#And then it was like .... No im different but this is the thing that makes me different and its not something 'wrong' with me

[gordonengineswifenirmal]

I was physically healthier in grade school, but I had a lot going on emotionally. I had ppl calling me trans n lesbian before it was acceptable. Im cisgender n thought I was straight at the time. (I turned out to be very asexual). I started missing school because the emotional torment was too much.

The principal n teachers thought I was hearing voices - because I could not identify the harassers. They were in a younger grade, they harassed me for years in another school before they were old enough to attend this one. I didn’t know their names. I could pick out what they looked like if I’d seen them, but they would whisper it and run away.

I have never heard voices or seen things except when I was on some bad meds for depression that really didn’t agree. Never before or after. This particular incident was long after I’d been off those meds, n hadn’t been hearing voices at all. Never heard anything at home, on the high street. Also, this was before cell phones were a thing, so I couldn’t just snap a picture of them in the hall n b like here - these ruddy bastards did it.

I nearly quit school because of it. It still triggers things to this day. This is also why I’m extreme sensitive to being misgendered. It goes far beyond JUST being proud to b who u r n whatnot. The backstory is emotionally painful. Luckily, I was able to get home schooling after a real fight for it with the district. I probably fought for that shite more than most did for an education. I then went on to get 2 degrees, n help others get theirs.

The point is -

People need to listen. Actually listen. Don’t make arrogant assumptions. Instead of snide remarks n accusations, ask questions, try to help find solutions, try to better understand the situation. That kid who is in pain n missing school, or that kid who is traumatised by school probably has a reason. They’ve been ignored n shot down so many times, they’re probably afraid to speak up. Don’t add to that. Be the difference. Believe me, it can affect them later. You can honestly b part of the problem or part of the solution. You may be able to help more than one person, n it doesn’t take much.

Sadly though, people treat older folks the way they do kids. Have the same approach - and understand that writing them off is offensive for a reason. Just like a kid wants to genuinely be heard, so do we older folks. We have life experience. You don’t want to be insulted, talked down to, patronised, n made of? Neither do we. How do u avoid this? Don’t do it. Learn to communicate better, appropriately. You want to be valued too? U won’t be by treating others like shite. And for the younger lot - one day, u will get older. You might b in a position where u r mistreated by younger folks. Just remember that.

When I say “school should be disability accessible”, I don’t just mean we need handicap rails and EAs. Kids should be able to miss a day without failing out of school. You shouldn’t be dismissed from clubs because your attendance record is “spotty” (true story). I once missed an entire week of school because of a terrible, unending migraine. I was expected to keep up with my studies despite the blinding pain that came with working on my computer. When I heard my teachers say that you couldn’t miss exams, I asked what I would have to do to be excused from them. Their response? “Either get a doctor’s note an hour before the exam or death of an immediate family member.”

I cannot express how rigid this expectation was. First of all, with my condition, I wouldn’t have enough warning about my sickness to go to the doctor and request a note. For many people, this is exceptionally difficult, especially with the current shortage of medical professionals. Next, it ignores the fact that my schedule may not line with theirs because of my medical needs. Once, I had to visit a hospital a province away (which I was on the waiting list of for over a year) on the same day as an exam. I begged my mother not to take me because I was so nervous that I would be marked as an automatic fail. I was lucky enough to make it work, but that’s only because of my spectacular support system consisting of family members and wonderful doctors.

Disabilities aren’t always about needing a bus that can accommodate wheelchairs. It’s already difficult enough for many of us to maintain school attendance without the harsh punishments involved for skipping a day. We need to be able to miss school without being punished. Only than can you claim that the school is “accessible”

[aureatelys]

as soft as the rain, pretty as a vine

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader w.c.: 6k a/n: inspired by that one gifset of hotch desperately needing some moisturizer on his neck im so sorry. also my first time writing hotch's pov, pls be gentle. c.w.: fluff! friends to lovers, kinda sunshine/girly!reader, mutual pining, alcohol mention, author pretending like they know about skincare, hotch is whipped and touch starved af, no y/n

summary:

You think Hotch needs to take better care of himself. Hotch doesn't know what to think. Or, 5 times you teach Hotch about skincare more than he wants to and 1 time he teaches you.

read below or ao3 here

one.

When Hotch first walks into the conference room ready to go over a new case, there’s something different that he can’t quite put his finger on.

Words dying in his throat, he sweeps his eyes over the entire room and doesn’t see anything significantly out of place. Then he’s passing over everyone’s faces, mentally keeping a note on how exhausted most of them are looking, and then landing on you.

Having only joined a couple of months ago, you were still fairly new to the team. However, with your sunny disposition and eagerness to learn, you blended right in. Hotch had watched in amusement as you were able to keep up with Reid’s ramblings, Morgan’s flirting, and Garcia’s antics. You were insightful, able to give new perspectives that Hotch would never have even considered, patient with victims and their families, and Hotch admired you for that.

Today, however, you look considerably suspicious as you give him a sheepish smile and a little wave. “Morning, Hotch,” you say, eyes sparkling, followed by a round of greetings from the rest of the team.

“Morning.” And then he spots a machine on the table near the wall, shaped and designed like a cat and spouting off what looks like steam at a steady and continuous rate.

Now that he’s noticed it, he realizes the conference room feels significantly stickier, the sudden humidity a stark contrast to the dry winter air outside. He can sense the slight congestion he’s been waking up to the past several months gradually disappearing.

“It’s a humidifier,” you explain after spotting the slightly confused expression Hotch was wearing, as if he’s never seen one before. To be fair, he doesn’t think he’s seen one in years as Haley was usually the one who dug it out of storage when Jack wasn’t feeling well. “I brought it from home, I thought it was a little dry in here. Is that okay?”

“I hope so, I was worried about getting a nosebleed the other day.”

“It’s good to have it around during this time of year, Hotch. Did you hear Anderson coughing this morning?”

“It’s also beneficial to have one on while you sleep, both with the white noise and being able to clear your sinuses and breathe easier with its optimal humidity levels.”

Truthfully, Hotch doesn’t care and he’s sure there isn’t some ridiculous regulation about not allowing a small humidifier, especially when Garcia has two space heaters in her office that you’ve had to ask to borrow at least twice a week.

However, the way you’re glancing up at him now from your spot at the round table, eyes wide and fluffy pink scarf wrapped around you because you apparently run colder than the rest of the team, Hotch would probably let you get away with anything.

He immediately sets that thought aside, not wanting to dwell on exactly what that means right now. He takes the only empty seat left that just happened to be right next to you, making sure to keep a respectable distance. “It’s fine. Just make sure to turn it off and empty it before we go.”

You give him a blinding smile that momentarily distracts him from the bubbling humidifier and the clouds of mist that are nearly falling into his face. “Sure thing. Did you know that it can also help with dry skin? So technically, we’re just taking care of our bodies if they ask why we need it.”

Although it makes sense now that he thinks about it, Hotch didn’t know that. He also doesn’t remember the last time he put on lotion or moisturizer, no matter how dry his hands felt.

Just then, Garcia wobbles in with her yellow heels and coffee mug, immediately launching into the brutal details of the case and where the team will be headed out to for the next couple of days.

When Hotch gets up to grab his go-bag from the office, he tries to ignore how it feels like he can breathe a little bit easier.

two.

“God, it’s freezing in here.”

Hotch glances up from his laptop mid-report to witness you taking the seat next to his with a resounding oof. You’re wrapped up in a blanket that you had brought from home that has somehow taken permanent residence on the jet, shivering despite the heater being on full blast. The corner of it lands on his knee, soft and warm.

The team had just finished a case in rural Montana, surrounded by mountains of snow and the wilderness. You had remembered to pack warmly at least, as Hotch had witnessed you struggling to take off the several layers of sweaters every time you arrived at the precinct. He remembers frowning in the car on the way to apprehend the unsub as you shivered in the passenger seat, having had to wear only a layer or two due to the bulky Kevlar vest and needing to be quick on your feet.

“It’ll warm up here in a second,” Hotch says, already wracking around his brain to see if there was another blanket hidden in a compartment somewhere. “A cup of tea will probably help.”

You slouch down further in your seat, cocooning yourself even further under the thick blanket. “I don’t want to get up.”

Hotch is almost tempted to lock his computer and get up to make you that cup of tea himself, however he glances around the cabin and notices several knowing pairs of eyes on him. He doesn’t have to be a profiler to know what the rest of the team thinks—that he’s gone soft on you.

You with your fuzzy blue blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cape and the thick socks that you put in your bag specifically for the plane ride home. He knows he’s not imagining the lingering glances you throw at Hotch or the way you occasionally stay late as an excuse to bother him in his office.

And he doesn’t necessarily mind. There’s a strange, innate pull that tugs in his stomach when it comes to you, causing him to watch you more carefully and seeking out your presence at almost every opportunity. The sheer grip of panic on his heart when you were shot after taking down an unsub by yourself and without backup several months ago had Hotch re-evaluating everything he knew about himself.

He’s aware of the possible repercussions, which is exactly why Hotch has learned to be patient when it comes to you, who has threatened him to forgo his patience altogether with every bubbly laugh he can hear from his office or knock of your shoulders against his in the conference room.

So he doesn’t get up to make you that cup of tea despite knowing how you take it with a splash of milk and two sugars, and instead turns back to finish the action report.

It’s only several minutes later when he notices you rummaging around in your bag out of the corner of his eye before you pull out a small and colorful lotion bottle with a triumphant noise. You pop the cap open and slather some on your hands before you’re turning to face Hotch again, the novel that Reid recommended to you untouched on the table. “Do you want some?”

The bottle in your hand looks somewhat familiar, most likely something he’s passed by at the store or on your desk, but Hotch balks at the pink flowers painted all over the bottle. He’s lucky the undoubtedly suffocating smell hasn’t hit him yet. “I’m fine, thanks.”

But you don’t put the lotion back in your bag, instead shifting in your seat until you’re fully facing him. Your blanket is nearly draped over Hotch’s thigh. “Are you sure? You know, it’s really important to make sure your hands are moisturized, especially with how cold it is here.”

He doesn’t know why you’re so adamant about this, peering up at him with bright and eager eyes and the open lotion bottle poised over his hands. He’s never liked putting on lotion, or any kind of creams, as it always made his hands feel uncomfortably greasy. He would eventually wash it off anyway.  

He turns his attention back to his laptop, yet wordlessly puts a hand out towards your direction.

He thinks you’re going to pour a generous dollop and let him rub his own hands together, but instead, he nearly jumps in his seat when you’re grabbing onto his hand with both of yours and slathering whatever’s leftover on your hands into his palms and the back of his hands.

Your hands are cold, even moreso than his, but the sharp tingle that runs up his arm at your touch causes something warm to bloom in his chest.

“I didn’t want to waste it,” you respond to the confusion on his face. You’re thorough; making sure to slather the cream in between his fingers and even down to his wrists. He senses the sneaking glances the rest of the team are throwing his way, maybe even smug, but he’s painstakingly distracted by the way your hands look in his, the way he can feel both of your hands gradually warming up.

And then you’re pulling away, and Hotch suddenly misses your tender touch.

Like he expected, his palms suddenly feel gross, unpleasantly slippery like he has oil all over them. He wants to rub his palms on his pants or go wash his hands, but your watchful eyes stop him.

And then it hits him—  the sudden scent of you, floral with some hints of vanilla, overwhelming his senses. It’s undeniably the same scent as your perfume, the one that seems to linger every time you stride past him at the office or when you’re leaning over Hotch to laugh at something Morgan said. Now, it causes him to sharply inhale, chest feeling unnervingly tight as he unconsciously marks it to his memory.

You’re still watching him with an expectant smile, bottle stored away in your bag for you to pull out again after you’ve gotten up to use the restroom and used the cheap hand soap that you’ve repeatedly complained about before. You look unfazed, as if your simple touch hasn’t sent Hotch’s brain reeling.

“It’s nice,” Hotch manages to say, voice only slightly strained. The smell is not as strong as he expected, but it’s still doing strange things to his heart more than he’d like to admit.

If possible, your smile widens. “Just nice?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s quite my signature scent.”

You hum and turn away, picking up your book despite Hotch knowing you’re not going to read a single page of it today, the spine already creased from where you’ve been laying it face down multiple times over the past month. “No, your signature scent already fits you.”

Hotch says nothing, not entirely sure how to respond to that, but your attention is already caught by the game of cards Reid and Emily are playing several seats away. You immediately set your novel down and scramble up and out of your seat to be their enthusiastic audience, leaving a trail of vanilla behind you.

Hotch immediately misses the warmth of your blanket.

three.

“What are you looking for now?”

You’ve been digging through your bag, your pink personal one that’s almost as big as your go bag, for the past five minutes. Hotch can hear the various items clinking around and the crinkling of multiple old receipt papers as you curse under your breath. He frowns, tempted to encourage you to clean out your bag if only to make packing more convenient for you. He couldn’t count the number of times you’ve exclaimed on the jet that you had forgotten something.

The team had gotten called to another small rural town in North Dakota for an unsub that’s been killing during the protective guise of blizzards, which is why Hotch was driving so painstakingly slow that Morgan would’ve surely had an aneurysm if he was in the same car. Despite the roads having already been salted, there was still a concerning amount of ice on the roads that had Hotch sitting ramrod straight in his seat and gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were nearly turning white.

Luckily, it was only you and Hotch in the car, heater on full blast. You’re wearing at least three sweaters today with your coat draped over your legs and haven’t even complained once about it being too cold, citing how you’ve never seen this much snow before in your life. Hotch found it all extremely endearing watching you nearly jump in your seat at how the evergreen trees looked covered in snow. Like a Christmas movie, you had said.

“Found it!” You pull out a travel sized bottle of sunscreen, hurriedly twisting the cap open to squeeze and draw lines down three fingers.

Hotch glances at you out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed in confusion at your strange method. “Sunscreen? Are we going to the beach?”

“God, I hope not. I didn’t think to pack a swimsuit.” You roll your eyes while slathering the cream on your forehead, cheeks, down your neck, and even strangely over your ears before rubbing the rest on the back of your hands.

Hands tightening on the steering wheel, Hotch clears his throat. “I didn’t expect you to be so invested in your skin health.”

“It’s called skincare, Hotch,” you tease, screwing the cap back on but suspiciously leaving it out on your lap. “And it’s important to take care of your skin. Did you know that snow reflects UV rays, so even during winter you should put on sunscreen?”

Hotch chuckles before he could stop himself. “You’re starting to sound like Reid.”

“Did you want some?” You’re twisting your body again to face Hotch, eyes sparkling despite it being horribly dreary and cloudy outside.

The only times Hotch has worn sunscreen was during especially hot summer days when he took Jack to the park or to go swimming. He’s seen you apply sunscreen in the office even when it was raining outside and the sun wasn’t forecasted to come out that day. He’s grown to learn not to ask questions.

“I’m okay, thanks.” The answer’s immediate, partly because he doesn’t need sunscreen and partly because he is concentrating on not crashing into a ditch.

“Come on, Hotch, it’s good for you!” He knows this is exactly the same thing you said on the jet several weeks ago, and since then, every time you’re putting on lotion and he’s somewhere in the near vicinity, you’re already squeezing some on his hands before he could respectfully decline. Luckily, you haven’t tried to apply it for him again.

You’re incredibly stubborn and Hotch wonders if you’re persuading the rest of the team to invest in expensive and fruity-smelling creams in an effort to have everyone properly take care of their bodies like you are with him.

“Alright.” And then he’s pulling his foot off the gas pedal just a bit to compensate for the distraction of having to put his hand out, desperately hoping you’re not going to lean over to apply it to his own face.

You luckily don’t squeal in excitement like he expected, just silently squirting the cream into careful and meticulous lines on his three fingers. Hotch can tell it’s definitely more of an expensive brand than what he was used to during the summer—lightweight and smelling like nothing.

Hotch carefully slathers it onto his face, starting at his forehead, down his nose, and then out to his cheeks and his chin. There’s still quite a lot left on his fingers and he remembers how you made sure to spread some on your neck, so Hotch does the same thing. However, he is definitely not going to put some on his ears.

Satisfied, you put the sunscreen away and twist as best as you could underneath your thick layers to put your bag in the backseat, because the floor of the car was too wet from the snow from your shoes.

“Happy?” Hotch’s face inexplicably feels greasier than he would like, but it’s not as bad as the vanilla-scented lotion or the cheap sunscreen laying forgotten in his closet. It’s already absorbed into his skin and when he rubs a hand along his jaw, he realizes that it must have had some moisturizer in it as well because his face feels softer than he was used to.

“Ecstatic,” you say, turning your face towards the window to hide the wide grin spreading across your face.

four.

The fourth time Hotch learns about skincare from you was completely and utterly by accident.

It had been a long and brutal couple of days chasing a serial in Tennessee, one that had nearly as much technological experience as Garcia. He had been two steps ahead of them until tonight, when they had finally caught a break and caught him before he could take any more women to hold hostage.

The all-consuming relief was palpable during dinner at the hotel restaurant despite the underlying knowledge that the same thing was going to happen next week. Conversation flowed, drinks were had, and Hotch was adamantly ignoring the fleeting looks you were throwing his way across the table.

Hotch and you had been dancing around each other for months, tension so tangible that the rest of the team were starting to feel uncomfortable. He’s been able to brush off Dave’s sly remarks in the privacy of his office, Morgan and Emily’s raised eyebrows tossed in his direction at every interaction he had with you, and Garcia’s elbow jabs at every possible second when you were in the room.

It's been frustrating for him, to say the least. He can’t tell them that he can’t make that choice for you, that he’s too conscious to not cross any of those professional boundaries himself. If that means that Hotch has to wait for several more months for you to make the first move, if that even happens, then so be it.

When Hotch watches the way you throw your head back in laughter at something Dave says at dinner, eyes bright and face slightly flushed from the wine, he thinks he’d be willing to wait as long as you wanted.

After being nearly kicked out of the restaurant from being too rowdy and Hotch hinting at being able to take the rest of tomorrow off once they fly back in town early, the team quietly shuffles back to their respective rooms. He knows there’s about a 50/50 chance that most of them will sneak out to a nearby bar in ten minutes, but at least he warned them ahead of time.

“Night, Hotch,” you had said, giving him a little smile and wave before your door across the hallway clicked shut.

Something warm settled in Hotch’s chest at that, so he did the most reasonable thing to cope with the unfamiliar and turned the TV on to a random news channel. With the volume on low and his laptop and files laid out on the rickety table, he got to work.

Several hours pass like that as he throws himself into the fine print, going over everyone’s action reports from last week and shuffling through old crime photos to make sure everything matched. It was a familiar process, and almost concerning with how much comfort he’s found in it—the scratch of his pen, the drone of the city several floors down, and the growing smudge of ink on his hand from his thoughts running faster than he could write.

When he gets to your report and notices it’s missing several key points of the case, as well as your loopy signature, he frowns.

The immediate thought that comes to mind would be to just put the file aside and move onto the other one. It wasn’t as if the report was due this second and he knows there were plenty of others that required more immediate attention.

The other thought that emerges, almost reluctantly, was that Hotch could easily go across the hallway and ask you to take a look at it and finish the report rather than waiting for the following morning on the jet when the rest of the team was undoubtedly going to be hungover. Prentiss was most certainly going to be cranky and demand everyone to be quiet because the hum of the jet was already grating enough. He’d just be doing the team a favor.

That’s what Hotch tells himself as he stands up from the low desk, neck and back aching, and makes his way out his room and to yours across the hall.

He briefly pauses, straining his ears as if he could hear anything through the door and over the erratic thumping of his own heart. Hotch is suddenly aware that you may be sleeping, or even out with the rest of the ladies to a sleazy bar, and he’s about to turn back around with defeat weighing heavy on his shoulders when he hears the click of the bathroom door open and your humming, faint even through the thick wooden door.

Feeling confident that he’s not disturbing you and something else Hotch can’t name at the fact that he’s going to be seeing you in the privacy of your hotel room, he raps twice against the door.

“Just a second!” And then the door swings open.

Hotch’s attention is immediately caught by the fluffy headband you’re wearing, light pink and with a comically large bow in the center. You’ve clearly just gotten out of the shower, the scent of your body wash infiltrating Hotch’s senses and causing him to tighten his grip on the files he forgot he was holding in the first place.

You’re wearing a matching set of light blue pajamas, short and clinging to your body in a way that has Hotch immediately tearing his gaze away and back to your bare face. Your lips are glossy, slicker than normal, there’s a drop of water slowly trailing down the side of your neck, and a dab of cream on your cheek that you seem to have not noticed.

“Hotch?” you ask, confused, before letting out a squeak and crossing your arms over your chest in an effort to hide your modesty. Hotch ignores the fact that it just makes everything worse. “Is everything okay? Don’t tell me there’s a case.”

The droplet of water has disappeared underneath the collar of your shirt and the scent of vanilla nearly suffocates him. “No case. Just needed to get your final touches and signature on this report.”

He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as strained to you as it does to him as he remembers why he was standing in your hotel doorway in the first place, the files in his hand suddenly weighing like a ton.

You don’t seem to notice anything wrong, if anything, a slow smile spreads across your face that has Hotch’s stomach flipping.

You look radiant, the intimacy of being near you in your pajamas when you were clearly in the middle of your nighttime routine not going unnoticed. He peers over the top of your head to notice your go bag on your bed, clothes and your personal laptop strewn all over the comforter, and the TV being tuned to what you’d call an “entertaining yet trashy show.”

“You’re still working even though you’re the one who suggested having an early night? It’s late.”

Hotch blinks at you because what else would he have done if not attempt to catch up on the seemingly never-ending pile of papers and reports? “You’re still up late too.”

You roll your eyes. “I was just about to go to bed before you knocked, so technically I have better work-life boundaries than you.”

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow?”

You study him—still wearing his suit sans the jacket, tie only slightly loosened and sleeves rolled up his forearms. He hadn’t even bothered to put his shoes back on, comfortable enough with the hotel’s reputation to be in his room and take the two steps across the carpeted hallway in his socks.

“As long as you make it fast.” And then you’re stepping aside and opening the door further, the sweetness of the vanilla nearly pulling Hotch in.

Except he’s somehow distracted by the dollop of cream still on your cheek, right underneath your eye. Witnessing first-hand the twinkling of your eyes as you glance up at him and the way your pink headband has your hair pushed back, baring the most of your face he’s ever seen, has him sidetracked.

“You have a little…” He motions to his own face, hoping that you will take the hint.

And you don’t, not exactly, because of course you don’t. You immediately swipe at your face but on the wrong cheek and stare down at your hand when you don’t catch anything. “What?”

Hotch is a problem-solver, meticulous, and always thinks things through. That’s his job, to always be two steps ahead of anyone and everyone. So he’s not sure how or why he’s suddenly reaching a hand out to swipe at the cream on your face with his thumb, his touch lingering on the warmth of your cheek.

Whatever Hotch was going to say dies in his throat at the very audible hitch of your breath, the way your eyes widen at his close proximity. Your skin is smooth, softer than anything he’s ever felt, and he ignores the way you’re staring into him as he pulls back and absentmindedly rubs the moisturizer in the palm of his other hand. If he tries hard enough, the cream on his own skin nearly replicates the feeling of yours.

He's about to clear his throat to apologize, maybe even mention something about how the report can technically wait until tomorrow and turn right on his heel back into his room to ignore the adamant weight pressing down on his chest, when your expression changes.

Something almost akin to smugness tugs at the corners of your lips, the shininess inexplicably different and more distracting than your usual lipstick. Your bright eyes dance with amusement before your arms fall from where they were crossed on your chest to your sides.

“You know, I’m wearing a lip mask right now if you want some of that too.”

“Excuse me?”

If possible, your grin widens, causing Hotch to internally deny that he was suddenly feeling breathless. “I use a lip mask every night. They just make them look so kissable, right?”

Something in Hotch snaps, because if that wasn’t a clear invitation, he doesn’t know what is.

When he finally steps into your room, closing the door behind him, you’re slowly backing up until you’re pressed up against the nearest wall with that infuriating grin on your face.

You’re playing with him, you’ve been playing with him, but he doesn’t care and can’t even think about that when you’re peering up at him with soft eyes.

When Hotch brings a hand up to cradle your cheek, he thinks his stomach nearly twists itself into a knot at the immediate way you lean into him and the way your eyes flutter shut.

When he finally kisses you, he can smell the sweetness of the raspberry lip mask before he tastes it, seamlessly blending in with your vanilla body wash and making him feel more drunk than he’s felt in a long time.

You place your hands on his chest, your warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt, and something about touching him has you unconsciously parting your lips to deepen the kiss, causing the smell of raspberry to become stronger.

Hotch can immediately feel the stickiness of your mask on his mouth, and he’s tempted to pull away at the unfamiliarity of something on his lips, but then you’re sighing into him and his hands are suddenly on your waist where the bottom of your pajama top has barely lifted. The warmth of your skin was intoxicating.

You have to be the first one to break the kiss, and when Hotch opens his eyes, you’re staring at him, your smirk having morphed into a smile of disbelief. His eyes flit to the almost imperceptible smear of gloss at the corner of your mouth.

“You have a little…” You trail off, your eyes drifting to his own lips, your smile doing nothing to calm the erratic rhythm Hotch’s heart has taken.

Hotch wonders how much you had put on yourself because the amount that he can feel on his lips makes him immediately want to swipe at his mouth. But that would mean having to take his hands off of you and he doesn’t think he has the willpower for that.

Instead, he rubs his lips together in an effort to spread the tackiness equally over his lips before he says “I like it, but I don’t think I got enough.”

You huff a laugh at that, your fingers tightening from where they’re gripping the lapels of his dress shirt. “I think I can help you with that.”

five.

“Are you okay in there?”

“Just five more minutes, I promise!”

That’s what you had said ten minutes ago. It’s not like Hotch is impatient per se, just content that you had agreed to sleep over again after another late date night and there wasn’t a looming case coming up.

You had only slept over one other time when the team had gotten back from a case late and Hotch wasn’t going to let you drive yourself home when you could barely keep yourself standing. You had dozed off the entire car ride home, head leaning against the window which caused Hotch to adamantly avoid all the potholes and tight turns, and yet you still managed to do your skincare routine in his ensuite bathroom before coming to bed.

After that night in your hotel room, you’ve become bolder. You’re now sitting next to Hotch on the jet, you make your way up to his office when there were still plenty of people milling about in the bullpen, and the way you peer up at him through your eyelashes during case briefings has him itching for a cold shower.

Neither have you said anything to the rest of the team, but at this point, Hotch doesn’t think he has to with the way both Dave and Morgan have patted him on the back the day after you laughed at something Emily had said and leaned against him, leaving his shoulder thrumming from your warmth for the next hour.

Another five minutes pass and Hotch can still hear the clinking of your serums as you rummage through your cosmetics bag. He silently sets aside his phone to get up from his extremely comfortable spot in the bed to pad his way over to the bathroom.

The sight that greets him has Hotch’s stomach plummeting all over again.

You’re sporting that same headband with the pink bow again, however this time, you’re wearing one of his old academy shirts that had mysteriously gone missing from his dresser several weeks ago. You’re freshly showered and you’re holding onto some kind of strangely shaped metallic instrument that you’re scraping over your cheekbones and then down your neck. The way it drags over your skin has Hotch cringing sympathetically.

You immediately spot him, meeting his gaze through the mirror, and the way your eyes immediately light up has a small smile forming on Hotch’s face before he can help it. “Hey you.”

“Hey.” Hotch leans against the doorway, content to watch the clearly practiced movements of you rubbing your skin with this strange contraption. “It’s been over five minutes.”

You pout. “Sorry, I’ve been holding this off all week and I need to do it tonight.”

Hotch was sure that “need” was a strong word, but he doesn’t question it. He stopped questioning your thorough skincare routine months ago.

And then you turn to him, something mischievous tugging at your glossy lips. “Wanna try it?”

Apprehension thuds in his chest, but he takes a step forward into the glow of the bathroom anyway. “And what is it exactly?”

Detecting your hesitation a mile away, you give him a warm smile as you hold it up to him. “It’s called a gua sha. It’s supposed to help with blood flow and getting rid of toxins and all that.”

Hotch may not be a beauty or skincare expert, but he has doubts that this piece of metal can actually do all of those things. To be fair, he’s had quite a few doubts about most of the items you use and not so subtly make him try.

The delight painted clear on your face though has Hotch tucking those thoughts away. He’s sure he has no right to question one’s own method on how to relax.

“Okay.”

You immediately muffle a squeal and turn to grab some other serum you left out on the sink, a light gold swimming around in the bottle.

“I’ll only do half of your face, I promise.” You squeeze some of the mysterious liquid on your hands and reach up to pat the left side of his face.

It’s thicker than your usual products, most likely some kind of oil that smells like roses, but the heat from your hand and your close proximity has Hotch feeling inexplicably warm all over.

“Okay, now you just use this side to run up your cheekbone like this.” You demonstrate for him and he adamantly makes note of the light pressure you’re using. “And then you run it down your face and down your neck.”

When he attempts to copy your movements with the warm metal, he doesn’t notice any difference in how his skin feels or the blood flow in his face, but you’re studying him so closely that Hotch is tempted to say he does.

It’s a strange sensation, but honestly it doesn’t feel any different than if he used his own fingers to rub up against his cheekbone or jawline.

When he puts the piece of metal back in your open palm, you’re nearly teeming with excitement. “So, what do you think?”

He pauses. “I don’t think it’s for me, sweetheart.”

You pout but he can tell that you’re not offended. “Boo. Fine, I’ll meet you in bed, handsome.”

Hotch is about to turn back to go to bed before he remembers the thick oil covering half of his face, evenly dispersed but still uncomfortable and will surely stain his pillowcase. He attempts to discreetly wipe at it with his hand as best as he can before quickly rubbing it off on your arm and escaping.

The screech you let out echoes in his bathroom as you try to swat at him and narrowly miss, and the way he feels heat tinge at the tip of his ears is better than any metallic contraption’s claim to improve blood flow.

+1

On his days off, Hotch much prefers spending as much time as he can at home, either with Jack, you, or, more recently, both. Even if Hotch technically sees you every day in the bullpen, you at work is much different than the you at home.

Or at least, he likes to think there’s a difference as you drag him to the grocery store during what was possibly the quietest afternoon he’s had in several months.

I just have to pick up a couple of things, you had said as you buckle your seatbelt in the passenger side. We’ll be back home in a jiffy.

Never mind the fact that the word home coming from your lips has Hotch’s mind reeling. You’ve been seeing each other for several months now and he’s almost sure that you haven’t stepped foot in your own apartment for at least a month. You’ve taken up half of his dresser, most of his closet space, and the entirety of the counter space in the bathroom with your multi-colored serums and skincare tools that don’t work no matter what you claim.

He follows you around the store, dutifully pushing the grocery cart, as you mentally go through your checklist on all the toiletries you’re almost out of. Which is why he finds himself in the cosmetics aisle when you exclaim “Oh, I forgot about tomatoes for taco Tuesday!” and scamper off before he could say there were plenty of tomatoes from last time in the fridge because Jack has suddenly decided he doesn’t like them anymore.

He's content to wait, maybe check his emails on his phone, when he spots the familiar label of his face wash out of the corner of his eye.

It’s a brand that Haley had recommended for him when they were in college and Hotch knew absolutely nothing about skincare then, so he just continued buying it. He’s gone through countless bottles over the years, having used it nearly every day, yet Hotch finds himself frowning as he stares at the bright orange bottle.

The large bold letters advertise the cleanser being able to effectively combat oiliness, but Hotch distinctly remembers you offhandedly mentioning how lucky he was to have dry skin and not a combination like you.

Honestly, he had no idea, but it would make sense with how you were constantly slathering him in lotions and creams any chance you got.

He browses through the available cleansers, keeping an eye out for those that treat dry skin, when you sidle up next to him with a bag of tomatoes that were undoubtedly not going to get eaten. He can hear the hesitation in your voice when you ask “What are you doing?”

“Looking for something different.”

“Oh yeah? I knew I was wearing you down, Hotchner. Soon, you’re going to be begging me to take you to Sephora.” You’re joking but Hotch can detect the underlying seriousness in your voice.

He continues as if he didn’t hear you. “I’ve been using the wrong face wash for my skin so I’m looking for a different one. I probably haven’t been doing my skin any favors all these years.”

A pause. And then, incredulously, you say “Who taught you that?”

Finding one that was a good size and affordable enough to try, Hotch grabs it and throws it into the cart. When he meets your eyes, you’re staring up at him with a disbelieving smile.

“You did.” And it’s true—Hotch would’ve never thought about the long-term benefits of having a humidifier in the bedroom or the importance of sunscreen everyday if it weren’t for you. Taking care of your appearance was clearly important to you, which meant it was now important to him.

You stare at him, lips parted as if you’re at a loss for words. Your skin is glowing even under the harsh fluorescent grocery store lighting. “You’re such a sweet talker, you know that?”

You toss the tomatoes in the cart, making him wince, and loop your arm through his to tug him along the aisle. You smell sugary sweet with maybe a hint of his cologne from where you had slept in one of his old shirts last night. Hotch remembers how he had felt lightheaded, fondness flooding his chest, when he woke to you laying on his chest this morning. He tugs you closer into his side.

“Does this mean that you’ll try that new light therapy mask that I bought?”

“One step at a time, honey.”

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[kissylec]

TO THE PLACES WE'VE BEEN AND THE NIGHTS WE'VE HAD.

directed by love you goodbye...

pairing . . . rafe cameon x pogue!reader in which . . . the bonfire always has surprises, but you never thought that one of those surprises would be ending up in tannyhill with the kook prince warning .ᐟ . . . (18+) smut, alcohol consumption, curse words, enemies to lovers, tension, dirty talk, praise kink, making out, oral (f), unprotected sex (wrap it up), p in v, first time writing smut and english is not my first language, so please, bear with me w count . . . 1.5k (NO PROOFREAD) kissylec says . . . write this in 3 days and i dont really know if i like it or not. my frist time writing smut! im tweaking! thanks to @rafesheaven for the tips you gave me, i hope this is okay i love u. and thanks to @rafeysbabydoll for the idea of this first extra! i also love u. hope you guys like this 😭

masterlist .ᐟ 𝜗𝜚 navigation .ᐟ

YOU WERE DOING THIS FOR JJ, and you repeated that to yourself over and over again. the bonfire was the last thing on your mind after the day you'd had, having to put on makeup and get dressed made your head hurt and your feet felt tired just walking to the vanity. but everything went to shit in a short time, which you expected, but at least you had that slight glimmer of hope that it won't happen.

it all started when topper – because of course it was topper – started bothering sarah. your and your friends' irritation was instantly aired, creating a tense atmosphere that was not lost on anyone. and between john b complaining, jj trying to fight, and kiara trying to calm down everyone who came near, you couldn't take it anymore.

the overstimulation ate away at you to the point that you left without warning, a habit that was ingrained in you. the sound of voices grew farther away with each step you took, and the cold and salty breeze became more and more present. that's when you thought about the beach, and that maybe it would be a good idea to stop by there.

the sand on your feet felt colder than usual and the wind was a caress on your exposed skin. you took long, deep breaths, making circles in the palm of your left hand as you tried to maintain a calm that you were afraid would slip away. the sound of the sea was in the background, and a relaxation alien to you had found you. until.

you okay?

the thick, familiar voice startles you, causing you to bring a hand to your chest and open your eyes, your gaze traveling to the direction the voice came from.

rafe cameron.

"you scared the shit outta me," you say, your gaze traveling all over rafe's body. a bottle of alcohol in his hand, his brow furrowed. His curtain bangs were gone, replaced by a neat buzz cut, which made him look more... mature, older.

rafe continues to scowl, looking away from you. "yeah well, it's creepier when a girl stands next to you and closes her eyes and all that shit you were doing just now." his lips take a sip from what appears to be a bottle of whiskey, his eyes fixed on the water.

you just rolled your eyes, mimicking his action of looking away. you never gave rafe much importance, but your annoyance for him was no small thing. he was nothing sacred among pogues, as if his name were a curse. "i may be creepy but you're sad" you started saying. "drinking by yourself on the beach? not really a very fun activity."

rafe takes another long sip from the bottle, his muscles flexing as he raises his arm. “shouldn’t you be there?” he asks, still not looking at you.

rafe knew about you, not much, but he knew enough. he always insisted that you stood out from any friend sarah might have had, you were not overlooked, you always left a mark. you had that something that takes a person a while to figure out. you were different, and it sounds corny and repetitive, but you were, and rafe liked that.

for a split second you considered telling him why you left the bonfire, but you didn't. "i got bored," you said simply, feeling rafe turn his head and his eyes burn into your cheek. "what's your excuse?"

rafe swore his heart stopped for a second when you turned your head to make your first eye contact of the night, his lips felt dry but he didn't have the balls to lick them in front of you.

he just shrugged. "i don't want to be there" he says.

you slowly nod your head, your eyes locked on rafe's blue ones, who didn't seem to want to take his eyes off you. the sound of clothes rustling and him handing you the bottle of whiskey caught your attention, raising your eyebrows.

parting your lips you take the bottle, the contact with rafe’s fingers leaving a rough feeling on your skin. still looking into his eyes, you took an unexpectedly long sip, your throat burning instantly, making you grimace in disgust and drop the bottle. he couldn’t help but laugh.

“what was that?” he asks, following with his gaze as you spit the amber liquid into the sand.

“that shit is disgusting” you say, wiping your chin, which had dropped drops of the drink.

you shake your head, your eyes falling on his face. you allow yourself to analyze the small details, how his eyes close when he smiles, the occasional mark on his skin, his hand wrapped around most of the bottle as soon as you handed it back to him.

rafe parts his lips, you could see his eyes drop to his lap, as if he was hesitant. “i have more bottles in tannyhill, of… other things,” he says, hesitantly. "if you want."

your eyes widened, letting out a laugh you couldn’t control. “are you serious?” you said, your smile taken as mockery by rafe.

rafe frowns, his gaze going to you, making you erase your smile. a tension began to be felt between you two, that tension which anyone who was there could feel, that tension that makes your stomach hurt and your heart race.

"did you really just ask me what you just ask me?" you asked, your eyebrows raising as you looked at him.

“what’s wrong with what i said?” rafe asks, his tone of voice harsher than he intended.

you frown, careful not to fumble with your words. “no, absolutely not.”

“why not?"

“because it’s you,” you simply reply, looking at him. “and i would never do anything with you.”

your words seemed to trigger something in rafe, who raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, as if he were studying you. you felt your pulse quicken, his jaw suddenly looked attractive, and his challenging eyes made your lower stomach feel warm.

"never, huh?"

those were the last words you could remember coming out of his mouth, because all you were focused right now, was him. on his tongue expertly moving between your wet folds, on how he flicked it against your clit. his fingers gripped your thighs to keep you from moving, the pressure was so strong that you knew there would be marks, but you didn't care.

you had tears starting to form at the corners of your eyes, your o-shaped lips letting out moan after moan, babbling every now and then as you felt his tongue fucking you as if it were the only thing he was useful for.

"prettiest cunt" he grunts against your center, placing open-mouthed kisses over your clit.

"fuck–rafe" was the only thing that could come out of your mouth.

you start to rub your pussy against him when you feel close, that delicious pressure in your pelvis growing as does the burning in your clit, your moans turning into soft cries, desperate to cum, and rafe notices it, but that wasn't going to happen.

his mouth leaving you, automatically going to the level of your face. his lips, chin and nose glistening with your arousal, his pupils dilated with pleasure, his breathing accelerated, all so sexy that you could have cum just from him.

before you could even protest he crashed your lips against his, moaning as you tasted yourself. your tongues danced deliciously, making everything more disgusting.

"wan' you to cum on my cock" rafe manages to say between kisses, and you never wondered when he took off his pants, but he did. "you're capable of doing that? huh?"

he wrapped his hand around his heavy cock, pumping it slowly, guiding his tip to your puffy and achy clit, teasing it, coating his length with your slick. "fuck–could you be any more fucking wet?"

the tip traveled to your center, gasping as it entered inch by inch to the brim, forcing you to take him all. your eyes rolled back in your head, feeling his cock caress your insides. you could swear you felt him kiss your cervix.

"so tight, all f'me, isn't that right?" rafe purrs against your ear, his hips moving almost instantly after filling you.

your brain blanked out, letting him handle you as he pleased, your legs on his shoulders as his pace quickened. “rafe,” you stammered, your eyes squeezing shut.

"grippin' me so tight, you gonna cum?" rafe murmurs condescendingly. "this sweet pussy gonna cum? huh?"

it was ridiculous, almost pathetic, but his words and the way your sweet spot was hit over and over again had you cumming on his cock, your back arching and a small cry came out. rafe groans, his face hiding in your neck, his cock twitching and painting your insides with his cum.

you felt kisses on your neck, the thrusts fading in rhythm, his hands caressing your sides. your eyes slowly opened, your lips dry as the light from the nightstand made its presence felt beside you.

then, and just then, it clicked.

"we can't do this again" was the first thing that left your lips.

but rafe had already taken you over. and there was no escape from that.

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© KISSYLEC. 2025 — please do not plagiarize, repost, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

Not on the carpet! | The Salesman x Wife!Reader |

Notes: Different from the other ones. Reader knows what his husband does for work.

Summary: Your dear Husband comes home with blood and all you want is it to not touch the dam carpet!!

Warnings: Blood - Canon Violence - Suggestive -

The Salesman knows he is not looking his best right now. Not after having to kill some people who were getting too close to the truth of the games.

And he knows what his dear wife will say once he opens the door. Instead of a warm smile a look of panic will be there. Not for him.

"Dont let that blood fall on the carpet!" You tell him in a stern tone coming to greet him when you did hear the door open but stopped after seeing the blood on him.

"Hello my Love. I hope your day went better than mine" He says pulling off his suit jacket but not moving from the entrance.

Last time he did get blood on the carpet not only was he forced to clean it himself. He was banned to the guest room (no problem the bed its comfortable). But his lovely wife banned him of sex. For a week. And she did nothing but keep temting him all week. Wearing pajama shorts that barely covered her ass and let him see her legs. Light colored shirts that let him see her tits and nippels.

Oh, how he wanted to just throw you over the table and fuck you nice and rough. Make you forget your name and only know his. He wanted you to regret it.

But he had to demostrate he did have some self control. So on the last night exaclty when the clock did hit the final time he was on you like a dog in heat. Pulling you over his lap, touching all the exposed skin and leaving bruises behind.

And while that sex was amazing. He would prefer to not be on another week without sex.

"Here" You did appear again giving him a big plastic bowl so he could put his dirty clothes in. "I will wash it later. I can only imagine how much of a pain its going to be" Your face did show the small anger towards it.

"Sorry Love. But the blood of these worms seems to be as dirty as them" He responded removing his tie too.

"You are not injured, right?" You asked seeing some blood on his cheeck but he just dismisses your question with a move of his hand. "Good. Let me get you some cotton and water then"

"Im finally allowed inside my home?" He half joked as he saw you go then do a stop and look back at him. "It did not get on my shirt I promise"

He remembers that one time when it did get on his shirt. He had to sat for then minutes of you scolding him.

"...Then come. But you know what will happen if I see a single blood drop!"

The Saledman groaned following you into the big bathroom taking a seat on the toilet. "Not sex ban again my Love" He begged pulling you close so he could get his face against your stomach "Jerking off to pictures of you or videos of us its never enough. I need the real thing" To add his point he gives your ass a firm grip.

You try to ignore him as you get some water and cotton to clean off the blood from his face.

"Dont be a baby" Its your response as you slowly clean his handsome face. Glad to see that there are not injuries but just dry blood as he said. "And you did make up for it when the week ended" You added the memory still fresh on your mind.

"I came so fast" He says his eyes never leaving you. Him falling for you soft touch. "I was inside you and then I just filled you up so fast" he sounded so dissapointed with himself.

"You did. But it was a lot. I believe we should let your balls get as much cum as they can so you can fill me up really nice"

The Salesman let out a small sound between a laught and a groan. "Dont make me pull you against that wall...I still need to shower so you dont get the smell of these men"

You smiled at his possessive nature giving him a kiss on the head once you were done cleaning him.

"And I havent finish making your favorite food. So looks like we both will have to attend diferent things before I can greet you properly"

"You are my favorite food. You always taste so divine. I wish I could be between your legs all day. Making you cum over and over again. Getting all of hit on my face and chin. I will lick it up so good. You would be crying from how much stimulation you are getting. But I know you would not care about it. You would let me keep going, because you love me. And you love what I do to you"

You blushed hard under his gaze and his smirk. He was not wrong. And that scene did happen once. You were so wasted after it...you could barely walk let alone think straight. You were like a doll and he loved it. He loved being the cause of your pleasure.

"Yeah well. Maybe later" one look from him made you crumble. There was not a "maybe" it was a "defenetly" and part of you believed he would not wait till you ended dinner.

"Its a promise my Love" He said kissing your hand and wrist. He closed his eyes as he smelled your skin. Oh how he loved it. It was just...you and it was all he needed. "Go and try finishing that dinner for me. But...maybe I will skip it and go for the special plate of the house"

You let out a small smile your face burning. "Go on, get on that shower first" You said leaving him to be "I will bring you a new set of fresh clothes"

"Thanks Love" Your Husband responded removing his shirt in order to get inside the shower, his mind already thinking on the idea of having you for himself once he removes the smell of these worms from himself.

And, oh how much he is going to enjoy every second of it.

[cent-scratchnsniff]

hoptal

[spencessocks]

bucky AND spencer??!!! are you my brain? my brain has a tumblr? but seriously im so happy you exist.

i was originally coming to say how in ‘through the silence’ the theme and the conversation could be the same (okay maybe just similar) with post prison spencer x reader and how he is trying to get back to reality and leave prison behind

love you xx

a/n: omfg what... im literally going to eat ur face... this sort of got a little longer than i intended and it took me a while because i was busy with work so im sorry!😭😭 but thank u so much omg i was reeling from this ask, ur so sweet and ilysm!!!

what remains

summary: after spencer returns from prison, the trauma he endured drives a wedge between him and the one person who loves him most.

pairing: postprison!spencer reid x reader

wordcount: 6.8k

warnings: sad spencer, sad reader, everyones sad, reader drinks like a sip of wine

the apartment is quiet when spencer walks in. it’s late—again. you don’t know where he goes, but he never offers, and you’ve stopped asking.

he drops his keys onto the counter with a dull clink, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion, and you watch from your place on the couch, heart aching at the sight of him. he looks different now. he's been home for months, but the man who walked through your door after prison isn’t the same one who left.

“hey,” you say gently, closing your book and setting it aside.

he glances at you but doesn’t hold your gaze for long. “hey.”

you swallow down the lump in your throat. “did you eat?”

“i'm not hungry.” his answer is clipped, automatic, the same response he’s given you almost every night since he’s been back.

you knew it wouldn’t be easy. that things would be different and he wouldn’t be the same. you had told yourself that over and over in the days leading up to his return, had braced yourself for the changes.

but you'd had hope—hope that, with time, things would settle. that he would come back to you—not just physically, but in the ways that mattered. that he would find his way back to the man he used to be, the man who used to curl up beside you on the couch, rambling about his latest case or a book he was reading. the man who used to laugh, used to smile, used to pull you into his arms like you were the safest place in the world.

but you had underestimated the impression this whole ordeal would leave on him.

it wasn't just in the way he carried himself, the way exhaustion clung to his frame or how the light in his eyes had dimmed. it was deeper than that. it was in the way he recoiled from touch when he used to seek it, in the way his voice lacked the excitement and curiosity it once held. in the distance that stretched between you, widening a little more each day, despite your best efforts to close it.

prison had carved something out of him, something you weren’t sure could ever be replaced. he had been home for months, but a harsh reality was starting to settle in you—that some wounds don’t heal the way you expect them to. some stay raw, lingering beneath the surface, invisible until they make themselves known in quiet moments—in the silence at the dinner table, in the way he avoids your gaze, in the way he flinches at your touch, in the walls he keeps building no matter how hard you try to tear them down.

he didn’t talk about what happened in there, and you didn’t press—even if sometimes curiosity clawed at you. but every laconic response, every empty stare, every night he disappeared without explanation told you more than words ever could. he was still there, trapped in a place you couldn’t seem to reach, and no matter how badly you wanted to, you weren’t sure you ever would.

you exhale slowly, measuring your words before speaking. "spencer, you know what i'm going to say." your voice is soft, careful, but it still makes him flinch, just barely.

"i'm fine," he mutters, turning away from you.

you hesitate, just for a moment, before the words slip out. a quiet, almost embarrassed whisper in the stillness of the room.

"will you at least sit with me for a little while?"

you regret the question the second it leaves your mouth, second-guessing yourself as soon as the vulnerability hits you. it sounds so small, so simple—sit with me, like it’s not asking for much, but in a way, it feels like you’re begging. you feel humiliation crawl up your neck.

"we don't have to talk," you add quickly, trying to soften the weight of your words. "we can just—"

"i'm tired," he interrupts, voice hollow. he’s already moving toward the bedroom, like he can't get away fast enough.

you stare blanky at him, his back already turned to you. you don't say anything. you can't. the words get stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled up with the shock and the sting of his dismissal. you just sit there, still as stone, the weight of his words settling over you like a thick, suffocating fog.

it shouldn't surprise you—this response, this distance, the way he shuts you out without a second thought. it’s been happening for weeks now, a slow unraveling of something that once felt unbreakable. and yet, it does surprise you.

because you still hoped—that he would just sit with you. that it couldn't possibly be that bad that your own husband couldn't sit on the the same goddamn couch as you.

you don’t know if your lack of response matters. maybe it does. maybe that’s why he hesitates in the doorway, fingers gripping the frame as if he's weighing his options. for a second, you think he might turn around, might give you something—anything. but then, just as quickly, he lets go and disappears into the darkness of the bedroom.

you sit there, motionless, as the door to the bedroom clicks shut behind him. the sound feels final, sharp.

the interaction plays in your head. "i'm tired."

the look on his face—or the lack of one. there’s nothing there. no fight, no frustration, not even the faintest trace of a desire to make things right.

you blink, once, twice, trying to shake the fog from your brain, but the shock is still there, thick in your chest. it’s like a pulse, steady and unrelenting, buzzing through your veins. you don’t know what to do with it. how to process it.

at this point, you can hardly recognize yourself. the person you used to be—before all this. you would have never let spencer walk away from that. you would’ve confronted him, spoken your truth, demanded that he listen. you were an opinionated person, it wasn't like you to let someone walk over you—spencer liked that about you. you would’ve never felt embarrassed by something so simple, so vulnerable, said to the man you loved.

the anger bubbles up, creeping through the shock like a slow poison, and suddenly, your skin feels tight. it feels wrong. how dare he? how can he just walk away, leave you in this empty room, in this awful, suffocating silence, after everything you’ve been through together?

surely, you wouldn't do this to him. that thought had crossed your mind before, only to be quickly pushed away by the reminder that you couldn't possibly know what he was going through—what he felt in that place.

but now, the thought clung to you, insistent, refusing to be ignored and with it came another. maybe he didn’t know how to let go of you—maybe he was too afraid to say the words, so instead, he kept hurting you without even realizing it. maybe he thought pulling away was easier than facing the truth. if the roles were reversed, you'd seek him out, wanting his comfort, his presence. so why wasn't he doing the same for you? why was he so unwilling to lean on you—when he had done it a million times before?

the pulse in your neck quickens, blood rushing, and you grip the edge of the couch, knuckles white. you don't even realize you're standing now, the instinct to do something, anything, pushing you forward. your breath comes quick and shallow as frustration and disbelief twist inside you like a knot that you can't untangle.

what are you supposed to do with this? what are you supposed to do when your own husband looks at you like you’re nothing—like you’re some kind of inconvenience he just can’t deal with tonight?

your body moves on its own, your legs carrying you to the door as if they have a will of their own—pyjamas and slippers be damned—the front door slams shut behind you with an almost violent finality. the apartment feels suffocating now, the weight of his absence, of his rejection, too much to bear. you need to leave.

you don’t bother to grab your phone. what would be the point? there’s nothing to say to him anymore—if he would even call. not when you’re standing on the edge of something you can’t even explain to yourself, a frustration and sadness mixing into something unrecognizable.

you walk fast, too fast, the cold air biting at your skin, and it helps. the briskness of the night, the sting of it, gives you a sense of purpose, something to focus on other than the gnawing emptiness inside you. you don’t want to sit in that silence any longer, don’t want to stew in your thoughts, trapped in that apartment where the echoes of your broken attempts at connection are suffocating.

jj’s place isn’t far—just a few blocks—but it might as well be a world away. the walk feels like an eternity, but it’s the only thing you can control right now. you don't have to think about spencer. you don’t have to think about him.

you find yourself at jj’s door, your breath coming out in white clouds, and for the first time tonight, you feel a brief flicker of something approaching relief. you knock twice, hard, before pulling back and pressing your forehead against the doorframe, closing your eyes, letting the coolness of it ground you. what the hell am i doing?

when she opens the door, her eyes widen at the sight of you, but she doesn’t ask. she doesn’t need to. she just steps aside, pulling you in with a soft, understanding smile.

“you okay?” she asks gently, though you know she already knows the answer.

you nod, but only because you don't trust your voice not to break if you speak. she doesn’t push, just closes the door behind you and leads you to the couch. you sit without a word, leaning back against the cushions, closing your eyes, and for the first time in what feels like months, you let yourself breathe.

jj moves toward the kitchen without a word, and you hear the familiar sound of glasses clinking, followed by the admittedly soothing pour of wine. she returns with a glass in each hand, her expression knowing. she hands you one and sits down beside you, settling into the cushions with the kind of ease that makes you wish you could do the same.

"talk to me,” she says, her voice quiet, but firm enough to break the silence that’s settled between you. it’s not a question, really—more like a gentle command, the kind that only someone who knows you can give.

you let out a breath, leaning back into the couch, staring at the ceiling for a moment, unsure where to even begin. everything feels like a mess. but her presence, her calm, makes you feel like you might find the strength to sort it out.

“spencer—" you stop yourself, the words catching in your throat. you shake your head, a laugh escaping your lips at the disbelief of your situation. "i don’t even know what to say anymore. i don’t know how we got here. it’s like i don’t even know who he is anymore.”

jj listens, her eyes steady, her hands wrapped around her own glass, but her gaze never wavers. she’s waiting. you know she won’t interrupt.

“i thought... i thought he’d come back to me, you know?” the words slip out before you can stop them, and the sadness that follows hits you harder than anything before. “i thought, with time, things would get better. that i could get him back, the way he was. but... it’s like he’s not even here anymore. i don’t know how to reach him. and when i try, it feels like he just shuts me out more.”

you swallow hard, feeling a sharp sting behind your eyes. it feels pathetic, but you can’t stop it now. you can’t stop the flood of everything that’s been building up, everything you’ve been trying to ignore.

“he’s gone, jj. and i don’t know how to be with someone who’s... not really here,” you say, your voice breaking on the last word.

jj doesn’t say anything at first, just lets you breathe, lets you sit with it for a moment. “i know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but he’s not gone. he’s just... changed. and change is hard. for both of you.”

you scoff softly, shaking your head. “i feel like i'm going crazy."

jj watches you carefully, her gaze unwavering as she processes your words. you feel exhausted—physically, emotionally—like the weight of the past few months has finally settled on your shoulders all at once.

jj studies you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. then, she exhales, setting her wine glass down on the coffee table. “you’re not crazy,” she says simply. “you’re grieving.”

that catches you off guard. you blink at her. “grieving?”

she nods. “yeah. you’re grieving the life you had before. the spencer you had before.” she pauses. “and maybe... the version of yourself that existed before all this.”

you open your mouth, but no words come out. you want to argue, to tell her it’s not that simple, that you’re not mourning spencer like he’s some lost cause, but—god—doesn’t it feel like that sometimes? doesn’t it feel like the person you knew, the person you loved, is slipping further and further away?

jj sighs, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “i know what it’s like to watch someone you love disappear into themselves. to feel helpless while they struggle with something you can’t fix.” her voice is softer now, careful, like she’s walking a tightrope. “it’s terrifying.”

your fingers tighten around your wine glass. “so what do i do?” the question comes out more fragile than you want it to, barely above a whisper.

she’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “you—" her words are interrupted by an abrupt sound. jj’s phone is ringing, sharp and sudden in the quiet of the room. you flinch, your heart leaping into your throat before you even see the name on the screen. but you already know.

spencer.

panic grips you, fast and unrelenting, and before you can think, the words spill out. “don’t answer it.”

jj hesitates, glancing at the phone on the coffee table. the screen glows with his name, the sound vibrating between you like a living thing. “he’s your husband,” she says gently, but her fingers hover over the screen instead of answering.

“i don’t care,” you whisper, shaking your head. “please, jj. don’t.”

she studies you, eyes flicking over your face like she’s trying to gauge just how serious you are. if she picks up, you’ll have to hear him—his voice, his clipped tone, his inevitable question: where are you? and what then? you don’t have an answer.

jj sighs, silencing the call but not declining it. the ringing stops, but the silence that follows is almost worse.

“you know he’s worried,” she says carefully. “you left without your phone. you think he’s just going to let that go?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping your glass like it’s the only thing tethering you to the moment. “i don’t know,” you admit. “i just—I can’t do this right now. fuck.”

jj shifts closer, her voice calm but firm. “running won’t fix this.”

you let out a short, bitter laugh. “staying hasn't."

she doesn’t have an answer for that.

jj watches you carefully, then sighs. “stay here as long as you need. but at some point, you have to decide—are you going home? or are you walking away?”

your arm is moving suddenly, the wine glass at your lips. her words settle over you like a weight. and for the first time, you realize—you don’t know.

jj's phone buzzes again, and you flinch at the sight of spencer’s name lighting up the screen. the call goes to voicemail, and for a few seconds, there’s nothing but silence.

the phone rings a second time. you can almost hear spencer’s voice in your head, the exact tone he always takes when he doesn’t know what to say.

“I’ll answer it,” jj says softly, but the words feel like a concession rather than a promise. she picks up the phone, and her thumb hovers over the screen.

you don’t stop her, but you wish you could. you wish you could shut everything down, turn it all off.

“spencer?” jj says, her voice calm, controlled.

you close your eyes, hearing his voice crackle through the speaker.

“jj... is she there?” spencer’s voice sounds worn, tight with something just beneath the surface. you can hear the familiar threads of guilt and concern tangled in his words. “i—i don’t know where she went. she just… she left without saying anything.”

jj looks at you, her expression unreadable. you can feel the heat of her stare on you.

“yeah, she's here.” jj finally responds, her words careful. “but she's not ready to talk to you right now, spencer.”

a long pause follows. you can hear spencer’s breath, shallow, like he’s holding something back.

“i just... i just need to know she's okay,” he says, the frustration and desperation clear in his voice. “please.”

you wince at the pleading in his words. it cuts through you in a way you hadn’t expected.

jj looks at you, her expression unreadable, before she glances down at the phone again. you can feel the heat of her stare on you.

“she’s fine,” jj says, with a note of finality. “but I think you need to give her some time. she’s been through a lot, spencer. you both have.”

“time?” Spencer’s voice cracks. “jj, i don’t—“

but she cuts him off. “i’m not getting in the middle of this. just... take care of yourself for now, okay? you’ll talk when she’s ready. she’ll come back when she’s ready.”

the phone goes silent for a moment, and then the faint click of the line disconnecting. jj pulls the phone away from her ear and sets it down on the coffee table with a soft sigh.

jj sits back, her gaze still trained on you, like she’s waiting for something.

the silence in the room feels heavier now. It presses against your chest, and the weight of it makes your thoughts swirl faster than they should. spencer’s voice still echoes in your mind—i just need to know she's okay. you don’t want to admit it, but the desperation in his words cuts deeper than you anticipated. you don’t want to feel guilty. but it settles over you, thick and unavoidable, as you sit on jj’s couch, the comfort of her presence fading into the background.

“he sounded worried,” you murmur, more to yourself than to jj.

she nods, watching you carefully. “of course he’s worried.”

you press your lips together, exhaling slowly. “i didn’t think he’d care that much.” the words taste bitter on your tongue, because the truth is, you had wanted him to care. you had wanted him to call, to ask where you were, to prove—at least to himself—that there was still something left between you worth saving.

and he did.

he did.

but now, sitting here, away from him, away from that apartment, the weight of your actions starts creeping in, cold and insidious.

you left.

you walked out without a word.

you knew what it was like to feel abandoned, to reach for someone and find nothing but empty space. and now you’ve done the same to him.

the realization makes your chest tighten, and suddenly, the fight, the frustration, the resentment—it all feels distant, overshadowed by something heavier. something closer to shame.

jj shifts beside you, her voice quiet but knowing. “you’re thinking about going back.”

you shake your head quickly. “i don’t know.” but it’s a lie. you do know.

you inhale sharply, pressing your palm to your forehead, trying to ground yourself. “god, what am I doing, jj?”

“you’re allowed to feel this, you know,” she says simply. “you’re allowed to be angry. to be hurt. to need space.”

you swallow hard, blinking down at your hands. they feel foreign to you, like they belong to someone else. “i just—” you hesitate, voice cracking slightly. “i just got so mad. he was so dismissive of me, and i couldn't be there anymore.”

“i know.”

you stare down at your lap, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your sweater.

you shake your head, guilt curling in your chest. “but that’s not me, jj. that’s not who I am. i don’t just… walk away. i got angry and i overreacted.”

she sighs. “one moment doesn't define you. things are different now. you've never been in a situation like this before,” she pauses. “sometimes you have to walk away, to get your thoughts in order."

"it would've been worse if you blew up at him." she added.

"i think i still might." you said with a dry laugh.

jj smiled slightly, her gaze softening as she leaned back, “you’ve always been the one to hold things together,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, as if trying to remind you that it was okay to break sometimes. “but you can’t hold it all in forever. and sometimes… sometimes you need space to breathe, to think. you don’t always have to be the strong one.”

you let out a breath, unsure of what to say next. jj was always good at cutting through the noise, but the guilt still sat heavily in your chest. you couldn’t escape the feeling that walking away—no matter how much you needed to—had been the wrong choice.

jj watches you for a moment, then leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “listen, i know it feels like you did something wrong by leaving, but you didn’t. you needed space. that’s not the same as giving up.”

you nod slowly, staring down at your hands, but you don’t respond.

jj sighs, then reaches over and squeezes your arm. "look, if there’s anyone who understands why you did what you did, it’s spencer. he has spent his life studying human behavior—figuring out how they think and why they do what they do. spencer knows exactly why you walked out, even if he won't admit it. he knows it was about needing space, about trying to make sense of everything that’s been building up between you.”

she pauses, giving you a reassuring look. “this isn’t the end. this is just a bump in the road—you'll go back when you're ready, and you'll start working through it all."

spencer knows why you left.

the thought lingers, easing the guilt that’s been clawing at you since you walked out. maybe that’s why he didn’t come after you. maybe, in his own way, he understood that you needed this moment to step back, to breathe, to process.

you hope—no, you need—to believe that he’s coming to his own realization. that in the quiet of your absence, in the stillness of an apartment that no longer holds your presence, he’s starting to understand. that maybe, just maybe, he’s replaying every word, every moment, and seeing where it all went wrong.

you want him to recognize that pushing you away was a mistake. that shutting you out, closing himself off instead of letting you in, only built more distance between you. and most of all, you hope he understands now—truly understands—that love isn’t about shutting doors, but about keeping them open, even when it’s hard.

the irony of the situation dawns on you. sitting here, hoping he comes to the right conclusion on his own, won’t change anything. no matter how hurt or frustrated you are, you know one thing for certain—you aren’t going to push him away the way he did to you.

you glance at jj, her eyes soft with understanding, and suddenly, you don’t feel as lost as you did before.

“i have to go back,” you murmur, the words feeling right the moment they leave your lips.

jj studies you for a moment before nodding. “yeah, i figured.” there’s no judgment in her voice, only quiet support.

you stand, but before you can say anything, jj speaks again. “i’m driving you.”

you blink at her. “jj, i can—”

"it’s late, and it’s cold,” she interrupts, crossing her arms. “and i know you. you’ll spend the entire walk overthinking, or worse, you’ll turn around and come right back here.”

you open your mouth to argue, but she raises an eyebrow, daring you to fight her on this. you sigh, giving in. “fine. i'll still overthink in the car though.”

jj smirks as she grabs her keys. "yeah, but at least this way, you’ll be overthinking with heated seats and no risk of getting hit by a rogue cyclist."

you roll your eyes, but there's a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "alright, alright. guess I’ll overthink in comfort then." you step outside, the weight of everything that’s about to unfold on your back.

the ride back is quiet, the streets nearly empty as jj navigates the familiar roads. you stare out the window, your finger spinning your wedding band, mind racing with all the possibilities of what comes next.

you wonder how it will be when you walk through that door. will he be surprised to see you? will he be angry? will he apologize? the questions swirl in your mind, but you push them aside—you'll find out in a few minutes either way.

jj pulls up in front of the apartment building and turns to you, her expression gentle. “you don’t have to fix everything tonight,” she reminds you. “just… put all your cards on the table. don't sugarcoat anything.”

you nod, feeling a mix of gratitude and nervous anticipation. "thank you, jj," you say softly, giving her a small smile. "i don’t know what i would’ve done without you tonight."

she smiles back, her eyes warm with understanding. "you’ll be fine. just be honest, that’s all you can do."

with a final nod, you push the door open, the cold air immediately hitting you as you step out onto the sidewalk. your heart is pounding in your chest, each step towards the apartment feeling heavier than the last.

you twist the handle, it's unlocked, but you hesitate before pushing the door open, gathering your courage in the silent hallway. when you finally step inside, the apartment is quiet—but not empty. a single lamp illuminates the living room, casting long shadows across the walls.

and there's spencer, sitting on the couch hunched over with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

he looks up at the sound of the door, and for a brief moment, his face is completely unguarded. relief washes over his features, followed quickly by something that looks almost like fear. he stands immediately, his movements stiff and uncertain.

"you came back," he says, his voice hoarse.

you close the door behind you, still standing near the threshold. "i started feeling guilty." you sighed, jj's voice in the back of your head—just be honest.

spencer swallows, his gaze flickering to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "guilty?" he repeats, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

spencer exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “you shouldn't feel guilty," he murmurs, then shakes his head. "i mean, it makes sense,” he says quickly, his words picking up speed.

“studies show that guilt is often a response to perceived moral transgressions rather than actual wrongdoing. it’s the brain’s way of enforcing social cohesion—an evolutionary mechanism designed to maintain interpersonal relationships by making us feel responsible for potential harm, even when no actual harm has been inflicted.”

you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of disbelief and amusement as he rambled on. it was as if, in the middle of all this, the man you once knew had momentarily resurfaced. even if what he was saying wasn’t at all what you needed to hear right now, a part of you couldn't help but recognize the familiarity in it—the way he always got lost in his thoughts, trying to explain things when he didn’t quite know how to connect.

he shifts on his feet, his words picking up speed. “and in this case, your reaction makes perfect sense. you removed yourself from a heightened emotional situation in order to regulate your response, which, psychologically speaking, is a far healthier alternative to reactive conflict. but then, the cognitive dissonance sets in—the part where your brain tells you that leaving contradicts your usual patterns of behavior, and that discrepancy triggers guilt, even if logically—”

“spencer,” you interrupt gently.

his mouth snaps shut, and for a second, there’s just silence. a flicker of something vulnerable crosses his face, and you realize—he’s rambling because he doesn’t know what else to say. because this is easier for him than actually talking about what matters.

you step forward, closing a bit of the distance between you. “i don’t need an analysis,” you tell him gently. "i just want you to tell me what's going on."

spencer’s gaze flickers for a moment, like he’s trying to find the words, trying to make sense of the situation. "i never wanted you to feel like you needed to leave," he says, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. “but i didn’t exactly make it easy for you to stay.”

you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, the weight of everything you haven’t said pressing heavily on your chest. "no, you didn’t," you admit, your voice just above a whisper.

his expression tightens, a flash of something—guilt, maybe—crossing his face before he looks away.

"i've been trying," he says quietly. "i have."

"have you?" the question comes out sharper than you intended, but you don't soften it. "because from where i'm standing, it feels like you've been doing everything possible to push me away."

spencer's gaze snaps back to you, a hint of defensiveness in his eyes. "that's not fair."

"isn't it?" you take another step forward, emboldened by the surge of emotions you've held back for too long. "you won't talk to me. you won't look at me. you won't even sit next to me on the couch. what am i supposed to think, spencer?"

he runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every movement. "it's not that simple," he says, his voice strained. "i want to be the person you remember, but i don't know if i can be that man anymore."

the admission hits you like a physical blow. "i'm not asking you to be exactly who you were before," you say softly. "i know that's not possible. i just... i need you to be present. to talk to me. to not shut me out completely."

spencer is quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some point beyond you. when he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. "i don't know how to explain what it was like in there."

your breath catches. this is the closest he's come to talking about prison since he's been home. you don't know if you should say something. you hold your breath, afraid that if you move or speak, he'll retreat again.

his eyes are distant, far away, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s even aware of how much you’re hanging on his every word. finally, he exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor as if the weight of it all is too much to bear.

“being in there… it broke something inside of me,” he says, voice low and strained. “i kept thinking about what it would be like to come back, to be here, with you. and then i just—" he paused for a moment. "i had to do something really bad. i had to do things in there that… things i never thought i would do."

"i hate myself for it. every second of it." his voice breaks on the last word, he shakes his head, hands shaking slightly as he runs them through his hair, frustration and guilt radiating from him.

"i wasn't just a victim in there—i became someone i don't even recognize anymore. i did things that went against everything i ever believed in, everything i told myself i would never do."

he looks at you now, and you can see the turmoil in his eyes—the deep-rooted shame and the self-loathing that’s consumed him. "and now i’m back here, with you, and i don’t even know who i am anymore. i’ve become this person who did unforgivable things. you don't deserve someone like me, someone who’s capable of—of that." he gestures vaguely, as if trying to encompass everything that’s happened to him.

"is that why you've been pushing me away?" you ask softly. "because you think i won't love who you are now?"

he doesn't answer, but the way he avoids your gaze tells you everything.

"baby," you whisper, shifting closer to him. "nothing could change how I see you."

you take a slow, unsteady breath, searching for the right words—any words—but everything feels inadequate. how do you explain something that goes beyond language?

"god, spencer," you exhale, shaking your head. "i wish i was better at this. i wish i had the right words, i wish i was some kind of poet, and that i could say the right things to make you understand, but i'm not."

you finally close the gap between you two and take his hands, gripping them tightly, pressing them against your chest as if somehow, if he just feels the way your heart beats for him, he’ll finally understand.

"it’s frustrating," you continue, voice thick with emotion. "because what i feel for you—it’s bigger than me. it’s bigger than words. i can’t explain it, and i hate that, because i need you to know. i need you to understand that this isn’t something breakable, something you can ruin, something you can chase away just because you think you should."

he swallows hard, his fingers curling around yours, but he doesn’t speak. maybe he can’t.

"i swear, spencer, if there was a way to pull this feeling out of me and give it to you, i would. if i could make you see yourself the way i see you, make you understand that what you did—what you had to do—doesn’t make you unworthy of love, i would do it in a heartbeat." your voice breaks slightly, tears now lining your eyes. "because i don’t just love you. it’s not that simple. it’s not just some feeling, some thing i could ever put into words. it’s more. it doesn’t begin or end with what you’ve done, or what’s happened to you, or who you think you’ve become. it just is."

he lets out a shaky breath, his eye are now wet, shining under the dim apartment light, his lips parted slightly like he wants to argue but can’t find the strength to. because maybe, just maybe, for the first time—he’s starting to believe you.

"i just wish—i wish you could feel it," you murmur, voice breaking. "i wish you could step into my skin, into my heart, and know how much i love you."

you don’t realize you’re crying until he reaches up, hesitantly, brushing his fingers against your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you. his hand is shaking, but he doesn’t pull away.

spencer’s expression falters, something breaking inside of him, and when he finally—finally—pulls you into his arms, it’s not desperate or frantic. his arms wrap around you slowly, almost reverently, as though he's trying to let the feeling of your love wash over him, to understand it the way you do.

at first, it’s just the slightest tremble in his shoulders, so faint you almost miss it. but then you feel it—the shaky exhale against your neck, the way his fingers clutch at the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid to let go. and then, slowly, silently, he starts to break.

his breath hitches, and before he can stop it, a quiet sob escapes him, muffled against your shoulder. his body shakes, all the pain and guilt unraveling all at once, and all you can do is hold him through it. his hands grasp at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the present, like if he lets go, he’ll disappear into everything he’s been trying so hard to contain.

you don’t say anything. you don’t tell him it’s okay, because you know he wouldn’t believe it. or maybe because it isn't. but it will be. you'll make sure of that.

your fingers thread through his hair, your lips press against his temple, and you whisper the same words over and over, a promise and a lifeline: "i love you. i love you. i love you."

you stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other, the weight of everything that’s happened still lingering in the air between you. but it’s different now. lighter, somehow. not because everything is fixed—there are still conversations to have, wounds to tend to, pieces of him he hasn’t shown you yet.

but for the first time in a long while, you feel like you’re on the same side again. you’re not standing in separate corners, silently blaming each other for things you can’t control.

the weight in your chest, the anxiety that has gnawed at you since that day you got the call about him being detained, begins to fade. you don’t need to fix everything tonight. you don’t need to have all the answers.

his breathing begins to steady, the tears slowing, but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice a raw whisper as he says the only thing he can in this moment. “i’m sorry.”

you close your eyes for a moment, exhaling softly. “i know,” you whisper.

there's a beat of silence. "i've been having nightmares," he says, his voice so low you have to strain to hear him. "almost every night. that's where i go sometimes—i walk before going to bed. i walk so that i'm exhausted enough that my mind shuts down."

the sudden admission breaks your heart—but there's also a part of you that feels relief. relief that he wasn't turning to something worse or someone else to numb the pain.

"spencer, you could have told me." you said, fingers rubbings patterns into his back.

"i didn't want to burden you more than i already have," he says, shaking his head. "you've already been through so much because of me."

"that's not how this works," you say, squeezing his hand. "just forget all of that, okay? things will be different now. you not talking to me hurts more than that ever could."

he leans into you, his eyes closing for a brief moment. "i'm sorry," he whispers. "for pushing you away. for making you feel like you weren't enough. you've always been enough."

you lift a hand to his face, your thumb brushing against his cheek as you take in the exhaustion lining his features—the weight he’s been carrying alone for too long. slowly, carefully, you lean in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. just a warm, quiet reassurance that you’re here, that you’re staying.

when you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours, and he lets out a quiet sigh, his breath warm against your skin. he looks at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "do you want to go to bed?" he asks, voice low.

you pause for a moment, you hadn’t realized just how exhausted you were until his mention of sleep. your shoulders feel heavy, and your body aches from the emotional toll it’s taken.

a deep, almost instinctual sigh escapes your lips, and you nod softly, “yeah."

spencer squeezes your hand gently and leads you toward the bedroom. the moment the covers are pulled back, you slip under the soft sheets, the cool fabric against your skin offering the smallest comfort after everything you've been through. spencer follows you in, his body warm and reassuring as he settles beside you.

he moves closer, carefully wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into him with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. you rest your head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you. his presence, steady and constant, washes over you like a balm, soothing the frantic, scattered thoughts in your mind.

his hand moves slowly up and down your back, the rhythm soothing, and you realize just how much you've missed this—missed him.

you close your eyes, letting the weight of everything melt away as you drift closer to sleep. spencer’s voice is soft, a comforting murmur as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"i love you."

[lilacchao]

alright, time for me to Opine Lengthily as i often do

continents are trying to do to much at once - they're simultaneously distinguishing geology and culture, two hugely complicated things, and we should have more Types Of Thing than just continents

plate tectonics are a good start, they give us some decent chunks and happen to already have some very useful coincidences built in (arabian plate, indian plate, north / south american and caribbean plates, australian plate, isn't it great?)

but some of these aren't useful, and some are too big and demand further subdivisions, probably by bodies of water and mountain ranges and deserts and peninsulas and population density first, oh wait the un's done this job already! that saves me a lot of work (i'd... already done a lot of that work, but it was shoddy work, based partially on my eurocentric prior knowledge, best let it stay shrouded in mystery)

a lot of this seems well justified, but some of it's rubbish born from "well we don't want to split a country in two because this is for diplomacy" (yes we do, countries are too big, split them in twain! screw diplomacy! destroy any justification they might have for their ridiculous "borders"!) or "we don't have any good reason politically to distinguish these" (fuck politics, cleave those nations)

let's have a look at mountain ranges, drainage basins as shorthands for mountain ranges, population density, big things like the sahara and the amazon and the

mountain ranges:

drainage basins:

the köppen climate classification:

population density:

the amazon rainforest:

the sahara desert:

so. the un's thing is deeply flawed, but is a huge step up from the ridiculous 7 continents (or is it 6, or 5, or 4, or 8, or 12?) that people get taught (and everyone gets taught differently), and does have the advantage of major organisations actually referencing it for anything! im gonna make some more subdivisions though, because while some of these are sensible, wow some are ridiculous

reasonable-looking-at-a-glance subdivisions:

northern america: alaska, the remaining pacific drainage basin, greenland + all those islands, the remaining arctic drainage basin, northeast of the great lakes (the labrador peninsula), the remaining euroafrican drainage basin, the gulf coast of the us, the remaining american drainage basin

central america: the caribbean plate, the remaining pacific drainage basin, the remaining american drainage basin (basically the gulf coast of mexico)

south america: the amazon (and north/west of it), the andes and pacific drainage basin, eastern south america

eastern europe: central europe (the area of eastern europe the holy roman empire once occupied, this is a big deal culturally, the pope got involved and everything), eastern europe (west of the ural mountains), siberia (east of the ural mountains)

asia: idk enough about asia to say much about these, except that the indian subcontinent should probably be distinguished

africa: similar boat to asia, i simply don't know enough to question this, it takes the sahara into account, it's correctly split from the arabian plate, i can't really subdivide it drainage-wise, yeah

australia and new zealand: new zealand (it's so far away from australia! stop conflating them!), other than that uhhhhh the drainage divisions look good so probably some combinations of these? west, central, east coast, north peninsula? (ha! you thought you were free of images! you were wrong!)

anyway so i don't know enough geography to back any of this up but i do think im erring closer to correct than the un here, at least partly because i don't believe in or respect states, and i think i learnt a lot and made an informative post here, so yay! *closes the 103 tabs i opened throughout this post*

I think it's time we all got serious. Europe isn't a continent lmao and the only reason anyone thinks it is is because white people are too racist to share a continent with nonwhite people so they split it from Asia arbitrarily.

[chrissssssmut]

One with Rosé

NO ESCAPE

Yandere Boss Rosé x Male

AN: Hope this one's good! Im currently writing the next request XD

You hated your job.

More specifically, you hated your boss, Park Chaeyoung—better known as Rosé.

She wasn’t just strict—she was ruthless. A tyrant wrapped in designer suits and a wicked smile, ruling over the office like a queen who knew no one would dare to oppose her. She had a special kind of enjoyment in tormenting her employees, but for some reason, you were her favorite target.

“You’re useless,” she’d scoff when you turned in paperwork with a minor mistake. “I should fire you, but where else would I get my entertainment?”

Meetings turned into hellish endurance tests, your name constantly being called out for blunders, some of which weren’t even yours. But you knew why she did it. She liked to see you squirm under her attention, liked the way your hands shook when she loomed over your desk, voice like silk but words sharp enough to cut.

And yet, you endured it. Until you didn’t.

The resignation letter sat on your desk for weeks before you finally had the courage to hand it in. You had expected her to mock you, to laugh in your face, maybe even throw it back at you. But instead, she simply smiled. A slow, knowing smile that sent a chill down your spine.

“You think you can leave?” she mused, twirling a pen between her fingers. “That’s cute.”

“I’ve already made my decision.” You kept your voice steady, despite the dread curling in your stomach.

Her smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew. “We’ll see about that.”

You started skipping work.

At first, it was just a day. Then two. Then an entire week. No calls, no emails—nothing. You wanted her to get the message: you weren’t coming back.

Then, one night, there was a knock on your door.

Dread pooled in your stomach before you even opened it. And when you did, you wished you hadn’t.

Rosé stood there, silhouetted against the dim hallway light. She was smiling, but it wasn’t the usual condescending smirk. No, this one was different—sinister, dark, filled with something unhinged. Her eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of amusement and rage.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said, voice almost sing-song, as if she was teasing a lover. “That’s not very nice.”

Your breath hitched. “I… I don’t work for you anymore.”

Rosé tilted her head, feigning confusion. Then, before you could react, she stepped forward, forcing you back into your own apartment as she shut the door behind her.

“You don’t get to leave me,” she whispered, her voice low, a warning wrapped in velvet.

You turned to flee, but she was faster. Her hand shot out, gripping your wrist tight enough to bruise. Panic surged through you as you struggled, but she was stronger than she looked, pinning you against the wall with terrifying ease.

“You’re mine,” she murmured, eyes gleaming with something possessive, something utterly terrifying. “And I don’t like it when my things try to run away.”

You shoved at her, desperation fueling your fight. “Get off me!”

She responded with a sharp slap across your face, the impact ringing through the room. Your vision blurred for a second, pain flaring along your cheek. Before you could recover, she grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, forcing you to look at her.

“You think you can just disappear?” she hissed. “After everything I’ve given you? After all the time I spent making you mine?”

Terror pulsed through your veins as she shoved you onto the floor, her heeled foot pressing onto your chest. She leaned down, fingers curling around your throat, squeezing just enough to make breathing difficult but not enough to knock you out.

“I could make this worse,” she whispered, her breath hot against your ear. “I could hurt you so much more, make you beg me to let you stay.”

You clawed at her grip, trying to push her away, but she only laughed, enjoying your struggle. She yanked you up by your collar, dragging you toward the bedroom. You thrashed wildly, but a sharp punch to your gut sent you collapsing onto the mattress, gasping for air.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she purred, straddling you, her nails digging into your jaw as she forced you to meet her gaze. “You belong to me.”

Tears welled in your eyes, fear overriding everything else.

“Please… just let me go,” you croaked.

Her lips curled into a smirk as she leaned in closer. “Say it,” she commanded. “Say you’ll come back.”

You hesitated, and she wrapped a hand around your throat again, tightening her grip until your vision swam.

“I’ll come back!” you choked out, gasping. “I’ll go back to work, I swear!”

She released you abruptly, watching as you crumpled into a coughing mess beneath her. Her fingers gently traced your bruised skin, a mockery of tenderness.

“Good boy,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple before standing up. “Be ready in the morning. I expect you at your desk.”

And just like that, she walked away, leaving you shaking, broken, and utterly hers.

The next morning, you were at your desk.

Your hands trembled slightly as you typed, the bruises on your wrist hidden under the sleeves of your shirt. The office bustled around you as if nothing had happened, as if the last night hadn’t left you shattered.

And then you felt it.

A gaze.

You looked up, and there she was—Rosé, standing across the office, watching you. Her lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk, her eyes dark with a silent warning.

You knew what it meant.

You were stuck with her.

Forever.

[tisajest]

I'm bored so imma share my ethnicity headcanons for the batfam. If you want the tldr version just read the bolded text lol

Bruce - WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant) American, Irish, and Dutch Jewish

The Wayne family has been in Gotham for centuries and has stayed mostly WASP, the few exceptions before Martha were French, German, or Dutch typically. Martha comes from Gotham's Kane family and it is an Irish Jewish family that was established over a century ago. Her mother was from a wealthy Jewish Dutch family that fled in the early stages of WWII.

Dick - mostly French Senti (Manouche) and Mexican Caló Romani, but also has Hungarian Boyash and British Romanichal Romani ancestry, English, WASP American, Hungarian, French, German, Spanish, Italian, Indigenous Mexican, West African, and North African. Looks like a lot listed out like that but it really just comes from being from a nomadic culture and from the Americas. He just considers himself Romani, Sinti/Caló if pressed. You won't get the whole "I'm 1/8 Italian" thing from him.

Dick's mother (Mary) was from France and had a lot of French/other Western European ancestry as well as her Sinti ancestry. Her family was culturally and ethnically Sinti Romani and had been in France primarily for centuries. Her mother was a dirty blonde with Eurocentric features and her father looked more Mediterranean.

Dick's father (John) was culturally Mexican Caló Romani because of his Mexican mother (Maria Perfecta). Her family has been in Mexico for a long time, having immigrated primarily in the 17th and 18th centuries. As such, she also had Indigenous Mexican (primarily from Central Mexico, so Otomí, Purepecha, Nahua, Cora (among others but those were the first examples that came to mind)), West African, and Iberian ancestry, as well, primarily. Her family mostly stuck to Central Mexico, some distant lineages went either North or South.

John's father (William Grayson) also had Romani ancestry because his father, William Cobb, was Boyash and Romanichal. Cobb's mother was the daughter of Hungarian Boyash immigrants and his father immigrated from London. Grayson was disconnected from his Romani heritage, however, and was raised collectively by Haly's Circus as a multicultural orphan. Grayson's mother was Amelia Crowne, who came from a wealthy WASP American family. Due to the disconnect from his father's side, most of John's Romani cultural practices come from his mother.

Bonus: just for funsies I had Dick be born in Brazil, he's not Brazilian ethnically nor culturally, but he does speak Brazilian Portuguese and has Brazilian citizenship. Haly's also picked up a Brazilian performer around the time Dick was born. They were the honorary uncle/nephew duo of Dick's early childhood and he made sure Dick grew up speaking Portuguese correctly (John was born in Portugal and spoke conversational European Portuguese). Thus, Dick has Brazilian, American, Mexican, and French citizenship.

Jason - Irish, Italian, Greek, WASP American, French Canadian, and Anglo-Australian

Jason's father (Willis) was born to a single teen mother in Gotham. She was the granddaughter of Greek immigrants, descendant of Irish immigrants a little further back, and has general WASP-y American ancestry as well from having been in the Northeastern US for centuries. She likely also has Dutch, German, French, and Indigenous American ancestry as well, but those are generations removed and irrelevant. Willis's father was never in his life, but he had French Canadian grandparents on his mother's side and WASP American on his father's.

Jason's mother (Sheila) was the granddaughter of a WWII vet and an Australian war bride on her mother's side. Her grandfather was the son of Southern Italian immigrants and her grandmother was an Anglo-Australian primarily, with 1 Irish immigrant grandfather. Sheila's father was basically just WASP American with a somewhat recent German immigrant grandmother.

Despite being the whitest mfer, he was a polyglot from an early age because he was always out interacting with his community. So he is very conversational/fluent in Puerto Rican Spanish (has been mistaken as Puerto Rican as a result, too, and this was him when he was told he wasn't actually Puerto Rican lol), knows quite a bit of Yiddish, Cantonese, Tagalog, and other languages. He picks up languages quickly.

Tim - German, WASP American, White Cuban (mostly Spanish, French, and Chinese)

Tim's father (Jack) is mostly WASP American and German, as his mother's parents were German immigrants. The Drake family is a more recent addition to Gotham's elite, but the ancestors had been in the Northeast (New York and north New Jersey specifically) for generations.

Tim's mother (Janet) is the daughter of Cuban immigrants, both parents having left Cuba as children. Janet's mother (Emilia) was mostly of Spanish and French ancestry, her family were Cuban elites that were able to recover their wealth in NYC. Janet's father (Alfonso) was biracial, his father was Spanish and his mother was mostly Chinese. His family was also very wealthy, but lost most of it in the exile. They had to rebuild their business in Miami.

Tim speaks Spanish, but not nearly as fluently as Jason. Janet mostly spoke English to him. Tim grew up mostly monolingual, the languages he speaks later are learned through study primarily. His Spanish, thus, is a mix of Cuban, Mexican (Dick), Textbook, and Puerto Rican slang and profanity (Jason).

Cass - Han Chinese (mainland China (South) and Malaysia), Malay, Irish, and WASP American

Cass's mother (Lady Shiva) was born in Malaysia to a Malaysian Chinese mother and a Chinese immigrant father. They moved to Guangzhou when she was very young. Her Malaysian Chinese mother had some Malay ancestry as well, but she was primarily Chinese.

Cass's father (David Cain) is the son of a Northern Irish immigrant and WASP Americans. That's about all I got, I don't give a shit about him lol

Damian - Arab (specifically Jordanian circa like half a millennium ago; Palestinian and Yemeni), Han Chinese, Miao Chinese, plus Bruce's ethnicities above

Damian's mother (Talia) was half Arab and half Chinese from both parents. Her father (Ra's) was born in what is now Jordan to parents from the region, one of which (his mother) was Han Chinese originally from Western China. His father was ethnically Southern Levant, Palestinian/Jordanian. Talia's mother (Melisande) was the daughter of an American mother with a Palestinian father and a Yemeni mother. Melisande's father was the American son of parents from Yunnan, he was Miao.

See Bruce above.

Duke - African American, Gullah, (maybe Mandika, it depends)

I don't fully understand what's going on with his bio dad (Gnomon), so Imma just ignore him and just do his mother. If he's an immortal metahuman, he's Mandinka from Senegal. If he's a non-human immortal being, then he's that ig.

Duke's mother (Elaine) is Gullah. She was born and raised in Georgia and later moved to Gotham, but she was very connected to her community and culture. She raised Duke in the Gullah culture at home, as well. She also taught Duke the Gullah language, it's his first language. As Duke grew up, the home became more bi-cultural (Doug is a Gotham native, so not Gullah and thus had different traditions and culture to share).

Steph - Scottish, Polish, Lithuanian, and Black

Steph's father (Arthur) is originally from Chicago, his father was the son of Scottish immigrants and his mother was the daughter of Polish immigrants.

Steph's mother (Crystal) is a native Gothamite, her father was unknown to her (he was mostly WASP American, but he did have a black grandmother) and her mother was the daughter of Lithuanian immigrants.

That's about it, I didn't include Alfred bc I just see him as ethnically English, maybe some Celtic ancestry (Welsh/Cymry and/or Cornish) and from the South of England.

Anyway, those are my headcanons! Let me know what you think if you want.

[scarlet97531]

Love these tags. Ever since we realized some of us had accidentally given ourselves secondary therian identities and started identifying as otherlinkers, the way it’s treated in therian and otherkin spaces has bothered us a lot.

We’ve come to dislike the overwhelming emphasis on “involuntary” experiences in defining all kinds of identities. The nature of an identity does not change because of it’s origin. If you identify as an animal you identify as an animal. Otherlinkers tend to have all the same experiences as therians do, the phantom limbs, the mental shifts, kin memories, species euphoria and even dysphoria. The only difference is where the identity comes from, and personally i dont think thats important enough to warrant being defined as something entirely different.

What i dislike even more than the separation of the communities on it’s own is the *reason* for that separation. The reason there is such an emphasis on involuntary experiences in the first place is essentialism. As in the belief that people are born a certain way and cannot change. This emphasis on involuntary experiences is an attempt to avoid being forced to conform by saying that conforming is impossible. The problem is that this does nothing to challenge the real problem, the source of bigotry itself, the belief that the norm is ideal and anything outside of the norm is bad until proven otherwise. The belief that if it is *possible* for you to conform then you should.

The problem with trying to conform to this belief by defining yourself by what you cant change is that it does nothing to help people that *can* change but dont want to. For example plural people, people with CDDs. The default treatment goal for plural people is final fusion, conformity, despite it being known that final fusion is very very flawed and for some systems outright impossible, often causing more problems than it solves. Meanwhile the *option* of functional multiplicity is right there, and much better option for most systems, and yet most professionals will not even mention it and it is often seen as “anti recovery”.

Making the *choice* to not conform is seen negatively by most of our society, so minorities try to frame their experiences as essential, something they were born with and cannot change, in an attempt to avoid being changed. In the process they throw voluntary, chosen, non essential identities under the bus, believing just like their own oppressors that anyone who has the choice to conform should, and anyone who doesnt is inherently *different*, and less “valid” for doing so.

Feel like we should normalize have a choice about who we are!

You choose to be a lesbian? That awesome!!

You choose to be a boy? Good for you, I hope you're happy.

You choose to be a paraphilia? That amazing!

You choose to be black? Amazing, come by if you want any tips for me.

You choose to have ADHD? That's great!

People don't have to go through dysphoria to know who the really are! You CAN be transgender be choice, you CAN choose your sexuality, you CAN be who ever you to be by CHOICE.

[cryptidvaquero]

wip wednesday? don't mind if i do

here's an excerpt from a park ranger/bear shifter! john price/waitress! reader fic im writing

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You liked the evening shifts for a few reasons. Usually, the crankier older residents retired at 7 pm when the sun had barely started to set; thank God for that. Things were quieter, more laid back. You didn’t get paid shit, but at least no one would wish death upon you and your lineage for bringing them a plate with eggs over easy instead of garnished with liquid-fucking-gold.

And your final, favorite reason? You hear the jingle of the bell, and here he is.

“Hey John. Rough night?”

Your manager greets the rugged-looking man who walks through the door. Six-foot-something, brown hair and beard, built like a brick shithouse, and dressed like a damned lumberjack. Like clockwork, local park ranger John Price blesses your godforsaken job at 11:00 pm and leaves within the hour.

It’s the best 30-45 minutes of your shift.

John gives a rough grunt, nodding his head in greeting toward your manager before making a beeline to his favorite corner booth. Rough night indeed.

“He’s in your section, hon. Don’t forget he likes his t-”

“-Likes his tea unsweet. Yes, I know.”

He gets the same thing each time. Unsweetened iced tea, two waffles, a batch of scrambled eggs, three pieces of bacon. The guy eats like he’s starving, yet he’s built like he climbs trees and catches fish with his bare hands. Hell, he’s a park ranger, he probably does.

You disappear into the back, pouring an unsweet tea before ushering it out to John’s table.

“Hey! How are you tonight?” Same song and dance, same fake smile. The life of a food service worker. John glances up at you, drowsy blue eyes sitting under thick eyebrows. The corner of his lips tilts up in a similarly forced smile, and he gives you a nod.

“S’Alright,” he grumbles. His voice is deep and growly - it’s like he’s perpetually stuck in a post-cigarette bedroom voice. Which, of course, you don’t mind in the slightest. He could read off a ransom note and you’d probably swoon. You place the unsweet tea in front of him and he eyes it like water in the middle of a scorching desert.

“Same as usual? Two waffles, scrambled eggs, three-”

“Ah- uhm. No, actually. A bit different tonight.”

Your eye twitches, an instinctual response to being interrupted by a customer. John doesn’t notice, he’s too busy looking out the diner windows toward the treeline. You’d think he’d leave work at work, but apparently, old pines are interesting enough to warrant his lack of conversational engagement. He’s a grown man, you tell yourself, it’s kind of how they are.

You tear off the ticket you were already writing down, stuffing the crumpled yellow sheet in an apron pocket before placing the tip of your pen on the new sheet. “Alright,” you huff. “What’s it gonna be tonight?”

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“Jesus fucking Christ, kid.”

The cook in the back looks at the ticket, his eyes growing as wide as saucers. An hour before closing, and he’s practically cooking a Thanksgiving feast.

“This is John’s order? John Price? The same guy we see almost nightly?”

You throw your hands up in exasperation.

“That’s what I was thinking, Phil! I wrote down his usual and everything, and he interrupts me and proceeds to order half the goddamn menu!”

  Phil hangs up the ticket in front of him, and you can see the chicken scratch you quickly applied to the paper, almost completely covering it. John had ordered… and kept ordering. It’s not like you’ve never dealt with large orders before, but from park ranger John Price? This was completely out of his norm.

The back door opens and shuts, and a younger line cook walks in smelling like cigarettes.

“Hey, Alex, come look at this!” Alex shuffles in, looking over Phil’s shoulder. You watch as his eyes go from indifferent to indignant. “Are you fucking kidding me? It’s an hour till closing and

you’re serving a party? Tell them to go the hell ho-”

“No no no- this is John, man. Mr. Price. Can you even believe it?”

Alex looks from the ticket and to you. You watch as his lips move under his mustache, like he’s trying to get some sort of response out. Phil just pats him roughly on the back before hanging the ticket on the line.

“Let’s get started, bud. Mr. Shepherd’ll have our asses handed to us if we don’t close on time.”

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It’s about 11:45 pm. About 25 minutes ago, you had to pull out the old dolly like some sort of dumbass to push out the huge order to John. He owed you for that. He really fucking did. And now, 25 minutes later, the entire fuckass meal is gone. Nowhere to be found. He ate it all.

Perched behind the counter, you pretend to wipe things down while Alex comes out of the back of the house. He perches next to you, shoulders bumping together. He smells a bit like bacon grease and menthol.

“You think we can add gratuity to his check?” He murmurs.

“Do you wanna be the one asking Herschel ‘we-go-way-back’ Shepherd to upcharge our regular?”

Alex purses his lips, head nodding back and forth. Finally, he settles on a comfortable “no,” before stalking back into the kitchen. With a sigh, you toss the rag you were holding to the side and push yourself from the counter. You walk to the back of house to ring John up, emerging shortly thereafter and slipping it on his table. “You gonna need anything to go?” You’re not really sure why you asked - he ate enough to sustain a damned bear for the winter. If he asked for anything to go, you might punch him.

Lucky for you, he shakes his head.

“No ma’am,” he says, his voice gravelly.

You feel a bit guilty, then. All he was trying to do was order a meal, but you’ve been groveling all evening over walking a couple of plates in his direction. For all you knew, he could’ve missed lunch or something, too busy doing… whatever the hell a park ranger does.

He’s not very chatty tonight, either. Usually, you can fish a bit out of him if you bat your eyelashes and don’t look too busy. He doesn’t mind small talk if he doesn’t feel like he’s getting in your way. But this whole night has felt like pulling teeth.

“Alex made a joke about charging you gratuity for that meal of yours,” You laugh.

The joke quickly slips and falls flat when John looks at the check with a blank expression. Lord almighty.

“Sorry for the trouble,” He replies.

You want to tear your hair out. Does he actually think you were trying to guilt-trip him? Jesus Christ, you want to go hide in a hole and quit forever.

“No no!” You raise your hands to wave off his apology. “It was a joke. He was just being a dick, y’know?”

John reaches for his wallet, tucked away safely in a Carhartt jacket that’s seen better days. He slips his card to you, and you know that it’s time to run off before you say another stupid thing.

Alex and Phil are ragging on each other when you scramble to the back of house, and Phil flashes you a grin. However, your mood is soured. You punch in the numbers and get John’s receipt before they can try and drag you into one of their stupid conversations.

“Here you go,” You mumble, handing John his receipt and card back. Your throat itches with the compulsory ‘thank you for coming, have a good night,’ but you hold it back. Putting on another smile might just make you sick to your stomach tonight.

John rises from his seat, stuffing his card back in his wallet and then his jacket. He nods in acknowledgment, stepping from the booth. He’s taller than you by a long shot as he stands, and he’s even hunched over a bit. If he’d stand up straight, he’d practically cast a shadow over you.

“You have a good night, love. Drive safe.” The most words he’s spoken all night, and they’re telling you to be safe. In that growly accent of his. He’s not even making eye contact, practically bristling at the prospect of socialization, but you feel like your knees are about to give out just from his words.

“Yeah,” You breathe. “You too, okay? Watch out for animals in the road.”

Mentally, you compartmentalize a thought that says buying a book on local wildlife to talk about with him next time is a good idea. It might be a bit weird, but he’s a bit weird. He’d probably dig it.

John nods, finally meeting your eyes as that caterpillar of facial hair quirks up in a small smile.

“Bears right now, mainly. Most know better than to run around the roads, though.”

Why the hell is that little fact enough to make you starstruck? You barely muster a nod before he’s out the diner door, the bell ringing behind him and signaling that the last customer of your shift has left.

[gatorbites-imagines]

I’m SO in love with your Dick x Wally x male Thanagarian reader HCs! I’ve read through them multiple times, and they’re stuck in my head 🥰🥰💖💖💖

I wasn’t the one who requested it, but would I be able to ask for more from them, with a mix of SFW and NSFW HCs? 🙏

Dick Grayson x Wally West x Thanagarian male reader

Headcanons

I’ve been stressing about my job situation since I quit my internship, as I still need an income, and all job postings around here I can do start in April. So, like any healthy person, im ignoring these feelings by writing.

You guys dating wouldn’t change too many things, as you guys were already close and spent a lot of time together. You guys become a lot more affectionate, which is new for you but not for Dick and Wally as they had already been dating for a long time.

They plan most of the dates in the beginning, as you are still trying to figure out what would work for your human lovers. Thanagar has different traditions and habits, so humans being so lax and creative is new even after this long.

Dick and Wally are both giddy when you decide to plan a date all on your own. You end up stressing yourself way too much, wanting it to be perfect, that you get help from some of the other titans.

I think your boyfriends would be happy with anything, even just going to your hideout and sitting around eating pizza and watching a movie. But seeing all the effort you put into it makes them happy.

On your guys one year anniversary, you give them rings made out of nth metal, possibly even made from small pieces of your wings, so you are always with them in one way or another.

This makes Wally and Dick both pout as they now think their gifts arent good enough. Of course, you don’t think so, anything they’ll give you is good, but they want to do something as meaningful as you did.

Expect something personal and sweet in the coming days. It doesn’t have to be expensive or anything, but its something that means something to all of you. You just feel flustered about it, but accept the pampering.

They of course don’t go beyond your boundaries, something you return as well, since you love your boyfriends as much as you can and they love you in return.

You don’t have any family on earth, there’s Carter and Shayera, but they aren’t really your family and you guys have different values. Luckily for you, your boyfriends have active families. It takes longer for the bats to welcome you, but at this point you’ve been on earth long enough to be trusted.

When it comes to the bedroom, Wally and Dick are much more comfortable than you are in the beginning. They already know each other inside and out, literally, and the first times you feel almost like an outsider.

They obviously don’t allow you to feel left out, and the first times you guys sleep together is a lot of just learning each other, figuring out what feels good and what you are all comfortable with.

I like to think Wally asks about you wearing your wings at least once when you guys are doing it, and you counter it by saying he should keep the flash suit on then. You hadn’t expected him to do it, but he does. Dick ends up doing it too, wearing the Nightwing suit. And who wouldn’t love that.

It lets you live out a couple of fantasies you’ve always had but never allowed yourself to indulge in, since you didn’t want to disrespect your friends and their relationship.

It’s pretty lethal to not have just one boyfriend with a lot of energy, but two. And one of those boyfriends has little to no rest between rounds. I could imagine Dick jokes about how its good that you came along, so you can switch out who’s fucking Wally so the other can rest.

They both love hickeys and you leaving them on them, since the whole being marked by you gets their blood pumping. They both love leaving them just as much though, so you end up starting to wear a high-collar outfit when you go out as your crime fighting persona.

It can be hard to find time where all three of you can spend personal time together. Theres always something going on in your personal cities, so there is a lot of one on one time. But I can imagine you guys make a habit out of calling whoever isn’t there, and letting them listen through their earpiece, if possible.

It gets kinda awkward for Dick a couple of times where the other bats, mostly Babs, checks in on his comms, only to hear Wallys needy gasping and whimpering and your deeper grunts and groans, as you describe in crude detail what you are doing to your shared boyfriend.

Babs might even be a bit impressed that Dick can keep up with his usual flips and kicks, taking out criminals like usual, and not letting what hes hearing distract him.

When he finally finishes up and gets back to wherever you guys are, Dick would dive right in, even if you and Wally had already washed up and were cuddling.

Luckily Wally is always raring to go, and it’s easy to get you worked up, just watching and listening to them. At the end of the night/early morning everyone is satisfied and happy, even if Wally has to be the one doing all the cleaning and morning cooking.

[celestiallystella]

can you do a fluff fic where reader is turned into a bunny and legend has to help them understand what's going on? No beastiality just helping understand things like urges to run and things diffrent from their hylian forms? -J

Im hyped to write this, tysm fr requesting!

Legend/Link × GN Reader

This one can be read as platonic OR romantic for your guys' relationship, though I personally envision romantic. Fair warning, he does laugh at you at least once </3

also, i dont know much about bunny instincts beyond dig?? burrow???? hop??? so.. 💀

Hope you enjoy!!

Legend is in quiet disbelief.

You're a bunny. A cute, fluffy bunny. Suddenly, he understands why Sky had been so quick to scoop Legend himself up and coo at him that one time, though he'll never admit that.

Honestly, if you weren't hyperventilating, Legend would be doing just that. As it was, you are hyperventilating, and Legend doesn't really want to find out how quickly a bunny passes out when it's hyperventilating.

Bending down, Legend reaches a hand out to you.

"...Hey," He says softly, glad none of the others are around right now. He'd rather not deal with teasing. He also isn't sure how you'd react to the teasing right now.

He remembers how startling it was for him to be forced into the wrong body, of a different species.

He's relieved to see your eyes pin to him, big, round eyes. He has a feeling if you were in Hylian form, you'd be crying.

"Can I pick you up?" Legend asks, voice quiet, and an inexplicable sense of relief washes over him as he watches you stumble forward, panicking more as you fall over yourself.

He scoops you up carefully, "You're okay," He says, chin placed on your fluffy little head.

"I can't..." He sighs, "We've gotta get you calmed down. You're okay. I've got you," Legend says quietly, "You're safe, we'll get you turned back. You're okay." He repeats.

His hand gently runs through the fur of your side in short little bursts, gentle and slow. It works, slowly, and you're breathing stutters into something more normal for bunnies.

"There you go," Legend says, "There you go.." Legend sighs softly, and a small smile appears as you press your fluffy little face against his neck.

"Can you speak?" He asks, trying to figure out if you were like Twilight in that sense or more like him.

A little squeak is his response, and he takes that as a resounding no.

He refuses to sigh. Instead, he hums, "Well, don't worry. We've just got to make our way back to camp and I can give you a moon pearl. I.." He does sigh this time, "I've been turned into a rabbit before too, and that turns me back."

You squeak again, and he pulls you away from his chest. He holds you out at arms length, sees you aren't panicking, and lets a shit eating grin appear on his face.

"Fuckin' bunny," He teases, and watches as you kick your legs, "Floppy ears." He says, huffing out a laugh before tucking you close, "Least you aren't pink."

You squeak again, near inquisitively, and Legend rolls his eyes, "Yeah, I was a pink rabbit." He confirms, before scowling, "Don't go telling anyone, I don't want them to know."

You headbutt his chin gently, and Legend moves his head to kiss in between your ears gently. He'd be embarrassed about it if it wasn't for the fact that you were just so cute.

"You wanna keep this a secret?" He asks, not at all able to judge.

You nod, and he hums, "...Want me to set you outside of camp and go get my bag?"

You don't nod again, but you don't shake your head. You're still for a moment, thinking it over, Legend is sure.

In the end, you shake your head, and Legend huffs, "How do you want me to get my bag and keep this a secret at the same time, huh?" He asks, despite knowing damn well you can't answer it. You know it too, given the dramatic little sigh you let out.

Legend hesitates, "..Listen," He starts, "I know it's scary, being this defenseless, but you'll be okay on the edges of camp for a moment. I'll make it quick, okay?" He assures, voice near a murmur.

It takes a while for you to respond, and in the meantime he starts walking back towards camp. You guys weren't that far away from camp, so he made sure to drag his feet while you thought.

You squeaked eventually to get his attention, and gestured with your little hand (aww!) to a tree. Legend blinks, frowns, and looks between you and the tree. It dawns on him after a moment.

"...Are you asking me to put you in a tree?" He asks incredulously.

You nod.

Legend caves.

He ends up setting you on a branch you near cling to, little tail twitching. Legend has to bite back a laugh at you, before walking back into camp.

He's careful to act relaxed as he crouches by his bedroll and grabs his smaller pouch.

No one pays him any mind, just as he figured they wouldn't, and he walks back out of camp without issue. He does feel eyes tracking him, though he ignores it easily enough. The others know if there was a serious issue he'd just tell them most of the time, so whoever it was shouldn't follow him.

Legend pauses beneath the tree, looks up at you, and holds his arms out.

You squeak, a terrified little noise, and Legend huffs. "You'll be fine. I'll catch you." He promises.

You shake your head, tail twitching, and Legend rolls his eyes, "So what? You don't trust me now?"

He watches as you pause, blinking at him. He can almost imagine the offended look you'd have on your face before you jump at him. Legend makes good on his promise, catching the fluff ball you now are.

"See?" He says, crouching to set you in the grass. He digs through his bag, "Told ya I'd catch you."

You shuffle closer, and he absentmindedly pats your head. Pulling out the moon pearl, he sets it in front of you.

In no time at all, you're back in Hylian form, shuddering a bit.

"That was awful," You complain, and Legend snorts.

"Tell me about it."

Your eyes narrow a bit, amusement growing and slowly lessening the quiet unease clear on your face, "Pink bunny?" You tease.

Legend's face flames and he gently shoves you, "Oh, shut it. Let's go tell everyone to avoid over there since there's dark magic over there."

Your quiet laughter threatens to make a smile appear on his own cheeks as you two make quick work of ducking back into camp to tell the others.

----

The next time you end up as a bunny, Legend doesn't laugh at you as much and you don't panic as much either. He's grateful for that at least.

On the plus side, the two of you have been separated from the others in Legend's own Hyrule, so Legend's a lot more comfortable fucking around and helping you figure some stuff out.

You are, also, much more comfortable it seems the second time around. That's even more relieving to see, if he's being honest. He hates how much your anxiety affects him and causes him anxiety, but it's not too surprising. Despite his claims, he really is awfully empathetic and he cares a lot.

...Anyway, once making sure that everything was a-okay, he's tossing a moon pearl in your general direction.

The silence is loud, before a little squeak makes him look over at you properly. You shake your head, and Legend frowns a bit.

"What do you mean no? You've gotta turn back."

You nod, but then shake your head, leaving Legend all the more confused.

Huffing, he walks over and crouches down in front of you, "Okay, listen here," He says, flicking your forehead as gently as he could, "You can't stay as a bunny, weirdo."

You squeak, loud and followed by a few more little sounds, sounding angry. He laughs a bit, finding himself endlessly amused.

You hop over to an area that had more dirt than grass, and started drawing what he could recognize as a clock. He frowns as he watches you circle a time and tap your foot.

"...So, that's now?" He asks, and you nod before drawing a line inside the clock along the curvature of it. You tapped that part of the clock.

Legend frowns, trying to figure this out. It'd be easier if you were human, but you aren't.

"...Later?" He asks with a frown, that quickly deepens when you nod, "You want to turn back later?" You nod again, and hop over to him.

Legend scowls, "No way, I'm no-" You cut him off by jumping up at him. It wasn't like you were heavy, you were a bunny, but it did catch him off guard and result in him sitting on the ground holding you up.

"Why?"

You look over at the clock you drew, and Legend scowls, "You'll tell me later, then?"

You nod, and he sighs, setting you down. You twitch a bit, sitting back on your hind legs. You mime digging, and Legend has a general idea of what you're getting at.

He stands up, scooping you up as he goes, and walks into the woods. They were safe, he knew that much, which is really all he needed at the moment. Setting you down, Legend hesitates a moment before sighing.

"Okay, so, you wanna dig, right?" He asks, humming at your nod. "You should be okay to start digging here," He explains, before his cheeks flush a bit and he sighs, "I.. well, it'll probably turn into you wanting to dig out a full den, so we'll be here a while."

You tilt your head at him, and a small smile appears on his face at the cute action. "I did it one of the first times I ended up as a rabbit." He explains simply, before leaning against a tree.

--

He doesn't know when he fell asleep, but he isn't upset about it. Legend didn't have any dreams, thankfully, so it was a peaceful little nap.

He comes face to face with a dirt covered bunny, curled up on his lap. He laughs quietly, and it seems to startle you, because the next thing he knows you're jumping off of him. Your eyes are wide as you blink up at him, and Legend laughs louder this time.

You don't seem bothered by this at all, and instead start jumping around him. He rolls his eyes, groaning as he pulls himself to stand up. You're clearly in an energetic mood, hopping ahead before zig zagging a bit so he can catch up without having to run.

How considerate, he thinks, amused.

Legend catches up, and then blinks as you kick yourself forward quickly towards him. You pause afterwards, blinking, and Legend's smile isn't able to be contained, amused and teasing.

He crouches in front of you, back yelling at him, though he ignores that. "Awh, you're so happy," He says, half teasing but entirely amused. Thrilled, one might even say. Legend's hand pick you up gently, and he's (for once) not at all ashamed to admit he's just cuddling you close.

You squirm a bit after a moment, and he sets you down again. You stand on your hind legs for half a second to make a vague gesture at his hip, and he understands immediately.

Legend takes out the moon pearl, dropping it down for you to grab, and then watches as Hylian you makes a reappearance.

His shit eating smile doesn't fade, only growing a bit brighter at the red on the tips of your ears.

I really did enjoy writing this, so again thank you for requesting this! I envision any future stunts pulled as a bunny for either of you include plenty of obligatory snuggles before you help the other turn back.

was half tempted to make legend a bunny for the second half there, but if i did that i wouldve struggled to find an ending point, i wont lie, so </3

(if youre wondering what the jump was, according to my rabbit/bunny obsessed friend: "buns do this specific jump when theyre really happy, here look! it's called a binky!" and then she showed me this video. is it true? idk, but it got used here, shrug)

hope you enjoyed!! <3

[bealidiscope]

💿 • 𝓱𝓾𝓰𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮

𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻

☆ chan x idol au f!reader fluff

☆ established relationship

☆ y/n is worried that when she helps chan produce she keeps messing up

☆ TW : hugging, kissing, flirting, self doubt , pet names , angst, crying , y/n breaks down

chan and you loom over his laptop ,it’s 3 am, this is the 3rd time this week u have been up this long with chan. do you mind? not a single bit, in fact you cherish every moment seeing your amazingly talented boy friend perfecting the songs for skz’s newest release. even if you don’t say this to a single soul, you have got to admit chan in his cozy hoody, beanie, perfect chocolate brown curls slipping out of it and his bare face, is just perfect to you, hot even.

he passes you your signature light pink gel pen as he asks, “y/n baby, can you see if you can help me write this verse? i just can’t seem to get it right.” “of course channie” you answered back reassuring him you will make the perfect verse, you stare at the paper, reading over chan’s lyrics. you grab your note book writing down multiple ideas then stare at it further more, again re writing your ideas, an extra word maybe, a ryhme or maybe even a completely different line, you think to yourself, intill you give up. you scribble it out ,causing the paper to tear. chan hears the massively loud rip of paper, he immediately spins his chair to face more in your direction.

“baby are you okay?” he inquired full of care as well as plenty of worry, “yeah yeah, im fine. my finger slipped and i accidentally ripped the page sorry my love” your voice full of doubt and anger, anger at yourself for not being able to write a song, who even were you if you couldn’t write a song? did chan deserve someone as truly utterly talentless as you? thoughts raced through your head, your eyes slowly welling up. until you broke, sat there next to your boy friend, wondering if your even good enough to be his girlfriend, or as he always swore his future wife.

he immediately grasped you in his arms, his heat pulling you back to reality. “y/n? i know your aren’t ok please just tell me what’s wrong?” he asked trying to stay calm and composed. he hated seeing you like this. you didn’t say a single thing, not even a single shake of the head, you just further nuzzled you head into his chest,still sobbing. chan grabs the notepad discreetly while he still holds you close. he reads between the scribbles as well as he can.

“y/n angel, this all can’t be about your writing, right? your song writings amazing and perfect just like you, please just look at me baby” he whispers whilst he besties a sweet gentle kiss on your temple. you finally look up, when he gives u get another kiss, further snaking one arm around your waist, the other around your shoulder.

“im sorry baby… im sorry that i just can’t write anymore, you don’t deserve this im sor-“ you remark, only to be shushed by chan like always .”no no y/n, do you know how much i love you, how special you are to simply put it, your irreplaceable. i’ve never loved another the way i loved you baby. please never say that, your perfect, talented, beautiful and so sweet, please never forget that!” he insisted, deeply saddened by the thought of you thinking so low of yourself, lifting your face up slightly. “i literally adore you, your my forever and always my love. im so so lucky to have you, you could of picked anyone else, but you picked me and that just makes me the luckiest and happiest boy ever, babe” he mentioned affectionately.

you two should there for a minute, blushing, yet still intertwined.

when finally he sat you down on his chair, crouched down, whispering in your ear, “i love you y/n please don’t forget that”. you immediately cocooned him in a hug constantly showering his face with kisses, intill you were out of breath. “i love you too chan, i love you more than you will ever, ever know”

🤍

ー　by 　bealidoscope 🌱

comment below to join tag list!!

💿 @hyuneskkami

[vaugely10]

AGHEUAGHAO9HGO9 PIRATE AU!

Maybe I missed something, idk, but you mentioned the divorce quartet in another ask (not by me btw) and I was wondering why each of them are up for bounty? Are they all pirates, or did they each commit different crimes? Like, Cleo as an arsonist or Scott organizing large scale heists or something?

Love this concept and very excited for if/when you make this a fic if you haven't already

the divorce quartet were all apart of a pirate crew together, although each had a history of crime before meeting each other.

cleo and scott were always a pair, committing petty crimes at first, simply to get by in life, which eventually escalated to major raids of navy bases and burning down ships and hideouts of rival pirate crews. they are the ones to invite martyn and pearl to the crew, who each had quite the infamy as well.

martyn definitely has the least bounty compared to the others, but that doesn't mean it's not high. the only reason it's lower than his fellow crewmates is because he's just very good at not getting caught, so the navy can only pin him on so many crimes.

pearl's crimes are...complicated. yes, she does commit them, she would tell you that herself. however!! she didn't commit all of them. she, at first, only did what she had to. steal some bread here..take a sword there..which, nobody caught her doing, and if they did catch her, shes fast enough at running, so it's all fine..fast forward a few years of "borrowing" food, it seems that someone in her town has robbed the community bank, but not like she had any gold in that bank in the first place, so it's all good..

except when the townsfolk start pointing fingers at her. people calling her evil, telling her "how could she," how she had her whole life ahead of her, telling the navy they saw her there..which, she wasn't there!! she doesn't know how to pick locks!! or how to rob a bank!!! but it doesn't matter, because people know she's been taking, and borrowing, and all the other things people like her need to do to survive. and people like her don't get a say in these things. so, from then on, shes decided if people are going to make her out to be this bad person, shes going to give them a real reason to think she's a bad person. so, during the dead of night, as the moon is at its peak, she sets the whole town ablaze. she steals a ship, and sails as far as the wind will take her, hoping the sea can drown out her sins.

and, on the topic of a fic, i don't actually plan on writing one. i enjoy writing dialogue, however im not very good at all the other things that come with writing a story, so ill be exploring the au through comics and illustrations :-)

[fog-covered-sekai]

im probably a system, at least it always feels like theres others in my head with me

h111 you dont know me but 1 was tell1ng one of my fr1ends about your sysfuyu post(1've become aware of a d1fferent presence? person? 1ns1de my head so 1've been look1ng 1nto th1ngs) but then they started to share some ant1 system thoughts w1th me like deny1ng the poss1b1l1ty of sysfuyu because theres "not enough alters" "that fandom 1s too young to know what they're all talk1ng about" "mafuyu doesnt even have the r1ght trauma to be a system" and 1t's been really upsett1ng.

1 dont want to start d1scourse on your blog, 1 just d1dn't know where to talk about th1s. 1 haven't been able to f1nd enough stuff to tell my fr1end thay they're wrong yet...

-Ra1nbow anon

Yeah your friend is full of bullshit and lets start with each one

1- "not enough alters" there's not a right way to be a system. We have 100+ alters (only about 20/30 front frequently) and have been invalidated for it, we also know systems of only two people, the definition of a system is "more than one personality". It doesnt matter how little.

2- "that fandom is too young to know what they're talking about" who made that post is 22 and is on college+know im a system for 4/5 years. I know what im talking about

3- "mafuyu doesnt even have the right trauma to be a system" there's no right trauma, our trauma was loneliness, and you can also be a system without even having a trauma, although you cant be diagnosed then. Doctors dont know everything about the human brain, so the possibilities of systems is unknown. Plus its literally a headcanon for fun who said it needs to be accurate?

I.. believe your friend is a sysmed, people who tends to think there's a right way to be a system, i dont think that would change even with stuff telling them otherwise, qnd im sorry you had to deal with that, i think if you try to change their mind start small, like not going straight for the trauma part becayse that.. theres a lot of syscourse around that, but the not enough alters could potentially change, if they get too angry though its best to just not mention it anymore.

And its fine, generally i dont like discourse but you're fine with this one anon