#You're not him but I appreciate your existence

[aquaticmercy]

Match

Summary : You finally found your intellectual match in Bucky Barnes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x rare book dealer!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : You and Bucky are nerds (affectionate), mentions of his past. Sexual tension-filled philosophical debate. DC comics exist in the MCU as literature as per the guardians Christmas special lol. Cursing? Steamy not smut. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 5.7k

Note : This fic was inspired by that one scene in FATWS where Bucky said he read the hobbit. I just really like the idea that Bucky really really likes to read. Enjoy!

Rare books were not just a job to you, but a vocation. You spent your days seeking out treasures, preserving them, and connecting them with people who could truly appreciate their worth. Your little shop was a haven of creaking wooden floors and shelves brimming with the worn spines of countless literary works, sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

It was your home.

On a quiet Tuesday, the bell over the door jingled.

At first, you assumed the man who walked in was lost or killing time— maybe a tourist who thought your shop was an antique or souvenir shop (you’ve gotten a lot of those over the years). 

He didn’t fit your usual profile of a customer—no tweed jackets or scholarly glasses. No suit and tie, no clean white blouse. This one was confident, albeit rough on the edges. His leather jacket and heavy boots belonged in a biker gang, his long hair brushing beautifully against his shoulders. But it was his left arm that drew your gaze—a sleek, black metal hand peeking out of his sleeve, rippling slightly when he moved.  

You recognized him instantly: James Buchanan Barnes. 

The former Winter Soldier. 

A man who belonged to history books and legends. Seeing him in person was... surreal. No article had prepared you for the magnetism he carried, no photo did him justice.

Still, you weren’t one to swoon. And you definitely weren’t about to let him see you staring a little too long into his steely blue eyes. 

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice calm and professional.

For a second, he seemed to weigh whether or not to answer. “I’m looking for a first edition of The Hobbit.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t what you’d expected. 

“It’s in the case over here,” you replied, recovering quickly. You led him to the glass display where one of your most cherished possessions lay nestled, secure and pristine.  

He muttered something like ‘just like I remember’ as he gazed at the book, his voice close to reverence.  

“Big fan?” you ventured, curious.

His lips curved up, into a faint smile. He nodded. “Always admired how he built entire worlds. The languages, the histories.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “He lived through hell in the trenches, too. And from that, he wrote something… hopeful.”

You hadn’t expected that depth of understanding, and your surprise must have been obvious. “What?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t think I’d be the type?”

This was going to be fun, you thought.

You shrugged, trying to suppress a grin, “you’re not exactly my usual Tolkien collector.”

That earned you a sweet, gentle chuckle. “I didn’t think I’d be either, but I’ve always loved books,” he admitted, “They were one of the only constants after...” His voice faltered, remnants of his past briefly flashing behind his eyes.

You didn’t press. Instead, you followed his lead, steering the conversation back to Tolkien. “You're right about the worldbuilding. He wrote a full mythology— linguistic and cultural foundations and all. It’s like he created an alternate history.”

“Exactly.” Bucky’s smile returned, brighter this time. It had been ages since Bucky had an engaging, meaningful conversation that wasn’t about mission planning, let alone about a book. The heated, faceless debates with internet strangers—each convinced they were ultimately correct—definitely didn’t count. “It’s that attention to detail— You don’t see that much anymore.”

After that, the two of you fell into a rhythm, talking easily for nearly an hour. About Tolkien’s works, his love for language, and the way war had shaped his narratives. You even mentioned how Tolkien’s own experiences in World War I echoed the camaraderie and loss found in his stories. Bucky nodded along, sharing personal observations that surprised you—not just because of their insight, but because of how much he genuinely cared.

Back in the day, everyone saw Bucky as the classic jock, and to be fair, he was. But beneath the effortless charm, he was a nerd at heart—fascinated by books, obsessed with science, and captivated by innovation. It was Bucky who had dragged Steve along to the World Exposition of Tomorrow, it was Bucky who was eager to see Howard Stark’s presentation on flying cars. Back then, the future had been his fixation. It had been out of reach— a world of endless possibilities. 

Now, he was drawn to the past. 

He’d fallen in love with reading again. After all, he had a century of literature to catch up on. And with the internet at his fingertips, he had access to more knowledge and stories than he could have dreamed of. 

40s Bucky would’ve had a heart attack from the sheer volume of information he could consume. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just chasing a vision of what might be—he was immersing himself in what already was.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to The Lord of the Rings. 

“Did you read the trilogy?” you asked.

He nodded. “Only a couple of years ago. I didn’t even realize it was published after… everything.” He paused, frowning slightly, as if reaching into the murky depths of his memory. 

Right. You did a quick mental tally based on the books you’ve read about him. The Hobbit was published in 1937, and The Fellowship of the Ring in 1954. Bucky was presumed killed in action in 1945 and captured by a terrorist organization. So, yeah—he’d missed it.

“Hydra,” you said the thought allowed before you could stop yourself.

You winced, bracing for impact. Oh no, you thought, have I crossed a line?

“You read about me?” he asked to your surprise, likely catching you deep in thought. 

You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though your heart still beat out your chest. “Superheroes are a popular topic for peer-reviewed journals and doctoral theses. There’s a whole academic subfield about the Winter Soldier— a lot about your role in the war, too.”

His expression was unreadable, but you thought you saw a flicker of something— amusement? Whatever it was, it eased the tension you had accidentally created, and the conversation resumed.

You’ve read plenty about Bucky Barnes—the sharpshooter of the Howling Commandos, Captain America’s trusted sniper. You’ve probably read more about him in the modern age: scholars debating the pardon of the Winter Soldier, professors discussing the Sokovia Accords— a conflict in which he’d been a major player in. You’d disagreed with the Accords, of course, but that’s a story for another time. 

Right now, your focus was on the man in front of you, talking about Tolkien and his wonderful languages. See, the peer-reviewed articles about him had painted a stark picture: a kind soul turned into a cold, unfeeling weapon. But they neglected to mention that even after everything, he was still a kind soul. In person, it was hard to reconcile the man before you with the image of a killer. 

The paper also failed to mention a pleasant surprise: his mind. You realised now that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a soldier; he was sharp, curious, a man who loved literature and sought out conversations that challenged him. It was something the world overlooked.

Yet it was there, just beneath the surface.

“Have you read the Silmarillion?” you ventured.

“I tried,” He grimaced. “Felt like reading a textbook. Not sure I even made it halfway.”

“That’s fair,” you admitted with a laugh. “It’s not the easiest read. But it’s worth it, I promise.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t shut the idea down, either.  

You made a snap decision. Reaching behind the counter, you pulled out your personal copy of The Silmarillion. It wasn’t a rare edition, but it was filled with your notes in the margins, a map you’d sketched for reference, and little Post-its marking key passages. “Take this,” you offered, holding it out to him.

He hesitated, not used to kindness from beautiful strangers. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. Hopefully the notes will make it easier. And don’t even worry about returning it,” you nodded, “It’s probably for the best. I obsess over it too much.”

He took the book, his metal fingers brushing against yours as he did, making your stomach flutter. “Thanks.”

“And if you’re curious about all those papers written about you...” You looked through bookmarks on your laptop, typing ‘James Barnes’ into the search bar. You jotted down a list of academic articles you’d read— some about his time in WWII, others about his unique role as a postwar icon. “Here. If you want to see what people are saying.”

He smiled that kind smile again, folding the paper carefully and tucked it into his jacket. “I appreciate it.”

When he left with the first edition of The Hobbit, your annotated Silmarillion, and your list of articles about him, you found yourself staring at the door long after it had closed, hoping it wasn’t the last time he’d visit your shop. 

—

Bucky started coming in more frequently, always buying another rare book— Hemingway, Orwell, Lovecraft. The pretense was paper-thin, though, and you both knew it. 

Sure, he enjoyed books, but by that point he knew he could’ve gotten cheaper copies on a bid online (rent in a big city was expensive)— and the books he bought weren't even that rare. 

Each visit turned into a lengthy discussion that carried you through the night, far past the shop’s usual closing time.  

One afternoon, he returned something unexpected: your well-worn copy of The Silmarillion. Admittedly, you’d  missed it—  its once-pristine pages now brimming with additional notations—his handwriting mixing with yours.  

“I had to,” he said, an almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Your notes made me see it differently. It felt like a conversation.” 

You opened it, thumbing through the pages, your eyes catching his commentary. He had sharp, incisive thoughts: challenging some of your interpretations, expanding on others, and sometimes adding playful jabs in the margins when he disagreed with your analysis.

“This is dangerous,” you said, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “Do you really want a debate about Tolkienian theology?”  

“I’ve got time, doll,” he said with a grin, settling onto the stool by the counter. Your cheeks flushed at the nickname, hearts doing backflips in your ribcage.

And so, that evening, you indulged in the mind of James Buchanan Barnes, exploring his thoughts and musings about Middle-earth. For the next two hours, the two of you argued about the nature of Ilúvatar’s creation, the Fëanor tragic story, and whether or not Morgoth represented a failure of divine providence.  

“I’ll admit,” he said at one point, leaning back and crossing his arms, “I wasn’t expecting it to feel so... biblical.”  

“It’s a way to think about creation through the lens of fantasy,” you replied, your voice softening as you traced your fingers over the book’s cover. “There’s a reason people get lost in it.”  

He watched you for a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile fading into something softer. 

It wasn’t the only time your conversations would take a turn like this. A week later, gothic monsters were your battlefield.

Bucky leaned against the counter, an old edition of Dracula he had just purchased in his hands, the worn leather squeaking as he shifted. His brow furrowed in that way that always made you wonder what he was thinking— though you had a feeling he was about to pick a fight, again.

“You’re out of your mind if you think Frankenstein beats Dracula,” he said, glancing up, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’m not saying they’re even comparable,” you countered, crossing your arms as you leaned against the opposite side of the counter. “They’re completely different genres. It’s not a fair fight. But if it were... Frankenstein wins. Hands down.”

Bucky chuckled, a low, warm sound that made it impossible not to smile. “You think that because you’re obsessed with sci-fi. If it’s got a fake scientist and a lot of regret, you’re sold.”

“And you think Dracula is better because it’s all dark and broody,” you shot back, arching an eyebrow, “sound familiar?” You smirked, mirroring his stance against the opposite side of the counter. “Besides, Frankenstein is a masterpiece—philosophy, morality, hubris—it’s got layers. What’s Dracula got? Melodrama?”

“Hey! Dracula has layers!” Bucky chuckled low in his throat, setting the book down. “It’s about primal fear, wrapped in ancient powers, wrapped again in the clash between tradition and modernity.”

“It is enjoyable, I must admit, but it’s just a glorified soap opera.” You groaned, though your lips twitched in spite of yourself. “Shelley’s work makes you think, you know? It’s art.”

“Art?!” he repeated, stepping closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “It’s a guy making bad decisions and spending the rest of the book dodging the consequences.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing. “It’s about responsibility! The monster is a reflection of Victor’s failure. He’s abandoned and searching for connection—”

“And whining about it,” Bucky interrupted with a smirk, folding his arms. “Dracula doesn’t whine.”

The playful sparring faded when it hit you.

Frankenstein’s monster was created without consent, shaped into something he never chose to be. He was cast out, left to navigate a world that saw him as a mistake. The monster was isolated— burdened by guilt—the question of whether he was defined by the harm he’d done.

“Does he…” you started, gulping, unsure of how he’d react to an outright observation. “Does Frankenstein’s monster make you uncomfortable?”

As you stepped closer, his expression faltered, his eyes dropping to the book in his hands. Slowly, he set it aside, the movement deliberate. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold surface of his metal arm before resting there gently. “Does it hit too close to home?” you asked.

He didn’t deny it. A quiet laugh escaped him instead. He shook his head. “You’re too damn perceptive for your own good,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a longing for something you couldn’t quite place.  

Your fingers moved in slow circles against his metal hand, and when it twitched beneath your touch, you knew he felt it—knew he felt you.  

“The monster was never the villain,” you said, a fragile offering meant to soothe him. “He just needed someone to see him. He can be kind, too.”  

His gaze lifted, locking onto yours, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. For a heartbeat, the world stilled. 

Then Bucky’s smirk returned, smaller this time, as he leaned into your touch as if he craved it. “Nice try,” he said, voice lighter but still soft. “You’re not winning this one. Dracula’s better.”

You laughed, the tension breaking just enough to let you breathe again. “You’re impossible, Barnes.”

—

You were afraid you had scared him off after that, but to your surprise, he returned a week later, albeit a bit bruised from a mission.  

You’d been reshelving old graphic novels that day (First Edition Hergé that you were quite excited by), the quiet hum of the shop wrapping you in comfortable silence, when you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye. His dark leather jacket hung slightly open, revealing a plain gray shirt that stretched just enough across his chest to draw your eyes. There was a faint cut near his jaw, still healing.  

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he approached. His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary. “You look beautiful today. Is that a new dress?”

Your breath caught, and a warmth crept up your neck as you glanced down at the simple, flowy dress you’d chosen that morning. “It is,” you admitted, looking back up at him with a shy smile. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Hard not to,” he murmured, his lips curving into a small, almost teasing smile before he turned toward the shelves.

You busied yourself with reshelving more books behind the counter, but you couldn’t help watching him out of the corner of your eye. His human hand traced idly along the spines, careful not to inflict damage. When he stopped, he plucked a rare-ish pocket 6th edition of Thus Spake Zarathustra from the shelf, his metal fingers glinting faintly in the light of the shop.

“You actually like this guy?” he asked quietly, lifting the book like he was sharing a secret.  

“Like is a strong word,” you said, stepping out from behind the ladder. His gaze caught yours, and there was a flicker of something playful in those blue eyes. Your pulse quickened, beckoning him to the counter. “He was no saint, but hardly anyone is. I… appreciate his contribution. It’s not his fault people misuse his work.” 

Bucky had witnessed it firsthand: fascists distorting Nietzsche's philosophy, disregarding its complexities, and twisting his ideas into a justification for genocide.

His lips turned upward, a lopsided grin that softened the sharpness of his jaw. His stance shifted, leaning against the counter with a practiced ease. His eyes flickered, taking you in, and when you crossed your arms, his gaze lingered briefly, enough to spark a bubbling heat beneath your skin.  

“You don’t think Nietzsche was a proto-fascist, do you?” you asked, tilting your head.  

“God, no,” he said quickly, amusement softening his voice. His grin spread, revealing the faintest cute dimple in his cheek. “I’ve read enough to know better. But I don’t exactly buy the Übermensch thing either. It’s too... self-centered for my taste. The whole idea of being ‘beyond good and evil’ feels dangerous.”  

“That’s fair,” you said, closing the distance between you as you reached for the book in his hand. Your fingers brushed his as you slipped it from his grasp, his touch warm, steady, almost deliberate. His eyes flickered down to where your hands had met. “There are many flaws in his thinking, but I don’t think the concept is inherently bad,” you continued, the air between you charged with tension. You tilted the book toward him, as though showing him something, though you both knew you weren’t really focused on the pages. “It’s about striving for a better version of yourself. I think he wanted people to create their own meaning, not follow blindly.”  

“Maybe,” Bucky murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He shifted closer, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet room. His metal hand rested at his side, the vibranium gleaming faintly as his other hand inched forward, almost brushing yours.  

His breath fanned your cheek as he leaned in, close enough now that you could see the stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes framed those blue eyes. “But there’s something so… wrong about thinking you’re the one who gets to decide what’s right,” he whispered, his voice like a secret meant only for you.  

He was close, dangerously so— that you could feel his breath on your nose.

The bell above the door chimed suddenly, breaking the moment like shattered glass. Dr. Hart, a lecturer from the local university, stepped inside, a bundle of papers tucked under her arm, and smiled in greeting.  

She was a returning customer, here to pick up a special edition of Conversation on Botany that you had tracked down for her.

“That’s $40, Mr. Barnes,” You took a small, steadying breath and waved at Hart with a thumbs up that said I’ve got your book.

His lips twitched into a knowing smile. Hr reached for his wallet, pulling out a few bills. As he handed them to you, his fingers brushed yours again.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised, his voice soft, almost teasing.

—

The tipping point came late one evening.  

You’d spent the last few hours catalouging a shipment of rare books, the shop’s air thick with the comforting scent of old leather, yellowing paper, and the faint hint of dust that always seemed to cling to ancient texts. The shop was silent save for the scratch of your pen against paper as you logged the latest arrival.  

The peace shattered with the familiar jingle of the bell above the door.  

“Shop’s closed,” you said without looking up, your voice automatic, your focus still on the fragile spine of a sixteenth-century text.  

“Good thing I’m not here to shop,” came the deep, unmistakable voice of Bucky Barnes.  

Your hand froze, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips. You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe with that trademark blend of casual confidence and smoldering intensity. His black Henley stretched across his chest, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms—a sight you tried not to dwell on for too long.  

“What are you here for, then?” you asked, arching an eyebrow as you tried to sound indifferent.  

“Conversation,” he said simply, stepping further inside.  

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you returned to your work. “You came all the way here just to talk?”  

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he teased, his lips turning into a sly smile as he perched on the edge of your desk. “I was in the neighborhood.”  

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother responding. Bucky always had a way of pulling your attention, and tonight was no different. You tried to focus on the delicate bindings in front of you, but his overwhelming presence was impossible to ignore.  

When he reached for a book from the nearby stack—a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius—you finally gave in.  

“Stoicism?” you asked, your tone light with playful mockery. 

He flipped the book open, his fingers grazing the thin pages. “You’re really surprised? I thought you’d figure that about me,” he said, glancing up at you with a hint of a challenge in his eyes. “Marcus Aurelius had a lot to say about self-control.”  

“And yet here you are…” you replied, gesturing to where he was leaning across your workspace, a soft furrow of amusement on your eyebrows. You decided you could be flirty— eyeing the undone button of his Henley, showing a hint of his skin underneath. “...testing mine.”  

The corners of his mouth curved. “Guess I’m doing my part to help you practice.”  

You shook your head, half-smiling. “It’s not just about self-control, now is it? It’s about accepting what you can’t change.”  

He tilted his head, agreeing with you. “Or a way to stop drowning in things you can’t fix.”  

From there, the conversation unfurled like a thread you couldn’t stop pulling. Philosophy, morality, the nature of good and evil—it didn’t take long before you were fully engrossed, debating with a ferocity that surprised even you. Bucky was sharp, quick-witted, and maddeningly good at challenging your points. Every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d counter with something so precise, so well-argued, that you couldn’t help but admire his mind.  

As the debate shifted, you sat on your desk, its surface cluttered with books that were hard to find, but not rare enough to be put in a glass case. Your focus was solely on Bucky, who was pacing the room with measured steps, his hands brushing against the edges of shelves every so often as though grounding himself.

“Alright,” you said, leaning forward, crossing your legs. “Here’s a question for you: Should Batman kill the Joker?” 

Slowly, he turned and walked closer to you, his shoes thudding softly against the floor. He stopped just short of your legs, leaning forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours, making your pulse quicken.

Oh, that piqued his interest.

“I should’ve known you’d bring up Batman.” Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk, eyeing up the first print of 90s DC comics in the corner of the room that hadn’t been there two days ago— a fresh delivery, perhaps? You were always very topical, and the recent restocks somehow always made their way into conversation.

“It’s a valid moral dilemma,” you said, straightening, your chin lifting slightly. 

He tilted his head, his expression a blend of amusement and challenge. “Why don’t you tell me?”  

“Of course he should,” You didn’t hesitate, the answer rolling off your tongue with absolute conviction. “The Joker is a mass murderer. Every time Batman spares him, more people die. His refusal to act is just as bad as pulling the trigger himself.”  

Bucky’s smile lingered, but his gaze grew darker, ever so slightly. “So you’re saying Batman’s refusal to kill makes him complicit?”  

“Yes,” you said firmly, leaning in slightly, the heat of the argument pulling you closer. “Batman’s morality is Kantian—rigid rules and all. But if he were more… utilitarian, he’d save more lives. The greatest good for the greatest number. One life to save countless others.”  

“That kind of math doesn’t scare you?” Bucky asked, leaning back as though to put some distance between you, though his eyes stayed locked on yours. “Once you start deciding whose lives matter more, where do you stop?”  

“It’s not about worth,” you argued, the intensity rippling from him unnerving but impossible to look away from. “It’s about outcomes. If you can prevent suffering, don’t you have a responsibility to do it?”  

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve. His jaw clicked a bit, tightening as he considered your words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, shyer.

“If that’s your stance, then maybe someone should’ve killed the Winter Soldier years ago.”  

His words hit you like a punch in the gut, your breath catching. The implication of his statement filled the room, coiling tight around your chest.  

“Bucky,” you said quickly, panic creeping into your voice, your fingers twitching toward him but freezing halfway. “That’s not—”  

The corner of his mouth curved into a small, fragile smile. “Relax,” he said, holding up a hand, his voice dipping into something gentler. “I’m not offended. This is just a debate, right?”  

“It’s not the same,” you insisted, your voice gentler, almost pleading. You stood from your desk, hesitation in your chest as you reached out— you were scared he might pull away, “you were brainwashed.” Slowly, you pressed your hand to his cheek, his stubble rough beneath your palm. It was a wordless apology—a pathetic attempt to comfort, to reach him where words had failed. 

To your surprise, he didn’t stop you. Instead, he leaned into your touch. 

Bucky, slid his arm around your waist, testing the waters. His eyes flicked to yours, searching for any sign of rejection, any hint that he’d crossed a line. But there were none. Instead, the subtle hitch in your breath and the way you leaned into him told him everything he needed to know.

He shook his head, rubbing soft circles on your hip as if to say you’re okay. This conversation is more than okay. “But in the grand scheme of utilitarianism, it shouldn’t matter, right? My life was a liability. More people would’ve been saved if I hadn’t been around to hurt them.”  

His words settled over you like a storm cloud. The silence stretched, your carefully crafted argument unraveling in the face of his lived experience.  

He leaned forward then, bridging the space between you, his arm pinning you in place. “Maybe I understand Batman better than most,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “Killing someone doesn’t always fix what’s broken. It just leaves you with blood on your hands.”  

Your throat tightened, the words sticking. He was too close now, the tension between you buzzing like a static current.  

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he heard it.  

“Don’t be.” His words were soft as he pulled you closer. There was always a hint of warmth in his eyes, an unspoken kindness you admired.

The room felt smaller now, more heated. You opened your mouth to respond, but his words had stolen all the air from your lungs.  

He leaned in, his voice dropping. “It’s easy to talk about morality in the abstract. But when you’re staring someone in the face—when it’s a real person, and not just an idea—it gets a lot harder to play God.”  

Shit.

He was right.  

Maybe utilitarianism wasn’t a steadfast rule. Maybe it couldn’t be, not when you factored in the messy, unpredictable depths of human existence. Lives weren’t just numbers to balance on a scale—they were stories, choices, pain, hope. And Bucky… Bucky was proof of that.  

Your thoughts churned as you looked at him.

You felt your conviction unravel. It wasn’t just that his argument was sound—though it was (infuriatingly so)—it was the way he’d delivered it, the personal truth lending it undeniable power. And that’s when it hit you. That’s why you found him so damn attractive.  

Sure, he was gorgeous. The sharp lines of his jawline, the piercing blue of his eyes, the way his Henley stretched over his shoulders like it had been designed with him in mind. But that wasn’t it. Not entirely.  

It was him. His humanity. His thoughtfulness. The kindness that softened the edges, the depth that came from wrestling with his own darkness and coming out better on the other side.  

And he was brilliant. For the first time, you felt like you’d met your match. Someone who met you on your turf and stood his ground, someone who didn’t just nod along or agree to avoid conflict. Someone who could challenge you, who could look you in the eye and make you see the world differently.  

You thought you’d built your worldview on unshakable foundations, but he’d cracked it wide open, and now all you could do was stare at him with the dawning realisation that this wasn’t just attraction. It was something deeper, something that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure.  

He wasn’t just a match for you physically; he was your intellectual equal—a rare kind of connection that made your pulse race and left your thoughts spinning.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think it through, you leaned forward and kissed him.  

It was impulsive—a collision of lips born from the fiery tension that had simmered between you for weeks. It was everything unsaid, every glance, every near touch that had lingered just a fraction too long, all boiling over in one moment. He froze for the briefest heartbeat, but then something in him snapped. His hands found you, pulling you closer, his grip possessive, almost desperate. Your hands made their way through the soft strands of his hair, landing comfortably around his neck.

The kiss, slow at first, quickly became frantic. Neither of you could get enough. The only thing that mattered was him—his lips on yours, his touch, the way his body pressed against you like a promise. 

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead rested against yours, his lips curled into a breathless smile. For a second, he could forget about everything that has happened to him. For a second, he was truly, utterly safe in your arms.

“I didn’t think you were the type to kiss someone in the middle of a moral argument about Batman,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his lips grazing yours with every word, sending shivers down your spine.

“And I didn’t think you’d let me,” you replied, your voice laced with a mischievous edge.

His eyes darkened, his smile widening just enough to make your heart race before he closed the distance again, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. This time, it wasn’t careful or calculated—it was raw, fervent, consuming. Your back hit the desk behind you, his hands sliding around your waist and around the curve of your bum, firm and deliberate, setting every nerve in your body on fire. 

“The books,” he mumbled against your lips, glancing at the teetering stack beside you, the volumes threatening to topple.

“I don’t care,” you said breathlessly, and to prove your point, you swiped the entire stack to the floor with a crash. The sound echoed, but you barely heard it over the roaring thump of your heartbeat in your ears. 

They weren’t too rare. You’ll just put them on the discount aisle tomorrow. 

His response was a low, guttural groan, his lips finding yours again, His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your head tilt back, exposing the sensitive curve of your neck. He didn’t waste the opportunity, his lips and teeth trailing along your skin, finding the spot just below your ear that made you gasp. 

“Did I manage to change your mind this time?” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and unsteady as his lips brushed against your jaw, then lower, tracing a heated path along your collarbone. 

You managed a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the veins under his skin, his muscles tensing under your touch. “Okay, so maybe ‘the greatest good for the greatest number’ isn’t always the best approach when you’re the one holding the short end of the categorical imperative,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire.

His laugh was husky, his hands lower to grip your thighs, pushing himself flush against you. “God, you’re something else,” he said, his lips finding yours again, this time slower, deeper, as though savoring you. When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “Do you want to go on a date?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “You’re seriously asking me that now?” you asked, breathless. With your hands trailing over the planes of his chest, his breath mingling with yours, it seemed a bit out of order, but you weren’t about to complain.

“Yes,” he said, his words dead serious despite the way his hands clutched at your shirt, his lips finding the hollow of your throat. He kissed the spot slowly, firmly, making your legs feel numb. “I mean it,” he added, his voice softer, yet no less insistent.

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him into another kiss, the kind that left no room for doubt about your answer. “Then yes,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing as you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “We’re going to have a lot to talk about.”

And boy, were you excited to talk to this man— a man who could turn the simplest circumstances into a philosophical debate, someone who wasn’t afraid to dispute your ideals. 

Someone who was your match.

“Later,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with need, his hands trailing up to tug his henley over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs, but you didn’t have time to appreciate it before he was kissing you again, his bare skin pressed against you as he lifted your shirt off. “We can talk later.”

-end.

[endearng]

Brave

Pairing: Spencer Reid x single mom!reader Summary: You're left all alone, but now you can think of some you want to share your solitude — and food — with. WC: 5.9k (I am so sorry) Warnings: brief mentions of Penelope's parents arch, grief and depression. A/N: Hello! I struggled so much trying to find time to finish this one. Let me know what you guys think! Feedbacks are highly appreciated! neighbor!au masterlist | main masterlist

Honestly, hearing your name leaving someone's lip usually made Spencer eager to know what was going on, if it involved you — of course, he knew that you shared it with many people, after all, there are 8 billion people existing at the same time, so he could definitely come up with statistics regarding how many of them shared names with you. Furthermore, he worked with humans, dealing constantly with their data, names included, so yours could definitely be pronounced by someone close to him.

He just didn't expect to hear a chant. Something about you and him sitting in a tree as Penelope approached him in the bullpen kitchenette.

"What was that?" He asked, eyes wide, once he heard Penelope's voice. She snickered.

She repeated the chant.

"Garcia!" His voice came out in a squeak, frantically looking around. "Shut up!" It wasn't in his nature to be so rude, but he was desperate for her to be quiet, especially because someone could hear her.

Emily, apparently coming from thin air, creeped up on them. "Spencer and who?"

"G—ah! Nobody!" He jumped from where he was standing, not expecting someone else to join them anytime soon, almost spilling his coffee.

"I caught our boygenius with a friend." Penelope announced, proud of her discovery.

"What?" Emily asked, shocked.

Once Penelope noticed that she revealed something she certainly should not have and she saw the look on his face, she slapped her hand over her mouth, wide eyes looking at Spencer in an apologizing manner. She was just so excited to finally see Spencer in that scenario that she basically ignored his wishes to keep it — whatever it was — a secret. "Thanks a lot, Garcia," he deadpanned.

"What? What friend?" Emily pressed, a smile on her lips. Not teasing, surprised, perhaps, but she didn't have any traces of mockery in her expression or tone. She looked... proud?

Penelope had started feeling bad for running her mouth too easily, but once she saw Spencer's lips turn upwards in a small grin, she gushed, "Yes!!! I went over to her house to give her daughter's gift, I am her godmother, after all... So I was knocking on her door—”

"More like banging." He interrupted.

"And from my spot, I see our boygenius not so subtly trying to disguise something. Do not look at me like that," she squinted her eyes and pointed her finger at him threateningly when he opened his mouth to speak. "You were stuttering and basically left her all by herself because you got too embarrassed."

"Oh, no, Reid..." Emily couldn't help her remark, pursing her lips.

"What? What did I do?"

Truth was, Spencer was replaying the interaction in his head the entire time after Penelope had left. He had stood there, at the sidewalk, dumbfounded and mortified by her remarks in your presence, not really knowing if he should go back to your apartment. He was definitely enjoying getting to know you, but it just felt wrong to go back and act as if nothing had happened because he had just gotten awfully weird. The man had struggled with himself, his thoughts conflicting between going back to yours or keeping to himself in his apartment. He decided on the latter, not willing to put himself through more embarrassment.

What if you didn't like him like that and you thought he was a creep now? What if you just saw him as a friend?

Worse, as a neighbor?

"You should've stayed. I know you probably got nervous, but what if she got the wrong idea once you dashed out the door when you were seen with her?" Emily inquired, but Penelope, despite not being a profiler, understood right away that she was onto something.

Her eyes glimmered.

Spencer's stomach dropped. "Oh, no..." he whispered softly. "I have to go."

And he basically fled the room.

The women exchanged playful glances.

"I knew it!" Penelope stated. She turned her head in the direction he ran to. "For a profiler, for a genius, he sometimes is so dumb."

"And just like that," Emily snapped her fingers, "IQ of 187 slashed down to 60." she snickered. Reaching for the coffee pot and pouring some of the liquid into her mug, she remarked, "There is definitely something," Emily laughed. "Do you think we should help him?"

"Don't worry," she winked at her friend, "I've got a few ideas."

Later that day, you got a call from Garcia. You were in your car, taking deep breaths and willing yourself not to cry out of frustration. The work shift had finished, officially, nearly an hour ago, but your boss held you back to discuss some projects that you were involved in. You had to call your dad to ask him kindly to pick up your daughter at school — you didn't see it coming, so you called him after about an hour of Olivia waiting by herself at school.

The unexpected meeting made you incredibly late and it turned your mood sour, because you always loved the car rides with Olivia after you picked her up, not to mention that she probably thought you had forgotten about her. Never. You had just started the engine when you heard your phone ring. You put her on speaker as you drove to your parents to pick up your daughter, who was now there. "Hi, Pen!" You greeted.

Despite the disaster, a smile crept up on your face when you remembered the last interaction you had with her. With Spencer…

"Hi, sweetcheeks!" She said back. You could hear the faint sounds of computers and keys being pressed in the background. "How are you?"

"I'm good, I guess. I had a surprise meeting so I couldn't get Olivia," you replied, eyes on the road ahead of you. "How are you, Pen?"

"Oooh, I'm sorry that happened. I know you're probably berating yourself for it, but it's okay, it wasn't your fault." She tried to lighten up.

"Yeah..." You muttered, a certain tightness in your chest you couldn't keep at bay.

"She'll understand. You are doing a fantastic job showing her the real world." Penelope comforted you. You blinked away emotional tears, grateful that the roads were calm and you weren't a reckless driver. You couldn't really speak, so she continued, "Actually, she is the main reason I called you." She revealed, making you chuckle wetly. "I really miss Olivia and I'm truly sorry I missed her birthday. I haven't been the best godmother in the world..."

"Don't worry about it." You dismissed it. "I always tell her you're a tech fairy who does magic with computers to save people. A real life hero," you chuckled. "She understands it." You whispered. Trying to keep that feeling in. Not sure if you were speaking to her or to yourself.

"I know, but, still..." She retorted softly.

Penelope frequently complimented you and Olivia. You tried your best to raise her to be a good, kind and smart person. Unbeknownst to Penelope, her comments made you remind you of right after you were left all alone with your daughter. The tech analyst didn't hear a word from you for days, but once she visited you and saw the place without a single trace of Olivia's dad, she understood it all. You kept silent, still trying to adapt to a world where you were lonely again. Despite the odds and unwillingness to open up to her, you kept talking to your daughter, even if she didn't truly understand it all. From her early years, you made sure to provide her everything she needed to speak like she does now.

Your own personal chatterbox.

A titter broke through you, "I sure hope so." You replied, rubbing your eyes at a red light. "I also hope you know I'm driving and I can't cry right now," you joked.

"Ah, right! Sorry, baby!" She exclaimed clumsily, true Penelope style. "All of this to ask if I can spend some time with her on... on Friday! Yes!" She paused and then continued.

"Friday?" You asked, uncertain. "That's usually when we go out together."

"Yeah, and I'm sorry for taking it away from you, it's just that I..." second pause on her speech, "I wanna make it up for missing her birthday and I seriously hope that creepy guys give me a break so that I can spend some time with our Oli girl." She finished.

Still uncertain and the tiniest bit jealous, you relented. "Okay, Pen. May I ask you where you are taking her?"

"Well... it's a surpr—we are going to an amusement park!" She paused and then squealed and you could hear clapping.

You snickered, joking along, "It's your funeral."

"I'll die a happy woman. That's all, sweetcheeks! Thank you so much! Gotta go. Prrr."

And just like that, she hung up on you. Little did you know, she and Emily Prentiss high-fived and made ridiculous noises to celebrate the execution of their mastermind plan taking shape.

Penelope Garcia, the singular rollercoaster of emotions that you are.

Back in the bullpen, Spencer focused on his reports — not that it was a difficult task, but he felt cornered by Emily's outlook from earlier. Had he done the wrong thing? If he did, could he fix it? He wasn't the most experienced man in the world when it came to dating and women in general. He was on the brink of insanity, nearly going up to Hotch for advice. He ruled out Morgan immediately because he knew he couldn't get tips from someone who would definitely tease him, in a manner that felt lowkey demeaning.

Spencer had a lot of insecurities, and being socially awkward in his mid-twenties was one of them. Next to Morgan, he felt like a fourteen-year-old who didn't even know how to properly say hi to people. He needed some words from someone who understood him.

But who did?

Wrapping up one of his reports, his phone beeped.

Come to my lair. Treats are on the table :)

Penelope

Cautiously approaching the door, like there was a bomb inside, Spencer opened the door to Penelope's office. "Okay, so I know you were upset and maybe you still are a little because I spilled your... um... moment to Emily but I wanted to say sorry and ask you to please not be mad at me. I was just excited for you and I knew Emily would be, too." She blabbered once he closed the door behind him.

His ears turned pink and he tried playing it cool by reaching for one of the cookies that were in a bowl. "It's okay, Garcia. I was upset for a moment, but I know you didn't mean it."

She smiled. "Glad to hear that! Thank you, Reid."

He leaned his body on the desk adjacent to her, crossing his arms over his chest. He cleared his throat. "So, um, how do you know her?"

"We met in college. She had my back when my parents... you know."

A pause. He hated that he, sometimes, lacked the sensitivity to approach people and that, despite being brightly intelligent, often missed possible outcomes for more personal conversations.

"I'm... I'm sorry I asked. I know it can be a delicate topic." He offered her a sympathetic smile, even though he was berating himself on the inside.

"It's okay. Thank you." Garcia smiled. "She always checked on me, made sure I was eating properly, that I wasn't... harming myself... She even went over to my dorm to tidy everything when I was too depressed to get out of bed." She took a deep breath. "I swear, Spencer. She was there. And we had just met." She finished, softly.

If Spencer admired the person you were before, now he was almost tongue tied, not having the wits to come up with a comment of his own. It truly shocked him, because, one: his experience with college kids had been totally different, of course, but two: what kind of person goes out of their way, even when dealing with their personal burdens, to help someone they just met?

Garcia searched his face. A small smile on her lips starkly contrasted with her crestfallen eyes. "Shortly after her graduation, she got married and, later, pregnant with Olivia. I was still around, on and off. I joined the FBI and had less and less time to hang out, but I always had and always will have a soft spot for her. She was there for me."

He couldn't help but want to know more. He knows it should be better to learn about you from you, but, right now, he was handed an opportunity he couldn't deprive himself from grasping, "Wow. That's-That's a lot of history." He said, in a low voice, a little hesitant.

"Yes. And you will know much, much more." Penelope said, confident tone lacing her words.

"Why do I sense you're onto something?" He inquired, brows furrowing with worry.

"Because I am." She winked at him.

Oh, no.

"What?"

"Trust me on this one, loverboy." She snickered.

Penelope Garcia, the mess you'll make.

Friday rolled around with promises of a certain blonde bringing your daughter home by 9p.m. The feeling almost made you feel like a possessive mother who didn't let their kids have boyfriends. Or girlfriends. You were fine with it, by the way. Either. You just weren't currently fine with the idea of spending time away from her.

You reluctantly let Olivia go. Penelope stood behind her in your living room. You were crouching down to your daughter's height.

"Mommy, I'll be back before you know it," she said. Just like you did when she was first getting adapted to going to school. You scrunched your face, feeling like the most loved person in the whole universe.

You were.

"I'll bring you cotton candy." She promised, raising her pinky in front of you. You crossed your own with hers.

"Now you're just bribing me." You leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek.

"Is it working?" Penelope chirped in, an easy smile on her face.

You giggled, looking up at her for a moment. "Maybe..."

"Mommy loves you, okay?" You said. "I promise I can take you somewhere even cooler than aunt Garcia is taking you," you joked.

"Now you're just being mean," the woman frowned playfully.

"Yeah, mom! Don't be mean."

"I can't believe you're turning my own daughter against me. And she's scolding me. In my own house." You feigned offense. Garcia burst out in laughter with Olivia.

Two kids in your living room.

"Okay, mommy," she said, finally, giving you a kiss on each of your cheeks, just like you did with her. "Bye bye. Say bye bye to Aunt Penelope, too."

"Okay," you agreed. "Bye bye, Aunt Penelope." you teased. Olivia was already walking out, ahead of you two.

"Bye bye, mommy." Penelope joked as you walked her out. Olivia pressed the elevator button as you and Garcia stood in front of your apartment, side by side with you, watching your kid wait for the elevator. Then, she looked you up and down, a knowing look on her face.  "You're totally a hot mommy." She winked.

You didn't have an answer to that, the remark catching you off guard. Instead, you shoved her jokingly.

"Get outta here," you quipped, flustered, watching her as she entered the elevator with Olivia, holding her small hand.

You waved as the elevator doors closed. You sighed when they were out of your eyesight.

Coming back to your place, you looked around in hopes to find something to entertain yourself with. Truth was that without your daughter, you felt a little lost. Sometimes, you'd get lost in your own head, too sick with worry about losing yourself in order to be sufficient for Olivia. The remedy for those thoughts were usually doing something on your own for yourself. Tonight, you decided to cook something.

After a quick trip to the local supermarket and some embarrassment on the self-checkout cashier, you made it back to your home with everything needed to make pasta from scratch. Maybe you got a little excited by literally having your hands dirty and made enough pasta to feed the entire apartment complex. You cut them in different sizes and shapes and cursed your dad for a moment for having taught you your way around food.

Giving it a better thought, seeing your kitchen with pasta hanging to dry everywhere, maybe it was an opportunity. You turned the thought of feeding the families who surrounded you to simply feeding Spencer.

You smiled at yourself, pleased with the idea.

One, two, three eager knocks on Spencer's doors made him interrupt his Doctor Who's weekly (if no bad guys were forcing him to work) marathon. He looked through the peephole and found you, his neighbor, studying his door, probably to avoid looking directly into the hole, like it was an intricate work of art. A smile crept upon his face. He never thought he'd be so happy to be interrupted. Opening the door, he greeted, "Hi!"

A joyful "Hi!" was your answer.

You took a minute to look at him. He looked more relaxed, of course, but you came to the conclusion that he didn't own many casual clothes, because he was dressed in a dark blue Caltech sweatshirt and slacks. Funny matching, but it worked for you. Differently from what you usually saw him dressed in, he didn't appear so tired. He was glowing.

"Um, do you need anything?" He asked politely, scrunching his brows a little bit in concern as your silence became too long.

A sliver of doubt crossed through your features. "I'm not interrupting you, am I?"

"No, not at all." He lied.

He'd take your interruptions at any time.

"Oh, that's great. It's just... I miscalculated the amount of pasta that I was um... making." You struggled to find the words, a little mesmerized by the simple act of looking at him. "Do you want to, um, do you want to have some? With me? I've been told I'm good at cooking." You finally asked, with a little convincing on top.

Not that he needed any. You had him at hi. Spencer felt disarmed.

"Yes. I-I'd love to."

"Great!" You cheered. "Come on. You can help me cut them once they dry a little bit."

He followed you into your apartment. Today, the atmosphere felt a lot different. You had music playing softly and the highlight was in the kitchen, where strings of pasta hanged from basically everywhere. There was still a small piece of dough on the surface of your kitchen counter, which was surrounded by a big, sharp knife, a pasta maker machine and some other kitchen gadgets that, surprisingly, Spencer didn't know the name of.

"Wow. It's really a lot." He thought out loud.

"Yeah," you chuckled. "I usually make small amounts, but there's no problem in freezing them." You said, glancing briefly at your watch.

"Oh, okay." He replied meekly. "I'm not so sure if I can help, though. I'm not very good at cooking."

"No!" You feigned exaggerated surprise.

"Yes," he quipped, furrowing his brows playfully.

"But you have to work for it." You deadpanned, looking him dead in the eye. "I tricked you. I only called you here so you'd help me with it. If you don't, you won't get pasta."

He raised both hands, joining your banter. Easily. Despite, despite, despite. "No problem. I like learning."

You scrunch your face, giving him the most adorable grin. "Okay, doctor. So, this small ball here," you said, pointing at the dough and rolling up your sleeves, "needs to rest for a few minutes. It needs to dry a little bit to make cutting it easier. I'll tell you how to do it once you have an apron on."

"Oh, sorry, I don't have any at home. I don't really cook." He mentioned it again.

"I thought so." You grinned. "But don't worry about it. I have a collection. My dad's a chef and everything he gives me as a casual gift is related to cooking" you chuckled.

Okay, so the miscalculated amount was definitely an excuse to have him with you. His heart felt like giving out at any minute. You wanted him there. It was almost like you had it all planned out, and Spencer watched as you moved around your kitchen so confidently and calmly, very much unlike his mind that was running miles per second. Spencer usually had a hard time calming down, but this, this was something else. He was alone with you and he didn't even know how to say anything. Simultaneously proud and jealous of your easygoing chatter, he decided that it was better to follow your lead and try not to be awkward around you than doing anything else.

Slowly being pulled out of his self-conscious and overall sad thoughts, he busied himself with watching you, instead. He smiled to himself. Again, despite, despite, despite. You grabbed an apron from one of your drawers and Spencer watched you quietly. You moved so effortlessly that he felt inclined to just sit and watch you in your own scene. In that moment, you were not Olivia's mother, not a character from a novel he imagined, not a publisher, not Garcia's friend from college, just a woman doing something she enjoys doing. And he was delighted to be present to see it.

Moving back to where he stood, you stopped in front of him. You held it out in front of you, almost waiting for his permission to get closer. Spencer nodded eagerly and you smiled. You put the apron over his head and he raised his arms, almost automatically, so you could wrap yours around him to tie it in the back, bodies mere inches away from one another. He somehow had the courage to watch your face the entire time, but you bashfully avoided his gaze, choosing to concentrate on the task at hand. Once you finished, you looked up at him, though. To offer him a smile.

But what caught his attention was the fact that he finally knew, now, what the color of your eyes were. They seemed a lot different than when he first saw you. Different shades swirled around your pupils in such harmony that he decided that, from then on, he'd associate these colors with you and with you only. You aimed your gaze at him with something so distinguished he couldn't quite decipher what it was, suddenly and momentarily losing his profiling abilities. Spencer knew immediately that he could never shake that moment from his memory. Then, he also noticed that you had a smudge of flour on your cheek, but he didn't have the heart to tell you to clean it up, too stuck in the warmth of your gaze. He thought of it as a reminder of what you were doing, the moment you were sharing together.

He smiled back at you.

"Okay, I guess that's it, then," you announced, voice barely above a whisper, finally. He felt both relieved and deprived from the sweet torture you put him in. He wanted to be under your spell for longer, but he worried he would be too entranced and make a fool out of himself. "First, I'm gonna divide it in half. Oh, wait. What do you want to eat? I have shrimp, chicken and minced meat. But I can also try to do something vegetarian if you don't eat meat." You blabbered inconsistently, jumping from one topic to another, our eyebrows flying to your forehead in concern for a moment.

"It's okay," he soothed you, "I'll have anything." He added softly.

You happily nodded at him. "Alright. So I'm gonna be a good teacher and tell you to use the machine to open it first, but a cook must be skilled enough to know how to open and cut pasta without one of these gems," you said.

He grinned. Cooking classes were not in his weekend bingo, but here he was. Not wishing for anything else. "I'm glad you're walking me through it." He said. "I can hardly boil an egg."

"What? I couldn't tell." You said, faking earnestness, while opening a piece of dough with a roller. You had your eyes on it, rolling the dough on the counter to make sure you'd open it completely. He was mesmerized by your focused expression. Looking at your skilled hands. Watching.

"Really?" He asked, lighting up.

"Yeah, I could. Sorry." You said, snickering, folding the dough on itself to start cutting it. The result was thicker strings of pasta, like fettuccine. "You look like the kind of guy who only eats outside."

"I am." He confided, trying to mimic your previous actions. "Maybe you're the profiler."

"Nah, just a real observant neighbor." He laughed. "Hey, you're doing alright." You told him once you saw what he was doing. Your stare was on his hands. Oh. His deft hands, albeit not accustomed to the task, worked dexterously, flexing the veins on his forearm. You shook your head lightly as an attempt to get rid of the thoughts, glad he wasn't paying attention to you.

Being with you, he realized, was easy. He condemned himself for overthinking the advice Penelope had given him earlier about asking you out today, because she planned on taking Olivia out. He had decided not to under the excuse that a case might pop at any second, but the truth was he was too afraid to be rejected. 

"Okay, so you can open the dough, Doctor. Good job!" You teased as you watched him use the machine instead of the rolling pin like you did.

"I'm decent at it, yeah," he quipped.

Spencer Reid being able to take and to crack jokes about himself. He decided then that he liked jokes, he liked your banter, but because you weren't mean to him.

Something in him finally started to heal.

"Alright." You placed yourself beside him. He gulped at the closeness. "See how I'm doing with my hands." Was it appropriate to answer that he hadn't looked away not even for a second? "You wanna fold it over and over. Careful not to stick it, though, so be gentle. You can use a little flour to help you. Wanna give it a try?"

He only nodded and you helped him fold it. He wasn't as skillful as you were — hell, your movements seemed rehearsed from how much ease you had at doing them. He was a little slower, but he moved in an effective way. "Careful not to cut yourself, Spencer." You whispered to him, to which he hummed weakly.

"Is there a right way to hold the knife?" He asked, turning his head to look at you.

Your reply was to touch his right hand, the one holding the knife, and closed his fingers around its base. Grabbing his left hand, you curled his fingers on top of the dough, and, slowly, pushed the knife down to cut it. "See?" You pulled the cut dough, revealing a string.

He wondered hastily if he could have some more time with your hands on top of his. Your delicate hands, even dirty, beat every single texture he had felt on top of his. Spencer couldn't answer anything. "Okay! Now we can set them to dry."

"Where?" He asked, robotically. You grinned.

"We gotta find somewhere." You chuckled. "By the way, it's best if we keep them away from the others." You advised.

"Why is that?" He inquired, intrigued look on his face.

"I, um, made some with eggs, you know, the traditional one." You bit your lip. "I also made a recipe with no eggs in case you had any restrictions."

Usually, he'd be speechless, not used to being treated like this. Not being one people usually thought of so intentionally, so dearly, so full of carefully. He noticed, though, that as he spent time with you in your kitchen, every one of your actions peeled away some of his issues. Then, "Oh, wow." He said, a hint of a cocky expression dancing around his features. If you kept that attitude, he might even become greedy. He remembered about your so-called miscalculation for the second time.

You finished up the meal in an instant, too fast for Spencer's liking. He was observant, of course, and you made sure to tell him about what you were doing and why you were doing every step of the way, like he was a child acquiring language. He was a grown man learning how to be around you, studying your every movement and engraving it to his memory, trying harder than he ever did when learning English (or other languages). Those came to him naturally. You, on the other hand, were full of patterns he didn't quite know yet — not that he wasn't dying to.

"Okay. We're done." You said, softly, plating the meal on two white plates. "Do you want to sit with me on the balcony?"

"Yes."

"Be there in a second. Make yourself at home."

His face lit up. Joy and embarrassment fighting to control him.

As he left with the plates in hand, which was a little funny to you, you cleaned up the mess in the kitchen as much as you could. You glanced at Spencer, meticulously placing the plates on the table to help you out. You couldn't control the sigh that made its way out of you, out of the very depths of your being.

Sitting down with him after you both ate to your heart's content, he complimented you. "It's not very often that I get to eat this well." He chuckled. "And you're a good chef. You make things efficiently and neatly." He said, looking at you. You looked straight ahead, longingly, into the city.

You shrunk your shoulders, a little embarrassed. Was he flirting? His words were completely different from what you used to consider flirting. Too analytical, too technical. "Thanks!" You exclaimed, albeit meekly.

Silence.

Spencer was rummaging through his big brain for something to say. You were, sort of, deflating from basically carrying the interaction all night long. Letting too many thoughts consume you all at once. "I'm not really an interesting person, so I'm not sure what I should say," he chuckled, a little disappointed by having your attention somewhere else.

Your heart probably doubled in size.

You crossed your legs on the chair. "I think you are an interesting person," you said softly, looking at him. "And I think there's no shame in being silent. It's nice. I know you like it."

His heart was making somersaults in his chest.

"Yeah..." he chuckled. “But I’d like to talk to you.”

"Try me! Penny said you can do magic, good ice-breaker. It's so nice, but so baffling!" You gushed. "I can't even do the classic trick, that one that you're supposed to be pretending to pull your thumb off. Olivia says I'm not convincing enough." You laughed, shooking your head and squinting at him. "Can you believe that?"

"She's a very bright kid." He said, amused. "It must be hard tricking her."

"Yeah, it is."

"Where is she, by the way?"

"Penelope asked to take her out. Pasta time was supposed to be time spent with her. But I guess you're a good substitute."

Again, Penelope was onto something. That was when he knew for sure that his theory from earlier was correct.

"Can I tell you something?" He decided to be honest, instead.

"Is everything alright?" You ask, searching his face for something that told you if there was something wrong.

"Yes! Yes! Everything's fine." He blurted. "It's just that, earlier, Penelope was, ahem, encouraging me to ask you out on a... date. I kept thinking about it and maybe I actually overthinked everything and ended up making excuses not to ask you out.”

You were taken aback by his words. You blinked once, not expecting his words, those words, and failing at trying to slow the racing of your heart and at stopping the smile creeping up on your face. “It's… it's no problem. Don't worry.”

Spencer couldn't help but glance over, listening attentively to your reply. Your words struck a softer tone, a side of you that was filled with warmth and genuine affection — he was estranged to it, not being used to being so understood. It caught him off guard. He watched from his seat, his heart still aching from feeling scared, but filled with a new emotion he couldn't quite pinpoint yet. “Would you, um, would you say yes?”

“To what?” You faked coyness, but you knew he could see right through you. You weren’t a good actress.

He smirked, encouraged by your playful mannerisms. “If I asked you on a date.”

“Well, yes.”

Oh, so it was bravery. He felt it completely, now.

A deep breath from his end. “Would you like to go out with me?”

“There's nothing I would want more.” You replied, tone full of mischief, but your eyes held all the truth he needed to confirm that he was actually going to spend time with you in a more… romantic, perhaps private setting. “Does that count as a yes?”

Spencer was hyper-aware of himself and his reality. Therefore, used to his own little life and the trauma and suffering that came with it, he had grown accustomed to the thought that romance was far out of his reach—  stories only told by books and didn’t, couldn’t exist in real life, in his life; writers were just too idealistic. Thus, being used to those thoughts, but secretly refusing to take them as the sole truth of his life, romance came to him in the shape of silly scenarios to help him fall asleep. Now, he was suddenly changing his mind, relieved to see that it could be real.

He was immensely glad for your bravery. He wanted some of it. Needed, even.

“It's the prettiest yes someone has ever said to me.”

“Glad to hear that, Spencer.”

“I just feel a little embarrassed by not having the courage to ask you earlier.”

“It’s okay,” you assured him, again, with an adoring look in your eyes, gazing at him, “we can share courage when things get too much.”

“Hey!” Olivia greeted once Spencer opened his door after her persistent, but gentle knocking. He looked around, but you were nowhere to be found. He crouched down to her height. “Here’s a sticker. Mommy said you were very brave last night.” She placed the adhesive on his vest, a star shaped sticker. “Here’s other sticker. Mommy also said you were helpful.” She said, adorning his vest once again.

Oh, my God, he thought, even her daughter knows.

He chuckled, not having it in himself to let the opportunity to joke go. “Oh, so we get rewards for good behavior?”

Olivia nodded. “Yes, we do. When I get five, mommy gets me something I want. Usually cookies.” She replied, sounding satisfied with herself.

“Thank you, Olivia. I'm gonna make sure to keep them so I'll know when it's time to ask for my gift.” He said, ruffling her hair playfully.

At the conference room, Aaron Hotchner couldn't help but frown at the sight of the extra accessories on one of his agents’ vest, almost interrupting his briefing in order to address the topic to quench his curiosity. “Reid, why do you have star stickers on?”

He shrugged, failing at disguising his happiness, the corners of his lips curving up. “These were a gift.”

He was brave.

[srbachchan]

DAY 6119

Jalsa, Mumbai Nov 19, 2024/Nov 20 Tue/Wed 3:12 pm

Birthdays exist .. birthdays be brought for the greetings .. but even though none today to mention, they all remain in our hearts and minds ..

Work continues and with the required reverence it has always deserved .. and may it ever be so .. work without the audience is a misnomer ..

They come they cheer they give recognition and we get motivated and inspired to give them more than what they give us and mean to us ..

And they do each KBC session .. my love and gratitude as ever ..

❤️

I present to them with tongue caught between the lips .. and feel embarrassed to have done that .. but it is an expression of joy and at times deep wonder ..

And then the embarrassed feel and look ..

... and as ever the encourage to the contestants to be in smile ..

yesyesyes .. YES .. smile and the World shall smile with you .. !!!

BUT i smile today and with pride and great emotion for the Son and my Abhishek for his work .. assiduous , tremendous joy and the appreciation of one of the very known and complemented film critics and journalists - Shri Subhash Jha ..

Amitji, I can't wait for you to see what Abhishek has done

The dedication, the sincerity

This is a new beginning for him

I do .. because I do .. I show because I show .. I admire because I admire .. I express because I express .. !!

क्या कर लोगे !!!??

AND THAT IS THE DIFFERENCE ..

TO BE DIFFERENT ..

for be it known .. at the helm of difference , it is they that have caused fresh new thoughts and inventions .. and are remembered to date ..

normal is normalcy .. it is also a norm and one that brings faith in the normal .. but the DIFFERENT have ever had a renowned and remembered place ..

Being different is often viewed as a double-edged sword, but it carries undeniable appeal, earning respect and even popularity in many situations. In a world driven by conformity, standing out demonstrates courage and authenticity—traits that resonate deeply with others. Whether it’s through personality, talents, or ideas, being different can make one a trailblazer in their field.

Take Steve Jobs, for example. His unconventional approach to technology and design didn’t align with industry norms, yet it revolutionized how we interact with devices today. His difference wasn’t just appealing; it earned him global respect and admiration.

Being different often involves taking risks, but it garners respect when it comes from a place of genuine conviction. Society values those who are authentic and offer fresh perspectives. This uniqueness also drives popularity, as people are drawn to the new and the extraordinary.

Ultimately, being different appeals because it challenges the status quo, fosters innovation, and creates connections. It’s not just about standing out but about making an impactful difference in the world.

YOU SHALL BE .. ABHISHEK .. BECAUSE OF WHO YOU ARE AND WHO YOU HAVE BEEN .. a creative mind that has ever done attempted and succeeded in what you created and believed in your work ..

"The only way to do something in depth is to work hard. And the only way to work hard is to find something you're passionate about. And the only way to find something you're passionate about is to try a lot of different things." - Steve Jobs

"Don't be afraid of being different. Be afraid of being the same as everyone else." -

"Different is beautiful. Don't be afraid to be yourself." -

"The most beautiful thing you can be is yourself." -

"To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment." -

"Being different isn't a bad thing. It means you're brave enough to be yourself." -

Love to you Abhishek .. WAGTFTW !!! ❤️

Pa

[cornenhapovs]

𝓐𝘣𝘺𝘴𝘴

꒰ 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗹𝗲𝗲 ��𝗲𝗲𝘀𝗲𝘂𝗻𝗴 𝘅 𝘆𝗻 ꒰ 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗶𝗹 𝘅 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗹

꒰⠀for @sugarikiz event 'ʏᴏᴜʀ ℰ𝓎ℯ𝓈 ᴏɴʟʏ ☁︎.𖥔 '

Once upon a time, there were two lovers who were deeply in love with each other. They had been through many ups and downs, but their love for each other had weathered every storm. One day, one of the lovers was going through a difficult time in their life. They felt lost, hopeless, and trapped in a dark abyss of despair. The other lover noticed the change in their partner and tried to offer comfort and support, but the first lover continued to sink deeper into their despair......

" Heeseung please let me be your light " In response to your words, Heeseung's eyes widened slightly, a mixture of surprise and appreciation flickering across his face. He leaned closer, his expression growing serious as he spoke. " You want to be my light ? " he repeated, his voice slightly incredulous. " You think you can bring me out of the darkness? "

" Idk... but I want to .. plz I can't see you growing weaker each day passing by " Heeseung's expression softened as he heard the urgency and determination in your voice. He saw the concern and care in your eyes, and it touched a deep part of him that had been shrouded in darkness. He reached out, his hand gently cupping your face, his thumb tracing the contour of your cheek. "You don't understand," he murmured, his voice laced with pain. " The darkness is too strong. It's consuming me."

" THERE HAS TO BE A WAY " you shouted . Heeseung closed his eyes, his hand still gently holding your face. Your insistence and willingness to help him were like a faint ray of light trying to break through the darkness that enveloped him. He took a deep breath, opening his eyes again, his gaze meeting yours with a hint of vulnerability. "Maybe you were sent to me for a reason ," he murmured. "But I don't know if even your light is bright enough to cut through my darkness."

Your determination only seemed to grow at Heeseung's words. You gently placed your hand over his, your grip tightening as you spoke. " I don't care if it's too strong or if my light isn't bright enough," you said firmly. "I'll do whatever it takes to help you fight the darkness. I'm not going to give up on you, Heeseung. I won't leave you alone in there."

Heeseung watched your determination with a mix of disbelief and awe. The fire in your eyes and the determination in your voice were unlike anything he had encountered before in his existence. He couldn't deny the strange pull he felt towards you, even though you were an angel and he was a devil. Your unwavering commitment to help him, despite the vast differences between your worlds, was both surprising and unsettling. " Please .. please there has to be a way---- " he silenced you with a finger to your lips, his eyes locking on yours with a mixture of pleading and frustration. " You don't understand," he said, his voice strained. "There's no way for an angel like you to help someone like me. You're too good, too pure. The darkness will only consume you too." You tried to speak again, but Heeseung silenced you once more. His hand came up to gently touch your cheek, his touch surprisingly tender despite the harshness of his words. "Please, just listen to me," he pleaded, his voice now tinged with desperation. "You can't save me. The darkness is too strong, and it will only bring you down with me."

" I love you " u whispered . Heeseung froze, his breath catching in his chest at your unexpected declaration. His eyes widened slightly as he stared at you, shock and confusion warring on his face. "You... what?" he responded, his voice barely above a whisper. "You love me?"

"Yes and I don't care if we are not supposed to be together .. or I am doing a sin but I want to be tainted by your love , want my soul to be consume by your darkness. My love for you goes beyond the boundaries of heaven and hell, transcending the laws that would keep us apart. I am ready to plunge into the abyss of your darkness, to let your love encompass me completely. I will embrace the whirlwind of emotions, the passion and pain that come from loving you, a devil. So Lee heeseung will you make me yours ? "

Heeseung's heart thudded in his chest as he heard your words, and for the first time in his existence, he felt a flicker of hope and warmth amidst the darkness that surrounded him. Your declaration of love, your unwavering desire to be with him, it all felt like a dream. He took a step closer to you, his gaze intense and unwavering. "Yes," he murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of passion and determination. "I will make you mine. I will claim you, body and soul. And there will be no turning back. "

🩸🩸🩸

As you both embraced suddenly heeseung screamed in agony too much pain as his devil red eyes met with yours which ones were filled with bright light and love now cold and devoid of any emotions while you let the knife fall on the ground and his cut wings beside him . Heeseung's scream echoed through the room, his body writhing in pain as the blinding light enveloped him. His eyes, once filled with the fiery gaze of a devil, now froze in shock as they met yours, now cold and emotionless. You stood before him, a stark contrast to the previous moment of tenderness. Your knife clattered against the ground, and Heeseung's severed wings lay beside him, a gruesome reminder of the love that had just shattered into pieces. A menacing smirk adorning your face .

Heeseung's eyes widened in horror as your smirk twisted your features. The warmth and love that had been there moments ago were gone, replaced by a cold, callous expression that sent a shiver down his spine. He tried to scramble away from you, his body still wracked with pain. "Why...?" he managed to croak, his voice filled with disbelief and despair. His scream echoed through the room, his body writhing in pain as the blinding light enveloped him. His eyes, once filled with the fiery gaze of a devil, now froze in shock as they met yours, now cold and emotionless. You stood before him, a stark contrast to the previous moment of tenderness. Your knife clattered against the ground, and Heeseung's severed wings lay beside him, a gruesome reminder of the love that had just shattered into pieces.

" Why ??? Ages ago in this very same place you killed several angels out of spite and one of them was my lover . His name was Yang Jungwon . Does it now ring a bell you foul thing ?? We were supposed to get married .... he was my everything .... BUT YOU DEVIL HAD TO TAKE EVERYTHING AWAY FROM ME . YOU DESERVE TO DIE . YOU DESERVE TO BE HATED . " Heeseung's face paled as you reminded him of his past sins. The memory of the angels he had killed, including your lover Yang Jungwon, came flooding back. A mix of guilt and fear flickered in his red eyes, but he tried to maintain his composure, his voice shaky as he spoke. "You... you're the angel that was with him?" he whispered, his heart pounding in his chest. Heeseung's body trembled as he listened to your words, the hatred and anger in your voice cutting through him like a knife. He knew he deserved every bit of your wrath, every bit of your pain and heartbreak. A mixture of fear and resignation flickered in his eyes as he spoke, his voice hoarse and weak "I know... I know I deserve it..." he rasped. "But... please...".

"Oh my what have we here huh.. A devil which always gives other deals in exchange for their soul begging infront of me ?? His enemy ?? Haaha " Heeseung's throat tightened as he realized the irony of his situation. He, a devil who was known for making deals and taking souls, was now on his knees, begging you, his enemy, to spare him. His pride and arrogance had fled, leaving behind a husk of fear and despair. He looked up at you, his red eyes pleading, but he stayed silent, unable to find the words to defend himself.

"You... you won't kill me..?" Heeseung's voice was a mere whisper, filled with incredulity and disbelief. He could not comprehend why you, who had just learned of his darkest sin, had not immediately taken his life. The fear and despair in his eyes remained, but there was a hint of curiosity mixed with it. "Why not ?" he found himself asking, his voice tremulous. "Why spare the devil who took away the angel you loved?"

" Sometimes leaving a scar is much better than killing at once . Just like my past haunts me ... similarly from now on I'll haunt your memories ". Heeseung shivered at your words, a sense of unease crawling up his spine. You had spoken of a form of torment far worse than death – leaving him with memories, with reminders of the pain and suffering he had caused. He knew what it meant to be haunted, to have the ghosts of the past lingering in the shadows, forever present yet forever out of reach. And he now faced the possibility of that very fate. Before going from there you stomped on his wings and gave your angelic smile as that moment you felt your lover's justice ... your jungwon's justice , being served . Heeeseung cried out in pain as you stomped on his wings, the sharp agony shooting through him and further fueling the torment you had cast upon him. Your angelic smile, so beautiful and yet so cold, sent a chill down his spine, a cruel reminder of the price he had paid for his sins. He could almost feel the weight of Jungwon's presence, his spirit finding justice through your actions. Heeseung closed his red eyes, his mind filled with regret and grief as he whispered,

" I'm sorry.... "

Tags @okwonyo @021894s @strawberrynull @wonryllis

[y-rhywbeth2]

#as someone whose been struggling to get through bg1 due to how slow the characters move I appreciate Any lore tidbits

The movement rate is very annoying (and increasing the frame rate only goes so far).

For everyone with this barrier, if you don't care about game balance you can speed it up:

First you can use the console to give the party boots of speed

CLUAConsole:CreateItem("BOOT01")

Put that in the text bar six times: Haste for the whole party.

You can also teleport by pointing somewhere and pressing Ctrl+J, but I'd leave that until you know where all the encounters are/areas you already cleared or you risk confusing yourself and the game.

There's also the EEKeeper, which lets you fuck around with all kinds of things including stats, inventory, game flags, etc. It's a pain in the ass to get used to playing with, and I wouldn't play around with really fiddly bits unless you know what you're doing (I do not), but it is useful.

For example, if you want to go faster you can edit the movement speed:

Base speed is 0. If I give the characters the Slayer's base speed (8) then they go zooming across the map.

Solath in my testrun seemed to also become the Slayer sans transformation and was determined to murder a random nobleman who was passively existing nearby and then tore him into chunks of flesh with her bare hands. Idk, she didn't start mauling people downstairs, so I figure it's fine. (If setting speed to 8 causes your Bhaalspawn protagonist to need constant distraction lest they randomly start murdering people now and then, I think that qualifies as immersion?) I think it was an accident with my clicking something, but just in case...

You can also bypass 2e class restrictions, which is fun.

Halflings can only be Fighters, Clerics, Rogues, or Fighter/Rogues? Nah.

Volo: 'When there are two or more, [Bhaalspawn] will destroy one another until a single heir to the throne of blood remains.'

First: Imoen and Charname, who can get along perfectly fine, laugh at you and their siblings.

Second: nitpicking.

'The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos will be sewn from their passage. So sayeth the wise Alaundo.'

Sarevok mentions his studies of prophecy saying a child would be able to take their father's place, but I've never actually seen that part of the prophecy, and he's the only other one we ever see trying to replace/become Bhaal. The Five are Bhaalists who want to serve him, and the majority of the other Bhaalspawn seen had little to no idea what they are and are basically either convinced by Bhaal to start serial killing for kicks, or just trying to survive for the most part.

And the prophesised child was one specific Bhaalspawn in particular - as Bhaal himself says, 'strange amongst [their] kin' - there was never any chance of another Bhaalspawn being heir. It was just vague enough that Sarevok thought it could be him.

The follow up prophecy was all about how the Bhaalspawn are all going to die and give rise to the reborn god of murder (which one way or another, happens) with a brief nod to 'you're the Chosen One' in the opening line:

'The wheels of prophecy e'er turn, Gorion's ward hath come. Crossroad of past, present and future, the one forseen, the one foretold. That which hath past is ne'er truly gone, history repeats though mortals chose not to see. War and bloodshed be not new to the Realms, a god that once hath been may be once again. Armies march and cities burn, the rivers froth with tainted blood. The corpses of those born not innocent feed the inferno of boiling hate. Bhaal's Servant deceived, Five led down a false path, a hidden traitor lurks in thy midst. The Servant of Bhaal knows death and destruction, The face of an ally, the mask of a foe. The Children of Bhaal bring death to the land, they slaughter each other, and feed their Father. Death and betrayal walk together, a river of tainted blood doth not cleanse. The storm approaches; we speak no more.'

The prophecy is over, the main point of the prophecy (all Bhaal's kids are going to die in a giant mess and Bhaal will be reborn) came to pass, and the heir bit never applied to anybody but one who is no longer viable: the God of Murder hath risen people, the Throne of Blood has an occupant: We know who the heir was, and now it's irrelevant because Bhaal's back in driving seat, case closed.

As the statues outside the temple mock, Alaundo's prophecies are over and irrelevant, put them down already. The Dark Urge is not heir to the Throne. Nor is Orin, nor is Sarevok, nor are any of them. Durge and Orin and any future Bhaalspawn are playing in a whole different game, with different rules* and aspirations. *Except for 'kill your sibling, bring death to the land and empower your Father.' Those are always on the rules.

[scribe-cas]

i need to explode. Vent post

RAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHH. FUCK. I MISS HIM SO MUCH.

I know and I fucking knew I wasn't going to find him, but my fucking God

How the fuck am I supposed to live like this

"Oh so I have a book character based off of an actual entity who haunted my brain for a little while in the form of alter possession because I had splits at one point and at any mention of him I go literally fucking shitballs insane and will do anything to see him again" like what the fuck is wrong with me /lh

I know I sound insane but that's. Insaner than shit.

Like wow I feel actually awful and freakish some days. I sometimes wonder if this is actually here or if it's just all in my head and some huge fucking coincidence. It seems like every time I get closer to figuring something out about him or anyone and anything associated with him, it's like I take 4 steps back.

And it's. Heartbreaking. I don't know how else certain things could even have possibly happened without his existence, but also am I somehow just making up all of this shit. Am I going to spend the rest of my life chasing after every redheaded transgender man I see only for my brain and my heart to be left. Empty. Because it's not him.

nobody's ever going to be him, and I doubt anyone would ever want to.

There's just a level of feeling abandoned that's never going to heal.

The only thing that helps is writing my books.

Seeing people connect to them. Seeing people connect to, and emulate, him.

That makes me feel less crazy. It makes me feel like maybe if it is all in my head and if nothing is actually real at least it was kind of worth it.

To quote bojack horseman, which i probably should not have watched:

"That means that all the damage I got isn't 'good damage'. It's just damage. I have gotten nothing out of it and all those years I was miserable was for nothing."

This is what's. Just circling my brain. If he's not real then yeah I kept myself alive but why did I love. What was the point of it all. There are other people who love me and it's wonderful but sometimes I miss his smile and as fucked as it is I wish that I'd run into someone who's even slightly like him.

Just so that i can stare at them and. Like. Remember.

Redheaded long haired trans men it's your time to shine im summoning you from across tumblr, come tell me you love me

Bonus points if you're folklore obsessed, dress like a flamboyant dance student, like heels and bartend /j obviously

But like. I can't explain it. It's devastating i miss my brother man 👍

Thanks tumblr for listening to my tedtalk

[uncanny-tranny]

You know, I feel like other trans people might get this, but it's honestly kind of refreshing when a cis person has, like, undeniable tboy/tgirl/whatever swag. It's like when you come across somebody who speaks the same language as you and you only find out when they start speaking it, too.

[crookedfivefingers]

3.13 | ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʟᴏʀᴅꜱ

link to the post I accidentally wound up prattling endlessly about in the tags 💀

[fullmetal-scar-simping]

! Jumping ahead here, but I hope your stylus gets (or has already been) repaired/replaced. Would love to see more of your art 👀

Oof, Miles and Marigold labouring under the unspoken belief that they don't yet deserve a life of happiness, that it needs to be earned, sums them up well. So Marigold was already on rocky terms with her family prior to meeting and eventually marrying Miles. Her choosing this person she loved was both a profound standing up for herself (and him as well), yet it would lead her to tragedy when Miles gets arrested and her health nosedives. Her family leaving her to die alone, and allowing formely-Petunia to rot in the orphanage system is so cruel.

Very sad for them. I almost wish their fantasy could have succeeded but of course the world isn't a racist and sexist meritocracy, where you beat the system by becoming a model citizen. It's just playing the game set-up by people who hate you, ruining lives in millions of overt and subtle ways.

Haha, I'm glad I could be of some help. 😁 And since you mentioned that Miles may potentially choose Briggs/the military over his daughter and the Ishvalan liberation front, then emphasizing his (perhaps desperate) gratitude towards Olivier and his dreams would slot in well with the fact that she maintains his delusions. Doesn't matter how much of his family is put into the ground (not his Ishvalan side, not his wife, not even his still-living daughter), he's doing 'real good' by working at the Drachman-Amestrian border! Keep the agony at bay by building those deluded walls higher!

Guh, the way you're characterizing and fleshing out McDougal is so good! He absolutely shouldn't be in any position to care for a young person. You're not sanitizing him or making his good intentions wholly translate into consistently kind, calm, and loving actions for The Girl. He's trying to fell a travesty of a regime, having done its bidding and ACTUALLY regretting it, while dodging the bounty on his and his fellow deserters' heads. I fully agree that his PTSD should be more evident than the tidy demeanour of the fan fave military characters. They live such clean lives, they're so blase about serving the institution that they traumatized themselves under (I refuse to give willing conscripts the benefit of the description of victimization). Meanwhile folks like McDougal are out there living underground lives within Amestris or otherwise outside of its borders, and actually attempting to demolish the regime without rewarding themselves for doing what desperately needs to be done.

Super appreciate that The Girl isn't being naive about soldiers and that blue coat, even if it's in part because of her complicated feelings around her father. And ough, the feedback loop between her and McDougal, his guilt and self-disgust, her disdain towards him keeping the damnable military uniform, him being such a wreck that he lashes out at this kid who doesn't deserve it whatsoever, hardening her in ways that don't actually aids or serves her, magnifying their separate pains. “[F]iltering every emotion through anger to hide her vulnerabilities,” goddddddd! Magnificent, it's exactly what would come out of relying on an ex-soldier for your survival amidst these horrendous circumstances.

As for him still holding onto his uniform, besides what you mentioned of the Doylist reasons (which I believe to ultimately be the case as well, given the break-neck pace of that first ep and the one-off nature of McDougal's existence), I often view it as a symbolic gesture on his part, at least when he's attacking Central. Here stands one of your soldiers gone rogue, whose skills that the state used to eliminate Ishvalan lives in service of a grander near-future extermination, now wielded against them. The tattered uniform as a declaration of retaliation and violent rebuke. I could also see it as symbolic of whatever grand idealism that perhaps McDougal once had (similar to idiots like Mustang) having been tarnished by a grim reality, and unlike the aforementioned idiot, instead of being unable to relinquish that idealism McDougal keeps it as a reminder of his hand in Amestris’ atrocities. Of course we could imagine numerous reasons for him wearing the damn thing, but those are the ones that come to my mind.

Omfg, the guilt being a factor in his going off alone...! ;___;

Oooh, Amiran. I rather like the placeholder name. The genderplay could be a fun bonus, but I get wanting to be more certain about which real world cultures you want to take inspo from. Hopefully a name and culture(s) align in time

Naming things can be the worst lol I don't envy being in the position of having to come up with so many too. 😅But I like the loose details of this factions actions and goals. The closer they get to the State itself, even if it’s just keeping their crimes against humanity in circulation, would certainly have them on the government’s radar. But what’s this about a tall butch lady You need to get that stylus up and working again, I’d love to see her made real!

I know that the manga is juggling numerous threads (and a rather bloated cast) but it’s odd that there seems to be nothing there to flesh out the Yao and Chang clans a little tiny bit. I do kind of appreciate that the other clans aren’t mentioned or seen in so far that it would be realistic that not every one of them would just congregate in Amestris, but c’mon now. Not even a flashback sequence or two for the main clans we do get to see?

Describing them as feeling insulated from their clans is spot-on. The narrative doesn’t do enough to underline the urgency Ling and Mei are operating on, in part because their people just feel like concepts. I wouldn’t suggest that Arakawa or Studio Bones should have created an entire side story that might otherwise derail the pacing and story of the main plot, but giving us SOMETHING more would have done a lot to bolster the Xingese characters. With Mei we just get a flashback to how she met Xiao Mei and why the panda is small. Which is. Cute. But like, ok? Where’s her clan tho

(Personally even if I got a smorgasbord of Yao clan backstory and characterization, I would still remain unmoved by the whole “A king is nothing without his yada yada” since, no, monarchies are not based on nor beholden to their vassals and commoners/peasants. So it’s just more nation-leading idealism that I personally don’t stomach. :P Still, more characterization please!)

As good-hearted a lad a Ling is, definitely contrasting the efforts of him and his bodyguards to save his own people against Mei, Daughter, Scar, and the rebels seems like solid narrative mirroring. Placing him as more as an antagonist (not a villain) puts him and his actions under a new light. I know it was delved into a bit with Manfred’s mangahood AU, but perhaps teasing out the more calculating and ruthless aspects of Ling’s personality would facilitate the tension that would feed into his storyline in your own AU. Definitely vibing with Ling’s blindspot towards Mei’s people only having her to rely on for their long term future, therefore allowing Lan Fan and Fu to be cutthroat against Mei.

Daughter learning alkahestry while in Xing with McDougal and tying that into how she meets Mei sounds good as hell imho. The journey to Xing could also be a rich opportunity for Daughter to ruminate on her Ishvalan heritage, perhaps seeing refugees, new settlements, or nomads on the way.

(That couldn’t have possibly been handled well by McDougal in this hypothetical tho. Perhaps any excitement that breaks through the hardened veneer would be awkwardly ignored, mumbled through, or snapped at. Or perhaps he would keep his distance if she got a chance to interact with anyone? Or they didn’t encounter anyone and I’m just rambling.)

LMAO @ Daughter’s constipated brain trying to help a struggling Mei by offering herself as locomotive punching bag. But Mei would definitely struggle to balance her training and frustrations against her crushing burden, so I really like the idea that this moment of vulnerability could serve as the point that these two meet and connect. All the details around that may need hammering out, but it works well as a central point for them!

Mei’s 12 no? Did I hallucinate that? I swear she (or somebody else?) says something like that in Broho at least. Because for awhile after Mei got introduced I assumed she was, like, 8 years old or something LOL And then at some point in the show somebody said she’s a tween. Anyway, 10-13 thereabouts if I fever-dreamt that detail.

THEIR DYNAMIC! Yes, it makes a lot of sense. Like an unspoken but deeply felt and mutual (and mutually known) support, empathy, and camaraderie built on their similarities. They need someone in their corner, closer to their respective age range, who has struggled and feels they must lift themselves and their people from poverty and suffering. “I’ll support you through anything” *Sobs* 🥺😭

Ah yes, the rebel group, Ishval (if/when liberated), all through Mei and Daughter vowing to help each other is a great way to stress the tensions, negotiations, and rejections between Ling and Mei. Nice teasing of the Greed theme there, with Ling’s diplomatic proposal for the Chang clan’s survival to simply become one of His Vassal (things). Without a philosopher’s stone in his hand however, Mei certainly wouldn’t settle so easily.

It shouldn’t fall on Daughter to have to lay out her lifetime of struggles and the racism/fascism she has been subjected to just to satiate Winry’s curiosity, but I can appreciate that Winry would wonder about such things. With a (mixed) Ishvalan teen around, this would more likely open Winry up to inquiring about the Ishvalan perspective on the war with the refugees (as you yourself said lol).

I’m fairly certain Winry was there after she and Al split from Ed. That’s when they all go back to decipher Scar’s brother’s research. So yeah, that allows the story time for Winry to ask some questions or inadvertently get into a conversation with some folks. Or Marcoh himself. I can also see the Mei route too, though I wonder if Winry would interpret that as Mei simply being overprotective of Daughter and Scar? Though maybe that frustration at what feels like an unfair bias towards her parents’ killer could be further motivation for her to seek answers with the refugees and/or Marcoh? Or Marcoh could chime into the convo as it’s happening? A lotta options here

“A theme of anger as a motivating impetus, a clarity instead of blindness, something that protects and defends you from mistreatment, it's something that stands up and says “no. I don't deserve this.”” Perfect theme, 10/10. Very much agree that Winry’s anger and pain shouldn’t be dismissed or discarded, but unlike the canon that shows her pain having to be kept in check by her kindness as a means of rising above those who don’t deserve it (barf) and breaking that stupid fucking “cycle of violence” crap, I feel like her getting more perspective on the horrific reality of Amestris’ actions and why any of this happened to begin with could steer her character towards a less reductive and more interesting route.

See, it’s funny that you bring up being unsure what to do with Al following the AU’s theme of anger. 03 Al is angry. Very angry. It bubbles under the surface and informs his diverging opinions and actions from Ed’s (unlike mangahood Al, who is mostly just Ed’s double or prim defender). He starts to see the necessity of violence, or at least why someone would take a violent path given the losses some people have suffered in part because of his codependence on Ed and how he would feel if he ever lost him (which tbf may not be effectual in a mangahood AU), as well as more directly interacting with Ishbalans and Scar. And all of that sympathy for those who are not seen as wholly human ties into his existential nightmare and inherently dysmorphic life as a soul tethered to an object. He’s dehumanized physically and in mentally/socially. So! All of that is to say, there’s a depth of anger that Al 100000% should have by the very nature of his constant dehumanization that mangahood neatly sweeps away (because Al could neeeeeeever be truly hurt by Ed, because he knows Ed loves him and love never hurts anyone and he forgives him because feeling even some doubt against Ed hurts ED which is BIGMEAN to Ed, Al needs to apologize- where was I?) Tapping into that, plus weaving in Al’s time in the Ishvalan camp could be useful for your story. I know he starts dipping out of consciousness around this point in the canon due to Ed nearly dying, but I think you can jiggle those details around to suit what you’re doing. His interactions with Daughter and Mei should be fruitful territory to make use of him + anger theme.

(03 Al>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>mangahood Al 4ever)

Scar IS anger as impetus! His actions can’t be divorced from his anger and pain, and unlike Arakawa’s perspective that this is wrathful and thus a sin (snooze), his anger being treated as clarity fits both his overall canon characterization pre-Briggs-induced-bootlicking and the focal points of this AU perfectly. He struggles with himself and what awaits him once his duty of killing his and his people's murderers ends one way or another in canon; but given he hasn't lost his ties to Ishval, in the vein of his involvement in a resistance group as well as guiding this young Ishvalan girl, he may be better able to help piece someone together in the throes of her own heartwrenching revelation. Or rather, show her how to channel that into a solidified way, that doesn't just combust against herself and everyone around her. That she doesn't have to be the bearer of those around her who cannot see or honour her and her pain. That she need not be people-less. Being up against her father and his allegiances, and what that did to her, her mom, and her people, must feel like so much cruelty from someone she already felt complicated about when she thought he was still incarcerated or dead. That feeling of having your world rocked to such a destabilizing magnitude would be all too familiar to him. Ugh, Daughterrrrrrr 😭😭😭

Man, my head is swimming with the possibility of Miles sticking with Amestris here instead of eventually tearing himself away (and parts of himself out) for his child! I want to root for the guy to get a clue and make the right choice, but it would certainly feel in-character for him to bury himself deeper into the fabric of a society he can't seem to stop feeling beholden towards. And how would that then impact her and the resistance if he essentially declares himself their enemy? Does Olivier and the Briggs faction still side with a coup led by Mustang and Grumman? Is the coup still going to happen? Does he report this to Olivier, and if so, what does she do with this info? Will Miles essentially end up at war with Daughter? (I'm sure these things and more are all being percolated and marinated on, I just wanna babble about the possibilities because DUDE!)

I have no doubt in my hater's heart that Olivier would see the Ishvalans, these once adept fighters (as per the manga, apparently), having their country and their people fully ransacked by the state's alchemists as evidence that they were indeed too weak and unworthy of their land and lifeways to continue on.

Ooooh, the rebel leader up against Grumman you say? 👀 Fully rooting for her and the resistance to decimate him and his men. Very curious what plots he (and Mustang?) concoct in regards to the Ishvalan Resistance.

Wish I had a suggestion for Mei's epithet after all this time, but I got nothing. 😶

Fair enough re: myself not being in the fandoms/a fan of the source for which your other fics are based on. But the fact that you've plunked away at such details in previous works is admirable and no doubt needed even in those other fandoms. Fans are not great about expanding the scope of their focus on the things they love, let alone tackling politics with any sort of skill or penache. (Looks at official published works like fma that fail in that way too lol)

I really can't wait to see more from this AU, but even just getting to read the details and some of the workshopping around how things will take shape has been a blast. Daughter seems like she'll be a wonderful character, and I'm a fan already.

Hi hi hi! Tis the OC anon, now off-anon! (That was fast ngl but whatever I'm here to have a good time on a quality blog) and yeah!

If you won't mind, here are some more tidbits about the AU:

Miles got arrested via the manga iirc where Ishvalan soldiers got rounded up and executed for “treason” but Miles got off scot-free supposedly because of his diluted lineage (which I have some doubts about, maybe he chose to swear allegiance to Amestris somehow and that's why he was spared, but I could very well be wrong and it really was just a matter of blood), he was held there for a while, during which time his wife collapsed and passed away while his daughter got shipped off to an orphanage bc Marigold's relatives did not want to raise an Ishvalan child.

By the time Miles gets out he's like “Where's my wife? Where's my daughter?” and while he gets a definitive answer regarding his wife (oof, feels guilty for being unable to be there for her), NOBODY KNOWS WHERE HIS DAUGHTER IS.

Our little daughter (nameless though I did give her a name) faces so much mistreatment in the orphanage that she decides to haul ass and try living on the streets instead and runs into Isaac McDougal.

In this AU, there would be a faction of former Amestrian soldiers who went “no fuck this shit I ain't gonna slaughter civilians what the hell” and defected from the military, which of course the government wasn't happy about so they got bounties on their heads.

Isaac is one of them.

Their cause might or might not expand to ally with other ethnic minority movements that the Amestrian majority has caused problems with.

Anyways, she gets picked up by Isaac (she must be, what, 11?) who is decidedly NOT suited for raising a child, much less a traumatized one. Also he was a bluecoat and she's an Ishvalan kid.

Some foils could be drawn between Miles and Isaac, I realize, both with ties to the army, one choosing to stay despite everything and the other leaving because he couldn't bear the injustice, both “father” to the girl, both probably less-than-stellar parents...

She becomes a brash, harsh, no-shits-taken, borderline reckless type of person.

Anyways he might or might not teach her water alchemy. Also via the anime I've seen some folk headcanon that Isaac can use alkahestry so maybe he went to Xing and took the girl with him too and they both know alkahestry?

They're both part of the coalition that wants to get rid of the current system of government.

Isaac abruptly discovers the whole nationwide alchemical circle thing and leaves on his own to go and put that to a stop, gets killed by Bradley a la canon, our girl who was not told what he discovered was like “????? I'm gonna go find out”

Which kicks off the plot, and... originally I just had it stick to canon for the most part (except the ending) just told from a different perspective but methinks I should really lean into the whole AU thing and go off the rails somehow

Anyways for fear of the ask getting too long here are some rapid-fire bullet points:

Mei becomes the Emperor in the AU. Sorry not sorry, I don't care about Ling all that much.

Miles' daughter offers to be a bodyguard for Mei and help her win the throne in exchange for her helping Ishval later. She agrees, and a badass duo is formed.

Our girl felt shame for being disconnected from her culture, she feels like she's not “Ishvalan enough”, even her name is Amestrian, so she discarded her name, just like Scar.

If she could allow herself to be vulnerable enough to say it aloud she'd tell Scar, “I wish you were my father instead” but homegirl is kinda constipated where her insecurities are concerned.

Complicated dynamic with Winry

Does NOT get along with Ed unless he gets his shit together and grows

Running into Miles in the North would be... a catastrophe

She thought her dad was dead all along but he's alive AND IN THE MILITARY?

I need to map out Miles' development if I'm not gonna stick w canon, he can't be Arakawa's mouthpiece who only appears once in a blue moon he gotta be a presence somehow

Marigold... haunts both Miles and their daughter. Miles' guilt, the daughter's anger and hurt and not understanding why her parents won't say anything beyond “be a model citizen and prove them wrong”— and of course, grief at losing Marigold, losing both her parents, even if they weren't perfect by any means.

I don't know if it's feasible for Miles to recognize his daughter whom he has not seen in years but the girl would absolutely recognize Miles. Yeesh.

Anyways Miles will have much to think about. And will eventually get his shit together but not right away. He's quite shaken after seeing his daughter again for the first time, though. Probably happens when the north crew had Scar trapped and Mei + the girl come to his rescue. To add to the absolute fucking MESS.

Scar and the girl would eventually take on new names as part of their healing or whatever, as their old name selves kinda “died” long ago? [Scar] died when his brother died, [the girl] died when she fell through the cracks of the system and never came back up.

Also Kimblee deserves no dignity he should've been killed by Scar.

Mustang does NOT get to use the fucking Philosopher's Stone to heal his eyes, if he even comes to need it— he might not even get yeeted into the Gate in the AU, someone else might have to take up the burden or things never come to that point, the Ishvalans are given back their dead and Marcoh gives either Scar or the girl or both the way to destroy a Stone. So they do. As part of a funerary rite for those who got turned into a Stone. It doesn't erase what was done to their people, but... it's closure, at least.

On the topic of that, the other day I went to check the Ishval tag after sending my previous ask to you, and. Uh. Uhhhhhhhhhh.

There was a post going “wouldn't it be so cool for Mustang to have red Ishvalan eyes since he used a Stone made of Ishvalans to heal his eyes?” and I had such a visceral reaction to it that I immediately exited the tag.

Yeahhhhhhhhhh

Regret™

Oh and there's also a couple underdeveloped Ishvalan OCs I have one of whom wants to be a doctor and may or may not become the girl's love interest? He's a soft boy.

This AU didn't really get all that much developed compared to my other AUs so I'm still up in the air on how the cast would react to my OC(s)— Olivier could be like “whomst the fuck is this upstart tyke and also that's a threat” and that could potentially drive some conflict between her and Miles, Miles is, understandably, distraught over everything, Ed... probably wouldn't like her tbh, no idea on how the Mustang gang or the homunculi would react to her, it's just a whole bag of ?????

Omg @heartisrote you wanna draw my baby? 🥹

Here are some older drawings I did back before I had the means to do digital art (when the earlier versions of the girl had a younger brother, unfortunately he got scrapped, he may get inserted again in another shape, question mark?) and after that, before my stylus fucking broke 🥲 (that's her potential love interest next to her)

Anyways, apologies for rambling so much in your inbox!

Hey Egg! Hope hopping off anon wasn't too intimidating. Maybe the cool Miles/Scar anon will get in contact with you in the near future.

Also, hell yeah, OC AU breakdown! Loved all the details you provided; I'm really digging the outline of the story so far.

Ah, so Miles' arrest is a manga detail that was eschewed for Brotherhood. Sigh, I really do have to read it don't I? But good to know, since it makes sense given the actions of the Amestrian government. They disbarred Amestrian Ishvalans from the service, so I thought it odd that Miles was spared. Initially I thought perhaps Olivier had thrown her pedigree behind keeping him in her squadron (which could still be true) or that his placement at Briggs provided plus his mixed blood gave him some leeway. But now I wonder if Briggs and Olivier only enter his military career and life post-arrest. 🤔

Excuse my ignorance, but is Miles canonically married? Doesn't matter either way, this is a cool AU, but I realize that my recollection of Brotherhood is perhaps spotty in that regard, or maybe the show also elided that info. Anyway, rip Marigold

So the poor daughter was utterly rejected by the Amestrian side of her family and gets sent to an orphanage. Man. It's realistic tho, since many families under a racial-class system deny, hide, or disown members of the "wrong" racial/ethnic makeup. Miles must have been distraught by both losses.

Good for her for running away from her abusers. Love that McDougall and his merry band of insurrectionists take her in! He may not be parent of the year (especially given the parallels between him and Miles in this AU), but it had to have been better than being at the mercy of a racist, indifferent orphanage. His death must have been like losing yet another parent.

With how much has shifted in the AU's plot, divergences are all the more likely to occur/become necessary. Especially once you get into the nitty-gritty of it all.

Lmao oh shit, Ling doesn't get the thrown. Ripppp, all hail Mei! Daughter becoming allies/friends with Mei on the agreement that, should Mei ascend to emperor, she and Xing aid Ishval is smart political maneuvering on Daughter's part. (If there's some other way I should refer to your oc, lemme know). With the alchemy/alkehestry thag Isaac taught her, Mei can further sharpen Daughter's alchemic skills.

And of course the two of them becoming an inseparable duo puts them in-line with meeting Scar. 🎉 Man's gotta properly father two tween girls while hunting down fascist pigs (thankfully they're both capable and willing to throw down). No surprise she's emotionally constipated, but hey, Scar's just as blocked up. But I gotta say: awwwwww 🥺

Oof yeah, her dynamic with Winry would be messy. And Ed, maaaaaan. Maybe in this AU he can actually shape up to be a better person (but unlike what Miles believes, that's not Daughter's nor Scar's responsibility)

Omg, that meeting between Daughter and Miles will be ROUGH. And during that scene in the Briggs mining town?? Nobody is prepared for the earthquake to follow

Yessss, the pair of them having to reconnect with who they will become, who they want to be, questioning who are they without the lives they once lived, with so much pain to come. Having someone else in similar straits would be an interesting dynamic

Amen. Kimblee got off easy in mangahood, when he shoulda had his spine ripped out by Scar (glad he gets murked by Scar in 03). Glad he gets his in this AU

Seems like Mustang's fate has been solidified quite yet, but I can appreciate that the Ishvalan philosopher's stone will not be misappropriated for him and his posse. It returns to its rightful people to receive final rights.

Ok, that post in the Ishval tag that you encountered. What the actual fuck. Wtf wtf wtfffffffffffffff

This fucking fandom, man

Anyway!

Fine tuning the interactions between your OCs and the canon cast will be quite the task, given the length of mangahood's story. There's no way Olivier (probably the entire Briggs unit) won't seriously complicate things with Daughter and Miles, but it's promising that Miles is slated to get his shit together eventually.

And the character designs! I really dig Daughter's design, she looks so good! The way you draw her hair is 🤌 Rip to the scrapped brother, but I can see how his passing as Amestrian would have thrown a wrinkle into her life and her insecurities. The love interest is adorable af. He's the one who's going to become a doctor, yeah?

Time to get some artwork of your oc done. Godspeed, heartisrote!

Thanks so much for sharing your OCs and AU! No apologies necessary for the length of the ask, I enjoyed reading it. 😄 If it gets posted anywhere, lemme know.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

being alive at the time i gleaned some general elements abt encanto but never actually heard we don't talk about bruno beyond awareness it existed popping off & i think i heard like the title recited off key off rhythm but in a way that indicates speak singing nonetheless lol so upon experiencing it it's like oh but it's the Verses? while the last refrain goes harder but prior to that it's comparatively underwhelming to said verses which feels appropriate like verses / pieces of a larger picture & that a "we don't talk about him" as a disappointing Lid on infinitely richer more characterful & dynamic "but: talking about him" instances. like well personally it'd be like um seven foot frame....anyway besides being able to firsthand go like oh damn Real (the kind of thing you know exists if alive at the time) it's like alright hang on lol. one thing when a core theme is yeah like "is it a refuge if 'especial' vulnerability ultimately gets pushed out rather than made safer" subset like the parties whose even observation of truths (problems) & drawing attention to them is seen as Ruining Things, like if you're painted as Making futures that aren't simply what's desired or reassuring rather than a guidance via just observing & sharing the truth. but then it's like whaddaya mean living in fear of bruno stuttering and stumbling you could always hear him sort of muttering and mumbling lmao like now that's just Association between the Truth Perceiving & Telling behavior & behavior that's just apparently distinctive of the same person. & like Not Accidentally when [what if people were magic] specifics are obviously primarily abt a metaphorical meaning & like, indeed it was made clear like oh this situation isn't Just b/c [boo we hate your prophecies] & that [an Ability that isn't directed towards what anyone Wants / is "weird" even by these magic standards] isn't Coincidentally given to someone who just so happens to already be "weird" in other ways & be set up to have a different perspective & be pushed away due to having the supposed "extra" vulnerability of unmet needs / insufficient support, same as someone who doesn't "correctly" have any kind of magic ability....like yeah banger and also like Oh Yeah Kind Of Devastating re: that metaphorical resonance allowing for like [set the metaphor aside] now hang on with this about this disabled family member lol. misinterpretation to The Ruinerrr / The Problemmm / The Maliciousss etc (i.e. the scapegoatinggg) despite their efforts likely entirely to the contrary. then despite like, efforts aside, Just Existing, always kind of muttering & mumbling like & what of it. & then like oh sorry weird pets. weird [auspicious for adaptable tenacious thriving surviving; either way simply creatures, existing] pets.

truly like As Is The Idea I'm Sure quickly becomes like hands behind back standing at the window Uh Oh Sisters musing on all the [disabled person] metaphorical & already literal elements there. blair witching it in contemplation like We've All Been There whether being so resented for the mere disruption of "existing in a group as the 'abnormal' odd one out" or like people talking shit abt anything associated w/you as soon as you've left the room, which is also made relevant like, this wasn't Only directed at this person when seemingly permanently gone, nor were they unaware / unaffected prior....pacing in the Musing parlor like things don't Have to be compared to billions but i only ever even see so many things & it's like billions sure is like "get scapegoated rword" & then said scapegoating is presented as only beneficial & we hate autists & even beyond that it's like, grabbing billions, Imagine If Things Meant To Be About Something Were About Something. quite a contrast when they are & furthermore like, deliberate thought & Care for [who gets scapegoated & why] & the truth of like, people getting pushed aside & out who have a key perspective & are primed / liable to come through for others similarly vulnerable & the supposedly Ruinous, Problems Generating disruptiveness is actually the strongest effort to make essential changes to a group. & come through with like, it'd be undermining thee point if it was "reassuring" us like oh haha people will be supportive b/c bruno will be more normal, so great that it Didn't like no, no Normality Reassurance(tm), presence of abnormalities(tm), Good, & everyone Can Deal b/c if you don't then it's pushing this person away, is exactly what happens, including even if they're still Around but are being mistreated b/c that is entirely part of that pushing away like anyone's victim blaming is ready to pounce at any time but if someone can't stand to stay / leaves b/c they can't see another option like that's not out of nowhere nor Regardless of what full support & flexibility they were getting lol. these Active Measures everyone loves so much, which are everywhere always & would include Staying & Trying To Make It Work & those efforts would be "disruptive" & resented & Bringing It On Oneself & etccc smh

that is to all say like. Woww when clearly basically the core thread was these beats of like, the crucial site of [thee scapegoated], & why that comes down on someone & how that plays out. endless ideas about how someone weird(tm) & disabled (&/or queer. but there's no Or here lol. & again like it's a Context like, to even be the one person without kids? likely not living up to "full" correct sexuality in that way alone; any oppression's logics of "inferiority" being logics of ableism, ready examples being that "inferior" race, gender, sexuality (& their experiences as people classed as inferior) all being pathologized as disordered) are seen & treated as someone Ruining Things & who cannot belong like whew. bracing. winding. which, i also recall like i was watching with headphones & during this one dialogue pause i was like "?? what's this Extra Sound i heard there" & had to go over it like twice before being hit upside the head like well it Was still the dialogue pause but it was also bruno Stuttering in a very quiet whisper for the duration of that pause before continuing like iiiiiiii x_x

[a-pastel-edgelord]

Rintaro Suna believes there are absolutes in life. For example, he'll never score higher than a 75 in social studies, or that chuupets taste best on a hot day... Oh, or that you are totally and completely unavailable.

You call Kita, Shin. You always have ever since he met you. He calls you by your first name as well. He always has ever since Suna knew of your existence.

It's impossible to miss—Kita lives in such a methodical way. Like clockwork you show up in the gym just as practice ends. You help clean up. You make small talk with the team. You wait until Kita is done. Then you walk home together.

Suna didn't think much of you at first, just another person in his orbit. But then, during practice on a particularly hot day you showed up with popsicles and watermelon for the team. Kita scolded you for it, talking about how you spoil them. You shrugged it off, saying you have the right. The rest of the guys rushed to get their treats, Suna gave it a second, too sluggish in the heat. Something cold pressed against his temple. It was you, poking him with a pack of chuupets. You'd gone out of your way to refrigerate them. "You like these right? I saw them on sale so I got you some."

That day, something in his brain stuttered. But not that it mattered because you were taken by the captain of the volleyball team. Even if Kita is a bit of a weird hardass robot kind of guy, Suna likes him. Respects him too much to even entertain the notion of flirting with you.

"Maaaan!" Atsumu whines in the locker room. "I wanna show off my service ace." He's been complaining about you not coming to watch a practice.

Akagi rolls him eyes. "Some people actually study, y'know. Apparently Kita-san is eyein' some fancy university in Tokyo."

"Yeah, Tsumu." Osamu drawls. "Kita-senpai doesn't have volleyball brain like you. So studyin' ain't a lost cause."

Suna pauses halfway through putting on his jacket. "Kita-senpai?" The words are foreign in his tongue.

"Huh?" Gin looks at him. "Yeah. You know. Kita-senpai. They're cousins. We call 'em Kita-senpai so we don't get confused with the captain."

Suna appreciates another absolute as he throws on his shoes and sprints down the stairs to where he knows you're waiting for your cousin. The fact that he is an absolute idiot.

[hwanghyunjinenthusiast]

omega envy — lc

summary: chan goes into rut while you two are wrestling and you offer to help him out

tags: smut (minors dni!), a/b/o dynamics, alpha!chan, beta!reader warnings: cringe omegaverse, play wrestling, reader is implied smaller than chan, rough play, explicit unprotected sex, oral (f. rec), fingering, (f. rec), breeding kink wc: 3.2k an: i made a post abt writing an a/b/o story months ago and i told mika i’d write one for her so mika this is for you (tbh i dont even know if ur still interested in this/remember but shhh)

Chan’s restless as you two sit on the couch, attempting to watch a movie that he picked out. You reach over for the remote and pause the movie before turning to Chan.

“What is your problem?”

He stops fidgeting and turns to you, caught off guard. His eyes are wide and he looks like a puppy. “What?”

“Sit still,” you tell him. “You’ve been jittery for the past hour.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters. He turns away from you, pretending like he’s watching the movie again, but you can still see the way his fingers tap against his thighs and the slight bounce of his leg as he taps his heel up and down.

You’re not too annoyed by it, Chan has always been a restless body, but it seems to be even worse than usual. You think about what the other pack alphas would do if they were here right now. Mingyu and Cheol are pretty restless too and they often like to go to the gym to release some tension. You can’t exactly just drag Chan to the gym right now, but you can think of a couple other ways to get his jitters out.

You smirk to yourself before launching yourself across the couch at Chan, tackling him against the cushions. He lets out a yelp that quickly turns into a growl. He doesn’t question you, his instincts taking over as he grabs at you, trying to pin you back.

This is your favorite part about being a beta. The ability to blend well with both the alphas and omegas while still being your own thing. You can cuddle with the pack omegas while they’re in pre-heat or you can wrestle with the alpha when they get too rowdy.

Chan quickly flips you two around, so your back is against the couch as he hovers over you. You’re held down for only a second before you roll both of your bodies off the couch and onto the floor. You know that it’s probably a bit childish to be rolling on the floor, play fighting like you’re still pups, but it’s clear Chan needs this and you don’t mind indulging in some fun every once in a while. 

You can sense Chan’s scent getting thicker as he doubles his efforts, doing his best to overpower you. You’ve always liked the youngest alpha’s scent, a mix of spices like they’re being mortar and pestled right next to you. That’s one thing you’ve always been jealous of being a beta. You like not having to go through a heat or be so controlled by your instincts, but you always wished you had a strong scent. That your pack could better sense your emotions without having to say a word. Chan has always sworn you do have a scent, but you know it’s nothing like the one he has.

You’re not sure how but someone you and Chan are now completely on the other side of the room from the couch. Chan’s got his arms wrapped around your waist as you push at his head, your knee pushing against his stomach to get him off you.

Chan just barely loosens his grip on you, and you take the opportunity to pull yourself free, standing up quickly to regain some composure. Chan scrambles to his feet as well and you’re quickly throwing yourself at him again.

It’s clear that Chan is stronger than you, not only due to his size but also his orientation. That’s not going to stop you from trying to overtake him. You jump on his back, wrapping your legs around his waist as you hook your elbow around his neck, half choking him. Chan claws at your arm, trying to throw you off.

You’re stubborn though and only budge when Chan slams his back down onto the couch, crushing his weight on top of you. You dig your heels into his stomach and Chan squirms in your grip. You both eventually let up and Chan quickly spins his body around so he’s on top of you again. You reach up to grab him but his reflexes are quicker, slapping your hands out of the way so he can pin your shoulders down against the couch, the weight of his body heavy on top of your hips. You wiggle your hips though, trying to buck him off. You reach up and jab at his sides, forcing him to fall back off you.

You try to get up to try and push Chan down, but he gets the upper hand once more. He picks you up only to throw you back down onto the couch. You grab at him, pulling him closer, ready to throw both of you off the couch like you did earlier. Chan doesn’t allow though, holding you down so you can’t move at all. He stares down at you with a fire in his eyes.

And then you feel it. The distinguishable press of something hard against your thigh. Chan lets out a low groan and his hips rut forwards against your thigh even more, his strong scent suffocating your nostrils and throat.

“C-chan,” you gasp out. This seems to wake the boy up from the daze he was in and he quickly reels back from you, falling off the couch and onto the floor.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, his face quickly turning red. “I-”

You wrinkle your nose up at the way his scent turns sour, yet still tinged with arousal. You stare down at him on the floor, allowing your eyes to flick down to his crotch for only a second. His sweatpants protrude out, his hardened cock lying beneath the fabric.

You sniff the air once more, your mouth forming a small ‘O’ shape. “Are you…in pre-rut?”

Chan whimpers a bit, looking away from your piercing gaze. “I don’t know. I thought I still had another two weeks, but you know how irregular it can be for me. I- maybe you should go.”

“Are you sure?” You find yourself asking. You’ve never been a rut partner for anyone in your pack before. You’ve helped some of the omegas out before, but never an alpha. Not that you’d be opposed, especially if it was Chan.

“I mean, I think you’re right so like, it would be best if you weren’t here when I you know…succumb to the urges.” Chan shifts where he’s sitting, his hips lifting off the floor for a moment, exaggerating his bulge. You can see how he’s twitching to shove his hands down his pants.

“And what if I want to be here when you ‘succumb to the urges’?”

“Wh-what?” The sour scent in Chan’s smell fully disperses, the smell of his arousal increasing tenfold.

“Let me help you Channie,” you tell him softly, sinking to the floor next to him. “I know I’m not an omega, but betas can still be great rut partners. You can tell me fuck off you really want me to, but I know it will feel better if I’m here. I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.”

“Shut up,” Chan grits out.

You’re a bit taken back. “Excuse me?”

“I said, shut up. If you keep talking like that I’m gonna fucking mount you.”

“And what if I want you to?”

That’s all it takes for Chan’s resolve to break. He lunges at you, pushing you so you fall back onto the floor. Chan climbs over you so his body covers yours. His nose is at your neck, biting and licking and sniffing all over.

Chan whines. “You smell so good, jagiya.” His hands grip your hips, holding you down.

The feeling of Chan’s mouth all over your bare skin as you wriggle under him, your panties quickly dampening.

As much as you love being a beta, when you presented you had one mortifying thought that you’ve never shared with anyone. You hated that you didn’t present as an omega, because that meant you weren’t able to mate with Chan. You get embarrassed whenever you think about that thought, but it comes to your mind again now as Chan ravages you. If only younger you could see you now.

Chan paws at your shirt, desperate to reveal even more skin. You help put him out of his misery, tugging the article of clothing over your head. Automatically Chan’s mouth lowers, licking over your chest, kissing right above your breasts.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” Chan mutters, barely lifting his mouth off of you. “You don’t even know.”

“But I’m not-”

“An omega? I don’t care. You’re you and that’s all I need.”

Fuck. Chan’s words send goosebumps down your arms. God, you need him horrendously.

“Bedroom,” is all you can choke out. Chan picks you up and throws you over his shoulder before carrying you to his bedroom. He throws you onto the bed before shucking his own shirt off.

You’ve seen Chan shirtless plenty of times, but you’ll never not drool a little when you see his nicely formed torso. He’s got the typical alpha physique with a thick chest and rows of abs to spare.

“I’m going to fucking destroy you,” Chan growls, low and primal, making the obsessive need for Lee Chan grow under your skin. Despite your hesitations when you first presented, you’re glad you’re a beta, because if you were an omega you’d have fully soaked your panties and your shorts with slick by now.

Chan pushes his pants down his legs as well and you follow suit, leaving you both in nothing but your underwear. You can see the way Chan takes shallow breaths as he stares at your body, laid out and vulnerable for him.

Chan knocks himself out of his stupor and he descends on you, attacking you with his mouth. His tongue laves over your collarbones and his fingers dig into your hips. His scent is thick in the air as he works himself up more and more, getting closer to hitting his rut.

You feel Chan’s hands push up your torso and dip under your bra, pushing it up your chest to expose your breasts. Chan doesn’t hesitate to get to work, his fingers kneading at your boob, rubbing your sensitive nipple, while his mouth attaches to the other one. It reminds you of a hungry dog, though you guess that’s exactly what he is.

The alpha’s hips are positioned right over yours and you can feel his cock bump up against your clit. You’re sure he can feel your wetness through the thin layers of both of your underwear and you push your hips up a bit to get more friction. Thankfully Chan takes the hint and he trails his hand downward, shoving his hand into your panties to connect his fingertips to your clit. He rubs at it roughly and you throw your head back with a gasp as the pressure starts to satisfy the ache in your core.

“You smell so good,” Chan growls, his voice deep and thick. “Even without my hands on your cunt, I can smell how wet you are.”

Chan moves down the bed, so he’s in between your legs. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and strips them down your legs. You go to close your legs, embarrassed at being so exposed, and not enjoying the sudden chill of the air hitting your bare pussy, but Chan is quick to grip your thighs and pry your legs open once more.

The boy groans at the sight of your bare pussy exposed to him. “Baby,” he mumbles, “I need to taste you.” He grabs you by the ankles, pulling you closer to him so he can line his face right up to your cunt.

“Wait, wait,” you tell him. “Don’t focus on me, you’re the one in rut.”

“Not yet,” he says. “So let me have this.” With that he dives right in, his tongue licking a thick stripe right through your folds. You gasp, quickly clenching your thighs down around Chan’s head. This just makes Chan bury his head further between your legs, his lips wrapping around your clit. He sucks at the bud harshly, sending jolts of pleasure down your spine.

His mouth is messy against your cunt, kissing and licking and sucking wherever he can. You can hear the soft growls he emits from his throat, the sound getting more aggressive the more he licks at your pussy. Your body is already buzzing with pleasure and all you can do is whine as he pushes your legs apart further, feeding his fingers into your dripping entrance.

You can’t help but throw your head back, moans flowing freely from your mouth as Chan’s finger pushes deeper and deeper into you. 

“Ch-chan!” You gasp as he brushes up against your g-spot. Your hand flies to the bed, gripping the sheets tightly as you lock your legs around his back. 

The smell of arousal in the room increases, overtaking your senses and driving your mind further away from coherency. As Chan prolongs his time between your legs, you can feel his rut creeping closer. You know he feels it too, by the way he starts to get more restless, his hips rutting down against the mattress.

“Can’t take it any longer,” Chan grumbles as he finally pulls his head up from your legs. His face is slick with your arousal and there’s a dark look in his eyes. “Need to fuck your cunt.”

Suddenly Chan’s scent changes, completely overtaken by lust. You gasp as Chan shoves his boxers down his legs, his leaking cock releasing from the confines. It’s huge, larger than you were expecting, and you don’t have time to warn Chan to be careful because he’s lining himself up and pushing his tip in.

Unlike any normal omega, you’re not made to take alphas in rut, but Chan isn’t thinking clearly anymore and continues to push into you, ignoring the tight fit and doing his best to put it all in. 

“Open up, baby,” Chan growls. “Let your alpha fuck you.” His thumb rubs at your clit mercilessly and you gasp and whine, doing your best to relax for his cock. Finally Chan is able to bottom out and he lets out a low groan at the feeling.

The alpha barely lets you adjust though, pull his hips back only to slam them back in. Your body is jostled at the sheer force of his thrust and this seems to entertain Chan, as he does it again and again, slamming into your cunt.

The feeling of his alpha cock inside of you has your mind reeling. You’ve never felt anything like it before and you need more, you want him to fill you up as much as he can, knotting you like you’re his omega.

“You’re so tight,” Chan says. “Pretty little beta pussy taking my alpha cock so nicely.”

The pace of Chan’s hips contrast his speech, like they have a mind of their own. His grip on your hips is tight, pinning you down to the bed so you stay in place for him to fuck into. You already feel so close to your orgasm, but you know Chan is only just starting, and even if he does cum, he’ll be insatiable for a while. 

“A-alpha!” You squeal, your fingers digging into Chan’s back. You’re sure his whole back will end all scratched up, but you don’t think Chan will care too much.

Chan leans down, pressing his mouth all over your bare skin. His lips and teeth clash against your shoulder and chest as he nips and sucks all over, marking up your skin. He lets out soft whines as he does this and you run your hands through his hair, petting him like the pup he is.

The alpha’s mind is completely gone now, his only thoughts now being on his growing knot. For the first time in years you start to wish you were an omega, once again. You wonder how it would feel to get lost in pleasure the way they do, going dumb at the feel of an alpha’s cock filling them up. Just the thought of an alpha and omega mating, nothing in their minds but each other, you can’t help but yearn for that feeling.

Almost as if Chan can sense your thoughts, he nudges his nose right into your neck. You can feel his nostrils brush up against your scent gland as he whines into your neck. “You smell so good. Fuck baby, you’re so perfect for me. You know that? Fuck my pretty, perfect beta. Just for me.” Chan grabs your legs, hiking them up around his waist so he can fuck into you at a new angle. “Gonna breed your little cunt. Fill you up with my pups and get you so round and pregnant.”

“C-chan!” You gasp at his words. Your pussy betrays your mind though, clenching at the thought of being bred by Chan.

“See baby, you want it, you need it. And I need to give it to you. You’ll let me, right baby? You’ll let me give you all my pups?” Chan’s mouth strays dangerously close to your scent gland, his teeth teasing the spot.

You can barely think about his words, your mind only on the mating bite you wish he could give you. You know it won’t do much, not in the way it would with an omega, but god do you want it nonetheless. You’re not like Chan, you’re completely in the right headspace, not overtaken by your hormones, but you still want it. You want his bite and his pups and to be his. His beta.

“Fu-fuck, yes!” You cry out. “Breed me, please. Give me your knot.”

Like Chan was holding off until your word, Chan grips your hips tightly and pulls his hips back until he’s nearly pulled out, and with one fell swoop he thrusts his cock back into you, shoving his knot into you as he does. As soon as your cunt clenches down around his knot he’s milking himself into you, his cock twitching as you feel yourself fill up to the brim with his cum.

“Good girl, so fucking good,” Chan mumbles against your skin as his body sinks down against yours. He’ll be satisfied for now, but you’re sure he’ll need a few more rounds until his rut is completely ebbed away. “My pretty beta.”

“Channie,” you say, lifting his head up in your hands. Chan gets what you want and leans forward to kiss you, letting your lips slide together as he deepens the kiss.

When you two pull away Chan rests his head on your shoulder. His mind should be clearing up for the time being, at least until the next wave hits. “Thanks for your help.”

“Of course. I know I’m not-”

“Shhh, don’t. I don’t care if you're not an omega. You’re even better than one, okay? Because you’re you. My beta.”

You flush at the term. You’re not sure if it's still his rut brain talking, but from the way he’s nuzzling his nose right into your scent gland, you doubt it is. You want to talk about it with Chan, but you’re still stuck on his knot and you will be for the next day or so until he’s in his post-rut.

You’re not worried though, because from what you can tell, being Chan’s beta is way better than being any regular omega. 

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[gothamite-rambler]

That was actually a good deed, Jason.

Jason Todd walked over to Bruce Wayne scrolling through photos on his phone. He tapped the man on the shoulder.

Jason: You want baby pictures of Damian?

Bruce spat out his coffee in shock. Jason chuckled.

Jason: You have to pay me.

Bruce (frantic): You better not be lying to me because if you have baby pictures of him I will pay you whatever price you ask.

Jason: Um okay I have about 10 I can give you now so $10,000 for each one.

Bruce: Stay there, gotta get my phone and I'll transfer the funds to your bank account.

Bruce ran out of the room leaving Jason Todd with Alfred watching the entire interaction, impressed.

Alfred: Jason, how did you get baby pictures?

Jason: Remember, I knew about his existence before Bruce ever did. I visited the kid for the first 9 years before Bruce found out about him. Talia paid me to take photos of him for memories.

Alfred: That's very wholesome of you.

Jason (confused): I said Talia paid me.

Alfred: Money or not, you did a good deed. Now Master Bruce can have a few photos and trust me, he's been begging Talia for baby pictures for years. Be proud of yourself.

Jason smiled.

Jason: I appreciate you saying that.

Alfred: I mean every word of it. You're welcome.

[endearng]

Tie

Pairing: switch!Spencer Reid x sub!fem!reader Summary: Spencer gets unreasonably jealous of you. You let him take control to comfort and reassure him. That's what loving girlfriends do. WC: 3.6k Warnings: smut - oral (f receiving), edging, overstimulation, kinda softdom!Spencer, reader is compliant to everything he says, he's just as desperate as her, sir kink, creamp1e (i long for a better word), bondage, unprotected pinv, dirty talk (they yap), pet names, pussy slapping. Jealous Spencer deserves a warning of its own. Minors, please, do not interact. A/N: I have no excuse for myself (I'm ovulating). This is pure filth and indulgent because I was being tortured with thoughts of Spencer.

Feedbacks are always welcomed and appreciated <3 Masterlist

Subtle touches from Spencer all night had you going crazy. Well, they weren’t exactly that subtle.

During a particular conversation you were having with Rossi about Italian cuisine (you were an enthusiast, both of cooking and eating Italian dishes like nothing else existed), Spencer, who had an armed slung over the chair you were sitting on, started twirling your hair in his fingers. When you laughed at some remark about how French people are insane for combining dairy with fish, your boyfriend pulled your hair rather crudely. You glared at him from the corner of your eye.

You got somewhat angry because it was uncomfortable for you to be that intimate around others, but his teasing worked wonders on you. Now, you wanted his touch to be bolder, thirstier, needier, just to match your own sinful thoughts and wants. Right now, Spencer was saying goodbye to Rossi, who was waiting for a cab to take him and his wife back home. Spencer's hand rested at the small of your back. The wine you sipped all through the night, combined with Spencer's bratty behavior, was now making your pussy throb with need for your boyfriend. Nevertheless, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you all worked up in public. "Goodbye, Krystall, and again, happy birthday. Thank you for including me! It was incredible," you said to the woman, who hugged you warmly and thanked you with a smile on her face. "Looking forward to those cooking sessions you mentioned earlier," you said, a big smile on your face as you gave David Rossi a hug.

"Anytime, bellissima." He said simply as you pulled away, smile gracing his face. You held out your hand to Spencer to walk back to his car.

The nickname had struck a nerve. He wasn't jealous, no, he trusted you with his body and his soul, even if he, as a man of science, didn't believe in the latter — that's how much he loved and trusted you, and it was Rossi, for God's sake... Still, he was just another man. Another stupid, territorial man. He opened the door for you and you entered the car, giving him a peck on the lips, "Thanks, handsome."

"Anytime, bellissima," he said through gritted teeth after he closed the door and as you fastened your seatbelt, out of your earshot. He turned around to enter the car, taking the driver's seat.

You went home silently, but you could sense the heavy atmosphere between you on the way there. As you entered your apartment, he got down on his knees to take off your shoes for you. He always did it, no matter what. Apparently, acting weird was no exception to his care with you. You bit your lip, a little apprehensive to bring up the subject. "Thank you, baby," you said softly instead.

"You're welcome, darling." he said, not looking at you and taking longer than necessary in his task.

You sucked in a breath. "Okay, baby, what was that? We need to talk about it."

"What was what?"

"Just when we left the restaurant. I said thanks and you basically ignored me all the way here," you explained, even if you knew he definitely knew what you were talking about. your hand found the nape of his neck, making him look up at you. He had a guilty look on his face.

Busted.

He sighed, "I'm sorry, baby. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I was mean." He apologized, eyes sincerely searching your form and hands reaching up to rest on the sides of your hips.

"Why did you do it, then?"

"Bellissima. You know what it means. I just got... jealous? I should be the only one complimenting you," he said, now standing at full height in front of you. Kissing your lips, hands caressing your waist, touch light as a feather, "telling you how much you mean to me," you sighed as his lips brushed the skin of your neck, "how much it drives me crazy just seeing you," he bit the sweet spot just behind your ear, "my beautiful, gorgeous girlfriend. Mine."

You pulled on his hair so he could see your features. Looking him dead in the eye, with an almost angry look on your face. You wanted him to pay for everything he had done that night. "Baby, you were touching me all night, knowing that you were driving me insane. knowing you're the only one who gets to do that," you leaned in to kiss him softly. "And then throw a tantrum like the spoiled little thing that you are just because someone said a word to me? You know compliments mean nothing when it comes from someone who's not you, baby. Thought you knew better."

Silence. He looked at you like you kicked his dog. 

"Remind me, then," he retorted, looking you in the eye. "Remind me how much you're mine and mine only."

One of your favorite things about your relationship with Spencer was that, in public, your dynamic was totally different from what you were like between four walls. When you were surrounded by people, Spencer acted like a gentleman, always making sure to cater to your every whim, opening car doors, taking off your shoes for you, picking nice places to take you on dates, accepting your suggestions of what to wear — it was no coincidence that he looked a lot more styled lately, but you also loved his usual attires. It was how you met him and how you fell in love with him, after all.

But, in the bedroom (or wherever he decided to have you), it was totally different. You were compliant to everything he said, letting go of the control you had over yourself, over your relationship, over everything so he could take you to fucking heavens. You obeyed everything without so much a "yes, sir", and he fucking loved it.

He unzipped the skin-tight dress after leading you back to your shared room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, you stood before him, whose tie was loosened around his neck. "Is this all for me?" he asked as he saw what you had underneath your dress all night long, absolutely sick with the slightest idea that someone else could have that.

You sighed as he kissed your neck and trailed down to your breasts, easily unclasping your bra. "Yes, sir, all for you."

Just like clockwork, all his attention drifted to your breasts. One of his large, calloused hands held your waist securely and the other played with one of your nipples as he licked the other, his hot tongue circling the nub, making you whimper and sending a rush of wetness through your core. "mmm, always need my mouth full of you, angel."

"nnngh, it feels so good."

He smiled on your skin, biting your nipple afterwards. The sting made you see stars and desperate to feel him in some sort of way, you'd take anything he had to offer you. You just needed to be touched. As he continued your ministrations on your breasts, switching from one to the other, you moaned, your hands finding his hair. "Sir—ah—, can you please—touch me?"

He stopped his movements and looked up at you, laughing mockingly. "Is that all it takes, pretty? A few minutes of my mouth on you and you're already so pliant? So eager for me to touch you?"

"Yes, sir. I need you so bad."

"Tell me, then," he scoffed, "where do you want me to touch you?"

Your incoherent babbles meant nothing, so he just laughed at your poor attempt at an answer.

"You're so good at begging, aren't you?" You nodded, licking your lips with the sight of his wet ones. "Wanna kiss me, baby?"

"Always do. Can I?"

"Yes, you can." No matter how dominant he was, he could never deny you a kiss.

You leaned down to kiss him. The brush of your lips alone made Spencer crazy, craving more and more. He could spend hours just kissing you, never getting tired of the mind numbing sensation it had on him. You deepened the kiss, your tongue caressing his, earning a moan from his end. You smiled. "I love kissing you." You whispered as you barely pulled away, breathless.

"I know you do, pretty."

His hands trailed on the sides of your body, earning a shiver from you. Just as he reached the hem of your panties, they traveled up again, grazing the skin of your arms instead. As he found your hands, he gave them a gentle squeeze. He stood up and looked down at you, in for another kiss. "You have no idea what you do to me," he groaned. His words only spurred you further. "Take off my shirt. Slowly." he commanded. And you complied, taking every chance to brush your fingers against his hot skin, desperate to rake your nails on his chest, to make him shiver for you, too.

Spencer turned you around gently so you could see yourself in the big mirror placed in front of the bed. You watched as he pushed your hair out of his way, resting it on your left shoulder to give him access to your neck, his hands finding your breasts so he could play with them, too. He started with light kisses on your neck, lips barely brushing the area, making goosebumps soon erupt on your skin. His caresses got gradually more aggressive, making you blatantly moan his name when he bit the sweet spot behind your ear and grinded his clothed dick against your ass. You whimpered, overwhelmed with so many stimuli.

Turning you to face him, again, he sat you on the edge of the bed, covered only by your underwear in front of him. You could see the tent in his pants and you were desperate to taste him, to take him in your mouth in order to make him as crazy as he made you. God, the things you'd do to hear him whimper like he knew you loved to hear...

"Thinking about something, angel?" He chuckled, mocking you yet again when he saw what were you looking at and the position you put yourself in: cunt in full display after you placed both feet at the edge of the bed.

You nodded violently. That was how you always found yourself pleading for him. It didn't take much, honestly. "Please, sir, I'll do anything. jus', please, let me feel you,"

Anything...

"Aw, pretty, you're so desperate for me," his tone was condescending. "thought you'd wanted someone else for a moment tonight."

"No! No! Never, sir. Never. I only want you. I only want you to touch me."

Leaning down, his fingers raked over your stomach, ghosting over the fabric of your panties. Spencer groaned as he touched the wet patch on your underwear, glistening, begging for attention.

"'s just how much I want you..."

"Look at you, angel, begging me to have my way with you," he sneered, "so pretty..." he muttered, getting down on his knees.

Through your soaked underwear, Spencer caressed your mound and outer lips, almost as if he was drawing your cunt from scratch, tracing every single feature, making it cling even harder to the garment. Each touch made you feel eager. Want something, say something, right?

He teased you for what felt like hours, but when you were finally able to form a sentence, he pushed your panties to the side and he moaned lowly at the sight of you. "Spence—sir..." You started, but were cut by a breathless grunt that raked through you as he licked a broad stripe on your slit.

"You are soaked, princess, had to have a taste of you... you were sayin'?"

"Please, don't stop, sir," your hands flew to his hair, trying to push him back to what he had started.

"Nuh-uh, princess," he tsked, gathering his tie from the floor, "You don't deserve to touch me after the little show you put up today. I’m gonna have to tie you up, alright?" 

There it was. Your punishment.

One thing about Spencer is that he always made sure to tell you whatever he was planning on doing with you, both so that you could say no if you wanted to and also because it turned you on beyond limits. It made your heart soar, he was so careful with you, making every man on earth seem like straight up Neanderthals. You whined at his plan as he looked at you to see if you were okay with the idea.

You jutted your lip out, brows furrowing, but you couldn't disagree with him. Adorable, he thought. He tied both of your hands behind your back, using his fucking tie. "... Yes, 's alright. I jus' wish I could touch you so badly," you complained.

"I know, pretty," he cooed, "that's why I'm gonna give you a chance to be good for me, and when you prove to me you can do it, you can touch me all you want."

"O-okay," you stuttered as he started placing teasing kisses on your inner thighs. You sighed.

"You smell so good. Want me to taste you too, hm? You're soaked, your pussy is begging me to do something about it."

"Yes, yes, I do!" you almost yelled. "Please, sir, I'll be good for you."

"I know you fucking will." he stated. Just then, he started licking your pussy, delicately at first just so you could get used to the feeling of finally having him the way you wanted. His hands held your hips in place to stop you from moving. He was the one in control, after all.

Then, once he sucked your clit between his lips, he started flicking his tongue against the nub, eliciting moans from you. The taste of you in his tongue was something he could never get used to, every fucking time felt like the first. He felt addicted to the power it had over him. The best he could do was at least try to be in control. You squirmed, almost like you wanted to get away from him, but his firm hands held you in place. "Be good and stay still," he muttered against your core, slapping your pussy once. You nodded, whining, too lost in the feeling after the sting, in the feeling of his tongue punishing you in a rhythm that put you in a frenzy. Spencer's middle finger slowly pushed inside your fluttering walls. "You're dripping all over my fingers. What a messy girl."

Knuckle deep inside your cunt and mouth feverishly and steadily working on your clit, your boyfriend started to feel more and more desperate by the second with the sounds coming from your mouth. You, on the other hand, could almost taste your release, a complete mess on the bed, chants leaving your reddened lips from all the biting, "yes, sir! You make me feel s'good, you're s'deep in me. Fuck! I'm your good g—" as he heard your words tinged with desperation in a high pitched voice and felt the muscles in your pussy tighten, he quickly stopped his actions.

He would bet money that it hurt him more than it did you.

"Noooo..." you whined, like a spoiled brat. A breathless, messy, spoiled brat. You knew what you were in for from the moment he took off your shoes. "Please, please, sir. You can f-eel how desperate I am for you," you blabbered, trying to argue. "Can I show you?" You decided to take matters into your own hands. Well, as best as you could.

He stood up. "Let's see what you've got, princess." He gripped his shaft in front of you, making saliva pool in your mouth. "You're not even being fucked yet, and you're already this dumb, baby?" He sneered at you. You looked up at his face, taking in his dilated pupils watching you. You looked like any man's wet dream, perfect pussy on display, chest heaving with anticipation of what was coming next, face contorted in the filthiest expression in the world.

He would be happy just to watch you, but he was actually able to taste, touch, see, smell and hear the whole thing.

He was the luckiest man in the world.

Half sitting on the bed, back against the headboard and already off of his slacks and briefs, he beckoned you over to his lap. You kneeled somewhat awkwardly on the bed to hover on his lap, cunt dripping arousal on his belly as you did so. He groaned, the dominant facade faltering for a moment. He had to be the most indulgent dominant man ever, because he was barely able to resist you and your seducing ways. "See how wet you make me?" You whispered, eyes focused on his, which looked directly at the sheer liquid pooling on his stomach.

"You're such a good girl, baby" in a weakened voice made its way out of his mouth. "Since you asked so nicely and you have proof, why don't you show me how much you love riding me, huh? Come on, pretty, sit on my cock. Ride me." His commanding sentences made your cunt gush yet again.

"Yes, sir!" you exclaimed, ready to obey his commands.

Spencer gripped his base and rubbed his dick against your folds. He groaned, biting his lip and it took every single ounce of self control not to kiss him senseless. After some more teasing, he muttered, "You can do it now."

You sat down on him, slowly, pushing the tip in. "Fuck," hoarse voice, just the way he loved it, "you feel so good, sir. And you're not even fully in yet."

"Come on, nice and slow, princess."

You sank a little further, his girth stretching you out so deliciously that it made you shut your eyes closed as goosebumps erupted on your skin, pure bliss running through you. "Fuck—ah— you're so, so hard, sir," you hissed.

"Yes, that's it," he grabbed your hands in one of his. He felt you clench around him. "Gonna make sure you get off on my cock alone."

Recalling his demand, you obeyed. Nice and slow, savoring the feeling of having him buried to the hilt inside of you. each time you pulled back just to slam his dick inside again made you feel dizzy. Spencer was mesmerized by the sight before him. First, your expression told him how much you enjoyed riding him, mouth agape to let out the dirtiest moans and words, unlike the poised woman he liked to brag about to whoever listened. "Fuck, you're so deep. 's so good, love it when you let me ride you, sir."

Spencer kept silent for a moment, still admiring your form. He watched as the hair on your skin shivered each time he started to meet your thrusts, eager to make you his. his eyes drifted to your breasts, bouncing with every movement of your bodies. It was wanton, watching you get off on top of him, using him to chase your own high, but the sight that got him enthralled was your pussy making his cock glisten with your arousal. "Yeah, pretty? So what do you say? D'you remember you have to be nice?"

"Thank you, sir"

"Thank you for what?" he urged.

"That's right. You're taking me so well, princess, fucking hell," he cursed. "Such a tight pussy, baby, so perfect for me."

“Thank you for letting me sit on your cock. Ah! I'm all yours, sir! Yours."

At this point, Spencer was a goner below you. You rocked your hips and he met you thrusts ruthlessly, focused on chasing your high. You slowed your movements, clit grinding against his pubic bone, dick still rock hard inside of you. You felt the telling signs of your orgasm approaching and, mind filled with thoughts of all the filth you've done with him. You still wanted to do much more. "Fuck, pretty girl—you're so good at taking me."

You leaned down to whisper in his ear, your tits brushing against his skin adding to the whirlwind of sensations. "Can I come, sir? Please! I want to come all over your cock," all your sentences sounded like heavenly, pathetic whines to Spencer's ears.

"You hafta take it, princess," he groaned, hands guiding your movements. "Take. It." He urged, words emphasized by two particularly hard thrusts. “Wanna come inside of you.”

"Yes, please! I'm all yours—Spencer!" You yelled out his name as your orgasm washed over you, still grinding against him.

The sound of his name leaving your lips was enough to follow you not shortly after. “Gonna come—fuck—inside you.” He gritted. After spilling inside you, he kept fucking his cum back inside with a few sloppier thrusts.

You crashed beside him, taking a minute to catch your breath. Spencer quickly reached to undo his tie on your wrists, kissing the soft skin after removing the garment. You chuckled at his care. “Don't ever stop me from touching you again,” you muttered.

“What are you going to do, angel? Stop me?” He laughed softly.

He cleaned you both up and you had your hands free to caress your boyfriend’s skin all night long.

The next morning, Spencer had you on the phone as he walked in the bullpen, saying “yes”, “of course”, and a series of different agreements, gleeful expression on his face.

He heard Derek Morgan chuckle. "Aw, Reid, she already telling you what to do?"

"There's no time for her to start, you know that, Derek," Emily quipped.

They had no idea you were telling him about the wet dream you had about him fucking you in the middle of the bullpen.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

reunion

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 4.5K

Warnings: Slow burn; unrequited love; angst; yearning; divorced Art Donaldson; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; safe sex

Summary: It wasn't that Art Donaldson was the one that got away. It was more like Art Donaldson was the one that never really knew you existed.

"Did you hear Art Donaldson is supposed to be here?"

The question is whispered behind you and makes your hand freeze in its signing. You're half-bent over the table at reception, fingers tight around a pen as your mind is jogged.

No way was he turning up, that's what Anne had said.

Tashi will be there, she's the head of the goddamn reunion committee, the ink is still wet on their divorce—that's what Anne had said. Hell, she'd sworn it.

So what the hell is he doing here?

The sound of your name jogs your attention and you manage to finish signing in. You straighten, taking up your name tag and haphazardly slapping the adhesive onto your top. You need a drink, and quickly. You're halfway to the bar before you feel someone wind their arm through yours.

"Okay, I know you didn't wanna come—"

"Anne."

"And I so appreciate you being here so that I didn't have to come alone—"

"Anne—"

"But I got some news and it's going to be a little shocking so I think you should hear it from me—"

"I know he's here."

"What?" Anne freezes, her arm dropping from yours. You turn to see her looking stricken, her cheeks pinking with panic and embarrassment. You sigh softly, glancing around your fellow alumni. Less than half of them look familiar; your eyes catch on the odd face before you realize that you're inadvertently looking for him.

"Look, there are, like...Five hundred people here, alright?" You add. "I probably won't even see him."

"We can go."

"Look, we made the trip, we're here, we may as well stay. It's fine, okay? We're all adults here! It doesn't matter!" Your insistence is chased by a slightly hysterical laugh. "It was, like, a hundred years ago."

"...You're sure?"

"I am positive."

Positive that you need a drink, and positive that you're going to regret agreeing to stay.

--

It wasn't that Art Donaldson was the one that got away. It was more like Art Donaldson was the one that never really knew you existed.

You were friends, sure. You palled around, had a few classes together, hung out at a few parties—but he was so in love with Tashi Duncan that you'd never made his romantic radar. You'd forced yourself to believe that that was for the best, that you didn't need his love or romantic validation to be happy. But you couldn't pretend that wanting him didn't sting.

He'd had a couple of girlfriends while you were at Stanford, but you could always feel, always see that they were never really his priority. It was Tashi, then tennis, then them.

The two of you had kept touch a little after college, but you'd pushed yourself to move on. Conversation had begun to fade, and when he hadn't tried to keep it up, you had resolved to let him go.

You'd avoided his name in the news as much as you can, but it had been hard. He was on billboards, packaging, tv—it was like you couldn't escape him.

Want melted to sadness; sadness shifted to annoyance; annoyance hardened into disdain. You couldn't see his likeness or hear his name without rolling your eyes. It wasn't his fault, of course, but the prospect of running into Art fuckin' Donaldson made you queasy.

Still, you put on a brave face for Anne, forcing your focus into conversation.

It's a struggle to keep your gaze from seeking him out. You take each sip with a little white lie, convincing yourself that you're looking to make sure you can avoid contact. You spot Tashi a couple of times, but you don't go out of your way to say hello. She's surrounded by a cloud of people—taking pictures, signing programs and name tags and old Duncanator shirts.

When Anne insists on going to say hello, you force a small smile.

"You, um—you go ahead," You nod, taking a couple of steps back. "I'm gonna get some air."

Anne's dark eyes flit over you questioningly before she blessedly lets it go, nodding and going on her way. You turn, swiping a fresh drink off of a passing waiter's tray as you leave.

It takes a few moments for the buzz of conversation to clear from your head. You take a gulp of the prosecco, wrinkling your nose. It's a little sweeter than you usually like, and doesn't mingle well with the three other drinks that you've downed. Tashi's not going to find your lack of presence or greeting conspicuous; you'd been cordial and on speaking terms in college, but the two of you had never been close.

Damn, but it's chillier outside than you thought it would be. The reception had been so warm, so crammed with people. Paired your head being near-permanently on a swivel, you hadn't realize how hot and tense you'd been.

You frown at the waft of cigarette smoke that catches your nose. Who the hell is still smoking in this day and age—

"Are you hiding, too?"

Maybe you can feign that you didn't hear him—that the sound of his voice didn't jog a hundred memories and trigger a flurry of butterflies. But before you can stop yourself, you turn, the words, "I thought you quit smoking," tumbling out of your mouth.

Art's smile widens as he draw the cigarette back from his lips, a stream of smoke pushed out of the side of his mouth.

"I did. Quit quitting, though." He takes one more puff before he flicks it away, drifting closer. "Hi."

Hi, like it's not the first time you've seen him in the better part of a decade. Hi, like neither of you are oceans from where you where when you last saw one another.

"Hi," You manage. He doesn't hesitate to draw you into his arms; he seems to almost do it without thinking. You only allow yourself a moment of resistance before you raise and curl your arms around him. The clean scent of his pressed jacket and woodsy cologne are muddled with smoke. The fingers of one if your hands curls covetously in the fabric of his jacket as his palms smooth gently over your back. You hear him draw in a deep breath, feel him hold it, and then release it with a soft hum.

"How the hell are you?"

Probably better than you are these days.

You shrug a little, mumbling, "Fine."

He draws away, eyes skating across your face.

"You don't sound so sure about that."

"I'm sure."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

You can feel him winding up for another pass at it, but you hold your glass out before he can. His fingers brush against yours as he drains it.

"Why are you hiding?" You ask. He shrugs, nods toward the door.

"It's a lot in there. I forgot what these events are like."

"People wanna congratulate you. They're proud."

"Are you?"

"I am, but I'll hold off. Don't wanna crowd you."

Your attention is drawn from Art's smile as you hear someone clearing their throat over the speaker system inside:

"If we could have the reunion chairpersons to the stage, please!"

You glance toward Art and find him fidgeting, his thumb smoothing across his bare ring finger.

"…Do you wanna go back in?" You offer. He considers before he says, "Wait here."

You watch curiously as he darts inside, and are stunned when he reappears a moment later. You just barely catch a glimpse of the bottle of champagne clenched in his fist before he rests his other hand on your lower back, steering you away with an urgent murmur of, "C'mon."

--

"I'm surprised you came," You tell him. Art doesn't look at you for a moment, and you take the chance to lean back against the hard plastic seat. He's as beautiful as he was the last time the two of you were together, the night before graduation—practically in the same seats. You don't know if he was thinking about that when he'd led the way into the stands, chosen where to sit. Maybe it was pure muscle-memory.

Either way, you don't know how long the two of you have been sitting out there, knees bumping, passing the bottle back and forth. You take in his profile—the slope of his nose and cut of his jaw; the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows.

"My therapist said it would be good," He finally admits. "Told me I needed to get out more, start getting back into events, work at the foundation...What about you, huh?" He turns, brows raising. "You always told me that you hated this stuff."

You're surprised he remembers.

"I do hate this stuff, but," You shrug. "Anne didn't want to come alone."

"You're a good friend. I never forgot that." He sits up and passes the bottle back to you. "What happened to us, huh?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did we stop talking?"

I couldn't keep begging for scraps of attention.

"I don't know," You deflect. "Guess we just lost touch. It happens."

"I shouldn't have let it happen to us."

You look down at the bottle, sweeping your finger across a slipping drop of condensation.

"You were busy."

"You weren't?"

"Not in the same way," You laugh self-consciously.

"What were you busy with then, huh?" He shifts, thigh pressing against yours. "You used to always say you'd uh—burn out by twenty-six."

"Yeah."

"Did you?"

"Oh, it didn't take nearly that long."

"What!" He laughs. "What the hell happened?"

"I don't know what to tell you, man. A girl can only take a soul-sucking marketing job for so long."

"So what do you do now?"

"Still in marketing, but I'm a manager, so. Still soul-sucking, but making a little more money."

"You like it?"

"God no, but I don't know what else I would do." You pass the bottle back.

"Could find something for you at the foundation."

You wrinkle your nose, shaking your head as Art sputters a laugh, asks, "What?"

"Don't do that, Art."

"Don't do what?"

"I don't need, you know—"

"We could use you—"

"You don't even know what I do at work."

"I bet it's great—"

"You don't even know if I'm a good worker—"

"Sure I do, I know you."

"No, you don't!"

You know it's a mistake the second it leaves your mouth. Art's smile wavers as he leans away again.

"I just mean—" You try.

"I know what you mean. It's been a long time."

"...Yeah, it has." You take the bottle back, drawing deeply from it before passing it back. "I should get going. I'm sure Anne's looking for me."

"Sure."

You don't say goodbye or tell him that it was nice to see him. You just make as hasty a retreat as you can without tripping over your feet.

--

@ a_donaldsonofficial requested to follow you. 3h

You're not sure what surprises you more—the follow request or the message in your DMs: Dinner?

--

His groan is sinful and low, and makes you rethink ever losing contact with the guy. Under the warm glow of the diner's lights, his eyes slip shut, fingers tightening around the bun.

"...When's the last time you had a burger?" You finally manage to ask.

"I can't remember." He admits it through the mouthful, and you don't begrudge him the couple of flecks of food that land on the table. You smile, plucking up a couple of fries.

"Art?"

"Mm."

"Why'd you ask me to dinner?"

Art sets the burger down as he swallows, taking off his napkin to clean off his hands.

"I was thinking...About what you said at the reunion."

"Mhm."

"About me not knowing you. You're right. But you know what?" He presses on before you can process your surprise. "I don't think you know me, either."

You think for a moment, brows furrowing. He's right. You know the image of Art Donaldson that's been projected to you over the years—on tv screens, in magazines, in online clips.

"...I don't think I do," You agree.

"Figured we should fix that. Catch up, fill each other in on what we've missed."

"Okay."

"So, after college..." He trails off, waving his hand. "Fill me in."

"Moved to New York."

"Uh-huh."

"Working in marketing."

"Burned out before 26—"

"Yeah, hit my capitalistic peak at 23."

"That fast?"

"I mean, that's the last time I remember giving a shit about work, so. Yeah."

"Relationships?"

"...A couple," You admit.

"Serious?"

"Yeah. One."

"Married?"

"No. Engaged." His eyes drop to your bare left hand, and you hurriedly tuck it into your lap. "Formerly engaged."

"What happened?"

"It just didn't feel right. I don't think either of us were ready."

"...Was it anyone I knew? I don't remember you dating much at school."

"Guess I didn't."

"You weren't shy."

"Well no, but—"

"So what was it?"

"I had the worst crush on you, dude!" It's another mistake, but where the last one seemed to make Art retreat, this one leaves his gobsmacked. His eyes widen, mouth opening in a wide smile.

"You what?"

"Oh, kay, you know what—"

"I had no idea!"

"I was very subtle."

Art leans back in the diner booth, watching you openly. You can see the gears turning in his head, and you wonder what he may be remembering, holding up and twisting about in this new light.

"...Huh," He mutters.

"You can feel free to forget that at any time."

"I don't think I will...I wish I'd known."

You consider for a moment before you shrug. "I don't know. I'm kinda glad that you didn't."

"Really?" His brows knit with confusion. "Why?"

"I don't like coming second, Art."

Art nods slowly, and you see something tight pass across his face before it's smoothed away again.

"You know what?" He smiles bitterly. "Neither do I."

You nod toward his plate.

"Your burger's getting cold."

--

"So, uh..." Art clears his throat as the two of you take slow, drifting steps to your car. "I'm gonna say two things, and I don't want you to think that they've got anything to do with what you said earlier."

You know exactly what he means, but you just grumble, "I said a lot of things earlier."

"I think we both know which one I'm talking about."

"Uh-huh. So what's up?"

"...I wanna see you again."

"Okay."

"But things are a little...Messy right now. Tashi and I are working on getting Lily into a regular rhythm and it's harder than we thought it would be."

You lean back against your car, tucking your hands into your pockets.

"Mhm...I hesitate to ask."

"Yeah."

"How does this have to do with what I said earlier?"

"I just don't want you to think that this is—"

"A consolation prize?"

"Something like that."

"Whatever you need to do to get in a good place with Lily is fine, Art, you don't need to justify that to me."

"Even if it means you come second?"

You tip your head to the side, pursing your lips. "It's different when it's your kid. I meant that I didn't want to be second to—You know."

"...Yeah," He mutters, looking at his feet as he takes another foot forward. "And for the record, I was thinking of asking you out again by the time we sat down."

"You could've changed your mind."

"I didn't. And I don't want to."

You smile, nodding. "Well I don't want you to, either." You straighten up as you fish into your bag for your keys. "Call me the next time you're in New York."

"Sure."

You reach out, cupping his cheek and leaning in, pecking his cheek. You pull away, smiling at the flush creeping across his face.

"Goodnight, Art."

"Night."

--

It isn't easy at first. Messages are far and few, mostly how are yous and how was your days. You think that as nice as the little swell of contact has been, that's all it'll be—but the two of you both start to really try. The odd text becomes the weekly phone call. Weekly phone calls become daily FaceTimes. On the nights when he has Lily, they're late, usually when you're getting ready for bed. On the nights when he's on his own, the two of you eat dinner together and chat over your calls. It isn't always perfect, but it's more than you could've anticipated from that dinner a couple of months ago.

--

"She down?"

"Yeah."

"Are you in a hotel again?"

"...Yeah." Art seems to admit it grudgingly, and you smile a little as you take up your toner and a cotton pad.

"There's nothing wrong with leaning into it if it's working," You argue. "And not to be that bitch, but you're not exactly broke."

"Might be if she keeps ordering room service and movies on-demand."

You laugh softly, turning your attention to your reflection as you swipe the toner across your face.

"How's your day been?" Art asks.

"Fine, standard. I had to fill out an assessment ahead of my annual review."

"When's that?"

"End of the week."

"How do you feel about it?"

"Mm," You shrug reaching for a serum. "Fine, I guess. I'm doing okay, my team's hitting their targets."

"You're doing better than okay."

"Art."

"You are."

"Well. Thank you for that." You glance over as he goes quiet, catching a glimpse of him as you smooth the serum into your skin. You raise your brows at the sight of his gentle, warm smile. "What is it?"

"You're beautiful."

Your face goes warm at the compliment, and you bite the inside of your cheek to tamp down your wide, idiotic smile.

"You are tired, huh," You deflect.

"I mean it."

"...I know," You murmur, reaching for your moisturizer. "Tell me what you got up to today."

"I had a meeting at the foundation. We're starting planning for the gala."

"Oh yeah? Have you done them before?"

"We've had three before, but I was usually playing or training, so I haven't been as involved in the planning."

"How's it been?"

"We're still in the preliminary stages, but it's been interesting, you know, seeing how the pieces come together before I usually see them."

You nod, picking the phone up from the mirror holder and heading into your bedroom.

"Where are you gonna have it?"

"We're still scouting locations...As a matter of fact," Art adds, "We're considering a few in New York."

"Oh?"

"I'll be down there for at least a few days, and I wanna see you."

You grin bashfully as you climb into bed, settling against your pillows.

"I wanna see you, too. Are you gonna, um—I mean, is Lily gonna be with you?"

"No, it'll be Tashi's weekend."

"Okay, cool. Just wanna make sure I don't mess up your time."

"I appreciate that." Art's tongue swipes across his lower lip, eyes sweeping across your face. "I gotta say..."

"Mmm?"

"I'm looking forward to seeing your apartment."

"Oh, really?" You chuckle. "Why's that?"

"It'll be interesting, that's all. I mean, you already take me to bed every night."

You laugh, covering your eyes as you groan, "Oh, god, shut up!" as Art chuckles.

"Let me know when you're free," You add. "Your schedule's gonna be weirder than mine."

"Yeah, I will, as soon as I know what it is." You watch as Art lays down, propping his phone up on the nightstand. "...Can you stay on?"

"Yeah," You soothe, setting your phone on the nightstand in suit. "Until we fall asleep."

"Okay," He murmurs. The two of you settle in on your sides, watching one another on the phone.

"Night, Art."

"Sweet dreams."

--

The restaurant is picked. Your nails are done, your hair is done; you get a new dress, new shoes, a new bag. You're going to have an amazing night—a good dinner, a great conversation, and, if you have any luck, an amazing good night kiss.

--

You know the minute you see him that you're not making it to the restaurant. Art's eyes sweep over you in covetous wonder when you open the door. He closes the gap between the two of you, drawing you into his arms, and this time you go without a second thought. He presses his face into your neck, letting out a gentle hum at the scent of your perfume. The tip of his nose trails up over your jaw, his lips brushing the corner of your lips as his forehead rests against yours. He sighs as you draw in a nervous breath, and he sways in, lips pressing to yours.

You raise your hand to cup his neck, shivering as his hands smooth over your hips. He guides you deeper inside, blindly reaching back and shoving the door shut behind you as you fling your purse toward the bench in your entryway. His kisses grow hungrier as he steers you down the hall. You slip your tongue along his, smoothing your hand up to grasp his hair. Your fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt, exposing more of his pale, muscled chest to you. He slides down the zipper on the back of your dress and leans away just long enough to draw the dress up over your head. His eyes sweep across you, taking in your lingerie.

You hook your thumbs under the band of your underwear, giving them a teasing wiggle as you back further away from him. You expect him to follow, but he steers you back against the wall, dropping his head to suck hot kisses along your neck and down to your chest. He yanks one of the cups of your bra down, taking your nipple into his mouth. You bite your lip, tipping your head back against the wall and whining as he slots his knee between your thighs. You roll your hips down against the hard muscle as he laves and teases your nipple, reaching up to thumb and tweak the other.

"Art—Mm, god that feels so good."

He groans against your skin, trailing his kisses further down as he lowers himself to his knees. You look down as he curls his fingers around your panties—and waits. You smile softly, nodding, murmuring, "Please?"

Art grins, pressing a kiss to your hip before he gently eases the fabric down, waiting for you to lift your feet so he can fling them away. He leans in, swiping his tongue across your aching clit. Your knees would knock if he wasn't wedged between them. You draw in a shallow breath, letting your head tip back as he draws your leg over his shoulder. You shiver at the feeling of the chilly air against your heated, slick flesh. He nuzzles and laps against your cunt, taking each tip of your hips in stride. His hand smooths up your trembling inner thigh, giving your ass a gentle squeeze before he teases a finger into you. You whimper at the touch, unable to help the way your pussy clenches around it.

Art groans at the feeling, turning his head to smear his lips slips against your hip.

"Goddamn," He breaths against you.

"More."

You feel more than hear his gentle chuckle as he eases another finger in.

"Need it bad, huh?"

"You have no idea."

"I'm getting a pretty good idea." He turns his head, leveling a sucking kiss to your clit that makes you cry out. You tighten your grip on his hair as he pumps his fingers harder, curling and scissoring them as he pushes you closer to the edge.

"Art—Mm, god, fuck, yes—Yes—" Your toes curl in your shoes as your hips rabbit down against his face and fingers, chasing the swell of your orgasm. You look back down as he draws back and find his lips and chin shining with your juices.

"Bed," He urges.

"You can fuck me right here."

Art laughs, standing and smoothing his hand over your thigh.

"We're doing this right."

"We could be doing this right...." You slid your hand down his chest to palm his cock through his pants. "Here."

You grin as Art's eyelids flutter, his dick twitching against you.

"Bed," He insists again.

It isn't far to go, and the two of you are entirely bare by the time you get there. You scooch back onto the bed, spreading your legs as he rolls on a condom. He's over you a moment later, and you watch the bulge of his biceps as he braces his hands on either side of your head. You bite your lip as you feel the brush of his cock against your entrance. You reach down, grasping his cock and guiding him closer.

You tip your head up, tongue teasing the seam of his lips as he eases into you. You melt into the mattress as he crushes against you, filling you completely. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, sliding your legs over his, as if you'll manage to fuse the two of you together. Art's tongue swirls around yours before he captures your lips in a kiss, rolling his hips slowly.

"More," You plead, but Art keeps his pace achingly steady, even when you try to pick up the pace.

"You feel so fucking good," He breathes, "Even better than you taste."

"Harder, Art, please, god damn, please," You whimper. He tips his head to the side nipping at the hinge of your jaw as he reaches down, hiking your hip up even higher. Your mouth fell open with a stunned moan as he presses deeper, the slap of his hips filthily filling the stifling air around you. You arch up against him, nails raking down his back as you feel the swell of another orgasm.

"Art."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm—Fuck, almost—"

"That's it." He sucks his fingers between his lips before he slips them between your bodies, swiping across your tender clit. You begin to close your eyes, but he tuts softly.

"Don't—Don't close your eyes—Look at me," He orders between breaths. You force yourself to focus on Art, taking in the flush on his cheeks, his almost dazed eyes.

"You, too—" You urge.

"Yeah—"

"Oh—yeah," You gasp, unable to keep your gaze on his you cum. You feel Art's hips slap roughly against yours before he slows, groaning low in his chest. You draw in a deep breath as your heart pounds in your chest, sinking back against your pillows as he settles down over you. You smooth your hand over his nape, smiling as he nuzzles against your shoulder, dropping tender kisses to your skin.

"...Art?"

"Yeah?"

"I think we're going to be late for dinner."

--

"You know, I've been thinking."

"You've been doing a lot more than thinking, mister," You mutter, and grin as Art laughs. You cuddle closer against his side, nuzzling into his chest as he tightens his arm around your shoulders.

"I'm glad I didn't know you liked me in college."

"Really?" You tip your head up, brow furrowing. "Why's that?"

"...I wasn't ready for you back then." He smooths his fingers along your jaw, eyes wandering your face contemplatively. "It's like you said, you know. You would've come second."

You nod, turning your head to press a kiss to his palm.

"I don't think I was ready for you, either," You admit. Art smiles.

"And you are now?"

"More than."

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ;

@buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[peachesofteal]

Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader 18+ mdni, these two and their usual kinks, mention/discussion of pregnancy, Simon in his BDU so... you know.

You have a stage five clinger.

That's the only way to describe Simon lately. He's your shadow. The only time he separates himself from you is to take care of the baby, and even then, he's usually always in sight line.

Most people would feel smothered. Annoyed. Fed up, probably. You would have too, with past partners. But for some reason, with him, the irritation doesn't exist. He's working through something in his mind. Repairing something. Healing something. Even though the day in the hospital is long buried, you know it still sticks with him, the evidence clear in the way he still treads carefully, still handles you gently in bed.

The attention, the devotion, doesn't bother you. The need to reassure him drives you into his arms as often as possible, and when he holds on longer than usual, you never pull away.

The last day in your apartment is bittersweet. Mostly packed up, only the skeleton remains, a shell of what was once your home. You expected to feel sad, mournful, as you sweep up the dust in the living room, but your emotions are conflicted, a turbulent sea of satisfaction and already growing nostalgia. You're ready to turn the tide, move forward, while still appreciating the place you became a mother.

You're grateful to Gaz and Cami for taking Orion all day. They're at home, no doubt spoiling him rotten, while you try to wrangle dust bunnies and cleaning the oven. You get lost in the chore of trying to clean up, distracted enough you don't hear the door click.

When heavy footsteps sound in the entryway, you turn.

And lose your breath.

He's in the uniform again. The more formal one, the one that Price makes him wear for meetings. It fits him like a glove, snug in all the right places, and there's no denying what it does to you.

You're already wet. Just staring at him.

He smirks. "Alright?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm just... I'm almost done." You gesture uselessly around the kitchen, half pointing to the oven door, eyes still trained on him, sweeping up and down, over and over.

He steps closer, head cocked, leaning into your space just enough your body instinctively closes the gap. "See something you like honey?"

"Y-yeah."

"Gon' tell me what it is?"

"You look good, in the uniform." You clear your throat. "I... I like it." Your hand unfurls, palm flat, and he tugs on it, folding it over the hard bulge in his pants.

One moment, you're looking up at him and the next you're being spun around, back to his chest, thick fingers plunging into the waistband to tug your panties aside. He groans, stroking over your clit. "You're bloody soaked f'me."

"For you." Is all you can manage, voice twisted into a whisper, and he rips your pants down to your feet, lifting them out to kick your legs wide.

"Hands on the counter," he presses you forward until you're nearly at ninety degrees, cool air ghosting over where you're exposed, slick and swollen. "There we go, jus' like that." He grips fistfuls of your hips, your ass, and then tugs at his zipper, its echo instinctively rising you up onto your toes. He's still in his uniform, completely dressed, and you stare at him over your shoulder, legs trembling, soaking it in. You think you might be drooling. Blunt pressure notches at your pussy, the crown of his cock working its way forward before he slams the rest in, your scream pinging through the empty flat. "Fuck."

"Simon- ah,"

"I know, sweet girl, I know. You can take it, pussy looks so good stretched around me." He's teasing, in control though the clench of his jaw hissing through his teeth is clear, hips snapping over and over, rocking inside you. His lips graze your temple, breath hot on your cheek. "I want you to stop taking your birth control." You shudder, clenching around him. "We're ready, mama. You're ready. Let's," He shoves deep, deep enough you turn to liquid, body bending to accommodate, "have another baby." The rough fabric of his uniform pants scrape against your ass, brush and burn delicious with a bite, and you moan.

The mind has a funny way of erasing the memories of birth. Oxytocin is a finicky trick, the halo effect obliterating trauma and replacing it with joy. You can't say no. You don't want to say no, and the idea giving Orion a sibling, holding another sweet, squirmy baby in your arms, one with Simon's eyes, detonates in your heart, flutters spreading all the way through to your fingers and toes. Your spine arches, hips flexing back towards his own, and he chuckles-

before pulling out and flipping you over, hoisting you up onto the counter with your legs wrapped around his waist. Your eyes roll backwards as he slides home again, pinching your jaw between thumb and forefinger. He looks at you expectantly. Waiting.

The agreement sears on your tongue, incendiary heat forcing its way through your lips. "O-Okay."

"Say it." He thrusts, rubbing your clit at the same time, rolling you close to the edge. "Say yes daddy like a good girl."

"Yes, daddy." His nose touches yours. For a moment, you're both suspended, pupils dilated, sharing the same breath, the same DNA, the same blood. He slows down, and you squirm. "No, no don't stop- p-please-"

"'Say yes daddy, I want another baby' and I'll make you come mama. Tell me." He licks your cheek. You're barely hanging on, holding the front of his uniform. He teases your clit again, working it slowly, and you whine.

"Yes daddy, I want... I want another baby." It's enough. Enough for a dark glint to spark across his eyes, the same glimmer you see from time to time, the possession, the instinct, deep rooted desires.

It sends you into orbit, head tipping back, his teeth on your neck, the two of you coming together and riding through the wave until it's over, and he tucks you into his chest, cock still seated deep.

"I love you." He murmurs. "I'm gonna take care of you this time. I'm gonna be here." You don't ask about the what ifs, what will happen when he's away, what if he misses it. You just bask in the warmth of the moment, and sigh.

"I love you too."