#also can we talk about how impossibly difficult it is to move away from shame?? i’m making (nonlinear) progress but it really is HARD WORK

[sensitiveaangel]

the line from the bear where carmy says (paraphrasing) “you’re going to make mistakes — not because you’re you, just because shit happens” has genuinely become a personal mantra in my journey towards being less of a perfectionist

[writing-for-life]

I won’t even attempt to keep this in the comments because I know it’ll get far too long (the queen of long rambles I am), and I’d torture myself with trying to break it up into tiny bits. There were a lot of thoughts since I last logged on, so here goes: The “how to use tags etc” brings me straight to @stellerssong:

As someone who is comparably new to Tumblr, finding my feet between writing in reblogs, comments and tags is honestly the most difficult thing for me. Because instinctively, I write in reblogs and have always done so because I’m a talker (well, at least when it comes to the written word; I’m actually more of an observer IRL), and I’m an old school forumite. But I felt (and have even been told once or twice) that wasn’t the “done thing” (I stopped caring as you can tell 🤣), especially not if you want to connect, so I defaulted to comments. Didn’t have much luck with that either initially, albeit slightly better.

Laying my thoughts out in tags is just something that goes against the flow for me, and I find it cumbersome, both to write and to read, which is totally a personal thing and just how my warped brain works. Some people will fall asleep trying to get through my walls of text, it’s just what it is.

I use tags much more to structure my own blog so I find stuff again (can I just reiterate again: Tumblr, your search function is shite). Or for the odd quip when I can’t be bothered to write more in-depth, but even then, I’m much more likely to write a line or two on a reblog or in the comments. I’m at the stage now where I try to do a bit of everything and mix it up, but the tags are still the thing that feels least instinctual to me when I actually want to share what moves me.

I think the queue is, at least for me, more of a signal that I’m usually not online when that post goes out (unless it accidentally overlaps), which I guess is quite strictly speaking not necessary? But I’ve got used to it when my blog got a bit bigger, maybe also to keep expectations at bay that no one is constantly at the rudder of this thing? I also use it because I often see stuff I want to order thematically because I have a stupid idea about something that ties in with a meta or a fic or what have you (yes, sometimes, there’s method to the madness), so I throw it into the drafts first and tag it for the queue, which is again, more for myself.

I hear you on the defensiveness btw. I often feel like there’s bad faith behind some interactions, and it’s exactly what drove me away from most other social media platforms. I can still remember saying, in my naïveté, how nice Tumblr and the fandom felt to me after I joined here. Only to get my first hate asks straight after that very post because it had engaged with a hot topic. That’s when I switched my anons off because I honestly don’t have time for that immature shit. It’s a shame really, because I know some people just won’t send asks if they have to put their name down, but then again: Maybe that’s the whole issue? Anyway, rambling…

But it often feels like you have to weigh up every word, and even whose posts you engage with. That’s just so wild to me, because it operates on the assumption that we’re all terminally online and have to know every spat or disagreement that’s going on somewhere so we don’t become “guilty by association.” Or that we can’t be thinking adults, capable of coming to our own conclusions without having to choose who we interact with, and that a reblog of one random post of someone doesn’t mean we agree with everything else they say (never mind we might not even be aware of it).

It seems that it’s impossible to consolidate that genuine enthusiasm and critical thinking can coexist, even in the same people, and that it’s possible to talk about general fandom trends (even the trickier ones) without getting personal and hateful.

That has nothing to do with perpetually being Switzerland (as an example, I have very strong thoughts on fandom misogyny I’ve been known to air occasionally), but rather with the fact that I have a job that deals with the most horrendous stuff on a daily basis. And it also includes some of the topics fandom discourse is commonly about, and I don’t want to constantly engage with it in my time off. I already do it in my work, and I sometimes just need to breathe. But it seems unthinkable to some people that you maybe do advocate and support on a daily basis—just because you can’t it see on here all the time, and you don’t carry it around like a badge of honour, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Again, the bad faith is often staggering, and if I sense it, I just disengage.

As for badgering people @windsweptinred and @marlowe-zara —I don’t know what your experiences are in general, but mine were that the ones who were most receptive to that type of encroachment 🤣 are almost always well into their 30s (a few notable exceptions aside). So I wonder if that way of initiating conversation is just something that seems more natural because we’re used to it from other platforms, or how we use social media? Or maybe we just don’t care about the embarrassment anymore, entirely possible 🤣

But yes, I welcome DMs and asks. It’s not weird, just do it already!

@tickldpnk8 I just laughed because that there, that’s it: If I wanted to shout into the void, I could just talk to my family (although I have to say my partner indulges me and generally doesn’t mind, but you *do* see his eyes glaze over after a while). So I feel everything I do on here is just sharing what’s important to me in hopes other people shout, “OMG me, too, let’s be weird together!” And I use the term “weird” very loosely, because one person’s weird meta is another’s weird crack fic. That’s why I do both, ha!

I also hear you on the toughness of trying to get people to interact. And that applies to everything, apart from the juggernaut fandom trends.

So I want to tell *everyone*, not just the people who took part in this conversation, to feel free to tag me in things they’ve written or created, because I know how quickly it can evaporate into oblivion despite being properly tagged. I sometimes stumble across months old stuff from mutuals and ask myself why I’ve never noticed it before, but such is life, and it’s never purposefully ignoring things. It might sometimes take a bit before I can reply something coherent, but I’m usually capable of a reblog with a semi-thought (be scared of incoherent semi-thoughts! 🤣)—every little helps, especially if it’s something that’s maybe not a main fandom interest (man, some topics sure can feel like it’s me, myself and I).

Also, I now want to know what possible abomination of a nickname you came up with 😜

One thing I have noticed during my year and some on Tumblr, is no one really talks to each other. Interaction seems to be a thing which almost has to be earned through content creation. Or be prompted through ask games.

I mean, if anyone ever wants to ask me things about my art/fics I'd obviously love nothing more. But I'm mostly on this hellsite to meet people to talk weird with about the things I love. You want to start a natter with me about something, just hop into the comments and start chatting, I'll chat back. Or pop me a pm. It can be about a picture of a tree for all I care. You don't have to be fandom famous, you could never have posted a thing in your life. I don't care, that's not what I'm here for. I'm just here to make friends.

[tardis-ghost-blog]

A task to fail (Simm!Master x Reader)

Rating: E - For explicit sexual content Summary: "No. That's not another task." His hand stroked along your cheek and he smiled. "Just couldn't resist stealing a kiss from you."

Sometimes the Master brought a bunch of humans aboard the Valiant. It was fun to watch their various reactions, to walk around in front of them, grinning madly. Sometimes he let them look outside the window when he sew destruction, other times he told them horrifying stories about how they would die.

It was one of those times when you first entered the Valiant. The soldiers had captured you off the streets, had told that you had been chosen as a special guest for the prime minister. With you were two others. They all looked so scared. Sure, you had heard the stories, but they had never bothered you. Since the first day Saxon had appeared on telly, you had found him quite fascinating. There was just something about him that had always made you want to meet the guy.

This made you weirdly calm when he walked in, clad in a black suit, eyeing everyone with almost childish curiosity. After a minute he stood in front of everyone and grinned widely.

"Congratulations, humans!" he announced. "You have been proudly elected to become part of my staff up here. I'm afraid-" he put on a mocking put- "your predecessors have decided to quit the job."

You exchanged glances with the others and found even more fear in their eyes. Saxon clapped his hands to get your attention back.

"To make this more exciting, I will decide what your tasks will be. If you do them well, you might stay. If not... well. We will find an... arrangement." He let out a chuckle that simply sounded evil.

It was inappropriate, but the way he acted just got to you. You couldn't help but smile at this and Saxon saw it and trod directly in front of you.

"Is that funny?" he asked sweetly.

"You'll kill everyone who fails, won't you?" You hadn't really planned to say this, but you just had to know. "It's a game."

Maybe you shouldn't have sounded so excited about this. It also was your own life that was at risk.

"Oh, and you like games, little one?" Saxon bent slightly down to your eyelevel, which wasn't very high. "Are you begging to become my personal assistant?"

Wide eyed you glared at him. You wouldn't even make it a day! He would give you an impossible task and just smile this god-awful smile of his, that was far too charming.

Despite all of this... you nodded.

Saxon blinked surprised, then threw his head back and laughed.

You never learned what happened to the others and you never asked. Instead you focused on the given tasks and did you best to fulfil them properly. And, at the same time, tried to find out as much as possible about Saxon.

He made your life difficult, that's for sure. On your first few days he let you sort the library. First alphabetically, then, when he decided this was boring, he made you sort everything once again, this time by colours. So you arranged everything to form a bunch of quite pretty gradients.

Saxon stood there, one finger on his lips, head slightly tilted, nodding eventually. He gave you a happy grin. "That looks way better, don't you think? Well, I think it does. Good job."

There were other tasks. Tedious tasks that were meant to tire you, some that were like puzzles you needed to solve. But you wouldn't give up. He couldn't kill you, when he had no idea where you were. So, until you found a way to get or do what he wanted, you hid. Each time you came back successful, Saxon looked a little dumbfounded.

"Stubborn, aren't we?" he mumbled one day. Then a smirk spread on his lips. "How about you make me a cuppa tea? I could really use one."

Tea... That sounded weirdly normal and easy. He probably was extremely picky with how it was made.

"Mister Saxon, Sir," you said then. "How would you like the tea?"

He couldn't punish you for making it exactly how he ordered you to. And when he realized your intention, his eyes crinkled in joy. It made him look really handsome and you had a hard time not blushing.

In the end you made his tea to his exact liking. And you weren't sure whether he hated or adored you when he took the first sip. Whatever it was, it was followed by an amused chuckle. He gave you a smile and it made your heart jump.

"You really try to stay alive, eh?"

"Uhm... sure. I guess." You shrugged and couldn't help but smile a little. "But it's more fun to see how happy you look when I do something right."

That surprised him visibly. For a second something slipped and he looked almost lost, as if he had no idea what to make of this. You decided it was a good opportunity.

"I always thought you were an interesting man, Sir. I'm glad I could meet you."

Saxon arched a brow and took another sip. "You'll die here. You know that, don't you?" He waited for your nod. "It's fun to play with you. But sooner or later there will be a task you won't manage to complete." He cracked a crooked smile. "Almost a shame. I'm really having fun with you. You're not as stupid as the others."

"I had to fend for myself my entire life," you mumbled. And when he didn't stop you from talking, you dared to continue, "I... actually should thank you. Your soldiers killed my foster-dad. He used to beat me a lot. Because of him I never had any close friends and... no other family. There is nothing I could return to, anyway."

Saxon didn't say a word. However, from then on, he kept you around. To make him tea, to sort his files, to keep his office clean. But mostly, as it seemed, to learn more about you. He asked many questions and you never hesitated to answer. Because, in return, he gave answers of his own. And you learned so much. When he told you, one day, that he actually was an alien, you didn't have a hard time believing it.

"We look so alike, though," you said, eyeing him curiously.

"Oh, there are many differences." The Master - he had told you his real name - chuckled and reached for your hand to place it on his chest.

You blushed at the touch and your own heartbeat sped up, so it took you a few seconds to realize that his was somewhat strange. It was fascinating and made you smile.

He told you of the war, of how he had fought in it and then ran, how he had almost obsessively spent a lifetime doing literally nothing else, but to repair a rocket to a place that wasn't even real. And then he had landed here.

"Sounds like you didn't have a quiet minute since years," you muttered.

"Yah..." The Master sighed and leaned back on the sofa. Lately he was strangely tense around you, especially when you came too close. And still his eyes followed you everywhere, almost hungry. "No time to... rest." He growled to himself and closed his eyes.

"You're alright?" you asked and leaned down to him. "Want me to make more tea?"

The Master grinned with closed eyes. "No. But..." he paused and eyed you possessively, which sent a shiver down your spine. He shook his head. "You're fun. I quite like you, which is bad. That makes it really hard to break you."

"Why, thanks?" You laughed and poked his shoulder. "Come on. You've told me so much already. I don't think a little request would break me." You poked out your tongue. "I could manage all your stupid tasks. I'm sure I can manage to do one that actually means something to you."

"Yeah?" he giggled impishly, suddenly grabbed your wrist and pulled you towards him. It made you lose balance and you almost fell. But you could stretch out your hand in time, which landed right next to the Master's head. And your face came close to his. So close you could get lost in his hazel eyes.

"You know... Time Lords are usually above such things." His thumb stroked over your wrist. "But you make this difficult. And it's been such a long time. With the war and everything."

You had no idea if you should stay in this position or move away. He was so close you could feel his breath ghost over your lips. Your eyes met, his gaze was intense, demanding without words. In that moment you didn't care if it would bring you in trouble, the urge was too great. So you leaned forward, only a little, brushed his lips with yours. He sighed, lids falling shut.

And suddenly he grabbed your sides with both hands and pulled you right into his lap. Surprised you yelped, but he left you no time for confusion, his mouth found yours, devouring it in a fierce kiss. Your hands landed on his shirt collar, stroked along the cloth to do something. His tongue pressed against your lips, demanded entrance, which you gave willingly.

There was a soft groan from him that let warmth pool into your belly, but at the same time seemed to snap him out of everything. He broke the kiss, both of you panting heavily. His irises were almost black, his look mischievous.

"Whoops," he breathed out.

"Yeah." You chuckled softly. "Whoops." Then you remembered something and pulled away a little. "What about your wife?"

The Master huffed. "Political marriage. We never... were close in any way."

Slowly your fingers trailed down his chest, your hands came to rest above his hearts that still were beating wildly. It made you proud and giddy that you could do this to him, made you crave more. You moved in his lap, just enough to feel yourself gliding over the bulge in his pants. That made him groan again, but surprisingly he stopped you with his grip.

"No. That's not another task." His hand stroked along your cheek and he smiled. "Just couldn't resist stealing a kiss from you."

You giggled at that and gave him a tongue-touched grin. "Since when are you so reluctant?"

He returned the grin, connected your foreheads. "I like the thought of how I could make you feel, how I could make you scream my name. But it needs to be real. It's no fun otherwise."

"Is that so?" You leaned forwards and captured his lips again, rocking against his crotch in the same movement.

The Master groaned openly into your mouth, one of his hands snaked to the small of your back to press you closer. The kiss got wilder, his tongue doing things to you that made your head light. He swallowed your soft moans, while his finger glided along your shoulders, every touch sending goose bumps down your spine. You shivered when he traced a line down your back, when he caressed your bare skin and opened the clips of your bra.

"Sure about this?" he brought out.

His eyes were so hungry for you, it was hard to tell if he would really stop would you say 'no'. And still you had a feeling that he would. Which got you aroused even more. So, instead of an answer, you reached a hand between you and cupped his erection, stroking firmly over his pants. He gasped, eyes falling shut.

For a bit he let you tease him like that, then he grabbed the hem of your jumper and pulled it over your head, together with the opened bra. His skilled hands moved to your breasts, caressing them, thumbs stroking over your nipples, making them harden almost instantly.

Somehow your lips met again, tongues dancing sensually. It wasn't fair that he was still clothed, so you unbuttoned his dress shirt, happy he didn't wear a jacket right now. You wanted skin, wanted to feel him, and quick.

You weren't the only impatient one, however. Without a warning, the Master grabbed your bum and lifted you from him to drop you on your back on the sofa. His fingers slipped under the waistband of you jeans, eliciting a new groan from you, before he grabbed your feet to get rid of the shoes and then, finally pulled your jeans down, together with your soaked knickers.

His eyes roamed over your naked body, took in every detail with awe. You sat up then and unbuttoned his own pants, while he kicked off shoes and threw away the belt. Curiosity grew in you, making you wonder if Time Lords actually were... compatible with humans. It certainly had felt like it, and when you pulled down his pants you weren't disappointed.

"Like what you see?" he asked, wolfishly grinning.

"Oh, a lot."

"Then move aside, will you?"

You did, making space on the sofa, only to find yourself sitting in his lap again a second later. Feeling him skin to skin made your head even lighter than before. You started to move against him, then wrapped your hand around his erection to glide up and down his full length. Your thumb stroked over the tip, made him sigh out a moan. His fingers were on you clit at the same time, drawing circles that spiked your lust to new peeks. Oh, you wanted to have him inside you. You couldn't wait any longer. It was unbearable.

You groaned and kissed his half opened lips. "I need you. Want you."

"Say my name," he breathed against your mouth.

"Master." His name stumbled over your lips like a plea and you could almost hear his patience snap.

Both of you moved in unison. He straightened a little and you sat up on your knees so he could guide himself inside you. Slowly you let yourself down again, feeling every inch of him fill you out completely. You both groaned, stayed still for a moment to adjust and simply savour the intensity of the moment.

His hands on your bum urged you to move, pressed you flush against him. You had never done it in this position and regretted it now. The friction was just perfect, or maybe it was only because of the Master. You built up a rhythm, moved on him with delight. He, on the other hand, nibbled his way down your throat, leaving small marks on your skin here and there, while his hands were either on your bum or your breasts.

The tension in you rose quickly, almost too fast. You wanted to enjoy this, wanted to savour every second of it, so you slowed down a little. The Master grabbed your sides and guided your movements, his clouded eyes fixated on yours. Slowly you rose, let him almost slip out of you, before he pulled you back close, making you feel him glide inside you again. It was something you both enjoyed and repeated once more, panting.

The Master wouldn't allow you a third time, captured your lips and pulled you down on him, made you move again with impatience, breath ragged. He must be as close as you were and the thought sent a shiver through your whole body, made you move just a little faster until there was no turning back and you came with his name on your lips, clenching around him and groaning into his mouth, riding out the orgasm until you felt his grip on you tighten and until he had to break the kiss as his own release washed over him.

It took you a small eternity to find back to your senses. You heard the Master's rapid double heartbeat, felt his grip soften, but only for a moment. He then lifted you from him a little to slip out of you and lay down on the sofa. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his look weirdly serene in that moment.

"How about we change our game a little?" he murmured. "If you fail a task I get to have you again."

You nestled against his chest and chuckled. "That's not fair. I'd have to fail on purpose, then."

"Mhm..." He smiled impishly. "Can't let a human win against me, after all."

"That's too bad. I'd get to win, no matter what." You glinted back at him, mirroring the mischief.

The Master scowled, mockingly pursed his lips, then captured yours in a sweet, short kiss. His fingers gently trailed along your spine, drew circles on your skin until your breath hitched.

"I think I still win this," he muttered.

[thirsty-albedo-main]

As the Seasons Come and Go

Kazuha x Reader

Word count: 4000

Tags: Fiends to lovers, GN!Reader, Kazuha tops, Tears, Penetrative sex, Mutual Masturbation, One sided romance, Porn with plot, Porn with feelings

 Kazuha has come and gone from your teapot multiple times now. For years you have developed your feelings from strangers to the closest of friends. Now you have become completely smitten with him. But he only arrives in the peak of summer and winter, when the sun and wind are at their harshest. [Movie trailer voice] And this summer, you’ll gather up the courage to ask “Will you lay with me for the night?”

 O h god this is 4000 words long u m porn with plot and feelings I guess??? Please forgive me yall.

Time and time again you find yourself watching him leave the small abode you have offered to be his sanctuary in times of hardship. Like the changing of seasons, he comes and goes from the teapot you call home, searching and wandering the landscape in hopes of finding a way to stir the masterless vision he carries from it’s deep slumber. He is inherently mysterious in his eloquence and fleeting in his presence, the act of talking with him always leaving you feeling as if a fresh breeze had come to bring your mind to attention. A wandering samurai who you happened to bump paths with on a dreary summers night has embraced your heart with both gentle winds and words. His smile is euphoric, his sadness earth shattering, and his lingering touches on your shoulders or hands before he bids you farewell yet again like fire starters in your mind and body.

“You have to go already?” you gently asked as he began putting his humble array of belongings into the small pack he carried. “Yes. The scorching sun has calmed its burning gaze for now. Since it is beginning to cool, I must travel while I still can.” His face and hair are brightened in their shade by the light of the sun as you gaze upon his form slowly peeling itself from the grassy bed he was laying in. “Can I expect a visit sooner rather than later? It IS getting pretty hot out there.” You smiled lazily as you always did while napping beside him, concealing the hope woven into your question with the playful tone you reserved for your best friend. “We’ll have to see how merciful this whimsical summer will be. I find myself in cooler nights as of late, so at least there is solace in fall coming soon.” The smile he gave you was not unlike the warm one would feel when stretching out on a sun kissed rock.

“I’ll prepare a bed and some food for you when that time comes then” You replied as your closed your eyes. You pretended to still be sleepy, but in truth, you couldn’t bear to see his back retreating from your sight.

“Thank you. Surely we will cross paths again.” was the hope he voiced.

Those words burned a hole in your heart with the same intensity as the summer heat you found yourself traveling in. Your entire being had ached at the thought of seeing him arrive in the abode you had called home again. You know that someone such as Kazuha couldn’t be restrained from the desire to roam that laid heavy in his soul. It would be wrong of you to commit the sin of tying him down when he had the desire to see new people, experience new things, and further his understanding of the beautiful world he has found himself in.

Yet the way his words held your attention, the way his voice brought solace to you, the way his body would bring you lust, all of it made you hope for more of him and his presence, his being. You would sometimes, under the influence of intense lust and unbearable longing, find yourself running your hands along your body in an effort to satiate your growing need. You mimicked his mannerisms with your hands, how he would run a palm along the small of your back while you stumbled in your climbing, the gentle curl of his fingers as he would run a hand through your hair while you would bare to him your feelings and thoughts, and how his grip felt when he held your hand for a tad longer than necessary while bidding your farewell. With the knowledge of what he does to you potent and heavy in your mind, you finally brought about the resolve needed to tell him how you felt. All of your feelings for him would come to light the next time he allowed himself to enter your domain. This was a promise you made for yourself, as selfish as it may be, you’re ready to accept whatever answer he will give.

- - -

The rain was beating heavily on your form as you wandered down the muddy path that stretched on for miles. The rain was comforting when you found yourself in the safety of a home, far from any of the damaging effects of excessive cold or water, but when you were caught out in the rain like this it only became a source of discomfort. You have forced yourself to continue on through the stormy night until you could find a suitable place to camp, that would be the only way you got proper sleep tonight you decided.. The clouds hung heavy overhead and visibility was proving difficult due to the combination of darkness and rain, yet after squinting into the distance for awhile, you finally discovered some hope for your situation. A light beaming in the darkness. A light from a home? A traveler’s camp? Anything would be fine so long as you were released from the sticky grip of the heavy rain.

Your mind was filled with conflicting thoughts as you saw where the light had come from. The rain was heavy and dreary, yet your heart felt light upon seeing a familiar samurai squatting near a small oil lamp, trying his best to put together a makeshift shelter with local branches and foliage. “Kazuha!” you called out despite the rain attempting to overpower your voice. He raised his head to look in your direction, his keep hearing coming in handy during the onslaught of noise, and he smiled when his eyes had met with yours. For a moment you had felt your face warm up despite it being cold mere moments ago. “You look drenched!” He replies to your call with mirth in his voice “The tempest has forgo its’ kindness for the both of us I see. Here, let me find a secluded spot for us, if you don’t mind me asking for shelter in return that is.”

You didn’t mind at all.

- - -

You two finally found a spot safe enough for you to bring out your teapot. With no hesitation, you found yourself welcoming Kazhua inside to dry off and relax for the rest of the night with you. The rain followed into your teapot of course, but it was a kinder rendition of the noisy forest and harsh clouds that you had just escaped. A small drizzle lingered in the air to cool landscape and the skin, its’ presence heavenly in comparison to beating rain and howling winds. Your abode was a small one. A modest bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen was all that a traveler like you needed. It was simple and having a place of your own to weather out the harsh conditions was more than enough to satisfy your basic needs. Kazuha came in by your side and the two of you laughed lightly at the urgency you two had shown previously, rain sticking wet hair to your faces and necks as reminders of what has passed. “Go ahead into the bathroom and get those wet clothes off” you stated to your travel companion as you shrugged off your cloak and hung it up on the porch. “I’ll get the fireplace ready.” Kazuha took a moment to smile with a distant glimmer in his eye at you, not moving from the spot he was in in favor of keeping an eye on you. “What?” you goaded with a smile.

“It just reminds me of when we first met. You said that to me then too, all those seasons ago.” And feeling happy with his statement, he finally wandered his way into your bathroom to change, leaving you stunned.

Archons you felt as if your heart was going to burst.

Clothes were now hanging on the backs of chairs, placed in proximity of the fireplace and it’s warmth, enough to dry but not enough to catch fire. Plates were on a small drying rack after a meal for two was prepared, the light dripping of water from their forms akin to the rain seeping off you and your companion when you entered earlier this evening. Warm and soft clothes encompass your form in a reassuring manner, reminding you that you were safe and sound, that you were home. It also reminded you that a piece of the outside world was here with you in the form of your friend Kazuha. He stretched out next to you on your floor near the fireplace, undoing his ever crooked ponytail as if to reinforce your point. It was almost like this was meant to happen, that he was meant to lay here. With you.. You had to suck in a breath of air as you realized how domestic all of this was.

Kazuha looks to you for a moment with soothing worry and slight curiosity in his eyes at your sudden intake of breath. “Something wrong? You didn’t get hurt in the rain did you?” The way his eyes light up in concern reminds you of your own fears regarding the situation you two are in, that all of this will end soon. Summer is reaching its’ ending and winter seems so impossibly out of your reach, an unrealistic time to wait before you see him again. He reaches a cruel hand to your face and takes your cheek into his palm with a tenderness that makes the burning in your skin unbearable. “What ails you, my friend? I hear your heart beating so much harder than normal.” The thread of self restraint snaps and curls its’ fibers within your being as you reach out to take his face in your hands. Your nose brushes against his own as you shift closer to him. As you slowly and carefully take his lips with your own. It is a chaste kiss that leaves as many feelings you can manifest on the corner of his lips. His eyes are wide with shock as you pull away, your face coming back into his vision red and shameful as you voice your desires.

“You’re going to be leaving soon. All of the leaves of fall will be behind us, rotting under layers of snow by the time that you and I get to meet again. Please.” You fist your hands into his cotton shirt, your vain attempt of keeping yourself composed now that the words are spilling out. “Lay with me at least once before you go-” His lips coming to take yours interrupts the pleading request you had for him. Euphoria washes over your body at the returned contact, your skin aches at the way his hands come to hold your face, how he lingers there as if he were searching for the warmth of your emotions with his fingertips alone. The kiss between the two of you rising like summers heat as you loop an arm around his shoulders, deepening this bliss by closing the proximity. His tongue comes to lick the inside of your mouth and he explores the feeling of kissing you with the vigor you could only imagine in the small fantasies you would have of him on lonesome nights.

The feeling is gone much too soon for your liking when he speaks up, breaking the kiss to do so. “I’ve waited so long, withstood so many seasons, in the hopes of kissing you with such passion one day.” He puffs out the words with a warm and blissful smile on his face, breathless from the intense kissing you two were partaking in. Your mind lags behind, caught up in the beauty he held when his eyes would crinkle with mirth, and it takes you a moment before the weight of his words  come bearing down on you. “You.. you did-?” Is all you’re able to mumble out in your dumbstruck state before his mouth is on yours again, his passion encompassing your form in heated touches. The pleasure and goosebumps running over your skin leaves you with such a burning desire in not only your heart but your core as well. Knowing that if nothing else, he too wants you like this, is a revelation that leaves your mind feeling like the fog that lingers over a still pond and your body as sensitive as its’ rippling surface. Hands are running up your sides with fingernails barely scraping, causing the hairs on your body to raise in attention. Your fingers are laced in his hair and tugging softly at the strands, wringing out soft moans for you to devour with fervor. One of his legs finds itself slotted between your thighs, tempting you with its slow yet sweet pressure against your groin as it rocks back and forth.

Your hands squeeze his thighs firmly, your grip delectable and exciting to Kazuha apparently, because his hips give a small jerk forward in reply.

Archons you’ve both wanted this for far too long, haven’t you?

 You’ve both become unsatisfied in your restrictive clothing, quickly doing your beth to be rid of the offending clothing in favor of feeling each other’s skin.You smooth your hands out against his back as he comes to lean over you, slotting himself in between your thighs as his trained arms come to support himself above you. “I love your being, your soul.” you hear him confess as he comes down to mouth at your ear, the words and movements sensual enough to cause you to shudder. “And I certainly love hearing every stuttering gasp and repressed moan you have given me” You mentally curse his sensitive hearing as his breath fans over your neck. “This peaceful melody you’ve given me… I hope this means I have been performing to your liking?” He mumbles into your skin before nipping it, soothing it with careful kisses in return. “Of course you’re performing well.” you mutter as you raise your hips to grind your sex against his erection, eliciting a small moan from him as revenge for his teasing words. “Or else I wouldn’t be looking like this.”

He stops his ministrations on your neck to sit up and admire your form. “And what a sight it is.” He smiles at you with genuine love in his eyes, passion and lust ever lingering, but taking a back seat to the pure admiration he holds for you. It’s enough to make your heart constrict with longing, the shutter running though your body causing you both to let out a small gasp at the stimulation on your groins. This teasing and aching are more than enough, you decide with a small huff of frustration. “Kazuha, I have some aloe vera in the bedside table, please.” You keen as you begin shuffling off your underwear. He understands your request and is quick to follow your plea as you toss the undergarment to the side. He gives a small lustful glance to you as he returns with the bottle, already ridding himself of his bottoms as he gazes upon your form.

He settles between your legs once more as he uncaps the bottle and allows the slick aloe vera to coat his fingers, running the liquid over his joints so as to warm it up before slathering it against your entrance. He puts the bottle to the side for a moment to focus his hands on the task of spreading you out, one careful finger slipping into you with trepidation. The feeling for you could only be described as erotic as you watched him begin working you, almost causing your hands to drop the bottle as you pour some aloe vera over your own fingers.  He gives a small hiss in pleasure when your slicked hand wraps around him but he makes no effort to stop you from pumping his erection and coating it in your makeshift lube, causing you to smirk in content. You’ve given him this pleasure, his red and weeping head proof of your work, precum beading at the tip with every pump and his wimpers in delight every time you thumb the slit crowned on top. Taking your hand a little further, you reach to grab at his base, pressing your thumb into a particular vein when pleasure strikes up your spine and shocks you into stopping your movements. Ah, he’s scissoring you open with his fingers now. You weren’t even paying attention to him putting a second finger in with how preoccupied you were with jacking him off, but he certainly has your attention now. A small smirk lingers on his lips as you let out a shaky moan of desire. “Yes, please, Just like that..” You order as your hips coming up to voluntarily fuck yourself onto his fingers in shallow thrusts.

“Beautiful.” He coos as he slips his fingers out from your hole, the small amount of drag in the way he does so leaving your head spinning and your lower half longing for more. He gently drags your hips closer, propping your legs up on his hips while he presses the tip of his length against your hole, experimentally grinding the head against your aching entrance in hopes of testing the waters. You gently bat his arm in frustration glaring up at him with no heat to your gaze. “I’ve been longing for you, yet you still take the moment to relish in teasing me?” He chuckles and with his face sweetly red, he gives you a caste kiss on your lips. “I won’t be denying you any longer. I was just taking a moment to admire the sounds of slicked skin and the smell of heavy lust.” Of course his poetic tendencies come to light right when you are this close to having him in you. Though his head coming to stretch your hole is all that was needed for your forgiveness to be found, your steadying your breathing in an effort to make his entrance smoother.

He comes to lean over you as he slowly penetrates you, his arms on either side of your head now as his erection fills you out, the sensation leaving you shaking in his lap with goosebumps. Kazuha is not unaffected by this either if the small twitches from his erection and the shaky whines escaping his throat are anything to go by. Your slicked skin comes to meet his as you wrap your arms around his neck, readying yourself as he finally bottoms out and slots his thighs against your ass. “The pace?” He mumbles the question into your hair as he comes to hold you against him, one hand smoothing out over the back of your head while the other gently grasps your hips. “Quick.” you whine to his shoulder in desperation. “Hard so I will feel it for awhile.” So you have something to linger on while he is gone, your mind reminds you.  You almost feel tears welling up as he begins thrusting into you at just the pace you asked, the pleasure taking over your body with electric shocks of arousal and need. His balls coming to smack against your ass, the heavier breathing combined with sweet moans coming from Kazuha, finally having your fantasy of your best friend sleeping with you brought to reality, it is almost too much. You rake your nails down his back in an attempt to gather more purchase, your mind blank now that you’re being pleasured like this.

He shifts his position to hit you deeper, allowing you to writhe in the euphoria of his length stretching and filling you. Your thoughts dim and your words turn to much. “Please! please, Kah-” You slur out as he keeps his intense pace. He holds you so gently, and his words are filled with praise and love as he brings you closer and closer to the edge, the fall looking so tempting as it leers ever closer. He bites into your shoulder lightly as his hips begin to stutter in their pace, rocking and grinding into you as he loses his precision. You, in your worry to make sure he’s alright, lean back just enough to get a glance of his face and the sight of him makes you clench around the wanderer. Kazuha’s face is completely a wreck, red and flushed, speckled in sweat slicked hair and, the most shocking of all, tears.

The sight of him sends you over the edge with a harsh push. Your eyes screw shut and legs spasm as you cling to him tighter, hoping he will help you weather out the intense storm that is your orgasm as it ravages your body. Your orgasm causes waves to ripple though your body, and it sends Kazuha off the edge as well after a few lagging thrusts. Your body begins to loosen its’ hold on the samurai as his cum pulses into your hole, filling you further and adding to the pleasure you feel when it begins oozing out from between your thighs. The heavy breathing and sighs of comfort linger in the air for awhile as you both take a moment to cool off from your activities. Archons, you traveled on foot all day and here you were having vigorous sex in the evening. The combination of things made you feel so, so incredibly tired while you two caught your breath.You are so spaced out from your orgasm, your body weary from never experiencing something so emotionally and physically charged as this whole evening was before.

Your eyes are barely able to stay open as Kazuha begins untangling himself from you some unknown amount of time later, his words like muffled distant conversation as you try to keep yourself awake and aware. He’s lifting you and moving you to your bedroom, you feel a cool cloth brush over your face and thighs, you feel some cool water down your throat, but all of it feels so disheartening and cruel knowing he won’t be coming back for awhile after this. You just wanted to lay with him for one night and then put the flames of this desire out for good, or at least that is what you told yourself. Sleeping the pain off seemed leagues easier than dealing with the sorrow you’ll feel if you let him pamper you, is what your mind rationalizes before you drift off to sleep.

That is to say, you were not prepared at all for what awaited you when you woke up the next morning. Despite Kazuha always getting up early and mentioning just the night before that he planned to leave, you find him cooking something in your kitchen, working hard to make something for you both to eat. When he welcomes you to the table with the warmest of smiles, you can’t help but feel gobsmacked by the fact that he is still here. With some assistance of course, he leads you to the table to eat.

“Wait you really thought I would just leave the morning after a confession and love making session like that?” He looks shocked at the explanation you shared with him over breakfast (lunch?). The sunlight drifting in through the window making you shrink in on yourself a tad, as if nature itself was putting the spotlight on you for scrutiny. “I thought…that you would head out by morning. You know the whole ‘the world and my mind will both grow dull lest I travel’ stuff and what not.” Your face red as you take another small helping of rice into your mouth in embarrassment. Kazuha gives a small smile your way as he stands up. You think he’s going to pull one of his old friendly gestures and bat you on the head for saying such things, but instead the most tender and chaste kiss is left on the corner of your mouth. You eyes look at him with shock as he pulls back to gaze at you lovingly.

“Instead of worrying about the idea of holding me back…” He takes your hands in his and runs his thumb along the back of it. “Of course. Only if you desire it. But how about we try wandering through this life together? You and I are both travelers after all-.”

You’re already hugging him, your heart elated and your soul as warm as hot summer.

[maythewidowtakeusall]

SUN-KISSED Pt. 2

Part 1 | Part 2

Read on AO3

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x reader

Wordcount: 2894

Warnings: alcohol

Summary: An argument with your boyfriend Steve Rogers is the perfect incentive to go out drinking with Natasha.

It's sunset again, Natasha notices, but she pushes the thought down as your fingers tangle with hers. You tug on her arm and she follows you silently, pathetically at your whim at all times, even when she knows she should tell you it's a bad idea. Because it is. She doesn't trust herself sober around you, and she's scared of what a few drinks will do.

But you're adamant, your mascara smudged under your eyes from crying earlier. She hates it, she hates Steve for making you feel so bad about yourself, about your work. You're fucking amazing, and though she respects the old man, she's not going to let him do this to you. He can stick his second world war virtues up his ass.

Despite the considerable force you're pulling her along with, she stops you, spins you around, curls an arm around your waist tightly to hold you close. She can't help but smirk as your eyes widen.

She probably enjoys this too much. But it was you who called her.

You watch with confusion as Natasha licks her thumb and swipes it across your cheeks gently, wiping away the last telltale signs of your argument with Steve. Your eyes shine more brightly than they usually do, but otherwise you look perfect again, even with your tousled hair and carelessly thrown on leather jacket.

"There."

"It was the mascara, right? I forgot about that," you say with a sheepish smile that soon drops, the feeling of your cheeks heating up deepening your embarrassment. It's the proximity of another human being, or the two shots of tequila you had back at the Avengers Tower, or the fact that at least she genuinely seems to give a shit about you. At any rate, it feels soothing after all the jarring words you and Steve threw around earlier. You need a girls' night out, you need to be told not to overthink things, to let loose.

And the moment you stormed out of Steve's room, you knew who you had to turn to. You knew it was only Natasha you wanted around and no one else.

She didn't protest. In fact, she dropped her plans at a moment's notice to go out with you. She promised to take you to a dive bar, one she knows like the back of her hand that has good drinks and even better prices. It's close to her place, and you will crash there afterwards. She said will, not can. She's not letting you go back to Steve in the state you are in, the state he's put you in.

And you are perfectly alright with that plan.

The Coyote is a small but handsome place, with soft blues rock whining in the background, furnished with tables and bar stools from a bygone era. There's a pool table in the back, a woman in her fifties tending the bar with a frown as one of the patrons knocks his drink over. You stand in awe for a minute as the bartender - who also happens to be the owner of this particular dive - berates the man in front of her for spilling his beer. "You think I want to clean up after you all night, Larry?" she throws him a disdainful look before muttering under her breath as she fetches a rag to mop up the beer that bleeds down the wooden surface just like your mascara ran down your cheeks not so long ago. "Fucking lightweight."

"Well, what do you think?" Natasha smiles, pleased to see enthusiasm stealing behind your eyes.

"I love it. It's so..."

"Vintage?" she helps. She knows you love old things in the most adorable way. You love everything that is vintage, everything that takes you back to times you never lived in - buildings, furniture, streets, monuments, museums... People. Old people too, she reminds herself bitterly.

"Yeah," you smile.

She matches your smile, knowing eyes drinking in your improving mood greedily. "Wait til you've tried their drinks. Holly prides herself on only keeping the best of the best."

The night is a lot slower and more mellow than what you expected. You wanted wild, you wanted to force the thoughts out of your mind, you wanted to be exhausted, maybe even blackout and start over fresh tomorrow. But you're just tipsy, the alcohol filling your body with a gentle buzz that's not at all unpleasant. You and Nat have paced yourselves, and you talk, and fill the booth you took for just the two of you with genuine laughter and ease. She matches your teasing tone when you joke, indulges you when you steer the conversation to deeper waters. However, you've been tiptoeing around Steve, and the argument, but Natasha unravels you, and she listens to what you have to say, and it's fucking difficult to admit, but she seems to understand you more than Steve ever did - so you cave in when she puts a hand on your forearm. It feels right, too right, but her question distracts you.

"So... Should we address the elephant in the room or is this the point where we pick up the pace a little?"

Your shoulders sag when you realise you don't really want to get drunk. You don't want wild. Or reckless. Lights out, with the bittersweet relief of not remembering a god damn thing about tonight. You just want this moment, even if it is difficult to open up to her. "I don't know what to say."

"I do," she quips. "Steve's a moron."

You laugh, despite everything, and it makes her tighten her grip on your arm encouragingly for a second. "He's not a moron. But he did act rather moronic today."

"I think you did well on the mission," Nat declares, leaning back and lifting her glass of beer to her lips.

"I was reckless."

"Those are his words, not yours."

"Yeah... The thing is, I don't feel guilty about what I've done at all. I calculated the risks, and I trusted my abilities to see me through the job. Mission accomplished - even if my tactics were questionable from a strictly military perspective."

Nat nods, and a silence settles over the two of you as she draws patterns on the cold wet glass in her hands. It's comfortable, and her wordless agreement wraps around you like a warm blanket. Your gaze meets the attentive green emeralds of her eyes, and you swallow thickly. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's your loneliness, but she looks so fucking beautiful in the dim light of the bar, green military style jacket slipping down on one shoulder to reveal her black tank top. You shouldn't, you shouldn't, and you can't help it, and she frowns softly, trying to read your thoughts. And you worry, you worry she can read you easily, you worry she can open you up and trace the lines of your attraction to her with her fingertips.

Because that's what this is, you realise. Attraction. No matter how fucked up it is, no matter how angry it makes you at yourself. Steve's back at the Avengers Tower dissecting the argument in his head while worrying about where you've slipped off to. But you know he doesn't approve, not even his guilt can make him see that you shouldn't have to justify your every move on missions. You're far from helpless, and yet he treats you like a damsel in distress. Like you're less than him in a way, just because you weren't injected with the super soldier serum.

You want to be treated as an equal. In the team, in your relationships, during your missions. You want to be seen for who you are - a capable person, an effective agent, a force to be reckoned with, a mind that can easily keep up with the rest of the Avengers. Alas none of them really see you that way, and Steve is no exception.

But Natasha is.

The cab ride is quiet, you two sit in the back, eyes somehow glued to each other, Steve forced to the back of your mind as an unpleasant thought by what you feel for Nat in this very moment. You wonder if this feeling has always been in you, hidden, denied, labelled impossible and maybe even shameful. She reaches across and gently places her hand in yours.

And for whatever reason, you don't pull it back.

You've never seen her flat before, but it's everything you've expected. Laid back yet angular, stylish yet chaotic, inviting yet intimidating. It's an effervescent mixture, just like she is, and she pulls you inside without a second thought, exposing her hideout as if you came here every other day, as if letting you in her most private corner of the world was absolutely normal.

The thought of it makes your insides burn with a feeling you know you shouldn't allow to even exist.

It's late, but you're both hungry, and you make sandwiches in the small kitchen while joking and keeping the conversation light, amicably bumping your shoulders together. It hurts, for the both of you, to see the what ifs, the what could bes, the life you can't have but suddenly seem to crave. She accidentally smudges some pesto on her finger and licks it off. You lose your mind. You eat. Hunched over the tiny kitchen table, you feel yourself sober up completely. You're exhausted, but you don't want this night to end. Neither of you have done or said anything inappropriate, nothing has happened here for which you should apologise to Steve on the next day. And yet it's the most comfortable and loved you've felt in a long time.

You feel self-conscious when you wipe your makeup off in the quiet seclusion of her bathroom, a pair of her sweatpants and an old band t-shirt waiting for you, neatly folded, on top of the laundry basket. You expose the dark circles underneath your eyes, along with all the imperfections of your skin, and your lower lips trembles at the thought of having to bare yourself in front of her. Your body is shapeless after you've changed into your makeshift pyjamas (you try not to think too hard on wearing her clothes). Your hair, released from the tight updo you've forced it into is messy and loose now. To be fair, it was messy before too, but it's not really helping your confidence right now. You will have to leave eventually, and face her, and you're terrified of not seeing the same light and warmth in her eyes when she looks at you, the same smile she always wears on her lips whenever you're around.

She smiles even wider than usual when you emerge. The simple explanation would be that you're beautiful - it's the truth, without any embellishments whatsoever. The more complicated one she doesn't allow herself to dwell on, so she nods towards the bedroom and you follow her, even if a little forlorn.

"I don't often get guests," she smiles, sitting in the edge of the bed. The room smells of clean sheets and her perfume. "And even when I do, it's Clint, and I'm making him sleep on the sofa. But I'm willing to make an exception for you."

"Oh, you shouldn't," you protest as she stands. "The sofa is perfectly fine for me."

"It's alright, I don't mind-"

"Please-"

"It's no fuss-"

"This bed is big enough for the two of us anyways."

A small, awkward silence settles on you as you stare back at one another. If Natasha feels as bewildered as you do, she hides it well. Her head lolls to one side in thought, eyes assessing you. She seems content with whatever she's found in your gaze as she shrugs and sinks back down on the bed.

"Don't even think about hogging my blanket."

You regain your composure and grin, unable to feel uncomfortable around her any longer. You plop down on your belly unceremoniously and starfish on the mattress, and you can almost see her roll her eyes at you even through your closed eyes. You sigh as the firm mattress rises to meet your tired bones. "Ooh, I'm never leaving this bed."

"Move," Natasha nudges you, and you oblige her as you roll on your back. She lays next to you, and you stare up at the ceiling, glow in the dark stars blinking back at you in the dim light.

"I used to have those on my bedroom ceiling as a kid," you smile fondly.

"I didn't exactly have a conventional childhood. Figured I had some ground to cover on that front," she murmurs softly, lost for a moment in her memories. Your quiet laugh draws her back to the present and she's so very grateful for that. So very grateful for you.

"Well then, this is a good addition too, our little sleepover."

"Oh, yeah?" she grins, rolling on her side as she props her head up on a hand. "What do you want to do then to make it memorable? Gush about our crushes? Have a pillow fight? Play spin the bottle? Truth or dare? Get drunk? I have a bottle of wine, we could do that."

Your eyes land on her soft lips and you imagine daring her to kiss you. You imagine what it would be like to draw her in, to give in to the feelings inside you, to deepen the kiss, blame it on being drunk, trail your lips down the length of her neck...

But you could never do that to Steve.

"I think I've had enough excitement for tonight."

"Suit yourself, love."

Does she look disappointed? You don't have enough time to ponder as she nods and pulls back the covers to wrap them around the both of you. She then reaches to switch the lamp off on the bedside table and settles down beside you. You're still facing each other, and in the darkness you can see the outlines of her smile when your eyes adjust. She puts a hand on your shoulder, gives it a little squeeze. She's upset, she really is, she was so close to reeling you in, trapping you, telling you all she's been wanting to say for months now. But she's proud of you. For being loyal, for not breaking the trust Steve put in you even though you could do it without consequences. She'd never tell on you. But somehow, your silent refusal has made you even a better person in her eyes than if you would have given in to the kiss you've both obviously wanted.

But this all must be very confusing for you. Your week was an emotional rollercoaster, and she just wants you to be okay. "Wake me if you need anything."

You nod, and satisfied, Natasha turns to her other side. It's difficult, being so torn, wanting love but not knowing where you're supposed to get it. Overwhelmed by everything, you seem to spiral into mild panic. You don't know this place, and Steve is a stubborn asshole, and you just want to feel safe and sheltered for a single night, is that too much to ask for?

You scoot closer to Natasha, letting her feel your warmth first before you tentatively snuggle up to her from behind. She lets you, deathly still as if any movement on her part would scare you away. You slide your hand on her waist, afraid to go too far.

She takes it and wraps it around her midsection.

You don't talk about it in the morning. The sun shines brightly as you sit together in the kitchen. Coffee. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Slipping slices of tangerine to one another. A long hug before you leave.

And somehow you both feel a little less when you're apart.

You have much to think on, you both do. You don't avoid Steve when you get back. You go straight to him and you ask him for a break. He deals with his heartbreak as he soldiers though every hardship in his life - lips pressed together, emotions repressed, stiff nod straining his neck, regret shining in his blue eyes. But you need this. You need this, because he deserves better than to be lied to. Than to be led on. So does she.

Weeks pass. Missions come and go, all successful. You work together professionally, there's nothing forced. Tony remarks on the sudden drop of temperature in the room during a mission briefing where you and Steve sit in opposite ends of the room, but Natasha steps in and whacks him on the back of the head with the file in her hand and that's that.

You go to the top floor of the tower one evening, the staggering height's isolation comforting you now more than scaring you. You sit there for a while, watching the sunset, when you remember Italy, 3 months ago, stopping to marvel at the sunset, Natasha by your side.

And then you know. You just do. You need more time to accept it, of course. Probably even more time to act on it. But in the meantime, you can't stop thinking about her feeding tangerine to you in the morning, fingers brushing against yours as she passes the slices to you.

Tag list: @fayhar

[scuttling]

Impure

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina Original Female Character Word Count: 4,557 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Priest kink, Religion, Confessional, Masturbation, Vaginal fingering, Oral sex, Unprotected sex, Somehow also sweet Summary: Hotch is a hot priest and steamy, smutty stuff happens. That's it, that's the fic. Note: This is a reformatted, previously published work. Link to A03 or read below! When Sophie Cortes moves to Whitehall, Virginia in the hopes of starting over, she expects it to be difficult. Removed completely from her family, her friends, the job she loved, and the only way of life she’s known for 28 years—it’s hard, and she prays for strength every day for a week before she passes a small Catholic church on her way to the post office. She hadn’t noticed it before, and she smiles, makes a vow to attend mass the following Sunday, and feels for the first time in a long time like God might actually be on her side.

She feels that way for a very, very short time, because the moment she lays eyes on the priest—Father Aaron Hotchner, the sign by the door says—she realizes she’s doomed.

He is not at all what she’d expected in this sleepy, pseudo-Southern town, in that he is hot like burning: he’s in his forties, tall, and kind of beefy, actually, with arms that fill out his clerical shirt a little too well, and a handsome face, dark hair, a kind smile. She takes a seat in the back, the first week she attends, but when he looks out at the congregation, she feels like his eyes are on her and only her. It makes her sweat more than the July heat, and she wets her lips, feels every bit the sinner she is.

The second week isn’t any better, or the third, fourth, fifth. Each time, she enters hopeful and leaves a horny, desperate mess. The sixth week, she confesses.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been... a while since my last confession. I’m new to town—you probably haven’t even noticed me—and I’m trying to start a new life. I was taking a walk around the neighborhood, and I found your little church, and I thought maybe it was God’s way of trying to help me on my journey.”

“It was. He brought you here for a reason,” Father Hotchner says through the lattice of the confessional booth, and Sophie exhales, leans her head back.

“No, Father. It wasn’t God who led me here, it was the Devil himself.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because the moment I saw you standing there, tall, strong, your hands wrapped around the edges of the pulpit, I began having impure thoughts, and they haven’t gone away. The moment I step foot in those doors, my core aches; I try to rub discreetly against the pew for some relief, but there are too many people around me, so I just sit there, hot and swollen, dripping wet, listening to your voice. When I kneel, I kneel for you, not God.” She breathes slowly, in and out of her nose, tries to calm herself down. “You talk about sin, Father, and while you do my body begs for yours; sometimes you pause to swallow, and I watch your throat, and I wonder if that’s you feeling me wanting you.” He is quiet for a moment before speaking again.

“You are right: Lustful thoughts are the work of the Devil. But you can overcome them.”

“I can’t, Father. I’ve tried. I’ve prayed for God’s guidance. I’ve been coming here for six weeks, and each time I see you I crave the touch of your hand, your mouth on my body. I always leave quickly when your sermon is over, because if you saw me, flushed, my nipples hard, my eyes wide, you would know what I’ve been thinking, Father, and I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You were made by God in His image. You couldn’t disappoint me.”

“It doesn’t disappoint you to know I’m thinking of it right now? Of how the only thing between us is this partition, and how if I could get into your lap, maybe I could rub myself to climax, feel your hands on my hips, urging me on, until we both come, here in His house? Because that’s all I can think about, Father.” Tears well up in her eyes, but his voice is soothing.

“That’s okay. It’s alright. I’m not disappointed. I can help you through this.”

“How? Please tell me how, Father. I’ll do anything.”

“First, I want you to recite the Act of Contrition each morning. I want you to talk to God and tell Him you’re sorry, and then I want you to forgive yourself.”

“Forgive myself?” The idea seems insane, after everything she’s confessed to him.

“Yes. You deserve compassion as a child of God. And you should give yourself credit, for despite the heat of your flesh, you haven’t acted on your impure thoughts. God will have mercy because of your resistance. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Father. Thank you, Father.”

“Good. May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of his love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. And I, an unworthy priest, by his power given me, forgive and absolve you from all your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.” Sophie leaves, and her hands are trembling. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession. I’m not sure you’ll remember me…” The priest shifts a little, Sophie can see it through the barrier that separates them.

“I remember you. Have you forgiven yourself? Have you spoken to God?”

“I’ve tried, Father. I’ve done my penance, I’ve prayed, but I’m still so weak. Today, I watched a bead of sweat drip down your neck, and I wanted to run my tongue over it, follow it into your clothes and taste you, warm and salty. I’m soaked and throbbing even now, just recalling how my body reacted. It hurts.” He swallows hard.

“I’m sorry you are in pain, both mental and physical. But with God, you are strong. With God, nothing is impossible. You will get through this.”

“I didn’t just have impure thoughts this week, Father. I—I touched myself, and I imagined it was your hand. Your fingers inside me, filling me. I came to the thought of you, Father. Will I be forgiven?”

“God forgives you, and I forgive you.” She closes her eyes tightly, sighs.

“Thank you, Father. What is my penance?”

“I want you to spend one hour a day sitting on your bed, completely still and silent. I want you to think of all of the blessings God has given you, all of the ways He has made you strong. I also want you to donate your hands to a good cause; you know the nursing home on Fifth Avenue is always looking for volunteers. Maybe, if your hands are occupied doing God’s work, the temptation to use them in an impure manner will leave you.”

“Thank you, Father. I will.”

“May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of his love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. And I, an unworthy priest, by his power given me, forgive and absolve you from all your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.” “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.”

“Have you done your penance, my girl?”

“Yes, Father. I meditated and volunteered until I was so exhausted each night that I fell right to sleep.”

“And what was the outcome? Do you feel better?” She feels shame for what she is about to say.

“I didn’t think of you, but I dreamed of you.”

“What did you dream about?”

“I dreamed of laying beneath you, Father. I dreamed of being taken by you. I dreamed of you filling me up with come and whispering in my ear that it was God’s will.” The priest exhales deeply.

“Did you have the same dream every night?”

“No, Father. One night I dreamed of kneeling to pray, but then taking you into my mouth, performing an act of service on you. You came in my mouth and gave me five Hail Mary’s for worshipping at an altar that was not God’s.”

“Is there more?”

“Yes, Father. I dreamed of your head between my legs, tasting me. I called out your name in pleasure, and you held me tightly and pushed your tongue inside me until I cried, it felt so good. Then you spilled on my skin and—and praised me for fulfilling my duty to God.” His voice is soft when he responds.

“I think it may be time for private counseling.”

“Here at the church, Father?”

“Yes, with me. Once a week.”

“Father, I don’t know if—” She can barely look at him without moaning; how can he expect her to be counseled in his office, just feet from him… alone?

“Trust me. I will help you talk to God. We will find a way to remove these impure thoughts from your mind so you can live in God’s image as intended.”

“Yes, Father, thank you, Father.”

“May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of his love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. And I, an unworthy priest, by his power given me, forgive and absolve you from all your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.” “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.”

“You didn’t come to counseling.” He sounds disappointed, and she takes a trembling breath.

“No, Father. I’m sorry. You were giving communion, and I opened my mouth for you, and you placed the body of Christ on my tongue, and I… Forgive me, Father. I went into the bathroom and I touched myself. I couldn’t face you after that.”

“You touched yourself… here?” Shame makes her face heat, her eyes water.

“Yes, Father, I’m so sorry. I tried to resist, I did.”

“Did you have an orgasm?”

“Yes, Father. A strong one. That’s the closest you’ve gotten to me, and I couldn’t help the way my body reacted.”

“It’s okay. God forgives you, and I forgive you. Please come to counseling this week, no matter what.”

“Yes, Father. What is my penance?”

“Five Our Fathers, and I want you to wear a rubber band on your wrist and snap it every time you think of me. Maybe the pain will be a reminder to keep your thoughts pure.”

“I will, Father, thank you.”

“May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of his love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. And I, an unworthy priest, by his power given me, forgive and absolve you from all your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.” “Father Hotchner. My name is Sophie Cortes, I…” He stands from his desk, nods stoically.

“I know. Please, have a seat,” he says, gesturing to two armchairs in the corner of the room, and when she perches on one, smoothing her sundress beneath her, he takes the other. His eyes linger on her legs, and she instantly feels shame for the way she’s dressed, even though she’d felt confident and beautiful when she left the house. “You’re here because of impure thoughts that won’t go away. We’ve tried meditation, and service, and praying, but nothing seems to be working. I see you’ve been wearing the rubber band.” He nods to her wrist, and she swallows.

“Yes, Father, but I’m sorry, it’s complicated things further.”

“How so?” he asks with a tilt of his head. It’s so much harder for her to concentrate now that she can see him, now that he’s more than just a shadowy figure in the confessional box. And so close...

“It turns out, I find pleasure in the sting. It’s made me imagine other pleasurable, painful things.”

“Such as?” She sighs deeply, feels dirty, hopes it won’t make him look at her differently.

“Receiving spanking as penance, Father. Your strong hands hitting my thighs and behind until I’m a panting, dripping mess, begging for God’s forgiveness, and yours.” He wets his lips, leans in a little closer.

“Do you think that would help?” She can smell his after-shave, just like she could at communion, and she shifts in her seat, crosses her legs.

“I don't think so, Father. I would… want you even more, afterward.” He nods, pushes a hand through his dark hair.

“I’ll admit, I’ve been struggling, trying to decide how to go about counseling you. I’ve thought of reading scripture to you...” She squeezes her legs together, knows that wouldn’t work. She would only be turned on more, and that’s part of why she feels so messed up in the head. “I’ve thought of kneeling beside you, praying with you, your hands in mine, so we can talk to God together.” Her breath comes quickly at the thought, and he shakes his head. “I don’t think any of that will solve your problem, though, do you?”

“I don’t know, Father. I don’t—I don’t think so.”

“I think there’s only one thing that will help you, Miss Cortes, and I want you to know I don’t recommend this lightly. I have spent many nights talking to God about you.”

“You have?”

“Yes. And I remembered that sometimes, rules aren’t one-size-fits-all. Sometimes, we are allowed to bend them, in the right circumstances, and I think this situation is one of those circumstances.” He sits back in his chair, and he’s breathing heavily too, she notices. “Come here.”

Her mind goes abruptly blank.

“Come… there?” she asks, and he swallows, nods.

“Yes. In my lap. If you want to.” She wants to—that’s the whole reason she’s here—and he’s telling her she can, so she stands, takes a shaky breath, and settles on his thighs. He runs his hands carefully over her legs, then up her arms, caresses her cheeks. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” she answers, breathless, and he slides his hands down her throat, over her breasts, and she moans at the touch.

“I think the only way to resolve the problems you’re having, Miss Cortes, would be to satisfy you. To give you what you’ve been thinking of since the first time you entered my church. Do you want me to do that?”

“Yes, Father.” She closes her eyes, and he gently cups her breasts, squeezes them in his hands. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

“Give me a Hail Mary,” he says, and she would do anything he asks in that tone of voice. She nods.

“Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee.” His hands move to her waist, and she sighs. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” His hands move to her thighs, and he pushes up her dress, rubs them up until his fingers meet the hem of her panties. She swallows hard. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

“Amen. Another,” he instructs gently, and he rubs his fingers against the soaked crotch of her panties, earning a soft moan.

“Hail Mary Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” He pushes her panties to the side, his fingers gliding over her aching, wet heat, and she moans again, recites faster. “Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

“Amen,” he says, breathless. He guides a finger inside her and she skims her own hands along her body, trembles in his grasp. “Another.”

“Hail Mary Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb—Jesus,” she sighs, when he slips another finger inside, and his other hand rests on her ass, putting pressure there, encouraging her to move. She lifts her hips and sinks back down against his hand, and he wets his lips, blows out a long, measured breath.

“Keep going, Miss Cortes.”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” She gasps, grips the arms of the chair with her fingers and rides his hand, looking down into his deep, dark eyes. He squeezes her ass.

“Good girl. I want you to come on my fingers. You’ve imagined them inside you—does this feel better?”

“Yes, Father.” She rides faster, moaning, and he fists her dress in his hand, lifts it so he can watch her take him in, which makes her shiver. “Oh, please.”

“What is it? What do you need?” he asks, dropping her dress to touch her cheek.

“Another finger, Father? Please?” His brow furrows, determined, and he adds another; she pumps her hips four times, whines, and comes, clutching his shirt at his shoulders. When she’s spent, she sags against him, panting, and he holds her close, rubs a hand up and down her back.

“That was perfect. You did exactly what I wanted. Are you alright?”

“Yes, thank you, Father,” she murmurs, sitting up in his lap, and though she would love to kiss him, or run her fingers through his hair, she’s fairly certain that’s not what this is.

He offers her a tissue to clean up, slides his fingers out carefully and cleans them off as well, and she sits back in her own chair, legs crossed again. He looks at her seriously, leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“I hope that helps you, Miss Cortes. I know you don’t want to have those impure thoughts.”

“No, Father. Thank you, I… I hope so too.” He nods, takes her hands in his, closes his eyes.

“May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of his love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. And I, an unworthy priest, by his power given me, forgive and absolve you from all your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.” He opens his eyes.

“I’ll take your confession Sunday, and then see you for counseling next week. We’ll see how you feel then.”

“Okay. Thank you again.” They both stand, and he walks her to the door; his eyes linger on her face, and she ducks her head, walks down the hall.

That night, she dreams of hands on her hips, holding her down, and helping her move. She wakes to a puddle in her panties. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.” She knows she sounds tired when she speaks, and he sighs at the sound of her voice.

“Tell me your sins, Miss Cortes,” he says low. She shivers.

“It didn’t work, Father. If anything, I think it made it worse. I dreamed of you again.”

“I dreamed of you, too.” She sits in silence, shocked, and her heart races. “Did you know I make house calls? For counseling. If a member of the congregation is in need.” She hums, shifts where she sits.

“I didn’t know that, Father. I might… I think that might help me. Will you have time tonight?”

“Yes. I can be there around seven, if that works for you. We can try again.” She gasps softly, presses her thighs together.

“Yes, please, Father.”

“Okay. Five Hail Mary’s for me, Miss Cortes. May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of his love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. And I, an unworthy priest, by his power given me, forgive and absolve you from all your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.” When Father Hotchner arrives at her apartment that night, he looks like a completely different man—all because of his eyes. They are smoldering, stormy, and the way they sweep over her body when she invites him in, offers him coffee… It makes her mouth water.

She pours a cup for each of them, but they never get a chance to drink it, because he takes her face in his hands and kisses her deeply, passionately, leaving her breathless. When the kiss breaks, she walks them back to the bedroom, and his broad hands grope at her, pulling her dress over her head and tugging her close for another kiss.

“Sophie,” he murmurs, and she puts her hands on his belt, fingers on the clasp.

“Please, Father, may I?” He nods, kisses her again, and she opens it, then his pants, and he guides her back against the bed; he begins at her throat, kissing her hot and wet, and he trails his mouth down her body, over her breasts, her stomach, down to her panties. He mouths at her soaked core, and she moans, arches up off the bed. “Oh, yes.”

He looks up at her, eyes hooded with lust, and he guides her panties off, presses his lips against her pussy in a deep kiss. He flicks his tongue a little, so she’s squirming, whining, and then slides back up her body to lick at her throat. “You taste like sin,” he whispers in her ear, and the moan that passes her lips is pornographic and filthy.

“Forgive me, Father,” she pants in return, touching his throat while he kisses her, and his hands press hard against her waist.

“No need, my girl. This is what God wants—I wouldn’t have dreamed of you if it wasn’t.”

She’s not entirely sure that’s how it works, but she’s not about to argue, not when he’s crawling back down to eat her pussy like it’s a feast he can’t resist, his hands on her thighs spreading her open for a gentle but unrelenting tongue.

“Oh, yes. Yes, right there, please,” she whimpers, and when her hands fall to his shoulders, he picks them up and puts them on his head, encouraging her to tug at his hair. She tips her throat back, moans, and tightens her fingers there, so his tongue is focused just where she wants him, and when she comes she comes wildly, arching up off the bed and clutching his head and nearly screaming her pleasure.

He kisses a path back up her body while she catches her breath, sinking back against the bed, and his tongue in her mouth is hot and dirty, tasting of her. It makes her head swim.

“Can I press inside you, Sophie? Can I make love to you and come inside you like you dreamed?” Her eyes nearly roll back in her head.

“Oh, yes, please, Father.” He pushes down his underwear and takes his cock in hand, presses the wet head inside her slowly; her hands move to his waist, fisting in his shirt, pulling him close, and he groans deeply when he slides fully inside. He kisses her, messy, frantic, and begins thrusting.

“I knew you were sent for me the moment I saw you,” he pants, and she moves beneath him, eyes focused on his gorgeous face and the expressions he makes when he glides in and out of her. “It was the first time you came for mass—you thought I hadn’t noticed you, but you caught my attention on that first day and never let go.” He nibbles her throat, and she rubs her hands over his shoulder, his head, pulling his hair and urging him deeper. “The version of me you dreamed of was right, Sophie; this is God’s will.”

She moans, her head falling back, mouth open, eyes closed, so much pleasure rushing through her body it feels like she’s floating, and she holds him close while he comes inside her, while he moans her name.

They stay there, arms wrapped around each other, hands sweeping over their bodies, and he pulls her close for a series of slow, passionate kisses that make her hum.

When they shower together, he washes her body, his hands careful and reverent, and he helps her dry off just as gently, with a soft, pleased smile on his face.

“How are you feeling?” he asks when they climb back into bed, their limbs entwined, his hand smoothing over her back, and she smiles too, a little shy.

“I feel good, Father, though I am wondering if you make these particular kinds of house calls often.” He laughs lightly, brings his hand up to caress her cheek, and he presses his lips gently against hers.

“This is a house call I’ve never made before,” he assures her, and he sweeps his thumb over her lips. “And one I’ll never make for another woman, I can promise you.”

“Will you make more for me?” she asks, truly curious, and his face softens, he nods.

“Yes, for as long as you’ll let me. I find it hard to condemn our thoughts as merely lustful and impure when I also feel a tenderness for you that’s impossible to ignore. I think you are a gift for me,” he murmurs, kissing her, “and I trust that God has reasons for bringing us together the way He did.”

They lay together a little longer, touching and kissing, and she moans when he presses a hand against her ass.

“May I make a confession, Father?” she asks, licking her lips, and he nods, pulls her closer. “I had one dream I didn’t mention to you, and I would like to see if we can replicate it. Can you come again?” He grinds his hips against her, and she feels him stiff and hot, sighs against his shoulder.

“Anything for you, my girl. What did you dream?” With an innocent smile, she pulls him close, whispers in his ear, and he leans back far enough to roll her onto her stomach—taking her breath away—and press his cock into her. He props himself up on one hand, runs the other over her ass and hip as he pumps inside, and she is swiftly ready to come again, moaning and gripping the sheets.

“Yes, yes,” she whines, and she guides his hand to her breast, where they squeeze together. “Harder, Father, please,” she begs, and he drapes his body over top of hers, mouths at her shoulder, and pounds his hips against her, leaving her an eager, wanton mess.

“You are perfection personified. My gift from God,” he whispers, and when he leans down to kiss her neck, she grips his hair in her fingers, moans.

“If I’m yours, come inside me again so I never forget it.” His hips move faster, less rhythmically, and when he spills inside her, she shudders, comes too; his hands are gentle again while they come down, and for the first time since she set foot in Father Hotchner’s church, she actually feels satisfied.

The next time he gives her communion, she looks into his eyes and offers her mouth; she offers it again later, and she can safely say that she prefers his body to the body of Christ.

[calumxkisses]

Yellow | c.h.

pairing: calum hood x reader

genre: fluff

warnings: none

summary: prince!calum au - you're his yellow and he's yours.

a/n: hi! 'm not really good with au imagines but i hope you'll like it. let me know what you think of this imagine. love you!

this imagine its inspired by the song: yellow

✰ ✰ ✰

“Yellow.” A sudden voice makes you jump. You close the book you’re reading as you place a hand on your chest, feeling your heart beating quickly.

The library is huge, the storm lights barely illuminate the room, making it almost impossible to find your way around and read without the help of candles. The smell of old books is strong, there is a lot of dust on the shelves and feeling small near these high shelves make the perfect atmosphere to be able to take refuge from the outside world, from a world made of rules and confined to the land surrounding the property. Your little refuge, however, is interrupted by the presence of this man and you turn around quickly, trying to hide the smile that forms on your face at the sight of the stranger.

Despite the size of the room, the prince appears to be in full control of everything around him. He is standing in front of the door, several meters separate your figure from his, yet you can see the smile he gives you, his hands hidden behind his back and the fine lines near his eyes that underline his amused expression.

“What?” You ask before placing your hand in front of your mouth and widening your eyes. In your mind, a vivid image of your mother scolds you for your language and reminds you that you are no longer a child and that you must be careful when addressing a prince or any other high-ranking social figure.

“I'm sorry for talking to you like that, sir. I'm afraid I don't understand what your 'yellow' refers to.”

Prince Calum laughs briefly before slowly approaching you.

"We've known each other since we were children, we don't need certain formalities."

“My mother says-” you try to justify yourself, but he cuts you off right away.

“Nobody’s here.” He whispers before standing in front of you, keeping some distance to avoid misunderstanding in case someone enters. If it were up to him, there would be no such distance between you, but rules are rules and he would never want to compromise your image.

You look around to make sure no one is spying on you and, sure you are alone with him, you relax your shoulders and jaw, releasing the sigh you were holding back.

“So, yellow?” You ask, smiling, placing the book on the table to your left while you look at the boy, waiting for an answer.

His curly hair is carefully pulled back and the dark circles under his eyes lead you to imagine him sitting at his desk, with a lighted candle next to him and his gaze on the window in front of him, instead of the pages he is holding with his hand, pages he should study in order to become the man his father wants him to be, but that he will never be.

“It was a difficult choice, I will not lie to you. There are so many colors that remind me of you, the red of the dress you wore at your first dance when you entered society, the purple of the vase you broke when you discovered that you have been promised in marriage to an old man or the blue of water of the stream next to the tree where we always go to sit under it. And there are a thousand other colors that I associate to you.”

You smile proudly to hear that he paid attention to every detail and remember how as a child he couldn't even memorize the poems the teachers taught him and the thousand fights you had when you tried in vain to help him learn each verse.

“When I think of you, however, I think back to when you collected Ranunculus repens and put them in your hair, to embellish your hair and feel like the princesses who came to visit us. You always did it and you always took a few more so, when it rained and we couldn't go out, you had your little escort and you could wear them even inside these walls. You always have and if I'm not wrong-”

Calum slowly reaches out his arm towards you, his hand brushes your neck causing you to shiver all over your body, before moving a strand of hair and grabbing something from behind your ear.

“You still wear them.” He whispers, bringing his hand in front of your eyes and showing the small yellow flower you were wearing until a few seconds before.

“They still make me feel like a princess from one of those fairy worlds I read books about.” You whisper, you look down as a sense of shame takes hold in your body. Your heart seems to feel pain as you think back to how you still feel as a child, how you still dream of those fairy tales you hoped you could live one day.

“You're a princess with or without those flowers on, you know it too, you just hope that others see you as you do, too special for a life you don't want to be part of.” He says bringing his fingers under your chin and lifting your face up. His gaze no longer conveys joy and his tone is harsh, an angry expression has taken place on his face.

“Calum..” You try to stop him from speaking that truth you don't want to hear, but his words have broken through your heart and the pain you seemed to feel, now you are definitely feeling. You take a step back, trying to get away from a situation you can't escape from.

“You don't have to do it, you don't have to stay and spend the rest of your life between false smiles and sleepless nights. Your sister will be queen and my father thinks I'm a failure since I was born. Let's run away, me and you. My cottage already has everything we need and I'm sure they will never come looking for us. We will live that fairy tale we imagined for us and we will have the life we ​​always wanted.”

His hand grabs yours and his gaze is on you. You know he's not lying, he told you the love he feels towards you in the dungeons of this same castle and you haven't thought twice before confessing your love to him.

But this castle, these people, is all you have always known.

It’s a world that doesn't belong to you but you can't just leave. There are rules, responsibilities, tasks that you cannot escape.

“It's not that easy, Calum.”

“No, it's not, it's not easy and it won't be. We'll probably end up arguing and you'll regret running away with me. But then you'll think back to all these tight corsets you had to wear, all the formalities you had to comply with and the man you would hold if you have stayed and you will understand that country life is so much better than a life spent in sadness and that that terrible man who made you cry actually loves you madly and just wants what he knows it’s better for you.”

He also grabs the other hand and continues.

“And if you really want to go back, I will be ready to be looked at with scandal by everyone and to take you back to the castle, to face your father and see you held by arms that are not mine.”

You know that it will be hard, but you have never wanted to be a queen. It’s a big responsibility for a girl that just wants to live a fairy tale, that wants to be free in her own terms. You never wanted a kingdom, you never wanted to be property of some old man and certainly you never wanted to spend your existence submitted to someone else’s orders.

You just wanted to be happy, to live your life to the fullest, to love a man who respected you, your dreams, your independence and your passion for flowers and books.

And maybe house cleaning, mud and small rooms will never be like having silk sheets, breakfast prepared by someone else and the floor always clean, but they certainly convey a sense of greater happiness and a life spent in misery and in sadness it’s the dream of those who do not want to fight for what they dream of and are satisfied with mediocrity.

And you don't deserve mediocrity and the guy in front of you knows it well, he sees it in the way you feel uncomfortable during the dances, when your father talks to you about matters you can never take care of because you’re a woman and in the look that you give to your mother when she talks about her marriage, that is only political and not based on love.

You turn to your right, a huge gold mirror near the window reflects the library, the place where you grew up and where you have taken refuge millions of times. You look in the mirror, the diamond earrings reflect the gray of the sky and are too heavy for your ears. Your dress is gorgeous, hand-sewn by the best tailors, yet you don't feel as beautiful as when you wear old, unfashionable clothes and run free for the castle hills, without the fear of getting dirty or ruining expensive dresses.

Your eyes, pupils who love to look at the horizon, are sad, aware that by staying they will not be able to see any wonder. You touch your face, slowly run your hands over your cheeks, over your lips and run your finger over the bridge of your nose, remembering when you were just a little girl and were treated like a normal girl, a girl that loved when her father played with her and touched her nose while making funny noises with his mouth.

Then you look outside. The sky is full of dark clouds, the rain falls incessantly and a few lightning illuminate the afternoon sky. You look at that garden you have walked a thousand times, at all the flowers you have collected and at all the plants you have destroyed while playing with Calum.

You close your eyes thinking about all the places you haven't visited, all the trees you haven't leaned on to read and all the rivers you haven't seen flowing. There is a world out there, you think, that has yet to be discovered. And who are you, if not a woman ready for life's adventures?

“You didn't ask me.” You whisper.

“What?” Calum asks, confused.

“You didn't ask me which color reminds me of you.” You repeat as you slowly turn around to look at him.

A huge smile forms on his face.

“What color do you think when you think of me?”

“When I was ten, one night, I decided to explore the dungeons alone. I wanted to prove to myself that I was able to do anything. I almost made it, I almost managed to face the monster we thought lived in the cells, but then it was all too dark and I ended up going back to my room crying.” You slowly approach him.

“The next night, you showed up in my room with a jar full of fireflies, you gave it to me and whispered "You can do it." I ended up walking through the dungeons with this jar in my hand, you were a few meters behind me to make sure nothing happened to me, but I always knew you were there, even if you tried to hide.”

“I was able to face one of my biggest fears that night. Whatever other problem happened, you were always ready to help me if I needed it, you always supported me, with advice or simply by being close to me, a few steps back to let me free. You were essential in making me grow, while remaining away. Like the stars, who guide the sailors from the sky, they let the sailors do what they believe is right, but they are there to help and guide them if they need it.”

You bring your lips to his ear and whisper: “At midnight, in our place. Don't be late and take the blue carriage, it makes less noise on the street.” You turn around and walk to your room to pack a small bag with all the essentials.

“Wait, you didn't answer my question!” He says turning towards the direction you went.

“You are my yellow, Calum.” You say, you are far away but you know he’s smiling and you smile too.

[tetralea]

omg please do smut prompt 13 “i really don’t care. You still look hot and i’m trying not to kiss/fuck you senseless right now” with tom x reader (maybe exes to lovers but what do i know)

Uuugh, it took me so long! Sorry! I hope you are going to enjoy!

Finally you decided, finally you are getting the tattoo you wanted for so long. Not that it is your first time, but it is a special piece. Having to go to a new place instead of your regular one was difficult, but you never imagined it to be this hard.

Even tho you did choose a place your ex-boyfriend told you a million times he would never work at, here you were, laying on your side unable to speak as Tom’s gloved hands moved on your skin.

You didn’t say a word, it was only the buzzing of the pen and your occasional sighs when he moved to a more sensitive point. You missed the times when he would have praised you for being so good and staying still and occasionally shooting you a huge grin.

No, not this time. You weren’t even facing him so he could reach you better, and now you deeply regretted your decision to wear only some plasters on your nipples to avoid any stains of ink.

‘I guess the fairytale life you were promised didn’t really work after all.’ Tom spoke slowly, his hands still moving steady, his voice stern. You wished you could have moved and saw his face but this was impossible.

‘Your guess is right.’ You had to gain some strength to be able to press the words past your teeth without sounding extremely rude or hurt. You had no right to be mean to him right now.

‘Perfect prince charming wasn’t, so dreamy and perfect as your parents wanted him to be?’ He pushed further, his hand coming up to your arm to position it a bit differently, turning you even more away from himself. It hurt.

‘He was.’ You admitted with a sigh you had to stop mid-motion to prevent your ribs from moving too much. ‘Too perfect.’ It was there the rambling, the rant, it was at the tip of your tongue and you were with the only person who you knew understood you more than anyone else, but how could you say all this to him. It’s been one and a half years now and you hurt him enough already.

Tom didn’t comment on that, just kept on working, occasionally shifting a little, his hand only a breath away from your breast now as he moved forward as the tattoo progressed. For a few minutes it was deafening silence again, now the little buzz didn’t help either. You felt the words forming on your lips and tried to prevent them from falling, but oh, well.

‘He was horrible.’ It was a start. ‘Childish, dumb, unable to take care of himself, stadoffish, mama’s fucking little perfect son.’ The words come easy and you felt your soul being lighter with every letter you pronounce. ‘He was awful, I don’t even know how that stupid engagement happened. It was so surreal and I couldn’t say anything, I didn’t say yes, I was just standing there, then he started to speak and then everyone assumed I agreed and I hated it. Every second of it.’

While you were speaking Tom read through the words he was marking your body with and smiled. It was obvious, of course he read the press release of the scandal. The guy was the son of a politician, so when you broke off your engagement it made into the papers easily. Tom didn’t want to lie that he felt relief mixing with satisfaction and almost happiness when he saw the news. He barely could see your face and he was sure you couldn’t see him smiling just a bit smugly right now.

‘He was insufferable, all he talked about was the greater good, and saving the poor and how great his father was and how great our kids would have been,’ you voice break just in time to hear the sound Tom made, half gagging half disgusted, ‘ well, too bad, he never fucked me.’

Oh, shit.

This was the tiny detail you never planned to disclose to your ex-boyfriend, but it was out and your body froze, cursing your luck that you couldn’t face him.

‘What?’ His voice was just as shocked yet a bit amused.

After a deep breath, which now you could take as the sharp pain was gone just as the pen and the hands, you could speak. ‘You heard it.’ Pressing your lips together, waiting for his answer you slightly turned, finally, being able to look at him. Those brown eyes were just as confused, he was caught off guard, his brows slightly furrowed, thin lips almost disappearing as he pressed them together.

The tension peaked as he opened his mouth. ‘Um,-’ he looked to the side, searching for his words, ‘we are ready, please go to the mirror to look at how your new tattoo looks.’

It was not the sentence you were waiting for, but you understood. You weren’t together anymore and didn’t even talk ever since. His tone was smooth, too smooth, like he was forcing himself to change the subject, but you didn’t object.

As you got up and walked to the mirror, taking in the new black, slightly red and swollen lines on your ribs, you were speechless.

‘I love it.’ You said it finally with a huge grin, your eyes moving up to find Tom’s reflection in the mirror.

‘I’m glad.’ He laughed, reaching up to touch the back of his head nervously. ‘I changed it a little, the curve, I thought it fits your shape better. I hope it’s ok.’ His words were quiet but confident as he reached out to point at that part being careful not to touch your skin.

‘Not much I can do about it now, ‘ you giggled ‘but I love it, it does look better. Thank you.’

His sigh didn’t escape your ears, neither as his expression instantly relaxed.

Neither of you said a thing, you just quietly admired his work with a huge smile on your lips, not even noticing the way he was looking at you. He knew he still had to wrapp it and all that but didn’t want to break the silence which now felt comfortable, neither wanted to take his eyes off you, admiring all the other tattoos on your skin which was all from him. His tattoos. His.

He marked you up too many times, all the evidence on beautiful display on your body. there was an all too familiar feeling in this thought, you being his.

He inhaled sharply before risking it all.

‘So, never fucked you, huh?’ He asked with husky voice, stepping closer, his chest only from and inch to your back.

‘No.’ The answer was honest and immediate. Your gaze finding his in the mirror, not letting it go, not even when he touched you hesitantly. ‘He said I was living in sin for long enough, but he will fix that.’ You quoted him, pouting clinically.

‘Guess, that worked out well. You never was the insatiable type. Never once begged me to take you again and again, never woke me up at 4 am because you were too horny or making me take an unusually long lunch break because we hit it off in the car.’ Tom’s voice was unwavering, neutral, like he was just small talking, but his body told you differently. Those long fingers were gripping your hips, his eyes darkening, his body now pressed to yours, him leaning close almost whispering into your ear.

‘Exactly,- ‘ you nodded, ‘never ever touched myself while he was sleeping next to me. Never fucked myself with my fingers thinking about you, imagining it being you, wishing you to be there and taking care of me.’ Your tone was the same, like you weren’t talking about the most intimate moments of your life, but there were no taboos between the two of you.

‘Hm.’ Tom nodded thoughtfully, his hands now moving up, his tumbs swiping the underside of your breasts. ‘Good. That would have been a shame.’ Now his hands gently cupped your tits, slowly fondling them, taking in the way they moved under his movements from the mirror. ‘But also, ‘he purred, and looked up to look at you for real as he turned you in his arms, ‘it means I was the last person who got to have you, and that just makes me feel in a certain kind of way.’ He was close, but not enough. You couldn’t answer, not in this situation, not after what he just said, not when he was looking at you like this. It was all too familiar, the longing, the desire, the admiration, the promise.

‘Tom,- ‘you started something what sounded like an excuse to break your small bubble, and he couldn’t have that.’

‘I really, don’t care.’ One of his hands let go of you just to move up and press his fingers to your lips. ‘You look so hot and I’m trying not to kiss or fuck you senseless now.’ He pressed that small word harder making you forget every objection you had, letting him lean impossibly close, feeling his hot breath on your mouth.

‘Just do it then.’ You whimpered onto his lips, capturing them in an intoxicating kiss. It was everything you longed for, it was so familiar again, and you couldn’t get enough this time either. His kisses made you light headed, moaning into his mouth, pulling on his soft curls pressing your bare chest to his black shirt. His hands were squeezing your hips urgingly, as his lips were caressing yours, his tongue tasting you again, finally. It eventually slowed down, reducing to small kisses, small pecks before starting all over again, with an impatient whimper. He wanted to press you to something, to feel you under his body, to fuck you silly then and there but he didn’t dare to. He had to cover up the tattoo, and he was practically still working.

He slowed down the kiss to be able to speak. ‘We need to finish this beauty on your ribs, then I am free. If you are serious, we can go to mine, and I promise you won’t be able to walk tomorrow, darling.’

Tagging: @we--are---not--afraid, @tomsrebeleyebrow, @tomhollandsmut, @tomhollandd, @tommysparker, @duskholland, @greenorangevioletgrass, @tomhollandspideys, @thurstyforholland, @hollanddolanfluff, @z-ukos

[sugarmaplewings-fics]

Baby, You’re Perfect

Pairing: BNHA Boys x reader

Warnings: Weight insecurity, negative body image/icky thoughts, body shaming from relatives, talks about skipping a meal once, general stuff like that. Kirishima’s reader is actively trying to lose weight. Cursing/language throughout (but mostly in Bakugou’s)

Characters: Bakugou, Kirishima, Kaminari

Author’s Note:

And here we have yet another request that is super old. I’m talking this has been chillin in my inbox for three good months. My sincere apologies, anon. And again, I’m sorry that that had to happen to you. Your grandma has no right to speak to you in that way. You’re making great progress and that’s amazing! Keep going strong, I believe in you. Anyhow, I had a lot of fun doing this request! We all need more chubby y/n on this website.

Yes, it says Hawks but I contacted the anon and we switched it to Denki bc I don’t write for Keigo (and we had a lovely conversation. they’re very nice :D). 

Also the first two insults are things that have actually been said/done to me irl (hehe tasty self projection) and the last one in Denki’s is from an episode from Tuca and Birdie (it’s a good show).

Anyway, be nice to people. Respect others and speak to them as equals. We’re all human beings here, trying to get by. We’re also like a month away from 2021, I shouldn’t have to say that >:(

Happy Thanksgiving!

-Sugar

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Bakugou:

You couldn’t take it anymore. You were tired of their faces, tired of their words. You were headed home early, and you would not be sorry.

You didn’t hate your family. They could just be a little . . . difficult sometimes.

At first, it had gone well. You’d arrived at your aunt’s house yesterday for a family gathering and met up with everyone. They’d hugged you and asked you how you were doing. They’d even asked after your pro hero boyfriend, who you had chosen not to bring along for the purpose of spending some quality alone time with your family.

But then it happened; the thing you’d been dreading, the type of comment you’d hoped against all things you wouldn’t hear this time. But there it was.

You were nearly done preparing for lunch, helping to place dishes of food out in the backyard for your family meal. Your aunt was starting to serve people food, and you happened to glance up to see one of your cousins making herself a plate.

“Do you want any more?” your aunt asked your cousin, ready with her ladle.

“No, thank you, I’ve got enough.” Your cousin flipped her long perfect hair over a perfectly narrow shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to get fat like—” her gaze wandered over to you, meeting your eyes pointedly, “—some people.”

You faltered. Had she really just said that? About you? Well, it wasn’t impossible that it would come from her, but seriously? Today?

You swallowed a lump that had started forming in your throat, setting down the new stack of paper plates. Your aunt shot you a pitying glance. Was she even going to say something? Would she call your cousin out on her words?

No. She just moved on. Moved on like you should have. But something about it stuck with you. Your cousin’s words and implications rang through your mind, making you feel sick to your stomach. You shouldn’t let it bother you this much. You were doing better, both with your habits and your confidence. So why did it hurt so bad?

The darker thoughts you’d kept at bay began to come back; you were worthless, you were ugly, you were undeserving. Why wouldn’t they stop? Why was your stomach churning and your hand shaking? Before you knew it, hints of tears began to prick at your eyes.

No.

You weren’t going to give her the satisfaction of seeing you this way. But you were no longer interested in staying, any sense of hunger leaving you for sick dread.

Next thing you knew, you had said an early goodbye and put your things in the car, headed back home. Maybe driving wasn’t the best idea, since now you were alone with your thoughts. But crying wasn’t worth it. It was a bad idea, especially since now was the time to focus on the road ahead.

You couldn’t have gotten home sooner, a sense of relief washing over you once you pulled into the driveway. You unlocked your front door, pulling your bags in behind you. You heard movement coming from the kitchen as you set everything down; the sound of the faucet turning off signaling to you that Katsuki had heard you come in.

Heaving a sigh, you tried to chase the negative thoughts from your head. They shouldn’t be there, and it wasn’t something to dwell on. You were home again, and you wouldn’t have to deal with your family for another few months at least.

Bakugou’s head peeked out from around the doorframe, double checking that it was you who had walked in. “What are you doing here?” he called, ducking back to whatever he’d been doing in the kitchen.

“Hello to you too.” You tried to keep the tartness out of your voice, but some of it must have crept back in. The sounds from the other room stopped again, and the house went eerily quiet. Huffing, you dragged your luggage into your shared bedroom.

You felt drained, that was the only way to describe it. You couldn’t even bring yourself to hang your clothes in the closet. Giving up, you laid down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. You couldn’t help but hear your cousin’s words ringing over and over in your head, reminding you of the countless years of both internal and external torment you’d gone through regarding your weight.

The sound of footsteps in the doorway made you glance down, registering a spiky blond head of hair approaching you on the bed. You said nothing as the mattress dipped next to you, indicating that Bakugou had come up on your side.

The two of you were silent together for a long moment, and a stolen glance told you that Katsuki was mirroring you with his head resting on his arms as he stared at the blank ceiling.

“Are you going to tell me what’s got you in this mood?” he finally asked.

You sighed. “My cousin can just be a pain sometimes.”

“She the one you were telling me about or is it someone else?”

“Same girl.”

“Hmm.” Bakugou continued to keep his eyes trained solely up above. “What did she do this time?”

“Called me fat.” You tried to keep your voice even. You were simply stating a fact. It shouldn’t bother you like this, right? Even so, the tears you’d been forcing back once again rushed to your eyes, causing your tone to pitch. You swallowed them down again, blinking rapidly. This wasn’t something to spend time crying over.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Katsuki said, a little unhelpfully. “I don’t want to see you hating yourself.”

You frowned at this. “I don’t hate myself,” you said, thinking about your words for a moment before you spoke them. “I don’t hate my body. It’s just that . . . sometimes I wish it looked a little better, a little different. Sometimes I don’t feel like I’m enough as I am.”

“Don’t tell me you think you’d be happier looking like everyone else.” Bakugou’s gaze had shifted from a blank one to a glare.

“I don’t know,” you said, shrugging. “It’s just . . . hard sometimes. Being like this.”

Finally Bakugou rolled to face you, taking one of your hands in his. “I know you . . . struggle with your self-image or whatever, but you can’t let it take over your life, got it? You can’t just waste it worrying about what everyone thinks of you. You’re never going to be able to please everyone, but if they’ve got a problem with you, then they can go fuck themselves. You want to know the one person’s opinion who matters most? Yours. You have to be the one who’s taking care of yourself.” Katsuki paused for a moment, absentmindedly fiddling with your fingers as he considered his words.

“You want to know who’s opinion is the second most important?” he continued, his voice starting to get a little more mumbly. “Mine. I picked you because I love you. I love everything about you, from your shitty, annoying personality to your gorgeous body. You are so much more than just ‘enough’ for me, so don’t go worrying about that. You’re everything to me, and you know that, right? I love you no matter what, so don’t let this ruin your whole day.” He kissed your knuckles, signaling that he had said his peace.

You smiled at him, a tear or two finally sneaking past your defenses. “How—how do you do that?”

“What?”

“Sometimes you say something horribly stupid and I swear I hate you, and then next thing I know, you’re telling me everything I need to hear.”

“Tch, I can be eloquent whenever I want. It’s a choice.”

“Alright.” You rolled over so you could properly face him. “Can I have a hug?”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, but nevertheless held open his arms. You happily snuggled into the hard, built muscle enveloping you, offering a beautiful contrast to your own soft body.

“Do you need me to talk to your cousin?” Bakugou asked. “I’ll do it.”

“Nah, let her go.” You nuzzled your nose into his neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

______________

Kirishima:

You honestly expected your family to last longer when it came to keeping from upsetting you. Nevertheless, maybe you were being a little too optimistic. But come on, did they have to ruin everything the literal second you walked through the door?

Even after the scathing comment, followed by a half-hearted, hasty brushing off, you forced yourself to spend time with them. It wasn’t often that you got to see this half of your family, so you decided to ignore it with the rest of them.

But as you sat on the couch sipping tea, you were unable to focus on the light conversation buzzing around you. The event that happened mere minutes before played over again in your mind, causing you to wince.

You’d walked into the house, prepared to greet everyone and have a nice time, when your aunt looked up from her position on her arm chair. “Hello, (Y/N),” she’d begun. “Ah, look, you’re still fat.”

Your heart had almost literally stopped beating in your chest as you froze in the threshold. Had she just said what you thought you heard? You must have been mistaken, right?

Any positive anticipation you’d had of seeing your relatives had plummeted to your feet, and you strongly considered turning around in place and leaving without another word.

But you couldn’t do that, of course not. Then your aunt had begun to babble something about how it made you look cute like a baby, but her words had already done their damage.

You tolerated the rest of your afternoon with them, but it was a great relief to you when you were finally able to leave and go home. As soon as you pulled into your driveway, you exhaled a sigh of relief. It was over with, and it hadn’t been that bad.

Eijirou wasn’t home, but you knew he wouldn’t be long after you. You went about making dinner, knowing he’d appreciate it once he got home. He was always so tired these days.

Even so, as you stirred broth in a pot, your aunt’s words rang in your head. You vaguely remembered telling her about your weight loss a month ago. You figured you’d been making considerable progress, and you knew that no one was more proud of you than Eijirou himself. But had it really made a difference?

After a moment of fretting, you turned off the stove. You walked into your shared bedroom, flicking on the light. Your eyes caught sight of your reflection in the mirror. You frowned, going up to it. Turning your body this way and that, you tried to see if you recognized a change in your appearance. You lifted your shirt, only to wince at yourself and tug it back down. You pinched at your arms, your thighs, and your cheeks, growing almost angry at the way your fingers sunk into the flesh.

Maybe you hadn’t been making as much progress as you’d thought. Or the progress you had made wasn’t enough. Without you even realizing it, your mind began to toy with ways to speed things up. Guiltily, you found yourself wondering if Eijirou would notice if you just skipped dinner that night.

You shook your head to clear away the intrusive idea. No, that wouldn’t solve anything. Eijirou had told you that he’d help you lose weight the right way, so you’d stay healthy and be able to keep it off. It would be best to listen to him.

Still, you found your eyes glued to your reflection. You wouldn’t consider yourself vain, but there was something in the way that your eyes traced over your curves, wondering just how they might look on you if only you were a little smaller . . . .

Movement behind you in the mirror caught your eye, and you were quick to recognize a head of spiky red hair. You must not have heard Kirishima come in through the front door.

“Hello,” you said with less cheer than usual.

“Hey, babe,” he greeted you, coming up from behind to give you a hug.

You leaned back into his chest as you both stared at each other’s reflections.

“Checking out my perfect girlfriend?” he teased, referring to how your eyes continued to trace down your body. “That’s my job, you know.”

You snorted, gently rubbing at his forearm.

“So how was your family?”

“Okay,” you shrugged.

“I saw you left something on the stove. Are you doing okay?”

Oh, Kirishima. How did he do it?

You shrugged. “I guess I didn’t really have a good time there. Got a little upset is all.”

Eijirou frowned. “What happened?”

You took one of his hands in yours and began to play with his fingers, now determined to keep your eyes from catching another glimpse of yourself. “My aunt told me I was fat.”

You missed the flash of genuine anger that shot through Kirishima’s eyes. He knew this was something you’d struggled with for a long time. Your aunt had no business making comments like that about your body, especially now.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, deciding to keep himself calm for your sake.

You continued to fiddle with his large hands. “I just worry sometimes that I’m not doing enough,” you mumbled. “What if it doesn’t work? What if I’m just meant to look like this?” You sniffled, hating the sudden tears that were beginning to fill your eyes.

“Honey . . .” Eijirou spun you around and held you to his chest, running a hand down the back of your head as you finally let the tears slide down your face. You nuzzled into his shirt, appreciating the warm, familiar feeling of it. “Even if you weren’t able to lose more weight, you know I’d still love you, right?” he said in a tender voice. “I’d think you’re beautiful either way.”

He tilted your chin up so he could look into your eyes, giving you one of the most loving gazes you’d ever seen. “And besides, we’re not together because of how you look. I love you for you. I love your personality, and how you always say and do the cutest things.” He bent down for a quick kiss, caressing your cheek as he pulled away. “I love your laugh, and I love looking into your beautiful eyes . . . .” He kissed you again, beginning to gently guide your bodies to the bed at the other wall.

Eijirou laid you down in the center of the mattress, hovering over you as he went in for another kiss. “I love your body too. This body, just the way it is. I love how it feels to hold you at night—” he kissed your neck. “—I love your chest, your butt, your arms, your thighs—” he nuzzled his nose against your face and neck. “—your cute tummy.” He pushed himself up and gazed down at it with such a genuine expression of love, you almost started tearing up again. “The cutest tummy in the world. And I love it because it’s yours.”

With that, he bent down again and lifted up your shirt just enough to give it a little kiss. You couldn’t help but let a giggle slip from your lips, which only made his ruby red eyes dart up to meet yours mischievously.

“You like that? What if I did it . . . again!” He placed a second kiss in a different spot, going for another and then another. You broke out into laughter, the sensation of his lips and nose brushing over your sensitive skin making you squirm in his hold.

Soon, he was laughing himself. He nuzzled into your skin one last time and blew a raspberry against your skin.

“Eiji—!” you began to protest through a laugh.

“What?” He smirked at you, moving up and settling his chin in the valley of your chest.

You smiled right back at him, bringing up your hand to brush the backs of your fingers against his cheek. “I love you.”

Kirishima took hold of your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the backs of your knuckles as he looked into your eyes. “I love you too, baby.” He held your hand in his, getting lost for a moment simply looking at your face.

Eventually he sat up, laying down next to you and pulling you into his chest. “I’m proud of you too,” he told you, tucking your head under his chin. “I know you’re actively making a change for the better, and you’re doing really well. Results won’t happen immediately, you just have to stick with it sometimes.”

You sighed through your nose, taking his hand in yours again. “I know. I just get discouraged sometimes is all.”

“And I’ll just be here to put you back on track. You’ve got this, you know.” He hugged you tight against him, rubbing your back. “Are you hungry?” he finally asked. “I’ll help you make dinner.”

“Sure,” you said, chuckling lightly.

“What? We both have to eat, and you know me. I’m a hungry shark.”

You laughed again, leaning up to kiss his jaw.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Well, there’s always more where that came from.” He kissed your forehead. “I’m here for you, okay?”

______________

Kaminari:

If there was one thing Denki hated more than anything, it was seeing you upset. 

He could tell something was off the moment you came through the front door. You were too quiet, and that bothered him. When you finally made it up to your shared room, Kaminari was already watching the doorway for you.

He noticed immediately that your eyes were puffy and a little red. Even your posture looked defeated and slumped over.

“Hey, Denks,” you said once you noticed him stretched out on the bed. His heart broke even further when he saw you try for a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” Kaminari got up, clearing the space between you so he could put his hands on your shoulders.

“I—I just,” you began to stammer out, feeling the flimsy dam you’d placed behind your eyes begin to falter. “I . . . don’t know if I want to talk about it right now.” You covered your burning face with your palms. “It’s stupid anyway. I shouldn’t let things like that get to me.”

Kaminari frowned, trying to figure out what might have made you so upset. But he wasn’t one to pry when it came to situations like these, and he knew you’d tell him on your own time.

Even so, he led you to where he’d once taken position on the bed, pulling you up with him. He knew that sometimes you simply wanted to be distracted from things, so he decided to do just that. Allowing you to settle in next to him, he picked his controller up from the covers again where he’d set it down.

You noticed he’d been playing Minecraft. You let yourself take a mild interest in his mining session that you caught him in the middle of. You watched him wander through a cave system; placing torches, killing the occasional zombie, and mining out various ores he happened upon.

What you didn’t see was how often he shot you glances, studying your face for any signs of you getting upset again. He saw when you finally took your eyes off his screen, frowning distantly as you twisted the material of the blanket underneath you.

Before he could ask you again what was going on, you opened your mouth to speak. “Do you think this outfit is too much?”

Denki faltered, confused. “No? What do you mean by that? I think you look really pretty.”

You pursed your lips. Clearly that wasn’t the answer you’d wanted. “I just—I don’t know.” You frowned and went back to avoiding his eyes.

“Are you going to tell me what happened today?” Denki asked. A sudden idea struck him. Before you could answer him again, he stood up on the bed and walked over to a shelf you kept just above it. He pulled down a large stuffed Pikachu he’d gotten you a few years ago, and went back to sitting next to you. “Would it be easier to tell him?”

Denki positioned the toy in his lap, grabbing hold of its little arms and letting it go through various motions, starting with a little wave at you.

You couldn’t help but snort at Kaminari’s antics, looking from the plushie to the curious but concerned expression on your boyfriend’s face.

“Your Pikachus are worried about you.” Denki lifted it up higher on his chest, continuing to fidget and wave the arms back and forth in a little dance. “You saw your family today, right? How did that go?”

Your face fell again and you shrugged. “It went well I guess. My grandma just said something dumb and it made me upset.”

Denki frowned, lifting the arms of the Pikachu so its hands were on its pink cheeks. “What did she say?”

You shrugged again. “I was messing around with my cousins and I said I looked like a snacc. And then she said that snacks were probably what made me so fat in the first place.”

Denki’s frown deepened. “That’s not very nice.”

“I don’t think she knew what I was talking about, to be fair. And maybe it’s a little funny. I mean, she’s not wrong.” You rested your chin in your hands, sighing. “It just caught me off guard. It’s a dumb thing to be upset over, like I said—”

“Hey.” Denki met your eyes. “It’s not dumb. You have every right to be upset.” He held his arms open to you. “Come here.”

You sat up, letting him embrace you.

“Do you need me to remind you how beautiful you are and how much I love you?” he asked from next to your ear. “Because I’ll do it.”

He took your shy smile as a yes, letting you settle back as he proceeded to lift up the stuffed yellow toy.

“Are you hearing this, bro?” he addressed it, throwing a serious look on his face. “The most gorgeous person on the planet is sad. We have to do something about it.”

Denki put the Pikachu’s paw on its chin, tapping it for a second before removing it again. “What’s that?” he asked it. “You have an idea?”

He lifted the toy to his ear, pretending to listen to it for a moment as he nodded along. Once he was satisfied, Denki scooched himself even closer to you. He brought Pikachu’s nose up to your cheek and made a kiss sound with his lips. Setting the toy down beside you on the bed, he motioned for you to come sit in his lap.

You obeyed, settling yourself in between his thighs and wrapping your legs around his hips.

“There you go,” he muttered, slotting his nose beside yours as he touched foreheads with you. “I love you and you’re the most important person in my life. You know that, right?” He waited for you to nod before continuing. “And I know that you can feel a little insecure sometimes with how you look. You’ve got bad days, and you have good days. It’s my job to be there for you on these bad days, and you can be there for me when I have mine. I want you to know that you’re so beautiful and I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

He connected your lips to his for a long moment, trying to convey all his feelings for you into it. “And don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re less-than. They’re not the kind of person you should be listening to. Trust me when I say that you’re perfect just being you.” Denki wiped a tear trail off your cheek with his thumb, leaning in to kiss the skin there. 

“Thanks, Denki,” you said, your voice just above a whisper.

He gave you a soft, caring smile; his fingers still lingering on your cheek. “Is there anything you want to do together to make you feel better? We could watch a movie, we could snuggle, whatever you want.”

You leaned in and hugged him tight. “I love you.”

He hugged you back. “I love you too. You’re my sunshine nugget, and it would take a heck of a lot to ever change that.”

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Taglist: @basicaegyo​ @fourteenow​ @iiminibattlehero​ @katsugay​​ @nabo39​ @onepieceask​ @pyrofanatic​​ @sendhelpimstupid​ @xoxopam4​​ 

[justmypartner]

Make it Work: Chapter 1

Summary: When offered a permanent position with the FBI, Hailey agrees to take it under one condition: Jay comes too. As their personal lives and work lives begin to change, the two partners find it increasingly difficult to navigate their complex relationship and manage their feelings for one another. *Picks up at the 8x03 bar scene.

Writer’s Note: I’m so excited to share my first multi-chapter fic. I really enjoyed Hailey’s FBI episode and how seamlessly she was able to adapt to that world, so I thought it would be fun to explore how Jay might fit into that world and how different the adjustment may be for him. When writing the first chapter I was really inspired by the song (what i wish just one person would say to me) by Lany, because I felt like it fit Jay’s perspective perfectly. As much as our guy loves Hailey, he was always going to put her wishes above his own. That’s what the song is all about, so you can see a few lines inspired by the song sprinkled throughout the chapter (the title is also taken from the song). Please enjoy Chapter 1 of Make it Work!

Read on AO3 or below

“Alright. Let’s do this, rip the bandaid off. What did the FBI offer you?” Jay said straightly, trying to hide the worry that coursed throughout his entire body.

Earlier that day he had discovered the FBI had Hailey on their radar, and he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. After what went down with his last partner, simply hearing someone say “FBI” left a bad taste in his mouth. He wouldn’t openly admit it, but he was worried about Hailey taking the offer. Ever since she had returned from New York, she had been fairly quiet about how it went. Her feelings seemed indifferent, but part of him had to wonder why she would hide the fact that they were sending her job offers. He hated the idea of being left alone again, but ultimately he just wanted what was best for her, even if that meant moving thousands of miles away.

Jay had been seeing Hailey differently for a while. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when his feelings shifted, but he knew things were different. If anyone asked, she was his partner and his best friend, but he knew deep down that she was more than that. There were even a handful of moments when he almost told her how he felt but Jay, never a man of openly expressing his feelings, failed to get a single word out every time. He had fought those feelings for so long, keeping them hidden deep in the depths of his closed-off heart, but her time away in New York proved this impossible. He had picked her up from the airport when she got back in Chicago, and the second he saw her he couldn’t deny the way she set his heart aflame. So, hearing that the FBI was trying to steal her away permanently was messing with his head. He had sat on his concern all day, but his patience was running thin.

“Mm okay. Joint level task-force, with the HIG, all interrogations, all high-level targets,” she told him, a slight smirk on her face as she awaited his reaction.

“Sure.. Sure, sure, sure, yeah, that sounds awesome,” he said sarcastically as she chuckled. “Is it good pay?” He asked her, a sense of defeat in his voice.

“Great pay. Honestly made me a little embarrassed about what we get paid,” she said with a smile. This was not what he was hoping for, but he pressed forward.

“Well, you’d probably be really good at it,” he responded, feigning support as the words killed him inside. He knew she would be good at it, there was no doubt in his mind. The job sounded perfect for her, but he just hated where it was and what it could mean for them.

“Yeah,” she muttered, pausing briefly and looking out the window as if her next words were lingering somewhere outside and she was trying to find them. “Yeah, I hope so because I told them I would take it,” she finally said, her eyes slowly traveling back to his. The smile on her face was replaced by a look of sincerity. He felt his heart drop into his stomach as he clenched his jaw, trying to conceal the myriad of emotions consuming him.

“Well, I.. I’m happy for you,” he said unconvincingly before bringing his glass back to his mouth, taking a large swig of his drink. He couldn’t look her in the eye because he knew she’d be able to read right through him. So, he focused on the bottom of his glass, fingers fidgeting with the rim waiting for her to say something.

“Yeah, well I should be saying the same to you,” she told him. With this, he raised his eyes back up to meet hers and returned her words with a raised brow, sending a questioning look her way.

“I told them I wasn’t going anywhere without my partner, so they took a look at your file and they were very impressed by your background. They said if you’re good enough for me to bargain with, you must be worth having on their team,” she paused briefly and he watched her swallow hard before her next words. “Jay the offer is extended to the both of us.. that is if it is something you’re interested in,” she said, tilting her head to the side as she tried to read his reaction.

A moment of what felt like his world falling apart was now being strung back together with a sliver of hope for the two of them. Being a fed was never in any of Jay’s plans. In fact, he always found himself carrying an unwarranted detestation for them that made those government positions sound completely unappealing. He never imagined he’d be willing to give up Chicago, let alone his position in Intelligence, especially for a job with the feds, but if it meant being with Hailey he was going to consider it. Romantically or not he knew he needed her in his life and as he told her not too long ago, he would follow her anywhere.

“I- wha- I-“ he stuttered out, not being able to form a coherent word.

“Look, I know it is a lot to ask of you. I know it may not seem fair of me to offer you up like that without asking first, but the way I figured it, we’re good at our jobs and we’re good together. I mean new job, new city, it all sounded so crazy to me at first. I’ve never pictured myself anywhere outside of CPD, but then I took a step back and realized what it could mean big picture. My time in New York, the cases I was working, they showed me just how big and bad this world can be. I mean I was chasing after dudes that make guys like Darius Walker look like frickin saints. The whole time I just kept thinking, I could really see myself doing this every day. I felt fulfilled in a way I hadn’t in years, but every night I’d go home, especially after the bad ones, and I felt like something was missing. Then one night after a really bad one I was sitting in my hotel room, wallowing in the heaviness of that day and my phone rang. It was you calling to check up because you had a bad case too and you needed whatever this thing is between us that always seems to work. That’s when I realized what it was that was missing. It was you,” she shrugged, the corners of her mouth curling up in a shameful smile.

“Hailey..” Jay said as his eyes glossed over with tears. He sat there silently, looking into the endless depth of her eyes and hoping the right words would come to him. His thoughts were jumbled and he was having trouble grounding himself in reality. The whiplash of thinking he was losing the most important person in his life to hearing her tell him her life wasn’t complete without him left him in a state of disorient. He was relieved when she continued on before he had the chance to stumble over words once more.  

“Look Jay, I don’t expect you to have an answer now. I just needed to tell you where I’m coming from so you’d have a full perspective to guide your decision. I know leaving Chicago, leaving our family at the 21st wouldn’t be easy, but I feel like this opportunity is something worth pursuing. I also think it’s something that would be made easier if we did it together,” she admitted, finishing her piece.

Her words echoed in his head as he seriously thought through the opportunity. Jay was wired to be a cop, to right wrongs, help victims find justice, and chase the highs of dangerous cases. He found his life’s purpose doing just that, starting in the Rangers and leading to his spot in Intelligence. He appreciated the fulfillment his work in Intelligence brought him, but what if he could do that on a much larger scale - with her by his side no less. All of a sudden he was picturing a life in New York and working at the FBI. He felt like it could make sense and it caught him by surprise, but it seemed clear.

“Do you remember when the unit was under siege and we thought it was the end of Intelligence? We had just gotten back from that major bust and we were talking about what would happen if we got shut down.. where we would go. Do you remember what I said to you?” He asked her, his newfound clarity allowed him to string a coherent thought together. She nodded in response.

“You told me you’re going where I go and that it’s hard to find a good partner,” she said softly, her eyes staying locked with his.

“I meant it then, and I mean it now. I’ve spent my whole life fighting to help people, and I like to think we’ve done some really great things in Intelligence. You were right when you said we’re good together, and if this job means we can make an even bigger difference than the one we do now, I’m all in,” he said, causing a big smile to form across her face.  

“Yeah?”

“Hell yeah. I mean I’d like to know more about the position and everything, but if you say it’s worth it, then I trust you.. we’ll make it work. Plus, our thing just isn’t the same over the phone. You’d be lost without me,” he told her with a cheeky smile, eliciting an eye roll from her.

“Yeah, you mean you’d be lost without me,” she responded, standing from her chair to grab her coat. Jay laughed and took the check before rising to put his coat on as well. As they made their way to the door, Jay turned to face Hailey as a concerned look overcame his face.

“Wait- have you planned on how we’re going to tell Voight about this?” He asked. She returned his question with an expression matching his.

“Uh ah, I didn’t get that far. I didn’t think you would actually agree to be honest.”

“Come on, we’ve built a pretty strong partnership here, at least part of you had to think there was a chance I’d say yes,” he told her.

“Yeah, no I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking the fact that it’s a job with the feds and the idea of having to wear a suit everyday would have left no room for consideration,” she said with a chuckle. She pushed her body against the door, grimacing at the sudden sensation of the cold Chicago wind against her face, leaving a suspended Jay stood in the doorway.

“Suit.. everyday.. I-“ he said upon realizing that part of the job he hadn’t considered.

“Woah, woah, woah, you already said yes, no turning back now,” she teased. He groaned and dragged his feet out the door to join her in the cold. They walked shoulder to shoulder down the street in a comfortable silence.

“That doesn’t sound so bad you know,” she said, breaking through the silence as they reached their cars. She turned to face him, her eyes carrying a glimmer he hadn’t noticed before.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“Getting to see you in a suit every day,” she said confidently before realizing the coy nature of the statement and bashfully looking away. Jay could feel the heat rush to his face despite the chilling wind blowing against him. He smiled down at his feet, hoping if she could notice the redness of his cheeks, she accounted it to the cold. There was a long pause before he brought his eyes back up to hers once again.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” she said, placing a hand on his chest lightly before passing him to get into her car.

Jay wasn’t sure where their future was going or what direction it would take them, but he knew as long as she was in his life, he was set. His eyes followed her as she got in her car and started the engine. She gave him a small wave before pulling out into the street. Yet again there he was suppressing his feelings for his partner, but this time it felt worth it. A lot in their lives was about to change, he didn’t need to add the heaviness of his feelings to the mix. He was anxious about what was to come, but he ultimately felt content with his decision.

[destiniesfic]

132 Hours, Chapter 15

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I protest. “You hurt me all the time.”

Previous

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Read chapter 15 on AO3 or read below:

The day is bright and pleasant, but the sunlight and soft breeze are an assault on my senses after my time underground. I limp to the ambulance, which is parked on the grass, rear doors open, waiting for me. I ease myself to sit in the back, next to Cardan, who inexplicably has a blanket tightly wrapped around his shoulders. When I’m no longer standing, I sigh. I’d thought that after sitting and lying down for days I’d be desperate to move, but it turns out I’m actually very tired. When no one is looking at us, Cardan leans over and nuzzles my nose with his.

I smile at him weakly. Everything is too much and not enough. It seems to me that I am watching Madoc and Balekin talk to the detectives from very far away, like they are characters on a TV show. I just want to go back to the Amagansett house—or my actual house, hours away—and curl up in a bed that’s mine. But that fantasy leads to complications too. What will Oriana say when she learns what I’ve done? What will Taryn say?

Not wanting to spiral, I search for anything else to talk about. “Are you cold?” I ask Cardan, glancing at the blanket.

“Oh, no. It’s for shock or something.” He looks down at himself. His kitschy t-shirt is partially obscured now. “But, you know, free blanket.”

“Yeah,” I say, like that makes perfect sense. My head is spinning. “Was Balekin… happy to see you?”

He sets his jaw. “He was glad I wasn’t dead, I guess. But that’s about the only thing I did right.”

I look down as my fingers curl into my palms. I don’t examine how much I want to wrap my hands around Balekin’s throat. “My dad knows,” I whisper. “About us. I think I’ve talked him out of killing you.”

“That’s good. I’d really rather not die after surviving all of this already.”

“You’re taking this really well.”

Cardan shrugs. “If we’re bonded now, and your father isn’t going to kill me, that means I’m part of your family. Dain is dead, and Balekin will find it harder to touch me.”

“Oh,” I say dully. No wonder he wasn’t that mad at me mating him. We can’t stay in the basement forever, but he still has a way out. It makes sense. I can hardly blame him.

“Not that I’m necessarily thrilled that your dad could have any sway over me, given that he’s maybe a murderer and almost as scary as you are.”

“Right.”

He cocks his head at me, sensing my reticence. “Jude.”

I look away.

He leans over again and nudges the nape of my neck with his nose. “Hey.”

“What.”

Cardan chuckles, but it sounds nervous. “Jude, I’ve thought about mating with you since I was fourteen. And back then it made me feel panicky and trapped—”

“That’s just what every omega wants to hear.”

“God dammit. Look, I’ve always been afraid to want things—not clothes and shoes and shit, things that matter—because they’re always ruined. I always screw them up, or someone else screws it up for me. This is…” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look down at his hands. “I didn’t want it to happen this way, because who would? But I want to help you through the next heat, and the next one. Actually do it right. I want to be your mate, Jude.”

I turn back around to stare at him, incredulous. “You want that?”

He nods, slowly.

“But you—you didn’t. For days, you didn’t. You held off and it should have been impossible if you actually—wanted me.”

“Well, it felt impossible.” He lets out another nervous chuckle. “I wanted you so bad, but more than that I wanted you to want me. I didn’t want to just go and mount you or whatever the hell I’m supposed to do. For once, I wanted to be better. Sounds crazy, right?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “It does. You wanted to mate with me so bad that you didn’t mate with me.”

“Jude. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I protest. “You hurt me all the time.”

“Yeah, I did.” Cardan looks down at his knees. “But not like that. Never like that. I may have made some off-color jokes, but I would never have done what Valerian tried to do. I mean, I hoped I wouldn’t, and now I know.”

“You made me miserable.”

“I know.”

“I definitely shouldn’t want you as a mate.”

“No, I guess you shouldn’t.” Cardan sounds resigned, and hangs his head. “Well, the pheromone marker cleansing is kind of time-consuming and expensive and unpleasant, but I guess—”

I thought hurting him might feel good, but it just feels like a hollow pang in my chest. I ask, “You want me to be your mate, though?”

He looks up at me with those dark eyes. “Yes,” he says.

I nod. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He stares at me, a grin that he doesn’t dare unleash just yet tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes. I hated you so much for so long because you smelled so good and you were so mean. So if you could stop being mean for a while, and you’ve proven you have, I think we could find some common ground.”

Cardan sniffs. “Well, I may have to remain a little mean. For the sake of my reputation.”

“We’ll see.”

“You don’t want me totally defanged, do you?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He laughs, then he lowers his head to nuzzle again, this time at the bite mark he left on my neck. I am flooded by his delight. From nearby, someone clears their throat. We look up to find a paramedic standing in front of us, face half-hidden by a surgical mask, patiently waiting for us to submit ourselves to examination.

“Oh,” I say. “Uh.”

Cardan, who is utterly without shame, is grinning when he straightens up. “Actually, we’re both fine, thanks.”

“That’s for us to determine,” says the paramedic. Something about him is oddly familiar, but his height and build are totally nondescript. Where could I have seen him before? “To start, we’re going to make sure you’re not concussed.”

Cardan just groans.

The paramedic bends at the waist and takes a penlight out of his pocket. “Just look into the light here for me.”

That voice. It’s the voice. I narrow my eyes at him. It is weird, on second thought, that he’s wearing a mask. It’s not like we’re possibly carrying an infectious disease. Cardan raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t move as the light shines into one pupil. “This is a surprise,” he says, without blinking. “And also, you have to admit, pretty dumb.”

“Suicidal,” I hiss through my teeth. I’m strangely angry. They had to know what a risk it was to come back. They could have gotten away clean. “What are you guys doing here? If my dad catches you—”

“Are you going to tell him?” the Roach asks. He doesn’t sound too worried, which irks me.

I press my lips together, then say, “I should.”

Another of the paramedics kneels at my feet, his sandy head bent. The Ghost. Certainly less conspicuous than the Roach, with his scars. He’s tall, sure, but handsome in a way that’s totally generic. In fact, I’d have a difficult time describing him beyond “tall” and “symmetrical.” He picks up the leg that he shot to dress the wound, once again.

“We had to talk to you,” he says. Always to the point.

Suddenly I am sure that if I turned and looked behind me into the ambulance, the Bomb would wink at me from the driver’s seat. Part of me is relieved they’re okay, and the other part is baffled and horrified at my relief. But they did take care of us through some pretty gross and awful times. They kept me fed, kept me hydrated, kept us company. Maybe it’s natural to feel some degree of attachment.

“Why?” Cardan asks, baffled, as the Roach shines a light in his other eye. “You guys should be on a plane to Morocco by now.”

“Morocco?” I ask.

“It’s pretty. Also, no extradition policy.”

“Why do you even know that?”

Cardan shrugs.

“Look,” the Roach says, “we’re short on time. Your brother and Madoc are going to come over and tell you Dain killed himself out of shame when his plan was discovered. He left a note, confessing, yadda yadda. It’s bullshit. He didn’t commit suicide.”

“What?” Cardan and I ask, in unison.

I shake my head, as if trying to shake off our now unshakeable connection. “Then what happened to him?”

The Ghost doesn’t say anything, or even fully turn his head, but without lifting his eyes from my leg, he somehow indicates where Madoc and Balekin stand, in conversation with the police.

“No,” I whisper. It sounds naive, even to me, but I don’t want to believe Madoc is capable of those horrors, even though the fear our kidnappers expressed when they spoke of him seemed real. “No, it—Dain was a client, he and Madoc were friends—”

“Do you think that would matter if Dain went after Madoc’s family?” the Roach asks.

My stomach turns. “How do you know Dain didn’t kill himself?”

“Because he wouldn’t,” Cardan says quietly. “He’s Dain. He’d think he’s clever enough to find a way out, even if everyone was closing in on him, and he’d probably be right.”

“We don’t know exactly what happened,” the Roach continues. He makes a show of fiddling with the stethoscope around his neck. “We just know that he was increasingly agitated about the way negotiations were going, and then we suddenly had no contact. I went to his office, then to his place. Coroner beat me there. Single gunshot wound to the chest, pistol with his prints on it. Seemed open and shut.”

I sense Cardan’s horror, and look to see that he’s gone pale. I lay my hand on top of his. Something tells me that he doesn’t have much of an issue believing that Balekin is capable of murder, even of a brother. And Cardan clearly didn’t like Dain, but what does that mean for his safety?

“You couldn’t have waited around and told us this in the basement?” I ask, feeling again like I am observing this all from afar, watching a scene in a movie that just happens to star me.

“We didn’t know what Dain told them before he died, so we had to clear out pretty fast. Left your stuff with the cops so you’d be found, left the door unlocked so you could leave whenever you wanted. Besides.” He raises one eyebrow. “You guys were busy.”

I flush; it’s true that Cardan and I couldn’t and wouldn’t have been able to go anywhere once we’d finally given ourselves over to each other. But all of this is too much. “Well, we can’t trust you.”

“You can’t trust your dad,” the Ghost says. “We’ve never lied to you.”

“You did shoot her,” Cardan points out. “Most people would say that’s worse.”

The Ghost just shrugs.

“Look, believe us or don’t,” the Roach says. “But you have to admit that something’s rotten here. You’re going to need help. Eyes and ears. And I also hear that one of you is coming into a very large sum of money and a considerable amount of corporate influence in a little less than a year.”

“There it is,” I mutter.

But Cardan looks delighted. “Do you guys have a business card you can leave with me or something?”

“Are you planning to kidnap anybody?” I demand.

“No, but I could use the help,” Cardan admits. “He’s right. Once I come into that inheritance, there’s going to be a huge target on my back.”

“We’ll call you. In the meantime, you’ve got a clean bill of health.” The Roach pats his shoulder. “Good for you.”

“Thanks, man.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see two figures break away from the detectives and begin approaching us. I say, “You’d better clear out.”

The Roach doesn’t thank me, but he gives me a little nod before disappearing around the side of the ambulance, whistling. That’s what passes for honor among thieves, I suppose. The Ghost remains, having drawn the short straw, his generically handsome features apparently working to render him inconspicuous.

“How is she?” Madoc asks him. I make myself look up at his face and try not to think about how, if what the Roach said is true, he might have recently pulled the trigger on one of Cardan’s brothers. The other brother stands next to him, looking less sour than before.

The Ghost stands. “They’re both good to go,” he says. “It looks like she sprained her ankle a few days ago, but it’s healing well.”

“The wound on her leg?”

“Nothing serious.”

Madoc nods, and then turns to me. The Ghost melts back into the scenery as though he wasn’t even there to begin with. No mystery as to how he got that codename.

Balekin stands at Madoc’s side, both men casting shadows across our knees. Madoc’s arms are folded, and Balekin’s jaw is set. I see his eyes find my hand resting on top of Cardan’s, but for some reason I am not at all worried about censure. Not from him.

Balekin says, “We’ve been given leave to take you back to your homes to rest, provided you return tomorrow to give your statements to the police. No one here wishes to… prolong your ordeal.”

“Wait,” I say, my heartbeat picking up in my chest. “Wait. Nobody’s told us what’s going on. Where’s Dain? How do we know he won’t try again?”

“He’s dead,” Madoc declares. “When he realized he wasn’t going to get away with it, that he had no other recourse…”

I swallow. I had hoped he’d say something else, anything else. “Oh. I see.”

Cardan covers his discomfort with a snicker. “Well, good riddance.”

“We’re hoping you can help us fill in the rest of the gaps once you’re up to sharing what, exactly, happened over the past five days,” Balekin says.

“I don’t know how much help we’ll be,” Cardan replies, shrugging loosely. “If it was Dain, we never saw him. And the guys who took us all wore masks.”

I’m surprised at how easily he lies, but maybe I shouldn’t be. I have to reevaluate everything I thought about his childhood; it probably involved a lot of lying to Balekin. Madoc doesn’t seem to notice anything, and it’s hard to get bullshit by him. He just watches me with a quizzical expression.

“Well, maybe you’ll remember something useful after you’ve had your rest.” Balekin jerks his head toward the waiting car, already beginning to walk away, assuming Cardan will follow. “Come on.”

Cardan glances at me with uncertainty, then begins to stand. I take his hand again and pull him back down. “No.”

Balekin turns around. “What did you say?”

I stand now, keeping hold of Cardan’s hand. “I said ‘no.’ I’m sure you have business back in the city. Cardan can come stay with us.” I look at Madoc and try to reassure myself that he is the safer choice. “There’s plenty of room in the house.”

“There is,” Madoc agrees, his tone carefully neutral.

“So it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Balekin looks angry. He doesn’t want to lose his influence on Cardan. “That’s very generous, but I have just gotten my youngest brother back, and I’m not eager to let him out of my sight.”

“He’ll be under Madoc’s protection.”

“You have to admit, it does seem safer,” Cardan chimes in. He seems a little dumbstruck by the way the whole situation is unfolding. Maybe no one’s ever stood up to Balekin before. Certainly

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Balekin says, trying to loom over me. He is tall, but tall doesn’t faze me. “I’m his brother. I’ve been his guardian since he was a child. I will be taking him back.”

“Well, Cardan isn’t a child anymore. He’s an adult, and I’m his mate,” I say, sticking up my chin. “And he is coming with me.”

I yank hard on Cardan’s hand, bringing him to his feet, and start off toward the car Madoc came in. Out of the corner of my eye I see Cardan, smiling, give his brother a shrug. “Omegas,” he says. “What are you gonna do?”

What, indeed. I don’t even know what I am going to do. Everything that happened in the last one hundred and thirty-two hours seems to have pushed us so much further down the road to a strange and dangerous adulthood. I don’t know if either of us are ready for what lies ahead, much less ready to defy our dangerous parental figures or negotiate the relationship we’ll have once I’m in college.

But it doesn’t matter, not right now. Because I have just pulled off a bigger heist than the Ghost, the Roach, and the Bomb could ever dream of. Because Cardan’s hand is in mine. Because his smile is, as always, contagious, so I am smiling too. Because we survived our trial, so maybe we can survive anything. Because he would choose me, and I chose him. Because neither of us is alone. Because he is my mate.

The rest, we’ll figure out when it comes.

[delphinidin4]

“Abominable neglect and unkindness”: Fanny Price and Trauma

I have C-PTSD, and it’s really been on my mind as I’ve been rereading Mansfield Park by Jane Austen: her heroine of Fanny Price is so OBVIOUSLY traumatized that I started making notes upon notes upon notes in my kindle copy on her symptoms and their causes. A couple of my followers said they’d be interested to read my analysis if I wrote it up, and it doesn’t take much to encourage me to put a few thousand words on the page screen! So below is my (probably WAY too long) analysis of Fanny Price’s emotional trauma and complex PTSD (a form of PTSD often caused by long-term emotional abuse/neglect). It’s hella long. sorrynotsorry lol

*unleashes inner academic*

Part 1: How Fanny Price Was Traumatized

Trauma 1: She is taken from family and home. 

Okay, imagine this: You’re ten years old. You grew up in a noisy, lower-middle-class family with multiple little siblings and both your parents. You are the oldest girl, and are important to all the members of your family because you act as “playfellow, instructress, and nurse” to your younger siblings. You are also “exceedingly timid and shy”. And suddenly you find out that your mother is SENDING YOU AWAY--far, far away--to aunts and uncle and cousins you’ve never met before, to be raised by THEM instead of your parents. Leaving everything else out of the equation for a second, that by itself would be ABSOLUTELY DEVASTATING.  You would feel like your parents didn’t love you and didn’t want you. You weren’t important to them. You might wonder what you did wrong to be sent away. And THEN it turns out you’re NEVER COMING BACK. EVER. Fanny doesn’t see her family again until she is, I think nineteen years old. At first, she doesn’t even have the means to write to her brother William, which was to be her ONLY connection to her family: it seems her parents don’t write to her at all over the course of the novel.

All of this would be bad enough. But to come to a place that was entirely alien to everything you had known... I mean, think about it. This is Mansfield Park, an ENORMOUS house with MANY servants, a completely different way of doing things. There’s MONEY. Even the items around you are of a totally different quality than you’re used to: Austen says of Fanny’s initial impression of Mansfield, “The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The rooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of something or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry.” The accent people speak with is probably different. The vocabulary is probably different. And everybody DEFINITELY thought she was under-educated (more about this in a bit) because she didn’t have the education of a gentleman’s daughter--because she ISN’T a gentleman’s daughter. It must have caused her intense culture shock.

Trauma 2: William’s absence

It’s clear that in her childhood in Portsmouth, William is the dearest member of Fanny’s family (see below for a discussion of her parents). When Fanny first arrives at Mansfield, Edmund discovers that, 

dear as all these brothers and sisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her thoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most, and wanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her constant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom he was the darling) in every distress. ‘William did not like she should come away; he had told her he should miss her very much indeed.’ 

Fanny’s one really warm and loving connection seems to be with William, and she is parted from him, first by her move to Mansfield, and then by his going to sea:

Once, and once only, in the course of many years, had she the happiness of being with William. Of the rest [of her Portsmouth family] she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her ever going amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed to want her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be a sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire before he went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, their exquisite delight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and moments of serious conference, may be imagined; as well as ...the misery of the girl when he left her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas holidays, when she could directly look for comfort to her cousin Edmund.

Fanny continues a correspondence with William when he is at sea, but it’s clear that his long absence from her life is very difficult for her.

One final note on her being parted from her family for long intervals: I think we might actually see a sign of this trauma in an emotional flashback later in the book.

For those unfamiliar with complex PTSD, flashbacks don’t always mean that you have a sort of hallucination of a traumatic experience. In the case of complex PTSD and PTSD from early childhood trauma, flashbacks often occur in the form of “emotional flashbacks”: instead of re-experiencing the sensory  input of the traumatic experience (seeing and hearing the experience all over again when triggered), emotional flashbacks consist ONLY of the emotional content of the trauma. They result in sudden rushes of negative emotions such as fear, shame, sorrow, despair, embarrassment, anger, etc. This may be partly because the trigger is acting on so many different traumatic memories at once (the brain can’t just pick out one to show to you) and partly because the traumatic memory being triggered is from so early in your childhood that you don’t have a direct memory of it anymore, just the trauma memory. Emotional flashbacks can be identified by comparing the emotional response to the stimulus: If the emotion is inappropriate for the situation or inappropriately intense, it may well be a flashback.

In this scene, Miss Crawford--whom Fanny does not care for at all--is taking her leave of Fanny: I find it to be illuminating.

And embracing her very affectionately, “Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being the last time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite impossible to do anything but love you.”

Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word “last.” She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she possibly could.

It sounds to me as if Fanny is having a negative reaction that is out of proportion for and inappropriate to the situation. Miss Crawford is leaving, and Fanny is GLAD that she is leaving. Nonetheless, she is involuntarily emotionally “affected” by Miss Crawford’s goodbye, and cries far more than is actually in keeping with her feelings. It seems like Fanny is triggered by the leave-taking and “the melancholy influence of the word ‘last’.”  Fanny has had traumatic leave-takings from her family and her beloved William; and things like “This is the last time I’ll see you for who knows how long” must have been said to her before in intensely traumatic situations. So it’s no wonder she gets triggered by this situation’s similarity to those and has an out-sized emotional response. Separations from her family and from William were definitely traumatic to her and reminders of them now trigger trauma responses.

Trauma 3: Emotional neglect by parental figures

Fanny might not have been so badly traumatized by leaving her family and being separated from William if she had had emotional support from adult caregivers. Research has shown that if a child has even ONE adult to whom they can talk openly about their feelings, that can insulate them against the effects of trauma.

Fanny doesn’t have this. Both Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram are emotionally neglectful and distant.* Lady Bertram is pleasant, but is entirely self-centered and doesn’t really GAF about anybody or anything that doesn’t directly affect her. While she never abuses or hurts Fanny with unkindness, she also never comforts her, listens to her, or seems to do anything but get Fanny to fetch and carry for her and do half her sewing for her. There is a total lack of emotional  connection between them until considerably later in the story. 

[*Footnote: Miss Lee is surprisingly absent from the narrative and seems to be of no emotional support to Fanny whatsoever.]

Sir Thomas is worse. While he intends to take good care of Fanny--and to his credit, he does make sure she has her material needs met, is well educated, gets exercise, etc--he cannot be said to be NICE to her. Even when she first arrives, when he is trying his hardest to be kind, Austen says, “Sir Thomas, seeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that was conciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of deportment.” He’s not good with kids, and he seems to be highly critical of Fanny, especially before his return from Antigua. Apparently he used to terrify her in childhood by catechizing her on her lessons in French in English, which implies he constantly found her wanting. His parting words to her on the beginning of his voyage to Antigua are downright scalding:  “If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able to convince him that the many years which have passed since you parted have not been spent on your side entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at ten.”

JFC, Tommy-boy. Throttle back a little, can’t you?

He’s not popular even with his own daughters: Austen says of Maria and Julia, “Their father was no object of love to them; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint”. Sir Thomas comes across as a bit of a martinet, always finding fault and always saying no. At best, he doesn’t seem to be at all warm and encouraging, and appears to be almost entirely ignorant, not only of what Fanny’s character is like, but also about his own daughters’ characters.

There’s also the problem of his lack of understanding and compassion for Fanny. She describes him as “all that was clever and good,” but both his cleverness and goodness frequently seem to be lacking. He doesn’t understand Fanny’s feelings any more than he understands those of Maria, sending Edmund to sound Fanny out on the subject of Mr. Crawford because he CANNOT understand how a woman might not love a man that was clever, pleasant and rich. While he provided the money to raise Fanny, his disregard of her is clear when he sends her on a long visit to Portsmouth, where her health suffers. Even Crawford recognizes Sir Thomas’s likeliness to neglect her:

I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards you. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything ... without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year.

Sir Thomas, while priding himself (and being praised by others) as being so kind and clever, has low emotional intelligence and too little care for Fanny. Despite his occasional kindnesses, and her claim on his care as his direct dependent, she is not one of his priorities.

Of course, Fanny’s own parents would have had the strongest effects on her earliest years (especially considering the Prices didn’t seem to have a nanny or governess, so Mrs. Price would have been responsible for all her education, as well).  It’s clear that Fanny’s mother didn’t show her much love in her early childhood: Mrs. Price is described as 

“the ‘mama’ who had certainly shewn no remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this [Fanny] could easily suppose to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could deserve.” 

We can see Fanny here doing what so many emotionally neglected children do, making excuses for their parents and assuming that the emotional neglect and abuse they suffer are somehow THEIR fault. Many emotionally abused or neglected children believe that they’re too loud, too needy, too much, and even ugly, blaming themselves for their parents’ rejecting and disgusted behavior toward them.

It’s proven, however, when Fanny goes home, that her parents are just as neglectful of her as she felt them to be formerly. Her father is “negligent of his family”, and her mother clearly does not really love her:

Mrs. Price was not unkind; but, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming more and more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from her than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature was soon satisfied, and Mrs. Price’s attachment had no other source. Her heart and her time were already quite full; she had neither leisure nor affection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her.* She was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was the first of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her maternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These shared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her house and her servants.

[*Footnote: I have to stop here for a moment and mention poor Susan, whom I like better at every reading. With Mrs. Price only loving her sons and Betsy, with Mary dead and Fanny gone, Susan was for years THE ONLY completely unloved child in the house, which must have been pretty awful. It’s clear that Fanny and Susan have suffered rather similar fates in being raised without love, and Susan only responds more with irritation and Fanny more with tears:  “Susan was only acting on the same truths, and pursuing the same system, which [Fanny’s] own judgment acknowledged, but which her more supine and yielding temper would have shrunk from asserting. Susan tried to be useful, where she could only have gone away and cried”. Please tell me somebody’s written a sequel about Susan?]

Again, while Mr. and Mrs. Price are not CRUEL, they’re not KIND, either. They are deeply emotionally neglectful toward Susan and Fanny, and Mrs. Price shows favoritism for the rest of her children, thus hurting her daughters further. Fanny’s probable surmise when she was sent away that she was not loved or wanted by her parents unfortunately appears to be very true. While an adult like Fanny can rationalize such behavior by her parents (even if it pains her), a child cannot do so, and the Prices’ lack of love for their own daughter must have been traumatizing and contributed to her belief that she can never matter to anybody (more on this in a bit).

Trauma 4: Lack of Companionship: Maria and Julia (and Miss Lee)

Fanny’s education when she arrives at Mansfield is not that of a gentlewoman--hardly surprising, given both her family’s socioeconomic position and her mother’s busy-ness with her family and general indolence. Maria and Julia’s education on scholarly subjects is clearly much stronger (they’re also 2-3 years older than her), and we know that their moral education was neglected, so that they only care about whether Fanny is rich and well-educated like themselves:

They could not but hold her cheap on finding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French; and when they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were so good as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous present of some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself, while they adjourned to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport of the moment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.

They’re generous enough to give her presents (though their least-valued belongings), but not generous enough to actually spend time with her, and it appears that this pattern holds throughout Fanny’s time at Mansfield.

At first, Mrs. Norris, Sir Thomas, and Miss Lee all think her actually stupid instead of just ill-educated: we are told that not only did Miss Lee “[wonder] at her ignorance,” but

A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to [Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris]. Fanny could read, work [that means “sew”], and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room.

You would think that the adults at least would realize that Fanny hadn’t had the opportunity of a gentlewoman’s education, but no, they attribute it to natural stupidity instead of opportunity:

“My dear,” their considerate aunt would reply, “it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself.”

It is only Edmund who perceives that Fanny is not only NOT stupid, she’s actually clever:

He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension as well as good sense, and a fondness for reading, which, properly directed, must be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French, and heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recommended the books which charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and corrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her of what she read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise.

One wonders, if a sixteen-year-old boy hadn’t decided to undertake part of Fanny’s education himself, how much worse off would she have been?

That Fanny’s companionship fell almost entirely to a teenage boy six years her senior who spends most of the year away at boarding school/university, is a ringing indictment of the behavior of Maria and Julia, and of those who should have been encouraging them to make a friend of their cousin.

Trauma 5: Mrs Norris (who gets a fucking section all her own)

Here we are. We’ve finally come to it. The other four traumas would certainly have been sufficient to cause C-PTSD, but JFC, Mrs. Norris could have caused it all by her lonesome. While she comes across as amusing in Austen’s sardonic style, she is absolutely toxic for Fanny’s mental health.

Mrs. Norris seems to have had an out-sized effect on the three Mansfield girls. Generally, mothers were in charge of the education of their daughters (even if indirectly, through a governess), so while Sir Thomas did examine them on their lessons, it was really supposed to be Lady Bertram’s job to see to their practical and moral education. But Lady Bertram is an absolute zero, a completely passive character, and Austen says directly that, “To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest attention.” So it seems like the much more active Mrs. Norris stepped in, and her influence was extremely strong with all three of them, despite her being married and having her own house and her own concerns for the first seven or so years of Fanny’s time at Mansfield.

We can see her influence with all three in the fact that all three of the Mansfield girls end up evaluating themselves in almost perfect accordance to how Mrs. Norris evaluated them. Maria, the golden child*, became very spoiled and proud and thought she could do almost whatever she wanted. Fanny, the scapegoat, came to believe that her only worth was in being “useful” (Mrs. Norris’s hobby-horse) and that she could never be of any importance to anybody. And Julia, while closer to Maria’s level of treatment than Fanny’s, also suffers from comparisons to the golden child:

That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to a favourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a greater to her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less flattered and less spoilt. Her beauty and acquirements had held but a second place. She had been always used to think herself a little inferior to Maria.

[*footnote: Treating one child as the golden child and one as the scapegoat is a very common tactic of abusive caregivers. The scapegoat becomes entirely worn down in self-esteem so that she is powerless to fight back against the abuse. The golden child and other children see how the scapegoat is treated and try hard not to rock the boat because they don’t want to end up like that.]

Mrs. Norris teaches Fanny from the beginning to judge and reject her own natural emotions. On her first traumatic separation from her family, Mrs. Norris lectures her incessantly on how she ought to be HAPPY, not sad:

  Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good behaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for her not to be happy.

Fanny is taught to regard her own natural feelings as “wicked”, especially when they are a negative reaction to how the Bertram/Norris family treats her. While she can see some of her own feelings as just--when they have been sanctioned by Edmund’s judgment--any feeling that tends away from perfect gratitude toward the Bertram/Norris family she immediately rejects as an immoral response. She frequently takes herself to task at these moments. Anger and resentment are natural responses meant to help us protect ourselves against mistreatment from others, and this self-defending response is entirely squelched by Mrs. Norris’s behavior to her.

Mrs. Norris’s behavior toward Fanny is not only emotionally abusive; it is also at least physically neglectful, if not physically abusive. Despite the fact that everyone agrees that Fanny “is not strong”, Mrs. Norris makes a lot of difficulties in Edmund’s attempts to make sure Fanny has a horse to ride, and also refuses to allow Fanny a fire in the East Room, even in the middle of winter, a privation that ever Sir Thomas thinks bad enough that he countermands it--though doing so with a little explanatory disclaimer to Fanny explaining why Mrs. Norris MEANS well and why Fanny shouldn’t dare to be angry, or indeed anything but immensely and forever grateful for their neglectful treatment of her:

Your aunt Norris has always been an advocate, and very judiciously, for young people’s being brought up without unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in everything. She is also very hardy herself, which of course will influence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another account, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her sentiments have always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have been, and I believe has been, carried too far in your case. I am aware that there has been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will ever harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding which will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging partially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you will consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that they were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you for that mediocrity of condition which seemed to be your lot. Though their caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant; and of this you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will be doubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been imposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and attention that are due to her.

~*GAAASSSSS-LIGHTINNNNGGGGGGG*~  

“Oh, shit, you’ve been freezing to death here for years because your aunt’s an abusive asshole. Oh, but there are three million excuses for her, and also you’re SO GOOD AND GRATEFUL that I KNOW you’ll never allow yourself to see it for the abuse it was, and aren’t you so GRATEFUL to us all for everything we’ve done for you? We MEANT well. And being abused was good for you anyway. If you ever get mad at your abusers I’ll treat you with withering criticism.” 

*gagggg* I could write an entire essay explicating the gaslighting in that passage ALONE.

I could go on and on about Mrs. Norris’s abusive behavior toward Fanny, but I think most of it’s perfectly obvious to the reader. I think a very interesting argument might be made on whether Mrs. Norris would count as having a form of narcissistic personality disorder--always worried about her own importance, living through her golden child Maria, taking everything out on her scapegoat, insisting always on associating her own value with that of Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram and insisting on Fanny’s status being lower because her own self-esteem is dependent on being as good as her sister Bertram and better than her sister Price. Might be interesting.

Part 2: Fanny Price’s Trauma Responses

Complex emotional trauma expresses itself in a number of symptoms and behaviors. We’ve already talked about emotional flashbacks, and I’m going to look at four more major aspects of Fanny’s trauma responses.

Anxiety and Hypervigilance

People with PTSD often suffer from hypervigilance, where their body is constantly on high alert for threats in their environment. These threats are not only physical threats (resulting in things like jumping really hard at sudden noises) but also interpersonal threats. For instance, whenever I hear people talking really quietly in my house, I stop whatever I’m doing and listen REALLY HARD because I’m worried they’re talking about me and it’s gonna be bad.

Fanny exhibits this same behavior when she has retreated to the East Room when Crawford is in the house to propose to her:

She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling, and fearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached the East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and would go without her being obliged to know anything of the matter.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable, when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her uncle’s; she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her, whatever might be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked if she were there, and if he might come in. The terror of his former occasional visits to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine her again in French and English.

Her trembling at the sound of her uncle’s footsteps looks like hypervigilance, and the fact of her childhood “terror” being “renewed” sounds like she’s having another flashback, since she so strongly associates the presence of her uncle in the East Room with those painful childhood visits. She reacts with physical symptoms of stress, trembling at his approach.

Fanny’s anxiety and hypervigilance also demonstrates itself in her being constantly convinced that people are going to be angry with her. When she turns Mr. Crawford down, for instance, she is CONVINCED that Miss Crawford is going to be furious with her, and fears to meet with her. Edmund tells her Miss Crawford isn’t REALLY angry with her, but cannot convince her:

The promised visit from “her friend,” as Edmund called Miss Crawford, was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of what she said... she was in every way an object of painful alarm. ...The dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny’s only support in looking forward to it. She absented herself as little as possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took no solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden attack.

Fanny is so terrified of a polite confrontation with Miss Crawford, whom she has never seen angry before, that she spends DAYS trying to never be alone so that she’ll feel protected by the presence of company! Of course, when Miss Crawford DOES visit, she’s nothing but friendly. But Fanny’s PTSD couldn’t allow her to believe that until it happened. Her anxiety is intense, and this sort of thing happens repeatedly over the course of the novel.

Over-accommodation of others / people-pleasing

Childhood emotional trauma frequently leads to people-pleasing behavior: doing what you do not want to do simply because someone else wants you to.  To understand this, you have to put yourself into the point of view of a very young child or an infant. Children depend entirely on their caregivers for survival: they are aware of this on an instinctive level. If the caregiver shows them very conditional love, only appearing pleased with them when the child does things they like and displeased when the child does things that inconvenience them, the child quickly learns that they need to please their caregivers in order to survive. “Mom gets angry when I cry--Mom doesn’t like me to cry--if Mom gets angry at me, I could starve to death--I need to not cry.” Obviously this line of thinking happens on a subconscious rather than a conscious level, but it’s incredibly powerful nonetheless. I have found myself in situations where a person with some kind of power over me--a doctor, for instance--shows displeasure with something I say to them, and I INSTANTLY find myself backing off, making light of it, taking back everything I said, etc, even though I very much meant it and it needed to be said. The people-pleasing instinct is very strong and difficult to overcome.

In Fanny’s case, it isn’t just a matter of her caregivers showing her inconsistent love in early childhood. Even as an adult, she is fully aware that she needs to please the Bertrams, or she--and her family!--are SCREWED. She is entirely financially dependent on the Bertrams. If she displeases them, not only can they make her life at Mansfield even MORE uncomfortable than it already is, but they can send her back to Portsmouth. Even worse, they could stop their financial support of William and the financial support they are periodically sending to the rest of her family. Huge things hang on Fanny’s pleasing the Bertrams, and it’s small wonder she has developed the habit of trying to please everybody constantly (even her un-pleasable Aunt Norris).

Fanny repeatedly does things she doesn’t want to do, simply because someone asks or tells her to, even if there’s likely to be no major consequences if she doesn’t. One example is on Miss Crawford’s last visit to Mansfield, when Fanny is trying her darnedest to avoid speaking with her alone:

[Miss Crawford] was determined to see Fanny alone, and therefore said to her tolerably soon, in a low voice, “I must speak to you for a few minutes somewhere”; words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and all her nerves. Denial was impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on the contrary, made her almost instantly rise and lead the way out of the room. She did it with wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.

Fanny doesn’t want to talk to Miss Crawford alone. Fanny doesn’t NEED to talk to Miss Crawford alone. Fanny could stall, perhaps until Miss Crawford left. Nonetheless, the MOMENT Miss Crawford asks it of her, Fanny does it--even though she’s clearly terrified, feeling it “in all her pulses and all her nerves” (more on this physical reaction later). She acts almost like Ella Enchanted: she literally can’t say no.

Likewise, she doesn’t take opportunities she is offered to do things that she DOES wish to do. After a very long description of how much she wants to dance one evening, when her only chance of a partner is Tom, the following exchange occurs:

When he had told of his horse, [Tom] took a newspaper from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, “If you want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you.” With more than equal civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. “I am glad of it,” said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper again, “for I am tired to death.”

Fanny DOES want to dance, and the way that he worded the question, she could very well have said, “Yes, please,” and gotten up to dance with him. He has made it obvious that he doesn’t want to dance, and she has picked up on this and said--not only that they don’t have to dance, but the LIE that she doesn’t WANT to dance--in order to please him. Later Austen points Tom out as a hypocrite when he complains, “It raises my spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be!” But while it is true that Tom left Fanny LITTLE choice in the matter, it is also true that a stronger character, like Miss Crawford, could probably have found a way to say that she DID want to dance, even with such an unencouraging questioner. Fanny cannot do this: she has been conditioned all her life to give in to people--because her very SURVIVAL has depended on it.

In particular, Mrs. Norris has squelched Fanny’s independence of spirit very firmly. At one point she observes, very unfairly,

There is a something about Fanny, I have often observed it before—she likes to go her own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes her own independent walk whenever she can; she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense, about her, which I would advise her to get the better of.”

As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could be more unjust.

Obviously, Mrs. Norris is completely wrong about this. But as long as she can project* the fault of independence on Fanny, and punish Fanny for this false fault, she can prevent her from ever developing it. By picking on the least little supposed sign of independence and harping on it for ages, Mrs. Norris can prevent Fanny from ever developing a will of her own.

[*Footnote: this is another thing narcissists do: they project their own bad behavior on to others. Mrs. Norris is definitely not secretive, but she is very “independent” and has a lot of “nonsense”--instead of consulting with others about what they actually need in any given situation, she TELLS them. She has no spirit of cooperation, and all her “services” to others tend to be officious and useless.]

Low self-esteem

I thought about putting this together with the section on Mrs. Norris, because Fanny’s self-esteem has been so much shaped by her aunt. This is the kind of message Mrs. Norris is constantly drilling into her about the lowness of her importance:

The nonsense and folly of people’s stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give you a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins—as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. That will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last.

This message is so entirely in keeping with the messages Mrs. Norris has been indoctrinating Fanny with over the years that she has fully internalized it. When a primary caregiver tells you over and over again that you do not matter to anyone, you come to believe it:

[Fanny:] “I can never be important to any one.”

[Edmund:] “What is to prevent you?”

“Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.”

“As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion.”

“You are too kind,” said Fanny, colouring at such praise; “how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me.”

Fanny’s “I can never be important to any one” sounds very much like a triggered teenager sobbing, “Nobody will ever love me!” even while friends next to her are demonstrating that they DO love her. The survivor of this kind of abuse comes to a place where their beliefs do not reflect reality because their beliefs instead reflect the intense emotional rejection they have received from their main caregivers*. Fanny is important to Edmund, William, and Lady Bertram, but is convinced that she not only is NOT important to ANYONE, but never CAN be. She also convinced that she is foolish and awkward, probably by the early experiences at Mansfield when she didn’t know all the intricate rules of high society and was far behind Maria and Julia in her education. Fanny, though she is extremely shy, manages to carry off most things with surprising grace, and she is clever and has a wisdom and common sense in some things far beyond her years. Yet she is CERTAIN that she is “foolish and awkward”, because she has been repeatedly called so by authority figures in her life and almost all of her family at Mansfield.

[*Footnote: these extreme beliefs are often couched in “black-and-white” language: “EVERYBODY hates me, NOBODY loves me, I’ll NEVER be able to do it right, I’ll be alone FOREVER”. We can hear this in Fanny’s “I can NEVER be of importance to ANY ONE”.]

Fanny not only thinks very lowly of herself, she also is afraid of being praised or of anything that could possibly raise her self-esteem. For instance, in a discussion with Edmund, she explains why she never wants anybody to notice her:

[Edmund:] “Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too silent in the evening circle.”

[Fanny:] “But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?”

“I did—and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther.”

“And I longed to do it—but there was such a dead silence! And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not like—I thought it would appear as if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to feel.”

“Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day: that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women were of neglect.”

She is literally fearful of notice and praise--because Mrs. Norris has told her repeatedly throughout her life that she must NEVER shine more than Maria or Julia, must NEVER take attention away from them--a sort of vicarious narcissism. And Fanny feels that to receive a compliment, to state her own opinions, or even to TALK much in company is “stepping out of her place”, the high crime and misdemeanor of Mrs. Norris’s upbringing.

I was raised by a narcissistic caretaker, and I am sometimes suddenly overwhelmed with terror that I’m taking too much attention to myself and that I’m therefore BAD somehow. Because a narcissist (or their proxy, the golden child) must always be the center of attention, the scapegoat is emotionally punished for ever taking the spotlight. Mrs. Norris is disposed to be upset when Sir Thomas holds a dance in Fanny’s honor, and is only reconciled to it because SHE will be able to make herself the center of attention in the preparations.*

[*Footnote: I think another argument can be made for Mrs. Norris’s narcissism in her response to Crawford’s proposal to Fanny:

Angry she was: bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received such an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to Julia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford’s choice; and, independently of that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she would have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always trying to depress.

Mrs. Norris is DETERMINED to put Fanny down, as the scapegoat, and is offended that one of her golden children (her emotional stand-in) is shown less honor in this situation than the scapegoat. For the scapegoat to be elevated and her narcissistic stand-in to be neglected induces a narcissistic rage.] 

“Sensibility” and High Sensitivity

In the 18th century, a theory and “culture of sensibility” grew up in places like Britain, France, Holland, and the British colonies. Encyclopedia.com’s article on sensibility states, “Sensibility (and ‘sensible’ and ‘sentiment’) connoted the operation of the nervous system, the material basis for consciousness.” But the workings of the nervous system, they believed, affected more than just the physical body. Some people, it was held, had greater sensibility than others: their nerves were more easily affected by not only physical but also emotional and moral input, and they responded accordingly--not just in word and in deed, but in tears, blushes, trembling, fainting, etc. It was believed that people’s emotional responses AND physical responses could tell you something about their physical AND moral makeup. A truly modest woman, for instance, would blush and look confused when confronted with something that offended her maidenly modesty. A woman--or indeed, man--who was truly moral and “sensible” would be emotionally affected by something sad, such as a tale of oppression, to the point of openly weeping. A heroine of sensibility would most likely faint if threatened with something she found, not only physically frightening, but morally abhorrent (such as a forced marriage). This is part of the reason for what seems to use like excessive emotional reactions in some 18th-century novels: the writer is demonstrating her characters’ moral superiority through their physical sensibility.*

[*Footnote: Encyclopedia.com adds, “The coexistence of reason and feeling was assumed, but the proportion of each was endlessly debated, above all because of what many saw as the dangers of unleashed feelings... [After the French Revolution,]  The debate over the proportions of reason and feeling in persons of sensibility was politicized, and the need for women to channel their feelings toward moral and domestic goals was reemphasized. The word ‘sentimental,’ which had been used positively, became a label for ‘excessive sensibility’ and self-indulgence.” We can see this conflict clearly in Austen’s Sense and Sensibility!]

There is, in fact, a modern equivalent to the 18th century idea of sensibility: the concept of the Highly Sensitive Person (HSP) or Sensory Processing Sensitivity (SPS). First proposed by Elaine Aron's book The Highly Sensitive Person (1996), the theory suggests that SPS 

is a temperamental or personality trait involving "an increased sensitivity of the central nervous system and a deeper cognitive processing of physical, social and emotional stimuli". The trait is characterized by "a tendency to 'pause to check' in novel situations, greater sensitivity to subtle stimuli, and the engagement of deeper cognitive processing strategies for employing coping actions, all of which is driven by heightened emotional reactivity, both positive and negative". (wikipedia)

While some people have mocked this theory as pseudoscience, Aron is by no means the only researcher to have studied it, and a great many people who suffered from people telling them “You’re too sensitive” when they were hurt have taken comfort in the positive affirmation that high sensitivity is a natural phenomenon and can even at times be regarded as a strength rather than a character flaw.

It seems to me that there is a good deal of overlap between those who self-identify or may be identified as HSPs and those who have C-PTSD. Whether this is because greater emotional sensitivity leads to a greater incidence of traumatic responses to negative experiences, or whether high sensitivity is itself a product of repeated childhood trauma, I can’t say. (Heck, it could even be that the HSP’s belief that they’re over-sensitive comes from childhood gaslighting!)

What I can say is that Fanny Price exhibits, not only hypervigilance, but also what Austen would call “great sensibility” and I would call “SPS”. Fanny has the greatest sensibility of any character in the entire novel, even Edmund: she judges more clearly on moral matters than Edmund or Sir Thomas, and has the strongest physical and emotional reactions to stimuli. She seems to be constantly blushing, trembling, or tearing up. This is not only painful to modern readers (who, if they’re not pained by sympathizing with her, may well be pained by what seems to them a lack of proper 21st-century backbone in a main character) but is clearly highly uncomfortable at times to Fanny herself. She might be able to pride herself on her moral discernment (not that Fanny would EVER pride herself on ANYTHING), and she may be in transports of happiness when something good, like William’s arrival or promotion, occur, but she is often “cast down” as well by things that seem to others like trifles. We see this not only in her hypervigilance but also in the depression and the black-and-white thinking which are often the products of trauma. Edmund observes to her, “It is your disposition to be easily dejected and to fancy difficulties greater than they are.” Fanny’s apparent high sensitivity may be just a natural trait (made worse by trauma) or may itself be a product of trauma.

Conclusions

At the end of all this, I’m really not sure what I think about Fanny’s “happy ending”. On one hand, she gets what she’s always wanted in life: companionate marriage with Edmund, valued by Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram, with Mrs. Norris (and Maria) gone forever, and Julia and Tom chastened and better behaved. It seems perfect for her. But a little voice inside of me keeps saying how very unlikely it is. People rarely change as much as Sir Thomas does in the book--and in fact, we are only assured by Austen that Sir Thomas comes to value Fanny more: we don’t actually SEE it. I can’t help but feel that Fanny must still have been subject to ongoing gaslighting about how she was brought up and about respect toward Mrs. Norris and himself. Fanny got what she thought she wanted, but at the same time, she didn’t get free. Especially considering that Austen goes out of her way to say that things COULD have turned out differently and that Fanny and Crawford COULD have been happy together, I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if Fanny had ended up with the ONLY person in the entire book who truly recognizes how badly she has been treated at Mansfield Park:

[Crawford]: And they will now see their cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness.

[jihyuncompass]

RFA+V+Saeran Having a Fight with Their S/O

This came as a request from @sneksssss This is my first real angst headcanon I’ve written here. There is some angst in here but it does have a happy ending because I’m a sap who likes happy endings. 

Zen/Hyun

Arguments between the two of you weren’t common but when they did they absolutely sucked. 

Usually they all got sorted out pretty quickly but this one was different. 

It started when you told him that you didn’t like how he treated Jumin all the time. You explained that you understood why he didn’t like him and why Jumin made him angry but it had gotten to the point where Zen’s antagonism towards Jumin was starting to make other people uncomfortable. 

Of course Zen didn’t take that very well. 

He was stomping around the apartment grumbling under his breath. You had tried everything to calm him down but it wasn’t working Every attempt he made only seemed to make him angrier and eventually things reached a boiling point. 

“So what! Do you like that jerk more than me?” 

“Zen that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying-”

“If you like him so much, why don’t we just break up so you can be with him instead!” 

You both stopped. The second the words came out of his mouth Zen knew he regretted it. His heart dropped seeing the way tears welled up in your eyes. 

“You. You want to break up?” You stutter out, heart breaking with every word. Zen runs to you embracing you before you could even take a step back.

“No. I don’t want to break up, I never want to break up. I didn’t mean it I’m sorry!” Zen held you tight. You quickly wrapped your arms around him.

“I know that Jumin reminds you of your brother, and I know how much your family has hurt you. But Hyun, can you please just try and be more patient with him?” 

You can see how he was struggling but he sighed and nodded pulling you into another hug. 

“I’ll try. For you, I’ll try”. 

Yoosung

It was about his mental health, and by extension, about Rika. 

You knew how profound Rika’s loss had been on him. How much he missed her but now the effects were really starting to take a toll on him and you.

He was barely going to class anymore, he spent most of the day playing video games or sleeping. Getting him to eat anything other than junk food was practically impossible. 

After a while you finally decided it was time for an intervention. You hated seeing him suffering so much. 

When you finally mentioned to him that maybe he should see a therapist, or even just a doctor he got pretty upset. 

He kept insisting that he didn’t need to see a doctor, that he was just grieving. You tried telling him that there’s no shame in seeing a therapist. 

That didn’t do much in terms of convincing him though. In some ways it only seemed to upset him more. He continued to insist that he didn’t need help, he was just fine on his own. 

It got to the point that you were both crying, you didn’t want to fight with him about this but you felt this was too important and you didn’t want to give up. 

Finally it reached a breaking point where Yoosung broke down. You reached out to him slowly putting your arm around his shoulders. 

“I don’t want to let her go MC. She was my family, I can’t just forget her.” His voice was small, you leaned over and put your forehead against his back. 

“Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting her. Rika knows how much you love her, and even though I didn’t know her I can’t imagine Rika would want you to be so miserable. You can still live a full happy life without forgetting her.” 

He was quiet but by the way he took your hand in his, you knew he understood. 

Jaehee

Jaehee was a chronic workaholic. You knew this, everyone in the RFA knew this. 

That didn’t mean it was healthy, even after she started the cafe she still had a bad habit of working late into the night. She also wasn’t very good at sharing her work either. No matter how much you offered to take on some of her work you could never convince her. 

You found her working at the cafe long after closing, she was staring at a cake recipe she had been working on, you could see evidence of her multiple attempts on the counters. 

You asked her what she was still doing working and from there it escalated. 

It hardly looked like a fight, the two of you weren’t yelling but it was obvious that you were disagreeing. She kept brushing you off, insisting that it was fine and she wanted to get this all done before she finished for the day. 

You kept trying to convince her to call it a day. You both needed to be up early to open the cafe for the commuters and she wasn’t going to be able to get any sleep at this rate. Even if there wasn’t any yelling there was plenty of passive aggressive comments and dismissive looks. 

This went on until eventually you and Jaehee locked eyes. You could see how tight her shoulders were and how dark the circles under her eyes were. 

Slowly she put the pastry bag full of frosting down and sighed. You could see how all the fight went out of her. 

“Let’s go to bed Jaehee. We can talk about this in the morning.” 

The next day, somewhat rested and preparing the cafe to open you talked. You both talked about your concerns, you both listened to each other and agreed to work better as a team so Jaehee wouldn’t have to work so much. 

You are partners after all, you take care of each other. 

Jumin

Jumin Han doesn’t yell in fights. He’s trained to be calm under pressure. 

He’s the type to do that thing where he speaks in a completely monotone voice so everything he says sounds rational. 

Which by comparison makes you look hysterical, which makes you want to get angrier and yell louder. 

It all started when you went to a business event together. A party filled with many accomplished business men and women. It was a perfect way for Jumin to make some good connections. 

Trouble started when someone had approached you, you knew that he was someone important so you did everything you could to be polite. 

Jumin had overheard some of the conversation and had assumed the worst. He most of the night silent towards you, He hadn’t even said a word until you both got home. 

You knew that Jumin had a tendency to be a tad possessive over you but you had only had a conversation with the guy. But apparently that was more than enough for Jumin to feel jealous.

Jumin was watching you with his arms crossed over hie chest, his face completely blank. You were standing over him, trying to explain what had happened. 

“I wasn’t flirting” You insisted. 

“He was flirting, you just let him.” You covered your face. You had already been through this part of the conversation and nothing you said had convinced him. At your breaking point you finally admit the truth to him.

“Fine. I knew he was flirting, but I know that he’s important. I didn’t want to offend him and possibly make you lose a chance for work with him.” Jumin’s face softened. He seemed to realize your sincerity. The blank expression on his face disappeared, now there was only guilt. 

“I’m sorry.” Jumin said honestly. He rose from his chair and bowed his head. “I’m sorry I assumed the worst. Please forgive me.” 

You give him a gentle kiss on the cheek. 

“Oh Juju I’ve already forgiven you.” 

“And so you know. I would never do business with a man who would so shamelessly flirt with someone knowing they’re in a relationship. If something like that ever happens again do not be afraid to stand up for yourself.” You smiled, holding his hand. 

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Seven/Saeyoung

He was being distant again. 

Even though things had calmed down a lot Seven still struggled with his mental health. So sometimes he would pull away from you like he did before you got together. 

Usually it only lasted a day before he snapped out of it and apologized. But this time it was longer, and after three days he was still keeping away from you. 

When you decided to try and talk to him it lead to a fight. 

It’s what you would expect, telling you to stay away from him, that he isn’t worth it. It isn’t anything you hadn’t heard before, but something about this time made it way worse. 

“Saeyoung please, don’t push me out. If you need space I’ll give you space but you haven’t been eating or sleeping and I’m worried about you.” 

“I can take care of myself. Just go away.”

“I just want to help you.” 

“I don’t want your help!” 

Frustrated you left the bunker. You weren’t sure where you were going to go but you needed to get out. 

You made sure to stay where cameras could see you. Sure you were angry with him but you didn’t want him to panic. You chose a coffee shop to sit in for a little while so you could sort your thoughts. 

After finishing your drink you figured it was time to head back home. As you approached the bunker you felt a lump in your throat while your stomach churned. 

Taking a deep breath you get past the security system and open the door. You see Seven sitting on the couch, his gaze snaps up to you. He runs to you pulling you into a tight embrace.

“I was so worried.” 

“I stayed where cameras could see me.”

“I know, but I thought. I thought you might not come back.” You pull him closer. 

You close your eyes and hold him tight, until you both feel better. 

“You can’t just push me out Saeyoung, I know things can be difficult but you can’t just push me out when things get bad.” 

“I know, I’ll do better, I promise.”

V/Jihyun

Honestly I can’t imagine V truly fighting with anyone. 

He seems like the kind of person who would rather be wrong than in a fight. 

So here’s what I think would be more realistic for him.

Jihyun had grown a lot since you first met. The V you met was long a piece of history. But sometimes, especially when things got difficult you could see the V you used to know reemerge. 

It began when he started to talk down on himself more. You could see how much harsher he was on himself. How he kept apologizing for the smallest of things. Then you noticed how he stopped painting and drawing. 

Finally he stopped talking about he was feeling. He kept insisting he was okay, that you shouldn’t worry about him. 

After talking with Jumin you decided that it would be best to try and talk to him about it directly.  

You approached him after dinner one night, sitting next to him on the couch. You told him how he didn’t seem like himself, how he wasn’t talking to you about how he was feeling, and how you were getting worried. 

“I’m fine love, please don’t worry about me.”

“Jihyun, you know you can talk to me.” You put a hand on his shoulder, he tensed under your touch, you pulled your hand back watching him carefully. 

“I’m fine.” Jihyun stood up to walk into the other room but you couldn’t just let him go. You stood up. 

“Jihyun stop!” He froze in his place. “Look at me.” He turned around facing you. Before you could even think you embraced him, arms circled around his chest, face in his shoulder. Just like that first time after escaping Magenta. 

He was still as you held him. 

“I know you have a hard time telling people when you aren’t doing well. I know you’re scared of being a burden but you aren’t. And god it makes me so angry thinking that you don’t think you can be open and honest with me about how you’re feeling.” You said. “I love you, more than anything Jihyun.” 

He wrapped his arms around you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck, grasping your shirt to keep himself upright. You could feel how bad he was shaking as you held him. 

“Let’s talk okay? You don’t have to tell me everything right now, but I’ll be here every step of the way.”

Saeran

Fights did happen sometimes. Because of his trauma he sometimes would lash out in anger. 

This happened a lot whenever he felt trapped, or when he felt like he wasn’t in complete control. 

As time went on these episodes became less and less frequent but they still happened once in a while. 

This specific one started during a storm. 

He had planned on going outside and working on his garden but it was raining  and thundering so much that you didn’t think it would be a good idea to go out there. 

Saeran knew that too, he didn’t want to get soaked or sick because of the cold but he hated the idea of being trapped inside. It made him feel anxious and powerless. And then, angry. 

You tried to find other things for the two of you to do but he wasn’t having any of it. 

“Maybe we could do some baking? I know you mentioned there was a recipe you wanted to try out-”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Saeran yelled, his arms were crossed over his chest while he paced back and forth around your living room. 

“Saeran I’m not trying to tell you what to do, I just thought maybe-”

“Well you are! God you’re so frustrating!” Saeran reached up and grabbed at his hair. You took a deep breath and fought back tears. You hated seeing him like this, so angry and scared. 

For the next hour you watched him, pacing, yelling, throwing insults. You stayed silent while you watched him. However eventually he started to run out of steam, sitting on the floor with his knees up to his chest. Now sobs racked his chest, guilt bubbling up. 

After seeing him calm down a little you stood up slowly making your way over to him. You sat down next to him, not touching him but making your presence clear. 

He didn’t look at you, he couldn’t bear to yet. But feeling your presence helped. You didn’t speak for a while but he rested his head on your shoulder. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, just barely loud enough to hear. 

“I know Saeran. It’s okay.” 

“It’s not. But thank you for staying with me.” You smiled at him, he glanced over at you not able to force himself to smile just yet. 

“I’m not going to leave Saeran. I’m here for you, always.” 

Although it was challenging for him to believe, when you said it. Somehow he believed it. 

[themalhambird]

Growing Up Broken: I Talk About My (A)sexuality For 4 ¼ Pages.

I am asexual.

No, this doesn’t mean that I’m some form of plant budding off copies of myself if I get enough water and sunlight. It’s a shame. I could do a lot with multiple copies of myself- get someone else to do the dishes, the cleaning, my schoolwork…

I am asexual.

Asexuality is the absence of sexual desires or feelings for other people. I say absence deliberately: sexual attraction is not something that I lack or am missing. I am not going without. I’m just a 23 year old who has never once felt the desire to have sex with another person, who couldn’t describe how it feels to “fancy” someone if there was a gun to their head, who thinks women and men and anyone in between can sometimes be stunningly beautiful, would possibly be nice to cuddle- but kissing on the mouth seems like it would be a really weird thing to do.

I am asexual, and it’s almost Pride Month, and so I want to untangle some of the thoughts in my head and spin them out on to paper, to try and lay out my feelings about my sexuality, or lack thereof, and what it’s like growing up when no one bothers to tell you that not experiencing sexual desire like, ever, is a thing. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

It’s 2014. Puberty has doing stuff to me for the last two years or so: periods (urgh), breasts (neat!), underarm hair (why do I have to shave this? no one’s gonna see it), growth spurts (I’m getting taller than my older sister. I want to keep going till I’m taller than mum). The only thing not happening is wanting to have sex, something the nurse who came to Talk To Us All About Growing Up back in 2009 assured us Year Sixes would definitely happen as soon as puberty hit.

Still. It’ll happen soon, probably. Sixteen is still a bit too young to be having sexual feelings, right? The boys…really not interesting at all, but the other girls are pretty. I like their hair. I like the shape of their bodies. I just don’t fancy any of them. When we’re told to imagine our future husbands or wives in class (don’t ask my why, I’ve long forgotten the point of the exercise, I just remember that) I picture a wife.

(Lesbian is the first label I apply to myself. I stick it on tentatively- keep peeling it off my shirt and putting it back somewhere different like I’m not quite sure where it fits. It’s not wrong, necessarily. I’m just not certain it’s right. I like girls a whole lot better but I’m not saying I could never love a guy. I’m just not attracted to them. I’m not attracted to women, either- but I feel like I will be. When I’m old enough to feel that kind of thing. )

Sex Ed lessons are mortifying. We’re asked to list all the sexual terms we know on an A3 sheet of paper. I don’t know what half the things other people say mean- blowjob, 69, masturbate, porn . I don’t know how other people know these things either. We’re sixteen. It’s too young.

That summer I play Sebastian in an abridged version of Twelfth Night and it convinces me to take Drama at A-level, although I didn’t at GCSE. The drama classes teach me two things. First of all, I don’t like acting women. I prefer breeches rolls. I don’t know why. We’re talking about my asexuality, not my gender confusion, so let’s put a pin in that and move on to point two. My drama class teaches me that everyone my age is having sex, or wants to have sex, or is planning on having sex soon; sex is a constant, every class, every conversation. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex. So apparently sixteen (seventeen) isn’t too young after all.

It’s like this. One day you wake up and you realise that everyone else is speaking a language you don’t understand. Suddenly, sexual feelings aren’t something that no one your age is having but you’ll all develop soon- it’s that sexual feelings are something that everybody your age is having apart from you. People your age are dating, kissing, fucking, and it’s not something you’re interested in doing, necessarily, but you still feel so horribly left out. Like you’re missing some kind of major milestone. You try not to let it bother you- you watch Buffy every Monday you get to see your dad. (You watch loss of virginity be portrayed as growing up). You read. (The books you pick up all involve love and love always seems to at least imply sex). You- google things. You google the words you didn’t understand in that sex ed class. You google “how to tell if you’re attracted to someone” in case there’s some secret signal your body sent you that you missed. You feel like you should know if you’ve ever felt sexual attraction but then maybe you’re just really, really dumb. Maybe there’s something wrong with you. The NHS website reckons that if you’ve got a low sex drive you ought to see a doctor. The girls in your drama class keep talking about boys and sex and sex and boys and you aren’t really interested in either of those things. You cling to the thought, lesbian and hope that when you get to university, you’ll stop being so repressed. Girls are pretty- but the ones at school are either your friends or kind of mean. Of course you don’t fancy anyone there. University. University will save you. (Boys are sometimes pretty too. There are boys at school whose personalities are nice enough- who are the type of man you wouldn’t mind dating one day maybe- but you can’t ever picture yourself having sex with one. Dicks seem weird and really not the kind of thing you’d want inside you. I mean for fuck’s sake- why? You can’t even get a tampon in.)

I don’t like looking back on this. Sixteen, seventeen year old me was starting to get pretty freaked out. I like looking back at the first year of uni even less, because if seventeen year old me was freaking out, eighteen year old me was buying alcohol. That’s how it goes, right? Sex and alcohol. You see it all the time on T.V. Fictional people get fictional drunk and fictional cheat while they’re on fictional breaks with their fictional partners. David Tennant is pretty. A man at work is handsome and more importantly intelligent, into Shakespeare, into good conversation. The label switches from lesbian to ‘bisexual but heavily skewed toward women’ and I cling to that as tightly as possible because after that, I’m out of options. It is impossible that I’m not feeling sexual attraction: the whole world screams about sexual fucking attraction all the fucking time, I’m obviously just too uptight, I obviously just need to relax-

I once drank a whole bottle of wine in what was essentially one go. I paused for breath, but that was about it- I don’t think I even bothered with a glass. My goal was to get myself drunk enough that I could feel sexual attraction. I thought that the best way to go about things- to finally ‘grow up’- would be to get super drunk, and then leave the flat and find someone who would screw me. I reasoned that I would enjoy it once I was doing it- after all, the whole world pushes sex as this wholly desirable thing for any normal adult to want, even need- so I would like it once I was doing it and then I would be fixed. Fortunately, drinking a whole bottle of wine when you’ve never had more than a single glass of champagne or a couple of glasses of rum and apple juice before in your life gets you past “lowered inhibitions” to “can’t walk straight or upright” very quickly. I got as far as the bathroom, threw up, a lot, and staggered back to my room. I woke up at 3 pm the next afternoon feeling stupid for drinking, and mad at myself for still being a virgin.

I had a lot of problems in my first year of university and not all of them were about my sexuality crisis. I was isolated, fairly friendless, and not really cut out for socialising with my housemates who were probably all lovely people, but I find new people painfully difficult and hiding away seemed easier. But the feeling that there was something broken inside me because I wasn’t experiencing what everything seemed to be telling me was one of the most vital parts of the human experience- sexual attraction to other people- contributed to my general feelings of self-loathing and disgust. I attempted to induce sexual desire in myself by drinking on several further occasions, although never quite to the same extent as the first time. I’m not sure whether this counts as self-harm, but it certainly wasn’t healthy.

I didn’t know asexuality was a thing.

I knew I wasn’t straight- I’d known that for a while. I learnt that I enjoyed reading, talking, even writing about sex, as long as it was sex between people who weren’t real, but fantasising about fictional characters having sex and fantasying about myself having sex are two very different things. The former happened fairly frequently. The latter didn’t happen once, and still never has. My second year at university was better than my first: I was living with friends, I was further away from campus which meant I had to walk more, which probably helped, I had also started to make several friends online with whom I could happily chat even when I wasn’t in the mood for ‘actual’ people. I used bisexual to describe myself because on the rare occasions I thought about romance, I couldn’t really see myself ruling out anyone who was willing to put up with me.

I’m not quite clear when I first heard the term ‘asexuality’. I became aware of it gradually. Someone I followed on Tumblr identified as ‘grey-ace’. Characters from my favourite fantasy series were being headcanoned as ‘asexual’. At some point I must have learnt properly what that meant.

It sometimes feels like there ought to have been a lightbulb moment- like I should have seen the word, seen the definition, and instantly seen myself. But it is very, very hard to delete the message- ‘sex is important- sex is what grown-ups do- sex is what you should want to do’ – that the world constantly sends to us: in advertising, in entertainment, in the conversations of a drama class that always circled back to that topic, to the detriment of the sole seventeen year old who wasn’t really bothered. To embrace asexuality seemed like I was giving up on trying to fix myself, on waiting for the right person to come and make everything better. On the potential of their being a right person. I can wrap my head around people having casual sex very easily. It’s romantic love without sexual desire that I’m scared won’t work- how am I supposed to know if it’s love without there also being physical attraction? No romance arc that I had ever seen was without an element of sexual tension. So, no lightbulb moment for me. No switch going off- “aha, at last, that’s what I am!”. Just a gradual thought washing across my mind every now and then, like the tide rushing up a patch of sand and drawing straight back, leaving only dampness to show where there had been a good half-inch of water only a moment ago.

I might be asexual?

And ‘I might’ becomes ‘I think I am’, and the tide starts coming in. ‘I think I am’ became ‘I am’ at some point or other.

I am asexual.

I find reassurance in knowing that there’s a word for what I am, for how I (do not) feel. I am asexual. Not broken, or damaged, or too uptight to properly feel, or too dumb to recognise what I do feel. I am asexual- I have an absence of any sexual desire for others and that’s perfectly okay. I might fall in love one day. I might not. I don’t know how you’re supposed to know if you have the capacity to fall in love before you find yourself doing it. It might be nice to have a wife. It would also be nice to have a cat. I could cope with it just being me, a cat, and good friends for the rest of my life. If I fall in love- if I am capable of falling in love- it will just mean I am asexual, but romantic, and I will have learnt something new about myself. The point is-

The point is, I am incredibly lucky that I stumbled across Asexuality before I got myself hurt trying to force something that wasn’t there. The point is, this world assumes that sexual desires are the norm, and maybe they are, but that just makes it all the more important that people know that they aren’t abnormal for not experiencing sexual desire. To all the people who need to hear it: You are not broken. You are not alone.

I’m not sure how to wrap this up. I feel like I should say something profound or something. But I think I’m just gonna leave it like this:

I am asexual. Asexuality is the absence of sexual desires or feelings for other people. I say absence deliberately: sexual attraction is not something that I lack or am missing. I am not going without. I’m just a 23 year old who has never once felt the desire to have sex with another person, who couldn’t describe how it feels to “fancy” someone if there was a gun to their head, who thinks women and men and anyone in between can sometimes be stunningly beautiful, and possibly be nice to cuddle- but kissing on the mouth seems like it would be a really weird thing to do. I am not broken. I am not ‘going through a phase’ or ‘looking for attention’ or ‘trying to be special’. Everyone’s special, fuck you. Knowing that I am not the only person to feel how I feel makes me feel like I’m standing on solid ground. May all people experiencing the same confusion and distress over their sexual orientation that I felt growing up find their way safely to the same solid ground: you are not broken. We’re not broken.

[dreamcatcherjiah]

Part 9

💞Tight Hearts (Idol!Hoseok x Reader)

Plot: The red string of fate was visible when our grandparents were children. They would play around, following the strings from one person to their soulmate and laugh happily when these two people inevitably found each other. It was a reason for happiness. But little by little, people stopped seeing the threads. In bad times, it was dangerous, it was a liability, so people stopped seeing them to protect each other from harm. When I was born, nobody saw them anymore, they just felt their soulmate. Anxiety, happiness, sorrow, love, the hearts of the soulmates are one, feel the same things, but it is almost impossible to find your soulmate, now that the threads cannot be seen.

Tight Hearts Masterlist

Part 9

A/n: Here is part 9!!! With this part, I’ve come to realise that guilt does play a nice part in the creative process, lool. It’s taken me centuries to get to a point where I felt like writing at all, I can hardly believe I managed to take this chapter into the four thousand word mark! I hope you guys like it. It is not so much where I wanted it to be, but I’m getting there!

Love you guys and I missed you a lot!🖤

As consciousness was claiming you back, your heart settled in your chest with a feeling of contentment and happiness you hadn’t felt before. Hoseok’s arm was flung over your waist and his hand was moving against your spine in soft caresses. You hadn’t moved from the position you fell asleep in and, waking up but still with your eyes closed, you could feel his soft breath against your eyelashes. Your heart jumped in your chest as his arms tightened against you, snuggling you closer to his chest. With a smile, you slung your own arm over Hoseok’s ribcage and settled your head in against his throat. It wasn’t long before sleep claimed you again. 

You heard Hoseok’s little yelp before you actually opened your eyes. He tensed for a second and tried prying his arm from under your neck. He was making small distressed noises trying not to wake you up but achieving totally the opposite; make you laugh. It started slow, as a small chuckle at the back of your throat that escalated into a full giggle when you opened your eyes and saw his startled expression. His eyes were open wide and his mouth was hanging open forming a heart-shaped half smile that began morphing into a full grin the longer you laughed. Instinctively, you tightened your arms around his torso and hid your face against his chest to try and calm yourself. 

“And here I thought you were going to flip and send me flying from the bed,” he laughed, draping himself back around you and settling back in the bed with you in his arms.

“I haven’t felt happier than I am feeling now, I don’t ever want to let you go,” you whispered, more relaxed than you remembered ever being, letting out a calming sigh as you looked up at his smiling face, “I do know this feeling is the bond messing with our pheromones but I just don’t want it to end.”

His smile grew the biggest you had ever seen it and he dropped a kiss to your forehead. Laying back down on the bed, the both of you spent the morning talking about your lives, how you had started feeling each other through the bond at such an early age. Hoseok told you many things about his grandmother, how she had been the one to break the news of the bond to him when he was not older than two. He could still remember, he told you with a wistful smile, how the old woman would cuddle him to her chest and create new stories for him, how she would, as he grew older, talk about her meeting with Hoseok’s grandfather through the Red String of Fate. 

“You must have been fascinated by those stories,” you whispered, while your hand absentmindedly drew patterns over his chest, with your head moving up and down as he drew breaths and exhaled, “I can just imagine a little Hobi smiling and listening to her telling him fairytales.”

He startled and turned his head so he could look at you. A small frown was present on his features and you wanted nothing more than touch it with your fingers and make it disappear.

“Well, not so much fairytales, since we know for a fact it is real, don’t you think?” That settled the mood into something more sombre than when you woke up. All the things, all the meetings and responsibilities waiting for you outside that room rushed to the forefront of both your minds and the blissfulness dulled to a warm sense of wellbeing around your heart. “I can’t believe how comfortable I feel with you, just like this. Do you think it has to do with us sleeping together?” He asked and you watched as his features morphed into mortification when he realised how the words that just left his lips may have sounded, “I only… I meant sleeping— as in, you know, just sleeping… no, hugging you in your sleep— wait, no, that sounds creepy… you know—.” 

You giggled against his chest just as you had done that same morning as you woke up. He was an adorable mess when he was flustered.

“I do know what you mean,” you responded, deciding to take him out of his misery, “in fact, that’s what I wanted to tell you last night, but my brain was too fried to form a coherent thought.”

“Is your brain okay now?” He asked, looking intently at your head, as if the answer would somehow just jump out of it and he wouldn’t have to look you in the eye.

Pushing against his chest to get into a more comfortable position, you rested your head in your hand and watched as he changed his position, half laying, half sitting against he headboard with an arm supporting his head. His other arm, as if neither of you noticed, was still resting on your shoulder blade, drawing small patterns. 

“My brain is much clearer now,” you smirked, “mind you, it still thinks you’re extremely hot and can’t stop thinking scenarios, but I can control it,” only seeing how red his ears got made you regret having spoken too freely. After all, you two were still strangers, you were a fan at that and that kind of comments were highly inappropriate in any sort of situation. “Too soon?” You asked, avoiding his eyes, which wasn’t too difficult to do as he was busy himself examining the pristine ceiling as if he would find a blemish there if he focused intently enough.

With a huff, he scoffed and tightened the hold of his arm around your shoulder. “No, it’s just— I think the bond is producing the same thoughts both ways…”

That sure was an effective way to shut you up. You left your head fall from where your hand was supporting it and felt how Hoseok’s heart hammered against his ribcage on your cheek as it lay on his chest. With the way he was behaving, you would have bet and lost on him not being as affected as you were by the bond. It was time you admitted that the bond went through both of you, it would be the fastest way to get used to it and stop feeling awkward every time something escaped your mind. 

“Hey,” he called, lifting your face from its hiding place and placing another sweet kiss on your forehead, “I can feel you getting ashamed and I’m not going to let you, okay?” His eyes were completely focused on yours, no trace of that semi-permanent blush that had been there since your first meeting, “We’re in this together, we’re both learning and it’s gonna take it’s sweet time, but just think about it. One day, we’ll be comfortable together, it will feel as if it’s the most natural thing to wake up in each other’s arms, even if it doesn’t now, okay?”

“It does feel like the most natural thing in the world…” you whispered, too shy to voice your thoughts aloud.

“What does?” Hoseok asked, making his lips turn into a small pout with his confusion. 

Battling your shame and feeling how your cheeks got hotter and hotter as the blood rushed around in your ears, you wondered what he would do if you lied, if you made something up, other than what you had actually said. His eyes were still wide open, looking straight at you, and maybe that was it, or maybe was the way his body fit perfectly with yours and how your always screaming rational side had chosen that specific moment to shut up and bask in the wellness your soulmate was radiating to you. It may have been a spur-of-the-moment thing, but you told him the absolute truth.

“Waking up in your arms,” you answered while looking him straight in the eyes. 

They got even wider as his brain registered the new bombshell you had decided to drop on him and then, they traveled all over your face as if they were looking for any sign of you lying. Obviously, he couldn’t find a lie anywhere, everything you’d said was the pure, even if a bit embarrassing, truth. Then his eyes dropped to your lips and the temperature in the room rose to an unbearable extreme. Your heart, somehow dormant after the relaxing morning, did a somersault in your chest and started beating at an alarming speed, pumping blood to every crevice of your body, alerting you of every movement of your soulmate’s body, the way his breathing had also increased and he seemed unable to let go of you, bringing you closer and closer to him as the seconds ticked away. If you hadn’t been paying attention to him, you may have missed the way his pupils dilated and almost covered all the deep brown surrounding them, the way his mouth slightly opened as if the wind had been knocked out of him and the only thing he could do was try to breath. Your bodies were melting into the mattress, a mess of taut muscles and electric shocks, intertwined and beating in unison. In the back of your head you could feel a warning, something telling you that you would regret whatever happened if you gave yourselves to the bond. You would later thank him for his kindness in dealing with your messy feelings in the moment, but when his words were uttered, a frustrated sigh left your lips.

“Y/N…” he exhaled, his breath ghosting over your cheeks and sending a shiver down your spine, “Y/N, take a deep breath. Close your eyes, focus on…” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, “breathing.”

Listening to his voice, you followed his instructions and turned your head away from his face. The situation had nearly gotten out of hand and you should thank your lucky stars he at least had kept some of his mind working, because the mortification that would have come out of such situation could have lasted for longer than you cared to admit. Both his hands were going up and down your back and he was whispering to himself to get his act together. You focused on his voice. Only his voice and rested your head on his shoulder looking away from him. 

Little by little, sanity came back to you. As soon as Hoseok felt your uneasiness, his hold on you tightened and his hands stilled on your waist; he wouldn’t allow you to feel ashamed of what had happened. You could feel determination and affection coming out of him in waves and you decided right there and then that you would give back just as much.

“Let’s do something,” his voice, still affected, whispered into the shell of your ear, “we go at our own pace, okay? Let’s go with what it feels right for both of us.”

You smiled. Somehow he had voiced one of the hundred thoughts going around in your head: is this going too fast? He was right, you had to admit. What may be fast for the rest of the world, felt like a walk in the park for a pair of soulmates; the emotional connection was a given with the likes of you and, if the episode you experimented minutes before was anything to go by, the physical connection was there as well. The only thing missing was knowing him. Really knowing him. And he had gauged your reaction to him to perfection. 

“We don’t have to answer to anyone else,” he kept saying, getting more and more relaxed, “as long as you and I are okay, then that’s all I want.”

Not needing an answer, he hugged you to his chest once more and kissed the crown of your head. He untangled himself from the mess of sheets and walked into the bathroom. It looked like the small bubble you had been enjoying most of the morning was about to burst. You rolled until your head was resting on Hoseok’s pillow and, with his scent surrounding you and overwhelming all your senses, you felt how your brain began to go back to normal. Something had clicked into place that night while you slept next to him. Your head, the rational you, that had been screaming bloody murder the prior night, completely refusing to loose its independence, had somehow recognised Hoseok as something good and essential to you. Your mind was now completely blank, not even registering the fact that Hoseok had moved away from you, the furthest you’d been since you met last night, and neither of you had even flinched. 

You sat on the bed and stretched, your muscles relieving tension that had been building for years but that now was useless. Looking around, you saw your bag resting against a bookshelf next to the window and didn’t even think twice before getting up and going to get it. You were reaching down to lift it from the floor when the door to the bathroom opened and you pivoted only to see a still-wet Hoseok jumping on one foot as he tried to straighten his shirt with only one sock on.

“Oh! Are you okay?” You asked, worried he might have fallen in the shower and hurt himself or something, not even realising you would have felt or heard something if that was the case. 

“I just—” he groaned as his knee nocked against the corner of the bed as he hastily approached you, “I was completely fine until I felt you moving away and I just… moved,” he looked incredibly confused, with his shirt now on and both socks in place, his hands were on his hips as his eyes shot daggers at the bed, “I didn’t even realise I could stand away from you until I could only think to get back to you.”

You smiled. The sweetness of his puzzlement moved you to the core. He was so fast to reassure you and yet, he walked on eggshells whenever he thought he might be overstepping his boundaries with you. Again, you were going to make sure he felt just how much you appreciated everything he had done for you since you met. 

“Do you trust me?” You repeated your words from last night, making his head turn to you like lightning and his eyes analyse everything about you with a calculating focus that made you suddenly realise how intimidating it was to be the sole focus of Jhope’s attention. Carefully, he nodded but still his eyes didn’t stray away from you. 

Without even thinking, you travelled the length of the room in two strides and threw your arms around is waist, your ear right above his heart and your hands resting lightly on his back. The sudden wave of euphoria you were expecting didn’t come, just like a mere shudder of warm honey bathing your skin, the familiarity that was already Hoseok didn’t phase you a bit. He chuckled and drove his arms around you as well, his hand caressing your hair and settling there, basking in the feeling of being together. 

“It doesn’t feel invasive now, does it?” You asked, your bodies swaying side to side, “like you said before, our own time, Hoseok.”

“I love it when you say my name like that,” his voice sounded less affected than you’d ever heard it, you were wondering. He followed, “do you want to shower before breakfast? We’re supposed to be at BigHit in three hours, how do you feel about brunch?” If the mention of the impending meeting at his company phased you before, it didn’t even register as something negative in your mind now. He’d be with you.

“I think I’ll grab a shower before we leave, it’s a bit warm in here and I don’t want to shower twice if I sweat…” he nodded, tapping your head with his chin in the process, “and brunch sounds heavenly! I’m quite a bit hungry.”

As if on queue, both your stomachs growled at the same time, prompting the both of you into yet another round of giggles. If your future was going to be anything like this first morning, you were ready to laugh next to this man.

The kitchen was in pristine condition. If you didn’t know for a fact that seven men lived in the apartment you could have sworn that kitchen just came out of an IKEA catalogue. You sat on one of the chairs while Hoseok moved about between cupboards and counters. He was making salad and pulling huge containers out of the freezer. Cutting some kimchi and preparing some rice. If your calculations were right, that was too much food for only two people, but it was his house, his kitchen and his food, you weren’t about to contradict him. Maybe you could finish all that food, you were nearly starving after all. 

So focused you were on ogling how he moved about the kitchen, with his hair getting fluffier as it dried, that you didn’t notice the sound of feet approaching the kitchen or some chairs being occupied next to you. You were forced out of your daydreaming by someone cleaning their throat to your right.

Turning in your seat, you were startled to find Kim Namjoon sitting next to you, his elbow on the table and his chin resting on his hand, imitating your same position. Were you really looking at Hoseok looking like that? Mortifination, here I come, you thought.

“How are you feeling this fine morning, miss Y/N?” He asked. He didn’t seem to be joking, even if his words may look like it, his eyes were serious and he sat, patiently waiting for you to answer. Looking around the kitchen, you noticed that Seokjin and Yoongi had also entered the kitchen and were busy pretending not to be paying attention at your conversation with Namjoon while preparing coffee and some kind of omelet. Hoseok wasn’t even being subtle at it and just smiled at you encouragingly only to turn and scoop a good amount of rice into a pink bowl. With a slight tilt of your head, you greeted them, thinking that introductions were long overdue but not knowing how get them out of the way without looking awkward. You decided to hold onto the lifeline Namjoon had thrown you and, looking back to him and finding him in the same position, smiled and answered his question.

“I am great, thank you very much,” your shaky smile turned into a genuine smile just as his did, and his dimples showed up, “Hoseok has been wonderful and I feel rested for the first time in years.”

A windshield boast of laughter interrupted the quiet calm of the kitchen as Seokjin threw his arm around hoseok and ruffled his hair.

“Did you all hear that? She calls him Hoseok and he’s been wonderful!” His laughter was contagious and even Yoongi ended up laughing along with the three of you as he settled in the chair across from yours. Hoseok brought over all the food and placed some of it under a small umbrella, for the little ones when they wake up, he told you. The four of you did a faster job of the food than you could have imagined. Apparently after Hoseok and you retired for the night, the rest of them had had a few celebratory drinks and had woken up hangover and hungry.

“It’s always like this, Y/N,” was telling you Yoongi, becoming quickly comfortable with you as Hoseok found more and more in common between the two of you, “we wake up early after we drink, make huge amounts of food and then, when the other three finish polishing up the plates, they clean. A nice symbiosis we’ve got here,” he finished, chuckling along with you at the image of the other three members of BTS finishing off the huge dishes the other four had set aside for them. 

“Now, let’s talk business,” started Jin, after sharing a meaningful look with Namjoon, “what are we going to do with BigHit?”

Silence reigned in the kitchen then. You felt Hoseok tensing beside you and immediately relax. His feelings were a mess of nervousness, anticipation and apprehension, but on the outside he was calm and collected.

“Bang PD was okay with me having a soulmate, we’ll just go and talk to them, the PR team as well. But they should know things are changing. Y/N is here to stay,” he said as his hand got a hold of yours under the table. You had a feeling his brothers noticed but none of them did anything but nod at Hoseok’s words, as if taking it as fact.

“All of us will be there with you, of course,” was saying Namjoon, drinking his Americano with a metallic straw that reflected the light from the windows into your eyes. The whole thing looked just surreal to you, sitting in the kitchen table with Seokjin, Namjoon, Yoongi and your Soulmate Hoseok. How had your life turned into this? You wouldn’t know, “Y/N’s part of the family now. Someone will have to wake up Jimin, Tae and JK, but we’ll be ready to go when you guys are. I just need to know how many cars we’ll be needing to text Sejin.”

The other three seemed used to this complete 180 degree personality change, from the Namjoon who nearly stabbed his eye with the straw, to Kim Namjoon, RM, leader of BTS. You, on the other hand, were getting whiplash.

Sensing it, even before you did, Hoseok moved your hands from under the table and placed a light kiss on yours. His eyes connected with yours and as if he was speaking out loud for the whole house to hear, you heard his whisper: “This is normal, Y/N. I’m here, okay?”

You nodded. You just needed some time to get used to the new life thrown in front of you. You prided yourself in being a fast learner and quick to adapt to new situations. You would just have to floor it and get used to it faster. 

As if you needed something else to get used to, just as Hoseok was lowering your hands back to the table, another pair of feet were heard entering the kitchen, followed by a sleepy Jimin, rubbing his face. His eyes glossed over the kitchen, seemingly taking notice of the people there and realising there was one too many.  

“Hey Y/N, I’m very glad to see you looking alive again! I got very worried yesterday! I’m gonna like having you around! Please tell me there’s some mul-naengmyeon left!”

He examined the dishes as if nothing had happened wishfully ignorant to your wide eyes and the way your legs were hammering a whole into the marble floor. The older men were found in varying degrees of amusement at your nervousness, but all of them found it hilarious. It was Jin who, this time, took pity of you and smiling brightly, set a piece of kimchi in your spoonful of rice.

“That’s our Jiminnie for you, very excitable!”

Smiling, Hoseok pushed you up to your feet and reminded you to take that shower you were talking about earlier. He tidied up both your places on the table and, promising to come back quickly so you could leave for the company, he guided your shocked self back to his room. He stopped to check one on the rooms in the hallway, telling someone to get ready fast and to wake the maknae while they were still ahead of schedule, continuing later on his way. Once inside of his room, he produced a nice pair of jeans and a huge orange hoodie from one of the drawers and, putting them in your hands, gently guided you to the bathroom and smiled at you, closing the door behind you.

SOOO, WHAT DID YOU GUYS THINK? TOO FAST? TOO SLOW? SHOULD I RETIRE?🥴

Send me an ask if you want to be added to the tag list.

Love 💜🌙

Tag list: @obsessoverthesmallthings247 @threedecadesofawkward @mabel-k3 @tremendousminyoongi @justignoremepleaz @demonic-meatball @hadaises @littlestsweetpea28 @rjsmochii @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @gali-005 @salty-for-suga @indicisive-af @nomimits7 @lysjeon @raisatarannum1234 @purplelady85 @threedecadesofawkward @valentynxmgc @acopenhagenarmy @ephyra1230 @minluvly @trashandshook @brinascorpio @trixiethebear @hobi-love​

[codename-adler]

Kevin Day and his Oblivious Literature Lover, pt. VI

This bit explores Kevin’s sexual identity and his relationship to Jean, so, you know, not all funs and games... But very cathartic to write. I love them.

>> Table of Contents, TW and other parts are here!

after Juliet’s confession, their little talk does not flow any easier, but despite the rocky start and their dirty secrets, they push through the stuff that matters

it’s like a dam burst open

though, some subjects remain silenced

no parents, no exy, no relationships, no entourage, no names…

it’s just them

Kevin stays well into the afternoon

he has no class on Tuesdays, except in the mornings and, well, for once, he chose to rearrange his priorities

it wasn’t even a difficult choice, it wasn’t even a question: he had to stay, simple as that

he even missed morning practice

morning practice

it scares him, he feels the restlessness running through his veins, he feels guilty, guilty, guilty… and so, so weak…

but that was easier than leaving Juliet in the state she was

that had never happened before

not even with Jean

he’s used to flight, not fight

as for Juliet, either she didn’t have class or she chose the same as Kevin

either way, both were unspokenly grateful

sometimes, Juliet would fall asleep 

sometimes she’d go non verbal and simply watch Kevin do his homework

one time he fell asleep

he woke up extremely tense, his jaw hurting from the clenching and his back protesting against his curled up position on the floor (really, an elite athlete should know better)

Juliet was looking at him strangely

“Can I ask for another truth?” she said quietly

he nodded calmly while his heart went racing

“Who’s Jean?”

ah

“You said his name in your sleep. A lot. Are you usually a sleeptalker? I know I sleepwalk sometimes, but I don’t think I’ve ever talked,” she added

Kevin took an awful long time to think

he was looking at Juliet without really seeing her

instead he was imagining Jean’s bruised and battered face

he started speaking without refocusing his gaze, staring in the distance behind Juliet

“Jean is… He’s the one who taught me French. He’s the one who made me discover philosophy, Sartre and Hell is other people and all. He’s the one who listened first. He is the man that knows my shames, my failures, my mistakes, my ugly side, the man who knew and still looked at me as a human being with worth. He’s the one who showed me how to reset a dislocated shoulder. He’s the one I used to talk to in the middle of the night, about future plans or crazy ideas or incredible historical discoveries. He was my crutch when I couldn’t stand on my own anymore. He’s the one who kept my spirits up when times were tough. He is the man who kept me alive without either of us realizing it until it was too late. He is the man that I took for granted, the man I left behind without a second thought when things got too bad. I could beg for forgiveness my whole life and it still wouldn’t be enough to do right by him. He is the only person that has ever left me speechless. He can make my mind go blank, he can make me lose my words, he can shut me up with just a word. He’s the only one I let, at least. Jean is… So much. Too much, sometimes.”

Kevin’s throat tightened as he spoke, fists clenching and unclenching, his stomach twisting into knots of guilt and shame

if he’d been able to cry, Kevin would have shed burning tears

but he couldn’t

it’s as if everything in his system had been ready to cry, only for his body to realize that his water tank was completely empty of tears

and if Juliet hadn’t been looking at him with such intensity and such intent, Kevin would’ve ran away to Jean’s bedside right this second

three entire languages couldn’t even begin to express everything that Jean was to Kevin

Jean was every single emotion Kevin had ever felt in his short yet brutal existence, wrapped in one person as complex as the mechanics of the world

Kevin thought back on that first night when he allowed himself to be close to Jean since his escape from Edgar Allen

he thought back on how, with a single touch, all their entangled feelings came rushing back to the surface

how Kevin had never wanted to let go ever again, but the dark and violent waves of emotions had made his instincts scream with the urge to run away

Kevin had forgotten Juliet was still a witness to his battle

“Jean was… is… you ex?” she asked, something like wariness in her eyes

and what

“What?” he even says aloud

“Jean was your partner? Before… whatever it is you overcame?” Juliet repeats

“No!?”

“Okay… I’m sorry, Kevin… I didn’t mean…” she apologizes

“Why would you say that?” Kevin harshly asks

“Why wouldn’t I? It seems you two shared a very special bond, that’s all I’m saying,” she replies

she couldn’t possibly know

she couldn’t know

how would she know?

only two people in this godforsaken existence knew about these secrets in the dark, one of them being barely conscious in a bed a few minutes away, and the other one being himself

it was impossible that Juliet knew about what had transpired between him and Jean

“Kevin?” Juliet’s voice finally reaching him

“I said ‘Sorry for assuming’, I shouldn’t have done that. We don’t have to talk about it anymore, I’m sorry.”

Kevin considered their exchange

“I think I want to talk about it. To you,” Kevin finally spoke

Juliet nodded slowly, ever so careful, a silent yet binding promise passing between them

and so Kevin told her everything

absolutely everything

everything that didn’t touch exy, Riko, the Ravens, but that still left plenty, enough to cover many pages of poetry

he told her about how it had started between them, how Jean’s resilience had intrigued Kevin and how it had made him discover that there was more to life than his adoptive-brother

how Kevin had wanted a part of that rebellion Jean carried in his heart, how he tutored Kevin in French to share that slow-burning flame

he told her how for the first time in his life, Kevin’s entire focus wasn’t on one thing, but on a person too

he told her how their midnight talks became as important to him as his duty was

he told her how he began fighting for something else without knowing what it was, or why

he told her how on these nights, as Jean was teaching him verb tenses in French, their heads had, inch by inch, made their way closer to the other’s, until their foreheads were touching and their whispers barely made a sound on their lips

he told her how one fateful night, as Jean was teaching him the future tenses, their faces hadn’t stopped moving once their foreheads touched

how that simple touch hadn’t been enough anymore

how Jean had been his first kiss, his every kisses for the longest time

how he had been Jean’s first kiss, too

he told her how they had been each other’s first for everything

how they had been each other’s everything for a long time

he also told her how his fear and his shame, and his ambition, had ruined what they had

how his and Jean’s “situation” made it so, so hard

how once he was 17 and was “promoted”, Kevin didn’t choose Jean back

how it was on-and-off between them even when he showed interest towards Thea, also his now ex

how he had “moved” when shit hit the fan, and how he didn’t bring Jean with him because he was too scared, too self-centered, too weak

he told her how nobody knew back then, how nobody knows even now, because he had denied everything to everyone, including himself

and he told her how Jean was back, now, and how the memories came flooding back in with that same sour, yet familiar taste of shame, guilt, and fear

Kevin talked and talked and talked…

and Juliet listened

and Kevin cried, or rather, tears escaped his saddened eyes without even realizing it

and Juliet cried, too

they both wiped away the mess with the sleeves of their sweaters

“I have nothing to say about guilt and shame, but… If you liked Jean, if you loved him… if you still do… that is so okay, Kevin. It’s just love. You find it where you can. There’s nothing wrong with that, or with you. That’s how I see it… how I- I see you. You’re still you, Kevin.”

“You don’t know me,” Kevin replied fast, without thinking

Juliet just raised her eyebrow in a really, Kevin? way

“Look at where we are… Look at me… This isn’t even my worst. And I don’t believe it’s yours either. But it’s not pretty. Give us a little credit here, Kev; we’re not strangers anymore. Please don’t be a stranger… “

“Okay, Jules”

---

Kevin left Jackie Hall after sundown, with his heart heavy and his mind racing, but his shoulders a little lighter than yesterday

nothing in his life had magically changed into a goddamn fairytale, yet it felt different

Jules had told him nobody could decide who he was, that was his decision and his alone

he held that power, and only he chose who could wield some of it

he could choose what to do with it, and that thing could be outside of exy

at least, it could be for someone, instead of something

someone like Jean

on his way back to the familiarity Abby’s, back to Jean, he began plotting

by the time he was back by the bedside of the person he’d held so close to his heart and his lips, once upon a time, Kevin had formed a plan to give Jean the happy ending he so deserved

he’d have to make a few calls to USC, to the Trojans, to Jeremy Knox, he’d have to be careful of what he revealed, he’d have to convince Jean to leave, he’d have to convince himself to let Jean go, too, but he believed it was worth it

and if once in a while, in his cautious planning of Jean’s second chance at life, Kevin absentmindedly thought of a certain face framed with frizzy hair when the words “happy ending” kept nagging him, well no one could take that away from him either