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tommysparker · 3 years ago

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Never Forget You [Chapter 3]

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Jedi!Reader

A/N: hey y’all! thank you for your patience with this chapter. enjoy!! :) [also totally didn’t have this in my drafts then forget to post earlier pfftttt whaaaatt?]

Warnings: angst with a tiny amount of fluff. anakin finally makes his debut in this series. it gets better just stay with me. long italic paragraphs = flashbacks

Anakin Skywalker had witnessed many things over the years.

Giant beasts? At least once a week. Sith Lords? Becoming too common. Droid armies? All year long. Looking death in the eye? Simply another day in the life of a Jedi.

Nothing could ever have prepared him for the sight he was currently witnessing.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, his Master, The Negotiator, the Jedi Council’s most prized Jedi…sulking.

It has been a full week since You returned to the Jedi Temple and Anakin couldn’t help to think his former Master’s mood and your arrival were connected. He was vaguely aware of your past friendship, only hearing bits and pieces of the adventures you had together as Padawans.

During his days under Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship he would often hear about how “a wise Jedi I once knew” would do certain things. He wanted to know more about this oh-so-great Jedi, however, any time the young boy asked his Master would always brush him off with a mournful look in his eyes.

He didn’t understand at the time but now he’s beginning to piece together that perhaps there was something more between the two of you.

“You think Master Y/l/n and Master Kenobi were courting?”

“Keep your voice down, Snips,” Anakin hushed.

“Sorry, sorry. But Master,” Ahsoka lowers her voice, “what led you to that conclusion? I’ve hardly seen them together since Master Y/l/n came back. What makes you think they could be lovers?”

“That’s just it, Ahoska. They’ve been avoiding each other like the Rakghoul plague. Obi-Wan told me they were such good friends, and now that they’re back they can’t stand to be in the same room as each other? I don’t buy it.” Anakin looked back to where Obi-Wan sat with Commander Cody, no doubt brainstorming new battle tactics and liberation plans.

“So what do you suppose we do? Set them up or something?” The look her Master gave her made her regret her words the moment they left her mouth.

“Come on, Snips. It’s a good idea. We get them to stay in the same room so they have no choice but to confront each other and talk things out! It’s genius.” Anakin smiled, his eyes still on his former Master. He had a feeling if Obi-Wan were to find out about this plan he would be in for a major lecture but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. He couldn’t stand to see the old man look so miserable, not if he can do anything about it.

Ahsoka crossed her arms and followed her Master’s gaze. Something was clearly different about her Grand-Master. He had put his full attention into ending the war, which wasn’t new. However, she could tell something was off. He no longer came out to the landing zone to greet returning fighters, stayed away from the meditation and training centers as well as the Jedi Archives which was the most off-putting observation considering that was where he spent most of his time.

Anytime someone needed to find Obi-Wan Kenobi, the first place they would check was the ancient history section of the Jedi Archives.

“I don’t know why you find so much interest in these old books Y/n/n,” Obi-Wan complained from across the table. “Can’t we go practice our lightsaber skills instead?”

You smiled. “Nuh uh, mister. If I won the wager you promised to sit with me during my reading time. Now shush, and read.” You pushed the unopened textbook toward the pouting Padawan. “Maybe you’ll actually learn something.”

Obi-Wan stuck his tongue out in a childish manner, sighing dramatically when you gave him a certain look and reluctantly opened the cover and began to read Tales of The Old Republic.

Safe to say from that point onward, Obi-Wan would join your daily Archive visits with zero complaints.

You close the book, careful to make sure no pages fell out and gently push it back into its place on the shelf. Using the force, you carefully push the ladder you were currently standing on over to the next column and begin nitpicking through the array of old texts.

It took a few days for you to settle in and readjust to the Jedi Temple life. Once you had, however, things quickly took a turn.

Master Yoda requested that you help train some of the younglings who were having trouble advancing into the next stages of becoming a Jedi. In all honesty, you much rather have had the freedom to roam for at least one more week, but the new role presented an excuse to not be around a certain blue-eyed Jedi.

“Looking for something?”

The voice startled you, causing you to jump and lose your balance on the ladder. You yelp as you begin to fall towards the ground, bracing yourself for the hash impact and the bruises that would add to the collection on your side still currently healing.

Instead, you feel a pair of arms catch you, one under your back and the other behind your knees in a classic bridal style. The hold felt secure instantly, and you instinctively clung to the tunic of your savior. You look up to thank the person for preventing any injuries, but the blue eyes staring back at you made your mind go blank.

Obi-Wan stared back, unsure of what to say. This was the closest he has been to you since you left a decade ago. He longed to have you in his arms, to hug you, to regain that safety net you provided he knew he could always fall back on.

“Um...thank you, General.” It came out as more of a question, your mind still reeling from almost falling and also the fact that the man who you had been actively avoiding just happened to be in the same place you spent hours of your youth together.

“Obi-Wan, please. No need for formalities, darling.” The old nickname slipped out, and he was about to apologize when he noticed the light blush that spread across your face. Perhaps not everything about you has changed.

“Right...Obi-Wan. Well, I’ll be on my way then,” You rushed, trying to pass by him but he stopped you once again by the call of your name.

“Y/n/n’s wait. Whatever game you’re playing, frankly I am not a fan of it.” Obi-Wan crossed his arms and furrowed his eyebrows.

“What are you talking about?” You turned around and looked at him confused.

“You were the one who summoned me here,” he stretched his arms out, “here I am and now you’re trying to run away again. I hardly think that’s fair.” He was beginning to get frustrated. He came in with his heart on his sleeve, ready to finally talk to you after so long and find out why you’ve been keeping your distance. Now, all he felt was betrayal and irritation at the ongoing dance you insist on doing around each other.

He preferred to dance like you did in your youth, but alas this was nothing but another sign he needs to get mind out of the past.

You scoffed lightly. “Again? What is that supposed to mean exactly?” You knew exactly what he meant, but you didn’t want to admit it. You’ve been denying it for ten years and Force be damned if you’d admit it now.

“You’ve been avoiding me since your return--” You open your mouth to protest but he ignores you and continues “--and then you send the youngling to bring me here, only to try to flee upon my arrival,” He frowns, lifting his elbow and resting it on his remaining crossed arm. “I know our history can make things...difficult in the present time,” He glanced around cautiously as he spoke,”but I would appreciate it if we make an agreement simply to not speak from now on. No more games.”

You blinked, head tilting slightly as you waited for him to finish. “Obi-Wan, I didn’t ask for you to come here. Nor would I ever involve younglings in personal matters.” He should know that, you thought. But should he really?

His face fell from annoyance to embarrassment, his arms falling to his sides. “Oh.” He wasn’t sure what to do now. It was his own fault for getting his hopes up. I should have known better.

You purse your lips and nodded slowly. “Well, I’m glad we at least came to an agreement. Goodbye, General Kenobi.” You took your leave, forcing yourself not to look back as you felt his eyes watching your figure.

Obi-Wan let out a frustrated sigh, knowing he just ruined any and all changes of reconnecting with you. In his defense, however, you were the one avoiding his attempts at friendly conversation and refusing to meet and make up for lost time.

Still, something didn’t feel right about this.

“What the kriff was that?”

Ah, there’s that something. “Anakin, please tell me this was not your doing.”

Anakin smiled guilty, Ahsoka coming out from behind the bookshelf to stand next to her Master.

“It was Snips' idea.” Anakin shrugged, flinching when he felt her punch his arm. “Ow!”

“You were the one who came up with the plan, and now look! Master Y/l/n and Master Kenobi will never get together--” Ahoska stops herself, realizing she said too much. “Oh no.”

“I beg your pardon?” Obi-Wan looks at them both incredulously. “First of all, Master Y/l/n and I are simply…” he wanted to say friends, but even that was a reach at this point, “acquaintances. We knew each other in the past, and in the past our friendship shall stay. As for ‘getting together’, you both know very well any implication of that goes directly against the Jedi Code.” He crossed his arms tightly as he scolded.

“I can tell you harbour feelings for them, Obi-Wan. You don’t need to lie to us.”

“Whatever feelings I may or may not have for Y/n are unrelated. You must understand your responsibilities as a Jedi. No matter what emotional sacrifice we must make.” He made a point to look at Anakin at the end, knowing he won’t follow the implication but at least hoping he’ll get the message.

“We’re sorry, Master.” Ahsoka looked down in shame not at what they had tried to achieve, but at the cost and clear damage they caused.

Obi-Wan sighed, running a hand over his beard before resting it on her shoulder. “It’s alright young one. You meant no harm. Perhaps some things are better left forgotten.”

Oh, if only it were that simple.

A Padawan approached the three of them quickly. “Excuse me, Master Yoda sent me to tell you he and Master Y/l/n are waiting for you all in the council room.”

Of course, these things never are.

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ynscrazylife · 4 years ago

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Okay so I had an idea. Agatha x reader where they're both witches and not controlled by Wanda so they're undercover like agatha is in the show except they're wives. After Wanda has the twins agatha jokingly says something like "just imagine that being us" when seeing vis and wan looking after the twins or like "can't you wait until we have a kid/kids" sorta thing and r gets really nervous and starts acting kinda weird for a few days after. Agatha gets concerned something's wrong with r but isnt sure why but knows it started around about the same time Wanda gave birth and although she doesn't realise at first, especially after what agatha said. When she confronts r, r breaks down and starts crying because tehy really don't like the idea of having kids, not in the fact of they dont want to be pregnant or anything like that but they just hate the idea of being a parent at all even if the child was adopted. They've known this for a long time but never told Agatha because r was afraid she would be mad or not want to be with her anymore.

R tells Agatha and she says it's fine and has always been mutual on having kids like if she has them, great, if not also great. And then it ends with agatha consoling r and them just being cute. So basically a really fluffy ending. Sorry this is really long but I thought of it after a friend saying something about kids and that, like what I'm saying about r, I really don't like the idea of having kids. It just makes me really uncomfortable, not in a self doubt way or anything it's just really not my kind of thing. There's a good chance this probably goes completely against your thoughts but if you don't mind writing this I'd be really happy (but obviously okay if not) and I really like this idea in general. I love your writing, have a nice day (and again sorry this is so long).

It’s You and Me

Summary: Agatha comforts and reassures Y/N when it comes out that she doesn’t want kids.

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As Agatha sat on her couch in her home in Westview, a spell book open on her lap, she couldn’t help but come to a certain realization she had been ignoring which was creeping up on her for the past couple hours: she couldn’t solve this problem with a spell.

Agatha had been noticing that for the past couple of days, her girlfriend wasn’t exactly ting like herself. Y/N had cancelled the date they had planned, wasn’t answering her texts like she usually did, and hadn’t come over to her house since . . .

That day when they were at Wanda and Vision’s!

Agatha and Y/N hadn’t been that fond of the couple ever since they realized how Wanda was controlling the town, but they had to play their parts. They were there to visit Wanda and Vision’s children who Wanda had just given birth to . . . but nothing had happened that day, right? They spent the whole day together . . . nothing would happen that Agatha didn’t know about it.

Unless she was the cause of it.

Agatha played the day over and over again in her mind, nitpicking at every moment, determined to find out what had caused this. She had to figure it out at some point . . . she was Y/N’s girlfriend after-all!

The brunette blinked and then her eyes widened like a light bulb had went off above her head . . .

“Ohhhhh! They’re adorable, Wanda! Makes me think when Y/N and I will have our own kiddos runnin’ around the place,” Agatha had exclaimed when they entered the house and saw the twins, not thinking much about her words.

The second those words left her lips only someone who knew her well would notice the shift in Y/N. She immediately became quiet, still playing her fake role but not as energetic as she had been. Y/N had a muttered a “Yeah!” and put a smile on her face, but as Agatha imagined her face in her head, she saw how the corners of her lips were being pulled and how the enthusiastic glint had left her eyes. That was it. That had to have bothered her.

But why? Agatha couldn’t figure that one out, and she spent the next half hour running through all the possibilities, but couldn’t it narrow it down to just one that felt correct. So, she decided to go over to her girlfriend’s house and ask.

Almost ten minutes later, Agatha had put on her coat and was now knocking on Y/N’s door. After a bit, it swung open and when Y/N saw her girlfriend, the fake smile on her face fell and she gripped the doorknob, resolving to her gloomy look. “Hi,” she said, shortly and quietly, mirroring her texts as she leaned against the doorway.

“Can I come in?” Agatha asked, not wanting to have this conversation outside.

Confusion swept across her face but nonetheless she nodded and stepped back, opening the door fully so Agatha could enter and walking into her house. Agatha took it upon herself to lock the door behind her and follow Y/N, them both sitting on her couch in awkward silence for nearly a minute, which felt like forever to Y/N and just a millisecond for Agatha.

“Y/N, I’ve been thinking about why you’ve been acting so . . . off. I realized it was going on ever since we visited Wanda and Vision and I talked about kids,” Agatha began, clasping her hands together on her lap and watching Y/N carefully.

Y/N stilled, immediately knowing that Agatha had figured it out. She let out a short breath, not needing her girlfriend to continue, and slumped her shoulders, holding her face in her hands.

Agatha watched her for a moment, not expecting this reaction. When Y/N picked her head up and Agatha saw the tears starting to stream down her face, the witch went into worry mode and stood up from her seat to sit next to her love.

“Darling, what’s the matter?” Agatha asked soothingly as she wrapped an arm around her girlfriend, pulling her close.

Y/N sniffed, wiping her tears away. “It’s just - when I heard you say that . . . I got worried that you wanted kids. We haven’t really talked about it, but . . . honestly, I don’t want to have kids and I haven’t wanted them for a while. I just got scared that you did and that it would ruin our relationship,” she said, rushing some parts out.

Agatha took this information in with a breath, feeling awful that Y/N had worked herself up over this. “Oh, hon. I’m okay with having kids and I’m perfectly okay with not having kids, I’m so sorry,” she said, pecking Y/N’s lips.

Y/N thought and then nodded. “You sure?” She asked, not totally convinced.

“Yes,” Agatha said, smiling. “Hey, you wanna watch a movie?”

Y/N smiled, too, and nodded. Agatha stood up to get the remote and get Y/N’s favorite movie on the television while Y/N got blankets, wrapping it around them both when the brunette sat back down.

“Are you sure you’re okay with not having kids?” Y/N asked again a couple minutes into the movie.

“Yes,” Agatha answered again, not being able to help a chuckle.

Y/N nodded, satisfied, and kissed her girlfriend, and then allowed herself to enjoy the movie, happy to have the worries about their relationship behind her.

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writefasttalkevenfaster · 4 years ago

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Take My Hand (Part Seven)

Summary: from one proposal to another - you don’t know whose hand you want to take - until you do.

Pairings: Sonny Carisi x Reader, Rafael Barba x Reader

Word Count: 8,649

Song: I thought of you (all the things that will be lost now) / In the cracks of light (can we just get a pause?) / I dreamed of you (to be certain we'll be tall again) (evermore by taylor swift)

Warnings: T, swearing, SO MUCH ANGST, i’m so sorry, like seriously i’m sorry “sightless in a savage land” (22x04) is used as background (but i also f*cked with the timeline to make things easier for me), also the v*rus doesn’t exist b/c i don’t want to live in reality.

A/N: ok, the penultimate part - the last part before the two endings. it’s been a long journey, but we’re here! thank you to those who have stuck with the series and have reblogged and commented!! as always, thank you to @laneygthememequeen and @bucky-of-the-opera for being the best beta readers! i don’t know when i’ll get the endings out because school starts for me this week, but they will be out soon enough! :)

The rest of the juror selection process felt like white noise after that. An arduous several hour process only made more difficult by Rafael’s nitpicking, probing, and constant objections to jurors — it felt like a punishment.

But you could only guess for who.

One of twelve jurors picked.

Rafael hadn’t even looked at you since you left chambers, but the glowering he gave Sonny wasn’t something that you envied. The man who had a million comebacks for everything on any given day hadn’t spared you a word the entire process, even as you two worked to examine the jurors together — with you pointing out possible problems or points of issue with each one, he managed to take your advice without speaking a word to you.

And it was killing you.

Three of twelve jurors picked.

But it wasn’t the fact that he was ignoring you, it was the fact you deserved it. You were unprofessional, you were secretive, and you hurt him in the process — the cherry on top.

Why hadn’t you told him? His eyes were everywhere but you, his hands careful not to brush against yours, and his lips a thin line. He still oozes charm as he spoke to the jurors, his patented smile — the same smile that you would tease him about — his courtroom smile, no more than a painted smile on the clown made to elicit the response he wanted. And one that he could hide behind from you.

You could feel Sonny’s gaze prickling the back of your neck, and you knew that he knew — he knew you hadn’t told Rafael. It was obvious — you could see Rafael still — his head snapping to you, his slow realization, the shock, and the quiet resignation that sunk into a sinking silence between you two.

And you still hadn’t brought yourself to look at Sonny.

Six of twelve jurors picked.

As the judge adjourned you for lunch, Rafael nearly fled the courtroom, and you went after him, following him out of the double doors, and you heard Sonny call after you, but you couldn’t — not now.

You wanted to fix this — you needed to fix this.

How ironic, you thought, following him out the courtroom and down the corridor towards the stairwell, skipping the elevator altogether, you were doing the one thing he never did — following him when he left.

Well to his credit, he did — the stairwell door nearly shutting behind him, but you barely catch it with your hands — but it was too late.

But you hoped it wasn’t too late now, as the stairwell door swings shut behind you with a resounding thud.

“Rafael,” you call him, his steps echoing in the empty stairwell, along with your voice. But he doesn’t listen — he doesn’t want to listen, but you’re following him — and if he knows one thing is that you’re stubborn, and he knows that well.

“Rafael please, let me just explain—”

“Explain what?” he whirls on you, “what is there to explain?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you—”

“Sorry?” he repeats, his voice reverberating, “you’re sorry — for not disclosing to me that you’re in a relationship with Carisi?” His name comes out dismissively — the same way when he was nothing but a green detective shadowing you two — but he was so much more — so much more.

Your voice rises. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to make me look like a fool in front of your boyfriend in chambers,” he cuts you off, “is that why you were pushing the deal so much? Wanted Carisi to have a slam dunk?”

And now you’re angry, “Don’t you accuse me of impropriety—”

“You sure make a habit of it—”

You scoff, “And you don’t?” and the anger simmers a moment — the exhaustion from the proceedings and the day hitting you at once. You speak, your words tempered, “I did what I had to — I told our client about my relationship — I disclosed to him and the judge in a timely manner—”

“So, you told everyone but me,” he’s shaking his head, turning away, “As a professional courtesy,” his words are quiet, stony faced, fingers clenched into fists, “you could have told me that you were sleeping with our adversary in this case,” but the facade flickers, and you see the cracks in the veneer, “but more than that, after everything we’ve been through—”

Your anger wavers, “I wanted to tell you when I dropped off the files, it just—”

“Was the wrong time?” he chuckles bitterly, stepping away, “isn’t it always when it’s us?”

Your chest squeezes, “Rafael, I didn’t want to hurt you, it just happened and I’m sorry—”

“I don’t have time for this right now,” he continues to walk down the steps, and you follow, calling after him.

“What about the case?” and he pauses.

“Mr. Davis and Judge Harper have no issue, neither do I,” he’s rubbing at his temples, adding, “but I catch even a hint of impropriety—”

“You won’t,” and he turns, his gaze undeniably sad, his lips in a thin line.

“I better not,” But still, the guilt sits on your chest, and you say his name again, leaving your lips before you realize— and he shakes his head, “you left last time — and I didn’t stop you — for years,” he continues down the steps, “let me have thirty minutes at least.”

And the stairwell doors shut.

~~~

You hadn’t told him.

Sonny knew that.

It didn’t take a genius to figure it out — Rafael was a brilliant prosecutor, but his poker face often showed his hand. And here it did too — he had feelings for you.

He knew that too.

He knew it because he had been there. He had been the guy waiting in the wings before, he had been the guy sneaking glances, the guy who wished you looked at him — and was disappointed when you didn’t.

And that was the same look Rafael had — the same Sonny had when you had kissed him all those years ago, wishing he were Rafael.

But you didn’t see it, did you? And he glances at your empty seat after you had left after Rafael, even after he called after you, before picking up his briefcase and leaving the courtroom for lunch —

Or maybe you just didn't want to.

“Sonny,” and you find him by the elevators, as you head out from the stairwell, “can we talk?”

“What’s there to talk about?” he pushes the call button, “you didn’t tell Rafael, did you?”

And you’re twisting your lips, “No, when I went to tell him—” the elevator doors ding, and the two of you step in, “his mother was there—”

Sonny wrinkles his brow, “At his office?”

“Well, his mother’s moving to Florida, and so kind of is his office at the moment,” and he can tell you’re nervous, fidgeting in place as you tell him, “he asked me to drop off files — we got interrupted right as I was about to—”

“And you couldn’t have told him this weekend?” he licks his lips, as your gaze drops to the floor, “I’m just wondering...if there’s some other reason you don’t want to tell him.”

You blink, “What other reason would there be?” And he sighs, as the elevator doors ding and he steps through them, you’re still following him, your hand brushing his wrist. And he stops, as your eyes soften, “I don’t love Rafael — I love you.”

And he wants to ask — then why couldn’t you look at him in court? Why did you follow Rafael out? Why did he always feel like he was your second choice.

But he doesn’t ask. He asks something else —

“Then why won’t you move in with me?” and a voice is whispering that your hesitation is enough, that he shows he wasn’t enough, that you two together were never enough — but he doesn’t want to believe it.

Because he wants to believe that his love is enough.

“Sonny, I want to move in with you, I do—” and he knew enough to know a ‘but’ was coming, “but not yet,” and he can’t help but let his face crumble, “but soon. I promise. I just—”

“You need time,” and he didn’t push you — he couldn’t push you — because he didn’t want to lose you, “but I can’t wait forever, doll,” and he couldn’t — not when he wanted so much more, not when he wanted you for the rest of your lives, and he didn’t know if you wanted the same.

“I know, I would never do that to you,” but you were — even as you leaned up to kiss him, he wondered for the first time, how many more times would he get to do that?

After juror selection, you and Rafael had left to go prep for opening arguments, while he was left to stew in his office — spotting a text from you that you would be running late, as was per usual. It had become the norm — working late hours with Rafael Barba — and would he ever stop feeling caught under Barba’s shadow? Even now, a year into this job, when he was in front of his mentor, he still felt like the same greenhorn detective he was when first came in — brash, thoughtless, headstrong — but you had seen past that, hadn’t you?

His chest burning, he reached for the bottle of pepto-bismol tucked away in his desk. You saw his potential, and you still saw it now — but he couldn’t have you by his side now, he couldn’t ask for your support in this case — he downs far too much of the bottle — not when you were too busy standing by his.

And there’s a knock at his door, “How’d it go at voir dire?” Amanda stood in his doorway, as he swallowed, the medicine as disgustingly sweet as Rafael had been today.

“It was the Rafael Barba show, charming and cherry-picking jurors for straight hours,” he could remember his smarmy smile from today — he was in his element, as always. And despite having the skills and the experience, the one thing Sonny couldn’t quite master was his same kind of charm — and you were surely evidence of that, weren’t you?

“Yeah, he was always a dog with a bone,” Amanda sighs.

Sonny laughs, picking up the witness list he had been combing through, “Yeah. I'm looking at his witness list, and he tracked down Ajay's other foster kids, ACS employees, V.A. shrinks. How big of a staff does he have?”

He knew he had your firm’s investigators — but even this much, this was something more than investigators could do — this was police work — the kind of work someone did when they were close to the case.

And Amanda steps forward, sitting, pursing her lips, “I probably shouldn't tell you this…”

“About you and Fin helping him out?” she doesn’t have words, and he knew he was right, and he thinks of Fin on the witness list — “I don't want to know—”

“I am not helping him out,” Amanda clarifies defensively.

“It's fine,” he didn’t need her to draw a line in the sand — it was easier to justify it, it was easier than hearing an apology, it was easier than hearing that his team had chosen Barba over him, “Barba was here before me, Fin was your first partner—”

You knew Rafael first, you loved him before you loved him.

It was easy to explain it away. It was easier than hearing where their loyalties actually lie.

He would always be the odd man out, wouldn’t he? Passed around from precinct to precinct, until he found himself here, but even still, always overshadowed — by Amaro, by Rollins, by Barba. He would always be the newbie, instead of the experienced pro.

He would always be “Carisi,” not “Sonny.”

“That doesn't mean I'm more loyal to them than I am to you,” she pauses, before adding, “You should know that it wasn't Liv's intention to undercut you.”

“Oh, no?” Sonny raises an eyebrow, “Are you gonna tell me that Fin brought Barba in?” And Amanda only shifts in her seat, hand rubbing her neck, until Sonny sighs, “what’s done is done — but I had thought the team would have my back—”

“They do but—”

“There shouldn’t be a ‘but,’” he sighs, “Amanda, I’m having to fight a one person war over a man who shot another in broad daylight—”

“He was abusing her daughter—”

“We hadn’t proved it yet!” Sonny sighs, leaning back in his chair, “there’s a reason they say innocent until proven guilty — we can’t give people a license to kill. Especially not now.” The concept of a white man shooting and killing a person of color and getting off without jail time did not sit well with him. Either way, he wouldn’t be the one to hand people licenses to kill — not without a fight.

“I know that,” Amanda raises her hands, “I do —- but Liv and Fin just want to help Davis and they thought Barba was the best way to do that,” and she doesn’t miss how his brow furrows, “is something else going on?”

And he wants to tell her — tell her about you and Rafael, about how Liv’s stunt may cost him his relationship and his case, how he didn’t know how you felt anymore, and he didn’t know what to do.

But he doesn’t, he only sighs, “I just would like to feel like someone is on my side,”

And then Amanda asks about you, “Have you talked to—”

“We’re both working the case—” he shakes his head, “Client privilege and the code of professional responsibility makes it difficult to talk about this.”

“You can still talk about everything else,” and he almost gives a bitter chuckle — before pulling the ring box from his pocket and placing it on the desk.

“Not everything,” as Amanda stares at the ring box, mouth ajar, as he lifts his gaze to meet her’s, “I’ve wanted to ask — for months,”

Amanda’s blinking, clearing her throat, “What’s stopping you?”

And he could feel his heart crack with the truth of his answer, “I don’t know if it will be a yes.”

And after Amanda left, and he sat in the quiet of his office, he wondered if he would ever be good enough — good enough prosecutor, good enough advocate, good enough boyfriend —-

And your text comes through: Headed back to your place, bringing dinner! And then another: don’t worry I didn’t cook :) And he glances at the picture of the two of you on his desk, before rising to leave —

Good enough for you.

He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

If Rafael knew one thing well, it was disappointment — and it was so simple to be disappointed in others. Was that why he had become a prosecutor? To point out the flaws in a person, to pin them in place with their worst actions at the lowest point of their life and hold them accountable? His eyes flicker to you, it was easier than seeing the humanity in others — to look past their flaws for something more that was there — and then fight for it.

Because when you fought for it, there was always a chance you would be the one to get hurt.

Why did he let his mother get his hopes up?

When he first saw you at Rikers, he had resigned himself to being your friend, to being a colleague — because he didn’t think he deserved more, and he didn’t. And it was enough — until it wasn’t.

And he could think about all the things he did wrong — over and over, wishing for another chance, but that wouldn’t change the fact you were in love with someone else.

He snuck at a glance at you — you sat, legs crossed in your suit. Even in the late hours of the night, how had you managed to look so effortlessly good? Even after listening to him practice far too many versions of his opening argument, you sat pen pressed to your lips, lost in thought.

Even with his silent treatment, you had insisted on working on this — until you both got it right. You had mostly taken to shouting suggestions from the gallery — body language, wording — not that he had bothered to acknowledge you. He crossed out what he just wrote, before sighing and rising to his feet, and now he decided to take a completely different tact.

He faces the empty jury panel, beginning to speak.

“I consider myself a nice guy,” you snort, as Rafael’s head snaps to you raises an eyebrow at you, “what?”

“Is that we’re going with?” you hide your smirk behind your notepad, “didn’t know we could lie under a court of law.”

And he’s crossing his arms, “I do consider myself to be nice,” and you’re raising an eyebrow now, “you don’t?”

“You’re the one who told our first victim together that she wouldn’t like you after this,” you had started the Twenty Five Acts case almost as soon as Rafael did — pulled in from a different department to help with the case, but you ended up finding your home there — your gaze raises to meet Rafael — for a time, “and now you think you’re nice?”

And he’s huffing, “Are you sure you aren’t letting your personal experience color your opinion?”

“Well, it sure isn’t helping,” and his eyes narrow, before snapping back to his notes, “come on, Rafael, you won’t even hold a conversation with me — the only way you’re talking to me is if I get a rise out of you.”

“We’re lucky you’re so good at that,” and you scoff, setting your pad down in your lap, before fixing him in place with your narrowed eyes.

“Is this what it’s going to be like?” you echo his own words to you, “are you going to act like this throughout the rest of the trial?” and he doesn’t deign to reply to you, scribbling a note in his legal pad, “should I recuse myself from the case?”

“No,” he glances up, and you cross your arms.

“Then what?” and his lips are a tight line, “I get it, Rafael — I hurt you by not telling you about Sonny — and I’m sorry, but,” he sees you frown out of the corner of his eye, “did you not expect me to move on?”

“That isn’t what I’m upset about—”

How could he? How could he when you deserved so much more than him? And maybe that was the reason he wasted his chance with you — he was too busy pushing you away to see that.

Just like he was now.

You push yourself from the chair, the chair scraping against the floor, “Then what is it?”

And his gaze snaps to yours, and his anger deflates when he sees the hurt in your eyes, “I’m sorry,” he sighs, shaking his head, “I’m happy for you — I am—”

“You have a funny way of showing it,”

“I’m sorry, it just,” he can’t tell you how he feels — it’s not fair to you or to Carisi, “just caught me off guard. I just—” he purses his lips, “I don’t like when people hide things from me.” especially you.

But he doesn’t add that.

“I know, and I should have told you from the start — everything just happened so quickly,” you lean against the railing of the gallery, “It was just...really hard to tell you.”

And he’s stepping toward you, hands in his pockets, “Why?”

You give a terse chuckle, “Why do you think?”

Now he’s leaning next to you, “Well like you said, why wouldn’t I expect you to have moved on?” and your eyes can’t quite meet his, “afraid to rub salt in the wound?”

You roll your eyes, “If I can remind you, the wound was mostly your fault,”

“‘Mostly’ is a gift,” you laugh, and he bites back a smile, “do you think...it could have worked out between us?”

“Rafael—”

“I know you’re with Carisi,” the words sting as he says them, before he’s standing up — stupid question — “I just wanted to know, you don’t have to—”

“I loved you,” you admit, and he pauses, glancing back at you. You’re biting your lip, “I would have married you — if you asked me back then.”

He smiles sadly, “And by the time I did, it was—”

“Too late,” you both finish, your gazes dropping to the floor. And he allowed himself to wonder a moment — what if it had worked out? Where would they be now? Would they have a home? A family? A kid? Maybe he would be in private practice, like you — spending his weekends with you instead of an empty apartment. Maybe you both would be in New York, maybe you’d be in the suburbs. But you’d be together.

But you weren’t.

“When did you and Carisi start—” and you tilt your head.

“Is this appropriate—” you start, gesturing between the two of you, and he snorts.

“Is any of this appropriate?” and he didn’t know why he was asking — it would be better not to know, it would be easier not to know, “were you with him when I left New York?” but he still wanted to know.

“No,” your eyes are fixed to the floor, “I hadn’t even spoken to him in years,” and you add, “it was after he started at the D.A.’s office — a few months after. I had to settle a case in Manhattan and he was handling it.”

“So you’ve been together…?”

“It’s been about two years,” and he feels the pain leak into his chest — and now it would be him you would be coming home to, you that he would be walking down the aisle, you that he would be starting a family with.

But two years is a long time without an engagement.

You cross your arms — he notes the absence of an engagement ring on your finger — and he wonders if you were so in love, why weren’t you engaged by now? “We should get back to work,” you say, and he clicks his tongue, glancing at his watch.

“It’s late,” he tilts his head, “we should call it a night.”

“Shit, it is,” you sigh, grabbing your coat and your bag, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Raf.”

His lips upturns at the sound of his nickname on your lips, and he can’t help, but call after you — he needs to know, “You’re happy with him, right?”

Your lips curve into a smile, “I am, I really am.”

And he knows he really can’t tell you how he feels — so he smiles, “Good night.”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you close the door behind you, tossing your keys and purse on the table, and kicking off your shoes, “Practicing openings ran late—” you cut yourself off, finding Sonny asleep on the couch, case file in hand.

His head lolled back against the couch, the file slipping down his side, and a half eaten dinner plate on his coffee table in front of him, the TV still on. You shut your mouth, smiling at the sight — before you pulled off your jacket, and hanging it up in the bedroom, before you found your way back to him.

“Sonny,” you murmur in his ear, pressing a kiss to his temple, “wake up,” And he’s mumbling your name in his sleep, eyes fluttering, “come on, let’s get you to bed.”

And after some coercion, he’s stumbling to his feet, warm fingers interlaced with yours as you lead him into bed, his eyes barely open, and he’s slipping into bed, under the covers, but his hand still won’t let you.

He mumbles something under his breath, “What did you say?”

“Don’t go,” he murmurs again, tugging you gently, until you’re sitting at his side, and he sighs, “don’t leave, sweetheart. Not yet.”

And your gaze softens, as his eyes flutter closed, running your fingers through his hair, “I won’t, Sonny.”

And he’s asleep, his quiet breaths filling your ears, and you get a text — phone vibrating in your pocket: Finally worked out the opening. I’ll show you tomorrow.

And Rafael adds: Unless you have a moment right now?

You glance at Sonny, asleep, before slipping your hand from his and switching the lamp off, closing the bedroom door behind you.

Yeah. I have a minute.

~~~

Sonny awakens at the sound of his alarm ringing. He groans quietly, blindly reaching for it, before shutting it off. And he turns, reaching for you, to find no one beside him. He blinks the sleep from his eyes to find only your pillow. He checks his phone — Had to head in early to speak to my client — I’ll be home for dinner at eight this time, I promise. Love you!

He frowns, rubbing his eyes, how many times did it make it that week?

He sits up, stretching, he had barely seen you — between work at the firm and work on the Davis case, he hadn’t seen you in a solid week.

But you have seen Barba every day of the week now.

He didn’t think of himself as jealous — no, he knew his place and he trusted his partner. And he knew you would never cheat, at least, not physically.

But it wasn’t you he didn’t trust.

Barba was a friend, a mentor, but he was also your ex. The very same that had broken your heart, the very same you had fallen in love with, the very same that you probably would have married in a heartbeat.

So why not Sonny?

He knew Barba had made you afraid of commitment — tentative to get your heart broken again, hesitant to take that step off a cliff where you couldn’t see the bottom — but he would catch you, he would always catch you.

He stares at your messages, so why didn’t you?

Might run a little late — Rafael wants to prep a witness again.

And he locks his phone.

Maybe he already knew the answer.

“Yet another late night,” you groan, looking at the time, stretching out on your couch, “how does this keep happening?”

“We’re both workaholics and enablers,” Rafael replies, putting away some of the case materials, “plus I’m more productive working here than my mother’s kitchen table.”

More or less, his eyes found their way to you as they always did — at least the view was much better.

You snort, gesturing, “My office thanks you,” before you think, “you know I could get you an elevator fob, a temporary one, so you could work the case here.”

Rafael pauses, furrowing his brow, “And that’s okay with your partners?”

“Well they want a win, so,” you sit up, rising from the sofa, glancing over at him, “they’ll be fine,” and he’s raising an eyebrow, and you can’t help but slowly smile, as you walk across the office, “well, they told me all things go well — I may be making partner after all.”

“You’ll be a partner?” and you nod, as he beams, “congratulations,” he moves forward, but hesitates — instead offering you his hand, and you roll your eyes, taking his hand and pulling him into a hug. And he stiffens, but tentatively melts into — “I’m really proud of you — you deserve it.”

“Thank you,” you reply softly, your arms resting loosely around his shoulders,

And he pulls away, lips curved upwards, “Thank me? I should be thanking you for all the work you’ve put in—”

“No, no,” you bite your lip, “I meant for everything — you helped me become the attorney I am today — you guided me, and,” your eyes meet his gaze, “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“In more than one way,” he gives a bitter chuckle, pulling away, stepping back. He had driven you from work — it was your choice, but what other choice did he leave you? It was either move on or spend days working with the man who broke your heart.

“Raf—” you start.

“I did apologize for what I did, but—”

“You did and—”

“But I don’t know how to make it up to you,” he presses his lips together, arms crossed over his chest, “in a way, I don’t think I ever can. I just—” he shakes his head,

“Raf,” you shrug, “I really wanted to hate you,” and a huff of a laugh escapes your lips, “you didn’t make it that hard,” a mournful smile on his lips, “but I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to,” you tilt your head, “I loved you — I couldn’t find it in me to hate you — even when I thought I did, even when I said no to you — I didn’t hate you — I couldn’t. You made mistakes and you apologized,” and you add with a sigh, “it’s also really hard to hate you.”

“Really?” a half smile on his lips.

“At least for me,” stepping forward, “must be something wrong with me — physically, psychologically, something,”

He scoffs, biting back a smile, “I hear Liv knows a good F.B.I. psychiatrist,”

“I’ll have to ask her about it,” you snort, “where’s this coming from anyway?”

“I treated you so terribly over Carisi,” he says softly, “when I treated you worse when we were together—” and you waver, “I just — I’m sorry — you deserve more than that,” you deserve more than me, he thinks, and you have it.

“We both made mistakes,” you tilt your head, “don’t you think it’s more important what comes after?”

“And what is that?”

You roll your eyes, “Friendship? Camaraderie? Maybe even a little honesty?”

“Well, you know lawyers love to lie,” he steps forward.

You raise an eyebrow, “Are you lying about something?”

Only my feelings — but what else was new? “Nothing important,” he smiles, grabbing his coat, and he bites his lip, glancing at the time — 9:37 PM, “do you have time for a celebratory drink for your promotion?” and you frown, “unless you have plans?”

And you glance at him and your phone and back, before nodding, “I got time.”

“Have you asked—”

“Not yet, Ma,” Sonny sighs, glancing at his casework, before leaning back in his chair, the stress crawling up his already stiff shoulders. And this phone call did little to alleviate his stress, “We’ve both been so busy with this case—”

“Too busy to talk about marriage?” it added to it, and he’s rubbing his temples, regretting ever asking for his grandmother’s ring to propose, “Dom, don’t let this one get away because you’re too afraid—”

And he’s covering his mouth, fingers squeezing his phone, “I know—”

He knows, but do you?

“You’re good for each other — we’ve seen it for ourselves,” he could hear his mother smile, “it’s so rare that you find someone that your sisters actually like, not to mention your father — that man—” his stomach is sinking, and cuts herself off, “what are you waiting for, Dominick?”

He was waiting for you to love him enough.

“Ma—”

“You love—” He’s always loved you more than enough.

“Of course I do, but—”

“But nothing!” she huffs, “you should propose tonight over dinner, I got the perfect recipe for you to cook, it will—”

“I can’t!” he finally snaps, frustration boiling over, “I can’t because I haven’t even gotten an answer about moving in—” and his anger simmers into sadness, voice breaking, “so how can I ask for marriage, when—” when he’s not even sure if you love him anymore?

“Dominick,” his mother’s voice would break his heart, if it already wasn’t broken, “if you’re unhappy, you have to say something, you can’t let it go on,” her words are soft, but firm, “you don’t deserve to have your heart wasted — you’re too good for that, my sweet son.”

He clears his throat, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, “I have to go, Ma,”

“Ok,” she says with reluctance, “call me later this week?”

“I will,” and then he adds, “and Ma? I love you.”

“I love you too,” and she hangs up, as he sets his phone down, seeing his lock screen — a picture of him kissing your cheek at lunch, a few days before the case. And he’s staring at your smile, your lips, the way you were looking at him instead of the camera — and he locks the screen.

He needed to tell you.

The door clicks shut — the fourth time in a row you had been late. Sonny sits, eyes forward on the T.V., arms crossed against his chest, not bothering to look over.

“Hey,” you begin, “sorry I’m late, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies tersely, and he doesn’t want to fight — he doesn’t — he’s too tired to fight, before clicking off the T.V., “I’m used to it.”

And you blink, “Sonny—”

“It’s what? The eighth time or ninth time?” he’s sighing, “if that’s not a pattern—”

“And this isn’t court,” you are walking towards him, setting down your things, “I’m sorry this case has been taking so much of my time— our time—” you correct yourself, “but it’s almost over — you know that, we’re working the same case.”

“Except I’m not the one who is constantly at the office,” he’s sipping at his drink.

“Because my side of the case is harder — you know the facts,” you cross your arms, “we have to be creative — we don’t have the government’s disposal at our fingertips—”

“That would be true, if Liv and Fin didn’t help Barba find and track down witnesses,” he raises his eyebrows at you, as you blink, “yeah I knew about that.”

“I didn’t know—”

“And it’s one thing to feel like your team is not on your side,” his chest squeezes, finally meeting your gaze, “but when it’s you—”

“Sonny, this is my case, it’s professional. It has nothing to do with us,” you find your way to his side, but he’s pulling away from you.

“It is when you’re using this case to push me away,” he says quietly, and he tries to see past your glassy eyes, “you’re never home, you’re always at the office, we never see each other—”

“It’s just—”

“It’s not work,” he almost laughed out of frustration, his heart no longer cracked but flooding, sinking beneath his own pain, and he could barely see the surface, “this has been happening even before.”

“What are—”

“Why won’t you move in with me?” he can’t afford to avoid it any longer — the question burning on his tongue so long that it had branded the words across his flesh. The one question he knew that could pull this whole thing apart, but he needed to ask because he needed to know whether it would.

And he’d fall with it, if he had to.

“Sonny,” you’re staring at him, “I—”

“We’ve been dating for two years,” each word scrapes against the lump in his throat — each syllable only pain and hurt, “I have tried to be a good boyfriend, patient and loving — I love you, I’ve loved you since I met you—”

“I know, Sonny,” your voice breaks.

“And I can’t wait any longer for your answer,” he’s risen to his feet now, “I need to know.”

“I’m just not ready—”

“Will you ever be ready?” and he knows the answer, and he’s known the answer — he just couldn’t bring himself to ask it, but your silence is the answer he needs. And he’s turning away from you, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Sonny—” And he’s grabbing his things — his coat and his bag, but you’re at his side, fingers brushing his arm, “please—”

And he turns, pulling your hand away from him, “Have you ever asked yourself why you can’t move in with me?” and you blink, “it’s because of him.”

And he doesn’t need to explain who that is, “It’s not—”

“I’m tired,” he cuts you off, turning away from you, “I’m tired of being your second choice, okay?” The words leave his lips and he’s almost as struck by them as you, and in a second, he’s pulling you aside into an empty conference room, the door clicking behind him, “I don’t want to live in his shadow anymore—”

“Sonny—”

“And not just with you,” he knew Fin, Rollins, and Liv were helping him — despite their orders, despite their loyalty to the state of New York, and despite their loyalty to him. And you — every late night, every glance in court, everything that existed between you two — he trusted you, he did, but he didn’t trust your feelings, “I can’t do it.”

You’re at his side again, fingers plying at his cheeks, trying to get him to look at you, “I want you to move in, please, I—”

“I don’t want to just move in anymore,” he sighs, it wasn’t enough — not anymore, “we’re past that, I’m past that.”

“I—” and he pulls the ring box from his pocket, and your head snaps to it.

“I want to marry you, sweetheart,” his voice softens, fingernails digging into the velvet, “I want to be with you forever — I want to have a family, children, a home—I want to give you everything,” and tears are slipping down your cheeks now, “but not if you can’t give me everything too.”

And he wanted your everything — more than anything — he wanted to share it with you, to know you like he knew himself. And maybe he never would — but he would spend a lifetime trying to — and wasn’t that what loving someone was?

And he knew you loved him — but was it enough?

“Sonny, I—” you can’t believe it — it’s written clear across your face, and he knows — his stomach sinking — you hadn’t thought about this, had you? Not like he did, “I—”

“I think we need some time,” and he’s stepping away, “I need some time—”

“Sonny, please I don’t—” and you’re taking steps in tandem, until he allows you to touch him — but it doesn’t bring him peace, only pain.

And he kisses you because he can’t help it, not when you’re crying and he’s the cause — you pull him in, a meteor that can’t pull out of your orbit, and his kiss is soft and hard — jaw clenched, even as he melts into your touch, until you break apart, only your brows brushing in quiet of your breaths.

Until he’s pulling away.

“Think about it, okay?” he tucks the ring box back into his pocket, “because I have, and I—” and he swallows, “I can’t anymore.”

“How long do you need?” you ask quietly, as he steps towards the door, his fingers brushing against the doorknob, as he looks over his shoulder at you, standing.

And he smiles sadly, “That’s up to you,” and as the door shuts behind him, he knows that you know what he means — he needs an answer, and he hopes you give the one he wants.

Otherwise — he rests his head on your shut door, eyes stinging with tears — he’s not coming back at all.

You can’t sleep. An understatement.

You hadn’t slept in two nights — you couldn’t. Each time you’d toss and turn until you gave up, turning on your side and scrolling mindlessly through whatever app you found amenable — anything to not think, anything to not see Sonny’s face staring at you looking for an answer you didn’t have, anything to not hate yourself for not having the answer.

You hated yourself. Another understatement.

You turned on your back, staring at the ceiling — how could you do this to Sonny? What was wrong with you? He was perfect — loving, caring, sweet — and all he wanted was a future with you.

The very thing you were afraid of.

But why? You squeeze your eyes shut, but the thought wriggles its way to the forefront of your mind — Why were you so afraid?

You sigh, glancing at the empty space next to you, rolling over to Sonny’s pillow — it still smelled like him, his shampoo, the unique scent that you couldn’t quite pin down, but that was him all the same. Tears sting at your eyes, and you throw off your covers, sitting up — you couldn’t stay here.

You pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a jacket — sparing one more glance at your bedroom — not right now.

You don’t know where to go — you don’t feel like eating, you don’t feel like sleeping, so where else do you go?

You go to work.

The office building is unlocked from the outside — relatively deserted, except for the security guard that sat at the desk, who nodded at you as you entered — bleary eyed. You slip into the elevator, scanning your elevator fob and hitting the right floor, a shaky breath as the doors shut behind you — but you can’t cry, not in the elevator of your workplace, not when you’re on camera, not when you don’t deserve to.

Not when it was you who had done the hurting this time.

The elevator dings, letting you off on your floor — and you step off to an empty floor. The lights have long ago dimmed, as you scan your fob and open the glass doors to the offices. You spare at the glance at the partners’ offices — the lights shut. And you sigh, you hadn’t even told Sonny about the potential offer — you were going to wait until it was confirmed.

And now, you arrived at your office opening the door, would you ever get the chance?

You jump when you hear your name, head whipping up, heart in your throat, when you spot Rafael sitting on your couch, “Hey,” he blinks, “sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” and you furrow your brow, “I was practicing my closing.”

“How—” and you remember the temporary key fob you had made for him— and you shake your head, “no I’m sorry too, I just needed—” you swallow the truth, “I just—” but you can’t bring yourself to lie, choking on your own words. And then he asks the one question that he shouldn’t —

“Are you okay?”

And you’re crying, tears slipping down your face, and you don’t know how but he’s holding you now, your tears staining his button up, buried in his shoulder, “I’m sorry— I—”

He shushes you gently, “It’s okay, don’t apologize,” and you both stand there for a few minutes, until your sobs finally quiet, an empty feeling in stirring in your chest, and he’s running tentative fingers through your hair, “I feel like I can count the number of times you’ve cried in front of me on my fingers,”

You give a watery chuckle, “I don’t like crying in front of other people,”

“Who does?” he replies drily, and you laugh, shaking your head, before resting your forehead against his shoulder a moment.

“This is such a mess,” you whisper, before you’re pulling away, “I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t say sorry,” he shakes his head, as you sniff, wiping your tears, before jerking his head towards the couch, the two of you sitting, and he’s handing you bottled water. You take a few mournful sips, before screwing the cap on, “what happened?”

“I really fucked things up with Sonny — I—” your voice broke, “you should have seen him — he was—”

“It’s okay, slow down,” he tells you softly, “What happened?” and you’re silent a moment, “unless you don’t want to—”

“Sonny — he proposed,” the last words come out a whisper, and Rafael blinks, “sort of, it was an argument.”

“Because you didn’t say yes?” and you’re shaking your head.

“Because he thought I never would,” you squeeze your eyes shut, covering your face, “I don’t know what to do,”

“I think the obvious question to ask is, do you want to marry him?” and you don’t know how to answer that.

“I’ve never married someone before,” a tear slips down your face and he’s handing a tissue, “how do you know?”

“It’s a feeling,” he shrugs, “it’s the same as love — you feel it,”

You blink away tears, meeting his gaze, the question leaves your lips before you could stop it, “How did you know?” and you shake your head again, cheeks burning with shame, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“I knew too late,” his gaze dropping to his lap, “but I knew I wanted to marry you. I knew my days were happier with you, I know that I wanted to see you every day that you were gone, I know I thought about you almost every day, I know I regret every decision that drove you away,” and his eyes meet yours again — shining with something you knew all too well, “and I still do.”

More tears falling — but maybe for another reason now, “Raf—”

“I would kill for a second chance,” and then he gives a bitter chuckle, “no pun intended, or malicious intent for that matter,” he adds, making you huff, “but I would. I made so many mistakes with you because I was afraid — because I thought you would fall out of love with me when you saw me,”

“But I always saw you, Rafael,” your hand finds his, “I did.”

“I know,” he says softly, “but what’s stopping you? Is it fear? Or is it something else? Or…”

Or someone else.

The words were unspoken, but the implication hung between the two of you, and he whispered your name, but you’re shaking your head, “Rafael, I can’t—”

And you couldn’t — this wasn’t what you came for, this wasn’t supposed to happen. And you were supposed to say no, you were supposed to pull away, you were supposed to love Sonny — and you do, you do, but you can’t pull away.

Not when you have feelings for Rafael too.

“I know,” he whispers back, “but I can’t lie to you anymore — I can’t lie to myself,” he smiles sadly, “I love you,” the words echo in your fresh tears spill from your eyes. His fingers brushing a falling tear away, nearly just by the tips of his fingers, and your breath is shaky, as he smiles, “I don’t think I ever stopped.”

“Ever?” you repeat, and he laughs, a warm sound that lingers.

“Ever,” he sighs, “I didn’t want to hurt you or Carisi — I want the best for you, but I need you to know, if…”

If he was the one stopping you from saying yes.

“I know,” you whisper back — and you want to say more, but your words elude you. Your chest squeezes, and you wonder if he’s stolen your breath too, because he’s surely stolen your words— “but…”

“But,” he nods sadly, but you still didn’t know.

But the moment too eludes you when his phone rings, the two of you leaning away, blinking, as he reaches for his cellphone, as you wipe your tears away. He writes off whatever the message is, tucking his phone away, as you get to your feet, “I need time to think,”

“Of course,” he clears his throat, a beautiful blush across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, I know,” you shake your head, glancing at your phone, seeing Sonny’s face on your lockscreen, before you pocket it, “I just—”

“I know,” he says, tilting his head, “are you okay?”

And you shake your head, “No,” and you sigh, a weight sitting on your chest — the weight of a decision you didn’t know you would have to make, but you did, and you would, “but I will be.”

And you would be — as you stepped out of your office, rubbing your eyes — maybe once you slept on it.

~~~

And sleep you do, but it is one that is dreamless, but not thoughtless.

No, your thoughts swirl throughout your subconscious the entire night. You dream of Rafael, just as you dream of Sonny.

And as soon it seemed you fell asleep, you woke up to your cell phone going off — the verdict was in.

Even as you walk into the courtroom, you don’t know who to choose. You hadn’t spoken since that night at the office — to either of them. You arrive earlier than the others, Rafael and Sonny absent from their respective tables, and the officers choose then to bring in your client to your side.

“Mr. Davis—”

“Please call me Mickey,” he offers a weak smile, “I told you that from the start.”

“Sorry, Mickey,” you correct yourself, “I would ask how you’re feeling, but well—”

He huffed a laugh, “Nervous, for one, but,” his eyes fall back to the empty jury box, “I have to trust in the system don’t I? Same as everyone else.”

And you glance behind you, noticing the absence of anyone behind him, “Did you not ask anyone to come?”

And he sighs, “My daughter, but,” he glances sadly behind him, “she hadn’t come — not yet at least,” and he shakes his head, leaning back in his chair, “wife’s gone as you know — and well,” he pulls a picture of his daughter from his pocket, “who else would you want by your side at the worst moment of your life?”

The double doors behind you creak open, and Sonny enters, walking past you without a glance, And who would you want?

And only a few moments later, Rafael arrives too, finding his place beside you and Mickey, and you allow them to speak, his hand clapping to Mickey’s shoulder.

None of you really knew how the jury would rule on this one. And you wondered — who was it that you would want beside you at your worst moments? Who would you want behind you, whispering comforts in your ear, who would want to love you, even at the lowest point of your life?

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” and the jury rises, the foreman handing the verdict to the judge, before handing it back, “have you reached a decision?”

And you glance between Rafael and Sonny — you were on trial, whose hand would you want to hold?

“We have, Your Honor,” and you know what your answer is now, “we find the defendant—”

Guilty of Manslaughter Two — the same deal that you and Rafael had turned down at the start of this — ironic, you think, glancing at the two of them — back right where you started.

You pack up your things as Rafael slips out early, as you quietly discuss sentencing with Mickey, before setting up another meeting with him about the hearing. And Sonny’s leaving too — catching a glimpse of both of them leaving — and now you knew your answer, as you begin to walk towards them—

You knew whose hand you wanted to hold.

#rafael barba #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba x you #rafael barba imagines #sonny carisi x reader #sonny carisi #sonny carisi imagines #sonny carisi fanfiction #svu #svu imagines #svu fanfiction #law and order: svu

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it-was-summer · 4 years ago

Text

Video Killed the Radio Star- Chapter 8 (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Hello!!! After a very very very long hiatus, school is over and I am ready to write again. I'm sorry for dropping off the face of the earth, but I did indeed get burnt out this semester and I just needed some time to recover. I also got sick with COVID-19, so I'm sorry that chapter 8 took so long to write. As regards to the things in my ask box, I will be answering them as soon as I post this chapter today. I will be working over the Summer, but I promise to write over the Summer. Thank you all for being kind and I hope that this chapter or two nerds being nerds makes up for some of it... a little at least? Also the text will be italicized

Warnings: One? Curse word? Fluff and texting?

Plot: Spencer and you fight against all judgement and ignore the growing feelings the two of you have for each other. Spencer sends you a text.

Word Count: 2.1K

Spencer had come and gone, and now your couch carried the faint smell of peppermint and old books. The moon peered through your living room window as you poured steaming water into a mug, the smell of peppermint making your stomach flip pleasantly. Your mind wandered dangerously, thinking about how sweet Spencer’s laugh sounded when you nitpicked something the Doctor had said.

Thinking about how he stood in front of your bookcase and how bright his smile became seeing The Nightingale and the Rose amongst the masses, his fingers brushing the spine for a second before he let out a soft ‘oh’. You shook your head from side to side gently, trying to shake the recent memories from your brain as you took a short sip of your tea.

You couldn’t help but feel dirty thinking about Spencer. If you were just thinking about him you would’ve felt better, but you weren’t thinking about Spencer necessarily. You were thinking about how soft his hands felt in the split second the two of you reached for the remote. You were thinking about how he used that same hand to push back his hair from his eyes, how the dying sunlight outside reached his eyes, and how he looked when he lingered for a second too long at the door.

That wasn’t right. You weren’t supposed to think about him like that, you didn’t want to. Every lingering thought was shoved into the back of your mind in a forceful act of rebellion. You needed to remain grounded, you couldn’t let yourself get carried away. He was your friend and he was going to remain your friend, just a friend.

The peppermint tea felt thick as it went down your throat, a soft chime bringing you back to reality. Your hand shot over to your phone, feeling desperate for any kind of distraction. Your mother had texted you a simple ‘Hi’ and you felt your shoulders relax instantly. You hit the call button.

___

Spencer stood in the middle of a park, he wasn’t there for a case or to play chess, he was just there-- sitting on a red blanket. His head raised to the sky as a breeze shook through his hair sweetly. He heard a gentle and familiar laugh beside him, his head snapping away from the blue sky to look at you. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing,”

Spencer frowned, sitting up on his elbows, eyes locked onto yours, silently interrogating you. You waved him off with a smile, “Fine,” you said, leaning your head into the palm of your hand. “I never get to see you like this, so free.”

“I’m always free, thank you very much,” Spencer taunted uncharacteristically as he felt your hand shove into his shoulder with a gentle jab.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” soft wind blew your hair into your face and Spencer could already feel his hand moving to push the hair out of your eyes, “You’re always worrying about work or a case or something else, sometimes it feels like you’re running a thousand miles a minute and I can’t catch up, but sometimes it’s nice to just see you be still for a while.”

Spencer felt pleasant shivers pass through his spine, opening up his mouth to whisper something sweet to say to you, but the words never got the chance to leave his throat as he woke up in his dark bedroom.

His eyelids fluttered gently, begging him to fall back asleep against his will. Spencer forced his eyes open, turning his head to the side to look at the time glowing on the digital clock that sat upon his nightstand. Four in the morning.

Spencer felt his face grow warm as he laid awake in bed, thinking about you. Your laugh, your smile, your eyes, your hands. Spencer didn’t like to touch people, being a slight germaphobe, he tried to avoid touching other people as much as possible. So why was he so comfortable with it in a dream? He didn’t believe that dreams reflected the subconscious, but sometimes he ignored that gnawing feeling inside his brain and believed in dream analysis.

This was one of those times. He knew that if he mentioned anything to Derek, he would make fun of him, and then he would tell Penelope and then everyone would know. So maybe this was something he was going to keep to himself. He wordlessly decided that he wouldn’t tell anyone, it felt wrong to tell anyone. You were hurting. Recovering.

Besides, if he said something-- if he reacted to it, wouldn’t that make this feeling grow? He bit his lip, rolled over on his other side, closed his eyes, and tried to resume the dream he had just woken up from.

A lump filled Spencer’s throat as he stepped through the elevator, coffee’s in hand. He wasn’t the best at lying about things and he worked with profilers. Literal people that could look at him and dissect his brain without him saying a word. Usually, he had the upper hand, usually, he didn’t feel so different. He had no reason to feel so strange, he was just happy, was it so strange that he felt happy? When Prentiss’s eyes fell on him, he decided yes.

The team didn’t always say something when they noticed something was off with Spencer, but most of the time they made a habit to say some teasing remark in passing. Spencer wasn’t sensitive, nor was he immune to throwing out some special one-liners of his own, he was just skittish about receiving them.

“Spencer,” Emily’s voice cut through the room, snapping Spencer’s head up from his coffee. “You seem,” she paused “Weird.”

“Weird? Reid?” Derek chuckled softly, eyes meeting Spencer’s for a quick second.

“Yep, always weird.”

“Yeah, okay, he’s being weird,”

Spencer took a long sip of his coffee, his fingertips gripping the cup a little tighter in a desperate attempt to calm himself down. He had no reason to feel weird, no reason at all. It’s not like his dream was real. It had just been so long since Spencer had liked someone as much as he liked you. That wasn’t the right way to think about it; he simply had a crush on you. That was all it was, a crush.

“I just had a good night,” he muttered nervously into the lid of his cup.

“Yeah, with a cute little miss thing that lives in Richmond.”

“Richmond?” mused Emily with a smile.

Spencer frowned at Derek, “Who even told you that? Was it Penelope, because she told me she wouldn’t tell,”

“When she says that, she means she won’t tell Hotch, but she’ll most likely always tell me.”

Emily waved her hand from side to side, “Wait go back,” she pointed at Spencer “Did you have a date yesterday?”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No, it wasn’t a date. It was coffee. We drank coffee and talked.” Spencer argued quickly, making him seem guilty in a matter of seconds.

“Can she even do anything with that boot on?” Emily teased, earning a laugh from Derek.

“Come on, Prentiss. Reid only makes moves on girls in the middle of a case, not after.”

“That was once!”

“So you made a move on her then?” Emily implored gently, letting the interrogative teasing be cut short.

“No, we went back to her apartment to watch a show, and then I went home,” Spencer answered, trying to let his nerves settle down, when he said it out loud it sounded like it was nothing. It sounded silly. Derek and Emily shot each other a glance, shared a smile, and then both mouthed a simple ‘okay’, before going their separate ways.

Spencer knew that Emily was probably running over to whisper something to Rossi or J.J and Derek was probably heading over to Penelope to tell her what just happened. He could care less, he needed to work, and they all needed to work judging by the way Hotch walked into his office.

You had woken up near noon to a text that simply read; Hello.(: It was short, sweet, and from Spencer. To be fair, he had mentioned that he wasn’t the best with texting people, so the fact that he sent you a text said something.

You didn’t want to seem too eager as you texted Hey, did you have lunch yet?

You set the phone down, trying to get over the initial feeling of embarrassment that caused your cheeks to flush, remembering in a second that you were a nerd. You couldn’t text people for shit and as you stared at the message you had just sent Spencer it showed.

You sat up, sliding off to the edge of the bed, hand reaching for the phone as another chime made your heart burst. No, I spent lunch on a plane to Georgia.

Georgia?

Chime.

We got another case and the whole team is running on coffee.

Eat something soon.

Chime.

Can’t ignore a demand like that.

Good, don’t.

Chime.

Text me later?

Absolutely (:

You pressed your lips together, fighting back the growing smile on your lips as you left your phone on your bed, today already seemed promising.

Being out yesterday made you realize how much you missed being outside, the only downside was it took forever for you to get anywhere. So, you called your mom out for lunch. You found the slow walking easier to deal with when you were talking to someone else and she was worried about you, so it was a win-win.

The restaurant was crowded, crowded areas usually made you feel nervous like you were being watched. Being watched wasn’t so bad, being kidnapped was worse, and being physically abused was worse than being kidnapped. So you could deal with some crowds.

Certain things kept catching you by surprise, like the way slow-moving cars rolling down the street made you tense up, and the way you clenched your jaw as the waitress’s name tag shined ‘Heather’.

Your mother was kind enough to reach over the table to hold your hand in hers, a smile brightening her eyes effortlessly, “You look lovely today,”

You let out a small sigh and shrugged “I had a good morning,”

“Really?” she repeated, smile growing wider.

“Yeah,” you squeezed her hand gently “I went out for coffee yesterday with Spencer, too.”

“The F.B.I agent, Spencer?” You nodded quickly, hand leaving hers as you looked through the menu. “Was this a date?”

“Mom,” your eyes peered up at her, lips turned down into a gentle frown “I just went through something very traumatic, I don’t think it was a date.”

“What was it then?”

“A friend, being nice to another friend.” You replied quickly, trying to move your focus back onto the menu in your hands. You heard a small sound from your mother that reassembled an ‘okay’ before she went silent, but you could tell she was burning with questions.

You didn’t blame her, you never got out much but when you did, she was the first one to know. You had mentioned over the phone last night that the two of you were friends and he was helping you through so of the tougher things that recovery involved, but she seemed to ignore that then. You had yet to mention the addictive tendencies you were feeling, the yearning for a release, an outlet of some kind. You knew it would break her heart, so you kept quiet.

“I like him,”

“Mom,” you scolded with a smile, setting down the menu. “You met him once.”

“And he made a good impression,”

“You left the room!”

“I can read body language,”

“Okay, mom,” You scoffed as you took a sip of your water.

“All I’m saying is,” she put her hands together “Recovering doesn’t mean you have to ignore every opportunity that comes your way because you don’t think it’s the right time.” She met your eyes and let out a tiny laugh, “I know you and you won’t let anything happen if you feel like it’s not the right time, sometimes it’s not a bad thing to let things happen. Romantic things or otherwise.”

You opened your mouth to say something but instead, you let out a tiny sigh, nodding slowly. She didn’t need to know how miserable the night made you, how suffocating a day alone was for you, so you nodded. After all, maybe she was right, she was your mother.

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xo-cuteplosion-xo · 4 years ago

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How about a musician reader x character fic? Maybe a singer who performs in a cafe, or a classical musician who plays in an orchestra, or who plays in a rock band? I dunno I have a lot of ideas in my mind but I'm just too lazy to write them :D What do you think?

So here's the baseline you gave me - a musician reader fic x character. Here's what I decided to fill in for this lovely fic- a fluffy bsd collage Au where the reader is majoring in music and has the side job of a stage performer. Then, because they would match well, so I decided to go with a Fyodor x reader. Hope this is alright!

Words- 1728 ~

Hearts Composition | fyodor x musician reader | (collage Au)

Music thudded against the walls, muffled only by the thick layers that hid backstage from the audience. The aroma of heavily worn perfume surrounded people in pleasant bliss. Waitresses and waiters swayed with heavy plates rested along arms and in hands. Carrying much-wanted foods and booze to awaiting customers. The collection of accents muted under the heavy beats of taps and clicks from the metal of the dancer's shoes. Picking up a smaller wooden, finely carved, and rather expensive model of a violin, stood yourself. With a smile, your hands trailed the curves and strings of the delicate instrument. With all the work you had to do for university you had truly didn’t have time to be doing some minimum wage job. Though you didn’t care much, if you could play something, it would be fine. You performed here every once in a blue moon. You weren't one of the performers, but they would grace you with the intermission on busy nights. Much like these nights, when the crowd was full and the people rowdy and in need of constant entertainment. You could soothe those shouts and demands of perverted drunk men; Soothe the cries of broken women and rich spoiled children.

Stepping onto the wooden stage as the lights dim, allowing you the bare minimum of the peeping moonlight to find the microphone located at the center. Inhaling as your anxiety turned into bliss, you waited. As the colored light flew on, you rested your chin on the soft velvet. Holding up the bow, you set it to the strings. With a final inhale, your eyes fluttered shut as you played a classical piece; one constructed for an upcoming project that was due for your music composition class. You had nearly all the string instruments you could play finished; all but the cello. With every strum of your instrument, the crowd fell silent, enjoying the break from all the heavy excitement. Even the children's chatter soothed down, so your instrument could echo off the thin walls of the pub.

Sipping nothing but a cup of tea with a small side of biscuits, a male leaned in his seat. Sitting with a pristine, perfect posture, he listened to the soft sound. The way his violet eyes slowly lidded, and his hair fell back against his face, lit his features in a urethral, almost divine light. His mind working to recognize the piece. As an up-and-coming musician, he had several classics memorized. He could join in by ear, or even write out the full pieces without needing to see the original sheet music. This piece wasn’t something he recognized, could it be an original piece?

If you were to open your eyes as you neared the end of the first piece, you would notice his gaze rested on you. Eyes open halfway with hidden interest, and yet, the stare was attractive. The blank look that hid everything beneath a mask laid strewn across his features. As you finished and stood up, surrounded by applause, he watched your every stride. It was funny, he thought he could almost recognize you.

With shaking hands, your fingers typed within a group chat of other college students you had met and become close to. “I’m so nervous. I have to hand in that piece today. I pulled an all-nighter trying to decide on the cello part, but nothing sounded right, so now I might not get a full mark.” You could hear the whine through the text. When replies of good luck came to you, except for two replies, you chuckled. One read “could always just die before handing it in.” Another wrote, “I've got the wine ready.” laughing to yourself as you walked into the classroom and set down the folder in the bin. Glancing through the room, you took a seat with your head down. It was unusual for you to arrive early to class, but your anxiety with this project was slowly picking at you to just get there and hand it in. With twenty minutes till class started, you decided to pull out your laptop and listen to the recording from last week.

Taking out your notebook, you started jotting notes about small things to improve, and things you hated about your performances. You didn’t notice somebody else enter the classroom rather early. Carrying his bag, he set it down at one of the desks before the sound of a violin entered his ears. Sitting down he listened to the melody you had played several nights before. As the piece finished, his eyes traveled to the bin. Now understanding where you had gotten the piece from, he sighed. “You’re not half bad, you played a little flat, but it sounds okay. Becoming a flustered disaster, you froze glancing over to him. This wasn’t the first time you had noticed him in class, he was hard to miss. His completely perfect grades, perfect posture, and looks made him stand out. Not only that, but he had strong ideals and his debate skills could sway anybody. Though, you knew it wasn’t really skill, more manipulation. To add to everything his Russian accent stuck out with every word he spoke. “Could you play that again?” hesitating at first you restarted the piece.

He took out a blank piece of sheet music and started scribbling down notes. As if memorizing the piece, he tapped his fingers before bringing his thumb to his mouth and chewing on it. Tapping his foot as the piece came to an end, he glanced at the time before walking over to one of the room's cellos. His face resembled discontent as he looked at it. Looking to where he sat, you realized he didn’t have his with him. You presumed it had to do with the instrument being heavy and somewhat large. Though for somebody of his height, it may not be that big of a deal. Perhaps he didn’t want to lug it around with him, considering he had all of those other books for classes. “So uh, why did you want to hear it again?” you mumbled, rubbing the back of your neck as you watched him strum a few strings. He was checking the accuracy and pitch of the notes. With a contempt sigh, he shrugged.

“Your writing is considerably well done. I wished to try something that is all.” He did not shed a glance as he sat down and ran the bow across the strings. The sound was heaven within your ears, but to him, it was nothing but ordinary. The sound of a well-made expensive Russian model, the model he owned, was much better than this school-provided variant. As the melody played, you recognized it as your piece. Smiling slightly as your eyes sparkled. You bolted from your seat to grab your folder; the music that was due in 10 minutes.

Looking over the cello part you had constructed, you changed the key signature to hold a few new sharps and took away some of the flats. Boldly, you handed the male the sheet music and pointed as if asking "Is this the piece you were playing?" Setting the cello aside, he ran a finger over the bars with a nod. “So that’s what I was missing! You're a god at memorizing and creating. Now I'm excited to see what you concocted for the presentation.” You smiled lightly before placing the folder in the bin. “Oh, I never got your name. I’m-” he cut you off before you could formally introduce yourself.

“You’re y/n. I do pay attention to people who aren't a complete waste of time.” The layers of his ego began to shine through his solid expression. The way you'd called him god just then, was another layer added to the ever-growing ego this man had. He thought he was above everybody else; he indeed was. In every way possible, he was above the normal human. With an exceptionally sharp mind, emotionless facade, and a spin of extraordinary talents, he was a god among men. “I’m taken aback, you don’t know me.” frowning you sat back at your desk. Leaning your head against the palm of your hand with a frown, you clicked your tongue.

Coming up with a sharp reply, you rolled your eyes. “Please, who doesn't know the great Dostoevsky. You’re only at the top of our class. Correcting myself before you can, the top in everything.” He snickered his brows raising in interest. His lips curled into a smirk moments before breaking to speak to you again.

“Consider your words before speaking. That wasn’t exactly the best wording to say "I'm better than everybody at everything.” It took you several seconds to realize what had gone through his head. Of course, he understood what you were saying, but he also managed to nitpick everything.

Blushing you placed your hands in front of your face. “I didn't think about it because that’s not what I was saying!” he snickered again. Listening to him stand you peeked from your hands to watch him set away the cello and bow.

“How often do you perform at that pub?” He switched the discussion relatively quickly. But with the sudden pause of your reaction and the setting away of the instrument, it flowed nicely with the conversation.

“Once or twice a month?” You answer honestly. A bit upset by the lack of real performances you had.

“Next time, I'll reserve something, and we’ll set something up. I want to see if you can play something… difficult.” It wasn't much of a question, more a demand. Nodding you wrote down your number, sliding it to the student with a smile as the bell rang.

For the next week, the two of you met in the unused rooms Fyodor managed to snag for practicing. He often shook his head at your way of playing. He did compliment the several different instruments you would take with you. From the cello to the violin, there wasn’t much you couldn’t play. Each was expertly designed and crafted to fit your arm length and height. Custom made and shipped from all over the world. Eventually, it became a routine, going to his concerts as he attended yours. While you praised how good he was, he would find the smallest mistakes to condemn you about.

#bsd #bsd x reader #bsd x reader scenerio #bsd scenerio #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs #fyodor #bsd college au #bsd college au x reader #bsd college x reader #fyodor college au #fyodor college #fyodor x reader #musican fyodor #musician fyodor x reader #fyodor x musician reader #fyodor x you

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soukokuwu · 4 years ago

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➤ genre: angst, fluff

➤ pairing: chuuya x reader

➤ synopsis: breaking up with the love of your life is never easy.

➤ word count: 1.6k

➤ a/n: inspiration? “Lose” by NIKI. i just couldn’t get the song out of my head and decided to just vibe with this. ^.^

We only meet at the intersect

You were eighteen when Chuuya’s azure orbs caught your eye.

He was rough around the edges, always the fiery, hot-headed brute in any room, with the crimson hair to match. Exceptionally violent when his temper takes over, like asteroids slamming into a planet, and like a star exploding when he’s forced to use corruption.

Yet his fingers were able to dance across your skin as gentle as a soft summer breeze, and the hot temper gave way to subtle, fleeting signals of affection. The way his usually loud, boisterous voice cascaded into soft hushed tones when he spoke to you. Chuuya was a workaholic, all of his hours usually went into slaving away for the Port Mafia. But even that yielded to making time to find you, even if it was for no particular reason at all. Luckily he wasn’t one to nitpick about the details — because he never could for the life of him figure out what made you so entirely different from anyone else.

But you were.

You were nineteen when Chuuya took the leap of faith, showing you the gravity of his love.

He kept mum about his work, until he couldn’t anymore. Every instant he had to shy away from talking about what he did, every instant he denied you access into his real life, his mind — it felt like he was pushing you away, like he was allowing other people a chance to swoop in once you were pushed far enough.

And once you find out, your reaction was understandable. Horrified, confused and without any words uttered, you left him behind in the restaurant, alone with the doubts of whether he should have come clean at all. Was it worth losing what little of your friendship there was? Was it better to have made a clean breast of it and lose what was dear to him or would it have been smarter to keep you in the dark, keep you close?

But a ray of light came a month later in the form of liquid courage.

Chuuya wasn’t the one who came forth, no. He had considered himself burned from being honest, he thought you hated him. No, if anyone needed to do or say anything it would have to be you. He knew that nothing could make up for what he’s done or what he’s going to do as a Port Mafia executive. It was his family. And he would never give that up. A hard thing it was, for civilians to accept. The murders, the frauds, the sacrifices.

Which is why he didn’t know what possessed you to knock on his door at 2am in the morning, an open bottle of Romanee-Conti in one hand and his heart in the other.

You were twenty-one when you two started cohabitating.

It was a step in the right direction — you two barely met due to his busy schedule. You used to always have your phone on hand, desperate to know whether your boyfriend was safe after a long day’s work. To which he oftentimes forgot to account for; he was too tired. That, and he wasn’t used to being responsible for someone else’s feelings.

But this alleviated your insecurities, and it satisfied his wishes to spend more time with you.

The mornings were sunlight streaming through the cracks in satin curtains, cups of black coffee with occasional breakfasts of toast and eggs and fleeting kisses goodbye. The afternoons were distances, unavoidable work calls, meetings and ‘I miss you’ texts. The nights were hugs welcoming each other home, spills of crimson locks over his bare shoulders, bodies melding into one and ‘I love you’s by midnight.

Closets were full, black coats and grey waistcoats sharing vacancies with flowery dresses and black poly skirts. The pantry was more filled than ever before, now that Chuuya had someone living with him to eat with, to enjoy with. Bathrooms now had two sets of everything, toothbrushes, towels, cups. Walls were now occupied, the dull white paint masked by colourful memories framed in gold and black.

The collection grew and grew.

You were twenty two when you spotted the embers fading.

When sunlight cracked through the curtains and there was nobody in bed next to you. Either one of you always woke up earlier than the other. Time was not made during the busy of the afternoon, with either of you choosing to take a siesta during unoccupied minutes. The eventides of passion turned into nights of sex. You found yourself wishing he’d touch you like he did in the beginning. And he found himself wishing he was as into it as he used to be.

And one night, in the dead silence, as you two stared up at the ceiling in bed — it was the first time in a long time that you two shared the same thought.

Chuuya remembered when you taught him how to love, how you filled the void in his heart, helped him get over his insecurities, healed the numbness he felt about his humanity. The subtle efforts he had put forth because he deemed you worth it — and he still did. But that didn’t change facts: this wasn’t working out anymore.

He broke your heart each time he had to go away on long missions. He broke your heart each time he came back with bruises and a hardened expression. He broke your heart each time he had to keep a secret from you in the name of work. He broke your heart whenever you had to mask your true feelings to take care of his. And he hated hurting you.

You remembered when Chuuya taught you the importance of accepting someone for who they are, how he always tried his best to put you before himself in each decision he made, how he put aside his temper and his ego in every argument you had, how the two of you would always work them out. The two of you were made for each other, but it was painfully obvious: the end was awfully near.

You broke his heart each time he saw through the fake smiles. You broke his heart each time you didn’t bear to check in on him because you didn’t want to hear tomorrow’s headlines early. You broke his heart by giving him everything he wanted, but never could convince himself he deserved. And you hated disappointing him.

Neither of you wanted to do this. But it was a ticking time bomb. Both of you had been dragging this on for far too long — to decide to escape from this only to find yourselves running back to familiarity. It was a too-small house. Either one of you left, or you both stayed cramped in there until neither of you could take it anymore. Two options, but only one outcome.

This time, in the dead of the night, enveloped in the darkness, you took the first step.

“This isn’t working out.” A slight crack in your voice, but a very apparent ache in your heart.

“I know.” Quivering lips and the same gaping hole he had before he met you.

“I still love you.” Your confession.

“I will never stop loving you.” And his.

Chuuya is twenty-four when he finally lets himself consume an off day.

Life has been empty again since the day you moved out. He still remembers hugging you to sleep for the last time that night. And can still remember the overwhelming desire to pull you back in his arms as you walked out the door the next morning, to tell you that you didn’t have to go, that the both of you could work it out — but you both know he’d be lying. Some things you can never come back from. When something dies, they should remain that way. At least his memories of you remain sweet, and only because you left before things could take a turn for the worse.

This is a fire that he doesn’t see could possibly rekindle.

It’s life.

It’s been two years.

Waking up in an empty bed still sucks. Chuuya eyes your toothbrush by the sink. He can’t bear to remove it. It raked confusion in his one night stands. Not that he cares. They never mattered. They weren’t you. And there is still two of everything in the bathroom, but he never lets anyone use the other set. Doesn’t even know why, he just keeps it this way.

But the walls are empty again, all the memories tucked away in a box in the corner of his now emptier closet. He’s never opened them once. He’s afraid of the emotions if he ever does.

In the kitchen he eyes the barrenness. Since you left he hasn’t bought much of anything for himself. Takeouts are his best friend. Besides, he can’t cook as well as you. Something bugs him to make a grocery run though. He listens to it.

Chuuya scoffs looking in his basket, something tugging a subtle smile on his lips. You’ve even managed to keep your influence on him — everything inside is food you’d like. Your favourites, in fact. Love is weird.

And so is life. It has a way of disrupting your journey; it can pull two people together only to force them apart, leaving their hearts in a silent call for each other. But it’s also weird in the sense that it can bring the two people so close to each other yet again, but at the same time offer no further assistance.

Because in the opposite aisle, there you are, shopping for food that happened to remind you of him.

tags: @yokelish @gogolparadise @fyowyn-writes

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squadrablog · 4 years ago

Note

ok I've joined the Ghiaccio hype train, could I request a Ghiaccio fic with a reader who doesn't like sudden loud noises and will definitely cry if you yell at them? they're really intimidated by Ghiaccio but they're comfortable with the rest of La Squadra, so he's struggling to be a good team member to someone who's always nervous around him. feel free to make it romantic or platonic, your writing is amazing!! 💕💕

Here you are! With the stuff I ended up focusing on I thought that shoehorning a romance in would feel weird, so I focused more on exploring the beginnings of a platonic friendship with him. Lots of awkward Ghiaccio and miscommunication but it all ends up good. :^)

Ghiaccio & Reader (platonic, gender neutral)

Ao3 Mirror Here.

Word Count: 3921

Warnings: Reader has childhood trauma w/ loud noises, not gone into in depth. Assassination job implied but doesn’t happen in text.

Under cut for length!

The last thing you saw yourself doing with your life was becoming an assassin, but here you were. You were a tough kid, scrappy and resourceful when it came down to it, but only because you had to be to get by. You always thought you’d eventually leave that old life behind. The gunshots echoing into the night from rival mafias squaring off to claim the neighborhood you lived in as their territory. The shouts from the man who took you in when you had nowhere else to go, only to berate you when you failed to pick enough pockets to meet his quotas. The way the older and meaner children would torment you, taunt and deride you, whenever you let your vulnerability show.

And you had, more or less, left those parts of it behind at least. When you joined Passione as a last ditch effort to survive you were given a sense of stability that you had never had before, and after initiation when your stand manifested as something powerful and deadly, it didn’t take too long for you to get placed into La Squadra di Esecuzione, Passione’s team of elite assassins.

As a stand user working with other stand users you rarely relied on guns to get your work done. You were no longer struggling to get by, and although your new Capo held his team to high standards he made sure you had ample training and was patient with you while you were still getting your footing. All your teammates were surprisingly supportive; even if they were wary of outsiders, when it came to their own family they looked out for each other.

It was a dangerous life, not without its own anxieties, but it was a much quieter life. It was a life in the shadows, with a roof over your head, with work that allowed you to use stealth and silence. Even if you couldn’t exactly say you were thrilled about being an assassin you were at least surrounded by people who genuinely cared about you now, watched over by a man who never raised his voice at you for things outside your control, and most comforting of all: you never needed to use a gun.

Not all loud noises set you off, just the ones that reminded you of the violent instability of your childhood and the cruelty of your guardian and peers. Your new teammates could get pretty noisy and spirited, but the boisterous and jovial nature of their laughter, even from their more intense teasing, was a comforting change of pace. You didn’t doubt your value or the fact they respected you.

Well, mostly. There was one teammate who was a bit harder for you to let your guard down around.

His name was Ghiaccio, and to say he was loud would be an understatement. When you first met him he had been a bit standoffish, but so were Risotto and Prosciutto. You knew it would take some time for everyone to accept you as a real part of the squad, and you were ready to be patient. But as you quietly observed everyone for those first few weeks, getting a feel for their individual personalities and their dynamics with each other, you found yourself very intimidated by Ghiaccio. He was able to pal around with the rest of them, even if he was gruff as a default, but when something upset him it was like a switch had been flipped.

He was critical of his squadmates’ performance out in the field, and he never hesitated to offer his critiques regardless of how little anyone wanted to hear them. He was critical of the way people talked, constantly nitpicking everyone’s pronunciations and word choice. He was critical of the way that chores around the house got done, judging everyone’s efforts by timeliness and thoroughness.

Everyone was able to brush him off most of the time without problem. When they actually valued what he had to say they never seemed to take the mean way he said it personally. They’d had plenty of time to get used to him and sift through the bullshit. They knew when something actually mattered to him and when something was just him blowing off steam for the sake of it. They knew when it was fair to ask him to shut up and when it was best to let him get it out of his system.

You steeled yourself as best as you could in those first few weeks, just telling yourself you needed some time to understand his quirks like the rest of your squad did, but your opinion changed immediately after your first mission with him.

“Is Prosciutto teaching you anything?” he barked out at you after you two finally managed to take out your hit. You flinched and looked away from his intense gaze. You were a bit anxious about being alone with him for the first time, and you wanted to give him your best effort to impress him, but being on so on edge caused you to make some big mistakes.

“Well?” he demanded when you said nothing. You had assumed it was a rhetorical question.

“Y-yes?” you stuttered out.

“Then you’re the one accountable for fucking up today. What the hell was that?” he asked, his question ending in something similar to a snarl.

Something that was different about working with Ghiaccio as opposed to working with the others was that he argued out loud to no one in particular about random topics that pissed him off. At first you thought he was expecting you to talk to him about how nonsensical some phrase was that Formaggio used before the two of you left, and you listened attentively, but he never gave you any room to respond. Eventually you realized he wasn’t really conversing, just yelling to yell. It was very distracting and it only made you fidget and lose focus.

“I… well…” you choked out. “It’s usually quieter… on my missions, since my stand is- well, since my stand is made for stealth and-”

“Me talking prevented you from doing your job correctly?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. You just shrunk even deeper within yourself. The last thing you wanted to do was insinuate your mistake had been his fault. There was no way that wouldn’t provoke his ire.

“N-no! You didn’t do anything wrong! It was me, I’m really sorry! It won’t happen again!” you squeaked out.

“Better not,” he grumbled sarcastically with a huff before turning to walk down the street towards his car. You followed, keeping a good distance behind him, not looking forward to the ride back to the base.

---

That had been weeks ago. While you had been doing a decent job at tolerating Ghiaccio before that mission, afterwards was a different story. You actively avoided him, checking if he was in rooms before entering, excusing yourself when he came into a room you were already in, shutting yourself in your room upstairs when you heard him start up on a rant somewhere on the main floor.

Eventually it was shamelessly (or perhaps shamefully) obvious to just about everyone.

“Dude, what happened on your mission with them?” Formaggio asked in a hushed tone one time after your footsteps had disappeared up the stairs. “They’re terrified of you.”

“How the fuck should I know? They haven’t said anything to me about it,” Ghiaccio shot back.

“Uh, yeah, duh. That’s what I’m saying. They won’t even sit in the same room as you,” Formaggio muttered.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” he said, scrunching up his eyebrows. “But it’s not like they talk much to begin with.”

“Are you kidding?” Illuso interjected, inserting himself into his two teammates’ conversation, much to Ghiaccio’s annoyance. “I can get them to prattle on for hours about themself. They’re a real chatterbox once you get to know them.”

“Illuso, dude, have they told you the story about their mission with Pesci down at the wharf?” Formaggio asked with a big grin.

“Fuck, I almost forgot about that,” Illuso replied with a chuckle. “What about the time where-”

“Hey! Shut up for a second,” Ghiaccio snapped. “We’re all talking about the same person, right?”

Upon being interrupted Illuso narrowed his eyes at Ghiaccio before turning to Formaggio. “It’s obviously because of Ghiaccio’s poorly controlled rage. Have you ever seen the poor thing freeze up over a gunshot before?”

“No, but I can imagine. One time I tried scaring them from behind and it took them ten whole minutes to recover,” Formaggio responded.

“I haven’t done shit to them, what possible reason do they have to be scared of me?” Ghiaccio asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, what happened on that mission?” Formaggio asked again.

“It was pretty standard, I killed the bastard while they assisted. They did fuck up pretty bad, which is typical during training, so I pointed it out for their benefit. Then we left,” Ghiaccio recounted. “Nothing else happened.”

Formaggio raised an eyebrow. “What did you say?”

“I don’t know! I think I asked if Prosciutto was doing his job right since they didn’t seem too confident. I asked if there was anything that might have contributed to their lackluster performance, but after thinking it over they said that it was on them.”

“Sounds pretty level headed and analytical of you,” Illuso said, stroking his chin. “Are you sure that’s how you said it?”

“Probably not in so many words, I was probably more casual about it,” Ghiaccio grumbled. “Why does it matter how I said it? What’s important is what I said.”

“Ghiaccio, your brand of casual is a few decibels above what’s average,” Illuso said.

“Not to mention the casual expletives, or the casual sarcasm,” Formaggio added. “Are you sure you didn’t casually tell them to go fuck themself without realizing it?”

“No! I mean, if I was stern with them it was in the context of training!” Ghiaccio insisted.

“Are we being trained right now? Is that why you’re yelling at us?” Illuso asked with a smirk.

“This is just how I talk!” Ghiaccio said, bringing a hand up to his temple. “Ugh, I don’t fucking know! Maybe I yelled at them? I remember being very straightforward. They seemed kind of on edge, but I just assumed that’s how they always are!” He dropped his hand and turned to look at his two teammates. “Are they really not like that on missions with you?”

“Not anymore,” Illuso said with a shrug. “At first a bit, but they’re pretty reliable now.”

“You’ve got to go slow with them. They’re easily set off, but if they know they can count on you they’re able to push through it,” Formaggio said.

“My stand is invincible and I never even let the guy near them. There’s no one better suited for watching someone’s blind spot than me,” Ghiaccio said with his hand splayed out on his chest.

“I mean, like… emotionally,” Formaggio said, scratching the back of his head. “If I was to put myself in their headspace I’d say they probably think you hate them.”

“I don’t hate them,” Ghiaccio spat loudly.

“Good! Now step two is letting them know that,” Illuso said, clapping a hand on Ghiaccio’s back, causing his glasses to slide down his nose.

Ghiaccio grumbled and pushed his glasses back up. He knew that things were weird between the two of you ever since your mission, but it never even crossed his mind it was because of something he said. Is this what Prosciutto felt like training Pesci? But even Pesci had never been avoidant or scared of Prosciutto for all the tough love that he gave him. Pesci looked up to him like an older brother.

If he was really the only one in all of La Squadra that you were uncomfortable around, then he supposed it was on him now to figure out why.

---

The base was pretty quiet today, with a lot of missions landing on Risotto’s desk this week. While you were quite fond of your new teammates you liked having the common area all to yourself on a quiet evening, especially if you were curled up with a novel. When you first started living at the base it felt like a luxury, but even after you had gotten used to the quiet its novelty hadn’t worn off for you.

The sound of a key jingling at the front door had you peeking over your book. When Ghiaccio appeared framed by the living room entrance you held your breath. Hopefully he’d be going upstairs… no, it looked like he was coming into the common area. That’s okay, you could move, so you started standing up, except… he was looking right at you, heading in your direction.

“Sit down,” he said stiffly, and after a beat he added, “Please?”

“Uhh! Okay!” you said, sitting back down and bringing your book right back up to cover your face.

“Can you also, uh. Please. Put the book down?” Ghiaccio said, his voice strained to maintain a monotone and flatten out any inflection. You did as he asked, although you still couldn’t meet his eyes, and he just stared at you awkwardly.

“Uh-”

“Hello,” he said, and it left his mouth at the exact same time your muttered exclamation had. Another awkward pause.

“Hi?” you said, unsure. This wasn’t what you were expecting from your next conversation with the man, for as long as you had postponed it. You thought he’d be demanding to know why you were ignoring him, or getting on your case about being too sensitive to handle his criticism on your last mission. Maybe that was yet to come?

“You are afraid of me,” Ghiaccio stated flatly. Then perhaps he realized he wanted to ask it as a question. “Yes?”

“Oh, no, I’m…” you muttered.

“Of course you are,” he said quickly, cutting you off before you could mumble out an excuse. You got pretty embarrassed by that, but you swallowed and moved your eyes up to gauge his expression. He didn’t look angry, but he looked hyper focused to the point of distress. His lips were pressed together tightly as if he was trying to hold back from speaking again.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“For being scared of me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. He was being sarcastic again, wasn’t he?

“No, I… I mean… I’m sorry for,” you started, trying to think of something legitimate to actually be sorry about. “For fucking up on the mission.”

“Did fucking up on the mission really bother you that much?” he said. Not only were you stupid for fucking up the mission, but you were also stupid for letting it bother you for so long! What did he want you to say?

“No, I mean…”

But Ghiaccio cut you off with a long loud exhale. “Look, I’m not great at this kind of thing. I understand that I make you anxious, and I understand that for whatever reason it’s hard for you to talk to me, but I really can’t understand what people say unless they drop all the bullshit.” When you frowned and looked away he tried again. “Not bullshit, fuck, uh. No, not fuck... It’s just that. I need you to say exactly what you mean. I can’t tell what people are thinking unless they make it… easy for me.”

You looked back at him. Whatever he was here to talk about with you, he was trying very hard not to raise his voice. The way he was talking to you was too stilted to be anything but intentional. If he was doing this for your sake, then you would try to meet him halfway. You took a moment to think, to choose what you wanted to say carefully.

“I don’t do well with loud noises. I also… take things very personally. I’ve been worrying that you…” You took another second before committing. “...Hate me.”

He pressed his lips in a thin line again as some noise tried to escape his throat, perhaps an instinctive denial. “What about me makes you think that?”

“Well… you seemed pretty disappointed in me after the mission.”

“I was checking in with you. I wanted to make sure Prosciutto was properly training you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “But… but you sounded really angry and sarcastic.”

Ghiaccio closed his eyes and thought about that for a second. “I probably was angry, but not at you. You just fucked up on something so basic that I had to wonder if Prosciutto was actually teaching you anything useful.”

“That’s… not how you said it though,” you said, feeling defensive. “I… I know I did something dumb… but I’ve never messed up with my stand like that before. It was different on that mission.”

“Me talking to myself?” Ghiaccio asked. He had been fixating over what he said to you at the end of that mission for days now, trying to remember all the details. He recalled how you had started with one explanation, but you quickly retracted it.

“You were… so angry the entire mission,” you complained. “Everyone else is quiet on missions with me because my stand is better suited to it.”

“It wasn’t a stealth mission,” Ghiaccio countered. “We were using your stand for something different. I wasn’t even talking to you.”

“I know!” you groaned. “You weren’t trying to distract me, but when things get too loud I…”

“But you took it back. You said it wasn’t me,” Ghiaccio said, leaning forward. His voice had risen just a little, but when he noticed how you reacted to that he tensed up.

“I took it back because I was afraid of upsetting you!” you said, leaning back into the couch as far as you could. “Because when I brought it up… you were mean about it… so I took it back! I thought you were trying to tell me it was my fault, so I took the blame like I thought you wanted!”

“I was… I was asking for clarification! If I did something that caused you to fuck up then I want to know that I did so we can talk about it!” He was clenching his fists to keep his upward inflections from becoming full-blown yelling.

“None of that came across!” you complained. “Like… maybe you technically said those things, but the way you said made it come across completely different!”

“What about you? Now you’re telling me that you meant something completely different from the things you actually said to me!?”

“I-I… but I was obviously upset! I was obviously just trying to appease you!”

“How was it obvious? I thought you were upset because you fucked up! No one likes fucking up!”

“Yeah, no kidding!” You realized at this point that your own voice was starting to rise, which was making Ghiaccio raise his to match yours, and you took a deep breath before speaking calmly again. “I was upset because I was afraid.”

It was quiet again for a little while until Ghiaccio broke the silence.

“Being mean and angry comes really easy to me,” he said, running his fingers through his curls. “Even when I don’t realize it, I still am. Even if I think I’m being reasonable, people misunderstand. I’ve been so used to the others actually being able to take it that I forgot how bad it was.” He scratched at his head a bit. “I also have a hard time telling how loud I actually am until someone points it out.”

You sat there for a moment, soaking that in, before you gave a small amused huff with a half-smile on your face. “I’m not great with loud noises because of what they mean to me. Gunshots remind me of a time when I wasn’t safe… but I can protect myself now, and I have other people who will protect me too. But yelling reminds me of… how I was never good enough for anyone.” You tapped your fingers on the cover of the book on your lap and shrugged.

“I hear from the others that you’re really skilled and reliable on missions,” Ghiaccio said. “I didn’t see that from you when we worked together, but maybe that’s because I was the one who fucked up.”

“But you didn’t...” you started.

“I fucked up by not meeting you where you were at. You’re new. I don’t know you, I don’t know what you’re like. If we had talked beforehand, if I had worked with you, then you probably wouldn’t have made that mistake. I was taking the lead on that mission, it was my job to train you to use your stand in an unfamiliar circumstance. I use missions to get out all the shit that makes me angry, since I don’t need to stay quiet. You don’t work like that. You had no idea what I was yelling for. I never told you how I do things, I just expected you to brush it off like everyone else does.”

You blinked a few times. You had been pretty quick to blame yourself for your own shortcomings, but hearing him say that really recontextualized that entire mission experience. You might have fucked up, but it was now obvious that he did not hold it against you. “That’s surprisingly self-aware of you.”

He rolled his eyes and set his elbow on the couch’s armrest, plopping his head on his fist. “You don’t know me either. I’m more than a raving heartless bastard. Stuff like this… not understanding why other people think the way they do, or what I’m doing wrong… it really fucks me up. I don’t hate you. You’re a part of my family now and I genuinely want to help you get stronger. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

Ghiaccio was nothing like you thought. He was actually really sensitive and introspective. You could tell it was hard for him to confront you like this, almost as hard as it was for you to be confronted. You appreciated that he wanted to put in the effort to have a relationship with you.

“Thank you Ghiaccio. And I’m sorry I avoided you instead of trying to talk about it like this.” You reached over and placed your hand on his shoulder with a gentle smile. He seemed taken aback by the contact, but he relaxed after a moment.

“Are we… good?” he huffed out.

“I think so!”

He let out one long exhale that seemed to go on forever. “Thank fuck,” he muttered, before turning to look at you. “Goddamn it, sorry.”

“It’s not the swearing that bothers me,” you clarified. “It’s the intention behind it. You’re… uh… fucking good, my dude.”

He let out a snort at the awkward way you said that before bringing his hand up to cover his face, looking away in embarrassment.

“Aw, no, that was cute,” you assured him, which only made it worse.

“Well, if we’re done here then I’m heading to bed,” he said, and you glanced at the clock in the living room. It had gotten pretty late. He stood up and started walking towards the stairs.

“We have a mission together again this weekend, right?” you asked, and he looked at you over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he confirmed.

“I’m looking forward to it,” you said with as much enthusiasm as you could muster. And you meant it. “Goodnight!”

“...Night,” he said, before he disappeared around the corner.

#ghiaccio #ghiaccio x reader #jojo imagines #jjba scenarios #jjba x reader #jojo's bizarre adventure #jjba #my writing #anon

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maddiefriendlovesbilly · 3 years ago

Text

TW/CW: Ranting, use of caps/text yelling, mentions/discussions of depression, suicidal thoughts, low self-esteem, and cringe-culture, no language indicators (everything is /genuine), large chunks of text which may be hard for some to read (please lmk if anyone would like a bulleted or split up version /gen), complicated words and concepts (again, please lmk if anyone would like a version w simpler words or more explanations!! /gen!!!)

Topic: Writing, Cringe-Culture, and Freedom to Express Yourself

Not to get like, personal and serious on this silly YouTube roleplay side-blog but here’s some writing advice for you writers out there. Literally no one will notice if you put two “-ly” words in your story.

As long as you are using basic sentence variation in your story — aka complex sentence, compound sentence, simple sentence, compound sentence again, repeat in a pattern that seems to get your point across best (long sentences are best for describing situations or when a character is rambling, simple sentences are best for times that you want your words to punch the reader in the face with words alone or crush their little hearts while cackling maniacally) — nobody other than pompous gits will notice if you say “Oh, he thought, wishing desperately for something to do with his hands.” Because no one actually nitpicks stuff like that if they’re properly immersed in your story (obviously beta readers are different, they’ve been paid to look for your mistakes lol). (more below the Keep Reading. Warning!! Triggering topics/actions start right here! :] <3!!!)

And even if you DO fuck up and put a couple too many “ly” words or too many “he said/she saids?” WHO CARES. THAT IS THE POINT OF WRITING. TO IMPROVE. MAKE SHITTY SELF-INSERT FICS. WRITE FANFICTION TO PRACTICE. WRITE A REALLY BAD ORIGINAL STORY ABOUT OVERPOWERED OCS WHO YOU’VE HAD SINCE YOU WERE ELEVEN. EVERY TIME YOU WRITE YOU IMPROVE. IF YOU LOVE SOMETHING ENOUGH TO DEDICATE HOURS OF YOUR LIFE TO IT YOU DESERVE TO LOOK BACK ON IT AND SAY “I made this thing out of love. By making this I made someone happy, and that someone was me. I deserve to be proud of this, because I worked hard on it.”

NEVER regret your old shitty writing. NEVER regret your current writing. Yes, you can spend hours nitpicking every detail and every word like I used to. But you have years to figure out your writing style; years to gauge whether you like first or third or second person POV — or even something else entirely — best; years to experiment and and learn and love new and different things. You will improve, it is an inevitable, inescapable part of being human, being alive.

So please, please write whatever you want, whenever you want. Write cringe! Write badly! Write poorly planned out stories!! If it makes YOU happy, who fucking cares what some bozo using the anonymity of a faceless online profile to bash your earnest, hard work about something you care about says? Why do THEY have any right to your happiness? Your self-esteem? Do what makes you happy, even if it’s bad, or self-indulgent, or god-forbid “““cringey.””” You know what’s cringey? A grown ass adult human being who knows better making fun of someone working hard to improve a skill, or simply enjoying the freedom that writing gives. You have the gift to create. No one starts out writing like a pro. Don’t let others shame you out of expressing yourself in a healthy way that brings you joy.

This is one of the many reasons I have left several nearly untouched, original records of my fic A Small Slice of Ethereal P.I.E, which was written of the course of two years. I am PROUD of how lackluster and empty and basic the beginning of that fic is in comparison to the final chapter — I was fucking 15 years old, had undiagnosed depression and anxiety, and it was the first piece of writing I ever loved enough to finish even after two years, of course it was BAD. It was utter SHIT dude! I was coping with heavy amounts of trauma through a safe, comforting medium through a character I related to deeply. I’m alive because of that fic. It kept me going until I could get help. If writing does that for you; if you think “I don’t want to wake up tomorrow, but if I don’t, then I can’t write that fanfic/story/oneshot/daydream I’ve always wanted to/haven’t completed/dream of publishing one day” then cling to that. Use it. Whatever keeps you going til tomorrow.

Your passions, your interests, have value. I’m so sorry if anyone has made you feel that they don’t. I’m sorry if people have told you your writing isn’t good enough to keep making. Every piece you make is a gift to yourself. I guarantee there are people out there who will. Who do. Even if it’s only future you. Even if it’s only current you. Your joy, fleeting or not, is worth more than you could ever imagine.

Keep writing. For you. Not for anyone else, because you deserve to. You deserve to love something passionately. You deserve to write poorly. You deserve to love what you make anyways. This got a little out of hand, I didn't really mean to say all this, but I feel it's important to my point so whatever haha. seriously though, if anyone wants me to delve further into any of the topics discussed here, especially about sentence variation and where to use complex, compound, and simple sentences in a paragraph/scene/description or what POV to use for the type of story/scene you want to convey to your reader, I'd be literally over the moon lmao. I LOVE talking about the importance of cadence and impact, and how it basically overrides basic grammatical rules like "he said/she said" and "-ly words" and "remove every 'was' in your story." Alright, I'll stop pestering y'all now haha, both my ask box and my dms are open if you want to ask any questions about this!

#maddie talks #maddie writes #kinda vt #but like not really this was just inspired by my passion for writing cringey stories about VT characters haha #writing #writing advice #writing tips #fanfiction #original story #original fiction #original character #cringe #cringe culture #cringe culture is dead #venturiantale #taleblr #sorry people looking for like. anything related to VT today. brain empty only mental illness and writing rants #you didn't read this but I am not doing well mentally today. I don't want to think about anything anymore.#i hate having to acknowledge that i'm lonely and touch-starved. i hate having no one to talk to because we moved away from my therapist and #i wont get to even meet my new one for two weeks. i'm hurting again. i was doing better. i'm afraid my mom will start making herself out to #be the victim again. or worse. tell me that i dont really think that. last time i said i knew i was a disappointment she said that.#i want real human connection with someone i can touch. but im so fucking traumatized that im afraid of people irl #i want to go home. i thought that was our house in georgia with my dad but now that were back here im just nostalgic for a life that #could have been if we hadnt left. i feel empty. i feel alone. im so fucking scared of loving someone who doesn't love me back again.#i just want to be loved. i love my friends so dearly but i just want someone to reciprocate when i fall for them like a fucking idiot again #don't read these. please. i cant fucking think anymore. i just want to stop feeling.

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st-just · 4 years ago

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Semi-coherent Thoughts on Against the Grain

Okay, so trying to add a bit of non-fiction and a bit of proper High Culture to my literature diet this year, and to start that off I figured I’d at long last get around to reading some James C. Scott. And, well, honestly my local library doesn’t have a copy of Seeing Like A State handy, so Against the Grain it is (which is an excellent name, by the by).

So, like, first of all this book does an excellent job of generally enforcing my already firmly held belief of Holy shit everyone, the past was awful! But, like, generally speaking I feel like he made a fairly good case, though I kind of have the suspicion he’s overstating his somewhat – or generalizing when he shouldn’t, maybe? I don’t know, not at all like I’m an expert here.

Though I suppose it’s fair to say that my natural inclination is to dislike his thesis and want to pick at it. The grand, unifying historical narrative of humanity using increasingly sophisticated and complex technology to liberate itself from the tyranny of nature is an immensely appealing one, after all. Which is a decent chunk of the reason for the book’s existence, of course – I joke about Scott wanting to turn his readers into anprims, but while he’s quite forthright about mainly writing to relay the knowledge of domain experts his dim opinion of bureaucracy, centralized administration, hierarchy and, well, civilization come through pretty clearly.

But, okay, the book’s main theses are that primordial states as we conceive of them – priests and kings, cities and stone walls, specialization of labour and codes of laws, etc – could only have ever emerged under very strict and specific conditions, are were also basically parasitic impositions, all the monumental architecture and cuneiform tablets so prized by historians and mythmakers only made possibly by imposing novel and ever-more-extreme varieties of oppression and misery on their subject populations. Moreover, he argues that many of what we call ‘dark ages’ in history – while they might technically earn the name in the sense of not leaving texts or monuments for later scholars – were in fact probably a net benefit to human well being, not any sort of horrific loss or tragedy. Finally, he talks about how what their contemporaries called ‘barbarians’ were really more symbiotic to their settled neighbours than predatory, growing in social complexity and material abundance through raiding and trade with them to the point where much of early civilization was really a better deal for the savages than it was for the peasantry.

The argument that sedentary agriculture and then the state were a) both mistakes and b) not nearly so tightly connected as the popular history goes is honestly fairly convincing. Or at least, it all makes sense – that agriculture is far more labor-intensive and regimented that hunting and gathering in an environment below its carrying capacity, that relying so heavily on just a few staples rather than broad spectrum foraging could make survival much more precarious if just a couple things went wrong, and especially that the concentration of population (not just humans, but livestock and pests as well, and from a different angle crops) made early agricultural settlements an absolute wonderland for diseases and parasites that otherwise would have burnt out and died without sufficiently large numbers of hosts.

In terms of an impression that’s going to haunt me for a while, just the idea that there are literal millennia where the calories produced and the human birthrate exploded but overall population basically remained static because infant mortality and regular lethal epidemics were just that bad is..bleak. You really start to appreciate, like, public hygiene and medicine over previous strategies of ‘enough people die over a long enough time that the good god Darwin gives most of us some level of immunity, and also everyone rich or important enough flees to the countryside every flu season’.

It’s entirely possible I misread something, but the general impression I got is that, contra the usual story, Scott doesn’t thing people were forced into sedentary agriculture by any real population pressures or declining ability to survive off the land – agriculture developing in exactly the most fertile and abundant places to begin with – and also that it predates states or elaborate social hierarchies by a significant period. Leaving him with absolutely zero idea what motivated the development, given what a strict downgrade it seemed to be in terms of quality of life.

But the book’s main thrust is in the title – about the absolute vital role of grain agriculture in allowing complex states to develop. I’m not sure if Scott ever puts it in quite so many words, but there’s the distinct impression throughout the book that he views pristine states as essentially parasites – extracting labour and grain from a toiling majority of peasants and various forms of slaves to support a tiny aristocracy through coercion and force, without providing anything at all of much worth in exchange (village-based agriculture being practiced for centuries and millennia before the formation of the first pristine states, after all). That’s where grain comes in – grain grows according to a predictable schedule, it has to be harvested all at once in a concentrated time period, it’s relatively easy to transport once harvested, and best of all, it’s basically impossible to hide from the tax collectors. It is, to use Scott’s favourite word, an extremely legible crop to the scribes and tax collectors in the palace, easy to access and easy to collect. He states in very strong terms that no pristine state could possibly form or extract enough value from its subjects to sustain itself except in areas of preexisting grain agriculture (overwhelmingly wheat, barley, millet, rice, and later maize. Is maize technically a grain, actually?)– though grain agriculture can happily exist for tens of generations in areas without a state.

He goes into some detail on the idea that, if not slavery, some variety of unfree labour was the lifeblood of every state. Basically, a great many of the wars fought by early city-states or kingdoms weren’t really for territory, so much as loot – and the most valuable loot of all was slaves and prisoners of war to drag back with your so you could exploit their skills and labour yourself. This ties into the

earlier point about epidemics – early cities were constantly hemorrhaging people, both through disease and flight back to pastoral or foraging existences beyond the state’s reach (often no more than a day or two’s travel form the centre). The key symbol here is the grand, monumental walls that early states were so found of – Scott argues that they weren’t so much for keeping nomads and invaders out (though that too), but for keeping the peasants and slaves in.

And on an empirical level I feel like I need to nitpick there. I’m not even close to an expert, but I do listen to a lot of podcasts, and basically by coincidence Patrick Wyman’s Tides of History had an episode on the development of agriculture in the Americas that came out like a day after I finished the book, and Paul Cooper’s Fall of Civilizations had an episode of the Inca come out a couple days earlier. So not exactly academic sources in either case, but they both seem to quite strongly agree that the development of Andean civilization didn’t look like that at all? A vertical economy that required exchange between maritime, agricultural and pastoral producers at different levels of elevation (growing cotton at higher levels to make nets to allow fishers to be more productive, for example) seems extremely distinct from the picture of simple alluvial plain agriculture that Scott’s very exact on being the only possible birthplace for a nascent civilization, and tubers seem to have been at least as important as grains. It’s not exactly an argument against his thesis as it applies to Mesopotamia or other places he looks at in detail, but I guess it does make me more suspicious of his wider conclusions?

His argument about what ‘collapses’ and ‘dark ages’ is interesting. Essentially, there are certainly occasions where states collapse because of invasion or epidemic or ecological collapse. But a lot of the time, states just collapse because people get sick of their shit, and they lack the force or authority to get their subjects back in line. In cases like this, there is kind of a ‘dark age’, in the sense that there’s no longer a central palace interested in creating monuments and paying scribes to extol their glory or keep track of their riches, but it’s really only dark from the perspective of the future historian and archaeologist. For contemporaries, it might actually be a blessing – an end to conscription and taxation, a dramatic jump in health as people disperse back to village life, no more army-sized slave raids on the periphery, and so on.

His last chapter is devoted to the ‘barbarians’, the unsettled and stateless people beyond the reach of history who populated the vast majority of the world for the vast majority of human history. I do kind of feel like he gets sloppy with his terms here, in terms of just how vast a category he lumps under ‘barbarian’. Like, he initially uses the category to describe the nonstate, unorganized peoples beyond the taxman’s reach, but then latter lumps in the Huns, Mongols, and all the other of what he calls ‘shadow empires’ (that is, nomadic empires that grow up in the shadow of civilization). Again, I’m not even close to a specialist, but what specialists I have read tended to take a fair amount of offense to the tendency to dismiss social complexity and organization among the inhabitants of the Eurasian steppe and, like, especially in the case of the Mongols saying that nomadic peoples and cultures were protean and generally formed in the image of state designations really almost seems insulting (though I suppose Scott probably doesn’t see it that way). I’m reminded here of John Darwin’s characterization of the post-Tamerlane ruling class in Samarkand as being in a certain sense more civilized – having access to more sophisticated and effective political and military technologies – than the settled agriculturalists in northern India they eventually conquered.

....All that said, the idea that the concentrated wealth of early states, and the resulting opportunities for both trade and plunder, was actually a much greater improvement in the quality of life for the nomads for could exploit them than the vast majority of the, like, actually settled peoples is pretty compelling (well, the ones that aren’t captured in slave raids by their rivals and sold to said states for finished goods, anyway). Though I do find it vaguely ironic how Scott basically arrives at the idea that powerful nomad groups had essentially the same dominant and exploitative relationship with farming populations as their own state elites, but approximately none of his evident distaste for the latter transfers to how he talks about the former.

But anyway, good book, probably overstates its arguments, but doesn’t everyone with anything interesting to say? I’ve still got too much of a bureaucrat's soul to fully buy in to what Scott’s selling, though

#books #against the grain #james c. scott #in this essay I will #this is theoretically a writing blog #history #book review #or book 'writing an essay to satisfy myself that I understood it' anyway #though going by the names that cames to mind in relation to this I really need to read some histories not written by white dudes

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