#this is how you know I am thoroughly in the soup

[outoutdamnspark]

Human

Inspired by the Robo!Submas x Reader au by @nc-eikin​ - because this bitch (affectionate) has a death grip on my soul. I’m such a robophiliac, you have no idea.

(Was listening to Matsudappoiyo’s cover of Talk of the Past while writing.)

*cracks knuckles*

AIGHT. Robo-romance, here we go!

(Cw: Panic attacks and mentions of dissociation, brief themes of ableism(???) Tenderness, non-sexual body [hand] worship, pining. Robots in love. Shifting narration focus. Reader is called “lady” but is left genderless. Submas x Reader.)

soa have mercy this got so out of hand. no pun intended.

===

The entire day has been awful from the start.

You’ve suffered through bad days before - many times - but no matter how many, you’ll never quite get used to the extra long shift, or the endless slew of technical issues that all seem to spontaneously appear back to back to back, or the people being rude as hell when you're just trying to send in a report or a request for replacement parts. (And you’ll never, never, get used to how, on top of all of that, the miserable weather, dreary, wet, and cold, is causing your phantom limbs to ache.)

You’re exhausted by the time your shift is at its blessed end, fed up, in pain, and nearly ready to break down in frustrated tears as you quicken your pace towards what you desperately hope is safety in the ‘Employees Only’ corridors.

But it is not to be.

You'd always been so careful of your gloves, making sure they were as well-maintained as the delicate mechanisms your grandfather taught you to build and repair. Any loose thread, any thinning seam, and you were quick to repair or replace the fabric barrier between your prosthetic limbs and the judgemental world around you, and this meticulousness had served you well for oh so long.

But even the most vigilant of individuals can fall victim to blind chance, and blind chance is exactly what puts the snagging ends of a frayed wire in just the right place inside your pocket. It catches on the side of your glove as you pause in your walking to reach in and search for your employee pass. The tiny copper fingers seize your glove, hold it, tear it, find a weak spot in the seam and break it open. You pull your hand back out of your pocket to the soundtrack of shredding fabric.

It’s bad; the way the thread had pulled had ripped the seam in both directions, leaving the entire side of your glove split apart and the metal of your prosthetic beneath it to shine in the overhead lighting of the subway platform. You grimace. Not wanting to endanger the remaining material any further, you peel it off.

You hope no one notices.

(You hope in vain.)

“Wow, cool!!”

A small child - maybe seven or eight years old - dashes in front of you with sparkling, excited eyes trained directly on your exposed metal arm, blocking your path to the employee door just as you start to try and move.

“I didn’t know they had a lady robot here, too!”

A lance of ice and clawing shame plunges itself between your ribs and straight into your lungs, knocking the breath from your lips. Suddenly you’re shaking, too aware of how loudly the exuberant child is being, of how crowded the platform actually is.

Heart rattling, you say nothing to the child as you attempt to step around him, to cross the last few yards to the employee door and the eyeless hallway beyond. Unperturbed, the child simply moves along with you, keeping pace, darting erratically from your side to practically under your feet and then back - and all the while his incessant questioning gets louder and louder, like he thinks you can’t hear him.

“Hey! Hey lady! You’re a robot, too, right? What kind are you? How come you don’t have fake skin like the other robots? Are you broken? Can I see your hand?” He nearly trips you when he gasps and stops close enough to your foot that he’s practically standing on your shoe. “Can I have cool robot parts, too?!”

You don’t mean to almost knock him down, you really don’t.

You don’t mean to slap his grasping fingers away as he reaches for your metal limbs, nor do you mean to bolt like a wild animal towards the employee door, abrupt enough to earn you the child’s (loud, loud, so loud!) cry of surprise and his nearby mother’s angry reprimand.

They couldn’t understand. No one ever has.

Because while it may have seemed like an innocent enough encounter on the surface, just like always, you can feel the eyes of everyone within earshot turning towards you, burning along your skin. Just like before. Just like always.

(You're so, so tired of being stared at, of being bombarded with questions, of being the focus of pity and fear and morbid curiosity.)

Without slowing down, you smack the pad beside the door with your ID, barely waiting for the latch to click and the light to flash green before yanking the door open with more force than flesh-and-blood limbs would ever have allowed.

You nearly sprint down the corridor, taking the turns through sheer muscle memory as your vision blackens at the edges, until a familiar (safe-safe-safe!) door comes into view just up ahead.

It’s empty when you enter, but that’s okay. You don’t think you want your friends to see you like this - you don’t want to tell them why.

You reach the far corner of the little room the Station Masters call their own and brace yourself against the wall. Shaking, you slide to the floor and try to get your breathing under control.

-

They’re ashamed that it takes them almost an hour to find you.

There hadn’t been cause for concern at first - they’d simply realized you’d never clocked out, which meant there might still be a chance to see you again before you left for the day. It had been a happy thought, one that had them eagerly sneaking away to go and look for you.

But you were nowhere to be found.

They’d checked everywhere they knew you’d had work to do that day, thinking that maybe a task had run longer than expected. Then, they’d checked the live camera feed to see if they could spot you that way. Still nothing. Thinking perhaps you’d simply forgotten to clock out and had already left for the evening - which would have been horribly unlike you - they’d resigned themselves to waiting until the morning to be graced with your presence.

And then they’d gone back to their storage room.

There, in the corner, tucked away where the camera’s eye didn’t quite reach, was you.

The Station Masters hover nearby, processors overloading with concern as they watch you, unresponsive, sitting hunched against the wall and staring at nothing with the remains of tear tracks still drying on your cheeks. Your gloves are clenched so tightly between your fists that the fabric looks on the verge of tearing as you hold it, twisted taught between your metal fingers. Dissociation, their automatic index tells them; trace indicators of sweat and adrenaline, their cursory scans conclude.

A quick bluetooth conversation is had between them, and they determine that no, they've never seen you like this before, this isn't normal.

They approach. You don't react.

(The twins wonder if this is what it feels like to wish they could cry.)

‘Should we contact medical assistance?’

‘I... don’t know.’

They look to one another, silently hoping their brother will have the answers they do not.

(Now that they know where you’ve gone, they search back through the security logs and follow your path in reverse, tailing you backwards until they see...

Oh.)

“Oh.”

-

You’re peripherally aware of the twins as they step in perfect unison to flank you, slowly kneeling at your sides until they no longer tower over your crumpled form. You want to move, want to respond when they call your name, let them know you can almost hear them - but your body refuses to cooperate.

Instead, you stare at the empty space between the far wall and the floor and try to collect enough pieces of yourself to find your way back towards their light.

“Darling?” one of them calls - it doesn’t matter which.

“Can you hear us?”

Barely, but yes. You can make out their words as though from some far-away shore, muffled and weak. It’s a comfort, regardless.

(You trust them, you think. More than you ever have another human being.)

Through foggy ears, you listen to them speak. They murmur, coax, gently plead, come back now, please, you're scaring us, are you alright? They tell you they saw what happened, how they’re sorry they weren’t there - but that’s silly, you want to tell them. It wasn’t their fault; there was nothing they could have done to circumvent what always, always happens.

(It doesn’t stop a tiny piece of your heart from wishing they had been there beside you, with kind words and protective stances.

Maybe then they wouldn’t have to see you as you are right now.)

There is movement.

Gently, so gently, the brothers lean into you. You can feel them pressing their arms against your own, the contact oddly warm from their internal functions. Your skin prickles at the touch - but pleasantly so, instead of the crawling bad that physical contact usually brings.

With deliberate, worshipful slowness, they each take one of your mechanical hands in their own, weaving their fingers together with yours, loosening your grip on your gloves until they can be safely pried from your grasp. One of them, maybe 3MM-ET, carefully lifts your hand and brings it to his lips, resting it there reverently. The other, probably 1NG0, lifts your other hand and gingerly uncurls your fingers so he can press your palm against his cheek.

Neither one of them speaks for a time. 3MM-ET brushes his lips over your prosthetic fingers repeatedly, ghosts of kisses he isn't wholly brave enough to properly give; 1NG0 closes his eyes and holds your hand to his face with both of his. He nuzzles into your touch, lips gliding across the heel of your palm but never pressing down.

"Beautiful," one of them whispers.

"Verrry beautiful," the other agrees.

You don’t know how long you all stay like that, with your heart gradually thawing with each and every word that spills from the speakers hidden in their throats. Their warmth and the weight of them grounds you, little by little pulling you back towards that distant shore. Your lungs work without you to fill with fresh air, replacing the stagnation that’s settled deep inside while you’d been lost to the void inside your own head.

The twins continue to murmur praises, reassurance, fondness, steadily growing into whispers of devotion in between the spaces of their spoken words. They adore you, they say, you're wonderful, so human and so alive and so very, verrry lovely; you don’t realize at first that they're talking about you.

It’s like a riptide when you do.

You gasp as you slam back into your body from that foggy mire inside your mind, the burn of a sharp inhale rivaling the way it feels like something’s finally been released inside your ribs. Freed, lanced like an ill-healed wound.

Out pours the blood and pain of years of bottled emotions, of facial expressions you trained yourself not to make, of the shards of at least one barrier you’ve held tall and strong for an age. And with it all there comes the pent-up toxins of the day, spilling out over your eyelashes in a new wave of tears, tracing down the paths left behind from before. It hurts. You’re glad it does.

You don't just sit there silently as you blink the saltwater from your eyes this time; instead, they pour like a swelling river over its banks, and you lean forward with the weight of them. A low, pitiful sound pools inside your mouth and slips past your teeth before you can stop it - a quiet, keening whine that breaks and stutters into a single sob.

Then another.

And then a third.

Your shoulders jerk as you start to drop, but before your body can fold itself in half, there are arms around you, gentle and firm, holding you steady.

Your hands are relinquished and the arms cross one another over your chest like a brace, their own hands coming to rest on your shoulders opposite where they each kneel. A second pair of arms wraps around your back just above your waist. The duo hold you upright, keep you from falling, pull you close in perfect equidistance between them; one rests his cheek on the crown of your bowed head, the other rests his chin in the dip of your shoulder.

You shake as you cry, letting out the long stretch of the day, your hitching breath the only sound you make through clenched teeth, and through it all they hold you. Even as five minutes turn to thirty and the tears finally ebb, and you can feel yourself slot back into place within reality, the arms encircling you stay, the murmurs continue, their presence remains.

They ask you if you're alright.

You simply nod your head.

With a glance at one another that holds another private conversation, you’re sure, the androids slowly shift, slowly stand. Their arms do not move, and you find yourself pulled along with them as they lift you from your spot on the floor and guide you to a battered old loveseat along the wall - something your grandfather must have brought in years and years ago.

In perfect unison they sit, bringing you to rest between them so close that their sides, their thighs, their shoulder all press against your own once more with comforting pressure.

"I should...go. Let you recharge," you say at last. You make no move to get up.

3MM-ET hums, thoughtful. He lets his arm slide from where it crosses your chest like a seatbelt and gingerly takes your hand. Warm, gloved fingers slip in alongside yours, soft leather against sleek and shining chrome, and 3MM-ET runs the sides of his fingers back and forth between your own like gently rolling waves. With each pass he gives a light squeeze so that you can feel the hidden ball joints of his knuckles. He delicately pinches your ring finger next, your middle, your index, twisting them ever-so-slightly as if examining them from different angles. Despite the strength you know his artificial body contains, his touch is never anything but kind.

(From anyone else, you might find it uncomfortable, invasive. But not from him. Not from them.)

"...You are gorgeous, you know?" he says in his usual soft monotone. His quietude belays the strange, awed tint to his words, the softening of his synthetic smile in a way you've never seen before.

From your other side, you can see 1NG0 slowly nodding from the corner of your eye. Like his brother, he, too, finally shifts his hand from your opposite shoulder and brings it down to cover your free one. He curls his fingers around the metal plates that make up your knuckles, cradling them like something invaluable. The pad of his thumb brushes over the hinge of your own, back and forth, back and forth.

"Gorgeous," he says in agreement, uncharacteristically quiet. "And perfect."

You scoff, wet and choked. "I'm not--"

But 1NG0 raises faintly glowing optics to meet your gaze and your protest dies behind your tongue at the sight of something raw behind his eyes.

"You are human," 3MM-ET says beside you. "Something we will never be."

You turn away from 1NG0 then, and twist your neck to look at his brother with furrowed brows. But 3MM-ET’s smile is achingly fond and he shakes his head before you can speak. "It is the truth," he states simply. "We are not human." He shrugs - and it's such a distinctly human gesture, one that you know can be programmed or learned through behavioral study, but usually never properly applied in subtle ways. Here, it is subtle, and for a moment you forget which of you three is made of wires and which is made of flesh.

But 3MM-ET isn’t done. He turns your hand over in his grasp and runs his thumb down the inorganic lines of your palm. His gaze lowers to watch it, as though he’s unable to meet your eyes. “...But you treat us as though we are.”

1NG0 shifts, leans forward to study you in profile. “We are flawed in mechanical ways,” he says, voice still soft and tender and warm. “You are flawed in human ways. We can be programmed to emulate human flaws, but it’s nothing more than an illusion, a lie of perfection. Or of imperfection. Whatever the one writing our code wants us to be.”

The arms still curled around your waist squeeze you in gentle, almost nervous tandem as both the androids hug you close.

3MM-ET’s thumb changes direction on your palm, circling counter clockwise. “We are aware of this.” His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly, but it’s still enough for the sensors in your metal hand to detect. “Of our artificiality. Sometimes we forget, but not for very long.”

Your mouth twitches at his admission, not a frown but almost; he just shakes his head.

“You do not get it; you make us feel human. You. With you it is not forgetting, it is like we always were.”

On your other side, 1NG0 hums. “You have never indicated that you see us as things; you do not treat us as lesser in any way, when by nature of our inhumanity someone else might. Where another might see our personalities as faults, and our faults as something to be rectified, you treat them as though they are normal.”

3MM-ET nods. “As though we are human.”

1NG0 nods as well. His hand on yours twists, aligning his palm with the back of your hand. He threads his fingers together with yours. “Your humanity is what makes you perfect,” he explains. “You simply exist as you are, flaws and all.”

The arms encircling you slowly slide from your waist, gloved hands brushing along your back and sides until they fall away. 1NG0 brings a hand up to trace the back of a knuckle just under your eyes; when he pulls back again, there is a single droplet of moisture left on his glove.

(You didn’t know you still had tears left to shed.)

3MM-ET’s hand alights on your shoulder. He trials his fingertips reverently downward, tracing the seam where your skin meets metal - and even further down. He stops at your elbow, gently cupping it, and lifts your arm until it straightens out. The thumb that once drew patterns across your palm now carefully uncurls your fingers, and he adjusts his hold until your forearm rests across his own. Slowly, like he’s terrified you’ll pull away, 3MM-ET lowers his head and lifts your arm higher to meet in the middle.

Soft and whisper-light, he touches silicone lips to the ball joint of your wrist.

Your breath catches in your throat; this is all too much. You don’t know what to do with this tenderness, this gentleness, when all you’ve known for years is how to build your walls higher and higher to avoid the leering gaze of others. You cannot fathom, no matter your grandfather’s skill at breathing artificial life into cold copper and warm circuits, how these two (objectively inhuman) beings can show more humanity than members of your own kind.

And how they, technically perfect in their artificiality, can consider you the perfect one - because of and not in spite of, your failings.

Your mechanical fingers curl, unconsciously trying to capture 3MM-ET’s hand once more.

The brush of leather against your face pulls your attention back to 1NG0, back to a luminous silver gaze that meets your own and somehow softens as if you’d hung the moon and stars. He rolls his hand so that his palm cradles your cheek, and with his other he tugs at your fingers until he’s pressed your hand to where his core sits beneath his chest plate, holding it there like he’ll die if he lets go.

There is no need for him to breathe, no real heart that needs to beat, but you can feel the impersonations of them under your hand; the rise and fall of his chest in simulation of breathing, the faint thrum of the pump that forces hydrolic fluid through his internal structure. Even with your prosthetic, you can feel him.

“These are not flaws,” 1NG0 whispers, stroking your mechanical hand with his thumb. “They are simply a part of you.”

You feel the tickle of 3MM-ET’s lips against your wrist as he picks up where his brother leaves off, unwilling to remove his almost-kiss from your arm even as he speaks. “Therefore,” he murmurs, “these are perfect, too.”

You’d thought yourself dam-less, the cracks in your walls now laid bare as the banked-up river of emotions runs dry inside your soul. But as you look from one conductor to the other - one with his lips held to your wrist and his twin with your hand clutched to his core - you feel the tide come in anew.

1NG0 swipes at the trickle of tears gliding freely from your eyes, though his gentle touch does nothing to stem their flow. You shake your head to dislodge his hand.

Before either of them can react, you’re pulling back, tugging your appendages from their respective holds and reaching blindly out to grasp at their shoulders. You manage to find one of them through your blurry vision, 3MM-ET, and yank him to you. He lets you bury your face in the crook of his neck and rests his cheek against your temple.

Your free hand fumbles to find 1NG0 on your other side, but now that he can guess what you want, he puts himself in your path; you fist your fingers into his coat and pull him close until he’s pressed against your side with his forehead alighting just below your ear at the hing of your jaw. He ghosts his lips against the skin of your jawline and wraps both of his arms securely around your waist.

3MM-ET’s arms follow suit, coming to rest above his brother’s, as one of your own slips around his side to cling desperately at the back of his coat. You wriggle your other arm until it’s actually under the one 1NG0 has around your front and reach up to dig your fingers into his sleeve, hanging on like you’re afraid you’ll be washed away without him there to ground you.

The last dregs of overwhelming emotion wring from your exhausted heart as you allow yourself to be held and to hold in return - for once finding a hand extended in the dark behind your walls. You make no noise as you cry this time; there is only the sound of your breathing and the whispered words of two voices in your ear, telling you how glad they are to know you.

You’ve never felt more human.

#*bashes head on the desk* #THIS THING JUST KEPT GOING OH MY GODSSSSSS #this is how you know I am thoroughly in the soup #eikin what have you done to me #robosubmas #submas x reader #cw panic attack #spark writes

[weidli]

god in my time of dying really does get me Every time

#sam in the beginning going dad? dad?! but when he REALLY gets frantic is when dean doesn't respond. . . hmg yeah #also didn't notice b4 how when Dean's spirit wanders out of the bed and down the hall he's TINY in the hallway shot #and in the foreground is. a great big EXIT sign. oh yeah baby someone sure is going to have to exit #the dean and sam ouija board scene ... it's so. Gentle. dean barefoot crisscross applesauce trying to talk to his brother #every scene with John has so much going on #like. could go on a full page analysis take about each of those #also like am i wrong but when john says if sam had shot him in the cabin dean wouldn't be dying like. that's bullshit right #1. the yellow eyed demon had fucked dean up pretty thoroughly even before sam got a chance to shoot #2. the car crash uh. wasn't yellow eyes???? yeah maybe it was on his orders but it wasn't him doing it and the demon who did it could easily #have said they killed yellow eyes im gonna plow this truck into them. except then dean would be riding shotgun and might even end up WORSE #what could've saved dean is him shooting yellow eyes in the heart when he told him to do it if he's so sure! and you bet John wouldve said #so if dean weren't well. dying. but dean was never gonna shoot we all know that and it wasn't because he wasn't sure if it was yellow eyes #it was because that boy would rather die or worse than be the one to kill family #he'd rather die himself than have to bury them! #and guess what he ends up doing! standing over the dead bodies of all he had left of his family #natural soup

[eoieopda]

I am here to request some silly, sweet Channie fluff 🥺🥺 as mild or spicy as you want, idm, just want some deep comfort feat. my favourite fun-sized snack 🥰🥰

the one with chan and the promotion

pairing: bang chan x gn!reader type: drabble genre: fluff, hurt/comfort au: fuck buddies to ?, pining rating: 18+ wc: 2.2k (don’t look at me) summary: you need a ride home after getting your wisdom teeth removed. chan just so happens to be free. | part two (4/20/24) cw: chan’s pov, no smut but it’s referenced, reader has outpatient dental surgery (not depicted), reference to blood/swelling, reader is doped the hell up. 🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.

You’re drifting off in some twilight on the other side of a closed door, but Chan’s the one that’s stupefied.

Mechanically speaking, he knows how he got himself into this position: drove here in his car, parked in the lot outside, walked into the front door. His ass is in this very seat because he dropped himself there, and he hasn’t moved in the two hours that have passed since.

None of that explains why he’s in his current position, though — why you reached out to him, of all people, to come with you to something like this.

Why he’s more giddy over that choice than confused by it, even if it turns out that he was your last resort.

He’s lost in thought when your oral surgeon’s head peeks out through the doorway to the recovery room. She asks if he’s “the boyfriend”, and he has no idea how to explain that he’s more of a “semi-consistent fuck buddy”, so he simply says “yes” before allowing her to usher him into the room.

You’re slumped in a reclining chair when Chan walks in, heavy eyelids fluttering as you try hard to fight off sleep. Better still, the gauze in your mouth makes your chipmunk cheeks stick out while your still-numb lips fumble with words. The urge to reach for his phone and snap a picture makes his fingers twitch, but he doesn’t; you’d absolutely murder him if he tried.

“Mmfph?” You grunt when your narrowed eyes manage to clock him standing there.

He grins automatically, fingers reaching up to tip a hat he isn’t wearing. “Mmfph to you, too.”

Whatever drugs they gave you to knock you on your ass aren’t strong enough to overcome your personality; you roll your eyes much more easily than you keep them fully open. That trademark sass must’ve taken a lot out of you, though. You doze off again before he can blink, slumping further in your chair with your head lolled uncomfortably to the side.

Your neck is going to hurt later, he thinks with a frown. 

“Once they get their sea legs back, you should be okay to go.”

Chan jumps when the surgeon pipes up, having completely forgotten anyone else was in the room.

She clears her throat sheepishly, clearly aware that she’s interrupting something. Breezing right past that awkwardness, she pulls a prescription pad from her coat pocket. The top page is promptly ripped off and passed to him with a stern look. 

She warns, “Make sure they don’t take this medication on an empty stomach.”

Damn — only two hours in, and he’s already being promoted from chauffeur to caretaker? It should embarrass him that this fact tickles him thoroughly pink, but it doesn’t. Inwardly, he high-fives himself.

Nice one, Chan!

“Soup is best,” the surgeon continues, once again pulling him out of his own head. There’s a pause before she remembers the kicker; she waves her hand urgently when she finally does. “Nothing spicy, though.”

He nods in understanding, and just like that, she pats his shoulder and disappears out the door. Unsure what else to do, Chan takes a seat on the small stool next to your chair and waits.

And wait, and waits, and waits.

Jesus. What did they give you — a horse tranquilizer?

When your eyes open the second time, they find him immediately. They’re still a bit glassy, but they’re much more alert. Bright, even, which is a bit of a wonder, given the circumstances. Right away, he can tell that the space cadet has — sort of — returned to Earth.

“Can —?” You gesture to your mouth, which struggles to frown around the gauze. 

Uselessly, you flick out your tongue in an attempt to wet your lips. They're dry from all the time you must’ve spent with your mouth open, and his fingers twitch again when he pictures the chapstick in his pocket.

You distract him with what he assumes are words, prompting him to shift his gaze from your mouth to your eyes.

Everything that comes next is garbled, totally incoherent, but he gets the gist. With a quick glance at his watch, he confirms that it’s been thirty minutes since he started watching you sleep, and that feels like enough time. 

Right?

So, he shrugs permissively; you perk up the second you’re given the green light. Bravely, you only whine a little bit when you lay eyes on the slightly bloody, thoroughly spit-soaked material as you pull it away from your gums. 

Chan can’t tell if you’re trying to pout when you hold that mess out to him and stare expectantly, but the intent doesn’t matter much in the long run; the effect is the same. He takes your drooled-on trash without a second thought.

Squinting as he concentrates, he fires it off towards the bin in the corner like he’s trying to beat a buzzer. The pair of you watch as it ricochets off the wall, then drops perfectly in the basket below.

Immediately, he turns back to you with wiggling eyebrows and a smirk. “Bank shot,” he brags.

You ignore the true purpose of his raised hand — a well-deserved high-five — and instead latch onto it.  Gripping tightly as if your life depends on it, you drag yourself up and out of your chair. 

Before you can throw yourself entirely off balance, Chan swoops in to tuck you under his arm. You’re independent to a fault, however; and you glare up at him exactly like he guessed you would. Apologetic, he keeps his distance with his hands raised.

Go for it, then.

All it takes for you to accept defeat is a few wobbly steps toward the door and some curse words muttered under your breath, for zest. You give in faster than you want to and dive into his side with a long-suffering groan. You’re not looking, so he doesn't bother to hide the triumphant smirk that spreads when your arms wrap around his waist.

The walk back to his car takes a lot more effort than he initially expected. Though you cling to him like you’ll float off without him, you insist on attempting to wander in every direction except the one you need to head in. To the best of his ability, Chan steers you across the pavement; you babble through every stumbled step.

“I’m going to open your door now, okay?” He coos once you finally reach his car.

It surprises him slightly — the softness he’s exuding, and how much like a reflex it feels — but he doesn’t dwell on it. He’s got a far more difficult puzzle to solve: getting your wriggling body into his car.

After a few unsuccessful tries, you finally let him usher you out of the way of the door. You spill into his passenger seat like you’re more jelly than bones, knocking your skull against the doorframe as you go.

Jesus Christ.

Eyes wide, Chan ducks down to run his fingers gingerly over what will likely be a goose egg tomorrow. Nervously, he chuckles, “That — uhh — that was quite the entrance. You okay?”

Tilting your chin just so, you push your cheek into his palm and blink up at him slowly like you’ve already forgotten the question. Suddenly, so has he. Several moments whizz by just like that — with his arm raised uncomfortably and your heavy head resting against his hand.

Never in his life has he wanted to kiss a forehead as badly as he does yours. It’s like you’ve got a magnet where your orbital bone should be, and it’s a bit shocking. Whatever magic you’ve got — some sort of tractor beam in your eyes, perhaps — pulls, pulls, pulls, but he stops himself.

That’s not what this is, he reminds himself as he backs away and shuts your door carefully in his place. That’s not who I am to you.

In this moment, Chan is your taxi driver, carting you off to the apartment he’s been in a hundred times — but never once in the daytime.

As he goes, it becomes a little clearer with every kilometer: the sun can’t be beating down overhead because he feels it next to him, warming his arm through his jacket; blinding him whenever his gaze drifts over to the passenger side.

“Chan,” you pout out of nowhere.

Again, your head droops fast and bumps his shoulder. You don’t react to this second knock, but he does, sucking air in through his teeth.

“Need to get you a helmet,” he mutters with a sheepish laugh. “You’re gonna give yourself a concussion at this rate.”

“Don’t need a helmet,” you argue. “I need pork belly, bad. Stop, please?”

Glancing quickly down at you, Chan bites back a smile. You look so adorably pitiful with your hazy eyes blinking one at a time, lips all puffy to match your cheeks. It takes all he’s got to tear his eyes off you and put them back on the road ahead.

He sighs, genuinely sorry. “No can do, champ.”

You repeat the nickname, pop the last letter, and make yourself laugh so hard that you hiccup.

“Your options currently are soup or… well, soup.” He tries to sound firm, but if you pout at him a second time, Chan might throw your dentist’s warning right out the window. “Think it over while I stop at the pharmacy, yeah?”

In the quiet that follows, he swears he can hear the gears turning in your head. He doubts it has anything to do with what he just told you, but he doesn’t mind. Come to think of it, he doesn’t mind any of what this day has turned out to be so far. That doesn’t necessarily surprise him, either.

With the way things currently are between you, you don’t feature much in his everyday life; only weekends and the occasional weeknight. It works well, this thing you’ve got going. He enjoys what you do — that head game of yours is otherworldly — but judging by the glimpses he’s seen so far, he likes who you are, too.

Despite not knowing you on some deeper level, shit like this — being around you for some profoundly asexual purpose — feels natural. Like he could do it more often; be a little more than just a recurring character. If you let him, that is.

Would you let him?

That question rattles around his brain when he pulls up to the pharmacy and dashes inside, too wary to leave you alone for long but wholly unprepared to guide you through a shop in your current state. He’s still thinking about it when he jogs back to his car with your prescription in hand.

That bag is nearly dropped to the pavement below when he sees you, however; and he can’t remember what he was thinking about before because you’re weeping now. In a flash, Chan throws himself into his seat and jerks the door shut behind him, metal groaning in the process. 

“What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t mean to sound so forceful, but he can feel his pulse in his ears. On instinct, he reaches out and places gentle hands on your temples. Eyes scanning for any sign of injury, he tries to bury his urgency in a soothing voice. “Hey — talk to me. Are you okay?”

You blink up at him with wide, wet eyes. Oh, fuck, you’re breaking my heart. His stomach drops at the sight of your lower lip trembling, but then you whimper:

“What if worms don’t have best friends?”

And Chan needs a minute because he can’t believe you’re real, that you’re borderline bereft over worms, or that he’s this fucking enamored.

Before he knows it, he starts giggling so hard that his eyes start to swim. Thankfully, it’s with mirth and not utter devastation like yours. Pinching his bottom lip between his teeth, he wipes a tear off your cheek with the side of his thumb. Just as gently, he tries his best to reassure you, “I’m sure they do.”

“You’re sure?” You repeat with a sniffle. Chan nods; he’s never been more so.

Successfully placated, you fall into thoughtful silence next to him. It doesn’t last long, though. Abruptly, you and your goldfish memory change course: “Can we get pork belly?”

Something in him wants to give you the world in this moment — the moon on a string, or whatever — but he shakes his head, unwilling to budge. But then your face falls, and he blurts out, “When you’re better, I’ll take you out for some.”

And he means it.

You peep, “Maybe next week.”

Chan laughs while he puts the key in the ignition and turns it. Maybe, he thinks, if you remember having this conversation. As the engine roars back to life, a new thought bubbles to the surface in his mind:

Maybe you will remember.

If you do — and if he’s brave enough then — maybe he’ll confess that he’s a liar. He might own up to the fact that, when you called to ask for his help, he didn’t already have the day off like he claimed to; or that the sick time he rushed to claim in the aftermath wasn’t attributable to his health at all. 

Maybe he’ll admit that he doesn’t care how many people you asked before you turned to him because you ultimately did.

Just maybe.

As he backs out of his parking space, Chan casts another glance your way. It takes all the effort in the world for you to do it, but you smile at him with your whole damn face. 

That settles it, then.

He nods once — firmly — and corrects you, “Definitely next week.”

Part two.

#bang chan #stray kids #bang chan x reader #bang chan imagines #bang chan scenarios #bang chan drabble #bang chan fluff #stray kids fluff #stray kids drabble #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #bc #skz #moni! #moots #jade writes #jade’s requests #jade’s drabbles #re: the one with chan and the promotion

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Am I Still Your Favorite Escape?

Gale & Maureen -requested? ✔️

As a new year and a new unrelenting malaise settles over the prisoners in camp, Maureen Kendeigh finds the journey from viewing Gale Cleven as her prize collector’s item to the man others suspect she loves most harrowing indeed.

Note: y’all wanted handjobs and I gave ya one, with a twist, and yall wanted more of what Maureen is thinking during this time and so you got it. Along with 6k of other dynamics and plot and feelings, buckle up 👐🏻

Warnings: 18+ smut, female fingering, some cum play, semi public sex acts (not trying to be exhibitionists, but the place is packed ok?) erectile disfunction, not the most supportive attitudes towards partners feeling out of sorts, BUT ALSO!! Please note the typical universe warnings apply with an addition in this chapter being a discussion about terminating a pregnancy, those discussing it disagree strongly and due to religious beliefs one refers to it as “murder”. No action is taken in this chapter. There are hints of Buck x Bucky in this one, although can anyone actually define for me wtf was going on!? Because by Buck x Bucky I just mean they’d die for each other and that’s stronger your average marriage and Bucky maybe should look away when his friend gets some midnight loving, lol.

Maureen had been enthused at the outset. Not that she cared that much for subversion, but she enjoyed the feeling of mischief that their new task carried with it. Camp had proven dull, worse in many ways than she had even expected. She had expected there to be work if not recreation, and while there was some, then the winter months came all too soon and nothing about their shelters or their clothing were suitable for sustaining outdoor productivity.

Which meant she -and the others, she supposed it was only right to admit the others were no better- she had been cooped up in here during a never ending snowstorm outside, watching Gale sand his little board in a room muggy with pungent sweat and stale breath. They were packed on top of each other in here and any attempt to get fresh air earned one a case of frostbite.

That bit of wood was going to become a radio, Gale had told her, and she believed him. With all her heart Maureen believed him. But there came a day when watching Gale fiddle with a safety pin stuck atop a board became unarguably boring. So much so she had begun to insist she be allowed to help Brady and Crank haul in the hot water and assist in what went for “cooking” in this place. Johnny didn’t let her near his precious concoctions after having ousted Benny from the same, but he did let her hand him bowls and generally act useful at mealtimes.

She kept him entertained with stories of picnics in exotic places, safari’s where they cooked out of the back of her father’s jeep. Brady had them eaten all his terse quips about her not knowing how to manage in straitened circumstances and instead asked her endlessly about rhinoceros habitats. It served to entertain her for awhile, too.

Bucky had recovered after a few weeks abed, his movements remained stilted and she could still carry more water than his ribs allowed -a point she made to him daily as he swatted at her from his bunk- but as he recovered he became preoccupied.

Ida had also recovered, though not as thoroughly, having gone well over a week without so much as drinking water in her insensible state. She was weak, feverish and upon at last being plied with nourishment, she puked it right up. It was little cause for concern considering her illness, but as she grew stronger and her stomach remained contrary, some unease began to grow. By Christmas her brother Johnny had taken over the cooking in an endeavor to make something palatable but the woman was hardly the sort to be picky over her victuals. Benny and Brady’s watery soups were alike and they both came up within fifteen minutes of being eaten.

So then, their little room smelled of sweat, breath and vomit. Her brother and Hambone made mention of Crosby, it provided levity for a few days and Maureen was fast to join in. Until Ida had her at a private moment, the men in the hall or else out with latrine duty, and then she asked Maureen if she’d had her menses.

Offended at the implication that Gale Cleven would allow her any more than a mouth or handful of himself, Maureen hotly insisted she had. Three of them in fact, since arriving. She had the bloody rags to prove it.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when there began to be a very segregated group of men hovering and debating amongst themselves that Maureen began to second guess such an inquiry as more than moralistic judgment. Their Red Cross packages arrived with canned goods and bland crackers. Bucky began to bargain for the latter with a gambler's gusto -before inevitably handing his loot to Ida. Ida herself began gambling fiercely, for smokes.

Ida had never smoked in her life.

And now the place smelled even stronger of one more cigarette, sweat, breath and vomit.

The smokes seemed to help her, or at least, Maureen noticed her puking less by New Years. The early part of the new year brought new misfortunes, the confiscation of Cleven’s prized radio and a rash of miscarriages amongst the women. A rash was perhaps an exaggeration -only three or four, by Maureen’s count, and between her’s and Ida’s and Cleven’s discreet insistence, such incidents were passed off to the wary guards as heavy menses.

Maureen realized then that those were pregnancies from their guards, a possibility that she had not considered as she had not had reason to worry about it. That is, until Ida Brady caught her again at a moment alone, and asked her in the closest thing to feminine fluster that Maureen had ever seen her in, if she’d ever had reason “in your expeditions, as it were…” to possibly “eliminate a -poor decision?”

Being quite puzzled by this inquiry, and only picking up on the vague aspects -something she admitted to Ida straight away- Maureen admitted she drank most of her poor decisions away, a strategy that hadn’t failed her yet and she wished was at her disposal in this frozen mud pit.

“I’m speaking of- romantic decisions. Poor ones.” Ida had tried again, yearning for understanding in her voice.

Maureen remained nonplussed.

“A child, Maureen a-a pregnancy have you ever?” Ida hissed out at last.

“Gosh no.” Maureen sputtered, “I’m not a full idiot. Why would you ask? I strike you as enough of a harlot?”

“I’m merely looking for -remedies.” Ida pinched at her nose, a motion Maureen was familiar with watching in Gale when he was overwhelmed.

“Who needs it?” Maureen scoffed, quite sure that the odds didn’t stand many more girls suffering from the same, the poor food and rough conditions having ensured it for them.

Ida took her hand away but closed her eyes, mouth folding to a straight line. “I do.”

“Oh fuck.” Maureen plopped down beside her on the bunk in disbelief, they both stared at the opposite wall and its identical beds with rumpled bedding and starlets pasted on the walls. “Fuck.”

“They’re getting very stupid about it.” Ida said at last.

“What do you mean? Who?”

“The boys.”

“You’ve told the boys?” Maureen cried out, infuriated.

“They guessed, already, for God’s sake must even this be about you, too, Kendeigh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean!”

“It means while you’re bored and very vocal of it, some of us might die-“

“-we could all die in this shithole-“

“-or! Or worse,” Ida cut in fiercely, “have someone die for us by being idiots. Bucky is full of schemes of -of running off into the sunset. I suppose after he levitates us over the barbed wire with his magic carpet. I don’t know, but I- Maureen I know that if I go on much longer, it won’t just be me in danger. They’re either going to risk something terrible or get punished for not reporting me.”

“So what?” Maureen asked dully, having been excluded from an obvious inner circle regarding the issue and having now been accused of being trivial in her own sufferings, it smarted and she could not deny the flicker of unfairness she felt over it. “Want me to shove a coat hanger up you? The others too chicken?”

Ida visibly recoiled beside her, putting more space between them in the bunk. “I’m not going to- to kill it.”

“What kinda remedy doesn’t?” Maureen sassed, if they were to talk no longer in flippant pleasantries, she could do that.

“I’m just asking for help.” Ida’s jaw wobbled, her voice a wreck of desperation and Maureen could see with a small and ugly bit of satisfaction that the woman was truly close to losing her grip. It was satisfyingly human. As was her reaction to a remedy after asking for it.

“You come to me because you think I’m loose enough to know, and then you have the nerve to be appalled when I do.” Maureen pointed out, “That what all the smokes are for?”

“Yes.” Ida put her head back in her hands.

“Just won’t budge; huh?”

“No.” her voice sounded like she might be crying but there was no telling with those hands in the way.

“It would be stubborn.” Maureen muttured, thinking of the goddamn Brady family as she knew them. “Why won’t you get rid of it? You want to get rid of it-“

“-I don’t understand why it’s hanging on!” Ida’s wail came out garbled between her fingers.

“So let’s -unhang it.”

“I can’t. Kendeigh -I can’t.”

“I know it’s risky, but I know you’re not scared of dying.” Maureen muttered, attempting to understand.

“Candy I cant, I can’t murder it.” her voice had dipped into a sacrosanct whisper.

Maureen huffed in confusion, a substantial amount of pragmatism warring with what tiny bit of sympathy the threat left her, “It’s a German’s, at this size no more than a blo-“

“It’s a life!” Ida snarled back at her so viciously Maureen contemplated the likelihood of her having gone fully mad, “And it’s mine.” she rebutted, pointing to her chest fiercely.

“So you’ll let Bucky and Gale die for you, die trying to get you out of here but you won’t try to fix it yourself.” It was how Maureen saw it, and if she were to be accused of suggesting murder, she might as well have her side put out there, too.

“That’s how you see it?” Ida muttured, looking utterly defeated.

“If Gale dies over this, I’ll wring your neck myself. Keep smoking.” she advised with a shrug, “Maybe catch an elbow to the gut if you can.”

Ida pulled her hand away again to look at her, she’d definitely been crying then, red nosed and watery eyed, but she looked less aghast now than she had at the mention of the coat hanger. Maureen didn’t think she wanted condolences about it, or a pat on the back. Come to think of it, Ida was getting plenty of that sort of doting from the boys. No, Maureen didn’t feel like she needed that from her, and something sour and twisted in her heart made her loath to give it.

It worsened as the days went by, as Maureen observed their once innocuous routines with new eyes, noticing the boys' furtive plans, their hovering concern, their brought in provisions -offerings fit for a queen. It was understandable to show such care for her in her state, and ostensibly no one deserved it more than Ida Brady. But it left Maureen feeling adrift, like an afterthought, someone whose greatest challenge was their boredom. And ever looming were those great risks the boys bantered about like it were all a low stakes game of cards.

She plays thirty to forty sets of cards with Hambone, decimates Benny at chess, cleans the pans, even mops the goddamn floor. All to keep busy, perhaps even to spite Ida whose one assigned task is the floors. She cannot be accused of boredom or idleness if she has done all her own tasks and others’ besides.

In her spare time she would like to go with Bucky, to be of use in collecting things for Gale’s new little project, his precious crystal radio, but where women go -there go guards and attention and soon, the sheer mischief of the naughtiness of Gale’s construction wanes as she is left laying in her bunk watching him wiggle a clothespin around for the fifth day in a row. She had been so understanding for the first four. Even though she had contemplated a tiff with him over not informing her of Ida’s state as soon as he knew, she had been merciful and instead settled for holding the copper wire for him and brushing his cheek when he didn’t actively shy away in concentration.

He mumbles about needing to give it his full attention, about her needing to keep a lookout, about the danger of getting caught. She asks if it’s worth it then, anything that might get him killed is her enemy, even if it’s a little clothespin on a board. He looks at her like she’s from mars, unable to fathom why she wouldn’t understand its necessity. And he doesn’t come to bed until an ungodly hour of the night and immediately, upon settling in their bunk he is asleep, much to her chagrin.

She would have liked a kiss, a hand between her legs even more. She would have settled for those whispering little chats they’ve indulged in ever since Bucky laid atop Ida and all rules were broken -they’ve shared a bunk and as the winter gets worse, no one bats an eye. In fact, everyone’s stacked two for one, male and female alike. Brady and Hambone snicker and whisper in their bunk every bit as much as she and Gale do, Maureen is sure of it.

Instead Gale falls asleep. And he does it again and again, night after night. Bucky rummages on his own for supplies. Brady frets over Ida. Only so many people can play makeshift bat gammon in the hall. It does not pass the time. And Maureen grows ever more restless.

She feels expectantly happy when Gale’s work is finally complete, his finished product constructed and the moment of truth comes. They crowd around and wait with baited breath as his finger tunes it. And Maureen knows she is fully awful for her relieved feelings when it does not work. He can’t be killed for it if he scraps it. And he will come to bed at a reasonable hour now it is useless. The shake of his hand makes everyone else feel helpless in the face of his ever steady composure cracking, but while Maureen has no acceptable remedy for Ida’s plight, she does for Gale’s, and she waits for darkness with the relieved excitement of a child on Christmas Eve.

Gale does indeed come to bed, the radio not fully scrapped but heartily abandoned and hidden with its various parts in sundry places. And when he slips beside her, his nose is cold and he touches her like he has missed her. He pulls the covers to their chins, tucking them in with a small giggle, she is suffocated by it and yet he persists and this has gone on all winter until now it is their inside joke and he does it just to make her laugh, and when she laughs so does he, a honest little giggle of a thing, and she misses him worse than ever even as he pressed along the length of her.

It isn’t safe yet, not everyone is asleep but she bides her time with kissing him and he returns her caresses ardently, a thorough press of his lips and his tongue unreservedly sliding into place alongside her own, his hands warming up as they clasp her neck, turning her head upon their pillow. She wonders if they are loud even at this, but she was never the one to care, it’s Gale who objects and who hushes them, who makes them wait, who insists on being courteous even in hell, who only allows himself to lap at her when the place is abandoned or else full of the atmospheric noises of masculine snores.

Maureen does not mind waiting for him, or rather -she does, but he is implacable about it and when she attempts to persuade him otherwise she is oftentimes swatted and put in her place like a wayward child. Such correction holds a charm of its own when it is Gale Cleven administering it, but tonight she feels close to madness if she does not get her way so she allows him to kiss her as the quiet and steady breaths around them herald the unconsciousness of their brethren. She grows bolder, throws her leg over his hip and tugs at his buttons, hands rucking up his shirt and parting the heavy flaps of his coat. He is as burdened with layers as a Victorian maiden and Maureen enjoys the hunt for warm skin, the way he looks as ravished and expectant as any girl while she gropes at him, when she finally reaches him he always shudders, a full bodied thing that jerks even his neck.

Tonight she parts his layers feverishly and he mutters her name, again and again and his hands are clumsy at her shoulders and no progress is made on discarding her own clothing but she pays it no mind, she is direly hungry for him. Any touch of him, to make him shake and melt and pay tribute to her.

“Maureen.”

She finds the button of his trousers right at his heaving naval and she exults at the feel of the fine trail of hair beneath her fingertips.

“Maureen.” his voice grows urgent and she doesn’t heed it, he counts on her never heeding it.

She wiggles her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and skims the hairy plane of his pelvis before laying her hand on what she needs and -he is as limp as a dead mouse. She holds the chubby thing for a good long moment, very much like it were some useless rodent she had caught and must now dispose of, and she is filled with confusion.

“Maureen-“ he mutters again against her unmoving lips and she realizes with misery she mistook his pleading for a different sort.

It is not that she’s never felt him soft, on the contrary, there was a long time in the early days -when she wanted him and he wanted a promotion- that her hand would find its way between his legs, in a jeep or a bar, beneath the table while he helped her with her calculus. Once she felt him she became mildly obsessed, he was always tucked to the right and he was so substantially long and full beneath her palming, even in repose, that her determination to have him was only further cemented by it. Again and again her hand made it into his lap and again and again he would rebuff her, sometimes with startled propriety, occasionally with long suffering disbelief, more and more with almost parental disapproval.

Each reaction had been as satisfying to Maureen as if he were swelling into her palm. And soon enough, he was doing that, too. His hand growing a beat too slow before he grabbed her wrist, his mouth still twisted in dry reproof but his eyes began to burn. He was unbothered no longer and it was not much longer after that he was not even resistant.

Ever since, she could count on him to perk, to respond, to validate her own want of him with his own for her.

The fact it was in many ways a tortured surrender on his part only drove her madder, made her desire burn brighter, made the succumbing of the good, the right, the proud man all the more intoxicating. And again, as if they’d never shared all that, he was now as warm and floppy as a dead dormouse.

“Maureen.” he begged, half expecting tears again like her first night in the stalag, wincing as her hand squeezed him meanly, jerked at him a few impotent times in an effort to fluff him.

Her hand withdraws and he holds his breath, ready for a scene or a rebuke. His gut twists miserably, at fault twice over and yet -not really. But that never mattered with Maureen. He says her name again but she is still and deflated, and after a moment, she merley rolls over, giving him her back.

That is how he knows she is hurt, were she angry she would not have shrunk from being crueler than a few angry tugs. The silence is new and it makes Gale’s stomach swoop in an odd terror, like his next decision might rescue them both or plunge them off a cliff.

“Maureen.” He tries again, his hand on her shoulder, squeezing and trying to turn her back.

Her shoulder jolts up sharply to displace the gesture. “I’m not cold.” she informs him as she rolls further away towards the wall, and her tone is icier than the weather outside. He’s stunned, she’s never once ignored him, no it’s always ever been an escalation of her demands for his interest. Hell, even in Africa she had said she was cold and the presence of her head on his shoulder disrupted his tan, he got no end of grief from the boys about it.

Confused and mildly hurt himself, although he doesn’t know why, not beyond some tickling sense of unfairness about being blamed for being a bit out of sorts in the place, Gale takes his hand away and moves to lie on his back, to keep from crowding her. He thinks that in the morning he will explain to her how he is preoccupied with the radio, that his gut feels in constant free fall from the plans to escape, that everyone is riding on him for this thing to work and he just proved tonight he’s perfectly worthless at it. Nothing but buzz in his ear echoes around in his head and he replays the sound of that failure again and again, justifying her frustration with him. He thinks he’ll explain this all to her in the morning. And also-

-that he is cold.

He’s so damn cold from the anxiety and being still at his work at the table for so long his hands and legs go numb that he simply cannot imagine feeling bothered at this moment, cannot imagine it and it would seem that neither can the little guy. He doesn’t deserve a reward, not for fucking up at the one thing they’ve got going for them. He catches Bucky’s eyes when he rolls over, having taken up night shift over Ida due to insomniatic tendencies. He wonders strongly if Bucky would be as disappointed in him, if he is already. Just wait until next morning, Gale thinks, when I get to admit I’ve got no second plan. If it doesn’t work as is, no amount of fiddling is gonna make it better.

That settles heavy in his gut but does nothing for the swooping feeling, there is merely a loadstone in his belly, plunging downward in a perpetual free fall, and in his dreams the accompanying soundtrack is radio static.

There is a tiny sliver of freedom in the morning -and it does not come every morning- when Maureen has noticed there is still and quiet yet the morning routines are in place. Lazy and weak, the prisoners do not rise with the sun, although some stir and moan and try to meet the new day head on. The guards unlock the doors and yet many choose to lay abed. So many in fact that Johnny Brady ceased making breakfast at that hour as with so few ready to eat it, the ordeal became a waste. He does often fetch water for morning pit baths and teeth brushing, the occasional splash on the face to wash off the sleep.

Maureen has often contemplated these little slivers of time as a chance to break free. Not of the compound, that endeavor holds no fascination to her, but rather out of this combine and out from under the watchful eyes of people who know her all too well. Or think they do. They don’t, they very obviously don’t. And she’s losing all sense of who she is to be known by as the days go on.

She listens as Johnny gathers the buckets and milk pails, always gentle with the clanking metal, vestiges of the considerate boy his mama raised still clinging even in this place, and he hands an allotment to Hambone who is awake with him and less considerate.

Then there is the hushed flurry of beratings and the sleepy protests of trying one’s best.

They leave together, and they leave the door adjar as usual, to come back in quietly if needed. They’ll be gone for at least fifteen minutes, then they will come back and then Brady will leave again to run his two goddamn laps around the compound while that testicular looking bald headed doctor clocks his pace. Maureen doesn’t think Johnny likes running track or ever did it before, but he and Ida both took it up, the latter probably to get rid of the child and the former maybe to stay warm. The doctor didn’t care about the timing of Ida’s laps and soon she began to grow too large to risk attention by keeping Johnny company.

Now Johnny runs his timed laps alone and the only motivation Maureen can imagine for it, beyond the over-familiar assessment of his limbs by the doctor, is the chocolate he earns from it. Priceless sugar to keep up his specimen’s strength in this starving place.

Chocolate Johnny regularly gives to Ida. Though for Christmas he made them all a mashed chocolate pie on a tin plate and it had honestly been the kindest and loveliest Yuletide treat anyone had ever given any of them.

Maureen has considered running with him, trying her luck and seeing if she can win chocolate herself. Maybe that would make Gale smile. She doubts the doctor would care, he’s curiously uncaring regarding the existence of females in camp.

Maureen knows all these sounds of morning routine by heart, can track the progress of each stage of the routine while feigning sleep, motionlessly facing the wall.

Gale has no need to feign, it would seem. He is not snoring but he is whimpering and muttering in that annoying way of his that only occurs when he’s in deep. She used to think it cute, she now thinks it helpful to judge if he is able to catch her at her scheme.

-useless fucker with his useless radio and his useless cock, making her feel useless-

Careful as a cat, and with as much grace, Maureen rolls herself upright, and uses the slats of their upper bunk to balance her weight, keeping the mattress from giving a tell-tale dip. She swings from one slat to the next, carefully crouching when the movement jars the whole frame but Benny stays asleep below her and Gale makes no move to arrest her. It’s a feat to drop soundlessly to her feet after such a climb in a full overcoat, but she manages it. Her boots are under Benny’s bunk and she fetches them with no small amount of terror, but despite his shifts and erratic movements, he does not catch her.

She takes the boots into the hall, which is gratefully empty, and fastens them there. Taking her woolen cap from her coat pocket, she puts it atop her head while tucking in her hair, and fastens her scarf high over her nose, and knows that she is about as inconspicuous in form and feature as the next man. When Brady is bundled similarly his eyes appear as gentle as a woman’s and Maureen knows her own are no longer half so beguiling, not with their pale lashes and absence of cosmetic relief.

Perhaps she’s grown so wane and bland Gale has even lost the ability to pretend attraction. He always was fastidious about cleanliness and order, fussy and volatile when she took him unawares. In fact, when she had first managed to get so far as to undo his pants, to fondle his half hard length, to pull him from the slit of his drawers, to tug his shaft to orgasm, it had been beside the antiseptics. And that had some sort of parable in it, she thought now. Recalling how she’d had to talk him down off a panic as soon as he had shuddered and given her the sought after reward, hot and sticky and plentiful as only a virgin’s would be. He was not comforted until gauze and betadine was used copiously to clean her hand, and the nurse was later puzzled as to why when she entered only one had needed treatment, but both left stained with the orange stuff.

Back then a word, a flick of her eyes would have Gale in full pursuit, bodily if not mentally. She could wage a war with his ever so impeccable spirit and win it with the help of his own flesh. Now? Now he couldn’t even respond, not even pretend it. And he’d tried to warn her and she’d thought he’d been begging and she realized he wanted to stall her, keep it from her, one more thing.

These thoughts carried her dozens of rows down, combine after combine, lost in a flurry of snowflakes that were turning gradually pink as the sun rose. It was beautiful here before all the footprints ruined it.

At the far end of the sector, outside the last combine before the fence that separated them from the Brits, Maureen spotted a huddle of men gathered around a fire pit. She hadn’t known those were even allowed, not doubting that its proximity to the fence had some other subversive reason beyond warmth, and if she thought it then the guards must have. Yet here it was alright, jugs hung over it from a makeshift spit and crackers impaled and being toasted on the same. Maureen’s mouth watered, as much at the thought of genuinely smoke flavored food as she did at the heat. She was still undecided as to her course of action when a loud guffaw, followed by a familiar and harsh curse made her startle.

Polish airmen -or, at least by way of America. They would be sat out in the cold at dawn and they would toast their crackers. Maureen had frequently used her brief passes from Thorpe to terrorize other officer clubs, finding the joy of it a great distraction and some of the girls had joined her at it. She was usually greeted in such escapades with shock or even disgust but the men’s flailing helplessness in the face of a female serviceman always served as a full quota of contentment.

No one had terrorized her back as good as she gave until the Poles. And then they had bought her a drink, and lamented with her that she had not become a fighter pilot. Because Maureen still held a flame for the small craft, resentful that her decent piloting had been considered too poor for the clunky birds, for she knew she wasn't all bad, it was merely those awful forts and their terrible bulk. The Poles had agreed and bought her another drink, and tried to seduce her to their squadron. That had been a happy night and she’d come back to barracks so late as to break curfew, and chatted Gale’s ear off in drunken joy about her wonderful time and her new friends.

Maureen now eyed the fire in the snow and the group of foreign speaking men around it and tugged off her cap, allowing her hair free. And she sauntered up with calculated aimlessness, as if she were indeed only checking out their s’mores to ridicule them compared to her combine’s delicacies. It was effective, they defended their crackers vehemently and she remained derisive, this called for a demand that she try them and so she did and admitted they weren’t too bad but were too dry to be gotten down her throat. So they then passed her coffee and she had to squat to receive it and then she was given a seat to finish it and before long, she was one of the huddle and her feint at leaving them was argued against so heartily she knew she’d won, and so she stayed and played cards and told stories and drank hot water with boys who had been born over here but were in many cases educated not far from her house. And when afternoon came and went she stayed, and when evening fell and the guards became stricter with the perimeter and their fire, she snuck in with them into their combine and there played drinking games despite the violation of curfew.

For the Poles had liquor in this hell hole. And that, Maureen thought, was the true measure of a great nation, their capacity for ingenuity and irrepressible spirits.

Gale entered his own combine in the falling dark with the persistent press of a gun barrel at his lower back, right about at the kidneys, he figured. It was the only thing possible to persuade him to keep from looking, and the others were filing in right ahead of him, saving him a bullet their only motivation for abandoning the search. The guards locked the door after them, and Gale’s chest heaved in panic at the thought of her out there somewhere and locked out and him locked in.

“Fuckin’ Kendeigh.” Murph grumbled but without any heat,

taking himself to his barracks.

Bucky kept pacing up and down the hall with his hands in his hair, snapping at anyone who dared clog his promenade. “Jerries said it was time for bed -so get in your goddamn beds!”

“Why would she do this?” Gale begged him again and Bucky huffed again at it, furious for him.

“She give you grief last night?” Bucky asked wisely, the loyalty in his voice soothes Gale, as does the structure of his sentence, it suggested it wasn’t his fault. And Gale wanted to believe that and he just as strongly he knew it was wrong of him.

He had been in the wrong and he didn’t deserve Bucky’s sympathy for this or the damn radio. They’d been talking of repairs every spare minute of this day that hadn’t been taken up with trying to find Maureen. And while Bucky could remain as adamant as he wanted, that it wasn’t his fault that his radio didn’t work -it didn’t change the fact that his failure now meant Bucky was gonna try something awful instead, like climbing the fence with a pregnant woman on his shoulders. And it was all because Gale couldn’t fucking make a connection. Just as he couldn’t connect to his own body for Maureen and now she’d probably gone over the fence too, or got shot trying.

“So fuckin’ unless.” He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and mashed the tears away.

“She call ya that?” Egan barked, and Gale didn’t need to see his frown to know he was about to track down Kendeigh to punch her, not rescue her.

“No, don’t need a dame to tell me what’s what.”

He didn’t see it coming so he was reasonably startled when he found his hands dislodged from his eyes and his face suddenly collided into the weave of a musky sweater, Bucky’s hand gripping the nape of his neck like he were a child. That hand was so damn large Gale could imagine he was young again and his father was holding him. “Somethin’s gonna come to you,” this reassuring rumble was light years away from his father’s belittlements and he shuddered, “I’ll get you new wire or somethin’ but just- ain’t your fault, Buck, and that goddamn parakeet needs snow down her pants if she can’t see it too.”

No one pretended to sleep that night, even once the lights were out. Ida sat up in her bunk with her brother beside her, a telling lack of sympathy being expressed for Maureen’s self inflicted plight. Ida had spent her own time at the radio and while it hadn’t done much good, it had gone some way to reassure Gale she didn’t see anything amiss. It ought to work.

Small talk was kept carefully low in the bunks, and Bucky kept a firm position on Gale’s bunk, sitting upright with his legs slung over his friend’s boney knees, affectionately trapping him in a lying posture. Bucky had taken to entrapments here in camp, perhaps the barbed wire inspired him.

They had already given Benny his fair share of chiding for not going out with Maureen that the morning, although Brady’s report of her absence in the time he had fetched water plainly represented someone not wishing for accompaniment -or, as Brady so helpfully reminded of the obvious, her desire to obey Cleven’s long standing order on the matter.

It was probably close to 0100 when a great commotion sounded outside, followed by a crash bang of the combine’s main doors being thrown wide and the rhythmic tread of jackboots had everyone pouring out of their bunks and standing at the ready, -they weren’t sure for what, but it wasn’t something you wanted to be caught lying down for. Gale wrenched open the door, expectancy already perfectly in place on his face until he caught sight of Kendeigh, hauled like a child between the guards and one of their captains met his eye with unimpressed disdain.

“This we found in wrong sector.” he explained, gesticulating to Maureen with a gloved hand, “Sleeping under combine steps. I have told you, Major, I cannot guarantee safety of your females when they are alone, something happen to them, you blame me but I told you! Cannot guarantee.”

“Understood.” Cleven gave him his soberest nod, feeling ill and angry and watching warily for the next move, wondering when he could get his lost package back, yet not wanting to appear eager.

“Discipline, major, discipline!” The Captain insisted and Gale felt Bucky’s heat searing at his back as he pressed forward, taking the German’s eyes away from Gale’s, preventing something rash.

“Oh believe me, sir,” Bucky drawled as he pressed forward, the guards posture confidant and lax, “discipline will be met.” he took the brave step of gripping Kendeigh’s coat flap in his hand and tugging her forward, a movement that yanked her free of the gaurds’s grip.

“Met?” the officer was confused, anger and annoyance tinged his repetition.

Bucky shook Maureen meanly by her coat in emphasis of his statement, “Discipline!” he agreed, insistent.

“Well?” It appeared the officer intended to wait until it was meted out.

Bucky stalled and Gale caught Maureen’s panicked eyes even as her nose flared rebelliously with measured breaths, trying to get on top of it all. Gale felt himself pushed to the side abruptly, having to catch himself on the door as Ida Brady strode past him into the hall, the book she’d been perusing still clutched in her hand.

“Child.” she muttered loudly for the officer’s benefit before raising her book and striking Mauree square across the face, one cheek and then the other as the blow sent her staggering, sharp thwacks with the flat side of the volume.

Maureen took the reproof with good grace and a stunned whimper, Bucky’s still supportive clutch on her jacket keeping her from making a fully pathetic scene and melting to the floor.

“Go, in, get in bed.” Ida snapped her fingers, pointing to the door and when Maureen took a second too long to collect her spotted vision, Ida raised the book again and Maureen needed no more incentive, knowing if Ida did not deliver it the guards would.

She tumbled over the barracks threshold like a bedraggled orphan, hair snow drenched and cheeks throbbing, her jacket muddy and undone.

“Well done.” Johnny Brady greeted with montone venom and only Benny Demarco’s well placed foot tripped her and prevented her from clawing his face off in long suppressed spite.

She landed inelegantly on her face, elbows bent just enough to catch herself from a truly ugly splat, she was gathering herself for another spring when the troop of her officers sounded and the door closed and quiet fell over the place, lethal and accusing.

So the Germans had let her off easy then. Maureen drug herself up to her knees and suddenly wished she hadn’t, it felt too close to contrition.

She staggered upright, ignoring the indignity of having to push up on Brady’s knee to do so. Once on her own two feet she raked muddy fingers through her hair and smiled at her superiors, tired but dandy. They looked pissed and that was to be expected.

“The hell did you go?” The others seemed to acknowledge Gale had some right -or maybe it was responsibility- to address her first and it was leveled at her even more scathingly than she had braced for.

“For fresh air.” she chimed, leaning against a bunk brace, arms crossed easily.

“Sleepin’ out? Sneakin’ out?” Gale stormed on and Ida actually took pains to bypass him and climb into her own bunk, her merciful discipline administered she seemed to wash her hands of the business, “Flagrantly disobeying my expressed orders! Answer me! The hell were you thinking?”

“I wanted to get out,” she leveled back at him, her smirk grown sharp and practiced and debutant-worthy, “I wanted to be somewhere else besides in this stinking, miserable cabin with its miserable, stinking occupants. Nothing but a bunch of self righteous, maniacally focused dreamers who can’t have fun for shit.”

As soon as she said it, no regret came, only a feeling of utter validation. Indeed, what had changed since she had been gone? Ida was still sick and pregnant, Johnny was still fussy, Benny was still playing at cards, Bucky was still pushing Gale harder than any over the radio and her Cleven was cleaving to the damn thing like it were his god.

“I mean, tell me if I missed something essential!” She scoffed, “Some great development occur? Or was I needed for some great task you all missed me so desperately during? No? Didn’t think so. Because we don’t go anything in here except talk about getting out like it’s actually plausible and I’m sick as fuck of it and I-“ she pointed to herself, voice growing in volume as Gale’s own fury seemed to wane into something shocked and scared, “I have spent my day with men who have ingenuity and good humor and liquor, because they aren’t hopeless fucks like us. The Brit’s have a tunnel started, the Polish have one too along with a bathtub of potato peel vodka, and we have a pregnant colonel! Sto lat!”

It was terribly quiet for a moment, half the cabin's occupants intent on appearing discrete and the other half stunned into a sort of mortified offense.

“You gonna thrash her or am I?” Egan finally broke the tension, his head turning lazily to look at Gale, his mouth was grinning like he was eager and it made Maureen’s bruised cheeks flame. It seemed to be some private joke, Maureen could only tell by the way Cleven’s eyes widened in warning protest at his friend before biting his lip and sniffing harshly. Then the lights cut again and the place was plunged in darkness, it brought Maureen both relief at the obscurity and a strange feeling of terror at the pitch black surroundings. She still hated the dark, ever since those Gestapo cells.

“Take that filthy shit off and get in your bunk.” Gale’s voice so near and so sudden startled her, and it wasn’t rebellion that made her lag in response but he seemed to take it that way, the snap of his finger seeming dangerously close to her nose, and she felt his fingers pluck at her muddy coat, “Now, don’t test me, get in, now.”

She peeled it off and let it flop heavily to the floor before kicking off her boots with the same carelessness, and then taking a step up, digging her frozen toes into Benny’s mattress and hauling herself up to the next level, laying down with a shiver in the cold sheets. The quiet sounds of rustling and bedding filled the place, the others putting themselves away for the night too, but to her relief no one seemed to be murmuring about her. Then the bunk creaked again and the unmistakable feel of someone climbing in beside her made her gasp.

Gale, of course it was Gale, laid himself out atop her, like he planned to keep her there by his weight alone like Bucky had with Ida, and an odd feeling suddenly took possession of Maureen’s chest, one she hadn’t felt all day: she felt undeserving. His head was hard and awkward against her clavicle but she didn’t want to budge him, secretly and utterly grateful he was being kind, that he was not ignoring her. Maybe Ida was right and she was childish but if that were the case, what was to be done about it? She was as she was and she needed him, so tentatively after a few minutes, she withdrew her legs out from under his own and wrapped them around his hips, pulling him close all along her like they were mating, she meant it as a hug and she felt him limp and heavy between her thighs but she did not withdraw.

Gale waited patiently until the snores began, wind whistling outside so loudly it would cover their whispers, and she shuddered to think of herself being petty enough to try to sleep in that icebox. “I need you to tell me what’s wrong.” he rasped at last, raising his head a little and trying to get a read on her in the semi dark. “Maureen, you can’t worry me like that, please.”

“I’m tired.” her voice was weak from the effort to hold back an ugly sob.

“You've been tired before.” he soothed, “What about today? What about last night? What’s all this? C’mon, you can tell me, I need ya to tell me.”

Maureen sighed raggedly, always a sucker for his cajoling voice, more so when she knew she deserved and expected the thrashing. “You don’t need me that way. You don’t need me at all.”

Gale dropped his head a little, his hand reaching up to pinch his nose, humiliation and impotence warring with need to assure her. “I'm sorry about that.” he settled for, “I’m too fucked right now, I admit it. It’s all just, it’s a lot, we’ve all got a lot goin’ on. You too, I know, I’m just not right up there, Maureen. Doesn’t mean I don’t need you.”

“You don’t need me during the day and you don’t need me at night.” she had tried to dissuade herself of this painful reality, truly! -but those were the facts as she saw them and it hurt her worse than him.

“I’m doing this for you!” he begged, his large hand cupping the side of her throat and she would love to think it a caress but he was only trying to make a point, one she contested vehemently in her heart. “I won’t be okay until you’re safe, baby.”

Maureen scoffed, thick and bitter, she had no child, she had no threat, she didn’t need to get out. “I don’t have any reason to get out!” She seethed back, “What’s in it for me? Besides you dead and me too, maybe I’ll get sent back to the Gestapo. That’ll be lark. I don’t need to get out, Major, I need-“

Gale was panting in her face, hot and hurried as her own ire rose with each word, “What do you need?” he goaded, and she could hear him lick his lips.

“I need you to pay attention to me.” she said it.

And to anyone else it would have sounded the most petty thing of all, but to Gale Cleven it was something he already knew deep down when he wasn’t so caught up in the imminent might-be’s of their situation, when he wasn’t needing to save Bucky from himself, or Ida from being put down or Johnny from whatever Greek hell that doctor had enlisted him in. He knew Maureen needed him, not his brains or what he could give, not really, she just wanted his flesh, and he had never bartered in that currency before her, having always assumed it was cheap if not with love. He was not sure he was loved but he knew it was not cheap, whatever it was they shared. And he knew she needed him. Just as he needed her, even though he could not manifest it as he wished.

He could kiss her, though. That he could do.

She did not expect the plush press of his lips when she saw him duck his head against the halo of window light. He kisses with intent and with reproof and the part of her that enjoys his anger begins to thrum to life as mercy and justice both battle in his kiss, his tongue all forgiveness and his teeth implacable rightness.

“Why?” she whines at him, feeling herself need and yet he lays between her legs useless as a girl, “why’re you when you can’t-“ she has insulted him enough today, she trails off with surprising tact.

“Don’t mean I don’t need you.” his voice has gone gruff like it does when he holds her head firmly and grinds his once hard cock down her throat, “Don’t mean your boy don’t want you.”

And that’s all she needed, really.

Along with the feeling of his fingertips walking down her bare stomach, his hand somehow sneaking its way through her layers undetected until now. It awakes a trail of fire down to her core, her core that is already ablaze by his kissing, his neglect, his language.

“My baby.” she moans in ascent, loudly and exultant and a little mournful.

“I gotchue, I got you.” he swears into her mouth and his hand wastes no time in slithering between her legs, elegant fingers cupping her and smearing her arousal around beneath his fingertips.

“Fuck them into me.” she begs, his hand swiping and rubbing at her heat until her hole clenches in desperation, wanting the burn of a stretch.

He is used to her instructions, they’d have accomplished nothing these last months without them, he is able to obey without ceding one bit of control in the kiss and the dichotomy of it, of him, makes her spiral as long fingers plunge, three at a time into her like he’s mad at her, and she cums from it alone with a hoarse cry of shock. He leans up and over her, hair aglow in the dim light and his hand beginning to slam again and again between her legs, forearm hard at work before he brings his wrist to her mouth.

“Bite.” he tells her, an offer and an order and she does, repaying him the vicious assault below her waist where she is tugged apart and jammed at with all too much finesse, his thumb swiping at the apex of her slit everytime he plunges knuckle deep. Gale knows by now the signs of her peak but he pushes beyond it, adds his pinky until all four digits wreak havoc and makes her go again. She uses his wrist out of necessity not to wake the whole place. The sounds of her squelching may have done it for her.

He pets her after, his palm warmed up by his work and it cups and soothes her as she jerks and jolts and settles, and his nose nuzzles her own sweetly, murmuring her name again and again just how she likes it.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again.” he begs between smooches and Maureen feels entirely too weak to deny him.

“Ok.”

“Promise?” his tone and his hand grow firm again.

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” he sighs beside her and she thinks she could fall asleep now he’s wrung her out. He pets her a few moments longer, as if loathe to pull his hand free. He cups her one more time, collecting her wetness in the crook of his fingers before at last he does, carefully bringing his hand up and out of her waistband. He holds it in front of himself for a brief moment as if debating how to enact his thoughts, and she watches him curiously because he does not lick his digits clean like usual, perhaps she is too soiled tonight, even for his devotion.

Instead she watches him roll onto his back, hand still aloft and glittery with an obscene amount of sticky pleasure and his other hand trails to his own fly, popping the button deftly with his left hand and tugging down the fastening. Her breath catches in her throat, suspense and arousal at the familiar motion making her perk once more. Gale shimmies his clothing down his thighs until she can see him just barely, lying fat and peaceful against his thigh. He deserves a little peace, she thinks, now that she is not so cross with him.

She holds his gaze in startled suspense as he locks eyes with her, wanting her to stare when he moves his wet hand down and wraps it around himself, smearing her juices all over his soft member, clear and creamy swirls rubbed into the pink meat of him, down to his very balls.

“There,” he manages between her kisses as she assails him anew with desperate appreciation, “you’ve still got me. I’m still yours.”

She drags her hand down there to feel the sticky evidence of his promise, to rub and fondle him as he lays dormant in her palm. She has often snickered to him that he is too tidy to ever fully have sex, he has had qualms over even what they do with their hands, their mouths as well. He was pleased she could swallow only for the mess it prevented. She’s often told him he’ll find coupling a filthy business and he oughta brace himself. This tacky feeling under her palm is the closest they’ve ever gotten to the act, her fluids touching him there, drying on him. She appreciates the gesture, more than here heart can bear to ponder: she also knows he’ll regret it.

“I’ve got some amends to make.” she acknowledges after giving him one last kiss and checking that the coast is clear. Egan is doubtless still awake as usual and perhaps Brady, but it can’t be helped and she doesn’t give a damn. “Try to be quiet -don’t think too hard on it, it’s fine if this is all it is.” she preemptively cautions before he can realize what she intends.

She slinks down the length of him, careful not to jar the whole bunk, careful to keep a low profile to the blankets before dipping her head in the little nest of covers shoved around his thighs. Despite her assurances Gale makes a keening noise of confusion when her tongue darts out without preamble and licks up the seam of his balls.

“Maureen.” he sounds half strangled but his hand flies out, not to prevent her, but to pet her lustrous hair. She feels utterly content in that moment and continues her quest to tidy him up.

“You hate being sticky.” she reminds in a whisper before gently sucking on his soft tip, she can feel his belly heaving in relaxed sighs, the connection not fully alive and yet, potent all the same, he pets her hair more firmly and even pushes her head down further and she gets the hint, abandoning his soft cock head for the chubby vein beneath, licking stripes of herself off him.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.” she whispers to the inanimate little thing, remembering how meanly she squeezed it the night before. “I swear we’re still friends.”

Gale vaguely registers her apology to his bits and bobs but he is genuinely more distracted by two glinting shards across the room that have to be Bucky’s blazing eyes. Trained right on him. Holy hell, he feels himself shake and the closest thing to a twitch animates between his legs before he throws his hand over his eyes and pretends he is very alone. He pets her head more purposefully, long, feminine strands slipping through his fingers.

John Egan once put a bet on how long it would take these idiots to learn they were in love. It was once all a bit funny. And now, seeing in a dim haze what appears to be the ritual of making up, it’s not so funny any more. Today could have gone far worse, any attention to the women was bad attention and having Ida have to make a scene while hiding a belly like that was nearly criminal in Bucky’s mind.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t glad for Gale. No, he was so glad he was half jealous watching, imagining more than even seeing. He wondered if Maureen knew how much she loved him, he wondered how it compared to his own, and he ached like hell.

Next morning Gale woke up with a sore spot on his chest from the weight of her head lying there all night, and to the tinkering sounds of the metal water jugs being jostled. There was a laugh and a responding “shh” and another stifled laugh following. He rolled his head on the pillow and blearily cracked an eye open, taking in Brady and Maureen over their task. Or at least, Johnny was trying while fighting some whispered bit of comedy that Maureen continued despite Johnny’s wheezing protests and incompetent fumbling with his handles.

“You ain’t bein’ quiet, if ya think you are.” Benny’s grumble from the bunk below said what Gale was thinking, but he was too relieved to see Maureen awake, cheerful and integrated again to complain.

“I’m telling him about a Romanian girl in the other sector, met her yesterday.” Maureen stage whispered and Brady began to lose it again, muffling his whole face into his sleeve, milk pail abandoned on the floor so he could laugh. “There’s a fence between and she’s a fighter pilot but she’s seen him at his laps and she wants him.”

Benny stayed quiet a minute before his own laugh started and Gale could feel the vibrations of it from a whole bunk below. “She put in an order or somethin’?”

“Practically.” Maureen drawled, “She was so relieved to meet an American so arrangements can be made for my fellow. She has cows back home Johnny, she’d trade ten for you. Those big Eastern European cows, straight from a storybook, it’s worth consideration.”

“Grab your jug.” Johnny insisted instead in a small wheeze as he collected his own and strode out, looking behind to ensure she was following and beginning to laugh at eye contact. Maureen threw her head back and guffawed that ugly little cackle of hers as she went out.

“I think we missed part of the first act.” Benny observed about the joke from below, Gale didn’t know what talent it was but his co-pilot always seemed to sense when he was awake, no checking needed.

“Yup.” Gale puffed into his pillow, not giving a damn about the content of her material only that some material was back.

Someone else who was shit at playing asleep was John Egan. Gale slunk out of his bed quietly to not awake everyone else and went over to the sprawled out form of his friend, Ida tucked behind his back and the wall, genuinely asleep despite the nicotine she had coursing through her. Gale reached out and flicked at an overgrown curl dangling over his friend's face, the return momentum of it tickled his nose and he sneezed on compulsion.

“Sleep well?” Gale asked as Bucky stared up at him, betrayed and crinkly faced.

“Was.” he accused.

“Talk?” Buck proposed in a monosyllable and he watched Egan’s raw morning eyes shutter closed into something as readable as millponds.

“Yeah, sure.” There was a series of grunts and heaves of effort as Bucky righted himself and finally pushed out of the bunk, “Hall?” he asked while contemplating just how little he wanted to don boots right now.

“Hall’s fine.”

They went out together, it was quiet in the hall despite the awakening rustle in the various rooms off it. It stayed quiet once they’d both taken a wall to lean against because Gale Cleven wasn’t good at broaching topics despite his bravery to initiate their surroundings. Egan had a sense what this was about, but then, things usually weren’t about the thing they were about, they were about another thing reflected in the thing and that’s where he got lost. But watching Gale Cleven take in a breath five times only to exhale and chew his lip got a little tedious, even by his standards for how much he enjoyed watching his Buck at anything.

If this was about being observed last night, Egan sure as fuck wasn’t gonna take the blame for seeing shit in a packed dormitory. Or, combine, barracks, whatever. So, a sentence like -sorry I watched you get licked at like a bowl of milk last night- didn’t reflect his sentiments at all. And he’d never lied to Buck, not once, except maybe about not social engineering his way onto planes during rough missions. So instead he went with an easy going, “Must be nice to almost get everyone killed then get rewarded for it.”

Gale’s eyes sharpened instantly but the harsh retort Egan panted for didn’t come, instead something tired took over and Gale pinched his nose. “We’re all goin’ a little looney in here.”

“Are we?” Bucky hummed combatively, “How you crackin’ up these days?” it wasn't fair his Buck had all this weight on him and a fussy woman besides.

“I’m havin’ an affair with a fellow officer.” Gale recited in a devastated montone, and Egan hadn’t expected such transparency. Not in criminal language.

“Well,” he ceded, “there is that.”

“And occurrences like last night are gonna need to keep happenin.” Gale was informing him and Bucky didn’t know what to do with that, his tone was that of an officer but his soft blue eyes flicked with a plea to be understood. “To keep her -tame. Some sorta sane. She’s like you, she wasn’t meant for this place.”

“Just last week you told me nobody was.” Egan pointed out just to be contrary but he couldn’t help his grin and Buck caught sight of it before he could suppress it, knowing the banter and its innate kinship was back.

“I need you to promise me somethin’.” Gale went on, a nervous hand rubbing at the back of his neck and Bucky perked at the sight of that tick.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to promise to wait a week before you try anythin’.” Gale said, “You said I’d come up with somethin’ and I will, but I need a week Bucky. Give me that, can’t let you leave here without any direction of where to head toward. Wait on that radio, don’t you go off gettin’ yourself shot and Ida, too.”

A week in this place felt like a year, a week with an ever swelling woman felt like an eternity of valuable, crucial time. Bucky ran his bare toes over the splintering wood and tried to focus on the way the wood shards pricked at his frozen toes. “Alright.” he agreed, couldn’t help himself when Buck was looking at him like that and telling him he didn’t want him to die. “Alright.” He repeated more forcefully just to see Gale’s face clear and some old expression of peaceful relief smooth out his worry lines, not as much as Maureen’s tongue could do, Bucky wagered, but it was a little relief of his own he could give. “But you make a poor incentive for obeying you.” he pointed out cheekily, shoving off his wall to advance on Gale and shove a finger in those still full cheeks, “You gonna reward me if I disobey an’climb over on day six?”

Gale rolled his eyes, an expression all too pretty with his cheek distorted by Egan’s rough fingers, his eyes wary and loving all at once, Bucky had missed that look, it was coy as hell and one of his favorites on his friend. “Don’t count on it.”

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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@ask-you-what-sir

@xxanaduwrites

@pretty4u

@yorkshirekiwi

@waitedforlove743

@elvismylove04

@blikebarbie92

@luminouslywriting

@justheretoreadthxxs

@bookotter01

@mads-weasley

@ka-ski

@darkestbeforethedawn16

@slowsweetlove

@richardslady121

@barbeygirl

@prfctplcsreads

@vaf24

@harrys-housewife

@claireelizabeth85

@pearlparty

@piastrinho

@sapienti0sat

@atrophyingaphrodite

#masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #mota oc #mota imagine #john egan fanfiction #Gale Cleven fanfiction #bucky egan fanfiction #Buck Cleven fanfiction #gale cleven x oc #those who can #integrated au

[matchalovertrait]

The entree round begins! Who will cook the best dish? Who will cook the better soup? Find out... not in the next segment.

Previous / Next (Transcript under the cut)

(1.) [Mia] Somebody here did not fully follow the rules of Diced Junior.

(2.) [Carlo] And that would still be Lewis! A producer pointed out to us that Lewis here did not use the vegetables that were in the flatbread. We didn't even notice since the flatbread was so burnt.

(3.) [Lewis] Oh, I was supposed to use EVERYTHING from each basket ingredient? Anyway, thank you for the opportunity, judges.

(4.) [Mia] Thank you, Lewis. Please audition for Diced once you're older. We'd love to see you compete again.

(5.) [Lewis] Well, I already came to terms with being eliminated before they announced it. Maybe I will try Diced someday.

(6.) [Dulce] Bye, Lewis!!

[Alex] You did good, man.

[Rubiya] We'll miss you.

[Lewis] Bye, everyone. Good luck.

(7.) N/A

(8.) N/A

(9.) [Andrea] Chefs, please report back to your stations. Your baskets for the entree round have been placed.

(10.) [Dulce] Wow, they move fast here.

(11.) [Andrea] Inside your baskets, you'll find jicama, hatch green chiles...

(12.) [Andrea] ...goat chops, and chana masala.

(13.) [Rubiya] I'm pleasantly surprised with these ingredients! They won't be hard to combine. However, the real challenge here will be the time limit while using these complex items.

(14.) [Dulce] Yes! My mom is Mexican, so I am very familiar with jicama and chiles. Also, my mom's friend taught me how to cook some Indian dishes, so I know how to work with masalas. I haven't cooked goat yet, but I should be able to figure it out.

(15.) [Alex] I'm happy with the ingredients, just a lil worried about the chiles. Good thing I've cooked goat lotsa times by now.

(16.) [Andrea] Chefs, the 30-minute timer starts now!

(17.) [Rubiya] I'm making chana masala goat tacos with a green chile salsa and jicama dip.

(18.) [Rubiya] Tacos aren't necessarily easy to make, but with my thirty-minute time limit and these beautiful ingredients, this is the way to go! I'll incorporate the ingredients well. If only I could make the tortillas from scratch, but it is what it is.

(19.) [Dulce] I'm making a tomato soup with goat, jicama, chana masala, and hatch green chiles. I'll add sweet potatoes, onion, kidney beans, and green bell peppers.

(20.) [Dulce] There's a lot of things to dice and chop while also making sure the goat and sweet potatoes are thoroughly cooked, but I want to push myself. Also, the judges seemed to really like how I play with many different ingredients, so I want to do that again.

(21.) [Alex] I'm making an egusi soup with cubed goat meat, hatch green chiles, spiralized jicama, and chana masala. My other ingredients are tomatoes, onions, and spinach.

(22.) [Alex] Well, there aren't any egusi seeds here, so I have to use pumpkin seeds instead. I'll keep the name though, it sounds fancier that way.

(23.) N/A

(24.) [Andrea] Judges, any thoughts and opinions so far?

(25.) [Sofia] We love how confident these young contestants are.

[Mia] However, we also noticed how Alex and Dulce are both making soups. Unfortunately, that will make our judging harsher because we are going to have to compare the two.

(26.) [Carlo] Tsk, tsk. They should have thought more outside the box. Also, Dulce really has to watch the time. Andrea, please check on the contestants.

[Andrea] Will do, Carlo!

#alegria legacy #tjolc gen 1 #tjolc #matchalovertrait #dulce alegria #lewis mack #rubiya jabal #alex marino #andrea mixon #mia d'angelo ramirez #sofia bjergsen #carlo mancini #sims 4 #ts4 #sims 4 legacy #sorry guys for this weird reversal plot twist lol #also hello somewhat consistent/decent lighting 😍😍 i've been waiting for you this entire episode #those tacos sound so good btw omg (disclaimer: i didn't think of those ingredients myself. but i did come up with the dishes) #also the judges are gonna taste all the dishes in one post (it won't drag on like last time) but that won't be until after the next post #next post might be of some interest tho 👀 idk you'll see

[mellowseulogy]

SAUDADE

IN WHICH: You get isekaied into the world of Attack On Titan and although you're scared, they remind of all of the reasons why you loved them in the first place.

tags: black reader, fluff and angst, canon typical violence, isekai, found family, 'kinda' reverse harem, swearing,

AN: I originally posted this on Wattpad but I figured crossposting wouldn't be too bad! This is also inspired by the wonderful curlycho's 'Sucked In' on Wattpad and AO3!

1.

Your eyes blinked open and a heavy whiplash overcame you. Instinctively, you groped around your bed to try to stabilise yourself. But when you pulled the covers up to your nose, the sheet was thin, caked with dust, and smelled terrible. Through a brief coughing fit, you rubbed your gunk-crusted eyes clean and leaned forward.

This was not your bedroom.

"She's awake!" A voice cried out. You couldn't see where the person was so you assumed it was from a bit away from you.

On the back of your forearms, you pushed yourself onto your butt and like a tidal wave, the expanse of greenery swarmed you.

In front of you was a large oak tree scratched with a chunk that seemed to be... bitten off. Its bark stretched high into the sky - pretty leaves fanned out over you and through the small gaps in them, an auburn sky waning navy from the coming night. Underneath you was a bed of blue flowers hidden in thick grass. It almost reminded you of something you saw on the... Your mind went blank.

That didn't explain how you were here though...

"Helloo~." There were hands on your shoulders and you jerked back in sudden shock. Grabbing your sheets, you crawled away from your current resting point and backed yourself uselessly against the tree.

"Woah, you're fast...uh sorry to scare you, sorry! Just was happy to see you weren't ya know... dead is all." The girl who had scared you half to death had an extremely apologetic look on her face and she had her head bowed. By the looks of it, she seemed to be the same age as you but she was wearing a uniform of some kind. An emblem of swords on her blazer's chest.

In her remorseful spiral, a boy began to walk up behind her - there was a bowl in his hands. "Sasha, what did we say about sneaking up behind people? You don't just jump on someone when they've just come out of unconsciousness, she could've died of a heart attack."

He crouched beside her and stared at her, she stared back, then he switched the bowl into his left hand and flicked her square on the forehead. The girl (Sasha) recoiled backward in pain and rolled in the grass, clutching at her head. This whole moment could've been very funny to you emitting one little thing... you still had no clue where the hell you were.

Shoveling down your nerves, you pulled the sheet down from your knees and coughed to get the pair's attention. "W-where am I?" You tried to look assertive but you're sure that your voice gave you away.

There was a ninety-nine percent chance these thoroughly unserious people weren't kidnappers. So you weren't terrified but it still bothered you. However, there was still that one percent...you think you read a book about it once.

The boy with the bowl in his hands shuffled a little closer to you, you shuffled back wary of the steam that bellowed out of it. It smelled really nice though. "Hey, sorry about Sasha she's a bit there." Sasha mouthed another sorry. "My name is Jean and my squad found you on the edge of a cliff."

"Well actually, me and Eren did." Another boy had started to walk over with a towel and bundle of something in his hands - his hair was shaven. "Jeanboy was too much of a wuss to grab you."

"Shut up, Connie and let me finish." He ended with a frustrated grunt. Then, he looked up at you and smiled. "So, we brought you back to our camp so we can fix you up before we start our expedition back to the barracks."

He brought the bowl to your hands. "It's soup, regain your strength and then we can talk. Who knows how long you were out there for." He rummaged in his pockets and gave you a spoon. You just stared.

"Or, do you want me to...feed you?" Jean said.

"No, thanks." You took the spoon from his hands.

He nodded, understandingly but with the way the bald boy smirked maybe he wasn't as pleased.

Inside the bowl was a clutter of all kinds of vegetables, swirling around in a dark brown soup. It looked alright, but poisoning was still very much a possibility. These people didn't seem too hostile in any capacity, with the way they were goofing around a meagre fire. Swirling the contents of the meal in contemplation, you tried to hone in on what happened before all of this - when you tried...your mind drew blank.

Like an incomplete storyboard with no beginning or end, you were plastered in the middle of it all. Thinking hurt because there was nothing to think back to - you didn't like it.

But right now you were in the middle of nowhere and a horrific grumble started to settle in your stomach. Gingerly shoveling a spoonful of soup into your mouth, you were honestly surprised. It didn't taste half as bad as you thought it would. Wonder why. After finishing the remaining potatoes and carrots, you licked your lips with relish. You hadn't truly realised the full extent of your hunger.

"You tore that up." The boy with a shaved head said next to you - you hadn't even noticed he was there. He was the one holding all those herbs and towels. Staring for a moment he broke out into a snicker. "You can talk, you know. I'm not gonna eat you." That's when you noticed that you were staring again like an idiot.

He sat down on the grass next to you and placed his tools on a box. "Just here to fix you up, laying on a cliffside doesn't sound healthy." He dipped the towel into the bowl a damp towel and wrung it into the dirt. In the midst of all of this, you finally realise how quiet you've been, they probably think you're some poor abandoned teen.

"What's your name?" You asked.

He looked up from crushing down purplish liquid into some blue flowers. "Connie Springer. Yours?"

You thought hard, for something that should've been as easy as breathing, your mind wrapped into coils in trying to think.

"You look like you're about to take a shit." He smiled, "S'alright you're probably still a bit hazy, don't worry about it."

He finishes up with a small bowl of something orange and says, "Alright, gonna dab this on your face while it's still warm, let me know if it's okay."

First, he tried to push your hair behind your ears but a curl kept sticking out. It was kind of cute seeing his tenacity.

When he finally moved your hair out of the way, he patted the towel gently around your face. You didn't know if this had any sort of special remedy but it unwinded your very rigged mind. You let out a long deep breath and you let yourself relax into the touch, eyes flitting closed.

"Open your mouth for me." And you did it with minimal resistance. He tipped the contents of a metal cup into your mouth - you promptly wrinkled your eyebrows.

"Gross." You muttered, it was nasty. Ucky. Vile.

Connie chuckled, "I know, it's terrible, isn't it? But it's just a drinkable antiseptic. Not a permanent solution but will fight anything nasty."

"Hah! See I remember, Jean. Practical medicine's pretty easy when you're besties with Armin."

"Armin."

"Oh, you'll see him in a minute - he's like super smart."

Armin. You played with the name on your tongue whilst trying to shake off the nasty aftertaste of that medicine. It sounded familiar, you focused intently on your memories to try and piece something together...

...all you could remember was the pressure of drowning.

"Hey! When do the others get back? I don't think we have enough firewood to cook all of our dinners!" Sasha yelled.

Connie smirked, focused on patching up a deep cut on your forearm. "You sure you didn't eat all of it?"

"Nuh-uh, I've been focusing on my hunger on this expedition," Sasha said. "Besides, I think you'd all kill me if I did."

The sky was losing its evening haze and turning a deep blue.

"Well, they better hurry up." Jean said, lounging on a log.

A rustle in the bushes set you on edge, you figured it was the rest of their squad but you could never be too sure.

Pushing the leaves aside, a brown bear thudded on the forest floor. Before you could comprehend, you screamed, scrambling up onto your feet.

"Get behind the tree!" Connie whisper-yelled to you.

Jean, Sasha and Connie had quickly pulled out long swords from behind a severed tree. Coordinated at each other's sides, ready to attack.

Another rustle in the bushes and out came a pair of legs, stepping over the bear.

"Sorry for scaring you, guys." An extremely tall boy raised his hands in mock defeat.

Sasha gasped, "Bertolt?!" Her eyes flitted down to the bear. To which now she realised was very much dead.

Jean placed both his, Sasha and Connie's swords behind the stump and ushered you from behind the tree.

Bertolt and another person had carried the bear to the middle of the camp. She had long dark hair in a ponytail and looked strangely absent from the whole situation.

Two others followed from behind carrying firewood. But a headache had blossomed shortly after your adrenaline had simmered, so you sat down.

These other people seemed to be the rest of the squad Jean was talking about. It seemed like they had killed the bear for food.

Its dead, glassy eyes peering holes into your own. You ceased eye contact and settled on finding out who these new people were.

"Oh yeah, Eren, she woke up," Connie said nonchalantly whilst placing new firewood to rekindle its might. But to Eren, this seemed to be the most astonishing news ever.

Like you hadn't had enough, he rushed over to your resting place and took your hands in his own.

Almost immediately, pain bloomed in the back of your head. Your ears rang loudly and you tried to blink away a steady stream of tears wetting your cheeks. Your stomach turned.

"H-how are you feeling?" Eren asked, concerned. But it only came through muffled ears.

Oh.

"A-alright, just a bit of a headache."

There was an awkward pause when Eren was simply focused on scanning your face.

When the pain subsided, the world felt slightly clearer. Only slightly.

Armin came up from behind Eren. "Uh, Eren. I'm pretty sure she should rest." He nodded, moved back on his heels and stood up.

"Y-yeah, sorry. I'm just glad, that's all." He walked over to the campfire to help Connie fry some leftover meat.

Armin. Looked over to you and smiled, but you were too disgruntled to smile back.

The dark-haired girl was busy gutting the bear with Jean. But her gaze had flicked over to you with a note of blankness behind her eyes. You only looked back, stupefied

Mikasa.

.

Attack on Titan?

.

Oh god...

.

.

.

#SAUDADE - chapter 1 #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #snk #aot #aot x black reader #x black fem reader #x black reader #x black y/n #miso's stories #SAUDADE - MISO #although this is a black reader anyone can read along!!

[neverevan]

I think your takes about 9-1–1 have been very nuanced and speak to your love for the show so I while I might have some differences in opinion, I really look forward to your thoughts and thank you for sharing with us your joy and passion.

I have really grown to love all the characters and their stories throughout the years. I have no idea where the plot is going but I have thoroughly enjoyed seeing how much love people have for this show, the characters and the cast.

I know it can be really messy at times but I’m excited for where the show is going.

I was curious about your thoughts on how the show handles growth and flaws because I really like how complex each of the characters are and that’s one of the main selling points for me to continue watching so I would love to hear what you think :)

also if you have any recommendations for other shows to watch I would love to hear those as well :)

okay, first of all you are so so kind, it made my chin wobble a little bit 🥹

and I love your attitude, because yeah, we don't have to have the same opinions on anything, especially not in fandom, but you know, having fun and throwing stuff at the wall without trying to spit into each other's soup? that's what it's all about.

I'm gonna cut this in half because I went into ramble mode oops

when it comes to growth and being flawed. GOD YES. this is the reason I love this show, possibly more than I have ever loved any other.

for one, it doesn't tone it down, it doesn't leave a grey area of "was that really abuse?" "was that really neglect?" "was that invasive?" "was that really cheating?" because it was. the mistake and the flaw is always clear from the get go.

Hen cheating on Karen, Chimney lying to Tatiana, Maddie stalking that woman, Buck cheating on Taylor, Bobby being an addict, Athena killing people, Eddie enlisting, Shannon leaving to care for her mother, the Buckley parents lying to Buck and neglecting their children. all of that and more.

I was kind of surprised when I first started watching it that we had people cheating and leaving their children and killing people. that was just not the general vibe I was expecting after coming into it, thinking it'd be just some dramedy type firefighter procedural lmao

instead, I was hit with all the main characters lying, cheating, abusing their positions, being addicts and so on and then we got to see them for who they all were beyond that; heroes, people who risk their lives every day to help others.

the way the show portrays characters in such a human way, instead of saying "this character is bad" or "this character is good"; they are all just people trying their best and often times failing miserably.

I don't wanna make this too long, but the theme of cheating and parents abandoning their children (either physically or emotionally) is very rampant on the show — and so is forgivness. so far no character has cheated without being caught out for it and also being forgiven, and no parent has lost the right for redemption.

sure, I am less than pleased about Chim's dad and the Buckley parents... but if their kids are willing to let them be part of their lives and allow them room to grow and repent? then that's actually part of their growth as well.

Eddie and Shannon and Maddie, they have all left their kids out of fear of doing wrong by them or out of duty for another family member in Shannon's case; they all came back and worked hard every day to be the parents their kids deserved.

this is not something you see on other TV shows. if a parent leaves and comes back, there is a flare up of emotions and then a reconciliation in the same episode and then we move on, not to mention these are usually all adult children of the parents and there is no significant other in the picture complicating things further.

my point is; they are all so, so messy and flawed and they are all trying to do better (most of them anyway) and this is the human condition and it gets rough and ugly sometimes, but I think this show captures that better than any other, while also giving us the whole spectrum of emotions.

and while they all get a chance (or more) to better themselves and earn forgivness from the people they hurt; we see the hurt live on. Karen is still insecure about Hen cheating years ago, Bobby still struggles not to have a drink to this day, Eddie forgave Shannon the best he could but he never got closure and he never learned to trust that he's enough and Amir doesn't want revenge, but can't quite forgive Bobby either. the hurt never goes away no matter what and the work on themselves continues.

I could really go on forever, so I'm just gonna stop here lmao

on recommendations though; I don't watch too many new things cuz I either get sucked in or totally bored BUT following the theme of being flawed and growing, my absolute main recommendations would be Scrubs and Daredevil the netflix series (though mind you, neither of these have an active fandom atm)

and then if you like that sort of thing It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia; but that one is about flawed people who will never get better and are doomed to be trash and toxic and codependent for the rest of their lives — and it covers some real problematic topics, not always in the best way though (that being said, the actors/writers are pretty socially sensitive and everything problematic is in there because it is problematic)

thank you for this ask, it made my day, truly 💛✨

#i bet this is full of typos ugh #911 #911 abc #ask #anon

[archandshri]

23rd Feb '24 - [arch] OH RISO my beloved!!!!!! ft. cyberpunk hermitcraft soup group

A cliffhanger!!!! And now I have to wait a month for you to upload the second half?? How will I cope :’’0

For real, it’s so awesome to see your process and the sheer amount of inspiration you take! In particular, I thought ‘Sit on Two Chairs’ and ‘This Was Our Pact’ were particularly yummy. 

I think book covers are really hard. You have to sum up a book’s energy in one image, make it stand out and show just enough so people want more. Exploring the narrative through those full pages is really interesting - though this is something you did for fun, it could be a really useful technique for getting to know a narrative. When I’m designing my comic covers, I always do it last - that way I’ve had practice with the visual style and I’m thoroughly familiar with the themes, so I guess spending a bit of time with the characters and narrative in this way helps for standalone book covers too. Of course, it helps if you have the time for that XD

Okay!! Onto what I've been up to!!! [warning this is a beefy post I'm sorry for your poor reading brain]

The past two weeks have been really enjoyable! I’ve been playing a lot with slow world-building, in sketchbooks, google documents, and voice notes to friends. Letting myself really sit with concepts, think about the characters, let them play in my head with no expectations. With this relaxation and lack of pressure, some beautiful narratives and interactions have been developing. I’m starting to need a name for a world/ the story. I’m not quite ready to give them a full introduction to the internet - I know it doesn’t but it feels like there’s some accountability to *produce something* and this slow development is really important for the quality and my skill building. It’s really hard to take on, but we actually don’t have to make the perfect thing now! In fact, it’s impossible. Pressure on ourselves makes it so hard to make something good if we’re always grasping at the final result.  In the meantime, while those characters develop, I have been working hard on my basic skills. I wrote about characterization last post, but this week I focused on setting and colour. I was inspired (once again) by Hermitcraft. I’ve seen some really incredible illustrations of Minecraft builds in the fandom, and it seems like a great exercise.

Bdouble0's Season 10 Base illustrated by @applestruda [source] and The Red Zone, built and illustrated by Bdouble0 [source]

One of the creators on Hermitcraft, ImpulseSV, created this build in a recent episode. It takes inspiration from the last season of Hermitcraft, where he was part of the ‘soup group’ with two other players, and his current base concept - a cyberpunk city.  I also LOVE his new character design, so I wanted to place him in the scene.

Screenshot from Impulse's video and new impulse design by @maxx-doodles

Here are some initial thumbnails I did, trying to figure out the composition. I wasn’t sure of the vibe yet, so I tried some rough thumbnailing, and drawing on an isometric grid and other perspective techniques. I’m going a bit mad for characters at the mo, so I wanted to place some in the scene. I found the angle of the isometric grid steep to place characters comfortably, so decided against that.

Looking back at it, I love the second! But I believe I was struggling with the perspective. I decided on the last one eventually.

Now, I absolutely adore all of the players in the Soup Group, and I am BIG fan of redesigning their notable characteristics to suit different settings. So yes, I decided to put all of the soup group in the image.

PearlescentMoon (left) from my comic and GeminiTay's Hermitcraft Season 10 design [from this thumbnail] (right)

Here's the sketch of the final image. I really enjoyed coming up with cyberpunk versions of them all. I used the impulse design almost exactly, with a few extra interesting details since he's mostly viewed from the back. For PearlescentMoon (middle) I kept her fringe, dark hair and gave her a glowing moon symbol on her top. For GeminiTay, I kept her long ginger hair, antlers (but glowing!) and took inspiration from her new season 10 design - a dark blue jumpsuit to match her dark blue clothes in her new design, and the braids she is often drawn with. I also gave them edgy new hairstyles. And a robot arm. I don't have lore for that.

As usual, I filled each flat colour-to-be with black and lowered the opacity to play with the values. Then I added colours one at a time, aware might be riso printing it. Originally I stuck to trying to make it printable (making the colours out of ones I could make my layering 2-3 colours at different opacities), but as I went on, I decided to drop that and focus on the quality of the image in a digital format alone. I did keep the grayscale version above with all the separate layers in case I needed that if/when I came to riso printing it. Below are the main two digital colour schemes I tried out.

I settled on the one on the left, with the blue tones - the foreground characters really pop. I put a few details in Gem's hair, colour variations etc, and cropped it for Instagram. I actually much prefer the cropped version - it sits better in a rule of thirds.

Now the moment we've all been waiting for :'')

RISO!!!!!!!!!!!

I returned to Cardiff after a couple of months away and was delighted to spend my first day back at The Printhaus, an awesome shared print studio where I have basically made my home. A few of my awesome friends happened to be there, so I spent the day playing around with this image with their help! (please check them out they're very cool - Gavin helped me a lot (we hung out at Thought Bubble, remember? and Rhi gave good crits too!!)

For those who don't know, risograph is basically a shitty photocopier that can only print one colour at a time. However, you can play with gradients and opacities, and layer colours really nicely to combine. I've done a lot of single-colour tonal work with riso but this is my first go really layering.

First, Gavin showed me how to separate the channels in Photoshop, using the flat image uploaded to the 'gram. We copied and pasted these layers in grayscale and added blending modes to each layer to replicate what they might look like when printed.

With blending modes, the digital mockup looked like this!!

This bit goes into technical details for replicating what the print might look like for those who might want it - feel free to skip :)))

I copied and pasted the Cyan, Black and Magenta layers as greyscale (as you can see above)

I made all of the greyscale layers multiply layers since risograph ink is transparent and we wanted to see how it layers. The ink usually comes out a bit lighter than you think, so it's good to bear that in mind. I used a clipping mask over each greyscale layer and a blending mode. WHEN YOU PRINT, PRINT IN GREYSCALE, NOT COLOUR.

Here's how I split the colours from CMYK to the riso colours, their hex codes and the blending mode I used to replicate the colours:

Cyan - Mint [HEX#82D8D5] Screen Magenta - Fluorescent Pink [HEX#FF48B0] Screen Black - Blue [HEX#0078BF] Overlay Yellow - scrapped for colour scheme purposes

Blue, Mint and Florencent Pink layers in greyscale in Procreate.

Riso printed Mint and Florescent Pink layers on separate paper, followed by the two layered together.

We always start with the lighter colour inks first, because sometimes the rollers can pick up the ink and cause extra marks where you don't want them. The first two colours came out great!

The first time we printed the blue, it came out very dark (left, first image). I have had this issue before - my last book, Winter Wellbeing, came out much darker than I wanted. Now I realise that the blue ink is super sensitive. All the 'white space' that is covered by a low-opacity blue on the left is only 2%, and yet it has come out pretty strong. We tried printing it on one of the misaligned images just to see, but it took all of the brightness out of the neon soup sign at the top of the image (second image). So I changed the values and pushed them way lighter, so it just pushed the values of the darker bits slightly, and brightened some of the lineart (right, first image)

And this is the final riso printed version!! I'm so so happy with how this came out. It's so different from the original digital version, and I actually love that.

I didn't create new colours in the way that I intended to - I wanted to play with overlaying purposefully to create specific colours eg. orange for the hair etc. But!!! I'm really happy with how it came out. That will have to be a project for next time.

Also, many copies are slightly misaligned, so in future I think I'd do flat layers for the colours a more blobby style with the linework on one layer only so there's less of a chance for obvious misalignment. design for the riso, rather than riso the design.

Overall though, this feels like a super cool step up and a milestone for me. Super happy with how it came out!! And I'm excited to play with colour some more. Can't wait to see the rest of the Lionheart brothers! Enjoy your weekend :)))

Archie 🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺 <3

#archillustrates #arch is learning #smileyshri #project development #art #art process #art resource #process #artists on tumblr #illustration #comic #picture book #small art blog #art blog #illustration blog #female artists on tumblr #queer artists on tumblr #illustrator #book illustrator #female illustrator #queer illustrator #comic artist #comic art #female artists on instagram #artists on instagram #procreate #digital artwork #digital artist #artist blog #artist on tumblr

[tammyhybrid21]

ALRIGHT!

Who wants some random/dumb headcanon thoughts on iterators?!

Also yes I do view the generations a bit in opposite solution to what MOST of what I’ve seen others do. Instead of each gen been dedicated more to the problem it got less central... which then leads to gen 3 iterators been the generation that took the loss of the ancients the worst.

“None of us miss them” the loss of half of their original purpose. Any wonder they have bad copes.

To be honest most of this is just going to be me noting stuff down for self-reference, but hey-- you folks can take this information for your own use as well. Also notice, this isn’t the specific order I drew things in and you can get the vibes as it goes how I got more solid view over the course of doodling.

But the generations and their purpose, no. These are pretty set in my head.

Bunching these thoughts together, mostly because they’re all on the same/similar topics. Time to talk about the puppets. Because they are what we see the most in the game. Also yes, I am outing myself as an “Off the String is Possible” believer. But I also will thoroughly admit I am a lover of the Iterators are hiveminds headcanon as well... although I view it more like it’s a whole symbiotic ecosystem...

Anycase, notes that didn’t quite make it into any of these pictures because I didn’t know how to draw/explain like that-- the synthetic “skin” of an iterator is either very, very short grass or a kind of moss/lichen covering. The colour variation is kind of random as a result and yes this does mean theoretically an iterator could change colours if ever they felt the need to.

The internal “flesh” parts of an iterator are I imagine similar in consistency to mushroom fibre/flesh. Squishy... Yet still firm enough to keep its shape beneath the jelly like membrane that carries coolant/blood throughout.

I have more thoughts on puppets and eating but drew it more like as a joke page.

These are all possible because an iterator puppet’s moss/grass skin is basically able to absorb what’s around it at any time. Well, as long as it’s willed. So iterators got options from the traditional “smoosh” food into your face to just having the “soup backpack”...

Sunshine is also “yummy”... but I do sidenote that it’s not as effective as a source of power/energy and more like a quick pick me up, the equivalent of eating a single banana and calling it your entire meal for the day.

Also an iterators stomach/filtration system internally is actually biological as well, but that didn’t exactly get drawn here. Mostly because how does that translate to pictures, I’m not good at this stuff.

Side note, don’t know if you folks looked at the page, but with the intake pipe, imagine if that were a map in Rain World... you just saw this pipe sucking in water and hey that’s curious-- only whoops it’s your death, you are food.

Not pictured how the processing strata is the iterator structure equivalent of a mycorrhizal network. Seriously though how would you even draw that?

Anycase this is where the symbiotic hive mind side of things come into play. Without the puppet it’s not like the structure would just-- stop. It would just be a lot more mindless. Working away continuing to go about the same processes just without purpose. It’s an extension, extras on top. Neuron flies been one of the few exceptions but even they can be worked around it’s just... very much a loss.

Also yes this is my headcanon reason why Pebbles is still barely conscious in Saint’s timeline. He’s just also half frozen and plants do not cold well. Or actually they do incredibly well in cold it’s just, he’s half in dormancy.

I should have spoken more about the mechanics of the structure and all, but honestly... It’s all the signals sent out.

Also void stuff... I don’t know if I’ll return on any of these things but eyo...

#Rain World #Rain World Iterators #THybrid Iterates #Headcanons #Iterators are plants pass it on #If you can't read my scribble sorry #I'm not sure I could transcribe it this hour

[cuddlepilefics]

SKZ Season Greetings - 12

Why so mean?

Jeongin’s chills had finally subsided when he climbed out of the tub and he felt more alive now that he had freshened up. As promised, Hyunjin sat on his bed, a steaming pot of tea on the nightstand as well as some fruit. “So, how do you feel now”, the dancer smiled, looking up from his phone. Rolling his shoulders, Jeongin stretched and smiled: “More like myself, finally. Think the steam helped a good deal. ‘m still coughing a lot but it doesn’t hurt as much and it doesn’t feel so stuck anymore.” – “That’s good”, Hyunjin hummed with a smile, “What do you want to watch?”

Jisung sniffled pitifully when Felix returned with two bowls of soup. He didn’t have an appetite but the promise of medicine was enough to convince him to eat at least a little, besides, Felix had gone out of his way to get him something, so it didn’t feel right to refuse. “You look awful, y’know”, Felix hummed hoarsely as he handed the rapper his soup. Lightly blowing over the steamy bowl, Jisung rasped: “Feel it too but it doesn’t make any sense. I woke up fine, so I shouldn’t feel like this again.” - “Hm, you said your fever was gone this morning”, the Aussie muttered, “Was there anything you did that might’ve brought it back? Like, I don’t know, did you take a hot shower or anything of that sort?” Pathetically shaking his head, Jisung eventually breathed: “Changbin-hyung’s laptop was set up on the dining table, so I continued working on some songs. That wasn’t physically straining at all though. Only the screen made my head hurt.” – “You weren’t supposed to work”, Felix frowned, “You were supposed to be resting.” – “But I was fine”, the rapper argued. “You aren’t fine now”, Felix pointed out. Shrugging, Jisung noted: “I’m also not working now.”

The door opened with a soft creaking sound and Changbin hesitantly poked his head in to check on his dongsaengs. He had expected them to be asleep, so it was a little awkward when both curiously looked up from their meal. “Hey, just wanted to see how the two of you are doing”, Changbin hummed, stepping in fully before closing the door behind himself. Lowering his spoon, Felix hummed: “I’m okay, chest’s still really congested and my back aches but it’s bearable. Jiji here, was apparently fine this morning but insisted he had to work and is now faring quite a bit worse.” – “Gosh, you’re almost like Chan-hyung”, the older scolded, giving Jisung a stern look, “Baby bread told me that Chan fainted earlier when he tried to get himself a drink.” Seeing the horrified look on his dongsaengs’ faces, Changbin laughed lightly and added: “He’s okay though. Minho scolded him thoroughly for the scare he has given him and is now cuddling him to make sure he won’t get up unsupervised again.”

“You sound like you’re feeling better”, Felix remarked as Changbin turned to leave again. Nodding, the older smiled: “I actually am. My fever went down and although it’s not entirely gone, I feel more like myself. Took Innie’s advice and showered, so yeah, I’m feeling a lot better and so is baby bread. If the two of us are already over the worst of it, the rest of you should be improving soon too, so just hang in there. Text me if you need anything.” With that, Changbin headed back to the living room and smiled when he saw Seungmin shuffling out of his room. “Hey, how was your nap? Think we’ll have to rewatch the drama with how much you missed”, the rapper chuckled, opening his arms for his dongsaeng. Resting his forehead on his hyung’s shoulder, Seungmin sniffled: “I feel even more exhausted now and my throat hurts. Well, it doesn’t hurt significantly worse than the rest of my body but it’s the most annoying.” Fighting a giggle because while a whiny Seungmin was adorable, he was just as dangerous, Changbin walked the vocalist to the kitchen and started preparing some tea.

“Why you gotta be all touchy-touchy?”, Jeongin complained, picking up his pace, rushing to the living room and throwing himself on the couch. Hyunjin rested his hand on his chest in offense and rasped: “ You wanted my cuddles these past few days and now that I need them, you push me away.” – “Sounds like Innie is feeling better”, Seungmin chuckled, lowering his cup. Changbin and him had overheard their friends’ bickering and were highly entertained, if only Hyunjin wasn’t still running a fever, getting emotional quickly. The dancer looked about ready to cry at the rejection when Changbin and Seungmin joined them in the living room, so Seungmin whispered: “Come here, hyung. I’ll give you cuddles. ‘m a little chilled anyway, so lets share some warmth.” – “See that?”, Hyunjin pouted at Jeongin, “I got a new favorite dongsaeng now.” He stuck his tongue out at the maknae, making the others laugh.

“We all know that Felix is your favorite dongsaeng but I’m glad you’re getting some affection, so you can stop bothering me”, Jeongin reminded as he got comfortable. Burying his face in Seungmin’s shirt, Hyunjin whined, “Why you gotta be so mean to me? I’m sick, you gotta be nice. Especially because you were the one who got me sick.” – “Oh, right. I remember it now. I kicked you out and forced you to build a snowman with Felix. Right, I’m sorry”, the youngest hummed ironically but got back up. Though he was already on his way to the kitchen, he could still hear Hyunjin’s offended whine and Changbin and Seungmin’s laughter.

When Jeongin returned to the living room, he set down two steaming cups of tea. Hyunjin still had his face hidden but Seungmin returned his dongsaeng’s smile when the youngest teased: “Here, I’m nice. Got the both of you tea with lots of honey, so while I doubt you’ll stop whining anytime soon, it hopefully won’t sound as pathetic anymore, Hyunjin-hyung.” – “Binnie-hyung, baby bread is being mean to me”, Hyunjin complained but sat up to have some tea. Defensively raising his hands, Changbin chuckled: “What am I supposed to do about that? Since when does the maknae on top listen to me? Just kidding, you’re a good boy, Innie.” The dancer’s jaw dropped, while a wide smile spread on Jeongin’s face. Seungmin held back a laugh, glad that his only dongsaeng was finally well enough for their usual bickering again.

Since they were slowly growing tired of only soup and rice for meals, Changbin and Jeongin teamed up to cook for the group. “Try to wait with teasing Jinnie for another couple of days”, the rapper advised softly, when he was sure the others wouldn’t hear him, “He’s still feverish and emotional, so you can’t predict how he might take your words. Wouldn’t want him to get overly hurt and upset about something you intended as a joke.” Jeongin hummed in agreement, suddenly feeling guilty. Heading back to the living room. The maknae surprised Hyunjin with a tight hug and muttered: “’m sorry, I got you sick and sorry for not returning the favor of cuddles but I hate skinship and it’s nothing personal.” It had come out in such a rush that for a moment, Hyunjin only blinked in confusion before the words started to make sense to him. “It’s okay”, the dancer rasped with a faint smile, “Just glad, you’re acting more like yourself again. You had us worried.”

“Group hangout?”, Felix wondered as he guided Jisung to one of the bean bags. The rapper groaned as he dizzily collapsed onto the bean bag. The medicine he had taken a couple of minutes ago wasn’t working yet and the short walk had left him winded. Felix too needed a moment to catch his breath and crouched next to his twin, gently messing with the other’s hair as he whispered: “You okay? Want me to get you some water?” Giving a pitiful sniffle, Jisung shook his head. He’d be fine, just needed a moment for the dark spots to disappear. Changbin had overheard them and brought the younger a glass of water anyway. “Where are Chan and Minho?”, Felix asked confused when he realized that the entire group was gathered except for their two eldest. Growing more serious, Jeongin hummed: “They should be in Minho-hyung’s room. Chan-hyung fainted earlier, so when he came to again, we had him lay down there. He was really upset, insisting that it was his job to take care of the rest of us, and he beat himself up over needing help.”

Felix lips formed a small pout and he mumbled: “Sorry, but I gotta go. Take good care of Hannie for me.” – “No, I was s’posed to look after you”, Jisung whined when the other hurried off to Minho’s room. “I think you should look after Hyunjin-hyung”, Jeongin advised carefully, “Bet he needs it most right now.” That was how Hyunjin and Jisung ended up snuggling against each other, which Seungmin got the space to position his sore body in a way that wouldn’t hurt too much. Changbin tucked two blankets around the vocalist to ease his chills before him and Jeongin resumed their cooking.

“Hyung?”, Felix whispered from the hallway, earning a tired hum from Minho, “How are you two? Innie said Chan fainted.” – “We’re okay”, the older breathed, “Yeah, he did but he’s sleeping now. How’s your back? If you aren’t as restless as before, you’re welcome to join us for some cuddles.” Felix could hear the implication. He’d be welcome as long as his squirming wouldn’t risk waking Chan. Crawling onto Minho’s legs, and curling up on his lap, the younger mumbled: “My back’s better. Just had another dose of painkillers, so it should be alright for a few hours.” – “That’s good to hear”, Minho smiled, stroking his dongsaeng’s hair, “You had me worried. Comfy?” Felix nodded and closed his eyes, eager to be indulged with headpats.

#fanfic #comfort #fluff #fanfiction #sickfic #stray kids #sick #skz

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

I've spent the last couple of days looking quite thoroughly at all manners of pictures of Mr. Jacob Frye (need to always study him in order to draw him properly), and I have to be honest.

IT FELT SO GOOD.

My brain had kinda been busy fluctuating around in its own soup (got some IRL stuff that I am still attending to that makes it a tad harder time going in hyperfocus like during the pandemic, at the height of my Jacob Hyperfixation) that I kinda forgot how deeply I felt about Mr. Top Hat, my good sir, and how much I love spending an afternoon just browsing around to find pictures from the game as reference.

Like, I don't know, but I just adore drawing him, I can feel a surge of dopamine running around my brain.

GRANTED.

HIS HAIR IN HIS 40s IS STILL VERY MUCH MY BANE, AND SO ARE HIS CLOTHING (reason why I still very much prefer drawing him naked, thank you very much. Ok, great, now I need to draw him naked).

But overall, focusing on him is a sort of therapy for me for when life get a tad tougher :)

AND THAT IS SO NICE.

MY HUSBANDO.

LOVE OF MY LIFE, SUN OF MY DAYS.

Also, Gremlin and Himbo Supreme (most affectionate in both cases).

ALL THIS TO SAY THAT I NEED TO HURRY UP AND GET BACK INTO CONTINUING MY ARTWORK BECAUSE I TOTALLY NEED THIS EXCUSE TO LOOK AT HIM FOR HOURS AT END. 😂😂😂😂

(also, I am sure Mr. Nemo is missing throwing shades at him lolololol).

#Nemo babbles #I have to hurry up and finish this artwork #it's a tad angsty so I will have to make a smluffy one afterwards #as compensation to myself lol #Jacob Frye

[bisexual-horror-fan]

NOT THE DREADED SNIFFLES...💀

Cold or no cold, I'd still give you a cuddle and make you a big pot of what I call my 'cold killer soup' (an Asian-inspired chicken and rice noodle soup with a broth infused with so much fresh garlic and ginger it's SPICY)

Speaking of 'spicy'...here's a delicious Leslie Vernon thought for you!

In the movie, he says, "You have no idea how much fuckin' cardio I have to do. It's unbelievable. I run at least five miles a day."

Just imagine it...you're in the kitchen, mixing the filling for a decadent caramel apple crumble when he comes sauntering through the side door after his daily run...shirtless and slightly out of breath...

...and you tremble when a lick of pure lust ripples through you as you watch a bead of sweat slowly trickle down his goodie trail and disappear beneath the waistband of his sweats...

Can you just imagine the strangled sound he'd make low in his throat when you, without uttering a single word, walk over to the sturdy oak kitchen table, drop your pants and drape yourself over it with your wrists crossed at your lowed back...

...and wait for him to take you?

When the spicy ask is so good you gotta write a little accompaniment.

Enjoy!

---

You could hear a pin drop.

And since it was so utterly quiet you could definitely hear the sound he made upon your wordless and obvious proposition, biting back a smile, your cheek pressed to the wooden table top that was slightly warm from the sun that had been pouring through the window onto it. 

Leslie is nothing if not calculated and careful, you know that he can control every single thing he does down to the minute detail, meaning, he can move in total silence if he wishes, or, like now, can make his presence thoroughly known. The fact that he is walking in such a way that you can hear his approach isn’t for nothing, it is purposeful. Every audible footfall that signals him drawing close makes the excitement rise inside and soon he is near enough that you feel a well worked hand grabbing at you through the last barrier standing between you and him. 

He likes to be the one to peel that last layer away more often than not and who are you to ever deny him what he wants? Especially when nine times out of ten, it is just what you want too. Fingers hook, delicate fabric is slid down and away and finally he speaks, “More cardio?”

“What? Can’t handle it, Les?” The tease is met with a laugh in response and a firm slap that leaves you inhaling sharply, “Just seems like with you here the work is never done.”

 “M’ keeping you in shape, you should be thanking me for varying your workouts so much.” You bite back playfully and when his fingers slide over where you need just right it makes your eyes want to roll back he concedes, “Fair, let me show you just how thankful I am, hm?”

#SO #UH #I lOOOVED THIS ASK #And that soup sounds amazing #I want some #Thank you vvv much for this Kelly #Leslie Vernon x reader #BHF asks #darklylucid

[saiilorstars]

Ch. 33: Back to Triumph

[Story Masterlist] // [Aitana’s Masterlist]

Fandom: Criminal Minds // Pairing: Spencer Reid x OFC

Taglist: @ocappreciationtag​​​​​ @arrthurpendragon​​​​​ @anotherunreadblog​​​​​ @maaaaarveeeeel​​​​​ @stareyedplanet​​​​​ @averyhotchner​​​​​​ @foxesandmagic @kmc1989 @midmourn​​​​​​

If you’d like to be a part of Aitana’s taglist, please let me know!

Also available on Fanfic ○ Ao3 ○ Wattpad

As it turned out, Aitana did not have allergies.

It was the ruddy flu. She was bedridden for a whole week. All she did was stay in bed and feel awful. Her body didn't have the energy to do anything else, not even feed her poor fishes or water her plants.

Penelope Garcia immediately volunteered to visit her first and with her she brought necessities. Aitana saw her bedroom surrounded by oddly colored trinkets and new kinds of plants that Penelope swore were for good luck. Her bedroom began to look more like a botanical garden more than anything else.

JJ was more level headed and brought groceries. She even brought over some cooked meals. Aitana reminded JJ that she had no stomach for anything but JJ never left the house without making sure that Aitana had something to eat, whether it was crackers or soup. Emily was a little more busy to visit Aitana as often as Penelope and JJ. She apologized profusely to Aitana because it was all due to her re-certification. The one day that all three women were able to visit together, Emily explained more thoroughly how her training was going.

"Morgan is making it difficult," she muttered. "He's being an ass, basically. He's going to make me redo everything."

"I think that's probably more the FBI than anything else," Aitana said. She laid in bed with several blankets over, half of which were gifts from Penelope. "I mean, I don't think Morgan made the training booklets, right?"

Emily playfully rolled her eyes and reluctantly agreed with her. "It's still just annoying! And it's the reason I can't visit as often too. So blame Morgan."

"And not the cases, right?" Aitana chuckled, her eyes flickering to JJ and Penelope on her other side. "I get it, you guys. Work is work and our work is even more. You do not have to worry about me right now, alright? My mom's been around and Angel helps me a lot. And besides, you've all been alternating. Penelope," she reached for the blonde's arm, giving it a gentle pat, "came two days ago. Emily," she crossed gazes with the dark haired woman, "was here yesterday. JJ's been here all morning. Morgan dropped by yesterday and Spencer came by after. Rossi says he'll come by with a plate of pasta! I even got a small text from Hotch wishing me well. So trust me, I am all too well. Spoiled, actually."

"Well we can't wait for you to come back," JJ said, "Things are a little hectic at work right now. The boys—"

"Spencer and Morgan," Penelope muttered with a roll of her eyes.

"—are annoying the hell out of all of us with their little prank war," JJ said, shaking her head. "Honestly, not even Henry gives me this much trouble."

Aitana smiled lightly. "They're still doing that?"

"Yes," went all three of the women with the same irritation.

"They don't go that high but it's still super annoying," Emily muttered. "They won't stop until someone pulls the best prank."

"Mm, and what's the wager?" Aitana curiously asked. She had vague memories of her "assistance" on their pranks the last time they were on a case together. She wasn't all that mad about it, maybe just the decent annoyed. She was no stranger to being used for petty pranks since her brothers were notorious for doing it multiple times when she was younger and didn't understand what they were doing.

"Whoever wins owes the other one a favor," explained Emily. "Everyone else be damned, I guess."

"Interesting. You know, I guess this is also partly my fault," Aitana said, "My mind was so foggy the last time I was at work. I helped them one-up each other and I didn't even know it."

"Oh, I'm sure," Penelope said disapprovingly. "And trust me, I almost pulled both their ears for it."

"Well," Aitana hummed ever-so-innocently, "If you're interested in helping me get a little payback, I'd be all for it. Now that I've got all my senses back, I'm planning on letting them know they used the wrong gal." Her words made the other three women curious but Aitana elected to hold off on what she had in mind for the time being.

~0~

Spencer wasn't even surprised anymore that his things were going missing at work. There was no mystery; he knew exactly who was behind it. The only thing is he had to go and find them which was more of a pain than anything else.

"I know Morgan has them," he said seriously while Emily just sat at her desk and shook her head. He was ransacking his own desk in search of his missing items. "He took my stapler, my pens, my stapler remover."

Emily had no intention of listening to the lame list of missing items. She looked away and happened to see JJ and Aitana walking into the bullpen. "Oh, Aitana's back!"

Spencer briefly paused his search to confirm with his own eyes. Soon as he saw Aitana, he went back to opening drawers. "Honestly, this isn't even a prank! It's downright theft!"

"Hey, look who I ran into?" JJ brought Aitana up to pair, the latter chuckling with flushed cheeks.

"Gosh, I feel so special the way I'm being welcomed," Aitana remarked. "Even security noticed."

"Welcome back." Emily got up from her seat to hug Aitana. "Don't mind Reid here, he's going through another session of Grand Theft Desk." She shot Spencer a smirk that he didn't really appreciate.

"What?" JJ asked, watching as Spencer slammed shut another of his drawers.

"Morgan took my stuff!" he cried.

JJ groaned and shook her head. "Oh boy, it's too early for this guys. Can we just — can we have one day off?"

"Yeah," Emily said with heavy emphasis as she sat back down.

"It's not a prank if you're just stealing!" Spencer continued to search through his second level drawers. "And Morgan's welcome to back down at any time!"

"Funny, we could say the same thing about you," said JJ purposely.

Aitana watched silently as Spencer went through the other lines of drawers. Finally, she made a suggestion. "Did you check the bottom right drawer?"

Spencer moved for that specific drawer when her words hit him. He stopped altogether and met Aitana's eye. She had the smallest of smiles but a knowing one at that. Slowly, Spencer reached for the drawer she said and pulled it open. He froze again.

Emily tried leaning over her desk to see what was inside. Aitana grabbed JJ's arm as the blonde went to do the same.

"Did you find it?" Aitana asked Spencer, still calmly and with a smile.

Spencer didn't say anything. Instead, he reached inside the drawer and pulled out a big plate out of it. When Emily and JJ saw what it was, they burst into laughter.

Aitana remained absolutely calm.

Stunned, Spencer put down the plate of jello on his desk. He had found his things now. They were located inside the bright green jello.

"The girls mentioned you like jello. Was green okay?" Aitana inquired like she hadn't stuffed office supplies inside a wobbly jello herself. She never thought she would have to but she wasn't upset that she got the chance to do it.

Spencer was absolutely stunned. Not even JJ's and Emily's laughter shook him out at first. And they were laughing pretty loud.

"You...you did this?" He eventually sputtered out a few minutes later.

Aitana giggled and raised a hand in the air. "Guilty as charged! I have always wanted to pull that joke but my mother would have killed me if I used her kitchen for these kinds of things so I couldn't do it when I was younger. I guess I should thank you for the amazing opportunity."

Spencer stared at her, both bewildered and utterly confused. To add onto those two feelings, a loud horn broke through the entire bullpen. It stopped JJ's and Emily's laugh and froze everyone else.

Once again, Aitana was calm. "That would be Morgan."

For a second, Spencer was genuinely afraid. And then Morgan came storming out with a bullhorn still having remnants of duct tape on the bottom.

"REID!" He was coming straight for Spencer.

Spencer's hands shot up in front of him. "It wasn't me!"

"Like hell!" Morgan couldn't come down the steps any faster.

"Actually, it wasn't him. It was me," Aitana waved her hand. "Good morning, Morgan." She smiled sweetly.

Like Spencer, Morgan froze altogether. His head turned in Aitana's direction, eyes narrowing as he decided whether or not she was being honest.

Aitana's smile widened. Her eyes flickered to JJ and Emily, both of them struggling not to laugh again. "Ta-da?" Aitana made a gesture with her arms open.

"You did it?" Morgan finally concluded she was very much guilty.

Aitana nodded. "Aha!"

"Why?"

Aitana raised an eyebrow at him, no longer playful. "Really?" She stepped forwards, putting her hands behind her back. "You're asking me why I did such a thing?"

Morgan nodded expectantly at her. He couldn't understand why she would decide to pull pranks herself.

"You," Aitana pointed at him, "took advantage of my state during a news broadcast," she said, watching Morgan lower his head immediately. "And you," she pointed at Spencer next, "used me to get back at him later. Naughty boys. I had to get back at you for that."

"Well done," JJ clapped her hands for Aitana.

"How'd you pull this?" Spencer curiously asked. He wasn't going to even argue against Aitana's statements. They were true and he should be sorry. He was.

"Oh that was easy," Aitana waved him off. "I came in yesterday night, with Hotch's permission of course."

Morgan's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Hotch let you do this?"

"Aha," Aitana nodded. "He's very tired of your little war as is everyone else."

"Yes," went both JJ and Emily together.

"I love watching the Office and the jello prank that Jim pulled was always so funny to me so I figured why not do that one for you, dear old Spencer," Aitana smiled sweetly at him. "A classic, am I right?" Before Spencer could think of an answer, because right now he had nothing to say, Aitana switched to Morgan. "And the bullhorn was something my brothers pulled on each other. That's right, you guys forgot I grew up with two brothers. I was always caught in their pranks so eventually I had to learn. Ladies and gentlemen, I think I win." Aitana did a curtsy bow for the group.

"Nu-uh," Morgan was quick to wag a finger, "You didn't win anything. You are not a part of this."

"I believe the terms were whoever pulled the best prank wins," Aitana pointed at JJ and Emily for their support. "Right?"

"Right!" Emily was happy to agree.

"Nowhere in those terms did you explicitly say that one of you had to be the winner," Aitana went on, flashing smiles at the pair of men.

"I think she won, fellas," JJ said. "Learned your lessons?"

"You didn't win," Morgan insisted. "You—"

The door to Hotch's office opened to let out a striding Penelope and Hotch. Their grim expressions cut the conversation short, but Morgan vowed it wasn't over.

~0~

"We have a child abduction in St. Louis," Penelope started the meeting urgently as the situation demanded for. "Bobby Smith, 9 years old, vanished 48 hours ago from a residential area, where his mother, Marlene Smith, claims to have dropped him off."

"Forty-eight hours and we're just learning about it now?" Morgan asked, slightly irritated. Half of the group suspected his irritation had nothing to do with the case. He kept shooting Aitana glances, clearly still holding his stance about her winning status.

Penelope didn't know what was going on so she just nodded. "Yeah. That's because mom didn't know her son was gone. She assumed that he was with the grandmother and just left him there."

"So, she's not exactly on the short list for mother of the year," remarked JJ. "What about the father?"

"Uh, he was convicted of embezzling from his workplace 2 years ago. Currently cooling his heels in state prison."

"If it's a stranger abduction, the first 24 hours are critical," Spencer said, not that they didn't already know how high the stakes were.

"This kid's already been missing twice that long," Rossi said, checking the file for the original time the mother had called it in.

"Which is why we shouldn't waste any more time," Hotch said, prompting the team to close their files. The jet was leaving almost immediately.

"Hey Hotch," Morgan called as he hurried to catch up with Hotch before he walked out of the room, "A word?"

Aitana snorted a laugh as they disappeared. "He's going to ask Hotch about the bullhorn."

"That was you?" Rossi gave her a pointed look until Aitana nodded proudly. He smiled. "Good. I was getting tired of it." On his way out, he looked directly at Spencer.

"Seriously, well done," Emily reached over to give Aitana a congratulatory pat on the arm.

"Well done with what?" asked Penelope, head turning between the women fast enough to make her dizzy.

"Aitana put an end to the prank war," JJ said, eyes glued on Spencer. Unlike Morgan, he had yet to give his opinion on the matter. "Isn't that right, Spence?"

"Um," Spencer cleared his throat, hands reaching for his file on the table, "I don't really think we should be discussing that during a child abduction."

"Mhm, you still lost," Emily said, "Women can multitask."

Spencer grabbed his things and left in a hurry. The women high fived Aitana afterwards and they began offering ideas on what Aitana could ask of the pair for winning. Penelope hated that she had missed the whole thing but after Aitana suggested to go through the camera feed, Penelope seemed more inclined to help celebrate the triumph.

~0~

"Who do you think he's talking to?" JJ whispered the question to the others while Rossi entertained some kind of conversation over the phone. It had been going on almost as soon as the jet had taken off.

"Isn't it obvious? A special friend," Emily giggled but immediately stopped when Rossi ended the conversation and turned around to see all of their collective smiling faces.

"What?" He cluelessly asked.

"Nothing…" Emily said, clearly struggling not to say more but in the end she lost. "Just somebody's got a lot of extra pep in their step this morning, that's all."

"Probably doubled up on his vitamins," remarked JJ.

"Oh, he doubled up on something," Morgan chimed in with a smirk.

"Garcia's back on," Aitana cut in suddenly, unknowingly getting a grateful look from Rossi for her timing. She was pointing to the screen where Penelope's face had come through. "Hey, did you get something on the mother?"

"Oh," Penelope's mouth pulled together in an 'O' shape, "I have so much on the mother, and try as I might, none of it is good. Marlene Smith has a history of erratic behavior, seriously clinically depressed, two suicide attempts in the last 5 years."

"Was she being treated for her depression?" asked Hotch.

"Oh, my gosh, yes. Like more pill-popping than Elvis. Yes!"

"Depression is one of the few things that can overwhelm the maternal instinct," Spencer said. "What about the grandmother?"

"I don't have anything on her yet, but don't reach for your remote. I'll be ba-a-ck!" Penelope exclaimed before the screen went pitch black.

"Two suicide attempts…" Rossi remarked with a shake of his head. "Why hasn't child services intervened?"

"Probably talked her way out of it," Emily said, "Most social service organizations are overworked and underfunded. Things slip through the cracks."

"If this boy's mother tried to commit suicide and he's from a chronically unhappy household, maybe this wasn't an abduction at all," Morgan theorized. "What if Bobby simply ran away?"

"When 9-year-olds run away, they're usually home for supper," Aitana said. She really doubted a nine year old would have the guts and the smarts to formulate a good running away plan.

"JJ, you and I will talk to the mother," Hotch started giving the instructions, "Morgan, Reid, and Serrano, go to the boy's house. Prentiss, you and Dave assess the site where the mother claims to have dropped him off."

From behind her file copy, Aitana flashed a sweet smile at Spencer and Morgan. They had yet to speak to her about the incident.

~0~

The victim's house was closed off for the time being while the mother resided at the precinct for questioning. The first thing Aitana, Spencer and Morgan noted was the clean lawn. However, although the lawn was indeed clean, it was clear that it could still use some attending to. There were patches of yellow all around. Inside, the story was almost the same. The trio lounged about in the living room taking note of the neatness of the furniture. While Morgan and Spencer wandered upstairs, Aitana took the rest of the downstairs.

She was most surprised with the kitchen's state. She only had one nephew close to her but she knew what a kitchen with children would typically look like. Every kitchen she'd been inside of where a young child lived, it was always clear of anything potentially dangerous. No knives, no open outlets, nothing sharp. Everything was up and out of reach for a child.

This kitchen was the complete opposite.

There were no safety locks on the fridge and when Aitana opened it up, it was fully stocked with everything that a child could possibly want. And in multiple pairs. Individual water, orange juice and milk bottles—everything plastic—were filed on the door. Fruits were stocked inside the drawers, along with cut up vegetables. Even the stove was accessible to the child. Aitana remembered a moment in which her nephew had been deeply reprimanded for attempting to move their stove's knob. Bobby was left at ease with the stove and the microwave. The latter was also placed on what would be his level. To top it off, Aitana found the key ring hole set up at the entrance of the kitchen. She was baffled. She would never let her nephew go in and out of the house, even if he was 9 like Bobby.

Later on, Aitana headed upstairs to see what Spencer and Morgan had found so far. It seemed like they were bickering and somehow she walked into it again.

"Hey Serrano," Morgan called as soon as she walked into the mother's bedroom, "How many pairs of shoes do you own?"

Aitana's face scrunched in confusion. "First, you don't talk to me and then you ask me that? You see how it looks, right?"

"I'm making a point here!" Morgan motioned her to answer the question. Beside him, Spencer seemed more or less puzzled as well.

Aitana rolled her eyes. "I don't know, 30?"

"What?" Spencer openly gaped at her. Aitana lifted an eyebrow at him. "Why do you have so many?"

"Because I need them?"

"You can't possibly need 30 pairs of shoes!"

"I most possibly can!"

Morgan cleared his throat, eyes on Spencer and hands gesturing in Aitana's direction.

Aitana stomped her foot on the ground. "Stop using me like that, dammit!"

"I was making a point," Morgan said as he walked out the room, leaving the other two to follow. "No woman has just 4 pairs of shoes in their closet. And the kid's bedroom is fully stocked with everything he'd need."

"She even set up a separate area so he could do his homework," Spencer said, going in full detail about the desk they'd seen in Bobby's room.

"You should see the kitchen then," Aitana said, "That thing's more organized than my entire house."

"Mom has serious financial issues, denies herself even the smallest luxury, and yet…" Morgan had listed off his fingers, "She splurges to take her son to an expensive theme park and then buys a pricey picture frame so he can remember the experience."

"No way, those things are easily $30," Aitana said out of her own experience. Her parents hardly bought those things for that reason.

"He had several," Spencer said for her benefit.

"Well then, I guess we can cross her off the suspect list," Aitana concluded. "Which makes this even harder…"

~0~

When the trio returned to the precinct, they joined JJ, Rossi and Hotch just Hotch were discussing the interview JJ conducted with the victim's mother. They, like Aitana, Spencer and Morgan, were beginning to disregard the mother as a suspect.

"The concern for her son was genuine. Her tone of voice, body language," JJ was saying, "She didn't once ask if she was in trouble, under arrest, 'where's my lawyer?' None of that." The woman behaved like a genuine concerned, scared, mother.

"That's pretty much what we found at home too," Aitana said, glancing back at Spencer and Morgan for their agreement.

Spencer was making his way up to one of their evidence boards. While they were gone, the others had added new details under the mother's name.

"Home environment points in the same direction," Morgan said, "The money's tight, but mom did whatever she could to create a nice world for her son. Whatever cash she had she spent on him. Only 4 pairs of shoes in her closet."

"And she taught her son to be self-sufficient," Aitana said, barely holding the urge to make a comment about the pairs of shoes. "The kitchen was scaled down to a 9-year-old's level so he could microwave his own meals, get food and utensils from the pantry. He even had his own little key ring so he could come and go as he pleased. That's a hell of a lot of liberties for a 9 year old if you asked me."

The others agreed.

Shortly after, Emily and Rossi returned.

"It took a while, but grandma's alibi checked out," Emily announced, "She was with two lady friends in Seneca, on the other side of the state."

"Acquaintances, relatives, teachers. So far they've all checked out," Rossi added.

"This is starting to look more and more like a stranger abduction," Morgan said what many of them were beginning to think.

"Yeah, except the area Bobby disappeared from has a decent amount of foot traffic," Rossi said, having seen the site with Emily. "If he'd put up a struggle, chances are someone would have noticed."

"My guess is Bobby knew his abductor or trusted him," Spencer then theorized, "The trip to grandma's house was a spur-of-the-moment decision. The unsub must have been staking out the mother's house, saw them leaving, and followed. The only thing I don't understand is how the unsub got into Bobby's life in the first place. Self-sufficient kids learn to trust their own judgment."

"Well at the end of the day, he's still only nine," Aitana reminded them. "He's going to fall for something." It was the inevitable and now they were dealing with it.

~ 0 ~

The next morning, the team were informed that Bobby's mother had been found murdered outside a convenience store the previous night. The team gathered in their room to go over the pictures of the new crime scene and their victim. As far as they knew, Bobby had yet to turn up dead.

"There's something strange about the body," mused Spencer as he went over a couple photographs, "She was slaughtered by someone completely out of control, yet on her wrists there are precise wounds on top of where she already cut herself, only deeper. Like he was trying to replicate her suicide attempts but then lost control."

Beside him, JJ grabbed one of the pictures in Spencer's hands. "Maybe this was never about the kid at all, but about the mother. Make her suffer for a few days by taking the child, then kill her?"

"Wouldn't that mean the unsub knew Marlene's personal history?" Aitana inquired. She stood in front of their evidence board, her eyes falling over the details they'd written about Marlene under her picture. "And that would put the unsub somewhere in the medical department?" She turned around to meet the others' gazes.

Morgan could see why she would think that automatically. It was the sensible idea. "Not just medical, it could be friends…"

"Yeah, but as far as we knew, she didn't have any friends," Aitana reminded them then asked JJ, who had conducted the interrogation with Marlene yesterday, if Marlene had said anything about friends.

"None," JJ said.

"So what about the people who walked into the house?" Spencer suggested. "Anyone who walked into the house would immediately know there were problems. That the child had to be independent for most of the day."

Morgan liked the idea and for that, he called Penelope to get further on it. "Hey, baby girl, whatever you're doing, drop it!"

"Oh, yes, and with pleasure," Penelope was sarcastic right off the bat, amusing everyone who was listening in, "Let me tell you something, sweetheart. This is a Lamborghini you are talking to. You have to drive me. You can't just leave me parked in the garage collecting dust or I will wilt."

The others nearly laughed with Penelope's tidbits. She had no idea she was on speaker.

Morgan smiled but nowhere near surprised. He long ago lost the surprise when it came to Penelope. Going along with things made it more fun anyways. "Please forgive my neglect. I need you to rev up that fine-tuned Italian engine of yours, then."

"Where do they come up with this stuff?" Aitana quietly whispered to the others while the pair continued. "I mean, is it in, like, books or something?"

"Not in any books I've read," Spencer remarked, causing a quiet round of snickers.

Their research was cut short when they got word that another child had been taken. It was clear the unsub wasn't going to lengthen gaps between abductions and kills.

Aitana and Spencer were sent to the park where the child's mother was. She was a frantic woman, a natural response given the situation, but it was making her explanations fast paced and incoherent.

"I was sitting on the bench, and he was playing right there," she flapped an arm towards the playground still filled with other children. "I looked away for two seconds."

"And you were you by yourself?" Aitana asked. Mrs. Tanner nodded quickly. "So you told the police you live in McKinley Heights but that's almost an hour away. You drove your son all the way out here just to play?" Aitana took another scan of the park for any outstanding features that would draw parents in but to her it looked like any other park.

"I was doing things, shopping" Mrs. Tanner reasoned. Spencer noted the constant tapping of her fingers against her leg as well as the other hand taking her hair every now and then.

"Mrs. Tanner, please don't take this the wrong way, but exactly what drug are you addicted to?" Spencer abruptly asked, stunning both women with him. Aitana's eyebrows raised at him, unprofessionally bemused with his directiveness. "You're displaying symptoms of withdrawal."

Mrs. Tanner dropped both her arms on her sides. "Are you crazy?"

Spencer disregarded her offended tone. "Ma'am, we saw two deals going down on the other side of the park when we arrived. You were here to buy, weren't you? That's what had you distracted."

Mrs. Tanner was outraged. She glanced at Aitana as if waiting for the female agent to come to her aid.

"He's hardly ever wrong," Aitana said. "So it's best if you just tell us the truth unless you're not interested in finding your son?"

"I can't believe that you actually think I would—"

"And yet we're still talking about this instead of what exactly happened here," Aitana continued, her expression growing flat as the mother insisted on denying things.

"Your child is missing, Ms. Tanner. Every minute, every half-minute counts," Spencer said, "You need to tell us the truth and you need to tell us now."

The mother looked between the two agents helplessly, still holding onto her story for another minute before giving in.

Half an hour later, Spencer was calling Hotch to inform them of the new pattern they were discovering. When Spencer returned to the car, he found Aitana leaning against the hood of the SUV, looking out at the park.

"What is it?" Spencer asked, presuming that he'd learned enough about her to recognize her thinking face.

"I've been watching the kids," Aitana started, eyes combing over the children using the slide again. "And the parents. They're mostly vigilant but of course they would look away for a couple minutes. It's natural."

"Right…" Spencer agreed, patiently waiting for her to reach her point. He leaned against the SUV as well.

"Maybe it's just because I have a nephew, I…" Aitana smiled lightly and glanced at him. "Do you have nephews or nieces? Little ones?"

"Neither, actually," Spencer admitted. "It was always just my mother and I."

"Oh, well, I have several in Mexico but I do have Logan here. Remember him?"

"Hard to forget," Spencer tapped the side of his head, making Aitana laugh.

"Oh right, my bad." That was stupid of her to forget. "My nephew Logan is five and even though he's pretty young, he understands the stranger-danger concept. My brother, being a detective, has drilled that into Logan. We've all taught him that he should never talk to anyone he doesn't know even when that person says they're a friend of his parents, or a friend of his auntie's and uncle and grandparents—the whole shebang."

"Right, children are more intelligent than most adults give them credit for," remarked Spencer. "Their brains are like sponges at this point in their life."

"Yes!" Aitana nodded. "So if somebody walked up to Logan with that crappy excuse that they're his parents' friends and tried to take him with them, Logan would make a fuss. At the very least, he would keep saying 'no' until someone inevitably notices. If that happened in, say, a park," Aitana gestured to the scene before them, "then somebody would have noticed a kid being fussy. Even if it was just a parent handling a fussy child, someone always looks over."

"But that didn't happen here…" Spencer said, studying the various parents still around. They were all focused, perhaps more now since the abduction, on their children.

"Yeah, because Tommy didn't make a fuss," Aitana presumed, "And if he didn't make a fuss then that meant he knew the person who took him. Trust him. That won't be your local plumber or your I.T. guy…"

"No it would not be," Spencer agreed. They were circling back to Aitana's original belief that their unsub was someone in the medical department.

"Question remains...which one makes rounds to the parks and houses?" Aitana leaned off the car and made a clear gesture that she was waiting for Spencer to give her the answer.

"Well—I don't know it on the spot," Spencer made a face, earning another small laugh from her. She shook her head at him and went around the car for the passenger's seat.

"So are you saying that with a little bit more time you would know the answer?" Aitana pulled the car door open.

Spencer made his way to the driver's side. "I mean, maybe? I don't know…?"

"Just like Morgan," Aitana said as she climbed inside. "You can't admit defeat!"

"What—that's not what I meant!" Spencer exclaimed and quickly got into the car.

"Mhm," Aitana crossed her arms. "Drive, Dr. Reid," she instructed, her tone laying down the finality of the conversation.

~ 0 ~

With what the team now had, they were confident they were ready to deliver the profile to the rest of the precinct. Hotch sent Morgan to collect the new victim's mother because, if they were right, the unsub would soon be attacking her. But it all turned into a rather sharp confusion when, only a couple hours after the profile was delivered, the second victim turned up at a random adult party.

Further down the evening, Penelope called the group back with very few findings. Even though Emily and Rossi had figured out that their unsub had to be a 911 dispatcher, they weren't able to single out the unsub.

"I'm literally going as fast as I can," Penelope huffed after Morgan asked her if she was closer. "There are literally hundreds in the great St. Louis area. Can you help me narrow this down?"

"Refine your search to males between 25 and 30 years of age. And our unsub probably has abandonment issues, so look for backgrounds that reflect that," Morgan was more than helpful, at least that was his opinion. "A history of foster care or someone who was farmed out to other relatives by his own parents."

"Can you trace individual 911 dispatchers based on calls they would have received?" Spencer thought to ask and almost shrunk in his chair when Penelope answered sharply.

"Ok, look, let me make this clear. There are a quarter of a billion 911 calls annually. That's like 10 calls every second of every day. And non-emergent calls are disposed of quickly!"

"Okay, well let's look at it this way," JJ tried her shot, shooting a small smile at Spencer in the process, "This operator would have been on duty when both calls came in from the Smith and Tanner families. And he would have been off duty at the times of the two abductions and Marlene Smith's murder."

"Oh, my God. This brings the needle in a haystack to a whole other dimension, but I will go to that dimension and I will cross-reference and I will call you back!" Penelope promptly hung up with her promise.

"I'm actually afraid to answer that call," Aitana mumbled under her breath. She pushed herself out of her seat and announced she was making a coffee run and by that, she meant right in the bullpen.

She was tired, this case was touching home for her. All she saw with these kids were her nephew and she knew that was completely unprofessional. And yet, she had the big urge to call her sister-in-law right now.

"Hey, want some help?" Morgan startled her into nearly dropping the cups in her hands.

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Aitana handed him the cup that was more likely to slip out of her hand first. "Penelope call back yet?"

"She's good but she's not that fast."

"Oh, don't let her hear you say that," Aitana said, causing a laugh between them. Aitana grabbed another of the coffee cups on the table and handed it to Morgan. She would take the last one. "So, you're talking to me again? Did you finally accept that I won?"

Morgan hummed. "More like I'm putting pause on that until we're done with the case."

"Right," Aitana started the way back to the conference room, "But you do know that I won, right?"

"Uuh, no," Morgan looked at her crazily, "You did not."

"I thought my tricks were pretty classic..."

Morgan scoffed. "Classic? You nearly took my ears off!"

Aitana smirked. "A classic."

They returned to the room shortly later, letting the others hear the ending of their conversation.

"Hotch, I cannot believe you allowed this," Morgan said, shooting Hotch a mock glare.

"You and Reid were getting out of hand," Hotch said simply, eyeing a decently guilty Spencer at the end of the table. "And I made Serrano promise me that she wouldn't go overboard and disrupt colleague's work."

"She used a bullhorn on me! How is that not distracting?"

"I wasn't distracted."

Aitana barely covered her mouth before an unladylike snort slipped out. Who said Hotch couldn't be funny?

~0~

Penelope called the them back about an hour later and she was nowhere near happy. "First off, you are on restriction from my inner Lamborghini!"

"Garcia—"

"I mean it! This high-performance engine may purr like a puma on the prowl, but this time, Derek, you have seriously overheated my engines and I will require some cool-down laps upon your return, if you know what I mean by that—"

"Baby girl, you're on speaker," Morgan finally managed to break through Penelope's rampage. The others were very close to laughing.

"...I knew that," came Penelope's voice a moment later. This time, she was able to hear some chuckles on the other end. "Okay, um, so I'm calling to tell you, sir, there are eleven 911 dispatchers in the greater St. Louis area that were on duty when the calls were placed but not working during the murder and abduction. Of those 11, there's one that fits your profile—George Kelling, age 27, 1181 Clay Street, apartment 8. Sending his picture right now."

"Do you know where he is now?" Hotch inquired. Aitana and JJ hurried to collect their tablets and see the photograph that Penelope was sending their way.

"He was scheduled to work today. His supervisor said he showed up for his shift, but then he left early."

"Can you get the log of all the calls he took tonight?" Spencer walked over to the landline.

"Yeah, of course. But there are a lot."

"Skip to the last one!"

"Last one is a domestic disturbance at 788 4th Avenue, number C. Attempted sexual assault of a young girl. Kelling dispatched the police and then he took off."

"Meaning we need to hurry," Emily said to the others.

They divided into two teams, one going to the site of the last 911 incident and the other to Kelling's home. Both groups came to the same empty conclusions. They had to call in Penelope for help again.

"Hey!" JJ found Aitana in what seemed to be the unsub's bedroom. The brunette was shopping around and had been since they realized Kelling was gone. "What are you doing? Hotch has Garcia on the phone tracking other possible sites."

"That's good. I was just looking for some clues," Aitana shrugged as she turned away from a disorderly bookshelf. "With the amount of dust on this furniture, it's safe to say that Kelling hasn't been here in a while."

JJ nodded. The room did seem pretty still in place.

"But check it out," Aitana hurried towards one of the bedside tables. She picked up a portrait of Kelling with an older woman. "Parents?"

JJ hummed. "Maybe." She looked around the room again and found no other portraits except for the one Aitana held. "They're the only people important to him," she assumed.

Aitana put the portrait down and hurried out of the room with JJ. Hotch and Spencer were in the middle of a talk with Penelope outside the house.

"...Kelling entered the foster care system and I don't know why…" Penelope said in a hurried ramble.

"Oh, that must have been the picture we saw then," Aitana cut in, her eyes slightly wider. "Kelling has a photograph of an elderly woman in his bedroom. It's the only picture he has in that entire room."

"Makes sense," Penelope said, "His father abandoned the family when he was a baby. I can't figure out what happened to mom yet."

"All right, we need the address of the foster family he was placed with," Hotch instructed as he led the way back to the SUV."

"I know. He bounced around a lot. Give me a second!" Penelope exclaimed. " I'll call you back!"

"Okay, what I don't understand is why would he keep Bobby but release Timothy?" JJ started once the line was dead. "If he wants to get rid of the parent, why not kill them first and then take the child. It's so much riskier to wait."

"Unless the children are a crucial part of his killing ritual," Aitana said off-handedly.

Hotch turned to her, head tilting.

Spencer followed her idea and tried to develop it as quickly as he could. "He needs something from them before he can murder the parents."

"What could a child possibly give him?" JJ made a face.

"Their approval," Hotch concluded first.

~0~

"Deja vu all over again!" Penelope's voice rang in the SUV. "So, get this. George Kelling's mom committed suicide when he was 10! She jumped off a bridge. Before that, she attempted to kill herself multiple times, cutting her wrists. This sounds really familiar, huh?"

"Did you find the foster home address?" Hotch asked, fingers tapping along the wheel as he waited for the answer.

"The foster family lived on a farm 10 miles northwest of the city on Parkhill Road!"

The engines went on within the second.

"So what happened to the foster parents?" Aitana curiously asks from the backseat. "Kelling didn't have anything else but a picture of those people."

"The father died years ago. The mother just died last month—heart attack!"

"That must have been the trigger," JJ said, "The last person who rescued the unsub was gone. He assumed the mantle."

"And now he suddenly has a house to take these kids to," Aitana shuddered. "Childhood house gone wrong."

"Wait," Spencer leaned forwards from the back seat as well, "Garcia, you said the mother jumped off of a bridge, right?"

"Yeah," Penelope said. "Why?"

JJ recognized the look on Spencer's face. There was something not adding up for him. "What are you thinking?"

"Suicidology is an imperfect science, but it's uncommon for women to kill themselves so violently," Spencer explained, "For lack of a better word, they tend to choose more feminine ways to die. Men shoot themselves, jump off of buildings onto pavement. Women are less messy. They take pills and drown themselves."

"Oh...don't tell me…" Aitana was looking at him in full fledged horror.

~0~

Morgan, Emily and Rossi were already at the secondary location when the others arrived. Once more, they split between the front and the back of the house. As far as they knew, Kelling had at least two of his hostages in the same room.

Hotch led the way into the only room making a noise and sure enough, Kelling was inside holding a woman at gunpoint.

"Put the gun down! Drop the gun!" Hotch gave the first round of orders.

Kelling was nothing if not frantic. "You have to let me finish! Nobody else can do it. Nobody's strong enough!"

"Like you were strong with your mother?" Spencer called.

"Don't talk about her," Kelling snapped. "She was weak. She killed herself and left me alone."

"I don't think so," Hotch said, "Because she tried to kill herself before, nobody would question it. But you did it. You pushed her off the bridge. You killed her."

"No. I helped her!" Kelling made the mistake of moving and was shot along the arm. He dropped to the ground, clutching said arm.

Spencer and JJ rushed to collect him before he would get up.

"The boy's in the closet!" cried one of the hostages.

Hotch ran for the closet and pulled the door open to find Bobby trapped inside. Meanwhile, JJ and Spencer pulled Kelling up, now handcuffed behind his back.

"We'll need medics," Spencer called it in. And perhaps a mouthpiece because Kelling would be yelling for hours to come.

~0~

"How about 10 pairs of shoes? I mean, that has to be enough, right?" Spencer thought as logically as possible despite feeling the topic of shoes was more than redundant. If anything, it was Morgan's fault for bringing up the topic again. In an attempt to make fun of him again for not realizing there was something off about the lack of shoes in Meredith's closet, he told the story to Penelope which then brought on the attention of the others.

"Ten?" JJ made a face. "Ah, Spence, it's different with the ladies. We need them to match our belts, our handbags, our skirts, and the fashions change with the seasons."

"Oh, what are we talking about?" Aitana found the group coming towards the elevator. She'd gone a little ahead to use the restroom first before they left.

"Reid's still trying to guess the right number of shoes women usually have," Morgan said, swinging an arm around Spencer's shoulders and downright ignoring the mini-glare Spencer fixated on him.

"Ah, sweetie, there's no exact number," Aitana mocked a little pout, causing the rest of the women to laugh.

"Yes. Boys are so boring," Penelope groaned sarcastically, "Pants, shoes, out the door."

"Although it's not like men don't have their things," Emily remarked, "I dated a golfer once. He had 12 putters in his closet. But this conversation is reminding me I need new boots."

"They're having a sale at DeMille's on those tall-shaft kitty heels," Penelope was quick to say, "You like those. Do you want to go?"

"Yeah," Emily nodded.

"You getting all this, kid?" Morgan quietly asked Spencer while the others started making shopping plans.

"No," Spencer said with the deepest frown marking his face. Essentially, nobody had answered his question.

"I don't know what you're all smiley about," called Aitana as they began making their way towards the elevator, ""You two still owe me."

The smiles had indeed dropped from Morgan's face. "Oh, not this again!"

"Oh, this time I have backup," Aitana promised, gesturing towards Penelope, JJ and Emily.

"Save it, you didn't win!"

"But technically she did," Emily said with a pointed finger in the air.

"Yes," nodded JJ, "You two said that whoever pulled the best prank would win but you never said it had to be one of you two. Essentially, anyone else could have joined if they wanted to...and I wanted to."

Spencer's eyebrows knitted together as he went over that conversation in his head. "Technically speaking…"

"No," Morgan sharply cut him off, "Don't you start because then she'll really think that she won."

"It's just...that is what we said," Spencer said, still making a face. "And I can't really say that I ever expected to have my stapler inside jello." He knew he couldn't truly forget anything anyways but that had been completely memorable for him.

Aitana grinned. "You can thank Jim Halper for that one. So then," she clapped her hands together, "Ready to admit defeat? And perhaps apologize for using me while I was sick?" Her expression dropped flat.

"Yeah, that was very naughty of you two," Penelope wagged a finger at the two men. "Shame on you!"

"We didn't mean to do it like that," Morgan tried to explain but the way all of them were glaring didn't leave him with a lot to say. "Oh, alight. You win!"

"Thank you," Aitana mocked a curtsy, "And now that it's out of the way, we can get to the good part. You two owe me."

"What do you want?" asked Spencer curiously.

"Oh, I've been thinking about it during the case," Aitana said, glancing at the other women, "And I think I'll be doing you a favor too, Spencer."

"What?" Spencer made a face. "Me?"

"Yea, you're going to find out how many shoes a woman typically has," Aitana chuckled. "You and Morgan can come by to my house this Saturday to clean and rearrange my shoe closet."

JJ, Emily and Penelope nearly lost it on the spot.

"Of course you're all invited too," Aitana told them, "I'll give Hotch and Rossi a call."

"You are one evil woman, sprinkles," Morgan declared.

"Don't mess with me," Aitana winked. Her laughter, combined with JJ's, Emily's and Penelope's, would echo through the floors on their way out.

#ocapp #allaboutocs #ochub #criminal minds #Spencer Reid fics #Spencer Reid imagines #Spencer Reid x oc #criminal minds oc #cm fics #cm imagines #oc: aitana serrano #fic: against all odds

[au-starss]

DAY 2 - CHRISTMAS EVENT !

༄ synopsis… after a long day, ajax wants nothing more to enjoy time with his amazing lover

༄ characters… childe x gn!reader

༄ tags… fluff, christmas music, dancing, just them acting like a cute old married couple, petnames

༄ words… 943

༄ author’s thoughts… happy day 2! sorry for the late post i got good news at school and was too hyper. masterlist.

Ajax walked through the door of your shared home, exhausted from his day. The scent of his home filled his nose the second he walked in. The warm atmosphere was as welcoming as it usually was. He smiled, excited to see you after such a day.

As he approached the kitchen, his ears picked up a low tune coming from it. It was easily recognizable as Christmas music. The jolly tune was something that couldn’t be heard in any other songs besides that of holiday ones.

He took off his outerwear, leaving him in only his button-up, gloves, and pants. The weather outside was below freezing. Shedding the clothing made him feel more refreshed. He’ll more than likely shower later, but right now all he wanted to do was be with you.

He finally entered the kitchen, his eyes catching you by the stove. He wraps his arms around you from behind, taking in your scent. You smile the second you feel his hands around you.

“Welcome home, my love.” You say, allowing him to absorb the warmth. 

He raised his head from your back with a smile. “What’s that you’re cooking?”

“Your favourite, calla lily seafood soup.” You respond. “I know how long this week has been for you. I wanted to surprise you.”

Ajax’s grin grows wider as he plants a kiss on your head. “I’m certainly surprised indeed. I am also thoroughly enjoying your choice of music.”

“I figured you would, my darling.”

You had always known of Ajax’s love for Christmas. With such a big family, it was always quite the spectacle in his household. He adores sharing that love with you when he can. Giving you gifts that make you give a wide smile, making some of the best food you will ever taste, and so much more make his whole year.

But of course, he does have a favourite part.

Ajax steps back from you, releasing his hold in the process. “Where’s your phone?”

You mindlessly point in the direction of your phone, not thinking about what he could need with it. Ajax opens it, scrolling through to pick something perfect for the moment. After a minute of searching, he let out a small sound of victory, clicking on the song.

A familiar song filled your ears. You turn to face your lover, only to see him with an outstretched hand. “May I have this dance?”

“My my, what a proper gentleman.” You comment, giggling quietly. You walk to him and take his hand. “How can I say no to such a pretty face?”

Ajax laughs as you intertwine hands. He positions the other on your waist, while your opposite hand ends up on his shoulder. Maybe you weren’t exactly correct with your positioning, but the feeling of being close to your lover was enough for you.

The chorus of the song began, and you both slowly swayed to the beat.

‘I want you to know that I'm never leaving.’

The cool sensation of Ajax’s hands was concealed by the heat radiating from you both.

‘'Cause I'm Mrs. Snow, 'til death we'll be freezing’

You pull his body closer to your own, longing to cherish this moment.

‘Yeah, you are my home, my home for all seasons’

“Watch out for this next move, babe.”

‘So come on, let's go’

Before you could question him, the next part of the song plays, and Ajax twirls you around with his hand along with the beat.

‘Let's go below zero and hide from the sun’

You smile, carefully avoiding anything you could hit before settling back into the original position.

‘I love you forever where we'll have some fun’

He lets go of one hand to strike a dramatic pose. You follow with a laugh, presenting out a hand before coming back together.

‘Yes, let's hit the North Pole and live happily’

He pulls you even closer than before, humming the last bit of the song next to your ear.

‘Please don't cry no tears now, it's Christmas, baby’

His body sways so naturally with yours as you both laugh, living in the moment. 

‘My snowman and me’

As the song finishes, Ajax shows no signs of letting go. Instead, he lets out a content sigh. “I love these kinds of things, you know?”

“What? Horribly dancing to Christmas music in the middle of the kitchen?” You joke with a smile.

He laughs at your words, looking in your eyes. “Actually, yes. All because I get to be with you. My soulmate and my one true love.”

A tint of red creeps on your face at his loving words. Ajax had a tendency to be the more straight-forward one when it came to your shared feelings and emotions. He loves you, and he’s never been afraid to shout it to the whole world.

“I love you too.” You say in response, hugging him closer.

Such tender moments like these filled you both with a sense of joy. It was a reminder. A reminder that you will both always have each other to go to when times get hard. You both have an escape. A place where you can truly be yourselves with no judgement. And that puts a wide smile on both of your faces.

At least, until you smell something burning.

“Crap! The soup!”

You both hurry to stop the dinner from burning, mumbling apologies to one another for getting distracted and having to delay your meal. But it was the perfect opportunity to do something with each other, even if it seems small.

You both want to keep doing the small things with each other. Forever and always.

༄… taglist: @cloudyuna @deffenferofjustice @pinkflamme @scaramouches-beloved​ @scarasbaby ​(link to be tagged here!)

#༄ order up! #genshin impact #genshin x reader #childe x reader #childe genshin impact #tartaglia x reader #ajax x reader #tartaglia genshin impact

[matchalovertrait]

Dulce was eliminated from the competition. Is this the end of the road for her?

Previous / Next (Transcript under the cut)

(1.) [Sofia] Good thing everyone is okay!

[Mia] Chefs, you guys have 5 minutes left on the clock! Please start plating soon.

(2.) [Alex] When I finished plating, I took a look at my dish and thought about it. I was not really happy with it. Is it missing something?

(3.) [Dulce] I did a taste test when the 5-minute mark hit... but some of the vegetables weren't cooked all the way. I didn't even try the goat yet. There was no time. I put the lid back on and hoped for the best.

(4.) [Andrea] 1 minute left!

[Rubiya] Oh no... I forgot the lemon juice in the jicama dip. I don't think I saw any in the fridge? Maybe I can cut up the limes instead and put them on the side? I see some at the pantry over there.

(5.) [Andrea] Chefs, your time is up. Please come to the judges' table.

(6.) N/A

(7.) [Mia] Chefs, you all look rather down. You don't seem as optimistic as you did in the last round. What's on your mind?

(8.) [Rubiya] Haha, I guess we all had some sort of hiccup.

[Dulce] Sorta, aha.

[Alex] Mhm.

(9.) [Sofia] We've all been there, guys. Even me! Before I made it big, a lot of people didn't believe in me. I know we have to judge your food, but just remember that we all believe in you guys. That's why you're here. Mia saw something in all of you.

(10.) [Alex] Thank you.

[Rubiya] We appreciate the reassurance.

[Dulce] Yeah, thanks.

(11.) [Rubiya] Alright! First, we have Chef Rubiya's appetizer.

[Rubiya] Chefs, I have made you chana masala goat tacos with a hatch green chile salsa and jicama dip.

(12.) [Carlo] The goat is really juicy and flavorful. Also, the jicama dip adds some nice freshness to the tacos.

(13.) [Mia] The only bad thing is that the tortillas got cold and soggy... that's not good, especially because tacos are so reliant on the tortillas.

(14.) [Sofia] But hey, you opting for the limes instead of the lemon juice worked out well for you. I know these tacos aren't exactly authentic, but I've eaten a lot of tacos in Del Sol Valley and many taco stands there have limes instead of lemons. It makes a big difference.

(15.) [Rubiya] Thank you, judges.

[Andrea] Next, we have Chef Alex's appetizer.

[Alex] Chefs, I made for you an egusi soup with cubed goat meat, spiralized jicama, and chana masala.

(16.) [Alex] ...but I did use pumpkin seeds instead of egusi seeds.

[Mia] That is a common substitution! Let me say, this soup is quite rich. Also, you have a git when it comes to plating.

(17.) [Carlo] I have to agree. The cubed goat and spiralized jicama are nice. That shows you have technique. I just think it needs something else to balance out the heartiness of the soup. You went a little too light on the vegetables.

(18.) [Sofia] Yeah, I found some of the flavors a bit overpowering, but at least the goat is cooked all the way. It's tender.

(19.) [Alex] Thank you, judges.

[Andrea] Finally, we have Chef Dulce's entree.

[Dulce] Judges, I made you all a tomato soup with chana masala and chopped hatch green chiles and jicama.

(20.) [Mia] You've done it again, Dulce. You know how to combine flavors perfectly. The cucumber, onion, and bell peppers make this dish so fulfilling.

(21.) [Sofia] Ohh, I wish I could enjoy this more thoroughly. I am not sure if the added red chiles were a good move. I can't really taste the rest of it.

(22.) [Carlo] They're both right. It's delicious, but the spice is too much. The hatch green chiles themselves were fine. The goat and some of the vegetables are kind of hard to chew too.

(23.) [Dulce] Thank you, judges.

[Andrea] Well done, chefs. Please go to the room next door so the judges can have a discussion. We'll see you in a bit.

(24.) [Rubiya] Guys! I served them cold and soggy tacos! I think it's over for me.

[Alex] I'm not feeling good either. I'm not exactly seeking Carlo's approval anymore, but he's still a judge...

(25.) [Dulce] Yeah, it was a brutal round for all of us, huh? I don't know what I was thinking.

[Rubiya] I thought it would get easier with each round, but I'm not so sure anymore.

(26.) [Andrea] Chefs, welcome back to the judges' table. Judges?

(27.) [Mia] This was a difficult decision to make.

[Carlo] Even for me. Everyone made a delicious dish.. but they all came with their major faults.

[Mia] And unfortunately, Dulce is being diced in this round.

#tjolc #tjolc gen 1 #alegria legacy #matchalovertrait #dulce alegria #rubiya jabal #alex marino #andrea mixon #mia d'angelo ramirez #sofia bjergsen #carlo mancini #this isn't a trick this time #brb hiding in my bunker #no but they'll explain in the next and final part #i hated doing this to her :( #and i'll just say rn that it's best for her character-development-wise :( #and her losing doesn't mean that still can't be a stepping stone for her

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #55

I have been working on something all day today. Because the thing I ordered yesterday arrived today! Behold!!

So you remember that bowl that my klutzy ass shattered yesterday? Well guess what:

The pictures do NOT do it any justice. This thing is SPARKLY!! 🤩

It's not quite finished yet. Again, I am dyspraxic; this is going to take me a while. My hands are clumsy as hell because the idea of my body moving exactly in the way I intend is a distant fantasy for me; being dyspraxic fucking SUCKS. And I'm REALLY SUPER MEGA GLAD that you don't gotta deal with it. Clinical clumsiness is really not a fun time. For ANYONE involved. But whatever! I make it work!!

So the kit comes with this stuff:

You've got paper dishes with black gloves crunched up inside. You're supposed to use gloves because uncured epoxy is supposedly poisonous, but I didn't use the gloves because I can't afford to lose any more points in DEX, and when my fingertips are covered, my DEX score (which is already very low) gets set to -50.

Underneath are two containers of "gold dust" (it's really just extremely fine sparkly gold glitter, but still!). Then you've got the tube of food-grade epoxy (it's made of cashews, I guess? but it smells vaguely like shrimp).

I wasn't able to get you too terribly many pictures of the process, because this stuff sets FAST, holy cow! But I can give you a rundown of the steps:

First, you squirt an amount of the epoxy into one of the paper dishes. Then you add "an appropriate amount" (verbatim from the instructions) of the gold dust to the epoxy and stir it around with the wooden sticks provided. Then you use the stick to glorp the epoxy onto the edges of one of the pieces you're joining. Then you press the pieces together, and wait for a short time, and be VERY careful not to touch the epoxy until it stops being tacky, because the stuff has the stickiness and consistency of partially-melted caramel, and it WILL prioritize sticking to your skin over sticking to the ceramic (go on, ask me how I know! haha!). Keep doing that until all the pieces are joined together. Then you use the handy-dandy... chisel... knife... thing...??? to scrape off any excess epoxy. It looks like this:

...Or uh. That's what it looked like towards the end of doing this, anyway. I've been at this for... 6 or 7 hours now? But still, it's VERY sharp (again, ask me how I know!), and very good at scraping excess epoxy off of ceramic.

Though I didn't get many pictures of mixing the epoxy, or of the pieces after the epoxy was applied to the edges, I did snag a few images while taking quick breaks:

Anyway. Ideally, for a non-dyspraxic person, this process is simple enough. But that is not my lot in life, so... 6 or 7 hours, several sliced-open fingers, epoxy spills and glitter spills on my hands (and in my fresh cuts, fun fun... knowing my luck, I'm gonna have gold-colored scabs until those mend, good grief...), too many instances of accidentally touching still-tacky epoxy while trying to put another piece on, and needing to thus reapply the previous piece, and various spills all over my pants and all over the table I was working on later, I'm....!!!! ...still not finished. 😖

It's together, but I gotta go over each crack one more time with the epoxy goop; Not all of the cracks are thoroughly covered, so I'm still seeing spots where water can get in between things and cause problems. It's not because the kit is bad; the kit is very good! But rather, it's because this is my first time doing something like this, and my hands are clumsy even for things that I do well.

I'm maybe a little cranky about it at the moment because throughout this I mostly forgot to eat and drink (although we did get pork soup dumplings and some other stuff, which prompted me to eat, and that was good!); hyperfocus is a thing, and the time zooms by and I have no idea what happened (what even IS time, anyway? why do we have it? why does it gotta be linear? who decided that this was a good idea? seriously, what the fuck).

But I still had a lot of fun with it, even though my fingers are now ouchy from many accidents with the sharp implement and I've probably accidentally inhaled enough gold dust that my snots are probably gonna be gold-colored every time I blow my nose for the next week. You can bet your bottom that I'm gonna be back at it tomorrow. And then after that, it'll need 48 hours for the epoxy to fully cure and set. After that, though, the bowl will be better and more beautiful than before! It will be a wonderful vessel for that pumpkin soup! Just you wait!

Hey, Sephiroth!!! You go around acting like you're some kinda weird abomination and thinking that a normal life is out of reach for you because of it. And I don't agree with that!!! Not even a teeny tiny little bit!!! You are a "monster" in the same way that I am "furniture"! Which is to say, NOT AT ALL. And I know that this probably seems unrelated to the bowl right now, but I promise you it's not! Just listen:

Even if you were a monster, you can still do normal human things if you want to!! You can do them just because you decided it!! Sure some people might look down on you because of how you were born, but that's because they're insecure and judgmental, and you don't have to listen to those ones! There aren't gonna be any "monster police" coming to get you just because you're deciding to grow a garden at your house, or just because you decide to cook yourself a meal, or just because you're sitting on a sofa on a rainy day with a warm, fuzzy blanket, enjoying a hot mug of tea! And even if there were "monster police" who would be foolish enough to try to disturb your peace, you can just summon up some of that "I'd like to see them try" type of attitude you showed us before and send them a-runnin' with their tails between their legs! You are allowed to not give any fucks towards any arbitrary social rule that says you're unlovable or that you're not allowed to enjoy your life because of how you were born, the way you were raised, the horrors you've endured, the mistakes you've made, or whatever challenges you live with as a result of it all! You are not a lost cause! You are not broken beyond repair!

Sephiroth, I was a viciously abused autistic/ADHD child that absolutely no one wanted to have around. I know what it is to feel subhuman! I know what it is to feel out of place! I know what it means to be raised with the idea that, "if I'm not perfect or if I don't do what they want, I'm going to be considered unlovable and everyone is going to hurt me." And I have hurt people in the past who did not deserve it, too.

But you know what? Here I sit in my silly little house with my silly little things, awkwardly putting back together a pretty bowl that my clumsiness destroyed. I am putting it back together despite the difficulties that being AuDHD/dyspraxic presents. I am putting it back together even though my traumatized brain absolutely refuses to give me even a moment's peace, as all my instincts scream at me that the end result is gonna suck because I'm the one doing it, that the bowl is a lost cause, that I should be doing something "more productive" with my time, and that I'm a bad person for the fact that I'm making a mess in the process, and a bad person for the fact that I struggle with things like these to begin with.

But, my limitations and old conditioning that I'm trying to overcome aside, one fact remains: this bowl is going to be BEAUTIFUL when it's done, regardless of how loudly my brain tries to tell me that it's gonna be ugly because it was shattered in the first place, or that it's gonna be ugly simply because it's MY hands trying to fix it.

I've been told my whole life that no one's gonna love me because I don't think or act like most other people. But I'm sitting here with people who absolutely adore me, not despite the fact that I'm weird and abnormal as hell, but BECAUSE I'm weird and abnormal as hell! I'm considered "other" and "monstrous" and "socially unacceptable" by many, just for freaking existing. And here the fuck I am, DOING NORMAL HUMAN THINGS ANYWAY.

Because here's the thing, Sephiroth: only I get to decide whether or not I am allowed to have a normal. Other people are gonna try to tell me that the nature of my existence means that I don't deserve a normal, or that I'll never have a normal, no matter how hard I try. But I don't gotta listen to those people! Because a clumsy, awkward normal is STILL a normal! Just like the bowl, it doesn't have to be perfect to be worthwhile! There is strength in imperfection! There is beauty in imperfection!

All of this can be true for you as well! You are a human being! And even if you weren't a human being, SO FREAKING WHAT? You're still a person! And as a person, you don't gotta listen if broader society tells you that you're not allowed to have a normal for whatever stupid fucking reason. So just be you. Be the you who laughs and cries and reaches for your locket when you're troubled. Be the you who says what you're thinking and feeling. Be the you who does not stifle his emotions. Be the you who asks for help when those emotions threaten to consume you. People who benefit from keeping your self-esteem low and from encouraging you to dehumanize yourself will tell you that things such as those are weaknesses, but they're not; rather, they're the source of any human being's natural strength.

So, like any human, be like a glorious stained glass window. Be like a beautiful bowl that was pieced back together with intentionality and love. Be like any shattered thing that was put back together. And then go on to put other shattered things back together, even if you do it clumsily. Because shattered things that were repaired are some of the most beautiful things in this world you'll ever find.

If you only knew just how much courage it takes me every day to write to you. If only you knew how much resolve it takes to do the work of putting the shattered pieces of my own voice back together, after years of being silenced and being told who I'm supposed to be by people who didn't have my best interests at heart. If only you knew how much strength it takes, after decades of abuse and decades of being taught that my "stupid, weak-ass thoughts and feelings don't fucking matter to anyone", and decades of being taught that nothing I say or do makes any difference anywhere, to put my still-awkward voice in spaces where I know I'm gonna get hurt or ignored.

If you knew, then maybe you'd understand why I write about repairing broken things as though it is the most important thing there is. If you knew, then maybe you'd understand why I hold out my hand to you and call you so fervently to get up off your knees and do this work upon yourself; the darkness doesn't suit you, and there are plenty of people around who would help you. I'm such a one.

I don't know if it's hard for you to understand. So instead I'll show you that shattered bowls can still hold soup. Just you watch. Please stay safe until I get to show you. Please remember that you are loved; otherwise I wouldn't be trying so hard every day to reach you.

I'm going to write to you again tomorrow, with the same shaky, awkward voice with which I've been writing to you so far. Because it doesn't have to be perfect to be worthwhile; shattered minds, hearts, and voices can still hold goodwill, compassion, and love.

Your friend, Lumine

#sephiroth #ThankYouFFVIIDevs #ThankYouFF7Devs #ThankYouSephiroth #final fantasy vii #final fantasy 7 #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy vii crisis core #final fantasy 7 crisis core #final fantasy crisis core #ffvii crisis core #ff7 crisis core #crisis core #ff7r #final fantasy vii remake #final fantasy 7 remake #ffvii remake #ff7 remake #final fantasy vii rebirth #final fantasy 7 rebirth #ffvii rebirth #ff7 rebirth #final fantasy 7 ever crisis #ffvii ever crisis #ff7 ever crisis #ffvii first soldier #kintsugi #determination #wholesome