#and a lot of grit and spite and brains!

[deathbyathousandspiders]

“ cuddle–bugs. „

(( request PART TWO )).

!!! read part one | part three | part four | part five here !!!

mcu!peter parker x reader.

IN WHICH — you fell asleep on your best friend’s shoulder during movie night and the avengers won’t let you live it down.

author’s note ; okay so i made this a winter/christmas fic on accident cause i miss it. you’re welcome:,) ALSO !! lmk if y’all want me to add you to the part 3 tag list;)

✨masterlist✨.

3.2k.

It’d been two nights, and you still couldn’t boggle the thought of Peter from your brain. Well, boggle the romantic thought of Peter from your brain. You had always been extra thoughtful and considerate of your best friend, but you never realized just how much you were until two nights ago. Two nights ago, when you had the best sleep of your life, passed out on Peter’s shoulder. Two nights ago, before Sam and Bucky started ogling you and Peter like no one’s business. Two nights ago, the last time you got a successful wink of sleep.

Shit.

Perhaps you were lying to yourself– No. You were definitely lying to yourself. Peter Parker was your best friend, but you knew that your feelings for him were far from that simple. You were the first one to notice when he entered a room, and the first to feel his absence when he’d leave. You knew him better than anyone else did; he was written in a language that you’d carefully taken the time to understand. You just hoped that he’d taken the time to understand you just the same way.

The thought was gnawing at you, feeding on the anxiety that had kept you up all night. There was no way you could act on this, nor express your thoughts to him. And there certainly was no damn fucking way in hell you could look him in the eyes while you tried to process your feelings.

As the sun rose, so did you. Seeing as you had barely slept an hour, starting your day as early as possible seemed like your best option — even if that meant peeling yourself from your bed at four in the morning.

Your breath visibly filled the passing air as you ran the outdoor track in the courtyard. Winter’s chill was spiteful at such an early hour, but it was just the medicine you needed to give you energy after an all–nighter. The wind welcomed you with a sharp bite along your exposed skin, which was mainly your cheeks whilst you ran. Steve had taught you a thing or two about going on runs, and covering up in the winter was one of them.

The day went on tediously; constantly training, working on paperwork, and avoiding the company of Peter Parker. The latter was the most difficult. He was your best friend for crying out loud. You still couldn’t shake your nerves, or stomach the embarrassment that your teammates would cause you from their teases. There were already too many close calls.

While you were practicing close–hand combat in the gym, Bucky approached you. At first, he criticized your form and shadowed you for critique, but after a few minutes of ice breaking, he was quick to give some snickers and googly–eyes.

“Hang on there, cowboy.” He started, right hand hovering just beside your wrist. “You need to hold your shoulders back so that your punch gives a harder blow..” That’s when the devious smirk shadowed his face. “Unless, you’re planning to tussle with your boyfriend.”

The sharp breath you exhaled in response was a lot more intense than you’d initially intended. “He’s not my boyfriend!” The tone of voice you gave was also more intense than you intended, especially as you unconsciously gritted your teeth. And gathered from the way Bucky’s eyes widened at your punch, you took it that the impact was, once again, more intense than you’d intended.

You blamed the sleep depravity.

Later on, post–shower, you went to the kitchen to grab your second energy drink of the day. You felt your shoulders ease and your eyelids grow a bit heavier as you popped the metal can open. The quiet simmer of the carbonation was melodic whilst you downed half the serving, on spot. You were so focused on obtaining the beverage that you nearly missed Natasha looming in the corner.

“Cute sweatshirt.” She chimed, arms crossed while she watched you from the furthest crevasse of the kitchen.

Eying her, you could see the silhouette of her smirk. It immediately sent you questioning why she looked at you so smug. Your gaze fell to which baggy sweatshirt you decided to wear, suddenly insecure about it. It was a Midtown marching band hoodie; royal blue, faded–vintage yellow writings. It took you a beat or two to remember where you got it, but when you did–

“Is it your boyfriend’s?”

Shit.

Frustration bubbled through your system. Except, it wasn’t frustration towards the team. It was frustration towards yourself. How much of a coward did you have to be to act so nervous? To not be able to look Peter in the eye? To avoid any entertainment of the thought of the two of you together?

Well, if ignoring those thoughts made you a coward, perhaps you weren’t the biggest one. Most nights, when you couldn’t sleep, you used the image of his torso spooning yours to get you some peace of mind. The warmth of his arm hugging your waist, the slight tickle of his breath on the back of your neck, and the safety of his little kisses hidden in your hairline. In fact, you thought about it most times; however, last night, thinking about it made you feel unbelievably guilty.

You found that guilt and sleep don’t mix too well.

Hours later, you sat yourself in the meeting room, hacking away as best as you could at your training reports for the day. The task was stupid, but you were understanding of it. It just didn’t help that you felt the weight of only sleeping an hour creeping up on you. Your eyes felt like they carried a thousand pounds to them.

A gentle knock met the doorframe, catching your attention from your assignment. Your eyes met Wanda’s, curiously. The curiosity fled your expression the split second she opened her mouth.

“Peter’s looking for you. Should I tell him–”

Annoyance scrunched in your nose, and an anguished huff pushed itself out of your throat. Your elbows met the table quietly, hands rushing to cradle your face in it as you tried to keep your composure. “He’s not my boyfriend!” You cried.

Still, Wanda held patience to herself. Now she was the one who looked at you curiously, arching a brow as she noticed how troubled you were. You already knew she was reading you like a book with her telepathy. Wanda had already flipped through your thoughts front and back by the time you’d finished your response. “I know. He’s your best friend, and he’s looking for you.” Her voice was so gentle, you wanted it to swaddle you and lull you to sleep.

Just before she took her leave, Wanda kept a sympathetic smile on her face. She’d already started to step out of sight, but she had a closing thought. “And, y’know.. I felt the same way you do now with Vis.” She hummed, “The only way to relieve yourself from it is to talk to him.”

Which brought you here. Now. At eleven twenty–three in the evening. You sat yourself on the same couch that started this spiral, chipping away tirelessly at the paperwork you vowed to finish. Though, your progress consisted of staring at the document blankly. You were closer to passing out than you were to actually typing out a sentence.

“You should get some sleep.”

The second you met Peter’s eyes, you felt it immediately. That zing. That spark. The knot in your stomach that guilted you for avoiding him all day. You couldn’t even muster out a response to give to him. Part of that definitely had to do with the fact that he was in his pajamas; flannel pajama pants, and no shirt. It wasn’t the first time you saw him shirtless, though the sight of his abs, especially right now, took your breath away a little.

His palms pressed against the head of the chair, leaning on it as he rocked back and forth on his feet. His brows slowly knit together the longer it took you to reply, obviously worried about you. “Are you not speaking to me? Did I do something?” The second question was quick to follow the first.

Your expression mirrored his, though with less worry and more defense. “What? No.” You stated, shutting your laptop without breaking eye contact. “Why would you think you did something wrong?” It churned your tummy to think that he’d been overthinking about this all day. Then again, if you were in his shoes, you’d have been thinking the exact same things.

It wasn’t hard to notice the relief that settled his posture, or the hesitance that lingered in his stare. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe you, it was more that he wasn’t sure he could yet. “Because this is the longest you’ve gone without speaking to me since fifth grade.”

The urge to roll your eyes at him was strong, but the smile you had to fight off was more distracting. “Peter, I didn’t speak to you because I had laryngitis. I literally couldn’t!”

He smiled back at you, gesturing his hand towards you to emphasize his point. “Exactly!” Peter made his way around the chair, seating himself beside you on the couch. “I just got worried.” He made sure there was enough space between the two of you, nervous that you’d be upset if he sat too close. “Are you okay though? You look like you didn’t get any sleep.” And suddenly, you were reminded that you couldn’t hide from him like you wanted to.

You nearly forgot that Peter was your best friend. He studied you before you even had the chance to notice he was in the room, half the time. Wanda’s words bounced around in your brain, but the idea of communicating all of that right now made your stomach churn worse. Slowly shaking your head, you moved to set your laptop on the coffee table beside you, quick to turn your attention back to the boy beside you. “I, uh.. I’m just stressed, is all.” You shrugged, simplifying your emotions.

Peter’s stare narrowed at you, concerned. “Stressed about what?” Once again, his eyes scanned over your face, trying to find the answer he was looking for before you felt the need to say it. When he found how panic it brought you, he stopped. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

It felt like a weight lifted from your shoulders at how understanding Peter was. You smiled lightly at him, focus flickering between one of his eyes to the other. Maybe it was because a smile began to touch his lips too, or because you felt unbelievably seen by him, but your heart swelled more than it ever had before. “I’d rather not talk about it right now.” You answered, honestly. “I should get some sleep first. I’m just…”

As you trailed off, Peter picked up the sentence where you couldn’t finish it. “Nervous about sleep?” His voice got softer as he asked the question, smile growing when you nodded in agreement. He waited a moment, brewing a few different solutions in his head. “Can I help?”

You could feel the way your heart raced at Peter’s earnesty, happily realizing you couldn’t turn down the offer. Nodding, you eyed him closely, watching as he grinned at you. He grabbed a throw blanket from beneath the coffee table, and the remote for the flat–screen while he was at it. Peter turned the television on and sat back on the couch, extending his arm for you to lean on him.

“You sure you want me to cuddle with you? You’re shirtless.” You pointed out, verbally self–sabotaging yourself. Idiotically self–sabotaging yourself.

Peter raised a brow at you, laughing quietly. Though, there was a slight blush creeping along his cheekbones. “That hasn’t stopped you in the past.”

A small fit of laughter drove your decision as you laid yourself beside him; head cozy in his shoulder, and your body pressed against the side of his. He laid the blanket over the two of you, but the arm he had hugging around you was the most securing. His fingertips gently brushed tiny shapes into your forearm, and Peter knew exactly which movie to put on to whisk you off to slumber.

Watching your comfort movie was quite a tempting offer, but you still couldn’t stop your eyes from shutting. Peace overtook you before you could catch it, and you couldn’t exactly remember the moment sleep finally conquered you. The last thing you remember hearing was Peter’s faint whisper to ask FRIDAY to dim the lights.

Peter watched you sleep more than the movie. He couldn’t stop himself, seeing how cute you were. He found himself in the same spot he was just two nights ago; gently rubbing your shoulders and back, brushing the hair back that fell into your face, and listening to the stilling sound of your breath as it slowed with your slumber. It made his heart swell.

The second he knew you were passed out, he stealthily turned the television off and scooped you into his arms. Peter lifted you delicately, swaddling you in the blanket and carrying you off to your bedroom.

As he laid you down on your bed, a particular piece of room decor caught his eye; the newest addition, something he’d never seen before. His cheeks grew ablaze with pink at the framed photo on your nightstand, taking in every aspect of the picture. His heart raced, a dorky grin touching his lips when he finally read Sam’s sticky note.

Peter was pulled from his thoughts at the feeling of your gentle fingertips grasping his arm. He heard the sheets settle beneath your stirring, and the soft grumbles sifting through your lips. Feeling your hand grasp at his elbow and tug him towards you made his heart skip a beat. The hug you pulled him into was all he needed to know that you wanted him to stay. And that, he did.

He lost track of how long he’d slept for, or when you decided to get up without waking him, but he wasn’t mad about it. Peter had one of the best sleeps of his life, and he had you to thank for that. He had you to thank for everything

Peter had never woken up feeling so rejuvenated. He felt like a brand new person; alive, ravished, loved. He felt validated by Sam’s little sticky note, and finally connected the pieces on why you were so jittery around him. He’d seen you interact with a handful of people you’d found attractive, and now he understood that he was also in that category. At least, if his assumptions were correct. He at least had woken up with a fresh coat of confidence today to make him believe his assumptions.

It was routine for his thoughts to drift somewhere in the midst of you. Every sense of him found you intoxicating and now more than ever did he cherish it. He inhaled the lingering aroma of you left over from your sleeping figure, and grew a smile at the sound of your laughter that carried itself through the compound’s corridors. The same laugh that he’d heard all too often.

Wait.

You usually only laughed that hard at his jokes.

Peter slowed his slippered–steps toward the kitchen, peering his focus to where the sweet sound came from. His heart swelled in his chest at the sight of you so happy, but immediately dropped to the floor when he saw you so happy with a guy. A vaguely familiar guy. A strikingly too attractive guy. It sent a sharp chill through his bloodstream and made it boil beneath his skin.

“A little birdy told me that Harley’s been meaning to ask them out before he leaves.” Sam’s voice cut through the quiet, though he made a means that the information didn’t leave the kitchen. His voice stayed soft, secretive.

Harley. Harley Keener. That’s why his name was so familiar. The Harley Keener: Tony Stark’s protégé intern, who’s attending Stanford for mechanical engineering, and skyrocketing as one of the most influential teenagers of this generation for his work on climate change. Peter recalled the six three articles he’d read just last week on Harley’s work. What was he doing here? And what the fuck was he doing here talking to you?

Peter’s focus remained stuck on the sight of you and Harley talking down the hall. The second his gears finally processed what Sam had told him, he turned his head to look over, eyes landing last on Sam by the espresso machine. “What do you mean?”

Sam shrugged lightly, his lips pressing into a line as he stirred the sugar in with his coffee. “I heard that while he’s here on break, he’s planning to ask Y/N out.” He let the sentence fall from his mouth with a sigh, disappointment tracing the sound of his voice. “Sources say, he’s planning to pop the question before Hanukkah starts.”

It hit him like bricks, the urgency. The punch to the gut. The confidence Peter had woken up with withered somewhere he couldn’t grasp anymore. He glanced out of the windows behind him, watching the snowfall cover the courtyard. Hanukkah was in four days. Peter still had some time, but would it be enough?

“Wait.” He started, turning his attention back to Sam. “What source?” Peter walked into the kitchen, placing his hands on his bare hips. He was still in his pajamas, messy hair and shirtless torso. His outfit merely consisted of flannel pajama pants and dinosaur slippers. “Were you using your mini drone to eavesdrop again?”

Sam chuckled, trying hard to act like he wasn’t offended. “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t call Redwing that.” He acted like his remote control helicopter actually had a name. “But no. My source’s name happens to rhyme with boney shark.”

Shit.

If Tony really said that, it meant that Harley was actually serious about this. The Avengers were definitely prone to tease, but they were far from the crowd who’d start rumors. The bitter taste of jealousy weighed on Peter’s tongue, and he could already feel the sickening aftertaste caking in the back of his throat. He swallowed, thicker than he had in what felt like a decade. It felt like he had forced down an entire jar of peanut butter.

Sam saw the way Peter froze in his tracks. He walked over, steps slow to prevent spilling any of his precious latte from its mug. He gently placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, turning his attention to where Peter’s naturally gravitated back to; the way you and Harley interacted definitely seemed intimidating, but Sam wasn’t going to let Peter give up that easily.

“Another little birdy told me that boney shark hopes you beat him to it.” Sam’s voice suddenly got smoother, lower, as though his words had a deeper meaning. And to Peter, they did. The boy seemed to lighten up, processing Sam’s words like they were prophetic. “And that birdy’s name rhymes with shmaptain shmerica.”

Sam took that as his cue to leave, knowing that he said what he needed to. Quite frankly, he said more than enough to shake Peter out of his doubtful thoughts. There was no way in hell that Sam Wilson was a liar, which only added to how true the statement was.

If Steve–liberty–and–justice–for–all–Rogers was in on this, that meant something truly powerful. It meant that his team was rooting for him. Knowing that may not have given Peter’s confidence back to him, but it gave him something even more important. Something that grounded him back to the present unlike anything else, and something that he’d never take for granted:

Hope.

[lost-technology]

So, lads, lassies and laird's, I've been watching the Fallout TV series. I'm about halfway through it. The Fallout series are video games that I like a lot - I haven't played them all, but I'm enough of a fan that I've legit made FOOD from The Official Vault-Dweller's Cookbook gifted to me by my late nephew (I was drinking homemade Nuka-Cola yesterday). The super-fans are going to wank and whine about the lore-details, but I take it as its own entry and am enjoying it so far (even though I miss the NCR). I'm actually SURPRISED that a live-action show based on video games is as good as it is. (They usually suck, this is pretty good...) Anyway, just what does this have to do with Trigun (other than both things taking place in post-apocalyptic desert settings)? Well, there is the 200+ year old guy (ghoul) with the long shot up duster which I addressed on this blog before as "Perfect wardrobe - if anyone makes a live action Trigun, pay attention to this). Cooper isn't quite the "Vash" here, though... his morals are more... Wolfwood? Left of Wolfwood? He's actually an excellent study in broken morals as he used to be a very decent guy in his pre-war life... No... it's how main character Lucy is giving me some inspiration. Lucy is the Vault-Dweller. She comes from a sealed underground Vault that her ancestors fled into to escape the bombs. The Vaults, however, were never meant to save anyone. Lucy's Vault currently has a population-problem (everyone's getting incesty), it's connected to two other Vaults and there's a trade-thing going on, including for breeding, but there's definitely something weirder going on that the series is unfolding... And everyone in her Vault is super-idealistic. They're all peaceful people who live by peaceful ways and they have an agriculture-area (NOT AT ALL unlike the Geoplant-room / recreation room of a SEEDS ship!) that is set up to simulate Nebraska. So when Lucy goes out into the outside world in her quest to find her kidnapped father (is stuff that happens in episode 1 really a spoiler???) she's just very... trying to do things peacefully and with good morals in this... wrecked and horrible world. She cites The Golden Rule a lot. But then... she gets quickly and progressively "grittified." She has to do some awful things to survive and carry out her quest, although she actually sticks to her moral code. (So far, I've only seen her directly kill once, in self-defence, and it is arguable that the subject was in the realm of not-human-anymore and death-was-a-mercy) and she was shocked by it. And immediately after, she did a kindness to someone who betrayed her simply because she decided that she was not going to let the world change her. "I will never become you." Reminded me of Vash a bit - Born in a sealed metal spaceship with artificial environs, not unlike a Vault (save that SEEDS was actually meant to save Humanity, not experiment on it, not that...um...experiments didn't happen *tugs collar*). The SEEDS folk that we meet (Rem, Luida, Brad) seem to come from an optimistic, idealistic perspective in contrast to the survival-world of the desert planet. Instead of a world to colonise / recolonise according to a peaceful plan sold to their ancestors, it's a dog-eat-dog nasty world where murder is common. And yet, Vash sticks to his guns and keeps to ideals and doesn't let him change him for the worse by his own hard-won decision, in spite of absolutely everything. This, of course, also has me thinking of my WIP fanfic in which Rem survives and what I was doing in direction in that with her and continued survival having to face a post-Fall world and no longer being a pedestal-figure for Vash, but having to be a real person and surprising him and gaining grit (in a strictly in-character way). So, of course the story of this TV series, being what it is, is jogging my brain.

[an-droid-girl]

.

okay. maybe it’s because i am full of too much taco bell. maybe it’s because it’s friday and my brain is already giving me the sunday scaries. its definitely in part due to the shit going on around, but i don’t think it’s Just That.

i wish i Had Someone. like. i wish there was someone i had that, in this time where everything sucks so fucking bad and it’s by spite and grit that i’m committed to dragging my own corpse through this hellscape to see what’s on the other side, i could rest beside, snuggle into and sleep for the night, to say i’m sad and scared and for them to say “i know” and for them to say they’re sad and scared too and we’d cry and say we’d get through it together and feel better because there was someone there with us

and i know, better than anyone, that just Wanting Someone isn’t a good reason to start dating/seeing/sleeping with Anyone. wanting Someone solely just to fill that gap is not… a reason. it’s why i haven’t done the thing i half-joked i might do for months if trump won - text my ex and ask if they wanted to make some mistakes (i.e., get back together in some kind of capacity for the short-term comfort of companionship.) because as time has gone on since we broke up, it feels more and more like i was that gap filler for them; they wanted Someone solely to have Someone, and that was me. and it caused a Lot of problems and cognitive dissonance

so now i get to live in the space between those two things, the “both can be true” place, where i want Someone to hold me and distract me and make me feel okay, but knowing that people are people and not npcs you can slot into your companion slot interchangeably

[appleciders]

❤

sarah!!!!!! ok tbh i dont even know where to start? you’re just like. epic big sister material, like you’ve helped me thru a lot and i hope you know that? with the add stuff and everything else before it. and you’re honestly so so so strong, you’re kinda inspirational. you get back up every single time, and it’s not always pretty or glamorous but you claw yourself back to your feet and you keep remembering how to live even when it would be easier not to. im also always in awe of ur your commentary and interpretations of fiction! you’re able to read so much of both the intent and impact of every screenwriting choice, and you extrapolate so perfectly from that. you hold true to your convictions and you love characters—and by extension, humanity—so much that its admirable. your recs are always top-notch! found families and grubby jock girls and bleeding-heart, guilt-ridden protagonists!!

honestly i’m probably gonna think of like ten other things the moment i hit post, but you’ve impacted my life for the better in a lotta ways, so i’m rly grateful. keep doing you! who you are now is worth it, and who you grow into will be worth it too. do it for carrie!! 

[irish-urn]

Thoughts on what went through Derek's head when he saw Casey come down in her outfit?

Bold of you to assume he had thoughts in his little brain at the moment.

...jk, jk (or am I?)

I have watched that moment a few times now, and...

Derek's eyes go wide, and then he looks around the table like he's checking to see if everyone else is seeing what he's seeing. He says, "Ew," without any of his usual spite, almost like he knows he needs to say something, and this is the best he can come up with. And then he keeps his eyes down, fiddling with something in his hands (a peel? maybe?) and refuses to look directly at her, and then grits out, "While I'm eating;" like that is the real crime here.

...I think Derek is incredibly frustrated by the invasion of the McDonalds ("I like her, but you married her"), and Casey in particular. I think he finds Casey challenging, puzzling, complicated, and a pain in the ass — partially because he cannot figure her out and I think he takes a lot of pride in knowing how people work (just look at how he works everyone in the show!!). I honestly think one of the reasons he's so upset when he finds out that Casey played Babe Raider and was good at it isn't so much because she's being a hypocrite (although that's part of it) but more because she's surprised him. He didn't think she would do that, OR be good at the game. He can't figure her out and that pisses him off, and I honestly believe his near-obsession with Casey as the show goes on initially is just him trying to solve her.

...That was a tangent, but I think Derek's brain first blanks, just like any guy's does when faced with a hot girl — and Casey is HOT in this scene. And then I think he's a mix of afraid and angry: afraid that he's dreaming this (which would be a WHOLE 'NOTHER PROBLEM), and that's why he's checking with the rest of the 'family', and then angry that she would make him feel this way during his breakfast. This is FOOD TIME. This is a safe place where he eats and teases the family and establishes the power plays of the day and she's ruined it all. I think he's afraid to look directly at her because then he'll see her again, and I don't think Derek likes her yet, not really. Sure, he's had his moments where he's reluctantly fond of her and sometimes she's not a total loser and grub, sometimes she's... well, not cool, never cool, but not a total lame-ass...

But he doesn't like her. She's this cute, confusing, infuriating invader.... That's walked into his kitchen looking like a babe. And that's not okay. That's not fair. How dare she?!?

I mean, this is just my guess, but... maybe something like that.

[peachpanlong]

‘Horny Blond Twink Fucks Himself on Strap-on After Being Teased For Hours’

Naoya Zenin x reader, 18+

cw // arranged marriage (mentioned once), submissive! Naoya, pegging, exhibitionism, degrading kink, use of sex toys while driving, use of sex toys in public, untouched orgasm, public sex, overstimulation, edging, oral (m. receiving), brat taming

word count: 2.4k

this is part of the jujutsu hub collab! Thank you @suna-reversed for letting me participate ♥️

(Do not repost my work unless you have permission to do so, reblogs are fine)

Going shopping with naoya would usually be considered a task close to impossible. The constant nagging and snarky comments made you want to strangle him on multiple occasions, yet you somehow held yourself back to avoid unnecessary drama with the higher ups. After 5 unbearable months of living with him due to an arranged marriage you had found various methods of shutting that pretty mouth of his. Your favourite method including the help of your trusty friend, a vibrating cock ring.

He knew that if he opened his mouth to remark on your choice of clothing a shaky moan would follow. There is nothing more he hated than being looked down on, the fear of people glancing in his direction with a disgusted look convincing him to just stay quiet.

“I have been invited to a social event with the Zenins. I will take you shopping for a dress today so you can look half decent.” Ignoring the spiteful remark you responded.

“Okay, on the condition you wear the cock ring.” An audible scoff followed. He turned his heels to walk towards the kitchen. Filling up the portafilter with coffee grinds he let out a soft ‘fine’, refusing to let his eyes meet yours. You held back a laugh by biting down on your cheeks.

“I’m starting to think you enjoy this…” you breathed out. “I’m only doing this because I know you’ll be a complete bitch to me if I don’t.” Humming in agreement you inhaled the nutty aroma coming from the coffee machine. While frothing the milk with one hand he used the other to place two mugs down onto the drip tray.

“Get a dress that hugs your figure and flaunts your tits. I want to show you off to the bastards I have to call relatives.” He places down a mug of coffee with a marshmallow next to it, just the way you like it.

You sunk the marshmallow into the coffee while continuing small talk with him.

“You’re an asshole.” He whined, groaning at the feeling of the vibrations on his cock. You let out a small chuckle knowing he’s all bark and no bite. You played around with the settings of the cock ring before settling for a low vibration that would be sure to give him some sort of attention but not enough attention to chase his sweet release.

“I will get you back for this shitty stunt, whore.” He snarled yet his words only fueled you to torture him more. With a hum leaving your lips you pulled his boxers and hakama pants up, hearing a groan come from him in response.

“You’re lucky the pants cover your erection.”

The car ride felt like hours, if not days, to the blonde man. Shaky moans fled through gritted teeth while his nails dug into the steering wheel. Your eyes were glued to his face. The way his nose scrunched when the vibrations increased was for some reason incredibly entertaining to you. When the car came to a halt in the store’s parking lot you groaned. You were having fun messing with him.

“Does this ‘flaunt my tits’, Naoya?” You said in a mocking tone while twirling in an emerald green mermaid dress that had a deep v-neck travelling down to your abdomen. All he gave you was a curt nod and a groan when his eyes focused down to your chest. You changed back into your clothes and gave the dress to naoya.

“Pay for this, I want to look around still.” He rolled his eyes and turned his body towards the cashier. The way his legs trembled from the cock ring was incredibly entertaining for you. Rather than paying attention to the dress hung up on the clothes rack your gaze landed on the way his hips twitched to find some form of friction. Your hands snuck into your pockets where the remote was being held. Without warning him, your fingers turned the dial to the maximum setting only to swiftly spin it back to the lowest setting. If he hadn’t been holding onto the cash register counter he would have fallen from the shock. A very loud moan escaped his lips as he shot an unpleasant glare in your direction.

“Sir, are you okay?” Concern was laced in the cashier’s voice. Naoya responded with a quick ‘yeah’ while giving some pathetic excuse for his accidental noises. After he had paid for the dress he grabbed at your arm. You let out a pained gasp “Ow! what the fuck, Naoya!”

His clutch on your shoulder only became harder after hearing your aggravation. The second his car door closed was the second a desperate moan left his lips.

“You’re such a bitch for doing that to me. Do you not understand your place, woman?” His shaky breathes made it difficult for you to focus on what he was saying. He looked so much better when he was malleable and timid.

He avoided any conversation with you the entire trip home, occasionally letting out a pained groan from the still vibrating cock ring. Your husband was obviously pissed off at you yet you found it difficult to care; especially when his face looked so fucked-out.

The way he angrily stormed into the house was a sight to see. If it hadn’t been for the painful grip on your arm you would’ve laughed. “I hope you’re ready to be punished. Because I’m not holding back.” His words sounded as if they were growled, a weak attempt to intimidate you. Your hands shifted down to your pockets.

“Don’t you dare-!” His words were cut short by not-so-subtle whimpers and moans. Your fingers turned the dial randomly and without a rhythm, driving him mad. Various curses left his mouth like venom.

“I’m starting to think you talk big just to get your brains fucked out. Tell me, my little slut, is that true?” If he wasn’t already busy palming himself through his pants he probably would have replied with a snarky comeback. You clicked your tongue in annoyance, “Get your pathetic hands off your cock. Do you have any manners?” He gritted his teeth and halted his movements.

“Good puppy. Maybe if you’re good I’ll let you cum.” The smile on your face was far from sincere and he knew that. It was ridiculing- degrading even. The only thing keeping him grounded was his back pressed roughly against the wall. His nose scrunched as the sound of your footsteps came closer. You reached your hand out to touch his cheek. He was such a waste of a pretty face, a shame really.

Naoya’s footsteps followed behind yours as you both walked towards the bedroom. Pushing him down across the end of the bed, you spread his legs to get between them. With your face centimetres from his cock you began to unzip his pants showing you the outline of his erection against his boxers. Your fingers looped against the elastic, letting it tug backwards. A wince left his lips as you let the band snap back against his skin. Finally indulging in his desires you pulled down the material, letting his cock out. A soft ‘please’ left his mouth when you began stroking him.

A sardonic smirk plastered your face. “Be patient, you whore.” You earned a weak excuse for a glare in response. You soon realised that it wasn’t just the cock ring that was vibrating.

“Naoya, your phone.” Letting out a disappointed sigh, you bagan to take the toy off his cock. He mimicked your expression when he saw the contact name.

“Naoya Zenin speaking, what are you calling me for?” An irritated grimace followed his words. Awkwardly, you stayed between his legs not really knowing what to do. You looked between his thighs to notice his dick was still painfully hard despite needing to take a job call.

“Do you get off to the thought of being caught acting like a slut?” A look of fret and arousal shot through his eyes when he heard your words. Your hand started to stroke the bottom of his shaft while you pressed your tongue against the slit on the head. His jaw was clamped shut as his Adam’s Apple involuntarily trembled.

“Sorry, slight migraine. Could you repeat what you said?” He uttered trying to excuse his moans. “That’s fine, sir. I was explaining how…” The man on the phone once again went into detail on his previous statement yet what he told was the farthest thing on Naoya’s mind. Your tongue traced the vein along the underside of his cock before ever-so-slowly letting it sink into your mouth. When the head hit the back of your throat you gave a harsh suck before rising your head again. You knew he hates a slow pace so that’s exactly what you gave him.

“Thank you for your time, sir. It’s greatly appreciated.” Naoya hummed in response and let out a quick ‘yeah’ before hanging up the call. “You whore! Do you know what you’ve done?” You gave a hum that only sent more vibrations to his dick. His hands tangled themselves into your hair. Eventually you began to notice the way his twitches became more frequent and the way his breath hitched. An anguished groan fell from his lips when you lifted your head from his cock, denying him of his release. “What the fuck? Make me cum.” You let out a sadistic giggle. “Nuh-uh. I wanna play, bunny.” You could almost see the steam coming from his ears and to be quite frank, you found it hilarious. Standing onto your feet you walked yourself over to your wardrobe.

“What do you think of trying this one out?” You presented a rather large dildo. “Will that even fit?” His nervous eyes scanned the 8 inches of silicone. “You always manage to make it fit, slut.” You strutted back towards the middle of his thighs while lathering the dildo in lube.

“Hands and knees.” Without hesitation he flipped himself over onto his stomach and raised his ass in the air.

“You’re such a whore.” Your tone sounded like sweet candy in contrast to your words. After you had strapped the harness to yourself you attached the dildo onto it. Aligning yourself against his ass you slowly sunk the strap-on into him. Placing one hand on his hips and the other hand on the mattress beside his head, you leaned onto his back. Starting a very slow pace you began to suck love bites against his shoulder blades. His lips were trembling against the mattress, occasionally letting out soft whimpers whenever you moved a bit too harshly. Using your strong grip on his hips you dragged your hips back until only the tip of the dildo was in his ass. A pleasured scream flooded from his mouth when your hips slammed against his.

“Dumb bitch can’t keep his mouth shut? Do I have to fucking gag you?” Tear stained cheeks struggled to shake left to right, begging you to let him stay in this position. “Fine.” You quickened your place, digging your nails into his skin in the process. You moved your other hand from the mattress to the back of his neck, securing him to the bed as you continued your fast and hard thrusts. His breath hiked as he felt his release creeping up on him. “Please… Touch my cock.” Your chortle was sadistic yet it somehow made his cock twitch. “Oh, but puppy… I wanna see you come undone without being touched.” A choked sob left his lips. His hips began to move against yours as he tried to fuck himself against the strap-on. You let out a disgusted sigh. “Needy whore.” And with that he felt himself going over the edge. You rode him through his orgasm while leaving his cock untouched.

It was almost cute how pathetic he acted for you. Cum saturating the mattress with his head still pushed against the pillow. It took a few seconds for him to snap back into reality and when he did a growl escaped his lips.

“You can get rid of it now.” His face was turned, eyes glaring back at yours. You slowly pulled your hips back, admiring the crescent indents marking his hips. His asshole tightened around the bigger tip of the dildo and when you noticed you couldn’t help but unexpectedly thrust back in. A startled moan left his mouth and when he realised his loud noise, he bit down harshly against his lower lip.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dildo fully inside him you responded with “having fun.”

Your hands reached to the edge of the bed frame, grabbing onto the vibrating cock ring. You tossed his body over so his back was against the mattress. Your fingers traced against the prominent vein on his overstimulated cock. The cock ring slid back onto his dick, making him once again vulnerable for you. The rhythm of your thrusts was relentless, only giving him time to let out soft whimpers covered by his palm. His face looked dazed with his eyes half lidded in ecstasy and his cheeks decorated with an obvious blush.

At that moment Naoya’s thighs began to quiver. “Gonna cum again? Greedy slut.” His hips bucked up against the strap-on, meeting your forceful thrusts. With a broken moan of your name he came on the mattress.

“You did well, my husband.” Slowly, you pulled out the dildo from his used ass. He winced slightly at the feeling of the tip stretching his rim. Turning onto his back, he moved his eyes to look at your figure. In his eyes you were a goddess who, for some odd reason, decided to put up with his bullshit. His eyes lowered to stare at your ass as you left the room. When you came back he noticed that you had detached the strap-on and had a towel in your hand to clean him up with.

No woman but you could make his heart flutter this much.

[yoonpobs]

bad boy good thing iii.

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: angst, smut, fluff, miscommunication (we hate her lol), pining

warnings: smut, jungkook is really an asshole, the angst hurts a lot tbh, unhealthy relationships (?)

words: 2, 393

summary: a series of drabbles where you're confused and jungkook's confusing

“You’re bailing again?” Taehyung looks up from his stack of books for the first time in the last hour since the two of you have started your study date. Granted, he meant no spite but he didn’t understand what set you to flee. The name that was almost taboo to you; the name that brings more tugs to your heart that hurts than one that’s fond.

You glance up at him with meek eyes, “I have an office hour with my economics professor in half an hour.”

Taehyung purses his lips.

“This is the fourth time this week you’ve ditched.” Taehyung sounds mildly irritated and you don’t blame him. You made a promise months ago before mid-terms coming up that you’d help him with statistics. But before the two of you could ever get into the nitty-gritty details of math; somehow the forbidden name comes up.

“I know.” You say softly. “I’m sorry …” You don’t say anything else because your heart is speeding up in a way that is anxiety-inducing. Because Taehyung off-handedly mentioned that Jungkook would be dropping by in a few; and you didn’t know when he’d turn up and you rather not stick around to find out.

His words still linger in your mind and every time there was any prompt to remind you of his face, or his name—you remember the way his words sounded so assured in the context of the situation first. You remember the malevolence that lied behind his usually kind eyes. But it’s like the eyes filled with desire in a one-dimensional view of your body replaced the youthful mirth you grew up with.

“Look.” Taehyung sighs, pushing himself up to look at you with a stern stare. “If you don’t want to tutor me that’s fine. I can find another tutor. But I’d appreciate if you’d let me know beforehand so I don’t have to come all the way just for an hour then have you leave once the content begins to get tougher.”

Taehyung was by no means being rude or outwardly offensive. He was straightforward and you appreciated that he was honest with you. And rather, you feel guilty of the fact that you bailed for your own selfish reasons.

“I do want to tutor you.” You tell him, fiddling with your fingers as your eyes dart to the doors of the library. “It really just slipped my mind.”

It sounds lame, even to you; and Taehyung picks up on it too.

“You don’t forget things like this.” He says pointedly. “It’s like every time I mention—”

Taehyung stops himself and your eyes dart away, hands already tugging your bag over your shoulder. Maybe if you sped up, he wouldn’t stare at you with an inquisitive stare that looked similar to one of realisation.

“Did something happen between you and Kook?”

You wince. Taehyung is observant.

“Are the two of you—?”

“I’m fine.” You snap, tone defensive and on edge when you hear the bell of the library door ring. You don’t dare to turn to look. “We’re fine.”

“_____ …” Taehyung frowns.

“I gotta go. Okay?” You huff, offering one last apologetic look before you turn to leave. But in your haste, you bump into a solid figure and you’re terrified that it’s—

“Careful.” A deeper, unfamiliar but welcomed voice murmurs.

When your eyes look up, it’s just someone you recognise from Jungkook’s football games. You were sure he was a key player too. His stature was definitely one of an athlete. He was tall, broad, and firm; and the black shirt that hugged his chest only emphasised your guess.

“S-Sorry.” You squeak, looking down.

You brush past him before he can get another word in, and only when you slip past him do you see Jungkook lingering behind with a frown on his face.

“______—” He calls.

You’re able to leave before he can get a hold of you; and that only causes the frown on Jungkook’s face to harden.

When the door rings once more to signal your departure, Jungkook is already sat with Taehyung and the other person that bumped into you.

“What’s up with the two of you?” Taehyung asks.

Jungkook stiffens and responds with a grit of his teeth. “Nothing.”

Taehyung doesn’t look convinced and Namjoon—though recently enlightened with the fact that there was potentially something brewing between the two of you—was also observant enough to pick up on the tense atmosphere that you left with.

“Aren’t the two of you super close?” Namjoon says offhandedly, already shifting through his assignments while he lays them out.

Jungkook wants to let out a dry scoff at the assumption. Sure, the two of you were close. He isn’t so sure about that anymore.

“You’re clearly lying to me.” Taehyung snorts. “So whatever it is the two of you are keeping a secret please just sort it out because I need _____ here to tutor me and you’re getting in the way of my education.”

Taehyung mostly says this as a joke, but it strikes Jungkook straight where it’s vulnerable. He wasn’t going to be the first to break, nor will he indulge Taehyung into what he said to you in the same library they were in at this very moment.

So instead, Jungkook brushes it off like he’s been doing so more recently than ever.

“Whatever.” He mutters.

For some reason, you see Jungkook again on the same day—accompanied by the same person that you bumped into.

You realise that you’ve spent more time avoiding him than dealing with your feelings after what transpired. But you’re weak and you suppose you’ve always been weak when it came to Jungkook.

It was difficult … to say the least. Because while Jungkook’s words were malicious and filled with the intent to hurt and break you; the better (and foolish) part of you wanted to believe that he was angry. Driven by emotions that he wasn’t thinking straight. But while you were naive, you were also substantially aware that there had to be some form of truth to the words he’s thrown at you.

But this was the same Jungkook that you grew up with, the young boy you’ve somehow seen transition from awkward and endearing teen to … to the confident and assured man he was. You didn’t want to make any excuses for him but you’ve always been soft. And you hated that your eyes somehow still linger on his approaching figure when the rational side of your brain tells you to run away.

However, it’s not him who greets you. It’s his friend. The one you vaguely recognise but can’t quite put a name to a face.

“Hey!” He calls out to you.

His smile is easy with a dimple appearing on his cheeks. He looks kind and soft for someone that was easily a head taller than you were, and despite his height—there was something oddly comforting about the way he approaches you as if he knows you.

You try to ignore the coldness from Jungkook’s end and remind yourself that you should’ve felt angry—not the other way around.

“Hi?” You say, or more appropriately ask.

Jungkook’s expression is still blank; every time your eyes briefly linger on his face you wonder how it’d ended up this way.

“_____, right? I’ve seen you at a few of our games.” His friend enters a conversation so seamlessly. “Kook’s never introduced us, though.”

You clear your throat and you hope your face isn’t a dead giveaway of your discomfort. Especially when you blatantly ignore Jungkook’s piercing stare on the side of your temple.

“I don’t … mingle around that much.” You say softly,

And it’s parallel to the image that Jungkook has of you. The quiet, timid girl that’s free time is consumed with books and assignments than a social life to make up for it. You used to think that maybe you weren’t the type that enjoyed large or loud gatherings. But Jungkook’s voice only makes you wonder if you were the problem instead.

“Well, I’m Namjoon.” He smiles at you, offering a grin filled with teeth that you find yourself unconsciously returning, albeit awkwardly.

“Nice to meet you … uh … Namjoon.” You mumble, and your eyes nearly land on Jungkook’s face out of pure habit, but you stop yourself before you hurt yourself even more.

“It’s nice to formally meet you too. I’ve been asking Jungkook to introduce the two of us since forever ago but he seemed dead set on keeping you to himself.” Namjoon jokes lightly. And you almost miss it, but you swear Jungkook stiffens by his side.

“Ah …” You reply lamely, fingering your strap as you shift on your heels.

It feels awkward to not acknowledge Jungkook; you’re wondering if Namjoon picks up on the cold air between the both of you. Namjoon looks like he’s thinking of something, but before he can say anything—Jungkook is tugging his arm roughly.

“We have practice.” Jungkook grits, finally making himself known.

Your eyes dart to your feet, and you hate how small you feel in his presence. It should’ve been easy but this was the hardest part of it all. Pretending like you were objectively okay when his words constantly lingered at the back of your mind.

“Go ahead without me. I want to ask _____ something.” Namjoon shrugs Jungkook’s hand off of him. And this time you catch the venomous glare that he shoots his friend, accompanied by the clench of his jaw.

“Coach will—”

“I’m the captain, remember?” Namjoon snorts, but it’s not condescending. Just a reminder.

Jungkook purses his lips and his eyes dart between the two of you; and you know him well enough to know that there’s something on his mind, especially with the way he nibbles on his bottom lip.

“Don’t be late.” Jungkook grits, stomping off in the other direction without even sparing you a glance.

You frown at him because he was the one that came to you that day unwarranted; treating you like absolutely nothing as if there weren’t years of history behind the two of you.

But Namjoon is large enough to distract you because he quite literally blocks the view of Jungkook’s disappearing body with his own when he stands right in front of you.

“Sorry about that.” Namjoon looks sheepish. “I hope you don’t mind …” He trails off as he scratches the back of his neck.

Your eyes widen as you shake your head, “N-No! It’s fine. Just … uh … what’s up?” You wince inwardly at your horrible social skills and you have a slight understanding of why Jungkook pointed out the things he did. Maybe he was right—

“I—well …” Namjoon mumbles, and he seems less assured than he was earlier. “I think—you’re really—cool?—and smart—you seem nice so … sorry! God.” He rambles as he brushes his hands over his face.

You blink at him.

Namjoon takes your reaction as a bad one as he winces, chuckling lowly.

“I’m sorry. I’m not this … awkward.” He tells you.

You nod your head slowly trying to process his words. And you feel a little guilty knowing that your lack of response probably pushes Namjoon further into his shell. But he has a glare in his eye that shows that he won’t be affected so easily.

“Well.” He clears his throat. “I follow your podcast. And I think it’s really great. You offer some really interesting perspectives on the War on Drugs—or as you mentioned—the disproportionate effects of racial tension that lead to unjustified or mass incarceration rates in the U.S.”

Somehow you know you’ve said the exact same words in the monthly podcast you do with the International Relations department for extra credit. But when Namjoon speaks, it’s as if he’s carefully picking apart the context and nuance of your words so carefully before he quotes it back to you; as if he treats your opinion with heavy regard and not one of the light matters.

You feel flattered.

“Oh.” You blink. “Thank you?”

Namjoon offers you an easy grin. And you recall: captain of the football team, he says? He doesn’t really … fit the stereotype. Besides the fact that he looked insanely fit. He was gentle, that much you could tell. But you also were a little biased when it came to footballers because you only had Jungkook to compare him with.

“Sorry for just springing that on you.” He apologises sheepishly and you’re even more confused as to why he feels the need to say sorry. “It’s just that Kook was always so bitchy about introducing me to you whenever I asked so … I thought why not take the chance myself?”

You gape at him. You don’t know what to do with the set of new information you’re presented with. Firstly, the fact that someone like Namjoon paid attention to a nobody like you? And secondly, the weird revelation that Jungkook somehow gate kept his friendship … or whatever the fuck it was … with you.

“No, no.” You shake your head, “I’m really flattered. Thank you. No one’s ever … told me that before.” You give him a gentle smile because that’s all you can muster.

Namjoon returns it tenfold as he hikes his bag across his shoulder.

“Well, I gotta go now. Practice calls.” He jokes, waving at you. For a moment, he stills; as if remembering something before he fishes out a piece of paper from his pocket and shoves it to you in a haste.

“What is—?”

“My number. You know—if you ever want to talk. About … stuff. I think you’re super smart—and intelligent. They’re synonymous but yeah. If you want.” He rambles.

You blink up at him and before you can muster a response, he’s darting away.

You watch his figure retreat and notice that Jungkook is waiting for him a good distance away. But his eyes aren’t on Namjoon’s somewhat giddy figure—but on you.

He stares at you long and hard, and you feel conflicted. The paper in your hand nearly chafes, but the feeling is easily forgotten when his expression hardens.

When Namjoon reaches him with a clasp to his back, the pair walks off. Not before he gives you one passing glance over his shoulder that leaves you feeling more restless than ever.

[t0th3-ark]

More Than Metal

Gavin Reed x Android!Reader: Part 2

Warnings: cursing, guns, alcohol use, crime scene, blood

Part 1

Analyzing Sample…

[Analysis Complete]

Sample Contains:

Thirium 310: 96%

Blood: 2%

Human Plasma: 2%

Analyzing Thirium…

Model ID - AP400

Serial Number: #495 345 12-8

"The fuck are you doing?" Gavin interjects. (Y/N) looks over at him as she kneels at the puddle of blue blood, fingers to her lips. VN opens her mouth to speak but Gavin holds up a hand. "Y'know what? I don't wanna know." Reed scoffs walking into another room.

○ Follow Detective Reed

□ Contiune to Investigate

● Follow Detective Reed

(Y/N) stands, following Gavin from a distance. Gavin glances around the blood stained apartment. "This is so gruesome shit." He mutters. VN tilts her head.

○ Question tactics

□ Urge him to continue working

◇ Leave to investigate in another room

X Continue to follow

■ Urge him to continue working

"Detective, I believe we should collect evidence. You seem distracted." (Y/N) states, hands behind her back. Gavin glares at the android. "You don't get to order me around, plastic." He grits.

○ Question tactics

◇ Leave to investigate another room

X Contiune to follow

X Contiune to follow

(Y/N) remains silent LED flashing blue. Gavin shakes his head kneeling down to inspect the floor where the victim was killed. (Y/N) stares at the blood splatter on the walls.

Analyzing Splatter…

[Information Acquired]

WEAPON: Kitchen knife

ANGLE: 43.2°

VN blinks. "The deviant was an AP400 model, a caretaker. It lived here with it's owners." Gavin looks up at (Y/N). "And how do you know that?" He ponders aloud. "I analyzed a sample of thiruim, there," She says, pointing to the floor. Gavin cringes. "That's fuckin' gross." He murmers. "The deviant was injured. It's blood was mixed with the victims, meaning, it couldn't have gotten far." (Y/N) explains. "We should proceed to the station to interrogate the survivors." She says. "I thought you said we needed to collect evidence." Gavin says, crossing his arms as he stands. "We have gathered enough information from this location." (Y/N) concludes. Gavin laughs, mockingly. "Look at you, smarty pants." Gavin teases, getting a confused blank expression from the android. "Never-fucking-mind. Let's go, dipshit." Gavin growls, walking out. (Y/N) hesitates, wanting to ask him if he was angry with her. That didn't matter. Why did she care?

Gavin walks through the automatic doors of the DPD. He heads by his terminal throwing his keys on the desktop. Hank watches the two walk back in. "Hello again, (Y/N)." Connor says, nodding at her. He smiled. VN nods at him. Androids weren't programmed to smile. Where they? "Good afternoon, Connor." She says, flatly. Hank snorts, grabbing her attention. "I fail to see what is humorous about our interaction, Lieutenant." She says, eyeing Anderson. Hank raises his hands as if he were surrendering, turning back to his computer. "Fuckin' androids." He mutters. "Would you hurry the fuck up? I don't have all day." Gavin says, impatiently tapping is foot on the floor. "Yes, detective." (Y/N) obeys. Connor's LED swirls yellow as he watches her go. "I have an unknown feeling." Connor says to Hank. "I think you may be worried, kiddo." Hank says, frowning. "And you wanna know somethin'?" Hank says, leaning towards Connor. "Me too."

Gavin huffs, slumping down in his desk chair, spinning around mindlessly. (Y/N) watches him, eyes following him as he spins. Gavin stops, glaring at her. "What did I say about the fuckin' staring, tin can?" He complains. "I apologize." VN says, looking somewhere else for his comfort. "Fuck it." Gavin announces. "I'm going home." He says, getting up from his chair. "I beleive we still have work to do, detective." VN says, her LED swirling blue. "Yeah well, Fowler can bitch at me tomorrow about it." He says, walking past her. VN quickly follows him. "I do not believe it is wise to leave your work unfinished." She says, referring to the stack of paperwork on his desk. She watches him swipe his card to clock out. He doesn't say away but holds his middle fingers up at her, with a strange expression. VN watches him exit. Her LED swirls yellow.

○ Follow Detective Reed

□ Stay at the Precinct

● Follow Detective Reed

(Y/N) walks through the automatic doors, following Gavin out to his car. Gavin glances over his shoulder, seeing her following him. He groans, stopping at his car. "What do you want?" He demands, unlocking his car. She stands on the other side of his car.

"I was assigned to help and assist you. I do not think leaving work to drink is a good idea, so I will be going with you to the bar." VN says, opening the car door and getting inside. Gavin stands there, mouth open. "Wait a damn minute." He protests, bending down to look at her sitting in the car. "You ain't doing shit! Get the fuck out." He orders. "I'm afriad I cannot comply, sir. According to your current physical and mental health, drinking alone could put you in danger." VN says, maintaining eyecontact. "Get out." Gavin says again. He wants to pull out his gun and shoot her brains out but something in him doesn't have the strength too. He's tired.

Yet another silent drive. Gavin's radio is turned up on a dangerously high level. VN isn't bothered but is worried about the effect on her partners ears. She concludes it is best to not comment, due to his recent outbursts. Gavin pulls up to Jimmy's, a local bar, and parks his car. Gavin opens the car door, putting his keys in his jacket. VN exits after locking the car doors. She walks behind the detective, deducting that he didn't want her by his side. She notices the package of cigarettes sticking out of his pocket. She assumes he has a lighter as well, somewhere on his person. 

Scanning...

[Jacket Scan Complete]

FELINE HAIR: 

• Burmese

• Chartreux

OTHER:

• Zippo Lighter (Sliver) 

    • Engraving: "Love you little bro. -Elijah"

• Cigarettes (Marlboro 12ct.)

• Car Keys (To: Camaro, Model: 2023)

• Stain - Front: Coffee (2 days old)

• Stain - Collar: Lacrimation from tear ducts

VN stops analyzing as they enter the bar. Gavin exhales, pretending he isn't being followed by a tin can. (Y/N) looks around. It's dimly lit, quiet. Music plays and it smells of alcohol, cigarettes, and cigars. She puts her hands behind her back, following Gavin to the bar. He pulls out a stool, hopping on top. A bartender, assumed to be Jimmy, saunters over to her partner. VN stands close to a wall, analyzing every detail of the bar. "Hey, kid." Jimmy says to Gavin. VN attempts to give Gavin privacy with the bartender but can't exactly turn off her sensors. " 'Sup." Gavin sighs, leaning against the bar. Jimmy chuckles, glancing at the out of place android against the wall. "That yours?" He teases, gesturing to (Y/N). "Don't give me that, J." Gavin scoffs. Jimmy laughs, boisterously. Gavin can't help but smile a little. Jimmy was pretty cool and he gave great philosophical advice. 

"Watcha want to drink, son?" Jimmy asks, turning to the wall of drinks. "Brandy on the rocks." Gavin says, pulling out his box of cigarettes and his lighter. Jimmy sighs. "Rough day, huh." He says, pouring his drink. (Y/N) watches carefully. She started to get an unknown sensation across multiple sensors in her being. She scanned herself for malfunction or errors. Nothing. VN tilts her head to herself. What was that sensation? It wasn't an error or a malfunction? Possibly a glitch. She shakes it off watching the detective. The sensation returns. She attempts to flush her systems, but it remains. She ignores it, concluding it was a glitch. "You can say that again." Gavin says. Jimmy slides him his drink watching him closely. "You look tired, kiddo." Jimmy comments, leaning against the other side of the countertop. Gavin chuckles. "Everyone says that. I'm fine, J." Gavin lies. "C'mon, Gavin. Talk to me. It's a slow night." Jimmy pries. Gavin sighs, lighting the cigarette between his fingers. He raises it to his lips, taking a drag. He looks down at his drink.

VN glances around the room, unintentionally listening. The sensation had left. She wasn't alive. She couldn't feel. It was a simple glitch. "It's been hard without him." Gavin says, taking a sip of his brandy. This peaks VN's intrest. "I know. You seem to care about him a lot." Jimmy responds. He must know more than she knows about the situation. Gavin glances at the android that accompanied him, downing his drink. Jimmy sighs again. "Is that thing givin' you trouble?" He asks, grabbing the glass to refill it. Gavin takes another drag of his cigarette. "Yeah it is. Fuckin' Fowler assigned it to me or whatever." Gavin says, words full of spite. VN feels the sensation return. Her LED blinks yellow.

Analyzing...

[Analysis Complete]

Malfunction?

[Access Denied]

(Y/N) blinks, LED pulsing red. She straightens her posture, ignoring the sensation, yet again. Jimmy nods, following Gavin's story. Gavin takes a swig of his drink again. "You two get along?" Jimmy asks, tapping on the counter behind him. "Fuck no." Gavin snickers. Jimmy smiles, almost sadly. "The things been following me around like a dog. Gets on my fuckin' nerves." Gavin sighs, finishing his second glass. (Y/N) notes his blood alcohol content. Jimmy grins at the detective. "Maybe she's there to help you. Ever thought about it that way?" J asks, grabbing his empty glass again, pausing. "Oh, that's utter bullshit. Don't side with them, Jimmy." Gavin spits, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bar. "I'm only sayin', maybe it's there for a reason, kid. You look like shit. It could help you, y'know." Jimmy shrugs, filling his glass again. Gavin snorts, feeling the buzz kick it. "Thanks, J. How nice." Gavin teases. "Give it a chance, Gav." Jimmy pushes. "No way in hell am I trusting a piece of plastic." Gavin argues, gladly accepting his third drink. (Y/N) decides to step in. "Detective," She starts. "Fuck off." Gavin grits, waving his hand at her. Jimmy watches the two. "I beleive you've had enough." She states, hands behind her back still. "This is only my third so fuck off." Gavin growls. He usually had a better alcohol tolerance but not today.

"Your BAC is nine point two and increasing. This can impair your judgement and functioning." (Y/N) says. Gavin laughs. "You're not my babysitter, tin can." He says, lifting the glass to his lips. VN snatches the glass out of his hand, putting it on the bar. "What the fuck?" Gavin hollers, clambering out of his chair, almost falling in the process. "The alcohol had already taken affect, impairing your vital judgment. It is time to leave, sir." (Y/N) says, sternly. Her LED blinks yellow, analyzing his next move. Gavin reaches for his gun, which VN anticipated. She reaches forwards, knocking the gun out of his hands. "Hey, hey, hey!" Jimmy shouts. "No blood on my floor!" He says. A few people have formed a crowd around Gavin and the android. "Detective, we are leaving." (Y/N) says, picking his gun off the floor and pocketing it. "You fuckin' piece of shit," Gavin slurs. "You think you came come in and- and fuckin' steal my job, huh?" He raises his voice, grabbing her by her uniform again. (Y/N) looks down at him. She notes the pain, evident behind is glassy eyes.

○ Let Detective Reed continue 

□ Render Detective Reed unconscious

■ Render Detective Reed unconscious

"Detective, I apologize, but this is for your own good." She says, gaining a confused look from Gavin. She presses her fingers into the point where his neck and shoulder meet. Gavin crumbles to the ground, (Y/N) catching him before he hits the ground. VN wraps his limp arm over her shoulders, hoisting him up. "I apologize, sir." She says to Jimmy. "Eh, don't worry about it. His drinks were on the house anyway." Jimmy says, waving her off. "Take care of him, okay?" Jimmy says. (Y/N)'s thiruim pump falters for a moment, catching her off guard. She scans herself again, not finding anything wrong. The crowd had disappeared, seeing that there would be no fight. She gives Jimmy at curt nod before bascially dragged her partner out the door.

(Y/N) had successfully put Gavin in the passenger seat, starting his car. She pulls out into the road. She had located the detective's apartment, following the coordinates. Once she arrives, Gavin is still unconscious. She drags him out of the car. It would be easier to carry him in her arms, so she does. Walking up several flights of stairs, she reaches his apartment door. She glances down at the keys on his key ring and then at the lock, analyzing the differnt key prongs and the internal structure of the lock. She selects the correct key, unlocking the door. Several cats, greet her at the door. A Burmese and a Chartreux cat. They purr and meow at her as she closes the door. (Y/N) scans the apartment. It's quite messy. The trash seems as if it hasn't been taken out in weeks, pizza boxes litter the counter and differnt files and papers litter the living room. (Y/N) contiunes, walking into Gavin's bedroom. Clothes cover the floor, along with an unmade bed. She sets her partner in the bed. She surveys the room again, finding the comforter on the ground. She nods to herself.

(Y/N) carefully removes his jacket, hanging it on a hook behind his bedroom door. She covers him with the comforter, studying him. He seems peaceful. His face, relaxed. No tension is held between is eyebrows. She tilts her head, reaching towards his face. There it is. The strange sensation in her sensors. She gently brushes his hair out of his eyes, almost mesmerized by how peaceful he is, compared to when he's consious. (Y/N) quickly pulls away as he rolls over in the bed, grunting in his sleep. She looks around his room again. It was very unorganized. She walks over to his half empty dresser, pushing the folded clothes back in order. She closes the drawers, gently. VN then, straightens the differnt colognes and pictures frames on his dresser. One catches her eyes. A picture of, what she assumes is Gavin as a teen, and another male. She tilts her head, the male seeming familiar. She straightens the frame, ignoring it.

VN picks up the dirty clothes off the floor, placing them in the hamper in the corner of Gavin's room. She could see the floor now. She turns off the lamp on his nightstand, straightening the things on top if it as well. She looks around the mostly clean room, leaving Gavin's room. She then drags the overflowing laundry basket out of his room. She closes the door behind her, seeing his cats staring at her. She looks down at the Burmese one as it rubs against her leg. She watches them pad off into another room. (Y/N) looks down the short hallway seeing the bathroom. She peeks inside. It was spotless. Strange. She walks into an empty room, what she assumes to be a guest room. It holds nothing. She walks out, going back to the main living room. Papers, magazines, files, newspapers. You name it. She grabs the file box in the couch, picking up all the papers and files, organizing them alphabetically. It took all but thirty minutes an twenty seconds. She puts the file box beside the couch. She puts all of the magazines and newspapers neatly on the coffee table. She picks up all of the empty and half empty coffee mugs, placing them softly in the sink. She would load his dishwasher later. 

(Y/N) straightens his crooked TV on the wall. She then proceeds to organize his movies by type, then alphabetically. The living room was finished. She clicks on the lamp, closing the curtains. The sun was setting outside. It was six twenty-two. Androids didn't need sleep but she decided that when she finishes she would enter low-power mode to pass the time. She heads to the kitchen. It was filthy. (Y/N)'s LED circles blue. She grabs all of the dishes that were dirty and puts them neatly in the dishwasher. She puts the soap in, turning it on. She grabs a trash bag, placing the numerous empty pizza boxes inside. She empties the trash putting the bags by the front door. The cats come back in, hearing her working. "Hello." (Y/N) says, kneeling beside the cats. She looks at their collars. Coco and Bean. Who knew the detective liked cats, owned them, and gave them matching names. (Y/N) stands, beginning to wipe down the countertops, that were dusty and covering in crumbs. She puts the leftover pizza that wasn't old or moldy in the almost empty refrigerator. She rolls up her jacket sleeves disinfecting the grime in the sink. She notices his landlines blinking on the counter. She lets the chemical sit in the sink, walking over to the phone. Twenty new messages from the same number with the name Eli. She concludes it would be best to leave them be. 

(Y/N) had loaded the washing machine with Gavin's dirty clothes. She had taken the towel from the dryer and folded them neatly, placing them in the linen closet. She rinses the sink next. Spotless. The apartment looked organized and neat. Nothing like the detective from the outside. It was currently twelve forty three. She blinks, hearing the dishwasher stop. She unloads it putting the coffe mugs, plates and utensils back in their respective places. Ealier, she had hauled the trash down to the dumpster behind the apartment complex. She was satisfied with the outcome.

(Y/N) completed all of the detective's laundry leaving it neatly folded ontop of the washer and dryer. She didn't want to disturb his slumber by putting away his clothes. She was finished. VN puts the detective's gun in a drawee in the kitchen. She walks over to the couch, sitting down. The cats jumps up, one testing in her lap and the other lying down beside her. She was interested in why the cats liked her so much. She'd have to research it later. She decided to enter low-power mode.

Low-Power Mode Loading...

[Entering Low-Power Mode]

3...

2...

1...

-LOW-POWER MODE ON-

taglist

@sweet-sage-tea, @bts17army

[maschotch]

Bro your brain when it comes to emily!! I remember thinking to myself how different emily seemed after everything that happened with foyet, even just in the aftermath of 5x01. She’s the one that finds hotch, she’s the one that sees her unbendable boss, a man who never breaks, in a hospital bed, hanging onto his life. She’s the one that asks him what actually happened, and I think to an extent, she knows he’s lying when he says he doesn’t remember much. They’re much more similar then most people give them credit for, they’re both fantastic at compartmentalizing their trauma, about being able to lie easily that they’re ok.

I think she sees herself in hotch here, and if he breaks, so can she.

Because if he is fallible, so is she.

So that’s why her vibe seems off in season five, as you said, she takes on his rage. I always thought it was an interesting choice for her to be so angry at the unsub in 5x10. Not only did it drag her away from Haley’s funeral, an intimate, mourning event for hotch, but it also connected back to foyet. This man violated people, ruined and ended lives because he could.

Broke what should be infallible.

(Also yet again an interesting parallel between foyet and s*xual assault)

This whole arc changes emily, whether it was actually intentional or not. Everything she thought she knew, everything she became comfortable with, was gone. This image she had of hotch was destroyed by a sick man like foyet, by all the sick guys out there who take away all that is good in the world......

my brain is completely void of anything but correct criminal minds takes akdhskhd

i think she does see a lot of herself in hotch. they’ve been like that from the start—part of why they butted heads so often in the beginning. but i think her anger and defensiveness doesnt come from worrying ab herself and her own weaknesses: i think she feels it so strongly because she knows hotch wont

bc ur so right. they really are similar. they prioritize the job over any emotional rawness, and they’re experts at compartmentalizing because of it. they’ll push down whatever’s bothering them to focus on the task. bc its not a skill they’ve picked up recently: they’ve been doing this since they were kids. hotch learning to smile in spite of the beatings, emily gritting her teeth and maintaining the perfect image of a diplomats daughter (she eventually gave up caring about the facade and enjoyed pissing off her mom, but she still knows how to keep quiet, how to manipulate)

the problem is that when you bury your emotions that deep, you eventually start to hide them from yourself. their experiences and perceptiveness makes jt easy to identify when others are struggling, but its hard to see that within themselves. for their chosen career its effective, but its unhealthy. and no one knows that better than them. which is why i think they understand each other so well: they recognize that sometimes they just dont want to talk about it bc they cant talk about it.

(they apply their abilities in different ways to varying degrees of success, but that just goes to show how their individual experiences alters the application of their empathy. emily is good at discerning what someone needs: if they need to talk, if they need a distraction, if they need company, or if they just need to be left alone. hotch, on the other hand, takes the standoffish approach with everyone, regardless of circumstances. he’s very aware of the mental/emotional state of the team, but its rare that he’ll intervene. which makes sense considering their histories. emily’s specialty is manipulation, requiring observation and interaction. hotch doesnt necessarily have that ability. he’s a little too self deprecating to realize he can actually help; he just thinks he’ll make it worse)

ANYWAY all this to say emily is very aware of hotch’s emotional state and his habitual resistance to processing what he’s gone through. bc she does the same thing. so her protectiveness manifests a different way than morgan and the others, who focus on external threats. emily knows that the internal conflicts can scar him more than any knife if he lets it.

she knows the limitations of their attempts to help. she knows hotch wont let himself connect with his emotions so directly as well as she knows herself. and it makes her angry. she gets more upset about his suffering than she would be for own. probably more than anyone else’s, honestly, if only because she knows hes not gonna do anything about it. without even realizing it she absorbs all his passion and rage and sorrow and channels it in ways she hasnt expressed in a long time. she’s always done well maintaining an air of control, no matter what the situation. more so than hotch tbh. which is why its seemingly so out of character for something like this to affect her this much.

its not like her anger will help him grieve or process anything or move on. thats something he has to do for herself. but its almost like.. catharsis by proxy. neither of them have outlets for their emotions anymore bc they’ve trained themselves out of any kind of outward expression of emotion (emily more than hotch but still). so seeing emily losing it a bit, the way he wants to, makes it easier to connect to his own feelings. she’s feeling it for him, and the visual reference is a reminder that its ok to struggle. its ok to have a hard time. its ok to not be perfect.

[selfpositiveundertale]

Text reads: I know how frustrating it is when other people are annoyed by your executive dysfunction and texture issues, especially when they see these very real problems as more of a burden on themselves than on you. But that's their problem, not yours. You are not at fault for being autistic and having these problems. You can't help it, but I believe you can eventually find a way to do what you need to in spite of your executive dysfunction and texture issues.

The way you learn and figure things out is different from neurotypicals, so don't expect advice on these things from a neurotypical to be of much help, however well intentioned they may be.

You might have to go through a lot of trial and error before you find what works best for you, but you'll get there!

What has been helping me overcome my executive dysfunction is to make little lists in a specific order. Like I might need to take my meds, take some pain reliever, feed my pets, and work on an Etsy order, and knowing I have to do all these seemingly simple things can quickly get overwhelming. The first thing I do is turn on some music, usually one of my favorite bands or my Bendy or Among Us playlists. It has to be something I'm familiar enough with that I can enjoy it without needing to Focus on it because it's New. (I can't listen to new music unless I'm not doing anything else. I have several albums I haven't listened to yet because I've been busy lol) The music helps to ground my brain and keep it from freaking out over all the things I need to do. Then I'll decide what order to do things in from the "smallest" task to the "biggest" task. I'll usually start by taking my meds and pain reliever in one go. If my water bottle is empty I'll take my phone still playing music and go to the kitchen to refill it, then quickly return to take my meds. The next thing is to feed my pets because it only takes a couple of minutes. Grab a spoon(I really need some disposable spoons because taking silverware back to the kitchen is Hard), pop open a can, split it between my two cats, dispose of the empty can, fill a cup with dog food, and dump it in my dog's bowl for her. It's become a second nature routine at this point so the steps don't really overwhelm me except the part where I have to go get a spoon from the kitchen and then take it back. And then when everyone is fed, I can sit down with my yarn and hooks and work on my orders because that takes the longest.

However, working on Etsy orders can also be overwhelming, mostly the part where I have to start a new crewmate. It requires putting 6 single crochet stitches into a magic ring(if you crochet you know what this means) and I HATE magic rings. The texture of worsted weight yarn is Awful regardless of the brand and knowing I have to pull it along my fingers, even with gloves, discourages me from doing it and I have to fight myself to get started. Once I have both magic rings for the legs done though, it's usually smooth sailing. I just have to turn my music up, grit my teeth, and make myself do it knowing it'll get better.

This is just what works for me. It may not work for you, and that's okay! You'll figure out what works best for you, I know it. Stay determined!

[doeeyeseddie]

coda/missing scene to 4x05 because i, once again, had too many feelings. read on ao3

Eddie Diaz is good at compartmentalizing. He’s great at it, at putting his emotions in a box and locking it to focus on the task at hand. Needs to be good at it to be able to do his job, be it in the army or now, as a firefighter. He doesn’t get to panic when one of his coworkers is in danger.

He still nearly loses it when he and Bobby hear that Buck’s still in the factory.

It’s not a surprise, not really - of course Buck disobeyed a direct order to make sure every last person gets out alive, and of course he doesn’t think about himself. It’s one of the things Eddie loves him for. But the sheer terror of hearing Buck explain over the radio that there’s no way out almost overrides his training. Almost.

For a second, he’s ready to run right back in, on his own if he has to, to find Buck and get him out, somehow, he has to-

Then Buck is on the radio, alive, still okay, and the incident commander tells him that a rescue team is coming in to find them, and Eddie forces himself to stay calm and focused, to be of help where he can be the most useful. And then the factory blows behind them.

Chimney, Hen, Cap, him, they all spin around in shock and Eddie can just stare at the balls of fire and the smoke billowing, feeling paralyzed. The rational part of his brain is already clocking that it wasn’t the whole factory, probably just one of the tanks full of flammable gas, and probably not anywhere near where Buck is, even though he didn’t seem sure about where that was over the radio. His heart, hammering against his ribs, takes a little longer to catch up and Eddie has to press his shaking hands against his thighs for a second.

He’s got himself under control by the time they’re being sent in.

Outside of the factory, he can’t bring himself to look at Buck for too long. He’s over by an ambulance with Bobby, having been checked over quickly, and the look on his face is something Eddie doesn’t quite know how to deal with. But he’s got Bobby there, and Hen, so Eddie has to trust he’ll be fine.

He and Chim checked the victim over, giving him oxygen and getting him ready to be transported to the hospital. He’ll probably be fine in a few weeks, the smoke inhalation shouldn’t have caused lasting damage, and his leg is clearly broken but not crushed. Buck saved his life.

“Tell your friend,” Saleh says on a cough, gripping Eddie’s arm after they’ve moved him onto the ambulance, “thank you. Thank you.”

“I’ll tell him,” Eddie promises, fixing the oxygen mask over his face again. “Breathe.”

They ride in the back of the ambulance mostly in silence, checking Saleh’s vitals and focusing all of their energy on him.

It’s only on the way back to the station that Chimney says, “So that was a bit too close for comfort, huh?”

Eddie lets out a humourless laugh. “You could say that.”

“You think he should’ve been working today?”

“I think,” Eddie says slowly, “that he needed to not be alone with his thoughts today. And I don’t think he could’ve done his job any better today.”

“Yeah, no, he did everything right,” Chimney says hurriedly, “that’s not what I meant. I just...worry about him.”

Eddie looks at his drawn eyebrows and hunched shoulders and thinks about the way Chimney has been acting around Buck for the past few days, like he’s walking on eggshells, careful but ready to jump to his defence at any time, and knows he’s being honest. “Yeah, me too.”

The way Buck called himself spare parts, defective parts this morning is still echoing in his head. He didn’t know what to say or do to make Buck feel better, still doesn’t. Whenever he’s tried to talk about any of it for the past few days, Buck has been quick about brushing him off, with humor or sometimes anger, though that was always directed at his parents and never at Eddie.

He gets it, is the thing, knows all too well what it’s like to keep things to himself, to not want to talk to anyone about them. He just didn’t know what it’s like on the other side of things. All he wants is for Buck to know that none of this is on him, that his parents are the one who fucked up and didn’t do their job. A job that should be the easiest in the world. Eddie knows how easy it is to love your child unconditionally. He also knows how easy it is to love Buck.

One day soon, he’s gonna find a way to prove to Buck how loved he is. If that means coming clean to him about his feelings, then so be it - he’s been thinking about it for so long now that he’s pretty sure Buck wouldn’t ever leave him and Chris, even if he can’t reciprocate Eddie’s feelings. Buck deserves to hear that someone loves him for him.

Back at the station, Eddie showers and changes into a clean uniform, and when he’s walking up the stairs, Buck’s parents are there. He knows it’s them immediately and catches Hen’s eyes across the room, her eyebrows raised.

“Is Buck back yet?” he asks her, voice low as he sits down on the couch next to her.

She shakes her head. “Bobby went to the hospital with him, just to make sure he’s really fine. I don’t think he knows they’re here.”

Eddie looks over at them, and has to press his hands to his thighs again at the sudden rush of hatred that he feels for these people. He doesn’t want to imagine what it must feel like to lose a child, but it gives them no excuse to treat their living, breathing children the way they did. The way Buck has been acting these past few days is their fault, it’s their fault he’s been feeling like he wasn’t enough his whole life, and Eddie hates them for it.

“Has anyone talked to them?”

“Chim did, when they came in,” Hen says, “and I kind of wanna give them a piece of my mind. You look like you do, too.”

Eddie gives her a wry smile. “That obvious?”

Hen scrunches her nose and gives him a kind smile. “Yeah. I can’t imagine ever treating my children like that. And I think they should know what they’re missing out on with Buck.”

Eddie couldn’t agree more, and before he knows it, he’s pushing himself up from the couch and walking over to them.

They both look up with matching expressions of polite confusion, and Eddie grits his teeth and sits down without asking.

“Mr and Mrs Buckley?” he asks. “I’m Eddie Diaz, I work with your son.”

“Do you know where he is?” Mrs Buckley asks. “Howard said he didn’t know.”

Depending on when Chimney talked to them, that’s probably even true, but Eddie wouldn’t hold it against him if he was just trying to get away from his parents-in-law as quickly as possible. “He’s at the hospital.”

“Oh, what did he do now?” Mr Buckley’s voice sounds long-suffering, as if his son being in the hospital is a nuisance more than anything else.

“His job,” Eddie bites out. “He did his job and saved someone’s life tonight. Do you even know the kind of man your son is? He goes above and beyond for everyone. He risks his life to save others - did you know he saved dozens of people during the tsunami, including my son, while he wasn’t even a firefighter? Of course you didn’t. He shows up for his friends time and time again and he puts everyone else before himself. He’s a good man, a great man, something he certainly didn’t learn from you-”

There’s a hand on his shoulder and he cuts off, the sudden silence making him aware of how loud his voice has gotten, and he looks up at Hen, almost expecting her to tell him to shut up, but she’s looking at Buck’s parents with narrowed eyes.

“With all due respect,” she says, and Eddie has never heard her voice like this, this hard and cold, “but Buck deserves better than what he got from you. He’s not just a valued member of this station, he’s family. I’m happy to tell you some stories about him, if you’re interested in hearing them, because I agree with Eddie that you should at least know what kind of person he has become in spite of you.”

Mr and Mrs Buckley look almost chastised, speechless, and Hen drops into the chair next to Eddie. His hands are shaking again and Eddie doesn’t think he can sit here with them any longer, certainly doesn’t have any nice things to say to them, so he decides to let Hen handle it from here on. She’s clearly got it under control.

Wordlessly, he stands up and goes downstairs to wait for Buck instead.

When Bobby parks the car, Eddie spreads his arms expectantly, relief flooding his veins when he announces that Buck got a clean bill of health from the doctor.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, but can’t help giving Buck a once-over just to make sure for himself. He’s also showered and wearing a clean uniform, looking miles better than earlier, but there’s still that sadness around his eyes and mouth that Eddie hates.

“Show off,” he teases him as Bobby rushes off, and Buck smiles at him.

“I had to do it.”

All Eddie wants is to go up to him and pull him into his arms to keep him safe from the world, but this is neither the time or the place. Instead, he just puts as much of that feeling as he can in his smile and tells Buck, “I know you did.” Then, a little reluctantly, he nods his head towards the stairs. “You’ve got some visitors.”

Buck leaves with one last look, a frown on his face, and Eddie watches him go. No matter how this conversation is going to go, Buck has a lot of shit to work through.

First and foremost, he needs to talk to Maddie because Eddie knows how much they love each other and how miserable this situation is making them both. And then he’ll need to start believing that they love him - Maddie, the whole crew, Christopher. Eddie. That he’s worth that love. And Eddie will do everything in his power to make him believe that.

[costellos]

author’s note: this wasn’t a request, just something super self-indulgent that I wanted to do! ❤⃛(*ૂ❛ัᴗ❛ั*ૂ) also this ended up taking 2.5 hours to write aldkf;j so much for unwinding at the end of the day. overall, I’m super proud of how this came out — please enjoy!

❥ ┋ ❝ bucci gang realizing that they’re in love!

bruno bucciarati.

Bucciarati realizes he’s in love when he sees you defending civilians.

he is a man made of love. for his people, for his community, for his goals — he firmly believes that everyone and everything can be built on yes, but more importantly, taken care of.

he sees you protecting an elderly couple during a stand battle. in a split second do you throw your stand at the couple, taking a hefty amount of damage in their place. you’re bloody and your arm is definitely broken, but you still turn to them. "you need to leave. now,” you say. although your words are harsh and hoarse, your smile reminds them that yes, everything will be fine, I just need you to trust me.

you didn’t have to protect them. any other gangster would have left them to die. they’re old, no one would miss them.

but you did. you put these two strangers, two no ones at the wrong place at the wrong time, before yourself. even if it meant you’d die.

Bucciarati would visit you shortly after the battle. Giorno had already tended to your wounds, evident by your lack of bandages. his hair is normally neatly placed, but it looks like he had been rustling it, with his clips out of place and the braid atop his head uneven. his concern is apparent; he’s wracked his brain waiting for your recovery. you knew that Bucciarati cared about his team, but when did he care this much? ↳ “I admit, your actions were certainly reckless,” he would say to you, taking a seat beside your bed. “you’re lucky that fight didn’t end worse than it did. nonetheless...” his voice is tired yet soft, comforting. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’m... I’m incredibly glad.”

leone abbacchio.

Abbacchio realizes he’s in love when he sees you upholding true justice.

although he would never admit it, he is haunted by his inability to save his partner during his time as an officer. as such, Abbacchio envies those who back justice in spite of the system Italy lives under.

you’re patrolling one of La Passione’s turfs with him when you see it: two officers harassing a young girl. even though Abbacchio tells you not to get involved, you quickly storm over to the scene. their voices are loud and clear, despite them being several meters away. the girl looks scared.

it turns out she had stolen a handful of painkillers from the corner store. the cops noticed her scurrying out as they were buying a pack of smokes. and now, they were threatening to take her into the station. “I need them for my family!” she explains, but the cops don’t buy it. they huff something about her bringing them to school and selling them to her friends.

“here. I’ll pay for her. just leave her alone.” Abbacchio watches as you flash 30 euros to the cops, more than enough to pay for the medicine. playing them at their own game, he sees. thankfully, they relent, pocketing the money and leaving the scene. and after you talk to the girl, explaining that if she needs more help to come find you, you both leave the scene too.

it’s a brief affair. truthfully, he wouldn’t have gotten himself involved. he wishes you hadn’t either. it would’ve been less of a headache, and now that girl is going to pester you again in the future. but he can’t stop replaying the scene in this head. how you willingly stood up for her, reassured her that everything would be okay. how you smiled and looked so content after the fact. ↳ “ I envy you,” he would say as you walked away from the scene. “doing the right thing is...” he pauses. stupid? naive? “...it’s not easy. you didn’t have to do anything but I admire your valor. just don’t be surprised if that girl comes up at your doorstep begging for more money.” nonetheless, he wants to learn more from you. to be good again, he thinks. maybe then he can be someone that he himself is proud of. and maybe, eventually, he’ll make you proud too.

giorno giovanna.

Giorno realizes he’s in love when he sees your ambition.

he prides himself on his resolve. to him, resolve is committing to something regardless of the difficulties that a person faces. seeing you be so goal-oriented would make him believe that he’s found his match.

it doesn’t have to be a huge goal, like dedicating yourself to a field of practice or learning a new language. it can be as simple as trying to keep your houseplants alive. in fact, those little things come off as more charming to him. it shows that you’re passionate about everything you do, no matter what it is.

seeing you continuously try despite numerous failures would make Giorno’s heart pound. you refuse to give up. even with everything against you, you still roll up your sleeves, take a deep breath, and pick yourself up again. he adores this about you.

he realizes it when you’re rambling about your next move in your goals. your face is so excited, your eyes so wide and bright. your mouth is voicing your steps a million words a minute but all he can focus on is how beautiful you look. the smile on his lips is unmistakable. ↳ “tell me more. I want to know everything. tell me about every detail, every step, what you’ll do when you’re finished... all of it.” he won’t say it — after all, he doesn’t want to come off as too desperate — but he wants to be there every step of the way with you. and when you’ve completed your goal, he wants to be the one next to you, the one to say, “I am so, so proud of you.”

guido mista.

Mista realizes he’s in love when you laugh at one of his jokes.

life should be simple. that’s the mantra he lives by. despite being a gangster, he just wants to have a simple life filled with simple pleasures. one of those ways is through telling stories.

it happens when the group is eating dinner at a local restaurant. Mista is telling some long-winded anecdote, something about how he heroically beat up a landlord for harassing his tenants over money. at the end, it turned out to be the set up for a really brief and really stupid punchline.

everyone is looking at him. “ah? ahhhh?” he muses, but no one responds. the silence in the air is unbearable. hm. wow. is it hot in here or what? finally, Narancia breaks the silence, muttering that he doesn’t get it. Fugo tells him that Mista could have made the joke so much shorter. Bucciarti exhales quickly from his nostrils, a half-assed attempt at laughing. Giorno and Abbacchio don’t say anything.

but then you. oh, you. it takes you a moment to get it, but when you do, your giggling disrupts the awkwardness. it sounds like bells, Mista thinks. sweet bells, ringing like how they used to at the church every Sunday morning in his hometown. it makes him feel warm, welcome, and he can’t help but feel his face flush when he hears your laughing.

Mista stays in place afterwards, pushing his white beans to and fro on his plate. he’s not hungry anymore. he keeps looking up at you, and while he had acknowledged you were attractive before, something about you was now beautiful. you were happy here, with your eyes bright and your smile wide. eventually, he would say: ↳ “hey, thanks for covering me back there. those guys never laugh at anything I say.” he rolls his eyes playfully, adding a slight shrug of his shoulders. “lemme make it up to you. what can I do for you?” he’s trying to be smooth, but he’s so giddy at the prospect at spending more time with you!

narancia ghirga.

Narancia realizes he’s in love when you don’t lose your patience with him.

he doesn’t have much of a formal education. hence, critical thinking skills don’t come easy to him. he tries his best, he really does, but it’s difficult when he’s hardly flexed his brain.

he’s writing a song. nothing fancy, but music has always been a part of Narancia’s life that he wants to give it a go himself. maybe one day he’ll be a famous hip hop artist, touring across Europe and maybe even the U.S. one day! the thought makes him excited. but for now, he needs to establish the lyrics.

rap is easier said than done, though. Fugo is teasing him about his inability to write poetry — what makes Narancia think that he could write a whole song? he grits his teeth and turns back to his paper. 

that’s when you approach him. you sit down with him, asking him what he would like to write about. “oh, uh... growing up in the streets, I guess,” he mumbles. he’s taken aback by your help. plus, talking about it now makes him embarrassed. but you don’t judge him, no; you sit down with him and try to help him nail down the theme. and once you have that, you assist him in finding snappy lyrics and catchy rhymes. 

you don’t criticize him for his ideas. you don’t yell at him for his suggestions. you just listen and add on. the encounter is foreign, to say the least... but not unwelcome. Narancia finds your help incredibly productive (much better than Fugo could ever offer him). and the time goes by so fast! within a few hours, his song is done. yet he’s not happy... no, he starts to feel lonely the moment you stand up, off to assist Bucciarati with whatever he needs. ↳ “wait, hold on, [Name]!” shit. his voice is way too desperate. he softens it as best he can muster: “can... can we write another song sometime? I have a lot more ideas and I can’t do it without you.” fuck. he did it again. but when smile at him and nod, promising that you’ll help him hit the Top 40, Narancia can’t help but smile back.  

panacotta fugo.

Fugo realizes that he’s in love when you put him before yourself.

genius. prodigy. failure. Fugo is defined by how others see him. after his parents abandoned him for leaving an abusive establishment, he finds himself lost in the world. who is he? what is he worth?

he’s escorting you to your mission when his car is attacked by a rival gang. the assault is a blur. he can remember the car flipping over, tumbling off the road and into the Mediterranean Sea. it happens so fast. the salty water surrounding you both. the windshield cracking. the airbag goes off, suffocating him. he can’t see. he can’t breathe. and suddenly, it’s dark.

when he wakes up, he realizes that you’re both on the beach. “where are we?” he musters out. it hurts to talk. you hush him to take it easy, that he had most certainly broken a few ribs. and that’s when he sees it: when he looks down, his wounds are tended to. gashes have been tenderly wrapped in gauze and minor cuts treated with balm. a pain relief patch has been placed on his chest, no doubt where the air bag hit him. but when he looks at you, you’re bleeding through your bandages.

that’s right. there was a first aid kit in the car. based on his injuries, you spent the majority of supplies on him, even though you definitely had it just as bad. “why?” is all he can say.

why? you shake your head. “because you’re my friend,” you answer, adjusting the gauze on his wrist. “I’m taking care of you because you’re worth it.”

your words catch him by surprise. he doesn’t believe it, but... your face is honest enough. his thoughts are jumbled, as mixed as the sand and water at the shore just a few meters away. and when your hand touches his wrist... he shakes his own head.

↳ “you should’ve tended to yourself first.” his tongue tastes of nothing but blood and salt and his words show it. a beat, and gentler this time: “I appreciate your thinking of me. thank you.” that’s all he can say, at least for now. it hurts to much to talk, moreover think. so he places his hand over yours as a gesture of thanks. friends, huh? the idea before sounded laughable, but now... there was something warm about it. the answer to his question — who is he? — had come as quickly as the waves beneath him: a friend.

[peralta-guaranteed]

Ao3 prompt by strwbrystars : my first is to do another chapter focusing on jake protecting amy in a similar situation as the closet one in this chapter pre-relationship or established.

This turned surprisingly long...

(thanks to @dolston17​ for the mafioso names :D)

They’ve made all the wrong decisions right from the start, Amy thinks later, as she’s trying not to hyperventilate, with Jake’s breathing next to her not much slower than her own. 

Well, maybe not the very first decision. When the radio crackled on in Jake’s car, asking for an EMT and back up for two beat cops a block down from them, there really was no other option but to turn and drive down to join them. But once they did find them, every decision made after that came straight from the ‘What Not To Do’ part of her training manuals.

_+_

Officer Rogers was sitting on the ground with his back to a wall, his partner Carols squatting in front of him, and he was obviously injured. Amy noticed the trail of blood leading back into the building behind them as they ran up towards the beat cops.

“Two guys. Possibly gang-related. They were fighting over a drug delivery or sale, we’re not sure, and we tried to separate them and question them when the taller guy pulled out a knife and went for Rogers.” Carols informs them straight away while putting pressure on the large wound in his partner’s thigh. “In the fight the other one, probably Italian background, short and stout, managed to unclip my gun - he must’ve known how to work a holster - god, this so - unprofessional, I’m sorry -”

“S’all good.” Jake interrupts him, and Amy wants to interject that no, it’s obviously not good if a criminal manages to take a gun away from a uniformed officer, but the short relief washing over the young, newly instated beat cop at hearing a detective calm him stops her. “Any more info?”

“They ran deeper into this building. We’ve patrolled it before - this is the only exit, so they must still be holeing up inside. They probably thought I was going to follow them, but I carried Rogers out instead so we could radio-”

“Yes, that was absolutely the right decision.” Amy joins in to support him, and it works maybe half as good as Jake’s casual reaction had before. She squats down too, to inspect the wound that Carols is pressing his jacket onto. “The EMTs are on their way, and this doesn’t look like too deep a cut for any lasting damage, even if it hurts like hell, I’d guess. Good, quick reactions, from both of you.”

“Thank you, detective.” is the first thing Rogers says, but Amy barely hears him when she looks up at Jake. He’s staring straight into the building doors, and she definitely, absolutely doesn’t like the look on his face.

“Jake-” She says with both a questioning and warning tone to her voice.

“This is Mancini territory.” He says out of the blue, and she can see his deducting brain working. “If it’s drug-related, and the other guy looked Italian, must be… Chiellini.”

“Chiellini, like Mafia boss Chiellini?!” Carols asks with shock in his voice, and Rogers hisses as he lets the pressure on his wound go for a second. Amy can’t fault him for that moment of surprise.

Roberto Chiellini, one of the two guys Jake’s undercover sting with the Ianuccis hadn’t been able to pin to any crimes, had quickly worked to establish himself as the new family leader of some Brooklyn areas, focussing on heavy drug trafficking for easy profits. They’d had more and more cases and minor arrests coming across their desks lately that mentioned his name in hushed tones, but had still been unable to actually go after him for any of it. Amy knows it’s been costing Jake sleep, but she still hates to see the conclusion he seems to be coming to right now.

“Jake, even if it is, that goon is way to low-level to have any useful info-”

“Stealing a government-issued gun, and assaulting a police officer? We’d have some leverage-”

“We’ll have absolutely nothing if he decides to use that gun-”

Right at that moment, the sound of a gunshot rips through the air, as if she’d predicted it, and silence falls around them for barely a second before Jake unholsters his own gun and starts moving.

“I’m going in there.”

“Jake you are not- Jake- JAKE!”

_+_

She ran after him, of course. He was her partner - she had to be his backup. Backup that could hopefully talk him out of this entirely once she caught up, but still backup. Most of all, though, he was her partner - running gun-first into what was clearly unnecessary danger. She’d be an absolute fool not to go after him.

Even if it did go against the manual.

(She realised a lot of things she was willing to do for Jake went against any manual she’d ever read, but maybe it was too early in their relationship to admit that, even to herself.)

But she has no time to talk some sense into him, or scold him, or really say anything when she rounds the corner of the hallway he’d stopped behind with his gun up, freezing in point for the scenery before her - the ‘tall man’ Carols had described splayed on the floor, with about 70% of his brain blown all over the concrete behind him, the ‘stout Italian’ standing over him with Carol’s gun still smoking from the shot.

Jake’s hands in her periphery, holding his own gun straight up at him. Jake’s hands, shaking.

“Drop the gun, Riva.” 

Gianluigi Riva, Amy’s brain supplies even in her frozen state. The other one of the two men that walked free after the Ianucci wedding. The one that very definitely could’ve been arrested for various things after, if he hadn’t been so perfectly elusive.

The one Jake had a picture of stuck to his computer screen at work ever since he came back from that undercover mission.

“Jakey the Jew.” she hears through her freeze in the most hateful, spite-dripping voice she’s ever heard. “Or should that be Detective Peralta, I guess?”

“Drop. The gun. Riva.” Jake repeats through gritted teeth.

“Wouldn’t you love that.”

She thinks she sees Jake’s finger actually move for the trigger, but that is before Riva’s attention turns towards her , and suddenly all bets are off. And Riva’s gun is on her.

“That your little bitch, Jakey? The one you whined about?”

“I’m not playing this game. Drop your gun.”

“What a shame if she got caught in the crossfires on your mission, huh?”

“One last warning-”

“Get fucked, pig.”

And then, one strong, big hand against her shoulder, pushing her backwards with force before another gunshot sound.

Another hand, pulling her up, pulling her forward, running, dodging, running, slamming into a wall as they round corners, more gunshots behind them, and shouting, curses, screaming, rage-

They dodge around several more corners as the noises trail further and further behind them, Jake running at a speed she didn’t think he was capable of and pulling her along. There’s a barely visible door she notices before him, and uses her full body weight to drag him towards, opening and slamming it closed behind them so quickly she can only hope that even if Riva had followed them close enough, he didn’t see it.

And then complete silence falls over them in the dark room they find themselves in, safe for their ragged, exhausted breathing. Amy can feel her pulse pumping in her ears, even as Jake nexts to her drops against the wall and slides down, not fully hitting the ground with a  quiet ‘Fuck’.  

“What the hell, Jake?!” Is the first thing she manages to whisper-shout through the heaving, and maybe she should pick her words more carefully right now.

“Riva.”

“Yeah, I know, but-”

“Ianucci’s torture guy.”

And that certainly shuts up whatever angry rant has been bubbling up in Amy’s throat about following procedure and not running in eyes closed, head first like he always does.

She knows barely anything about Jake’s time undercover, safe for the ‘funny’ stories he’s been willing to share at Shaw’s. Even now, as his girlfriend, there seem to be walls around the subject - for obvious reasons, if she thinks about the many little scars and marks on his skin that her fingers keep trailing over. Some that make his breath hitch when she kisses them. Some that he pulls her hands away from almost on instinct.

“Fuck.” She simply echoes him, and he nods before pressing the back of his hand to his lips, trying to keep from being sick - whether from the unbelievable running they’ve just gone through that is still wrecking his body, or from memories that Riva dredged up, she’s not sure.

She turns to inspect the too dark room instead, trying to gather her bearings as best as she can before her brain can switch into panic mode completely. It’s not as small as other places she’s had to hide in, luckily, so her claustrophobia is yet to rear its ugly head, but it’s not exactly spacious either. She can’t make out much that could be of help, a few shelves that have seen better days, an empty barrel or two in the far corner. A lot of darkness. She can’t exactly retrace their steps through the building, but they must have ended up in a half-basement level, the only light coming from a small set of windows a few metres up the wall. 

“Okay.” She manages to level her voice to a normal whisper. “Carols and Rogers must have heard the shots. They definitely called in more back up. All we need to do is stay hidden and wait-”

“They don’t know it’s him. They won’t send much backup.”

“They know two detectives went into a building with an armed criminal and did not come out yet so yes, they will send heavy backup, Jake.”

His voice is still muffled through his hand near his mouth, strained but for something else.

“He was gonna shoot you.”

She doesn’t have much to say to that.

“Because of me.”

She has even less to say to that. Yes, is pretty much all she can think of. Yes, because you ran into a building without backup, without a vest on, without so much as a plan. Yes, because you didn’t think . But given the wavering of his voice, the way he’s still breathing like they’d only just stopped running, the way she could see his hands shake even in the darkness, she’s not going to say any of that, ever. There’s something else on her mind, anyway.

“He recognised me?” She asks as she sinks down to Jake’s level, squat-sitting against the wall. The one you whined about is stuck in her memory, but Jake only shakes his head before dropping it to stare at the ground.

“They- the guys- they kept pushing me to gossip and trash talk about the ‘pigs I left behind’.” He coughs as quietly as he can, and she tenses for a moment trying to listen to any sounds from outside of their room. “I tried with the others but- I just couldn’t say anything bad about you.”

Her hand finds its way into his hair, sweat-sticky on his forehead.

“They picked up on that and kept teasing me about it. Then they started finding hook-ups for me to ‘forget’. I think I got too drunk once and told them to fuck off, or something.”

She scratches over his scalp down to his ear, rubs a soothing circle into his cheek as best as she can.

“I know it was stupid and I put you in danger and we weren’t even- you were with Teddy and I-”

“Hey.” She drops her hand to his upper arm and squeezes for support, wants to say something calming before he spirals, but is met with a quiet hiss and - a wet patch on her hand, the feeling of ripped fabric and skin and blood.

“You were hit?!” She gasps before easing the pressure she was unwittingly putting on his wound.

“Grazed. It’s okay.”

“It’s not, it-it’s-” Her fingers are shaking as she pats around her suit to find something to wrap around his arm to stop the bleeding and comes up empty until she shrugs off her jacket. She won’t ever get the stain out of the light fabric, she thinks for a second as she bandages his arm as best as she can in the dark, but who cares?

Who the fuck cares when he got hit by a bullet that was aimed at her? When he pushed her out of harm's way instead of following protocol and shooting the attacker instead? He could’ve had Riva down and out for the count, he was in perfect position for it, and even gave him ample warning. But he might’ve had her on the ground as well if that’s the option he’d picked.

Something tells her that simply because of that, it was never even an option for him.

Their eyes meet, close enough in the dark to really see each other, and they’re swimming with emotions before Jake’s flinch shut as a distant “Jakeeey~" echoes through the halls they’ve just run through.

“We need to get out of here. We- you don’t know what he’s willing- if he finds us-” Jake is up, all of a sudden, the motion making her sway and almost topple over. He’s scanning the room just like she did earlier when she stands up next to him, and his eyes lock onto the barrels and windows.

“I can give you a leg up high enough to reach the window if we climb that barrel. You’ll fit through it, and get over to Rogers and Carols and see if the backup-”

“And you stay here?” She finally scolds him with a look. “With the man who wants you dead? The one you called ‘torture guy’?”

He’s quiet at that, but she can see on his face that the decision was clearly made in his mind.

“You got any better ideas?”

“Like I said, we wait until backup gets here.”

Almost as if to prove the faults in her argument, another “Jakey boy! Get out here and face me, bitch!” drifts in from outside - closer than it was before, and Jake throws her the most panicked ‘told you’ look she’s ever seen.

“We’re still two against one. He’s emptied half his magazine earlier. If we corner him right, we get the element of surprise in the room as well-” her mind continues to work as her eyes settle on the door- “hug the wall next to the door, and we can disarm him or get him down before he’s even barged in completely.”

Jake seems to want to protest, even as the logical part of his brain is clearly telling him she’s right and that this is the best way to go at it, so he ends up simply nodding before gripping his gun and leaning against the wall next to the door, Amy following him suit on the other side.

They’re staring at each other while the noises outside the room seem to creep ever closer. ‘Come out and plaaay~' almost makes her snort for its ridiculousness if it wasn’t so terrifying, thinking about the things Jake has probably seen this man ‘play’ with. 

She tries to calm her mind by focusing on him, instead. On his face in the hazy dark, the curls on his forehead she managed to jostle free earlier, the tense line of his neck, the glare of her beige suit jacket tied around his arm. The way he looks at her, even amidst the panic, amidst all the fear and worry stuck in the room with them.

He pushed her out of Riva’s aim. He dragged her close to him as he ran. He ignored his own injury, offering to lift her up to an escape he wouldn’t be able to make after her. It’s… it’s a lot. After barely two months of a relationship, it’s a lot to take in.

Except she knows - she knows deep down that he would’ve done all of this three months ago, too. Six months ago. Maybe years ago, even.

“We need to switch.” He whispers suddenly, pulling her out of her deep thoughts, and is already stepping over to her before she can ask. She feels his hand on her shoulder, nudging her back to where he’d been standing, and squeezing three times while doing so.

Sometimes she almost hates that squeeze. She knows what it means now, even though they haven’t said those three little words his squeezes represent yet, but in situations like these - it never forebodes anything good.

And she realises what it really means now, too, as she sees the hinges on the door on her side. The door that opens inwards. The door that will completely hide her behind it once it opens, and leave Jake alone in -

It opens before she can say anything, and then things happen way too quickly - there’s noise and shouting and she thinks she hears Jake’s “Down on the floor!” in between Riva’s angry screams and then there’s another gunshot. A single gunshot, and all she can see is the back of the door in front of her, frozen to the spot, unable to run around it and see if- see who-

“Fuck, Amy. Help me pin this fucker!” She hears the next moment and breathes out in relief. Her feet find themselves again as she runs over to where Jake is kneeling on Riva’s back, struggling to hold him down even with the gunshot wound in his thigh. He’s shouting obscenities, screaming and thrashing around, and Amy is so, so tempted to embed a bullet into his other thigh to get him quiet, but she joins Jake’s knees on his back instead, yanks his arms back in a way Jake couldn’t with his injury, and they click the handcuffs around him together at the very moment a team of heavily suited up officers rounds the corner.

_+_

  He’s sitting on an uncomfortable chair in a brightly lit, wide open room of the hospital, squeezing her hand that is holding onto him while his other arm is propped up on a table and getting stitched up.

The EMTs that were taking care of Rogers checked him, too, but the injury wasn’t bad enough to warrant a ride in their ambulance with him, so Amy took over the keys for his Mustang and drove him after briefing the backup team and handing over a still cussing Riva to be brought into Holding. She put in a whispered request to be the one questioning him - with Rosa as secondary - to Terry, who was part of the backup team, and only gave her a quick look and then a nod after Riva screamed something about how he ‘shoulda offed that snitch when he had a chance’, watching Jake several feet away from them twitch and turn towards the EMT handling his arm.

The young doctor stitching him up seems suitably impressed by both his badge and his injury, remarking something about ‘bravery’ and ‘sacrifice’ he would usually eat up with glee, but all he’s doing is smile at Amy while his fingers intertwine with hers, squeeze only once before his thumb rubs circles across her hand.

They’re left alone soon enough while the doctor gets his painkillers subscription, and Jake takes the chance to lift Amy’s hand up to his lips and kiss it.

“Jake…” she begins when their hands drop again, and she can tell he’s getting ready for a lecture. “You risked too much back there.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone in without backup, and made a lot of wrong decisions, and-”

“No.” She interrupts him, much to his surprise. “I mean, yes, obviously, and I’m glad you see that now, but that’s not what I meant.”

She sighs, deeply, and stares at their still interlocked hands.

“You risked too much for me.”

“Not possible.”

“Jake!” Her eyes dart up again, want to level him with an angry stare, but can’t help but soften when met with the absolute shine in his. “Jake, you got hit because you pushed me, you wanted to bail me out of the room to leave you with even less backup, and then you manoeuvred me into a dead corner to face a Mafioso on your own-”

“Yeah.”

“Why?!”

“Because it would’ve kept you safe.”

“That’s not how police work is supposed to-”

“Am I not supposed to keep my partner safe?”

“Not when it puts you in danger instead!”

“Hm.” He hums and looks at the bandaged up stitches on his arm. “Gotta rework the manual for that, then. Because frankly I don’t give a shit about me when it means helping you.”

“But I do.” She almost whispers, but he still looks back at her immediately, balks at the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “I give a shit about you. You think I want to see you shot on the ground? You think I want to run away from a building when I know you’re stuck in there? You think I want to stand behind a door and only hear you get- get-” She bites back a sob and fixes him with a dedicated stare instead, a look on her face that makes his heart clench and dance at the same time. “We’re a team, Jake. In the field and off it. You can’t- you can’t play the hero and leave me behind.”

Her mind jumps back to an empty parking lot, the cold wind rushing over her flushed cheeks as she watches him walk away with his little box of things in his arms, not even waiting for her answer. Maybe not even hoping for one.

He sighs and nods back in the present, squeezes her hand again, twice.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles, and she squeezes back once. 

She knows they’ll probably be talking about this again in the future. She knows it’ll come up repeatedly until he learns. But she also knows, with a certainty that should maybe scare her after their short time together, why it’ll happen again in the future - because he’ll still be by her side no matter the situation. Because she’ll still be the one thing on his mind, no matter how panicked he is. Because they’ll go through it all together, as a team. As partners.

And deep down, she knows with an equal certainty that if the roles were reversed - she would probably rework the manual herself in her mind, to keep him safe. Would do anything and everything she could, no matter how many protocols it went against, to help him, save him, protect him, make him feel safe and secure. 

Right now, she’s glad all it takes for that is a little lean into his direction to kiss him before the doctor comes back, and squeeze his hand three times before letting go and holding onto his face instead to deepen the kiss.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 8)

νοσταλγία  Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary:  This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s  abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character  is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a  devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the  universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of  course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Ohohohohoh I like this chapter. I hope you guys do too! Thank you for giving this a chance!

Btw, I don’t know if I should do this or not, but I mention a lot of Greek deities and figures, so maybe I’ll add a lil page to the masterlist with all the references (also flowers and stuff, certain smells are supposed to reference a Greek or Norse God/Goddess, so yea I’ll probably do that if you guys are interested), but for now, aside from the usual mentions of Persephone/Hades and Freyja, Galla brings up Peitho, Greek deity of persuasion (both sexual and political) and seduction, and there’s evidence about her being a symbol for prostitutes (’servants of Peithos’, according to Pintar).

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927​

Warriors dressed the same way the ones functioning as the King’s personal guard lead you gruffly but respectfully through the waves of people and the tides of fires and strange houses.

You catch sight of where they are leading you, and consider that drowning in that sea of foreign people and hostile glares was not as bad as having to face your captor again.

But, you ponder, getting used to not having a choice anymore should be something you should be doing, so you straighten your back and continue walking as the warriors lead you to Ivar the Boneless.

His pale eyes find yours, but you deviate your gaze away from his, and bite down on your tongue to keep silent.

He dismisses the guards with a gesture, and motions for you to follow him past the almost empty throne room, into his quarters.

You walk inside and try not flinching at the sound of the door closing behind you. The place is well lit, and not as cold as the biting winds of the outside, but it is still unfamiliar and foreign.

Worry and dread churn at your stomach, but you still your heart and try to keep your hands from trembling. You tell yourself that if he wanted to force himself upon you, he would have done so a long time before, and it helps lessen the panic bubbling in your blood.

“I have been thinking of what I will tell people about you,” He starts simply, as if this is just another conversation you shared on that city that smelled of despair. You stay frozen in your place, watching him with wide eyes as he limps towards a low table and sits on a chair by it. The King motions for a chair by his side, but you cannot move. “Relax and have dinner, woman.”

“I thought…your people dine in the great hall.”

“Not tonight.”

You move limbs of lead to sit on that chair, feeling so alike one of those Christians thrown into the coliseum to prove themselves against a lion that your heart feels like it may either beat out of your chest or suddenly stop.

“It’s just a man and a woman sharing a meal, nothing more.” The Viking presses, gesturing to the plate in front of you again. He is being so strange, and it has nothing to do with him being Viking.

“A Greek Priestess and a Viking King,” You clarify, no little bite in your tone, to then add in a sardonic jest, “Why would I dare think this is nothing but ordinary?”

It is the first time in days that you have allowed yourself to forget keeping your mouth shut with a muzzle as strong as the chains that held onto your wrists; and you dare think the Viking notices, offering a faint softening of his features in return.

“What would make this ordinary for you?”

“Stone walls, the warmth of the sun, speaking in my own tongue.” You list out before picking a piece of cheese carefully and putting it in your mouth.

“Teach me your language then,” The King orders, leaning forward on his table. At your startled and surprised expression, he shrugs his shoulders and his mouth curves downward in a gesture of indifference before he offers, “Stone is expensive, and I do not yet command the sun. We will speak in your tongue then.”

“What reasons do you have to make me feel at ease?” You ask before you can stop yourself, eyes narrowed. “If you wanted me to feel anything but hate you wouldn’t have chained me and dragged me all the way to your kingdom.”

“I don’t care about you feeling anything, Priestess,” He dismisses easily, but the clench in his jaw gives away the lie. Not in the mood to die for calling it out, you just lift an eyebrow, and he explains, “You are a useful woman to have around.”

The scoff that leaves your lips couldn’t have been stopped if they had been sown together by the Gods themselves, and you turn spiteful eyes to the King.

“I am of no use to you.”

“We will see.”

With an anger you hadn’t felt since you stood before Constantinople’s Patriarch and told him what he could do with his cross, you explain, “You asked me why I didn’t tell you that I’m Anassa of the Attics, and I don’t know why I didn’t, considering I was enough of a fool to believe I could confide in you; but I do know I thank the Gods every day that you didn’t know before Stithulf gave me up,” You shake your head at your own stupidity, but refuse to lie and pretend you weren’t foolish enough to delude yourself into thinking he didn’t see the foreign witch he could pride himself in conquering when he saw you. That’s why it hurts the way it does, and if you deny the source of the hurt, if you deny the hurt, you lose your anger. With your nose curled in disgust, you offer, “You will never have the satisfaction of holding a Greek Anassa in chains, Varangian. The opportunity to use my title against me is long past, and now all you have is a Mediterranean slave, nothing more.”

“You are not a slave,” You open your mouth to retort, but he is quicker. He seems to be catching up to your ways, it seems, “You don’t have chains anymore, do you?”

“A prisoner, then. Truly an honor, King Ivar.”

“Don’t disrespect me, Priestess. I am not known for my patience.”

“And I am not known for taking kindly to being captured.”

Your gaze meets his and you refuse to lower your eyes, to accept defeat. You press your lips into a line while his nose furrows, but eventually Ivar leans back on his seat with an angry huff.

“You are insufferable. I should have your tongue cut off.”

“I can gesture.” You offer stubbornly, the beginning of a smile on your lips that you furrow to keep hidden. The King answers with a small curve of his lips, pink tongue tracing his lower lip as he regards you with a strange kind of exasperation.

After a few moments of silence, he offers,

“I promised you freedom and I do not break promises. You are a free woman, but I have to keep you here.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“What difference is there between now and when you had iron chains to my wrists then?”

“Because you now know I didn’t bring you here with the intention to make you a slave.” He confesses around gritted teeth, as if offended you thought he did, even when he brought you to him in chains and paraded you like an exotic delicacy for his entertainment.

“What, then? A whore? A healer?” You press, because you will probably surprise the Gods themselves the day you learn to shut your mouth.

You are reaching for a goblet to drink from when the King answers,

“A wife.”

You knock off the goblet, it brings down a plate with it, but even as mead pours down the table you stay frozen in your place, slowly turning your face to the King that merely stretches a hand with a roll of his eyes and straightens the mess you made.

Your mouth opens quite a few times, and while your brain panics for not saying anything, you keep opening and closing your mouth.

“What are you talking about?” You settle on, finally.

“I want to make you my wife.”

A nervous laugh that sounds insane even to your own ears leaves your lips, “You are joking,” But the King shakes his head with nonchalance, and your eyes widen, “Why? Why do you-…why?”

“I have been King for quite a while, and my people will soon start demanding I get myself a Queen.” He offers flippantly, as if that problem warrants the solution he is proposing.

“Get one.” You bite out, a frown marring your face.

“I did.” He replies without hesitation, expression dripping mirth.

You cannot help the bare of your teeth, and your hands tighten to fists.

“No.” Is all you say, but it carries all your will and strength.

Ivar’s laugh is mocking and you watch with growing anger as he shakes his head dismissively, “I am not asking.”

You never do, you bite down the words, and stare at him in silence for a few moments, trying to think of…of anything.

“You will get nothing out of this,” You hiss at him, leaning closer even when you should be running away. Your eyes search his, trying to…to have him see reason, even if that reason means you get new chains. You can break iron, but you can’t break a bond. “My kingdom is ashes, my army is dead, my ‘noble blood’ is not recognized by the Byzantines any longer.”

But Ivar dismisses that too, barely a gesture of his hand. With every passing moment, you feel the invisible chains tightening on your wrists, you feel your hope dying.

“I have a kingdom, and an army. And I have no interest in noble blood.” He explains, certain.

“Then why?” You insist, your voice sounding so alike a plea your pride hurts.

He remains silent, considering you for a few moments. You return his gaze, and even if you are startled and more than a little terrified, you think he finds whatever he was looking for in your eyes, for he moves his head from side to side, squares his shoulders, and takes his eyes from yours and to the table before him, with the clear tells of someone about to confess something.

“All my life, Priestess, I have been in pain. I was born…cursed,” You frown slightly “A cripple, I can’t even walk properly. And everything has been a…struggle. With myself, with others.

You swallow past a dry throat and for once stay silent, looking into his eyes trying to understand what this has to do with making you a prisoner, a…a wife.

“So I have always been so angry, jealous of everyone around me, filled of hate,” A twitch in his expression, nothing more, and he continues explaining. In the back of your mind you wonder if he is searching for pity or compassion. You wonder if he can discern the two. Ivar’s mouth curves into a smile as cold as the first of winters, as bitter and resentful as you have ever seen in a smile, “Nothing has come easy in my life, and since I was a child I would always ask the Gods why.”

Your own words echoing in your head as you look up into eyes like Greek Fire, “Your Gods have heard you beg to know the reason behind your pain, Ivar.”

Your gaze jumps between his eyes, and you remain quiet for a few moments, trying to understand his meaning and discern the words he expects to come out of your lips now.

After a few breaths of silence, with your voice as quiet as the sleeping world around you, you whisper,

“I don’t have an answer, Ivar.”

But an answer wasn’t what he expected from you, apparently, for the Viking shakes his head with a small smile so reminiscent of the almost bashful look he had before, when he was just a Viking and you just a Priestess, that it hurts some foolish part of your heart.

“No,” He argues, more softly than you would have ever thought a man like him to be capable of, and he leans forward, as close as he can get to you from where he sits. Looking into your eyes for a few moments, Ivar then says, “You are the answer.”

You raise your eyebrows, and feel again the tension take over your frame. But you remain still on your place, keeping guarded eyes on the King as he explains,

“I was once told that the Gods mark us for pain, that some of us are…chosen to suffer, to be pushed to the ground, over and over again,” His head moves with his words, his eyes deviating to the side before he presses his lips together and meets your gaze again, “To test if we endure. And I did, I still do. I conquer, I make them proud, I give Odin and Freyja warriors to take to their halls and wars to rejoice in,” He sounds proud of himself, and the part of you that would cling to the tales of the triumphs of Ragnar and his sons thinks that he has every right to be. You catch yourself softening your stance without you meaning to when you find his Greek Fire-like eyes jumping between yours, always searching, always demanding. Ivar continues, “And I understand now, that when we fulfill what the Gods ask of us, when we…endure, we are rewarded,” A small smile curves at his lips, beautiful even if manic. His eyes don’t stray from yours as he whispers, “The Gods have sent you to me as a gift.”

The breath leaves your lungs in a gasp that almost sounds like a dying breath, the weight of reality and his words settling over your chest like a stone.

And as dread starts finding a home in the cold of your bones, all you can muster is a horrified whisper,

“What?”

He watches you with the wide eyes of a frenzied predator, and as he leans closer to you your body leans away. He still doesn’t falter, “You heard me.”

“I hope I heard wrong,” You mutter, blinking quickly as you try getting your thoughts in order. After a few moments of silence, you lift your gaze to his again, and offer, “I don’t follow your Gods.”

He shakes his head, resolute, “That doesn’t matter. You were sent to me by Freyja.”

You cannot help the laugh, manic and broken, that leaves your lips. “You are crazy.”

“I am not crazy,” He states, the edge in his tone making you straighten in your seat. His eyes narrow, “We were both lead here. Why it had to be so I don’t know, but it was fated.”

“What kind of Gods would fate this!? What kind of Gods would make all that happened happen just for us to meet!?” Mother, father, Galla, Narses, everyone you lost; you cannot accept their deaths, their suffering, were just a piece in a bigger scheme involving a Varangian of all things. Your voice quietens with questions that speak of more than just Ivar’s delusions, “What kind of Gods would curse us so?”

“You are not being cursed.” He spits out, his temper rising and his voice to meet it.

“The Gods, nor yours or mine, would fate that I become your wife!” You insist, after a breath insisting, “They would fate it that I loved you if they wanted to reward you. Why would they gift you an unwilling wife?”

“It was Fate that you and I met,” He explains after a moment, “It is Fate that you remain at my side, however I choose to have you.”

His nose furrows in the beginning of a snarl, and his mouth forms around the syllables of your name. Even with all the rage in his tone and his posture, the way he says your name never ceases to carry some sort of strange familiarity in it, like nostalgia and hope intertwined.

The realization that making you his wife is not his priority, but keeping you at his side; it makes a part of you want to whisper, trust me and I’ll stay with you.

But it would be a lie, it would be a false promise. And you cannot bring yourself to taste lies on your lips again. Whether it is for the still burning pain of what you did to Narses, or something else, something particular to Ivar and the uncertain smiles, the flutter in your heart when you were just a Priestess and eh was just a Viking; you are afraid to say.

And you will not lie, not to him. Not about this.

Your breath quickens, and you put a desperate hand on his forearm where it rests on the table. His pale eyes jump to your hand before quickly returning to your eyes.

“Listen to me, I was in your way because…because…”

“You don’t have an answer, do you?” He hisses when your words die.

“Of course I do!” You snap back, resting your elbows on the table and running frantic hands over your hair as you try evening your breaths. This can’t…you can escape an ambitious man, a bloodthirsty man, a powerful man. But a man that believes his own delusions you cannot…you cannot get away from. Taking a deep breath, you find his eyes again, not caring how much this sounds like pleading, “You cannot do this, you cannot expect me to…don’t put chains on me.”

“I am not chaining you!” Ivar snarls, a hand grabbing at the back of your head tightly, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are enraged and more than a little desperate, and the breath leaves your lungs as you realize there’s no way to bring him out of this delusion. “You were sent by the Gods to me, Priestess. And you will be by my side, I’m not letting you go.”

But you are shaking your head before he is even done speaking, and you want to scream to the top of your lungs that this is wrong, that this is madness. And yet, the rage dies in your throat and all you are left is fear.

Fear, and the desperation not to be chained with shackles that you cannot break.

“I am not a…a gift, I am a person,” You insist, “I have nothing to do with your Gods, nor they with me.”

“You are touched by the Gods, you are favored by Freyja.” He reminds you, not a moment of hesitation in his words, making the weight of defeat grow heavier and heavier.

“But I am a person, I am…my own person, I have a story, I-I have wants and hopes.” You whisper, frantic hand reaching up and grabbing on tightly to his wrist as you search his eyes.

He considers you in silence, his hand relinquishing the tight hold on your loose hair and for a moment you could fool yourself in to believing the Viking plays with the strands at the back of your head.

“A story that led you to me,” He promises, nodding faintly. If it is to convince you or himself, you are almost afraid to know. His eyes burn like Greek Fire as they gaze upon yours, and he vows quietly, “And all you may want I will give you.”

You press your mouth into a line to keep words and tears at bay, and breathe out, “But not my freedom.”

The flare of rage is back in his gaze, and the growl is back in his tone when he states, “I am not imprisoning you.”

Your gaze falls from his, and all the breath in your lungs leaves your body in defeat, as if baring your chest of air can somehow change any of this.

Blind eyes search the nothingness in front of you, like you can find an answer in this foreign land of cold and death, like anything in this Viking’s room or home can give you solace.

But there’s no escaping, this time. This time, Narses will not be here to save you from the flames; this time, your mother will not be there to protect you.

This time, you are alone. Alone and defeated.

Tears fill your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, you refuse to let him win.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” You whisper finally, looking at the mess of mead and scattered pieces of food in the table from your clumsiness, and wondering faintly of who is going to clean this up.

The thought that answers ‘his wife’ makes a hysterical laugh bubble in your chest, but you swallow it down.

“We don’t get to choose our fate, Priestess.” Is all the Viking gives as answer.

You nod faintly and almost manically to yourself, taking a few deep breaths and telling yourself this is…it could have been worse. You don’t know particularly how, but it could be worse.

You remember your time back in Attica, and the poison that place made grow on you is not easily dissolved by distance and nostalgia.

Lower your eyes when men speak.

They went to you for council, they asked your blessing for their marriages, their funerals, their wars. But no, how could you look them in the eye, how could you speak up when they were in the room.

Noble blood is but a vessel for the alliances of men.

They put titles on your head, they bowed their greetings, they showered your door with marriage proposals. And yet, not yet twenty years ago the same families had sent your father condolences when they heard the child his barren wife had birthed him was a daughter and not a son.

Be a wife, a mother, a home. Not a leader, a traveler, a war.

Not a thousand years would make you forget how they muttered to themselves when you proved you could read and write, how they looked in disgust when they heard you would go out to hunt, how they gritted their teeth when you spoke out about how to fight the Saracen raiders, the Slavs and the Arabs.

You are not deluded enough to believe you will be seen for much more than what’s under your skirts here either, but at least here you can fight back without the disapproving glances. You may lose every battle, especially against their King, but here they will not shame you for fighting.

So, you grit your teeth and calm yourself with the truth that defeat has not yet settled in your heart, as you thought it would, once the reality of your powerlessness dawned on you.

At your silence, the King hesitates, like he doesn’t know what to do with your compliance, like once the resistance is gone he loses what he had been chasing.

After a breath and shuffling in his seat, he starts quietly, “You crossed so many seas, survived so many things, Priestess. Don’t you ever wonder why?”

“Because I’m stubborn, not because I’m…I’m made for you.”

This makes him laugh, setting you even more on edge as you realize it is not a mocking or cruel laugh, but a strangely fond one.

Gods, this is…this has to be a strange nightmare.

“Yes, you are stubborn, and insufferable,” He frowns as he speaks, but behind his fingers that now lay by his mouth, you catch sight of a smile, “But you are true, you don’t lie, even when for the sake of your own life you should.”

The laugh that leaves your lips is bitter, but you cannot help it, “Oh, I have lied before, my King.”

Narses cups your cheek in one big and warm hand, and you have to remind yourself to lean into the touch.

“I love you.” He whispers, lips curving into a smile you struggle to return.

“I love you, too.” You lie, closing your eyes at his kiss and refusing to open them until the sound of the tent entrance flipping closed signals he left.

“But you don’t, do you?” Galla asks from her place sitting on one of the tables, but you do not turn to face her, so she continues, almost impressed, “Peitho keep you, my friend, you promised your love in exchange for an army.”

“I…didn’t think I would survive long enough for the lie to start hurting.” You confess after a breath, holding yourself up with a hand on the back of a chair, and for once in days the need for balance is not born out of the burns over your body.

“Well, none of us do.”

But Ivar’s response is just as quick, just as certain, “But not to me.”

“How are you so certain?”

“If you had wanted to lie you would have spun some…” He considers his words, his head moving slightly from side to side as he thinks, “…promises or tales about me being special, a chosen one. But you didn’t, you didn’t-…you saw me as a man first, treated me like you would any other.”

You narrow your eyes when they meet his, and you understand what he means. Your gaze lowers to his legs, encased in heavy iron that still makes you think of pain before anything else, and you think, not for the first time, of what life must have been for him.

“If you do this, I will only see a captor when I look at you,” You warn in trembling syllables, lowering your gaze to your hands. “If you want a slave to be your Gods’ gift, you have your pick, my King.”

The unheard question of why you, why all this, why; does not go unnoticed, judging by the moment of hesitation before the Viking speaks again, but it goes unanswered regardless.

“You will not be a slave, I am making you the most powerful woman in these lands, I…you will be Queen of Kattegat.”

Fickle memories of a conversation past, “I could never look upon you with anything other than hate, as long as you are the one with all the power and I’m relegated to following your commands, Ivar.”

Still, you ignore the implications, you ignore the traitorous thought that he listened and complied, you ignore the foolish hope that there’s freedom in this madness, and you reply, “I don’t want to be.”

“You’d rather just be my wife?” He chuckles, “Don’t lie to me, Priestess. You were made to rule, to command. Don’t pretend otherwise with me.”

You grit your teeth, but don’t refute what he says. If he is to force the title of wife upon you, the title of Queen won’t be as heavy.

He nods to himself, a strange calmness, a jarring relief, guiding his movements as he stands up leaning on the crutch and signals a goodbye as he marches for the door to his quarters. You shouldn’t feel cold when you are left alone at the table, but you do.

You call his name before he can leave you behind, and stand up on shaky legs as you face the man that has condemned you to a fate worse than death.

“I want to talk with…with the women.” You state with as much confidence as you can muster while the world caves under your feet and the darkness of bindings threatens your every breath.

“What women?”

“The…the Völur. I saw them, I saw h-her.”

The Viking frowns, “She will not help you escape,” He warns, “She’s a woman of the Gods, it is not in her power to bend fate.”

Fate. The thought scratches at the edges of your mind, the idea that the Gods somehow interfered so that you and Ivar would meet dreadful and intriguing all at once.

Still, in all his madness he is right. Whether the Gods interfered or not, the same way it was fate you survived Eleusis it is fate you are now at this King’s mercy. Fighting against fate leads you only away from the Gods and towards misery.

A scattered thought tells you misery is already here, but you snuff it out. You know this could be worse, you know this is mercy even if King Ivar has none.

So, you offer, “You know what your people think of me. She will be the only one not to fear or dread me,” You offer honestly, blinking quickly and forcing yourself to find his eyes, “It’s…the closest thing to normal that I have right now,” And it hurts your pride, your throat, your blood; but you force the word past your lips, “Please.”

“Fine,” He concedes after not much thought. When he looks at you, considering you for a few moments as he seems to make another choice, his eyes are unwavering and certain as they force you to hold his gaze, “But you will go tomorrow, tonight we’ll…eat together, and talk.”

You nod again, even if he has proven he doesn’t need your approval or consent for anything he does.

_____

Regarding how he acts before he drops the wife bomb on her, I just want to point out that if it feels like Ivar is being weird as fuck, it is because Ivar is being weird as fuck. Like, I intended him to. One of the things that I find so endearing and also infuriating of his character is how little he knows how to socialize, like truly socialize. The ‘Are you married?’ before knowing her name guy is in there, and I have the time of my life writing my poor Priestess into these situations she feels she is losing her mind being a part of.

Anyhow, hope you liked this chapter, and the story so far! Please let me know what you think, I would love to hear from you! :)

[norcumii]

Well that was a bout of PTSD I wasn’t expecting.

Ramblings under the cut so I can find it again later, warnings for: abuse, abusive relationship, probable incoherence, likely oversharing, (urge to) self-harm.

I’ve been dipping my toes back into RvB this week – I’ve seen seasons 1-3 countless times, 4 slightly less but still a lot, and everything else once.

The Ex’s issues included not wanting to venture too far into various media, but he sure did love rewatching what he had seen. That’s part of why once I got free, I made myself sit down and watch the rest – I basically spite-binged seasons 5-13, dissociating through at least the second half because I had so many mental warning bells clanging about how I was misbehaving, cheating by watching ahead without him, how dare I.

Had a shit time sleeping that week, too, but at least the sleep dep was familiar and helped me power through the emotional upset.

Loved the show, too – that doesn’t surprise me in the least, given how I already appreciated the writing and I’ve had several folks singing high praises of the further writing. I had quite a few “holy SHIT” moments, those ‘gotta pause and marvel and breathe “what the FUCK you magnificent ASSHOLES” timeouts,’ y’know, where you gotta stop to walk off some feels and just be awed at writing and performing SKILLS? And that was with the dissociation.

I honestly don’t know how yesterday I stumbled over a set of videos of a gentleman reacting to his first watch of RvB. Of course I immediately went to the super significant episodes, because I was curious as how The Big Moments hit someone else – I watched in a vacuum, squeaking at Tumblr and powering forward before my brain caught up and devoured me.

Anyway, yeah, I’ve been enjoying watching delightfully screechy man react to familiar storylines and jokes, then I realized I desperately wanted to see how he reacted to the end of Season 10, because that was when I had the biggest reaction, personally, and I spent quite awhile chewing over my thoughts and the themes and whatnot. I mean, it’s the end of the major/first storyline, it wraps up YEARS of plot and character arcs, and it’s just fucking balls-to-the-walls AMAZING.

I cackled so much watching this man lose his absolute shit. I was grinning a mile wide when he screeched like an actual banshee and had to take a lap around the room.

I was starting to feel funny as he waxed rhapsodic through the credits. I mean, don’t get me wrong, a lot of what he was saying matched much of my own thoughts at the time when first seeing it, but then he segued into how he’d gotten into RvB via RWBY, and that wasn’t my experience.

(I couldn’t understand why I was feeling so unsettled – I have absolutely no reason to feel wonky about how one gets into a fandom.)

He was still gushing as the post-credit scenes rolled, and I was shook because I don’t think I watched them.

(I’m not surprised – I know I had to stop watching rather abruptly. It was probably super late and I do recall Himself’s shadow looming hard to gnaw at my brain.)

The lovely YouTube gentleman was right back to unending adoration after them, just crying for joy about his love for RWBY and RvB, and I just...started crying.

It wasn’t good crying. It was ugly crying that wouldn’t stop, kept building with that wheezing, rusty-hinge keen that would be a scream if you push from breathing to speaking; crumpling up and finding the old urge to claw spiraling up along with it.

I’m fine. I didn’t, honest.

The emotion is still lurking, even now, after much bawling and a walk to try to redirect whatever the fuck that was. I think the base is a bit of despair, shored up with oceans of grief. Helplessness neutering much of the fury, all wrapped up with threads of sneering incredulity.

I couldn’t understand at first, why I was choking out “We could’ve had this.” I had to puzzle through that bawling which hard experience kept as silent as possible.

We could’ve had this.

This man has so much enthusiastic love for this show. He’s just...JOYOUS about it, open and awed and gleeful.

We never had that. We never could screech in delight about things at each other – any attempts ended in an ugly argument, usually about spoilers (fuck you, dude, if you didn’t want me speculating which you specifically wanted me to be good at in other contexts then don’t start speculating yourself!). Often about words – he had so many words, so many concepts that were taboo, and gods help the poor bastard what stumbled into a synonym Himself thought should be obvious and therefore also taboo instead of a necessary dodge because communication is a thing.

(Was this a concept that was enough degrees separate to satisfy him, or would it lead to a scolding about trying to sabotage his joy? Again. Like always.)

(Not just the scolding, but the demands – how could I be so cruel, WHY had this happened, no – no he wouldn’t accept that I’m too smart to think like that, or I had promised not to do the next door neighbor to it which is as good as promising not to do it either, what was the real reason we’re going to be here until he got his truth. No matter HOW many hours it took.)

We could’ve had this. We could’ve shared things, not Himself serving out appropriate sized dollops of what he liked while I limited myself to whatever I could speculate would be appropriately sized reactions.

I couldn’t enjoy something we shared too much. I couldn’t laugh too loud because it would distract from the moment. His joy always had to come first and how fucking DARE I impinge upon it even one iota?

No, really, I had to confess, and if he didn’t believe the answer it would not be accepted.

I got so tired of lying. I got so tired of being accused of lying when it was truth, and only believed when it was fake.

That’s one of the reasons why arguments went on for hours. I could only grit my teeth and ‘yes sir no sir three bags full sir, obviously I did it to fuck you over sir’ for so long.

My reasons were never good enough.

My joy always ended up being too much.

We could’ve had this – but his world, his joy, was never big enough for anyone but him.

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

A Misplaced Imbalance of Fear

Ao3,   MasterPost

Relationships: Romantic Dukexiety, implied/minor Moceit (platonic or romantic)

From the power of my Art and my Shitposts comes This Fanfiction!!!

Warnings: Panic Attacks, Lots of Cursing, descriptions of gore (horror movies, it gets decently explicit so beware that), mild body horror (Remus is here and he Does Things Like That), Heavy Roman angst for a hot minute in the middle, making out (continuing my theme of remus-centric fics getting more ;3). They do some makeup and drink tea, baby. Mentions of picking one’s skin as an Anxious habit, and also ticking. Also stimming!!! nd sides 4 life bb. Also, a very brief alcohol mention (it’s soup).

Word Count: 6,553

God Fucking Fuck, Virgil was going to have a self-care day even if it killed him dead. Everybody else could do whatever overdramatic fuckery they wanted when they were topside, but he was all set down there in the Mindpalace, thank you very much.

Luckily, mercifully, thankfully, the rest of the sides all seemed keen to let Virgil have his space anyway. There wasn’t a thing stopping him from relaxing.

Well, except for himself, of course.

A thrum of condensed stress and fear tugged at Virgil’s abdomen, bubbling its way over his edges. It was equally his own and the others’, probably due to whatever conversation they were caught up in in the external world. He would not relent to the worry, nor was he summoned to help with the situation, but his body refused to stop shaking. Perched on the top of the couch, frantically clicking the buttons on a fidget cube, Virgil tried to watch the gore playing on the TV in a tired effort to calm his nerves.

Horror movies… helped. They were something for his brain to chew on for a while- their over-the-top and ridiculous plots, the obnoxious characters that almost always deserve what’s coming to them, the attention-attaining action- it was all a recipe for Distraction. But they weren’t working by that point, no matter how badly Virgil wanted them to.

And then- possibly because the universe loved to spite Virgil and Virgil specifically- a walking, talking headache flung himself into the common room about as elegantly as a wolfhound with rabies.

“Heyyyy,” Remus crowed as he sprawled himself out on the couch. Anxiety curled his legs closer under his body, unresponsive- he knew full well that any reaction would just be an invitation for trouble from the obnoxious trait. He’d remember what Logan taught them: don’t engage, just brush it all off.

Unfortunately, Remus seemed to be in a stubborn mood.

“Whatcha watching?” 

“Movie,” Virgil grumbled. 

“What movie?”

He eyed the side laying out on the couch below him, narrowing his gaze as threateningly as he could manage. He spat the words through gritted teeth and made it clear he was not having this today.

“It’s called Terrifier.”

Remus perked up at that, and oh God, if he was interested then he’d never go the fuck away.

“What’s it about?”

There wasn’t much Virgil could do but answer in as clipped a tone as he could; things hadn’t gotten too bad, too uncomfortable, yet. Maybe he could redirect Remus’ attention, if he was just boring and unresponsive enough?

“Just a cliche creepy clown flick. Not much to it.”

“Is it gory?” 

Virgil made a vaguely affirmative sound in his throat, gesturing to the screen. In truth, the movie’s impeccable special effects with gore was its main appeal, as the acting and plot was kinda atrocious. Violence was the exact reason he’d chosen to watch this. But he knew saying that wouldn’t help his chances of shaking off Intrusive Thoughts.

Remus looked ready to spout off something explicit, but he went dead quiet as his eyes fell on the scene on the television. Virgil was grateful for small mercies.

It was exactly the kind of thing that the creative trait would watch, after all; a woman getting sawed in half, lengthwise, starting from the- er, the wrong end. Under circumstances of a more typical anxious flare-up, the scene really could have been one of those ‘helpful distractions’. 

These were not normal circumstances.Yeah, this was one of those ‘too passive’ cases, but Virgil didn’t exactly have the energy for anything ‘active’. So, he stubbornly glared at the TV and pretended that his solution was working, because he had no idea what else to do. Perfect plan.

Preoccupied as he was with his internal issues, he very nearly managed to forget about Remus. Until-

“Holy fuck, this is gorgeous, you watch stuff like this?!” The Duke’s eyes were bright, but not with his usual hysteria. They were wide with genuine excitement, shiny and happy. It was- uncanny, that’s probably the word Virgil was looking for. He curled closer in on himself.

“Shouldn’t be that surprising, dude. ‘Scary’ is kind of my thing.”

“I can’t believe I haven’t seen this one,” the creative side was once again completely enamored by the television screen, “Don’t blood and guts and cool things like that freak you out? They always seem to do the trick when I try to mess with you!” 

“It’s different. The violence in movies, it- it calms me down, I guess. Cause it’s like, I don’t know, detached from reality?”

There was a pause that had Virgil hoping, naively, that Remus had grown bored at his spiel. But he wasn’t moving, he was just staring, gaze switching contemplatively from the screen to Virgil a few times over.

“It doesn’t look like that. If you were any more tense, all your tendons would be snapping like badly-tuned violin strings!” 

“Yeah, no shit,” Virgil pressed his back against the wall and shut his eyes tight. He could still hear- no, feel- Patton and Roman and Thomas arguing, snapping at each other back and forth as the situation escalated.

“Is this about whatever the others are doing? Why don’t you just stop listening to their shitty arguments?”

A harsh laugh escaped Virgil at that, dragging him back down to earth so he could blink his eyes open, glaring at the facet lying beneath him. 

“I can’t just stop, that’s not how I work. I need to keep an ear on them. Who knows what could happen if I didn’t?”

“Well, why don’t you just go talk to them?”

If he wasn’t already frustrated beyond belief, that would’ve fuckin’ done it for him.

“I don’t think I’d be much help. Not right now.”

“Why not?” Remus looked halfway between genuinely curious and mischievous, propping himself up on his elbows to get a better view of Anxiety.

“Seriously? Things aren’t exactly, like- normal between all of us.”

“What is normal?” 

Virgil opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came through. As much as it sounded like an offhanded, edgy 13-year-old atheist kind of remark, it was a decent point. Virgil had thought that there was something of a status quo forming between himself and the ‘light sides’, but how long had that even lasted for? Especially compared to the rest of his life? Everything was changing all the time. Was there anything to rely on, or was it just Virgil’s own wishful thinking for what their lives could be? After all, even in ‘peaceful times’, there had been plenty of in-fighting and disagreements and horrible uncomfortable conversations and harsh words and-

“Oh, shut that brain up,” Remus’ sharp voice pulled Virgil from his thoughts, “I know what you meant ‘normal’. You meant the six months when you got to forget about us Scary Monsters, and, DUH! It was probably way simpler for all you diet-soda-no-sugar sluts back then, but that doesn’t mean it was better.”

“Yeah, you would think that things are better now, wouldn’t you?”

Remus fixed Virgil with an unsettling sort of grimace, making the other squirm. It wasn’t the first time he’d done so by any means. 

“I dunno, but what I do know is that things are getting better. They’ll be the best they could be, soon.”

Despite himself, Virgil laughed. It was a faltering, anxious sound, revealing the true fear behind the taunting gesture.

“Really? With everybody at each other’s throats all the time?”

“While that does sound fun,” Remus sat up fully, twisting around to look directly up at Virgil, “I mean after that. After we’re all accepted. It’s inevitable- Inevitable, Anxious Lil’ Barista,” Remus accompanied the referential nickname with a wink. 

Virgil stared at him like he was crazy (well- like- crazier than usual, he guessed?). Remus just threw his head back and laughed before spinning his neck one-hundred and eighty degrees to face the TV while he explained.

“Point is, it’s painfully obvious that everything will sort itself out. It has to, or else the only other option is that Thomas is gonna drive himself insane by trying to suppress parts of himself and end up clawing his own brain out. One of those two things!”

While colorfully phrased, the certainty with which Remus delivered his point had Virgil taken aback. There was no way that Remus could possibly know that, but- in a backwards way it was comforting, how sure he sounded. He didn’t lie, not ever.

Virgil had never thought that Remus would settle for anything less than going out of his way to make others’ lives a hell. But maybe that antagonism wasn’t what exactly motivated the trait’s actions. Maybe it was just an unintentional side effect, akin to what Logan had said when Remus first revealed himself.

The moment of reprieve was over as soon as it began.

“Fuck! He just cut off her tits and wore ‘em, huh?” 

Virgil looked up and, to be fair, that was exactly what had happened on screen. Like he said, this movie wasn’t exactly poetic cinema, but it certainly was something. 

He scooted along the top of the couch, moving just a few feet before dropping down to sit properly beside Remus.

“3/10 drag look at best, really,” Virgil muttered, mostly to himself. He jumped when Remus shrieked with laughter at it, looking absolutely delighted. 

“I didn’t know you made jokes like that, VeeVee!”

Virgil shrugged noncommittally, focusing on the screen and not the facet beside him. Remus’ giggling was loud and distracting, but it wasn’t… unpleasant, unlike his typical villain-cackle was. 

Once Remus had settled down (as much as somebody like him could, anyway), he, too, focused on watching. The quiet was uncomfortable, but it didn’t stretch on for long. There was always something in the movie that The Duke felt the need to comment upon extensively, elaborating and giving details on the gore. Virgil found himself listening to the rants silently, almost enjoying the disruption. It certainly gave his overactive mind something to play around with.

“-skin doesn’t slice as easy as that, trust me-”

Aaaand there it was. Virgil winced, trying very hard not to show that the words had struck a nerve. He liked horror, gore, all that, sure, but there were just some specific things- squicks, you could call them. Remus would obviously use that to his advantage, so the only option was to try very hard to zone out and not look like he was disturbed.

“But even then- Hey, why are you making that face?”

Mission failed.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Remus shifted closer- invasively closer, his gaze studying. 

“You were calming down earlier, what's with the scrunch-nose?”

Virgil stared at his hands, chipping away his black nail polish. Remus was nearly as good at reading lies as Janus, and twice as hard to get rid of.

“It's just- skin, slicing, that stuff just-” he ticked, head spasming sideways briefly at even the thought of that kind of pain.

“Oh,” Remus said plainly, not even a hint of malice or mischief in his tone as he leaned back into his own spot, “Why didn't you just say so? Well, that last exploding head kill is way more interesting anyway, did you see that?”

That was… it? No taunting, no tormenting, he just changed the topic, like that? 

Remus, continuing to be weirdly perceptive, scoffed as though he was reading Virgil’s mind.

“What? Just because I like screwing with you prudes sometimes doesn't mean I want to give you a panic attack. Where's the fun in that?”

Anxiety nodded mutely, bewildered. Remus seemed appeased by that and quickly resumed his running commentary.

And if Virgil eventually decided to take part in the discussion, well, it wasn’t a big deal anyway. Just some polite conversation about bodily mutilation.

 The television darkened as the screen was washed by credits, filling the space where the disfigured face of the main character had been mere moments prior, the result of a pretty predictable twist ending. Virgil stood, arching his back up in a stretch. His arms raised higher, one joint or another crackling at the motion. Fuck, he was sore. How long had he been sitting still?

Remus hadn’t moved from his spot on the couch. He tapped his claws along the remote, exiting to the homescreen and looking expectantly at Virgil.

“You don't wanna watch anything else?” He asked abruptly, drawing a confused glance from his companion, “This is fun- and they're still arguing up there, so it kinda makes sense to stay, it’s really the best solution if you-”

Virgil huffed a laugh at the rambling. It sounded like some shit he’d say, for crying out loud.

“Dude, chill, I was just gonna make some tea before putting on another movie,” the clear relief that ran across Remus' face- quickly replaced by a wide grin- wasn't anything shy of… sweet. Virgil was sure this day couldn't get any fucking weirder, if he was finding anything endearing about the walking talking dirty joke before him. “Uh, you want anything? Since you're gonna stick around, and all.”

Remus jumped up, following Virgil into the MindPalace’s small kitchen happily. In one smooth motion, he swung up onto the counter and slid down it, seating himself almost on top of the stove.

“No hot leaf soup for me, thanks, but I will take one of those mugs!”

Virgil raised a brow, staring the creative trait down before shrugging. He passed him one of the mugs, a generic and patternless one- so that the other sides probably wouldn't notice its absence. He busied himself by setting up the kettle, trying not to wince at the loud wet crunch that resulted when Remus took a bite of his snack.

“Hey,” Remus said around a mouthful of ceramic chunks, “I know just the movie we should watch next.”

Virgil shifted around the various tea boxes littering the cabinets, searching for something with a kick. He hazarded a glance to Remus, immediately regretting the decision when he saw the blood dribbling down his chin from the cuts marring his lips. Anxiety cringed, turning his head back and grabbing for the first brightly-colored box he saw. It took him a moment to respond.

“Okay… what is it?” 

“It's awful- I mean, really, the acting is unbearable and it’s fucking insane- but it's funny. You like making fun of stuff, right? It's like that, but there's still a ton of agonizing death, which is always a fun bonus.”

“What's it about?” Virgil was hesitantly intrigued, his gaze flicking up from the steadily heating kettle. He wasn't exactly keen on staring down the gory scene of Remus’ mouth, so he settled his focus on the trait’s eyeball brooch. 

“Uhn-uhn! No spoilers, this is one you have to see for yourself. It's funnier that way.”

Virgil made a noncommittal sound, tapping his nails against the counters.

“Nothing too bad happens- not that you can't handle, anyway. No slicing and not many jumpscares.”

He resisted the urge to snap 'how do you know what I can’t handle?' because Remus actively trying to reassure him was. Something. Something that he appreciated, maybe, a little.

“Okay, fine. I didn't have anything else in mind. A ‘So-Bad-It’s-Good’ thing sounds alright.”

The obnoxious gnawing of Remus destroying what was left of his cup suddenly ceased, replaced by a stunned silence. Virgil finally met his eyes (finding that the lacerations around Remus’ mouth were already healing themselves, as if they'd never existed).

“You’re taking my suggestion?”

Virgil cleared his throat, finding himself unable to break the intense eye-contact now that it had been established.

“It's not a big deal or anything, man. Just a movie.” 

Remus nodded enthusiastically, a grin splitting his face ear-to-ear. Very literally. The expression was so unnatural and cartoonish on a human(ish) face, that Virgil couldn't help but be startled into laughter. Remus looked even more delighted at that reaction, leaning forward over the stove. At that point, Virgil very much couldn't suppress the noises, snorts bubbling up from his throat against his will.

“You look-” another bout of chuckling, “-you look ridiculous, Remus.”

“Aw, thank you! I was going for manic, but I'll settle for that, too.”

Virgil rolled his eyes, hunching in on himself to get his breathing back to normal. 

With no warning, Remus lifted himself up onto his knees and craned his body around the vigilant trait, snatching the kettle from the stove and flipping the dial to ‘off’. Instinctively, Anxiety recoiled from the proximity. The tension fell away when he saw that the other was simply pouring the hot water into Virgil’s mug for him.

“Dude, it wasn't whistling yet?”

“I know; it was hissing like it was about to start. You're boring and don't like loud noises, especially when you’re all on edge like this, so,” he set the kettle back down, passing the warm mug to Virgil. 

Virgil stared at him, then at the drink in his hand, then back up at the Duke. He was, for what felt like the millionth time that day, unsure of how to react.

He… really hadn't thought that Remus would pick up on stuff like that. He should probably start getting used to that, maybe.

“I'm-” Virgil dragged his finger up and down the handle of his mug, “I'm not that on edge anymore, actually.”

The look that Remus sent him was indecipherable. 

“C’mon, I’ll queue up that flick I told you about.”

“Yeah,” Virgil let out a deep breath, one he hadn't even known he'd been holding, “Yeah, okay.”

 The floor was bubbling, popping, blistering with red fury. It was lava, sending bright flaming sparks in all directions. Thankfully for Remus and Virgil, sitting close together on the couch and viciously mocking cabin fever, the vicious rage was exclusive to one small circle near the staircase.

Virgil, who had been happily tearing apart the leading guy’s acting, cut himself off abruptly.

“Shit- wait- shit.”

Remus shook himself out of his raucous laughter, looking up in confusion. His eyes finally settled on the crimson patch of carpet, a look of realization crossing them. His voice turned much quieter than what fit him.

“Oh, fuck.”

It was like a volcanic eruption localized entirely within the living room, fire blazing in a tall column. From the emotional display, Roman rose up, face nearly as red as his method of transportation. 

There was that brief moment, right when a stressful situation appeared, of antithetical serenity. Virgil felt his muscles slacken in shock, his long-empty mug falling from his hands and landing on the carpet with a dull thud. A rush of calmness hollowed out his chest, lingering for just a few seconds before being replaced by panic. Tension returned to his limbs mere moments after that, like it was pulling him taut.

Roman wasn't even looking at them- in fact, he hadn't seemed to notice his brother or best friend at all. The fire fell back down, leaving a charred patch of carpet that would likely take a long time to repair itself. The passionate trait growled, a sound that bordered on a scream as he clawed his hands down his face. He stamped his boot sharply against the ground, igniting another small fire with the impact.

“Fuck!” He cried, ever oblivious to his audience. With a hasty wave, the flames flickered and disappeared. Roman glared down at the blackened spot where it had been, winding his arms tightly around himself. He took a few shaky breaths, but if anything he only looked worse off for it.

“Fuck,” this time spoken quieter, but with no less vitriol. An immaculately-manicured hand raised itself to cover his mouth, tightening around his face desperately as tears slipped from his eyes down his fingers. He turned on his heel and took the stairs two at a time.

In his wake, as the television had been paused, the only thing that Virgil could hear was buzzing in his skull.

What had happened? What was happening, currently?! Things had gone so wrong and it was all because of Virgil’s negligence- what bad things could have been prevented if he had just been there? Or- or even just listening in! When had he even stopped listening? He was supposed to protect them but he just gave up, just because he ‘couldn't handle it’, and now something was Wrong with Roman and he couldn't even focus on listening to them all now, not like this. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t hear or see anything at all.

A rough, calloused hand wrapped around his wrist. Virgil's shallow breath staggered even more at the feeling, the warbly noise of speech failing to meet his ears. His eyes were closed tight, he realized, stinging with emotion behind his eyelids.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Four seconds, four strikingly gentle presses against the vein of Virgil’s wrist. If it weren't for the slight edge of a claw, he could've confused the motion for one of Patton’s.

The four taps were followed by a brief pause, then a steady round of seven taps. Another pause, and then eight. As Virgil focused, as much as he could anyway, on the presses, the screaming of his mind very gradually abated. First, he pried his eyes open, staring down at the hand around his arm. Watching the tapping, feeling it, was grounding enough for his hearing to return in time. Virgil could hear Remus beside him, breathing deeply as a guide, and copying the exercise became that much easier. In for four, hold  for seven, out for eight. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

Remus didn't stop when Virgil did it properly one time over, when he was still shaking and teary. He didn't speak up even when the well behind Anxiety's eyes ran dry, after what had to be a dozen rounds of even breaths. It was only when Virgil finally, hesitantly slipped his wrist out of the other's grasp on his own terms that Remus made any sounds.

“Do you remember when you taught me to do makeup? Late teens, early twenties, around then?”

Talk about a topic shift. Virgil glanced up in confusion.

“I guess so? Wasn't that, like, the only time that we hung out and actually got along?” They’d never exactly been close, Virgil had made sure of that. It was, in retrospect, a regrettable decision on his part.

“Yeah. I was so bad at it, remember?”

“Hell yes, I remember,” Virgil felt a tiny smirk tug his lips at the memory, “You literally never sat still. You were and are the most impatient person I've ever met.”

“I’ve gotten a lot better, Vee.”

Virgil glanced at the bruise-like eyeshadow circling the Duke's eyes, but refrained from saying anything. Knowing him (kind of knowing him? Starting to know him better now? Whatever.) it was most definitely intentionally off-putting, and probably not a good way to judge his actual ability.

“But I’ve seen how you do it, when you really, really try; I think you're still better than me with it, ju-u-ust barely.”

“Oh, uh, thank you,” Virgil wasn't entirely sure where this was going, but he couldn't find the soft excitement in Remus’ eyes anything other than enticing. The creative side laughed, flapping his hand.

“It would be fun if you did it for me again! Just like old times, ey?”

Virgil stared at him, considering him carefully.

“You want me to do your makeup?” 

“Yes!” Remus leaned forward with his confirmation, but for once that didn't involve violating Virgil’s post-panic attack bubble, “It'll give you something to do with your hands other than peeling back all your skin, at the very least.”

Oh, right. Virgil not-so-subtly lifted his nails from his palms, wincing at the irritated red spots coloring his hands.

Truth be told, the idea wasn't… unappealing. It was an activity well between mindless and active, repetitive and artistic. Plus, he didn't exactly love being alone after attacks, and if anything Remus would be lively company. Company that he sort of, maybe, possibly was looking forward to spending the rest of the day with anyway, unfortunate events notwithstanding.

“Yeah, alright, if you're sure you want-”

“Great! Wait right there, bee-arh-bee,” before the words were even fully out of his mouth, Remus went limp and fell sideways off of the couch, falling right through the floor. 

In his absence, there was a void where his noise had been. Virgil stared at the paused movie scene, picking apart the little details of the frame just to have something to do. His mind drifted off to the state that Roman had been in when he entered. The sight of his friend so furious burned itself on the backs of Virgil’s eyelids. He knew that the anxiety wasn't all his own, either; he could feel it like waves from the other side of the MindPalace, the origin point clearly belonging to Roman.

He should check on him, shouldn't he? Or would that make it worse? Virgil certainly didn't feel like he was in any state to help. But then there was Patton to consider- something must have happened up there. Should he look for him, too?

There was a whoosh.

“I leave you alone for five seconds and you get right back to thinking!” Remus strode across the room, flopping right back onto the couch. Held in his arms was an enormous multi-pocketed bag, items clattering around within at every jostle their owner made.

“Overthinking is literally my whole job, man, this shouldn't surprise you,” Virgil shrugged, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt.

Remus simply rolled his eyes and dropped the makeup case onto Virgil's lap, sitting criss-cross parallel to him, their knees brushing slightly.

Virgil hesitated for a moment, scanning Remus' face, but all the other did was smile and blink (one eye at a time). 

Virgil zipped open the bag, rifling through and finding an overwhelming array of gaudy colors and odd products.

“Was there, like, a 'look' that you want to go for?”

Remus shrugged.

“Just go for it! I’m a blank canvas. The worse, the better.”

Virgil chuckled, picking out a few items to fit a theme he was coming up with and getting right to work.

Though it had been years since they’d last spent time together, it wasn’t awkward. In fact, it felt more comfortable than it had back then.

Remus managed to sit almost perfectly still, chattering the entire time that Virgil worked. Yet again his voice served as something like white-noise, wherein Anxiety only had to contribute whenever he chose. Remus only quieted when Virgil had to hold his face, tipping his head back to properly apply inky-black lipstick. And then, he remained silent for a moment, as they surveyed each other. 

Virgil had cleared his throat, warmth prickling at his ears, and the ceaseless rambling resumed after that.

In what felt like hours and no time at all, Virgil was finally satisfied with his work.

“Alright, you're all done,” he capped the bottle of mascara in his hand, rifling through Remus' bag for a mirror, “Wanna see?” 

Just as he felt the unmistakable cool surface of glass on his fingertips, Remus grabbed his wrist in both hands. 

“What-?”

“Not so fast! Now it's my turn,” he announced, his zealous eyes even more prominent on his face thanks to the thick wings of eyeliner around them. 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Virgil looked from the assortment of garish colors that he'd mostly stayed away from in the makeup case, and then back up at the Duke.

“Usually: yes. But I am dead serious right now, Vee.”

Remus looked pleading, legitimately pouting. 

Virgil huffed. The side had gone out of his way to help him, when he really didn't have to, so…

“You're not going to just use this as an excuse to draw all over my face, are you?”

“I mean, no promises that I'll be able to restrain myself, but! Gimme a chance anyway, I can make you even hotter than you already are! Plus, we'll match then.”

“... Fine. Just- nothing too crazy, alright?”

“Again, no promises.”

Virgil groaned, but he still passed the bag to Remus.

 “Holy shit...”

Remus leaned over the basin of the bathroom sink, drumming his hands on the counter excitedly. He was starry-eyed as he observed the dark, dramatic colors covering his face: metallic emerald-green eyeshadow, excessively long lashes, and winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut a bitch. His lips were black as void, but shimmered like glitter. Everything about the look was dangerous, confrontational, and grim. 

“This is more out there than I’d usually wear, but. Yeah, holy shit.”

Virgil's expression, despite his best efforts, was equally awed as he peered into the mirror. The color around his eyes was mismatched; a lime to moss green gradient over his purple eye, lavender to royal violet over his green one- both colors contrasted by smudged black eyeliner under his eye. His signature Racoon Look had been maintained in that aspect, but it was even more exaggerated. In addition to that, Remus had taken to drawing various little symbols along Virgil's cheekbones, including things like upside-down crosses. Finally, there was the fuchsia lip-gloss, stark against Virgil’s paler-than-normal foundation. 

“It’s okay, I guess,” Virgil breathed reverently. 

“I love it!” Remus crowed, clambering onto the counter just to get a better look at himself. Somehow, he'd already managed to smudge the hell out of his eyeshadow, but it kinda… worked for him, if Virgil was being honest.

“Vee, we have got to do this more often!”

Virgil looked from his reflection to Remus', startled in a way he didn't entirely understand. The intrusive facet met his gaze through the mirror, the smile sliding off his face when Virgil didn’t respond to him.

“Right, Raggedy-Anx? It doesn't have to be this, specifically, if you really don't want to. We could just watch movies together, that's fine. Or we could do anything at all! Right?”

Virgil was still silent, lost in his mind. Remus fell from a kneeling position to sitting with his legs hanging off the counter, turning his back to the mirror.

“Was this a one-time thing? That's alright, too, if you just needed help calming down. I'm not as good as the others, I know, but if they're ever too busy again, you'll think of me when you need help, at least. Right?”

Finally, Virgil snapped out of his daze when he heard the panicked edge to Remus’ voice, feeling his anxiety as Virgil noticed the wild look that had completely erased his giddiness. It was a look that Virgil had seen plenty of times before, when Remus had been ignored far too long and was right about to start ripping things to shreds for some scraps of attention. Only then did Virgil fully recognize what the expression actually meant; the deep, terrified need that swirled behind the look, unsure of how to ask for what it really wanted after so many denials of that very want. 

“Shit, sorry,” Virgil moved to stand in front of him, eye-level to Remus even though he was elevated by the counter, “Hey, it's alright, Re, everything's fine.”

Remus was still trying very determinedly to smile.

“I know! Hell, I’m not the anxious one, I'm the one that makes people anxious,” his laugh sounded like it came from a throat full of broken glass, “I just- I liked this, ya know?”

“I know,” Virgil leaned forward, coaxing Remus' arms away from where he'd wrapped them around himself, “I like this, too.”

Remus let Virgil hold onto him, surprised into something like obedience.

“You? What?”

“I like this,” it wasn't as though Virgil was expecting to hug Remus, but it seemed to have happened on its own as they moved. It was leagues nicer than he could have imagined, despite the smell. “I like you…-r company.”

“That's weird,” Remus' legs curled around Virgil’s waist. Virgil rested his hands on Remus’ hips. He listened as the creative trait's breathing evened out, vaguely aware that the situation was similar to the one just an hour or so before. Except, the roles had been reversed, of course.

“I missed you. I know I never told you, but I missed you.”

Virgil felt guilt, hot and molten, dripping down his throat. He couldn't lie; he hadn't missed Remus when he left. But now he did, in a roundabout sort of way. He missed what could have been, all of the possible understanding and friendship and likely more that he could have had for so long with Remus- all of which he'd let slip by for years. Due to just writing the artist off as disgusting, or unnecessary. 

And perhaps some of that misunderstanding was Remus' fault as well, but Virgil couldn’t find it in himself to hold it against him.

“You don't have to anymore. Miss me, I mean. I'm- fuck, I'm so sorry.”

“Me too,” Remus said, pulling back to settle Virgil with a happy-yet-tearfilled gaze.

“Aw, hey,” he tightened his grip at Remus' hips, smirking, “You're gonna fuck up all my hard work on that eyeliner, Re.”

Remus laughed, loud and shrieky and him, smiling unnaturally and brilliantly wide once again. Virgil's breath caught in his throat- not for the first time that day, he found himself trapped up in that wild, energetic face.

Before Virgil was entirely aware of what he was doing, he was leaning forward, pulling Remus in by the waist. When the cackling finally stopped short, so did he, both much too far and far too close to the Duke. 

He didn't have the chance to explain himself, or apologize, or anything, because soon enough understanding flashed in Remus' eyes.

“Oh, oh yes, oh hell fucking yes.” 

Remus didn’t wait a second longer before closing the distance and smashing his lips against Virgil’s. A startled sound bubbled up in his throat, dying quickly as he acclimated to what was happening. Just as he did, he was reciprocating the kiss. 

Their teeth clashed together uncomfortably, and Virgil was hyper-aware of the threat both his own and Remus’ fangs posed if they weren’t careful, making it far from the perfect first kiss. But he wouldn’t have wanted that anyway, nor would he have expected it. It was, somehow, better. 

Remus' hand dragged down Virgil's back, his fingers fitting onto the notches of the facet’s spine. Virgil shivered, pressing himself flush against the counter (and Remus) and digging his thumbs into the trait’s hips. The motion earned him a beautiful whine from the other as the kiss deepened, growing less awkward and more heated by the second.

Virgil was unaware of how much time was passing, but when they finally parted, both were short of breath and significantly disheveled. Remus had his back pressed up against the mirror, his hair even fuzzier than its usual state, expression dazed and face flushed. From what Virgil could make out in his own reflection, he wasn't much better off. 

Just as soon as they'd separated, Remus' hand was on his face, his thumb dragging just under Anxiety's lip.

“You fucked up your lipstick,” he teased.

“So did you,” Virgil answered with a smirk, leaning into the touch. 

“I guess we'll have to fix it later.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Remus wriggled himself out of his pinned position, twisting around Virgil. He managed to situate himself and drop down from the bathroom counter, his manner suggestive, “Because all I wanna do right now is finish watching Cabin Fever with my new goth boyfriend and makeout during the boring parts.”

“Boyfriend?” Virgil ignored the jolt of warmth he felt at that, determined to stay nonchalant as he (subtly (not subtly)) slipped his hand into Remus’.

“You disagree?” 

Virgil pretended to think it over, leading them to the door and taking his time to click it open. 

“Nah, I don’t disagree,” he said finally, “I think I like the sound of that, actuall- yyyy.”

Virgil stopped short in the open doorway, voice dragging out in his shock. Behind him, he could feel Remus trying to crane around him to see what was happening, but Virgil didn’t move to accommodate him. Well, more accurately, he felt like he couldn’t really move at all, too busy parsing out the scene in front of him.

In the corner of the sectional- sharing a cushion- Janus and Patton sat, the former holding aloft a glass of wine, the latter snacking on a muffin. They sat with their legs tangled together, and had seemed to be engrossed with each other before the interruption. Both had paused mid-conversation to gawk in Virgil's direction, twin deer-in-headlights expressions on their faces. 

“What-” Virgil began, bewildered.

“The fuck?” Remus finished, pushing his way out of the bathroom.

Janus struggled to sit up into a more dignified position and take the reigns of the conversation. It didn't take him long to overcome his surprise at the interruption, his surveying gaze sweeping over the other two Dark Sides contemplatively. The look made Virgil’s skin crawl. 

“You know, we- well, we could ask you two-” he gestured at their interlocked hands, “-just the same question, couldn't we?” 

For a moment, there was silence. Virgil looked from Patton to Janus. Janus looked from Virgil to Remus. Patton looked at the wall like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Remus looked at everyone and broke the silence.

“You didn't see us,” he announced, sidestepping his way to the staircase and dragging Virgil along with him, “And we didn't see you.” 

Janus squinted, tipped his head, and nodded conspiratorially. 

“Deal.”

With that little grant, Virgil and Remus darted up the stairs and into the sanctuary of the dimly lit hallway as quickly as they could. Luckily for them, Roman was probably either in a deep depression sleep or far into the imagination by now, and Logan Did Not Engage with Interpersonal Drama if he could help it. 

There was a second for appreciating the absurdity of the situation (and catching their breath), before either spoke to each other.

“I’ve got a huge flat screen,” Remus piped up at last, jerking his thumb in the direction of his room. 

“Any of us can conjure literally anything we want at any time, so I'm not sure what's impressive about that.”

Remus scowled, albeit playfully.

“Hush! Come watch someone slowly be consumed by a parasite with me!”

Virgil rolled his eyes and let Remus drag him off, his complaints accompanied by absolutely no efforts to avoid the situation. 

Things were weird, there was no denying that. Maybe they'd end up being that way for a while yet, and Virgil knew he had a lot of news to catch up on, but he found that thoughts like that were way back in his mind. Whatever happened, he reasoned, he would still have this comfort. The arms of someone he was finally coming to know wrapped tight around him, playing up his back, a mouth trailing kisses on his neck as he half-watched horror films. Yes, things would be difficult with the others, but it was secondary.

There was someone on his side now. Solidly, unarguably there for him. With him. And that made it all feel a little bit easier.