#hastily rewritten

[eemoo1o-animoo]

Ramblings about season two (but mostly just Claude):

(Tumblr kept messing and eating with this until it was completely destroyed because of the readmore doubling or tripling the open paragraph. Every time I tried fixing it, it kept gnawing up more and more until it was gone and I had to delete it. This is me rewriting everything back down from what I remember.)

Claude, whether he’s to be made the villain or a recurring character, being portrayed as pedophilic in the last few episodes just angers me a lot.

I call episode nine the ‘derailment’ so if you ever hear me say that you know why. I think it was either episode seven or eight that Claude had tasted Ciel’s blood and it’s just so sad because you can tell it was to try and get back on track with the “season exclusive” story they had on paper, after — in practice — setting up characters that could easily have been recurring (didn’t Yana say she originally want Alois in the Weston Arc?).

The writing is terrible. The time crunch was probably the primary reason for that, and it’s so obvious that they had to get back on track after straying away from the original storyline they’d intended.

If they had to make Claude pedophilic, then I’m an advocate for making it consistent as opposed to swatching it in at the last moment (aka. episode nine), especially just to make him the villain. And, if they weren’t originally going to, then we could have had a villain that wasn’t pedophilic.

There’s a theory (or perhaps it’s fact) about each episode being written by different writers / writing teams and when I’d heard that it crushed me. But, yeah, it tracks. It crushed me because I’d recently rewatched episode one and came across a scene I’d completely forgotten existed.

That being this: soft Claude.

The general consensus for Claude is cold and unemotive (and perhaps even negligent, especially in contrast to Sebastian), but in each episode we get different characterisation choices diced in with both Claude and Alois.

But this… I’d completely forgotten it had existed (look at the face he makes), and while Claude has behaved flatly all episode, this sliver of compassion could have been recurring but it wasn’t. It only appears once and it’s so frustrating.

Claude could have also been a villain with this sliver of compassion for Alois (“Of course, highness. We’re companions – I’m not going anywhere.”), whether it turned into possessiveness or as a side-trait to his character.

The story was awful just to sandwich Sebastian and Ciel back in, and Alois and Claude in each episode got different low-key character traits or moments / dialogue that never appeared outside of that episode. (For example, in episode six Alois mentions twice or thrice about “punishing” Claude, although due to his previously set up admiration for Claude and his disdain for Hannah, not only does it seem unlikely for his character, but we’d also never seen Claude be punished or the act of punishing be mentioned again outside of that episode, both prior and after).

The scene in which Claude tastes Ciel’s blood just to completely change the directory of his character was so forced. I remember thinking when I’d first watched it how Ciel slapping Claude with his bloody hand (as well as Claude then licking it, after the brawl between the humans) and Ciel also ordering Claude to get away from him as to finish Alois (as if Claude would listen to him) was just so out of place and out of character for all involved.

You can’t even call that out of character for Claude (or anyone from season two) because they don’t even have a definitive character, just a “general consensus” from what the recurring character traits were throughout the season.

They’d used Claude as a scapegoat for the bad writing, to put their original idea back in the forefront as to wrap everything up as if to be like “We can still make this work” which, as we all know, they could not.

Claude deserved better characterisation. He could have been a pedophilic villain, as long as he’d been portrayed as that from the get-go (which he was absolutely not) or he could have been an apathetic deuteragonist, or even just an apathetic villain (caring or not caring for Alois aside).

[fallout-lou-begas]

what if it was better: scream vi

Okay so what if in Scream VI instead of those two kids nobody cares about, it was Kirby and Gale. Having binged the whole series for the first time since like 2021, if you ask me, there was NO BETTER TIME for them to turn a returning legacy character into a killer and doing it with both returning legacy characters would have been a great twist, because you would never expect both of them!

With Kirby, maybe her whole thing is like, if she can terminate the last loose ends of the last Ghostface murders, there will BE no more Ghostface murders. Or you can literally just take the cop's lie at face value, that she was never actually stable after the murders and got a little cuckoo crazy or whatever. We've got our lead still hallucinating de-aged Skeet Ulrich when she doesn't take her crazy pills so it doesn't have to be anything sophisticated. Maybe while obsessively studying the Ghostface murders, she does notice all of the missing evidence, and finds out that Bailey the cop has been building a shrine to his son with it. Fortunately for him he has been discovered by the one (1) freak in the FBI just as obsessed with Ghostface as his son is, and hell, maybe she helps him get a few missing pieces. The cop can be in on the whole thing, still, to get revenge for Sam killing his son Richie. Keep the novel twist of there being three killers, just completely scrap him having two other kids and replace them with Kirby and Gale.

Because Gale? She adds nothing, does nothing, and feels totally narratively superfluous in Scream 6 movie as-is. I thought Sidney and Gale were afterthoughts in Scream 5 too but goddamn she is barely here. Like the scene with Gale getting atacked in her apartment, it has literally no point besides putting her character on ice in case she ends up skipping a sequel like Sidney did. And her killed boyfriend doesn't even get a name!!!!!

So listen: after five sequels of "nooo gale i can't believe you sold our your friends for your career >:((((" it's like. come on. she needs a new act. Which is why I want you to consider: Gale, an aging woman in the media industry, well aware of all the bridges she's already burned, knowing her days on camera are numbered, teaming up with another survivor to manufacture one last Ghostface killing to cover, one that's so spectacular that she can literally retire off it? Can't you imagine? Maybe this is something that she wanted to do all along, deep down, an ugly and intrusive thought, but she couldn't: because of Sidney and Dewey. But they're not here anymore. They're not part of this new group. There's nothing stopping her besides her own morals, and, hey, do you think she got where she is today by having any in the first place?

[kon-konk]

I just did realize you can actually romance characters in the game. I have forty-fuckin-two hours in P4G and just learned this on accident.

Anyways, I'm trying to decide between Marie and Naoto and Yukiko and Yumi since it only gives the ladies as options.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Rewritten Plans

Summary: Spencer accidentally rejects you in fear of being rejected himself.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x tech analyst fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst

Warnings/Includes: crying, rejection, miscommunication

Word count: 4.7k

a/n: giving our baby better memories <333

main masterlist

The fluorescent lights in the break room flickered slightly as you reached for your usual morning coffee, the bitterness of the weekend still lingering like an unwelcome guest. You had spent the last few days wrestling with a mix of emotions—embarrassment, hurt, and a deep sense of rejection that gnawed at you. You couldn’t believe Spencer, the man you had built up the courage to ask out, hadn’t even shown up. As if the whole thing had been a cruel joke, he hadn’t called or texted to explain. Just… nothing.

As you stirred the sugar into your cup absentmindedly, you heard a familiar voice. “Good morning,” Spencer greeted, his tone casual as if everything was perfectly normal.

You froze, the spoon clattering against the ceramic mug. Your breath caught in your throat as you turned slowly to face him. His smile was genuine, but it was like a knife twisting in the wound. You had to swallow the rising lump in your throat as you stared at him, disbelief etched into your features.

“Good morning?” The words nearly choked in your throat as you barely managed to keep your voice from trembling. You couldn’t say anything more, couldn’t confront him here with others around. Instead, you clenched your jaw, turning on your heel, and walked out of the break room, the sting of tears burning in your eyes.

Spencer stood there, confusion furrowing his brow as he watched you leave. He replayed the conversation in his head, trying to figure out what he might have said wrong.

As you made your way back to the shared office you had with Penelope, you hastily wiped at your eyes, trying to compose yourself. The last thing you needed was anyone seeing you like this, but you knew Penelope. She was too perceptive, especially when it came to her friends.

Penelope looked up from her monitors as you entered, her vibrant outfit contrasting starkly with the dull mood you carried with you. “Hey, what’s up, sweet cheeks?” she asked, her voice full of concern the moment she noticed your expression.

You tried to play it off, offering a weak smile as you sat down at your desk, but the pain was too fresh, too raw. You sniffled slightly, quickly reaching for a tissue. “Nothing, just had a bad weekend.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed, the gears in her mind already turning. “Did you go out with the good doctor?” she asked, her voice lifting with hope as she wiggled her eyebrows. She had been so excited for you, so sure that Spencer wouldn’t say no.

But the question was the breaking point. The tears you had been desperately trying to hold back welled up, and despite your best efforts, a few escaped, sliding down your cheeks.

Penelope’s face fell as she immediately rushed over to your side, pulling a chair close to yours. “Oh honey, what’s wrong? What happened?”

You looked at her, your vision blurred by tears, and it took everything in you to say the words. “He stood me up!”

“What??” Penelope’s voice was a mixture of shock and outrage. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

You wiped at your tears with the back of your hand, feeling utterly defeated. “Spencer stood me up, Penelope. He never came, not even a call or text. Nothing.”

Penelope’s eyes flashed with anger, something you didn’t see often from her. “He must have a good reason,” she tried, but her voice lacked the usual conviction. She couldn’t imagine Spencer doing something so cruel without a reason.

But you shook your head, the hurt too deep to be consoled by simple explanations. “If he had a reason, he would have called or something, right? But he didn’t. He just… didn’t show up.”

Penelope looked like she was about to explode. “I’m gonna go give him a piece of my mind!” she declared, starting to rise from her seat, her protective instincts kicking in.

“No, Penelope,” you pleaded, grabbing her arm. “Don’t say anything, please. I’m already so humiliated.”

Penelope hesitated, her heart aching at seeing you so distraught. She sat back down, her expression softening as she took your hand in hers. “Okay, honey, I won’t. But I’m going to give him a nasty look every time I see him!”

Despite everything, you couldn’t help but let out a small, watery laugh. Penelope was one of the kindest, most understanding people you knew, and you were grateful to have her by your side, even if it didn’t make the pain go away. “Thank you, Penelope.”

She gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Anytime, sweet cheeks. Anytime.”

As you both turned back to your work, you couldn’t help but think about how the rest of the day would go, knowing that Spencer was just a few doors away, completely unaware of the hurt he had caused.

—

It was a quiet afternoon in the office, the kind where the hum of computers and the occasional ringing of phones created a soothing, almost hypnotic atmosphere. You had been working alongside Penelope for a few months now, and in that time, you’d gotten to know everyone on the team fairly well. But there was one person who had caught your attention more than anyone else—Spencer Reid.

Spencer was a fascinating mix of brilliance and awkwardness, someone who seemed to live in a world of his own, filled with facts and figures, statistics and probabilities. He was charming in his own unique way, with a smile that could light up a room. Over the weeks, you found yourself drawn to him, captivated by the way his mind worked, and how despite all his intelligence, there was a sweetness to him, a kindness that made your heart flutter.

So, after much internal debate and several pep talks from Penelope, you decided to take the plunge and ask him out. The idea terrified you—rejection was never easy, but there was something about Spencer that made you think it would be worth the risk. You caught him in a rare moment of quiet, standing by the coffee machine, refilling his cup. His focus was entirely on the task at hand, his mind likely a million miles away.

“Hey, Spencer,” you greeted, your voice light as you approached.

He looked up, blinking as if you’d pulled him from some deep train of thought. “Oh, hey,” he replied, offering you a small smile. “How’s it going?”

You fiddled with your hands nervously, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s going good, thanks. Um, I was actually wondering if… maybe you’d like to go out this weekend? With me, I mean. Like… a date?”

There was a brief silence, and for a moment, you saw something flash across his eyes—was it confusion? Shock? It was hard to tell. His expression remained neutral, almost too neutral, as if he was trying to process your words.

Spencer’s mind was racing. This couldn’t be real, right? Memories from his school days flooded back to him, unwanted and painful. He remembered the girls who had asked him out, only to laugh at him when he showed up, mocking him for believing they could ever be interested in someone like him. The sting of their cruelty had left scars, ones that never fully healed, making it hard for him to trust when it came to matters of the heart.

And now, here you were, standing in front of him, asking him out. He wanted to believe it was genuine, but the fear of being hurt again was too strong, too ingrained in him.

“Ha, yeah, sure. See you then,” he said, his voice carrying a forced lightness as he flashed you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You smiled back, relieved that he had said yes, telling him when and where to meet you. You didn’t notice the way his smile faltered slightly as you walked away, or how his gaze dropped to the floor, lost in a swirl of doubt and old wounds.

To Spencer, this was just another prank, another setup for humiliation. He couldn’t bear the thought of showing up somewhere only to be laughed at again, so he made a decision right then and there. He wouldn’t go. It was easier that way, safer. Better to be the one who doesn’t show up than the one who ends up a fool.

But as you left the break room that day, excitedly thinking about your upcoming date, you had no idea that Spencer wasn’t planning to come at all. You had no idea that his past was full of moments that had taught him to be wary of people’s intentions, to doubt even the kindest gestures. And because of that, neither of you could have anticipated the heartache that was about to unfold.

—

The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough that even those who weren’t particularly attuned to the emotional undercurrents of their team could feel it. Spencer sat at the conference table, his hands clasped together in front of him, his fingers nervously fidgeting with one another. He was trying to focus on the case at hand, but his mind kept drifting to the awkwardness that had settled in the room.

He couldn't ignore the way you had walked in, eyes fixed anywhere but on him, your expression clearly hurt and turned to avoid even glancing in his direction. It was like a punch to his gut, confirming what he feared—something had gone wrong, horribly wrong.

And then there was Penelope. She wasn’t just looking at him; she was glaring. Her usual warm, playful demeanor had been replaced by a frosty silence and a gaze that could have cut through steel. Spencer could feel the weight of it on him, making him squirm in his seat. He didn’t understand why she was so angry, but it was clear she knew something he didn’t.

Derek, sitting across the table, was the first to pick up on the strange energy. He noticed the way Penelope’s eyes kept darting over to Spencer, the way she seemed ready to pounce, her foot tapping restlessly against the floor. Derek had seen Penelope angry before, but this was different. This was personal.

As the meeting wrapped up and the team began to disperse, Derek caught up with Penelope just as she was about to leave. “Hey, baby girl,” he called softly, falling into step beside her. “You wanna tell me why you were looking at Reid like he spit in your coffee?”

Penelope paused, her face tightening as she looked around the room, making sure no one else was within earshot. Without a word, she grabbed Derek’s hand and tugged him down a quiet corridor in the office, away from prying eyes and ears.

Derek allowed himself to be pulled along, his curiosity piqued. Whatever had Penelope this riled up had to be serious. When they were finally out of sight, she turned to him, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“If I tell you, you have to be sworn to secrecy,” she said, her voice low but urgent.

Derek held up his hands in mock surrender, his expression full of concern and intrigue. “You got it, mama. My lips are sealed.”

Penelope hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering down to Derek’s mouth. “Mmm, those lips,” she muttered, before shaking her head to refocus. “Okay, focus. Y/N asked out Spencer, and he stood her up.”

Derek blinked, the surprise evident on his face. “No way,” he said, his voice dropping in disbelief.

Penelope nodded solemnly, her expression serious. “Believe it, beautiful.”

Derek leaned back against the wall, running a hand over his head as he tried to process what he was hearing. “That doesn’t sound like Reid,” he finally said, his brow furrowing in confusion. “He’s not that kind of guy.”

“I know,” Penelope sighed, her voice filled with frustration. “But Y/N said he didn’t even call her, Derek. Not a text, not a word. Just left her hanging.”

Derek felt a surge of protective anger rise within him. He couldn’t imagine Spencer doing something so thoughtless, but if it had happened, there had to be an explanation. “Oh, I’m going to have a little chat with him,” Derek said, his voice low and determined as he pushed up his sleeves, ready to confront his friend.

Penelope reached out, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “Y/N said not to intervene. She’s embarrassed,” she said, her voice softening.

Derek hesitated, looking down at Penelope’s hand on his arm, then back up at her face. He could see the conflict in her eyes, the way she wanted to protect you but also knew that something needed to be done. “I hear you, but you know I can’t just let this slide. Something’s up with Reid, and if he hurt her, even unintentionally, we need to get to the bottom of it.”

Penelope sighed, letting her hand drop as she nodded reluctantly. “Just… be careful, okay? He’s sensitive, and I don’t think he would do something like this on purpose.”

Derek gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, baby girl. I’ll talk to him, figure out what’s going on. But I won’t make a big scene. I promise.”

Penelope nodded again, trusting Derek to handle the situation delicately. “Thank you, Derek. I just want Y/N to be okay.”

“She will be,” Derek promised, squeezing her shoulder gently before heading off in search of Spencer.

—

Spencer had just finished organizing his files when he heard Derek's voice calling out to him from across the bullpen. “Yo, Reid, come have a chat with me,” Derek said, his tone casual but carrying an undertone that Spencer couldn’t quite place.

Spencer looked up, his brow furrowing in confusion. Derek’s expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that made Spencer uneasy. Nonetheless, he nodded and followed Derek as he led the way down one of the quieter hallways, away from the bustling activity of the main office.

When they reached a more secluded spot, Derek turned to face him, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the wall. Spencer shifted nervously, his mind already racing through all the possible reasons why Derek would want to talk to him in private like this.

Derek didn’t waste any time. “I heard from a little birdy that you skipped out on a promise this weekend,” he said, his voice steady but with a hint of disappointment.

Spencer’s confusion only deepened. “Huh? What? When?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. He couldn’t recall making any promises recently, much less skipping out on them.

Derek raised an eyebrow, giving Spencer a pointed look. “Your date with Y/N?” he prompted, his tone making it clear that he wasn’t messing around.

“My what??” Spencer’s eyes widened, and he took a step back, his mind reeling. “A date with Y/N?” he repeated, as if trying to wrap his head around the idea.

Derek nodded slowly, watching Spencer’s reaction closely. “Yeah, man. From what I hear, it seems pretty clear that there was a date in place. She asked you out, didn’t she?”

Spencer felt his stomach drop as the memory of your conversation in the break room flooded back to him. The moment when you had asked him out, the way he had brushed it off, thinking it was just another cruel prank like the ones he had endured in school. His face paled as the realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Oh no,” he muttered, more to himself than to Derek. He brought a hand to his mouth, the guilt starting to churn in his gut. “She… she really meant it?”

Derek’s expression softened slightly as he saw the genuine regret in Spencer’s eyes. “Yeah, Reid, she really did,” Derek confirmed, his voice gentler now. “And when you didn’t show up, she was pretty hurt. She thought you stood her up.”

Spencer’s heart sank even further. He felt like he’d been punched in the chest. “I didn’t— I thought—” He stumbled over his words, struggling to find a way to explain himself. “I thought it was a joke, Derek. I thought… I thought she was just messing with me like they used to do back in school. I didn’t think she was serious.”

Derek sighed, his frustration mingled with sympathy. He knew Spencer’s past had been tough, especially when it came to trust and relationships, but this was a mess that needed to be cleaned up. “Look, I get it, man. But you need to talk to her, explain what happened. She’s not those kids from your school. Y/N’s not like that.”

Spencer nodded, his throat tightening with emotion. “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he said quietly, his voice thick with regret. “I never wanted to hurt her.”

“I know, Reid,” Derek said, placing a reassuring hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “But you’ve gotta make this right. She deserves to know the truth.”

Spencer looked up at Derek, his eyes filled with determination despite the guilt weighing him down. “I will,” he promised. “I’ll talk to her as soon as I can.”

“Good,” Derek said, giving Spencer’s shoulder a firm squeeze before letting go. “And next time, Reid, give yourself a little more credit. Not everyone’s out to get you.”

Spencer managed a small, shaky smile. “Thanks, Derek,” he said, his voice sincere.

Derek nodded, watching as Spencer turned to head back to his desk, his mind already racing with how he was going to fix the situation.

—

The days that followed were an exercise in avoidance, a delicate dance you performed with all the grace and agility of someone trying to protect a wounded heart. You made sure to be busy—busier than usual—burying yourself in work, taking on extra tasks, and making yourself scarce in the common areas of the office. If Spencer happened to be in the break room, you suddenly remembered you needed to be somewhere else. If he entered the bullpen, you would conveniently find a reason to slip out, your footsteps quick and purposeful.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see him. On the contrary, a part of you longed for him to acknowledge what had happened, to offer an explanation or even an apology. But the other part of you, the one that was humiliated, sad, rejected, angry, and hurt, couldn’t bear the thought of facing him. You didn’t trust yourself not to break down, to let those emotions spill out in a mess of tears and confusion. So you avoided him like the plague, hoping that by keeping your distance, the wounds might heal on their own.

But Spencer wasn’t blind to your actions. He noticed how you seemed to disappear whenever he entered a room, how your laughter, which used to fill the space, was now absent, replaced by a cold silence that made him ache with guilt. He tried to catch your eye in meetings, but you wouldn’t look at him, your focus trained determinedly on your notes or on anyone else in the room. It was as if you had built an invisible wall between you, one that Spencer didn’t know how to break through.

He tried to find moments where he could talk to you, hoping for a chance to explain, to make things right. But every attempt was thwarted by your meticulous avoidance. He waited outside your office one morning, only to have you take the other exit. He lingered by the elevator after a meeting, but you took the stairs instead. It was like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands—no matter what he did, you slipped through his fingers.

Spencer knew he had to get creative if he wanted to talk to you. The usual methods weren’t working, and he couldn’t just let this go. He cared too much to let you slip away without an explanation, without trying to mend what had been broken. So, he started to think, his mind racing with possibilities. Spencer was nothing if not resourceful, and if he could outsmart the most dangerous criminals, surely he could figure out a way to reach you.

—

Spencer spent the next few days trying to think of a way to reach you, a way that you couldn’t avoid or brush aside. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he needed to do something drastic, something that would grab your attention and force you to hear him out. Given his background in technology and his time at MIT, he knew he had the skills to make it happen. He just needed to put those skills to use in a way that would make you listen.

He spent a night at home, setting up his camera, nervously adjusting the angle and lighting. He wasn’t used to making personal videos like this, but he knew it was the only way to truly convey how sorry he was. After several deep breaths, he hit record.

“Hi, Y/N,” he began, his voice soft but steady as he looked directly into the camera. “I know this is probably the last thing you want to see right now, and I’m sorry for that. But I also know that you’ve been avoiding me, and I can’t blame you for it. I just… I need you to hear me out, and since I can’t seem to get a moment alone with you, this is the only way I could think of.”

He paused, running a hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts. “I’ve spent the last few days thinking about what happened, and I know I messed up. I know I hurt you, and I hate that I did. When you asked me out, I thought it was a joke. I thought you were just messing with me, like what used to happen to me in school. I’ve been through that kind of thing before, and it’s left me with some… issues, I guess. I was scared of being hurt again, so I just assumed the worst.”

Spencer swallowed, his eyes earnest and full of regret. “But I realize now that I was wrong. You weren’t trying to hurt me, and I ended up hurting you instead. That’s the last thing I ever wanted to do. You didn’t deserve that, and I’m so, so sorry. If I could go back and do things differently, I would in a heartbeat.”

He took a deep breath, his voice softening even more. “I don’t know if you can forgive me, and I understand if you need time. But I just wanted you to know how truly sorry I am and that I didn’t mean to stand you up. I was just… scared, and I let that fear get the better of me.”

“If you’ll let me, I would love to make it up to you. Take you on a proper date this weekend. But if not, I completely understand, I won’t take offense. I’m truly sorry.”

Spencer finished recording, his heart pounding as he watched the video playback. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest. And that’s what mattered. Now came the next part—getting the video to you in a way you couldn’t avoid.

The next morning, while you were immersed in your work, your computer screens suddenly flickered. At first, you thought it was just a glitch, but then the screen went black for a moment before a video started playing. It was Spencer’s face, looking directly at you, and your heart skipped a beat as you realized what was happening.

You reached for the keyboard, trying to close the video, but it was no use. The screen remained locked on the video, Spencer’s voice filling the room as he began to speak.

“Hi, Y/N,” the video started, and you froze, your hands hovering above the keyboard as you listened. There was something about the way he was looking at you, even through the screen, that made you stop and listen.

As Spencer explained himself, as he talked about his fears and how he thought it was a joke, your heart began to soften. You could hear the sincerity in his voice, the regret that laced every word. He wasn’t just saying this because he felt obligated—he truly meant it. And that realization hit you harder than you expected.

By the time the video ended, you were left staring at the screen, your emotions a tangled mess. You felt a mix of relief, sadness, and understanding. You couldn’t deny the pain you’d felt, but you also couldn’t ignore the effort Spencer had gone through to reach out to you.

The screen flickered again, and your screens returned to normal. For a long moment, you just sat there, staring at the now-blank screen, trying to process everything. Part of you wanted to be angry, to hold onto the hurt, but another part of you—a softer, more forgiving part—knew that Spencer had been genuine. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He had just been scared, like you were now.

With a deep breath, you finally allowed yourself to acknowledge what you felt: maybe, just maybe, you could find it in yourself to forgive him. After all, everyone deserves a second chance. And Spencer Reid seemed to be worth it.

“Soo, I can’t pretend I wasn’t in here for all of that,” Penelope said, her eyes twinkling with anticipation as she leaned against the doorframe. “What are you gonna do, lovely?”

You sighed, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you glanced back at your screen, still feeling the warmth of Spencer's apology lingering in the air. You turned to Penelope, your smile growing a little wider as you finally admitted, “I think I have a date this weekend.”

Penelope’s face lit up with a grin as she clapped her hands together, clearly thrilled by your response. “That’s the spirit! You’re gonna knock his socks off, I just know it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension from the past week finally starting to melt away. “I hope so,” you said, feeling a little lighter.

—

Spencer was sitting at his desk, his leg bouncing anxiously under the table as he tried to focus on the paperwork in front of him. But his mind was elsewhere, entirely consumed by thoughts of you. He knew you’d seen the video by now—there was no way you could have missed it. But the silence that followed was eating away at him, making every minute feel like an hour. What if you decided not to respond at all? What if he had misjudged everything?

The thoughts whirled around in his mind, growing louder with each passing second until he heard a voice that made his heart skip a beat.

“Spencer?”

He looked up quickly, his nerves tightening as he saw you standing by his desk. “Hi,” he replied, his voice coming out a little shakier than he intended.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile, sensing his nervousness. “What time Saturday?” you asked, your tone soft but clear, letting him know that you were willing to give him that second chance.

For a moment, Spencer just blinked, the realization of what you were saying slowly sinking in. Relief and excitement flooded through him, and he felt the tension in his chest ease up. “Uh… how about seven?” he suggested, his voice a bit steadier now, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Seven sounds good,” you agreed, your smile widening as you saw the genuine happiness in his eyes.

“Great,” Spencer said, his heart soaring. “I’ll pick you up.”

You nodded, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. “I’m looking forward to it,” you said, and with that, you turned to leave, feeling a warmth spread through you that had been missing for the past few days.

As you walked away, Spencer couldn’t help but let out a small, relieved laugh, finally allowing himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

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[gojoidyll]

stubborn heart ch. 4

yan!capitano x wife!reader

summary | or in which capitano is told he needs a wife. and he begrudgingly agrees.

warnings | shower scene, nudity (but nothing is described), etc.

note | i have rewritten this chapter four times, and i still don't like how this turned out...

previous | next

You were gone a total of four hours, and you managed to snag a hefty amount of books from the store in town. Truthfully, you were planning on finding a job as well but figured that taking some time off from working every single day of your life would do you some good, which was how you found yourself back in your shared room, your books stacked onto your nightstand, a heavy and warm blanket on your shoulders and a book in your grasp. Your eyes devouring each word they flitted across the sentences on the page.

When you had come back, you had finally met some of the maids and butlers that worked in the mansion. They told you that Capitano wanted to speak with you alone before which was why they hadn’t been around. Which made sense. Being alone with Capitano would make anyone nervous. Especially you.

After you met the servants that worked for Capitano in his manor, they had left you to your own devices as you sought to read alone in your room.

Which was exactly what you did until night fell.

“M’lady, dinner is ready.”

“Alright! I’ll be down in a moment.”

That was another thing you had to get used to… others making food for you. It was definitely something you were never accustomed to even when you were younger.

“Please hurry down, Lord Capitano has already come home and is waiting for you.”

At the mention of his name you had slammed your book shut and tossed the covers off yourself as you rushed for the door. Swinging it open haphazardly, the maid behind it jumped a little in surprise.

“He’s here?!”

“Yes, he actually just got here-“

You hastily left your room and ran down the hall in the direction that you remember the dining room was. You weren’t a noble lady, not in the slightest. But you knew not to make a lord waiting. Father often scolded you for it. Especially since you had a tendency of getting too lost in your books when you should have been working.

“Ah, there she is,” you huffed a little as you smoothed out your dress. Your eyes scanning the room carefully.

Capitano was already sitting at his seat, your own seat was already prepared for you to his right.

Quickly trying to calm your racing heart, you carefully walked to your seat where a maid was waiting for you to pull your chair out for you.

“Capitano,” you greeted almost a bit shyly, “I’m sorry for making you wait.”

“I didn’t wait long.”

He turned to look at you, and you couldn’t deny the way your body fidgeted underneath his gaze.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

You were surprised momentarily at his question. You wondered if he was asking because he was interested, but you quickly threw that thought out the window. He was probably just making small talk…

“Yes, I did. Though, I haven’t found a job yet.”

Capitano hmmed at the news, “was the cold alright?”

“I dressed warmly enough,” you answered.

Before he could ask anything else, you were thankful that the food started to come out from the kitchen, A true blessing in disguise as you fearfully came to realize that you didn’t know how to properly talk to the man. And I am supposed to sleep next to him tonight too?!

You mentally despaired over the thought. You desperately hoped you didn’t sleep walk or talk, because you didn’t want him to think any less of you than he already does.

“Thank you for the food!”

But you guessed that would be a problem for later tonight.

…

When dinner finally concluded and you found yourself walking next to Capitano, you couldn’t help but to give him a few side glances here and there. Throughout all of dinner you couldn’t help but to stress over sleeping next to the man, and now it was quickly becoming a reality!

Coming to your shared room, Capitano opened the door for you, and when you walked in, he walked past you and towards the bathroom that was on the far side.

“Did you shower today?”

You shook your head, “no, not yet.”

“Then join me.”

You paused and let his words sink in for a moment, “hah?”

Capitano looked to you, “you will not be having a traditional honeymoon and I hear that a substitute for such a thing will be spending time together.”

You started to fidget with your fingers, “well, I mean… that’s true, but its just as you said before. Don’t expect anything.”

Capitano fully turned to you then, “but is it not expected that a husband and wife spend time together?”

He got you there, and he was right on some level. Not to mention you wanted to be a little selfish.

This wasn’t a conventional wedding. You doubted you would be getting your own happy ending anytime soon, so why not take what he offers from time to time. He’s says not to expect anything, so what was wrong with taking what he does offer? Besides, what was the harm with bathing with a man?

Your confidence was quick to whither, however the moment you entered the bathroom with him. The shower already running hot as Capitano began to undress. You never saw a man naked before. Not once. And your naivety was beginning to show.

Oh wow, you thought as you got to see his bare chest. You thought his face was a work of art, but his upper body was something else.

“Get undressed,” he ordered, his tone a bit harsh as he started to unbuckle his pants.

Shakingly, you started to undo your buttons.

Despite being married to the man now, this whole situation made you unbearably nervous. Your original thoughts of just takin what he offered soon dwindling into ash. And just as you slipped out of your dress and undergarments and even undid your hair, you found yourself closing your eyes tight the moment you heard Capitano’s pants fall and pool around his feet.

You felt embarrassment course through your veins when you didn’t hear him say anything, but luckily you didn’t have to dwell on it when you felt his hand encase itself around your arm and pull you along and into the shower.

The warm water hit you immediately, making you relax momentarily.

“Is this not comforting to you?”

His voice sent shivers down your spine despite the hot water that soaked you. You could tell he was behind you, his chest barely touching your back.

“I- I am still getting used to being married, I’m afraid…”

“We do not have to consummate this marriage yet. Though, in order for this marriage to be be seen as legitimate, we will have to be intimate with one another eventually. However, I will not force you into such arrangements until you are… used to being married.”

“Is showering together a part of me getting used to it,” you asked.

“Yes and no.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is our honeymoon. But it is also a way for you to get used to me. Mainly because it is obvious you haven’t seen a naked man before.”

You felt your face heat up instantly, and it wasn’t because of the hot water.

“Look at me when I talk to you.”

He turned you around easily, the slip of the water not helping you in the slightest as you found yourself looking up at the harbinger. And as you looked up at his face, you were awestruck with how handsome he was. Archons truly have their favorites when blessing people with good looks.

“Still not looking at all of me, but that is alright. I don’t want you fainting again.”

His words had you blushing as he leant down to you. The action catching you off guard when he placed his lips over yours.

He was kissing you again.

“I heard it was custom to kiss on your honeymoon as well, among other things, but a kiss and shower shall do good for replacements instead,” he said against your lips before deepening the kiss.

It was the longest kiss you had with him so far. You didn’t know where to put your hands, or how to move your head, so you let him do all the work while also relaxing in the hot water that cascaded over you both as you closed your eyes.

This wasn’t a bad honeymoon.

But of course, what he gives is taken away all too soon as you find yourself preparing for bed. Your nightgown already thrown over you as you are already sitting in the bed and are waiting for him.

He gave you kiss to commemorate your wedding, and a kiss and a shower together for your honeymoon.

It was more than you expected, but you were thankful.

“I’ll be gone early in the morning.”

Capitano said as he exited the bathroom, “we will not see each other for next coming of weeks.”

“Is it a mission,” you asked.

“...Yes. While I am gone, I expect you to be loyal and do not worry about a job for now.”

It kind of hurt to know that he thinks you will cheat on him, but it was understandable. He knows nothing of you. Only that you embarrass yourself easily and come from the Hearth. But the same could be said for him. What if he cheats?

As he got into bed beside you, you found that you couldn’t voice your concerns. He still scared you after all.

“Goodnight… wife.”

The single title surprised you as did other things, but you ignored the light thumping of your heart as much as possible, “goodnight husband.”

You hoped that whatever the future had in store for you would be good.

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[daizymax]

wondrous | lmh (m)

summary: pregnancy is strange and uncomfortable and even kind of gross, but your loving husband is always willing to show you just how desirable and wonderful you are.

pairing: lee know x fem reader

genre: smut

word count: 5.3k

rating: mature (18+)

warnings & features: profanity; pregnancy; some body insecurities; binary gender talk; graphic sexual content; pregnant sex; dirty talk; lactation kink; creampie

author’s note: rewritten for stray kids and reuploaded from my old blog. hope you enjoy!

{ click here if you prefer to read on AO3 }

---

Slamming the car door with more force than necessary is childish, and if your husband were here, he would probably tell you so. Well, maybe not in such blatant terms. First, he would probably ask you to explain what led you to such pissy behavior, and your answer would be that you’re frustrated and out of patience.

You hate that your patience is in such short supply these days. You know you are going to need all of it and then some when the baby comes.

You rest one of your hands on the crest of your bulging stomach and sigh softly. “I’m sorry,” you say to the ever-growing baby within. “I guess you might need to be patient with me, too, if it’s not too much to ask.”

The tears well up unbidden. That happens often lately with your hormones on the fritz. Evidently something as mundane as a shopping trip to the mall is enough to upset you nowadays. Then your mind dwells on how you should be grateful to be in a position to buy the things you want and need whenever you want, and that only makes you sob harder.

You allow the silly little breakdown to run its course, knowing it will be better to sit and let it out now before you drive home.

After a few minutes, you sniffle and wipe your wet cheeks in shame. After a couple more minutes of deep breaths, when you are certain you are stable enough to drive, you start the engine.

The commute home gives you some time to decompress, and the sight of Minho’s car in the driveway lifts your spirits. He told you this morning that he might have to work late this evening — which was fine by you since it translated to having more money for the pending expenses of birthing and raising a child — but having him home is even better.

A loud clang and a muttered curse greet you as you enter the front door. It may not be a polite reaction, but you can’t help but smile at whatever your husband is struggling with in the kitchen. You sling your shopping bags onto the couch and go to rescue him.

Minho is bent over at the waist, rummaging through a bottom cabinet with his backside to you. You take a moment to ogle the fit of his jeans appreciatively before making your presence known.

“Hi honey, need some help?”

He flinches and whirls around. “Heyyy, doll! I didn’t hear you come in.” He hastily combs his fingers through his smooth brown hair as if to compose himself for you.

“That’s because you were busy tearing down the kitchen, from the sound of it,” you laugh.

He does not even dispute your joke. He just groans in frustration and kicks his foot out behind him to close the cabinet. “Where do we keep the rice cooker? I swear I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Did you look here?” You pull open the correct cabinet near your calves and squat down to retrieve it. He rushes to stop you.

“Hey, hey, let me get it.” He comes over and crouches with you only to put his hands on your hips and guide you back up with him. “You shouldn’t exert yourself. I have a bun in that oven, lady.”

You snort loudly. “Don’t I know it. My whole day was an over-exertion, though. I think I can handle stooping over to grab the rice cooker.”

“Oh?” His face becomes concerned, eyebrows wrinkling and pink lips pouting adorably. His hands begin sliding up and down along your sides. “What was wrong with your day?”

“Oh, I’ve just decided I hate shopping for maternity clothes now,” you say, sighing heavily. The statement is so frivolous it makes you cringe, but the rest of your unimportant complaints come flooding out anyway. “They’re all so unflattering, not to mention it’s so uncomfortable trying them on. Getting undressed and redressed is such a pain in the ass. It’s like a whole fucking workout now, I swear to god.”

“Ah, I bet. Poor thing,” Minho says without a trace of condescension to his tone, and you envy his patience. He pulls you in for a hug in his strong arms, and your swollen stomach bumps against his flat one.

Inspired by his understanding, you continue unburdening your rather meaningless worries into his shoulder. “It was so crowded, too. I hate how everyone stares at me all the time just because I’m pregnant. And I especially hate when other parents come up to me and give me advice or tell me stories about their own pregnancies, like I fucking asked.”

Minho laughs and massages his fingertips into the back of your head. “I think they’re just trying to be kind and helpful. They only mean well.”

“Yeah, well, it’s also super annoying.”

“Sorry. What can I do to help?”

You shake your head and step back from him. “Right now I just want to shower and change my clothes. I’m not kidding about that ‘workout.’ I’ve been sweating for hours and I feel disgusting right now. The boob sweat is strong under this sweater right now.”

“Well, we’ve got a towel right here.” He whips the dish towel off the handle of the stove with a flourish and holds it up with a cheeky grin. “Let me help you.”

You laugh. “You want to dry my boobs off with that?”

“It’s clean!”

“Don’t be silly.”

“You’ll be glad for my silliness when our baby comes,” he says, dropping the towel to start tickling you mercilessly.

Your stomach muscles heave with your fit of giggles, and the baby starts kicking to join in on the commotion.

“Ah! No t-tickling, damnit! The b-baby doesn’t like it.”

“No?” Minho stops his playful torment and cups your stomach on either side. It only takes a second for him to feel what you mean. “I think maybe she does.”

“Or he. The baby could be a boy, you know.”

The two of you have decided to keep the gender a surprise until the birth, but that does not stop your husband from speculating.

“Could be,” he says a bit dismissively. He kneels down on the tiled floor so his face is level with your belly-button, which has recently begun to protrude outwards like the rest of you.

He runs his fingers along the surface of your stretched sweater and says quietly, “I just have a hunch that it’s a girl. She’s feisty, like you.” He places a sweet kiss on the top of your belly, then speaks directly to it. “Sorry about the tickling, sweet baby girl. Daddy was just making Mommy laugh to help make her feel better. I have something else that might make her feel better, though.”

“What is it?” you ask.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

Minho interlocks his fingers with yours and leads you up the stairs — which have become quite the strain on your knees lately — and to the baby’s room.

The moment he pushes open the door, you see exactly what he means. The crib now resembles a crib and not a scattering of wooden pieces strewn around the floor the way they had been for weeks. The inside is lined with blankets and stuffed animals, and the mobile you chose is hanging above it. It could hardly be more picturesque.

With this, the nursery is complete. The painting had been finished a couple months ago, and the other pieces of necessary and decorative furniture have been set in their places for quite some time as well.

“Wow, you actually finished it?” you say. “How did you have time to do that after work today?”

“You were gone for longer than you realize,” he says, chuckling. “I took half the day off to come home and surprise you, but you weren’t here, so I decided to surprise you with this instead.”

“Consider me surprised,” you say with a smile. You squeeze his hand before letting go and walking over to the crib. You give the rail a little shake to test the sturdiness of your husband’s handiwork, and your eyebrows raise in satisfaction at the result.

“I only had to start all over again once,” Minho says proudly, sidling up beside you and gliding a hand along the small of your back to rest on your hip. His thumb traces little circles into it.

“You did a great job,” you say, turning in his hold to wrap your arms around his waist in return, albeit with a bit of difficulty due to your belly getting in the way.

“Glad you like it.” He leans forward to plant a kiss on your forehead, then your nose, then down to your chin, then back up to your mouth. You smile and chase after his lips when he pulls away, and he laughs as he kisses you again. “Come on, let’s sit for a bit and get you off your feet. Dinner and a shower can wait a little while longer.” He moves over to the rocking chair in the corner and takes a seat, then pats his lap invitingly.

“Min, I’ll crush you,” you say with a shake of your head.

He shakes his head right back. “Oh, stop it. No you won’t. You’re not that heavy, and I’m not that fragile.”

He starts beckoning you by stretching his arms out and repeatedly opening and closing his hands. The action is irresistibly cute, so you relent. You toe off your shoes and go to sit on his proposed seat. You try not to rest too much weight on him as you sit on his knee, but he ruins your position by taking your hips and dragging you further up his muscular thigh.

“Put your legs up on me,” he says. “If it’s not too uncomfortable for you, I mean.”

You do as he says and turn sideways to hoist your legs over his other thigh. Minho holds onto your knee with one hand and wraps his other arm behind your back to keep you in place.

“There we go. Is this okay?” he asks.

You shift and wiggle until your back is relatively comfortable. “I think so. Are you okay?”

He smiles and squeezes you reassuringly. “I’ve got my beautiful wife on my lap... we’re sitting right where we’ll be rocking our baby when she — or he — is born... I’d say I’m pretty perfect.”

You take his word for it and sigh in content, leaning into him and resting your head in the crook of his neck. He lays his cheek against your head and pushes his feet off the floor to begin gently rocking the chair as it was intended.

For a few moments, the two of you sit and rock in silence until Minho begins humming softly. Something mellow and baritone. The melody is one you recognize, but the lyrics to that particular song elude you. You’ll ask him about it later. Right now, the vibrations from his throat and the steady thrum of his heartbeat are lulling you peacefully. The faint scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body seep comfortably into your skin.

You tilt your face up to kiss his throat appreciatively for the comfort he is providing. He hums out of tune at your gentle touch, and you kiss him there again. This time you take a bit of his flesh into your mouth with a delicate suck, and he hisses in a short breath. His reaction spurs you to do it again, and then again, until the honey skin is left pink from the teasing.

“Mm, that feels really good, babe,” Minho murmurs. The pet name makes your heart flutter a bit; it was used so frequently at the start of your relationship, but over the years it has become a bit more rare. It makes you feel a little sexy, even in your sweaty, bloated, and achy state.

“Yeah? Should I keep going?” you ask. Your lips ghost over his neck, and your fingers begin trailing down the center of his chest.

“Please.” There is a slight rasp to the syllable that makes you feel proud considering you have barely even done anything to him.

Your fingers find the hems of his sweater and white t-shirt and begin tugging at them. “Do you mind if I take these off?”

“Not at all.” He shrugs out of his cardigan then lifts his arms so you can have the honor of pulling up his shirt to toss it aside. The taut muscles in his chest and abdomen twitch as your fingertips graze them. Before you get to the waistband of his jeans, Minho takes your wandering fingers and stops you.

“Wait,” he says. You look at him curiously. “You said you had a rough day. I should take care of you.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, I figured I could start by getting you out of your clothes, and then we can see where things lead.”

Sex with your husband has been infrequent over the course of your thirty-week pregnancy so far, but it has occurred. The doctor assured you there are no complication risks involved, even when this far along. Your pregnancy is perfectly healthy, and sex is not harmful to the baby, so you and Minho are free to continue your normal sex life.

The problem is you don’t always feel up for sex. Between your various aches and the increasing challenge of finding a comfortable position, you sometimes have to wonder if an orgasm is really worth the trouble. But it has been a while since your last release, and you trust Minho to be caring and attentive, so you nod in agreement.

He guides you to stand up from his lap, and you allow him to remove your shirt. The sheen of sweat that has been building for the greater part of the afternoon is made even more apparent when the open air meets it.

“Ugh, I still feel gross,” you mutter under your breath. The inkling of sexiness you felt just moments ago is already gone.

“You don’t look gross,” Minho says. He scans you from head to toe before settling his gaze on your chest. “Will you take your bra off for me, please?”

You hesitate a few seconds, then unhook the restrictive garment and shrug out of it to let it drop to the floor. The moment it is gone, Minho reaches out to grasp your hips and slide his hands up along the expanse of your stomach. His warm, tender touch sends a shiver through you, and the baby begins fidgeting again. Your husband must feel it, too, because he smiles up at you brightly.

“God, how did I get so lucky? You are so beautiful.” His tone carries real sincerity. “Especially with your body like this, carrying our child. You’re so fucking… wonderful.”

You automatically let out an unflattering snort of self-consciousness as you think of the new stretch marks striping your breasts, hips, and stomach. You can’t even bring yourself to look at them right now.

“I mean it. It’s true,” he insists. His eyes drop to your bare stomach to look at what you will not. “It’s amazing how you’re able to grow a baby inside of you, just because I came in you.”

There is laughter in your breathy exhale. “Gee, you make it sound so sexy, Min.”

“But it is sexy. You’re growing hands and feet and… eyes inside your womb right now, this very moment.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That doesn’t sound sexy at all. It sounds scientific.”

“Yeah, but it’s also kind of magical, isn’t it? And just think about it: you’ll be able to feed the baby with your body, too…” Minho folds his bottom lip between his teeth for a second as he studies your chest with great interest. “Just look at these perfect tits, getting all swollen with milk for our baby.”

He starts to squeeze, lift, and massage your breasts reverently, completely undeterred by the stickiness coated on the undersides of them from your sweat. A quiet moan rumbles up from your throat.

Even though he is being gentle, the stimulation is still enough to make your nipples begin discharging a thick fluid that is slightly yellow in color. The sight of it kind of embarrasses you, even though it is completely natural. Your doctor explained that it is the “pre milk” before your body begins producing normal breast milk after the birth.

“Min…” you fret with a nervous giggle. You peel his hands away and take a step back from him.

“It’s okay, babe,” he says. He stands up and rearranges your hands so that he is the one holding yours. “It’s just your body, don’t be ashamed. I told you, you’re beautiful. You’re wonderful. You’re amazing.”

He lifts the heavy mounds on your chest again and presses them together as if to get a better view of the wetness seeping from them. He swipes his thumbs over both of your wet nipples, then casually sticks one of his thumbs in his mouth as if he has done this many times before.

“Mm, tastes sweet,” he says.

“Does it?”

“Yeah. Can I… do you think I could...” He trails off in a puff that sounds like he is the one who’s embarrassed. Eventually, he blurts, “I want to try some more.”

“What, you want to actually… drink it?” you ask. The notion surprises you, and you want to make sure you are understanding him correctly.

“I’d like to try, if you’re comfortable with that. I just want to appreciate your body in every way.”

Minho rolls a sensitive pebble between his thumb and forefinger as he waits for your reply.

After another second, you nod your consent, and he flashes you a toothy smile before he latches his mouth directly onto your nipple. The touch of his soft lips coupled with the tip of his tongue makes you gasp in pleasure. Goosebumps break out over your skin as he suckles delicately. You have to admit the sensation of the fluid flowing from your nipple is oddly satisfying, and the wet suction sound Minho is creating is more than a little erotic. Heat starts to pool between your legs to dampen your panties.

“Is this okay?” he asks you again, peering up at your face as he switches to the other tit. When his tongue takes the nipple in between his lips, you notice it is coated with a milky sheen.

“Yeah, it… it actually feels really good,” you confess. Without consciously choosing to do it, your thighs press together to apply some pressure to your clit. Even with your stomach in the way, Minho’s smirk tells you he does not miss the action.

“Are you wet down there between your legs, too?”

“Yes.”

“Dripping?”

“Mm…”

“I want to feel.”

“Be my guest,” you invite. He goes to slip his hand past the waistband of your pants, but you quickly instruct, “Just take them off.”

He does not need to be told twice. He detaches from your breast and yanks your pants down to your ankles. You steady yourself on his shoulders as you pull your feet free.

“Panties, too,” you add, but his fingers are already hooking into them.

Once they are shed, Minho takes his time running his warm hands back up your calves to your inner thighs, spreading your legs just a little wider than hip-width apart. He wastes no more time in dipping the pads of three fingers along your slit. The slickness he finds there has both of you groaning lowly.

“You are wet. Is this all because I sucked a little milk from your tits?”

A slow smile grows across your face. “Maybe.”

“Should I suck some more?”

“I don’t think there’s much in there at a time yet, honestly,” you tell him rather seriously. “Not until after the baby is born.”

He hums in understanding. “That’s okay, babe. I’ll settle for eating your pussy, if that’s alright,” he says, sinking two knuckles inside you.

“J-Jesus, Min. Y-yeah. Please.”

He grins, drawing his fingers back a little just to shove them in forcefully. “Alright. Have a seat for me,” he says. He removes his fingers from you and slides them into his mouth for the taste of something else. He really does adore all parts of you.

The rocking chair tips backwards when you settle into it, which only improves the access Minho has to your pussy. He makes it even easier for himself, however, by kneeling down and hoisting your legs onto each of his shoulders.

“Is this good?” he asks. He brings his head between your thighs and dots soft kisses along one of them.

You scoot your butt to the very edge of the seat. “Yeah, for now. I’ll let you know if it starts to hurt.”

“Please do,” he agrees at once.

He leans forward and parts your sticky folds with two fingers before dragging his tongue from the bottom of your slit to the top in one slow, firm motion. Your breath hitches in your chest when he buries the pink muscle into your wet hole. He licks in a circle from one pulsing wall to the other and back again, then pulls back and licks his lips.

“Do you want my tongue in you and fingers on your clit, or my tongue on your clit and fingers in you?” he asks. He does not normally require such direct instructions, but he has been so concerned with you in your pregnant state. He wants to make sure he is giving you as much pleasure as possible, and he does not want any room for misunderstanding or disappointment.

“Fingers inside, please,” you say.

Minho fits one finger back inside your pussy, soon followed by a second, and your walls squeeze tightly around the digits to welcome and secure them. Then he flattens his tongue to press it back and forth, up and down over your clit. He builds a steady pace that renders your eyes closed and mouth unhinged to let flow a stream of pleasurable sighs and moans. Your pitch heightens considerably when his fingers hit pay dirt on that spot inside you that always makes your toes curl. When you rock against his face to get all the friction you can, the chair moves with you.

“Shit, this is so hot, babe,” your husband groans from below. “Should’ve eaten you out in a rocking chair a long time ago.”

You start to respond but your words pinch into a squeal from a particularly strong tap against your g-spot with his fingertips, and that seems to be all the answer he could want.

Minho becomes greedy for your unfiltered noises and closes his lips around your clit to suck it the way he sucked your nipples just moments earlier. A shiver tumbles down each rung of your spine, all the way to your clenched toes. Your muscles tense to cope with the sheer intensity of the pleasure being administered to that oh-so-sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. His fingers work tirelessly to undo you in tandem with his skillful tongue. The crest of your climax is drawing near so soon.

“Oh my god, Min,” you breathe with hardly any sound. “Fuck, you’ve got me so close already.”

He grunts his acknowledgement. “Is this how you want to come, doll? All over my fingers? All over my tongue?”

It is very tempting, but you still decline. “N-no. I want you inside me.”

“I’m already inside you.” He twists his fingers pointedly. “Can you be more specific?”

“You know what I mean,” you groan.

He has to get in a few more swipes of his tongue before he can say, “Yeah, but I want to hear you say it. You can have everything you want if you ask me.”

“I want your c-cock inside me. Now, please.”

Minho makes no move to cease his actions other than to briefly retract his tongue to speak again. “You sure you don’t want me to just keep going? You’re so close.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Please, fuck me already.”

The moan he lets out when he pulls away from you and gets to his feet is positively carnal. He rushes to undo his jeans, then shoves both them and his underwear to the floor in one swoop. You tilt your head to take in the view of his erect cock; the bulbous head is nearly purple from engorgement, and there is a glistening wetness at the slit from a buildup of precum.

“How do you want me?” he asks.

“Let’s try the chair.”

“Do you want to bend over it and I’ll fuck you from behind? Or do you want me to sit down and have you ride me?”

“Sit down and I’ll try riding you.”

You rock yourself up and out of the chair, and Minho takes a firm hold of each of your hands to help tug you to your feet. He kisses you quick and sloppy, giving you a quick taste of your arousal, before switching places with you and taking a seat. His cock points upwards as the perfect target for you to sit on.

You face away from him and straddle his legs to get yourself in position. One of his hands steadies your lowering hips as the other lines his dick up for entry. The tip squeezes into your warm wetness with ease. Minho spreads his legs wider and thrusts up to fit a few more inches of himself. With another shove from him and a bit of wriggling on your part, he bottoms out.

“Fuck, you always feel so fucking good,” he rumbles from behind you. Both of his hands are clenched tightly on your hips now.

You moan in agreement. “So do you.”

Bracing yourself on the arms of the chair, you raise yourself up a couple inches, then sink back down swiftly. Minho plants his feet firmly to keep the chair steady and meet you blow for blow as you start up a rhythm. The two of you grunt and pant with every stroke; the sounds are out of sync, but your movements are not.

The friction feels good, but your looming orgasm from earlier is not quite building again as you had hoped it would. Furthermore, your arms are already beginning to tremble from your efforts.

“Shit,” you swear in frustration. “Maybe this won’t work after all.”

He brings up his earlier suggestion and says, “Want to try bending over?”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s try that.”

His wet dick falls out of you to slap against his stomach when you stand up from his lap. Again, the two of you switch positions so you can lean down and prop your arms along the armrests of the chair. The seat tilts downward as you bend over and press your head against the back of it, and your breasts hang heavy below you. You vaguely notice they have begun to leak again.

Minho steps up behind you and returns his hands to your waist to lift your backside a little higher to expose yourself to him. The head of his cock briefly pokes over your asshole when he guides it into place at your pussy again. With a sigh of satisfaction, he pushes back inside and waits for an extended moment while you to readjust to the tight stretch of his girth.

When you tell him you’re ready, he recreates the rhythm you had started earlier, but at a slightly faster tempo now. Each smack of his tensed thighs against your buttocks makes your breasts bounce — another motion that does not go unnoticed by him.

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” he breathes. One of his hands reaches over to cup one swinging breast and then the other. His fingers toy at your wet nipples once more. “You’re already such a MILF.”

The term makes you burst into surprised laughter. “Oh my god, please do not call me that,” you say.

“Why not?” Minho laughs back. “It’s true. You’re so. Damn. Sexy.” He emphasizes each word with concise, gasp-inducing thrusts. “And motherhood is only going to enhance that.”

“Ungh, right now I just want to come,” you groan, not interested in continuing a conversation at the moment, no matter how flattering. Your body feels heavy, but the coil in you is getting close to snapping again. “Please, Min... please…”

“Oh, you will, doll. I want you to come just as badly.” He pinches your drippy nipple with one hand, maneuvers the other hand around your waist, under your stomach, between your legs to trap your throbbing clit between two fingers. “Want you to come all over this cock.”

“Keep going and I will,” you promise him.

He speeds his hips up until he is hitting your g-spot with every push. He rubs and plays with your clit just the way you like. The steady whapping sound of skin on skin fills the nursery, along with your breathless encouragements for your husband to keep groping, keep pounding, keep going.

“You’re dripping everywhere for me, aren’t you, baby?” he grunts, his breath hot and ragged. “Got your sticky little clit in one hand, and your tit is leaking in my other.”

He is not wrong. Everything is so wet, so hot, so sticky. You whimper and repeatedly push back against him to further increase the friction.

“So fucking filthy,” he goes on, nearly growling. “Makes me want to bust and fill you up with cum. There’s gonna be so fucking much of it.”

His words, combined with a few more sweeps of his fingers over your clit and stabs of his cockhead against the sweetest part of you, burst you straight through the roof of your climax. With a whiny, broken moan, your pussy clamps him tightly, and it is not more than four of five more strokes before he joins you in sheer bliss. He seizes and grunts deeply as his cum shoots out of his twitching cock to meet the resistance of your already-occupied womb. He was right — there is a lot of it. The viscous white fluid oozes out of you and down along your thighs before the spurts have even finished trickling out of him.

Both pairs of legs between the two of you are shaky as Minho pulls out of your swollen pussy with a slick squelch. He helps straighten your body and pulls you into an adoring hug as you both regain your lost breath. His sweaty chest is nearly as damp as yours as it heaves against your back. You can feel his heart racing.

“You alright, doll?” he checks while dotting sweet kisses along your shoulder. “Was that good?”

“Very good,” you pant with a blissed smile. You turn your head to the side and pucker your mouth for a kiss. Your lower belly is cramping from the intensity of your orgasm, and you massage it absently as Minho’s lips envelop yours. His fingers bump yours as he, too, goes to cradle your stomach.

“How’s our little princess?” he asks next.

“Fine,” you answer. You kiss him deeply and whisper against his mouth: “We’re both just fine, thanks to the daddy.”

---

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copyright © 2024 by daizymax. all rights reserved. back to masterlist

[choccy-zefirka]

"Wyll is boring!" "No, Halsin is boring!" Calm down, neither of them is boring, they are both great characters with a strong moral compass who suffer from having their content cut and/or hastily rewritten

[doublekanble]

heart

Alastor/reader (gnc)

romantic-platonic

word count: 5.5k

or, alastor is a man of many things, and you believed he can never love without hurting his love. tw: a small paragraph of al eating your heart.

1. “–I was right.”  you coughed, the more you do, the more your voice choked on itself. Your body seized and shuddered with every beat of your heart as blood spew from the wound, already giving up on getting yourself away when you can barely breathe. He wishes he could’ve made it easier for you, but he got caught up. “you really are selfish…”

As the hand he’s holding onto quickly grew cold, Alastor hoped, for all its worth, that when he fall, however long it’ll takes, you’ll find the strength to finally accept his love for you. For now, he set his left ear over your heart, his hair stained red, Alastor listened closely for what he thought was the last time, as you and your life stops entirely.

(having done this time and time again, for the first time in a long time, he felt a longing for warmth, your warmth, the one seeping from you and dissipating with the cold air in the night.)

2. If there is ever a need to described himself, then Alastor would be the first to say that he is a man of many thing.

The charming popular radio host of New Orleans, the life of the party, a bachelor second to none. He’s your friendly neighbor who greets you with a smile and a caring friend. He’s the perfect son and an amiable stranger. Everything you want, he will be. Everything, except all you ever wanted from him is someone to talk to.

You’ve always a strong fascination for writing from years gone by. From the gloomy and miserable words of a poor but astute poet, riddled with nihilism and pain, to a long-gone romanticist who wrote fairy tales and chasing love he couldn’t held in his hand, or a myth, lost to time and rewritten over and over again. All the books you ever care to curated in your home is that of the classic and the dead.

Perhaps that’s why he’d grown so attached to you and the poetry you sewn into existence with clumsy words.

With his unfortunate lot in life despite his mother’s best effort –god bless that woman, Alastor would, in time, learn how to play charade better than anyone else, barely remembering the last time he bother to show care to anyone else with love and honesty rather than bemusement. He doesn’t need moth-bitten books to guide him through conversation when he can just as easily play the role of a salesman, granting you the option to pick between a piece of stale bread or the last supper. But only a salesman in the end, his words and gestures is with all the saccharine and none of the sugar.

Although he could never hope to weaves paintings with his word, ever only a mockery of one, Alastor welcome his shortcoming in strides, as long as people bought into his act. For the love he lacks in his heart, valuable you, his treasured companion, would make up for it all.

In stark contrast to his hidden callousness, you were a much more genuine person. The books and stories you gathered throughout your short-lived life give you a means to convey the feelings that made up your whole existence. In the occasion where he manage to pick the right topic, you would choose to hastily penned out your thoughts, writings border-on obsessive as you speak of vivid strokes of emotions no single word in any language can ever hope to capture. And yet, your heart, enraptured by the scenery, frantically beat so loudly in your chest as you speak of worlds end and death departed with shared poison; it would also spoke of a love so ordinary and mundane.

You’d never mourned the Danish storyteller that chased love endlessly, simple deeming it a life worth living. He wondered if you ever regretted telling him that.

(you sing praises to the odds and the out of sort while cursing at the commonplace of life, Alastor charmed the ordinary and laugh at the macabre death brings. as long as you’re there by his side, he have no need to love anything else.)

 3. Just like everything else about you, your close proximity to Alastor is not the standard, and should always be seen as an exception.

That evening, you both got shooed away after a particularly early dinner, his mother’s only excuses was that you, the esteemed and beloved guest, already help with cooking, so it’s only natural you’ll get to spend the rest of the stay resting up. Even if the most you ever did was being so horrendous at chopping veggies, Alastor ended up taking over your load instead.

He laugh about it, saying that you’re pretending so you don’t have to do the work. His mother slapped him on the back of his head, while he nearly chop off his own fingers, she comforts you about your culinary skill. You smile at him when she turns her back on you both, knowing full well Alastor’s fighting his instinct to throw the first thing in his hand at you.

You two stand awkwardly on the porch and stare at the only available seat before Alastor argues that he did the most work so he should take the rocking chair. You point out how he’s practically whispering in the hope of his mother not noticing, he doesn’t bother to deny it.

After some mindless chatter, Alastor would suddenly joke about how if he were to ever read the same works as you, maybe he’ll be able to conceived a love so vicious and gentle too. You, sitting just by his feet, only gives him a sheepish smile. It wasn’t until before you’re at the front of his door, already bid his mother goodbye and ready to go back, that you would throw a remark at him.

“I think you’re a pretty vicious guy on your own,” you walk the three step down and continued through the front walk nonchalantly, hands in your coat pocket instead of linking with his like usual. “If you were to love someone, you’ll hurt them in the end. Even if you were to read all of my books.”

You stand at his gate. Although you’re waiting to see whether he’s going to go with you, you might as well have been gauging his reaction. Unconsciously, as he catches your gaze, he relaxed his grip and stride towards you like a panther to a sitting duck.

“You’re welcomed to, by the way. Just don’t dog-tag them.” Faint stinging shot through the heart of his hands from where his nails was digging into. His laugh sounds more like choking as he ignores your offer for now.

“Now, I wasn’t aware you have such a dreadful view of me, let alone thinking I can’t – what?” incredulously, Alastor barks “Love?! HAH!I supposed one of us are going to have to break that pathetic news to my mother.”

The moment he reach you, he catches a soft sigh falling from your lips, “It’s not that I think you can’t, Al.” the nickname that he imprinted on your frontal lobe sounded like nails on chalkboard, “It’s that I think you shouldn’t.”

“How delightful…”

You turned and began to walk on your own. If Alastor was anyone else, he would’ve taken this at face value and get offended at your eccentricity.

“And where, pray tell, does these impressions of yours come from?” He snatched your left arm, pulling it from its resting place and do the job himself. You give him a look, he smiles.

“I’ve been watching you.” His expression must’ve been something, enough for you to instantly stop on the sidewalk as you stammered and tries to pull your arm from him. “Not like that you deviant! I was just trying to get a read on you, since everyone kept talking about you being unattached and all.”

“Yes, yes, I know. What now, you want in on the chase? It’s ok dear, I know I’m utterly irresistible!” Refusing to let go of you, he only laugh on as you scowl. It’s well known to everyone that Alastor have been available for the longest time since anyone ever known him. It was also a well-kept mystery, the fact he have never courted a single person throughout his entire life.

“Utterly hogwash, that’s what you are.” Huffing to yourself, you finally would relent your arm to him. Your shared steps echoing across the darkening street, it’s near curfew. “I do have to say, I see what they meant, about you being a good spouse and all that,” He smiles a bit brighter at that, “But I just can’t see you being vulnerable with anyone else. You despises things not going your way, and love just have too much uncertainty!”

“Yes, yes,” he repeats, as if soothing you from a tantrum, “Weak and frail Alastor, the poor soot of New Orleans, unable to tear his ribcages open and show everyone his organs the same way his beloved whimsical friend here does every day ~.” You hiss as he settled his own weight against you with his head on your shoulder, nearly knocking the both onto the ground, “I guess you’ll just have to be with me for the rest of your life then! If you don’t, I’ll simply drown in my own piled up misery! What a life it’ll be!”

“Sure you will. Now get off and take me back home you dramatic coot.”

4. At that time, there was no need for Alastor to inquire your meaning of “vicious”.

In direct contrast to your trusting nature, you’re also perceptive and doubtful to a fault. The first slight of your tongue was a comment on how he can stop smiling around you. Always with that same gaze as you have now, lying underneath him. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he said to you that day. But it was enough for you to stood up and walked from the table with a ten-dollar bill pin under your half-finished lemon tea. The issue was quickly resolved with a phone call to your home, but he quickly learned that you don’t take kindly to – and quite frankly, refused to participate in – saccharine sweet insult.

But at what point did he stop hiding himself and let you read him freely, he thought. If he bit down on his tongue until he bleeds and shut you out like how he did to so many others who couldn’t even take one step near him, then maybe something could’ve turn out differently.

Replaying that moment over and over in his head, for the first time in his life, Alastor think about the concept of love, really think about it. It simply was an aspect of life that he never pay mind to, equating it with romance book and kissing under starry skies, and thus, utterly useless. When he think of love, all he have to go off of is his dear old mother, who sacrifices and suffers so much for him, which, in time, he pay her back with everything he have. His life was only about her and himself and the bodies under the forest floor and it was everything he wanted and more. Until one rainy day, with his eyes on the script he’s writing out for tomorrow’s broadcast, bleary-eyed and hearing the bed calling his name, he thought about you.

When he came to, he already dropped his coffee cup. The brown liquid burns, even through his slipper.

After that, Alastor would start picking out books from your carefully curated shelves, sitting in your armchair and skims through the lines while you spread across the ground like an old cat, he tried to find the feelings that you described to him in the same page you’d read a million times and over. But as he does so, he would soon find that there’s not a single word in any of those old and yellowed pages of yours that is able to captured the quickly spreading rot in his heart. In a frenzied, Alastor would burn through your small library faster than you could ever hope for.

(Alastor knows that time and time, again and again, as long as you’re willing to reach for his hand, he will never let go of yours.

at some point, he’d stop caring about whether you’re willing to at all. why would he, when the meaning of being able to love you became all he care to know at all.)

5.

“You don’t need to love like I do, you know that, right?”

He turns to you, on your stomach, lying in your nest of blankets and pillows with a pencil in hand putting down incomprehensible charcoal shape.

“Bragging now, are we?” he gets up from the armchair and settled down by your side, eyes watching your hand while propping the book he was reading in his lap. You crank your neck and stare at him with a look, “And how are you so sure I want to love like you, dear?”

“You’ve been plowing through my books.”

He sends you a beaming smile, acting innocent while playing with your hair.

“You offered.”

“Aren’t they all the one I told you about?”

Your eyes on the book he’s holding, then the one he just placed back into the shelves. It feels like he’s back in his mother’s kitchen, with his dirty nails behind his back and a poor excuse for the missing bread on the dinner table. Except this time, there’s just you and him in your small living room, and you’re looking awfully smug about it.

Raising his hand in the air, he sigh pitifully, “Ah~, guilty as charged, darling.” and offers nothing else. The silence afterward is enough of a white flag anyway.

Pleased with what you got from him, you turn back to your work, seemingly unaware (or even worse, maybe you don’t care at all) about the gnawing in his chest and the storm raging in his head while his hand weaves through your hair.

The last time you talked to him about love, you more-or-less called him and his love hazardous. While Alastor have no trouble with accepting it from anyone else, with you, it feels as if you’re discarding a part of him to the dogs. Although his knowledge on many topics far exceeds yours, when it came to pure and genuine emotions from the heart, you’d know enough to examine him under all type of love there is, and time after time you’d deemed him impossible to ever love. And despite knowing loving and love is wholly separate, it tears him open to even considers that you’d thought of him as unable to love and be loved and something about it is just so incredibly agonizing to the point of wanting to rip you open so you can see just how unlovable you are too.

But in your living room, sitting right next to you the way no one else is allowed to. He sigh, making sure his words doesn’t come off as unpleasant as he feels.

“If I don’t have to love like you, then how do you supposed I should be doing it?”

“I’m not sure, but hopefully not at all.” You said offhandedly, but you might as well just drove a knife through his stomach, but it’s you, so he let it be, “If you can’t help yourself though, you’ll probably do something really horrible.”

“What do you supposed I’ll do?”

You turn to him, a hint of surprise in your eyes at how close he is now, but you let him be, “Undecided. But you seems like the type to let it eats you alive.”

“I’ll let my love eats me?” Laughing in disbelief, he could almost call you cute with how you nodded to yourself, resolute in your idea about him.

“You’ll let it eats you, yes.”

Alastor chuckled to himself as he tap your sketchbook twice, you hand it to him.

“Well, I’ll need to make sure that I won’t be alone, aren’t I?”

You laugh openly and said that’s true, he’s too selfish to be taken alone. Alastor couldn’t care about how much of that was just more of your usual jest and how much of it is your view of who he is. If you, who love so selflessly and readily, agrees without push back, that someone as selfish as him will doomed whoever it is that he loves so much, then who is he to deny.

At that time, the line of charcoal you put onto the paper come together to show a shadow of a small man dragging a coat by his unseen feet, a mock-up from one of the stories that you loved. Alastor stop wondering if he ever could love something like the poems and stories you’ve read a million times over, instead, he think it’s best if he loves the way you expected him to, the way he can see himself doing.

6. To be loved is to be changed.

You told him this while he stand in your kitchen, trying to shoo you back to the table so he can work without fuzzing over you. And now, while he’s holding you, so cold and so unlike you, Alastor wondered whether you would like it if your bones were to be buried in the same spot as the others.

As much as he’d love to keep it near with him, there’s not a single excuse in the whole round earth that can ever help him convinced his mother of letting him uprooted the garden out back and buried you down there, neither can he bring you with him everywhere. Alastor wants to try taking you to the morgue after he’s done, but how do you explain bringing in a set of skeleton with missing ribs? It’s simple, really.

You don’t.

He lifted you up in his arms and sat back on his sofa, your lulling head settled just below his chin, wanted to savor what’s left of you for just a bit more before rigor mortis sets in and makes you even less of what you are now. The gramophone in the corner of his room spewed utter nonsense as Alastor closes his eyes.

It’s Tuesday tomorrow, but he will have to roll up his sleeves and get to work on cleaning out one of the guest room in his hunting lodge if he doesn’t want the ants to take you first. He’ll have to call in sick, too. Alastor likes to think that when he sees you again, you’ll at least have the will to appreciate the troubles he went through for you and not complaint about being locked up inside. You and the love you have for him, akin to small river, a gentle stream, with orange and yellow leaves floating across, tucked in a forest somewhere. It widdled down the rocks and carved a path for itself. The same one that you oh so heartlessly withheld from Alastor.

You'd appreciate being bury in such a scenery, it’s a shame you won’t be, though your body would’ve made way for the prettiest flowers. But you’ll have to take what he can afford to give. To be loved is to be changed, after all.

(when, not if. having gone on for this long, he’s sure that you’re suspended in between life and death in the hell you refuses to ever believe in. half of him prayed that there’s not a river there so you can drown yourself in it just to forget all about him. the other half prayed you’ll remember nothing at all, even of the literature you love so much.

at some point, where will you stop being yourself? when you forget enough of yourself? Alastor doesn’t need to care about the semantics. he knows he’ll choose you time and again, even if you forget how you love.)

7. You take your time reading through farewell letters.

Unless the cats and dogs on the street can write, then there’s only a few, you kept a significantly smaller number of friends by your side. But it must’ve been hard to even focus with Alastor sitting right next to you.

“Darling, surely we can-“

“Please don’t make this any harder than it already was, Alastor.”

Desperately holding onto your wrist and halted your pace for just a second, he all but plead a hopeless case.

“You’re not thinking straight! Are you really just going to up and leave because someone told you so? After living your whole life here?!”

Your hand, moving like clockwork, already finished with the letters, refusing to stay in his. You pulled back from him and place the rest of the letters in a small wooden box with a deer carved on its lid. “You know it’s not just that.”

In times like these, he wonders if it was himself who have gone mad. As if the whole world is in on one big joke and you are just following along with it. Any moment now, you’ll burst into laughter and tell him that everything is a lie. You’re not moving to Washington to help a friend you know for some years with their business, and you’re not leaving him, not after everything he showed you. But you’re holding onto the letter with his mother’s name written on the front with misty eyes as if you have no other choice. So he held you by the shoulders to the point digging his nails into it and turned you to look at him.

“Then what else is there?! For Christ sakes-“ you look as if this is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do in your life, he felt as if this is the hardest battle he have to fight, “Please, mon Chéri, talk to me...”

Alastor collapse onto you, his whole weight pins you down on your small couch. Head on your chest, he listens as your heart beats just a bit faster. You let him.

“…what do you think we are, Alastor?”

Without hesitation, he reply.

“We are whatever you want us to be. Whatever it takes for you to stay.”

For someone like you, a romantic at heart, just like who he is now, that should’ve been enough for you to at least considers the possibility of forgetting about what’s right and wrong. For sure, it would’ve been enough for you to stay, if you were anyone else.

But you’re you, and he’s only himself. The romantic in you see through his act for the longest time and still fall in love with him, but just like how your love is selfless and kind, it’s also viciously rational. If you were anyone else, you would’ve ignored the rational part of yours.

“I’m sorry, Alastor.” All this time, he was desperately proving himself to you. Doing everything in his power just so you’re willing to forget your rationale and love him just as much as he loves you. “We’ll die loving each other.”

He doesn’t care if he die, Alastor wants to scream out. He’s ready to die to love you, he have been screaming out all this time. But despite all of his effort, you deemed him a love not worth chasing after till death, while he already planned the path to hell with you.

Your fingers, shaky and gentle, brush through his hair. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t have to place himself bare and vulnerable like this. But if you were anyone else, he wouldn’t have love you at all. And if it’s death holding you back from loving him, then so be it.

8. For a long time now, Alastor knows you more than anyone else.

You were never a dancer, not by choice either. Its pathetic in the cutest way, how you froze up and refused to move, the way you stutters and try to pull from him only ever makes him want to bully you more. But from the way your brows draws together, to the way you’d tripped over yourself chasing after his footstep, all of it, Alastor earned from you.

From the way you stayed up overnight, to how the bottom of your shoes dragged against the pavement as you walk. From the tip of your pencil, to the bottom of your bookshelves. Every books on your shelves and every sketches. Alastor swear with all his life that no one else knows better than him when it came to you.

He knows intimately the curves you’d penned on your signatures; he knows how you’d change your mind at a moment notice about anything, he knows how you take with you small things on the side of the road that you deemed pretty enough and he knows you still have a lot you want to do here that you’ve told your lovely friend. So it’s only normal for Alastor, the person you grown to love so much, to know exactly why you refuses to even considers being by his side, and it’s just his luck that he also knows just how to write a letter with words just like yours.

So when was it that you got a friend you trusted so wholeheartedly, so faithfully, so much so, you’re your dearly cherished Alastor became a second thought in your mind? Weren’t you a romantic? Weren’t romantics idiots who can’t think straight when it come to love? So why was it that you alone refuses to let yourself love him and remained so loyal to someone you only considered a friend, someone who couldn’t even tell your lettering from his? Was it them? Who fed you lies after lies to captured you in their own hands? Was it them who taught you the telling and sign of a madman? Is that why your view of him was so horrible, you' refused to ever fathom life with him?

He knows you would’ve hated him for this, but Alastor adores you, and sometimes you just don’t know what’s best for you, even when it’s staring at you from across the front walk and following you to your home.

So if someone as rational as you can be swayed back to his lodge for just one more visit, then your friend surely can be swayed too, to come and visit you some other time, down here in your beloved New Orleans.

9. If anyone ever ask anyone else, then they will say that Alastor, beloved local radio host of New Orleans, is a man of many things. But if they were to ask you, then he’s one of the person you cherished the most, and your dearest friend.

He’s everything, the charming popular radio host of New Orleans, the life of the party, a bachelor that’s second to none. Alastor plays himself as your friendly neighbor who will always greets you with a smile and a clenched fist behind his back, hiding a stain just on the cuff of his sleeve in the early morning, a caring friend that offers you help just in the nick of time. Alastor is his mother’s perfect son, who spent more time comforting her about your whereabouts than to care for his own fracturing mind; an amiable stranger, gripping the newspaper detailing yet another disappearance with a bit too much force. Everything you have ever wanted him to be, he was. And yet, to his utter bewilderment and maddening grief, you refused to let him be anyone other than a friend you talked to about everything.

In the letters you saved from your beloved pen pal-turn-missing person, they would call you mature and wise. Sentimental words and kind, to his eyes, all are but hollowed gestures advising, agreeing, and offering you a place up in Washington until you can forget all about him and move on with your life, leaving Alastor to be nothing more than a nostalgic blot on the tablecloth, nothing more than yearning in early Junes. Until you forget the fact you ever love him at all, all because you decided that you couldn’t afford to let yourself be love by him.

Keeping all of it in mind, Alastor decides your dear friend should be bury far away from the comfort of your room. Three years, seven months and eleven days after your death, Alastor dragged a body into the woods. Not just any old one like usual, but not anything else too special.

It’s odd, even though you’ve been gone for the more than a year by now, it’s almost as if you’ve neve left his side. Maybe it’s the rest of you, lying peacefully in your nest of pillows and blankets, in your room that he diligently maintain. Maybe it’s your shared books he sometimes takes from his shelves and skims through in the dead of night after a hard day. Maybe it’s the locked box, sitting by his work desk welcoming him home after a night out, the same one he held in his hands, void of blood and anything else.

Or maybe it’s the reverberating sounds of heartbeat, so unlike his own. In both his waking days, in his reveries, over the sounds of the jazz band down in his favorite speakeasy and following him into the woods. Ever so silently, oh-so gently, utterly viciously in his left ear.

In any other case, Alastor finds he absolutely adores the idea of your ghost haunting him until his fell into his grave.

(you said that he should never love because he couldn’t be in control. he mourn the fact you never even let him prove you wrong. Alastor would’ve let you dance on his rotting corpse if that’s what it takes for you to let him call you his.)

10.

Somewhere in his heart, Alastor had hoped that you of all people can evade the hand of rots.

It’s a genuine shame that in the end, all of the words in the world will do nothing to stop you from sharing the lot with the others, he thought, staring down from where he straddled you with his hand peeling off layers of skins and fat. Warm fingers brushes against your hollowed cheek, before raising a small hammer and bringing down onto your bare chest. Alastor wants to preserve you for as long as possible, but to do that properly, he might as well take all of your innards out and sewn you up. It’s not that he’s not open to that idea, Alastor love every part of you. It’s just that he’s sure you’ll be extremely upset when you find out. So he’ll have to get comfortable with doing things the hard way, no matter how hard it is to do so.

With steady fingers in spite of the drumming in his ears, Alastor patiently picks out every pieces of bones he could, placing them into a small, wooden box. With a wistful smile, he closes the lid and set it aside. He miss you already.

Pushing your lungs out of the way, he dig his hands in. With blood runs up to his wrist, Alastor tries to be as gentle as he can while pulling your heart out. One hand holding onto it, another carefully cutting away everything that ties it to your body.

Distinctly, every part of you was always warm, and over time, Alastor, who’s hands are as cold as winter itself, find comfort in your touch. It was almost like you were made just for him, and him, you. And now, with your heart, cold and silent in his hand, Alastor realized what a miserable life it will be to go on living without your warmth with him from now on until he’s six feet under. But it’s ok, he’s sure of it, because above all else, what he’s been chasing after this whole time is in his hand.

For a brief moment, Alastor wondered if he were to meet you in another lifetime, one where you aren’t so complicated and so in love with the idea of living a fair life and a right love, would you have let yourself be wrong and love him. But he’s glad that your love, with all its beautiful intricacies that causes him this much pain, with a wound in it, still look as beautiful as he hoped.

Sinking his teeth into it, into you, the taste of iron and metallic flooded his mouth and drown his senses as he closed his eyes shut and nearly buckled under the taste of you. There’s not a single word in the book to describe the visceral sensations running through his blood and spreading through his every veins. Alastor shivers, the back of his head felt numb, his fever grows as he desperately takes his time and savor you. It’s a shame you can’t last forever, but he’ll take what he can get for now.

(as his teeth tears into your veins, he hears a sounds, so familiar, somewhere in the corner of his ears. it wasn’t until he caught his own heart beating that he realized that the rhythm he’s hearing isn’t his at all.

until the day you two can meet again, until then. he pray he will never forget the sounds of your heart, beating so gently.)

[lemotmo]

Question and answer. Their fight is clinging to life right now.

Q. I just don't understand how you could have liked Tommy so much after episode 4 and still refuse to admit that the reason you don't like him now is because you don't like Lou. Tommy changed after episode 4 because their relationship changed. It got more serious as the season went on and we saw Buck change and grow as that relationship grew. He even took back his name as a result of his relationship with Tommy. The show has shown Tommy to be supportive, encouraging, protective and funny. Just because we didn't see specific scenes showing all of those things doesn't mean that the show isn't implying they don't exist. Oliver and Lou don't have the same comfort level of Oliver and Ryan no one cares. Who cares if Oliver doesn't like him? I don't. It's his job to show up and act professional.

A. Okay I'm going to answer your question, but I'm going to get very real with you very quickly. I am not the place for any of your reclaiming his name bullshit. That is not what he did. That is not at all what the Evan thing is about. You know that, and I'm not going to humor your ridiculous attempt to claim otherwise. As for the rest of your ask, where exactly was it shown that their relationship was serious? What episode was that? And did you really say just because the show didn't show us specific scenes of Tommy being the perfect boyfriend doesn't mean they're not implying those qualities are there? What scenes implied those qualities? I'm going to go through this in a very simple way because you seem to be struggling with everything.

My opinion of Tommy changed because the show wanted it to change. We now basically have confirmation that episodes 7 through 10 were rewrites, and the scripts were rewritten, hastily, during the winter break. Tim has all but confirmed that at this point. Their filming schedule also confirms this. They were filming the next episode the week the current episode was airing. Which means the new scripts were written AFTER episodes 4 and 5 aired. Meaning Tim and the writers knew you all liked Tommy. They had that knowledge going into the rewrites. They didn't give him a scene where Buck talks to him about his feelings regarding the name Evan, the audience knows how Buck feels about that name. The show would have absolutely given the audience that scene. The show didn't give him a scene where he comforts Buck during the whole Bobby ordeal. Tommy had one scene in the finale it could have easily been at the hospital. In fact it would have been easier if it had been at the hospital. Instead they went out of their way to work in a deliberately awkward scene. The show didn't write anything for him that was comforting, encouraging, protective or funny. What the show wrote for him was:

"They had Henley's in the 80's"

"Enjoy it while it lasts"

" I certainly hope so" (when Buck asked him if he thought he had daddy issues) and even Tim has long since stopped trying to pass this off as flirty.

I didn't invent that dialogue. It didn't come from a cameo video or a headcanon. The show gave him that dialogue. That dialogue is his canon character. Nothing about any of that is charming as Buck's boyfriend. I have said repeatedly that they're not writing him as a BAD guy. They're writing him as a bad FIT for Buck. And that's okay! You can still like him! You can headcanon the relationship as something else entirely, that's your prerogative, but the show's writing is very clear. I'm following the writing. As for Lou, I am an adult. This would not be the first show I've watched where I didn't like a particular actor/actress. I find Lou gross. I don't deny or pretend otherwise. But I can separate Tommy from him for the sake of the show. That's called compartmentalizing. That's what adults can do. None of this is difficult for me because I'm following the show's lead. You all are the ones killing yourselves trying to force a narrative that doesn't exist. I will also take this time to point out something that was a first this season. This was the first season in the history of the series where Buck had no storyline. Buck had one episode of plot the entire season and it was episode 4. The entire rest of the season for Buck was spent in Eddie's storyline. Not scenes with Tommy. Not scenes building up that serious relationship you speak of. His entire character purpose this season was spent in the Eddie storyline. You cannot build up an outside relationship when you're doubling down on the Buddie aspect. And the show spent the entire season doubling down on that pairing. For better or worse, whether you like it or not, every single partner Buck or Eddie have will be compared to their relationship with each other. And the show puts zero effort into any of their other relationships. Anna was clearly supposed to be Eddie's realization relationship but when Kristen scrapped that she ended up just being awkward as hell. Marisol didn't even have a last name. The only thing we were ever told about Natalia was her fascination with death. Tommy has been no different. The show gave the bare minimum required to indicate that he doesn't fit Buck. His entire dialogue , minimal as it was, this season was dedicated to highlighting that. And that has always been the problem. The show isn't interested in building any relationship for Buck or Eddie outside of each other. And if they were going to do it this was the season to do it. Brand new network, new expectations and a fresh start. And instead they doubled down on them. And in fact made more effort to highlight and showcase their connection. I didn't get that from a cameo or headcanon either. The actual canon scenes told us that. They didn't give Buck a storyline this season so his scenes could be used entirely for Eddie. He wasn't used off screen with Tommy he was used on screen with Eddie. It was a deliberate choice.

As for Oliver, you all are the ones who keep bringing up that Oliver and Lou don't appear to be close. If you didn't care you wouldn't keep bringing it up. They're not required to be close. And we have no actual proof that they outright dislike one another. What we know is they're clearly not comfortable with one another. And there could be many reasons for that. I doubt, given what we know of Oliver, and what we learned about Lou this year, that they have much of anything in common. It's hard to bond when you have nothing in common to bond over. There is also no way anyone involved with the show, outside of Lou, didn't have a problem with what the cameo videos created. They were a completely avoidable mess. A mess that Lou openly encouraged until he could no longer financially benefit from interacting with those people. And Oliver is a professional. He has never shown anything other than completely respectable, professional behavior. But please don't interpret that as him not having a say because he very much does. But I doubt he spends any amount of time worrying about what your opinion of him is. Unlike some he doesn't have to pay for validation.

All right, I have another OP truth bomb for you guys. Thanks once again to the kind Nonny who sends these to me.

I won't add anything to this one, because I think all that needs to be said is explained so beautifully in this post.

So enjoy!

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting these anon OP updates instead of reblogging. Don't get mad at me. There is a reason for it and it's all done with consent from the OP. You can find out more about that here.

Remember, no hate in comments or reblogs. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of the anonymous OP’s posts, you can find all of their posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[snitchcrimsonwrites]

Maybe pt. 6

Pairing: Norm MacLean X Female Reader or OC if you squint

Former friends to a relationship?

Life is pretty easy in Vault 33 until you're trying to rekindle a former friendship and Raiders attack. Now, our main characters are trying to navigate newfound feelings, all while undercovering the mysteries of Vault 33. Stay tuned. Follows the main storyline of season 1; some events may be reordered for plot.

I've rewritten this section so many times, and I'm still not thrilled with it, but I'm happy enough with how it's progressed. You and Norm are dealing with the aftermath of the raid on Vault 33 and how the MacLeans want to proceed following the kidnapping of their Dad.

Part 1 Here. Part 7 Here Part 12 Here

Part 2 Here Part 8 Here

Part 3 Here Part 9 Here

Part 4 Here Part 10 Here

Part 5 Here Part 11 Here

Norm stayed held up in the makeshift bunker, as quiet as possible, until Lucy returned to set him free. They embraced, holding each other close; he’d never been happier to see his sister’s face, but Norm could tell something was amiss when she clung tighter to him as he moved to break away. 

“Dad?” he asked cautiously, unsure if he entirely wanted her to disclose that information. He expected the worst. 

“They took him,” she croaked in reply, blinking back some tears. This was...unexpected. She took her time to explain how the raiders used her and some other dwellers as leverage to get the Overseer to hand himself over as their hostage and disappear to the Surface. Her story raised many questions, but honestly Norm was too exhausted to engage in those thoughts. 

“Everything will be alright,” she promised as she helped him to his feet. Norm wanted to believe his sister with every fiber of his being. Lucy usually could make good on this type of promise, but how on Earth was she going to navigate this one? 

His family mostly accounted for, Norm turned his attention to locating you. He hadn’t seen you since he fled the Vault 32 corridor. A wave of shame hit him as he recalled that memory, wishing he could have done something, anything, in an attempt to protect you. Instead, he turned tail and ran. But your absence the rest of the evening could be good, right? You didn’t get mixed up in the chaos in the main chamber of Vault 33. For once, Norm allowed himself some wishful thinking.

_________________________

The last hour or so was mostly a blur of events you were trying to piece together as you sat in the atrium receiving stitches from the only vault doctor standing. 

“And one more stitch ought to do it,” the doctor said as she wrapped up closing your wounds on your arms. Thank god, you didn’t know how long you could continue to avoid paying attention to the needle pricks across your arms. You were barely holding it together as is. 

 “You were pretty lucky you managed to quickly treat and bandage these wounds. I think it will help the healing in the long run,” she said as she disinfected and re-dressed the bandages over your stitches. “That gash on your left is pretty deep, though, so you might experience some numbness and lack of mobility if there’s nerve damage. When we see you back down in the med bay to change those bandages, we’ll talk about running a few more tests and rehabbing if needed,” placing her hand on your back as she moved to the next patient. 

After your encounter with your raider attacker, you managed to stumble down the remainder of the corridor into one of the outer supply rooms, connecting Vault 32 and Vault 33. Thankfully, it was equipped with some basic medical supplies, allowing you to hastily tend to your wounds before fading out of consciousness. When you awoke and finally arrived in Vault 33’s atrium, you weren’t sure how much time had passed, but much of the commotion had died down. 

You scanned the faces of the remaining Vault 33 dwellers as they moved around the atrium: Betty, Woody, Reg, Davy, Steph, and Chet, all accounted for. You did not dare identify those slain across the floor, afraid you might see a particular brown-haired dweller among them.  

______________________

Norm’s wish was granted when he spotted you in the crowd receiving medical attention from the Vault doctor. You were alive; however, his immediate relief turned sour when he saw your state. Blood spattered across your face and hair, and lines of stitches were woven up the sides of your arms being tended to. 

He could feel a plethora of different emotions bubbling up into his chest: guilt for abandoning you in a time of trouble, anger at himself and the individuals who caused you harm, and fear that you would never want to talk with him again. That last thought paralyzed him, stopping him in his tracks. What if you never wanted to see him again? He had just gotten his friend back, and was he destined to lose her? 

“Norman?” The sound of your voice clarified his brain, driving away all the negative thoughts and emotions. Instantly, he wanted nothing more than to be at your side. Moving one foot in front of the other, he hurried to close the distance. Once there, he wrapped his arms around you, and you fell emotionally into his arms. This time, he wasn’t letting go. 

_____________________________

The following morning came way too quick, and the dwellers of Vault 33 rallied just as fast, much to your dismay. An assembly meeting was called, and dwellers were assigned their post-raid clean-up duties. The goal? Get everything back to normal as fast as possible. How were we supposed to go “back to normal” after last night? A fresh coat of paint and routines of normalcy wouldn't cut it. But people were more interested in getting back to their day-to-day rather than lingering on the death and destruction of their community. Part of you didn’t blame them, but pushing past without a second thought also felt wrong. 

You arrived later than most of the crowd, but there was still an abundance of open seating. You took the open seat next to the MacLeans, interested to hear what the assembly had to say, even though you already had a good idea. Life in the vault is nothing but predictability.

“Settle, settle.” You heard as Reg took control, attempting to silence the crowd for the meeting. 

Lucy immediately stood, determined to have to the floor. You knew what she wanted to say before she opened her mouth to speak, seeking any chance of putting her broken family back together.

 “I have a proposal for the assembly. We send a search party to the surface to find my dad.” Unsurprisingly, her proposal was met with the shocked gasps of the dwellers present; nonetheless, she continued as resilient as ever to win them over. “Even with our dwindled numbers, we can spare four people from farm duty for up to two weeks.”

“Sorry, Lucy, but you’re talking about opening the vault door?” Reg interjected, asking for clarification on what was so “obviously” a ridiculous request. 

“For just under a minute. It’s just enough time… “ Lucy attempted, trying to rationalize with the crowd she was losing. You admired her courage but doubted the council or anyone in the Vault could be swayed to do something so whole-heartedly against their nature. 

“Okay, I know we’re just brainstorming here, and there are no bad ideas in a brainstorm… but.” 

Ah, there it is. The acknowledgment that this was never up for serious consideration. 

“But, that’s something that we ever do or have ever done, never, never ever.” 

“I know, I know that,” Lucy conceded, her voice increasingly desperate.

Betty, clearly having had enough of this conversation, interjects. “I know we’re all hurting right now, but our first priority has to be to maintain the security of this Vault. That means not opening any of our doors.” 

“Well said, Betty.”  “Yes, thank you, Betty. Okay, let’s move on.” That’s it; in a swift dismissal motion, the council decided. 

Lucy shakes her head in disbelief, shocked by the group's unwillingness. Not sharing his sister’s optimism, Norm speaks up about the situation's reality. “ They don’t want to find Dad. If they did, they wouldn’t get to be in charge,” he utters solemnly. His tone tells you that he wishes that wasn’t the case. Reassuringly, you place your hand lightly on his knee, being there for him as best you can. He moves his hand to yours, the gesture not going unnoticed as he maintains eye contact with his sister. He hated to be the one to break it to her that the MacLeans would be alone in this endeavor. 

Crestfallen, Lucy moves to leave the meeting; however, you had a feeling this wasn’t the last you’d hear from her about rescuing Overseer MacLean. 

_______________________

Norm fiddled with the Nuka Cola machine, trying not to make it abundantly evident he was up to something. He was so bad at this. He barely acted typically under normal circumstances, let alone stressful situations. He just had to keep a low enough profile to ensure he, Lucy, and Chet could reach the main vault entrance unseen. Easier said than done when the elevator access was smack in the middle of the most central location in Vault 33. 

He leaned against the machine as he heard someone approach, trying to act as casually as possible. Just act like everyone else, he told himself.“ Hey, Davey,” he called out to the older man as he wheeled another raider corpse down to the composting room, “How’s your day going?” 

“It's as bad as everyone else’s,” he replied, taken aback but somewhat used to how Norm engaged in social interactions. Shaking his head, Davey hurried down the hallway, brushing off the encounter, eager to finish this dreadful task. 

Norm breathed a sigh of relief as Davey walked away, now to get on with Lucy’s plan, but his relief was short-lived when he heard another pair of footsteps rounding the corner. He reassumed his original position.

“What are you up to, Norman MacLean?” he heard your voice ring out from around the corner moments before you appeared, arms crossed in front of him. Your tone and body language told him you were already suspicious of his behavior if you hadn't already figured out what he was up to. But he opted to double down, hoping you’d drop it quickly and let them be on their way. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, (Y/N). Everything is perfectly normal,” he says, leaning back against the Nuka Cola machine. 

“A huh,” you replied unconvinced. “And, I’m sure this has nothing to do with your friends waiting by the elevator?” you inquire as you peek your head around Norm to wave to Lucy and Chet waiting by the elevator. You smirk as Chet returns your wave. “I can help,” you lean in and whisper. 

Damnmit. “I know that, but I’d rather not get you into trouble if I can avoid it. Please,” he’s begging now. 

“Fine,” you allow with a dismissive eye roll. “Your secrets are safe with me.” 

“I never had any doubt… though if you didn’t mind discouraging anyone from calling the elevator, it would be a tremendous help,” Norm offered as he walked over to join his sister and cousin in the elevator. 

“Aye, Aye,” you saluted, taking up your new post as you watched the doors close behind them. 

[rowniebow]

the gift | newt scamander x male!reader

summary: bits of a love that began at hogwarts

pairings: newt scamander x male!reader

cw: fluff

word count: 1.7k+

an: this was supposed to go in a long, long, fic but im rewriting it so take my shlop of a rewritten prologue

masterlist

⭒

december 1912

a large pine tree protected you from the harsh winter, leaving your seats dry as could be. layers upon layers of chilled colorless cotton covered the grass before you two.

you sat next to a boy that had the stars written in his skin. he hunched over a family of mice: two small mice and a larger one.

you hid together, running away from the world as always.

you watched your friend. your knees curled into your chest and your eyelids hung over your tired eyes. the cold hammered the urge to cough against your ribs but you refused.

your friend's cold fingers were the only thing peaking out of his school robes that engulfed him. he used his trembling bones to scoot the apple slices he had brought towards the family, silently encouraging the tiny nibbles.

your eyes drifted to the white landscape surrounding you. you sighed, and brought yourself to your feet. the brown sweater that covered your school clothes hardly did enough to keep you warm, but you disregarded that.

the crystals crunched under your feet as you made your way through frozen field. snow slowly fell from the clouds. they mixed with the color of your hair. a smile painted your lips dry in the stabbing cold as you twirled, eventually falling in the soft bed of ice.

the boy you had abandoned under the tree with the mice and stars had been watching you dance under the clouded day. he gnawed on his lip before standing and making his way over to you.

the mice ran off, carrying a single apple slice with them.

he followed the footsteps that you left in the sea of white. once he arrived, he came to find you smiling up at him as you rubbed your hands and legs over the snow.

"what are you doing?" the lighter haired boy nearly whispered, not wanting to completely disturb the silence of the loud world.

"i'm making a snow angel," you continued smiling from the ground.

"a what?"

"a snow angel! do wizards not have that?"

the only response you received was a furrowed brow of confusion.

"come on," you dragged the lighter haired boy down next to you.

a chilled huff escaped the fallen's lips. the visible air exploded into the clouds.

"now, it's really quite simple. you just spread your arms - like this! then you move them up and down,"

your friend participated.

"then, you move your legs out real wide and move them side to side,"

he participated once more.

"than you've done it! a snow angel!"

the starry skinned boy furrowed his eyebrows in focus. he bite his lip and moved his arms once, then legs once, then arms once more, then legs again.

"can you-" you sat up, fighting the urge to laugh at your friend. "is it difficult to do both?"

the lighter haired boy only nodded, still trying his best to participate in the new activity.

"that's alright, it's enough, anyway. come on, step up!" you ushered. you stood together, side by side, looking down at your angels that laid so close they nearly held each other.

"and ta-da! you have a wonderful little angel that you've made." your grin was stupidly big.

a smile pulled at the corner of the starry boy's lips as well.

⭒⭒

january 1913

you made a beeline for your destination during lunch one winters day. christmas and new years had gone and passed. now, the most important day to you was coming up: your starry skinned friend's birthday.

you pushed the heavy doors to the transfiguration classroom open with ease, but hastily shut them soon after. the professor of the class quietly sat at his desk, quill in hand hovering over a parchment filled with notes.

"ah yes," the older man grumbled. "please do come in." the sarcasm weaved it's way through every syllable but you refused to acknowledge it.

"professor, please, this is no time for jokes."

the older gentleman sighed, placing his quill down gently on the desk. ink dripped quietly off of the sharp tip. "what is it?" despite his appeared annoyance, the professor uttered your name with expectance.

"so," you began pacing in front of the professors desk as you spoke. "as you know, a peer's birthday is coming up rather soon."

the professor sighed once more, but an amused smile played at the lips between his thick beard.

"well, i've finally come up with the perfect gift after all this time!"

"go on then,"

"i want to give him a memory."

"that's - alright, how are you going to do that?" the professor suppressed his laughter at the thought of his student, who has never been the most studious, attempting something as complex as any spell that has to do with a memory, or even enchantment.

"that's a good question, now, isn't it?"

"are you going to give him a pendant or something?"

"oh, now that's smart!"

the professor rolled his eyes at your lack of thorough thought. "you know, that's very advanced magic."

"i'm well aware. but, that's where my helpful, caring professor can come in and teach me!" you flashed a large, pleading smile at the older man who only sighed in response.

he eyed you up and down, "are you sure you want to do that? after everything-," the professor began to voice his worries over you: a student that he has taken under his wing to a personal level.

the smile on your face fell rather quickly at the words. "it's for newt, i can get over myself for him." your immediate tone change had the professor internally scolding himself. "will you help me or not? i can always go ask-,"

"no, i'll help you. if you're going to learn it you might as well learn it from someone who actually knows what they're doing." the professor stood with a grunt, mentally preparing for the hours of after school lessons he was committing to.

"great! that's lovely, professor, thank you so much!" you practically shook with excitement, running out of the door in a hurry before the man could take back his promises.

⭒⭒⭒

february 24, 1913

you two curled up together on the top bed of your shared bunk under a blanket: your bed.

candles littered their desks, causing the room outside of your blanket haven to glow a warm orange.

pools of wax surrounded the candles on your desk. the warm wax leaked onto the many papers of homework that you would later see and simply roll your eyes over.

newt, however, kept his candles in their holders or settled in small bowls. the wax dripped down and collected neatly all together, far from any papers or books.

under the blanket, newt held his wand similar to a quill. instead of ink, light dripped out. the light washed over the page and splashed onto your giggling faces.

the soft chiming of a clock sliced through the quiet laughter, immediately sparking your memory. you let out a soft, but extremely excited, "oh!"

you hurried from under the covers, newt slowly following after you.

you dug through the pockets of your school robes hanging over a chair muttering and cursing to yourself about where "it" could possibly have gone. a small breath of relief escaped the passages of your nose as you felt the tiny felt box in the midst of your pockets filled with nonsense.

you turned around shoving a small box into newt's hands. "happy birthday," you whispered. your eyes struggled to look anywhere but the single stripe on his sleep shirt.

a gentle smile played over your lips, though. one that enchanted newt and kept him staring for longer than he needed to. "y-you really didn't need to," he stuttered, finally taking the box from your hands.

"i wanted to." despite your appearance, your heart bounced against your ribs as loud as a it physically could.

newt hands shook lightly as opened the cream box with a gold ribbon around it to reveal a metal pendant that looked to have been poorly bent in the shape of a heart. it hung off of a small chain to make a necklace.

"what's this?" he tugged the necklace out of the box, inspecting the hand made heart.

"here," your voice shook as you gently took the necklace into your hands, pulling the heart in half to reveal the projected memory you had spent weeks working with your professor to get in to the pendant (that you also made and bent all by yourself. you were very proud of the funky heart).

"you've enchanted it," newt whispered under his breath, bewildered at the sight.

he watched the memory play out before him: one that had been pushed to the back of his mind but was revitalized as soon as he saw the familiar sight.

it was the your first trip to hogsmeade together. the day newt showed you everything and anything there was to show about the enchanting town he had been raised to know. the town itself didn't affect him much at all anymore, but he knew you'd find it absolutely stunning. he was so excited to introduce you to the magical world when you two were little.

you sipped on your butterbeers together. you loved the overly sweet drink, and newt made a face at the sugar that bit at his teeth. newt offered his drink to you with a frown at the taste. one that you laughed at, eventually pulling a laugh out from newt.

"did you do it?" newt's voice could hardly be heard. the fear of disturbing the silence ached within him.

"hm?" you hummed equally as quiet.

"did you learn the spell?"

"'course i did." you replied as if it were nothing, but newt was well aware of how it was a big something. "is it-, do you like it?" your whisper was shockingly shy and insecure. a rare vulnerability that newt understood he was privileged to hear.

"yes! i-i love it," newt's hasty response cut through the comforting silence between you two. but you only smiled.

"here, let me put it on,"

newt stood still while you raised yourself on your toes to reach around the tall boy's shoulders to his neck. newt, very aware of the proximity between the two of you, looked down at the quickly dying candles that were providing the only light in the room.

you leaned back down onto your heels, "there." you played with the pendant over his chest between your fingers, finally letting it fall against his clothes.

"t-thank you," newt stuttered your name, struggling to get anything more than a mutter our.

you smiled.

and the candles finally went out.

[blue--ingenue]

"Evasive Maneuvers" - Part 6

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Summary: You've been in love with Sebastian since the moment you knocked him on his arse on your first day. Entering your sixth year, you finally begin working up the courage to confess your feelings when he suddenly becomes the best Beater Hogwarts has seen in decades - and subsequently becomes the school's most eligible bachelor.

Author's Notes: *shakes this chapter like a jar of dog biscuits* besties, i'm so sorry for the little hiatus, but as usually summer college classes were kicking my ass 🫠 my last finals are tomorrow, and then i need to speedrun packing for my dorm etc.... i also really wanted to do this chapter justice, so it was written and rewritten at least five times before i decided on the final draft. anyway, back to our (ir)regularly scheduled Slytherin himbo

The second he loses sight of her in the swarm of students he really starts to panic. He starts pushing his way through the crowd toward the last spot he saw her, but it’s by far easier said than done. Imelda calls out for him to come back for the usual post-game debrief, but he shouts an excuse over his shoulder about going to the hospital wing. She could be anywhere, and he’s wasting precious time. Sebastian doesn’t think he was nearly this panicked when he plummeted toward the ground mere minutes ago. He stops, exasperated, and surveys the crowd. 

Fuck it. 

He hastily mounts his broom and yanks the handle upward. Hard. It’s possibly the fastest he’s ever taken off and the crowd beneath him cheers as he shoots upward and forward. As soon as he clears the quidditch pitch he’s scanning the grounds for a trace of her homemade quidditch jersey. The thought of her putting so much time and effort into the garment, all in support of him, forces a fresh stab of guilt between his ribs. His broom seems to sense his urgency and accelerates on its own. God, he’s such an ass. She’s never been anything short of kind to him, far kinder than he probably deserves, and he’s spent the last few days thinking nothing but the worst of her. No, he realizes with a jolt, not even the worst. 

He’s been seething over the thought of her enjoying Weasley’s company. Merely being happy in his presence. Nothing malicious or untoward or even anything to do with him. Every new realization pricks him with equal measures of mortification and hope. How was he going to explain his recent actions without revealing his true feelings to her? He had no idea. At this point his one-track mind was focussed purely on finding her. He’d figure out the rest once he was sure no more tears adorned her face. Is this the type of bloke he was? So jealous that he’d rather cause pain than face it? He considers asking Anne for advice on the whole situation, but he already knows what his better half would say: “Just tell her how you feel.”

He shakes the thought from his head. Impossible. He couldn’t face the possibility of losing her if she felt the same way. And if she did? What if he wasn’t good enough for her? After all the pain he’d caused her in fifth year, and now this, what if she was better off with someone like Weasley? She deserves someone who will treat her heart with care. Someone who won’t coerce her into risking her life for dark magic. Although Sebastian had been true to his word about relinquishing dark magic, the guilt of his actions remained. Sometimes, on particularly dark nights, he’d wake to the sound of her wails and pleas as her body convulsed next to the remains of Noctua Gaunt, his hand would shake as he channeled the pain directly into her veins. Other nights he’d grip the sheets in a cold sweat, his body safe in bed, but his mind bound to the darkest parts of him he’d worked to repress. He could still feel the phantom rush of power as he held the relic. His blood sang with power as the resurrected dead moved to his every whim. And there, at the center of it all, her. 

Terrified, resolute, courageous. Even as inferi clawed at her arms and Solomon appeared at the mouth of the cave, red with rage, she was still trying to save him. In his darkest of moments he wonders if he’d ever deserved saving at all. If she hadn’t knocked him unconscious, and if Anne’s curse hadn’t lifted as soon as Rookwood was destroyed, Sebastian knew he could’ve done a lot more damage. He knew he didn’t deserve her, but that didn’t stop him from wanting her. And oh, did he want her. She was radiant, inside and out. Even if she wasn’t the most beautiful witch he’d ever beheld, her heart and mind would enchant him all the same. She was always so quick to help others, so fearless in her every endeavor, it was a wonder she had any love left to give. She never failed to surprise him. She made him want to be a better man. She saw every flaw in his character, ran a gentle hand along every faultline in his heart and mended it with a selflessness rarer than the ancient magic gracing her person. 

Sometimes he wanted to grab hold of her, tender yet so very sincere, and remind her that she needed to save herself, too. He wouldn’t insult her intelligence by suggesting that she was ignorant of her own needs. But one time, just one time, he wished she would put her well being above others’. 

There was one question still nagging at the bag of his mind, a thread he had neither the time nor heart to unravel at the time. Why had she been so upset by his kissing Amelia? Was she perhaps still angry at him for ignoring her this morning? Why else would she - 

Oh, hell. 

It was impossible, no more than a pipe dream, but did she share his feelings? Why else would she have run away? He wanted more than anything to believe it, but what if he was wrong? He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If he confessed his feelings and she didn’t feel the same, he could lose her. But if she did, she could lose herself. He knew from experience that she’d go to hell and back just to fetch him, but she shouldn’t have to. Despite his best efforts he’d found numerous ways to hurt her in the past year. She didn’t deserve him. She deserved better. And if she wouldn’t make that choice herself, well, he’d just have to make it for her. 

Sebastian was so lost in his thoughts he nearly missed the flash of green beneath him. Cursing himself, he circled back to her and flew lower. It was unmistakably her. His last name billowed as she walked quickly toward the castle. He descended rapidly, calling out her name and begging her to wait. She turned and their gazes connected. Even if she was angry with him he felt a glimmer of hope that at least he had a chance to fix things. He was so focussed on her, he didn’t realize he was about to fly right into a tree until she shouted a warning, but it was too late to stop. Branches whipped at his face, stinging as he plowed through the tree before his broom lodged between two trunks and he was thrown forward. He managed to latch onto the branch, narrowly avoiding a swift trip to the ground twenty feet below. For the second time that day the air was forced from his bruised lungs and he fought the urge to vomit. Despite the pain and mortification, Sebastian couldn’t help but feel that this was at least partially deserved. He heard creaking as the branches to his left shifted and he watched his broom plummet to the ground. Well, the handle landed first, and the brush followed a moment later. Great, he thought. Imelda was sure to give him an earful about this. 

A brighter spot of green obscured the remains of his broom, and she looked up at him. He could almost hear a crack shooting through his heart as he took in her appearance. Her tears had smeared the green and silver paint almost completely off her cheeks. Her eyes were red-rimmed and every sniffle sent her shoulders trembling. At this moment he would have let go and fallen to the ground immediately if it meant he could wipe the tears from her face. Did he even deserve to? What right did he have to cause her grief and then swoop in like some undeserving savior?

She wordlessly raised her hands and reached out as though to pluck him from the branches. Blue light arced from her hands as she channeled her ancient magic. Sebastian felt himself being gently extricated from the twigs and leaves before those same gentle blue tendrils lowered him to the grass before her. 

The pair stood still. The intensity of her gaze rivaled his, but neither took a step forward. The air felt heavy with implications, things still left unsaid. Say something! A voice screamed in his head. You made this whole bloody mess, so say something!

He took two steps toward her, and said, “I’m sorry.”

She made no move toward him, and if not for the near-imperceptible softening of her brow he might’ve thought she hadn’t heard him. “For what?”

The determined search of her gaze told him everything. They both knew what she was really asking. She was waiting for him to voice his feelings. To lay claim to every bit of stolen affection threaded through the moments they shared. He had to tell her. He needed to tell her, she deserved that much. He opened his mouth to speak and - 

“I like you!” he shouted. She startled at his panicked outburst and he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. She looked at him, calculating and wary, before taking a step back. “Sebastian, you don’t have to say that simply because you feel guilty about-” he gave a frustrated groan and closed the distance between them in two determined strides. He frantically took her hands in his, held them gently, and whispered the truth he’d been so desperate to hide from. 

“That isn’t why. Please, you must know that isn’t why,” he pleaded. A stray tear remained on the apple of her cheek and he brushed it away with a tender swipe of his hand. He let his touch linger for a moment before drifting back to clasp her hands. “You occupy my every waking moment. Even in sleep I cannot escape the thought of you. Nor would I ever want to,” he declared. Her eyes searched for any hint of insincerity, but she didn’t pull away from him. Sebastian took that as a sign of encouragement and continued.  

“You are unlike any witch or wizard I have ever met. Kinder and braver than any soul I’ll ever meet, and my heart is irrevocably yours. You needn’t say anything, but know that it belongs to you. I’ve been a prick to you. I was selfish and scared and jealous, and I’m sorry for kissing Amelia. I won’t insult you by asking for forgiveness I know I don’t deserve, but you must know that I am yours, even if you want nothing to do with me.“

He finishes, breathless, and watches her. His brain is on fire and he’s pretty sure he’s run through the entire spectrum of human emotion in the last thirty seconds, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t give her time to process everything he’s just thrown at her. He waits, and waits, and his palms begin to sweat. Shit. Was this the wrong time? Had he just royally fucked up whatever remained of their friendship? His gaze flicked up to her face, which had remained stoic beneath her runny makeup and the volley of emotion he had just flung at her. An agonizingly slow moment later she looked at him, really looked, as though for the first time, and she was livid.

There was fire in her eyes and blue magic arced from her fingertips. He took an instinctive step back as she leveled him with a stare rivaling the intensity of his own jackrabbiting heart. She swallowed thickly, and spoke.

“And how long,” she started, cocking her head. “How long have you felt this way?” He gulped. Was she going to hex him? Sebastian was sure he deserved it six ways to Sunday, but he would’ve at least liked more of a reaction to his confession before she blasted him to hell. 

“Since fifth year?” he squeaked. He actually squeaked. Good gods, this was mortifying. He thanked whoever was listening that at the very least Ominis wasn’t here to witness the whole ordeal. He answered like it was a question, when really this one of the only truths he knew in the core of his being to be true.

She took a step toward him, her mouth agape and eyes narrowed in confusion. Hysterically, he thought it was the same look she adopted when Professor Binns roused her from her nap to answer a question during lecture. He gulped. 

“Why on earth haven’t you said anything?!” she shrieked. He furrowed his brows and took a step closer to her. If she was going to immolate him, fine. For her he’d burn a thousand times. 

“Because I know you don’t feel the same!” He shouted frantically. “You don’t! You can’t, and you shouldn’t! I’ve been awful to you, and you deserve better!”

She held her face in her hands, exasperated and inhaling deeply, before throwing her hands up and shouting to the heavens, “Of course I feel the same!” She cried. “Merlin’s bloody balls, how thick can you get?!”

He stilled. He’s pretty sure his heart had stopped beating around the same time the air in his lungs froze over. “What?”

At his single syllable all the anger seemed to seep from her figure. She crossed her arms, the blue lightning dissipating as her chest heaved. When she spoke she was gentle, careful.

“Sebastian, did you truly not know?” Her eyes were pleading, searching his for answers he wasn’t sure he could provide.

He spluttered. She couldn’t feel the same. She didn’t…”You’ve never given any inclination. And I didn’t want to do anything untoward or unwanted…” he trailed off.

She laughed. Not a cruel, mocking sound like he probably deserved, but chiding. It wasn’t unlike the chuckles he heard from her when one of her puffskeins tried licking her when she wasn’t looking. 

“Sebastian bloody Sallow, I’ve been in love with you from the start. I don’t know how you could possibly think I don’t care for you, but please, banish the thought.” She declared softly. He suddenly realized how close they’d drifted. The red thread connecting his heart to hers always had a way of drawing them together. He looked down and she was nearly flush against his chest. Instinctively he drew his arms around her. Something sharp poked his chest and he brushed it aside. It was the necklace he’d given her. Within the gilded confines the stone glowed a deep, confident blue. A memory sparked somewhere in the back of his mind as he recalled the parchment the vendor had given him. Blue - truth.

He dropped the pendant as though it had burned him. She was telling the truth. She loved him, truly and completely, and he loved her the same. Everything he wanted was within his grasp, if only…If only he were someone more deserving. If only he were someone who could keep her safe and care for her in the ways she deserved. He looked down and her eyes were drifting closed. Just before they fluttered shut her gaze flickered to his lips. That’s funny, when had he started dipping his head toward her? His composure faltered - and good gods, no man could be strong enough for such temptation-

But he needed to be. Sebastian Sallow might not be the man she deserves, but he would be a man strong enough to keep her from making the mistake of choosing him. His eyes shot open and he pressed a gently finger to her lips. “Wait,” he whispered. She stilled and stopped. Gods, her lips were soft beneath his touch. And the way she was looking at him, with such open vulnerability, twisted the dagger he held to his own heart. She was confused, waiting for him to say something.

He released her and took a step back. And then another, and another. “We can’t. You can’t feel this way for me. I’ll only hurt you again, and you deserve better.” He broke her gaze hung his head. “So much better…”

When he looked up at her again, he almost wished he hadn’t. The tears were back, and this time her lip was trembling. He strode toward her, holding out his arms in comfort, but she held up a hand. It was trembling, and blue lightning crackled across her palm, but her voice was steady as she spoke. 

“Nobody makes my decisions for me. Nobody. You can tell me that you love me, or hate me, or anything in between. But you don’t get to stand there and tell me how I am meant to feel. If you don’t want me, then just say so. I deserve that much.”

Sebastian was truly and utterly speechless. He did want her, more than anything, but he couldn’t trust himself to keep her from harm on his behalf. He couldn’t draw her back into his arms knowing that he didn’t deserve her, but telling her that he didn’t want her? That would surely kill him. So he stood, silent, and said nothing at all.

As the seconds drew on, she seemed to take his lack of response as an answer all the same. She nodded her head once before stalking past him back to the castle, and he got one good look at the pendant as her shoulders shook with sobs. Black - anguish.

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Bonus Author's Note: besties, no matter how much you love someone, never let anyone make your decisions for you or tell you how you feel. you are irreplacable and nobody has the right to save you for later <3

Taglist: @snickette, @findingtruenorth23, @plooloo, @paganicher, @smilesworldsposts, @snoozebun, @crazyllamasurfer, @pixie-dustss, @margottheviking, @lollife1617, @milk-barrs-blog, @somethingiswrongwithme, @bleh-stupid, @stay-gray, @mrsbrookesallow, @lostgirl-28, @kateisnotheree, @doigettokeepyou, @dreamqueenkala, @uwuitzerimpact, @neoqueen306

[the-magpie-collective]

[Part 3/3]: It gets worse

Part 2

Because yes, the writing gets worse.

First, it's very clearly implied that the pact has already been broken when Mizora first arrives in camp in Act 3. Mizora offers Wyll a new pact to both herself and Zariel: 'Option one. I show you the way to your father. I guarantee him no harm except that from you and your allies. And you pledge your soul to me and the archdevil Zariel in a pact eternal.' A warlock cannot have more than one pact in DnD, the mechanics do not allow for it, a soul cannot be forfeit twice. But then she goes on to state: 'Option two. I break your pact. You are freed from your duty but retain your devil form. Your father dies by his enemy's hand.' So his pact isn't broken? Which is it?

Why didn't they write something like, 'Or Option one. You rescind your request to have your pact broken, I offer an alternate boon, and you continue to pledge your soul to me.' Why would you ever write it like that if that Pact isn't broken? Why does Mizora need to break the Pact if it is? It makes no sense.

As if that isn't bad enough we come to my least favorite part: Addendum F.

Addendum F. 'The Absolute must be avenged for the soul-binder's detention at Moonrise. The soul-bearer retains his gifts until such time as the Absolute is slain.'

What?! What do you mean Mizora can just add on addendums willy-nilly to the Pact without even so much as needing to run it by Wyll first? How the fuck does this make any sense? If Mizora can just add whatever she wants to Wyll's pact then why would she ever actually break it? Why not have Wyll dress up as a clown every full moon and run around terrorizing children? Why not use Wyll's pact to make every single soul in Baldur's Gate forfeit to her? 

This addendum is so stupid. I hate it. The only reason for it to exist is so that the in game mechanics make sense and Wyll doesn't have to be respecced as something other than a warlock at the 11th hour. But if that's the case why not just add something into the six months clause? Easy fix to add 'Clause Z, Section Thirteen: 'If the soul-binder consents to separation, she will release the soul-bearer from all obligation and rescind all gifted powers within six months. Like really why? What possessed them to add this addendum? Why make it seem like Mizora can change the Pact at any time and for any reason? Were they so oblivious to their own writing that this is the only way they could think of to patch that potential plot hole?

I just can't.

This is Wyll's narrative Arc and the writing is so slap-dash. It doesn't make sense. The player feels like they have little to no choice in the outcome. Wyll has no choice in the outcome. The stakes feel pointless because there's no reason why breaking Wyll's pact should endanger his father. The path the player has to follow is inane. And when we get to the end we find out it was all pointless anyways because the pact is clearly whatever shit Mizora makes up on the spot that comes to her mind because that's the only way any of this makes sense. This is the level of writing I'd expect from a DM who suddenly needed to pull something out of their ass, not a team of writers who have had plenty of time to sit down and plot out a story.

In the story they built there's no point in Wyll struggling to escape. This isn't a 'well, Wyll's story was hastily rewritten' issue. This is a bad writing issue. No attention or care was paid towards making the narrative crux of Wyll's story actually make sense. No one bothered to make Mizora's pact make any sense. You cannot tell me there wasn't a planned ending for EA Wyll to break his pact; I won't believe you. The writers clearly just didn't care to make it make sense.

Mizora's Pact might just be the symptom, but it really shows how poorly Wyll's narrative arc was written.

[quordleona03]

M*A*S*H goes to Pride

In 1970, the world's first Pride march was held in New York City. Virtually all of our MASH friends would have lived long enough to see or to attend that first march. Which of them would have gone (assuming them to be in New York City in June 1970)? And would they have gone as ally or because they were LGBTQ? Maxwell Q. Klinger Of course. This is the most easiest answer of them all. Klinger would have dressed up to go. He would have accessorized. He would have checked with the organisers, designed multiple placards for the occasion, distributed them at the start, and walked the march in heels, a lovely dress, and a huge smile. Ally or LGBTQ? Klinger would have let you guess. Sherman T. Potter This is almost as easy to answer. Potter would have dressed up smartly and got Mildred or someone to make him a placard that said PROUD OF MY GAY GRANDSON (or LESBIAN GRANDDAUGHTER - maybe Cheryl Pershing Potter, whom we heard about in S04E14 ) and he would walk the route holding the placard high and his back military-straight, looking dead serious all the way. He would have been startled at the number of tearful handshakes and requests for hugs he got. Ally or LGBTQ? Ally. Charles Emerson Winchester III I am afraid this is the next-easiest answer: Winchester would not have gone. Not as an ally, and definitely not as a gay or bi man. As an ally, he'd have donated money to the cause, and if LGBTQ, he'd have made sure it was anonymous. Ally or LGBTQ? Wouldn't matter. Margaret Houlihan As an ally, she'd go. As a lesbian, I think she'd stay home, afraid of being outed and fired. Sorry. I'd like to think otherwise, but I think Margaret would be braver about standing up for others than she would for herself. As a straight woman, she'd march for lesbian nurses kicked out of the army whom she knew to be good nurses and good officers. Ally or LGBTQ? Ally.

Frank Burns Would never go and would spit venom at those who did. Never an ally. Could be he's gay, but I doubt it. Ally or LGBTQ? Neither.

Sidney Freedman Wouldn't go but would wish very much he could. Still active as a psychoanalyst, Sidney decides it is more important for him to be a gay and LGBTQ-friendly practicing analyst, providing psychiatric care without condemnation, than it is to march for Pride. Ally or LGBTQ? Gay as a goose.

Radar O'Reilly Would go. Wouldn't think to make a placard in advance, but would scrounge cardboard and a marker-pen from somewhere and make one on the spot that said LOVE KINDNESS. Would be very happy to be in the middle of so many happy people, and when his gay best friend hugs him and thanks him for showing up he's all afluster because what else could he do? Ally or LGBTQ? Ally. Trapper John McIntyre Would go. Wouldn't carry a placard. Would keep an eye out for homophobes threatening marchers and appear, six foot three, in a looming kind of way, and inquire if the homophobe doesn't have somewhere else he'd rather be. Ally or LGBTQ? Either way - he'd be a daddy. BJ Hunnicutt Would definitely decide he wasn't going because who needs to make that kind of display, people should keep themselves to themselves, no one should be punished for loving but no one needs to go on a march for it, and then he'd show up anyway with a hastily-made placard that said SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW and get into a long conversation with some lesbian bikers about which is the best bike. Ally or LGBTQ? Ally. Though if he were gay, I fear he'd really do the same as lesbian Margaret Houlihan - stay home. Francis Mulcahy Would decide he should go, after much prayer and thought. Would carry a carefully-made placard saying REPEAL THE DEUTERONOMIC CODE. Would be mortally embarrassed all the way but desperately trying not to show it, especially when he got kissed in public. Ally or LGBTQ? Gay. Hawkeye Pierce Gleefully shows up, having been looking forward to going ever since he heard. Carries a placard whose message he has thought and rethought and rewritten at least a hundred times. It now says LOVE IS LOVE IS LOVE. Tries to catch the eye of every glaring homophobe they march passes in order to give them a big grin and a wave. Hugs everyone he recognises, especially Radar, and kisses Francis Mulcahy in public at the end of the march. Ally or LGBTQ? Flamboyant pansexual.

[moedull]

LIKE

A/N: This is part of my AO3 series where my favourite characters represent different times (and ways) to say I love you

this was written waaay back in 2021? This is rewritten ofc, but, quite hastily in my opinion! It may not be the best, but, hey, it's cool

also.... dont be afraid to comment... help artists survive by showing ur love through comments or sharing their fics!!!!! >_o thanks!

AKA. Posted from my ao3 once again!

words: 1273

tags: NOT BETA READ, mild hurt/comfort, gender neutral reader, established relationship!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Enjoy: TSUKISHIMA KEI!

“Oh you’re still going on about that?”

“Yes.” 

Tsukishima sighs, sitting behind you as you smash the letters on your keyboard. You hear the bed creak and suddenly, he’s sitting next to you. He gently grabs your hands and holds them tight. 

“Hey.” He starts casually.

You look him in the eye with a huge frown, and furrowed eyebrows. “What?”

“Come here.”

‘Here’ is the soft bed you wish to lay on with no worries in the world. Of course, with your boyfriend, Tsukishima Kei.

“Why?”

“Why not?” 

“I’m busy right now…” You try pushing him away. 

“You don’t look like you’re in the best condition.” He says matter of factly, rubbing circles onto the back of your hand.

“So what if I am? I have to finish my thesis.”

He looks at you, sighs, and rolls his eyes. “I know that but it doesn’t change the fact that I worry about you.”

“I can take care of myself.” You hushed. “But thank you.”

“Are you ever gonna let me help? Or just go along with everything because you have too much pride for your own good?”

“No.” You huff. You suppose it was a habit from when you first met– always reaching for the top, showing everyone who really deserves to be up there– and, you do. You try hard everyday, working and caring for so many different things.

You just seem to be out of luck as it always feels like your efforts are unnoticed. In such situations, perseverance is key– but that kind of mindset may quickly turn sour when they’re left to linger and turn into stubbornness. 

You should probably hate Tsukishima Kei– strong-willed, cool and collected, and of course, smart. You would never have expected to hit it off with him, but he's one of those people who could easily get under your skin and get you to crack.

“Well, I know you can handle yourself, but don’t forget to eat.”

You roll your eyes (no malice is intended, of course). “You don’t need to baby me all the time.”

His eyebrow twitches, and he rolls his eyes in exasperation (no malice is intended here as well). “Whatever. But you need to sleep. Okay?”

“Yeah yeah.” You wave his concerns away, already turning around to resume typing.

Tsukishima huffs, gets up and moves over to your desk. He places his hands on either side of the laptop, leaning forward slightly as he studies the screen. 

“It’s not good to stress yourself out like this.”

“I don’t stress out.” You argue.

“Right, cause you always make sure you’re not stressed out.”

“I am not stressed out.” You insist.

“Fine.”  He relents. “But just remember I care about you. I can’t help it if you act like an idiot sometimes.”

The corners of your lips twitch up. “You’re cute.”

“Shut up.” 

“And sweet.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Don’t you think I should use more than two adjectives when talking about someone I like?” You ask with a smile, tilting your head.

He grins smugly down at you, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe.”

You chuckle, but it stops right away as you turn back to your work. Tsukishima still hangs around, not entirely convinced of your claims of being fine. He is especially convinced when you simply stare at your blank page, trying to find the right words to make the right sentence to make the right point of the right argument and–

“Okay, so what’s the problem?” He asks, taking a seat next to you. He scrolls up with your mouse, trying to read the rest of your document. 

You see the reflection of his face; His eyebrows knit together, lips pursed as the cursor moves underneath a few words. He lingers on a few sentences for unknown reasons that make your hands sweat and your heart beat faster. Flustered? Hardly, it’s the ache of anxiety. Your problems, right now, are far from school-related. 

“Mm.” Tsukishima hums, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You have the idea, so that’s good.”

But,

“You’re not being straight to the point about it.” He scrolls back to whatever page you made some stupid mistake on.

When did mistakes matter? I mean, seriously, at which stage of your life, did you begin to wallow over your mistakes? You were only in 3rd grade, scraping your knee on a cement pavement from running and that was one of the worst things that happened to you. 

Now, you read back on all of your essays and tests and feel your heart drop when you see that red ‘X’, the teacher encircling a specific part, or some harsh comments at the side. You want to blame the system, the adults, the economy or whatever God is up there– but, you can’t help it– You look in the mirror, thinking: Fuck. Was this all me?

Someone flicks your forehead, and you let out a wince, rubbing the spot.

“Hey.” Tsukishima says, tilting his head to look at your face. “You were zoning out.”

You glance back at him with an almost confused, somewhat dazed look. Here’s another big question: When did Tsukishima Kei matter? It’s incredible that you looked at someone for 304 days, talked, fell in love and somehow, it’s your life and his. You can’t put it into words right now; the questions that grow inside the empty pit of your stomach, because, right, you haven’t eaten yet, and you can’t tell if it really is a question, or if it’s screaming at you. 

You feel like you’re going to vomit–Fuck, that anxiety was just building up inside of you.

“I..” You pause, swallowing a non-existent lump in your throat. 

 “I didn’t think..” You pause again, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t think you’d like me back.”

He sits straight up, and stares down at you, furrowing his eyebrows with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?”

You shake your head. “Look, I wasn’t expecting any response from you when I confessed.” 

You pause, feeling your eyes burn slightly from the tears that were building up, “I was just.. someone. You were one of the smartest guys in school—still are—but, out of everyone....” you start to trail off. 

“Out of everyone, why did you choose me?” You continue, forcing yourself to speak slowly, slightly tensing up at the evident sound of your voice breaking halfway.

He doesn’t respond. He slumps his shoulders, seemingly taken aback and bewildered.

“Why does someone like you pick me?” You laugh bitterly. Your heart aches even at the thought of it.

You watch him closely, as if looking for some sort of reaction or sign of how he feels. A flicker in his eyes, anything.

Tsukishima’s face remains blank for several moments before opening his mouth slowly to say, “Because I like you.”  

It takes you a minute to process what he said and you blink owlishly. You’d been prepared to hear something like ‘You’re a dumbass’ or something along the lines.

”But why?” You manage to blurt out, unable to hide a frown.

There’s a long silence as you hold his gaze. You stare at each other, neither willing to break eye contact, not until he leans in and presses his lips against yours.

“Was that answer not enough?” He whispers into your ear, his fingers gently caressing your cheek.

You feel lightheaded, your entire body buzzing and your heartbeat drumming against your ribcage.

You can’t speak, so instead you shake your head.

There's silence as he begins to cradle you in his arms, resting his chin on your head.

“I love you.” He tells you again.

[hellscapechrysanthemum]

Okay conspiracy theory time.

Hopefully this'll be my last rant (and then more art given my schedule for work starting next week will finally be more consistent) but looking at Netflix Castlevania Season 4 I honestly can't resist theorizing that Saint Germain's loved one wasn't originally planned to be a female love interest from the very beginning and that Saint Germain's character fell victim to a hasty Season 4 script rewrite.

The entirety of Season 3, Saint Germain goes on about his loved one, but never mentions anything contextual to suggest their relationship or even their gender. The fact that his loved one's silhouette was relatively androgynous (and Saint Germain never referred to them by specific pronouns in S3) makes me wonder if they actually were going to be someone else entirely, and if the Infinite Corridor was going to be more thoroughly explored through Saint Germain and his loved one.

I only mention it because Saint Germain's whole character feels so disjointed in his character development, and his entire story feels so hastily developed. Heck that whole montage of his character in Season 4 feels like it was made as a result from the season being rewritten!

That's not saying EVERYTHING in Season 4 was potentially rewritten, but Saint Germain's storyline definitely feels like potential evidence that there was a major script overhaul.

(Also not implying "Hooo lost media of Saint Germain loved one character model that's revealed to be Aeon" but genuinely I'm convinced Season 4 was massively rewritten.)