#and idk what the parking is going to be like

[riverbends]

BLUEBIRD

(andrew “pope” cody x f!reader)

part two: flight | mdni | previous | MASTERLIST

—For someone who appears so tremendously stoic, you are mystified by the pained shudder in his breath.

tags: angst, stalking, pain kink, mentions of pope's suicidal tendencies, unwanted proximity bordering on assault (not with pope), heavy yearning, canon-typical mommy issues wc: 5.1k cat says: yeah i'm posting this a few hours earlier YES idk why i bother tagging 'angst', i feel like it's an inherent part of anything involving pope cody

This, he tries to tell himself, is better.

Because at least he is contained and resolute outside your house. At least he is here and not in that blinding suburban hell. At least he isn’t parked up on someone else’s street, waiting—desperately hoping—for her to come running back.

No, instead, he placates the memory of that child by watching you from his pickup truck, here and there, throughout the day. Not every day, just some odd ones. Sits opposite your humble one-storey abode and memorises the yard and the low, red brick border and the porch and the font of the street number on your mailbox and the way you sit on your front steps in the morning as you nurse a mug in both hands. Sometimes joined by your daughter, who entertains you like she was born to make you break out into laughter. Sam, he remembers. Of course he does. He remembers exactly what you were wearing the first and second time he saw you. Remembers the charms clinking against your car keys and the press of your hand on his wrist as you tried to shoo his money away last week.

He doesn’t know how you like to make your coffee on the mornings you sit outside. Doesn’t know if you’re even drinking coffee. Not at all privy to the finer details.

But he studies you like he’s planning a job.

There is a day where he finds you at a park around the corner from your house. It seems to be a routine between you and Sam—not every day, just some odd ones. He’s not sure how he manages to keep himself composed at the familiarity of it. A swing set and a girl and something…akin to penance? To a fleeting pardon? He is aware of how foolish it was to think that the love of a child could grant him absolution; could clean him.

This is the picture of innocence, though. With a wide smile splitting your mouth, you pull Sam’s seat as far back as you can while she squeals in the delight of anticipation. You count down, gathering momentum. Harnessing wind. A big push, and your baby takes flight. He is convinced, for a fraction of a second, that Lena is the one suspended in air, her hair blowing out around her like wings. But you’re cheering Sam on as she settles back down with slow, declining kicks.

Pope is gone before he can let himself unspool like an old cassette tape. Like something nobody wants anymore—something everybody has moved past.

You should really pay attention to your surroundings. He thinks you’re too easy to find, too easy to see without being seen himself (or he’s just disturbingly perceptive and he doesn’t like to think about the fact). But he has to remember your life and his are not one and the same. You have absolutely no reason to be as paranoid, as perceptive, as he is. You are not conditioned, he presumes, to go in with all teeth the moment you’ve been found out.

He knows that you pick up double shifts at the diner so your daughter doesn’t go hungry. He knows you sit in your car, before and after work, with your hands gripping the steering wheel as you press your forehead to the curve of the gap between them. What else is he to do with all of this time on his hands? If he’s not on a job, if he’s not in the fighting cage, if he’s not sitting in Lena’s old room, what more is there?

That’s what it is—a life without. He was built to saunter through battlefields in blood-stained stupor, not to live. His brothers might do this for the bountiful rewards that a good, well-structured job would bring. But this is way he was engineered. A steel-bodied machine; a soldier. The wolf in the black of night.

For as long as he can remember, ‘living’ is a hollow promise. ‘Living’ is the last thing Smurf raised him to do. He’s been on decades-long orders to traipse the darkness, eyes peeled and unblinking, watching for the threat of movement since childhood. He doesn’t know that, sometimes, he is the mirror of his long-dead father. Bogged down in the same paranoid craze that Colin wrestled with before Pope and Julia were nestled in Smurf’s womb—the sodden mire that seems to keep expanding. How strange it is to perfectly reflect a man and his hysteria without ever having known him. To inherit his father’s ghosts like warm heirlooms and spend his life wondering why he is the way he is.

No old photographs, no worn-out clothes, no well-loved car to be passed down to him. Just the name of a hockey player his father liked—Feels like a boy to me. Hey, Andrew, come on out and prove me right, you hear me?—and, of course, the loose screw. The thing in the cavity of his brain that ticks away like a faulty fire alarm. So, no, he can’t say that he ‘lives’ as much as he is haunted.

—yeah, after Andy Bathgate. Greatest hockey player of all time. You don’t like it? “Andy” for short.

Andrew David Cody, growing in a belly beside his sister as their father speaks only with him (Smurf has always held the belief that Andy would’ve softened him. In a good way. Had Colin lived long enough to give their son the nickname he wanted).

The haunting is why Pope doesn’t fight his habits. On the contrary, he clings to them like he’s hanging from the chin of a cliff, clawing for permanence so hard that his nails are scraped raw and bloody down to bone. He is intimate with this—latching onto pain. It saves him every time, and it pools on his tongue like blood medicine.

Won’t change a thing about Lena’s room in the Cody house. Won’t stop chipping into the fund he’s built for her. Won’t stop buying the food she used to eat and letting it go stale and mould-green because he obviously isn’t purchasing that shit to eat it. He is nourished by memory. Remembrance feeds him full.  

It draws him back to the stupid grocer’s a week after seeing you. Though, he is here on a different day and a different time, hoping you’re not around. He can’t stomach that. Can’t force himself to remain poised and pretend the thought of you alone doesn’t make his head spin. It always did back then. With somebody else. That beach house and that little girl and that woman who stopped seeing him the way she used to as soon as he was thrown in a cell. Couldn’t even look at him when he got out. What is he left with now? His ghosts? His father’s ghosts?

Everything festers—

Six different brands of amber-brown maple syrup stare back at him from their shelves, and it’s torture. She should be here. She would tell him which one to get. Try her best to strain her little legs and reach up high for a bottle until he has to pluck it down for her. She would probably pout about it—I almost got it. He would nod—I know. Pope wonders if her brand new parents and her brand new sister take her out to get brand new maple syrup for their brand new pancakes and he feels his fists stiffen into stone weights at his side.

And then something tumbles into the side of his leg and lands on the floor with a thump and a small yelp that soon turns into sore snivelling. He frowns at the syrup before looking down to his left where he finds Sam all curled up, snotty-nosed and weeping as she firmly presses her hands over her right knee. When she meets his gaze, she’s suddenly sobbing in a way that chokes her words. He wonders if the fresh evidence of his recent cage fight has frightened her. The little white butterfly stitch. The colours blemishing his skin are rich and ugly after all—plum purple and screaming red. Her eyes dart all over his bruised face as if her collision alone was turbulent enough to hurt him in such a way.

“I’m sorry, mister, I’m really sorry,” she hiccups. “I’m sorry, I promise I’m sorry.” Apologies keep stringing from between her chattering teeth while he watches her fuss over her knee.

Pope lifts his chin and surveys the surrounding aisle in search of you before looking down again. He can’t really leave her—not that he would do such a thing anyway. He knows how helpless children can be. For him, driving a pocketknife into someone’s jugular vein is an easier feat than abandoning a lost child.

“Where’s your mom?” he asks. Sam blinks away her tears and drags her free hand under her leaky nose.

“I dunno,” she mumbles, bottom lip wobbling. “She told me to get a jar of honey and- and wait for her.”

He looks around once more, waiting for you to show up. Part hope, part dread. It doesn’t really occur to him that he might look uncaring or indifferent to the observing eye. He’s too caught up in the familiarity of this. Transported back to a time where he would’ve caught Lena to steady her with one hand before she could even hit the floor. Gravity was secondary to his caution for that girl. Light and physics be damned. Had Lena fallen like this, he wouldn’t think twice before scooping her up in his arms.

“We’re gonna look for her,” is all he says before leaning down, leather jacket creasing around his shoulders as he hauls Sam up by her underarms. The moment he hitches her on his hip, he has to anchor himself before his world tips over. It was instinct—the lift, the motion, the hold. Muscle memory. Just someone else’s daughter this time. Yours.

“Is your knee okay?” he asks, carrying her down the aisle like she’s weightless; eyes searching as he turns a corner. Sam nods before her arms loop around his neck and it feels like they’re locking. Feels like he’ll never be able to get out again.

Lena used to cling to him just as tight when he carried her, as if mere air would rip her away from him if she didn’t hold on with her life (but he never really let that happen, remember? Gravity? Light and physics? Laws that bent to his will. Logic that yielded to his love. Until he looked away for only a moment and everything slipped—). She’d get tired and rest her head on his shoulder, little nose tickling the crook of his neck. Craig once joked that Lena always latched onto Pope like a baby spider monkey.

“Yeah, she’s got the eyes too,” his brother laughed.

Pope shrugged, “Well, spider monkeys nurse on their mothers for at least three years.”

“Right, so they grow up like any normal kid,” Craig scoffed and flicked Deran a look, who only shook his head and minded his beer. The frown pulling Pope’s brows weighed deeper then.

“The mothers take their young everywhere,” he said, some faraway look blooming in his eyes. Remembered he had to pick her up from school soon. “Y’know, a lot of female monkeys tend to stick with their mothers long after they’ve grown up. It’s not uncommon in primate families.” Craig and Deran listened without absorbing anything, but he was elsewhere. Thinking about attachment, and the sheer force of it; the endurance. How, at the time, it felt like nothing in the world could tear through it—through him and his child. A fool’s dream. “Severance is harrowing,” he murmured, “for the both of them.”

Aisle after aisle, he walks across the far end of the store with his head stiffened to his right, pace picking up as he scans through the gaps until he freezes. A man towers over you in the middle of the drinks aisle, locking his hand around your wrist and gritting harsh whispers against your temple. You’re shaking your head, trying to claw at the man’s forearm with your free hand. A scene of proximity so clearly unwanted that you’re squirming against him the way a joint-locked animal twitches under pressure with little fight left in it. Pope feels his body load up like a gun. Safety off.

Electric heat charges through his legs, ready to storm forward with purpose, but then the heel of your palm cracks against the man’s cheek and the sound of it is sharp. Cuts through the low buzz of the radio hits from the store’s speakers.

Sam stirs in the warm crib of leather-clad arms, “Mommy?”

You fight whiplash at the speed of your own split of attention, head snapping to your left where you find your daughter wrapped around the torso of your friend who is not your friend because you’ve only met him twice before. Your friend who wears vivid contusions like he was kissed all over the face. The touch of bursting knuckles instead of your a soft mouth.

Andrew.

The sight of him holding your daughter at the end of the aisle has you ripping yourself away from your foe with a strength you thought you had misplaced until hearing her voice. Pope watches you rush toward him, hands reaching for Sam’s face like lungs stretching for air. But his eyes creep back to the man you’ve left behind, who contests Pope’s undaunted glare. He’s taller than Pope, but lean. Hair sweeps over his forehead, spine hunches slightly with a carelessness. Could snap the bastard in seconds.

“Hey, baby, hey,” you smile weakly, stroking a thumb over Sam’s chin before combing your fingers through her hair. Pope is roped back in. Can’t focus on anything but your gentle fretting and fussing. “Didn’t I tell you to get me some honey?” You ask and Sam nods, eyes downcast like she’s about to apologise. Again.

“I ran too fast,” she whispers.

It’s clear to you now—how he’s holding her. As if he has held her like this since before she could walk. You feel his eyes on you as yours drop to find a pale blotch of red flushing through the skin of her knee, bent leg tucked beneath the crook of his elbow.

The man behind you gnashes your name in his teeth. Pope is near ready to pounce again.

“You move on fast, don’t you?” He laughs bitterly, burrowing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Sam peels her arms away from Pope’s shoulders and he takes it as a sign to let the girl regain her footing. She’s encircling your thighs with the tight lock of her hands as soon as he eases her down. Your fingers trace over her shoulders as she hides her face.

Pope steps closer and lowers his head to look into your eyes like he thinks it’ll give you no other choice but to meet his gaze. Like he’s quite confident you’ll let him in that way. His voice is only for your ears when you do. “You want me to handle him?”

Maybe this is the first time you really start to consider using the word ‘strange’ to describe him. His generosity seems to know no bounds and it just confounds you. The chocolate pretzels, the cash, bringing Sam back to you. Strange. A complete stranger. You’ve never met someone with such a reclusive disposition who’d still give the shirt off their back to…you. Of course, it makes you feel sceptical. Of course, you’re going wonder if he’s trying to get something in return.

But those bruises suggest he has many means of getting what he wants. His face, his knuckles. Not just today, not just last week, but even the first time you met him, though the marks were the least visible at the time. It’s gotten consecutively worse over the three instances where you’ve run into each other. You can put two and two together. Must be a pastime of some sort, and a strange one at that. Strange. If he has some other agenda, you’d wager he’d have already taken it by force. He must pity you, then? Thinks you can’t take care of yourself so he has to do it for you?

(Unbeknownst to you, he is so inexplicably drawn in. It’s been too long since he’s allowed himself to dive head-first into this kind of naivety. You seem to nurse the promise of oasis and, of this, Pope is almost certain).

“I’m okay, trust me,” you nod once but his frown only deepens with doubt. He has never been this close before. Not uncomfortably close, but close enough that you think you can see the broken capillaries of the skin of his purple under-eyes. The thin adhesive strip closing the wine-red wound of his cheekbone. A part of you wants to press on a small welt. See if it hurts. See if he’s just stone.

He keeps searching your eyes, unrelenting. It takes the soft pressure of your palm on his sternum and a whispered please to disarm him. You see it, too.

The shift in his face reminds you of the fierce thoroughbreds you grew up watching. Creatures of majesty, condemned to the never-ending racetracks where their victories were gambled on. Raised to fill the pockets of insatiable betters and disposed in meat trucks when they no longer served their purpose. But you remember visiting these gentle giants in their stalls, sneaking a sugar cube or two in your little hands. The way their ears perked forward at something sweet. Nostrils flaring, head lowering. Trusting you enough to guide them to the reward in your hand.

He looks at you with the same keen interest and that rapt hunger you could only ever find in the eyes of an animal—this formidable racehorse leaning into your open palm. Mighty Orphnaeus surrenders.

Neither of you notice the man’s absence until Sam coughs into your leg. Pope still feels the phantom shape of your hand on his chest after you’ve stepped away to look over your shoulder. Paralysed, he watches the angular muscle flex in your neck as you turn. He’s itching to get out; escape. Thick, sinewy arm choking between iron bars as he searches for the lock to his own cell.

He can’t figure out if you make him feel twice as caged or closer to freedom than he’s ever been. Either way, Libertad brands the skin you touched through his shirt. Any closer to the left, and he’s confident you could’ve torn his heart out with its caustic chambers and rotten valves, leaving shreds of flesh and clotted blood dribbling down your wrist. Any closer, and he’s terrified you could’ve discovered that he was never in possession of anything resembling a heart to begin with. Though this wretched organ batters his ribs with persistence, the absence of it would not surprise him in the slightest.

“Where was she?” you ask. Pope blinks back into his senses. Has to wet his tongue like a sponge just to speak.

“She ran into me in the,” he struggles to remember now, “breakfast aisle. I think she hurt her leg.”

You gently tip Sam’s head back and tuck your chin to your chest to make eye contact, “Now, what’ve I told you about running in places we shouldn’t be running?” You wear some faux pout of sympathy as her brain tries to download an explanation. “Did you apologise to Mr. Andrew?”

Sam nods her head vigorously before craning her neck around to ramble another string of I’m sorry’s.

“I’ll be alright,” he says, voice tight.

Momentarily, you’re crouching to take a look at the bruise on her knee—a fresh but fading blotch the size of a quarter. It could be a longing for childhood or a longing for the child he lost, but when she balances a hand on your shoulder as you pull up the bend of her knee to kiss it better, he aches something fierce. There were times, of course, before Smurf’s love turned acrid; perverse. Times when his only sibling was Julia, times when innocence was preserved. When a kiss on a bruise was the only aid he needed, no strings attached.

“Thank you, I’m sorry she’s—” you push yourself up from the floor, “—a bit unaware of her surroundings sometimes.”

“They tend to be,” he agrees.

“You got kids?”

It’s a harmless question in your head, but you can’t say the same for him. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think a bullet just narrowly missed his ear and fucked with all the gears in his brain. Cogs bursting apart.

“Uh, she fell off her ATV thingy. Got a few scrapes.”

“Where’s Baz?”

“I don’t know, man.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Put her on the phone.”

“Okay.” A beat, and distantly: “It’s- it’s Uncle Pope.”

“Hi.” Relief, then. Waves of it, rivalling the crashing shore in front of him. Roaring at him with foam and ferocity in the cool of this night. Like it was God who saw him draw the gun to his head and knew only her voice would lift his finger off the trigger.

“Hey,” he breathed. “Are you alright?”

“He tackled me.” She had been crying.

“What? Who- who tackled you?”

“A man. So I wouldn’t get hit by the car.”

The parties always bothered him, but he was never really driven to shut them down like he did now. Grabbing the shotgun from the fireplace and pulling the cords from the speakers. The sea was his oracle that night—the child, his saviour.

“No,” Pope answers flatly. You’re perceptive enough to recognise that the pause before might be an indication of something he’s chosen not to share. So, you nod.

“Well, can you let me repay you?” Your hands rest on your hips. “For last time, at least, because that was absurd,” you laugh.

“It wasn’t a loan.”

“What were you shopping for?” You ask, ignoring his rejection to your offer. He narrows his eyes like he’s caught on to a game you’re playing.

“Nothing. Just maple syrup,” he says. “I don’t need it.”

You roll your lips into a line, trying to force back a smile. For many reasons beyond you, the enigmas he has presented over time don’t necessarily scare you away like they probably should. Shadow, retrospectively speaking, has never been good for you. Furtive men who show you mere glimpses of the skeletons in their closet before tightening the padlock. They give you a thirst you can’t slake. You’re always left to jam your way in, and what you find has you staggering back. Isn’t that how one of your exes ended up cornering you in this aisle? Isn’t that why you sent Sam to find something you didn’t need? Isn’t that how your thoroughbred brought her back to you?

But he is so singular in his ways. Remarkably giving. Stuck between deciding if he should glue his eyes to yours or look at everything in existence but your face. You haven’t forgotten the way his shoulders had tensed at your closeness before resting upon touch—like he was bracing for impact. Like you have the power to tear his very soul asunder. For someone who appears so tremendously stoic, you are mystified by the pained shudder in his breath.

His body seems to translate what he refuses to confess. He betrays himself.

“Then why do you look for it?”

He thinks on it—“Habit.” No matter how little sense it makes to you, that is all he knows. Habit. Repetition. Return. Chases his own tail like a blind mutt most of the time.

In the suspension of sound, he says��doesn’t ask—he’ll walk you and Sam out to your car. He almost pays for your groceries, but he’s afraid it might frustrate you the second time around. You’re doing all the talking at the self-checkout while he quietly passes items for you to scan, ears keen for the stories you recount about Sam as a toddler. At one point, you draw the faintest ghost of a laugh from his chest and it fills you with this ludicrously enormous sense of accomplishment. You yearn to hear the sound of it once more—to actually see it grace his face, too.

He learns that Sam is actually ‘Samantha’, and that you named her after a friend with whom you no longer speak. Not for any tragic reason, just time, you tell him. A high school friendship that ran its course. He wonders, then, if you’ll somehow keep him in your life for longer than these passing grocery run-ins (longer than his frequent observations from his pickup outside of your house—outside of your knowledge).

Sam skips ahead of you as Pope, who had silently collected the bags of food against your objections, walks by your side like he’s holding feathers. The leather of his jacket catches on your arm sometimes.

“Can I ask about the bruises?” You ask out of nowhere, keeping an eye on Sam as you all walk the crossing. “Don’t tell me I should see the other guy.” A breath, just short of another laugh, leaves his throat.

“Maybe you should,” he says, adjusting his hold on the bags. He won’t say anything about the other bruises he’s hiding under his jacket, and how it hurts a little to carry the weight of the food. “Sort of a hobby. Hole-and-corner cage fights and the usual betting.”

—formidable racehorse.

“And how does one get into cage fighting?” You look at him, brows raised with astonishment.

He locks his gaze ahead, looking around for your sedan. “My…mother puts me in. For catharsis, I guess.”

“And is it?” you press. “Cathartic?”

The three of you settle by the trunk of your car. Sam crouches in front of a tyre to trace over the bolts while you wait for Pope to give you an answer. You wait until it’s clear to him that you’re expecting something. Truth.

“Sometimes, yeah,” he shrugs. “It doesn’t require much thought and I s’pose I’m good enough at it.”

“And the bruises?” You finally move to pop the trunk, prompting Sam to jerk a door open and hop into the backseat out of boredom.

Pope bends at the waist to lower the bags into the empty compartment before stepping back and shutting the rear for you. “I don’t really mind them.” He would’ve called them reminders. Or punishment. Or penance. Only if he was sure you wouldn’t ask why.

“Maybe you should,” you playfully echo his words from earlier and he rests his hands in the pockets of his jacket. The corner of his mouth creases at your quip, and it might rival the feeling you get when a glass of wine plunges you in a heady buzz. Blurring the world around you with a dull kind of bliss. He dizzies you with a fucking quarter of a smile and you open your mouth before you can give yourself a chance to think. “Can I do something?”

He is wordless again. Searching. Again. Narrows his eyes like he did in the store, like he’s trying to feel around in the dark despite seeing your pleading face shining before him in broad daylight. Then, a nod. Then, stillness. Your hearts leap into a synchronised crescendo of beating as you let yourself approach him, slow as the sun breaking out of its horizon. There is not a single moment where his eyes aren’t locked on yours, even when your hand finds the side of his neck and he feels your thumb barely graze a welt on the corner of his jaw.

Pain is nothing to him here. Pain is almost sublime when you softly press your lips to the tender skin near his butterfly stitch. Ghosting the scar that aches most. He shudders the same way he did when your palm was on his chest in the drinks aisle. A kaleidoscope of light deluges his vision and all he can do is close his eyes to absorb the heat from your mouth, permeating the skin of his cheekbone. All he can do is clench his fists in his pockets and pray that you’ll move the pressure up to the stitch. Kiss him where it really hurts. Kiss him better.

He’s not sure he can remain standing any longer when your warm mouth and your soft palm leave him untouched again.

You don’t know what possessed you, but you can’t pretend it hadn’t been on your mind for a while. You can’t pretend the bruise isn’t calling you back to make contact again. To cradle his jaw, to caress his wounds in a way that impels his hands to tear out of his pockets and search for purchase of your hips in a desperate attempt to steady himself under your touch.

His eyes peel open to find you again, only a breath away.

Courage embraces you once more. “Give me your phone.”

He is so stunned, he can’t compute the image of you adding your number to his contacts but that’s exactly what you’re doing as he struggles to make fucking sense of what you just did.

“Invite me to a fight,” you say, short of breath as you return his phone. “Or whatever you want. Or don’t, it’s up to you.”

Pope barely nods, too distracted by his phone displaying the standard digits of your number and the print of your name above it. Mouth, too dry to give you words. He’s still lingering by the trunk when you climb into the driver’s seat.

Once you click in your seatbelt, you can really feel the sheer velocity of your heart, like it’s darting all over your body. Electrifying you.

Sam kicks your seat, eager to go home.

“Okay, baby, I know,” you calm her down as you adjust the rearview mirror to find…nothing. Just the utter absence of him. Maybe you really should’ve kissed him; pressed your mouth against his properly. Maybe he wouldn’t have liked that. Would he? He’s still a stranger in most ways—in every way that’s supposed to make you keep your distance.

You toss and turn in bed with grating regret over how forward you were in the parking lot. If anything, you must’ve looked vain. So arrogantly sure of yourself that you’re convinced you can peck someone on the cheek and order them to give you their phone so you can insert yourself into their life before they have the chance to object.

But once the tail of sleep curls itself around you, your phone lights up, vibrating on your bedside table as it bears a foreign number on its screen.

—this formidable racehorse leaning into your open palm. Mighty Orphnaeus surrenders.

[boopiemadz]

hi! i don't know if you're taking requests at the moment but if you are id love to see something similar to 'crashing into you', purely in the sense that its a cm/yj crossover, where reader is a profiler and part of the bau and they have a bit of a thing going on with spencer and they get called on a case (to new jersey i guess) and they have to deal with one of the other yellowjackets, preferably travis, who is like a witness or something, but they used to go out/date and the feelings haven't really gone away or maybe they were just super close and its like reuniting with an old friend (even though there's trauma), either way i want their reunion to be really happy cause they haven't seen each other in years, but also a bit tainted by the memories of what they did.

sorry if your not taking requests at the moment!! i adore your writing and i haven't seen anyone else who does cm and yj crossovers, especially someone who writes for travis (i adore travis!)

These CM x YJ asks are so fun and hard at the same time. I wanted to add smth about reader being scared of going on the plane cus of the crash but it was too long already... Ended on a choice cus I cant choose between my huzz (plural) so up to you! Also thx sm for liking my stuff, means so much.

WARNINGS!

idk just dont read if sensitive ig?

[Murder or reunion]

The jet's engines hummed quietly underneath you as you and the team gathered around the small conference table, files and coffee cups across its surface. Hotch stood, arms folded, voice steady as he outlined the case.

"Paramus, New Jersey. Two men found murdered outside a rural bar, roughly thirty-six hours apart. Both victims had defensive wounds, blunt force trauma, and evidence of overkill."

You flipped open the thin case file in front of you, scanning the grainy crime scene photos. The killings looked chaotic. Personal.

"No obvious connection between the victims," Emily said, tapping her pen against her notepad. "Different ages, different social circles, even different neighborhoods."

"Which could mean a spree killer," Morgan added. "Or someone picking targets of opportunity."

Spencer leaned forward, frowning thoughtfully. "Overkill usually suggests rage. Maybe the victims represent something to the unsub?"

"Local PD says there was a bar fight the night of the second murder," JJ chimed in, glancing at her notes. "Witnesses are spotty, drunk and unreliable. But there was at least one person they think might have seen something important."

You nodded, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "We should start with him. Try to establish a timeline and figure out if the victims knew the same people."

Hotch agreed. "When we land, Reid, Y/L/N, you'll take lead on the witness. Morgan and Prentiss will canvass the bar staff. JJ and I will work with local law enforcement to coordinate."

You glanced across the table at Spencer, who offered a small smile, the kind of simple, grounding thing you appreciated before diving into the chaos.

---

As the plane began its descent, you stared out the window at the sprawling New Jersey woods below, feeling that familiar pull in your chest.

You stepped out of the SUV, boots crunching against the cracked concrete of the bar’s parking lot. New Jersey in the spring had a way of clinging to you, the humidity, the smell of the woods, and today it clung harder than ever.

It felt strange being back.

You hadn’t set foot in New Jersey since you’d left for the Academy, eventually finding your place at the BAU. At first, you told yourself it was because of your career. In reality, it was the memories, memories of before, and everything that came after. Of the Yellowjackets, the crash, the wilderness...and the way you’d never really been the same.

You shoved the thought aside and focused on the case. Spencer walked a half-step behind you, the two of you crossing the lot toward a battered patrol car where a local officer was waiting.

“They said the witness is inside,” the officer said, jerking a thumb toward the bar. "Name’s Travis Martinez. He’s a regular, knows a lot of the crowd here."

Your heart stalled in your chest.

The name hit you like a jolt, a bright flare of something you hadn’t felt in years. You swallowed hard, trying not to let anything show on your face. Travis.

It couldn’t be your Travis...could it?

You exchanged a quick glance with Spencer, who didn't notice your sudden stiffness. He just nodded politely to the officer and gestured for you to lead the way inside.

---

The door creaked as you pushed it open, and the bar’s interior came into view, dark wood, dusty light filtering through grimy windows. Sitting at the far end, shoulders hunched, was a figure you recognized immediately. Travis.

Older, rougher around the edges, but it was him.

You froze for just a second too long, your hand still on the door. His head lifted at the sound, and when his eyes locked with yours, his face cracked open into something that looked a lot like relief.

And just like that, it all came rushing back.

The years. The crash. The promises made in the woods. The way you’d left, and the way he hadn’t.

Spencer’s voice broke through your daze. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly, pushing down the storm inside you. "Yeah," you said. "Yeah. I just...recognize him." And before Spencer could ask, you were already moving forward, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Travis stood up from the barstool, and for a moment you both just stared at each other, drinking it in, years of distance crashing together in one second.

"Hey," he said, voice rough, a little uncertain. You smiled, small, shaky. "Hey." And then he pulled you into a hug.

It was instinctive, bone-deep. Travis’s arms wrapped tightly around you like he thought you might vanish if he let go. You clutched the back of his jacket, squeezing your eyes shut against the sudden sting.

It had been so long. Longer than you realized. When you finally pulled back, you caught the way he studied you, like he was checking if you were real. If you were you.

"You look good," Travis said, voice low. "You too," you answered, stepping back to find your footing again. You could feel Spencer’s gaze on you from a few feet away, curious, maybe a little confused.

And under that...something complicated.

You couldn’t blame him. Things between you and Spencer had shifted a few months ago, after a case in Boston, late night at the hotel bar, both of you cracked open and vulnerable. One kiss. Soft, hesitant, like neither of you were sure if it was a mistake or something inevitable. You hadn’t really talked about it since.

It had made being around him a little...messy. Tender. Fragile.

And now here you were, hugging someone else like you’d never lost a single day between you. You turned, clearing your throat. "Uh, Spencer, this is Travis Martinez. Travis, this is Dr. Spencer Reid, my... my coworker."

Spencer stepped forward, offering his hand politely. His smile was gentle, but you could tell he was cataloguing everything, the way Travis looked at you, the way your voice had softened when you said his name.

"Nice to meet you," Travis said, shaking Spencer’s hand. "You too," Spencer replied, ever the professional. The moment hung in the air, thick and strange.

You shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket, trying to ground yourself. "We, uh, need to ask you a few questions about what you saw the other night. If that's okay."

Travis nodded immediately. "Of course. Anything you need."

---

You hovered nearby while Spencer conducted the interview, your posture relaxed but your mind razor-sharp.

Travis sat opposite him at a scratched-up table near the back, he looked every bit the ghost of someone you used to know, older, rougher around the edges, but still him. Still the boy you once survived hell beside.

Spencer flipped open his notebook, pen ready. "You said you got here around 8:30?"

Travis’s gaze flicked between you and Spencer, but it lingered on you. "I did. Had a beer, played a few rounds of pool with some locals."

"Did you notice anything out of place?" Spencer pressed.

Travis shrugged. "Not right away. But about an hour after I got here, this guy started pacing near the front door. Kept checking his phone. Didn’t order anything. Just...watching people."

You leaned in slightly, reading the tension in Travis’s voice, that old instinct you hadn’t needed to use around him in years. He was telling the truth.

Spencer nodded. "Can you describe him?"

"White guy. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Scruffy, bad skin. Jacket that looked like it hadn't been washed in a decade."

As Travis spoke, your mind flashed back to the earlier reports: witnesses had mentioned a man loitering at multiple crime scenes. Same rough description. You tapped Spencer’s shoulder lightly. "This matches two of the other witness statements."

He nodded, already flipping through his notes.

"And this guy," you said, stepping forward, "...you said he left before anything happened?"

Travis’s eyes pinned to yours. "Yeah. About ten minutes before the fight outside."

A fight that turned into a murder. You and Spencer exchanged a glance, it was coming together.

Just then, your phone buzzed urgently. Another text from Garcia: - Got a hit on traffic cams. Ratty jacket guy spotted two blocks from the bar 15 minutes ago. -

Spencer shot up from his chair, already gathering his things. "Let’s go."

You turned to Travis, the old pull between you two tightening for a second, his worried eyes, your heart hammering too loud in your chest.

---

The SUV roared to life under Spencer’s hands as you navigated using Garcia’s real-time updates. "He's heading south," you said, pointing to the alleyway two blocks over.

Spencer swerved sharply, tires screeching against the curb. You both jumped out before the car even fully stopped, drawing your weapons.

The alley reeked of trash and wet concrete. Ahead, under the broken glow of a flickering streetlamp, you spotted movement, a hunched figure scrambling over a chain-link fence.

"FBI!" Spencer barked, taking off in a sprint.

You were right behind him, adrenaline burning through your chest as your boots pounded the pavement. The suspect stumbled as he landed, giving you the opening you needed.

You tackled him hard, slamming him against the ground as your knee pressed into his back. The man struggled wildly, spitting curses, but Spencer was already there, cuffing him expertly.

"You’re under arrest for the murder of Jamie Collins and Mark Jameson" Spencer said breathlessly, snapping the cuffs tight.

The suspect thrashed once, then sagged, defeated.

You both stood over him for a second, catching your breath. You grinned at Spencer, the rush of the chase making you giddy.

You flushed slightly but rolled your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. "Teamwork."

Spencer just looked at you for a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

---

Back at the local precinct, after turning over the unsub and giving a quick preliminary statement, you finally slumped onto a beat-up bench outside.

Spencer appeared a minute later, two cups of terrible vending machine coffee in hand. He handed you one with a small smile.

"You did really well tonight," he said quietly, sitting beside you. "Not that you don't always. "

"Thanks, Spence."

There was a quiet beat between you, not uncomfortable, but loaded with something you hadn't really let yourself acknowledge since that kiss a few months ago. It had happened after a particularly bad case, in the dim glow of the BAU’s parking garage. A moment of weakness...or maybe something else. But neither of you had really talked about it since.

Before either of you could say anything more, the door to the precinct opened with a creak, cutting the silence. You glanced up to see Travis standing in the doorway, his familiar posture tense but slightly relieved. His gaze met yours, and a flash of recognition flickered between you two, the same connection you always shared.

"Got him, just identified him in the lineup." Travis said, his voice low but certain.

You stood up, the tension from the night lingering as you approached him. His eyes softened when they landed on you, and for a brief moment, it felt like no time had passed since the last time you saw each other in the wilderness.

"Good," you nodded, trying to keep the professional mask on. "He won't hurt anyone else."

Travis’s jaw tightened slightly, and he stepped forward, his gaze lingering on yours a little longer than necessary. "Yeah," he agreed, then glanced at Spencer, who was still standing by the coffee machine, silently observing the exchange.

"I didn’t expect to see you back here, not after..." His voice trailed off, and you knew exactly what he meant. After everything.

You swallowed, not knowing how to answer. Travis had been a part of your life, for better or worse, during those months in the wilderness, and everything you went through there, together, and then apart, still felt like a tangled knot inside you. You and he had reconnected after rescue, but things didn’t last. The trauma, the guilt, the distance, it all kept pushing you both further apart.

You rubbed the back of your neck, unsure how to ease the sudden weight that had settled between you two. "I never thought I’d be back in New Jersey either. But here we are."

"Yeah," he said with a small smirk, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to make you think maybe this wasn't as awkward as you’d imagined. "Funny how that works."

Spencer cleared his throat from the corner. "Well, we’ve got our guy, and the case is wrapped up. I’m going to head to the jet soon."

You nodded absentmindedly, still focused on Travis. There was a long pause, the tension in the air thick and palpable, as if both of you were hesitating to say what you really wanted.

"How’ve you been?" you finally asked, voice quieter than you intended. "Really."

Travis studied you for a moment, his eyes a little sad, but there was a warmth there too, a familiarity you had missed. "I’ve been better. Trying to make sense of everything that happened... It’s...a lot. But I'm managing."

"Yeah, I get it."

He smiled faintly, his eyes glimmering with something unsaid. "I’m glad you’re doing okay... or at least I hope you are. It's good to see you again."

You hesitated, then spoke with more certainty. "You too." Travis shifted a little closer, his voice quieter this time. "We should catch up sometime. Just... talk."

You nodded slowly, heart racing. "Yeah. I’d like that." His gaze softened as he pulled out his phone. "Give me your number?"

You took a deep breath and reached for your phone too, entering your number into his with a lingering moment of contact. The simple act felt loaded, full of what-ifs.

"Thanks," he said, meeting your eyes once again. "Take care of yourself. And hey...I know it’s not always easy, but... don’t forget to live a little too, okay?"

A small, bittersweet laugh escaped your lips, though you couldn't stop the softness in your voice. "I’ll try."

As Travis turned to leave, he shot you one last look, then nodded a silent farewell. You watched him go, but as soon as he left, the weight of the decision settled on your shoulders. Spencer was still waiting in the doorway, his gaze unreadable as he gave you a half smile, clearly aware of the interaction that had just taken place.

You took a deep breath and walked over to Spencer, who raised an eyebrow at you. "You two seem...friendly."

You glanced over your shoulder at the door Travis had exited through. "Yeah, something like that."

Spencer didn’t push, but there was a momentary flicker of something in his eyes, something that made you wonder if he was seeing more.

But as you stepped into the jet to fly back home, your phone buzzed. A message from Travis:

-Let me know when you’re free. I meant what I said.-

---

And then there was Spencer, still in the background, still there, in his own way, someone who was beginning to mean more than just a colleague.

The airplane doors closed, leaving you with the choice you didn’t want to face yet:

Spencer - the steady presence who knew you inside and out,

or

Travis - the shadow of your past, full of history and unresolved feelings.

And you weren't sure which one you'd choose, or if you could.

But you’d figure it out, eventually.

[erwinsvow]

same nonnie who said she loved teh angst of them seeing each other i just read ur hashtags and omg?!!!? i love it i usually love love angst but i love them being together too much to want this pairing apart but i think it would be so good… imagine her even saying she doesn’t want kids if it’ll worry him😭😭😭 like she just wants him so badly to understand how much she loves him

i really need to study and i gave myself chest pains by thinking more about that and like as someone who cannot handle angst without a happy ending i will try to give us the best of both worlds. night shift reader would 10000% plead with jack to not break up, feels so stupid begging him because she never thought she would have to, when everything in their relationship is like a fairy tale because they have so much mutual understanding. they just have always understood each other so well, from their first shift together, the first time they really got to know each other.

six months in is that comfortable spot where everyone makes jokes about your wedding and you go home together every night. you know in another six months you'll be moving in together and talking more about the future than you already have. so when jack has this whole crisis about your age (something set it off, i don't know what exactly yet. the comment from the waiter is one thing. it would take more, maybe he saw a patient come in with a young wife and they're bickering and fighting and he sees something he doesn't want to in their relationship.)

night shift reader would just be so sad. pleading that she doesn't care about kids if she can't raise them with jack. that maybe they can foster and adopt if it's really about that—though you've been dizzy with the idea of carrying jack's babies and being pregnant and having him dote on you more than he already does. you put aside the baby names you've been saving your whole life, the nursery you want to decorate, you'd get rid of it all if it meant keeping the life you want with jack from disappearing.

and he knows you!!!! he knows you want all of that! he refuses to take it from you. tells you that you need someone closer to your age who can give you all of that. he thinks this relationship was meant to happen because it's the happiest he's been in as long as he can remember, and then he thinks he's doing you a favor by breaking it off so you can have the sort of life you've always wanted. winter into spring into summer. you go back to the day shift, anxious at 7am and 7pm with the idea of seeing jack again. you try to talk to him but he says he's not gonna change his mind. you ask him if he ever loved you and he says of course i did, sweetheart. it's because i love you that i had to do this.

the worst part is while you're horribly depressed like this, jack would be justifying it and thinking that you'll get over him soon and get a new boyfriend and be fine. hears from robby and dana how sad you are and how different you seem and how you plunge yourself into work to avoid going home. there are no dates, no boyfriends. just you and your job and using all the skills jack taught you.

idk how they'd get back together. maybe one day you go to the roof after a bad loss and robby tells jack he saw you head up and that he's worried about you. you think no one can find you up there but then jack shows up and you'll be damned if you don't feel the enormity of his absence all over again. or maybe one day there is a date, a surgeon upstairs who has always flirted with you but you never paid any attention since you were smitten with jack since the minute you met him. hears about it from dana, who tells him he made a mistake until his ears bleed. you have a shitty date and jack has a shitty day and you both end up taking a walk through your favorite section of the park where you bump into each other. idk. maybe something like that.

[honeyglazedcalamari]

why are u so sillay. may i pretty please hear some of your charmy headcanons puh LEASE - the urple pentagon

grun. side effect of the substabce!

ok charmy stuff

He was either taken in by Vector one of two ways, first being he was found in a box while Vector was dumpster diving to get food for him and Espio, or, Charmy was abandoned in Vectors arms. (One of Vectors jobs when he was younger was babysitting and one day the parents just. didnt come back.)

no matter what i mske his origin tho he basically grew up his whole life in the care of Vector like he was at most 1 year old when he was taken in

One of his favorite foods is fish but it isnt because he likes it its just because of his constant exposure to it. (Big is the main provider of jobs for the Chaotix but he pays in fish.)

He IS fluffy under the helmet and i will never deny it!!

When he gets older he is like the size of vanilla like he gets taller then espio (he has queen bee genes so as a result he gets bigger then most bee mobians)

quote from my friend: "I firmly believe that Charmy is several grades ahead in math, but no one pays mind to it cause Tails was making napalm bombs at his age."

thus bringing to . Charmy does the finance papers for the chaotix. he doesnt do like signing but he calcul8s. he is genuinlh good at math and science and all that but it never gets paid mind to

thus bringing to yeah no he doesnt really like tails that much. well not really tails but just tails' whole thing. like 1 hes the little brother to a renowned hero and charmys a six year old in the care of a poor household like obvi he's a bit mad with that but also like charmys just surrounded by so many people with powers and talent and hes one of the youngest ones but nobody really pays attention to his own accomplishments because tails can build a whole robot army and charmy is just the little kid of the chaotix. he doesn't like to hang out with tails because he is a constant reminder of the fact that there is always someone he knows whos better then him and cared for by alot more people

He was named after a brand (in gens theres a billboard in city escape labelled "Charmys Sweet Honey" and me and some friends thought it'd be funny if Vector named baby Charmy that)

he likes to nap alot, especially during winter. he'll fall asleep in weird places, also. like one day Espio will have idk Silver over or something and Silver opens a cabinet to get some food and screams because Charmy is just asleep in it. Vector goes to a laundry mat and as he puts the clothes in a washer he realizes charmy is asleep in the basket buried in the clothes and stuff

He enjoys really spicy things but can't really feel the pain from it he just likes he tastes

he starts to attend school at like age 11 because the chaotix couldn't afford it at all until then but charmy knows alot of things at an advanced level because the people he grew up with just taught him whatever he knew

he is not good at socializing with people his age and doesnt have many friends because of it (wrote my awesome fic based on this i love not focusing on schoolwork to write charmy bee struggling with loneliness)

despite being a bee he is allergic to pollen. which sucks for him because he likes to pick flowers and plants and make salads and does NOT want to stop just because of allergies. unfortun8ly espio is also allergic so when charmy comes home sneezing and sniffling he knows hes cooked

Shadow and Rouge are his most frequent babysitters so he mimics alot of things from them, like speech patterns and the way they move

he mirrors those he likes frequently so when he matches something with someone he doesnt like he'll like immidietly change that. go to the park and sees hes matching jackets with some kid he hates he takes the jacket off until the day ends

he's pretty sensitive to temperatures, but like cold wise. hes more cold then it actually is like it can be 76°F (like 24°C) and he would bring a sweater outside

ok i cant think of anyfin else :p uhm yeah ask me specific things if youd like ta hear mour

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

i wonder.. let's say enha had a s/o that loved musicals, would they belt out on lyrics too (idk if that's the correct english grammar or not apologizes I've been speaking it my whole life I should know by now), or would they just side eye y/n and go back to rummaging through the fridge?

asking bc I recently just got into Hamilton (was like 🤏 this close to spamming random lyrics into your inbox but I didn't know if u'd vibe with it or boo me off the stage 😞) and whenever I hear words slightly related to the musical I start singing (read: screeching) and my bfs always like 🤕 so like would enha support delusions or wreck them idk 🤷‍♀️

BOY did I yap 🤓

— angy yappster 💢

HAHAHHA THIS IS SO FUNNY ANGY AND OMG I WOULD NEVER BOO YOU OFF THE STAGE i literally love musicals oh my god my roommate & i always break out into song randomly we are actually such an annoying duo i'd hate to see us from a third person's perspective LOLL but omg idk why but i can really see this happening with jay & he would DEFINITELY make fun of you for it but he loves you so it's ok heheh—

JAY walks into the kitchen in search of the screeching sound that's been torturing him from the bedroom where he was trying—key word: trying—to take an afternoon nap. he turns the corner and—yup. there you are. singing—is it even singing? screeching?—to your heart's content, back turned to him, headphones on, swaying a little as you stir something bubbling on the stove. jay, still half-asleep, chuckles under his breath before shuffling over. he comes up behind you, warm chest against your back, and lifts one side of your headphones. "hi," he murmurs into your now-exposed ear, voice low and still scratchy from this attempt at sleep. you jolt a little at the sudden contact but relax when you feel the familiar touch of his hand settle on your waist. turning in his arms, you flash him a smug little grin. "yes, hi. is there a problem?" jay hums in response, tilting his head, as if considering it. his thumb traces lazy circles against your hip. "is this what we're doing now at 1PM? attacking my eardrums with musical numbers?" you gasp, fake-offended, smacking his chest with your palm. "rude," you mutter, turning back to the pot with a dramatic huff. jay just laughs under his breath, leaning in to rest his chin on your shoulder, one arm fully wrapping around your waist to trap you against him. his other hand casually steals the spoon right out of your hand and brings it up to his mouth to taste a small portion of the sauce you're making. he pauses before putting the spoon back down, a smirk on his face. "hm," he hums. "sauce is a solid six out of ten. singing's a four, though." you whip around, actually offended this time, but before you can wack him again, he's already sprinting out the kitchen, laughing freely. "YOU'RE EATING INSTANT RAMEN FOR DINNER, PARK JONGSEONG!" and from down the hall, you just hear: "STILL A BETTER MEAL THAN YOUR SINGING!"

[pisstintedglasses]

Lessons of Letting Go <teaser>

Park Sunghoon x Fem Reader.

Warnings: underage sex (purely consesual), sweethearts, fluff, angst, cheating, profanities, high school sweethearts trope, idk how to warn

current wc: 5.3K

estimated wc goal: 21k

The announcer's mic-amplified voice reverberated throughout the stadium as he revealed the scores of your opponent. Whilst she celebrated her relatively high score, clutching her fan-given plushie as she cheered with her coach, you fiddled with your fingers in an attempt to calm your anxious nerves. You were the last one to perform (thanks to your lucky hand when you pulled for the order of who performs), and all those before you exceeded each other's score each time, setting the standard higher and higher. And you were afraid you couldn't even just reach that same peak. 

Your coach, Ivan saw your obvious discomfort, lending a firm and on your shoulder and shaking the bloody nerves off of you. "Calm down, will you? You've done months of training, just as much and maybe even more than they did. You'll put up a fight."

Ivan was a 29-year-old, Russian, ballet coach. He and your sister were classmates in college, and she just so happened to tell Ivan about your new little profound passion about ballet. You were only 9 at the time, but when Ivan saw that youthful spark of passion flare from your rusty arabesques, he jumped at the opportunity to shape your ember. Shape your talent into skill. And that, he did.

He streamlined your passion and made you into a decent dancer. Decent enough to win a couple regional-level competitions. Trophies of gold, silver, bronze from said competitions adorned your glass-encased achievement shelf. (Which your mom insisted to have built). Your parents were quite content with all your milestones, be it big or small. But you weren't. It pissed you off to no end that you couldn't go beyond the regionals. 

One not-so-faithful day, on your last competition as a pre-junior, thoughts about how you have to win this consumed your better judgment. You couldn't focus at all. You kept throughout your entire routine, and it frustrated you to no end. And on the last Fouette that was supposed to be the cherry on top of your performance, your feet hit one another and leave you to come undone in a clumsy, crying mess.

With your heart feeling like it's caught up in your throat, you covered your tear-stained face and ran off stage right as your song ended. And so did your career. That competition had 9 finalists, and you ranked LAST. You couldn't even bare attending the awarding ceremony. You publicly embarrassed yourself out there, and especially now at your ripe pre-pubescent years, you knew your peers would be whispering among themselves about how dramatic you acted or how shitty your performance was. It was horrific. And just like that, what was once the spark that lit your dreary Mondays turned into to one of the most socially, emotionally, and mentally traumatic events of your life. So, in an attempt to cope with it, you pushed it away.

Anything related to dance, your old friends, Ivan. You wanted nothing to do with it anymore. You were already unraveling thread by thread, your fervent spark of ambition was being pulled away by the seemingly unreachable pinnacle, that is, the Nationals. Childish, or perhaps as arrogant as it may sound, you knew you had what it takes to get there, but your just somehow can't. And you don't know what's stopping you. You've blamed Ivan, for not teaching you enough, but you knew deep inside you wouldn't have gotten to the level you were at without him. 

After coming to a consensus with your parents, they let you quit the team, and sent you to the studio to pick up your things while they handled the resignation letters. You were grateful they never pushed you to do anything. They saw that ballet became toxic for you and they didn't even hesitate to let you leave when you saw fit. Anyway, they drove into the studio's parking lot and headed for your head manager's office, in order to deal with the paperwork. It was nighttime now, so you presumed all of the others would have gone home.

So, you didn't expect to find him here. Ivan.

The studio was supposed to be empty. Late enough for the lights to be dimmed, the floor to be cold beneath your feet, the mirrors to stop echoing back the dancer you used to be. But there he was—Ivan—leaning against the far wall, arms crossed like he hadn't been waiting, but you both knew better.

You hesitated at the door, one foot still out in the hallway, as if you could still change your mind. As if walking away now would hurt less than what you were about to do.

"I'm done," you said.

Your voice didn't shake. It wasn't a declaration. It was just... a fact. Like gravity. Like something that had always been true, you just hadn't said it out loud yet.

Ivan didn't move. Not at first.

You didn't mean to say it like that.

But the words came out anyway, sharp and final.

"I'm done."

Your voice cracked a little, but you tried not to care. You didn't look at Ivan. You couldn't. If you did, you'd probably back down. You'd probably see that look on his face—that mix of confusion and disappointment—and swallow the words, like always. So you stared at the floor instead, at your busted old slippers with the frayed ribbons and the tiny bloodstain near the toe. You hated those shoes. And you loved them. And you hated that you loved them.

"You're quitting?" Ivan asked. His voice wasn't loud or angry—it was just quiet. Tired, maybe. Like he already knew.

You nodded, even though your hands were shaking.

"I can't do it anymore," you muttered. "I just... I don't want to."

That wasn't the truth. Not really. You did want to dance. You wanted it so bad your chest hurt. You wanted Nationals. You wanted the stage, the lights, the moment. But lately, it felt like the more you wanted it, the further it slipped from your hands.

Ivan didn't say anything at first, and that made it worse.

"I've been trying," you blurted. "I've been trying so hard. But it's like I'm stuck. Everyone's getting better and I'm just... here. Still making the same stupid mistakes. Still forgetting the same stupid counts. Still losing balance like a baby."

Your throat burned.

"I'm supposed to be good, right? That's what everyone says. 'You've got talent, you're a natural, you'll make it someday.' But what if they're wrong? What if I'm not enough?"

You finally looked at him. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight—but his eyes were soft. Too soft. You hated that.

"I thought you'd help me get there," you said, barely above a whisper. "I really did. But maybe you didn't teach me enough. Or maybe you thought I could figure it out on my own. But I couldn't. I can't."

Ivan stepped closer, but you took a step back.

"I'm twelve, Ivan," you said. "Twelve. I'm not supposed to feel like a failure already."

There was a silence after that—heavy, like the walls were pressing in. You wiped your nose on your sleeve, trying to be tough. Trying to not cry like a little kid. But everything was just... too much.

You thought he'd yell. Or say you were being dramatic. Or lecture you about dedication and drive and how quitting now would ruin everything.

But instead, he just looked at you, like he saw through all of it.

"You're not a failure," he said quietly.

You didn't answer. You didn't believe him.

Because right now? You didn't feel like a dancer. You just felt... small. And tired. And really, really lost.

He stood closer now, arms cautiously extended to his sides to offer a much-needed hug, which you've gladly accepted. You let yourself soak his leotard as you clung to him. "You've accomplished so many things-" 

"Well I didn't accomplish enough! And I never will! Now that I blew my last pre-junior performance, I don't think people will take me seriously as a junior!" 

He sighed and wrapped his arms around your shaking shoulders. "Would it be too soon for me to suggest figure skating?" 

❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆���︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎

Now, stood you in one of the biggest ice skating competitions of your time, regionals, once again. The nationals are just at arms-length, so you knew deep within yourself you couldn't afford to pass this up. You dare not waste the 3 years Ivan has spent building you back up, this time, on the ice. You've done well in the short program, all you had to worry about now was the free skate. No longer clad in those painful pointe shoes, those itchy tutus, no. You sported a fresh, tight yet comfy, baby blue leotard that helped in boosting you confidence, paired with your favorite pair of blades—gifted to you by your sister.

The familiar vowels of your name ware called, summoning you to the spotlight, and claim the stage (rink) as your own. Breathing in the mint-scented air deeply one more time, you stepped onto the ice and glided along the sides, plastering a genuine smile and greeting those who cheered for you. The deafening clamor of the crowd's applause breeched your ears, you almost missed the first few notes of your song. The audience definitely did, though, as it seemed their hoorahs only grew louder at the sound of your performance starting.

You began to dance your prepared choreography upon hearing the calming voice of your designated piece for today—Christina Perri's "A Thousand Years." A sweet song whose melody harmoniously matched your performance. Innocent, almost fragile, your jumps were on beat with the cadence of the guitar, cello, and piano instrumental.

It wasn't just the soft melody that resonated with your performance; it was the lyrics as well. The words, "I have died every day waiting for you," seemed to echo in your heart as your body glided effortlessly across the ice. It was as if each movement was a reflection of the years of dedication, the countless hours of practice, and the quiet, unspoken devotion to your craft. Every jump, every spin, felt like a pledge of love to the art of figure skating itself—timeless and unyielding.

As the song built into the chorus, "I will love you for a thousand more," you could almost feel the embrace of the ice beneath you. It reminded you of the unspoken bond between skater and ice—an eternal connection that exists beyond the fleeting moments of each performance. The melody wrapped itself around you like a gentle, yet powerful force, urging you to give everything, to pour your soul into every movement, just as the song's lyrics spoke of eternal love.

You've always loved this part of figure skating, the cold air and ice beneath you enveloping your body and soul in this tranquil trance that helped keep your mind at ease. It was never like this with ballet. All you could feel in ballet was the sweat that would always pool at your back at the tremendous pressure of the spotlight and stares that settled on you on that non air-conditioned stage. The fans were usually directed at the judges as if they were the ones breaking their bones just to properly execute a Cambre. You never felt like that with your new love.

Figure skating, much like love, is about vulnerability—about trusting your body to carry you through difficult lifts, delicate landings, and dizzying spins, even when the odds seem insurmountable. The lyrics of "A Thousand Years" aligned with the very essence of what you felt skating on the ice: a love that transcends time, a passion that refuses to be extinguished. It was not just a performance; it was a love letter to the sport, an expression of devotion and commitment. "I will love you for a thousand more," you whispered to yourself, feeling the music fill every corner of your soul.

With each passing note, you were no longer just performing; you were telling a story of love, loss, and hope—of pushing through adversity and continuing to glide forward, no matter the challenges. Every movement you made felt like a promise—just as the song promised eternal love, you promised to keep dancing, no matter how many years it took.

And with the instruments slowing down to halt, so did your performance, as you struck your final pose. You finally let out the breath you didn't even realize was being held in and opened your eyes. The flashes of the lights overhead flickered your gaze, making you squint a bit before bowing at the judges who bared the look of satisfaction, impressed expressions. White roses and Frolass plushies were littered across the ice, which the staff has helped with gathering them all. You strode over to one of said plushies and hugged it close to your chest, giving the audience one final wave and bow if gratitude before you made your way off the ice.

Once your blades came in contact with the floor, you couldn't even get the chance to put your guards on them since Ivan sprung up to you and gave you one of the most genuine hugs he's ever given. "I told you you'd do amazing." You reciprocated the hug and pulled back, "You think the judges liked it?" Ivan scoffed, "Are you kidding? They looked entranced the entire time you were up there." The both of you couldn't help the proud smiles from spreading on your faces.

 He guided you back to your designated seat where they filmed your reaction upon hearing your score, and he gave you a bottle of water, wrapping a jacket around you when he saw you shiver.  You didn't notice it when you were still performing, but your hands were shaking from the cold. Well, you thought it was shaking just from nervousness. Not too long after, your family approached with proud smiles plastered on their familiar faces, already congratulating you with strings of praises regarding your performance.

A little girl passed by you, not too old—probably about five years younger than you. She was cheerful, skipping a little with each step as she clutched the hand of who you presumed was her grandmother. A middle-aged couple trailed behind, and next to them, a boy just slightly older than the girl, dressed in a striking figure skating outfit, clearly waiting for his turn on the ice.

Your heart warmed at the sight—there was something so pure about the quiet excitement of a supportive family. But then your gaze caught something else: a small red stain spreading across the girl's light shorts. You immediately recognized it. The judges take a while tocalculate the scores, so you decided to act on it. 

You didn't think twice. You grabbed a pad from your bag, hid it under your jacket, and hurried towards her. Approaching gently, you quickly wrapped your jacket around her waist, discreetly slipping the pad into her pocket. Startled, the little girl stumbled back slightly, and her family froze, giving you confused, wary looks. You offered a small, apologetic smile, speaking in a hushed whisper, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but... she seems to have bled through."

The mother gasped softly, lifting the jacket to check—and sure enough, the growing stain was there. "Oh, dear," she murmured, her face melting into maternal concern. You gestured subtly to the pocket. "I slipped a pad in there... in case you need it." The mother quickly mouthed a "thank you" before hurrying the girl toward the restroom, the father and the boy following right after. You smiled to yourself, relieved to have helped, and turned to make your way back to the seating area where your parents were waiting—your performance long done, the adrenaline still buzzing faintly in your veins.

But a voice stopped you. "My, my," the grandmother called out warmly, making her way over. "You're not just a pretty girl—you've got a beautiful heart too!" You flushed, laughing shyly. "It was really nothing, ma'am. I know how embarrassing it can feel..." The grandmother nodded sagely, folding her arms over her chest. "Takes one who's been through it to understand. Kindness like that is rare, you know."

You smiled at her, a little bashful, but grateful too. Her gaze lingered on you a moment longer, her lips quirking mischievously. Then, leaning a little closer, she asked in a whisper, "Tell me, sweetheart... you're single, aren't you?" You blinked, caught completely off guard. "Um... y-yeah, I am." "Perfect!" she chirped, clapping her hands once with delight. She shuffled aside with a flourish—and only then did you notice that someone had been standing awkwardly right beside you this whole time. 

The boy from earlier, the one in the figure skating costume. You had noticed him earlier when the men were called to warm up. His costume was a somewhat baggy blouse that faded from clear white into a very vivid and deep blue. It was a bit similar to yours, though much darker, it had the same ombre effect. 

His head snapped up to meet your gaze at the same time you looked at him, both of you freezing like deer caught in headlights. "This here's my grandson," the grandma said proudly, patting Sunghoon's shoulder. "He's about to perform, actually. Talented, polite, good-looking—what more could you ask for, huh?" You stared, the realization hitting you a second too late. Sunghoon was stunning up close, even more so than you'd noticed before. His cheeks tinted the faintest shade of pink as he gave you a tiny, sheepish smile.

"I—uh, I'm Sunghoon," he said, voice soft but clear. He gave a small, polite bow despite the obvious embarrassment pooling around him. You managed to smile back, flustered but charmed, as you introduced yourself. "I, uh, already performed. You're up next, right?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "Kinda hard to focus after that whole thing, but... thanks for helping my sister." His voice was earnest, sincere, and you felt the knot of nerves slowly unspool in your chest. "It was nothing," you said, laughing lightly. "Good luck out there." The grandmother beamed between the two of you, her matchmaking spirit practically radiating. "Maybe you can stay and watch him perform?" she suggested sweetly, not even trying to hide her intentions.

You met Sunghoon's shy, hopeful gaze—and found yourself nodding before you could even think twice. "I'd love to. Is he up next?" The grandmother shook her head, "Only two more boys and then it's his turn. Won't you stay until then?" You were about to nod when you heard your dad call out your name, calling you over to them since you score was about to be announced. In a haste, you excused yourself with the promise of coming back.

Your heart thrummed violently in your chest, Sunghoon long forgotten as your mind was swallowed whole by endless insecurities and what-ifs. What if it wasn’t enough? What if you fell short again? Your hands trembled as your family wrapped you into a tight, protective hug, excitement buzzing around you like static in the air.

The announcer’s voice finally crackled over the speakers, slicing cleanly through the tension. "For our final competitor in the Junior Women’s division—" The world seemed to slow to a crawl. "A free skate score of 117.48 points! You felt your breath catch, stuck halfway between a gasp and a prayer. "Added to her short program score of 72.36, that brings her total to 189.84 points—" A heartbeat. Another. "—securing first place!"

Your family's cheers burst into the air around you, your sister practically shaking you in her arms. You stood frozen for a second, as if the words hadn’t quite registered, before the realization slammed into you all at once.

You had won.

You had won.

Somewhere in the stands, you could faintly make out Sunghoon’s family cheering too, his little sister jumping and pointing excitedly. But right now, it was just you and the thundering beat of your heart, drowning in a tide of relief, disbelief, and a wild, soaring kind of joy you hadn’t felt in years.

Cheers erupted around you, and you felt your heart soar, your dad lifted you in the air. The moment felt so surreal. Years of hard work and you've finally got what you wanted. All in an instant, it felt like a fever dream. One second you were being introduced to some cute guy, and you were a winner in the next. It's all happening so fast you couldn't believe it. It only took one look at Ivan's tear-stained face to have you let the waterworks loose too. Adrenaline and bliss thrummed throughout your veins as he spun you around. Amidst all the chaos, your eyes met Sunghoon's, who was looking at you with genuine astonishment. 

When he noticed your gaze on him, he hastily looked away. His mom and sister were back though, and they were looking over your noisy, still celebrating huddle as well. His mom looked over to the grandma for an explanation, which she gave. After being hauled around by your family taking pictures of you, you finally sought the chance to excuse yourself and do good on your promise to watch Sunghoon's performance earlier. Of course, your sister didn't miss the chance to tease you about it. And neither did your dad.

"Ooh, meeting boys already? Our little champion's all grown up," your dad teased, nudging you playfully with his elbow.You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. "It's not like that," you mumbled, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrayed you. Your sister gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Not yet like that, you mean." Your mom chuckled from behind the camera she was still holding. "Let her be. She's earned a little attention after today."

Ivan, who had been listening nearby, chimed in with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Just don't forget about us once you're famous and running off with handsome boys." That sent your whole family into another fit of laughter, and you swatted at the air in front of you, trying to escape. "I'm just going to watch his performance!" you insisted, voice climbing with exasperation. "Like I promised!" "Right, right," your dad said, exaggeratedly wiping a fake tear from his eye. "First it's watching performances... next thing you know, wedding invitations!"

"Dad!" you whined, your face burning hotter than ever. Your sister winked at you, clearly enjoying every second. "Go get 'em, champ." You shook your head, laughing despite yourself as you turned away, feeling their teasing gazes follow you all the way across the gym. Sunghoon's family beamed as they congratulated you on your win

"I knew your performance was something special. Sunghoon-oppa here couldn't take his eyes off you earlier—" Yeji, the girl you helped earlier, said brightly, but she barely got the words out before Sunghoon clamped a hand over her mouth, face turning an adorable shade of red. "Yeji!" he hissed in a hushed yell, his voice dripping with embarrassment. His nervous chuckle made their parents laugh, the sound light and teasing.

Sunghoon’s mom smiled warmly at you, a fondness in her eyes as she looked between you and her son. "I hope Sunghoon gets into the nationals too," she said, voice gentle. "It’d be nice if the both of you won, right?" "It’d be the perfect excuse for a date," his grandma added mischievously, her tone playful enough to make Sunghoon visibly shrink into himself. "Halmeoni!" he groaned, dragging his hand down his face. You couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of you, nerves and flattery mixing into something light and giddy.

"It's okay," you said, smiling shyly at them all. "I think... just competing together would already be really special." Sunghoon peeked at you through his fingers, and when he caught your eye, he smiled too — small, genuine, a little shy around the edges. Yeji, now free from his hand, beamed. "You have to teach me how to be that cool when I compete!" Sunghoon's dad chuckled and asked, "How long have you been skating, if you don't mind me asking?"

You shifted your weight, thinking back. "Um... technically, not that long," you admitted. "I used to do ballet, actually, until about three years ago." "Really?" Sunghoon's mom perked up with interest. "Yeah," you nodded, a little sheepishly. "I kept trying to qualify for the ballet regionals, but... I never really made it past the preliminaries. I guess after a few years of that, I just felt like maybe my heart wasn't in it anymore. Skating kind of... gave me a second chance at something I really loved."

"You must have worked really hard," Sunghoon’s dad said, sounding genuinely impressed. "I still have a long way to go," you said quickly, laughing a little. "But it feels different this time. Like... even when I lose sometimes, I want to keep trying." Sunghoon, quiet until now, spoke up, his voice softer, thoughtful. "That's really cool. I mean it." You looked over and found him smiling at you again — properly this time, without hiding — and the way his eyes crinkled just slightly at the corners made your heart skip.

"You’re already amazing," Yeji chimed in enthusiastically, tugging at your sleeve like you were an old friend. "I’m gonna cheer for you both at nationals!" Sunghoon’s grandma patted your shoulder warmly. "You're part of the family cheering squad now too, dear. You better get used to it." Everyone laughed, including you, and for a moment, standing there with them, you felt something settle in your chest — a sense of belonging, easy and bright.

A few minutes later, Sunghoon was finally called down for his performance. 

(Refer to this performance of hoonie if you want any visual aid lmao. for the sake of the plot, however, we are gonna ignore his actual rank in the video--- p.s. he did amazing here in this performance.) 

You hadn't expected to find yourself sitting here, bundled up among strangers who somehow already felt like family. After helping Sunghoon’s little sister earlier, his family had insisted—no, insisted—you join them to watch his free skate. And you, still a little flustered and embarrassed, had agreed. Now here you were, heart thudding in your chest, watching the boy you’d only just met take the ice.

The lights dimmed slightly, and the familiar opening notes of the music drifted through the rink. It was a bright, soaring melody, full of lightness and energy—and somehow, it fit him perfectly. You leaned forward without meaning to, your breath catching as Sunghoon pushed off into his first glide.

He was— Beautiful.

Each movement was smooth, effortless, like water finding its path. His blades cut clean lines across the ice, turning with a precision that could only come from endless hours of practice, yet he made it look so natural, so easy. You couldn’t tear your eyes away. His jumps were light, airy, as though gravity itself hesitated to pull him back down.

Beside you, Sunghoon’s little sister tugged your sleeve excitedly. "Isn’t he cool?" she whispered, her voice bubbling with pride. You nodded quickly, a small, breathless laugh escaping. "He’s amazing. He moves like... like the music was made just for him."

His mom smiled at that, her eyes warm. "He’s always been good at feeling the music," she said softly. "Even when he was just a little boy. We'd put on anything, and he'd just start skating around the living room, pretending it was a rink."

You turned your gaze back to the ice just in time to catch Sunghoon launching into a jump—a perfect triple. He landed so cleanly you barely heard the blade hit the ice. The melody picked up, playful and bright, and Sunghoon matched it effortlessly, his movements light and joyful without ever losing the grace that came so naturally to him.

"He makes it look easy," you murmured without thinking.

Sunghoon’s dad chuckled warmly. "That’s the trick. He’s spent years making it look that way." His grandma leaned in closer, her voice teasing. "Maybe he’s showing off a little more today, hm? After all... there’s someone new in the crowd."

You ducked your head quickly, face burning, but couldn't help smiling.

The music swelled into its chorus, and Sunghoon moved with it as if his body had been designed to echo the sound. Every turn, every extension of his arms felt right, like he wasn’t just skating to the melody, but was the melody. You could feel his energy even from here—the quiet determination, the bursts of joy, the fierce concentration beneath it all.

The music softened into its final notes, and you turned back just in time to see Sunghoon finish with a quiet flourish, one knee touching the ice, head bowed. For a moment, the rink was silent except for the soft scrape of his blades slowing to a stop. Then applause erupted—and you were on your feet before you even realized it, clapping hard enough that your palms stung. Around you, his family cheered and whooped, but your eyes stayed locked on him.

Sunghoon straightened slowly, lifting his gaze toward the stands—and for a brief, dizzying second, it felt like he looked straight at you. Your heart somersaulted, your hands still clapping even as you forgot how to breathe. It was the kind of performance that made you fall in love with skating all over again. And maybe—just maybe—with the boy who made it look like flying.

He finally glided off the ice, going to the same seat where you were earlier. The 2 other boys who went before him gained a relatively high score, but you knew from the masterpiece you were just blessed with, he had a huge chance to win. Actually, you were praying on it. If he really did get to win, the two of you would get to go to the nationals together. You watched from afar as he heaved. All those jumps must have rendered him exhausted. 

His family began to head to him, so they can check in, with you in tow. Though, it was still going to be a while before his score gets announced so you knew you had time. You passed by your family and quickly introduced them to one another first, just to get them acquainted and to let them know who you were walking with. Of course, praises for Sunghoon erupted from them as well. You've just come to terms with your attraction for the boy but it seems like he's already won the favor of your immediate family. Including Ivan.  

Your seats were near the "hot seat" as you would call it so you opted to just have the Parks sit next to your family, that way they'd be close to Sunghoon without having to stand the entire waiting time while the judges evaluated. After what felt like an eternity, the commentators finally revealed his score.

The announcer's voice crackled through the speakers, snapping you out of your daze. Everyone around you leaned forward instinctively, waiting for the numbers to flash onto the giant screen. You found yourself holding your breath without even meaning to.

"And now, Park Sunghoon’s score for the free skate..."

The screen flickered, and then the numbers appeared in bold, glowing print.

“He receives 154.26 points for his free skate—”

There was a small gasp around you—his family clutching each other’s arms in excitement, his little sister nearly bouncing out of her seat.

“...for a combined total of 233.75 points!”

Your hands flew up to your mouth, hiding the huge grin breaking across your face. “Oh my god,” you whispered, half laughing, half breathless. "He did it!" his sister squealed, grabbing your sleeve and shaking it.

Sunghoon’s dad let out a booming laugh, clapping his hands together. "That's our boy!" he said proudly, his voice thick with emotion.

His mom brushed away a tear with a soft chuckle. "He worked so hard for this. He deserves every point."

You could hardly take your eyes off Sunghoon, who was smiling on the monitor, bowing politely before flashing a quick, bashful grin at the camera. He looked overwhelmed, relieved, proud—and somehow still so humble despite the incredible score. Leaning closer, Sunghoon’s grandma teased in a low whisper, "Better start practicing how to answer interview questions. They’re gonna be calling him a national treasure soon."

You laughed, heart thudding with pride that felt far too big for someone you had only just met. But somehow, it didn’t feel strange at all. Watching him stand there, practically glowing under the spotlight—you were just... happy. And honored. Happy to have witnessed it. Honored to be part of it, even in this tiny way.

And somewhere deep inside, a small, secret wish stirred:

Maybe this wasn’t the last time you’d be cheering for Park Sunghoon. 

❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚𓂃｡˚☃︎˚｡⋆❄︎

series main list : Lessons Learned

If you're interested, allow me to tempt you to be added to the taglist so you'll be updated

[holyfreaks]

It's hot here all the time, my mind is turning to summer. So! The Wednesday question this week is-

What are your summertime Sam and Dean heandcanons or ideas? Doesn't even have to be wincest specific just what do you think of with them and the season?

Thanks! 😘

ooo I love thinking of them in different seasons, especially with them traveling all over the place and probably getting a bunch of different kinds of weather

I think dean would prefer dry high heat instead of humid heat and sam would be the opposite. dean wouldn't like the fact that you can never truly not feel damp in humidity and sam would like the feeling of the air being sort of syrupy and soft

they both lived out their younger days in motel pools and city pools and lakes and rivers, get super tanned and freckled, typically be sunburnt-- dean started hounding sam about sunscreen after a particularly bad sun burn sam got where he just cried and cried and cried

more wincest specific headcannons I think would include cold showers together, making out underwater, intimate rubbing of sunscreen and aloe vera on each other, etc

also idk why but i just got in my head this idea of them playing tennis at one of the parks during the summer as teenagers and dean getting all sweaty and breathing heavy and grunting whenever he hit the ball, and sam had to go, ahem, take care of a problem. alone. trying not (and failing) to think about dean.

[snickerdoodlles]

so i was thinking about this one again, and i realized how i'd write it if i were writing it: after the Tawan situation gets fucked and Vegas has to skip town, Kim takes Macau in to keep him safe from any fallout.

in this scenario, Vegas doesn't want to leave Macau with Gun's temper but Macau is…idk, at school or something, and Vegas can't wait for him to come home before he has to leave.

he tells Macau to bunker down somewhere else, don't even come home, it's too dangerous, Vegas refuses to risk Macau being used for leverage or let Gun take out his irritation on him.

except Macau…doesn't have anywhere to go. maybe he went to the safehouse he and Vegas setup in secret except his father's men are already there. luckily, Macau saw them before they could see him, he's booking it before they could hope to notice him, fucking nope.

Macau's too scared to risk going to any of his and Vegas's other hideaways (Gun wasn't supposed to know about the first!!!), too worried for Vegas to call him while he's on the run. winds up stalling back at school because he doesn't know where else to go and needs a crowd for cover while he thinks.

the janitor finally has to kick him out when it's past dinner time and the school is well and truly closed, and Macau is terrified at this point. he doesn't know where to go, is too panicked to think of what to do next much less think of a plan, realizing he really should've just called Vegas from the start but turning in circles feeling like it's too late to call him now.

then he reaches the parking lot and there's a car waiting for him.

the fact that it's Kim waiting for him in said car is not reassuring.

he and Kim just stare each other down for a solid three minutes before Kim points expectantly and Macau spends about ten seconds debating if he should just bolt before reluctantly climbing in, mentally apologizing to Vegas the whole way.

"Tao called and said you were lingering around the school, looking worried," Kim says out of the blue.

"…okay????" Macau says, because Kim seems to think that is an explanation but he is so fucking confused.

twenty minutes later, they are at Kim's apartment and Kim is giving him a towel, a toothbrush, and a clean set of clothes and pointing him to the guest bedroom freshly setup.

fucking what

the ensuing stay is. so awkward. it is so awkward it is physically painful. neither of them know what the fuck to do around each other. Macau doesn't know that Kim tried to shoot Vegas the last time he saw him, but he did hear enough to know Kim was vaguely involved in the whole mess so like. he can guess. Kim is mostly ignoring him too. Kim spends most of his time pacing over some distraction or staring silently at a wall or avoiding Macau except when he asks what Macau wants to eat at meal times. he eventually calls Vegas to check in and absolutely bluescreens when Vegas asks where he's staying because how is he even supposed to answer that. Macau hates being cooped up and trapped in Kim's apartment, except Kim tells him he's free to come and go as he needs to because he's on the apartment registry and the building security will let him in anytime, and Macau just has to?? live with that information??? Macau spends three days sick to his stomach wondering why Kim's holding him or when his uncle might try to leverage him against his dad or Vegas, except Vegas texts at some point warning him Gun visited him on a rampage and is in spitting form, stay wherever the fuck he is because their father and uncle are starting fights over anything they can throw at each other, and Macau realizes Kim picked him up to keep him safe from everyone.

it is one of the kindest things anyone's ever done for Macau and he and Kim still can't manage to sit in the same room for more than two minutes because it is so. awkward.

📔 What fic are you currently daydreaming about?

well currently, i'm daydreaming about youtuber vegas fic because i finally straightened out some structure issues that have been blocking me, but !! i don't want to spoil that one, so instead: open door policy fic

so. i love when kim and macau think the other is the worst. macau likes to prod kim for fun. kim reacts with exactly the amount of grace one would expect (none). macau hates the main family for all the grief that's been piled onto vegas. kim wouldn't go out of his way to kill vegas, but he will shoot with zero hesitation if vegas is a threat (see: warehouse). i also headcanon kim and vegas closer in age to each other with a ~4-5 year age gap between macau and kim, so they don't really have any fuzzy childhood memories to tie them together either.

my point here: kim and macau do not like each other, and have zero reason to try to like each other.

kim also has macau whitelisted on his apartment guest list and an extra bedroom set aside Just In Case.

in this fic, ...something, idk what, happens and macau has nowhere to go and no one he can turn to. the something would probably have to be outside of their standard family drama, or at least seem that way, or... ??? idk, something that would result in macau somehow winding up in kim's apartment for safe haven and the ensuing awkwardness of neither of them having the slightest clue how to act around each other but kim is. y'know. looking out pretty hard for macau and macau isn't going to spit on that generosity. and apartments are small, they're eventually gonna have to like... talk...

idk, there's zero concrete thoughts to this scenario, i just want terrible awkward bonding between kim and macau because fuck that guy, but no one touches their family 😤

[[ ask me about fics im not writing ]]

[indigogirled]

should i go to a local show tonight alone or watch three movies alone in my room

[solarpunkani]

Late night wishful thinking but like

I think planting funky things around retention ponds should be more normalized!!

Like okay I get it retention ponds are meant to hold the runoff water from parking lots and drive throughs and the like so they aren’t exactly the cleanest water around. But like!!! Maybe this is different in other areas, but the only plants I ever see grow around retention ponds are cattails!! Which, like, are fine and great and dandy lets go cattails, but like

Where’s the whimsy?? Where are the flowers?? If I’ve got to see retention ponds whenever I go to a store or drive down the highway or pick up food for my mom, at least bring in some flowers!!

And it’ll benefit so much! A wider variety of plants can make it a more welcoming home to wildlife! Maybe the plants will filter some of the runoff stuff and the water can then be nicer for even more wildlife! Maybe the flowers can be a nice food source for butterflies and bees on their journeys and day trips!! And humans like seeing things be pretty!

Maybe its easier said than done! Maybe most places already do this and its just my city or state that doesn’t really I’d be willing to believe that! But lets get some color in these goddamn retention ponds!!

Swamp milkweed! Aquatic milkweed! Pickerelweed! Water lilies! Irises! Cardinalflower! Fuck it, put some goddamn duckweed in there!! Get some color in those things or so help me!!

[beeduoo]

exile

[minty364]

DPXDC Prompt #58 Part 2

It started on a Friday, Danny finished adjusting his uniform as he peered into the mirror in the bathroom his family shared.  Mr. Wayne had been very generous to offer Danny a scholarship to Gotham Academy. He was determined to do his best but, part of him wondered if he was only offered it so Damian would have a friend that attended the same school as him.

 Putting the finishing touches on his uniform and trying to calm down his unruly hair, Danny walked out of the bathroom to hear chatter coming from the kitchen. This caused him to hesitate, Jazz and he decided not to ask Damian or Tim over yet. The state of the house was a bit messy considering it was left to two teenagers to pick up after the four of them. They just didn’t have the time, the both of them were focusing on their own fields of study and avoiding their parents by spending time at Wayne manor. 

So the fact that there was chatter meant one thing, his parents were up from the basement. He didn’t dislike interacting with them but… somehow every conversation with them ended up with an hour-long lecture about how dangerous ghosts were and how Danny and Jazz were to call them immediately if they ever spotted one, as if they’d actually pick up the phone. Danny was starting to believe that ghosts didn’t exist at all. 

He took a deep breath after grabbing his messenger bag from his room and entered the kitchen.

Just as he thought his parents were up from the lab and astonishingly they sat at the table. They were eating breakfast together with Jazz almost like they were a normal family. The sight unnerved Danny but he took his spot at the table, pouring himself a bowl of cereal as Jazz had done. Neither of them trusted anything that their parents would have cooked, most of it ended up with Danny and Jazz having stained or torn uniforms. 

They hated asking Mr. Wayne for anything, and even though he left a credit card for either Danny or Jazz to use, neither of them did. Jazz managed their finances, Mom was too busy to cook or go to the store most times so Jazz handled it and Danny made sure at least the bathroom and kitchen were cleaned up enough. It probably shouldn’t have worked, especially leaving two teenagers to look after the finances, but it did.

“Danno, my boy!!” The loud boisterous voice of his Dad startled him out of that train of thought, “we’ve got a surprise for the two of you!”

Jazz and Danny shared a look, nothing good ever came from one of their parents ‘surprises’.

“Your Father and I completed our-“ before Mom could finish, Dad interrupted loudly.

“THE PORTAL!!” he smiled like he was a toddler in a candy store for the first time.

Jazz and Danny shared a look again, sure they were happy for their parents, but they were also worried about the possible hazards.

Their Mom cleared her throat before continuing, “I get you kids have school, just hurry straight home when you’re off! We’ll turn it on when you’re both home.” She finished her explanation with a big smile.

Danny could hardly believe it, they had been working on it for years. He was a little scared what exactly it meant if it worked but that didn’t matter at the moment. He continued eating and Jazz spoke up, “t-that’s great Mom, Dad,” she spared a glance at Danny but continued when he didn’t speak up but ate another mouthful of cereal, “Uh, well, our ride should be here soon, I’ll meet you outside little brother.” She quickly put her dishes in the dishwasher and headed outside after grabbing her coat and backpack. 

Danny quickly followed after their parents went downstairs probably to tinker with another project after the portal.

Jazz was waiting on the porch after putting on her coat, they both knew how prompt Mr. Pennyworth was and that it wouldn’t take long for him to arrive. It didn’t take long for them to pile in after he arrived. The trip to the school was short, Jazz and Tim were caught up in a conversion about some essay, Danny tried to pay attention to the conversion but his mind kept wandering to the portal and what it meant for his family now that it’s done. 

Damian seemed to notice his fidgeting, “Danny? What troubles you? Is it Dash again?” Damian cracked his knuckles as he seethed the bully’s name. Danny was often bullied by Dash for being in his words ‘a charity case’ since Mr. Wayne paid his tuition, and he recently started bullying Danny for what his parents did since word somehow got out after neither of his parents showed up for parent teacher conferences.

Danny shook his head, “no, sorry, I’m just a little worried about a few things going on at home,” Jazz looked up at this and the two shared a look. Neither of them discussed what they’d tell the brothers about the portal. Jazz eventually nodded subtly and Danny took that as the go ahead to continue. He nervously licked his lips before speaking again, “well… our parents finally finished the portal.”

Damian and Tim shared a look at this, “have they attempted to turn it on yet?” Damian asked after a moment.

“Uh, no actually, they wanted to wait until we got home from school,” Danny shrugged.

“Would you like Damian and I to stay out in the car and wait for it all to be over so we can go back to being normal back at the mansion.” Tim suggested with a light chuckle, none of them thought that it’d actually work.

Having an easy escape route after whatever craziness the portal was bound to cause sounded comforting. Danny nodded a little, “I’d like that, how about you Jazz?”

“Your not leaving me alone with them!” She cried and the two giggled.

Soon though they pulled up to the school and Danny sighed, he had a day to get through.

[disposal-blueeee]

no bg ver because i once AGAIN added too many details and thet got lost with everything else

[raplinenthusiasts]

so pretty 💖

[eorjfls]

My favorite thing on the internet is when South Park fans make in depth, character driven posts about any character (especially the main four) and just type out the most interesting well written things about said character.

Speaking of which, can people talk about The New kid, since the multiverse is canon and the games could be seen as another universe where everything is just the same except some new kid with time bending powers and who is basically a friend magnet moved to South Park and immediately becomes the most op person in context to the games the kids play. Like, I think no one talks about The New Kid and how they can be stand in for the players oc or just be the base for the players oc, (if your oc is basically the new kid with extra steps, like mine) gets misgendered by almost everyone in town in the first game depending on their gender and pronouns in the second game(FBW), and is essentially kinda hated by their friends because they followed their instructions and was just wanted to make some friends and have fun. Also went through some weird traumatizing stuff that probably messed with their brain. Also their backstory is so.. interesting and not great for a child, not knowing why they moved around so much then finding out their parents were trying to hide them from the government and making sure they at least got a normal life?!

They are such an interesting character to me and I really like thinking about how so many things might have happened or episodes could have happened or changed just because The New Kid is there and probably would be that type of person to insert themselves into conflicts because they could, and their friends probably would drag them into said conflict without warning.

Also I based my oc off of The New Kid and want to talk about him, and they are my favorite characters. Top tier of my personal ocs who I use a lot in different stories.

[marimeeko]

One fear: the BkDk hospital scene is all we get for postwar bkdk content(where it's focused on them)