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winterfable · 1 year ago

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Birth of Feminism

I would amend this statement of Jung’s. Men did have eyes for what a woman knows, but those eyes were tightly closed! But there have been some changes, especially in the working world, since Jung wrote those words during the Second World War. That war had inadvertently provided the seed for the women’s liberation movement that emerged in the mid- or late sixties, though almost no one recognized it at the time. Before the war most people lived in nuclear family units, and unless you were very rich or very adventurous you didn't go far from your place of residence. Many lived and died within a few miles of the hometown. People were bound by a narrow set of mores. I remember that when I was a teenager I firmly believed that if an unmarried girl became pregnant there were only two options: a shameful marriage or suicide. And I was typical of the people I knew. When the war came, people began to move to distant places when they were called to serve in the armed forces. The men went off to fight and the factories and shops needed employees to replace them, so women rushed into the “man’s world” and did quite well performing “man’s work.” Rosie the Riveter enjoyed her short career, which was cut off as soon as the men returned to their jobs, their homes and their women. The women who had put off marriage did marry now and started producing babies in great numbers because the impetus to give life follows the impetus to kill and destroy as surely as day follows night. In any case, women embarked upon an intensity of housewifery and motherhood with a vengeance, and soon they were up to their eye[1]balls in dishwater and diapers. But there was a difference. Motherhood in the past had been taken for granted. These women had tasted something else. Money in their pockets for which they did not have to account. Independence. Success based on their own accomplishments, not related to their marital role. Time out with “the girls,” when they could talk about their feelings without having to rush home to put dinner on the table at six o'clock. Yes, we missed our men, but not as much as later we would let them think.

My generation, the women who were newly married or soon to be married at the end of the Second World War, soon found ourselves caught in the endless round of feminine responsibilities and expectations much as they had been before the war, but we had a different consciousness about it. The animus had reared: his head, and then gone under again. A few of us white middle-class women, when our children were Sufficiently grown to be in school most of the time, had the temerity to go back to school to complete our education, and even to get a job. If it was financially necessary for the family that the woman work (and keeping house and caring for four or five children was not, in those days, considered to be work), she was pitied and praised. But, if she were married to a man with a good position and an adequate income, and she then went back to school and later to work, people would think that there could be only two reasons; either her husband couldn't support her, or he couldn't keep her happy in other ways. That a woman could want to do such a thing was rarely acknowledged. Men objected to their wives’ seeking a career because they felt it cast a poor reflection upon them; women criticized their working sisters, I suspect, because they were either jealous of them, or because they lacked the nerve to do the same thing, or both.

It was Betty Friedan, foremost author early in the women’s movement, who, with her book, The Feminine Mystique (1963), gave expression to women’s frustration. She shocked her readers by printing that “information for which a man has no eyes.” She wrote of the progressive dehumanization that “has carried the American mind for the last fifteen years from youth worship to that ‘sick love affair’ with our own children; from preoccupation with the physical details of sex, divorced from a human framework, to a love affair between man and animal. Where will it end? she asked. And in a prophetic statement which could have been a manifesto for the women’s movement that ensued, she stated:

I think it will not end, as long as the feminine mystique masks the emptiness of the housewife role, encouraging girls to evade their own growth by vicarious living, by non-commitment. We have gone on too long blaming or pitying the mothers who devour their children, who sow the seeds of progressive dehumanization, because they have never grown to full humanity themselves. If the mother is at fault, why isn’t it time to break the pattern by urging all these Sleeping Beauties to grow up and live their own lives? It is society's job, and finally that of each woman alone. For it is not the strength of the mothers that is at fault but their weakness, their passive childlike dependence and immaturity that is mistaken for “femininity.” Our society forces boys, in so far as it can, to grow up, to endure the pains of growth, to educate themselves to work, to move on. Why aren't girls forced to grow up—to achieve somehow the core of self that will end the unnecessary dilemma, the mistaken choice between femaleness and humanness that is implied in the feminine mystique?

This book, the arrival and widespread availability of The Pill in the United States, new technology that released more time for women to think about themselves, read, meet with other women and talk about their common frustrations—all these fueled the women’s movement. So did a whole spate of books by women who had found their voices and dared to use them to arouse, support and inspire other women. ... And, as more and more of Jung’s Collected Works were translated into English, the women who read them discovered the name of their repressed but vigorous and powerful side—the animus.

I had returned from Zurich after completing my analytic training at the Jung Institute in the mid-sixties. Among my first analysands were a number of students from the University of Chicago. Many of them had read some of Jung’s writings, and many were involved in the student uprisings on cam[1]pus and in the city of Chicago during the Democratic Convention of 1968. Some had used or were using psychedelic substances. Old images of consciousness were being shattered and people were looking for something to replace them. There was a new camaraderie in these groups between men and women and more spontaneous expression of feeling, both publicly and privately, than had been seen in many years. But still, political and economic power remained in the hands of the white male establishment. Women who were trying to move into the mainstream of the work world were having a very difficult time of‘it. Everywhere, doors were slammed in their faces. Women were discouraged from entering graduate schools, particularly professional schools. A few token women were accepted, but their lives were not easy. A woman physician told me that when she was in medical school her male colleagues taunted her to “toughen up,” as they gave her the messiest and most gruesome assignments. Then, when she finally learned to do what she had to do without wincing and to speak the same language as the men and to insist upon being treated with respect as an equal, they criticized her for being “too mannish.”

Women began to talk with one another. A woman I'll call Sara told me how it started for her. She was attending a professional meeting where the membership was about two thirds male and one third female. There was a panel discussion on stage in which only men participated. The floor was open to questions and discussion, but the questions came almost entirely from men. If, occasionally, a woman summoned up her courage and raised a question, she would barely be acknowledged by a “thank you” and then the panel would move on to the next question. Sara noticed that, if a woman did speak, no other woman would rise in her support. After the meeting, Sara cornered a few of the women who were present and asked them what they thought about the meeting. Opinions were shared. Most had felt squeezed out, outraged that no woman had been asked to participate on the panel, angry that they were made to feel invisible. So the women agreed to meet for breakfast the next morning without any men present. At breakfast, the fury at the indignity the women had experienced on this and many other occasions began to surface. Animus, recognized, was finding its expression. But it was not “masculine” although it might have seemed so in that it had a domineering, and demanding tone. It had a peculiar quality of a woman whose feminine side had been put aside in order to experience and express the emotions that had been masked for so long. The women decided to meet on a regular basis as a group, and they did so. There wasn’t any agenda. They wanted a place where they could reflect on their experiences as women and share those experiences with the others. Perhaps they could learn from one another.

This is how, in many different places, the consciousness raising groups began to take shape. Many books came out on the women’s movement, accounts of how women had suffered from the excesses of the power drive in a society controlled by an ethic that resembled a football game: power to the strongest and the toughest, brutal competition, winning is all that matters, and you don’t mind jumping on top of other people to get to the goal line. The general tone of these books by and for -women, however, stressed the victimization of women. Truly, this is how most women felt in those days. When you have been passed over for advancement and a person with a penis but with less experience and less competence than you gets the better, job, how do you feel? Women commiserated with women about how they felt victimized in their families, how they received less attention than boys in school, and how they were discriminated against at work. Supported by their “sisters,’ they began to be more assertive, while looking carefully at their husbands’ or bosses’ faces to see if they were going too far. Despite their resolution when women sat together, it was terribly difficult to claim that forthright aspect of themselves when they were in the company of men. These women understood, intellectually, that they had a right to speak up. Feeling it, feeling it with real conviction, was something else. They could not quite accept the animus in its positive aspects. At this time I became aware that several women in my practice would have what I call a classic animus dream. The gist of it is: I discover that I have a penis! They reacted with anything from dismay to horror.

Meanwhile, men were closing ranks against the first encroachment of women into what they considered their domain. When a woman would make a demand, or seem a bit more assertive than she had been in the past, men would become uneasy, to say the least. Research has shown that those in leading positions tend to exaggerate the numbers and strength of the underlings who first show power. The old boys’ networks strengthened their ties. I have it on good authority that many men actually believed that the women were plotting to take over! They thought that this was what was being dis[1]cussed in the women’s consciousness-raising groups. They would have been quite surprised to find out that there was more talk of victimization and feelings and self-pity than there was of revolution in those early days. The anger of women was directed against those men and those institutions that they characterized as “oppressors.” As long as women concentrated on their weakness and vulnerability and how they were taken advantage of, men had little reason to fear a social upheaval.

Men continued on the same path they had been pursuing, except that they now felt it necessary to throw some bones to quiet the barking dogs. These came in the form of token advancements for women in business, admission of a few more women to faculty positions in universities, and electing an occasional woman to fill a public office vacated by the death of her husband. Still, the feminine aspect of the man was not yet recognized by him. Men continued to project the anima, or soul image, that was buried deep in the psyche upon a woman out in the world. Many men, too proud for the most part to admit it, were also feeling oppressed by the social order and victimized by those who had more power than they had. They had much to cry about, except that Real Men don't cry. Men who kept their wives at home with the children had to work hard as the only breadwinners to supply the family’s needs. Often they had to work for bosses who made unreasonable demands, and in conditions that were less than pleasant. Many had to cope daily with fierce competition. Often they had to put aside their dreams of following a longed-for life path because they were responsible to fulfill their commitments to the women and children in their lives. Often, when they would have loved to sit at home and be with their children, they had, instead, to do the man’s chores around the house, or to work an extra job, or do business out of town. To complain would have been unmanly. At the same time, the negative aspects of the man’s anima envied the woman her righteous anger.

This phase, too, began to pass. In some segments of society, consciousness went through another stage of metamorphosis, again led mostly by women but affecting men as well. This was a stage we could characterize as “androgyny.” Androgyny was the word for the recognition of the psychological capacity within each individual to function freely, utilizing all his or her qualities, including those that had been assigned to the feminine or the masculine gender. It implied acceptance by men of their own feminine side, the anima, and by women of their own masculine side, the animus. I was a very strong supporter of the idea of androgyny in the mid-seventies, and I carried out some research on mythologies from many lands and cultures which described how the world had come into being through the combined efforts of the Masculine and Feminine, embodied in gods and goddesses. This work pointed to an archetypal basis for the equality and cooperation between the Masculine and the Feminine. One could view it either objectively, as referring to events in the world, or subjectively, as referring to the inner contrasexual figures, anima and animus. My book on this subject, Androgyny: The Opposites Within, was an effort to legitimize the presence and positive value of what had formerly been rejected or re[1]pressed. Other books in a similar vein also appeared, signifying a new freedom for men to bring the anima out into the open, and for women to give expression to the animus. This “androgyny’ movement characterized a second stage in the development of the anima/animus concept after Jung. A visible result of this was a minimizing of the differences between the sexes, while the similarities between the two sexes in capacity and potential were maximized. When women took on more responsibility for their own liberation from the prison of gender stereotypes, men began to respect them more. As women talked more openly and freely to men about their feelings and their needs, men found the voice to do the same. Each discovered more commonality with the other than’ they had experienced in the past. Specific gender roles began to break down. As women became more involved in work outside the home, men began to be more active participants in various aspects of family life. Nurturing and providing for the family came to be shared to a greater extent than before. Again, the classic animus dream would be reported by some of my women analysands. I awaken, or look in the mirror, to find that have a penis. But now the reaction is different. It’s more like, “Oh, well, that’s all right. It must, mean that I have some mas[1]culine qualities, and they could be useful.”

However, not all were ready to think of themselves as psychologically androgynous. Women, particularly, now began to fear for their lost femininity. I recall lecturing in the late seventies to a group of women students at an Ivy League university which had just begun to accept women students. These women were pioneers, testing their mettle in a first-rank university that had been open only to male students in the past. To be sure, these women were the daughters of highly successful women, many of whom had been in the avant garde for women’s rights. Their daughters came to my seminar in jeans and cowboy boots, mostly without make-up and rather grungy-looking. After a while I asked them what they wanted or needed to be happy. Several wistfully replied that they were missing their lost femininity. From today’s hindsight, it ap[1]pears to me that these young women were in a place where androgyny was “politically correct” although the phrase had not yet been coined. As androgyny became another gender stereotype, the freedom to be themselves, irrespective of “correctness,” had slipped away.

Another trend now emerged. This was the redemption of the distinctive gifts of the Feminine. Not all women who had ascribed their suffering to oppression by the “male establishment” had found release in the movement toward androgyny. Instead of a redress of the inequality between the sexes, they sought to validate the special experience of women, and to elevate it. The image of patriarchal authority in societies was to be superseded by images of woman-centered societies or goddess cultures. Historians and anthropologists had to go back to a time before the period of recorded history to dis[1]cover evidence of preliterate societies in which women were honored. Uncovered in the ruins of Anatolia and Crete and elsewhere were sculptures of female forms believed to be goddesses. The existence of goddess-cultures was said to be an important feature of a Golden Age some four thousand years B.C.E. A book with the title When God Was a Woman became a best seller.

All this was important for women in the process of reevaluating their feminine side. It was necessary to establish a firm connection with the archetype of the Feminine before the animus could be embraced with less fear, anger or resentment. We must first know who we are and where we have come from before we can risk embracing the lesser-known aspects of our beings. More recently, I have noted that, when women have the classic penis dream, they seem to be quite pleased with the addition to their anatomy!

--June Singer en "Boundaries of the Soul"

#june singer #carl jung #unconscious #feminism #anima #animus

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byunmyeon · 4 years ago

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Metanoia

↳ pairing: lee suho x reader

↳ synopsis: this is the sequel to philophobia. the world of red strings is one you haven’t been able to see for a long time, and now that you’ve found your unwilling soulmate, you have no interest in regaining that sight.

↳ warnings: language, angst, angst, and more angst, mentions of depression, mentions of death

— note: due to popular demand, here’s part two!

Something was wrong.

There wasn’t some pivotal event or action that made Suho conscious of the shift, he just knew. This premonition could’ve been assessed as an erroneous inkling that emanated from the vast rift between you two, but you hadn’t given any indication that the lack of recognition from your soulmate was the cause. In fact, you seemed perfectly content with disregarding Suho’s existence.

An entire month had gone by since you confronted him, and the entire situation had passed without further incident. Neither one of you had spoken since that ill-fated day.

However, it was impossible not to notice the drastic change in your character. The way you smiled was different in a way that seemed off, and there was also a certain enervation constantly embracing you. But the biggest difference was your lack of interest in just about anything. Suho might’ve thought it had everything to do with him, but again, there was no clear indication of that.

Nonetheless, ignoring you didn’t make him unaware of the unnamed sensation that had latched itself onto him since then.

It’s not like Suho wanted to notice the contrast in your behavior, but it was something he couldn’t help. Every time you came within a ten meter radius, his eyes would compulsively find their way over to you. Suho was always careful to not get caught staring, although it hardly mattered. It’s not like you looked in his general direction anymore. And even when you did happen to meet his gaze, it was for a fleeting moment that passed by so quickly that it couldn’t even be considered a full second.

Your uncharacteristic disposition made him worry. Not for you, but for him. Suho was deeply concerned that you might expose your shared secret in an abrupt moment of anger and hurt. That’s all it was. Nothing more, nothing less.

To his relief, that moment never came.

Even in the face of all the hurtful things he had said and done, you didn’t mention to Jugyeong that Suho was your soulmate. It was a development he hadn’t expected. Sure, you had told him, no, promised him that you would keep silent about the string that bounded you two together, but he was convinced that you could easily change your mind whenever you felt like it. You hadn’t.

Truthfully, your selfless act made him develop a fondness for you. Suho hadn’t expected you to be so understanding and considerate since it seemed like you were genuinely hurt that he didn’t care to acknowledge the bond between you two. That was the part he still couldn’t wrap his head around. You ignored the red string that tied you two together since the day you transferred without any qualm. Your actions convinced him that you wanted nothing to do with the soulmate bond, with him.

“What’s up with Y/N?” Taehoon wondered one day as he set his lunch tray beside Suho’s. “She isn’t looking so good these days.”

The rest of the group agreed.

“Maybe we did something to upset her.” Jugyeong said with a worried frown. Her pretty eyes drifted over to the lonely girl who was currently picking at her food. “She hasn’t wanted to hang out with us since we finished our exams.”

Suho let his own gaze fall over to you. It was true that you had kept your distance since before he officially asked Jugyeong out, but he didn’t think his girlfriend would care too much since you two weren’t that close to begin with. Seeing her so upset didn’t sit well with him.

Maybe he could convince you to start hanging out with Jugyeong and the rest of the group more often. Yes, that’s exactly what he would do. After all, doing him one more favor wouldn’t kill you.

Most people would say that you made a mistake for letting Suho go. Among those people would be your very own mother. You didn’t even want to think about what would happen if she came to find out that you gave up your soulmate without putting up a fight. It wasn’t something you were necessarily proud of, but you weren’t ashamed of your decision. Okay, so maybe refusing to acknowledge your other half wasn’t right or even sane, but you felt comfortable with your decision.

Well, that wasn’t exactly right.

The reality of your soulmate easily ignoring the string he could see was heart-wrenching. More often than not, seeing him and Jugyeong together would cause a stabbing pain in your chest. It would last no more than a second, but it was agonizing enough to have you regretting your righteous choice.

As time when on, the pain worsened and would prolong itself to the point where it became difficult to breathe. There were even instances where black dots would cloud your vision and had you feeling extremely lightheaded. Those times, however, were nothing compared to the occasions when you came close to fainting. Deep down you knew it was because there was a severe imbalance weaved in the depths of your bond.

But you couldn’t be bothered to truly acknowledge it.

Who needed a soulmate anyway?

There had always been an indescribable tension when you were around Suho. Before, you had wrote it off as nerves from being around someone who was as prickly as he was attractive. That was before you knew the truth, of course. You two had never been close, and after finding out that he was the one on the other end of your red string, you were sure you never would be.

Which is exactly why you couldn’t figure out the reason he suddenly came up to you while you were sitting outside on one of the lone benches. He didn’t hesitate to sit next to you, the action coming naturally like it was something he did everyday.

“Jugyeong says you haven’t hung out with her in a while.” Suho said in a slow drawl. “Is it because of me?”

You wished you could’ve scoffed and told him that the world didn’t revolve around him, but you couldn’t. Because even if the world didn’t, yours did.

“I haven’t been feeling well lately.”

It was the truth. Your chest pains were only getting worse as the days went on. It was hard enough to hide it from your mother, you didn’t need the pressure of also hiding it from your classmates.

Suho didn’t seem the least bit concerned for your not-so-well-being, and it had a familiar ache nipping at your heart. You longed to see his face change with even the tiniest bit of emotion. Just so you could feel, even for a fleeting moment, that the bond wasn’t one-sided. After seeing the indifference he looked at you with, you decided to look straight ahead to spare yourself any further heartache.

“Being alone won’t make you feel any better.”

It couldn’t make you feel any worse.

Suho frowned when he saw your unchanging expression. He could never get used to the blank nothingness of it. Not when your joyful expressions had once lit up an entire room.

“I thought you’d be happy that I’m staying away from Jugyeong.” You finally said, still unwilling to look at him.

It made him happier than he cared to admit, but it didn’t make her happy. The entire point of talking to you was to bring Jugyeong the same amount of happiness she’d brought him. If it meant having to swallow his pride and ask you for yet another favor, then so be it.

“She thinks she did something to upset you.” Suho explained. “So I came to ask you to start talking to her again—as a favor.”

His impassive attitude made you feel crestfallen. You knew he couldn’t care less about the bond, about you, but it still hurt to see that he didn’t care to spare your feelings at all. It took everything in you to respond in a strong, calm tone.

“And you’re okay with me talking to her again?”

“I’m fine as long as you stick to our agreement.”

You nodded slowly, pensively. If it would make Suho happy, then you would do it.

“Okay.”

That was his cue to leave, but he found himself unwilling to do so. Immediately, Suho assumed it was because your souls were intertwined with one another which, in turn, fueled the natural instinct to be close to you. That had to be it.

Suho cleared his throat and stood up. “I’ll see you around.”

Sitting across a psychiatrist was something you never thought you would have to do again. And yet, you found yourself sitting across from the infamous Dr. Kwon. The aforementioned doctor was known worldwide for his trailblazing research on the enigmatic soulmate bond. His fame soared when he revealed that he had successfully treated people who were rejected by their soulmates. For an entire year, it was all anyone could talk about.

And like a moth to a flame, your mother was quick to reach out to his office and make an appointment for a consultation. There was a five month waiting list for this, and now it was finally your turn to meet with the prestigious psychiatrist, much to your dismay.

“There’s no need to feel nervous,” he said kindly when he noticed your uncomfortable posture. “Anything you tell me will stay between the two of us.”

You had heard the same thing countless times, but the words always seemed disingenuous no matter who they came from. Even if Dr. Kwon had treated people who had soulmate problems, you were sure that he’d never met someone like you. His eyes were kind, but you didn’t know whether you could trust him. Plenty of the other specialists had also been kind at first until they realized that treating you like a lab rat would lead to a life of fame and fortune.

“Your mother tells me that you were unofficially diagnosed with philophobia. She believes the cause of your condition is due to the fact that you are unable to see your string of fate.”

You weren’t surprised that your mom had told him everything about you already. She had made the same mistake with all the other doctors and therapists. You could deny it, but you figured if you were to become a lab rat, you couldn’t be in better hands.

“She also mentioned that you haven’t been yourself lately.”

Shit. You hadn’t thought that your mom had caught onto your behavior. The simple thought of her finding out the secret you were desperately trying to keep hidden made your stomach twist with panic.

Your shrug was uncommitted as you fought to control your expression. “She’s thought that since I told her I couldn’t see my string anymore.”

Dr. Kwon hummed. “Your mother is convinced that a severe trauma led you to lose the sight of your string. Would you mind telling me about that?”

You clutched the sleeves of your uniform as a way of comfort. Talking about that was something you never wanted to do. Somehow, spending an entire year repeating the story to countless specialists never helped you get over it. Despite that, you knew your mother wouldn’t forgive you if you didn’t make the effort to “get better.”

“Around the time I turned eleven, I found out that my parents were getting a divorce.” You began. There was a harsh edge to your words that you couldn’t control. “They were soulmates, but my dad said that he didn’t love my mom anymore.”

Dr. Kwon nodded, encouraging you to go on.

“This one day, he decided to drive me to school instead of letting me take the bus. On the way there he told me about this woman he’d met like I’d actually be happy for him or something. I got so angry that I just– I just snapped.”

It was silent for a moment before you continued.

“I told him that I hated him. That I would never forgive him for hurting my mom.” You swallowed thickly. “That was the last thing I said to him before we got into a car accident. He died on the way to the hospital.”

You didn’t realize that the moisture in your eyes was dripping down your face until Dr. Kwon handed you a tissue. He didn’t say anything for a while, and it surprised you. Most of the specialists you had seen couldn’t keep their thoughts to themselves after hearing your story.

“It’s not your fault.” Dr. Kwon said. “You feel an extreme guilt, but you shouldn’t. We all say things we don’t mean, and parents know that better than anyone.”

His words were comforting, but his kind expression was marred when he started speaking like a doctor. You only half-listened to Dr. Kwon, not interested in his spiel about how making an attempt to picture your string might help. If only he knew that over the better part of your early adolescence, visualizing that stupid red string was all you did.

You hadn’t realized that your time with him was nearly over until he started writing on his clipboard. It made you feel relieved, in a way. But there was still one thing you needed. You couldn’t leave without asking him about the one thing that had been weighing on your mind.

“Doctor,” your voice was hesitant. “You’ve treated patients whose soulmates rejected the bond, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Has… Has anyone ever died from being rejected?”

Dr. Kwon shook his head. “Most of them complained about chronic chest pains, but they faded over time after they got used to being away from their soulmate.”

You swallowed thickly. That’s not what you were hoping to hear.

“So, if someone were to constantly be around the person who rejected them… it could be fatal?”

This time, you caught the subtle narrowing of his eyes. Shit. He was onto you. “Is there a reason you’re asking me this?”

“I’m just curious. You’re the only doctor who’s come close to figuring out the real effects of rejecting the bond.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but answered you anyway. “It’s possible, but I can’t be certain since I haven’t had a patient who was willing to be around their soulmate after being rejected.”

You nodded, not liking the ugly feeling in your chest.

“I’m willing to keep working with you.” He said, seemingly not interested in the motives behind your questions. “Hopefully, we can reverse your condition.”

“I have no intention of seeing the string again.”

Dr. Kwon was taken aback. “Y-You don’t? Why?”

Because I already found my soulmate and he loves someone else. The truth was on the tip of your tongue, but you knew you couldn’t tell him.

“I just don’t.”

The first time you went an entire day without experiencing the chest pains was the same day you spent an entire lunch period with Suho.

Since the back of the school was now tainted with horrible memories, you could no longer go back there to find solace. Now your new designated safe space was the school’s rooftop. You were content with listening to music and feeling the warm breeze on your skin. It was also extremely private, which meant that if you did experience the chest pains, no one would see.

Your eyes were closed in blissful peace when you suddenly felt a presence beside you. Unaccustomed to the sudden company, you jumped with shocked fear. Once you saw that it was Suho who was sitting next to you, your heart was racing for an entirely different reason. He hadn’t said much. Unexpectedly, he asked you what you were listening to.

That’s how you found out you shared the same taste in music.

The second time you went an entire day without feeling the chest pains was the day you stumbled on a crying Suho.

He was completely overcome with grief that he didn’t seem to care that he was in the middle of the hallway. You quietly took him to the roof where he collapsed on you. The way he clutched onto you reminded you of an inconsolable child—fearful and in need of comfort. You listened to him as he told you about his late friend and his battle with depression.

Your heart ached with every word he told you, but if countless hours of therapy had taught you anything it was that venting could do wonders for the soul. Eventually, his sobs turned into sniffles. He hadn’t let go of you and vice versa.

After that, Suho didn’t say anything and neither did you. Unbeknownst to the either of you, the connection between you two had gotten stronger. There was an inexplicable congruity between you now, one that allowed you to understand and empathize with each other’s feelings.

You two never mentioned it again, but something shifted after that day.

It had been a month since you last felt the scathing pain. Now it was only a tolerable discomfort that you grew used to. You and Suho weren’t close, he still had his girlfriend, but now there were these moments that you experienced every so often. Ones that seemed more intimate than any relationship you could ever have. Those times were the happiest you’d felt in years.

“Things are pretty serious between Suho and Jugyeong.” Soo-ah said when you two entered the lunch room. “He wants her to study abroad with him after graduation.”

This was news to you, and that familiar discomfort soon settled on the left side of your chest. In spite of knowing that nothing had changed, you still felt like a complete fool. How could you be so delusional? Suho had only been kind to you a handful of times, and you were sure it had only been out of pure instinct. It had been because the link between you two had pushed him to do it.

Suddenly, the discomfort grew into that familiar, unwelcome stabbing pain, one greater than all the others you had felt so far. You let out a loud cry, the high-pitched noise sounding horrifying even to your own ears. The dizziness never came this quickly, but now it was clouding your senses within seconds. It had you stumbling into Soo-ah, and you grabbed ahold of her sleeve to try to steady yourself. You could see her mouth moving, but her words were muted. Oh no.

The pounding in your head and the sharp pains in your chest came in waves. It didn’t take long for the dark spots to appear. Fuck.

The last thing you remembered was seeing Soo-ah and a gathering crowd above you before darkness overcame you.

“Y/N.”

The distant sound of your name being called was enough to have you slowly opening your eyes. Your vision was blurry and unfocused. All you could make out was being in a brightly lit place that had you wincing. Where were you?

In the next second, you felt a pair of arms wrap around you. The familiar scent of your mom’s perfume made you relax.

“How are you feeling?”

It was a man’s voice who asked the question, and you nearly choked on your own spit when you saw Dr. Kwon standing beside the hospital bed. His presence shocked you since you had only met him once and weren’t officially his patient. However, you managed to assure him that you felt fine.

For a second, you thought everything would be fine. After all, there was no technology that was capable of determining that your collapse was related to your fractured soulmate bond. That is, until Dr. Kwon decided to speak up.

“You’ve met your soulmate, haven’t you?”

It wasn’t really a question. Your panicked eyes fell over to your mom. The look she gave you had you wincing. Fuck.

“What!? Y/N—”

“Mom,” you said, panicked. “It’s not– I don’t—”

“I’ve spoken with the doctor who treated you. She said that there’s been an enormous strain on your heart.” His voice had an underlying hardness that tipped you off on the anger he was feeling. “That’s why you asked me about my patients the other day, isn’t it?”

You remained silent, and it gave him his answer.

“You know who your soulmate is. They rejected the bond, but you haven’t. That’s why your chest pains have gotten worse.”

Before you could try to refute any of his claims, your mother went crazy.

“Who is it!?” She yelled. “Tell me right now so I can tell him to stop hurting my daughter!”

You attempted to calm her down, but your attempt was in vain. There was no possible way to settle her emotions. Not when her worst fear had been realized. You tried to ease her mind by reassuring her that you would go away in order to receive treatment from Dr. Kwon, not realizing that Suho was standing outside the room and heard everything.

Dr. Kwon managed to calm your mother down and convinced her to take a walk with him. It was late in the evening now, and you felt extremely relieved to finally be left alone with your thoughts. You got all of two seconds of contemplation because in the next second, Suho pulled the door open and walked into your room.

He didn’t say anything at first, but his face was the picture of tortured. You furrowed your eyebrows, unable to understand why he seemed so distraught.

“You’re dying.” Suho’s voice trembled. “Because of me.”

The fact that he somehow found out went over your head. You wished you could say no. No it’s not because of you. But you couldn’t. Trying to reassure him would’ve been futile. He knew. You both did. The urge to cling onto the severed bond would be fatal if you didn’t get help. Despite knowing all that, you wished to ease his pain. You could’ve laughed at your own foolishness because right now it was you who was laying in the hospital bed.

“I won’t die.” You told him feebly. “I’ll leave. Once I get used to being away from you, I’ll be okay. We can both live normal lives.”

Suho wanted to tell you that he didn’t want you to leave. That his life hadn’t ever been normal, and he was fine with that as long as you could be part of it.

“You didn’t reject the bond. Why?”

You looked up at the white ceiling. The tears were pooling in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. There was no point in hiding it anymore. Not when you were hospitalized because of him.

“I can’t see my string.”

Your confession hung in the air like a dark cloud. It was silent before you decided to continue with your revelation.

“I haven’t been able to see it since I was thirteen.” You tried to swallow the lump in your throat. “That’s why I didn’t acknowledge you when we first saw each other. I didn’t know.”

The candor of your words had Suho staggering back. It felt like someone shoved a blade straight through his heart. Finally, everything made sense. It’s not that you weren’t interested in your soulmate, it’s that you hadn’t known he was right in front of you. He couldn’t stop the tears from gathering in his eyes. What had he done?

“I’ve always wanted to meet my soulmate.” You confessed, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Even after I found out that it was you and you didn’t feel the same way, I never wished that I hadn’t met you. I never wished that the bond didn’t exist.”

You knew he couldn’t say the same since the evidence of just how much he didn’t want the bond was displayed in your current physical state.

“You should leave,” you told him even though the words pained you greatly. “My mom will get suspicious if she sees you.”

Only a small piece of your heart broke when he listened to you.

When Jugyeong and Suho broke up, it was the talk of the entire school. You yourself couldn’t make sense of the sudden separation, but you told yourself that it didn’t matter because it wasn’t any of your business.

You only said goodbye to a handful of people when the last day at Saebom High came around. Your short stay at the school didn’t give you an opportunity to make many friends, and it’s not like you truly wanted to remember your experience at the school.

Before you could walk through the front gates toward your new life, you were stopped by the sound of your name being called.

“Y/N!”

You turned, feeling your eyes widen when you were suddenly wrapped up in your soulmate’s warm embrace. His sudden change in attitude shocked you so much that you weren’t sure how to react.

“Don’t leave me. Please.”

For the first time since you’d met Suho, you felt no need to placate him. After everything that happened, you couldn’t go back on the promise you made to your mother. You needed to get better. Not for Suho, but for yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You were sincere. “This time, I’m leaving you behind.”

He pulled back. The pain in his eyes was another strike to your chest, but you knew you couldn’t give in.

“Goodbye, Lee Suho.”

#lee suho x reader #true beauty fanfic #suho x reader #true beauty imagine #lee suho imagine #cha eunwoo #true beauty tvn #astro #astro imagines #astro fanfic #cha eunwoo imagine #cha eunwoo x reader #true beauty

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levixreader · 4 years ago

Text

Dad!Levi x Mum!Reader - It's Just a Hobby

Charlotte: French name meaning freedom Summary: You woke up alarmed at the metallic shriek echoing in your room. Your angry husband sat a the far end of the room... sharpening his blades?... at three in the morning? Oh God, what did Charlotte do this time.

Warning: Pure fluffiness, Levi deserves happiness ;v;

Inspired by @cakeswashere prompt:

Y/N: are you angry? or...

Levi: no.

Y/N: so sharpening your blades at 3am is just a hobby then?

Daughter of Mine(Chapter I)| Master List|Requests| Next Chapter

It's Just a Hobby

Sheeeeeeek

It was a sharp, almost metallic in nature shriek. You tossed in your sleep, your brain still half unconscious.

Had you imagined it?

It sounded familiar. Where you having another dream of your time at the Corps?

All this talk about Charlotte joining the military was definitely not doing you any favours. It was scratching at the back of your head the obscure memories you kept hidden away. Ever since you had pushed Levi into taking her to work, every night, without fail, the deformed hands of your demons came to grab you at night.

Yesterday Levi had shaken you awake. You were sweating in your sleep, haunted by the last expression of your friends, of your family. Some nights, your dreams were so vivid that you were convinced that the life you had now was… imagined.

How had Charlotte convinced you that it was a good idea to join? Ah, yes, her unwavering spirit. Stubborn and passionate to the core, just like her father. Erwin had earned Levi and his constant devotion to the cause had earned Charlotte.

Truly, she had worn you down. She would talk as if she had been in the military for as long as she was alive. She had convinced every single one of her friends to join. Of course, she had worn you down. Children, you had discovered, had a way to make you feel like you could endure anything as long as it made them happy. Even if that meant spinning directly into a titan’s jaws. You shivered. Tonight, marked the beginning of winter and with it the fast approach of harsh months.

How could you selfishly stand in her way? She was the carbon copy of your husband, down to his unhuman like traits. She was fast and strong, but that didn’t make her cocky, it made her aware of just how far she could go. So when she had implored you to let her join the military… You caved because you knew your daughter, nothing you could say, not even the hellish nightmares you conjured now, would deter her from joining.

Levi could though. You didn’t have the heart or the will power to stand against her, she was, after all, a force of nature like Levi. So, it made sense that he could and did stand against her. So firmly opposed that he would rather sacrifice his relationship with her than watch her wear forest green.

I would never want to feel responsible if something were to happen to you.

His words had rung deep within you. Levi was strong, the strongest in fact. He had carried with his best friend’s death, carried the guilt of every death, carried the title of strongest, but, he could never carry the responsibility of the death of his only child.

Your heart ached. For months now, you had tried to convince yourself that you already waited with your heart of your throat every time Levi sat you down at the kitchen table to tell you there would be a new excursion. You could do the same with Charlotte. Right?

It was different. You knew it was different. You were all too aware of it. So, you settled. Settled to be thankful that where you lack the willpower, Levi could. Maybe, you had thought, that having her shadow Levi for a couple of days would show her a glimpse into a world she could never have thought of. You hadn’t. Not even Levi, who lived in the underground, had.

Sheeeeeek

You shot up. Straight up.

That had been the sound of a knife getting sharpened.

In a panic, your eyes scanned the room, your hand already reaching for your bedside table, inching into the drawer on the hidden weapon inside. You could feel your heart lodged in your trachea. All you could think was of your daughter and how to get to her as quick as possible. But, then, your eyes landed at the corner at the far back. It was Levi, seated in the leather chair he liked so much.

Relief, ice-cold relief washed over your stiffened body. Instantly, you relaxed at the sight of the familiar presence. Your heart unable to dislodge from your throat, the exhaustion weighing down at your body once again.

What the hell was he doing?

Shreeeeeeek

You felt a new wave of alertness wash over you. Something glimmered, you squinted, your tiered eyes fell to his lap.

There was a blade.

Shreeeeeeek

He was sharpening his blades.

He was sharpening his blades at three in the morning.

Oh, God.

Shreeeeeeek

Cried the sound of metal. He was hunched in the chair, hadn’t bothered taking off his uniform, or boots for that matter. His right leg on top of his left thigh. One of his blades rested across his lap. You sat there watching as he expertly manoeuvred the blade making it glimmer even in the darkest of nights.

Something was bothering him.

You sighed, the adrenalin leaving your body. It had been a minute since you last felt it course through your body like earlier. You had genuinely thought that there had been an intruder in the house. You were a light sleeper, years retired from the military could never kill that habit. It had saved you more than once.

You wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep until you untangled whatever Levi’s brain was scrambling. It was Charlotte, you were sure of it. After the little incident at the beginning of the week, she had somehow squeezed a promise to not react like he did that day. How she did it you would never know. It took years -years- to get him to not impulsively confront any man that would even slightly look at you the wrong way. You were certain that something must have happened again and the frustration of being powerless had him sitting, sharpening his disposable blades at such an ungodly hour.

This was it. The time had come to have “The Talk” with Levi. You had been preparing for this ever since Charlotte turned sixteen. You had already noticed the attention she garnered whenever she accompanied you to the market. How some of her oldest male friends would stare a second too long. It was bound to happen eventually. You had prepared for it, Levi… not so much.

“Morning”, you said the bedsheets still pooled at your waist. Even with the window closed, you could feel the cold air prickling your skin, like small needles. He frowned, not really expecting you to wake up. He had already spent an hour on his other blades, this was his last one. “How was work today?”, you insisted. He grunted. He at least acknowledged you. He wasn’t feeling all that talkative at the moment.

Shreeeeeek

The sound of the metal echoing across the room. This man was impossible. Like father, like daughter, two stubborn mules unwilling to bend or move in their convictions. You were convinced that when God created stubbornness, Levi was first in line, closely followed by Charlotte.

“Somethings never change”, you thought shaking you head slightly. Unceremoniously, you yanked the sheets from your lower body. You shivered, the cold air now attacking your legs. Levi’s face remained turned down, his eyes, however, sneaked a peek at you. He had heard you move. You were, to his dismay, heading towards his direction. He noticed the hair of your forearms standing to attention. You were cold. He clicked his tongue; he wasn’t ready to go to bed, anger still bubbling at his feet. He frowned, returning his attention at the weapon in his hand.

Shreeeeeeek

“Are are you angry?”, he heard you ask softly. No answer. You grouched in front of his legs so that your face was in his direct eyesight. He gripped the handle of the blade, his eyes moving to observe the end of it. He was avoiding you. “no.”, he curtly answered. He looked stoic. “Stubborn, stubborn man”, you thought. You placed a numbed hand on his twisted knee. His eyebrows knitted together refusing to look at you, opting to look at your hand. You looked paler than usual.

Did she have another nightmare?

You smiled amused, “So sharpening your blades at three in the morning is just a hobby then?”, you asked sarcastically. His frown deepened, he didn’t answer. “Tell me what’s bothering you”, you pushed, the tips of your fingers going a bit numb. He sighed knowing you weren’t going to let this go and if needed would freeze half to death until he talked. “And you think Charlotte is stubborn because of me”, he thought. Charlotte, he frowned again the anger bubbling up again.

“Is it Charlotte?”, you asked, even softer than before. You gripped his knee in reassurance. He sighed again, of course, you would know exactly what was bothering him. He couldn’t hide anymore. “I can’t believe she is sixteen”, you said truthfully.

Sixteen years went by like nothing, one day she was too small to even reach the kitchen counter and the next she had a queue of boys lined up. “Fucking hormonal teenagers”, he thought to himself glaring down at the polished blade. He wanted to break the thing in two.

“Our brat is an adult now”, you said giggling pulling him again out of his thoughts. His eyes lifted slightly to look at you, clearly disagreeing with your opinion. Charlotte wasn’t an adult; she was just a brattier brat. “Did one of the cadets flirt with her again?”, you asked smiling sympathetically. His eyes widened and immediately narrowed to the point you thought he had closed his eyes. His jaw clenched, his grip on the weapon made his knuckles turn white.

“A boy”, he corrected. You smiled sadly at his words. “You know she is at that age”, you said earning you a glare. “You know I’m right”, you insisted. He clicked his tongue. You were right. That doesn’t mean he had to voice it. “I know this is very hard for you”, you continued, he looked pained. It had taken everything in him today to not march and punch the titan shifter straight in the face. He knew the look he was giving Charlotte; it was the same look he had given you. He felt his chest burn.

His eyes looked pained, the cold controlled captain melting away. You wanted to hug him, console him and tell him that his baby was still just that: a baby. That Charlotte would not grow up and that she would always call him ‘Daddy’. But this would only hurt him more and would do Charlotte a disservice as her mother.

“Here”, you said standing up offering a hand for him to take. He looked at your hand, eyebrow cocked upwards with curiosity. You rolled your eyes, “Well, take it”, you insisted shaking your hand. Cautiously, he placed his free hand on yours. His eyes narrowing when he felt how cold your fingers felt. In a quick movement, he rested the sharpened blade against the nearest wall and grabbed with both his hands the hand you had offered. “You’re cold”, he commented, making you roll your eyes again at him. “Well hurry up then”, you answered pulling him up. He pouted, finally complying with your request.

You pulled him out of the room towards the hallway in front of Charlotte’s room. His frown returned, “What are we doing here”, he asked, not appreciating the surprise. “Shh”, you said tightening your hold on his hand. As carefully as you could you opened the door to your daughter’s room. She looked tranquil, completely at ease. “Look”, you whispered moving out of the way. Reluctantly, he peaked into Charlotte’s room. His eyes softened and his chest, previously burning with anger, filled with warmth. She looked like a child hugging her favourite stuffed animal. “She isn’t quite an adult yet”, you whispered, “not because some boy is flirting with her means she stopped growing”.

He sighed closing the door just as carefully as you had opened it.

“Let’s have another one”, he said turning to look at you straight to your eyes. “What?”, you said in complete shock. “Let’s have another one”, he repeated closing the gap between the both of you. “What?”, you repeated louder, his hands grabbing your hips. “I said”, he whispered pulling you towards him, “Let’s”, you heard him next to your ear, “have”, you felt his breath on your neck, his nose caressing the base of your neck, “another one”. His teeth dug into your soft skin.

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violettelueur · 4 years ago

Text

RYŌMEN SUKUNA || HIS LITTLE SONGBIRD

| featuring : ryōmen sukuna ft. itadori yuji and fushiguro megumi from jujutsu kaisen

| warnings : grammar errors and light mention of alcohol

| form : imagine (with she/her pronouns)

| word count : 2411

| published : 02 december

| request : I just finished reading Sukuna with so who good at singing and I love it❤️ After reading this, it makes me think of another possibility for reincarnation au. What if the so got reincarnated but instead of Sukuna actually met them in person, he found out that the so is now a famous singer, so their songs can be heard all over japan. Itadori went a store and their song was played which Sukuna realized it was his little song bird’s voice

| barista’s notes : hi hi guys~ sorry for the really late update today and that is because i fell asleep the second i got back home from school ʕ ㅇ ᴥ ㅇʔ classic barista violettelueur and what makes it lowkey worst is that it’s 2:20 am right now.....for a little information that might be helpful while reading this, i was listen to BLACKPINK - Don’t know what to do (JP Ver.) while writing this, so that is going to get a little mention on this imagine ʕ·ᴥ·　ʔ other than that, i hope you enjoy you cup of classic black coffee (jujutsu kaisen request!) have a wonderday day and please come back soon!

The sounds of the strings being plucked to construct a beautiful melody filled the spring air with its euphoric sound as the pale pink cherry blossom petals graceful fell from its branches giving a beautiful sight to behold, while the crowds of men in the garden celebrated with red sake plates in hand that was filled to the brim with the sweet alcohol that was being consumed in a rapid rate.

However, as much as the King of Curses wanted to disrupt the little gather for his own sadistic pleasure, the melody that was playing in the air captivated him to pause his wicked thoughts and desires and demanded him to appreciate the music the was being created by the lone female that was at the centre of the ocean of men - who were laughing drunkenly while some observed her from afar.

The lone female on her knees, while her eyes were set on the musical tool that was set in front of her, was delicately but masterfully plucking the thin transparent stings to create a tune that no other person within the gardens could recreate - not even the other talented musicians that were also present within the large garden. Eyeing the beauty that was charming almost everyone within her presence, the King of Curses slyly came closer (but out of sight) to gain a closer look at what was going on.

“Who is she?”

“She’s the only daughter from the prominent L/N family, they’re are known for their musical talents and from the rumours, that is certainly no lie,”

“Is she married? I can imagine having her playing for me every day with that beautiful melody,”

However, before one of the males of court nobility could even answer the question, an elegant but powerful voice echoed throughout the garden causing everyone to swiftly turn to the direction of the angelic voice, only to suddenly find that it was that lone female in the middle of the garden singing with the alluring tone that she had created herself - leaving everyone in a trance to the grace that was beautifully presented to them.

“I need to make her my wife,”

“I’m afraid that is easier said than done, my lord. From what has been going around, she has refused all of the men that have proposed their hand in marriage, there isn’t a reason that is known for this that can answer everyone’s confusion,”

“What do I need to give her? Money! Power! I have plenty of that,”

“She has rejected all of the noblemen that have come her way, no riches could ever convince her and I’m surprised that her family also agree to her antics”

Listening from a distance, Sukuna couldn’t help but become intrigued by what was being said. Many women in this time would have jumped on the chance to marry someone from a higher status let alone be married off quickly, yet here you were singing and playing like you have all the time in the world with no worries or fears that could distract you. You were at peace, while he was the destruction.

Somewhat still in a trace, it was suddenly cut off once the final string was pulled causing there to be absolute silence to fill the space leaving only the wind to cover the lack of sound before a loud parade of claps were heard as the emperor - who hosted the party - stood up with pride written all over his face. Standing up from your position, you have a light smile before bowing to show your gratitude to being allowed to play in such a prestigious event as you then made your way to the other musicians to pass them on for the next performance.

“Y/N! That was amazing, you never disappoint,”

“I have no idea what you saying, I messed up on the second to last note when I hit the wrong string, ha what am I doing to do? That is going to extremely bother me for the time being,”

“Stop being such a perfectionist! None of the sorcerers, noblemen and emperor knows that, so you’re fine,”

“Thank you and shouldn’t you really go, is it not your turn?”

“Oh! My apologies, I’ll meet up with you later,”

With your friend running off to continue with musical performance, you stood in your spot as you watched her go further into the distance leaving you to soak in the sunray that was gently providing a warm glow to your complexion as the deep purple of your kimono also brightened up leaving it somewhat of a lavender shade. Taking a deep sigh, you looking up to admire the cherry blossoms that were in bloom, only to see a figure settled on one of the branches with his ruby eyes set upon you, even though the man was hidden very skilfully within the plethora of petals you could sense him from a while away, but before you could even voice out your confusion.

“Ah, there she is! Miss L/N,”

Displaying a face of irritation on the rude disturbance - leaving Sukuna to display a face of amusement instead - you turned around to find two men standing in front of you with one that seemed to be of younger age compared to his counterpart making you come to the realisation that it was a son and father - leaving you to mentally groan in annoyance as you instantly knew where this little conversation was going.

“I want you to met my son, he is -”

“I’m sorry, but I am not interested in his hand in marriage nor his companionship” you immediately interrupted the noblemen, causing both of the men to look at you in complete shock as they didn’t expect you to figure out their intentions so soon after only a few words exchanged.

“But my dear, this is an amazing opportunity for you to-”

“Become someone with a higher nobility? Don’t make me laugh, I rather become a peasant then spend the eternity of my life bound to you,”

“What is it that you desire for your hand? Wealth? Power? Prestige? You name what you desire and we will provide!”

“I’m afraid that what I desire is impossible for you to provide me, my apologies”

“What is it that you want, woman?! Who doesn’t want what I can give you within an instinct?” the son soon erupted in anger at this rejection, still in utter confusion on why you were so adamant on not wanting to wed him.

“Entertainment? Can you provide that? You see, you noblemen always offer what you have already stated to me and that may sound very enticing to another but, you all are so boring,”

The two noblemen looked at you with astoundment in their eyes as well as Sukuna, who was cunningly listening from above on where you found him - the King of Curses didn’t want to confess this to himself but he was confused on what you trying to demonstrate here with you little speech.

“You are so so boring, you men expect me to play and sing for you every single day like a bird in a cage, yet I get no entertainment in return from you? Isn’t that quite unfair? You have no talent yet you want to be greedy, what ridiculous idea is that? It’s almost laughable in my opinion,”

Sukuna almost burst out laughing from what you artfully expressed to the two men that were in front of you as he also could relate to what you were saying. The sorcerers that he had fought and killed with his bare hands were all boring with no hint of excitement from any of the battles he had faced and here you were expressing the same distaste - they were boring. All of them.

‘Well, well little songbird, I got your attention, now you have mine,’

ꕥ

“Sukuna?” you called out in a hushed surprised tone, as you unexpectedly found him sitting comfortably on the wooden corridor outside your room. Even since that little encounter back at the garden party, you have been seeing the special grade curse looming about here and there within your personal space, causing you to one day to finally acknowledge his presence that was constantly around you, only leading up where you both were now.

The excitement of these secret meetings that you both had late at night was the entertainment that you were looking for. The excitement of being so secretive with the man you desired to love but couldn’t to the outer world was the entertainment that no nobleman would ever provide you. It was the fact that this romantic link between you and Sukuna was forbidden that excited the both of you. This was the entertainment that you both desire.

“Hello, my little songbird,” Sukuna greeted you with a smirk before gently grabbing your hand to pull you down to his height - well more rather below his height - to meet eye to eye with you. “Didn’t you miss me?” he then teasingly asked, causing you to look away in a bashful expression because you knew that he knew what your answer was going to be. However, pushing your pride aside, you slowly wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace which then led him to place a hand on the back of your neck, holding you in place as he savoured the warmth that you were providing him.

“Where have you been? I was worried,” you stated to him, and even though it was a laughable comment to him since what was the point in worrying about him, he couldn’t help but appreciate the foreign concern that you had for him - it truly warmed his heart that you were here with him. “I was busy, now why don’t you sing for me, my little songbird, I do miss the sound of your sweet voice,” he declared to you before placing a few light open mouth kisses on your neck leading you to let out a soft moan of pleasure which seemed to put a smile on the curse’s face.

“What would you like for me to sing to you then?” You asked as you used your hand to gently run your hand through his hair which caused Sukuna to become relaxed and lower his guard within your embrace - the only time he allowed himself to do so and the only person that was allowed to see him in this state.

“Anything. Anything that you sing for me is enough”

To be held in your arms was what Sukuna always wanted and desired every day of his life, to hear your voice was something that made him forget about the world just like back at the garden party and the elegance that you embodied while playing the Koto was something he could never get out of his mind. You were his safe haven. His little songbird. However, that was 1000 years ago.

ꕥ

Residing within his vessel, Sukuna began to wonder what could have caused him to start to reminisce about the past when clearly he couldn’t do anything to bring you back with him. You were gone. You have passed. There was nothing he could do even as a powerful curse himself to bring your back onto his arms and let you sing to him.

However, what could make do for now was the song that was annoyingly playing within the music store that his vessel - Itadori Yuji - decided to visit as it seemed like he was interested in what was new with his friend Fushiguro Megumi. Slowly, the King of Curses could hear the music beginning to fade, indicating that it was the end of it before another quickly began to play to replace the ending song.

Unlike the other song, this one was softer in tune with something being strummed in the background - just like how you would strum the strings of the Koto when he would ask you to play it for him to admire - to which was then sung on top with a female voice. Disinterested, Sukuna began to dissociate himself with the song that was now playing until another voice came in with the song, suddenly leaving him in a trance like the one he was back 1000 years ago at that garden party.

Sitting up from his position, he intensively listened closer making sure that his ears didn’t deceive him from what he thought he heard.

“Oi brat! Who is singing that song?”

“Ha? What do you want now?” his vessel replied, surprised and annoyed at the sudden appearance of the curse that was inside him.

“What does Sukuna want now?” Fushiguro asked, slightly worried about what was happening and what could happen at this moment and time since they were in a public place filled with people.

“Answer the question before I rip your heart out again,” Sukuna threatened, slowing becoming impatient and desperate for an answer leaving Itadori no choice but for once cooperate with the special grade curse.

“From what I believe, it’s a group song called ‘Don’t know what to do’, I believe there are five girls within that group,” Itadori explained before he quickly stopped within his track to see a screen playing a stage performance of the exact same song being played in the store. “Yeah! There is the group, they are really well known in Japan since they’re are touring there, I think the youngest is the same age as me and Fushiguro” to which he pointed at a girl that he was explaining about.

Looking at the scene through Itadori’s eyes, Sukuna began to observe each and every single girl that was dancing on the stage before he paused his view on a certain girl that Itadori pointed, who was dressed in a white off the shoulder crop top that was long-sleeved with a white skirt paired with white trainers that matched with the rest of the girls within the group.

“Little songbird?” he quietly muttered, not believing what was presented in front of him at this current moment in time.

There was no doubt about it, that was you on the screen singing and dancing to a song that he slowly began to love once he heard your voice. You truly looked angelic as you gracefully danced across the stage somehow managing to maintain a stable singing voice that never disappointed him. You were back.

His little songbird.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #jjk ryomen sukuna #jjk sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna imagine #ryomen sukuna imagines #itadori yuji #itadori yujii #jjk itadori #fushiguro megumi #jjk fushiguro

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besanii · 3 years ago

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Paper thin verse is playing to all my guilty pleasures! Since WWX is LXC’s consort, have they had sex or did LXC refrain out of respect? Has LXC visited WWX for platonic mourning time when he wants to get away from the pressures of court? How do the other consorts feel about WWX and the favor he gets from LXC?

[ part one (LWJ) | two (LXC) | three (WWX) | four (LWJ) ]

Nie Qiongyue finds him standing beneath the cherry blossom tree in the corner of the garden, staring up into the branches, lost in thought. The closest servants are hovering several metres away, just out of earshot but still within view, ready to respond to their master's every need.

Wei Wuxian, however, remains as still as a statue. If it were not for the breeze rustling through his long hair and the ends of his pale purple robes, he could very well have been a painting. Her fingers itch with the sudden urge to commit this scene to paper: Longing beneath the cherry blossoms. She wonders if she can fully capture the longing and wistfulness that shrouds Wei Wuxian’s silhouette with her mediocre skills.

The servants startle and drop to their knees when they see her approach.

"Huanghou-niangniang," they chorus.

Wei Wuxian turns around slowly, not a hint of surprise on his face bends his knees to greet her.

“This concubine greets Huanghou-niangniang,” he says.

“You may rise,” she responds.

As he straightens again, with all the grace and poise befitting a consort of the Imperial harem, she catches the twinkle of blue jewels from the zanzi in his hair and freezes. Her hands flex; she has to stop herself from reaching for the matching jewel adorning her own hair—cut differently, more elaborately, but undeniably the same. She swallows past the lump that has formed in her throat.

“Wei-xuanyi,” she says, keeping her voice level and tone pleasant. “I hope you have settled in well. If there is anything lacking in Chenghuan Hall, do not hesitate to inform Eunuch Zhao—it will be provided to you.”

Wei Wuxian inclines his head. “This concubine thanks Huanghou-niangniang for her generosity. Chenghuan Hall is already very well provisioned, there is truly nothing that can be found lacking.”

“Then I am glad to hear it.” She turns a half-step and looks at him. “I admit the renovations were done on such short notice, I have not had the chance to view the gardens in person. Why don’t you join me on a turn about it together?”

He lowers his eyes and dips his knee briefly.

“This concubine would be honoured.”

Nie Qiongyue has been married to Lan Xichen for almost ten years, six of which she has been Empress and governed over his inner palace. She has seen dozens of young women and men paraded before him in hopes of capturing his attention in those years—all beautiful, intelligent and well-bred, with impeccable manners and grace honed by years of training for that one specific purpose.

Wei Wuxian is different. And as such, she can see that Lan Xichen regards him differently too. She knows they have not been...intimate, not in the carnal sense, although they kept up the pretense of it with Lan Xichen’s frequent visits. Her husband claims he is only trying to protect Wei Wuxian, to offer him comfort in the wake of Lan Wangji’s death. But Nie Qiongyue is not blind.

She would be lying if she says she is not a little envious of the way her husband looks at Wei Wuxian, even if he himself does not realise it.

But she is an Empress, Lan Xichen’s Empress, first and foremost. She knows her duty.

She instructs her own servants to fall back, and they join Wei Wuxian’s servants trailing behind them as they walk down the gravel path, out of earshot and gazes respectfully lowered, but always attentive. She is accustomed to their constant, watchful presence, and knows the subtle ways to navigate privacy when she needs it. Wei Wuxian, however, is carefully deliberate in the way he walks half a step behind her, his shoulders stiff and head lowered.

"How are you settling into life in the inner palace?" she asks as they make their way to the large man-made pond in the centre of the garden. "I imagine it must have been quite a big change from what you are accustomed to in Yunmeng."

Wei Wuxian manages a half-smile.

"Huanghou-niangniang is kind to ask," he says. "It is indeed very different, but I am learning. I beg your patience and forgiveness for any transgressions while I do."

"Certainly." She returns his smile with one of her own and sees some of the tension bleed from his shoulders, though his eyes remain wary. "The Emperor seems to be very fond of you.”

He stiffens again and shakes his head quickly with a bitten-off laugh.

“The Emperor is generous and kind to this undeserving concubine,” he says. “But Niangniang is the one the Emperor truly values. Compared to you, what affection the Emperor bestows upon this lowly concubine is insignificant.”

She reaches out to place a hand on his arm and feels him suppress a flinch. He masks it almost immediately with another smile, so she lets it slide.

“You have not been with us long, so you are not yet aware of the Emperor’s habits,” she tells him, keeping her tone light and friendly. “But he rarely spends more than two consecutive nights with any consort or concubine. And yet he has spent seven days of the last month here, four of which were on consecutive nights. It has surprised many of us indeed.”

She slides her hand around his arm, looping it around his elbow in a sisterly fashion as they continue to walk. He allows the movement, which brings them closer and shields them from prying eyes.

“Wei Wuxian.” He inhales at the sudden change in her tone, but doesn’t make any other outward acknowledgment. A quick learner. Good. “The Emperor has told me the truth of your situation. I want you to know that while you are here, your wellbeing is my responsibility, and I will do what is within my power in order to protect you.

“But,” she continues before he can interrupt, pulling back slightly and raising her voice. “You will still be held to the standards of an Imperial Consort, and expected to comply with the rules. You will serve the Emperor when he calls upon you. There will be no concessions, no matter how much favour the Emperor bestows upon you. Is that understood?”

Wei Wuxian studies her for a moment, an inscrutable expression on his face, before he steps out of her grip and bends his knee to her.

“This concubine is grateful for your teachings, Huanghou-niangniang,” he replies dutifully.

She nods.

“Very good.” She motions for him to stand. “You’ll do very well yet, Wei-xuanyi.”

“Huanghou-niangniang, Eunuch Wang from Chenghuan Hall.”

She glances up from her needlework as Eunuch Wang enters and prostrates himself on the ground before her.

“This servant pays respects to Huanghou-niangniang,” he says. She nods and turns her attention back to her embroidery, so he raises his head to continue. “The Emperor visited Chenghuan Hall again last night.”

She passes the needle through the silk, pulling the dark blue thread through the fabric in one smooth motion. She makes no acknowledgment of his words. It is hardly newsworthy, especially not these days, for Lan Xichen to visit the master of Chenghuan Hall. Eunuch Wang clears his throat awkwardly.

“Huanghou-niangniang—“

“Is it done?” she asks, still not looking up from her work.

Eunuch Wang bows.

“Yes, Niangniang,” he says. “It’s done.”

“Good.” She waves a hand in dismissal. “You may return to your post and continue your surveillance.”

It was bound to happen. She’d known it would only be a matter of time. And as Lan Xichen’s Empress, it is her duty to ensure his consorts and concubines are performing theirs.

She barely flinches when the needle pricks her finger and a dark red spot appears on the white silk. She watches it spread slowly, blossoming like the cherry blossoms in Chenghuan Hall.

Translations

Huanghou-niangniang (皇后娘娘) - Her/Your Majesty the Empress

Chenghuan Hall (承歡殿) - 承歡 (chenghuan) means to cater to somebody in order to make them happy (usually about parents). I couldn’t think of a nice, succinct translation for it at 2am in the morning so you guys get the pinyin haha

buy me a ko-fi!

more paper-thin fic | verse

I should wear my glasses when writing fic...forgive any typos please!

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honestrp · 3 years ago

Text

KEPT

this summer was ending terribly.

pairing: yandere!taehyung x f!reader

genre: serial killer au!

word count: 638

raining skies, seething tires on smeared avenues & petals that droop on the bowed branches― that's the point that anticipates beyond an entrance that lets in a stable brisk draught. commonly a door does not embody terror― to detain mysteries or melodies that can be perceived through. although, as people, doors come in all forms, & sizes. timber, blemished & heavy weighted this particular one stood; it was rather a misconception to be found in between a dismal, buried cabin away from the heart of the city. there were no lambent lights, meandering citizens, except the area was crisp, darker, & if there were beings to be detected at, it was deliberately eerie to be neighboring.

though, the space was like any other― four alabaster walls along a single corresponding window that presented a dreary climate for the day ahead. has it been days? weeks? months? the glass ridicule & recalling when the last time the undergraduate tread out was obscure. sensation to the skin was perishing due to a distinct rope encircling around bare wrists & ankles that stiffen through each activity of battle. it strained the body to be curled, angled with hardly any attire to guard in the right places. a transparent pale t-shirt had cradled her physique, yet anything beneath was disregarded leaving hefty currents to arouse nipples that perked out leaving dimples upon the fabric.

it could not be unseen, the arrangement― the expressions & attempts. at least to him.

the door battered open to encounter the incompetent girl who scarcely could ascend those delicate hued eyes to mask the devil himself. she manages to at least commemorate what he looked like including his extensive shoulders soaring, cloudy lecherous interlaced with hatred eyes that let ordeals through the scant head. his countenance was interrupted by a fair mask that enclosed over & no matter the point― he never took it off.

wincing at the blare of the single-seat furniture grinding contra the flooring, it established near the bound frame, an abundant glare scrutinizing each chunk of her body as if he needed to analyze it. bees prick within her stomach at the view of those eyes disrobing her, however at the same time, he perceived the manner in which those pale cheeks began converting a graceful coral stain enough for his concentration to decrease on precise thighs that were pursuing to bury away a white essence trickling down skin.

kim taehyung simpers viciously behind the cover & he could sense himself get roused again to relive the lewd occurrence that resulted moments ago. he simply had his way & the cum was not ever bathed― only there to blemish upon the flushed, virtuous skin that the exterminator was beginning to insist as his own. at first, he felt the urgency to seize the beautiful girl from her ignorant conduct of detecting him butcher the beings she formerly knew, but the further days that elapsed, the inexperienced one was like a plaything, just expecting to be secondhand & he was content to do so.

parting the eye contact due to an individual phone resounding, taehyung shifts in the furniture to examine the teal tinged holder quivering repeatedly over the lone bed stand in the area. able to expand without leaving the chair, he grasps it to spot a name beam across the screen & among a fresh glimmer in his oculus, he inclines forward to unveil the electronic to lampoon the dark-haired still seeking to understand the circumstances she got herself in.

there was no opportunity to acknowledge correctly, not when his thumb was already fluttering over the green button to answer the call. it was the first time she got to pick up his speech openly― amidst apparent disputes, no grunts, no moans.

“I’m sorry. .she can’t come to the phone right now,”

#idk what i was trying to do #butttt serial killer taehyung am i right #bts #bts writings #bts imagines #kim taehyung #bts taehyung #serial killer au #serial killer #bts killer au #bts killer #yandere taehyung #bts yandere

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kodzumie-archived · 4 years ago

Text

❝FIRST TIME❞

Synopsis; What their first time would be like.

Featuring; Kokichi Oma, Mikan Tsumiki, and Nagito Komaeda x GN! Reader

Warning(s); (N)SFW, loss of virginity, submissive characters, experienced reader, implications of previous sexual abuse (Mikan), and established relationship.

➤ KOKICHI OMA

⤷ Due to his playful and joking demeanor, his first time would be alleviated of the tension it could’ve potentially had, easing him into the moment.

⤷ He’s likely to crack a joke or two. It’s not much but it’s certainly enough for him to feel comfortable amidst such a foreign intimacy.

⤷ Truth be told, he’s nervous; so very nervous and blinded with anxiety. But he’d never tell you that, and if you attempt to gauge the truth you’ll merely be smothered with an array of lies; he’s never going to admit it.

⤷ Despite his inner turmoil and anxieties, his visage appears collected to you. As a liar, he’ll go through hell and back in order to make sure he looks capable of what he’s doing.

⤷ Though his façade surprisingly dissipates once he’s the one being pleasured. As you run your fingers along his body, cascading further until you reach his most sensitive of areas, his expression will contort to that of distress laced with curiosity.

⤷ A curiosity that you indulge in as though you were sipping the delicacy of a mere cocktail; flushing yourself with the remanence of such a sugary drink.

⤷ He’d originally claimed that as the Ultimate Supreme Leader, of course, he’d had sex before!

⤷ And truthfully, you didn’t bother to disprove his claims. After all, you acknowledged that if he didn’t want to admit it, that was fine. Just like it was fine if he was being truthful of having experience.

⤷ But from the way he falls apart under your hypnotic grasp, your fist clasping over his cock and pumping him at a moderate pace, spreading the precum the crown oozed along his shaft, you began to suspect yet another fib from the infamous liar.

⤷ Interestingly enough, he’s sensitive; so very sensitive. Every ghost of touch will leave him gasping and whining feverishly for more; for an abundance of your love and carnal care.

⤷ Kokichi is a vocal individual. He’s never been known for being the quiet type. He’s a bustling radiance of pure, unhindered chaos, and this doesn’t change from within the sheets either.

⤷ Grunts and groans are only uttered from between his lips when he still gives enough of a shit to hide his sounds, biting his bottom lip to suppress his pathetically voiced ecstasy.

⤷ But once you both truly start getting more into it, he begins to lose himself in the pleasure. Ghostly touches turned into hungry—no, starved—grasps and squeezes. Fleeting kisses of delicate desire now suckle of lips and teeth against each other’s skin as you’re both plunged into the unmistakable clutches of lust.

⤷ His grunts melt into moans; the very same moans that bounce against the walls of your shared bedroom and dissolve into breathless pleas; pleads to go faster, harder.

⤷ His front as the Ultimate Supreme Leader is long forgotten as he succumbs to his wants—his needs—shamelessly begging for more; begging for your touches.

⤷ His pride was swallowed long ago, long before you bucked your hips, pushing him closer and closer towards his climax. His sobs, moans, and whines flooding your ears as he practically sang your name as though it were a mantra.

⤷ Whatever dominance he attempted to display had been long-forgotten as he writhed from beneath you, peering up at you with a clouded gaze. Curses of fuck, fuck, fuck as he was driven to the edge, crying out as he came.

⤷ If you thought he was sensitive during your session, then the aftershock of his first shared orgasm had left him seeing stars at every minuscule movement.

⤷ He looked the most fragile you’d ever seen him as he stuttered out a yelp as you assisted him in cleaning up. A blush residing on his cheeks—flushed countenance—as he watched you with a swirl of newfound love in his eyes.

⤷ If you invested further attention to the way his lips contorted into a warm, sincere smile, it’d have proven fatal to your heart; melting your composure as you peered at his gentle expression, one that was reserved solely for you.

➤ MIKAN TSUMIKI

⤷ It’ll take a while for her to engage in such a thing, honestly. She’s incredibly hesitant and overthinks every possibility of how she could ruin the moment, giving you yet another reason why her pitiful self was not worth your time.

⤷ Not to mention that most of her presumptions on sex have been based on trauma involving sexual experiences.

⤷ She’s terrified, not only from how she could possibly upset you with her clumsy antics and inexperience but from the act itself. She’s afraid to be so vulnerable. To be laid bare in front of you was enough to spike her anxieties.

⤷ She trusts you, she swears she does. But she doesn’t trust herself to be so exposed. Her view of herself tainted with insecurity and constant doubt.

⤷ Fear is instilled in her as the haunting thought of being not enough; failing to meet your expectations. She knows she shouldn’t think this, you’ve told her countless times that she’s more than enough for you.

⤷ But the thoughts don’t diminish that easily, a lesson she’s had to painfully bear as each degrading thought pierces through her heart with malicious intent.

⤷ It’s a constant turmoil between wanting to swallow back the bile of self-doubt and insecurity to pursue your mutual wants, but the chains of fear are almost unbreakable. Almost.

⤷ Because one day, what started out as nothing more than a make-out session had resulted in discarded clothing, suckling of skin, and lust-filled gazes.

⤷ Everything was a blurred array of desire and haste. Feverish kisses to muffle needy whines as things progressed so fast.

⤷ She wanted this, she really did. But as your hands began to wander down, familiarizing yourself with her body through playful, teasing squeezes, she couldn’t help the anxiety that resurfaced.

⤷ Would you be satisfied with what she has to offer? Would she be able to please you? What if she hurts you? What if you end up hurting her? But you wouldn’t do that, would you? What if she—

⤷ Her train of thoughts is interrupted by the sound of your voice, tethering her back to reality where your concerned gaze meets her as you ask her if she wants to continue.

⤷ She expected disappointment, she expected even the possibility of anger within your gaze and words. But she found no such thing. Rather, she found worry; concern; genuine care for her wellbeing.

⤷ It wasn’t much, a simple question and the interlocking of eyes. Yet, strangely enough, her hammering heart seemed to calm as her anxious thoughts stilled.

⤷ Perhaps it was the realization that you really cared for her that eased her worries. But regardless, she felt considerably stable than when she did moments prior. Her shaky hands managing to steady themselves as she gripped your shoulders with a timid smile, admitting she’d like to continue.

⤷ You didn’t return to your ministrations for a moment, instead, you peer into her eyes in search of doubt. But once you found none and felt assured that she truly did want this, you pressed your lips against hers for a delicate kiss; whispering an I love you against her.

⤷ Mikan’s heart nearly melted as she smiled, feeling so unbelievably calmed with the most minimal of reassurances. It’s truly one of the millions of reasons she loves you so much; you can ease her worries with such skill she’s convinced you’re the Ultimate Stress Reliever.

⤷ You peppered her body with kisses, following up with a swipe of your tongue and a suckle to mark your claim; the bruises forming scattered bringing a greater flush to her cheeks.

⤷ Her pleas were muffled as she attempted to silence her moans in fear of releasing a sound that you weren’t pleased with.

⤷ But you’re quick to notice what she’s attempting to do and you settle your domineering gaze upon her, the dark glint in your eyes nearly pulling another moan from her, one that she quickly swallowed back. Yet you protested, assuring her that you want to hear her.

⤷ She apologizes, an apology you didn’t allow to be voiced as you bite against her sensitive area, to which her apology was cut off by a yelp.

⤷ Though you eased the bite as you swiped your tongue over the mark, kissing it softly as an unspoken sorry.

⤷ Mikan couldn’t help being so vocal. Every kiss, every suck, every touch, every word muttered forced some sort of sound to spill from her lips. Squeaks, mewls, moans, and even sobs.

⤷ The symphony she provides within the bedroom was one that she assumed she’d be shamed for. Yet you did no such thing. No matter what, you continuously go against the horrors she presumes and shower her in endless bounds of affection.

⤷ Even whispering a sultry you sound so pretty into her ears before brushing your thumb over her clit, drawing out yet another raspy mewl that you claim to adore.

⤷ In the heat of the moment, you smothered her with your praise and care as you made sure she understood the extent to which you loved her; to which you adored her.

⤷ So much so, that she faintly giggles in remembrance of how nervous she was before doing this with you; before indulging in such a lewd act with you.

⤷ But as you’ve always proved to her, any moment shared with you is one to remember; one to cherish.

⤷ And as the two of you approach your oncoming climax together, she smiles through her moans as the bubbling of euphoria erupts within her heart; at that moment, she couldn’t be happier.

➤ NAGITO KOMAEDA

⤷ He’s beyond hesitant; reluctance paints his every move as though he were nothing more than a canvas doused in hues of doubt.

⤷ Despite whether or not he’d been yearning to engage in this sort of intimacy with you, he wouldn’t dare initiate it. His faltering in pursuit due to his negative views of himself.

⤷ He genuinely believes that you don’t want anything to do with him and that touching his worthless, filthy body would disgust you so unfathomably. He fears your rejection, and thus he avoids any possibility of it; he thinks he was already pushing his luck to be in a relationship with you.

⤷ Therefore, you were the one to bring it up to him. You’d asked him of whether or not he’s experienced; if whether or not he’s ever shared an intimacy such as that with another.

⤷ But this question tugged him into a fog of self-pity and humorless amusement. He’d strung together a tangent on how it’d be a miracle if anyone would want to do something like that with scum like him.

⤷ Of course, you weren’t going to allow your lover to put himself down like this. Going back and forth, you continuously declined his claims stating that anyone to do something like that with him would be so lucky.

⤷ At that, he finds something; a flicker. Perhaps it was a flicker of hope that’d planted a seed within his roots of doubt; hope that maybe—just maybe—you’d want to commit such an erotic act with him.

⤷ But he didn’t allow his hope to seep into his words, instead, he cast his gaze towards his lap, falling silent.

⤷ It was then that amidst the silence you had decided that enough was enough, and the amount of stalling you’d done on asking him was ludicrous in contrast to how the two of you were so keen on communication within your relationship.

⤷ Your words hung in the air as a drawn-out mutter, your voiced innermost wants seeping into the atmosphere as you avoided his gaze; would you ever want to do it with me?

⤷ The moment he registered your words, he choked on his spit and whirled his head to meet your eyes with an expression of pure shock.

⤷ He truly couldn’t believe his ears, perhaps his luck had duped him once more and he heard the wrong thing. Eventually, that was what he settled on because, truthfully, he couldn’t believe that he’d heard those daunting words of wishful desires that he’d suppressed his yearns for.

⤷ So he asked you to repeat what you said, the aftermath of his shock dissipating as he assumed he’d simply heard you wrong. Oh, how surprised he was when he heard you utter the same words; would you ever want to do it with me?

⤷ Nagito’s senses felt overwhelmed at that moment. His heart continuously swelled and fluttered at the realization of your words, his ears imaginatively rehearsed your words—fleeting whisper—as though they were lyrics to a catchy tune, his eyes trained on the nervous visage you sported.

⤷ He parted his lips only to close them; he was at a loss for words. What does he say? What could he say?

⤷ Honestly, the shock of your willingness to do something so scandalously sensual with the likes of him was a pill he struggled to swallow.

⤷ It was almost as though he was within the confines of a lucid dream, a dream of great pain, if so. He couldn’t believe it, you actually wanted to make love with him. Him, of all people.

⤷ Realizing that he was taking far too long to respond to the question that clearly took a lot of nerve to voice, he nods his head almost frantically. A blush painting over his pale complexion.

⤷ At his nod, a smile tugged at your lips as you toyed with the hem of your sleeve; a habit Nagito has come to cherish. It was a peculiar tick of yours, yet one he couldn’t help but find adorable.

⤷ To his nod, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his. Your intentions had been clear from the delicacy of the kiss; it was fleeting, a mere show of your relief and affections.

⤷ Yet as you began to pull away, his hand finds itself residing at the back of your neck, pulling you in for another kiss. This time, it was bundled with passion, unvoiced declarations of devotion.

⤷ The kiss was hasty, a great contrast to what you’d originally meant to initiate. But with the way you feverishly returned his sloppy kisses, you didn’t mind the change of pace.

⤷ It was spontaneous; spurred in the heat of the moment. What began as a soft kiss drastically melted into heated, sweat-glazed bodies pressing against one another; both bare, vulnerable.

⤷ He could feel your chest against his as his heart hammered within his rib cage. He wondered if there was the slightest possibility that you could feel it pulsate, beating for you; his love.

⤷ But despite how far you two had managed to go, naked and dissolving into each sloppy kiss the other engages in, there was still the burdening inkling of doubt; hesitance in every single movement of his.

⤷ Even as his fingers squeezed and rubbed over your skin—grasping at all that he could—there was still that searing fear instilled within him.

⤷ He was scared; so very scared. He was terrified that you’d come to your senses eventually and register the mistake you were in the process of making; letting scum like him commit such a lewd act with you.

⤷ He feared the worst; rejection. And as you pulled him in for another kiss, you could taste the bitter reminisce of uncertainty; of reluctance.

⤷ And you’re painfully aware it won’t be relieved in the span of a mere hour. Nagito’s self-degradation is stemmed from his nearly nonexistent self-worth. The only fragments of such a thing that he possesses are due to your frequent proclamations of adoration towards him; smothering him in compliments.

⤷ But it’ll be a long while before he would ever truly understand his worth; for him to understand that he’s not as lowly as he makes himself out to be.

⤷ So, as he stutters in movement, his hands flinch upon settling on your hips, look convincing himself he was treading amongst forbidden territory.

⤷ The words spilled from your lips without a hitch in beat, your smile accompanying each syllable as you meet his eyes. A sheen of sincerity glimmering in your hues.

⤷ You wanted him to know that you’re doing this with him because you want to, you chose him for a reason. You wanted him to believe that he meant so much to you and that even as you cradle his body against yours, you hold him closest within your heart.

⤷ He was not something for you to throw away once used. This wasn’t the hit-and-go scenario that he fears your intimacy may transpire to be.

⤷ With every declaration of your love for you, your longing for him, your genuine attachment to him, he reclined from your body, his vision blurred with tears in which he attempted to stop.

⤷ Rubbing at his eyes in a futile attempt to hide his tears, a stuttered sob escapes from between his lips. And eventually, his cries seep out akin to a waterfall; the tears wouldn’t stop, his sobs wouldn’t cease, and his heart wouldn’t stop hurting.

⤷ You allowed him to let it out, to let go of the emotions he’d bottled that were long overdue. You gave him what he rightfully deserved; a moment to be vulnerable, to feel human.

⤷ Pressing delicate kisses to his cheek, you kiss away the stray tears as you laid him down, straddling him.

⤷ You continued pressing your lips against his plush skin tinted with rose as he flushed beneath your ever-so gentle care. With every kiss, you whispered a compliment taken straight from the confines of your heart; sincerity within anything you muttered in infatuation of him.

⤷ Your lips continued to travel, pressing against the crevices of his body. The heated compassion of your kisses paired with your praise threatened to bring forth another round of tears from the affection-starved male.

⤷ But you were more than willing to fill in the gaping hole of his heart in which was yearning for love; for some sort of worth.

⤷ You’ll prove to him that you truly love him. You truly care for him with the entirety of your heart, and you’d appreciate him wholeheartedly. Even if it takes years, you’ll push forth and reach that fateful day together.

⤷ And as your body continued to press against one another, whines of lustful desperation swirled with adoration smothering the air, the glaze of love within your eyes had never faltered.

⤷ Even as lust intertwined with the concoction, you never lost the look of genuine care within your gaze. And not a moment passed that Nagito wasn’t peering at the hypnotic sight.

⤷ His eyes fixated on the love in your eyes as the bubbling of another emotion—other than his oncoming climax—blossomed within his stomach.

⤷ Hope; he was familiar with the concept. His rants of such a thing often accompanied by you listening intently, something he found himself falling harder for.

⤷ But as he acknowledged the love in your eyes—the pure devotion of your heart to him and solely him—he felt hope; hope that he could one day understand that feeling towards himself; hope that perhaps he wasn’t a mere throw-away, a stepping stone to others; hope that he can one day shed his hesitance and plunge forward, sure of himself.

⤷ As the two of you finally reached your climax, hands intertwined, your gasps synchronized, Nagito felt hope. And for as long as you stayed with him, he was hopeful that he, too, can truly understand the way you value him.

⤷ But for now, he dissolves the thought and settles for wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to his form. Right at that very moment, he felt euphoria; exhilaration. You wanted to do this with him, you wanted him, and he was happily yours.

#sdr2 x reader #dr2 x reader #ndrv3 x reader #drv3 x reader #kokichi x reader #kokichi oma x reader #mikan x reader #mikan tsumiki x reader #nagito x reader #nagito komaeda x reader #kokichi headcanons #mikan headcanons #nagito headcanons #danganronpa hcs #kokichi imagines #mikan imagines #nagito imagines

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ace-din-djarin · 3 years ago

Note

*peaks over counter* could I possibly have....some Luke whump with Din being protective? *Ducks back under counter*

@ameliajessicawilliamspond

Hi!! Sorry for the delay... I hope this fill meets your expectations!! It's so fun to write Luke whump, tbh. Poor bby. I went a little nuts with it, like always...

-------

When they finally found themselves cornered, Grogu cowering in Din’s arms and Din weaponless, ready to defend the child to the death-- it wasn’t much of a choice for Luke to step forward and surrender himself, and let them take him. They descended on him like the birds on Tatooine that would wait for a creature to be close to death, and then swoop down for the kill. The troopers dragged him forward, away from Din and Grogu, and the last thing he saw before they hit him with a stunner was the look on Grogu’s face. The last thing he felt was Din’s fury and fear, roaring from him through the force like wildfire, before it cut off abruptly along with the rest of Luke’s awareness.

He had no way of knowing whether what they were doing to him was what they would have done to Grogu, or if they were devising new and even more cruel methods just for him. He found it didn’t matter much. If what they had planned for Grogu was even a sliver of what they did to him, it was worth it. Even if they hadn’t been planning to hurt or experiment on the child at all— and he doubted that— but even if they hadn’t, just keeping Grogu from feeling alone and scared, the way he had way back when Moff Gideon had kidnapped him and held him on that huge star destroyer, it was worth it. It was all worth Luke’s sacrifice.

The cruel med droids, stripped of all personality and wielding scalpels and hypos full of unknown substances; the cold-eyed officers and scientists who wouldn’t come near unless Luke was trussed up, force suppression cuffs on his wrists and a double dose of suppressant drugs burning in his veins; the troopers who stood, silent and unmoving, at the door to his cell, two inside and two out, watching him, never giving him a moment alone, even when he screamed and retched and shook… All of it was worth keeping Grogu safe. Keeping Din safe. Their family, their small clan, it was what mattered. Nothing else.

In the dark of the night, when he lay on the cold durasteel bench of his cell under the eyes of two stormtroopers, blasters held across their chests in warning, Luke felt that perhaps this was penance as well as sacrifice. He stared at the troopers, the white of their armor gleaming dully in the dim lights overhead, and considered just how many of their brethren he had murdered. There were those who had been aboard the Death Star, of course — by far his worst, most heinous act — but there were also those who had fallen by his blade, or his blaster, or by Rebel plots he helped to fabricate. He reached out, in the small gaps of time when the suppressants started to wear off and circumnavigating the cuffs was bearable, and felt the troopers’ small threads of light brush against his mind, considering just how many other threads he had snipped. Surely enough to weave hundreds of miles of fabric, within the Force. So many beings— and in the Force, it did not matter their affiliation or creed, they lived just the same— whose lives he had cut short.

The officers who presided over the scientists’ experiments definitely knew who Luke was. They watched with stiff shoulders, with hands fisted in rage... but they hesitated, and they didn’t look him in the eye. Din had told Luke about Gideon, how he had tried to kill himself when he realized Luke was there on his star destroyer, and he supposed these officers viewed him in much the same way. A power both feared and respected, something strange and monstrous, a dark cloaked figure that flitted through Imperial nightmares. A truly fitting form for Darth Vader’s son.

Time passed in hazy, half-acknowledged spurts. The artificial light of the cruiser’s cell block never shut off, and the trooper’s schedules seemed to be random; he watched them with as much awareness as he could muster, but never seemed to be able to latch on to a system that would tell him how long each day was. Even their experiments and interrogation seemed to be done at random intervals. Sometimes he would go what felt like days with only the two troopers for company, and at others he was shaken awake in the middle of sleep and dragged off hours after their last session.

It was during one of these sessions-- woozy from drugs, from lack of sleep and food, from the constant blank nothingness the cuffs forced on him-- that something changed. Luke was strapped to a table, doing his best to ignore the scientist speaking into a voice recorder by his side, not thinking about what they were planning, when the room shook violently around them, his stomach rolling with the movement.

The officer standing at Luke’s head looked up, frowning. “What…?”

He was cut off by another shudder and a distant boom that reverberated down the cold steel hallways outside their room. The officer’s eyes, from what Luke could see, were wide-- he was worried.

“Keep going,” he snapped at the scientist, and stalked out of Luke’s view. He heard the door whoosh open and closed again, and they were alone.

Luke had long since stopped trying to fight the straps that held him down, but now he couldn’t help but thrash against them and hope that somehow they were looser today than usual, somehow he could pull himself free…

“Stop that!” the scientist snapped, even as the room shook yet again and a tool rolled off his tray of instruments and clattered to the ground. He lacked the fear that the officer had shown; he was brutally efficient, continuing to measure out a hypo full of an unknown substance, holding it up to the light with calm, unconcerned eyes. He grasped Luke’s arm and injected the hypo as the sounds of explosions outside got closer, and the sound of booted feet running on durasteel echoed louder and louder down the hallway. He turned and looked Luke in the eye, as he had never done before, just as whatever he had injected started to burn.

“You killed so many, Skywalker.” He said, still calm and collected, but now with eyes that shone with fury, “It’s only fair, don’t you think, that we get to strike back?”

Fire was in his veins, under his skin, burning him from the inside out.

Luke screamed.

______

The scream that echoed down the hall froze Din in his tracks.

He felt, rather than heard, Leia stumble to a stop behind him. He could hear only that scream-- unending, agonized, and horrifically familiar. It sent ice down his spine and through his heart, and he felt himself running again before he really realized it, sprinting flat out towards that voice, Leia on his heels.

He skidded a bit when the ship shook with another explosion-- Boba, Fennec, and Axe were having a bit too much fun with the explosives, but as long as Bo-Katan and Koska were still able to keep the ship flying, Din couldn’t find it in himself to care much. The door opened with a quick blaster shot to the keypad, and he and Leia ran in and stumbled to a stop as one. Horror welled up in his throat.

Luke was strapped down to a table, thick bands around his forehead, arms, and legs, and his hands were bound in front of him in what looked like force-suppression cuffs. He was screaming, thrashing against his bonds, eyes open and tracking some unseen terror. A man stood over him, arms crossed and an expression of sick satisfaction on his face as he watched Luke writhe. He turned to face Din and Leia with no sign of fear.

Leia raised her blaster and stepped forward, face twisted in a snarl. “What have you done to him?”

The man-- a scientist, judging by his clothing and the room, which held instruments and tools that turned Din’s stomach to contemplate-- looked at Leia with cool, calm eyes.

“Only what he deserved.” Behind him, Luke gasped something that may have been a “No!”

Din snarled and before Leia could react, lunged towards the man and punched him full in the face. He howled, hands flying to his nose, and Din hit him again, and again, until he sagged in his grip, unconscious, and Din dropped him to the floor. He stepped over him and reached out to cup Luke’s face in his hands, watching him breathe through clenched teeth, whines and moans of pain slipping through. He didn’t seem to see Din, but he seemed to register something; he turned his face towards where Din stood, even as his eyes rolled in their sockets.

“He shot him with something-- it’s probably causing him pain,” Leia said, holding up a spent hypo-syringe, face grim. “I’ll see if I can find what this was; maybe we can figure out how to help it.”

She turned towards a cabinet along the wall that held all sorts of horrible things, chemicals and liquids that seemed distinctly menacing. Din looked down at the cuffs around Luke’s wrists. It was so wrong, seeing him cuffed and bound like this, and he couldn’t stand it. He pulled the Darksaber from his belt and thumbed the activator.

Leia whirled at the sound of the blade extending, and barked “Wait!” just a second too late-- the Darksaber cut the connection between the cuffs, and a wave of energy exploded outward. Din dropped.

There was a presence all around him… slimy, oily, uncomfortable darkness, brushing up against him, making him shudder even as he walked calmly next to a hulk of a man in black armor…. Rage filled his thoughts as he struck out with his blade, struck the figure that taunted him, that threatened his sister…. His blade sliced through his father’s wrist, a mirror of his own maiming…. He tossed his saber aside, facing the Emperor, watching rage twist that horrible white mask of a face…. And then, pain, everywhere, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but writhe underneath it, couldn’t get away…. And his father looked on, watched as he died….

Din gasped as he was wrenched out of the vision, sitting up from where he had fallen onto the floor, staring up at Leia, who was slumped slightly over Luke, hands on his wrists. When Din pulled himself to standing, he saw that she had managed to get another pair of cuffs around them. She seemed to sense his disapproval, and shook her head, eyes never leaving Luke’s face.

“He’s too out of it to shield, right now, and he’s too powerful to have the cuffs off while he’s unaware. I’m guessing you saw what I saw?”

Din nodded slowly, and she sighed, reaching out to brush trembling fingers across Luke’s cheek, doing nothing to smooth out the agonized expression he still wore.

“He’s told you about our… our father? About the Emperor?”

“That--” Din’s voice cracked, and he tried again. “That was a memory.”

“I believe so. I wasn’t there-- I was leading the fight on Endor with Han and Chewie. But he told me afterwards. And I would know Palpatine’s face anywhere.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked back up, steel in the set of her jaw. “Let’s get him out of here.”

They made quick works of the straps, and it was worryingly easy to lift Luke into his arms. He still struggled against whatever he saw and whatever he felt, but Din held him fast to his chest as they hurried back down the shining steel hallway and towards where they had entered. He could hear the sounds of blaster fire as they got closer, and Leia moved to block the two of them, blaster in hand. Din shifted Luke in his arms, tucking him a little closer so that he could reach his vambrace, and primed his whistling birds. He sent a quick, silent prayer of thanks to the Manda that he had found the Armorer again as he felt them rise and click into place.

They hurtled around the corner, Leia already firing at a stormtrooper who was grappling with Boba, and he whirled around as the trooper dropped. Din’s whistling birds flew, and five other troopers around the room-- one about to slam Axe into the ground, another huddled around a corner taking shots at Fennec-- fell with howls of pain.

“Djarin! Princess! You found him?”

Boba seemed to notice Luke writhing in Din’s arms as he said it, and he cursed even as he ducked a shot from another trooper. “Get him to the ship! We’re nearly done here. I’ll comm Kryze, we’ll meet you there.”

He clapped Din on the shoulder as he passed, and Din nodded his thanks, hurrying after Leia.

The Falcon was waiting for them, and Din quickly laid Luke on one of the tiny bunks, stuffing a blanket along the edge of the wall so that Luke, if he thrashed too much, wouldn’t hurt himself.

Leia slid down the wall opposite, coming to rest with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.

“I’m never letting him out of my sight again,” she groused, looking up at Din through her hands, flinching when Luke groaned again. Her eyes were so weary, it hurt Din to look at them. He looked down at Luke from where he sat at the edge of the bed, and brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes, watching him flinch and gasp.

“I… he told me about the Emperor, and what happened on the second Death Star. But I never guessed it was that bad... “ Leia trailed off. They sat together for a few long minutes, the only thing filling the silence of the ship the sound of Luke’s pain. He seemed to be tiring-- he hadn’t screamed for a while now, and his thrashing had quieted some. Din prayed that it was just the drugs wearing off, and not exhaustion forcing him under.

“I’m going to go get ready to take off as soon as the rest of them are back,” Leia said, rising to her feet and brushing soft fingers across Luke’s cheek once more. Din felt himself slumping a little as she left, closing the door behind her, and he reached up and released the seals on his helmet.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered to Luke. He gathered Luke into his arms and kissed his forehead, ready to wait out the rest of this nightmare along with him.

————

Now with part two here!

#@ameliajessicawilliamspond #ask #dinluke drabbles #ahufflepuffwrites #dinluke #skydalorian #dinluke fanfiction #din djarin and luke skywalker #luke skywalker #din djarin #leia organa #boba fett #whump #luke whump #medical horror #a little bit #fun times #that's not how the force works I know #but it's fun

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verryberriess · 3 years ago

Text

Whatever This Is | Chapter 1

READ PROLOGUE HERE!!

Whatever This Is

Synopsis: In which Jude and Cardan meet again after seven years, but not on good terms.

thanks to @maastrash for helping me edit LOL!!!! :D

CHAPTER ONE

The last time I saw Cardan Greenbriar was seven years ago.

Today, seven years later, we were a mere few feet apart. I’m unsure whether to feel relieved or insulted at his lack of acknowledgement. Relieved that maybe he has forgotten my face and I could continue along with my life, undeterred and unaffected as ever. But insulted, because, maybe he has forgotten me.

“Are you ready to order?” The cashier startles me. I didn’t realize that the line had suddenly quickened in pace. He must be new, since I haven’t seen him around the Torre’s until today.

Thankfully, I respond with my usual order without thinking. The cashier nods and I fumble my purse in search of my wallet. I’m able to quickly spot my cyan-colored wallet and unbutton its strap with haste, fishing for my credit card from the compartment with my nail. The card is stubborn, in a tight space stuck to two other cards.

“Sorry,” I look up and flash the cashier a tight smile, embarrassment coloring my features.

The cashier responds in turn, his green eyes alight in amusement. “It’s alright. That happens to me all the time.”

I immediately return to the war against my card, which finally relents. I slam it into the card reader, chip in first. While the payment approves, I smile and say, “Thanks for your patience,“ peering down at his name tag to add, “Beckett.” He is handsome and new, and on another day I would try to get to know him, but I am in a hurry, so I walk from the bounds of the register and head straight towards the door outside.

The door swings open in response to my adrenaline and haste. I curse inwardly at the crowd outside of Torre’s that seems to have gotten even bigger. As I mutter “Excuse me’s” and sidestep around the large number of people, I inspect the streets for an absurdly tall head of iridescent midnight hair. I am quickly astonished to see that exact head right in the middle of the large crowd, showering the thrall of excited women with a crooked smile.

Cardan stands in the middle. While he keeps his hands at his sides, his posture is loose and his torso leans in to angle himself for a selfie with another woman. The woman presses her back into Cardan’s again. He doesn’t seem bothered by this at all.

I zero in on the changes in his features. He has gotten taller, his face more angular. His style has been perfected, dressed in a dark suit and decorated in gold rings and darks and blacks while the midnight black hair atop his head seems unruly and untamed, as if on purpose. All these years and he seems to have perfected perfection, looking more horrifically beautiful than ever. I have forgotten this obtrusive charm I had once been fooled by, and even after all these years I am disgusted at myself for still being reigned in, captivated.

But all of a sudden, for a few seconds, he turns his head away from his surroundings and regards me with his eyes, looking as if he were noting my presence with the same disgust, and then quickly looking away. The exchange was so quick, I had barely registered it.

Yet, as I stand at the outskirts of this group, I am reminded of the past, and how I have gotten over this already. I have replayed scenario after scenario of reunions in my head after the first few months of my departure, but I had never really anticipated some overly-large crowd separating Cardan Greenbriar and I by just a few feet.

A few feet that might as well be an ocean. Or two.

I can’t help but marvel at how we were once more than acquainted with each other. That look had reminded me that everything is over, that he wants nothing to do with me. Seven years could be more, if I refocused myself. I could do that, I reminded myself. Seven years could turn into forever.

A twinge of sorrow worms its way into my gut. I squash it.

I turn around. My coffee must be done by now and I want to head to work before I’m late. I suppose the sidewalk will take some weaving around and being late was not on my agenda.

My steps are forward. I make my way back to the door of Torre’s, pulling open the door to step in.

But a familiar voice, ringed with the same distinct tone of arrogance and authority that I haven’t heard in years, ceases any of my movements.

“You need to back up.”

My grip at the handle falters, and another person shuffles out on the other side. They thank me for holding the door for them.

Instead of responding, I turn back around and face the direction of where the voice had called. The atmosphere feels almost different. Where the women had once been gathered around him, they now stand at a distance, clearing for the space he had requested.

I watch one of them snap a quick selfie while he is in her background. She leaves the group right afterwards. My eyes move back to where Cardan is, but he is walking towards my direction, uncaring of the people around him.

I pull the door handle hurriedly and slip inside into the safety of Torre’s. The chatter and ambiance of the coffeehouse usually offer safe haven from San Francisco’s morning bustles, but not today.

I could feel his looming presence right behind me, about to catch up to my stride. I’m not about to do this right now. I don’t think I can.

The choice is ripped away from me, however, when a gentle grip takes hold of my wrist.

“Jude?” The voice is soft, a complete one-eighty from that of authority outside.

I still immediately. I first turn to check the surroundings, discovering that none of the women from outside have followed him in. Then, I glance at the hand which still grips my wrist. I try to shake it off. Cardan’s hold is firm, but he reluctantly lets go. He removes himself slowly as if he is unsure whether or not he should.

Taking a step away, he stands and shifts awkwardly. He is too tall now, absurdly towering over me. Where he used to be only about an inch taller, he is now a few inches above my height. He is no longer able to slouch against me without adjusting himself as easily anymore.

The distance between us is off-putting. Though traits like his height and broadness separate us physically from our past selves, it is the other changes in our approaches and personalities that further highlight the obnoxious tension between us.

Why he suddenly acknowledges my presence is a mystery to me. Why he is here astonishes me. I am unsure if fate is cruel enough to have forced us to meet in this kind of circumstance, or if this was a making of pure coincidence.

Cardan stares at me with some deep intensity. I want to be rid of his scathing stare, grab my coffee, and disappear from this whole ordeal. Pretend that this stain of an encounter had not been inked upon seven years of spotless script.

“Cardan,” I say stiffly. Once acquainted, but now strangers. I am hesitant to say more, despite all the questions that rage within my mind and my wickedly cursed heart. Everything about this is full of uncertainty and unpredictability. A type of situation that I am not entirely familiarized with, since plans and strategy have always ruled my life. It is frustratingly tiresome.

Cardan eyes the row of occupied couches, and later the arrangement of empty rustic tables and chairs. He gestures out to the seats, “Why don’t we find a seat? I imagine that we have much to catch up on.”

I secretly consider his offer, but my brain votes to think of ways to escape his reach. Before I can make a decision though, I am led away to an open table. I am reluctant to make this encounter any longer than it should be, but I decide that I should at least gain some reasoning for his recent presence.

“I’m glad you’re so eager to see me again. After all, it’s been so long.” Cardan resumes his usual nonchalant character. “What an extraordinary coincidence running into you here.”

For a moment, I remark on his wording. I am glad that this turned out to be an occasion of pure coincidence.

Concern or indifference? I decided on the latter tone to respond with. “Yes, it certainly has been a while. But considering how we left things, I’m surprised that you even want to be near me.”

He raises an eyebrow and the corners of his mouth lift slightly. “Considering how we’ve left things, I’m surprised you’ve let me into your vicinity.” It doesn’t look like it, but the small twinges in expression reveal that he is thinking of what to say next. I am about to retort back, but what he asks next catches me off guard as he continues, softly, “Why did you leave for so long?”

My cheeks heat. At this, I am suddenly hyper aware of how close he is, of his overwhelming heat despite the violent cold that rages outside, and how he almost whispers his question, with a compelling mix of rasp and seduction. He towers over me, as if using his height to shield me from the world like he has done so many times those years ago, but in this instance, it feels as though he is also looking for something. Cardan is cautious though, leaving room for retreat.

If I am not careful myself, I imagine that I would fall into his chest, and take advantage of the closeness that I had secretly yearned for nearly a decade. Seven years be damned, my focused mentality would dissolve into dust.

I announce my resolve by taking a step back. The distance between him and I is lengthened. Although my heart curses at me, my mind is indiscriminate. I hadn’t expected this conversation to go about this way. Though, I also didn’t know what to expect. Everything was unpredictable at this point and many things have changed. I didn’t know what response he wanted, because he should’ve known why I left.

“... Because of you.” I say gruffly. I leave little context, wanting him to fill in the blanks.

For a second, a mixture of hurt and surprise leaks into his expression before it is masked again. In that second I can’t help but relish in a small sense of satisfaction that I had got to him. Hurt for hurt. An eye for an eye. Whatever game he is trying to play at this time will not rouse a fraction of feeling from me. Not again.

“I see.” Again, Cardan contemplates. He does not show anything, but his eyes start to roam around us, like he is taking in the coffeehouse setting again as if he wasn’t just here only a few moments ago.

“Excuse me?” The green-eyed cashier from before stands in front of us.

He looks between Cardan and I. Cardan, in turn, twists to the direction of the abrupt voice, and slowly assesses his form. I watch his eyes trail up and down the cashier’s physique, his face contorting in judgement before glaring at him, clearly annoyed by his abrupt intrusion.

Beckett turns to me instead, smiling brightly. His dimples deepen and his white teeth flash to me. He holds out a branded cup of Torre’s. “Hey, Jude right? We called out your name earlier, but I don’t think you heard us. I thought I’d bring your coffee to you before it got cold.”

“Thanks so much, I almost forgot.” I take the cup from him and gently set it down at our table.

“Of course.” Beckett still hovers over us, his attention only towards me. “Andrea told me you were a regular here. I should have known.”

“Yes, I come here often. But it’s okay, I noticed that you’re new here too. And it’s Beckett right?” I ask.

Beckett replies, “Yeah, it’s actually my second day.”

Beckett hovers over us. I notice that he is handsome, with close-cropped blonde hair that is slightly grown out. His green eyes twinkle as he observes me in return. He is well-muscled and tan from what I could see of his arms, which are mostly covered by his gray, long-sleeved uniform.

I take a quick glance at Cardan. His fingers tap the tabletop in a particular rhythm as he watches the exchange between Beckett and I.

“Well, I better get back to work now. If you need anything else, check your cup.” Beckett smiles again and walks away.

I look back at the coffee cup and peer at Cardan who eyes its side, a murderous expression set upon his facial features. His eyes are cold and his jaw is clenched.

As I take the cup in my hands, I inspect the sticker attached to the side of the cup. A phone number written in scrawly blue ink is scribbled onto the light orange sticker.

“I didn’t realize hand-serving customers was a part of the job description.” Cardan remarks icily.

“Well,” I clear my throat. “At least he’s done something you didn't have the balls to do seven years ago.”

A/N: i haven't been here in a while... hello! let me know if you want to be put on the tag list lOL

#jurdan #jurdan fanfiction #jurdan fanfic #judexcardan #judeduarte #cardan greenbriar #the cruel prince #the folk of the air #tfota fanfic #tfota #verryberriess #jude x cardan #twk #tcp fic

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vanderlindemorgans · 4 years ago

Text

Mr. Perfectly Fine

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: Two weeks after breaking up with you, you're picking up the pieces of your heart that had been broken by your now ex-boyfriend Javier Peña. You want answers, a clear reason as to why things fell apart. The only problem is that Javier refuses to even acknowledge your existence

Warnings: A little bit of period-typical sexism, but not much, Javier being an asshole, mentions of prostitution, some low level typical Narcos themes

Authors Note: So this idea has been swimming around in my head ever since the song was released last week. I already had a Bad Breakup fic for Javi planned but I’ve decided to extend it into three parts! Also reader speaks in English bc I do not understand a word of Spanish other than that one line in Ultraviolence. None of this is beta read, so there’s bound to be a few mistakes - if I get anything really wrong then let me know.

Part 2 | MASTERLIST

The tension in the room was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. From the moment someone walked in they could feel it, the stifling air of awkwardness surrounding every single person in the room as they pretended to carry on with their work, averting their eyes to the spectacle presented in front of them, a war of agitation rife between two agents sitting across the room from each other as well as the unfortunate Steve Murphy who just happened to sit between you two. From your end it was simple silent fury, directed right across the room to where your partner, or rather, ex-partner, Javier Peña was seated at his own desk, casually leafing through mountains of paperwork and suspect photos as if you weren’t practically shooting daggers at him from across the way.

He wasn’t doing anything, and that was exactly the problem - you wanted him to do something, say something, anything, if only it would show that he even gave a damn about the situation at all. But he never did. Every morning when he walked into work carrying a black coffee in his hands, his top shirt buttons hanging loose as they always seemed to be and his hair mustled as if he hadn’t been sleeping properly, he said nothing. He walked past you as if you weren’t even there, ignoring your stares and crashing down at his desk, ready to continue the endless chase for Pablo Escobar. And it infuriated you. Oh lord, how it made you burn. With every refusal of acknowledgement he gave, you became even more tempted to march right over to him and strike him across his stupid handsome face. You never did, of course, and you never would. Physical confrontation just wasn’t your style. Nevertheless, the mere thought of such did bring you a small bit of joy to your broken little soul.

Things had been going like this for two weeks now. You hadn’t expected much on the first morning back in the office after what had happened between you. A part of you wanted him to come grovelling to you, insisting that he’d made a mistake and begging for you to take him back. That in itself was nothing more than a fantasy: Javier Peña was too proud to grovel. If anything, his behaviour shouldn’t have surprised you in the slightest. He was the one who broke up with you over a 27 second phone call, after all.

Despite taking that into consideration, you thought by now you would have heard something from him. He’d have to talk to you eventually since you two were working the same case. Apparently no, because it appeared that he went out of his way to deliver every piece of correspondence meant for you through to Murphy, letting him act as a sort of unwilling middle man between the two of you. You knew that Steve already felt awkward enough having to be in the same room with the two of you whilst this was all going on, so your sympathy for him deepened when he was thrust into the even more awkward position of messenger. Sometimes you swore he made up fake meetings with Messina to attend to or new leads to investigate just so he could get away from the suffocating air of hate around you and Javi. And really, who could blame him?

You felt your nose twitch in annoyance as you trained your eyes forward to him, periodically looking down at various files of intel to keep up the facade that you were indeed working, though you eyes were across the room for most of the time, searching for any sign of emotion on his face. Nothing, zilch, not a single trace, his expression only showcasing general indifference, as if nothing were wrong at all. You gripped your hand tightly around the edge of your pen, thinking of everything you wished you could say to him. How’s your heart after breaking mine, Javi? For your information, ever since you pulled that bullshit on the phone, I’ve been miserable as all fucking hell. Before all that happened, I wanted to try. I was even ready to try to forgive you after that stupid fight, but you just had to make that call. You know what? I’d actually hate you less if you just acted like you cared a little that we broke up. But noooo, you’re just Mr. Perfectly Fine, what with your ignoring me and your casual cruelty, your always showing up at just the right time, and your insincerity, and the way you think everything fucking revolves around you. Well, I’ll tell you something Javi - I’m done! Absolutely done with you and your shit. Jump off a cliff for all I care!

“I’ll be back later on, gonna go follow up on a few leads” your thoughts were cut off by Javier’s abrupt announcement, your eyes gracing themselves upwards to watch him hastily scoop his jacket off the back of his chair and skulk his way out of the office. Every bitter word you wanted to say to him burned on your tongue, though you only managed to settle on a simple yet seething glare while his eyes glazed over you, rushing himself out of the room as quickly as humanly possible. You noticed Murphy look over his shoulder like he was about to say something but it was too late - Javi was already long gone.

_______

Letting out a low groan of frustration, you slammed the door to your car shut and threw your head back against the seats headrest, the stress of the job and the emotional weight of the day combining to make you even more tired than you would usually be at the end of a long day. Javier hadn’t been back to the office since he left, leaving both you and Murphy to pick up all the work he’d left in his absence. If that wasn’t infuriating enough, the thought of him running around all of Bogotá just to avoid seeing you brought your anger to new unreachable heights. It was annoying - him not being around should have left your mind to be free to do some actual goddamn work but instead, just as before, every single moment he occupied your mind, living there permanently as if it were his right. How much more infuriating could that man get?

Thankfully, the drive home wasn’t any more of a nuisance than usual, since the apartment complex you shared with the others wasn’t that far from the embassy, so that was a small positive at the very least. Once you’d pulled up to the lot you were feeling a lot more level-headed than you did before, and were mainly looking forward to kicking back in pajamas and watching whatever was on TV with the leftover pizza from the night before. It wouldn’t do much to take your mind off everything with Javi, though, you knew that much. Still, a small bit of bliss was still bliss.

Your apartment was down the hall from Javier’s, which had made it easier for you two when you were together but now felt like another sore reminder of what had been. Sighing heavily to yourself, you kicked the door to your car shut and stuffed the keys into the pocket of your jeans. A minor annoyance, sure, nothing you couldn’t handle though. You wondered if he would even be back right now. He had to be, right? An idea started to creep into your head at that thought, taking root and festering until you had practically talked yourself into doing it already, descending up the stairs with a sense of purpose behind you. Maybe if you showed up on his doorstep you could force him to confront you, make him look you in the eye. Any sort of acknowledgement to what you two had would be nice at this point, and if you had to take action yourself to get him to do it, then so be it.

The closer you got to his door the more you felt you should turn back, a feeling of uneasiness beginning to form somewhere deep in your chest. This might be a bad idea. What if you two got into a fight again? As much as you wanted nothing more than to hurl some carefully crafted insults at Javi and his stupid gorgeous face, you weren’t exactly up for a full on battle that could result from it. Would it be better to simply go home and ignore your problems a little more?

Once you were only inches from the door was when you started to hear it. At first it sounded muffled, on account of the fact that there was a physical barrier between you and them, and you weren’t quite sure exactly what you heard at first but when you pressed yourself closer to the door you could hear it all clear as day - a woman moaning loudly on the other side, whimpering out Javi’s name and betraying exactly what was going on within the walls of the apartment. You felt your breath hitch in your chest, the world feeling like it was collapsing around you from the very second you realised why he had left early for the day. Unable to stop yourself, you tore yourself away from the apartment door and ran down the hall to your own place, tears falling at a rapid pace that refused to stop. You didn’t know if the woman in there was an informant, or a prostitute, or some random chick he’d picked up in a bar after ditching work for the day. In the end none of it mattered though. All that mattered is that it wasn’t you in there with him, like it used to be, like it should be, and that fact made you hurt all the more fiercely.

Fumbling with the keys to your apartment, you choked on a low sob working your way through the waterfall of tears in your eyes to try and wrestle the key into the lock. Through your haste, you accidentally let them fall loose from your palms and onto the ground, prompting a loud “fuck!” to ring out from your throat, loud enough for everyone in the neighboring apartments to hear. Not like you really cared about that, to be honest. With your hands shaking, you finally managed to throw the door to your apartment open, slamming it back closed with a thud and leaning back against it with your head in your hands, slowly descending to the ground to finally give in to the wave of sorrow threatening to claim you.

You’d known his reputation before you started seeing each other, that he slept with all his informants and chased every woman who crossed his path in Colombia. Actually, it had made you hesitant to get involved with him in the first place but once you two had bitten the bullet and finally admitted your damn feelings for each other, Javier had ceased with his wild ways, becoming solely dedicated to you and you alone. And sure, you two weren’t together anymore, there wasn’t anything stopping him from being with other women. It felt like a deeper twist of the knife though, what you’d heard from behind that door, and it practically confirmed the sickening feeling that had been building in you since the first day back in the office after your breakup, when Javi refused to even look you in the eye and acted as if you’d vanished off the face of the planet. He doesn’t care about me anymore.

Moving on had been that much easier for him. While it took everything in you to get up each day, he was doing absolutely ok. More than ok, if the sounds coming from his apartment were anything to go by. He was even already settling back into his old reputation. You should’ve known it was too good to be true - the manwhore of the DEA, Javier Peña actually wanting to settle down with one woman, actually caring about a girl beyond what she could be in bed. You remembered the raised eyebrows when you two had first gotten together: for most, it just seemed so out of nowhere. You’d ignored them all, remembering all the times you’d be tangled up with Javi on the couch, his head nestled into your neck while your heart raced a mile a minute, hearing every sweet nothing and praise he’d whisper to you. Stupid girl, you should’ve known.

_______

After such a huge revelation, you thought things might’ve changed. In what way they would, you didn’t really know. Maybe the change would be sudden, such as you finally working up enough of a resolve to actually go confront Javier on his shit. Or maybe you’d take a leaf out of his book and start trying to seem like nothing was wrong at all, maybe go out on a few dates with some other guys. One of the Search Bloc guys had been eyeing you up every time he came over with Carillo to talk strategy, maybe you could go out with him. Though you knew it wouldn’t help - unlike Javier, who was actually more than happy with where you two had left things, you weren’t, and acting like it was just to throw it in his face wasn’t really going to work if he didn’t care enough to look over at you in the first place. And even then, the idea of falling into bed with some random man that you didn’t care for all that much in the name of moving on didn’t seem right to you.

Nevertheless, you expected some form of change to happen the morning after when you came into work to see Javier sitting at his desk, on the phone to someone you couldn’t care less about. But nope. Nothing had changed. You sat down and stared across the room at him, just like you’d done every day for the past two weeks, and he ignored your stare to continue with writing something down on his notepad, just like usual.

Maybe the change would be gradual, you thought, staring back over at the man in the midst of your ire with one of your coldest glares. And sure enough, around midday Steve had come up to you asking to retrieve something from the evidence room for him. Apparently he needed to look over something but was too busy with his own work to go fetch it - you knew on some level that his excuse was bullshit as it had been a pretty slow day for all of you but sure, whatever, if it got you out of that room and away from Javi for at least a few blissful moments that was fine by you.

Reaching out for the door to the evidence room, you pushed it open and admitted yourself into the crowded space, twisting around to slam the door shut firmly behind you. Before you were rows of shelves containing every bit of evidence the DEA had accumulated against Escobar - there wasn’t as much as there probably should have been due to the fire that had broken out at the Palace of Justice years before yet the amount contained in that small room was still impressive in size. Moving between the shelves, you scanned the rows of boxes looking for the one Steve had asked for in particular, taking your time with it as there was a small sense of serenity to being in that room. For once it felt like you could breathe. You didn’t have to sit at a desk across from your ex, you didn’t have to go home to your apartment that was literally across the hall from his, you could be alone and not feel suffocated by his ever-present shadow over your life. Though, in some way you supposed, your own memories could still prove just as suffocating as Javier’s own godforsaken presence.

As if by thinking of him you’d magically summoned him, the man himself strode through the door to the evidence room, appearing to be in quite a hurry however once he noticed you were there he stopped, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before returning to their usual stoic glare. You could barely contain your own disappointment at his sudden appearance, letting your face twist into a low scowl as you watched him walk down the aisle you were standing in, his eyes dashing from row to row searching for any place to look so they could avoid landing on you. Anger bubbled within you, a thousand different sarcastic or otherwise snarky remarks coming to mind that you could throw out at him, every one of them becoming increasingly more scathing the more you thought about it. Letting out a small sigh, you forced yourself to push all those delightful insults to the back of your mind, not wanting to become caught up in any more personal drama than you had to. Get the box and go. It’s that simple. There doesn’t need to be anymore to this.

A minute later your eyes landed on the fabled box you’d been searching for, shoved into a corner and so out of the way you almost missed it completely. You thought of asking Steve what was in the box that he needed so bad when out of nowhere you heard a familiar voice speak up from behind you.

“Listen, I...about what happened on the phone a few weeks ago-”.

So, it seems Mr. Perfectly Fine has finally decided to break his silence. In an instant you twisted yourself around to face him, quickly taking in his serious expression and stiff stature before your eyes met for the first time in two weeks.“Oh, so you’ve finally decided to speak to me now? That’s a first. I thought you were steadfast gonna ignore me for the rest of my life” you spat, not allowing him any form of politeness or decorum in your reply. Why should you? He’d ignored you for weeks. He deserved this.

You watched as Javier tensed at your words, clearly not expecting the bite back that you had given to him. There was some part of his expression that almost looked sheepish in a way, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he really wanted this conversation to happen at all. “I wasn’t ignoring you, I was just-” he started with you rolling your eyes and cutting in almost immediately. “Save it for someone who actually gives a shit. Shouldn’t be hard since you don’t seem to care all too much yourself” you snarled, an action which only made him even more tense.

“I do care, and I kind of always have fucking cared so if you could calm down a little and stop getting yourself worked up we can actually talk about what happened. Can you do that for me at the bare minimum?” he retorted, a harsh edge appearing in his tone that indicated he was already becoming frustrated with your attitude. You knew Javi’s emotions like the back of your hand - he wasn’t a patient man, and he had no time for snark or sarcasm, though only if it was directed at him. When it came to himself, he was more than happy to indulge in a small bit of pettiness. You didn’t much care at that moment though: as far as you were concerned, he lost the right to a civilised discussion when he broke up with you over the phone and then pretended you were invisible for weeks. It’s not like things can get any worse than they are now, right?

“Oh, sure, sure, we can totally talk. How about I start then?” you fired back, every word simmering with venom and dripping raw with sarcastic edge. Crossing your arms, you leaned back against the shelf to take him in, from the creases in his tie to his tired eyes staring straight into you. Wait, tired? You didn’t realise it until then but he had been looking pretty tired lately, almost like he hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Then again, his sleep schedule had never been quite stellar, so that wasn’t totally out of the ordinary. And he was probably up all night with that woman I heard him with, you reminded yourself bitterly. “Look at you, so dignified in your well pressed suit, so smug and self-involved, so far above me in every way, so far above that you won’t even look me in the eye or acknowledge my presence. Tell me, Javier, has it really been that easy to forget about me?” you taunted. “Though I supposed when you’re seducing every whore in Colombia into your bed it would be easy, wouldn’t it?”.

Javier was caught off guard by your remark, not anticipating that you would go so far as to accuse him of returning to his old ways. “First of all, she was an informant, and I had to leave yesterday to go meet up with her. Things ran into overtime and that’s the reason I wasn’t back. I thought you of all people understood that gathering intel is a vital part to the fight against Escobar?” he replied, that last line at the end being delivered with only a little more underlying snip than the rest yet it was more than enough for you to feel around thirty percent more pissed at him.

You scoffed at his lies, your lip curling into a snarl at his attempt at patronising you. “Don’t patronise me. I’m well aware of the ins and outs of this job, in case you’ve forgotten I’ve been working with the DEA for eight years now, which is why I’m calling bullshit on your pathetic excuse for a lie. You do realise we live in the same building right? I know you were doing more than having a friendly discussion with her in there, in fact, I quite literally heard you two through the goddamn walls on my way back home. And before you try to spin some shit about how it was necessary for the case, you and I both know that fucking the informant isn’t a standard part of procedure. You don’t see Murphy bedding any of his sources of intel, do you?”.

“Murphy’s married, princesa” he deadpanned, throwing in that little nickname he had for you that two weeks ago would have made your heart flutter but at this time and in the context he used it only soured your mood further. “That’s besides the point. You’ve been acting like I never even mattered to you at all, and it’s honestly making me wonder if I ever did? Especially since I apparently didn’t deserve the dignity of a proper breakup and got a 27 second phone call instead. Tell me, when did you change your mind? I thought I was supposed to be the one you were waiting for all your life. Guess that was pretty easy to change, wasn’t it?” you snapped.

“Hermosa, can you just fucking listen for one minute?! God, you’re impossible sometimes” Javier shouted, that infamous temper of his rising towards the surface at a rapid rate. It was only a matter of time before he spat something out that he would no doubt regret. In your own haze of anger though, that fact didn’t register with you at all - you only saw red. If you had to scream back at him to finally pull some answers out of the man, then so fucking be it.

“No, how about you listen for once! I know we had that big fight but we could have just talked. The next day when you called me up I was ready to forgive you for being a complete ass. And what did I get instead? ‘I’m sorry, I think we should stop seeing each other’ and a dead dial tone after that. I can tell the only reason you’re apologising today is just so you don’t have to feel like the bad guy in all of this. So what’s the truth? Why were you so ready to throw away a whole relationship over one night of terse words?” you screamed, not caring that you two were at work and anyone could pass by outside and hear you two argue. With the way you both were shouting, you wouldn’t be surprised if the entire building could hear your screaming match with Javier. None of that mattered to you though. The only thing that mattered was the truth.

You weren’t the only one refusing to hold back in any of this: any lingering spark of politeness had vanished in Javi, his eyes turning dark with searing anger you had only seen in him a couple of times before. “You want to know why? You want to fucking know why? It’s because you’re a fucking pain to deal with. You may be a fantastic agent but god you can be so stupid sometimes. You’re too reckless, you throw yourself into danger too willingly with no consideration for anyone else. Did you ever stop to think what would happen to the people who cared about you if you died? Do you even give a shit about the people trying to protect you?” he confessed, fury burning with every word that came out of his mouth, his admittance making you flinch. It was just like he said during your last fight, the one that led to him dumping you in the first place.

Everything he said from that night came rushing back to you, remembering how furious he’d been at you for what had happened during your last raid together. You could see that underneath it all he was concerned for your safety, a gesture that was usually sweet but frustrated you that night as you felt something more akin to a porcelain doll than a capable agent in his eyes. Just because I’m your girlfriend, doesn’t mean you can treat me like I need to be protected. I can handle myself just fine. That was what you’d said to him that night, which should have been the end of it but somehow as the argument went on things got more and more heated that by the time he’d stormed out of your apartment neither of you could remember what had started it all.

What took you by surprise was that apparently he was still stewing about this, for some reason not wanting to believe in your capabilities as an agent and that alone made you more pissed at him. “I don’t need to be protected, Javier. I’m a woman, a DEA agent for crying out loud, not a flower! I’m more than capable of handling myself, I was literally trained for this! Nobody else here seems to have a problem with how I approach things so maybe the issue isn’t my method of attack but the fact that you’re a paranoid asshole?”.

He raised a single eyebrow back at you, looking somewhat skeptical of your claim but more so angry that somehow you two had managed to circle back around to the very thing that had started this whole mess.“Really? Because our last raid you were throwing yourself into the fray as if it were a suicide mission. It was a miracle you only ended up with a minor sprain to the wrist. Those men, the sicario’s, they don’t fucking hold back, one wrong mistake means the difference between life and death” he snapped.“And you know what? After constantly stressing over your safety every minute I was done. If you wanna end up with a bullet between your eyes, be my guest”.

The second those words slipped from his lips, he knew he’d fucked up. As the tears started to form in your eyes you could see him freeze up, his burning temper that had caused him to be so hateful before starting to slowly seep back, replaced with remorse and a hint of panic if you squinted. Although that didn’t matter much right now - his venomous words were rattling around in your brain, acting as a metaphorical hammer that took the final swing towards your damaged heart. Apparently what you heard through the walls the night before hadn’t been enough to break you completely, since there was still enough left of your heart for the rest of it to be shattered by his callous cruelty.

Forcefully swallowing down your cries, you wanted so badly to disappear from the room. You wanted to melt into the floor, to run away and go find one of Escobar’s men and gloat about all you’d done to try to stop him so you could feel the mercy of a fatal gunshot wound to the head. All the pain you had felt previously paled in comparison to the knife that cut you then, the tight feeling of your throat closing with every word you forced out. “So you were lying. You don’t care about me at all. You...you think I’m stupid. And reckless. And...not able to handle being here…”.

“Shit, princesa, that’s not what I meant, I-” Javier started, desperately scrambling to fix the mess he’d caused, however, you weren’t going to let him. He’d made his bed, now he had to lie in it. Any hope he might have had of making things right was now thrown straight out the window. No more chances. Not anymore.

“I think that’s exactly what you meant, Javi. Well, you got your wish I guess. I’ll get out of your life for good” your voice wobbled as you spoke, the next few minutes becoming a blur from when you’d pushed past him and ran out of the evidence room, hearing him call your name behind and not bothering to turn back to face him, running through the halls past different agents and members of the DEA, your hand shielding yourself in a pathetic attempt to save face. Somehow you’d managed to make it out to your car, throwing yourself into the driver's seat and jamming the keys into the ignition, your mind going in a million different directions. Your first thought was to go back home, though you knew that you’d have to hear Javi come back later, probably with yet another woman he picked up. You didn’t exactly have any friends in Colombia - with your line of work there hadn’t been exactly a lot of time to sit around and mingle with people, and truth be told you wanted to avoid people at all costs right then. Without any idea as to where you might be going, or what you were going to do, you pulled your car out of the parking lot and slammed on the gas to get you out of there, the world surrounding you not registering to you anymore and every sound becoming a rush against your ears that you paid no mind to.

One thing was for sure - you weren’t going to give Javier a single drop more of you. Your time, your mind, your energy, your tears, nothing. He’d already proved himself to be a lying sack of shit who didn’t care about you, so as it stood, you wouldn’t care about him either. Like the end of a tragic tale, everything had crashed and burned, and now that you thought about it more, maybe that was how things needed to be.

Goodbye, Mr Perfectly Fine. I’ve been Miss Misery for the last time.

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potteresque-ire · 4 years ago

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Hello. I just turned to be a turtle recently after being a solo fan mostly because of toxic atmosphere of solo fans. May I ask, were relationships between XZ and YB solos always so intense and also bad attitude to BJYX even during the promotion “the untamed”? Or did this conflict start after the events of 2020? Thank you in advance.

Hello, and Happy 2021! I’m a super new fan of the fandom, and so these aren’t questions I’m qualified to answer at all. I’m more comfortable providing some wider sociopolitical contexts to fandom-related events because I’ve been reading about Chinese news for a loooong time. My “investigative interest” (oh dear, that sounds so pretentious) is also more on understanding the CP culture in general, how it ties with the country’s state of affairs rather than focusing specifically on Gg and Dd. While I’ve read back on some history re: gg and dd’s fandoms, Tumblr is the only site where I’ve interacted directly with fellow fans.

But I’ve written up what I’ve understand about solo and CP fans for c-dramas so far, mostly for my own benefit (I have a ridiculously poor memory!). Maybe it can offer some insight? This is very new information to me as well; so, if anyone spots something wrong or wants to supplement, please jump right in!

Wars between the fans of the leads of a CP (“ship” in English; stands for “couple”) aren’t new. Conflicts between solo and CP fans also aren’t new.

Competition is the most obvious cause of wars between the fans of the leads of a CP. Especially in the case of M/M pairings, the person “bound” to each idol by their CP is also, by default, about the most “direct” competitor one can have. They’re likely to be of the same age group, share similar fan demographics. Popularity of young male idols (often called “Little Fresh Meat” 小鮮肉, a nickname I’ve abhorred for the decade or so it’s come to existence) also isn’t expected to last, so the two CP leads must make the most of their newfound fame within the same time frame. The competition is more than fighting for similar roles; in China, another major arena is endorsements, in which an idol’s popularity is by measured by 1) the number they hold and 2) the units they sell. Here in the US, stars choose their endorsements based on how well they fit their image; there, stars take as many as they can as long as the negotiated terms are satisfactory. Hence, dd is the spokesperson of 25 products / services in 2020 (including an insurance company (!!)).

I’ve also read about this norm in the industry, which I have yet to verify: in China, if two stars compete for the endorsement of the same brand product, the one who loses will not get endorsements of same products from different brands — at least, not in the short term — because any brand who uses the star who lost would be seen as inferior. Hence, to lose the competition on one endorsement deal can mean losing the endorsement deals for an entire category of products.

(Someone on Weibo has pointed this out: while Gg and Dd have often endorsed competing brands of the same product: Budweiser (gg) and Yenching beer (dd), for example; they have never fought for the endorsement of same brand product. Again, I haven’t verified this.)

This part is easy to understand.

The next question is: why are solo fans against CP fans? “Girlfriend fans” — solo fans who can’t bear to seeing their idol paired up with anyone other than themselves — only make up a fraction of the fandom. How are CP fans generally perceived?

My key findings so far: CP fans are *perceived* to be more likely to express negative views about their idol paired up with other actors / actresses, which will affect viewership and ratings, restrict the kind of roles their idol will be invited to play. More importantly, CP fans are *perceived* as fickle — more likely to walk away after their favourite CP drama has ended, because as CP lovers, they’re thought to be equally in love with the romantic gestures as with the stars who perform them on/off stage. ie, When another drama comes along featuring the same romantic gestures, the CP fans are expected to jump ship.

I highlight the word “perceive”, because while it doesn’t matter how solo fans see CP fans, it does matter how the business side of c-ent view CP fans and it appears to share this view. The c-YiZhan fandoms have been unhappy with the publicity of the upcoming adapted BL dramas for this reason — aside from their allegations that it’s copying The Untamed’s BTS, the thing that has offended them the most, perhaps, is the very idea that the marketing departments thought a few “leaked” photos of the leads acting intimately close are enough to woo them away from YiZhan, from Gg and Dd.

Given this, perhaps, prevalent view of CP fans, CP fandoms have been viewed as something disposable, almost, to be made, used and discarded quickly.

Before and during the airing of the drama, the marketing / publicity teams fuel and encourage CP fandoms, reap the benefits in viewership from the ensuing discussions and hot searches. Solo fans usually aren’t threatened by CP fandoms in this nascent phase—CP fandoms have been far smaller in size and only grow during the broadcast.

More importantly, the norms have been that CP fandoms do not last.

CP fandoms do have a tendency to “self-combust” over time: fans * within * the fandom accusing each other of being partial to one of the leads — spending more money on A’s endorsements, for example, or buying more copies of B’s music. However, this isn’t how many CP fandoms die. Instead, once the show is over, the process of “Breaking the CP” begins. I’m not sure who gets this process going, but my guess is the leads’ management companies, with consent (willing or unwilling) from the actors. Breaking the CP means having the CP leads avoid each other as soon as the drama is done airing, and for as long as it takes for the CP fandoms to dissipate. It means no more appearing in the same drama and shows; no more sharing a stage; and if they happen to be at the same event, they are to communicate as little as possible. This “loosening the bind” between the leads is designed to free the actors up for the next CPs, and its way of execution can be very abrupt, very … cruel for the CP fans. For one of 2020 summer dramas (Love and Redemption 琉璃), for example, a popular character (het) CP pairing was broken up in the last fan meet, 10 days after the final episode had aired. The fan meet was marketed as a CP event (there was even merch for the CP); CPs fans bought the tickets, perfectly aware of the unsaid “CPs are made to be broken” rule and it’d likely be the last time they’d see their CP together. But the organisers denied them even this last chance; the leads of the CP had no interactions, not even eye contact during the entire event. The actor didn’t acknowledge the actress in his farewell speech. The fans understandably got upset; even outsiders sympathised, stating that the CP-breaking could be handled with a little more consideration. Word on the street was that because the male lead already had other dramas lined up, the CP had to be broken up as quickly as possible.

(Weibo Night from almost a year ago was seen as a “Break the CP” event for Gg and Dd. Some turtles still cry at the memory of it.)

There’s a term related to the breaking of CPs: 提純 (“increasing the purity”). It describes the ultimate goal of breaking CPs: increasing the proportion of solo (”pure”) fans by breaking up the CP and having the solo fandoms of each lead absorb the CP fans. Because solo fans are *perceived* to be more loyal (won’t jump ship the next romantic drama comes along), less likely to draw criticisms (especially if the CP is M/M and/or affect the RL lives of their stars), and have more purchasing power (as CP fans have to divide their resources between the two leads and equally).

How does this affect how solo fans see CP fans? Another way to say the above is: one CP fan is one fan the two solo fandoms fail to capture. One more CP fan is one less solo fan. “CP fan” should be a temporary identity. CP fandoms sequester resources from the solo fandoms until they’re broken up.

This sets the stage for conflicts if the CP fandoms refuse to fade, if the CP fans refuse to turn solo.

The conflict between solo and CP fandoms is, of course, even more heated for real-person CP’s, which can, indeed, pose a significant threat to the leads’ life and career. An easy example of the former is if one of the CP leads are in a RL relationship, and/or if the lead is straight but the CP is queer (this is the case for The Guardian (2018), the first popular adapted BL “dangai” drama). Another major issue with real-person CPs (queer or not) is that the media will make frequent comparisons of the leads’ follow-up career. If the CP “bind” remains, the lead perceived as less popular may be viewed as using the more popular one to sustain their popularity. Fans of the more popular lead do not take that well. The management company of the less popular lead takes that even less well, and its PR team will work even harder to eliminate the CP from public discussion.

Overall, the “breaking the CP” strategy works as intended. As long as the CP leads stop interacting, no more new candies are generated for the CP fandoms, and even the best candies have an expiration date. The CP fans move on, often to other CP pairings—the CP breaking process often leave them hurt and disappointed at the leads—and further propagating the perception that they are fickle souls who prefer candies over actors.

With this background, it doesn’t surprise me that the relationship between the fans of Gg, Dd, and Yizhan has been so intense since the airing of the Untamed… it would actually surprise me (much) more if it isn’t.

First and foremost, if I take away my YiZhan-tinted lens (as much as I can anyway!), the competition between Gg and Dd automatically becomes The Battlefield in c-ent. Gg and Dd are among the most popular idols right now, and there’s a strong urgency in this competition as idol popularity is perceived to have a limited shelf life. Now, 18 months after The Untamed, Gg and Dd are not only vying for survival in the same industry—which may encourage cooperation between the two solo fandoms—they’re vying for the throne.

Things are already extra tense that way. Here’s an analogy I can think of—it’s easier to accept losing a lottery by getting every number wrong than getting a single number wrong, and by one count. It’s harder for solo fans to accept being number 2, when number 1 was a co-star, the other half of their idol’s CP.

Now, into this unresolved tension, throw in a huge curveball known as the YiZhan fandoms. A curveball that isn’t even supposed to exist — CP fandoms are all supposed to fizzle out quickly after the show is over. Instead, the BJYX supertopic on Weibo (by far the biggest of the three Yizhan CPs) had 1.5 million members in January 2020. It now has 2.8 million (January 2021).

(For reference, dd’s supertopic has 5.4 million members and gg’s, 7.7 million.)

These YiZhan fandoms aren’t merely living on their last breath, their stale candies. They’re thriving. Self-combustion hasn’t happened. CP fans of Gg and Dd keep finding fresh candies, keep having new things to rejoice and scream about.

If I put myself in the shoes of a solo fan, what does this continued growth of the YiZhan fandoms mean? It means the “binding” between My Idol and That-Other-Idol-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, each a contender of the c-ent throne, is strengthening instead of loosening. It means more and more fans of My Idol are exhibiting signs of wavering loyalty, by becoming fans of both My Idol and That-Other-Idol. Fan culture in China is highly organized, requiring strategy, cooperation and obedience when it comes to generating the best numbers for their idol (sells, ratings, viewership etc). Having to rely on the fickle CP fans to generate these numbers means uncertainty and anxiety.

People behave differently when they’re nervous. Some chew on their fingernails. Some attack.

2020, of course, make the solo fandoms even more nervous about each other. Gg, post-227, isn’t a safe person to be “bound to”, and also to have one’s career compared against—given the bad publicity that has circulated around him, given the fact that he has managed to stay on top in spite of it. Dd, meanwhile, has grown in popularity while Gg goes into hiding—while I personally do not, for a moment, believe Dd has anything to do with 227, it is within human nature to ask: if one loses—and in a manner so publicised, so catastrophic that even the Western media reported on it—who has the most to gain? Work culture in almost every industry in China is extremely cut-throat, and securing victory by not-so-clean methods isn’t uncommon with the immense pressure to perform. Fans are bringing in their experiences from RL in how they view their idol’s competition—with suspicion, with defensiveness. With swords sharpened and ready for counterattacks.

The ultimate cherry-on-top when it comes to causing conflicts between Gg’s, Dd’s and YiZhan fandoms is, of course, the fact that YiZhan is no garden-variety, heterosexual, character CP. It’s a M/M real person CP, in a society where homosexuality, while legal, is still considered “non-mainstream values” and explicitly censored from TV; where personal freedoms have overall been tightening and laws can change overnight. It’s one thing if their idol is truly in a queer relationship and chooses to announce it themselves; it’s a whole different story if it’s some fans of another idol who “out” them—who publicise their queerness that, in the eyes of these solo fans, may very well be fictional. 227 has already confirmed that in c-ent, idols pay the price of their fan’s wrongdoings and in this case, all it takes is for the YiZhan fandoms to make a single mistake—to celebrate one candy too loudly, for example (“to dance outside the circle”), and catch the attention of the wrong government official — to not only cost their idols their popularity, but their whole career. To the solo fans, therefore, the mere existence of the YiZhan fandoms pose a huge risk to their idol that should’ve been avoidable in the first place. And when they check out the new candies, what do they see? They see Gg leaving hints suggestive of Dd; they see Dd doing inexplicable things that can be linked to Gg. c-Turtles joke sometimes that solo fans are even better than they are at spotting the connections between Gg and Dd. But while turtles see these connections as evidences of a romantic relationship, what solo fans see is the other idol latching onto their own, whose fame makes it a reasonable act; they see it as the other solo fandom carelessly jeopardizing their own idol’s career for the sake of more noise and popularity.

The solo fandoms end up fighting. They have few reasons NOT to do so without the YiZhan-tinted lens.

That said though, I’m not sure if the wars between Gg’s, Dd’s and YiZhan fandoms are truly getting worse. As I write this, my thought is: perhaps it’s not that the fans are disliking each other more, but rather, more and more people are getting involved, and the stakes, the risks are becoming higher and higher. Gg and Dd both had fans during the filming of The Untamed, but they were a small fraction, quantity wise, to what it is now. Even if, at the time, 100% of Gg and Dd fans hated each other, they still wouldn’t have generated the noise than, say, if 0.01% of Gg’s fans are arguing with 0.01% of Dd’s fans now. The arguments then, however ugly they could be, would’ve stayed off hot searches, and largely within the two fandoms. These days, however, when even Gg shaking a pen can make it into hot search (as he did during the Tencent Awards), every heated exchange is amplified by passer-bys, by antis, by done-for-money re-bloggers. Quarrels snowball exponentially to the number of mouths pitching in; so does the antagonistic sentiments behind the hurtful words purposefully or accidentally spilled. Meanwhile, the c-YiZhan fandoms have reached the size that as much as they’ve tried to keep everything away from the public eye, it’s not really possible anymore. Search BJYX online, and videos after videos pop up for any outsider who wish to get a primer—and there’s no control over that content. Gg and Dd’s commercials hint at it. The Tencent Awards show host cued it. Before, the YiZhan fandoms may still be able to get away with a mistake or two. Now, they can make half a mistake and all the info already floating around will make sure that half a mistake will round to one.

If I were a solo fan, perhaps I’d scream my lung out too. Think of how terrible this all is, if Dd(Gg) is actually Gg(Dd)’s most fierce competition, as his being the other half of the CP is meant to be. Think of all the damages these fantastical speculations can do, if My Idol isn’t queer and tomorrow, the government comes down with a decree that outlaws queerness. Maybe My Idol will be spared if he isn’t at the top. But My Idol is at the top. Everyone will point to him. The hot searches will show his name, make sure the powers-that-be see it. He … his downfall… can be made an example …

Okay, okay, I’ll stop playacting here. Phew. That was scary * pats turtle shell to confirm its presence * :) . But can you see how deep that fear can go, for a fan who really, really loves and is therefore protective of their idol? How this fear, which stems from love, can turn into hate and generally loud, angry yelling across the internet?

#Anonymous #pie answers #pie metas #yizhan #bjyx

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sanktnikolais · 3 years ago

Text

Invisible String

The three major events of Zoya's life that Nikolai has had glimpses of, and he feels her emotions all the way to his side of the invisible string connecting them.

or that zoyalai psychic/emotional connection au

@grishaverseonline mission 12: favourite character - nikolai lantsov

A/N: guess who’s posting a new content after months of hiding? HAHAHA. This was supposed to be posted yesterday for my birthday but I wasn’t able to finish early. So have this late birthday treat from me. ;-;

Warning tho, contains some RoW spoilers, and contains the alternate version (Am’s version LMAO) of the garden scene.

Word count: 5174

They said that it would take a lot for one to get accustomed to the pain that came with losses.

Nikolai never realized he had lost so much until he had everything within his reach.

He didn’t know it was already a loss when his mother had decided to be unfaithful to the King of Ravka and bore an illegitimate child with a Fjerdan merchant. He didn’t know it was already a loss when he had met a certain brown-haired boy in one of his private classes, not knowing that he would be the reason why that same boy would be drafted early for the war that would take his life later on. He didn’t know it was already a loss when he still tried to seek the approval of the older brother that never wanted him, and that would end up in him developing a cunning personality to gain acceptance from everyone around him. He didn’t know it was already a loss when he dropped the guillotine that would imply that his father was guilty of such a heinous crime, exiling both him and his queen to a faraway place, never to set foot on the country they had sworn to protect yet failed in every possible way.

It only came to him, when he was finally sitting on the throne and overseeing a broken country, that he hadn’t really gained anything along the way. Only nightmares that weighed on his shoulders and kept him awake at night, and the black scars that were just as dark as the blood of every life lost in the war coating his hands.

And pain.

Both the ones he had known and acknowledged, and the sudden, unexplainable bursts of physical or emotional pain that came to him in the most random times throughout his life.

Nikolai didn’t know when it started. Being a young royalty that grew up doing everything in his own cunning way had taught him to mask the pain into something less hurting. Whether it was telling horrible jokes or making something more complicated by talking too much—it was his way to beat around the bush and away from the impending truth, thinking that if he ignored it long enough, he would forget it.

It worked, somehow, but it only pent up the emotions in his heart that were bound to explode later on.

Even though that fact was clear to him, it still wasn't enough to justify his first, sudden outburst when he was twelve.

It was quite a normal day—he had another hour with the extra reading on chemistry and Kaelish history he had requested from his tutors, and he was stuck in the library until the late hours of the afternoon. But the truth behind it, however, was to have time to sneak in and out of the palace to visit Dominik and his family in the countryside.

The whole day of learning to braid Dominik's sisters' hair had ended happily, with Nikolai able to finish tying all of them, albeit resulting in tangles that would need more attention to fix later.

You'll get used to it, Dominik had mused with a light laugh. I didn't learn this in just one day.

Nikolai thought of them on his way home, seeing how their smiles seemed to reach their eyes when they laughed around each other, something he never saw or felt in the Grand Palace. An unwanted pricking stung his eyes, and he immediately reached up to wipe the tears away. It was foolish to be longing for something insignificant when he already had everything he needed. He could just ask anything from his servants and tutors, and they would appease his request without question. So why was he suddenly—

His throat clogged up with muffled sobs, the sickening feeling of both anger and sadness constricting his heart as if there was a fist was trying to crush it. The next thing he knew, he was collapsing on the palace gardens, and the tears were endless.

The wind picked up around him, followed by the sound of thunder. But they fell deaf in his ears as the wails tore from his throat.

Then it happened. The dreadful images of a ruined church and a horrified expression from the face of an old man flashed before his eyes, along with the searing feeling of anger directed to him.

But then the images faded as fast as they had come, and there was the sudden hollow feeling in his chest.

Palace guards found him in the same spot a few hours later, curled into a fetal position as if to shield his body from harm. The King had demanded he explain what had happened, and knowing their judgment to anything Nikolai had ever done and said made him lie. He told them he had hurt himself when he tripped and fell in the gardens, and they easily believed it as it was his own foolishness. There was no way they would believe him even if he tried to tell the truth.

He had been sent to a Healer right after that to check for other injuries, even when he knew to himself there wasn't any.

Except for the sudden hollowness in his heart that could never be filled.

***

The next one didn't happen until three years later, when Nikolai was fifteen.

He would never know what had given him away, but years of sneaking back and forth in the palace made him careless, and it was only a matter of time before Vasily, his ever cruel brother, knew about it.

"You're just turning sixteen," Vasily said with a sneer. "But you're already tumbling peasant girls. You're no better than father."

Fear gripped at his mind almost instantly when he realized that this mistake would befall on Dominik. Nikolai knew too well how commoners who had done something wrong would be punished by being barred from the palace in disgrace, sending them back to their families with nothing else but their clothes and themselves.

Nikolai had begged Vasily to hold his tongue, to keep a secret for him. But if there was one thing he knew about his older brother, it was that Vasily never cared about him.

So why would Vasily care about some boy with no name?

"Do you understand what you have done?" Nikolai asked furiously the next morning when he had cornered Vasily in the lapis drawing room.

Vasily merely shrugged. “Your friend won’t get to study with his betters, and you won’t get to keep rambling in the fields like a commoner. I’ve done you both a favor.”

“His family will lose their stipend. They may not be able to feed themselves without it.” His rage was boiling into something much worse, and he could feel it coursing through his veins. But he still held back. It was his weakness, he realized, that he didn’t have the heart to lash out his anger on someone close to him, no matter how cruel they had treated him. “Dominik won’t be exempt from the draft next year.”

“Good. The crown needs soldiers,” said Vasily. Then he scoffed, giving Nikolai a once-over. “Maybe he’ll learn his place.”

Nikolai had expected his anger to explode, all the pent-up emotions to finally be let go. But he felt disappointed instead, as if he had lost something important. It took him a second to realize that he had lost his respect and admiration for his older brother.

For years, he thought that Vasily was better than their father. Whereas their father sat slouched on the throne and shoulders hunched when he stood, Vasily was the exact opposite of him. He always stood tall, chin held up high. He was the spitting image of what Nikolai had imagined a royal should be.

But Nikolai had never been ashamed to admit that he was so wrong.

"You should be ashamed," said Nikolai quietly.

But Vasily only jabbed a finger to Nikolai’s chest. “You do not tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, Sobachka," he snarled, his voice laced with poison, the same one that Nikolai almost drank when Vasily had mixed a droplet of it into Nikolai's cup. "I will be a king, and you will always be Nikolai Nothing.”

Then it happened again, the strange images appearing before his eyes. Where Nikolai expected it to be the same ones he saw four years ago, they were different this time.

The drawing room morphed into a rough terrain full of snow, and an enormous white tiger had replaced the spot where his brother was in front of him, its teeth bared and hind legs laid back to pounce.

It was then he felt the sudden feeling to protect himself, his survival instincts kicking in, and he did just that. The images faded, his surroundings fading back to the drawing room.

With a strength that came from nights spent roughhousing with peasants and workers alike in some shady fight club in Os Alta's outskirts, Nikolai snatched his brother's finger that was on his chest and twisted hard.

Vasily fell to the ground with a yelp. He looked impossibly small. A satisfying feeling settled itself in Nikolai's chest. It was most likely the worst he had seen his brother, and if Nikolai had only known that his older brother was nothing more than a facade to hide such a vile and weak face underneath, he wouldn't have wasted his whole life trying to be like Vasily.

"A king never kneels, brother," Nikolai hissed before he left his brother's prone form on the ground.

He was sure that Vasily wouldn't let him forget what he had done to him.

But the next time his brother would try to come for him, Nikolai would be ready.

***

The worst one happened almost five years later.

He was finally fulfilling his dream as a privateer in the seas, and the name Sturmhond was born right in the middle of the True Sea, never to be forgotten by all sailors and pirates as the years would go on.

It was supposed to be a diplomatic meeting with the Fjerdan traders that came from Djerholm. They were set to talk about the territories, with Fjerda claiming that they didn’t allow enemy ships to sail freely at the northern True Sea without permits unless they wanted their ships obliterated by Fjerda. Nikolai had wanted to laugh when he saw the ship; it was too enormous and too sturdy-looking to be of trading purposes only. He assumed that it had to be a warship since its captain and crew were too confident to stop the Volkvolny. No one ever dared to go against the Volkvolny —the black sails that had guided them for years were already a familiar sight to all the sailors and pirates. Though it was smaller than any warships in the seas, it could still go on par with ships twice as big as it, and it had sunk numerous vessels and gotten away unscathed.

These Fjerdan ‘traders’ should have known better than to get in the Volkvolny’s way.

True enough, when Nikolai had stepped into the enemy ship to negotiate the terms, he immediately noticed the heavy artillery carelessly covered by a rag on the main deck. They had even attempted to blend it in among the cargo crates scattered on the floor, but the canons were obvious underneath the thin material covering them. He let out a breath. He suddenly wasn’t sure if going here with only his two Shu mercenary turned personal guards was ideal. At least twenty rough-looking men were surrounding them, and their captain, Captain Hjar, was only a bit shorter than Tolya, and yet he still looked impossibly tall than all of them. His hair had been cropped close to his skin, exposing the lined scar that ran from his temple to the spot behind his ear.

Tamar had voiced out her concerns then, telling him that something was not right, and Nikolai acknowledged it greatly. The Shu mercenary’s gut instincts already saved their lives countless times before, and he wasn’t going to ignore that. But he knew the Fjerdan crew’s taste for dominance. He wasn’t just going to let these men do as they please to the travelers that would pass their private routes.

He could only hope that this risky meeting they were doing would turn in their favor.

And yet as soon as they stood in front of Captain Hjar and his men, the wooden bridge that connected the two ships was cut off, causing shouts of protest from his crew back in his ship.

“Oh, wow," said Nikolai with mocking surprise. Tolya and Tamar tensed behind him, their hands already poised on the weapons strapped to their belts. He turned back to Hjar. "We haven't even started the meeting yet."

Captain Hjar only smirked. "Better not waste your time, little wolf," he said, his voice scratchy as if he had been shouting his whole life. "Why try to prolong this when it would still end in the same result?"

"Lay down your sword, Hjar."

"These men would be making bread from the bone and skin of skinny Ravkan boys tonight, little wolf. And I can assume your ship has plenty of valuables, aye? I cannot promise not to hurt your men," he said, and his men laughed together with him. When he stopped, his cold eyes held a dangerous glint as he stared at the twins behind Nikolai. "And it'd be fun to have some nice, warm campfire with those two Grisha of yours."

Something in Nikolai's mind had quieted, shutting out anything logical from coming into his head. The thoughts halted. His rage slowly took over like a monster finally overwhelming its prey. He felt numb and empty, and he realized that the rage was focused on the Fjerdan captain.

Then for the third time in his life, it happened again. Everything else faded around him and threw him under the landscape of complete darkness. It was like he had been thrown into the Fold. After a moment, it blurred and shifted to another—a small, empty shop in some town he couldn't recognize where. Then it shifted again, and this time, it showed him a man who was on his knees, clawing at his throat as if he were struggling to breathe.

Nikolai held onto those images in vain, so he could make sense of them earlier on. But the rage inside him had him forgetting them in a snap, and all he could feel was anger. Anger towards everything.

With that, his body relaxed, and he regarded Hjar with a calm tone. These men needed to know their places. "Maybe you're right about that, Hjar," he asked, and he saw the Fjerdan captain acknowledge him with mocking curiosity. "But it wouldn't be my men who would be butchered today."

He saw the shift of expression from the Fjerdan captain's face, and Nikolai pounced with his own sword.

The fight hadn't even lasted for a minute. Hjar's men had completely underestimated the mercenary twins by just being Grisha, but they were just as deadly as any well-trained assassins. Soon enough, Nikolai’s crew had the Fjerdans tied up and shoved them down their knees, with Hjar at Nikolai’s mercy. But he felt nothing at all.

"You want to know something, captain?" asked Nikolai mildly as he went behind the burly man and held up his tied hands on his back. Hjar gave a pained grunt. Then Nikolai leaned down near the man's ear. "Foolish old captains aren't fit meat for Ravkan men."

Then he took out his knife and cut the Fjerdan captain's fingers.

Nikolai barely heard the man's screams or even felt the blood gushing out from the wounds. He just felt numb all over. If his crew noticed the sudden change in his behavior, they didn't voice it out. Only the twins were the ones who showed a bewildered reaction as Nikolai held the decapitated fingers in his bloodied hands.

He threw them over his crew's guard hound dog at the side. "Eat up, Razjen," he said. "I'm pretty sure the dogs would appreciate that kind of meat given to them."

That same night, he and his Volkvolny crew had drunk and eaten to their guts' limits from the spoils they had divvied up from the Fjerdan trader ship. From the night until the earliest hours of dawn, they had laughed, celebrated, and sung until their throats were raw and their bellies full.

But when the night ended and Nikolai had retreated into the confines of the captain's quarters, he had thrown up everything he had eaten until tears stung his eyes. He had expected them to stop when he was done, but it only worsened as sobs and wails tore from his lips again, just like it had almost a decade ago, when he had collapsed in the palace gardens and cried himself out for a reason he had never known.

And as the hours passed and night broke into dawn, the tears had finally stopped. Nikolai fell asleep, but the hole that had made its way to his heart from the first time he felt the sudden shift in his emotions now only felt deeper than before.

***

Nikolai blinked as he felt the heavy tug in his heart again. It was much more painful than before as if whatever at the other end of the string wanted him to hurt on purpose, and he was left to choose whether to still follow her in or not.

The funeral had ended hours ago but he could still feel the heaviness and gloom lingering in the air. He wanted to visit Genya in her quarters for the night, just to extend whatever he could offer her for the meantime. But he decided against it when he rounded the corner leading to the Tailor’s chambers, and that’s when he saw Zoya coming out from the door. She had lingered outside for a moment, her hand clutching at the handle as if to hold herself upright. If he looked harder, he was sure it really was the reason as he saw her shoulders shaking and her head was bowed down, something his general never did.

A searing pain in his chest made him wince, the hurting so painful it felt like he had just been burned by a branding iron. The want—the need—to reach out for her was the only thing he had wanted to do at that moment. But he willed the thought away, remembering how the things were between them.

They did not look to each other for comfort, and he knew the last thing Zoya would want was for him to give her his sympathies. It had been their unspoken agreement ever since Ravka was put on their shoulders. There was no time for sentiments, they would only spiral them down much worse.

After another minute of silence, Zoya had quietly left, her form completely blending in with the gloominess that surrounded the palace walls. Nikolai decided to follow her out then, and it led him to now, following her through the dark, narrow walkway that led into someplace he wasn’t sure of. Tangles of vines pricked at his skin as he walked further. Eventually, he reached the other end of the path, and the sight of the place astonished him.

Flowers and shrubs of every variety were lined up in the soil beds, overwhelming the ground in different colors. The open ceiling of the area had allowed frost and snow to fall over the plants, and it coated the leaves and petals alike. It looked almost like a small world of only peace and serenity, and yet it felt like a garden of sadness, with grief dripping on every plant and bleeding through the four walls that surrounded it.

Nikolai spotted Zoya in the middle of the dim garden, her back turned to him as she looked around. Snow was starting to fall, and it caught in the dark waves of her hair. Under the moonlight, she was glowing, a saint watching over the people. But behind the light that masked her real face, something was wrong. What once was her perfect stance and chin held high, she was now hunched, bent down, as if she were hiding from the world.

Then he felt it again, the sharp and painful tug in his chest. But this time, it felt different. This time, it was leading in a direction.

And it was leading towards her.

Nikolai blinked, his eyes widening a fraction. Could it be—

"I'm running out of room," she said, her voice barely a quivering whisper.

Had she known he was following her all along?

"Do you—" Nikolai shook his head, unsure of what to say. He tried again. "You tend to this place?"

Zoya was silent for a moment. Her shoulders had gone stiff the same way she was poised for battle. But Nikolai had merely asked a question, and he wondered if it was prying enough to cause that reaction from her.

"I needed somewhere to go to distract myself, and this has always been the place my feet would lead me to," she said quietly. "It was an old vegetable garden. I found it years ago, back when—" Her voice broke into a muffled cry, and yet there were no tears, like she refused to let them fall. She shook her head, her hands lifting as if to brag about the wonderful bunch of plants around her. But the gesture looked so helpless, so lost, and she let her arms fall back limply to her sides. Then in a broken whisper, she repeated, "I'm running out of room."

Nikolai's eyebrows drew tight in concern. He took a step towards her, and stopped almost immediately. It felt like he was treading across a dangerous line that neither of them ever had the guts to cross. Things were already too complicated, whether it’s about Ravka or about them, and he didn’t want to make things worse. But he refused to leave her on her own. Not like this.

Slowly, he made his way towards her, feeling the tug become stronger and stronger until he stopped at her side. He felt the cold seep through his clothes, harsh and biting like Zoya’s daily demeanor. But tonight, there was only grief and sadness, and it made everything even colder.

There was a long silence between them as he waited for Zoya to speak. Or if she wanted to speak. He wasn’t going to force anything from her. It was already a painful day for them to get through, and he wouldn’t add to the burden they were all carrying on their shoulders. He was grateful for the silence either way.

But when Zoya spoke later, her voice was quiet, lacking the usual sharpness it always had. “I plant something new for every Grisha lost,” she started. And there it was again, the heavy feeling in Nikolai’s chest that weighed down on him and made him struggle to breathe. It took all of Nikolai not to reach out for her. Then she lifted her hand and started pointing to the plants. “Heartleaf for Marie. Yew for Sergei. Red Sentinel for Fedyor. Even Ivan has a place. He was once a soldier like us too, before the Darkling corrupted him.” She touched her fingers to a frozen stalk near the edge of the soil bed. “This was for Harshaw, and they will blossom bright orange in the summer, just as bright as his ridiculous hair.”

Nikolai felt a small smile twitch on his lips. There was an obvious jest in her tone, but her words were sad, still haunted by the past war they could never be free of. He reached for the plant, letting his fingers touch its leaves delicately. He dusted off the frost from the leaves’ surface, and it almost looked as new as ever. The Inferni had once fought beside him in the mountains and with Alina and the others in the Fold, proving his loyalty up until the very end. It was unfortunate that he didn’t get to see past the war as it had already taken his life.

“These Dahlias were for Nina when I thought she’d been captured and killed by the Fjerdans,” Zoya continued, her hands reaching out to the flowers next to Harshaw’s. “They bloom with the most ridiculous red flowers in the summer. They’re the size of dinner plates.” Then as steady as her hands were when she first reached out to touch them, they began to tremble badly. “This was the last one I vowed that I would plant. I kept promising myself over and over and over. But they only kept increasing. There was no end. And now David—” She stopped abruptly, her throat clogging up with a quiet sob. “I’m running out of room, Nikolai.”

A tear escaped Nikolai’s eye, and he quickly wiped it away. He didn’t know why he did that. Earlier in the funeral, he didn't shed a single tear when he gave the eulogy, only the prickling pain that gave the first signs of tears. But they didn’t fall. Guilt had been clawing at him ever since, thinking that he hadn’t cared enough to show that he was mourning the loss of an old friend. It was only reasonable to cry; they were all grieving, after all. So why still hide, when there was no one else to see him?

Then he realized it was what he had been used to. This was what they were taught. You don’t let yourself wallow in sadness—you get back up and continue on. No matter how heavy the weight on your shoulders was.

Soldiers did not cry. Princes did not weep. And kings should never get fazed by such sentiments and emotions.

But what if it was the only thing left to do?

Nikolai glanced at Zoya, seeing tears staining her cheeks as well. She wiped at them hastily and tried her best to blink them away. He heard her draw in a shuddering breath.

“They will continue to thrive and bloom as long as they get taken care of,” said Zoya, her fingers curling around a stalk from the dahlias. “But what if they don’t? What if they stopped even as I tend to them everyday?”

He immediately understood the deeper meaning behind her words. Every life lost under her watch; every Grisha blood staining her hands. It was the weight on her shoulders she had always carried, a weight that existed ever since she had been a soldier, up until now that she was their general.

If he could only take all the burden from her chest and carry it along with his own, he would have done it. But that wasn’t how it worked. They were all bound to have their own burdens—it would only be a matter of difference with the people around them that would help them get back up on their feet whenever they get too tired from carrying it all.

Nikolai let out a long breath, his gaze landing on the twisting gray branches that ran along the perimeter of the garden. He recognized it right away. “Thorn wood,” he murmured. He felt Zoya’s confusion even before she could voice it out, so he continued speaking. “It grows around, protecting everything within these walls, stronger than anything else in the garden, weathering every season. No matter the winter it endures, it still persists, all prickles and thorns and spines anger just to keep protecting everything here.” Then he turned to her, looking down at the bright and never-ending flames behind her eyes. He gave her a lopsided smile. “Those thorns, they remind me of you. Prickly and sharp, just like you are. But its purpose was to protect all these flowers and plants, like the way you protect our people.”

Zoya almost looked like she was on the brink of breaking, but her questions persisted. “And what if the winter is just too long and hard? What if it can’t continue protecting them all?”

He was afraid to reach for her, but he did it anyway. He took her gloved hand in his, and when he expected her to pull away, she didn’t. Instead she folded into him like a flower closing its petals at nightfall. “Then it would still be there, watching over all the flowers and plants, giving them the sense of protection, keeping them strong until the summer comes, even as its life withers away.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, a laugh escaping his lips. “I do hope I made sense with all that blabbering.”

This earned a huff from his general. “Who says you ever did?” she said, but he felt her hand squeeze his back, gratitude evident even from that smallest of gestures. That was when tears fell from her eyes again, and Nikolai felt some of his own as well.

Trusting what his gut told him to do, he wrapped his arm around her.

And in the same exact moment, Nikolai didn’t feel the painful tug in his chest anymore. It was as if he had undone all the tangles and knots between, and he could finally pass through the thread without difficulties.

Zoya seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then with a soft breath, she let herself lean against him. Zoya the deadly. Zoya the ferocious. The weight of her against him felt like benediction, the long lost piece from the puzzle that he had been trying to figure out for years. For the first time in his short life, he felt at peace. He had been strong for his country, his soldiers, his friends. It meant something entirely different to be strong for her.

When he thought that they did not look at each other for comfort, he had just been understanding it quite differently. No, they gave each other comfort in their own way—whether it was through sharp wits and harsh words that kept their will stronger, or even just through knowing looks and long silences. It was their way to tell each other that they were always there to keep each other marching on their feet, and pull each other from the darkness they were both continuously fighting their way out of.

There would still be a lot of problems to face, obstacles to get past with, lives to be lost. But they would be alright. They still had each other to get through everything, and it was enough.

Together.

And that’s how it would be from then on until the very end.

***

He used to believe that the other end of the string was just like any other end, blunt and empty. Not once did he ever think that he could be wrong.

Now, Nikolai knew one thing. It would always lead towards her.

#zoyalai #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #king of scars #my writing #hHNNNNGGGG #guess who came back to post some shitty mess #HALJKHASDFLJAS #the canon events in their childhood are so close to their ages so it's quite fun to make these parallels #and it's sad sad #;-;#i hope i did justice with the garden scene rewrite/alternate version #tiff came up with this idea some time ago and i only finished it today T-T #everyone go support tiff and her galaxy brain plz #no that is not a request #it's now time to disappear again for another few months HAHAH

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mdawritings · 4 years ago

Text

Wanna Be Yours: Ch. 12

II.I

Masterlist

Warnings: References to violence, canon-typical descriptions of violence, crime scenes, and death.

Song(s): "Bruises" by Lewis Capaldi and "I Almost Do" by Taylor Swift

It’s almost eight years until you hear the name Aaron Hotchner again.

You’re anxiously awaiting the call about your reassignment within the FBI. You had completed your year of mandated leave, gone through the required psych evaluations, gone through the training protocols. You’re ready to get back into the action, or, at least, you’re ready enough to get back to work. That’s when you receive the final message.

Your reinstatement was to be within the Quantico headquarters. This way, the brass could keep a close eye on you, while still utilizing your skills in the best possible way. So you flew into Quantico late Saturday night, moving into the cheapest apartment you could find. It was in a terrible area but being out of work for a year leaves you without much spare cash to live lavishly. Without your government-issued weapon, you check the deadlock every time you turn your back to the door for too long.

You have hardly any furniture in the apartment, most of the decor being the piles and piles of boxes in the center of your living room. You’re exhausted, in every possible way, so you settle for a fast shower, during which you’re entirely paranoid someone is going to break into your apartment. You collapse onto your bed, barely having the energy to even put the sheets on the bed to make it. The call comes through your phone shortly after you fall asleep, which means you don’t check your messages until early Sunday.

“This is Erin Strauss of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m calling to inform you that the council has processed your psych evaluation and administered a new gun registration and badge for you. You will now be working under me as a profiler within the BAU. It is my understanding that you’ve taken quite a few profiling classes in your training as a negotiator and you’re well equipped for this job. There will be a slight adjustment period but nothing that I do not believe you are capable of handling. You will start in your new position on Monday. Meet me at my office and I can brief you about the basics and then Agent Aaron Hotchner, BAU Unit Chief, will take it from there.”

You practically drop the phone. Your hands shake slightly, as you click off the phone and place it back onto your bedside table. You write Strauss an email in response, apologizing for missing her call, accepting the position, thanking her for the opportunity, and expressing your immense gratitude for such an esteemed position with such a great team. But that’s a lie. For a split second, you believe it's possible that this Aaron Hotchner is a completely different one than your Aaron Hotchner. You’ve never been a believer in fate or destiny. But for this to be a coincidence is simply unbelievable. Isn’t he supposed to be tormenting more students, torturing more girls, breaking more hearts? How did he end up as the BAU Unit Chief within the FBI?

You’re in shock, Strauss only leaving you about 24 hours to process it all and prepare for a new job. There’s no way you could request reassignment to a different unit. You’ve already been given your second chance. It’s now or never to get back into the FBI.

You’ve been out of work for a year. For a year, you’ve been struggling to cope with the loss of coworkers and innocent people. A loss that’s completely on your shoulders. Blood that’s on your hands. It was enough of an adjustment to get back to normal. Well as close to normal as can be. Your government-issued therapist, as you like to call her, attempted to dismantle this idea. She tried her best to remove the guilt from your mind, but after the government aid for the sessions ran out, you abandoned all hope of restoring yourself to the mental state you were in before. Everything in your life now is the after. You can’t live in the before. It’s too painful.

But now? Now it feels like all the work you’ve done to heal, to move on, to continue your life is rapidly unraveling in front of you. How would you adjust to seeing Aaron Hotchner once again? You hope that by now, he won’t have as much of an impact on you. You’ve experienced so much life, so much living, so much loss since then.

You’ve had other relationships, loved other people, slept with other people, but the impact that Hotch had on your life is permanent. When you think about it too long it feels ridiculous, the fact that a silly little fling in your early 20s has managed to change you so much. So much so, that now, at 29, you can still sense remnants of his impact on your life. They’re small moments, in which you realize that your behavior has changed so drastically over the years because of him. Your tongue is sharper. You stand up for yourself more often, and you never ever let anyone walk all over you the way he did.

You spend the day worrying yourself sick about the new position. You can’t turn it down. This job is your last chance.

Monday morning, your alarm rings wildly next to you in bed, but your eyes are already open. You’ve been staring at the ceiling for the past hour unable to sleep. You’ve been tossing and turning restlessly, unable to focus on anything else but the last few memories you have of Aaron Hotchner. Your mind first goes to that last day of classes, thinking about the way he smiled at you from across his desk. The way that damn leather-bound book felt in your hands. The way that he kissed you. He made you feel so special. Your mind then travels to the rest of that weekend, one in which he managed to rip your heart out of your chest and tear it into a million little pieces.

You think of the last thing you heard from him. Those same words he had spoken to you once before, but spoken to someone else. At that moment, you realized that you were nothing special. You were just another girl Professor Hotchner used for sex.

You’re hopeful that you will be able to move forward with professionalism. There’s a second where you consider the possibility of becoming friends with Aaron Hotchner, but you know that’s impossible. You can’t look at him and ignore all the hurt he caused you. You can, however, be professional. You know you can work with him. It might just tear you up inside, but you can do it. You have to.

However, you wonder what kind of person he’s become in the past eight years. You know you’ve changed dramatically, but what has happened to him? How has his life gone? How did he end up in the FBI?

You wonder if he’s learned to love. The man that you knew was one who was seemingly incapable of ever loving anyone. It’s clear to you that back then he was too selfish, too wrapped up in his own head to dedicate anything real to anyone else. And if he ever did feel anything real for you, he was too emotionally damaged to handle it, work through it, or to tell you about it.

Your alarm rings again. You snooze it again. What will you say to him? What do you want your first words to be to him? Will you tell him off? Should you even acknowledge the past? Or should you just put on your best air of professionalism and approach this as you would any new job? It seems impossible to push aside the past and treat him as a new person. Because he’s not a new person. He’s a man who has shaped every decision you’ve made in your life since knowing him.

You eventually convince yourself to get out of bed, reminding yourself that it’s pointless to fight inevitables. You dig through the moving boxes, pulling out your coffee maker and a thermos, filling it up to the top, already expecting the Quantico office coffee to be bad. You haven’t worked in a year, but you do remember always having to make your own coffee before work.

While the coffee brews, you pack a go-bag, an item that Strauss heavily emphasized the importance of for this job. You would be traveling a lot for each case, and you have to be ready to leave at any moment. You’re not sure why your reassignment is with the BAU. Your therapist emphasized a lifestyle of structure and predictability. If there’s one thing you’ve heard about the life of these profilers, it’s that the hours are irregular.

You get dressed, slipping on a clean pressed, black pair of slacks and a white button-down blouse. You slide on a comfortable pair of boots, ones that look nice and professional but don’t hinder your movement in the event that you get called away on a case.

One benefit of the irregular hours is that your personal time is limited. If you can occupy your mind with work, you can avoid getting sucked up into your own head. Like right now. You grip your bag as it jostles against your side on the bus. You drink your coffee a little too fast, which doesn’t ease the unnatural level of fear coursing through you.

This shouldn’t scare you so much. But the old wounds that you fought so hard to turn to scar tissue are reopening and they hurt just as much as the day Hotch inflicted them upon you.

You get to the Quantico headquarters a few minutes early, giving you enough time to get your new ID from the front desk. You get into the elevator, rocking back and forth on your toes anxiously. He’s here. He could be anywhere. Every time the elevator doors open to a different floor, you fear that you’ll come face to face with him. You’re sure that he’s probably on the sixth floor. The BAU floor. He’s probably in his office waiting to welcome the new agent. Does he know that you’re the new agent? Does he know who you are? Does he know what’s happened to you this past year?

You were assured that most of the details of your ‘leave’ were kept confidential. All that was publicized was a tragic bombing. The bomber sacrificed himself for the cause. Only a few people were able to escape, but all with severe injuries. The FBI didn’t want to admit their involvement. Their failure to save those people. Your failure to save those people.

You get to Strauss’s office, struggling to pay attention as she walks you through the basics, hands you your new badge, and a new gun. You holster the weapon, pulling your go-bag onto your shoulder, fiddling with the straps nervously.

Strauss finishes her introductory speech and takes a moment to look you over, “Agent, are you sure you’re ready to get back to work?” It doesn’t take a profiler to notice your nerves. Ever since the start of your leave, nerves and anxiety aren’t an uncommon occurrence, but this is more than usual. Your body is practically vibrating.

Despite the sick feeling in your stomach, you manage a nod, “I’m sorry.” You apologize for appearing distracted, “Yes ma’am. I’m ready.”

You can tell she’s unconvinced. Strauss leads you through the relatively crowded bullpen. You spot an empty desk across from a woman with long black hair, who is too busy laughing with the blonde sitting on top of her desk to notice that the tall skinny one across from them has just spilled coffee all over himself and his paperwork. You assume that the empty one is to be your desk. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest as you glance up at the two offices on the catwalk. One of them has the blinds tightly drawn and through the other, you can just barely see an older gentleman working on his laptop. David Rossi. You know him. You read just about every single one of his books on Sunday in preparation for this new job.

Your profiling skills are mediocre at best. Strauss argues that out of all possible candidates you had the most office experience and field experience. You’re really not sure how that helps. How could a traumatized and failed crisis negotiator who hasn’t been in the field in nearly a year provide anything helpful for the BAU?

Old habits resurfaced and you buried yourself in published literature and textbooks and research. You weren’t about to walk into a new job feeling unprepared, especially not one in which Aaron Hotchner would be your new boss. Now, at this moment, trailing behind Straus, as your body seems detached from your mind, dreading the moment that she opens that door to Aaron’s office, no amount of studying or preparation seems sufficient.

Rossi steps out of his office just as you and Strauss reach the top of the stairs. You lock eyes with him and despite not even knowing who you are, he gives you a reassuring nod. Damn profilers. Your body language is probably a dead giveaway. Strauss knocks on the door.

“Come in.” That voice. You could never forget it. Strauss reaches for the handle and you’re tempted to run away. Turn around and walk away. At least then you could leave with your sanity semi-intact. However, your curiosity has been piqued at this point. You have to know. You have to see him. You step through the doorway into the office and finally get a good look at the man.

He's hunched over, body turned slightly away from the desk. He has a phone pressed to his ear and he’s speaking in a gentle, hushed tone, "Yeah I know buddy." He glances over at you and Strauss. As if out of a movie, he does a double-take. It’s almost as if it takes a second for his eyes to really process what he’s really seeing. And what he’s really seeing is you. The look on his face tells you that he barely recognizes you, now eight years older, in professional clothes, and a face that’s just a little more weathered from all that you’ve been through.

Your memories of him are not faint as your eyes stay locked with his. They’re not just faded remnants of your moments together. Staring at him, eyes drinking in every inch of him, it all comes back more vivid than ever. You can practically feel his fluffy hair tangled in your fingers. From your position, you can just faintly smell his cologne. That’s a scent that hasn’t changed. The sensory memories are overwhelming. The passion, the secrecy, the pleasure. But that quickly changes, making the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach grow at an all-consuming rate. That night. That night he grabbed you by the front of your shirt, the way he snapped at you, the completely ice-cold manner in which you spoke those last few words to him, I’m done.

That Aaron Hotchner is not the man sitting in front of you. You barely recognize him. His hair is shorter, more strictly gelled in place. His white shirt is buttoned all the way up. He has a suit jacket on. His tie is done up perfectly. You can’t help but take note of the bags under his eyes, the increase of lines on his face. Obviously, he’s aged, but the way his face has changed, it’s not just age. You can see his eyes are dull, glossed over. For as neatly put together he is from the neck down, his face looks tired.

Hotch seems to forget he was just on the phone, entirely taken aback by the fact that you’re actually there, standing in front of him. "I’m sorry I can’t be with you right now but get a lot of rest and I’ll be home before you know it. I have to go. I love you too." He hangs up and you try to hide the shock on your face as those words come out of his mouth. Words you dreamt of him saying. Words that haunted you for months nearly a decade ago.

"Agent Hotchner, this is the crisis negotiation transfer I was discussing with you," Strauss nods at you, and Hotch stands up, smoothing out his tie, placing his hands flat on the desk. "This is Agent—"

"Y/N." His voice is firm. Hearing his name fall from your lips is enough to send you running in the opposite direction. Fear and anxiety overcome you, your legs going weak as he sticks out a hand to shake yours, but you can’t seem to get yourself to move forward to touch his hand, "I’m sorry, Agent Y/L/N." He corrects his mistake.

His hand hovers in the air for a moment, waiting for you to reach forward to shake it. Your shoes drag across the carpet, as you reach forward to shake his hand. His warm, rough hand envelops yours. At one point in your life, just the touch of his skin against yours would send sparks up and down your arm. Just that handshake would’ve been enough to ignite your skin and make you feel alive.

You feel nothing. Just a simple handshake. Your heart is attempting to jump out of your throat, beating rapidly and pounding against your ribcage so hard you think your chest visibly moves. However, his touch no longer thrills you. Maybe you are finally over Aaron Hotchner.

"You two know each other?” Strauss gestures between the two of you.

"No," You reply without missing a beat. You shake your head, finally able to get words out. You have to force your eyes off of Hotch and look at Strauss, "Well, yes. Agent Hotchner lectured at my law school a few times. When he was a federal prosecutor.”

Strauss gives a small nod of acknowledgment, “Agent Hotchner can show you the ropes from here. I expect updates from the field,” Her eyes shoot over to you. Updates about you, she means. In case you manage to fuck up again.

You watch as Strauss leaves the office not turning your eyes to Hotch at the desk in front of you. You look out the window, gesturing to the agents in the bullpen you passed, “I’m assuming the extra desk in the bullpen is mine?”

Hotch tilts his head down, letting out a small breath, “Yes. Agent Y/L/N—”

“And everyone in the bullpen, is that the whole team? I know Agent Rossi’s office is next to yours and I only saw three agents in the bullpen but I assume there are more?”

“Yes. We have a technical analyst and another member of the team. You’ll be introduced to them shortly, however–” that’s not what he really wants to talk to you about. Its clear that there’s so much he wants to say, but you don’t give him a chance to speak. You keep your mind focused on the important questions on there about the job. You know that a conversation with him about anything else just might break you.

“And in terms of training, you can see I passed my gun qualifications again. Are there any other evaluations or training protocols? Or will my time from the academy be sufficient preparation for this position?” You rattle off your questions. His face is a mixture of shock and frustration. He has his arms crossed against his chest. He tucks his bottom lip in, biting at it lightly.

“Y/N,” He places his hands firmly down on the desk. This time he doesn’t answer your questions. He’s tired of your avoidance, “What are you doing here?”

You take a pause at the sound of your first name, swallowing slowly, “I’m here on reassignment from crisis negotiation. I’m supposed to be working as a profiler on your team in the BAU.”

“You know what I mean,” Hotch presses the issue a little further.

“With all due respect, I’m not sure what you are searching for from me but if the implication is that I am here for anything other than the job then you are sorely mistaken,” You huff out and cross your arms against your chest, mirroring his closed-off body language. “Sir.”

“That’s not what I was implying,” Hotch places a hand on his forehead, rubbing roughly, trying to ease his frustration. You’re not quite sure where he gets off being so short and snippy with you. “I’m just… The last time I saw you, you were on track to be a lawyer and now you’re standing in front of me, in my office, joining my team. It just all seems very—”

“Sir?” You turn and see a different blonde standing in the doorway. She has a bright pink floral dress on, two large flowers in her hair, a file in her hands, and a pink fuzzy pen tucked behind her ear. “Sorry to interrupt,” She steps forward, stumbling a little in her high heels, sticking her hand out to shake yours, “Penelope Garcia, technical analyst, computer geek, and all-around wizard of the keyboard.”

You smile at her and stick your hand out to introduce yourself, “It’s great to meet you.”

“Sir, you remember that the Indiana PD contacted us about a possible serial?” She lets out a shaky breath, squinting her eyes and looking away as she opens the file, holding it out to Hotch, “Another body.”

Hotch has to reach past you to take the file and you audibly suck in your breath as his arm glides past your torso. “Same signature?” He looks over the photos.

Garcia lets out a small shudder, “Yeah the victim’s hands… the unsub he… don’t make me say it, sir.” She squeaks out.

“Gather the team,” He gives a nod before finally looking back at you, “You think you’re ready to get back to work?”

“Yes Sir,” You sigh, pull your go-bag further up your shoulder. You start to follow him out the door but he stops short in front of you.

“We’ll talk later,” He stumbles over his words a little. You’re making him nervous. You see his hand at his side. His fingers rubbing against one another. There’s one thing that hasn’t changed in years. He still has the same nervous behaviors.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about,” You mumble under your breath as you follow him to the conference room. You speak quietly but from the way he tilts his head, stretches his neck, and takes a deep breath, you know your comment was loud enough for him to hear.

You take a seat at the roundtable, watching as the three agents from earlier are now joined by a tall, muscular black man who ruffles the top of the skinny kid’s head, messing up his hair, “I’m just teasing kid, I like the haircut. Makes you look young.”

“Yeah like I need anything to make me look younger. Everyone already thinks I’m a teenager,” The skinny one tries to smooth his hair back into place, but it doesn’t really help, leaving small strands sticking up in the air.

“Everyone this is Agent Y/L/N, she’s joining us from Crisis Negotiation,” Hotch pulls out his chair, right next to yours. You feel your whole body tense up, as the close proximity really allows you to smell his familiar cologne. Eight years and he still hasn’t bought a new one. Great.

“Joining us?” The muscular one stands just a bit behind you, making himself a cup of coffee but turns and walks to take a seat, giving you a slow once over. It’s not a flirtatious one, but a wary scan of your body. You’re becoming acutely aware of how exposed you feel in a room full of professional profilers.

“Strauss thinks we need the extra help, especially with the recent increase in requests for BAU help, and I don’t disagree with her,” Hotch looks around the table at his coworkers before looking to you, “Agents Prentiss, Morgan, Jareau, Rossi, and Dr. Reid.” Hotch points out each member, who all give you small nods and waves of acknowledgment as he introduces them.

“Crisis negotiation, huh?” Morgan continues to push the subject. You can tell he’s not really happy about a new addition to the team. You’re guessing it’s coming from a place of protectiveness of his team. You understand his hesitance. The team probably works well together, a new person is a whole new dynamic. If you could pick any other position you would, you have no specific interest in the BAU, but it’s a second chance and you’re not going to screw it up, no matter how much you wish that anyone else in the world besides Hotch was unit chief.

“I think the job took a small amount of profiling,” You shrug and give Agent Morgan a smile, hoping to get in his good graces soon, “Obviously not as much as this but it did take a level of interpretation of the behavior of criminals who take hostages in addition to a complex understanding of intergroup dynamics and how that might impact a situation.”

“There’ll be time to play nice and get to know each other later,” Hotch cuts the introductions short. “Garcia, the case?”

“Right,” She clicks on the monitor at the front while Hotch slides a tablet over to you. You take it from him, your fingertips just brushing against his. Everything about the interaction feels like eight years ago. He manages to keep his best poker face, all the while you feel the small sparks shoot across your skin. Those damn sparks. Except you’re very quickly realizing that the Hotch in front of you is nothing like eight years ago.

There’s something deeply broken about his eyes. You could never forget those eyes. When you first met him you thought they were deep brown. Then you spent enough time watching him, studying every detail of his face and learned that they were a beautiful light brown. Small golden flecks in his eyes become more pronounced in the sun. His eyes are different now. First of all, the deep undereye bags that frame them make him look years older than his actual age. His brow seems permanently set in that furrowed position. It’s a familiar expression of his. You had the joy of seeing that brow lift when the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. Smiling seems to be the last thing this current Aaron Hotchner wants to do.

You realize you’re staring a little bit too long and tune back into Garcia’s case briefing, “All three victims were undergraduate students. Indiana’s campus hosts both undergrad and grad students from the law school and med school.”

“Which means a huge suspect pool.” Hotch points out.

“How are we sure that the unsub is from inside the community?” You look around the table. You can see the way that Morgan’s brows raise at the question. How else are you going to learn without asking questions?

Rossi, however, swoops in to save you from embarrassment, “The first victim had mace in her backpack, however, she never used it. The second victim had no defensive wounds on her body. The third victim—”

“Was killed in an office meeting room. To gain access to that building you need a school ID,” You nod, filling in the gaps. “I forget that technology and security have dramatically improved since I was in school.”

“Come on, kid, at least you had cell phones in college,” Rossi gives a small smile, nudging your arm.

“And how do we know these are all connected?” Morgan gestures to his tablet in front of him.

You scoff slightly and look up at Morgan, “I’m sorry, I know it’s important to find common victimology, MO, or signature before connecting the crimes but how many violent crimes occur on college campuses in this short of a time? They have to be connected.”

“Statistically, some of the most dangerous and violent college campuses report that nearly 10 students for every 1000 will be a victim of violent crime. However, that statistic seems to include any form of violent crime meaning murder, negligent manslaughter, aggravated assault, robbery, but most prevalent on most college campuses is rape as a form of violent crime. In terms of how frequent—” The tall skinny one, Reid, rattles off a series of facts at you and you can’t help but smile. He’s cute. He looks about your age, “That was more of a rhetorical question, wasn’t it?”

You fight a smile at Reid’s confused face and nod. “All the victims had the same cuts on their hands,” Prentiss points up at the monitor.

“Weird,” You mumble under your breath.

“What?” JJ turns to you.

“Oh. Nothing it’s just… hands are a weird thing to mutilate. Damage to the face shows high levels of rage and a deep hatred for the victim, removal of eyes or ears or damage to the mouth could symbolize the removal of a sense in order to punish the victims for some misuse of those senses. But hands… hands are different.” You tip your pen back to your mouth, placing the end on your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly as you think. You can feel Hotch’s focus on you. If you turn, you’re sure you’ll just catch him as he looks away.

He’s profiling you. You don’t need to look at him to know that. He was always good at reading you, not that you did much to hide your feelings back then. You felt everything so openly. You were so full of passion, so determined to be the best at everything you set your mind to. Hotch made you realize that feeling everything so deeply, so freely, opens you up to a world of hurt. You put on your best poker face, keeping your body language neutral while you still feel his eyes on you.

“Hands are not inherently symbolic of one thing.” Reid agrees with you.

“So we have to try and decipher why this mutilation is a compulsion for the unsub,” Hotch nods, “Wheels up in 30.” Everyone tucks all their belongings away. Hotch is quick to stand up from his seat at the table, storm down the catwalk back to his office, closing the door loudly. You try to ignore the weird looks from the team as you introduce yourself to all of them.

You watch as Morgan is one of the first to leave the conference room, walking after him, “Hey, Agent Morgan!” You run to catch him at the top of the stairs, “Look I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off so rude in there.” You shake your head.

“No problem,” He states simply, intending to walk down the stairs.

“I get it, I’m new, I’m throwing off the team dynamic and you don’t seem like the type to trust me immediately.” You stick out a hand to shake his, “But I’m committed to this team and I want to earn your respect in time.”

He nods, giving you one of those judgmental once overs again, “From what I can tell, Hotch doesn’t seem too pleased about you being here. Now just because he’s my boss, doesn’t mean I have to always agree with him, but if he’s wary, then I’m wary.” He avoids shaking your hand. Your suspicions about Morgan seem to be proven before your eyes. He doesn’t trust easily. He’s been burned by someone he trusted in the past. You can relate to that. You’re not a very open or trustworthy person anymore either.

“Agent Hotchner and I knew each other a really long time ago. A lifetime ago. Way before his time at the BAU. I’m sure he’s just not thrilled about his past colliding with his present,” You nod taking a few steps back to let Morgan continue down the stairs, “I just hope… I hope you can learn to trust me, and I, you.” You smile softly. Morgan seems stuck in his place. You can’t tell whether or not he’s surprised by your manners, or if you’ve just driven further the wedge between you two.

“See you on the jet,” He speaks up as he walks down the stairs, scooping his go-bag from under his desk and disappearing around a corner down the hallway.

When you turn to walk back to the conference room, you catch Agent Hotchner’s eyeline through the blinds of his office. He’s watching you, studying you, trying to read you. However, he definitely does not get access to you anymore.

You’re determined to keep your animosity towards Hotch private. No reason for the team to detect that anything is wrong. But throughout the case, there are moments it slips. First, it was on the jet...

You step onto the jet, looking around, taking the entire environment in. You were never blessed with a private jet in your time in crisis negotiation, just stuck with driving from place to place. Morgan reaches across you, taking your bag and stowing it away in the back for you. It’s a simple gesture, but from the look in his eye as he does it, you can tell Morgan is already reevaluating his judgment of you.

You’re one of the last on the jet and you see everyone settled around the table and surrounding seats. The only available seat is the one next to Hotch by the window. You’d have to ask him to get up… or squeeze past him. You try to cover it up but nearly everyone notices the way that you eye the seat before deciding against it. You end up leaning against the arm of the sofa that JJ is sitting on. Once again, Hotch’s gaze lingers on you as you do. He’s taking note of the way you’re actively avoiding him, and he’s right. You’re actively avoiding any alone time with him. Minimize the alone time, minimize the pain.

You run through the facts of the case again, Reid rambling on about the significance of hands throughout different cultures, the importance of sensory neurons on the skin of your hands, and how hand size is an indicator for a lot of things. You share a small smirk with Morgan, who is clearly warming up to you because you both know the one thing that hand size is rumored to correlate with.

Morgan shoots you a small smirk before saying what you were both thinking, “That’s interesting and all kid, but any knowledge in that big brain of yours about whether hand size is related to—”

Hotch cuts off Morgan, “Focus, please.” He gestures with his hand to stop the conversation and you have to hide your smile. It’s nice to smile. You weren’t expecting to feel anything but pain today. Hotch puts a fast end to that feeling of happiness.

“When we land, JJ and Rossi head to the local police and talk to the families of the victims. Prentiss and Morgan, you’ll head to the ME, get a better evaluation of the state of the body,” Hotch pauses for a second. He takes in a slow breath as if preparing himself for what he’s about to say. Once he says what’s coming next, it’s all official. You start your first case. He’s your boss, you’re his subordinate. You’re in each other's lives again whether you like it or not. “Y/L/N, Reid, and I will go to the most recent crime scene,” Hotch nods and you feel the blood drain from your face, that sick and twisty knot growing in the pit of your stomach. You knew you’d have to work with him, that’s part of the job, but he’s already keeping you close to him. Maybe he doesn’t trust you.

From the way he spoke to you in his office, it’s clear he thinks you’re here as some sort of revenge. Some convoluted vindictive scheme to ruin his life.

“You look terrified,” Prentiss tries to tease you.

You look around at the team and shake your head, “College campuses,” You scrunch up your face in disgust and shake your head, “Undergrad sucked because I was younger than everyone, so I missed out on all the fun.”

“Damn, we got another kid genius on our hands, don’t we?” Morgan reaches out a hand to high-five you. “Like our own female Einstein.” Your eyes immediately flick to Hotch. That nickname. No one’s called you any form of that nickname since him. “Watch out Reid, you’ve got competition.”

“I was 14 when I was in college,” Reid states in an attempt to one-up you, but it’s clear that he’s just joking. He knows he’s smart but he doesn’t seem like the cocky type, at least what you can tell so far.

“Don’t worry, brainiac,” You laugh at him, “You are the only genius on this team.”

“And grad school?” JJ pipes up, catching onto the way you dropped the sentence.

“I dropped out of law school after my first year,” You clear your throat uncomfortably, “Wasn’t for me I guess.” The air seems suffocating. Your face is burning hot. You feign extreme interest in the crime scene photos on your tablet, knowing that if you look up, your face will give you away to Hotch. The last thing you want is for him to know how much he affected you.

He said it himself: So in 10 years from now, when you're at the top of your career, know that it's all because of me. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Everything that has happened for the past eight years happened because of his impact on your life.

You remind yourself yet again to try and keep the conversations focused on the case. The team wants to get to know you, but every personal conversation seems to lead back to Hotch.

The second slip-up comes when you arrive at the crime scene...

“She told her roommate she was coming here to study, that she had booked the meeting room just for herself.” Reid lifts up the crime scene tape, holding it up for you to slip under. You give a small smile at the gesture.

“But she told her friends she was meeting with her professor here for extra help.” Hotch shakes his head, pulling on a pair of gloves. You glance over at Reid as he does the same.

He looks at you for a second before he raises his brows in realization, letting out a small ‘oh.’ He digs into his pocket and hands you a pair of gloves. “I usually grab them from the crime scene team,” He nods.

You take them from him, “Thank you.” You like Reid. He’s kind and smart and polite. He’s your age, but you can see that he’s worlds ahead of you in terms of knowledge. You wonder just how much is going on inside that brain of his. When you look at him you can see the gears constantly turning, he’s always working over something in his brain, forming theories, or running through facts.

“She was stabbed in the back and the back of the head, correct?” You glance over at Hotch for confirmation.

“Yes.” He plays with the fingertips of his gloves, paying more attention to you rather than the scene. Without the body, there’s not much to go on, it’s your average office space. You see a log on the wall with the names of who has scheduled the room. They haven’t wiped away the victim’s work from the whiteboard. It looks like some form of math.

“Linear algebra,” Reid speaks up as he sorts through some of the papers left on the table in the center of the room.

You nod and smile, “Math never was my strong suit in school. I was definitely more entranced by a book rather than formulas and numbers.”

Reid’s face lights up with joy, “If you ever want any book recommendations, please do ask. I just finished an absolutely amazing biography about Albert Einstein. It’s not that long of a read. It’s only about 1200 pages. You know I’m sure that I have a copy…” He catches sight of Hotch’s stern expression, stopping himself mid-sentence.

You both go silent as you skim through the pages of work scattered on the floor. You then analyze the writing on the whiteboard, leaning in close. Hotch speaks up again tilting his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in confusion at your behavior, “What are you thinking?”

“It wasn’t random. This was planned out. The unsub specifically sought out her.”

“How do you figure that?” Hotch questions you, but not in the hostile accusatory way you’re expecting.

You hesitate, losing your train of thought the longer you look at Hotch, so you look back to the whiteboard, “When you’re waiting to meet someone, you expect someone to come in, right? So if she had her back turned, writing up equations on this whiteboard, she wouldn’t think twice of the door opening. If you’re not expecting someone and you hear the door open.” You point at the whiteboard.

“You would turn around to see who it is,” Hotch finishes your sentence.

“That’s why all her wounds were to the back,” You fall into a rhythm with Hotch. He’s following your train of thought.

“So the unsub had to know she would be here ahead of time,” Hotch sighs and digs in his pocket for his phone, “Garcia, I need your help.” He clicks his phone onto the speaker and places it down on the table.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Her chipper voice comes through the phone. You can picture her office probably matches her appearance. Probably bright, full of color. For a technical analyst, she probably still has a hefty collection of colorful and funky pens. You remember the octopus mug she was holding when she walked into Hotch’s office this morning.

“This building has a key card access system. Can you access the log of everyone who swiped into this building on the day and around the time of the third murder?”

“Sir, it’s not a matter of can or can’t. You know I can,” Her voice is laced with a smile.

“Check that list for the professor that she claimed she was meeting with,” Hotch adds.

“He…” She trails and you hear the ambient sounds of her rapid typing and clicking. There’s a pause. Her voice grows small, “He accessed the building around the time of her death.”

“He’s our prime suspect. We need to bring him in,” Hotch concludes, “Garcia, you’re the best.”

“Aw I know,” She giggles softly, “PG out!”

“Imagine that,” You chuckle bitterly, “She comes in here to meet her professor, someone she trusts, and she gets stabbed in the back.” You shake your head, the words slipping out before you even realize the weight of what you’ve implied.

Reid doesn’t catch on to the look that you and Hotch exchange. Hotch looks as if he’s seen a ghost. He’s not shocked by what you’ve said, but by the fact that you even said anything. It’s the first sign of hostility towards him. The first crumb or clue into how you feel about him after all these years. The answer is betrayed. You still feel betrayed.

“We should deliver the profile.” Hotch leaves the crime scene at a brisk pace, leaving Reid clueless, and you and that damned twisting knot of anxiety in your stomach.

The rest of your interactions with Hotch are limited for most of the case, restricted to only group discussions that are entirely professional. No more slip-ups, no more sideways glances. What all your interactions were rife in, was that intrusive look of his eyes. Every few minutes you can feel his eyes on you, scanning your posture, your facial expressions, searching for any idea of what you might be thinking or feeling.

You try your best to avoid it, opting to go check out every lead, just for the opportunity to get some space from him. You feel smothered and suffocated. You’re so on edge, you’ve torn your nail beds to shreds. He is seemingly unfazed by your presence. That is if you don’t consider how often you catch him rubbing his fingers at his side or up by his face or biting his bottom lip. Every time you catch him, however, he stops.

You’re having a difficult time reading how he feels about you being here. You just want to know how he feels about you after all these years. Does he still harbor feelings for you? Does he still care about you? The sleep deprivation from working so hard and the excess caffeine you’ve consumed don’t help to slow down your thoughts which seem to be moving at a million miles a minute. At least while you’re working you can put all your energy into solving the case, helping the team, and parsing through evidence.

It gets worse at night when you’re alone in the hotel room. You try to bring the case file back into the room, working on it in bed until you can barely keep your eyes open, but you find that you don’t get any work done, your brain a continuous stream of questions.

You’ve been able to profile every member of the team pretty efficiently. You have a good understanding of how Reid’s brain works. The comfort that he has with numbers and facts. He uses his intelligence to cover up for his social insecurities. Morgan puts on a tough exterior, but really he’s hesitant to let people in and trust them. Prentiss, similar to Morgan, seems to keep everyone at arm's length, preferring to be the confidant rather than the one doing the confiding in someone else. JJ struggles to separate her emotions from the work, a quality that is not in and of itself a flaw, but you can tell it weighs on her heavily. Rossi has the most experience and constantly feels inclined to be a figure, a leader while trying to balance cooperation rather than individualism. He’s used to being a lone wolf, doing the job on his own.

This new Aaron Hotchner is a mystery. He’s closed off. He is entirely business. Even when Garcia cracks a joke or embarrasses herself. You all laugh and smirk at her, but his face never changes. When you all get off track, he sternly reminds you of the importance of the case at hand. That’s his job, but there’s something more to it that you can’t quite figure out. There’s a sense of urgency, as there usually is with these cases, but almost this feeling that he’s constantly running out of time.

Even his office provided you with very little to profile. You remember a few photos from Hotch’s office. One of him and a small boy. A son, possibly? There was another of him and a blonde woman hugging the little boy. Your first guess is wife, but you don’t remember him wearing a ring.

You can’t profile him. He’s closed himself off to that. Yet you find yourself coming back to the same question over and over again, does he still care about you? You get a glimpse at the answer as you and the team track down the location of your unsub, three days into the case.

You lean forward from the backseat of the SUV, looking between Morgan and Hotch in the front, “What does the profile say about this kind of unsub’s behavior once faced with police and authority like us?”

The two men exchange knowing looks. You have your suspicions but you really just want them to vocalize what you’re thinking, “He won’t let us take him in without a fight.”

“Suicide by cop,” You mutter frustratedly, “Great.”

“It’s likely, but that doesn’t mean we don’t try to talk him out of it.” Hotch clarifies, gesturing with an outstretched palm that he takes off the wheel temporarily. He pulls up to the small house, sirens off. “A big show will just scare him into making sudden moves to get us to shoot to kill. Morgan, you head around the back. Y/L/N and I will take the front.”

You nod, knowing the rest of the team isn’t far behind you all, but they’ve all been instructed to try and appear as discreetly as possible. You get out of the SUV, watching as Morgan runs around back. Both you and Hotch approach the door. Hotch kicks the door down. The unsub sits casually in an armchair, holding a gun that he twirls in his fingers. He knew you were coming.

Then Hotch does something that complicates your questions about him. It’s subtle but you notice it immediately. He instinctively moves a little in front of you. He doesn’t block your line of fire, but he blocks the unsubs. He’s shielding you with his body.

Your profile is right, the unsub doesn’t want to be taken in peacefully, resulting in Morgan putting two bullets in him from behind when he raises his gun to you and Hotch. AT first, you think Hotch put his body in front of yours by accident.

It wasn’t an accident. He gave a small look over his shoulder at your location before taking a few steps right, to block you. Then you assume it was purely because of his status as team leader. He doesn’t want the members of his team to get hurt. That also doesn’t seem to make sense to you. No matter how much he wants the team to be protected he wouldn’t do that. He would trust Morgan to get the shot if you two couldn’t.

So why would he shield you?

Almost everyone but you, Rossi, and Hotch are sleeping on the jet home. You have a book out in front of you, but you’re barely reading, just attempting to look deeply enchanted by the novel to avoid any awkward eye contact or conversation with Hotch. The only sounds in the plane are the whirring of the engines, the wind outside, and Hotch’s typing on his computer as he finishes up the report for the case.

Rossi sits down across from you on the jet, placing down a small glass of some amber liquid, which you assume is whiskey, in front of you.

“Trying to get me drunk, Agent Rossi?” You tease him, tearing your eyes away from the book you weren’t reading.

He laughs heartily, taking a sip from his own glass, “I thought I’d welcome you with something from my own personal stash.”

“Where do you keep it hidden in here? You know… just in case I’m curious,” You smirk and reach for the glass. It’s nice of Rossi to sit with you and talk to you.

Rossi just smiles, shaking his head a little, “You did well out there, kid,” He puts the glass down, to roll his ring around his finger. You’ve noticed he does it a lot when he’s thinking. “You can read all the books in the world, but profiling in the field, thinking on your feet, analyzing a crime scene, it’s all much different than the words on a page.”

“I’m realizing that,” You trail your finger around the rim of the glass, “My previous position incorporated a lot of what you guys do here.”

“I’m sure that makes this job a lot harder. You probably want to put the past behind you.” Your head snaps up to look at him. No one told the team where you came from. Even Hotch doesn’t know. “I remember hearing about the incident.”

“The FBI tried to bury their involvement,” You sigh and finish off the glass, noting how smooth the alcohol goes down. You’ve learned how to handle alcohol really well this past year. “They keep all the details top secret. However, that didn’t stop them from throwing me under the bus.”

“What happened in New York was not your fault.” Rossi’s voice drops in volume as he leans closer, keeping your conversation more private, “The brass has a habit of blaming agents instead of criminals. You couldn’t have stopped it. You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

You exhale loudly, air rushing over your teeth as you give a little shake of your head in disagreement, “Agent Rossi, I’m sure you’re experienced enough to know this, but as reassuring and comforting it is to hear you say those words it doesn’t necessarily—”

“It doesn’t change how you feel. I know. I understand,” He pauses, “Don’t let it consume you. All of us have been where you are right now. Some of us are currently where you are right now, constantly consumed by guilt over something that wasn’t even our fault.” You get the sense that he isn’t talking about himself. You don't need to reply. The both of you sit in silence for a while.

You start up a conversation again, this time about Virginia and DC, where you’re living, when you moved, what you studied in school, where you grew up. Rossi loves to tease you and every few sentences he’ll simply reply, ‘I already knew that’ acting as if he could profile every fact about you.

You like him a lot. You like everyone a lot. Just as the jet lands and you’re all packing up your desks back at Quantico, Rossi offers to drive you home.

“Let me just check in with Agent Hotchner before I leave,” You glance up at the office. You know you have to check in with him, it’s your first case finished, you’re new, he’s your new boss, but so far, you’ve managed to avoid being alone with him and you’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.

You knock lightly on the open door, to which Hotch responds, “Come in.”

“I just wanted to check-in, you know, with it being my first case and everything,” You nod, taking just a few steps into the office, leaving as much distance between you and Hotch. He stands at his desk, focusing intently on your face. You know he’s trying to read your intentions. He’s searching for the hidden meaning behind your words. And for once, in the past few days, you don’t have any meaning behind your words. You have had enough small slip-ups and double meanings. This time, you truly just mean to check-in.

“You did really good work out there, Agent. You’re a fast learner, you pay attention to details, you work well with the team,” He rattles off a series of compliments, “Strauss is going to request a formal evaluation with me and I’ll be sure to report how quickly you’ve adapted.”

“Thank you, sir,” You try your best to function with the utmost composure.

“Hotch,” He corrects you.

You ignore the correction, “Is that all, sir?”

“If you need anything… I mean I’ve read through your psych evaluations and I know the details are classified but–“ Hotch is struggling with his words. You know what he’s trying to say. He wants to tell you he’s here for you. Funny. Really, it is. Funny that he doesn’t realize the one thing that might send you spiraling is being around him. “I just mean if it all gets to be too much, it’s okay to take a step back. I… I understand.”

“You do?” Your words come out more bitter than intended. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this. You had gone this whole case without snapping. It’s childish and immature. You can be professional. But right now, you can only see one thing: boiling hot rage at Hotch. How could he possibly understand how you feel? You pause to take a breath, “Thank you, but I’m okay. Goodnight, sir.” You walk to the door, wanting to get away from him as fast as possible.

“Y/N—” Hotch calls out, his voice softer, less firm, less professional. “Please,” You beg, finally breaking. Your voice is raw with emotion. You’ve been holding all the pain in for the past three days and your plea comes out sounding more broken than you intend to. You don’t turn around but place a hand on the doorframe. “Please… don’t make this harder than it already is.” You wait for a moment, hoping, praying, that he doesn’t try to talk to you anymore. A moment of silence serves as confirmation that he isn’t going to keep pushing you to talk.

You get down the stairs, meeting Rossi at the elevators. “Thank you… for driving me home.” You try and hide your face from him, hoping he doesn't see the sheen in your eyes as you fight away the tears that have been fighting their way out for the past three days.

“Anytime,” He nods, holding an arm over the elevator doors for you as they open. You think he can sense something is wrong. He’s probably been able to sense something is wrong between you and Hotch since the minute you made eye contact with him your first morning. If he does, however, he also knows not to ask or press the issue.

You flick the lights on in your apartment. You look over the boxes, still left unpacked. Not much of a home yet. You have no place of safety, of comfort yet. You feel like a guest in your own place. However, the thought of unpacking all the boxes right now is way too intimidating.

Deep steady breath in. Shaky breath out. You bite at your lip harshly. You haven’t cried over Aaron Hotchner in years. You drop your bag by the door, kicking your shoes off. You turn to close the door and everything starts to bubble up inside you. The anger, frustration, sadness, heartbreak. It’s all too much. You’ve been through so much these past eight years. This shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. But fuck. It hurts.

You let out a frustrated yell. It’s a scream that feels good to let out but ends up scratching your throat. You slam your fist against the door, ignoring the way it sears your knuckles. You pace your apartment, trying to steady your breathing.

You’ve been suffocating the past three days. Three long days of close quarters with Aaron Hotchner. Even after all these years, he manages to suck all the oxygen out of the room, leaving you breathless. In another life, you remember thinking how much you loved suffocating around him, but now, it tears you up inside. Your chest burns and aches, your head is fuzzy, and his presence is dizzying. It’s not exhilarating. It’s not exciting. It’s not all-consuming in the way you remember. You’re just trying to keep your head above water, but the current is strong and the rapids are relentless. You’re sinking under the surface quickly and you don’t know how to pull yourself up out of it.

You walk over to the stack of boxes, pushing them aside until you find the exact one you’re looking for. You rip open the top, tearing the tape off. The box is full of books, one of many that you brought with you. It’s organized perfectly so that when you unpack it you can set up your personal library just the way you had it back home in New York. So it doesn’t take you long to find that book. That damned book. The cover is faded. The dark brown leather is weathered and much lighter. The spine has lost all structure and the pages have changed color.

You sit down exactly where you stand, cross-legged on the floor, you open to that first page. You look at the all-too-familiar note. You were tempted, over the years, to burn the book, tear that first page out, cross out every one of his notes. But you never could do it. Deep down, no matter how bad he had hurt you, the book seemed to remain separate from that.

Maybe it’s because it’s a constant reminder that you weren’t some naive, foolish, young child. You hadn’t deluded yourself into thinking Hotch cared for you. He did. There was some sense of care and attention to detail. The book is evidence of that. However, it forces you to hold on to an image of Hotch that clearly is not the prevailing personality. Looking at the book reminds you of the bashful, almost embarrassed, man who handed it to you in his office so long ago. The careful way he traced your jawline, the way he tangled his fingers in your hair, pushing it out of the way to really get a good look at your face. That image of him sometimes wins out when you think of Aaron Hotchner. You want to remember him that way, but that only seems to prolong your pain. It makes you want him back.

You lay down on the floor pressing the book close to your heart. You could simply pick up the phone. You could just call him, tell him you want to start all over. But you can’t start all over. Being with Aaron Hotchner was a lifetime ago. That doesn’t change how vividly you can remember being with him. For the first few years, you hated him with every fiber of your being. You thought about what would happen if you ever saw him again. You would scream at him. Tell him off, curse him out. But as the years passed, you stopped hating him. There’s a fine line between love and hate. And as you know, Aaron Hotchner has always been good at keeping lines blurry.

Everything in you is screaming at you to pick up the phone. You’ve dreamed of hearing his voice tell you, “Let’s try again... please.” But you fight the urge. You close your eyes, the cold floor of your apartment sending a chill through you, enough to keep your wits about you.

——

Hotch runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes forcing himself to stay awake, forcing his attention back to the case report. His attempts to work fail, his mind always traveling back to you. He knew you would be a different person. It’s been eight years. He’s a different person. What he didn’t expect was how much of you is still the same.

That bright look in your eyes while discussing the case was one he had seen so many times while you poured over a novel in his office. You still talk with your hands, punctuating every sentence with a little shake or gesture of your fingers. You crack your knuckles when you’re thinking.

The differences are clear to him too. You don’t hold your tongue. You’re blunt. Brutally honest, almost to a fault. You seem to have pushed aside any attempt at politeness, or social niceties. You no longer feel so openly. He finds it much harder to read your face and body language. Your thoughts are not as clear to him as they used to be. He used to know exactly what you were thinking. He can tell you’ve practiced your poker face. He tried his best the past three days to get a read on how you feel about him. He doesn’t want to dwell on the past. All of that was before Haley. And indulging in thoughts of before is just simply too painful for him.

He walks to the window, looking out at the city. He wonders where you are tonight. Are you thinking about him? Are you hurting? Or has it been so long that he’s unimportant to you? Is someone holding you close to them, pressing soft kisses to your lips, whispering comforting words?

He could just pick up the phone and call you. He could profusely apologize. Not that his apology would mean anything, but it’s a speech he’s been rehearsing for years. He loved Haley with his whole heart. She was his whole world, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t regret how he treated you. Haley showed him a world of love, yet he managed to ruin that as well. He prioritized the job over her. Look where that got him.

Hotch knows you will never forgive him. He has never forgiven himself, but he can’t help but think about what would happen if he showed up on your doorstep. Would you immediately turn him away? Or would you let him in? Would you hear him out?

He shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from the lights of DC. He walks to the kitchen, pouring a fresh mug of coffee. He can’t call you. Too much has happened. He thinks about the sleeping little boy upstairs. Every night he’s tormented by memories. He can still remember what it felt like to hold Haley’s lifeless body in his arms. When he does get sleep, visions of Haley’s dead eyes, his bloodied clothes, Foyet’s knife, invade his dreams. He frequently wakes up coated in sweat, the scars on his chest and stomach stinging with the same intensity as the day Foyet inflicted the stab wounds.

Which is why he feels immense guilt over the fact that three days ago, he shook your hand to welcome you to the team, and it ignited every nerve in his body. Everything has changed, but your hand in his made him feel alive.

Chapter 13: II.II →

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