#but it’s not at all clear to me we’re supposed to think he’s necessarily correct in all his interpretations & judgments of other characters

[rayroa]

Q&A: Nels Cline for Creative Loafing Tampa Bay

I just got done transcribing a Nels Cline interview I did on Friday, Feb. 24, 2023 ahead of Wilco’s April 20, 2023 stop in Clearwater, Florida. I hope to turn it into a 1,500-word featured before the printer comes calling, but wanted to get the Q&A down somewhere.

If you get sick of talking to me just let me know.

Ask me a question and watch an hour go by, so beware.

You need that space. Your whole thing is taking space and creating texture and all that stuff, so I'm not surprised that you can talk for an hour.

Right on. 

And I might bounce around a little bit, too. It was funny trying to come up with questions for this because they're all very guitar centric, and it's such a testament to the career you've built and identity that you've built. You know what I mean?

Sort of. I didn't think about the identity much. I'm not really aware of it, actually. But I know I feel respected. And that's nice.

Yeah, for sure. I think you're beyond respected, obviously. We'll just get right into it. Wilco is on a tour, right, and essentially, that's why we're talking—although I'm talking to Nels Cline.

Yeah, we're coming to Florida.

And we won't get too political here because I think you've already made your views on that clear, and I know you don't see Cruel Country as a political thing. But I wanted to ask you: You're coming up on your 20 year Wilco-versary. 

It'll be 19 next month.

Right. So 2024 marks two decades in this band. And I know when you joined, Jeff was going through what he was going through.

Yeah.

He got through it, and it's been a really productive few years. But I think, and correct me if I'm wrong, when you joined, you didn't necessarily want to bring your personality as a jazzer or soundscape kind of guy to the band. But that kind of happened. And there's this part about the Wilco songbook that kind of brought out that 14 year old fan of the Byrds and Buffalo Springfield, right?

Yep.

So thinking about that 14 year old that was brought out when you join the band, that 14 year old would be 33 or 34 now. I know Jeff has encouraged you to not be so reverent, maybe, to the songs that he brings to the table...

Yeah the one predictable thing about Wilco recording is that it's not going to be predictable.

Right. But when you look back on the last few decades of Wilco, look back to that 14 year old who was reawakened. Can you talk about how that person has grown over the last 20 years with just being in this band—that guitar player?

I was playing rock and roll settings prior to joining Wilco, along with the other improvised music and whatever else music that I've been doing. I guess that 14 year old is 33, you say now, he just still loves to rock. The feeling of the rock band, and at this point, the pageantry of it, like I don't really know about the show aspect of it, I'm comfortable with—but I don't see it really. I'm not seeing all these design things and all these changes that are happening that are supposed to be enhancing the product. So the 14 year old never cared about that so much and still doesn't, but the rocking is great.

OK. I think it’s Jeff that tells you, "Just shred, man."

That was what he said to me when I asked him what he wanted me to do at the end of "Art of Almost." He said, "just shred."

That's awesome. OK, cool. I love hearing your stories about all the rock you love—and I want to ask you a little bit about that—but I wanted to stay in Wilco world for a little bit, and kind of bring some reader questions that were presented to me. There's this jam on "Many Worlds" that feels like this high point in the Wilco canon as far as guitar and you're place in it and stuff like that. Obviously, fans are obsessed with some of the older stuff, and there's a solo on "Ashes Of American Flags," and obviously, the many think pieces on "Impossible Germany." But as far as solo on "Ashes," would you consider that the pinnacle of your fretwork achievements?

No, I mean, I don't even think about music that way. Whatever my pinnacle achievement is, I probably didn't notice it. But it was my idea to do that coda at the end of "Ashes" in my early days in the ensemble, and it turned into a big guitar solo thing, which I was probably encouraged to do. But I don't think about pinnacles. I do so much music, and a lot of it is Wilco, and I'm just trying my best.

OK. That's cool. I think what it is, is that a lot of people, guitar players specifically, they want to be you. You know?

Oh my god.

I know you don't want to hear that.

I'll say this. I'm a very fortunate human. It's OK to want to have a fortunate, nice, decent way of life. And I have that. You know, it's pretty cool. And I get to play and travel and do all the stuff that people do. I don't really care much for airplane stuff and airports, but that's part of the job.

This is kind of a watered down version of a follow up to that. Talking about the people that obsess over your work, is there a solo out there that you are still working to decode or one you hold in mythical, kind of air?

Oh my god. It might take me a minute to think of specific solos. But I mean, I could just think of hundreds, thousands of them.

What about one that you can't decode? Like one that bothers you.

By decode, you mean like, comprehend?

Or even, like, put your hands on your guitar and feel like you could kind of visit or touch it, you know?

Well, there's a lot of solos that have influenced me if that's relevant in terms of not just one thing. So I could feel very close to that soloist and possibly do some sort of emulation. But that's usually, for me, more in the rock or blues world because so much of the intricacies and nuances of so-called jazz elude me. I'm no jazz expert, but I do love the music, so I try to play it sometimes. But if I heard somebody I felt really close to do something that I felt a very  personal connection to, I might be able to, you know, pick up some of that stuff. But I don't think that answers your question. 

I mean it's all in context, right? You hit it right in the beginning—we're just trying to understand each other more.

Right.

Do you sit down to practice solos?

I don't practice solos. I don't think I ever learned anyone else's solo. There's certain solos that I can play by ear because they're so kind of memorable, or I can get close to them: Jimi Hendrix, or Dickey [Betts] or Duane [Allman]. I was never in cover bands, and bar bands, and things like that. So I'm not one of these guys that just says, "Hey, which Rush epic do you wanna do today?" or, "We know all of them!"

And you hate to sight read, right?

Well, it's not that I hate to do it. I'm terrible at it. I have a mental block about it. It's awful. If somebody wants to write a bunch of intricately-notated, dense music and put it in front of me, I can guarantee that they won't hear any of their music played by me. If I have a recording of it, then I can take the music home, and I'll do everything I can to learn a piece. That's how I do it.

OK. And this leads to my other question, because I think it's part of the core of who you are. I think we view you as an emotional player and sometimes an emotional composer. And emotion sometimes comes from melody, or for Western listeners there's harmonic information and modal elements, too. So this kind of piggybacks on what I asked you earlier, and you kind of mentioned it when you're talking about jazz. Are there still emotions, or modes or harmonies that you still hope to unlock from the guitar?

Absolutely. Yeah, I think sometimes the way I get around is when I'm just messing around, because I've actually been able to live, in the last year, someplace where I can—if I want to—I can play through an amplifier and not bother anybody. I didn't plug in and practice for I don't know how long—at least 30 years, hardly ever. Just to test the pedal or something, maybe. But it's been rather revealing about certain things. One of the things has to do with experimenting with different pedals, which I never allowed myself to do before except maybe on the gig. I just didn't sit around for hours working stuff out. I just got a little setup, and I just mess around.

One of the things I like to do is open tune the guitar and just start playing. That's a pleasing sound to me. It also means that I can use a lot of open strings, and everything's ringing. And it's kind of my own personal methodology that is from an extension of a trio that I had for a while in Los Angeles—three acoustic guitar players—that's how we started improvising. We would make up a tuning before every improvisation and then just start. It's fun, and it takes me sort of out of the patterns and habits and crutches—and it's pleasing to my ears. Does that even answer your question?

I think it does. And it might not have been a fair question because how can you know what emotion you're trying to unlock if you haven't felt it yet?

Well, I mean, OK, speaking to emotion. I do have a near consistent reaction to certain sonorities. And I guess what I was trying to get at by telling you about messing around with tunings, is something I do with a harmonizer pedal—a really shitty one—where I can just detune the guitar by hitting the pedal and play chord clusters. That's fun. But in terms of the emotion, sometimes that detuned sound for example, if as harsh and abrasive as possible, can be a very strong emotion. Just as a perfectly voiced major minor ninth chord, can just send me. I do experience emotion in a non-theoretical way, but unfortunately, I've also thought about the theoretical way, which sometimes can be, you know, a bit of a cage I guess.

I was gonna call it a jail cell, but "cage" works.

Here's something I can toss at you that has nothing to do with anything you're asking me but kind of covers almost everything. 

OK.

David Crosby. So David Crosby died, as we all know, The Byrds were extremely important to me, I even saw them with David Crosby as my first big rock concert in Central Park, 1967. When he died, I immediately wanted to listen to two songs: "Déjà Vu" from the album Déjà Vu, not some sort of live version. And "Guinnevere" from the Crosby, Stills & Nash record, which in my view is very Croz.

These made me realize upon listening to them that I wanted to go back to The Byrds songs that he had the most to do with—he actually had everything to with. When I did that, I listened to "Everybody's Been Burned " from Younger Than Yesterday. I'm assuming that "I See You" is the Croz, but I could be wrong. Anyway, I started listening to these pieces of music and realized that a huge part of my so-called jazz harmonic language that I'm drawn to, I may have first heard when I was listening to The Byrds when I was 10, 11 years old. And I've heard so much of my own happiness. There's so much harmonic interest and and it's so gorgeous to my ears. And then his voice is incredible. So I realized like, "Holy shit," I think that David Crosby may be very, very responsible for my earliest leanings, in terms of harmonic information, particularly, but also in the case of a song like “Déjà Vu,” it's episodic. It starts with his that super brisk and amazing vocal harmonic thing, the goes into the down, sort of Crazy Horse kind of tempo that we all love to play over for the rest of the song—it's amazing harmonies, it's just so great. And I really respond to that.

The same way I respond to hearing Tom Verlaine [Television], now the late Tom Verlaine, and all the things that I basically remember, so many of his solos. I can probably sing almost all of them along with records, maybe—after Flash Light I lost the thread a bit. So these languages, what I'm trying to say—they live. And at the same time, I'll just mention something that I first encountered when I was 10 that had a huge impact on me. My twin brother Alex's band was The Rolling Stones, so basically, it was Byrds and Stones until maybe '67, or late-'66 for us.

Definitely not the Beatles, because only girls like The Beatles, you know?

Exactly. That's why we didn't like them until we saw "Help!," and then we loved them.

You couldn't help it. I liked that you mentioned Croz because I had a question about Croz in the context of your love for The Byrds. I know you never wanted to be this amp-humping shaman, you know, but "Manic Depression" was kind of an inception point for you. Then Miss Godwin plays Ravi Shankar for you, and you get to drone. Then I started thinking about Croz, and Jimi, and Ravi and then also I started thinking about Tom and your wiggle, right. You kind of answered it a little bit, but I wondered how deaths of musicians affect you because when a musician dies, it's a little bit different than somebody else in our life since musicians have such this body of work that you can revisit. It sounds like when Croz died, it triggered all these memories for you.

It started with Jeff Beck. Jeff Beck was a big shock. I think to everyone, Jeff Beck just seemed like he was gonna live forever. He always had this a bit of a larger than life quality, and at the same time obviously really kind of a humble dude, because the musical path that he chose is just what he wanted to do and not rock and roll stardom. But his language that you've developed on a guitar had become so personal, and so at times, utterly profound, and always entertaining and expressive as fuck.

So it started with Beck, then David Crosby dies. And by this time most people are probably thinking like, "Oh, who's the third?" or, “Croz made it to 81, that's awesome.” And a lot of people thought he was a jerk. Then two, three days later, people started writing about David Crosby a bit, and talking about it, so I was very happy because I had gone into a David zone for a while there.

Tom Verlaine was the crushing blow, and also totally unexpected. I didn't know anything about what was going on with his health and stuff. Basically, as I tried to process this, I can tell you that as the senior in the band Wilco, the cold tap of death finger on the backline edges is not infrequent. So, I'm just going to try to stay positive, and and stay alive. It's sobering is what I'm saying. Maybe it's a little different than some musicians I don't know. I have an emotional reaction sometimes. And other times I just go, "Yeah, we're all gonna die."

This is what happens. We're looking at two generations of old people dying because that's what they do. They're very noticeable old people because their media figures, they're celebrities or notable in some way that we read about these other people. So that's what's happening. We're just watching them go, many of them in their 80s and 90s, but a lot in the 70s, and even in the 60s—my age. So it's sobering.

The Tom and the Croz thing definitely sent me into a bit of a nostalgia haze there for a while. I'm still not out of the Tom Verlaine one. It's an ongoing thing. His songs have been parading in my head for days and days and days, like two weeks. Then I just had to start reinvestigating. I hadn't heard Cover or Flash Light in a long time. Anyway, that's a whole other story. It's hard. It's really hard, but it's going to just keep happening. I could have said that in one sentence and saved you five minutes.

Dude, people don't want you to tell them something in one sentence. I think that's why they listen to your music, right? Like they want to sit down.

Oh god. All my records under my own name are pretty damn long.

Yeah, but that's why people come to them.

I hope so because I can't seem to self-edit to save my life. Whatever.

That's why you're in a band with Jeff. That's why you have strong band leaders like Jeff. They'll edit you in that realm.

Yeah, Jeff's a strong bandleader. He's a smart dude, too. He's just amazing.

I'm actually going to miss the show here because I'll be in Monterey with my wife who's running a marathon.

Whoa.

So I'm pretty bummed because I haven't seen Wilco since the Bob Dylan tour with My Morning Jacket. I've seen Jeff a couple of times since. This is probably too much information, but I know exactly when my son was conceived because it was after a solo show from Jeff. And I blame Jeff. 

Oh that is too much information.

My whole review that night was about this woman in front of me who was holding her son, and about Jeff's music and how warm and familial it can be sometimes. I was mad at people for hushing people. I was like, "Gosh, everything we have is in our arms," you know? Anyway that's too much information. So you mentioned Déjà Vu and going back to Croz and feeling these things that you felt when you were 10. I'm thinking of "Manic Depression" and that kind of innocence or nativite. It sounds like you get to tap into that 10 year old person and be innocent when you listen to music quite frequently.

I can kind of feel it almost anywhere except for maybe in a straight ahead jazz setting, which I don't do anyway. But if I'm just improvising in pure sound world, or playing some of my friends' music and we get into a thing—I particularly like improvising. We can, you know, honor—I don't even know how to say this, I'm sorry I lost the thread there, I immediately started thinking about something else...

It's OK. We're talking about how sometimes you're in a strange jazz setting which you don't really do and you're improvising and there's this pure sound and, or maybe you're playing with some friends...

Put it this way. Here's another example—a succinct example. I like soundchecks, like on tour with Wilco. As soon as sound starts and everybody starts playing, I'm in a very happy place. Especially when there's no bullshit and it's just functional—not coldly efficient, but still very efficient, very together. It makes the whole thing so cool that even soundcheck—which we don't always do—I like them, because we get to play more.

The point is really when sound starts and there's that sort of feeling of connectedness, or chemistry, or whatever you want to call it. Everyone's just kind of creating something together. I live for that—that's really it.

That's awesome. You're really good at this by the way. You're good at giving the pull quote but setting up the pull quote in a really good way that gives us great context.

Oh my god. It must be my over attention to... I try to examine to some extent the erudite among us, and my wife started to watch this documentary on Margaret Atwood, who she really likes. And I've never read Margaret Atwood, but I watched this documentary, I think twice because she watched it a couple of times at least, and it was incredibly inspiring and super interesting. But there's also a level of erudition involved in various statements, and quotes, and things like that. So without trying too hard, I do like to think that there's a phrase, like a kind of a cool phrase. It's just another improvising moment I guess. You know what I'm saying, it's fun. And also, my brother and I are the sons of two English teachers. I think being too language oriented can be actually a hindrance to certain ways of experiencing life, but I'm damaged. It's OK. I learned to live with it.

No, you're right. I mean, language is a barrier to emotion sometimes, and that's why, you know, we like German, you know, it's more precise...

It's funny because I actually was going to study German. I studied French in junior high and high school—that's what they called it back then, junior high. And then I thought because I was a philosophy major for a sec there, which by the way [Wilco multi-instrumentalist] Patrick Sansone, who has a degree—and I never got a degree—I was a philosophy major. I thought, "I'll take German and read the real dudes in our own language." Oh my god. If you've never been in college level German where it was going so fast. Oh my god, it's the only class I think, besides algebra, that I ever had to cram to pass. I feel so behind in German, and it's so hard, and yes, it is very precise.

Going back to Wilco world. Talking about loving the soundcheck. I'm curious about the title track on Cruel Country. Pat's playing this B string Fender, and some people think that’s you. While he's doing the twang, you're more like on the lap steel or neck dobro. How often do people mistake you for Pat, do you think?

Well, on this last record, I think almost consistently. In the past, I don't think Pat has recorded a lot of guitar solos, until Cruel Country, and then he and I are head-to-head a couple of times during the program, and then his B-Bender thing was absolutely delighting Jeff, and it just ended up all over it. It made Jeff smile from ear-to-ear, pretty much, and I was digging it. I think we got a lot of pleasure out of Pat's contribution on the B-Bender Tele. Now that we've been playing the songs out, playing them live, now he's crushing even more. And then mixing up, I don't know that anybody mixes us up other than that. Live, you know, Pat gets to wail on a couple of songs, but that's kind of like more digging into, almost inheriting a part and a solo, because they're older Wilco songs.

Right, right, right.

I can't get out of the sound of total rock guitar when I solo on songs. Sometimes I think, "Why don't I just take a completely weird approach one night?" But I'm just rocking out. I just kind of want it to be identified as full rocking. Because that's how the architecture of the show kind of is. Jeff likes to have an innocent rock out where it's just completely communal at the end of the night—I'm down. Rock and roll, the chiming guitars, it's a very good feeling for me. I think for all these other folks that decide to attend recitals.

No, I think people like to come to the recitals, and I like to hear you talk about your bandmates. They all have their own activities that they do on tour—hiking, coffee photography—but you are not a sightseer. You just sit there and you play guitar, but in Tampa there's a guitar maker James LeClair who makes some of your guitars. Do you have any plans to see James while you're here?

He's in Wyoming now.

Oh, I thought he was still here.

I thought it was a part-time thing. I can tell you that he's no longer in Tampa. And I can tell you that we met when we were down in—I think it might have been an Orlando show, I can't remember now, it might have been Tampa—and a friend of the band's, I believe his name is John Close, I don't really know him well, but I should have looked this up while I'm talking to you. Not that I can find it, but anyway, he introduced us all and Jim brought some guitars. He's my age about, I think, and we hit it off, and I bought one of his guitars—a weird kind of Tele-shaped guitar that's nothing like a Tele. He wasn't making guitars for a living. He still doesn't. He's, I think, a commercial photographer or something, but he's a lovely guy, and I have a bunch of his guitars now. And I can give myself credit for one thing: I'm the one that convinced him to put his name on his guitar headstocks. He's a lovely guy, and he likes to mess around with various guitar design ideas.

I know you like your Mike Watt Fender a lot, but how do the LeClairs hold up to your Fenders, specifically on tour and during the recording and composition process?

Honestly, I don't play a whole lot of Jim's guitars on one show, so they've never they've never taken he beating that my Jazzmaster's been taking all these years. But they're totally A-okay. The one I play the most is what I call the "Almosta-Tele." I hadn't played that on tour for a little while, but I played it with Phil Lesh. It turned out to be the right guitar for that kind of Grateful Dead language. And it's got a beautiful neck pickup that I never get to use because everybody wants me to play that guitar like a Tele, super-trebly with the bridge pickup.

This said I have a funny story, which I just remembered. I played the "Almosta-Tele" as the only guitar on a four-CD set by Anthony Braxton that I'm on, and it was a total accident. Because I played with Phil Lesh & Friends in Port Chester the night before. I was on my way to New Haven to to record with Anthony Braxton, and Phil's guitar tech—I mean, he literally had my stuff broken down within three seconds after the show and sitting waiting for me, it was insane—but he switched the gig bags, and I didn't check before I left. So I went to New Haven, and I opened my gig bag, and the LeClair "Almosta-Tele" was in the bag. And I was like, "Oh my god. No strings behind the bridge. No tremolo. It's not my Jazzmaster." So I made the entire thing, which is completely avant garde, improvised music with some structure dictated by graphic scores from Anthony Braxton, with Deerhoof drummer Greg Saunier,  and brass instrumentalists Taylor Ho Bynum, and Braxton—it's a quartet. So there's a four-CD set with Jim LeClair guitar, everything I play on this thing is that guitar. So everybody go buy that record, a four-CD set, I can't remember what it's called. I actually really like it, certainly not for everybody. But man actually when I heard it all finally—it came out at least two years after we recorded it—and I had some good strategies and kind of rebounded and got a lot out of the "Almosta-Tele."

And I have a Gibson-scale fake Tele, one of his earliest guitars, I think, that's out in the barn. Most of our stuff is in storage and has been since we left the city in March 2020.

Oh, by the way, that record I think is called Quartet (New Haven) 2014. I know we're getting to our mark, but I want to go back to Wilco. Jeff came into Cruel Country kind of on a tear. I think it was something like 50 songs in 52 days, or something, and he was still kind of really running hot. And when you got the Cruel Country songs, it kind of struck you as being classic—you know, classic country or folk with these big strong choruses and traditional song structures—but Wilco, I think, was also working on an art-pop kind of type record over the winter. How did that go?

That's what Jeff called it, I think. Art-pop. It's still going. It's going well, I think. It's a completely other vibe. I can't wait to hear it finished.

Did you stay in the loft for it?

I did. Yeah, I always do. Unless it's deemed that there'll be too much traffic, and I won't be able to rest, in which case we'll insist that I go elsewhere to some sort of hotel.

So it's still kind of like that live recording setup from Cruel Country.

Yeah. It's mere yards away from my bunk.

And I wanted to ask you about Yoko Ono. She just had a birthday. And she's 90 years old, the same age as Willie Nelson. And I wanted to ask you how Yoko has pushed your art artistry in a way that no one else really could.

Oh. Oh my god, how much time do you have?

I figured I better sneak this one in.

So my involvement with playing with Yoko is because of Yuka [Honda] and Sean Ono-Lennon. Sean specifically, kind of, music directs her, and Yuka is sort of like a lieutenant or something who takes care of all these musical details. And, and I came in to play on three, four songs in the course of an evening with the Plastic Ono Band with Yuka and Sean, and at that time this amazing drummer Yuko Araki from Japan who also plays with Cornelius, just a monster, and this guitarist named Hirotaka Shimizu also from Japan. Various people, Michael Leonard would play. Devin Haas played with us. We would get our shit together, and then Yoko would come in and soundcheck, and then just totally go for it. We did this big show at the Orpheum with all these guests. Iggy Pop, Lady Gaga, these are like people who cannot phone it in. The soundcheck was nuts, the rehearsal already, whatever, you know. But beyond that, it's hard for me to speak really, candidly or objectively because I do feel like Yoko and her family are kind of like all part of a family of some sort. And so I kind of don't want to go into any of that, it's too personal.

But the thing about Yoko that's amazing is pretty much everything. For example, when I saw the exhibit—I'm trying to remember where it was now, might've been Berlin, of because I played with her on her 80th birthday, I can't remember—anyway her early work during what people generally term her Fluxus movement was represented in this gallery of work from the early-'60s, like '62. I guess you would loosely call it multimedia work or something. It's just always with the same level of—I don't know how to describe it—it's poetic and so direct, and profound but so simple. She just has always had this amazing sensibility, and in terms of womanhood in Japanese of her generation, very revolutionary. So anyway, Yoko's amazing.

It's time for us, but you mentioned your dad being an English teacher.

My mom and dad, both of them were English teachers.

Both in Los Angeles, right?

Yep.

And your dad bought a guitar from a student once he realized that you needed to play—you know since your brother is out here banging on boxes, you're sitting around...

That's right, the Melody...

And you still have it. It's that one pickup half scale guitar, right? Do you still play it?

No, it's in storage. It hasn't had strings on it for a long time. I kind of messed it up because when I was working at Rhino Records, my sort of third official task was to be the indie and import rock buyer in the early-'80s, which was a very fun time to be an import rock byer. But anyway, I made a window display for Sonic Youth's album Evol. It was a good one actually, and might be my favorite I ever did. That and the Charlie Haden Liberation Music Orchestra window I suppose—those were pretty good ones. So I hung the guitar in the window, and I put a drum stick through the strings, and then I shot the whole thing with silly string. OK, I gotta go. Thanks so much for the call.

Talk to you later, Nels.

Bye bye.

#Nels Cline #Wilco #Yoko Ono #Jeff Beck #David Crosby #Tom Verlaine #Nels Cline interview #Creative Loafing Tampa Bay

[2jaeh]

Country Club | Kim Doyoung

Genre: smut , daddy

Warnings: dilf! Doyoung, uni! Reader, RichAU,

Praise kink!, public, just DY being a hot rich dad tbh.

WORD COUNT: 2,9K

Author! SIN

Your father invited a friend to join you for your Saturday morning golf game, the catch was his friend and you have a very dirty secret.

A/N: admin SIN here! Sorry I’ve been IA, I’ve had so many commissions and I’m still working on the freaks prequel and another Yuta fic (help), so here’s a little smutty DY fic while y’all wait !

TAGS: @infnteen 🖤 thanks for the cute msg!

——————————————————————————

It was a cool morning and the smell of the wet freshly cut grass signaled the first rain of spring. You were up in your room, taking a break from university, and you found yourself longing for the Mountain View’s of the country club.

Thankfully mom and dad were aching to host a spring party for their friends and you were able to tag along with them to your summer vacation home. It had been awhile since you’d been here, and the last time you set foot on these grounds you were almost in trouble.

Almost.

“Sweetheart dont you think the gardens look absolutely ravishing today” your mom marveled as you made your way downstairs in a white mini tennis skirt and a sky blue golf shirt.

“Absolutely mother” you smiled and placed kiss on her forehead before grabbing the pitcher of lemonade and poured yourself a glass. You stood in front of the clear glass sliding doors watching your father pace the lawn probably talking to a work friend on his phone.

“Mother I thought we were going to the golf course today, he’s not planning on working is he ?” You pouted, stuffing a blueberry muffin into your mouth.

“Your father will never miss a golf session dear” your mother chuckled, “just get your things together sweety your dad will be with you shortly.”

Sighing you downed the last of the lemonade and went to the shoe rack to find your white tennis shoes and asked one of the estates employees to load your golf bag into the golf cart.

Shortly after, your dad followed, a huge smile spread across his face as he noticed your cheeky pout obviously knowing what mood you were in.

“I’m sorry hun but work called, those varsity tuition isn’t going to pay itself now is it ?”

You rolled your eyes playfully and slipped into the golf carts driver seat and patted the seat next to you,

“Ok fine but I’m driving.”

The two of you made your way down the courtyard and into the country club’s entrance. The gravel road was covered by huge oak trees, placed strategically along the sides leading to the huge mansion at the end.

Your father directed you to the golf course and one of the gates men welcomed you in before all you saw in front of you was the bright green golf course.

“I’m feeling lucky today hun, I can feel it” your dad squeezed his fist while you let out a chuckle, “easy there Tiger Woods”

“Well I’m definitely going to beat Doyoung that’s for sure”

“Doyoung ?” Saying his name already brought you a flash of memories.

“Yeah you remember my work buddy Mr Kim right ? He’s here helping out with the party, he brought over his sons too” your dad spoke as you pulled up to the first hole.

“What about his....wife ?” You swallowed, as your mind raced back to last year’s Christmas lunch.

First and fur-most Kim Doyoung was the hottest dad at the country club. He was still quite young in comparison to the other fathers thanks to his choices of getting hitched way too early. Most people would describe him as helpful, responsible the kind of guy who genuinely helped out the people around him.

But you knew a very different side to him.

It was the evening of the lunch that you and a friend had snuck outside for a smoke, knowing your fathers would be tremendously upset with that action for their little girls. After your friend ran off to God knows where, Doyoung had emerged and the look on his face as he watched you drag in that cigarette was...something.

“You’re such a naughty girl y/n disobeying daddy like this” he said in a silky voice, taking the cigarette with his slender fingers and placing it to his own mouth.

You watched him in awe, pulling in that cigarette and exhale the smoke up into the sky like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

“Please don’t tell my dad Mr Kim” you had said in a high tone, surprising yourself at the hint of desperation in your voice.

“Don’t worry it will be our little secret love” Doyoung winked taking in another drag but this time he grabbed your chin and blew the smoke into your mouth. It felt intoxicating. But a sudden call from his wife had pulled you out of your fantasy and he disappeared, not seeing him since then.

Until now ofcourse.

“Oh your mother didn’t tell you ? Doyoung and Hani are divorced now, yeah she took off with some model and left him with the kids” your dad shrugged and greeted the caddy waiting on the course for him.

“Oh I see” you responded, placing a baseball cap on your head and watched your father tee off.

It wasn’t long until you heard another golf cart behind you as you began setting up your shot, wanting to look back desperately.

“Kim Doyoung” your father bellowed as you took your shot and turned around to meet your guests.

You noticed Doyoung had brought both his sons, Jeno a guy somewhat around your age and his little brother Jisung. It was quite surprising to see them outside when you knew they preferred to stay couped up in their bedrooms playing video games.

“Hey y/n, I didn’t know you’d be here too” Jeno shyly waved while Jisung inspected a golf club.

“Yeah I’m on spring break, so I decided to spend a bit of it here” you replied, moving a strand of your hair behind your ear.

Doyoung smiled at you innocently and held out his hand, “it’s good to have you back y/n” he said as you took his hand and nodded shyly. Doyoung returned to his conversation with your father and all you could do was stare at how gorgeous he looked today.

Dressed in white slacks, a navy blue polo shirt and black rimmed glasses, girls your age may not understand your desires but to you Doyoung was incredibly sexy to say the least.

He was well built too, his wide shoulders and small waist gave him a swimmer physique, it was all too tempting to know what he looked like underneath his attire.

“How about we mix the teams, you and y/n versus Jeno and I ?” Your dad suggested and Doyoung looked over at you briefly and smiled,

“You got yourself a deal, winner gets that Sauvignon Blanc you’ve been hoarding in your cellar” Doyoung chuckled and set up his ball for his shot.

You tried not to stare but God was it hard. You watched as his eyes narrowed on his target and his dark hair waved as he swung. Doyoung twisted his body posing as he watched his almost perfect swing lead his ball closer it’s target.

“Jeno get ya head in the game boy” your father grumbled as Jeno found himself lost in a game on his phone.

Jisung snickered as Jeno sighed and removed himself from his game to join the one he was supposed to be playing in reality. You could already tell that your competitive father immediately regretted his decision of swopping teams when Jeno’s swing only had the ball drop just a few feet away from him.

“I mean, that was a hit alright” You stifled a laughter.

“I’m not used to these golf clubs!” Jeno whined as his father tapped him on his shoulder, “A good player never blames the equipment son, y/n let’s head over to the hole shall we ?” Doyoung said jumping into his cart.

“Are we not waiting until we’re done ?” Your father grumbled still watching Jeno struggle with his form.

“Seems like we’ll be here all night if one team doesn’t get a move on” Doyoung pressed his lips together, hiding the smug smile that was beginning to form on his face,

“The caddy’s will make sure we’re not...cheating, let’s go win this y/n.”

You hugged your sulking father and hopped in the golf cart next to Doyoung, keeping your eyes on the path ahead of you.

From time to time you found yourself staring over at him, taking in that side profile as he casually maneuvered the vehicle over the greenery until you arrived at your destination.

“Shall we ?” Doyoung said, wetting his bottom lip with tongue and placed his cold hand on your exposed thigh.

You felt a shiver run down your spine, much like that night with the cigarette. You wanted more, you wanted to test just how far you could go.

And knowing that sneaking around in secret like this only made it more exciting.

“It’s going to be pretty easy to sink this” you pouted as you noticed your ball was just mere centimeters away from the first hole.

“You sound disappointed” Doyoung raised an eyebrow as he watched you set up your shot.

“We’re going to be quite far ahead of them”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing”

You looked up at Doyoung who causally waited aside, watching you line up your shot. He wasn’t going to say it just yet, but he was definitely enjoying the view.

Sucking in a deep breath you hit the ball, but missed the target completely and felt your cheeks heat up when Doyoung lightly chuckled.

“Your form is correct you just hit it way too hard, here let me help you”

Doyoung dropped his club and made his way over to you as you got into position for your shot. Your breathing hitched when he stood behind you, a hand placed around your waist and the other on top of yours on the golf club.

You could feel his warm breath on your neck as he pulled your hips against his, bending you slightly over to feel a little more of you.

Your eyes fluttered up to where the caddy was, nervous that he’d feel some type away about this interaction but he was too invested in his phone to care.

“He’s not going to say or do anything, trust me” Doyoung whispered into your ear as you felt his hand tighten around your waist and pull your ass even closer to his crotch.

“Like this ?” You pushed your ass up to grind up against him, satisfied when you heard a small moan escape his lips.

You hit the ball and watched it sink into the hole in satisfaction. Doyoung pulled away from your body and clapped at your victory,

“Well done love” he praised and it made you rub your thighs together. You don’t know why but hearing him praise you made you so wet, all you wanted to do was be his good girl.

Doyoung’s turn was next and he easily sunk in his shot and before you knew it you two were already on your way to the next hole.

This time in the drive Doyoung had one hand on your thigh, squeezing lightly as he drove through the course casually. Finally pulling up to the next hole, you immediately got into position to tee off,

“Am I doing it right ?” You pouted back at Doyoung who stood a distance as he downed a bottle of water.

“You got this love, hey I’ll tell you what” Doyoung ran his fingers through his hair and unbuttoned the first button of his Ralph Lauren polo shirt,

“If you get this in with Atleast three shots I’ll give you a reward.”

You swallowed hard, your mind buzzing with what the reward could be. Shaking your head that was filled with fantasies you took your shot, surprised that it was a pretty decent one at that.

“Well done love, you must really want that reward” Doyoung mused, his small praises driving you into a frenzy once again.

Doyoung quickly took yet another perfect shot and the two of you hopped in the cart headed for the final stretch of the play.

Again not wasting anytime you took your shot and managed to complete the round in just two shots, immediately turning to Doyoung and gave him a dashing smile.

“Wow love, you did beautifully” he praised, coming over to stroke your back and sent your thoughts into overdrive,

“Let me finish up here and we can sort that reward out” Doyoung’s voice was filled with mischief.

Just like he said Doyoung finished his round quite quickly and went over to the caddy whispering to him before heading back to you in the cart.

“What did you tell him ?” You asked as Doyoung started the ignition and began driving on a slightly different, more secluded path.

“Told him not to follow us, and just meet us at the next hole” Doyoung pressed his lips together and you watched his eyes search for a spot that was hidden from passerby’s.

Doyoung stopped the engine and jumped out of the cart, quickly pulling you out and leaned your back against the hood of the golf cart. His eyes were dark and a smirk grew on his face as his fingers brushed against your cheek, over your chest and eventually landed on your thigh.

“You love to praised y/n, I’ve taken notice of that” he hummed and his fingers separated your legs slightly as it moved higher up your skirt.

“I want you to know how good I am” you fluttered your lashes at him, leaning back into the hood and licked your lips.

“You think you’re good ?” Doyoung chuckled darkly as his finger grazed your soaked underwear, “I think you’re a bad girl y/n, just so fucking bad.”

You bit down on your lip as Doyoung pushed your underwear to the side and pushed his index finger into your core. You threw your head back as Doyoung slowly fingered you, bringing his mouth to you jaw and kissed you gently.

“But you know a promise is a promise and you deserve your reward” Doyoung responded by inserting two more fingers in you, quickly using his free hand to cover your mouth before you moaned.

“I’m good...daddy”

Doyoung’s ears perked at the nickname and responded by moving his fingers even faster, pushing his large frame into yours as you began chasing your orgasm.

Just as you were about to come undone Doyoung removed his fingers and wiped your wetness on your skirt before pulling you into a hot and sloppy kiss.

“If you think you’re a good girl, how about doing something about this huh” Doyoung growled into your ear and grabbed your hand, placing it over his hardened member.

You immediately slipped down to your knees and unbuckled his pants, waiting to please him. Doyoung freed his member and looked down as you took him into your mouth, making sure every inch of him entered before slowly sucking him off.

“Fuck...that feels so good, you’re doing so good my love” he sighed, throwing your cap aside and grabbed tufts of your hair as you sucked him off in the middle of the country club golf course.

Doyoung began thrusting into your mouth until you felt him hit the back of your throat and he came undone, feeling every bit of him slide down your throat.

Doyoung brought you up and swiped his thumb across your lips before inserting it into your mouth while you sucked on it gently.

“You’re right, you’re such a good girl” he praised and began rubbing his member in between your thighs as you felt him slowly grow hard once more.

“Do I get a reward again daddy ?” You placed your manicured hands on his chest and looked up at him with barely innocent eyes.

“Ofcourse, anything for you my love” Doyoung mused and spun you around, bending you over the golf cart and dropped your panties down to your knees.

Doyoung pushed his member into your core and slipped a hand in front between your legs to stimulate you while he fucked you senseless. He placed a hand over your mouth once more, the last thing he needed was your father or his own damn kids walking in on this.

But he wanted to feel as much of you as he could and removed the hand from your mouth and slipped it under your shirt, giving your breast a squeeze.

“Don’t you dare make a sound my love, or else I’ll stop” Doyoung grunted as he heard your soft whimpers in his ear.

Doyoung felt himself getting closer again and pulled out, leading you to the seats of the cart and propped you up on it and entered you again. Your legs wrapped around his waist as you felt him twitch inside of you. Grabbing onto the seats for support you nodded at him, signaling that you too were close and Doyoung sped up until you came all over his member and he pulled out waiting for your mouth to return to his tip.

“Take it all in again my love, you’re such a good girl” he groaned, biting down on his lips and your mouth wrapped around him once more and felt his liquid run down your throat for the second time that day.

You finally cleaned up and Doyoung neatened himself before texting the caddy that the two of you were on your way.

“What’s the next reward daddy ?” You raised your eyebrow at him as you watched a smug smile spread across his face as he drove,

“Well after this game is over and you get yourself cleaned up, how about meeting for another reward daddys room ?”

#Doyoung smut #nct scenarios #nct smut #nct 127 #2jaeh masterlist #nct angst #nct imagines #nct drabble #nct au #Doyoung fic #doyoung scenarios #nct doyoung smut #nct dilf #kpop smut #kim dongyoung

[stylistiquements]

Day 9 : Scronch'love.

𐐪𐑂 Pairing : Sapnap x fem!reader {Playlist}

𐐪𐑂 Summary : a lovely afternoon and an ancestral question; when are you going to join the dream smp?

𐐪𐑂 Word count : 1.5k

𐐪𐑂 Warning : swearing

Masterlist | Previous | Next

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・　　 .・゜゜・　　・゜゜・

“Have you been here for a long time?”

“Have you been here for a long time?”

“Have you been here for a long time?”

Time bends and twists into unknowns shapes when well spent. So, you’re so not sure. Long enough for your fairy garden to start looking like at least a proper garden, long enough for your feet to start fidgeting, brushing against the soft fabric of the blanket ever so slightly and softly.

“Can you share your screen?”

“I’m just picking flowers, there’s nothing much to see,” you warn but it never does the proper job.

“That’s fine, I like watching you play.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Yeah. You’ve been playing for years and you’re still dog water. It's almost soothing,” you hear him grin through the silkiness of his voice.

You smile evasively, palm gripping the mouse and executing on memory. Soon, Sapnap’s satisfied noises hovers and everything is just how it’s supposed to be. You spend a while humming the music of days and nights of the game while building your project. Sap helps from time to time, giving advice when his attention is there and leaving trails of compliments on his way. You don’t think the garden is necessarily that good, you don’t mind either.

“Do you think the tree should go on the left or the right of the pond?” You ask, fingers drumming back and forth between the two options. Right he says. "What about the roses, do I plant some or not?"

“It’s just a detail, don’t hurt your brain too much on that,” he says in a light tone, but you disagree.

“Details are what make things important. Like when you remember I prefer warm pillows so you give me yours, it’s just a detail but it makes me happy.”

“Of course I do; you’re a baby,” he murmurs teasingly.

With an arched eyebrow, you retort, “says you,” and silence follows for a second as you plant the tree on the right of the pond.

“Yeah, Dream already made sure I was aware of that.”

“Not sure why the piss baby thinks he’s qualified to have this conversation, buddy,” you note and Sap chuckles are as vivid as contagious. “Why would he call you a baby anyway? What have you done?”

“I-I’m not telling you.” As soon as the mumbles fades, your phone sends loud vibrations on your desk. You abandon your character to the night and the wildness, picking the phone as you murmur a low oh, okay. Whether it’s to your phone or Sapnap, that, isn’t really clear. Still, Sapnap’s words sound more distant, more of what wonders are made of. On the screen, a twitter notification of a certain Karl Jacobs.

“You’re not even listening to me anymore,” Sapnap whines.

“I don’t listen to whiny babies, sorry.”

“We’re on the verge of divorce, yn and it’s your fault.”

A scoff skitters out through teasing lips, “But you still talk about me all the time, don’t you?” Your voice drags through different lands, unknown and musky.

“So what?” He splutters all awkward like it’s some kind of confidence that shouldn’t have left his thoughts and, somehow, you’re surprised the almighty confidence has left the game. “Who said that?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re obsessed with me, admit it,” you demand and though you don’t notice it, too tangled with the moment, the atmosphere is tinted with a different nuance like it’s suddenly dawn at the end of a summer party.

“So are you.”

Now, your heart drums a strange yet familiar rhythm. Something made of secrets and uncertainty, something you decided to leave unnamed a long time ago. Sapnap, you reason, can’t be lied to. He knows better than words half meant, half made up and it’s annoying, really, but he just does somehow. If you dare to lie, he would know and then it would be even more annoying.

“Yeah, you’re living in my head rent free but at least I’m not trying to hide it.” No answer. You peek at the game, you’ve been slain by a spider. “Karl said that,” you resign yourself. “He said he was about to join the vc by the way.”

Before the conversation can carry on, the sound of Karl joining the call resonates. Being in this Discord server is like living in a house with 10 siblings, that’s what you understand from the way Sap exhales heavily.

“Oh, I am interrupting something?” Karl says, struck by a peculiar energy.

“Besties time Karl, besties time,” Sapnap mumbles beneath his breath and it chimes a little like disappointment.

“Well, too bad I guess,” Karl exclaims. “It's about time I meet miss Bunnyshow.”

Karl is like that gif of a cat sitting in a tiny box with the caption “if it fits, I sit”.

“Does that mean our passive aggressive subweet arc is over?” You ask, faking the dejection when your smile grows wide.

“Oh god, I hope not. That’s my favorite part of the day.”

"It means a lot to me. Especially coming from my comfort streamer Karl Jacobs," you confess.

Satisfied, your attention gets back on the game; flowers rooting gracefully into the dirt and hives ready to host the beloved honey bugs as Karl and Sap catch up on time being apart. Everything is quiet and peaceful like the end of an afternoon well spent.

“I like your garden,” Karl points out and you hum a thank you beneath your breath.

“So you can take Karl’s compliments but not mine.”

“We’re besties you’re honor. Sapnap you can leave now, thank you,” Karl giggles and you follow along.

“Sorry Karl, there’s only room for one man in my heart and that has to be Sapnap.”

He fakes a cry to keep the theatrics before adding without transitions, “You know if you asked Dream he’d probably let you on the SMP.”

“No thanks,” you grin.

“Sapnap, your girl doesn’t want to play with us.”

“She’s already been whitelisted for months now,” Sapnap informs but fails to comment on the first part of the complaint.

He’s not lying, but you feel like it says more about Dream’s stubbornness than it says about you. As for your best friend, he understands better than anyone that wish for privacy and it’s something made of respect like yours for his career. You’d rather see him shaped by all the light than being touched by a glimpse of it. He does, after all, deserves it all. So, that’s the contract you made with yourself because it made sense; being a supportive shadow. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that you’ve never considered streaming before. It’s that it’s his world more than yours.

Karl, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to think the same way, “This is unacceptable, I gotta send a few texts.”

“Lost cause, dude, lost cause,” you grin but stubbornness seems to be a pre required trait for those mcyts.

Before you have time to find a suitable comment about the newborn group chat, a new person joins the call and Sapnap's annoyance is even more palpable, "No fucking way dude. We can't even have a second of peace on this server."

"Why would you be in a discord call if you want peace. You're just dumb," Quackity retorts with an energy he and he only can ever own.

Then George joins and Dream follows on his heels and soon your ears are filled with conversations that are as loud as scattered. Your shoulders sink in the back of your chair as soft fingers try to brush the upcoming migraine away. This is why you can't join the SMP; -not really but still- too much energy that has to be processed at all time. And you should know better, being friend with a very chaotic boy for the last 15 years, but you're not somehow.

"No, fuck that," Sapnap mutters. "I'm out."

"You can't leave now we have things to discuss," George exclaims. "Bunny, explain to me how Sapnap's proposition is more appealing than mine."

"Because I know her more than you do," he defends, and he's right. Money isn't of you interest. Love, on the other hand...

"Because she's like scronch'love," Karl giggles mindlessly.

"The fuck does scronch'love mean?" You ask, amused.

"It's very simple," Quackity intervenes. "If I offered you the same thing, would you even consider it?"

"Of course I would. What kind of question is that?"

"Fine. So, if Sapnap keeps his offer, here is mine; you become the president of Las Nevadas in addition to what he said."

"What?" Sapnap takes offense.

The call brims with an agitated confusion as you smile deviously, heels rooted into the floor to make your chair spin lightly and your fingers drum on your desk.

"I don't think you wanna do that," George corrects.

"Yeah, you absolutely don't," you confirm.

"Fine," he retorts. "So Sapnap's offer plus a Las Nevadas citizenship. How does that sound?"

"Like an offer I'll confider," you sigh. "So who's scronch'love now?"

"Still you," Dream answers. "Except you're also a big dummy."

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・　　 .・゜゜・　　・゜゜・

A/N : helloooo,, how are you??? this part very self indulgent and I think this fic will be in general but I hope you liked it anyway. I love the idea of c!quackity always being too much and always having something to add to be even more over the top. I'm having more trouble than I thought about Bunny's and Sap's friendship because I want them to have a very special friendship but I hope it appears as such. idk. lmk what you think and thank you for reading it it makes me very happy <3 Until next time (ɔˆ ³(ˆ⌣ˆc)

Taglist : @open-minded-chip-101 ; @itsoakaa ; @gaysludge ; @tinyegg ; @qnfdnf​ ; @paintingpetalsforyou ; @notjennaleigh ; @victoria-a567 ; @washy-washy ; @moneybagmarvel ;

#129 days #Sapnap smau #sapnap x reader #smau #social media au #sapnap x you #sapnap x y/n #mcyt smau #sapnap series #sapnap fluff #mcyt x reader

[narrativelysignificantturtleduck]

so a while ago @volkswagonblues left a reply on this post saying that jeong jeong was an example of "someone who is ideologically 'right' but whose character is absolutely not likeable, or at least not in the mainstream fandom-popular way". i started writing this response, but i totally forgot it was in my drafts until i wrote my iroh analysis. it doesn't seem right for me to have an iroh analysis post and not a jeong jeong one so here it is, the jeong jeong character analysis nobody asked for:

volkswagonblues's response hits on exactly why i find his character so fascinating - he's good, but he's absolutely not nice or well-adjusted about it. and he's definitely not mainstream-fandom "likable". it's rare that i see hate for one of my minor character faves (one of the benefits of having them), but i have actually seen people say they don't like jeong jeong. mostly, it centers around him being "wrong" about firebending, as opposed to the sun warriors. i can see where that comes from. jeong jeong has the noticable accent and proverb-y speeches of the ~mystical asian master~ trope, but his viewpoint comes off as pretty harsh and simplistic. this can confuse an audience expecting easy answers from a kids show - are you supposed to see him as wise or not? for me, i think asking "are jeong jeong's beliefs wrong?" is the wrong question. instead, you should ask: "why does jeong jeong have those beliefs?"

and the more you think about that, the more you see that he isn't actually wrong. firebending is the only type of bending where the bender produces the element from their own body rather than using their surroundings. it is someone imposing their will on the world, even more so than the other forms of bending. iroh sums this up nicely:

"Fire is the element of power. The people of the Fire Nation have desire and will, and the energy to drive and achieve what they want."

there's nothing wrong with that in theory, but in the show, this drive and power manifests as the fire nation's imperialist conquest, and the goal they're trying to achieve is world domination. as a former high-ranking military official, jeong jeong has seen firsthand the ways firebenders use their power to hurt people. the culmination of the fire nation's ideology is a plan to burn the entire earth kingdom to the ground - exactly the kind of wide-scale destruction he describes in his first cautionary speech:

"Without the bender, a rock will not throw itself! But fire will spread and destroy everything in its path if one does not have the will to control it!"

you could say that firebending is misused by the fire nation, but that feels like a No True Scotsman fallacy ("that's not true firebending!"). the fact is, firebending's unique qualities fall in line with the nation's imperialist ideology. jeong jeong hates his bending because it is inextricably tied to the war he hates.

like many, i once thought a trip to the sun warriors would be healing for jeong jeong, but i've since realized that's not what he needs. jeong jeong is perfectly aware that firebending isn't always destructive - he counsels restraint and control, not total suppression, and he even alludes to sun warrior beliefs:

"Feel the heat of the sun. It is the greatest source of fire. Yet, it is in complete balance with nature!"

going to see some dragons who tell him that firebending is about the sun and life won't change his mind. 'of course it's not inherently evil,' he'll say. 'but it has been used in terrible ways'. his feelings aren't about firebending in the abstract. they're about firebending as it is used. that it has the capacity to support an ideology of conquest, that he and others have given into its destructive side and committed such atrocities with it. he's right to hate that. (i also feel like he'd resent the sun warrior civilization for their isolationism. i mean, i would, if i'd put my life on the line to fight against my nation and it turned out there were a bunch of people who agreed with me but did nothing about it.)

so if jeong jeong and the sun warriors aren't philosophically opposed (except re: their involvement in the war), why does his view of firebending seem so much harsher? because - and here we come back to the original point - he's not likeable. he's a strict teacher and plenty of us (especially if we were kids when we watched the show) have a knee-jerk negative reaction to that. his speeches about the danger of fire are grandiose. but here's the thing: the speech where he says the most derogatory things about firebending is not one where he's teaching. it's one where he opens up to katara:

"I've always wished I were blessed like you - free from this burning curse."

this reveal that he wants to be a waterbender means that everything he says to her about his bending is less about what he believes about firebending in general and more about his own personal struggles. and in that context, it's heartbreaking:

"It forces those of us burdened with its care to walk a razor's edge between humanity and savagery. Eventually, we are torn apart."

this is the core of it all - jeong jeong doesn't just hate the fire nation and its war, he hates himself, hates that he holds that destructive power inside him. he doesn't seem to struggle with the act of bending (another reason why the sun warriors wouldn't necessarily be any help) but he clearly doesn't want to do it, probably because it reminds him of when he did terrible things with it. no wonder he calls it a curse.

and so here's what we're left with: jeong jeong leaves the fire nation military because he is right that the war is wrong, and he counsels control and restraint in opposition to the imperialist ideology of constant expansion and conquest. however, he is severely traumatized and full of guilt from his participation in said imperialist conquest, and that means he comes off as harsh and overly negative. right, but not likeable.

while i was writing this post, i was rewatching a lot of clips from the show, and i got curious about his voice actor, who i suspected was actually asian (unlike most of the voice actors). it turned out i was correct - his name is keone young, and he's had a very long career - but he's hawaiian and doesn't have the accent that probably made me guess that. he has this to say about how he portrays the one-dimensional accented characters he often plays:

“I want to portray that person with an accent who is real instead of a stereotyped version of it," he said. "I’ve always wanted to see myself as the one the story revolved around so that it was my story not your story. I always try to convey I have some kind of philosophy or point of view.”

(read the full interview here)

i bring this up because while i think jeong jeong's memorability can partially be attributed to the atla writers giving him a cool backstory and dramatic lines, what keone young says here about taking a character who's a bit of a stereotype and making them seem real, with their own philosophy and point of view...well, that's exactly jeong jeong. despite his limited screentime, we get a clear picture of who he is and what he believes. and who he is is someone who fully embodies his radically anti-imperialist politics, who has come to his beliefs from traumatic experience that's made him bitter. as the atla renaissance pushes us to reevaluate these children's cartoon characters with older eyes and modern-day politics, it's worth looking at a striking minor character like jeong jeong, who might not be fandom-likable but who has a lot of depth to offer and a perspective worth considering.

#atla #jeong jeong #nina's personal log

[vidalinav]

Before I start I just want to say this is not a cassian bashing post. I really think cassian was ruined to boost up rhys and I will die on that hill. He seems so different like a knockoff rhys. Sarah does this to all males ( lucien got so much love then bam he hardly has any scenes. Funnily enough rhys is based on her husband who actually seemed to like lucien ).

You know I've seen a lot of posts with this exact message. Where you know this book sucked or these characters suffered because it was feys/and/Rhy/s centric and I'm like... no it isn't. It's not fey/sand centric and it doesn't make Rh/ys look good at all, so it can't be about making Rh/ys higher than he is because then... what book are we reading?

There is virtually no fey/sand. Proof? They’re pregnant! And we see nothing! They have no role besides being plot devices. Rhy/s has a lot of scenes but he doesn't really do anything of value in regards to character building. He is the information keeper which Amren previously was. He is at some point a conflict, but... I argue that all characters of the IC are conflict to Nesta and Cassian, but not necessarily because of their presence. They're almost a bigger conflict because of their lack of presence, because the situation can't be resolved, and there can be no true character development involving them.

But he's plot. He's the foreshadowing with this high king, this influence of power and tyranny, using other people. He very much segments that the world that we view in Feyre's pov, doesn't exist. I even argue that because of his view, we can truly see how Colonial Europe this book is trying to be. Women have no rights, people have no rights, the crown rules all, and other lands are fighting for power, borders are being redrawn. Makes sense since Prythrian looks like the UK and we’re going back to European and Russian lore.

But yes, there is a lot of inconsistency between the first three books and acosf. Even between the first three books. So I do think it's hard to make claims with any correct truth, because... well it's inconsistent.

But I think Rhys as well as the rest of the characters suffer from the writing more than anything else. Because we come into this book series having very particular ideas about what it's suppose to be about, because of what we already know in the previous books, and acosf gave me whiplash because it was like reasserting that what I knew was not correct. It was a very strange experience and I'm still not entirely where the book is going.

If it's not a healing arc then what is it? If it's not women gaining power and being these badass females who end up being girl bosses (which they don't) then what is it? If it's not about the plot, then why... have all of these plot points that are just thrown in there that amount to nothing? If it's narrative based, then shouldn't the narrative be solid? That's the problem.

The problem is not fey/sand nor rh/ys, nor him being a morally grey or villain character because that could be fun. They could be interesting characters. Just as much as Amren or Mor or Elain even. Just as much as Eris, Azriel, Lucien. Just like Cassian. They just don't add value, because they're not integrated in the text and the text is not consistent. It doesn't have a clear goal.

It needs SO MUCH editing!!!!

#acotar critical #vidalinav answers asks #far be it for me to like fey/and #or rh/ys #because I do and don't in canon #but they have potential #it's the writing that's the disappointment #anti SJM #anti acosf

[tennessoui]

So I love your keeping up with the Skywalker/Kenobis au😍!!! It's adorable and it makes me so happy to read aaaand I wanted to ask what you think Satine's reaction is to Obi Wan basically getting himself a husband two kids and a dog like 2 months after she's left him? Like if they randomly ran into each other and Obi Wan is with his whole family and is carrying Leia, while holding Luke's hand and Luke is holding the dogs leash, while Anakin is I dunno monologing about something as he usually does

hi!!!! thank you so much for the prompt i love it <3 I thought a really long time about this prompt because I kind of knew what I wanted to do but I also didn't want to throw satine's character under the bus to accomplish it because i think from what Obi-Wan's told us about his marriage she's completely justified to want a divorce, so she's not necessarily a jealous ex in this snippet. But she's sort of angry, which i feel is fair!! i also (for reasons we will hopefully see tomorrow) changed your 'two months' to '3 years', so this happens 2 years after the Skywalkers move in, which is one yearish after the divorce! mostly because Something Else happens about 2 years after the Skywalkers move in and I have an ask cooling in my inbox asking about That that i want to answer tomorrow and these two felt like they fit together

(big sigh)(2.5k)(this is Obi-Wan's POV so its a bit pretentious and also a bit sad)

It’s a very strange thing, what the body remembers but the mind forgets.

“Obi-Wan?” A tentative voice asks from his left, and he knows that voice intimately. That voice had been at one time the most beautiful sound in the entire world. That voice had been what he heard before going to sleep, what he waited on tenterhooks to hear upon waking. He’d heard that voice cry, scream, laugh, gasp, moan--he knows that voice, and for a second his body responds the way it always has to that voice.

Butterflies erupt in his stomach and he turns to look at Satine for the first time in almost three years.

“Satine,” he says and clears his throat and tries again. “Hello there.”

She smiles delicately, as if she’s unsure of her welcome. Obi-Wan’s never seen Satine shy, but he supposes he’s never seen how she acts around her ex-husband.

He surreptitiously glances to where Anakin and the twins are standing in line at an ice cream truck. It had been a nice day, so they had bundled the kids and the dog into Anakin’s car and gone to the city park with loose ideas about kite flying. Perhaps a picnic.

Perhaps twenty yards from the parking lot, Leia had spotted an ice cream truck from her perch on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, and the twins had successfully convinced Anakin to make a quick pit stop on their way up the park’s central hill. It had been a very easy sell. The sweet tooth is most definitely inherited, and nothing Obi-Wan really shares, so he had taken Chewie and gone to sit on a near park bench, graciously pretending not to hear Anakin tell his children to let the old man rest.

That had only been five minutes ago.

“Would you like to sit?” Obi-Wan asks politely, gesturing to the part of the bench he’s not taking up.

“If you have the time,” Satine responds just as politely. Obi-Wan wonders if this sort of false veneer of courteousness is putting her teeth on edge as much as his.

Do you remember how you left? Would you like me to recall the amount of things thrown by you, or would you like to do the honors? He imagines saying.

Only if you would be so gracious as to recite the long list of things you called me, he can imagine Satine responding.

That sort of conversation would be better than this. More honest. It’s a strange hurt, to realize you’re lying to the person you used to think you’d always be truthful to.

“Oh,” Satine says when Chewie immediately starts sniffing at the hem of her dress. “Is this...your dog?”

Obi-Wan fights the urge to wince. He had. Well. He had been quite against getting a dog when they’d been married. Or a cat. Or anything, really. He had vehemently protested the idea of a pet.

Of another living thing in their house.

“Ah,” he says. “Yes. His name is Chewie.”

Satine pets him with just the right amount of pressure to have Chewie tilting his head eagerly for more. “Chewie?” she asks incredulously. “I always figured we would have to name any dog or--child after some sort of literary figure.”

Obi-Wan pretends he doesn’t notice her hesitation. He has to pretend he doesn’t notice her hesitation. “I originally wanted to name him Dante,” he admits instead. “Leia compromised down to Danny, but I just couldn’t do that to the poor dead man.”

“Oh,” Satine says and then she’s quiet. Obi-Wan can just imagine the sort of things running through her head. He would deserve all the mean-spirited barbs she could throw at him now. He reminds himself that he understands that.

I hadn’t thought you knew how to do that, he imagines her saying. Compromising, I mean.

Or, does the dog hair everywhere drive you as crazy as you used to say it would?

Or, perhaps worst of all, how much has your library of dead mean kept you comfort these last three years?

Instead she gently strokes the dog’s head and refuses to make eye contact with Obi-Wan.

“You look well,” he says, breaking the silence first. He thinks she’s probably put in enough work in speaking first for a lifetime.

“Thank you,” Satine responds, tucking a piece of her ash blonde hair behind her ear. Obi-Wan catches a glint of a ring on her finger from the action. He doesn’t know if it was purposeful or not, doesn’t blame her either way. It’s been three years. Their lives are their own now. There’s always going to be those years where they...converged, and Obi-Wan isn’t sure he regrets them. He might never regret them, no matter what he thought shortly after the papers were mailed in.

After all, he’d never have met the Skywalkers if it wasn’t for the divorce.

“You as well,” Satine says, crossing her ankles. It’s her version of a fidget, Obi-Wan thinks fondly, and then wonders if he’ll ever forget that sort of information.

He smiles. “Yes, I’m...well.” He coughs and glances over to the ice cream truck. Leia waves at him from where she’s curled into Anakin’s chest, very near the front of the line. Anakin and Luke are looking at Obi-Wan with almost the same expression of pinched worry. Anakin most probably because he knows who Satine is. Luke because the boy has gotten quite possessive of Obi-Wan’s attention in the last few months.

Obi-Wan smiles slightly to let them both know that he’s fine. “I’m very well,” he tells Satine, turning back to her.

“I’m very glad to hear that,” she says, and it sounds like the most honest thing she’s said this entire time.

“Thank you,” he responds, and that’s the most honest thing he’s said today too. He knows she won’t understand exactly what he means, but it feels nice to say it anyway. Thank you for the years we were happy. Thank you for leaving before we could really start hating each other. Thank you for the divorce. Thank you for the Skywalkers.

There’s very loud footsteps on the pavement and then suddenly a blond blur is clinging to Obi-Wan’s knee.

“Obi,” Luke says very reproachfully.

Obi-Wan automatically fixes the boy’s fringe. “Yes, little one?” he asks, very, very aware of the way Satine’s posture has shifted from almost relaxed to preparing for battle.

“Daddy wants to know if you want anything. He says they have those pop--pop--cycles that you like.”

Obi-Wan switches his attention away from Luke so that he can raise a very scathing eyebrow at Anakin, who shrugs as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He had most certainly told Anakin that he was fine and that he didn’t want to spoil his lunch. Sending Luke over had not been a friendly check-in. It had been an invasion.

“I’m fine,” Obi-Wan tells Anakin’s son. “I don’t want to spoil my lunch.”

These words seem just as foreign to Luke as they did to his father, because he squints up at Obi-Wan before shrugging and clambering up into Obi-Wan’s lap.

“Who is she, Obi?” he asks, not quietly at all.

Obi-Wan sighs. And then resists the urge to sigh harder when he catches sight of Satine’s pinched face.

A thousand conversations rush back to him.

“My career has to come first, Satine.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“A child? At my age?”

“It’s Obi-Wan, not Obi.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready, dear. Our lives would change. Fundamentally. We’d have to compromise, we’d have to figure out a way to be there for them whenever they needed it. I know people manage. But would we?”

“Don’t--”

“I’m sorry, darling. I don’t want children.”

“Don’t call me Obi.”

He understands perfectly why Satine looks as if someone has just fed her half a lemon. He does.

She’s run into her ex-husband at the park and settled in to have a civil conversation with the man, only to see that he owns a dog (which he had been against when they were together), has a child (Luke isn’t his, of course, but he can understand the confusion), and lets that child call him one of his most hated nicknames.

“Obi?” she asks, which is probably starting out small, something he is very grateful for.

“Who are you?” Luke asks more forcefully, gripping onto Obi-Wan’s shirt with his little hands. Of all the times for the boy to decide to speak up to strangers--

“I’m Satine,” Satine answers graciously. And then, “Who are you?”

“Luke,” the boy says, far less graciously. “Obi lives with us.”

“Us?” Satine asks, mostly to Obi-Wan. “You mentioned a...Leia earlier?”

“My sister,” Luke interrupts before Obi-Wan can, perhaps, explain the situation. “We’re twins.”

“Twins!” Satine gasps in a way that’s most definitely pointed and directed at Obi-Wan. “Obi, I hadn’t known you had twins!”

“I…” Obi-Wan starts to say that he doesn’t, but the twins have started shooting him very hurt looks every time he corrects strangers on the fact that the twins aren’t actually his. He’s mostly stopped correcting people now because Luke and Leia’s betrayed expressions are really, quite frankly, works of art.

“Obi-Wan!” a voice interrupts him to his right. It’s a familiar voice, one that he’s heard as he falls asleep, one he’s heard first thing in the morning, one he’s heard cry and yell and gasp and laugh, one he thinks to himself might just be one of the most beautiful sounds in the entire world.

Without his permission or even his consent, butterflies erupt in his stomach and he turns from Satine’s rigid expression to Anakin’s slightly manic grin.

“Anakin,” he says, standing immediately with Luke cradled in his arms.

“We got you the red popsicle because Luke never came back,” Anakin says, thrusting the icy treat forward as Leia tries to clamber on the bench to hand Luke his own chocolate-covered cone.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan says, all thoughts about his appetite for lunch pushed out of his mind by the size of Anakin’s smile. “That’s very sweet of you.”

Anakin ducks his head and rubs at the back of his neck, his face turning red like Obi-Wan’s popsicle. Obi-Wan thinks he’s never been this hopelessly endeared in his entire life.

“I should be going,” Satine says suddenly, standing up. Obi-Wan is a bit ashamed to realize he has forgotten her in the wake of the arrival of the Skywalkers.

But he knows he should not leave like this. They deserve more than this stilted sort of interrupted conversation.

Gently, he sets Luke on the ground despite the boy’s protests and chases after his ex-wife.

“Satine, wait,” he pants as he catches up with her.

“What, Obi-Wan?” she asks, voice strained and eyes a bit wet. “What else do you want me to see? What else is there left? I get it, alright. I get it. It was never you--it wasn’t--it wasn’t that you didn’t want pets or kids or--or all of it. You just didn’t want them with me. It was me. All along.”

She turns away, wiping frantically at her eyes. Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he’s ever felt worse.

“No,” he insists, reaching out to touch her forearm, painfully aware of how public they are right now. “No, you’ve got it wrong. It’s not...it was never you. It’s just…”

He pauses and tries to find the words to describe the past three years of his life. That first year of despair and hopelessness and isolation. And then the way Anakin and his children had crept into his life like a summer sunrise in the dead of winter, unexpectedly and then slowly and then all at once.

Obi-Wan shrugs helplessly, at a loss for words. There’s no way to describe something like that to someone who hasn’t experienced it. “It’s just…them.”

Satine takes a few moments to breathe before she turns to face him. She’s smiling and it looks mostly like a grimace, but he’ll accept it as more than he deserves.

“Oh Obi-Wan,” she says, laying a hand over the hand he has on his arm. “You always had so many rules.”

Obi-Wan fights the urge to bristle, reminding himself that Satine has the right to say anything she wants to him today and the amount of hurts they’ve dealt each other still probably wouldn’t be even.

It takes him completely by surprise then when she hugs him. He hugs her back automatically, blinking stupidly further into the park.

“I’m glad you’ve found your exceptions,” she whispers to him as she pulls back with a sad smile.

“Satine,” he says, but he doesn’t know where he’s going with that and falls silent. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, leaning in to press a featherlight kiss to his bearded cheek.

“Glad to know I can still make you speechless,” she tells him wryly.

“Always,” he promises her, and she laughs. Obi-Wan is suddenly struck with a sort of gut-wrenching realization that she used to be his best friend as well as his wife. He had lost both in one fell swoop.

“I think I just put you in a world of trouble,” she smirks, tilting her head back down the path. “Your partner doesn’t look very happy.”

“He’s not my--” Obi-Wan starts to say and then decides fuck it. He shrugs. “It was nice to see you again, Satine. I hope. I. I really am glad that you’re doing well.”

Satine smiles and squeezes his hand once before letting go. “You too, Obi-Wan. You too.”

When he gets back to his family, Anakin is staring intensely down at his shoes, while Luke and Leia are glaring just as intensely up at Obi-Wan.

“Who was that?” Leia demands immediately.

“Satine,” Luke relays to her, as if the word means one hundred terrible and tragic things.

“An old friend,” Obi-Wan corrects. “We haven’t seen each other in a while. I just...I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Did you?” Anakin asks, strangely intent as he looks down at Obi-Wan’s face.

“I did,” Obi-Wan tells him. It sounds like a promise. Yes, seeing Satine had been a peculiar twist of fate, but it had felt like a goodbye. To her. To the last vestiges of their marriage. To the man he had been when he had been in love with her.

The realization feels like it should hurt, but it doesn’t. Instead of ruminating on it though, he holds his hand out to Luke’s sticky fingers. “Shall we?” he asks, as Anakin falls into place on his other side, Leia held firmly in his arms. “It’s a fairly large hill, are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Yes!” Luke insists enthusiastically, all thoughts of the blonde woman his Obi had been talking to immediately forgotten.

“Perhaps by the time we get to the top, we’ll be prepared for lunch,” Obi-Wan tells Anakin wryly. The other man laughs, but his eyebrows stay pinched. Obi-Wan has the strangest desire to kiss them smooth, to lean over and kiss Anakin’s face until he’s blushing and laughing and light as he knows he can be.

But it’s very obviously not the time and place. Such a step forward needs both a proper time and place. After all, you may have multiple loves of your lives, but you only ever kiss each of them for the first time once. And Obi-Wan is pretty sure he’s only got the two; he’s not looking to mess this one up.

#asks #obikin #KUWSK #Keeping Up With The Skywalker-Kenobis #two days after this ficlet #obi-wan accidentally kisses anakin as he's leaving the house #anakin probably would react better to that if he hadn't spent the past 48 hours worried out of his mind that satine and obi wan #are gonna get back together #anakin to padme: i mean how can you meet him and NOT fall in love with him i dont understand #padme: i mean im not in love with him and ive met him.... #anakin: and i don't understand!!!!!

[ifonlyweknewwhatiwasdoing]

Do You Trust Me? (04 Whumptober 2021)

Prompt: "do you trust me?"/taken hostage/pushed

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker

Rating: Gen

Warnings: Major Character Death

Summary:

“Do you trust me?”

Obi-Wan looked up sharply to look at the man across from him.

“I trusted Anakin Skywalker. You are not him.”

“Do you trust me?”

Obi-Wan looked up sharply to look at the man across from him.

“I trusted Anakin Skywalker. You are not him.”

“But I am,” Vadar argued, “Just because you didn’t know about the considerable overlap doesn’t mean that I am not him.”

“And whose fault is that?” Obi-Wan snarled back at him angrily.

He couldn’t believe that he’d been such a fool but he supposed he deserved it for breaking his own vows so thoroughly. From experience, he should have known that Obi-Wan Kenobi wasn’t made for love. He’d failed at it so many times and yet here he was.

Standing on the edge of a cliff once more and keeping his eyes straight ahead as if he wouldn’t lose balance and tumble over the edge.

Except this time he had really done it.

Darth Vadar, the most feared Sith in the galaxy, who’d wrought hundreds of millions of deaths. Too many to be able to feasibly count.

“Obi-Wan please I don’t have time to argue with you,” Vadar said and it almost sounded as if he were pleading, “My master will be here any minute and we need to get out of here before that happens. I’ve set the ship to self-destruct and it will take us with it if we don’t leave.”

“I think I might rather die than escape with a liar and a Sith,” Obi-Wan told him simply.

“You- you can’t die,” Vadar almost sounded as if he were choking on the words, “Please you can’t. You have to believe me when I say I never meant to trick you. I was just afraid-.”

“That I would change my mind?” Obi-Wan asked sharply, “That I wouldn’t want to continue? That I wouldn’t accept that you are a monster? Was that what you were afraid of Vadar?”

Vadar flinched like he’d been slapped.

“That you would stop saying my name,” Vadar said quietly.

“What?”

Obi-Wan had expected a lot of answers but that hadn’t been it.

“No one has said my name since I was a child,” Vadar looked choked up, “Since my mother was still alive. I just wanted to keep hearing my name. I love you. It always sounded so perfect when you said it.”

“Is that something you think you deserve?” Obi-Wan finally asked, swallowing around the lump in his throat, “You’ve killed hundreds of millions of people. Lied to someone you claimed to love. Do you really feel as though you deserve comfort?”

“It doesn’t matter what I deserve or not,” Vadar told him firmly, “Please Obi-Wan, we’ve got to go. We’ll die if we stay.”

“Leave and- and what?” Obi-Wan was nearly hysterical, “Tell the council I’ve been kriffing a karking Separatist leader? A Sith? Tell them I’ve broken the rules by being attached to someone who would surely stab me in the back the moment it was convenient?”

“Tell them that I tricked you. Tell them you never loved me. Tell them- force, tell them that I forced you, I don’t care,” Vadar told him and Obi-Wan couldn’t ignore the way tears had started gathering in the man’s eyes, “Just live to tell them something.”

“You say that as if it wasn’t true,” Obi-Wan told him softly, “As if that wasn’t what you intended.”

“It wasn’t,” Vadar choked out, and then tears were falling down his face, “I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted to be loved. I’m sorry. I would have never if I- I would have never gone to you if I’d realized you wouldn’t be able to love me.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth but then he was being tugged forward.

“We’re running out of time,” Vadar told him as he force him through the hallways, “We need to go.”

Obi-Wan allowed himself to be dragged across the ship towards the escape pods. He felt hollowed out by Vadar’s words, unable to come up with a reasonable response.

“You said that no matter what I did in my past it was my past,” Vadar told him through tears as they moved quickly through the halls, “That you could love me despite my misdeeds. I should have realized that it wouldn’t extend to what I had done. I’m sorry.”

“Everyone tells me that it’s dark,” the man had told him, looking down to where their hands were connected.

Obi-Wan thought about it for a minute. His force presence wasn’t necessarily dark, but he could see how people would think that. It seemed more...lonely, perhaps a bit shattered. Like someone who’d had the rug pulled out from under them one too many times and didn’t know how to trust someone. It was the force presence of a man who was still just as scared as he’d been as a child but Obi-Wan didn’t know how to explain that to him.

“It’s not dark,” he said finally, slowly as he meticulously gathered his thoughts into words, “Don’t think me rude but I’d say it’s a perhaps a bit broken, like something hurt you and left it a bit jagged around the edges. But it’s not dark, it’s- well the only thing I think I could compare it to that would even come close would be a supernova.”

“The way you surround it,” the man had told him, “It’s makes everything feel so much better. Is there any way I might be able to do that?”

Obi-Wan smiled apologetically, “Not without years of training I’m afraid.”

It hurt to watch the beautiful face of that man fall in disappointment. He seemed to think about Obi-Wan’s answer and then he was looking up at him through his lashes.

“Then- then do you think you could do it again?” he asked hesitantly, “It- it just feels so nice. You make everything so quiet.”

---

“Please, please more,” Anakin begged under Obi-Wan, face flushed and eyes rolled up into his head.

Obi-Wan obliged, starting to thrust into him harder, reveling in the way the man accepted him so completely into his body and his mind.

Their signatures were tangled so thoroughly it was impossible to tell where one began and one ended and then Anakin was gasping, back arching up as he came. Obi-Wan followed closely, letting out a moan, and then before he could stop himself-

“I love you,” Obi-Wan moaned out.

Then he panicked as Anakin froze underneath him.

“Oh, oh shit I’m so-.” Obi-Wan began to apologize but was stopped by the way Anakin let out a sob, burying his head into Obi-Wan’s neck.

“Do you mean that?” he asked between choked breaths, “Please say you mean it.”

Obi-Wan felt his heart break at the way his lover had reacted.

“I mean it,” Obi-Wan promised, running his hands through Anakin’s hair.

“I love you too,” Anakin cried, “Say it again. Please say it again. Say my name.”

Obi-Wan kissed the top of his head and leaned next to his ear, “I love you Anakin.”

Anakin started to cry even harder, entire body shaking as he pressed as close as he could to Obi-Wan while still being at the awkward angle they were in.

“Even if I’ve done things that are unforgivable? Even if I had to do things I didn’t want to? I- I didn’t think anyone could love me after what I’ve done,” Anakin sobbed.

“Nothing is unforgivable,” Obi-Wan promised him with a kiss, “I love you Anakin and I forgive you. I want you regardless of what you’ve done. I know that you seemed to be a mercenary of some kind. I still love you.”

Anakin couldn’t stop the tears as he clutched to his lover. The only man he’d ever let touch him. The only person who had ever wanted to touch him. The man who said that he loved him even after he’d made so many mistakes.

“I thought you were a mercenary,” Obi-Wan told him stiffly but it hurt to say, more than he would have liked, “I thought your body count was in the hundreds, not nearly a billion people. How could you think that was the same thing?”

“You said that because the man who took me in made me that it wasn’t my fault,” Anakin choked out, stopping at the door to an escape pad and jabbing his fingers on the keypad, “You said I was innocent.”

Obi-Wan had. Obi-Wan knew what Anakin had told him. Sidious was the man who had paid for him and his mother and forced Anakin on the path he was on. He’d killed Anakin’s mother and forced him into this life.

But Obi-Wan hadn’t known it was Sidious. He thought Anakin had still been a slave, although one with more freedom than most. He thought Sidious was a slave owner, perhaps a mob boss of some sort- not, not the Sith who had orchestrated the war.

The door to the escape pod opened and then Obi-Wan was being pushed into it by a desperate Vadar. Obi-Wan stepped back to make room for him but the door shut in front of him and he was staring at Vadar through the transparisteel with a confused expression.

“Vadar what are you doing?”

Vadar put his hands on the transparisteel and gave Obi-Wan a wet smile.

“I love you Obi-Wan,” he told him, “You made me want to be a better person. So I’ve been collecting evidence against Palpatine. I’ve got enough to make a case. It’s been hardwired into the escape pod.”

“Palpatine?” Obi-Wan’s voice rose in disbelief, “The kriffing chancellor is the Sith in the senate?”

“Was,” Vadar corrected, “This is where he dies. This is where all the Sith die. All of them have boarded the ship. They think I’ve found a way to end the war. And I guess in a way I have.”

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly, “You don’t have to die with them Vadar.”

More tears fell down the man’s face, “I do. They are here and I need to answer for my own sins. Besides, there’s nothing left for me without you.”

Obi-Wan’s entire body went cold as he realized what Vadar’s plan was.

“You don’t have to,” Obi-Wan told him firmly, “Please Vadar! We can figure things out!”

He couldn’t die like this. It didn’t matter how angry Obi-Wan was, he couldn’t just shut off the way he-.

“I love you Anakin,” Obi-Wan tried, “I love you. Please don’t leave me alone.”

Anakin leaned his head on the clear door, “Can you say that again, please? Hearing that was the best thing that ever happened. I want to hear it again.”

“Anakin I love you,” Obi-Wan said again, “Please listen to me-.”

“It’s okay,” Anakin looked up at him with red, puffy eyes, expression broken, “You don’t have to try to convince me to leave. Just lying and saying that you loved me was enough Obi-Wan. I know you don’t anymore but I still wanted to hear it so bad. I love you too.”

“I’m not lying,” Obi-Wan felt his own tears start, “Please I’m sorry. I was angry. I love you Anakin Skywalker. Please don’t leave me.”

“I love you too,” Anakin nodded and then he hit a button on the side of the pod and Obi-Wan’s pod was being launched, secondary doors closing Anakin in the ship as Palpatine, Dooku, and their associates walked in the room.

Obi-Wan was thrown to one side of the pod as the ship blew, pieces of it smacking into the pod and sending him flying around in the small space.

Hours later, when the Jedi found him, bringing the pod into one of their ships, Obi-Wan played the recordings for them.

Anakin Skywalker had saved the galaxy. He’d more than righted all his wrongs.

And he’d died thinking Obi-Wan couldn’t love him.

#whumptober2021 #no.4 #do you trust me? #star wars #fic #major character death #nsfwhump #obikin #obikin fanfiction #musicsoul1982

[theyreonlynoodlesmike]

Oh, Loverboy: Part 7 (everyone x everyone, Star x Fem!Reader Centric)

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Warnings: roasting Michael, slight angst, anxiety, vampire lore, canon divergence begins here folks, Michael canonically acts like a total dick in this scene so-

Word Count: 1.8k

"And don't tell me it doesn't make her a bad person, Mike!" The little boy yelled as he cowered under his covers. You stood there, staring at the brunette. The tension was thick, and all the adoration and kindness he'd held for you had left. You could see the apprehension in his eyes, and the anger mingling within it. 

"Why did you let David take me there tonight, y/n?" He said, and you clicked your jaw. You could've guessed he would've been upset, but you didn't expect him to shift some of the blame onto you. It wasn’t like you had wanted to show him. And what other choice did you have? Cause a scene by arguing with David? Let him go without you?

"Who's David?" The little boy interrupted, and you shot him a look. One that made him clam his lips together and hide his face from you. Your eyes turned back to Michael, and you moved your fingers. You were trying to think of a way to explain, a way to ease the tension. The only thing you could think to say was,

"You wanted to go with them, Michael. What- What was I supposed to say?" But you were interrupted again, and you smelled her before you even heard her voice. You turned your head, just a fraction of a second before her voice rang out,

"Michael! Y/N!" And you swore under your breath. Part of you wondered if she even knew what had happened, but that didn't stop you from turning and hanging your head out the window. She stared up at you, worry clear in her eyes. "I have to talk to you and Michael! Can I come up?" She asked and you sighed. This is why you wanted them to turn. If she was fully one of you, she wouldn't be so out of the loop. But you pushed that argument off for another day and waved her up. 

It only took her a second, and, by the time you'd turned around, she was by your side. You reached for her hand, holding it tight. It felt good to have her next to you, to have her hand in yours. Especially when Michael was going to be this way. Even if she might agree with him more than you liked. 

"You know where they took me tonight. Don't you, Star?" Michael said, and you felt Star give your hand a squeeze before she was stepping closer. You didn't like that he was targeting her and you moved with her, just a step behind.

"Yes. It's my fault. If you hadn't met me, if I hadn't liked you." And you made a small noise and reached for her waist. It wasn't her fault, but you knew Star had a tendency to blame herself. To let others walk all over her. It wasn't like Michael hadn't followed you around the entire boardwalk. She turned to give you a look, and you didn't say a word. You turned your eyes back to Michael, and she continued, "We tried to warn you." She said, and that part was true. You'd tried to get David to let him leave, to let him go home. Star had even told him that it was blood.

"It was that night at the cave, wasn't it? That wasn't wine they gave me to drink. It was blood." And you gave him a look. It seemed he'd finally pieced it together. Took long enough, you thought. "It was David's blood." You were half tempted to correct him, to speak of your sire, but an earlier command made you bite your tongue. And the kid shrieked,

"You drank somebody's blood? Are you crazy?" And you nearly wanted to give the kid something to scream about. Still, Michael had seen that you'd wanted to speak, and he stared at you. You were too busy looking at the girl besides you, who's eyes had cast down to the floor. You saw the look in her eyes, the regret on her face. You could already imagine what she must've been telling herself. 

"Is there anything else I need to know?" He snarked, his eyes trained on you. And that was it. Any resolve you had snapped. Your eyes flicked to him and you took a step forward, passing the girl next to you.

"I know you're upset. I know you're hungry. I know you want someone to chew on." Your words were hard and heavy. Heavy enough to even silence the boy cowering in the corner, and especially the boy standing in front of you. Michael watched you come closer, seeming to lose a little bit of his hot air as you came closer. As if he was remembering what you'd done less than an hour before. You took a step with end of your words, until you were only a few inches from him. "But, it's not gonna be me, and it's not gonna be Star. Got that, loverboy? You followed us the first night, you came with us to the cave, and you drank from the bottle." You punctuated your words with a hard jab to his chest each time, your eyes flickering yellow as you stared into his baby blues. "We're not the ones that tricked you, and we're not the ones that have been hazing you. I went there tonight to watch out for you and I came here to make sure you were okay, because I care about you and so does Star." You gestured to yourself and then to the girl behind you.  "So, cut the attitude or you're on your own, loverboy. And trust me, our kind doesn't last long by themselves." The threat lingered in the air, and you watched as Michael clicked his jaw. He smiled for a moment, before looking away and lightly shaking his head. But he exchanged whatever smart remark he had for,

"So, what? I'm just like you and David now?" He asked, and you frowned. His voice had cracked, and his face had changed. A sliver of fear, of distraught, had poked through. You didn't like how he said it. How he seemed to think that this was a bad thing. You looked away for a moment, and Star spoke up behind you,

"No, you're not. You're like Laddie and me. We're not like them until-" But it seemed the kid had no problem cutting off Star. 

"Until you make your first kill!" And the three of you were silent. Michael stared at the both of you, but you could feel the weight of his eyes gravitate towards you. You'd never felt like the odd man out before. You had your place, you belonged to the coven. But, now? Surrounded by humans and halfs? You gulped and shifted your feet. You felt Stars hand slide into yours, and you tightened your fingers around her. Michaels voice shook as he asked,

"Why didn't you two kill me last night?" And you stared at him. You were almost shocked that he'd even asked, and the words were leaving your mouth before you could even think about them.

"Because you're one of us, Michael. We would never let anything happen to you." And Michael laughed, like what you said had to be a joke. But it was the truth. Even if the boys hazed him, Michael was one of you. And covens protected their own. You frowned, your eyes quick to turn into a glare. Before you could snap at him again, he said,

"One of you? Why am I even one of you? Why didn't you kill me the first night?" You paused. You had to admit, that was a good question. It was something you'd started to wonder yourself. You looked over at Star. Her mouth opened, but she hesitated. As if she didn't know what to say. And, as you watched the water pool in her eyes, you decided to break a rule. One that you were sure that would bite you later on.

"I think- I think it had to do with my dad." You started, and you watched as confusion took over Michaels features. He seemed to forget all about that awkward first meeting, and you didn't necessarily blame him. After the feeding, you were sure he wasn't thinking about much else. "He- The boys don't just turn anyone. It's a big, big, decision. Usually. But they," You trailed off. You remembered that night, how you'd gotten a bad feeling. You were starting to feel the same one now. "David talked to my dad that night. They told me to go inside. I thought it was just- y'know, coven stuff. But-" Your eyes were flicking between different spots on Michaels chest, before they flicked up to his eyes. His clear, baby blue eyes. A thought occurred to you then. A thought that made the bad feeling crawl into your throat, as if to stop whatever words were threatening to spill out. "I think my dad told David to turn you."

"Your dad?" Star asked, in just a whisper, but you didn't pay her any mind more than a simple nod. You were trying to piece this together, trying to find an explanation. 

"Max." You said emptily into the open air, and the word stung your tongue. Of course, Star knew. She had to. She knew what you were, she had to know what your dad was. Even if he'd tried to keep it from her as long as possible. And Michael knew. He'd met him. So why did it feel like you were disobeying him?

"But he passed the test!" Sam exclaimed, and you turned your eyes towards him then. He'd been so quiet that you'd forgot that he was there. Your own eyes filled with confusion. Test? He seemed to shrink away from your gaze as you finally put together what he'd been saying. How he knew the things he did. He'd known you were one of "them", known about the first kill, and now he was testing your dad? You realized then that you were staring into the face of a baby hunter, and your hand gripped Stars tighter as panic spiked up your spine. 

"What tests? What tests, Sam?" Michael asked his brother, and you watched as the little boy pushed himself up. You nearly shrunk back, stepping towards the wall. Blocking the girl next to you half-way from view. The urge to flee filled you as the little boy, now known as Sam, rattled off a series of tests,

"Garlic, water- He even had a reflection!" And you scoffed impulsively. Garlic didn't even work, regular water didn't burn, but a reflection? While that was tricky, it was an easy fix. Before you could stop yourself, you said,

"Well, someone invited him in." And you realized a moment too late that maybe you shouldn't have said that.

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #star the lost boys #the lost boys star #sam the lost boys #the lost boys sam #michael the lost boys #the lost boys michael

[amethystpath-writes]

hi! I just saw your username is similar to mine haha. I saw that your asks are open and was wondering if you would be willing to write a protective villain caring for a broken hero? if not that's totally okay! from your fellow amethyst buddy lol

Oh hey! Another amethyst writer! I am most definitely willing to write that :D

The door opened with less ease than Villain would have liked. The downstairs wasn't as well maintained as the main floor- mostly because he'd never managed to capture Hero so there was no reason to make sure it was taken well care of.

Villain squinted as he stepped in and shut the door. Going from light to dark wasn't pleasant and he couldn't see for a moment. As his vision cleared, though, he noticed Hero wasn't in front of the door like he expected. He glanced around in the dark. How does anyone see down here?

After a minute or two, he heard a wheezy cough. Had Hero been running? Why was she wheezing?

"My men told me you finally spoke," Villain said, walking to where he heard the captive hero.

A deep breath. Another. Both wheezes. Villain squinted. "You'll speak to them and not me? A bit rude, I think."

He reached an arm out, knowing he was at least in front of Hero. His plan, originally, was to charm her. Give her a princely kiss on the hand. However, it didn't work out this way.

"No, don't! Please. Please, don't. I'll talk. I'll talk; I'm talking."

Villain's eyes went wide more quickly than they had at anything else before. He was generally easy to startle, but nothing was so bad as this. "What are you- Hero, are you crying?" She is. She's crying. "Hey, I wasn't going to- You didn't actually think I was going to hurt you, did you?"

Her only response was further sobs, and tiny, 'I'm sorry's.

"What is this? Is your partner hurting you at home?" He squinted at her again, never reaching a hand out again. "You never acted this way during our fights. I don't understand what's happening."

Time passed and Hero only continued to apologizing, sometimes saying stuff like, "Not again," or, "It's okay. I'm okay." The latter she would repeat over and over again like she was trying to convince herself of the words.

"Can I help you stand? Maybe some fresh air will help, yeah?"

Hero tilted her head down, but held her hands out to Villain. He could only barely see them now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark of the room. He helped her to her feet before quickly realizing she'd been sitting too long to stand on her own, much less walk. Villain pulled one of her arms around his shoulder in order to assist in getting her out.

It took Villain opening the door and readjusting to the light to realize why Hero had been so...so terrified when he initially held a hand out.

Her clothing was torn, only one shoulder of her shirt holding the rest of the cloth on her body. Her pants were now mock shorts- looked like someone hacked at them with a butter knife or something with a dull edge.

As for Hero's skin...Villain felt sick. He nearly grabbed one of his men and told them to hold Hero while he went to find his second in command, but right now? He didn't trust anyone to hold Hero. Anyone could have done this to her. Any of them could have walked in that room and tortured Hero into telling her secrets. That wasn't how this was supposed to be done. Villain wouldn't stand for the violence, but what could he do while holding Hero right now?

"Hero?" He made sure his voice was soft, not roaring and ragged like how Hero's torturer- or torturers- most likely sounded.

A hum barely sounded in her throat.

Villain took this as a cue to continue talking. "I want you to tell me who did this to you. You don't have to; I won't force you, but it shouldn't happen again, and I can't put a stop to it unless you do tell me who it is."

Her head fell on his arm as they continued walking. "M' hurt-ss."

"What's that?"

"Legs." Villain heard her swallow. "They hurt. Can't- can't keep walk-" She grunted. "-walking."

Villain stopped, but then didn't know what to do. "Should I- Do you- um- want me to carry you, then?" He felt her head nod a bit against his arm. "Okay." He nodded. "Okay, uh- I guess... I'm going to- er- put an arm behind your shoulders and beneath your knees, alright?" She groaned, and he proceeded.

***

What seemed like an hour later, Villain walked into his second in command's office. He'd left Hero in his own room, somewhere he hoped no one would find her. Not that they'd necessarily take her, but...well, Villain was a little frightened. He had no idea his men would ever do such terrible things to Hero- or anyone for that matter.

"Did you know our guys are torturing Hero down there!" His voice was a shout, but he wasn't angry, just shocked.

Second In Commamd (SOC) grunted. "I heard her screams the other day, but didn't think much of it."

Villain was appalled, enough so that his lip curled. "That was a joke, right?"

Looking up, SOC rose a brow. "No?" He pushed himself out of his chair, rounding to the front of the desk where he promptly sat. "What? You have a problem with it? It's Hero that we're talking about. Y'know? Your nemesis?"

Villain huffed and shook his head. "Opponent," he corrected sharply. "'Nemesis' implies I would do anything to be rid of her. Including shoving knives under her skin and- and beating and whipping her like she's some rabid beast!"

"Shouldn't you be?"

"Shouldn't I be willing to torture her?"

SOC nodded.

"No. No, that's not who we are." Villain turned toward the door, nearly spewing out a command as he reached for the handle, but SOC spoke.

"Speak for yourself."

Villain's hand slid to his side, but he didn't turn yet. He was afraid if he looked at his friend, he might lunge at him.

"That girl is capable of destroying us all because she has the public's eye. We destroy her, show them how damaged and broken she is, and we win. We win, Villain. No more fighting, no more sabotages on either end- We. Win."

Villain was now furious as he faced his friend- old friend at this point. "At what expense! This was never what we were about and you know it." He pointed an accusatory finger at SOC before clenching both hands into fists.

"Maybe you weren't." SOC stood from his desk, took two steps closer to Villain. "Did you ask anyone else how they felt about not getting seconds at meals because you wanted to feed your little speechless pet?"

"You've been torturing her because of your gluttony?" Villain's tone was acid and he spoke through his teeth.

"Better than giving her a free place to live meanwhile we get nowhere!"

"You're sick." Villain shook his head. "You're sick and I want you out of this building."

SOC smiled. The door opened behind Villain and in stepped one of the two's men. Before he could respond, Villain's arms were jerked behind his back and something clicked on both of his wrists. Cuffs.

"You wanna try to fire me again?" SOC asked, a wicked smile tugging at either corner of his lips.

Being dragged back, Villain didn't bother screaming his wrath at SOC. Instead, he yelled as loudly as he could, "Hero, if you hear me, run! Get out of here!"

All the while, SOC returned to his desk chair, muttering happily, "Now it looks like we have two examples to make of to the public."

#thanks for the ask amethyst buddy! #asks and answers #request #hero x villain #hero x villain story #good villain #enemy to caretaker #hero whumpee #torture #ptsd #whump #whumpee #whumper #long post #original work

[spencersawkward]

switchblade faith//spencer reid - chapter 8

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid.

pairing: Fem!OC/Spencer

word count: 3.9k

content warnings: discussion of a dead body (for a case), discussion of sensory overload (idk if that's a warning but just in case).

A/N: sorry this took so long! i've had a lot of writer's block with this series, but i'm feeling a lot more motivated with it, now. anyway enjoy!

masterlist

my feet slam into the pavement at a rate that makes me wonder if my heart can take it. I can feel the air in my lungs, stinging, and the way it never seems like enough. I can't stop. my arms are pumping and my legs burn.

I'm sure I look like a mess right now, exhausted and sweaty as I make my way up the biggest hill by my apartment. I haven't been running in a while, and this incline is even more daunting than it was before.

I use the momentum I've built from before now and force myself up. every breath rips through me violently until I'm sure that if I stop running, I'll collapse. but I keep pushing, knowing it'll be worth it.

I hated running until college. just absolutely despised the thought of getting outside and forcing myself to move quickly. the older I get, though, the more refreshing it's gotten. it helped me escape from midterms, from the pressure that constantly seemed to mount with every passing day. sometimes it feels like all of it keeps piling on, and it's never going to stop.

of course, that's not really the way to look at life. I've had things to balance out the work, friends to call and ways to let out the hammering violence that always seem to fill the spaces between my ribs. running clears my head when nothing else does.

once I get to the top, I bend over and rest my palms on my knees so that I can relax. I can hear my heart beating in my ears and can feel my pulse thudding against my throat. it's good, though. I needed to do this again, to get exercise.

I resist the urge to lay down flat on the pavement. DC isn't really a good place to do that; everyone around me is on a morning stroll with their partner or they're out for a jog themselves. I pass several enthusiastic-looking dogs out for a walk. the sheer number of people around me should make me feel normal.

it doesn't.

I straighten and stretch out my muscles, wincing at the way my calves feel if I move them funny. I don’t want to get called in for a case today, but that's naive. there will always be another case because there will always be people we need to stop. maybe I'm just not jaded enough to not care. I like to think that's a good thing, though.

...

when I head into the office a couple hours later, there's a to-go cup of coffee resting on my desk. I smile to myself, set my bag down and shrug off my coat, then peek over the divider to see Spencer with a case file open and an identical to-go cup a couple inches away.

"is this your doing?" I refer to the coffee. he nods and smiles at me, seemingly not in the mood to talk.

"thanks, Reid."

sitting down to do some work, I sneak a peek at him. Spencer is acting different from last weekend. more shy. I'm not really sure the reason, unless he just felt particularly outgoing at the party and is now back to his default self.

we get a case before the hour is up, and then my mind is occupied by the details.

jet rides, though now a familiar routine, are probably my favorite part of the job. I don't feel totally unproductive, but I still have time to unwind and talk to people on our way. Emily and I have gotten much closer within the past few weeks and sometimes she tells me stories about her old job that keep me on the edge of my seat.

there's something so mysterious about her that I just appreciate; she's like a cool older cousin to me. and she's great at making fun of Morgan, which is something that I've found enjoyable as well. sometimes he needs to be knocked down a peg-- she's the woman to do it.

"how many?" I trace my finger down the smooth skin of Derek's arm, where he's lifted his sleeve just enough to show the inked lion. it's a big tattoo, and I'm somewhat surprised he has one at all. he just doesn't really seem the type.

"five right now." he flexes his bicep flirtatiously, and I immediately remove my hand with a repulsed expression, rolling my eyes at the chuckle he lets out.

"don't feed his ego like that." Emily warns from across the table. she's flipping through one of the plant magazines that we've stashed in the snack cupboards (much to Hotch's disapproval). I turn to see Morgan's reaction.

"you a little jealous, Prentiss?" he teases. her only response is a glance that dares him to push further. they both know that Emily has absolutely no interest in him, which I suppose adds to their friendship. Morgan leans down by my ear, but he makes no effort to quiet his voice. "you should ask about her tattoos."

"you have tattoos?" my eyes widen at this, voice a little louder than usual. Hotch glances over at us from his seat a ways away, but doesn't say anything. Reid is passed out on the couch, strangely tired for the middle of the day; Rossi's writing something in his miniature journal.

"that's not anyone's business." she says more to Morgan than to me.

"I wanna see!" I set my glass of ice water down on the table and straighten up. Emily pretends to be exhausted by the persistence, but she closes her magazine momentarily.

"look, I can't show them all here." she raises a suggestive eyebrow.

"then how does Derek know?" I smirk. Emily makes a face, but Morgan is the one who replies.

"this one gets a little loose-lipped when she drinks too much." he teases. I snort and glance at Emily. I've seen her tipsy before, but never drunk. at most, she gets affectionate with all of us and calls us her best friends in the whole world. which, honestly, isn't an unwelcome sentiment.

"I do not." she argues.

"yeah, you do." Reid mumbles from the couch cushion where he's been resting his head. I jump at the sudden noise, and we all turn to him.

"look who's up." Emily smiles. Reid stretches his legs out, limbs so long that his feet hang off the end of the couch. he's wearing mismatched socks again today, one with bananas and one covered in sushi rolls. I smile to myself.

"I'm not," he argues. "someone had to correct you."

Morgan and I let out an amused laugh. my eyes dart between Spencer and the two other agents. "I feel like I'm the only one here who hasn't seen Prentiss drunk."

"yes, you have." she frowns.

"no. not, like, plastered."

"don't let Garcia hear you say that." Morgan laughs. I snort.

"why?"

"any excuse to party, and she'll take it." he shakes his head affectionately.

"she'd just call it bonding." Prentiss adds in. I have a soft spot in my heart for Pen. for all of the darkness we see here, she makes it a little bit brighter with her quips and sparkly pens and neon glasses. she's a blessing.

"what's so bad about that?" I defend for her sake.

"nothing's wrong with it, per se," Emily shrugs. "it just means we aren't as professional as we should be."

"I'd argue that our job actually means we get to let loose more when we have the time." I shrug. Morgan offers his fist to pound, and I oblige with a satisfied smile.

"you two are children, you know that?" Emily gestures between Derek and me. I shrug, about to return to my crossword when she speaks again. "how many tattoos do you have, Clea?"

I blink for a second, deciding whether or not to lie. it would be kind of cool to sound badass, but I don't know if I even have the mental capability to fib to a bunch of profilers. "none."

"what?" Morgan looks at me with confusion.

"yeah, none. why is that such a big surprise?" I laugh at their reactions. Prentiss is alarmed, too.

"I don't know-- you seem like the kind of person to get a heart tattooed on your thigh or something." Morgan shrugs. I make a face, silent.

"that's offensive."

Prentiss snorts and finishes her drink. I peek over and see Reid with his eyes closed but a slightly amused smile on his face. by the couch, I can see through the window. we're slipping through gray clouds that are saturated with rain, and the weather change causes the jet to shake a bit.

my fingertips wrap around the arm of the seat and Emily eyes me warily.

"you okay?"

"don't like flying." I answer, nostrils flaring slightly. usually with these trips, I've been able to hide my apprehension for flying by holding onto my knee below the table or something, but the sudden jerks are putting me off.

it's stupid-- plane anxiety is ridiculously common, and I don't think it's necessarily unwarranted. the problem is that to a bunch of people trained in behavioral analysis, it shows a blatant fear of not having control.

which is true, but it's not like I need that plastered all over my face every time we board a flight.

"would you get a tattoo if you could?" Emily changes the subject, thankfully, and I bite down on my bottom lip.

"I think so, yeah." it's said without much thought; all that's on my mind right now is wondering what our ETA is. Morgan shifts in his seat to smirk.

"really."

"sure."

he nods appreciatively before turning to look back out the window. droplets of moisture are collecting there, but they only distort the image of Portland stretched out below. the water is steel gray and rippled with wind.

I've never been here. for some reason, I find myself wondering what it smells like. that mingling of city scent and ocean, if they meet in the middle to form their own distinct identity. if it will settle on my tongue and in my clothes.

it's funny to me that when I go to different places and return, I don't notice how different it all smells until I breathe it in through the fabric of my shirts, and from there it all comes rushing back. Spencer mentioned during a case once that scent creates the most powerful memory reaction out of all our senses-- and I believe it.

DC smells like humidity and rain-slicked streets, Montana like dust. even the jet has a particular one that I don't associate with anything right now, but I know I will in the future. like I'm standing in the formation of a memory.

half-baked.

...

we've got the hoods of our raincoats up as we make our way into the office of our latest victim. Morgan holds the door and I wander in, staring up at the enormous glass walls of the place. a stray droplet falls from the hood of my jacket and onto my nose, rolling down the bridge and causing me to sniffle.

her boss is surprisingly dismissive of us when we get to his office, reluctantly getting off a phone call and giving me something of a dead-fish handshake. as we take a seat at his desk, I can smell the overbearing stench of his expensive cologne.

he's got exactly the kind of look that I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole: taut, judgmental face with a stiff mustache and slicked-back black hair that honestly is probably dyed. his eyes linger on me for a bit longer than I appreciate, but I clear my throat and try to brush off the discomfort.

Winona's body was found in a ditch off the side of a highway, dumped like trash. based on the ME report, she was alive when he threw her in, but died shortly after from her wounds. the whole thing is gruesome and as her employer notes her tendency to daydream and occasional tardiness, I want to reach across the table to smack him.

Morgan is able to keep his cool better than I can, nodding. I know it's important to know her behaviors in order to build our profile, but I still don't like the way this guy is talking about her.

"she wasn't really the strongest employee we've got, but she was nice enough around the office." he shrugs. I notice the gold wedding band that glints on his ring finger, the way he leans back in his swivel chair. he's got evaluative eyes.

by the time we're done, I'm practically flying out the door of his office and hurrying to the elevator. we got what we needed to know from him, if not through a somewhat convoluted method.

"nice guy." I note sarcastically after punching the down button. Morgan tucks his hands into his jeans pockets and looks at our warped reflections in the elevator doors.

"we talk to a lot of people like that. you get used to it."

"didn't seem too concerned about her at all."

"I don't think guys like that are concerned about much more than themselves."

"you should have mentioned a tax evasion investigation happening around here," I smirk. "that would probably put the fear of God into him."

Morgan chuckles and looks over at me. it would be unprofessional to fist bump with so many people around, although the smile we share is definitely a great equivalent.

as we pack into the metal box with a bunch of employees, they look at us curiously. the enormous FBI label on the back of our jackets probably doesn't help, but I pretend to look like I know what I'm doing as we step out into the lobby.

in all reality, faking it until I make it is the only thing I know how to do.

...

the late night cravings come as a surprise as I stand over a map of Portland. my eyes are starting to cross from staring at all the minuscule details for so long, and my fingers are twitching from a mixture of hunger and overloaded caffeine.

we were supposed to go to bed about two hours ago, but I know for a fact that I'm not the only one sitting in my motel room with open files and a determined expression. I do happen to be the only person rooming alone, however, and the silence has been helpful.

Reid's been working on a geographic profile, but there's something missing. I'm not sure what it is. all I know is that if I don't figure it out soon, it's going to eat away at me. based on his activity patterns, there are only a few more days before this guy abducts another woman.

except now I'm just thinking about how much time we don't have, and that sort of sends me into a spiral, too. I'm prepared to always be running against a clock for this job, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. I'm going to lose it if I stare at any more tiny lines indicating roads or side streets or whatever else demands attention.

I need to get out of my head.

before taking time to really consider anything else, I grab my phone and look up pizza places nearby. what I need right now is some sustenance and tv-- or at least something to distract me enough to recharge.

I change into my pjs and wash my face while I wait for the delivery person to arrive, try to ease the day out of my bones. there used to be a whole process for me after work every day, where I'd shut off my brain. The Real Housewives of Atlanta provided ample help for this, along with fuzzy socks and glasses of red wine. I can make do with this.

once the pizza guy comes and I pay for my food, I don't even make way to my room; instead, I go to the person I know who needs this more than I do.

"Clea?" Spencer rubs his eyes as he swings open the door, glasses held in the other hand.

"hi." I smile brightly.

"what are you doing here?" his soft tone and the dim light from a motel lamp in the corner tells me that Morgan is asleep right now in the other bed.

in response to his question, I hold up the box of pizza with a grin. his eyes widen.

"I can't eat all this alone." definitely a lie, but saying that he needs to take a break probably wouldn't sway him enough.

for a second, Spencer seems to debate this in his head. when he runs a shaky hand through his hair, I roll my eyes. "it's pizza, dude. not a wedding proposal. you can go back to the case in twenty minutes."

he nods this time and looks up at me as I turn and start toward my room. closing the door gently behind him, I don't miss the way he increases his pace a little to catch up with me.

"did you get mushrooms?" he asks. I throw him a disgusted look before realizing what he's talking about and breaking into a grin.

"you remembered!" I reference my hatred of the fungus. Spencer smiles with pride, turns his gaze to the carpeted floors. I unlock the door and let us in.

"of course I remember," he snorts. "it's hard to forget."

I giggle at the way he immediately uses the sink to wash his hands, and I join him after setting the box on the bed.

"favorite soap scent?" I ask absently. suds cover my fingers as he rinses the water from his. normally, this isn't a question I'd ask, but Spencer seems like he would have a response.

"you know, I really enjoy anything fresh-smelling," he thinks about it. "like waterfall smell."

"I like those, too."

"what's your favorite?"

"there's this brand that I love that specializes in antibacterial soaps, and they have a lavender one that literally makes me ascend." I laugh. Spencer is drying his hands with a folded towel and his face lights up.

"Ravi's Organics?" he suggests. my heart leaps with recognition.

"yes! oh my god, have you used their cracked cinnamon one?"

"I have the hand sanitizer in my bag." Reid's eyes are so pretty. they sparkle with a hazel color, almost chocolatey in the cheap motel light.

"they have a hand sanitizer for it?" my jaw drops. he nods and I shake my head slowly. we walk over to the bed to eat the pizza. he seems hesitant, though, and pauses.

it takes me a second to remember that Spencer has different boundaries and is just kind of awkward in general. even though there's no obvious tension between us, I don't want to make him uncomfortable, so I plop down on the floor.

"you like Ravi's Organics." he states it back to himself more than to me, and as I pop open the box to reveal a beautiful pepperoni pizza, I nod vigorously.

"yeah, it's actually kind of a funny story," we start to dig in immediately. I lift an enormous slice to my lips and bite into the perfection. it's so good. "when I was little, my parents used to call me Rascal."

"Rascal?" he laughs through a bite of food.

"like the raccoon? from that book?" it's a kid's story.

"why?" he snorts. I take a second to chew before replying.

"I just get really overwhelmed by certain sensory things-- like, I hate being sticky or having any kind of weird texture on my hands. so whenever we went out to eat or anything, I would always sit on the outside of the booth so I could run to the bathroom and wash my hands as I pleased." I explain all of this with a slight frown on my face. it's true, I've just never really thought about it.

"I don't like sticky stuff, either." he offers.

"yeah, it got pretty bad. but I guess I just grew out of it. I'm not sure when." I pluck a piece of pepperoni off the top and slide it into my mouth.

Spencer takes in this information for a second while he eats, and I'm momentarily worried that I've overshared. he came for some food and now I've served up a weird childhood memory to accompany it.

but then he does something funny and altogether endearing.

"actually, raccoons are very cleanly creatures, despite their dietary habits." he tells me.

frankly, it makes me feel better than anything else that he could have said. "fastidious little things, right?"

"exactly." he chuckles. his shoulders are hunched, elbows leaning on his knees.

"fix your posture." I say gently, noticing the way his spine curves abysmally when he's sitting across from me. his cheeks turn a pretty pink, but he follows directions.

"is it that bad?" he's a bit embarrassed. immediately, I soften and do what comes easily, making a joke.

"if you don't work on it, you're gonna be living in a French cathedral by the age of thirty."

Spencer snorts-- genuinely almost chokes on his food-- and looks at me with his almost childlike eyes. there's something in them that I can't decipher at all, almost so obvious that it completely goes over my head.

"that was mean." he's still trying to recover from the onset of giggles, and I lean forward to grab another slice, suppressing a proud grin myself.

"your future straight-backed self will thank me."

"I'll remember that." he nods dutifully.

"I'm sure you will."

we share a secretive smile before I bite into my pizza and launch into a different subject. the more I learn about Spencer, the more I want to know. I feel like there are things beneath every new surface that would be fascinating to understand.

"what's it like having an eidetic memory?"

he frowns like he isn't sure how to answer. I thought he'd already have something locked and loaded, a prepared response for a question he definitely gets frequently. when he opens his mouth, I find myself hanging on every word. "it's... interesting."

"blessing or a curse?"

"both."

"would you ever give it up if given the option?" I narrow my eyes a bit. I'm especially curious about this.

"no." this is delivered with certainty. for a second, I stare at him with about a million more questions in my head. of course, they're completely out-of-bounds and way too personal, but they're still there.

"hm." I say instead. as usual, delivering thrilling commentary at every turn.

Spencer peeks at me over his pizza for a second, seeming to want to say something else, but decides against it. our eyes meet; I'm not sure what it is, maybe a silent agreement or something else that's unspoken, but we decide not to press further on either end.

whatever he's got tucked away in that big brain of his, he's not ready to talk about it with anyone-- much less a new colleague in a dumpy motel. there's a time and place for certain things, and boundaries to respect.

I change the subject before he can make some lame excuse to leave. for some reason, I just don't want him to leave me here in this room.

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added/removed for this series): @reidsconverse @voidsfilm

#spencer reid #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #best friends to lovers #fanfic #mgg #matthew gray gubler #baby spencer #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid x reader

[write-orflight]

Like Real People Do. (Spencer x Reader)

Chapter 1

*Gif not mine*

Prologue Chapter 2

Rating: M, eventually will be smut.

Words: 2.5k

Warnings: regular CM crime stuff. brief mentions of previous assault. vomit. 

Request: OPEN/CLOSED

A.N Thanks for the love on the Prologue, message to be added to taglist. much love Cia

        Chapter 1: However scary 

You start to follow Hotch outside his office, barely containing the smile on your face. You couldn’t help it, the job you’ve been dreaming about for a decade was yours now. As you left the office, you couldn’t help but notice the short Italian man exiting his. 

“Rossi?” You smiled. The man in question turned and grinned upon seeing you. 

“Bella!” He opened his arms to hug you which you automatically accepted. 

“I thought you retired, old man.” 

Rossi scoffed. “You know me, can’t stay away for long.” Hotch stepped up, joining you guys. “So am I correct in assuming you’ve taken the job?” Rossi asks. 

“You would be correct.” You smile. “And now, since I have a big girl job and can take care of myself. I’m hoping those mysterious money drops into my bank account will stop.” You gave him a knowing look. Though you and Rossi were not as close as you and Hotch, you still revered him as a father figure as much as he did you a daughter.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He says holding up his hands. 

“Sure you don’t, old man.” You laughed. “How’s… Krystal?” You say trying to remember which wife Rossi was on now. 

“Divorced.” Rossi smirks. 

“Aw, I’m sorry, Dave. I thought 3 would be the lucky number.” 

“So did I.” Rossi smiled. “How’s Persephone?” David smiles widely at the mention of your adoptive mother's name. 

“Still not interested in becoming number 4.” You laughed, inducing a boisterous laugh from Dave and a small chuckle from Hotch. “She’s currently backpacking through India and building eco houses along the way.” 

“Sounds like Persephone.” David smiles. You guys continue to catch up for a couple of more minutes not noticing the team staring up at you from the bullpen.

“Do you guys know who she is?” Emily asks 

“No but Rossi and Hotch know her by the looks of it.” Derek replies. 

“I met her in the elevator.” Spencer speaks up. “Her name’s Y/N.” 

“Wonder what she's doing here.” Derek says as Penelope walks up with a tin of her famous cookies that Spencer is already reaching for. She pulls back so it’s out of reach from his perch on his desk. 

“Well, if she took the job then that is your newest team member.” Penelope smiled. “Hotch asked me to do a background check last week so I assume he’s hiring her. Which means these cookies are for her.” She says pulling even more back as Spencer continues to make grabby hands at the tin. 

“Why does she get cookies her first day? I didn’t get any on my first day.” Spencer points out, not caring how much he sounds like a child. 

“I’m not really allowed to talk about it, but let’s just say I think she could really use the kindness.” 

“What did you find out about her, Baby girl?” Derek asked. 

Penelope frowns slightly, she never liked keeping secrets, especially from the team. “I’m really not allowed to say, but what I can tell you is that she’s smart, like really smart. Maybe not Reid’s level but smart enough to make dean's list at an Ivy League every year.” 

“Which school?” Spencer asks. 

“Stanford.” 

Spencer nods. That would make her pretty smart, that or just good at school. As he’s exiting his thoughts, JJ walks past them, throwing a “We have a case.” Over her shoulder before heading to Rossi, Hotch and the new girl. 

We all begin filing into the conference room, Rossi, Hotch and Y/N walking in last. Hotch clears his throat. “This is Agent Y/L/N.” He says gesturing at you. “She will be joining us this case. I’m sure you guys will get around to formal introductions later.” Hotch says before taking a seat nodding at JJ to start. You hold up your hand in a small wave before taking a seat next to Hotch. Everyone else regards you with a small nod except a brightly dressed blonde woman who excitedly waves back at you. 

“We’re heading to Nashville.” A blonde woman, you assume, is JJ says pulling up images of victims on the screen. You swallowed the lump in your throat, you were used to crime scene photos, you studied several in the FBI academy but kids would always get to you. “3 boys ages 10-13 all have gone missing on their way home from school, all found 5 days later buried arms across chest, heads shaved.” 

“Signs of remorse are obviously there but the hair...is something different.” A dark haired woman pointed out. 

“Could be trichophilia.” You pointed out. Everyone looked at you, you cleared your throat under the scrutiny. “Trichophilia. It’s the fetishzation of hair.” You provide. Everyone nods and JJ continues to provide information on the case before Hotch announces wheels up in 30. You go to grab your files and notebook when the brightly dressed blonde woman ambushes you a tin fully extended to you. 

“Hi, I’m Penelope Garcia, and these are for you!” practically shoving the tin into your hands. 

“Thank you, I’m Y/N.” You smiled, you weren’t really a sweets person but you weren’t going to turn down the kindness. A brown skinned man and the dark haired woman from before walked up to you both. 

“I’m Emily Prentiss, this is Derek Morgan” she says both holding their hands out for you to shake. You shuffle the cookies and files into one arm to shake hands with them.

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You say back. 

“So you seemed to already know Hotch?” Derek pointed out. 

You had been prepared for someone to ask about that so you rattled off your prepared speech. “Yes, Hotch is a family friend.” That seemed like the easiest way to explain your relationship. 

“So that’s how you were able to steamroll in here, huh? Friends with the boss?” The man laughs. 

“No, I think it might’ve been one of my several degrees, merits or letters of recommendation, one of which from the director himself.” You point out. “Though I suppose knowing Aaron didn’t necessarily hurt things.” 

Derek holds up his hands in surrender. “That could be true too. I guess we’ll see out on the field.” He says before him and Prentiss walk out. 

You sigh heavily and start heading out the same way before a small voice pipes up behind you. 

“They’ll come around.” 

You turn your eyes onto the man you had met in the elevator before. “Sorry?” 

“Morgan and Prentiss. They’ll come around, they acted like that towards me when I first started too. It’s-uh because you’re young.” 

You nodded. He had a point and so did Morgan in a sense. You were very young, seemingly too young to be starting in a field like this. You knew it’d be hard to believe Hotch didn’t pull some strings for you. 

“I knew my age would probably raise some questions. But I worked really hard, and it sucks I have to prove myself 10x over just because of my age.” 

“I understand.” He says, following you out of the conference room. 

“I felt like you would. You introduced yourself as Dr. Reid before but we look around the same age.” 

“Yes, I hold 3 doctorates.” 

“Three?!” You said incredulously. “What were you like, eleven starting college?” 

“12, actually.” He smiles. He has a nice smile, instantly crosses your brain. You dash that thought immediately. 

“That would have to make you some sort of genius.” 

“I believe there’s not quantifiable way to measure intelligence but I suppose by societal standards, I am. I have an IQ of 187.” 

You let out a deep whistle. “And here I thought I’d be the smart one.” You laugh. 

He fumbles a bit over his words. “I-I mean you still could be. L-Like I said, there’s no way to accurately measure intelligence.” 

You laugh before rounding your new desk grabbing your go bag underneath it. “Thanks for the vote of confidence but we both know that’s not true.” You smile before turning to head towards the jet. 

——————————————————

You and the team had been in Madison county for 4 days now and you were hitting a wall. The day you arrived there had been a 4th body found, same cause of death, same shaved head only this time the word HELP was carved into the boy’s back. You knew this was a part of the job, going to crime scenes and having to see bodies but you couldn’t stop the thoughts. His hands were on your neck again, his knife grazing your sides. You felt the bile rise up. 

“Pull over.” You all but scream to Morgan he nods, zipping the car to the side of the road. You instantly hop out and release your lunch. 

Morgan steps out and pats your back. “It’s alright, kid. First one’s never easy. Especially when it’s children.” 

He thinks you’re sick from the crime scene You think. That’s probably for the best.

“Thanks.” You mumble.  He nods as you guys wordlessly walk back to the SUV. 

Since then you’ve been at the police station working on the geographical profile with Spencer. You know Morgan had probably said something to Hotch about your upchuck and that was why you were stuck here. But still, you couldn’t think to complain. Spencer was incredibly smart and great to work with. 

“There’s something we’re missing.” He says off handedly. You nod agreeing. You take in the circle like pattern the unsub seemed to be going in. It didn’t make sense. You had profiled him as a socially awkward loner with an overbearing parent. He wasn’t good with adults but could somehow get kids to trust him. Enough to get into the car with him late at night. It hit you a second later. 

“Oh my god.” You said scrambling for your phone to call Garcia. Spencer looks over at you, raising an eyebrow questioningly. 

“You’ve reached your high priestess.” You hear Penelope’s voice come through the speaker. 

“Hey Garcia, it’s Y/N.” You say. “Can you tell me what business is near the first dump site? I have an idea.” 

You hear the faint sound of clacking as she finds the information for you. “Looks to be a bus lot.” You fought the urge to pump your fist in the air. You were right. 

“Alright Garcia. I need a background check on all school bus drivers in Madison county, cross check it with anything that would fit the profile so minor stalking charges, assault…” you train off. “How long do you think that’ll take?” You ask. 

“If I get started now, a couple hours.” She says. “Penelope out.” She says, hanging up. 

You look up to see Spencer looking right back at you. “A bus driver.” You say smiling. “Think about it, everyday you ride the bus home from school and play outside with your friends until late. And when you're heading home your bus driver approaches you in his car offering to take you back. You have no reason not to trust him because he’s brought you home safely so many times before.” You explain, a brief frown grazing your lips. These children met an untimely demise all for trusting someone they were supposed to trust. 

Spencer nods, taking in your words. “Good work,” he says. “You figured it out.” 

You flushed under the high praise. “I’m sure you would’ve come to the same conclusion given more time.” You say. 

“But I didn’t.” He says. “You did, and you probably saved another kid's life in the meantime.” He smiled and patted your shoulder before turning back to the board. 

You looked at his back for a while. You knew since you stepped on the elevator that first time you were attracted to Spencer Reid. He was tall with a lean build and a nice set jaw and incredibly smart. You’d be lying to yourself if that wasn’t your exact type. But on top of all that, he was nice. Almost sickeningly so. 

Suddenly you felt a lot more at risk than before. 

 ————————————————

William Davison was arrested September 7th. You were right,  he was a bus driver for Madison county. Police caught him in his car full of things that pointed him directly to the abductions. 

You and the team were now back on the jet heading home. While the rest team was playing cards you opted to sit in the back. Textbooks laid out on the table as you tried to take notes from them. You were so engrossed. You didn’t see Spencer come take the seat in front of you. 

“What’re you studying?” He asked. 

You look up. “Uh, I’m in my doctoral program for psychology right now.” You say. “Right now, I’m working on an essay about nature vs. nurture effects on the killer's mind.” 

“And what is your theory?” He asks.

“That while I do believe nurture plays a role somewhat, if someone has a predisposition to kill, hurt or maim that is something they are born with. Primates and to some effects humans are naturally empathetic creatures so I think people with the desire for violence are defects. Now even though that’s the case it’s still your own conscious decision to kill.” You say pausing. “Some people are born with natural predispositions they don’t follow all the time. Like your hands for instance.”  

“What about my hands?” He inquired. 

You swallow, clearing your throat. “Well you have fairly large hands, with l-long fingers.” You stutter. Nice going, Y/N. You think. Way to tell the guy you’re starting to develop a crush on that you’ve been staring at his hands. “In the primitive stage, that would’ve made you good at hunting and gathering. In a more modern sense, you’d be good at piano. Though I imagine, you don’t do either.” You say, already knowing the answer. You were a profiler now after all. 

“No, I do not.” He smiled widely at you, he always appreciated intelligent conversation when it came by. “I disagree with your theory though.” 

“Really? Why’s that?” You question. He begins to go on a long winded explanation why he thinks Nature vs. Nurture is outdated, taking several detours to talk about some other theories he’s found interesting. You watch him intensely taking in the words. You try to pay attention, you really do. But your eyes keep going back to the mouth the rapid words are coming out of and the hands that are also gesturing widely. You just had tuned back in when he suddenly stopped. You tilted your head at him. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked. 

“Nothing.” he says, looking mildly uncomfortable. “It’s just… no one lets me talk for this long.” 

“Really?” You question, he nods. “Well, I was listening, I find it interesting. Actually…” you trail off picking up your pen, flipping to a new page in your notebook. “Do you mind if I write some of this down, might come in handy when I write my paper later.” 

He nods enthusiastically as he continues his thoughts from before. You start writing fast now to keep up, interjecting here and there to ask him to expand on some stuff. Eventually the rest of the team drifts off until it's only the sound of his soft voice and the scratch of your pen filling the plane.     

Taglist: @haylaansmi​ 

#spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer x you #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #bau x reader #spencer x reader smut #spencer reid x reader smut

[herinsectreflection]

Season Five is essentially a slow-motion trolley problem for Buffy to solve. She can let the unstoppable oncoming train that is Glory kill millions, or she can pull the lever and kill Dawn instead. It’s the most iconic choice in a series that is pretty much all about choice. This internal dilemma is externalised with the main villains. The show uses them to take a stance on the problem. There are obviously a lot of different ways to approach this from a moral philosophy standpoint, and I’m not going to talk about what is the “correct” moral choice, but how the show presents and interprets the various standpoints. It’s also worth mentioning that I am not a philosopher, this is just what I interpret from watching the show and some base level understanding.

Glory represents the option of simply letting people die. She is presented as egocentric, narcissistic, vain, and honestly kind of lazy. I think this is what the show thinks of people who would simply walk away from the lever and do nothing to keep their own hands clean. Glory does not take a sadistic pleasure in causing the death of millions, she simply doesn’t care. She justifies this by declaring that the world sucks anyway, and everyone suffers, so it doesn’t matter.

“Funny. 'Cause I look around at this world you're so eager to be a part of ... and all I see is six billion lunatics looking for the fastest ride out. ... I'm crazy? Honey, I'm the original one-eyed chicklet in the kingdom of the blind.”

- Glory, 5x21 The Weight of the World

But this is patently self-serving, yielding her own agency and using the absurdity of the universe to justify the atrocities she will be responsible for. She refuses to actively engage with the consequences of her actions, and so exposes her poisonous egomania. To simply not make a choice and let millions die would be selfish and intellectually vapid, and so Glory is selfish and vapid, and the main villain.

The Knights of Byzantium represent the opposite, strictly utilitarian viewpoint: that pulling the lever and killing the single person is not simply morally correct, but an imperative. They are treated slightly more sympathetically than Glory, since they are working in an understandable moral framework, but the story shows the ugliness inherent in their outlook. The ultimate endpoint of it is them hunting down and trying to kill a 14 year old girl. Buffy herself points out that this is inherently horrific.

“What kind of god would demand her life for something that she has no control over?”

- Buffy, 5x20 Spiral

The show is consistent throughout its run that a moral framework based purely on a utilitarian, mathematical approach and excuses any evil action as long as the amount of good done outweighs it, is ultimately unethical. That viewpoint can be used to justify any number of awful things, as long as they are outweighed on the cosmic scale. The show does not agree. It believes that certain actions are simply wrong, that no amount of good can wash out the bad. The hypothetical lives that the Knights of Byzantium could save lend their actions a reason that Glory does not have, but ultimately it does not change the fact that a child - a child with a mother, a sister, friends, a life - would be dead at their hands. The Knights refuse to confront that, simply falling back on dogmatic imperatives and silencing independent thought. They too allow their agency to be reduced, which is what allows them to commit awful actions.

Giles represents the space between these two villainous perspectives on the problem, and the heroic one that Buffy represents. He is, of course, not a villain - he’s one of the white hats, mentor to the hero. But he does argue for the utilitarian point of view. The shows stops itself being morally narrow-minded by allowing Giles to voice opposition to Buffy without being a villain, but it also proposes that the action of killing one person to save others is inherently unheroic. It taints Giles, and he accepts that.

“She's a hero, you see. She's not like us.”

I’ve been talking about Dawn as if she is the hypothetical single person on the other track, but she might better fit this scenario if we look at the “Fat Man” variation. This version posits that a “very fat man” is next to you, and pushing him onto the track will save everyone there. Dawn is that man in this scenario. Similarly, Ben can be seen as the “Fat Villain” variant, where pushing the person responsible for tying people to the tracks would save them. Giles’ murder of Ben can be seen as justified, if still unheroic, because Ben himself has chosen selfishness and tainted his own innocence.

Ben is very much a counterpart to Buffy in S5. He too had an ancient mystical force thrust upon him when he was young, which he had no choice in. His personal and professional lives suffer because of this. He cannot pursue the life he imagined for himself because of Glory’s presence, just as being the Slayer prevents it for Buffy. And both Buffy and Ben are offered an easy way out, which they spend The Weight of the World ruminating on - to simply let Dawn die. Ben at this point has a very obvious alternate solution -  the same one Buffy eventually comes to, though she hasn’t realised it’s an option yet - that he ignores. He can throw himself onto the tracks. He can stop anyone dying by killing himself and therefore Glory. But unlike Buffy, he makes the selfish choice, to preserve his own future at the cost of an innocent child. And so he is condemned, and declared a villain as he is killed.

Buffy is the one true hero in this scenario. She concludes that the only moral option is to throw herself onto the tracks. This is still, ultimately, one life given to save many. But it’s hers to give. It’s her choice to make. Glory, Ben, the Knights of Byzantium, even Giles - when they advocate for killing Dawn, they all claim ownership of her life. She becomes a lamb for them to offer up. Dawn, brave and heroic mini-Buffy as she is, actually does offer up her own life to save others too, but the point is that it’s her life to give. It’s the difference between sacrifice and self-sacrifice.

This is how Buffy reconciles “Death is your gift” with “A Slayer is not a Killer”. All the other actors we’ve considered are killers. Giles and Tara spell it out pretty well in The Gift.

BUFFY: The spirit guide told me ... that death is my gift. Guess that means a Slayer really is just a killer after all.

GILES: I think you're wrong about that.

TARA: (points to Giles) You're a killer.

A killer is not necessarily evil or a monster, as Giles as a person makes clear. But a killer will pull that lever. A Slayer will jump on the tracks. Buffy and Faith debated this idea back in Consequences, where supposed utilitarian Faith suggests that “Slayer” and “killer” are interchangeable. Buffy argues that they are not, and specifically cites the idea that they can’t decide whether the lives of others are worth saving or not.

Faith: We're warriors. We're built to kill.

Buffy: To kill demons! But it does not mean that we get to pass judgment on people like we're better than everybody else!

Throughout S5, and particularly starting in Restless she fears that Faith is in fact right, and that a Slayer is in fact a killer. But in The Gift she proves that incorrect. She ties the human part of herself represented by Dawn to the duty-bound slayer part of herself, and both lead to the same destination of self-sacrifice, and heroism.

#btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy summers #dawn summers #s5 #the gift #rupert giles #glory #ben #meta

[jewish-space-laser]

ok i have an idea for a cbl blurb? could u do a blurb from harry’s pov from the night where he got drunk and how he felt when he saw yn and stuff? ik it already happened but i think seeing it from his viewpoint would be interesting!

Could be Lethal - Part Three (Harry’s POV)

“And every time I’ve held a rose, It seems I only felt the thorns, And so it goes, and so it goes, And so will you soon I suppose...”

– And So It Goes, Billie Joel

HELLO EVERYONE! It’s been months since I’ve posted anything on here, but I randomly got the motivation to pick this up last week. I apologize in advance for my rusty writing skills! This ask has literally been sitting in my inbox for 10 months, so posting it actually feels quite cleansing. Anyway, here is a (long) blurb full of angst, angst, and you guessed it, angst! I hope you love Harry’s take of that night as much as I do. I love you all muchly, thank you for your ongoing love and support <3 xoxoxoxoxoxoxooox Tile

(3.8k word)

You and Harry were friends, with a capital ‘F’. Yeah, you’ve been sleeping in his bed for the past two months, and maybe your entire nervous system goes into hyperdrive when you’re in the same room, but that’s normal, right?

or

The one where you and Harry have an arrangement… of the cuddling sort.

 See the CBL masterlist here!

WARNING: Detailed descriptions of heavy drinking

~~~

It was bullshit. It was all bullshit. 

Harry was miserable. He knew it, his friends knew it, his family knew it… it seemed the only person who wasn’t picking up on his desperation was you. 

You were a complete enigma to him. Sometimes, you were the warmest, most open person he’d ever met, indulging him with interesting conversations, stupid jokes, and even the occassional existential discussion. It was always difficult for Harry to truly open up to a person, having been jaded time and time again by people who weren’t able to look past his famous exterior. 

That’s what makes it so much harder, he thinks. Knowing you properly, you knowing him properly. It made the moments where you were closed off harsher, colder, more difficult to read. 

Since you left his house two days prior, he had done just about anything he could to take his mind off of you. He loved thinking about you, but he also hated thinking about you. It was tortuous and circular and he just wanted a brief moment of emotional respite. 

No, he didn’t want respite, he needed it. 

So he watched all three Lord of the Rings movies in a row, tested out a new stir fry recipe, spent way too much money online shopping, and even scrolled through the Humane Society website in a moment of weakness. But none of it mattered, because even if he could distract himself for a moment, you were still there, lingering in the peripherals of his mind like a song stuck in his head. 

It was dizzying and mind-boggling, and Harry was at a loss for what to do. So when Sunday morning rolled around and it still felt like his lungs were being crushed into a ball, he started drinking. 

It was only 8:00AM, but he bypassed the coffee cabinet and went straight to the fridge, pulling out a chilled bottle of champagne. The pop of the cork was as loud as a gunshot, but Harry didn’t even flinch, hardly registering the sound of it hitting the floor across the room as he rushed the bottle to his lips. 

Bubbles fizzed past his tongue and dripped down his chin, sliding down his bare chest before puddling on the floor. He had to squeeze his eyes shut tightly at the burn of the carbonation, but each gulp sent pleasant tingles over his skin. 

For the first time in ages, his mind felt numb. He didn’t necessarily feel good, but he didn’t feel miserable anymore, and that’s what mattered. He could close his eyes without seeing your smile flash in his head, he could listen to music without immediately relating the lyrics to you, and after his second bottle of wine, he was even able to brew a cup of coffee without thinking of you. 

Okay, maybe he thought of you a little. 

At some point, he passed out on the couch, cartons of Vietnamese takeout sitting cold on his coffee table. When his eyes finally blinked open, the sun had already started to set.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself. There was a familiar ache pulsing behind his eyes, and he groaned loudly into his empty house. It never used to feel empty, but now you’d come and gone, and it was too late. You’d left your mark on his house and his coffee and his heart… so he drank more. 

There was no more wine, so he started in on his collection of hard liquor, expensive bottles lined on top of his cupboards. Normally they were reserved for when he had guests over, but this fell into the realm of desperation. His sunken eyes scanned the glass bottles before settling on the cheapest of them, an unopened Maker’s Mark. It would do. 

He was pouring a healthy sized glass of the whisky, and then suddenly he wasn’t. His heavy eyes blinked in confusion as he stared across the bar at the bartender, who was raising his eyebrows expectantly. 

“That’ll be thirty-five pounds, mate,” the bartender said, “got roped into buying the first round, eh?”

“Yeah,” Harry grunted, glancing over his shoulder to see Thomas and Jessie watching him from a booth. 

He doesn’t remember leaving his house, let alone coming to the pub with his friends. In fact, if he tried to think about it, his memory of the entire day felt fragmented, like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together. 

In his mind, this was a success. A full day gone without thinking about you or talking to you or seeing you. The clock behind the bar read 00:43 in red neon numbers. He took one of the shots quickly, signing the bill and taking the remaining five back to his friends. 

“Harry mate, we told you we’re not getting pissed tonight,” Thomas groaned, “what’d you get six shots for?”

“What kind are they?” Jessie asked, wrinkling their nose. 

“I dunno,” Harry shrugged, setting the tray down directly in front of himself. His vision swayed to and fro, but he still managed to down another shot, disregarding the concerned look his friends shared. “It’s rum. If you don’t want any, that’s fine.”

“It’s a Sunday, mate,” Thomas reminded him gently.

“We’re at a pub, aren’t we?” Harry slurred. “Supposed to get drunk here.”

“You asked us to come here,” Jessie said slowly, “said you needed to talk to us about something.”

Harry blinked at them slowly, swaying slightly in his seat. He didn’t remember any of this. 

“Actually, he said he needed a drink,” Thomas corrected, “I didn’t realize he meant twenty drinks.”

Another shot burned down his throat, and then everything was cold. 

“Harry.”

His head was pounding. Every limb felt heavy. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes, already overwhelmed by the echo of Thomas’s voice reverberating off of the tile floors. 

“Harry.”

He knew that somebody was trying to get his attention, but he just couldn’t. The alcohol had done its job for most of the day, keeping his brain muddled down and diluted just to spare him the pain of remembering. But now, it backfired, trapping him inside his own head with no way out, with nothing to do but remember. He could hear people talking in the background, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. It was as if he was underwater, slipping further and further down with each painful clench of his heart.

He felt a hand press against his arm, and jerked away, causing his stomach to twist. He didn’t want to be here anymore, and he certainly didn’t want to be bothered. 

“G’way, Thomas,” he managed to grunt. 

“It’s me.”

Your voice was clear as crystal to him, but he knew it couldn’t be real. You had left him, after all.

The image of you driving away from his house was burned into his memory, playing over and over again in slow motion. If he thought hard enough, he could even remember the way your body had felt beneath his, whining and squirming and gasping, just like he’d always dreamed about. He could remember the sunken expression on your face the next morning, the heavy silence of the car ride to the coffee shop. He could remember how he’d hoped, so badly, that you’d finally talk about it, this unspoken connection that could no longer be denied. Most of all, he remembers the way his heart dropped when you told him that you didn’t remember any of it.

Another gentle brush, this time along his hairline, and he managed to open his eyes just a sliver. 

You looked amazing. Well, there were circles under your eyes, you were wearing your pajamas and slippers, and you were frowning in concern, but to Harry, you were the most beautiful thing. 

 “You’re here… y’really here….” he sighed. 

You were crouched in front of him, holding a plastic cup of water, and all he wanted to do was pull you into his chest. You looked sleepy and cosy, just like you always did when you stayed over. Before he could reach out to pull you close, you were putting the rim of the cup against his bottom lip.

He took it, grateful for the relief it provided his dry mouth. For the first time since he came to, he took in his surroundings. He was in a single stall bathroom, curled on the floor next to the toilet. The walls were an ugly pale yellow, while the floors were white, making the streaks of dirt and grime more noticeable than ever. Thomas was leaning against the sink across the room, watching you as you tried to get him to finish the cup. 

“Y’look so pretty, always look so good,” Harry slurred, “just wanna snuggle, like we always do.”

He loved the way your mouth dropped open. Everything about you was endearing, really. He watched as you twisted your head to say something to Thomas, water sloshing around in the cup when you nodded your head quickly. Thomas left immediately after, but Harry hardly even noticed. 

When you turned back around to face him, he felt blinded. Despite the dark circles under your eyes, they’re bright and they pierce through him just like always. He loves the color of your skin and the shape of your nose and the little crease that forms between your eyebrows when you’re anxious. He thinks he could probably paint you with his eyes closed. 

Warmth licked across his skin when you brushed your fingertips against his forehead, tucking a stray lock of hair back into place. Harry leaned into your touch, unwilling to let the moment pass too quickly. 

“Can you try taking a sip of water, H?” You tilted your head. “For me?”

He could have laughed, had he not been so nauseated. He would do anything for you normally, but he really did feel awful. “G’na make me sick,” he insisted, wrinkling his nose at the cup in your hand. Even though he could hardly focus, his eyes zeroed in on the faded X scrawled in sharpie on the back of your hand, a souvenir from your night out at TAVERN. He had a matching mark on his hand, and he dreaded the moment the ink would wash off fully. Just another thing forgotten.

He just wanted you.  

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the look on your face told him that it had slipped out. There was no way he regretted it though, not with you right in front of him. Not in this state of mind. 

“It’s gonna make you feel better, and then we can go home,” you urged softly, scooting a tiny bit closer to him.

Home. When he thought of home, he thought about mornings in his house, sunlight filtering in through the blinds and leaving shadowed stripes across your skin. Home was the way you squinted your eyes tighter together right before waking up. Home was you at his kitchen table, going off at him about not doing his dishes. 

“Y’coming home w’me?” He managed to say. Your eyes softened.

“Only if you drink this whole cup,” you lifted it up to him once again, gingerly tilting his head up with a finger on his chin. Even though he felt like his stomach would combust if tried to swallow anything, he allowed you to help him drink some water. Some sloshed messily onto his shirt, but it felt sobering. You met his eyes for a moment, “is that good?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

If you asked him to drink water, he would drink water. He would drink an entire ocean of water. It was achingly clear to literally everybody but you. He could tattoo your name over his heart and you still wouldn’t see.

You gulped loudly, but didn’t say a word, simply prompting him to take another sip of water. He wished more than anything that you’d say something. Make some kind of facial expression. He just wanted a signal, a sign, that you felt anything towards him; disgust, affection, pity. 

He was sure you must pity him. 

Harry drank the rest of the water, cheeks burning as he asked you for a refill. He was still drunk, but the fog had cleared enough for him to sit up straight without feeling like he was going to hurl. He watched you refill the cup in the sink that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in decades, but that was honestly the least of his concerns. 

“Y’must think I’m pathetic,” he grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut and tilting his head back against the wall. “Can’t lose you.”

“You haven’t lost me,” he heard you say quietly.

But it felt like he had. Because even though you were friends, it wouldn’t be the same if he couldn’t fall asleep to the sound of your soft exhales. It wouldn’t be the same if he couldn’t feel that rush of excitement when you sneakily texted him under the table on nights out. Having you at a distance could never be enough. 

“Harry…” you sighed, rubbing your eyes, “why did you drink so much tonight?”

If your obliviousness hadn’t been so devastating, he would have laughed. How could you sit here with him, look into his eyes, and not see that his heart was entirely in your hands? How could he explain anything to you if you hadn’t already seen it?

So he wouldn’t try. Not right now. 

He mustered up the strength to push up onto his knees, managing to stand up fully with your steady grip on his arms. He took one shaky step as his head spun, and felt your arms snake around his waist to keep him balanced. Without even thinking about it, he wrapped his arm over your shoulder, reveling in the feeling of having you so close as you helped him out of the toilet. 

You brought him to a stop in the main room by the bar, and he couldn’t help but bury his nose into the top of your head. You smelled just like you always did. It had only been a few nights, but your scent was already fading on his bedsheets. 

“Y’smell like lavender,” he hummed, squeezing your arm lightly, “s’like you’re tryin; t’torture me…. So pretty.”

It really was torture, having you hold onto him as you both walked out of the pub. You were distracting, with your warm skin and soft hands. Each step was difficult; his feet were heavy as anvils and he just wanted to curl up right here on the sidewalk. 

Just as he was considering plopping down on the pavement, he heard the familiar beep of your car opening. He closed his eyes once he was sat in the passenger seat, feeling you fuss over his seatbelt. He flinched slightly when you slid a cold water bottle between his knees.

Harry blinked, and then suddenly you were buckled in behind the steering wheel, poking his arm and peering at him with tired eyes. “Can you stay awake for me, H? Just till we get to your house, okay?”

“Y’coming to my house?”

You were so good to him, all the time. By the looks of your attire, you were ready to be in bed hours ago, yet here you were, patient as ever.

“Yes, I’m taking you home,” you said through a yawn. 

“Miss having you at my house,” Harry exhaled. He didn’t even know what he was saying really, just the same thoughts and memories circling through his mind like planets around the sun, all them centered on you. “My sheets don’t smell like you anymore.”

Suddenly, he felt hot all over. His trousers were too scratchy against his skin, his palms felt clammy, and the longer you stayed silent on the other side of the car, his stomach started turning. In an effort to cool off and calm down, he let his head fall against the window, the cool glass soothing his skin. 

Drunk or not, he was trying to tell you how he feels, he was constantly trying to tell you how he feels… and you didn’t say a word. You never did. It was so frustrating that he found himself biting back tears. 

Finally, after what felt like hours, you cleared your throat. “You can’t…” your voice cracked, “you can’t say things like that, Harry. It hurts me when you say things like that.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Harry managed to say. “But it’s the truth.”

He was so confused. How on earth could you be hurting when he was sitting here with his arms wide open? Was he so repulsive that the mere thought of being with him caused you pain, somehow?

He was too drunk for this. 

Luckily, you seemed to be on the wavelength. “Let’s just… not talk,” you said, shoulders slumped. 

Harry was feeling awfully dejected himself. He’d spent the last few days trying to cope with his complicated feelings, and now he was back at square one. Every time he thought he knew where the two of you stood, you would say something vague and he would start all over. Your relationship was like a house of cards; delicate, fragile, and knocked to the ground with the slightest shift, the tiniest gust of wind. 

The headache started out small, but by the time you pulled your car into Harry’s driveway, he was feeling like he might keel over. Somehow, he was simultaneously drunk and hungover. If he was going to make it up the stairs to his room, he was going to need something in his stomach, and water that wasn’t from a pub bathroom.

It was humiliating enough that he’d needed you to help him from the car, but upon entering his house, he nearly kicked his shoe through the living room window, grumbling about toast. He knew he’d been less than impressive tonight, but perhaps this was what you needed -- seeing him at rock bottom -- to finally open up and have a real conversation about what you could be. 

When he woke up in the morning, he would be sober, and he would be ready. He would make you coffee like he always does, and maybe he’d even run out and pick up fresh pastries.

“Want some toast,” he said, though he was fairly certain he’d said it once already. 

You were standing in front of him, toes just inches apart, and it felt instinctive to place his hands on your waist and pull you in. The silk pajama top you were wearing was cool against his hands, but he could feel the heat of your skin underneath, the frantic thumping of your heart against your ribcage tickling his fingertips.

Your hands were on his shoulders to keep him steady, but he was suddenly feeling more sober than he had all night. All day, really. 

Harry slid his hands further behind you, locking together behind your back. Having you close felt incredible. It hadn’t even been three days since he last saw you, yet every atom in his body was craving your touch.

“You, um,” he felt your shaky whale against his collar bone, “you have to let go of me if you want me to make you toast.”

Letting go of you felt physically impossible, so instead, Harry dipped his head down and rested his forehead against yours. The anticipation was excruciating as he waited for you to do what you always did: sink into his arms, wrap yourself around him, soothe him to sleep with the weight of your head on his chest.

Fissures cracked through his heart when you pushed him back, taking a single step back that may as well have been a mile. Suddenly, the air all around him felt cold, the room felt darker, the silence felt louder. He took a deep breath in, but still felt like he was suffocating.

“Do you really not remember?”

He needed to know. He had done everything in his power to think about anything else, but had somehow ended up here, standing face to face with you. He wonders if this is how it was supposed to be, if throwing you together over and over again was the universe’s ultimate plan, if all of this misery would be worth it in the end. 

He’d experienced heartbreak before, but this was something else. And when you choked out, “Harry, please don’t make me say it,” in the smallest voice he’d ever heard you use, he knew that he could write millions of records about the pain of this moment, and still never do it justice.

“You remember, don’t you?”

All you did was nod your head once, but he suddenly felt drained. Maybe it was the full day of heavy, reckless drinking… or maybe it was the realization that things really might not work out. He still wanted to try, though. Even though you’d left the other day, there were countless other times you had stayed. For months you’d been coming over in secret, coming out of your shell and showing him how amazing you really were. That had to count for something; there had to be a reason. 

Coffee. He would make coffee in the morning and the two of you would fix everything. 

“Should we head to bed? ‘S getting kind of late, y’must be exhausted.”

You really did look tired, your eyes rimmed with red from yawning over and over, back hunched and shoulders slumped. He was feeling knackered himself, and was more than ready for this night to be over.

“Actually… I think I’m gonna head back home,” you gulped. Harry felt like he’d been slapped, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. It’s as if you’d turned to sand; there one moment and slipping through his fingers the next.

“You don’t want to stay?” Harry tried to keep his voice even, but even he could hear how it wavered. He clenched his jaw to keep from crying.

“I just… have to go home,” you said, looking everywhere but at him. 

He waited for you to say something else, but instead watched as you hoisted your purse further up onto your shoulder and walked out the door. Shell shocked, he stood there frozen, even as your headlights disappeared down the street. 

A long breath blew past his lips as he finally moved to lock his front door, any hope of you walking back through it dashed by the way you’d walked out for a second time. 

Harry likely would have benefited from a glass of water and pain medication, but with a buzzing brain and a shattered heart, all he could manage was to pass out on the couch fully clothed, dreaming about what might have been if you had just stayed.  

~~~

As always, let me know what you think! I love talking to you <3 xoxoxoxox Tile

[softhxtch]

TITTLE: FBI Charity Blind Date Night SUMMARY: For last four years FBI has been organizing a lot of events for charities. One of them are blind dates. This year Emily, Penelope and Derek decided to join in with Hotch’s name. Let’s just say, that at first he’s not the happiest person in the world.  PAIRING: female! reader x Aaron Hotchner CHARACTERS: reader, Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan and Penelope Garcia (at the beginning), Angela, Olivia (OCs), Daivd Rossi and Spencer Reid (literally mentioned once) WARNINGS: none (?), it’s just fluff and cuteness, I mean they go to the hospital, nothing bad happens, but be aware of errors and mistakes. ALSO in this story Jack is not born, not sure why just thought it would fit better. ALSO2: CAC - Crimes Against Children Unit WORD COUNT: 4,5K A/N: i’ve had a long break from writing and with this new year I decided to break it. there’re probably a lot of mistakes, so feel free to correct me. english is not my first language and i’m doing this just for fun!

'Did you send everything correctly? Are you sure?', Emily asked looking over Penelope's shoulder. She tried to keep up with whatever blonde woman was doing, but it was hard since she was moving so fast with her work.

'Yes! Who do you think I am?', Penelope answered with raised voice. Her head was shaking but eyes still glued to the screen. 'Can't you just trust me?'

'I do, we all do. But don't you think it's weird, that we still didn't get anything from-', Emily argued, but didn't even finish the sentence as her work phone started to make sound. She quickly picked it up with short 'hello' and was listening to whoever was on the other side. Her face was slowly changing as more and more words were going through the phone. Emily's eyebrows were risen and eyes bigger, scanning the room around her. Finally she nodded quickly and after adding short 'of course', she put the phone down. 'Hotch wants to see us.', Emily explained.

'Oh god.', was all Penelope could say. She stood up quickly, putting her laptop down on Emily's desk. 'I guess he got the message. Today's the day we die.', she added as dark haired woman also stood up, nodding

'Come on, Derek. You're going with us.', Emily pointed at him, raising her eyebrow.

'Me? I didn't even do anything!', man defended himself.

'It's all your fault anyway. You came up with the idea. Come on.', she added.

'Fine, but to be fair it's our idea. You're as much in it as I am. Just so we're clear.', Derek pointed out, as Emily rolled her eyes. 'Let's go.'

Derek's words were like a signal, because after that all three of them moved towards the Chief's office. They knew it was coming sooner or later. They would be called to see Hotch, he probably would be angry at what have they done, maybe furious and that's it. Maybe they would get more paper work to do. But it was unavoidable, Hotch would find out sooner or later. And some like Derek would prefer it to be sooner, but some like Emily or Penelope - later.

Derek was the one to lead the way to Agent Hotchner's office, with two women right behind him. He knocked two times one the door and opened them after hearing 'come in' from inside. Aaron was sitting in his chair, focused on papers in front of him. Pen in one hand, tracing text that for most people was really hard to understand.

All three agents looked around just to see any signs, that they could help. They paid a lot of attention to the big desk with a lot of papers on it, but everything was the same. Nothing too suspicious, but then in front of there were three chairs. Not one or two as usual. Like especially for them.

'Everything's okay?', Penelope was the first one to break the silence.

'Yes.', Aaron’s answer was short as he looked up from his papers with a raised brow. 'Is there a reason why something's should not be okay?'

'No. Of course no, sir.', blonde woman laughed as all three of them walked more inside the room.

'You wanted to see us?', Emily asked, her voice was quieter than usual.

'Did I?', Aaron answered back with an questions, putting his pen down. All three of the agents looked at each other with confused faces.

'Emily said-'

'What exactly did Emily said?', he asked. Aaron tilted his head, waiting for an answer. His face was stoic and stern as usual, very hard to read for any of them.

'Emily said you wanted to see us.', Derek answered. His eyebrows were furrowed, with thousands thoughts going through his mind per second. He was very much present when dark haired woman got the phone call, but all of the sudden he wasn't sure about it anymore. Maybe she heard something different? Or mixed up his words?

Hotch just nodded slowly. He moved his eyes from Derek to Emily, who was confused with this whole situation. She knew what he said, but just to be one hundred percent sure she went through the short conversation they had, like fifty more times.

'You said, and I quote, 'I want to see you in my office as fast as you can'.', Emily said slowly, her hands in front. It's like she was trying to calm herself down from this confusing situation.

'Exactly. I didn't specify who 'you' is.', man sitting in the chair said, like it was the most obvious thing on the world.

'Oh my God.', Penelope said, waving hands in front of her face as if she was trying to stop the tears. You could visibly see Emily's shoulders going down, her letting out breath she was holding for a long time. Derek just let out quiet laugh and shook his head.

'But since all three of you came here, then I guess something's happened.', he added, putting his hands together on top of the desk. 'You did something, that you know you shouldn't do and now you're just waiting for the consequences. That's why all three of you came here together.'

'I thought we weren't suppose to profile each other.', Derek said.

'Yes, especially when not everyone in the room is a profiler.', Penelope added with a firm nod.

'Garcia, you don't need to be a profiler to see all three of you having weird conversations, barely working in the office and basically being constantly out of place.'

'We didn't do anything wrong.', Derek said, pointing at all three of agents.

'Okay.', Aaron said quickly nodding. 'But next time when you put name that isn’t yours somewhere, you make that person is aware that you're doing this. And they give you their consent.'

'We didn't put anyone's name anywhere', Emily finally said something after, what felt like, hours of standing in their boss's office.

'Agent Hotchner, we write to thank you for joining our 4th annual FBI Charity Blind Date Night. Don't worry we'll make sure to choose precisely your date, just they way you put it in our questionnaire. Thank you so much and see you in February!', man read the email he got few hours ago.

‘You don’t have any proof, that it’s us, sir.’, Penelope said, her voice cracking at the end. Derek just sighed and closed his eyes, knowing how screwed up they are. ‘Anyone could do this!’

‘True, but you three are on the first place.’, he said like it was something obvious. The rest just looked a bit confused how they were first suspects, which made older man sigh. ‘The next one was Rossi, but he’s been out of town for the last few days. In the past he tried to set me up for few dates, but I don’t think he would do it through blind date, that you have to do questionnaire before. Who’s next?’, he asked, making his thinking face for a second, before continuing. ‘JJ? She has her own life and two kids to take care of. I don’t think she would have time to play with something like this. Oh and on top of that, she doesn’t put herself in someone else’s business. The last one is Reid and we all know, that he didn’t do it.’

‘But you have no proof, that all of us did it.’, Penelope started. Her hands were shaking and she started rambling, not knowing how to get out of that situation. 

When Derek and Emily came to her with this whole idea of putting their boss in a blind date she didn’t know what to think about it. She thought that maybe it was a good thing. After divorcing Haley and breaking up with Beth, Hotch didn’t do much dating, or at least that they knew about. And Penelope thought that someone like Aaron Hotchner deserves to be happy. He deserves to laugh with someone who he likes and is not necessarily in a team or a friend of his. She wanted him to have a person, who would be with him in tough times and would take care of him when he needed it. Hotch is a tough person, but Penelope Garcia strongly believed, that there’s a person in this world who would understand him. He just needed to start looking and if she could help, she would do it. 

Of course there’s also a lot of guilt, because whether she liked it or not, she was messing with his boss’s personal life. And how would they even tell Hotch about the fact, that they put him into FBI blind date. Penelope knew he would be furious and angry. So this kind of reaction was weird for her. Hotch wasn’t screaming, showing any anger. Nothing. Maybe a little annoyed, but that’s it.

‘Penelope.’, Derek started, trying to make her stop. She was only making it worse, by digging the topic. 

‘You can be mad at us all you want, but a date would be a good thing for you.’, Emily started, making Hotch raise his eyebrows. Derek just groaned in the back, wishing for it to be over. ‘You know, sometimes it’s good to get out of your comfort zone.’

‘My comfort zone?’, he repeated.

‘Yes.’, dark haired girl answered. She put her hands together in front of her, not knowing where she’s exactly going with this conversation. ‘You have to go out sometimes, Hotch. Have conversation with someone, that’s not us. Have a meal, that wasn’t pre made months ago, drink wine and make jokes. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll meet someone wonderful.’, she ended, going closer and closer to the man as she was going on with her speech.

‘I’m not in a mood for a relationship, Prentiss.’, Aaron shook his head, putting some papers together on his desk.

‘That’s why we put you on a ‘friendship list’. It means, that you’re there as a friend and for chairty, not really looking for a lover.’, Penelope said quickly, stepping forward towards Emily. 

‘The answer is still ‘no’, so please cancel my application.’, he shook his head, looking at the papers in his hands. When he hear any movements or complaint  from the three agents in the room, he looked at them again. ‘I will pay the charity in return. And I guess you had to put some money into it too, so I will pay it off. But please withdraw my name from the list.’

‘But sir.’, Penelope started again, bringing his attention. ‘Maybe you should consider what Emily’s said. You know, new experiences.’, she added with nervous laugh.

‘So what’s the bet about?’, Hotch asked, leaning back with curious face. 

‘If you go Rossi said, that he’ll do our reports for a month.’, Emily said after few seconds of debating if she should actually say anything else.

‘And if I don’t?’

‘We have to do this for a year.’, Derek admitted.

‘Please, Hotch.’, Emily begged, coming closer to his desk and leaning on it. She looked into his eyes for few seconds, trying to get some mercy from him. ‘I’m still half way through Reid’s reports from last month. I can’t lose this one!’

‘Well, you should’ve thought about this before going into another bet.’, Aaron answered, trying to keep his stern face, but Derek saw one side of his lips rising for a split of a second. ‘Now like I said, withdraw my name from that list and please go back to work. All of you. You can go and please close the door.’, he added. After finishing the sentence he went back to his paper, waiting for them to leave and when they did, he just couldn’t stop himself from small smile. 

'I thought you wanted to go.', Angela said as we entered my office. She had one of the flyers of the charity events that she took from the entrance to the FBI building.

'Yeah, I did. But half of kids at the kindergarden are sick, I have a feeling, that Olivia is next.', you said, putting bag on the desk. You turn around to your friend and gave her apologetic smile. 'And I don’t wanna leave my sick child with my sister-in-law. She already helps me enough.'

'I'm sorry.', Angela just said, not knowing how to actually react. 'I know, that after last year you wanted to go.'

'Yeah, it sounded pretty fun.', you nodded. 'Plus it would be nice to finally get a kiss on the lips. Or talk to someone in full sentences.'

'Excuse me?', Angela joked, pointing at herself.

'Outside of this office.', you shook head, letting out quick chuckle.

'Someday you'll find someone. I'll make sure of this.', she said, coming closer to you. She stopped for a second and gave you quick hug, trying to make you feel better.

'It'll be kind of hard. Usually when they find out, that I have three year old child, they run. If they don't, then they get scared when I tell them I work for the FBI. And when I go on a date with agent they usually do this, because I'm a Unit Chief and have connections with a lot of important people here.', you explained with a sigh. 'I was excited for this blind date not only for meeting new people, but also because we will be on the same position. I won't be used and person who will be choosen for me would understand where I come from.'

'I know.', she said truthfully, caressing your shoulders. 'You know what? Screw it. I'll take care of Olivia.'

'Really?', you said shocked about the proposition. You knew, that Angela was the last person on earth who would offer herself to take care of kids. It's not like she hated them, just she's not the best with them. Mainly the youngest ones. But kids found their ways to her. Especially Olivia. She always loved being next to Angela and you could be sure, that she would be happy to have her as a babysitter for few hours.

'But it's just this one time.', Angela reminded, putting one of her fingers in front of your face. You immediately agreed and hugged her as a thank you.

'So? How do I look?', you asked after walking to the kitchen. You looked at both Angela and your daughter sitting at the dinning table, consuming their supper. Your friend made circles with her fingers, asking you to turn around so she could see the back of the dress.

When the email with the set up date finally came, you were the most excited since you could even remember. It was something you looked forward to for days or maybe even weeks now. Nobody in your team didn't know about this, except Angela. And she also was very excited for you. Whenever you had breaks from cases, she would come with new ideas for a dress or make up. And even though she'd be brushed off, you actually liked it.

For a long time you had no idea what to wear. Should it be something less formal? Or full on glam outfit? But when Angela came to you with a picture of navy bodycon dress, you knew it's the one. She advised you to wear it with simple black sandals and light make up, adding darker lipstick.

'Mommy! You're so pretty!', Olivia exclaimed from her chair. She still had her mouth full from the sandwich, that you made her few minutes ago. You could see her be really excited about this night, not because you're going out, but mainly that she's gonna be playing with Angela.

'Thank you, sweetheart.', you skilled, coming closer to them. 'I'm gonna be out for few hours and you're gonna be with aunt Angela, okay?', you explained, playing with her hair. Little girl nodded, taking another bite of her sandwich. Then you stood up facing your friend. 'Okay I should be back before midnight. If I don't call you and I'm not home, then you can track my car or phone.'

'Of course, as always.', she said with a wink, which made you laugh.

'And remember, if anything happens - call me. You've been in this house so many times, so you know where everything is. But if you're unsure or Olivia does something, call me okay?', you said, raising a brow.

'Hey! Don't use your 'I'm your boss' voice!', she said, putting finger in front of your face, which made you laugh.

'That's actually my 'mom' voice.', you shook your head.

‘Doesn’t matter. Just go before you’re late.’, she said, pushing you out of the room. ‘Remember it’s really bad to be late for a date, but it’s just awful to be late on a date with FBI agent.’

Aaron was sitting in one of three restaurants, that bureau offered to cover the expenses in. He told Penelope and Emily many times to pick the table somewhere in the corner, where he and the person who was a match to him wouldn’t be in a center of attention. It was a really long time since he went on a actual date or even out with someone, that’s not on his team. For a really long time he hated this whole idea. But the one night he was sitting in his flat with a glass of whiskey and thought, that maybe, but just maybe, it’s a good idea. That maybe Emily was right?

‘I’m really sorry, I’m late.’, female voice took Aaron out of his thoughts. He looked up, expected to see someone familiar, but that wasn’t the case. He thought, that maybe it would be someone that he knew. It definitely would be easier, than starting from zero.

But even if Aaron didn’t know personally the person he’s meeting, maybe he could just recognize the face? Place it with unit, that they’re working in or at least department. But as you appeared it didn’t ring any bell. Aaron furrowed his eyebrows, which made you immediately confused and started looking around. 

‘You’re from FBI, correct?’, you asked, pointing at him and then at the back, getting more and more nervous. ‘The woman in front told me to go to table number eight. And that’s it, but maybe I said something wrong and she didn’t understand-’

‘I am.’, Aaron said immediately, standing up from his seat. ‘I was just expecting someone-’

‘Different?’, you asked, smiling a bit.

‘No, no!’, he answered right away with his hands in front, like he was trying to stop you from something. ‘Someone, that I know.’, he ended, explaining. 

‘Oh, of course.’, you nodded. ‘I’m Y/N Y/L/N.’, you extended your hand with greeting, after what seemed like liftime in silence.

‘Aaron Hotchner.’, he answered, shaking your hand gently. Then he motioned to the table. You just nodded as both of you sat down. ‘Which department are you from? Sorry to be put it so bluntly, I just don’t think I’ve ever met you in the bureau.’

‘CAC.’, you answered, looking up from the menu. ‘I came here from New York few months ago. Got offered Unit Chief position, better salary - guess didn’t have to think through it twice.’, you shrugged.

‘That explains a lot.’, Aaron said with small nods. You just raised a brown, silently asking the same thing he did few seconds ago. ‘I’m from BAU.’

‘Oh ‘The Dream’ unit.’, you said. The statement made Aaron very much confused. ‘When I arrived in Quantico, there were actually quite a lot of changes and I had to hire new agent to my team. And about half of them started the interview with  ‘well my dream is to be in BAU, but this unit could be a good start’.’, you explained.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault. More of a complement. It’s very rare, that most of agents, that want to work in a field also want to work in your team. And I’ve also heard only good stuff about BAU.’, you said, trying to keep the conversation light. 

In fact this was the last time your conversation went to the topic of work. As soon as some of the comments, that either one made, were about work, you immediately would change the topic. You promised yourself, and Angela of course, that today won’t be about work. It’ll be about having fun and going out with not-so-stranger. 

Aaron saw the effort that you made and he actually really liked it. No work, no phones, no cases, no murders. Just the two of you, great food and wine, that he didn’t even drink yet. He didn’t expect it but he was actually having a good time. So this one time he would answer his previous question: Emily Prentiss was, in fact, right.

‘Excuse me for a second.’, you said, hearing vibrations of your phone from the bad. Aaron just nodded, understanding as you opened bag and looked for phone. When it was found, you immediately opened it and panicked right away.

3 missed calls

2 unread messages

9:39 I know I was supposed to call only when there’s an emergency, but I think it is. 

10:21 We’re going to ER.

‘Everything’s okay?’, Aaron asked, observing very closely your reactions. 

‘I-I have to go.’, you said stuttering. You picked your bag and coat, wanting to leave as fast as you can. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘What happened?’, he stood up quickly. He grabbed you by the arm, stopping from leaving the room.

'My daughter is in a hospital. And my friend, that's babysitting her won't tell me what happened.', right away the worst scenarios came to your head. What's could actually happen, that the two of them had to go to the emergency room? Did she broke a bone? Or just hit herself and needed few stitches? Or maybe she fell down the stairs and is unconscious? The questions, that were driving you crazy.

'Let's go.', Aaron just nodded and took you out of the restaurant, after paying for the whole meal.

'Wait, no. I can't ask you to come with me. I've already ruined your evening.', you shook your head as Aaron was taking you to his car.

'Don't worry about it. We can do it on a different day.', he waved you off, getting into his car. The comment caught you off guard a little. And you didn't even realize, that you were still standing on the streets until Aaron knocked on the window, getting your attention.

'Sorry.', you whispered, getting inside. He just started the engine and drove as fast as he could to the hospital that Angela land Olivia were at. 'Wait. Different day? We'll meet on a different day?', you asked, thinking about the whole conversation from few minutes ago. He laughed at how at first you didn't realize what he meant.

'If you want of course.', Aaron explained, getting slow nod from you. It was still funny for him how long it took you to get through it all. 'Look, I'm not a parent, but I can just assume, that your daughter comes first for you.'

'True.', you agreed.

'So, I could make huge scene about how you literally stormed out of our date.', he continued to explain his thoughts. 'Or just understand where you come from and help you.'

'Thank you.', you said, looking at him for the first time since you walked inside the car.

'No problem.', he said with a smile.

If it wasn’t for Aaron, you would probably be panicked, running around the hospital. Well, you still were panicked and scared of what exactly happened, but he made you a bit calmer. Told you to step back and he was asking all questions of where to go and what happened.

After twenty minutes the two of you ended up of third floor. Your heart was beating so fast, searching for either Angela or Olivia, but you couldn’t see them anywhere.

‘Y/N, you have to calm down. It won’t help-’, Aaron started, grabbing your arm. You stopped, but didn’t look at him, only scanning the room. And then you saw it. Familiar dark hair and the handbag you bought her for Christmas. 

‘Angela!’, you called her name, bringing the attention. Woman turned around and let out deep breath, being visibly relieved.

‘Oh my God!. You’re finally here. I didn’t know how long I could keep her attention. She was constantly asking for you.’, Angela said. Then she looked behind you, seeing Aaron running after you. ‘Sorry for ruining the night.’, she whispered. 

‘It’s okay.’, you shook your head. ‘What even happened? I leave you for few hours and you end up in hospital.’

‘We just were having fun.’, she explained and you just raised a brow. ‘Okay, we were playing tag. And then Olivia got tired, so we sat down on your bed. Then obviously she wasn’t tired anymore and started jumping up and down on your bed. And she asked me to join her, so I did. And then it broke.’, she started talking very fast and chaotic.

‘You broke my bed?’, you asked as if that was the only thing you could make out of whatever she said. 

‘But I didn’t mean it. I tried really hard.’

‘And where’s Olivia now?’, you asked, trying not to get angry.

‘They took her to a cat scan. Doctor said, that her arm is probably broken.’, Angela explained, seeing you get more and more annoyed. ‘Anyway, nurses asked for legal guardian or parent, so I’m gonna go and tell her, that you’re here.’

You nodded and let her go. Your eyes were closed and head hanged down for few seconds. Were you angry? Yes. Were you annoyed? Yes. But your daughter was fine. She was alive and even though having a toddler with broken arm won’t be fun thing, you’d take it. 

‘Again I’m sorry.’, you turned around to Aaron. He was still standing behind you, just watching the whole situation. ‘I won’t hold you up anymore, you can go. Thank you for everything.’

‘It’s not a problem for me to stay. If you-’, he said, coming closer to you.

‘You’ve done a lot for me today. Beside we have work tomorrow. So let it just be one of us who’s gonna stay up all night.’, you cut him. Aaron just nodded, understanding everything.

‘So, until next time?’, he asked, slowly taking few steps back.

‘That would be amazing.’, you answered. But then realized something. ‘Hey, but I don’t have-’, you started and put hands in coat pockets. Then felt something in one of them. You took it out and made on ‘oh’ sound as you read: Aaron Hotchner, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Behavioral Analysis Unit with phone number. You looked up to look at him one last time. Aaron just shot you a huge small and waved before turning around and going to the elevators. 

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fan fiction #criminal minds scenario #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner scenario #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fan fiction #emily prentiss #spencer reid #penelope garcia #derek morgan #david rossi

[adorehs]

12/12/12

Here’s my spooky-ish Harryween fic (a day late, which I apologize for!) This is one million percent not proofread and definitely very rushed and for that I am sorry. 

Summary: Detective!Y/N has trouble cracking Suspect!Harry. But he seemed to have cracked her. (4k words)

Warnings: violence at the end (this includes blood), mentions of death and murder, angst if you could call it that. I am probably missing some but PLEASE do not read this if you are not comfortable with the themes that are portrayed above.

They tried to pin a murder on him, little old Harry who couldn’t swat a fly. Not in his right mind, anyway. 

He was quite confused when they called him in with the intent of asking him questions regarding the night of December 12th. He doesn’t remember anything about that night at all, in fact. He was seemingly blackout drunk in the corner of his best friend’s apartment with a bottle of vodka in his hand and a hat fell on his face as his mouth fell open and soft snores fell out as everyone around him danced into the early morning. 

December twelfth. 

The day his mom died, the day he tries to forget every year, the day he takes off from work, the day he does everything but think.

He sat silently in the room- the walls a bleak grey and the lights dim. There were no windows except the small piece of glass that sat at the top of the textured door and in each corner of the room there sat a small security camera that followed Harry intently. 

His fingers tapped in a calming rhythm of threes and his leg bounced lightly in anticipation for his interrogation. His eyes darted from his hands that were splayed out in front of him to the camera directly across from him as he leaned father back into his chair and stretched his legs out fully. 

He let out a sigh as he sat in silence- he was bored and ready to go home. It was an utter waste of time in his mind- there was nothing he could give away. He wasn’t there, as much as he could match the description of a white male with brown hair with a few extra inches off the top of his head. 

The door squealed as it opened, a woman scurrying in with a folder of files in her arms and a navy pantsuit hugging her figure as she sits down at the table across from him, “Hi, Harry, I’m Detective Y/N Y/L/N,” her hand reached out calmly to meet Harrys. 

He watched her as they shook hands and he pulled his hand back and folded it into his harm, “Uh, just to be clear, there’s a microphone right there,” she gestured across from her where his hands once rested, “It’s quite small and you should refrain from putting your hands over it, unless you want to come back for a day of interrogation,” she chuckled softly. 

Harry nodded silently as she continued to stumble through her opening lines, “There are cameras in each corner so this is being recorded. Do with that as you will,” she sighs before opening her file and sitting up straighter than before. 

“Well, uh, Harry, I appreciate you coming in today. I know it’s a bit harder with cases like this… we try to refrain from declaring someone as, uh,” she paused to find her words. 

“Mhm,” Harry hummed in understanding. 

“As not being alive until we have evidence that they’re not, so we uh, we’re treating this case as an emergence.”

“Absolutely, yeah,” Harry commented with a small frown falling onto his face. 

“Okay so, uh, we’ll be fast forwarding through some details that we would finalize later and we will have this be a bit more thorough of an interview so we don’t have to keep calling you back again,” she trailed off into silence. “Theresa read you your rights earlier and I just want to reiterate that you can walk to the lobby if you ever feel uncomfortable and I will treat you with respect and have the same expectation for you.”

“‘Course,” he nods in understanding. 

“So uh, would you agree that there is a, a connection, uh geographically, with you and your mother Anne’s death and her, uh, supposed murderer Russell Williams?” 

Harry’s face fell slightly, “Uh, sure, yeah, geographically,” he was in a state of shock. He didn’t expect his mother to be brought up. 

“Alright so to be quite frank, uh, that’s a bit of why you were more of a suspect- matched the description from Miss Canaue, uh, Mr. Williams’s neighbor, and uh, your obvious connection with the man,” Y/N informed the man before him. Her eyes met his for the first time since she walked in and he appreciated the contact. He nodded as a response, urging Y/N to continue. 

“So, uh, let’s backtrack. Why did you miss work on the tenth? Your log reported you called in as sick, is this true?” 

“Yes, that is true. I had been getting over a stomach bug that weekend. Called in sick to finish my recovery,” Harry confirmed. 

Y/N nodded in confirmation, “And had you contacted your doctor because you had felt, uh, sick that weekend?”

“Not necessarily,” Harry trailed off, “I called so I could have him prescribe me more promethazine… but besides that, I did not speak to him about my symptoms.” 

“Alright,” Y/N glanced at the file that was open before her, “Were you bedridden for the majority of that day?” 

“No, I went to the grocery store that night and I picked up my prescription from the pharmacy round the corner from my apartment,” Harry explained. He stretched his legs out further, a nervous tick he had developed when in school. Y/N’s demeanor intimidated him- he felt his body trying to move at every opportunity to create distance between himself and the woman before him. 

“And do you remember the route you took to the grocery store?” Y/N asked with a slight quirk in her eyebrow. 

Harry’s brows furrowed at the odd question, “Probably went down Main Street and went to the Publix off 86th. 

“And you’re aware that Mr. Williams lives off of 86th?” 

“Sure,” Harry nods. 

“Alright, and I’m assuming you’re unaware that Miss Canaue saw a man with a similar appearance the night of the tenth?” Y/N’s eyes watched Harry’s carefully as he decided his next words carefully. 

“No, I did not know that, but I go down that route every day. Don’t see how that makes me a suspect.” 

“Yes, but you were sick,” Y/N pressed. 

“Yeah, had a bug,” he repeated. 

“Right, so you were sick and left your apartment once- possibly twice- that day and still managed to be around his home?” 

Harry let out an obnoxious groan and ran a hand over his face, “It’s the fuckin grocery store off the largest street here. If that makes me a suspect better get everyone who has brunette curls,” he argued. 

“Harry you’re not the only suspect. And you’re not on trial.”

He let out a scoff at Y/N’s ironic comment, “Yeah but if you don’t believe me, I will be,” he said, “Falsely,” he muttered. 

-

It was a wonder that he hadn’t taken up the offer to leave whenever he felt uncomfortable considering Harry was repeating a string of curses towards the poor girl in his mind like a mantra. 

He had been sitting in the uncomfortable fold out chair for two hours and Y/N’s posture has deteriorated significantly in their time- though she was just as scary as the first moment she strode into the room. 

Harry was deciding if it was the confidence that surged from her body or if it was the navy pantsuit she wore that made her seem like a lawyer going into the courtroom with a billionaire- she just had a way about her that screamed power and Harry loved it- he was intrigued and distracted by her, though he also wanted to shove her out of the room. 

“Mr. Styles?” she asked with a sharp tone, “On the twelfth you were out partying?” she asked, confused. 

Harry nodded, “Correct.”

“Then why did you take off work?” 

“It was the day my mum- Anne died. Take it off every year and go to my best mates house. He throws a party and I get drunk.”

“Mr. Horan, yes? He’s a suspect as well,” Y/N mumbled. 

“What did he get too close to 86th? Is it because he’s embracing the natural brown of his hair? Told him he should’ve stayed blonde,” Harry snapped back. He was impossibly tired and more than ready to be headed home- he didn’t do anything- that he was certain of. 

Y/N’s eyes trace her file and slowly find Harry’s, “If you don’t want to continue you are more than welcome to come back another day but I do not appreciate the tone you are using. You are not on trial and Mr. Horan is not on trial. We are just trying to find information.”

Harry’s eyes diverted quickly. He felt like he was being scolded by his mum after getting a bad grade on a math test; ‘It’s not my fault my teacher sucks!’ he would defend.

“It just seems like I’ve been here for ages and we aren’t getting anywhere- am I really just a suspect or are you lot convinced I’m the murderer of another murderer?” 

“It seems you have strong feelings towards Mr. Williams and it seems as though we are not reaching when we assume you had something to do with it- whether that be hiring someone or doing it yourself we don’t know,” Y/N sighs out. 

She uncrosses her legs and folds her arms above the table. Leaning into her own body, she comments with just low enough of a volume to be deemed seductive, “Am I incorrect with my assumption, Mr. Styles?” 

Harry mirrored her body language, “Extremely. I had nothing to do with this. Wasn’t even conscious.” 

“Am I incorrect in my reasoning?”

Harry takes a long pause knowing he has to choose his words carefully, “No but that reasoning can be applied to far too many people for you to make a definitive conclusion.” 

Y/N tuts softly while reading over her evidence, “Alright fair enough.” She maintains eye contact with Harry for a short moment before putting the papers back into the manila file folder. 

“What’re you doing?” Harry perks up, straightening his posture and pushes his chair back slightly.

“We have been going in circles for two hours. I think we are in need of a break, no?”

“Uh- sure yeah,” Harry left a pregnant pause before he spoke again, “Do you- uh- do you want to get food?” 

Y/N stood from her chair with a relieved sigh. She checks her watch before looking at Harry, “I think that’s a conflict of interest,” she sent him a soft smile. 

“What if we just conveniently end up at the same restaurant?” Harry asks, “Then maybe our tables are right next to each other so we just decide to sit at the same table to save space.”

Y/N lets out a soft chuckle and glances at the microphone that sat at the table. Harry eyes the microphone and stands up, his jacket dropping on top of it. 

“I’ll be at the café down the road in ten minutes- please don’t be late,” Y/N whispers. Harry sends her a smile before nodding slightly and picking up his jacket, making his way to the door, leaving in a hurried motion. 

Y/N smiles to herself before following him, leaving at a leisurely pace. “We’ll be back in an hour, Theresa. Keep the room open, please.”

-

Y/N was purposefully vague with her location- she didn’t know if he was just fucking around or if he genuinely wanted to have lunch. So, she settled on telling him it was a café- one of four that was down the road from the station. She said not to be late so she knew that if he found her, he was being serious. 

It was an odd precaution to take, but she was not going to allow Harry, a supposed murderer, seduce her into relieving his suspect status. She was careful and calculated for that reason. She wanted to ensure that he wasn’t using her in the many ways he could.

Y/N was a beautiful woman and Harry was not blind to that. She sat prim and proper and wore clothes that fit her body just right. Her face, though seemingly free of makeup, seemed to be the most attractive one he’s seen in ages- though he would never let that slip. As much as he could deny his involvance with the case, he was a suspect and getting lunch with his interrogator is all too suspicious to begin with. 

“You found me,” she smiled once she saw Harry’s curls in her peripheral vision. 

“Honest to god, it was the first place I looked. And I used to come here all the time. Food’s the best,” he said, settling in across from her. 

She looked up from the menu she held in her hands, “Used to?” 

“Am I still under interrogation?” Harry asked while setting his coat across his chair. 

“Are there still cameras here?” Y/N countered. 

“Probably,” Harry shrugged, “You can never be too sure.” He nodded in appreciation as a waiter passed him and handed him a menu of his own. “I stopped coming when my mum passed. We would come here for brunch every Sunday with my sister. Haven’t really been here all too often in the past few years.” 

Y/N hummed in understanding, “Makes sense. I only come here after a long shift. Not exactly my favorite place to eat but it’s close. And good enough.” 

“What do you mean not the best,” Harry’s jaw dropped dramatically. 

“What have you not been to the diner downtown? Maybe three blocks from here?” 

“Uh, no?” 

“Well that’s why this is sufficient for you,” she jokes, “Nothing compares to that place.”

“What does it have sentimental value to you?” 

“A bit. Used to go there all the time when I was in school. I did everything there- studied, talked,” she paused, “ate.”

“Yes, the most important. Eating.” Harry countered. 

“Okay, so what do you recommend from here?” 

“Well, for breakfast, I’d say the tofu scramble, for lunch I’d order the meatball sub- marinara and melted cheese of course,” Harry looked up at the girl in front of him to see she had a wide smile.

“Of course.”

“For a snack I’d get any pastry- they have new ones all the time so I just try what sounds good. They’re always unbelievable. And for dinner,” Harry hums while scanning the menu, “For dinner I liked the french onion soup,” Harry concluded. 

Y/N’s face scrunched together in disbelief, “French onion soup? God, you are crazy.” 

“I’ll be honest I don’t like it from anywhere but here. It’s just done so well,” Harry confesses.

“I won’t take your word for it. Sorry,” Y/N says, “But I will try that meatball sub. Can you order for me? I don’t know what exactly to say,” she trailed off, her lower lip jutting out slightly with that request. 

Harry hummed a yes before getting up to fulfill the request. Y/N’s eyes followed his body diligently. He walked with a sense of purpose and carried his body easily- it was almost scary to the girl who sits across from his empty seat. What was his purpose?

He stood watching the chef make their two identical sandwiches in a comforting silence. He was taken back to his youth where this was a regular occurrence- watching the older man as he puts the subs under broiler so the cheese could melt just right- something he always found fascinating. He could probably make the sub from memory after watching it be made so many times. 

He nodded in appreciation, paying for the subs in exact change before bringing them back to their table, “Two meatball subs with melted cheese and marinara.” 

“Of course,” Y/N smiled, beginning to eat the (surprisingly) amazing sandwich. 

-

Harry ended up going back to a station for another hour before leaving back to his studio for the night. He had a great lunch with Y/N and was filled with a lifetime of regret for not getting her number. He knew if he called the station for it, the call would be recorded and she would get in trouble. So, he was stuck. 

It was less than a day since their last meeting and there he was, sitting in front of a bare wall with his eyes locked on the texture that could be seen over the white paint. He found himself in a fit of fury with himself- maybe he should say he has more information so he could see her again? But he knew that wouldn’t bode well for the case.

He had no way to contact her, but then again, he wasn’t in a position to speak to her outside of the case anyway. He was still a suspect and she was still his investigator, even if she was a funny, uplifting girl who he had found himself thinking about constantly. 

The only way they could make contact would be if she went into his file to find his number, or in other words, their reconnecting lies on the flimsiest threads. And that devastated the man. 

He was apprehensive to go out drinking again. He always seemed to black out; not remembering a single detail from his previous night's adventures. But, he found that not remembering was the key to getting over the girl in the navy pantsuit, so he decided to forget.

He had gone out with Niall, going bar hopping for a few hours before Harry couldn’t stand anymore and he passed out in a bar bathroom. Niall was busy with a girl he had seen when he walked in so Harry was alone. He felt the world revolving around him as he laid against the bar countertop with his head on his arms. 

Y/N didn’t notice it was Harry when she walked into the bar. In fact, she didn’t even see him. His back was slumped over his body and the poor guy seemed to be out of his mind. It was a wonder that she had a feeling she knew the man. 

She stood next to him as she asked for a scotch on the rocks with a twist- her usual. She glanced at the man a few times, trying her hardest to not be rude, “I’m sorry, is he okay?” she asked the bartender who just shrugged in response before moving to another customer. 

Y/N let out a frustrated sigh before gently bringing a hand to his shoulder, “Sir?” she called to him. 

He let out a few grumbles before moving his head up slightly, “I’m alright,” he slurred together before dropping his head back down. 

“I don’t think you are,” she muttered to herself before sitting down in the seat next to his, “Do you have someone who can take you home?”

“I have two working legs.”

“I don’t think they are working very well tonight,” she chuckled at him. 

He groaned before moving his head to look at the girl who was sitting next to him, “My friends somewhere ‘round here,” his eyes shut even tighter than before.

That’s when Y/N recognized the man who sat next to her. Her eyes widened in realization, “Harry?” she asked in shock.

Harry’s eyes opened instantly at the sound of his name. He let out a sigh when he saw it was just Y/N. “Thought I heard my mum’s voice. Don’t do that to me,” he tells her. 

“Why are you here?” she asks as Harry sits up. 

Harry paused before answering, “I have my reasons.”

Y/N chuckled, “Well alright. I’m going to head out. Stay safe tonight, Harry,” she told him.

Harry was quick to reply, “Wait!” he called after her.

Y/N turned around, slightly unimpressed with his timing, “Yes?”

“Can I- can I get your number?” he asks, his syllables hardly pronounced. 

Y/N glanced at her friends who were off dancing before looking back at Harry, “Sure,” she responded. 

Harry’s face was quick to become one of pure excitement, looking exactly like a kid in a candy shop, “Alright,” he fumbled a bit while handing her his phone.

It was routine for Niall to be gone into the night with a random girl- truly it was routine for Harry to be gone too. But, he had a change of heart recently so he began wandering the streets on his own before finding his way home in the depth of the night.

He wasn’t fully sure of where he was going but he knew he would find his way back eventually- just an overpriced uber ride away from his home. He began by walking to his mother's grave. It wasn’t a new thing that he did but it hurt just as much each time. He would go sit with her and grieve silently as the night washed away from him.

Old habits die hard and there he was at the graveyard’s entrance looking to see if anyone was there. It was three in the morning but he knew the night was just beginning. People were still out and people, alike from Harry, were grieving. 

He sat there at his mother's grave for a while, his thoughts racing. He felt as if he wasn’t in control of his own body. The whole world was speeding by and his legs carried him in circles around the town, always leading back to the graveyard, as Harry’s brain was extremely detached from his actions.

That probably explains why what he did next was so shocking to him. 

He wasn’t fully conscious- he couldn’t tell you anything that has happened since he left the bar. Harry was out of it. That was a fact. He stood at his mother's gravestone, a knife in hand (the one he kept hidden under a pile of slowly rotting flowers that he would bring once a week). 

He stood to his full height when he saw the headlights approaching the lot next to him. Out stepped a young man white rich, red hair. He was tall, taller than Harry, and he had a devastated look on his face. 

Harry guessed the man was in his very early twenties. He looked like a university student who got to go off campus for the weekend. There seemed to be another person in the car but it was hard for him to see properly, ‘If I can’t see them, they can’t see me, right?’ he told himself.

Harry watched the man approach a grave a bit farther from where he stood. He waited exactly two minutes before walking towards him with a sinister smile masked on his face. 

The man’s eyes flickered to Harry’s before going back to the grave, “I’m sorry for your loss,” Harry speaks lowly to the man. 

He looked directly as Harry and mustered up a small smile before his eyes widened in realization. Harry’s hand made contact with his chest, the knife slicing through his body readily. The color of the crimson blood made him grin- he felt justice when he saw the blood oozing off another human: first his mum, then her murderer, and now an innocent. 

Harry was very satisfied, ready to walk back to his home and wash the blood off his hands, quite literally, when he heard a few footsteps crunching the dead leaves that had fallen on the ground in the dead of winter. 

And that’s when he heard her angelic voice calling out his name. He could only imagine the expression on her face while her voice, as smooth as honey, called out to him, “Harry?” 

He turned expectantly to the woman he had grown infatuated with, “Hello, Y/N.”

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #Harry Styles #harry styles one shot #harry styles one shots #harry styles oneshot #harry styles oneshots #harry styles fanfic #harry fanfic #harry imagine #harry imagines #harry styles imagines

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Worthy (pt6)

A/N: once again - just keep poking me until I start tagging you if you want tagged. @rampant-salamander​, @bolontiku​

...

I looked from Tony to Thor and back to Tony.

“I don’t understand your question,” I responded, and threw back the drink. To hell with being moderate. I was pretty sure I was about to lose my dream job on my second day, I may as well go out with a bang.

“Ella, there has to be something special about you to allow you to lift that hammer,” Tony spoke slowly. That was probably a bad thing. I suspected slow speech meant a really active brain. I was now a mystery that needed to be solved.

“There is nothing special about me at all,” I argued.

“You can lift Mjolnir. That is special.” Thor was like a sage who spoke in riddles.

“But being able to lift Mjolnir isn’t what makes me special enough to lift it. That’s a redundancy.” I, like Tony, was slipping into scientific method in order to try to sort things out.

“Do you have Aesir blood, Ella?” Thor asked.

“My family is from Washington. By way of Wisconsin,” I replied. Tony snorted and Thor shot him a dirty look.

“Before this Wisconsin?” He pressed. The way he said Wisconsin made it sound unfamiliar and strange.

“Norway and England.”

“Norway. That is where the Northmen resided.” Thor looked thoughtful. “In the time of the Vikings, the Aesir traveled on Midgard much more frequently than they do now.”

“Are you suggesting that some ancestor of mine got knocked up by a god?” I could feel my eyebrow rising. Tony smothered a smirk behind his hand. My tone was lost on Thor.

“We are not gods, Ella,” Thor corrected. “And I am unfamiliar with knocked up. What I suggest is that your ancestor was impregnated by an Aesir.”

“But in order to lift your hammer, wouldn’t it have to be you that got this mystery ancestor pregnant? I’d have to be your descendent?” I could feel the blood draining from my face. It would be just my luck that the hottest guy I’d ever seen would be related to me. Thor’s smile was mischievous.

“Not necessarily. I would have discovered offspring of mine on Midgard by now, and I know left none. But I think it reasonable to consider you may have Aesir blood in your veins,” he explained. “Which makes you very special indeed.”

“Can everyone in Asgard lift your hammer?” I asked. Thor shook his head.

“None but I.”

“Then I don’t buy it. I keep telling people, I’m nothing special.” I was getting frustrated with the scrutiny. I never thought I would be desperate for a cute guy to stop paying attention to me, but in that moment, I would have given anything to be able to just go hide in obscurity in the lab, building my washing machine.

“But that’s where you’re wrong, Ella,” Tony interrupted. I’d nearly forgotten he was there, Thor had such powerful bearing. I didn’t think it was possible to lose track of Tony Stark, but I guess in the presence of not-actually-gods… “You are something special. That’s why Pepper and I lept on your application like we did. How did you make it through university with such a bad self image?”

“I don’t have a bad self image. I know I’m a fucking amazing engineer. I just fail to see a correlation between my ability to understand math and build things and my purported mystical ability to lift a magic hammer,” I snapped. I turned back to Thor. “You’re sure no one else can lift it?” Thor glanced at Tony, almost as though he was looking for approval. Tony gave a slight nod.

“I believe that Captain Rogers would be able to lift it, should he have the opportunity. But that remains untested,” Thor admitted. I sighed.

“Of course. He’s a legit hero. Full of righteousness and honour and nobility.” My tone was more sarcastic than I’d intended.

“Yes, intangible and arbitrary measures of worthiness. Who is to say you don’t meet the parameters in some way?” Thor shot back. I looked into my empty glass, wishing it were still full.

“Did you not see me level that d-bag in the elevator?”

“Tis nothing I would not have done myself, and yet I am still worthy,” Thor shrugged. Pepper had walked in at some point during the conversation, and Tony turned to her expectantly. She sighed and blinked slowly.

“We’ve had a discussion about appropriate professional behaviour. He is aware that if there are any further incidents he will lose his internship.” Pepper reached out for the glass of wine Tony was offering her.

“It’s a bit of a PR nightmare if we lose a second intern in as many days, Pep,” Tony commented.

“It’s a worse nightmare if, right as we’re rolling out a gender equality program and girl’s STEM mentorship program, the media gets ahold of information about how we’re allowing someone guilty of sexual harassment to remain in a prestigious and competitive internship,” she retorted. He pursed his lips and paused. After a moment he nodded in agreement.

“What do I know? You’re the boss.” His acquiescence was met with laughter from Pepper.

“What do you know, Tony? How many times did you attend the SHIELD seminar again?” She choked on her wine. “Trust me. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s a smart guy, and I’d like to think he’ll be respectful from now on.” Tony responded with some other comment and I slumped back into my seat, watching the show. If you didn’t know they were stupidly in love with one another, you might assume they were on the verge of war. But I think Tony liked to goad Pepper, and she rose to the bait. Not because she was gullible though. At least, I didn’t think it was because she was easily duped. I think she rose to the bait because it was how they clicked together. I looked away from them and over to Thor, who was sitting back on the couch, completely relaxed. The hammer was propped up beside him, handle leaning against the bolster. It was uncanny how powerful he looked, even in jeans and a t-shirt. I relaxed a little and just enjoyed looking at him, taking in the contours of his biceps, and the definition of the veins in his hands. There was a lot of him to look at, and it was all very pleasing to the eye. At least, everything I’d seen thus far.

I didn’t realize how overt I was being until he smirked. He turned to look at me, and nodded.

“Is it not considered poor manners on Midgard to stare at others?” There was a teasing tone to his voice, but I blinked and looked away, feeling my cheeks colour.

There was really no way for me to deny that I was staring at him. The only blank wall in the entire place was right behind him. I couldn’t even beg being distracted by some of the weird art that seemed to be all over the building. 

“I, uh, well,” I stammered. “I was looking at the hammer?” It sounded like bullshit, even to me. I heard a stifled laugh from Tony and shot him a filthy look. I pushed myself to my feet and glanced at Pepper. “If you don’t need me, Pepper, I’m going to try to catch up with Angela. I have some things I need to pick up for my suite.”

“You can order anything you need from distribution,” Tony offered.

“Except, apparently, towels bigger than a postage stamp,” I retorted. My ears were burning and I was having a really hard time not looking over to see if Thor was following the conversation. He probably was as there was no one else for him to pay attention to.

“You are aware there’s varying sizes of towel?” Tony’s tone was sarcastic. I rolled my eyes.

“Not that this is really a conversation I feel I want to have with my boss, but I grabbed the biggest one. It still barely covered me.” I was ready to pray for a hole to open in the floor and swallow me.

“Well, you’re not exactly supposed to be lounging around in your tow –“

“I wasn’t!” I interrupted. “I was just getting out of the shower when Thor showed up and I didn’t have time to be getting fully dressed before I answered the door, and then the towel slipped and oh my god I cannot believe I’m telling you all this.” I took a deep breath and looked back to Pepper. “Can I go? Please?”

“Let me walk you to the elevator,” she offered and led the way. As we walked away, I heard Tony clear his throat.

“You’ve seen her naked already, you sly dog?”

“That is enough, Stark. How you have lived so many years on this realm and not noticed how modest some of your women are, I have no idea. But you embarrassed her. Like many Midgardians, she lacks comfort with the physical form.” Thor’s words were a chastisement, and I somehow felt even more embarrassed about him having seen me naked. Because now, not only was I naked in front of the freaking Norse god of thunder, but also he took more notice of what a prude I am than that I was naked. I leaned against the wall and banged my head against it.

“That’s not how you call the elevator,” Pepper teased. “I know we all collectively keep telling you to relax, but, yeah. Relax. If Tony is already giving you a hard time, he’s assimilating you into his world as a permanent fixture. This will be something you laugh about in future years.” Her eyes were warm with empathy and it was so reassuring.

“You seriously need to do something about the towel situation, Pepper.” I stepped onto the elevator and pushed the button for my floor. Once the doors shut, I texted Angela to see how far she’d got without me. I didn’t have to wait long. I was swiping my passcard to get into my room when she stepped off the elevator.

“So, towels? Maybe a beer?” She followed me into my apartment.

“Yes. To both.”

XXX

For whatever reason, I expected getting beer with Angela would be more Sex-in-the-City than it was. She pulled me into a quiet bar after we’d found appropriate towels, and we ordered wings from the kitchen and beer.

“So I did some research today while you were meeting with Markus,” she volunteered over a heap of wing bones. I made a noise that was easily interpretable as curiosity and she continued. “I might have hacked some of Tony’s files about that hammer. Thor wasn’t kidding around when he said you shouldn’t be able to lift it. It was apparently forged in the heart of a dying star, of some crazy space-metal. And the Odin enchanted it so only Thor could lift it. Which is clearly a broken enchantment because apparently you can lift it too.”

“It says right on it that if you’re worthy, you can lift it,” I corrected her with my mouth full.

“Obviously it doesn’t take table manners into consideration!” She laughed. I hung my head in mock-shame, but made sure my mouth was clear before I spoke again.

“I don’t know how it determines worthiness. Honestly, isn’t that a little creepy? Is the hammer sentient? Does it consider the merits of each individual that touches it in that split second between grabbing it and trying to lift it? Or does Odin have some sort of approval system for worthiness, and he gets interrupted from whatever it is he’s doing to approve people in that same fraction of an instant?” I pondered.

“Way to ruin magic with science,” she groaned.

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. That’s Clarke’s Third Law. The other two are pretty good too,” I shrugged.

“Oh, that was a kill shot! Come on, let me have some sort of fantasy about the mystical powers of the damn hammer, Ella!” Angela threw her hands up in frustration. I smiled and nodded.

“Of course. The hammer is mystical and powerful and absolutely should not be questioned,” I acceded. Angela swatted at me and flagged the waitress over for another round. I felt myself relaxing and forgetting about the overwhelming stress of the past couple of days as we decompressed over a second beer. When Angela dropped me back at the tower, I realized she may very well live on-site as well, but I was tired and had a bit of a beer buzz and forgot to ask before stumbling through my door and crashing on the sofa.