#and it makes me even more mad because the only reason they worked that into the plot was they were just fully mask off about the-

[elumish]

Part 1/? of How to Deal With the Next Four(ish) Years

Learn how to tell the difference between "their policies/rhetoric actively target me/a marginalized group" and "they have not been as successful as I hoped in protecting me/a marginalized group." I saw the rhetoric a fair amount pre-election that the Democratic Party and its policies were transphobic, that Biden failed queer people, etc. as a reason not to vote for Harris or for Democrats, and the reality is that the Democratic Party and Joe Biden have actually been pretty steadily implementing laws and policies to support and protect queer (including trans) people, and Republicans want queer/trans people to die.

If you want to protect marginalized groups, whether they're ones you're part of or not, you really need to start actively working on distinguishing between the two. And if you keep hearing that the Democrats are just as bad about a marginalized group in the US as the Republicans, actually look into that. What is the evidence? What laws have been introduced or passed by one party versus the other? What rhetoric do they use? What policies and regulations are being put in place?

And is the problem that the Democratic Party is "just as bad" or that they have not managed to stop Republican laws in red states?

None of this is to say that the Democratic Party is perfect, but in most cases only one party is actively working to harm or kill marginalized people, and it's not the Dems.

Understand the government structure that directly impacts you. Not every state or locality operates the same way, and you may have more or fewer layers of government over you with different levels of power. Do you have a town/city government and a county government, or just one or the other? How many officials are elected in your state versus appointed?

Part of that is also understanding what is controlled at the local, state, and federal level. If you're mad about a law or policy and want it to change, whose law or policy is it? Chances are, if it's about how things work for you, it's a state or local law rather than a federal one. Once you understand that, you can target any organizing efforts in the right direction.

Pick your battles. This is not to say that you shouldn't care about a lot of things, but trying to personally organize around everything will probably just make you ineffective and burn you out. Is it Palestine? Ukraine? Sudan? Environmental justice? Climate change? Immigration? Abortion? Queer rights and protections? Education? Native American rights? Criminal justice reform?

Understanding your own priorities can also help you determine what candidates you support and where you draw your red lines. I care a lot about public schools, but support for charter schools is not a red line for me in a politician. Being pro-life is.

But I'm also pragmatic--if my choice is a pro-life person who also wants all queer people to die and a pro-life person who wants to protect queer people, I will hold my nose vote for the latter rather than risk the former winning.

Start identifying what protections you and your loved ones might need that you can access now. Is it an IUD, a tubal ligation, or a vasectomy? Is it getting your legal name changed now? Is it establishing other legal protections such as power of attorney even if you're married?

Vote in every election. If you are an eligible voter, you should be a registered voter, and you should vote every single time. I think the only election I've missed in the last 5 years is the 2024 Democratic primary, and that's 50% because it was basically an uncontested race and 50% because I forgot when it was.

Primaries are where you get to have a say in who your candidate is--at all levels. Look at the policies of who is running and vote for who you want to win--whether because of policy, temperment, or any other reason.

But state and local elections are incredibly important, because they have a huge impact on your actual quality of life. Show up and vote. Vote on off years. Vote when it's just local. Vote for Board of Education, for water commissioner, for sheriff, for judges.

Voting is cheap, it's easy, and it does make a difference.

[oimitocat]

STRAY KIDS REACTION….

… to boyfriend!reader being angry and they find it hot (nsfw warning) (hyung line!)

ᡴꪫ CHAN… was extremely similar to you. you’re a lay-backed person, sure sometimes you have episodes where you’re not exactly in the mood to socialize but still, you’re charismatic and let things slide more than he does. you always say it’s because you don’t have energy to entertain that stuff.

yet, seeing you angry — TRULY angry, was something he’d never think he’d get to see. so color him surprised when he hears you shout and pace. the furrow of your brows, your darkened eyes. you looked… good. that tone, he’d never heard it and… it stirred something in the pit of his stomach.

“something wrong?” he asks after a while of eye fucking you.

“company said i need to go on a damn hiatus because some shitheads are spreading a rumor. i could care less, why do they have to make it seem like i’m anxious or whatever?”

chan blinks. “rumor?”

“yeah, super stupid. all i did was call them to say i wasn’t happy with how our last show ended. dude, they literally couldn’t get my headset to work, i had to wing the timing and stuff. their lack of work effort pisses me off.” you groan.

“i know but…” chan pauses when you glare at him. he swallows, “hey, i mean a hiatus is good. you get to rest.”

“i don’t want to rest-“

“i get to have you all to myself without worrying about you missing out on your schedule.”

“if you’re bored, play with me. if you’re angry, take it out on me. you’ll have all the time to do so.” he grins.

you blink, “i- what?” and you can’t even be angry anymore… just frustrated. but chan will also take that.

ᡴꪫ MINHO… had the habit of annoying you and frustrating you sometimes, but never actually making you angry. as idol’s there is a lot of things that can drive you mad. minho for example hates wardrobe malfunctions. fans went crazy over some clips of him angry and upset over a few outfits and so have you.

you never really cared for much, at the end of the day you get a nice paycheck and you’re good to go. still, that doesn’t mean you don’t care about your job. so when he sees that your mic isn’t working and you’re more than upset at the lack of resolve from the sound techs…. he simply cannot look away.

even when you get off the stage, you’re glaring and absolutely not in the mood. everything you do is with anger— ripping off your headset, wiping off your sweat, loosening your outfit. goodness, you look delectable.

“you mad?” he asks teasingly, of course he has to tease.

“i’m not in the mood minho.”

oh! that anger had a pretty tone. “fuck,” he breathes out, pressing himself closer to you, “you gonna take it out on me?” and your eyes bored into him.

he definitely didn’t regret it later.

ᡴꪫ CHANGBIN…. didn’t know you could get angry. he’s only seen you be all soft and gushy. he’s seen you be defensive and stern but never angry. he’s literally making his way to the studio when he hears your voice boom outside the door. worried, he walks in and sees how your standing and yelling at the other producer.

“what’s-?”

“-how long it’s taken us to keep these files and you forget to save them?!”

the producer fidgets, “doesn’t change have a copy? he always has a copy-“

“THAT DOESN’T MEAN THE COPY IS THE SAME AS WHAT WE WERE ADDING TO IT YESTERDAY! you can’t recreate something that was authentic!” you pace, pulling at your hair, “shit man, i worked so hard on that!”

“y/n calm down,” he tries, “what file is it-?”

“changbin, i literally cannot right now.” and you leave.

in the end the file wasn’t deleted, just misplaced in the wrong folder to which it was saved. still, the lack of clarity pissed you off. you didn’t want to work that day and changbin was trying so hard to coax you. yet, seeing you mad was so good for some reason. changbin knew he could make you feel better (totally not feeling you with his hands? and you being angry was making things fun.

ᡴꪫ HYUNJIN…. doesn’t remember a time where you’ve been angry. he’s also never even wanted to. he doesn’t like noise and he remembers how you always say you blow up when angry. hence, when he hears you slam your fist on the desk, he jumps. you’re dramatic like him, so he tried not to think much of it except…

“are you kidding me?” he hear you say with an ominous tone. low and sultry, makes him pause. “so you’re saying that you’re wasting my damn time.”

he peeks over at, seeing you frown and glare at the wall while on the phone. he doesn’t think he’s ever seen that look on you… his mind starts to wander…. would that expression look at him? you’re talking, angry, clearly. and it’s so…

“why are you angry?” he asks when you hang up with an insult and throw your phone of the desk.

“cus apparently i have to do everything myself. why the hell would you-“ and he zones out, watching your angrily rant.

you plop down on the chair, angry. he stands and walks over to you, desire in his gut. “baby don’t be mad…” “well i wouldn’t if they did what i was paying them to do.” “-let’s get your mind off that, yeah?”

and boy did he.

[everythingisromant1c]

p2: three reasons why you can't stand co-star!james potter

co-star!james potter x actress!reader

summary: you were finding the first days of shooting your new TV show to be absolutely amazing, aside from the fact that you absolutely could not stand your co-star James Potter. unfortunately for you, you spent enough time around him to narrow down his most irritating qualities to only three:

a/n: hey so this took waayyy longer than i would've hoped to release, but i promise this series is not going anywhere, so tysm for all the loveee and all ur guys' patience <33

also pls pls pls feel free to send in prompt requests for this series i am so all ears

full series: Trouble in Hollywood - masterlist

1. He was insufferably good at his job

You wished you could say working with James Potter was such a challenge because he was simply bad at his job. But the thing was: he wasn't. It turned out he was really the impeccably good actor that your director Minerva seemed to swear he was, as if the talent truly was seeping through his veins. Somehow, that only made working with him more frustrating to you.

"Aaron, you've got to believe me."

James had come to you during the middle of hair and makeup and asked you to rehearse lines with him even before official rehearsals for the day's shooting began, saying it would make him feel more prepared. And, as much as you hated it, you felt the same. Your only regret was thinking you'd be able to stand him and his arrogance before seven in the morning.

"Why should I, Cassidy?"

The brunette responded to you fully in character, leaning back against a nearby vanity with his long legs crossed in front of him as you sat in your cushioned chair. He apparently got out of hair and makeup in under a matter of minutes, looking effortlessly put together with his curls hanging perfectly over his forehead—you didn't have the same luck. Your lovely makeup artist Mary seemed to be unbothered by the interruptions, continuing on with your makeup as you rehearsed your lines, though you caught her amused smile every once in a while from her reflection in the mirror.

"Because..." you began, trying to stay in character as your brain scrambled for your next line.

"You're supposed to say," cut in James, "'-because we can only trust each other right now.'"

"Please stop telling me my lines, James." You repeated the irritated request you'd uttered all morning to him as you put a tired hand to the bridge of your nose, one that Mary moved away hurriedly.

"Watch your makeup," she pleaded with a powder-filled brush to your nose , and you winced apologetically.

"Did you just want me to stand here and wait for you to remember them?" James's voice poked at you irritatingly as you stared up at him from your seat.

"Yes, that's exactly what I want." You fought from rolling your eyes. "You could at least give me a second. I didn't even ask for my line."

He raised his brows with an acquiescent sigh. "Whatever the lady wants."

Ignoring him, a skill you were growing like a muscle, you cleared your throat in focus, trying not to move too much as Mary blended some product on your neck. "Because we can only trust each other right now."

James quickly jumped back into character, right on time. "That didn't mean anything to you the other night."

"I already told you I'm sorry for that. When I heard all the rumors, I ..." you cursed at yourself as your mind drew another painful, embarrassing blank.

"-I didn't know what to think." James looked anything but guilty as his voice met your ears once again, finishing your line for you without fail.

"James!" You glared at him, doing your best to stay out in your chair and not storm out of the trailer he'd so brazenly infiltrated. You shook your head to yourself through your reflection in the brightly lit mirrors . "You're impossible."

James shrugged innocently. "I don't get why you're mad at me for trying to help."

"I'm not."

He scoffed, putting a dramatic hand to his chest. "So is this what you look like when you're happy with me?" The corner of his aggravating lips lifted along with his shoulder in a small shrug, before turning away again. "Isn't very much like how I've pictured it."

You didn't miss the way Mary let out a small breath of laughter from her nose as she switched over to doting on your hair. You gritted your teeth.

"I mean, I'm not mad at you for helping. I'm mad at you because you're annoying."

He crossed his arms defensively, his lips still quirked up, and you fought against the urge within you that had your eyes following the movement of his biceps. "I'm annoying?"

The feigned disbelief in his voice snapped your back to your right mind.

"Yes," you answered plainly. "You and your posh accent."

Maybe you'd stopped making sense, but it was too early for you to care. James was watching your meltdown with what you could only identify as merriment, his unfortunately unignorable presence taking up too much space in the cramped makeup trailer.

Thankfully choosing to ignore the part about his accent, he put up his hands innocently. "Last time I checked, I wasn't the one who keeps forgetting their lines."

"We just got the updated script for this episode last night." You shifted in your chair to face him, and you heard Mary wince from behind you, probably getting fed up with how much you were moving around, though you were too annoyed to stop yourself. "How the hell are you already off-book?"

James shrugged smugly, shoving his hands in his pockets as he leaned forward. You squinted your eyes at him. "An actor never reveals his secrets, love."

You twisted your mouth in disgust at his words—because you definitely felt something as he said them, whether it was disgust or not you didn't want to think about—and probably only made him more satisfied. "Mary," you groaned, looking at her through the mirror in front of you. "I think I'm going to be sick."

She shook her head and gave your reflection a sharp look back. "Not in that freshly ironed shirt you're not."

You sighed, settling back into your chair and sparing another glance at the man to your right. He tipped his head at you, almost tauntingly, and you felt your jaw tighten. It was going to be a long day.

2. Everyone else seemed to love him

You'd been going about your Thursday innocently, filming scenes when called upon—finally having memorized all your lines properly—and somehow getting through the morning without any irritating interactions with your least favorite person on set at the moment. That good feeling, of course, could only last so long.

"What's this?"

Minerva, your director, had been walking around set with you until you both stopped at the sight of a crowd forming outside one of the sets. You followed her, making your way through the crowd of your fellow actors and crew members until you were met with a nauseating sight: James Potter.

At the sight of your director, his already proud smile grew to a beaming one, almost blinding, as he greeted her. "We've all been really busy with this week's filming schedule, Minnie, and you mentioned what a hassle it's been ordering enough food for everyone every day with our budget, so I pulled some strings and got my family's chef to cater our lunch."

Your jaw slacked as he nodded his head to his left, where a number of tables were set up with what looked like pizza ingredients, a moustached-man in a chef hat standing behind the scene proudly. You couldn't believe your eyes. Apparently, neither could the woman next to you.

"Oh my- James this is ... amazing!" Minerva—or Minnie, as James somehow had grown accustomed to calling her—turned to your co-star, expression as bright and beaming as James's crowd-pleasing smile was. "But you shouldn't have gone to all this trouble-"

"It was no trouble at all. Francis was more than happy to help."

He waved a hand at the chef, who you assumed was the 'Francis' in question, who nodded back at him happily with a pizza cutter in his hand. It was like something out of a movie, the way everyone clapped for James who stood at the front of the crowd like the beloved man he was. You felt sick to your stomach.

"What's wrong? Do you not like the pizza?"

You'd taken your lunch shamefully, making sure to hide your amazement at the endless selection of pizza toppings that James had arranged at the build-your-own-pizza station, and were sitting with Remus, who you'd met at auditions for the show and luckily got casted in a role other than one that'd gone to James, and Sirius, another one of your co-stars who you'd quickly become friends with since you spent practically all your time on set nowadays.

You looked up at Remus briefly before returning your gaze to the pizza in front of you, the perfect slice underneath the sun seeming to taunt you. "No," you grumbled. "The pizza's amazing."

Sirius chuckled. "You'd think you'd be happy about that."

"I would, aside from the fact that it was Potter who brought it in."

The black-haired man tipped his head at you curiously. "What's your problem with James again?"

You shook your head forebodingly. "Don't tell me he's brainwashed you both with his hundred-dollar pizza too."

"I doubt the pizza's that much money." Remus bit into the slice in his hand, talking through the bite. "But it is pretty delicious."

"It is," Sirius nodded. "It was pretty nice of him to cover lunch for the day. If anything, you'd think you'd like him more for this."

You groaned. "He brought in his family's private chef, for God's sake. It's not like he rescued a cat from a tree or something."

Sirius and Remus shared a look as you spoke. You knew you sounded ridiculous, but you currently lacked enough dignity to care as yet another slice of pizza sat on your plate, ready to be eaten.

"James is actually a really nice lad," reasoned Sirius. "Take it from us. We kind of grew up with him."

That fact had yet to escape you as soon as you'd met the two of them. According to the stories they'd relayed to you, Remus's mum had been an on-set tutor to James growing up when he was acting in some movie, while Sirius's parents had been producers for some of James's parents' films. Safe to say, the three of them certainly left you feeling inexperienced in the world of acting.

"James should be the least of your worries," urged Remus. "He's harmless."

"If he's so harmless, then why has he gone out of his way to be a pain in my ass since I met him?"

Sirius snorted. "We said he's harmless, not that he's not an idiot sometimes."

"But," Remus added, "whatever James has done, just know that it always comes from a good place. The man doesn't have a mean bone in his body."

You sighed inwardly. The James Potter you knew seemed to be very different from the one that everyone else seemed to be familiar with, and it was driving you crazy.

3. He was an obnoxious flirt

When you said 'flirt', you not only meant that he flirted with you—unfortunately—but that he seemed to flirt with anyone in sight, whether he realized it or not. In fact, you'd been forced to watch as he smooth-talked one of the hairstylists on set for the past ten minutes.

You couldn't hear everything they were saying, thank god, but you were sure she was probably more charmed by the fact that his last name was Potter than anything he could remotely come up with to win her over. You'd had enough conversations with him to know that the movie-star smiles he offered were enough to charm people before they realized just how insufferable he was.

After what felt like hours, he said something to the woman in parting and left her looking flushed and smiley as he strolled away. You sighed, happy to finally be rid of distractions, and looked back down at the script on your lap that you were trying to memorize but stopped almost immediately as you felt an unwelcome presence lingering from in front of you. You looked up and fought a groan.

James tipped his head at you innocently. "You wanted me?"

You tensed at his phrasing and did your best to go back to ignoring him as you focused back on your script. "I did not."

Not taking the hint, as usual, he stayed put, shoving his hands in his well-tailored pockets. "Well, you've been staring at me for the past ten minutes, so I just assumed you had something to say."

"Well, you assumed wrong." You gave him a tight-lipped smile from where you sat. "And I wasn't staring. I just miraculously found it hard to concentrate on memorizing lines when you were harassing that hairstylist right next to me."

He squinted at you quizzically before shaking his head, finding your banter more amusing than you probably were. "Admit it. You're obsessed with me."

You scoffed, blinking rapidly to truly portray your disbelief. "You wish. Reality is, Potter—I think I hate you."

James peered at you with a glint in his eye like he'd never heard anything more amusing, leaning back against the wall next to you. "You think?"

You shrugged tightly. "The jury hasn't come to a decision just yet." You thought back to the unfortunately delicious pizza he'd provided, and all the things that Remus and Sirius had said to you that stood in stark contrast to practically every other experience you'd had with him.

James grinned, finding teasing you the most entertaining part of his day, even on set for a TV show. "So I still have a chance?"

His eyes glistened and you reeled. "A chance to what? Did you not hear the 'hate' part?"

"Hate is a strong word, don't you think?"

You shook your head. "Strong, but appropriate."

"Ouch." He touched his hand to his chest in that dramatic way he always did, something you blamed on his actor roots. "Your words hurt, you know." You rolled your eyes, truly trying then to get back to memorizing your lines so James would have nothing over you during filming the next day, but he didn't seem to care. "Look, I get it. You said you hate me. But really, I don't think you do."

You sighed, setting your script aside as you looked up at him with finality. "And why is that, Potter?"

"Because," James began, and you didn't like the tease in his tone as he looked down at you. "A little birdie told me you had some say in whether or not they cast me in South Bay. And that you actually encouraged it."

Your lips parted, those words being the last ones you expected him to say after weeks had gone by since the chemistry read. You didn't know who'd ratted you out, but whoever did would be getting a stern talking to. Or a partially stern one, since they were more than likely your boss.

You shrugged weakly at him. "That ... that doesn't mean anything."

James's thick brow lifted effortlessly. "So you're not denying it?"

At his challenging look, you relented with a drop of your shoulders. "I'm not. It's true; I told Minerva I think they should choose you to play Aaron becuase you are good at your job, James. As much as it annoys me. I mean, you're clearly a great actor, you get all your lines memorized overnight, not to mention the entire crew is in love with you for some reason-"

"Oh, I see."

You paused, looking at the way James's slight grin turned into a shit-eating one. "What?"

He tipped his head at you tauntingly. "You're jealous."

You let out a laugh harsher than you meant it to be. "Please. There's nothing about you I could possibly waste my energy being jealous over."

The brunette tutted, and you hated the feeling it sent through you. "For such a great actress, you're not a very good liar."

You felt your breathing shallow for a moment, not knowing what to do with the compliment that flowed so easily from his lips like he hadn't given it a second thought. You pushed the thought aside, focusing on the insult part of his statement instead, and rolled your eyes.

"Look," James continued at your expression. "Jealous or not, we're going to have to work together on this show for God knows how many more months. Years even, if it gets renewed for a second season." The thought both filled you with excitement and dread as it came from James's lips. He looked down at you with an honest curiosity. "How much longer can you go on pretending to hate me?"

You noted that what he was saying was true, letting the words sit in your chest for a moment, but you also noted that you had more fun being petty. You tilted your chin up at him. "Funny that you think I'm pretending."

James put a hand on the table you were sitting at, leaning forward slightly and making you freeze up. "Funny that you're still not a good liar, love."

Your throat felt tight with something you wanted to again dismiss as disgust at both his proximity and the delicate word that fell from his lips. You let an unpleasant pinch form between your brows. "I thought I told you not to call me that."

James felt something warm, almost giddy, form in his chest, and it didn't matter that you looked like you were considering slapping him right then. He let the corner of his lips quirk up. "You're adorable when you're mad."

"Don't call me that either." You huffed, picking up your still un-memorized script and standing. "I'm going to my trailer."

James quirked a brow, following you with only his eyes. "Is that an invitation?"

You rolled your eyes, walking away and calling over your shoulder. "Absolutely not."

taglist:

@ilovejamespottersomuch @empath-bunny @santaasi @veysxrge @bitterspoons @ladyhestiaa @rorybear14

[sky-is-the-limit]

How Task Force 141 would react to you breaking up with them because of their job:

Captain Price:

He’d take the news like a hit to the chest even though he’d nod as if he’d already accepted it.

The words would catch in his throat but he’d steady himself, holding onto every last thread of composure as he listened, eyes cast down on the space between you.

''I can’t blame you.'' He'd murmur, forcing a small, understanding smile. ''Not for this.''

The sadness in his blue eyes would betray him, though, no amount of practice could keep that pain out.

''Just… if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.'' His hand would linger beside yours, close but never quite reaching.

As you walked away, he wouldn’t move, not for a long while.

He would sit in the dark later that night, staring at the door, almost waiting for you to come back but deep down, he knew you wouldn’t.

Later, when he finally got into bed, he’d let the thought of you be his last and the memory of your smile his only comfort. He’d never say it aloud but part of him was already thinking about retiring.

Maybe this was it, a sign to leave it all behind, to make this mission his last and if he made it back? He’d come straight to your door, ready to give it one more try, no matter how slim the chance.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

When you told him, his face would twist with disbelief, hurt, anger all colliding into a storm he couldn’t contain.

''You knew who I was..'' He’d say, his hands running through his hair as if trying to release the frustration building inside him.

"So why now? Now when I can’t fucking imagine my life without you?"

He’d demand answers, his voice rising with each one and the hurt too raw to mask, searching your eyes like he could find a reason that made it hurt less.

In the end, when he saw the finality in your face, something inside him would deflate to leave only silence as he drove you home, his grip on the wheel seeming like it hurts and the weight of each passing second sinking deep into his bones like bullets. If not worse.

That night, he’d take out his anger on the punching bag, knuckles bruising until the pain became a welcome numbness.

After every mission, though, he’d still reach for his phone, typing anyway. 'Home safe.' It was always the same and you wouldn’t respond.

Days would pass but he’d still text, still send pictures of things he found that reminded him of you. Small things. Little pieces of you that he couldn’t let go of. He’d call, just to hear your voice even though he knew you weren’t going to pick up.

At night, in the quiet of his apartment, he’d let himself sink into the scent of you that still lingered in his sheets, imagining what it would be like to have you back even if it was just for one night.

John "Soap" MacTavish:

Johnny’s heart would shatter into pieces the moment you said it. He'd try to smile but the effort was weak, failing him completely as his chest tightened.

"I get it, lass." He’d say, eyes full of the pain he tried so hard to hide so you wouldn't feel guilty. "I’d go mad if it was you out there." But that didn’t stop the deep pit of panic from swallowing him whole.

How can he wake up or go to sleep without you?

''I just…'' He’d hesitate, tears threatening to fall. ''I can’t blame you.''

But damn it, he wanted to. He wanted to yell, to scream, to tell you not to leave, that he’d do anything, anything to make it work but he couldn’t. Not like this.

So instead, he’d pull you into his arms, letting himself feel the warmth of your body, the one thing he could hold onto even if it was just for a few more minutes. His lips would find yours, slow and desperate, tasting you like it was the last time.

One kiss would turn into two and another until you both found yourselves in bed, clinging to each other with a desperation that made it feel like the world would shatter and burn when you let go.

By morning, he’d be gone, leaving his cross on the nightstand. The only physical thing he could bear to leave behind.

He’d walk out into the early dawn, each step heavier than the last, knowing he’d left his heart back with you, a piece of himself he’d never get back. Not that he wanted to.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

He would expect it. He knew from the start that loving him would only end in pain but even though he saw it coming, nothing prepared him for how it would feel when you finally said the cursed words.

''I always knew it would end like this.'' He’d say, his tone flat but underneath it, there was a world of despair.

He wouldn’t beg nor try to change your mind. He couldn’t, not when he already knew how this story ends. Yet when you asked him to look at you, truly look at you, he’d turn his face and that’s when you’d see the truth in his eyes.

That pain that he’d buried so deep. ''I don’t expect you to wait. I don’t want you to bury me.''

He wouldn’t say anything else after that but you’d feel it in the silence that stretched between you both, that there was so much he wanted to confess to you but wouldn't dare.

He’d drive you to your friend’s place, eyes locked on the road ahead, and when he stopped, he’d glance over, just once and say, ''I’ll pack your things so you don’t have to come back.''

Before you could walk away one last time, his voice would crack just slightly. ''After you… there’s no one else.''

And that would be the last time you’d see him. He’d drive off, the emptiness of his heart trailing behind him and when you were out of sight, he’d finally let the tears fall.

[sequinsmile-x]

Reprise

Aaron gets a call, and it feels like nothing short of history repeating itself.

-x-

Hi besties,

So, I recently realised all of my hurt comfort lately has been Aaron comforting Emily...so then I wrote this.

As always, let me know what you think <3

-x-

Warnings: Minor Emily Prentiss whump, pregnancy, minor injuries

Words: 3.3k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

He keeps getting interrupted.

Paperwork was the most boring part of his job, but one of the most important. If they got it wrong, if even the tiniest detail was missed, then it could be used as a technicality by a defence lawyer. An error that could lead to a dangerous individual being back on the streets, which was something Aaron didn’t want to weigh on his or anyone on his team's shoulders. He’d been there. Had felt guilty over mistakes he’d made before, and any assurances that he’s human, that he’s bound to make mistakes occasionally, would always fall flat. 

He was reviewing casework, desperate to get the pile of files in front of him finished so he could go home and spend the evening with his wife and kids, but every time he was getting somewhere someone would knock on his door to ask a question. A distraction that could lead to a mistake that meant he found himself reading the same pages again and again, not making any progress as the clock ticked closer and closer towards his little girl’s bedtime. 

He’d already sent Emily a text. Had let her know he was running late and to have dinner without him but that he’d be home before the kids went to bed. If he wasn’t away on a case, bath and bedtime were his jobs, now more than ever because of Emily’s pregnancy. Not only was she struggling to kneel on the floor next to the bath these days, but she was exhausted all the time. The four years that had passed since she’d had Mae were enough for her to have forgotten how rough pregnancy was, especially now she’d just tipped over into her third trimester. 

He knew if he called her, if he told her he’d be even later than he thought, that she wouldn’t be mad at him. She’d say that she understood and she’d hand the phone over to Mae, would encourage the four-year-old to speak to him over the phone so he could at least say goodnight to her. Then, when he did get home, she’d kiss him hello and offer to make him a drink whilst he went to Mae’s bedroom to kiss her forehead and just watch her for a minute or two. Her face relaxed and her cheek pressed into the pillow as she hugged her favourite toy to her chest. Both she and Jack, and the little boy Emily was currently pregnant with, were a reminder that good things existed. That he had the life he once thought he’d never get a chance at again. 

There’s a knock on his office door and he sighs, shaking his head as he calls out for the person to come in, his pen already placed down on his desk.

At this rate, he’d get home to everyone already in bed. 

“You could look happier to see me,” Dave says, smirking at him as he leans against the doorframe, “I am your best friend after all.” 

“Emily is my best friend,” he corrects, leaning back in his chair. 

“She’s your wife.” 

Aaron smiles despite his irritation at being interrupted, “She’s my best friend too,” he says, his smile getting wider when Dave furrows his brow, “Have you ever thought this might be why none of your marriages worked out?”

He places his hand on his chest in mock hurt, “You know, you used to be a lot nicer before you married Emily,” he jokes, and they both laugh. 

“Is there a reason you’ve interrupted me?” Aaron asks, raising his eyebrow at him, “Or did you just come in to ruin my flow again?” 

“I’ve finished last month's budget reports for you,” he says, pulling them from behind his back and placing them on his desk, “All you need to do is sign them.” 

Aaron looks up at him, “I’m not going to unknowingly sign off on the department paying for your next book tour am I?” 

Dave chuckles and shrugs, “Guess you’re going to have to see how much you trust me,” he jokes, “You should just go home, Aaron. The paperwork will still be here tomorrow.” 

He sighs and nods, “I know. I wanted to make more progress than I have. Cruz has been breathing down my neck.” 

“You’ve got two kids and a pregnant wife, who happens to head up his Counterterrorism unit, at home. He’s not going to begrudge you going home,” he looks at his watch, “Especially when it’s already an hour past the end of your day.” 

Aaron knows he’s right, but old habits died hard. Even now he found himself getting sucked into work, although never as badly as he had when he was married to Haley. In some ways, he found that Emily's understanding of his job in the way she did helped, because if she ever asked him to take a step back it made him question himself, made him do as she asked of him. He wasn’t proud of it, wasn’t proud that Haley asking him had never been enough, but he knew it meant that he’d learnt from his past. That he hadn’t brought the mistakes from his first marriage into his second one. 

“You’re right, I’ll-” he’s cut off when he hears his phone ring, the vibration of it against the desk loud in the otherwise quiet office. He frowns at the withheld number and picks it up, sending Dave an apologetic smile as he answers, “Aaron Hotchner.” 

“Hi, Mr Hotchner, I’m Lisa, I’m an ER nurse at Stafford Hospital…” 

Everything slows down around him, his chest stuttering as time moves like syrup, every second sticking in the back of his throat, making it hard to breathe as he tightens his grip on his phone, surprised he doesn’t crush it as the nurse confirms what he already knows she’s going to say. 

“Your wife and children were brought in this evening after being involved in a car accident.” 

___

Emily wasn’t answering her phone. It doesn’t even ring. 

He calls her. Again and again and again and she doesn’t answer. Each time it goes straight to voicemail the sound of her voice on her personalised message makes him ache, his shoulders so tight as he drives he worries they may pop out of the joints. 

He tries again, presses the speed dial in his car but it goes to voicemail again. Her voice ringing out through the speakers around him. 

“Hi, you’ve reached Emily Prentiss, please leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you.” 

“Em, call me back, please,” he begs, ignoring the voice in the back of his head telling him this might be the last time he hears her voice, that this will replace whatever she’d said to him when they left for work that morning in their separate cars, “I’m…please answer the phone. I love you.” 

It’s familiar. Too familiar. His hands tight on the steering wheel as he’s desperately trying to get to the woman he loves. Fear greeting him like an old friend as it breathes down his neck, its hand about to reach out for him and grab him by the shoulder. He tries to tell himself that it’s okay, that she and the kids are fine, but he can’t stop thinking that she hasn’t answered her phone. 

She would answer if everything was okay. She’d call him if everything was okay. 

He doesn’t remember a second of the journey by the time he makes it to the hospital. He flashes his badge at a security guard who tells him he can’t park where he’s pulled up, not caring if it’s an abuse of power. Every single cell in his body vibrating with fear and pre-emptive grief and guilt. He should have been with them. If he’d just gone home when he should have he would have been with them. 

He walks up to the desk in the ER, grateful there isn’t a line of people. He’s already speaking to the nurse before she looks up at him, all of the details he had spilling out of him in a second, words tripping themselves as he desperately gets them out.

“I got a call about my wife - Emily Prentiss, she’s pregnant. And my children Jack and Mae Hotchner. I was told they were in a car accident.” 

“Okay,” she says, looking at the computer, “Let me just check my system for them…” She drifts off as she types, and he hates how good he is at his job. Hates that he sees the very brief furrowing of her brows before she smiles up at him, “Did you say Prentiss?” 

“Yes,” he replies, his voice barely recognisable even to himself. 

“I’m sorry sir, I can’t see that we have any patients in the ER with that name, and I can’t see your children’s names either.” 

He grips the counter, his fingers pressed against cheap wood as he holds himself up, “What do you mean they aren’t on the system?” He demands, shouting at the young woman in front of him even if he doesn’t mean to, his desperation reaching an all time high. He finds himself wishing he’d taken up Dave’s offer of driving him here so that he wouldn’t be alone for this.

“It could mean a couple of things, it could mean they’ve already been discharged,” she swallows thickly, “Or, I’m so sorry but it could mean-”

“Dad?”

He turns around so fast at the sound of his son’s voice that he pulls his neck, but the pain that flares in it barely registers. All the anger and grief floods out of him in an instant the moment he sets eyes on him, on them, standing just a few feet away. Emily is standing next to Jack, her arm around his shoulders and the other arm securing Mae to her hip, the little girl’s face pressed against her neck. The only visible sign of injury is a bandage on Emily’s forehead, the stark white of the material a sight that is a little too familiar for his liking. 

“Oh my God,” he breathes out, making it to their sides in a few seconds, pulling them into his arms. His whole world in his embrace before he pulls back, dropping a kiss to Jack’s forehead and then turning to kiss his little girl’s and then finally his wife, “I thought…you didn’t answer your phone.”

“I know,” she says, unwrapping her arm from around Jack’s shoulder to cup Aaron’s cheek, her skin warm against his, “I’m so sorry baby. It was broken in the crash. Couldn’t even get it to turn on,” she looks over at the desk, a flash of irritation in her eyes, “And they wouldn’t let me call you myself.” 

“And you’re…” he looks her up and down now he’s closer and then at the kids, looking for cuts and injuries that weren’t there. 

“We’re okay. If I’d been in the car alone, if I wasn’t pregnant, I probably wouldn’t have come to the hospital,” she assures him, her hand slipping down to his neck, her thumb tracing back and forth over his jaw, “We all got looked at. We have some bruises from the seatbelts, and I hit my head on the steering wheel. But the doctors were happy to discharge us.” 

“You’re okay?” He asks, breathless, as if he’d run all the way here. He places his hand on her bump and the baby moves, the breath Aaron sucks in rattling back and forth between his ribs, “And the baby?” 

“He’s okay too,” Emily assures him, adjusting her hold on Mae. She turns to look at her, obvious fear shining in their daughter’s eyes and she tickles her to draw out a laugh, “We saw baby brother on the screen, huh?” 

Mae nods, her excitement at being a big sister overtaking everything else, “We saw his peni-”

“They said everything looks good. Told me what to look out for that would mean I had to come back in, and I have to arrange a check up with my OBGYN in a couple of days. We got new pictures,” Emily says, cutting over her toddler, not missing the poorly hidden smiles of amusement from some of the people sitting in the waiting room, and the horror on some of the other faces at a four-year-old knowing the anatomical terms for intimate body parts. She presses her lips together and looks at her husband, “I can show you when we get home?” 

“As long as the doctors are sure everyone is okay,” he says, “Maybe I should talk to someone, ask them to look at you all again.”

She smiles, passing over Mae so he has the comfort of their little girl in his arms, and he takes her willingly, stamping his lips against her forehead as he holds her close. She melts into his embrace, exhausted by the stress of what had happened, and he runs his hand soothingly up and down her back. 

“Honey,” Emily says, reaching for his hand, linking their fingers together so she can squeeze his palm against hers. “We’ve all been cleared. We’re okay. I promise. Right, kiddo?” 

Jack nods, “Right,” he smiles at his Dad, “Can we get pizza?” 

Aaron chuckles, the residual panic still simmering in his gut, but he clears his throat and nods, wanting more than anything to just get his family home where he could keep them safe, “Yeah buddy,” he says, ruffling his hair, “We can get pizza.”

___

“I have a feeling we’ll wake up with both of them in our bed,” Emily says as she walks into their bedroom, groaning as she sits down, her body aching in more ways than it usually did these days, “But they are both asleep.” She turns to look at Aaron. He’s sitting on the bed too, an arm's length away, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, “Honey-”

“What happened?”

She sighs and swallows thickly. They hadn’t spoken about it, not whilst the kids were with them. An unspoken agreement that they’d leave it until they went to bed. Neither one of them wanting Jack and Mae to relieve it when they were awake, when it was likely they would in their dreams. 

“It was low impact,” she says, shifting towards him until their thighs touch. The guy behind us wasn’t paying attention, he was on his phone,” she reaches for his hand when he tenses and links their fingers together, “He went into the back of us at a red light. He’d already been slowing down because he saw it go yellow, he just missed it going red.” 

“He could have killed you.”

“He rear-ended us.” 

He all but growls, “He was being careless.” 

She makes him look at her, her hand cupping his chin as she forces him to turn his head, “Something that I made very clear with a lot of colourful language Mae might start repeating during breakfast tomorrow morning.” 

Aaron sighs and kisses her knuckles, “What were you doing in the car anyway? I didn’t know you were going anywhere.” 

She presses her lips together, giving herself a moment before she answers the question she’d been dreading all night, well aware of what his reaction would be, “We were bringing you dinner.” 

His eyes go wide, the internalised anger she expected flashing in his eyes, frustration she knows he’s sending inwards for not being home on time written in the tension in his jaw.  What she doesn’t expect, what she doesn’t see coming despite knowing him better than she knows herself, is the way he bursts into tears. A sob caught in his chest that sounds like it hurts, cracking his ribs from the inside out, the sharp edges of them catching on scars that were already scattered across his skin. Like he’s tearing himself apart from the inside out in the same places another man once tore him apart from the outside in. 

“Aaron,” she breathes out, barely getting a second before he leans forward and presses his face against her neck, his tears burning her skin. She holds him close and turns her head to kiss his forehead. She blows out a shaky breath, seeing him this upset enough to tip her over the edge herself, “We’re okay-”

“I know you’re okay, Em,” he chokes out, tears leaving tracks on her neck, his words muffled against her collarbone as his misplaced anger turns into the grief he couldn’t shake off, “But I keep going back to that moment when I didn’t know that you were. It felt like…” he drifts off and chokes on the rest of his sentence, “It felt like my world was ending. If I lost you…” 

She pulls back so she can look at him, and she presses her forehead against his, her hand curled around the back of his head as she holds him in place, “Sweetheart,” she says, the nickname he usually used for her slipping free, “I’m right here,” she says, reaching for his hand to place it on her chest, making a point of breathing in and out deeply so he can feel the rise and fall of it, “I’m okay. The kids are safe and asleep in their beds,” she shifts their joint hands to her bump and she smiles when the baby kicks, “Baby boy is kicking up a storm as always. We’re right here. You didn’t lose any of us. This isn’t like what happened with Haley,” she reaches up and wipes a tear from his cheek, “We’re all right here.”

He chokes on a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He shakes his head, making it knock gently against hers before he pulls back to look at her, “Sometimes I think you know me a little too well.” 

She shakes her head and squeezes the hand still pressed against her bump, “I’m your wife. I don’t think it’s possible for me to know you too well.” 

“I’m so-”

“I don’t want to hear any apologies,” she says, wiping his cheeks again, “Not for staying at the office late. Or for crying. You have nothing to apologise for, okay?” 

He nods, resting his forehead against hers, “Okay.” 

They wear a door open just down the hall, and then the thundering of Mae’s tiny feet against the hardwood floor. When she opens their door and pokes her head around it she has tears shining on her cheeks, her lips trembling as she steps into the room. 

“Mommy, Daddy, I had a bad dream.” 

Emily shifts back from Aaron just enough to make room for the little girl, “Come here, baby. Do you want to sleep in our bed tonight?” 

She nods as she climbs onto the bed, settling herself onto Aaron’s lap, “Yes please.” 

Aaron smiles and kisses the top of her head, “Well, since you asked so nicely.” 

Mae looks up at him and frowns when she spots his damn cheeks, “Are you sad Daddy?” 

“I’m okay, baby,” He sighs and runs his fingers through her hair, exchanging a quick look with Emily before he returns his attention to his little girl, “I was just scared because you, Jack, Mommy and baby brother could have been hurt.”

She moves so she’s level with his face, all but standing in his lap now, his hands on her waist as he secures her in place. She kisses his forehead, making both him and Emily smile, and then she pulls back, “We’re okay.” 

“I know, princess,” he kisses her forehead in return and encourages her to sit back down, “Are you okay to get comfortable in bed whilst Mommy and I get ready?”

She nods and then tilts her head curiously, waiting until both her parents are standing up before she speaks, “Daddy?” 

“Yes, Mae?” 

“What’s a douche canoe?”

[qqlettuce]

I'm someone that does my best to avoid all the fear mongering and hyperbole, generally I believe things turn out to not be "as bad" as we think it will be, as long as we make it through this bump, things can surely turn around right as they seemingly should, right? No matter how I try and rationalize this, every conceivable angle I look at it, and even after consulting with those much smarter than me, those who try to analyze everything through absolute objective fact: the reality is that this is fundamentally a people problem. if you're feeling confused and scared by those around you, not sure who you can trust, having your sense of unity and community completely shattered, your feelings are valid and you're not alone. I myself am the outlier in a second generation Mexican-American family that all chose to vote for Trump, and I caught myself beginning to second guess everyone in my community. I had to grapple with my own mother not wanting to vote to protect gay marriage, while I am currently in a gay relationship. people can pin the blame on the messaging of the Biden/Harris campaign, whether or not they focused on this particular issue too much or too little, whether or not Biden should've remained or dropped out sooner, whether or not a proper primary should've been held, what people they should've caucused with, none of it would've fucking mattered in the end because people, many of whom you probably trusted to stand up with you to reject fascism and bigotry, ultimately voted for it. this isn't like 2016 where you could make some sort of argument that people were making a desperate last ditch effort for change, unaware of what consequences lay ahead. Trump had his term. It was a disaster, it ended in an attempt to overthrow the nation, An event so sickening that it was certain his fate was sealed and he would never be president again. the cards were already on the table, and his second campaign was only fueled with more hatred, more outright bigotry and contempt for those who stand against him. gone were the feeble run of the mill republicans who reluctantly campaigned with him and in their place were unhinged loyalists and grifters who rode his platform to push their own flavors of fascism onto the masses. An entire social media platform was hijacked and used as a propaganda network for him, working closely with Elon Musk to ensure a constant stream of Trump content was flowing, while also securing a future position for him in his cabinet. This is only scratching the surface of the madness we witnessed, and again, in the end, people chose to ignore it and willingly cast a vote for Donald Trump because of vague fears about the economy or immigration. the more I look into it, it actually seems very possible that some scary shit can happen. An anti-vaxxer will now be in charge of the Department of Health, The Department of Education is going to be dismantled, Trump seems hellbent on mass deportation. Potentially instating THREE MORE conservative Supreme Court justices, total deregulation of the energy/manufacturing industry and scrapping green energy/climate change plans, destruction of women's reproductive rights and even LGBT rights. There is also no reason to trust Trump's word that he rejects Project 2025 either. And to top it off, it is believed his *brilliant* economic plan that so many people voted for him on will only increase prices of goods more. So I find it more important now than ever to find safety and community in each other. You deserve to know who your allies actually are, to know that you have people you know you can trust over these next four years. As an artist, I say that art is also an extension of people, so no, you are not allowed to separate art from their "politics". Do not let people shame you for being afraid. To gaslight you into thinking you have no right to push away those who just simply "voted differently" or have a "different opinion". Your right to exist and be yourself is not negotiable.

If you got conned again by Donald Trump or just straight up believe in everything he stands for, then you're a fucking idiot, it's as simple as that. Fuck you, stay away and you deserve whatever bullshit comes to you as a result of this.

[invisiblegarters]

This is not something I would normally reply to because the one time when I was stressed into sleeping about 2 hours a night over the state of my stupid country and thus had less impulse control than usual aside, getting into these kinds of discussions isn't really my thing.

But the thing is, what made me stick my hand in the hornet's nest and shake it around a bit wasn't just stress and lack of sleep. It was because for an entire year I've been watching the same "crit" go by and boggling more and more, until finally I was just in the exact right headspace to be unable not to say something.

I like crit. But I like good crit. Even if I don't agree with it, often good crit can make me look at something I enjoy in a different way, or help me bolster my own arguments for or against. Good crit gets my brain fired up, helps me better analyze what I am watching and why it does or doesn't work for me, and overall makes the experience more enjoyable.

But what I have been seeing this year is not what I would call good crit. What it has been is a bunch of people who were dissatisfied with a show that they assumed was doing a bunch of things that it never was and instead of shrugging and going "not for me," they created a bunch of BS reasons why they were right all along, actually, only capitalism thwarted the true vision and forced "typical BL" on us instead.

And even that I could deal with - people will believe what they want and often all the rest of us can do is roll our eyes and move on - except that these people both misrepresent information to bolster their arguments and have a big enough following that that misinformation becomes accepted as truth.

Well, it isn't. I might not be an intelligent or articulate meta person. I may not be able to write in a way that engages people and makes them think that I have smart things to say and should be listened to. But what I am capable of is thinking critically enough not to just believe what someone asserts as truth without looking into it myself. I am also capable of realizing that one of these misrepresentations (and one that sticks in my personal craw the most) - that things were actively being changed in the above Show That Shall Not Be Named - couldn't possibly be accurate. Moved? Sure. Cut out? Absolutely. But actively changed to make a different story from the one originally intended, as some people would have us believe? Not a chance. No way they had enough money or time for that, and even five minutes of seriously thinking about it should have been enough for everyone to get that.

And it's not the only time they've taken something the showrunners have said and deliberately misconstrued it to fit their own narrative.

The show was always going to be exactly what it was. We were never promised the show in their heads. And frankly, I don't think I would have liked that show.

But for whatever reason, they can't accept that they were wrong, and now they're so mad that they're letting this color every other show they watch (that doesn't involve the cps that they like, which are exempt somehow from the same criticism they keep pulling out for the cps they don't. Weird, that). Not only are they doing that, they're heavily implying (and often outright stating) that the only reason for people not to agree is that they're mad their faves are being criticized. They are so convinced of their own superior thinking that they've deluded themselves into believing that this is the only reason that someone might disagree. And okay, that kind of thing gets my back up, even though I wish it wouldn't. Oh, to be more chill (I'm working on it).

Complaining about the structure of a show is one thing. So is feeling like the writing is lazy. But claiming that the reason for this is because official cps are killing creativity is absolutely ridiculous, and in my opinion should be called out as such. Romances wind up with the main couple together. It's a staple of the genre. It wouldn't matter if it starred official cps or not, at the end of the show the leads wind up together. That's just how romance works. No one has to like it, but trying to claim that it is anything but a "fault" (so to speak) of the genre itself is absolutely silly (like please, I beg you, watch more stuff. Watch enough of any genre and you're going to have this kind of thing). So is continuously deciding that a show should explore your pet themes and then getting mad when it doesn't do that, often with every indication that it never intended to do so in the first place. That's not what I call criticism, or at least not the kind that has any merit. That's just throwing an extended tantrum.

Don't you think this all comes down to the fact that people watch fiction, romance or anything else, for different reasons and so, they also engage with it in different ways? Criticism is just a way to engage with something. Just like giffing, fanart or writing any kind of meta, positive or negative. People will engage with media in their own way. If they didn't like the genre as a whole, they wouldn't watch it at all, much less take the time to write a post about it.

I think you’re underestimating how many people on the internet get joy out of ruining other people’s fun. If they say they’re doing it out of love for the genre, I’m certainly not going to argue with them—even if that relationship does seem a bit abusive to me. People can interact with media in any way they wish to do so. It only becomes my problem when these blatant lies and delusions start popping up in the main tag, presented in a pseudo-intellectual format that makes them seem like facts instead of opinions. Since these people have chosen to expose the whole fandom to misinformation by putting it in the main tag, I’m going to start saying something about it because I think people deserve to see a counter-argument written in good faith by someone actually enjoying the show, the genre, and the production company making it.

This ridiculous argument about how CPs are ruining the genre has persisted for over a year now and I’m tired of just sitting back and letting misinformation go unchecked. There are plenty of meta writers on here that present their criticisms in such a way that even if I disagree, it’s not offensive. There’s just a certain segment of this fandom that not only criticizes the show, but comes up with conspiracy theories to support their dislike instead of simply saying that it’s not to their taste—and then continues to do so every week for 12 weeks. It’s absolutely exhausting having to spend time blocking people being rude in the tag instead of just enjoying what I came there to enjoy.

And I also think these people should take some time to examine their own biases and ask themselves why it’s only Thai shows they’re criticizing? Why it’s only romances? Why it’s only certain actors or certain production companies? Because it is.

[autisticandroids]

CASTIEL: Stop. What's the point if you don't mean it? You fear me - not love, not respect, just fear.

[youtube with closed captions]

a godstiel pity party. i'd like to thank an anon i got way back in february of 2021.

[sealeneee]

siiiiiiigh

[mysoulspiralbound]

i'm not 100% on the timeline, but fords been missing for 30 years when the show takes place in either 2012 or 2013. plus 2 years spent on the portal, and adding in stuff like ford was probably in school for longer than fidds, the time ford spent in gravity falls before he met bill, and the fact that fidds is married with kids by the time he moves up to gf means he probably graduated class of 1980 at the absolute latest.

technically the first computer science degrees and programs existed in the 1950's, so computer science isn't actually as outlandish as i first guessed. home computers came into popularity in the 80's, with laptops not following until the 90's (though fiddleford seems to have been working on earlier prototypes within the cannon of gravity falls).

still, while fiddleford is very clearly good at computers and programming, the inventions he makes and the stuff he enjoys still makes me lean towards either electrical or mechanical engineering. i bet he took classes in all 3 for his range of interests, but unlike ford, i don't think he'd feel the need to get a doctorate in multiple of these fields. fidds doesn't have the same complex about needing to be the smartest person in the room, and quite frankly anymore than 1 phd is just overkill, especially that early in his career.

what i want to know is when the hell he had time to take enough psych, bio, and/or anatomy classes to build a working memory gun. that thing targets specific or general groups of memories and removes them in a such a way that it seemingly Does Not Damage any other part of the brain unless used extensively. it works by typing in what you want someone to forget with a dial. it's small enough and light enough to conceal it when carrying and to hold it with one hand. it's - it's not even plugged into anything. even after the society of the blind eye has forgotten it's founder then damn thing still works. it even stores the missing memories as playable data. which, for some reason, seems to play in the third person. seriously, what the hell. forget the fake sea monsters or giant metal people, this is his most insane invention. i'm like 90% sure he tested this on himself too. fidds, fiddleford, fiddleford hardon mcgucket—Where Did You Learn How To Do This???

tldr- it doesn't matter what fiddleford studied because his phd is in being so unhinged the only way to appear normal is to be very very gay about the only person more unhinged than you.

it's probably a good thing he followed ford to gravity falls because anywhere else he'd have to contend with things like "ethics board of reviews" and "healthy amounts of caution," both of which were things he did Not have to worry about when doing mad science with ford.

What does everyone think Fiddleford McGucket's degree is in?

I genuinely don't know if it's ever been said or if there's an option here I'm missing, so I thought I would crowdsource :)

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: May 29

“Evil Like Me” by Kristin Chenoweth & Dove Cameron for Disney's Descendants OS

[emdotcom]

I changed my mind. Hater behavior is undeserved, when it comes to works, & idgaf about holding creators accountable when their games are mid, anymore.

[dravidious]

You're more amazing than events occurring

Was thinking about those "discard your hand, draw X cards" cards and made a card

[yeyinde]

winter soldier au with John Price who was held in a gulag for three years and comes home wrong. comes back snarling and furious and threatening to rip apart the goddamn world if they don't give him what belongs to him, what's rightfully his, if they don't give him back his fucking wife, right this second—

the only problem is: John's ex-wife remarried. she's halfway around the world, and Laswell knows John enough to immediately squash that idea right away. but if not her, then who?

and then you walk into the room—a newly hired secretary that John has met less than a handful of times; a pencil pusher barely even a blip on the radar—but he pounces. snatches you up before any of them can react, tucking your bemused face into his chest, cradling you tight; possessively clutching at you as Kyle tries, and fails, to calm him down.

"you don't know her, sir. just let the girl go—"

it's met with a nasty snarl. all gleaming, bloodied teeth. a stranger in a familiar shape as John drags you further away from them. "this is my goddamn wife."

his declaration is met with shock. you're definitely not his wife. you barely know him much outside of a several, threadbare exchanges where he breathed down your neck about filing the wrong reports, and the cluttered mess of your desk ("a goddamn eyesore—"). you're not even friends. and in all honesty, you didn't even think he liked you that much. so. wife?

but he's beyond reason. his head a mangled, trenched mess of artillery fire and Makarov's torture. three years, Kate breathes. three whole years.

you can tell, almost immediately, by the look on her face that this—that you—will become a necessary loss in the grand scheme of things. and when John lets her close enough to whisper into your ear (having somehow convinced him that he can just walk out of here with you, his fucking wife, leaving for the marital home (and bed) that he demands from them for this brief stalemate)—she hurriedly tells you about their plot. this high risk, no reward scenario of playing along. not that you have much of a choice.

keeping John Price as close to them as possible was worth more than something as flimsy, as malleable as your agency, your autonomy. and if the way to do it was to let a brainwashed man play house with you, then so be it.

she, at the very least, offers a grim sort of smile even though you can see her working out the mechanics of it all as she makes promises on your behalf. things like, yes, John, you can leave with your wife. she missed you so much, John. she's so happy you're home.

"we kept your wife safe for you, John—" no one seems to react to the violent way Johnny has to be dragged out of the room by Ghost, kicking and screaming at the injustice of it all because th' captain wouldnae do this! don't do this t'him!

and John—if there's any part of that man still inside him, he doesn't let an inch of it show—just nods, lip pulling up into a snarl as he bullies you closer to his chest, and growls about finally getting you home.

"I'll keep you with me," he rasps, blunt fingers spreading wide over the fill of your body. a mad, twisted gleam of possessiveness, ownership, burning in bruised blue as he familiarises himself with this body he claimed as his. "right where you belong, wife."

(the word comes out in a bite. snaps around you and sounds just like mine.)

[disgustingtwitches]

MDNI

Working at a restaurant with 141! (pt.2)

As the weeks went on, Gaz and Soap would constantly try to pull you into the walk-in. But Simon's stare made you stop dead in your tracks every time. You've resorted to going over to their place, it's always a surprise who's gonna end up on top of who. During breaks between rounds, you'll catch up on a show you were all watching or playing video games and eating snacks. It's light, fun, young, energetic.

"The boys keeping you satisfied?"

Price asks during one of your smoke breaks, he's leaning against the railing again. Your eyes dart to the floor, embarrassed.

"I could take proper care of you."

The words drip from his mouth and run up your legs, making you squirm. He chuckles, a deep rumble from his broad chest.

"I'll pick you up 7 tonight."

Flicks the butt of his cigar onto the wet cement before walking back into the kitchen. Your hand shakes as you finish your cigarette.

The outing was nice, he took you out on a real date. You wore a tasteful dress that he was obsessed with the moment he saw you in it.

Made you order something expensive from the menu.

"Gotta keep you well fed, hm?"

You couldn't argue with him, he held an air of authority even outside of the kitchen. Conversation was pleasant, he kept it appropriate. Actually, that whole time he was an absolute gentleman. Walked you up to your flat. You gave him an anxious kiss that made him laugh softly and you quickly slipped into your studio. You pressed your back to the door, heart pounding. You squinted through the peephole and watched as he turned around, walking away. As soon as you swung your door open, he was stepping inside your place and scooping you up. He gripped your ass while holding you up, his hands positioned in a way that allowed him to rub your folds through the thin fabric of your dress.

"Already wet? Knew you'd be a good girl for me."

You melted in his arms at those words. Gently laid you right on the bed, pulling back to slip off your heels and left kisses from your ankle to inner thigh. He moaned when you giggled from his beard brushing against your soft thighs.

"Fuckin dogs, markin you up like your theirs."

His lips grazed over the hickeys Gaz and Soap left on your hips and thighs. He pulled the dress up and over your shoulders.

"Those sexy fuckin eyes of yours, Christ."

He kneeled over you, taking you in. Your moans, touch, smell, all that was left was your taste. He sunk back down between your legs and had you coming faster and harder than Soap or Gaz. He was down there for hours, only coming up to briefly cram his thick dick into your tight hole just long enough to leave you being for more when he pulled out. So much restraint he had. Only reason he finally finished was because he had to get up early tomorrow. Painted your sore walls with thick ropes of his spend,

"G'na take it all like a good girl, yeah?"

He held your face to muffle your moans with his mouth while he finished pumping into you. Wouldn't even clean you up, just gently pushed whatever leaked out of you back inside. Then he held you close and fell asleep, effectively trapping you in his arms. He ends up driving you to work the next day, taking you in early so he can prep with Ghost. Simon seems more grumpy than usual (it's because he's the one who's supposed to drive you to work, creature of habit he is).

"I'll let you pick her up next time. Don't get mad at me for being a gentleman."

Price sighs while portioning out meat. You swear you see Simon huff.

The drive home was silent as usual, but there was a tension that wasn't present before. Sure, there's been an uneasy or awkward air in the car before, but this was different. You needed it to stop being quiet.

"...sorry for not telling you about John taking me today."

You sat on your hands, staring at the veiny hand gripping the gear lever.

"S'alright, he told me."

His tone was unreadable as ever. He parked in front of your building, looking at you with those dark, intense eyes. You shifted uncomfortably, about to open your mouth to say something.

"G'night."

He interrupted, you nod and step out of his car to your door. You fumble with your keys and turn around to invite him in, he's already locking his car door and headed towards you. Oh fuck.

He doesn't even let you take your shoes off, just flops you onto the edge of the bed and haphazardly pulls down your jeans and underwear, folding you in half.

"Open."

He grunts, shoving two fingers into your mouth, getting them slick with your spit. He roughly fingers your sweet spot until you are overwhelmed with pleasure, then he undoes his pants. You gasp. Literally gasp at the sight of his length.

"That's not going in me."

You blink at him. He looks at you, stroking himself.

"Alright."

He shrugs before slapping his shaft on your wet folds, then rubbing himself against you. He goes at this for what seems like forever, occasionally his tip catches in your entrance before he slides out and continues to grind against you. It's maddening. Finally, you break and beg for him to slide himself in. He does so with no hesitation or concern for your poor walls. Bullies his way inside you until you physically can't take anymore and pounds into you ruthlessly. He covers your mouth with a rough hand while the other toys with your nub. You squeal, yelp, moan. It's all muffled; only to be heard by his ears.

"Atta girl, takin it like a champ."

You were barely keeping it together, each hit to your cervix made you see stars. It hurt. It was heaven. Your eyes rolled back.

"Don't look away from me."

He grabbed your face, making you stare right into his brown eyes. That's what pushed you over the edge, he rode out your orgasm before reaching his. Your heavy breaths filled the room. That's when he finally decides to pull off your shoes and pants. He was surprisingly good at aftercare, made you both some tea (why did he know where everything was?), wiped you down, and put on some cooking competition show. He was into it. Very into it.

"How do you fuck up beurre monté?"

He says to himself, shaking his head while the contestant on TV cried about messing up a sauce. It goes on like this for a while, shitting on chefs choices and mistakes. Your stomach rumbles, he looks at you. Offers to make something. You remember how the food at the restaurant gets sent back. A lot. Decline politely. He walks to the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge and cabinets. You'd say something, but you know you can't stop him. Twenty minutes later he hands you a plate,

"Shakshuka."

It looks...edible. He sits at the end of your bed, eating and watching his show. You take a spoonful into your mouth. Fucking delicious.

"Best I could do with what you had."

He made himself home, slept like he paid the bills, splayed out and snored louder than a Harley. Pinned you right under his arm, mouth right next to your ear. You barely get any sleep.

The next day you drag your feet back and forth from the kitchen.

"Fuckin hell Simon, you kept her up all night?"

John shook his head, burning another steak. Simon grunted, plating the meat and placing it on the window. You served the food to the customer and walked back to the kitchen.

"That's my hoodie."

Soap pointed at Ghost. It was obviously Soap's, they were both well built but Simon's arms and chest stretched the fabric.

"So?"

Simon shrugged, sweeping the floor.

"So? I gave it to her."

"S'fine, she has enough of your shit."

Soap looked at you, betrayed. You shrug, you were too tired to even notice what Simon was wearing.

"Didnae ye notice yer favorite hoodie was gone?"

He looked at you, eyes sad and blindingly blue.

"Give it a rest Johnny."

"'But it's 'er favorite. Right bonnie?"

You nod (you don't have a favorite, but obviously he needs this) and he sighs in relief, smile plastered on his face. Pesters Simon to give him back the hoodie.

"Keep it somewhere safe, aye?"

He hands it to you, holding it like it was a damn fabergé egg.

While Simon and you were walking to his car, Kyle and Johnny run after you, insisting on seeing your place,

"What, only they get to see your flat? It's not fair."

So puerile, Ghost rolled his eyes.

They oohed and aahed at your flat, fawning over your decor. You're thankful for splurging on a king sized mattress. Gaz slept like an angel, but Johnny? Even in his sleep he was restless, kicking and talking. You make a note not to have Ghost and him over at the same time.

Two days later, Johnny almost drops to his knees when he sees Simon in your 'favorite hoodie' again.

[sincerelyneo]

could i request a mark smut 😣😣 where reader and mark just had an intense argument but in the end, they cant be mad at each other for long so they just fck it out of each other 🤐🤐🤐🤐

mad at you | l.mk

“then i try to leave, but baby i just can’t stay mad at you”

💿now playing: mad at you by why don’t we

❯ summary: Mark learns that you’ve made a ‘selfish’ decision that’s bound to put a strain on your relationship. Next thing you know, you're knee-deep in an argument that somehow ends with you sprawled out beneath him; because, let’s be honest, he’s never really been any good at staying mad at you.

❯ pairings: idol!mark x fem!reader

❯ genre: angst, smut, established relationship, make up sex

❯ words: 4.3k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, lots of arguing, swearing, reader is lowkey dramatic, makeup sex, unprotected sex (don't do this!), nipple play, dry humping, brief clit play, slight needy mark bc i can't help myself, creampie, reader uses she/her pronouns, reader and mark argue and resolve it by fucking.

an: i love writing angsty arguments (testament to my real relationships lol) so thank you so much for this request. it lowkey brought me out of writer’s block.

The honeymoon stage lasts approximately thirty months or two and a half years – which would make sense considering you and Mark were approaching your third year together and have argued more recently than you ever had. 

But this time it’s different. You’ve never seen Mark like this, so angry that his face is bordering red and his jaw ticks so hard it might crack as the both of you drive in complete silence from your work dinner. He doesn’t even bother sneaking his usual glances at you when he pulls up at stoplights, the hand he likes to place on your thigh is gripping the wheel instead, and the only noise in the car is his rugged and frustrated exhales. 

You could feign ignorance about why he's upset, but you know the reason all too well. And while a part of you acknowledges his right to be angry, another, more prideful part, resists the idea of apologising, especially when you think his reaction seems so disproportionate to your mistake.

So you sit in the passenger seat, arms crossed and body frozen, contributing to the cold silence settling between the two of you. You prepare yourself for the earful of a lecture you’re about to get when he pulls up outside your shared apartment. 

He parks the car, slams the door shut, and strides towards your building without a backward glance. You scoff at his pettiness; he's never been so angry that he wouldn't at least wait for you to get out of the car with him. He doesn't even slow down when you trail behind. And when he nearly lets the elevator doors close without you, any chance he has of receiving an apology from you flies out the window, you think. 

He does, however, show some decency by leaving the front door open for you as you both step out of the elevator and head towards your apartment – how chivalrous. 

The chivalry doesn’t last long because the minute he hears you clasp the door shut, he’s glaring at you, arms crossed tightly over his chest, and you can't help but notice that he's rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt in frustration. If he weren't on the brink of yelling at you, you'd be tempted to make him do more than just roll up those sleeves — you'd want the fabric torn off and thrown on the floor in an instant.

“Paris, Y/N?!” Mark seethes, voice deep and uneven. “You signed a fucking contract to work in Paris?!?”

You pause, attempting to gather your thoughts, but the momentary silence doesn't offer much clarity. Eventually, you settle on, "It's just a six-month gig..." – a statement that seems to send him into a frenzy. 

“Just six months?” He rubs his jaw repeatedly in disbelief, “That’s six months that we won’t get to see each other, did you even think about that huh?”

You scoff, “You’re one to talk, need I remind you that your job takes you away from me for months at a time.”

"That's not fair," he protests. "You knew exactly what you were getting into when you agreed to date me. I didn’t agree to not seeing my girlfriend for months because she’s gallivanting away in Paris without me."

Your eyes narrow and your nostrils flare, “So what? If you would have known, you wouldn’t have wanted to be my boyfriend?”

His eyes widen and he shakes his head. His hands fly to his hair and he tugs at the strands as he huffs out a breath. 

“How the fuck did you get that conclusion from what I said?” He asks, voice sounding baffled. “The reason I’m so mad is because I like being your boyfriend, but I’m not going to see you for the next six months.”

“You’re being a hypocrite right now.”

He rolls his eyes and scoffs, “Right, because I’m always the one being unreasonable.”

“Yes, you are,” you scorn, “This job is my dream, don’t you see how selfish you're being?”

“I’m selfish?” He gasps, “That’s rich considering you didn’t even consult me when making this decision, I had to find out from your smug little co-worker in front of everyone. You were thinking solely about yourself, Y/N.”

You're on the verge of screaming. How is he not seeing things from your perspective? He's usually so understanding, so open to hearing your side. But the razor-sharp look in his eyes tells you that there's no getting through to him. He's convinced you're wrong, and nothing will change his mind.

“It’s for my job, Mark,” you cross your arms and shrug. 

“And how many times have I told you that you don’t need to work? How many times do I need to tell you I can look after the both of us?”

“And how many times have I told you that I don’t want that? I don’t want to have to always rely on you!” You snap. 

Your teeth grit as the words spit out of your mouth. They seem to hit Mark, deep, his eyes softening for a fleeting moment before sharpening again. He swallows thickly and blinks before running a hand through his hair. 

“Then what are we doing, Y/N?” He asks deflated, “What are we if you don’t want to rely on me?”

You're not sure what compels you to say it – whether it's the way you're all worked up, the entire context of the argument, or some inner recognition that you're the one who's fucked up this time despite you both having stuff to apologise for. Still, you escalate the situation from zero to one hundred without a second thought. 

“Oh, so you want to break up?”

He shakes his head and tongues the inside of his cheek, “When did I say that?!”

The fight only gets worse after that, the two of you blowing up after every sentence. You run around in circles, throwing accusations and insults at each other to the point the original premise of the argument is lost along the way of a thousand new arguments. It’s like every little thing you’ve both done to irk each other over the last month is brought up; and by the end of it, the two of you swear you’re done with each other. 

Sure, you've had your fair share of arguments, but the biting finality of the word "done" as it leaves his lips sends a sharp pang through your stomach – it hurts like hell. You've reached your limit with this endless cycle of back-and-forth; you've had enough of him. Storming past him, you head towards your shared bedroom.

Mark sighs and reaches out for your arm, but you pull away. He doesn't like this, doesn't like the chilliness he feels from you. He doesn't want to end the argument like this; it's never gone this far without a resolution before.

“You can’t just storm away when we argue Y/N, it’s childish.”

“If you don’t like it then leave!” You slam the door shut after you and lock it. 

Mark hates this more, not being able to talk this out because you’ve put a wall between the two of you. Then your words register in his mind and he’s the most hurt he’s ever felt. You want him to leave. Fuck that, he thinks. He’s not going to watch his relationship go down the drain over a petty argument. 

He knocks on the door a few times, then jiggles the doorknob, calling out your name and pleading for you to let him in. But you remain unmoved, denying him even the satisfaction of hearing your voice telling him to go away. This only adds to his frustration. He's the one you've upset, and yet here he is, begging for you to open up so he can fix things.

After a few more tries he scoffs, your words echoing in his mind once more. Leave. It crosses his mind as he makes his way to the front door of the apartment. He swings it open, ready to clear his head and crash at Johnny's for the night. But just as he's about to step out, he catches sight of a picture of the two of you on the coffee table where he keeps his keys. 

It’s from your honeymoon phase when it was easier for the two of you to say you’d never let anything come between you – when love seemed to blind you both. Mark picks up the photo, memories flooding back to the day it was taken. It was the day you met his parents and shared your aspirations of becoming a fashion designer. You reassured them that you had your own dreams and weren't just with their son for his wealth – though his parents wouldn't have minded either way; they would have been content with any girl that made their son happy. And you made Mark happy – you make Mark so fucking happy. 

Which is why he can’t believe he’s even considering leaving you in this apartment on your own after a fight. He shuts the front door and makes his way to the couch. He's eager to resolve things with you now, but both of you are too caught up in emotions, spouting shit you'll likely regret in the morning. So he opts to grab a few sofa pillows and a blanket from the storage closet instead. He strips down from his dress shirt and pants, throwing them to the floor before lying back and resting his eyes with a heavy mind.

Regret doesn't hit you until 2:00 am the following morning, when you're met with the chill of an empty space beside you as you reach out to cuddle your boyfriend, only to find him absent. Sure you thought he was overreacting to the news, but you're also painfully aware that your own words were uncalled for. You shouldn’t have asked him to leave – you didn’t want him to. 

As you heard the front door open and then close with a clink, a thick lump formed in your throat. The realisation that you had driven him away hit you hard, and you lost all motivation. You lay on your bed, makeup still intact, as you sniffled and sobbed quietly into your pillow. And even now, after tossing and turning from your mind running laps, you’d only managed to sleep for a few minutes. 

You stretch your stiff legs and reluctantly leave your bed, unlocking your bedroom door with sleepy eyes. You're taken aback when you see Mark sleeping soundly on the sofa, his breath steady with his eyes closed. You thought he had left, but there he is, covered only by the blanket from the storage closet. It breaks your heart to see him like this; he's likely cold, and he'll probably have a stiff neck in the morning for practice. And you know it's all your fault.

The guilt eats away at you, and without hesitation, you rush to the bedroom to grab his pillows and an extra blanket. Realistically, you should wake him up and insist he sleeps in bed, but the fear of his lingering anger keeps you from doing so. Instead, you kneel in front of him, attempting to swap the sofa pillows for his own bed pillows.

However, your efforts prove futile because Mark is a light sleeper – a detail you foolishly overlooked in your worried state of mind. He blinks as he wakes up once, then twice, appearing confused to find you in front of him in the living room instead of beside him in bed.

“Baby?” He whispers, his eyes hazy as he tries to make sense of what you're doing. It doesn’t take him long once he spots the sofa cushion in your hand to put the pieces together.  

You bite your lip and sigh, “I know you're mad at me, but I didn’t want you to wake up stiff in the morning.”

Mark's chest constricts. How could he possibly stay mad at you when you're so cute, fussing over him like this? He notices the smudge of black makeup beneath your eye, and his heart tightens once more – this time with sadness rather than affection.

His hand reaches out to touch your cheek, and you’re shocked at the touch. “You’ve been crying?” He asks and you bow your head. 

"I thought you left..."

Mark wants to laugh at the irony. You asked him to leave, and yet here you are, upset at the idea of his departure. He swears if he weren't so in love with you, he'd rant about how much you mess with his head, pushing him to the edge only to pull him back again.

“Would never leave you, baby, you know that,” his voice is soft and comforting as the rough edge of his fingertips finds your jaw. 

You can't control it; tears fall freely from your eyes. He's being incredibly considerate and gentle with you, even after you acted like a bitch. Honestly, you almost wish he'd just yell at you instead. But he doesn’t, his eyes widen and he immediately sits up straight letting the blanket fall to the floor as he pulls you up to sit on his lap. 

He shushes you, his hands finding your waist where he rubs soothing soft circles into the fabric of your tank top, “Hey, why are you crying? I’m here…please don’t get upset, Y/N.”

His kindness only amplifies your guilt. 

"I'm so sorry," you stifle in short sobs, your voice almost cracking. "I should've talked to you about the job offer before signing the contract... I-I didn't mean to act so selfishly. I just... I wasn't thinking."

Mark gives you a half-smile as he runs a hand through your hair. "It's okay, baby... You got caught up in your dream. I'm sorry for not realising that. I'm the one being selfish by always expecting you to put me first."

"No—"

He interrupts you to continue his apology. "You were right, you know. I always expect you to wait for me while I'm on tour. I never considered it from the other side, with me waiting for you... But I will. I'll wait because I know how much this job means to you."

Your face buries itself in the crook of his neck as you cry even harder, and he tuts gently while rubbing your back.

"Please don’t cry, Y/N," he murmurs softly. "I hate seeing you upset."

"Can’t help it," you muffle. "I hate that I upset you…"

Mark pulls you away from his neck, needing to look into your eyes as he speaks. "It's normal for couples to argue, baby. We just need to promise to communicate better, okay?"

His fingers stroke your cheeks again, and you lean into his touch. The warmth of his hand feels so comforting as if he was made to soothe your skin, the only person capable of bringing you relief. You bite your lip and nod against his palm, because you're more than willing to work on your communication if it means never feeling like this again.

"Now, give me a smile. You know, the pretty one I like," he says with a laugh. "If I'm not going to see you for the next six months, I don’t want one of our last moments together to be so... sad."

You smile at him and press your forehead against his with a whisper. "Me neither.”

You’re so close to each other that you’re practically sharing the same breath, if you had said that two hours ago you wouldn’t have believed yourself. But here you are, lips so close that your heavy breathing practically begs him to kiss you.

Mark feels it too, so when he does, it's like the softness of his lips is a bandage, mending the angry tension between the two of you. It patches up the last few hours that have transpired, and when he pulls away, it feels as if nothing even happened.

His hands grip your hips firmly, his fingers pressing down as he guides your body to grind against his clothed crotch. His lips find yours again, accompanied by a groan that escapes into your mouth. It's only when you feel him harden beneath you that you remember he was half-naked on the sofa – clearly after you locked him out of the bedroom.

Suddenly feeling suffocated by your own clothes, you pull away from him to strip off your tank top, tossing it over your head before discarding it somewhere in the living room. You yearn to meet his lips again – the only place you truly feel safe – but Mark wants to savour the way you look. Your clothed cunt eagerly grinding against his hard-on, hips chasing a high so eagerly that your bra strap has slid loosely down your arm.

You're a vision, Mark thinks, one that has him salivating and desperate to fuck you. He almost curses at himself for nearly ruining it all, for nearly walking out on the most beautiful person on the planet, the best sex he's ever had – and not only that but also the funniest, sweetest person he knows he'll ever meet.

He leans into your neck, his nose nuzzling into you as he whispers softly, "I'm sorry... so sorry, Y/N." His hand leaves your hips to cup your breast over your bra, massaging the mound with just enough pressure to elicit soft moans from your lips.

“‘s okay,” you whimper. 

Your head falls back as his hand snakes around to unclasp it. He wastes no time brushing his intrusive fingers down your chest, wearing a filthy smirk because he knows just how sensitive you are there. The tip of his finger circles around your nipple until he’s right in the centre, feeling it harden under his touch. He pinches it, and you jolt forward on his cock, making his boxers tighten, and he groans.

He loves how responsive you were to him, watching you writhe over him as he touched you in torturous pleasure. Just the way you arch your back into his touch has pre-cum leaking out of his cock. 

He leans in this time, sucking on your nipple and opening wide to get as much of the tender tissue of your breast in his mouth as possible. He holds your waist in place to keep you grinding on him to entice enough friction for him to feel good too. 

And when he looks down to see where the two of you meet, he moans when he sees the wet patch leaking through your shorts onto his boxers. 

“Fuck, so wet for me, baby. Just for me.”

You whimper, and his hand slips into the hem of your shorts. You’re glad you never wear panties to bed because his fingers find your clit immediately, relieving you of some of the neediness you’ve been feeling from grinding down on him. He rubs small circles as his mouth licks and sucks and nips at your bud. 

“Mark…” 

“Shhh baby,” he coos, “wanna make it up to you. Please let me make it up to you, let me make you feel good.” 

You whimper with a nod of your head, humping into his hand, legs opening wider to give him easier access to the place you’re most sensitive. You let out mild pants, hips bucking more aggressively from the stimulation on both your nipple and clit.

And when Mark notices you getting close, he pulls off your tit to look up at your face. It’s his favourite part — watching your features contort when the bliss is at its highest. It makes his chest swell with pride knowing he’s the one making you cum, knowing his touch is enough to make you shake and moan. And if he wasn’t such a selfish lover, he’d think the sight is something everyone should see at least once.

As you come down from your orgasm, your eyes flutter open to meet him. Mark doesn’t know whether it’s from seeing your orgasm paired with the argument from earlier but he’s the hardest he’s ever been. 

You notice it too, looking down and giggling. “Now it’s my turn to make it up to you.” 

He lets out a soft huff, and a muscle in his jaw twitches with his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat before he nods. You free his cock from his boxers and shimmy yourself out of your shorts. You let out identical gasps when your bare cunt brushes against the tip of his cock. 

Slowly, you sink onto him, fully feeling him inside of you. Your head falls forward, your forehead resting against his shoulder as you take in the size of him, the way he fills you just right — the way he always does. 

The stretch as you take him in never gets old, eliciting the same whimpers and whines. You can feel his hands resting on your hips, then slipping to the bend of your waist, silently urging you to move as he presses you downwards.

You lift your hips, slow and steady as you let the sensations wash over you, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest. His grip on your body tightens as you sink back down, blunt nails digging into your skin. The sounds he makes only drive you further into finding a teasing rhythm because his voice is just so pretty. The sounds are soon muffled to your disappointment when his mouth presses into your skin, so his tongue can slide along the top of your breast — making the disappointment fade away real quick. 

You let out a breathy cry, hands rising from where they’ve been resting, flattening against his chest, to wrap around his shoulders. The slow pace you’d adopted was becoming not enough. And you could tell from the way Mark is rutting his hips up to meet you, he shares the same sentiment. 

Your mouths collide as you pick up the pace, using his shoulders to leverage yourself as you bounce up and down on his cock. When he breaks from the kiss, an unrestrained groan slips past his lips, low and rough, followed by another, and you have to bite back a whimper of your own.

Mark can’t help the noises, he just loves the way you swivel your hips in a way that makes him see stars. He loves watching you work yourself on him for pleasure – he loves when you ride him.

And right when you squeeze around him, he rewards you with a loud, obscene groan, a sound that makes you dizzy and limp. Everything about Mark is intoxicating and downright addicting, and you were in no hurry to kick that addiction. In fact, you craved more of it – needed more. 

You grab his hands and guide them across your body. He squeezes them at your hips, smoothing across your thighs, your stomach. His hands were everywhere, eyes dark and desperate, wordlessly begging for you to give him what he needed, the same thing he’d been kind enough to already give you. 

So you rock yourself forward, providing a new type of friction that makes you whine helplessly into his skin. Blunt nails mark into the plush of your thighs, a futile attempt at grounding himself. The upward thrust of his hips and the strained catch of his breath tells you that he's growing impatient. You know the pace was slow, but damn it, it felt so fucking good to feel him like this, every inch of him sliding into you, hitting all the spots that makes your brain stop working. It also felt like a sick little way to get revenge...

“Faster,” you hear him say. “Please baby, need it faster.”

You could feel his hips bucking up to meet you. Then his thumb finds your clit, working in circles and making you squeeze around him with a shrill, gasping cry. It was his attempt at bargaining with you, doing anything to make you speed up and shamelessly fuck yourself on his cock. Maybe if he pleases you, you’ll let him cum.

“Please fuck me properly baby, need it,” he rasps, “You want me to forgive you right?”

And then you remember what led you here in the first place. You’d upset him and now you’re teasing him – you suppose it’s only fair if you pick up the pace a little more, fuck him messily and desperately enough to have him dizzying towards his climax. 

And once you do, his thrusts grow sloppier, and your thighs start aching. It feels too fucking good so all that you can do is cling to him and let him take the lead, strong hands guiding you as he sucks against your neck. And even though you’re supposed to be the one making him cum, you find yourself buried in the crook of his neck, gasping as your walls clench and nails dig into the skin of his strong back. 

The slight stinging sensation is enough to work Mark over the edge, and you feel him twitch inside of you, sending shock waves up your spine as he fucks his cum inside of you with a final powerful thrust. You roll your hips to help him along, taking all you can get from him and he moans his appreciation as you do. 

You remain tangled up in one another as you come down from your respective highs with foreheads pressed close. You wrestle to find his hand, lacing your fingers with his as he rubs his thumb over your knuckles. He kisses your nose, then your lips, with a tenderness that makes your heart feel like it’s being squeezed. 

You don’t want to move just yet, so you release your hands and wrap them around his neck, nuzzling your nose against his before you speak.

"Mark?" You mumble, your voice tired and hazy. He hums in response.

"I’m sorry," you say softly.

You feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses your lips. "It’s okay, baby. I don’t even remember what we were fighting for."