#which feels too fucking vulnerable to admit to my failures like that but again i don't want to lie and he asks a lot....

[tambourineophelia]

.

#having an emotionally drained (?? from what?) fail day today where i can't seem to get anything done and feel gross and useless #and because i don't want to lie to the boy I'm seeing (i need a better name for him oh god) i told him i didn't go to uni again..... #which feels too fucking vulnerable to admit to my failures like that but again i don't want to lie and he asks a lot.... #anyways he offered we could meet up later and now i'm unsure if i am ready to confront him even more with my bullshit #at the same time it would surely be nice??? but then do i deserve nice things???????? after not doing what i was supposed to do???? #i just need to rant sorry i don't think i am even asking a question here

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

gloria: 🍋 🍌🍉🥝🍦

(this is aggressively more detailed than it needed to be but I have no chill and also now I lowkey want to write her fantasy actually happening I just don't know who with)

🍋 Deep and slow? Hard and fast? What’s your character’s preference?

She never has time for deep and slow.  Hard and fast and if you don’t get her off she will make you apologize and then make up for your failure by making her cum twice. When deep and slow is an option she secretly really enjoys it but also will 100% complain about how long it’s taking and “hurry up before I get bored and find someone else” because she’s a bitch, but doing deep and slow when she’s bottoming, she does enjoy the way that it makes her really feel her partner everywhere (as a top she only goes deep and slow if it’s paired with something like orgasm delay, fucking her partner deep and slow but not enough to get them over the edge)

🍌 Favorite sex position? Or name one and my muse will give their thoughts.

She likes to be on top.  Whether that’s foggy style where she’s pegging someone (big fan of doggy style especially) or whether she is riding someone, she knows what she wants and she’s not afraid to go after it On occasion she lets certain partners be in charge and then she likes to be on her back with her legs around their waist, she’s not a fan of being fucked from behind because she feels too vulnerable 

🍉 What’s your character’s favorite kink?

Huge fan of pegging, huge fan of bdsm (as a dom), highkey into tying someone else up and lowkey into being tied up (but doesn’t admit to that because she doesn’t trust people enough — within the Quinn & Harry crossover she’d be into it, in her own canon she doesn’t have that trust with anyone so far)

🥝 Your character’s most private sexual fantasy? Or describe yours and my muse will weight in on if they would participate.

This isn’t something that Gloria could really see herself doing in real life because she doesn’t trust anyone enough (in the Quinn & Harry crossover she’d be too embarrassed to admit to it but she does trust them enough and wants it so badly but can’t actually say it out loud) but she has a fantasy of basically being tied up and used and forced to take whatever her partner gives.  She doesn’t want to actually be forced but the biggest appeal of the fantasy is having to actually submit and trust someone enough to let this happen, which doesn’t come naturally to her.  Tied up, helpless, left naked to just lie there and wait until her partner feels like having their fun.  In her fantasy her partner just watches her for a while, talking about her like an object and degrading her, “not so smug now, are you” energy, the works.  She wants her partner to touch her however they feel like with no regard for her orgasms or really even her pleasure, being really rough with her tits and either sitting on her face or facefucking her depending on their gender, if she’s with a male partner she wants them to come on her face and chest and then just leave it there, leave her laying there until they’re ready to go again, preferably degrading her in the meantime, and then fucking her.  If she’s with a partner with a penis then she wants them to come in her, she’d really like them to make her come enough times that she’s almost crying from oversensitivity, and then she wants them to spank her cunt – with their hand, with a whip/paddle, it doesn’t matter.  If her partner has a dick, she wants them to mock the way that each bit of come drips back out of her, and then find an object (not a real sex toy, part of the fantasy is that it’s something completely mundane like the neck of a bottle or a hairbrush or something) “to help you keep it in since you’re too loose to hold it on your own”.  And she does specifically want them to degrade her for being loose, a slut, “I could fit anything in her and you would take it”, and she’d be very okay with them testing what they can fit (but of course part of the fantasy is that she “doesn’t” want it, and they’re forcing her to take whatever they want to shove into either/both of her holes.  After that she’s equally happy for the scene to continue with them leaving her there until they’re ready to use her some more, using some sort of toys to torture her while she waits, or for that to be the end and then for her partner to clean her up. She has spent her entire life being the toughest, being untouchable, being completely in control at all times, and as much as it scares her, the idea of being completely helpless and broken down feels really fucking hot to her but more than that, the idea of being put through all of that and then having her partner take care of her and help put her back together and build her back up is overwhelming in how much she wants it (She’s also just really kinky but feels like she can’t admit to wanting to be the one submitting/bottoming/being used in this kind of way because she’s meant to be above all of that and never show any weakness or vulnerability, which is part of why the fantasy is of being forced — it means it’s out of her control and, unless her partner makes her beg for whatever they’re going to do next, which she would say she hates but be so fucking into, she can still pretend that this is what her partner wants and she’s just accommodating them, instead of facing the fact that this is what she wants.  Even if every step has been talked about before and her partner knows she wants it, she feels both more comfortable and more turned on by the illusion that she has no choice)

🍦Kinks your character would participate in? Name the kink.

Kinky fucking bitch she’d do it all.  Honestly the only things I think she wouldn’t fuck with are scat, ageplay, branding / burning / permanent body modification, and water sports (if a partner wanted her to piss on them it wouldn't be her thing but she might consider it, but she wouldn’t want it ever done to her for sure), otherwise even if it’s not one of her kinks, she’d try anything at least once But some highlights for her are bdsm, begging, bondage, pegging, humiliation (giving), lingerie, tit worship, nipple torture, anal, sex toys & using makeshift objects for sex, multiple penetration (giving, unless she trusts a partner enough to let them do it to her), fisting (same thing, giving unless she’s with someone she completely trusts), orgasm delay/denial & edging, spanking, cuntwarming (receiving) Also idk what exactly to call it but there’s a specific intersection of medical play and her potion making (or Quinn’s 👀) that she wants to explore (Note: most of these things are with her as the dom/top, but I know in my heart that in the Quinn & Harry trio, while she would still usually be more dominant, she would be willing to be the submissive/bottom partner to Quinn – even if she would pretend not to or act like she’s doing a huge favour to Quinn, she actually loves it – and for some scenes she’d “let” Quinn make her submit to Harry too just because I feel like they’d both enjoy seeing absolute bad bitch “I eat boys like you for breakfast” Gloria Gothel submitting to them)

NSFW Character Trait Meme

#ask #answered #cecexwrites #gloria gothel #about gloria #minors dni

[hurting-fictional-people]

Continued from here

-

At first, Hero doesn’t notice the slight changes around them.

They wake up, and the pain wakes as well, flooding them with its burn and stealing away their breath for the few instants they take to accept and relax into it before opening their eyes. Villain’s curled-up figure, snoring softly from the armchair next to the bed, is the first thing they see.

Hero lays their head back down and sighs when last night comes back to them. They wish they couldn’t, but they remember it all too well – every kind word, every worried touch and whispered confession.

Embarrassment burns their cheeks at the thought of Villain seeing their scars, the horror written across their face when they did. They were never supposed to see those – no one was, not when all of them were results of Hero’s fails, of Superhero’s discipline. They were a shame Hero carried for not being good enough, and one Villain should never have seen.

They give Villain a side-glance, sighing again at how uncomfortable their position looks, their body too big for the tight space of the armchair.

It’s only then that something clicks into place.

Hero doesn’t own an armchair.

They jerk upright, and immediately fold forward, holding their stomach when pain shoots through them. Hero catches the anguished whimper before it escapes, and only a huff of air leaves in its place. It’s still enough for Villain to open their eyes and sit up too.

“You’re awake,” they state with a yawn, giving Hero a once-over that stops at the clean bandages and makes their stomach churn.

“Where am I?”

Villain’s smirk sends waves of fire through Hero’s blood. How the fuck were they so stupid to trust Villain when they were at their most vulnerable?

“Welcome to my place. Do you like it?”

Hero bares their teeth in indignation and grips the sheets with the hand that isn’t holding their injury. “Take me the fuck back.”

“Oh, no can do, sweetheart. I gave you the nice guest room, though, I think you’ll like it,” Villain says, already standing up and calmly walking around the bed. Hero doesn’t move from their spot under the duvet, not when they can barely move without grunting, let alone get up and follow the bastard. “What do you say about breakfast? I’ll be right back with it.”

Hero can only watch as they leave the room, and the lock clicks behind them.

They fall back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling hopelessly.

Villain locked the door. Hero’s hands tremble at the thought, at how the room suddenly seems so much smaller. They had said they’d be back with breakfast, hadn’t they? But how can Hero trust Villain after they kidnapped them?

The feeling isn’t unknown, though. Hero is way too familiar with the helplessness of being locked away from the world, isolated until they were desperate enough to comply. So forlorn they were the perfect vessel for learning, as Superhero would say. It hadn’t happened in a long time, not since they started obeying the orders without question, but the terror of being alone for hours that turned into days that turned into weeks never truly left them.

You are too unruly, Hero, Superhero always said, scowling at them after they refused an order or made a mistake, if I don’t discipline you, you’ll be just like any villain. It’s for your own good, and one day you’ll see it.

And then the door would be locked, and they’d be alone. Alone until they forgot what it was like to talk and be answered, alone until they gave up on any form of pride and just screamed at the walls that they were sorry, please, I’ll do anything, alone until–

“…hope you like toast, we didn’t have pancakes, but I do know how to make really go– hey, Hero?”

They look up to see Villain walking inside, carrying a tray filled with food. Hero doesn’t cry – you don’t show weakness, Hero, ever, or will I have to teach you how to control yourself too? –, but a sob gets caught in their throat.

They aren’t alone. They are not alone. Hero shakes their head to push away the memories and glares at Villain, carefully pulling themself into a sitting position.

“Why am I here, Villain? Am I your hostage? Your prisoner?”

A shiver runs up their spine at the thought, at the punishment they’d earn for being caught by Villain of all people – being caught without putting up a fight, of all things.

“You are hurt,” they say as if that’s enough of an answer, and sit down in the armchair again, placing the tray in the bed between the two of them and pointing at the piles of food there.

Hero crosses their arms and waits.

“Just eat, Hero, we’ll talk about it after breakfast, okay?”

“How did you even bring me here?” Something vicious is curling around Hero’s heart, something unwelcome, something painful, something they aren’t ready to admit feels like betrayal. Villain doesn’t owe them anything, Hero has no right to feel it, and yet, there it is. “Did you drug me while I bled out?”

Villain averts their gaze and sets their jaw. “They hurt you,” they seethe, the rage only barely contained in their voice.

“I didn’t even tell you why or how I got hurt, you can’t–“

“I’m not stupid. You said enough for me to guess it.” Villain looks up with such unrestrained hatred, that even though they know it isn’t directed at them, Hero can’t contain a flinch.

They straighten up as best as they can to hide it, though, keeping all of the pain carefully hidden away from their features. “Superhero helped me become the hero I am today. Each of these scars is a mark of shame, of my failure. So if you want to blame someone for them, blame me.”

But instead of appeasing Villain, the words seem to have the opposite effect. They clench their fists, nostrils flaring, pupils swallowing their irises whole. “Keep talking and I won’t be able to contain myself next time I see that sad excuse for a person.”

Hero pales, trembles. And Villain, of course, notices.

“Superhero has abused and gaslighted you, and you still blanch at the idea they might be hurt,” Villain sighs, looking up to the ceiling as if searching for an explanation there. “Scars aren’t shames, Hero. Scars are traumas, and there’s absolutely no context in which they’d be a form of discipline. That’s blatant abuse.”

“Don’t talk about them like that,” Hero says rigidly, staring down at their hands. Somewhere deep inside them, hidden so far away they barely remember it’s even there, there’s a young Hero nodding and crying along with Villain’s every word. But Superhero’s words sound louder than any old, forgotten, version of Hero ever could. We don’t speak ill of our people, Hero. And if you do, you’ll have to face the consequences, they’d say between each crack of the whip.

“Just eat,” Villain sighs, hiding their face behind their hands and rubbing their eyes.

There’s so much worry mingled with ancient fear inside of Hero, they don’t even question how fast they answer to the command. They are hurting and confused and betrayed, and their mind can’t help but fit in its usual mode of complying with each and every order. Just like all good heroes do, Hero, you must obey your superiors, and therefore help the people. Show me you can obey and I won’t need to hurt you anymore.

They eat breakfast in silence, and although Hero’s mind keeps bouncing around the argument and their future, something that went unanswered keeps bothering them until they can’t help but spill it out.

“Did you drug me to bring me here?”

Villain looks them dead in the eye, lets them see the guilt lurking there – but also the truth. “Yes. You are hurt and I wouldn’t leave you like this to be even more battered by your beloved Superhero.”

“You had no right,” Hero whispers. Tears well up in their eyes, and the air gets caught in their throat, turning into gasping breaths that are not enough. Suddenly, they can’t breathe. They can’t think. Villain drugged them after Hero trusted them and let them see it all, they drugged them and took them away and they had no way to stop and they still have no way to stop it–

“Hero!” Villain shouts, holding their shoulders and giving them a little shake. It hurts their wound and makes them gasp, but it isn’t enough for Hero to stop quivering.

“You drugged me–“ is all they can rasp out, fighting to regain control of their swirling emotions.

“I gave you a mild sedative and brought you here, that’s all I did,” Villain says hurriedly, “you didn’t wake up because you were really tired, not because I knocked you out. I’d never take your will away like that.”

“But you did!”

Their stomach hurts and their chest echoes and Hero feels like they’re falling and falling and the fall never ends.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be this upset about it,” Villain exclaims, holding their hands.

Hero snaps before even they realize what they’re doing – one moment Villain is holding their hand, the next said hand is flying through the air and connecting with Villain’s jaw with a dull thud and a sharp pain in their abdomen. Two gasps of pain sound at the same time, and both Villain and Hero curl forward, holding their respective injuries.

“You punched me?” Villain says, unbelieving. For one moment, one fleeting instant, Hero freezes and waits for the blow to be returned, only twice as bad, or maybe for them to be left alone as punishment. And then the moment passes, and Villain’s stunned eyes come back to focus. Hero pants and glares at them, but even though they’re still mad and scared, there is also guilt overlaying it all now.

“You drugged me!”

“I also kidnapped you. And it was a mild sedative, you could’ve woken up– why are you so hung up on the drugging?”

As if in answer, Hero’s heart starts to pound. It screams from their chest, thrums inside their ears. Their tongue doesn’t voice any of the truths laying there, though. Not when they can still feel the bitter taste of betrayal – what would Villain do with the knowledge of how many times they were drugged as a punishment? As a ‘calming technique’, according to Superhero? As a ‘teaching mechanism’?

“Does it matter?” they bite out, shifting their weight and holding in a moan when the wound shifts as well. “I never should have trusted you.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

But that doesn’t mean anything, not really. Superhero’s said it before, and they ended up hurt either way.

“You can’t keep me here against my will. Unless you plan on tying me down and locking me up, I’m going to leave whether you want it or not.”

Villain takes a sharp breath and grits their teeth. Although goosebumps spread across Hero’s skin, they don’t back down.

“Why would you go back to them?” Villain sags on the chair, and even though their face is somber, there is something in their eyes that looks so much like pleading that Hero holds their breath. “I can protect you. You can even ‘save the city’ or whatever, I won’t stop you. But why go back to the person who hurt you? I see the fear you’re hiding, Hero. You and I both know that the only thing waiting for your return is more pain.”

“What do you want me to do? Stay here? Become a villain myself?” they scoff.

Something flashes in Villain’s eyes, something so weirdly close to pain Hero find themself at a loss for words. And then it’s gone, as fast as it appeared, and Hero chooses to believe it was only their imagination.

“Do as you wish, but I won’t be responsible for your being hurt again,” Villain says in a final tone. “And if I have to tie you down and lock you up until you’re healed and able to defend yourself, then so be it.”

“So the ‘playing hero’ part is over, huh?”

There’s so much hurt, so many places. In their belly, in their contained tears, in their heart. Hero grips the sheets and glares at Villain’s narrowed eyes.

“I never said I was playing hero,” they respond coldly, “I��d rather be damned than be anything like Superhero.”

Villain gets up after that, but stops at the door and turns around to look at Hero. They stare at each other, and in their gazes, something builds and something breaks, and as words form and die in the tip of Hero’s tongue, they seem to do the same in Villain’s, for they simply sigh and turn their back, leaving the room without another glance and locking the door behind them.

(part 3)

#whump #whump writing #superhero whump #villain caretaker #hero whumpee #superhero villain #hero whump #villain x hero #villains and heroes #traumatized whumpee #wounded #solitary confinement mention #noncon drugging #panicking #implied past torture #kidnapped whump #manipulated whumpee #manipulative whumper #conditioned whumpee

[troquantary]

Edward Cullen: That Boy Ain’t Right

So I was doing a reread of @therealvinelle 's collection of Twilight metas, as one does, and in "Edward, Denial, and a Human Girlfriend" she mentions that she doesn't believe Edward is sane. I thought, "ha, yeah, he's definitely not," and also, "but wait, what does that mean exactly, please say more about that." But since she's already inundated with asks, I've decided to use my own head-muscle and explore this idea. (TL;DR: I start out more or less organized, synthesize some points Vinelle has made across several posts (and have hopefully linked to them all where relevant but please tell me if not), touch a little on narcissism, then take a hard left into the negative effects of being a telepath.)

Just a couple things to note at the outset, though. Theses have been written already (probably) about Edward as an abuser. Edward being insane doesn't negate that at all; he's definitely an asshole and just...a disaster of a human being. (I find it more funny than anything, but YMMV.) I'm also going to try to avoid talking specifically about mental illness and how it relates (or doesn't relate) to abusive behavior -- that's territory I'm not really equipped to discuss, like at all. My starting point is "Edward has a deeply warped perception of reality," not "Edward has X disorder."

So: deeply warped perception of reality. The evidence? Goes behind a cut, because my one character trait is Verbose.

Vinelle provides a great example of it in the post linked above, which I'll just quote because she does words good: "[Edward] keeps acting like his romance with Bella is a romantic tragedy, and all the cast of Twilight are actors on a stage making it as sublime as possible." Edward's the one to pursue Bella, but he does so with the full belief, from the very beginning, that it will never last; Bella will "outgrow" him, go on her human way, and he can spend the rest of eternity brooding magnificently over his too-short romantic bliss. [Insert premature ejaculation joke.] Turning her is never an option, even though Alice, Noted Psychic, says that romancing Bella will either end with her dead (exsanguinated) or dead (vampire).

This framing, where he's a dark anti-hero in love with -- but never tainting! -- the pure maiden and eventually leaving her in a grand, tragic sacrifice to preserve her soul? It's fucking bonkers. Bella isn't a person to him in this scenario. As Vinelle points out, Bella's never really a person to him at all; he falls in love with his own mental construct, cherry-picking from what he observes of her behavior and her responses to his 20 (thousand) Questions to convince himself that she is the ideal woman.

Bella's not the only one who gets the projection/cardboard-cutout treatment. Edward sees everything and everyone through a highly particular, personalized lens. He filters his entire reality, which we all do to an extent, but the thing with Edward is that he starts with his conclusions and then only pays attention to the evidence that supports those conclusions. Often that evidence consists of what he admits in New Moon are only "surface" thoughts -- but recognizing that limitation doesn't keep him from taking those thoughts as representative of what people are. Edward then becomes absolutely convinced by his own "reasoning" and won't be swayed from what he has decided is Objectively True. It's obvious with Bella; it's also painfully obvious with Rosalie. (Vinelle explains this and brings up Edward's raging Madonna/Whore complex in the same post, so refer to that again -- she's right.)

He also catastrophizes. Everything. Bella's just vibing in her room, rereading Wuthering Heights for the 87th time? She's gonna be hit by a meteor, better sneak into her room while she sleeps. Bella's going to the beach with the filthy mundanes their human classmates? She's gonna fall in the ocean. Jasper's cannibal pals are stopping by for a visit, but know not to hunt in the area? DISASTER, DEFCON 1, ALSO FUCK YOU JASPER FOR EVEN EXISTING IN MY AND BELLA'S SPHERE YOU UNSPEAKABLE BURDEN. Edward must believe that Bella is vulnerable and in near-constant peril, to support the reality he has created in which he is the villain turned protector and maybe?? hero??? (!!!) for his beloved. So when the actual, James-shaped danger arrives, he goes berserk, snarling and flipping his shit and generally not helping the situation. His fantasy demands that Bella remain human, so instead of doing the very thing Alice, Noted Psychic, assures him will neutralize the threat (and not just a threat to Bella, either, but to Bella's family and any other human James might decide to include in the "game"), he vetoes it immediately, no discussion. Bella Must Not Turn, and he sticks to those guns despite James nearly reducing her to ground beef, despite leaving Bella catatonic with depression (but human! success!) in New Moon, despite Aro's order and his family's vote and, let's not forget, Bella's clearly and repeatedly stated desire to be a vampire. It's going to happen. But he doesn't accept it until Renesmee busts out of Bella like the Kool-Aid man and the poor girl's heart finally, unequivocally stops.

Sane people don't behave this way. I don't want to slap labels on Edward, but I can't help but note that he comes across as highly narcissistic. He's the only real person in his universe, the lone player among us NPCs. That probably has a lot to do with him being frozen in the mindset and maturity of a seventeen-year-old boy, but I think it's also just...him, on some fundamental level. His failure to connect with others and recognize them as full, independent beings with their own wants and priorities isn't like Bella's failure -- she's badly depressed. Edward is...something else, and I get the sense that his sanity has been steadily deteriorating over time. And a cursory google of narcissistic traits turns up some familiar-looking stuff. He's self-loathing, yes, but also grandiose; he hates himself for the monster he is (and hates most vampires besides Esme and Carlisle for their monstrosity, too) but still feels superior to humans, to the extent that he felt entitled to human blood and resented Carlisle for depriving him of his "proper" diet. He eventually returns to Carlisle, but he's far from content -- the beginning of Midnight Sun finds him in a state of ennui, bored and dismissive of (if not outright disgusted by) everyone around him, that has apparently persisted for years and years. He doesn't play the piano, he doesn't compose, he doesn't enjoy anything...at least until Bella comes along and then he becomes obsessed to a disturbing degree with her and his new, romantic tragedy spin on reality.

[Next-day edit: I’m not sure where else to fit this in, but the way Edward casually contemplates violence against people who have, at best, mildly annoyed him is...chilling. I have a hard time writing off his strategizing how to murder the entire Biology class as a result of bloodlust -- it’s so calculated, nothing like the blackout state of thirst Emmett describes when he encountered his own “singer,” and that is probably the default for when a vampire is extremely thirsty. But even ignoring the Biology class incident, Edward still does things like consider, with disturbing frequency, how he might grievously injure or kill Mike Newton, all because...Edward considers him his romantic rival (despite Bella barely giving the kid the time of day). He thinks about slapping Mike through a wall, which might be an amusing slapstick image, except as a vampire Edward’s actually capable of turning this boy’s skeleton to a fine powder. So it’s, y’know, kind of sick when you think about it.

But even worse than that, when Bella tells Edward about how she flirted with Jacob to get at that sweet, sweet vampire lore, Edward chuckles and then, after dropping Bella home, flippantly observes that now that the treaty’s broken, why not genocide? I’m not even kidding, it’s right there in Midnight Sun; he seriously thinks about the fact that he’d be technically justified now in wiping out the entire tribe because a teenager tried to impress a girl with a spooky story. That is fucked. Remember, Edward was there with Carlisle when the treaty was first established. He knows how remarkable it is that they even came to a truce in the first place, that it was only ever possible because Carlisle is...well, Carlisle, and that it marks a pretty significant moment in supernatural history. He doesn’t care; he doesn’t respect it, or he’d never think something like “Ha ha, if I went and killed them all, I wouldn’t even be wrong. I mean, I won’t do it, but I’m just saying, I wouldn’t be wrong.”

Again: not the thought process or behavior of a sane person. (Or a person that respects life in general -- sorry Carlisle, big L.)]

Finally, whether he's a narcissist or not, I think the fact that Edward has constant, unavoidable access to everyone's thoughts is a powerful contributing factor to his instability. He can tune out the mental noise to an extent, but he can't stop it -- so he comes to rely on it like another sense. This causes issues with disconnect and lack of empathy, of course, but there's another facet to this shit diamond: he's basically experiencing a ceaseless flow of intrusive thoughts. His narration in Midnight Sun suggests that he "hears" the words people think, can "see" what they visualize in their mind's eye, and can sense the emotional "tone" and intensity of their thoughts. Therefore, perceiving Jasper's thirst through his thoughts makes Edward more aware of his own, "doubling" the discomfort. This would be a lot to deal with even from just his immediate coven members, but Edward gets all of this pouring into his head like a firehose on a day-to-day basis because the Cullens live right alongside humans. I know Meyerpires have galaxy brains or whatever, but that's a ton to process.

Besides the compounding effect on his own thirst when he "feels" the thirst of others, Meyer never suggests that Edward has difficulty separating his own thoughts from other people's; even when he was newly turned, he recognized Carlisle's "voice" in his head as Carlisle's. That would create a whole different host of issues around identity, but it looks like Edward's escaped that particular torment. However, I can easily imagine that what he does experience is just shy of unbearable nonetheless, with an eroding effect on his sanity over decades. He can't sleep to escape it; he's on a dishwater diet and probably (like the rest of his family) experiencing a perpetual, low-grade physical discomfort due to his thirst never being fully satisfied; and he's around far more people than is the norm for vampires -- even discounting all the humans, his own coven is unusually large -- meaning more noise.

Honestly, it would be weirder if he were all there, considering.

And even though I feel like I lost a sense of structure around where I started ranting about telepathy, I've written like 1.5k words about Edward fucking Cullen and I think that's enough for one post.

#twilight #twilight renaissance #twilight meta #edward cullen #i stared too long and the twilight abyss gazed back #long post #major credit due to therealvinelle for having basically all the ideas already #theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin too since they agree and build off each other's metas a lot #idk how people who write meta can just crank these posts out i've been here for two hours #edited to add stuff i forgot to mention about edward's disproportionately violent fantasies

[bakugohoex]

loveee your work can i get 8 nsfw with my dirty boy shigaraki ?? 🤤

“keep moaning, go on”

pairing: tomura shigaraki x female reader

cw: MINORS DNI nsfw (nipple play, spitting, bath sex, riding, quirk play (shigaraki threatens reader with his quirk implied consensual), creampie, thigh riding, jaw grabbing, choking, corruption kink, praise kink, degradation), language, some fluff maybe idk 

word count: ​2000+

a/n: ria finally posting after two weeks and it’s about shigraki of all people, its a shock i know, and thank you so much my lovely this is probably like two months late but i hope you like it

summary: in which after a loss to all might, all shigaraki needs is a relaxing bath with you which ends up turning into a lot more

1k event masterlist

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Shigaraki was pissed, more than pissed he was frustrated and the whole league understood. After another failure, another downfall at the hands of All Might, Shigaraki was seeing red, and you instantly knew what was to occur when you heard the loud banging against your apartment door. You had seen the news, the mighty All Might having defeated Shigaraki once again and you instantly knew where his anger would lead you.

You stood firm closing the screen as you slowly opened the door, Shigaraki stood at the door, the hood against his head as he finally met your eyes. “You saw?” You nodded as he moved closer, pushing the door open as he stepped inside, you felt him move inside, move closer as you stared at the boy. An innocence and vulnerability after he lost, you moved closer as he closed the door, your hands wrapping around his waist as you brought your head to his chest.

“You’ll win next time.” It was a whisper; he wouldn’t have heard it but with the silence of the night sky and the way you held back onto him. His hands moving to your sides, cautious of his quirk not activating as you looked to the side. He put his head against your shoulder, as your hand moved to his locks of thick blue hair. “I promise…”

He didn’t answer, remaining attached to you, until you both finally looked at each other. Your hand skimming through his hair, your eyes remaining attached to him. “I want you now.” His words were firm as he grabbed your sleeve taking you along to the bathroom, you didn’t understand until you finally saw him unzip his hoodie, feeling the way two of his fingers moved to slip your own shirt off.

“Let me…” It was quiet as you took his shirt off, leaving a kiss on his neck and shoulder as you moved to his jeans, undoing his belt as his fingers skimmed against your bra. “I want you…too.”

Your relationship with Shigaraki had always been filled with small words but with the retaining of small touches to show your adoration to the man. He seemed quiet, fidgeting as your fingers skimmed onto his shoulders down to his chest. The way he had let the bath run, his fingers moving to check the water as you took the rest of your clothes off.

The splash of the water as you turned to see Shigaraki sitting in the hot steam, his arms resting on the side of the white bath. The way his head leaned back, and his hair had become drenched by the water, you looked at his form, his closed eyes and harsh breaths. “Get in.”

He stared at you, his eyes lazily gazing against your body as his fingers moved beckoning closer, “I’m not repeating myself Y/n, get in now.”

You didn’t question instead hastily moving towards him as you dipped your feet into the hot water. His fingers gripping onto your waist as he pulled you onto his body, pulled you till your hips rested against his own. His growing cock already pushing against your ass as you felt his head nuzzle into your shoulder, finger flicking to your tit. The water and soap hid your body’s as he let you rest against him, “why do you let me do this?”

“I don’t know…” You trailed off in a moan as his grip on your nipple became harsher.

His chapped lips brushed against your shoulder as you felt his cock grow behind your back, “you should be with a hero.” His voice was soft, eyes staring blankly at your skin as he traced his finger against your waist.

“Wh…why would you say that?” He heard the shakiness in your tone, the way you turned to meet his eyes, water splashing to the sides as your eyes became watered. “If I wanted a hero I would have gotten with one, you think I…I let anybody do this with me.”

Shigaraki loved you, even with his selfish immature personality, he loved you and he acknowledged how you deserved better. He hated how he admitted it, but he knew that one day you’d leave him, one day you’d find a hero and start a family and live in a picket fenced house…without him. He watched you turn to face him, your chest pressed against his own as you stared up at him. Hands moving to cup his face, you noticed the scratches against his neck. The way skin had been picked off as you softly brushed passed it looking right up at him.

He didn’t dare look at you, his eyes gazing outside the window again, the way the blacks and blues of the sky enraptured his eyeline. “One last time…”

It was all he said, you didn’t understand the implications of his words, disregarding it as him never wanting to be defeated by All Might ever again. He finally met your eyes, leaning down to kiss you as his hands caressed your back through the water.

It was sloppy, full of a need and a want to feel more of you, his cock grinding against your clit as you moaned into his mouth. “Let me have you tonight.” His words were firm as every word led to another kiss, he always had a fear of hurting you and especially through sex the way he made sure to never fully touch you, you’d never get all of him, you always knew that. But the way he still brought comfort but the risk of your death at his hands, how could he not feel powerful.

“I’m...all yours.” You were breathless as his mouth moved to your neck, the way your hands moved to the back of his neck, playing with his hair as he kissed and moaned at the way you rutted your clit through the water right onto his sensitive cock. It was something you knew he loved, ever since your first encounter the way the blushed tip pressed against your clit as you continued moving back and forth. “Ma…master…”

The way you easily submitted to him, calling him a name he loved to hear to fuel his ego. How could he ever resist such a pretty thing like you. His mouth moved to your chest as you straddled his lap, clit brushing against his thigh as he could feel the mix of water and slick skim past his thigh. “Wan..want you in me?” You arched your back at his mouth sucking at your tits, the water helping him as his saliva mixed with the droplets across you.

You were beautiful, he knew that he knew others knew that to be fucking you, fucking the number two hero like this. It was disgusting, but he had made you his pet, his little toy and you’d be stuffed full of him and still put on the persona to others that you were their hero, that you were bound to them. Loyal to them.

“My slut…” He watched you move yourself on top of him, the way his tip brushed against your cunt before you pushed yourself down onto him, a loud groan as he bit at your nipple. “Dumb little hero taking me…so well…”

He couldn’t help but groan and moan at your movements, the way you looked as you took him all, the water splashing around you both. Soap clinging onto you both as your damp hair stuck to the back of your neck, “I’m doi…doing well?”

You craved his praise, craved the response he’d give you. The way he looked up at you doing all the hard work, feeling suffocated by your cunt at every movement. He admired the way your head would go back; the way your chest bounced every time you went back and forth with him. But most of all he loved the way your eyes were closed as you took him in, the way your hands rested on his chest, and the way your tongue lolled out as every thrust.

“You’re doing well…could be better.” Shigaraki moved his hand to your neck, the way you instantly looked down at him, you watched as he gently rested each finger onto your neck until he had one left. “Do better or…”

It wasn’t a threat, he’d never kill you, you meant too much to him. But the way you seemed to get more and more wetter as you easily fucked him, you had enjoyed it. He knew how much you loved being tainted, loved having a villain as yours to fuck. It wasn’t like you didn’t have feelings for him, but the unlikely hood of a future was evident, so you’d make this the best sex yet.

You continued to move back and forth on him, each time slamming your hips down before you rested at his base. Feeling the way your legs rested on his side, the way you rolled your hips as he moaned your name softly, “my good hero…”

Your own moans filled the bathroom, his grip tightening against your neck as his mouth moved to your boobs. The way his tongue circled your tits before biting at the sides of the flesh. Your moans felt intoxicating as you moaned his name, moaned “master” for him.

“Keep moaning, go on.” He loved hearing it, loved it so much that he would die a happy man if your moans were the last thing he heard. “Agh fuck Y/n.”

You knew his own high was coming as you felt a coil in your stomach, “c…cum…”

“No. You cum when…when I tell you too?” Shigaraki wanted to be in control, you may have made him become weak under your body and mouth, but he was the one in control. “Fu…fuck.”

“Pl…please Tomura…”

The way his hand moved away from your neck as to your jaw, making sure to keep one finger off of it, he made you stare at him. Made your cheeks squish as his grip tightened against your mouth, “whining now…that’s not very hero like.”

“I…I…” You could barely speak as he thrusted up into you, his tip hitting the back of your cervix as you knew you couldn’t last any longer.

“Stupid bitch…cum for me.” His words led to an instant release, the way your cunt pushed out the white gush right onto his cock. He used your cum to keep thrusting up into you, mouth moving to your own as his fingers stayed firm on your jaw. “What would those pro hero friends of yours say?”

You could barely answer, barely say anything as he got his own high, thrusting into you. “Fuck…” You felt his cum fill you up, his cock making both your cums mix together as the kiss was filled with spit and saliva as his tongue pressed against your own.

The bath had gone cold, barely any water left inside at all the movement. And the water left had been filled with your cum and slick, it was disgusting as Shigaraki stayed inside of you. “They’d never look at me again.”

You answered his question, his fingers against your sweaty skin, the way you rested against his stomach. Shigaraki didn’t know how to reply, instead pulling the plug of the bath and putting the shower on, it was quiet as he helped you get clean. The way he let you clean him of any dirt, clean his hair and touch him in places he’d never expected any beautiful woman to touch him in.

Both ending up in your bed, Shigaraki knew the real reason why he had said one last time. He knew as he got out of your bed after hours of you talking and then falling asleep. He knew it all as he got his clothes, leaving you in your fancy hero apartment. That the next time you both would see one another would not be for sex or a relationship. It would be on opposite sides where you’d fight alongside All Might, fight him because this was the last time he’d ever taint you again.

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[thisissirius]

fight me, siri

ok

a place for us [ao3 link] eddie/buck, mid-episode for rage

Eddie stares at the phone. 

There’s a cop standing just behind his left shoulder, he’s grateful it’s not Athena, looming and reminding Eddie he doesn’t have long. He should call his abuela, in case he can’t get out in time to pick up Chris. He could call call Lena, ask her to bail him out. He can’t call Buck. 

The fucking lawsuit. 

The anger settles low in his stomach, threatening to boil over. What right does Buck have to drag their personal shit into the open? To let Mackey at it like he deserves to tear apart their decisions and use it against them?

Eddie shouldn’t call Buck, it’ll only lead to a fight. 

Picking up the handset, he dials one of the only numbers he knows by heart and touches his forehead to cold stone, hoping his call is answered. 

“Hello?”

Eddie swallows. “It’s me.”

“Eddie?” The sound of a couch rustling, the familiar slow intake of breath. “Where are you?”

It’s a bad idea, but Eddie can’t stop himself blurting out, “i need you to bail me out of jail.”

Silence. 

“I know I shouldn’t call—”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

The dial tone rings in Eddie’s ear. 

When Eddie gets outside of the station, there’s a familiar truck in the parking lot.

Part of him wants to ignore it, to satisfy the rage curling low and angry in his belly and find something else to punch. Part of him wants to wrench open the door of the truck and—

Except. 

Opening the door, Eddie climbs inside and tries not to make eye contact. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure,” Buck says. He sounds angry, and when Eddie risks a glance, his jaw is tight. He’s furious, which just makes Eddie angry. What right does he have to be mad at Eddie? It’s his fault Eddie even— “Where do you wanna go?”

The anger stagnates and Eddie buckles in, stares back at the station. There’s a reason he’s called Buck, made the choice to reach out. “Chris is at a sleepover.”

Buck nods, fingers tightening on the wheel. 

“Can we,” Eddie starts, fights the urge to snap something angry, fights to keep his tone calm. “Can we go to yours?”

Head snapping right, Buck raises an eyebrow. “Are you serious right now?”

Eddie doesn’t bother answering, lets Buck make up his mind. He fiddles with the phone in his pocket, trying not to check whether Chris has called. He wants Chris to have fun, but there’s always an undercurrent of worry left behind. The truck is tense, silence dragging out into something dangerous. Eddie wants to break it, to snap at Buck for everything he’s doing, for making everything wrong when Eddie’s already struggling to keep his shit in line. 

The truck comes to a stop and Eddie’s startled to see they’re at Buck’s apartment. He doesn’t know what to say. 

“Get your ass out the truck or I’m locking you in,” Buck says, slamming the door. 

Eddie bites back his own retort—Buck’s bailed him out and he doesn’t know how he’s gonna pay Buck back for it—and clambers out of the truck. Buck’s at the door to his apartment block, holding the door open, his back to Eddie. It’s a dismissal that has Eddie bristling, and he storms after Buck into the building. 

“Why’d you bring me here?” Eddie asks, when he shuts the door behind them. Buck’s angrily wrenching beers from the fridge and Eddie feels ungrounded, like he’s the only one with a right to be angry and can’t understand why Buck’s—

“You asked me to bring you here.” Buck slams a bottle on the counter. “Just like you asked me to bail you out of jail, Eddie, what the fuck!”

The anger is back, bubbling up, and Eddie snaps, “You don’t get to judge me.”

“My money’s the reason you’re standing here right now.” It’s a warning tone that Eddie barrels right over. 

“If I knew you’d hold it against me, I’d have called somebody else.”

“Who?”

Eddie snaps his mouth shut. 

“This is gonna fuck up my case,” Buck says, holding up a hand when Eddie starts to retort. “Shut up, Eddie. This is gonna fuck up my case and I came anyway.”

Eddie snorts. “So what, I should be thankful? You shouldn’t even have been suing us—“

“I want my job back,” Buck says. It’s quiet, exhausted, and it stifles some of the anger. Eddie looks at him, really looks; Buck’s deflated, tired, drawn. How is it that just a few weeks ago, Buck and Chris were in a tsunami and now they’re here, everything breaking and running away from Eddie faster than he can make it stop? “I just want to come back and Bobby won’t let me.”

“Buck,” Eddie says. 

Buck clenches his hands into fists, rests them on the counter. “What excuse do you have?”

“It’s not an excuse,” Eddie snaps, and then shakes it off, turns around and stalks towards the couch. He needs to stop, to get control of himself. Fuck. He punched someone. 

“Eddie,” Buck says, and there’s something about his tone that forces Eddie to look. “You were booked for assault.”

Eddie sits on the couch, rubs at his face. “He was being a dick about Chris.” 

The story tumbles from him, because he needs someone to hear, to understand. 

There’s a ripple of fury on Buck’s face. “What the fuck is wrong with him?”

“I punched him,” Eddie says with a shrug. Then, thinks about it. “Fuck, I punched him.”

Buck sits on the coffee table, to the left of Eddie. His hands between his legs, toying with a frayed thread on his sweatpants. “What’s going on with you?”

Eddie doesn’t answer. How does he even begin trying to put shit into words? “Nothing.”

“Eddie.” Buck looks up, his eyes wide, and fuck, Eddie hates how unmoored he feels around Buck sometimes. “I never wanted this.”

“Yeah,” Eddie scoffs, leaning back against the couch. “Well now you have it.”

Silence stretches between them again and Eddie fidgets, pulls his phone from his pocket. The anger coasts and he knows if he tugs at it, he could use it to hurt Buck, to tear him apart like Eddie wants to. 

Except. 

Eddie doesn’t want to. He’s tired, too. He just wants things to make sense, to be right. “He misses you.”

Buck winces, drops his head. “I didn’t mean for things between us to go wrong.”

“What did you think would happen?”

Shrugging, Buck’s jaw tightens again and he stares off towards the kitchen. “Bobby’s the reason I can’t come back.”

Eddie frowns. “What?”

“You said chain of command,” Buck says, sounding hoarse, and he looks back. “Bobby told me I couldn’t come back. That the department said it was okay, but he didn’t think I was ready.”

Something stirs in the back of Eddie’s head. “Why?”

Buck shrugs again. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, feeling some of the anger bleed into frustration on Buck’s behalf. “Did he say why?”

“I don’t know,” Buck says, and Eddie hears everything he’s not been saying. The confusion, the hurt, and he’s angry at himself all over again. He’s been so busy and wrapped up in his own shit, with Chris, that he’s never thought to think about Buck. Buck, who’s lost his job, his family, and his confidence. 

Sliding forward, Eddie reaches out, expecting a flinch, and when he doesn’t get one, feels relieved for reasons he can’t explain. “I’m sorry.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Buck stares at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, sounding wrecked. “I was so concerned with being mad, I didn’t even think.”

“It’s okay.”

“No,” Eddie says, squeezing Buck’s knee. “It’s not. You gotta stop letting us off the hook when we hurt you, man.”

Buck's look is wry. “I’ll let you off the hook for that if you tell me what the fuck you were doing punching someone.”

It’s so easy to feel the low burn of anger, of failure. Eddie’s been riding it this whole time, trying to exist in a world threatening to drown him. 

“Eddie,” Buck says, reaching out and touching Eddie’s hand. He’s hesitant, apprehensive, so Eddie turns his hand palm up, lets Buck tangle their fingers together. 

Staring at their linked fingers, Eddie swallows hard. “Shannon wanted a divorce.”

The words fall between them. 

“Shit,” Buck mutters, squeezing Eddie’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m so angry all the time,” Eddie says. He hates being this vulnerable, this weak, but it’s a lot and he can’t stop the words tumbling out now he’s started. Buck’s holding him tight, fingers squeezing hard enough Eddie imagines his fingers breaking. Imagines himself crumbling beneath Buck’s touch and he gasps out the rest, eyes wet. “I let her back in, let her see Chris and I knew, I knew it wouldn’t be enough, you know? It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t, she died, Buck, but she was gonna divorce me.”

Buck’s silent.

“I wasn’t enough,” Eddie says eventually. “I just wanted to be enough. So that Chris could be happy.”

A hand touches his face, fingers gentle, and he looks up, meets Buck’s eyes. “Chris is mourning his mom,” he says quietly. “He’s suffered a tsunami, he’s mourning his mom, but he’s happy, Eddie. Or at least he will be.”

“How do you know?” Eddie whispers, afraid that if he talks any louder, the words will prove he’s as weak as he feels. 

“Because of you,” Buck says. His voice is certain, hard in a way that forces Eddie to pay attention. “You’re a good dad, Eddie. Sure, you’ve just been arrested,” Eddie huffs a reluctant laugh, revels in the smile on Buck’s face, “but you’re a good dad.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, shaking his head. 

“Hey.” Buck squeezes his hand, the fingers against Eddie’s face sliding around to his neck, thumb to Eddie’s jaw. “You’re the best thing in that kid’s life.” A pause. “In mine.”

Eddie freezes. 

“After Chris,” Buck says quickly, cheeks pink. “You’re my best friend, Eddie. Whatever that means.”

“A lot,” Eddie says, truthfully. “I haven’t had a best friend before,” he continues. “Not sure if I know how to be. Sometimes I think I do, then others—”

“Yeah.” Buck sounds like he understands. 

Sometimes Eddie wants to kiss Buck. To drag him in, hold him close and never let him go. The words won’t leave Eddie’s mouth, stuck somewhere down his throat, threatening to choke him. 

Buck shifts again, until he’s sitting opposite Eddie. He takes a breath, touches their foreheads together. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Eddie admits. 

Buck’s eyes are really fucking blue. He’s beautiful in ways Eddie’s never let himself see. 

“Shannon died,” Eddie says eventually. “I don’t think I’m over it.”

“I know.”

“I want to be.” 

Buck stares at him, expectation heavy between them. 

“I want to kiss you.” The words are quiet. Eddie takes a breath, meets Buck’s eyes. “Sometime. When we’re both ready.”

“Okay,” Buck says. 

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” Buck’s face breaks into a smile. It’s small, tentative, but bright. Eddie wants to drag more out of him, ones that light up his whole face. 

There’s another pause and Eddie breaks first, tugs him in. Wrapping his arms around Buck, Eddie lets out a soft sigh. “Thanks, Buck.”

Buck’s arms come up to Eddie’s back, his nose against Eddie’s neck. “For what?”

Eddie huffs. “Bailing me out? Talking some sense into me.”

“What are best friends for?”

Pulling back, Eddie touches Buck’s face, thumb against Buck’s bottom lip. “Hopefully more than that.”

Buck’s smile is wide, a familiar look on his face. “Eventually. If you earn it.”

Eddie’s startled into a laugh and he drops his chin to his chest, grinning. 

“Hey,” Buck says, squeezing Eddie’s arm. Eddie lifts his head and raises his eyebrows. “Either way, I love you.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. Then, with certainty, says, “I love you too.”

#911 fic #buddie fic #buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #fic by me #alicia!!! #my darling #have a fic #buttercupbuck

[jaskierrrrrr]

Have I not written anything in basically a year because of my crippling fear of failure? Yes.

Did I also write this the night before my final exam and upload it at 11.30pm? Also yes!

Bad decisions aside, I really hope you enjoy this!

***

(2.5k, canon typical violence, bodyswapping and SFW shenanigans)

***

The mid morning sunlight finally roused Geralt from his sleep, which was the first sign that something was very, very wrong. Normally he started awake, just before dawn and had plenty of time to pack up the camp before Jaskier even considered opening his eyes.

The second sign was his own body lying motionless next to him.

It took Geralt several seconds longer than he’d ever admit to to accept that he wasn’t some spirit looking down at himself from beyond the grave. For starters, he could see his chest rising and falling. He also felt starving, which didn’t seem like something you’d have to deal with after dying.

Still processing his initial shock, he was just debating whether to wake himself up or not when his hair fell into his eyes. He brushed it away impatiently and then started, looking down at his hands. Where had expected to see grimy, scarred fingers, he instead saw soft skin, calloused fingernails and ostentatious rings, which could only mean-

He fell backwards, reaching behind him to grab his sword, before realising it was on the other side of his motionless body. Still in denial, he stumbled towards himself and picked up his sword. It felt unnaturally heavy, and looking at the reflection in the blade confirmed his worst fears.

He was Jaskier. Or rather, in Jaskier’s body. Which suggested that Jaskier was in his.

Turning round just in time to see his own body- Jaskier- finally stirring, he braced himself for what would most likely be an incredibly dramatic reaction. For once, he would class it as appropriate- Melitele knows he’s screaming internally. It’s bad enough not being in your own body without also having swapped with the person you care about the most, who has no idea. There’s a great sense of vulnerability and a deep-set fear that somehow this will lead to Jaskier realising how he feels, but he tries to push it away and focus on the problem at hand.

His own eyes blinked sleepily up at him, before widening in surprise.

Oh what the fuck,’ Jaskier exclaimed, hauling himself off his bedroll and circling Geralt, tripping over his feet in the process. ‘Why didn’t you tell me my doublet didn’t match my shirt?’

‘You- what? That’s the first thing you say?’ Geralt asked, Jaskier’s nonplussed attitude momentarily distracting him from the current clusterfuck of a situation.

‘Well yeah,’ Jaskier huffed, placing his hands on his hips in a manner that looked so bizarre under his armour that Geralt felt the uncontrollable urge to laugh. ‘I have a reputation to uphold.’

‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ Geralt muttered, turning away from Jaskier. His brain was starting to hurt. ‘You look fine.’

Jaskier cleared his throat. When Geralt turned back, his face was stretched into a grin.

‘Don’t you mean- you look fine? After all, you’re wearing it.’

Jaskier had a point. Not that Geralt would ever admit it.

‘Whatever, Jaskier. Let’s just find someone who can fix this.’ He reached for his sword, before remembering he no longer had it, and wouldn’t be able to carry it if he did.

Jaskier clapped his hands together. ‘Gods, this is going to be fun.’

***

“Okay, I’ll be the first to admit that this is decidedly not fun,” Jaskier muttered, the medallion around his neck bouncing as they made their way up a steep hill. The sun was now low in the sky and once again Geralt found himself irritated at the amount of fabric he was currently baking under. Why did all of Jaskier’s clothes have to have so many frills?

“The novelty’s worn off then?” Geralt added dryly. They’d been walking for about two hours before they’d come across the first town- there was no mage, but fortunately they found a place for Roach at a local stables. She’d found the entire body swapping incident incredibly disconcerting (she wasn’t the only one), and had refused to let either of them ride her, even when enticed with apples.

At first, Jaskier had kept up a steady stream of his usual chatter, albeit in a much gruffer tone than usual, but he had fallen silent as it got later in the day.

‘I just don’t understand why it’s so loud? I feel like I’m back at Oxenfurt, there’s just so much noise.”

“It’s from the Trials, remember? Enhanced hearing has saved my life- and yours- countless times,” Geralt replies, not without a twinge of sympathy. He remembers how chaotic and confusing it had first felt as a child.

Jaskier grimaced. ‘Right, right,’ he mumbled, before jerking his head back towards Geralt with a look of horror on his face. ‘Is this what I sound like to you? Gods, I had no idea- my prattling is bad enough without advanced hearing-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted, “your voice doesn’t grate- it’s fine.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe it did at first, but I’ve gotten used to it.”

“So what I’m hearing…” Jaskier said slowly, “is that you like my voice?”

Geralt scoffed. “Don’t push your luck,” he muttered, although he couldn’t quite hide his smile.

“I knew it!” Jaskier crowed triumphantly. “So much for fillingless pie.”

“I said talking was fine- I didn’t say anything about your singing.”

Jaskier’s mouth fell open in outrage. “You- you absolute brute, Geralt of Rivia! Mark my words, one of these days I’ll, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Geralt asked teasingly, looking away to hide his laugh. “Splutter at me?”

Jaskier didn’t reply. He’d come to a complete halt and was staring at the trees, a frown on his face. Without warning, he drew his sword. Geralt had just enough time to wonder if joking about Jaskier’s singing was going to be the thing that killed him, when something huge burst out of the foliage. He whipped his head, following the flash of silver as his sword flew elegantly and almost lazily in an arc from Jaskier’s hand and buried itself in the side of the creature, which collapsed in the dust.

Geralt turned to stare at Jaskier in amazement. “How the hell did you do that?”

“I don't know,” Jaskier muttered, eyes still fixed on the creature. “I guess I’ve got your fighting skills too.”

As he bent to withdraw the sword from the creature’s side, Geralt noticed Jaskier’s hands were shaking.

Geralt knew how he was feeling. He’d felt sick to his stomach the first time he’d killed something. He hesitantly reached out a hand and placed it on Jaskier’s armour. He could feel him trembling.

“You did the right thing,” Geralt said gently. “It’s not easy, but you did it.”

Jaskier’s eyes finally moved from the corpse, and he gave Geralt a brief smile.

“You think so?”

“I do.”

***

They walked in companionable silence after that, occasionally bashing into each other when Jaskier forgot how wide his shoulders were. They reached the next town at dusk. After a few brief enquiries, it was apparent that there was no mage.

“I guess we’ll have to accept defeat for the night,” Jaskier sighed. “Even I’m feeling tired, so you must feel exhausted. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

He was right on both counts. Geralt’s feet have ached since midday, and he’d even tripped a couple of times. Maybe Jaskier constantly falling over was more due to tiredness rather than not paying attention.

“We can find a place to camp for the night in those woods over there,” he suggests. “Figure out where we’ll head next in the morning.”

“Why don’t we just ask for a room at that tavern over there? I could do with a hot meal.”

Geralt hesitated. After the day they’d had, he could definitely use a drink, but they’d been lucky to travel so far without drawing too much attention to themselves.

Jaskier must have noticed his reluctance.

“It’ll be fine,” he said as he rolled his eyes. “Besides,” he added, swinging open the door, “we’re in the middle of nowhere, there’s no way anyone will recognise us.”

As he opened the door with a flourish, the entire tavern fell silent, their eyes fixed on the two newcomers standing frozen in the doorway.

“What were you saying?” Geralt hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

Jaskier was saved from answering by the innkeeper bustling over to them with a wide smile on his face.

“Geralt of Rivia and the bard Jaskier! It is an honour to welcome you here. Will you be in need of a place to stay tonight?"

They both nodded.

The innkeeper clapped his hands. “Excellent! We’ll have a room ready momentarily. Sir Witcher, we have a table free over there- and will you be performing tonight, noble bard?”

“Well, I-” Jaskier began, before noticing the confused look on the innkeeper’s face. “Oh, well… I’m sure my companion would be delighted!”

Geralt barely managed to restrain the torrent of curses on his lips before nodding tightly. He was going to kill Jaskier.

“Wonderful,” beamed the innkeeper. “The stage is over there whenever you’re ready,” he added, before returning to the counter. Geralt slowly turned to look at Jaskier.

“What? Oh, don’t look at me like that, what was I meant to say?”

“You were meant,” Geralt growled lowly, “to say no. I thought that was fairly obvious.”

“Look, it’s too late to back out now. You’ll be fine! If I got witchery skills, you must have bardic skills, it’s only fair.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt groaned in despair, “how many curses have you known to be fair?”

Jaskier started to laugh. Geralt turned away.

“Oh yes, laugh all you want. It’s my reputation at stake.” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier looked at him with an odd expression on his face. “Geralt, it’s my reputation, remember?” He takes Geralt’s hand and squeezes. “I promise it’ll be okay,” he said softly. “And if it isn’t, I’ll start a distraction. I’m great at that.”

Geralt snorted in acknowledgement. He pulled the lute off his back, and let adrenalin carry him over to the stage. As he settled in the chair, the patrons fell quiet once again. He catches sight of Jaskier, who’s drinking a tankard of what looks like Cintran ale. Lucky bastard. He caught Geralt’s eye and raised his tankard in a silent salute. Geralt inhaled deeply, praying to Melitele not to fuck up. Closing his eyes, he began to play.

Somehow, thank the Gods, Jaskier was right. His fingers are flew over the fretboard to the familiar tune of Toss a Coin. He doesn’t understand, but he isn’t going to question it. He’ll play a few songs to keep the audience happy, and then make his excuses.

He’s about four songs in when he finally gets the courage to open his eyes. Everyone seems to be enjoying the performance, but there’s only one opinion he really wants. Jaskier is leaning forward in his chair, his ale forgotten as he listens to the music, swaying gently in time. He has a soft smile on his face, but there’s something odd about his features. Geralt’s seen his own reflection far less than he’s seen Jaskier’s face, but he knows something’s different.

He’s lamenting his poor eyesight and squinting from the stage to try and see more clearly when the truth hits him.

It’s his eyes. Even in the well-lit tavern, his pupils are blown wide so his irises are barely visible. Which normally only happens in the dark, or-

His fingers briefly slipped on the strings. He blinks to recover, his mind reeling. The only other time his eyes are that wide are when he’s looking at Jaskier. But, if Jaskier’s looking at him, then that means-

There’s a sudden, unpleasant tug in his navel. His stomach flips, but before he has time to cry out, the sensation has gone. Realising his arms are empty, he opens his eyes.

He’s across the room, looking at Jaskier on stage. Relief floods through him. He’s back in his own body, and more importantly, he never has to sing again.

Jaskier catches his eye and waggles his eyebrows. “Told you it would be fine,” he mouths over his strumming.

Jaskier finishes with a flourish after another two songs. To Geralt’s annoyance, he gives in to demands for an encore. Geralt taps his foot impatiently. He’s desperate to be alone, to get the chance to talk to Jaskier. Finally, finally, Jaskier strums his final note and bows deeply, before jumping off the stage and sauntering towards Geralt, who meets him halfway.

Jaskier grins at him, face flushed. “Guess we don’t need a mage! Strange, I wonder what made us switch back.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, as they make their way up the stairs.

“Oh, well someone’s definitely back to normal!” Jaskier laughs. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy yourself up there by the way, I could tell.”

They find their room at the end of the corridor. It’s a simple room, but there’s a fire in the grate that gives it a homely feel. Geralt finally finds the courage to talk when he’s interrupted again.

“You gave a fine performance, you know,” Jaskier said brightly as he set his lute on the table by the door. “I mean, starting with my best song was an interesting choice- I usually save it for the end, but you pulled it off. Could work on your stage presence a bit too, but I suppose that was to be expected, given the circumstances.”

He paused for breath, grinning at Geralt. Realizing this was his only chance, Geralt didn't pause to think, just crossed the room in two strides before pushing Jaskier up against the door and kissing him.

Jaskier let out a startled breath before responding in kind, gripping Geralt’s waist and pulling him in close.

When they broke apart, Jaskier smiled widely. “What brought this on?” he asks, before frowning suddenly. “Wait, if I had ale in your body, does that mean you’re drunk? Is that why-”

“I’m not drunk,” Geralt reassured him. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time, I just… didn’t know if you felt the same until I saw how wide your- my- pupils were during the performance.

Jaskier scowled. “That’s not fair,” he mumbled into Geralt’s shirt. “I had all your witchery senses and I still couldn’t tell how you felt.”

“I just hide it better than you.”

“Now that I won’t argue with. Your face is like a block of granite, it’s impossible to tell what you’re thinking.”

“Know what I’m thinking now?” Geralt said in a low voice, leaning towards Jaskier, who blushed a deep shade of red.

“I have an idea,” he mumbled.

“I’m thinking,” Geralt continued, leaning in even closer before grabbing a pillow and thwacking Jaskier over the head with it.

“I’m thinking,” he laughed over Jaskier’s splutters, “that you can sleep on the floor tonight for that!”

Ignoring Jaskier’s halfhearted protests, he pulled him towards the bed, where they collapsed in a heap.

“I’ll get you back for that,” Jaskier muttered from where he was sprawled against Geralt’s chest.

“Oh?” Geralt laughed. “And when should I expect my comeuppance?”

“Not now,” Jaskier replied. “After all, we have all the time in the world.”

Geralt grinned, before pulling him into a soft kiss. “That we do,” he replies. “That we do.”

#this was going so well at the start #and i just reread it and I HATE IT #oh well #enjoy anyway!!! #past tense can F off #geraskier #fic #writing #my writing #the witcher #jaskier #geralt #in the scene where everyone turns to looks at them I picture their faces in that scene where jaskier just got djinned and they see the #naked mayor #their expressions are just so funny

[anjaelle]

Heavy Weight

Pair: Boxer!August Walker x Black!OFC Warnings: Mention of Blood, Mention of Bruising, Mentions of Depression, Mention of Abuse, Mention of Self Harm; Some comfort.  Summary: The various ways in which a man learns about vulnerability. Word Count: 1.5k a/n: This is some dark shit. Idk where this came from, and I’m sorry if it triggers someone. I tried not to be too graphic. More of the focus is on him than the relationship, if that makes sense.

________________________________________________________

  “Tell me... if I’m doing too much,” he sighed between kisses, “tell me if you need me to let up.” 

 She smiled against his mouth, placing a splayed hand on his firm chest, “I will.” 

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” 

The very first time he touched her, he worried that his hands were too rough with callouses. It was something that weighed heavy on this mind, so much so that it may have affected his performance. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything about it. She was too polite to do things like that, so of course she wouldn’t. 

Sometimes he questioned why she stayed with someone who couldn’t relax. She pressed her delicate fingers into the muscles of his back and joked that the tension could crack a diamond. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, allowing himself to fall deeper into the softness of her. This time, his  hands tangled into her thick curls as he placed kisses along the curve of her throat. She giggled, and it sounded like a melodic bell. 

He wanted to shield her from the world he came from. Women like her couldn’t handle the brutality of his life, and he wouldn’t blame them. It just meant that he didn’t spend much time getting invested. When she asked to see him fight, he shut her down immediately, claiming that it wasn’t her scene. It resulted in a small argument, and she conceded. But it was a hollow victory when he came home to an empty apartment. Eventually he offered a compromise: she could watch the match from home. It was the only way he could stomach it--he couldn’t bear to imagine her face in the crowd as he used the hands she loved for violence. 

And then he lost. 

And he came home bitter and tired. She reached up to brush his hair from his swollen eye and he flinched away from her before excusing himself to go to the bathroom. As soon as he found the strength to confront her, she pressed a bag of frozen peas to his face in an effort to bring the swelling down. He protested. She underestimated how much battering he could take, and he told her as much, forcing a grin on his split lips. 

“I’m a big boy,” he semi-joked, “I’ll be alright.” 

He wouldn’t touch her that night. He couldn’t. His knuckles were bruised, and his mouth was bloody. He was angry about losing, and he didn’t want to be held or kissed. Instead he spent the night on the couch, watching footage of his father in his prime. Every time she checked on him, he murmured that he’d be in bed soon, only choosing to go to bed when he was sure she was asleep and wouldn’t ask him questions. 

The second time she watches him fight, she calls him as soon as its over. The high of victory doubles when he hears her voice, and he just wants to go home to her.

“You did so well, baby!” She exclaims, “I’m so proud of you. We have to celebrate!” 

 Instead the crew took him to a bar without her. He lost count of how much whiskey he drank, how many girls he ignored, how many pats on the back he received from strangers. And as the night progressed, and the alcohol wore off,  the guilt hit him like a freight train. 

When he finally arrived home, she was asleep on the couch, curled up in one of his gym hoodies that fit snugly in some places and baggy in others. For once, he was glad he sobered up before he came home. He didn’t want to forget this image. He picked her up, and she mumbled tiredly into his shoulder. 

“You didn’t come home...” she sighed.

“I tried. I’m sorry.” 

He removed his liquor stained shirt and jeans, and crawled into bed with her, placing kisses on her forehead. 

“Don’t leave me behind, okay?” she said. He wasn’t sure what she meant. Maybe she was talking in her sleep. He swallowed hard and held her close.

“I won’t.” 

The third time she watches him fight, he loses again. And she watches him shrink into himself, live on national television. He came home bruised and battered, but he forced a smile on his face when she greeted him at the door. It didn’t meet his eyes, and she noticed. She made an attempt to ask if he was okay, and as usual he brushed it off as just disappointment. 

It was more than that, and they both knew it. 

Once again, he refused to touch her. She reached out to rub his back as he passed her in the kitchen, and he flinched, his shoulders tensing up. 

“What’s wrong?” She asked with pleading eyes, “Does something hurt?” 

He hesitated and sighed, “A little.” 

That was a start.

He held her hand as she led him to the bathroom, and he effortlessly lifted her onto the countertop so that they were eye-level. 

“Let me look at you,” she gently commanded, which brought a small spark of amusement to his eyes. He couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips.

“So you’re going to play doctor now?”

“Shush,” she cupped his face in her hands and kissed his crooked nose. 

She applied ointment to the cuts on his knuckles and wrapped them up with a kiss. His heart melted. “Looks good,” he said, flexing his hand, “I might have to let you in the locker room before the matches.” 

She smiled brightly at the compliment, “See! I can help, sometimes. You should let me do this more often. Y’know?” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, “Didn’t I tell you not to leave me behind? Let me take care of you, August.” 

Something crossed his features. It was the first time she’d ever seen it.

“Fuck, I love you so much.” He confessed, grasping her face in his hands.

He pressed a long kiss to her soft lips. For once, he willed himself to forget the events of the night. He wrapped her thighs around his hips and sighed into her mouth. She felt his heartbeat thud rapidly against her chest, and his breathing picked up. Suddenly she felt the wetness on her cheeks. 

“Babe,” she tried to pull away, but he moved to kiss down her neck, “Baby...”

He said nothing but pulled her closer to rest his head on her shoulder. Suddenly he hyperventilated and his body shook with sobs. Despite his comparatively massive frame, he felt so small in her arms as she held him and let him cry. 

--

It took some time to open up. She made the suggestion based on her own experiences, but it was ultimately his decision to take the leap. He was uncomfortable. He didn’t really like talking. But he was tired of feeling angry all the goddamn time. 

“Why are you a boxer?”

“I guess it seemed like the best case scenario? I’ve always been a good fighter. I might as well get paid to punch people in the face. It’s a better use of my time and energy.” And his anger. But that didn’t seem like something he wanted to admit. He didn’t want the guy to think he was a lunatic with violence issues. 

“How do you feel in the ring?” 

“I don’t know. Fine, I guess. Sometimes it just feels like a game. Like a strategy thing...I hate losing though.” 

He scribbled something down on his stupid yellow notepad.

“Well, that’s understandable. Losing sucks.” 

“Yeah, but it feels like an extra punch in the gut. I just really hate losing. It makes me feel like I shouldn’t even have my job in the first place.” 

Doctor So-and-So raises his eyebrows behind his thick rimmed glasses. 

“Why do you feel that way?”

“My job is to win matches. What the hell do I have to gain from losing them?” He chuckled bitterly, “I used to just let my cuts and bruises fester. Just so I’d remember how much the shit sucks and I won’t lose again. I feel like I only lose when I forget what losing feels like.” 

There’s a heavy pause after that admission, and the therapist scribbles something else down. 

“August, there’s no shame in failure. Why do you feel like you should punish yourself for human error?” 

“How else will I improve?” He automatically said. Then he caught himself, dropping his head in his hands, “Fuck. Fuck that old bastard to hell. I thought that shit was normal,” he admitted. “I thought every guy dealt with this. It helped you build a thicker skin. I don’t think I’d have the career I do if it wasn’t for him. I always think, ‘whatever these guys hit me with, I’ve dealt with worse from my old man’.” 

That was the first time he’d admitted any of this aloud. The feeling was strange, like a small weight lifted from his shoulders. It wasn’t much, but it was something...

#august walker x black reader #henry cavill x female reader #august walker x reader #henry cavill x black ofc #henry cavill x black reader #august walker x ofc #ch: august walker #I'm so sorry auggie I'll be nicer to you in the next one I promise #jaelle writes #even if you are a dick

[ateezmakemeweep]

you’re the one that i want (part 20)

word count: 7k

angst, fluff (tw: anxiety attack)

(part 19) (series masterlist)

“is there a reason you don’t wanna go home? are you not safe there?”

“it’s...fine,” you say quietly. “they just say a lot of things that hurt my feelings and yell. but who’s parents don’t? it’s just....normal family problems,” you tell seonghwa quietly, blinking back the tears threatning to fall because you don’t think being smacked and kicked and fearing for your life is considered normal family problems.

“whatever they say, know it’s not true,” you hear him mumble against your head. “they don’t know how lucky they are to be able to see you everyday.”

those words leaving his mouth catch you off guard, any time he says something sweet like that making your heart flutter and tears prick your eyes. and he knows it too because he looks down at you and smiles, shaking his head before placing another peck on your nose and lips.

“please, no more crying tonight.”

and you try for him again but it proves to be a failure, burying your face in his neck and allowing your wet, salty tears to fall on his skin. you try to control your breathing and sobs threatening to leave, neither of you commenting on the death grip you have on him.

“i’m gonna miss you,” you whimper out quietly.

“i’m gonna miss you too, baby,” he says, “but i’m here now. and i’ll be here when you wake up.”

your eyes shoot open as you’re ripped from the dream of memories, tears blurring your vision and a pit in your stomach because you can remember that night so well.

your last night with seonghwa when he calmed all your worries with his sweet words and soft spoken tone. told you he loved you and that you guys would figure everything out, no matter what was gonna happen.

it was the last night you thought you’d wake up with him, the last time you thought you’d feel truly safe and protected after months of experiencing happiness you’d never felt before.

but now here you are months later, unable to move because of the heavy arm wrapped around your waist and his warm breath on your neck; but there’s also a horrible pit forming in your stomach as you quickly recall last night’s events.

remember how you finally told someone about the years of abuse and hostility you’ve dealt with, reluctantly opening up to the boy who, for the past few months, has also been hurting you.

and with his calming breaths against your skin, his warmth and scent surrounding you, it’d be too easy to transmit yourself right back to that happy place you were in in your dream.

pretend that just for a moment, as you welcome seonghwa’s touch and closeness, that things are normal. expect him to roll over and give you a kiss good morning like he always did, whine to him that you wanna stay in bed with him all day and watch movies and giggle when he kisses your nose and insists that’s what you’ll do then.

pretend that these past few months didn’t happen and that if he woke up now, he wouldn’t be reminded of the fact he hadn’t wanted you up until a few hours ago. that he told you before the summer ended he’d be there for you and then proved time and time again that he wasn’t.

but you wanna trust him so badly. let him help you and hold you and be like the person he was during that good time. but how are you supposed to really trust him now? how do you know he’s not just gonna freak out again and leave you alone?

because after what you went through and told him last night, you don’t think you’ll be able to handle it.

so it’s why you take a few minutes to breathe, now faintly aware of the rising sun and knowledge that you probably have school in an hour or two. you rest your tired eyes and allow him to hold you for just a little longer, feeling so at ease and relaxed despite your racing mind.

you hear your phone vibrate against the table next to you and pop an eye open, stiffening slightly as you try to rip yourself away from seonghwa. you work slowly to lift his arm, hearing his quiet groan as he tightens his hold on you.

“y/n...” you hear his sleepy voice mumble and you think for a second that he’s awake, about to close your eyes and pretend to be sleeping until you hear the familiar sound of his steady breathing.

you let out a sigh, moving even slower before you eventually get out of his grasp. you can’t even say you’re surprised to see no missed calls from your parents and three messages from san, his frantic questions and crying emojis bringing a sad smile to your face.

your eyes filter over to the desk where that purple turtle lie, narrowing your eyes at the overpriced figurine that served as the catalyst to your breakdown last night.

but it all had just been too much, everything had been too much. seonghwa’s presence and your exhausted body and mind. the voice in your head going back and forth about what to do and if you can trust him before you all but passed out.

it’s still too much right now and if seonghwa wakes up and looks at you a certain way, wonders why you’re still here or thinks you expect to go to school together today with a sneer on his face, there’s a good chance you’ll break down again.

so with one final look, a sad smile quirking at your lips as you watch his handsome, sleeping form, you quietly sneak out of the house to start the journey to school.

the cool morning air sends a chill down your spine and you can just feel how puffy your face is, your confessions having been as exhausting as you thought. you felt slightly better today after your good sleep (the best sleep you’ve gotten in months actually) but you were still haunted.

you’ll be haunted long after just telling someone, riddled with the effects of your parents treatment for quite some time after probably.

and who’s to even say, now that you told someone, that it’s gonna stop. you don’t even know if seonghwa’s gonna help in any way, the vulnerable state you were in last night easily putting all of your faith in him.

because despite everything, despite the way he’s treated you, a part of you still believes he’s good.

but now, with a somewhat level head, you’re also feeling hesitant and confused but mostly scared. what’s gonna happen later today when your parents confront you? how is seonghwa gonna act in homeroom or at lunch? what is san gonna ask you about-

your phone vibrating in your pocket makes your eyes grow wide, your stomach twisting at the idea of seeing seonghwa’s name on the screen. but then you relax slightly and smile, seeing san’s name and it appears he has not a care in the world that it’s only 6:30 a.m.

“hi,” you answer softly, your expression softening when you hear his sigh of relief.

“you took at least five years off my life, i hope you know this.”

your eyebrows pull together at his words, watching the cracks in the sidewalk as you walk down the pavement slowly.

“what do you mean?”

“what do i mean?” he parrots, his voice raising. “what i mean is that i, reluctantly, send you home with seonghwa and then never hear from you again! on top of the fact that wooyoung came in 20 minutes after you left but that’s a whole other story in it self. are you okay? please tell me you are. i’m gonna seriously have a-”

“san,” you say, amusement in your voice because you don’t think you’ve ever heard him so panicked before; he’s usually so sweet and calm and soft spoken. “i’m okay. i...fell asleep at his house.”

“oooop,” san says lowly and you narrow your eyes because you can just picture his facial expression right now. “are you still there?” 

“no. i snuck out while he was sleeping.”

san hums lowly and you resist the urge to scoff, wanting to ask what that noise was for when he talks again.

“and everything was..okay? i didn’t know if you were gonna be mad at me but i don’t know... you didn’t seem right yesterday, y/n.” 

you swallow the lump in your throat as tears prick your eyes, biting on your lip as you try to control your breathing; but this isn’t going away, you told your story once and you have a feeling you’re gonna have to again and again and again.

“i wasn’t,” you admit quietly, not wanting to drop that kind of bomb over the phone. “but i’m a little bit better today. and i’m not mad, san. i...we needed that, i think. i needed that. it was hard but i think we’re kind of...” you try to find the words but realize you don’t even know what you could possibly say about you and seonghwa right now. ”...actually i don’t even know,” you laugh out quietly. 

because you don’t know, you ran out before you could know anything.

“well if i know seonghwa at all, he’s probably gonna wake up and frantically search for you.”

and it appears the blonde still knows his ex-friend quite well because the second seonghwa woke to an empty bed, he became panicked. heart racing and eyes wide as he looked around his room, knowing that just a few hours ago you were wrapped up under his arm because he had watched you sleep until he passed out.

it reminded him of the night after your first time, when he watched you sleep for what felt like hours before coming to the conclusion he’d fallen in love with you. that he was deep and thriving in something as tragic as a summer romance.

he told himself he wasn’t gonna sleep at all that night because he didn’t wana forget the moment; and it’s, ironialy, the same thing he said to himself last night. 

that he had to be up when you awoke so he could tell you again that he’s gonna be there for you. that even though he hasn’t proved it much these past few months, you mean more to him than anything else and he’s gonna help you through this.

so a low curse leaves his mouth as he jumps up and searches for his car key, knowing that it’s probably a little fucking crazy to drive around and look for you but his body just acting on instinct at this point.

because he knows you’re probably thinking a million different thoughts right now, none of which are true. that he plans on ignoring you again and has no intentions of helping, that last night he was just so overwhelmed by your closeness and his desire for you so he acted as if things were like before.

but that couldn’t be further from the truth; things had always been like before and he was too stupid and insecure to realize that. 

he cared too much about what his friends thought and doubted himself and even though he still doesn’t think he’s deserving of you, his need to help and protect you is overpowering everything.

it’s why he speeds through the streets of his neighborhood and sighs in relief when he sees your familiar frame walking, phone held to your ear as he immediately pulls up to the curb.

“he really said that?” you softly ask san who was only starting to explain his drama with wooyoung from yesterday. “how would that even-”

the sound of a car behind you makes you tense and turn around fearfully, relaxing and letting out a quiet, strangled gasp when you see seonghwa through the window.

“y/n? what happened?” san asked, immediately hearing your harsh intake of air. 

“you were right,” you mumble under your breath, san letting out a scoff when he hears seonghwa’s voice calling your name. 

you watch with wide eyes as the dirty blonde walks over to you, looking down at you with a soft, almost guarded look and you hate that your first instinct is to hide away from him.

“i should go, i’ll see you at lunch, okay?” you mumble into the phone, the boy humming his response before you reluctantly hang up and look at seonghwa. his gaze feels more penetrative than usual, your lips pressing together nervously.

“why’d you leave?” he asks you quietly. his tone isn’t accusatory or upset, just genuinely curious and maybe even a little hurt which makes it worse.

“i...we have school,” you lamely say, seonghwa eyes narrowing as he looks at you. 

“and? we have an hour left till then. and i have a car.”

your eyebrows raise in surprise at him saying that, never having expected he’d be giving you a ride; because that would definitely indicate you guys know each other. 

“i just wasn’t sure if you...wanted me there still. i didn’t mean to fall asleep and i was-”

“you weren’t going home,” he says firmly, the low growl in his voice immediately  shutting you down. “you’re not going home.”

“where else am i supposed to go? i live there, seonghwa,” you say, fully ready to accept going back there tonight. 

because what else can you do? as tragic and as toxic as it is, that’s your home. that’s where your stuff is and where there’s a roof over your head. if you could just not go home, you would’ve done that many nights. 

“and i told you we’re gonna figure it out,” he says, walking closer to you and taking your face in his hand. you let out a shaky breath at the feeling, your eyes meeting his and tearing at the look in them.

that familiar soft but blazing look that never failed to make you feel safe.

and right now, not only are you confused by all of this, you’re scared, terrified really, of what’s gonna happen now that it’s out in the universe and scared that you’re gonna have to go through all of this alone.

“you told me a lot of things,” you mumble quietly, hating that you couldn’t stop the words from leaving your mouth. but you think you hate even more the way seonghwa’s face falls, his eyes looking over you before he lets out a sigh.

“i know,” he says, the hurt and distrust in your gaze breaking his heart while also reminding him of the fact that he was a fucking asshole. “but you can’t go back there, baby. i know it’s scary and that your shit is there and that you might not trust me right now but i...you just can’t, okay?”

and then when he tugs you into him, almost like he couldn’t even stop himself, and rests his lips on your head, you think you’re about to crack again. 

so even though you’re still not 100% sure on what the hell you’re supposed to do right now, trust him or not, you accept his comfort and nod against him. he breathes out a sigh of relief at the way you melt into him, his hand on the back of your head as his fingers thread through your hair gently.

“we’ll go to school together, yeah?”

you pull back upon hearing that, your eyes watery and wide and the shock in them makes him heart drop in his stomach; because it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why you’re so surprised by the offer.

“i...are you sure?” you ask him quietly, biting down on your lip nervously in a way that makes his eyes narrow. makes him take your hand in his and walk you toward the passenger seat, gently guiding you in as he buckles you in like a child who can’t do it herself.

“i don’t know if i’ll ever be able to let you out of my sight again,” he says quietly, voice so low and whispered you’re not even sure if you were supposed to hear that. but that doesn’t stop you from raising an eyebrow at him, cocking your head to the side as you peer up at him curiously. 

it’s a look that causes him to touch your cheek again, running his thumb along your warm skin as his eyes roam your face. he hates that it took something as tragic as this to snap him out of his stupid shit, finally make him step up and be there for you in the way he should’ve been from the start.

“i’m sure,” he says, voice back to a normal volume, saying words you were meant to hear. “so please, let me help you.”

you can also hear the soft desperation in his voice and it only reflects in his eyes as he looks at you, reluctantly pulling away after a few seconds and it’s then you let out the breath you were holding in.

his eyes are always gonna be what get to you. the way they hold so much emotion and fondness and really make you believe, even after everything he’s done, that he really does wanna help.

that maybe you both are just young and confused, dealing with too much heaviness and tragedy that two teens trying to be in love need. that even though what he did was wrong, it could mean something that he’s here now when you most need someone. 

but you can’t push down the feelings of doubt and nervousness, even as you look up at him and nod. he bites the inside of his cheek, eyes roaming your face once more before he lets out a quiet sigh and closes the passenger side door.

“so...you finally getting over yourself?” 

it’s the first thing yeosang says when he sits down at lunch, the other two boys still on the line trying to convince the lunch lady to give them triple servings of chicken nuggets. 

but it’s like his words fall on deaf ears, seonghwa’s eyes trained on you and san just a few tables away. 

he had asked you multiple times to sit with him but you rejected each and every request, not wanting to deal with the questioning eyes or snide comments from his friends; you also knew san wouldn’t be comfortable with that, with the way his voice was tight and thick with emotion this morning talking about wooyoung’s surprise visit to the cafe last night.

“hey, asshole,” yeosang repeats, voice brash and abrupt as he waves his hand in seonghwa’s face. it snaps the dirty blonde out of his staring, looking over at his friend with an unamused expression.

“hi?” 

“did you not hear me?” yeosang asks, looking between his friend to follow where his eyes were just planted on. and he’s not surprised to see you, smiling softly at something san said, your small shoulders shrugging before you peek over at their table. 

“what’d you say?” seonghwa asks lowly, doing everything in his power to control the deep, guttural growl threatening to leave his throat. 

yeosang meets his friend’s gaze, eyes narrowing when he sees how tight and tense he’s been. he looked like that the second he got to homeroom, all of their eyes widening when he walked in guiding you by the small of your back. 

he had hovered and acted as if you were gonna disappear if he wasn’t by your side, the brown-haired boy hearing your quiet voice mumble “it’s fine,” when he continued to linger at your desk. 

him and mingi shared a look because something had to have happened yesterday. neither of them had ever seen seonghwa that angry before, pushing wooyoung against the desk and lowly cursing at him like he was his worst enemy and not one of his best friends.

and now here he is today, his eyes never leaving you with a soft intensity he’s also never seen before.

“i said have you finally gotten over yourself?” 

and when seonghwa only narrows his eyes in confusion even more, yeosang nods his head toward you. 

“her. are you two a thing again? finally gonna admit all your shit?”

“what does it matter to you?” seonghwa snaps, yeosang rolling his eyes before letting out a huff. 

“because you’re my fucking friend, hwa.”

seonghwa bites the inside of his cheek before he looks at you again, a hint of a smile quirking at his lips watching you giggle at something san says. it’s the happiest he’s seen you in the past 24 hours and it makes him relax despite the nervous energy coursing through his body. 

because showing up to school, everyone seeing you guys together and his friends hounding him with questions, is the least of his concerns now; he can’t believe for the past two and half months, those have been his concerns. 

“what happened?” yeosang asks, seonghwa looking at him and it only further assures the boy that something had to have. the look in his friend’s eyes wasn’t right, pent up with such emotion and frustration and desperation. 

“nothing,” seonghwa says but his voice is making it very clear that that’s a lie. “i just...i’ve been fucking up with her. really bad.” 

he looks over at you and feels his leg start to bounce, fear tightening his chest because now, instead of being concerned about people finding out he was capable of having feelings, like a normal human being, he was scared of the danger you were in. 

of you going back to your house with him later and being subjected to more pain and suffering from your parents. watching as he loses his shit and fights violence with violence because the idea of someone putting their hands on you makes his blood boil to a level he’s never felt before. 

of you somehow being ripped away from him again or not trusting him after the way he’s acted; because while he knows it’s warranted, he’s gonna do everything he can to prove himself to you.

“i love her and i fucked up and now she’s...” seonghwa swallows the lump in his throat and shakes his head, running a hand through his hair so he doesn’t scream. yeosang feels his heart soften seeing his friend in obvious distress, putting his hand on his shoulder in an uncharacteristic display of affection. 

“i know,” yeosang says. “we knew this whole time to be quite fucking honest. so we didn’t get why you were fighting it so much.”

seonghwa lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head because how stupid. how completely fucking stupid was he? caring about that when, from the beginning, it was obvious he had feelings for you. that his friends knew the second they saw him return back that he was different. 

“i know. so now i... i don’t know if she’s ever gonna trust me again,” seonghwa says reluctantly, feeling slightly awkward and uncomfortable talking about this with someone. but he saw it in your eyes this morning, how unsure you were even though you looked up at him with such fond softness.

and yeosang doesn’t miss a beat, shrugging as he squeezes the boy’s shoulder reassuringly. 

“how ‘bout just don’t be a dick this time and actually love her,” his friend says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “you don’t have to proclaim it to the whole fucking school but make sure she knows. show her instead of saying it a thousand times in secret.”

seonghwa’s shocked by his friend’s helpful words but they also pull at something in his chest, secretly warmed and happy by the fact they really do just want him to be happy with someone.

“i thought i was gonna get you that time in the hallway,” he then says and anyone could just hear the smirk in the boy’s voice.

“wait, so you’re not in love?” yeosang asks suddenly, eyebrow quirked challengingly. and when seonghwa doesn’t answer, making your stomach twist and heart drop a little bit, he continues. 

“because you know, it’d be a little crazy to fall for someone in just one summer. but you two are kind of giving me hope since it seems to be working so well.”

seonghwa scoffs before shaking the boy’s hand off him, a smirk pulling on his friend’s lips that causes him to shake his head. 

“knew you were up to some shit that day you dick,” seonghwa mumbles lowly, his eyes moving to you because he can’t look away from you for more than two minutes today. doesn’t know how he went as long as he did not talking to you for days on end and just watching from afar.

“she really threatened to call my mommy, what a dirty move,” mingi says, his tray piled up with chicken as him and wooyoung join the two boys at the table. 

“to be fair, you really are fuckin’ annoying,” wooyoung counters, the taller boy narrowing his eyes at his friend before looking to seonghwa.

“can you choke-slam him again? 

seonghwa and yeosang can’t help but chuckle, wooyoung rolling his eyes before looking at the dirty blonde. 

they all saw this morning how he was different with you but a part of him specfically couldn’t help but feel jealous, watching as the boy so freely touched you and watched you and showed everyone you were his. 

because while a part of it was with a sense of possession, most of it was completely pure. the love and affection and care oozing from the both of you, even as guarded and unsure as your gaze was. 

and he can’t help but feel like he wants that too, looking over at you and san where the blonde is teasing you with a french fry. you catch it and throw it back at the boy, his tiny squeal filling the cafeteria as he laughs with you. 

and it’s with that he quickly turns away, feeling something pulling in his chest that he just can’t face right now; seonghwa catches his gaze and gives him a look that he just knows is gonna result in a conversation later. 

“only if he deserves it,” seonghwa says lowly, wooyoung letting out a snort as his friend’s crypticness before he throws a piece of chicken at the boy. 

“hey, fuck off! i worked hard for all of those!” mingi whines.

“oh, you didn’t do shit!” wooyoung spits, leaning back in his chair as he pops a piece of chicken in his mouth.

“i didn’t do shit?” mingi yelps, “i did all the talking and persuading! you just stood like there like a fucking idiot!”`

“he keeps looking over here,” san says quietly, feeling the boy’s gaze on their table before he looks back at you. “so i guess this morning went...well.”

you shrug slightly as you nod, remembering the way you walked back into seonghwa’s house and plopped down on his couch together. neither of you said anything and yet, somehow, just a few moments later, you were fast asleep on his shoulder again.

you woke to a gentle kiss on your head and his hand on your cheek, asking you quietly if you wanted to miss school today. but that seemed to rip you right from your drowsiness, wanting and needing the normalcy that comes with the school day. 

it would’ve been too easy to say yes and stay wrapped up in his arms until three, bask in his comfort and familiar warmth and remember just why you two fell in love in the first place. 

but that would’ve been too painful and too fast and too much, especially given the way your heart is extremely fragile right now. 

“yeah, i fell back asleep and then we came,” you tell san quietly who just nods in understanding. 

and with the silence that follows, you know he wants to ask. 

ask what happened after you guys left and if something changed within that time. ask why seonghwa was so adamant about you lying about your injuries and the desperation he’s been seeing in his eyes lately regarding them.

but you know you’re not ready to tell him yet.

that even though you trust san more than anyone in your life right now, you can’t have him knowing this part of you yet. you can’t delve back into right now and cry in the lunchroom and risk anyone else finding out about your tragic home life. 

“i...i promise i’ll tell you everything,” you say to him, his eyes softening the second you start to speak. “i...trust you more than anyone so please don’t think it’s that. i just...i don’t wanna get into it again after last night and-”

“love, love, love,” san repeats sweetly, cutting your words off as he shakes his head and takes your hand in his. “same thing applies like before. you tell me if you want to and when you’re ready,” he says simply, a small smile brightening his face and making your body warm. 

“i just wanted to make sure you were safe and okay.”

you want to say that you are now. that, at least, you think you are now and you’re gonna try really hard to be strong during this. 

“thank you,” you say, tears pricking your eyes and a sad smile immediately covers his face. 

“you’re welcome, babe. but if you start crying, i’m gonna start crying and then thou shalt not be named are gonna come over and try to beat both of us up.”

a wet giggle leaves your mouth as you shake your head, wiping at the tiny, stray tear that managed to escape your eye. 

“i already fought with wooyoung and i’d gladly do it again,” you tease, the words leaving your mouth before you even realize that san doesn’t know about your little homeroom spat yesterday morning. 

your eyes widen and you’re about to explain yourself when san’s phone starts vibrating, looking down to see it’s his mom. he holds up a finger with an amused look in his eye, his voice raising cutely the way it always does when he talks to his parents.

you look over to see seonghwa and his friends laughing at the table, a piece of chicken being thrown through the air that hits the tallest boy square in the face. you smile softly seeing seonghwa look so carefree and happy, your chest tightening and hoping that, finally, he’s gonna let people see how sweet he is.

how sweet and good and kind he really is. 

your eyes meet and you can’t even stop the way your cheeks flush, seonghwa’s smile softening and eyes brightening before he takes out his phone. just a few seconds later, you hear your own vibrate against the table and pull your gaze away, looking down to see his name on the screen.

it makes your heart race despite seeing him just a few feet away, not used to his name there.

seonghwa [12:03] you okay?

you look over and nod your head, his eyes narrowing at you ever so slightly before san’s loud, excitable voice rips your attention away. 

“yay! guess what!”

you look across the table to see san bouncing with excitement, a wide, dimply smile on his face. 

“what?”

“we have off today! my parents are staying because a health inspector is coming and apparently, us sitting on the counters and eating all the cookies made them wary.”

and you truly wish you could match the boy’s excitement. clap or smile or kindly remind him that you rarely are the one eating cookies.

but your mind immediately thinks that, now, you have to go straight home. you don’t have the safe haven that’s been the cafe to destress from school and mentally prepare for the few hours with your parents.

and especially after not coming home last night? not answering your dad’s call you actually saw you missed or just talking to them at all? 

you were done. you were absolutely done.

you were gonna hear the front door slam against the wall and hear their feet stomping down the hallway to your door. you were gonna hear their fists pounding until they either got the lock open or scared you enough to open it. 

they were gonna scream and yell insults at you until those weren’t enough and they had to put their hands on you and-

“y/n?” san asks softly, your chest heaving and eyes staring down as you struggle to catch your breath. you don’t even realize you’re shaking until you feel like you’re about to fall off the chair, your hand gripping the edge of the table before you jump to your feet. 

“i...” you swallow down the lump in your throat, eyes frantically searching the room before the doorway catches your eye. and you know you just need to get out once you see that exit, suddenly hyper aware of loud chatter of voices and books being thrown on the table in the bustling cafeteria. 

“i’ll be right back.”

“y/n, wait,” san says, standing up to follow you before you rush out the door with your head down. he snaps his head to the side when he hears a chair scuff against the floor, seonghwa ignoring the voices of his friends as he quickly jumps up follows behind you. 

he watches the dirty blonde run off and call your name, the pout on san’s face making one boy across the room wish he could be like seonghwa and console the person he cares about most. 

you were headed straight for your designated bathroom stall when you felt a gentle tug on your hand, being spun around to see the eyes you know so well. staring down at you with such concern, reminding you of that familiar calming presence that helped you some nights on your balcony.

“what happened?” he asks calmly, his voice low but serious as he resists the urge to pull you into his arms; he needs to hear you talk first, make sure you trust him enough to really tell him what’s going on.

and at first, he sees the fear and apprehension in your panicked eyes. sees that you might wanna find comfort in him but you’re still scared. so he gently reaches out and takes your hand in his, intertwining your fingers and allowing his thumb to slowly caress your clammy skin. 

“i need you to breathe, okay?” he says quietly, throat tightening because it’s obvious you’re struggling. he doesn’t know why or what happened within the five minues he looked away from you but he can tell you really need to breathe. 

so he lets you decide the next move, whether you wanna do this on your own or fall into him and allow him to comfort you. 

and he can’t even pretend to feel relieved when you fall into his body a few seconds later, breathe against his chest as his calming, familiar scent surrounds you. he immediately wraps his arms around you, his hand running through your hair and voice cooing lowly in your ear.

cooing the phrase that got you through those the last few weeks of summer, the softly spoken “i’m here,” that you clung onto with such hope. hope that he crushed on your first day here but think, and hope, he’s trying to repair. 

it’s hope that you really need right now because without it, you don’t know what you’re gonna do. you don’t know if you can survive this life alone.

“i...i don’t have work.”

he didn’t expect those to be the ones that leave your mouth but he’s sure that’s what your shaky, sweet voice says. 

“i don’t have work and now i have to go home and i’m gonna- they’re gonna come home and go crazy and i don’t think i can handle it, hwa. i know they’re gonna be so mad and they won’t even-”

“you don’t have to,” his deep voice says simply, low in your ear as he tries to hold his shit together seeing you like this. “i told you you’re not going back there.”

“where-where am i supposed to go?” you whimper, looking up at him with tears in your eyes. “i have nowhere else to go. i-i can’t and won’t intrude on my aunt with this. i can’t bother her like that.”

and because you’re so out of it, you miss the way seonghwa’s face twists suspiciously. 

“baby, you need to listen to me,” he says, his hands cupping your cheeks so he can wipe your face. “it’s friday, right? we’ll go to your house, get your stuff and you can stay with me, if you want. or...san, if you’d feel better with that. i don’t think he’d mind, but you’re not fucking staying-”

“i wanna stay with you.”

and he thinks it’s just because you’re in the state that you’re in right now that you blurt it out so fast, looking up at him like you’re terrified he’s gonna leave you again; but that couldn’t be further from what’s gonna happen. 

“then you’ll stay with me.”

you let out a shaky breath as you nod your head, burying your face back in his shirt. you inhale his scent and relax against him, his hand running through your hair as he repeats himself again and again.

he doesn’t know if later tonight you’re gonna feel the same way. wanna be comforted by him so closely and tightly when, really, you should be rebuilding your relationship. proving himself to you in a way that you deserve, not that you guys just keep living through the memories and love from summer. 

because he doesn’t care what he has to do, he’s gonna prove it to you in any way he can. 

but then when you’re standing outside of your house with him, your body rigid and eyes wandering, you feel yourself ready to crumble again. your hand reaching for his as you stare at the house, the walls already managing to be filled with such pain and suffering and dread. 

“let’s go in and pack you a bag, yeah?”

you look up at seonghwa and he can see the anxiety in your eyes still, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest at the sight. his hand not holding yours reaches out to cup your cheek, wanting so badly to peck your lips and assure you everything’s gonna be okay. 

“they’re not home, baby. you said they won’t be home for an hour, right?”

you nod your head, irrational thoughts flooding your mind the more you start to worry. 

what if they can just sense you’re up to something and left work early? what if there’s miraculously no traffic on the parkway and they get here quicker than usual? what if they never went to work at all and are in there right now?

“what if they...come home early? what if they find us? my mom is usually the first one to come home but my dad isn’t far behind. he’s- he’s the one i’m scared for.”

and seonghwa almost hopes that that man walks through the door and says something, feeling his fists ball and veins course with anger.

“then i’ll fucking kill him.”

your eyes widen at the growl in his voice, stomach twisting in fear because that’s even more of a reason you don’t want him coming home early. 

“seonghwa! you- you can’t say stuff like that.”

but he only shrugs his shoulders and tightens his hold on your hand, nodding his head toward the house. 

“then we better get in and out.”

the next five minutes are full of panic and chaos for you, running around your room and the bathroom across the hall for all of your essentials. and it’s after you’re almost done packing your bag that you hear a car door slam outside, your head snapping to seonghwa who’s standing by the window.

“seonghwa...” you whisper, the fear in your shaky voice immediately causing him to peek out the blinds. but when he doesn’t see a car in the driveway, he assures you everything is okay. 

but that’s hard to do when you hear the familiar clicking coming from the front door a few moments later, the sweatpants in your hand dropping to the floor when full fledged panic runs through you again.

“seonghwa, they’re here, oh my god, what are we gonna-”

his hand wraps around you waist and he pulls you behind him, turning around to cup your face in his hands. 

“shhh. you need to breathe for me, baby, okay? i know you’re scared but it’ll be fine. i’m here.”

you bite the inside of your cheek as tears well up, the fact that he’s here almost making this worse because he can get hurt now. your dad could take his anger and frustration out on him and then you’ll really never forgive yourself. 

“don’t go out there.” 

seonghwa’s eyes narrow as he peers down at you, a look of ‘you know that’s not happening’ that makes your lips fall into a frown.

“please, seonghwa, we can just jump out the-”

but then the door squeaking open makes the words die in your throat, chest heaving up and down because your bedroom door is open and frantic footsteps are coming down the hall.

your grip on seonghwa is painfully tight as you try to pull him behind you but his feet are planted right on the ground, firm and towering and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt someone so stiff in their life. 

but all of that fades, your own anxiety included, when you hear a familiar voice that always served to calm you; ever since you were a scared child and first heard her outside her beach house.

“y/n? seonghwa? where are you t-” but then she stops in the doorway and her heart breaks at the sight, seonghwa standing protectively in front of you while you peek around his body, tears streaming down your red, puffy face now twisted into shock.

nobody says anything until the woman makes her way over, grabbing your hand gently before pulling your body into her. you don’t know if you start crying first or if her crying starts yours again but you listen in tears as your aunt mumbles apologies into the room. 

says how sorry she is that you’ve been living like this and that she had no idea. that she didn’t see the signs or keep you safe and can’t believe it’s been happening for as long as it has.

but you can only shake your head and mumble “no,” over and over again.

because this wasn’t anyone’s fault. it wasn’t her’s, or seonghwa’s for telling her or even yours, but your parents who never should’ve had you in the first place. should’ve never brought someone into the universe who they didn’t plan on loving and caring for.

but the older woman and boy sharing looks right now have had those exacts plans since the moment they met you, the former mouthing “thank you,” to seonghwa who only smiles and nods, watching the woman pull your face back and wipe at your tears.

her eyes travel to the small bag on your bed, her head shaking before she picks up the sweatpants on the floor and throws them onto your bed.

“you’re gonna need to pack a lot more than that.”

(part 21)

tag list: @chogiout ; @psshwa ; @yeocult ; @seongghwaa ; @cherryeonii ; @chaoticbanqtan ; @8teenee ; @nczenniez ; @atinyarmyx1 ; @mingtopiaa ; @chubsluda ; @joongiebug ; @mochibabycakes ; @jisungity ; @skz-on-my-mind ; @nlost21 ; @myonlyaurora ; @closer-stars ; @kuaenam3g ; @byungaji ; @floweryjh ; @joeycheungg ; @lostscenarios ; @atinyxtopia ; @sanisms ; @kpopnightingale ; @simpforhyunjin ; @89staytinyzen21 ; @lokicaramel ; @hwaxbum ; @sakura-uji ; @songsoomin ; @toffee-hwa ; @deobitiful ; @hyunjeansuniverse ; @clown-teez ; @i-know-you-know-lee-know ; @tiny-whatsername ; @fairieofeternity ; @yixing-jaehyun ; @sleepyseonghwa ; @revehosh ; @atletino ; 

#i really should've given this damn aunt a name jdfkvkdf #anyway aha #seonghwa #seonghwa angst #seonghwa fluff #seonghwa series #ateez #ateez fluff #ateez angst #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #seonghwa scenarios #seonghwa imagines

[averykedavra]

joan - what do you wish the series would cover next, or what kind of turn would you want to see it take?

!! okay this is a really fun question. ‘cause i’ve thought about this a lot. timeline-wise, I only got really involved with the fandom around the release of ATHD, and ever since then i’ve really enjoyed imagining the “next” events of the series. sometimes theories, sometimes just AUs, but it’s always fun!

and see, there are tons of things i’d love to explore in the context of canon. like sides switching from light to dark, or a side shutting themselves off, or serious backstory elements like the formation of roman and remus. tons of stuff that’d be super cool to think about.

but they’re not stuff i’d actually want in canon necessarily, you know? and they’re mostly not stuff i’d ever expect canon to actually do. so here’s a little incomplete list of things i’d love to actually see in the series, and which I think are (semi)-plausible:

1. Roman’s arc. had to add this one. I’m pretty sure it’s coming up after PoF (and it better) and I am so, so excited. roman’s been a slow-boiling pot of emotional turmoil for a while now and I just wanna see it spill over!

and look. don’t get me wrong, i love the pintroverts so much, but—yeah, i really wanna see thomas and nico go through a rough patch. thomas, and by extension roman, are pinning so many expectations on nico. they’re emotionally unready and using nico like a way to redeem themselves and feel better, instead of confronting their own issues. not to say the relationship can’t work out, but i can figure there’ll be some bumps on the road.

and possible failure with nico would be a great catalyst for roman’s full breakdown. he’s got everything riding on this guy! he calls nico “a chance at happiness”! and he’s the romantic side, he wants this to work out, so thomas will trust him again. and if it fails, it’ll break roman into tiny, tiny pieces.

plus, i know the season finale is probably going to be a two-parter, like with virgil’s episode? and i don’t know if i actually want roman to duck out, but i am really excited for some parallels to virgil’s arc. acceptance instead of redemption, being more than your function, every side being valued, and virgil and roman continuing to become closer together. if i do not get a remix of “you make us better” but virgil to roman, i will riot /j

2. Logan’s arc. then following roman, our braincell boy! logan is another steaming pile of issues who’s been repressing for far too long. i want to see him admit he has feelings. i want to see him cry. maybe this is the angst demon in me, but come on, he deserves it.

an aspect of logan that’s really fascinating to me is his relation to thomas’ own self-image and needs. logan defines himself by his use to thomas—he has the least belief in himself as a separate entity. and he’s felt sidelined for a long time, possibly ever since thomas became a youtube.

i think it’d be super interesting to see more of how their dynamic was before thomas made the career switch, how logan feels about it, and how his “lack of feelings” is an extension of his refusal to acknowledge his own personhood. he doesn’t let himself want or feel—and he’s actually kinda similar to roman in that regard. roman and logan are narrative foils in a lot of ways. which would make it kinda cool if their arcs were somewhat consecutive—logan helps roman value himself, and roman returns the favor.

oh, and i’d love it if virgil and logan could come full circle, too? virgil comforts logan during the whole thing, maybe even talking to him about cognitive distortions or using techniques logan taught him to destress. they’re really good friends and i wanna see more of that.

3. Janus becoming part of the group. i have so many feelings about janus. he’s poised to join the gang and start helping thomas from the inside, but his acceptance is still conditional, fragile, and fragmented. roman loathes him, logan resents him, and virgil has a history with him. and janus is gonna have to try and get through all that.

i already love his dynamic with patton, i really want them to be friends. i think a logan and janus debate would be fucking fantastic. i am begging for roman and janus to talk things out. and i really, really want to see virgil and janus become friends again.

but maybe what i’m most interested in is janus himself, and his relationship to thomas. i still love interpreting the “is that fair to him” line as referencing janus’ complex and difficult role as the keeper of all lies. he’s still hiding an orange side from us, probably, and he’s trying to keep everything stable.

what happens if he slips up? what happens if he gets close to patton and starts having new priorities? how did that affect his relationship with virgil? i want to really explore janus’ character and motivations.

and also janus and remus content. give it. this is an order.

4. Remus. Literally anything remus. Please I’m starving, I just want to see my trash boy, when will he return from the war?

Seriously, though, I’d love more remus. his thoughts on nico. his motivation, his daily life, his relationship with janus and the other sides. i think he could really be great friends with all of them if he was given time to settle, and my intruality heart says he deserves to be chaotic besties with patton.

and! and his relationship with roman!! i really wanna see them grow closer and be bros, while working through the deep complexities of their issues with one another. because right now roman has so many projections of remus as his worst enemy and the epitome of everything he doesn’t wanna be, and remus just…doesn’t care about all that. that’s so interesting!!

remus is just such a refreshing character in so many ways. he’s so blunt and open and honest, he doesn’t hide or repress anything, and that’d be so much fun to explore! plop him in the middle of the other sides and see how long it takes for stuff to explode. i wanna see him break the status quo just because he can.

5. Patton’s arc. oh, you thought his character development was done? not even close. he learned a lot from moving on, but pof proved he still has a long way to go. and tbh I think he’s in a really precarious position right now.

yeah, he’s finally opening up to janus and the others. but he’s also very vulnerable, very unsure, and very ready to throw himself out of the picture if thomas needs him to. he asked if janus thought patton was just bad for thomas, and he seemed ready to take that advice and leave thomas be.

which is. concerning. and I think as patton learns to pull back and let thomas--and everyone--stand on their own without him smothering them, as he learns to have faith in others and not feel pressured to fix everything himself, he needs to work on his own self-worth, too.

patton, like a lot of the sides, is separating himself from his function. and that’s gonna be painful and messy and probably include a lot of backsliding. i wanna see him talk to the others, really talk to them, and get the support from his friends he needs! and that includes:

6. virgil continuing to support his friends. virgil has been doing great character-development-wise, but again, he has far to go! and what I want to see more of is stuff like FWSA. him beginning to truly support his friends in the way they’ve supported him.

his friendships with roman and logan are so sweet and I wanna see more of that. please. and I wanna see him bond with remus and janus again, and most of all, I want patton and virgil to really sit down and talk about stuff. they’ve been going through it for a while and I want them to talk.

the sad part, of course, is that post-pof they’re probably in an even worse place. there’s a reason patton didn’t show up in FWSA even when matters of the heart were involved. they’re on thin ice around each other, and throwing janus and roman into it will just make everything more complicated.

but I believe in them! they’re good friends, and I think if they try, they can work through it and learn more about each other.

7. bonding between the dark and light sides. basically already covered this one but guys. i want everyone to bond. i want logan and remus sharing cool facts. i want janus and virgil being snarky best friends. i want patton and remus teaming up to make stuff happen, and janus calling logan out on his repression, and virgil and remus listening to mcr and just. them, okay? them. glad we had this talk.

8. a breaking down of the dark sides and light sides altogether. i don’t necessarily mean anyone becomes a dark side (although it’s such a fun idea.) I mean really digging into the morality and formation of the “sides”, and eventually dismantling them.

the dark and light sides aren’t good and evil. they’re sides that thomas wants around, that are useful, and sides he doesn’t. and as janus becomes wanted at the table, and as patton and roman pull away and become less useful, it’ll be interesting to see how those dynamics shift.

the issue of identity is really at the heart of sanders sides. how much of you is you, and how much of it is what others want? are you beholden to others’ expectations, and how do you find personal worth? what defines you--by what measure is a man? how does a person change and grow? can they? or are they always, at the core, what they began as?

these questions obviously don’t have simple answers, but they’re stuff I wanna see talked about. i want to see the difficulty of even finding the line between selfishness and selflessness when you exist to serve another self. actions can be selfish and selfless all at once, a mass of contradictions that’s anything but black and white. and I wanna see more of that.

an idea I toy with sometimes is having a brief, or not so brief, reversal of dark sides and light sides. remus and janus, and maybe virgil, become more listened to. and roman, patton, and logan become the sides in the background. i dunno if it would actually happen, but I think it’d be interesting to consider--because once again, it’s about use versus value and wants versus needs.

if thomas wants a side, will they stick around? what about if he only wants to want them? what if he wants them as a friend but doesn’t need their function? what if they don’t think he wants them? what if any number of things?

i want to see discussion and deconstruction of the sides as a whole. i want to see them really dig deep into their purpose and formation. i want everything laid bare. and then finally, I want:

9. thomas ends the series by letting go of the sides. i am such a fucking sucker for bittersweet open endings like that. it wouldn’t be a full erasure of the sides, they’d still exist in the mind palace, probably hanging out and having movie nights and being a family. but they wouldn’t talk to thomas anymore.

i think it could be a really profound note about not only letting go of parts of your life and moving forward, but how c!thomas should work to stand on his own. yes, the sides are parts of him, but he’s more than the combination of their input. he’s his own person. he’s real. and I think he needs to work on being more self-reliant, in the moment, and start to discover his identity not in pieces, but as a whole.

the sides weren't bad for him. not in the slightest. they’ve helped him understand and come to terms with any number of things. but sometimes people grow and move forward, and they have to say goodbye to some parts of their life. that’s a fact. and with the ongoing theme of moving on and chasing the future, i think thomas would reasonably do that--end the series with a goodbye.

10. and...orange side. i’ve talked a lot about my ideas for the orange side, but suffice it to say, i’m looking forward to them. whoever they end up being.

so yeah, that’s a very long post about my ideas that isn’t half as long as it could be dhfgsjhs i’ve considered writing something like a canon divergence AU, or just rambling on tumblr, but for now that’s what I got. and this is all to say, hire me, sanders sides writing team /j

#sanders sides #patton sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #janus sanders #remus sanders #long post #asks and answers #anon #ts ask game #i'm so sorry for the length this went overboard sgfshsjks

[bookishofalder]

Pretty Girl - Blurb 4

A/N: I just hit 300 followers HOLY CRAP so here’s a fluffy, final blurb for Pretty Girl. I love you guys, thank you for enjoying this story and sticking around. Also, I mention miscarriage and fertility issues in this blurb. I myself experienced a miscarriage at 18 weeks with twins and am still grieving and trying to get pregnant again. I wish for my rainbow baby every day. 🤍

Summary: Pretty Girl and Flip are having a baby.

Warnings: Pregnancy, language, fertility issues, miscarriage mention, grief, labour, fluff. 

Flip was busy typing away at his desk, trying to stay on top of all of his paperwork. As much as (Y/N) helped him, there were still sections of the reports he had to complete himself, and falling behind wasn’t an option right now. He sat back in his chair, taking a brief break to roll his neck when movement by the doors to the bullpen caught his eyes.

A large, round belly preceded his wife into view, and as always she took Flip off guard; seeing her glowing, beautiful face. Some baser instinct within him enjoyed seeing (Y/N) round with his child; it caused a ripple of satisfaction to course through him. When she kept moving toward him, her eyes bright, Flip jumped up, frantic.

“Darling,” He hurried to her side, hands hovering around her unnecessarily, “You promised you’d keep off your feet at much as possible. I told you I’d come to check on you shortly.” Flip watched as she laughed, rolling her eyes affectionately. She had one hand placed absentmindedly over her bump, gently rubbing circles.

At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, Flip’s wife had impressed him every day with her unwillingness to give up routine and work simply because she was with child. She insisted on staying on at the station until the baby came. And while he didn’t like her working too hard, it was nice to have her close by. This way, he could keep an eye on her and take care of her as much as possible. And she had reduced her duties at work, agreeing with Flip that overdoing things wouldn’t be good for her or the baby.

They had been married a few years now, the best of his life for the most part. Marrying your best friend had a way of making every day an adventure. Of course, not everything was sunshine for them; but they had one another and they knew they could get through anything. They always did.

When Flip had been shot in the arm the previous year, (Y/N) had marched into the hospital and, surprising everyone, punched the rookie cop in the face who left Flip open when he should have been watching his six.

Flip had never been prouder of her.

They’d stopped using protection early on in the marriage, agreeing they were both ready to start a family. But it hadn’t come easy for them, months turned into a year of no success and the light that he took for granted in his wife started to waver, just a little. When they got pregnant the first time, Flip had overcome with emotion and he nearly left the parking lot of the doctor’s office without (Y/N), who had run to the bathroom before coming outside. When he realized what he’d done and turned around, he found her standing outside laughing so hard she was crying. That had been a damn good day.

At just nine weeks pregnant, they found out that they had lost the baby. Things had changed for (Y/N) and Flip. He left the doctor's office with the heavy weight of grief, and he knew his perfect, lovely wife was more crushed than she was letting on. She had taken a leave from work, and it had been a rough few months of coming home to a quiet house, (Y/N) asleep on the couch most days. They had stopped having sex, which didn't bother Flip in itself, it was just the reasoning that worried him.

The night that (Y/N) broke down and admitted she felt like a huge failure still replayed in Flip’s mind every once in a while. The raw, excruciating pain had been so evident on her face, his pretty girl so heartbroken she felt like she was failing him. Like she could ever do anything wrong. Flip had comforted her, but more importantly, he made it clear that nothing about their pregnancy troubles or the loss of their baby was her fault. He had cried with her that night. As they clung to one another in the bath and the sun set outside. He cried for their loss. He cried for her pain. He cried with his wife and they promised each other they would have no regrets. Life was what it was. Having each other meant they could do anything, could get through anything.

The next time she got pregnant was just after he had been shot. He’d had a few weeks leave, but (Y/N) had long since returned to work, so he spent long days at home alone trying to pass the time. On one such day, he had been sitting in his favourite chair in their living room, his hand stroking over his hard length as he sought to escape, frantic and needy and so consumed in himself that he hadn’t heard her come home. What he didn't miss was the way her hand suddenly wrapped around him; his eyes had flown open and found her gazing at him with such hunger as she gripped him that he only just managed to launch himself forward, toppling them onto the floor, and take her right there.

A few weeks later, they had found out they were pregnant.

And now, (Y/N) was fully and unmistakably pregnant or, as she liked to say, ready to pop any moment. Though relatively good-natured, Flip had been a witness or victim to many mood swings, including one that had involved an ashtray being thrown at his head because he forgot to buy pickles. Christ, he never made that mistake again.

“I’ve been taking it easy, detective, don’t worry.” (Y/N) patted Flip’s arm with her free hand, smiling up at him as he fretted at her side.

Flip tried to steer her to his seat, “I know, but you could go into labour at any time and being on your feet too much-“

“Oh, well,” She was giving Flip a funny smile now, her eyes glinting, “That’s actually why I came back here. My water broke a few minutes ago.”

Flip stared down at his wife as though she’d suddenly sprouted a second head. He went entirely rigid, and all conscious thought slid out of his head, replaced with a faint ringing.

“Flip, honey, come back to me.”

“I-uh, what?” He shook his head, attempting to assemble his thoughts, “What’s going on?”

(Y/N) was giggling now, “Flip Zimmerman, my water broke.”

“Pretty girl,” He murmured, suddenly reaching out to grip her shoulders, “Are you saying...are we having a baby?”

Before she could answer, (Y/N) suddenly winced, the hand on her belly stilling and her eyes closing and she took a few deep, slow breaths. This was all it took to bring reality slamming into Flip and he instantly began grabbing his things. Shrugging his jacket on, tucking his keys and wallet into his pockets. His mind was now racing at a mile a minute. But they’d planned for this, going so far as to bring their hospital bag to work every day just in case.

“Whew, that’s a fun feeling.” (Y/N) mumbled, eyes still closed.

“Darling, are you okay to walk for me?” Flip leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to her lips, smiling at her when she opened her eyes and nodded. Taking it slow, they made their way out of the bullpen and down the hall. Flip raced behind the reception desk to grab the go-bag and (Y/N)‘s jacket.

Donna came out of the washroom as he hurried back out from behind it, her eyes spotting Flip before moving to where (Y/N) was slightly hunched over, breathing through more contractions.

“OH!” Donna cried out, clapping her hands excitedly. “Oh, it’s time! Go, go, I’ll let the Sarge know. Good luck you two, and Flip drive safely to the hospital!” She raced over and gave (Y/N) a quick hug, before turning on Flip and embracing him with happy tears in her eyes.

With a quick thank you, they were on the move again. Flip hurried ahead and got the truck, pulling it up out front of the station as his wife waddled out, looking more relaxed now that her contraction had eased up. He helped slide her into her seat, carefully buckling her in before breaking the speed limit to get the few blocks away to the hospital.

One of the perks of being a detective was that most of the hospital staff knew Flip already. So when he walked in the doors, an arm around (Y/N)‘s shoulders and a frantic look on his face, about eight nurses rushed over and began to dote on them both, one settling (Y/N) into a wheelchair while they helped Flip check them in.

In no time at all, they were settling into labour and delivery, (Y/N) now wearing the open-backed hospital gown that gave Flip a pretty nice view every time she stood at the side of her bed and leaned over to breathe through contractions. The woman couldn’t sit still; the pain and nervousness rendering her ability to relax null.

Flip rubbed her lower back, standing behind her and appreciating the strength his wife had. “What are you staring at, detective?” She asked, breaking him from his thoughts. (Y/N) was staring over her shoulder at Flip, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Just, thinking about how incredible you are, darling.” He admitted, hands still kneading her skin gently.

(Y/N) hummed appreciatively, “Funny, I was going to say the same about you.”

“Ah, well, I’m not the one about to do all the hard work here, so I’ll defer all compliments for now,” Flip joked, and she laughed before hissing a breath as her next contraction took over.

“Fuck,” She focused on her breathing for a few moments, “Flip, promise you’ll stay here with me the whole time?” Her voice was surprisingly small at that moment, and he knew if he could see her face, it would be twisted in a vulnerable grimace.

He reached up and smoothed her hair back, “Pretty girl, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be at your side the whole time,” Flip leaned down and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, “You don’t worry about a thing, alright? I’ll take care of you.”

And he did, in as much as he could. Never leaving her side once, Flip witnessed every moment of labour. Labour lasted about six hours, and then he experienced every moment of the birth of their child. He held her hand throughout, rubbing her shoulder with his free hand and ignoring the pain in the one she had a vice-like grip on. Flip pressed a cool cloth to her forehead between pushing, whispering sweet nothings and praise in her ear as she cried out in pain, until suddenly (Y/N) was slumping into the pillows propped up behind her with a sigh of relief, and then the brief silence filled with a cry.

Their newborn baby gave a shrill shriek of displeasure, and Flip and (Y/N) were entirely overcome with emotion. Flip stepped forward to cut the umbilical cord. With the help of the doctor, he took hold of the baby to lay them on (Y/N)‘s chest. The baby's cries dulled somewhat then, as she clutched their baby to her skin and gazed down with so much affection he felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks, his heart so full of joy it nearly hurt.

“Congratulations, mommy and daddy!” The doctor said a few minutes later. He then took the baby to be checked over and cleaned up, across the room.

Flip leaned down and pressed his lips to (Y/N)‘s forehead, “You doing alright, pretty girl?” When she nodded sleepily, he raised his hands to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing across her soft, damp skin. “You did so well, darling. You were so strong and brave, I’m so proud of you. I love you.” He kissed her again, this time capturing her lips briefly.

(Y/N) sighed with content, “I love you too, Flip,” Her eyes were fluttering now, exhaustion pulling her toward a much-deserved slumber, though he saw them flicker to where the nurses were standing with the baby, working at swaddling them. “Will you stay with the baby?”

“Course I will, darling. Now get some sleep,” He reached down for her blankets and pulled them up, tucking her in better as the nurses that had been tidying up her lower body finished up. “Baby and I will be right here when you wake up, pretty girl.”

With one last smile, (Y/N) slipped off to sleep, her breathing evening out as Flip watched. He didn’t even feel tired, and true to his word he didn’t go anywhere, staying with her and the baby, whom he was holding when she woke back up a few hours later.

Flip slid onto the bed next to her and together they held their little bundle of joy, each staring into the little, scrunched up face with huge grins. Their little rainbow baby.

Tag list ✨

@tashastrange89 @finn-ray-nal-beads @fizzywoohoo @iamnotthecatladynextdoor @morby @pradaxstyles @10blurredsmoke10 @mermaidxatxheart @paintballkid711

#reader insert #fanfic #adam driver x reader #fluff #flip zimmerman x reader #adam driver #friends to lovers #angst #flip zimmerman #flip x reader #blurb #thank you #pregnancy #happily ever after

[agent-cupcake]

Can I ask your opinion? So, I feel like everyone into 3H is in love with Dimitri, but I can't connect with him. I don't dislike him, but I feel like there isn't much to his personality without all his various mental health issues. It's hard to get a feel on what he's really like, so I end up just seeing him as a walking ball of trauma and not a three-dimensional character. Do you have any thoughts on Dimitri himself and how to separate him as a person from his psychological issues? Thanks!

Hmm, I guess my first thought is that everyone resonates with characters differently and so if you don’t particularly feel connected to him, that’s not wrong. Fictional parasocial relationships are very similar to real-life relationships, so it follows that nobody is going to like every character. I can’t say that a portion of my love for his character doesn’t come from his mental issues because that’s something I personally relate to and feel drawn to in others. That’s just who I am and how I build relationships. There is also something to be said for the unavoidable way mental illness informs a person’s behavior and character, it’s as much an aspect of them as being born with blond hair or losing an eye.

That said, I will do my best to explain why I think Dimitri is wonderful. Not in spite of his mental illness, but because I don’t think that’s all he is.

So, Dimitri is, as he says, a very clumsy person. This unfortunately extends to his social skills. He has a lot of very socially awkward tendencies and a general lack of self-awareness. This contrasts with his innate desire to please people, or at least avoid upsetting anyone. The thing is, Dimitri doesn’t always completely understand what upsets people or how exactly they might feel. His childhood isolation left him rather emotionally unaware and desperate for the acceptance and approval of others. That’s not to say he doesn’t try to understand other people’s feelings, but it’s not an intuitive process. He has a habit of saying kind of dumb or uncomfortable things out of nowhere, which is most likely his real feelings coming out in rather inept ways. He means well, but he’s just so dang clumsy.

The desperation to be included and validated I mentioned, I think, can be seen in the way he tries so hard to make the other Blue Lions see him as a peer and equal all the while keeping himself rather closed off from them. Dimitri approaches conversations as a means of focusing on the other person, trying to make an appeal to them rather than as an interaction where both parties could be seen as vulnerable. Of course, just like most other socially awkward introverts, he opens up when he feels closer to the person, but that takes a while. Gotta unlock the supports, you know? Although it’s not necessarily obvious, his incredibly stiff behavior (especially pre-timeskip) and the way he switches between overly formal and awkwardly friendly in his interactions with people as he tries to figure out how to socially and emotionally navigate relationships really gives me the impression of someone trying desperately to fit in without even the faintest clue of how to actually manage that. He also does his best to avoid social situations, which, mood. Basically, Dimitri’s a big dumb massive introvert trying to act like he’s not.

FURTHERMORE, he is a dork. An absolute goof of a person. Dimitri canonically thinks so-bad-its-good puns and jokes are hilarious. His own style of telling jokes is saying things that may or may not have contextual humor in a normal voice and then claiming after the fact that he intended it as such. Now, his supports with Alois are absolute factual proof of the so-bad-its-good humor, but might I also direct your attention to the scene before the battle against Miklan in Conand Tower (the event name is “Tower in a Storm (Blue Lions)”). Basically, Gilbert is explaining the history behind Conand Tower and Dimitri says, in an incredibly earnest voice, “You’re very well informed, Gilbert. Please, tell us more.” This is a joke. Supposed to be, at least. The delivery is somewhat emphasized, but not in a recognizably sarcastic way. Gilbert, who knew Dimitri very well when he was young, realizes it’s a joke after a second. But there are other things Dimitri says that I believe are his bad “jokes” and since nobody knows him well enough to tell, they don’t call him on it. There’s no proof, but his line in the Lord’s intro where he says, “And here I thought you were acting as a decoy for the sake of us all.” to Claude has to be an attempt at sarcasm. Dimitri is oblivious, but not stupid. In his Goddess Tower conversation with Byleth, when discussing the topic of wishes, he says, “Perhaps it would make more sense for me to wish that we’ll be together forever. What do you think?” In a completely normal voice. Following are two speech bubbles of “...” before he laughs and proclaims that it’s just a joke and that he’s getting better at telling them. Now, this is a two-parter because I see this as both his horribly awkward tendency to say things he feels without thinking too hard beforehand as well as his silly deadpan style of “jokes”. Granted, he does apologize. Dimitri’s got socially awkward zoomer humor. It’s endearing.

Here is a video of Dimitri hitting on Byleth pre-timeskip. I’m not sure how far it goes to endear someone to him, but the mostly awkward and occasionally smooth attempts of Dimitri’s flirtations are absolutely a highlight of his character. 

Now, this isn’t quite as cute as all that, but I think character arc and change do a lot for making a character feel more three-dimensional. Dimitri is hypocritically selfish. Although those are both negative terms, I don’t necessarily mean them as such, at least not in their totality. Both are things to overcome, which he does. And that’s why I feel like they’re a valid point of discussion when trying to explain the allure of his character.

The hypocritical part comes from the way he easily allows and forgives the flaws of others while constantly castigating himself for the same reasons. He says things that show an absurd amount of a lack of self-awareness. For example, he tells Edelgard, “Hm. You will prove a lacking ruler yourself if you look for deceit behind every word and fail to trust those whom you rely on.” All the while straight-up lying to and emotionally avoiding his friends. Dimitri also tells Marianne, when she is punishing herself for putting other people at risk, “What matters is that they came back safely in the end. You shouldn’t blame yourself for that.” Really, his C and B with Marianne is an exercise in hypocrisy. The standards Dimitri has for himself are incredibly, unattainably high. He’s setting himself up for failure in that way and, to an extent, knows what he’s doing because he knows that those same standards are too much for his friends and allies to meet. He wishes to take on everything himself. But, what I find so beautiful about this, is that Dimitri eventually realizes that he can’t do that. He is not strong enough to take on the weight of the world on himself, he comes to understand that it’s something he must allow himself to share with the people who care about him. He comes to realize that, as difficult as it is to accept, he is a weak person. Despite all of his introversion and inability to emotionally open up, he figures out that having a support system and allowing yourself to rely on people who love you is a necessity. Personally, I think this message is incredibly important in real life. Watching Dimitri come to that conclusion and argue it’s importance really rounded out his arc and journey as a person. Now, the relatability of this conclusion will differ, but I don’t think it has to do with his mental illness as much as it is a fundamental aspect of growth.

The selfishness is basically outlined above. Dimitri is selfish about his pain and secrets, purposefully and selfishly driving people away because he wants to keep the burden to himself. His vice is guilt and he indulges in the pain of it like an addiction. Hatred, too, is a drug. He thinks he needs it to keep going, even though all it does is bring agony to himself and others around him. Learning to accept and let go of these feelings is, again, something I think is important and a character arc that I really love, especially when you see him suffer as much as he does. Now, the execution of this is lacking, I admit. But that’s an issue for another time I think.

I am not quite sure if I did much to change your opinion, but this is all I can think of for now. There is probably a lot more than I’ve left out because I think about Dimitri far too much to be healthy. So, I’ll leave you off with some honorable mention aspects of his character that I think are super fun:

Pre-timeskip Dimitri has his hair tucked behind his ear. He can lift a wagon by himself. In the DLC, when faced with an impossible-to-open gate, it was not muscle man Balthus who said he couldn’t open it, but twinkish teen Dimitri. He’s not really smooth with one-liners. Like, at all. Notably, when attacking Manuela post-timeskip, he says, “Perhaps I should have appeared before you holding a bouquet of flowers, rather than the weapon that will end your life.” Adding to this, at one point, Dimitri fucked up a pick-up line so badly the girl came after him. Areadbhar has a mitten on it in the Azure Moon final picture. He breaks everything. His Crest activation ability even supports this, using twice the durability of any given Combat Art. One of his post-timeskip counselor messages is, “I lived in the slums for a long time, and I saw how the people there suffered from poverty and the ravages of war. There must be something I can do to save them." His room in the academy is right next to Sylvain’s, meaning that for almost an entire year Dimitri was a single wall away from hearing whatever nonsense Sylvain was getting up to. Dimitri is the only Lord that takes the throne and doesn’t abandon his people in some form or another.

And, finally, he is pretty sexy. And that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?

#dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #fe dimitri #dimitri #fire emblem three houses #FE3H #Anonymous

[literaryfic]

Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: 빈센조 | Vincenzo (TV)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Vincenzo Cassano | Park Joo Hyeong/Hong Cha Young
Characters: Hong Cha Young, Vincenzo Cassano | Park Joo Hyeong
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, vincenzo leaves, set five years after he left sk, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending


Summary: “She’d buried him next to the false hopes and broken promises he’d given her, growing her resentment and longing in the same garden as his missing corpse, taunting reminder of her failure to make him stay. Occasionally, she would revisit his empty tomb and greet his ghost, tormenting him with the same question over and over again; why?”

Chapter two is out! Read on ao3 or under the cut.

“Have you been well, Cha-young?”, the same deep voice she’d missed asks. The ghost that’s been haunting her came back in the flesh.

He hasn’t aged at all, his youthful face still handsome as ever. He’s not smiling per se, but she can tell he’s happy to see her. She gets up and walks away. This couldn’t possibly be happening.

He catches up to her after a few seconds.

“Cha-young-ah. Hong Cha-young. Talk to me.”, he urges her. Suddenly, she can’t control her anger anymore.

“Talk to you?”, she faces him. “You made it extremely clear five years ago that we had nothing to say to each other.”, she screams. His face is unreadable, years apart have made him a stranger. “And now what? You want me to talk to you? You disappeared on me out of nowhere and never looked back so don’t you dare ask anything of me, got it?”

Panting, the anger she thought gone felt just as hot as the day he left her.

“Fuck!”. She’s not done yet. How could he come back like nothing ever happened? He had given her shelter, just to make her homeless. He had made her believe in love and happy endings, built her a castle and set it on fire. She hated him, his stupid hair and his stupid face. “Why are you doing this to me now? I don’t get it. Why now?” She starts crying out of anger, out of frustration, out of exhaustion.

For years now Cha-young had spent all her energy trying to forget Vincenzo and what they could have been. She had fooled herself into thinking she was over him but even after all this time, even when she was this angry at him, all she wanted to do was to touch him. She felt like she’d been cursed by the Gods, condemned to have him in her sight, yet forever out of reach.

She’s shaking now, sobbing. Vincenzo slowly approaches her, his eyes full of anguish.

“Can I please hold you?”, he almost begs as a single tear runs down his cheek. She doesn’t remember a time where he’d sounded this desperate, and she nods, almost against her will.

He wraps his arms around her, her head falls on his chest. She takes a deep breath, filling her nose and lungs with his scent, the one she hasn’t been able to forget. Somehow, she’s crying even harder now and he starts stroking her hair. “I’m sorry,”, he whispers. “I’ve missed you so much.”

She can’t quite convince herself yet that this is not a dream, so she holds him tight, afraid that the ocean will swallow him and turn him into foam.

They stay in each other’s embrace for a while. It could be minutes or hours, Cha-young doesn’t really know. It seems that tonight, on this beach, her grasp on her reality is loosening. Dreams and ghosts come to her in waves, and she can’t help but wonder when the tide will recede.

In the beginning, she dreamt that he would stay with her. Cha-young thought herself strong enough to anchor Vincenzo, yet he had fled and renounced her. Then, she had dreamed of his return, punished to share the fate of a seamen’s wife awaiting her husband’s homecoming.

He had chosen to leave and, until now, had never bothered to come back, and so after a while she had declared him lost at sea. She’d buried him next to the false hopes and broken promises he’d given her, growing her resentment and longing in the same garden as his missing corpse, taunting reminder of her failure to make him stay. Occasionally, she would revisit his empty tomb and greet his ghost, tormenting him with the same question over and over again; why? The ghost stayed mum, mere fragment of a person who had once been alive.

Yet, here he was, the one she had lost at sea, standing in front her. There was no doubt that it was him, alive and well. She felt herself regain control over her emotions and stepped out of his arms.

“You owe me an explanation”, she demands, looking him in the eyes. He nods slowly, his face serious. He is about to speak when she cuts him off, “Not here.” Here, where dreams become reality and prayers were heard. “Take me to your room”.

And so he does. They walk back to the hotel in complete silence, the sea breeze clearing up her foggy mind. They go up to the very last floor and Cha-young almost laughs. Their rooms are exactly a floor apart.

When they get inside, Vincenzo invites her to sit on the couch while he settles for a nearby armchair. The suite is as big as an apartment and the view of the ocean is stunning. It suddenly dawns on Cha-young that he’d probably been living in luxury for the past 5 years, and why wouldn’t he when he was that rich, but the thought annoys her. As petty as it sounds, she had wanted him to be miserable, just as she had been.

“Why?”

The question that had been haunting her hangs in the air for a while, and at one point she thinks he might leave it unanswered.

“That time I ended up staying, I’d managed to take care of the situation in Italy, but it was temporary solution. I needed to come back to save our family from being killed off.” He explained, choosing each word carefully. She could tell he was nervous, his eyes scanning her face, looking for cues.

“That explains why you had to leave, but that’s not what I was asking, Joo-hyung-ah.”

He looks like she’d just slapped him across the face, and she might as well have. She had never called his Korean name in such a harsh tone before. No, this name had been reserved for their most intimate moments, when she made love to him and played with his hair afterwards, as he fell asleep in her arms, when he told her about the few memories he had with his mother, or described his life in Italy with his adoptive parents. It was the first she had used his name as a weapon, and he looked devastated. Good.

He takes a shaky breath and bites his lip, trying to hold back his tears. In that moment, he looks as old as the world and as weak as a child. Although it pains her to look at him like this, she shows no compassion. This man had destroyed her and she would hold him accountable.

“I left without telling you because I didn’t trust myself to go through with it.”, he finally manages to say after a while. “I had to leave but I just couldn’t bring myself to let you go.”

“You’re a coward, Mr. Cassano.”, she spits out his name, hoping the formality of it would hurt him too.

“I know.”

“Why did you have to leave me? I get that you needed to go back, but why did you have to leave me too?” Cha-young tries to stay as calm as possible, but it proves difficult when she keeps blurting out her most vulnerable thoughts. She feels defenceless against him, but it is the only way she’ll get the answers she needs.

“Turns out the situation was even worse than what Luca had told me, and I wasn’t sure any of us would get out of it alive. You didn’t deserve to have to wait for me indefinitely.”

“So dropping me out of the blue was the best solution you came up with? That’s the only thing the great Vincenzo Cassano, one of the best masterminds in the game, could think of?” Her words are met by silence. “Guess what, genius? I still waited years for you. How was I supposed to get closure when you just disappeared? Wouldn’t you, out of all people, know what it feels like to be abandoned?”

It was a low blow, she had to admit, but she was past that. She needed to bring him to his knees, she needed to shatter him, she needed to break his heart.

“The truth is, I thought—I thought I was freeing you. From me, from my sins.” He’s not looking at her anymore, head hanging down, tears falling onto the ground. She compels her heart to look away, just this once, to not care for him.

“And who do you think you are? Do I not get to decide for myself?”, she’s almost screaming again. Everything that was coming out of his mouth sounded ridiculous to her.

Of course, she had imagined this confrontation countless of times, coming up with all the possible reasons he would use to justify what he did, but none of them mattered. None of them were enough to appease her, to undo what had been done. Nothing would ever repair what he’d broken and they’d never be the same again.

“I have no excuse, tesoro.” She hears the plea in his voice.

“Don’t call me that.” He looks at her, visibly in pain.

It was bizarre, seeing him like that, so hesitant, so vulnerable, so scared.

She realises it at once; she’s witnessing his fear for the first time. She hadn’t been able to spot it at first but there it was. He’d allowed her to see his anger, his sadness, his unfiltered joy but he’d never been afraid in front of her. Vincenzo was scared to mess this up, scared to loose her again. She had to hold back a smile.

“Did you follow me here? Don’t lie to me.” She demands, reinvigorated by her newly found confidence.

“I’d never lie to you.” She rolls her eyes at that. “I landed in Seoul two days ago, but Mr. Nam told me you’d be spending the next few weeks here, so I hopped on the first flight I found. Meeting you here, tonight, was an accident. I didn’t know which hotel you were staying in.” He looks to his right, suitcase opened on the floor, near the bedroom’s entrance.

“Why are you here, Vincenzo?”, she’s trying not to let her emotions seep through her words, to remain distant. But he knows her well, and she can tell by the way his eyes suddenly look at hers that he hears it, the part of her that wants him to answer “For you, I’m here for you.”.

“To repent. I’m here to repent, Cha-young-ah.”. His words carry the same certainty they once did, his tone the one of a fearless man. Her heart threatens to leap out of her chest.

“Do I look like a fucking church to you?”, she forces out a laugh she hopes sounds bitter. Not letting him time to reply, she gets up from the couch, feeling dizzy. “Right, I’ve heard enough. Goodbye.”

She can’t tell if he calls her name or goes after her but she’s out the door before she knows it. She runs down the stairs, gets into her room and heads straight in the shower. The water’s freezing cold, but she finds comfort in not being able to feel the tears streaming down her face.

She tucks herself into bed, confused about whether she’d rather wake up from this nightmare or continue to live this dream.

#vincenzo #chayenzo #vincenzo fic #my fic #chayenzo fic

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

I See You Clearly Now

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 0, babeyy. Complicated human relationships, maybe.

Word Count: 5.5k, once again, what the absolute fuck, who am I

Summary: An impromptu all nighter and a very domestic day with Sam who is- he’s a crush, right? Right?

A/N: This was basically me working through my emotions for a person in my life. I don’t-

Also, this was half because of an anonymous request I got the other day that wrote “please some sam winchester x reader but maybe an au with no creepy scary things” Here you go, hon. I’d argue complicated feelings are scarier than monsters, but whatever lights your candle :)

It’s four in the morning and she doesn’t particularly know when the decision was made to ignore the black night sky or the time, or how both Madison and her mutually agreed to it, but sleep is not close in the horizon. College life is exhausting, but this week was uneventful and slow, unmoving to the point of boredom. The beers in her fridge were staring angrily back at her, and her contacts seemed to anticipate her texts. Madison was the first choice, she hadn’t seen her in a while.

And where I go / Singing song of your affection / With rhymes to your perfection / Of you

I see you clearly now / I hold you dearly now / The sun is in my eyes (x)

Meeting arranged, hugs in hello and rosy cheeks, because her apartment is always warm, beers cracked open and drunk, and now Madison is on one of her white, comfortable lounge chairs, angrily ranting about Steve Rogers and Marvel. It’s that hour of the early morning when everything feels a bit gooey and intangible, stretched and fabricated, and there’s nowhere she’d rather be, content in defending a character she loves, warm, belly full of light alcohol and midnight-made crepes. Her cat moves loosely in the room, pointedly ignoring both humans, and Y/n’s cozy and happy to see the wild motions of her friend’s hands as she yells- the mild worry in the back of her head that she’ll find a note with a noise complaint taped on her door the next morning.

For all she cares, nothing could make this any better.

The night continues, laughter over Youtube videos and reality competition failures, repeated funny clips and belly-holding, more hurting of the cheeks from the laughter, more snacks, and she’s forgotten what that feels like in her never ending, break-neck-paced everyday life.

Time passes full of smiles and even more green cans of beer. Pyjamas are worn, sleeping bags are stretched on the floor over the fluffy grey rug, her cat seemingly having found a new enemy in the whipping of the sheets in the air. They laugh at her playing with them, until she settles on her little spot over her soft blanket. The girls stretch in their makeshift beds and they talk, texts are shot to other friends, also awake, selfies full of grins and-

“Sam says hello,” is all Madison has to say for Y/n to suddenly feel his absence in the room.

Sam. Of course.

“Gimme your phone.” Tipsy voice message with off-key singing sent. More happy smiles. A reply, a voice message of his own- “I’m glad you two are having fun. Where are you guys?”.

Y/n’s place, the reply is sent.

“Should I tell him to come by?” And Y/n has to hold her heart in steel hands to force it not to jump out of her chest and straight into her throat. Somehow, Sam always shows up when Madison calls, she thinks, a bitter taste in her mouth. Jealousy. Bottom lip bitten.

“Of course, if he wants to.” She hates to admit she’s excited to see him. Hates it, because she hasn’t talked to him in five months- not properly anyways- and the idea that Madison somehow is always in contact with him makes the familiar knife twist. The two had dated, sure, they’re friends now, a chemistry shared between them that’s inexplicable. It makes her wonder how two people can be so familiar with each other, how they can always be so fucking happy, bouncing off of each other, the sparks fly, people wonder why they broke up (Madison fell in love with someone else. Y/n doesn’t know how Sam reacted.)

Madison and her are friends, sure, but it seems everyone from that side of her friendships is close, but not enough to touch, so Madison never talked about it to her. Sam didn’t either. In fact Sam never even mentioned they’re dating. Sam never ever talks about his relationships. Not to her. He once told her, in that one phone call that lasted four hours until 6 in the morning, the one she can’t seem to forget, that he thinks his love life is nobody’s business. He’s vulnerable with it. Doesn’t share it ever with pretty much anyone (he’d share it with Madison, she thinks bitterly.) Sam, additionally, rarely answers her texts.

They’re in this weird limbo situation. She’d confessed her affection about a year ago, New Year’s eve and festive spirits, influenced by champagne and encouraging friends, and she’d received an “I wondered about us too, but I’m honestly in a weird place, unsure. I really enjoy your company, though, I think you’re really cool and I am very happy with how we are now. Friends.” No dice. She took it in stride. She’s fine with it. No really, she is. Over it.

Then Madison hooked up with him. That one hurt.

They’d talked about it- with Madison that is- because they’re friends, Madison had also been jealous -before Y/n’s confession, when Sam seemed sorta into her and things were going well- and had urged her to go for it. Y/n had shared the sentiment (“If you two end up doing anything, I’m fine with it, it’s really none of my business. You’ve been his friend for longer than I have.”) and she had really meant it. But then Sam didn’t want her, and he ran off in the sunset with Madison for a grand total of three months, and rotten feelings were there in every other step Y/n took.

Now though, she’s fine. Sam has a different pace than her, she knows it now, has come to terms with it. He’s such a gentle, loving creature, so caring and passionate and smart and kind, with those wonderful eyes and his soft hair and the scent that makes her weak in the knees. She’ll have him in her life if that means a single four hour phone call every six months and loose texts here and there- sent by her of course, because he rarely ever texts first for some infuriating reason, and she panics he’s gonna forget her. Other than that, she’s come to terms with the fact that they’ll always be distant friends, that she’ll admire him from afar and he’ll maybe think about her once a month.

He always seems so happy to see her, though. He’s so fucking difficult to decipher.

“He’s on his way.” Brought back to the present by Madison’s statement, Y/n sulks back in her seat, a small, excited smile crossing her features. She’s happy to see him. She missed him.

He’s making his way through the other side of town, though. He’ll be here in two hours just to see them, and her heart flutters.

Till then, Madison lays in her sleeping bag turns out the lights, Y/n’s cat stretches sleepily, and Y/n doesn’t fall asleep, anxious she won’t hear him ring her bell, won’t hear her phone or Madison’s at his call. She’s only slightly desperate.

Time has slipped to six in the morning. Y/n’s eyes are wide open, her head woozy from the fatigue and the alcohol, but, when the rug vibrates with the ring of Madison’s phone, she jumps. She jumps, and so does her heart, skips a beat, because he’s here and she hasn’t seen him since the summer and she just wants to hug him hello.

“Pst! Madison.” With a slap of her hand over her phone, Madison, in a lump on the floor, pulls the phone and balances it on the cut of her cheekbone, speaker over her ear, while her hand slumps back under the sleeping bag. Nelly- Y/n’s cat- blinks lazily, spooked by the sound of the phone call, but ultimately, not giving it much attention.

“Hm? Yeah. Mkay,” sleepy, mumbled words muttered into the phone. At least someone caught some shut-eye between them. “Bring some beers.” A small chuckle, a shake of her shoulders. “Oh yah.” Another laugh. “Hmph, buzzkill.”

Y/n is turning on a small light, just until the sun rises properly up the sky, because everything is currently a little dark still.

“Atta boy. We’re waiting for you.” Another short laugh. Madison hangs up  turns on her back, and her phone falls off her face as she stretches, smiles, arms slumping over her chest. She doesn’t offer much information about the phone call. Not ten minutes later, the doorbell rings.

Y/n stumbles, sheets tangling on her legs, nearly tripping, to buzz him in.

He walks up the stairs, and she sees his head rise over the edge of the top step, a crooked smile on his pretty lips and she smiles back brightly. Arms raised over his head, he shows a plastic bag, clinking glass inside, and he whoops slightly. Y/n grins, throwing a victorious fist in the air.

“The feast continues!” And Sam laughs, toothy and bright as the sun. Y/n attacks him with a hug.

Warm arms stretch around her, hold her close, warm and tight, and he still smells heavenly, like he showered before he left his house. He smells like freshly cleaned clothes and vanilla scented body wash, like the seat of his car, deodorant and a deep, musky smell she can’t quite place.

My God, she’s missed him.

Madison is still on the floor of Y/n’s bedroom, mumbling her hello and burrowing a little in her sheets. Sam kneels down and hugs her, and she hugs back. “Nice to see you, dick”

“Runt,” he replies with a nod, as if he tips off his hat to her. Carefully, Sam also kneels next to Nelly, scritches under her little chin and whispers his soft greeting, to which the cat responds with a low purr and the bending of her head to give him a little more room. Sam smiles, and Y/n can feel her eyes being shaped into comically large hearts.

“M’God,” Madison groans. “I wanna stay awake but ugh.” Y/n smiles gently.

“Go back to bed. I have an appointment with my therapist in four hours though.” Madison nods numbly.

“Wake me up in three and a half, I’ll leave.” Y/n and Sam share a look and the former shrugs.

“Okay.”

Madison shifts, puts her headphones on and shuts her heavy eyelids, pretty much instantly falling asleep. Y/n is running on battery saver mode, enhanced by the incredible amount of adrenaline Sam’s presence seems to bring.

She nods for him to follow her and grabs her laptop, dumping herself on her living room couch, Sam closing the bedroom door behind himself and following her lead. He deposits most of the beers in the fridge and keeps two, which he opens. Y/n watches his ease in her kitchen, even though he’s never been here before and her heart wiggles in content.

He sits next to her on the couch, keeping a barely there distance between them, as she pushes the screen open. Despite all the feelings that have manifested in her chest over the relatively short time she’s known him, Sam and her really hit it off since day one. She met him during a surprise party thrown for Madison. Sam brought the cake, Y/n the candles and the lighter, and other friends brought alcohol, plastic plates that were never opened and cutlery.

The whole group had waited under Madison’s building, singing a very cheerful happy birthday, loudly enough for their voices to grow hoarse, and for Madison’s eyes to roll back into her skull with a sheepish smile. They had walked to a park, sat down and feasted on the cake straight from the pastry box, yet Sam was talking with Y/n on the swings a little ways to the right, away from the cheerful company, talking about fond childhood memories, about his brother, about their favourite movies. Y/n felt it, felt her heart drooping low, the familiar feeling of wanting to impress someone, to be liked by them. Even then, under whatever stars could be seen in their city, she knew he was gonna be trouble.

Beer bottle passed, and she clinks hers on his cheekily, receiving a tip of his head and a half-smile in response. Decided sips. Bottles held against bent knees as they both fold them like pretzels. Small talk about college, about recent misadventures and drunken phone calls, and soon she gets the urge to fill their time with something.

“Movie?” she asks, and Sam just seems on board.

“What do you have?”

And he ducks close to her and checks out the titles. “Do you wanna watch Hamilton? I’ve heard it’s really good.”

“YES, Sam,” enthusiastic and loud. Sam grins. They settle back on the couch.

Fifteen minutes into the play, Y/n doesn’t even hesitate, doesn’t ask and doesn’t preface by saying anything. With all the naturalism that their relationship has, all the affection she knows Sam has to give, she scooches closer to him and leans her head on his shoulder, hugs his arm to her chest, and he leans into her comfortably. “This okay?” The answer she looks for comes in the form of him leaning his head down on top of hers gently.

They watch two thirds of the play before they both get increasingly tired, since it’s a three hour performance. Their brains are kinda mushed, especially because of the lack of sleep, but they happily gush about how well made it is and Sam spews facts left and right about the price of the tickets, the actors and how the British royal family has gone to see it in-person.

“God, I wish I had the money to go up to NYC and watch it myself. I’ve never been to Broadway.” She sighs under his arm, which is now placed around her shoulders. Sam nods in agreement.

“Yeah, that must be so amazing to see in person.”

Bedroom door creaking open, Sam and Y/n separate from each other slowly as they watch Madison trudge to the living room like a phantom, a hand on her lower back.

“My God, Y/n, your floor is not hospitable at all.”

“Awh, I’m sorry.” Sam laughs next to her. “I don’t know why you didn’t move to the bed, though.” Madison glares, facepalms with a wince -the movement seems to rattle the spot that’s sore somehow- and shakes her head. “I didn’t- it- it didn’t cross my mind.”

Deep chuckles in amusement all around. Madison picks her stuff up. Y/n makes all of them some coffee, which they all quietly sip in the diminishing silence of the city waking up just outside their window.

The time for Y/n’s appointment approaches rapidly, and Madison waves goodbye, kisses both people on their cheeks and drives herself home. Y/n isn’t sure if Sam will stick around, so she checks the time awkwardly. She’d feel terrible to let him make his way back to other side of town just for these wimpy three hours wasted on tiredly catching up and watching a movie.

“Listen,” she says, and Sam’s attention is drawn from his coffee cup. “I’m gonna go to my bedroom, have my appointment, because we do it over Zoom anyway. You hang around, chill, and I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Alright,” Sam agrees gently. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

*

A painful, soul-straining hour later, wiping dry tear stains off her cheeks, Y/n makes her way to the living room, half forgetting Sam is even there. And boy if he’s there.

He’s stretched on her couch, legs barely fitting as he leans on the arm rest, ankles crossed, and a book he’s picked up from her bookshelf in his hands, while Nelly sleeps peacefully in his lap, finding comfort in his warmth. He hasn’t made an intense amount of progress, probably 50 or 60 pages in, but he seems invested, and for the seconds it takes him to notice her, Y/n admires him a little. Under the morning light through her thin, sheer curtains, rays are angled perfectly to make his cheekbones all the sharper, he, comfortable enough to relax in her worn-in couch. He looks so at home, and after such an emotionally draining hour, it’s so good to see someone who’s gentle, someone so familiar, waiting for her in her personal space, with her cat, as if he belongs there. It makes her heart do all sorts of stunts.

It seems he notices her from the corner of his eye though, and he puts the book down.

“Hey,” he tells her softly. “Are you good?”

“Uh,” she thinks for a second, pinches the bridge of her nose. “Yeah. I’m okay.” An offered smile, small and soft.

“Alright,” as if saying I’m choosing to believe you. “Have you read this yet?” He holds up a bright orange book, a small thing titled the Alchemist by Paolo Coelho. An offered change of subject. She smiles.

“Yeah, I have.” He folds his legs with a soft apology to Nelly who jumps off disgruntled, and Y/n takes it as a sign to sit on the couch next to him. His feet rest against her thighs, knees bent still.

“It’s so…” He sighs, struggles to find the words. “I mean, it’s not something I’d usually go for. It kind of feels childish and simple, but it’s so beautiful.” He seems slightly confused, surprised to find something he thought may be silly to be actually really good.

“I know right? It feels really simplistic, but some of the stuff it says is so eye-opening.”

“Listen to this,” he says and sits a little straighter, fixing the pillow on his back a little. “We are travelers on a cosmic journey, stardust, swirling and dancing in the eddies and whirlpools of infinity. Life is eternal. We have stopped for a moment to encounter each other, to meet, to love, to share. This is a precious moment. It is a little parenthesis in eternity.”

It’s like he chose the quote specifically for her, for this particular moment. A look is thrown his way, and he smiles crookedly. “I, uhm…” he rubs the back of his neck. “I just heard you crying, is all.” A nervous shrug. Y/n feels exhausted, drained, but in that little smile, that warmth, she feels like tearing up all over again at how fucking sweet he is. She pushes at his legs and reaches out to him for a hug, which he welcomes. She sighs.

“Thank you, Sam.”

                                                          ****

Eventually, they get up. They move to the kitchen and make grilled cheese sandwiches and tea, and Sam leans against her counter as he watches her take out plates from her cupboards, Nelly prancing around with distant meows for attention. Y/n picks large mugs, puts honey in hers and serves their half breakfast on the kitchen island. They eat under light conversation about dogs in social media and pets, and Sam sorta looks like he’s always been there, like this is the life they’ve always lived.

Hot mugs cupped in thick sleeve-covered hands. Bodies curling up on different ends of a couch. Comfortable conversation continues. Topic shifted to something more serious, and Sam tells her things, talks about how he’s grown mentally, how he understands himself a little better and how he wants to try therapy. She’s happy to see him like this, being -if only slightly- more open about himself, about how he is, not closing himself up, not fooling himself into believing he can shoulder the world alone. Y/n gives him her therapist’s phone number, tells him she’s proud of him and shares her own stories. She ruffles his hair and smiles affectionately, and Sam thanks her. Their mugs empty. Her heart grows fuller.

While moving back to the bedroom, Sam kneels next to Nelly. He offers her his hand, lets her sniff it, scritches the top of her soft little forehead, and Nelly pulls away, sniffing, wagging her tail in short annoyance. “Is that not okay? Alright, I’m sorry, honey,” he whispers to her gently, watches her lick his fingers for a second before settling back in her cat bed and watching him wearily. Sam gets the message and he pulls away, and Y/n’s never, ever seen anyone interact with her cat this way. Respectful and kind (and if that ain’t Sam, alright) and her heart lurches a bit. Of course Sam, practically the perfect guy, would test her cat’s boundaries as if she’s a human, and then never push them again. She sighs.

They end up on her bed. Sat next to each other. Laptop in front of her, heavy conversation discarded, set down for now, and she searches for her favourite stand-up comedians to show him, because she knows his sense of humour and he’s gonna love them, she’s sure. Yet, as she’s scrolling, Sam does the unspeakable, and slides behind her, one leg either side of her, arms going around her.

“ ‘M sorry, I needed a hug,” he tells her, and she curls her own arms over his, leaning back against him.

“Anytime,” she promises and means every syllable. “You can stay like that if you want,” she tells him as well, and feels his chin on her shoulder as he nods, a huffed out breath softly knocking on the bare skin of her neck. She sighs into him. Gets comfortable, pulls the laptop on her lap -can you see well?- and lets herself be entertained, relishing Sam’s laughter against her back. She smiles, because  this finally feels good. She doesn’t yearn, doesn’t look for anything more. She’s ultimately incredibly happy with where they are, with all of this warm affection. There’s no butterflies, just comfort, just love and care and tired laughter that fills her mouth with honey. The sun is in her eyes.

Not ten minutes later he shifts, stretches his legs and pulls her more comfortably against him. With gentle fingers, he pushes two strands of hair behind her ear, to the side, touch so soft she barely feels it, repositions his chin on her shoulder and breathes out calmly and Y/n shivers. He holds her securely and she, well, she dares dream, dares feel what this would be like in a different context, and while there’s a little yearning this time, to remember what it’s like to want someone and to be wanted, to know what it’s like to be Sam’s, what it’s like to be held with utter security, knowledge that you’ll never be let go of, it’s not overpowering. She feels its presence, but it feels more like an old friend than a menace. She’s content. Finally. The opposing feelings seem to tame each other.

Something close to an hour passes. They make food, some creamy pasta just to hold them over until dinner. He stirs the pot while she shows him a funny video on her phone. They eat in comfortable silence, and Y/n feels the urge to tangle her legs with his under the table, but she doesn’t, terrified she’ll push him away, ruin this bubble of comfort and naturalism by taking things a step too far. What is too far, she wonders. She’ll let him take the lead, if that means he’ll continue being this physically close to her.

Sam washes the dishes. Y/n pecks his cheek in thanks. His smile is radiant.

They stretch next to each other on her bed, scroll through their texts, send silly pictures to mutual friends. The mistake she makes is when she grabs his phone and takes a really, and she means really, ugly picture. A zillion chins, pinched eyebrows, curved lips and tongue out, hands his phone back and contemplates the consequences.

“Gimme that back, you shouldn’t have that,” decided and regretful. Sam and his noodle, twelve feet long limbs hold the phone as far from her as possible and Y/n growls and laughs, stretches, tries to grab it off him. “Sam!”

“You really think I’m gonna pass this up?” he scoffs with a grin, and she yells his name, accusatory and playful.

“Give it BACK, my face is in there! Privacy infringement!” She yells. “You should know, you’re a lawyer!”

“But you willingly saved the picture in a phone that’s not yours!” Arms stretched high, laughter booming and loud, and she scrambles.

“Your word against mine!”

“You can be seen holding the phone yourself!” She growls again, tries to pull his arm down, tickles his side and he jerks and laughs. Y/n tries to throw a leg over his to hold him down, but Sam’s too quick, too strong. They fumble, thrash, tangled limbs, throat aching full of laughter, struggling and yelling useless threats.

Sam throws the phone on the rug and huffs, visibly almost done with her, like she’s an annoying but entertaining bug. He grips her hands, her left and right in his respectively, throws his leg over her waist, twists and straddles her, hands now over her head.

Heavy breaths. They pant, stare at each other, Sam shakes his head like a dog to get his hair out of his face.

“You can’t win,” he tells her with a confident smile. She narrows her eyes.

“Have you learned nothing from this friendship?” She blows a hair away from her face and looks at him smiling. “I don’t give up that easy,” coy smile, a promise, wink sent his way, and suddenly she’s thrusting up her pelvis, trying desperately to scooch up the bed with the rest of her body, but the grip on her wrists tightens, Sam barely budging. She struggles, drags her body up, fueled by pure determination and spite, wiggles fiercely and just barely manages to get on her belly, which seems like a mistake in hindsight.

Because now her hands are crossed, he’s basically got her on a choke hold with her own forearms, and she’s eagerly trying to get her knees under her, while Sam laughs loudly at grumbled comments like “What the fuck kinda core strength do you have, fucking behemoth.” The sheets get wrinkled and pulled off the edges of her mattress, her pillows get pushed to the side, to the floor, the struggle continues and her stomach and throat hurt from all the laughter, but she really can’t seem to get the upper hand, which would be obvious if someone so much as threw a look at both of them. Sam’s six feet and two full of young, sinewy muscle, a boy- a man, really- with biceps that may not be particularly thick, but the iron grip on her wrists says something else. His hands are the size of her face. Strength is not the way she should be going about this.

She twists again, barely able to get back on her back, and she pants. The asshole looks barely winded and her eyes narrow, him raising an eyebrow challengingly. What to do, what to do?

Y/n relaxes, but Sam doesn’t. She takes a breath, grins briefly up at his momentarily confused face, then yanks her hands up the bed, making him jerk down so he can keep her under his grip and-

And she kisses him.

Nothing long or particularly sexy, just a rough push of her mouth on his, and an ‘umph’ escapes him in surprise.

Sam startles, his grip loosens, and her hands are pulled free of his hold, kicking away from him and managing a small distance apart from his warm body, knees pulled up to her chest and panting fast and loud.

Okay, it seemed smart in that moment. It really did. But for a grand total of five eternally long seconds later, her heart shrinks, diminishes to ash and dust and regret. Sam’s kaleidoscopic eyes are wide, pupils blown, and he, too, is panting.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, is all she can think, so much for not pushing his boundaries, not rushing his pace. How will you ever look in his eyes again?

“Too much?” And he blinks at her, clearly still processing. “I’m sorry, Sam, I- I didn’t mean-”

But then a hand cups her jaw, warm and big and gentle, pulls her face close to his, and his lips are there, pressed on hers. Y/n’s motionless for just a second- she’s dreamt of this for so long, over a year and a half, and it’s happening in the cheesiest way possible- and Sam is on his knees, weight rested on his other hand, reaching for her, he’s kissing her, and move, dammit, do something! A hand grips his wrist, and she pushes herself closer to him, a huff pushed out of Sam’s nose, and her stomach flips in so many stunning, wonderful ways.

Her legs fall to the side, she meets him half-way and kisses him and Sam follows just as fiercely, falls back on his haunches. His hands push under her shoulders, lift her up onto his lap, grab the back of her knees and pull them around his hips and Y/n goes willingly. She holds the sides of his face carefully and parts her lips, and Sam licks into them with caution, curls his strong arms around her waist and sighs into her mouth.

Y/n pulls away. So much for boundaries.

She blinks down at him. Sam’s eyes stay closed for a second longer, peering up at her then. He waits for her to say something. Fingers push his hair back gently, she nudges her nose with his and smiles.

“I win.” Earning a long, dramatic eye roll.

“I had you in a choke hold with your own arms, Y/n.” and her name rolls off his tongue so sweetly. She clicks her tongue.

“Yet here we are,” she whispers, looks down at him and he shakes his head with a sigh. His eyes fall  on her lips once more and he gently chews the inside of his cheek. One large paw cups the side of her head and he kisses her slowly once more before pulling away, thumbing at her cheek.

They smile.

                                                           ****

The sun has descended beneath the horizon, so early it’s kind of comical, but it doesn’t feel like it’s 6 pm anyway, because neither of them has slept at all. Time has lost meaning and form the past two days, everything feels surreal and fake because of the lack of sleep, and now here they are, under warm fairy lights, laying in her bed. There’s been kisses here and there, gently roaming hands, not moving further than that, and again, Y/n doesn’t need anything more. She’s content where she is, surprised she even made it this far. The affection they’ve shared is scarcely fierce and feral, simply quiet, tender, innate. Nothing particularly passionate or aggressive, just warmth and comfort, shielded vulnerability hidden behind brief liplocks. Y/n’s more than okay with it.

She’s laying on his chest, arm around his waist and ear over his heart and they doze together under dim lighting, limbs heavy, hearts feathery light. Sam’s arm falls around her back, pulls her close. She nuzzles his chest.

It’s just so easy to be with him. Around him.

Y/n wonders where they stand after this. If he’ll text her more. If it’ll go back to the occasional long phone call, the random outings because Madison texts him while she’s with Y/n. Will they ever be like this again? How much does she care?

Because, although somewhat pivotal for her view on affection, and tenderness and friendship, ambit stretched now, definitions altered in her mind, she feels that no real barrier has broken, shifted even. They’re still friends. They’re not partners, he’s not her boyfriend and it’s honestly fine. No, really, it is. She’s genuinely okay.

Would she like to see what it’s like to date him? Of course she would. Of course she wants to know what it feels like to know he wants her and only her, wants to know she can hold his hand, can kiss him no matter where they are or with whom, without crossing invisible boundaries tentatively like she did today. Planning dates and late night movie nights and early morning beers with shared drunken kisses.

She just wishes she knew what it’s like to have free access to this sort of affection with someone, and maybe that’s the thing. Sam feels like a good someone to have that with, but at the same time, maybe it’s what he told her on New Year’s and the way he likes to be, maybe it’s the understanding that they’re really not particularly meant to be together, cosmically in love, soulmates, whatever-the-hell, but there’s no dipping of the stomach, no heart rate accelerating, no feeling of being high or drunk. Maybe Y/n just wants someone, anyone to be with, to know she can fall for, and while Sam is warm and funny and familiar and oh so wonderful, while he looks like a great candidate to be in a relationship with, while her heart flips at the possibility of having any semblance of romance in her life, of him in her house, her couch, with her books and his warm hugs, maybe he’d been right. Maybe he knew something too painful to tell her back then, when she confessed her attraction, back when things were raw and bruised and painful to the touch. Sam and her, well… they seem good in theory. They are fun, and safe, they care for one another. They share alcohol bottles easily, common interests, kindness and heeps of love to give. They make sense in a way. But- it’s just not clicking, is it?

This is just… this. Affection for the sake of affection, not romance. And that’s okay to have, more than okay, even. It’s great. It’s comforting. It’s safe, and it’s simple. They can kiss. They can hug. They can cuddle together, and brush each other’s hair away from their faces. Y/n can admire his eyes while he cleans the dishes they ate lunch in. And it can all amount to nothing, without it feeling like band-aids being ripped off bleeding wounds without a warning.

In the words of her mother, why are human relationships so god damn complicated? Why does this one have to be too?

Y/n is content to be in his arms, to philosophically discuss, and open up and talk freely. She’s content with them giggling and wrestling and kissing in between, and they can share their music and their book quotes and their love for one another. It’s just surface level affection. If not surface level, then friendship level. Why is that not enough? Maybe not all relationships have to be tipped in the romantic pink light, and maybe, just maybe that’s okay.

She gazes up at him, rests her chin on his chest, and Sam blinks his lazy, drowsy eyelids open to look down at her sweetly, offers a small and a caress of his hand on her back. And for once, Y/n is completely satisfied with just this, and nothing more.

*****

A/N 2: I reread this and it felt like I reached a conclusion to something gigantic and cosmic, but this seems so simple.  I should know all this by now. *huff*

please tell me what you thought of this!

Forevers:

@deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester​ @deanssweetheart23​ @nostalgic-uncertainty​ @mogaruke​ @superseejay721517​ @lady-hawkguy​ @thosefeelsarereal​ @superwholockmarauder​  @justiceiswater​ @petra-arkanian-1497​ @heyitscam99​ @danijimenezv​ @aj-reuth  @unicornblood4ever @mystriee​ @sadist-fangirl23 @asguardiansoftheavengers​ @superrandomnatural​ @altosaxplayer098 @winter-moons @hunterswearingplaid​ @novaddictx​ @choosemyname​  @live-like-a-girl​ @thisismysecrethappyplace​ @bowtomytenderaddiction​  @elara98azalea​ @lemondropirwin​ @emmagolden4118​ @glitchcypher @calaofnoldor​ @paradoxical-sleep​ @narynechan @canwenotdothis​ @suicidepanda07​ @blueaura​

Sam Stuff:

@kymberlytorres​ @theboykingsamwinchester​ @depressed-moose-78 @andi-mendes-barnes​ @captainmarvelcorps​ @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away​ @nellachain​  @percywinchester27​

#sam x reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x fem!reader #sam x fem!reader #sam x female!reader #sam winchester x female!reader #spn fanfiction #supernatural #sam fluff #spn fluff #spn sam #sam winchester #winchester fluff #sam winchester comfort #domesticity and things #basically my whole psyche in a tumblr post? #geez #i've ascended from tartarus to drop this and will be returning shortly #hope you enjoy it!

[thiswasinevitableid]

The Bachelor

A birthday gift for @bellafarallones. Part 3 of the TAZ Amnesty Bachelor AU (sternclay and indruck were the first two) AKA what Vincent was up to. Apollo is from my Amnesty Super Hero fic

The entire United States to choose from and this is the best the producers could find? He’s going to win this thing with his eyes closed. Then it’s a hop, skip, and jump to some endorsement deals, his own spin-off, and then a prime time hosting slot. 

Oh, and a marriage. But that should be easy; any guy would count themselves lucky to have him.

God, that pool will be great for Instagram shots. Luckily the producers knew their biggest draw when they saw him and agreed to let Indrid continue his work as Apollo’s personal photographer and assistant. He may be a disappointment to the Cold name, but he’s good with a camera and has no interest in being recorded for the show. And if, god forbid, Apollo comes down with a cold during filming, someone will be there to bring him Day-Quil. After all, if he lets anyone see Apollo in a vulnerable state, Apollo will just have to send their father an email about Indrid’s latest failure. 

“It’s times like this we should be grateful for our genes. I know I am.” He glances at his twin, pausing his gaze on his silver hair and tattoos.

“You dye yours too. And I think there are more than a few handsome men here, so don’t get cocky.” His attention shifts for a moment as a man dressed like Smokey the Bear passes them.

“Oh come on, even with those pretentious glasses you can see I’m a cut above.”

“If you say so. And if you want to do shots of you in your suit, we need to start soon, so kindly find your room so we can get on with it.”

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

Not only is this easy, it’s fun. The cameras love him, and most of his fellow contestants yield to him after one remark. He’s been watching Vincent, the bachelor for this season, closely during group interactions, and it’s clear he’s already developing favorites. Annoyingly, two in particular--Joseph and Duck--are more inclined to push back at him. But it doesn’t matter; everyone has weaknesses. He’ll find theirs soon. 

Tonight is his first formal date with Vincent. They’re at an Italian place with good lighting, and Vincent is perfectly nice to look at in his lavender dress shirt and silver tie. Apollo’s done his research; Vincent is ten years his senior, took an early retirement from a position in the department of defense and now runs two consulting businesses; one for banks and museums and one for domestic violence shelters, health clinics, and other places where doing good draws enemies. The first business subsidizes the second. Vincent enjoys tennis and running, has no Instagram presence, and is an only child. 

Apollo has his plan of attack; the trouble is, Vincent isn’t interested in sitting there and being flattered (though he does blush when Apollo says the tie makes the grey in his hair look all the more distinguished). He wants to know about Apollo. 

“When you’re not taking photos, what do you like to do?”

He doesn’t correct him about who takes the pictures, smiles, “I, ah, I go to the gym.”

“I have to say it shows.” Vincent winks. It’s so corny, but Apollo can’t find it in him to hate it, “any sports, or just things like weights and cardio?”

‘

“No, but I played football in high school. I was star running back.”

“I played my freshman year, but baseball suited me better. So when you're not ‘pumping iron’, what do you do for fun?”

There is no answer that won’t make him look too shallow or too...no, he can’t even think about that option. Damn it, he must have a normal hobby. He hedges with the truth and hopes the editors cut it for time. 

“I like movies. I, ah, I’ve been working my way through the Criterion Collection of the birth of cinema  and it’s fascinating. Did you know there was a silent film heartthrob who predates Valentino?”

“Sessue Hayakawa?” 

“You know about him?” He leans forward.

“I read a biography of him last year that was riveting. I still have it if you’d like to borrow it.”

“Yes, yes absolutely. We, we could even watch some of his films together, and the ones they inspired, you know they, they…” 

Fuck, he’s acting like Indrid, bumping the table and yammering about things that will get him nowhere. He sits back, grabs his wine and sips to cover his error. 

“I’d like that.” Is all Vincent says as they’re entrees arrive. 

“Enough about me. I was reading about your business and, ah, well, how do you even do something like that?”

Vincent describes his process, how he picks clients and what he considers when evaluating a space. Apollo fully intends to zone out with a smile. 

He hangs on every word. All too soon, Vincent is asking for dessert. 

“Is your meal okay?”

Apollo looks at the plate of spaghetti carbonara he’s been poking at, not wanting to be caught in an ugly expression while eating, “Yes, it’s delicious.”

Dessert arrives in the shape of a chocolate lava cake with sparklers, a detail which delights Vincent. It’s such a ridiculous thing to smile over. Apollo smiles back, and let’s his date feed him a bite of cake. 

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

Was the beach trip self-serving on Vincent’s part? Indeed. Has it also given him valuable intel? Yes, yes it has.

He now knows who’s going home next; Nico is such a fraternity-bred asshole that he should have sent him packing weeks ago. Honestly, all his comments about Barclay this morning were awful. Barclay is masculine and sweet in a way Vincent adores. He even helped Joseph during the cliff dive, which bumps him even higher in Vincent’s eyes. 

Joseph stealthily knocking Nico’s hat from his head with a frisbee was also a high point; goodness, Joseph reminds him of men he used to work with who he never, ever, admitted his feelings for (they were often his subordinates, and he prided himself on keeping a safe department). 

Then there’s Duck. Vincent would like an award for not spending the morning asking to rub sunblock on those arms. He’s been treated to a closer view of them the last half-hour, Duck sitting next to him in a Hawaiin shirt that shows off his biceps. The ranger just now excused himself (“gotta give the other fellas a chance to impress”) to go keep Indrid company during dinner. Polite and friendly to the core, that’s his favorite bear. 

And then there’s-

“Hiiii Vincent.” Apollo slides into the spot closest to him on the restaurant deck. 

Were Vincent choosing for an evening, Apollo would edge out even Duck. He suspects getting the younger man under some comfortable sheets to praise and fuss over him would be very nice indeed. Apollo may posture and insist to the others that he’s the dominant one in the bedroom, but this isn’t Vincent’s first go around; he knows someone who longs to be spoiled and submissive when he sees one.

But he’s here to choose his husband, not a hook-up. 

He initially assumed he’d send Apollo home after their first formal date. He knows these shows sometimes attract people who want their fifteen minutes of fame, and Apollo is one of them. But then his meticulously built image cracked, just a little, as they talked, and Vincent is so taken by what he saw that he can’t bring himself to send him home yet.

The older man slides the younger one an oyster, “try one, they’re local.”

There’s no appealing way to eat an oyster on camera, but Apollo lifts a shell and downs one. He does an excellent job masking his grimace.

“Another? Or would you like one of the grilled scallops instead?”

He watches him run a calculus. Then he slides his sunglasses down, “Scallop, please.”

Maybe there’s hope for him yet.

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

“Indrid, Vincent hates me!”

Indrid blinks at him.

“One of the other contestants got them to show him a bunch of footage of me putting the other men in their place and now he hates me.” Genuine panic rises in his chest as Indrid gives him absolutely no expression to work from. 

“What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to him, tell him that I’m not-”

“What you actually are? Vincent is here to choose a spouse; he has a right to not choose you.”

“Fix. It.” Apollo snarls.

His twin stands, regarding him from across the rug, “I will speak to Vincent, on one condition; you do not go after Duck ever again.”

“Traitor, you should be on my side, not his.”

Indrid shrugs, sits back down and picks up his book. 

“I’ll, I’ll tell father you’re sabotaging me.”

“You think he’ll like to hear you’re being out done by his inferior son?”

“....Damn it. Fine, fine. I’ll leave Newton alone. Now go.”

His brother has the audacity to grin at him, “I will, right after I finish this chapter.”

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

He’s sitting with Duck and Joseph, asking their opinion, when Indrid enters the living room.

“Did Apollo send you?” Vincent picks lint from his cardigan. 

“Yes. He’s asking me to intercede on his behalf since he thinks you hate him.”

“Oh dear, I don’t hate him. I just said I was disappointed in him.”

“Ah” Indrid perches on the arm of Duck’s chair, “That’s our father’s code for ‘I hate you.”

“Jesus.” Duck mutters.

“I suspected he was exaggerating. That’s why I agreed to talk to you; I’ve learned it’s best to verify anything  he tells me. In truth, I can’t do much for him.  If it’s not obvious, he takes after our father and our father is...not a good man. We each survive him in our own way; Apollo chose to mold himself into what he demanded we be. That does not excuse him. But perhaps it puts him into perspective.”

Vincent knows he’s not sending Apollo home this week; it’s still Nico’s turn. And his heart that taps his chest to ask, “Do you think he could change?”

Indrid says nothing. Duck is keeping his mouth shut, but his frown suggests his answer.

“This is not to defend him but” Joseph looks at Indrid, “you grew up under the same conditions and chose not to replicate them. That suggests it’s possible.”

“I just didn’t want to end up like him.” Indrid murmurs.

“And ‘possible’ don’t mean probable.” Duck adds.

Vincent rubs his temples, “You’re right. All of you. I...I think I need some time to decide how many chances to be the person I think he can be I ought to give him.”

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

Apollo isn’t sure what to expect. The last time Vincent asked to see him, it was to scold him. Three guys have gone home since then, and he’s been fighting back his impulses to torment and gloat, focusing instead on  making Vincent like him instead of undermining the competition. 

The door opens on a room with a bed, lots of candles, and…

“Is that whale song?”

“Yes. I picked a ‘soothing’ playlist to fit the mood.” Vincent is in linen pants and a button up short sleeve, pats the bed with a smile, “I thought a nice massage might do you good. Non-sexual, of course” he tips his head at the camera.

Apollo isn’t shy. His thirst traps are legendary. But he lays on his stomach the instant he’s down to his underwear. Vincent hums as he starts on his shoulders, checking in now and then about pressure. It would be nice if Apollo’s skin weren’t starving for gentle touches. He keeps letting out pathetic sounds, almost like chirps, as Vincent rubs him down. 

Then the worst thing happens; he gets hard. At first he tries just keeping his hips still but no, just Vincent’s touch is enough. So he tenses in hopes of not giving it away.

“Is it too hard?”

“No, I’m fine.”

The hands leave his skin and he whines like a kicked dog. 

“Would you gentlemen let us do the rest in private? I’m sure the viewers get the point.”

There’s shuffling feet and shutting doors, and then a gentle hand rolling him onto his back.

“Apollo, what’s really--oh. That explains it.” 

He scrambles to sit up, tucking his knees to his chest, “I’m sorry, you said you didn’t want it to be sexual, I didn’t do this on purpose, I swear-”

The bed squeaks along with him as Vincent sits, “Sweetheart, I’m not going to get angry with you for this. If, um, if it helps to know, the feeling is very much mutual.”

It should feel like a triumph, but his cheeks burn and he hides his face against his knees. 

“Does that bother you?”

“No! No, not at all. I wouldn’t be wooing you on T.V if I didn’t think you were attractive. Blech, I sound like one of Indrid’s romance novels. Not, not that there’s anything wrong with Indrid...liking...silly things.”

Vincent cups his face and he leans into it, wants to glue his cheek there, “Apollo, I’ve noticed you’re trying to be less...unkind since our little talk.”

“I’m trying. It’s just so very, very hard.”

“I’ve also noticed you’re letting your persona go now and then. That means a lot to me. I’m not interested in the man you think you should be; I’m interested in the man you might become, the man you are when you stop trying to be better than everyone. I like that man, I’d like to get to know him more.”

Apollo shivers as Vincent kisses his forehead, “I’ll do my best.”

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

“The nerve of Joseph to say things like that to me!”

Indrid doesn’t look up, “It’s a genuine concern; Vincent is older, there will likely come a time when you’ll be the one caring for him. Are you certain you’ll have the patience for that? Be willing to put your needs and wants on hold for the sake of someone else?”

That’s really what would happen? He, he could do it for Vincent, he’s certain. But could he? What if it’s hard, without glory or gain, does that make it foolish?

He chases those thoughts in dizzying circles for fifteen minutes until they crash into the solution.

“I solved it! I don't have to worry about taking care of Vincent as he ages because he'll divorce me once I reach thirty-two.”

“That is the bleakest possible conclusion.” Indrid flips his sketchbook closed. 

“Just let me have this!”

“I hate that I even have to say this but Vincent is not our father.”

“Father said he was doing what any sensible man would do.”

Indrid levels him with an unusually firm stare, “Do you not want Vincent just because he’s over thirty-two?”

“Of course not! He’s great! I, brother for goodness sake just tell me how to care for him.”

“I literally cannot do that. You have to figure it out for yourself what care looks like for you.”

He’s about to repeat his demand when his phone rings. 

“Hi, Vincent.”

“I'm so sorry, but I have to break our date tonight. I was out for a run and twisted my ankle. I just got back from the doctor; he says I sprained it, so I might be on bed rest a few days.”

Perfect. 

“Oh no, I’m glad it’s not too serious. Would, ah, would it be alright if I came to see you?”

They agree on a time. Then he remembers the problem that preceded the phone call.

“What do I do?”

“What do you want to do for him? Or, if your positions were reversed, him to do for you?” Indrid asks flatly. 

“Call you so he doesn’t see me looking frail.”

“assume I am dead and thus no longer dealing with your nonsense”

“That’s not fair.”

Indrid flops on the bed, “I'm dead, Vincent is the only one who is coming to take care of you, what do you want him to do?”

“Tell me it’s okay and spend time with me and…”

Indrid grins, “And?”

“And watch PBS in bed.”

“It’s a start. Now please get out of my room.”

An hour later he pokes his head into Vincent’s bedroom; the older man is reclining, reading a John Grisham paperback in a robe that makes him look very suave

“How are you feeling?” He sits next to him, rubs his knee. .

 “Oh, I'm fine, just feel a little silly. It used to be I could twist an ankle and come up fine. Aging is quite the adventure.”

“I, um, I'm glad it wasn't too bad. I, I don't like the thought of you getting hurt. Bot that you'd be bad if you did! I accept that we are all very fragile beings trying not to die.

(Too dark, Cold,  pull it back).

“I mean, um, is there anything I can do to help?”

“I'd be happy to have you stay awhile.” Vincent takes his hand, let’s him lean on his shoulder as they talk. They’re midway through a discussion of famous film disasters when a small burst of black and red lands on the windowsill. He doesn’t catch his excitement in time and Vincent asks him what made him perk up. 

With a courage he did not know he possessed, he points to the bird.

“Oh! How beautiful. What kind is it?”

“Scarlet Tanager” he mumbles, “they’re not common here.”

“Do you know a lot about birds?”

He nods. 

“There are some feeders just on that balcony. And I think the binoculars a friend gave me last Christmas are still in the closet, if you’d like to use them.”

“I would” he stands, heart bubbling with terrifying warmth, “thank you, da--ah, dear.”

Mischief sweeps across Vincent’s face, “Is this where you tell me you’ve had lots of older boyfriends?”

“No. I, ah, I’ve made out some but I never dated.”

“Not even a highschool sweetheart?”

“My father made it so no teenager wanted to go near our house. Or us.” The binoculars are magnificent, the best money can buy, “I always wished I had a date to homecoming. It looked so fun, asking someone or getting asked and then having matching outfits and going out to dinner and taking pictures together. I even picked out an outfit just in case someone asked.  I think Indrid snuck out to meet his burnout--, um, meet his friends. I just sat in my room.”

“You could have asked someone yourself, couldn’t you?” Vincent makes room for him on the bed once more. 

 “And risk getting rejected in front of the whole school? No thank you.” He stares at the binoculars, afraid of what he might see if he turns, “I'm sorry, you don't need to hear all this. I’m supposed to be here taking care of you.”

Vincent opens his arms, pulling Apollo into a hug, “You know care can go two ways at once, right?”

“Not really” he mumbles into silver silk.

“Oh, sweetheart.” A kiss on his cheek, hands running soothingly up his sides, and those weak, silly noises slipping from his mouth. 

“I want it to be, I’ll be so good, I’ll take care of you, just please...please say you’d do the same?”

“Of course. That’s what love is.”

He tucks his face against Vincent’s neck, “Will you make fun of me if I say I’m frightened?”

“Never.”

“I don’t know how to do so much of this. I don’t know how much of me can change.”

“Are you willing to try?” Vincent kisses the shell of his ear.

“For you? Yes.”

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

“I choose…” Vincent looks between Apollo and Jonathan. Apollo cannot wait to spring into his arms. 

“I choose neither.”

“What!” Ned yells off camera.

“I’m sorry to both of you but I simply can’t. Jonathan, you’re a very nice man, but our connection is ultimately lacking. Apollo” Vincent meets his eyes and he forces his gaze to stay placid, “I care for you more than words can say. I know you’ve worked so very hard to change. I also know that people can easily revert to their old, cruel ways under pressure or difficulty. Marriage often involves those things, and I’m not sure you can be the man I need you to be. With those misgivings,  it wouldn’t be fair to propose to either of you. I hope you understand.”

They both say the do, shake hands, give hugs. And he does, he truly does understand. He understands that Vincent made the choice he had to, that even though he got better he is still a rotten, cruel creature who doesn’t deserve him. He was taught he deserved the world; some good that did him. It lost him the only person who might make the world a less miserable place. 

“Apollo!” Vincent jogs after him, catches up to him in an empty hall, “Apollo I-”

His heart is breaking; his old ways twine like vipers around it, “I, I’m glad you didn’t choose me you, you boring, pathetic man. No wonder you have to pay people to go on dates with you! I don’t need anyone, least of all you!”

Vincent steps back, face falling as Apollo storms off. The last thing he hears is, “And here I thought I made the wrong choice.”

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

He deletes his Instagram. Gets a job as a personal shopper. Goes to therapy because he will not let Indrid outshine him when it comes to unlearning how they were raised. 

It helps. Three months after the disastrous finale (for him, not for the network) he’s feeling, if not better, like he might actually try dating someone soon. He also writes two apology letters; one to Indrid and one to Vincent. Then he tears them both up and just tells Indrid that he’s trying to be less of an asshole and that he’s sorry for all the time he was one. He leaves Vincent alone; if he doesn’t want to see him, the least he can do is respect that.

It’s migration season, so he’s hiding in his favorite, super-secret birdwatching spot. It’s near a pond, so lots of birds come to drink and bathe, and he’s seen several on his list. 

Branches crack, sending nearby jays into a flap. Damn it, he’s never seen someone else here; the only person he ever told about it was-

“Hi, Apollo.”

“Vincent!” He almost falls off his stump, “how, why?”

“I’d been meaning to explore this spot ever since you spoke about it. But I, um, was also hoping I might see you in the process. Pathetic, as you might say.”

“I did, didn’t I.” Apollo stares up at him, clutching his binoculars so hard they might become disparate spyglasses, “Vincent, I am so, so, so very sorry for how I acted when we last saw each other. I was hurt, all I want is to make someone else hurt more so I stop feeling so vulnerable and powerless. I, I’ve been working on it in, in” he winces “therapy. You said once that you wanted to meet the man I might be. I realized I wanted to meet him to, to be him, not to win some show or even to get you to like me but just because I don’t want to be the other Apollo anymore.”

Vincent sits next to him, “You don’t give up, do you?”

“I, I just want to un-fuck what I can. I, how have you been?”

“Doing lots of thinking. I still know I made the right call not proposing during the finale. And that I’m ready to start dating again.”

“I hope whoever you go out with knows how lucky they are.” He says without any motive but the truth.

Vincent plucks a late-blooming wildflower and offers it to him, “It’s not a rose, but then again, this isn’t a proposal. It’s just a date, if you still want one.”

“So badly.” 

The older man leans in, kissing him softly as his spine turns to soup, “I’m looking forward to meeting the, um, latest version of you.” He snickers at his own phrasing.

Apollo pulls him into a second kiss, “Me too.”

#bachelor au

[spencers-renaissance]

To Look On Tempests and Not Be Shaken

Summary: In the wake of a blazing row and an empty apartment, Aaron finds Spencer's well-thumbed copy of Shakespeare's sonnets and recalls the morning after their wedding, when Spencer sat on his lap and read Sonnet 116 to him. Suddenly, everything makes sense.

Tags: angst with a happy ending, fighting and making up, married hotchreid, relationship dynamics, introspection, fluff, shakespeare/literature

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.6k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

(Set in S11, AU in which Haley/Aaron divorced in S1 and Aaron/Spencer married in S4.)

It wasn’t really either of their faults: work was relentless at the moment and they hadn’t had any real time for one another in weeks. That’s not really a consolation to either Spencer or Aaron, however, when they’re in the middle of a blazing row that has them both drowning in flames of anger and passion, unable to see one another for the smoke filling their apartment. 

“Aaron, this is the fourth case in a row that you’ve stayed at  the office past 4 in the morning to wrap up the paperwork,” Spencer shouts, frustration rising in his chest as he tugs at his hair, already feeling far too overwhelmed. Aaron is looking as unbothered and stoic as he always does during their fights, and even though Spencer is fully aware of the emotion that will be stirring under his carefully constructed mask, it doesn’t make it any less exasperating. 

“You know as well as I do that this sort of work load is completely unavoidable,” Aaron says lowly, anger finally audible in his voice. It’s not as satisfying as Spencer had hoped. “We can’t keep rehashing this same old argument. I’m the Unit Chief of a team in one of the most prestigious FBI departments. I have a responsibility.”

“You have a responsibility to me and Jack as well,” Spencer cries, fury bubbling over as he thinks of Jack and just how much he deserves. “We deserve your time just as much as fucking serial killers do.”

Aaron visibly flinches as Spencer swears, an occurrence rare enough to indicate serious emotion. “This is exactly the argument I used to have with Haley, Spencer,” he says harshly. “I refuse to have it with you, too. If you can’t handle it then maybe you should leave, just like she did, hm?”

“Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe that means there’s an element of truth in it then, Aaron?” Spencer asks, voice breaking slightly as the scale tips away from uncontained ire towards hopeless misery. He turns away from his husband, trying in vain to conceal his crumpled face and damp eyes. “And you know I would never do that to you; don’t you dare throw your unresolved issues back in my face.”

“I can’t deal with this right now,” Aaron says, voice and face hardened; Spencer can almost see the walls he’s building up again, the stubborn refusal to concede any point. “You’re not being rational. I’m going to bed.”

His stomach twists with the desperation of the situation as he says quietly to Aaron’s turned, retreating back, “What happened to never going to bed angry?” He doesn’t turn back around. 

⭐️

Aaron waits in bed for Spencer to join him, fully intending to feign sleep the moment he enters the bedroom but nevertheless longing to know he’s safely tucked next to him in bed. When he hears the quiet click of the front door and checks the time to see he’s been waiting for almost 25 minutes, though, a panicked feeling fills his chest. He throws the covers back and treads out to the living room, only to be met with a decidedly empty room. If he was a more spiritual man he’d say he could still feel the angry aura of their previous argument lingering over the furniture. Really what he feels is the inevitable, empty vacuum a home without Spencer in it is bound to house. 

He sits down on the sofa, just on the wrong side of too cold in his threadbare t-shirt and underwear, and buries his head in his hands. The problem is that he knows Spencer’s right. He and Jack both deserve better than this kind of life, of course they do. Jack deserves a father, Spencer deserves a husband. Admitting such a fact, however, requires humility, vulnerability, failure almost. It means telling his boss that he needs reinforcements, that he can’t continue with the 80+ hour weeks, that he’s not as strong as he used to be. 

That sort of thing takes a courage that feels so far out of reach, though, and he’s left defending a place he doesn’t want to be in against people he loves more than anything in the world. 

Forcing himself out of his miserable carousel of thoughts and regrets, he pulls his head from his hands and catches sight of a note on the coffee table, his name scrawled across it in Spencer’s handwriting. Immediately, his heart sinks: it’s unlikely a love letter. It’s far more likely it’s a note of good riddance, an announcement of abandonment. 

Turning it over in his shaking hands, he reads: 

I’ve gone to stay with Derek and Penelope for the night. I will pick up Jack from Jessica’s in the morning, on my way home. I love you. Spencer 

He immediately feels guilt at ever having thought that Spencer would be cruel enough to leave him in the same way he’s been left himself one too many times. His husband has an incredible amount of love filling his heart, and he’s simply incapable of such cruelty. It’s been a fear of his for many years, that Spencer would grow unhappy but be too kind to leave, prioritising Aaron above himself. He knows it’s Haley’s fault for embedding such fear and doubt in his heart all those years ago, but he can’t help but berate himself for ever doubting Spencer. 

It’s not like they’re about to break up. When he considers the situation logically, he knows that. He loves Spencer, Spencer loves him, and ultimately, he’s going to relent. He’s going to draw on whatever shreds of courage remain in his tattered and beaten soul and do whatever it takes to make his family happy, to give them what they deserve. He just has no idea how to cross the gaping chasm that stands in the way of reaching that eventuality. 

He goes to place the note back down on the coffee table, but his eyes land on the book it had originally rested on: Spencer’s well-loved copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He picks it up, sort of absent-mindedly, thumbing the pages the love of his life has read countless times, holding on to the book as an emotional connection to Spencer. It’s travelled their entire relationship with them; he remembers it laying on his spare bedside table back when Spencer visited his apartment in the dead of night, terrified of anyone finding them out. He’d read the poems over and over again, long into the night. Aaron can’t help but smile at the memory of Spencer’s unique quirks. 

Eventually, his absent fiddling lands him on a page Spencer’s visited time and time again. A worn leather bookmark Aaron recognises as one of Diana’s gifts marks the page titled Sonnet 116. Tired and lovelorn, he begins reading.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds  Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare 

((Modern Translation, if you’d prefer:

I will not admit that interferences are possible in the union of two people In love. Love that changes when circumstances do is not love, Nor if it bends when someone tries to destroy it: Oh no! It is an eternally fixed point, Which may watch storms but is never shaken by them; it is the guiding star for ever lost ship: Its distance may be measured but its quality cannot be. Love does not fall victim to Time, though features of youth Are eventually entrapped by him; Love doesn’t change as hours and weeks race past, But endures until death. If this is wrong, and I’m proved incorrect, Then I never wrote, and no man ever loved.))

The words come rushing back to him as soon as he reads them: it had been a contender for Spencer’s chosen poem at their wedding. He’d eventually gone with I loved you first by Christina Rosetti, the perfect compliment to his own choice of I love you by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, but on their first morning as a married couple, laid in their warm and comfortable bed, Spencer had pulled out this very book and straddled Aaron’s thighs, reading it to him with an earnest expression. He remembers the air being punched out of his chest as he’d looked up at a bright-eyed 27-year-old Spencer who had been through so much already but still held all the grace and innocence he did on his first day at the BAU.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until a tear runs down his nose and splashes on the page. What really tips him over the edge is reading Spencer’s small, chicken-scratch annotations around the poem, noting different points in their relationship, events between the two of them that prove the words of an Englishman born 400 years earlier.  

It’s so easy for him to doubt how much Spencer loves him - insecurities and the trauma of his separation from Haley consume him far too often - but he’s holding the tangible, physical proof. This is undeniable, this is the evidence his doubtful, damaged heart yearns for, and the furious, raging, endlessly tumultuous waters inside him settle for the first time in weeks.  

⭐️

The second Aaron’s alarm goes off at 6am, he gets started on the plan he’d formed as soon as the words of Shakespeare’s sonnet had sunk in. The email he’d composed the night before is the first thing his laptop screen displays when he powers it on, and he presses send on the uncompromising, demanding letter he’d addressed to Cruz. Finally feeling good about the entire situation, he turns the coffee maker on and gets dressed; Spencer’s an early riser but he’s determined to get to Derek and Penelope’s before he leaves. 

The relief is freeing, and he feels light for the first time in a long time. He hadn’t quite realised just how much it had all been weighing on him until he’d finally found the courage to cut it free. 

Armed with two coffees and Shakespeare’s sonnets, he heads downstairs to the taxi he’d ordered the night before. The city races past in front of the slow and steady sunrise, dawn marking a new chapter in Aaron’s life that he’s determined to make worth it. Slowly the thick of the city fades into the suburbs, and the taxi slows down as they wind through the maze of identical looking streets until they arrive at Derek and Penelope’s home. 

He pays the taxi driver as quickly as possible and sighs in relief at the sight of Spencer’s car still on the drive as he climbs out of the vehicle, carefully balancing his two coffees, still warm in their thermal mugs. Fully aware that Derek and Penelope are absolutely going to chew him out the minute they lay eyes on him, he hesitantly rings the doorbell. 

“Man, what the hell?” Derek exclaims, clearly exasperated as he swings the door open, revealing a sorry looking Aaron Hotchner standing sheepishly on his doorstep. 

“I know,” Aaron replies immediately, trying to portray as much regret and understanding with his body language as is possible when holding two coffees with  your husband’s most prized possession perched precariously under your arm. “I know, I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I need to see Spencer.”

Derek looks thoroughly put out just being in Aaron’s presence, but after a moment or two of hesitation he relents, opening the door wider to let him through. “Alright,” he sighs. “I’ll ask if he’s okay to see you.”

He parks Aaron in the living room and then leaves to go and find Spencer. Only seconds later, he hears the hurried click of kitten heels on the wooden floor and internally cringes; if facing Derek was bad, facing Penelope will be infinitely more painful.

“Aaron Hotchner,” Penelope shouts before she’s even fully entered the living room, “I have never, and I mean never been more disappointed in you. I don’t think you fully appreciate how lucky you are. You may be my boss but that does not mean I will not chew you out when you screw up this bad. Anyone who makes my Spencer cry is in my bad books for at least two weeks. You are in the dog house, you understand me? The dog house.”

She’s thankfully cut off from continuing her rant by Spencer’s shy, hesitant appearance at the doorway. Penelope immediately rushes over and gives him a hug, whispering something in his ear that Aaron doesn’t catch but makes Spencer giggle. She reaches up to ruffle his hair before patting his cheek fondly and casting a furious glare in Aaron’s direction as she vacates the living room. 

“Hi,” Aaron says softly, breaking the silence left in the wake of Storm Penelope. “I bought you a coffee.” 

“What are you doing here, Aaron?” Spencer asks, clearly a little confused but still accepting the drink. 

“I know you said that you’d come home this morning but I had to come and get you,” he replies, standing up from his seat on the couch and taking a few steps forward. “Look… your note last night, it was on top of this book. And in my absent-minded cloud of misery I was looking through it and came across Sonnet 116.”

A flicker of recognition lights up Spencer’s eyes as his face softens a little at the sight of his beloved book.

“Do you remember? Climbing into my lap on our one day wedding anniversary and reading it to me? Back then I was partly distracted by the gorgeous man in my arms but last night… Spencer, the words hit home in a way I haven’t felt before. Not to mention your annotations; I felt like I was reading a journal of our love story, which I know was probably your intention all along.” He shakes his head, trying to get back on track. “I’ve been an idiot, a rotten fool, and I’m so sorry. I emailed Cruz this morning. 

“You did?” Spencer looks up, surprise filling his features for a second before a small, hopeful smile takes over. “What did you say?”

“That I couldn’t continue with the workload and I needed reinforcements. That I would work the same hours for two more weeks to allow them to find an adequate solution, but after that I’ll be reducing my hours to align almost directly with yours,” he says, tentatively gauging Spencer’s reaction. 

It’s made pretty easy for him when Spencer’s hesitantly hopeful smile blossoms into a wide grin, relaxing his posture as relief overtakes his body and he throws himself into Aaron’s arms. Aaron buries his face into his husband’s curls and lets himself breathe easy, feeling infinitely better with Spencer wrapped up in his arms again, just where he belongs. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Aaron whispers as he pulls Spencer impossibly closer. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Spencer sighs, nestling his face further into Aaron’s neck. “We both said things we shouldn’t have. But, you’re here now, and that’s what counts.”

“I love you, you know that?” Aaron murmurs, pulling away slightly so he can look Spencer in the eyes, trying to convey his sincerity as well as possible. 

“I know,” he smiles. “I love you, too.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Aaron says, patting Spencer’s side gently. “Let’s get out of here before Penelope comes to stab me with her high heels.” 

Spencer giggles at that. “I don’t know, maybe, I’d like to see that,” he teases, digging his finger into Aaron’s ribs for good measure. 

“Oh, stop it you,” Aaron smiles fondly before kissing the top of Spencer’s head, feeling happier in this moment than he’d ever thought possible again last night. Peace is finally restored in Aaron Hotchner’s heart, all thanks to one rather ancient English playwright and an academic for a husband. “Let’s go and get Jack,” he says, longing to have his whole family back together, to restore the equilibrium of a tumultuous few weeks. 

Spencer leans down to kiss his shoulder as they walk out of the Morgan-Garcia household, and it’s enough to keep him warm the whole way home.

@strippersenseii @criminalmindsvibez

#hotchreid #my writing #hotchreid fic #hotchreid writing #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #aaron hotchner/spencer reid #aaron hotchner x spencer reid