#i guess just things happen for a reason methinks

[ryuichirou]

Replies

Talking about brocons, people being annoying and other stuff.

Anonymous asked:

I’m sorry when did someone call Idia a brocon in canon?!? 👀

Asking for reasons….

It happened in Book 5, Episode 5-13, near the end of the episode! As Cater and Lilia were explaining the Shrouds’ situation to Yuu and guys, Grim commented that Idia is a total brocon, or something among the lines lol

Anonymous asked:

Cater saying he wants to date Vil + Cater's union birthday saying he wants Vil as a brother = canon brocon Cater methinks

Oh my god… Cater really said “but what if Vil is my brother AND we’re dating”. This boy is either very confused or very kinky, probably both 😔

Anonymous asked:

the Asim siblings are so interesting, like, are they close to eachother? how can they keep track when there are so many of them? what do they think of Kalim, do some of them resent him? are some obsessed with him? the latter in particular gets funnier if you have other siblings that instead decided to follow in their big bro's footsteps and joined the Jamil fanclub. the two groups would argue endlessly about who's better. than add in a third group that just likes them both and might even ship kalijami...

now that I think about it, I've seen some fanworks where Kalim tries to convince Jamil to call him onichan. would that make him a brocon? I guess for Kalim it's less about the idea of having Jamil as a sibling, and more about him being someone that Jamil can rely on without needing too many formalities between them, and the first thing that comes to mind is an older brother... Keep dreaming Kalim, the dude literally sees you as a toddler to babysit!

Hmm, I think they aren’t super close, but those who are closer in age are more likely to be friendly with each other + those who have the same mom (let’s be honest, there is no way all of the Asim kids were born by one lady). And the younger ones probably love Kalim much more than the older ones, both because he is better at connecting with kids + because the older ones technically still have a chance to take Kalim’s place if they’re lucky. But they’re never openly antagonistic; the “default” state for all of them is that Kalim is their beloved older brother that is always playful, fun and kind.

There absolutely are some of the Asim siblings that are obsessed with Kalim and THERE ABSOLUTELY ARE some of the Asim siblings that are obsessed with Jamil!! Imagine looking at Jamil your whole life and not getting obsessed?? lol Jamil would probably think that his own little Asim fanclub is the worst thing to ever exist (having Kalim only is troublesome enough…), but wait until he learns about the KaliJami fanclub… Kalim’s little sisters watching these two always being together and being closer to each other than Kalim is to his actual real brothers? They absolutely ship them lol

Kalim really is such a toddler though… And while I don’t think his wish to see Jamil and himself “as brothers” is in any way related to anything brocon-like, I do think that he really wants to express that his bond with Jamil is special.

Alright, now we’re entering the people-are-annoying territory.

Anonymous asked:

Normally I'd ignore the "don't sexualize the underage pixels" crowd but I love overanalyzing things and could write a mini essay on them (It's weird but I might do that, could be fun).  The thing that stands out most is the obvious hypocrisy.                                                          Kids kids kids, if you play TWST you don't get to say this stuff.  Even if you don't know it's for adults or who Yana Toboso is, look at the cards!  The game itself sometimes sexualizes its own characters!  Even the first and second years!  You harass the fans but give the creators' a free pass?  You're not saying "it's wrong to sexualize fictional minors!" you're saying "it's wrong to not make money off of your thirst!" and "it's only wrong if I don't like the final product!"  You're not mad that adults are creeps, you're mad that they're not pimps!  If the developers ever publicly distance themselves from certain fans, you guys will be the ones called out, not the people who simp over Ortho and freely admit it

Yeah, Anon, this is one of the most annoying things. When they cancel a piece of media + an author + everyone who enjoys the same piece of media, at least it’s somewhat consistent. Still quite stupid, but it’s not trying to sit on two chairs at once. But when they harass artists and writers that are doing fan-content for a piece of media, but then completely ignore when the said piece of media does it… I always remember that twitter argument about how Ortho isn’t shota-bait and therefore the antis have all the rights to enjoy twst since they aren’t weirdos, plus all the endless talks about how Ciel isn’t at all sexualized in the manga and how there is nothing at all sensual in the way the official manga art for Kuroshitsuji is drawn… at times things that they say sound honestly quite concerning (i.e. things that they consider platonic or fatherly), and if I didn’t know for a fact that these people are just bluffing, I would’ve become worried about their own life experiences. But yeah, thankfully, this is just them trying to punish people for thirsting for twst characters and then somehow do it themselves without being called out for it. They enjoy that piece of media critically, which means they’re off the hook! Not like the “weirdos”!

I had a point to make, but I just got salty lol

Also yep, you’re completely right: the developers/the authors tend to distance themselves from the type of fans that ultimately negatively impact the enjoyment people get from their product, and it’s never the type of people who ship characters and draw smut with them. Really makes you think.

#replies

[nexo-nex]

When this song plays on GTA V .... so awesome

#b.txt #audio #like i may dunk on bx album mostly because of its rabid dickriders ... but I still love the album so much its really neat #in one hand I would have loved for kelli not to get fired from the band by the other two so we could get more songs like this #...but at the same time splinter nor bloodsport would exists #i guess just things happen for a reason methinks #also lmao look at chris in the back- jesus why does he look so weird in all SP's photoshoots #chris: god may forgive you for being gay- but he'll never forgive you for that haircut #sorry I had to LMAO

[inktheduck]

Ah don’t mind me, just another lil rant about the silly lil podcast show…

[an excerpt from a message I sent over discord]

You know I’ve been thinking. The Magnus Archives. The “fears” and “entities”.

I’m unsure why or how these entities [exist] but my theory is that they are manifested over time/intensity. With enough people [feeling] afraid, this sorta,,, energy manifests into its own being. Almost like a god of our own creation.

[A cage we build ourselves in?]

However that being said, why only fears?

[Why are only the fears being manifested into dangerous forces?]

"Newton’s third law for every action (force) in nature there is an equal and opposite reaction."

If there is fear made manifest then there should also be hope manifested. A way to counteract the negative with the warmth of positive. Like I get it, this is a horror podcast taking place in London. This is the least optimistic setting ever.

But am I really stupid for holding out hope? Pointing out a way to counteract these destructive forces?

For example, the opposite to Distortion is Clarity. The opposite to Lonely is Community. Even if there aren’t entities of positivity, we can make it up inside ourselves, methinks.

The fears seem relentless. Extremely unforgiving. And I understand that the entities are indifferent at best. But I just hrnrmejdmm.

I feel silly being so stubborn against [the idea that] disparity is the only thing available.

[May I have some reassurance?]

Additional thoughts...

If anti-entities exists, then they go unnoticed. Love is quiet and undemanding. It goes unnoticed until it is gone. Until we notice something is wrong, that is when fear comes in. Fear is a very very powerful thing. It is also very very hard to overcome. Especially in these instances where people are at the mercy of merciless beings. It's heartbreaking to realize there can be no way out of a terrible situation. You just gotta,, accept it all. Accept that perhaps you're wrong, perhaps you're going to die, perhaps the things you face in life can (and will) change you forever. Tragedy is inevitable but what you do with it next is what matters. Methinks.

Humanity is filled with fear, love, but most importantly resilience.

These three things are built into the core of all living beings. To focus only on what is terrible is an insult to all the good that goes around.

(This deffo can go the other way around too. I mean, when you got a monster chasing you, you can't just turn around and go,

"Awh man how abwout we all wuv eachothwer? QwQ."

You're gonna fricken die if you do that...most likely.....Just,,, don't risk it.)

So yeah, perhaps I am going to die. But I'm going to go out of this world the same way I came in: Kicking and screaming.

The fears are relentless. The fears are resilient. And guess what? So are we. After all, the entities did (theoretically?) come from us. It's only natural the supernatural is an exaggerated reflection of reality.

Sometimes you gotta fight back with the power of friendship...and blunt force damage. And guns. Or arson...

I might be getting off track. Haha.

Points brought up and tied together...

"I’m unsure why or how these entities [exist] but my theory is that they are manifested over time/intensity."

"Love is quiet and undemanding."

"Fear is a very very powerful thing."

People are naturally going to pay attention to the negative. Tis a survival response! The reason these entities may be prevalent is because humanity as a whole focuses on the negative.

The Magnus Institute is where people go to have their negative (and straight up weird experiences) to be collected. So if the victims of the entities are coming to the institute, then the entities and avatars themselves are bound to come to the institute too! It's like Mentos in a coke bottle of bad vibes. It's gonna explode. (Omg if this turns out to be a literal explosion happening in the archive I am going to flip my lid.) ((Context the last episode I’ve listened to is uhhhh episode 32???)) The bad things recorded seem to be the only things happening because that is where our attention is focused on. There isn't much reason to collect information from people who have had good times and miracles happening. (From a listener standpoint, not exactly the most entertaining or spooky thing to listen to. If I want to hear that then I'd go to church or talk to Facebook moms.) OKOK THE POINT!!!

The reason why "anti-entities" may or may not exist is either because:

The cumulative love of humanity isn't enough to manifest as strong as an entity derived from fear.

OR

The (potential/theoretical) entities here to help people go unnoticed due to not being focused on. It doesn't go out of its way recruiting people to do their bidding because that's just not how they function. Edit: I have part 2 of my think thoughts [HERE]. I wanted to let you know in case people are wanting to know more about my good ol thinky inky thoughts.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma podcast #ink in the archives #the magnus institute #tma spoilers #jonathan sims #tma theory

[fluff-writing]

Mulling over Inarius's whole plot in D4. I think it's even more pathetic than the game shows.

See-

Inarius seems to think the Heavens are watching him and judging his actions. He thinks he's appeasing them somehow, and trying to earn his way into their good graces. (Why he wants to go back to Heaven at all is anyone's guess. They'd probably just throw him into the Fist without thinking twice. Or kill him. Or both.)

Whether Lilith believes the angels are truly watching or not, she goads Inarius by using their apparent 'silence' on the matter. He takes it well! Starts talking at Heaven/the Souls of the Damned/whatever voice is in his head at the moment.

Here's the thing;

I don't think the Heavens have one damned idea what's going on with Sanctuary right now. I'd be amazed if any of the angels even knew Inarius wasn't in Hell. He's not exactly their problem or responsibility anymore, and hasn't been for a while; as far as they're concerned, his Fate is in Hell, with Mephisto.

The past has shown that the Heavens are not omniscient, not when it comes to Sanctuary or Hell. The nephalem aren't in the Scroll of Fate, and frankly, neither is Inarius anymore. They couldn't even find Sanctuary until enough demons got summoned to it, and even then it took a while for Tyrael himself to find it. They had no idea about Malthael faffing about for years down there, instead believing he was out in Pandemonium maybe. No one kept tabs on Urzael or any of the maidens that were sent after him. They didn't know about Tyrael's Shenanigans until they got very big and very worldstone-boomy.

How would they even know what Inarius is doing? I'd be amazed if any of them knew who Rathma was, let alone the significance of Inarius murdering him.

And after all that, it was only Tyrael himself acting as a go-between for Heaven and Sanctuary, informing the angels about what was going on. None of the Horadrim mention any other angels hanging around, or visiting Heaven to drop off newspapers. There is no link between Heaven and Sanctuary, not without Tyrael.

Speaking of Tyrael - did he and Inarius ever connect up? I wonder when exactly he disappeared. It's after Donan and Elias became part of the Horadrim, but before Elias left. Was it after Astaroth? Cuz Inarius was definitely around for that (he helped build Eldhaime.)

Methinks they might have had confrontation. Hell, maybe Tyrael is the one who brought him back somehow. Prolly not, but it'd be nice of him.

Anywhoozle, point is the Heavens aren't likely to know a rogue angel is mucking around down on Sanctuary, again. Why would they even care? The humans are not their problem. Inarius is not their problem.

I think they locked the Gates to Heaven, and are tuning reality out. Fate, Hope and Valor have turned their backs on Sanctuary after all.

Unless we're saying Inarius got free from Hell, went to Heaven first, got told to fuck off, and came back to Sanctuary for some reason. Somehow, I don't see that happening.

We know he's delusional too. Sin War, D4, he's delusional as fuck. Convinces himself he's in control when everyone from Mendeln to Diablo is manipulating him, convinces himself Tyrael + the Angels hadn't found Sanctuary (as they literally invade through a hole in the sky), convinces himself the prophecy is about himself. I could see him genuinely believing he's undergoing some sort of divine trial at the behest of the Angiris Council. Maybe he thinks Rathma's prophecy was sent by Itherael for some damn reason.

There's nothing to really imply the angels are watching. They shut the gates and barred the door. If they're even alive at all up there, but that's a whole other theory.

#Rambles #Diablo IV #Diablo spoilers #D4 Spoilers #Inarius #Dumb bastard #he's a bitch and I like him So Much #This is why we let Lilith make the plans and Inarius carry out the execution #doer not a thinker #Donan lowkey glomming onto Inarius as a replacement for Tyrael after he left? #hmmm

[reikunrei]

unsurprisingly once again thinking abt how Cool and Good it would have been to really lean into the disparity between the albert that haru made up in his head vs the real life albert. like haru finally had this opponent who made him get that itch to compete, but the "opponent" that we see through haru's eyes is totally different from every other scene we actually have with albert...

like him goofing off at the arcade... the awkward lunch with haru where he's totally out of his element... "that water favors you, i can tell :]"... him really being Just Some Guy who clearly wants to socialize and make friends but is constantly being yanked around and isolated by his coach instead... even the locker room scene where he's basically like "i'm just here to swim, get paid, and leave"

and Yes he is scary and intimidating in the water bc of his skill, but he's not like... aggressive about it. he's very *shrugs* about the whole thing

and thinking abt the end of fs1 when haru's being ~possessed by the spirit of albert~ but, again, up until that point we had Never seen albert actually be manipulative or deliberately wheedle into haru's head like that. it was All Haru's Own Doing. he made that shit up because he finally got bit by that competitive bug and suddenly developed a drive to Be Better Than The Best. but he had to make albert into an enemy (and i guess... sort of felt like he had to blame someone else for what he was experiencing rather than acknowledge that he was sending himself into a spiral for no reason?)

and that's so interesting to me !!! i wish they had really leaned into it more!!! because there's such a difference in the way he swims w his friends (specifically thinking of s1 rin and s3 ikuya) and how it's about bettering the other person/sharing an experience together, vs him competing with albert is about trying to better himself, but that's taking the focus off of what truly made him enjoy and thrive in swimming in the first place. and it's forcing him to misrepresent an entire whole person who isn't trying to make his life hell, actually

i just wish !! the finale wasn't so focused on the competition side of things and stuck with the s1 and s2 mantra of "it doesn't matter what happens, so long as we have fun and make our bonds stronger" bc focusing on the competition sort of... stripped haru of his whole purpose, methinks

#yes im not counting s3 in that mantra bit bc while they Do hit that w ikuya #they do focus very heavily on the 'so that ikuya can WIN' aspect of it #which again i get it i get it it's bc they're in Real Competitions now and not just high school stuff #so like YEAH they have to be good and be trying to be better so they can make it their literal career #BUT LIKE. YOU KNOW. COME ON #i say things #free! the final stroke

[winntersnow]

The mortal in the immortal - an Aldo character study

I would think for most of you, your minds hit a blank seeing this pop up on the tags.

‘Who’s Aldo?’

I don’t blame you, guy doesn’t appear all to much.

I only care and know him because I’ve always had such a strange fascination for what I like to call ‘nothing guys’.

Very small, even smaller than side characters in media that are so insignificant that most fans don’t even know their names.

Aldo of course being one of them.

One of the three immortal brothers in the International Assassins arc that caught my eye once I fully understood what was happening with the guy's little mini arc with all the other insanity going on.

Even if it was small I think it was all incredibly interesting, especially for a nothing guy.

I would go as far as to say I think flew over people's heads and misunderstood it as a whole the full meaning of what Aldo goes through besides just ‘he was guilty.’

It’s something a bit more interesting and profound about the arc of a person who discovers their own humanity for the first time and what such said person chooses to do with it.

With all that let’s start getting into it shall we?

Right from the very start there is something a little different about Aldo compared to his sibling.

With Aldo vomiting after he and his brother kill Tendo, Kurose and the unnamed third devil hunter they’re with, and his brothers not really caring much, to say the least.

As this is his first kill and all that.

Why overall, this was his first kill when his brothers clearly killed multiple people themselves is anybody’s guess and not exactly important for what I’m trying to convey but just for details sake it’s either because he’s the youngest brother, something to deal with the scars on his eye or a mix of the two.

With them keeping Aldo away from the brunt of murdering at least.

Something that gives them a bit of depth methinks, trying to protect him from that.

Either way it’s very clear that so much of Joey’s and the unnamed second brother (let’s call him Kirtus for convenience) humanity has been completely sapped away from them through the killings they’ve had to have committed.

Through their own ego and beliefs.

They’re Ruthless, soulless, and emotionless.

They quite literally say this about themselves.

Aldo though? Not so much.

Not at all from everything that goes on but the important thing is, he feels he is soulless like them.

Believes it extremely strongly even.

It sounds like I’m jumping a little ahead of myself, but again it’s quite literally something Aldo thinks to himself remembering the things his brothers said to him when he’s pretending to be Kurose and connecting it to his ‘immortality’.

‘I am immortal.’

It’s a phrase that’s said multiple times by the brothers and most importantly by Aldo that most people misinterpret.

They are of course not really immortal.

Joey and Kirtus die.

So quickly even, with Kirtus being hit by a car and Joey being killed by Yoshida.

Their mentioned survivals when we first see them was luck and luck alone.

It’s something that boosts their ego on living sure but what they really mean when they say this is their removal from their emotional save feelings.

They are so far removed from their own humanity and morals that they feel nothing about anything.

Put to further sense when exactly this phrase is said by Aldo in particular.

After his brothers are killed, and before he goes to confront the others (in the building that’s eventually cast into hell.)

Like in a very repetitive, broken kind of way.

Desperately even.

(After his siblings are killed)

(Before entering the building)

He’s again enforcing what his brothers have always told him on to himself in these moments his emotions have to be at a high point.

That’s the reason, not because the guy thinks he literally can’t die.

It’s what he’s been raised to believe or think.

A big part of his mental decline along with his family's deaths of course.

Trying to continue to convince himself that he’s not scared, that he can’t feel anything because once again he has no soul, so he shouldn’t be feeling right?

Moving onto the actual meat of this entire thing now that any confusion on this phrase is fully cleared out.

Aldo once again is not like his brothers.

His brothers have fully made this phrase true about themselves, but Aldo even if he believes he’s soulless, absolutely is not, and some that he himself starts to learn.

Crashing down on him after he takes the appearance of Kurose and flees to the dead man’s friend's house for shelter.

Already fighting with himself for sure.

He gets to the guy's house with a face that doesn’t belong to him and-

Loses it.

Badly, breaks down sobbing apologies.

Everything really and truly crashing down on him.

The life he took most obviously.

People who don’t have emotions.

Those who are soulless do not cry like this.

Aldo is not immortal.

He has emotions, he has a heart and it’s horrible.

It’s a horrible thing to all crash on a person after they lost everything and taken an innocent life.

After he quite literally has nothing now but this.

So what does Aldo do with these new realizations about this?

Stay with the friend?

Run maybe to go anywhere else? 

Start a new life away from this?

Do anything good at all?

No.

He denies it.

He hides from it and dives right back into a thing he now fully knows is wrong by the mere mention of a brother.

His own mind going to his dead ones.

‘A pro always gets the job done.’

He’s choosing to go back after all that.

After everything that just fell on his head, with all that guilt that really does belong to him and the gravity of his actions..

Aldo decides to go back and finish what his brothers started.

Get the job done like a ‘pro’.

The next time we see him repeating that phrase again; ‘I am immortal.’

He’s gained so much, and can again logically get away but clings back to that, to go on the same path.

Unlike before it’s a very direct and clear denial of a thing he already knows isn’t really true.

More of a promise to make it true until he’s like his brothers.

To make himself soulless and emotionless like them but doing the same things that made them immortal too.

Realized emotions be damned.

A sort of continuation to this very unfortunate cycle of the brothers of losing everything then losing their own humanity in their own convincing of themselves that they are not human.

Aldo managed to get through one round of it but not quite this round after getting so close to getting out of it.

There is a mortal in the immortal a lot of it, even after believing all his life there wasn���t, even with his immortal brothers around him.

But he chooses to ignore it.

To try and hurt more people which is where his arc comes to a close.

Getting tossed out of a window, pretending to be Halloweened then we never see him again.

Really a mystery what happened to him, if he went back to America, or stayed in Japan.

With how everything ended for him and the direction his arch went in more keen to believe he didn’t go in a very good direction.

Even him deciding to kill again is very debatable with his pushing away of his humanity.

Even if that humanity is still there in every right for now at least until it’s gone.

Something we will never be sure of unless he appears, which I doubt he will.

He’s just a nothing guy with a very interesting arc on his own morality as a person and what he chose to do with it in the way he did.

I enjoyed reading it a lot and think about Aldo every now and then.

Wish people gave him and his arc the attention it deserves to have.

Something I can hopefully give him just a little bit of and if not?

It’s just fun to think in detail about my own thoughts.

Thank you for reading my thoughts on such a minor character of the face stealing immortal.

That fuck ass immortal etc etc.

#chainsaw man #aldo #CMS #immortalbrothers #love this little freak #aldo SWEEP

[lycanlovingvampyre]

MAG 167 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: cutting the Kolkwitzia amabilis in my garden.

JON: "Help us with what?" MARTIN: "Excuse me?" [IT BECOMES CLEAR THAT THE ARCHIVIST’S STATIC IS PRESENT.] JON: "Annabelle, help us with… what, our, our, our journey, killing Elias, vanishing the Entities – what?" MARTIN: "Please don’t do that." JON: "Do what? (realizes) Oh. Oh, right, I, I see, yes. Well, I – Sorry" That's the tricky thing about the Beholding. Jon doesn't even know he's doing it, he doesn't know where that information came from. And I totally can relate to that, have you ever had this? You know something, but you absolutely don't know who told you or where was it you read that, or when that happened. Maybe accidentally you tell someone something, about which they are like "Hey! How'd you know that??". Or like "What? No, I didn't know that!!!" because you thought they would already know that... I had that a few times and it’s always awkward ^^’ Jon has to be so careful about everything he knows now.

MARTIN: "It doesn’t – feel great, having someone look inside your head." JON: "You can – feel it?" [MARTIN EXHALES, A SMALL PUFF OF A THING.] MARTIN:"No, but that’s hardly the point, Jon –" Yeah that. Just because you're in a relationship you're not entitled to share each and every thought with them. Having privacy is such an important thing in every kind of relationship. But they come to the same conclusion, that's good.

MARTIN: "It’s just – it’s weird knowing that you can know literally everything I think and feel. E-Especially since you’re not exactly the most open of people – emotionally, I mean." Sure, Mr. replying "cool" to being told you’re the reason to keep going for your significant other. And it's not even true. Jon shared a lot about how he feels about all of this. He did in the cabin and just an episode ago he told Martin he's ashamed about his privileged situation. It's just, sometimes it's hard to be open when you're not in the mindset for it. And that seems to be the case here.

JON: "I can, I, I just – it – You’re absolutely right. I will refrain from Knowing anything about you." MARTIN: "Thank you." JON: "Unless you’re in danger." MARTIN: (with a laugh) "Physical danger; If I’m in danger of being mad at you or something you’ve got to figure it out the old-fashioned way." Since they're going to need that in the near future it's good that they discussed it already.

JON: "Martin, I’m not looking for a – loophole." MARTIN: "Well, good, ‘cause this isn’t one." [BRIEF PAUSE.] JON: (teasing) "Methinks the Spider dost protest too much." [MARTIN STOPS WALKING.] MARTIN: "Jon –" JON: (jeez) "Joking! Just joking." [THEY START WALKING AGAIN.] Theatre kid Jon is back xD And Martin doesn't get it or is just not in the mood right now. I'd say it's more likely to be the latter, but Martin has a history of not getting Jon's jokes.

MARTIN: "Just – I don’t know, it – it worries me, I guess? You know, when you do the whole – (imitation of the Archivist’s ‘Statement Voice’) – curse this flesh prison – (normal) – thing, it – I get you’re different; none of us are what we were, but, well? It worries me." Hm, that seems to be one of the things Martin is most scared of. Losing Jon to the Eye. It's the same in MAG 194 then. But he’s surely conflicted about it because Martin is very excited about Jon’s smiting power.

Martin does ask a lot of questions and I don't think he's aware, that each one could of course trigger one of Jon's statements. Like in MAG 164, when Martin asked about the others. The answers about Daisy or Basira were dangerously close. Just wondering about this cause Martin says he doesn't want to hear the statements. But he's still curious about things. It was bound to happen...

"Because when she was pushed to the very limits of her terror, Fiona Law would faint. And while there are those things in the dark that would kill you as you slept, most get no real delight from it, unless you are awake enough to know what is happening." This also fits very well to the whole strategy of not feeling fear will save you, no matter how you do it. Very similar to Karolina Gorka from MAG 71, who just went to sleep xD No conscience, no fear.

"And even stranger, when Angus Stacey died and she had the chance to walk away, she decided to remain." After my first listen I totally didn't remember if the Archivist dying would release the assistants is actually canon, or if I just thought about it being a possibility or read it in a fanfic xD I thought it was canon, but I just couldn't find which episode this was.

All of the assistants being super Eye-aligned is no big surprise...

"When Emma came to tell Gertrude what had happened, she found the first of the cobwebs in her hair, the ones she would wash from it every morning for the rest of her life." That is such a good idea and I don't know if this was meant to be the reason or if it's just a happy coincident, but I like that headcanon of Jon's greying hair also being cobwebs as hair, a side effect of being marked by the Spider.

Ah yes, the timeline getting a bit chaotic here^^ Michael being the replacement for Fiona, who officially died of a liver transplant in 2003 according to MAG 29 (which could be a cover-up), but also Michael was supposed to have known Eric. But Eric quit shortly after Gerry was born and that was in the 80s...

"She even convinced Sarah to stay inside an old man’s house, desperate to see her eaten by a hungry door, but was again disappointed" Ah yes, the old MacKenzie from MAG 27.  

"Sarah may have noticed the thin lines in his flesh from whence spilled a dull orange glow." Ha, sounds like Bolvar from WoW xD

And more timeline chaos, this time with Agnes. Agnes was said to have died in 2006. But Gertrude only became aware of Emma's crimes after she went to Sannikov Land, which was sometime 2009 till 2011... I mean, there already have been discrepancies in the timeline here in MAG 19/20, as that was in 2008, but recounted the same event that should have happened in 2006 according to MAG 8.

"It was a trivial matter to convince the man who now watched from the skull of Elias Bouchard to allow it, so long as the deed did not take place within the Archives itself." Elias, I need to kill the last of my assistants - Yes yes, go ahead, but I don't want a mess in my institute. (There is a post about Elias having a form for the authorisation of killing institute staff and I love it xD)

JON: "And she’d have resigned herself to – ruling her domain." MARTIN: "What domain?" JON: "We all have domain here, Martin. The place that feeds us." MARTIN: "Oh. (brief pause) Where’s yours?" JON: (laugh) "I mean we’re – traveling towards it." MARTIN: "Oh. Right, obviously. Duh. Uh, what about me?" JON: (cautiously) "Would you… like me to –" MARTIN: (overlapping, sharp) "No, no. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know." I don't quite understand why Martin will be so upset when Helen told him, he also has a domain with victims in it. He knew, he had one, and he declined to hear any more details about it. Probably playing a bit S1!Jon then, super in denial.

MARTIN: (coy) "So. If you say Gertrude wouldn’t have been able to go on without a reason –" JON: (overlapping, audible fond eyeroll) "Yes, Martin, you are my reason." MARTIN: "Just wanted to make you say it!" [A BEAT WHEREIN THE ARCHIVIST INHALES.] MARTIN: "Cool." Now who's not emotionally open? XD Jon is clearly the one who is more outgoing in showing affection in this relationship!

MARTIN: "You said Fiona was… released when he died." JON: "Yes." MARTIN: "If you had died, would the others have been able to quit?" JON: "Yes. (pause) I didn’t know." MARTIN: "If you had, would you have told them? Would that have, have changed what happened?" JON: (sigh) "I don’t know, Martin. I-I don’t know." First, yeah, that is a really, reaaally mean fact to the whole Archivist/archival staff situation. One that probably makes Jon think even more that he should have just died, that everyone would have been better off with him dead. Second, what is Martin asking? Telling the others, to what? Give them a reason to murder Jon? And Martin asking if that had changed what happened, he must be aware that the only way, this could have changed things, is the one with Jon dead. Or is Martin just paraphrasing the question whether Jon was suicidal or not?

@a-mag-a-day

#a-mag-a-day #mag 167 #tma #tma spoilers

[thatropoenthusaist]

This is Just A Thought I had when I saw people talk about pre-reset Moon and how he could come back and whatever. I guess this could also be for KC since it technically tackles both? I haven't really seen anybody talk about this,,, possibility? But to be fair, I only joined a few months ago and there's probably a plethora of theories on how it could happen, so I might be coincidentally reiterating someone.

This is probably the most... Plainest way OM and KC could come back. And the most obvious. But I don't really care tbh.

I'm pretty sure it's impossible for Old Moon or KC to come back in any capacity through Moon. He has nothing in his hard drive that would make it possible for them to return, that was the whole point of not backing up memories after all. Plus, Moon is still the "same", technically. For OM to reform through him, just wouldn't make sense.

The only way I see it ever happening is through an old backup. It's plausible methinks. Moon was a paranoid person. Computer got system wiped when the AI's "died", so I don't think any of OM's backups would still be there. But I wouldn't doubt that OM made multiple copies of his backups. Maybe in a different computer in a bunker, or maybe he made physical copies.

Maybe a TSAMS' antagonist finds one of Old Moon's backups someway somehow and decides to be a little shit and rebuild OM with it. Who would? Idk. Moon would be pissed that the version of him he hates so much is physically back and Sun would probably have conflicting feelings. So that's reasoning enough, I guess.

It would technically be OM? Similar to Eclipse V2 since I think he was a backup, my memory is bad so I might be wrong. What are the classifications that consider an AI to be a "different person" from what they were previously?? That whole thing is confusing, I'm not going to touch that.

And depending on how old the backup is, KC would be there as well, I guess.

Do I want this to happen in canon? Ehh… Not really? There's just too much going on currently, and I have no idea how this could go within the plot. But I do think it's a cool idea. And one I find logical to me, at least.

#sun and moon show #the sun and moon show #sams moon #tsams moon #thatropoenthusiast's posts #i wrote this at like 1 am #this might not make sense

[benoitblanc]

for the sleepover asks !!

give me an unpopular opinion you have about knives out, what you would like to see in knives out 3 and lastly can i please have some film recs (it can be whatever genre you want just films you think i should watchhh) 🩷🩷🩷

unpopular opinion about knives out: i literally do not think i have any. i guess i completely understand why the scenes with donna and jacob explaining the walt/loan shark subplot were cut, if that even counts as unpopular? it definitely fills out that branch of the family more but i think if they HAD to cut anything it really had to be that; it didn't really contribute to the actual mystery, and i would rather spend spare minutes getting to know the cabreras than the least interesting thrombey sect

what i would like in knives out 3: this is not going to happen but i would give my right arm for elliot and wagner to come back in some capacity. i LOVE them. from a more serious standpoint, i'd like at least a little more philip, and it would make me very happy if we did a big city mystery now and went to london. maybe blanc and philip are visiting philip's family or something when shit goes down i don't know. what i DON'T want is anything that pulls blanc's personal life into the mystery. if philip or his family gets involved, fine! but i DO NOT want a benoit blanc backstory. he's compelling enough as is he doesn't need one <3

film recs (you have asked the right person; i love reccing things):

little miss sunshine (2006) is a black comedy about a dysfunctional family attempting to drive their volkswagen van from new mexico to california to enroll their 6yo in a beauty pageant. if knives out didn't exist this would be my favorite film of all time. it's SO good

tick tick boom (2021) is a musical drama about a young composer trying to make his way in the nyc theatre world in the 1990s. bring tissues for this one

galaxy quest (1999) is a loving parody of the star trek franchise that revolves around the ex-cast of a popular sci-fi show being abducted by aliens who think the show is real. possibly the funniest film of all time methinks

clue (1985)... i do not know how to describe this film. it's a murder comedy and tim curry is the lead. please watch this movie

it's a wonderful life (1947) is a theoretically-christmas film that you've likely heard of. if not, the first two-thirds of this film are a heartwarming dramedy about a young man's relationship with his small town and the last third is an existential horror film. it's a classic for a reason!

much ado about nothing (2011) is technically a proshot of a play but i don't fucking care. david tennant in That Scene is the greatest performance an actor has ever given

sleepover asks!!!

#thanks so much for asking!!! #answered #*mutuals #*milo

[these-detestable-hands]

I just sent a mutual a very normal ask about this but oh my gosh guys imagine Godot as the phantom. This only works one way because Godot could write Don Juan triumphant and he could definitely write it to seduce a cute girl but Erik (book) couldn't drink 17 cups of coffee it would kill him. Movie/musical maybe could but his overall bloodlust and lack of decorum

Hey wait

As I'm typing this out I'm realizing Erik is a horrid mixture of all the worst traits of Franziska and Godot

Hates women

Whip user

Weird face

Scary as crap

Absolutely DESPISES the male lead for a weird reason

And idk I think Godot could make that entire desert torture chamber for Phoenix. Him and Franziska work together to give Phoenix the worst 24 hours of his life. Anyway I think I need to reread the book sometime soon cause all I really remember is the rat catcher (that's Pearl btw) and Nadir (Iris) (man this is so easy) and the torture scene and I think there was definitely a lot of stuff before that.

Mia would not make a good Christine. I think Phoenix could be a good Raoul and Franziska could be an AMAZING (book!) Giry but Mia could NOT work as Christine. Maybe Maya?? But then you'd have to remove all romantic implications. Misty also works just fine as Christine's dad methinks, except Misty has to actually be dead.

Oh my gosh Edgeworth would have a field day prosecuting for the burning of the opera house.

Phoenix: Maya were screwed, our client is so guilty, he definitely killed Joseph

Gumshoe: uh, sir, we have conclusive evidence he also hung a guy, kidnapped a woman and tried to kill two other guys"

Phoenix:

Phoenix asks why he wears a mask and 1 million psychelocks appear regardless of which version of Erik it is

Running gag in the trial where André keeps correcting anyone who says junk instead of scrap metal.

Godot: next witness is André, a rich junk enthusiast who bought an operahouse because he could

André: actually it's scrap metal-

Godot: it's junk. Give us your testimony

Anyway back to what I was saying before

You lose half of Erik's character if his motivation isn't lust but Godot kidnapping Maya could still work.

He goes to the operahouse after waking up from the coma cause what else is he supposed to do. Lives there for a while then finds out his dead gf's little sister is an actress there and desperately needs to talk to her but can't cause the current owners hate him.

On second thought Franziska doesn't work as Madame Giry, that could be Morgan maybe?? Or preferably Misty but Misty is already dead. I guess Morgan is okay then, then Iris gets to be besties with Maya I guess.

Anyway. Godot does Don Juan triumphant but instead of whatever is going on with the prostitutes, it's some different story that he wrote about Mia idk. We're sorta crossing into [I refuse to tag octopath spoilers on a post that is not octopath] territory, don't like that.

Also I forgot to mention before but obviously there's no romance between Phoenix and Maya in this au.

ACTUALLY

Franziska could be a pretty good Raoul....

Ok let's see what we have so far:

Erik: Godot

Christine: Maya

Raoul: Franziska

Meg: Iris

Madame Giry: Morgan

André: honestly it's the judge

Franziska: how dare you kidnap my gf to force her to marry you >:(

Godot: what? No, that wedding dress was supposed to be for her older sister, Mia, I just wanted to ask Maya what happened to her

Maya: hey Franzi, we're playing monopoly, do you wanna join?? :3

Franziska:

Franziska: ough fine whatever

CRAP I COMPLETELY FORGOT NADIR HOW COULD I HE'S MY FAVORITE

Nadir

Ough

Honestly Misty almost? Again, she's supposed to be Mr. Daae and therefore very much dead and it also wouldn't work to have the daroga be someone so close to the Mcs because his entire thing is that he's far off and only really Erik knows him.

But Godot doesn't really have anyone in his backstory that could fulfill that role. At absolute best, there's Grossberg but Grossberg and the daroga are honestly opposites when it comes to lawful good characters.

I don't wanna cut Nadir from this au cause he's my bestie :(

Gumshoe???

I guess it could work

I could see Gumshoe just being buddies with everyone and hanging out below the opera house.

"mysterious weird foreign guy" is just some really friendly idiot who was specifically asked by the big bad guy to pretend to be mysterious and weird.

Again, I think Gumshoe is not at all similar to Nadir in personality but he's the best we've got and at least they're both detectives more or less

Godot could probably sing, he seems like the kinda guy to have the voice of an angel (ha!) for no good reason

Also rereading this post before posting it, I realize I forgot the rat catcher. Near the beginning, I said that could be Pearl but now with Morgan as Giry, it doesn't work. That being said, Dahlia could make a PERFECT rat catcher :3

#Pie won't shut up #asexual attorneys #Phantom posting #Crab dni #Mav dni

[the-eldritch-duck]

OK so - I've been scrolling through the Anti AO3 tag a bit and, a thing that I've noticed is that these people's main problem with the site is the Underage Smut . Which is fair, I guess. I don't like it either (Good thing Tags exists so people like me, who don't want to read it, can't stumble onto it accidentally, right?).

I guess what I really don't understand about their position isn't why they dislike underage smut - but rather, why they think it should be banned?

You don't know why that writer wrote what they did. You don't know what their relationship with the subject matter is. You don't what what kind of event in their life or personal issue drove them to writing these exact words onto their screen. And if you advocate for the ban of all of the works pertaining to a topic you deem unworthy of existence, then you clearly don't care to know.

People write things all the time, about all subjects, for many different reasons, and they don't necessarily endorse what they write about, or enjoy the horrible things that happen to the characters they bring to life.

They write because they want to express themselves in some way, and the "Why" of that expression may not be understanble to you, and you are not entitled to an explaination, or an answer. You are not entitled to anything, in fact, much else a ban on an entire topic you do not like seeing.

What about other subject matters? Does writing about murder make you no better than a murderer? Does writing about abuse make you an abuser? Are all fans of Smut crazed lunatics who care about naught but satisfying their own lustful urges?

Does writing about tragedy make you a bad person? Can people not read and enjoy tragedy without being shamed for it?

Clearly, you'd expect them to say yes to all of these questions, since they seem to think writing about pedophilia or underage sexuality makes you a Pedophile...

And yet, they seem perfectly fine with works containing such topics, since obviously, being against all forms of negativity in written works is a nonsensical position to have. "But", one might say, "that is obviously a double standard! Why are specific authors held accountable for the things that they write, and not others?"

In fact, why focus on fanfiction authors, specifically? If you go into any library, I can guarantee you that you will be able to find books about pedophilia and underage sex, and whatever other topic you want, some of which are arguably worse! Why not campaign against those, then? Maybe because wanting to ban actual books is a much less popular or tenable position than wanting to ban posts on the internet, methinks.

This is the crux of the problem. They don't actually care about people being hurt (not like writing smut on the internet has ever hurt anyone, mind you!) : All that they actually care about is *censoring disgusting posts! Banning terrible people! Shutting down problematic websites!*

In essence, they want to perform activism, without any of the actual effort that comes with activism, by focusing on internet drama rather than actual issues. They want to feel better about themselves. They want to feel like they're spreading good in the world, when really they're just harassing others and spreading hatred.

So, write that fic you thought about, comment on that fic you like! And keep using AO3, one of the best archives for fanworks currently in existence. Don't bother with these antis.

#ao3 #pro ao3 #idk what tags to add

[actiaslunaris]

Regina ‘live-watches’ Last Man: Zenmou no Sousakan S01E06.

This time up, a hostage situation -- which seems straightforward at first.

This episode is prefaced by a content warning of the 'barricading situation' and ends with a reference to and blessing for the victims of a similar situation in real life.

[Sidenote: I find this approach interesting because events like this happening in an American drama get the episode pulled, especially if they happen very close to the airdate. I'd be interested to know if that is at all standard procedure in Japan.]

I will also point out that there are scenes of child endangerment.

Everyone else is having a good time at the Godo patriarch's birthday party but Godo certainly isn't.

Oh, he's remembering a past incident. Aww.

And, immediately we're dumped into the case of the week.

Ah hah, this conflict between Minami and Arai of the equivalent to SWAT here (I'm assuming) is like watching the pissing contest between Lieutenant Reed and Major Hayes on Enterprise.

Godo is very concerned about Minami, ostensibly so that Minami won't cause trouble, but there's a bit more there, methinks. More than what existed before.

Godo: *leaves* Minami: *trades himself for a hostage*

Godo specifically tells Minami not to do anything rash and Minami goes and does that immediately. *facepalm* Yes, that's why the warning. Gosh.

Listen.

Telling the person you trust to be your eyes you have that much trust in them is as much a burden as an act of faith. That said, I love the relationship between Minami and Agatsuma so much, guys, so so much.

Get him, Sakura. Yes, good.

All of the teamwork in this episode is splendid, conflicts and otherwise.

Is Minami okay? Well... of course he is but suspense!

Prime whump, y'all. Good stuff. I like actual injury a bit more than what this show is giving me, but threat of imminent danger/death does it for me quite well, too.

At least Arai and Minami reach consensus faster than Hayes and Reed. (Also, how dare Masha have so much chemistry with everyone he works with. How do he do it?)

Such a tense episode. I like how it kept me guessing as it was telling the story, but also gives enough clues that I'm just a step behind whatever it's doing. That is excellent narrative. Well done, writer.

And there's just enough pause amidst the action to comment on the perpetrator's motivation. Minami's emotional intelligence is so refreshing to see.

Aw, this final scene with Godo senior is lovely. Adorable. Not overly sentimental, just the right touch of sweet.

My heart breaks.

Okay, so I know the angst of the revelation that's coming with Godo discovering that Minami has kept his true reason for coming to Japan away from him will probably not be as much as is being telegraphed before it's worked out. At least, that's my expectation. The focus of these stories isn't to wallow, but to just have enough conflict that the audience stays invested.

It's a good thing that we're being given the viewpoints of those around Godo before he finds out, since that both ratchets up the investiture and takes sting out of the eventual fallout. At least, that is, from Godo and his own personal entanglement with Minami. You see, I have the sense that when Godo discovers that his entire family kept this from him, he'll be more angry with them, and they stand a better chance of being able to mollify him, as well.

That doesn't mean that it's going to be any easier to watch.

Speculation: I think Minami has always intended to get close to Godo, perhaps to use him as is speculated by Izumi at the end of this episode, but not with ill intention.

Minami is, without a doubt, a naturally charming person, but a lot of what he was doing with Godo at the beginning was aggressively charming, even obnoxious. It's evened out over the course of the six episodes as he's gotten to know Godo.

Yes, he's been gently prying information out of Godo about his father, but none of it seems to come from a place of malice. Additionally, the information Minami is seeking has changed a bit, as when he attempted to discover Godo's favorite food -- that has nothing to do with what he wants to know. That comes from a personal interest and you can see how it affected Minami when Godo gave his answer. There was a shift in his perception, an understanding of Godo's internal viewpoint.

It's clear to me that he's very aware that what he's doing is disingenuous, because he was the one that offered to Godo complete usage of his own skills, from the very start. It's a way of dealing with the dishonesty of it, a silent quid pro quo.

I also think Minami came to the conclusion at that point of that shift in understanding to continue to keep his intentions secret from Godo, conducting this investigation on the sly in the hopes that his suspicions are not correct; that Godo's father will be absolved of his actions. He's doing it secretly because he doesn't know what he'll find. It could go either way, and in that case, he's the only one that wants to be hurt by it.

Perhaps his motivation in being friends -- genuine friends -- is to indicate that he's come to peace about what happened to his parents. That he understands Godo is himself innocent of his father's crimes.

And, if Minami has the character I think he does, he's just waiting to tell all of this to Godo himself. And he's ready for whatever happens then.

God, I hope.

#regina watches #last man #last man blind investigator #last man spoilers #i had a lot of thoughts; more meta than reaction #lm s01e06

[slime-quest]

You squeeze your hand over the device, pressing a droplet of slime out of you. It falls with a soft "plip", and the lady takes it back. "Just a moment longer."

"What makes the snail core slow compared to the other two options?"

"Tis a snail," she replies simply, "They take their time. 'Never hurry, never worry,' as they say. The snails say that."

"Should we tell her we were a grand slime?" you ask Humphrey and Mirrow privately.

Mirrow && I don't think there's really any reason to hide it from her. She seems like she knows what's up, at least more so than we do. Maybe she can help us figure ourselves out? &&

Humphrey ## I say it's worth a shot. The worst thing that could happen would be that she doesn't believe us, and the best would be we get a clear lead on where our missing pieces are. ##

"So, uh, this is maybe a bit weird," you begin nervously, "but I'm actually a Grand Slime."

She stops her work and looks at you through narrow eyes. "Thou... thou'rt hardly a Grand Anything, I'm sorry to say. Thy tail, as large as it is, is barely even close to something as magnificent as a Grand's. Thou'rt confused, methinks, and shouldst hold thine tongue lest thou speak flippantly of the fallen."

You pull the cloak aside to give a clearer look at your core. "Well, what about this?" You briefly recap the past couple of days, how you woke up in a field with a sword in your chest, how you can only remember flashes of the void king standing over you. You detail the experience of finding and fusing with two of your broken pieces.

The shopkeeper is staring at you hard. "Tis impossible... not a single one of the Grands survived the Void's slaughter. Tho... Grands were known for their special healing powers... no common slime can fuse with another like they could, and tis remarkable that thou wouldst even know of such abilities. Can thou prove that thou'rt fused?"

Are we ok with splitting up for a moment?

Humphrey ## Oh, sure, just for a bit ##

Mirrow && Yeah lets show her! &&

"I've never done this before, but... here goes." You close your eyes and ... you're not really sure what to do. You try thinking very hard about splitting up, visualizing your soul pulling away from itself. Humphrey and Mirrow are doing the same, and as you each suddenly grasp the concept of splitting your core-

SHLORP

Your fragments peel off of each other, returning to their original, broken shapes, and the three of you fall out of one another and into a heap on the floor.

The shopkeeper drops her tools, mouth agape. "Well then..."

"We can't remember anything about our time as a Grand," Humphrey says from underneath you, "at least, nothing outside of the part where we die."

"Thou has not shared this with anyone else?" You all three shake your heads. "Thou would do well to guard this secret. The King may have softened somewhat, but they mercilessly destroyed the Grands, and there's no knowing if they wouldst not do the same again."

"Why kill us at all?" Mirrow asks, "Did we do something to make them angry?"

"Alas, precious little is known. Even the Elsekin harbor few secrets about the Grands. I'm... somewhat crestfallen thou canst recall any of thine past. But! praps thou will remember more as you find your pieces, and if thou do, I hope thou wouldst permit me to, ahem, pick thy brain, so to speak. Would terribly love to know what thou remembers."

"What about that Candyfloss you keep talking about? Do you know anything about her?" you ask.

"Unfortunately I only know about her personal studies of magic. She left behind very little record of her nature. I have guesses, but they are just that, guesses." She resumes work on the device.

"There we go," she hands over the bright blue phone, "I'll let thee have this for free, but if you need charms, I'll have to charge you for them."

You accept the phone, and Humphrey and Mirrow gather close to look too. It's a simple looking thing, fitting comfortably in your hand. It flips open with a small window on the upper half, and several tiny buttons on the lower half, as well as a tiny slime with glasses. It beams up at you.

"Hi there! Welcome to your new spellphone, friend! I'm running a snail flavor of JellOS. I can take notes, cast spells, track your location, and all kinds of other neat things! Would you like to name me?"

"Oh uhh..."

#slimequest #intermission 1

[artistfingers]

There’s one ~silver lining~ of my iPad being broken: I’ve had loads of time to think about my many half-formed undercover phantom au ideas! Since I have no idea when or what will make it to comic form, here’s the lowdown…. AKA, everything that’s been rattling around my brain recently :P

For context: Danny, Sam and Tucker have never met, and nobody knows Danny is Phantom. When Vlad’s newest bit of tech gets Danny stuck in ghost mode (with the rest of his powers on the fritz to boot), he meets Tucker and Sam—who instantly see through his disguise and lend a helping hand. (Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4!!)

So. After that, Danny—no, Phantom—becomes friends with them. It’s exciting! He was invisible at school even before the ghost powers; he was pretty isolated and lonely and being Phantom for the last year hasn’t exactly been a social boon. Kid’s lonely, ok?

But now… two human friends? Who’re his age & share his interests? It’s like a dream come true! If only they weren’t exclusively friends with his ghost self… and if only they didn’t wanna be so involved in his dangerous ghost hunting things…Uhhh. Hm. Could be a problem.

Danny angsts about the danger he’s putting his new friends in, and about not being able to befriend them as a human. He plays with the idea of telling them Everything but that’s… risky to say the least. He’s only known them a few weeks! ugh….!! it’s too much. maybe he should just throw the towel in.

Buuut Sam & Tucker don’t take no for an answer. Especially after they rescue him a third time.

Thus… Phantom friendship shenanigans!!

Sam filched some parts from the Fentonworks Lab when Phantom took them there, and later convinced Tucker to help her build a custom mini ectogun in case of emergency. They didn’t tell Phantom.

Danny is really sentimental about that DP hat he wore when he first met Sam & Tucker. He wore it as Phantom for a while but it got singed in a fight. He still wears it when he hangs out with Tucker & Sam but otherwise keeps it squirreled away for Sentimental Reasons.

“So Phantom, how old are you?” “I’m 15.” “15 now? Or 15 when you died?” “Yes.”

Tucker has a bunch of awful 90s button up shirts, and gives one to Phantom

They aren’t able to convince Sam to wear one too, but they sure do try.

Phantom won’t tell them when he died, so once he starts wearing 90s shirts they start using terrible 90s slang with him

“I am NOT from the 90s!!! They didn’t even SAY that then!!!” “methinks the lady doth protest too much…..home slice” “NOOO!!!”

“Phantom I have an extremely important question. Like, life or death. SHIT is on the LINE here. Are you listening?? I really need to know…. Do ghosts play video games”

The answer may surprise you (no it won’t)

Sam is completely convinced they can ACTUALLY get a good working guess of when Phantom lived and died based on the fact he liked Nasty Burger when he was alive, since NB’s a regional chain with a not-so-distant past. Tucker meanwhile thinks Phantom probably has a good reason for keeping them at arm’s length—but regardless of method, they can agree: they want to break down Phantom’s walls.

The next arc is less “Undercover Phantom” and more “Undercover Fenton” because the juxtaposition of him having to do hidden identities squared (squared again) is too good for me to pass up. It boils down to this: during a ghost attack at school, Danny finds himself stuck being ��protected” by Sam and Tucker.

Sam and Tucker take their new jobs as Phantom’s ghost hunting companions too seriously to let this skinny stranger they just met run TOWARDS the danger. WHY does he keep trying to run TOWARDS the danger

NO YOU CANNOT GO TO THE BATHROOM THE SCHOOL IS ON G H O S T L O C K D O W N

Sam pulls out her ectogun.

Danny: WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?!

Sam does not tell him.

“Wait, your last name’s Fenton? Like Fentonworks Fenton?” “No, the other Fenton.” “Oh… well, that’s too bad…” “YES LIKE FENTONWORKS FENTON”

Sam is initially wary of Danny because of his parents’ super strong anti-ecto views. Danny is clueless as to why she isn’t very friendly to him-as-a-human when she’s great with him-as-a-ghost. but she warms up after he helps resolve the ghost issue in a way that shows he doesn’t subscribe to his parents’ views.

afterwards you get this excellent situation where Danny is now friends with Sam and Tucker as Phantom and as Fenton, and they’re not connecting the dots as quickly as they did when it was just “that’s Phantom wearing a hoodie and a cap with his own logo on it”.

the potential here? *chefs kiss* here’s a few things but honestly? the possibilities are limitless

Danny pretending to not have a cell phone because he already gave them his number as Phantom

Tucker: *dials Phantom*

Danny, standing directly next to him: *frantically attempting to silence his phone*

Sam & Tucker try to introduce Danny and Phantom. Danny has to make excuses to avoid this happening in both forms.

Danny takes Sam & Tucker down to the Fentonworks Lab to get them some real equipment. Sam & Tucker pretend (very badly) that they’ve never been there before

Rooftop chill sessions as Phantom, late night teenage hijinks as Fenton, plus school AND fighting ghosts does not do any favors for Danny’s sleep deprivation. Tucker introduces him to caffeine pills with… mixed results.

Tucker and Sam teach Phantom some sign language. Later Danny slips up and uses it casually with them as Fenton

…. And many other silly mixups that I’ve yet to think of because I live for that shit

Sam & Tucker have theories about the Fenton-Phantom connection and they’re all wrong but somehow also plausible and that freaks Danny out just a little bit if he ever overhears them

Ultimately, I see this AU having a final arc where a New Situation occurs in which Danny-as-Phantom has to—once again—pretend to be human. This time, he’s with Sam & Tucker as Phantom from the get go, and can’t disappear or transform, even if being Phantom is extremely dangerous at that moment. Somehow this scenario would lead to the Fenton-is-Phantom (or, in this case, Phantom-is-Fenton) reveal…. But the details still escape me :P

so in short………… I really like hidden identities

#danny phantom #danny phantom au #danny fenton #tucker foley #sam manson #undercover phantom au #no one knows au #DP #WHY is this 1000 words long IM SO SORRY #PS if you are reading these tags and you left tags on any of the comics so far with your own ideas for this au THANK YOU I LOVE YOU #PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE feel free to add on ideas to this au any way youd like 🙏 #it is just a big ol hidden identities sandbox with also lots of teenages hijinks #im hoping to have my ipad fixed by wednesday-ish so more comics........ eventually :"D #in the meantime please enjoy this long text post and maybe some sketchbook things #if i can work up the nerve to post something straight out of the sketchbook lmfao #long post #fic #art writes

[this-file-has-been-redacted]

(if you want to) rb with your redactverse neurodivergent head canons! you can say why you think so or not, either way. i’ll go first!!   (also, ignore the bolding and italicizing, i just know that helps me read longer blocks of text easier, and i don’t really use it on fics but i figured i would here)   sorry this got so long, i have so many thoughts on this, and this could almost definitely have been longer but i didn’t want to wake it insufferable to read lmao take a guess at how much of this is pure projection lol

Lasko-- ADHD methinks, for many reasons, but a couple of the things that Really Hit were when he said that having the physical papers all laid out where he could touch and see them helped, and also when he said it helped to go somewhere “familiar but not yours” when you need to focus. stims mainly by chewing his lip, bouncing his leg, humming, and tapping his fingers. he also flaps his hands, but only in private. gets sensory overload very easily, most commonly auditory sensory overload. also i feel like he has significant trouble with auditory processing which bothers him a lot because he feels like it takes him too long to answer in conversations and he finds it embarrassing. (also, almost definitely has RSD (rejection sensitive dysphoria)) Damien-- autistic Damien makes me so incredibly happy. when he said that he had been happy in front of the freelancer before and he did show it, just in his own way, it felt like a personal attack /lh i feel like he misses social cues a lot and therefore has trouble telling when he’s being intense or abrasive, and also why he doesn’t realize lasko’s scared of him until he’s told. in the dinner video, he has a schedule/structure planned for the evening, and i think this helps him know what to expect in this new situation, because as far as we know he’s never been around the freelancer in a non-academic context. could his interest in activism and reform be considered a special interest? i think so, but i’m not entirely sure. most common stim is tapping his foot or rocking back and forth. has a lot of clothes-related sensory issues that mean he mainly wears soft things and things that are Good Materials. absolutely hates getting anything sticky on his hands Huxley-- ADHD/autism (either or both) honestly, i’ve forgotten most of my reasons for him bc it’s been a minute since i listened to his videos, but i remember a few of them were the fact that he jumps from topic to topic very frequently (and how he’s used to people not paying attention when he does. i wish to hug him), and also how he mentioned that it felt like he was pretending to be someone and just playing a role around most people, which let him be everyone else’s friend, but no one was really his friend. that felt a lot like a description of masking (to me, anyways). his favorite sensation is cool water flowing over his hands or running his hands through something with small particles (sand, rice, sugar, etc) Davey-- autistic Davey please and thank you. i have less evidence for this one, but the idea makes me happy so i’m sharing anyways. Davey has a very low social battery and, as much as he cares about his small group of friends (Asher and Milo,) he gets tired very quickly when they hang out. very sensitive to loud noises, bright lights, and crowds. when he gets overwhelmed he gets especially irritable and snaps at people frequently, though he doesn’t mean too. pretty averse to new experiences, but he’s more willing once someone explains what’s going to happen and what he should expect. when he goes to restaurants he almost always orders the same thing. during times of stress he has one or two same foods that are almost all he eats. stims by humming and making clicking sounds with his mouth, and also by listening to one song on repeat for hours when he’s upset and angel isn’t home. doesn’t like to be touched unexpectedly, and he gets uncomfortable when anyone other that the few people he’s closest to touches him (also, pretty much all of the listeners, but it’s pure self-insert lmao)

#redacted asmr #head canons #redacted asmr davey #david shaw #redacted asmr huxley #redacted asmr damien #redacted asmr lasko #neurodivergent #feel free to add on #or tell me your opinions on the ones i listed #damn series #(not trying to diagnose anyone. just trying to see bits of myself in the characters i love)

[socketz]

Spencer Reid x Reader 

Talking To The Moon.

Inspired by the Bruno Mars song, because it’s the one I listen to when I come up with my Spencer Reid fantasies😃.

Type : Angst (It’s just so fuckin’ sad, man)

Warnings : A LOT. Detailed mentions of r*pe / sexual assault, child m*lestation / assault / r*pe, physical abuse, physical fighting, broken bones, dislocated joints (Replacing them! Which is so disgusting, the thought makes me cringe), trauma, the usual Criminal Minds terminology (in terms of describing an UnSub), emotional breakdown, a lot of Death Talk™️ (which could somehow be perceived as suicidal, I guess?), and actual death, there is one (1) kiss. It is a PECK, crude language (profanity), and I think that’s it.

Word Count : 16.3K (this was NOT supposed to be that long, ohmygod)

Request : Not Requested. (This idea came to me in a really horrifying dream that I had, a few weeks ago. I always document my dreams, and this was... Well, it was more of a nightmare. I won’t share, but from the tone of the Fanfic I’m sure you can gather the terror that it endured.)

Summary : There’s a lot of plot for this one. The reader takes on a case (an unauthorised case, you understand), that she relates to on a very personal level. Determined to take on this UnSub, after observing his crimes within the media, and finding thelselves enraged by the Police’s futile attempts to make progress in his arrest, they search for him themselves, and they happen to forget every ounce of Federal Safety training they have ever experienced. Uh, Oh! Do I smell kidnapping? Yes, I do! The reader is kidnapped by the Unsub, and tortured for four days straight. The team are searching for them, but are they fast enough? Either way, Spencer will never forgive himself, and the reader isn’t sure they’ll make it out the other side, alive.

Authors Note : First of all, Baby Spence🥺🤚 the way he was RIDDLED with trauma?? PLEASE?? Got me out here trying to shift realities just to give this man a hug- like he really needs some love, y’know? I have other one shots in the works where he IS receiving his well deserved affection, but it’s not really this one (though he is comforting the reader. Well deserved, methinks)😭 this is perhaps the most graphic and depressing one shot I have ever written😃 I mean, enjoy??? I don’t know if that is the right word. Make sure you read the warning, man, the topics at hand are dealt with in depth and I do not want to trigger anyone!!!!!

Talking To The Moon, Spencer Reid x Reader

They say that the barrel of a gun is cold; that it seeps into the precipitation of your complexion, and the steel aches a circular coolness. They say that your life flashes before your eyes, and that your fight, flight, or freeze, kicks in, when the initial shock of fatality flashes, and blinds you for a defining split second. They say that in your final moments, you show who you truly are. 

They are wrong. 

The metal is warm, upon my forehead, as I blink slowly, a thousand thoughts - words, and probabilities; numbers, and statistics, and the thumping of my heart (thump, thump, thump; thump, thump, thump) everything, and anything; anything, and nothing - all find themselves meandering their way throughout my congested conscience. I think not of my childhood, the warm touch of my mother’s embrace, and neither the pride in my chest as I received my first ‘100%’, with a wonky smiley face, feedback for my very first official essay in school; not the swarm of flying insects, rampant within my stomach, as I first walked into the Behavioural Analysis Unit, of the Federal Investigations Bureau. I think not of Spencer, not of Morgan, or Penelope, Hotch, and Emily. I am… I am not… 

The barrel of the gun is warm.

I blink slowly.

A sheen of smeared colour - like the pretense of a dull oil painting, perceived too close to the canvas - washes over my vision, steals the breath from my aching throat - thump, thump, thump, my heart cries; lodged beneath my tongue, thump, thump, thump - I swallow it back. Thickly, like treacle, and I… There- There is-

The barrel of the gun is warm. 

I blink slowly. 

I collect myself, in my throat, and I gulp with a softness that simply does not suffice. The flavour of something- of something burned, something charred, lies upon the dry thrum of my tongue, and I allow myself to taste it. Just for a- just for a moment. Just for a moment, I taste it, and it is charred- charred and metallic. The burned flavour of my chest, thumping iambically beneath my heavy-set jaw, wafts up, up, up, throughout my trachea, and it coils between my teeth. From the back, to the front, around, and around, does it crawl, and my heart thunders on in my thoughts; thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump. 

The barrel of the gun is warm.

I blink slowly. 

The same ache rolls around my motionless joints; it burrows beneath my stained complexion, and I do not flinch as something pop’s, and another bone crack’s. It is not- I am warm. An uncomfortable sense of warmth, that settles upon my grimy skin, and collects itself among my wounded figure, and- and it’s- and it’s hot. It’s hot, and it aches- 

But the barrel of the gun is warm, and I blink slowly. 

I blink slowly, and the barrel of the gun is warm. 

I yearn to think, to obtain coherency, but the barrel of the gun is warm, and it hurts. Oh, it aches, and I- a shuddered breath falls from my unnaturally moistened mouth, tainted by the spill of internally displaced fluid, and I force my eyes to peel open. To unveil beneath their thick hoods, to dismiss the burning heat that flares from my slow blinking, to show him no weakness. I force my eyes to peel open, because, by God, if it’s the last thing I’ll ever do, I will look him in the eyes, and I will silently congratulate myself on my victory. I will not lose; I will not surrender.

And so I peel back my lids, and I ignore the sweltering ache that rushes upon my discoloured, broken, cheek, and I observe him with a gaze of (what I pray to be) great indifference. I slack my features, and I spare myself the wince, as the temptation of heat, licking away the wet droop of my bruised face, engulfs the structure of my poised, blank, expression. Dark, dark, circles; the kind of spherical matter that the mariana trench may find envy within, roam me. Thoughtlessly. Not a thing behind those eyes - no feeling, no rage, no pain. There is no tremble to his digits, as he holds the trigger of the sleek revolver, cherry-wood-handled, and there is no twitch within the muscular construction of his nonchalance, as it fades between four-a-piece, and a regular, blurred, arrangement. 

This is it, I think, at last, and the silence between my irrevocably untelling orbs infiltrates its way through my subconscious. Soon - a mere matter of seconds, that spirals to the incoherent detailing of a slurry construct - there is nought but the mulling tone of my heart, thumping endlessly beneath my burning sternum, and I force myself to breathe evenly. In, my chest rises softly, and out, I exhale something shaken through my nostrils.

By God, I think; this really is it. 

And the barrel of the gun is warm, as I blink up at him slowly, and I do not regard the noiseless sobbing of the child, to the darkest corner of the room. 

This is it. It pounds within my ears, morphed upon the rhythm of my steady heartbeat; this is it, this is it, this is it. 

This is it, and the barrel of the gun is warm, and I blink up at him slowly, and the breath on my tongue tastes like the charred meat of my steadily thumping heart, and I think of nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, at all - nothing but the silent shake of a tear-stricken expression, caught beneath the dim lighting, as her circular, little, face, enlarges. Enlarges, and morphes, by shadows, and yellow light; approaching. I do not regard her, as she nears in my peripheral, and the curve of her small, fragile, shoulders tremble, and the flush of her moistened cheeks glimmer among the bulb’s reflection, but the burned flavour on my tongue ceases its subtlety, and there is a taught capture about the breath in my lungs. It is reeled back, and stored deeply beneath my broken bones.

And, suddenly, my heartbeat lurches into my throat.

I miss the warmth of the metal, as it flinches away from my bloodied forehead, and I miss the dark discs of his thoughtless eyes, as they leave me, and the ache of my tongue dissipates to a resolve of bitter dryness. 

There she stands, beneath the weight of the revolver, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized. She breathes not a word, she expresses not a sound, and still his finger curls. Curls subtly, ever-so-gently, and my heart tumbles into my mouth, before I can drag it back down. “Coward.” It spits, unbearably rasped upon the echo of my dry, naked, throat; like wood upon sandpaper, it grits, and it grits, and the shavings collapse in my lungs, as they heave; in, I rasp; and out. “You’ll-” I gather my cheek between my jaw, and I nibble it tearsly, a deep, seering, heat erupting- erupting, and sprouting; multiplying, between my very cells. “You’re gonna shoot a- a little-” Another pained, hollow, heave; I clamber for steady footing. “Shoot a little girl?” Dark, dark, circles… no feeling, no rage, no pain. They catch within the light, and never before have I observed a shadow exposed by the sun, and still obtaining its darkness. But there they are, as they gaze unto my own, and I level our stare with ease. “Impotent son of a bitch.” I murmur, a mere breath upon the quiet. 

Antagonize him, my conscious crows; rile him up, give him reason for distraction.

 “That is-” I stutter in my respiration, and the wheeze of a wet cough finds the depth of my chest. It rumbles through the rasp of my throat, and a slick, metallic, moisture coils upon the flesh of my lower lip. The coppery taste ravishes my mouth, and I allow the liquid to spit between my words. “That is why you do it, isn’t it?” I say, no more than a whisper, gargled by the congestion of the red fluid pool, congregated about my tongue. “You couldn’t-” Another ragged breath, “Couldn’t perform. Not for the-” I swallow the metallic, warm, liquid, and it burns my aching throat. “Not for the pretty women. Hm?” He regards me, motionlessly, and the discs of irrevocable blackness roam my hot, burning, features. “So you too-” I gulp back the rise of blood in my throat, unsettled and naturally rejected. “So you took to little girls, instead, didn’t-” A softer, shallower, inhale, “Didn’t you?” 

Silence. The iambic thrum of my heartbeat interrupts the depth of the quiet, but I push it down - down, down, down, beneath the crushing weight of my charred sternum, and I force myself to continue. 

“Yeah.” I say, quietly, “You did.” I harden my gaze. “You do.” You take them, their vulnerable, defenseless, innocent, selves, and you steal their childhood; you steal their youth like the dawn to the night, and you rip the world from beneath their fucking feet. “They’re small.” I rasp. “Young.” I try not to think of the dry red, that - the dry, dark, blood, that stains her little thighs, and I try not to picture the tears on her cheeks, and the seeping crimson that cakes the lower quarter of her sweet, white, dress. I try not to entangle her contorted features with a familiar reflection, try to ignore the burning ache of my sweltering chest, as it burns, and it binds, and contracts so ferociously, and I swallow back the lump, riddled with- with- with something. (Bile, blood, bitten down sobs, does it matter? Does it matter?). 

There she stands, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized.

“They’re small enough to-” I nibble my inner cheek, and the rasp engulfing my tone threatens to tinge with a bespoken darkness. “They’re small enough to feel you, aren’t they?” I say, and there’s something- there’s something that flashes, be it only a split moment, behind those unforgiving holes he deems the window to his soul. Black, and inhumane. Fitting. “They feel you enough to react.” The muscle to the corner of his left eye contracts, a mere millimeter, or so, but I catch it. Oh, do I catch it. “They cry.” I say, softly, and I hope that the girl holds any kind of oblivion she once may have obtained. “They scream. They bleed.” They die. “But, hey,” I murmur, “any liquid is liquid, right?”

It burns, and it aches, and I nibble the eroded flesh of my inner cheek, and I blink up at him slowly, but at least he is here. At least he is here, at least her blood is dry, at least she can walk. At least I can buy her some extent of recovery time. “You’re sick.” I spit, tone lowered significantly, but still strong. Somehow, I obtain my strength, and I continue. “You’re twisted, and you’re useless.” I say. “You’re nothing but a freak, a shrimpy coward with no sexual capability.” Twitch, twitch; the muscle of his left eye contracts, once more, with more force; more concealed rage, bubbling away beneath the surface. “Pathetic.” I continue, a mere grumble upon the thickening silence. “You couldn’t satisfy a woman if you tried-” The barrel of the gun is colder, now, as he forcefully presses it’s rim upon my forehead, but the steel soon begins to warm. I blink up at him slowly, and I prod. I prod, and I prod, and I wait for the sleeping lion to snap and bite. A breathy chuckle falls from my dry tongue. “There it is.” I whisper. “There it is- you’re an embarrassment, aren’t you?” I mock, tone thick with some kind of congealed, faux, amusement. I swallow back the uprising liquid, lodged thickly amongst my throat, and I offer him a blank, condescending, smile. Bloody-toothed, and bitter. “Tell me, Ben, can you even get it up, properly, anymore?” 

SMACK.

I hear it, and then- then I feel it, and before I know what has hit me, he has. The tang of warm liquid, filling my mouth, is entirely indifferent to the coppery flavour I have grown to know, as of late, and I bite back the bubbling groan, a flare of burning heat traveling through the very cells in my ruptured cheekbone. Bruised, and tender; the flourish of agonizing heat pulsates, like the steady beat of my burning chest, and I regain my sturdy posture, gazing back unto the deep, dark, discs. Lifeless, enraged. I ignore the pulse in my features, and the thump of my circulation, gushing rampantly through my senses, as I adjust my blaring joints, and I maneuver my strung limbs. Wrists confined to the sufficient, tight, expertise of Benjamin’s personal experience, they hang perpendicular to my sides; expanded, outstretched, like the span of a bird in flight. 

I hang from them, there, upon the wall, and I ignore the raging fire, engulfing my (dislocated) damaged shoulders. Slumped upon my knees, bruised and discoloured for all their worth, I tilt my head up, and I blink at him slowly. My eyes water, a natural reaction, and the sting in my cheekbone echoes with the afterthought of his gun, freshly stricken, throbbing. But still, I bore my gaze unto his own, and I force my jaw to loosen. “Touchy.” I grumble, bitterly. “What’s the-” I swallow the consistently uprising clump of blood, and of rejected bile, and I try again. “What’s the matter, Benny?” I press. “You insecure?” I say. “Ashamed?” Of course he isn’t, he’s furious. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. “Challenged?” The muscle of his left eye twitches, again, and I force a crooked, toothy, smile. “Yeah.” I say, “That’s it. You’re afraid.” Another twitch. “Out of your dep- out of your depth.” 

“Shut up.” He snaps, “Shut up.” 

My eyebrows raise, and I allow another breathy, rasped, chuckle to fall from my cracked mouth. “Raping little girls is one thing,” I continue, “But kidnapping, and torturing an Official Officer?” Another fleeting, thin, laugh. “Jesus. Who knows what they’ll do to you in there?” 

“They worship Pig killers in that place.” Benjamin snarls, and, for once, I find myself smiling with an unmissable genuinity. 

“Yeah.” I say, with a grin. “They do.” And I allow my humour to dance within my gaze, as I motion the man closer, with a subtle toss of my head. He follows, nose aligned with the warm barrel of the revolver, and I ignore the throb of my cheek, and the iambic scream of my heart. “But, see, Benny-Boy,” I whisper, my breath fanning his thin lips, “I ain’t no Pig.” I tongue the soft mutilation of my inner cheek. “I’m a Federal Fucking Agent.” 

The breeze is not calming, as it brushes upon my face, and I throw myself forward, crashing my forehead upon the smooth curve of his foolishly close expression. A barbaric crack rips though the disturbed quiet, and the sudden splat of warm liquid dignifies itself upon my sopping complexion, as the muffled tumble of retreating, unsteady, footsteps echo clumsily around the room. I think I got his nose, as I fall back against the wall, arms useless, and I connect with the concrete behind me, dragging my bruised and bloodied limbs out, as they abandon their position of lying beneath me. I sit aloft the ground, and my legs roar with a thousand shallow wounds; pins and needles scattering hoarsely about the flesh of my weak anatomy. “Fuck,” I murmur, as I ignore the dizzying, blurred, contortion that warps my unsturdy vision. From a multiple of four, to adjacent and blurred, but singular, Ben scurries to his feet, displaced to an enclosing distance. 

Thump-thump-thump, my heart cries in my ears, and the white noise of the blurred silence seems to hum along to it’s rhythm, thump-thump-thump, but I can’t leave her behind. I cannot bring myself to let her down - not again. Not again. Not again. 

I can’t let her down - thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump - as the pins run up my limbs, and the needles pivot their course around, and around the flesh of my legs. Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump, he draws closer. One stumbled step at a time; one step, two steps, three steps, four, I use the wall and bend my knees, groaning beneath the weight of my fucking agony, and I tear myself from the concrete ground, allowing the yell to rip from my moistened, raspy, throat. Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump, he tumbles; closer, closer, closer, closer. 

The cry that rips from my throat, as I throw my leg to his side, it bounces upon the thick walls. It mocks me, in my dizzy breathing, and it laughs along with his soft, quiet, grunt. I strike at his chest, with the ball of my foot, and I pray that my quivering muscles suffice. Ignoring the ambush of sweltering heat, coursing throughout my ankle, and the damaged joint of my knee, I tear up to his throat (his frame hunched, and breathless) with the inner curve of my ankle. SLAM. I revel in the slap of skin, upon skin, as his betrayed choking engulfs my rugged, teary, silence. Oh, how it burns, it aches, and I cry- I cry with such volume, as I draw down upon his cheek, as he falls to the ground, and I crush it beneath my aching heel. 

His parted lips heave with an airy groan, and I force myself to repeat. To repeat, to repeat, to repeat, until the blood beneath my throbbing heel all but retracts my complexion’s grip. The flesh of my foot slips upon his motionless expression, the curl of his digits slowly unravelling, and I slam my limb down upon his broken, bloodied, face, again, and again, and I ignore the warmth of the tears upon my cheek, as they dribble their way down. I notice the first, and then the rest seem to follow, uncontainable and relentless, and still I pummel the structure.

Bruised, and toughened, the sopping entrapment of my wounded heel draws down upon his fractured features, and I release a withheld, shuddered, breath. It is warm, as it fans my chin, and I allow my legs to feather themselves unstably upon the ground. I stop. I pause, and I gather myself with brief collection. The tight stinging behind my eyes seems to worsen, as I force the lump in my throat to dissect, and to surrender to the flames of my burning, charred, sternum, but I swallow it all back, and I shake my legs loose, slowly dropping my frame back down upon the concrete below. 

There he lies; still, and unmoving. Not dead, but not quite alive. 

The girl. It rings in my ears, as my heartbeat settles to something familiar; the girl, the girl, the girl. The girl who’s name I have yet to learn, the girl I have failed to protect - the girl I must save. The girl I refuse to let down, again. “Hey,” I call, quietly, and I soften my tone with significance, just enough (I hope) to eliminate the threat of the glimmering, red, blood, that begins to dry upon my body. “Hey, sweetheart.” I shake back my hair, and I turn to face her, ignoring the glassy shein that warps upon my vision, as my body entraps in a wave of unforgiving warmth, and the hot, burning, sensation engulfes my entirety; running up, and down, from left, to right, in and out of my limbs, from my eye sockets, to the tips of my bloodied toes. It aches, and it burns, and I plaster on a kind, gentle, smile, and I observe the tears upon her scarlet cheeks. “What’s your-” I nibble the ruined flesh of my inner cheek, as a flare of something (something like agony) curls around the joint of my displaced shoulder, and runs sharply through my arm, “What’s your name?” I ask, quietly, and I try to bereft the strain from my tone. 

But, oh, it aches, and oh, it burns. 

“Alyssa.” She replies, quietly. 

“Alyssa?” I try the name on my tongue. “Alyssa, Okay.” I say. “Alyssa, I need you to do something for me.” I tell her, “I need you to do something for me, is that Okay?” Her nimble, sad, face, nods, and I feel something shift in my chest. The burning increases, and the blood on my tongue tastes more like heartache, than of copper. “Okay.” I say, “Can you try to untie these ropes?” I nod gently to the strong grip of my wrists, entrapped within the beige confinement, and I hope - oh, how I hope - that her little fingers are good for something. 

“Okay.” Alyssa says, softly, as she teeters a step closer, and she approaches the still figure of the bloodied, unconscious, man. “Is it-” She steps over his arm, “Is it painful?” 

She reaches up to the knot, be it just above her head, and she works at the painfully tightened enigma. I hiss, softly, at a gentle jolt of my shoulder, and I ignore the loud pop of its agonizing displacement, pulsating with heat, as I murmur my quiet reply. “Only a little.” I lie. “Are you feeling okay?” I ask, tenderly, “Does anything hurt, down-” Another hiss, I swallow it back audibly, “down there?” 

“Only a little.” She mimics, not at all unkindly, as she works at the knot, and she straightens her small, tear-slick, mouth. There is mulled silence, for a passing moment, and I tongue the rough complexion of my inner cheek. “I didn’t cry.” She admits, as though I should be one to offer my congratulations. “I didn’t fight him.” She says. “I’m a good girl.” I swallow the lump in my throat, and I blink slowly, as to diminish the sting of my eyes, and I allow my breath to fall shaky, and uneven, as I regard the girl with a furrow to my brow. I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight him. I’m a good girl. 

“Alyssa, I-” I meet the sharp blue of her cerulean, glossy, gaze, and I observe the seeking ache behind them - the dull rim that seeps upon the light’s reflection. “Alyssa,” I whisper, “listen to me.” Her hands work at the knot, and the curl of it all begins to shuffle loose. “That man is a bad man.” I say. “He’s a monster. You know the kind you read about? In- In the- In the books?” She nods, softly, and I reciprocate her action. “Well, he’s one of ‘em.” I say, and her gentle expression of repressed agony crumples; dissolves to the pinch of a furrow.

“He looks normal to me.” She says. 

“They always do.” I reply, with something like sympathy curled among my smile. “The monster lives inside them.”

“Like a house?”

“Sure.” I say, “Like a house.” 

“I don’t like that house.” She whispers, hardly that of a breath upon the laboured quiet, and I feel the subtle breeze of freedom beginning to slither around my aching wrist. 

The strong simmer behind my eyes seems to ignite a stronger burn, and the blur of colours coaxing my vision adheres to engulfing my senses entirely, a clamp in my jaw to withhold the overwhelming urge to burst out with some kind of vocal sob. I bite it back, gnawing softly upon the mauled flesh of my inner cheek, and I offer Alyssa a gentle, toothy, smile. “Good.” I say. “Good. You don’t have to worry-” A scream tears from my throat, and the barricade of blurring moisture spills over with ease. “Fuck!” I hiss, “Fuck- Shit-” My arm audibly slaps down upon my side, the wrist an awkwardly angled bend, as it cracks aloft the harsh concrete below, and the mocking double-act-popping makes its merry way through, the joint finding itself inverted and ajar, and, oh, it aches, it burns. It fucking burns, and I- “Do the other one.” I murmur, strained by the bite of irrevocable pain, as a teary eyed Alyssa forces herself to overstep Benjamin’s right arm, and to meet the limp hang of my dislodged limb, and her nimble little fingers get to work on the opposing knot. 

I try to grind my teeth, try to swallow back the uprising sob that teeters thickly among my taught throat, and I try to focus solely upon the unmoving man upon the floor, as my arm hangs loosely at my side, and the pulsating ache rivets throughout my entirety; it swirls behind my eyes, and up, up, up, up around the iambic thrum of my cold, incandescent, mind, and down to the very tips of my sharp collarbones; to the steady rise of my chest; in, and out, in, and out, and I listen to the thump of my heartbeat, as it sings it’s hellish chorus in my ears, and it rings true for yet another second - thump, thump, thump; thump, thump, thump - and I pay attention to the melody, the sporadic pulse, the rhythmic reminder that: Here I Am. Living. Breathing (Barely?). With The Life Of A Little Girl In My Hands. There it is. There it is. The truth. There it is. And I listen to it, again. I listen to it again, and I look at her. 

I look at Alyssa, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized, as she works at the knot, and she sniffles to herself quietly. I look at Alyssa, and she isn’t crying. I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight him. I’m a good girl. She is a good girl. I look at Alyssa, and I see nothing but a girl that deserves the world, and I know that she is a good girl, but why should she have to learn her worth in such an earth-shattering way? I nibble my inner cheek, and I digest the uprising urge to allow my eyes to water (excessively, for they have already washed the blood of my bruised, and broken, features, and they lay wet upon my cheeks), as I call out to her gently, and I watch her glimmering gaze remove itself from her concentrated scowl.

“Lissy?” I call, softly, with a furrow to my eyebrows. I meet her cerulean stare, and I observe the reserved redness that circles her glassy orbs, as she draws back her own impulse to cry, and I speak again. Quietly. Always quietly. “Can I call you Lissy?” I ask.

Alyssa nods. “Mommy calls me Lissy Doll.” She says, and the burning flavour flares up, again, upon the back of my dry tongue. I concentrate on it, as the heat of my dislocated shoulder begins to fade, and I suppose that the taste of charred flesh is better than the agony of broken bones. 

I offer her a smile, though I feel it comes across more as a grimace than that of any reassurance, and I nod gingerly. “Alright.” I say. “Lissy, it is.” There is something like heartache, and like the dullness of doubt, that clouds the brightness of her young, infantile, orbs, and I force my lower limbs to shuffle, to face the readily repressing girl before me, as she holds back her upcoming wave of cries, and she swallows back her sorrow. “It’s Okay to cry, you know.” I say, gently, and she shifts her gaze to engulf my warm, piercing, stare, within her own, and the glassy shein begins to thicken. “It doesn’t make you weak.” I whisper. “I know it-” I force down the uprising lump in my throat, a sudden lodge beneath the muscle of my tongue, and I try again, with a tone somehow softer than before. “I know that it hurts, Lissy.” I say, “I know that you want to be strong, and that you- that you want to be a good girl,” A shaken exhale falls from my lips, “but, sweetheart, you don’t need to go through something like that to prove it.” 

She nods, softly, and she purses her lips together, trembling and shaken by her trauma. 

“Lissy, if you can-” I swallow back an audible groan, as I shuffle my injured frame, and the pulse of reconciling heat flares violently within the loose hinge of my displaced shoulder. “If you can untie me, Okay, we can get out of here.” I assure, attempting to convey something like promise with the stern stare of my unwavering eyes. I pray that Alyssa does not notice the tremble of my limbs, or the shudder in my ribs, as something crawls, and winds, its way between my shattered bones, and I pray that she does not notice the exhaustion behind my determination, that she does not catch wind of my growing fatigue, and the difficulty I face in trying to suppress my growing agony. 

“Okay.” She murmurs, and I find myself deflating with a soft exhale, shoulders falling, and dismissing the grave pulsation of fiery heat that depicts its bitter eruption throughout the damaged nerves of my bloody anatomy.

“Okay.” I nod, attempting to compile any form of reassurance, as I tilt my head back, gentle as I can possibly muster, and I let the crown loll back upon the brickwork. It aches, and it burns, but we’re almost there. By God, we are almost there. “Alright.” I repeat, breathless in my movement, as her small digits begin to unwind the tight knotting of the rope. “I need you to-” A subtle jolt, as the rope loosens, sends a great flare of agonized heat throughout my limb, and the rumble of a deep-routed groan falls from the hollow of my throat; low, and honest. “Fuck.” I murmur, softly, as Alyssa wraps her grip upon the burning ache of my wrist, and she removes the restraint entirely, supporting the arm with minimal (though violently painful) adjustment. A roar of unavoidable flames engulfs the limb, as she lowers it gently, and she drapes the limp wrist upon the concrete. I suppress the bubbling hiss that threatens to fall from between my gritted teeth, and I gulp back the wave of nausea that grips me suddenly. 

A swirl of something bitter, something terrible, begins its sultry dance among my stomach - empty, by a four day solitude - and I feel the burl of air, and of ingested blood, of salivation, gargle nastily toward the very pit of my protesting stomach. Still, I ignore it. 

“Lissy, you need to-” I swallow the uprising concoction, warm and smooth in my throat, and I try again, forcing my words through a clenched jaw. “I need you to fix my arm, Okay?” I need you to re-locate my fucking shoulder, and I need you to do it now, before Benjamin wakes up. If he wakes up, I suppose. The slow, unstable, rise and fall of his darkly clothed back is difficult to judge, among my dizzied vision, and the blurred contortion of the world. I do not dwell on this. I do not have to tear my eyes away, they drift naturally, and there she stands; wide-eyed, traumatized, silently begging me to let out a sudden laugh, and to declare my insinuation a practical joke. “Now, Alyssa.” I say, with a sternness that I suppose she is not used to. Not from me, at least, as the glossy depiction of her wide orbs returns, and, again, I find myself unable to dwell on it, as I turn to where her hands hesitantly hover about my sagging limb. “Just-” I exhale a shuddered breath, because, Jesus, this was never in the job description, and I allow my head to fall back upon the wall behind it, as my eyes flutter shut, and I open my mouth to continue. “Just grab onto it - gently, for the love of God - at the upper- at the upper arm.” A small hand wraps around my bicep, and I flinch involuntarily. Oh Fuck, my mind chants, pulsing throughout my body; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “Put your other hand-” I swallow back the bile concoction, “Put your other hand next to my shoulde- Shit!” She rips away the palm of her small hand, explicit with a short cry, as I yell out my curse, and the pulse of agony spreads upon the damn wound she placed pressure upon. Be specific, Y/N, my conscience scolds; she’s a fucking child. 

It’s not her fault - not her fault, not her fault - but fuck, if that didn’t hurt. I let out a shaky breath, and I force the erratic respiration of my rising chest to calm the fuck down; in, and out, in, and out, and I offer her a tight-lipped grimace, as she regards me with wide, cautious, eyes. 

“Sorry.” I breathe. “I didn’t-” Another groan; the pulse of my pain continues to mock me, to taunt me violently within the unsteady strum of my gushing ears. Thump, thump, thump, it cries; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.” I say, softly. “It just, uh-” I bite back another cry. “It hurts. That’s all.” She nods, timidly, and I observe the aggressive tremble of her hand, as she begins to re-insinuate her previous positioning. “Not there!” I splutter, abruptly, and she halts in her movement, “Not there, Lissy,” I murmur, as my head rolls back against the brickwork behind me, and I tilt it away from her. “Closer to my- closer to my neck, alright? Not on the shoulder, itself.” She murmurs a noise that sounds similar to some kind of agreement, and I clench my jaw. I clench my jaw, and the nausea bubbling within my stomach seems to heighten. Fuck. And I-

Oh Fuck. It pulses around my aching body; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh- “FUCK!” 

A loud, excruciating, crack, snaps out within the laboured silence, and I am submerged in (what feels like) the damned flames of Hell, licking and biting upon the sore flesh of my battered body, devouring my arm in sharp, agonized, nibbles; ripping chunks of my consciousness with them. “Jesu- Fuck. Holy fuck.” I murmur, slurred and messy, as a hot bout of drunken agony spouts throughout that damned joint. Up, and down, does it stumble; here, there, and everywhere, and I find myself unable to bite back the wave of tears, as they force themselves to grapple my attention, and to erode the bloodied concoction of fresh coating about my features, and I can hardly process the weight of their thickening moisture, as it gathers upon my cheeks, because - Oh, God, holy fuck - oh, I can hardly- It burns. It aches, and it burns, and it devours my limb entirely. 

“Do the other one.” I demand, lowly, tone riddled with a rasp of violent agony, as the heat springs forth to my complexion in a tuft of dampening precipitation, and the salty layer begins to seep the red wash of my skin. “Alyssa.” I say, with a grave harshness to my tone, as she remains unmoving (sobbing silently, to herself) beside me. “Do the other one.” I do not dwell on her quiet crying, as she makes her way before me, and she nestles down at my opposing side, and I do not dwell on the ever-burning fire that seems to corrupt every living cell within me, swirling, biting, licking, ruining, me; running circles upon my exhausted frame. Exhausted. It paints the inner lids of my eyes, and the thought of rest seems so entirely delightful, that I have to peel them open. Exhausted. Exhausted. Exhausted. Exhausted. I resent myself for protesting my bodily wishes, and I heave the silent cry of my sobbing frame, denatured and entirely unaware. Unaware. Oblivious. Unfeeling, as another riveting POP echoes throughout the subtly disturbed volume of the room.

I feel it. 

Oh, do I feel it. 

But it does not register. 

I am so alight, I am so wholly consumed, as the flames lick, and they engulf my frame; they wind brutally throughout the broken possession of my bone marrow, and they curve within the bruise of my jutting spine, my fractured rib; they grapple the cranium of my mind so violently, that I feel my slow blinking may rupture me an explosive head, at any given moment; they rip, and they tear, at the flesh of my muscles, running laps around, and around, my pain threshold; daring me, taunting me. Still think you’re winning? They laugh. Still think you’re winning?

But Alyssa is still here. Alyssa is still here, and Benjamin is still unmoving, at my feet, and I am still breathing. Alyssa is still here, and I am still breathing, and- 

And soft, small, fingers wind through the matted knots of my bloodied, stained, hair, at the base of my neck. 

I shift my watery gaze upon the girl beside me, stricken with a glaze of unforgettable, lurching, fear, as her blue eyes blubber silently, and she cries, and she cries, and she does her best to offer me comfort. She does her best to offer me comfort, and she smiles with closed, tear-tousled, lips, as I furrow my eyebrows, and I find myself bubbling with a warm determination. 

Still winning, my heart thuds, still winning, still winning, still winning. Still winning, and I force my limbs to shift. To move an inch, or perhaps a mere centimeter, as that damned fire engulfs my arms, and it wraps them up, up, up; up, and down, spiraling throughout the system of my nerves. From the depth of the crook in my elbow, to the muscles hung loosely amongst my shoulders. Around, and around, but still, I try. “Come here,” I whisper, softly, and I motion with a nod of the head for Lissy to approach. She follows, a stumble or so trodden, and then she stands before me. I lift my arm - jaw clenched, swallowing back the rise of that bile concoction, and ignoring the violent flare of heat that deems eruption amongst the joint of my fucking shoulder - and I run my thumb along the red flush of her tear-stricken cheek. Trembling, though it is, I hold her face with soft assertion. “We’re gonna be just fine,” I say, almost inaudible beneath my bitten down cries, and I offer her a tight-lipped smile. “I promise, Lissy.” I say. “I promise.”

Alyssa doesn’t nod, she doesn’t offer me one of those (non)comforting, teary, smiles, that find my chest clenching with some sort of heartache, rather than warmth, and, instead, the girl furrows her eyebrows. “Does it hurt?” She asks, again, and I know that she is looking for honesty. That she wants the truth, despite her youth; that her innocence is gone. That whatever spark she once attained no longer resides within her cerulean orbs, and that they are darker beneath the dim yellow lighting. That they are darker beneath her trauma. 

“Yeah.” I say, softly. “It does.” 

“Can you move?” 

No. “Yeah.” I smile, nodding gently, as I lower my arm, and I open my mouth to offer another white lie. “Just a little sore, that’s all.” I say. “Why don’t you-” I swallow the uprising bile that congregates within the over-salivation of my glands, and it scratches upon the ache of my tired throat. “Uh, why don’t you check- Check that, uhm-” I gulp back down my words, rearranging them upon my tongue, as the flaring pulse throughout my entirety finds itself momentarily blinding. Still think you’re winning? Still think you’re winning? “Check the door, Okay?” I say, quietly, and I do not dwell upon the observational quirk of her eyebrow, as Alyssa regards me cautiously, and she retreats her silent footwork. “Try and open it.” I offer her a reassuring (?) kind of smile, crooked, and bloody, but she does not seem to acknowledge it - not anymore - as she approaches the darkened corner of the room; the shadow of the great, steel, door. “Can you do it?” I call, tone impossibly rasped upon the echoing silence around. 

There is the distinct sound of struggling metal, as the door jutts back and forth, stuck strictly within its positioning; locked. “It won’t open.” Alyssa says, quietly, and I wonder just how the little girl remains so consistently composed. Of course, her cheeks are littered with unforgiving layers of drying, and thickly moistened, tears, and her eyes are red raw, wide, and traumatized, but not yet has she… broken. Still, she speaks calmly; still, she bites back her loud sobs, and she contains the shudder of her frame. I can only assume that this gravely resolve will crack very suddenly, one day, and, much the same as the floodgates to an overflowing river, everything will come crashing down upon her city of composure. I do not allow myself to dwell upon this thought, however, as the pressing matter of escaping (preferably before Benjamin regains consciousness) thumps iambically throughout my bodily matter. 

“Try the bolts.” I offer. “Are there any bolts?” 

“No.” She says, distantly, with subtle strain, as though she is poised upon the tips of her toes, attempting to grapple the top of the door frame. “Nothing.” She says. 

“Is there a keyhole?” I try, again, as I bite back a subtle groan. Fire. Fire. Heat, coursing throughout my motionless frame. Can you move? No. No. I cannot. I can hardly breathe, and I-

“Yeah.” She hums. “Right here.” 

In, and out. In, and out. “Okay.” I say, “Keys in the door?”

“No.”

Fuck. There is no need for an IQ of 187 to figure out quite where the missing puzzle piece resides. Benjamin’s belt. The very same belt that he rather enjoyed wrapping around my throat, and observing the silent purple that flared upon the taint of my bloodied, fractured, face, just the evening before. Perhaps it was not evening - the concept of time has evaded me entirely, and I rely solely upon the scent of his breath, to know which meal he has likely devoured, before roaming his way within the… the room. Coffee, and something else particularly sweet (often a pastry, I like to believe) linger upon his words when he speaks, some days, and I know that it is morning. Sometimes the scent of seafood, or a cold sandwich filling, wafts upon my face, and the potent stench of a carbonated drink, with the distant flavour of a cheap beer, and I know that it is midday, or just after the fact. Warm, meaty, scents, with cheap red wine tend to find him delighted, by the time that dinner rolls around, and, I realise, that must mean that it is currently night. 

Hours have since passed, from when he first entered the room, smelling strongly of a meat pie, and a three quarter bottle of cheap, red, wine, and, now, around twenty-five (or so) minutes have slipped through my fingers. Time flies when you’re in agony. Abiding by my own, personally devised, day clock, I might assume that I have been submerged within this room for four days. Almost five, I do suppose, should we not escape before the morning sun rises. Not that we may find out when that is, of course. There are no windows. 

My capture had been no fault other than my own. The ‘case’ (Benjamin Fackle, a serial Child Molester, and Rapist, whom the media deemed the ‘Baby Raper’, and a creature the Police Department have been desperately searching for, for many a month) was not official. His name had not crossed my desk. The team knew of him - of course we did, he was a monster in disguise, and we ached for an invitation to work on the case - but, alas, our company was not beckoned for. I spoke to no one of my private research, my geographical profile, and neither my personal profile, but, with the aid of an unsuspecting Garcia (whom did not know the details of my expertly worded, and secretive, request) I had delved upon the narrowed depiction of three addresses. 

The first, an Orphanage, which had since been demolished, and held not a single occupant, was futile. An easy occupation to discard from my list. And, then, came the second. In possession of my gun (and only my gun, my naivety be damned), with no vest, and no back-up-protection, I entered the grounds. That, among a conundrum of other things, was my first mistake. 

There, waiting for me, among the looming shadows of night, was Benjamin Fackle. Crouched behind the door of an easily concealable blind-spot, I disregarded my Federal training, and I dismissed that damned corner. Always check your blindspots, Agent. I could hear the drilling tone bouncing around my mind, mocking me, much the same as that pulsating heat that continued to rivet around my conscience. You don’t check your blindspots, you’re as good as dead. You hear me? I heard him, alright, but that doesn’t matter, now. Not when it didn’t fall into practice, and I failed to do so when it mattered the most. 

But I simply couldn’t resist it. Not this case. Not this kind of UnSub. 

Not when he has been ripping the innocence from seventy-nine children (and counting), and disregarding them so heart wrenchingly. Not when he has been putting them through the same damned trauma I experienced, as a child. Not this case. Not this UnSub. 

And so I force myself back, upon the brickwork behind me, and I ignore my burning frame with a foolish ignorance, engulfing the movement with stuttered fluidity, as the fragile joint of my wounded, bruised, knees, bend, and they shakingly heave my weakening body from the cold compress of the concrete floor. Up, and down, do the sharp pins flow; around, and around, do the needles pivot, but still, I force myself to stand. I force myself to stand, and my arms hang loosely at my sides; not dislodged, but still not quite intact, still burning violently, still thickly riddled with agony.

I stand, and I rest back upon the brickwork, and I heave my ragged breaths. In, and out, I stutter; in, and out. In, and out, but it aches, and it burns, and I blink slowly. I blink slowly, and I swallow back the protest of my uneasy stomach, that crawls within the salivation of my tight throat, and I force my stuttering frame to take a stumbled step forth. 

Pushing from the wall, I tumble with heavy feet. Mulling within my agony; sharp, shallow, wounds, find themselves imprinting mercilessly about the trembling flesh, inflicting detrimentally upon the complexion, and I almost wish - just for a moment, just for a passing second - that I could halt my breathing. As my legs give out beneath me, and I crumble beside the shallow respire of Benjamin’s still frame, and I swallow down the loud cry that threatens to break through the tight catch of my teeth, as I bite down upon my lips, and I force it down - down, down, down - and I blink back the wave of tears (slowly), and I ignore the heat - God, the fucking heat - that dances, and grips, my aching muscles with piercing ferocity.

I crumble beside Benjamin, and I reach, with trembling, not quite numb, and paling, limbs, for his belt. The clink of the metal upon the stone seems to- it seems to- Alyssa. She lets out a quiet sob, from the corner, and I know what the indication sounds like, as a lump forms in my throat, and I can’t swallow it down, and I fumble with the buckle, and I hope, oh, I pray, that I can find those fucking keys, and I-

Jingle. I drag the metal back, and- Jingle, Jingle. 

A soft, breathy, laugh falls from my mouth, as it contorts to the prologue of a violent sob, and I contort my features, I pinch them as tightly as I suppose that they may allow, and I hold it back- I hold it back, and I swallow the lump, and I press the cool metal of the keys to my chest, and I allow it to vibrate with the shudder of a hollow, dishonest, laugh. A laugh, to fulfil the urge of overwhelming moroseness, and exhaustion, that grapples me so aggressively, I find it difficult to breathe, with my head tipped back, and a glassy shein to my eyes, and I force myself to pull it together. I collect myself, there, upon the concrete, and I call out to the crying girl in the corner. 

“Lissy.” I say, all too quietly for my liking. “Lissy, I’ve-” I swallow my words, as they threaten to exit in a jumbled mess. Oh Fuck, my heart thrums, with lesser the all-consuming fear, and more of the elation, the adrenaline, as the burning heat begins to dissipate, and I suppose that the adrenaline will not last forever. Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “I’ve got them.” I whisper. “Lissy, I’ve- They’re here, look, I’ve got them-” I stumble to my feet, riddled with the deafening thump of my heart, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, as it laughs within my ears, and it mocks my auditory joy. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing - nothing but the dizzying beat of my heart, that pumps wildly in my ears. It won’t last long, I think, as I stumble unsteadily on my footing, and I make my way to Alyssa.

It won’t last long.

It won’t last long.

It won’t last long. 

And so I do not bother to comfort the girl, as she cradles her head in her hands, and she ducks it between her bent knees, curled desperately upon the ground, beneath the door, and I do not bother to grow frustrated, as I try the first key of four, and it doesn’t fit. I try the second, and it jams within the lock - not that one - and then the third. The third - oh, the beautiful third - that twists, with jutted prosperity, and it signals the sequence of unlocking metal. 

It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing, as I lower myself with unsteadying speed, and I scoop the light girl, trembling, and sobbing, within my arms. My bruised, broken, mangled limbs, and I clutch her to my chest. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing, but I’m winning.

I’m winning. 

I’m winning.

I’m winning. 

I’m winning, as I stumble incoherently through the doorway, and I disregard the nauseating crack, when something collides with the steel of the door, as it chases me through, and I’m winning as I find myself shoving the damned key in the lock, and twisting, and twisting, and leaving it there to rot, and I trap that bastard within those damned, yellow-lit, walls, and I’m winning as I am tumbling through the misleading path of the unfamiliar home. Unfamiliar corners, unfamiliar rooms, unfamiliar sights. But I’m winning. I’m winning. By God, am I winning. 

And I am still winning, as I collide with the front door, and I throw it open, thoughtless for the dutiful ache that is silenced by the thudding in my ears, and I make my way upon the pavement, concealed by the evading darkness that is night, and I begin to stutter my rugged footsteps - bare feet bloodied, and slapping down upon the walkway beneath me - and I hold the girl to my chest. I hold her, and I hold her, and I hold her, and I open my mouth to speak. 

“We’re free, Lissy.” I say, quietly. “Look,” I point above her head, as I glance down upon her whimpering expression, “Look at the stars, baby.” I whisper. “We’re free.” And I know that we are not truly free, that, should my adrenaline, thrumming throughout my entirety, and consuming my conscience in a consistent hum of evading hope, ware off, should the pain settle back in, and the wind stop cooling the persistent burning that peppers moisture aloft my forehead, should everything fall to nothing, and should the morning sun mark the fifth day of my absence, we will not be free. That we will be, perhaps, as good as dead - Always check your blindspots, Agent - within the confinement of unfamiliar roads, and unfamiliar geography, and a town full of unfamiliar people. 

After Benjamin had struck me over the head, a wound that soon sobered up, when he first began the beatings, he had locked me within the boot of his car. I was unconscious for most of the journey, and the back tail light seemed too difficult to kick through, at the time. He had weakened me, considerably, and I found myself unsure as to whereabouts it was that we were going. And, thus, I do not know our current location, either. 

The low hang of the moon does little to console me, as the gush of my blood within my ears begins to slowly dwindle - thump-thump-thump; thump, thump; thump-thump-thump - but, with her cheek rested softly aloft my weightless chest, Alyssa stares up at it; bleary eyed, and consumed. Her stare of wonder gives little away, and I find myself praying, with whatever religion I have left in me, that she may recover. That this traumatic experience may dissipate beneath the life she has yet to live, and that, when the time comes, she will be able to face her trauma, and heal the wound indefinitely. That, one day, she may look up at the moon, and she may not be reminded of what Benjamin Fackle has done to her, and that she may capture the light of the stars within her blue stare, again. That she will regain a form of innocence, and that recovery comes quickly. 

I know that it does not. I know that the pain never truly leaves you, but one can hope. One can hope, and while I am breathing, I hold on to that. 

Just as I hold on to the girl, cradled to my chest, as the thinning beat within my ears begins to fade, and, with every passing second, I find my footing faltering ever-so-slightly. A dreadful kind of suspense begins to well in the pit of my stomach, as a creeping fire begins to erupt, deep within the soles of my bloody feet. It begins in my toes; travels up, up, up, to the uneasy curl of my ankle, the joint bitter in its inevitable damage, and I clench my jaw. I clench my jaw tightly, because I- because I knew that it wouldn’t last long, I knew that it wouldn’t last long, and still, I find myself surprised, frustrated, that the adrenaline is wearing. That, soon enough, I will find myself imobile, constricted by the worst level of pain I will ever endure. Bone, upon bone; fracture, upon fracture; the make-up of my anatomy begs for more adrenaline. 

I push forth. Through the dim lighting of the streetlight - contorting to that of my aggressive dizziness, as the scene frame binds back and forth between the figure of four, and the singular, blurred, picture - I am able to… I can see a-

I sway in my footing, caught by the ferocious burn as it runs up, and it runs down, the joint of my knee; echoing around like the mocking laugh of my slow, steady, heartbeat. Still think you’re winning? It taunts, diving from one ear, circling my head, and protruding through the other, with a sickening giggle to warp it all in between. I grit my teeth, and I ignore it, inhaling shakily through my nostrils. In, I try, and out. But the burning ache has returned, and it drawls its slow, merciless, crawl, up, and up, and up, and up, my entirety; locking in the very cells of my biology, and taunting a dangerous song. 

Oh, how it burns, I swallow thickly; how it aches. 

It burns, and it aches, and I blink slowly, and I raise my foot - up, up, up - and I force it forward. A gentle connection with the floor holds no matter, I comprehend, as a thousand pins scatter about the marrow of my damaged skeleton, and a thousand needles pierce the tranquil complexion of a broken cohesion. It burns, and it aches, but I parry on. I parry on, and I delve myself yet another great number of unsteady stumbles; one foot, then the next, and then another few. I catch myself roughly as I groan out aloud, because, oh, it aches, and oh, it burns, and I blink slowly, and I entice myself to breathe, as I pause. In, my throat rasps upon the cool temperature of the night, and out. 

“Alyssa.” I murmur, gently, as it fills the light air that surrounds us. The girl adjusts her attention, shuffling softly among my grip, and I am unable to swallow the cry that forces its way out, as she regards me with wide, watering, eyes, and I lower her (incautiously) to the ground. She lands with a thud, as her bare feet slap the concrete, and a subtle stumble, as I bend my frame, slightly, and I adhere to an unsteady lumber; contorted by the sheer ferocity of the flames, engulfing my arms with an unforgiving depiction. “Fuck,” I whisper, moreso for the expression, than for any natural effect, and I attempt to regain my posture. In, I rise to my full height, and I ignore the blasphemous heat that licks upon every morsel, every joint, and out. In, I ignore the blissful call of exhaustion’s lesion, as it beckons me slowly, and I flutter my eyes shut, arms hung limp at my sides, and out.  I breathe, and I breathe, and I remain swaying in my place, silently wishing that the damned payphone was not fifteen feet away. 

Still think you’re winning?

Fuck you, am I losing, I spit, internally, and I’m not quite sure who I am fighting, anymore. Benjamin Fackle? My pain? Myself? My exhaustion? Death? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. 

I take another step, and I force myself to contain my expression of pain. I swallow it back, as the salivating gland to the inner corner of my throat begins to over-work, and the sleek bile concoction begins to trail its way up, up, up, through my esophagus, once more, and I feel it beginning to crawl through the burn of my throat. But the payphone is ten feet away, and fuck you, am I losing. 

A rough swallow, and a softly hidden gip; I trudge another few feet upon the cold pathway bellow me, and I pledge my attention solely upon the approaching, smooth, steel of the payphone, enlarging, and imposing, as it draws nearer, and nearer, and nearer; one step, two steps, three steps, four, do I stumble, stuttering gracelessly in my stride as I go, and, oh, the phone is almost here. I reach for it, the sweet, sweet, plastic of bitter salvation, and a gentle cry escapes my mouth as I curl my digits upon it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. 

I’ve got it, and I draw it up, ignoring the flaring heat that roars throughout my entirety, and I allow my trembling grip to pale upon the device; gripping it, gripping it, gripping it, because Holy Fuck, I’ve got it. I’ve got it, but I- I swallow thickly, and I drag my burning frame that little bit closer. I’ve got the phone, and there’s- I check the credit, faintly projected beneath the dim light of the street, and another breathless laugh falls from my mouth, perhaps the first genuine smile gracing my lips, as an unnoticed trail of warm tears track their salty trace down my cheeks. 

One Call Remaining. 

One call remaining, I hover my hand above the metal keypad. I only know one number. I only know one number, but, as I smile, and I sniffle gently to myself, I know that it’s the only number I need, and I dial it - with shaking, aching, fingers, I dial the number, and I clutch upon the rim of the metal compartment with a wavering grip. 

It rings once, twice, three times, and I pray, oh, to any God that may here me, do I pray that he picks up, as the echo of the ringing begins to sound less like the bells of a church, and more like the mocking laugh of someone poking me, prodding: Still think you’re winning? Still think you’re winning? Come on, pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick u- 

“Hello?” There he is. Tone thick with sleep, groggy, and deep - down, I notice, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He picked up. He picked up. “Hello?” 

“Spence.” I breathe, as another humourless, teary, laugh trickles from my throat. “Oh, my God, Spencer.” 

There is immediate shuffling, across the line, and I can only assume that he is sitting upright, frowning into the dark before him. Perhaps he has switched on his bedside lamp. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. “Y/N?” He rasps, softly, with such a gentleness, I fear that something else hides behind his tone. “Is that you?”

I pause, for a moment, as my expression pinches, and the crumble of agony descends upon my shoulders like the tide upon the shore, and the edge of my eroded cliff begins to fall. “It’s me, Pretty Boy.” I whisper, tone riddled by the repressed lather of edging tears; the misery that threatens to spill. I bite it back, and I relax my contorted expression. I hold it down, and my chest begins to burn, again. It burns, and it aches, and my body is on fire. But he’s here - my Spencer, my Pretty Boy - he’s here, and I am still breathing, and Alyssa is still here, and Benjamin Fackle is not.

I blink slowly, and I swallow down my silent cries, as the warm moisture of irrevocable tears fall solemnly upon my cheeks, and I sniffle it back, as the shuffling continues through the rough auditory of the responding end. 

“Where are you?” He asks, a certain heaviness to his tone that has not been invoked by the influence of exhaustion. He sniffles, and I wipe my moistened mouth with the back of my wrist, ignoring the sudden flare of pain that engulfs my arm, my body, as a soft sound falls from my lips. I could hope that he did not hear it, that my quiet whimper slipped through the cracks of the terrible connection, but I know Spencer. Oh, do I know him, and so, when he gulps audibly, and he stutters over his words, I know that he is entirely aware of my pain. “I- I couldn’t, I’m-” He takes a shaken, deep, breath, and he tries again. “Where, uh- where are you, Y/N?” He asks, quietly, as the explicit ruffle of a breeze picks up on his end, and the distant slam of a door alerts me that he is on the move. I almost smile. Almost, if it were not for the grave buck of my knee, as it gives out, and I half-collapse, and an audible yell falls from my lips, the phone slipping from my weak grip, and tumbling to clatter with the metal of the side panel. 

The sudden glare of invading heat, rupturing between this cell, and that cell, and every damned muscle in between, catches my body in a crampating hold; forcing me down upon a half-crouch, half-bend, as a forty-five degree angle courses through my hot, hot, agonized, frame. “Fuck,” I groan, as I slowly - oh-so-slowly, with a hiss here, and a quiet moan there - drag myself back up, and I place the phone back to my ear. Fuck. The incessant flourish of heat warps my limbs, carries them upon a throne of daggers, and of bruising pellets, and I find myself stifling back a sob, as he immediately interrupts my discomforted quiet. 

“Y/N?” Spencer calls, no less a shout, than an urgent call. “Y/N, what’s going on?” He pleads, not quite bothering to mask the teary tone that he displays. I suppose that Spencer has always been like that - with me, at least - whereby his emotions are so raw, so pretty, that one cannot help being entirely enamoured by the way his tone thickens, and his lower lip trembles, as he forces back his tears, and I cannot help but allow my eyes to flutter shut; to envision his large, brown, eyes, so pretty beneath the glassy shein, and, for the second time, tonight, I allow a thumping thought to re-iterate itself among my pulse. 

This is it, it says, and I am not sure if I am winning, anymore. 

It just- Oh, Oh it hurts, and it aches, and it burns, and I- and I can’t tell if the moisture on my cheeks is from my silent tears, or the precipitation from my hot sweat, but it doesn’t seem to matter. It doesn’t seem to matter, because the urgent calls of Spencer’s thickening concern seem to fade - drifting, drifting, drifting away - and I lose myself within that certain void of semi-consciousness. Slumped upright, against the payphone booth, it pulses in my ears, and it aches, and it burns, and it hurts, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is how I die, and I’m not sure if I am winning anymore, and I can’t hear my Pretty Boy, and I can’t picture his pretty brown eyes, or his pretty little face, or the soft embrace I could dare to call home, and I can’t think of anything. I can’t- it won’t- it aches, and it burns, and it hurts, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is it. And I’m not winning anymore. I’m not losing, I’ve gained some sort of victory, along the way, but I can’t see the finish line, and I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is it. 

This is it, and small, nimble, fingers, approach my peripheral. Like that slow-motion scene, with distant classical music echoing from the depth of another, airy, room; I watch it take ahold of the phone; watch it disappear, again, and the muffled tone of a child - Lissy Doll, little, little, Lissy Doll - soaks within my senses, devoured like the sweet scent of honey to a sore throat. I hear her, as I slide down the metal of the payphone, and I succumb to the desperate flames; I hear her, but I cannot bring myself to listen. Not as she speaks, with tears - I assume this is what I notice, glimmering upon her pink cheeks, as she cries beneath the moonlight - trailing her face, and she sniffles, and stutters, and she tries to reply as informatively to Spencer as she possibly can. I want to call out to her - want to inform her that this is why she is a good girl, that her unrelenting ability to do the right thing is what makes her good, not her lack of protest, and neither her silence, or her previously dry cheeks. I want to tell her that I am proud of her, as I lower my cranium upon the cold pathway below me, but I am tired.

I am tired, and this is it. 

This is it. This is it. This is it. 

This is it, and I know that Spencer will save her, now. That, although I am not winning, although I have not won, Alyssa is safe. Alyssa will grow to learn her recovery, and she will regain her aforementioned youth. And, as I roll upon my back, my body aroar with flames that ache, and that burn, and that taunt me desperately within my ear, that thank me, profusely, for my sacrifice, I stare up at the sky, and I smile, softly. Benjamin Fackle will be caught, should he catch his breath, and regain his consciousness, and Alyssa will recover. Her mother will hold her little Lissy Doll, once more, and she will be able to watch her child grow old, and she will know that in my death, her daughter found life. I suppose that death is not quite as morbid, when I think of it like this. 

When I ignore the persistent nagging, in the forefront of my mind, as my eyelids droop, and exhaustion overwhelms me, and I pretend that in dying, I would not tear Spencer apart. I pretend, and I pretend, as I attempt to count the stars above me, for I know that I would shred him, limb from limb, and he would never recover. I am not so arrogant as to believe that I hold such power over any other, but Spencer is not just ‘any other’. Spencer - my Spencer - devotes himself, entirely, to the concept of love. He has never told me this - not in words - but- but I know. Love is not something you should ever find yourself questioning, and, if you are, it is not true love. I have never found myself questioning Spencer’s muse of adoration, despite his reluctance to openly admit it (all those months ago), and I know that I am lucky. That Spencer has known far too much pain for someone of such a golden declaration, and that his soul must be woven of the finest silk. There is not a single part of me - not a fraction, not a section - that does not know this, is not consumed by this. But here, as I lie upon the concrete, and Alyssa’s quiet crying forms a background serenade for my slow, painful, death, I wonder if my Pretty Boy would be alright. 

I wonder if Spencer would recover, in time, much the same as Alyssa will, and I wonder if he will accept that it was my fault. That, ultimately, had I not imposed myself upon this unofficial case, and attempted to take matters into my own, foolish, hands, I would not be here, at this moment, dying. And he would not be awoken in the middle of the night, to an Unknown Number, and he would not be met with the pained cry of his tortured partner - a tortured partner that stares up to the stars, as they lay dying, and smiles because they are beneath the same sky as the love of their life, and, well, nothing seems to matter, anymore. 

My body tingles - the kind of tingle that curls, and crawls, throughout your broken skeleton - and I let it dance, drunkenly, through the course of my very being. For when I remain motionless, it doesn’t quite hurt, anymore. Quite, because I am unsure as to whether the tingling is a symptom of forthcoming death - if I am numb, and unable to feel anything, anymore, but it doesn’t matter. 

This is it, and it doesn’t matter, as I stare up at the night sky, and I sketch my Pretty Boy’s face among the stars, and I know that he fits right in, up there, with his soft chocolate hair, that swoops upon the right side of his face, and curls behind his ear; with his perfect little nose, that buttons, and finds itself entirely symmetrical, and the round, gently crinkled, expression of adoration within his wonderfully dark eyes - creased to the edge, as he smiles at me, and I lose myself in his adoration. And I think that if I am to die tonight, beneath the stars, with the vision of Spencer glancing down upon me with nothing but pure love, and affectionate warmth, I think that I am to die happy. 

“Lissy,” I call, softly, and I hear her murmur something to my Spencer. I am unsure as to how long the credit will remain, though I assume it will not be forever, as Alyssa turns to face me, and I offer her a genuine, toothy, smile. “Can I speak to him?” I ask, quietly, and I can hardly recognize my own voice, beneath the rasp of my naked throat, and the relief that courses through my frame from the numbness that dying provides. “Please?” Please, may I bid my farewell?

Alyssa doesn’t say anything, with yet another sniffle, and she speaks another bundle of words that I do not quite catch, as she lowers herself to kneel beside me, the chord of the phone almost entirely outstretched, and she places the receiver to my ear, and the speaker to my chapped, smiling, lips. “Y/N?” I hear, as I see him amongst the stars, and my eyes crinkle at the notion, bewitched by a toothy, genuine, grin. The phone is cold, and I blink slowly up at the sky. 

“Hey, Pretty Boy.” I say, quietly. “I miss you.”

There is hardly a pause, though I notice that the wind is no longer present upon the static of his end. “I don’t- I’m-” He catches his words, and he rearranges them. He doesn’t know what to say, but I let him take his time. “Why would you do that?” He hisses, softly, after a moment and there is a returning thickness that bubbles in his throat. I hear him swallow, but it doesn’t quite seem to do anything, at all, as he continues, and he sniffles back his tears, slightly. “Why wouldn’t you tell anyone?” He asks. Not scolding, not angrily, more of the bitter mourning, and the grief, that wraps upon his tone, and I find myself swallowing my honesty, for the moment. 

“Can you see the sky, Spencie?” I evade, staring up at the constellations that form before me, as he shuffles, and his silence echoes back to me. “Can you see the stars?”

“Y/N-” His voice trembles, but I cut him off.

“I’m not winning, anymore, Spence.” I say, a mere whisper upon the silent street around us. “I’m not losing.” I continue. “But I’m- I’m not winning, either.”

“What?” He mumbles, voice thick with tears, and I envision them tumbling down his face. Another shuffle breaks forth, and I assume that he has wiped his cheeks. My chest begins to ache, again, as I picture the subtle furrow of his eyebrows, and the way his tongue will run over the pout of his trembling lower lip, as he exhales through his cheeks, and he sniffles with his pretty nose, and I smile, softly, into the night, and, despite the dense knowledge that I will not, I hope that I will make it. That this isn’t it. But, deep down, I know that it is, and thus, I continue.

“I want you to-” I swallow back the uprising hiss, as I move my jaw somewhat to animatedly, and a flare of heat erupts in my throat, and I speak quieter, as I try again, and I know that Spencer’s expression is pinched. “I want you to take care of Lissy, alright?” I say. 

Silence. 

“Spencer, promise me.” I whisper. “I need you to do that for me.” 

“Why would-” He delves a shaky inhale, “Why would I have to do it?” He says. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/N.” He continues, a tremble to his tone, “You’re gonna be Okay. You’re gonna walk away from this, just fine, and Alyssa’s gonna have access to as much help as she needs, and we- and we’re gonna be just fine, Okay?” I want to shake my head, I want to interrupt his self indulged, dishonest, ramble, and I want to stop him - want to reach out, and hold him, and to assure him that he will recover - but this is it, and time is simply not on my side. 

“Spencer.” I call, softly, and he falls to immediate silence; his breathing inconsistent, and shaken. “I’m not winning, anymore.” I repeat, and I know that he has gathered together the missing pieces. “I’m not.” I say. “And- and it hurts.” I whisper. “It hurts, and I’m tired-”

“I know, baby,” He says, gently, as he gulps in a trembled lungful of air, and he swallows down the lump in his throat, and he tries to speak again. “I know you’re tired, and I know that you’re in pain, but you can hold on. I know you can, Y/N, come on.” He says. “Fight.” And a quiet, almost silent, whimper leaves my lips, until the stars are all a blanket of ill-lit darkness, and I can hardly comprehend his grief as he speaks again. “Please.” He whispers. “You’ve gotten through the worst of it, and if you- if you don’t move, and you stop talking, and you preserve your energy, you’ll be fine. You can survive another three minutes, and twenty four seconds, can’t you?”

A breathless, teary, laugh falls from me, then, and I ignore the blistering fire that erupts throughout my body. “Calculated to the second.” I tease, softly, “How ingenious of you, Doctor.” 

He reciprocates my watery laugh, though riddled with far less enthusiasm than I, and he mutters his quiet response: “I do have an IQ of 187, and an-”

“And an eidetic memory.” I finish, smiling toothily to myself, despite the chorus of flames that attempts to swallow me whole. “I know, Spencer.” I say. “And I know that you don’t think intelligence can be quantitatively measured.”

“No.” He says, “I don’t.” 

“And I know that you-” I gulp back the concoction of bile, and I try it again, a certain hoarseness about my tone. “I know that you can read twenty-thousand words per minute, and that you don’t much like the taste of coffee, so you- you pour the whole bag of sugar in there-”

“I do not-”

“You do, Pretty Boy.” I smile, and, beneath the soft crackle of the reception, I hear a low rumble of agreement. 

“She’s right.” They say, a grin to their tone, and I know that voice. Oh, I know it well.

“Is that Morgan?” I rasp, softly, and I smile up at the sky, as the man in question offers his greeting. 

“Hey, Babygirl.” He says, with that same kind of warmth that Derek seems to consistently radiate. My chest aches, again, and I realise that I do not want this to be it. It aches, and the charred flavour of my burning sternum crawls back upon my tongue, and it nestles there, as he offers a question of less-than-casual-conversation. “How you holdin’ up?” He asks. 

“Great, actually.” I joke, as I offer a kind smile to Alyssa, and she runs her nimble, small, fingers through my hair, and she reciprocates the gesture, ascending her gaze back to the stars, as she goes. “If you consider two-” I let out a low cough, as the concoction of bile seeps beneath my tongue, and it- I heave, abruptly, and I force myself to twist to the side, unloading whatever the fuck was left, rejected, amongst my stomach. The wet splatter of blood, and of bile, of mucus, and salivation, coaxes the pavement, a mere few inches away, as I retreat, slowly, back to the receiver of the phone, and I dismiss the neverending roar of flames, engulfing my body, still, as I sink back into my vertical position, and I return to the conversation.

“Y/N?” Spencer calls, a thickened tone of worry conveying about his voice. 

“I’m fine.” I lie. “Just a little, uh-” I swallow back the coppery aftertaste, and I offer Alyssa another gentle smile. “Nauseous.” I murmur. 

“Nauseous?” Spencer repeats. “Do you have a fever?” 

“I don’t have the flu, Spence,” I dare to jest, “It’s probably just something to do with my two dislocated, and relocated, shoulders. Or, maybe my- maybe my (probably broken) ankle, and the-” Another strained groan falls from me, as Alyssa slumps herself down upon the pathway, and she (accidentally) knocks the jolt of my displaced shoulder, a great POP echoing out from such a sudden movement. Fire. Heat. Hot, hot, hot; it licks away at the joint, and I let out a great, stifled cry, as she attempts to place her palm upon it, and I- “Fuck!” I cry, “Don’t touch it, Lissy, don’t-” I swallow down another yell, as the fire runs up, and down, up, and down, the length of my arm; pins and needles carouselling their way about the wounded flesh. “Don’t touch it. Please.” I implore, quietly, as I attempt to return to the phone, and I retrain my gaze upon the stars, slurry, and unfocused, for all its worth, as I find myself woozy beneath the beckon of exhaustion, once more. 

“What was that?” Spencer pleads, as he holds the speaker somewhat too close to his mouth, and my head naturally jerks away from the volume of his cry. Another rip of gravely flames engulf my figure, as I strain myself to lower the extent of my groan, but it- Fuck, does it hurt. It aches, and it burns, and it licks up the fruit of my torture. “Y/N?” He calls, again, “What was that popping? Was that a joint?” 

I grit my teeth, and I exhale through them roughly. In, I breathe, and out. “My shoulder, Spence.” I murmur, “Fuck- Please-” I do not want this to be it. I do not want this to be it. I do not want this to be it. The thump of my heart begins to pick up, and I withhold the uprising sob that threatens to break through. I do not want this to be it. “Please tell me you’re bringing an ambulance.” I murmur, and I hope that my insinuation is correct.

“They’re on the way.” He says. “We all are.”

“All?” I mutter, quietly.

“All of us, Babycakes.” Morgan says. “Don’t tell me you thought we’d be able to sleep, with your face on the news, like that.” 

“I was on the news?”

“Headlining.”

“Great.” I scoff, “My big media break, and it’s the one thing that’ll have me fired.”

“It was a preposterous idea!” Spencer cuts in. “Going in alone, like that. You know that above ninety-seven percent of women are sexually assaulted? In their day-to-day lives? Why would you purposely search for a rapist? Why would you do that without back-up? I- I bet, I bet with every fibre of my being, that you didn’t check your blind spot.” He says, and I feel a certified something stir within the depth of my stomach, and pool deep within, for, oh, he knows me so well, and, and I- “You never check your blindspot. I do it for you, because I know that you’ll forget, but Y/N- fuck.” He says, and his breath shakes as he releases it. “And you know, you know that you are required, by law, to wait for back-up, when you do not have your vest, or any other form of protection. Y/N, we didn’t even know that you had worked on this case, never mind that you had gone to visit the UnSub by yourself-”

“He was out of his depth, Spencer.” I defend, quietly. I say it quietly, because it aches, and it burns, and it hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts, and he listens to me, anyway, and he lets out a shaky inhale, as I speak. “It wasn’t in the Profile for him to do something that ballsy-”

“Well, clearly your profile was inaccurate.” He snaps, a certain edge to his tone that I find myself unfamiliar with, as I recoil, slightly, and I ignore the flare of heat that congregates about my body. “If you hadn’t-” He pauses, and another trembled breath is to follow: In, and out. “Y/N, I just- I’m- I’m scared, alright? I’m worried. I don’t know your physiological, or psychological, condition, right now, and I’m- it’s just-” Another stuttered inhale. “This isn’t easy, Okay?”

“I know, Spence.” 

“I don’t hear from you for four days, twenty-two hours, and thirty-nine minutes, roughly fourteen seconds, and you’re the headline for the news. MISSING: Federal Agent, Y/N Y/L/N, Last Seen in Quantico Virginia, at the Behavioural Analysis Unit Headquarters.” He recites, and I know that it has plagued the back of his eyelids like a lingering, bad, smell, ever since. “You know where you were last seen, Y/N? You were last seen with me, that’s where. And I can’t forget what that headline says, it is biologically impossible, and I can’t stop seeing it every time I close my eyes, and I- and I can’t stop thinking about how, should I have stayed with you for another four hours, or so, you wouldn’t have chased this UnSub, and you would be here, right now, and I wouldn’t be turning down the street, to find you sprawled out on the floor - because I know that’s what you’re doing - in agony, and feeling as though death is knocking at your door, and-”

“Breathe, Pretty Boy,” Morgan cuts in, “Breathe.”

But he doesn’t pause long enough to listen. “And I can’t-” His voice cracks, slightly, and my chest burns, it aches, as the subtlety of silent tears stream down the sides of my face, and they pool within the roots of my hair. “And I can’t listen to you, here, talking to me like you’ll-” He grapples a broken inhale, and he stutters amongst his breathing, and I hear the tears on his tongue. I hear them. I hear them. “-like you’ll never see me again. Like this call is some sort of goodbye.” 

“I don’t want this to be it.” I say, gentler than I feel I have ever spoken, before, and Spencer offers his words of protest. 

“It isn’t!” He exclaims, with a thick bitterness to his tone. Not quite directed at me, though the agony to his own constricting chest is evident. I find myself accustomed to the flavour of my burned sternum, as it rests upon my tongue, and I do not attempt to protest amongst his continuation, as he cries, and he parries on. “Fuck,” He whispers, and I envision him wiping away the fresh moisture of his expression, once again, as a quiet shuffling invokes upon the line. “This isn’t it. We’re-” He lets out a breath. “Can you hear us?” He asks. “We’re almost there.” 

The distant wail of crying sirens engulfs my senses, paired with the static white noise of Spencer's anticipation, and I find my mouth up-tilting, ever so slightly. “Yeah.” I say. “I can hear you.” And maybe, just maybe, this isn’t it. Maybe Spencer - maybe my Pretty Boy Spence - is right. He is rarely wrong, that much may I agree, but he is not always accurate in his future depictions. For once, I find myself thinking, I hope that he is right. 

“Good.” He says, perhaps more so to himself, than to me, as he repeats the notion, and he steadies his erratic breathing. “Good, Okay. We’re turning onto your street, now.” He says. “Can you see us?”  The wailing sirens approach, they engulf the silence of the night, as they blare, and they scream, and they fall louder, and closer, and louder, and closer, and the stars all morph together, into one illuminated band of darkness, and the sirens blare on, growing louder, and closer, and louder, and closer, and- “Y/N?” Spencer calls.

“The sirens.” I murmur, distractedly, as they ricochet around my mind, and they bounce from one fragment of my inner skull, to the other, and they roll impotently about the curve of the bone. “They’re-” Louder, and closer, and louder, and closer. “They’re noisy.” I say, and I doubt that he can comprehend the gentle tone to which I depict, as the wail of the siren cry calls out, and a sudden screech falls present upon their hellish song.

Spencer does not reply, and I listen to the white noise - the white noise that grows distant, as the wailing aubade of the ambulance approaches - and, then, a chorus of footsteps consume my auditory senses.

I know my lover not by his footfall, but by the way in which he collapses, immediately, at my side, and his large, warm, hand, cusps at my broken cheek, and he observes me closely. And it aches, and it burns, but, oh, there he is. There he is, with a furrow to his straightened eyebrows, and a glassy film aloft his beautiful, warm, orbs - reduced to circles of worry, of anguish, as he observes my… my state of being - and I measure the map of his features, I blister them among the roof of my mind, as though I have not looked upon them fondly a thousand times before, and I offer my lover a soft, closed-mouth, smile. I offer him a smile, and I ache to run my fingers across his parted lips, to recall the feel of his skin, his perfect, perfect, complexion, and the symmetrical span of his face. In this moment, I want nothing more than to feel the weight of his body, sprawled out upon me, as my arms wind around his neck, and I embrace my Spencer, and we pretend that all the trauma of the world does not exist, and we love, and we love, and we love. 

I watch the rapid descent of his features, and I gather that he wishes he knew nothing of my physiological well-being, if the subtlety of my pained cries aloft the phone were quite enough to reduce him to tears, and my fingers itch. They itch, they itch, and they itch, to run through the smooth flow of his hair, to brush it away from his pretty little features, and to assure him that: Hey, Pretty Boy, it’s alright. I’m alright. It’s going to be fine. Just fine, Okay? This isn’t it, I was wrong. I was wrong, Okay? This isn’t it, Pretty Boy. Come on. Come on, Pretty Boy, wipe those cheeks. It’s going to be just fine. It’s alright. It’s going to be fine, Pretty Boy. Okay? Okay. 

But eyes, red raw, and leaking, stare down at me, and I know that to speak such words would be nought but a cruel spell of dishonesty. I’m not winning, anymore. 

Trembling fingers work their way through the matted knots of my hair, brushing back the locks from my face, as they flail out upon the pathway beneath me, and Spencer shudders a quiet sigh. “Hey,” He greets, simply, as though he is not attempting to swallow his raging heart, that threatens to break through the lump in his throat. As though he is not on fire, with burning self-hatred (just like I know that he is), and gritting his teeth to prevent any upcoming sobs. As though I am not destroying him, as we speak. As though I am Okay, as though I am still winning. “Can-” Another shaken, stuttered, inhale, “Can you move?” He asks, and I gulp back the remainder of the bile concoction that has yet to bid me farewell. Can you move? No. No. I cannot. I can hardly breathe, and I-

I shake my head, gently, and I attempt to ignore the corrupting fire that, still, nibbles away at the aching flesh of my body, and I- “It hurts.” I repeat, no less than a whimper upon the business of the night. Blue light carousels around the darkness, illuminating the scene in an azure of flashing cerulean, but I see nothing other than the glassy brown of his wide, fearful, eyes. “It hurts, Spencer.” I say, and I am not quite sure just what it is that hurts, anymore, as my vision blurs, and the warmth of something hot, something wet, trails upon my broken cheeks. 

“Shh,” He whispers, tone thickened by the tally of his own violent tear-shed, as he strokes the pad of his calloused thumb aloft my moistened complexion. “Shh,” He says, “I know.” But it aches, and it burns, and I can hardly breathe, once again. “I know, baby, it’s alright.” He says. “I’m here. I’m right here, Okay? Ri- right here.”

 But that- it doesn’t- it doesn’t seem to matter, as he trails the dampness of my sopping cheeks, and his salty tears trickle down his throat. It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because this is it. And, as a certain warmth begins to sprinkle upon the curve of my toes, and the quiet patter of uniformed feet scurry upon the pathway, and the roll of a- of the- stretcher? Of the stretcher. Oh, the stretcher. It aches, and it burns, and Spencer seems awfully beautiful, beneath the gaze of the moon, and my eyes- they ache, and they burn. 

The angel that hangs above me, my very own offering from heaven (an offering, a fraction, like the stars, from the sun) and I think he has never looked more bittersweet in his beauty, than he does tonight, displayed beneath the moonlight. Displayed beneath the moonlight, as though he is carved, sculpted, so effortlessly, by the most callous, talented, hands that the Gods ever did have to offer. I swallow back my prosperity, as the shein upon my eyes begins to dwindle, and I consider whatever religion I have left, inside of me. I consider it, and I come to realise, as my adoration for this angel, for this sweet, sweet, lover of mine, paints itself in poetry upon my tongue, that all of my religion is made up of him. That he tastes like the body of Christ, or whomever my heart has decided is unworthy of worship in the presence of my Spencer, and he has stained my lungs with the scent of his forgiveness.

He is the religion that I have left, and I fall to my knees before him. As he furrows his eyebrows, and everything seems to dim, and the stars lose their spark, and I am wrapped- wrapped up, up, up, in a tingling sensation, that crawls around, and around, my entirety, and dissolves the fire, relishes the flames; that runs its hand through my hair, and threatens to succumb me to exhaustion.

This is it, I think, and I bore my stare into the warmth of Spencer’s darkening expression. His mouth, that hangs open, and shapes the body of words I cannot hear, but look a lot like my name, and the sirens of the world around, they all fall to nothing. 

This is it, and I am consumed entirely in something that feels a lot like him. A lot like my Pretty Boy. A lot like Spencer. For it is warm, and it runs a steady hand through my hair, and it caresses my cheek, and I am- I am Okay. Just for this moment, I decide, I am Okay. The dull shadow of my gaze seems to darken, and the world around collapses, and I hear nothing. But I am Okay. I hear nothing; no buzz, no fuzz of the white noise, but I am Okay, and, in a strangely comforting anonymity, I allow myself to sway along with it’s somber aubade. For what, in life, is more beautiful than the transition? Than the end? 

This is it, and I am Okay, and it does not hurt, as I indulge a final glance upon my lover, before me, and I strain my arm - my somewhat re-located joint, that doesn’t ache, and doesn’t burn, beneath the symphony that is my love - and I raise it up, up, up, and I cup at the curve of his trembled, tear-stricken, cheek. I hear him not, as he whispers to me, softly, and I do not dispel the announcement of my adoration, as I draw him closer to me, and he follows without question. Without question, because my Pretty Boy is not naive. Because my Pretty Boy knows, all to well, the prologue of agony, and, as he leans in to the heart of my hand, and his sopping wet features pinch with the repression of bitten back sobs, and he approaches, and he nears, and his warm, trembled, breath fans my lips, as it all takes place, and the world falls away, my Pretty Boy knows that this is it. That I am not winning, anymore. 

He knows, he knows, he knows. 

He knows, and his mouth is warm, is familiar, as it peppers its soft affection upon the wounded pout of my lips, and he cries his salted tears, that melt upon my damaged complexion with anger, and with poorly consumed rage, and he damns the cruel taste of fate, as it settles within his lungs. He knows, as he withdraws his fragile expression, and a gust of cold, frigid, air, wraps upon the flesh of my parted mouth, and his tongue darts upon his lower lip, and catches a bout full of tears. He knows. He knows. Oh, how he knows. And, as those very same lips bless the blood of my forehead with a ginger, angelic, kiss, and they press upon the skin with shaken certainty, our notion of adoration feels more like a goodbye, than an ‘I Love You’. But there doesn’t seem to be much of a difference, anymore, as I watch, through hooded eyes, and a numb, drifting, body, and I observe the violent tremble of his frame, his hunched shoulders, as he looms above me, and he cradles my face within his large hands. 

There isn’t any difference, because this is it. 

This is it, and I stutter through my final breath, and my half-lidded eyes absorb the dark nothingness before them for one final time. 

This is it.

This is it, and I’m not winning, anymore. 

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