you are beholden to it? V and River are very much two characters that are caught up in cycles of violence. Will they find peace? I don’t know, but maybe they can find out together.

From The Top

(This one isn’t named after a song. I just decided to start from the beginning.)

From The Top is the VP project I started up last spring where I’ve been taking storyboard style photos of all the main missions. Plus whatever else I feel like. I take all of my photos on PS5 in vanilla photomode and randomly started snapping pictures just because. I did landscape photos, shared a few. Got a bit of nice feedback from people who cared to look and then started branching out. I eventually got to the point where I started a new playthrough for the sole purpose of snapping photos.

Taking VP is very different from writing for me. I don’t have to think about. I don’t agonize about making sure every tiny detail is just right, because for the most part I don’t have very much control It’s candid, intuitive, experimental, it’s straight up play. I simply wait for opportunities to present themselves and capture whatever I think looks or feels interesting to me. It’s easy for me to walk away from it if it doesn’t do well when I post. Unlike my writing, there’s no ego attached to it.

I’m getting to the tail end of this project, I still have a couple of the base game missions to get through, but I’d also like to do Phantom Liberty as well. Not sure what my VP career is going to look like after this, might go into soft retirement. But that’s okay.

NR - Night Running

(Named after Night Running by Cage the Elephant)

Is a sleeper wip that’s currently in the notes, brainstorming, and kitchen drawer phase. It’s part 2 of my Nothing Comes Before Night City series. So It Goes is part 1.

It takes a long time for me to mull over and ruminate on ideas, so this document is largely just a repository for notes and thoughts. Jamming the utensils in the drawer until I’m ready to organize them. I have a very broad idea of what I’d like to happen in this fic, key moments I’d like to hit, but there’s still a lot of refinement that needs to happen, and stories this involved require me outlining. I do already have a running set list of songs to draw from though.

Les Preludes

(Named after Les Preludes by Franz Liszt)

Another sleeper wip, also in the brainstorming phase. These are meant to be one-shots or short stories from the Nothing Comes Before Night City series. Moments I mentioned in the series, but can’t fit into the larger story. Character studies and background lore from V, River, Johnny, Jackie, a couple of OCs and whatever else I can think of.

I will probably start casually working on these after I finish SIG and while I’m outlining NR. I’d like the series to go in chronological order. Should be fun. And I think it’ll be good practice for being more concise. Unlike, this response...

If you stuck around for this TedTalk and made it all the way to the end, thank you! 👻

[greatandquestionablecontent]

3 -- In The Mirror I Saw Who You Could Have Been

painful magical healing, energy vampire, captive prisoners, captor POV, military setting I've changed a few things since the last update (Trystan he/him has been changed to Delta they/them, although Delta remains a very Trystan-like character, and is referred to by many other characters as he/him). Part 1. Part 2. Read it on AO3. Masterpost. @for-the-love-of-angst you asked to be tagged in updates of this!

Thankfully, they were still alone with the prisoners when their body was finally able to cry. They doubted Archel Constance would have taken kindly to them shuddering and weeping and whimpering. It wasn’t very becoming of an experienced and powerful war mage, was it?

Did the others usually bear this silently through sheer willpower? Did they use their magic to tamper down their own reactions? Or did they all cry, and they did it alone or the legends had simply never mentioned it?

Delta had never thought to ask, and Andromeda had not been focused on teaching them not to cry. She wasn’t cruel like that.

Eventually Delta’s sobbing dwindled out and they were able to grasp some kind of composure.

The prisoners didn’t dare mock them for it. If Delta’s display of weakness had any effect on the prisoners, they kept that private. They did, however, start begging almost as soon as Delta sat up.

There were two, both young, muscular, military men with strong northern accents, stripped down to their dusty underwear, chained together and staked to the ground.

Like goats awaiting slaughter. Their voices blended together in a miserable chorus.

Please, sir, please have mercy, please don’t hurt us, please let us go, please be kind to us, please kill us quickly if you must, please sir, we’ll do anything.

“Stop,” Delta rasped, their voice sounding exactly as awful as they’d expected. Clearing their throat did nothing but send a fiery burn through their diaphragm, but the men immediately silenced.

Sitting up hurt, speaking hurt, but everything had hurt for so long that it didn’t matter now. Maybe that was the secret to the endurance of the N’Vitri – eventually you simply accepted the pain and moved forward, even if you could never get used to it.

“Where are we?” Delta whispered.

One of the men hesitated, but the other answered promptly. “In the foothills, sir. On the east side of the mountains,” he added when Delta simply stared at him. “At, uh, Camp Marshal, sir. The –- the Raj Nacht basecamp?”

Perfect. Not the way they’d wanted to arrive at the basecamp, but satisfactory nonetheless.

“How long was I out?”

“The battle was two days ago, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” the other man agreed. “We were brought in yesterday and you’ve been…” He trailed off. It didn’t really need saying.

“What’s the date? And stop calling me sir. Please.”

That didn’t relax the prisoners, but they obeyed without question. Delta peppered them with as many mundane questions as they thought they could get away with for someone who had been unconscious, and then a few more, that presumably they ought to have known already.

The prisoners were perfect sources of information, in a way. It wasn’t like they would rat Delta out, and soon enough they would be dead.

“What’s my rank?”

They exchanged a glance. Were ranks even something enemy soldiers would be aware of?

“N’Vitri?” One of them tried.

“A-archel, sir?” Tried the other. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t — Archel, please forgive —”

Delta shook their head, letting their weary eyelids fall shut for a moment. They were tempted to tell the prisoners to calm down, but they couldn’t promise anything, and the prisoners were unlikely to trust anything a N’Vitri said anyway.

Delta supposed they would have to kill the prisoners, sooner than later. They didn’t relish the idea.

“How many other N’Vitri are there? Are they all the same rank? What are their names?”

“I think Archel is the mage title,” said the man who seemed to know more. “I don’t know anything else, Archel.”

Great, a new title instead of sir. Not what Delta had intended. “Who was the woman who was in the tent earlier?”

Both men shook their heads. “Another N’Vitri, Archel,” the other mumbled.

“And who was the man?”

“His name plate said Larsen, Archel. That’s all I know.”

Delta nodded, considering, stringing together their thoughts through the fog in their brain. “While I was unconscious, how have you felt?”

The men exchanged another wary glance with each other. “Fe — could you… rephrase the question, please, Archel?”

Delta could have laughed. They didn’t. “Have you been growing weaker? Were you in pain? Could you feel something draining your energies, at all?”

Another question any true N’Vitri should have known the answer to. Hesitantly, wordlessly, the men nodded.

So, somehow, in Delta’s state of limbo between undeath and consciousness, they’d managed to successfully harvest the prisoners’ internal energy to heal themself, another autonomic magical process they couldn’t control. They suspected somehow they were even doing it still, to a lesser extent.

Delta could see the force in the men more easily with closed eyes. It wasn’t quite like smell, or sight. It was like reaching out in the dark towards something warm, and their mind wanted to ascribe colors to that heat.

They’d never killed someone before. Or rather, they had, of course they had, but that was before Andromeda.

Delta opened their eyes to find both prisoners staring, frozen in terror. A sound of pain escaped Delta’s throat as they scooted closer, but they ignored it and pressed their fingers to one man’s warm bare chest, closing their eyes again so they didn’t have to face that awful expression.

There. Now they could truly feel it. It wasn’t heat, or smell, or sight. It was proprioception, the way they knew where their wrist ended and their hand began, they knew where their fingers ended and another being began. And inside that being, they could feel those channels of energy more clearly than ever before, and oh, those veins were begging to be cut open, leaking and ready to burst.

It wasn’t proprioception or touch or smell or sight. It was taste, a taste like just a morsel placed on their tongue, but they couldn’t chew or swallow or take more of it, even though they craved, desired, lusted…

This was what they’d expected coming into their powers would feel like, beyond the stifling safety of Andromeda’s guidance. They’d always known it would never be the same as tapping into what she gave to them of herself, doled out carefully and slowly so it didn’t destroy her. As grateful as Delta was for her sacrifice, the scraps always left them feeling hungry and itchy, and some days every human they passed seemed like a tempting target. Of course, they could never have told Andromeda that.

Thanks so much for ripping your life force out of your body to feed to me. By the way, whenever your friends and family walk by, I think about murdering them.

But now, here was that hint of raw power, a magic only a handful of individuals in the world could wield. If — no, when — Delta tapped into it, they’d always known it would be intoxicating, overwhelming. It would heal every hint of their pain and fill their body with bliss and they would glow with ecstasy and strength, enough to take out an entire battlefield of armed soldiers, all alone.

And these bound, petrified men would be screaming and thrashing as Delta ripped all that life from their bodies, until there was no energy left to scream and they collapsed, their last breaths silent. All that would be left were lifeless husks, bearing no wounds but sapped more thoroughly and efficiently than if Della had drained them of blood.

And Delta wanted it. Fuck, they wanted it more than they’d ever wanted anything.

No wonder the prisoners were so afraid. No wonder the very idea of the N'Vitri sparked fear in everyone who spoke of them, even Andromeda herself.

next

[aromantic-diaries]

I’m so so sorry for this. I just don’t know where else to go and here seems like a safe place. I’m not sure I can consider myself aromantic (or asexual) because I want love but at the same time I don’t believe in it (at least the kind of love that I want, I might have an unrealistic view of what it should be and a pessimistic view of what it actually is) but I had very few crushes throughout my life so maybe I could be somewhere in the spectrum…??? And I want sex but I never had it maybe because of trauma??? Trust issues??? I never got a satisfactory answer online and I’m scared to ask most people about it. I’m so sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, feel free to completely ignore it you want

There are people on the asexual spectrum who are there due to trauma and I've heard cases of people whose identity is greatly affected by them being neurodivergent in some way. It's also common for people on the aro & ace spectrums to enjoy romance and/or sex in theory and like the idea of it while not really wanting to actually do it in real time. I can't speak for you or assign you a label but there could also be a chance of you not having found the right person (i know that sounds like the typical aphobic stuff that some people say but I don't mean it like that) and I can't predict how you'd act in certain situations but maybe there's a level of intimacy where you'd be comfortable with the whole ordeal. Then again you can only tell if you get there. I hope this was at least a bit helpful, I know figuring yourself out can be confusing

[matan4il]

I totally understand people's frustration with the lack of Buddie interaction but let me just say one thing. If Kristen really disliked Buddie why open with such a beautiful family scene. The dim lighting, the lasagna, the roasting, the couch metaphor that has been in play since Taylor!!! Where is that couch by the way. Lucy better not being sitting where family game nights were held lol.

But seriously you could have just had Buddie in the locker room with a 3 sentence exchange "end scene".

None of us can promise they will be Canon but if I had my doubts it's not because of the beginning of the season. If I am actually being really honest if you asked me in S3 which one could have been gay I would have guessed Buck. Baby me then would never had guessed that in S6 I was more sure Eddie Diaz was queer and Buck may not be TBH. I only had that thought back then because that was actually my worst fear if they didn't go Canon. That one of them would end up with a man and the other with a women. I should probably see a therapist about that!!!

Hi Nonnie! Thank you for the lovely ask!

(Since I’m falling a bit behind on answering asks despite doing my best, with your permission, I’ll answer you and then two more Kristen asks in this post)

Yes, I fully agree. I was going to mention in this ask reply the lasagna scene as something that says that 911 obviously wants us to know they have not forgotten about Buddifer or are ignoring it, but I had so much to say, I ended up forgetting that bit, so thank you for adding it in! And you phrased it so well, too. Everything about that scene was very deliberate.

And yes, I’ve said it time and again, I can’t know that Buddie will go canon, I’m just out here, hoping for it and explaining why, based on the story as it’s been told so far, I can’t see another other satisfactory resolution for either Buck or Eddie (or for that matter, even Chris in terms of getting both of the people he sees at a certain point as his parents under one roof, as we’ve seen is his secret wish in 210).

As for Buck, I’ve always thought he oozed bi energy since 107 and his bonding with the gay vic. That was only reinforced along the way, and now we have stuff like Buck casually quoting gay anthems to Eddie like it’s nothing. I’m sorry, no matter who his partners end up being canonically by the time the show is over, there is no way that boy is straight. IDK if that helps you, but that is the one thing I will insist on. Queer Buck is real and deserves all the love.

Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts! xoxox

You're so lovely, and I hope you're write about kr and 6b. In my opinion she's separating them cause she has no intention of doing buddie canon, but not to stop us from since she knows it's impossibile, but I think she's afraid of being accused of queerbaiting again from journalists. I mean she brought back Carla after 20 episodes to avoid buck being there, not to the dance, but just helping chris dress, and that scene with buck hen and denny? Like see he hangs out with all the 118 kids

Awwww, thank you so much for the kind words! You’re lovely, too! *hugs* As for Kristen... I don’t think she wants to stop us from shipping Buddie, she has stuff to gain from us shipping (Keeps the current viewership and gets a very active fandom that through online content is bringing in new viewers even during s6), and she can lose things if we stop shipping (she’s lose viewers, she’ll lose the active online fandom, and those fans who get frustrated and give up? They’ll accuse her of queerbaiting for sure). And yes, I do believe the 601 scene is a sign that’s not the direction Kristen means to follow. Am I right? We’ll get a better idea once 6b airs. Last season, 5b made it clear that the distance in 5a was not meant to tear Buddie apart, so I tend to believe that’s what we’ll have this year, too. But if s6 wraps up without Buddie coming back together, then I guess we’ll have an answer (not necessarily a definitive one. I've said before that you can’t judge a show on the issue of queerbaiting until it’s off the air, ‘coz as long as it’s on, the execs can always choose to change direction and make the same sex ship happen. This would be especially true in the case of 911, if Tim decides to step back in and change the course Kristen set).

I hope this helps? Sending hugs! xoxox

Hey! So I know you talked about this thing a lot but there's something that I don't understand about what kristen said about exploring other dynamics. What I don't understand is that yes we had some more hen/buck and chim/eddie scenes, but the only dynamic that was pratically absent from 6a was just buddie, we still got some hen/chim scenes. And while i get don't make them talk about the donor for now, I think they could still make some space for some buddie scenes, what do you think?

Hi Nonnie! You’re right, we did get some Hen & Chim. But TBH, Hen & Buck isn’t that new either, we just got a bit more of it than in previous seasons. Neither is Eddie & Carla that new. Carla was used in the past as well when they needed some stuff to happen away from Buck, like in 312 when it absolutely could NOT be Buck there when Eddie first meets Ana or you know our moron Diaz boy wouldn’t have even looked at her. And Carla was also used in 510, so that when Eddie announces he’s leaving, it came as a shock to Buck. None of that kept Buddie from being intense and domestic and there for each other in the long run. And the Chim & Eddie stuff we got this season was hardly substantial. It’s not like it feels as if these two are suddenly each other’s new besties. I think Kristen does wanna keep Buddie apart for a bit, and she uses other dynamics to solidify the sense of A TEAM, while also preparing us for Buddie coming back together in 6b. I could be wrong, of course, as I told the previous Nonnie! But that’s how the story telling so far this season feels to me. And I also wouldn’t take any interviews too seriously. Cast and show runners alike, when they do PR for their show, they have one job: to get you to keep watching. So they will say whatever they think will do that. If Kristen doesn’t wanna reveal her real 6b plans, but she does want us to be patient and wait for Buddie’s return in 6b, and she thinks that will best be served by saying she’s just exploring new dynamics, then that’s what she’ll say, whether it’s accurate or not.

Again, I hope this helped! Have a great day, all of you! And as always, here's my ask tag. xoxox

[catwingsathena]

5, 19, 21 for the writing meta asks?

Thank you for the ask, friend! You sure do know how to pick these, huh 😂

5. What character you’re writing do you most identify with?

Thinking about the Jailbreak Squad, it’s funny, because Jon, Mike, and Karolina are the three I tend to relate to (and project on) the most, but like… in extremely different ways, because they’re very different people! And yet the things they do have in common are very much places I can relate: smart, stubborn, intense, autistic, nerdy, and incapable of doing anything with less than 110% commitment. There’s… I don’t know how to say it, a directness to them? Almost a purity, though not at all in the moral sense. What I mean is that they are what they are at all times and at full volume. You know they’re not being manipulative when they talk to you, not because they’d have any issue with it on principle, but because they’re just flat-out incapable. Sincere by lack of other options. Which is SUCH a me mood. It’s not that I wouldn’t lie to you, I’m just really bad at it…

19. Is there something you always find yourself repeating in your writing?

Thistle, you know the answer to this question. You know all of the many answers to this question. However, as per your request, I will expose my faults to the world, because I love you and it will objectively be funny.

My characters breathe to express emotion way too often (this becomes especially annoying when I’m writing about characters who don’t need to breathe) (confession time: I established early on in A World of His Own that Jon still takes deep breaths to calm himself, even though he doesn’t need to, because I knew some would inevitably slip through even if I tried not to have him do that, so I decided to just give myself an excuse). In particular, people take deep breaths, or deep, shaky breaths, or deep, shuddering breaths… you get the picture. Like many writers, I overuse nods and head shakes. People also say or do things slowly a lot. (As you would imagine, people in my fics nod slowly far more often than they should.) I’m much too fond of the words “wry” and “rueful,” which probably says as much about the kinds of characters I gravitate towards as it does about my writing, but still. People “give” expressions or sounds (“she gave a shaky smile”) instead of just doing them. I do, in fact, overuse the phrase “in fact” in that particular construction. There’s more, but that’ll do for now.

As for tropes, plots, characters, et cetera… sorry, disclosing my word choice sins on this webbed site was quite enough oversharing for one night :)

21. What other medium do you think your story would work well in?

I’ve definitely imagined some Jailbreak Squad comics! You could do super fun things with perspective for the Vast people and Helen’s corridors, I bet, and Helen would have a great time interacting with panel boundaries/sound effects/etc. and ambiguously breaking the fourth wall. Jon is also an occasional fourth wall breaker, and you could do some really cool playing around with text boxes for him, I feel like? Incorporating speech into the images in various ways, having an entire panel background that’s just words, that sort of thing. I actually have some little scenes in my head as comics, including but not limited to “may the gods ensure your suffering,” “go to horny jail,” “SoL,” “squeaky,” the carnival not-date, and the Pacific Rim movie night idea we were talking about. I also think Do Not Ignore the Mermaids (for everyone who isn’t Thistle, Harriet and Oliver’s first meeting) could be FANTASTIC as a comic.

Once again, thank you for the asks, my dear! Hope my answers were satisfactory 🙂

[curiositymemes]

AN AMERICAN IN PARIS SENTENCE STARTERS : PART I.

taken from the 1951 film inspired by the 1928 george gershwin composition.  feel free to change wording and pronouns and provide context as necessary. do not add to this list.    

“and i’ll tell you why.”

“all my life that’s all i ever wanted to do.”

“just look at it.”

“that’s where i’m billeted.”

“here’s my street.”

“a nicer bunch you’ll never meet.”

“it sounds better in french.” 

“i have a lot of good friends in ___. a lot of very good friends.”

“that’s a pretentious way of saying i’m unemployed at the moment.”

“i’m here on a scholarship.”

“and you know something?”

“i’m getting pretty homesick.”

“i had to stop because i discovered i liked it.”

“it’s not a pretty face, i grant you.”

“i like ___. it’s a place where you don’t run into old friends.”

“do you remember him/her/them?”

“i wish he/she/they/you were still with me.”

“you see?”

“everybody recognizes me.”

“i guess i haven’t changed so much after all.”

“they’ve known me a long time.”

“well, what’s the difference?”

“let’s just say... i am old enough to know what to do with my young feelings.”

“shall i come up?” / “no, i’ll be right down.”

“don’t kiss me, you’ll spoil my makeup.”

“you look great, ___.”

“what’re you doing?”

“i phoned you, but there was no answer.” / “i would’ve phoned again, but i was afraid you might be in.”

“what are you working on?”

“incidentally, who’s ___?”

“that’s the second time that name has come up.”

“she/he/they was a little girl/boy/kid then.”

“we only became in love after she/he/they left.”

“she’s/he’s/they’re a little young for you, isn’t she/he/they?”

“what’s she/he/they like?”

“she/he/they/you/i could dance all night.”

“sounds tiresome.”

“kind of a wild kid, huh?”

“whatever gave you that idea?”

“i prefer not to discuss the matter any further.”

“be serious.”

“don’t be silly!”

“look, let’s start all over again, shall we?”

“how are you today, ___?” / “i could be better, ___.”

“i’m broke.”

“that should be very simple.”

“how do you do?”

“i know you.”

“i’ve heard you/her/him/them sing a thousand times. you’re/she’s/he’s/they’re wonderful!”

“i need lunch money.”

“please, allow me.”

“no thanks.”

“i wouldn’t lend him/her/them money if i were you.”

“what else is there?”

“relax, sister/brother/kiddo.”

“why don’t you be a good little girl/boy/kid and move on?”

“you won’t buy anything.”

“you’re just blocking out the sunshine.”

“i just wanted to discuss your work.”

“i’m not interested in your opinion.”

“if you say something nice i won’t feel better and if you don’t it’ll bother me.”

“do you mind if i look?”

“go ahead. you’re okay.”

“they’re harmless enough.”

“say, do you have a ___?”

“don’t you like criticism?” / “who does?”

“your guess is right on the nose.”

“you know... i like these two.”

“how much are they?”

“gee, i don’t know.” / “you don’t know?”

“offer me something.”

“will that be satisfactory?”

“you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“what do you care?”

“is it far?”

“here’s a good place.”

“i never thought of that.”

“i didn’t mean to stay long.” / “don’t apologize. i wanted you to.”

“i wish we had more time to talk.”

“by the way... what are you going to do tonight?”

“do you have a date?”

“nothing formal.”

“i got my girl/boy/babe/love, who could ask for anything more?”

“good evening. i’m sorry i’m late.”

“i see. it’s kind of a little joke, isn’t it?”

“i know i need dough, but i don’t need it this badly.”

“what’s so funny?”

“stop defending your honor so assiduously and listen to me for a minute.”

“i’m interested in your work and want to know you better. is that such a crime?”

“well, it certainly is a roundabout way to do it.”

“i want to help you.”

“it doesn’t hurt to have somebody rooting for you, does it?” / “it’ll be the first time anybody ever did.”

“you should get married again. you need it.”

“everybody must have someone to come home to.”

“let’s dance. we haven’t for years.”

“you’re going to have trouble with that one.”

“___! what a pleasant surprise!”

“let’s go around the floor for old time’s sake.”

“do you mind?”

“you’re certainly not without your nerve!”

“don’t get angry. this was perfectly harmless.”

“i haven’t been able to take my eyes off you since i walked in.”

“that was very considerate.”

“this is the first time i’ve ever done something like this.”

“i just had to meet you.”

“i don’t know what kind of girl/guy/person you think i am, but i’m not!”

“it was swell seeing you again!”

“that was fun, wasn’t it?”

[alex51324]

Read a post earlier* that clarified something I’ve been having trouble getting WRT OFMD and race: namely, why the topics of race and racism--which many people have compellingly argued are vital to understanding some of the key scenes, e.g, the Party Boat--are handled so obliquely.  And the answer is--I think--to avoid drawing attention to the corner they’ve painted themselves into with the setting in general and the figure of Stede Bonnet in particular. 

(*I didn’t do this as a reblog/reply because it’s the one that starts out, “I’m not posting this in the tags, but...”; was thinking of linking it, but now I’ve misplaced it.)

So the first difficulty, that this (Doylist) reading solves is the one from the first time I blundered into the Race in OFMD Conversation:  namely, there is a decent amount of evidence to support a reading of race-blind casting for the Blackbeard character.   Several people have patiently explained to me why that reading can be hurtful to fans of color, and I pretty much get it.  (And also agree that on balance, there’s more evidence for reading the character as a man of color.)  But, I’m sorry, there are things about the show for which race-blind casting would be a satisfactory explanation--I’ll lay those out in more detail it if somebody asks.  My point now, is that there’s a more compelling explanation. 

So, then, the question is, why?  Why, for instance, when Ed is talking about the violent caricature of him in the History of Pyrates book, is his list of Stereotypically Violent Others just about the whitest such list imaginable?  (Vikings, Vampires, Clowns--all known for being quite pale.)  Why does the French captain say “Donkey” when there’s, you know, another animal that would make it 100% unambiguous that this is a racist insult and that Ed is hearing it as such?  Why not telegraph this stuff more clearly?

Ed’s race in the show is almost as subtextual as his queerness would be in a typical mainstream genre show.  As subtextual as, say, Xena and Gabrielle.  If you know, you know, but if you don’t, it’s possible to miss it.   (I did--or at least misread it--and I flatter myself that I’m about as informed on race as your average white liberal.)  

(Note:  If your introduction to the concept “subtext” primarily from the “buttsex” joke, please note that “subtext,” on its own, is not an insult.  t doesn’t mean thing you’re making up.  It means something in the text that you have to interpret/dig for, rather than it being right there on the surface for anyone to see.)

And that’s a pretty unusual choice--especially if the show is trying to say things about race (as it very openly does in, say, the scene with the indigenous villagers).  

One answer is, “That aspect of the show isn’t for you, as a white viewer; if you didn’t get it, you don’t need to get it.”  But that’s not a very satisfying answer, because--as I worked through in another post--making a vital aspect of a character’s identity--an identity that viewers may share--deliberately difficult to discern is kind of an insulting move, whether that identity is sexuality, race, religion, disability.  It suggests that that identity is either something that needs to be hidden, or something that isn’t important enough to make it into the plain text.   

The more compelling answer is that, to be blunt, it’s a comedy, and slavery isn’t funny.  It’s basically impossible, if we suppose the story to be set in anything resembling the real world, that a person in Stede’s position would not have gotten his wealth through slavery.  (As I think most of us know, the actual historical figure was definitely an enslaver.)  

It’s similarly unlikely that real people resembling Frenchie, Roach, Olu, and Ivan would have all not ever been slaves--you could come up with a compelling and plausible  backstory, that does not involve slavery, for how any one of them ended up where they are in the show, but all four would stretch credulity to the breaking point.  

Stede saying, “I sold a few slaves (instead of “a few acres”) for my own needs,” would not be funny.  Frenchie saying, “I was a house-slave (instead of “in service”) for about a minute” would not be funny.   There’s no way* that a show in this setting can be textually about race and still be funny.  The most you can do is sort of glance at it out of the corner of the eye, and then get back to the pirate humor--bounce off “donkey” (and not the other word) straight to “skin him with the snail fork,” and don’t look back.  If you look too hard at Ed’s race, it becomes a story about a man of color falling in love with a man who enslaves other men of color, and nobody wants to watch that**.  

(*As far as I can tell!  Maybe the show will surprise me and address race more directly in Season 2.)  

(**I mean, I guess you could maybe pull it off as a serious drama where the main plot is the white guy realizing how fucked up his life is, becoming a staunch abolitionist, and figuring out a way to make amends to the people he and his family harmed?  But definitely not as a sitcom about pirates.)  

But I’m pretty sure the show’s oblique angle on race/racism is a deliberate choice to keep it on the tightrope of being a show with a diverse cast of characters (as well as actors), and situated in a place/time that was permeated with racism, and still have it be a comedy.   It comes across as kinda weird, because it is.  

[jollmaster]

Hello, dear JollMaster! For a long time I didn’t dare to write to you, but I still dared...I've been interested in Ghost of a Tale for a long time, as well as your creativity, and when I was reading all of yours headcanons on the fandom, I came across one of your characters that I was extremely interested in...I seem to have always been impressed by characters like Mattis Lars, and I was very happy to learn about him. I have a favor to ask of you, if you don't mind, of course...I see how much they offer you bingo and other things, understand what a waste of energy this is, but...Could you answer a few questions about him that I made up based on those bingos? In your free time and mood, of course! I'm very embarrassed to ask you...Words cannot describe how much I like characters like him, and I would like to know more about him, it would help me find inspiration and at least some strength. Your opinion is important to me...I will be incredibly happy. And, if I may, you have been my so great inspiration over the years) Thank you for everything you create, really! P.S. Don’t take it as sycophancy and impudence, please, I’m so sorry to distract you, my friend...And sorry for such a long text. (I'm writing here because I'm embarrassed) Let it be like some kind of another bingo, oh...) All the best to you!

~~~~~

1. He and alcohol (how often does he drink, how does he behave when drunk?)

2. Random two sad facts from his life

3. What kind of husband and worker is he?

4. With which of the guards he would be on friendly terms and with whom would he be at enmity?

5. What is his character like (quiet, nerd, bun, or something else?)

6. Is he prone to guard rudeness or would he not hurt a fly?

7. His D&D worldview (lawful good, neutral good and etc.)

8. How will he behave at the party?

9. How often does he swear or doesn't swear at all?

10. His attitude towards love, care, tactile contact

11. Mortal sin most peculiar to him

12. His biographical scale (lightly/normally/badly)

13. Where did he work before Dwindling Heights Keep and where did he go after 1218?

(So many questions, oh...*sighs nervously*)

hey, good morning/day/evening/night, I'm so happy because of such a big feedback! :D

so so so, my boy Mattis, if you don't joke

° he prefers mild alcohol

° random sad facts: three of his seven brothers were killed (it happened during the war with Saltar ferrets), and his wife had miscarriages four times (however, they subsequently had children)

° good husband (often sent money and letters to his family), satisfactory worker (both commanders had no complaints about his writes, except for that time with the pie-rat)

° friends with Monock Brig (gossiping), enmity with Snorl (grumpy character and envy)

° a bookworm

° won't hurt a fly, but can shout down

° chaotic good

° at party he's sitting in the corner with beer

° doesn't swear, but often uses strong language

° doesn't reject it, but also doesn't get upset if it's deprived at the moment

° greed (guys, girls, he was sent to the DHK for salary fraud)

° normally, twice badly (see above)

° stayed in DHK until 1225 PPB, even was a jailer for a year; then went to his wife's village, where he worked as a clerk

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

The murder of Roger Ackroyd, Agatha Christie

Chapter 11-12

CHAPTER XI POIROT PAYS A CALL I was slightly nervous when I rang the bell at Marby Grange the following afternoon. I wondered very much what Poirot expected to find out. He had entrusted the job to me. Why? Was it because, as in the case of questioning Major Blunt, he wished to remain in the background? The wish, intelligible in the first case, seemed to me quite meaningless here.

My meditations were interrupted by the advent of a smart parlormaid.

Yes, Mrs. Folliott was at home. I was ushered into a big drawing-room, and looked round me curiously as I waited for the mistress of the house. A large bare room, some good bits of old china, and some beautiful etchings, shabby covers and curtains. A lady’s room in every sense of the term.

I turned from the inspection of a Bartolozzi on the wall as Mrs. Folliott came into the room. She was a tall woman, with untidy brown hair, and a very winning smile.

“Dr. Sheppard,” she said hesitatingly.

“That is my name,” I replied. “I must apologize for calling upon you like this, but I wanted some information about a parlormaid previously employed by you, Ursula Bourne.”

With the utterance of the name the smile vanished from her face, and all the cordiality froze out of her manner. She looked uncomfortable and ill at ease.

“Ursula Bourne?” she said hesitatingly.

“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps you don’t remember the name?”

“Oh, yes, of course. I—I remember perfectly.”

“She left you just over a year ago, I understand?”

“Yes. Yes, she did. That is quite right.”

“And you were satisfied with her whilst she was with you? How long was she with you, by the way?”

“Oh! a year or two—I can’t remember exactly how long. She—she is very capable. I’m sure you will find her quite satisfactory. I didn’t know she was leaving Fernly. I hadn’t the least idea of it.”

“Can you tell me anything about her?” I asked.

“Anything about her?”

“Yes, where she comes from, who her people are—that sort of thing?”

Mrs. Folliott’s face wore more than ever its frozen look.

“I don’t know at all.”

“Who was she with before she came to you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

There was a spark of anger now underlying her nervousness. She flung up her head in a gesture that was vaguely familiar.

“Is it really necessary to ask all these questions?”

“Not at all,” I said, with an air of surprise and a tinge of apology in my manner. “I had no idea you would mind answering them. I am very sorry.”

Her anger left her and she became confused again.

“Oh! I don’t mind answering them. I assure you I don’t. Why should I? It—it just seemed a little odd, you know. That’s all. A little odd.”

One advantage of being a medical practitioner is that you can usually tell when people are lying to you. I should have known from Mrs. Folliott’s manner, if from nothing else, that she did mind answering my questions—minded intensely. She was thoroughly uncomfortable and upset, and there was plainly some mystery in the background. I judged her to be a woman quite unused to deception of any kind, and consequently rendered acutely uneasy when forced to practice it. A child could have seen through her.

But it was also clear that she had no intention of telling me anything further. Whatever the mystery centering around Ursula Bourne might be, I was not going to learn it through Mrs. Folliott.

Defeated, I apologized once more for disturbing her, took my hat and departed.

I went to see a couple of patients and arrived home about six o’clock. Caroline was sitting beside the wreck of tea things. She had that look of suppressed exultation on her face which I know only too well. It is a sure sign with her, of either the getting or the giving of information. I wondered which it had been.

“I’ve had a very interesting afternoon,” began Caroline as I dropped into my own particular easy chair, and stretched out my feet to the inviting blaze in the fireplace.

“Have you?” I asked. “Miss Ganett drop in to tea?”

Miss Ganett is one of the chief of our newsmongers.

“Guess again,” said Caroline with intense complacency.

I guessed several times, working slowly through all the members of Caroline’s Intelligence Corps. My sister received each guess with a triumphant shake of the head. In the end she volunteered the information herself.

“M. Poirot!” she said. “Now what do you think of that?”

I thought a good many things of it, but I was careful not to say them to Caroline.

“Why did he come?” I asked.

“To see me, of course. He said that knowing my brother so well, he hoped he might be permitted to make the acquaintance of his charming sister—your charming sister, I’ve got mixed up, but you know what I mean.”

“What did he talk about?” I asked.

“He told me a lot about himself and his cases. You know that Prince Paul of Mauretania—the one who’s just married a dancer?”

“Yes?”

“I saw a most intriguing paragraph about her in Society Snippets the other day, hinting that she was really a Russian Grand Duchess—one of the Czar’s daughters who managed to escape from the Bolsheviks. Well, it seems that M. Poirot solved a baffling murder mystery that threatened to involve them both. Prince Paul was beside himself with gratitude.”

“Did he give him an emerald tie pin the size of a plover’s egg?” I inquired sarcastically.

“He didn’t mention it. Why?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I thought it was always done. It is in detective fiction anyway. The super detective always has his rooms littered with rubies and pearls and emeralds from grateful Royal clients.”

“It’s very interesting to hear about these things from the inside,” said my sister complacently.

It would be—to Caroline. I could not but admire the ingenuity of M. Hercule Poirot, who had selected unerringly the case of all others that would most appeal to an elderly maiden lady living in a small village.

“Did he tell you if the dancer was really a Grand Duchess?” I inquired.

“He was not at liberty to speak,” said Caroline importantly.

I wondered how far Poirot had strained the truth in talking to Caroline—probably not at all. He had conveyed his innuendoes by means of his eyebrows and his shoulders.

“And after all this,” I remarked, “I suppose you were ready to eat out of his hand.”

“Don’t be coarse, James. I don’t know where you get these vulgar expressions from.”

“Probably from my only link with the outside world—my patients. Unfortunately my practice does not lie amongst Royal princes and interesting Russian émigrés.”

Caroline pushed her spectacles up and looked at me.

“You seem very grumpy, James. It must be your liver. A blue pill, I think, to-night.”

To see me in my own home, you would never imagine that I was a doctor of medicine. Caroline does the home prescribing both for herself and me.

“Damn my liver,” I said irritably. “Did you talk about the murder at all?”

“Well, naturally, James. What else is there to talk about locally? I was able to set M. Poirot right upon several points. He was very grateful to me. He said I had the makings of a born detective in me—and a wonderful psychological insight into human nature.”

Caroline was exactly like a cat that is full to overflowing with rich cream. She was positively purring.

“He talked a lot about the little gray cells of the brain, and of their functions. His own, he says, are of the first quality.”

“He would say so,” I remarked bitterly. “Modesty is certainly not his middle name.”

“I wish you would not be so horribly American, James. He thought it very important that Ralph should be found as soon as possible, and induced to come forward and give an account of himself. He says that his disappearance will produce a very unfortunate impression at the inquest.”

“And what did you say to that?”

“I agreed with him,” said Caroline importantly. “And I was able to tell him the way people were already talking about it.”

“Caroline,” I said sharply, “did you tell M. Poirot what you overheard in the wood that day?”

“I did,” said Caroline complacently.

I got up and began to walk about.

“You realize what you’re doing, I hope,” I jerked out. “You’re putting a halter round Ralph Paton’s neck as surely as you’re sitting in that chair.”

“Not at all,” said Caroline, quite unruffled. “I was surprised you hadn’t told him.”

“I took very good care not to,” I said. “I’m fond of that boy.”

“So am I. That’s why I say you’re talking nonsense. I don’t believe Ralph did it, and so the truth can’t hurt him, and we ought to give M. Poirot all the help we can. Why, think, very likely Ralph was out with that identical girl on the night of the murder, and if so, he’s got a perfect alibi.”

“If he’s got a perfect alibi,” I retorted, “why doesn’t he come forward and say so?”

“Might get the girl into trouble,” said Caroline sapiently. “But if M. Poirot gets hold of her, and puts it to her as her duty, she’ll come forward of her own accord and clear Ralph.”

“You seem to have invented a romantic fairy story of your own,” I said. “You read too many trashy novels, Caroline. I’ve always told you so.”

I dropped into my chair again.

“Did Poirot ask you any more questions?” I inquired.

“Only about the patients you had that morning.”

“The patients?” I demanded, unbelievingly.

“Yes, your surgery patients. How many and who they were?”

“Do you mean to say you were able to tell him that?” I demanded.

Caroline is really amazing.

“Why not?” asked my sister triumphantly. “I can see the path up to the surgery door perfectly from this window. And I’ve got an excellent memory, James. Much better than yours, let me tell you.”

“I’m sure you have,” I murmured mechanically.

My sister went on, checking the names on her fingers.

“There was old Mrs. Bennett, and that boy from the farm with the bad finger, Dolly Grice to have a needle out of her finger; that American steward off the liner. Let me see—that’s four. Yes, and old George Evans with his ulcer. And lastly——”

She paused significantly.

“Well?”

Caroline brought out her climax triumphantly. She hissed in the most approved style—aided by the fortunate number of s’s at her disposal.

“Miss Russell!”

She sat back in her chair and looked at me meaningly, and when Caroline looks at you meaningly, it is impossible to miss it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, quite untruthfully. “Why shouldn’t Miss Russell consult me about her bad knee?”

“Bad knee,” said Caroline. “Fiddlesticks! No more bad knee than you and I. She was after something else.”

“What?” I asked.

Caroline had to admit that she didn’t know.

“But depend upon it, that was what he was trying to get at, M. Poirot, I mean. There’s something fishy about that woman, and he knows it.”

“Precisely the remark Mrs. Ackroyd made to me yesterday,” I said. “That there was something fishy about Miss Russell.”

“Ah!” said Caroline darkly, “Mrs. Ackroyd! There’s another!”

“Another what?”

Caroline refused to explain her remarks. She merely nodded her head several times, rolled up her knitting, and went upstairs to don the high mauve silk blouse and the gold locket which she calls dressing for dinner.

I stayed there staring into the fire and thinking over Caroline’s words. Had Poirot really come to gain information about Miss Russell, or was it only Caroline’s tortuous mind that interpreted everything according to her own ideas?

There had certainly been nothing in Miss Russell’s manner that morning to arouse suspicion. At least——

I remembered her persistent conversation on the subject of drug-taking and from that she had led the conversation to poisons and poisoning. But there was nothing in that. Ackroyd had not been poisoned. Still, it was odd….

I heard Caroline’s voice, rather acid in note, calling from the top of the stairs.

“James, you will be late for dinner.”

I put some coal on the fire and went upstairs obediently.

It is well at any price to have peace in the home.

CHAPTER XII ROUND THE TABLE A joint inquest was held on Monday.

I do not propose to give the proceedings in detail. To do so would only be to go over the same ground again and again. By arrangement with the police, very little was allowed to come out. I gave evidence as to the cause of Ackroyd’s death and the probable time. The absence of Ralph Paton was commented on by the coroner, but not unduly stressed.

Afterwards, Poirot and I had a few words with Inspector Raglan. The inspector was very grave.

“It looks bad, Mr. Poirot,” he said. “I’m trying to judge the thing fair and square. I’m a local man, and I’ve seen Captain Paton many times in Cranchester. I’m not wanting him to be the guilty one—but it’s bad whichever way you look at it. If he’s innocent, why doesn’t he come forward? We’ve got evidence against him, but it’s just possible that that evidence could be explained away. Then why doesn’t he give an explanation?”

A lot more lay behind the inspector’s words than I knew at the time. Ralph’s description had been wired to every port and railway station in England. The police everywhere were on the alert. His rooms in town were watched, and any houses he had been known to be in the habit of frequenting. With such a cordon it seemed impossible that Ralph should be able to evade detection. He had no luggage, and, as far as any one knew, no money.

“I can’t find any one who saw him at the station that night,” continued the inspector. “And yet he’s well known down here, and you’d think somebody would have noticed him. There’s no news from Liverpool either.”

“You think he went to Liverpool?” queried Poirot.

“Well, it’s on the cards. That telephone message from the station, just three minutes before the Liverpool express left—there ought to be something in that.”

“Unless it was deliberately intended to throw you off the scent. That might just possibly be the point of the telephone message.”

“That’s an idea,” said the inspector eagerly. “Do you really think that’s the explanation of the telephone call?”

“My friend,” said Poirot gravely, “I do not know. But I will tell you this: I believe that when we find the explanation of that telephone call we shall find the explanation of the murder.”

“You said something like that before, I remember,” I observed, looking at him curiously.

Poirot nodded.

“I always come back to it,” he said seriously.

“It seems to me utterly irrelevant,” I declared.

“I wouldn’t say that,” demurred the inspector. “But I must confess I think Mr. Poirot here harps on it a little too much. We’ve better clews than that. The fingerprints on the dagger, for instance.”

Poirot became suddenly very foreign in manner, as he often did when excited over anything.

“M. l’Inspecteur,” he said, “beware of the blind—the blind—comment dire?—the little street that has no end to it.”

Inspector Raglan stared, but I was quicker.

“You mean a blind alley?” I said.

“That is it—the blind street that leads nowhere. So it may be with those fingerprints—they may lead you nowhere.”

“I don’t see how that can well be,” said the police officer. “I suppose you’re hinting that they’re faked? I’ve read of such things being done, though I can’t say I’ve ever come across it in my experience. But fake or true—they’re bound to lead somewhere.”

Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders, flinging out his arms wide.

The inspector then showed us various enlarged photographs of the fingerprints, and proceeded to become technical on the subject of loops and whorls.

“Come now,” he said at last, annoyed by Poirot’s detached manner, “you’ve got to admit that those prints were made by some one who was in the house that night?”

“Bien entendu,” said Poirot, nodding his head.

“Well, I’ve taken the prints of every member of the household, every one, mind you, from the old lady down to the kitchenmaid.”

I don’t think Mrs. Ackroyd would enjoy being referred to as the old lady. She must spend a considerable amount on cosmetics.

“Every one’s,” repeated the inspector fussily.

“Including mine,” I said dryly.

“Very well. None of them correspond. That leaves us two alternatives. Ralph Paton, or the mysterious stranger the doctor here tells us about. When we get hold of those two——”

“Much valuable time may have been lost,” broke in Poirot.

“I don’t quite get you, Mr. Poirot?”

“You have taken the prints of every one in the house, you say,” murmured Poirot. “Is that the exact truth you are telling me there, M. l’Inspecteur?”

“Certainly.”

“Without overlooking any one?”

“Without overlooking any one.”

“The quick or the dead?”

For a moment the inspector looked bewildered at what he took to be a religious observation. Then he reacted slowly.

“You mean——”

“The dead, M. l’Inspecteur.”

The inspector still took a minute or two to understand.

“I am suggesting,” said Poirot placidly, “that the fingerprints on the dagger handle are those of Mr. Ackroyd himself. It is an easy matter to verify. His body is still available.”

“But why? What would be the point of it? You’re surely not suggesting suicide, Mr. Poirot?”

“Ah! no. My theory is that the murderer wore gloves or wrapped something round his hand. After the blow was struck, he picked up the victim’s hand and closed it round the dagger handle.”

“But why?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders again.

“To make a confusing case even more confusing.”

“Well,” said the inspector, “I’ll look into it. What gave you the idea in the first place?”

“When you were so kind as to show me the dagger and draw attention to the fingerprints. I know very little of loops and whorls—see, I confess my ignorance frankly. But it did occur to me that the position of the prints was somewhat awkward. Not so would I have held a dagger in order to strike. Naturally, with the right hand brought up over the shoulder backwards, it would have been difficult to put it in exactly the right position.”

Inspector Raglan stared at the little man. Poirot, with an air of great unconcern, flecked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve.

“Well,” said the inspector, “it’s an idea. I’ll look into it all right, but don’t you be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”

He endeavored to make his tone kindly and patronizing. Poirot watched him go off. Then he turned to me with twinkling eyes.

“Another time,” he observed, “I must be more careful of his amour propre. And now that we are left to our own devices, what do you think, my good friend, of a little reunion of the family?”

The “little reunion,” as Poirot called it, took place about half an hour later. We sat round the table in the dining-room at Fernly—Poirot at the head of the table, like the chairman of some ghastly board meeting. The servants were not present, so we were six in all. Mrs. Ackroyd, Flora, Major Blunt, young Raymond, Poirot, and myself.

When every one was assembled, Poirot rose and bowed.

“Messieurs, mesdames, I have called you together for a certain purpose.” He paused. “To begin with, I want to make a very special plea to mademoiselle.”

“To me?” said Flora.

“Mademoiselle, you are engaged to Captain Ralph Paton. If any one is in his confidence, you are. I beg you, most earnestly, if you know of his whereabouts, to persuade him to come forward. One little minute”—as Flora raised her head to speak—“say nothing till you have well reflected. Mademoiselle, his position grows daily more dangerous. If he had come forward at once, no matter how damning the facts, he might have had a chance of explaining them away. But this silence—this flight—what can it mean? Surely only one thing, knowledge of guilt. Mademoiselle, if you really believe in his innocence, persuade him to come forward before it is too late.”

Flora’s face had gone very white.

“Too late!” she repeated, very low.

Poirot leant forward, looking at her.

“See now, mademoiselle,” he said very gently, “it is Papa Poirot who asks you this. The old Papa Poirot who has much knowledge and much experience. I would not seek to entrap you, mademoiselle. Will you not trust me—and tell me where Ralph Paton is hiding?”

The girl rose, and stood facing him.

“M. Poirot,” she said in a clear voice, “I swear to you—swear solemnly—that I have no idea where Ralph is, and that I have neither seen him nor heard from him either on the day of—of the murder, or since.”

She sat down again. Poirot gazed at her in silence for a minute or two, then he brought his hand down on the table with a sharp rap.

“Bien! That is that,” he said. His face hardened. “Now I appeal to these others who sit round this table, Mrs. Ackroyd, Major Blunt, Dr. Sheppard, Mr. Raymond. You are all friends and intimates of the missing man. If you know where Ralph Paton is hiding, speak out.”

There was a long silence. Poirot looked to each in turn.

“I beg of you,” he said in a low voice, “speak out.”

But still there was silence, broken at last by Mrs. Ackroyd.

“I must say,” she observed in a plaintive voice, “that Ralph’s absence is most peculiar—most peculiar indeed. Not to come forward at such a time. It looks, you know, as though there were something behind it. I can’t help thinking, Flora dear, that it was a very fortunate thing your engagement was never formally announced.”

“Mother!” cried Flora angrily.

“Providence,” declared Mrs. Ackroyd. “I have a devout belief in Providence—a divinity that shapes our ends, as Shakespeare’s beautiful line runs.”

“Surely you don’t make the Almighty directly responsible for thick ankles, Mrs. Ackroyd, do you?” asked Geoffrey Raymond, his irresponsible laugh ringing out.

His idea was, I think, to loosen the tension, but Mrs. Ackroyd threw him a glance of reproach and took out her handkerchief.

“Flora has been saved a terrible amount of notoriety and unpleasantness. Not for a moment that I think dear Ralph had anything to do with poor Roger’s death. I don’t think so. But then I have a trusting heart—I always have had, ever since a child. I am loath to believe the worst of any one. But, of course, one must remember that Ralph was in several air raids as a young boy. The results are apparent long after, sometimes, they say. People are not responsible for their actions in the least. They lose control, you know, without being able to help it.”

“Mother,” cried Flora, “you don’t think Ralph did it?”

“Come, Mrs. Ackroyd,” said Blunt.

“I don’t know what to think,” said Mrs. Ackroyd tearfully. “It’s all very upsetting. What would happen to the estate, I wonder, if Ralph were found guilty?”

Raymond pushed his chair away from the table violently. Major Blunt remained very quiet, looking thoughtfully at her. “Like shell-shock, you know,” said Mrs. Ackroyd obstinately, “and I dare say Roger kept him very short of money—with the best intentions, of course. I can see you are all against me, but I do think it is very odd that Ralph has not come forward, and I must say I am thankful Flora’s engagement was never announced formally.”

“It will be to-morrow,” said Flora in a clear voice.

“Flora!” cried her mother, aghast.

Flora had turned to the secretary.

“Will you send the announcement to the Morning Post and the Times, please, Mr. Raymond.”

“If you are sure that it is wise, Miss Ackroyd,” he replied gravely.

She turned impulsively to Blunt.

“You understand,” she said. “What else can I do? As things are, I must stand by Ralph. Don’t you see that I must?”

She looked very searchingly at him, and after a long pause he nodded abruptly.

Mrs. Ackroyd burst out into shrill protests. Flora remained unmoved. Then Raymond spoke.

“I appreciate your motives, Miss Ackroyd. But don’t you think you’re being rather precipitate? Wait a day or two.”

“To-morrow,” said Flora, in a clear voice. “It’s no good, mother, going on like this. Whatever else I am, I’m not disloyal to my friends.”

“M. Poirot,” Mrs. Ackroyd appealed tearfully, “can’t you say anything at all?”

“Nothing to be said,” interpolated Blunt. “She’s doing the right thing. I’ll stand by her through thick and thin.”

Flora held out her hand to him.

“Thank you, Major Blunt,” she said.

“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, “will you let an old man congratulate you on your courage and your loyalty? And will you not misunderstand me if I ask you—ask you most solemnly—to postpone the announcement you speak of for at least two days more?”

Flora hesitated.

“I ask it in Ralph Paton’s interests as much as in yours, mademoiselle. You frown. You do not see how that can be. But I assure you that it is so. Pas de blagues. You put the case into my hands—you must not hamper me now.”

Flora paused a few minutes before replying.

“I do not like it,” she said at last, “but I will do what you say.”

She sat down again at the table.

“And now, messieurs et mesdames,” said Poirot rapidly, “I will continue with what I was about to say. Understand this, I mean to arrive at the truth. The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to the seeker after it. I am much aged, my powers may not be what they were.” Here he clearly expected a contradiction. “In all probability this is the last case I shall ever investigate. But Hercule Poirot does not end with a failure. Messieurs et mesdames, I tell you, I mean to know. And I shall know—in spite of you all.”

He brought out the last words provocatively, hurling them in our face as it were. I think we all flinched back a little, excepting Geoffrey Raymond, who remained good humored and imperturbable as usual.

“How do you mean—in spite of us all?” he asked, with slightly raised eyebrows.

“But—just that, monsieur. Every one of you in this room is concealing something from me.” He raised his hand as a faint murmur of protest arose. “Yes, yes, I know what I am saying. It may be something unimportant—trivial—which is supposed to have no bearing on the case, but there it is. Each one of you has something to hide. Come, now, am I right?”

His glance, challenging and accusing, swept round the table. And every pair of eyes dropped before his. Yes, mine as well.

“I am answered,” said Poirot, with a curious laugh. He got up from his seat. “I appeal to you all. Tell me the truth—the whole truth.” There was a silence. “Will no one speak?”

He gave the same short laugh again.

“C’est dommage,” he said, and went out.

[herofics]

hey, I hope you're doing well! I was wondering if you could do a suicidal female s/o texting their boyfriend goodbye and having him rush home to save them just in time? if it's not too much to ask, one for aizawa and one for kirishima would be incredible, but otherwise just one for aizawa would be great

I did both of the guys and in Kiri's case I'd say they're in their twenties and living together. And sorry this took forever.

Warnings: Themes of depression and suicide and dissociation I guess

~Kirishima Eijirou~

You didn’t know what the hell you were supposed to do anymore. Everything felt like it was falling apart and all the control you had ever had over anything, was slipping through your fingers. You couldn’t deal with this, and you weren’t sure you even wanted to anymore.

You had been pretty much just walking back and forth the whole day. You hadn’t eaten anything, and you hadn’t slept well for weeks. It was all getting to be way too much for you, so you decided you didn’t want this anymore, this shit, this life.

You sent Kirishima a message with only three words: “I’m sorry, goodbye”

Kirishima was working late at his and Bakugou’s agency, but this was the last night he would be doing so this week, since he had arranged himself some time off.

“I’m gonna go now, (Name) is waiting for me at home” Kirishima waved at Bakugou, who was still stuck behind a mountain of paperwork.

“Yeah, just fuck off and leave me here with this shit” Bakugou growled.

Kirishima felt bad for leaving him, but not bad enough to stay and help, he wanted to get back home to you.

“You’ll get it done, you always do” Kirishima encouraged.

“Yeah, yeah, just go home” Bakugou groaned.

Kirishima smiled and basically bounced down the stairs of the agency. He decided to finally check his phone, since he had been kind of neglecting it the whole day, not on purpose of course, he had just been very busy.

He had a message from you, it just said: “I’m sorry, goodbye”

“Huh?” he said out loud.

Kirishima didn’t understand, or maybe his brain just didn’t accept the words on the screen, but before he knew it, he was running. Your shared apartment was a few kilometers away from the agency, and Kirishima didn’t stop running before he was standing in front of the door. His hands were trembling so badly he couldn’t get the keys in the lock, so he just opted for kicking down the door.

“(Name)! (Name)!” he shouted.

You had filled the tub with warm water and gotten out the sharpest razor blade you could find. You were just going to step into the tub when you heard someone bust down the front door. You could hear Kirishima yelling your name.

A tremendous amount of guilt washed over you, as you threw the razor into the tub like it was burning your hand. Your legs gave out from under you and you dropped to your knees on the floor.

Kirishima went to try the bathroom door, when he heard a thud inside.

“(Name)? Let me in” he said.

Kirishima tried to remain as calm as he could, but he was definitely having a hard time with that. He could hear you sobbing in the bathroom, but you unlocked the door anyway. You collapsed into his arms as he opened it and clung onto his hoodie like your life depended on it.

“It’s okay, I’m here” Kirishima sniffled as he embraced you.

You and Kirishima sat in the doorway, him holding you in his arms. He was shaking, almost as much as you were and breathing raggedly from the shock and all the running he had just done.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Eiji…” you kept sobbing.

Kirishima just kept holding you close. How hadn’t he seen this coming? Why hadn’t he noticed? He knew you hadn’t been doing well but he couldn’t have imagined you would ever resort to anything so drastic, something so… final. He never wanted to let go of you again.

~Aizawa Shouta~

Aizawa’s phone rang in the middle of gym class, but as he was busy with looking after his students, he didn’t answer and turned the sound off.

You had been on sick leave for a while now, for various reasons, but today everything was especially bad. You felt like a stranger in your own body, your hands didn’t look or feel like your own and you hadn’t spoken a word all day, because your voice didn’t sound like your own either. Shouta had been gone in the morning when you had woken up, it was the start of a new school year after all and he had to go put some kids in their place. You just really hoped he would answer the phone, because you really needed him right now.

You could feel yourself getting worse as the hours went by, and by the time it hit two in the afternoon, you were sitting on the living room couch, staring at your hands.

“Whose hands are these?” you could hear someone ask, and even though you could feel your mouth move, you couldn’t recognize the voice that came out.

Your head was spinning and you couldn’t think straight. You grabbed your phone off the coffee table and wobbled into the bedroom, and started rummaging through the various medications you kept in your nightstand. You just wanted it to stop, you just wanted it all to stop.

When you found the medication you were looking for, you opened the bottle and poured the contents on your hand. They were such small pills, harmless in small doses, beneficial even, but with the amount you were about to take, they were anything but harmless. You downed the whole handful, and washed them down with some water. When you laid down, you placed your phone next to your face and dialed Shouta.

He had just let out the last class of the day, and had picked up his phone just in time to see you calling.

“Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t pick up earlier, but I’ve been busy with the new class and-”

“Shouta...” you sobbed into the phone.

“I’m coming” he said without hesitation.

He had had a pit in his stomach the whole day, ever since he left you in the morning, he had forced himself to ignore it the whole time, but now he regretted it. Luckily though, your house wasn’t very far from UA and he got there quite quickly.

He dashed straight up the stairs and into the bedroom. You were laying there, crying on the bed.

He sighed in relief, because you didn’t seem to be hurt, but he quickly noticed the empty pill bottle on the floor next to the bed.

“No” he whispered.

He quickly knelt down beside the bed and grabbed the empty medication bottle from the floor.

“How much did you take? How many were in here?” he asked frantically, waving the bottle in your face.

You had a hard time keeping your eyes open. When Shouta talked, it sounded like the voice was coming from somewhere very far away. You managed to lift your hand and put it on his cheek. You brushed his cheek with your thumb before you couldn’t hold your hand up anymore. Your eyelids felt so very heavy and you couldn’t fight the darkness anymore, so you gave in. You lost consciousness.

As your hand went limp, Aizawa took a deep breath. He was a pro-hero, he was supposed to be able to keep calm in any kind of situation. He grabbed his phone and dialed the emergency number, telling them what you had taken and that you had fallen unconscious.

When you woke up, your head was pounding and you felt like you were about to throw up. You weren’t sure where you were, but you were pretty sure you were laying on a bed. You had a hard time getting your eyes open but when you did, you noticed the room you were in was only dimly lit.

You looked around a bit and noticed Shouta was sitting on a chair next to your bed, just staring at you. He looked so relieved, but also like he wanted to punch the nearest wall, his expression quickly changed to a more gentle and worried one though.

“You’re awake” he said and grabbed your hand, bringing it to his face and pressing his forehead to your hand.

“I-I’m sorry” you said and looked down, you couldn’t look at him, you felt too ashamed.

Your tears were falling on the covers and you were looking at your other hand. What had you done? Why had you done it? You could only really give a satisfactory answer to the first question.

“What were you thinking?” Aizawa asked as he lifted his head, but didn’t let go of your hand.

“I don’t think I was, not really” you said, still not looking at him.

“Hey, look at me” he said and grabbed your chin gently, trying to turn your head towards him.

You turned your head, and he could just feel his heart break. You looked so hurt and guilt ridden, but above that, you looked tired. How hadn’t he noticed the look in your eyes before now? Your eyes had darkened and it looked like there was no light in them anymore. You looked so… hopeless.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see this coming, I’m sorry I don’t know how to help you” Aizawa said with tears brimming in his eyes.

“You have to know that this isn’t your fault or responsibility, it’s mine and I’m so sorry to have burdened you with this” you said, wiping away his tears with the sleeve of your shirt. “I love you Shouta”

“I love you too” Aizawa said and kissed your hand. He swore in his head that he would do everything he possibly could for this to never happen again.

[plan-d-to-i]

(google translate again, yeah)

(I forgot to thank you for the last answer, I really didn't know that the drama used the music of my compatriot, it was a pleasant surprise for me)

I don't know if anyone has asked you this before, but do you think JC was good with WWX as a kid?

I mean not just their childhood, but the time of their training in Gusu.

I really love JC, and I understand perfectly well that he is the most dick in character, but I love him precisely during my studies at Gusu, I can not give any arguments that then JC was directly GOOD to WWX, but he is clearly cared a little about him and even ... worried? at least that moment after the punishment where JC helped WWX get to the room...

Yay - I'm so happy to hear about Stravinsky :)

Hahah loving jc as the dick that he is is the way to do it! go for it. :) also, sorry this was so delayed I wanted to reread the Cloud Recesses arc so it would be fresh in my mind before answering.

In terms of jc the Cloud Recesses arc is perhaps the most 'mellow' we see him aside from the Lotus Pod Extra but for me it's still impossible to find him a worthwhile person. I can already see the faults in his character that I know will only get worse as he grows older. Canonically I don't see how he would have any friends studying in the Cloud Recesses if he didn't come as a package deal w Wei Wuxian. I mean I doubt jiang cheng would have any friends without WWX period. In fact jiang cheng doesn't make any friends over the course of 13 years. He's also unable to find a wife bc of his temperament and behavior...

What we can glean about their relationship in the Cloud Recesses arc (and even the Lotus Pod Extra) is that any time WWX gets a kind word or understanding from someone, jiang cheng scoffs at it. Any time someone shits on WWX, jc is there to agree, to relish the idea of WWX being punished, and shit on him some more. He would be an immensely exhausting person to be around. He doesnt believe in WWX's ideas and ingenuity, (as NHS does for example), he doesn't believe WWX is hurt, he always assumes the worst of him, he doesn't believe LWJ might like WWX. The only thing he ever seems to believe is that WWX will dishonor YunmengJiang and that WWX should be punished. So for a kid who supposedly wants his father's approval so badly he instead constantly acts like his mother's mouthpiece/minion. He reprimands WWX like he's trying to become Madam Yu 2.0. I see jc stans all the time being like oh he had to keep WWX in check bc WWX was such a lOOooose canon, for the good of the Clan!! lol listen JFM didn't give a f...about WWX's behavior (in his letter to LQR) why are you so concerned? JFM would have preferred for jc to try & save his peers in the Xuanwu cave or at least to understand why that was the correct course of action rather than for him to just sit in front of the class in the Cloud Recesses and tell WWX off for giving LQR as good as he got, while actually still breaking the rules himself but eschewing punishment.

salt up here, quotes below :

Even when Nie Huaisang picks up on the fact that WWX is being treated unfairly by LQR, jc dismisses it and piles on WWX instead.

Nie Huaisang said, “Old Man Lan really seems like he’s coming down especially harshly on you. Every time he reprimands someone, it’s always you.” Jiang Cheng grunted. “He deserves it. What kind of answer was that? He can get away with saying that sort of nonsense at home, but he had the nerve to say it to Lan Qiren’s face. He was practically asking for the old man to kill him!”

But does WWX get away with ANYTHING in Lotus Pier? When we know he is punished constantly for EVERYTHING? This is jiang cheng fully being his mother's mouth piece. It's not something WWX would get away with, it's something jc knows JFM wouldn't mind. Which is why he's so pissed off. Which begs the question if JFM would not be upset with WWX's behavior why does jc need to criticize him? Again :

A dark expression shadowed Jiang Cheng’s face, and his voice was filled with anger. “Why are you so proud of yourself? What is there to be proud of?! Is being told to get out some amazing accomplishment? You’re making our entire clan lose face!”

and his glee at the idea that WWX will be punished leaves a bad taste in one's mouth considering how WWX was perpetually punished in Lotus Pier by jiang cheng's mother for... existing.

Jiang Cheng smiled grimly. “Now that you’ve thoroughly offended both Lan Wangji and Lan Qiren, you’re basically dead tomorrow. No one’s going to clean up your corpse either.”

and again

Without the old one, only the young one remained. This would be easy to deal with! Wei Wuxian rolled off the bed and laughed while putting on his boots. “Heaven’s charmed clouds are blessing me with shade.” Jiang Cheng was beside him polishing his sword with loving care when he decided to spill cold water over Wei Wuxian’s head. “Just wait until he gets back. You can’t escape punishment.”

Where others like NHS see value in WWX's thoughts

Nie Huaisang thought for a while. “Actually, I thought what you said was very interesting,” he said, not entirely able to hide his envy and yearning.

jc is always dismissive of WWX's ideas. These are inventions that WWX realizes. Demonic cultivation in the first conversation and The Spirit-Attraction Flag and The Compass of Evil in the second:

“Enough,” Jiang Cheng warned. “Whatever nonsense you spout, you better not head down that sort of dark road.”

-

Changing the topic, Wei Wuxian said, “If only there was something like fishing bait that could draw the water ghosts in. Or, something that could point in the direction they’re hiding, like a compass, that sort of thing.”

“Lower your head and watch the water,” Jiang Cheng said. “You’re letting your fantasies run wild again. Concentrate on looking for water ghosts like you’re supposed to.”

“Hey, mounting swords and flying was also only a fantasy once!” Wei Wuxian said.

He's also a hypocrite. Because even though he berates WWX for misbehaving, he himself breaks the rules. He drinks, he even goads WWX into buying liquor, the only difference is that he doesn't get punished for it, and he doesn't feel like coming forward and getting punished for it :

Naturally, Jiang Cheng was too embarrassed to talk about what Wei Wuxian had been up to. After all, all of them had egged him on to go and buy alcohol, and they all deserved to be punished as well. He could only speak vaguely. “It’s nothing. It’s nothing. It’s not that bad! He can walk. Wei Wuxian, why haven’t you gotten off yet?”

It's no wonder WWX is so impressed by LWJ's integrity in spite of his social status, when he's clearly used to the other dynamic :

“Lan Zhan, I really admire you,” Wei Wuxian said sincerely. “After I told you that you had to punish yourself too, you actually did it. You didn’t let yourself off at all. I can’t argue against that.”

A dynamic which is shown repeating in the Lotus Pod Extra where WWX is the only one to get punished for sunbathing, and which repeats here when Wei Wuxian here stops jiang cheng from confronting Zixuan over YanLi's honor (and jc's) and does it himself.

Zixuan :“Why don’t you ask what about her could make me satisfied?” he said in return.

Suddenly, Jiang Cheng rose. Wei Wuxian pushed him away and stepped between them, smiling coldly. “You think you’re very satisfactory? As though you have the right to be so picky!”

Zixuan: “If she’s unhappy, then let her break off the engagement! I certainly don’t cherish your wonderful disciple-sister. If you cherish her so much, why don’t you take it up with your father? Doesn’t he love you more than his own son?”

After hearing the last sentence, Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrowed, and Wei Wuxian was no longer able to contain his own fury. He flew at Jin Zixuan, his fist raised.

WWX takes the punishment alone. Same way he offers to do when he hurts himself falling from a tree because jc threatened him with dogs. meanwhile jc is gleeful to see him being punished.

[Wei Wuxian] was kneeling on the stretch of pebble road to which Lan Qiren had assigned him when Jiang Cheng walked over from afar and mocked him. “You’re kneeling so obediently.”

“It’s not like you don’t know I have to do this all the time.” Wei Wuxian’s voice filled with schadenfreude. “But this Jin Zixuan guy, there’s no way he hasn’t been pampered and spoiled rotten since birth. No one’s ever forced him to kneel, I’m sure of it. If he doesn’t wind up crying for mommy and daddy today, I’m not named Wei.”....

Wei Wuxian "...It’s a good thing you didn’t do anything.”

“I was going to. If you hadn’t pushed me away, the other side of Jin Zixuan’s face would be hideous too.”

“Stop it. His face is uglier for being lopsided."

WWX is happy to have spared jc from getting into trouble but jc makes the whole thing about himself anyway (like everything else ever) and is upset JFM would rush over for WWX - in his mind. Even though JFM clearly had to rush over to meet with Jin Guangshan not to coddle WWX in any way.

"Jiang Fengmian had never rushed to another clan in less than a day because of him. Regardless of whether what happened was big or small, or good or bad." Never

WWX on the other hand tries to be observant of jc's feelings and reassure him & distract him from his moods :

When Wei Wuxian saw Jiang Cheng’s melancholy expression, he thought he was still upset with what Jin Zixuan said. “You should leave. You don’t need to keep me company any longer. If Lan Wangji comes again, he’ll catch you. If you have time, you should find Jin Zixuan and watch his pitiful kneeling.”

Later in the book after nearly dying in the Xuanwu cave WWX leaves his sick bed to run after jc and comfort him after his mother's rant, even though WWX had to listen to his parents (and himself) being slandered by YZY. jc doesn't spare any thoughts for how other people might be feeling or suffering. His entire perception of the world is centered around himself. To him even WWX's greatest fear doesn't generate empathy, only amusement or later on a form of torture.

From that point onward, they made trouble everywhere together, and if they encountered a dog, Jiang Cheng would always chase it away for him, then enjoy a peal of derisive, unbridled laughter at Wei Wuxian’s expense beneath whichever tree the boy had leapt atop.

he grew up on the streets, often having to fight for food with vicious dogs. After several bites and chases, he gradually became extremely scared of all dogs, no matter the size. Jiang Cheng laughed at him because of this quite a lot of times.

This brings me to the last point. jc's resentment of WWX's interest in Lan Zhan, or in a serious friendship outside of him. I see so many ppl say that bc WWX fought he was kicked out of the Cloud Recesses early... but was he?

Jiang Cheng was somewhat taken aback. “Lan Wangji? What was he doing here? He still has the nerve to come see you again?”

“Yeah, I think his bravery is laudable if he still has the nerve to come see me. His uncle probably told him to check on me and see if I was kneeling properly.”

Jiang Cheng’s instincts were sending him ominous signals. “So were you kneeling properly?”

“I was then,” Wei Wuxian replied. “But I waited for him to walk away a bit, then took a tree branch, lowered my head, and dug out a hole in the dirt near me. It’s the pile right by your foot—there are ant tunnels there. It took me so much effort to find them. Anyway, I waited for him to turn back and see my shoulders shaking. He had to have thought I was crying, so he came back and asked. You should have seen his face when he caught sight of the ant tunnels!

“…” Jiang Cheng said, “Why don’t you just get the hell out and go back to Yunmeng? I bet he never wants to see you again.”

Thus, that evening, Wei Wuxian packed up his things, got the hell out, and went back to Yunmeng with Jiang Fengmian.

Repeatedly throught his stay in the Cloud Recesses even while NHS was observing that LWJ's behavior around WWX was strange and unique, jc was telling WWX he is hated and bothersome. When WWX wanted to apologize to LWJ jc is completely dismissive of it :

“He hates me already? I was thinking of apologizing to him,” Wei Wuxian said.

“Oh, so you want to apologize now? It’s too late!” Jiang Cheng said derisively. “He’s exactly like his uncle. He thinks you’ve been wicked ever since you were an embryo, so it’s beneath his dignity to pay you any attention.”

Later on when WWX mentioned wanting to invite LWJ to Lotus Pier jc categorically says no.

“Jiang Cheng had on a stern expression, “Let’s make this clear. I don’t want him to come, anyhow. Don’t invite him.”

BONUS

jc also always doubts WWX. He suspects him immediately of wrongdoings. He doesn't believe that getting hit with the discipline ruler in Cloud Recesses actually hurt him until LXC confirms that WWX might take more than a few days to heal. He doesn't understand WWX is in actual trouble from the Waterborne abyss and assumes he's fooling around luckily Lan Zhan is there to rescue him:

The disciple’s lower body had already been swallowed by the black whirlpool. It spun faster and faster, and he continued to sink deeper and deeper, as though something hidden beneath the water was pulling down on his legs.

Mounted on Sandu, Jiang Cheng had risen calmly until he was about sixty meters above the whirlpool before he looked down. Filled with displeasure at what he saw, he shouted and dove down. “What are you up to now?!”

The suction force inside Lake Biling grew ever stronger. Wei Wuxian’s sword was optimized for agility, and consequently, its strength happened to fall just short, and they were nearly pulled to the surface of the lake. Wei Wuxian steadied himself and held on to Su She with both hands.

“Someone help! If I can’t pull him up soon, I’ll have to let go!” he shouted.

Suddenly, the back of Wei Wuxian’s collar tightened, and his body was lifted into the air. He twisted his neck and saw Lan Wangji holding him up with one hand.

He maintains this same mindset when he tries to whip LWJ and WWX as they're attempting to leave Lotus Pier after the ancestral hall confrontation when WWX passes out.

Is jc evil in the Cloud Recesses ? No. He's just an annoying, basic, disagreeable asshole who doesn't bring anything positive to someone like WWX. People like jc become obsessed with kind, outgoing, generous people, people who don't set boundaries on what they give and what others take in their friendships. Even though they're dependent on them for their social interactions, because who else would socialize with them willingly, they resent them in equal measure, but at the same time they wouldn't be drawn to another selfish, self centered piece of shit person like themselves.

On a personal note, even Cloud Recesses jiang cheng is someone I would exclude from any personal friend group. Friendship with him is adding a minefield of jealousies and snide comments to every interaction. Things that then others will need to compensate around because he won't compromise or empathize w issues outside of his own concerns.

Translation source : x

[reidyoulikeabook]

Sometimes You Just Don’t Know the Answer

4 times you don’t know the answer, and the 1 time you do

This is the 2nd part to Personal Google! (You don’t have to read it to understand this, but it exists if you want to).

Ship: BAU!reader x Spencer Reid

Summary: You’d call yourself a pretty educated individual, and most people wouldn’t argue with that, given that you’re a member of the BAU at Quantico. There’s just something about your best friend Spencer Reid that gets you all tongue tied.

Warnings: Mentions of cases and case-typical violence, mentions of alcohol, Spencer and Reader being idiots again.

Word count: 3k

A/N: The feedback (in asks and the tag reblogs) for Personal Google was so lovely and encouraging and I am very grateful for it! I only made this account a few days ago and I’m already so glad I did :) I hope this is a satisfactory second part and, requests are open!

(This is the Reid I’m imagining here)

“What is up with you and Reid?” Emily’s volume is unmoderated at the best of times but right now it’s like she’s trying to alert the entirety of Virginia to your dating woes.

Dating woes might be a stretch, actually. Somehow, just her implication that something is happening between you and Spencer (even though it isn’t, unless you count two exhausted idiots falling asleep on each other and being too bashful to ever mention it again), is enough to get you feeling uncharacteristically shy.

“Nothing,” you shrug, “Well. I don’t know, honestly, nothing I guess? We haven’t spoken about that night.”

Emily’s eyes rake over you, and you can tell she’s waiting for you to continue.

“There’s nothing!” you object, ��We just, it was accidental, we fell asleep because we were watching a documentary and we were tired and neither of us fell asleep on purpose.”

She laughs, dry and amused, “At this rate, you’ll be lucky to have sorted things out before you’re 50.”

You scowl, but it’s only because you know she’s right.

***

You don’t have much time to think about your situation with Spencer for a few weeks, considering the rate at which the cases come rolling in. This newest one arrives within about two days of the last one you’d just wrapped up. It’s actually kind of rude, you’ve decided, that the serial killers of America have decided to deny you two weekends in a row.

You’re briefed on the case quickly: four women have gone missing over the past 7 months from a small town in Ohio. There’s no distinct pattern that can be discerned among the victims, the oldest is 60 and white, the youngest is 23 and Asian-American. However, the first three have been found dead in the past two weeks, all within a mile of each other and all killed with the same MO: ligature strangulation.

“So we have no idea how he’s choosing them,” you say.

“No,” Hotch replies, with a sigh.

Meaning that this is probably going to take a while. Spencer senses the way you tense up a little as you absorb that fact. So he goes out of his way to sit next to you on the plane. Once the discussion about the case is done, he nudges you gently, “Did you bring a book?”

You shake your head, “I finished the one in my go-bag. Didn’t have a chance to replace it.”

“Would you like to read this with me?”

You place your hand on his wrist, gently turning it so you can see the cover, “Spencer this is written in Greek.”

“I can translate,” he says.

You move closer to him then, your head resting just against his plane seat and your chin almost jutting against his shoulder.

“Is this okay?”

He nods. The remaining 45 minutes of the flight are spent with him reading to you softly, adding in his own thoughts as he translates and sometimes going off on little tangents. By the time you land you’ve entirely forgotten about your ire with the case. You’re focused only on the characters he introduces you to, who are clearly in love even if they’re too stupid to see it, and the way his nose crinkles a little when he reaches a word with no direct English translation.

Whhat you don’t realise, is that you end up folding into him: head pressed against his chest. Somehow, neither of you notice how you naturally gravitate towards each other. Some pair of profilers.

--

Hotch sends you in different cars to the precinct, and you’re soon reminded of your frustration as you’re caught up in the hub-a-bub of the case. It’s not until you’re leaving the station, after a long and relatively fruitless briefing with the medical examiners and local PD, that you even have time to acknowledge Spencer properly again.

And even then, it’s only when Hotch says.

"You'll be sharing a room with Reid, alright?"

He’s only really asking as a formality. Nobody questions Hotch’s assignments for them. So why, then, do you feel yourself flush a little.

Why then, do you feel so embarassed replying, “Alright.”

***

There was nothing much to be nervous about with sharing a room, as it so happened. The past day and a half had been a whirlwind since the unsub had snatched a fifth victim. You’d been sleeping in shifts, making sure that some of you were awake at all times to keep working.

You were working on the geographical profile with Spencer, and had taken to driving around to look for landmarks at night, when there was nothing much else to do. There were maps but sometimes it helped just to get things embedded in your brain. And now, at 4am, you’re bursting into the conference room occupied by Spencer and Rossi, because you might just have got something.

"I have an idea,” you say, and before anybody can even respond you’re scribbling hurriedly on the whiteboard.

“Slow down kiddo,” Rossi laughs.

“Sorry I’m just,” you cut yourself off, slightly flustered and tapping your foot with frustration as you try to put the last pieces of it together, “Diana Matthews.”

“Yeah?” Spencer responds.

“She was the one who lived on Lakefield right?” Rossi asks.

Annoyingly, you can’t remember off rote. Spencer sees the pinch of frustration in your brow. He senses that you’re heading for the case file.

So, he answers, “Yeah 38 Lakefield Drive.”

Smiling gratefully at him, you breathe a sigh of relief, “There’s three different stores in the area for this local electronic repair company, Gladston Digital, in this area. Two of them aren’t accounted for on the maps because these are from last year, and one of the ones on Google is pinned to the wrong street, there are two Minister Avenues and one’s on the complete opposite side of town.”

Denoting the map with annotations as you go, you continue, “All of the victims had residences within a mile of one of the three stores. And we interviewed the area manager, Paul something, he manages all three stores. He came to speak to me and Hotch while we were scoping the area.”

“Inserting himself into the investigation,” Rossi notes, “Fits the profile. A stalker like that would want to remain an illusion of control.”

“I just need to get Garcia on the phone to see if it checks out.”

Spencer just watches, slightly in awe, as you make the phone call to Garcia. She manages to cross-reference bank statements and emails, showing that all five of the victims had taken something of theirs in for repair sometime in the year before their disappearance. And he feels something in his gut. Pride? Maybe. That’s certainly a part of it.

But there’s something else in there too. Your eyes meet his, with a flicker of recognition. He realises what it is then: marvel. Your brain works so fast, and that’s not novel to him, he knows you’re intelligent but there’s just something about how fast you manage to put it all together. You conjure something out of nothing, a link that he’d missed. And he’s reminded, again, that he has to try and keep up with you sometimes. He wonders if you know that.

Probably not, he thinks. You’re rambling down the phone and gesturing with your hands, in a way you may or may not have picked up from him, and all he can think is how you look so in your element. And beautiful.

He’s a little embarassed about how normal it feels for that last observation to pop into his head.

***

“To _____!” Prentiss cheers.

8pm has rolled around. Since your revelation 16 hours earlier, you managed to confirm your thinking, apprehend Paul Bader, and save the fifth victim. All in all, a pretty good days work. It’s not just down to you, but everyone’s singing your praises so loudly it’s making you a little embarassed.

Even Hotch sets a drink down in front of you, squeezing your shoulder, “Really good work today ____.”

Fair to say you’ve probably peaked there.

Spencer is sat to your left, sipping at a Mai Tai that you know is going to have him giggly in about an hours time.

“I wasn’t trying to keep you out before,” you tell him, “I was going to come and wake you up when I got back but you were in the conference room.”

He smiles, “I know. It was my shift to sleep.”

“Bet you’re paying for that now.”

“A little,” he chuckles, “It’s worth it.”

"I just didn’t want you to think I was hanging you out to dry. You know, to make myself look good,” you decide to press further: mostly just because the team has sung your praises and that kind of attention makes you shirk at the best of times. Let alone when you’re sat with the guy responsible for creating half the damn profile.

His eyebrows furrow. You worry for a minute about what he’s going to say, but then, “I would never think that about you. We’re a team.”

He squeezes your hand. Maybe that’s your favourite thing about Spencer, really. More than the fact he remembers to get your caffeine just how you like it, more than how gentle he is with just about everybody he encounters, more than his relentless enthusiasm for your questions about whatever pops into your mind. No, it’s his modesty. The way he doesn’t even think for a moment to be prideful or arrogant about his intelligence. He genuinely roots for you in every moment, you think.

“Are you okay?” he asks, “You seem a little..quiet.”

It wasn’t until he mentioned it that you realise you’d let your thoughts run away with you, “No. I’m good. Just thinking about how good of a teacher you are.”

“You think so?”

“Of course I think so. You’ve taught me. I didn’t know the first thing about geographical profiling when I got here two years ago. I could barely read a map,” you laugh, keeping your tone sincere, “You’re a really good teacher Spence. I feel like I learn so much from just being around you.”

“I often don’t give you much choice.”

You smile, “I wouldn’t want you to. Really. I’m always interested in everything you have to say. I think you know that. But I wanted to tell you anyway. So you’re sure.”

He’s incredibly grateful you get pulled into a conversation by Morgan, giving him a moment to process.

A lifetime of being insecure. Of feeling like nobody was interested in what he had to say but not being able to really control whether he said it anyway. All this time being insecure in himself, and you liked it. Complimented him on it, even. Considered him a teacher. He doesn’t think he could articulate, in any of the languages he speaks, the sense of peace that brings him.

-----

The Mai Tai’s do make him sleepy. Buzzed, but sleepy. After being bought rounds by Hotch, Morgan, and Spencer, you’re feeling exactly the same. It’s only 10:30pm by the time you decide to make your departure for the night. This is much to the chagrin of Emily, who lolls against Rossi’s side demanding that you stay.

“Some of us have been up since 4 this morning, breaking their backs to keep this country safe,” You tease, putting on a melodramatic air just for affect, “Besides, you’re going to regret this when you have to be up and back on the jet in the morning.”

“You will, especially since you still owe me that report,” Hotch teases, with a smile.

Emily rolls her eyes, “You two are no fun.”

She’s joking, goading you, but unfortunately for her you have a sleepy Spencer nuzzling against you which is a far more pressing matter to deal with.

“Come on Spence, let’s get you to bed,” You say, gently wiggling out from under him and offering him your hand.

He pouts at the momentary loss of contact. It’s subtle. You catch it though. He links his fingers through your own, holding your hand properly, and you try not to read into it too much. He’s tipsy. He’s tired.

Ignoring the deliberately obvious eyebrow-wiggling from Morgan, you make for the lift.

“You didn’t have to come to bed just for me,” Spencer says, “I feel bad for taking you away from the others. I’m not that drunk, I could get myself to bed.”

You shake your head, “I wanted to go to bed with you.”

His eyes snap to you, a grin playing on his lips.

“I mean, I wanted to go to bed. And we’re sharing a room. So I’m going to bed with you. As in we’re going to the place where bed is, together.”

He’s just enough tipsy to be confident enough to jest, “Sure.”

You roll your eyes, “You sound like Morgan.”

“What did Morgan say?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what Morgan always says whenever anybody goes off together.”

“That they’re having sex,” He giggles, tipsiness shining through again.

“Yes, Spence, that they’re having sex.”

“But we’re not.”

The elevator dings as you arrive at your floor, saving your brain from delving into the implications of what he’s just said. And whether that was a disappointed or netural tone.

He hasn’t let go of your hand. He walks to the door with you, still keeping your hand in his. It’s hard not to let yourself read into it now. How holding hands with him could be such a casual thing. Hard not to imagine walking through bookshops with him, one hand in yours and the other picking books off the shelf he thought you’d like. The domesticity of it sickens you.

Then he lets go to cross to the bed.

“Aren’t you gonna put your pyjama’s on?” You ask.

“I wasn’t gonna sleep yet,” he says, “I was gonna...”

He looks bashful, suddenly, self-consciously licking his lower lip, “I was gonna ask if maybe you wanted to watch something with me. You can pick. I always pick.”

“This an excuse to get me in bed with you again, Spence?” You tease, just past tipsy enough not to care that this is the first time you’ve even acknowledged that night.

"Yeah, the Pearl Harbour ruse doesn’t work twice,” he jokes.

You wish you could find the courage to tease him more. Unfortunately, the liquid courage seems to have run out, and the topic somehow feels too delicate to touch.. Instead, you change quickly into your pyjama’s. Together, you pick something to watch, settling down. You’re suddenly thankful for the single bed, the necessity to be cozied up against him as you watch. To feel his chest, every beat of his heart. You swear it’s beating fast. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

***

Just like last time, you wake up huddled against Spencer. Unlike last time, there’s no Emily banging the door down to drag you to the police station. No, it’s quiet.

You can’t see what time it is because there’s a Spencer between you and the clock. Your phone is in your back pocket but it’s hard to find any motivation whatsoever to move when you’re like this: face pressed into his chest, his head resting atop of yours so a single curl of his hair tickles your nose, his hand on your hip holding you against him.  

His eyelashes flutter, “Are you awake?”

“Yeah. I just woke up.”

He smiles, “Me too.”

“Looks like we did it again.”

“Looks like we did,” his voice is quiet.

“Do you want me to move? If I’m...I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

His free hand comes up to your chin, tipping it so you’re looking him directly in the eyes. His pupils are dilated. In the dim light it’s hard to place the look on his face exactly. But it’s soft.

"C-Can I kiss you?” the question spills quickly from his lips, like he’s afraid he’ll change his mind if he doesn’t get it out fast, “I just. I don’t know if that’s what you want too, I’ve just really-”

"Kiss me, Spence. Please kiss me.”

The smile on his face would have made you fall in love with him, if you weren’t already. And then he kisses you. Barely. Your lips are just grazing against one anothers. You tilt yourself upwards, towards him, giving him a better angle. Then he really kisses you, capturing your lips in his. It’s sweet, it’s soft, it’s...it’s everything. It’s everything, how his hands tangle themselves tentatively in your hair, how he kisses you so deeply, drinking you in.

His hand cups your cheek, then he’s pulling back, just a tiny bit, to mumble against your lips, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

The only appropriate way you can think to verbalise your agreement, is closing the gap between your lips again. There’s an urgency to it this time. Your lips move quickly, passionately. He swipes his tongue across your lower lip and you let him in, your tongues delicately dancing together. He’s good. He’s good and you don’t even notice the morning breath or faint taste of rum, it’s just Spencer.

When you finally come apart, you’re out of breath.

“I didn’t think you’d ever do that,” you say, “I was worried I was reading this whole thing wrong.”

He frowns then, that little nose crinkle appearing again, “I thought I was too obvious.”

“So did I. Maybe it’s best if we don’t tell Hotch how bad we are at profiling each other. He might rethink his decision to take us on.”

He laughs, “Not being able to profile when somebody’s in love with you might be a cause for concern. There are several obvious phyical signs of love, including dilation of pupils when looking at the object of your affection, heart rate synchronisation.”

“How am I supposed to know if our heart rates have synchronised?”

He smiles. Pressing a finger to your lips, he dips his head in the small chasm between your two chests. In the silence, in the early morning quiet, in the absence of all distraction you can hear it. The steady thrum of your hearts, pounding away at identical paces. The sound that told you that some part of you had always known.

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

Tagslist: @takeyourleap-of-faith​​ @sassiest-politician​​ (let me know if you’d like to be added/removed from this list)

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt- WWX didn’t die, instead was held captive by JGGY for the 16 years

ao3

“ – his sword has sealed itself. What better evidence that the Yiling Patriarch is dead and gone?”

I’m not, though, Wei Wuxian thought fuzzily. I’m not gone.

Except when he tried to open his eyes, he couldn’t quite manage it. Why couldn’t he open his eyes? Where was he, anyway?

(Dead and gone –)

He remembered the backlash, suddenly, and shuddered. His qi revolting from inside of him, ghostly hands reaching for him, tearing at him – the complete loss of control – pain –  

Am I dead?

Yes, actually, that seemed pretty likely. That backlash…no one could have survived it, not even him.

(Arrogant as always, Wei Wuxian. Haven’t you seen what become of that?)

Okay, I’m dead, he told himself, and it rang true. But that doesn’t answer the question of where am I?

(Questions like “what am I” could be saved for later.)

He could hear, anyway. He wasn’t sure how, but he could. Maybe he could even see?

He tried to see.

He could see.

Blurrily, and not quite right, but he could.

There were people standing around him. The Jin sect, judging by their clothing, and some others – they were arguing over something. Spoils of war…

Hey! He complained. That’s not a spoil of war! That’s my stuff!

Actually, on second thought, maybe they were right. Sure, it was his stuff – was someone trying to lay claim to his shopping list? – but there had been a war, and he’d lost, and that meant his stuff was spoils.

“The greatest contribution, next to the Jiang sect, is ours. Suibian belongs to the Jin sect,” someone said, interrupting Wei Wuxian’s train of thought, and put their hand on him.

Wait.

What?

I’m Suibian?

No, something that wasn’t quite a voice suddenly said. I’m Suibian. You’re Wei Wuxian. Keep it straight.

Wei Wuxian would have gaped, if he’d still had a mouth. Suibian? You – talk?

There was a feeling of amusement. Possibly a bit of mockery. No, definitely mockery, possibly a lot of it.

Is Wei Wuxian’s sword…kind of a dick?

Suibian sniggered.

What am I doing here? Wei Wuxian asked.

I pulled in your souls and spirits when you died, his sword said. They were already setting up soul-summoning rituals for you, and it wouldn’t have gone well for you if they caught you.

No, it wouldn’t have.

You saved me?

I’m your sword, aren’t I? What else am I here for, especially since you no longer wield me?

Wei Wuxian felt a stab of guilt. He’d never once thought about explaining himself to his sword, though in his defense he didn’t know his sword might have feelings on the subject. About that –

Yes, yes, I know, Suibian said. Chenqing explained the whole thing.

…my flute? You talk to my flute?

Please, Suibian said. We’re spiritual weapons. Of course we talk.

Isn’t that only supposed to happen for the weapons of sages? Wei Wuxian argued. Not, you know, run-of-the-mill ones. Er, no offense. Not that you’re not awesome, but I, personally, am very far from a sage.

At least you admit it, Suibian teased. And no, I think that’s just when everyone can start hearing us. We talk amongst ourselves long before that…sometimes I’m jealous of the Nie sect’s sabers. They can talk to their masters a lot earlier than we can.

They can? Even, what, shit he didn’t know any Nie, uh, Nie Huaisang?

…Nie Huaisang doesn’t count and you know it. His saber’s pretty funny, though. Lazier than a sloth.

That sounded about right.

Baxia’s terrifying, though.

That…also sounded right.

Okay, Wei Wuxian said, tearing his mind away from the fascinating question of why the Nie sabers in specific might be able to communicate with their wielders sooner than most and also what that might mean. There were more important things to discuss. Uh, thanks for saving my life. Death? Thanks for saving my souls, anyway.

Don’t embarrass me with gratitude.

Wei Wuxian would have grinned if he’d had a mouth. Yeah, sure, whatever.

They both sniggered at that.

Anyway, what now? I thought I heard…we’re sealed?

How else am I supposed to hide the fact that your souls and spirits are in here? Suibian asked. If someone wields us, they’d know. Wielders always know.

Wei Wuxian didn’t have anything to say about that. He had always known that Suibian was – Suibian. He could have picked up his sword in the dark and known it was his own, rather than another’s.

He just hadn’t known that Suibian had also known.

He’d even known that Suibian had a personality, that he’d – she’d – it –

Hey, do you have a gender? Wei Wuxian asked, distracted. Are you a boy sword or a girl sword –

I am a sword, Suibian said. Please leave your weird human reproduction techniques out of it.

It’s not about reproduction! It’s…hm. Maybe it is about reproduction? I don’t know, I’ve never really questioned it. Something to think about later on. More importantly – what now?

What do you mean?

What do we do now?

I’m not sure I understand.

Wei Wuxian would have rolled his eyes if he’d had them. What is our next step? You rescued me, and now we’re being bartered around as spoils of war. What’s the plan? What do we do now?

Suibian really didn’t seem to understand.

Well, you rescued me! What were you intending happen after that?

Nothing, Suibian said. I rescued you. That was the complete action. There was nothing after that.

You didn’t make a plan?

I’m a sword. We get wielded by others; we don’t – or at least, rarely – take initiative on our own. I’m not a Nie saber or something; I’m not going to hop up one day and go out hunting for evil on my own.

…is that a thing Nie sabers do? Wei Wuxian asked. On second thought, don’t answer that, I don’t have time to process it at the moment. Listen, now that you’ve rescued me, we still have to do something, right? We can’t just sit around on a shelf somewhere in the Jin sect as a trophy!

Suibian’s silence was almost a little pitying.

We can’t do that, Wei Wuxian repeated. Right?  

They were, in fact, placed on a Jin shelf, at least in the beginning.

It was a prominent place, meant to show him off – show it off, really, since no one knew Wei Wuxian was in there.

Wei Wuxian hated it.

He hated the way Jin Guangshan smirked at the sword, very obviously thinking about how he’d ground Wei Wuxian under his heel. He hated the fact that the man was using his research to develop demonic cultivation into something truly monstrous and vile, the reports that were delivered to Jin Guangshan within Wei Wuxian’s hearing enough to make his stomach turn if he still had one.

Reports of entire sects murdered, men women children all, brutally slaughtered as experiments in tests – each one delivered with a calm smile and no regret.

Wei Wuxian hated that.

He hated, too, the fact that his demonic cultivation, that new invention of his, was treated as nothing but a stepping stone, a tool used to help the Jin sect gain power and ascendance over the other sects – that was what this had always been about, he realized belatedly, too late to do any good.

He’d always known that Jiang Cheng had only cast him out of the Jiang sect because of pressure from the rest of the cultivation world, but somehow he hadn’t realized that that pressure was manufactured, that it was intentional, that he’d always been meant to either yield or die because the Jin sect wanted his power and his Tiger Seal and his secrets. Even if he’d still had a golden core, even if he’d set aside demonic cultivation the way they asked, it still would have ended up the same way in the end.

He’d given the Jiang sect power and influence – and the Jin sect didn’t like that.

But what Wei Wuxian hated most of all, above even the sickening reports of the Jin sect’s crimes, was –

“You look well, Sect Leader Jiang,” Jin Guangshan said, blatantly lying.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes were rimmed with red, whether with tears or an incipient qi deviation, and he stared vacantly at Jin Guangshan as if he didn’t quite understand his meaning. He’d lost weight, his cheekbones sharper than they’d been since the worst days of the war when they hadn’t had enough food, and he didn’t seem entirely – sane.

What happened to him? Wei Wuxian demanded. He might be the one who was living a half-life, but Jiang Cheng looked it.

He’s all alone, Suibian said. Like a sword that hasn’t been drawn in years, not even to be sharpened –

I said I was sorry about no wielding you, okay! But no, seriously, what have the Jin sect been doing to him?

Why are you asking me? I’ve been here, same as you.

“Stop the small talk,” Jiang Cheng finally said, interrupting Jin Guangshan’s odious discourse about the general state of the cultivation world, the satisfactory improvement in trade, and even the weather. “We both know why I’m here.”

Jin Guangshan stopped talking, and smiled his viper’s smile that Wei Wuxian wanted to scrub off his face. Preferably with the flat of Suibian’s blade. “It’s a very impudent request, you know,” he said, leaning back. “One could even say that it’s offensive that you even suggested it.”

Jiang Cheng stared at him. His knuckles were white from how hard his fists were clenched. “That’s not a no,” he said. His normally sharp voice was dulled. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not,” Jin Guangshan agreed. “But if you want something from me, you have to give something in return.”

Haven’t you taken enough from him? Wei Wuxian shouted. You forced him to get rid of me, you forced my hand at the Qiongqi Path and led to everything that happened next, you – you – you greedy pig!

Now, now, Suibian said. What have pigs ever done to you?

Jiang Cheng swallowed and closed his eyes. He looked tired – exhausted – broken into pieces. The Jin sect ought to be helping him rebuild, helping him survive, not extorting him for whatever it was they wanted now.

“I understand,” Jiang Cheng said, through thin and bloodless lips.

Don’t do it! Whatever it is they want from you, refuse, it’s not worth it, Wei Wuxian tried to tell him, though he knew Jiang Cheng couldn’t hear him, couldn’t understand. You don’t know what they’re doing in secret, in the dark – if you knew, you’d be disgusted. Horrified. I know you would be. You’d stop them. If you agree to whatever it is that they want, you’ll think that you were complicit in it when you find out about it, no matter if you weren’t. Don’t agree!

But of course Jiang Cheng couldn’t hear him.

“I’m glad you do,” Jin Guangshan said, slippery and slimy even as he pretended to sound paternal, and Wei Wuxian might learn to hate him even more than he hated Wen Chao. He put his hand on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder, squeezed it, and Jiang Cheng let him – yes, Wei Wuxian could easily learn to hate Jin Guangshan, Jin Guangshan and Jin Guangyao and all the rest of them, just as much as the Wen sect. Maybe even more. “I look forward to working together with the Jiang sect in the future.”

What Jin Guangshan wanted – in exchange for granting whatever request it was that Jiang Cheng had that mattered so much to him – wasn’t going to be anything as easy as cooperation, and Wei Wuxian knew it; he knew it and he burned with the knowledge of it.

With the knowledge that he’d left Jiang Cheng to face this alone.

That he’d allowed himself to leave his brother behind because of the Jin sect’s manipulations – that if he’d only trusted Jiang Cheng enough to share with him his weakness, to stand with him rather than apart from him, they could have stood up to the Jin sect, to the world, they could have done something, and instead he’d selfishly thought he could do everything on his own, that he didn’t need anyone, that they would be better off without him than with him –

“Yes,” Jiang Cheng murmured. He looked even more broken now than he’d been before. “As you say.”

Jin Guangshan’s hand, still on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder, tightened. It was visible, which meant that Jin Guangshan’s grip was probably bruising, breaking. “Don’t forget to respect your elders, Sect Leader Jiang. You mustn’t forget your etiquette.”

Wei Wuxian had always respected Jiang Cheng, even when they were children, even when his arrogance refused to admit that there was anyone who could be anywhere near as good as himself, and that respect had only grown over the years. Brave, independent Jiang Cheng, who’d fought so hard to build the Jiang sect back up into something of its own, refusing to yield to fate and allow his inheritance to scatter into the wind –

Watching him kneel to pay homage to a monster, to call him ‘Chief Cultivator’ and agree numbly to support his future proposals – practically giving away his Jiang sect’s independence –

Wei Wuxian wanted to cry.

(Maybe this was what it had all been about. Not his demonic cultivation, not the Tiger Seal, not the power they could give to the Jin sect – this. This display of domination, of oppression; the Jin sect putting the Jiang underfoot.)

Whatever you’re getting for this had better be worth it, Jiang Cheng!

When it was done, Jiang Cheng looked up. “I’ll go now,” he said, throat hoarse as if from keeping himself from screaming – or crying. “I’ll take him – there won’t be any trouble, will there?”

“None whatsoever,” Jin Guangshan said, and smiled. “After all, A-Ling is very young. It’s no hardship to let him be raised a few years by his maternal family, to learn the traditions of the Jiang sect…since after all his poor mother isn’t around to teach him.”

Jiang Cheng barely flinched as he stood to go – he was beyond that – but Wei Wuxian howled in rage and despair.

We have to be able to do something, he begged Suibian. Something – anything! I can’t…this is my fault. If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have to do this – please!

He had to admit that Jiang Cheng wasn’t wrong, to do what he did. Complicity, future guilt, present humiliation...it was all worth it. For all the future pain it would cause Jiang Cheng, it was worth it – to him, to Wei Wuxian – anything would be worth saving Jiang Yanli’s son.

Nothing has changed, Suibian said, solemn for once. I’m still just a sword. I can seal myself, but I can’t act on my own, not without a wielder.

Then what do I do?

Cultivate, Suibian said. A lot. I’ve been thinking about it: sword spirits are a thing, so are ghosts – it’ll take a while, but if we work at it, you’ll eventually be able to float outside of me. A while after that, you might even be able to manifest to humans. We’re both pretty bright; it shouldn’t take more than a few years.

Years!

Were you expecting this to be easy?

Wei Wuxian thought about Jiang Cheng, gritting his teeth and disregarding his pride to save his nephew; thought about Jin Guangyao smiling peaceably as he reported on the latest atrocities their pet demonic cultivators had caused in the same tone he used to discuss the weather; thought about that poor child, Mo Xuanyu, who’d been dragged into the Jin sect’s pit of vipers –

No, he said. I guess not.

Let’s begin.