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steddiealltheway · 1 year ago

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It’s a cold Wednesday night in January that has Eddie turning the thermostat up and allowing the government supplied heat to fill the trailer. He glances up at the vents and gives them a quick middle finger, wondering if they bugged the place to observe him or make sure he isn’t spreading their secrets.

He doesn’t really care at this point if they’re watching though. They already held him at the hospital for long enough, poking and prodding as if he wasn’t even human. But he didn’t turn into a vampire or some shit because of those damn bats. No. The jagged, ugly scars littering his body served as a lovely reminder that he was ultimately human.

Eddie glances at a nearby mirror and cringes at his face, taking a look at the long scar running down his cheek, jaw, and neck. The Corroded Coffin guys all said it made him look metal, and he would throw in a, “Hell yeah,” before smoothly changing the subject to something that didn’t involve him for once.

He takes a finger and slowly trails it over the pale pink skin, wondering if there will ever be a day he won’t notice it.

“Eddie,” Steve calls out gently from the room down the hall.

Eddie jumps back and glances toward him, hand falling to his side and flexing uncomfortably as if he’s been caught doing something wrong.

“You okay?”

Eddie smiles and gestures toward the thermostat. “Damn thing wasn’t working for a minute there. You’d think with the amount of hush hush money they were able to pay all of us, they’d be able to give me and Wayne a better trailer.”

But Steve only crosses his arms and leans against the door frame, eyebrows raising gently. It’s not entirely accusatory, but it’s clear that he doesn’t believe a thing Eddie’s saying.

Although they’ve grown close while going through the same treatment and tests in Owen’s new secret facility, it still surprises Eddie how easily Steve can read people. More specifically, how easily he can read him of all people. “Just got lost in thought,” Eddie confesses while making his way back to his room as he sees Steve squint at the lights in the living area.

Steve steps out of the way as Eddie brushes by him and closes the door. He hope it’s enough honesty to end the conversation.

“What were you thinking about?” Steve asks, ignoring the signals Eddie is giving him.

Eddie sighs and runs a hand over his face and climbs back into his bed, quick to pull up the blanket around himself in an attempt to get some much needed warmth while simultaneously covering his scars from Steve. “Stuff.”

Steve rests his hands on his hips for a second and stares, mouth opening and closing for a moment before deciding against whatever he was going to say. Instead, he climbs into the bed with Eddie and joins him under the blanket, keeping enough distance so they’re not touching, but they can still feel each other’s body heat.

Eddie glances over at him, noticing the way the one lamp turned on in the room gives him a nice golden halo. He looks gorgeous and untouchable - exactly how Eddie used to think of him through high school and sometimes even now. The perfect golden boy. But despite the name Eddie gave to him years ago, he can’t ignore the flaws that Steve possesses, yet they somehow make him even more perfect to him. Or maybe just human.

Eddie shakes his head and glances away. He wishes Steve came over to smoke so Eddie could blame the drugs on the way his thoughts race when he’s next to him. Instead, he has to face up to his enormous crush on the perfect golden boy.

“Have any plans for Valentine’s Day?” Steve asks out of the blue.

Eddie snorts and glances at him, only to laugh harder when he sees the adorable look of confusion on his face.

Steve’s brows furrow but the edges of his lips quirk up. “What?”

Eddie pulls a strand of hair in front of his face to try to hide his wife smile. “Kind of random, don’t you think?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I never said I was great at starting conversations. But I was just thinking about what holiday is next.”

“The worst one,” Eddie complains.

Steve turns toward him. “And why’s that?”

Eddie sighs and let’s himself go on a tangent. “It’s the one day of the year where people feel like they have to do all this shit for their partner, and the rest of the year, they think they can just get by doing the bare minimum. And people are left realizing what it would be like if their ‘other half’ actually put in an effort day to day. And then for all the single people, it’s a day where love is shoved in their face, and they have to feel bad and sometimes disgusted by all the public displays of affection going on around them and… I just hate it all. The stupid chocolates in the red heart boxes and the teddy bears and big heart shaped balloons and roses…”

“I didn’t realize you had such strong opinions about Valentine’s Day,” Steve says with a laugh.

“Well, now you do.”

They both sit in the silence for a few moments, Eddie thinking about all the other things he didn’t even touch on about Valentine’s Day that he hates, while Steve is probably taking in everything he just said.

Steve bumps his shoulder and asks, “So, I’m assuming that means you have no plans.”

Eddie laughs. “That’s what you got out of that?”

Steve shrugs and looks away with a smile.

Eddie glances at his clock and notices it’s technically Thursday now, and in these early hours, Steve will usually either silently fall asleep or he’ll lay awake in the silence until one of his thoughts has to make itself known.

Either way, Eddie knows he’ll be up for a few more hours, but he’s never regret the sleep he’s lost since they’ve made this silent arrangement.

The bed shifts, and Eddie follows Steve’s lead, laying down fully and staring at the ceiling, trying his best not to reach out for the hand laying beside his. He wonders if he should add something to the ceiling like some type of mural with stars and whatnot.

He tilts his head to the side, envisioning how it would look in the lamplight since he and Steve refuse to sleep in the dark. Or maybe it’s just Steve and Eddie’s picked up on the habit of leaving the lamp on.

“Do you think you’ll make plans?” Steve asks quietly.

Eddie turns to look at him, at a lost for a moment before realizing he’s still on the Valentine’s Day subject. He smiles sadly, “No.” Steve glances over at him and holds his gaze, expecting more. Eddie sighs and gestures at himself. “I mean, I’m not exactly what people want to bring home to their parents at the moment plus with the,” he gestures to his face and drops his hand quickly, averting his gaze back to the ceiling.

He hopes Steve will let it go and not connect the dots back to earlier.

A silence settles between them, but Steve’s gaze burns into the side of Eddie’s face. Then, he finally asks, “Is that what distracted you earlier?” When Eddie doesn’t answer he continues, “I saw you looking in the mirror, and I know you usually go out of your way to avoid them.”

Eddie wants to question how Steve noticed, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up about something that was just passively rather than intentionally observed. “Yeah,” Eddie states simply.

The bed shifts as Steve turns on his side to fully face him. “And you really think you can’t get a date because of them?”

Eddie sighs and rubs both of his hands over his face. “Steve, who is ever going to love me like this?” He turns and continues, “Privately, yes, someone could maybe get past the scars. But in public? You really think someone is going to be proud to say, ‘Here’s my boyfriend,’ and show off me?”

“Yes,” Steve says instantly as if he has no doubt in the world.

Eddie turns away, trying not to get choked up about it. Because how can he explain to him that while it’s nice that Steve has that confidence in him, Eddie wants Steve to be the one to be proud of him. To want him like that.

“Do you think my scars make me unlovable?” Steve asks.

“No! Jesus, Steve,” Eddie rushes to say and turns to him. He reached out and lays a hand over his side, feeling the way the skin puckers under the thin t-shirt. “These are metal as hell. Hot even. They make you more lovable if anything.”

Steve grabs Eddie’s hand and slowly pulls it off his side to hold it up, the scar on it being presented out to Eddie. “And this doesn’t make you more lovable?”

“Steve…” Eddie protests quietly as Steve pulls his hand close to stare at it.

“The scars you got protecting us. You think those make you less lovable?” Steve asks, pulling his hand close enough that his lips ghost over the skin.

Eddie lets out a breath that sounds like Steve as Steve presses a soft kiss into the tough skin. He stares at Eddie with a worried look in his eyes as he whispers, “Too much?”

Eddie shakes his head, too stunned to get the words out.

Steve intertwines their hands and pulls Eddie’s arm toward him. “These scars,” he says kissing the next one on his forearm, “Are beautiful on you.” He moves on to the scar on his elbow stretching to his bicep, lips trailing against the sensitive unmarked skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. “How could anyone hate these?” He asks leaving three soft, lingering kisses before shifting on the bed to hover above Eddie, still holding his hand but now against his stomach so he can press a kiss against his shoulder. “These scars show everyone what you were willing to sacrifice for us.”

As Steve moves to the scar on his neck, Eddie’s head drops back, giving him more access as he groans out, “Steve.”

“These scars,” Steve says, kissing up his neck over and past the scars, “Are exactly,” he murmurs as he kisses past his jaw and peppers kisses up his cheek, “Why I love you,” Steve finishes by pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth near where the scar that Eddie traced earlier ends.

Eddie glances up at Steve as he hovers over him, trying to make sense of everything he’s saying until it finally clicks. “You love me?” Eddie asks.

Steve nods and squeezes his hand before letting it go so he can lightly caress his cheek. “I have since you decided to be a hero and sacrifice yourself. Which was exactly what I told you not to do by the way.”

“I’ve never been great at following rules,” Eddie breathes out and reaches a hand up to run through Steve hair. “Steve?”

“Mhm?”

“I love you, too,” Eddie confesses.

Steve smiles and asks, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He pauses before adding, “You know, one time when I was little, I captured a squirrel and it may have attacked me and left a scar on my lip.”

Steve laughs. “Is that so?”

Eddie smiles and nods.

Steve’s eyes dart down to Eddie’s lips and he moves his thumb to swipe over his top lip. “You know, I think I see it.”

Eddie debates telling him that it was actually his bottom lip, but instead he just breathes out, “Steve.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks with a teasing smile.

“Steve.”

Steve keeps smiling as he hums, “Hmm?” When Eddie huffs, Steve fakes surprise with a gasp, “Oh. You want me to find the picture for you!”

Eddie groans, “Steve!”

“Uh huh?”

Eddie huffs and cups his face. “You are infuriating.”

“Is that s-”

Eddie interrupts him by taking matters into his own hands and leaning up to kiss him. He feels Steve smile against his lip before finally kissing him back.

Steve pulls away and breathlessly asks, “So, do you think you’ll have plans for Valentine’s Day now?”

Eddie’s head thumps back on the pillow. “Oh my god.” Steve laughs. “Oh my god!” Eddie says and shoves Steve off of him only to roll over so he hovers above him. “You were trying to ask me out this whole time?”

“No, I just wanted to know your opinion of Valentine’s Day.”

Eddie gives him a light punch to the arm and smiles wide as he stares down at Steve, lying beneath him in the golden lamp light. His perfect golden boy.

“I still hate it by the way. Even if I have plans now,” Eddie comments seriously.

“Don’t worry, I’ll put in the effort year round for you and make sure to keep you away from the public that day,” Steve says running a hand through Eddie’s curls before tracing it down the scar on his cheek in a way he thought no one would be able to do - lovingly.

Eddie leans down and gives Steve a quick peck. “I’ve also got some scars on my hips I might want you to check out.”

Steve laughs loudly and pulls him into a kiss that truly makes Eddie breathless, all while tracing his hand over the scar on his cheek. And for the first time, Eddie learns to love the scars adorning his body.

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie ficlet #steddie fanfic

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theoxenfree · 3 months ago

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OF FLESH SIN

vampire priest x reader | 2.6k | 18+

you're the child of a monastery groundskeeper and come to find out that one of the senior clergy, father marius, was brutally maimed in his chambers overnight. you're approached by the monastery's new recruit: father shaw; who claims he had witnessed the scene of the crime and invites you to his chambers to tell the tale.

warnings; dark content bc of descriptions of gore and violence towards the end, obsessive behaviors, theological themes, probs inaccurate representation of monastery life lmao, outdated + deragatory mention of psychiatric care to fit the narrative, very brief mention of animal death, classism (mc getting shit on for being poor and coming from an "uneducated" family), kinda honestly cheesy if you think about it, roughly proofread, vampires are monsters y'all—that's the only way I write them

shouldn't have to say it, but: none of this is indicative of my personal viewpoints. it's just fiction, folks.

second prompt fulfilled for my lil' october writing project! this won the second poll! please reblog + leave feedback to be kind and help a sister out 🥹💕

Father Marius died in quite some awful way last night, as reported to you by the nuns hanging fresh washed garments on the clothesline in the waning, purpling daylight.

“A look of horror! Utter terror! So frightened that his jaw had become dislocated in forever a scream,” shivered one young nun, Lucy; recently a convert from the slums. “I, well, I didn't see it myself. Neither did the rest of us, actually. They say it was that new Father Shaw who found him at dawn.”

You had been raking gravel out of the yard, tiny stones kicked off of the path into the kempt lawn by prancing horses and wagon wheels, when Lucy and the other nun, Esme, had caught your attention with their hard, dense gossip. They regarded your approach with less caution than they would have had with their other sisters, as gossip was deemed inappropriate, a violation, a flickering serpent’s tongue carrying covert temptations leading to luscious sins and debauchery.

They saw you—poor, morose, the groundskeeper's only child and reminder of loveless trysts—and thought nothing of snaking you into their prattle. You were not the sort to divulge anyone's secrets without gain, without reward, and you knew that the nuns kept nothing to their names once they took their vows and donned their habits.

“Father Shaw,” you continued the discussion with some intrigue, mostly from the fact that he was very new, very young, and modestly handsome, “why was he awake so early? Why was he in Father Marius’ chambers? Curious to me.”

Neither of them gave much caution to your questions, shrugging as if to dismiss your ambivalence and accusatory tone. You were bold in the way that the faithless and lost always tended to be: asking senseless things, always concerned with the wrongdoings of others, always suspicious, always inquiring—forever inquiring.

“Oh, my, you're so defensive,” Esme fanned a yellow bedspread out with an oncoming breeze, catching the wind beneath the fabric so it billowed and rippled midair. “If that’s how you're going to be, then: why does your father stumble around the yard at night with a lantern, swinging around a pistol like a madman? Won't he hurt someone?”

Because he's a godless, superstitious drunk. Perhaps, even, a bit disturbed in his mind, but you couldn't bear to think that way, that he might be the type to need his head locked in a metal cage, gagged, arms bound, and padlocked in some damp, distant corner of an asylum.

“He's a good man,” you relented, taking your hands from the top of the smoothed out, worn handle of the rake and resumed your task. The gravel made an awful, grinding sound as the teeth of the rake collected pieces of stone and led it back to the rest. “He's served this monastery well. I don't mean offense about Father Shaw, I'm simply curious about what transpired is all.”

“No offense taken,” came a voice from behind, startling both the twittering nuns and yourself at the same time. They saw it to be Father Shaw standing there, hands cuffed behind his back with a particularly demure disposition, hiked their skirts and whisked themselves away back inside. “Ah, am I really such a frightful figure? I couldn't really find an opening during your conversation to invite myself in. I apologize.”

You were of a similar fretful nature, quickening your clawing and the reach of the rake. “Nay, Father. I think it's simply because you're a strange man to them still. A handsome face, a warm voice, mysterious; give them time, they'll come around.”

“Have you?” Father Shaw asked, taking measured strides in a half-circle around to your front. He concentrated on where the teeth of your instrument struck next, tips temporarily wedged into the soft dirt before being ripped up with chunks of earth and gray gravel. “It wouldn't do for me if you… were still ill at ease with me as well. I consider you my one, true friend in this place.”

Your father held a certain destestation towards Father Shaw that you'd never witnessed before, saying nothing else than that something was terribly wrong with him and not to place yourself in a position to be alone with him. This you attributed to his unsoundness, but it was always the sudden flicker a sharp breath against candlelight—a jarring shift in his demeanor when he spoke about the Father, neurotic and prone to throwing things about the cottage interior, that caused you to pay some mind to what he told you.

“And, you're a great friend of mine as well,” you hoped you sounded coherent and paced your words evenly enough. “I'm sorry if you thought I was accusing you of something, sir. I really meant nothing to it.”

Father Shaw’s lips sprawled tight and pale into a fond smile, never showing his teeth, though the imprint of them seemed massive and the skin of his lips startlingly thin across them. “I know. You have nothing to fear. My feelings were not affected. If you'd like, come to my chambers later, we may pray together first, and I'll tell you everything you wish to know about what I saw to sate your curiosity.”

“That seems improper, sir.” You said.

“How so?”

“Inviting someone to your chambers at night seems an unbecoming venture for a pious man of status, such as yourself,” you continued, now standing upright beside your rake, “if any of the sisters were to witness it, worse another priest, aren't you afraid you'd be horribly chastised? Even worse, excommunicated altogether?”

Although Father Shaw’s dark eyes reflected no light, holding such demanding depth to them that it was hard to keep your bearings whenever you realized you'd been staring, his entire face was alight in amusement.

“Wherever did you learn to speak like that?” he asked candidly, still glowing despite his pallor. “Forgive me when I say, but your father is not an educated man. I mean no offense, please don't look at me in such a way. You are so well spoken, I only wish to know more about you.”

“I've lived here my entire life,” you told him. “The nuns taught me how to read.”

He looked impressed. “You can read?”

“I can!” From a near distance, you could make out your father’s haddard form, bent sideways on a walking cane and limping towards the pair of you. You looked up at the priest’s smooth face. “It'd be best for you to leave before my father can speak to you. He isn't the kindest soul after a long day.

Father Shaw didn't react with any semblance of worry, but agreed that there were other things needing to be done and began away. Just as he passed you on his way towards the monastery, he let his hand rest atop of your shoulder and leaned you towards him to whisper in your ear: “come to me tonight. I'll be waiting for you.”

There was something so luxurious and cooling about his voice; fine silks sitting in the shade during autumn gliding across your bare skin, wrapping your neck, your chest, your nether parts. His voice was a fine, chilly mist after the first rains in spring which felt refreshing and new after a glacial winter, yet still had capacity to soak you to the bone. It was a nighttime breeze caressing your cheek, sweeping through the hairs of your scalp, making your skin burst all over with bumps.

“I don't like the way he looks at you,” said your father with a mouthful of porridge you'd seasoned with herbs of the season. It was wonderfully fragrant and warm during nights that were still a bit too uncomfortable to sip anything cold. “He looks at you like you're a slab of meat! Some prize after a hunt. I don't like him, love. Not one bit. You'd do well to stay to mind yourself and do your chores and nothing else, y’hear?”

After dinner, you cleaned up, swept the floors with hard bristles, and snuffed all the lights except for the fireplace where your father sat in his old chair, fiddling with his favorite pistol.

“It's time for bed, old man.” You watched him fit a couple of small bullets into the loading chamber. They glinted against the orange flames. “Goodness. What have you gotten this time? Something new?”

“Aye!” he grinned, nearly toothless and in a sickly sort of way. “Went to market the other day while the nuns bullied you and picked out some fine bullets from the silversmith,” he cracked the two halves of the pistol shut. “Better to be prepared.”

You waited until sometime later once he was finally asleep, possibly after midnight, before leaving the humble cottage sitting on the fringes of the massive monastery yard and rushing across the grounds to get inside.

Once, they'd kept a guard dog on the property, one of those meaner breeds that were used for gambling, but the poor thing wound up shot dead in the middle of the night by a traveling friar who'd come to seek refuge at the monastery. The sisters, and yourself, were horribly distraught by the entire ordeal and all vetoed the consideration of bringing another dog here.

Since then, it was no task for you (or anyone else) to get inside the building and shuffle along the shadows through the corridors. At night, the place stirred with patient insects, feral rodents large and small in the pantry, and hungry owls tamely whining from the rafters when something startled them away from their hunt of vermin.

Your feet were a light sound on the masonry below, padded by thin leather soles which alerted you to your enthusiasm as the thwap thwap thwap became louder, aggressive as you closed in on a wall and turned down another hallway for a sturdy wood door at the end of it.

As your knuckles rapped, hoping the sound wouldn't disturb the animals’ nighttime caroling, a swift darkness moved across the floor from behind the door, briefly blocking out the soft light seeping out from underneath.

The next moment, you were being pulled inside and sat at a small table tucked to the side of Father Shaw’s rather generous room. It was a simple space, sparsely furnished for the barest of comforts—only for what was needed to live—but what had been made for him was of exquisite craftsmanship, some made of teakwood, which Shaw assured you was remarkably durable and highly resistant to rotting.

“It's wonderful for boats,” he said, pouring a light amber colored brew from a metal kettle he'd heated a short while ago. “It’s good for all elements, really. Exceptional longevity. I've heard it has become a popular option in the city for burying the deceased.”

“Will Father Marius be buried in a teakwood coffin, then?” you asked, sipping politely from the cup even though you had no appetite for it. You already felt ill at ease enough having disobeyed your father by sneaking into a priest's personal chambers at night. The things the sisters would say about you—

“He will be entombed underneath the monastery with the rest who have served here and passed. I believe that is all stone down there, my dear.” Father Shaw smiled tepidly, kettle aside, no tea of his own. “But, I know that your curiosity led you here to me with questions, yes? About the state I found Father Marius in, yes?”

You tried to disguise your intrigue by drinking more of the tea, of whatever it was he had given you, and listened to the sounds of your fingertips sticking to the porcelain from sweat and steam.

“If you wouldn't mind sharing…”

“I wouldn't!” he leaned on his arms on the table, closer towards you as though with a secret. “As I've said, you are truly the only soul here who I can confide in. You are not a sheep. And you do not fear sin as the rest do. So, you can ask me anything and I'll tell you everything.”

“Tell me about Father Marius, then.”

Father Shaw reached across the table for one of your hands; his far larger, fingers much longer and colder than your own and held it as he recounted the event.

“Dreadful sight, it was. It was, oh, perhaps sometime after three o'clock when I heard a massive racket. A struggle. When I knocked, all of the noise subsided at once and there was complete stillness. Silence, my dear, silence so deep, dark, and damning that I knew something awful had happened.

“I didn't knock again, I was too afraid to! But, Father Marius was getting on in age, so I couldn't just stand by, either. I kicked the door in—just once was all it took—and I rushed inside to see the room was a complete mess. A fight had clearly taken place, and the walls—oh, the walls—”

His remorse was carefully placed, stiff, and uncertain and he couldn't be seen in the vastness of his black gaze. You were moved by the vulnerability he was trying to show you, going as far to abandon your drink to place your warm hand on top of his.

“The walls, my dear, were a mess of blood. Something vicious and awful had happened in that room. But, then, I found Father Marius lying there on the ground next to a broken window. I think he'd tried to throw himself through it. His face was shredded to pieces, his eyes gouged. When I got closer, I noticed that his tongue had been severed from his head!”

You were holding Father Shaw’s hands in a bloodless grip, face ashen, teeth chattering behind your lips. “What on earth! That is not only horror, but cruelty!”

“Oh, my love, it gets worse!” Father Shaw held you mesmerized in his gaze, the conviction and anguish with which he told his story. “Closer still, Father Marius’ face was locked in one of pure terror, I've—I’ve never seen a human react in quite a way such as that before, to fear. The man unhinged his own jaw in a hideous scream, and it seemed to me he was skeletal. By that, it's like he was, well, quite dry.

“So, I crouched down so much lower and inspected him all over. Do you want to know what I found?”

“Yes.” You spoke breathlessly.

Father Shaw had moved out of his seat and was on one knee in front of you, both of his frigid hands on your face to smooth across your cheeks, pushing away pieces of hair obscuring some part of you he'd wanted to see.

“My love, I saw marks in his neck. Two, beautifully, wonderfully symmetrical marks that were far too clean to be of any animal that we know of. The bite was clean, it was patient and cunning. And the fangs that had sunk into his tender flesh had drained him of blood, of the very essence that kept his heart beating until the very last.”

“Sir—” your stomach plummeted, falling forever, when he smiled, teeth longer than any humans should be shown through to you. He wouldn't let you go when you went to move out of his hands, away from him. “Father Shaw, please—”

“I wish you could have seen it, my love. It was a breathtaking sight and I long for someone else to admire the beauty of my work alongside me.”

It was unthinkable that a vampire could walk on these holy grounds and in the bright of day, yet Father Shaw had for countless days. Evil held you sweetly by the cheek and in your hair, kissed you with a corpse’s cold lips, and laved the skin of your skin with a long, serpentine tongue.

“O’, my merciful lord…”

Father Shaw bent your head back with a fistful of hair and spoke from your throat:

“There is no God, only me. Come into the endless night with me, my love.”

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mediocre-shark-tales · 2 months ago

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Azerbajian GP Weekend

Masterlist

Thursday had arrived, and so had the media frenzy. It was the traditional pre-race press day, and the interview room was buzzing with journalists and cameras ready to capture every word and reaction. I was scheduled for a multi-driver interview, paired with Franco, Carlos, Max, and Oscar—a mix of veterans and rookies, all bringing their own energy to the room. I was feeling confident, prepared to answer whatever questions were thrown my way, until I noticed a few familiar faces among the journalists—faces I remembered from whispers in the paddock.

After a few light-hearted questions aimed at Carlos and Max, the interview shifted gears when a well-known journalist turned to me with a sharp look in his eyes.

“So, Y/N,” he began, voice dripping with a tone that already felt accusatory, “there’s been a lot of talk about your rapid rise to F1, especially after missing significant time in F2. Some might say that… connections or publicity stunts might be part of the story here rather than pure skill.” He leaned back, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What do you say to people who think you’re here for PR reasons, rather than merit?”

My stomach clenched, but I kept my face calm. This was it—the subtle way they were calling me out, questioning if I was here because of talent or if I was just a “diversity hire” in a sport still catching up with the times. I could feel the tension in the room rise as Carlos and Max glanced at me, both of them experienced enough to know what it was like to be grilled by the press.

I took a deep breath, feeling Franco’s reassuring presence beside me. He shot me a quick nod, like he was silently encouraging me to respond.

“Well,” I began, keeping my voice calm and steady, “I think every driver here has something to prove. Racing is about results, and I’m fully prepared to show what I’m capable of on the track. I know there’s a lot of speculation, and it’s natural—every driver faces it at some point. I’m here because I’ve earned this seat. And I’ll keep proving that every weekend.”

The journalist wasn’t done. He leaned forward, raising an eyebrow. “Still, disappearing for months mid-season in F2 and then suddenly being ready to jump into F1… it does raise some eyebrows. Care to elaborate on where you were?”

My heart raced. Memories flooded in—of the sleepless nights by my mother’s side, of the last few precious moments we shared. I felt the urge to defend myself, to tell the whole story right there, but I knew better. I took another breath, holding my smile steady.

“As my former team and I have always said, I was undergoing extensive training to prepare for the reserve role I’d committed to with Aston Martin. My team has full confidence in me, and that’s all the focus I’m giving it,” I replied, keeping my tone professional. I felt proud of my answer, but I could tell the journalist was disappointed by my restraint.

Max jumped in, breaking the tension with his classic cool-headedness. “You know, there are always rumors about all of us. It’s all just noise until we’re on track, isn’t it?”

The journalist backed off slightly, though I could tell he wasn’t convinced. Franco shot me a supportive look, mouthing a quick “Nice one” as the attention moved to another driver. I took a deep breath, reminding myself to stay composed. My mother’s voice echoed in my mind, reminding me of all the reasons I was here.

After the interview wrapped up, Franco walked over and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Forget him. That was out of line. You handled it well.”

“Thanks,” I replied, my voice a bit shaky. “I just didn’t expect that to hit so hard, you know?”

He nodded, his eyes kind. “I know. But you showed them that you belong here. Keep doing that, and everyone else will see it too.”

As we left the interview room, Franco nudged me, a curious look in his eyes. "Did you notice how quickly Max jumped in? It’s like he was standing up for you."

I shrugged, glancing back at the room we’d just left. "I don’t know if it was for me specifically," I replied. "Max just seems to hate when journalists get too personal. He probably saw the question as crossing a line. He’s always been a no-nonsense guy."

Franco didn’t seem convinced. "Maybe, but... he didn’t have to say anything at all. A lot of other drivers wouldn’t." He paused, as if carefully choosing his next words. "Look, I’ve been around these drivers a while now, and I know how they talk. I think Max might be one of the few drivers who’s actually looking at what you do on track, not paying attention to those rumors.”

I hesitated, not sure how to process that. “Maybe,” I conceded. “But why would he? He doesn’t know me.”

“Maybe he’s seen the work you’re putting in,” Franco said thoughtfully. “He knows what it’s like to face doubt—he started young too. Besides,” he added, “Max respects hard work. He wouldn’t have stood up for you if he didn’t think you’ve earned your place.”

I wanted to believe Franco, but I couldn’t help being skeptical. “You might be giving him too much credit,” I said. “Honestly, I still think it was more about hating the question than defending me.”

Franco laughed. “Maybe you’re right. Max isn’t exactly Mr. Empathy. But I think he respects that you’ve been keeping your head down and just focusing on racing. People who’ve been on the grid longer can spot real talent, and he wouldn’t bother standing up for you if he didn’t see something there.”

I looked down, smiling to myself. The thought that Max might see past all the gossip and actually believe in my abilities was… a little surreal. But if Franco was right, it meant something. "You know," I said quietly, "maybe that’s enough for now. If I can prove myself to someone like Max, maybe that’s all I need to do for the rest to start paying attention."

Franco nodded. “Exactly. Let them talk. Just keep showing up on track and doing what you do best. You’re already turning heads, whether they admit it or not.”

We walked on in comfortable silence after that, both of us aware that this race weekend would be another chance. Another shot to show everyone—including myself—that I had a place here, no matter who questioned it.

We parted ways minutes later, Franco being asked to return to his garage for a filming session between him and Alex. I decided to walk around the paddock a bit more —given that most if not every interviewer was in the interview room right now— I had a chance to relax by myself with a nice little undisrupted wandering walk. It didn’t last long however before I was seemingly cornered by the same man who had stood up for me before. Max Verstappen had spotted me from across the paddock and beelined his way right towards me.

I froze for a moment, a bit caught off guard. Max was one of the last people I expected to seek me out, especially after that brief encounter in the interview room. He was known for being straightforward, but also for keeping to himself, so seeing him walk toward me like this felt... unexpected.

As he approached, I straightened up, unsure of what to say. Max had that usual intense focus in his eyes, but his expression didn’t seem as cold as it often did. He came to a stop in front of me, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets.

“Hey,” he said, his tone casual but direct. "How are you holding up?"

I blinked, momentarily surprised by the question. "I’m good," I replied quickly, forcing a small smile. “Why do you ask?”

Max looked around the paddock, as if checking to make sure no one else was nearby. When he turned back to me, he spoke a little lower. “Just wanted to make sure you’re not letting the stuff they’re saying get to you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What stuff?”

He shrugged, his expression softening a little. “The gossip. The rumors. People are always going to talk, especially when there’s something new, or something they don’t understand.” He paused for a second, looking at me seriously. “But you’ve been doing well. I can see it.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It was... unexpected, to say the least. Max wasn’t exactly the type to give out compliments, let alone stand up for someone in public, especially someone like me. The fact that he was acknowledging it so openly made me second-guess a lot of my assumptions about him.

"Thanks," I said, my voice more tentative than I intended. "I appreciate it."

Max nodded. "I know how it feels to be judged before you even get the chance to show what you can do. It’s not easy." He paused again, and then, almost like an afterthought, added, "If you need someone to talk to or whatever, don’t hesitate."

I was caught off guard once more. Max Verstappen, offering to talk?

"Uh, thanks," I replied, this time more confidently. "I think I’ll be alright, but it’s good to know."

He gave me a small nod, a glimmer of respect in his eyes. “Good. Keep your head up, alright? They’ll respect you, eventually. Just keep showing up.”

With that, he turned and walked off, leaving me standing there a little dumbfounded. The last thing I expected was for Max Verstappen to go out of his way to check on me, but now I was left wondering if there was more to him than just the hard-as-nails racer everyone saw on TV. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as bad as the rumors made him out to be either.

BIG TIME SKIP

After Qualifying, I couldn’t help but smile—P10! I’d made it into the top 10, just behind Franco who had secured P9. We were both on cloud nine and decided to grab dinner together to celebrate. We were walking out of the paddock, laughing and joking, when I suddenly heard someone shout Franco’s name.

“Franco! Where are you going?” Lando’s voice rang out across the busy paddock.

Both Franco and I turned, surprised. We saw Lando and Oscar jogging toward us, the latter giving me a fleeting glance. Lando, on the other hand, didn’t spare me a single glance. His eyes were locked on Franco, his tone sharp.

Franco, clearly still riding the high of a great qualifying result, gave him a friendly wave. “Hey, just heading out to grab some dinner. Want to join us?”

Oscar’s eyes lingered on me for a brief moment, and I could swear I saw something akin to pity flicker across his face, but it disappeared so quickly that I couldn’t be sure. Lando, however, didn’t acknowledge me at all, his gaze still glued to Franco.

“I’m good,” Lando replied curtly, his tone flat. “We’ll catch up later. But I’ve heard... you two are quite the topic today.”

Franco shot me a quick glance, clearly uncomfortable, but said nothing as Lando’s words hung in the air. I could feel his eyes shift between me and Franco, clearly sizing up the situation. The tension was palpable, and I knew exactly what he was referring to. The rumors.

“So, uh, what’s it like?” Lando continued, his voice now almost too casual, his gaze flicking over to me. “Being the new face around here, with all the... stories going around?”

Oscar, standing silently at Lando’s side, seemed content to watch the exchange, though his eyes flicked to me, then back to Lando. I could tell he wasn’t quite sure where this conversation was headed.

I wasn’t sure if Lando was looking for confirmation or if he was trying to provoke a reaction, but either way, I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. The judgment in his tone wasn’t subtle, and I wasn’t about to let it slide.

“Stories?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow as I turned toward him. “What kind of stories?”

Lando shifted uncomfortably, clearly caught off guard by my question, but he quickly recovered. “You know,” he said with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “The whole... why you suddenly disappeared from F2, then came in and replaced Stroll and all that. Guess people are curious and there are a lot of people willing to tell their stories to fill that gap in.”

Oscar’s eyes darted between us, a slight frown tugging at his lips, but he said nothing. I could see the judgment in Lando’s face now, and I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

“I’m not here to entertain gossip,” I replied, my voice steady but firm. “I don’t know where these ‘stories’ came from, but you’re feeding into them just like everyone else. How about you let me speak for myself? Maybe then you’ll get the real story.”

Franco opened his mouth to speak, likely trying to defuse the situation, but I held up a hand to stop him. I wasn’t going to let Lando get away with it.

“If you really think that just because of my background in this sport, you’re going to judge me on rumors instead of what I can do on track,” I said, my tone cutting through the air, “then maybe you should reconsider how much you actually know from sources that don’t include bias perspectives.”

Lando’s face twitched, and for a moment, I could see the flicker of realization in his eyes. He wasn’t used to being called out so directly. But he wasn’t backing down either.

“Look, I didn’t mean—” he started, but I cut him off sharply, my tone colder than before.

“No, you didn’t mean it,” I snapped, my eyes narrowing. “But you’re still doing it. So maybe before you speak about things you clearly know nothing about, you should think twice. Because I’m not here to be the subject of your gossip.”

The air between us grew tense, and the silence stretched on. Oscar, who had been quietly observing, exchanged a glance with Lando but stayed silent. I could feel the weight of Lando’s eyes on me, but I refused to back down.

“Is that really how it’s going to be?” I asked, my voice hard. “You think you can just judge me based on some rumor mill nonsense without even knowing me? Maybe you should consider that there’s more to me than whatever the hell people want to say about my past. What happens on track is all that should matter. But if you’re still buying into that crap, then maybe you’re not the person I thought you were.”

Lando’s jaw tightened, and I could tell that I had struck a nerve. He didn’t immediately respond, instead glancing at Oscar, who now had a slightly concerned look on his face. Lando shifted on his feet, clearly unsure of how to respond to someone calling him out so forcefully.

“I get it, alright?” Lando muttered, but there was no real sincerity in his voice. “But you’ve got to admit, there’s a lot of speculation.”

I rolled my eyes, the frustration bubbling up inside me. “Speculation is exactly what it is. And it’s none of your business, Lando. What matters is that I’m here, racing, and proving myself every time I get behind the wheel. Maybe if you focused more on that, you’d see it for what it is, instead of judging me based on some stupid rumors.”

I paused for a moment, letting the silence linger between us before I spoke again, my voice sharpening. “And honestly, with all the rumors floating around that you’re a big fan of Trump after some of the things you’ve said in Miami? I’m not surprised you’re so quick to jump on the bandwagon and believe whatever fits the narrative. It’s easier to go along with what the media says, right? But I don’t listen to that stuff. I judge people by their actions, not by what the tabloids want to spin. You don’t know me, Lando, so stop acting like you do.”

I could see him bristle at my words, and for a moment, I could tell that what I said hit harder than he expected. It wasn’t about defending myself anymore—it was about standing up for the idea that I wouldn’t let others define me, especially when they hadn’t bothered to get to know the real me.

Lando’s expression flickered, a mix of frustration and something else—something I couldn’t quite place—passing across his face. For a moment, he was silent, clearly trying to process what I had just said. But I could tell I had made him think, even if just for a brief second.

He didn’t immediately apologize, which told me everything I needed to know. He wasn’t ready to back down yet. But I wasn’t done.

“Just stop hiding behind your assumptions, Lando,” I added, my voice firm. “It’s not a good look. You can’t just brush off people based on things you hear when there’s no real truth to it. It’s lazy, and frankly, it’s disappointing.”

Lando stood there, looking caught off guard by my directness. He wasn’t apologizing, not really. But I could see that I had planted a seed. Maybe it would take a while for him to truly get it, but at least for now, I had made my point. And I wasn’t about to let anyone walk over me—especially not when I knew I was capable of so much more than the rumors said.

“I... didn’t realize it was that big of a deal,” he said, his voice a little quieter now. “I’m just trying to keep up with everything going on around here.” “Well, try harder,” I shot back, my tone biting. “Because if you can’t see past the rumors, you’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

With that, I turned away, my heart still racing with anger. I didn’t want his apology, not really. I wasn’t looking for anyone’s approval. But I wasn’t going to let anyone make me feel small just because they couldn’t look beyond what they heard. I walked away, leaving Lando and Oscar to whatever thoughts they were processing, knowing that I had made myself clear.

Franco, who had been watching from the sidelines, gave me an approving smile as I returned to his side. I didn’t need to look back to know that the tension between Lando and me wasn’t going to disappear anytime soon. But that was fine by me. It was time for me to prove myself on the track, and if Lando and the others had to learn the hard way, so be it.

#x reader #f1 angst #driver!reader #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #max verstappen #charles leclerc #oscar piastri #lando norris #franco colapinto #lewis hamilton #carlos sainz #george russell #grill the grid #f1 grid x reader

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violetrainbow412-blog · 2 years ago

Text

Exchanged clothes [S. R] Bolinus brandaris part. 2

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

word count: 4.6k

part 1

summary: a small act of kindness leads to a rather peculiar confession

A/N: Okaay, some people showed interest in a sequel to this and I thought I'd do it, I hope you like it enough. Oh and we are still with baby Spencer, later I will write about the second and third seasons (and as I progress in the series, lol)

taglist: @the-ginger-draws @skievers @c-m-stuff

The days passed, the cases continued, and the level of trust in the friendship between you and Reid only grew. Working at The Behavioral Analysis Unit was complicated and exhausting in many ways, which sometimes made you wonder how he managed to put up with all that, because, although you weren’t an old woman, you did have two years more experience compared to him. It's also not like it was your fault that he was a genius and he went to work for the FBI at an extraordinary age. So every time something happened, you were there for him and he was there for you. The whole team really cared about the two of you (and JJ, the third youngest) while still trusting in your abilities to face challenges. And just like in a family, everyone could also notice the existing tension between you and the doctor, because although, at least on your part, the feelings had been there for a long time, they had become more obvious to the rest since of the trip to Miami.

"Good morning" you had greeted part of the team that day, a few weeks after the trip, more energetic than the others would have expected. Neither Hotch nor Gideon were around, for obvious reasons, so it was only when you passed Reid's desk that you stopped, running your hand affectionately through his hair “Hey, Doc.”

"Hello," he responded immediately. Spencer didn't like it when his hair got messy, but he could take it if it was you, just as he could take your constant hugs or the drawings you sometimes made on his hand when you were bored during meetings. Of everything that happened between you, little managed to bother him, almost as if the interactions he avoided with others were something natural with you around.

Although he had stopped wearing his scarf daily, he still wore it at least once a week as a reminder of how special it was to him, and fortunately that day was the chosen one.

“Do we have a case? Or do I just bury my nose in these reports?” you muttered to the others, but they denied "What of that do you say no to?"

"Today they will be documents" JJ spoke kindly.

"Why do I have so many?"

“Because I passed you some of mine,” Morgan sneered and you gasped, completely offended. You whispered something accusatory in his direction that made Spencer laugh from the next desk, and then he reached over to take just under half the folders.

"I will help you"

"Oh no, no, Reid. It's okay,” you said, your voice softening noticeably, as you placed your hands over his to try to stop him.

"It's nothing, I'll finish them in a jiffy"

"Why don't you ever offer to help me, huh?"

“You manage pretty well on your own,” Spencer teased at your friend, now making you laugh. You still had your hands on his under the excuse of collecting your reports and, perhaps unconsciously, both of you postponed the moment for another few seconds, looking into your eyes with a small smile until he finally managed to keep the material that he had stolen from your desk.

"Thank you," you said, so softly that only he could hear you.

Looking at your coworker had already become something of an obsession. You liked his gestures, how he looked away when he spoke, his nervous ramblings, and the straight hair that he apparently was letting grow, but what you liked the most were his hands. When he was explaining a profile, he always communicated a lot with his body language and honestly, the swaying of his hands, combined with the tranquility in his tone of voice, was very hypnotic to you, as if keeping the attention of others was something inescapable for him, although it was probably easier to keep your attention specifically. Right now, while everyone was minding their own business, you were watching sideways as he ran his middle finger over the printed lines. It made you nervous to see the delicacy with which he moved across the sheet of paper and inevitably your mind traveled to inappropriate corners related to that movement, which embarrassed you to the point of blushing. Thank heavens he was too focused to notice you, so you forced yourself to work on the few reports Reid had let you keep.

The days were very rare when no cases appeared, but you were grateful that they existed because sometimes it was necessary to take a breather. Seeing so many bodies, so much blood and so much inhumanity was something you never quite got used to, although having good teammates in your unit made it more bearable. So that night nothing stopped you from finishing right on time, with a little back pain from sitting all day, but also quite calm.

"I'll see you tomorrow, rest"

"Are you going to your apartment?" Spencer asked, rushing towards you with his coat in hand and the briefcase slung over his shoulder, and you nodded Can you wait for me to go together?”

You looked at him, more confused than you wanted, but you said yes. It's not that you were upset or that you didn't want company, but that you were curious as to why he might have offered to do it.

"Thanks again, for earlier," you said, once both of you were outside. You lived a few streets from the office and you could get there in less than 20 minutes by taking a subway station, which fortunately was the same one he took.

“Okay, they were too many for you. I mean, it's not that I think you can't do the job, you're very capable, it's just that I thought it was too much workload for just you and I… well, I could help you so I did it” with that Reid held up a hand to downplay the matter and smiled at you.

“Why have we never thought about walking to the subway together?”

"I don't know either," he said. You felt a gust of wind hit the both of you so you hugged yourself to try and get some warmth and even though Spencer wasn't the best at reading social cues he managed to figure out what you had and what he needed to do

“Here” he murmured, as he spread the coat and put it on your shoulders.

“Oh no, no, no, Reid. I'm fine"

"In fact, if you don't use it you can catch a cold and although there are very few cases in which there are complications that lead to death, the symptoms last about a week and you can infect several people during the first days, so you not only you would be taking care of yourself but also the rest of the team” he informed you. That made you smile, and you found that behind all his scientific mumbo jumbo, he was trying to take care of you.

"It's a little big on me," you laughed, reaching into the sleeves with some help from him.

“You look pretty” he blurted out from his lips, completely entranced by you “Well, the… the coat. It looks good” he tried to fix, but you laughed at the compliment that you definitely wouldn't pass up.

"Aren't you cold?"

“No, my shirt and vest help,” Spencer replied, showing you the long sleeve of her white shirt. “I also have my scarf, did you forget it?”

"The best choice in all your outfits" you joked, reaching out a hand to feel the soft fabric of the garment and looking at him, with that cute shy smile "What will you do when you get to your apartment?"

“Huh, probably get some sleep. I haven't been resting properly in the past few days."

"Nightmares again?" you sadly asked. Spencer had talked to you superficially about it a few days ago, although you thought that he had suffered from this disease for much longer than he wanted to admit. He didn't answer verbally, he just nodded his head and you thought he didn't want to delve into it “I think I'll spend a while in the bathtub and then I'll sleep. I'm exhausted"

“You close doors and windows before you sleep, right?”

"I do," you assured him.

“Do you also take your cell phone with you to call in case of emergencies?”

"Huh, yeah"

"Good. Take care of yourself” he insisted. Those didn't sound like random recommendations and that puzzled you a bit.

"I do, Reid," you replied softly. When you noticed that the concern in his features did not leave him, you thought it would be prudent to ask him why that was "Are you worried about something?"

"No, it's not that" he hastened to answer. You still had a few blocks to go to get to the subway and only a few passers-by walked the streets, besides you.

“Are they unsub then? Anything in particular that worries you?"

"It's nothing like that. It's just…” he gasped, still unsure to continue, “if I tell you, you'll think it's silly”

"Of course not. Tell me, what is it?" you asked. He was internally debating if he should tell you what he was thinking and he was convinced a little when he felt your hand on his arm, as if prompting him to speak.

“Yesterday I…” he started to say “I had a nightmare. I dreamed when I arrived at the office I found out that something bad had happened to you. And… I don't know, it felt very real and I couldn't get it out of my head” he admitted. You understood that perhaps it was the reason he had wanted to accompany you, as if he feared that someone might stalk you on the way.

“Spence” you murmured gently, as you pulled him a little in your direction to place one hand on his bicep and the other on his forearm “Don't worry, nothing's going to happen to me. My apartment complex has a good security system and I always carry my gun, if something happens on the street, I will know how to deal with it. They're just bad dreams, I have them sometimes too” you said to reassure him. You felt quite comfortable walking in that position and you continued a couple of steps holding him like this, looking for some negative sign from him, but it never came. With the closeness he managed to feel a little less fear, reminding himself that what tormented him were fantasies of his own mind, that if they were analyzed with a little more detail they were an unconscious reflection of how much he feared losing you.

"I told you it would be silly"

"It is not. It's quite sweet, actually,” you smiled, moving your thumb up and down as you smiled at him. In that position your face was at the height of the boy's shoulder and it was enough for him to turn his head to reach your forehead, so he wondered how much you would bother if he left you a kiss there. He wanted to, but held back.

“I just thought I should tell you. For you to be careful"

“Same to you, Reid. You have a rather peculiar ability to get into trouble” you exclaimed accusingly, because in a couple of cases the man had already managed to get on your nerves.

The position turned out to be cozier than you expected and you continued walking the rest of the streets towards the subway in silence. He concentrated on the feeling of your body so close to him and your hands gently holding him, while you lost yourself in thought wondering what you really felt about your coworker and what he felt for you. Spencer would look at you from time to time, analyzing your gestures and enjoying the sight of you wearing his clothes, something he didn't think would affect him the way he did.

“Did you know that railway suicides have a very small percentage in the country's suicide rate?” he told you, while the two of you looked at the subway tracks that you were waiting for. You had had to distance yourself to be able to pay the pennies for the ticket and you had decided to place your hands in the pockets of your borrowed coat, caressing the lining fabric with your fingers.

"I had no idea" you muttered. You were a little surprised that he always had an interesting fact about literally anywhere you were and you loved hearing him tell you “It must be horrible. And very sad"

"Even the government allocates certain resources to pay for psychological therapy for drivers who witness these suicides"

"Well, at least it comforts me to know that part of my taxes ends there," you joked bitterly and the train stopped just as you finished saying it. Reid let you first into the nearly empty car that would take you home, and along the way you continued to talk about less unfortunate things, like the dinner choices you were planning or the TV shows that were likely to be airing when you arrived.

Having those little quiet moments with him made you feel lucky and the laughs he managed to get filled your chest with joy, making you completely forget everything related to work. The voice in the wagon warned that your stop was next and an anticipated sadness invaded you.

“Be…”

"Be careful, I know" you smiled. Since you were already on your feet, so as not to miss your stop, you crouched down to give him a quick goodbye hug “See you tomorrow. Try to sleep and if you have nightmares you can call me, okay?" you muttered. He nodded from his place as he watched you leave towards the platform and leaned out the window to see your figure disappear into the distance.

Neither of you two realized that you had kept his coat until you got home.

As of that night, that coat returned to see the doctor's closet on very few occasions and the purple scarf went on to have joint custody. He had found out that if he loved anything more than wearing the clothes you gave him, it was seeing you wearing them, causing him to come up with totally pathetic excuses to accomplish that.

"It's a bit cold" "Purple matches your clothes" or simply "keep it, it looks better on you than on me"

It soon became a habit. During the cases, when you two were apart, it was a little comforting to have something of him with you and when he came home, he would enjoy breathing in the smell of your perfume impregnated on the fabric.

After a few weeks you realized that, without a doubt, you were so in love with him. And when he realized the same thing, he was completely terrified.

“Reid” you greeted him one morning, catching up with him as he poured himself a coffee and analyzed a piece of bread that had surely been sitting there since the day before. Hugs when seeing him had also become a habit, quite nice from the man’s point of view "I have something for you"

"Again?"

"Oh yeah," you smiled. Lately you had been filling him with small gifts and most of them quite rare, but which he kept suspiciously in his desk drawer. And it's not that he didn't appreciate it, but that he was beginning to feel guilty for receiving so many and not having given you any yet. "Give me your keys," you asked and he obeyed without even questioning you. Once you had them in your hand, you took a strip of colored beads from your pocket that you added as a key ring, while he looked at you with some confusion.

"What's that?"

“My friend asked me to babysit her daughter this weekend and we went crazy with crafts. So I thought I'd do this to you” you muttered. He took a closer look at the keyring and noted that you had included his favorite colors, purple and green, as well as a heart-shaped bead at the end. "I know it looks like a preschool kid's creation and if you're embarrassed to wear it you can throw it away”

"No, I like it. It's pretty,” he smiled, running his long fingers over the beads. Satisfied with the answer, you took out your own keys and proudly showed them to him.

"I have one just like it," you said happily. That was true, only yours was made of pink and blue, and the way you said it completely touched the man.

"You make me think that there is still goodness in this world, you know?" he exclaimed, so sincere and without thinking that he surprised you "I loved it, thank you very much"

"Now that I think about it, it's like one of those friendship bracelets you make at summer camp”

“I never went to a summer camp”

"I don't know why I'm not surprised" you laughed and would have continued the conversation if it hadn't been for Hotch's interruption.

“We've got a case. Conference room in 5”

Sometimes you forgot that the real reason you were there was the criminal profiles and not seeing Spencer Reid every day.

You just woke up one morning and knew you had to tell Spencer how you felt about him. As you said before, Spencer seemed to have a special magnet for trouble and proof of this were the cases in which he had to perform dangerous tasks that you knew no one else could do. When he had to get on that train with Ted Bryar you'd gone crazy and last week when he'd watched that cult boy on Massanutten Mountain threaten Reid with a gun you decided you'd had enough.

He had expressed concern for your well-being on multiple occasions, but what about his? Didn't you have the right to care about him just as much? every time he came back you wanted to throw yourself into his arms and whisper in his ear if he was okay, to maybe leave a kiss or two on his cheeks. But every time he came back you just cheered with the rest of the team and barely had contact with him beyond a squeeze on the shoulder and a sincere: I'm glad you're okay.

So you thought that if you wanted to have that kind of privilege over others the only alternative was to profess your love to him in the hope that he would feel the same way and you could work something out.

Spencer, for his own part, also had his epiphany and as much as he tried to avoid it he ended up asking Morgan for advice, who was the only person he thought would be suitable to talk about this kind of subject. Surprisingly, Derek behaved discreetly and really gave the doctor valuable elements to understand one of the few sciences in which science was almost obsolete: love.

Going back to recently acquired habits, walking together to the subway was another one of them. Sometimes this was interrupted because he or you stayed longer than the other, but except for those cases it was a regular activity.

So that night, when you two were walking to the station, your mind was immersed in remembering the speech with which you planned to tell your friend.

"You're very quiet today," Reid observed, taking you by surprise. In a few months he had already learned very well some traits that indicated that something was wrong with you.

“Sorry, I… I have a few things on my mind,” you apologized, but Spencer didn't know what to say because he also had his own things on his mind. He was desperately searching for a way to put into words what he felt, but he kept wondering, could that be explained? All attempts at reasoning became useless with you near him, maybe that's why he couldn't think of how to tell you "Reid, I don't think I've ever asked you, but have you ever had a partner?"

"Like… couple?" he asked, trying to make sure you were referring to the same thing he thought.

“I know it sounds weird, but it just… made me curious,” you exclaimed, shrugging and then crossing your arms in an attempt to comfort yourself. Reid fondly watched how your arms were on that purple scarf and felt a little motivated to speak.

“Huh, in that case, yes, something like that. I dated two people when I was in school, but it wasn't anything serious, just a few kisses” he explained to you and you failed to contain your laughter, maybe because of the way he had explained it. Spencer blushed to his ears and smiled reflexively at your smile. "Don't tease!"

"I don't" you defended yourself. Another person walked down the sidewalk and he reached out his arm to move you protectively in front of him, so when you came back to his side you took advantage of the distance between you, to the point where your shoulder brushed against his arm.

"And you?" he asked after a while of silence "Have you had many boyfriends?"

"The truth? not so many. With most of them I lost interest after the first date and the others left me when they found out I was in the academy. Apparently armed women aren't very attractive” you smiled. You had asked about his romantic history, and incidentally talked a bit about yours, only to open the topic and somehow feel that your confession would not be so out of place.

“There are studies that indicate that women take longer to fall in love than men, perhaps that is why you lost interest quickly. For you it takes about 6 or 8 dates to decide if you want something with a person, because you are more selective and better analyze personality traits in men. But they only care that the girls are… well, pretty” he murmured, with a smirk “On average it takes women 134 days to fall in love while men only 88”

“How long have you and I known each other?”

"It must be like... a year and a half now" he exclaimed, mentally doing the math "Why?" he continued legitimately confused. For the genius that he was, Reid was naive at times.

You looked down at him and for a second thought that even with those bags under his eyes and the stubble he hadn't shaved, Spencer was the most handsome man you'd ever met. Not receiving an answer, he looked at you and was surprised to see the sparkle in your eyes.

"Okay, can we stop here for a moment?" you asked. You knew you were probably going to chicken out if you didn't say it right then, even if that closed beauty salon you were standing in front of was an unromantic place. "I need to tell you something”

You had said it with determination, but once you were face to face, your mind went blank. You panicked: how were you going to tell him? What was the right thing to say? What reaction did you expect?

But Spencer, noticing the silence, decided to be the first to speak.

“Noradrenaline is a neurotransmitter that produces excitement and effusivity, increases heartbeat, blood pressure, causing sweating of hands and flushing. High dopamine levels generate a need to be with the person that releases it and is related to serotonin, which generates well-being, optimism, social closeness, and reduces discomfort and anger. Phenylethylamine makes everything more intense, makes us feel more motivated and optimistic and finally, oxytocin is the love hormone par excellence, it occurs when we have a bond of trust with people or when we feel a strong attraction. Sometimes it is also released when we embrace the reason for our affection” he had said that so hastily and waving his hands, that he could only show how nervous he was. He inhaled to catch his lost breath, then finally made eye contact with you, taking a moment before continuing, “What I'm trying to say is…you make me feel all of that. You alter my chemistry in ways I've never thought of and… and I… go all goofy and don't know what to say…”

"Spencer" you interrupted him "You mean you like me?" you asked gently, because you knew that when he started to wander sometimes you needed to bring him back down to earth. Reid looked at you tight-lipped and nodded slowly.

You were silent for a second, trying to process what he had just told you, and he got even more nervous than he was.

“But I think that after all this what I care to know is… if you feel the same way. Or in the worst case, if you think you might feel something like this”

“A total chemical mess for you?” you exclaimed amused. One of your hands went to his and you gently held it, taking a step closer to him. “I'm sorry, Reid. I feel it every time I look at you, that you hug me, every time I give you those silly gifts and see the smile on your face. Everything in you causes me that"

"Are you serious?" he asked, wanting to be completely sure what he was hearing. You laughed and wrapped your free arm around his neck, pulling him into a hug.

“Of course I do. Before you said all that I was racking my brain trying to find a way to tell you how I felt."

“Did you know that this is a phenomenon? There are those who call it the tuning fork effect, which is when two people connect the same idea at the same time, almost as if they had been thinking at the same frequency.”

You chuckled and buried your head in his neck, letting go of his hand so you could hug him properly. He wrapped both arms around your waist and buried his head in your hair, willing to say nothing more for fear of ruining the moment. All the fears you had had were being buried with that contact, because now you had the certainty that what you felt was mutual.

You stayed like that for what felt like hours, just listening to the gentle beating of his heart and enjoying the sense of security that being in the man's arms made you feel.

"I really like you" you broke the silence, with a whisper, making him smile.

"I think the most logical step from here would be to ask you out on a date, no?" he muttered. You pulled away enough to look at him, but still leaving your arms around his shoulders.

“I don't want to have to wait. Let's go for a burger"

"Don't you prefer somewhere more... formal?"

"Leave formal places for proposals, handsome," you said in a playful voice, caressing his cheeks with your extended palm and he made a mental note that this Italian restaurant he was thinking of inviting you to would be the ideal place to ask you to take the next step, when the time was right.

“I still have to take you on at least 6 dates, to be sure”

"Fuck the statistics, I don't need that burger to know I'm in love with you," you said and he grinned from ear to ear.

“I know a place with an excellent health label and organic food, it is a few streets from here”

"I follow you" you answered cheerfully "On one condition"

"Which?"

"Let me hold your hand," you asked softly and Reid wasted no time in fulfilling your wish, leading you to the restaurant that way.

And at the end of the night, when you stole a kiss from him, he couldn't have felt luckier.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #jason gideon #JJ #penelope garcía

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artdcnaldson · 6 months ago

Note

so what happens patrick is back from tour and visiting and you're all at his big mansion for a weekend and you're making art absolutely fucking miserable because you keep treading a thin line - flashing your panties to art from behind patrick so he cant see - clinging to arts arm and when patrick asks when you got so close all the sudden you giggle and arts heart nearly drops out of his ass but you just say its because hes been so helpful on campus! he even told off a bully for you! - art could strangle you, you think this is a game like patrick wont literally break his teeth if he finds out and why is that so fucking funny to you?

he ends up cornering you in a moment alone - when you're coming out of the shower and patricks doing something else - he slips into the bathroom - locks it. backs you up against the sink counter when you're in just a towel and you're so excited but art looks furious - and not the horny kind of mad he gets before he caves and touches you - the genuine anger before he cuts deep and you think 'oh shit -' before he lays into you.

Because, what the fuck? Do you think your pussy is more important than his friendship with patrick? Is that it? Are you thinking that if patrick finds out arts gonna pick up his sword and fight for you? Dump patrick for you? Finally date you? Is that the delusional little fantasy you've been cooking in your head?

You aren't the kind of girl he wants to date anyway, he says most painfully. I mean, you let him fuck your ass and slap you around - and throw your pussy at him at every given opportunity. You're not the kind of girl he'd have as a girlfriend. You're the kind of girl guys fuck before they find a woman with some fucking self respect.

It might be the meanest thing he's ever said. Which is why you're both suprised by the slap that rings out - your hand frozen in the air in shock - arts head whipped to the side from the hit, cheek already burning red from your handprint.

You want to say sorry - but art just laughs. Shoves you to your knees - "I'll show you fucking sorry - " and when he fucks your throat you know your tears are from the truth of his words as much as how hard hes hitting the back of your throat.

🥰🌈☀️💐 how life feels when tumblr user poppy-metal in my inbox

It’s two days, but he feels like he’s going insane just one day in. Every single fleeting glance you send his way, he’s sure is going to be the one thing that makes him slip up— that clues Patrick in on every fucked up thing he’s done.

But he gets set off on Saturday night, when the three of you are smoking outside in the garden. It annoys him because it was like he can’t get a fucking second alone with Pat. Like you need to be there to remind him of what a shitty friend he is. Patrick closes his eyes, leans back on a stone bench.

You’re sitting on the fountain with a cigarette dangling from manicured fingers. He sees something dangerous flash in your expression and it makes him sit up straight. You uncross your legs and reveal your bare pussy beneath the little skirt you wear, Art he takes a long drag, but can’t make himself look away like he should.

A strange, mournful tug pulls at his chest when you close your legs, hide away from him again. Your laugh rings through the air when you look at Art, when you feel the palpable want. Patrick sits up, eyes narrowed. “What’s so funny, huh?” Art coughs uncomfortably on his exhale.

You glance over at the blond, duck your head shyly. It’s all a fucking act, Art thinks. He can see you laying out every single clue for Patrick to uncover. It’s fun for you, to make Art squirm, like you have the power. And you do. You could fucking ruin him.

But you just shrug, blow smoke towards Patrick’s face, which makes your brother’s expression wrinkle in annoyance. He ashes his cigarette with a tap of his finger. “You two are pretty close now,” he notes. Not accusatory. Yet. “Do you two have fun at Stanford without me?”

Art opens his mouth to speak, to deny that he spends time with you outside of making sure you don’t get roofied at college parties. But you speak first, your voice ringing out into the air. “Art’s been really good to me at school,” you say, really laying it on thick. “He’s always taking care of me and making sure I’m happy. I can sleep in his room when I’m lonely, and he doesn’t let any guys take advantage of me when we’re at parties. He always keeps me close so nothing bad happens. He actually broke up with his girlfriend because she was being so mean to me.”

Patrick’s jaw ticks slightly, and the brunet forces himself to laugh. Art’s stomach drops, and he takes a drag to distract himself. You fucking bitch. You know exactly what you’re doing, he can read it in the fake, doe-eyed look you wore.

“That’s nice, Donaldson,” Patrick says. “Keeping my little sister happy, huh? Really nice.”

You stand up, like that was your cue to leave. So Patrick could beat Art into a pulp, drown him in the fountain, put out his cigarette on his tongue. It was hard to say. But you just stretched, stubbed out your cigarette on the stone edge of the fountain. “I’m gonna go shower before Daddy smells smoke on me,” you tell Patrick. You ruffle his hair, then turn to face Art. “Goodnight.”

Art is quiet, watches you disappear into the hedges and greenery leading back to the house. The door shuts behind you in the distance like a gunshot, and Patrick glares over at him. “What the fuck, dude?”

Art sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “She’s exaggerating,” he says as calmly as he’s able. He meets Patrick’s gaze, does his best not to wilt. “She’s just trying to convince you that she’s doing fine at school.”

Patrick’s tongue pokes against his jaw, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Whatever,” he says, shaking his head. “I fucking hate this, you know. We’re hardly even talking, but somehow my little sister knows all about your fucking college girlfriend. I didn’t even know you had one, dude.”

Art swallows, nods. “I know, I’ve just been…” He sighs. “Senior year, you know? Things will be different once I graduate and go pro like you.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Whatever, dude. Night.”

Art is left alone in the garden, with the stub of a cigarette burned down to his fingers. He sticks it in a flower pot and bites at his cuticles. They’re practically raw at this point, but he’d already chewed the inside of his lip raw and achy, so he’s running low on things he can use to distract himself.

Once he sees the light in Patrick’s room flick on he stands and walks back to the house. Patrick’s parents were always weird about him wandering the place alone— like he’d steal some random clock that was a gift from a world leader, or something stupid like that. Like his parents weren’t making six figures themselves.

Whatever. You and Patrick are both fucking brats, spoiled and expecting the world to fall at your feet. Expecting him to fall at your feet. Fuck that. Fuck you for screwing up his friendship with Patrick, for making it impossible to talk to his best friend because of the guilt.

Your bathroom door is open to the hallway to let the steam curl out while you get ready for bed. When he walks past, you ignore him entirely, and it snaps something sharp and hard in his chest. He slips in, shuts the door, pins you against the counter.

You’re wearing a robe— leopard print and tacky. It falls open just slightly, and he’s greeted by a glimpse of your tits. You smile up at him, pretty and amused, expecting him to cave, to touch you the way you’ve been needing. But you know Art— you’ve seen most of his expressions at this point. Good, like when he and Patrick won the doubles tournament and you saw joy written in his face. Bad, when you got too handsy at a party and he dragged you away and laid into you.

But he was more than that, he looks scary. Your smile falls and you press yourself back against the counter so it digs into your spine. His eyes follow the line of your throat as you swallow hard, like he can read your dread in every tiny movement. He grabs your wrist, hard enough to make you yelp.

“Art, that hurts,” you whine, trying to wrestle out of his grip.

“Cry to Patrick then,” he says, and you wither. “That’s right. You don’t want Patrick to find out what a disgusting fucking whore you are, do you?” You give a weak shake of your head. “Then shut the fuck up and listen.”

Your pulse is already hammering, he can feel it thrumming where he holds your wrist. You’re all limp and pliant, waiting for the blow to strike.

“You are actually fucking crazy if you think I would ever choose you over Patrick,” he says, and you exhale sharp out of your nose. “And whatever you think is going to happen here is just one of your brainless little fantasies. If Patrick finds out what you’ve been doing, he’s going to fucking kill me. It’s going to be messy, and fucked up, and he’s going to lose his only friend in the entire fucking world. It’s going to crush him. And when that happens, it’s going to be all your fault. And for what?”

You swallow, blinking at him dumbly, unsure of what to say. Were you supposed to talk back? Were you supposed to just stand there and take it?

“I’m never going to fucking date you. You let me fuck your ass, and you suck my dick and let me slap you around, and I bet if I touched you right now you’d be soaked, but it doesn’t change anything. Because guys like me don’t call girls like you their girlfriends or wives. Girls like you are a stopping point on the way to someone better, someone who has some fucking self respect.”

The sound of the slap startles you, even if you were the one to hit him. Your hand stings where it collided with his face, where it left a red mark behind.

“Art—“ you start, eyes wide as you look at him. Your voice is watery, teary and pathetic. “I’m so— I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry, Art. Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sor—“

You whimper as he pushes you hard onto your knees, makes them dig into marble tile. He’s already hard when he pulls down his jeans and boxers, and you feel hot tears slipping down your cheeks.

You’d fucking hit him. You ruined everything, you were always going to ruin everything. You’d fucked him up, you made him twisted and mean and nasty. All your fault. You needed to fix it.

“You’re sorry? Fucking show me then.” He slaps his cock against your cheek, precum smears against the plush skin there. It snaps you back into reality. He rubs his tip against your lips, moves his hand into your hair.

Your heart hurts, actually hurts in a way you’ve never felt before. You wonder if you should go to the hospital, or something, but every cell in your body just says. Show him you’re sorry. Show him you’re sorry. Apologize apologize apologize.

You open your mouth, relax your throat, let him bully his cock inside. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, you try not to need it. Even when he’s slamming into the back of your throat again and again, when you’re gagging and feel drool flooding your mouth and it’s all messy, dripping down your chin.

“That’s it, take this fucking dick—“ His grip on your hair tightens and your cries are muffled around his cock. Your jaw aches from being stretched wide to accommodate him. Your face is smeared with black mascara tears, snot, and sticky spit. You look awful, you feel awful. But Art doesn’t care. He’s getting off on it. “Fucking choke on it. ‘S all you’re good for, isn’t it?”

He pulls you off, slaps you across the cheek. “Isn’t it?”

You sniffle pathetically, nod, and open your mouth wide. Show him you’re sorry. Show him you’re sorry. You let him slide back into your throat until your nose presses firm against the soft curls at his pelvis, until his balls press against your chin and they’re coated in the stringy, slick drool that spills from your lips.

Art grabs your face, holds your nose shut and blocks off your airways. Your throat constricts in panic and you look up at him with wild, frightened eyes. Nails scratching at his thighs as you feel the need for air begin to get to intense.

You can’t breathe. Arts fucking into your throat, and you’re going to puke, and you can’t breathe, and he’s going to just let you black out around him. The tears are flowing hot and fast, you keep pathetically grasping at his thighs. He lets go of your nose, but doesn’t let you pull off of him. He ruts against the back of your throat, and you’re only faintly conscious of something warm and hot shooting down your throat as your body screams for a big gasp of air.

It’s only then that he lets you pull off, with cum dripping from your lips, from your nose. You take large heaving breaths and cry as you try to wipe it all away. It only manages to smear it around your skin.

You feel stupid, but you can’t stop crying. Not because it hurt, not because you were scared and couldn’t breathe. But because what he said fucking stung.

You’re nothing more than a hole for him to use. Worse, you’re nothing to him at all. A stopping point until he gets someone better. He sees you like that, and he treats you like that.

“Stand up,” he says. His cock has hardly even flagged, and you watch him wrap a hand around himself, stroke himself standing above you. “C’mon, I’ll fuck you— I’ll give you what you want. If Patrick’s gonna find out I might as well make it worth it, right?”

You stand and grip the edge of the sink. Your head swims as you look at him. His hand moves between your thighs, probing at your entrance. The first breach of his finger makes you whimper. You’re not wet, not nearly enough.

“Art, stop,” you say, voice wobbly. “I don’t want it.”

“No? You fucking wanted it all semester.” He mouths at your throat, wet and hot, and you shake your head. “Did I hurt your feelings, baby? You need me to lie to you? Does that get you wet?”

Tears well in your eyes again, and you shove at his arm until he pulls his finger out. “Just leave me alone, Art. I won’t bother you anymore. I get it.”

He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He fixes his clothes and slips back into the hallway.

You cry so hard that you throw up. Brush your teeth so hard that they bleed and you spit pink foam into the sink basin. Wash the mess off of your face until it’s stinging and raw.

The rest of the weekend, you rot around in bed. Keep your doors locked, pretend that you have food poisoning. You relish in the solitude and watch Lost on DVD. You make it halfway through the first season before there’s a knock on your door.

“Hey, I have soup,” Patrick calls, muffled through the door. “Doctor’s orders.”

You stand up, pad slowly to the door and let him in. Sure enough, he’s got a little tray for you. Ginger ale, Gatorade, and soup. You want to cry that he cares so much— that he’s such a good brother. He sits the on the foot of your bed and sits against the headboard.

“I’m sick, Pat,” you say once you sit back down, a feeble attempt to be alone.

All he does is shrug, press play on the DVD. “Whatever, it’s food poisoning, right? Not contagious. Lemme watch with you.”

You eat some of the soup, but your appetite isn’t there. You just sit it on the floor and curl up next to Patrick. He wraps his arms around you, lets you lean on his shoulder.

It’s only an episode later that he talks. “Did he do something?”

You freeze a bit, then redirect, gesturing to the screen. “John Locke?”

Patrick sighs, jaw ticking. “You know who I’m talking about. You can tell me.”

“What are you talking about?” You ask, feigning confusion. He gives you a look, exhales sharply. “Art? Did he give me food poisoning?”

You feel stupid protecting him still. After everything. You know where you stand with Art, and it makes you sick. There aren’t any more dreams of somehow convincing him to love you through your cunt, like your pussy is some sort of magic love potion. It feels more like poison. It ruined everything— you and your incessant greed.

But you don’t want to hurt Patrick. Art could hurt you, but he can still be good to Pat. That’s worth something.

“Not the food poisoning, just… anything. Did he do anything to you?”

You meet his gaze, and lie the way you grew up lying to everyone. “Patrick, he didn’t do anything. I don’t even know what you think he would do.“

Patrick nods, but doesn’t say anything else. He stays two more episodes, then leaves.

Art never stops by your room, which is good. You don’t want to see him, because even thinking about it makes you feel sick. You lock your door again and don’t sleep. Art leaves early in the morning to go to the airport, back to Stanford.

You transfer your plane ticket for the next weekend, text classmates to get you notes. You’d be staying home for a while.

#Patrick’s sister au #Art is going to hell #dubcon

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callmedaleelah · 4 months ago

Text

— Pinnacle [ tsukishima kei university au series ]

— you taught me secret language you know i can’t speak with anyone else ; don’t let your self-doubts and insecurities win or else you’ll not going anywhere

author’s notes : no mention of (y/n), written in second person pov, semi alternative universe, timeskip!tsukishima, college life, not proofread, english is not my first language

[ masterlist ] | [ ask daleelah go to box box 🐭 ]

It’s been four days. And you couldn’t shake the embarrassment from your last interaction with Tsukishima. Confessing your feelings to him that night, sitting together in his car as he celebrated your birthday—just the two of you with muffins and a simple bracelet gift—felt like a mistake now. The memory haunted you, the weight of your words and the silence that followed too overwhelming to face.

So, you did what you thought was best: you shut him out, distancing yourself in every way possible. You even archived his chat on your phone. Out of sight, out of mind. The thought of seeing his name sent your heart into overdrive, and you couldn’t afford distractions, not when you were already drowning in assignments. It was easier to pretend he didn’t exist, to focus solely on your work, but it wasn’t sustainable.

Your assignments had become your life. The deadlines, the stress—they consumed you. You threw yourself into your studies to the point of exhaustion, trying desperately to escape the lingering thoughts of him. It was easier this way. Easier to lose yourself in the endless tasks than to deal with the complicated mess of feelings you didn’t know how to untangle.

Still, there were moments when you couldn’t help but remember how he used to help you. Tsukishima would explain things in a way that made everything seem so simple, without the frustration or pressure that usually came with your academic struggles. He’d lend you his old notes, give you study references, and somehow, just knowing he was there made things less stressful. But now, those memories were just a painful reminder of how much you missed his presence—his calm, straightforward way of teaching that made everything feel less chaotic.

But missing him didn’t mean you were ready to face him again. Not yet.

Tsukishima had noticed the shift in your behavior almost immediately. The night you confessed your feelings to him in the car, when he celebrated your birthday privately. You were so vulnerable, admitting how you felt, and all he did was sit there in stunned silence. No words of comfort, no response. He just shifted silently, unable to process it in the moment.

He regretted it now—every second of it. The way he just let the moment slip by without saying anything, how his silence had caused this distance between you two. He didn’t mean to hurt you. The truth was, he hadn’t been expecting the confession. It caught him off guard, and instead of addressing it like he should have, he shut down. Now, that silence was haunting him.

Every time he pulled out his phone to message you, he hesitated. His fingers would hover over the screen, typing out a few words before deleting them again. What was he supposed to say? Hey, why are you avoiding me? It sounded accusatory in his mind, like he was placing blame. But that wasn’t it. He didn’t want to push you away further.

He’d already sent a couple of messages, simple ones—checking in, asking if you wanted to study together or meet up for lunch—but every time, he was met with silence. No response. It was like you had vanished. He even thought about messaging Yamaguchi to ask if he had noticed anything different, but that felt like a step too far. He didn’t want to seem like he was overthinking things.

It wasn’t just about the confession anymore—it was about how he missed you. He missed your presence, your questions, the way you’d show up stressed with assignments, and he’d offer to help. He missed being the one to simplify things for you, to lend you his old notes and references. It was a strange kind of absence, one that gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.

Tsukishima found himself lingering in places where he knew you’d pass by—near the class hall, at the library, even by the volleyball court—hoping for a chance encounter, hoping for the opportunity to casually start a conversation. But every time he saw you, you’d turn the other way, or walk faster, or pretend to be engrossed in something else.

And that stung. More than he expected.

One night, as he sat alone in his apartment, his phone resting on the table in front of him, Tsukishima stared at your contact. The chat was quiet, no new messages. He felt the weight of the silence, the kind that crept into the spaces between his thoughts and made him restless. He wanted to send you another message, but what could he say that he hadn’t already?

Finally, he picked up his phone, taking a deep breath before typing out something simple, something that wouldn’t seem too desperate.

Hey, I haven’t seen you around lately. Everything okay?

He hit send before he could overthink it, before the nagging voice in his head could convince him otherwise.

But again, there was no response. No ‘read’ notification, nothing.

For the first time in a long time, Tsukishima felt uncertain. He wasn’t used to feeling like this—like he was waiting on something beyond his control. And it unsettled him.

He leaned back against the couch, running a hand through his hair in frustration. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to care this much. But here he was, sitting in his quiet apartment, wondering why the silence between you felt so loud.

---

Tsukishima and Yamaguchi had just finished volleyball practice, the cool evening air brushing against their skin as they exited the gym. They were chatting casually about their next tournament, already making plans to grab snacks at the culinary festival. The smell of grilled food was enticing, and Yamaguchi was in high spirits, talking about the strawberry tanghulu he was craving.

As they turned a corner in the hallway, a sudden collision interrupted their conversation. Papers flew everywhere, scattering across the floor like fallen leaves in autumn. The three of them froze for a second, momentarily stunned by the abruptness of the accident.

You were kneeling on the ground, hurriedly gathering your scattered notes, mumbling an apology under your breath. “I’m so sorry, it was my bad—”

Yamaguchi, always quick to help, was the first to kneel down, reaching for your papers. “No, it’s okay. We weren’t paying attention either,” he said, offering you a kind smile as he handed over the documents he had gathered. Tsukishima followed suit, quietly picking up a few stray papers, though he paused when he realized that you still hadn’t noticed who you had bumped into.

You kept your gaze lowered, focused on reorganizing your papers, as if determined to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. “Thanks,” you mumbled, taking the stack from Tsukishima’s outstretched hand, not even looking up at him.

For a moment, he stood there, his hand lingering in the air. Your voice had been quiet—almost too quiet. Tsukishima’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on you, searching for something in your demeanor. You were more flustered than usual, your movements rushed, as if you were eager to flee from the scene.

“I gotta go. Thanks for your help,” you said quickly, pushing the papers into your bag. Your voice was strained, and before either of them could say anything more, you straightened up and took a step back.

But Yamaguchi wasn’t ready to let you leave so easily. “Hey, wait,” he called after you, his tone light and inviting. “Do you want to grab some snacks with us? There’s a culinary festival at Hall B. They’ve got all sorts of good stuff.”

You stopped in your tracks, hesitating for a moment. Tsukishima noticed the way your shoulders stiffened, your hand clutching your bag tightly. Slowly, you turned to look at Yamaguchi, and then, reluctantly, your eyes shifted to meet Tsukishima’s gaze. His expression was sharp, intense, as if he were waiting for something—anything—from you.

Your heart clenched in your chest. The memory of that night in the car came flooding back—the night you confessed, laying your feelings bare, and all you received in return was his silence. The hurt you felt then rose to the surface now, simmering beneath your skin. You couldn’t stand the way he looked at you, the same cold, unreadable expression. You blinked a few times, trying to push the emotions down, but the frustration bubbled up, filling you with a sudden rush of anger.

“I… I have something to do, unfortunately. Sorry, maybe next time,” you stammered, your voice a little too stiff, the smile you forced onto your lips weak and fleeting. Without waiting for their response, you turned on your heel and walked away, your pace quickening with every step.

Tsukishima’s gaze followed you until you disappeared around the corner. His fists clenched at his sides, a quiet frustration settling over him. He didn’t like the way you had avoided his eyes, the way you had brushed off Yamaguchi’s invitation, but what bothered him most was the tiredness he saw in you. You looked worn out, emotionally drained, and it struck something deep inside him—a protective instinct he wasn’t used to feeling.

Yamaguchi let out a confused hum, frowning slightly as he watched you leave. “What’s up with her?” he mumbled under his breath, turning to Tsukishima. “She didn’t even look at you… that’s not like her, is it?”

Tsukishima pushed his glasses up, trying to mask his own unease. “She said she has something to do.”

“Yeah, but she seemed… different,” Yamaguchi pressed, his brow furrowing. “It’s not like she’s close to me or anything, but she usually doesn’t act like that. She’s always polite and thoughtful. I don’t know, it just felt off.”

Tsukishima didn’t respond immediately, but the tightness in his chest hadn’t eased. He hated how helpless he felt right now, how every part of him wanted to chase after you and explain himself—but he couldn’t bring himself to move. You had your reasons for leaving, and he wasn’t about to make things worse by pushing you when you clearly didn’t want to be around him.

After a moment of silence, Yamaguchi spoke again, this time his tone softer. “Did something happen between you two?”

Tsukishima tensed at the question, his shoulders stiffening. He didn’t expect Yamaguchi to be so direct, but the concern in his friend’s voice left no room for dodging the truth.

With a heavy sigh, Tsukishima relented. “Yeah… something happened.”

Yamaguchi’s eyes widened slightly in surprise but he remained quiet, waiting for Tsukishima to continue.

Tsukishima hesitated for a moment before explaining what had happened in the car that night. He told Yamaguchi about your confession—how you’d poured your heart out to him, and how, in the heat of the moment, he hadn’t known what to say. The weight of his silence, and how it had clearly affected you since.

Yamaguchi groaned loudly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Tsukki… why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I wanted to,” Tsukishima muttered, his voice edged with frustration. “But she ran away before I could even process what she said.”

“Ran away?” Yamaguchi raised an eyebrow, biting into his strawberry tanghulu. “You’ve been an athlete since high school, Tsukki. Don’t tell me you couldn’t catch up with her.”

Silence hung between them for a moment, and Tsukishima sighed deeply. His gaze shifted downward, lost in thought. “It’s not that simple. I mean, I know I’m interested in her. She’s been on my mind more than anyone else… and after what happened with that drunk guy in the park, I just—” He paused, the memory of that night flaring up, the fear he felt seeing you in danger.

Yamaguchi looked at him, a knowing expression crossing his face. “You love her, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima groaned again, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. “She’s only 20. What if she’s just confused about her feelings? I don’t want to be that jerk who takes advantage of someone who isn’t sure.”

Yamaguchi’s expression softened, and he let out a deep sigh. “I get that, but maybe you’re overthinking this. If she confessed to you, it means she’s thought about it.”

Tsukishima’s expression didn’t change. “Her mom controls so much of her life. She hasn’t even had the chance to figure out what she really wants. I don’t want to get in the way of that… she deserves more than being tied down by someone like me.”

Yamaguchi looked at him incredulously. “Now that doesn’t sound like you at all. Since when did you let anything stop you from getting what you want?”

—-

You sat nestled between the library bookshelves, your legs folded beneath you, your head resting wearily on your arms. The pressure of your biochemistry assignment had drained you, particularly the report on Protein Biochemistry—analyzing enzyme kinetics and purifying a specific protein. You had to design the experimental process for extracting, purifying, and characterizing a recombinant protein, including interpreting results from chromatography, electrophoresis, and spectrophotometry. The sheer volume of data, graphs, and analysis overwhelmed you, and after hours of staring at equations and assay results, your body gave in.

Your papers had spilled out around you, strewn on the floor, as your mind drifted off—not into sleep, but something close enough. Earphones were still in your ears, faint music playing, trying to provide a sense of calm that the stress had stolen from you. You had only meant to rest your eyes for a minute. Yet, here you were, curled up and barely holding it together in the dim light of the library.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps on the library's quiet floor snapped you from the haze. It wasn't deep sleep—you had only let your eyes close momentarily—but it was enough to make the sound of someone nearby feel like an intrusion. You heard the soft rustle of paper, and when you blinked your eyes open, you saw Tsukishima crouching beside you, one of your crumpled assignment pages in his hands.

"Are you gonna sleep here?" His voice was soft, laced with sarcasm, but somehow not as cutting as usual.

Your eyes widened slightly, startled by his presence, but you quickly collected yourself. With a silent nod of thanks, you gently took the paper from his hand, avoiding his gaze as you gathered the rest of your scattered work. You could feel his eyes on you, watching as you stuffed everything haphazardly into your bag. You didn’t want him to see the state you were in—exhausted, frustrated, and on the brink of breaking down from the weight of the assignment. It was easier to avoid him than to admit how much his presence affected you lately.

You stood up, checking your phone: 7 PM. Five hours had passed since you first sat down to tackle your work, and the time had flown by in a blur of confusion and growing anxiety. Your back ached from sitting in the same position for too long, and you stifled a groan as you slung your heavy backpack over your shoulder.

Tsukishima let out a small sigh as you brushed past him, clearly annoyed that you were still avoiding him. He stood up beside you and followed as you began walking toward the exit of the library.

After a few moments, you noticed him still walking next to you, matching your pace, and before you could ask why, he handed you a bottle of water. The gesture caught you off guard.

You hesitated, but then you mumbled, “Thanks,” as you took the bottle from his hand. You hadn't realized just how thirsty you were until now, the dryness in your throat suddenly impossible to ignore. You took a long sip, your steps continuing in silence beside him.

It wasn’t until you had nearly reached the library doors that Tsukishima finally spoke again. "I want to talk to you," he said, his voice a little firmer this time.

"About what?" you asked, your tone clipped as you kept your eyes ahead, unwilling to look at him directly.

"You know what," he said, the irritation creeping into his voice. You could tell that your avoidance had worn him down, and his patience was running thin.

That anger that had been bubbling beneath your exhaustion finally surfaced. You stopped walking, turning to face him. "Your silence has been clear enough for me," you bit out, your voice trembling with the frustration you’d been holding in.

You turned to leave, but Tsukishima’s hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you. "Come on, you’ve been avoiding me for days. And we both know it's hurting us equally,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

You pulled your wrist from his grasp, turning on him with a glare. “Fine. Talk now, then,” you snapped, your heart pounding. “Tell me it was casual for you to save me, help me, hug me, kiss my hand, let me sleep on your arm—”

“I like you too,” he interrupted, his voice steady, but there was an unfamiliar vulnerability in his eyes. “I like you too, okay?”

The world seemed to stop in that moment. The words you had been longing to hear felt like a balm to your aching heart, but the frustration remained. You felt tears prickling your eyes, the exhaustion and emotions mixing together as your breath hitched. "Then why didn’t you say anything?" you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks now that the dam had broken.

Tsukishima stepped closer, his hand reaching out to cup your face, gently wiping away the tears with his thumb. His touch was so gentle, so unlike the sharp edges of his personality you had grown used to. “I didn’t expect it from you. I was going to confess too, but… as a man, I was offended you made the first move.” He let out a small sigh. “That’s not an excuse, I know. I shouldn’t have left you hanging, confused.”

Tsukishima’s voice dropped, a subtle mix of uncertainty and self-reflection. He gazed down at you, his usually confident demeanor softened. “Do you really think you like me?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly. “I mean, I was a jerk. A grumpy TA who gave you hard days. I made things worse for you when you were already struggling…”

His words trailed off, and he looked away for a moment, as if trying to process his own feelings. "You deserve better than that."

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by his sudden vulnerability. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch despite everything. “But you helped me through things I was struggling with… even when you didn’t have to,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Tsukishima chuckled softly, his thumb continuing to wipe your tears away. He pulled you into his arms, wrapping you in an embrace that felt so natural, as if this had been waiting to happen all along. His fingers combed through your hair as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, breathing in your scent, his hold on you tightening as if he feared letting go.

“Okay, okay, stop crying,” he teased lightly, though there was still softness in his voice. “I told you, I like you too.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh, wiping your own face now as you calmed down, still buried in the warmth of his chest. There was a comfortable silence between you as he held you, and you felt like you could stay there forever, the world outside fading away.

You tilted your head up to look at him, your face still flushed from crying but with a small smile tugging at your lips. “So… does that make you my boyfriend now?” you asked, your voice soft but with a hint of playful curiosity.

Tsukishima couldn’t help but smile at your question. He chuckled softly, shaking his head before nodding. "Yeah," he said, his voice filled with amusement and affection.

tagslist (free to mention) ; @theweirdfloatything @snowthatareblack @ilovemymomscooking @nayiiryun @knightofmidnight @kozumesphone @scxrcherr @thechaosoflonging @monya-febrjack

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moominsuki · 2 years ago

Text

✎ᝰ BAKUGOU KATSUKI ; — katsuki still hates valentine’s but he’d rather die than let you get wooed by some second rate hero.

࿄ ! warnings — none. very sweet & fluffy. suggestive if you squint. / note. part 2 to the valentine’s day drabble. my anti shindo yo agenda always comes through hehe.

when bakugou walked into his agency on the early morning of valentine’s day, he hadn’t expected to see a mop of black hair lingering around your office. your door was closed, which was uncharacteristic of you, and bakugou knew you didn’t start work today until at least 2 hours after he arrived.

“yo, what’s up, dynamight! long time no see. came here to drop some paperwork off but might as well drop a few other things while i’m here,” shouts the hero grand and bakugou thinks he’s unable to hold back a visual shiver of disgust. shindo is grazing around your desk and bakugou notices the huge bouquet of roses in a velvet box and a small pandora bag.

“what d’ya think you’re doing in y/n’s office, exactly? she doesn’t clock in ‘til 9,” bakugou says, prodding at shindo verbally. the black haired man laughs at bakugou’s accusatory tone and dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

“a little birdie told me that you hate valentine’s day, which i mean, to each your own, but what kind of man wouldn’t shower a beautiful woman with gifts on this wonderful day?” shindo practically sings and bakugou wants to punch him for even talking about you. as if you’d ever like him… right?

that would be silly, bakugou thinks. you’d have to be completely different from the girl he knew knows to ever indulge the likes of yo shindo.

“it’s a shame, really, you know, that you can’t get y/n anything. you know, cos you’re her boss and all. and she told me just how much you think it sucks. at least i’m here to save the day, right?” shindo bites and every word referencing you feels like a slap to bakugou’s face.

at this point, bakugou has had enough of the man, “think you’re forgetting you came to my agency unannounced so i suggest you just drop your shit and leave. next time, get your assistant to do your dirty work,” grumbles bakugou and shindo laughs all boisterous at the brimming anger in the blond’s tone.

“i’ll get out of your hair, dynamight. by the way, you don’t need to tell y/n to check out the gifts. i want it to be surprise, ya get me? thanks bro,” says shindo as he walks from your desk and attempts to pat down bakugou’s chest in ‘good fun’ but bakugou swerves the man and goes to your vacant desk to pick up his paperwork.

shindo chuckles breathily to himself and bakugou doesn’t grace him with a look until he hears the man’s steps fade away. bakugou finally exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding in and drops the paperwork down to scope out shindo’s gifts for you.

in bakugou’s opinion, they looked like shit. coloured roses in a box is extremely tacky and wouldn’t last even two weeks before rotting. bakugou attacks the pandora bag and opens it in a hurry to see a black ring box holding a silver, halo ring. bakugou scoffs at this: for a man who wanted so badly to prove himself as superior to him, shindo was sure blind to the tastes of a woman such as yourself. bakugou was pretty sure he’d never even see you wear a piece of silver jewellery and you once told him that halo rings were “tacky and so 2012.”

if shindo wanted to play this game, then bakugou would beat him so severely and it wouldn’t even be close. yeah, maybe you were right - maybe he did hate valentine’s day. but he’d enjoy the shitty day if it meant you’d want him over that idiot. and even though he despises fighting for someone’s affection, he hopes that maybe you’ll want him just as much as he wants you.

ᝰᝰᝰᝰᝰ

“morning, y/n! hope you had a good lie in,” chirps bakugou’s secretary gleefully and you smile at her.

“honestly, i needed this. even though i did wanna be here for the early valentine morning, i would not trade my extra sleep,” you laugh, “that reminds me: did you get anything for valentine’s?”

bakugou’s secretary giggles in delight as she stands up to show multiple bags filled to the brim with gifts and you gasp in a mixture of shock and envy.

“you know that gucci bag i wanted? he got me the bag! he really does get me,” sighs bakugou’s secretary and you have to hide a twitch in your eye as you clap your hands together and look among the bags of chocolate, flowers and cards.

“i’m so happy for you!” you exclaim and you hug when kirishima comes in earshot.

“happy valentine’s day, you guys! have anything planned, y/n?” kiri asks and you shrug, all non-committal.

“not much on the agenda for me, ‘m afraid. just gonna finish up a few assignments and swallow down the pain,” you say jokingly and both of your coworkers look at you sympathetically and you want to slap them for pitying you.

“valentine’s isn’t just about romance anyway! you’re loved by all of us,” says bakugou’s assistant and a part of you wants to argue with her for treating you like a petulant little girl.

“guys, ‘m fine, seriously! i’m just gonna head to my office and finish up some things. who knows how the day’ll turn out?” you say, with a slightly embittered tone and it sounds like you’re trying to kid not only the others but yourself too.

you wave the two goodbye and make way to head into your office. huh. that’s strange. you usually always keep your door unlocked after every shift just in case kirishima or bakugou wanted to sift through any missing paperwork.

“whatever,” you think, “maybe the cleaners locked up last night. let me just fish the keys out my bag.”

after grabbing your keys and making note of which one unlocks to your office (you remember half way through jingling your keys around that bakugou painted it orange and red), you open the door haphazardly; simultaneously trying to stuff your things back into your handbag and move in with one leg. when your bag is in good shape and your loose tissues aren’t falling out, you look up to your workspace and your eyes are so wide it’s almost comical.

a bouquet of baby’s breath, pink tulips and snapdragons sit in a bouquet of blue and white tissue paper and a gold looking chain looms the flowers together. there’s a little card situated amongst the flowers and you go to touch it when you see a box and a big, blue gift bag on your desk and chair.

you cover your mouth and gasp in attempt to hold back your shock and delight as you see the bag is labelled “Tiffany’s” and you pull out two velvet boxes: one for a gold necklace with a red heart detail and the other is a gold Tiffany heart ring.

holding almost all your gifts, you decide to take apart the box, sheathed in heart patterned wrapping paper and a box of your favourite pastries sits in them. at this point, you feel like you could cry. who was this person? why would they do all this?

at that moment, you stupidly remember the card in the bouquet and pull it to see scrawny handwriting:

“dear y/n,

happy valentine’s day. hope this will do for all the work you do for me.

love, katsuki,”

you smile and only then do the tears start brimming as you hug the bouquet close to your chest.

ᝰᝰᝰᝰᝰ

when bakugou heads back from patrol, the office is rumbling with gifts and chatter. he rolls his eyes at this but he entertains the lovesick behaviour of his employees anyway - he even let denki paint his pinky nails pink to “embrace the loving spirit” as denki would put it.

“bakugou! here, come quick!” yells kirishima as he beckons his blond friend over to him by the front of his office.

“what d’ya want now? can’t you lot just celebrate this day without bothering me? ‘already let that idiot paint stupid hearts on my nails,” grumbles bakugou and kirishima shushes him.

“it’s not about that, but you didn’t have to paint your nails - ok, sorry, wait-” kirishima grabs bakugou back and practically whispers (though not discreetly by kirishima fashion), “did you see what y/n got in her office? someone just bought her a shit ton of things!” exclaims the red-head and bakugou shrugs nonchalantly.

“good for y/n. why you telling me this?” bakugou asks suspiciously and kirishima beckons him over with another wave of his hand to whisper again.

“apparently it was shindo yo who got her all that fancy stuff. who would’ve thought, right?”

bakugou’s eyes bulge out his head and his face almost turns as red as kirishima’s hair.

“what?! i mean - ‘s not like i care but where’s y/n right now?” interrogates bakugou and kirishima smiles knowingly but stops to prevent bakugou from being suspicious.

“luckily for you, she’s in her office! you should definitely go to her right now,” kirishima says, pushing his friend towards the office door and nodding at him.

bakugou takes a deep breath before knocking and opening the door, not waiting for your reply. he slams the door in kirishima’s face - you know, as insurance against his prying eyes.

“hey, y/n?” says bakugou slowly and you’re typing away at your desk. the box of pastries he bought you sat next you and were half eaten and the flowers he bought you sat prettily in a vase on the edge of your desk.

as soon as you hear bakugou’s voice, you look up and basically run over to him to throw your arms around his neck. albeit, it’s slightly difficult due to his neck piece but you make due and hug him anyway. bakugou is stiff when he feels you press into him and you pull back to see his somewhat confused expression and you move back at his lack of reciprocation.

“sorry for that - it’s just, thank you for the gifts. i loved them, really. everything was beautiful, especially the necklace,” you say, pulling the necklace out of your white collared shirt.

bakugou narrows his eyes, “you know i got these for you?”

“yeah?” you say and it’s your turn to be confused, “unless there’s another bakugou who put his name on the card and the receipts-”

the cogs turn in bakugou’s head and curses at kirishima in his head, “‘m gonna kill shitty-hair one of these days,” bakugou sighs and you raise a brow.

“why would you do that?” you ask and bakugou shakes his head.

“doesn’t matter. and you’re welcome, by the way. it’s what you deserve,” bakugou curtly nods and you smile so prettily at him and he wants to kiss you so bad. he regrets not hugging you back just now and he’s not sure how to initiate it again.

“you really shouldn’t have spent so much on me, really!”

“tsk, there’s a lot more i wanted to get you, princess,” and it slips out before bakugou could stop it from coming out of his mouth. he’s about to apologise until he sees you look at him with stars in your eyes and your bottom lip is tucked under your teeth.

“oh yeah, like what? what does a ‘princess’ like me deserve?” you entertain him and you test the waters by walking closer to him and bakugou groans and swipes a hand across his face in embarrassment and to prevent you from seeing his face from getting redder and redder.

“i would’ve gotten you the world and it still couldn’t be enough for someone like you,” he breathes out and bakugou closes the gap between you, your chin up to his chest.

“i don’t think i know what i’ve done to deserve this praise,” you whisper and you rest your hands on the planes of his widely built chest and he tenses but quickly relaxes so as to not ruin all the momentum built up at this moment.

“you deal with all my shit even though you don’t ‘ave to,” mumbles bakugou and his hand lifts at your jaw slightly so you’re only a breath away from his cupid’s bow.

“you’re right that i don’t have to. but i like dealing with all your shit. means you trust me,” you say in a hushed tone and both your bated breaths are mingling on each other’s lips.

“trust you more than anything. d’ya trust me?” bakugou asks and you nod at him, wide eyed.

however, this doesn’t satisfy the man and his thumb grazes your jaw and you sigh.

“wanna hear you say it,” bakugou contends.

“trust you with my life, katsuki,” you murmur and bakugou leans in to capture your lips in a passionate kiss.

his hand sits on your chin and your hands pull at his black shirt when you feel him nip at your bottom lip and suck your tongue. the kiss is way too passionate for the workplace and you can feel yourself go numb in the legs.

it’s like bakugou has a sixth sense because he swoops in to sit his large hands to your waist and you to softly pet at his face and his neck. it’s akin to a competition of who can feel the most of each other without bordering on inappropriate but you both can’t get enough. it’s only when you’re out of breath do you pull back and bakugou blinks at you, all dumbstruck like a teenage boy. you giggle a little at him and bakugou playfully pinches at the fat of your hips while you yelp.

“whatchu laughin’ at me for?” he grunts and you pull at his cheek in return.

“it’s nothing, it’s just - this whole time, i thought you hated valentine’s day. what gives?” you inquire and the man ponders a little - though he knew you both knew the answer.

bakugou knocks his head on yours and you pout and he chuckles at you, “‘s like shitty-hair said. didn’t know the right person was always in fron’ of me.”

you ‘boop’ at his nose and bakugou’s face visibly scrunches, “you thought wrong. still, thank you for putting up with my… things. even though you can say you like the decorations, i can see right through you,” you say, matter of fact and bakugou groans.

“yeah, yeah, you got me there. i hate all that extra shit. but if it makes you happy, then i’ll hate it in privacy.”

you smile warmly and pull him down to give him a few more kisses. best valentine’s day ever.

BONUS:

“and by the way, kiri told me that shindo came over by the office today but i wasn’t in. did he need something important?” you ask the blond over lunch in his office and bakugou shakes his head.

“fuck if i know, princess. dunno why he was in there but it was just some paperwork and i dealt with it for you,” mentions bakugou offhandedly and you ‘aww’ at him before kissing his cheek and feeding him some of your onigiri.

ᝰᝰᝰᝰᝰ

“are you sure this is the right place? kacchan gave us strict instructions to discard of this discreetly,” asks deku and todoroki nods.

“yeah, this is the exact coordinates… now that i’m looking at it, what kind of uncultured idiot would buy roses in a box? they go stale after a week,” chastises todoroki and deku taps his foot in agreement.

“well, let’s do it in three, okay?”

an explosion goes off in the distance and you look at bakugou confused and then disappointed.

“you’d think villains would take a day off even on valentine’s day!” you lecture, mouth full and bakugou makes a noise of consensus and pokes at your food-filled cheek with one hand and texts a thumbs up to deku and todoroki with the other.

#bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n #{katsuki}#bakugou imagine #bakugou drabble #bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #sorry this took a while #but i hope u guys love it hehe #this one was a bit long oops #༝˚૮ .♡ katsuki.#✎𓂃stamped: (my hero academia)。°˖⌕

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chaifootsteps · 3 months ago

Note

One thing TADC will always have over HH/HB is that it makes people smile. It’s nice to talk about. It values kindness in a corrupted unhappy place. It cherishes mercy empathy and hope. There is no turbulent “discourse”. The other two shows make their audiences fight, bicker, bully each other, get angry with each other, and say abusive things. The viewers treat each other the way the characters treat each other actually: self victimising, gaslighting, accusatory, ie terribly.

What made me notice this was when a YouTube reviewer I enjoyed made a video about HB (yes, it was about that character) the comments were all fighting to defend their golden boy because his abuse and his difficulties reminds them of themselves, and this made them try to silence others including the speaker, because that characters abuse of others, reminds them of their abuser. But when TADC came around, and the YouTuber discussed it, we were all collectively calm and happy. Discussing Ragathas welcoming behaviour, and Kingers kindness toward Pomni despite the pain he’s been through driving him mad.

It’s the difference between tackling heavy abuse topics badly — just for shock views and forced sympathy to cover up bad things the character have done, versus handling them with tact and care. Lest they have a negative effect on the audience. If you write a character as an abuser then try backtrack and say he’s actually the victim and the abuse was out of context or all imagined in our “bigoted” “media illiterate” heads, it requires a lot of gaslighting and it divides the audience into chess pieces. Medrano turned her fandom of confused impressionable empathetic people into a war zone with her as the leader, and I think it’s unforgivable. Countless people have said they feel very gaslit and manipulated by this show, into believing something that wasn’t true. That’s a terrible way to make your audience feel.

Couldn't have said it better, Anon.

TADC is a show about human kindness, and Goose is constantly demanding kindness -- or at the very least, halfway decent behavior -- from her fandom. Vivzie rewards bad behavior in her fandom members and actively pushes them to be worse. The results are plain as day.

#Anonymous #tadc #viv stuff #actual blog post #vivziepop critical

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marsi-is-depressed · 19 days ago

Text

Finding a Family series. Chapter 10: She has a daughter?

The reader finds a baby in the woods

The night was cloaked in a quiet stillness, the kind that amplified the faintest of sounds. The reader ventured out under the cover of darkness, the dire wolf and Caraxes both left behind, much to their visible displeasure. This was her time—time to roam the common parts of Westeros without the weight of expectation or constant eyes watching her. She walked briskly, keeping to the shadows, her steps soft against the uneven ground. The distant hum of insects and the occasional rustling of leaves were her only companions.

As she neared a clearing nestled between the trees, the faint cry of something caught her attention. It wasn’t the cry of an animal, yet it wasn’t quite human either—or so it seemed in her mind. Her heart clenched as the sound vaguely reminded her of Ember’s final cries. Compelled by curiosity and a gnawing sense of dread, she followed the sound, her steps quickening as the crying grew louder. She froze as the clearing opened up before her, moonlight casting a pale glow over a scene that made her blood run cold. A body lay slumped against the base of a large tree, lifeless and battered, cradling a small, squirming bundle. The cries grew louder as she approached cautiously, her hand instinctively reaching for the bundle.

A newborn.

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down at the tiny, helpless baby wrapped in tattered cloth. Its cheeks were red from crying, and its little fists flailed against the air. The reader’s heart ached as she crouched down, gently prying the child from the lifeless arms of its mother. The baby quieted almost immediately, its cries turning to soft whimpers as she held it close, cradling it against her chest.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

The reader quickly swaddled the baby as best she could with the fabric she had, rocking it gently to soothe its remaining distress. Her mind raced with questions. Who had left the child here? Why? And why did she feel such a deep, almost instinctive need to protect it? Realizing she couldn’t linger in the clearing, she adjusted the baby in her arms and began the trek back to Dragonstone, her heart pounding as she thought about what she’d say to her parents—especially her father.

Arriving at the castle, she kept her steps quiet as she moved through the halls. The baby had fallen asleep, its tiny head resting against her shoulder. She felt a strange mix of calm and urgency as she made her way to her father’s chambers. Reaching the heavy wooden door, she hesitated for a moment before knocking softly.

“Come in,” came Daemon’s voice, groggy but alert.

She pushed the door open, stepping inside with the sleeping baby still cradled in her arms. Daemon, seated by the fire with a goblet of wine in hand, immediately straightened when he saw her. His eyes flicked to the bundle in her arms, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. “What’s this?” he asked, setting the goblet aside and rising to his feet.

The reader walked over to him, her movements deliberate as she carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal the baby’s face. “I found them,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “Out in the forest. Their mother… she was gone. Dead.”

Daemon stared at the child for a long moment, his face unreadable. He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against the baby’s soft cheek before looking back at his daughter. “And you brought it here?” he asked, though his tone wasn’t accusatory. It was curious, perhaps even a bit awed.

“I couldn’t leave them there,” she said firmly. “They were alone. They needed someone.”

Daemon’s lips pressed into a thin line as he studied her, his gaze softening. He could see the fire in her eyes, the fierce protectiveness that mirrored his own when it came to her. “You did the right thing,” he said finally, his voice low. “But this… this will raise questions.”

“I don’t care,” she replied, her grip tightening around the baby. “They’re mine now. I’ll take care of them.”

Daemon chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re stubborn, just like your mother,” he said, though his tone was laced with affection. “And you have my heart, my brave little dragon.”

At that moment, the baby stirred, letting out a tiny whimper. Daemon reached out again, this time holding his arms open. “Here,” he said, his voice gentle. “Let me hold them.”

The reader hesitated for a brief second before carefully passing the baby to her father. Daemon cradled the child with surprising ease, his expression softening as he looked down at the tiny face.

“Strong little thing,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“What will we tell Mother?” the reader asked, her voice tinged with worry.

Daemon looked up at her, his smile widening. “Leave that to me,” he said. “You’ve already done enough for one night. Get some rest. I’ll take care of the rest.”

The reader nodded, her exhaustion finally catching up to her as she watched her father hold the baby. For the first time in what felt like days, she felt a sense of calm. She had done something good, something right. And with her father by her side, she knew they could face whatever challenges lay ahead.

As she turned to leave, she glanced back one last time. Daemon was still holding the baby, his gaze full of warmth and pride. It was a sight she’d never forget, one that made her feel stronger, braver, and more capable than ever before.

The following morning, Rhaenyra entered the chamber where Daemon and their daughter had spent much of the night with the newborn. Her expression was one of mixed confusion and concern as she laid eyes on the tiny bundle in Daemon’s arms.

"Whose baby is that?" she asked, her voice sharp and demanding. Her gaze shifted between Daemon and their daughter, trying to make sense of the scene.

Daemon, calm as ever, gestured toward the reader. "It’s hers now," he said simply. "She found the baby in the forest, abandoned and alone. She saved her life. Now, she’s made it clear that she won’t leave the child’s side.”

Rhaenyra blinked, momentarily speechless. She turned to her daughter, whose protective stance over the child left no room for argument. "You... plan to keep this child?" she asked, her tone incredulous.

"Yes," the reader replied firmly, her eyes narrowing slightly as if daring anyone to object. "She has no one else. I’ll take care of her."

Rhaenyra looked at her husband, searching his face for some sign of opposition, but Daemon merely shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "She’s a Targaryen through and through," he said, pride evident in his voice. "Stubborn and determined. There’s no talking her out of this."

Rhaenyra sighed, clearly torn. While she admired her daughter’s fierce loyalty and protective nature, she couldn’t help but worry about the burden such a responsibility would bring. But she also knew there was no arguing with her family once their minds were made up.

The next day, the reader took the baby from her father, her heart swelling with warmth as she looked down at the little girl’s tiny face. She decided it was time for the child to meet the creatures who had become her closest companions. Wrapping the baby securely in a soft blanket, she set out with a sense of purpose.

Her first stop was Caraxes, who lay basking in the morning sun. The red dragon lifted his massive head at her approach, his sharp eyes softening when he saw the bundle in her arms. The reader stepped closer, carefully unwrapping the baby just enough for Caraxes to see her.

“This is Rowena,” the reader said softly, the name having come to her in a moment of clarity the night before. “She’s part of our family now.”

Caraxes sniffed the baby curiously, his hot breath ruffling the child’s blanket. The baby let out a tiny coo, and to the reader’s delight, Caraxes lowered his head, letting out a gentle rumble as if welcoming Rowena into their strange little circle.

Next, the reader introduced Rowena to the direwolf, who had been lounging near the great hall. The wolf’s ears perked up as the reader approached, its sharp eyes immediately fixating on the small bundle. The reader knelt down, allowing the wolf to get a closer look. The direwolf sniffed the baby cautiously before letting out a low, approving whine. With a wag of its tail, the wolf seemed to accept

Rowena without question.

Finally, the reader made her way to the cliffs, where the giant squid often lingered near the water’s edge. She approached carefully, holding Rowena securely in her arms. The sea was calm, and as if sensing her presence, the squid’s bright orange eyes appeared just below the surface. Slowly, a single tentacle rose from the water, reaching toward them. The reader held her breath as the tentacle brushed gently against Rowena’s blanket. The squid seemed to examine the child with a surprising amount of care, its movements slow and deliberate. When the baby let out a tiny giggle, the reader couldn’t help but smile. The squid let out a soft, resonant hum, its tentacle retreating back into the water after a final, gentle touch.

Later that day, the reader sat in her chambers, cradling Rowena as she prepared to feed her. Daemon entered, watching silently for a moment before clearing his throat. "You should give her to a wet nurse," he suggested, his tone neutral but firm. "It’s how things are done. She’ll need proper nourishment."

The reader shook her head stubbornly, holding Rowena closer. "I’ll feed her myself," she replied. "She’s my responsibility, and I want to take care of her. I’ll find a way."

Daemon frowned, crossing his arms. "And how do you intend to do that? She can’t survive on stubbornness alone."

The reader sighed, setting Rowena down in a small makeshift cradle she’d prepared. She fetched a small bowl of cow’s milk and a spoon, determined to make it work. Sitting back down, she carefully spoon-fed the baby, her movements slow and deliberate to ensure Rowena didn’t choke.

To her relief, the baby took to the milk, her tiny hands clutching at the blanket as she drank. The reader smiled, a sense of pride welling up inside her. "See?" she said, glancing up at her father. "I can do this."

Daemon watched her for a long moment, his stern expression softening. He walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You’re more like me than I realized," he said quietly. "And that’s both a blessing and a curse."

The reader looked up at him, her eyes filled with determination. "She’s mine, Father," she said. "And I love her."

Daemon nodded, his hand lingering on her shoulder. "Then you’ll have my support," he said. "But know this—raising a child is no easy task. You’ll need more than just love. You’ll need strength, patience, and a willingness to make sacrifices."

The reader nodded, her gaze never leaving Rowena’s tiny, peaceful face. "I’ll do whatever it takes," she said firmly. "She’s worth it."

Daemon smiled faintly, a sense of pride swelling in his chest. He could see the fierce love and determination in his daughter’s eyes, and he knew that Rowena was in good hands. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together, as a family.

The night was still, the castle bathed in the pale light of the moon. The reader woke to the sound of soft, plaintive cries filling her chambers. Instantly alert, she moved to the cradle where Rowena lay, her tiny face scrunched in distress.

“It’s alright, sweet one,” the reader murmured, lifting the baby into her arms. She swayed gently, humming a lullaby, but the baby continued to fuss. Deciding a change of scenery might help, she wrapped Rowena in a warm blanket and stepped out into the quiet halls of the castle.

The walk was peaceful, the soft echoes of her footsteps the only sound aside from Rowena’s occasional whimpers. The reader found herself wandering toward the dragon pit, drawn to the comforting presence of Caraxes. When she arrived, the massive red dragon lifted his head, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. He rumbled a low, welcoming sound, his tail curling closer as if to shield her from the cool night air.

“Hello, Caraxes,” the reader said softly, stepping closer. She settled onto the ground near his side, resting her back against his warm scales. Rowena, soothed by the dragon’s presence, let out a soft sigh and drifted back to sleep in her arms.

The reader gazed down at the baby, her expression a mix of love and uncertainty. She gently adjusted the blanket around Rowena, ensuring she was snug and warm. Then, with a heavy sigh, she looked up at Caraxes.

“Am I doing this right?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Am I a good mother?”

The dragon tilted his head slightly, as if he understood her question. He let out a low, resonant hum, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath her. The reader smiled faintly, taking the sound as reassurance.

“It’s hard sometimes,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “I love her so much, but I keep wondering... will I be enough for her? Can I protect her the way she deserves? She’s already been through so much, and she doesn’t even know it.”

Caraxes shifted slightly, his massive body curling closer around her in a gesture of comfort. The reader leaned into him, drawing strength from his presence. She looked down at Rowena, her heart swelling with a mixture of love and determination.

In the distance, hidden in the shadows, Daemon and Rhaenyra watched the scene unfold. They had woken to find their daughter’s chambers empty and had followed her tracks out of concern. Now, as they stood together, observing her with Caraxes and Rowena, they felt their hearts swell with pride.

“She’s remarkable,” Rhaenyra whispered, her eyes glistening with emotion. “I always worried about her—about how she’d handle the expectations placed on her. But look at her. She’s doing this her way, and she’s thriving.”

Daemon nodded, a rare, soft smile crossing his lips. “She’s strong,” he said. “And stubborn as hell. She didn’t need a husband to step in and do this for her. She’s proving that every day.”

Rhaenyra rested her head against Daemon’s shoulder, her smile matching his. “It seems she didn’t need a husband after all,” she said softly.

Daemon chuckled, pride evident in his voice. “No, she didn’t. She’s Targaryen through and through. Fierce, independent, and capable of anything.”

As they stood together, watching their daughter and her makeshift family of dragon, direwolf, squid, and now Rowena, they felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Their daughter was carving her own path, one filled with love, courage, and determination. And they couldn’t have been prouder.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun was beginning its slow descent when the reader found herself returning to the clearing where she had first discovered Rowena. The air was cool, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves and the scent of wildflowers. She approached the spot cautiously, her heart heavy with unspoken gratitude and sadness. The body of the woman who had cradled Rowena in her final moments was no longer visible beneath the soft blanket of nature. Grass and wildflowers had grown around her resting place, creating a serene, almost sacred atmosphere. The reader paused, marvelling at how life had embraced death in such a tender way. Kneeling down, she reached out a hand to touch the flowers, intending to pay her respects. Just as her fingers brushed a delicate petal, a rustling sound from nearby startled her. She froze, her head snapping up to see a stag stepping gracefully into the clearing.

The animal was magnificent—its coat sleek and shimmering in the dappled sunlight, antlers reaching skyward like the branches of a great tree. It seemed to regard her curiously, its dark eyes calm and intelligent.

Uncertain at first, the reader rose slowly and, remembering stories of old Valyria, offered a respectful bow. To her surprise, the stag lowered its regal head in return, as if acknowledging her gesture. A soft laugh escaped her lips, the moment so unexpected yet oddly comforting.

“You’ve been watching over her, haven’t you?” she murmured, stepping closer. The stag didn’t move, standing still as she reached out to touch its warm, smooth coat. Its body radiated a comforting heat, and she felt an overwhelming sense of peace as her fingers traced along its fur.

“Thank you,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around its neck in an impulsive hug. “Thank you for keeping her safe until I could find her. She gave me Rowena, and I won’t ever forget her sacrifice.”

The stag remained still, almost as if it understood her words. When she stepped back to leave, she felt the weight of its gaze on her. As she walked toward the edge of the clearing, the soft sound of hooves followed behind her. She turned to see the sandy-coloured stag trailing her, its serene demeanour unshaken.

“Are you coming with me?” she asked, smiling faintly. The stag flicked its ears, as if in affirmation. “Alright then. Another friend, I suppose.”

By the time she reached the castle, twilight had begun to paint the sky in shades of gold and purple. The stag still followed her, stopping only when she entered the gates. Its calm presence gave her a strange sense of reassurance, as though it were a guardian sent by the gods.

Inside, Rhaenyra stood at her window, as she gazed out at the grounds below. When her eyes caught sight of her daughter returning, followed by the elegant stag, she laughed in disbelief.

“Daemon!” she called, still chuckling as she motioned for him to join her. “Come see this!”

Daemon entered the room, Rowena cradled protectively against his chest. “What is it now?” he asked, only to stop short when his gaze followed Rhaenyra’s pointing finger. His brow rose in amusement as he spotted the stag standing just beyond the gates, its regal form perfectly silhouetted against the evening light.

Shaking his head with a soft laugh, he looked down at the baby in his arms. “Rowena,” he said with a smirk, “it looks like you have another friend.”

Rhaenyra leaned against him, a smile playing on her lips. “Our daughter seems to have a gift for collecting the extraordinary.”

Daemon nodded, his expression softening. “That she does.”

As the stag settled itself outside, content to remain near the castle, the family watched with quiet wonder. The reader, unaware of their observation, turned back to the stag one last time, offering a small nod of gratitude before stepping inside to check on her baby.

The presence of the stag, like all her newfound companions, was yet another testament to her unique connection with the world around her—a bond forged by compassion, courage, and the strength to embrace the unknown. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The grand dining hall was filled with the hum of voices, the clinking of goblets, and the scraping of silverware against plates. The entire Targaryen family was gathered once again for what should have been a peaceful dinner. The reader, seated beside her father Daemon, was mostly silent, trying to focus on her meal and avoid the glares and whispers she often felt from certain family members. The dire wolf lay quietly at her feet, its large head resting against her knee for comfort, while the stag had stationed itself just outside the hall’s open balcony, its presence still a topic of awe and confusion for the others.

But peace was never guaranteed at a Targaryen dinner.

Aemond’s sharp voice cut through the chatter like a blade. “It’s truly remarkable how you’ve surrounded yourself with beasts, cousin,” he said with a sneer, looking directly at her. “A dragon, a wolf, a stag—and now I hear whispers of some mythical sea creature you call a friend. It’s almost as though you’re collecting animals because you can’t connect with people.”

The reader tensed but didn’t look up, choosing instead to cut her food into smaller and smaller pieces. Daemon, seated beside her, narrowed his eyes at Aemond but held his tongue for now, his hand resting protectively on the arm of his chair.

Aemond wasn’t done. “Tell me, cousin,” he continued, leaning forward with a mocking smile, “is this your grand plan? To live out your days surrounded by animals, so you can avoid the inevitable truth?

That you’ll die alone, just like the beasts you seem so fond of?”

The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to slice with a blade. All eyes turned to the reader, some filled with curiosity, others with pity.

She opened her mouth to respond, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and hurt, but before she could say a word, a faint cry echoed through the castle halls. Rowena.

The reader’s heart leapt in panic as she immediately pushed back her chair, the direwolf standing to follow her as she bolted from the room. She didn’t bother excusing herself properly, her sole focus on the baby.

The sound of her hurried footsteps faded, leaving the dining hall in stunned silence.

Aemond smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “What was that noise?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

Daemon’s chair screeched as he stood abruptly, his expression one of barely restrained fury. “Careful, boy,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

Rhaenyra, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke up, her tone sharp. “That cry,” she said, her gaze fixed firmly on Aemond, “was her daughter.”

The collective gasp that rippled through the room was nearly deafening.

“Her what?” Alicent exclaimed, her voice incredulous.

“She found a child,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice steady despite the surprise around her. “A baby girl. She’s named her Rowena, and she is her daughter now. Aemond,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “you would do well to remember that when you speak about her life.”

Back in her chambers, the reader burst through the door, breathless and worried. Rowena’s cries filled the air, frantic and piercing, and the reader quickly crossed the room to the crib. The dire wolf followed closely, sniffing the baby protectively before lying down nearby.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the reader cooed, scooping Rowena into her arms and cradling her gently. “What’s the matter? Did something scare you?”

As she rocked the baby, whispering soothing words, Rowena’s cries began to subside. The reader kissed the top of her head, marveling at how small and fragile she seemed in her arms.

And then it happened.

“Mama,” Rowena said, her tiny voice soft but unmistakable.

The reader froze, her eyes wide with shock. For a moment, she thought she’d imagined it, but then Rowena’s lips moved again, repeating the word as she reached out a tiny hand to touch her mother’s face.

“Mama.”

The reader’s heart swelled, tears springing to her eyes as she smiled down at the baby. “Well done, you clever girl,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “You said your first word!”

She kissed Rowena’s cheek, holding her close as joy replaced the hurt and frustration that Aemond’s words had stirred in her earlier.

Meanwhile, back at the dining hall, the room was buzzing with murmurs as the family digested the revelation about Rowena.

“How does your daughter have a baby?” Alicent demanded, her voice laced with confusion and judgment. “Who is the father?”

“There is no father,” Daemon replied bluntly, his tone daring anyone to question further. “She found the baby abandoned and brought her home. She has taken on the responsibility of raising her, and as far as I’m concerned, Rowena is as much a Targaryen as any of us.”

Aemond scoffed, his jealousy and bitterness still simmering beneath the surface. “So, she’s playing mother to a child that isn’t hers? How noble. Perhaps she should focus on herself before pretending to be fit for such a role.”

Daemon’s hand slammed against the table, the sound reverberating through the hall. “Say another word about my daughter, Aemond, and I’ll show you what it means to cross a dragon.”

Rhaenyra placed a calming hand on her husband’s arm, though her own patience was clearly wearing thin. “Enough,” she said firmly, silencing the room. “We will not discuss this further. Rowena is family, and that is the end of it.”

As the dinner continued in strained silence, the reader sat in her room, Rowena now sound asleep in her arms. The direwolf watched over them both, its golden eyes glowing softly in the dim light.

The reader couldn’t help but think about Aemond’s words, how they had cut so deeply despite her best efforts to ignore them. But as she looked down at Rowena, her heart swelled with love and determination.

“I’m not alone,” she whispered to herself, pressing a kiss to Rowena’s forehead. “And I never will be.”

The dining hall was still a flurry of murmurs and whispered conversations when the reader reentered, cradling Rowena in her arms. The baby, now calm and content, nestled against her chest, her tiny hand gripping the fabric of her mother's dress. The direwolf followed closely behind, its quiet but commanding presence silencing anyone who dared to whisper too loudly.

As she approached the table, all eyes turned to her. The once-familiar stares of judgment and curiosity were now mixed with something else—shock, disbelief, and for a few, a hint of admiration. She held her head high, ignoring the tension as she took her place between her parents, Daemon and Rhaenyra.

Rowena, seemingly unaware of the heavy atmosphere, lifted her head slightly, her big, curious eyes locking onto Daemon. A wide, toothless smile broke across her face, and she let out a delighted giggle, reaching her small hand toward her grandfather.

Daemon, who had been wearing his usual stern expression, softened instantly. A rare smile spread across his lips as he reached out a finger for Rowena to grab, her tiny fingers wrapping tightly around his. “Well, aren’t you a charmer,” he said, his voice low but warm.

Before anyone could comment, Rowena suddenly turned her head and waved a small hand in Aemond’s direction. The gesture was innocent and childlike, but it immediately drew the attention of the entire table. Aemond’s expression shifted from his usual cool indifference to something closer to unease, as if he wasn’t sure how to react. Alicent, seated beside him, looked equally startled.

“Even the baby is more courteous than her mother,” Aemond muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glare from Daemon.

“Enough,” Rhaenyra snapped, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Alicent, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere, cleared her throat and asked, “And what of the mother, dear? You said you found her. What happened to her?”

The reader hesitated, her fingers brushing over Rowena’s soft curls as she gathered her thoughts. “The mother was… gone when I found her,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the somber memory. “She was lying in a clearing, and the grass and flowers had grown over her. It was as if the earth had claimed her, wrapping her in beauty. It was… peaceful.”

The table fell silent at her words, the vivid imagery leaving a mark on everyone present. Even Alicent, who was often quick to judge, looked contemplative. Rowena shifted in the reader’s arms, her small hand clutching at the fabric of her mother’s dress as she let out a small, sleepy mumble. The reader glanced down, brushing a gentle hand over the baby’s cheek. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she asked softly.

Rowena’s head tilted upward, her drowsy eyes meeting her mother’s. Then, clear as day, she mumbled, “Mama.”

The reader froze agin still suprised when hearing her speak, her small voice a mixture of tiredness and affection. “Mama.”

The room collectively held its breath.

Rhaenyra’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with astonishment. Daemon, equally stunned, looked between his daughter and the baby, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically tender.

“She spoke,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice trembling. “Her first word…”

She pressed a kiss to Rowena’s forehead, holding her close. “Well done, my clever girl,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re so smart.”

The baby nestled against her mother’s chest again, her tiny fingers gripping the edge of the reader’s dress as her eyes fluttered closed, clearly worn out from the excitement.

At the table, the reactions varied. Rhaenyra’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, her heart full of pride for both her daughter and her granddaughter. Daemon, though outwardly composed, couldn’t hide the pride and protectiveness radiating from him. Alicent, on the other hand, looked conflicted, her lips pressed into a thin line as if she was wrestling with her feelings. Aemond remained stoic, though his jaw tightened at the sight of the tender family moment.

“I suppose that settles it,” Daemon said after a moment, his voice breaking the silence. “Rowena is family, through and through. There’s no questioning it now.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her hand resting on her daughter’s shoulder. “She’s one of us,” she said firmly. “A Targaryen in every way that matters.”

The reader smiled softly, her gaze fixed on Rowena’s peaceful face. Despite the tension and challenges she had faced, this moment made it all worthwhile. Her daughter’s first word was proof that she was doing something right, that the love she poured into Rowena was making a difference.

The direwolf, sensing the calm that had settled over its mistress, rested its head on the floor beside her chair. The stag, though still lingering outside, stood tall and vigilant, its presence a silent reassurance.

As the meal slowly resumed, the reader stayed seated, her focus entirely on Rowena. The weight of Aemond’s earlier words still lingered, but they felt distant now, overshadowed by the love and support surrounding her.

Daemon leaned over, his voice low enough that only his daughter could hear. “You’re doing well, little one,” he said, his tone filled with pride. “Don’t let anyone make you doubt that.”

The reader looked up at him, her eyes glistening with gratitude. “Thank you, father,” she whispered.

As the evening unfolded, the reader gently handed Rowena to her father, Daemon, who took the baby with surprising ease. His movements were tender, a far cry from his usual fiery demeanour.

Rowena’s small hands immediately reached up to his face, exploring the strands of his silver-white hair, tugging them with curious fingers. Daemon chuckled softly, a sound that was rare and cherished.

“You’ve taken a liking to my hair, haven’t you, little one?” Daemon murmured, cradling Rowena closer. The baby giggled, her head resting against his neck as she continued her playful exploration.

The reader sat back, her gaze fixated on the scene before her. Watching her father interact with her daughter filled her heart with a warmth she couldn’t quite put into words. Daemon, so fierce and untamed in most circumstances, held Rowena with the gentleness of a man entirely smitten.

Rowena eventually shifted, her tiny body moving to sit on Daemon’s lap. Her big, curious eyes darted around the room, taking in the faces of the Targaryen family members seated at the table. When her gaze landed on Aemond, the room seemed to hold its breath.

The baby and her second cousin locked eyes, both wearing expressions far too serious for such a small child. It was as if they were engaging in a silent battle of wills, a staring contest that neither seemed inclined to lose. The reader bit back a smile, her eyes darting between the two.

Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, Rowena stuck out her tiny tongue at Aemond, the playful gesture utterly unexpected. The room erupted into soft laughter, and even Daemon let out an amused chuckle.

To everyone’s astonishment, Aemond’s stoic facade cracked for a fleeting moment. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in what could only be described as a reluctant smile. The reader’s eyes widened, and her astonishment must have been palpable because Aemond immediately schooled his expression back to its usual detached demeanour. His single eye darted to the reader, and when he noticed her, along with the stag and direwolf silently watching him from the corner of the room, his jaw tightened.

The reader arched a brow at him, her amusement evident. “Did you just smile at my daughter, Aemond?” she asked, her tone teasing but warm.

Aemond huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I did no such thing,” he said curtly, though his ears reddened slightly, betraying his embarrassment.

Daemon, still holding Rowena, smirked at Aemond’s discomfort. “Admit it, brother. You’re smitten with the little dragon.”

“I am not,” Aemond retorted sharply, though his gaze flicked back to Rowena, who was now babbling and clapping her hands on Daemon’s chest.

The baby’s antics seemed to diffuse the tension in the room, her innocent joy infectious. The direwolf, sensing the calm, padded closer and lay down at the reader’s feet, its watchful eyes fixed on Rowena. The stag, still standing by the window, observed with quiet dignity, its presence a reminder of the unusual but undeniable bond the reader shared with her growing family of creatures.

As Rowena continued to babble and explore her surroundings from her perch on Daemon’s lap, the reader couldn’t help but marvel at how naturally her father had taken to being a grandfather. His gruff exterior melted away in Rowena’s presence, replaced by a side of him the reader rarely got to see.

“You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, haven’t you, my clever girl?” the reader said softly, leaning forward to brush a stray curl from Rowena’s forehead. The baby responded with a delighted coo, her small hand reaching out to grab her mother’s fingers.

Daemon glanced at his daughter, a rare softness in his gaze. “She takes after you,” he said, his tone carrying both pride and affection. “Strong-willed and utterly unyielding.”

The reader smiled, her heart swelling with love for both her father and her daughter. Despite the challenges and the constant pushback from certain family members, moments like this reminded her that she had created something beautiful, something worth protecting.

As Rowena shifted her attention back to Aemond, the reader leaned back in her chair, watching the silent exchange between her daughter and her uncle. She couldn’t help but wonder what the future held for her little girl, but one thing was certain: Rowena was already leaving an indelible mark on everyone around her.

Even on Aemond, whether he wanted to admit it or not

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The moon cast its soft glow over the gardens as the reader carried a fussing Rowena in her arms. The baby's cries were growing louder, and the reader gently rocked her, humming a lullaby under her breath. The large stag followed silently, its regal form illuminated by the pale light, and the reader glanced at it with curiosity.

“Do you think she’s drawn to you?” she asked quietly, almost as if speaking to herself. “Or is it me? Either way, I think you might mean something to her, old friend.”

Rowena’s cries softened as they reached a quieter spot by the cliffs. The stag lowered itself to the ground nearby, its watchful eyes fixed on the mother and child. The reader let out a small sigh, grateful for the calm. However, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She glanced over her shoulder, her sharp gaze cutting through the shadows, and her suspicion was confirmed when

Aemond stepped into view.

“Are you following me again, Aemond?” she asked, her voice tinged with annoyance. She adjusted Rowena in her arms, shielding the baby from the cool night air. “I don’t have time for your comments tonight.”

Aemond tilted his head, his single eye gleaming in the moonlight. “You misunderstand me,” he said smoothly, his hands clasped behind his back. “I only wish to speak with you.”

“I doubt you have anything to say that I want to hear,” the reader replied curtly, turning away from him and walking further toward the cliffside.

Aemond’s footsteps followed close behind. “I mean no harm to you or the child,” he said, his voice steady. “But surely you can see that this... arrangement is unusual. You carry a baby not your own, one you found under circumstances that would raise questions. You cannot expect the rest of the family—or the court—to accept this so easily.”

The reader stopped in her tracks, spinning around to face him. Rowena stirred in her arms, letting out a soft whimper as if sensing her mother’s irritation. “I don’t care what you—or anyone else—think,” she said sharply. “This baby is mine now, and no one will take her from me.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “Even if it invites danger? Even if it puts a target on your back?”

The reader narrowed her eyes, her grip tightening protectively around Rowena. “I’d rather die protecting her than live a life dictated by fear and judgment,” she snapped. “If you have nothing helpful to say, leave us alone.”

With that, she turned and walked toward the cliffs, seeking the one place where she felt truly at peace: the sea. She knew the kraken would come if she called, and tonight, she needed its calming presence more than ever.

As she reached the edge of the cliffs, she looked down at the dark waves crashing below. The stag stood a short distance behind her, its antlers gleaming in the moonlight. Rowena was quiet now, her small hand clutching at the reader’s dress as if seeking comfort. The reader took a deep breath and murmured softly, “Come to me, old friend.”

The water rippled unnaturally, and moments later, the familiar orange tentacles emerged, followed by the Kraken’s massive head. The creature’s glowing eyes locked onto her, its presence both imposing and strangely comforting. Rowena let out a delighted coo, reaching a tiny hand toward the Kraken as if recognizing it. The kraken responded by lifting a tentacle gently toward them, its movements slow and deliberate.

Behind her, Aemond stood frozen, his mouth slightly agape as he watched the massive sea creature interact with the reader and the baby. “Seven hells,” he muttered under his breath.

Unbeknownst to Aemond, Daemon was not far behind. The moment he had noticed the reader’s empty seat at dinner, he had excused himself from the table. After a brief conversation with Rhaenyra, they both realized Aemond’s absence as well and exchanged a knowing glance. It didn’t take long for Daemon to follow the trail of his daughter, his instinct sharp and unerring.

When he arrived at the cliffs, his breath hitched at the sight before him. His daughter stood confidently at the edge, holding Rowena close while the kraken loomed in the water below. The stag stood nearby like a sentinel, and Aemond was to the side, his expression torn between shock and something like awe.

Daemon’s protective instincts kicked in immediately. “Step away from the edge, both of you,” he called out, his voice firm but laced with concern.

The reader turned, her face softening when she saw her father. “We’re fine, Father,” she assured him. “The Kraken wouldn’t hurt us.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he approached, his gaze flicking to Aemond with a hint of suspicion. “And what are you doing here?” he asked sharply.

Aemond straightened, his usual confidence returning. “I was merely ensuring your daughter wasn’t putting herself—or the child—in harm’s way.”

Daemon scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk. “How noble of you,” he said sarcastically, before turning his full attention to the reader. “You should’ve told me where you were going. You scared your mother half to death.”

“I needed some air,” the reader replied, her tone defensive but not unkind. She glanced back at the kraken, which had retreated slightly but still lingered near the surface. “I needed to see it again. It... calms me.”

Daemon’s expression softened, and he placed a hand on her shoulder. “I understand,” he said quietly. “But next time, don’t go alone. You’re not the only one who loves that little girl. We’re a family now, and we protect each other.”

Rowena chose that moment to let out a happy squeal as if agreeing with her grandfather. Daemon chuckled, reaching out to take her from the reader’s arms. “Come here, little dragon,” he murmured, cradling the baby against his chest. “You’re far too young for these late-night adventures.”

The reader smiled, her heart swelling with gratitude for her father’s unwavering support. Even as she faced the challenges of her unconventional life, she knew she could always count on him to stand by her side.

As the family made their way back to the castle, the stag followed at a respectful distance, its silent presence a reminder of the strange but undeniable bond that had formed between them. And though

Aemond trailed behind, his thoughts remained conflicted, his gaze lingering on the kraken’s glowing eyes as they disappeared beneath the waves.

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The day was calm, with the soft golden light of the afternoon casting a serene glow across the landscape. The reader had set out once again, the loyal stag and direwolf following close behind. This time, she was determined to find more information about Rowena’s origins, to piece together the fragments of the life the baby had been torn from. The spot where she had found Rowena was overgrown with grass and wildflowers, a quiet and somber beauty.

The reader knelt by the spot, her fingers brushing the petals of a wildflower as she whispered, “I’m sorry you had to go this way. I’ll take care of her. I promise.”

The stag stood silently nearby, its antlers shining in the light, while the direwolf sniffed the air, ever alert. The reader moved to explore further, her boots sinking slightly into the soft ground as she made her way through the glade. She paused at the crest of a hill, scanning the area for any signs of human presence, but the landscape stretched on, untouched. Just as she turned to move downhill, her foot caught on a loose patch of grass.

She stumbled and let out a surprised yelp, tumbling forward. The hill was steep, and she rolled down awkwardly, landing in a heap at the bottom. Groaning, she pushed herself up, brushing dirt and blades of grass from her dress. The dire wolf had already made its way down, sniffing her as if to ensure she was unharmed, while the stag remained at the top, watching her descent with its usual serene gaze.

“Of course, I had to fall,” she muttered, shaking her head. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, then froze as something in the distance caught her eye—a small cottage, nestled in the trees.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Is this where you lived?” she whispered, more to herself than to her companions. With a sense of foreboding, she walked toward the cottage, the direwolf padding silently by her side.

When she reached the door, it creaked loudly as she pushed it open. The air inside was stale, carrying the unmistakable scent of death. The sight that greeted her made her breath hitch. Two more bodies lay inside—a man slumped over the table and a small child curled up near the hearth, their presence a grim testament to tragedy.

The reader pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting back tears. She took a shaky step forward, her gaze scanning the room. The cottage was humble but had the clear marks of a family life once lived: a simple wooden table, worn chairs, a hand-carved crib in the corner.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers brushed over the table’s surface, lingering on a small wooden carving that had been left there. It was shaped like a stag, its edges smoothed from wear. She picked it up, a lump forming in her throat.

“Rowena will love this,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ll make sure she knows it came from you.”

She searched the cottage for anything else that might hold meaning—a blanket, a keepsake—but most of the belongings had been too worn or ruined to salvage. Clutching the wooden stag, she stepped outside, the weight of the family’s loss pressing heavily on her chest. The stag was waiting for her by the door, its calm presence a strange comfort.

When she arrived back at the castle, the sun was beginning to set. Daemon was outside, holding Rowena in his arms as he paced the courtyard. The baby was cooing softly, one tiny hand reaching for his long, white hair. When he saw the reader approaching, his eyes widened in alarm.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded, his tone sharp with worry. “You look like you’ve been wrestling boars.”

The reader glanced down at herself, realizing how dishevelled she must have appeared—her dress was wrinkled and dirt-streaked, her hair a tangled mess. She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said lightly. “I just fell down a hill.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. “You’re not usually this careless. What were you doing out there?”

“I was looking for answers,” she admitted, holding up the small wooden white stag, different to the one behind her. “I found the cottage where Rowena’s family lived. It was... hard to see, but I found this. I think it might have been hers.”

Daemon’s expression softened as he looked at the carved toy. Rowena, as if sensing the moment, reached out her tiny hands toward the object. Daemon carefully placed it in her grasp, and the baby immediately brought it to her mouth, gnawing on it with a toothless grin.

The reader couldn’t help but smile. “She likes it,” she said quietly.

Daemon studied his daughter’s face, his gaze flicking to the stag and the dire wolf that stood nearby, ever faithful. “You’ve taken on a great deal of responsibility,” he said, his voice tinged with pride.

“More than most would.”

The reader looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. “She deserves it,” she said simply. “She deserves a family that loves her.”

“You’ve given her that,” Daemon said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “And you’ve reminded me what it means to protect what we love.”

Rowena giggled, clutching the wooden stag tightly in her small hands, and the reader felt a sense of peace settle over her. Despite the hardships and the unanswered questions, she knew they were building something beautiful—a life worth fighting for.

#daemon x rhaenyra #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon targaryen x daughter reader #rhaenyra x daughter reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #alicent hightower #newborn #baby #light angst #fluff #infant

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bluestjayy · 20 days ago

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This feels like an appropriate time to remind folk: before blindly accusing authors of using AI based on an arbitrary list of 'obvious AI tells' remember that non-native speakers of a language often display these tells too. That autistic folk often display these tells too. That new writers who picked up a pen for the first time only a few months ago display these tells too. Writers going through transitional periods in their life and style often display those tells too. Creators trying a new medium or style just for the sake of experimentation often display those tells too.

It takes no effort at all to practice empathy and kindness, and to simply avoid any works you don't enjoy, or think may be AI, without publicly making a false claim that many authors would struggle to disprove.

Voting with your feet (or clicks) is always going to prove more effective at combating actual AI than just being outright mean on a social media platform. If you think it's AI, don't click on it. It's really that simple. Without the clicks, what incentive do AI authors have?

But if you just go to a different site and scream into a main tag in a vague and accusatory way? You know what's going to happen?

A fanfic author decides that maybe writing fic isn't worth it if they're going to have every other word scrutinised against a standard that shouldn't apply to them. Other readers start picking apart every fic they come across based on a set of rather unspecific (and in some lights, discriminatory) bullet points that 'make it easy to spot AI' and then it turns into unsubstantial finger pointing.

Fandoms lose more genuine fic authors this way than we would ever gain in AI writers. Just saying.

The epitome of this is just... be nice. For god's sake. Just be fucking nice. It's fandom. It's supposed to be the nice place.

Don't turn it into a battlefield.

#sincerely and autistic person who has seen a spike in accusations of ai #directly to me but also to my friends #because newsflash #humans are sometimes also going to do the things you think ai is doing #because we are human beings #im so mad i could literally fight god #vent #fic writing

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savemefromanepicoftimewasted · 11 months ago

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Another Year, Another Smile

John Price X Reader

A:N: this is for the lovely and amazing @gaylemonshark as it's their birthday! I hope you like this fic since you and Barry share a birthday lol Happy Birthday!

You hadn’t expected anyone to even realize what the day was, considering you did everything you could to ignore your birthday. So, when you found out that you and your captain, John, shared a birthday, you were ecstatic. You could share the festivities with him, but try and keep most of the attention on him since he was your superior. And more, if you were being honest but sometimes that wasn’t the smartest thing to do. Everyone in your task force knew of the relationship between the two of you, and they respected it. It was a nice feeling knowing that everyone could see how happy you were.

Here you were, laughing at one of the terrible dad jokes that John had made to help lighten the mood and force them to take the spotlight off of him for a few minutes. Simon could see that you were avoiding nearly all the festivities, and while he’d love to tease, he knew better. John’s eyes crinkled as he laughed, nose scrunched as Johnny did his best impression of Simon during a mission. You couldn’t help your own laughter, doing your best to hide your smile and hide in John’s side.

“Is funny and you know it!” Johnny pointed an accusatory finger at Simon who, for lack of a better term, was glaring at the Scotsman.

“Oh shut it, I do not sound like that.” Simon rolled his eyes, arms crossed over his chest.

“You kinda do sir, I can’t even deny it.” Kyle threw his hands up as Simon’s glare whipped from Johnny to him.

“You’re all gangin’ up on me, and it’s not even my birthday!” That brought out another round of laughter out of everyone, save for Simon of course.

Everyone began to apologize, while also chastising Simon in the most loving way that you could as well. It was a nice reminder that even with tragedy going on in the world around you, for just a few minutes you could have some peace.

“You know, I think it’s someone else’s birthday too.” John’s gaze slipped over to yours, eyes soft as he stared down at you.

“John, c’mon we promised not to make a big deal about my birthday.” You groaned and laid your head against his chest.

“I’m not! I’m just saying, why don’t we see if we can get a cake? Something to celebrate today.” John smiled and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

You wanted to protest, but the thought of cutting the cake with him did sound pretty nice at the moment. Johnny nearly jumped out of his seat, offering to take Kyle and Simon to the store so they could get everything that would be needed. Before either you or John could say anything the trio were gone. You didn’t even have a moment to mention they didn’t need to get any plates or silverware, the mess hall would have everything.

“Oh god, they’re going to get something tacky for us to eat off of, I can just picture it.” You slapped a palm over your face, groaning softly.

“Let them have their fun, they need to let off steam every once in a while.” John squeezed you into his side, palm warm against the skin of your shoulder.

Even if normally you tended to ignore your birthday, choosing to celebrate John’s and put him in the spotlight, it was kind of fun knowing your teammates were happy to help. Kyle had been the only person, besides John, to know your birthday. It was personal preference for the most part, the boys could be a handful and having them make a fuss over the day felt like too much.

You and John would usually swap gifts, just little things that made you think of the other person if you had the chance to get something. There were many times you’d each gotten each other the same item, laughing at how predictable you were. It was a spiral you found yourself wanting to fall into. John was someone you could picture spending the rest of your life with, someone that genuinely loved you inside and out.

The trio announced their arrival back at base by nearly deafening you and John both, although it was almost entirely Johnny’s loud voice echoing inside the room. Simon and Kyle set down the adorably tacky plates while Johnny got the cake ready. They agreed not to put too many candles on the cake lest the sprinklers go off and they ruin their hard work.

“I’d hardly call going to the store hard work.” John muttered under his breath as Johnny began lighting each candle carefully.

He had either gotten the lighter while they were out or had managed to steal Simon’s when he wasn’t paying attention. John was too attached to his lighter to let anyone touch it but himself, it had been a gift from his father that he’d cherished like a child.

“Alright! Might wanna make your wishes quick, these candles are meltin’ faster than expected.” Johnny scooped the cake up carefully, walking it over to where you and John were sitting together.

They began to sing Happy Birthday, albeit quite terribly save for Kyle who didn’t have too bad of a singing voice. Your cheeks were hurting from laughing and smiling, a hand resting against John’s knee as he chuckled. Once they finished singing both you and John leaned forward, blowing out the candles quickly to prevent any more wax from dripping onto the pristine buttercream.

“Alright, we got a cake server so you guys could cut the cake without losing a finger.” Simon held the utensil out towards John.

He took it from the other man before gesturing for you to hold it. You raised an eyebrow confused before taking it from his hand. Once you had a secure grip on the base of the utensil, John wrapped his hand over yours. Your jaw dropped open as you realized what he was doing, you were going to cut the cake together. It felt perfect, John’s grip was both firm and comforting as he helped you cut through the cake, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Happy Birthday darling, thank you for spending it with me.” John’s eyes were sparking under the fluorescent lighting.

“Happy Birthday John, I couldn’t imagine spending it with anyone else.” You didn’t even notice Johnny take the cake, nor the cake knife away as you and John stared into each other’s eyes.

Maybe this birthday would be one to remember for the rest of your life.

It was simply

Perfect.

#john price #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #captain john price #captain price #captain johnathan price #tf141 #task force 141 #john price x gn!reader #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley

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earthstellar · 1 year ago

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TF Earthspark S1 Episode 21: What it Means to Be Believed -- An Analysis Post

Putting this analysis behind a spoiler cut, as these episodes came out today!

The conversation between Hashtag and Starscream here immediately reminded me of the times I've spoken with abuse victims.

Hashtag: Is this how Megatron treated you?

Starscream: ...You believe me?

Hashtag: I believe he hurt you.

Starscream: You don't know me! You couldn't possibly understand what I've been through!

Hashtag: Then tell me. When bad things happen, it isn't always our fault. There was this Mandroid guy, and he hacked my systems! And I...

So, let's talk about this exchange.

Starscream starts out aggressively just before this conversation, attempting to order Hashtag around.

She declines, and immediately identifies that Starscream's behaviour has likely been informed by prior abuse.

She highlights this in the moment and gets Starscream to notice his verbally aggressive approach by making him realise that he is behaving how Megatron used to treat him-- She does this by using questioning, not by using accusatory language.

This is REALLY IMPORTANT, and is a good approach. When someone is behaving poorly or offensively, encourage them to reflect in the moment by posing a question. It prevents any sense of being challenged, as they are now set up to challenge themselves. "Is my behaviour actually negative? Am I being hurtful?"

This approach is successful, and stops Starscream outright.

It shocks him, to be given the leeway of genuine understanding. This catches him off guard so severely, that we actually get a totally honest reply from him. "You believe me?"

Which is a really significant moment, because Starscream is constantly subject to being, essentially, assumed evil. The other bots often see his negative behaviour and lashing out in a very surface-level kind of way; They don't further investigate or try to think about why, exactly, Starscream is like this.

We don't know how he used to be, before the war or during the war, in this continuity quite yet. But it is heavily implied that a lot of his current behaviour is informed by trauma, and some of that trauma very clearly stems from his prior relationship with Megatron.

Starscream is genuinely surprised that anyone is willing to look past that surface level and actually think: Why is he like this? Where is this behaviour coming from?

Hashtag rightly identifies that what Starscream is saying and how he is saying it is very reminiscent of commanding language; She knows Megatron was his superior officer during the war. She knows Starscream has a poor relationship with Megatron. She knows that as a lower ranked Decepticon, he likely was subject to at least some mistreatment, and that mistreatment is echoed in his "taking command" approach here.

Because to Starscream, "taking command" means being aggressive and controlling. It means using intimidation and belittlement to stay on top.

And Hashtag rightly assumes that this is likely because this is how Megatron did it.

This is how Megatron treated him.

Of course, Starscream responds defensively, as anyone might expect.

It hurts to become aware that you are mirroring harmful behaviour, that you are acting out your hurt on others in a way that hurt was inflicted upon you, and Starscream understandably retorts by claiming that of course, Hashtag doesn't know him-- Or, it is implied, his past.

He is trying to protect himself or instil a sense of control over the conversation by creating distance, while also trying to work up some defensive anger in himself-- How presumptuous of her, to assume!

Except, she's right. And he knows that.

So instead of throwing a fit, he listens when she continues.

Hashtag does two very correct things here:

First, she lets Starscream know that she encourages him to talk about it. She's willing to listen.

Second, she offers some support by starting to talk about her own experience of being abused-- When Mandroid took away her self-agency and assumed control of her.

This is a good and fairly common way that abuse victims tend to offer support to one another; It's often encouraged in certain types of group therapy or support sessions for people to share similar experiences, or experiences that evoked similar feelings, when it's appropriate and beneficial for those present (including the speaker) to do so.

She is attempting to reinforce to Starscream that even though she might not know his pain, she knows her own-- By sharing that trauma with him and being vulnerable herself, that might provide a connection point for them both and could possibly encourage Starscream to open up a bit to her.

This is roughly where the conversation is interrupted, so we don't get to hear Starscream's response.

But I think Hashtag intuitively had a very good approach here: She identified a traumatised person lashing out in a way that was familiar to them but harmful to others, in a way that is indicative of potential prior abuse, and made an effort to provide a safe opportunity for Starscream to talk it out without any fear of repercussions.

She made sure Starscream knows that she is listening and paying attention to him.

She made sure Starscream knows that she believes him, that he does have someone willing to hear his side of the story and genuinely take him at his word.

And that is immensely important; It is common for abuse victims and traumatised people to attempt to self-isolate or lash out, and she saw through Starscream's behaviour here for what it was: An abused person lashing out, trying to close off, behaving in hurtful ways that reflect the hurtful ways they were treated as a defence mechanism.

Starscream needs someone like Hashtag, who won't judge him based on preconceived notions of who he was as a Decepticon, who is willing to listen and give him an opportunity, who is willing to counter his withdrawal by providing honesty and letting him know that she wants to keep the conversation open and give him the space to speak freely about his hurt.

I also especially like that she makes a point of mentioning that we are not at fault for how we are hurt by others. We're not always in control of how we feel, or how we express our feelings.

She doesn't blame Starscream for lashing out. She gets it.

Alleviating Shame: It Is Not Your Fault

Hashtag had her autonomy violated in a very serious way, and although it's not the same thing, Starscream as part of a militarised faction and command structure lost a lot of his autonomy to his service under Megatron-- You don't get to walk away if you're second in command, assuming he held that same position in this continuity for most if not all of the war.

Hashtag is forced to deal with what Mandroid did to her, and Starscream is forced to deal with how Megatron treated him.

Neither of them had any say in what happened to them, or what was done to them, or how it hurts afterwards.

Hashtag knows she has support from her family, but who does Starscream really have? The other fliers, sure, but to what degree? How much support does Starscream really get from anyone, ever?

By letting him know she's been hurt too, even though she didn't get to finish her sentence, she's let him know that he's not entirely alone.

By making the point that nobody can be responsible for what others do to them, Starscream is told outright-- possibly for the first time--that the way Megatron treated him is not his fault.

Internalised Blame: Guilt and Failure Under Megatron's Command

Starscream may very well blame himself, to some degree; We don't know exactly how he's internalised anything, but we do know that Starscream was reasonably high ranking, and was in that command structure for most of the war.

In most militarised ranking structures, it is often the case that officers are considered responsible for errors, mistakes, losses etc. that may fall under a branch of their command which are many times realistically somewhat beyond their ability to control.

This can be a significant source of internalised blame for a lot of former military officers or even military personnel in general; "We lost X soldiers/civilians/etc. and it was my fault" is not an uncommon sentiment, even when realistically it is no single individual's fault and certain circumstances or occurrences are beyond anyone's control.

Megatron likely came down hard on Starscream for any losses, whether it was territory, soldiers, or anything else. He likely came down hard on Starscream for just about anything, after a certain point.

It's entirely possible that Starscream started to internalise these situations as personal blame, as both a result of serving in a war where officers are held ultimately accountable, and as a result of Megatron's treatment of him in general.

He may not have been able to separate "challenges experienced as a commander" and "personal failings" after a while.

And any further/prolonged abuse from Megatron would have only compounded that trend of internalising anything and everything as blame, failure, his own fault-- Not as an officer, but as a person-- Even if it explicitly could not have been.

Emulating Harmful Behaviours: Identify, Understand, Address

This would go some way to partially explaining why Starscream starts to exhibit this aggressive, commanding behaviour; He ends up likely unintentionally emulating Megatron's harmful leadership style, because he sees Megatron as being successful and powerful and in control, while he feels as though he is the opposite in every way.

Abuse has a tendency to make people feel less-than. It can remove people's sense of agency and confidence. It can make people think that their personal traits or inherent elements of their self are suddenly no good, that they could have done something or should have done something, if they were "better".

This is one way that abused people can sometimes start copying or reflecting harmful behaviours from their abusers; They don't know what else they can do. They may be disconnected from themselves to the degree that adopting these behaviours seems like the only "right" option, because it's the only thing that makes people back off, that makes them have that sense of strength or control that their abuser has stripped from them.

I say this a lot in some of my posts, but it's important to remember that while a behaviour may not be OK, we do need to understand.

It's important to recognise this type of repeating back prior experienced abuse, and to not dismiss people who may be hurt when they are lashing out or copying abusive behaviour-- It's important when safe and appropriate to do so to identify this is happening, to make an effort to understand it, and help the person do the same. That's when addressing internalised abusive behaviours can start.

This can take a lot of work, therapy, support, etc. to start identifying, let alone start addressing it-- But it's very possible for abuse victims to restore their sense of self and regain confidence in their capability and identity.

When abused people reflect back prior abusive behaviours that they have experienced, this does not make them a bad person. It means they have been abused, and they may need help to realise they are doing this, and may need help to identify why in a safe way, and may need help to start actually processing trauma in a healthier way for themselves and others.

Hashtag has opened a door for Starscream in more than one way, in this episode.

She's giving him a chance to do this.

She's helping him identify his harmful behaviours, she's acknowledging that he feels bad, that he was made to feel less-than, in ways that she might not have experienced herself-- But she's experienced similar feelings if not the same exact situations, and she's willing to share her own trauma with him. Hopefully he feels he can share with her, too.

I've spoken with plenty of abuse victims, and it's common to hear "You weren't there, you don't know!" or similar retorts when attempting to encourage conversation around some sensitive or traumatising memories or experiences.

It's not always appropriate to provide one's own traumatic experiences in response, but in cases where it is safe and appropriate to do so, I have rolled up my own sleeves and shown my own scars. I have talked about my own traumas as a way of showing support and as a way of showing someone that even if their individual experiences were unique, the feelings they experienced were not, and those feelings can provide a common ground and help provide a point around which to help build rapport. It can also help provide perspective, external to themselves, which can be ultimately positive.

It can also be a show of good faith: I'm not going to judge you. I believe you. I have been hurt, too. Our situations are different, but the way we were made to feel at times was similar.

When appropriate, this can be a pretty effective way to help someone open up about things that are potentially very hard to talk about, or to discuss feelings that are very complex or "tangled" in a way that takes some work to sort out in a healthier, safer way.

Hashtag offered her own traumatic experience to Starscream here, as a way of hopefully meeting Starscream halfway.

And hopefully, it was at least to some degree successful.

So I think Hashtag did a great job in this scene, and I hope we see Starscream take this opportunity that has been afforded to him to give the Malto Bots a chance...

...And to give himself a chance, as well.

----

This is entirely unedited as I continue to watch the episode, as I just got home from work, but I hope it was interesting to someone! :)

#tfe spoilers #earthspark spoilers #spoilers #tfe starscream #tfe hashtag #long post #analysis post #maccadam #maccadams #tw abuse #tw abuse mention #starscream

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futbol16 · 2 years ago

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Lost Chance • Alexia Putellas

This is pure angst tbh and I accidentally deleted the request but I hope I could do it justice.

Word count: 3.8

“She totally has a crush on you!” Mapi is jumping up and down next to Alexia but the captain rolls her eyes at her friend’s behavior. She moves over to her sports bag and digs around until she finds her shin guards. Mapi looks at her as she expectantly awaits some kind of reaction.

“It’s just puppy love, Maps. Nothing serious” the brunette waves her hand as she sits down and pulls her socks up. She carefully slides in the shin guards, making sure they’re in the right place and Mapi grunts at her words.

“It’s not and you know it!” an accusatory finger is pointed her way but Alexia remains unaffected as she simply raises an eyebrow at Mapi’s immature behavior. She refrains from rolling her eyes again when the blonde drops her arms to her side and exhales loudly.

“We’ve been over this countless times and I told you, I am not interested in her.” Alexia’s voice remains calm as Mapi eyes her with a disbelieving look. The changing room door opens and the two turn to the source but upon noticing that it’s just Ana, they continue the conversation.

“I just don’t get why you won’t give her a chance” Mapi huffs once again and Ana-Maria looks up from her own cleats she had been tying.

“Is this about Y/N again?” clearly, this hadn’t been the first time your name had been brought up regarding the captain and her lack of love life.

“Yes and she still won’t budge. Apparently she’s not interested” Mapi uses air quotes as she fills in Ana who raises her hands in innocence as Alexia shoots her a pointed look.

“She’d be good for you” Ana reciprocates the look her captain gives her and Mapi nods as she turns back to the brunette.

“Girls”

“I’m just saying she’d be good, she knows how to treat a woman.” Alexia raises her eyebrows again at Ana before she stands up, ready for practice.

“Just drop it guys. It’s puppy love.” the blondes give each other a look as the three exit the locker room but they drop the topic for the time being.

This hadn’t been the first time the three - or rather the older women in your team - have spoken to Alexia about you. The captain was vaguely aware of your feelings for her even though you made it blatantly obvious that you were infatuated with everything she did.

The two of you had a complicated relationship. You got along well, you were the extrovert to Alexia’s introvert, the sweet to her shy and most importantly, you made everyone feel comfortable. You were the whole package deal, Mapi and even Marta never failed to remind her.

However, there was one little bump in the road, or rather a whole hill in Alexia’s eyes. For some reason she could never forget about the age gap between the two of you. At first it wasn’t so glaringly obvious - when she didn’t see your age written above your head every time she looked your way.

It was fine for the first four seasons you spent with the team but as you moved up the ranks, moving from being the rookie of the team to being a constant starter and one of Barca’s biggest stars - that’s when the number popped into her head every time she thought of you. The weekly news about the team and the fans didn’t help either, because the two of you were constantly called madre y hija, the present and the future, the mentor and the student, the queen and her heir - you get it.

She saw the difference in age like a gap between two cities, a bridge she was too scared to cross.

“ALE, ALE! PASS!” your voice breaks her out of her thoughts and she looks up from her feet and towards you. Taking a step around Irene she crosses the ball to you and with a proud smile resting on her face she watches as you expertly control the ball and send it flying into the net.

A grin splits across your face as you skip toward her in celebration and she drops an arm around your shoulders.

“Good goal Y/N/N, nice first touch” she compliments and your eyes shine as she does. This was her duty as captain, to hype her teammates up and to praise them and correct them when needed. You knew this yet the proud glimmer in her eyes didn’t fail to get the butterflies in your stomach moving.

“Gracias” you weren’t shy when it came to your skills, you knew you were a promising player for the team’s future. You already were, but the brunette’s praise still made you blush. When Alexia notices she gently nudges you so she can take her arm back and gives you a small smile. She thinks she’s subtle, but she’s never been good at that.

Jonatan’s whistle distracts you though and the coach tells the team that training is over. Alexia wanders to the cooler, deep in thought as she reaches for her water bottle. From the corner of her eye she watches as you jump on Patri’s back, instructing your friend to follow after Jana and Pina.

She takes a big swig of the water as she tries to calm her racing thoughts but as you look down at Jana, she catches herself admiring your side profile. A loud beeping makes her almost choke on the water and she coughs a few times as she clears her throat. The large 23 appears above you, blinding her as it flashes in red and she scoffs, turning her back on you.

“Not interested my ass” Mapi mutters from next to her, making Alexia jump at her voice.

“Where did you come from?!”

Something clicks in Alexia’s brain that night, something she knows she should’ve done a long time ago but she didn’t have enough willpower to do so. She shifts in her bed uncomfortably as she mulls over the thought, nodding to herself in confirmation.

“Bon dia”

Your hand lands on Alexia’s lower back as you catch up to her, smiling from ear to ear. She wants to blame the placement of your hand on the fact that you’re short but she can’t and with her elbows she pushes your arm away from her. She doesn’t look your way as she takes a step to the side and she pretends to not see the confusion flash across your face.

“Are you excited for the El Classico this month? It’ll be your first one since being back!” Your voice carries immense enthusiasm not only for the iconic clash between the two clubs but also your captain’s return to the pitch.

“I am, it will be nice” she doesn’t hold the same excitement as you do but she does muster up a small smile. You frown at the side of her face as she still refuses to look your way.

“Sí and you’ll score a couple of goals. Real Madrid don’t know what’s coming” you lightly laugh as you imagine Los Blancos faces as they’re showered with goals from the one and only Putellas. Alexia’s jaw clenches at the sound, at her own behavior. Yet as she hears the beeping again she refrains from giving you a charming smile like she wants to.

“We’ll see” before you can blink the brunette has disappeared from beside you and you stare after her in slight hurt. Patri, noticing your expression, doesn’t let you dwell on it for too long as she loops an arm around your waist.

“Wanna warm up together?” her toothy grin brings a smile to your face as well and you nod into her shoulder before detaching yourself from her side to get a ball.

You’re a very observant person, everyone knew that about you. Nevertheless, right now you know that your skills are heightened because of your feelings for Alexia. Her avoiding you feels similar to what you imagine a loved one stabbing you in the heart would feel like.

She’s also become more strict. At first she was strict towards everyone on the team and you chalked it up to wanting to be ready for the game against Atletico. However, her closed off behavior continued even after and then before you knew it her glares were only directed at you.

Each time you approached her she’d take the quickest leave possible. Every time you passed her- her bottle she’d barely bat an eyelid at you and reach for another bottle in the cooler, giving Frido an apologetic look when she would drink her water instead.

Your friendship went from talking all throughout practices to barely getting a ‘good morning’ in when arriving at the training facility. It hurt you more than you thought was possible but how could it not when one of your closest friends starts ignoring your existence. You quite literally felt invisible to her.

Mapi glares after her best friend when she notices your eyes gloss over. She approaches you, gratefully taking her water from your hand and she pulls you into her and kisses the side of your head. No words are exchanged between you as she sips on her water but you understand that she’s apologizing for her best friend.

Training was more intense the week of the El Clasico and it was taking a toll on some of you. When Laia slides in as Alexia is dribbling up the field, Irene winces even before Laia’s boots connect with Alexia and the ball. The brunette takes a nasty tumbling and as she doesn’t get up immediately, you’re by her side in an instant. Alexia’s sudden ACL injury last season had caused everyone enough PTSD to raise panic in you the second she stayed put.

“Mierda, mierda!” she’s mumbling into the material of her shirt, only looking up when you lay a gentle hand on her thigh.

“Ale, are you okay? Can you sit up?” your soft words earn you the opposite reaction from what you hoped and the brunette’s eyes harden as she looks you over. She pushes herself up with one arm, the other still holding her ankle. You move with her, getting back up to your feet and holding your hands out.

“Déjame en paz” she spits and your movements falter as she attempts to put pressure on her foot. Your heart is beating out of your chest, terrified as to what would come next.

“Grab my hand, I’ll pull you up” you urge her as she fails to get up on her own, too busy with giving you death stares and she roughly pushes your hand away. You feel the stabbing in your chest again, the heaviness in your stomach.

“Leave me alone”

“Just let me help you Alexia!” you’ve rarely ever said her name, it’s always been Ale but in this moment you think it’s the only way to get her to listen to you.

“I said leave me alone! What don’t you get?! I don’t need your help, I don’t want it and I don’t want you! Go away!” she shouts in fury and this time her voice makes you freeze over. Collective gasps are heard from the rest of the girls as their eyes widen in shock.

You feel your heart stop beating as you slowly straighten up, dropping your arms. Alexia’s grunts are inaudible to you as she stands. You’re wearing a far away expression on your face as your hands start to tremble. Fingers sliding through yours brings you back to the present and your eyes water as you turn to Patri. Your best friend is furious but not with you. Her other hand cradling your face breaks you and the tears start rolling down your cheek.

You barely manage to shake your head at her before you’re off in a sprint towards the changing rooms, an assistant coach ready to follow you. Patri waves her off but before she goes after you, she gives Alexia one last harsh glare.

“You’ve done it now Alexia”

Thirty minutes later when most of the team had already gotten changed and was on the way home, Mapi decides to confront the brunette.

“What is wrong with you?!” her straightforwardness makes Alexia flinch in her seat. Ingrid’s and Panos’ heads snap up while Caro and Frido decide to keep their gazes set firmly on the floor.

“What?” the brunette furrows her eyebrows, she wasn’t new to Mapi’s bluntness.

“You heard me, why are you treating Y/N like she’s a nobody! The girl has done nothing but help you, look out for you and you’ve done nothing but ignore her and give her the cold shoulder!” Mapi is on fire, she was so tired of Alexia treating you the way she has, all because of your feelings for her.

“Mapi I told you I wasn’t interested and you all pushed me-” Frido squints her eyes in confusion.

“Oh no, don’t blame us for how you’ve been behaving! You’ve practically been kicking Y/N to the ground since last week.” Sandra joins in, protective over you.

“This isn’t right Ale, this is no longer about Y/N’s feelings for you-” Marta doesn’t get to finish as the brunette in question interrupts her, the beeping in her ears too loud.

“It’s puppy love not actual feelings.” a beat of silence passes through the group as they look at her with incredulous looks. Mapi has ultimately lost her cool as she detangles her hands from Ingrid’s hold.

“God damn it Alexia! She’s six years younger than you, not sixteen! She knows the difference, we know it’s not puppy love and even you know it!” the defender seethes and Alexia cowards back into her seat.

“She’s not a baby Ale, and you’re not about to retire either. The age gap isn’t that big yet to you it seems to be ground shaking. Nonetheless, that is no way to treat a teammate no matter the circumstances.” Irene speaks up, giving Mapi a pointed look to calm down and waiting until Alexia nods at her. “Now go home and get some rest, we need everyone ready for the match”

The others listen to her words but a few moments later Alexia’s voice cuts through the tense silence.

“Where is she?” she doesn’t have to give a name to let the others know who she’s referring to.

“What are you planning on doing?” Ingrid questions, her gaze not moving from the brunette even as someone walks through the door.

“Apologizing.” she shrugs like it’s nothing. “Where is she?”

“She’s at a friend’s.” Patri, who had walked in answers with a rough voice.

“What friend of hers lives in Madrid?” she gives her captain a disapproving look.

“A real friend” Patri’s sarcastic smile lets the rest know what she’s thinking about.

“You’ll apologize tomorrow before the game” Mapi’s voice makes Alexia turn her attention back to packing the rest of her stuff.

You spend the night crying into the arms of someone you trust and fall asleep in the comfort of their bed. Her brown eyes are dark as she stares up at her ceiling and her jaw involuntarily clenches as she replays the story you’ve told her just a few hours ago. Her arm tightens around you and she pulls you closer to her, wanting to make you feel okay even in your sleep.

The air is weird in the bus heading towards the Real Madrid stadium the next day. The Barca girls have no idea how to act like nothing had happened the other day, they’re ready for the possibility that you wouldn’t even show up. Your club is too dear to you though and when you walk up the stairs with a small smile resting on your face, the girls let out a breath of relief. You’re quick to plop down next to Patri and Claudia and the three of you instantly dive into whatever story Pina has about her aunt.

Arriving at the stadium, you make it easier for yourself and the others as well as you steer clear of Alexia. The brunette only staring after you in regret, the beeping in her ears much quieter than it was before.

Despite the quarrel from yesterday, the team still manages to keep a relatively hyped atmosphere in the guest locker room and you’re pleased to see everyone ready for the game.

Focusing on football and football only, the Barca girls wear determined looks on their faces as they line up in the tunnel.

A nudge from your right makes you look over at the Real Madrid players and Athenea points towards the beginning of their line. Your eyes follow the direction until your eyes land on Misa, the goalkeeper beckoning you over with a grin. A smile takes over your features in an instant and figuring you’ve still got time, you saunter over to the player clad in blue.

“Hola” she pulls you into a tight embrace instead of verbally greeting you and you chuckle into her hold.

Alexia eyes the two of you from next to you and her eye twitches in slight jealousy. Now that she no longer had the beeping screaming her head down, or the number glaring at her, she forgot to act like she didn’t care about you.

Misa keeps you at arms length as she looks you over and you hold onto her shoulders, keeping your gaze on her face.

“Are you okay?” her voice is laced with concern and you smile at your friend reassuringly.

“Y/N get back in line” your captain’s voice rings out from next to you and you give her a look.

“Now. You can talk to the enemy later.” You almost roll your eyes at her way of wording it while Misa lets out a loud scoff. A squeeze to her shoulders shuts her up though and with one last hug and a look at Alexia, you make your way back to your spot in the line ups.

The match against Real Madrid is intense, like always. This time the Madrid players seemed to have worked more on their defense and Alexia was less than successful with her attempts on goal. It only angers her more that it’s her first El Clasico since she tore her ACL last year. But Barca bring their strongest plays to the game and when the final whistle is blown your team takes the 2-0 victory with pride. A goal from you and a goal from Caro.

Before you get to shake hands with the opposition or celebrate with your teammates a hand on your shoulder stops you.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Later.” you glance at Alexia and she gives in.

“Fine. Find me in the tunnel after.” she waits until you reluctantly nod before letting you go.

“Everything okay?” Patri walks with you, muttering a ‘god game’ here and there as you shake hands with the Madrid players.

“She wants to talk to me.” she scoffs, giving you a look and you shrug.

“I’ll be close just in case” you give her a grateful smile. You loved Patri for being so protective of you, she wouldn’t let Alexia hurt you again.

You’re one of the last ones to enter the tunnel but upon doing so you’re immediately pulled into another body. Lips crash onto yours in a passionate kiss and you’re held close to the person, her strong arms around your waist. You reciprocate the kiss, responding with just as much intensity as your one hand cradles her jaw while the other rests against her stomach. You’re in pure ecstasy, feeling blissful as your lips capture each other over and over.

“I missed you” she whispers onto your mouth and you grin at her, eyes cracking open to find her already beaming down at you with nothing but love.

“You saw me yesterday” Misa gives you a smirk as your hands wander under her shirt and her gloved hands tighten their hold on you.

“That’s what I’m saying, it’s been too long” you laugh at her, the girl only watching you in adoration.

“I missed you too Misa” you whisper honestly, pressing a soft kiss to her jawline. The brunette dips her head as she catches your lips in yet another kiss and she pulls you impossibly closer to her, her back resting against the wall of the tunnel.

The patter of someone’s feet down the hallway doesn’t stop you from moving your hands over Misa’s abs who flexes them to show off. The patter comes to an abrupt stop and Alexia’s heart drops at the sight of you lip locking with the Real Madrid goalkeeper.

Misa can feel her intense gaze on the two of you and she slowly pulls back from your lips. As she lifts her head she brushes her lips against the skin of your forehead before turning to the Barcelona captain.

“Alexia?” you say before you realize and take a step back from Misa. It takes her a moment to find her voice and she fiddles with her cleats that remain in her hands.

“Erm I wanted to talk to you” it’s the one thing she can say before shutting her mouth. If she wouldn’t have she would’ve said a lot more than just that.

“Oh yea, I-I forgot” upon noticing the panic in your eyes Misa slides an arm around your waist and softly pulls you into her side. You smile at her in appreciation. Alexia eyes the interaction in confusion before it dawns on her and she feels the air get knocked out of her lungs. She had been too late.

“You- the two of you..” she struggles to get the words out and for the first time ever you can hear the heaviness in her heart, the realization that maybe you really had more than a puppy love- crush on her.

Misa squeezes your waist in comfort and while you glance up at her, she’s having her own staring contest with Alexia, not faltering under the older woman’s glare-like stare.

“She’s our opponent Ale, not my enemy” you give her the answer, admitting that the girl standing next to you protectively was most definitely more to you than just an international teammate. Alexia swallows hard as she bites her lower lip.

“The Madrid friend” she mumbles almost incoherently. She looks at you one last time taking in the smile on your face as Misa whispers something to you. She hasn’t seen you that happy in weeks, not since she started ignoring you. And then in a blink of an eye she’s out of your sight.

As Alexia rounds the corner she comes face to face with your best friend who stands there, arms crossed over her chest. Patri’s eyes - though they hold a sense of sympathy for the brunette- are sharp against her and the younger girl clicks her tongue.

“You lost your chance, Capitana”

#alexia putellas imagine #futbol16 #woso imagines #woso x reader

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