#i would NORMALLY give myself time to actually process this sort of thing and recover because i'm pretty sure i'm in psychological shock

[redbootsindoriath]

Whichever anon sent me this today, thank you. There's no way you could have known, but a couple of days ago I suddenly and without warning lost a cat that I raised from the day he was born. When I saw this in my inbox I was confused at first, because what...checkmark...huh...but then I realized that it meant somebody had sent me something--out of the blue, just because--at a time that I really could use something good in my life, even something silly and fun. So, really, thank you. And green is my favorite "real" color, so having one of the checkmarks be green is pretty neat.

I've not really been able to draw anything worth anything lately, believe it or not, so here's the last picture I have of my Night Furry. He loved drives and walks, so earlier this summer on a road trip I took him to the top of the continental divide for a little hike.

(Yes, he's wearing a harness. He had an adventurous and independent temperament, so there was always a risk of him running off to explore someplace where he shouldn't go alone. I didn't just make him wear it because I'm a cruel and stifling cat butler.)

#yo somebody talked to me #/end classification tags #his name is toothless by the way #after the dragon in how to train your dragon of course #ALSO by the way #i would NORMALLY give myself time to actually process this sort of thing and recover because i'm pretty sure i'm in psychological shock #but i'm moving halfway across the continent in like two days (less than a week after he got sick) so there was no way to just #cancel that or delay it or something #so i'm having to just get over it or whatever #👍 #the car ride is going to be lonely but at least i have one more cat to keep me as good of company as she can #even if we've never been as close as toothless and i were #a VERY IMPORTANT note to all of the pet owners who follow me: PLEASE check your yards for poisonous plants #regularly and repeatedly even if there wasn't anything dangerous there before #even if you're only staying in the area for a little while #even if you only let your pets out under close supervision #even if you trust your landlord/landlady (if you rent) #because i was all of those and this still happened #check every single plant out there and be 100% sure you KNOW what each one is #did you know that silverleaf nightshade looks nothing like other kinds of nightshade? #neither did i because i never lived in this area before #anyway sorry for the dump y'all #i don't generally like to share a lot of details about my personal life but i think i'm not quite myself right now #poor little guy hadn't even lived half his expected lifespan so i wasn't ready for this to happen for years #i've been kicking myself over it for days even though i know the blame doesn't TECHNICALLY lie with me and it's messing with my psyche #he was a very special cat #in korean the term is 개양이 and google says the english is puppycat #a cat that is friendly and acts like a dog #i will likely never get a cat anything like him again and that's an awful thing to realize #i would go broke and risk my future to have him back which is stupid i know but he was really something else

[ed-recovery-affirmations]

I just want to put a major trigger warning to this, and say that if you don't want to answer or even read this, I totally understand. I just need to let this out of me, to someone who could possibly understand. I know no one irl who has or had an ed, nor anyone even online who is trying to recover.

I want to recover at 100%, as in eating food with no consideration for calories or ''health'' (actually just the fear of carbs and 'bad foods'), eating like anyone would, like before. I long for a normal life again, and I've evolved so much, my life could be wonderful.

I said I really wanted to do it, again. I'm in holidays, so I can try to eat more and challenge fear foods, without fearing mental breakdowns in class or guts issues, or anything. But still, it's holding me.

There is this sort of nostalgia that is coming back, my ed shouting louder and louder, grasping me and convincing me I don't want to leave this life. It's so easy, it's so comforting! Hiding behind a wall of numbers and a bunch of math, under this faint and fake vanity and superficiality, focus all my attention, all my worries on this. A perfect control. And I know it's twisted. And I know it's stupid.

A part of me just wants to destroy myself, and I hate to say that, because I know it's mean I'm not fine, when I thought I was doing so much better. It comes to me, more and more often these days, this awful fantasy of these planned meals and half empty fridge, when I'll live alone, how I would follow these poor diets, dress my frail and sick body with big rags or pretty tops, drink coffee while enjoying the agony of hunger.

Many things bring me back nowadays. Some shades of lights, some smells, some words, nothing precise, but I'm thrown in this addiction again. It feels so wrong, I hate myself for wanting this, for being like this. I feel sad and stupid, having lost myself almost willingly to this hell and still being entrapt in it. I was what, 17 when I started? Spent my 18th years old birthday crying, starving. Still restricting for my 19th. I want to cry, how can I be so stupid and just give up so much time, so much joy? Why do I want this?

I don't know what to do. How do I do? How can I toss this trash away, mourn this twisted little universe? How do I stop romantizing my slow death, how do I stop to love dying ?

I'm sorry if this is too harsh to read. I really don't want to make anyone feel bad. But I'm just here, alone, crying in my sheets, and I'm terrified of anything.

Hi, anon. I'm so sorry you've been struggling with this. This has been sitting in my ask box for a bit, just because I've been very low-spoons in my current circumstances, but I hope you are okay.

I think it's excellent that you have been pursuing goals for full recovery and that you recognize the life it could give you. However, you hit the nail on the head when you described your ED as an addiction. An ED can absolutely become an addiction, and addiction changes the brain. It creates strong triggers associated with thought patterns and memories, and these are not so easily changed or gotten rid of. It takes a lot of practice, learning which coping tools work best for you, and lots of time for the brain re-wire itself before that call to the addiction begins to lessen. For some, it never is truly "gone" but affected individuals become stronger, more skilled at navigating the triggers, and further and further along in their healing process.

You are not alone, and you do not need to beat yourself up. A lot of us who've had EDs have romanticized our sickness before, and have clung to it when we knew better. A lot of people struggling with any addiction, even those who seem to be recovering and building much better lives, still feel that strong call back to their old life. Knowing that old life was bad and destructive doesn't lessen the cravings generated in the brain, because the cravings aren't originating from the part of your brain that uses logic. It doesn't mean anything bad about you that you experience thoughts of relapse. It just means that this experience had a significant impact on your brain that is not quickly forgotten. And even knowing this, you can continue to choose recovery every time. You may even find it gets easier to do.

I'm sorry to hear you don't have anyone to compare experiences. I wonder if you could access ED-informed therapy or a support group in your area? It seems like it could really help you to have that support and solidarity, as well as a professional helping you practice utilizing tools to get through urges to relapse. If you cannot access these supports, here are some things you can do on your own: write and create art when you feel this way. Putting the feelings out there will help you understand and process them. Destroy all writings if you aren't living in a safe place, though. Sit with the feelings. Don't pretend you're not feeling them. Let yourself process them. Cry if you need to. Breathe it out. Ask yourself where these feelings came from, what they are trying to tell you, and what you need to heal. And finally, acknowledge your destructive thoughts without giving them power. The more you try to suppress them, the more they will covertly distress you. You don't have to feel guilty about having them, it's all part of the process. Let yourself understand that you are feeling a call back to your addiction, as those who suffer from addiction often do, and that you don't have to beat yourself up for the thoughts. They're thoughts, you have them, you don't need to punish yourself for them. In fact, when you learn what painful or destructive thoughts are trying to tell you about your experience, you may be able to more effectively use your healing tools to move toward the wellness you want. So have some compassion for yourself, because you deserve that wellness just as much as anyone else out there in the healing process.

#ed recovery #food restriction #healing #affirmations #addiction #ed cw #restriction cw #restriction #long post

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Delete this if it's weird but your post about naming your blog after one of the royals guards from hxh reminded me of something. So I am part of a DID system and some of the alters have many traits/appearance of my abusers, including some with the same names. They'd do things that were harmful as a way of keeping everyone safe. Anyways, recently our host watched hxh and one of those parts really connected with Neferpitou going from this absolutely inhumane monster of sorts to slowly learning how empathy and compassion works and has now changed their name from their original name of our abuser they're based off to Pitou instead now. Anyways I'm happy for them and just wanted to share that with ya

I held onto this ask for a while bc I was debating how detailed I wanted my response to be, but I think this is a story I've been wanting to tell for a while and if there was ever a time to fully discuss this, it would be here; the naming and themeing extends to myself as well as my blog - I do go by the name Shai irl, though I'm a little picky with where I choose to use it over the name I've had for longer (Rigel). Before I go into any more detail, I want to congratulate you for that development! It sounds like a moment of positive growth, and I'm glad you got to experience that.

The short answer is that I've basically taken my experiences with dissociation and something that may be multiplicity and fully redirected it all into a sense of spirituality. My therapist had encouraged me to not pathologize it; I was just hammering at my own personal experiences and being fixated on feeling like something was wrong with me and needed to be fixed - normal people don't experience thoughts and feelings that don't belong to them. With that being said, a large part of my recovery work was/is with acceptance; I was forced to mask a lot of things while growing up (autism, physical disability, queerness, etc) and there was a huge push from my family to seem as "normal" as possible, and now I'm actively undoing that and my work with being in the otherkin community is a massive cornerstone of that work. I identified very heavily with shaiapouf and my therapist actually watched hxh so we could use pouf as a therapy tool for me. Me naming myself after him is a huge gesture of the love I was able to give myself via my coping process - recognizing him in my trauma, and working with him to recover.

The longer answer is that I've experienced dissociation that leans towards multiplicity for a number of years now, with aforementioned thoughts and feelings included. I never had any memory loss, and the experience of another person being with me wasn't well developed enough for the definition of an alter, so I felt stuck with an experience I had no words for and no way of relating to other people with similar experiences. I remember describing it as feeling possessed, like there was suddenly another consciousness present with my own. These experiences are a lot less intense now, and I attribute that to my acceptance of them instead of pushing them away in fear. It was a while before I said anything to my therapist and was genuinely mortified because it felt like something was very seriously wrong with me and I had to fix it at all costs (with the idea of needing to "fix" things that were "wrong" with me or my life being a repeating theme as well).

Over time, as I stopped pushing everything away, I was able to start seeing where the emotions and thoughts that came with the episodes (not necessarily triggering them) were coming from, but still struggled to accept them as my own when they felt so foreign. Acceptance has brought me a long way and we've now teased out that this is a massive way for me to process not just my trauma, but the grief accompanying it.

My therapist was the one who had initially suggested I take a spiritual approach to this, and I found that in the otherkin community, where, upon actually looking at the original contexts of some of the words used in the community, found things I'd been describing to my therapist over a year ago. I'd prior been fond of the idea of reincarnation and fully embraced it in this process. My first (and so far only) tattoo is of his wings, I'll carry him with me for the rest of my life; I derived one of my names from his own. This character has been highly influential in my life and I've fully embraced him for it. He means a lot of things to me - reflection of my own trauma, the power and rage I wish I could have demonstrated while in the process of being traumatized, the delicate masculinity I wish to have as a trans man, and much more I'm sure. A lot of my episodes seem to happen when helplessness kicks in, like something to help distance myself from my pain; I feel him in righteous fury when I know I deserve better. Not all of it is bad though, I had one while I was looking at Christmas lights a few months ago and felt like I was looking at the world for the first time, simple delight as if holding someone else's hand and showing them.

All in all, I thank you for sharing your story and for giving me a place to share some of mine.

#this got a little rambley but i think ive been wanting to talk about this for a while. this isn't a 100% complete account but #it does cover the major points #this doesnt feel like an answer but the ask wasn't necessarily a question now was it? #i think this is the first time ive ever genuinely uttered the word ''multiplicity'' on this blog #i feel fully at peace with this now however! the experiences dont distress me and finding a community where people #have had experiences quite similar to my own makes me feel very good; especially since it shows just how subjective experience really is #i stopped seeing this as an issue when i asked myself why it would be so pertinent for me to stop having this #like my autism it's merely another way to experience the world; not necessarily something that needs to be corrected #yes the fact that this is trauma based is awful but what i have gotten from everything ive talked about is something #i wouldn't trade for the world #haha whoops got VERY genuine and emotional for a minute 🤫 anyways thank you for the message it did make me smile #asks #🦋 tag

[csa-survivor-confessions]

(?) Hello, I'm the person who sent that 4-something part long question (for privacy's sake I'll refer to myself as ☀️ because this definitely won't be the last ask I send here while I'm trying to recover from my CSA trauma). Before I ask what I want to ask though, I just want to say thank you for answering my last question, I cannot understate how reassuring it was to know that I'm not alone on how I feel and that other people feel like this too, that and the sources you sent also helped !

"(Part 2) Now onto the question, I think the biggest roadblock for me in my CSA recovery is that I don't think my brain trusts me to actually recover, and it keeps trying to convince me that I'm a slut and a whore and a predator even after your answer to my question, I've even been starting to have intrusive thoughts where my abusers actually rape me and my brain keeps telling me that I would've liked their abuse and disgusting behavior if it was consensual, which isn't true.

(Part 3) It also keeps trying to convince me that you were lying to me and that maybe my abuse wasn't actually abuse even though it literally is. It doesn't help that I also sometimes hear the voices of my abusers in my head so that adds another layer of bullshit to the mix. Is everything I just listed common for CSA survivors recovering, and if so how can I get my brain to trust me and have faith in me again so that I can have faith in myself to get better and live a happy life?"

Hello,

I can definitely tell you that you are not alone in your struggles. Thoughts that are negative towards ourselves and feeling like we can't trust yourselves are common. Having thoughts that we are to blame or wanted it is normal, it's not correct but culture and our abusers push this on us, and it is much easier for children to belive something is wrong with themselves then it is to accept people hurt them because the abuser is not a kind person.

So one good technique for combating feeling like your abuse wasn't enough, that you wanted it, that you liked. and similar thoughts is to practice giving yourself the responses that you would give to a friend or a child. When you start to the thoughts that are judging you tell yourself what you would tell them. You have to really remind yourself to do this at first and it will feel silly, but it reframes your thoughts around your abuse.

Journaling your experiences and emotions on paper will give you a sort of proof that things have happened. It might not help as much with proving that the abuse as a young child happened, but it can help with organizing your thoughts and new memories. This can really help with giving you faith in yourself again.

Thought-stopping exercises could also help. When you get thoughts that are derogatory to yourself you can write them down and then write counter thoughts. This gives you a concrete thing to do and reinforces the other reframing practices.

It is also possible that your brain isn't ready to process the trauma. Being in crisis mode still which it sounds like you are doesn't really make processing memories feasible. Most trauma processing models require getting some day-to-day stability before you get to processing the deep memories.

It can also help to stop separating yourself from your brain. Your brain isn't against you, you are struggling with trauma responses. You are your mind and that can help build cohesive thought processes.

It is important to do intrusive thoughts coping skills repeatedly. They don't work right away. So with time, they will be more helpful. This article: Coping Skills Masterposts: Panic Attacks, Flashbacks & Dissociation, can also be helpful when you're extremely stressed.

Now hearing voices is something that could be very serious. I can't diagnose what might be going on for you but know that it might be something that if gets extremely bad looking for help might be really good for you. Of course, I respect that some people do not have access due to financial reasons or where they live. And we will always be here to help and support with what we can. We will do our best to answer as fast as we can.

I hope this helps,

-Admin 1

[plus-size-reader]

Hunters Wedding

Dean Winchester x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 1550 words

Warnings:none

Summary: Dean had been wrestling with something for quite some time and finally confronts the reader about it. 

——————————————————————————————————

You never thought you'd get married.

Ever.

You had grown up in a hunters family, fully aware that what your dad called a "blue collar" life wasn't for you. In that respect, while your parents were married, you knew that wasn't going to be the path you would follow personally.

It was just too dangerous.

Having someone you loved in the sort of life where you tracked down and killed some of the most heinous monsters you'd ever seen was too great a risk. Those sorts of things were a liability, and could only end badly.

Maybe being raised understanding that had changed the way you saw the world around you, at least in a romantic sense, but you didn't care. You didn't even give getting married a second thought, all your life.

Even getting into a relationship was questionable when you got to the point in your life.

You and Dean were in a relationship for all intensive purposes but it was never supposed to be more than that. You didn't even like calling it a relationship really. It was more of a partnership. You cared about each other and you kept each other alive, and that was enough for you.

That was all you needed.

You kept him at an arms length, whether you wanted to admit it or not, just so you didn't get too close. You both sort of lived in fear of what could happen if you got too close and something happened to the other.

Losing him would break your heart, and you were painfully aware of that. Still, there had been a shift in him recently and you could tell that something was going on with him. You had no idea what it was, but you were sure you'd find out before too long.

It was no secret that Dean had always craved the family that he'd never had a chance to be a part of. Maybe it was buried deep down, and maybe he liked to pretend that it wasn't there but you were going to figure it out at some point.

He wanted to have a family, but more than anything, he wanted to have a family with you.

...That was the exact moment he decided he was going to ask you to marry him.

However, it wasn't as simple as just asking. You had made it abundantly clear that you had no intention of ever getting married, and while Dean knew you loved him, he wanted to respect that.

Hell, he understood your reasons better than anyone else ever could but he just couldn't shake the feeling he had that he needed to make you his wife. Deep down in his gut, he just knew that he had to.

So he did the only thing he knew to do, he asked.

It took everything he had to build up the courage but after listening to the pump up jams of classic rock and shotgunning a beer or two, he just decided that he was gonna do it. There was no more thinking that needed to be done, and he couldn't put it off anymore.

You knew there was something wrong with him immediately.

More than normal, Dean was being squirrely. He entered the bunker's concrete kitchen with a strange jaunt in his step, doing his best to seem inconspicuous as he scanned the files Sam had left on the table.

It may have worked, if you were blind or dim but every time you thought maybe he'd just eaten a bad burger, he glanced back up at you. That made it pretty clear to you that the blonde had something on his mind that he wanted to share.

"Can I help you?" you wondered finally, having finally had enough when he glanced over his shoulder again to make sure you were still standing there, though you clearly hadn't moved.

You were just minding your own business, trying to make those gluten free pancakes Sam had been raving about all week for when he got back from the morgue. However, seeing as you knew Dean wouldn't touch them with a ten foot pole, you knew it wasn't about the food.

"I made regular pancakes too, so don't get pouty on me" you warned, only half joking in an attempt to get him to spill his guts before you had to break out the interrogation chair. You could get it out of him, but frankly, you were too lazy for that.

It would be much simpler if Dean would just open up for once.

"I want to marry you"

Those five words fell from Dean's lips before he even meant for them to and as soon as they did, all thoughts of joking left your mind. Surely he was kidding, after all, you knew he shared your opinions of marriage in this life.

The two of you frequently made fun on those people who tried to balance both lifestyles, so you knew he wasn't actually suggesting that you try to do the same. That would be ridiculous...wouldn't it?

"Come again?" you asked finally, fully aware that you must have sounded insane. Still, you couldn't possibly wrap your brain around anything more than that. Could you have heard him wrong? Maybe you were having a stroke.

At this point, nothing was off the table.

Dean took a deep breathe, still not looking at you. He had no idea how to recover from that, though now that it was out in the open, he might as well just get it off his chest. After a second, much longer deep breathe, he spoke.

"I think that we should get married" he repeated, not really giving you the clarification you'd been searching for. There was very little you could read from the situation, now fully ignoring the sizzling, and likely burning, of that pancake batter in the pan.

Ok, so you hadn't heard him wrong, at least you knew that much. What you had to figure out now was if he was the one having a stroke. What he was suggesting didn't sound like the Dean you knew at all.

"You think that we should get married?" you clarified, you were pretty sure that was what he was suggesting but you were just having trouble wrapping your brain around it. You really just hadn't seen this coming and you were caught off guard.

Naturally, you needed a few moments to process this.

You were pretty sure that you and Dean were on the same page when it came to this but if he wanted to talk about changing it, you weren't going to shut him down immediately either. He had been really open to hearing you out and you owed him the same courtesy.

Dean nodded in response to your question but said nothing else while you turned off the burner on the stove, making your way over to him as quickly as you could. "Okay, let's talk about it. I assume this is why you've been so strange these last few days?"

Without missing a beat, you sat down at the table, waiting until he did the same across from you to say anything else. The two of you were adults, and you could handle this, even if it was a lot for you to take on at once.

See, for you and for Dean as well, you knew that a talk about marriage wasn't just talking about marriage. It was also a talk about taking your relationship to another, more intimate level, and in a lot of ways, it forced you to think about losing him too.

It was an emotional rollercoaster if nothing else, and you just had to give it time to settle before talking it through.

"It doesn't have to be a big thing, I'm just driving myself crazy here" he started, fully aware how strange he was reacting to all this. It wasn't the Dean you were used to at all, but it wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

Now that you stopped to think about it, a hunters wedding wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

"You really want to do this don't you?" you hummed, reaching out to take his hand in your own, immediately feeling his other hand clasp down onto of yours. It created an airlock of sorts, from which you couldn't get your hand back, but you didn't care.

Right now, you were far too preoccupied with all the unanswered questions and feelings to even worry about that.

"I really do"

...That was that.

"Okay, If you really want to do this, we'll do it" you shrugged, it wasn't exactly how either of you thought today was going to go down of course, but maybe that wasn't the worst thing. A proposal was a hell of a lot better than an apocalypse.

Now you just had to figure out what that meant for the two of you, but first, you had to call Jody. You had no idea how she would react to something like this but she was the closest thing to family you had and you knew she'd want to know.

Speaking of, Sam was going to have a heyday when he got home. His pancakes were ruined, but something told you he wouldn't mind.

#dean winchester #supernatural #spn #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x ps reader #dean winchester x plus size reader #dean #dean x reader #dean x ps reader #dean x plus size reader #dean imagine #spn x reader #spn x ps reader #spn x plus size reader #spn imagine #supernatural x plus size reader #supernatural x reader #supernatural x ps reader #supernatural imagine

[missmentelle]

How do I know when I'm ready for a new relationship after getting out of an abusive one? It's been a year since I left an emotionally and sexually abusive relationship, and I thought I was ready to date someone new, but my family and friends think I might not be ready, though they can't exactly say why. I think I do exhibit some low self esteem, and they're afraid I won't advocate for myself. I justified my boyfriend's abuse for 2 years and struggled to get out... But I don't know if I could ever be "ready" enough for a new person. What are some signs that I'm recovered enough to be with someone?

You won't truly know if you're ready to date again until you actually try dating. It's one of those things that you kind of have to learn by doing. The way you feel about dating can be deceiving - you might feel totally ready to get back out there and realize "oh wow, I actually can't do this" when you start dating. Or you might feel terrified of dating, go on a few dates with someone nice, and realize "I'm actually handling this a lot better than I thought I would". A lot of people just generally feel nervous about dating, whether they've been abused in the past or not; it can be tough to tell whether those are normal "I haven't been on a first date in a long time" nerves, or "I am absolutely not ready to be dating again" nerves until you're actually sitting across from someone.

The best advice I can give you is to go slowly. You don't have to jump back onto dating apps right away. It's okay to decide "I actually need another six months to think about this", or to decide "I'm open to dating someone if we just happen to meet naturally, but I'm not going to actively seek out a relationship just yet". Remember that it's okay to be picky - if you're not getting a good vibe from someone, for whatever reason, it's okay to say "I don't think this person is for me" and move on. You are allowed to be cautious, and you are allowed to stop seeing someone for any reason.

When you do start dating again, move at your own pace. If you need to spend more time talking and getting to know someone before you move on to getting physical and labelling the relationship, that's a boundary you should try to stick to - anyone who tries to rush you along in a relationship before you're ready is not the right person for you. Make your boundaries clear, and set high expectations for any new partners from the start. Remember that "not being abused" is an absolute bare minimum in a relationship, and partners get absolutely no credit for not being abusive - you can and should expect that potential partners will treat you with respect and consideration, and not just an absence of cruelty.

It might also be a good idea to get some supports in place before you venture back out into the world of dating. If you are able to access a therapist, that would be a good first step - a therapist can help you process what you went through with your ex, and they can help you recognize early warning signs in new relationships. If you have some friends whose opinions you trust, make sure you are still spending time with them after you get into a new relationship - they have a bit more of an objective view of your relationships, and can help you sort out "normal relationship issues" from "abuse". It might also be a good idea to spend some time browsing relationship resources (like loveisrespect.org) once you start dating, so you can remind yourself what healthy relationships look like, and what the warning signs for abuse are.

Ultimately, deciding to date again is your call. It's natural to want companionship, romance and affection in your life - you are the only one who gets to decide when you pursue those things again. Your loved ones might mean well, and they might just be concerned about your safety, but they don't get the final say here - you do. There's never going to be an "ideal time" or a time where everyone agrees that you're 100% ready; if you want to give it a try, just go slowly, trust your gut, and find some people you trust who can give you outside input on whether you're falling back into something unhealthy. Best of luck to you! MM

#answeredbyMM

[taeyongdoyoung]

summary: you are a mermaid and you save a handsome man from drowning but little do you know it’s not his first rodeo when dealing with mermaids. seonghwa, a former prince, is currently hongjoong’s first mate and boyfriend. hongjoong is the captain, the pirate king of the most savage crew across the seas. and you want nothing to do with them. not because they’re pirates, but because they’re humans…

ship: mermaid!reader x prince/pirate!seonghwa x pirate!hongjoong

genre: little mermaid!au, pirate!au, angst, fluff, romance

author’s note: stay tuned for demon!jongho hehe

warnings: insecurities, confessions, some swearing (like twice?), another secret being revealed, af-i can’t even say it af-ffection 🤢🤢

word count: 1.9k

chapter one ☠️ chapter two ☠️ chapter three ☠️ chapter four ☠️ chapter five ☠️chapter six ☠️ chapter seven ☠️ chapter eight ☠️ chapter ten ☠️ chapter eleven ☠️ chapter twelve ☠️ chapter thirteen ☠️ spotify playlist

Hongjoong's POV

Surprisingly, building a pool in the ship for Y/N and Soojin to use didn't take much time. Seonghwa, Yeosang, Wooyoung, San and I all worked together because during the past weeks we'd grown closer to the mermaids. And even though I probably wouldn't admit it out loud...they had grown on me. 

Looking back at my previous actions, I felt like such an asshole. Doing this, small as it was, was my way of apologizing. I just hoped it would be enough. And yet again, if Y/N managed to forgive me, then maybe, I deserved to forgive myself.

"What are you moping about?" my thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Seonghwa.

"Uh...nothing."

"Come on, don't you think I deserve the truth?" he sat down next to me, casually leaning on one side. I was taken aback by his proximity. It's been a while since...I felt so close to him.

"I was thinking about Y/N," I confessed.

"In a murderous kind of way or...?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Of course not. In a...I can't believe she forgave me kind of way."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Seonghwa looked confused. "Why the long face, Joongie?"

I almost jumped away as if struck. It's been far too long since he'd addressed me so affectionately. I missed that. I missed him.

"Because I don't know if I deserve it."

Seonghwa laughed. I was telling him about feeling like shit and he was laughing. The nerve! I stared at him expectantly. Soon enough, he started explaining himself.

"Do you think I deserve her forgiveness?" he chuckled bitterly. "Ariel is gone because of me and I kept that a secret from Y/N. And she forgave me anyway."

I shook my head.

"Your parents and the sea witch are the real villains, Hwa," I insisted. "There's nothing to forgive."

Seonghwa laughed once again, in total contrast with my sombre expression.

"You know...you and Y/N are not so different after all."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The first thing...that's exactly what she said after we rescued her from Mingi’s fishnets. There's nothing to forgive. You two are quite similar, actually."

"You know...I think I'll take that as a compliment," I grinned despite myself.

"It is a compliment," Seonghwa assured me.

"And the second thing?"

"Hm?" Seonghwa tried to pretend he had forgotten but I could see right through him.

"You said the first similarity was us saying the exact same sentence. What's the second thing?"

"The second thing...is I'm completely enamoured by the two of you."

I couldn't even begin to process what he was saying. After all my cruelty...he still...It seemed too unimaginable to be actually happening. And yet...

I had to make a joke or else I would break into tears, fall apart and never recover from it.

"Well, that's your own problem, not necessarily a similarity between–"

"Can't you say something normal for once?" Seonghwa groaned.

"What do you want me to say?" I sighed desperately.

"Something honest. Something real."

I smiled sadly.

"I don't deserve you as much as I don't deserve Y/N's forgiveness."

"That's not for you to decide," Seonghwa argued. "And it's not real. Not to me. And I'm certain Y/N will agree."

"Shall we ask her?"

🧜‍♀️🧜‍♀️🧜‍♀️

Reader's POV

You and Soojin were enjoying the water inside the pool. It allowed you to be close to Seonghwa and Soojin – to Yeosang. And you had Hongjoong to be grateful to. Honestly, he wasn't so bad, after all. He could actually be quite considerate when he wanted to. And he had somehow overcome his jealousy, or at least it seemed that way. So, when he and Seonghwa showed up, almost running, you couldn't help but beam with happiness upon seeing their pretty faces.

"Well, if it isn't my two favourite pirates across the seas," you did your best to sound confident and a bit teasing.

"Don't tell that to Yeosang," Soojin warned, joking. You waved her off and she swam away to the other edge of the pool, to give the three of you some sense of privacy.

"What brings you here?" you asked nonchalantly.

"This is literally my ship, Y/N," Hongjoong reminded you. "You're my guest."

"Semantics," you giggled, not at all taking offense.

"Hongjoong and I have a question for you," Seonghwa explained.

"May I hear it?"

Hongjoong suddenly started playing with his nails, refusing to look into your eyes. Was he nervous? You couldn't believe it. The once terrifying captain now seemed like a good little boy to you.

"What's wrong?" you asked in a soft voice.

"N-nothing," he lied.

"Hongjoong said he doesn't deserve my affections as much as he doesn't deserve your forgiveness!" Seonghwa ratted him out.

"Seonghwa!" Hongjoong complained.

"What? You're the one who suggested asking her."

"I was going to but..."

"Hongjoong, that's nonsense!" you exclaimed.

"Huh?"

"Not about your intentions," you hurried to explain. "I'm certain that you would have said it yourself if Seonghwa had given you a couple more moments to collect your thoughts."

Seonghwa shrugged in a "guilty as charged" sort of way.

"What's nonsense," you continued, "is you believing you don't deserve love or forgiveness. Everyone deserves that!"

"Even me?" Hongjoong inquired sheepishly.

"Especially you! You've been trying so hard to change. You saved me and Soojin from the fishnets and now you built this pool to make me and my sister feel comfortable. If that's not reason enough to be deserving of forgiveness, I don't know what is."

"Do you really mean that?" Hongjoong asked self-consciously.

"Would I say it if I didn't mean it?"

"She has a point. Y/N's super honest about everything," Soojin yelled from the other side of the pool.

"Soojin! You're not supposed to be eavesdropping!" you scolded her.

"Can't help it, you guys are not exactly keeping your voices down."

You shook your head in disbelief.

"Do you believe me now?" you said quiet enough for only Hongjoong and Seonghwa to hear.

"I do," Hongjoong whispered, visibly relieved.

"Told you so," Seonghwa muttered under his breath.

"Oh, give me a break."

"Not a chance," Seonghwa smirked and kissed Hongjoong's cheek quickly. Then, he leaned down over the pool's edge to kiss your lips. No sooner had he done that than Hongjoong pushed him inside the water. That was followed by Seonghwa's loud protests.

"Hey! That was exactly how I met Y/N!" he exclaimed a bit later.

"Yeah?" Hongjoong scratched the back his head, as if to search his memory.

"I mean, if you hadn't thrown me overboard, I wouldn't have ended up in a whirlpool and Y/N wouldn't have saved me."

"So, what you're saying is I'm responsible for whatever the two of you have got going on?" Hongjoong joked.

"Don't exclude yourself from the narrative!" you started tickling Hongjoong's legs. Not expecting the attacks, he lost his balance for a moment. But that moment was long enough for you to pull him inside the pool, as well.

"Ugh, no way!" he bemoaned his defeat.

"Who's making all these waves?" Soojin complained. "For a second, I thought I was back in the sea."

The three of you laughed simultaneously, exchanging conspiratorial glances.

☠️☠️☠️

Seonghwa's POV

As I looked at Hongjoong and Y/N laughing in unison, I couldn't help but wonder why we had wasted so much time. I would give anything to have had this perfect peace between the two of them from the very beginning. And yet, this was our journey. Flawed, full of fears and frustrations, but it was ours. And no one could take that away. Or so I thought...

That night, I returned to Hongjoong's room. I was determined to do right by him. And the only way to achieve that was to swallow my pride and talk to him honestly. I didn't want anything standing in the way of our happiness, least of all, our own foolishness. So, I took the first step.

"You still have free space for me?" I asked, a bit nervously, after he opened the door.

"You'll always have a home with me, Hwa," Hongjoong replied sweetly.

"Fuck, I missed you," I admitted. "I know we're literally a few doors apart, but still."

"I get it. You have no idea how badly I've missed you, too," he confessed.

"I want to kiss you," I said suddenly. "Not like earlier," I added, referring to the quick peck on his cheek. "Like before."

"Then, what are you waiting for?" Hongjoong panted desperately.

"I need to tell you something first. I just...want to be completely honest with you. You've probably figured it out already but...I love you. And I love Y/N. Please don't ask me to choose. I can't."

Hongjoong nodded in understanding.

"I wouldn't. I've learned my lesson already. And since we're being honest, I don't want you to choose. I was wrongfully prejudiced against mermaids. But now that I've gotten to know her...I like Y/N and I think I might even grow to love her one day."

I smiled fondly, proud of Hongjoong's change of heart.

"There's nothing that would make me happier, Joongie," I told him and was just about to close the distance between us with a kiss when Hongjoong placed his hand on my chest as if to stop me. I looked at him utterly confused. "Didn't you want this?"

"I did. I do," he corrected himself. "But I have to tell you something. Before it's too late. I would hate to see another secret destroy what we have."

"What's wrong?" I immediately sensed it must have been something really difficult to talk about, judging by Hongjoong's miserable expression.

"Remember that time Yeosang was in Mingi's territory and my ship caught up with his at a suspiciously fast pace?"

I nodded, already hating the direction in which this was going.

"And remember you confronted me about it but I refused to tell you the truth?"

He was stalling. It was beyond obvious and a bit aggravating.

"What did you do?" I asked directly.

"I kinda made a deal with a demon and sold my soul," Hongjoong blurted out.

What. The. Fuck?!?!

"Kinda? You can't just kinda summon a demon! Hongjoong, what the hell were you thinking?"

"We could have lost Yeosang!" he argued. "It was the only way."

"There's always another way! I can't believe you would do something so reckless..."

"I would do it again if it means Yeosang gets to live."

I sighed, unable to find the energy to scold him any further. He probably felt like shit already, considering he'd been keeping it a secret.

"How much?"

"How much what?"

"How much time do you have left until the demon comes to collect? A month? A year?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "The demon didn't specify. He just said he'll take my soul when I've achieved true happiness. Whatever that means. But the fact that you and Y/N forgave me has made me believe true happiness is not too far around the corner."

"We'll figure out a way to stop the demon. I don't know how but we will. I just got you back again. I won't give you up. Never again," I promised and wrapped my hands around his face, kissing him. He quickly let me in and ran his hands through my hair, moaning into my mouth. I smirked against his lips. It was nice to see I still had that effect on him.

"Together?" Hongjoong murmured once I broke the kiss.

"Always," I confirmed and stroked his cheeks.

To be continued...

#ateez #hongjoong #seonghwa #seongjoong #seonghwa x reader #hongjoong x reader #ateez fluff #ateez angst #ateez x reader #pirate au #mermaid au #writing

[spectrumed]

5. sleep

It hardly gets dark in the Swedish summers. Between dusk to dawn, you’ve got about an hour to fall asleep before the sun rises again. If you struggle to fall asleep that fast, you can invest in some good window blinds. Or you can do as I do and place one big pillow over your face. Then the birds start singing around three o’clock in the morning. You can practically hear the sounds of Edvard Grieg’s Morning Mood playing at around four o’clock in the morning. Around five o’clock in the morning, it is as bright as midday. Did you have a good time sleeping? Or did you pace around in a circle having one hell of a panic attack? I thought you took some of those sleeping pills you got prescribed, they should have helped you fall asleep… wait, you did take them? They didn’t work? Oh, they did work, you just felt your body falling asleep while your mind stayed awake? That sounds terrible, real terrible. Very well. It’s morning now. Want some coffee?

You could form a religion out of sleeping. Let’s have sermons where we fill a whole auditorium full of beds and have our congregates take a big collective nap. Sleep for the sleep god! Pillows for the pillow throne! Sleep is a billion-dollar industry, there’s a plethora of handy products you can buy that promise to send you on a luxury liner to dreamland. Pills, mattresses, dreamcatchers, whatever your snoozy heart desires. You can go to a proper doctor and they might help you, or you can settle for the placebo effect and go to some fraudulent quack, instead. He might make you swallow some pills that contain arsenic, but hey, arsenic is a naturally occurring element. It can’t be all that bad for you if it is natural. And you do want to sleep, don’t you? If you take this pill in your mouth and swallow it with a glass of water, I promise you, you will sleep for a very long time.

The esteemed former president of the United States of America, Donald Trump, claims that he only needs four to five hours of sleep every night. While Mr. Trump is well-known to be a paragon of honesty, I do doubt he’s telling the truth. No, I actually do believe him when says that he only gets about four or five hours of sleep each night, I just don’t believe him when he says that is all he needs. He doesn’t look very well-rested, does he? And Margaret Thatcher, the similarly adored former prime minister of the United Kingdom, claimed that she also only needed about four hours of sleep every night. Yes, while researching the sleeping habits of famous monsters, I’ve come to the conclusion that amongst powerful individuals, not getting enough sleep has become a proper badge of honour. The belief is that if you don’t get enough sleep, that must be because you are living such a vibrantly successful life, and are so career-driven, that you simply haven’t got enough time to sleep for the full eight hours. People who sleep for more than four hours are lazy liberals. Go-getters like Trump has got to be out there, working, making decisions, raping women, and showing daddy what a good boy he is. Sleep is for the weak. But maybe I am weak. I sure like sleeping.

It’s the cultural hangover our society has had since the 80’s. Back when the yuppies wearing jackets with obscenely padded shoulders would happily chuck down eight to ten espressos in one go while A Flock of Seagulls was playing on the radio encouraging everyone to go running. And to be fair to them, with the constant fear of the doomsday clock hitting midnight, they really had no reason to think that they’d survive the decade. The new millennia, it seemed, would have no cities, no nature, no humans, only radiated mutants scouring the rubble that remains of civilization for cans of preserved something edible. Self-destructive behaviour was in. It was fashionable. Doubt people got enough sleep back then, between snorting coke and wondering if the next pandemic that hits the night clubs would start killing as many straight folks as gay folks. Well, here we are in the new 20’s, and we’ve got a pandemic that does appear to kill people regardless of sexual orientation. Sure, the looming threat of nuclear obliteration has been lessened dramatically, but we’ve largely come to exchange that anxiety for the fear of total environmental collapse, instead. No wonder 80’s nostalgia is a big thing right now. History doesn't repeat itself, but It often rhymes, said Mark Twain (supposedly.) I wonder how much coke Mark Twain would snort if he lived in the 80’s.

I notice a palpable difference in my mood and mental state when I’ve been getting good amounts of sleep. Lack of sleep results in lack of clear thinking. Caffeine, though it is something I am chronically addicted to, does not help fix a sleep-deprived mind. There are no tricks of revolutionary “life hacks” one can employ to get out of sleeping. To recover from depression, one has to sleep. Sleep often and sleep well. I cannot understate the importance of being well-rested. You cannot process information if you are tired. I am reminded of my teenage years seeing friends of mine who’d stay up all night, then come into school shuffling like agonised zombies. They got so frustrated when the teachers reprimanded them for snoozing in class. Well, dummies, it is your fault for drinking several dozen cans of Red Bull every day! I know that sleep does not always come easy. I know the terror of insomnia. But, c’mon! At some point, you’ve got to realise that sleep is essential. Maybe most of your problems stem from the fact that you refuse to get enough of it? Here’s where the tough love comes in. If you wanna get better, kiddo, then listen to me. It’s bedtime. Yes, I know you’d rather stay up late playing monopoly with your friends, but I’m confiscating your dice and I’ll only give it back to you when you’ve gotten some good sleep. Okay? You hear me, missy? You listen to your daddy now, and go to bed. No ifs or buts about it, princess, I’ve made myself clear. I know what is best for you, and you know that I am right. I’m your daddy.

But what if I can’t seem to fall asleep? Normally, it takes a long time for me to fall asleep. It is not uncommon for me to stay awake for two hours, maybe more, before I finally begin to sleep. Fearing that I won’t fall asleep gives me anxiety. That anxiety keeps me awake. I turn my body. I try lying on my side. First my left side, then my right side. I then try to lie on my back. I’ve got a song stuck playing in my head. Not even the whole song, just a ten-second segment of it. It’s playing over and over. I’m worried about the future, will I ever find security, will I ever find a wife, will I get to grow old? I worry about death. I keep hearing the music playing, it’s grating. I rearrange the pillows, in hopes that will make me feel more comfortable. But no, I keep tossing and turning like a fish caught on land. I’m getting frustrated. If only I could shut off my brain. I’m constantly thinking. I turn to my side again, but now I notice I’ve moved arounds so much that now the bed has shifted away from its position next to the wall. There’s now a gap between the bed and the wall. I almost fall down that gap. I get up and I push the bed back against the wall. I lay down in bed. The song is still playing.

How am I ever going to become a successful businessman if I am wasting so many hours just trying to get to sleep? This is the time I should be spending on the phone, yelling at people and making inappropriate sexual comments to my female employees. That is what good executives do. I need to get my life in order. I need to exercise more. I should practice mindfulness. I should get a life coach, a personal trainer, a stylist, an accountant, an assistant, a trophy wife, and a mistress. I need people in my life to take care of me. It’s funny how rich people create the sort of environment around them where people will take care of all their needs, effectively infantilising them. These people don’t even get to decide how to dress themselves. They’ve got fancy apartments, but they don’t choose any of the furniture. They’ve got art on the walls that they don’t like, but the art looks expensive, and that is all that matters. They’ve got kids, but they don’t raise them. Their spouses are cheating on them, but in fairness, they are cheating on their spouses. They don’t really even know what their jobs entails, as they’ve gotten promoted so many times that they’ve ended up in a position that is totally outside their realm of expertise. But they’re so powerful that no-one is able to fire them over their pretty blatant incompetence. They’re successful. They’ve made it. But they still can’t sleep at night. They only manage to successfully fall asleep at night after swallowing a fistful of pills along with a swig of vodka.

It must be easy being a self-help guru. Well, what I mean to say is that all you really need is charisma, which is something you need to be born with. But you don’t need to do any actual studying, any real research, or any kind of soul-searching or deliberation. All you need is to state what is obvious. You go on stage in front of an anxious audience, mostly composed of middle-class salesmen and miscellaneous white collar ghosts. You smile, show off your eerily bright teeth, and they clap. You tell them to go take care of themselves, to eat more healthily, to take walks, or go swimming, and love their partners. You tell them to drink less, or maybe, if they feel like it, they could drink more. I am sure you could spin alcohol as a positive or a negative, depending on what crowd you’re talking to. Tell them to appreciate family. Tell them to appreciate others. Live, laugh, but most of all, love. Tell them to go clean their rooms. Tell them to remember that if they’re on an airplane that is about to crash land, they need to put their own oxygen mask on before they can help others put theirs on. If you don’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else? Now, go to bed!

You know all this stuff. Me telling you that you should sleep more doesn’t really help you. You know that you should sleep more. It’s not like as if you’re too dumb to realise that. And it’s not like as if you’re too dumb to realise that it is better to drink in moderation, and that you should smoke less weed. There are many small little things you can do to improve your life, to stop being a terminally unemployed slacker. It’s like your grandpa who tells you stories about life after the war when you could walk into the biggest building in town, slam your fist against the table and demand to be given a job and a house and a wife and a couple of kids, and that was all you needed to do. He can’t comprehend the fact that society doesn’t work like that, any more. Most people my generation have given up hope of ever owning a home, at least if they happen to live in the vicinity of a larger city. It seems that, no matter where you live, the cost of homes has risen to an impenetrable degree. It seems just as likely that you will be able to afford your very own genetically-engineered pet dragon before you will get to be a house-owner. It’s the fault of those damn boomers, why bother changing your ways, when the boomers are still in charge? Others may accuse you of wallowing in your own depression, but you are perfectly aware that this is exactly what you are doing. You are self-aware. But self-awareness on its own is not enough to motivate anyone. You still can’t see the point in doing anything constructive with your life. Life just feels so aimless. It’s easier to sit, smoke weed, and watch cartoons.

Pop psychology is problematic. To say the least. Take all those self-help gurus suffering from their messiah complexes and put them through the shredder. Don’t buy books thinking that they’ll offer you the kind of treatment you would get from an actual psychiatrist. I know that, depending on where you are in the world, treatment can get very expensive, but you’re not going to get better reading the book of some self-aggrandising narcissist’s collection of wishy-washy platitudes. Dr. Phil has done great evil pretending to be a therapist on the TV, and Jordan Peterson (despite having once been an esteemed scholar) has turned a generation of young internet-savvy zoomers into proto-fascists obsessed with the monogamy of lobsters. Pop psychology has become a guise for cult leaders to reap new followers. Getting treatment should not feel like joining a new religious movement. Maybe I’m just one of those annoying atheists, but I dare say, psychiatry works at its best when it's secular. You should not look at your psychiatrist as a prophet speaking to God. They’re just a doctor, and you need treatment.

I do not aspire to create a self-help blog. I do not promise that reading this blog will help you in any way. I would be overjoyed if someone came up to me and told me that I had inspired them to seek help. You may tell me that reading my words have made you feel less alone, knowing that others have gone through all these things that you are going through. When I felt at my worst, I remember reading the memoirs of people I admired who had similarly struggled in their lives, and I felt less alone. But none of those books pretended to exist principally to help others. Those books did help me, through the candid descriptions of struggles that I thought I was alone in experiencing. Knowing that some people had pulled through, managed to find a light at the end of the tunnel, it made me think I could one day be like them. The books didn’t seek to fix me, but they offered me a perspective that came to be very valuable later on, when I started going to therapy, and when I later started taking medication. Sometimes that is all you need. Not someone standing over you and telling you to go to bed, or to clean your room, or to stop drinking. You know all that, already. What you really need is the reassurance that things can indeed get better. Sleep will come.

#neurodiversity #neurodivergent #autism spectrum disorder #autism #aspergers #mental health

[scrambleddragonegg]

If your looking for prompts still what about todobakudeku where class 1A doesn't know and are all arguing about who is dating who?

bet this is the chaos I LIVE for. this brought me so much joy. I just have to decide if I wanna do an AU or do it in their universe. this will most likely be set either in 3rd year or 1st because we know 2nd year is pain and suffering galore and the idea of putting them in a 2nd year with the manga going the way it is right now terrifies me so... 3rd year it most likely is.

ALSO todobakudeku is what got me into the fandom honestly and I feel like that’s sad to say. it’s happening more and more though (to me anyway), getting into a fandom from reading the fics and then going “well great now I want to see the characters actual personalities” and then I get sucked in.

sorry that’s a whole rant and I have no self control. here’s the piece though!!!

If you were to ask class 3-A what the biggest thing they’ve experienced this year was, most would (thankfully) say that they’re still trying to crack the code that is the fragile relationship between the Big Three of their year. It’s not uncommon to see Midoriya, one of their resident sunshines, draped over one of the other two either in the common room or in the locker room after a particularly rough training session from their beloved teacher. Todoroki helping him cool off or Bakugo warming his hands just enough to help knead a knotted muscle on the green boy’s shoulder.

The first time seeing either of these instances occur, all any of them could think was; what the everloving fuck happened at Endeavor’s agency that the three most touch averse (yet touch starved) young heroes are clinging to one another like lifelines? It’s not just Midoriya holding on, but you can see either of the other boys all over Midoriya as well. It’s not uncommon to hear a “Kacchan, get off, you’re sweaty!” or a screech of “Sho that’s cold!” One of them is attached to Izuku at any given time and it’s kind of cute.

Though, never at the same time, or while the other is around, which is what ultimately causes the confusion. Izuku is showing physical affection so freely to both of them when both are around, but the other two seem to hold back around one another, only doing something when Izuku asks for it. Bakugo will deny ever showing affection to begin with and shout before storming away, and Todoroki just turns a little pink and brushes it off. Both of them avoid the topic, or seem to anyway.

Asking Midoriya, however is much harder to process than asking the other two. He honestly acts like nothing is out of the ordinary and that it’s completley normal for this to be happening.

That’s when theories start popping up.

“I think Midoriya is dating Todoroki. I saw them training earlier and the tension was,” Aoyama quite literally performs a chef’s kiss before adding, “immaculate.” 

“Could you have called that training? That was flirting and a game of Cat and Mouse.” Jirou deadpans.

“That’s odd, because I literally caught Midoriya and Bakubro cuddling and whispering to one another the night Todoroki had to go visit his dad.” Kirishima says, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“I have noticed that Bakugo always seems to be touching Midoriya in some fashion...” Iida mutters, catching the attention of everyone quickly. He decides to continue with, “But we shouldn’t be talking about their personal matters like this.”

“Iida hush, we want tea.” Uraraka scolds playfully, elbowing the blue haired boy rather harshly. He tries to look at Tsuyu for help but she just shrugs, placing a quick kiss on her girlfriend’s cheek before announcing that she is going to take a nap. It’s getting colder and that tends to take a toll on the frog girl.

“But the night Bakugo went out to see his parents, Todoroki and Midoriya slept in the same room. I saw them coming out of Todoroki’s room the next morning.” Momo adds, curious about this conundrum as well.

“So is Midoriya dating Bakugo or Todoroki?” Mina whines, confused. She too has seen Midoriya with each boy in some sort of compromising situation, but nothing adds up. 

“Maybe they both like Midoriya?” Kaminari suggests out of the blue. Shinso smacks the back of his boyfriend’s head, sending him a glare that clearly means “shut your mouth.” It’s very similar to Aizawa’s. Terrifying. However, the blonde doesn’t seem to be phased in the slightest, only smiling brightly.

“Poor Midoriya, if that’s the case.” Sero jests, only half joking. Some of the others nod in agreement. Bakugo and Todoroki are near unstoppable forces at times. Especailly when faced with competition.

While the rest of the class seems to turn away from the topic, clearly confused enough, Hagakure steps in.

“Based off of THAT reaction, I’d say you two know something!” Hagakure says, quick to pull the attention back to the purple haired boy and his boyfriend.

“Shit. Almost got free.” Kaminari curses, standing up quickly and trying to escape. Shinso, the asshole, is already a few floors up, using his capture weapon to his advantage.

As a group of the most curious start to go after Kaminari, the three boys in question come out of the training room.

“It’s been a while since we’ve had time to train like this, huh? I mean, Endeavor keeps us pretty busy as is, but Kacchan has been helping his parents with their work, and Aizawa Sensei refuses to let up for anything! Usually all I have enough energy to do is lay down with you two! Not that I don’t enjoy it, but training with you two is always a lot of fun-” Midoriya continues to ramble about anything that comes to mind, seeming completley relaxed in the presence of Bakugo and Todoroki. That’s not what makes the others stop listening though. It’s the fond looks that the two share for not only the green haired menace, but eachother as well.

“-and I know Mom’s upset that I haven’t visited in a while, and that she’s never met Sho. I mean, I’m kind of upset about that too, you know? I want to show her both of my boyfriends, not just Kacchan. I mean, she’s gonna love Sho! Probably more than she loves Kacchan!” Bakugo elbows Midoriya in the ribs, earning a “hey!” and a blow of his own to match. Todoroki rolls his eyes as his partners start to playfight, none of the trio aware of the eyes watching them, and shakes his head at them. That just finished training, why tire yourself out even more?

It only takes a few seconds before Midoriya is trapped beneath Bakugo, who immediately attacks the green bean with peppered kisses.

“I- Huh?” Mina asks, no words coming to mind.

“So it appears that they’re all in a relationship together.” Iida says, smiling at how happy Todoroki and Midoriya seem with their situation.

“I’ve never seen Bakubro be so... so soft. It’s so manly.” Kirishima says, chuckling to himself at the end.

“How did they manage to hide that so well for so long?” Uraraka asks, curiosity piqued once more. She looks to Kirishima who shrugs.

“I don’t know, man. I’ve still been hearing his angry rants about Midoriya and Todoroki doing something to piss him off. Nothing really changed there.”

A groan is heard from where the Big Three are and Iida makes it knows that they have an audience by clearing his throat. The three of them jump out of their skins. Kirishima is on the floor laughing with Kaminari and Mina about how he’s never seen Bakugo so scared. Like pure fear, not what happened in first year where he still masked it all with anger.

Midoriya, oddly enough, is the first one to recover from the three’s mortified state.

“H-How long h-have you all b-been s-standing there?” He asks, looking like a tomato.

“Long enough. Anyways! How long have you guys been dating?” Hagakure asks. That girl has no fear.

“About six months.” Todoroki answers, finally able to speak. Bakugo keeps going between furious and panicky.

“Six- WHAT? Excuse me while I give my shovel talk.” Mina calls, apparently also having no fear.

“Raccoon eyes if you touch one hair on either of their heads I’ll kill you myself.” Bakugo snaps. It shocks the class into an awkward silence, but they quickly recover.

“I’m not dealing with this right now.” Bakugo growls, grabbing his boyfriends’ hands and pulling them upstairs. Probably to Midoriya’s room, his being the closest.

“You all do realize that as soon as Bakugo gets over being embarrassed and soft, he’s going to kill us, right?”

#i live for chaos and chaos alone #tdbkdk #tdbk #tddk #bkdk #todobakudeku #todobaku #tododeku #bakudeku #mha #bnha #izuku midoriya

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Frivolous Miracles

Written for the @do-it-with-style-events "Who Needs a Great Plan" event; Day 2, prompt "Bastille."

(This is the first of my angstier fics; warning for mild violence and emotional abuse with the implication of more off-screen. Also, unfinished, to be completed later!)

--

The manacles hung heavily off Aziraphale’s wrists, chain ringing as it dragged across the ground.

He’d been hauled from one cell to the next all day, as the guards tried to decide what to do with the well-dressed Englishman they’d caught. He wasn’t even sure what crime he’d been accused of, but apparently it was a capital offense.

In the last hour or so, he’d been pulled from a leaking basement cell swarming with rats, to a crowded pen of people shouting in French, to a large, nearly empty cell from which he could hear the Place de la Révolution.

And there he waited, as the cell became more empty.

His fingers traced across the heavy iron holding his wrists. It wouldn’t take much. One miracle. A second, for the door. Another to slip past the guard, and one more for the exit. Maybe one or two more on the way, depending how crowded the fortress was.

How many would it take to alert Gabriel? More than one, he thought. Less than five.

Could he wait longer? Try to escape from the tumbril on the way to his own execution? Break the ropes of the guillotine before it could be lifted? Would he be able to slip away in the crowd?

Perhaps he was being foolish. Being discorporated—apart from the pain—would mean truly spectacular amounts of paperwork for him, yes, but for Heaven it meant the loss of valuable property and resources, or, if they wished to recover the body, an extravagant use of personnel who could likely spend their time doing something far more meaningful. So, surely, they would want Aziraphale to spend a few miracles to keep the body safe, and save everyone a great deal of time and hassle.

Normally, he would have.

But last month…

He wasn’t sure which miracles had put him on notice, precisely. He’d had a busy few decades. Floods in the far north, and earthquake off in the west, a return of the black plague down in Egypt. Wounds impossibly healed, endangered property miraculously recovered, desperately needed supplies arriving just in time.

And that was only the jobs themselves. He needed to ensure he got places on time; certainly the roads and waterways were safer than a century ago, but a few miracles took care of any difficulties. He needed clothes, to fit into local customs. He needed to speak the language. And, something he had found impossible to explain to his superiors, after a difficult task, he needed to take care of himself.

One day, he’d been sitting in his set of rooms, shuffling through a more mundane sort of paperwork. Aziraphale was going to buy property, a shop, in London. He’d looked at a dozen possible locations, from fashionable Mayfair to quaint little villages along the main roads into the countryside. None of them had been right, but he continued to look. He would findit.

His concentration was interrupted when the door burst open.

And his day was ruined when he saw who stood there.

The note, written on the crisp, clean paper of Heaven, a little too smooth, a little too perfect to actually exist, every swoop of dark ink perfectly catching just a hint of the light, as if it were still wet. The letterhead shone in embossed gold, and the whole thing smelt faintly of incense.

It began “It has come to the attention of myself, the Archangels, and the highest Choirs of the Angels of the Lord, that Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the East, has utterly failed to represent the best interests of Heaven, or indeed of those he has sworn to protect.”

It ended “It is our hope that the Principality will take immediate steps to ameliorate the situation, or we will have no choice but to take drastic measures.”

In between, a detailed explanation of his failures, his every action deemed unsatisfactory, his every miracle a waste of resources. Each line dissected his decisions, cast aspersions on his ability to fulfill even the most basic requirements of his position. Every word dripped with the disappointment that all of Heaven felt.

Even Gabriel’s signature seemed to glare off the page at him.

And then, to make sure the message was received, he’d sent three Archangels to deliver it.

First, Michael read the list of every assignment for the past five hundred years. For every one that didn’t measure up to expectations, she cut a mark in his back with a small holy blade as a reminder.

Next, Uriel presented a full accounting of the resources Aziraphale had misappropriated, embezzled for his own pleasure and amusement. Each wasted miracle was repaid with a pinch of Aziraphale’s own Grace, collected and weighed to ensure Heaven was fully reimbursed.

Then, Sandalphon. The first two angels departed, so that he could give Aziraphale a taste of the drastic measures Gabriel had invoked.

Forbidden from using any miracles on himself, it had taken most of the next month to heal. Even now, his eyes still ached in too-bright sunlight.

Testing the manacles about his wrists again, Aziraphale tried to consider his options. So long as he performed no more than three miracles today, he could probably escape without anyone noticing.

As he ran through possible strategies in his head, he became aware of a soft noise somewhere behind him, whimpering, sobbing.

Twisting on his bench, he saw one of the remaining prisoners, seated a little closer to the window. A young woman, no more than thirty, wearing the remains of what had clearly once been a fine dress, curled in a ball, crying softly.

It took even more effort for Aziraphale to shift his body enough to face her, manacles still pulling his hands awkwardly behind him. As he struggled, she looked up, tears pausing for a moment, brows furrowed in confusion as she watched.

“Hello, then,” he said, as brightly as he could. “I know things look bad at the moment, but…but it’s still a lovely day, with every chance of things improving. Why, just think, we could…”

“Monsieur,” she said, face crumbling, followed by a stream of French too quick for him to follow, apart from the accusatory tone. Then she lowered her face again, sobbing harder than ever.

“Ah…” Aziraphale had miracled away his knowledge of French twenty years ago, so that he could experience learning a language the human way. His understanding was that getting frustrated, giving up, and forgetting you’d ever planned to learn it in the first place was an essential part of the process.

The woman snapped something else angrily at him.

“Bonjour…madame…il fait…nice weather?”

Another stream of sobbing, angry French. Somewhere in the line, he caught the word “morte.”

“Oh, I know that word! Morte. Death. Oh, yes, I see. Well. Well. I’m sure it will…”

He glanced out the window again. The cell was almost within sight of the Place de la Révolution. He could hear the cheering of the crowd, vicious and angry; hear the occasional scream from a prisoner being pulled up the final steps and across the platform, to their place of execution.

#good omens fanfiction #good omens prime #aziraphale #bastille #bad angels #angst #was going to be hurt comfort #but it ends before crowley shows up #oops #ngl bastille day was a weird day for me #do it with style events #who needs a great plan? #my writing #my wips

[spencersstrawberryjello]

Inside Scoop (Chapter One)

Chapter One - The Greatest Regret of my Life

Previous Chapter < - > Next Chapter

Chapter Summary: Dahlia Silvers is on her way to work when she makes a horrifying discovery that will change her life... and lead to her getting tangled up with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of corpse (violent death), police interactions (please let me know if I missed anything)

Word Count: 2417

A/N: Yay new story!! Ok, two quick things I need to mention before we get into it: one, I have absolutely no clue about the roads in DC and I merely listed two ones that I knew were on a corner. And two: I also have no clue where the Washington Post office is, and am not trying to make any claims about the company in any way, it’s just a reputable news place in DC so I wanted to use it for the story (please don’t sue me Jeff Bezos). Ok that’s all - hope you enjoy!! :)

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

It was raining.

I knew we were supposed to get a short shower this morning, but I still groaned as I walked out into the disgusting downpour bombarding the streets of DC.

The only positive thing about days like this was the lack of people on the sidewalk. Generally everyone was dashing to the subway before they could get too soaked, but I only lived a few blocks from work. So I elected to walk.

Usually, that was fine. I had my umbrella, and I got into the office in about fifteen minutes, give or take a few. After that I got my writing assignments for that day within ten, and I got to work.

Usually.

The smell hit me first. Initially, I thought it was just rotten fruit, or something similar that someone had thrown out, but the closer I got the more it smelled rancid, impossible to describe.

The next thing I noticed was the bag.

The woman’s purse had been thrown from her hand. Or maybe it had fallen, I had no way of knowing. All I knew was that I saw it sitting on the sidewalk at the mouth of the alleyway I was about to walk past.

One of the greatest regrets of my life was picking up that purse.

Because when I picked it up, I had to turn and see who it belonged to. And that’s when I saw her.

I wasn’t sure how long the blood had been pooled around her body, but it was dried on the concrete. Her head was twisted at an unnatural angle, revealing the deep slash wound across her throat. Her hands were bloodied, and I had no way of knowing if it was her blood or someone else’s. All I knew was that this woman was dead, and there was no way in hell it was due to natural causes.

The combination of the sight in front of me and the smell of decay permeating the air sent a wave of nausea through my body, and my eyes watered as I turned away, vomiting on the sidewalk not far from where the woman laid. I fumbled to pull my phone out of my pocket, my hands shaking as I dialed 911.

“911 what’s your emergency?”

“Someone’s dead. It’s a woman, she - I was on my way to work, and I just found her - holy shit…”

“Ok ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down please, everything will be ok. Can you tell us where you are right now?”

“Yeah, yes,” I forced myself to breathe, stepping out to the edge of the sidewalk in an attempt to read the street sign in front of me. “Right by the corner of 9th and G Street NW. There’s an alley a few feet away from the intersection. She’s…” I turned back to the woman’s body for a moment before forcing my eyes away again. “I don’t know what happened. It looks bad, I -”

“It’s ok ma’am. What is your name?”

“Dahlia. Dahlia Silvers.”

“Ok Dahlia. Is there anyone else with you? Or around you?”

I scanned my surroundings before responding shakily, “No.”

“Is the woman alive?”

“No.” I don’t know of anybody who could survive their throat being slashed.

“Ok. A team is on their way, but I need you to stay calm for me, ok?”

I nodded, despite the fact that she couldn’t see me. “Alright.”

“Good. Can you stay on the scene so that investigators can speak with you when they arrive?”

My first thought was that I was going to be late for work. It’s actually kind of funny, in retrospect, how unimportant that is compared to the discovery I just made. But the thought was still there.

“I think this would be a valid reason to call in sick.” I replied. The woman on the other end of the phone laughed lightly.

“Yes, I think it would. Would you like me to stay on the phone with you until the team arrives?”

“No, I’m just… I’m going to walk away a bit? Is that ok? I can’t… I mean, I’ve seen pictures and videos of stuff like this, but I didn’t think it would be so -”

“As long as you’re nearby, everything should be fine. It’s understandable that you would need to move away from the body.”

“Ok. Ok,” I took in another deep breath, “I’m ok.”

“A team should be there in a couple of minutes.”

The line went dead, and I sunk down against the wall of the building by the alley, far enough away that the smell of death couldn’t follow me. I felt like it was in my clothes, in my hair; for a second I thought I was going to throw up again, and I put my head in my hands, forcing myself to breathe until the investigators arrived on the scene. I had half a mind to realize that it wasn’t raining anymore, but I couldn’t be bothered to figure out where I’d dropped my umbrella. My clothes were sticking to my skin, and everything on my body felt viscerally wrong.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen images of dead people before; I was a young adult, and I liked movies. Obviously I was used to gore. But the stench… nothing could’ve prepared me for that.

I was surprised at the sheer number of people that showed up: I mean, there was a CSI van, which I expected, but a black car pulled up behind them, as well as two city police cars. Immediately, the CSI team got to work, and the rest of the people began piling out of their cars. The first person to take notice of me was one of the police officers, and he immediately made a beeline for where I was sitting on the sidewalk.

“Are you Dahlia Silvers? The woman who called in the body?” He asked. I nodded, and he held out his hand to me, helping me up on unsteady feet.

“Thank you.”

“‘Course. Now, I’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s ok?”

I nodded again, and he began a surprisingly long tirade of questions. Why was I passing by, where was I going, did I walk this street every day, what did I see first, did I touch anything on the scene, did I know the woman, had I seen anyone else - everything I should’ve expected but didn’t even think about in the wake of everything I’d just witnessed.

I answered accordingly: work, work, yes, the purse, the purse, no, no - I mentioned that the vomit was mine, and that I’d picked the purse up with the intent to return it to whoever dropped it. I mentioned that the first thing I picked up on was the smell, and that I had no idea what happened. Only that my day was perfectly normal, and then -

“Excuse me, officer?” A new voice cut into our conversation, a woman. I turned to look at her, noticing the FBI logo on her jacket immediately. “I’d like to speak with Ms. Silvers for a moment, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course Agent,” He nodded, rejoining the larger group that we were standing a bit away from. I knew he was still watching me, but I couldn’t be bothered to worry about my status on this case’s suspect list right now. I was still trying to process the fact that there was a fucking dead body about five feet away from me.

“Dahlia Silvers?” She asked, as if she didn’t already know. I nodded, and she smiled, introducing herself as well.

“I’m Special Agent Prentiss, I’m with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

Immediately my brow furrowed with confusion. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Well, we study -”

“No, I’m sorry, I should’ve been clearer: I know what the BAU does. What is the BAU doing here, in DC?”

“We’re investigating a string of recent murders, and we believe that this one is most likely connected to the case.”

“... If there have been enough murders here that your team needed to come down, why aren’t any of the news stations covering it? I haven’t heard anything about this.”

“We’ve put a block on most of the press until we can gain a better understanding of the situation. I understand why you might feel betrayed by the media -”

“It’s not like that at all,” I rushed to correct her, not realizing I’d cut her off again, “I’m a journalist. I work for The Washington Post. Our office is like three blocks away, that’s where I was headed when - when I saw her.”

The woman nodded, a sympathetic expression on her face. “I’m sorry that you had to see all of this.”

“Thank you,” I gave her a small smile. I did appreciate it, but honestly, I’d recovered from the sight pretty quickly. I’d started working in crime journalism recently, and that came with it’s fair share of gruesome images and stories of tragedy flooding my computer. Hence the reason why my lack of knowledge on these murders was a concern. “I’m just confused as to why I didn’t hear about the murders, while working for a news site. It would make sense for a few stories to slip through, or for our CEO to announce something to us writers - how the hell did you manage a full media block?”

She laughed a bit at my bluntness, but said, “We got here very shortly after the first murder. We were able to restrict almost all stories about the event immediately.”

“Almost all? No, you guys got all of them - I have a keyword filter set up on Google to email me whenever a seemingly newsworthy event happens in the surrounding area, and I feel like ‘local murder’ would definitely count as newsworthy.”

“That’s… surprising, but it makes sense. Never underestimate the power of Jennifer Jareau - that’s our press liaison, she handles -”

“Oh yeah, I know her! I’ve spoken with her a few times when you guys have had cases in DC.”

“Right! Yeah, she’s great…” She got a sort of far-off look in her eye for a moment before she cleared her throat, “But that’s not what I’m here to talk to you about. I know that you spoke with the local police already, but I was wondering if you’d be willing to return to the station with us so we could interview you a bit further - you’re not under arrest, you’d be free to go at any time, we just have a couple more questions.”

I was hesitant, but at the same time, there was an itch in the back of my mind. An itch to know more. If this was a chance for me to find out what’s been going on, no way in hell I’m saying no to that.

Plus, if I did say no, that would be incredibly suspicious.

So I nodded, allowing Agent Prentiss to lead me back to the black vehicle that arrived with the slew of police cars. She opened the passenger door for me before shouting to someone who I’m assuming was one of her coworkers.

“Reid! Stay here and investigate the scene - I’m going to escort Ms. Silvers back to the station, and I’ll be back to pick you up.”

I heard a faint response before she shut the passenger door, climbing around to the other side and allowing me a glimpse of whoever she was talking to.

He was standing on the pavement, still looking at the car, nodding as I’m assuming Agent Prentiss said something else to him. The blue sweater he had on over his button up presented an interesting contrast between the pantsuit I’d seen Prentiss wearing, and the ridiculous query of the nature of the BAU’s uniforms crossed my mind before I turned my attention back to the matter at hand.

The matter at hand being, of course, discreetly staring at the man in front of me.

His curly hair rested almost at his shoulders, and I was mesmerized as I watched him speak, one hand flying and the other holding onto a thin wooden cane. Finally, he nodded definitively before turning back to the crime scene, and my eyes snapped to the driver’s side door as I heard Agent Prentiss slide into the seat next to me.

“Oh please, don’t let me interrupt your staring at Dr. Reid,” She held up her hands in mock defense, trying to keep herself from laughing, “I’m merely the driver.”

“Sta - what, I wasn’t staring, I -” I immediately started to defend myself (even if I totally was staring at Dr. Reid), but Agent Prentiss laughed again.

“Relax, Ms. Silvers. I’m only teasing. He is quite a good-looking man, isn’t he? Not my type, but I’m not blind.”

I blushed, acknowledging her statement with a nod as she put the car in drive, pulling away from the curb. As we started down the road, the full weight of the events that just occurred finally hit me.

I found a corpse.

I was on my way to a police station.

I might be the main suspect in an ongoing murder case. I hadn’t actually asked about that yet.

It was almost as if Prentiss had noticed the shift in my mood - honestly, there’s a chance she actually had, she was a profiler - because she broke the silence with a question.

“Ms. Silvers? How are you feeling?” She asked. I just shook my head.

“Please, call me Dahlia. And honestly, I have no idea how I’m feeling. I… well, I’m sure I don’t need to say that nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

“I’d be surprised to hear you say it had,” She laughed. I laughed a bit too, though I couldn’t ignore the anxiety eating at me.

“I’m pretty sure I haven’t processed it yet,” I said honestly.

“You’ve gone through a lot in the last hour,” She agreed, “And I hate to say it, but you’re going to have to go through a little bit more. We’re here.”

We pulled into the police station, and she put the car in park, hoping out. I followed suit, and we both headed up the walkway to the front doors.

I was practically trembling with nerves, but at the same time, excitement coursed through my veins at what I might learn.

The BAU might’ve put a blockade on the media from the outside, but I was getting the inside scoop.

#criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds au #bau #bau fanfiction #behavioral analysis unit #female main character #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!mc #emily prentiss #ssa emily prentiss #ssa spencer reid #dr spencer reid #agent prentiss #dahlia silvers #jennifer jareau #ssa jennifer jareau #jj #agent jareau

[hotchley]

“sometimes you do everything right, everything exactly right, and still you feel like you failed”

morehotchcontent day two: whump (in a hostage situation/hurt on the job)

tagged: @ablogofthecriminalmindsvariety

why should the team look for him? he was nothing. he would die for them, because they were his team and they deserved the world. but he was not the world. he was just one broken, old man and they could do better. they could do so, so much better than a drill sergeant, sexist, narcissistic bully.

an unsub kidnaps hotch. in his mind, he isn’t worth saving.

warnings: torture (choking, forced to choke on water, caning, punching, stabbing), depictions of violence, implied/referenced child abuse, non-consensual removal of clothing, references to the events of george foyet, references to tobias hankel and reid's torture, references to ian doyle and what he did to emily

read on ao3!

Hotch had taken one look at the case-file and immediately known it was going to be a bad case. The victims had all been kidnapped and tortured, before being dumped in the local park, stripped down to their underwear as a form of humiliation. A word- always a personality trait- had been carved into their back.

For the BAU, it was pretty standard.

For Hotch, it was like looking at a mirror. All the victims fit the same criteria, which on the one hand he was grateful for because maybe it would mean they would find the damn unsub without any more bodies appearing, but on the other hand made him want to be sick.

The victims had all been the leaders of their respective teams. The first was the manager of a supermarket, the second a senior partner in a law firm, the third a headteacher. He had no idea what the fourth was. He’d read it, but without ever really processing the words.

But their subordinates hated them. Deemed them bullies, narcissists, dickheads, evil bastards. When they’d been informed of the deaths, not a single one had cried. One had laughed. They had all been relieved enough to be considered suspects.

He looked out at the bullpen. JJ was sat with them, sat on the edge of Reid’s desk as she laughed at something Emily- Agent Prentiss, he corrected mentally- was saying. The case had come directly to him, the file lying on his desk as though it was mocking him because the previous day he’d told the team it was likely they’d be spending the weekend at home.

Morgan was watching the scene unfold with a wide smile, yet his eyes darted round the area, always watching over the other members of his team like it was his duty. Not for the first time, Hotch wondered if he should have stepped down permanently. Morgan had done well as Unit Chief. And he wasn’t hated by the team. They didn’t look at Morgan and think of a boring, misogynistic, horrid narcissist. They looked at Morgan and thought of a protector.

He sighed. Part of him wanted to ask Rossi to inform the team they had a case but that was just being unfair. It was his stupid comment about getting to spend time at home that had undoubtedly landed them in this situation. The least he could do was own it. At the last moment, he decided to read through the casefile one more time. It would give JJ enough time to finish showing them the pictures of Henry at the beach.

When JJ tucked her phone back into her pocket, he stood up. Took a deep breath and exited. Almost immediately, the laughter stopped and they all turned back to their reports. JJ slid off the table and started to head back to her office. Hotch tried to disguise his hurt as indifference and he knew he’d succeeded when Reid swallowed and Morgan looked disappointed.

It had been five years since Tobias Hankel, and yet nothing had changed. The team still hated him. Cases still ruined their everyday life.

“We have a case. Roundtable in ten,” he said. The rest of the words wouldn’t come. Because if he said more than the bare minimum, he would reveal too much and they would hate him even more than they already did. It was bad enough that he was everything they’d called him, but it would be even worse if they realised just how weak he was.

He went back up to his office to pack things away and send a quick text to Jess and Jack, before he realised that they’d benefit from having Garcia with him. He had always wondered what Garcia really thought of him, but he’d always been too afraid to ask. A part of him liked to think she liked him, but that was impossible.

JJ thought he was a bully, and when he thought of the number of times he’d snapped at Garcia for not being fast enough, he understood. Morgan considered him a drill sergeant, said they weren’t friends, and he was always breaking up their fun, teasing comments. It didn’t matter he was doing it for professionality, that was one of their only reprieves and he was constantly taking it from them. Prentiss accused him of not trusting women as much as men, and there had definitely been times when he’d looked at Garcia and felt the urge to ask where she’d got the information from. Reid told Hankel he deserved to die because he was a narcissist. How many times had he asked Garcia to look at the worst of humanity, knowing she was too good for that?

Garcia never told him what his worst quality was. He’d heard enough by the time it would’ve got to her. Jason had opened his mouth, probably to tell him to stop, but he’d had enough. He wished he hadn’t stopped him. Maybe if he’d known, he could’ve changed and then Gideon would still be with them and Reid would have someone who was actually competent as a father figure.

It was with a heavy heart that he took the elevator down to Garcia’s lair. As he’d passed through the bullpen, he saw the haggard faces of his team, and he wondered, not for the first time, how many more crime scenes they could suffer through before their hands stopped going cold and they lost their humanity.

He knocked on the door, once, slightly hesitant.

“You don’t need to knock Kevin!” Garcia called out.

Hotch swallowed the lump in his throat. Yet another relationship he was ruining. He coughed once before saying it was actually him.

Almost immediately Garcia flung the door open. “Sir! I didn’t realise it was you. What is it?”

“We have a case. And, well, I’d like you to come with us. It’ll be easier,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Of course! Just give me sixteen minutes to pack my stuff and then I’ll be up, okay?”

He nodded, then the Southern manners kicked in. “Would you like any help?” he asked, slightly hopeful that she’d say yes.

“Oh no, of course not. It’s much simpler if I just do it myself. I know where everything goes and it’s just easier.”

“Right. I’ll err, I’ll see you in a bit then,” he said, trying to not take it personally. Garcia probably wouldn’t let anyone touch her computers or equipment. It wasn’t just him. It couldn’t be. He wasn’t sure he’d survive it. He was about to exit when she called out his name and he turned.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay? You’ve seemed distant recently. And normally I wouldn’t comment, but I’m worried about you. You know you can talk to us? Any of us. I know the others weren’t particularly fond of Haley, but you didn’t have to be a profiler to realise you loved her.”

He started fidgeting, stuffing his hand in his pocket as he brushed his thumb over his fingers.

If Garcia noticed his discomfort, she didn’t comment. “It doesn’t matter that you got a divorce, you still loved each other. Recovering from that is hard. Add in the fact that you’re going back to the same job, and it’s a recipe for disaster. What I’m trying to say is: are you okay, and do you want to talk about it?”

He wanted to say yes. He so desperately wanted to hug Garcia, fall apart in her arms and confess all his fears to her. He wanted to tell her how ever since Hankel, he’d hardly been able to look at the team, or how the list of people he’d failed to save- Elle, Jason, Kate Joyner, countless innocent victims, Megan Kane, Haley- seemed to be growing with every breath. He longed to finally tell someone who horrifying it was when Foyet was in his apartment, how he could hardly look in the mirror without gagging, how he had blinked because he was human. He wanted to say that there were nights where he couldn’t comfort Jack because how dare he touch his son with the same hands that had killed a man?

But he couldn’t. The only value he held as a member of the team was being stoic. Unshaken. The one that dealt with the politics, played bad cop, spoke to Strauss and the higher-ups, dealt with unruly lead detectives without flinching. If any of them knew just how choked up he got every time Strauss asked to see a report, how every case that involved him playing the role ended with him sat in the shower, water numbing his body as tears rolled down his cheeks, they’d cast him out.

And he would have nothing.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just a little tired. Jack was keeping me up. He’s excited about starting school soon.”

Jack had kept him up, but not because he was excited about starting school. Because he was scared he was going to come home and daddy wouldn’t be there.

“Wow. I remember when he was just a little baby coming in to visit. Back when the Reid effect was still a thing.”

Hotch faked a laugh, ignoring the bile that was rising in his throat. He didn’t want to think about that. How the team had done nothing more than be polite, all stood a respectful distance away, as though he was poison. Or how just minutes after he said goodbye to Jack and Haley- who was still happy and in love- they were called out on a family annihilator case.

“Yeah. The time has gone by so fast. I’ll let you pack up,” he said, needing to get away from the lights and brightness.

“Oh, of course. I’m so sorry,” Garcia said, as though she had only just remembered why he’d come down.

“You have nothing to apologise for Penelope,” he said, before closing the door behind him.

Forty minutes later and they were in the air.

JJ was on the phone to the local P.D, convincing them that releasing any sort of information to the public, especially the name of a suspect, would not be beneficial to the investigation. Hotch wanted to intervene because it wasn’t fair that she had to be fielding their phone calls when she should be resting, but he didn’t want to overstep so he settled for keeping one eye on her and the other on the casefiles.

When they landed, JJ said that the local PD had wanted them all to head straight to the precinct, so they piled into the government SUVs. Hotch tried to not let it sting when Morgan sighed before getting into the passenger seat. Once upon a time, he would’ve said they were friends. But now he knew better. Morgan had only wanted him around because he could lead the team. But after Foyet, he’d proven that he couldn’t even do that, and that Morgan was clearly the better leader.

Why he was still on the team was a mystery to him.

“Miss Jareau, hello. I’m Sheriff Finkelstein, we spoke on the phone?” the sheriff greeted.

“It’s Agent Jareau, Detective,” Hotch corrected, voice betrayed his tiredness.

JJ looked over in surprise. She could have sworn she saw him drift off.

Hotch wouldn’t meet her eyes. He corrected people when they called Dr Reid agent. Of course he would do the same for the rest of them, regardless of what their opinions on him were.

“Of course, my apologies, Agent Jareau. We’re very grateful to have you here, we’re completely in over our heads. Our lead detective just took early retirement as his wife had a baby and he wants to be at home with the two of them- an admirable decision- but it just means that we’re now overwhelmed and still looking for a new lead,” Finklestein explained, leading them to one of the conference rooms. He held the door open for the ladies, who all gave him small smiles.

Hotch tried to nod. Yet another person who’d managed to do the one thing he had failed at. If he had taken the transfer, or left when Jack was born, then Haley would still be alive. There would be a tan line on his ring finger from where his wedding ring sat.

“Do you have any clues who it could be? It’s a very specific MO and victimology, which should help us narrow things down,” Morgan asked, always eager to get straight into things.

Sheriff Finkelstein sighed. “Unfortunately not. There’s no DNA anywhere. All of the team members have been questioned, and although they all hated their respective bosses, there’s no indication that any of them would’ve done it.”

“We’d like to see the recordings of their interviews,” Rossi said.

“And if I could have a map of the area to start creating the geographical profile, that’d be great,” Reid added.

“Whatever you need,” Finkelstein said, leaving.

Hotch left with him to gather some of the extra information they needed. The team- bar Morgan and Rossi, who had left to go to M.E’s office, were skimming through the files created on each of the members and their victims.

“I’m not saying they deserved it, but these men were disgusting,” Emily commented.

“Prentiss,” Hotch warned, but he knew she was right.

She stared at him, daring him to go further. He dropped his gaze and walked over to Reid. “How’s that geographical profile coming along?”

“Well it’s interesting. See, their workplaces are all the ones in red. The places in blue are the last locations they were seen in- which is another common factor actually because they were all in restaurants, cafes and takeaways which is actually similar to a previous case we solved so I may look into that to see if there are any links- and I’m doing that rambling thing again aren’t I?”

“You’re okay,” Hotch said, not wanting to cut Reid off when they didn’t really have a time crunch.

“No I’ll just get to the point, we all have more important things to be doing. Look at the area where the victims work and then where the unsub takes them. They’re all within five minutes of each other. Our unsub probably work somewhere where they can watch their targets from, otherwise how else would they be able to find them?”

“We need to deliver the profile,” Hotch said.

Two days after they delivered the profile, and the unsub still hadn’t been found. Garcia’s tech skills had given them a suspect, but he’d been out of the country during the last murder. Since the development with the geographical profile, they hadn’t been able to find anything. Hotch had felt like someone was watching him since they landed, but he hadn’t said anything, not wanting to distract the team.

Morale was low. Patience was running out and tempers were going to be lost if there wasn’t a break in the case. Officers had started joking with each other in the macabre way only people that dealt with these things on a regular basis could that they were lucky none of them were evil as the station was extremely close to the other workplaces, bur Finkelstein had shut them down almost immediately.

Hotch had cried in the shower that night. Reid had wanted to say something, but ultimately refrained because it was Hotch and Hotch didn’t blink; he’d be okay.

So things weren’t going great, and the team were exhausted. They needed a pick-me-up.

Hotch picked up his jacket. “I’m going to get us food. Does anyone have any specific requests, or is donuts and coffee okay?”

“You’re going to go?” Prentiss asked, a little confused. Hotch had gone yesterday. It was supposed to be Reid’s turn.

“Yeah. I am. Reid’s busy, and it’s not fair to ask him to go and it’s unfair to get someone else to go because they’ve all be running themselves into the ground. And before you say it, I’m not saying that you haven’t, because you have,” Hotch said, his own temper also fading. He was trying so hard to be good, to not treat anyone the way his father had but the lack of progress, combined with the way Emily seemed to get off on undermining him, even now, after everything that had happened, was beginning to wear on him.

“Hotch? Are you okay?” JJ asked, entering with another stack of files. As it turned out, the town was full of white males in their mid-to-late 20s that worked jobs where the person in charge had a bit of a dodgy history, and they were still trying to narrow it down.

“I’m fine. Any requests for dinner? I’m probably going to go to that café because Reid will want coffee as soon as he gets back from the workplace with Morgan, and Rossi likes their croissants but I don’t mind making another stop if you want me to,” he said.

JJ smiled at how well her boss- well, family member- knew their team, and also at how willing he was to go out of his way for all of them. But her smile faded when she took in his appearance. The circles under his eyes were getting worse and his suit seemed to be looser. She knew Reid was having trouble sleeping as the fifth anniversary of his abduction approached, and she knew Emily was still struggling with her place on the team in a world without Doyle, but their trauma was not Hotch’s responsibility. She just wished he would stop blaming himself.

“Surprise me with something from the café. But are you sure you should be the one going?” She didn’t tell him it was because he looked exhausted; she liked her job.

But she had her back turned to him. She didn’t see him clench his fist, rubbing his thumb over the nail of his index finger in a self-soothing motion. She didn’t see the tears form in his eyes.

“I’ll be fine JJ. Tell the others I should be back in thirty minutes,” he said, voice cracking slightly as he fled.

“Is something going on with him?” Prentiss asked.

JJ shrugged. “Jack mentioned him being unwell right after you came back, but I thought he was doing better now.”

Emily watched the space where he’d been previously stood. “I just wish he would talk to us. He has to know we love him and wouldn’t think any less of him for struggling.”

JJ nodded in agreement.

Hotch was driving, unable to focus on the road properly. He knew his team thought they were being subtle with the way they hated him, but he was a profiler. He knew JJ was only questioning whether or not he should go because he was just like all the other victims and it had been a week since the last body was found, meaning there was bound to be another abduction soon.

It wasn’t going to be him. He wasn’t deserving of even that attention.

“Oh hello again. I was wondering if I was going to see you again,” the barista said when he entered.

Hotch noted that there was nobody else there. “I’m so sorry, is it really close to closing time? I saw that the light was on and I just assumed it was okay.”

He laughed. Hotch shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

“We’re still open, don’t worry about it. What can I get for you?”

“It’s another long order,” Hotch warned. The barista just shrugged, used to it. When Hotch was done, he took a brownie out and warmed it up.

“This is on the house because you look like you need it and your order will take a bit of time,” he said, sliding it across the counter.

Hotch stopped observing the artwork. “I couldn’t possibly-”

“Yes you can,” the barista said, his tone so much like JJ’s when she was mother-henning them all that Hotch silently took a bite. It was a good brownie. He took a few more bites, wincing when his head started to feel fuzzy.

“Do you like it?” the barista asked.

“It’s really good. But my head- I have- my head feels, not right,” he whispered, vision starting to blur as well.

“It’s not supposed to,” the barista responded, jovial tone gone.

The world went black.

The first thing he noticed when he came round was that he couldn’t move his arms. Or his legs. He struggled, unable to see what had happened to him as his eyes were taking forever to adjust to the darkness, but there was no movement to be had.

He was tied to a chair. He struggled even more, but his bonds held.

“You’re awake.”

“You,” Hotch whispered. “It was you the whole time.”

“Yep. And my name is Jonathan. You would know that if you had just bothered to read my nametag,” he said.

Hotch scanned the room, searching for anything that would act as a weapon. There was nothing. He tried to calm his racing heart and think logically but he couldn’t. The last time he’d been this vulnerable was under George Foyet. George Foyet who had destroyed all feeling in the lower part of his stomach, who had killed Haley, who had made damn well sure Aaron would never be able to look at himself without seeing the victory on Foyet’s face right before his eyes fluttered shut from the blood loss.

“I’m sorry for forgetting,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even.

Jonathan slapped him across the face. Hotch recoiled as much as he could, not making a sound. It was always worse when you made a sound.

“Stop lying to me. I know who you are. I know how you people work. You think that if you convince me that it was all just an honest mistake, then I’ll forgive you and let you go running back to your team. Well I won’t and nothing you say will make me change my mind.”

“I’m sorry,” Hotch whispered. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Jonathan scoffed, slapping Hotch again. Both his cheeks were red now. “You’re all the same. You do one small thing for your team, and you think it will make up for the lifetime of pain you caused them. Well it won’t.”

He turned. Hotch tried to see what he was picking up, but he couldn’t. Before he even realised what was happening, pain blossomed in his stomach. Above him, Jonathan bought the cane down again, and again, and again.

Tears were streaming down his face now. “Please, stop. Please, I’ll do anything, just stop with the cane.” He hated begging. He hadn’t begged since he was a child. He hadn’t flinched when George Foyet fired a gun at him. But he wasn’t that man anymore. He was tired now. More tired and more broken that he’d ever been before.

Jonathan laughed. “Okay. I’ll stop. But I’m going to release you from the chair, and you’re going to raise your arms high enough for your hands to touch that chain on the ceiling. If you fail, I’ll cane you till you’re curled into a ball, begging for mercy.”

Aaron was half-delirious now, but he managed to follow the instructions given.

When Jonathan ran the cold metal of his knife, the same knife he’d used with all the other victims, down his cheek and across his chest, Aaron flinched. Minutely, but he flinched.

Jonathan smirked. “Normally I killed them quickly. I made them die quickly because they didn’t deserve to live. But you, you I want to have fun with.” He cut down the centre of Hotch’s shirt with one clean cut. Aaron closed his eyes, unable to look at the scars.

“My, my, someone must really have hated you,” Jonathan laughed.

Hotch didn’t respond. Jonathan pressed the metal to the scar over his chest. Hotch jerked at the coldness, straining his arms even more.

“You’re a bad man Aaron Hotchner. I’ve been watching you since you landed. You’re very bad. Do you want to know why you’re bad? You’re a bully. I saw the way you shouted at your technical analyst over the phone because she wasn’t fast enough.”

Hotch hadn’t meant to shout. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to remember it.

“Oh are you ashamed now? You don’t get to be ashamed. Open your eyes.”

Hotch shook his head.

Jonathan wrapped one hand around Hotch’s throat and pushed down. Hotch opened his eyes, panicked as he tried to inhale. He relaxed his hold then.

“Good boy. You shouted at her. And then you undermined the blonde one by taking over her interrogation. And the other one by interrupting her conversation with the officer. Sexist pig.”

The plan had always been for him to take over. The officer had been making Prentiss uncomfortable with his flirting. Hotch tried to say that, but Jonathan just laughed, then punched him in the stomach. Claimed those were just lies they told him to protect themselves so they kept their jobs.

“You tried to control their every move. You wouldn’t let Mr Strong do the right thing and come look for me. Drill sergeant. You cut off the baby because you needed to speak, acted like you were better than him. Like you were better than all of them.”

“I’m not a narcissist,” Hotch protested.

Jonathan dropped the knife, opting to punch him in the stomach again. Hotch let out a groan. “That’s what they all say. It’s been half an hour. They’ll be expecting you back now. I wonder what will happen when you don’t come back. Will they look for you? I think they will. Not because they love you, but because they’ll be afraid. What if you’re the one to survive? What if you escape?”

“They won’t come,” Hotch said.

Jonathan, who had gone back over to the table, turned. “What did you say?”

“They won’t come,” Hotch repeated.

Jonathan stormed over, holding a bat. Before Hotch could prepare himself, he was hitting him with it. In the knees, across the back of his thighs, everywhere that would cause the most pain. Hotch didn’t want to know what the crack he’d heard when that bat had hit his ribs was.

Jonathan liked the bat. When he heard the crack, he grinned. And then he Hotch over the head. For the second time that day, the world went black.

“He should be here by now,” Reid said, pacing up and down the conference room. “It’s been fifty-seven minutes. The journey should have taken an average of thirty minutes, forty with traffic, but it’s now after eleven when there’s virtually no traffic on the road.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, Reid. There was probably some cute barista he got stuck talking to. You know how Hotch is. Never knows when people are flirting with him, and then when he does realise, he gets stuck in an awkward conversation,” Morgan said, but it was all an act. He knew there wouldn’t be a cute barista. But for the sake of Reid, he had to stay strong.

“Look Aaron wouldn’t want us to worry. In twenty minutes, we’ll go back to the hotel. And if he’s not here tomorrow, then we’ll start to investigate okay?” Dave said.

The others nodded, all feeling uneasy, but having the utmost faith in their leader.

Their leader that was still unconscious, Jonathan having moved him to the floor. The back of his head was coated with blood. He almost looked like Haley. But Haley had looked peaceful in her coffin, face void of any expression. Aaron was in pain, despite not being awake.

Jonathan didn’t try and force him to wake up. Aaron Hotchner was going to be his masterpiece.

“Is Agent Hotchner not with you?” Finkelstein asked once they got to the precinct.

They all turned to each other. Dave immediately dialled his cell.

“Voicemail,” he said.

Emily turned away, not wanting to think about the last time his phone had gone to voicemail. She still couldn’t get the image of him, so weak that he couldn’t even sit up without assistance, his face so defeated as he said goodbye to the one good thing in his life, out of her mind. It haunted her nightmares more than Ian Doyle did.

“We need to find him,” Morgan said.

“I’ll have Garcia track his phone,” JJ said.

She tracked his phone to the coffee shop. There was nobody there. No signs of a struggle. Nobody outside had seen anything strange or suspicious.

When Morgan and Rossi returned, faces grave, Reid excused himself. When he returned, his eyes were red. JJ hugged him, words not enough to convey how sorry she was for everything that had happened between them. Emily watched, biting her nails. Hotch had put everything on the line for her multiple times. He didn’t get to go missing like this.

Jonathan was bored of watching Aaron sleep. He kicked him in the stomach, grinning when he let out a soft groan of pain, but managed to open his eyes.

“Morning sunshine,” he greeted.

Aaron tried to flinch away, but found his legs and arms were bound. His head was pounding, his ribs ached, his stomach was bruising from where Jonathan had kicked him and there were angry welts from where the cane had struck.

“You’re a bastard,” Hotch spat, trying not to panic when blood splattered onto his clothes.

“You give me the sweetest compliments, I’m starting to wonder if you really are like the rest of my victims.”

Hotch tried to glare up at him.

Jonathan laughed. “And then you do things like that, and I remember that you’re all the same. You know, I wanted to have a conversation about what you said earlier, but now I think I’ll save that for tomorrow. There’s a few things I want to do before then.”

Hotch had choked on water before. It wasn’t pleasant. But having it forced down his throat was worse. He couldn’t keep swallowing it, and most of it ended up on his shirt. That angered Jonathan. It led to more pain. More torture. Hotch couldn’t feel anything though. He didn’t think that was a good thing. A part of him was holding out hope that the team would find him, but with every passing moment, it seemed to fade slightly.

Why should the team look for him? He’s nothing. He would die for them, because they were his team and they deserved the world. But he was not the world. He was just one broken, old man and they could do better. They could do so, so much better than a drill sergeant, sexist, narcissistic bully.

There were no windows where he was being held. But at some point, Jonathan forced him to eat. And at some point later than that, he told Hotch to get some rest as the next day was going to be big.

Hotch closed his eyes, but he did not sleep.

Nor did any member of the BAU. A whole day of searching and there were still no clues that would lead them to Hotch. Nobody had been reported missing either, which meant either nobody cared enough about the person that had been kidnapped or the unsub was developing a new pattern. Either way, it wasn’t looking good.

Rossi forced them all to get some sleep. He told himself that if they got Aaron back safely, he would make sure that man knew just how much he was loved by all of them. He would finally tell Aaron how he had always viewed him as the son he’d lost, and how he had never once regretted returning.

Morgan knew his relationship with Hotch would never be perfect, but at the end of the day, they were a family. He would spend the rest of his life convincing Hotch that he deserved all the happiness in the world if he needed to, as soon as he’d lectured him about being an idiot.

Garcia was already planning what she was going to make for him. She remembered when she had first started in the BAU, and Hotch had been the only person to treat her like an actual employee. They would eat lunch together because neither of them really had any friends within the unit. Morgan and Reid were still trying to adjust to her, and Gideon had always loved Reid more than he loved Hotch, which had made her sad.

Reid couldn’t lose another father. He lay awake, thinking of stories that he could recommend for Jack. He wanted to be in his own bed, where he could look at the constellations on his ceiling. Hotch had somehow found out about his fear of the dark, but instead of mocking him, he said he’d understood. A day later, he found glow in the dark stars in his bag with a note from Hotch saying he wanted to see a picture of the constellations he made.

Reid had returned the favour after Foyet.

JJ held Emily and they both hoped that he- the man that had already lost so much and struggled through it all for the sake of their band of misfit profilers- would come home safely.

“Rise and shine Aaron,” Jonathan said, throwing a bucket of water over Hotch, who immediately jerked awake as he started to shiver.

“What’s going on?” he whispered.

“You’ll see. But first, I need to make you a little bit more… presentable, shall we say?”

Hotch knew better than to hope that would mean a change of clothes. Jonathan removed the rope around his hands, but only to slide Aaron’s shirt off his shoulders. He pushed down on the bruises, only stopping when Hotch gasped.

“They’re going to be distraught,” he commented, punching Hotch in the face.

His eyes immediately started watering. Jonathan punched him again. Hotch recoiled, feeling the blood drip from his nose. He was dead weight now, but they had been right in assuming that their unsub was incredibly strong. He pulled Aaron into the chair before tying him up, bloodied and beaten and bruised and broken.

Hotch saw the camera.

And he suddenly understood what Jonathan meant.

“No,” he shouted, voice hoarse.

But it was too late.

“Hello Agent Hotchner’s team. I apologise for not knowing your first names, but Aaron only ever used your surnames. Maybe he wanted to detach himself from you all. Let’s see. Ah, the whole team is there! I don’t actually know who you all are, but that’s no worry. I bet you’re trying to work out where he is. It’s not going to work. You should watch the show instead. I bet you really want to see your fearless leader.”

Jonathan stepped back to reveal Hotch.

Morgan had to put his hand on the screen to stop Garcia from closing it. Reid whimpered, JJ shouted, Rossi cursed loudly. Finkelstein grabbed a whole bunch of officers and told them to do whatever it took to find that man.

“Now, Agent Hotchner talks in his sleep. Did you know that? And he’s said some quite interesting things. But first, we’re going to unpack something he said to me on our first day together. Do you remember what that thing was, Aaron?”

Aaron looked up at him, dazed. “No,” he whispered.

“You told me, they weren’t going to come and get you. I killed four people. All of them laughed and told me their colleagues, or their friends, or their families would find them. You didn’t. Why? Tell me. Tell them. They’re all watching.”

Hotch closed his eyes, needing to ground himself. When he opened them, tears were pooling in them, threatening to spill. “They already failed once. They didn’t- we had a case. But they never found me. I didn’t answer my phone, but they didn’t come looking until it was too late to save anyone. They failed to save me once. Why would they try now?”

Garcia was crying. She was trying to find him, but the unsub was right. It was impossible. They’d already dispatched officers to the man’s work and home addresses, but they all knew it was just a formality. They weren’t going to find anything.

“He’s right. We didn’t find him. We should have gone the moment his phone went to voicemail,” Emily said.

“That’s in the past,” Rossi said. “We need to focus on now. Where is he, now? How are we going to save him this time?”

“He’ll send us a message. Some sort of code. He has to,” Reid said, intently watching the screen.

Jonathan looked at Hotch for a few long moments. And then he took the knife he was holding and he cut one deep line from Hotch’s knee to his ankle. Hotch begged for mercy the whole time, but it never came.

“How tragic. Did you ever wonder why they didn’t try?”

“I’m not worth saving,” Hotch whispered.

That caused Jonathan to pause. “What?”

“I’m not worth saving. I’m a narcissist. A bully. Drill sergeant. I have trust issues, I don’t trust women as much as men and they don’t want to be my friend,” Hotch said.

Rossi frowned. “Kid, what’s the message? I don’t get it.”

Reid was shaking. “I don’t- I called him a narcissist when Hankel told me to choose someone to die but I didn’t mean it. I didn’t, I said it because I knew he would understand. He never puts himself above the team. But when I said that it gave away my location. There’s nothing with what he just said. Nothing. I don’t even know where the other things came from.”

Prentiss pressed her hand to her mouth. “He genuinely believes that. He’s not lying. I know his tell. He’s not doing it. He’s telling his version of the truth.”

Rossi turned. “What do you mean he genuinely believes that?”

All three of them swallowed, unable to form a response.

“When Reid called Hotch a narcissist and then quoted the Bible, Hotch went off. He told everyone to say what his worst quality was. And in the moment Morgan called him a drill sergeant. JJ said he was a bully. Em said he didn’t trust women as much as men. He cut them off after that and it was never addressed. I told- when we got back to Quantico, I told him he didn’t wear casual clothes enough and he- he smiled,” Garcia explained.

Rossi had never been so angry at his family. “Why would you say that? You know what he’s like. You know how personally he takes things. It doesn’t matter that it was just in the moment, he needed to hear it from all of you that you didn’t mean it.”

Prentiss lunged forward. “Aaron,” she shouted. When Hotch turned slightly to face the camera, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Aaron, it’s Emily. I know you’re not sexist. I know that you trust me just as much as anyone else on the team. I promise. And Morgan loves you too. JJ doesn’t think you’re a bully. We love you, but we need you to help us. Please.”

Jonathan turned to face the camera too. “Stop ruining all the fun, Emily.”

Emily flinched. Jonathan said her name like it was something dirty, but Aaron had only ever said it like it was something to be cherished.

When Jonathan slapped Hotch, Reid closed his eyes.

“What do you think Aaron? Do you think she’s correct? Are you worthy of their love? Or are you exactly like the other victims, maybe even worse?”

Hotch shook his head. “I don’t know. Please, I just, I don’t know.”

Jonathan picked up the cane. Hotch curled in on himself as much as he could. For everyone else, it was like watching Hankel torture Reid all over again. When the cane made contact with Hotch’s stomach, the sound he let out made the tears in Rossi’s eyes fall.

“I think I’ll let you all struggle for a few hours before the grand finale. But, I am nothing if not generous. Aaron, is there anything you want to say to them?”

He looked directly at the camera. Not even Morgan could look into his eyes, so full of pain and anguish. “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry for everything. I’m- I never meant for any of you to become so damaged and I am so- I will spend every last minute making up for the pain I caused you, but please, just, please forgive me. Forgive me. Please.”

Jonathan ended it all. There was no way of tracing them.

Reid repeated the words to himself. He needed to find the clue. He needed to work out what the message was. He refused to believe there wasn’t one. Morgan and Rossi slipped into their respective leadership roles, commanding everyone and barking orders. Garcia’s fingers were like lightning, she was finding everything she could on Jonathan. JJ dealt with the media, who wanted to know exactly what was going on. Prentiss flitted between the various groups, offering support. It was weird. Coming back had felt like coming home, but then there were moments like these where she wasn’t sure she’d ever been part of the team.

Hotch was confused. He knew Emily’s tell. She couldn’t hide it from him. He’d been searching for it as she spoke, but it wasn’t there. Which would imply she was telling the truth. But that wasn’t possible. He couldn’t let himself believe it was possible. Only, there was no other logical discussion. Maybe they loved him. Maybe they cared.

“What are you?” Jonathan hissed.

“Their friend,” Aaron whispered, momentarily forgetting where he was.

Jonathan kicked his bare foot. Aaron winced.

“No, you aren’t,” Jonathan said. “You’re a narcissist. You’re a bully. And a drill sergeant, and a sexist prick. I’m assuming- by the looks on their faces- the blonde with glasses and the old man never said anything against you. But I think I know what they would say. You’re rude. And you’re a failure. So what are you?”

“A narcissist,” Hotch replied. But he knew that wasn’t the truth. They were going to find him. They were going to save him, somehow, because that was what their family did.

Dave saved him by offering him the spot. He saved Penelope from a life of crime. Penelope saved Emily from doubting herself too much. Emily saved Jennifer from carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Jennifer saved Spencer from thinking he wasn’t worth loving. Spencer saved Derek from getting too cynical. Derek saved Dave from getting too cocky. And the cycle continued.

Reid was pacing, wringing his hands, still mouthing the words to him. Everyone else had stopped because there was nothing left to do.

Without warning, Reid turned and punched the wall.

“Spence!” JJ shouted.

Reid stared at his hand, where blood was now covering his knuckles. Shaking, he fell to his knees, sobbing. Hotch would know what to do. Hotch would take his hand and gently wrap it before talking to him about whatever it was that was going on. He would help him sort through the information overwhelming him.

But Hotch wasn’t there. And it was all his fault.

JJ and Morgan ran over to him. Reid wanted to push them away but found himself powerless to resist their coddling.

“Guys,” Garcia said, answering the call.

She let out a gasp. Hotch’s stomach was worse. There were more cuts on his leg. His face was covered in bruises. But there was something else that hadn’t been there before. A defiant, hopeful glint in his eyes. Like he knew something else now.

“Hello again,” Jonathan greeted.

Garcia immediately started trying to trace the call, not even hesitating to try thousands of other methods when it failed.

Reid pushed Morgan and JJ away, taking the seat next to Garcia to try and find the hidden message.

“I’ve trained Aaron very well,” Jonathan commented. He was holding a gun. Hotch’s gun. Hotch’s back-up gun he’d kept holstered against his ankle ever since Adrian Bale had left him defenceless.

Under the table, Reid fiddled.

“What are you?” Jonathan asked Hotch.

“A narcissist,” Hotch replied, but there was something different about the way he said it when compared to earlier. Reid leant forward, determined to work it out.

“What are you?” he asked again, now pointing the gun at his head. Reid felt bile rise in his throat. It must have been like that for everyone else, watching him with Hankel.

“A bully.”

“And?”

“A drill sergeant.”

“He doesn’t believe what he’s saying,” Reid shouted, then covered his mouth, just in case Jonathan heard. But he was too busy taunting Hotch with the negative things that had been said about him.

“What?” Rossi asked.

“Look at his body language. He doesn’t believe it anymore. Emily convinced him. We just need to work out where he is. If he knows we love him, he won’t do anything stupid.”

Garcia started typing even more furiously.

“Tell them again what you are. Let them savour the moment. Let them always remember this as the moment where Aaron Hotchner finally admitted how dreadful he was.”

“I’ve got a location!” Garcia whispered. Everyone looked at each other, then nodded. Finkelstein and his team would arrest Jonathan and get Hotch out. They would follow as soon as the call had ended.

“I’m a narcissist. A bully. A drill sergeant. A sexist prick. A failure. And I’m rude.”

“I suppose you get the smallest amount of credit for admitting it. But it’s not enough to say it. I want you to prove it. Choose one of them to die.”

Reid dug his nails into the fabric of his trousers.

Hotch’s eyes widened, and for the first time his confidence wavered. “What?”

“You heard me. If you’re truly all of these things, choose one to die. Choose one of those team members that hate you so much to die by your own gun.”

“Come on Hotch. Give us that message that tells us how to get you out safely,” Reid muttered to himself.

Hotch wasn’t answering.

“Wasn’t Agent Reid in a similar situation to this? And didn’t he say that he chose Aaron Hotchner? That must have hurt.”

“It’s Doctor,” Hotch responded, voice weak, the adrenaline waring off as he lost more blood and as his previous injuries went untreated.

“Oh god,” JJ said, the first to realise his mistake.

Hotch’s eyes widened.

Jonathan smirked. “Oh dear. Have you been lying to me? Are you not actually these things?”

“Finkelstein is three minutes away,” Rossi updated.

“I am!” Hotch exclaimed. His voice was hoarse, his eyes glazed over and unfocused.

“Then choose.”

“No.”

“My patience grows thin Aaron. Choose.”

“Two minutes,” Rossi said.

“Hotch please,” Reid pleaded. JJ rubbed his shoulder, just as tense.

“I can’t,” Hotch said, pain starting to overwhelm him as he tried too hard to think of a solution.

“Do it,” Jonathan said, fingers fiddling with the trigger.

“I choose myself,” Hotch said.

“No,” Reid whispered. “There has to be a message somewhere in there. He said: it’s doctor, but before that he said what and after that he said no and- there’s no message. Rossi there’s no message. What are we supposed to do?”

“Finkelstein is a minute away. Hotch will keep him talking. And then we’ll get him back. I promise.”

“Why? Why do you choose yourself, when your team hate you?” Jonathan was angry and holding a gun. A dangerous combination at the best of times. But Hotch had no weapon. No vest.

Restrained and already weakened by his injuries.

“Because they don’t,” Hotch said.

“Yes they do,” Jonathan said through gritted teeth.

“They just need our signal to go in,” Rossi said.

“I can’t make that call,” Morgan confessed.

Rossi looked at him. “We can’t afford to wait.”

“No, they don’t. Your team did though, didn’t they? And then you lost your job for all the bad things you did and ended up being the victim of a person that was exactly the same as you had been. Aren’t I right? You’re not exactly hard to profile, I’ve just been waiting for the right moment.”

“How fucking dare you-” Jonathan started, then sighed. “I want you to tell me. Tell me why it should be you and not one of them.”

Rossi turned away. “Now.”

“Because they are my family. I love them unconditionally. And they love me back. And when you love your family, you do everything you can to keep them safe.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“They’re your family? Who love you?”

Aaron used the last of his strength to look up into his captor’s eyes. “And I love them.”

Jonathan hmmed.

The gunshot that rang out was nothing compared to Reid’s cry of horror.

#morehotchcontent2020 #day two: whump #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch hotchner #hotch #hurt hotch #hotch angst #hotch whump #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #emily prentiss #prentiss #penelope garcia #garcia #david rossi #rossi #spencer reid #reid #derek morgan #morgan #jennifer jareau #jj

[mihidecet]

Sbi&CO d&d AU: A Familiar Face (1/?)

WELCOME WELCOME EVERYONE! Today, the tournament arc begins! I do hope you’ll enjoy this ahahah

I dedicate this to all the wonderful people of the Au’s Discord - hit me up if you wanna join! Also, a special thank you to @traitorous-bisexual and @awebo without whom this arc wouldn’t exist <3

Finally, before we start: make sure you check out @whatimevendoinhere , @spout1nk and (soon) @julius-ranch for art and fanfics about the AU!!

It was a lovely morning. 

The sun shined through the tinted windows, turning the light a soft orange glow that lessened the glare of it against his eyes. 

It was a welcome respite: during the months that involved preparing the tournament, days were quick to melt together, nights becoming just darker afternoons as Scott and everyone around him hurried to make everything look ready for the contestants' arrival. So, not having the sun shine directly into his eyes as he looked over the final challenges that had been chosen for the tournament was a relief. The cup of warm tea by his desk was also a saving grace.

Stifling a yawn, Scott figured that he could let himself take a stroll. Maybe open up his window, let the room freshen up a bit. 

With his window overlooking one of the many parks inside the Academy, maybe he could distract himself for a moment and see if his protege had finally started warming up to his teammates. 

That plan had flown out of the window almost immediately. Or maybe it would be better to say that it had flown into the window, along with a green tipped arrow that had suddenly appeared in his field of vision. 

Now, Scott hasn't been adventuring for a while, but it would be foolish to think that he's forgotten how the world works - with a flick of his wrist, a translucent dome of purple arcane energy materializes between him and the incoming arrow, which impacts with the barrier a split second later. The tip goes through, piercing the veil of his magic, and for a terrifying moment Scott thinks it's not gonna stop, but it simply stops, held in place as if caught in a web. 

Which is a relief, the amateur that tried to attack him - an Archmage, in the middle of his own Academy - failed to get their first shot in and this will give him the time to step back and call his most trusted in order to quickly and efficiently get rid of the problem at hand. He has other more pressing matters to attend to, he's not going to waste his time on this. 

As his Shield spell fades, it congeals like a shimmering second skin over his upper arm. Maybe calling the guards isn't that pressing, he's got this. 

Or maybe he doesn't, he thinks as he get a second, much more terrifying surprise - in the span of a couple of seconds, he really can get no breaks.

A figure materializes in the air in front of him, with a dark hood over their head that covers most of their features except for a huge - terrifying - grin and an intricate bow strapped to their back.

The figure appears with a puff of iridescent smoke, crouched in the air as if they'd been in the process of jumping before they decided to teleport, and- crashes into him, the force of the impact and the shock of it happening making him lose his balance and start falling back. 

There's a moment where Scott is confused: is this some sort of strange tactic? Did the stranger misjudge their trajectory? Are they going to wrestle on the ground as if they weren't both magic users? 

Then, a brief split second of panic - he didn't look what the stranger was holding, and he is currently falling on his back. He is going to get stabbed, at the very least, and that conviction is only made stronger as he feels the stranger's arms close in around him. 

But then, Scott has simply enough time to blink in shock, as the arms just wrap around his back, before his world is literally turned upside down.

One moment he is falling on his back, already anticipating the pain of a knife to the back - please no vital organs, spare him the need for an extremely expansive healer. The next the is wrapped in a hug and grunting in pain as his knees impact with the ground. 

"Ah, fuck that hurt- Scotty are you alright?" 

Scott refuses to believe this. He pushes against the chest under him - the arms give, letting him go - and finds himself face to face with a sight that is both very familiar and weirdly unusual. 

"You-" Scott says, tone an unconvincingly mix of menacing and angry as he jabs a finger into the not-so-stranger's chest -"Are lucky to be alive. I could have murdered you."

Hbomb's worried glance instantly brightens, despite Scott's best hopes, and he throws his head back to laugh. No matter how irritated he is at his friend, he can't help but huff out a laugh himself, and a moment later they're both chuckling together on the floor. By all the gods, it has been some time.

"You are a dumbass, H. You couldn't just use the door? You know, like a normal person?!" Scott asks, holding himself up on his left elbow because H has always been one to laugh with his whole body and Scott is still recovering from jamming his knees into the floor, he's not in the mood to be jostled around by an enthusiastic ranger. 

"Aw, Scotty, aren't you happy to see me?" The half-elf asks, putting a hand on his chest as he fails to pretend he's insulted. Scott flicks his nose. 

"Ah- that hurt!"

"I know, I meant it to hurt. Now, do you want to tell me what you're doing here? And what is that doing on your face?" Scott demands, serious at first until he realises that H has been growing out his beard well past what he considers to be a good length - H's pout is barely visible under all that scruff.

"Well, now, that is unnecessarily rude. I've been traveling for a while now, and I wasn't gonna risk injuring myself-" Scott grabs a wandering hand and brings it back on H's chest. 

"H." Hbomb has a tendency of gesticulating when his hands aren't being kept busy, and while he did figure that his friend had simply forgotten to shave, he has known him long enough to be able to recognise when H is going off on a tangent - which is perfectly fine - and when he's changing the subject because he doesn't want to answer. 

He knows he's right when H simply shuts up, eyes wide like those of a deer - quite fitting, considering where he enjoys spending most of his time. But instead of looking pensive, or starting to answer, H just … looks down. At where their hands are. 

Normally, he wouldn't think much of it. But H looks almost sheepish, and his eyes keep moving from his face to their hands, so Scott looks down. 

His brain screeches to a halt, and suddenly he stands up a little straighter, sitting on the floor next to H as he grabs his hand in his. 

Around his fingers wraps a perfect replica of a silver winged fae dragon, while in his palm- one of the most accurate representations of the different Planes. 

Scott turns his stare to his fiend, who looks more calm than Scott feels he has any right to, and when he speaks he sounds almost breathless. 

"What happened to you?"

The tale of how Shubble's patron reached out to him to grant him powers is exhilarating. Not in the "funny" sense, more in the "my friend who is usually not that fond of talking and interacting with people especially when he's not in a place he is familiar with, was transported to a different plane and spoke with a being of transcendent power". So maybe a bit in the "funny" sense. 

The only negative side of the whole affair is the fact that Shubble is currently not present. 

She actually teaches at the Academy, so H was right in his assumption that reaching this place would have helped him out, but he just barely missed her by a couple of weeks. She's recently left, called out on an urgent mission by her patron themselves, and a part of Scott's mind can't help but feel like it is an extremely weird coincidence: he respects power gained through pacts, but he fears deeply the machinations of otherworldly beings' minds and the power they hold over his friends. He'd much prefer dealing with forces controlled by his own self, so that when a spell backfires comically he only has himself to blame. 

But all things considered, he's glad to see H is still alive and seemingly doing better than ever. He looks fine, happy and more confident than the last time he saw him - the way he stands and moves more firm, more secure, filling his space in a way the Hbomb of some time ago wouldn't have. 

It's nice to see him like this. 

What isn't nice is the way his increased confidence leads him to suggest how good of an idea it would be for him to take part into the tournament. Which is a horrible idea. 

"Listen, I know I am banned from playing again-" H starts, arms spread open with a mischievous grin on his face. Scott has sudden flashbacks to all the times he'd seen that grin from the other side of the battlefield and shakes his head firmly before pointing a stern finger at his chest.

"You still have a year before you can." 

H huffs, shoulders falling, and he adopts the most fake-innocent expression Scott has ever seen. 

"But I'm just here to say hi!" Scott levels him with a blank stare, using all of his willpower and internal strength to avoid bursting out laughing. Because for all that his friend's expression is hilarious, this is really no laughing matter. He can't have him win again. 

"I said what I said." H's head hits the desk with a groan of protest. 

On the other side of the table, Scott pinches his own arm in order not to laugh. 

He fails.

H still manages to pout his way into getting a free room to stay in for a while - just like the old times, come on! - and seems to be alright with being left to his own devices for the rest of the morning. 

Knowing him, he'll take it as the perfect chance to snoop around, make new friends and bother the tournament's contestants. 

As Scott turns back to his schematics, the only thing he does is chuckle to himself. 

#sbi&co dnd au #sbi dnd au #hbomb94 #smajor1995 #tournament arc

[bunnylouisegrimes]

The Ex-orcist (Put Me Out) (NOS4A2 Fanfic)

(A/N: Ah! Finally! A fanfic! It felt nice to write after being so busy! Be warned that this story is dark, makes nods to Charlie’s trauma, etc, but it’s got some humor in it. Hope you all enjoy this wild rollercoaster ride!)

@fae-sedai @wraith-of-christmas-future @peculiarparasol

The Ex-orcist (Put Me Out)

By: Bunny Louise Grimes

The moment I woke up, something was wrong. But I didn’t realize that I should’ve taken it seriously until it was too late.

When I woke up, I felt panicked. I felt as if I either woke up from a nightmare or something was going on in the room that jolted me awake. But there was no such thing. My dream was mindless and actually peaceful (something about me in Pony Land near the Dream Castle while Firefly and Medley zip past and Twilight offered me a ride). The room was damn near dead silent. The windows and turned off lights ensured the room was so dark, it was almost creepy.

I rubbed my eyes and stretched my body out. I rolled over and noticed Charlie’s light snoring as he slept soundly. His slicked back black hair looked a bit messy and fluffed up thanks to the pillows. His deep brown eyes were lightly clamped shut. His yellow-tinted sharper teeth jutted out of his mouth in an overbite, causing him to breath in and out of his nose and mouth. His pale skin would make him look dead if he wasn’t breathing and snoring. His snoring was not loud, rather comforting, comparable to soothing background noise. His flat stomach and chest rose and fell with ease. His hands and arms were crossed over his chest as if he were slumbering in a coffin. He was still dressed in one of his silk Riddle McIntyre shirts and his suspenders from the day he hadn’t bothered to take off. All in all, he looked like he were in a pleasant dream he couldn’t leave and nobody could take from him.

I smiled at this sight, picturing whatever Christmas or horror themed dream he was experiencing. I wondered if I was there with him.

The feeling of fear I felt upon waking up had lifted from me and the urge to urinate took over. Rolling over, however, I began to notice just how creepy the room looked. Shadows seemed to move... oh, good Lord, don’t be shadow people... God, I hated them...

“It’s nothing,” I whispered to myself. “You always get this way when a room gives you the heebie-jeebies for no reason. Just go piss before you piss the bed!”

I pulled the warm covers off of me, exposing my legs and feet to the coolness of the room. The rest of my body was kept warm thanks to my nightgown covered in flowers, stars, and rainbows. I noticed that near the lamp next to me sat Kuchi Kopi, staring blankly at the wall. I grabbed him and turned him on by pressing his bottom compartment. The room flooded with a neon green.

Perfect, I thought. This should comfort me while I go do my business.

I gently got out of bed and tiptoed near the door so as to not wake up Charlie (although many times it happened anyways thanks to his sharp senses). I opened the door and it creaked lowly, making me cringe. When I flipped around, he had scratched his nose and rolled over, making small mumbles before going back to snoring. I sighed and continued to sneak out of the door and into the hallway.

I noticed that the white-yellow nightlight was still on, comforting me further. The whole house was still and silent, and my footsteps and his snoring from the room over were my only audible comforts.

I reached the bathroom, opened the door, and stepped inside, Kuchi Kopi’s light illuminating everything. I placed him on the sink, far away enough so that he wouldn’t fall over and get wet. After doing what I needed to do, I grabbed him again and walked back out, anticipating getting back to bed...

The rods in my eyes had to adjust to the total darkness in the hallway that jarred me. The nightlight was completely out. I didn’t understand how it had burnt out of all times but now, and how I didn’t notice, but I figured it was because I was focusing on Kuchi Kopi’s light rather than the light in the hallway. Still... how did it burn out?

An odd noise in front of me made me freeze and my blood turn to ice. I couldn’t explain it, but it sounded like a gargling and a grunting at once. Every few seconds, a deep and ghostly growl was heard. I managed to lift Kuchi Kopi up and I noticed that one of the spare bedroom doors was creaked open.

None of the other doors were open before.

I needed to see what it was. A large part of me told me to get Charlie, but the other part of me said, “Don’t be a pussy! It’s just an animal. You need to tell Charlie what animal it is. You’re gonna be fine as long as you don’t get too close.”

I walked as quietly and slowly as I possibly could, even moreso than I did moments ago when I was leaving the master bedroom. The noises got louder and louder, but I could tell it was only because I was getting closer to the source. It was unlike any sound I had ever heard. The more I heard it, the more I realized my mind and ears were not playing tricks on me. It wasn’t the flapping and squeaking of a bat or bats, it wasn’t the squeaking of mice or rats, it wasn’t the purring cooing sound of a raccoon... the realization of what it wasn’t after doing the process of elimination fully hit me. If it wasn’t any of these things... then what the hell was it? Should I even be attempting to see what it was?

I knew that by now, I had already reached the door. What would the point be in turning back now? I was already here, I should at least see what it was. A feeling of dread settled in my stomach and crawled into my heart, making it feel heavy and beat faster. I took a deep breath in through my nose, suspending it to summon the courage to peek into the room.

The first thing I noticed was a dark shadow in the upper corner of the ceiling. It was hanging there like a spider... that’s where the noises were coming from. My eyes went as wide as saucers, my heart pounded in my ears, and I thought I was going to let my urine go again.

The thought occurred to me: These sounds are not of this world. They are the sounds a possessed person makes when they’re battling the darker force inside of them.

Subconciously, my shaking arm somehow lifted Kuchi Kopi up to see this figure more clearly. I should’ve just ran... but I had no control over myself in this moment. I was too stunned and terrified to just run... so my brain decided I needed to do something else.

The green glow cast other shadows on the wall, much like in the master bedroom. I trailed up, revealing the figure was more than just inky black. It was... a woman.

She was wearing some sort of dusty orange-pink dress (perhaps from the 30’s?), with a basic floral design. Her bent legs were covered with stockings and her shoes were tipped at the end and old fashioned, clinging to the back wall and right wall. She was thin. Her fire red hair was medium length and wild, as if it hadn’t been brushed in quite a while. Her arms made her hands be pressed against the wall in a similar fashion to her legs and feet. From this, I could tell her skin was sickly pale, even more ill than Charlie’s pallor. Her face was towards the wall where she continued to make these noises, as if mumbling to herself in a rabid language only she understood.

I was nanoseconds away from stepping back when she stopped making her noises, making my rapidly beating heart drop into my stomach. The house was back to being dead still again. Could she hear me? Was she listening for me? Did she notice the green light? Did she notice the shadows? Could she smell me? Could she somehow sense me? Who was she? These thoughts screamed at me as I tried desperately not to rapidly gasp and let her hear me.

Not that it mattered in the end anyway, because a sickening cracking of her neck as her head found its way towards me filled the brief void of noise in the house. I couldn’t control the gasp that came from me and small jolt my body made when I saw her face...

Her wide green eyes looked glassy and empty, surrounded by hollow black holes, making her look even more sick than before. I could barely see the freckles directly under her eyes. I could finally notice her right neck and shoulder had a huge hole in them from where somebody had taken a large bite, causing exposed skin that had barely recovered and looked half scaled and half rotten. The left side of her face looked the same. Her lips were pried into a disgustingly large smile, and foam and drool pooled out of her mouth. Some sort of green-black bile dribbled down her chin and onto the floor. Her noises began again as she analyzed me.

Now, Charlie and the children were vampires. They were normally frightening, but never towards me. To their pedo victims, however, their eyes always had the look of victory and justice. A look of, “You hurt the innocent, so now you pay the price.” This woman held not that look, but the look of, “You are the innocent, and what I wouldn’t do to destroy you right here and now...”

Once our eyes locked for only a second, one name came to me, and I knew at once who was before me:

“Cassandra.”

She jumped down from the corner and landed on the floor with a loud THUD, making me jolt and gasp again. She looked like the perfect spider. Her head was still twisted as it was before, and she started crawling towards me at a steady pace.

I yanked the door shut with my spare hand and ran all the way down the hallway and back into the master bedroom, not caring how loud I was. A part of me was terrified of going back in there because a part of me wondered if Charlie was even in there and if I would somehow find myself faced with her, but I was relieved when I saw Charlie still lying in bed.

I pulled the master bedroom door shut, not taking any time to see if she was out in the hallway, locked it, turned on the lights, and dove into bed.

“Charlie! Charlie! Wake up! Please!” I begged, hyperventilating and shaking him awake.

Charlie jumped awake and shook his head, staring at me. “What? What?” He asked.

“Charlie-there-and-I-hallway-and-“

“Slow down,” he said, holding onto me tightly and gently at all once. “Take a deep breath. You’re freaking out and I can’t understand you.”

After about ten seconds of steadying my breathing enough, I spat out, “Charlie, your ex wife... Cassie, she’s... she’s in one of the spare bedrooms and she’s a demon! She came at me! I went to pee a few minutes ago and I heard these noises and she was there! Charlie please believe me! She’s gonna kill us! We have to kill her or get out of here-“

“Woah, what?” Charlie’s face went from pure concern and worry to one of slight panic mixed in. “My ex wife is demonic and outside our bedroom door? She’s in our house?”

“Yes!” I felt as though I was about to cry now. “Charlie, we need to do something!”

His eyes burned holes into the covers of the bed as he thought about what to do. I could tell the painful trauma he went through with her that was being dug out of him didn’t help him at all. “I don’t even know how it’s possible... why or how would she come back? And why is she demonic? Is this the work of another Creative? Is this a demon possessing her corpse? Is my mind subconsciously creating this?...” He rubbed his head. “I... I don’t know what we should do...”

Bravery swelled my heart as I walked over to a safe I kept in the corner of the room. I entered the code and opened it. “I’ll tell ya what we’re gonna do... we’re gonna kill a bitch tonight!”

I skimmed through my guns and tried to find a suitable one. “Okay... Thompson might be a bit much, don’t know how much we need to be Bonnie and Clyde, plus it might jam... sniper is for far away business... AR-15 might be too much too... CMMG Banshee... BAR is gonna be waaay too much... AUG is too much... Moisen Nagant, maybe... M1 Garand, Winchester rifle... Ah! Here’s my shotguns! These would work well and not fuck anything else up in the house as long as I’m a good aim! I’ll blast her face off! Now let’s see... Remington? Ooh! Never mind!” I pulled out a shotgun that was of course heavy, but suitable for a womanly figure. “This Mossberg Home Defense shotgun is perfect! But just for safe measure...” I slipped on a belt with a holster and got on my tiptoes, looking through my pistols. “Luger, Smith and Wesson Texas Ranger Commemorative Revolver? Definitely out of the question! That and the Bowie knife that comes with it are collectibles! Throwaway revolver that probably killed people before it was given to me? Ah, maybe, but that Dirty Harry shit is a pain in the ass, takes some force... Glock it is!” I pulled it down and loaded both my guns up. “That crazy bitch still out there, Charlie? I haven’t heard her.”

I looked up and noticed he was pressed against the door, trying to listen. “I can’t hear her... I can almost sense her, like she’s trying to hide from me, but I can’t tell where she is...” He looked at me, chilled to the bone. “Are you sure guns will work?”

“Well, we gotta try! We can’t just be weaponless! And you know what?” I walked over to the nightstand and pulled out a Saint Jude Rosary, pulling it over my neck. I grabbed a bag of holy salt and a bottle of holy water too. “We have more of these two in here, don’t worry. You hold these while I hold the guns. You’re gonna have to be my ears because I’m going to put earplugs on to protect my hearing. It’s bad enough guns can wreck your ears outside, but inside, it’s gonna be a lot worse. And I don’t have the ability to recover from any form of injury like you can.”

He flinched a bit at holding them. While he wasn’t harmed by holy items like other vampires, it did have some kind of effect on the darker side of his being. If anything, it was just a bit of discomfort.

I finished loading my guns up and took the safety off. “Alright, safety is off. I’m ready. Are you?”

We looked at each other with a mix of confidence and nervousness. “Yes, I’m ready.”

I put the earplugs on and we both tiptoed to the door, just as I had before. Charlie slowly opened the door and I aimed the shotgun, ready to blow her away. Cassie was nowhere in sight, to our surprise. We figured she was either playing hide and seek with us or still behind the door I closed. But how did she get into the house in the first place? Could she teleport? If so, why didn’t she lunge at me quicker? Why didn’t she teleport into our room? Because that would’ve been too easy and she wanted to give us a running start?

We continued to creep down the hallway. I pointed to the door of the room she was in. Charlie pressed his ears up to it. He shook his head to let me know she wasn’t in there anymore.

So she can teleport.

We continued to search through the hallway in each of the rooms. She was nowhere upstairs. We decided to search downstairs, but she was nowhere in the living room, dining room, or kitchen. We even peeked into the pantry.

The only place to look was the back room where the washer and dryer were. Exiting the kitchen, we opened the door and looked around the first part of the back room where the ironing board and some extra supplies were. We both froze when we heard rustling behind the door just beyond.

“She’s in there,” Charlie mouthed, pointing.

I nodded and readied the shotgun as we snuck over to the door. Charlie pressed his body to it, hand wrapped around the knob. He sighed with a look on his face as if he really didn’t want to open it up, but he knew he had to.

He swung open the door; it was comparable to ripping a band aid off. He flipped the lights on, revealing Cassie standing hunched over on the old washing machine and dryer. She flipped around to look at us with those evil eyes. She growled and hissed, as if defending her territory (but we all know it wasn’t hers).

Her growling and hissing quickly melted into a full scream, causing me to pull the trigger. A loud BOOM exploded into the room, alongside her face. Her face looked as though someone had run over it with a train. Blood and flesh splattered on the walls and her dress. Still... she didn’t go down. She cocked her head in curiosity and giggled inhumanly.

“What?” I sputtered. I shot her again, another explosion filling the room and strong force from the gun almost knocking me to the ground. More blood and flesh went everywhere and destroyed more of her face, making it look even more terrifying. Still... she didn’t go down. She continued to stand there as if nothing had happened.

“The salt! The water!” I screamed at Charlie.

He threw huge amounts of the holy salt and water at her. She writhed in pain as they both caused her flesh in various areas to burn and fumes of smoke to rise... yet she laughed her sick laugh, having a delightful time.

“Throw more!” I yelled. “Don’t stop!”

He continued to throw more. Bright red-orange-yellow boils formed out of the smoky burns and burst, making more blood trail down her sickly skin. She still laughed, unfazed by this.

“In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth and whatever God that may be His Father, in Their Holy Name, get the fuck out of our house!” I screeched at the top of my lungs.

This made her laugh even harder. I understood now: she was laughing at our attempts to get rid of her using weapons and holy objects and mentions. Did they not work? Was she beyond that?

“I’m running low on salt and water!” Charlie yelled loud enough for me to hear him through my earplugs.

“Throw it all onto her face! We have more upstairs!” I cried.

He prepared himself to get close to her, really not up for it. But he came through anyways. He ran towards her. Despite her swinging her arms at him, he threw the last of the bag and dumped the last of the water at her. The liquid dripped down what remained of her face and the salt formed a small chalk cloud around it. Burns and boils spawned everywhere, bursting pus and blood at different intervals. She cackled like a Hyena straight from the depths of Hell. Her face was beyond recognition, but I could tell that smile remained. Her eyes still kept their empty gaze on us.

“She’s not going down...” I breathed. “How the fuck is she not going down?! What the fuck do we do now?!”

“Do we pray? Will prayer work?” Charlie asked loudly.

“It’s worth a try.”

“I know the Lord’s Prayer.”

“Let’s try that!”

We recited it together to the best of our ability. The whole time, we focused our energy on her, even closing our eyes. willing her to leave and picturing light boiling her away. We even added in our own lines into the prayer. But instead of melting or recoiling back, we heard her slowly sliding down the washer and dryer, making gargling laughing noises.

By the time we finished the prayer and opened our eyes, she was mere feet from us, on her hands and knees. What made us shocked was that the blood on the wall, the flesh... it was all gone, and her face was in the middle of repairing itself. She let out a throaty banshee cry.

I shot the center of her chest near her heart (if not directly on her heart). This time, the blood and flesh sprayed on the floor, and she was jolted back a bit, but within seconds, her missing muscle, integument, and blood trailed back up her body. We noticed something off as her body repaired itself. As the injury was sealing shut, a glowing flash of static energy emitted from the hole in her chest before disappearing entirely when it was healed, as if nothing had happened. The sight of the static made Charlie’s legs quiver like barren tree branches in the cold wind.

“She’s a creature of the static!” I could hear him cry. “No wonder what we do doesn’t work! She’s only weakened for a few moments by what we do! She was in the back of my mind for so long... she must’ve gained the strength to escape to kill us all!”

While Charlie was crying out his realization, she looked at him the whole time with a curious and demented gaze. She panted like a dog with wide eyes and a disgusting smile.

“What does that mean?!” I cried myself.

“We have to find where I buried her body back in my inscape! What we do from there depends on the circumstance!”

She burst into laughter, as if she knew we couldn’t do anything, and anything that what we would be attempting to do would be stupid and worthless. Her feminine cackling was mixed with throaty sickness and reverberating deepness. Her eyes gained the glint of possession and control as she looked at Charlie. She wanted to make him hers again. She would do anything to get her hands on him to break his soul in ways she was unable to do when she was a bitter and abusive human woman during the Depression.

“Are you sure?!”

“I feel it inside of me, yes!” Charlie called back.

We had stepped back so far as she continued to crawl towards us that we were nearing the kitchen. She paused and swatted her hand to my Mossberg’s barrel. Instinctively, I shot her hand clean off. She flinched a bit, but she analyzed the missing body part in wonder, especially as blood came spurting out of her wrist like a fountain. But within moments, the blood pooled back into her body and she grabbed the destroyed hand with her other, twisting it back on her arm. The same static flash sewed her hand back in place before it returned to its normal appearance. She rose from her hands and knees, her gaze returning from her hand, staring and smiling directly at us with a look that read, “Now, where were we?”

She growled for only a second or two before she came charging at me. Also by instinct, I shot her leg where my shotgun was aimed. She fell down and her head hit the floor, but she erupted into her distinct laughter, especially as she raised her head to look at me again. She twisted her leg into place and the flash yet again healed her destroyed patella bone. Not even a shot near her femoral artery was enough to bring her down.

I wanted to shoot her again, even if I knew it was useless, but I realized my shotgun felt lighter, and empty clicks greeted me. I had used all five bullets the shotgun took. I was out of ammo in my Mossberg.

Before I could even think about reaching for my Glock, she had charged at me and threw me down. She managed to knock my burning hot, smoky and empty shotgun out of my hands and it slid across the floor of the kitchen. I screamed as she held me down with superhuman force. Her terrifying face met mine. Despite all the injuries it took moments before, the scars that lined the side of it, her neck and her shoulder all remained. They must’ve been permanent marks that would last for all of eternity thanks to the moment of her death.

“Charlie! Help me!” I squealed like a pig about to be butchered.

“Charlie! Help me!” She mimicked me in her voice, although I could hear there was a bit of my voice within hers.

I remember watching a Ghost Adventures episode many years before when I was a little kid. It was some special they had where they went back to the first location they had gone to when their show started, and they invited 100 fans to join them. The place was haunted by demons, and they captured mimicking of their voices in EVP recordings. It was later explained when they went to the location for the third time by a bishop that they had a friendship with that demons liked to mimic to mess with people’s minds. I had no doubts that if whatever was within Cassie was demonic, she would be mimicking my voice in some capacity to mess with everyone. Plus, it suited her personality when she was human. She loved to mess with and break Charlie’s mind, despite him doing everything for her, just to abuse him and control him. Why would that go away in her afterlife, especially if she was possessed by something that craved that evil and would want to use it to its advantage?

I tried to reach for my Glock, but she had my body pressed down against the kitchen floor too tightly. The horrifying thought of my kidneys bursting against the pressure, causing water, urea, ammonia, blood, and any other needed material that was to be cleansed out of my body bursting out of my flesh and congealing on the tiles filled my mind. I wanted to scream at this vivid image, but the thoughts occurred to me that this was Cassie’s doing. She was filling my head with these thoughts to get a reaction out of me. Maybe she was even feeding off of it, just as she fed off the pain of her husband years ago.

“Stupid bitch,” she hissed, her voice making goosebumps pop all over my skin. “Stupid short fat bitch. Die, you writhing insect. Die and-“

WHAM! Charlie smacked the butt of my empty shotgun against her face and knocked her back and off of me. The back of her head hit the floor and I took advantage of that moment to scurry away. Charlie tried to hold her down, but her upper half rose like Dracula out of his coffin, forcing Charlie to step back for a moment so his head wouldn’t smack into hers. Her head craned towards him and she pulled him towards her by grabbing onto his arm. My hand frantically pawed for my Glock in my holster as I still lied on my back on the floor.

She stared straight into Charlie’s eyes, speaking up in her voice, this time my mimicked voice not present.

“You drained me of my youth, Charles. You and those little shits of daughters. You made me this monster. You took away all my joy and happiness. You brought this upon yourself.”

“Shut up!” He roared, trembling to his very core from anger and fear. “You abused me! Nothing I did was enough for you! All you did was use me for free labor and to take out all your anger on me! The same for your own children! You were always a monster! It was you, alongside everyone else who hurt me in life, who made us vampires! You were a huge part of a large puzzle that created me! Don’t deny it!”

My sweaty and shaking hand finally lifted the gun from the holster and attempted to aim it at Cassie.

“Now you think you can come back and terrorize me and my new woman?!” Charlie demanded. “Think again! I may be Nosferatu, but it will be you who’s dead by sunrise!”

She giggled, her eyes and tongue bulging out of her head as if she was suffering from some sort of thyroid issue. I shot her head, but the blood splashed out and retreated back into the wound within seconds. She didn’t even flinch or react to this, just kept her eyes and grip on Charlie. She spoke up once more.

“Very cute, Charles. It’s almost as adorable as you flailing about when I threw that oil lamp at you. Do you remember your best coat and hair on fire? You looked so funny! My sisters and I loved to laugh at you! Remember?” I shot her in the head again twice, but just like the first shot, it was useless.

“Put me out! Put me out!” She mocked Charlie, just as she did when she was alive and human, but this time, she could actually mimic his voice. Her voice slowly rose from a mix of her own and his to his voice entirely. “Put me out! Put me out!”

“Silence, you soulless ginger haired bitch!” Charlie roared.

I popped a few rounds into her face, arm, chest, and stomach, but they were all useless.

Her voice suddenly changed to my voice entirely. “How could I ever be with you, Charlie? I used to be so young and happy before you. Now I’m dead and drained because of you, you gross vampire.”

This struck a deep cord with him. “Rose would never say that! Leave her out of this! She’s nothing like you and never will be!”

“I’m not now, Charlie. But wait till I grow older,” Cassie continued in my voice. “I’ll shed those yellow chick feathers and they’ll become that bitter brown because of you. It’s your curse in life. From Mommy Manx to Princess Cassie to Jolene to every other woman in your life. Like King Midas’s touch, except instead of turning to gold, you drain women of everything good. You’ll die alone one day. Your immortality is not absolute. You will die without a wife and those kids will die without a mother. Face it, Charles. I’m just like the rest. You thought Cassie and Jolene were different too... But I am one of many...”

“Like hell I am, you man beater!” I screamed. “Quit projecting your own bullshit and using my voice! Keep my voice out of your larynx and quit using your shitty words with it!”

She ignored me and got close in Charlie’s face. I finished popping the last of my fifteen rounds into her brain, but still, nothing worked. She beamed at his fear filled eyes and the trauma that lay behind them. Her voice became that of a man’s I had never heard before.

“When you go to Hell, I’ll be sure to have my fun with you once again, Manx boy...”

I threw the Glock straight at her head. She must’ve had enough, because she pulled away from Charlie and threw him back against the wall. He was hyperventilating and sweat poured from every crevice. Using the voice of his childhood rapist was enough to put him in this state.

“Enough you bitch!” She growled, her voice returning to her own. She threw herself back on top of me, the earplugs falling off and landing on the floor. Not that I had much use for them without ammo in my guns. I could hear her rattling breathing and voice much more clearly. “I’ll see to it your soul is raped of any essence of itself in Hell alongside his! Wait your turn!”

“Eat my ass, you psycho cunt! You’re nothing but a spoiled control freak brat who’s daddy gave her everything. You’re just mad you can’t control your kids and Charlie anymore. You’re mad because I’m a better woman than you ever were and I’m not even rich like you. I’m a better mother to your kids and they love me more than they ever loved you. You’re a joke! You hear me? Your own kids turned on you and ate you! That’s why you look even uglier than you did before! It’s a reflection of the damage you caused your husband and kids! But now they’re mine! You’ll never have them back! Go back to Hell where you belong and stay there, Cassandra!”

I managed to lift my Saint Jude rosary up and slammed it against her neck where her voice box was. It burned and sizzled her neck, leaving a burn mark. She screeched in fury, but before she could tear her teeth into my jugular or face, Charlie ripped her off of me and wrapped his fingers around her freshly burnt neck, strangling her.

“All of this pain you caused me is enough, but you will not try to use my other experiences against me,” he spoke lowly before erupting into a yell. “Stay out of our heads and stay out of our lives! Die again!”

Cassie squirmed and giggled, as if he were tickling her rather than strangling her. I took this chance to grab his Wraith’s keys from the coat hanger in the dining room. I ran back to him and held onto his back. “Come on, Charlie! We have to get out of here! It’s not working! We need to leave!”

After a few seconds of clinging to his death grip on her, he finally loosened and grabbed onto me. Cassie didn’t miss a beat and snapped her jaw at one of my tendons. I screamed, but Charlie picked me up just in time before she could rip it apart with her mandibles. He took off running and held me close to him. He unlocked the door and threw it open. She began to crawl towards us again, but we slammed the door shut behind us and took off running towards the barn where the Wraith sat, waiting for another ride.

The night air felt cool and healing on our sweaty bodies, and dark clouds sat above, eyeing us. I clung to Charlie for dear life and sputtered out, “I’m so sorry for everything she did to you and everything else that happened to you. I love you so much and I would never hurt you with any intent.”

“I know, I know,” he gasped. “And I appreciate that deeply. I thank you for all of eternity, and I will love you too for all of eternity, but don’t make it sound like goodbye. We’re going to finish this bitch once and for all!”

The doors of the barn swung open and he set me down. We ran to the Wraith’s doors, who opened for us with human eagerness. It was as if she was saying, “Need an escape? Don’t fear! I’m here!”

We dove into our respective seats, closing the doors behind us. Charlie fumbled with the keys before putting them in the ignition. The engine purred to life, a calming hum that put both our hearts to ease, a familiarity that could settle one down when panic was an appropriate response to a situation.

He put the Wraith in gear and pulled back out of the barn at speeds I didn’t think were possible for a car that was designed to only go 80 miles an hour maximum. Before he could pull out of the driveway, a large THUD distrupted us. We screamed at Cassie sitting on the hood, that foam, drool, and bile from when I first saw her dribbling out of her open mouth, ready to bite. Her eyes were wide in an impossible way.

“I’ll skin you both alive and fuck your skulls until your souls are mine!” She rasped.

The Wraith, as if reacting on her own, flipped her hood up and knocked Cassie down onto the gravel. Without Charlie’s control, the Rolls lurched forward and backward over Cassie’s body, flattening her like a pancake. The car did this for twenty seconds straight. It pulled back after the twenty seconds were up and through the headlights, we saw Cassie laying flat on the ground.

Without even thinking, it was my turn to burst into laughter. I laughed and I laughed, then Charlie started laughing. It was something straight out of Airplane or Monty Python. The fact the car had a mind of her own and was willing to fight Cassie too had us rolling. Not even the Wraith, a car, liked Cassie, and was willing to run over her. It was hilarious.

Our laughter, no matter how mad and brief it was, was cut off by Cassie raising her head. That sick smile was gone, and in its place was the most terrifying frown and set of hateful eyes you could possibly imagine.

“No more games!” She growled. “Get ready to die!”

We floored it down the driveway and onto the road. Charlie focused his mind on the static to get to the Saint Nick Parkway as quickly as possible to find where he buried Cassie’s body. I peaked into the rear view mirror and saw Cassie sprinting at us on all fours like a rabid wolf chasing after the car. Before she could reach us, a flash of static consumed the car like lightning. The sky became filled with snow and stars, and the scene became familiar: we were in Charlie’s mind.

I sighed and pressed my head against the cool glass of the car’s window. Charlie focused solely on driving now, trying to remember where he placed Cassie’s corpse. I dared not bother him, as his face read total dedication and if I disrupted him, he would’ve most likely snapped without even meaning to.

After a few minutes, we pulled up to a small little forest of barren trees. He finally spoke up.

“This is where I buried her.”

We stepped out of the car and the doors closed behind us. Without my proper clothes, I was freezing. Even though Charlie didn’t bring his coat or shoes, his body temperature dictated he was fine. We searched throughout the trees until one stood out to us.

“Good God...” Charlie breathed.

The tree was taller than all the rest and black, with glowing red cracks crawling all throughout it. Its limbs were sharp like knives. It stood out like an infection amongst all the white snow and other normal trees. Beneath its base was an empty, dug up grave.

“Just as I thought... Her dark energy must’ve created this when it filled some of the voids in the static...” he mumbled. “Brought her back to life...”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Her voice made us recoil as she came out from behind the trunk. “Just like your Wraith, it’s my object of power. It’s supplied me with so much energy, it’s made me impossible to kill. After I’m done killing you two, your precious Christmasland will be easy to gain control over once I take possession of that Phantom. Those little shits’ souls will belong to me, and I will turn your goulish theme park from one of fun to one of fun... for only me!” She gave a series of maniacal laughter.

If this tree is like his Wraith... that must mean...

An idea occurred to me as I rushed back to the car. Charlie stayed where he stood, paralyzed in fear. Cassie leaned in and stared daggers into him.

“Give in, Charles... it’s taken me all these years, but just like when we were together... I always won and got what I want in the end... now, prepare to watch your world melt into static to my own desires... not even your own mind belongs to you anymore... just like daddy told me... everything I want is mine, and if not... there will always be a way for me to have it all.”

“Your daddy was wrong, cunt,” I called. “Tell him that when you see him in Hell.”

She looked up as I lit an oil lamp I grabbed from the trunk of the car on fire. Her face went from one of smugness and delight to the one she had when she watched the husband and kids she abused become vampires about to turn on her: one of pure fear and horror.

“No... no! Get that away! Get that away!” She cried. She backed away from Charlie, about to approach me...

Too late.

I threw the lamp at the tree. The black bark exploded into flames. Mixed with the red cracks in it, the tree became nothing but a bright red light. Cassie fell to her knees screaming like a toy with dying batteries in agony. Her whole body was melting, like the Wicked Witch of the West did when water splashed on her (although, it was quite ironic given that it was fire this time).

Cassie continued to scream. “Put me out! Put me out!” She screeched. Her integumentary, muscular, and skeletal systems became jelly. Every organ melted into soupy liquid. Every nerve and cell burst. Her green eyes pooled onto the snow in boiling liquid, and a similar liquid (most likely her brain) oozed from her ears and nose. Her red hair fell in clumps. The liquid poured out of her mouth, causing her screaming to die down and became nothing but the odd liquid dripping out of her. Most likely, it was her innards filling her and rising out. She fell entirely to the ground. This went on for a full minute.

The flames of the tree died down just as her screams had and it fell to the ground the same time she had, the water from the snow preventing it from spreading and causing a forest fire. By then, the tree was nothing but a husk of smoke and dead wood, and Cassie was nothing but an empty, flattened, liquified and lifeless corpse. Her life was snuffed out just as the tree’s flames were by the snow.

I grabbed onto Charlie’s hand, leaning into him, as if to tell him, “She can’t hurt us anymore... she won’t hurt them... she can’t hurt you anymore...”

“Put me out... Put me out...” Charlie whispered suddenly, a smile forming on his lips, his overbite jutting out, his eyes gleaming with victory. “Put me out... Put me out...”

#nos4a2 #charlie manx #charles manx #nos4a2 charlie

[one-boring-person]

Quite Some Trick.

Dwayne (The Lost Boys) x reader

Warnings: light injuries

Context: this is based off a post that @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic reblogged a few days ago, as well as being a sort of request thing for @browneyes528 , seeing as they mentioned that they would like to see a Dwayne fic about his skating, so here you go!

A/N: I did some research for this, because I'm not the most knowledgeable when it comes to skating terms and that, so I hope it's not too inaccurate.💛💛

Masterlist.

Exhilaration courses through me as I kick off the platform, allowing the skateboard below me to roll onto the sloped surface as I lean with it, keeping my balance as much as possible, gritting my teeth as I try to make myself as aerodynamic as I can in the process. My speed picks up at a high rate as the wheels carry me down the smooth decline, air rushing around me, my hair blowing out behind me from under my helmet as I hit the trough of the half-pipe, transitioning easily into another vert up the other side, my body titlting backwards as the board carries my legs upwards, though I quickly correct myself, triumph flooding me as I pop off the top. Once in the air, I grab the board in one hand and twist, managing to force myself round as the blood rushes to my head, gritting my teeth as I realise I'm too close to the deck to pull it off completely. In a split second, I've righted myself in time to hit the vert again, absorbing the impact by bending my knees a little, feeling a little disappointed as I control the descent, and corresponding ascent again, briefly grabbing the board as I lift off the top again, not getting enough air to do anything properly, before returning to the pipe again, halting on the opposite deck.

Chewing my lip, I try to catch my breath, leaning my skateboard against my leg as I lean back against the railing, waiting my turn again as the other skaters move up into line, a guy on skates taking my place at the front. In my head, I evaluate the trick and where it went wrong, knowing it's all down to height and velocity, deciding on what to do next time round, pulling my gloves on further as I make it known I'm in line. As I wait, I look around the skatepark, marvelling at some of the other tricks being pulled off everywhere, wincing as I see someone bail out of a 180 and land on their back, the impact looking painful despite that fact that they instantly stand and get back on their board. Oddly, I find my eyes drawn to them, their long dark hair unkempt as they skate back up to a deck a little way away, the skater turning so that I can see his face.

Somehow, his dark eyes find mine, an eyebrow raising as I feel my jaw drop: he's stunning. His skin is a warmer tanned colour, his toned chest bare beneath the leather jacket he's wearing, his muscles tensing whenever he pushes off, my eyes following his every movement. He's a very proficient skater, despite his fall a couple of minutes ago, the tricks he's pulling off putting some of the veteran skaters around here to shame in their fluidity, the sight of him skating around the skatepark mesmerising to watch, so much so that I nearly miss my turn.

Rolling my shoulders, I tear my eyes away from the dark-haired skater, balancing on my board briefly as I eye the half-pipe ahead of me, trying to spot any snakes or other lines. Upon finding none, I kick off, being sure to give myself as much power as I can as I speed down the slope, crouching slightly. This time round, I move with the board as it enters the climb, giving myself much more air when I pop off the top, allowing me time to grab the board and completely invert myself I start to drop again. Using my momentum, I pull the board around, my body righting itself again in time to hit the ramp again, triumph and pride flaring up in me as I realise I've just pulled off the trick I've been working on for hours. Unfortunately, this means I'm too distracted to notice I've gone over the top of the opposite side, the board flying away from my feet as I fall backwards, brief dread replacing the triumph as I allow myself to crash back to earth. Pain erupts in my back as I connect, harshly, with the concrete, my helmet and elbow pads cracking violently against the hard surface before I lie still, not trusting myself to get up, even though I know I should move, aware that I'm obstructing another skater.

In my haze, I barely register that someone is offering me their hand until they lean down slightly, face coming into view - the brunette from earlier. Eyes widening in embarrassment, I shoot him a small, grateful smile and take his proffered hands allowing him to pull me to my feet again, catching me when I stumble forwards a bit, still a little disorientated, my face bright red as I search for my board, only to find it lying few metres away, beside the skater's one.

"Thank you." I mumble out, picking my way over to my board, still mortified that he saw me fall like that, especially after finally managing to pull off a 360.

"No problem. That was quite some trick you just did." He compliments, smiling at me as he follows, checking me over for any serious injuries; thankfully there are none, but my cocyx and back will be sore for days maybe weeks, though my pride will recover much more quickly, especially after remembering that my saviour fell earlier on.

"You think so?" I question, surprised at his words.

"Yeah, it looked really smooth. You done it before?" He confirms, offering his hand again after a second, this time for me to shake, "I'm Dwayne by the way."

Gingerly, I take it, his skin icy underneath my bare fingertips, the frigidity seeping in through the fabric of my gloves.

"I'm (Y/n), nice to meet you. That was my first time actually managing to get the full way round. I messed up the ending, though, so it wasn't that much of a success."

"Ah, well, these things take practice. I can help you out if you want?" He offers, lifting an eyebrow in questioning.

"Are you sure? I'm nowhere near as good as you, I'd just be annoying to have around." I muse, recalling the elegant ease in which he skates, as if he's had decades of practice, even though he only looks twenty or younger.

"Of course! I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it. And I've seen you skate, you're not half as bad as you make yourself out to be." He confirms, smiling at me as we seat ourselves on the edge of one of the sections of the large bowl, having checked for other skaters before doing so.

"You think so?"

"I do."

"Well, thank you, I guess. I'll take you up on the offer, if you don't mind. I've been trying to get that trick for months." I agree, smiling back at him, realising I'm enjoying his company.

"I look forward to it, but first I think you should rest a bit, especially after your fall." Dwayne advises, gesturing to the rapidly forming bruises on my elbows.

"Yeah, I guess I should." I agree, inspecting the ugly purple marks, "Wanna get something to eat? I think I'm done here for today."

"Sure, let's go." The brunette accepts, climbing to his feet before helping me up again, the two of us swiftly skating from the skatepark. My pace is slower than normal, but I manage to keep up with the taller skater anyhow, the two if us continuing to talk as we go, pulling up in front of a stall selling food just a little way away from the Boardwalk. We order some chips and water, heading over to the wall separating the beach and the pavement in order to sit and eat, the two of us content to just chew our food in companipnable silence. As we finish, we start up the conversation again.

"So how long have you been skating for?" Dwayne inquires, looking over at me curiously.

"A few years now. My parents never really liked the idea of me doing it, so it took some time to convince them." I inform him, picking at the hem of my shorts a little.

"Why?"

"Well, they thought I should do a "real" sport, you know? Apparently skating is not good enough for them."

"They should watch you sometime, they'd change their minds immediately." Dwayne shrugs, my eyes straying to his bare chest as I notice his toned muscles moving under the tanned skin.

"I doubt I could get them anywhere near a skateboard, let alone a skatepark." I chuckle bitterly, sighing in frustration at the thought of my parents and their old-fashioned views, "How about you? How long have you been skating?"

Oddly, he looks a little hesitant to reply, seemingly considering his answer in his head before giving it.

"Since I first laid eyes on a board, I guess. I fell in love with the idea." He finally says, running a finger over the line of his board with a proud smile on his face, "I've had this board ever since I started."

"You've never broken a board?! How?!" I exclaim, recalling the three times I've snapped a board in half after going over a ramp too quickly, or by trying to skate down a flight of steps.

"I don't known I guess I'm just too careful." He laughs, looking over at me again.

Behind us, a few shouts of his name draw our attention, the skater's shoulders visibly sagging as he spots someone in the crowd, my own eyes swiftly finding them.

"You know them?" I ask him carefully, wary of offending him or his group of biker friends, the platinum blonde clearly eyeing me up from across the Boardwalk.

"Yeah, they're my brothers. I've gotta go, but I'll see you at the skatepark again tomorrow? At eight?" He affirms, looking slightly frustrated.

"Sure, I'll be there. It was nice meeting you, Dwayne."

'It was nice meeting you, too." He responds, smiling at me as he gets up, skating away from me with a quick goodbye, a small feeling of excitement rising in me at the thought of seeing him again. Before he leaves earshot, however, I call out his name, making him turn around.

"Thanks for not laughing at me when I fell!" I shout to him, grinning at the brunette.

"Only an idiot would!" He responds, waving once more as he returns to his brothers.

Twisting back around, I continue to smile to myself as I go over the last hour or so, glad to have made a new friend, even if I did gain an injury in the process.

#the lost boys #joel schumacher #vampire #david(thelostboys) #kiefer sutherland #paul(the lost boys) #dwayne(the lost boys) #marko(the lost boys) #santa carla #star(the lost boys) #skateboarding

[painted-crow]

Secondary Toast Revolving Door, Part 2

On what it’s like when I burn Bird secondary

Usually, when I burn either Bird secondary or Badger secondary model, they’re down for weeks or months at a time. I know they’ll come back, which isn’t always true of burned Houses in general but that’s just how mine work. Right now Bird is having a minor upset and it’s been out for a few weeks; it was about to come back when life stress happened and smacked it down again. This time I can predict that it’ll be back in maybe two weeks when everything’s settled down, but usually it’s not that tidy—I don’t always know why it’s having problems or what to do to get it to recover. Usually I just wait it out.

The burned state looks different for Bird vs Badger, of course. I’m probably going to struggle with writing the Badger side, either because I’ve forgotten the details of what it looks/feels like or because it’s actually simpler. I lean towards the “I’ve forgotten” angle. My memory is very bad during depressive periods. (You’d think this would leave my brain goblins fewer cringey memories with which to taunt me at 4am, but no.)

But that doesn’t matter right now because today we’re talking about Bird.

Tipoffs I’ve burned Bird

Sometimes it’s hard to tell when you’ve burned one of your Houses. It doesn’t always have a clear start or end, and you might not notice the gradual slipping into exhaustion and lack of confidence in your House. Here are some things I catch myself doing or thinking when my Bird peaces out on me.

I start thinking I’m not good at things I’ve spent years studying.

I get a panicky feeling of resistance when I think about working on projects that wouldn’t normally give me problems.

I struggle with self-doubt about my ability to learn new skills.

This one’s complicated: the society I live in holds Bird up as the way it thinks intelligence should look. So, in burned-Bird!Paint’s mind, that makes it arrogant to assume that you're better at using Bird than others, because it suggests you think you're smarter (and thus better, because society says that too) than them. Therefore, if I’ve learned how to do something, my impulse is to assume that anyone could. Anything I’ve already learned is obviously easy, because I learned it, and so it isn’t rare or valuable.

Weird analysis paralysis cocktail: I feel perpetually unprepared to do stuff and too afraid to move forward, but I’ve also internalized the “you’re never going to feel ready so just start now” advice—which is supposed to spur you into action and probably works if you’re a Lion, but it just gives me something else to beat myself up about.

Sometimes Bird secondary starts feeling more like a toy than a tool that can actually be effective. If that's happening, using it feels kind of self-indulgent and not terribly useful--it seems good for entertainment, but not for anything else.

That last one is really fricking weird and it took me months to figure out what it was and put it into words. It’s obviously flawed—it’s circular logic sitting on top of societal prejudice—but when you’re depressed, the kind of clarity you need to verbalize and pick apart something that complicated is often nowhere to be found, especially when your perception in general is skewed due self-hatred.

I can’t do that “just start now” thing Lions do—it terrifies me. But that’s fine. Other people don’t casually pick up new skills or binge-read nonfiction or hoard resources like I do—maybe that’s intimidating to them—and that’s fine. Both approaches are useful and powerful, objectively, and philosophically I “should” be okay with owning my abilities. That’s harder than it looks on paper, though.

There’s one more.

The value of skills is subjective, circumstantial, and easy to underestimate.

I’m a jack-of-all-trades style Bird. Lots of things interest me. But every time you decide to invest in a new skill rather than continuing with an old one, you sort of start over. Not completely; some skills transfer and there’s a lot of value in having a range of knowledge, especially in terms of creativity.

Still, though: you enter each new field as a total noob, you stay long enough to become a kinda competent noob, and then when you’ve learned what you want and maybe built the thing you wanted to build, you leave. Rinse and repeat. Usually you don’t stay long enough to become super-skilled, and people in your community don’t specifically ask you for help.

…Until they need something other than the thing they specialize in, and you happen to know it. Suddenly you’re the expert in the room. You know how to get the project started. You know where to research, who to ask about advanced topics, what all the search keywords are, and where to find the supplies. Suddenly you're valuable, and maybe you're not used to feeling valuable. It can be kind of a jarring experience.

It's especially jarring when someone you know needs something and you're like, "oh I can take care of that, I spent six months studying how to do it and I have the resources already" and the other person gives you a look of deep skepticism and you try to convince them that no, really, it's not a big deal, you can have that done in a weekend or two if they give you the right information and... they don't believe you can do it, you guess. It's easy to misinterpret a "this sounds too good to be true" reaction for "I don't believe YOU can do it.”

My old draft had a note about how I should build myself a portfolio site to demonstrate stuff like this (except that my tastes develop faster than my actual skills in most fields, so I tend to dislike my own work and don't want to display it). But actually I’m wondering now if Badger secondary isn’t part of the problem. Sometimes I just volunteer to do stuff for people I only kinda know, without naming a motive or a price tag, and seen through that lens it’s hard to blame them for feeling awkward or skeptical about accepting. It’s not a big deal to you, but it is to them—too big to be just a favor. And then the people who do accept freely given help tend to take advantage of you… I guess I need to cultivate more Courtier Badger if I want to give my Bookkeeper Badger model stuff to do.

(Bonus bullet point: “I don’t know if I can really say my House is burned... it’s just not totally there right now? The stuff I’m dealing with isn’t THAT bad” is another tell that you’re burned. I’ve had to stop myself from writing that sort of thing several times over the course of this post. I’ll let myself bring it up for the opposite reason, though: if you’re thinking this, you may be underestimating the damage because you’ve forgotten what you’re like healthy. This goes for mental illness in general too. Don’t undermine your own experience.)

What I do instead

I’ve learned to be flexible and work around times when my Bird isn’t at 100%.

For example, this is why I have three novel projects running at once, with varying levels of complexity. The least complex of the three is new—I started it back in February, and working on that one instead of the others has let me stay productive and continue using Bird without pushing it past its limits. Plus it lets me keep making art, which as I’ve mentioned, is important to my general wellbeing.

If I’m able to section off my work like this and focus on the things I can do, and selectively procrastinate the ones I can’t (that aren’t super urgent), I’m usually fine—as long as I stay on top of my mental health enough for things to swing back around so I can catch up. It’s very, very difficult to recover if your needs aren’t being met.

I can be kind of a productive powerhouse when I can get my brain to actually process dopamine correctly (thanks, medication!) so if I can manage to work on something useful, I don’t always have to be too picky about what it is. That also means that if I can’t work on the things I’d normally use Bird to do (whether it’s burned or I’m just worn out), it’s a good excuse to catch up on more menial things like paperwork and laundry and whatnot. If I’ve let those pile up, dealing with them will improve my environment and my mental health and get Bird to recover faster.

What I shouldn’t do is continue to press on with my normal work, if I can avoid it. There have been times when people needed me to deliver the creative or technological thing I was using Bird to work on before it burned, and I had to push through and get it to them anyway, and it’s not a good situation for me.

*cue flashbacks to the three or four times that’s happened for months on end, dissociates for 10 minutes*

ugh okay brain can you not do that right now? trying to write a post here

Where was I? Oh, right. I was making a point.

Take the pressure off your burned House if you can.

I think when you burn one of your Houses, it's injured and you're actually worse at using it than people who just don't have it as one of their Houses. Say you're a bowling champion but your dominant wrist is broken. You can choose not to play at all until you recover, or you can try to play with your other hand but you're probably going to be worse at it than a lot of casual players, and that feels really bad because being good at this matters to you.

^ copied from the old draft of this post. I was going to write a smooth transition into that point, but it didn’t work and I’m not going to try to rewrite it and get “ERROR 500 INTERNAL SERVER ERROR” from my brain again.

In any case, this post has been sitting around for a week already and I should probably just publish it now. ^^;

#sortinghatchats #secondary toast revolving door #burned ravenclaw secondary #paint speaks