#because the way he just goes on and on without any spaces is impossible to read lol

[captain-huggy-bear]

How does Jack ask you to be his valentine ?

Oh he's a sweetheart but also pretty conventional as well. I think he goes with your standard ideas of flowers, and chocolates, probably turning up at your door on the day itself because that's traditional and he just smirks and asks. The sort of lazy confidence in him that says he knows you're going to say yes, that it would be impossible for you to say no.

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

It's still new, this thing you have with Jack, early days as it were. Not quite boyfriend and girlfriend yet, but not just two strangers who've been on a singular date either. Talking wasn't the right term and dating was maybe closer to it, figuring out whether this was going to be something long term or just a drop in the ocean. So you didn't really expect anything from him on Valentine's day, especially not when he'd said he had a game that night and wouldn't be able to take you out in the evening like he wanted to. You'd accepted that because at the end of the day you knew what you were getting into when you agreed to the very first date with him. Hockey meant things wouldn't always go as expected, not all events would be commemorated. It also wasn't a given considering the early nature of your relationship.

It's why you're not expecting it when your front door bell rings and you're certainly not expect to look through your peephole to see Jack Hughes standing on the other side in a suit and tie holding what might be the largest bouquet of pink roses you'd ever seen. So large that they'd block out his entire head and shoulders if he held them upright.

"Jack?" You open the door to him, feeling decidedly underdressed in your casual everyday clothes when compared with Jack and his suit. The black one that he's matched with a black tie like he's going to a formal event rather than standing in front of your house on the 14th February in the cold.

"Hey..." The smile he gives you is nearly a smirk, that confidence that first drew you to him, firmly in place. His hair has grown longer at the moment, nearly reaching his shoulders, tucked behind his ears.

"What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at the rink for morning skate...?"

"Already been, decided this was more important than my post practice nap." It makes you feel warm all over, the way he says that so easily, like it's a given that seeing you is more important than his routines and rituals, things you know hockey players hold dear to their hearts.

"Oh?"

"Here," He hands you the bouquet that takes up your entire arm space, larger than a toddler and smelling sweetly of rose. He'd picked the scented roses, ones that smell strongly too a little detail that you can't help but take note of. "I picked the pink ones, thought it'd be a little less cliché."

You can't help the soft smile you give him because it really is sweet and unexpected. More romantic than any of your past boyfriends had ever been and he's not even in a relationship with you yet.

"They're lovely, Jack...you really didn't have to..." You feel bad knowing you hadn't expected anything and so hadn't got anything for him.

"I wanted to. I can't exactly ask you to be my valentine without flowers now, can I, angel?" Your positive reception of the flowers has him relaxing further, a smile turning into a smirk, leaning closer to you, arm leaning against your door frame. The invasion of your personal space makes you nervous in the best sort of way, giddy.

"You want to be my valentine?" You can't actually remember the last time you were actually asked to be someone's valentine...it makes butterflies flutter about in your stomach.

"Sweetheart, who else would I ask?"

You shrug, pursing your lips as you look up at him from under your lashes, all of a sudden unsure and lacking confidence because neither of you ever said you were only seeing each other. That you were exclusive. While you certainly weren't seeing any other guys, it would make sense for someone like Jack, popular and famous, to have a whole roster of girls waiting on him. It wouldn't surprise you if he had other girls he was testing the waters with, figuring out who was the best fit.

He seems to sense that your thoughts have gone that way, or maybe he just has good timing.

"You're the only girl I'm seeing and the only one I want to see, angel...I've not gone on a date with anyone else since before our first one." He doesn't like that it's clearly shocking to you, the way you look up him like he's just given you the world. Jack thinks it should be obvious to you that he's all in, that he's completely taken with you and has been since the first date. He's only waiting to ask you to be his girlfriend because he knows you need a little more time, not because he's not ready or doesn't want to.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. Why waste my time with anyone else? They wouldn't be you." It's simply really. You're perfect for him. You're kind, you're caring, pretty and smart. You're understanding of his schedule and his moods. You get along with Luke and you treat him like Jack, just Jack. Not Jack Hughes, hockey superstar. Why waste his time on girls who fawn and giggle over his title, his status but don't really like him for him?

"Jack..."

He diffuses some of the heavy tension with his next question, not wanting to make things too serious too fast, not wanting you to feel pressure to respond in kind, "You still haven't answered my question. Will you be my valentine?"

"Yes, I'll be your valentine." You smile up at him all giddy and sweet and he wants to kiss you all over your cheeks, lift you until you're giggling uncontrollably, but he controls himself. Jack has to remind himself you're not his girlfriend yet, he's trying to take this slow, easy for you, a love confession might be a bit much 3 months in.

"Good because we have a lunch date, so go get changed into something nice." Not that you don't look nice, you always look nice, but he knows you'll feel self conscious if he takes you into a nice restaurant in casual clothes while he's in a full suit and tie.

"A lunch date?"

"Well, I can't take you out for dinner because of the game, but I figured lunch would work?" Your hesitation has Jack questioning himself, starting to second guess if this was a good idea, maybe you already had plans, "Or...you don't have to, we can stay here or...or I can go?"

"No, no! Lunch sounds...it sounds perfect."

The smile you receive is enough. It's more than enough, you think you might just do anything to be on the receiving end of that smile.

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 5

in which spencer reid and fem!reader are reunited, but the worst kind of sparks are flying. you meet a man named randall. derek morgan buys you a drink (sort of). it seems that some things can't be unsaid.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ warnings/tags: r goes to a bar but doesn't drink alcohol, gets hit on by weird men, dramatic, angst, sorry in advance a/n: surprise! i'll see myself out. love you! lmk your thoughts on this bad boy! i KNOW you'll have some! i'm locking all my doors and the cops are on speed dial after posting this. stay tuned for part six tho

You don’t call Spencer for four days. 

Spencer doesn’t call you for four days. 

It’s scary. 

There’s some texting—mostly him giving you updates on how things are going and when he expects to be back. Mostly you giving the messages a thumbs up and saying nothing else. 

Finally, on Thursday afternoon, his ringtone (the Bill Nye theme) makes you jump as you’re sitting on your bed staring into space. 

His caller ID photo—which is simply his passport photo, because you’d thought it was adorable—stares at you. You stare back. Contemplate not picking up. 

But you’re not quite there yet. 

And you cannot keep listening to Bill Nye the Science Guy. 

The answer button is cold under your thumb, but not as cold as your greeting. 

“Hi.”

You barely recognize your own voice. 

It seems to send Spencer for a loop as well, because his reply is halting. 

“Hey! Hi, um—how are you? I feel like we’ve barely talked this week.”

That would be because you told me my feelings for you are stronger than your feelings for me and I don’t know how to stop making every single word I say secretly mean I love you. We can’t have a conversation without me loving you. It will always be in the room or on the phone with us. To ignore the presence of it is impossible, and I don’t know if I can ignore the absence of yours, either. 

“Uh… yeah. I’m fine. What’s up?”

There’s a pause. 

“We wrapped up this morning. We’re getting on the jet here in a few minutes, and, um—I know it’s not ideal, but we missed Derek’s birthday and Penelope is insisting we all go to his favorite bar tonight. And he told me that for his birthday he wants to meet you. So… would you be up for that?”

“You want… to take me to a bar?”

“No. I mean—I know it’s not really your thing, but we missed Derek’s birthday three years in a row, and—and I understand if you don’t want to meet him tonight, but we wouldn’t have to stay very long and I really, really shouldn’t skip it. Derek has saved my life on more than one occasion.”

“You could go without me.”

More silence. Every second hurts, but you don’t understand why he wants you to come meet his best friend if he thinks the two of you are in different places emotionally. 

But maybe he’s not going to break up with you just yet. Maybe he’s going to keep inviting you to bars and foreign film festivals and bookshops. Maybe he’s going to treat you exactly the same as he always has but with this new added layer of knowledge that the way he treats you isn’t actually love, and it never was, and you’re not sure if it has the potential to ever become love. Because if it did—wouldn’t it have already? What more do you have to offer than what you’ve already given him?

Breakup or no breakup, you feel sick. 

When he speaks his tone is similarly chilly. It’s welcome. You want him mad. If he can’t reciprocate your adoration, then the very least he can do is have the decency to reciprocate your reproach. 

“I could. Is that what you want?”

No. I don’t want any of this. I need you to know me well enough to know that. And if you can’t love me then at least get angry. At least show me you feel something other than passive contentment. 

“Yeah. Sure. I don’t know.”

A pause stretches so long your heart pounds. You watch the elapsed time of the call tick by, second by second, and you wait for the anticipation to crack under the weight of silence, to give way to some terrible jump scare or to give way at all. 

But the words that end the conversation (if you can even call it that) aren’t any great relief. They’re just sad, and chalk full of defeat. 

“Alright. I’ll… I’ll call you later.”

You feel like you’ve swallowed an ice cube. All the words you’d like to say are frozen in your stinging throat. 

“Okay. Um… I’ll let you board now.”

“The jet’s not…” but he trails off. When he speaks again he sounds just as hurt as you’d wanted—and it doesn’t make you feel better at all. “Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The line goes dead, and your face is burning as tears fill your eyes for the hundredth time this week. That call was terrible and poisonous and you don’t feel like yourself. 

Things have gone so wrong so quickly, and all you know how to do is ice him out so he can’t do it to you first. But it’s not going to make this better. No matter how mean you are to him, at the root of it all you feel unloved and scared and alone and Spencer knows things about love and relationships that you don’t. He’s confusing you with all this talk of feeling differently about each other and I’ll be home tomorrow I miss you and things get complicated when one person likes the other more and let’s talk in person and will you come meet my best friend tonight. All of it leaves you motion sick and ugly crying in the fetal position. 

All you have to get through this is who you’ve always been, a little of the person you’ve become, and the love you harbor for Spencer which rattles around in your chest like a nail in an empty toolbox. At the moment it hardly seems helpful. It mocks you, pointing out the pathetic hilarity of your paradox. The only person who can comfort you, the person you want more than anything, is the reason you’re so upset in the first place. But you can’t help being drawn to him. 

Maybe the love you have for Spencer is more like a magnet in a compass. 

Even if he doesn’t feel it for you, you do love Spencer. And that goes beyond just loving the parts of him that like you. To hide from that love would be a gross disservice to yourself and all the work you’ve done to get here. It’s not as if you suddenly know exactly what the answer is—but you’re sure that hiding is the most childish, cowardly thing you could do and the furthest you could get from a resolution. Even if you can’t make him love you back, you refuse to allow yourself to fizzle quietly out of his life. This relationship deserves something more than that. 

So maybe you don’t have a plan when you wipe your eyes and pick up your phone. Maybe there’s no strategy behind your actions as you text Garcia for the bar location. But if you keep running from everything you’ll never get anywhere. All you can do is show up. It seems like the next best step. 

------

The pub isn’t too crowded—but for a Thursday night, you suppose it’s a bit busy. 

Boot heels hooked onto the metal foot-beam of the stool you’re sitting on, elbows resting on the polished mahogany surface of the bar, you’re staring into an untouched mixed drink. Then you glance down the bar to your right, at the man who’d bought it for you. 

Maybe your ensemble gave him the wrong idea. 

Coming to this gathering had required bravery, and you came armored. Your ensemble projects significantly more confidence than you’re currently feeling. It was intentional, a form of self-protection—but now you’re wondering if it’s projecting a little too much confidence. 

All done up, clearly still a little rough around the edges, and sitting alone at a bar was bound to draw the wrong pairs of eyes. 

“Hey, darlin’,” the gruff man says, approaching when you inadvertently catch his gaze. “Are you gonna drink that, or should I? Otherwise I’m lookin’ at eleven dollars right down the drain.”

You avert your eyes, scanning the groups dotted here and there. 

“I’m waiting for friends.”

“Does that make a free drink less appealing?”

He takes the stool next to you, off-gassing the scent of cigarettes and leather. 

“I’m not drinking.”

“Really? I’ve never seen a girl who looks as sad as you do come sit at the bar to stay sober.”

You frown, looking back up at the man next to you. He seems like the Hell’s Angels type—tattooed knuckles, leather jacket, grey beard, and a weathered face that’s clearly spent decades with the sun. Fifties, maybe younger and just looks more rugged. What does it say about how I look tonight that this is the kind of man I’m attracting, you wonder. Maybe you look desperate and just as lonely as you feel. As he claims you do. 

“I’m not sad.”

“Alright. I’ll take your word for it. But a happier girl wouldn’t be all alone.”

“I’m waiting for friends,” you repeat, letting the words drip like venom from your tongue. 

“I’m Randall. See? Now we're friends.”

“I don’t need more friends. I like the ones I have.”

Something catches Randall’s attention long enough to catch yours. He raises his bottle vaguely, gesturing beyond your shoulder. 

“Are those angry lookin’ guys in the suits marching right over here the friends you’re talking about?”

You turn your head, brows furrowed, and immediately see the gentlemen to whom your new pal is pointing out. 

Spencer is storming across the bar looking close to furious (which for him, means an expression so placid it gives you chills) followed by Derek Morgan—a man who you’ve only seen pictures of and is even more impressive in person. 

You hate how your breath catches, how your heart is already beating a little faster than usual at the sight of him even though you’re not exactly pleased with each other right now. 

Suddenly the bubbles in your cocktail are once again fascinating.

“Those are the ones.”

“And why are they dressed for church?”

Church?

“They’re FBI.”

“Ah. My lucky fuckin’ day.”

You almost snort. 

“Hey,” Spencer says sternly, hand settling on your back as he partially fills the small space between you and the strange man. “Who’s this?”

You shrug, sit up a little straighter, and take a shallow breath—not because you’re scared of this man but because Spencer is suddenly so close to you and you can feel his warmth and the air bending around him and the scent of him is genuinely dizzying to you. 

“Randall,” you exhale unenthusiastically. But the odd thing is that you’re rather grateful for Randall’s presence. Because now Spencer is here and you have no idea what you’re going to say to him. 

“Oh,” Randall says, sipping his beer unhurriedly before using it to gesture to Spencer. “You’re the boyfriend. You know, that’s funny, because she didn’t mention a boyfriend.”

“I didn’t mention anything. We weren’t having a real conversation.”

Randy holds his hands up defensively, fingers still wrapped around the neck of a sweating bottle. 

“I’m just saying it’s in-ter-esting. Not trying to start anything.” He stands, pauses for another sip—Spencer obviously isn’t sure what to make of this man because he says nothing. “But listen, man to man—you better buy her some flowers or a real pretty fuckin’ necklace or somethin’ because a happy girl in a happy relationship does not come pout at the bar all by herself.”

“Get out of here, man,” Derek finally speaks up. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He sets his empty bottle down and fishes in his pocket for a cigarette, sticking it between his lips. “But—just for the record—I have a wife. I wasn’t gonna do anything weird. Sometimes when you’re my age you just gotta live a little. Buy a pretty girl a drink. Piss off some Mormons, or whatever the fuck you are.”

This guy sounds like a bad Bruce Springsteen song. But part of you would almost rather hang out with Randall than be forced into a conversation you’re not prepared for with Spencer. 

And whose fault is that, you remind yourself. You decided to come be mature. Suck it up. 

“Goodnight,” Derek emphasizes. 

Spencer doesn’t say a word. You can feel his eyes boring smoking holes into the side of your face, and you look anywhere else.  

“I’ll be here next week after physical therapy like clockwork,” the stranger waves as he ambles away—but not before pointing at you. “You enjoy that drink, friend. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

What a weird man. 

There’s silence for a moment—in which Spencer refuses to stop watching you and you refuse to acknowledge that. 

“And here I was thinking Spencer made you up.” Derek has a beautiful smile and a warm, charming cadence as he holds out his hand for you to shake. “I’m Derek.”

You take the proffered hand and shake, offering him a shy smile and introducing yourself in kind. 

“Happy birthday, by the way. Sorry for crashing your party.”

Really, he’s stunning. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. And you’re not crashing anything. I told pretty boy here I wanted to meet you the second he started talking about a friend. But nah, he just wanted to talk and talk and talk about you—” 

“Alright,” Spencer mumbles, blushing, eyes finally torn from your profile. You smile slightly, brows knitting as Derek magically melts some of the terrible tension.

“Pretty boy?”

Before either of them can explain, someone shrieks in your general direction. You startle backward in your seat, and Spencer steps closer, hand sliding up your back as Penelope, JJ, and Emily join your little huddle. For only a second you allow yourself to shrink into him—before you’re straightening your posture like your spine is a metal rod and his touch burns. It’s a knee-jerk defensive reaction for which you have no explanation. You can’t see him, but you don’t feel his hand on you again. 

“Oh my god! Look at this beautiful person who I love!” Penelope exclaims, pushing past Derek to grab your face and kiss both of your cheeks. “Oh my god,” she says again, wiping sticky lipgloss away with her thumbs, “I totally meant to ask before I did that. But your face is just so kissable. I’m so glad you decided to come!”

“Hi, Penelope,” you smile half-heartedly, incapable of reciprocating her cheery mood. Fortunately, she’s cheery enough for a standard commercial flight’s worth of people, and probably thinks of Derek’s birthday as a national holiday—so she doesn’t pick up on this. 

Emily and JJ offer you tamer although perfectly kind greetings. 

“Ooh, what are you drinking?” Emily asks, leaning closer to examine the forgotten beverage in front of you. 

“Not that,” Spencer mutters, grabbing the glass and sliding it away from you. You give him an affronted look—and immediately wish you hadn’t, since you’re meeting his eyes for the first time since he left. His words stall for just a moment as his eyes dart between yours before he’s saying, “you shouldn’t accept a drink if you didn’t watch someone make it.”

The audacity of him to be acting protective makes you scoff. 

“That guy didn’t spike my drink. He was harmless.”

“People thought Ted Bundy was harmless, too.”

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say that you don’t even have a response—your eyes simply narrow and you shake your head. A claustrophobic silence falls over the small group. 

“Okay…” JJ murmurs. “Um, do you guys want to go check out the jukebox with me? We have to play all of the birthday boy’s favorites.”

Several enthusiastic yeses go around, but you’re too busy having a stand off with your boyfriend to take much notice. 

Soon, it’s just the two of you. 

“Controlling isn’t a good look for you,” you finally say, spinning to rest your elbows on the bar once more and studying the bottles of liquor on the shelves beyond. 

“Evasive and avoidant isn’t particularly flattering, either. I was under the impression that you had no intention of coming after that phone call earlier.” 

You scoff again as your blood heats. Already the conversation is going worse than you’d expected—and your expectations were not high. 

“Do you think the cab driver was a serial killer, too? Or maybe the bartender?”

He’s still behind you and slightly to the side—but he leans down, resting his own fists on the bar right next to you and speaking lowly, directly over your shoulder. 

“Why don’t you try speaking to me like we’re adults instead of starting meaningless arguments in order to get under my skin?”

From him, that hurts. 

It’s a branch on the tree of your greatest insecurity—the fear that you’re too inexperienced with relationships and that makes you too immature and he’s been lying every time he says it’s not an issue. Because of course it’s an issue. It’s why you fell in love with him, it’s why you don’t know how to fix it, and it’s why you’re incapable of actually expressing any of your feelings to him.

“Why do you think I’m here right now?” you whisper—as sharp and stinging as a poison dart. “I’m trying to be a fucking adult. I don’t want to be here.”

Silence. 

“Then why did you come?”

His voice is so calm it burns like dry ice. 

“Because! Because you asked me to, because—”

You can’t bring yourself to say it aloud. 

Because I’m obviously still in love with you and I can’t just turn that off. I tried to do the right thing. 

Instead you bury your face in your hands and let it hang in the air, unspoken. You know he knows. You just don’t know why he’s acting like you’re so unreasonable for being upset. 

“Let me make this very clear to you,” Spencer murmurs, brushing your hair away from your ear so tenderly, speaking so softly you could convince yourself that he’ll say something kind. It’s the closest he’s been in days and now that he’s here you feel how much you missed him in your bones. And even though you sense a trap, you can’t help but sit up straighter. You’ll be complicit in your own undoing if it means you can have him close. His breath shakes slightly as he inhales and you brace as best you can. “Nobody is forcing you to be here. You told me you weren’t coming and then you decided to show up. I was ready to give you the space that you were too scared to ask me for. But I can only take responsibility for so much of what is ultimately your bad behavior and your adolescent volatility. You can only blame so much of your bad behavior on inexperience before I run out of patience because I don’t find thoughtlessness and emotional immaturity compelling. I told you that if there is a disparity in the way we feel for each other, that was fine, and I meant it. But if you can’t cope with how I feel about you then don’t let me hold you back. I am not holding you hostage. You can leave whenever you want. So don’t waste your time punishing me because you don’t want to be here. And if you do want to be here, good. I want that too. But act like an adult and make a decision. My leniency has limits, even for you. I am asking that you do not push it any further than you already have.”

You don’t know how long it’s been since your last breath by the time he finishes his address.

Long enough that you’re dizzy when you push away from the bar and shoulder through the throng of patrons as quickly as you reasonably can without outright running. 

Long enough that when you burst out the door into the biting-cold night air, and finally take a deep, gasping breath, it burns and stings and aches and so does your head and your eyes as they well with hot, furious, heartbroken tears. 

You speed-walk to the end of the block, hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries and all the curse words you’d love to scream. 

Part of you knows you walked away from the bar in case he decided to try and follow you—but when you look over your shoulder the sidewalk is empty. You should’ve known better than to think he’d follow you after that. But at least it means you can have your breakdown by the relative safety of the bar, leaning your back against the dirty brick facade next to the entrance alcove and sliding down until your butt hits the cold concrete and you don’t even care. 

Who the fuck was that man in the bar who looked like Spencer and sounded like Spencer but spoke to you like this is all your fault, like it’s your fault you love him and he doesn’t love you back, like it’s ridiculous that you’d be upset, like you’re cruel and petty for having feelings about it, about him—for having any fucking feelings at all? And to think that was the man who you let know you more intimately than anyone ever has. Every insecurity you’d ever admitted to him was hurled back in your face like it was nothing. Hell—he even handed you the ones you’d never mentioned. He proved every terrible thought you’ve been having about yourself right. 

How could he be so unabashedly mean to you?

Spencer doesn’t have to love you. It seems clearer now than ever that he doesn’t. But part of you wonders if he suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury because that’s the only explanation for why he could go from treating you how he did before to treating you like he doesn’t even like you. 

You feel like you might throw up. 

“Called it,” a rasping, grumbling voice says from a few feet away. 

You look up, and spot fucking Randall standing under a street light ten feet away, still smoking. 

You go back to studying the tar spots on the sidewalk through bleary eyes. Pebbles sting as they press into your palms. Another one of the universe’s terrible jokes, you suppose. Just earlier you’d thought that you’d rather talk to Randall than Spencer and now here you are and here he is. 

“That kid as much of a dipshit punk as I thought he was?”

Hearing Spencer described as a kid and a dipshit punk is so jarring you almost stop crying. 

“He’s not a dipshit,” you sniff, voice thick with tears as you find yourself explaining Spencer Reid to this stranger for no reason at all. “He has an IQ of 187. He’s a genius.”

“Ah,” he scoffs dismissively, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Dipshit-ism don’t discriminate. Anyone can be one. Even your genius punk boyfriend. As a recovering dipshit myself I know what the work of a fellow dipshit looks like. And this has dipshit written all over it.”

You sob harder. 

Randall speaks calmly around his cigarette. 

“You know, I’m sorry for whatever you got goin’ on. But I’ve never not been the asshole when I got a hysterical woman in front of me. It’s nice that I can confidently say this time it is not my fault.”

The bar door opens, letting a warm burst of jovial music and chatter into the otherwise still night. Steps that are too heavy to be Spencer’s hit the concrete next to you—you look to your left and see Derek Morgan before he looks down and sees you. 

“Hey—you okay out here?”

“Why don’t you go ask your Jehovah’s Witness buddy? He did this.”

Derek makes a face, locating the source of this interjection. 

“Sir, I asked you to leave her alone once and I don’t appreciate being made to repeat myself. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, whatever. Fuck me for making friendly conversation, I guess. Gonna have to call my wife and tell her to pick me up down the street. I don’t want her on the damn phone while she’s driving.”

Randall wanders away again, still muttering to himself and smoking. Derek watches him go, staring daggers into his back until he turns his gaze to you. 

Goodbye, Randall, you think. Great. Now I have neither of them. 

“Hey,” he softens, crouching down to your level. “You okay?”

You sniff, wiping your cheeks and attempting not to smudge your makeup. It’s impossible not to feel awkward—you just met this guy and now he’s here trying to do emotional labor for you on his birthday. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. This is embarrassing.”

“You don’t look fine. Can I do anything for you? Do you want some food? A drink?”

“You really don’t have to—”

“I know, I know. But look—Reid is always talking about you. You’re important to him, and he’s important to me. I’ve never seen him this happy and I’ve known that kid a long time. It is in my best interest that someone maintain you, and if it’s not him, it’ll be me. Call it a favor to him, if that makes you feel better.” Derek is sporting a slightly more modest Cheshire grin again by the end of his sentence. Listening to him speak that way about Spencer speaking about you, it’s impossible not to feel a teeny bit lighter. Even if you’re not entirely sure where you stand on all things Spencer related at the moment. “So I’ll ask you again. Is there anything I can do for you?”

You sniff again. 

“Sure. A ginger ale or something might be good.”

“Got it. I’ll be back. And come inside if Randall tries to run up on you again, okay?”

Despite yourself you manage a laugh at the way he says the name. His warm smile flickers warmer at this.  

“Will do.”

When Derek returns a few minutes later, the plastic cup he’s holding looks decidedly not like ginger ale. 

“Penelope insisted that this is what you would want. I don’t even know.”

You smile slightly as you take the cup, full to the brim with bubbles and thick red syrup. A cherry bobs underneath the layer of cubed ice. 

“Shirley temple,” you chuckle. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he says, flashing that brilliant smile again, and you look into your cup as you drink. Maybe your face warms just a bit. You’re still shy around men, you realize. Especially attractive ones. And Derek Morgan definitely qualifies as attractive. 

“So,” he begins, and to your surprise, crouches down in front of you. “I have to be honest—I came out here in the first place because Reid sent me to check on you. But now I’m wondering what the hell he did.”

Spencer sent him. A considerate action that would theoretically signal his care for your feelings. You take another sip, staring into space and trying to digest this information, but it only jumbles with the rest to confuse you more. 

Of course, you don’t know how to convey this to Derek in a way that’s not overly-familiar for just having met the man, so you go with an old standby. 

“I’m probably just overreacting.”

“Uh-huh. I have sisters. I know what an overreaction looks like and if you were overreacting you wouldn’t be out here hiding. What’d he do?”

You can only keep up the facade of emotional stability for so long. Your chin wobbles in a horribly embarrassing way and you look down again. 

“I’m not sure—I’m not sure if he really did anything or if I’m just being dramatic and I don’t want to make him seem—”

“Why don’t you stop defending him and just tell me what he did?” Derek urges. “Trust me—I love that kid to death. But I also know he can be a dick sometimes. You don’t need to worry about making him look bad in front of me.”

Part of you is glad Spencer has such a good friend on his side. And Derek is right—Spencer is an adult. You don’t need to worry about besmirching his reputation. So you take a shuddering sigh, staring into the red of your drink. 

“He just doesn’t like me as much as I like him. Which isn’t his fault, like I said, but—he’s being such an asshole about it.”

Derek pulls a face, strong eyebrows making an impression as they knit.  

“Did he tell you that?”

“Over the phone,” you nod emphatically. “And just now he gave me this whole fucking speech about how immature and horrible I am for not being 100% happy about it. And maybe he’s partially right, I mean—I know people feel things differently and maybe he just was asking for more time. I worry I fucked it up so bad because I couldn’t handle that—but at the same time he didn’t say he wanted more time. He was really fucking unclear and vague about what he wanted, and he asked me to come to this bar like it was nothing when I’ve been worried he was going to break up with me all week. So yeah, I guess he’s right and I have been a bitch about it because I was upset that he didn’t… like me as much. And I wanted him to feel bad because I was so embarrassed, and I also didn’t want to act like everything was normal if he was just going to dump me, I…” you realize you’ve been hardcore rambling and your face heats. “I don’t know.”

There’s a pause, and you worry you’ve done exactly the thing you didn’t want to, which was overshare to this man who seems like he’s significantly more normal and well-adjusted than you. You drink deeply, swallowing sugar and the rest of your words. 

“That’s… bizarre. I don’t mean to invalidate your feelings, but… that just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, projecting annoyance so you won’t start crying again. “I was confused too. I thought he really liked me.”

“No, sweetheart, I’m saying—that doesn’t make sense because he does really like you. Really, really likes you, more than I’ve ever seen him like someone before. I mean, last week I finally finished that Tesla biography he’s been on my ass about for months and when I told him, all he wanted to do was talk about your thoughts on it. And then it wasn’t even about the book anymore. I have never, ever seen Reid pass up an opportunity to talk about Nikola Tesla. I’m talking never in my life. He finds a way to make every conversation about you. I can’t even follow the connections sometimes but he always finds a way.”

Your nose wrinkles. 

“Sorry you’ve had to hear so much about me,” you mumble. Though you’re not really sorry. It feels good. A twinge of joy in all the murk. 

“I’m not. Like I said, I’ve known Spencer for a long time and I’ve never seen him this happy. I’m not about to let him fuck it up.”

“If I make him so happy then why did he tell me we don’t feel the same?” you whisper, reaching into the puddle of syrup and ice at the bottom of your now empty cup. 

“Is that exactly what he said?” Derek asks, after a long pause. You bite the maraschino cherry off the stem and nod morosely, grinding a long-gone stranger’s cigarette butt with your boot just to crush something. There’s another beat of silence. “Alright. You know what I think?”

You raise your head to meet his gaze, your own wide-eyed and expectant. 

“I think you two need to have an honest conversation. You’re both confused and hurting—I promise Spencer is feeling it too. If you talk to him he won’t be unkind to you.”

“He already was,” you admit. 

“I apologize if I’m out of line here, but you just told me you’ve been icing him out all week because you want him to feel bad. I’m willing to bet you don’t realize how sharp these claws are.” Derek grabs your hand as he says it and you marvel at how much he is the opposite of you. Everything he does and says seems so natural and reasonable and charming even if it would piss you off from anyone else—and you just met the guy. You can see why Spencer and Penelope speak so highly of him. “I think you’ve probably both had your moments these past few days. But that doesn’t mean neither of you deserve any more chances.”

He puts your hand back on your knee and pats it. 

“Besides, Spencer‘s not good at mean. I bet he’s inside worrying himself sick over whatever dumb shit he said to you. He’s probably hyperventilating as we speak.”

“It was really out of character for him,” you concede. 

“Yeah. He’ll be apologizing for a long while. It will get annoying. But he sure as hell won’t be doing it again, I can tell you that much. If he does, let me know. Emily and I will whoop his ass and call it a fitness evaluation.”

“I think that’ll be unnecessary,” you laugh thickly, pulling your sleeve over your hand and wiping away the few tears that haven’t quite dried. “But thank you.”

“Anytime. Now, it’s my birthday, and as a grown man I should not be getting involved in someone else��s relationship drama. I was supposed to be on the dance floor a while ago.” His tone is so warm and sugary by the time he finishes it could rot his perfect grin. It’s futile to hide the way your mouth twists into a reluctant smile as you look down and fix your hair—praying he can’t tell how fazed you are by his kindness. “You’re going to talk to him, right?”

“I’ll—yeah. Right,” you say quietly. But the sinking feeling in your stomach knows it’s a thing easier said than done. 

“Good,” Derek grunts, taking your empty cup before pushing himself back up to his feet and offering you a hand. “Do you want me to send him out here or do you want to come find him inside?”

You balk.

“Like—right now? I have to talk to him now?”

Before he can give you an answer you think you’d rather not have, the bar door is opening. From your spot you can’t see who it is right away, but Derek turns over his shoulder and does a double take before looking back at you. 

Spencer steps out onto the sidewalk, eyes scanning for until he realizes you’re a few feet shorter than usual. Sitting on a filthy public walkway is probably his worst nightmare, you realize, as you scramble to your feet and dust the crumbs of concrete from your palms against the back of your cold jeans. He begins to say your name, and it sounds like relief and regret, but you stop him. 

“I have to go wash my hands.”

It’s monotonous and mumbled and comes out too quickly but you don’t have time to worry about that as you brush past both of the men on your way back into the bar, making an immediate beeline for the bathroom. 

Your face burns with anxiety as you shut the door behind you, immediately drowning in the yellowish lighting which is so harsh but seems to illuminate almost nothing. Who paints a bathroom red? It’s suffocating. You feel like you’re inside an aorta. 

Water runs cool over your hands as you sniffle, rinsing the bits of dirt from red indents made by pebbles and things, and the soap is too floral and powdery but you wash twice anyway. Maybe you’ll just stay in here and wash your hands forever. 

There’s a light knock on the shiny wooden door and it makes you jump. Your name is muffled from the other side. 

“You in there?” 

Quickly you wipe under your reddened eyes in the mirror, trying to fix the slightly smudged makeup. 

The door opens when you don’t respond, and there’s Spencer, looking weary and tense all at once. Is that your fault?

“Hey,” you sniff, trying to effect casualness, but it comes out too quickly and your posture is too stiff. Under his all-seeing gaze you cross and uncross your arms, look at him and look away. Your hands end up in your pockets. He’d say crossed arms are a sign of self-soothing. 

“Hey.” His is more measured, and of course makes you feel embarrassed in comparison. The door swings shut behind him as he enters the small room and makes it feel that much smaller. “Are you… hiding from me in here?”

Yes. 

The graffitied toilet stalls to your left suddenly look fascinating. 

“Nope. Just washing my hands.”

This is not what Derek told you to do, you scold yourself internally. Stop being so scared. Be honest with him. 

Silence rings. All the brutally honest things you’d like to say choke you until your throat hurts and your eyes get hot. Yet again you feel like a stupid little girl who’s too emotional to communicate. 

You cross your arms. It’s an indulgence you feel you’re owed. 

Spencer says your name again and it’s too much. He never says it this often. When he does it feels good but now it’s too formal, makes you too aware of your own inadequacy, and how he must be seeing you—a wraith of a girl in a dingy bar bathroom with clammy hands and smudged eyeliner, practically shaking with fear under an unforgiving light. Someone who is too scared and much too sensitive. 

Spencer attempts to speak again. 

“What I said before, it was—”

“Can you just take me home?” 

It comes out on one exhalation and seems to stall him with all the effectiveness of a slap to the face. 

You don’t know where it comes from, either. 

Easier said than done, you’d thought a few moments ago. All the bravery Derek had tried to instill in you is gone, swallowed down the drain like soap scum. And now you’re choosing to let your fear win—because at least that’s a known quantity. The fear will never reject you. It will always be waiting with open arms. 

Too scared. 

The end feels imminent. You try to press yourself back together, fingernails biting into palms, trying to make something feel more tangible than the terrible knowingness that you’re careening toward an end which was supposed to be a beginning. It’s stifling and you wonder if Spencer is breathing it too. 

You can’t look at his face, but you watch him pocket his hands in his pants and there is so much impossible space between you in such a tiny room. 

“Yeah. I can.”

Something breaks. It’s small, and without fanfare. But it feels final. 

It’s just a ride home. Just a ride home. 

That’s all you have left, and you don’t know how you know it but you do. 

Something so important is being left in this stupid, dingy bathroom. Something that was at one point beautiful and shiny and so arrogant in its newness that it seemed it would never become ugly. And now you’re abandoning it without dignity on the chipped tile floor and in the cobwebs on the walls. It was bigger than you, it was you—and now it’s going to be nothing. 

A vehicle honks on the street. A boisterous group laugh explodes somewhere beyond the door. Water drips from a faucet. 

“I’ll… I’ll bring my car around.”

“Okay.”

But he just stands there for another moment. Like he can’t get himself to move. 

If only time would freeze before he could walk away. 

But it doesn’t. 

He sucks in a decisive breath. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. 

It’s that fucking phone call all over again. 

Then he spins on his heels and leaves you there.

Your time is up. 

-

part 5.5

[mythalism]

Watching a video of the "fight Solas" ending and I find myself really disliking the fact that Rook declares that the Veil must be tied to the life of an elven god. It is treated like a fitting punishment for Solas, and even in the redemption ending, Rook all but orders Solas to sacrifice himself to maintain the Veil (or the status quo). I also can't help but feel that Solas, the last of the elven gods, is being sacrificed to maintain the Veil that he, alone, is somehow expected to magically maintain, allowing everyone else to go on their merry way. The implication here is that the elves are losing the last of their history, or pantheon, and this is a GOOD thing, and now we can all move forward and live peacefully. Am I overthinking this? 'Cause if this was the intention it does sound kind of bad.

yeah. i do agree and i dont think you're overthinking. and even if you were, im about to overthink way harder so don't worry. forgive me for getting on my legal philosophy soapbox but thats my whole brand at this point so here we go: it is a very retributive view of punishment and desert (deserved-ness) that i morally disagree with and feels outdated in the political landscape of 2024 to me PERSONALLY!! the foundation of retributive justice is:

(1) that those who commit certain kinds of wrongful acts, paradigmatically serious crimes, morally deserve to suffer a proportionate punishment; (2) that it is intrinsically morally good—good without reference to any other goods that might arise—if some legitimate punisher gives them the punishment they deserve;

obviously this is how much of the western world conceives of punishment and western media is consequently saturated with narratives that espouse this. most of the time, restorative justice is seen as mutually exclusive with retributive justice, though there are some people who say they can be used in tandem. i disagree anyway.

i think solas's endings grapple with these ideas in a way that is... messy. its confusing because we dont actually know if he is truly imprisoned, in the sense that he cannot leave. we know he is in A prison, though its unclear whether its the new regret prison that rook was in, or the black city (epler refused to clarify this during the AMA because of "spoilers", while trick said the implication is he is "going back to the prison", the epilogue slides imply he is in the black/golden city, as does his quest to heal the blight which only exists in the black city). we also do not know what capacity he has to leave. with lavellan or after being "redeemed" by willingly binding himself to the veil, he does not have the lyrium dagger but he does have the capacity to free himself from his regrets (if hes in the regret prison) or heal the blight (if he's in the black city), exemplified by his golden epilogue slides. if he is tricked or fought, he is not in a mental space to overcome his regrets and does not swear to atone by healing the blight, but he does have the lyrium dagger with him, so we can assume he can just use it to leave, the way we literally see him do earlier in the game lol. whatever message they are trying to send with his "punishment", i think it is muddied by the vagueness of what actually happens to him in the end and where he goes.

if the message truly is that he "deserves" to be imprisoned in the fade for his long list of crimes, i find that lazy and nonsensical. first of all, he loves the fade and has been dying to return to it so thats not really a gotcha, but more importantly, which crime warrants this punishment? and is his punishment proportional? this is impossible to answer because we do not know what the punishment truly is. we also dont really even know what crime he's being imprisoned for. taking down the veil? he didnt actually get to do that. are we punishing him for something he didn't do yet? is it for killing varric? sure, i guess that one works. its the strongest of the options we have, but the game is also pretty clear that its not what varric would want. what about all of the other people he has killed? the spirits he sacrifced in that siege on elgar'nans temple? the mages who summoned and corrupted wisdom which he incinerates alive? flemythal and felassan? do they deserve retribution via solas's imprisonment? would they want that? would they find it just and satisfying? the game does not ask these questions. so we dont know. does he deserve to be imprisoned for for what he did to the titans? ok, maybe. this is stronger than the others at least. but in the trick/fight endings he doesnt vow to heal the blight, so what does his imprisonment do for the dwarves and the titans spirits? this is what i mean when i say his imprisonment is retributive, but it is not even thoroughly retributive. it does not think deeply about what solas deserves for his crimes and the proportionality of such a punishment, but it is clear that we are supposed to that he deserves to be in prison, it is morally good that he is receiving "justice", and rook is a hero for imprisoning him. his punishment is presented as a moral good because he deserves it. unfortunately for veilguard, i dont think i would ever be convinced by this message in any narrative anywhere, even if it was better written, because this is not a moral philosophy that i subscribe to.

his redemption endings feel so much better and more satisfying because his vow to use his immortality and knowledge to heal the blight that he created is restorative and has a direct correlation to his crime of creating the blight by tranquilizing the titans in the first place. his imprisonment achieves nothing outside of removing him as a "threat", which is ruined by the fact that he has the dagger and can just leave lol. devoting the next significant portion of his life to alleviating the titans suffering is not just reparative remedy that directly affects the people and creatures he has harmed, it also actively makes the world of thedas a better place. to be clear, im not saying solas is innocent. he is guilty. of a lot of things. he bears responsibility for a lot of things. he would qualify as a war criminal. but i do not believe in retributive justice. veilguard having solas kill varric because trespasser made me sympathize with him "too much" is not going to make me believe in retributive justice. for the non-atonement imprisonment endings to feel satisfying you have to subscribe to this ideology of moral desert and punishment and a lot of people do. the entire american carceral system is founded on it. so is christianity. and bioware clearly subscribes to it as well. you might disagree with me and subscribe to it yourself. thats fine. but i believe it has caused a lot of harm to our world and continues to do so. seeing it manifested in media is always disappointing to me.

regardless of the technicalities of his imprisonment, his binding to the veil is the one thing that happens regardless of his ending, and i agree that it is icky for similar reasons. the veil is his responsibility, as is the blight which he will be keeping contained with his life, so i guess you can interpret it as proportional? but again, what crime is he paying for with binding his life to the veil? is he not paying for a crime at all? is binding his life to the veil even part of his punishment? or is it just something he has to do because he's the only person alive that can do it? if that is the case, that it has to be him because he is the only proper sacrifice, and not that he deserves it, then what does it say about rook that they sacrifice someone undeserving? if he is deserving, why exactly? if he wasn't the only elven god left alive, would he still be deserving of such a fate? if the answer is no, then he does not deserve to be bound. what gives rook the right to make this call? based on the convo they have before the ending where they plan to bind him to the veil, its not clear if rook binds him because they think he deserves to be bound to one of his greatest regrets, or because he's quite literally the only option. either way, i think there is an argument for it being cruel, and unearned coming from someone like rook, who really has barely been a victim of solas's sins outside of a 2 week time-out. literally harding binding him would've been far more satisfying. or imagine if fragment mythal went rogue and did it, or morrigythal did. mythal would not be justified either but at least it would be fucking banger and evil and interesting of her. anyway.

i think your point about what it means for the elves to lose their final living god, outside of mythal who is [redacted] ? is a fantastic point. through solas's binding, they also lose the veil-less future he represented that was promised to be a better world for them. would it really have been? probably not. solas clearly thinks so. but we will never know lol. the failure of the story to grapple with the dissolution of the elves entire belief system is one of its most egregious ones, and i think this is a symptom of it. dragon age's elven lore got itself into a weird spot by veilguard and i think they just abandoned it rather than attempting to write themselves out of it. i love stories that grapple with the average person's culpability as complacent in imperialism. this is part of why fullmetal alchemist is my fav story of all time and you should watch it (fullmetal alchemist:brotherhood on hulu please im begging. but you have to watch the "brotherhood" one not the other one. its complicated dont ask). veilguard seemed to want to do something like this, but they got themselves into weird spot with the elves because their evil, slavery-based empire is a thing of the distant past, and in the present they are systemically oppressed and have no social or political power.

usually in these sorts of stories, someone currently living in an imperialist society who is directly benefiting from that imperialism is confronted with their complacency and asked to rise to the occasion of standing up for what is right, despite their material best interest. they often sacrifice their privilege as a benefactor of imperialism in the present to attempt to make up for the evils that system has inflicted on others. fmab does a wonderful job of this. there is at once both an acknowledgement that no, this is not literally YOUR FAULT, you did not order a genocide or press the nuke button, but you have benefited from it and/or participated every day of your life, whether that is through the stolen land you live on, the fact that you have never seen war in your home country, the way you can buy whatever fruit you want at the grocery store any time of year, or the way your tax dollars fund the bombs being dropped on children thousands of miles away, and you do have a moral obligation to do whatever you can to fight back. i believe this is a very important lesson for the average american (and canadian since we are talking about bioware), and anyone that lives in an imperialist country, that a lot of people have not yet learned ... lol.

this feels along the lines of what veilguard was going for (or maybe they werent and this was accidental, idk which is worse), but it fails because the elves are not currently benefiting from their past empire, like at all. actually, they live in squalor and at risk of constant violence from human empires. they have experienced centuries of genocide, violence and slavery at this point in modern thedas. the imperialistic success of the elvhen empire has absolutely no bearing on their current lives, it provides them with no privilege, and it gives them no culpability in its evils. they are thousands of years removed from it. and its not like "oh the british empire was dissolved 50 years ago so imperialism is over" no. because britain's wealth and power are a direct result of that imperialism, thus they do still benefit from it presently, even if the "official empire" is dissolved. this is true for most empires. but with the elves of thedas, they have none of the power or privilege that the elvhen empire accrued through its evils. if anything, it is tevinter that benefits most from the lost elven empire considering how much of their society is founded on its technology, and the fact that. you know. they are currently, modernly, presently an empire based on slavery. OF ELVES. so why, then, does veilguard present the elves as culpable? why does the angry titan harding creature say they are "thriving" at the titans expense? why does bellara take personal responsibility for the evils that elgar'nan and ghilan'nain commit when she had nothing to do with them? the messaging with this is so strange. it would make sense if elves were still the ruling class but... they're not. the only remnants of the empire that they have access to is their own bodies... which are systemically, bought, sold, and mutilated. though the game does erase much of the racism they face in what i can only assume was an attempt to make this work.

the combo of this + solas's trick/fight endings for what is fundamentally, according to this game itself, a desire for a better world for elves and spirits, no matter if it is misled or his methods are violent, is a depressing, bleak message that i find to be irresponsible to be sending in 2024 and considering the real world groups of people that elves are based on, most notably of the dalish as indigenous north americans. veilguard sees elves lose not just their understanding of their past, dissolving their entire worldview, their conception of their cultural identity, and their relationship to their religion, all without sufficient (or any) exploration of how devastating such a process would be, but by imprisoning solas, erasing his followers and supporters from existence, and binding him to the veil, it also robs them of the possibility of a more just future... while asking you to cheer because he deserved it. dont try to make the world a better place unless you do it the right way. work with the world as it is. your attachment to the past (when you werent being genocided regularly) is a disease. you deserve to go to jail because you tried to change the world in a way that that was too disruptive. get over it! move on! rot in jail!

[cognitivejustice]

Luis Cassiano is the founder of Teto Verde Favela, a nonprofit that teaches favela residents how to build their own green roofs as a way to beat the heat without overloading electrical grids or spending money on fans and air conditioners. He came across the concept over a decade ago while researching how to make his own home bearable during a particularly scorching summer in Rio.

Over the next 10 years, his nonprofit was born and green roofs started popping up around the Parque Arará community, on everything from homes and day care centers, to bus stops and food trucks.

Summer heat has been known to melt water tanks during the summer in Rio, which runs from December to March. Pictured is the water tank at Luis Cassiano's house. He covered the tank with bidim, a lightweight material conducive for plantings that will keep things cool.

Luis Cassiano outside his green-roofed home in Rio de Janeiro.

"When the elite build, they plan," says Cassiano. "They already consider putting green roofs on new buildings, and old buildings are built to code. But not in the favela. Everything here is old and goes up any way it can."

Without the oversight of engineers or architects, and made with everything from wood scraps and daub, to bricks and cinder blocks, construction in favelas can't necessarily bear the weight of all the layers of a conventional green roof.

That's where the bidim comes in. Lightweight and conducive to plant growth — the roofs are hydroponic, so no soil is needed — it was the perfect material to make green roofs possible in Parque Arará. (Cassiano reiterates that safety comes first with any green roof he helps build. An engineer or architect is always consulted before Teto Verde Favela starts a project.)

And it was cheap. Because of the bidim and the vinyl sheets used as waterproof screening (as opposed to the traditional asphalt blanket), Cassiano's green roofs cost just 5 Brazilian reais, or $1, per square foot. A conventional green roof can cost as much as 53 Brazilian reais, or $11, for the same amount of space.

"It's about making something that has such important health and social benefits possible for everyone," says Ananda Stroke, an environmental engineering student at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro who volunteers with Teto Verde Favela. "Everyone deserves to have access to green roofs, especially people who live in heat islands. They're the ones who need them the most."

[a-sound-sol]

MHA Guys x Autistic!Reader Headcanons

ft. Bakugou, Midoriya, Kaminari, Kirishima, Sero, Monoma, and Shinsou!

Katsuki Bakugou

always has all your sensory tools on him!

will shut anyone up who tries to talk to you during a meltdown or when you’re overstimulated

gives you space when u need it but always keeps an eye on you anyways

when you’re ready for affection he is ON IT!!! Cuddles, kisses, doesn’t matter. But he waits for the signals first.

keeps an AAC app for your nonspeaking moments, it’s on his phone.

he actually has a whole section of apps just for you, sensory stuff, soothing music, you name it

he will protect you from yourself if you start to try and hurt yourself. he will hold you so tightly while you cry.

Izuku Midoriya

now he’s one to notice the MINUTE you get overstimulated! And he will make up any excuse to get you out of wherever you guys are!!

he talks to you when you want to be distracted! And he’ll infodump about anything

on that note, he LOVES when you infodump. He thinks it’s the cutest thing you do, especially when you start to lose track of time as you go on.

he will comfort you when you need it! He has a hard time sitting in silence, so he brings fidgets for himself too!

knows where all your sensory tools are in your room, brings his own noise cancelling headphones (he bought you yours! He has the same ones)

Denki Kaminari

oh he’s HORRIBLE at silence! But he will literally zip his mouth shut if he sees you need quiet

he owns a lot of fidgets already and all kinds of flexible seating options (his favorite is one of those exercise balls)

he will play with your hair and draw circles over your skin to meet your physical sensory needs! He’ll also do yoga with you without asking (:

has all your doctors’ names and numbers memorized just in case you have a really bad meltdown

will go dummy mode as a distraction so you can slip away if you get overwhelmed :’)

never gets mad if you snap on accident, will hold you while you cry about how you feel bad you snapped :((

Eijirou Kirishima

LOVES comforting you no matter what happened, but especially if you’ve had a meltdown that you got embarrassed about so you didn’t tell him :/

he loves to touch you, to hug you, and gives you the pressure you need to regulate

he reads books about autism to try and understand your needs better

always wants to make sure you’re okay at parties or gatherings, checks in frequently

defends you ALWAYS especially if someone is talking about how you’ve shut down. He makes it personal.

forehead kisses and back rubs when you’ve had a hard day. He will often tuck you in with your weighted blanket that he bought you for your birthday.

Hanta Sero

oh if you need a place to relax he’s got you! He knows how to set an atmosphere fr

he makes sure to only ever use scents that don’t overwhelm you when he cleans his room or lights incense

tells you you’re perfect the way you are and reassures you CONSTANTLY without you asking.

plays games with you because you love them and you said nobody ever wanted to play them with you growing up (he’d never let you feel alone)

genuinely asks how you are, but especially after a hard day. He goes out of his way constantly to check in

makes sure that you’re regulated before bed and as soon as you wake up too! Always meets those sensory needs, but doesn’t realize he’s doing it. It just comes naturally to him.

Neito Monoma

he has no problem being a distraction from any and everything you need, he kinda thrives that way actually!

he would entirely kidnap the moon for you. you told him once that the moon helped you feel grounded and less alone, and he almost went on that impossible mission (he didn't because he wouldn't get to see your face if things went south)

always has your favorite movies ready along with favorite snacks!

will never ever make you feel bad for having a harder day than usual. in fact, he will fight you if you even try to apologize

has no problem telling off anyone who tries to give you a hard time when you're already feeling anxious or overstimulated

Hitoshi Shinsou

you are his most important person and he will not let you ever think otherwise

if you even think of apologizing for being too much, he will immediately put his hand over your mouth and hug you

he rubs your shoulders and gives you pressure when you need it, without even asking. he just knows you that well

he IS the human fidget! If you don't have any sensory tools, he's quick to guide your hand to his fingers, his hair, even his face if you really need to ground.

his voice stays low and he guides you through meltdowns, always holding you when you need that, and giving you space when you don't. but he always stays with you.

Hope you enjoyed!!! I think I'm gonna do another headcanon part with other characters too! thoughts?

[gay-dorito-dust]

yandere jax x reader 🙏😼‼

Warning: Jax being Jax, manipulative, bullying, just over all unhealthy yandere shit that you get from these types of fics.

This fucker has keys to your room…if that’s not already concerning to begin with, it should be considering he uses them to his advantage in invading your room, seeing if there was anything he could take without you noticing for no other reason than the fact that he just could and nobody would stop him.

You will not be given a second alone to breath, nor have quality time for yourself either his bunny is looming over you and acting like his usual asshole self, while also claiming in the same breath that he only wanted to toughen you up in the case one do the adventures you went on…goes south really fast and certain decisions would have to be made on the fly.

It’s a surprise that you haven’t abstracted from Jax’s constant pestering and brutal criticism of your character on a regular basis. He thought it would be funny to see how fast you’d break or snap back at him, give him another side of you to be equally as obsessed with them he already was.

As long as Jax was about there was no such thing as personal space, his arm was always seen linked with yours, making it impossible for you to pull away from him as he’ll always have you dragged back to his side; even on adventures Jax made sure that no one else but him can be partnered up with you because he felt as though the likes of Pomni or Ragatha would try to make you see Jax the way they see him, or keep you away from him so that he couldn’t manipulate you into staying by his side or so they believed what he was doing. (Which was true but Jax didn’t want you to realise this so soon)

So even if they managed to get to you before him, Jax would be internally fuming but would compose himself by following you and remaining silent as a mouse as he watched pomni/Ragatha for signs that they’ll try to make you go against him. So if you think you’re being watched with such intent then you’d be right but Jax can easily slink off into the shadows and hide himself from being caught.

He’s got soft footfalls, meaning that you can’t hear him coming most of the time which works in his favour in getting close to you, leaning towards your ear and going ‘boo’ making you jolt and cling onto him by impulse. However Jax will see this as you accepting him as your source of safety and allows you to cling to him however you wish, it only fuels his obsession with you to somehow and even more unhealthier extent.

But if Jax got to you first when it came to partnering up for adventures, let’s just say death or hell would’ve been more appealing then being stuck with Jax for who knows how long. He would practically be using you as shield of sorts from whatever comes your way because he could, or shoving you in front of him to make sure the way ahead wasn’t secretly boobytrapped, laughing at you when you come back to him unamused and with blow darts within your body.

‘Oh you poor thing.’ He’d mockingly say as he pats your head before walking past you, now aware of what laid ahead thanks to your forced sacrifice by his hand.He’s just not the best to be struck with during adventures, you your are in safer hands with pomni and or Ragatha, hell even Kinger in all honesty but chances of you getting paired with them are slim to none.

Jax gets jealous when you spend time with others, he hates it because you were meant to be by his side, it’s cold without you to be near him and near him you’ll stay no matter what, and it was a fact that he does get across to everyone else eventually that they just leave you with Jax; much to your dismay. If they tried to get close to you or call you over to look at something, Jax would then have his hand on your bicep, keeping you close to him as he tells whoever is asking for you attention that your sick or busy.

Any and every excuse Jax could come up with just to keep you safe and away from anyone who wasn’t him. He may act controlling and an total dickhead towards you but he claims it was for your own good and that he only did what he did because he cared about you, those words that felt odd and weird coming out of his mouth.

Jax was your shadow in every sense of the word and you can’t escape, you can never escape from Jax because he’ll eventually find you regardless and you’ll be trapped within his arms, his grip seemingly tighten every time you tried to get out of his grip and his smile somehow grew wider at your attempts.

You can run but you can’t hide from Jax, so you’re better off just staying compliant to him and wherever he required if you wanted everyone else to remain unharmed.

[luveline]

hi jade!! can i request something with the marauders (platonic or romantic) maybe reader has been real stressed with work or school and the marauders try to get her to relax once they realize how stressed she actually is?? ty! u don’t have to do this, it’s just a thought :))

thank you for your request my love, nearly romantic poly!marauders x fem!reader

James notices first, surprisingly. While Sirius is fluent in what goes unsaid, and Remus is more than familiar with stress, it's James who has learned to read his sometimes sulky friends, and so it's James who knows that your tight shoulders and your half-hearted smile are from more than being tired. 

He doesn't want to announce your potential upset upset the world, so he waits for Remus to get a drink while Sirius is in the loo and slides down the sofa toward you until you're sitting thigh to thigh. He doesn't ever want much space from you. He's fortunate that you feel the same. 

"What, James?" you ask, leaning on his shoulder. "Are you okay?" 

"Are you okay?" he asks quietly, solemn, so you know he's serious. 

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" 

"You just seem unhappy tonight, is all. You know you can tell me. Or if you don't want to tell me, you can tell one of the boys." 

Because you and your friends are in an incredibly weird (not weird, really, unexpected, but so full of love and sweetness that weird doesn't apply) situation in which you aren't dating anyone but it feels like you are. James imagines it as a sort of precipice, where you might choose one of them, or, in what seems the more unique but better fit, you might not choose at all. 

James only knows you feel the same way about them as they do about you because you'd confessed to Remus how guilty you feel for stringing them along. He reported back, and is quoted by himself to have said, Well, we must be stringing you along too. While I string James along, and Sirius strings me. 

So everybody fancies everybody and nobody knows what to do about it. (Well, apart from that one kiss between James and Remus, which went exceptionally well. James had known what to do about that). For tonight, nothing has to be done. All James needs to do is figure out how to make you feel better. 

Remus is offended at having had his seat stolen when he returns, but then he sees your sad face slack on James' big shoulder and forgets to be annoyed. Crouching down in front of you, Remus tilts his head to the side to align his face to yours, a frown mirrored on his lips as he asks, "What's wrong, dove?" 

The way he says it makes James pleased, and it also makes him like Remus impossibly more. James is earnest and ardent in wanting to comfort you, but Remus is very, very good at it. He has this seriousness, no-nonsense tone wrapped in a soft affection that could draw out James' very worst secrets. It's no surprise when you crack clean in two and confess.

"I'm really stressed out." Your voice takes a horrible dive, like you might cry. "Um, work is just hard, and I'm worried about money, too." 

James doesn't suppose you're in the depth of a relationship where it's appropriate to offer to bankroll you, and it's not what you want anyhow. He bites back any affluent admission in favour of a subtler approach. 

"You're worried about money?" he asks, gently as he can. "You aren't going without, are you? I really hope you'd tell us if it were bad." 

You shake your head. "I'm not going without. Don't worry, it's not that bad." But it could be, goes unsaid. 

Remus hums, his hand on your knee. "You know we care about you. Please, don't not tell us if you need something, okay?" His hand climbs the stretch of your thigh. "What's worrying you, dove? With work, are they giving you a hard time again?" 

Sirius returns somewhere in the midst of your talking, and he's absolutely horrified when a single tear bounds down your cheek. He squeezes between you and the armrest of the sofa to wipe your face as it comes, his weight almost entirely on top of you, so close that his hair tickles your cheek and neck. "Don't cry. I promise not to leave you alone with these two ever again," he jokes, though the tenderness with which he holds your face is nothing but sincere. 

James, sick of being the only one not comforting you physically, finds one of your hands to hold. It's smaller, and warm, and he pulls it to his chest as though that might hide you away from all the things that are freaking you out. 

To no one's shock, the boys are good listeners. Not always to each other, but what one lacks another can make up, and they manage to pull out from you your pack of troubles one by one. When that's done, they assuage each accompanying fear. 

If the very worst happens, you'll always have them to lean on. 

That makes you cry more than the stress. Grateful —though the last thing they're comforting you for is gratitude— you needle your arms around Sirius' waist and hide your face in his chest. He frowns down at you as he wraps you up tightly. James doesn't even feel jealous. Well, mostly, until Sirius kisses your forehead and James can actually see your happy shudder. Lucky for him, you aren't done. You squeeze Sirius before pulling away and turning to James. He realises then what made Sirius so bold, your whispered thank you like a vibration through his chest. He pats your back. 

"That's alright," he murmurs. 

You nod and squeeze and move on to Remus, who's been sitting at your feet for the last twenty minutes while you cry, concerned but not complaining. He's eager even if he won't say that, climbing to his feet so he can reach down for you and receive his own hug. James is a ridiculous romantic, and he just aches with affection for both of you as he watches Remus nose your cheek. When Remus finally pulls away, Sirius is looking at them with the same expression. 

"Do you feel better?" he asks you. 

You sniffle and wipe your nose with your sleeve sheepishly. "Yes. Thank you, boys. I really don't know what I'd do without you." 

James forgets restraint and swings his arm around your shoulder. "It's a good thing you'll never be without us, then," he says, and kisses your cheek.

[werecreature-addicted]

to the anon asking about the large amount of sex-trafficking/rape prompts/stories/blurbs, im going to try and give you a real answer

one major factor, is shame

it's a largely subconscious thing, the fact people's sexual fantasies lean toward this aggressive often dehumanizing scenarios.

but its something that has been observed in people raised with very strict social expectations regarding sexuality often having rape fantasies, because it is a way to indulge in their sexual feelings without having to admit to them, in a way.

i, personally, am fat and queer. and while never stated outright to my face, the fact that small children have on several occasions began crying while looking at me in the supermarket line, I would also have to assume im not that much of a looker either

any show of desires for intimacy, physical or emotional, has been laughed at. people asked me out as a joke when i was in school, my father's side of the family openly lamented my appearance since I was a child because my only real value to them was continuing the family line, and that's not going to happen if I'm unattractive and fat

the fact is I have been told my entire life that me being wanted was impossible, if anybody desired me they would keep it a secret out of fear of ridicule, and anybody who would be open about it must have a specific fetish or be using me

I want to be wanted, hell there are times I'm desperate to get catcalled, because that proves somebody finds me attractive enough to express that. (even if the reality of it is objectifying and rude) the basis of these sorts of fantasies are often rooted in being seen as so desirable, so wanted, that any and all restraint goes out of the window. (you know that romance trope line that's like, "are you sure? because once we start i don't know if i can stop." same idea) the tendency towards trafficking and sexual slavery are also rooted in this, but with the added bit of "see, somebody wants me so bad they will spend money on me, to own me. they will fuck me in a crowded room without shame because their desire for me isn't something they're ashamed about, i am a prize, and the fact they get to fuck me is something they will gloat about."

one of the major appeal of monsters is that they wouldn't be bogged down by our social expectations, or they would have ones of their own. there is no fear regarding being wanted despite my looks, because the things about myself I have been told make me unattractive, are things that they openly and voraciously desire. Also, for the fat folks in the chat, wanting to be picked up and tossed around by your partner is largely something we can't have, (BMI is bullshit but mine is nearly double what it "should" be) you don't have to worry about that if your partner is an 8+ foot tall creature that can suplex a sedan

so while in reality, me being stocky and fat is seen as something that makes me unattractive, a werewolf would look at me and go "ah, yes, broad as a brick wall and twice as thicc, he can take it in a tumble."

can you see where the overlap occurs?

obviously there are some generalizations and assumptions based on my own biases here, and everybody's got their peculiarities, but these are themes I have seen throughout my many years too many online

I also just think monster fucker spaces are a little more open to taboo kinks. like wanting to fuck a werewolf who could kill you at any second is already weirder than most people want to go. thank you for sharing your perspective anon.

[luxaofhesperides]

Ghostlights cuddling for comfort, but also they're oblivious idiots who are pining over each other but thinks its unrequited

“Ugh,” Duke says, dropping down onto the bench besides Danny.

Danny nudges him with his shoulder. “Rough night?”

“Slept for like an hour,” Duke mutters, “This sucks. My head’s going to burst like balloon and my eyes are about to fall out.”

“Yikes. You know, you could have just canceled for today. I wouldn’t have minded.”

Duke sighs and presses the heel of his palms against his eyes. “Maybe, but I would have minded. We barely see each other anymore, man. I’ve missed you.”

“Oh.” Danny bites his lip, trying and failing to stop from smiling. Something soft in his chest glows at the words, a growing spark of happiness in knowing that for this, at least, the feeling is requited. It’s nice to hear that he was missed, and it would be even nicer if Duke wasn’t in pain, pushing himself just because he didn’t want to cancel. Carefully, Danny reaches for him and pulls his hands away from his face. “Here,” he says, “Let me.”

His hands are always cold. Most of him is cold, really — side effect of having an ice core. Sam told him once that his hands were better than an ice pack, and he’s hoping she’s right or this is going to be weird. 

Danny gently presses his fingers against Duke’s temples, his hands cradling Duke’s face. Duke is tense for a few seconds, then abruptly relaxes, leaning into Danny’s hands. 

“Is this helping?” he asks, voice hushed to keep from aggravating Duke’s migraine.

“Mhm. Yeah, it feels great. Thanks, Danny.”

Duke goes completely limp, leaning against Danny. They sit there for a minute in silence, the rest of the world feeling far away. As nice as it is to just exist together, he knows what Duke needs most right now is quiet and stillness. Gotham is very much not that, and every honking car that passes by makes Duke wince, trying to turn away from the road even more.

“Hey, let’s head back to my place. It’s close by, and a lot quieter than out here.”

“Are you sure? I know we planned to go to the arcade today…”

“The arcade can wait. You’re more important.”

Duke blinks open his eyes and looks at Danny with something soft in his gaze. Being so close together, barely any space between them, with Duke looking at him like that makes Danny’s cheeks flush red, unable to think anything but please kiss me.

Which is never going to happen. Duke is his friend, and just his friend, no matter how much Danny wishes they could be something more. It’s a pipe dream, something so impossible it’s almost laughable. 

Duke likes being friends with normal human Danny. He doesn’t want to imagine how he would react if he found out about Danny being half ghost, assuming this imaginary reveal happens without Danny being hunted down and cut open by GIW agents. 

He’s still in hiding, always waiting for the worst as he stays in the apartment his friends (living and dead) had set up for him. The building is for ghosts so it technically doesn’t exists, which means it’s the safest place for Danny while he’s actively being hunted by the US government. 

He can’t be honest with Duke. Can’t be as close to him as he wants to be. Duke deserves more than to be dragged into Danny’s problems and put in danger.

Even so, Danny can’t help but want him around, pushing his luck each time they hang out.

“Come on,” Danny urges, standing up. He pulls his hands away and Duke’s brow immediately furrows, his pain returning. “It’s only a few streets away.”

Duke sighs, then visibly braces himself before he stands up. Danny tucks himself into Duke’s side, taking as much of his weight as he can as he walks them down the street. It’s times like these that he wishes he could reveal his powers safely and just fly them to his apartment. But even without the GIW gunning for his head, showing off powers in Gotham is a sure fire way to get a target painted on his back.

“Almost there,” he says as they turn a corner. 

His apartment doesn’t have a fixed address. It doesn’t have a fixed location at all, drifting around, but it likes this street the most, so this is where it usually is. Danny takes them halfway down the street, then turns into an alley, following his ghost sense. 

Where there’s usually a dead end is instead a building, looking as if it’s always been tucked away in this alley. Danny keeps a tight grip on Duke as they climb the front steps, silently asking for the building to let him stay while he’s with Danny. The door opens easily, which is as good as an agreement, and they’re inside without anything going wrong. The small entrance lobby is empty, with an area for packages filled with clearly magical artifacts carelessly wrapped in bubble wrap. 

Danny drags them past that quickly, hoping Duke doesn’t notice, and calls the elevator down. It arrives silently, the doors opening to let another tenant out. Carefully, Danny positions himself in front of Duke, making sure he doesn’t see how the tenant, who nods at Danny, has a still bleeding wound in his stomach that has him nearly split in half. 

“Alright,” he says, ushering Duke into the elevator, “Just a little ride up and then you can lay down.” He hits the button for the fourth floor and they ride up in silence, Duke dropping his head down to onto Danny’s shoulder again, wrapping his arms around his waist as he stands behind Danny. He’s glad Duke can’t see his face; there’s no doubt that he’s blushing like crazy and if that doesn’t give away his feelings, he doesn’t know what will.

Thankfully the elevator ride isn’t long. If Danny had to go for more than a minute with Duke breathing softly against his neck, his warm hands on his stomach, Danny would have collapsed into a pile of flustered goo.

He opens the door to his apartment and kicks his shoes off. Duke follows in suit, still plastered onto Danny’s back, refusing to let go. 

“Come on,” Danny says, leading him to the couch, “Sit down and I’ll grad you some water and painkillers.”

Duke nods against his shoulder, then slowly detaches himself from Danny and makes his way to the couch. He drops onto it gracelessly, pressing his face into a cushion. 

Danny winces. He must be feeling really bad. He knows how bad migraines can be with sleep deprivation, having suffered through high school with only a few hours of sleep at night, if he got to sleep at all. Frankly, it’s a testament to Duke’s strength that he lasted the entire walk to Danny’s apartment without complaint. 

He returns to the living room with a full glass of water and a bottle of Advil, setting them on the coffee table to crouch next to the couch and place a cold hand on Duke’s cheek. “Hey,” he says softly when Duke turns to look at him, “Is Advil alright? It’s all I had.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks, Danny.”

Duke sits up and shakes out three pills, then washes them down with water. He drains the rest of the cup quickly, then falls back against the couch with his eyes squeezed shut.

“Is there anything else I can do to make you feel better?”

Duke immediately reaches a hand out for him.

“Um?”

“Sit next to me. I feel better when I’m next to you.”

“Oh! Alright. Bet you’re only saying that because my hands are cold.”

“You caught me,” Duke laughs, pulling Danny onto the couch. He goes easily, tucking his legs beneath himself, and places his hands on Duke’s temples again. “Man, I owe you my life.”

“I don’t think my cold hands are worth quite that much.”

Duke hums, but doesn’t say anything else, so Danny settles in and focuses on keeping his hands a little colder than normal. 

The apartment is quiet. No sound from outside can reach them, one of the few ways the building looks after its tenants. Danny and Duke fall against each other, at ease with each other. There’s no need to fill in the silence, and with Duke’s eyes closed, Danny doesn’t have to carefully shove down his feelings and act normal. He indulges in the warmth of Duke’s body pressed against his, a hand on his knee and an arm around his waist. 

He keeps his hands as steady as possible as he looks over Duke, adoring all the little details he can see; a small scar on his chin, the fullness of his lips, the way his hair falls into his face now that it’s long enough to keep in braids.

“I can practically hear you thinking,” Duke murmurs, “What’s on your mind?”

You’re cute, he thinks, I feel safe with you. I want to kiss you. I wish I could be brave enough to be honest.

I wish I was brave. I wish I was brave. I wish I was brave.

“Nothing,” he says. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah. I might fall asleep though.”

“That’s fine. You know I would never say no to a nap.”

“Come here, then,” Duke says, and before Danny can do anything, Duke gets a stronger grip on his waist and pulls Danny down on top of him as he falls back towards the arm rest and gets his legs on the couch.

“Duke!”

Duke laughs underneath him, and Danny can feel it roll through him. Okay! This is definitely something he’s going to think about… forever. Wow, he can feel Duke’s abs tense up as he laughs, and has he always been ripped? Unfair. Also unfairly hot. 

“Is this alright?” Duke asks, voice soft and quiet. There’s a hesitancy around his words that Danny doesn’t like hearing, and he brings his hands down to sweep his thumbs soothingly over Duke’s cheeks.

“Of course it is, man. I’d never refuse cuddles.”

“Okay. I’m gonna pass out now. Wake me in an hour?”

Danny moves his hands back up to his temples and says, “Sure. Get some rest, Duke. You really need it.”

He feels Duke relax beneath him, breaths slowing down as he begins to fall asleep. It’s peaceful and quiet and Duke is warm in a way Danny never can be with his ice core. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but curled up on the couch with Duke in the safety of an apartment that only barely exists has him drifting off in no time at all.

. . .

(Duke wakes up before Danny. Their legs are tangled together and Duke has moved during his sleep, turning so Danny is held tightly to his chest, his back to the cushions, while Duke is balancing very carefully at the edge of the couch. 

It’s been hours, and he should be heading home soon, but he stays as he is, enjoying this quiet moment for as long as he can have it. Danny is in his arms, safe and content with him, his head no longer hurts beyond a residual ache he can easily ignore, and he can admire how pretty Danny is without being worried about Danny catching his lingering stares. 

These moments are precious to him, rare as they are, and he wants nothing more than to kiss Danny once he’s awake and let his feelings be known.

But the Signal has lots of dangerous people after him, and Gnomon has started causing problems in Gotham again. So he’ll bite his tongue and keep his less platonic feelings buried under lock and key until it’s safe enough for Danny to be around him more often.

And when that time comes, he can only hope that Danny will feel the same way.

That’s all far away from the stillness of Danny’s apartment. All that matters is that he has Danny in his arms. Everything else can wait. 

For now, this is more than enough.)

[kelin-is-writing]

unlike what the general public says... i think that dabi is actually a very caring person, especially with and towards his beloved girlfriend.

when you two are together, walking on the sidewalk, he’s always the one who walks on the road’s side and if by chance you’re walking on that side, he would stop the two of you on your tracks, put an hand on your hip and gently move you to the inner of the sidewalk.

whenever you two are in crowded places, dabi would stand closer to you while using his arms to keep strangers and weirdos out of your personal space, then opens a path for you to get out of there while leading your figure with an hand resting on the small of your back, walking right behind you so he can have a better view of your surroundings and intercept any type of danger if it ever dares to comes your way.

ohh this one, dabi rests his hand on the small of your back a lot; when he wants to tell you something only you need to hear, when he wants to get your attention, when he wants to assure you about and with his presence, when he’s curious to see what you’re doing, when you two are shopping and you show him something you want to buy or simply when you’re standing while listening to the other members of the league talking.

he, for some reason, just feels so much reassurance in that gesture and he also hopes you feel that too (you do by the way, it’s impossible not to honestly).

whenever you’re nervous, in panic or worried about something dabi would hold your hand, intertwining your fingers and then start rubbing his thumb across your skin in soothing circle motions while looking straight into your eyes with what to other seems like an unbothered expression, but being the person closest to him you can notice all the minuscule details; his slightly furrowed eyebrows, blazing eyes that says thousand of words, lips pressed in a thin line with the corners of his mouth curved downwards, tensed jaw, vein on his scarred neck pulsing and ah... there he goes “it’s okay baby, i’m here” which means ‘nobody’s gonna touch you on my watch’ because he’s going to protect the hell out of you and burn to ashes every stupid ass piece of shit that dares to lay a finger on his woman.

when you guys are sitting down with league eating, dabi would go “slow down there princess, nobody’s chasing you” at you as he rests an hand on the back of your neck running his thumb on your nape gently, looking at you quizzically with a lifted eyebrow but still amused by all the sudden hurry into eating. you low-key remind him of a little hamster and that makes the arsonist melt every single time, he will never tell you though.

everytime you’re sick he does his best to be of aid to you. if you’re vomiting out your soul he’s gonna be there to hold up your hair and rest a reassuring hand on your back that rubs it in circles, if you’re down with a cold or the flu he would keep you warm using his quirk alongside the blanket and never let you lift a finger until you become able to stand without your legs wobbling like a newborn deer.

whenever you fall asleep somewhere that isn’t your shared bedroom, dabi would not leave your side for a second or he’s afraid something bad might happen to you when he’s not there, even when you guys are at the league’s hideouts. the moment the man sees your nodding off he sneaks an arm under your chin and resting his hand on the side of your head he gently places it on his shoulder or when you’re out like a light in kurogiri’s bar or any other hideout, dabi straight up puts your head on his lap and while the others just talk or do anything he’s there silently listening to their antics while caressing tenderly your head, run his finger through your hair or rest his hand on your arm as he watches over you.

the times when you guys are on mission, be it only the two of you or with the league, and are walking into decadent or rather small places dabi will put an hand over your head to keep you from bumping it into something or would walk ahead of you then tell you to hold his hand since it can be dangerous.

when it comes to a person he loves and cares for, i can see dabi become a little of a worry wart and always looking out for you even when it comes to the smallest of the things, that’s because he’s afraid of losing you and he doesn’t want that to happen with all his heart that many think he doesn’t have when he actually does, it just needs the right person to unlock every door of it.

[confused-wanderer]

Price has had enough.

He could always tell when Simon was off. Be it a slight tick of his hands pulling down on his balaclava when he was nervous, the sudden stillness and slight head tilt he did when he was getting pissed or the silence he used when he was down.

Yeah. Price can always tell. It was like a rift in the usual waves around Ghost, and he can almost always tell 99.999% of the time what the other was feeling simply by noting the atmosphere change around the other man. He can tell everything from a mile away, even if Simon couldn’t himself.

So trust him when he says he knows Ghost wants to be closer to the taskforce. He sees it in how the three banter around, how Ghost allows Gaz to call him “the phantom of the opera” or how Soap is the only one who can whine to L.T about taking off his mask without having a gaping hole in his chest later. Or the unspoken rule of personal space suddenly being invaded as light pats, playful punches and mock hits are tolerated by Ghost without any alarm bells going off.

But Ghost, is shit at communication. At an unfathomable level. The lieutenant was sure the other two men must have recognised his reciprocation, his open fondness and soft spot for them. The fucking clueless bastard who didn’t know the first thing about normal behavior, Price thinks with love.

And he’d reached his limit with trying to let Simon do it his way.

So when they’re all down from a mission, Ghost making his way to exfil while the rest were already in the train, Price tells both his sergeants to just close their eyes. He’s met with a few dubious looks, but the tired expression on his face of trust me I know what I’m doing erases all doubts and they both do it.

The moment ghost’s voice clicks over comms, saying he’s made it out, Price sees both his sergeants relax, shoulders sagging as they let out a deep exhale, and smiles. All his boys cared about each other.

Gaz, who closes his eyes first, ends up falling asleep, lightly swaying with the motion to prevent himself from falling deeper. And Soap is well on his way under, his body stilling dangerously so for his normal state.

Price sits on the opposite seat, keeps his hat on his face to prevent Ghost from seeing his eyes, and lays back. To watch the chaos, of course. Ghost enters after a few minutes, his footsteps heavy before stopping, and then becoming impossibly soft, presumably because he sees them all asleep.

Price watches Ghost falter, THE Ghost look as uncertain and lost as a puppy, fidgeting as he tries to see where he can sit.

The bus starts, and the motion causes Gaz to almost slide off. But before Gaz can fully wake himself up to respond, Ghost catches him, takes the seat between the two sergeants, tightens his gentle grip around the other man, and allows him to rest his weight on Simon, to prevent him from moving any further.

Soap, half awake for all, this lifts his head a bit at the commotion, his battle with sleep was evident. He ends up trying to look at what is happening, before sleep wins and Johnny goes limp, head falling against Simon’s before he realises what happened and tries to lift himself, ending with his head falling back.

And Ghost once again, doesn’t let it. He lifts his shoulder to better support the other man’s neck, and tucks his chin over Soap’s head to keep him comfortable and safe. Soap is now practically leaning on Simon, the latter man for the first time in a long while not only allowing touch but initiating it.

The sergeants were safe and protected, both finally registering that Ghost indeed, had a soft spot for them, and made sure to keep including him in their warmth, making sure he knew he was a part of their family too.

[godhandler]

Obeisance to the Arrow - Noritoshi Kamo

#8 : Ice-Cream Date 

[why should you trust Noritoshi Kamo? Why should he trust you?]

[tw: noritoshi kamo x reader, arranged marriage, Danny DeVito, forced marriage, child marriage, small filler chapter a bit to round out the plot, omg they’re getting along, house captivity, fluff]

#7 - Jealousy, Jealousy #9 : The Lady Kamo

“This is not fun at all.” You huff at Noritoshi Kamo. “I want to throw flying kicks.”

Your husband has got you doing warm-up shit for the past half an hour: running, touching toes, stretching. For someone who spitefully promised to replace Kanato, his half-brother, as your martial arts tutor, he’s not letting you do much of martial arts. Only the promise of letting you shoot arrows from his bow is making you not immediately leave the training room.

“You’ll injure yourself if you do all that without any prior training. We’ll go step-by-step. Now–” Kamo leans over you from behind, lightly pulling your waist to correct your downward dog form (you reckon your blush can be put down to exercise; you’re just 14 after all). “– Distil me, and predict my next movements. That’s useful in combat.” 

Is this a test? Noritoshi knows that you’re strictly forbidden from using your cursed technique, under the threat of heavy punishment. Maybe he’s trying to get me into trouble so I can’t go to Jujutsu High. But… didn’t he sign my school admission papers himself? Did he change his mind?

“I never use Distillation, not since I came here.” You’re not taking any chances. Going to Jujutsu High is literally the only way you can be independent. Or else you live the rest of your life like Miyumi Kamo does: disrespected and discarded once her use was over. So you lie through your teeth: “I don’t even remember how to use it.”

“It’s impossible to forget your cursed technique. It’s engraved onto your brain, body and soul. So go ahead, Distil me.”

What game are you playing, Kamo?

“I can’t.”

“You already did, didn’t you?” Your heart skips a beat. Fuck. “Every night when you think I’m asleep. So go ahead now,” Kamo face is straight, no taste of humour or anger in it. “Read my thoughts.”

There’s no point hiding it now. You’re struck seeing your situations so plainly: Noritoshi Kamo is the heir of the opulent and influential Kamo Clan. You are his wife and nothing more. He has the power to decide whether your cursed technique usage goes punished or praised. He has the power to ruin your life. Right when you were forming buds of friendship, you are starkly reminded of the difference between your stations.

And you can’t not be you. “I don’t take commands.” I’m fucking this up so bad. “You might be angry about the whole Kanato thing, but don’t burden me with your issues. I don’t take commands.” Shit. I’m done for. I’m not going to Jujutsu High, am I?

Time extends infinitely as you await the judge to pronounce your sentence.

But perhaps... perhaps you don't understand Kamo, not even after all the times you've read his mind through and through, because he simply nods. Nothing more. “A request then?” He makes an effort, you can tell, to soften his voice.

You stand still like a statue. All he was trying was to give some space to practise your cursed technique; he just ended up pushing you back into your shell. Or rather a fortress, where you, a scared little child, hoard other people’s secrets, to be used against them when the time comes-- the only defence you have. And to think that he was actually doing so well trying to get you to come out of there.

How do I fix this? “Do you want to go out for ice-cream?” 

“Out?” You're shocked. You’re usually not allowed to leave the Kamo estate; the last time you did was maybe... 2 years ago? You don’t even remember. 

“It’ll be my treat, don’t worry. No one will say anything.”

Can he actually do that? Can he convince the elders to let me out? You’re a threat to society, you’ve internalised that by this point. Isn’t it wrong for you to go out?

—---

“I love going out! This is AMAZING!” You can’t stop taking pictures of everything- everyone! So many people! So many things to see! The smell of roasting dalgona, the lanterns hanging from cables overhead, the latest streetwear-clad bikers smoking, the businessman walking briskly, the mother scolding her children! Aeon Mall, Porta, Kyoto Station Building– you’re going through all of them, making the most out of your day out!

“You’ll be able to go out whenever you want when you’re in Jujutsu High.” Kamo, carrying your many shopping bags, reminds you calmly. You seem to have gotten over prior spat. 

“Take a picture of me here!” “I want to try double-decker donuts!” “Let’s get these Prada shawls, please, Noritoshi-san!” 

She’s so lucky she was born into money. Noritoshi enjoys seeing you this ecstatically happy. It’s just the two of you, Kamo doesn’t need any bodyguards or handlers. As you sit for an Italian dinner, he decides that it’s okay to breach your previous topic.

“yn, I’m very curious–”

“Do you think those shoes that guy’s wearing are ugly? 'Cuz I think they’re Danny DeVito level ugly.”

“– Gossiping isn’t good. As I was saying, I really want to know how your powers work, yn. Would you be okay telling me?”

You laugh at him, cheeks full of penne alfredo. “I don’t know much either, frankly. I wasn’t allowed to look into it, you know. Besides, if you’re looking for a method to block it, give up. Not even Gojo Satoru could do that.”

Kamo’s eyes are keen. “Why not?”

“Because it works on photons of light. Gojo’s Infinity works on matter, not light, because otherwise he’d be invisible. Distillation can speed up light in a very specific way so that I can 'see' glimpses of the past... understand the story, in a way. Anything I perceive with my eyes, I can Distil. Everything I can see, I know.” You say. "I kept getting headaches because it was just too much information at once, so I made a Binding Vow. I have to ask a very specific question so that I get a very specific answer, but in exchange I get to know answers for at least 50 years back in the past."

To think this talent was to be wasted. “You’re incredible.” I’ll protect her. I’ll have to. 

That also reminds him. “So all those times you Distilled me at night, you didn't ask if was sleeping?"

You smile sheepishly, "I was sure that you were."

He returns your smile. A rare moment. "So you know me, then?”

“Thoroughly.”

“Then you know that I am not your enemy.”

“I reckon.”

“And that I am trustworthy.”

You laugh. He might be as trustworthy as the sun, but you don’t know how to trust others. Still- "I'm sorry for Distilling you when you were asleep."

"I'd rather you ask me before you do that the next time. It's more polite." He uses the toasted bread to scoop up some pasta sauce. You copy him. "I see that there's no point keeping secrets from you?"

"Absolutely none."

"Then it's my right that you keep none from me, either."

Eh? He's not wrong but... He's asking you to trust him. Like friends do. Like married couples do. For all that he is, Noritoshi Kamo has no leverage in front of his wife: you alone decide how much you want to reveal to him.

"Alright, then. Whatever you ask me, I'll answer you honestly, as long as it is okay to do so." You promise. Kamo wipes a smidge of sauce off your cheek with a tissue. His way of saying, "Thank you."

“Noritoshi-san, teach me to spar properly. I don’t want to appear so weak among my classmates.”

“Is that a command?” You’re about to excuse yourself when you notice that he’s smiling. Holy fuck, he’s making a joke??

“Yes, Lord Kamo.” You play along.

“As you wish, Lady Kamo.”

#9 : The Lady Kamo

[andypantsx3]

nooo but 7 minutes in heaven with shouto 😳

Note: Characters are adults, 18/19, in their 3rd year of UA.

"This is a closet," Shouto says, his tone both flatly observational and mystified, as a giggling Mina shuts the door behind you.

You look up at him in the dim, only a narrow strip of his face visible in the light from the crack in the door. It highlights one electric blue eye, a raised red brow, and an impossibly high cheekbone. But you don't have to see his face to understand the question he's asking.

"The term 'heaven' is artistic license," you tell him, your face going hot even though you're aware he can probably barely see you. "It's supposed to be more about, like, the activities than the space."

"What activities?" Shouto asks. The strip of light shifts, showing one strangely pretty ear, and you can tell he's glanced around for some sign of the aforementioned activities, as if someone's hidden away a Monopoly board in the janitorial closet.

You laugh despite your nerves. It figures Shouto participated in the game without knowing what he was participating in, just to spend time in the company of his classmates. He's like that, just content to be part of the group—to watch people talk, to listen closely and carefully.

You might have known he knew nothing about the game, especially when he didn't show any specific reaction to you being chosen as his partner.

"Um, well," you say, your insides hot and twisting. "We can just talk. We don't have to get into the usual logistics."

The strip of light highlights Shouto's blue eye and the side of his perfectly straight nose, and he blinks down at you curiously. He's very warm and very close in the small space, and even though you can't see much more of him, you're altogether too aware of the shape of his strong, lean body, lingering somewhere near in the dark.

"I want to play the way it's usually played," he says, his tone low and a little bit pouty at being rerouted like that. You know that about him, too, that he's a little bit of a spoiled youngest child, likes to get his way, even if he's usually patient and understanding about things.

A tiny thrill of anticipation goes up your spine, but you know he doesn't know what he's talking about. You frantically squash down your nerves, pinching the skin of your forearm to ground yourself.

"Shouto," you say, searching for the most tactful way to set him straight. You come up blank. "It's—not like, a normal game. It's...maybe with a different partner you would want to but trust me on this, we should just chat!"

The strip of light flickers, and every nerve ending in your body goes on high alert when you feel Shouto's exhalation on your cheek, realize he's leaned down to try to see you in the dim.

"Is there a reason you would not suit?" he asks, tone curious.

Yeah. The reason is that he was the most gorgeous creature on earth and you were just some general course rando on the periphery of his friend group with a creepy little crush. It would not do to take advantage of his naivety like this.

"Yes," you tell him, deciding maybe he just needed to hear it out. "Because Seven Minutes in Heaven is about kissing, Shouto."

There is a moment of silence, condemning in its length. The light strip shows only the top of Shouto's head now, soft scarlet strands raked through with the tiniest fluff of white on his right.

Then, an exhale, horribly, thrillingly close to your mouth.

"You do not want to kiss me," Shouto says, as if he's come to an understanding.

It's the absolutely shocking stupidity of this statement that causes you to blurt out what you do next.

"Are you for real? Anyone would want to kiss you, you nut," you say hotly.

There is another moment of silence, like Shouto is processing this. The force of your embarrassment hits you like a freight train, and you think it's only the saving grace that Shouto can't actually see you that stops you from self-immolating.

Then Shouto shifts, and his voice sounds even closer when he asks, "Even you?"

You can feel the heat of him now, barely inches away. A hot shiver creeps down your limbs, partly the thrill of his proximity, and partly a wild, gut-churning rush of self-consciousness.

"Yes," you say, trying not to cringe. "Even me."

And you think that will probably be the end of it, except something makes contact with your shoulder, startling you. You realize it's Shouto's hand as it slides up, warm and long-fingered, trailing across your neck as if feeling out the shape of you in the dark. He catches your chin between his fingers.

You open your mouth to ask what he thinks he's doing—

Only for Shouto to catch the words in his mouth.

It takes your brain several seconds to realize you're being kissed, though your body seems to realize it right away, thrilling with the feeling of his mouth on yours, hot and soft and utterly delicious. You hear yourself make an embarrassing noise and Shouto's mouth twitches into a tiny smile over yours, before his fingers grip you a little more firmly, pulling you deeper into his kiss.

You go willingly, your hands finding those strong shoulders in the dark, lifting up onto your toes to get closer to him. Shouto kisses you so thoroughly your head spins, his tongue careful and probing at first, then teasing.

The thought that Todoroki Shouto has his tongue in your mouth has you fighting down a little shivery whimper, as Shouto walks you back to press you against the wall, his hands finding your waist, pressing himself firmly against you.

His body is hard against yours, lean and long and carefully honed by years now of hero work. You grip him more tightly as his mouth leaves yours to follow the line of your throat. It's ticklish and thrilling, especially when he finds a spot at the base of your throat and sucks, leaving what is sure to be a hickey, an imprint of his mouth on you for you to wear for days after.

"Shouto!" you manage to gasp, gripping a handful of that silky hair, and Shouto makes a low, appreciative noise against your skin, moving over a half inch to leave another one.

The temperature in the closet is suddenly sweltering, and you can't tell if it's Shouto's quirk acting up or the heat of your own desire. All you know is you want to tear his shirt off of him, tear your shirt off of yourself, desperate to feel the press of his bare skin against yours, and—

A blinding light suddenly sears through your eyelids, and you jump about a foot in the air as Shouto reflexively clamps you against him.

"Wha—?" you garble out, your eyes blinking open to find Mina, peering into the closet smugly.

"It's about time you two stopped dancing around one another," she says, a Cheshire-catlike grin cutting across her mouth. "I accept gratitude in cash, credit, or banana milk at lunch."

Shouto lets out a huff against your skin, before turning to look at her, still gripping you tightly. "How much for an hour in heaven?" he asks, his tone politely bland.

A snort escapes you, mirroring Mina's and she tosses back her pink curls, her grin widening. She taps her chin, pretending to think for a moment before deciding.

"For you? It's on the house," she says finally, laughing, and closes the door, leaving you in the dark with Shouto once again.

You feel Shouto turn back to you, his mouth finding yours once more. "Seven minutes is not nearly enough time," he says against your lips, as you grin helplessly against his, disbelieving that this is really happening. "The inventors will want to change it. I'll write a letter."

You laugh but don't correct him, your veins singing with happiness.

You just let him kiss you again, finding your way into heaven.

[carlsdarling]

I imagine that Carl would be horny alllll the time. Just whenever: Short shirt? Cleavage? Sweat? Bending over? It all gets him going. So what if the reader is gone on a week long trip and he just pounces on her when she’s back because the poor baby is desperate.

Fucking needy!!!

Carl is naughty and can't control himself after Y/N has been away for a while. Bit of a plot, then sex. Everyone is 18 or over.

WARNINGS: smut, nsfw

You had been dating Carl for about three months. You had liked him from the first time you saw him, right after you arrived in Alexandria. You had lost your previous group, and they had probably moved on without you. Carl, with his charming personality and his protectiveness, had immediately won your heart, and you didn't care about his injury at all, you were head over heels in love with him. Still, you had actually wanted to wait a while before sleeping with him; but it turned out to be impossible. Carl was so horny for you that after less than a week you ended up in bed together - or rather, in the back seat of his car.

It wasn't that Carl had pressured you into it, but with his constant groping, kissing, moaning and wailing, he had managed to get you just as hot for him and without hesitation had spread your legs for him, wet as the Colorado River. It had been wonderful, passionate and loving, and you had done it every day since.

Just everything got Carl going - if you bent over, tied your hair up, touched his arm, your shirt slid up exposing your belly, your cleavage (especially if it was sweaty) damn it, all you had to do was walk in front of him and he'd see your arse and he'd get horny, push you against the nearest tree or make you immediately ride him on the wooded soil. More than once you had been surprised by walkers during such actions, literally with your pants down. If Rick ever found out about it, you'd both have to write your testaments right now. He hadn't been thrilled with how fast your relationship was evolving anyway, but Carl was an adult and could do what he wanted.

But now you had been away for a week, accompanying Rosita, who was pregnant and had to go to Hilltop for a medical checkup. During your stay at Hilltop (although it was only for a week), you had thought of Carl constantly. The longing tension in your nether regions had been almost unbearable after only two days, no matter how often you touched yourself at night. Carl's horniness had somehow infected you. "You and Carl are downright addicted to each other," Rosita had stated, rolling her eyes meaningfully.

"We're not," you'd defended yourself, your face bright red.

"They are," Rosita said to Jesus, who was leaning against the door, grinning in amusement. "They literally can't keep their hands off each other. I bet Carl's right wrist is all sprained by the time we get back."

Jesus laughed. "You could have brought Carl," he wondered. "We have plenty of space at Hilltop."

"Oh, believe me Jesus, you don't wish that," Rosita replied. "They live in the house next to mine, and often they're so loud I can hear them. And it goes on all night."

"'Shut up", you commanded her, ashamed.

Now you were on your way back, and the gates of Alexandria appeared before you. Your stomach tingled; in a moment you would finally see Carl again.

Rosita hadn't finished parking the car when Carl already showed up, and when you got out, he immediately threw his arms around your neck and you could feel his massive boner. "I missed you so much," he murmured and kissed you deeply.

"Me too," you grabbed his butt. It would probably be best if you went to Carl's room right away and didn't come out until tomorrow so that Carl could pound into you until he was completely exhausted.

"There's a hole in the wall over here," Eugene objected.

Rick came over. "It needs fixing right away," he decided, "Carl, Y/N, it's a lucky thing you're here right now, we can use any helping hand we can get."

Carl looked pissed, he'd wanted to get the fuck out of here right now and rail you dizzy, your legs on his shoulders, and now he was forced to wait. Rick handed out tools. "There, plane off that metal and bend it so we can nail it up." You did your best, but were constantly interrupted by Carl, who, rather than concentrating on the work, kept fumbling you unobtrusively. "Carl," you scolded quietly as his hand tried to move back into your cleavage. ""Stop that!"

"But I can't control myself," he squealed and kissed your neck, leaving a hickey. Embarrassed, you looked around. Luckily Rick had just turned his back on you, but Daryl had seen everything and was grinning wickedly.

"Stop it now," you threatened, picking up a bolt from the ground. Big mistake: you'd been bending over. "Carl!" you hissed as he promptly grabbed your arse. "I mean it!"

"What's going on?" asked Rick, looking from one to the other in annoyance.

"Nothing," Daryl said hurriedly. "It's just something has fallen down." At that, Rick nodded and turned away again.

"It's more like something has risen," Carl whispered in your ear, taking your hand and guiding it to his hard one. He had long since dropped the screwdriver.

You withdrew your hand. "Carl, that's quite enough," you said sternly. "Get a grip on yourself. It can't be that everything gets you going and you can't control yourself for half an hour!" Carl was so desperate for your touch that you were afraid he was going to fuck you right here.

"Get away from here," Daryl said with a wink. "There's no sense in that. You two cannot focus on the work right now." Carl hastily grabbed your wrist and pulled you along with him so fast you almost stumbled.

"Where are you heading?" you asked, uncomprehending, because the house was in the other direction. He turned toward a section of land that was near the main gate and where a few old cars were rotting in the high grass. Carl grabbed you around the hips and unceremoniously sat you on the hood of an old Chevrolet, then positioned himself between your legs and impatiently slipped his jeans and boxers down to his knees. His cock was so hard it had to be painful for him; it twitched slightly, and the tip looked sore. "Honestly, Carl, how many times did you jerk off in that one week?" you asked tauntingly.

"I wasn't counting," Carl admitted bashfully. "Anyway, I could hardly stand it without you." He fiddled a condom out of the wrapper and put it on his cock. You eagerly embraced him and let him penetrate you; it wasn't like you weren't horny for him, too. He moaned lustfully as he buried his entire length into your slick folds, his breathing shallow and rapid, and he made short, quick thrusts - as he always did when he was being particularly needy. His mouth was open and his eyes closed, there were drops of sweat on his upper lip. You tenderly stroked his lean back, then grinded your fingers into his tight buttocks as you approached your climax. "Carl, I'm close," you whimpered.

"Me too," he moaned, only seconds before he began to moan very loudly and the movements of his hips became even faster and more intense as he cum and spilled his seed into the condom. Sweaty and exhausted, you sagged on the hot hood, the grass tickling your bare legs. "Don't ever leave me alone for so long again, Y/N," Carl pouted before embracing you and kissing you tenderly. „I can't stand it!“

[endless-ineffabilities]

this world was never meant for a fire like yours (part 3/5)

Daemon Targaryen x modern-f!reader / nurse!reader

word count: 5.6k

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

series synopsis: After a fatal injury on the battefield, Daemon wakes up in a foreign land - our world (where GoT / HoTD does not exist). He meets the reader, a nurse who tends to him and helps him navigate everything. They grow close, and slowly, but unequivocally, fall in love.

themes/warnings: separation, Daemon in his New Moon Bella Swan era, reader in full/overly hectic nurse mode, Viserys losing (even more) hair because of Daemon, Daemon is severely whipped, language

August 2023 / the 8th Moon, 113 AC

A flash of bright red passes by, your peripheral vision drawn to it as if on instinct. You don’t look back as you turn a corner, not wanting to see if it is a similar vehicle.

If it is, then that’s just fucking cruel. As if the universe itself is mocking you.

Because no matter how much you deny it, every single thing reminds you of him. 

Cars. Broken laptops. Your worn-out couch. Old movies. Pizza. Burnt food in your kitchen. Helicopters. The dog-eared paperbacks on your shelf. 

Damn him. Damn him to his ridiculous seven hells.

It has been weeks since Daemon Targaryen disappeared from your life, as easily and as abruptly as he had entered it.

Without a trace, as if you plucked him from your imagination. Except he did leave a mark so indelible it cannot be denied. He left his mark alright, in the form of constant sleepless nights. In how you space out each time his memory hits you. In how nothing in your little apartment seems to be yours anymore. Every corner, every inch of the space screams his name. He has made your world his own. He had claimed your heart… and then left. And now you’re here to pick up the pieces.

You remember the torture reflected in his face, the rage, when his brother came to take him away. You knew how badly he wanted to go home, so you made his choice for him.

You told him to leave. 

Stupid girl. You want to go back to that very moment, and tell yourself to make him stay. You know you should have held him in your arms, keeping him rooted in place. In this world, with you. 

But you opted for selflessness. You chose to have your heart broken, so that Daemon can go home. You know that he would have stayed if you only asked.

Fuck, I should have asked.

The Rogue Prince has been unpleasant and volatile ever since he returned from that strange other world. He has been made welcome, feted and tended to, day and night. Everyone was initially glad to have their Targaryen prince again. Until they realized how much he had changed.

Daemon quickly went back to his roguish ways, but it seems as if these tendencies increased tenfold. Something was severely wrong with the Rogue Prince. Something other than his usual myriad of dangerous flaws. Only a handful knew of his predicament, of his loss.

When the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, chooses to make some remark about how you were just some woman, and an unknowable outsider at that, someone who might never fit in the Seven Kingdoms, Daemon says nothing at first. 

For an entire minute, he sits at the council table, his mind stirring. 

Some of the small council members think the conundrum solved. Their prince must have finally realized that what he wants – who he wants – is an impossibility. But the more discerning of them, those more familiar with Daemon, know otherwise. 

Lord Corlys could have all but predicted what came next, after a grievous line from Ser Otto that goes, “Perhaps we should finally arrange for a union between the Prince and one of the Ladies of the Kingdom. Lord Baratheon’s eldest daughter might be – ”

Of course, he does not get to finish imparting this idea, as Daemon rises in a flash, Dark Sister drawn across the table and directed to Ser Otto’s sternum. 

The Kingsguard springs into action. Any harm conducted during the small council meeting, could of course also extend to their King. 

“Daemon!” Viserys growls, his patience having run out. 

The prince simply warns, “I will not have this snivelling sycophant make decisions about who and when I am to wed. And I will not hear any more slander about the woman whom I love, do I make myself clear?”

Ser Otto merely stands his guard, hands half raised by his sides as a gesture to the Kingsguard to not make any sudden attempts to remove the prince from the room, lest he should suffer any grievous harm to his person as a result.

“Daemon,” Viserys implores again, “Ser Otto was merely making a suggestion. What else is the small council for if not to freely discuss matters of import for ourselves and for the Seven Kingdoms? You are their prince, after all. Whom you wed will be most crucial, indeed.”

Daemon begins to relent. Slowly lowering Dark Sister, a sly smirk materializes on his lips, as if to show just how little this perceived threat to Ser Otto means to him. It isn't even enough to warrant an apology. 

Daemon seats himself once more, appearing to look unfazed as he inspects the calluses on his hands. “There is only one reason as to why I even deigned to participate in today’s council meeting. I wish to know if we have finally received word back from those bloody witches who had me returned… the ones who can apparently travel through our realm and the other.”

Viserys sighs, knowing his brother is not there for anything else. Not for his duties. Not for the realm. But for you. “Nothing yet, Daemon. But we are trying – ”

He stands abruptly, without any mind to formalities. “Then it appears there is no reason for my presence here.” 

In a moment, before any plea could be spoken, the Prince was gone from the council chambers.

Lord Beesbury, confused, addresses the table, “Was the Prince not meant to report on the recent dealings of his Gold Cloaks with – ”

“Oh, what does it matter, my Lord?” Ser Tyland interjects, with a scornful whip of his hair. “Prince Daemon would not be aware of all the goings on in the Red Keep, seeing as he is either holed up in his chambers or too busy hunting down those shameless heretics who can miraculously send him back to – ”

“Ser Tyland,” Viserys commands, his voice clear for once. “I shall ask that you leave that matter alone. Unless you can be of any help, which I highly fucking doubt.”

A hush falls over the small council. Their King has never been prone to swear freely like a drunken Lyseni, unlike his younger brother. 

“Perhaps,” Ser Otto says, “we should convene this council meeting for another day, my King.”

Viserys merely huffs in response. “Very well.”

As he departs the room with the Kingsguard, he wonders if things will ever be even just an infinitesimal amount of simple when it concerns his brother.

His conclusion comes swiftly – no, it never will be.

You lower your clipboard on the nurses station, leaning against it in exhaustion.

“Ms. Carlson is stable now, thankfully.” You address Dessa, an older colleague who has been newly stationed at the desk. “We just need to monitor her blood pressure from time to time.”

“Sure thing.” Dessa gives you a once over, clearly not approving your current state. “But sweetheart, why don’t you go home and get some rest? You’ve been taking way too many extra shifts just out of the blue like this, and you have to give yourself a break.”

Taking a deep breath, you roll out the tension in your neck and shoulders. The bright wash of hospital lighting makes you feel slightly nauseous, so you shut your eyes tight. Briefly. 

But not brief enough. In the recesses of your mind, in your memories, you can almost feel him. Hear him.

Leaving this world for but a moment, and gently slipping from consciousness, is enough to make you remember. 

And you remember everything.

My love. Come lie with me, he would say. 

Your mind reels from exhaustion, and from the perpetual echo of his voice. Leave me alone.

Come back, is what you meant. It’s what you’ll always mean. But his desire to return to his Westeros, to his Seven Kingdoms, was too strong for you to ignore. He swore he wanted to stay with you, so you had to make the choice for him.

This measly world was never meant for Daemon, whose fire can set everything ablaze. And there surely were plenty of times when he almost let his rage and his usual ways get the better of him, if it weren’t for you. His anchor.

You know that he would be too much to bear, and this world would try to quell him. 

It was the right decision. So why did you have to feel so wretched about it?

Because you love him, you big idiot.

“Fuck.” You mutter under your breath, opening your eyes.

“Sorry, what was that?” Dessa’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion, the expletive taking her aback. Poor girl just expressed concern, and here I am over her desk, eyes glazed over like a zombie.

“Oh, it’s just… you’re right, I do need some rest. My shift ends in an hour and I plan to sleep for the next 24 hours. At least.” That isn’t the truth, but you don’t feel it necessary to deepen her concern. You could be upfront and admit that you find it hard to fall into slumber, because almost every time, without fail, Daemon is there to welcome you.

His voice. His touch. His burning gaze. Your dreams could be there to offer a sense of comfort, a safe haven that can temporarily ease you out of heartbreak, but all you can feel is a painful loss. 

You don’t think it right to lose yourself in what was, or what could have been. Where would be the point in that? It isn’t as if this is a typical long-distance relationship, and Daemon simply went off to live in another city. 

No. The damn bastard had to go off to an actual other dimension, didn’t he?

How can anyone expect any less from someone like Daemon?

Dessa relaxes, and sighs audibly. “That’s good. Go do that, hon. If you want, I can cover for your next rounds, whenever that’ll be. You’ve been taking up all the extra shifts around here as it is.”

“Thank you, Dessa,” you say genuinely. “I think I’ll go check on 517 one last time before I go.”

You start to push yourself off of the counter and get your bearings, but Dessa reaches out for your hand, keeping you in place for a moment longer.

She smiles, and you can’t help but notice something lingering underneath her expression of comfort. As if she knows. 

“It’s going to be alright,” she says, and the sentiment quickly takes root in you, a sense of warmth wrapping around you like a warm hug. Too soon though, she lets go, and you are snapped back into reality. 

Until she adds, still smiling, “Those we love tend to find their way back to us, ñuha riña, if that is truly what is meant to be.”

Everything stops. It feels as if ice has infiltrated your veins, like some sudden shock. That sounds like…

“What… what did you call me?” you croak.

She merely tilts her head, her smile dropping only slightly, taking on a new emotion. Something like pity. Does she know?

“I don’t know what you mean. I merely gave you a piece of advice, my child.”

You slowly look around, trying to shake some sense back into yourself. Shaking your head, you say, “Right, I must have misheard things. It’s just… I thought I heard you speak…” High Valyrian. His native tongue. 

“Speak what?” She asks, a hint of confusion visible on her face.

“Nothing,” you shake your head quickly, stepping away from the nurses’ station. “Thanks for the advice, Dessa. I’m just… a little out of the loop is all. I’m definitely going to rest after this. I’ll go do some final rounds, and check back with you in 5 minutes?”

“Of course, darling.” She smiles again, and you think of how welcoming the sight is. How genuine. Dessa has this seemingly maternal quality to her, and you feel grateful to be at the receiving end of it. 

You mirror her smile, before finally turning and sauntering towards the rooms.

When you finally reach your apartment, you have to drag yourself up the flight of steps, your legs feeling like jell-o underneath you.

Dessa is absolutely right. All those extra shifts are taking their toll. In your defense, you believe them to be necessary. Your own messed-up version of therapy. Cooping yourself up in your flat would be torture, when Daemon has left his mark on every inch of the space.

The kitchen where he kept trying to make dishes, only for them to end up charred at the bottom of your trusty IKEA pot. The couch where you spent most nights, curled up in each other’s arms, boxes of takeaway shared between the two of you.

You would dramatically relay your worries about your patients in the ICU, and he would muse about the 'peculiar sort of idiots' he had to deal with at the auto shop. By that, he meant irate customers and even women who took a liking to him. So much so that they would deliberately lose small parts of their car engines, only to specifically request Daemon’s assistance. 

He would pull you onto his lap and cage you in his arms, smirking at the poorly masked envy in your expression. Soon after, your worries would dissipate in a haze, his lips snaking smoothly all over your skin.

I’m clearly upset now. Where’s my comforting embrace, huh?

Sullen, you make your way to the kitchen. Upon quick inspection of the fridge, it becomes evident that you desperately need to make a grocery run.

“I’m officially a peasant. No wonder the great Prince of Westeros didn’t want to stay with me.” You rack your brain for other alternatives, taking note to push away the thought of what Daemon would suggest. Freshly made pizza, with all his preferred trappings – spicy salami, heaps of cheese, nduja, and basil. Conveniently delivered straight to your door in a jiff. 

No. Definitely not that. 

The thought of Daemon not having access to such a glorious thing as pizza anymore made you spiteful. Take that. That’s what you get for leaving. 

You drag yourself onto the couch, slumping atop the worn out cushions. Silly girl. Do you think he would care? That world has everything he could ever wish for. 

The sound of knocking on the door pulls you out of your thoughts. Thankfully. Two sure raps on the wood to pull you out of your misery, for who knows how long.

“Hi.” Tom stands on the other side, a sheepish smile on his face. “Care for some company?”

This would be the fourth time since Daemon’s departure that he’s shown up at your door, out of the blue, simply asking to spend time with you. And this would also be the fourth time that you acquiesce, and let him in. 

Any and all distractions are welcome. Even in the form of your neighbour, with his puppy-dog eyes and suggestive remarks that clearly indicate that he still has not gotten over you. Despite being rudely confronted with the reality of you and Daemon, many months ago. 

But the reality is… there is no more you and Daemon, is there? Once Tom grew aware of that, his eagerness returned twofold. 

You did not show the same interest. Not in that way, at least. You made sure of that by saying “I’m glad we’re friends again.” when he first came over. Friends. Only that.

Still, there was some part of you that felt as if you were leading Tom on. By letting him in again, being his friend, you were giving him hope that it could turn into something more. Especially now that you badly needed a shoulder to lean on. 

Before you could let guilt rip through you, you force a smile up at him. “Sure, come in.”

I might pay for this later. 

For now, his carefree laugh and animated talk of everything that’s going on in this world might just help piece together the remains of your heart. 

*flashback* March 2023 / the 3rd Moon, 113 AC 

It was no easy feat to summon a priestess of the old gods to King’s Landing, but when Prince Daemon disappeared, his brother the King Viserys spared no effort in seeing his brother safely returned. 

Every sept of every religion was consulted. The Maesters of the Citadel. What remains of the water-wizards in Dorne. The magisters of the Free Cities. 

Many of the common folk surmised that perhaps, the volatile Prince Daemon simply took off without any word of warning.

However, that supposition may be easily debated with the fact of Caraxes’ presence on Dragonstone. Daemon would not have left Caraxes behind. If anything, he would have almost certainly ridden on dragonback to wherever he planned to go.

It further complicated matters when some of the soldiers present on the battlefield wherein Daemon was last seen profusely swear that their Prince simply vanished into thin air. 

The Maester were quick to dissuade their King of supposed foolhardy lies. One does not simply vanish. It is unheard of, a mere calumny. Their advice had been near unanimous - the Prince left, or was in hiding. Likely he did not wish to be found, which is why he left his dragon behind, the creature inevitably drawing attention wherever it goes. 

Just when the commotion around his disappearance had somewhat dissipated, a triad of self-proclaimed members of an outer sect, an adjunct to the priestesses of the old gods, made themselves known in the Red Keep. Accompanied by the elder priestess, they asked for an audience with the King, who eagerly welcomed them. His council members, on the other hand, were wrought with suspicion.

The women, three close-knit sisters, introduced themselves as Treesa, Verness, and Dessa.

They claimed to be part of a covert sect that sprung from the Old Religion. One that remains largely unknown in Westeros, which warranted the suspicion of the small council. 

“Realmwalkers.” Verness declared in a proud tone. “That is what we call ourselves, borne out of the fact that we can jump from this realm, my King, to another strange yet equally fascinating one. The very same realm that Prince Daemon finds himself trapped in.”

“Trapped? And in another realm, you say?” Viserys’ fury was rising to the surface. “I charge you to speak plainly, and do not offer me such calumnies. Where is my brother?”

Treesa smiled wryly, unperturbed by the King’s growing wrath. “He has been sent to the realm of Korzion. The realm of steel, if you please. Largely inhibited by men. Like us, but not quite. They are somewhat more… connected to these… these machines.” There was a faraway look in her eyes, rendering her expression almost vacant. Her gaze met that of the King’s, but it appeared as though she did not really see him. Her mind was elsewhere, her skirts moving alongside her gently swaying figure. 

Upon hearing this, Otto Hightower leaned in to whisper to the King, “These so-called priestesses must only be devising some trickery, my King. Perhaps we should adjourn – ”

Dessa interjected, “We can prove it to you, King Viserys. We are the only ones who can ensure that your brother is safely returned to this realm. Whether you trust us or not, that does not alter this truth.”

Viserys stiffened, a decision forming in his mind. Ignoring the look of reproach from his Hand, he took a deep breath and responded, “Tell me everything.”

September 2023 / the 9th Moon, 113 AC

“It took you a long while to allow yourselves to be found again.” Daemon’s voice, while low and controlled, maintains an underlying impatience. As if he could not be bothered, and is only going through everything for the hope of seeing you again. Sitting casually, partially covered by the shadows, he briefly thinks of how you would definitely make a remark of how much he resembles a ‘Bond villain’ from those movies you love. 

You once ran your fingers repeatedly over his hair, mussing it completely, after a couple of glasses of wine white. Daemon sat there, half in surprise and half in adoration. “Mystery man,” you slurred, smiling sleepily, “you’re someone straight out of a book, or a movie, or… or… my dreams.” Your eyes widened at that, at the incredulity of it all.

“You have dreamt about me, haven't you?” He cheekily responded. This was quite some time before the two of you finally dropped all the pretence and acted on your desires. Before the two of you allowed yourselves to fall completely in love.

“Mmm,” you giggled, “Strange how I’ve always had a thing for bad boys.”

Daemon, for all his brazenness and devil-may-care behaviour, found himself feeling disheartened at your words. Bad boy, you said. But that had a different, softer meaning for you. You were not aware how bad, how malevolent, he actually is. You did not know how he had dismembered enemies in battle, in his blind rage. You did not know how he had selfishly manipulated and lied his way purely to get what he wanted. You did not know that he would kill anyone who tried to hurt you, without reservation, in a heartbeat. 

He thought of how you were too good for him. Sitting there, after hours upon hours of your daily work as a healer, still managing to offer him a meal and spend time with him after near exhaustion, your smile was still whole and true and good. And it was being directed at him. The strange, angry man who infiltrated your little world and did not seem to want to leave. 

He thought, determinedly, that he did not deserve any of it. He did not deserve you.

Treesa’s voice snaps him out of his reverie. “I think I have lost you, my prince. You are no longer in this world, as you were.” Sitting across from him in his chambers, she has half a mind to become irate at how Prince Daemon is regarding her as if she is nothing more than the mud on the sole of his princely boots. A mere inconvenience. But her annoyance is restrained by her understanding of how he must be feeling. 

He regains himself, ignoring her remark, and continues, “Where are the others?” Then he flippantly waves his hand. “Never mind that. You said you will help me. Then can you transport me back to her world? Or her to mine? How soon can this be done?”

Treesa smiles slyly, “So many questions. How powerless you must feel against the tides of fate. What if your story has already been determined by the gods? That you meet your love, stay together briefly, only so that she may change you forever?”

“Careful now, witch.”

“Realmwalker.” 

“Whatever you call yourselves. Make no mistake, I am not asking for your help. I demand it, as your prince.”

Treesa just laughs, the shrill sound as light as air. “Do not take us so lightly, Rogue Prince. The one you claim to love is also one of us.”

“What?” 

“Your love from Korzion? Oh yes. She is a Realmwalker too.”

“Impossible.” Daemon says, shaking his head, but he is already running through his memories of you. Was there something that he might have missed? Were there any telltale signs? Had you deceived him?

“It is the truth.” Treesa shrugs. “Only she does not know it yet. My elder sister, Dessa, is currently in her world and she is going to make herself known to her very soon. Then Dessa may also let her know who she truly is.”

“But she…” For the first time since he was tongue-tied around your presence, Daemon struggles to find the right words. “She is not from Westeros, is she?”

“No,” Treesa explains, “but she is a descendant of a woman who was. A Realmwalker of old, who chose to live her life in Korzion.”

“Well then,” Daemon stands, as if prepared to jump through a portal that very moment, “if she is of this world, then she can surely come here, can she not? There is nothing that can hinder this. You claim she is a Realmwalker like you. Bring her to me. Or… bring me to her. You have done it before.”

“It was Dessa who transported you to Korzion, my prince. And, it is no easy feat to bring another non-walker to Korzion. It can take a heavy toll on any of us. Much was needed to be orchestrated for the King to momentarily travel realms just to coax you back with him.”

Daemon merely petulantly tilts his head, and clenches his jaw, as if to say, ‘how does that help me?’.

The very first Realmwalker or Vyzh-agon was a priestess of the old Religion.

“Sit down, my prince,” Treesa sighs. “You will know of everything soon enough.”

Aesdella, believed to be originally from Old Valyria, and eventually settling in the North of Westeros, was the very first to travel to the realm of Korzion. Our realm. It remains unclear when she was born and when she perished, but she lived well before Aegon’s Conquest. Another source of speculation is how her abilities came to be, but from her bloodline came those with similar abilities. And so forth. Until this very day. 

Only Aesdella’s female descendants inherited this very nature of being a Realmwalker. This power can remain dormant, hidden under the surface, or it can be practiced and essentially turned into a way of living. Such as with the sect of Treesa, Verness, and Dessa, as well as their other sisters and cousins. 

She was believed to be a formidable woman, garnering respect from even those of other religions, and other lands. Though she made sure that her abilities would not be known by others, seeing as she did not trust the nature of men.  These powers, if in the wrong hands, could bring strife to both Korzion and her realm. It has been said that this is why she made sure that only her daughters and their daughters after them would receive her power, but this is mere conjecture.

There are many peculiarities which concern travelling between realms. The Realmwalker would have to envision her precise destination, lest she should accidentally end up in the middle of some remote part of Amazonia. She would require some tools, if she was not necessarily raised in the practice of realm walking. She would need to prick her fingers or her palm with a sharp sliver of moonstone, let her blood meet the raches of a raven’s feather, and recite a chant in High Valyrian. This is enough to awaken the power passed down to her through Aesdella’s bloodline. The feather will turn to ash in her hands, and swirl around her form, multiplying a thousand fold, and in a moment, this daughter of Aesdella will have travelled realms.

Those with immense power resting inside them would eventually not need the moonstone, nor the raven’s feather, after a while. The chanting matched with pure will is enough. 

A Realmwalker may also transport another to Korzion, and vice versa, but this can exact a heavy toll on both parties if done incorrectly. Which is why Viserys’ jump to Korzion could not be done in a haste, and also why Dessa was rendered unconscious for an entire moon’s turn after having to quickly transport Daemon to Korzion following his fatal injury.

“Dessa saved you by transporting you to Korzion, as realm travel can sometimes have regenerative effects on one’s person. Luckily, your jump proved to be so.” Treesa reveals, the dancing firelight casting shadows on her angular face. “She did this because, and I am certain that you do not remember at all, but you once saved her son’s life, Prince Daemon.”

“You will have to be more particular, as I cannot recall every – ”

“Like I said, you do not remember and it does not matter. What matters is that he is alive and well. Dessa is estranged from this son of hers, but will never cease to care for him. It is a mother’s curse.” Treesa shakes her head in disapproval. Daemon feels inclined to think that she has no children of her own. “You saved her son in battle many moons ago, and so Dessa found a spell that ensured you had blood moonstone on your person, wherever you went. This is one way we can maintain a connection to someone, keep an eye out for them. When she sensed you had been grievously harmed, she immediately triggered the moonstone with a spell that would cause you to walk between realms.”

Daemon listens, not because he is especially intrigued by the entire story. He simply sits, waiting for Treesa to speak about you. Who you truly are, and how this expanse between the both of you can be eliminated.

“Did you know, it was by accident… well, somehow at least… that your lady was in the vicinity after you arrived in Korzion?” Treesa laughs dryly. “Realmwalkers can send another individual such as yourself to Korzion so long as there is a beacon there for you to go to. Another Realmwalker, you see. Dessa meant to send you close to Verness who had been visiting with her… Korzioni lover.” Distaste flashes again across Treesa's face, which goes to show that she does not share the same affinity for having lovers, much less children with such lovers, unlike her sisters.

Daemon turns and meets her gaze straight on. “And yet, I was sent to… close to…”

“Yes.” Tressa nods. “Dessa did not know she existed until then. Her great-grandmother was one of us. When she disappeared ages ago, it was believed that she chose to spend the rest of her days in Korzion. Little was known of whether she fell in love, or whether she eventually had Korzioni children. Daughters that would also carry her ability. But apparently, she has.”

A scoff of disbelief and amazement escapes Daemon’s lips.

In Korzion, you sit once again on your couch after another long shift at the hospital. Only this time – and perhaps it has grown out of being a rarity at this point – Tom sits beside you, comfortably slouched a mere few inches away.

“Now, my Rogue prince,” Treesa leans forward on her elbows, the tone having shifted to something much lighter. “Now do you believe in fate?”

You lean away from him, opting to stick close to the armrest, hoping he would take this little hint. But he’s chosen to ignore it, ambling closer to you the first chance he got. 

Your laptop is in the low table in front of you, a new flick playing on the screen. Some new Netflix production that Tom chose, which you weren’t so keen on. But what did it matter?

Company is company. A distraction is a distraction. You probably should head straight to sleep, but you didn’t want to risk having yet another dream of Daemon. Another dream that will end abruptly and wrench you back into this grim reality. 

Remnants of takeout sushi containers are scattered on the kitchen counter. When Tom suggested pizza, you were quick to protest. Daemon loved pizza, and he loathed sushi. So, why not have sushi on this fine evening?

“So when will you get to reading it?” Tom asks, referring to the book he lent you. He initially wanted to give it to you as a gift, but you said you didn’t want a gift if there was no occasion. When he responded with, “I don’t need some special occasion to give a gift to a beautiful girl I care about,” you struggled so very hard to maintain a straight face and not roll your eyes. 

Daemon would hate this. If he still cared.

“I guess I’ll start tonight.” You lie, picking the book from your lap, pretending to peruse the back cover. “Seems like quite the read. I don’t think it will be like any of the other books I’ve read.” Of course it won’t. Because I would never purchase this myself.

“That’s great! You’ll love it, it’s a New York Times bestseller. I found it on BookTok.” He says, as if to reassure you, though it doesn’t really do the job.

You sense his arm snaking behind you on the seat, and before you can make some excuse about having to get some water, an unexpected knock echoes from the front door. 

Thank you. Whoever you are.

You rush toward it, finding Dessa on the other side.

“Nuha riña,” she says, a wide smile on her face. “It’s time.”

She said it again. I knew it.  “What the fu-”

She looks over your shoulder, noticing Tom standing close behind, as if in protection. “What about Daemon?” She asks sincerely.

Daemon? You feel your heartbeat falter, taken aback by someone else saying his name out loud. 

“H-how? You never met him. He was gone before you even came to work at…” you pause, choosing your next words carefully. “Who are you?”

She takes your hands in hers, a firm yet gentle hold. 

“The question, my dear, is who are you?”

end of part three.

______________________

*preview* of part 4

October 2023 / the 10th Moon, 113 AC

“This is real?” Your senses are overwhelmed, and you feel somewhat floaty, as if you’re nowhere at all. Perhaps, you are nowhere, not in your realm and not in Daemon’s, but somewhere in the middle. “Am I doing this? Is it working?”

Daemon, who was frozen at the sight of you,  immediately strides forward. Desperate to feel you, his hands hold onto whatever he can. Your face, your hips, your hands. “My darling, all of this is fucking astonishing, and we can certainly marvel at what you can do to no end, but quite frankly, right this moment I could hardly bring myself to care.”

He smashes his lips to yours. They move relentlessly, as if on their own accord, their master groaning like a starved beast. You feel him, or you think you do, his familiar scent engulfing you, and he feels like home. You feel his silver hair sliding between your fingertips, his sharp teeth gnawing gently at your lips, his fingernails digging into your backside and melding your torso onto his.

Daemon is not one to waste time, that’s for sure.

“I miss you,” you breathe, as he kisses down the hollow of your throat.

“As I you, my love.” Daemon purrs, nipping at your collarbone, breathing you in. “You simply have no idea…”

You feel him, but only just… and it’s not enough. But it’ll have to do.

“Daemon… this is…” You try to voice out your concern, despite the moment. Dessa was right, your corporeal forms cannot meet through your projection; the two of you stand in your bedroom, but everything seems to be enveloped in a thick fog. If you press hard enough, you think your fingers will simply pass through Daemon as if he were a spectre. You realize that he knows this, too, but chooses to ignore it. 

“This is the closest we’ve been in far too fucking long, my love. It would have been sooner if those cunts made greater effort to – ”

You snort, confronted once more with how brash he can be. “Daemon, those cunts? Really? I am one of them, you know. Besides, it’s not their fault.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” His lips form a desperate, wanting smile, as he connects his forehead to yours. “Let me have this. Have you. I need you.”

He’s right. In physical form or otherwise, he is still your Daemon. And you have craved each other too much to be denied any kind of reunion.

“Okay.” Your hand reaches up to cradle his face, and he leans into it. He then looks around, appraising your chambers, as he used to say.

“Nothing has changed.” He hums, while holding you tightly to him, as if he’s afraid that you might dissolve into air. “What is this now? Ever the reader, my heart.” He reaches for the crisp, new paperback novel atop your dresser. 

“Oh, that’s… yeah, someone lent it to me.”

“It certainly does not seem too suited to your tastes.”

You let out a humourless laugh. “Astute observation. It’s my neighbour’s. He apparently thought I needed something new to read.” When he gave you the book, Tom happily explained how he thought you should, “...expose yourself to other things. Things you possibly haven’t tried out before. New films, books, friends. You know to help you forget all about…”

“Your neighbour – what was he called? Tim?” Daemon’s lips curl in distaste.

“You remember his name, Daemon.” You roll your eyes at your lover, and his poorly-veiled jealousy. You were one and the same.

“You have been letting him inside your house?” He inquires, voice dropping an entire octave. If looks could kill…

You nod slowly, carefully. “He’s been visiting every now and then. It’s not a big deal.”

Daemon tilts his head, a sinister look appearing on his face. Smirking, he leans in and whispers, “Has that mongrel taken my place, dearest?”

You swallow thickly, his darkened gaze doing much and more to break your self-control. If he doesn’t stand down… well.

“Has any lady taken mine? In that amazing, grand realm of yours, Prince Daemon?” You respond, rising to his challenge. Your fingers snake in between the low-collar of his white tunic. Only Daemon has ever been able to elicit this out of you.

He enjoys the way you directly meet his eyes, unwavering in your stead. No one ever looked at him in such a way; not one has ever seen him as you do. Daemon has always inspired fear and intimidation in others. Those who find themselves comfortable enough to hold a conversation with the Rogue Prince tend to feel ill at ease or on their guard. As if he might turn on them at any moment. 

People usually mosey up to him because of a favour. Because of his status, his reputation. Because they want something out of him. 

But not you. No. Daemon knows that he has only ever inspired love in you.

Well, that and what might have been absolute surprise followed by wariness, when he was suddenly sprung into your world, injured and in a coat of full armour.

He kisses you passionately in response. Once, then pulling away only to breathe, and again, and again.

“No one can ever replace you.” He swears. He has never been a devout man, but in that moment, he curses all the gods that you two are apart. Meeting in this middle-realm is insufficient. He feels you, somehow. But he does not feel your warmth, nor the goosebumps on your skin from his touch. You are there, but you are not. 

But it will have to do. For now.

“Is this ailing you? Sustaining a connection like this, in this place?” Daemon asks.

“Not really,” you admit. “Dessa says I’ll feel quite exhausted afterward, but it shouldn’t take too big of a toll on me. I’m learning the ropes, and there’s a lot to learn. I mean… this is fucking insane.”

“And here you thought me extraordinary. When it was you all along.”

“Hardly.” You smile in return. If you could feel warmth right now, you would certainly feel it blooming across your face. “I’m not the only one, it seems. And, my great-grandmother… she was from your world.” Your smile stretches twofold in awe. 

He brushes a stray strand from your face.

“The Rogue Prince and his Realmwalker. We were always meant to find each other.”

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Here we are - it's been a LONG time coming.

Grateful to all of yous for struggling through this wait. I know how much of a pain it is when a fic I'm reading just can't get updated soon enough. You guys deserve Daemon Targaryen at his very best 🖤

Oh and fire like yours isn't losing the somewhat lighthearted tone it might have had. The next part is when mayhem ensues, involving denim, vintage leather jackets, pizza!!!, etc. in Westeros. I just had to get through all this explaining as to how Daemon somehow ended up in our world (Korzion).

Maroon part three up next!

[merwgue]

Lucien Vanserra: The True Victim of A Court of Thorns and Roses

Let’s get one thing straight: while everyone’s focused on the traumas of Feyre, Nesta, and Rhysand, Lucien Vanserra is quietly enduring some of the most heartbreaking and soul-crushing treatment in the entire A Court of Thorns and Roses series. This man is the definition of “forgotten hero,” a character shoved into the background while everyone else’s emotional baggage takes center stage. But when you really break down his journey, it becomes clear: Lucien is the true victim of the story. Abandoned, betrayed, rejected, and shunned—he’s lost more than anyone gives him credit for. And let’s not even get started on his non-existent support system.

This essay is for Lucien, the character who deserved more.

Tamlin: A Complicated Friendship

Okay, let’s ease up on Tamlin for a second. He’s not the villain in Lucien’s story, but it’s impossible to overlook the ways in which he’s failed Lucien as a friend. Sure, Tamlin saved Lucien’s life, and in the early books, their camaraderie seems genuine. Lucien is loyal to Tamlin, even to the point of defending his choices when everything in the Spring Court is falling apart. But here’s the thing—Tamlin is a terrible friend to Lucien in the long run. When Tamlin goes off the rails, obsessing over Feyre and becoming a controlling mess, Lucien gets stuck cleaning up after him.

Lucien is the one trying to hold the Spring Court together while Tamlin spirals, and what does he get for his trouble? Tamlin’s neglect and emotional distance. He stands by Tamlin because of loyalty and friendship, but let’s not pretend that Tamlin did the same for him. When Lucien finally helps Feyre escape Tamlin’s suffocating control, it’s less of a betrayal and more of Lucien doing the right thing. But Tamlin? He sees it as the ultimate backstab, and that’s where their relationship falls apart. Lucien, once again, is left out in the cold, torn between his sense of duty and doing what’s right. He deserves better, but Tamlin’s emotional instability makes sure that Lucien never really gets to be his own person.

The Autumn Court: The True Hellscape

If you think Lucien’s life in the Spring Court was bad, wait until you hear about his childhood. Born into the Vanserra family of the Autumn Court, Lucien was the outcast of a vicious, backstabbing dynasty. Beron, his father, is a tyrant who not only sees Lucien as an expendable pawn but actively wants him dead. His brothers? Equally charming. It’s clear from the start that Lucien never had a chance to thrive in the Autumn Court, a place where power is everything, and kindness is seen as weakness.

And let’s not forget the whole Jesminda tragedy. Lucien dared to fall in love with a lesser fae, a love that cost Jesminda her life when Lucien’s family decided that this romance didn’t fit their elitist ideals. Jesminda’s murder was a turning point for Lucien—he fled his home, knowing that if he stayed, his family would finish the job. He’s a fugitive in his own court, forever on the run from the very people who are supposed to protect him. The Autumn Court isn’t just abusive—it’s a prison. Lucien had to escape, and in doing so, he severed any ties he had to a place that was supposed to be his birthright. Now he’s left without a home, a family, or a sense of belonging.

Elain Archeron: The Ultimate Rejection

And now, onto Lucien’s “reward” for all his suffering—Elain Archeron. Because apparently, the universe decided that after all the abuse, loss, and betrayal, what Lucien really needed was to be rejected by his mate. Let’s be clear: the mating bond is supposed to be this magical, unbreakable connection, right? Wrong. In Lucien’s case, it’s a constant source of pain and rejection.

Elain doesn’t just ignore the bond—she actively refuses to even acknowledge Lucien’s existence. She treats him like an awkward acquaintance, if that. Lucien, being the respectful guy he is, gives her space and time, but let’s face it: Elain’s rejection isn’t just about needing time to adjust to being fae. She’s chosen to flat-out pretend like Lucien isn’t her mate, and that stings. For a man who’s lost everything—his home, his family, his friends—this bond should have been a light at the end of the tunnel. Instead, it’s another source of heartbreak.

Lucien doesn’t even have a chance to prove himself to Elain. She’s decided from the start that their bond doesn’t matter, that Lucien doesn’t matter. And while everyone is wrapped up in the Nesta-Cassian drama, Lucien’s quietly standing on the sidelines, feeling the weight of his mate’s rejection. It’s brutal, and the narrative never gives him the closure he so desperately needs.

The Night Court: The Perpetual Outsider

Lucien finally gets out of the toxic mess that is the Spring Court, but what does he find in Velaris? A new home? New friends? Ha! Not even close. Rhysand and his inner circle barely tolerate Lucien. Rhysand is too wrapped up in his own superiority complex to give Lucien a real chance. Let’s not forget that Rhysand, the Great High Lord, practically sneers at Lucien for his past alliances and treats him like an outsider.

Sure, Feyre brings Lucien to Velaris, but the rest of the inner circle doesn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat. Lucien is treated with suspicion, kept at arm’s length, and never fully integrated into their group. He’s just… there. Rhysand’s so busy being the “hero” that he doesn’t see Lucien for what he really is—a loyal ally who’s willing to sacrifice everything to protect the people he cares about.

And don’t even get me started on Amren. The self-proclaimed “second-in-command” spends most of her time glaring at Lucien, like he’s some kind of ticking time bomb. It’s almost laughable how little effort anyone makes to actually welcome him. Lucien’s loyalty to Feyre is the only reason he’s tolerated in Velaris, and even then, it’s clear that he doesn’t belong. He’s an outsider, floating through the courts, never truly accepted anywhere.

No Home, No Family, No Love

So where does that leave Lucien? He has no home—his family tried to kill him, his best friend fell apart, and the court that’s supposed to be his sanctuary treats him like a stray dog. He has no family—his father is a tyrant, his brothers are cutthroats, and his mate wants nothing to do with him. And he has no love—not from Elain, not from his friends, and certainly not from the universe that keeps throwing him into impossible situations.

Lucien’s story is one of relentless isolation, rejection, and pain. He’s been cast out of every place he’s ever called home, left with no real allies and no future. And yet, the narrative doesn’t even bother to give him the closure or redemption he deserves. While everyone else is busy finding their happily-ever-afters, Lucien is left wandering, a victim of fate, circumstance, and neglect.

Conclusion

Lucien Vanserra is the forgotten victim of A Court of Thorns and Roses. While Feyre, Rhysand, and the rest of the inner circle grapple with their various traumas, Lucien quietly endures some of the most heartbreaking experiences of the entire series. His loyalty is betrayed, his love rejected, and his place in the world shattered. He has no home, no family, no friends, and no love—just a never-ending cycle of loss and rejection.

If anyone deserves sympathy, it’s Lucien. The series may focus on the dramatic arcs of its other characters, but Lucien’s story is the true tragedy. He’s the character who’s been failed by everyone around him, and the one who truly deserves a happy ending—but likely won’t ever get one.