#✶ * . — STUDY. behind your gaze lies a world on its own.

[kiwriteswords]

The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you

Part IV in the Wicked Game Universe (Can be read on its own, though!)

Masterlist || Ao3

AN: Here is another part of the Flirty!Female reader storyline I shared last week. This story can be read solo or as a companion piece in this universe! I am beginning to plan future installments of this story and some possible 'flashback' one-shots--all of which could be read individually.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Word Count: 10.8k

Tags/Warnings: mention of past abusive relationship, fear of commitment, unresolved trauma, mention of SA, angst, romantic tension, mild violence, emotional vulnerability, workplace relationships, slight language, hurt/comfort, power dynamics, manipulation by an ex, sexual tension, sexual themes. Part of a series but can be read as a standalone.

Sypnosis: After years away from the BAU, you’ve returned, leaving behind a prestigious career as a professor and best-selling author. Once part of the original team, your reunion with Hotch has reignited long-simmering tension. Now, as your relationship begins to unfold, you’re not only confronting your fear of commitment but also the unresolved troubles from your past—including a case tied to your former life as a professor. With emotions and past wounds resurfacing, you’ll have to navigate the dangers of the job and the vulnerability of opening yourself up to Hotch without letting it all unravel.

Aaron Hotchner stood in front of his closet, pulling on a casual jacket, readying himself to head out and pick Jack up from his Aunt Jess’s house. It was a quiet Sunday evening, and the dim light in his apartment cast a warm, relaxed glow. You sat on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the fabric of your shirt, your mind wandering as you watched him quietly.

“You’re welcome to come with me,” Hotch said, his tone calm but warm, as he looked over at you. “Or you can hang back if you’d rather stay here.”

You forced a small smile, trying to play it cool, but your mind was racing. "Oh, I think I’ll just head home,” you replied, a touch too quickly. “You know… laundry."

Hotch raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. He turned toward you fully, his steady gaze softening as he studied your face. “Laundry?” he asked, the slightest hint of amusement in his tone. “On a Sunday night?”

You let out a nervous laugh, shifting on the bed as you felt the tension between the two of you grow. He could read you like a book—he always could. You’d gotten to know Jack a few times, and honestly, you cared about the kid. He was sweet, and you loved seeing how much Hotch lit up when he talked about him. But now that you and Hotch were officially dating, the reality of being a part of his life—not just Hotch’s, but Jack’s, too—was starting to feel a little overwhelming.

“I just... I don’t want to intrude or anything. It’s your time with Jack, and I don’t want to, you know, mess up the dad-son thing,” you said, waving your hand dismissively, trying to deflect the weight of your own words.

Hotch’s eyes narrowed slightly, and you could tell he wasn’t going to let this slide. “Y/N, you’ve spent time with Jack before. You know you’re not intruding,” he said, his voice gentle but probing. “And Jack’s shared with me that he likes you there,” He stepped closer, leaning against the dresser, his arms folding across his chest. “What’s really going on?”

Your heart rate picked up, and you could feel your defenses rising. You hated how well he could see through you. 

“Nothing’s going on,” you lied, forcing a smirk onto your face. “I just don’t want Jack to think I’m moving in or anything. Who knows, maybe he doesn’t want to share his dad’s time with someone who’s, you know, kind of irresistible.”

You tossed the joke out there, hoping the humor would deflect the conversation away from the nagging feeling in your chest. But Hotch didn’t laugh. Instead, his gaze remained steady on you, seeing past the joke, past the deflection. He could always see right through the armor you put up, and it unnerved you.

He didn’t speak for a long moment, just watching you, letting the silence hang between you two. Finally, his voice broke through the tension, low and measured. 

“Y/N... do you have issues with commitment?”

The question landed like a punch to the gut, though his tone was gentle, almost too gentle. You blinked, your breath catching slightly as you stared at him, trying to figure out what to say. Your instinct was to deny it, to brush it off like you always did.

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head a little too eagerly. “I’m fully committed to you, Aaron. I mean... I just... I don’t have commitment issues. It’s just that... I have to go...you know…”

You trailed off, the lame excuse you were trying to come up with faltering in your mind. You couldn’t think of a single thing that didn’t sound ridiculous. You were backing yourself into a corner, and you both knew it.

Hotch’s expression softened even more, his eyes searching yours as he stepped closer. He didn’t push, didn’t demand anything from you. He never would. But the way he looked at you—the way he could see your fear even when you tried to hide it—made it impossible to lie to him.

“You don’t have to make excuses,” he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not pushing Jack or any of the family stuff onto you. I want you to be comfortable, and I’ll never force you into anything you’re not ready for. But... I need to know what you’re feeling. If there’s something you’re scared of, you can tell me.”

Your throat tightened as his words hit home. The truth was, you were terrified. You were beginning to love him, and the idea of being part of his life—really part of it, including Jack—was more serious than you ever allowed yourself to get before. But you couldn’t admit that to him. You couldn’t admit how scared you were of the possibility of getting hurt. So instead, you plastered on another forced smile, trying to hide the vulnerability bubbling up inside you.

“I’m not scared, Aaron,” you lied again, your voice betraying the uncertainty you were trying so hard to cover. “I’m fine. Really.”

But even as you said it, you knew he didn’t believe you.

Hotch stood quietly in the doorway, watching as you slipped on your coat, preparing to leave his apartment. He could tell by the way you moved—hurried, slightly fidgety—that something was bothering you. He knew you weren’t being entirely honest with him, but he didn’t press further. Not yet, anyway.

As you reached for the door, you glanced back at him with a tight smile, your voice softer now. “I’ll text you later, okay?”

Hotch nodded, his arms crossed over his chest. “Okay,” he said simply, though his mind was far from settled. “Drive safe.”

You gave him a quick wave and hurried out the door, closing it behind you with a soft click. Hotch remained standing in the same spot, staring at the door long after you were gone, the familiar quiet of his apartment settling back around him. His mind, however, was far from quiet.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair as he leaned against the wall, his thoughts churning. He and you had agreed long ago not to profile each other, a mutual understanding that was meant to keep things simple. But right now, he couldn’t help himself. The profiler in him was already working, analyzing every piece of the puzzle that you had left behind.

He knew you cared about him. He also knew you were great with Jack—there was no denying the way Jack’s eyes lit up when you were around. You were patient with him, playful, and you always found a way to make him laugh even after a tough day. Hotch wouldn’t be with someone if Jack didn’t like them, and he definitely wouldn’t have let you into his life if he didn’t think you were good for both of them.

So why were you pulling away now? What was it about commitment that made you so uncomfortable?

Hotch crossed the room slowly, his footsteps soft against the floor as his mind pieced together the details. It wasn’t just about Jack—he could see that much. This was about more than his son. The way you deflected, the way you tried to cover your unease with humor... it wasn’t about being around Jack. No, this was deeper than that.

He thought back to the way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes when you told him you were fine, the way your laughter was a little too quick, too forced. You were scared, that much was clear, but scared of what? Being in a relationship with him? Or was it the idea of permanence—of letting someone in?

Hotch pressed his lips together, considering. He wasn’t blind to your past. You’d mentioned bits and pieces before, always in passing, never lingering too long on the details. He hadn’t pushed you for more, respecting your boundaries, but now... now he couldn’t help but wonder if those past experiences were what was making you retreat.

Commitment. The word echoed in his mind. It wasn’t just a fear of being with him—it was a fear of what being with him meant. A future. A life. A family.

Hotch’s gaze drifted to the jacket you had left slung over the back of the chair, a small reminder that you weren’t really gone, not in the way his mind feared you might be. You were still here, still in his life. But the hesitation you had around the idea of permanence, of family... it worried him. Because for Hotch, being with someone wasn’t just casual. He was past that. And he knew, deep down, he wouldn’t be with you if he didn’t see something lasting.

He let out another slow breath, his mind running through possible explanations for your discomfort. Was it something from your past? A relationship gone wrong? A family situation that left scars you didn’t want to reopen? He had seen enough in his career to know that fear of commitment usually had roots in something much deeper, something more personal.

And as much as he wanted to respect your boundaries, Hotch knew that if this relationship was going to last, you couldn’t keep running. He wouldn’t push you—not now—but he also couldn’t let this go unresolved.

He made his way to the couch, sitting down and leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. He wasn’t the type to force things. He’d always been patient, methodical, both in his work and in his personal life. But with you... he felt that familiar pull. He couldn’t help but want to protect you, even from yourself. He wanted to know what you were afraid of, and more than that, he wanted to help you face it.

Because the truth was, Hotch wasn’t afraid of commitment. Not with you. He wouldn’t have let you into his life—or Jack’s—if he wasn’t serious about the future. And he needed to know if you were ready to face that with him or if you were going to keep running.

Hotch’s eyes flicked back to the door, his mind still working, still piecing together the small details you had left behind. He could wait. He could give you time. But he also knew that at some point, the truth would have to come out.

He wasn’t going to let you slip away that easily.

The next few days passed like any other—business as usual at the BAU. Cases came and went, paperwork piled up, and the team fell into their familiar rhythm. But you? You were doing your best to stay out of Hotch’s orbit. It wasn’t overt—just little things. Sitting a little further away during briefings, excusing yourself before the team headed to lunch together, or leaving the bullpen just a moment earlier than usual to avoid being caught in conversation.

It wasn’t like you didn’t want to see him. You did. But that was the problem.

Every time you thought about him—about Hotch, and about Jack—your chest tightened with a mixture of affection and dread. The feelings were overwhelming, and you couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that loving them, both of them, would end in disaster. Because that’s how it always happened, didn’t it? The moment you admitted to yourself that you loved someone, it all fell apart.

You weren’t blind to your own patterns. You’d seen it happen over and over again—every time you let someone in, every time you allowed yourself to love, something went wrong. Past relationships had crumbled the moment you showed vulnerability, the moment you trusted someone enough to share your insecurities. It was as if, once they saw the cracks, they lost interest. They grew tired of you, sick of the very parts of you that you couldn’t hide forever.

And Hotch? He was different. He felt different. You’d built walls for so long, kept people at arm’s length for years because it was easier to be alone than to deal with the heartache of being left behind. But now, with Hotch, the stakes were so much higher. This wasn’t just some casual fling. He had Jack, too, and you’d started to care about him—really care about him. Losing them both would be unbearable.

What if Hotch got sick of you? What if the moment you opened up, told him about the fears that kept you up at night, he realized you weren’t what he wanted? What if he saw all the things that made you unlovable? That thought was like a knife to your chest, and every time it crossed your mind, you could feel yourself retreating, brick by brick, back behind the walls you’d spent so long building.

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Hotch. You did, more than anyone. But that didn’t erase the fear—the fear that, if you gave him the chance, he might use your insecurities against you one day. You’d seen it before, how the people closest to you could turn your vulnerabilities into weapons when things got tough. Past lovers, boyfriends... even family had done it. Once they knew where your weak spots were, they treated you differently, and eventually, they all left.

You couldn’t afford to let that happen with Hotch. Losing him... losing Jack? It would break you.

So, you avoided him. Not in any dramatic way, but enough to keep yourself at a distance. Enough to protect yourself. You told yourself it was just temporary, that you needed space to figure things out. But the truth was, you were terrified—terrified of what would happen if you admitted to yourself that you loved him. Because you did. You could feel it, and that terrified you more than anything.

Because loneliness? Loneliness was something you knew how to handle. It was easier to bear than heartache.

You stood in the copy room, staring at the machine as it hummed softly. The bright fluorescent lights overhead felt harsh, too revealing, but you needed the escape. You’d volunteered to make copies—something you never did. It was usually Penelope or JJ’s domain, not yours, but anything was better than sitting at your desk, where you might have to face Hotch.

The door creaked open, and you jumped, nearly knocking over the stack of papers in your hands. You turned around quickly, and there he was—Hotch, leaning in the doorway, his eyes fixed on you with that familiar, steady gaze.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “you’ve been avoiding me.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a second, you were sure he could hear it. You scrambled to regain your composure, putting on your usual front as quickly as you could. “Avoiding you?” you echoed, forcing a smile. “No way. I’ve just been... really busy. You know, super swamped with all this copying.”

You gestured awkwardly to the copy machine, as if that would somehow make your excuse more believable. You immediately regretted it. Hotch’s expression didn’t change, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something that told you he wasn’t buying a word of it.

He stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. “You don’t make copies,” he said simply, his eyes never leaving yours.

You felt the walls closing in, but instead of admitting anything, you did what you always did when things got too uncomfortable—you deflected. “Well, you know me,” you said, tilting your head with a smirk, “I like to shake things up. Keep things... interesting.”

You punctuated the sentence with a playful wink, hoping the flirtation would steer the conversation away from the real issue. But this time, Hotch wasn’t having it. His eyes narrowed slightly, and though you could see the faintest trace of amusement in his gaze, it wasn’t enough to let you off the hook.

He took another step closer, his voice lowering just a touch. “You’re deflecting,” he said softly, his tone a mix of concern and patience. “I’m not going to let you avoid this, Y/N. Not this time.”

Your heart raced as you realized there was no escaping the conversation. You could feel the tension between the two of you, but it wasn’t the usual kind—the playful, teasing tension that you thrived on. This was heavier, more serious. And the way he looked at you, so intent, so knowing, made it impossible to keep pretending.

“I’m not... avoiding anything,” you lied again, though the words felt hollow even as you said them. “I’ve just been busy, that’s all. It’s not a big deal.”

But Hotch didn’t budge. His eyes were locked on yours, and you could tell he was waiting—waiting for you to drop the act. He had always been patient with you, always let you use humor and flirtation to dodge the hard conversations, but this time... this time he wasn’t going to let you.

He stepped even closer, his presence grounding you in the small room, and his voice softened in a way that made your defenses start to crumble. “Y/N,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to hide from me. Whatever it is... you can talk to me.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak. You felt the weight of his words settling in the pit of your stomach, the tenderness in his voice catching you off guard. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t pushing. He was just... asking you to let him in.

But letting him in meant tearing down the walls you had built for years. It meant showing him the parts of yourself that you had spent so long hiding—the parts that had driven other people away. And that scared you more than anything.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m fine. Really.”

But Hotch just watched you, quiet and unflinching. He wasn’t going to let you use your usual tactics this time. You could see it in the way he looked at you, in the way his jaw tightened slightly as if he were holding back his own frustration. He wasn’t asking you to be perfect. He wasn’t asking you to have all the answers. He was just asking you to be real with him.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, and for a moment, all you could hear was the soft hum of the copy machine in the background. You felt your resolve weakening, the familiar comfort of your usual bravado slipping away as you stood there, face to face with him.

“Why are you really avoiding me?” Hotch asked again, his voice so soft now that it felt like a whisper. “What are you afraid of?”

Your throat tightened, and for a moment, you thought about lying again. But the way he looked at you—the way he had always seen through you—made it impossible.

You swallowed hard, your gaze falling to the floor as you tried to find the words. “I’m not afraid,” you started, though the words felt fragile. “It’s just... I’m not... good at this. I don’t know how to be...” You trailed off, your mind racing, trying to figure out how to say the things that had been gnawing at you for days.

“I’m not... good at relationships, okay?” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I’ve let someone in, it’s... it’s backfired. I’m scared that if I show you who I really am, you’ll... you’ll get tired of me. Or worse, you’ll see all the things that make me unlovable and... leave.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and as soon as they did, you felt exposed, raw. Vulnerable in a way that you hadn’t allowed yourself to be in years.

Hotch’s expression softened even more, his gaze filled with understanding rather than judgment. He stepped closer, his voice steady and reassuring. “Y/N, that’s not going to happen,” he said gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Before Hotch could say anything more, the door to the copy room swung open, and JJ appeared, her expression urgent but apologetic.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” JJ began, glancing between the two of you, clearly sensing the tension. “But we’ve got an urgent case. We need to head to the briefing room now.”

Hotch straightened up immediately, the shift in his demeanor instant. He was back in work mode, but before he turned to leave, he glanced at you, his eyes softening for just a moment. “We’ll finish this conversation later,” he said, his voice low but firm, leaving no room for argument.

You, of course, couldn’t help yourself. You leaned back against the copy machine, crossing your arms with a defiant smirk. “I don’t know, Hotchner. I might be busy making copies.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as he fought back a smile, his gaze flicking back to you with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Knock it off,” he said lightly, his tone still professional but with that familiar warmth. “Don’t be a brat.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smirk widening just a little. “No promises.”

Hotch shook his head, clearly not fazed by your antics, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he turned to follow JJ, already shifting back into his role as Unit Chief. You followed behind, the moment lingering in the back of your mind, knowing that this conversation was far from over.

The air in the briefing room felt thicker as the case unfolded. JJ was going through the details, but your mind was already reeling from what you saw. The university. The professor. The past you thought you’d left behind.

The team listened intently, no one yet aware of just how personal this case was about to become for you. You had worked with these people before, years ago, when you were part of the original team with Rossi, Gideon, and Hotch. They knew your reputation—how you’d left the BAU to teach at an Ivy League university, write books, and shape future generations of agents. But they didn’t know the deeper connections, the ones that were resurfacing now.

JJ clicked to the next slide, and that was when you felt the pit in your stomach form. The suspect’s possible protector: a law professor who had once been the person you thought you’d build a life with. The one you left behind when your priorities shifted.

As the details about the professor emerged, Morgan looked over at you, furrowing his brow. “Wait, didn’t you teach at this university for a while?”

You nodded, keeping your voice steady, though your pulse was anything but. “Yeah. I taught there for a few years.”

Prentiss leaned forward slightly, her curiosity piqued. “And this professor... you know him?”

You hesitated for just a moment, the weight of your words settling in your throat. You hadn’t expected to be forced into revealing this now, in front of the entire team, but there was no avoiding it. You glanced at Hotch, and for a brief second, you saw the flicker of concern in his eyes. But it was Rossi’s calm presence that grounded you, reminding you why you had come back to the BAU in the first place. Because he had called you. Because he had known you belonged here.

With a small sigh, you gave a tight nod. “He’s my ex. I was with him for a while when I was teaching there. We broke up years ago.”

The room went quiet for a beat, the team exchanging glances as they processed the information. Nobody had known. You had always kept that part of your life separate from your professional world, but now it was colliding head-on.

“I’m not surprised he’s involved in this,” you continued, keeping your tone as even as possible. “He’s always been good at covering things up, especially when it comes to protecting his students. I’m guessing he’s helping the suspect in more ways than we realize.”

Hotch’s gaze didn’t leave you. While the rest of the team focused on the new revelation, he was watching your demeanor, analyzing the subtle shifts in your expression. He could see you trying to keep it together, but he knew you too well. He knew there was more to this than you were letting on.

The timing of it all couldn’t have been worse. Just when he had been starting to understand why you’d been so distant, now this—an ex, the kind of connection that could explain more than just your avoidance in recent days. Hotch’s mind was already working through the implications, but now wasn’t the time to push. Not yet.

“We’ll split into teams,” Hotch said, taking control of the situation and pulling the focus back to the case. “Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss, and I will meet with campus security. JJ, Reid, and Y/N—you’ll talk to the students and see if anyone’s noticed anything suspicious about the professor or the suspect.”

You nodded, trying to push down the anxiety creeping up inside you. You could feel Hotch’s eyes on you, still watching, still waiting for the conversation you both knew was inevitable. But for now, you needed to focus on the case. You couldn’t afford to let your past get in the way of the job.

But you knew, deep down, this wasn’t over.

The steady hum of the jet’s engines filled the cabin as you sat in your usual seat, staring out the window at the clouds passing by below. The rest of the team was engaged in quiet conversation or reviewing the case files, but you had remained silent, your mind elsewhere. Too calm. Too collected. You knew it. But this was the only way you could handle the situation—by shutting it all down, pushing it far enough away that it didn’t touch you.

Hotch sat across from you, his eyes flicking between his file and you. He was subtle about it, but you could feel his gaze. After everything that had come out in the briefing room, you knew he’d want to check in, and you’d been dreading it.

He cleared his throat softly, leaning forward just enough to speak quietly, so the others wouldn’t hear. “How are you holding up?”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. “I’m fine,” you said, your voice steady and flat. Too steady. “This is just another case.”

Hotch didn’t miss a beat. “You seem... detached.”

You felt your jaw tighten as you flipped through the file in your lap, though you weren’t actually reading it. “I’m not detached,” you replied, too cold. “I’m focused.”

He was silent for a moment, then tried a different approach. “This professor—your ex—was there anything about him that we should know? Anything that could help us?”

You froze for just a moment before you snapped the file shut and finally looked at him, your eyes hard and unyielding. 

“He was an asshole, Aaron. That’s all you need to know.” The words came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t stop there. “He was manipulative, controlling, and he didn’t care about anyone but himself. And I was an idiot for staying with him as long as I did.”

Hotch blinked, clearly taken aback, but not by your anger—by the venom in your voice, the way you talked about yourself. He didn’t respond right away, his mind already processing how someone like that could have hurt you. Why you would have tolerated it for so long. But before he could say anything more, you turned away, ending the conversation with a wall of silence.

The rest of the flight passed in a blur of silence and tense focus. Hotch didn’t push further, but you could feel the weight of his thoughts as he processed what you’d said.

When the jet finally landed, and the team moved into action, there was little time for personal conversations. The team split up into teams, like Hotch requested, but there was little to no developments. You spent the day…tense--radiating off of you. 

It was Morgan who broke the tension once things had settled into the routine.

“Hey,” he said with a grin, sidling up next to you as you tossed through the files. “I’m surprised you haven’t given Hotch much hell today. Must be hitting close to home, huh?”

You let out a humorless laugh, nodding slightly. “Yeah. Too close.”

Morgan’s grin faded, and he gave you a knowing look. “You okay?”

You shrugged, shaking your head a little. “Honestly? I don’t know how to express that to him—how to say anything to him.”

Morgan leaned back, crossing his arms with a smirk. “Hotch? The cold drill sergeant?” He raised his eyebrows. “Come on. You’re his one exception. To most things, actually.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” Morgan said, his tone more genuine now. “Look, we trust each other with our lives every day in the field. You’ve got to start trusting him with more than just that. The guy trusts you. I mean, really trusts you—his life, his messy past, all of it. Maybe you should think about trusting him with yours.”

You bit your lip, considering his words, knowing there was more truth in them than you wanted to admit. You hadn’t let Hotch in—really let him in—but not because you didn’t want to. You just didn’t know how. And Morgan was right, it could not be easy for Hotch to let someone in after Haley. Bringing you around Jack, into his life that he once lived with someone who he thought would be there forever? Could not be something easy, yet he was allowing you in anyways. 

Before you could respond, Hotch’s voice broke through the moment. “We’ve got a lead on the professor,” he said, his tone all business as he approached. “I want you to stay back.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but quickly stopped yourself. Instead, you quipped, “Come on, Hotch. Don’t tell me you don’t want me to have all the fun.”

Morgan chuckled and shook his head, walking off with a muttered, “Good luck, man.”

But Hotch didn’t laugh. His eyes narrowed slightly, not unkindly, but with that familiar look that told you he wasn’t buying your deflection. 

“I’m serious, Y/N,” he said quietly. “When we get him into custody, I want you to talk to him. You know him, and that personal connection might be an advantage we can use.”

You hesitated for just a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

Hotch didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on you, his voice lowering just enough so that only you could hear him. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? If you’re not comfortable—”

“I’m fine,” you interrupted softly, the seriousness of your voice surprising even yourself. “None of this is comfortable, Hotch. But I’m learning. Learning how to... express that. Trying. And hoping I can share more. Soon.”

Hotch studied your face for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but there was something softer in his eyes. Something that told you he wasn’t just your boss right now—he was someone who cared about you. Someone who wanted you to be okay.

“Okay,” he said, his voice just as soft. “But if you need to step back at any point, I need you to tell me.”

You gave him a small, almost sad smile. “I will.”

He nodded once, his professional mask slipping back into place as he turned to the rest of the team. But you knew this conversation wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

The interrogation room was colder than you remembered, the sterile fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over the table. You stood by the one-way mirror for a moment, watching as your ex—the professor—sat with his hands clasped in front of him, his expression unreadable. It had been years since you’d seen him, and though you had prepared yourself for this moment, it still felt like a punch to the gut.

Hotch stood beside you, silent but present, his gaze fixed on the man in the room. His anger was palpable—another body had been found on campus, escalating the urgency of the case. You could feel his tension in the air, but as always, he kept it under control. For now.

“You don’t have to do this,” Hotch said quietly, his voice low but steady. “If you’re not ready—”

You cut him off, straightening your shoulders and pulling your gaze away from the glass. “I’ve got this,” you said firmly, though your heart raced in your chest. “I need to do this.”

Hotch’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. He gave a small nod, but before you walked through the door, he spoke again, his voice softer. “If he crosses a line, I’ll be right there.”

You met his gaze, grateful for his support, but you forced a confident smile onto your face. “Don’t worry, I can handle him.”

With that, you stepped into the room, the door clicking shut behind you. The professor looked up, his eyes meeting yours, and you could see the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back in his chair, casually, like he wasn’t sitting in an interrogation room, suspected of covering up for a student who had committed unspeakable crimes.

The interrogation room felt suffocating, the air thick with tension. He sat casually in his chair as if this were a simple chat. His smug demeanor, the arrogance in his eyes—it all brought back memories you’d tried to bury. But you weren’t the same person who had tolerated him back then. You had changed.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice oozing with that familiar arrogance. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

You remained standing, refusing to sit across from him. “I wasn’t expecting to be here either,” you said coldly, your voice sharp. “But here we are.”

He leaned back in his chair, arrogance radiating from him as he crossed his arms. “You always had a way of getting yourself involved in things that didn’t concern you,” he sneered.

You didn’t flinch. “This concerns me,” you said sharply. “You’re covering up for a student who’s responsible for these crimes. Just like you’ve done before.”

He chuckled, low and condescending. “You’re still so self-righteous. Always thinking you could save everyone. But we both know how that turned out, don’t we?”

Your jaw clenched, but you refused to let him get to you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leaned back again, his smirk returning as his eyes swept over you. “You were always so eager to please. You put up with so much... for so long. I was surprised, actually. Surprised you stayed with me as long as you did. Guess you just couldn’t help yourself.”

Your jaw tightened, the memories of the past pushing forward, but you forced yourself to stay calm. You weren’t going to let him get to you, not this time. “I stayed with you because I didn’t know any better,” you said, your voice low and sharp. “But I see you now. You covered up a sexual assault on campus. A student you treated like one of your ‘bros.’”

For the first time, his expression flickered. You pressed on, your voice cutting through the tension. “I’m not surprised you’re involved in this. You always looked out for the worst kinds of people, because you’re just like them. Terrible. You might not have laid a hand on anyone, but you enabled them. And I’m done letting you hide behind that smug façade.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, the cocky façade slipped. He straightened up, his expression hardening. “I protected my students, just like I always did. If one of them did something stupid, that’s on them.”

“Another body was found,” you snapped, your voice suddenly sharper. “So forgive me if I don’t buy that you’re just an innocent bystander in all this.”

The professor leaned back in his chair, a smug grin curling across his face as he sized you up. His eyes darkened, his tone dripping with disdain. “You know, for someone who spent so much time pretending to be better than everyone else, you weren’t exactly a prize yourself. You were so desperate for approval. Clinging to me, hoping to be part of something important, but you were nothing more than a scared little girl. Pathetic, really.”

Your stomach twisted, his words slicing through the air like a knife. The familiar manipulation was back, but this time it was uglier, more personal, and aimed right at your insecurities. For a moment, you felt that old sense of dread creeping in, but you quickly shoved it down, refusing to let him see how much he affected you.

Before you could respond, the door swung open with a loud bang, and Hotch stormed in, his eyes blazing with fury.

“Enough,” Hotch growled, his voice seething with anger. His usual calm, collected demeanor was gone, replaced by a fury you had rarely seen. He wasn’t just angry—he was livid. His eyes blazed with barely contained rage as he glared at the professor, his fists clenched at his sides.

The professor opened his mouth to say something, but Hotch cut him off, his voice rising. “We just found another body on campus,” he snapped, his tone almost a yell. “So unless you want to be charged as an accessory to murder, you’ll stop playing games and start talking.”

The professor paled, his smug attitude faltering for the first time since you’d entered the room. He glanced between you and Hotch, clearly rattled by the sudden shift in the room’s energy.

“I... I’ll tell you what I know,” he muttered, his bravado slipping.

Hotch didn’t move, his dark gaze fixed on the professor. “If you lie, you’ll regret it,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous, “You have no idea what I’m willing to do to make sure you answer for this.”

The professor nodded quickly, his confidence crumbling under the weight of Hotch’s fury.

Without taking his eyes off the professor, Hotch finally spoke to you, his tone much softer. “You’re done here.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You turned on your heel and left the room, your pulse racing from both the confrontation and the way Hotch had stepped in. Once you were outside, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself.

The door closed behind you, and Hotch appeared at your side, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. But when he looked at you, there was something else in his eyes—something softer, more protective.

“You didn’t have to do that alone,” he said, his voice low.

You met his gaze, feeling the tension between you ease just a little. “I needed to.”

Hotch studied you for a moment, the weight of everything that had been left unsaid hanging in the air. There was something unspoken between you—something that had been building for a while, and you knew this was far from over.

But for now, you were grateful. Grateful that he had been there, that he’d stepped in when you needed him most. And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to realize that you didn’t have to handle everything on your own anymore.

With the information you’d pulled from the professor, the case came together swiftly. The team tracked down the student responsible for the crimes, arresting him without further incident. It was a victory, but there was a lingering bitterness in the air, especially after the confrontation with your ex.

Back at the precinct, as the local PD prepared to release the professor, you kept your distance, standing with the team as they processed the final details. You had just turned away when you heard his voice behind you.

“Y/N,” he called out, loud enough for everyone to hear, his voice dripping with false charm. “You still look as good as ever.”

You froze, your blood boiling as the comment hit you like a slap. The arrogance in his tone made your skin crawl, and the fact that he had the nerve to say it in front of the entire team? It took everything in you not to react, but you clenched your fists at your sides, trying to keep your emotions in check.

Hotch’s eyes snapped toward the professor, his anger flaring again. That comment—so condescending, so disrespectful—cut deeper than he’d expected it would. It wasn’t just the insult itself, it was the way the professor wielded it, trying to assert power over you even now. Hotch could see the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way you were trying to hide your reaction, but he knew that the words hit a nerve.

As much as Hotch kept his emotions in check, this was different. He felt a flash of protective instinct rise within him. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that—no one did. Especially not you, who had held your own in that interrogation, who had stood firm even when the professor had tried to tear you down. But you hadn’t been forthcoming with your emotions, not with him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was why. If your past with the professor—the manipulation, the control—was part of the reason you kept so much of yourself hidden.

Without missing a beat, he turned to the local PD officers. “Get him out of here,” Hotch ordered, his voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

The officers nodded quickly, rushing to escort the professor out, and as they led him away, Hotch stepped closer to you. He didn’t say anything, but his hand brushed against your back, a subtle gesture of reassurance, letting you know he was there.

Inside, his thoughts were racing. He had seen you deflect before, using humor or bravado to keep people at a distance, but now he could see how much it cost you. You were strong, sharp, confident—even when facing your ex—but there was something deeper beneath that exterior. Something you were still guarding, even now. And Hotch, who prided himself on being able to read people, knew there was so much more you weren’t saying.

Rossi, always quick with a comment, muttered under his breath, “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

The team burst into quiet laughter, the tension in the room easing just a little. You couldn’t help but smile, though the weight of the professor’s words still lingered.

“I thought Hotch was going to kill the guy,” Morgan chimed in, grinning. “Or at least rip his head off.”

You glanced at Hotch, catching his dry expression. “He’s lucky I didn’t,” Hotch replied, his tone deadpan, though you could see the spark of humor in his eyes.

Feeling the tension lift, you couldn’t resist the chance to tease him. You leaned a little closer to Hotch, your voice low but playful. “Careful, Hotch. I’m starting to think you enjoy playing knight in shining armor.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. “Only when it’s necessary.”

The team snickered at the exchange, and you could feel the heat rise to your cheeks as Prentiss grinned. “Alright, you two,” she teased, “get a room already.”

Morgan laughed, nudging JJ with his elbow. “Yeah, for real. We don’t need to see all that.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. “Hey, I don’t make the rules. Just trying to keep things... interesting.”

Hotch shot you a look that was equal parts amusement and exasperation, and for a moment, you could see the corners of his mouth lift in a smirk, but he kept his professional mask intact.

“Interesting isn’t the word I’d use,” Hotch couldn’t help but respond with his own dry sense of humor. “All right,” Hotch said, raising his voice just enough to regain control of the room, though the humor in his eyes remained. “Let’s wrap this up.”

The flight back to Quantico was quiet. The case had been solved, the suspect arrested, and the weight of the entire situation seemed to hang over everyone. Hotch had given you space, knowing that you needed time to process everything that had happened. The rest of the team kept things light, but you remained quiet, lost in your thoughts as you stared out the window of the jet.

Once you landed, the usual bureaucratic routine followed. Paperwork. Debriefs. You went through the motions, wrapping up the final details of the case with the rest of the team. Hotch, always efficient, had finished his reports quickly, but he lingered in his office afterward. He knew you weren’t ready to talk—not yet—and he wasn’t going to push. He had learned over the years that you would come to him when you were ready.

Eventually, the bullpen emptied. The rest of the team had said their goodbyes, eager to head home after the long case. Hotch stayed in his office, reviewing a few last-minute reports when he heard a soft knock on the doorframe. He looked up to see you standing there, peeking into his office.

“Hey,” you said quietly, your tone hesitant. “Can I... go home with you?”

Hotch blinked, surprised by the question, but he kept his expression neutral. “Of course,” he said, his voice softening. “I’d love that.”

He quickly collected his things, and the two of you left the BAU together, walking side by side through the empty hallways. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was a heaviness to it. Hotch could feel that you had something on your mind, but he didn’t push. He was happy you were with him, and that was enough for now.

It wasn’t until the two of you reached Hotch’s car, standing alone in the quiet of the parking lot, that you finally spoke. The weight of everything you’d been carrying for so long seemed to press down on you, and you knew this was the moment you needed to say what had been on your mind for days—weeks, even.

You took a deep breath, your voice shaking slightly as you began. “Hotch... Aaron, I know how much you’ve been through. I know how hard it is for you to trust someone after everything. But you still trust me. You’ve been there for me this whole time, and I haven’t been able to show you the same.”

Hotch turned to face you, his eyes soft, patient. He didn’t say anything, just waited, letting you speak at your own pace.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice breaking a little as the words tumbled out. “I’m scared of losing you. Of getting close to Jack and then losing him, too, if something goes wrong between us. I’m afraid I’m not good in relationships because I’m so independent—to a fault. I don’t know how to let people in, and I’m scared that I’m overstepping by being in Jack’s life.”

You paused, trying to steady your breath. Hotch remained silent, listening intently, his gaze never leaving yours.

“And I’m terrified,” you continued, “that one day you’ll resent me for it. That I’ll hurt you, or worse... that you’ll see the real me, and you won’t want me anymore. That you’ll find me... unattractive, or ugly, or just... not enough.”

Hotch took a small step closer, his expression softening even more. He could see how hard this was for you—the vulnerability, the fear that had been weighing on you for so long. Slowly, gently, he reached out and placed his hand on your arm, the touch grounding you.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice steady and sure, “I’ve already seen the real you. And I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You felt your heart tighten, the words hitting you harder than you’d expected. Hotch’s eyes were filled with a tenderness you rarely saw, but it was there—real, honest.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of losing me or Jack,” Hotch continued. “We’re here because we want to be, because we care about you. You’re not overstepping. And as for your fears about relationships... you’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together.”

You swallowed hard, the tears you had been holding back finally starting to well up. But they weren’t tears of sadness—they were tears of relief. For the first time, you felt like you could breathe.

Hotch’s hand slid from your arm to your back, pulling you into a gentle embrace. He didn’t say anything else—he didn’t need to. The quiet comfort of his presence said everything.

You rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, and for the first time in a long time, you felt safe.

After the emotional exchange outside Hotch’s car, the two of you quietly climbed inside. The drive began in a comfortable silence, but as the minutes passed, Hotch felt compelled to dig a little deeper. He had seen how much your past with the professor had affected you, and though he wasn’t one to push, he also knew that sometimes the right question could help.

He glanced over at you briefly, his voice soft but steady as he broke the silence. “Can I ask you something?”

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Depends,” you teased, a playful smirk forming on your lips. “If you’re planning to ask about my ex, I’d be careful. If you want to get laid later, you’re walking a pretty thin line right now.”

Hotch’s lips twitched into a subtle smile, surprising you. His wit wasn’t usually at the forefront, but when it was, it always caught you off guard. “Noted,” he replied dryly, his eyes flicking to the road. “But if that’s the line, I guess I’d better make it worth crossing.”

You blinked, surprised by his response, and then burst into laughter. You didn’t expect him to meet you at your level of humor, but there he was, speaking your language, making the tension in your chest loosen just a little more. Somehow, it was easier to talk to him like this—lighthearted, comfortable.

You exhaled, your amusement fading into something more reflective. The joke had disarmed you, and now, the floodgates felt cracked open. You stared out the window for a moment before speaking again, your voice quieter now, more vulnerable.

“I almost let him ruin everything,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “After we broke up, it wasn’t just the relationship that fell apart. It was me. I lost... everything.”

Hotch glanced over at you, his expression softening as he listened intently. He didn’t interrupt, sensing that this was something you needed to say.

“I had a third book deal,” you continued, your voice tightening as the memories surfaced. “It was one of the biggest opportunities of my career. But when everything fell apart between us, I just... I couldn’t handle it. I had to take a leave of absence from teaching. I lost all sense of who I was, of what I’d worked for. I almost lost everything I’d built for myself.” You paused, swallowing hard. “I let him... I let him make me feel like I wasn’t enough. Like I couldn’t do it on my own. And the worst part is, I believed him.”

Hotch tensed. “You didn’t lose everything,” he said quietly, glancing at you again. “You’re here. You came back. You built yourself up again.”

You nodded, though the heaviness of the memories still lingered. “Yeah, I did. But it took a long time to get back to myself. I almost let him take everything from me, and the idea of... of trusting someone again after all that, it’s terrifying.”

Hotch was silent for a moment, letting your words hang in the air. He knew exactly what it was like to be broken by someone you trusted, to rebuild from the ruins of a relationship. And he understood why you were scared.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said gently. “And you don’t have to do it on your own anymore. You’ve been through hell, but you came out stronger. And whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I feel kind of stupid, you know,” you admitted, your tone laced with self-deprecation. “Here I am, whining about my stupid ex and my lost book deal when you... you’ve been through so much more. Losing Haley, raising Jack... I’m over here complaining about my ‘trivial’ issues, and you’ve survived all that.”

Hotch’s grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly, not out of frustration with you, but with the idea that you would belittle your own pain in comparison to his. He had always hated the notion that suffering was something that could be compared or ranked. The losses and hardships you had faced weren’t trivial, and he could see how much they had affected you. He wanted to tell you that pain was pain, no matter the source. That what you went through mattered.

He glanced at you, catching the guilt in your expression, and a small, dry smile tugged at his lips. “I wouldn’t call them trivial,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “We’ve all been through our own versions of hell.”

In truth, Hotch had never really talked about what happened with Haley in a way that felt... open. Most people treaded lightly around the topic, and he let them because revisiting that part of his life was often too painful. But at this moment, sitting next to you, he realized that maybe you were more similar than he had ever allowed himself to consider. You had both been through losses that had shaped you, and you both carried the weight of those losses in your own ways.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Yeah. Quite the pair, aren’t we?”

Hotch’s smile deepened, a rare lightness settling over him. “We are,” he agreed, glancing at you before turning his attention back to the road. “Quite the pair.”

As he drove, Hotch couldn’t help but feel the subtle shift in the air between the two of you. For so long, he had thought of himself as the one with the heavy burdens—the one whose past dictated his present. 

But hearing you open up about your fears, about the way your past had nearly destroyed you, made him realize just how much you had in common. He wasn’t the only one who had been broken and rebuilt. 

And it wasn’t about comparing whose pain was worse; it was about understanding that, in each other, you had found someone who could shoulder the weight together.

He hadn’t expected to feel this kind of connection, not after everything he had been through. But now, sitting beside you, he felt a sense of hope, the possibility that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

After the conversation outside the car, the drive to pick up Jack was filled with a sense of quiet contentment. There was still a lot to process, but for now, things felt... lighter between the two of you. When you arrived at Jack’s aunt’s house, Hotch stepped out of the car first, greeting Jess before Jack came bounding out of the house, his energy immediately filling the air.

“Dad!” Jack’s voice was filled with excitement, but when he spotted you stepping out of the car behind Hotch, his smile widened even more. “Hey, Y/N!”

You smiled back, watching as Hotch crouched down to catch Jack in a hug before turning toward you. “Hey, buddy,” you said, your tone softening as you knelt to greet him. “How’s it going?”

Jack launched into a story about what he had been up to, and you listened intently, smiling at his enthusiasm. Hotch watched the interaction from a short distance, his heart swelling as he saw how natural you were with Jack. It hadn’t taken long for Jack to warm up to you, and now, seeing the two of you together, he felt a deep sense of contentment. This was something he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for in a long time—someone who could fit into his life, not just with him, but with Jack too.

The three of you spent the rest of the evening together. Dinner was easy and filled with laughter, and afterward, you and Jack played a game he had excitedly explained to you, while Hotch watched from the sidelines, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He could see how much Jack enjoyed your company, and watching the two of you together, he felt more certain than ever that you belonged in his life.

For your part, you were starting to let yourself enjoy it too. Getting to know Jack, laughing with him, seeing Hotch’s softer side as he interacted with his son—it was more than you had ever expected. And for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to feel the warmth that came with being part of something bigger than just yourself.

Later that night, after Jack had fallen asleep, you and Hotch found yourselves curled up together in bed, the quiet of the night settling over the house. You had your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in years.

Hotch’s hand gently traced along your arm as he spoke, his voice soft in the stillness. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head slightly to look up at him, your brow furrowing. “For what?”

“For opening up,” he replied, his gaze steady. “Not just to me, but to Jack. He’s... he’s everything to me, you know that. And I wouldn’t bring you into his life if I didn’t think you were someone I saw a long-term future with. Someone I care about. Someone I trust.”

His words settled over you, and though he didn’t say the words outright, you knew what he meant. This was Hotch’s way of saying he loved you, without needing to say it directly. It was in the way he spoke, the way he looked at you, the way he had brought you into the most important part of his life—Jack.

You felt your heart swell, the depth of your feelings for him clear as day. You knew you loved him too. But as the realization hit, so did the familiar fear—the fear that if you said it, if you voiced those words, everything might fall apart. It was an irrational thought, you knew that, but it lingered nonetheless. You didn’t want to lose him or Jack. And sometimes, it felt like admitting how much you cared might make it all disappear.

You shifted slightly, your voice soft but sincere as you responded. “I’m... I’m glad you trust me with that. With him. It means more than I can say.”

Hotch’s hand moved to cup the back of your head, his thumb brushing gently against your hair. “You’re not going to lose us,” he said, his voice firm but filled with warmth. He didn’t need to say more—you both understood what was left unsaid.

You gave him a small smile, resting your head back on his chest. The fear was still there, lingering in the background, but in this moment, wrapped in his arms, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe—just maybe—everything would be okay.

A few days after the case, the BAU was settling into its usual rhythm, and the team was catching up on paperwork. The atmosphere was light, and you glanced over at Hotch, who was going through some files at Reid’s desk.  

A familiar mischievous glint sparked in your eyes. It had been a while since you’d stirred the pot, and with the team now fully aware of your relationship with Hotch, there was plenty of fun to be had.

You sauntered over to his desk, leaning against it with an exaggerated sigh. “So, when exactly are you going to give us a break, boss? Or are you planning to work us into the ground?”

Hotch didn’t look up right away, but the corner of his mouth curved slightly. “Are you lobbying for the team or just yourself?” he asked dryly, finally meeting your gaze.

You smirked, tapping your fingers on his desk playfully. “Oh, definitely the team. I’m always thinking of the greater good. Right, guys?”

Morgan chuckled from across the bullpen. “Sure, Y/N. You’re always working so hard... at avoiding paperwork.”

You shot him a mock glare. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know that I’m a very dedicated team member.”

Prentiss chimed in, grinning. “Dedicated to getting Hotch to lighten up, maybe.”

You flashed a flirty smile at Hotch. “Someone’s got to. Imagine how tense you’d all be if I wasn’t here to keep things... engaging.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow at you, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Engaging?” he repeated, his tone dripping with skepticism.

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice just enough. “Yeah, you know... keeping you on your toes. Wouldn’t want things to get too boring around here, would we?”

Hotch remained unfazed, though you could see the barely concealed smile tugging at his lips. “If by ‘engaging’ you mean ‘relentless,’ then yes. Inappropriate at times? Yes. Mission accomplished.”

Morgan laughed. “Man, Hotch’s got jokes now. You’ve really rubbed off on him.”

Prentiss rolled her eyes, but her grin gave her away. “Honestly, it’s kind of scary how well they balance each other out.”

You crossed your arms, pretending to pout. “Scary? I think you mean inspiring.”

Rossi, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke up, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh, it’s definitely something.”

You turned back to Hotch, raising an eyebrow. “See? They love me.”

Hotch leaned back, giving you a look that was both challenging and amused. “That’s one word for it.”

You were about to come up with another flirty retort when Morgan, always quick to jump in, added, “Honestly, I’m just impressed Hotch puts up with you.”

Without missing a beat, Hotch deadpanned, “Someone has to.”

The team burst into laughter, and you couldn’t help but grin, enjoying the lighthearted teasing. But beneath the banter, there was a warmth between you and Hotch—a mutual understanding that ran deeper than the jokes. Even though he never said it outright, you knew how much he cared for you, how much he valued your presence not just in his life, but in Jack’s, too.

Rossi, sitting across the bullpen, added with a chuckle, “If anyone needs an HR manager around here, it’s definitely for the two of you.”

You laughed, looking back toward Hotch with a wicked grin. “Please, HR wouldn’t stand a chance with me.”

Reid, ever the innocent one, looked between you and Hotch, furrowing his brow. “I mean, technically, you’re not violating any workplace policies... yet.”

Morgan laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, give it time, Reid. She’ll find a way.”

You threw Morgan a mock glare. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

Before Morgan could respond, JJ, who had been listening from her desk, suddenly chimed in with a sly grin. “Oh, trust me, she will. After overhearing one of your... conversations, I was this close to putting soap in my ears.”

The team burst into laughter, and you glanced at JJ, raising an eyebrow, grinning shamelessly. “What can I say? When I’m passionate about something, it shows.”

Hotch, ever the stoic, kept his expression neutral but gave you a side-eye that conveyed more than words. “I’m sure it does,” he said simply, his tone cool but with that underlying sharpness.

You raised an eyebrow, stepping just a little closer to him, your voice dropping into a teasing tone. “Careful, Hotch. I might have to make it my personal mission to drive you crazy.”

Without missing a beat, Hotch replied, “You’ve been doing that since day one.”

You glanced back at him, leaning in once more, your voice low and teasing. “You know, for someone who pretends to be all serious, you’re pretty good at this.”

Hotch finally allowed a small smile to break through. “Don’t get used to it.”

You laughed softly, brushing your hand lightly against his arm as you straightened up. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Prentiss laughed, sipping her coffee. “HR would probably quit on day one.”

Reid, ever curious, chimed in, “Actually, technically, as long as there’s no misconduct—”

Prentiss interrupted, patting Reid’s shoulder. “Reid, it’s just an expression.”

Morgan, still laughing, added, “Yeah, but with these two, who knows? They might break the system.”

The team exchanged knowing glances, still teasing, but there was no hiding the fact that everyone knew how things had changed between you and Hotch. And as you returned to your paperwork, you caught Hotch’s gaze once more, that subtle connection between the two of you always there—steady, unspoken, but undeniably strong.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

[delusionalwritingsofagay]

Hellooo can I request for soulmates!au with targaryen male reader x oberyn?

Reader is rhaegar's twin brother, but other than the same sliver hair and dark purple eyes they don't look much alike, reader is tall and broad shouldered and on the heavy side, introverted and is not a fan of court whatsoever

Sun kissed

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Male Targaryen reader Tags: soulmate au {A touch from your soulmate will leave an imprint there}, falling in love, word count : 1179

Y/N Targaryen the twin brother of Rhaegar Targaryen was not one for grand gatherings. With his silver hair cascading down broad shoulders and dark purple eyes that often flickered with disinterest, he stood in stark contrast to his brother's ethereal beauty. Y/N preferred the solitude of the castle gardens, where whispers of nature could replace the empty chatter of the court.

Having left the festivities behind, Y/N wandered through the red keep garden. He stopped by a fountain, its waters shimmering under the light of a crescent moon. There, he let out a long, weary sigh,

Little did he know, someone was watching him from the shadows.

Oberyn Martell leaned against a pillar in the dimly lit space, his dark, serpentine eyes studying the man who was both a prince and a ghost in his own castle. The air crackled with intrigue as the prince of Dorne took a step forward, the fleeting moments of his reputation as a fierce warrior clashing against the pull of something deeper when he laid eyes on Y/N.

"Lost in thought, are we?" Oberyn's voice was smooth like honey, cutting through Y/N's musings.

Startled, Y/N turned, locking eyes with the Martell prince. "Being lost is preferable to being found," he replied with a teasing smirk, an armour against any vulnerability.

Oberyn chuckled softly, the sound invigorating the cool night air. "And yet here I am, willing to find you. Not many can say they have seen Rhaegar's brother."

"People have strange inclinations," Y/N replied dryly, "and I have made it abundantly clear that I do not belong in their games."

“Neither do I,” Oberyn said, stepping closer, the glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “Court is a web of lies and politics. I'd much rather hear about your thoughts on the sea or the stars.”

Intrigued, Y/N raised an eyebrow. "You are very bold, aren't you? To approach me like this, in the dark."

“Perhaps,” Oberyn admitted candidly, his smirk shifting to sincerity. “I find something… interesting in you.”

Y/N’s pulse quickened at the charged atmosphere weaving around them. “Interesting… how so?”

Oberyn smirked, stepping even closer. For a brief moment, Y/N could almost feel the warmth radiating off the man before him. “You are fierce in your silence. An undercurrent of passion flows beneath, like a dormant volcano. You’re trapped by those who seek to define you. But I am not afraid of fire, nor am I afraid of the ashes.”

And then it happened. Oberyn reached behind his head, brushing aside the silver hair that veiled Y/N’s eyes and cupping his face momentarily in a gentle but daring touch. The world around them faded, and Y/N felt a surge of warmth wash over him, a sensation blooming vividly where Oberyn’s fingers lingered.

It felt as though a piece of himself had been uncovered—a mark left upon him, an imprint that whispered of possibilities. “You…” Y/N faltered, lost in the intensity of the moment. “You felt it too.”

“Of course.” Oberyn’s voice dropped to a seductive whisper,his gaze filled with understanding as if they shared a secret no one else could grasp. Oberyn's eyes gleamed with a mixture of mischief and sincerity, a blend of emotions that both excited and terrified him. “It means we are bound in a way that defies the chaos of our worlds, Y/N. A connection that transcends mere courtly expectations.”

Y/N felt his heart race at the sound of his name on Oberyn’s lips—a melody he hadn’t realised he longed for. They were a stark contrast, he and the Dornish prince; where Y/N was all stormy skies and shadows, Oberyn was the blazing sun, radiating life and intensity. Yet, within that contrast, there was an undeniable pull, a gravity that knew no bounds.

He took a step back, consideration forcing a separation he wasn’t sure he wanted. “You have no idea who I am, Oberyn..” The walls he had built around himself felt shaky now, as if the touch of his soulmate had begun to erode the very foundations he had relied upon for protection.

“Perhaps not,” Oberyn replied, not backing away but rather holding his ground. “But I am not afraid of getting to know you behind your reclusivity. But tell me—what do you truly desire?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Y/N had never considered what he wanted for himself beyond the confines of duty and expectation. He rubbed the spot where Oberyn’s fingers had brushed him, a soft imprint warming his skin, like a reminder that he wasn’t just a shadow of his brother.

However, a sense of wariness crept in, fueled by the walls of responsibility society shoved upon him. “I desire—” he faltered.“I desire freedom. The ability to explore the world without judgment hanging over me. Here in King’s Landing, I feel like a ghost. I wish to step away from it all—”

“Then why don’t you?” Oberyn stepped closer, an unyielding shimmer of encouragement sparkling in his piercing gaze. “Leave King’s Landing behind. Come to Dorne with me.”

The proposition came like a revelation, an escape untainted by the dark intrigues of their current lives. “You can't be serious,” Y/N responded, the idea both exhilarating and impossibly terrifying. Just the thought of leaving everything behind sent jitters of anticipate

through his body.

“I am very serious,” Oberyn said, his voice low and inviting. “Dorne is a land of sun and freedom, where the winds carry the salt of the sea and the laughter of the people. You will not have to hide there, Y/N. You could do whatever you wish. Be whoever you want to be.”

The moment was filled with anticipation , and Y/N felt the weight of Oberyn’s words stirring something deep within him. Hope. The flicker of a longing he had tried to extinguish for far too long began to simmer again.

“Your touch…” he said, hesitantly tracing the imprint where Oberyn's fingers had rested. “It leaves a mark. A reminder of our bond.”

Oberyn’s voice turned low, almost conspiratorial. “Then cherish it. Cherish the possibility of what we could create together.” His gaze, sharp as a blade, pierced through the fog of doubt.

“Are you truly unafraid?” Y/N asked, his heart pounding in his chest as he stepped closer to the Dornish prince, boldness emerging he hadn’t recognized within himself before.

“Fear has never kept me from seeking what I desire,” Oberyn replied with decisive earnestness that stoked the fire within Y/N.

“Perhaps one is foolish to court danger so closely,” Y/N mused, allowing a grin to break through his troubled countenance.

Oberyn stepped forward, the air thick with tension  perhaps so,but I can think of no greater folly than living a life devoid of passion.”

He took a breath, his heart pounding as he dared  “Then, perhaps… Perhaps I will venture with you.” he took his hand clutching it in a fierce grasp. “I will come to Dorne, my prince.”

[lazy-kari202]

The Child

Chapter 1

Warnings: None

They say that love is the end of duty and that duty is the end of love. Rhaenella couldn’t have found that further from the truth. For the love she had for her mother and house made her proud to learn of her duties or at least most of them.

Rhaenella could often be found in the fields of Runestone when she oft meant to be in her studies. Like how she was now, gathering flowers next to the wall of Runestone.

As Rhaenella continued to gather flowers and mend the stems together,being lost in a sea of her own thoughts. The girl never heard the sound of a horse and its rider coming near.

“And just where are you supposed to be little hawk?”

Came a chiding voice of none other than Lady Rhea. A squeaky yelp could be heard and Rhaenella swiftly turned around to see her mother. After a bright gulp, “um! Nowhere mother.” Quickly claimed Rhaenella. Watching as her mother unseated herself from her horse and walked to her.

“Really? Then you wouldn’t mind explaining to me why I am hearing half of Runestone calling your name near the front gate?” Quickly replied Rhea with a smirk gradually reaching her cheeks.

But upon gazing down at her child, she quickly changes her face and tone to that of Lady Royce. “Please do explain to me the benefits of leaving your lessons unattended to and coming out here to simply make flower crowns!” Rhea said chidingly and gently grabbed the flower crowns on the ground, proving that Rhaenella had missed most of her lessons meant for today. Rhaenella looks up at her mother ashamed but looks to the side puffing out her cheeks.

“I didn’t even miss all of my lessons, I only meant to delay my last one with Ser Gerold.”

Rhaenella says the last bit rather quietly but Rhea still hears and gently lowers herself to be at level with her child.

“And why do you want to skip this lesson with cousin Gerold?” Rhea asks. “You know why mother!” Rhaenella yells back but quickly turns away ashamed.

Rhea soon looks around a little exasperated but also anxiously. “No matter how many time you speak to Ser Gerold he still treats me li-“ Rhaenella stops her sentence short but continues in a soft tone.

“Like I am an outsider, like I don’t belong. He looks at me with an expectation of something bad to happen as if I am-.” Rhaenella stops at the touch of her mother who is patting her head gently. Rhaenella gazes upon her mother whose face is marred by trouble.

“Let’s get you inside little hawk, mark your duties today fulfilled.”

Lady Rhea gazes at her daughter for a moment longer with an emotion Rhaenella can’t explain but complies with her Lady mother.

As Rhaenella is readied for bed by her septa she thinks nothing but of her mother and ser Gerold. Thoughts so loud that even long after her septa had left she found no sleep and decided to get up and sneak out of her room. It was quite easy since the guards to her room tend to sleep early into their shift.

As Rhaenella comes upon her mother’s solar she hears muffled voices and also finds no guards. She gets close to the door but dares not to open it. From her spot near the door she can hear her mother and Ser Gerold inside.

“She is a child Gerold, she bears no sins of her father! When will you get that through your head!” Rhaenella jumps at the harsh tone of her mother but soon hears the guilt ridden tone of Gerold.

“I know that cousin but I-“ “THERE IS NO EXCUSING THIS GEROLD!”

Rhaenella could hear her mother cut in harshly along with sound of a harsh bang.

“You tend to forget that as much as she is that Craven’s child- she is also mine! I am the one who suffered for months to bring her into this world! I am the one who labored! I am the one who fed her from my breast to ensure her strength! Despite all the turmoil I suffered with her at the start! She is mine, cousin. You do well to remember that from now on.”

Rhaenella even from behind the door could feel the finality of her mother’s words and as quietly as she could backed away from the door and hid. Rhaenella watched as a stone faced Gerold walked out of her mother’s solar and disappeared into the castle’s darkness.

Seeing her coast was clear, Rhaenella made her way back to her room and thanked the gods old and new that her guards were still vast asleep.

Upon entering her room Rhaenella is left feeling conflicted. Rhaenella didn’t hear the whole argument between her mother and Gerold but she could mostly likely guess that her father was mentioned in some form considering that he was a catalyst for this whole situation.

Rhaenella only ever knew the bare minimum of her father. All that she truly knew of her father was basics of who he is which gave nothing of his personality or is character.

One part of Rhaenella wants to know her father but another part truly couldn’t care. For how could she miss someone that she never truly knew. Her mother gave her all the love and attention she could think of. Be it there were moments of tension but from what her septa had told her who hasn’t? So what was the problem? Truly Speaking what role could the Prince Daemon fill that her mother had not? No matter how much Rhaenella paced her mind and body there was no answer.

The only thing Rhaenella could think of to assume an answer was that the only thing fueling her curiosity for this man was because no one gave her answer as to who he was, not even her mother. For the all answers she would give that was the one she would not give.

As Rhaenella thought this she stopped her pacing and sat down on her settee, facing the fire of her hearth.

Rhaenella recounted that moment of time when she did ask her mother about her father and did all she could to pry out any and all information but upon asking her mother, all Rhaenella received was a look filled with nothing but pain and helplessness.

Seeing that look upon her mother hurt Rhaenella in a way she never thought and all she could think of in that moment was that she never wanted to see that look again.

The only thing her mother uttered in that moment was that she would tell Rhaenella of her father when she is older, be it that he stays in the Stepstones still by that time- or when he indefinitely returns.

Her father would be a conversation saved for when the proper time came, thus Prince Daemon can be tucked away for now Rhaenella thought. Upon this conclusion a wave of determination stirred up in Rhaenella and she jumps up from her settee and heads for her desk and pulls out all of her books, scrolls, papers and quills.

Rhaenella would get no sleep this night for in her quivering heart was the determination to make her mother proud and for her to be ready to stand tall and face her studies well prepared in the morning.

It was safe to bet that upon all gods- old and new that Rhaenella was anything but properly prepared for her studies. For when her Septa Milla entered Rhaenella’s chamber the poor woman thought she had seen a ghost for the poor girl was pale, slumped and had eyes so dark they rivaled an empty night sky.

Upon Septa Milla’s arrival Rhaenella was fretted upon and ushered into a hot bath and then once out was readied for her day in what felt like only a matter of minutes. After quickly fretting over Rhaenella some more, Rhaenella was then escorted to the dining hall to break her fast with her mother.

“By all seven hells!”

Rhaenella heard her mother exclaim as she made her way next to her.

“Your daughter my lady deemed it necessary to stay up well past the hour of the wolf and well into this morning!” Explained Milla as Rhea turned to her daughter.

“But it was not only her staying up all night my lady, the girl was simply engulfed in a mountain of books, scrolls and paper!” “Would you care to explain yourself little hawk?”

Upon the question from her mother Rhaenella gazes up and into her eyes. “I- I wanted to be prepared! For my studies and duties mother. I want to give Ser Gerold no quarter!”

As Rhaenella gazes into her mother’s eyes and face, she watches as Rhea leans back into her chair and releases a proud smile on her. “A true Royce of Runestone. But please little hawk do not jeopardize your sleep again. As much as it pleases me to see you study and learn- you need to sleep, especially since you are still young.”

Rhaenella is quick to pout upon the ending statement from her mother but bounces back from praise.

“While we are on the topic of your studies today, your lessons with Ser Gerold are going to be skipped today- and this is not due to yesterday’s events. Cousin Gerold is out hunting and I soon will also be joining.”

The discovery of her mother’s trip to the forest excites Rhaenella but before she could ask to join her mother, Rhea tells her no and that simply because one lesson is not on her ledger does not mean she has more free time today.

“Your lessons little hawk will be just as long as they usually should be just that one will not be performed today. I expect to hear high remarks when I get back from my hunt considering your rather lovely night time activity.”

Rhea says with a smile. Her mother then finishes up her morning food, cleans herself and walks over to Rhaenella.

“Should you do well on your studies today, the next time I find myself wanting for a hunt. I will bring you along, how about that little hawk?”

Rhaenella’s face lights up upon this question and nods her head yes to her mother. Rhea kneels down to her daughter’s level and kisses her on her forehead.

“Be good for your septa and our maester. I will see you when I return.”

Rhea stands and pats Rhaenella’s head and strides out of the dining hall. Rhaenella watched her mother’s back fade out of the halls and quickly eats her morning food much to her septa’s dismay.

The day was still long for Rhaenella despite having two studies off her ledger. Rhaenella bristled through embroidery, she muscled her way through dancing, manners and etiquette.

What surprisingly almost broke her was singing, Rhaenella felt she had no breath left in her at the end and was almost jubilant for her lessons in history with maester Corlin.

It was the afternoon when Rhaenella reached the end of her last lessons with Maester Corlin regarding her literature and numbers. Rhanella after seating herself near one of the many windows had sneaked a peak outside to see if her mother returned but found nothing of significance in the courtyard.

Soon finding herself back facing her studies she is then interrupted by a door opening causing Maester Corlin to stop his teachings. Rhanella looking up from her papers is faced with Ser Gerold and Septa Milla.

“Ser Gerold, Septa Milla to what do I owe this interruption?”

“My Lady Ser Gerold wished to have a quick word with you but despite informing him that you were well into your studies,still wished to have a word with you.”

Rhanella gazes upon her septa and is quick to notice the nervousness of the woman with her fidgeting but says nothing and looks to Ser Gerold. Not willing to show anymore weakness to this man and for appearances sake stands and approach’s.

“Well Ser Gerold what do you wish to say?” Rhanella fights the urge to also fidget much like her septa.

Gerold steps forward and kneels down on one knee to Rhanella much to her surprise. “I wish to apologize Lady Rhaenella for my actions against you, it was wrong of me, I need not explain them away for that would be a waste of words. I wish to do this house proud and instead have shamed it and its heir.” Gerold then looks up into Rhaenella’s eyes.

“ there is no amount of words to describe the shame I feel in knowing I not only hurt my dear cousin Rhea with my actions but also her dear and beloved daughter. I am sorry Rhaenella, if you would forgive this foolish man, I humbly ask to continue in aiding you with your lessons in the sword and riding.” Gerold then moves his head down finishing his apology.

Looking to her Septa Rhaenella can also see the surprise on her face and most likely also on Maester Corlin who stands behind her. Not wanting this silence to continue she demands Gerold to stand and when he does.

“I must confess that this animosity between us is something I never truly understood, and although I may suspect the reasons that started it, I just wish for it to end. Gerold if this is truly a new start then it would bring me no greater pleasure to continue training with you! If it would also be possible could I also call you cousin? Since we are family and it would bring me great happiness to be as close as we should be!”

Upon this response Rhaenella sees a visible relaxation take hold of Gerold and a small smile graces his face.

“There would be no greater honor Rhaenella.” Unable to contain her happiness she hugs him and to her joy Gerold hugs her back.

“Before you go have you seen my mother out in the woods? She went hunting separately from you.” Rhaenella ask quickly.

“Yes but that was- I assume around earlier in the morning. I didn’t pass her upon my return but I am sure she will be back soon my lady, the sun is still quite high”

Rhanella steps back from Gerold and nods her head in understanding and bids him a goodbye for today.

Ser Gerold turns to go but upon reaching the door turns and wishes Rhaenella a good spar for tomorrow’s training. Gerold then leaves the room leaving her Septa and Maester in Rhaenella’s company. For a day so joyous Rhaenella’s hopes had begun to fly.

She felt as if the day was blessed by the Seven themselves but that happiness could only last for so long in a world such as hers.

For not long after Gerold’s visit, Rhaenella is told the news of mother’s horse arriving riderless into Runestone. Chaos had begun to seep into Rhaenella’s perfect day, sickening the very halls of her home and worrying Rhanella to no end.

Rhaenella had been taken to her chambers upon the news and was told Ser Gerold had taken a handful of Royce soldiers to find her mother.

Hours had passed, the sun that once showed such promise had now become a beacon of dread. For the closer it came to setting the more of Rhaenella’s sanity would wane- the more she cried for her mother. Despite the reassurances from her septa Rhaenella would not settle until she laid eyes on her mother. Rhaenella was pacing her room constantly looking out of all windows for a sign of Gerold and his company that would contain her mother but no sign was shown. She prayed to all seven gods for a sign and when that would not work she prayed to any and all gods, old and new combined until all thoughts became jumbled in her mind.

The only thing Rhaenella was told and what she heard was that her mother’s horse rode in fast into Runestone as if the poor thing was startled and that no blood or savagery was upon the horse. Meaning that most likely her mother may be alright. After all her mother was well known hunter and fighter but if her mother was alright why couldn’t they find her! Rhanella was at her wits end by the time the sun was passing the hills leading its decent to night.

It was around this time Rhaenella heard chaos begin to set in. For she could see from her windows Gerold and Royce soldiers riding fast towards Runestone.

Rhaenella wasted no time, pushing past her septa and down all the stairs and hallways in Runestone to make her way down to the courtyard.

She payed no mind to her septa who screamed and chased her through Runestone holding her robe for her night dress. As Rhanella pushed past guards who tried to stop her, she pushed the courtyard doors wide open.

Smiling at the thought of ending this nightmare and seeing her mother. All was shattered as Rhaenella laid her eyes on what would be the end of her innocence. What would be the end of all that she knew.

For the smile she had on her face faded and twisted into utter agony and confusion as why her mother would not stand. No matter her persistence to get closer, her septa and guards held the poor girl back as she kicked and screamed. As they carried her mother past her and into Runestone the only coherent thing Rhaenella could utter in that moment was one thing.

“Mother?”

(Hope you enjoyed the OFFICIAL chapter 1 of The Child and like and comment if you enjoyed and wish to be added to the next chapter for a notification. @saradika-graphics for the banners.)

[lavendertales]

Sweet lies: Chapter 1

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

summary: you return to your beloved hometown and you're set for a night out with the old gang. But the night isn't short of surprises.

word count: 3.4k

SERIES WARNINGS: former friends who were in love with each other, angst, mutual pining, tension, eventual smut, jealousy, infidelity, wrong choices, kind of arranged marriage too I guess.

A/N: I NO LONGER USE A TAGLIST! If you want to be updated on my works, click “Get notifications” on this blog! Comments & reblogs are forever appreciated 💕

gif: @uuuhshiny

series masterlist | AO3 

The pleasant memories of this place are still vivid. Unchanged, unsoiled by time and the pain it carried along with it. But it’s not that easy to focus solely on the good. It never is.

There is also melancholy to be felt. Deep and sharp, soaring through you like a black veil of smoke. It’s intangible, yet it still aches. All the contradictory emotions that come with you simply standing there, gazing around, are still very much alive in your chest, as it’s the day when you left it all behind.

And you sure remember that day, clear as the sky above you, and cold as the crisp February air around you.

You were only eighteen. Still a child, barely beginning to trace out the steps on your life’s map, but it was your dream. You had the opportunity to fulfill it, and you could not miss it. You knew you’d never forgive yourself if you missed it.

After months of sending out applications, you finally received the answer you’ve been hoping for. You had been accepted into one of the most prestigious universities in the world. Cambridge University, full scholarship. Just like that, you embarked on the most wonderful adventure yet, chasing the dream of studying abroad.

But it wasn’t that easy. That much was clear.

You were, of course, going; nothing was going to break your way. You packed all of your things, mentally prepared yourself to move abroad indefinitely, perhaps for good. Yet, you found yourself utterly weakened by the idea that you had to say goodbye to your friends. It would be tough, but you knew they’d be completely supportive. You wouldn’t even have dreamt of anything else.

On your last dinner together as a group, you were joined by the Miller brothers, Will and Benny, Santiago, Rose, the only other girl amongst you, and Frankie. They all offered you their sincere congratulations and support, just as you had anticipated. Though they were saddened that you would no longer participate in their daily lives—at least not that actively—they promised to call and write to you, and to catch up as often as possible.

But each time you looked around the table and noticed Frankie’s pleading and soft glare, you began to question everything, from your decision to study abroad, to your own damn sanity.

The impact that man had on you was simply magnetic. Even now, thinking back on it, nothing ever came close to the rush you had being around him. It was a warm thrill, if that made sense. You were the best version of yourself when he was around, and before you knew it, you were hooked. Being around Frankie was the closest you’ve ever gotten to feeling love in its most flawless and pure state. He was soothing, loving and warm, everything you forgot you could be. You thought that even if you were to spend every second of every day with him, it would still not be enough. There was just something between you two that boiled right underneath the surface, simmered in unbearable heat. Unspoken, begging to be released in one way or the other. It never materialized, though. Neither of you addressed it, for one reason or the other, so you left.

There were times when you swore you had imagined that Frankie could ever reciprocate your feelings. You managed to convince yourself that it was all in your head, that your mind had fabricated what your heart desired in order to cope with the fear of rejection and loss. And you survived on that knowledge. Knowing that it was unrequited love made it easier for you to survive abroad all those years.

Ten of them, to be more precise. Ten years you’ve been gone. Well, not gone gone, but it sure felt bizarre to return after so long.

Few things have changed in town: new shops, new infrastructure, but that’s about it. Nothing really palpable to you. You can’t help but look around though while you wait for Santiago to pick you up. The people seem the same, like you’re the only one who’s aged in the past decade. You wonder how many of those people walking by had dreams, and you wonder whether they followed them or had to push them aside in survival’s favor.

Tonight, you’re meeting the old party for dinner in the same restaurant you met ten years ago. With a few exceptions, of course: Rose can’t make it, but promised to make it up to you in the following days and the Millers are bringing their girlfriends. Santiago remains single from what you know, and you couldn’t bear thinking too much about Frankie, so you were running on sheer curiosity and a “we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it” basis.

But your subconscious runs wild with questions and scenarios: is he married? Is he bringing his kids? Is he single? Is he gay now? Anything feels possible at this very moment, when all you know is fear and doubt.

“One thing’s for sure, life abroad agrees with you.”

The voice is unmistakable; you turn, being greeted by Santiago’s bright smile and open arms. You practically sink into the embrace, a lovely sensation of friendliness and home nearly overwhelming you. He hugs you tightly, sincerely, rocking you a little to the left and to the right, then he lets you go.

“You look absolutely beautiful,” he continues, eyeing you up and down.

“Save something for dinner, Santi, damn.”

“Oh, speaking of that. Something you should know.”

You don’t like his tone when he announces that; your heart drops in your stomach. Don’t think it, don’t think it, don’t think it…

“Frankie isn’t coming,” he says, and you can’t help but feel relieved in the slightest. “Something about building… something. I don’t know, honestly. Might be furniture. I think.”

“Not really surprising, but good to know.”

Santiago looks at you in a way that’s meant to make you feel sorry for what you said.

But you’re not.

“Come on. It’s been ten years.”

“I am over it, Santi, I promise. But I do think I at least get to be snarky.”

“You know what, tonight is about you. Go for it. Shall we?”

You nod, getting in the car, all while entertaining Santiago with stories from your most recent whereabouts.

But there’s a warzone happening in the back of your mind. That part of your brain can only reminisce the cruel way you and Frankie ceased to exist as friends.

You loved him. That much was true and as real as it could be. But you loved him as a friend first. He had been the most positive influence in your life, so much so that you managed to quit smoking and get straight A’s on your SATs. You spent most of your time together in the senior year of high school talking, laughing, sharing music and stories, and simply caring for each other.

Then one day, it all stopped.

He had kept in touch with you for a little while after you moved away, but conversations grew thinner and rarer, and you could tell something was wrong. He insisted that everything was fine, and a week later, he vanished from your life altogether like he was never there to begin with. No phone calls, no texts, no emails, nothing. He was gone, without ever saying goodbye.

You even thought of him as being dead. It was infinitely easier than lying awake at night trying to understand what could have been done differently, what went wrong and what could you have done to prevent the rupture from happening. Cruel and bizarre, yes, but easier to cope with.

Because losing your dearest friend wasn’t something eighteen year-old you knew how to process.

Whenever you spoke with any of the guys, you asked not to be told about Frankie other than answering the question “Is he alive and well”. The answer was always yes. He was alive and well, and that made you happy for him, but in return it made you feel bitter and alone.

That was the extent of the contact you kept with Frankie. The guys respected your wish as well and never went into details about him, so you had no clue what his life looked like now.

“Now that you moved back in town and the group is essentially back together, are you just never gonna see or talk to Frankie again?”

Santiago’s question is blunt and to the point, but it’s only natural he be curious about it. Everyone in your little party knew about your feelings for Frankie, and they all knew how devastated you were when he subtracted himself from your life.

“I don’t know,” you reply honestly. “I could.”

“Can you though? I mean, you’re bound to run into each other at some point.”

“I—I don’t know, Santi, okay? I obviously miss him, I think I might miss him forever, actually, but at the same time it’s…”

“Yeah.”

He quickly glances over at you, offering a trademark Santiago Garcia compassionate look that, oddly enough, calms you down a little.

“It’s hard,” you finish saying, heart back in your throat.

“I know. But look, neither of us is forcing you to do anything. We’re just glad to have you back and we hope things can be okay between us all.”

“I sincerely hope so too.”

“And Frankie’s part of our lives whether you like it or not, so you either gotta get over it fast and accept that, or things will be very awkward.”

“I did move on.”

“Tell that to yourself.”

You feel some anger to his remark, though not the primal kind that got you in trouble.

“It’s hard to just erase someone out of your life, someone you cared for so fucking much,” you blurt out. “Obviously not to him, he did it perfectly, but I can’t do it so easily. It’s been ten years and it still hurts to think about it.”

“If you think it’s been easy for him too, like it was a light decision to take, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

You exhale loudly, hoping that will be a good reveal of your annoyance with the situation. Luckily, Santiago is great at picking up cues, so it does not require any more effort on your part.

“I’m not saying what he did was smart,” he tells you, his voice soft and filled with regret. “Personally, I think it was idiotic. But one thing I do know, is that he was in a lot of pain for a long time after it. Which means it wasn’t easy to do.”

You make a grimace, feeling surprisingly at peace hearing that. “Good,” you say, and even you recognize how mean you sound right now. “Why should I be the only one miserable?”

Santiago chuckles, nodding his head as if to say “you two idiots are killing me”. You know that look. You’ve seen it plenty of times before. You’ve even been on the receiving end of it a few times, too.

“But things really started to pick up for him,” Santiago continued. “In the past few years, he’s really—“

“Can we not talk about him or us or anything remotely related to that tonight? I just want to have a nice dinner with you guys and not think about him. Not yet. That’s… tomorrow’s problem.”

“Alright, sure thing.”

And true to his words, he didn’t speak another word about Frankie, nor did he even mention his name. Truthfully, even that is more than capable of awakening all the feelings you had fought so long and hard to bury deep within. You know it’s only a matter of time until you’d inevitably run into Frankie again, but that is an issue for tomorrow. You don’t have to mentally prepare for it until tomorrow.

All you want to do is relax, have a nice dinner with your friends and tell yourself that you are home.

The moment you walk through the restaurant’s door, you see a fairly big table on the right, and the first figure you notice is Will’s. Being the tallest of the group, it’s virtually impossible not to spot him in crowds. He’s always played the role of the mentor among you, the quiet, yet wise one that you all came to for advice at some point in time.

He’s the first one to remark you, too, and he smiles instantly, standing up to greet you. Then off goes Benny with his exuberant personality, excited like a loyal dog reunited with a friend. They both reach to hug you, patting your back and squeezing you gently into their arms.

“Long time, no see!” Benny exclaims. “And it is quite the sight, might I add.”

“First Santi, now you… I’m on fire tonight, huh?” you laugh.

“Here, have a seat,” Will encourages you, pulling a chair for you.

“Thanks.”

“This is Mia, my girlfriend.”

The girl named Mia extends a hand to you, smiling politely at you as you introduce yourself. She’s a beauty indeed; luscious, brown curls cascading down her bare shoulders, a red dress fitting her body, and when she smiles at Will, her eyes sparkle in a truly mesmerizing way. She even seems to be on the quieter side, which matches Will’s persona to a T.

“And this is Emily, my hot-shot girlfriend,” Benny says.

The other girl named Emily shakes your hand and smiles all the same. She’s just as beautiful as Mia: red hair, green eyes, stunning dress and lips so full even you’d spend all day kissing them.

“We’ve heard so much about you,” Mia says. “The guys sung your praises a lot.”

“You really shouldn’t talk so much about other girls, you guys,” you tell them, menu in hand. “Especially not when your girlfriends could be models.”

Both girls giggle, but it’s not one of those fake laughs that you can spot from a mile away. They seem genuinely flattered and nice.

“Em did model for a while a few years back,” Benny gloats, wrapping his arm around her.

“Benny, come on.”

“What? I can’t brag about my incredibly sexy girlfriend?”

“You are, we can all hear you,” Santiago says under his breath, his vulture eyes locked on the menu.

Will chuckles and moves his glare on you.

“We heard you studied at Cambridge, is that right?” Mia asks you.

“Yes. I was lucky enough to get a full scholarship there for the Arts program.”

“Oh, what did you study?”

“Business Management.”

“So you know she really means business.”

Everyone giggles at Benny’s words and gets ready to order. Meanwhile, Will’s gaze never leaves your figure. He’s on your left, one seat over Santiago, so he gets a pretty good view at your creased brow.

“Did Pope tell you?” he asks suddenly, and you realize seconds later he’s addressing you.

“Tell me what?”

“About—Frankie.”

He falters, like the name is some forbidden cuss word neither is supposed to say.

“Oh. Yeah, he—he did mention that he couldn’t make it tonight.”

Will makes a grimace, exchanging a look with Santiago that makes you feel left out of whatever little secret they got going on. But then you begin to suspect maybe that’s not what Will meant at all.

You’re in no mood to discuss anything Frankie-related tonight, so you let it slide.

“Yeah, he couldn’t make it tonight,” Benny agrees. “Too bad. It would’ve been nice to have all of us here.”

“Mhm.”

You add nothing else after the hum, and the guys don’t ask anything else, much to the girls’ curiosity. But when the waiter asks for your order, you all place it without second thoughts.

Although you highly doubt you’ve heard the last about Frankie this evening.

“How long have you and the bros been together, ladies?” you ask.

“Well, Benny and I just had our one year anniversary a couple of weeks ago, and Will and Mia have been together for… what, five months?”

Will nods, stroking Mia’s hand. “Six month anniversary coming up soon,” Mia gushes. “What about you and Santi?”

You and Santiago look at each other in somewhat of a panic, then you both start to laugh, just as your drinks are being brought before you.

“We’re not together,” you laugh. “Nope. Not a chance. No. No, no, no.”

“Four no’s? Really?” Santiago asks. “Punch me in the face, it’ll hurt less.”

You pat him gently on the arm, which steals a smile from him.

“I’m sorry,” Mia apologizes. “I heard about you and the other guy from the group and I assumed—“

“No, no.”

“That’s—not me.”

Silence intervenes again, with Benny clearing his throat out loud, thus capturing everyone’s attention as he leans in to whisper to Mia, “No, that wasn’t Santiago, that was… Frankie.”

“Oh, that’s right, Frankie!”

“Okay, let’s clear the air. I had a fallout with Frankie ten years ago, and we haven’t spoken since, but that’s about it. No need to walk on eggshells around me, no need to act like his name is some ancient-long curse that cannot be spoken out loud. It’s okay.”

“Dully noted,” Benny says, sipping from his beer. “So what was his excuse for tonight?”

Everyone turns to Santiago, expecting an answer, with the exception of you. You slowly nurse your wine, finding the table cloth much more interesting than pretending to care about that man.

Except you still do, and it’s tearing you inside in ways you could never even describe.

“Something about building furniture, I guess,” Santiago finally replies. “He’s been quite into remodeling lately.”

“Oh, cause of—“

“Benny.”

Will’s voice is firm, yet low and menacing enough for his little brother to receive the message. But of course, that only captures your curiosity and interest alike, raising more questions rather than silencing them.

“Because of what?”

“We haven’t told him you’re back in town yet,” Will announces, seemingly taking it upon himself to be the spokesperson. “We weren’t sure if you wanted to tell him either.”

“That’s okay,” you say. “I know this is a bit awkward and uncomfortable, but… it’ll be fine.”

“Doubt it,” Benny whispers strictly to Emily, who playfully slaps his shoulder.

“We’re gonna run into each other at some point and we’re gonna have to talk. But until then, I just want to celebrate my return with my dearest friends.”

“Here, here!”

The sound of glasses clinking fills the salon and you all emerge into conversations over dinner. You immediately bond with the girls, discovering more and more about them, and thinking how perfect they are for their respective partners. Then again, either of the Miller brothers would be a great catch.

“So what really brings you back here?” Mia asks you after a while.

“I scored a position as editor at a publication in town. I’ve done business and everything related to it, but I’ve always loved writing, so when this came up… I couldn’t pass it. Especially since it’s in my hometown.”

“I think it’s so great you’re back,” Emily says with a fond smile. “Your whole life is here, your family and friends… you’re living your dream, basically!”

“Almost, yes.”

You don’t tell them how you’re always going to miss a piece of yourself from this very town.

You don’t tell them how much you missed and loathed this place at the same time.

You don’t tell them how you’ve felt incomplete for years, bruised and deceived, unfairly so.

Instead, you finish your meal and your wine and excuse yourself to go to the restroom, trying to organize your thoughts and not let them spiral out of control.

But that takes a turn for the worst.

You freeze on your way to the restroom, in the middle of the restaurant. The face you’re met with is unmistakable, both that of a ghost and of a friend. You can practically feel the color draining from your face and your limbs going cold. You can’t move; you feel frozen in space and time, like there is nothing but the two of you and like no time has passed, but also like an eternity did. Every contradictory sensation you could possibly fathom, it’s right there in your body, swallowing you whole.

Then, a whisper of your name brings you back to earth. Completely shook, you can only murmur one word. The one word you’ve tried so hard to forget.

“Frankie.”

next

[azems-familiar]

because i have apparently lost my mind: snippet from the Emet-Selch/Crystal Exarch oneshot i'm writing beneath the cut. WHAT am i doing with my life.

“Ah, Emet-Selch,” the Exarch says pleasantly, gaze never moving from his book. There is a streak of dark ink smeared across his right jaw and cheek, vanishing under the cowl - Emet-Selch has the urge to wipe it away, which he, for the moment, ruthlessly suppresses. Such an action would only be appropriate if he could maneuver the shock of it into drawing information from the man. “To what do I owe the pleasure this time? I’m afraid to inform you that the tea has long gone cold - you are later than I expected you to be. Were you held up by sin eaters, or some such?”

Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow, briefly thinking of the pot of tea he’d noticed - so it had not been forgotten but rather left alone in anticipation, had it? Interesting - and crosses the room to the computer display set into the far wall, tapping absently at the interface to adjust the heat in the room up by two degrees. Whether he’s redressed himself in his favored coat from his Garlean days or not, the Exarch still prefers far cooler temperatures than he does.

“I was working,” he says with a dismissive wave. As always, the Tower’s interface locks him out of any of its more intensive systems, but he dedicates a moment or two to attempting to circumvent the security systems anyway - they are enemies, after all, and should the Exarch grow lax then Emet-Selch, with the patience of an immortal, must be prepared to take advantage of it. “I do have a purpose here beyond studying your intriguing secrets, Exarch, though I understand it may pain you to acknowledge such.”

Things are progressing too slowly, with the Oracle of Light’s repeated rebirth and Eulmore’s war against the sin eaters, and Light is the power of stasis, of stillness and complacency and languishing indifference. A Rejoining requires not only the element to be ascendent in the shard to be swallowed, but for its incorporeal aether to naturally tend towards the alignment such element lies under as well - a rather arduous task. Thankfully the city’s current mayor is ill-inclined to be ousted by his unhappy citizenry, and more concerned by maintaining power than by actually making any marginal difference in the state of his world. Convincing him and his pregnant wife to allow Emet-Selch to bind a Lightwarden to the babe in her womb had been, in all honesty, far easier than expected.

Of course he could not attend tea with the Exarch in the armored robes his colleagues favor, either, which had necessitated a brief trip to the rift to amend. Perhaps if they ever formalized what time these little meetings take place - but that would ruin the game.

The Exarch hums, turning a page and tapping his pen against his lips, leaving another little dot of ink behind. Distracting, that. “How honored I am, then, that you should see fit to waste your time on me and my little hidden quirks.” There’s a wryness to his rich voice and one corner of his mouth curls ever-so-slightly upwards, a flicker of amusement betraying the words themselves.

Yes, Hythlodaeus would indeed have liked this man. A shame that for the Rejoinings to continue, for Emet-Selch to restore his home and his people and the family he loves so dearly, the Exarch cannot be allowed to continue.

(He will not think about whether Helios- whether Azem and Seleukos would have enjoyed his company or not. It is difficult enough to think of Hythlodaeus, whose soul yet resides in Zodiark and can be easily restored, who sacrificed himself willingly, no matter how deeply the act had torn Emet-Selch’s own heart out, or what scraps of it were left by then; the other two members of their family had left Amaurot behind in a whirlwind of fury after vicious arguments over Zodiark’s worthiness and capacity for salvation and the methods He required, and they had died out in the wilderness, lost because of Emet-Selch’s inability to convince them to see reason. Lost because of pointless vitriol. And while Zodiark’s power is great indeed, Emet-Selch remains uncertain of if He can resurrect souls He does not contain - a question he has never put towards Elidibus for fear of what it might reveal of his eternal slavery to sentiment.

And thus- thus it is too painful to think of them, especially in such a context. Besides, Azem had made himself quite clear in their final conversation-turned-altercation, and even if Emet-Selch can never not remember him as a lover, he can at least do his best to remember it only in the past.)

He shakes his head slightly to clear it and crosses the study to the desk, nudging the Exarch’s stack of books sideways to give him space to perch on its edge, glancing idly down at the paper. Spell notes indeed, as he had thought - and he recognizes the shape of them, though the method seems scarcely developed at all. “Fascinating,” he muses, trailing a finger over the seven-pointed star. “Now what use could a Sundered soul such as yours have for a summoning invocation? Do you intend to call sin eaters forth from the Empty and hasten your own demise, or do you truly believe your people could make use of this? You will find no method of reducing the aetheric strain to something their pale souls can handle.”

The Exarch goes still for the first time, gaze finally sliding off his research materials to rest on Emet-Selch’s hand and hip, propping him up. He’d sit more comfortably on it but for the fact that that would require disturbing too much of the Exarch’s work, and for everything he is, Emet-Selch was once a scholar of his own. Enemy or no, he respects the Exarch; he can offer him this much consideration.

“A bit of scholarship,” the man says after a moment. He sounds genuine, but there’s something about the tilt to his mouth that has Emet-Selch frowning slightly, trying to puzzle out what he could possibly be doing here. Of course he and Syrcus Tower traveled from the Source at some future point in time - or, more likely, were sent. Sent by someone with enough power to open a gate, which the Tower itself could if charged with aether…and yet who remains in the Source even as it is now who knows its systems so? And what could the Exarch possibly have to gain from a summoning spell? Azem was the only person in existence Emet-Selch would ever believe capable of summoning across the rift between worlds, and little enough of the First remains…

“One never knows when the Oracle of Light will be handy in a pinch, no? Ah- perhaps that’s a sore subject,” the Exarch continues, rousing Emet-Selch from his thoughts, and he rolls his eyes at the mention of Minfilia. What an irritation. “Perhaps I am making it to ensure my favorite teatime conversation partner does not miss out on his three-sugars two-spoonfuls-of-honey steaming cup of black tea. Hm?”

If they had not been performing this song and dance for near five decades, Emet-Selch would take some offense at the easy declaration of his tea preferences. As it is, he can’t quite stop himself from saying, “You would not be the first to think it amusing to forcibly reduce me to my constituent aether and pull me across the Lifestream for a meal.” Azem had had…a particular sense of humor. “Do you intend to flaunt your ill-gotten knowledge of my drinking habits without providing me so much as a drop of hospitality? And here I thought you civilized.”

[archaictold]

' so ... ' if his steps had gotten a bit jumpier the closer they get to wrapping up the little tour of the rainsworth mansion, he hopes it isn't too noticeable. he's jovial all the time, isn't he? no need for zhilan's attentiveness to point this one out, especially because they're in break's old home, now new home. and still, as he pauses near the last few doors, he balances on the back of his heels, hands folded behind his back. he feels himself catching zhilan's questioning gaze, and tries to hold it. ' this one is actually a bit special— i've ... changed some of these up, to better match my— wants. ' oh, and that last word sounds like he's been biting it around in his mouth for a while, and his smile wobbles a bit. dancing past zhilan, he pulls out the appropriate key and turns it in the door, opening it without much more preamble. it reveals a study. though not as personalized as he'd like it to be, break conciliated himself with the fact that zhilan might want to do some of his own personalizing, if he so chooses ... it's a study quite similar to the ones you'd find in the basement of pandora's headquarters, near all the files and general paperwork in nearby rooms. cozy and warm, two bookshelves near a window that oversees the gardens of the mansion. a desk made of rosewood alongside a chair quite similar to the one in zhilan's current bedroom. a beautiful sofa in the colour of zhilan's robes, with fancy bedding around its sides, and a dining room table to accompany it. there are candleholders and blankets and pillows, a few spare books in the shelves that seemed to have made its way there from break's mind without him knowing. and also break, standing to the side of the door, hands behind his back again, as he avoids zhilan's gaze this time, drifting to the window. ' i've also added a study— it occured to me that, ah ... you might like it? if you'd want to use it more often, you could ... stay. '

THERE is pride in sharing the joy of another. When Xerxes had invited him to the Rainsworth Manor, Zhilan had more than readily agreed, eager to see the home he had brought to a world so far away from his own. That there was such a strong enough power to place a piece of their world upon the island was something of great amazement to him—and to Xerxes, too, no doubt, for he is giddy in a manner he has so rarely seen. He takes him through the gardens. They are as beautiful as they are vast, identical to the memory he has of them, however brief his encounter with them was. When they stop and Xerxes speaks praise of the flowerbeds and rose bushes, Zhilan takes time to smell the blossoms, happily bidding them farewell from the courtyard as he is eagerly ushered into the mansion itself. And what an incredible sight it is, inside. If the gardens were vast, the mansion is sprawling, divided into wings of rooms upon rooms. Xerxes tours him through those most important: his own room, where he used to reside, or Lady Sharon's, and Duchess Rainsworth's. Zhilan was no disciple of the Kshahrewar Darshan, but even he knows elaborate architecture when he sees it; the manor is a marvel, in both its meaning and its structure. That is, to say simply, that Xerxes' home was and is beautiful, and Zhilan is happy that the knight had called it his home, and can now again. In midst of these thoughts, Xerxes flags aside the rest of the rooms, insisting they are much the same. He would not wish to waste time, as there is somewhere much more important he plans to take him. Soon enough, they stand before a door, and Xerxes is jumpier than he had been, fumbling through his words unlike the assured guide he was just a corridor prior. ❝ ... Your wants? ❞ Zhilan blinks while Xerxes dances past him with a key in hand. Whatever lies behind this door, he has given careful consideration... Was it not originally part of the manor, he wonders?

The keyhole clicks and the door soundlessly opens without leaving him much opportunity to ponder. What lies beyond halts his breath entirely— A study, meticulously outfitted to newly suit the manor. A space for him in this place Xerxes has long called home. Zhilan's careful gait carries him through the threshold. With a hand to his chest, so warm and so full, he swivels his gaze around the room. The artisan wood desk; the bookshelves on either side of the windows, its books awaiting his perusal; the scenic view overlooking the garden, sunbeams arcing through the glass; the vibrantly red couch and its bedding, offering itself as a nesting place should the scholar wish to stay. ❝ I've also added a study, ❞ Xerxes begins, abashed at his own gesture. ❝ It occurred to me that, ah... you might like it? ❞ 'Might,' he says. Zhilan softly hisses a laugh through his teeth as his eyes well. How funny and endearing that Xerxes would make such an effort and still question its importance to him. And what importance it has, indeed. More than words can really supply him with, especially with any justice. The scholar turns back to the doorway on his heel as his smile threatens to crack him wonderfully open. ❝ If you'd want to use it more often, you could... stay. ❞ ❝ I would love to. ❞ Zhilan promises. His voice is quieter than he means it to be, so his head shakes back some of the emotion swelling up to his surface. Just enough to step forward and take Xerxes by the hand, beaming so bright he just might burst.

❝ I would love to, Xerxes. To stay here, together with you, and... call it home. ❞

[fantomcomics]

What's Out This Week? 8/23

Postin' ain't easy, but it sure is fun

After We Gazed At Starry Sky GN - Bisco Kida

It all started with a job. When wheelchair-bound Subaru Miyazawa decides to visit the planetarium after finishing its brochure design, he unexpectedly bumps into Togo Awase, the photographer involved in the project. Although he'd admired his work, he never thought he'd see the man himself-or that Togo would go so far as to carry Subaru down the steps to view the starry night sky up close. Subaru could only hope they would meet again...

All The Lovely Bad Ones GN - Mary Downing Hahn, Scott Peterson & Naomi Franquiz

Travis and his sister, Corey, can't resist a good trick. When they learn that their grandmother's quiet Vermont inn, where they're spending the summer, has a history of ghost sightings, they decide to do a little "haunting" of their own. Before long, their supernatural pranks have tourists flocking to the inn, and business booms. But Travis and Corey soon find out that theirs aren't the only ghosts at Fox Hill Inn. Their thoughtless games have awakened something dangerous, something that should have stayed asleep. Can these siblings lay to rest the restless spirits they've disturbed?

All Tomorrow's Parties: The Velvet Underground Story HC - Koren Shadmi

An exploration of the group The New York Times called "arguably the most influential American rock band of our time," The Velvet Underground, and the complicated creative relationship they shared with legendary artist Andy Warhol.

Archie Horror Presents Chilling Adventures Anthology TP - Robert Hack

Welcome to the chilling world of Archie Horror, where demons roam the earth and terrifying tall tales come to life. From robotic rogues and inter-dimensional interlopers to sinister sorcerers and macabre mystics, this anthology collection has everything your horror-hungry heart desires. Riverdale and its surrounding areas are known to be hotbeds of strange happenings and paranormal activity, but sometimes things get downright disturbing, and even the most pure-hearted of people can't be saved.

Join the masters of Archie Horror, Madam Satan and Jinx Holliday (plus everyone's favorite talking cat, Salem), as they act as our tour guides into the realms of the unknown, plunge us into the depths of Hell and send chills up our spines! Featuring a retro, distressed cover by horror comic master Robert Hack. Collects seven killer comics: Madam Satan, Chilling Adventures in Sorcery, Jinx: Grim Fairy Tales, Weirder Mysteries, Chilling Adventures of Salem, The Return of Chilling Adventures in Sorcery, Happy Horror Days.

Art Brut HC Vol 1 - W. Maxwell Prince, Martin Morazzo & Mat Lopes

Presenting here the first major work from the creative minds behind ICE CREAM MAN-re-lettered, remastered, and under its original intended name! The world of fine art is falling apart, and only ART BRUT knows how to fix it. Alongside the Bureau of Artistic Integrity, Arthur Brut the Mad Dreampainter (and his trusty sidekick, Manny the Mannequin) must dive back into the very paintings that made him insane...or reality itself might just crumble to pieces.

A colorful, gonzo romp through art and art history, ART BRUT is equal parts police procedural, hyper-fantasy, and psychological thriller-a veritable Pollock-splatter of comics genres tossed onto one giant pulpy canvas! Each chapter features new cover art, new design, and a new Silver Age-style backup story featuring the art hero that no one's ever heard of-until now! Originally published under the title The Electric Sublime, this special hardcover edition presents the NPR-lauded, critically acclaimed material in its intended form.

Associate Professor Akira Takasuki's Conjecture GN Vol 1 - Mikage Sawamura & Toji Aio

Naoya Fukamachi is a university student whose ability to infallibly detect lies has left him friendless and isolated. When a paper of his piques the interest of his folklore studies professor Akira Takatsuki, a handsome and eccentric man, he soon finds himself dragged into Akira's research. Now, as the assistant in charge of common sense, he must help his professor interpret an array of unexplainable phenomena...

The Calvin & Hobbes Portable Compendium - Bill Watterson

Calvin and Hobbes is unquestionably one of the most popular comic strips of all time. The imaginative world of a boy and his real-only-to-him tiger first appeared in 1985 and could be read in more than 2,400 newspapers when Bill Watterson retired on January 1, 1996. This compact, portable new format is designed to introduce the timeless adventures of Calvin and Hobbes to a new generation of readers, and will fit easily into backpacks as well as on the collector's shelf. Featuring archival slipcase and cover art selected by the author, The Calvin and Hobbes Portable Compendium pays tribute to the strip's origin in newspapers while appealing to both new and existing fans. This set is composed of two 144-page paperback books, including over 500 comics from the strip's debut in Nov. 1985 through March 1987. It is the first of seven sets total to be released between 2023 and 2026.

Cat-Eyed Boy Perfect Edition HC Vol 1 - Kauzo Umezz

From the mind of Kazuo Umezz, undisputed master of Japanese horror manga and creator of The Drifting Classroom and Orochi, comes Cat-Eyed Boy! This deluxe edition contains five classic horror stories featuring a mysterious and dangerous cat-eyed boy who lives among humans, comes from the world of demons, and is despised by both. In four morbid tales, he interacts with humans and monsters to often-devastating ends. Then, in a final story, Cat-Eyed Boy must decide where his true loyalties lie-or if he has any loyalties at all.

Cuckoos Three GN - Cassandra Jean & Mosskat

Murry Summerfield, relentlessly decent son of the farmstead, meets Jacob Durris, charming but troubled new neighbor. When he discovers why Jacob has moved out to the countryside, Murry has his hands full keeping his friend happy and dealing with his own blossoming feelings.

Fantagraphics' Underground X-Amount Of Comics - Don Simpson

The most famous never-completed masterpiece in comics history- Image Comics' 1963 by Alan Moore, Steve Bissette, and Rick Veitch-is finally given the irreverent, and completely unauthorized 72-page climax no-one ever asked for! Written and drawn in an authentic Old School manner, X-Amount is just enough to satisfy! A comic for the ages that may finish off the Silver Age once and for all! For sophisticated readers.

Furry Planet: A World Gone Wild - Joe Strike

Furries are the creative subculture of people who identify with animals. You can find them at furry conventions, furfests, worldwide-tens of thousands of people donning their most elaborate fursuits. In costume, furries unleash the animal within, letting their inner beasts roar and their inner cats purr, aware of the power-and joy-to be found in connecting with one's animal spirit and encouraging others to do the same. In Furry Planet, long-time furry and a media staple for commentary on the culture, Joe Strike-a certified "greymuzzle," as older furries are known-dives deep into this compelling subculture to share its appeal and rewards.

Giant Days Library Edition Vol 1 - John Allison, Max Sarin, & Lissa Treiman

The school year is just beginning at Sheffield University, jam-packed with new classes, new professors, new places to explore...not to mention new clubs, new cliques, and new shenanigans, too. For first years Daisy, Esther, and Susan, they've got new friends on lock, forming a tight bond from their very first days as next-dorm neighbors. But learning to navigate life as brand new (almost) adults isn't as easy as it looks, between old nemeses popping up, academic struggles, and new crushes on the horizon. It's a good thing these three have each other to help survive Hall Balls, bantering lads, and drama vortexes (vortices?)!

I Don't Know Which Is Love GN Vol 1 - Oku Tamamushi

With high school graduation approaching, Mei Soraike tries to confess her love to her best friend for whom she had long harbored a secret crush...only for her hopes to be crushed. But a little heartbreak is fine-because she'll absolutely, definitely, without a doubt get a girlfriend in college! And no sooner does Mei set her resolve than potential prospects start sidling up to her one by one...?!

I Don't Need A Happy Ending GN - Mikanuji

From office workers to high schoolers to a mistress and her maid, dive into a collection of girls love stories from the author of Assorted Entanglements! Mikanuji delivers a tantalizing mix of sweet and spicy in this anthology-including a brand-new epilogue for her short story "I Don't Need a Happy Ending"!

The Illustrated Guide To Monster Girls GN Vol 1 - Suzu Akeko

In the world of monsters, where scaring and tormenting humans is a way of life, even monster girls need to pass their classes, graduate and get a job! Enter Class Z: a bunch of failures more likely to be frightened and bullied themselves. Can this rag-tag group of underdogs become successful full-fledged monsters?

In Search Of Gil Scott-Heron HC - Thomas Mauceri & Seb Piquet

CELEBRATING THE 50TH ANNIVERSARY OF HIP HOP! DISCOVER THE GODFATHER OF RAP!

Singer, poet and writer; considered to be the godfather of rap, Gil Scott-Heron is a myth and legend in the Afro-American music scene. Through his personal experiences, Thomas Maucéri discovers the life of this genius, alongside the complex past and present of the America that Scott-Heron lived in.

The Infinity Particle GN - Wendy Xu

This thought-provoking limited palette graphic novel by the co-creator of Mooncakes explores big questions through the eyes of an aspiring inventor and the lifelike AI she finds herself falling for.  

Clementine Chang moves from Earth to Mars to start over. On the first day of her dream job working for Dr. Marcella Lin, an Artificial Intelligence pioneer, Clem meets Dr. Lin's assistant, a gorgeous, yet cold humanoid AI named Kye. Sure, Clem has built her own robot-a cute moth-shaped companion named SENA-but Kye feels almost... human. When Clem and Kye begin to work together, their chemistry sets off sparks. The only downside? Dr. Lin won't allow Kye to become more independent. And their relationship is causing Clem to question everything she knows about her work. After all, if Kye is sentient enough to have feelings, shouldn't he be able to have his own thoughts? Where is the line between AI and human? As her future and her past weigh down on her, Clem becomes determined to help Kye break free-even if it means risking everything she came to Mars for.  

Lost Boy TP Vol 1 - Jay Martin & Frank Cvetkovic

The comics debut of accomplished music video director Jay Martin in a beautiful and heartwarming tale of adversity and survival.

In the aftermath of a deadly car accident in the remote Wyoming wilderness, a young boy escapes as the sole survivor. Stranded, freezing and without anyone around to help him, he struggles to stay alive as he attempts to find his way back to civilization. Along the way, through extreme tests of will, courage, and endurance, he discovers what it truly means to be tested, and learns that the secret to survival isn't always what you think it is.

Magic The Gathering Planeswalker: Notorious #1 - Cullen Bunn, Rich Douek, French Carlomagno, Carlos Pedro & Jahnoy Lindsay

Two of the most popular Planeswalkers in Magic: The Gathering history- fan favorite vampire Sorin Markov and the incomparable necromancer Liliana Vess, come together for a team-up that's not to be missed!

On a mysterious, unnamed plane, the two must work together to prevent a diabolical figure from unleashing hell on not only the residents of their plane of imprisonment... but other planes as well.

Mieruko Chan Anthology GN - Tomoki Izumi

The creepy, the crawly, the grotesque-the daily lives of Miko and friends when ghostly monsters lurk around every corner! The official comic anthology, brought to you by a variety of guest artists!

Bone: More Tall Tales GN - Jeff Smith & Tom Sniegoski

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The Never-Ending Party TP - Joe Corallo, Rachel Pollack & Eva Cabrera

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Of Thunder & Lightening GN - Kimberly Wang

Debut author Kimberly Wang crafts a thrilling two-tone sci-fi graphic novel, growing the seeds of hope from the gravel of apocalypse. In a world where pop media meets military power, two idol-supersoldiers are locked in a world-ending conflict on behalf of their corporate nations. Battles blast across a dying land, both sides convinced of their own righteousness. Ragnarok looms on the horizon. Yet Magni and Dimo-young icons created for the sole purpose of eliminating the other-find their closest reflection in their opposite. Now, completing their mission means destroying the one who understands them most.

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The Schlub #1 - Kenny Porter, Ryan Stegman & Tyrell Cannon

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Stuntboy: In Between Time HC - Jason Reynolds & Raul The Third

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The Naked Tree GN - Keum Suk Gendry-Kim

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Togue Oni: Primal Gods In Ancient Times GN Vol 1 - Kenji Tsurubuchi

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Whatcha scooping up this week, Fantom Fam?

[morethanjustmediocremusings]

The Power and Identity Dynamics Displayed In Fashion: Examining the Spring 1993 Perry Ellis Show Through Critical and Feminist Theories

A Senior Project Presented to The Faculty of the Communication Studies Department California Polytechnic State University, San Luis Obispo

In Partial Fulfillment Of the Requirements for the Degree Bachelor of Arts

By Taylor Abouzeid Winter 2021

Every day that you wake up and get dressed, you are engaging with fashion. Every time you shove a pair of glasses further up your nose, you are engaging with fashion. From the shoes that protect your feet to the hat that warms your head, fashion, quite literally, surrounds you. The fictional character of Miranda Priestly said it best “…it’s sort of comical how you think that you’ve made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry, when, in fact you’re wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room” (Frankel, 2006, 1:25:27). While it is well worth nothing the pervasive nature of the fashion industry, I desire to dig deeper. 

I yearn to interpret the meaning of a garment beyond its threads. To examine the power a collection of clothing has over society, is to hold a magnifying glass up to a mirror. Fashion is created from society, by society, and for society. 

The Perry Ellis Spring 1993 show exemplifies this deeper meaning of clothes. The grunge boots, deep tones, and fruitful florals rocked the brand’s traditional style with deafening deviancy (Condé Nast Archive, 1992). The radical and everlasting style that graced this runway was not immediately matched with the same awe and appreciation as it is given today. In fact, the Perry Ellis Spring 1993 show marked the final show for the coveted designer Marc Jacobs (Yaeger, 2015). 

It is through critical analysis that we are able to see fashion communicate with the outside world. Marc Jacobs was privy to this concept. He understood the power of fashion and by taking a deeper look, through critical analysis, into his final show for Perry Ellis one can see the hidden concepts of power and identity dynamics. Jacobs was removed from the Perry Ellis show immediately after the launch of his Spring 1993 collection (Yaeger, 2015).  Despite this expulsion from a top fashion house, Jacobs went on to create his own successful brand under his own name, Marc Jacobs (“International,” n.d.). Under new branding, Jacobs was able to create more contemporary and avant-garde designs than he was previously allowed under Perry Ellis.

By way of a critical evaluation, and through a feminist lens, I aim to explore the power and identity dynamics demonstrated in the Perry Ellis Spring 1993 show, designed by Marc Jacobs. Specifically, I seek to uncover the hidden meaning behind this selection of garments and take a closer look at the underlying inspirations behind the looks. 

Throughout this paper we, author and reader, will embark on an amazing journey of discovery. First, we will set the stage with a literature review encompassing fashion communication, Critical Communication Theory, Feminist Theory (and fourth-wave feminism), power dynamics, aspects of identity, Cultural Capital Theory, and trend dynamics. This lengthy section provides us with pertinent knowledge to bring all audience members to the same level of understanding. At the end of this literature review lies my research question, left for your eyes to gaze and your mind to ponder. Then I begin to explore my given unit of analysis, the Perry Ellis Spring 1993 Show designed by Marc Jacobs in the Methodological section of this paper. In the outcomes and evaluations section I begin to answer my own pressing questions and explain why exactly this study has an impact of the given field of Communication Studies. And if that’s not enough, I wrap it all up with a bow in my final summary. Here we go, thanks for joining me on this journey!

Literature Review Critical Communication Theory Critical theory, largely credited to Habermas (1968) is highly influenced by the works of Karl Marx (Fuchs, 2018). Marx mimicked many of Habermas’ ideations, such as language as a gear within capital and power, rather than a sperate function within itself (Fuchs, 2018). In order for Critical Communication Theory to avoid contradiction it must transcend the typical Habermasian approach (Fuchs, 2018). While Critical Theory has withstood the test of time, and continues to develop as of today, it is not outside its bounds to include and credit the work of Marx with the theory.

To review the cyclicality of a trend is to view an artifact as ever changing, malleable as the audience changes throughout time. One must first diagnose the age within its construction, and then apply Critical Theory work unto a given artifact (McLuski, 2007). The theory of critical communication is deeply reflexive, McLuskie (2007) uncovers the discourse surrounding mutual recognition by articulating the same flexible fundamentals as seen in this paper. Critical Theory has moved well beyond its starting position, for decades it has been applied and reapplied to dig deeper into the theory itself (McLuski, 2007). Critical Theory, as explained by McLuski (2007) observes an artifact as a worldly experience, with ties to separate and disconnected theories beyond the communicative realm. After all the explaining of positivism and Marxism, one theory remains at the center of it all: Critical Communication Theory.

Critical Theory was developed with the ability to continuously expand, and it is well within the reach of this paper to move beyond the more common applications of critical communication theory. Marx has long gone without appropriate accreditation for his work on Critical Theory (Fuchs & Mosco, 2012). It is in fact, the building blocks of Marx that communicative social change becomes feasible. The calls for a critique on exploitation, class and capitalism come from the work of Marx (Fuchs & Mosco, 2012) and are often an integral part of defining Critical Theory. By applying Fuchs & Mosco’s work on Marx (2012) one can begin to further expand this important theory. This expansion, exemplified by the current paper, must demonstrate the materialism between communication and culture, highlight the same activity from which information and communication intersect, and draw attention to the social construction of meaning (Fuchs & Mosco, 2012). At this intersection lies the Perry Ellis show, a show that broke boundaries of fashion and spoke to an audience beyond the traditional high fashion community. 

Feminist Theory Although self-titling a paper to include feminist critiques can often lead to assumptions of false intent and outdated intentions (Dare, 2007), Feminist Theory maintains a strict balance of inclusion and artifact criticism. It is throughout Dare’s (2007) article that we can identify the necessity of dismantling the historical separation of active and passive actions, which has often been used to strip away one’s ideology of individual capital. The important shift explored by Dare (2007) follows that one must not question the speaker themselves, but rather the forces that allowed a given speaker the stage presence to have their voice to be heard. Feminist Theory is far from reaching an outdated status update, but as these monumental shifts continue to happen, it is imperative that young scholars track this budding discourse.

While traditional approaches to Feminist Theory can be criticized for falling behind the times, modern fourth-wave feminism strives to move beyond common misconceptions. While the basic intentions behind the different segments of historical feminist movements have largely remained the same, it is more accurate to differentiate the waves by the tools used by modern feminists (Looft, 2017).  For instance, fourth-wave feminism is characterized by the ability to create and maintain online networks of community across national border lines (Looft, 2017). The feminist lens and efforts though which this scene will be evaluated is the same feminist lens that Loof (2017) describes as seeking to understand and revolutionize reproductive rights, freedom of speech, and workplace rights. This fourth wave of feminism was chosen due to the nature of my argument and because fourth-wave feminism remains the most current feminist perspective in 2021.

As seen in Biesecker (1992), Feminist Theory needs to be separated from the status quo. As women begin to be written into recent histories of rhetoric there needs to be a drastic shift in the processes of accepting new literature into the field. Women must be allowed in the public sphere of rhetorical content, in order for the field to continue its compounding exponential growth. It is within Biesecker’s (1992) article that the common criticisms of feminist theory, especially regarding inclusivity of content, are radically exposed.

Through the present application of fourth-wave feminism, and the perspective that Dare (2007) explored, the Spring show can be evaluated as not only an act of defiance, but an outright criticism of the power dynamics evident in the fashion industry. A clash between what is popular and what has always been, led to the capsule that is this collection. Femininity is explored though its contrast: strong women walked in low sole combat boots, stepping on the heads of patriarchy throughout the length of the catwalk. These details are what must be explored, for in the smallest crease of a garment there is the potential for pushing this feminist agenda. 

Power & Identity The negotiation process of social status is highly tied to one’s perception of others, and further, the ways in which all parties interact with one another (Pasztor, 2019). Pasztor (2019) utilized theories and experiences with power dynamics between tattoo shop clients and artists to uncover ritualistic actions that can be taken to assert higher or lower levels of power/dominance in a given interaction. Certain aspects of the “negotiation process” exposed personal motivations such as obtaining a consensus, or a perceived “win” over the countering party (Pasztor, 2019). Power dynamics are further explained to function as a mutual understanding between speaker and listener (Pasztor, 2019), through which rational conversation assumptions are held in play. As long as little listener maintenance is required to follow and interpret the message, power dynamics flow throughout the conversation through verbal and non-verbal paralanguage (Pasztor, 2019).

Identity dynamics hold a wealth of power over one’s own perceptions of an artifact and can be seen to define and characterize a given artifact by creating passages of understanding for audience members. While foundational understanding of identity typically originates within oneself, a crucial aspect of identity dynamics is the role that a single identity plays among others (Fredriksson & Johansson, 2014). There are strong ties from one’s identity to their surrounding experiences, and socially shared knowledge. From this common knowledge an understanding is further implied between author and audience. Identity dynamics can be seen at play in any given artifact. They hold the potential to collect or divide an audience, or in this case, a collection.

When examining external approaches to a given artifact, creating audience identity connections improves audience perceptions of the show. Cooper (2019) examined audience reactions to different female standup comedians to expose that audience members perceive shows to be more widely appealing if they consider themselves to be a part of the target audience. Here we see that identity work places the power in the hands of the audience members, such that they are the ones who decide the authenticity of the performance (Cooper, 2019). It is though the work of Cooper (2019) that we see the foundational elements of identity dynamics on the field of media and communication studies. 

Pertaining to the current analysis, there are two main identities to examine in the Perry Ellis show. First, the assertion of power from the presented new wave of individualistic and grungy fashion over the standardized and subordinate ways of the past. This exemplification of power dynamics places the Perry Ellis show in an interesting position. By putting forth a collection that critiques the industry in which it resides, Marc Jacobs directly challenged not only the participation of his audience members, but also the entire foundation on which elitist fashion originates. Second, it is crucial to examine the identity work of this collection. The presented styles spoke to a younger and more modern audience, one that understood and deeply engaged with the underground music scene. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this collection was the final show Marc Jacobs presented at Perry Ellis (Yaeger, 2015). The attitude of the show was so groundbreaking, that Jacobs became a risky designer – one who was not preoccupied with prioritizing the wants of industry officials, but rather desired to reflect society as it truly was. 

Cultural Capital Theory & Trend Dynamics Cultural Capital Theory is commonly sourced as a fundamental component of fashion trend prediction. Yoganarasimhan (2017) examined and researched trend adoption patterns to prove fashion was a signifier of cultural capital. Alongside Cultural Capital Theory often runs Wealth Signaling Theory, a concept which is disproven in the Yoganarasimhan article (2017). Within Yoganarasimhan’s (2017) conclusion a solidifying statistic substantiates ties between Cultural Capital Theory and predicted trend cyclicity.

Power over a given subject’s cultural capital is maintained by the ruling class. In this case, society’s elite, and those who control fashion investments, are considered to be the “ruling class.”  An examination of the different power structures within Afrikaans arts journalism highlighted the important strength of human agency on already changing structures of power (Cultural Capital and Change, 2012). Indeed, even after monumental shifts in power have occurred, cultural capital is still used by the newly instated class of leaders (Cultural Capital and Change, 2012). Cultural capital is used to self-prescribe and reinforce one’s assumed power and is seen in the transfer of power between human interactions well beyond physical conversations. 

While the cultural capital at the time of the Spring 1993 Perry Ellis show contrasted Jacobs’ runway, it is important to examine the ways in which the underground grunge subculture began to seep into the mainstream, in this instance, through fashion. This trend went against classical rules of Cultural Capital Theory. Models adorned smudged eyeliner and walked with heavy feet, decisions that, at the time, were groundbreaking. However, by bringing this Nirvana-influenced wave of fashion motifs to a “high culture” runway show, Marc Jacobs made the standout decision to change the present structures of power (AnOther, 2015). This show claimed a space in fashion history by unapologetically presenting a new, harsher take on fashion’s cultural capital. 

In sum, the culmination of this research has led me to the following question: “How have the power and identity dynamics evidenced in the Spring 1993 Perry Ellis Ready-to-Wear collection influenced today's social landscape?” I explore this question through looking at the present-day fashion scene. 

Methods Unit of Analysis The unit of analysis for the current paper is the Spring 1993 Perry Ellis fashion show, designed by the well-accredited Marc Jacobs. This show is unique in that it can stand alone as a moment in the past, encompassing all the amazing musical, political, social, and cultural influences that it grew from. While this show held tremendous value in that particular moment, its social worth continues today. This is in part due to the coincidental parallel growth of fashion and technology. For without the amazing documentation of this show, there is no way to guarantee its current social capital. Seventy-one looks have been eternally frozen in the once glossy pages, now the internet, of Conde Nast’s Vogue (Condé Nast Archive, 1992). These images have gone well beyond a singular audience, as the exact images and at-home replicas continue to grace the dashboards of Pinterest, Instagram, Twitter, and Tumblr. 

Looking at these images evokes ideation of timeless design. The variety of presented silhouettes allows for this show, in particular, to evade the confines of a style’s given decade. Arguably, Dr. Marten’s boots have always been in trend, but now, in 2021, we have seen a revival like no other. This particular footwear choice cannot be chalked up to one individual inspiration, but it would be foolish to not admit at least a small portion of Ellis’ contribution to the combat boot renaissance. From cropped cardigans, midi and maxi dresses, sheer tops, and embroidered details, many trends displayed in this show are still easily shoppable in today’s racks of retail storefronts. 

Let it be known, this particular show was not selected on a whim. After looking into the Anna Sui Spring 1993 show, the Jean Paul Gaultier Fall 1995 show, and my selection of choice –the Perry Ellis Spring 1993 show – I was left to my own decisions. I finally made my choice to move forward with the Perry Ellis show as the central focus of my senior project because the available coverage of information regarding the inspiration and the execution of this show is much greater than that of the other shows I explored. Furthermore, my selection was also heavily influenced by a personal desire to better understand the importance of Marc Jacobs as a designer for Perry Ellis.

Critical Analysis To best honor the traditions set forth by Critical (Communication) Theory (Habermas, 1968). I had to first, metaphorically, place my artifact well within a given span of time. While there are obvious and definite boundaries for the literal time frame of the show, the interpretations of the show make the time seem indefinite. Alas, like Critical Theory would suggest, I had to look outside what I should expect. I placed the artifact in the past and allowed the consequential river of reactions to flow forth without restraint. 

By examining the artifact in this manner, I was better able to recognize the power structures at play within the garments. The contrast of flowing fabrics tethered to the runway with a thick soled boot and the loud music paired with graceful models demonstrate ways in which power was created on the runway. By creating these harshly contrasting dynamics, a storyline can be implied through the dramatic threads. The clothing spoke of a rebellion, a lack of guilt, and a desire for control. While these claims may seem distant, it was only through Critical Theory that they became evident.

Analyzing Power and Identity Dynamics In order to apply and examine the power and identity dynamics at hand, I had to deeply engage with the materials surrounding the show. I was able to discover that Marc Jacobs sourced many inspirations from the grunge subculture headed by Nirvana superstar Kurt Cobain, and the likes of Courtney Love and other “reckless” celebrities of the era (AnOther, 2015). Through this analysis on the available inspirations, positions of power became more and more apparent. The models, though their garments, held the power. It was the combination of socially deviant clothes and traditionally accepted beauty that shocked the audience and placed the power in the models’ hands. By giving the audience the unexpected, the show took place at the highest position of power. As for the concepts of identity surrounding this collection, I have previously noted the importance of the grunge subculture on the Perry Ellis show, but further the nature of the show explores concepts of individuality and beauty within the unfinished.

Feminist Application For the final part of my analysis, I wanted to include a feminist perspective. To best match the concept of this artifact not only existing on the past but living in our future, I selected a moderate take on fourth-wave feminism. This decision to include feminist perspectives came naturally. This third and final lens gave me the ability to interpret the available dynamics at play in a more applicable manner. Through a feminist perspective the show serves a rebellious purpose, like a pungent fist in the air, or a march through a crowd. The Perry Ellis Spring 1993 show encapsulated feminist acts of defiance. 

In sum, fashion provides one way to interrogate our own reflections, both literally and figuratively. Created by individuals not removed from cultural conversation, fashion allows us to take a step back and reflect on our own lives. Critical Theory applies best to this moment of communication. By utilizing the strengths of the theory, the Perry Ellis Spring 1993 show can be viewed as an artifact within a given cultural moment. It is only through the use of Feminist Theory, however, that we can examine aspects of power and identity within the collection. Feminist thought provides a perspective of dynamicism, one that allows us to view objects, in this case individual garments, as signifiers of value. Cultural Capital Theory describes the process of creating and passing on trends. Within the Perry Ellis show we see prevalent cultural capital though the cyclicality and long-term reign of the presented trends. Having the Perry Ellis show as my unit of analysis allowed for greater exploration and in-depth evaluation of a broader range of topics, and with the application of my given theories the show is able to stand out as not only a moment in history, but a curtail aspect of today’s society. 

Findings Power in Fashion One of the most prevalent social dynamics in fashion is power. Commonly seen through shoulder pads, asymmetrical hems, sharp edges and dark colors, power is quite literally sewn into a large portion of runway garments. These exact design elements were foundational to Jacobs designs for the Spring 1993 show. Fashion, however, is not often limited by boundaries of such elements. Power can be shown through a multitude of other factors that play significant roles in a season’s presentation. In the Perry Ellis show, power is further exhibited through the dark Dr. Marten’s boots, sullen faces of the models, bold red stripes, and tonal patterns that adorned the more feminine garments. 

Contrast is another gigantic signifier of power in fashion. The clash of “high,” avant-garde, fashion and “low,” street, fashion is a more common example of this dynamic. Within Jacobs’ designs one can see this difference in style through his outfitting. Models in shiny, pink silk gowns wore smudged, dark makeup. While the soft colors and flowing fabric exude calamity and beauty, the “heroin chic” makeup speaks to Jacobs’ grunge influences (Condé Nast Archive, 1992). The distinction, yet simultaneous display of the two styles is a unique characteristic embodied by this show. 

Designers often use color pallets to convey messages of power in their projects. I identified this tactic in the Perry Ellis show most specifically in Jacobs’ printed designs. While the garments in soft and neutral tones lacked fabric embellishments, the black, red, purple, and green items were all printed with various beaded textures, plaid or striped prints, and often a mixture of them all (Condé Nast Archive, 1992). Jacobs’ decision to mix these patterns and prints in his runway show gave the presentation an edge that, at the time, was relatively new. 

This evidenced power dynamic has continued to influence audiences even today. Outfitting, both on the runway and off, continues to follow Jacobs’ trend of contrast. Whether through chunky sneakers with dresses, or Dr. Martens with feminine prints, contrast is still highly applicable in modern trends. As for coloration, black has long reigned as a color of power, which even today we see at play. Suits, a typical part of powerful dressing, are most commonly black, a sentiment that is undoubtfully influenced through color selection. Although these aspects of power may have not originated with Jacobs, it is through his final Perry Ellis show that we can see them most clearly featured.

Identity Threads While identity my not seem to be an individual aspect of fashion, the essence of alternative and individualistic societal precepts carries throughout the entirety of the Spring 1993 runway. Individuality of one’s own fashion can come in many forms, in the Perry Ellis show it was best evidenced through the inclusion of grunge aesthetics. By drawing inspiration from the grunge subculture and more specifically the band Nirvana, Marc Jacobs’ collection oozed identity (AnOther, 2015). The formation of subcultures comes from the diversity of society (Ulusoy & Schembri, 2018).  Through the inclusion of the grunge subculture into his work, Marc Jacobs was able to create an identity with his collection.

Creating and maintaining an identity with fashion is more common than you would think. Brands often select the subcultures that most closely align with their target audience to include in their shows. However, in the Spring 1993 Perry Ellis show, Jacobs stunned audiences by giving them what they least expected: grunge. Whereas the fashion market has often been associated with “high culture” contexts, the presented grunge culture forced audience members to engage with what had traditionally been viewed as “low culture.”

We all make decisions regarding fashion; thus, we all have a fashion identity. By adhering to a particular subculture’s aesthetic, blatantly neglecting it, or some middle ground of the two, everyone engages with fashion identities. The adherence to a given subculture has the power to give the clothing a genre, an identity. It is this concept, that was polished by Jacobs, that allows an essence of identity to be seen in the show. 

Cultural Capital of Clothing Cultural capital is that which holds influence in our society (Yoganarasimhan, 2017). However, in the context of fashion this can be most clearly seen through the presented runway shows each season. Quarterly (occasionally more often though), fashion houses create presentations to walk down their runway. The top houses, most outspoken brands, or cutting-edge designers hold the season’s cultural capital. 

This sense of influence/capital is strongly maintained by top brand houses each season and is later mimicked by “lower’ houses in the subsequential shows. While the terms “higher” and “lower” do not necessarily mean better or worse, there is often an implication that those brands who covet newer ideas sooner hold more cultural capital. This is exactly why the Spring 1993 Perry Ellis Ready-to Wear show was so substantially influential. It accomplished what no other brand had done before. 

The Perry Ellis show broke cultural capital norms. I believe that this show in particular was a standout in creating a new wave of fashion’s cultural capital scene. For after Marc Jacobs was fired from Perry Ellis following the debut of his Spring 1993 collection, other brands began to catch on to Jacobs’ genius. No longer did top houses hold the entirety of fashion’s capital. Small brands began to have more influence as they experimented with new concepts and continued to push new designs.

Trend Implications We see individual expression through clothing in many ways, but most pungently through the decision to engage with particular trends. Similar to the decision to adhere to subculture aesthetics, trends are presented by a season’s designers and trickle down through the retail market. While the average person only gathers a general idea of trends from what is sold to them on the racks and major retail outlets, designers and a whole team of trend forecasters are responsible for paving the way. 

This is where that Devil Wears Prada quote chimes in, “…it’s sort of comical how you think that you’ve made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry, when, in fact you’re wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room” (Frankel, 2006, 1:25:27). As Miranda Priestly goes on to renounce, even a specific color can be attributed to a singular choice made by designers. From the cut of your jeans, the height of your heel, or the print on your coat, trends are inescapable. 

There is no way to passively engage with fashion trends, every time you mix feminine blouses with hard plaid and call it “grunge” Marc Jacobs is to be thanked. Fashion shows across the decades have been responsible for the cyclicality of trends. It was the consequence of this very show that the presented trends still run rampant today. In reality however, it is quite rare to account a given trend all the way back to its original designs, as through the market chain they change and adapt with their audience.

Discussion Through powerful silhouettes, harsh stripes, and heavy boots, the Perry Ellis Spring1993 show is notable for its statement of power. This show gave fashion the chance to break down and challenge traditional runway presentations. The loud music and desire to reject fashion norms spoke of an identity given to the project. Through this formation of identity, the show itself became a trend. By examining the formation of trends through Cultural Capital Theory, it became obvious that the Perry Ellis show ranked in a position where its power could create an influence. These conclusions have consequences outside of the show’s legacy. This exploration of the Perry Ellis Spring 1993 show, designed by Marc Jacobs, has expanded the limits of Critical Communication Theory and challenged the ideas of feminist thought for power and identity work. 

Implications for Critical Theory It is through the work of Critical Theory that artifacts, such as the Perry Ellis Spring 1993 fashion show, are able to be deeply analyzed on an artifact-specific scale. The work of Critical Theory allowed for Jacobs’ show to be seen as highly influential, and remarkably pertinent. Through the Perry Ellis show, Critical Theory took on new grounds. By applying Critical Theory to such a topic as fashion, the theory as a whole can be seen as more applicable. Further, because Critical Theory was created with the intent to never stop expanding (Habermas, 1968), this paper provides an outlet through which the entire theory itself can be seen as continuing to grow and encompass more, and widely different, terrain. 

The work completed through this analysis of Jacobs’ designs also captured a new intersection of Critical Theory and media artifacts. While the unit of analysis is often a modern-media piece up for critical analysis, by focusing on a fashion show, Critical Theory’s scope of analysis has stretched to encompass an entirely new group of discourse. Given this newfound inclusion, Critical Theory can now be widely applied to projects outside of Communication Studies. As the groundwork for expanding Critical Theory has now be laid, others can easily begin their own expansion of the theory. 

Implications for Feminist Thought The analytical discussion that preceded was grounds for a reclamation of fashion as wholly feminist. By focusing on power and identity dynamics, the conversation centered fashion in an manner that presented its feminist capabilities. In the past, fashion has been seen as superficial and even potentially as a patriarchal crutch. Serving as a scapegoat for sexist behaviors and comments regarding feminine interests, fashion has rarely been engaged in such a way with feminist studies.  However, with a closer examination of the Spring runway, it has become radically clear that the garments were made in defiance of such societal and patriarchal rules and are actual evidence of defiance. 

From this paper, fashion has proven to be a weapon against norms and oppressive culture, and a beacon for all things individual and powerful. Allowing fashion to serve its intended purpose has expanded the previous limits of Feminist Theory. Engaging with fashion, previously used to dumb down, or discredit the interests of women, can now be seen as an intentional, critical, and even political choice. Feminist Theory, now with the addition of fashion, can begin to examine other ways in which clothing is used to empower, and potentially disenfranchise, feminine autonomy. 

Real World Implications Every day, we all wake up and engage with fashion. With, or without, notable intent we select what trends we desire to follow, and we confidently present them to the world. Without our knowledge, the Perry Ellis show has influenced every single individual, for it has continued to influence the entire fashion industry since its original exposition. It’s presented trends have rippled outward and could be seen as undetectable to the untrained eye. However, this analysis has provided the lens though which one can see the designs’ influence.

This show, designed by Marc Jacobs, is remarkable for this influence yet remains unrewarded for its daily application. Although for many, the influence that Marc Jacobs has had on the fashion industry will continue to go unnoticed, this paper has set a prescient to appreciate the center of origin for current and past trends. Similarly, at the hand of this exploration, fashion has become a topic worthy of critical exploration; one that is conducive for further research. 

Limitations and Thoughts for Expansion While this paper was able to completely grasp at the importance of fashion, and more specifically the Spring 1993 Perry Ellis Ready-to-Wear fashion show, designed by the incredible Marc Jacobs, it lacks evidence of other shows continuing this strong wave of influence. Undeniably, fashion has, and continues to be, influenced by a rage of different collections. From designers, to music, to various subcultures, fashion gains inspiration from everywhere. To strengthen the argument that fashion affects everyone, it is very necessary to examine other potential areas of trend inspiration. 

If we, as a society, are to continue to expand our understanding of fashion to include noteworthy moments of inspiration, it is crucial for others to expand my presented topic. Many other shows hold similar relevancy to the Perry Ellis collection, and many other designers deserve similar accreditation. Thusly, for future efforts, I would deem it highly necessary to continue the application of the given theories to a multitude of differing shows. 

Conclusion I wrote this paper with the intention of expanding the limits of Critical Theory, and feminist thought. I wanted to explore the range that power and identity dynamics had within these houses of thought. It is through the Perry Ellis Spring 1993 show that I was able to accomplish such work. Through both a feminist lens and Critical Theory, power and identity dynamics have been emphasized as key aspects of fashion. By drawing attention to the minute details of the designs and approaching the analysis with a concrete understanding of fourth-wave feminism, this paper exemplified my goals. This culmination of thought is now able to show how applicable high-fashion concepts are in every-day life. 

Fashion no longer has to be seen as an abstract office hidden somewhere in New York, fashion is everywhere around us. By taking a closer look at the fashion that surrounds you, it becomes apparent that what once could have been seen as a drab jacket, is actually a statement of power through its broad shoulders, dark colors and sleek fabric. Fashion is more than just the clothes we throw on our bodies, fashion is a deeper reflection of society than many know. With this paper, the Spring 1993 Perry Ellis show, designed by Marc Jacobs, has become eternally influential for all of us who engage with fashion.

References AnOther. (2015, June 4). Marc Jacobs' S/S93 nirvana tribute at Perry Ellis. https://www.anothermag.com/fashion-beauty/7476/marc-jacobs-s-s93-nirvana-tribute-at-perry-ellis Biesecker, B. (1992). Coming to Terms with Recent Attempts to Write Women into the History of Rhetoric. Philosophy & Rhetoric, 25(2), 140-161. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40237715 Condé Nast Archive. (1992). Perry Ellis spring 1993 ready-to-wear [image gallery]. Vogue. https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/spring-1993-ready-to-wear/perry-ellis/slideshow/collection Cooper, S. K. (2019). What’s so funny? Audiences of women’s stand-up comedy and layered referential viewing: Exploring identity and power. Communication Review, 22(2), 91-116. https://doi-org.ezproxy.lib.calpoly.edu/10.1080/10714421.2019.1599666 Cultural capital and change: Afrikaans arts journalism and the democratic transformation of South Africa. (2012). Conference Papers – International Communication Association, 1-30. Dare, A. (2007). Shifting tides: Transnationalizing feminist communication theory. Conference Papers – National Communication Association, 1. https://search.ebscohost.com.ezproxy.lib.calpoly.edu/login.aspx?direct=true&db=cms&AN=35506504&site=ehost-live&scope=site Frankel, D. (Director). (2006). The devil wears prada [film]. Fox 2000 Pictures. Fredriksson, M., & Johansson, B. (2014). The dynamics of professional identity. Journalism Practice, 8(5), 585-595. https://doi-org.ezproxy.lib.calpoly.edu/10.1080/17512786.2014.884746 Fuchs, C. (2018). Towards a critical theory of communication with George Lukács and Lucien Goldman. Javnost-The Public, 25(3), 265-281. https://doi-org.ezproxy.lib.calpoly.edu/10.1080/13183222.2018.1463032 Fuchs, C., & Mosco, V. (2012). Intrduction: Marx is back – The importance of Marxist theory and research for critical communication studies today. TripleC (Cognition, Communication, Co-Operation): Open Access Journal for a Global Sustainable Information Society, 10(2), 127-140. https://doi-org.ezproxy.lib.calpoly.edu/10.31269/triplec.v10i2.421 Habermas, J. (1968). Knowledge and human interests. John Wiley & Sons. https://www.wiley.com/en-us/Knowledge+and+Human+Interests-p-9780745694177 International. (n.d.). Marc Jacobs Official Site. https://www.marcjacobs.com/default/aboutmarc/louis-vuitton-1997.html Looft, R. (2017). #girlgaze: Pornography, fourth wave feminism, and social media advocacy. Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies, 31(6), 892-902. https://doi-org.ezproxy.lib.calpoly.edu/10.1080/10304312.2017.1370539 McLuskie, E. (2007). The “recognition turn” in critical theory as a communication theory for peace. Javnost-The Public, 14(4), 19-36. https://doi-org.ezproxy.lib.calpoly.edu/10.1080/13183222.2007.11008950 Pasztor, S. K. (2019). Parlez in the parlor: Greeting rituals, power dynamics, negotiation, and goal achievement in tattoo artist-client discourse on TLC’s NY Ink. International Journal of Communication & Linguistic Studies, 17(1), 23-41. https://doi-org.ezproxy.lib.calpoly.edu/10.18848/2327-7882/CGP/v17i01/23-41 Yaeger, L. (2015). Slammed then, celebrated now, Marc Jacobs’s Perry Ellis grunge show was a collection before its time. Vogue. https://www.vogue.com/article/marc-jacobs-perry-ellis-grunge-collection-90s-fashion Yoganarasimhan, H. (2017). Identifying the presence and cause of fashion cycles in data. Journal od Marketing Research (JMR), 54(1), 5-26. https://doi-org.ezproxy.lib.calpoly.edu/10.1509/jmr.15.0119 Ulusoy, E., & Schembri, S. (2018). Subculture as learning context: Subcultural music consumption as language, channel and journey. Consumption, Markets & Culture, 21(3), 239–254. https://doi-org.ezproxy.lib.calpoly.edu/10.1080/10253866.2018.1447463

[intentosolenne]

i have the most random of headcanons for billy since when i discovered he has a pianola ( you... you call it pianola too, right? ) in his freaking bathroom.

i don’t believe billy to be a particularly morning person  ——  both because he used to go to bed when it was nearer morning than night, and because he always had serious troubles waking up in general: when he opened his eyes, his brain wouldn’t connect with the rest of the body for at least a couple of hours, during which he would do things automatically and without being really aware he was doing them. one of these things was going to the bathroom, lean his had on the wall, hit the record button on the pianola and just... start composing, extremely randomly, and somehow some very nice melodies always came out of it. with the only problem that then he kept forgetting about them. his mind was blank, he wasn’t aware the slightest of what he was doing.

something like a year later, he randomly noticed the pianola had records ( probably the memory card was full and he wondered ‘uhh weird, why?’ ), started listening to them, and was blown away by his own music made when awake since less than an hour. he later took all those recordings and made a full album out of it  ——  which, i bet, was called after the fact that he was pooping while doing them. because why wouldn’t he brag about having composed successes while on the toilet?

needless to say, they were at the top of musical rankings.

[fatehbaz]

[T]he stink of the fishmeal plants in Iquique. [...] Local residents called it “the smell of money.”

Domestically produced fish flour had become the primary source for fish food in the new salmon farms that had begun to scar the [...] lakes and fiords in the Chilean south. It would also become dog food, and the “high protein cookies” on school lunch menus [...]. It would fatten pigs in Germany and chickens in California to satisfy the voracious appetites of a competing species now referred to simply as “the consumer.”

In her recent book, The Fishmeal Revolution, environmental historian Kristin A. Wintersteen follows the scent of the uniquely situated and environmentally sensitive biomass from the unusually cold and nutrient rich Humboldt Current that bathes the western coast of South America. [...] The sheer scale of biomass extraction for land-animal consumption constituted nothing less, in her view, than a colonizing expropriation of the world’s oceans. The masters of the land had claimed the vast wealth of the planet’s seas [...]. Moreover, like the British in India and the Spanish in Latin America, the colonizers did not understand the complexity of the space they had appropriated. [...] Wherein the abundant ocean life survives at all, that survival is a testament to species’ resilience and [...] the long [...] cycles [of the sea] [...].

---

During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, from Norway to California, the ocean’s “trash fish” and offal from canneries had become the raw material for fertilizer and protein supplements in animal feed. As northern hemisphere fishing industries overfished their own waters, their gaze turned south. The magic of an apparently infinite supply of plankton-eating anchoveta off the western coast of Latin America depended on the frigid Humboldt Current that moved northward just off the west coast of the South America. But the abundance of anchoveta, and the prosperity of the complex ecosystem that depended on it, periodically gave way to an unpredictable cycle of warmer currents known as, El Niño. [...] [N]ineteenth and early twentieth-century agriculturalists created their own expanding niche in the maritime ecosystem by using fish parts [...]. [T]he golden anchoveta [...] became a special target [...].

Progress promised a bright future. [...] In the 1960s, the precariously built settlement of Chimbote, on the northern coast of Peru, became a boomtown. For a few short years, it was home to the world’s largest single-species fishery. That boom would bust in a spectacular way with the El Niño phenomenon of 1972. After 1980, [...] the Chilean ports of Iquique and Talcahuano began to harvest and process the anchoveta as its northern neighbor had done. [...]

---

In his study, La Frontera: Forests and Ecological Conflict in Chile’s Frontier Territory [...], historian Thomas Klubock observes how early twentieth century developmentalism treated the temperate forest of the Chilean south as if it were a non-renewable resource. The Chilean nation state had set about “mining the trees”, as it were, and leaving behind a charred wasteland, without regard to social or environmental impact. In Wintersteen’s account, a similar dynamic drove Pacific fisheries to self-destructive excess [...]. Producers assumed that “any fish not extracted from the sea had no value” (115). As the 1972 collapse unfolded in Chimbote, fishermen saw that two thirds of their catch consisted of juveniles, up from one fifth in normal times. And yet, they dutifully ground them all into fish meal, to meet their contracts with foreign hog and poultry farmers. [...]

[T]he modern state assumed that it could own the seas. Therein lies the rub. The Chilean national anthem triumphantly proclaims, the sea that peacefully washes your long coastline promises you a splendorous future.

Or, does it? [...]

---

Coastal communities had a word for the fluctuations of fortune, the vaivén, a contraction of the Spanish, va y viene - comings and goings.

The term reflects a[n] [...] acceptance of the unpredictable cycles of wind and wave to which humanity, like all other species, had to adapt. Neoliberal capitalism has no place for that kind of thinking. The linear growth charts of capitalized industry [...] presupposed an unlimited potential for growth. The Humboldt Current ecosystem has proven that the myth of unlimited growth is radically unsustainable. [...]

As any child in Iquique could tell you, what adults called the smell of money was simply the stink of dead fish.

---

All text above by: Nathan Stone. “Review of The Fishmeal Revolution: The Industrialization of the Humboldt Current Ecosystem by Kristin A. Wintersteen (2021).” Not Even Past. 22 September 2021. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[nightwishesworld]

Jealousy

It was a quiet day at the Dimitrescu Castle. The girls were unusually calm going about their business in and out of the basement, keeping their messes down there for the most part. None of the staff was being chased down the corridors in fear of their life and even better; there were no crashing sounds of decorative pieces being broken. Only silence. You and Alcina settled in the library for the afternoon. It started off nice with the two of you lost in your own novels, but it wasn’t long until the vampire grew bored and wanted cuddles. You were more than happy to oblige. It was one of those days that you’d call perfect. Alcina lounged on the couch with her head resting on your lap. Her eyes are closed and all she can focus on is your rhythmic breathing and the feeling of your fingers gently massaging her scalp. A perfect lazy afternoon. You almost thought she had fallen asleep until suddenly her eyes were open, glowing their beautiful gold. Alcina raised her head and sat upright, eyes glued her eyed to the main doors.

"Someone coming, Darling?" You ask in a low voice, reaching blindly behind you for the weapon concealed under the cushions.

She nods. "Sounds like a woman running out of breath. Perhaps a maiden managed to escape the basement." She leaned toward you like she was ready to shield you from whoever was making their way down the corridor. You could hear the footsteps now, they were coming closer and closer to you. Alcina was right, it was definitely a woman, the footsteps were much too delicate to be a man. Said vampiress was practically on top of you now, her arm supporting her weight on the opposite side of you, just in case you needed to be protected.

Whoever it is was just outside the door. You both braced yourselves as the door now twisted. Just as Alcina was about to pounce on the intruder, you both recognized her as one of the maids. False alarm. It was only Mihaela, a very dear friend of yours from the below village. You grew up together and considered yourselves sisters. When her father passed away Alcina welcomed the girl into the castle with open arms. The girls had been introduced to Mihaela on more than one occasion and knew not to harm her. You'd like to think they consider her more or less a friend.

"What are you doing here, dear," Alcina immediately relaxes back onto the couch. "It's your day off, is it not?"

The girl nodded, physically unable to get any words out.

"Good Lord, Mihaela, did you run all the way up the mountain?"

She nodded again. Alcina stood to fetch her a tall glass of water. Mihaela eagerly accepted. "Y/n!" she rasped. "You'll never guess who's in the village right now asking about you."

You share a sideways glance with Alcina, waiting for the girl to continue. Who could possibly be asking about me?

"E/n, your ex!"

If you were drinking something you would have choked. That was a name you hadn't thought about in years. To say you were not expecting that would be the understatement of the century. You don't know what to say. What can you say? What could they possibly want with you after all these years? Money? A place to stay? Work?

Sweet spawn of Satan Aclina would kill them.

She's still staring at Mihaela with an expressionless look on her face.

"What?" You hope you simply heard her wrong.

Mihaela nods vigorously. "I know! I couldn't believe it either. There I was, helping my little brother open up shop for the day and I see them walk by. At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, but the next thing I know they're inside the shop hugging me! I could barely get a word out I was so floored."

"I thought they left to tour Romania looking for their 'dream job?'"

"Didn't work out. I guess no one would keep her employment for long. They said they were too good for the jobs anyway, can you believe that?"

"Honestly? Yes. You remember how outlandish they were, guess they haven't changed too much."

Mihaela giggled. "It sure felt that way."

"So wait, how did my name get brought up?"

"They asked if you were still around- seemed pretty keen on seeing you again."

Alcina rolled her eyes. "Marvelous."

You take her gloved hand in yours and give it a reassuring squeeze. She eases up a little bit as you rub circles on top of her hand. "You said no, right?"

"Of course I did!"

"Then why do you look so nervous, Mihaela?" Alcina asked.

The girl stood like a statue, only moving to twiddle her thumbs. Silence fills the room as the matriarch waits patiently for the girl to speak. Her eyebrow arches as if she says "I'm waiting..."

Finally, Mihaela speaks. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in.</p>

"As I was leaving I heard them asking others of your whereabouts. It's only a matter of time before they find out the truth."</p>

"Well that's just fantastic then, isn't it? Now we can't even go down to our own village without risking an encounter."</p>

Mihaela gave a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry, Lady Dimitrescu. They're not staying in our village, just passing through. I believe they said the village just east of us, on the other side of the forest."

Alcina hummed. "Best to stay away then, don't you agree, Love?"

You couldn't nod your head quick enough. "Of course. What do they want with me though? I haven't even thought about them in years."

Mihaela shrugged. "I guess they just wanna talk? Reconnect with all our old friends? I didn't ask; just said you weren't around anymore."

"Couldn't you have just told them I died or something? That would have solved everything! They wouldn't be going around using about me AND if they ask to visit my grave you just bring them to the coolest tree in the forest and say I'm buried under it. My body intertwined with its roots. You could've had so much fun with the dramatics!"

"Do you think they'd be stupid enough to come looking her y/n up here?" Alcina asks in an almost hopeful tone.

Mihaela rolls her eyes. "Well, I only came to warn you. You know how...persistent they can be. Now that I'm here, may I stay and pick up some work?"

"Of course you may, my dear. If it's the trek back down you want to avoid I can always call a carriage for you."

"That's very generous of you, my Lady, but really, I don't mind. I like to keep busy."

Alcina nodded, accepting the answer. "Very well, dear. My study could use another dusting once you've regained yourself."

As the doors close behind Mihaela, the matriarch relaxes and lies back down with her head on your lap."Well, that was interesting."

You immediately start running your fingers through her hair. "No kidding, What the hell do they want from me? I thought we agreed we'd never have to look at each other ever again, now they wanna talk?"

"I wouldn't know. You've never told me about this person."

"I was sparing you, trust me." Alcina still looked up at you, her eyes flurrying with emotion. "There isn't much to tell, Al. We were together a few years and couldn't make it work so we started hurting each other, sometimes just out of spite. Really, Al, it's nothing I ever felt compelled to bring up; especially to you." You can't hold back a giggle. "You know how jealous you can be."

"I do not get jealous."

"Al, not two weeks ago you almost slaughtered the village butcher cause you didn't like the way he looked at me."

She rolled her eyes. "That swine was looking you up and down like you were nothing more than a piece of meat."

A comfortable silence fills the library. You're both lost in your own worlds together. Alcina stares up blankly at you as you continue to read."It was a serious relationship then? If it lasted a few years then it must have been."

You try to hide behind your novel and Alcina tosses it to the ground. You can't look her in the eyes without blushing and feeling really uncomfortable. "It was-umm...we were...briefly engaged."

"What?!" Alcina bolts up from her spot. "You were engaged?!"

You nod curtly. "Briefly engaged, yes."

Alcina just stares at you, completely flabbergasted. "When were you planning on telling me that?"

You pulled a confused face. "Um never? Why would I ever bring that up? Under what pretense is that an ok thing to bring up?"

"I..." She sighs, "I don't know."

"I'm sorry, Alcina. I didn't think it was a big deal."

"I suppose it's not. You're here now and that's all that matters."

You crawl on her lap and give her a sweet kiss. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Later That Night

You were out on the balcony gazing up at the array of constellations, waiting for Alcina to join you when there was a knock at the bedroom doors. Strange, no one is around at this hour. From your vantage point, it sounded like one of the servants talking to Alcina. He handed her something through the crack of the open door before having the door slammed in his face. Alcina joined you out on the balcony and handed you a rather beaten-up-looking envelope. "This was left for you by the main gates. Can't imagine who it's from?"

"Fuck, already?"

Alcina hummed as she sipped her wine. "A letter from your ex-fiancee."

"Wanna read it together?"

Alcina shakes her head but it looks forced. "It's none of my business."

"I don't care Alcina, really. This is clearly bothering you and I want to know what's going on between them and me."

"Well, if you're sure then." She hands you a letter opener and curls up next to you. The action briefly reminds you of a puppy looking for attention.

You waste no time opening the envelope and pull out a short, sloppily written letter.

I hope this letter finds you well. Please, before you crumple this up and throw it away please just hear me out. I want to apologize for how I treated you when we were together. Obviously, we were both dealing with a lot back then because we were young and stupid, but I'd like to think I've changed a lot since then. Don't get me wrong, I still have my moments, I'm only human, But I really have changed. If you still hate me and never want to talk to me again I understand. I wanted to say I'm sorry and see if we could make an effort to at least stay friends. I'm not the wreckless teenager you used to know and I've always thought about reaching out to you.

These past years of backpacking have taught me a lot and helped me grow up. I had to learn how to fix my own problems and not lean on someone else's support. I had to learn how to live off the land and support myself through the good and bad times. I realize now that I wasn't able to take care of you because I was unable to properly take care of myself. I see that now. You were never far from my mind; I thought about you every day I was gone.

The blacksmith told me you're working at Dimitrescu Castle as a handmaiden? Never thought you of all people would ever accept that kind of job, but hey, I guess I'm not the only one that changed. I hear it's pretty tough up there...then again you're the toughest person I've ever met. If anyone can handle it it's you. How are they treating you up there?  What's it like living in such a massive castle? You know me, I would probably lose my way and get lost haha.

I really hope you decide to write back, but no pressure. I understand everything we went through was...a lot to deal with and you want your space. Just in case you want to respond, I'll leave my address enclosed. A nice elderly couple is letting me stay with them in exchange for work. How sweet is that? It's mostly just labor chores around the house that need to be done so it's no big deal.

Best regards,

E/N

You share a look with Alcina who only scowls at the piece of paper. "I don't like the sound of this."

You shake your head, genuinely lost for words."I don't even know what to say, honestly."

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know."

Alcina sighs and sits you on her lap, straddling her thick thighs. "I know you're going to say forget about them because of me," she silences you with a single finger to your lips. "But it's ok. I know you love me and only me. You're allowed to have friends outside the castle, my love, and I have no right to deny you. Even if this particular friend was your ex-fiancee; I trust you completely."

Your heart was melting in your chest. Even though it looks like it took all her strength to say those words you know she means it. 'Thank you, Alcina. I know you don't like this, but I would at least like to hear what they have to say. Our relationship wasn't a happy one at the end and, well, I don't know, I guess I just want some closure. But I promise every letter I get we will read together."

"Oh you don't have to do that, love, I trust you."

"I know and I appreciate that very much. But I want you to know exactly what's being said between the two of us, even if it's just to ease your mind about them."

Alcina smiles down at you and strokes your lips. "What have I done to deserve you?"

"Whatever it was, you definitely deserve me."

Three months and several letter exchanges later

“Why do we entertain this, again?”

You glanced up after opening the latest letter received. “Because, my love, all they’re looking for is a friend. It’s been a long time since they left the village and a lot has changed, the people included. Trust me, as soon as they make more friends down there they will get bored of me.”

Alcina only groaned in response as she laid herself down on the bed, rather dramatically, so her head was in your lap. “Doesn’t sound that way to me. Last week they said, and I quote, it means the world to me that we’re talking again. I can’t believe after all this time and everything we’ve been through you’re still willing to talk to me.” She sighed. “I’m still surprised myself.”

You lean down and kiss her lips chastely. She pulls you back onto her and bites your lower lip, causing you to gasp. She takes this opportunity to deepened the kiss, caressing your tongue with her own.

You only pull away when the need for oxygen is desperate. “You’re needy when you’re jealous.”

She scrunched her face in disgust. “I told you I am not jealous. There’s nothing to be jealous of. They are nothing.”

“It’s ok babe, I think it’s cute.” You kiss her sweetly. “Shows me how much you love me.”

A light blush powdered Alcina's cheeks. “Well, I do love you.”

“I love you too.”

She closes her eyes and focuses on the feeling of your fingers running through her hair. “So, what are they saying this time?”

“Nothing interesting. They’re still looking for work, I think they might still be holding out on us hiring them. Even though I made it very clear there’s no place for them here.”

“Absolutely not,” Alcina growled. “It’s bad enough I have to listen to you read these damned letters why would I want to hire them? Short-staffed or not that...person is not allowed in my home.”

“I know Darling, I made it very clear. You know that.”

“I know you did. You were sweet enough to let me read it.”

You chuckle as you continue reading. “I let you read all the letters, Alcina. You’re my partner and I love you. You have a right to know what’s going on.”

She moved to sit up and kissed the top of your head. “I appreciate that.”

She made her way over to the vanity and starts taking off her makeup. You paid her little attention as you continued glazing over the letter. This has become your weekly routine; open the letter, read it first by yourself, and then give it to Alcina to read over so she can make fun of the person for the rest of the night. You think it’s her way of letting all her jealous energy out. She knows you and this particular ex were extremely close. It was the deepest relationship you had been in previous to Alcina. But it was also the most toxic relationship you had ever been in.

Every week you got the letter you would assure her there was no reason to get jealous or upset as she does. Not that you minded the extra cuddles and kisses that came along with jealous-clingy Alcina. It was cute. The way she gets close and cuddly with you like an attention-starved kitten.

You were about halfway through the letter when you realized the handwriting changed ever so slightly. It appeared sloppier than the previous paragraphs, almost as if the writer’s hand was shaking as they wrote. Then as you continued down the page the reason became apparent.

“....what are the odds us giving our relationship a second chance? I’ve changed a lot over the years and now that I’m back...maybe things would be different? I never lost feelings for you. This has been on my mind for a while now, but I’ve been too scared to bring it up until today.”

Oh god....

You turn back to Alcina who thankfully hasn’t noticed your sudden nervous energy. You take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your nerves, before continuing.

“My feelings never really went away, only transferred from person to person cause I wanted them to be you. But they weren’t and never can be. You have always been so special to me- you should know that by now. It’s nice having you here again. You were a major part of my life growing up. I wish I could change not having you around these past years cause you were my everything.”

You raise a hand to cover your mouth and bit down on one of your fingers.

As you look up to check on her your heart sinks as you’re met with her eyes burning into you through the reflection of the mirror. She knows something’s wrong. Of course, she knows- she always knows! It’s like she can smell your nervousness from across the room. She doesn’t break eye contact even when removing her lipstick.

You try your hardest to pretend she isn’t staring and continue on reading.

“If there’s a way to make your feelings for me come back you better believe I’ll find it. But I know I can’t force you to feel something you don’t anymore. It’s just always been so easy to connect with you. That’s why I want to try and rekindle our flame. You’re such a loving, generous, kind-hearted person to be around. I always admired you for that. To this day I’ve never been able to connect with someone as deeply as I did you.”

“For fuck sake...” you thought. “It can’t get any worse than this right? It can’t possibly get any worse.”

You don’t have to look up to know that Alcina’s stare has intensified. Her eyes are practically burning holes in the back of your head. You know the game she’s playing too...she’s gonna wait until she knows you’re finished reading and come over to read it for herself and let the rages of hell consume her. After all, you’ve seen how out of control her temper can become, this year alone she’s gone through three replicas of her vanity. And that was only because Mother Miranda called.

“....I’m glad to hear you’re in good health. Your health has always been something I worry tirelessly about, even when we weren’t on good terms.”

You sigh in relief. “Ok, that’s not so bad. I guess I can forgive that one. My health has always been up and down, even Alcina worries like a dog over me some days.”

“When I leave again maybe you can come with me? We always did talk about living in the country. We can have our own land for whatever animals you want and a barn to match.”

You actually yelp out of surprise. “Holy shit that’s worse...that’s so much worse. Alcina is going to be livid when she sees this.”

Your attempt to steady your breathing fails miserably. The most you can hope for now is to not make eye contact- then she sees how much of a nervous wreck you are. “Don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t look- FUCK!”

In an instant, Alcina’s up and making her way to stand behind you, won’t glass in hand. She’s already glaring down at the piece of paper like it personally cussed her out. “What did that lowlife say this time?”

“Alcina, I don’t think you should-“ it’s too late. She’s already snatched it out of your hands.

You start inching away as you watch her facial expressions morph from displeased to disgust, to seething as her eyes scan the bottom of the page. Her breathing is heavy, her nostrils are flaring, and her eyes glowing a bright gold as she recites the final paragraph out loud.

“I’m always going to be here for you from now on. I made the mistake of missing all those years with you. I ain’t missing no more.

Goodnight, MY LOVE?!”

You bring a hand up to hook around her arm. “Calm down, Alci.”

She doesn’t respond. Everything is quiet for what felt like hours when in reality it was only about a minute. You watched her eyes scan over the page over and over again until they fall back on you.

You have never really been scared of the vampiress, she never gave you a reason to be. But those eyes hold no mercy. You want to run away and cower somewhere she’ll never find you, the abandoned passages maybe, but fear has you frozen in place.

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, it’s one of those psychopathic smiles someone sees right before they die. She notices your cautiousness and is quick to retract her claws and thread her fingers through your hair. “If you’ll excuse me, darling. There’s some business I must attend to in the basement.”

“Alci-“

“I’ll be back later tonight, porumbel mic. Don’t wait up.”

Hours passed before you abandoned the idea of sleeping and decided to stroll around the castle. It was usually only done with Alcina when one of you had trouble falling asleep, but since she was still nowhere to be found you figured it couldn't hurt to try by yourself. Bloodcurdling screams from the basement were particularly loud tonight. The girls must have found themselves new toys to play with. No matter which part of the castle you were in you could hear the muffled cries of the damned. You wrote it off as Daniela and Cassandra being particularly intense. Eventually, you ran into Bela while in the west wing. She flashed you a broad smile.

"A little late for you, isn't it y/n?"

"Couldn't sleep. Your sisters are having a lot of fun tonight, huh?"

The eldest vampire sibling shot you a confused look. "What are you talking about?"

"All the screaming in the basement, that's them, right?"

She started laughing. "Oh no, y/n, that's all Mother's doing. She's pretty pissed about something; I haven't seen her this mad in decades! And from the looks of it, I bet you know why."

You rubbed the back of your neck and look around the corridor, really anywhere other than Bela's eyes. "Well..."

"Ooh! What is it? What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything, not really. It's just, someone I used to be in a relationship with has been sending me letters and Alci thought it would be alright if I responded. Just to make sure they knew I was happy and safe and all that kind of stuff. Then after I'm done reading what they sent me I give the letter to your mother to let her read. So she knows there's nothing going on between the two of us, ya know?"

Bela nods, stars shining bright in her eyes. "OOh what did the letter say?"

"They um, confessed they still had feelings for me. And they were thinking about running away with me to the countryside."

Bela looked like she was going to explode from all this excitement. You knew she was only pretending to not know about all the other letters. Bela was the gossip seeker of the family. Nothing made the girl happier than to have something to blackmail you with, or anyone really. There was no escaping her wrath, not even Alcina could.

"Mother must have been seething!"

"Yeah," you felt rather guilty about it. "I guess she's taking her anger out on the basement dwellers."

Bela giggled. "Better them than us, right?"

"No question about it."

It's after three in the morning when Alcina finally crawls into bed next to you. She's already stripped herself naked and there's a thin layer of sweat covering her body. She wraps herself around your back and you try to be as still as possible, giving the illusion you're fast asleep. You should have known better. This is Alcina Dimitrescu we're talking about here. The woman can probably smell your anxiety from the other side of the castle.

"I told you not to wait up."

You sigh and roll over on your back. "I slept a few hours, then woke up and couldn't fall back. Even walking around the castle didn't help."

The vampire shifted her body so she was almost laying on top of you; her arm is draped over your middle, a leg nudging between yours, and she's nestling her face in the crook of your neck.

"Do you feel any better?"

Even in the low light of the moon, you can see her looking at you. "A little bit."

An uncomfortable silence filled the bedroom. Neither of you knew what to say if there was anything to be said. You decide to break the silence.

"I'm sorry, Alcina. You were right from the beginning. I shouldn't have engaged with them," your eyes widen at your own words. "Sorry, not the word I should have used."

She chuckles into your neck before giving your pulse point a kiss. "It's not your fault, porumbel mic. My anger is not directed at you."

"Still, I should have known this would happen. I'm not responding, of course."

She starts kissing and licking down your neck. "Good. Alcina Dimitrescu does not share her porumbel mic with anyone."

Soft quiet moans began escaping your mouth, which encouraged Alcina even more. You shared a brief moment of unspoken words before joining your mouths to one another. You move to straddle her and press your body into her with everything you've got. For the rest of the night, you proceed to remind Alcina just how much you love her.

A week later in the village

It was a quaint little village, full of blossoming flowers in the spring and cheerful wildlife wandering around the outskirts. The people of the village fended for each other all year round. It was a very tight-knit place to live. Chatter fills the air along with the tantalizing aromas from various shops as the people go about their daily routines. You and Bela had accompanied Alcina while running some errands. Nothing important, really, just picking up various perfumes and lotions the matriarch was running low on. Bela made herself comfortable sitting by the fountain in the village square, growing rather impatient and bored.

You were about to suggest going in the shop with Alcina to help move things along quicker until you heard it. That single sound made your heart stop beating and drop to the pit of your stomach.

"Y/n!" They called from a distance. You groaned when you saw their silhouette approaching, and nearly pulled your own hair out when you saw how happy they were to see you. Bela, however, looked very pleased with the change of atmosphere. "OOH y/n is that them? The one from the letters that wants to run away with you?"

You nod.

As they get closer Bela pretends to gag. "Ew, you were seriously going to marry that?"

You elbow her in the side, hoping they didn't hear that. "I was young ok. Please just go get your mother and tell her to hurry up."

The girl flashed you an evil smile. "With pleasure."

She got away just in time. They greeted you not with a handshake, or a playful punch to the shoulder, but with a bone-crushing hug that lasted a little too long to be comfortable. "How's it going y/n? Gosh, I never thought I would be lucky enough to run into you here!" They pulled away and looked you over a few times. You had the inclination to cover yourself even though you were completely clothed. "You look incredible."

"Thanks, it's uh, nice to see you too."

"So what are you doing here little miss handmaiden? Running some errands for your Lady or is it your day off or something? Do handmaidens even do stuff like that? I don't know. Anyways, if you aren't doing anything right now, you wanna grab something to eat?"

Fuck no

Before you could think of an excuse Bela was at your side again, smiling even more wickedly than before. "Mother is making her final purchase and then we're returning home. We best meet her at the carriage." Her eyes fixate on the person standing opposite of her like a wolf to its prey. "You must be e/n. I've read so much about you!"

You elbow her in the stomach. "Bela!"

Meanwhile, e/n had never looked so embarrassed. "Oh, so you let them read all our-"

The gods were smiling upon you today. Being saved from awkward conversations left and right.

"Come along, my darlings. Time to go home," Alcina calls behind you. Your heart starts racing in your chest, whether it was from anxiety or anticipation you had no idea. As soon as Alcina locked eyes with your ex her entire face shifted. She went from calm and happy Mother Alcina to cold-hearted Lady Dimitrescu almost instantaneously. Your ex was in awe of the tall woman before them. They heard rumors about the Lady of course but always believed them to be just that; rumors and wives' tales.

Bela ran to her mother's side. "Mother, look, it's e/n from the letters."

You pinched the bridge of your nose and could swear you feel a migraine coming on.

Alcina looked them over and nodded. Her expression was neutral, but you knew her eyes held no mercy. "So it seems."

Your ex bowed in respect to Lady Dimitrescu ad greeted her politely. It wasn't bad actually, too bad they're already on Alcina's blacklist. "It's an honor to meet you, Lady Dimitrescu."

She smiles, "I know it is, dear."

You lost composure for a split second and let out a snort. "Apologies, my lady, are you ready to return to the carriage?"

Alcina only waved you off. "Oh come now, my love, there's no need to be so formal. They're a friend, after all, are they not?"

Yup, definitely feel a migraine coming on. Though you had to admit, the look on their face was absolutely priceless. They rubbed the back of their neck awkwardly. "I'll just um...I'll see ya around, y/n."

Alcina wore the proudest smile you had ever seen as they walked off.

"You're ridiculous sometimes, you know that?"

The vampires only laughed in response. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Alcina opened the carriage door for you and Bela to enter first, ever the gentleman, and took a moment to survey the village around her. Only when her eyes met your ex's did she enter the carriage herself, pulling her girls close.

[soleilsuhh]

— soon the cold night falls.

plot. when you went to doyoung’s place to study, you didn’t expect to end up staying the night and sleeping on the same bed.

pairing. doyoung x gender neutral! reader.

genre. college!au. fluff. suggestive. pining. good ol’ sharing-a-bed trope.

word count. 1.8k words.

you had been falling behind in maths, which was why you asked doyoung to help you study. although you didn’t have the same major, you knew he was more than proficient in the subject. he had eventually agreed to help but not without calling you an idiot first. this was how you found yourself in his rented studio apartment where he lived off-campus, about fifteen minutes from the university.

suddenly, you felt a hard but painless tap on your hand.

"are you listening?" he demanded, the look on his face is evident that he already knew the answer. he sighed, "pay attention, y/n, this topic is important."

"it seems like even you can't make maths interesting,"

he shot you a look at which you responded immediately by raising your palms up slightly in surrender, topped by a cheeky grin. you tried your best to focus as he continued with the explanation but by the time he reached to the next page, your thoughts began to drift away from the formulas and to the fact that the two of you were alone.

it wasn't as if this was the first time you had been alone with him in a room; you weren't sure why you were feeling jittery and why your foot was bouncing of its own accord under the table.

"—will you stop zoning out!"

his raised voice and the sound of frustrated slam of pen on the table startled you, effectively pulling you away from your thoughts.

surprisingly, the rest of the tutoring session went by smoothly. but it seemed like at some point while studying for what felt like forever, you fell asleep. when you woke up, you were pleasantly surprised to feel a jacket wrapped securely around you, and that its owner was also asleep in front of you, using his own arm as a pillow. his face was serene, the soft breathing making the world outside seem to stand still.

you grabbed your phone, trying to ignore the odd feeling in your heart. looking at the screen, you jumped, nearly causing the jacket to fall off your shoulders. it was already midnight, and you were still at his apartment. you reached over to shake doyoung awake, and as he rubbed his eyes, you showed him the lit-up screen.

he momentarily froze in his movements. "huh." he looked at you, "sorry, i didn't mean to fall asleep; i was planning to wake you up before your dorm curfew," he paused and after a moment, he said: “do you want to stay here tonight?”

your heart involuntarily beat faster at that and you brushed it off. it was probably a good idea; you were already an hour past the curfew. you said ‘okay,’ before calling your roommate to inform them. they sounded sleepy but nonetheless, relieved to hear from you. as you talked on the phone, doyoung walked over to his dresser and your gaze lingered after him.

“catch,” he said, throwing a simple tee and sweatpants at your direction just as you hung up.

you caught them clumsily.

“thought they might be more comfortable than your jeans, but you don’t have to change if you don’t want to,”

you smiled at him, “thank you,” you brought the clothes closer to get the whiff of fresh scent, “they smell really nice,”

he scoffed but not unkindly.

as you shuffled towards the bathroom to change, he began to put away the books on the table. when you came out, the table was cleared, everything neatly stacked and an extra bedding was spread out on the floor along with a pillow.

"you take the bed," he said, gesturing towards it.

you blinked at him for a moment then delcared, "hell no, this is your place anyway; i can sleep on the floor,"

"exactly, this is my place, so i make the rules," he said, "take the bed,"

you refused to move, not giving in but also uncertain about what to say. this was such a conflicting situation you were in; why did you care that much if he slept on the floor? why were your eyes so fixated on the fact that there was no extra blanket for him? what was this clenching feeling in your stomach?

"the bed is big enough for two people..." you awkwardly suggested. "i mean it's not like we've never shared a bed before,"

it's true; you had taken so many naps together - that was back in primary and middle school, yes, and things might not be the same anymore.

you could have sworn that you saw doyoung's movements stop after hearing your suggestion but he continued whatever he was doing on his phone. his lack of response was a clear enough answer for you.

"um, fine then," you said with a hint of despondency.

"i guess we can keep a pillow between us," his voice came. "i don't have an extra blanket too, anyway and it gets cold at night," he paused a brief second and lifted his head to look at you, "are you sure you're okay with sharing a bed?"

you nodded, a little too eagerly, a little too fast, "yeah, i'm okay with it! sounds good!"

the two of you remained motionless on the bed. it was awkward. you couldn't tell if he felt the same or if he was already asleep. he was lying still on his back, eyes closed and face relaxed.

you tried not to move too much, but you couldn't help yourself from restlessly tossing and turning, pulling the cover that you were sharing slightly closer to your body. he was right; the night was really cold.

suddenly, you felt a hand on yours, not grabbing it, just resting there and applying enough pressure to get your attention. you noticed how warm his hand was and you cherished it.

"y/n," his voice was soothing in the quietness of the night, "stop moving so much,"

you stopped and his touch, warm and gentle, lingered before he completely retreated his hand.

after a moment, you lifted your head slightly, "doyoung?"

"hmm?"

"i'm cold,"

he eventually opened his eyes and got out of bed with a sigh; he headed towards his dresser, the path dimly lit by the moon and then he came back with a hoodie which he tossed at you. "here,"

you mumbled a 'thank-you' as you put it on, feeling both thankful yet also...disappointed. you weren't sure why though. what exactly were you expecting anyway?

once again, both of you lied down on your backs, neither moving; his eyes closed, and yours wide open. minutes passed before you began to feel restless again. somehow, your mind wouldn't stop thinking about how warm his hand was and how yours was itching to be held again.

you turned your body to completely face him as you edged closer to the pillow barrier between you two. "doyoung?" you tried.

you waited a few seconds.

"what?"

"i'm still cold,"

you waited a few seconds. a few more. and a few more.

you were certain you wouldn’t get a response anymore. he was probably tired and dying to get some sleep. and he already gave you a hoodie; what more could he do for you?

sleepless, you found yourself distracted by how pretty he looked in the pale moonlight that came through the window. you noticed an eyelash on his cheek and tentatively, you reached over to gently brush it away. you were tempted to wake him so that he can make a wish but that probably wasn't a good idea. despite how warm his hand was, his face was cool under your touch, his skin so soft that you found yourself lightly trailing a finger along his features; first his cheekbone, then his nose, and when your finger reached his lip, his breath deepened and his eyelids moved albeit still closed. you stopped dead.

you weren't sure whether knowing that he was awake made you feel more nervous or more delighted. perhaps both.

your fingertips lingered on his skin, waiting for him to stop you but he didn't. you felt compelled to continue and that’s what you did; your fingers began moving again, trailing over the shape of his lips. with each passing second, your movements gained more sense of ease and certainty as your feathery touch brushed along his jawline, creeping down his neck, and then his collarbone.

you watched, marvelled as his breath hitched softly.

your fingers edged up his neck again.

and his hand grabbed your wrist. there it was. that warm touch of his.

he opened his eyes and your gazes locked.

the look on his face was unreadable and it made you all the more nervous and excited. the eye-contact broke only when you gulped, trying to shove the nerves down, and his eyes followed the movement on your neck.

“you said you’re cold?”

you nodded.

letting go of your wrist, his eyes met yours again. “turn around.”

you looked at him uncertainly, suddenly feeling a tingling sensation in your fingertips and toes. “why?”

he gave you a small, reassuring smile, and his hand reached out to trace along your jaw and down your neck, the maneuver emulating yours earlier.

“you’ll see,”

you shifted your position and turned until you were facing the other way. behind you, you felt the pillow between you two being lifted and placed on the other side of the bed. soon after, doyoung wrapped his arms around yours, pulling the covers over your bodies and holding you close. back pressed against his chest, you entwined your arm with his and laced your fingers together.

the two of you stayed like that for a while, still and quiet.

it was him who broke the silence, “how about now?” he said, “are you still cold?”

you smiled, “no, this is really nice,”

“good.”

it was a little awkward and stiff at first. but after a while, it became peaceful as you both slowly relaxed and allowed yourselves to melt into the warm embrace. your breathing slowed down and your heart stopped racing. the steady rise and fall of his chest was so comforting and you found yourself snuggling closer against his chest and into his arms.

“honestly,” you began, voice quiet but light-hearted, “i was kind of thinking about something else when you told me to turn around,”

he hummed amusedly and let out a chuckle. then he leaned forward to hover his lips over your ear, “i know what you were thinking,” his voice was barely above a whisper and held a tone of refrained laughter.

you shivered but eventually bursted out laughing, and he promptly joined, unable to contain it in him any longer. the laughter in the stillness of the night was heavenly. doyoung muffled himself by burying his face in your neck to stop himself from laughing too loud for the sake of the neighbors, but that only caused you to laugh louder and harder because of the tickling sensation. in spite of himself, he managed to whisper soft ‘shh’s and gently covered your mouth with his hand from behind.

even as you both tried to calm yourselves down, you broke into fits of soft giggles every now and then. doyoung tried to sound annoyed as he told you to go to sleep but he couldn’t stop smiling.

you sighed, happy and content but also sad because you knew this moment would eventually pass, “i don’t want this to end,”

“don’t be silly,”

silence filled the room for a while.

“you can come sleep over whenever you want,” he said, hugging you closer, his voice soft and unwavering.

[vrishchikawrites]

Its a prompt! (And dont worry about it, absolutely love reading your writing XD) Okay so dimension travel, so we all agree in a world where WWX was raised in another sect (like Lan/Nie) That he would be absolutely adored by them and everyone, healthy relationships( even Jin Zixuan and Wei Wuxian wouldn't be on a bad term much because no WWX JYL interaction) so! Canon!WWX from post ssc timeline gets transmigrated/summoned to one of these worlds where hes raised by either Lan or Nie so 1/2

They're a bit confused seeing WWX in black clothes, and seeing his gaunt/tired appearance and him being so on guard around them (since he's usually open and loved) that they ask him why is it so? Does he not know Lan Xichen/Nie Mingjue back from whicher place he came from, and Wei Wuxian goes 'Ive met them/we're not close' they ask 'sorry if its a bit personal but who were you raised by?' and WWX replies the Jiangs and cue everyone horrified cuz Jiangs areopen in their heavy dislike of WWX2/2

'It's my fault.' Nie Huaisang thinks as he frantically collects all the materials needed, 'It is my fault, I need to fix this.'

His er-ge was gone. His brother, Da-ge's pride and joy, the shining star of the Nie Clan.

Gone. Just like that.

One minute they're on an easy nighthunt and the next, Wei Wuxian is pushing him away to take an attack straight to his chest.

He knows his brother is gone. His body may be alive, but just barely. He's drowning in his own blood and there's nothing Nie Huaisang can do. There's no cognition in his eyes, that bright silver gaze is dull and blank.

He has to do something.

The ritual may not work. It came with so many warnings that Nie Huaisang lost the patience to read them all the way through. If something goes wrong, it goes wrong.

"Huaisang! What are you doing?!" Da-ge's voice is loud but Nie Huaisang doesn't pay any attention to it. The room is sealed and it would take da-ge some time to break through it.

"Nie Huaisang!"

Good, Lan Xichen is here. He'll take care of da-ge if something goes wrong.

"Huaisang!" There's a loud crash but he doesn't pay any attention to it, "Stop! Don't do something stupid."

"I need to save him. It is my fault, I need to save him!"

"Huaisang!"

There's a bright red flash and it drowns out everything.

---

Miraculously, he survives.

His fledgling Golden Core has shattered and melted into nothing, but he has survived.

And he has done it.

"Does your stupidity known no bounds?" Da-ge demands as Lan Wangji kneels by er-ge's bed and feeds him potent spiritual energy.

Wei Wuxian is alive. His cognition is intact and his Golden Core is stable but he's soaked in Resentful Energy.

"You destroyed your Golden Core, Huaisang! There's no recovering from it!"

"Wouldn't you do the same?" He demands, turning around to look at his oldest brother. He ignores Lan Xichen's alarmed voice and focuses on Nie Mingjue, "Is his life worth less than my Golden Core?"

Da-ge locks his jaw but doesn't reply. Of course, Wei Wuxian's life is worth more than a Golden Core.

"Huaisang," Lan Xichen sighs, "a-Xian wouldn't have wanted this."

"Look at Wangji-xiong and tell me that again." He says bluntly. He is tired and drained but no one can convince him that reviving er-ge wasn't the right choice.

Xichen-ge doesn't reply because no one can look at the devastated expression on Lan Wangji's face and say it wasn't worth it.

Huaisang doesn't feel the absence of the core as keenly as someone else might. He had only developed it during the Sunshot Campaign, after all.

He isn't like er-ge or Wangji-xiong, with their powerful cores and potent spiritual energy. The loss would've been devastating to them but is only an afterthought to him.

---

They realize something is off when Wei Wuxian opens his eyes and looks at them with distant wariness instead of familiar affection. He looks around and is instantly on guard, "Where... Why am I here?"

He looks directly at Wangji-xiong, "Lan Zhan? What are you... Have you brought me here?" He demanded, his expression shifting to something hostile, "Are we in Gusu?"

"Wei-gongzi," Xichen-ge calls for his attention, "I know you're very confused but please don't be alarmed. We're in your home at the Unclean Realm, not in Gusu."

Er-ge narrows his eyes and Huaisang recognizes that expression, even though it has never been directed towards them. A look of cool calculation as er-ge tries to decipher their motives. "My home?" He asks.

Wangji-xiong knows er-ge almost as well as they do. He reaches forward, "Wei Ying, let us explain, please."

It appears that this Wei Wuxian is just as vulnerable to Wangji-xiong as his brother had been because he softens immediately. His body is still tense but he seems to be willing to listen.

"You died in this world, saving Huaisang's life." Da-ge begins gruffly. Huaisang winces at the bluntness but er-ge seems to appreciate it, his sharp gaze focusing on their elder brother, "Yes, this world," Da-ge confirms, "Our didi decided he wouldn't tolerate it and decided to use one of our forbidden rituals to revive you. He didn't read things clearly. The ritual dragged your soul from another world and placed you in his body."

Er-ge's expression is skeptical, "Our didi..."

Wangji-xiong sucks in a sharp breath, "Wei Ying," His brother's gaze moves to his 'best friend', "You are Wei Wuxian, 23 years old, the Head Disciple of QingheNie Sect, the adopted younger brother of Nie Mingjue and older brother to Nie Huaisang. You were adopted by the former Nie-zongzhu when you were six years old."

Er-ge stares at Wangji-xiong in stunned disbelief but there's no denial in his expression.

No wonder, Wangji-xiong never lies. That must be true in his world as well.

"a-Xian," Er-ge winces and looks at Xichen-ge, "You need to rest and recover. Your Golden Core is stab-"

Er-ge gasps and immediately sits up, placing his hand on his chest. He closes his eyes and almost violently summons his spiritual energy.

"Wei Ying!" Wangji-xiong calls out in alarm but his brother doesn't pay any attention, his focus entirely inward.

"I have my Golden Core back..." Er-ge breathes, astonished but his skin goes white and he loses consciousness.

They exchange stunned glances before scrambling forward to check on him.

---

No one can deny Wei Wuxian has changed. It takes a month for his body to recover but his heart is still unsteady. He puts on every appearance of being alright, but Huaisang has grown up with this man. He knows something is off.

It is only when er-ge decides he needs to start training again that things start to become clear. Er-ge has trained all of his life to fight with a Dao. His movements are powerful and aggressive, designed to overwhelm the enemy.

Er-ge's mind, however, is accustomed to the traditional Jian. He seems to expect his movements to be lighter, faster. More agile and less powerful.

The dissonance makes him clumsy and he loses his first fight against Lan Wangji in a long time.

"Wei Ying?" Wangji-xiong frowns, "Your movements."

Da-ge has his concerned scowl on and he grabs Baxia, stepping into the training field, "With me, Wuxian."

This fight is faster and more brutal. Huaisang almost wants to protest but he can see er-ge adjust and adapt quickly.

His eyes gain a razor-sharp focus and his battle instincts come to the fore. "Good," Xichen-ge observes, "He's accepting his body."

Indeed, he is. Against da-ge's overwhelming force, there's nothing er-ge can do but react instinctively. They engage in several bouts and keep at it for over a shichen.

By the end of it, er-ge is exhausted but faintly triumphant.

"Lan Zhan, again!"

"Wei Ying, you need rest." Wangji-xiong says with a shake of his head, "Don't strain yourself."

"Why were you fighting like you wanted to wield a Jian, didi?" Da-ge asks sternly, "You were hesitant and weak in some strikes."

Er-ge grimaces and Xichen-ge steps forward. It has been over a month and though er-ge has seen how much they all care for him, he remains wary.

"a-Xian," Xichen-ge begins gently, "You weren't a part of the Nie Clan in the past, were you?"

Da-ge's scowl deepens at the thought of er-ge belonging to anyone else but them. They had suspected something like this, of course. But they had hoped that er-ge would've still been a part of the Nie Sect if not the Clan.

Er-ge remains wary but sighs, "No."

"Not the Lans," Xichen-ge observes astutely, "Not the Jins either. Were you a rogue cultivator? Or from a smaller sect?"

Er-ge studies him before shaking his head, "I was the Head Disciple of the Jiangs."

"What?" Wangji-xiong asks, his voice uncharacteristically sharp, "Jiangs?"

Da-ge looks furious and Xichen-ge seems pained. No wonder, given how... problematic the Jiang situation is. That family is entirely unsuitable for someone as loving and giving as his er-ge!

Jiang Wanyin is a complex mix of pride and insecurity. He lags behind all sect heirs, though Huaisang is fairly certain their batch of cultivators is particularly skilled. Er-ge and Wangji-xiong are exceptional in every way and Jin Zixuan is barely a few steps behind.

In the face of such competition, skilled but ordinary cultivators can't help but be overshadowed.

Jiang Fengmian, according to da-ge, is a meek little imitation of his former self. The man that pursued er-ge's mother had been strong and wise. He had the skill, political acumen, and grace to be an admirable Sect Leader.

His marriage to Yu Ziyuan ruined him.

And Yu Ziyuan is a nightmare. The one time she met Wei Wuxian, she had left such an impression that da-ge had cut all ties with the Jiang Sect until its Madam apologized to the Nie Sect Head Disciple.

That hadn't gone down well and the relationship between them is still sour.

"Do you want to return to them?" He blurts out, unable to help himself. If Jiangs are this Wei Wuxian's family then maybe-

"No."

They still because that's a very firm no. It is a complete and utter rejection of the very thought of it.

"No."

---

Getting the whole story out of er-ge is like pulling teeth but between Wangji-xiong's pleas, Xichen-ge's gentle questions, da-ge impassioned demands, and his own begging, they manage.

This Wei Wuxian doesn't love them yet but he sees their love for him clearly. That softens his heart and they get to hear every painful, excruciating aspect of his past life.

Wangji-xiong looks furious, da-ge paces, Xichen-ge is pale, but all of that doesn't matter.

He recognizes the look on er-ge's face. He has never seen it on him before, but he recognizes it.

Er-ge expects them to reject him. To abandon him for his 'sins'.

"Well, I don't have a Golden Core. Can you teach me Demonic Cultivation?"

"Huaisang!" Is yelled from almost every direction but he only has eyes for his older brother.

He sees those tired silver eyes study him for a moment before they soften completely, turning into the color of liquid moonlight. "You brat," Er-ge murmurs affectionately, "The thought of you wielding that power is nothing short of terrifying."

"But er-ge! Can you leave me defenseless, just like that? Don't you feel sorry for me-"

"Huaisang!" Da-ge snaps, "Stop trying to manipulate your brother!"

"Really, a-Sang, it isn't right for you to-"

Er-ge laughs. It's familiar, loud, and openly joyous. Silver eyes sparkle as he looks at them, "Don't worry, da-ge, he's a hundred years too early to manipulate me."

Wangji-xiong huffs, "Wei Ying."

"Lan Zhan," Er-ge teases, "How is that you manage to reprimand me by only saying my name? Shall I try it too? Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan!"

"And they're flirting again." He murmurs under his breath, drawing an amused look from Xichen-ge.

"Perhaps we really need to start betrothal negotiations," Xichen-ge says and da-ge scoffs.

"Not going to happen unless you're willing to part with your brother. Mine is my heir. He's not marrying into the Lans."

"Da-ge, be reasonable-"

Huaisang tunes them out and waves his fan in front of his face, his mind whirling.

He doesn't care about er-ge's marriage negotiations. He has bigger fish to fry.

Really, those Jins and Jiangs are getting too bold.

[needleandhammer]

Prism

Pairing: Robert Pronge x Reader; featuring Jake Jensen

Warnings: 18+ only, dark fic, non-con touch, kidnapping, it's Freezy so yeah

Notes: Happy spooky season! I cannot believe the writers I am following have led me onto the Freezy Train 😳

For a year, you worked alongside Jake. He came through your office suite to set up new computers one morning. Designated the unofficial tech responder, you reached out to him often, asked questions politely and endlessly until he resigned himself to visiting your office multiple times per week. Somehow, the two of you ended up having lunch together as he listened to you grumble about coworkers adverse to seeking technological solutions on their own. Then going to happy hour together. Then texting each other; Jake followed your lead until the two of you could speak in memes and emojis.

Your friend abruptly left his job a few months ago. With no response to your text messages, you swallowed down the disappointment of losing touch with a friend when adulting kept your circle so small already. You only hoped he was okay.

Now, after a late night at the office, your coworker Carter lies unconscious in your peripheral. The person responsible for knocking out Carter stalks toward you. You’re scrambling around your desk trying to keep distance between him and you, this stranger with scraggly hair hanging over a pair of thick spectacles.

You’re so startled, mind trying to salvage some kind of escape plan that you haven’t even tried yelling for help. You hurl a solid glass paperweight at him. Air rushes up your throat – a scream working its way out when you see him dodge and strike forward at you. His hands circle your wrist, you’re yanked against him and a painful blow to the base of your neck sends you sinking into blackness.

---

You wake with a start. Where are you?

Your hands roam, grasping lightly across your body in search of any new injuries while you breathe past the lingering pain at the back of your head. At least it wasn’t bleeding. Assured that you were able to stand and move with relative ease, you’re on your feet and tiptoeing to the door of the bedroom. Your shoes are gone, dammit.

You swallow hard, breathing deep against grogginess and the aching pulse at the base of your skull. That fucker isn’t here so you need to act.

Go out that door.

Wait. You need something. A weapon. Anything.

A shaky breath forces your stark fear at bay as you look around the room. You make it to the open closet door.

A pink color halts you physically and mentally. Pink. You collapse to your knees and grasp at the cotton fabric. The word printed on the pink shirt triggers a breathless sob that you can’t control.

Petunias

Oh gods, did this deranged man kidnap Jake too? What can he possibly want with you and your friend? Is Jake in some kind of trouble? Questions bombard your mind, tangling into nothing that makes sense. Your head aches. Your limbs feel weak. Has it been long enough that your body has weakened from lack of nourishment?

Beneath another shirt, you discover a scraggly object. It’s chestnut colored, wavy strands that sends a creeping shivering down your spine. You quickly drop the Petunias t-shirt over it, as if to hide some vile creature from sight, and peer around the room again.

Damn it. No light décor or metal objects you can arm yourself with. You’ll have to be quick.

The door gives a creak when you swing it open, revealing a small galley kitchen.

Your heart skips – dread douses you – you freeze when you see the figure standing opposite you at the far end of this small building. He turns, arms falling from the curtained window, to look at you.

You reel backward; your hands reach and claw for something, anything that might help you in this horrible circumstance.

Right back where you started. You made it barely a foot out of your prison.

Your captor descends upon you. You shriek, push and shove against him but his weight follows you, presses you down on the bed.

His palm stifles your cries while he easily restrains you.

“Awake are we?”

You shake your head. You don’t want to hear his voice. You close your eyes. You don’t want to look at him – afraid that your eyes are deceiving you.

He tsks. “Don’t be a brat. We can make this part quick.”

Growling, you shake his hand away and snap at him. “What the fuck are you talking about? Let me go.”

He scoffs at the additional impolite names you call him.

Panting, you glare at him. “What do you want?”

“You gonna play nice?”

You try to headbutt him.

He sighs in irritation.

Your wrists are snuggly wrapped and tied to one bed post. You lean away from him as much as possible where you sit on a corner of the mattress, cutting him with a glare.

He still hasn’t answered you. That cold dread weighs down in your gut as you force another question out.

“What did you do to Jake?”

“Jake?” His smile grows.

“Don’t play with me! That’s his shirt. He – he has a family. His sister and niece, they’re…” Your words die on your lips as he starts laughing.

“Oh, sugar,” he says with a fond look your way. “Time to break the bad news to you. Your buddy Jake is…Well, you wanna take a guess?”

“You hurt him?”

The cold smile does not waver. You swallow down the lump in your throat. You already know the answer.

“C’mon. Don’t leave me hanging,” he purrs at you, waiting for your next guess.

You’re not ready to accept it, despite the tangible evidence in front of you. Despite the bright t-shirt lying in the closet. Covering the brunette wig. It can’t be true.

This man’s face, his nose, his lips. You feel like you’re going mad as you keep being pulled back to those blue eyes. The glasses are gone; you can see his full brows, the aquamarine of his irises. That laugh that sounded wrong, even though the tenor flows through you in familiar waves.

His hair is now a natural deep brown. It's shorter, lacking the gel that previously held it up in blonde spikes. The wig must have just been a precaution for when he showed up at your office. And his facial hair is grown out more evenly and that alone could have transformed the man you thought you knew.

He disappeared months ago.

You study his eyes – you know their exact color – and recognize the mirth glinting beneath dark lashes. But your heart starts racing when his signature crooked smile doesn’t appear. Instead, a hard smirk twists his face into a stranger.

“Jake…” Maybe you hope invoking his name as you know it will make this all go away - will make the world make sense again. Maybe you want to cling to an impossible salvation.

He scoffs softly, a quiet murmur of your name on his lips, almost remorseful. Almost.

“The name’s Robert.”

Gone is the awkward, clumsy colleague you had grown close to. The man you formed a slow companionship with during late office hours sharing fast food while ranting about administration or complaining about the local asshole that stood at the corner of your block shouting right-wing rhetoric to people trying to get to work.

Gone is Jake Jensen, the cute nerd you called friend.

Robert Pronge closes in, looms before you. His fingers skim your jawline before he grips your face tight, deliberate.

“I couldn’t leave you behind,” he says, dipping even closer so his lips graze your cheek. You grow stiff at the gentle affection. His grip loosens enough that you can drop your gaze.

“I…d-don’t know you.” You don’t know this man. “I don’t.”

Robert watches as you press your forehead to your hands. He supposes it’s normal - you haven’t arrived at acceptance of reality yet. Your frame clenches with stress, the physiological response to danger. Robert has witnessed this countless times with countless hits.

A breathy chuckle tickles your skin. He knew you well enough at this point. “You’re a smart one, sugar.”

“No, no, no…”

“And you know now that ole Jake Jensen. Never existed.”

Faced with this man’s remorseless confession, you steel yourself for the inevitable.

“Are you – are you going to kill me?” You raise your eyes. You'll look at this man's face one last time, you won't be deceived in your final moments.

That dark chuckle returns.

“You think I risked showing up in town just for a quick kill?"

He cages you in, enclosing you between arms thick with muscle.

"No, sugar. Wouldn’t wanna waste a sweet thing like you.”

His mouth is on yours and for several seconds, the heated, hungry pressure stuns you. Confuses you. You squawk at the sensation of him probing for a deeper taste, and start twisting out of his hold.

Strong fingers tighten in your hair and make you whimper in pain, stilling enough for his tongue to delve into your mouth.

A quiet moan of satisfaction rumbles through Robert when he accesses the hot taste of you for the first time.

Robert decided long ago. Once his mask is peeled back – that blonde, chirpy mask – he’s taking you as his. And he’ll make sure you get to know the real him intimately.

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

A/N: Hurrah! I have been wanting to write a Jekyll and Hyde inspired fic for a while. Tis the season and all, so I present to you all: "Jensen and Pronge." muahahaha. I am trying to plan this out as a multipart fic. 😏 I'm gonna try to make this soft!dark bc that's the kind of shit I'm into.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 7

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language Warnings: None? I think? Please let me know if I missed something Notes: This is incredibly dialogue heavy, and I actually don't feel as confident about this chapter as some of the past ones? Hopefully y'all like it, I mean at least the ending is cute (or cheesy, depending on who you ask). PS: Not sure how many chapters there will be in total, other than at least 3 more (one of which ill, in fact, get a little h*rny again. actually, h*rnier). Past Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2: Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Toccata, Pt. 5: Poco a Poco, Pt. 6: Elegy

Chapter 7: Harmony

“We need to talk, yeah?” Daniela asked, nearly stuttering, a sort of nervous that you had never seen her exhibit before. The first thing you think is that she’s really, really cute when she doesn’t know what to do. After that you actually process what she said. Relief floods your chest, followed by warmth, and you make a mental note to thank Bela the next time you see her. In the meantime, you were unable to contain your happiness. Out of instinct you move closer to Daniela, smiling softly, quietly reaching one of your hands towards hers. There’s no hesitance in her response. Instead of taking your hand she pulls you in for a hug, opting to rest her chin against your shoulder. Admittedly you’re a little surprised, but you return the motion nonetheless. “Oh, little songbird…”

Heart racing, you softly press against Daniela, turning your head so that you could place a single, brief kiss against her exposed collarbone. For a moment the two of you just stay like that, holding each other close. When you pull away, remembering that you still hadn’t said anything, you find that Daniela is blushing from the neck up. In turn, the sight makes you blush. You can’t help but reach out and run your fingers through her hair. Though you can’t see yourself, you know your eyes are filled with affection.

“I love when you look at me like this,” Daniela whispered, not entirely meaning to voice her thoughts. Then you’re blushing harder, smile small but sweet. “Mmm, you’re just darling, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly as much as yourself, my Lady. To be in your company is to be the luckiest soul in the world. I cannot even begin to describe the feelings of which you inspire in me,” you replied, trying not to stumble over your words, barely able to process any thoughts other than ‘pretty lady likes me ahh’. Thankfully, you still remembered a few tricks from language arts class. Who knew studying the classics could make you more romantic? At least one English teacher, probably. “I’ll have plenty of time to try, though… after we talk about things, that is. Is there somewhere private we can talk? I’m not terribly eager for your mother to overhear.”

“Are you sure we can’t talk about how much you like me for a while longer?” Daniela asked, faking a pout. When you perk a brow at her antics, she shifts a little, forcing herself to be a little more serious (at least for the time being). “If you insist, my sweet thing. I’d suggest my room-” she winks at you- “but I doubt we’d stay talking for long, would we? Maybe the library? Neither of my sisters tend to go there around this time of day, and I can hardly remember the last time mother went there.”

“Well, no one from the day shift is scheduled to organize things until later this week, so… sounds like a date to me,” you chimed, enjoying the way that Daniela’s face lit up in response. “There’s just one thing I have to take care of first. Wouldn’t want my roommates to think something has happened to me, now would we?” With that said you linked your arm with your partner’s, setting off towards the servants quarters.

—————————————–

“Oh thank goodness, we were starting to get worried!” Daphne exclaimed as you quietly ducked into your room. For a second you freeze in place, hoping to whatever higher powers may be that she hadn’t seen Daniela behind you. Certainly the vampire would have moved out of sight?... Despite your assumption, you do see Daphne hesitate for a moment, gazing at the now closed door. Thinking quickly, you give a little wave to draw her attention elsewhere. Seemingly it works like a charm, with her attention returning to you, and so you release an internal sigh of relief. Now you just had to think of an excuse for why you’d be staying up late.

“It’s fine- I’m fine, really. Just had to carry something for one of the Ladies,” you lied, trying not to be specific enough to possibly contradict facts you weren’t aware of. “I, uh, kinda have to go back out, though? There are some piano books I need to find before tomorrow morning. I’ve already found a few, but apparently there’s at least one that goes over some technical practice songs, and I think D-” you almost wince, but lean into it, stuttering instead- “th-think that Lady Daniela would enjoy the variety. Not sure how long it’ll take me to find the books, so don’t stay up waiting for me. I promise I’ll still get enough sleep to function tomorrow.”

“So the lessons haven’t been canceled? That’s good to hear,” Daphne said, nodding slowly. The words catch you off guard, and you tilt your head to the side in confusion. Noticing your expression, your roommate is quick to explain. “After whatever happened yesterday… we weren’t sure if we’d ever hear you play again. Not that we know what happened, just that Lady Daniela was, well, upset, and you stopped playing sooner than usual. But I suppose if the lessons were canceled completely… I doubt Lady Dimitrescu would let you go that easily, huh?”

Again, you shift awkwardly, wondering how Daniela must feel hearing all of this. But just like that Daphne shakes her head, clearing her thoughts, and gives a little shrug.

“Don’t stay up too late, okay? I know you already promised, but we both know you’ll lose track of time if you aren’t careful. If you aren’t in bed by the time the sun reaches its peak, I swear we are gonna have words!” Both of you laugh before Daphne waves you off with a smile. Still, you wait to open the door until she (and the other maidens) has her back to you. Better safe than sorry, right?

—————————————–

Somehow the room felt different in a million ways, now that you were here with Daniela. There was something about the way she moved, freely, eyes and fingers running down the spines of familiar books. Even if you had not seen it before, it felt like the library was overflowing with magic. What I would give, you think, to see the whole world tinted in shades of her. Again you find yourself blushing as you followed Daniela towards a small sitting area. One of the chairs is practically a recliner, with plenty of space, and you realize what she has planned mere moments before she acts.

Next thing you know, you’re being pulled closer to her, practically lifted into the air. Then you’re falling back, right on top of a giggling Daniela. By the time you’ve regained your senses, you’re in her lap, held just tight enough to keep you from getting up. She’s watching your face closely, smirking with pure satisfaction.

“Are we going to be able to talk like this?” You asked, a little unsure yourself, already distracted by the soft curve of her jawline. Even as you speak you’re eying her, imagining what it would feel like to trail kisses along her skin until she was restless… Thankfully she responds before your mind gets too carried away.

“Of course we are, little songbird. Probably. If you behave,” Daniela teased, gently playing with your hair as she did. You can’t help but laugh when she suggests that you are the one who needs to control yourself. “Alright, alright, I get your point. I just… I think that it’s easier for me to, fuck, I don’t know. Relax? It’s easier for me to relax like this, holding you, getting to kiss that lovely neck of yours-” she pauses to demonstrate- “and that means I won’t freak out like last time. Or so goes my thought process, anyway.”

“In that case…” You’re sitting perpendicular to her now, still holding on tight. One hand cups her cheek, gently caressing the skin, before you lean in for a kiss. The two of you enjoy yourselves for a minute, glad to have this time together, more glad to be reassured of each other’s affection. To think that you wouldn’t even be able to meet her gaze if not for Bela’s intervention… Eventually you pull back, knowing that you did need to talk. “I care about you, firefly, and I want things between us to be real, and healthy, but I…”

The words died in your throat, a lump you couldn’t quite swallow, when memories sprung up like weeds in your brain. Communication mattered to you for a thousand reasons, and you weren’t blind to the irony of one of those reasons making you freeze up.

“I haven’t… done this before, not for real,” Daniela replied, mistaking your paues for uncertainty. “Apparently being an immortal, blood-drinking princess is only attractive in the realm of fiction. Maidens only ever seemed interested in a fleeting rush, or a fraction of a chance at an escape. They didn’t care for romance.” Now her tone gets bitter, and her eyebrows furrow. You can see her shoulders tense up, raising a little, making you try to snap out of your own thoughts for a few moments. By the time she speaks again, you’ve started to gently rub her back. “Maybe I should have paid more attention to my novels. How often does the monster actually get a happy ending?” She says the words with a hollow laugh. Still, she’s relaxed a little under your touch, even leaning into it.

“You’ve… done some bad things. Hurt a lot of people, and I can’t pretend that doesn’t scare me,” you started to say, ignoring the heartache you feel when you see Daniela’s hurt expression. “But you’re more than that. You’re soft, cute, and mischievous. More than that… I can tell that you want something beautiful. We can have that, we can make that, for ourselves, with our own hands and our own desires. But we can’t use stories as a blueprint. We can’t rely on what we’ve read, not when everything the two of us do is brand new. Not when-” you close your eyes, fighting back tears, glimpsing fragments of your last relationship- “not when I’ve already been hurt by my own misconceptions. The things we read aren’t always real, or right, or anything like what we need. What we deserve.”

“Something tells me you’re holding back a little,” Daniela murmured, barely able to get the words out. It almost looks like she’s close to crying, but her cheeks are dry, and her voice is steady. “But you’re right. What we have is better than anyone could write, anyway. You’re my little songbird, and I’m not letting you go anytime soon. Even if I have to figure out this whole ‘communication’ thing. I suppose that means I should… come clean. About a few things.” There’s a clear hesitance to her voice, like she’s embarrassed, and she’s speaking slower than usual. A blush rises to her cheeks before she takes a deep breath.

“We don’t have to talk about everything right now, if you aren’t ready. We’ve already made good progress, I think, even if half of it might be because of your sisters. Well, sister, singular. Cassandra throwing me into that wall really didn’t help anyone. Except maybe the chiropractor I will inevitably need to see,” you joked, remembering your earlier conversation with Bela.

“Hold up for a fucking second, Cassandra did what? I’m going to replace all her paint brushes with stained carpet strips, and that’s if she apologizes. Nobody fucks with my baby,” Daniela snapped, expression as serious as can be. Normally you found her anger to be terrifying. Now that she was directing it at someone else? And on your behalf?... Maybe it was a tiny bit cute. Which you tried to show, by gently bringing her in for another kiss. Of course, Daniela isn’t quite as gentle, instead kissing you hard, holding you as closely as she can. There’s a bit of possessiveness in her grip, and it makes you tense up. But as soon as you do she’s pulling back, breathing hard, eyes weighed down with concern.

“Y’know, I think she was just mad that I made you cry. And if I found out someone made you cry, I would be pretty angry. Not that I’d throw someone, partially because I don’t think I could, but still. It’s… almost cute how much your sisters care about you. Almost, just not quite,” you said, eager to draw the attention away from your reaction. Like you had told Daniela, it was okay if you weren’t ready to talk about everything. “Speaking of that, I can’t believe I haven’t apologized yet. I panicked so much, I didn’t even realize I was yelling until you picked me up. No matter how frustrated I was, I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t, please,” Daniela interrupted, eyes closing for a moment. “I can’t believe you’re apologizing. I pinned you to the wall, and not for the usual reason!” There’s a bit of panic in her expression, and you get the feeling that she’s beating herself up inside about it. Which, based on what you had thought about what you had done, was understandable.

“Consider this: We both fucked up, and we’ve both acknowledged it now, so we could just… not talk about our regrets? At least for now,” you countered, glad to see Daniela relax and nod in response. Leaning in, you shift to rest your head against her shoulder, wanting to enjoy her proximity more. “Hey… if I’m your songbird, and you’re my firefly… are we, I don’t know… officially a couple now?”

“I was under the impression that we already were,” Daniela said, clearly a little confused. While you technically agreed with her… there was another part of you that wanted to have a little fun.

“You never asked, and I know I never did either, so…” Now you’re looking up at her, smile wide, heart beating faster than normal. “Lady Daniela, firefly of house Dimitrescu, lover of romance novels, player of pianos, keeper of my heart… Will you do me the honor of allowing me to court you? To be yours, officially, in the pursuit of affection and happiness like the village- nay, the world- has never before seen? Will you be my girlfriend?”

“How’s this for an answer, songbird?” Daniela cooed. Then she was lifting your chin from her shoulder, turning her head and bringing you closer. Your lips touch, as gentle as can be. It’s a short kiss, but one radiating with love, that ends with your foreheads pressed against each other. In this moment, you feel like you could stay in her arms for the rest of eternity. “Yes. Absolutely yes, obviously, a thousand times. I could never say no to you, especially not now, with your eyes so desperate for the sight of me, and your lips so begging to be kissed. Now, how about we celebrate, hmm?”

Just as Daphne had predicted, you end up staying awake far too late, but you were all the happier for it.

[yostresswritinggirl]

Tales of The Ghost Writer

“You met Xingqiu at Wanwen Bookhouse when delivering a batch of your newly-published book. But as a ghost writer, no one knew it was you that authored such books. Safe to say it was cute watching the noble bookworm fanboy about you in front of you.”

Pairings -> Xingqiu x Author!Reader

Word Count -> 3518

Theme -> Long Fic, Fluff

Series -> #Bonafide specials (100 followers event)

Warnings -> Xingqiu's name might be mispelled at times, also he rambles a lot

Entry Log # 645:

I’ve once again delivered the new batch of books to Wanwen Bookhouse today at 4PM, 30 new books in collection to be sold. That would add up to a total of 420 published books for Legend of the Lone Sword. Despite its old circulation, collectors and avid bookworms still seek out the volumes. In a spur of the moment thought, the 4th volume was finally rereleased for more readers to get a chance to read them. While on my rounds, I’ve met a particularly peculiar fan.

“4th volume?” You nod as you set down the stack of books on the counter where Jifang stood behind with a welcoming smile. “Thank you, everyone has been asking about it for a while now. I don’t understand how people keep missing out on the last volume like so.” There was an exchange of giggles between you continued your idle chatter, busying yourself with recounting the stack to make sure the order placed was exact. Yep, 30.

You picked one up from the top pile as Jifang enters the bookhouse to gather the payment. It wasn't that much of a feat to carry a pile of 30 books when it's only this thick, you thought as you opened the book in the middle and... buried your nose in it, literally. Archons, the scent of freshly printed books had always been such a stress reliever of a kind. The imprints were still fresh as you run your thumb over the pristine white page of page 75, the gravings of the letter bumping it in such an intricate and endearing manner. You suppose it should be prime time you get a copy of your own-

"Ah, the glorious scent fresh books offer are quite irresistible to everyone," your head whipped to the side in a hurry at the embarrassing display. Yet your new company only offered a light-hearted laugh, floaty and flowing swiftly past his lips. You find it enjoyable to listen to. "Fret not, I don't judge such honest guilty pleasure."

His smile was soft and respectful as you return it, watching his hand (wrists largely ruffled) pick up the next book on the pile, his interest shining the more he recognizes the the piece of literature. Such expensive clothing and poise, you thought as you continued to inspect. "I knew Wanwen had a schedule of new releases today, but I was not informed it would be the 4th volume of the Legend of the Lone Sword!"

"A fan?" You mused as you placed back the copy you took, leaning against the counter as you watched him quickly scan the lines of the book. He was intensely staring at every word with such a calculating gaze, that sometimes break when he reads how the character would sometimes reach an impasse, or when a new discovery reaches its peak. His ardent gaze was enough of an answer. When he took a break from reading to pass you his attention, you hadn't realize how red your cheeks had been out of embarrassment. "I've always wanted to get my hands on my own copy of the 4th, yet everytime all bookhouses in Liyue keep running out of stock. Is delivery normally this scarce?" He'd gestured at the not so looming pile.

You nod in response with a forgoing giggle. "Publishing could be running into some... shortness of funds?" Subtle, yet he hums in disappointment at the thought. His little pout, adorable, as he buries his face in the book again. I would gladly fund such glorious writing, you thought you heard past the leather back before the ornate doors past the counter finally opened again.

"Ah sorry it took so long, I couldn't find the exact pouch for the- hey! You again, you've read and been scolded dozens of times already," the woman angrily gestures to the notice board by the table, "Pay first, read later!"

You snorted, thankfully masked by the sudden cry of the caught culprit as he was smacked (hopefully gently) on the head by the owner, forcing him to put back the book to the pile. "Hnghh, but Lady Jifang! You didn't scold her, she was indulging herself with the book just the same," you breathed a fake gasp of astounded betrayal, before you three had laughed in chorus.

The oldest of your trio scoffed in amusement as she placed the bag of Mora unto your waiting hand. "What, her? Why would I scold her, she probably knows every word like the back of her ha-" her rambling was then cut off by a loud smack on her bottom, a book expertly finding its way back to your hand with a perfectly cut smile. Her yelp was not unnoticed by the male as he laughs at the display.

"Let him be, he's really been patiently waiting for the release!" Jifang scoffs at the word patiently as you came to the defense of blunette. You were never really aware of the norm in Wanwen, as you usually come by at a time where you would have been alone. This was a first.

"Quite so! Just the start of the volume had me hooked, setting for the peak of the story climax! The synopsis itself already hinted of another inclusion of a new element into the story I had not expected from this style of a book, surely such a writer would not tread such parallel territory without being an expert teller-" Jifang watched in amusement as her gaze lands on you at the start of the bookworm's rambling, watching the redness touch the tip of your ear with an abashed smile shyly gracing your lips. Behind it she can see the mirth and amusement, something she outwardly shows with her own expression.

"Wow," was the Liyuean woman's only response once the speaker has finished his lengthy speech. His dorkiness stands with pride at his examination.

You cleared your throat before you could mutter your initial words, finally realizing the time. "That was... quite marvelous of an analysis. A-Anywaysss, thank you for your partnership, I hope the books are all sold by tomorrow!"

And with that you swiftly made your exit, wanting to find a place to scream the embarrassment out. Or maybe squeal, just to be subtle.

Entry Log # 15:

As a distant relative to the Guhua clan, the (L/N) clan was not exactly known to be tied closely to the prestigious clan known for their expert martial. However, despite the impure connection, they carry with them still the honor of learning the arts to a meticulous detail.

Your family was one of the living practitioners of the Guhua Arts, twice removed, yet your spotlight was not that obvious as the name would carry. Your father wish to carry a new kind of prestige without relying on the powerful namesake and he had been adamant since birth to grind every teaching and form of the art into his immediate family.

"Misogyny nor feminism will not save you from battle, only your own strength." Something along those lines, was what he said.

Your eldest brother was his main point of reference when scolding you on not taking your lessons properly. A slacker he is, now he lacks not only a means of security but also financial stability, that's what you end up to if you don't treasure the arts of our family. You have no idea how martial arts brings you monetary security, but you can't really state to your own father that his logic was a bit skewed.

Daily during morning and the first touch of evening, you had resigned yourself into training under your father's supervision. As the eldest daughter of the house, you carry with you still a responsibility to be strong. No fraility was accepted, and your mother always argues about your father's ever so masculine lifestyle being imposed on you, a lady that should be taught other customs for means of living.

Yet after every session, at the end of the day under the caress of the lamp by your study table, your hands move with precision and calmness he would have scoffed at in the dojo. The beauty of words and their power to create new worlds effortlessly had drawn you in too easily, ever since you were young you had a knack for the books your mother reads to herself or to you.

Entry Log # 651:

The next time you'd met the Wanwen Bookworm (nickname you gave) was a rare moment when he'd finally looked at you more than the book in his hand. It seemed your little interaction from the bookhouse was attention-grabbing enough to make him seek out your person with a bunch of questions and wonder.

You gulped, patting down your blue skirt before accompanying him. The way he rambles was too dangerous, it was drawing something within you to also do the same, and you feared you may let out something you shouldn't. But a fellow 'reader' is good company, and with the little interactions you had with the same age group with the same interest makes this moment something you can't pass.

"Carrier to the Yae Publishing House?" You nodded calculatedly, after confirming you've said just the right information. "Quite intriguing, especially with such young age to be working in line with the greatest press house in Teyvat." Ohhh, he's surely smart despite the first impression of goofiness.

You giggled as politely as you can remember you should upon the scarce teachings of your mother. "I've always liked literature so I couldn't uhm let the opportunity pass, even if it's insignificant like that." Good, good, piling up the lies. You're grateful you haven't made some contract of friendship and happen upon the wrath of your nation's God. Or Qixing.

"Surely, you must have been in the presence of some of the wordsmiths during your rendezvous! So tell me," there was a dangerous glint in his eyes and you knew exactly what he's gonna ask, "Have you met the legendary Bob Ong?"

Oh goodness, you felt him caress and pat your back as you tried your best to breathe after the sudden choking on nothing, he was so spot on that you were horrified even if you had an inkling of what he was gonna inquire. "I uhm I don't really know what I'm allowed to say." In the inside you were goddamn screaming.

"You don't have to tell me anything about him, really! It's his mystery that makes his character just the most intriguing." You gulped down hard, this time without choking out of nothing. "I don't really know much about who he is since he's, you know, unknown? No clues whatsoever, he could be anywhere right now, maybe you've talked to him already or no. Yeah?"

He held a convincing hum before taking in the cryptic answer, content, for now you assume. "Not many avid readers of the book can place a name to the unnamed author, but how blind they were to see the cryptic signature at the back of the cover. Truly a wonderous act." Xingqiu, you finally learned his name, had took you out to lunch for the trouble and enjoyment. It wasn't really necessary, but you figured it was probably to keep you with him longer to converse about the books more.

A lot of his... analysis actually coincide with the messages that you lodged between the lines. He understands your way of narration more than you do at times, and you were left wondering just how much he had read of the fourth volume despite only having it for a few days then. When evening once again struck, you had bid each other farewell in the promise of another time to hang.

"It's a literature of love and freedom- disguised as a martial arts novel." Was his parting analysis, and you were left to wonder, was that really what you had projected into your works?

Entry Log # 32:

In your young and hopeful mind, you'd sent your first ever manuscript to Yae Publishing House. It wasn't your first work but it was the one you worked hard on the most, with weeks of furbishing and reworks. Your mother, although not directly informed of your whole plan, had provided you with great feedback and generous suggestions. And soon you created the first manuscript of 'String of Pearls'.

With a generous note and what you hoped is enough mora to at least publish a book, your package was sent to Inazuma.

You waited for days, of which turned to weeks, and then to months. You thought by the end of it all, you had been swindled but as young as you still hoped for the best of its outcome.

And then one day, as you were sweeping the outside of your gates in preparation for your father's return from some business in the harbor, a lone man of Inazuman style found its way to your humble abode. He calls himself Mr. Nine, and in his arms cradled two similar looking books, with a familiar envelope.

That was when you had been given the opportunity to write for the greatest Publishing House under the guise of a pseudonym. The great Nine was astounded by your ripeness paired with your prowess in writing. You hid behind Bob Ong, a protection from being belittled as a young child and a woman, to prevent being traced by your father if ever.

Yet you remained as subtle still. Even if your name was not written on the covers themselves, within your heart you were still the writers of those books. You've placed anagrams and mysterious puzzles revealing your name but it was part of the intrigue of the story that they had not thought much about it.

One day, you lost your book when you had gone out to eat. It was the second copy, as you carried the first one in your room, yet it still held a special place in your heart.

Xingqiu was a master novelist too, as you'd expect from someone so enthusiastic on the art of literature too. You'd long since become friends and found out soon enough his true identity. The heir to the Feiyun Commerce Guild, master practitioner of the Guhua Clan Arts, soon to be novelist. He was in every aspect the better half between you two.

One day in his daily reading breaks where he would happen upon you, he had found his eyes wafting over your notebook that you always carry. It was designed to look like a hard bound book specially tailored to your tastes, but it was nothing but mere keepers of your notes and musings.

Your newest page had in it a brand new draft for a brand new story you wanted to flesh out before the success of Legend of the Lone Sword diminishes. Mr. Nine still praised you for the success of your first major publishing and had assured you that there's no need to immediately compensate with another work so early, but your mind was already so eager to work. Your friend had never seen you so- flamed and passionate as the paper caves to the intense pressure your pencil places on it.

So he leans on your shoulder slightly (glad you were still distracted) as he quietly reads the words that articulates on the paper. The more Xingqiu reads, the more he craves, just the same vigor he felt everytime he had read his favorite works when each chapter invigorates him to continue to the end.

"Such a great outline," the blunette breathes out as he leans his cheek at the crown of your head. You let out a cute squeak when you'd finally come to, and turned your head to face him- "I didn't know you were into romance, my liege. Tell me, just where do you get such inspirations?" Your nose softly collided against the smoothness of his cheek, your lips ghosting over the line that is his jaw.

You scrambled backwards to direction opposite of his, yet with his body weight leaning on you, his center of balance quickly shifted on your weight like a net being pulled against the sides of a boat. You both toppled over.

"My, my, I didn't expect such abrupt resistance from you," Xingqiu's arms caged you as it holds him up against the grassland on either side of you. There was a certain mischievous glint in the ocean that is his eyes, which only meant one thing. "No need to be shy," you closed your eyes shut as his face leans in closer to yours, fanning over the frame of your face as he lets out a warm yet teasing exhale, "I'm sure we've gone past our personal bubbles in this relationship." You felt his chest against yours and braced for the inevitable-

as he finally licked your nose(?).

What.

"X-XINGQIUUUUU!" And then a cry of pain after a particularly harmful blow.

Entry Log # 659:

Xingqiu had always been a man of great words despite his chicken scratch of a penmanship. Vivid tales of his manuscript that I'm sure the Publishing House would take great value for, his years of memorizing numerous works in his arsenal. He told me that if I were to one day publish the manuscript, he wants to get the first copy and the first to get it signed. However Xingqiu has one glaring weakness when it comes to the art of words. When I asked him what would be a good title for the manuscript I made, he simply said, "Tales of the Writer!" And he sent a goofy smile. I thought he was joking, and I asked again, this time of what his work would be named. He replied:

"Why, Legend of Sword, of course!" He really sucks at titles.

Entry Log # 660:

Upon returning home with my new work ready to be shipped off for mass publishing, I've finally confronted my father. I had with me the final volume of my first work and offered it to him as first a gift of reconciliation, and my father took it with a mirthful glint in his eyes. He said he has been looking for the last volume of the series he'd been wanting to complete. I... I didn't know father was a fan.

The climax of my entire double-life ended so peacefully and tragically meh. I was expecting a martial arts fight of honor that will go down in history, but instead I ended up signing my own book as my father gushed about how nicely I illustrated the martial arts teaching we had during our sessions. I did not sleep well that night.

October 9th was a day celebrated by others more than the young master Xingqiu. The pavilion was mixed in with people from different walks of life and of faces he doesn't necessarily recognize. He lingers by the open window that shows the grandeur balcony, beckoning him outside. Today was a scheduled new release for Wanwen Bookhouse, and he had heard several chatters from the citizens that a new series would be published hailing from Yae Publishing House once again.

And the virtuoso of literature cannot attend such important matter himself because of his own birthday. How irking, you weren't even there to help appease his grumbling, you should have been here by now upon his invitation.

Suddenly the master of invitations bellowed out a familiar name, as his job to announce the entrance of the invited guests to the banquet. When he looks up, you were already walking down the grand staircase in your creme and blue Hanfu garb, accompanied by a tall man of a different wear—

"(Y/N), M-Mr. Nine-!" He bowed politely to the man as you curtsied at his presence. You looked absolutely dashing yet the man towered your form easily. "It's my honor to finally meet you, sire."

"Happy birthday, Xingqiu, I've heard many great things about you," the blunette opened his hands to receive the book gifted by the man. It had a familiar cover and title to it, Legend of Sword, "Great things, in fact, that there would too be great things to discuss later on." The Inazuman graced him a smile and he almost teared up at the implications, if not for when the author suddenly nudged you forward from your demure state.

Tales of the Ghost Writer

"X-Xingqiu, happy birthday! This is uhm, I've always wanted to- I wanted to give you this myself, I know you'd miss the first batch of releases," an unfamiliar book sits on his palm now. A plume and sword adorning its cover but no title, he shifts his hand to open it to the first page, "You said you wanted its first copy be signed, and I thought it appropriate to be given now at such a special occasion."

There in fresh print and ink he'd finally been revealed the mysteries he had long been searching for.

Against the translucent paper it was written and signed,

Tales of The Ghost Writer

Bob Ong, (Y/N)

@creation-magician @your-local-venti-simp @boxofteenageideas @indigodreamtime47