#and then told me i had nothing to be depressed and anxious about

[marvelstoriesepic]

Beneath the Bones of the Land

Pairing: Vampire!Bucky x Reader (Farmer Au)

Summary: Inheriting the old farmhouse of your grandmother, you move to a town that watches you from the fields and makes the pines lean too close, and it isn’t long before you begin to fear you’ll lose your mind the way she did.

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: mild violence (supernatural); blood and injury description; town lore; implied death; non-consensual mind influence/compulsion (vampiric); gothic vibes; feelings of isolation, grief, depression (reader’s backstory, though nothing graphic); stalking; minor gore; implied cannibalism themes; emotional manipulation under supernatural influence; Reader is lonely

Author’s Note: Uh, I honestly have no idea what to even say here. This fic is so unlike anything I’ve ever created, but truthfully, it motivated me so intensely that I even intended to write so much more for it. However, I felt a little anxious about how people will even react to this, and I finally wanted to share something again, so I thought I’d provide this for now and see if y’all are interested in more. Anyway, this is written for @artficlly ’s Spin the Trope Event! My prompts were Vampire and Farmer Au, and I sure hope I succeeded in merging them in an intriguing way.

Masterlist

Maybe your grandmother wasn’t so crazy after all.

You used to think she was. Everyone did.

Her nails looked rusted and she always used to stir her tea with a chipped spoon at the very same kitchen table you are looking at right now with her pale-eyed stares and ink-blot dreams, her words dripping from her cracked lips down the sides of your childhood.

She’d sit on the porch with her knitted shawls and feral cats, whispering about dead things that breathed and soil that listened, and something - always something - watching from the cornfields with shining eyes.

Your parents would hush her, sharp and sudden with heated glares and tight smiles that left lines in their cheeks. “Stop scaring her, mother.” “Enough with the stories.”

They would tell you not to listen. Would tell you she was old, tired, her mind gone thin and fuzzy.

But standing here, in the kitchen space of her rotting farmhouse, you think maybe you should have listened. That maybe those stories weren’t stories at all.

Because Gallows Fen is not at all the town you had expected to move into.

It’s a town that exhales mist into the dawn, sighs when the wind rakes through the fields. The corn grows too tall, too fast, as though it cannot bear the stillness. The dirt is too dark, too soft, engulfing your boots whole when you step off the path. You have seen the crows lined along the telephone wires, and they all but stare down with glassy back eyes when you walk past. Sometimes you think they are whispering to each other, sometimes you think they’re laughing.

You moved here three weeks ago, grief clutched in your ribs like something refusing to die, and everything else in your life crumbling too quickly for you to mourn it properly. You packed up your small life with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, you signed papers you don’t remember reading, and now you are here, in this farmhouse you’ve inherited that smells of your grandmother’s citrus soap and something even older, like iron and earth. It leans to the side ever so slightly, a little crooked, so imperfect, enough to worry you - but not enough to fall.

It has two chimneys, one working and one sealed shut with brick and rust. A front porch sagging. Windowpanes that blink in the night if you stare too long.

Inside, the walls talk to you when it rains. The attic door opens by itself on Tuesdays. And every morning at 5:47 am, the grandfather clock chimes once, even though it hasn’t worked in decades.

You’ve told yourself it’s the wind. Or mice. Or that your mind, feral with exhaustion, is inventing things.

You unpacked your sweaters into her creaking dresser and found salt sprinkled in the corners of every drawer. Found tiny jars of herbs hanging from the rafters. Found a lock of hair, tied with twine, in a small box under her bed, and you put it back without looking at it too long.

You thought small towns would be warm, curious, breezy, kind. But the people here stare too long. Their smiles are too wide, their teeth too pointed and white. They ask you how you’re settling in, how the house feels at night, how your grandma is doing although she died months ago. They ask if you’ve heard the sounds yet. You don’t ask what sounds. You don’t want to know.

Gallows Fen is small. Perhaps a little too small. The kind of place where the post office shares a roof with the barber shop, and the only grocery store sells both tomatoes and tombstones. It smells like burnt leaves and rotted fruit everywhere you go. Everything is quiet, but not peaceful quiet. More like something that’s waiting, something that’s anticipating, something that’s watching. A pressed-flower-under-glass way.

The people are nice, or something like it.

But they are definitely not normal.

There’s the woman who runs the bakery and she’s always wearing a red scarf, even in the heat, her teeth a little too sharp when she smiles. The boy who rides his bike in circles every dusk, not speaking, not stopping. The man who runs the inn but never opens it. He just sweeps the steps. All day. The butcher you saw wiping his hands onto a cloth that was already stained. You saw the florist snipping the heads off roses before they even open, dropping them into a jar of cloudy water. You saw the old woman at the diner stirring honey into her coffee, and when she pulled the spoon out, it dropped red.

And they always seem to hide in some sense. They all stay under awnings, behind curtains, under shadows like it’s a community thing.

Your grandmother’s stories don’t feel so far-fetched now.

And then there’s the farm next door.

Your neighbor.

You’ve never actually seen him. Not in daylight. Only the outline of him, moving behind curtains, moving through the fog that hangs low over his fields, turning the soil at night when the moon is heavy in the sky. Sometimes you see his shadow in the looming glow, standing there, like he’s waiting for something. Once you made out a gloved hand and a long black coat - just a flash - pulling shut a barn door at dawn. And that barn. That barn. Too tall. Too narrow. Always closed. Always breathing.

You feel it watching you.

And sometimes - though you’d never admit it aloud - you feel like someone is standing just beyond the treeline, holding their breath when you hold yours.

The fence between your properties is broken in places - iron posts strung with copper wire - and you thought about fixing it the first day, but ever since, every morning you find it mended with new wood, nails so clean they shine, only to have it broken again at night.

The field next to yours is sprawling, wild in its organization. Rows of wheat that sway even when there’s no wind. Trees with bark the color of dried blood. A scarecrow in the far corner that never seems to be in the same place twice.

You thought about knocking on your neighbor’s door.

But you haven’t dared to cross the fence.

Something holds you back.

Because sometimes, when you walk to the edge of your fields, the air stops its flow, the crows stop their crying, and you feel something pressing against your spine, like a hand that isn’t there. Sometimes, you think you hear your name on the wind, soft and mournful, as though spoken by lips no longer warm.

And other times, at night, you wake up with the taste of honey and iron on your tongue, and you hear footsteps on your porch that never knock, footsteps that wait until dawn before fading away.

You tell yourself it’s just your imagination, that the grief is making you see ghosts.

But you remember your grandmother’s words, soft and cracked, the night before your parents took you away for the last time.

“The land remembers, little doe. The land remembers what it is owed.”

And maybe she wasn’t so crazy after all.

Or maybe you’re just growing crazier.

Because you have been afraid before.

You have known the kind of fear that is patient and cruel. You’ve known the feeling of it tiptoeing around in your bones while you pretended you were fine, while you sipped coffee with trembling hands, while you counted your breaths so you wouldn’t fall apart in public. The kind of fear that leaves fingerprints on your throat and bruises on your mind, that sits on your chest while you try to sleep, whispering the names of the dead you couldn’t save, the ones you couldn’t keep.

You have known fear like an infection, muddy and rotting, turning everything you love into something sour.

You came into this mysterious town that breathes in the dark, to this house that smells of citrus and rust, to these fields that shift under your feet - all with the feeling of knowing fear.

But this isn’t what you know.

This fear tastes like ivy and oil. It wakes you up in the middle of the night, but it doesn’t choke you. It makes your blood move, makes your hand shake, but not with weakness, with something that’s sharp, alive.

You look out the window in the dawn and watch the fog slip across the fields like a hand stroking the earth. You see shapes move in that fog, sinister and lurching, and it frightens you, but it is a fear that feels like a clean wound, bright and stinging, something that might heal if you knew how to tend to it.

You think of all the places you have been afraid before - bathrooms with locked doors, hospital waiting rooms that smelled of bleach and sorrow, car rides that felt as if the air was already breathed into too much and every shift you made was a question.

You think of all the nights you lay awake, afraid of what tomorrow would take from you, afraid of who you were becoming, afraid that nothing would ever change.

And then you stand here on this creaking floor, staring at the fields that move when nothing should be moving, and you realize you are afraid again, but for whole other reasons.

This fear comes with the wind that smells like rain and soil, with the crows that call your name from the wires, with the footsteps on your porch that leave no dents in the wood. This fear comes with the possibility that there are things in this world older and stranger than your grief, that there are things worth being afraid of, things that demand your attention in a different way.

And it surprises you, how your heart beats under your ribs, how it wakes up in your chest as though it remembers what it was made for.

You catch your reflection in the window as it gets darker by the hour, hair falling around your face, eyes bruised with old sadness, and you almost laugh because for the first time in so long, you look almost alive.

Even if it’s in a place where the ground has lungs to breathe with, where the townspeople smile too wide, where the neighbor you have never seen mends your fences in the dark and leaves you with nothing but shadows to glimpse.

Even if you feel watched.

You breathe in the air, and you let the fear sit in your chest, let it warm you from the inside, let it tell you that something is coming, that you are standing on the edge of something you cannot see.

So you sit down on the couch chair your grandmother once ruled like a throne, legs pulled up under you, blanket around your shoulders, wondering just how much of what she said was a metaphor, and how much of it was a warning.

Because there certainly is something wrong here. But it is beautiful in its wrongness. Like a corpse with flowers blooming from the ribcage.

The town is too quiet. The sky is too black. The stars too close.

And somewhere out there, past the fence line, past the thistles and pitted steel, past the moon-glint bones buried beneath the pear tree-

Someone is watching you.

And he hasn’t blinked in a very long time.

****

You bleed so easily.

It’s stupid, really. A careless slip of the knife, a shard of porcelain from the chipped teacup your grandmother used to swear could never break - but now it’s in pieces on the floor and so are you, breathless from surprise, your skin open like a door.

The cut is thin but long, slicing across the pad of your palm, and the blood beads up like it’s proud of itself, dripping down your wrist in a shy line.

Warm. Red. Singing.

You curse softly under your breath - you need something to stop the bleeding. The farmhouse is full of books and dust and silence but nothing useful. No first aid kit. No rags. Just mothballs in drawers, and threadbare towels that smell as if they’ve been left there too long, and the sound of the walls exhaling behind you.

The floorboards creak under your feet as you wrap your bleeding hand in the corner of your sweater, feeling it warm and pulse, the fabric darkening.

So you step outside. On your way to the cabin. That strange little shed by the edge of the woods.

There’s a rose bush growing near the fenceline now. It wasn’t there yesterday. Thorns like bone fragments. Petals the color of dried blood and gold.

You haven’t touched them. But you’re tempted.

That’s the thing about this town - it invites you to reach out, knowing it will hurt when you do.

You’ve learned to keep your hands to yourself.

You’re carrying the old oil lamp from the house, the one with the cracked chimney glass and the moths trapped inside. They keep fluttering, even though the flame is long gone. You don’t know what that means.

Nothing makes sense here.

Not the trees that lean in, listening. Not the rain that falls only on Sundays. Not the mirror in your hallway that shows things behind you that aren’t there when you turn around.

The air is cold around your skin, the sky darker than it should be, the moon is a milk-pale witness and you clutch your hand to your chest as if to hide the blood from the night, as if it’s something shameful, as if it’s something holy.

The cabin crouches there, at the end of the field, in front of the woods, as if it’s waiting for you, wood swollen with rain from last Sunday, door creaking when you push it open. It smells like the breath of something that’s been sleeping too long.

The lantern casts its honey-colored glow across the old wood walls, lighting up dust motes that float with nowhere to go. You step inside, breathing too loud, heart too fast. You don’t even notice how the air thickens. How it tightens around you like a noose.

A breeze shivers through the small space, like a sigh that had lost its body and was looking for a throat to borrow.

Shapes form in the dark that weren’t there before.

You are not alone.

You know it. Not by sound. Not by sight.

But something presses.

Not footsteps. Not a whisper.

Just presence.

Like a second shadow peeling itself from your spine.

Like eyes you can’t see, blinking in the dark behind your bones.

It touches you first through scent.

Smoke. Winter. Iron.

Something burning, but long after the fire has died.

“You're bleeding.”

The low voice comes from nowhere. And everywhere.

You freeze and then stumble out of the cabin. The flashlight trembles in your grip, skates wildly over the trees. Empty.

“Who's there?” you call, heart thudding too fast. Too loud.

No reply. Not right away.

Then, behind you. Close. Too close.

“You shouldn't be out here.”

You spin with a panicked gasp, and he’s there.

Leaning against the frame of the cabin like he stepped out of the shadows, born from them. Not a sound. Not a warning. Just here, and your breath leaves you so fast you feel lightheaded.

Shadows hunch over his boots, the outline of him drawn in darkness, just outside the glow of your lantern.

His silhouette is tall and unspeakably still. His face carved from the kind of sorrow that leaves bruises, all sharp cheekbones and dusk-shadowed stubble. His eyes catch the light and hold it - gray and silver, depthless. Hungry.

He doesn’t move, and yet the air around him feels like it’s rushing toward you, collapsing into the hollow of your chest.

You blink, and his face is clearer - but not clearer. Pale skin. Eyes like ice, or mirrors, or graves. You’ve seen his shadow at a distance before. In the corner of your eye. Behind trees. Watching. Waiting.

And now he is here.

Your neighbor.

“You’re hurt,” he says again. His voice is syrupy-slow, smooth, and you think you hear hunger in it, something feral pressed behind the consonants, the vowels slipping around your throat like cold hands.

You press your palm to your arm. “It’s fine. Just a cut.” Your voice is small, and the lantern trembles in your other hand, throwing him in and out of light.

But his gaze is locked there. On your hand. You glimpse his eyes, dark and too bright, burning a cold blue that should not be named a color.

The wind moves, and so does he.

He is closer now, without a sound, without a footstep, the scent of pine and something older mixing around you, the lantern light glinting off the edge of his jaw, his lips parted just enough for you to see the sharp white of his teeth.

“You need to stop it,” he remarks lowly, voice turning rougher. His voice is pouring over you, dark and sweet nectar, like something you’d drink before realizing it was poison. “The bleeding.”

“I was trying,” you reply, your fear changing the tone of your voice. “There's nothing in the house.”

His eyes are still on your hand, and his nostrils flare. He swallows, throat working, and you can almost see him fighting with himself, the way his fingers flex, the way he tilts his head as if listening to something.

You take a step back.

He steps forward.

“You should be more careful,” he notes, but it doesn’t sound genuine. His eyes snap to your lips, your throat, your hand, back to your eyes. His pupils are wide, swallowing blue, swallowing reason.

You gulp down a harsh breath.

Your lantern flickers, dies, plunging you both into darkness so thick it tastes like earth on your tongue. Your breath hitches audibly.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers, sinful and decadent, sounding closer once more, and you feel it, the words sinking into your mind, sodden with gloom, soft and shadow-draped. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

And you don’t.

Your fear falls through the floor of your own body, drawing tight into silence, and your mind follows, quieting like a pond gone still. Your heart still beats too fast, but the fear is gone, replaced by a soft, strange trust that feels like it’s dead but still knows how to brush your hands.

He steps forward again and you’re too slow, your body lagging behind. His hand comes up, gloved fingers brushing your wrist

His other hand lifts, almost tender, to the crook of your elbow. He draws you forward an inch.

And another.

You’re not sure you gave permission.

You pull in a sharp breath.

You open your mouth to speak, but the words don’t come. His eyes catch you, and your tongue goes still, your limbs go quiet, your thoughts begin to dissolve at the edges like paper set on fire. It’s not fear. Not exactly.

It’s awe. And heat. And something blooming in your bones that you don’t have a name for.

His gaze falls back to your hand.

You forgot about the blood.

But he didn’t.

His breath catches, and you feel it in your spine like a chord being plucked. Something in his face shifts - falls apart. Like he’s fighting something inside himself and losing.

He leans in.

Too close. Too near. His face sharp in the moonlight, jaw locked, lips parted. You see it now, fully - the edge of a fang, just barely pressing into his bottom lip.

You can’t explain it - you don’t even think to try - but there is something pressing on your mind. Not a shove, but a caress with purpose. Like something smooth soaked in shadow, slipping across your thoughts. Like fingers dipped in fog, tightening gently around your mind until even your silence isn't yours anymore.

“Shh,“ he whispers coaxingly, voice sticky and laced with something sweet. “Be still.”

Your body does exactly that.

Not out of fear. Your muscles ease. Your fingers uncurl from the fabric of your shirt. Your lungs move but you don’t remember telling them to. A calm seeps into your bones that isn’t yours.

Your thoughts slow. Gentle. Muted.

And your heart - the part of you screaming to run - fades into a hush, like a song turned down in another room.

He leans in further, his lips almost at your throat now. His breath ghosts across your skin. You shiver. But your feet don’t move.

Because he told you not to.

And your body listens.

“God,” he whispers, voice so quiet. He presses his nose to the curve of your neck, inhales deeply, and you feel it in your knees, feel something inside you coming undone.

He parts his lips. Pulls back ever so slightly.

Your skin tingles.

You watch, dazed, as he lifts your hand to his lips, his fingers cold. His eyes flutter shut. You feel the warmth of his breath on his skin, the cold press of his mouth over the cut.

Your mind is an echoing cathedral of soft, drifting thoughts. You know you should be afraid. You should scream. You should run. Why aren’t you running? Why does this feel like a blessing, why does this feel like a sin?

You feel the sharp scrape of his fangs against your skin, just a kiss, just a threat, just a promise. His mouth opens, and you feel the tip of his tongue, cold, lapping at the blood.

A sound escapes him, low and broken, something escaping in a breathless exhale, and his grip on your hand tightens, his other arm sliding around your waist to pull you into him.

Your breath stutters and you find yourself arching forward, something like heat, like lightning, like terror tearing through your veins.

You are not afraid.

You should be.

Then he freezes.

You see it, but you don’t understand it - the sudden panic that blooms across his face, the way his eyes widen, blue and blazing and terrified of themselves, of you, of this moment.

He tears his mouth away from your skin so fast it makes you gasp. He is breathing hard, eyes locked on yours, and you see the blood on his lips, your blood, glinting in the moonlight.

He backs away instantly, as if scorched.

His eyes fall down to your hand again, then back up to you, and something deep and haunting grips his expression. He stares at you as though he doesn’t quite know what you are, as though he doesn’t know what he is.

“I’m sorry.” It's not quite human, the way he says it. There's too much ache in it. Too much weight.

You are still floating in the hush of it, blinking slowly back at him, your fear still absent, replaced by something soft, something aching. You want his mouth back on you.

Your neighbor curses to himself, jaw tightening, eyes closing for a breath, two.

He turns from you. Runs a hand over his face like he could scrub the want out of his bones.

He has already put distance between you and you don’t like that. So you take a step toward him again, and his eyes immediately snap open. His eyes are still storm-tossed, a warning within them. With fumbling hands, he retrieves something from his pocket. A cloth so it seems. He holds it out to you.

“For your hand.” His voice is hoarse.

You take it.

Your fingers touch his.

He shudders and jerks away.

The fabric is warm. You don’t ask questions, you just press it to your hand.

The man in front of you lets out a rough exhale that shakes just a little. His eyes flash back to you. Hook into your mind. They are cold now, resolved. A hand of his lifts up to your face, brushing a strand of hair from your face with an intimacy that breaks something in you.

His gaze is searing. You cannot look away.

Slowly, your voice seeps back into your throat. “Who are you?” Your voice is soft, slightly slurring.

He hesitates. The wind dances around his shoulders. His voice is quieter this time. A confession.

“James Barnes,” he says. “Most call me Bucky.”

You stare. “You’re my neighbor.”

A nod. Slow. He doesn’t blink. Just keeps staring into your eyes with a gaze so intense, your body trembles from it.

His eyes tighten again. “Go back inside,” he commands, voice rough, darkened by something.

You don’t want to. The thought of leaving him feels like pulling your heart out of your chest. You want to ask him why you’re not afraid, why your pulse is singing, why your knees are weak not from fear but from something like wanting. You want to ask him what he is.

But the words don’t come up. They don’t even fully gather in your mind. They get suppressed by the remaining soft warmth that still glows in your head.

Your body turns on its own, your feet carrying you back toward the farmhouse as the shadows take him, hiding him from you.

But he watches you go.

You feel his stare even after you’ve turned.

Like the woods are watching.

Like he is still inside your veins.

But you still don’t feel afraid.

You don’t feel anything at all except the soft echo of his voice, telling you not to be afraid, telling you not to move, telling you to go back inside.

And you obey.

Because you cannot do anything else.

Because something in you wants to listen.

Because something in you wants him to come back.

But all you do is walk.

Across the field.

Back to the porch, up the steps, one at a time.

The door creaks open.

You step inside.

Close it.

Lock it.

You don’t blink.

You don’t cry.

You don’t think.

You go upstairs.

You sit on the edge of the bed.

Your arm is still bleeding, a little, but you don’t notice. You just stare at the wall and feel strange.

Like waking from a dream someone else wrote for you.

Like you’d been dancing with something that didn’t have a shadow.

And deep down, beneath your skin, under your ribs and wrapped tight around your spine lingers the haunted trace of his words.

****

You wake to voices.

Muffled, cracking through the dawn the same way they crack through your mind.

For a moment you think it is a dream, the ones that leave you gasping into your pillow, but the voices keep biting at your sleep, dragging you into the cold air of your room, into the sound of cicadas looming near the windows.

You blink, slow, your eyes dry and your body heavy, the imprint of sleep leaving you in layers. Your grandmother’s quilt is tangled around your ankles, the shape of your nightmare still caught in the folds.

The voices grow sharper, closer, arguing beneath your window.

And you know one of them.

It rattles you how you know it, how it settles in your bones.

His voice is different when he is not talking to you. Deeper. Rougher. Like pebbles dreaming beneath glassy depths, like thunder rolling in the well of your chest.

You have not seen him properly since that night, since he took your wrist in his hand and gave you a cloth to stop the bleeding, since the lantern light caught on his too-bright eyes, and how terrifying he looked.

You don’t know why you didn’t turn around the second you saw him. You don’t know why you weren’t put off by the fact that he seemed to have appeared out of nowhere and in the middle of the night, and on your ground.

He is strange. And mysterious. Perhaps crazy. But you think you might be going crazy as well. Just like your grandmother.

You’ve only seen him in glimpses since then. A shadow moving across your porch when you forget to close the curtains. The sound of footsteps behind you when you walk into town for milk. The shape of him leaning against a fence post as you hang your laundry, his eyes hidden beneath a shadow that shouldn’t be there, watching, not watching, maybe both.

Since then, you’ve watched your step.

You’ve noticed things.

Small things.

Shadows in windows that shouldn’t be there. The postman leaving letters without making a sound. Children playing the same game, every day, always in a perfect circle, always silent. People never walking through the middle of town square.

And Bucky’s barn light - glowing red, only once, the night after your encounter.

But no one talks.

No one knocks on your door.

You feel the world breathing down your neck, like the old walls are leaning closer to listen to your thoughts. You feel eyes on you in the grocery store, in the post office, on the cracked sidewalk. You hear the creak of footsteps around your house at midnight, but when you look, there is nothing, only the dark, only the pines gossiping with each other in a language older than your bones.

Sometimes you think you see shapes in the tree line.

Sometimes you think the ground itself is more alive than it lets on.

You are tired. You are scared. You are pretending you are neither.

Languidly, you slip out of bed, floorboards cold under your feet, the night air brushing against your skin like a damp hand. You do not turn on the light, letting the moon guide you, the silver glow falling across the floor in soft lines, the shadows watching you between them.

The voices are clearer now, just outside.

“What, you already claimed her as your own personal blood bag?”

A voice you do not know, smooth and oily, words twisting through the wood.

“Rumlow.” It’s a single word. But it’s a dangerous purr. “You don’t want to do this.”

You press closer to the window, trembling fingers sliding the curtain just a breath aside, and you peer out, down.

Two men on your porch, shadows on shadows, the moon carving out their outlines in silver. Your neighbor stands between the door and the other man, his body tense, braced, like he’s about to rip someone in half. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in nearly a week. And even now, you don’t really see him. His face is turned away from you, the moonlight only brushing the edge of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone.

“I heard she’s sweet,” the other man goes on, his eyes black holes that refuse to let in the moonlight. His movements are snake-like, too smooth, too hungry. There’s something in the way his head tilts as he looks at the front door. Your door. As though he’s listening for your heartbeat. “You can’t keep her for yourself, Sarge.”

“Back off.”

“Oh, come on. It’s just a taste-”

“I said, back off.”

But the other man laughs, low and rotten, like the creak of your old farmhouse.

And he steps forward. Toward your house. Toward you.

Bucky moves.

“Don’t,” he snarls, and you freeze because it is not a human sound, not a sound you have ever heard before, not something that should live in a voice.

He shoves the other man back, hard, his face twisting into something monstrous, something beautiful, something that makes the air snap around them.

You see it before you understand it.

The way Bucky’s mouth pulls back, lips curling, and there are fangs - sharp and white and glinting, illuminated by the moonlight as he hisses, and the sound rattles your windowpane, freezes your blood in your veins.

Your gasp is loud, horrified, a bird’s scream in the dark.

And Bucky’s head snaps up, to the window, to you, eyes wide, bright blue, blazing, finding yours across the dark, locking onto you. His face shifts. Just slightly. The fury melts for a second - something flashes through his expression. You don’t know what it is.

You yank the curtain shut so fast the rod clatters. You stumble back, your pulse crashing against your ribs, your breath coming too fast, too erratic, the room spinning around you as you trip over the edge of the rug and catch yourself on the old dresser, the mirror shaking, the glass shivering with your fear.

And then it is silent.

Too silent.

You don’t know how long you stand there, pressing your hand to your mouth, eyes blown.

Suddenly, there is a tremor running through the stillness, through the pounding of your heart.

And then he is there.

Inside.

James Barnes stands in your bedroom, moonlight draped across him, shadows winding around his boots. He lifts his hands, as if to calm you, as if to tell you he is not what you saw.

With a startled shriek, you fall back a step, crashing into the side table, your knee knocking into wood, your hands trembling. You shake your head, mouth open, your body screaming with the need to move, to escape, to breathe.

“How- how did you-” you choke, voice wobbly.

His palms are open. He looks softer now. Not harmless, but less edged. Like he put the monster back into its cage.

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “You’re okay.”

Your head moves side to side rapidly. “What- no, I-” Your voice is a cracked whisper. “How did you get in-”

“Shhh.” His voice is a soothing cadence. Not a sound. It’s a command. And you obey. Your mouth stills. His voice is thick and slow and deep as midnight. “Don’t worry about that, doll.”

Your mind slows, the panic draining away, your breath evening out against your will, your muscles softening even as your eyes stay wide, watching him, unable to look away.

“Don’t be scared,” he eases, and the warmth drips through you, relieving, honey-thick, comforting. A lullaby of rot, impossible to resist, and sweet with ruin.

Your fear dissolves like sugar in hot coffee.

Your mind quiets.

Your shoulders drop.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, so soft, you almost don’t hear it.

His boots are silent on the old wood when he takes a step closer, the shadows around him listening to his body. He studies you with a gaze that is too piercing, too knowing, as though he is reading the very essence of your soul from your skin.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he states softly, almost to himself, and his eyes move over your face, down to your neck, back to your eyes, and there is something shimmering there, something nearly vulnerable and alight, something that feels like the sun rising in winter.

You don’t move.

You don’t want to move.

His hand lifts, almost touching your cheek, stopping just shy of it, shaking slightly.

You feel the heaviness in your mind, the gentle brush of something against your thoughts, the soft hand ready to close your memories like a book.

But he doesn’t.

He stands there, looking at you, seeing you, and you see him too - see the sharp lines of his jaw, the blue blaze of his eyes, the way his lips twitch, almost a smile, almost a sorrow.

You swallow, your mouth dry. “What are you?”

His eyes darken, but the warmth remains, a strange, impossible comfort.

“Nothing you need to be afraid of.” It is almost a whisper, a little bitter, a little haunted.

“Are you going to hurt me?” The words are small, frail as moth wings.

“No.” He says it too quickly, too fiercely, the word a promise that tastes like blood and ashes in the air between you. “You’re safe. I’m not here to hurt you.”

You nod. Because of course, you do. Your mind is syrup-slow, like the room is full of honey and sleep.

But even through the haze - you know something is wrong.

You feel him in your head.

Like a shadow trailing your thoughts, a breath on the nape of your mind.

And still - you don’t look away.

His gaze dips to your hands, your breath, the corner of your mouth. His hand lifts again, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips faintly running along your cheek with an odd tenderness that makes your breath tingle in your throat.

He steps closer and lifts your head up to keep your eyes on his. His other arms slides over your waist to your back, palm flat against you. He holds you tight.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he whispers, and the heaviness in your mind grows, warm and soft, like being wrapped in a quilt by a fire.

Each word brushes the inside of your skull - not loud, but inward, elegant, like something you’d dreamed before it was said.

Your eyelids flutter.

Outside, the wind howls.

Inside, you are alive.

“Sleep,” he repeats, even softer, closer, lulling, the scent of cold pine and iron washing over you as his arms hold you tighter, pressed into his chest.

And, as before, you fold, melt, sleep.

Because he wants you to.

Because as the darkness pulls you under, and your limbs give in to him, the last thing you see is his face, watching you with that deep, ignited blue, the awed shimmer in his eyes.

You do not know that he has saved you tonight.

You do not know that the land is hungry for you.

You do not know that your blood calls to them all, calls to the ancient pact made beneath the pines, beneath the soil, beneath the bones of this strange, breathing town.

You only know the softness of his shadows.

The kind of calmness of his presence that feels like sinking.

And the way you do not feel afraid.

Not with him.

“My loneliness is the black canvas on which you paint your tenderness.”

- Franz Kafka

[parfaitblogs]

making the bed ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your night crumbles around you, and spencer is happy to pick up the pieces. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: hurt/comfort  tags: established relationship. (prior) alcohol consumption. reader is semi-drunk (but sobers up). post drinking depression. healthy alcohol information/discussion 🫡 word count: 2.1k a/n: do not read too much into this for you will begin to question why i still enjoy going clubbing. (joke...) 😄 plsss tell me if u liked this or even if u didnt thank u i love uuuuuu

Alcohol is a depressant. 

You remembered the God awful lecture your boyfriend had given you when you woke up one Sunday morning with this feeling of existential dread, and nothing to pin it to. A ramble about how alcohol can temporarily increase the body's production of dopamine and serotonin when entering, causing a worse crash of both chemicals when it leaves. Leaving you, evidently, depressed and anxious after a big night. 

You knew that. 

You also knew how quick you were to seclude within your mind when you were with people. Too many drinks and not enough social interaction tended to lead to your own isolation, sitting on the outer edge of the booth, absentmindedly playing with the charm on the end of your phone. 

The room no longer spun the way it had an hour ago. You missed when it spun. When it spun, you weren't thinking about how little you had to contribute to the conversations your friends were having. You weren't tallying up how many drinks you had already drank, then falling flat when you realised you couldn't remember, and that was a thought more horrifying than knowing it was over ten. You were fun, when the room was a carousel. 

Now, it's simply overwhelming. Loud chattering from both your table, and the surrounding ones. Clinking of glasses at the bar. A sports game on the television across the room. Balls on a pool table being dispersed for the first time in a game. Dancing feet. Music. People. So many fucking people.

Your phone buzzes against the table, and you pick it up before any of your friends could turn their heads to see where the vibrations were coming from. You figured they were too drunk to conclude it was you, anyways. Or to care. 

Spencer had texted you fifteen minutes ago to check in on you, and though it wasn't long ago, you not responding immediately in a flurry of half strung together sentences and emojis was worrying for him. That was probably why his name was now lighting up your screen, a funny photo of him mid-bite of an ice cream as his contact photo, enlarged. 

You hadn't responded for no reason other than the fact that you had no will to. Which should've been a big enough red flag to yourself that you should text him, and you should ask if he can pick you up. Thankfully, he loved to prove how well he could read you, and he was calling you anyways. 

"Hi," you mumble into the phone, angling your body away from your friends, hand held up to your other ear to block out some of the noise the best you could. 

"Hi," he parrots back to you. "You okay?"

An automatic yes manifests on your tongue, but you're quick enough to keep it to yourself before you can lie to him. Instead, you let out a quiet, "No."

He seems to have expected that answer, for he leaves no silence in between your admission and his response. "What can I do to help?" He also seems to be expecting your hesitance at asking him for anything that would require him to move, because he adds, "I can pick you up. Do you want me to pick you up?"

"Yes. Please?"

"I'm already leaving," he tells you, and you can hear his shoes against the wooden floor of his apartment to confirm that. "Did something happen? Are you safe?"

"No, nothing happened. I'm safe," you reassure him. "I started feeling sick so I stopped drinking an hour ago. Now I'm just sad."

"You remember what I told you about it being a depressant?"

"Vividly," you mutter, and while it isn't meant to be funny, you hear him huff a short laugh anyways. It makes you feel a little better. 

"It's important to know," he defends. "I'm sorry I shared important information with you."

"Mm."

Your lack of a verbal response was expected, but he still hated the sound of it regardless. You heard him sigh. "I have to hang up now. I'll be there in forty minutes. Will you be okay?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I love you."

"Love you too."

No matter how much time had passed, your head lifted every time the door — that your group was so conveniently close to — opened, letting in a rush of cool air and sobering you up with every hit of it. 

True to his word, Spencer was entering the bar after forty minutes, face scrunching up at the sudden onslaught of noises and visual stimuli. Same boat as you, only he had not a drop of alcohol in his body. At least you weren't crazy about it being overstimulating. 

"This is why I don't go to bars," he says once he's approached your booth, and you had stood up next to you, his hand finding an automatic place on your waist. 

"It's usually not this bad," you tell him, but he decides not to ask you anything else upon hearing just how exhausted your voice sounds. You're grateful for that.

The goodbye to your friends is quick, Spencer rattling off a lie about him needing you home for he had work early the next morning, and you only had one key to the apartment. Even the friends who knew that wasn't the case didn't comment on it, and you made a pointless mental note to thank them for it later. You knew you wouldn't. 

The drive home was even faster. Silence, aside from the rush of the wind from your slightly cracked window as Spencer drove, that helped the sick feeling in your stomach from the alcohol you had consumed. 

It didn't seem to help the hollowness of your chest, though.

You weren't sure if anything would, really. A chemical imbalance in your brain — even one as temporary as the deflation from being drunk — was hard to fix without medication. It would go away, yes. But then you would make the mistake of drinking once more, and you would find yourself back in this brain peeling predicament. 

You showered alone. Despite Spencer's offer to join you, and your own personal desire for him to be there with you. It didn't help your fogged mind at all, and you were exiting the bathroom feeling like you had retreated further into your bones. Every movement felt clunky, your skin a heavy coat to your skeleton, restricting your movement down to short shuffles and barely lifted arm movements. 

He was reading when you reentered your bedroom, and you've never seen him put a book and his glasses back on his bedside table faster. He looked visibly tired. Keeping himself awake a seemingly difficult struggle, that you could feel your body heading towards to as well. 

"Hey," he says as you climb into the bed, and he's very patient as you figure out what position you want your bodies in. Head on his chest, but next to him, you had decided on, and his fingers entangled into your hair.

"Hi," you mumble, staring up at the ceiling, counting brush strokes of the paint, as if it were possible to.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

You huff at the phrase, tilting your head upwards so your eyes could land on him. "Do you have a penny?"

He pauses, then angles his head closer towards yours. "Okay, kiss for your thoughts?"

"That'll just distract me."

"Is that what you want?"

You should say no. Arguably the last thing you should be doing when you're sad is let intimacy with your boyfriend distract you. But then again, you're not the best advocate for healthy coping mechanisms anyways. 

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" he muses, and his lips brush against yours. Your heart flutters. 

"I don't really know what I want," you settle on telling him, honestly. "I want my brain to shut up."

His body deflates beneath you, and you feel guilt chip away up your spine at the killing of the less depressing atmosphere. 

"Sorry," you mumble.

"No. It's good. Be honest with me," he reassures you, quietly. His fingers tap at your scalp, "What's going on up here?"

"I'll cry if I try to verbalise it."

"Crying's good for you, you know," he hums.

"I'm pretty sure I still have eyeliner in my waterline. I'll just stain your sheets," you retort. 

"Yeah, probably. That's fine."

You're silent for a few moments, gathering your thoughts in your brain the best you could despite yourself, before you sit up, his hand dropping to the bed beside you.

"I just don't like being... here? Out? I don't know. I'm just really sick of being sad every time I drink. Is there something wrong with me? Did you get sad whenever you drank? Everyone else I know loves going out for drinks because they have fun and they're giggly drunks, or they're clingy drunks. And if I drink too much then I'm a fucking sad drunk, and I'm the only person I know that gets that way. I want to be normal."

He's silent your entire rant, and then some, waiting for your heaving chest to slow, having caught the few tears that slipped down your cheeks. You were grateful — you needed that time.

He reaches a hand out, and you let him tug you back down to the bed, slotting your body atop his own, just so he could see you properly. 

"To answer your question, no, I didn't get sad when I drank," he says, brushing your hair out of your face, before his hands rest on either side of your face. "But I wasn't really happy, either. I just talked more."

"You already talk a lot."

His lips twitch. "I do. Double whatever you think my worst is, and that was me drunk. Focus on the part where I said I wasn't a happy drunk, please."

"But you weren't sad. So there is something wrong with me."

"No, there's not. Alcohol is a depressant," he punctuates his words with a kiss to your nose, which you gratefully accept despite your emotions. "Are you willing to give up alcohol as a whole?" 

"My friends will think I'm boring, then."

He hesitates in his response, but ultimately settles on asking, "Do you think I'm boring because I don't drink?"

"No. Obviously not. And you have a real reason for not drinking, so—"

"—and being sad isn't a real reason to not drink?"

Taken aback by his sudden sternness, you go quiet, breath hitching within your throat. He was right, ultimately. No reason is reason enough. You knew that. 

Sensing your discomfort at his tone, he expels a breath of air and lowers his hands down to your hips. His voice drops to something a little less harsh, as he murmurs, "You are allowed to not want to drink alcohol if you don't like the way it makes you feel. If your friends think you're boring for that, then they're not worth it."

You silently nod your head, beginning to curse your emotional regulators. For while you had kept your tears at bay for the vast majority of this conversation, it seemed all it took was the gentle rubbing of circles onto your hip bones, and a fact checked piece of life advice from your boyfriend to make you cry. 

"Sorry," you sniffle, dropping your head to the crook of his neck to hide your newly tear stricken face. 

"Crying's good for you," he repeats his earlier words, and feels you nod your head. "You don't have to decide tonight. I'd encourage you not to, actually. You're technically still intoxicated."

"I'm sober," you protest, weakly. 

"Okay, honey." He's only agreeing with you to wane any further argument. "I don't think your friends will think you're boring, though, if that's any help."

"I don't think they will either."

He nods his head, and you're relaxing against him a little more. 

"Are you just trying to not be the only loser who doesn't drink?" you mumble, voice muffled by his skin.

"You've caught me."

He relishes in the laugh that leaves your lips, and he places the gentlest of kisses on the side of your head, which prompts you to lift it to look at him again. 

"You're not a loser for not drinking," you say, and his lips pull into a smile. 

He leans his head up, brushing his lips against yours, despite the mix of mint toothpaste and alcohol on your tongue. "I know. You wouldn't be either."

"I know."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[luveline]

I would love to see more of badass reader x Spencer, but maybe reader gets hurt on a case (like a concussion or something) and only wants Spencer and we get to see more of reader’s soft spot for Spencer. Idk if that made sense or if that’s anything you’d be interested in writing. Love reading whatever you write!💕

thank you for your request and for reading babe!! —your singular soft spot for spencer rises to the surface when you get hurt in the field. fem!reader, 1.1k

Emily's foot tap tap taps hospital linoleum. The nurses are getting worried about you —your CAT scans are fine, but you're lethargic. Mildly concussed with moderate symptoms, you winced at the lights, told Emily to turn them off, and haven't said much since. 

She frowns. It's not nice to see someone who's usually so closed-off openly pained. "You okay?" she asks. 

"I wanna see Spence," you murmur. 

Emily nods slowly. She's had this conversation with you already. You have a spot of amnesia, nothing to worry about, decidedly temporary. 

"Why hasn't he come to see me?" you ask. Your voice trips and tumbles, your eyes glowing with a glassy sheen. "I thought he'd come to… make sure I was okay. But he doesn't want to see me." 

"Spencer's on the way here. He was an hour away with Hotch, remember? They're on their way." 

You twitch like a displeased cat under your sheets and turn away from her, sniffling weakly. Your shoulders heave with slow tears. Emily gets up to rub your back but thinks better of it when you stiffen. She doesn't understand how you function, doesn't know what it is about Spencer alone that you can be vulnerable with him and not the others, but she won't judge you for it. She just wishes there was more she could do. 

It's an untold amount of time between your tears and Spencer's awaited arrival. You're worse than lethargic, depressed, hand lax behind your back and unresponsive to the sound of the door. 

"She's asleep?" he mouths. His hair is limp either side of his face, flattened by anxious hands. 

"Upset," she mouths back through a frown, drawing a tear down her cheek with her pinky finger. 

He doesn't give Emily a second glance after that. 

"Hey," he says softly, rounding your hospital bed, touching the tips of his fingers to your hip and drawing a gentle line up your side. His head dips down, bending at the waist to see you better in the dim lighting. "Hey, what's wrong?"

You make a small keening sound from the back of your throat. It's so cleaving that Emily wants to leave, so painful that she wants to stay. You're her friend too. Emily cares about you, even when it hurts to do so.

"I don't feel like me," you say. 

Spencer doesn't shy away either. His expression is open, reassuring as he pops into a semi squat that can't be comfortable. His hand closes around your arm, thumb feeling the naked skin there sweetly. "It's normal to feel confused after a head injury. I promise it won't last." 

"I don't feel well," you say, small, like a scared kid. 

"I know." 

You reach for him. Emily knows Derek would never believe it, your hands stretched out almost desperately, the pleading noise yanked from between teeth normally gritted. Spencer wraps long arms around you with the ease of someone who's done it before, maybe exactly like this. 

"It's okay," he says. He's speaking with pep he doesn't feel. Emily can see he's stressed in the high pinch of his shoulders, but he's putting on a show for you. "You don't have to be scared. It's okay." 

The perpetual line carved between Hotch's brows seems deeper as he enters the room. Neither of you look up, your back loosening under the lazy back and forth of Spencer's hand. 

"Concerning, right?" Emily asks. 

Hotch ignores her, but not for lack of agreement. "What do her observations say?" 

"Mild to moderate head injury, post-concussion amnesia, fractured index and middle finger on her left hand." 

"Where are her clothes?" he asks. 

"They can't check her out until she gets her fingers cast and all she brought in her go bag was slacks." 

"I'll get her some pyjamas," Hotch says. 

Emily's not sure what's funnier, the idea of you in pyjamas, the image of Hotch choosing a pair, or the word pyjamas in his stoic murmur. He lingers to make sure you're okay, his eyes tracking the tremble of your arms as Spencer talks too low to hear in your ear, having sat down on the bed and curled himself around you protectively. 

You moan something sad and Spencer laughs, your hospital gown crinkling as he massages the top of your shoulder. "Why would you say that?" he asks lightly. "You think you know better than me? Really?" 

"Of course not," you say. If it were anyone else, you'd have knocked them off the bed already. 

"I don't remember you having an eidetic memory," he furthers. 

You actually manage to laugh for the first time since your initial injury. "I don't remember anything right now," you say. 

Emily leans over to Hotch. "You know, when we first came in, I suggested to the nurse that she might have amnesia because she kept asking me where she was, and she looked me dead in the eye and said, well, good thing you're not a nurse." 

Hotch scoffs a laugh. "It's a little surprising even now. Seeing them together, you'd never think it." 

"Think what?" Emily asks, fond rather than judgemental. "That she's as emotional as a China teacup?" 

"I'll remember for both of us," Spencer murmurs, stroking your face. "Okay? So calm down." 

Derek once told you to calm down and felt the cold of your icy attitude for a ragged week. Spencer says it and you take a visible deep breath, your head laying back in your pillows, his hand quick to cup the side of your neck. "Okay," you say quietly. 

"It's not just that," Hotch says, failing to explain further. 

He doesn't have to. Emily knows what he means. You can be snippy, aloof, unfriendly. But it's not just your softening that's surprising, it's Spencer's growing confidence. The ease with which he handles you, hands unabashed in their comforting. 

"Want me to find you something to wear?" Spencer asks. 

"We got it," Hotch interrupts. "Take it easy, Y/N. Rest." 

You nod obediently. He and Emily leave, hearing a last snippet of conversation as the heavy door closes behind them. 

"You wanna sign my cast, when they do it?" you ask hopefully. 

"Are you kidding? I'd love to. I've always wanted to sign someone's cast, and it's good for your morale." 

"Will they be in a cast long, do you think?" 

"They should be healed in about six to eight weeks, but you may not regain full strength for another two months afterward. There have actually been studies…" 

[ririblogsss]

what if Danny give no fu-ks

Ok hear me out, Dannys obsession has never truest been confirmed by the show itself (that I remember) I've seen a lot of people say his obsession comes from wanting to help / protect people. But what if he feels as though that he is now doing more damage than good, after all there are a lot of people getting hurt as colateral damage from the chases he has to go on. Or simply when he has to run away from getting captured.

What if one night he was up late and saw a post about a tragedy that happened because he slipped up (it wasn't even his fault, but he still blames himself for everything). And then he starts looking at all the bad comments against him ignoring all the good ones saying how much Danny Phantom has helped Amity. Because Danny is still human and confirmation bias is real. Imagine how he felt the moment he realized that he was causing people to get hurt instead of keeping them save.

Image the desperation clawing at him with the realization that he has never been able to fully manage his obsession. it makes him sad, desperate, angry.

His entire self is filled with too many emotions at the sametime he isn't even able to identify them and catalogue them properly like Jazz taught him.

and then everything stops and he feels nothing.

Completely and utterly numb.

Like his whole reason to keep going suddenly disappears.

And it has.

He gave up on his obsession and now he has to make / get a new one.

But it's not that easy.

This drastic change could've ended any ghost as they run on (live off) emotions.

Luckily because he's a Halfa, so that has given him the upper hand. Unfortunately it makes it so that he is completely devoid of any emotion.

Months go by and people immediately notice changes, the more drastic one is that Phantom went missing, and eventually a lot of ghost that where coming in looking for him stop. Amity Park is no longer populated by ghosts, and slowly the GIW started to retreat from Amity going to another place following a lead that says there are more ghost activities up north.

But those changes aren't the only ones noticeable. Dannys classmates and teachers can vouch that Danny has changed. Most say he was always quite , and others say he looked down right depressed. Danny didn't do much in classes not that he paid attention before. Its just this time it seems that its not out of being sleepy or anxious about another ghost attacking the school instead Danny looks like he coundn't give less of a fu-k about anything.

He never smiles anymore not even when his favorite subjects (mechanics and space) are brought up. Not even a quirk of a smile. The school decided to contact his parents about Dannys new behaviors. That includes skipping classes, not handing in work, not doing the assigned work in class ect....

And its not like his parents havent noticed, they've had more time in their hands since they aren't using hours of the day/night going out hunting anymore. and they have witnessed their son become a shell of himself. They don't know what to do, and they don't want to worry Jazz about it because she's at collage and needs to focus on her studies.

So when the school contact them and told them that the behavior is the same in school they decided major changes needed to happen. Starting with a change of environment.

Maddie and Jack decided that Amity park was too big of a city with too many people. They could nearly see the stars at night because of the light pollution, hence they decided to move next door to Alicia, Maddie sister, home in SmallVille.

They decided it was the best choice, Danny would be surrounded by nature and he could do online classes that would go the pace he wanted. The move was immediate, the day off they packed everything sold the house and moved.

They only stopped to say goodbye to Danny's friends. A small bye and hug later they were on a 7 hour road trip to their new home.

When they got there the old resident handed them the keys of the home and told them to ignore the their neighbors 'The Kents' as they often made a lot of noice and had group gatherings every month.

The one thing Jack and Maddie forgot to double check was if the house was an actual house or a farm house. Sounds similar, but completely different as they now had 2 cows, 16 chickens, 1 rooster, and 3 pigs to take care off.

Danny was put on duty of taking care of the animals, such as feeding them on time and making sure they were healthy. Jack and Maddie made more of the heavy weight as to re building broken fences and fixing the questionable roof.

(The first thing Danny did when meeting all the animals was name them. After all this was about all the interaction he was going to do.)

Danny didn't have time to think about his lost obsession or his lack of emotions as he was now too busy making sure each animal was taken care off.

Marcy and linda (the cows) were danny's favorite they were very gentle and he felt that they could understand him when he spoke to them the stories of his vigilante past.

On the other hand The Chickens were a nightmare, Glinda was cool as she never chased him down. But Matilda and Bethany were a nightmarish duo spiteful too when he was seconds late to the finding time. Mark the rooster was chill he mainly acted as of he was part of the group that needed protection.

Marice, Betty, and Miss Piggy were the chillest of the bunch never gave Danny any trouble when feeding them and always made a point that they loved their new mudbath installation that Danny made for them on his first 2 days on the farm.

A month after arriving at the farm house Danny noticed that mark was missing. Danny looked everywhere around the property and saw him from afar, at the road. So Danny did the sensible thing anyone would do when spotting a run away pet, and that is call their name at the top of your lungs whilst running after them.

naturally Mark the escape artist run the opposite direction. By the time Danny caught up to him Danny didn't recognize the house he was infant off. So with Mark comfortably in his arms He swears he can see a smug look on marks face. Danny turned away from the house to start his walk back to the farm, but he was met with a kid his age looking at him with distrust.

"Ehhh look kid Im sorry to have crossed the properties border but Mark here" Danny made a point to acentuate Mark in his arms "Runaway from me this morning and I've been trying to catch him ever since, anyways I need to go feed the girls"

The kid starred at him for a second "OMG your from the new family in Mr.duncans farm right? in Aver ST.?" and wow the kid was like a ray of sunshine.

"Yea-" Danny could even finish his sentence before the kid cut him off by starting to talk a mile a minute about how he was so exited to meet people his age that lived near by and how farm chores were harder that normal house chores.

"Jon, give him time to respond. Im Damian this is Jon" Danny jumped he hadn't noticed the second kid at all

"Oh yeah... sorry about that what's your name?" The kid (Jon) slightly less enthusiasm, a bit embarrassed if his tone of voice was anything to get by.

"Danny, Im 15" he responded before he started walking away after all he did need to get in time to feed the chickens unless he wants to suffer their furry. Danny shuddered at the memory that popped up in his head.

"Wait!!! I just thought we could be friends cause we live close by u know" Jon said catching up with Dannys steps. Damian was following from behind.

"Sure kid I don't care" Dannys voice was monotone much like it had been for months.

"Hey were not kids for your information, Im 14 and Damians 16 soon to be 17, so if anything you night be the actual kid!" Danny chuckled slightly it was more similar to releasing air from his lips than a laugh.

Soon a quite and enjoyable science encompassed the group as they went to Dannys home.

"Hmm... you're hold on Mark is adequate and the your determination for getting home in time for feeding is acceptable" Damian spoke up after a while of the passive silence.

"yeah and what is It to you" Danny was slightly urked by Damians default setting speach. He told him as such.

Jon blanched before erupting into giggles that sent him to lay down on the grass uncontrollably laughing. Damians right eyebrow quirked up in what Danny assumed was amusement.

Thus a new friendship grew that day.

They often gathered at Dannys or Jons yard to have picnic in the weekends (as Damian and Jon has school in Metropolis on week days) and hangout with the animals. Danny found out that Damian was a vegetarian and that he had various animals at home. One time he brought his Great Dane Titus, who bodied Danny on sight to give him kisses.

Also Damian was Damian Wayne as in bruce Wayne, Batman sugar daddy. When he said that, Jons milk flew out of his nose and Damian choked on his cucumber wrap. Even Titus gave him a judgemental stare.

Slowly Danny started to smile more, laugh every so often. And things were feeling so much better after not being able to feel anything for a while.

Jazz, Aunt Alicia and especially Maddie and Jack felt so relived to see that Danny was slowly coming back to them.

Danny to this day backs the fact that Mark knew something and planned the whole thing.

[cosmicbrownskin]

"well that was unexpected."

pairings : hybrid!seungmin x fem!reader

genre : pure fluff, maybe a lil bit of angst..? (if you squint.)

warnings : n/a

a/n : okay so i got my idea from one of my AMAZING LONG TIME mutuals @doliveiraa, go read her hyunjin version <33. this is my first fic coming from a year-long hiatus, so please bare with me!! also im thinking of making alot of my fics (or maybe account...) for poc girlies..should i? (im putting up a poll for soon ^^)

word count : 1.4k

read time: 5 mins

i was so nervous, and not really knowing what to expect. after my dog Lulu passed away, i couldn't find myself to find love in another dog—not after her passing. it just hurt too much.

but my friend had (somehow) talked to me about hybrids.

yes, hybrids, the animals that can also be humans.

"im telling you y/n, it's not bad! plus, when they get comfortable they turn into their human form and then it's like having a roommate and bestfriend—can you try it please..?" your friend pleaded; they had seen me horrifcally depressed after Lulu's passing, it hurt them too.

"y/f/n, i don't know, what if something goes wrong? what if none of them like me?"

"no. no more overthinking shit. they're gonna love you, just like how you loved Lulu, i pinky promise on it." they interjected; they noticed how after your pet's passing you started overthinking more; unhealthily overthinking.

so here i now found myself at the shelter, following an employee back to the hybrids area.

and i was shitting bricks, even though my friend told me not to be anxious—that was out the window now.

but there were so many hybrid animals; puppies, birds, snakes, ferrets, cats, turtles, just complete overload.

"i'll leave you to it, and you can look around." the employee said, smile on her face before turning and walking away.

and when she left, most of the animals made their way up to the glass, making their own noises, grabbing your attention.

i looked at the birds, and all their beautiful colors and patterns—then next to cats, which were all so different and unique. but i made your way to the puppies, a quiet sadness filling your mind, pushing the feeling away, you bent down, and a golden retriever puppy curled up in its cage catches my eyes.

'the animal caught a whiff of my scent, so that's why it came to gently pad over to my finger that was inside of cage.' i thought.

the puppy sniffed my finger, and hesitantly looked at it—but eventually rubbed its face against it.

and i melted.

the fur was so soft, the small paws grasping at my finger, the big, dark brown doe eyes that looked at me; it was instant connection.

"that's seungmin. he's a golden retriever." the employee explained, looking at the puppy who didn't really come out his shell much.

"he's perfect. i'll take him." i said.

ᥫ᭡

i released seungmin from the soft, fluffy carrier i purchased, setting him down on my apartment floor.

he was in fact, a curious puppy who sniffed literally anything. making his way to my small sized couch, digging his way into my cushions and pillows. he was happy, tongue out and tail wagging, just the perfect puppy.

i placed down his bed, putting toys and stuffies in it to make comfortable, along with his food and water bowls.

seungmin immediately went over to it, eating and drinking,

“gosh, did you not eat or drink at the shelter min?” i joked, seeing just how much he was enjoying his new home.

ᥫ᭡

over the days, me and seungmin fell into place, and our relationship grew. he was such a good and obedient puppy, and he made mistakes sometimes, like now.

he had knocked over his water bowl, causing a puddle of water to form, and when i noticed, he padded into a corner—an ashamed noise coming from him.

“min, it’s okay. i’m not mad, it was only an accident.” i say, cleaning the water, hoping to coax him to come back.

and yes it did take some convincing with treats—but it was worth the sight of his tail wagging again.

“see? it’s all cleaned up and you have nothing to worry about. let’s go to my room and we can watch something together, or you can just play around in my sheets—i don’t care.” i said, picking the puppy up into my arms, and walking to my bedroom.

as i snuggled into my pillows, making space for seungmin in my arms, which he didn’t notice due to him ruffling around in my sheets.

“min, are you gonna watch or…just do whatever you’re doing?” i asked, but of course with his adrenaline and excitement of a new place to be exploring, he didn’t stop.

“okay then, i’ll leave you to it doggo.” i said.

but eventually as my movie ended, the poor thing ran out of energy and was sleeping.

“looks like someone ran out of excitement.” i laughed.

he was supposed to sleep in the beautifully made dog bed i made for him, but i let it slide—he was just too cute to move.

and now my eyes were closing. exhaustion caught up to my body, and soon enough i drifted off to sleep, cuddling my puppy.

just a girl and her hybrid puppy.

ᥫ᭡

the next week, i had been getting for a friends party, accompanied by seungmin at my feet.

“okay min, what do we think? is the makeup good?” i ask, obviously knowing he can’t reply.

but he barked.

“i’ll take that as a yes.” i giggled, utterly transfixed on the question in my head,

‘how can a hybrid dog be so cute?’

making my way to the front door of my apartment, i bent down to his level, speaking gently but still firm.

“now, minnie, i won’t be long extremely long. probably 2 hours—3 tops. okay?” i explained.

seungmin then sat down, and once again, i took it as a yes.

“bye! i love you.” i said, closing the door behind me.

ᥫ᭡

but when i came home, it wasn’t pretty at all. i was crying, my hands shaking.

seungmin immediately noticed it, stood on his hind legs, paws on my knees.

“min, i just don’t know why she would even do something like that!” i cried out.

and that’s when seungmin trotted away, into my room, leaving me in my kitchen crying and alone.

‘did this puppy really just leave me in a time of my distress…’ i thought to myself.

but i was easily mistaken, when instead of a cute, light brown, golden retriever puppy coming back—it was an asian, tall, fit, man.

‘that’s MY seungmin?!’ i thought to myself.

my eyes widened and i wiped my tears.

“you’re my seungmin? like my cute, small, golden retriever puppy??” i asked, completely dumbfounded.

“yes i am. sorry, i just had to transform—you were distressed and crying—and i just got triggered.” he explained.

"well that was unexpected." i said, eyes wide.

his attire was quite the look; dressed in a light blue baby tee that was too small for him and a pair of my oversized sweatpants that were still too short for his long legs.

“are you okay? why were you crying?” seungmin asked worriedly.

a small giggle left my lips, my eyes trailing up and down his outfit.

“you look very interesting…i must say—it’s quite the fashion choice.” i managed to get out, before bursting into a fit of laughter.

“well forgive me for wanting to make sure you're okay!” he said, crossing his arms revealing his belly button.

but even when he was dressed like this, i couldn’t help but see just how attractive his was. his short brown hair, pale skin, and fit appearance? god took his time with that man.

"seriously y/n, what's wrong? why were you crying..?" he asked, serious this time.

i sighed, the memory of the party stuck in my head.

"well, one of my bestfriend's 'friends', humiliated me. she told the others lies about me, so i was alone until i just left early." i explained.

it hurt alot. i went there to celebrate my bestfriend's birthday and was avoided like the fucking plague.

"im sorry y/n. do you want a hug?" seungmin offered.

"thanks min." i murmured, wrapping my arms around his ribcage area.

his hug was so comforting. he smelled like warmth and roses, and nothing felt better than this in the moment.

"do want me to take you to the stores to get you clothes that actually fit..?" i say, a smile on my face as i look at his outfit once more.

"please and thank you. i don't know how you would even wear this." seungmin said, gesturing to the baby tee.

"okay we can go, just let me change into something more comfortable."

ᥫ᭡

life with seungmin as a human was smooth, even if sometimes he ate all my food. and as a puppy, perfect, and that was my life, absolutely perfect. a girl with her hybrid puppy. and it was my best decisions ever.

cosmicbrownskin ᥫ᭡ ― est. november 2023 © do not copy or repost my content on other platforms

[ilovedinodino]

…i was so miserable? l. hc smau

26. different (written) wc: 1515

Haechan, as usual, came to the studio first and very early. In fact, he didn't want to come today at all, because he needed to tell you what he knows, otherwise Renjun would do it, and then things would get even worse. But the main reason he didn’t want to come and see you was fear. He was scared and shy to look you in the eyes after finding out you had feelings for him. Of course, he had feelings for you too—very strong ones—but for some reason, your mutual feelings frightened him yesterday. He had been so sure that you would never like him in that way and that he would never have a chance with you. He was prepared for rejection and had accepted that you would never be together. But yesterday, you proved him wrong, and now his head was spinning with emotions. He was overwhelmed and nervous.

Every training session with you had been fun and comfortable, which surprised you. Falling for Haechan after just seven practices wasn’t something you expected. But he truly was special. Haechan was always kind to you. Even when you made mistakes, he never got upset but patiently helped and supported you. He took charge of everything, you could say that he was the leader in your duo and a very caring leader.

Haechan was different. He wasn’t like your ex.

After your breakup with Chanhyun, you were convinced that you didn’t deserve love and that you would never find someone who could truly be a good partner. He never listened to you and pretended that nothing was going on with you and that you didn't have any problems. Chanhyun never cared about you, ignored your feelings as if they didn’t exist. He saw your diaries and notes in secret and hid about it until one day you saw your diary out of place. It broke your heart that even though he saw everything, he didn't try to talk to you. Even when you tried to talk to him and show him how much you were struggling, he remained indifferent.

Haechan was different.

After that experience, you closed yourself off, even from close friends, and only shared your thoughts and feelings online, where no one knew you. You kept telling everyone you were fine, and most people believed you. But not Renjun. Renjun always knew you better than you realized. He saw how unhappy you were with Changhyun and tried to warn you, but you didn’t listen. After your heart was broken, he was the one who stayed by your side. He saw your tears and the depression you sank into. That’s why Renjun became like an older brother to you, protecting, caring for you and didn't let suspicious guys near you. You didn’t mind. At that point, love wasn’t important to you anymore.

You left the café, holding two cheesecakes and a coffee, feeling happy. Today, you and Haechan were finally going to finish your choreography, and you couldn’t wait to show it to your team.

When you entered the studio, you heard familiar music. “Ateez?”

Haechan was sitting on the couch with his phone in hand. Hearing the door open, he looked up. “Oh, Y/N!” “Hi!” you smiled, sitting next to him and placing the cheesecakes and coffee on the small table. “I got one with strawberry and one with chocolate. I hope you’ll like them. This café always has the best cheesecakes!” you said with a sweet smile.

Haechan froze, staring at you. You were so beautiful in that moment, and he felt his love for you grow even stronger. Wait. Love? Did he love you?

“I’m sure they’re the best cheesecakes,” he replied warmly.

You stood up to go change, but suddenly paused as you listened to the music. “Wait, Ateez? Why are you playing them?” “They just had a comeback, so I decided to listen. Plus, you like them.”

You nodded, heading towards the changing room, but a thought crossed your mind: How does he know I like Ateez?

You stopped in the doorway. “Donghyuck?” “Yeah?” “How do you know I like them?”

The air in the room felt heavy. You weren’t smiling anymore, and Haechan noticed, becoming slightly anxious. “You told me! I remember you mentioned them once, so I remembered!” he said, trying to sound confident. “Oh, really?” you replied awkwardly,already believing in his words, but then he added: “I even remember that your bias is Yunho.”

What?

“Yunho?” “Yeah, you like him a lot, don’t you?” “I never said Yunho was my bias.” “You did.” “No.” “Yes, Y/N, you…” “No. My bias is Seonghwa, not Yunho. And, by the way, I’ve never even mentioned Seonghwa before. Yet you’re claiming I talked about Yunho.”

Why was Haechan so sure about this? What made him think that? How did he even know you liked Ateez? Did you ever tell him?

You froze. “Y/N, are you okay?”

Haechan’s behavior was suspicious. You started recalling all the moments when he unexpectedly showed up when you needed something. You thought he was just attentive, but no, that didn’t seem to be the case.

You remembered how he suddenly gave you chocolates. How he comforted you when you were anxious. How he unexpectedly suggested going for a walk. How someone "randomly" transferred you money when you needed it. How you suddenly started hearing Ateez songs and that your bias is Yunho. And finally, you noticed how Haechan’s attitude toward you had changed. He became more cautious and caring. If he used to joke around and tease you often, now he was entirely different.

Haechan had changed. Haechan knew.

“Do you know about my Twitter?” you asked sharply, looking at him.

Haechan froze, panic spreading across his face. “T-Twitter? Of course, I know. Everyone knows. You know mine too, right?” He let out an awkward laugh, trying to play it off.

“My private account.”

From his reaction, you realized everything. He knew about your Twitter. He knew all your thoughts and struggles.

Haechan swallowed hard and stood up, looking you in the eye. “Y/N, I...”

“You know about my account, Haechan.”

Haechan froze. You never called him Haechan; you were the only one who always used his real name. Hearing his nickname from you in such a cold tone hurt him deeply. “No, no... I’m Donghyuck, not Haechan,” he stammered.

“And here I thought you were just attentive, but instead, you stayed silent and kept it all to yourself?” Your eyes welled up with tears as you stepped away from him.

Haechan panicked and stepped closer, trying to take your hands in his. “Y/N, let me explain everything... It was an accident...”

“God, Renjun was right...” You stepped even further away and lowered your head. Haechan saw tears streaming down your face.

“Y/N, Y/N, I didn’t mean to. I came across it accidentally, please hear me out.”

“You seriously read everything about me, and...” You raised your head, and Haechan froze. “How am I supposed to dance that choreo with you after this?”

Haechan’s heart shattered. “Please, Y/N, hear me out. I didn’t find out that long ago. I wanted to tell you, but I was scared. I was afraid you’d shut me out. We were never that close, and I thought this was a good way to understand you better. I genuinely wanted to help you.”

“You wanted to know me without asking me directly? You know, maybe it’s my fault for not locking my account. It’s not your fault—it’s mine,” you said bitterly.

“No, Y/N, you’re not to blame. Please, don’t say that.”

“Haechan, I just don’t know how to talk to you now, knowing that you know everything about me. Knowing I..." "...I was so miserable?"

“Y/N, don’t say that. Please. You’re not awful. There’s nothing wrong with this.”

“It hurts to know that you now know my worst secrets, but I don’t know anything about you except the image you show to others.”

Haechan stood there, stunned. He watched you breathe rapidly, and he himself was on the verge of tears. “That’s not true! You know a lot about me already, and if you want, I can open up to you even more.”

“So you know that I have feelings for you,” you interrupted, recalling your tweet.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, but I want to go home. I can’t dance,” you said as you started gathering your things.

“Y/N, please don’t shut me out. We need to talk...”

You stayed silent.

“Do you want me to tell Jeno that we can’t show our dance? I’ll tell him it’s my fault. I won’t mention you.”

You still said nothing, a lump in your throat stopping you from speaking. Haechan wanted to hug you but feared crossing another line.

“I...” you stammered. “Tell him whatever you want,” you said and walked out of the studio.

Haechan wanted to run after you. He didn’t want to leave you in such a state, knowing he had caused it. But he stayed frozen, staring at the door, tears welling up in his eyes.

Was Haechan different?

-------

prev / masterlist / next

note: I put my soul here. It was so funny to me when you all thought that renjun was jealous and in love with her😭 renjun is my favourite here btw

taglist (open) : @alethea-moon @dinonuguaegi @jenoleeaesthetic @gukuwii @doughyk @elsbunny @dudekiss3r @yuthabitz @thegracerammy @soobinbunnie5 @joyzluvr @yewshi @miniature-tragedy @jaymelee @foxy-kitsune @slayhaechan @chibilino @sleepyvic @minkyuncutie @olladecaramelos @samvagejkflxhrt @gomdoleemyson @nctjunie @ypoom151999

[heauxvibez]

Gentle

warning: angst, mentions of depression/anxiety, fluff. Enjoy!

It had been days since Joe lost his match. It meant he could finally be home, taking a break from the WWE's busy schedule. You were thrilled to have him home, just the two of you for a while. Joe was excited too, or so he thought.

He released a huge sigh of relief when he was told prematurely about the outcome of his match with Cody. He loved work but also missed being home with you, and the flexibility to do what he wanted without having to make huge shifts around his work schedule. The guilt that constantly ate at him for missing milestones in your life would finally be put to ease. Your promotion at your job, your birthday, buying your first brand new car with your hard-earned money, all things he missed out on celebrating due to his work.

But as time went by, you noticed a change in him. His energy shifted dramatically. He became quieter, answering with short sentences and avoiding conversations. He barely ate, only managing to do so when taking his medication.

You had to decline many invitations because he wasn't up for crowds; they made him anxious. The bedroom became his refuge, all he wanted to do was lay in bed and rot. It was starting to worry you.

Joe himself didn't understand what was happening. He wanted to shake off this feeling, but it clung to him stubbornly. It was like he'd forgotten his place in life, his roles as your husband, friend, and son. He felt worthless. As the Tribal Chief he knew everything, life was in his control, he was in control. Nothing could phase him when he was his alternative self. His bronze skin was as thick as ever.

But as Joe, he was vulnerable and soft, his hands could barely grasp the concept of life outside of the arena. He believed that he'd let everyone down by missing important moments, especially you. Despite your support and pride in him, he couldn't shake the feeling of being resented. His anxiety whispered that you all hated him, leading him to isolate himself in the room. He thought that by avoiding interaction, he'd be less of a burden.

You were left in the dark, unsure of what was happening with him. You didn't want to jump to conclusions, but you couldn't ignore the signs of either depression or anxiety. It was a delicate situation; you didn't want to say or ask the wrong thing and risk pushing him away. You were at a loss for how to approach him without causing further distress.

"Babe..", you called out as you cracked open the door. Your head peaked in to reveal him bundled under the sheets.

"Hmm?" he hummed back, avoiding looking in your direction.

The room matched his mood—dark and cold. You approached him cautiously, arms crossed before quickly relaxing them, not wanting to convey that you were mad or upset in any way. Squatting beside the bed, you met his gaze. His hair was tousled, covering his face like cobwebs, his eyes red, lips downturned. He looked miserable.

He almost melted at the feel of your fingers feathering through the knots of his tangled beard. He hadn't groomed himself in days, so he looked a mess. But to you he still looked like perfection, just needed a little love. You searched his face, to him it felt like judgment, but for you...you were just looking for any sign of your loving husband.

"You okay?"

That question alone almost unraveled him. His eyes shut tightly, becoming a dam for the flood of tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. He covered his face with his hand when he could no longer contain the wave of emotions. He shook his head, answering your question.

"Oh baby, I'm sorry. I'm sorry", you pleaded. You didn't know what to expect. You thought it would take a while to break through his tough exterior.

Not wanting to overwhelm him, you hadn't moved. You stayed squatted in your position, stroking the side of his face that wasn't covered by his huge hand.

"Talk to me, baby. I can't help if I don't know what's wrong," your voice, soft and gentle, began to ease the tension. It seemed to pull him back from the brink of a panic attack.

"Breathe, just talk," you urged. He took a deep breath, his exhale brushing against your face. His hand fell away from his face, revealing tear-streaked cheeks and watery eyes. You met his gaze, your own eyes welling up with empathy. You fought back your tears, wanting him to feel safe expressing himself.

Joe tried to speak but faltered, closing his lips and shaking his head. He was at a loss for words, unsure of how to begin.

You let out a gentle sigh as you brushed his greasy hair away from his face. He hadn't bothered to wash it in days, neglecting self-care. As your fingers ran through his strands, an idea dawned on you. With a small smile, you met his sad eyes.

"It's been a while since you washed your hair, huh?" you remarked.

He nodded, still focused on you.

"How about we have a little wash day? I just got some new hair care stuff," you suggested.

There was a moment of silence as he considered it. He didn't want to leave the safety of the room, but he was also bothered by his oily, limp hair.

"Yeah, that sounds nice," he replied softly.

"Yeah? Let's go," you said, standing up and offering your hand. He slowly rose from the bed, taking your hand and letting you lead him to the kitchen.

Since childhood, your family had always washed hair in the kitchen sink. Moms, aunts, and cousins would have you lay flat on the counter, and it was always your favorite part of hair care, like a special ritual.

Your hair care routine had evolved. With the right products and tools, you felt like a pro, especially during tasks like washing your hair. Now, wash days were more enjoyable, and you loved washing your husband's hair too. It was a favorite bonding activity.

"Okay, lay down on the counter," you instructed.

One perk was your spacious kitchen, allowing you to recreate the wash days you cherished from childhood. He hopped onto the counter, and a bit of excitement gleamed through his eyes. It had been a while since you shared an intimate moment like this. With his travels and recent struggles, there had been little room for such simple things.

You stepped away briefly to fetch your hair care items. Your favorite line was created by Taraji P. Henson, who understood the needs of tight coils like yours. Today, you opted for the Honey Fresh clarifying shampoo to remove oils from his locs and the Make It Rain conditioner for moisture.

Returning to the kitchen, you laid out the items on the sink: shampoo, conditioner, Denman brush, wide-tooth comb, and a shower cap—everything needed to care for his hair.

You couldn't help but watch as he lay with his eyes closed, fingers intertwined on his belly. Though he didn't show it, he was eager for this wash day, just like you.

Turning on the sink, you tested the water temperature with your fingers, ensuring it was just right for his scalp.

"Okay, let me know if it's too hot or cold." you instructed. With his eyes still closed he nodded.

The water hit his scalp and you watched as his brows furrowed then relaxed.

"Is that okay?", he nodded once again,

"That's perfect."

The warm water felt like a soothing touch on his scalp, the best sensation he'd felt in days.

"Good," you smiled, running your fingers through his hair. It took a moment for the water to penetrate his hair, the oils causing it to bead off into the sink. The touch of your nails on the back of his neck sent shivers down his spine as you worked the water through his hair.

"Alright," you murmured to yourself as his hair drank in the flowing water. With a twist, you shut off the tap, the room now silent. You placed the detachable head back in its place, and your fingers found the shampoo bottle, releasing a dollop into your hand. With a soft sigh, you worked the dollop into a nice lather with your palms.

You started at his hairline, the pads of your fingers tenderly grazing his scalp. Purposefully avoiding using your acrylic nails, your touch was feather-light. You wanted to cocoon him in bliss and make sure that he was as relaxed as possible.

Your fingers trailed to the hair behind his ears, a familiar path that never failed to make him weak. His ears, his sweet spot, where the slightest touch made his toes curl. Each time your wrist brushed against his ear, he moaned softly, bringing a slight blush to your cheeks.

"Feel good?" the soft words left your lips.

"Feels great." he confessed with a contented sigh.

His response brought warmth to your heart as you continued your movements, moving towards the center of his scalp where he was often tender-headed. With gentle strokes, you massaged the area, mindful of his comfort. In this moment, you found joy in this simple act of caring for your husband.

Though you wanted to get into deeper conversations about his well-being, you hesitated, not wanting to disrupt the peace of the moment. Instead, you chose to stay silent, allowing your gentle touch to speak volumes. But Joe had other ideas.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled

"Don't be, you haven't done anything wrong," you assured. Although you knew what he meant. He felt remorseful for acting distant and pushing everyone away, but you knew it wasn't his fault. He was grappling with emotions beyond his control, and you gave him space to work through them.

"But I have, I haven't been the best husband lately. Well really in the past few years if we're going to be honest."

"Joe-"

"No, listen.." his eyes were flooding with tears again.

"I have not been the best husband in years. I thought with this time off I'd be able to make up for lost time but the more I sit with myself, I'm wondering am I capable of being a good husband? I don't even know who I am outside of Roman Reigns."

Tears were now flowing freely down the side of his eyes and into his hair. For the past 4 years, he had been an alternative version of himself. He completely immersed himself into a character and with the time he had to actually sit with himself, he realized he wasn't really sure who Joe was.

Tears were now rolling down your face. It hurt to see him doubt himself like this. You knew who he was—Joe and Roman were completely different. It was hard to believe he couldn't see it; he was struggling with imposter syndrome.

You wiped your tears away with your wrist, trying to steady yourself. You needed him to know that you didn't share his negative feelings about himself.

"Well, your feelings are valid, baby, and I never want you to feel otherwise. But just because they're valid doesn't mean they're right."

You rinsed the shampoo out of his hair with the detachable head of the sink.

"You might not see the difference between Roman and Joe, but I do. I'm not in love with Roman; I'm in love with Joe. I didn't marry Roman; I married Joe. Roman is manipulative, selfish, cold-hearted—wicked, even," you chuckled softly. Joe wiped away his tears, mirroring your laughter.

You began to wring the excess water from his hair. It was finally clean. Now, you just needed to condition and detangle.

You reached for the condition and squeezed a quarter-sized amount into your hand. Then you gently spread it through his clean hair.

"But Joe.. Joe is sweet, he's vulnerable, and he would give the shirt off of his back to anyone in need. We all love Joe and we understand that just because you're away it doesn't mean you're neglectful, you're doing what you have to do to support your family. Joe is a husband, he's a son, he's a family man, he's a sweetheart, he's you."

Using the Denman brush, you carefully distributed the conditioner and untangled his hair, avoiding any painful pulls.

"You are not Roman, you are Joe. Do you understand?", you asked, pausing to catch his gaze. He kept staring ahead.

"Look at me," you said softly, but firmly. His eyes met yours, resembling those of a puppy.

"Do you understand?"

His lips curved into a soft smile and he nodded.

"Yes, I understand, baby," he affirmed. Leaning in, you tenderly brushed your lips against his forehead, savoring the warmth of his skin beneath yours. Then, with a gentle passion, you pressed your lips to his, sparking a feeling that had been dormant for too long.

As you pulled away, you couldn't help but shower him with one last sweet kiss on the tip of his nose before getting back to his hair.

"I know it's going to take time for you to adjust, and I understand it won't be easy. But I want you to know, I'll be here every step of the way. I promise," your voice was filled with unwavering support.

Carefully, you lifted his head to secure the shower cap, ensuring his hair received the deep conditioning treatment it deserved for the next 10 minutes.

"Thank you, for everything...I love you," he whispered, his words carrying deep gratitude and love.

"I love you too, handsome," you said, your heart brimming with excitement as you anticipated having your husband return to his true self.

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

Hope yall enjoyed!

Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade @empressdede @alichesmi @msbigredmachine @blacst4r @sassginamillls @wrestlingprincess80 @saintmagx @theninthwonder

[gnocchibabie]

Desire and Blood (Chapter 3)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen/Strong OC (Jaenara Velaryon)

Tags: AU - canon divergence, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, Targcest (uncle/niece)

Wordcount: 4.7k

Summary:

Against all odds, the love between childhood friends prevails and the Dance of Dragons is avoided.

However, peace comes at a cost. With the unexpected proposal of marriage between Alicent Hightower's son and Rhaenyra Targaryen's only daughter, can love truly blossom between sworn enemies? Or will Jaenara Velaryon be reduced to a mere pawn?

Love may yet arise where enmity once thrived, but Aemond's relentless pursuit of power threatens to shatter everything they hold dear, including each other.

A/N: You can find the previous chapters on my masterlist!

If you are liking this series, please consider showing some love on my AO3 posting of this fic :) thank you x

!!! This chapter contains dialogue in High Valyrian, which will be designated by bold and italics...enjoy :)

A week had slipped away since Jaenara and her family had settled into King’s Landing. She found herself passing time by discussing plans for the upcoming coronation with her mother or entertaining little Aegon and Viserys. Occasionally, she rode out on dragonback with Baela and Rhaena, savoring the freedom of the skies above. When she was up amongst the clouds, the princess forgot all about what her life had become down below. Sitting atop Aetherion, it was as if nothing else mattered.

Yet above all, Jaenara found herself occupied with a careful dance of avoidance whenever Aemond Targaryen crossed her path. She had escaped several close calls, ducking into unoccupied rooms whenever she saw the prince at the other side of a hallway. Jaenara had often wondered to herself if she could continue to keep up this game of cat and mouse well into their marriage, but the prospect of having to constantly hide from the man who was to be her husband did sadden her. Ever so slightly. 

Currently, the princess found herself in the castle gardens walking shoulder to shoulder with Helaena. Jaenara had not had as much alone time with her aunt as she would have liked, and was eager to reconnect with the one member of the Targaryen-Hightowers she could actually stand to be around. Helaena seemed to be pleased with the company, though it was difficult for Jaenara to tell at times. Her aunt had always been a somewhat emotionally distant person, even when they were children.

“My mother tells me that the planning for Rhaenyra’s coronation is almost finished?” Helaena inquires.

Jaenara and Jacaerys had both been closely involved with the planning of their mother’s name day ceremony. The preparations had proven to be stressful, even now plaguing the princess’ mind. Temporary discomfort is a small price to pay for mother to sit the Iron Throne - Jaenara had told herself. Though, she could not say she felt the same way about the looming, permanent discomfort she would soon find herself in…

Rhaenyra had even tried to include Aegon in the ceremony planning as well. An offering for the position he had given up for his older sister. Though he had seemed less than interested, opting to disappear for hours at a time instead. Even now, Jaenara wondered where her uncle often took off to, leaving her sweet aunt and their children alone. She questioned if she would be condemned to such a fate as well - Aemond fluttering about doing gods know what while she was left to care for their babes alone. The princess decides it is best not to mull over such depressing possibilities that she may soon enough find herself in.

“Yes, her name day will be here before we know it - just a short week away. Though I find myself anxious about the festivities.” Jaenara finally responds. 

“I understand,” Helena breathes, “I am not one for crowds either.”

“Well then we must stick together until the whole ordeal is over.” Jaenara reassures her aunt. And herself.

“I would gladly,” Helaena giggles, “Though when your wedding day arrives, my brother will stand at your side, not I."

Jaenara sighed - another formality she had been dreading heavily. She’d venture to guess that the moment her mother’s name day passes, planning for the wedding will begin immediately. The princess knew that her scarcity of interactions with Aemond would not last for much longer. Not if either of their mothers could help it. 

Jaenara felt she had little to discuss with her betrothed. What else was there to say?

Helaena came to a halt, bending down to pick up a large, green beetle. Jaenara winced - she had never been one for bugs, save for the pretty butterflies she had often chased with her aunt in their youth. She watched as the beetle began to travel up Helaena’s arm. Jaenara found that Helaena looked serene, her blonde-white hair picked up by the breeze and a content smile on her lips. The princess decides to take advantage of the peaceful moment to ask her aunt a troubled question.

“What is it like? Being married, that is.” Jaenara’s face grows serious.

Helaena removes the beetle from her forearm with a gentle touch and places it on a leaf below.

“It doesn’t really feel like anything,” She says, though her aunt does not sound particularly bothered by the dreary thought, “Aegon does not pay me much mind. Save for the times we have…done our duty.”

Jaenara clears her throat awkwardly.

“So, I suppose it is not so bad. I am free to do as I please. As he is. Though I think Aemond will make a better lover.” Helaena finishes. Jaenara looks at her aunt as if she has three heads and scoffs. She looks back at the princess with a coy look on her face.

“What a terrifying thought.” Jaenara sounds defeated as the two women resume their walk. A calm silence passes over them once again, as does the gentle breeze.  

Helaena looks as though someone is speaking to her and finds herself gazing up at the sky for a moment - and then to her niece.

She smiles, as if the clouds have told her a secret.

— — —

On the far side of the Red Keep, The One Eyed Prince begins to lay the groundwork of his plan to put his soon-to-be wife on the Iron Throne. Aemond has decided he must get in the good graces of his family - especially Jacaerys - if he is to carry out familicide without raising any suspicion that he had a hand in it. Something easier said than done, Aemond knows. Any amount of decency he could afford the heir and his brother would be met with scrutiny. A few kind words will not undo years of victimization dealt on both sides. 

Aemond clenches his jaw as he searches for his nephews throughout the grounds of the Red Keep. Locating them had proven to be challenging, though not as much as finding their sister. Aemond knew that Jaenara had been purposefully avoiding him. One evening, he had even caught sight of her ducking into her mother’s chambers when he had turned a corner, entering the same hallway as her. Her elusion frustrated the prince. If he could not speak to the princess and build up a rapport with her, then she would assuredly be the first to point her finger at him when news of Jace’s murder came about.  

Just when Aemond is about to give up entirely, he spots Jacaerys and Lucerys in the training yard, wooden swords in hand. Aemond lurks back for a moment, watching them practice their drills. Their moves are quick and calculated, proving that his nephews had become even more skilled fighters during their time away from the Red Keep. Though their moves had a certain unrefined quality to them. Aemond finally moves from his spot, drawing nearer to the princes. Lucerys spots him first and mumbles a curse under his breath, as hid older brother turns to meet Aemond’s eyes. Aemond smirks at the boys, and he can tell it takes all of Jace’s strength not to throw down his play sword and saunter off. 

The prince stands tall over his nephews, to hide the uneasiness he feels about approaching them. He’s pulled his long, sleek hair into a bun. His own sword, a practice blade worn smooth from countless hours of swinging, hung loose at his side

The air is tense around the group and a short silence hangs over them. Clanking of wood and metal and grunts fills the yard as the princes all stare at each other.

Aemond finally clears his throat and breaks the quiet.

"You're both too cautious," he remarks in a voice that carries authority but also a hint of patience. "Don't overthink your strikes. Let them flow naturally. It's about instinct as much as it is about technique."

Jacaerys narrowed his eyes skeptically. "You must think of us as fools, uncle. Why would we listen to you? You do not practice the habit of fighting honorably - Luke and I’ve both seen that.”

And what would you know about fighting honorably? Aemond remarks to himself.

Where is the honor in gouging out a boy’s eye? 

He inhales a deep breath to calm his rising frustration.

Lucerys, ever the more reserved of the two, held his ground but watched Aemond with a cautious curiosity.

Aemond knows he should not make the jest, but before he can stop himself, the words fall from his smug mouth.

“Fools? No - I only see two Strong boys before me.” 

Both of the brother’s harden their gaze. This time, Jacaerys does take off, with Luke trailing behind.

Fuck.

“But!” Aemond is quick to add to his lecture, desperate to keep the boys where they are, “Honor in battle is not always as straightforward as the songs would have it. There are times when survival demands unconventional measures.”

“And how,” Jace has stopped and turned to face his uncle once more, “would you know anything of a real battle?”

“You forget I train with Ser Criston Cole.” “You forget we trained with Daemon Targaryen.”

Aemond chooses to bite back another remark about how - despite training with one of the realm’s most formidable soldiers, the brother’s still lacked the necessary knowledge and skills.

Instead, he walks back towards their place in the yard and motions for the Velaryons to follow him. Jace stares at him a moment, lets out an exaggerated huff and mutters, “Come on, Luke.”

At their return, Aemond demonstrates a quick feint, his movements precise. “You’re signaling your intent with your movements, Jacaerys. And Lucerys, you hesitate before every strike. Be bold, but calculated. Like this," he continued, demonstrating a fluid series of strikes and blocks. Luke, with a touch of reservation, takes up a fighting stance in front of his older brother.

Aemond nodded approvingly. "Let's try it again. And this time, don't hold back."

For the remainder of the afternoon, Aemond guided them through drills and techniques, offering pointers in between bouts. Slowly, the initial wariness between the boys and the Targaryen prince faded, replaced by a grudging respect for his skill and knowledge.

When the sun had begun to dip into the horizon, the three young heirs sheathed their swords. Aemond found a rare smile breaking through his usually stoic demeanor. He did not find any joy in the times he sparred with Aegon, which had been few and far between lately. His brother had no real interest in learning and bettering his skills. And Criston Cole was becoming predictable - through no fault of his own. Aemond simply had no one else to spar with that was anywhere near his level. He found unexpected fulfillment in teaching his nephews.

Jace finally deposits his wooden sword with the others in the training yard, Luke following suit. 

With a huff and an expression that makes the prince seem physically pained he tells his uncle, “Well. That was rather…I did not think I’d ever see the day where you would give us any kind of genuine advice. Nevertheless, I am…grateful for your counsel uncle.” 

“Yes. Thank you, Aemond.” Lucerys adds curtly.

Aemond gives them a nod as acknowledgment.

Naive fools.

With that, Jace and Luke begin their journey back into the Red Keep. Aemond watches the boys stride away side by side. He almost resigns himself to turning in for the day, when a thought suddenly enters his mind. 

“Do you know where I might find your sister?” He calls after them. 

Jace remains silent continuing his walk. Aemond rolls his eyes.

She has sworn them to secrecy.

Lucerys seems to take some sort of pity on his uncle after their shared afternoon - much to the dismay of Jace, “I think she spoke of spending time in the gardens…” the younger brother’s sentence trails off when he sees the look Jacaerys gives him. 

Aemond nods gratefully, though no one sees it, and sets off towards the gardens, his mind already racing. He knew spending time with Jaenara was another crucial part of his plan he needed to begin sowing the seeds for. As much as she may detest it.

The believed that if he could convincingly pretend to be infatuated with his niece, to the extent that she truly believed his feelings were genuine, it might help divert suspicion away from him regarding her brother’s eventual murder. She may even come to defend him, when the time comes. Though this would prove to be a challenge.

“You can expect a union that does not harbor any illusions of love” Aemond’s own words from her first evening back at King’s Landing echoed in his mind.

Aemond lets out a frustrated groan and picks up his pace.

When he reaches the gardens, Aemond finds Jaenara and his sister seated on a weathered stone bench in deep discourse, while their ladies-in-waiting linger nearby, amusing themselves.

The distant laughter of the two maidens surprises Aemond and stirs a hint of a smile on his face. He couldn’t remember the last time his sister had laughed so freely. It was then, he realized, he had never heard Jaenara genuinely laugh. Everything she let out in his presence was nothing more that a scoff or dry laugh. This, he thought, was a nice change of pace. Happiness suited her.

I should leave them. Aemond’s resolve falters for a moment, and he pivots for a swift and silent retreat. Yet, his sister catches sight of him before he can vanish.

"Aemond!" Helaena's voice rings out, compelling him to sigh and reluctantly turn back to face them.

Helaena's eyes glint with mischief as she waves a hand, beckoning him over. Meanwhile, the fleeting smile on Jaenara's face vanishes, replaced by an indifferent gaze.

"Aemond," his sister greets again, her tone laced with curiosity. "Where have you been?"

"Just sparring with your brothers," Aemond replies, his gaze drifting towards Jaenara.

The surprise in Jaenara's eyes is evident and impossible to conceal.

"With Jace and Luke?" she questions, her voice tinged with disbelief. "You seem…unscathed. I trust the same can be said for my brothers?"

"It was just a training session - nothing if not civil. I only meant to give them a bit of advice," Aemond responds, a smirk playing upon his lips.

Helaena suddenly springs to her feet. "I don’t believe you two have had many opportunities to speak as of late. I will leave you to catch up" she suggests, a faraway look on her face. "I must attend to the children." Her lady-in-waiting follows closely behind as she departs.

Jaenara starts to rise, offering to assist, but Helaena insists she stay. Aemond can't help but conceal his amusement at Jaenara’s desperate state.

The princess exhales sharply and resumes her promenade through the gardens, without so much as a glance over her shoulder at Aemond. With a huff, he follows behind her, as her lady-in-waiting mirrors.

The prince wishes he could dismiss the attendant, wishing for a moment alone with Jaenara to speak without restraint. 

He thinks of another solution.

Aemond peers down at his niece and lets High Valyrian fall freely from his lips.

“You have been avoiding me.” 

Jaenara does not remove her eyes from the path in front of her.

“You have not sought me out.” She retorts, her tone cool and collected. Aemond lights up. He had not expected his niece to be fluent in their mother tongue, and hearing her voice enunciate the ancient words caused something unknown inside of him to stir. 

“I am now,” he replies evenly, “ And I have to say, I had not expected you to be so fluent in Valyrian. Not even my brother speaks it so well. That idiot can barely piece together a single sentence.” 

Jaenara laughs, “I am a Targaryen. Every Targaryen should speak their language. Understand their history.”

Aemond nods, “Something we can agree on, niece. Though I have to say, you speak it better than I thought a-”

“Then a bastard would?” Her words are laced with a bittersweet acknowledgment that catches Aemond off guard. His niece had never spoken the truth of her parentage in front of him - or anyone for that matter. In truth, Aemond found him unsettled from her acquiescence. Though he understood the only reason she dared to acknowledge the truth now, is because no one around them had a clue what she was saying. 

“You’re not laughing, uncle. Very unlike you - you who never passes up an opportunity to remind me of my blood.” Jaenara still seemed unfazed, her attention drifting to a cluster of blue irises at their feet. She bends gracefully to touch the silky petals, and Aemond finds himself captivated by the way her dark hair spills like a cascade of black silk over the blossoms. He clears his throat.

“You are to be my…ābrazȳrys (wife). I no longer wish to humiliate you over things out of your control, such as your parentage.” Aemond’s voice is steady and controlled, betraying his inner turmoil over making such remarks.

Jaenara lets out a laugh, though it sounds hollow. Much unlike the laughter she had shared with his sister. Her lady-in-waiting shifts uncomfortably behind them. “Actions speak louder than words, Aemond.” The princess rises from her spot amongst the flowers, turning to face her betrothed.

Aemond is filled with a stubborn determination at hearing her challenge, and takes a few steps towards her - until he can feel his niece’s breath fan over him. He stares down at her, and finds that he enjoys how she does not shrink under his gaze.

“Pār nyke jāhor gaomagon.” - Then I will act.

Jaenara laughs again, but it is quickly put to an end.

“I do not know why you laugh, Jaenara. I am being sincere.” His gaze is hard. 

She considers his words for a moment, and turns back to the garden path. The princess returns to the common tongue. 

"Come along, it is growing darker," Jaenara says, her voice carrying a hint of finality as she resumes their journey along the garden path. Aemond follows silently, his mind still processing the weight of their conversation. The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the estate grounds, while a cool evening breeze stirs the leaves of ancient trees. When the couple finally reach the stone archways and paths of the Red Keep, Aemond speaks up once more. 

“You will have breakfast with me. Tomorrow” It is not a question, though his tone remains soft..

“I will?” Jaenara asks, an eyebrow raised in defiance.

“This is me taking action.” He offers her a wry smile.

Jaenara exhales and looks to her handmaiden, who skillfully avoids her gaze. “Fine. I will see you in the morning” She stomps off to her chambers, lady-in-waiting trailing behind. The princess does not get to see the small, honest smile that settles on Aemond’s lips. 

— — —

Early the next morning, Jaenara awakes to a polite knock on her chamber door. Alora, her lady-in-waiting, entered cautiously, offering a sheepish greeting. "Good morning, Your Grace."

The princess rubbed her eyes wearily and yawned. "Good morning, Alora. And please, call me Jaenara when it is just us. No need for formality in the privacy of these chambers." she replied with a tired attempt at a smile.

"Oh! Yes, my lady—I mean, Jaenara," Alora stumbled over her words, feeling conflicted over addressing a princess so casually. "Um... Aemond - the prince - sent me to assist you with dressing. He wishes to have breakfast with you?" She sounds uncertain.

Jaenara sighed lightly and pushed herself to her feet. "Very well. Let's not keep him waiting," she said, giving Alora a reassuring glance.

Alora deftly combs out Jaenara's long, ebony hair, swiftly braiding half of it and letting the rest fall down her back. As the princess gradually awakened, she engaged in light conversation with the younger girl, easing her nerves. 

With gentle assistance, Alora helped Jaenara into a splendid dress—its upper half a deep shade of black, its lower half a rich crimson. The sleeves were wrought with golden embroidery. Once satisfied with her handiwork, Alora guided Jaenara to the dining room, where Aemond awaited their arrival.

“Thank you, Alora. I think that will be all for now.” The princess smiles at her lady, dismissing her. Jaenara hesitantly pulls out a chair across from Aemond.

“Good morning.” She offers. An honest attempt at niceties. 

Aemond hums, sounding pleased. “Good morning.”

It remains quiet for a while, as the two begin to serve themselves and take a few bites of the breakfast that has been prepared. The prince steals glances at his niece, observing how her dark curls frame her face. Watching her spoon her food gracefully. Noting how her dress clings to her.

At last, Aemond ventured to break the quiet. “That dress suits you well.”

The princess pauses her cutting of a sausage. Jaenara had not expected to hear that kind of comment so early in the morning. And no less from Aemond of all people. She narrows her eyes at him.

“What?” She asks, as if offended.

Aemond pauses, mid-bite. “I only meant it as a compliment. The Targaryen colors agree with you.” 

Jaenara continues with her meal, deciding that pretending as though she had not heard her uncle was the best course of action.

Why did he say that? Does he mean to mock me?

The prince breaks the silence once more, wanting to change the subject. "I hear your mother's name day preparations have been finalized."

Jaenara swallows a mouthful of food and clears her throat. “Um…yes. I believe so. Everything should be in place by now. The ceremony will be in…five days? I believe.”

"My mother seems unusually eager for the occasion," Aemond remarked. "She and Rhaenyra have been quite chatty lately."

“You’ve noticed too?”

“It is hard not to.” Aemond admitted.

Jaenara shrugs, “True enough. Well, they seem happier anyway.”

Aemond only hums in agreement. “My mother, although…she seems to be even more excited about the wedding than the coronation ceremony.”

Jaenara sputtered on the ale served alongside their meal.

A smug grin spread across the prince's face.

“Oh? Is that so?” She asks as nonchalantly as she can. 

“Oh yes,” Aemond sounds amused, “I hear her and Rhaenyra have taken to planning a few things.”

"What!?" Now Jaenara could not hide her surprise. Her outburst drew the attention of nearby servants, and Aemond grinned at her fluttering.

“Um - I only meant. I had not known they were already planning the ceremony.” She finished, dabbing a napkin to the corners of her mouth.

“Well someone has to. We certainly have not spoken about it.” Aemond remarks.

Jaenara almost feels guilty. She searches Aemond’s eyes for any indication of regret or sadness over their lack of time together. 

“Well then…what would you like to discuss about it?” The princess makes an attempt to turn to the matter.

Aemond considers the question. “What kind of cake would you like?”

Jaenara lets out a true laugh at that, catching Aemond off guard.

“If I must tell you,” She says while catching her breath, “I am fond of lemon pastries.”

Aemond makes a noise of agreement. He recalls that her mother favors the sweets as well. “Then we shall have them.”

Jaenara looks up from her meal and the couple lock eyes. She stares intently into his, trying to decipher his unreadable expression. 

What are you doing, uncle? She is left to wonder. Jaenara feels a crack begin to form in the walls she had put up to keep Aemond out. But the fracture is filled as quickly as it appears when she considers that Aemond is simply playing his part. Putting up a charade. The princess looks at the man before her, and can only seem to remember the cruelties that he has dealt. Her heart hardens.

"Why do you care?" she questioned, her tone accusatory. Despite their heartfelt conversation in the garden the day before, Jaenara only continued in her struggle to believe in her uncle's sincerity.

“Because I want to care.” Aemond is taken aback, though he makes an effort to sound earnest.

The princess scoffs and takes a swig of ale. She rises to her feet.

“I am full.” she declares, signaling an end to the meal and perhaps to their conversation. Jaenara stands and walks the length of the table, drawing near to the door but coming close to Aemond.

That strikes a chord within the prince, “You are about as stubborn as a damn mule,” he mutters under his breath.

The retort is not lost upon the princess’ ears. Jaenara spun around abruptly, facing her uncle where he was currently still seated. "Excuse me?" she exclaimed incredulously.

"Damn it," Aemond whispered to himself, closing his eyes briefly. 

“And here I thought you were being truthful yesterday when you said you no longer meant to belittle me.” She bites.

Some unseen force compelled Aemond onward. He reached out and gently but firmly grasped his niece's wrist.

"I only meant..." He struggled to find the right words. "Gods, you're infuriating."

Jaenara felt a stirring within her at his touch, but she pushed the sensation aside, focusing instead on his words. "I’m infuriating?" 

Now, Aemond raises his voice. “Yes! Infuriating. I am making a sincere effort to get to know you, and I am met with nothing but resistance. There is nothing we can do to change the marriage we will soon find ourselves in,” He rises from his chair, hand still gripped around Jaenara, “but I am making a sincere attempt to make it more bearable. For you.”

A part of Aemond understood that his words were primarily to uphold a facade, to maintain the illusion of feigned interest in his niece. Yet another part of him recognized sincerity in his sentiments. He couldn't help but feel pity for Jaenara. This thought had crossed his mind repeatedly—in the quiet of his chambers, in the stillness of the night, and even yesterday as he watched her depart from the estate gardens. She had undoubtedly drawn the short straw amidst their betrothal.

Jaenara Velaryon was being forced to marry Aemond, a scarred and flawed second son by his own reckoning. While Aemond had initially perceived the proposal of marriage to his own bastard niece as an insult, he couldn't deny the faint attraction he harbored towards her— a sentiment he was certain she did not reciprocate. 

The princess regarded her uncle with a peculiar mix of curiosity and contemplation, allowing his words to sink in. Jaenara's relationship with her uncle had always been incredibly strained — tense. Yet, as she observed the furrow in his brow and the genuine anguish in his eyes, she sensed a truth in his earnest plea. She reflected on her initial hopes—that they might spend their lives avoiding each other, barely exchanging words. Yet, standing before him now, she reconsidered. If Aemond—of all people—could muster some semblance of kindness, however feigned, Jaenara resolved she could reciprocate. Even if it was nothing but a lie. 

For in the convoluted dance of courtly alliances and familial expectations, sometimes even the semblance of civility could hold more weight than honesty in securing fragile peace.

With hesitant resolve, she reached out, gently clasping his hand in hers. Aemond feels goosebumps form on his skin from the additional contact. 

"Aemond," she began quietly, meeting his gaze squarely. He makes an effort to memorize how his name sounds on her lips.

Gods be damned, he thought. 

"I apologize. I hadn't fully appreciated your efforts. You are right. For this marriage to have any chance of contentment and peace, we must find common ground. We must make an effort to get to know each other."

The princess finished her apology, her words hanging in the air between them. All Aemond could manage in response was a silent nod, fearing that his mouth would betray him if he were to open it.

Jaenara withdrew her hand from his with a slight hesitation. "Well…I should be going. I intend to meet with my mother to discuss our impending wedding. There is much to plan," she added, her voice faltering slightly as she hurried out of the room.

Aemond stood there, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. He glanced down at the hand that had briefly held his niece's, flexing his fingers thoughtfully, a mixture of uncertainty and determination swirling within him.

A/N: As you may have noticed, this chapter is structured a little differently! I decided to make these changes for narrative purposes/so everything flows better. Because of this, I will be revising the previous two chapters, so the next chapter may take a little longer to come out (I also have a job interview coming up, so I will be doing a lot more than just brainstorming and writing now T-T) Anyways! As always, thank you for reading :)

Tags: @toodlesxcuddles

[dallasmoon17]

What is one thing I wish someone had told me before I went on t?

I’m a researcher, I’m autistic, I’ve known I was trans since the 4th grade and next year I’ll be entering my senior year of high school. With that information you may ask, what could you have possibly not know about being on t? The answer is pretty much nothing. There wasn’t a result, a symptom, a reaction, a change, a possible complication that I hadn’t managed to uncover in the treasure trove that is the internet. I watched YouTube videos, read articles from fancy clinics and medical researchers, I scrolled instagram and TikTok and Tumblr and Reddit, I read every article from every blog or newspaper or magazine. Trans topics, especially transitioning, was and still is one of my biggest special interests. In the least official way possible, I am an expert.

And yet there’s still one thing that no one had fully impressed upon me. Which was just how happy being on testosterone would make me. YES! Of course I have read and listened to people talk about the joy they found in transition, how the changes that they experienced brought them peace, alleviated years of depression and anxiety and misery, changed their lives. But no one prepared me for the fact that being on testosterone. Just. Being. On. Testosterone. Has made me so fucking happy. Has boosted my confidence so much.

I’m a month and 22 days on t. The changes I could tell you about are minuscule. I have no big transformation pictures or videos to show you. But the joy and confidence I have experienced in the last month and 22 days despite that is insane. I am so excited for the future, I am letting go of ideas, both related to my assigned sex at birth and not, of what my life is supposed to look like fly out the window. I am planning my future around my happiness and my personal fulfillment. I feel myself walk with a new sway in my step. And talk with a more confident ring to my voice. I look in the mirror and I see myself, still with virtually the same face that I had the very first day I started injections, but unlike before I always take a moment to stop and admire my face, because I can finally love it, because I finally know that my body is working to change and become something so much more mine.

It is absolutely incredible. And I hope that anyone who is afraid or anxious about starting testosterone, that anyone who is on the fence and unsure, will read this and let it be a guiding step in their journey to that decision, no matter what it ends up being. That anyone reading this will know that transition is beautiful, it is life saving, and transformative. Transition is godlike. And powerful. Making the choice to move forward on your journey is for you, don’t let fear or family or friends hold you back. Your future is yours, only you can live your life. So go live your life.

[poopwons]

**Break My Heart**-Ft. Jean Kirstein 18+ MDNI!!

Synopsis: You and Jean break up, he doesn't know what to do with himself. Maybe you'll call him? (surprise, you will)

Content: (NSFW), F!Reader, Jean’s POV, post break up feelings, angst, cursing, depressed Jean, pet names, handjobs, fingering, praise kink, Jean has a teensy bit of a size kink, collaring (if you squint), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, people), cream pie, hair pulling, light alcohol consumption

a/n: I have never written anything this long before, but I got the idea in my head and it would not get out so, here it is. I was literally driving home from work listening to Olivia Rodrigo and Happier came on, so that's what inspired this 🥰 Huge shoutouts to @jeanboyjean and @cowgirlikets for encouraging me through this entire process!💜💜💜 ***also I know absolutely nothing about plumbing, so sorry if all of that is completely inaccurate LOL***

words: 6.9k

Two months, four days.

That’s how long it’s been. That’s the last time Jean saw you in person, talked to you at all. Sure, he’s wanted to reach out, he’s gotten drunk a few times and Connie had to wrench his phone out of his hands when he saw your name on the screen. Jean had yelled at him, tried to push him off, but Connie ended up with the phone, locking it away before helping Jean to bed. All in all Connie was looking out for him more than anyone else. That’s what good roommates are for, right?

Though, Jean is sure that Connie never expected to ever see his friend like this. Hell, Jean never thought he’d be this way; he never even thought of the possibility of the two of you splitting at all. The first week after you told him you didn’t want to keep seeing him, he stayed in bed, blaring awful sad songs, just wallowing in his own self pity. He supposes he still is, even months later.

The days without you have slowed to a crawl. He still thinks about you all the time, it takes all his will power not to scroll through your instagram, wondering if you’re thriving without him, or if you’re just as fucked up as he is. He doesn’t want to know, he’s not that desperate yet. Still, thoughts of you plagued him every moment it seemed like. Who does he make breakfast for now? Making a single serving for himself just seems.. pathetic, pointless, in comparison to making something for you.

The two of you had a great routine, his favorite, he thinks. You’d wake up, curled in his arms, peppering little kisses to his face, trying to wake him up. He’d groan at you before running his hands to your sides to tickle you, calling you a menace for disturbing a man’s sleep. The little giggles he’d pull from you were his favorite sound, he’d never heard anything better. Then he’d get up, make coffee and breakfast for the two of you while you showered. Sometimes he’d say fuck the breakfast and shower with you instead. Hot water cascading down the two of you, the smell of your shampoo in his nose as he kissed the back of your neck while washing your hair. Fuck. He needs to stop. Think about anything else, he curses himself, his brain can’t keep doing this to him, can it?

But, turns out, it can. Who makes your tea the way you like it, muddled with honey and a splash of cream? Who else knows that you only want earl grey when it’s raining because that’s what your mom would give you when you came inside from splashing around in puddles when you were little? That you want chamomile when you’re sick, and coffee most mornings, unless you’re anxious, then you want English breakfast. Who knows the way you order your meals from your favorite restaurants? That you don’t like water chestnuts because “they’re too crunchy without enough flavor”, or that you hate fast food lettuce but will completely devour the caesar salad from the diner downtown because you say the lettuce is always “the perfect amount of crisp and never soggy”? What does he do with all this little information that he’s learned about you, that’s now completely useless to him since you’re not here?

Connie managed to drag Jean out to go have lunch with him and Sasha the next day. It’s the first time he’s been out in weeks for something other than work. He’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, the most he can manage with how exhausted he’s been. The little chain that you picked out for him draped across his collarbones. He likes that memory. You dragged him into a jewelry store, showing him the necklace, saying something about how you thought it’d look good on him. He was never much of a jewelry person, but for you? He agreed, but only if you’d get a matching bracelet, and you did. You said it was your favorite, you loved it so much, and it went on like that, the two of you, in your matching pieces, wearing them everyday…

“Jean,” Connie breaks him out of his thoughts, he wonders if he could tell that he was thinking about you again.

“What,” his tone is flat, nothing like his usual light hearted one.

“Dude, don’t you think you should take that off?”

Jean looks down at his chain, then back at Connie, a frown plastered on his face.

“No, I don’t want to take it off.”

“Look, man, I know you’re still upset, but.. doesn’t that make it worse?”

Jean can’t stand the look of pity he’s getting, he shrugs and doesn’t reply. Take it off? And then what, get rid of it? No. No, he can’t get rid of it, you got it for him. It would be like throwing you away.. and he’s just not ready to do that, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be.

Sasha kicks Connie under the table, the two of them had clearly talked about how to handle today and it seems like Connie is going off script. Jean can’t take it anymore, he can’t stand the way his friends are looking at him, he wants to look anywhere else. So, he does what he’s been trying to avoid. He pulls out his phone, opening up your instagram. You haven’t posted in a while, but there is one new picture. Jean’s heart lurches into his throat when he sees it. Who is that? Why is he with you? He’s never seen this guy before and he doesn’t like it, right down to his stupid green eyes, that idiotic man bun, and that shit-eating smile plastered on his face, like he’s mocking Jean without even trying. The picture is innocent enough, a selfie with his arm around you. But why is he touching you? Why are you letting him? Did you really move on this fast? Did you forget about Jean already? Is this the real reason you ended things with him, for this other guy?

He hears a faint grunt from across the table, then Sasha is talking to him, he hardly hears it, the blood is rushing in his ears. Connie snatches his phone from his hand, Jean can’t even find the energy to snap at him. Connie groans when he sees the screen.

“Shit, man… I was hoping you wouldn’t see that.” Connie practically winces when he meets Jean’s eyes, tears welling up in them. His voice breaks when he finally speaks up.

“Who is that with her?” He sounds like the world has been ripped from him.

Sasha speaks up from her side of the table, having seen the post as well. “I don’t know.. maybe they’re just friends. Don’t overthink it, it’ll be okay.”

He sends a pitiful look her way, it most definitely would not be okay. He takes his phone back from Connie, rising from the table, hell bent on getting back home. His brain is going a mile a minute thinking about you and.. whoever that was.

Two months, fifteen days.

He stays in his room all week. Barely leaving, laid up in bed scrolling through your entire instagram. All the pictures of you and him are gone. He can’t believe you got rid of them, did you delete them off your phone entirely? Were all those pictures slowly being replaced by new ones with this guy? He hates the thought of this stranger taking up camera space that should be his. He knows he shouldn’t.. looking through this idiot’s instagram isn’t going to make him feel any better, but he has to know why you chose him instead.

He swipes through this guy’s pictures, he’s even got a stupid name. Who spells their kids' name Eren? There aren’t a ton of posts, but the few that Jean does see has him rolling his eyes, gym selfies and photos of him playing a guitar, his long hair flowing down his shoulders. Great, so he’s ripped and talented. Jean’s not out of shape by any means, but he isn’t as cut as that, especially since he’s been skipping the gym the past couple of months, unable to find the energy to go, and he definitely can’t play any instruments. Maybe he should learn, would that impress you enough to finally reach out to him? No, that would take way too long, he wants to hear from you so much sooner than that. Maybe he can start growing his hair out.. would you like that? You never complained about his hair before but, this whole thing has thrown him for a loop. He’s questioning everything about himself wondering what Eren has that he doesn’t. Maybe Eren’s better in bed? No, that can’t be it. You never once complained about Jean’s performance, all those pretty sounds you made when he touched and kissed and sucked at all the right spots. No, he definitely knew what he was doing in that department. So, that can’t be it, which almost makes it worse. That must mean Jean failed you in some other way as a partner. Was he not attentive enough, not supportive enough? Did he not make enough time for you? Maybe he should have tried to plan more dates. The thoughts go on and on like this until he finally falls into a fitful sleep, what little dreams he has are plagued with you laughing at Eren’s stupid jokes, of you being happier with Eren than you ever were with him.

Jean is sitting up on the sofa in the living room, Connie had begged him to at least come out of his room so he knows the poor guy’s still alive. Jean is scrolling through yours and Eren’s pages, checking yet again for any more posts.

“Dude, seriously? Are you looking at that guy’s page again?” Connie asks, as he sits down on the couch with a bowl of cereal.

Jean gives him a noncommittal grunt, before shoving his phone in Connie’s face. “I mean, what does she even see in him? He’s not that good looking and he has stupid hair. He probably can’t even play that guitar.” 

Connie gives him a sympathetic look, he knows it can’t be easy for Jean to see you with someone else, but it’s been almost three months since you two split. All the same, he’s Jean’s friend, he can’t always tell him what he wants to hear, right? He sets his bowl down with a sigh, bracing himself for what he’s about to say.

“Come on, man. He looks like a decent enough guy. I know this is hard for you, but don’t you want her to be happy?”

“She’s supposed to be happy with me! Me, not this fucker with a guitar, who’s side are you on, anyway?”

“I’m on your side, you know that, but this is nuts, she’s just a chick. You’ve been hung up for almost three months. You need to get back to the shit you used to do. When was the last time you even went to the gym? That used to be so important to you. You should go back, get some endorphins going, that would make you feel better.”

Jean huffs, Connie just doesn’t get it. He gets up off the couch and walks over to the entryway, pushing his shoes on. “She’s not just some chick, dude.” He spits the words out before walking out the door. Maybe a walk would clear his head. He knew in some regards, Connie was right, he hasn’t been taking the best care of himself lately, but his “just a chick” comment has Jean seeing red and he can’t focus on any of the other rational things Connie’s said.

He walks and walks until it gets dark outside, when he finally gets home he scarfs down a protein bar and flops down in bed. Closing his eyes and drifting off relatively quickly, worn out from the walk, maybe he should go back to the gym, he thinks, if a walk has worn him out so much. He doesn’t know how long he sleeps for, but the buzzing from his night table lulls him out of sleep. Bleary eyed and groggy, he picks up the phone staring at the screen. He must be seeing things. Or he’s still asleep and this is a dream. He sits up abruptly, rubbing his eyes, looking at the screen again. Sure enough, it’s your name that’s up on the screen, the phone is still buzzing in his hand as he stares at the caller id. It finally hits him that if he doesn’t answer it’ll go to voicemail and you might not call back. He fumbles to swipe his finger over the answer key, almost dropping his phone in the process.

“Hello?” Jean tries to make his voice sound calm and not rushed, despite the fact that his heart is practically beating out of his chest over something as simple as a phone call, at the prospect of actually hearing your voice for the first time in months.

“Hey, uh, it’s me. Well, duh, you probably know that.” Your voice sounds just as angelic as he remembers and part of him thinks he might cry right on the spot. “um, listen, I didn’t know who else to call, I-I know it’s late.”

“No, no, I’m uh, I’m awake. Wha-what’s up?” He hates how nervous he sounds, but he can’t help it, even his hands are shaking. 

“Can you come over? There’s like, a leak in my apartment, and the office is closed, I just don’t want to lose my deposit. I’m sure they’ll find some way to blame it on me and not their shitty plumbing. I mean.. Obviously, if you’re busy, it’s okay, I can figure something else out.”

So, you’re calling him to come help you, not Eren, interesting. Jean feels over the moon, maybe Eren isn’t all he’s cracked up to be after all. 

“No, I’m not busy, it’s fine. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just try to soak up all the water you can.” Jean says as he scrambles off his bed, going to the bathroom to check his hair in the mirror, smoothing some parts that got ruffled in his sleep. He looks at his shirt, cursing silently that he’s still wearing this sweaty t-shirt. He puts you on speaker and quickly pulls the fabric off, throwing it in the hamper.

“Thank you so much, you’re really doing me a huge favor.”

He pulls a fresh shirt over his head, the shirt getting caught in his frantic movements causing him to have to talk louder than normal, so you can hear him over the muffle of the fabric, “yeah, it’s no problem, I’ll be there soon.” He’d do you a million favors if it meant he got to see you. You hang up and he slips on his shoes, rushing out the door to get to your place with his tools.

Jean’s heart is hammering out of his chest the whole drive to your place, it feels like his body is vibrating with anxiety. He’s practically white knuckling his steering wheel, his brain just going and going. He finally gets to see you, he’ll get to see you. He hopes you’re wearing his favorite pair of sweats. He always thought you looked so cute in them, so comfy and cozy. Excitement is starting to bubble in, until he thinks, oh, god. What if he’s there? What if Jean has to see you and Eren together in person, in a situation where he can’t just walk away. Oh, fuck, why didn’t he think about this before? He was just so excited to hear your voice, to see you, that he wasn’t thinking. If he has to see this idiot touch you right in front of him he thinks he might punch him. That would not look good on him, you’d probably even get mad at him, that’s the last thing he needs. He pulls up to your apartment before he knows it, punching in the gate code that he still has memorized, begging and praying to whatever good karma he’s drummed up in the universe, that Eren fucking Jaegar is not in your apartment with you.

He knocks on your door, fussing with his hair a little as he bounces on the balls of his feet, unsure what to do with all this nervous energy. When he hears the lock disengage he pulls his hand away from his hair as fast as he can, trying to look as casual as possible, like he hasn’t thought about you every second of every day for the past three months.

“H-hi,” you answer the door, obviously feeling a little uncomfortable with this whole situation yourself, but he doesn’t know if it’s the same kind of nerves he’s having or something else. But fuck, you look so pretty, so so pretty, with your hair draped over your shoulders in loose waves, the way you always wore it before, wearing a crew neck and some shorts. 

“He-” Jean’s voice cracks, it fucking cracks. Seriously? What, is he sixteen again? He clears his throat and starts again, “Hey,” 

You let him in, and he gets enveloped in your smell, he practically sighs as he breathes in the familiar comfortable scent of you and your things. He didn’t know you could miss a person’s smell this much. He looks around expecting to see the place how he remembers, but he’s thrown off when everything looks different. You’ve rearranged all your furniture. Thankfully, though, you’re the only one here, there’s no sign of another guy having been here at all. He lets out a little sigh of relief, following you into the kitchen where sopping towels are littering the floor. 

“I just came home from work and found it like this. I don't know what happened.” you say, waving your arm to the floor.

“Well, let’s just see. I’m sure it’s just a loose rivet or something,” Jean walks past you, trying his best not to let your proximity as he does get to him, fighting the urge to just take you in his arms and not let go. That’s not why he’s here, you didn’t call him for that. He’s thankful that you called him for an actual task, something for him to focus on so he’s not just staring at you, he’s afraid if he stares too long he’ll snap.

You stand in the kitchen with him while he patches everything up, it’s an easy fix, just like he thought. A baby with a wrench could fix this, so again, his mind drifts back to why you called him and not Eren, not that he’s complaining. He thinks it all feels very domestic, you watching him fix up things around the house. He’d fix everything you asked him too if he could hold onto this feeling. He’s surprised when you crouch down next to him, trying to see what he’s doing.

“It was loose, right here, I’m just tightening it up.” He smiles as he looks at you briefly, he can’t help it, you just look so pretty and you’re right next to him, right where you belong. 

You smile back at him and he feels his heart lurch again, turning the wrench a little more, satisfied with his work, he catches your eye, “and that should do it, you should be all set now.” 

He stands up, wiping his hands on his pants before offering you a hand up. When you take his hand he bites back a smile at the feel of your hand in his again after so much time, even if it is a harmless interaction. Standing up with him, you don’t pull your hand away right away, lingering there for just a second too long. Did he imagine that? No, no you definitely lingered. 

You brush a strand of hair behind your ear and smile at him sheepishly. “Thanks again, I really appreciate it.” God, your smile is the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“It’s not a problem, I don’t mind helping you.” Jean runs a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck, looking away from you, still nervous. He knows the whole reason he came is taken care of now, and he doesn’t want to leave, but he thinks that’s what you might want. 

“So, I should–”

“Do you want–”

You both speak at once, sharing a nervous chuckle. Jean lets you go first, giving you a look that says so.

“Do you, um.. Want a drink?” You look nervous, awkward. Surely he’s imagining it, he doesn't want to get his hopes up too high. “It’s the least I could do, calling you over here on a Friday night. I’m sure you had better things to do.” You give him another shy smile and he swears he could melt into a puddle right there.

“Uh, sure. Y-yeah, a drink sounds good.” 

“All I have are those hard seltzers I usually get, that okay?” you ask like you expect him to remember, and he does. He wants you to know how much he remembers about you; everything, he remembers everything. 

So, just drinks for yourself? No beer, no liquor, nothing he thinks a guy like Eren might drink. Interesting. So far, everything he’s observed has led him to the conclusion that maybe you and Eren aren’t together. Maybe Sasha was right, and the two of you are just friends?

“That’s fine,” He bends down, putting his wrench away, placing his tool bag on your counter. Turning back to look at you, the slim can in your hand as you hold it out to him. He takes it, following you over to the couch where you both take a seat next to each other. 

His body feels like it’s vibrating, sitting this close to you. You didn’t have to sit this close, but you did. He pops the tab, taking a drink to calm his nerves, and you do the same. 

“So, how have you been? It’s been a while.” You speak so softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear again, a nervous habit. Are you feeling the same tension he is? Is he making it all up because he missed you so much?

“Uh, good, good.” He lies, what is he supposed to say? That he’s been completely miserable without you? No, if he’s wrong and you have moved on, he has to at least pretend he’s been doing alright. “Work is, well, work, you know. Haven’t been doing much else. What about you?”

“Y-yeah, no, things are, um, they’re okay. I finally got promoted at work.” you smile at him again, before taking another sip. “I’m officially management.”

Pride swells in his chest, he knows how badly you wanted to move up in your job, how much you craved more responsibility. He’s glad your place of work is finally acknowledging your potential.

“Hey, that’s great. I’m really happy for you,” and he is, genuinely. “Is it everything you wanted it to be?”

You give a little snort, “I mean, I guess. Workplace drama is a lot more stressful when you’re actually the one in charge of trying to defuse it, instead of just listening to all the gossip.” 

“Well, I’m sure you’re handling it fine, you were always good at that kind of stuff.” 

You huff a little laugh again, thanking him before pulling the sleeves of your crew neck up while adjusting your position on the couch. That’s when he sees it, that little glimmer of silver on your wrist. His heart pounds harder as he sees it. You’re still wearing your bracelet. You still have it. 

“You’re still wearing that,” Jean points out, his voice coming out little more than a whisper, like he just can’t believe it, his eyes locked on the bracelet.

A blush blooms across your cheeks and Jean is positive it’s not just the alcohol. Fuck not getting his hopes up, you wouldn’t still be wearing something he got you if you didn’t miss him a little bit. 

“Oh, yeah..” you fiddle with the bracelet with your free hand, “I um.. I feel a little naked without it, you know?” you cheeks are still flushed as you look up at him. 

Jean just smiles at you, “yeah, I know what you mean.” he says as he pulls the chain out from under his shirt. “I got so used to wearing it everyday, it just doesn’t feel right with it off.” It’s not even a lie, just, not a full truth. His nerves are slowly fading away, getting replaced with renewed hope.

“Well, it does still look good on you,” you reach your hand up to run your fingers along the chain, Jean feels a jolt of electricity in your touch that practically lights his skin on fire, and that’s when he really knows. There’s no way you’d be touching him like this if you didn’t miss him, if you were seeing someone else. He’s never felt so much relief in his life. “Suits you, for sure.” 

He takes his hand placing it over yours, goosebumps prickling his skin where your fingers dance along the chain. “You..um, you have good taste,” he says, his breath turning a little shallow, he knows he’s not imagining all the tension that’s been slowly building up since he got here. “I never would have picked anything like this for myself.”

Your hand is so small in his, he’s always been bigger than you, taller, more muscular. He didn't realize how much he missed it until now, he was so caught up with missing all the other parts of you that this bit seemed to have slipped his mind. You’re looking at him with your pretty doe eyes, letting him hold your hand, he can practically see the hearts in your eyes, looking at him like you used to. Fuck it, he’s going for it. Drinks completely forgotten on the coffee table as he scoots a little closer to you, just enough so that your knees are touching.

“I’ve really missed you.” He whispers, leaning in just a little closer, he hears your breath hitch in your throat, your eyes flitting to his lips. 

He smiles as you lean in too. You want it just as much as he does. “Me too..”

When he finally presses his lips to yours he almost explodes with happiness, he’s feeling giddy, all these pent up feelings pouring out into your lips. He cups the back of your neck as he deepens the kiss, swiping his tongue over your bottom lip, a silent request for permission. He sighs as you grant it, opening your mouth for him so he can glide his tongue along yours, and you moan into his mouth. You fucking moan. He loses any semblance of control he had. His hands move, roaming over your back and the two of you lose yourselves in the moment. Without really thinking about it he pulls you onto his lap, moving his mouth to press hot kisses to your neck, nipping the sensitive skin. It always was one of your favorite spots. His hands run under your sweatshirt, caressing your back, savoring the feel of your soft skin under his palms.

“Missed you so fucking much.” Jean breathes out between kisses, groaning as you grind your hips onto his lap when he kisses your neck again.

“Missed you too. Thought…Thought about you all the time…” Your words are broken up by little gasps. Jean thinks he could die happy, just like this, but then your hands go to the hem of his shirt, pulling it off, running your hands over the contours of his chest and he feels like he’s going to burn out of his skin.

His hands follow suit with yours, pulling your sweatshirt off, discarding it on the floor next to his, drinking in the sight of you, sighing when he sees your bare chest. Running his hands over your tits, kissing his way down your neck and your collarbone before taking one of your nipples into his mouth and starts kissing and sucking, pinching at the other one with his free hand. You arch your back into his touch and he moves his hands back around your waist, pulling you closer to him. He just needs you closer, so much closer.

You just grind against him, he can feel the heat coming off of you, listening to your breath get more and more ragged as you wrap your arms around his neck in order to get closer, pulling his head up. 

“I’m sorry. Jean, I’m so sorry.. I never should have–” your voice sounds broken, despite the desire and need coursing through the both of you. It breaks his heart to hear you sounding so sad. You don’t even have to explain what you’re apologizing for, he already knows. 

Jean cuts you off with a kiss, running his fingers through your hair, shushing you softly. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” He soothes, pressing soft kisses between his words. “Later. We’ll talk about it later, yeah?” He pulls back, pressing his forehead to yours, looking in your eyes with all the love he has for you. 

You give him a feeble little nod, kissing him passionately. Your tongues glide together as you taste each other, making up for lost time, and god, does he want to make up for it. With that in mind, his hands move to the plush of your ass, squeezing as you keep your lips on him. As much as he doesn’t want to push you away from him, he needs to touch you. He runs his hands over your bare thighs before hooking his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, pushing you back just enough so he can get the leverage he needs. Tugging them off, you lift your hips to help him. He looks down and sees you clad in lace, one of his favorite pairs. A brief look of surprise as his brain sorts through it. You… you planned for this, at least to some degree. All doubts completely leave his head as a satisfied grin curls on his lips. 

“You wear these just for me, baby?” He murmurs into your ear as he nips at your earlobe, fingers already dancing along the sides of your panties. 

You give him another nod and a breathy little sound that he assumes, if you were able to form the words, would be a confirmation. He pushes the material aside, running a finger through your folds. Shit, you're so fucking wet for him. He’s going to lose his mind. His finger swirls around your clit, eliciting moans and gasps from you. You’re already starting to squirm for him and he doesn’t let up, still swirling little circles with the pad of his finger. 

“J-Jean,” you moan out his name and cling to him, holding his head tightly to your chest. 

“‘M right here, baby, I got you. You gonna be a good girl and cum for me?” 

“Y-yes, yes, yes, fuck!” He feels your legs shaking on him, still moving his hand. God, he missed seeing you like this. 

“That’s it, that’s my girl. That’s my good fuckin’ girl, did so well for me. ” He purrs into your skin, pressing kisses to your neck, giving you a second to catch your breath.

Turns out you don’t even want a breather, your hands moving desperately to his lap, frantically trying to undo his buttons, slipping your hand in and wrapping around his cock. 

“Fuck,” Jean groans under his breath, lifting his hips with you still on his lap, so he can shove his pants down enough for you pull him all the way out.

Your hand pumps him, smearing the precum over his flushed tip, causing him to suck in a sharp breath. You keep working him, your hands are always so soft, twisting your wrist a bit on the way up, squeezing the tip just a little. He loves the way he looks in your hands, your smaller ones making him look even bigger. His eyes catch a little glimmer, and he groans again when he sees you jerking him with your bracelet bouncing on your wrist with your movements. All he can think about is that you’re his, you're his, you're his. That one little accessory tells the whole world. Maybe he’ll replace it with a ring. He leans forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck, taking a shaky breath.

“Shit, you’re makin’ me feel so good, but I don’t… fuck, I don’t want to cum like this.” He pulls back to look in your eyes, seeing nothing but how good you want to make him feel and he doesn’t know what he did to deserve you. 

He pulls your panties to the side again, lifting you up, lining himself up with your entrance and pulls you down onto him. Jean thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. He has never felt anything better than you wrapped around him like this. You both let out audible moans, as you adjust to him. Without any warning, you start bouncing on him. His eyes roll back as he drops his head to the back of the couch. Your bounces are slow, deliberate, he’s sure he’s in heaven.

“You feel so good. Love how full you make me feel.” You murmur, breathy, into his ear, bracing yourself on his shoulders. 

As much as he’d love to just sit here and bask in you riding him, he’s going to cum way too soon if he lets you keep going like this, especially if you keep using that mouth of yours to whisper everything he’s been wanting to hear for the past three months in his ear. He moves his hands back to your ass, grabbing handfuls of you, doing the work for you for another second or two before he wraps his arm around your waist he starts fucking up into you. 

“Missed my pussy so much, baby. She’s mine, yeah? That’s what this means doesn’t it?” He growls, taking your wrist, adorned with your bracelet, showing it to you. “That’s why you never took it off? Been mine this whole time haven’t you?”

Your walls squeeze him, as you hear his words, and he groans again. “All yours, Jean.. al-always yours.”

In all his desperation to get close to you, to get inside of you, he didn’t think your panties would cause a problem, but at this point they’re in his way, they won’t stay to one side. He moves his hand, gripping the flimsy garment, and pulls hard, tearing them.

“Jean!” You protest, looking down at where the two of you are connected.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” He mutters before he picks up his pace, finally able to fuck you the way he wants, slamming his hips up into you. 

You don’t seem to care so much anymore, as your eyes roll back, and you let out a cry. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, moving to bury your face in his neck. And for Jean, right now, that just won’t do, he wants to see you, wants to see your face contorted in pleasure. He brings his hand to the back of your neck, tugging your hair so you’re looking at him. 

“Look at me, baby, wanna see you.” Shit, he already feels close. Not having you for all these months, and finally getting you, getting to see in your face how good he’s making you feel and how much you missed him too. He didn’t think he was going to last long anyway. He brings his lips to yours, kissing you hungrily, all tongues and teeth. 

“Ba-baby, ‘m close,” you whine, eyes glazed over, face scrunched up just the way he likes. 

“Me too, cum with me, yeah?” His hand snakes between you, finding your clit, rubbing circles on it with his thumb.

He feels you clenching around him, cunt pulsing and god he missed this feeling, missed feeling you come apart just for him. You say his name again and again like a prayer and he just can’t hold back anymore. 

“Fuck, baby, I’m shit–” He tries to warn you so you can get off of him, but you just stay put, slamming down on him again and again. He cums hard, painting your insides white. 

Still holding onto you tightly, one hand on your neck and the other around your waist, you both just stay locked in an embrace, panting. Each of your heads are resting on the others shoulders, Jean presses little kisses there while he catches his breath. 

“God, I really did miss you so much.” He whispers into your skin. “And not just this, all of it. I missed all of you.”

“I know, I missed you too. I wanted to call you or text you, or anything. I just…didn’t think you wanted to talk to me.” Your fingers toy with the hair at the nape of his neck and he just savors the moment. 

Neither one of you moves, you just sit there holding each other. You haven’t even gotten off of him yet, his cock going soft inside you, feeling his cum leak out onto his lap, but he couldn’t care less. He just runs his fingertips up and down your back tenderly. 

“You really scared me, you know that?” Jean says when he finally feels like breaking the silence.

You lift your head, giving him a puzzled look. “What do you mean? How did I scare you?”

Jean sighs, it sounds stupid now, in hindsight, thinking that you had moved on. “I thought you were dating that Eren guy. You posted a picture with him and I kind of freaked out.”

It seems like it takes a second for his words to register, because you’re quiet for a moment before you burst into a full fit of laughter. Jean just gives you a pointed look. He doesn’t see what’s so funny about that. You’re laughing so hard you practically roll off of him, landing on your side on the couch, your legs still draped over him. He follows suit, cuddling you when he gets onto his side. 

“What’s so funny?”

You finally stop laughing long enough to answer him. “Eren? EW.” you manage to get out before you start giggling again. “He’s like a brother to me, we grew up together. I haven’t seen him before that post since he left for school. You really thought I was dating Eren??” 

Jean’s cheeks flush, a little pout forming on his face. “What was I supposed to think? He was way too close to you in that picture.”

Your laughter subsides, and you brush some hair out of his face, giving him a soft smile. “He just took me out for the day because I was so sad about you. I felt like I’d made a big mistake, and he just wanted to get my mind off of it for a little while. Besides, even if he wasn’t like a brother, he’s been in love with the same girl from middle school since he was like, twelve years old.”

You look like you have more to say but you’re hesitating. Clearly feeling a little nervous, he just nudges you gently, wanting you to continue.

You take a deep breath before going on, “I am sorry.. I shouldn’t have broken up with you, and for such a stupid reason.”

“What was the reason, exactly?” He asks, he never actually got the full story.

“I just… I liked you too much, things were going too well. I guess I kind of panicked, wondering when the other shoe was going to drop.”

Jean just stares at you, of all the reasons he thought it was, he didn’t think it was this.

“So… you broke up with me, because things were going too well?”

“It sounds stupid when you say it like that!” You bury your face into his chest, hiding your blush. “I said I was sorry.”

“What if there’s no other shoe? What if we’re just good together? Did you think about that?” He asks, no malice or hurt in his voice, just genuine curiosity. He presses a little kiss to the top of your head, trying to soothe you.

“There’s always another shoe.” You mutter, not bothering to lift your head up.

Jean sighs, taking your chin in his hand, pulling you up so that you’re eye to eye with him. “Baby, I promise, I will do everything in my power to ensure that there is no other shoe, okay? You have a problem, just talk to me. Let me be there for you, let me try and make things better. I’m not saying everything will be perfect all the time, but just know I’ll try my damndest for you.” He presses a kiss to your lips, sealing his promise. 

“Yeah.. okay,” you finally give him another smile, and he kisses you again, unable to resist. “So, can I be your girlfriend again?”

“As long as you promise not to break up with me for such a stupid reason ever again.” He smiles at you again, pressing another kiss to your forehead before pulling you back into his chest.

“Promise,” you mumble as you nuzzle into him.

Jean’s happier than he’s been in months, with you in his arms, right back where you belong.

Thank you so much for reading! Likes and Reblogs are always appreciated!💖

[copperbadge]

Homework from the therapist this week was to research mindfulness and its impact on emotional regulation. I had pointed thoughts about how we culturally define "mindfulness" and I think she wanted me to deal with that rather than make her do it, which is fair. (I think there is one definition of Mindfulness that is, at root, "Whatever a person in authority over you thinks will make you need less attention" but I am a Notable Cynic.)

Anyway she sent me a site about DBT, which was fine but mostly useful for its citations. Still, it had questionnaires, and I would normally check in before doing that kind of reflective work but she did send me the website. So I took the "Interpersonal Emotional Regulation Questionnaire" which measures how much you depend on other people to regulate your emotions. It's pretty standard, you rate a statement 1-5 based on how little (1) or much (5) it is like you.

There's not a lot of literature about what the end score means, but most of the papers talk about how a certain score is pretty normal but the higher end of scoring indicates a person is likely relying too heavily on others to regulate their emotions for them.

Out of a hundred points, with the minimum possible being 25, I scored 29.

There's no real literature on what to do when you bomb a personality test in the opposite direction from most people*, but I guess I'm an outlier in a lot of ways. Although, being fair, this is one section of the questionnaire, and does ANYONE like it when someone does these things to them?

It helps me deal with my depressed mood when others point out that things aren’t as bad as they seem;

Having people remind me that others are worse off helps me when I’m upset;

When I am upset, others make me feel better by making me realize that things could be a lot worse;

When I am annoyed, others can soothe me by telling me not to worry;

Having people telling me not to worry can calm me down when I am anxious.

I know what I want when I'm miserable about nothing is to be reminded that I'm miserable about nothing and told I shouldn't be. I suppose that might be the point, like if someone saying that to you works for you then you might be letting someone else drive a little too often, but still.

* Yes, I know you can't bomb a personality test, I am being Le Humorous.

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Panic! At the DA's Office

Casey Novak x fem!reader Warnings: suicidal ideation, mental health struggle, anxiety/depression, panic attack, established relationship, fluff forever, some explicit language Word count: 2k

Summary: You're supposed to be meeting your girlfriend, Casey, for lunch, but prepping for the bar exam has you in an anxious spiral. You try to hide it, but it's hard to pretend you're okay when you're with Casey.

You stood on the subway platform, greasy Shake Shack takeout bags tucked under your arm. You'd told Casey you'd bring her lunch, and you were a woman of your word. Even though the bar exam was two weeks away. Even though you'd written so many practice essays you'd had to get a wrist splint for the cramps. Even though you were practically drowning in information about constitutional law, civil procedure, torts, contracts. You were exhausted from studying, and it felt like it was all for nothing. The more you studied, the more things seemed to get jumbled up in your mind. The more you'd stare at the page and the words would stare back, shifting and writhing until they meant nothing.

With each practice test, you felt less confident. As the day of the exam got closer and closer, your anxiety grew and grew. And you were so good at hiding it. You had to be good at it, or else how would you go on? How would the world keep on spinning, and you with it? Sometimes you wished it wouldn't. Not forever, not for always. You just wished that, for a little while, everything would stop. That just for a little while, no one would need or expect anything from you and you could just be. Or not be, maybe.

As you stood on the platform, waiting for the subway that would take you to the DA's office and your girlfriend you thought, briefly–as you sometimes did at your lowest–how easy it would be to jump. It would be so easy, so fast. But you had the warm food in your hands. You had Casey's milkshake. She loved milkshakes. And she would be so sad. It was always the thought of Casey's heartbreak that stopped you. Or imagining your dad crying. Imagining your parents having to tell your siblings what had happened.

You felt the rush of the subway as it sped past you and exhaled deeply. The moment was over. At least for now. You took a seat and did your best to steel yourself to see Casey. She was excellent at reading you, and you needed to be unreadable today. The last thing you wanted to do was worry her.

You walked the last bit of your journey in the freezing cold, appreciating the way the wind stung your eyes. It brought you out of yourself.

You saw Casey through the window before she saw you, and your heart surged. Just seeing her made you feel better. Not all the way better, but at least a little better. You knocked at her open door, and the look on her face when she saw you made your heart soar.

"Y/N!" she called, waving you in and shutting a notebook.

You were quiet. You didn't trust yourself to speak, afraid you might start crying. The downside of feeling so safe with Casey was that your usual ability to wall up your emotions was significantly impaired with her. You leaned down to kiss her quickly, and she wrapped her arms around your waist, burying her face in your chest.

"This case is killing me," she said as you pulled up a chair, divvying up the food. "I mean, the evidence they've given me is absolute shit. It's always fucking Stabler jumping the gun, and now I have to clean it up. Typical white man. So I think I'm gonna try..."

You let Casey ramble, grateful to hear her voice, to hear about her day, to have the excuse of food in your mouth to simply nod absentmindedly. But you couldn't manage to eat much, mostly pushing ketchup around with your fries and trying to white-knuckle through the panic rising in your chest. Your heart pumped faster and faster, and you were trying so hard to breathe normally, even though you felt like you were suffocating.

"Y/N?" Casey said, snapping you out of it.

"What?" Your voice was shaky, and you avoided her eyes. If she saw your eyes, she'd know.

"I just asked how bar prep was going..." She looked you over, furrowing her eyebrows. "Are you okay?"

You needed to breathe before you could speak, but when you opened your mouth to try, your breath hitched, hiccuping and separating into hyperventilation.

"Y– yes," you replied, clearly not okay, as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and your breath came in short gasps. It was as if all the anxiety of the last few days, all you'd bottled up and kept at bay, had come flooding in all at once, knocking the air out of you.

"Okay, well, that's obviously a lie," Casey observed, standing quickly to close the blinds and lock the door. She sighed as she sat back down, mentally beating herself up for not noticing that something was off when you came in.

"Come here, honey." She pulled your chair toward her, grabbing your clenched fists in her hands and forcing them flat.

You were rocking and hyperventilating at this point. Your heartbeat was so fast and loud it was almost all you could hear. If you hadn't had panic attacks before, you would have thought you were dying. You knew better: you were dying, but only on the inside.

Casey pressed her forehead to yours and breathed slowly, in and out, in and out.

"Breathe with me, sweetheart, come on," she said softly.

"I– I c-can't."

"Yes, you can, honey. Come on."

You took a big, shaky breath and let it out, coughing.

"That's it, baby, that's it. Just keep going. Just breathe."

After what felt like an eternity, your heartbeat started to slow. You paired your breathing with Casey's, shaking slightly. She ran her thumbs over your knuckles in rhythm with your breath, and you felt an icy calm settle over you, the same calm that comes after an adrenaline rush, all that hot terror seeping away.

You exhaled and lifted your head a bit, avoiding Casey's eyes.

"Sorry."

She shook her head, fixing your hair and wiping away that tears that lingered on the bottoms of your eyelids.

"Don't be sorry."

But you were. You were so sorry. Your panic attack might have subsided, but the sense of being a burden had only increased. You wanted to sit on Casey's lap. You wanted her arms around you. You wanted her to tell you that she loved you, that she needed you, that you weren't too much for her. But all of that felt like too much to ask for, so you just sat, arms wrapped around yourself.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" Casey asked gently.

You felt more tears coming and dashed them away.

"It's just everything," you said, the words spilling out in a flood. "I'm doing terrible on the practice exams, Casey. Terrible. I'm gonna fail the fucking bar exam, and then what!? What was it all even for? I just can't do it! I can't! Every time I sit down to study I feel like I'm gonna die, and I can't start because I'm too anxious, but then I don't study and I just get more anxious. I'm just– I'm not good enough!"

Your voice broke, and Casey's heart broke with it.

"I'm not good enough for you, and I– I don't want to do this. It's not worth it, I'm not worth it." You grasped your hair and groaned. "Sometimes I wish I wasn't even here. Today I even thought about jumping in front of the fucking subway. I'd never do it," you added, noticing Casey's alarm. "But it just... feels like it'd be easier for everyone, including me, if I wasn't around."

Your head was in your hands. You couldn't see it, but Casey looked devastated, her heart surging for you. She grabbed you up and pulled your body into hers until you were on her lap, her arms wrapped tightly around you.

"Oh, honey," she breathed, pressing her face into yours. "Please don't say things like that. Do you know how empty life would be if you weren't here?"

You shrugged your shoulders, sniffling

"Who would bring me milkshakes?"

You giggled.

"Who would sing loud with me in the car, huh? Who would make laugh so hard I snort?"

You smiled, moments with Casey flashing through your mind, some of the happiest moments of your life.

"Who would make me feel loved and safe and proud, if you weren't here?"

"Somebody would," you argued.

She cupped your face and looked you hard in the eyes. "No. Not like you do."

"You're just saying that."

"I'm not. I don't just say things, you know that," Casey reprimanded you. She placed small, warm kisses on your cheek, your forehead, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth, until you were laughing and squinting.

"You," she continued, "are generous and brave and kind and funny and sweet and so, so beautiful. And the world would be a lot darker without you in it."

Your chest buzzed with warmth, like stepping outside on an unexpectedly sunny day or coming downstairs on Christmas morning.

"I don't know about that," you protested, but Casey had successfully beaten back your blues. And she could tell.

"Well, my world would be anyway," she chuckled.

You placed a kiss on the corner of her mouth before returning to your seat, reaching for a french fry.

"Now you're hungry," Casey said, rolling her eyes.

You glanced at the clock. "I thought you had a meeting?"

"I do."

You froze, but Casey was quick to reassure you.

"It's okay! Not a big deal for me to be a few minutes late, I promise."

You relaxed, taking a sip of Casey's milkshake. She snatched the cup back.

"I thought I told you to get your own milkshake."

"Well, I just wanted a little bit!" you whined.

"That's what you always say, and you always drink half of mine."

You flashed her your most charming smile, and she sighed, handing you the cup. You tried not to look too smug as you sipped.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" you said, dripping with sarcasm. "Probably can't take a milkshake to your fancy lawyer meeting."

"I do have somewhere to be, but I need you to do something for me before I go."

"Oh." You sat up a little straighter. "Okay. What?"

"I need you to call your therapist," she stated, staring at you pointedly.

"Case, I'm fi–"

"No, you're not," she cut you off. "If you're having thoughts like you said you were, you need to talk to her."

You sighed and nodded. "Okay. I'll call."

Casey didn't budge.

"Casey," you needled. "You can go. I will call."

She shrugged her shoulders and leaned back in her chair, stance wide, looking like a hot Wall Street businessman in her work suit. She could make you do anything when she looked like that, and she knew it.

"Fine." You picked up your phone, scrolled through the contacts, and found your therapist, flipping the screen around to show Casey the contact info before pressing the call button.

"Speaker," Casey commanded.

"You're fucking bossy, you know that?"

Your therapist didn't pick up–probably in a session–but you left a message.

"Hey, Carla, this is Y/N. Just kind of having a rough day... slash week slash time in general, and I was wondering if you could squeeze me in maybe earlier than my session next week? Like maybe..."

"TODAY," Casey whispered aggressively.

"...even today or tomorrow if you've got anything open. Thanks, bye."

You rolled your eyes. "Happy now?"

"Mmhm." Casey stood, picked up her briefcase, and bent to kiss you on the head. "I gotta run, but let me know what your therapist says, okay?"

"Okay," you agreed, suddenly feeling embarrassed again.

"Hey," she said, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at her. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

She planted a firm kiss on your lips before opening the door.

"You can stay in here and work if you want. When I come back, we can work together."

"Okay," you said, already feeling better about an afternoon of studying. If Casey was there, it couldn't be too bad.

"I love you so much I'll even let you have the rest of my milkshake," she called back as she walked down the hallway.

You shook your head and took a sip, feeling better than you had in weeks.

[overangel]

"Hiiiii, thanks for asking! This is such a fun question. So! Let's get the depressing stuff out of the way. You/Starling in the past didn't buy new clothes and if she did, it was very basic dark colored tees and jeans she wore for years. She had like only 2 pairs of dingy sneakers. Why was that? She was extremely depressed, too anxious to draw any attention to herself—because any attention from the batfam was always negative attention(will get into how Dick was particularly cruel in the last life)—and she lacked confidence while believing nothing nice suited her and she didn't have the aura to pull it off. She/you are growing up in the age of tiktok where any style is possible, but she restrained herself. She had a credit card from Bruce but was too afraid to lose it. So, that's how she died. Never allowing herself to feel pretty. Never expressing herself. Another injustice you did yourself.

This time, things are so different! Before you get funds, Alfred is styling you in smart, refined, yet chic fits. From rich royal blue and crimson, to soft and dainty powder blue, and dusty rose, he's coordinating ladylike quiet money. No labels but anyone with eyes can see the quality in the fabric, stitching, and cuts. Sheer stockings, Mary Jane's, and sensible heels, you're his lady and he's so proud of you.

YOU USE THAT BLACK CARD. you're no label hoe, you seek quality and genuine style and artistry. You wear whatever you want. Let people see your mood without you having to speak. You're finding treasures at the salvation army, discovering vintage pieces long believed lost, if you buy designer, you're hiding the label. No free promo lol

You're quiet but you're confidence is loud"

There's so much to unpack that i prefer to ask here.

1)I really want to know who was the most cruel to Starling in her past live now (if this is not spoiler ofc🫣).And who did she dislike the most ?

2)Is bruce ever threatened her to take back the credit card?

3)And about the "No free promo lol" make me wonder what was Starling's job in her past and actual life? Will she get famous in her civilian life now?

Ayeeee, honeybunch! Thanks so much for reaching out cause I love to discuss~

Let's get into it!

𝟙 Who was the most cruel? Whew, now that's a good question, and depends on what's the most triggering to you. I'll def have to add appropriate TWs to the chapter where Starling remembers how they treated her in the past because I'm sure like myself, it may hit a little close to home for some readers and I know we're all in it for a the angst, but your mental health takes priority.

I won't be too descriptive, but here's how each of the main perpetrators were terrible in their own way:

Dick: Bodyshaming. Starling goes through a lot of physical changes as a result of poor mental health and declining quality of life. Dick was the type to give you "advice" with a shit-eating grin like he was doing you a favor.

Tim: Mental abuse. He downplayed, questioned, and insulted your intelligence any chance he got. It came second to breathing for him, and you sadly started to believe him.

Damian: Violence, intimidation, public humiliation, and he was the only one to ever insult your mother. As your blood, he really knew how to hit you where it hurt and he aimed to make sure you didn't get back up.

Stephanie: Mean girl behavior and psychological abuse. The type to publicly embarrass you and call you out on it "innocently" like you were being overly sensitive. Any reaction you had was unnecessary and you were being too dramatic. "She didn't mean it like that. Stop being so sensitive!"

Cassandra: Looking right through you. No, she never insulted you. She treated you like you didn't exist, and maybe that hurt just as much sometimes.

Barbara: You weren't around her much, but she breezed right by you when you were. You don't know what anyone told her about you, but she already formed a negative opinion of you and there was nothing you could do to change it.

Bruce: Everything about him.

((Jason's only flaw was staying away from you. He was avoiding you because he didn't think he could do anything good for someone like you who had gone through so much. Duke honestly tried to talk to you and form something like a friendship but others kept getting in the way))

𝟚 Regarding the black card, I meant to type "use" instead of "lose," my bad 😂 Starling was afraid to use the card because she was worried about what Bruce would think of her. What if the purchases looked useless or embarrassing? What if he judged her for being wasteful and frivolous? And then, she stupidly thought that if she never bothered him for money he might come to like her for who she was and not think she wanted anything from him ((but parents are supposed to provide for their children. He wasn't a father in any sense.))

She died without touching a single penny of that card in 10 years. What a waste. Now, she'll use it before she uses her own money. "Fuck you, pay me" and all that

𝟛 Regarding previous jobs, Starling was always artistically inclined and had a giving heart even back then. She had a bleeding heart she wore on her sleeve (at her peril) so something involving helping others would've been a good career path. It could range from physical therapy, early childhood development, social services, pediatrics, medicine, teaching, caregiving, photography, etc, etc, etc. You were capable of doing whatever you wanted. You just didn't let yourself. You couldn't let yourself.

The only time she tried to work ended in disaster with her manager and coworkers secretly recording and posting her to their socials. She barely got through a day before the store she worked was swarmed with paparazzi and mean-spirited people. Bruce put an immediate stop to her ever trying to work ever again and didn't see her capable enough to have any position at his company so she just became a NEET.

In this life, the possibilities are limitless.

[xxelliewxx]

Fire and Frost {Ellie x Reader} Chapter 7

Pairings: loser!(AFAB)Reader x hockey player!Ellie

Synopsis: When y/n is requested to tutor Ellie Williams in organic chemistry, she expects arrogance and attitude from the hockey player. However, she discovers a different aspect of Ellie’s tough exterior, revealed through humor and fleeting glances. This raises the question: why does Ellie go to great lengths to embarrass and harass y/n whenever they are in the presence of others?

Warnings: Mentions of depression, anxiety, sexual/physical assault, alcohol, violence, trauma (if I miss any let me know!)

w/c: 3.1k

an: this chapter is a little longer than the others but let me know what you think. bonus points if you know what sapphic movie 'A Little Respect' is from!

Hydrogen Spark

An exhilarating wave washed over you following your meeting with Ellie in the library, igniting a thrill that compelled you to bombard Dina's phone with a flurry of messages. Her enthusiastic replies lit up your day, filling you with joy as she celebrated the progress you were making with the brunette. The conversation flowed seamlessly, continuing into the week as you shared a glass of wine and laughter at the turn of events.

You couldn't shake the feeling of joy that washed over you with the unexpected turn of events; this was exactly what you had hoped for from the very start. Even though Ellie had been less than kind to you since the very beginning, her undeniable confidence captivated you, making her utterly impossible to resist. 

A message broke through your reverie as Dina seamlessly continued the conversation you had the previous night.

Dinah: My ship is finally sailing! I knew she had the hots for you lol

Y/N: Calm down, D, it's just a hockey game lol

Even though you brushed off your friend's comments, a flicker of hope ignited within you that her words might hold some truth. After all, ever since that fateful day when she splashed you with your sticky latte, your heart had been quietly pining for the hockey player. 

Your mind came to an abrupt stop as the image of the girl who always hovered near Ellie flashed in your thoughts, showering her with public displays of affection. Cat. How could you forget? Ellie had a girlfriend; she was merely starting to thaw her frosty demeanor towards you, trying to be friendly, nothing more. 

Feeling the weight of the reminder dampening your spirits, you hurriedly gathered your things, anxious not to be late for your calculus class. The thought of facing Dina filled you with a sense of dread, the melancholy of the moment hanging over you like a dark cloud. As you slipped your AirPods into place, the familiar notes of "A Little Respect" by Erasure filled your ears, the lyrics resonating with your emotions more than you cared to admit. 

As you entered your Math 1272: Calc II class, your gaze immediately found Dina, settled in her usual spot, her excitement palpable as she awaited your arrival. She was primed to unleash her endless enthusiasm for you and Ellie, ready to shower it upon you with such fervor that it felt like it might overwhelm you. 

Dina, your closest confidante, could sense the shift in your demeanor instantly. She observed the way her enthusiasm seemed to wilt as you brushed off her cheerful welcome. "You're throwing me for a loop, Y/N! What changed in the last ten minutes?"

Shaking your head, frustration lacing your voice, "Forget it, D. I don't want to talk about it."

Dina rolled her eyes, shoving your shoulder in response. "Not a chance! Lover girl is finally giving you the time of day, you should be over the moon right now!"

Fed up with her antics, you pushed her away, and it was far from playful. "I told you to drop it, Dina. Or have you conveniently forgotten that she has a girlfriend?" Your voice dripped with venom, frustration surging as you uttered the word 'girlfriend'.

Dina let out a pointed tsk, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, come on! Cat isn't her girlfriend; they just hook up occasionally. Cat would love for it to be more, though." A laugh escaped her lips, as if she found the other girls' hopes amusing, like she was in on a secret that Cat was blissfully unaware of. 

You were appalled by her behavior, unable to see any humor in the girl's desperate longing. It struck a nerve, resonating with your own experiences. "That's not amusing, Dina; the girl is being used."

Dina brushed you off, "Why do you care, Cat hates your guts. You don't owe her shit." 

You mulled over her words, wrestling with the weight of this fresh revelation. While you weren't exactly Cat's number one supporter, a flicker of sympathy stirred within you for her. This behavior was so out of character for Dina, leaving you bewildered about how to react.

"Dina, please just leave me alone, I don't even want to talk with you right now." With a dramatic roll of her eyes, Dina shifted her focus back to the lecture that had just begun.

You knew you were unfairly venting your frustrations on her, but after discovering that Ellie was manipulating Cat for her own amusement, the anxiety of being next in line was overwhelming. The thought of your feelings for the hockey player made it all the more likely that you would fall right into her trap, just as Cat had.

Calculus dragged on interminably, your mind a tumultuous battlefield as anxiety surged at the impending moment of seeing Ellie in just an hour. Noticing your lingering frustration, Dina stepped closer, her demeanor tentative as she attempted to ease your irritation."I can tell you're still pissy with me, but I really think you should go to the hockey game tonight. Let me know and we can carpool."

You let out a deep breath, a wave of guilt washing over you for your earlier outburst. "I’m really sorry, D. I’ve just been under a lot of stress. And yes, I’ll definitely carpool with you for the game tonight."

 Dina's face lit up with joy at your words, and she enveloped you in a tight embrace that nearly knocked the wind out of you. "Oh, Y/N! I knew you wouldn’t stay upset with your bestie forever. Since I have to arrive early, you can just chill and catch our pre-game practice! Coach won’t mind at all."

The thought of watching them practice before the game felt intimate to you, causing a blush to creep up your neck. Just imagining Ellie in her element ignited a thrill that left you breathless. "Cool, I'll see you later, we can meet up at the apartment." 

Dina beamed at you, her smile bright and infectious, and gave a quick nod of approval before she dashed off to her next class. Meanwhile, the looming exam for one of your other courses nearly faded from your thoughts, overshadowed by the captivating presence of a certain green-eyed brunette who had been occupying your mind lately. 

Ellie was turning into quite the distraction, making you feel the urge to distance yourself from her entirely. But the memories you began to cherish with her filled your mind, the thought of only having those to remember hurt you. 

As you stole a quick look at your phone's clock, a wave of panic washed over you—time was slipping away, and you were about to miss the start of your CHEM 2301 class. The anticipation of seeing her again spurred you into a sprint toward the lecture hall. 

As you turned the corner, you collided with a sturdy figure, nearly sending you sprawling on your ass if not for the firm grip that caught you, saving you from a more embarrassing tumble. You looked up, a flutter of excitement dancing in your stomach as you locked eyes with the vibrant green gaze fixed on you, a playful smirk spreading across her lips at the unexpected meeting. In a teasing tone, Ellie broke the silence, "this seems to be a talent of yours."

Her strong hold relaxed just a bit, yet it still anchored you firmly, a sensation that was becoming all too familiar, and you couldn't help but want more. With a nervous chuckle, you glanced down at your Chuck Taylor's, noticing her stylish black and tan sneakers. 

The moment her grip slipped away, you instinctively glanced up again, determined to keep your gaze locked with hers. You felt your breath hitch as you observed her hand glide toward your face, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. A lump formed in your throat as you took in her beauty, the black hat perched playfully backward on her head, with little wisps of unruly hair peeking out.

Raising an eyebrow in bewilderment, Ellie asked once more, "Are you alright? Did I hurt you?" You couldn't help but marvel at how the brunette scanned your face, her expression filled with concern, as if she believed she might have inflicted some kind of pain.

"Why are you out here anyways El, class started five minutes ago." The nickname escaped before you could stop it, a name you had heard spill from the lips of her teammates. Her smirk grew at the shortened use of her name.

"El, huh?" She raised an eyebrow, her tone laced with challenge. "Don't remember giving you permission to call me that."

Before you could respond, she stepped in close, closing the distance with an easy confidence that sent your back pressing against the wall. Her hand landed beside your head, fingers splayed against the surface as she leaned in—so close you could feel the heat of her breath ghosting over your skin. The warmth of her presence wrapped around you, slow and smoldering, leaving your mouth suddenly dry. 

As her lips hover tantalizingly close to yours, the doors of the lecture hall burst open with a thunderous crash, jolting the brunette's focus away from you to the intruder. A fierce glare etched itself onto her face, her fingers curling into a tight fist beside your head, radiating fury at the person who had so rudely interrupted your moment. 

The sight of Cat, her face contorted in horror, likely reflected the shock you were experiencing as well, leaving you equally mortified. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes as she took in the scene before her, her fists tightening at her sides while she moved closer to the hockey player. "What the hell, Ellie?" Cat's voice was laced with fury, making you instinctively shrink back.

Ellie pivoted to confront the furious girl, positioning herself as a barrier against the storm of anger that was sure to come your way. "Who the hell is that? Is that Y/N? Seriously, Ellie, are you really fucking the help now?"

Gritting her teeth, Ellie moved in closer to the other girl, her hands resting firmly on her shoulders. "Cat, not right now. We can chat later, but I really need you to go for now." Cat glared fiercely from behind the taller girl, her eyes blazing with pure animosity as they locked onto yours.

"Whatever, Ellie. I'm leaving, I'll be waiting at our usual place for you to come and make things right in your own special way." Cat flashed a teasing smile at the brunette, her words deliberately crafted to stir up jealousy, and they hit their mark—you felt a wave of frustration wash over you.

Tears began to well up in your eyes as the weight of your circumstances settled in. Just as you were about to kiss the girl who had captured your heart for months, the harsh reminder of why that moment was out of reach barged in, shattering your dreams and pulling you back to the stark truth. 

As Cat slipped away, Ellie redirected her gaze toward you, a flicker of guilt crossing her features. "Y/N—" But you interrupted her, not allowing her the opportunity to explain as you marched into the lecture hall, determined to brush aside everything that had just happened. You couldn't let her distract you any further; perhaps it was for the best that you remained just the nerdy girl who helped her with her studies. 

The hockey player never made it back to class, leaving your mind racing with the image of her possibly 'apologizing' to Cat. You clung to that hope until the final moments of class, when you noticed one of her teammates snatch Ellie's backpack, scooping up the forgotten items from her desk. A chorus of laughter erupted from the group of hockey players as they filed out, leaving you alone in the deserted lecture hall, the only other presence being Dr. M.

Dr. M approached your desk, her satchel of teaching materials tucked securely under her arm. With a look of genuine concern, she asked, "Is everything alright, Y/N?" Her kindness broke the dam you had been holding back, and in an instant, you found yourself leaning into her comforting embrace, tears finally flowing after being held in check throughout the lecture. 

Dr. M stepped in to mend the void left by your parents after the incident during your Freshman year, taking on the role of a nurturing presence in your life. You were forever grateful for her kindness, not sure as to where you'd be without her, a steadfast anchor in your life. With each tear that streamed down your cheeks, her gentle whispers wrapped around you like a warm embrace, granting you the freedom to let go of the emotions you had been holding back for the last hour. 

☾⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽☾⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

After stepping out of Dr. M's class, you felt an invisible pull guiding you back to your apartment, completely devoid of the desire or energy to attend your Biotechnology lecture. The allure of your bed was irresistible, and you collapsed onto the plush mattress, the quiet enveloping you like a warm blanket, gently coaxing you into slumber. 

A pillow being slapped onto your head woke you as you sprawled out of bed, heart hammering in your chest as you gained your bearings. "What the fuck, D! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" You shot a fierce glare at the girl who was doubled over, cackling uncontrollably at your startled response.

As her laughter finally subsided, she dabbed at the tears that had streamed down her cheeks during her fit of giggles. "I can't help it, Y/N! I’m so sorry! But we really need to hurry; pre-game practice kicks off at 4." You glanced at your phone, still a bit dazed, and saw the time reading 3:15. Rubbing the remnants of sleep from your eyes, you turned toward your closet, eager to find the perfect outfit for the evening while Dina headed off to prepare herself.

You chose a Jackson University hoodie for the hockey game, a thoughtful gift from Dina. The black fabric boldly displayed "Jackson Women's Hockey" in striking white letters. Behind the school mascot, a fierce timberwolf, crossed hockey sticks framed the design, while the wolf clutched a puck in its mouth, its claws seemingly ready to leap off the sweatshirt. 

Leggings felt like the ultimate choice for comfort, especially with the long hours of sitting ahead. The icy atmosphere of the rink demanded a snug beanie to fend off the chill. For an added touch of warmth, pulling on some Doc Martens along with soft, fuzzy socks would be just what you needed. 

As you slung your crossbody bag over your shoulder, you lent a hand to Dina, helping her haul her hefty hockey equipment down the stairs and into the back of her trusty old Bronco. It never ceased to astonish you just how much gear she managed to accumulate and the sheer weight of it all. With a flurry of energy, she flung her sticks into the back and sprinted toward the driver's side, her heart racing at the thought of the impending showdown with their fierce rivals, Grand Canyon University. Those rivalry nights ignited a fire within Dina, showcasing her tenacity and competitive edge—qualities you had always found inspiring.

"Ready to watch an all out ass whooping!" Her laughter mingled with your cheers, a wave of exhilaration washing over you. The rink was just a short drive from your place, leaving just enough time for a quick jam session. As you grabbed some of her gear and trailed behind her through the double doors, the anticipation crackled in the air. 

The aroma of sizzling hot dogs and warm, buttery popcorn wafted through the brisk air of the arena, where children darted around, playfully pursuing one another after their hockey match. Meanwhile, parents gathered in clusters, animatedly exchanging thoughts on the game their kids had just participated in. 

The one undeniable truth about hockey was the fervor it ignited in both players and spectators alike, whether it was a spirited children's game or an NHL showdown The excitement enveloped you, thrilled that you were finally about to experience the sport your best friend is so fervently devoted to. 

As Dina guided you to the glass seats, she paused to flash a bright smile your way. "I need to head out now. Enjoy the show!" With a playful wink, she wheeled her duffle bag, brimming with hockey gear, toward what you assumed was the girls' locker room. Absorbing the vibrant atmosphere around you, you picked up your phone to browse through social media while waiting for practice to start. Just as you completed watching a reel on Instagram, the sharp clatter of pucks hitting the ice echoed as hockey players burst onto the rink, each one snatching a puck and launching it toward the vacant nets while their goalies did stretches alongside the boards to warm up.

Dina wore the number #14, and you were determined to locate your friend gliding over the ice. Your eyes caught her in action as she skillfully passed the puck to one of her teammates, who then launched it into the net with a perfect one-timer. The forward's demeanor radiated assurance, and you instantly recognized that the goal-scorer was Ellie, her confidence shimmering like the ice beneath her skates. 

The coach glided onto the ice, clipboard clutched tightly as he let out a sharp whistle. He gathered his players into a tight circle, meticulously outlining each step of their first drill with clear and precise instructions. You observed in awe as the drills unfolded, each movement executed with a seamless grace and undeniable synergy. Before long, the rink began to fill with eager fans, all buzzing with anticipation for the evening's showdown. While you were aware of the women's hockey team's popularity, the overwhelming crowd took you by surprise, igniting a surge of pride for your best friend. And perhaps for another player sporting a C on her jersey.

The rival team had gathered alongside your Timberwolves, each side immersed in their own pre-game rituals, shaking off the nerves as the upbeat warm-up music pulsed through the rink. You observed #21, Ellie, as she playfully bantered with the opponents, prompting both coaches to intervene and separate their players. You couldn't help but roll your eyes at her antics, fully expecting her to stir up trouble even before the game had officially begun.

The players took one final lap around the rink, pushing themselves to the limit as they sped past one another. Ellie glided by, a playful smirk dancing on her lips as she flashed you a cheeky wave, mouthing an apology. In response, you couldn’t help but smile softly, returning her wave as you watched her zoom ahead, leaving Dina in her wake.��

A rough voice jolted you from your daydream, catching you off guard. "How do you know my kid?" You turned to face the man next to you, noting his salt-and-pepper hair and beard, the weathered texture of his skin, and the emptiness in his gaze. Holy shit, was this Ellie's dad?

Caught off guard, you hesitated as he extended his hand, a warm invitation for a handshake. "I'm Joel, by the way. I'm Ellie’s father."

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA in this friendship? give me a minute here, it's more complicated than it sounds

I'm 19 years old, female. So there's this friend, we'll call her B (also 19F). We've been friends for years, since elementary. We've been good friends for that time, I thought.

But especially during high school, it was hard to spend time with her. She was always convinced the friend group hated her even though all I'd ever hear was that they liked her and were confused/frustrated/hurt as to why she thought that. She's always had a lot of mental illness going on (depression, anxiety, ADHD, etc) so I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. She spent most of her time in another part of the school refusing to spend time with me or the friend group saying she wanted "alone time" even though she was surrounded by other friends.

I knew she was feeling unwanted within the friend group, so I tried to spend time with her when she would let me. But it kind of alienated me from the rest of the friend group so I spent a good portion of my lunches alone. Plus, even though she would say its ok for me to be there, sometimes it felt like she hated me and my presence. But then she would turn around and tell me I was the only one she could be truly honest with, etc, etc.

The reason I tried not to pay too much heed to the idea that she might really hate being my friend is because I also struggle with anxiety pretty badly. I've been working really really hard to just listen to what people tell me, because I can't trust what I'm telling me.

But this feeling continued after high school, and it felt like there was something I didn't know, like she secretly hated me and only put up with me.

Almost every time I would invite her to do something, she would try to invite someone else too. That's fine, but when it happens almost every time... it made me feel like I was unwanted.

I got really clingy. I'll admit that. I texted her often (most days a week) and would get anxious when she didn't respond within a couple of hours, leading to me double, triple texting most of the time. She told me not to text her during work, but how am I supposed to know for sure? She told me her hours once, but I have no record of it and I don't expect her to memorize my schedule so I feel like that's unfair. Plus, if I didn't press for an answer, I often wouldn't get one at all or wouldn't get one for days. Like one time I tried to schedule a time to hang out a few weeks in advance. She told me she would get back to me, but then the day before, still nothing. I texted over and over again, trying to get an answer, until she got mad at me for texting so much and told me she didn't think hanging out would work out. But the point is I got clingy, in a way that I understand made her anxious.

My anxiety got the better of me and I decided to stop contacting her. I held to it for a couple of months, aside from wishing her happy christmas/new years. But my birthday came and went for the second year in a row without a word, and I decided I needed to talk to her about it.

I did, and although she refused to do it in person like I wanted, I thought it was a pretty good conversation. She told me about a couple things I was doing to make her uncomfortable. I promised to work on those and being less clingy. I told her I need her to be honest about the things that bother her, and she said she needed time to work on that skill. She said she was thinking a month, maybe less, so i agreed not to contact her first during that time and she promised to contact me soon.

I didn't hear from her for three months. I finally broke down and texted her, asking to talk it out and telling her this arrangement wasn't working for me. She didn't respond for almost a week. I needed peace of mind, so I said I was done with waiting and I would be open to rekindling the friendship later, but I wasn't going to hold my foot in the door for her any longer. No response again.

I remembered I owed her money and asked her when would be a good time to drop it off (it was not like five bucks, it was a fair amount of money so I didn't want to like leave it on a doorstep or something). No response again for a day. I told her if I didn't hear from her in a couple of days I was going to keep the money.

She finally responded a day later, saying she didn't have the energy for a "high maintenance" friendship and to leave the money in her mailbox.

I don't know who was at fault here. I mean, I was clingy and I ended the friendship, but she didn't give me a chance to change and didn't stick to her word. But I don't know if contacting her again after those three months was clingy? I really don't know, and the end of this friendship has been tormenting me. I just want to know who was at fault and then I can deal with it, but I honestly don't know.

Also, WIBTA for contacting B again and trying to rekindle the friendship?

Please do not ask multiple questions in a single submission. It just confuses things and makes it hard for people to vote in the poll.

[hellish-sunsets]

Curses and Blessings - Chapter 4

Chapter 1 ~ Chapter 2 ~ Chapter 3 ~ Chapter 5 ~ Chapter 6 ~ Chapter 7 ~ Chapter 8 ~ Chapter 9

Summary:

Charlie lapsed into silence, but he didn’t notice. All he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears. He tried to think, but the thoughts didn’t come, the words wouldn’t form on his tongue. It was an eternity and an instant. 

When he did finally think, the only thought was that it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. 

(Basically, Lucifer has a break down for a whole chapter. Bone apple tea)

Word count: 1493

Read on AO3

Taglist ~

@cherry-4200 @adaizel @kyo-kyo1 @elleofdragons @snoozewritezz

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

It had been a very long day. 

The sound of boots clacking against the polished wood floors filled the hallway, each click echoing in Lucifer’s head. He counted each step as he went, matching every five steps with a deep breath.

It had been a very long day, but if he could just keep it together until he got to his room then it would be okay. Just keep it together a little longer, he could see the door. 

Deep breath in, one, two, three, four, five steps, deep breath out.

Deep breath in, one, two, three, four, five steps, deep breath out.

His hand closed around the doorknob, the cold of the metal seeping through his glove, the gloves that seemed to itch more the longer they stayed on. The door opened and closed with a click and he pressed his back against the wood, letting out a long, shaky breath. Then another. Then his was tearing those damn gloves off, rubbing at his wrist and arm, staring down at his mark.

It had been a good day, everything considered. Yeah, he was anxious about Charlie’s meeting with the angels, but… he had his Charlie back. That was enough to overcome anything. He couldn’t stop the smile that spread over his face or the joy that swelled in his chest. It was all worth it to have his daughter back. Yeah, they still had a lot of work ahead of them. He would have to fight his depression hard and constantly if he wanted this to work, but he would, he had to. He could not go back to that dark place, not again. 

His hand tightened around his wrist as his thoughts shifted, his smile faltering.

Then there was that woman.

It was nothing, he told himself as he tore his hat off of his head. You're just overthinking everything again. He couldn’t let the hope sink it, it would only hurt, and he knew the likelihood was just too small. He didn't even see the full mark, just a glimpse under her sleeve. The colors must have just been similar is all. Yeah, it wasn’t actually a match, couldn’t. His mark was nothing more than a Ipunishment, a constant false hope that tore him apart and a catalyst to tear down every relationship he worked so hard for.

But he got Charlie back. 

At least in that one way he won against his curse, even if just this once.

His head snapped up as he was broken out of his thoughts by the ringing of his phone, that circus music that almost cheered him up. He was quick to grab it from his pocket and answer, smiling wide and walking across the room to the bed.

“Hey, Char! How you doing, sweetie? You got all the information for the meeting I texted you?” He said in his usual cheerful voice, shaking off the sleeves of his coat and dropping it on the chair before flopping down on the side of his large bed, he frowned at the large amount of empty space, but forced a smile back on his face as he listened to Charlie. 

“Yep, I got all the details! Thank you so much, Dad!”

“Anytime, Charlie. I’ll do anything to help you out, you just let me know.”

“Yeah, but, um… I had something important to tell you. I didn't get the chance to tell you earlier cause, you know, we were all pretty busy and distracted and stuff. I wanted to talk to you in person, but I also want to tell you as soon as possible.”

Lucifer frowned, catching a hint of anxiety and worry in her voice. He sat up, crossing his legs underneath him and resting his elbows on his legs.

“Yeah? What's that?” He did what he could to keep his voice light and unworried.

“Ah, well… are you sitting down?”

He nodded before remembering she couldn't see him and grimacing. “Yep, sure am! What's on your mind, sweetheart?”

“Okay, okay, you remember when I introduced you to everyone at the hotel, right?”

“Yep!”

He struggled to keep his voice even and his breathing steady. His heart raced in his chest. He didn’t dare hope, but it crept into his heart, squeezing painfully.

“You remember Y/N, right?”

He swallowed thickly.

“Of course, she was lovely. Uh… may I ask why?”

He knew why - No! He didn't. It was something else, it had to be something else. It felt like his mark was itching, but rubbing did nothing to soothe it. He held the phone between his ear and shoulder to dig his claws in, and that helped a bit, but he told himself to go no farther.

“Weeelllllll, we wash the dishes together every night, which means I see her mark all the time, cause it's on her wrist, you know.” 

He forcefully removed his hand from his wrist, watching the thin line of blood run over the sunset colors. He took a deep breath, forcing his hand to grasp the phone instead. 

“... Dad, I don’t know the best way to say this, and I know you have complicated feelings about your mark, and so does she, but… I feel it’s important to let you know. It’s.. the same as yours. Exactly.”

Charlie lapsed into silence, but he didn’t notice. All he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears. He tried to think, but the thoughts didn’t come, the words wouldn’t form on his tongue. It was an eternity and an instant. 

When he did finally think, the only thought was that it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. 

He took another deep breath, and his hearing came rushing back with Charlie’s worried voice.

“... you okay? Dad?”

“Y-yeah, sorry, I, uh… what did you say? I must have misheard.” He tried to chuckle and push down the anxiety. It wasn’t true, it couldn’t be. His mark was a curse, he had already accepted that. She was either joking or didn’t see it right or…

“I said Y/N has your mark! I… I know you don’t really like yours, but I just thought you’d want to know.”

He swallowed hard. 

“Ah, well, thank you, Charlie, I appreciate it.” He said, voice shaking a bit more than he would like. “Good luck with your meeting, okay? Let me know how it goes.”

“I… okay Dad. I love you.”

Despite his mind currently going through whatever meltdown it was going through, he couldn’t help but smile, his chest tightening with love.

“I love you too, Charlie.” He said with the softest voice filled with all the love and warmth he could muster and he imagined he could hear Charlie smiling back as she said bye and hung up on him. 

With a sigh he fell back onto the bed, hands going to run through his hair, staring at the canopy above him.

Of course Charlie wasn’t joking. They had been distant for a while, but he still knew her well enough. She always took this whole thing about marks very seriously. She had been practically jumping up and down as she introduced her match to him, the girl… Maggie? Haggie? Something like that. And he could tell at the time that there was something more she had wanted to say. 

His mind was wandering again. What is really that hard for him to just accept this was possible? That all this time, after seven years of aching loneliness and longer of debilitating depression, there was finally the slightest glimpse of hope? 

Even if, despite everything in his mind and everything he had ever experienced told him, by some far fetched miracle Charlie was right… what was he supposed to do? What would he even say? 

What about Lilith? He knew she had left, that she wasn’t coming back… but he still loved her. It hurt, like his heart was being crushed every night she wasn’t there, but he couldn’t help it. He loved her and he missed her. He would give anything just to see her again, to gaze into those beautiful eyes that were once filled with so much love, to hear her sweet voice as she spoke about anything she felt like, to feel the warmth of her body against his. If Charlie was right and this woman, this sinner, was the one who held the match to his mark… then had Lilith been right? Had they never been meant for each other after all? That all those thousands of years they had loved each other meant nothing?

No. He refused to ever accept such a thing. 

He groaned in frustration, hands tugging at his hair before sliding down to cover his face. 

So what was he supposed to do? What did this all mean? What was the point of any of this?

Not for the first time, he found himself cursing that stupid being who started all this mess.