#i care but i dont care enough to do anything about it

[therightbeaches]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 ⋆ 𝐚. 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

synopsis: following a near-encounter with death, your not-quite-boyfriend slash boss takes it upon himself to take care of you. [5.7k] contents: fem!bau!reader, reader was mentioned to be hurt but no gory descriptions about what happened, but theres semi-graphic (?) descriptions of hypothetical injury, first kiss, soft hotch, this is fully self-indulgent fluff (forgive me) a/n: i've never written for criminal minds before and i am rather nervous so please dont criticize too harshly :') + i tried to not make him too ooc (not sure how well that worked out.) i also beg for one-shot requests because i love writing them :p reblogs and comments are more than appreciated ♡ i hope you enjoy!

Sense by sense you come to.

Taste. On your tongue lingers the metallic taste of blood. It coats your throat thick like petroleum jelly. The aftertaste of artificial sweetener. Saccharine.

Smell. It’s sterile, alcohol swabs. Dully sweet like laundry. Coffee and creamer. So good and warm it’s nauseating.

Hearing. Steady beeping somewhere from your right. The rustle of fabric. Birdsong bleeds through thick walls. A phone rings, shrill and stark amongst the dull hustle and bustle outside of your room, and a woman speaks unintelligibly.

Touch. A pinprick tag itches against the back of your neck. Scratchy cotton sheets and a gauzy blanket and a too-flat pillow. Then a slow-burning hurt that climbs through your limbs like being devoured by flame, and you think that if you didn’t already meet your end then this must be what it’s like.

Your eyes blink open. The fluorescent lights above are too bright for you to see anything. Metal clinks as someone opens the curtains, then, Aaron’s face comes into your view in a hazy blur. He has a big bandage on his left cheek and prominent dark circles but otherwise looks well enough.

“Hello,” he says, and a warm paper cup of coffee is pushed into your stiff hands. “How do you feel?”

“Bad.”

“I know. I’m sorry. How much does it hurt?”

“Um... a six and a half. I mostly feel really out of it.”

“They’ve given you as much painkillers as they can. I bet that the brain fog will lift once you have something solid to eat.”

You push yourself up slowly as he edges into focus. In one hand he has a black duffel bag with your old shirt’s dirty sleeve hanging out of the zipper top, white fabric stained rust-brown with dirt and old blood. In the other, a thick manila folder with a seal adorning the front and his pen shoved into the crease.

There’s a strange silence then; strange within itself and strange in the fact that, with him, silence is never strange. His lips twitch downwards: he can feel it too. Then he inhales sharply as though it stings to speak.

“You were more than brave out there. You saved Julia’s life.”

“Thank you. That’s what I wanted to do.”

Your tone must not be convincing enough because he puts the bag down and curls his fingers around the half-rails of your bed, reinforces the idea with a pointed look and sighs, “I’m being serious. We wouldn’t have made it in time to help her without your courage.”

“Thank you,” you say again, milder this time.

He doesn’t say anything further. He doesn’t need to. The sort of unspoken communication that blossoms with time and effort; he looks out for you, and in turn you look out for him. It’s the same for the rest of the team, of course, but it’s no coincidence that you’re the one he always picks to watch his six in the field. And, again, he needn’t speak for you to know. Perhaps born from the innate desire to wane the burn of vulnerability; words stamped across his skin invisible to the untrained eye.

It’s different this time, though. He’s leaving not because he wants to — rather, he has to, stolen away from you as you were him by your profession (a whole thirty-six hours he had to spend without you around to nag him, what a tragedy it was!) You’d expected him to come just to leave since the moment you saw him, but perhaps foolishly, you’d clung to a shard of hope that’d cut up and bloodied your palms. You rub them together self-consciously.

He waves the folder in the air unenthusiastically and, despite him knowing you’ve already put the pieces together, voices it anyway.

“I can’t really stay for long,” he says simply.

“Where are you going?”

A prompt, disguised by niceties in typical fashion, though entirely unnecessary with him: when will I be able to see you again?

He sucks on his teeth and flips the folder open. “Albany. I think a day or two at most and we’ll be back.” He spares the details of the case lest you worry yourself to your grave. Your recent brush with death has already been nearly too much for the team to handle.

You don’t mean to slip into the habit of doubting him, not Aaron, who knows better than to lie to you because always he’ll splinter, crack, then crumble into a fine powder under the weight of your gaze. He’s smart, so smart, and so perceptive and by God if you know anything, you know him — down to the lines of his fingerprints and each individual eyelash across his waterlines, and you know now that something is troubling him.

“What is it?” you ask.

His brows crease in the center like you’ve said something offensive. “What is what?”

“You’re sulking.”

“I’m not,” he says, sounding like he’s sulking.

He knows something that you don’t and he doesn’t want to tell you — evident through the bob of his Adam’s apple with a thick swallow, the whitening of his knuckles around the bed’s guard rails. You give your cup a perfunctory squeeze and the plastic lid pops off and skitters to the ground.

There’s another silence wherein you wait, he waits too, staring at you dumbly. An eternity passes till he brushes his thumb over the length of your forearm, elbow to wrist, then traces the ridges of your knuckles before letting his arm drop limply to his side. He looks around to make sure nobody is within earshot and draws the blue privacy curtains around your bed to enforce extra precaution.

“I was just worried,” he finally says, his voice lowered. “I still am, honestly. You know, seeing you like… this.” Like, sick and weak, strung up with IVs like a puppet and unable to move without strain. “And I don’t want to leave you,” he adds as an afterthought.

In the presence of other agents, doctors, strangers, he’s a professional. He knows how to keep things curt and platonic, but when it’s just you and him, I missed you, I was worried about you, I need you around, I can’t lose you.

The way he speaks to you makes you feel something. He worries about you every moment you’re on the field. He frets over you when you’re ill, misses you when you’re apart, thinks about you all the time. Long ago you’d passed the threshold between mere team members to friends, and now, you’re touching base with what’s next. Beyond friends. Borderline lovers. Whatever that could mean for you. And the vulnerability in his voice strikes you, making him sound so small, so pained by your pain.

“You don’t need to worry,” you say, hoping to soothe his qualms. “I feel alright.”

“I can’t help it. I thought... I don’t know what I thought.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” is your light response, then a switch of the topic, and you ask again, “Will you tell me about the case?”

He puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder, then it moves to push your hair out of your eyes. Lingers in a soft caress on your cheek and your palm fits over the back of it when you lift your hand to cover his.

“Like I said, I think it’ll only be a couple days. Don’t stress yourself out over it. I want you to focus on getting better, alright?”

“Can you call me?” you ask.

“Every chance I get.”

And, trapped in the makeshift prison of your hospital bed, you can only croak out a weak goodbye that scratches your throat as you watch him leave.

⊹₊ 𐙚

It’s been a week since they discharged you from the hospital, assigned a lot of rest and fluids. Seldom a word from Aaron, though, and you, too, are beginning to fret just like he had over you. Your cuticles are peeled from existence, you’ve bit your nails too short and raw and red, your lips are chapped to the point your mouth tastes of metal more often than not.

Penelope has been more than kind and has kept you company in your too-empty apartment, even bringing over the case file and a grainy image of the evidence board sent over by the rest of the team for your viewing pleasure. You didn’t have much of value to add and ended up feeling more useless than you were to begin with.

Now, your gaze is trained on the toes of your too-big socks. A seam is misaligned along the top and the heel has pulled up to the back of your ankle. And you think of him. He’s all you can think about as of late. Feels something like nausea crawling up your throat to think of something happening to him.

Nervous. On edge. Sick with worry. He said one or two days. It’s been six and counting, who knows what could have happened to him out there, he was being secretive about it and he’s never secretive with you. Not you, why wouldn’t he tell you what was happening? Why wouldn’t he let on any details about the case? What if he’d anticipated getting hurt or —

You don’t dare entertain the thought. The only reason you’d imagined it up in the first place is because it happened to you. In the end, you’re still very much human no matter how much bureaucratic authority you have. That’s to say, you’re very much flesh and blood and bone, and from the safety of your apartment Aaron is even more so when he’s out on the field. Flesh can be cut, torn apart, blood can spill unstoppably like a faucet, bone can shatter into a million unfixable pieces. A bulletproof vest will do nothing against a knife jammed into his neck or a shotgun to the back of his head. You shudder and tug at your socks to un-bunch them from your heels.

In the middle of your bout of overthinking, the lock on your door clicks and turns and it swings open with a quiet creak. Aaron stands in the doorway, backlit by the dingy lights outside, akin to an angel with the cast of his hair and the contours of his face dipped in shadow.

“Hello? Honey, I have something for you,” is the first thing he says, the silhouette of his arm twisted to hide something behind his back. From his other hand dangles his go-bag, which falls to the floor of your living room with a dull thud. He peels out of his jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair.

The relief chokes you. Strangles you till you’re blue in the face. You’re struck speechless and can only watch as he pushes the door closed behind him and tosses the keys into the catchall on the hall table, toes off his shoes, then comes over to sit with you on the couch. Plastic crinkles behind his back as he moves closer.

“I’ve got something,” he says again. “A present for you.”

“Aaron-”

“Before you say I didn’t need to, I wanted to,” he interjects, waving a hand to stop you. “I saw them while I was out and thought of you.”

“The anticipation is killing me.”

All turbulent emotions vanish like morning dew on a sunny afternoon, your heart thrumming hard against the confinement of your ribs. You let yourself think it’s only because you’re just excited to see him in good spirits, certainly not because he places a hand on your knee and squeezes lightly, or looks at you with poorly-concealed adoration in his gaze, or the knowledge of the fact he thinks of you often enough to go out of his way to get you something nice.

From behind his back, he produces a bouquet of pink roses wrapped neatly in a matching shade of cellophane with a flourish and you nearly fall to the ground. He’s brought you flowers. Roses. He saw roses while he was out and they made him think of you, and that thought alone nearly has you knocked out cold.

You’re able to mutter his name before you reach for his shoulders for a hug, and he lets out a small huff as he’s pushed down to lay back on the couch with your arms around him.

“Consider this my apology for being too busy to call,” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” you say, breathless. “Consider your apology accepted.”

His free hand rubs up and down your back, lingering flush to the space between your shoulder blades to press you close to his chest. “How have you been?”

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah? Has Garcia been taking good care of you?”

You nod into his shoulder. “You know her.”

“That I do. Do you have a vase that I can put your flowers in?”

“There’s one in the kitchen cabinet.”

But he doesn’t yet stand to retrieve it, too engrossed in the warmth of your hug. This is not how a boss acts with his subordinate. Not even how a friend would act. If he were just a friend he wouldn’t come to you first, because your space is his space, and he wouldn’t have brought you a really nice bouquet, and he wouldn’t find such comfort in your embrace and the smell of your perfume that he goes slack under you. Him and you, always, together.

A moment passes and he shifts out from beneath you. You watch him get up with remorse, his hand holding onto yours till the distance draws his fingers away.

“You know,” he begins, rummaging around in your cabinets to find the aforementioned vase, “I’ve been honing in on my cooking skills.”

“That so?” you ask from the sofa, jelly-limbed with your neck craned to watch him.

“I can make stir fry if you want dinner.” His arm retracts from the cabinet, hand around the neck of your vase.

So he cooks for you. Insists upon it, even. Even though the hospital cleared you fine to go home and you feel more or less well, he insists on taking care of you. You let him. Maybe for his peace of mind. A chance to take care of you just like you’ve taken care of him countless times before. You won’t pretend to not like having him dote on you.

The roses sit between you, lit by warm candlelight because the overhead light buzzes too loud and the bulb flickers when you turn it on. It’s sweet and it’s romantic, shit, you really shouldn’t be getting so personally involved with your boss. The no-fraternization rules implemented by the Bureau higher-ups have been hammered into your skull since the day you joined, yet just look at you. Too late for go-backs now.

Over the table, you say, “You can stay the night, if you want to.”

It’s not that you’re implying anything because you’re not, voice void of sexual innuendo. He doesn’t seem to take it in such a way anyway. His gaze meets yours and he draws closer with a hand curled like a cage atop yours.

“I will,” he replies. “If you want me to.”

“I do.”

He’s slept over before a secret half-a-dozen or so times, mostly on the couch. Only in your bed once. That one time was after you’d came home from a particularly bad case, and it was the second time you’d seen him as upset as he was. Beaten black and blue, scraped up worse than he’s ever been on the job. You’d diligently cleaned his wounds up (always too proud to sit in the back of an ambulance and let a professional take care of it), sat with him until he fell asleep, then you never spoke of it again.

Tonight he sleeps beside you. Blissfully unaware to the way you stare at his profile — the line of his nose, the mess of his hair where it’s fallen over his forehead, the way the light catches on his fluttering lashes and turns them a pale blue. The back of your knuckles run against his cheekbone. Tender, soft, so unlike most anything else he knows now.

He’s beautiful. All of you belongs to him.

You stir to Aaron’s heavy arm draped across your abdomen and crack one eye open to see him staring at you. The room is warm, sunshine spilling over his back to paint him shining gold, and the tip his of nose presses against your neck when he sees you’re awake. He must’ve gotten up before you woke because you can smell fresh-cut grass from the open window and the scent of coffee brewing floats in from the kitchen, and from outside you can hear the humming drone of a lawnmower, the song of morning birds chirping.

“Did I wake you up?” he asks, more a murmur than anything.

You shake your head no. A part of you — the small part that yearned for his care and attention long before now — is awestruck. You’ve got Aaron in your bed, the same Aaron who bleeds and hurts and fights beside you, the man who hadn’t wanted you on the team in the first place, and he’s touching you like you’re made of glass.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“I’m okay for now,” you reply.

“Are you sure, honey? I can cut up some fruit for you. You could do with some vitamins… maybe some sun, too.” Mournfully, he gets up from bed, leaving you with only the warmth of the sheets where he lay just a moment ago. You watch, blinking slow, breathing slow.

“I’m really fine,” you insist meekly, pulling the blankets up to your chin.

With hands planted on either side of your head, he leans back over you in bed, brows pulled in concern like you’re still bedridden in the hospital. His thumb ghosts over the delicate skin of your undereye, then lower, feather-light down the slope of your jaw and to where your collarbone peeks out from the neck of your shirt.

“I’ll bring you a bowl,” he says, disregarding the rejection.

And then he kisses you before he leaves to the kitchen. Nothing full-fledged, only a brief press of his lips to your cheek, but it renders a swell in your gut, too hot beneath your quilt, breathless like your heart is going to rip straight out of your chest and chase him down to kiss him again. The print of his lips burns white-hot. A brand on your skin.

He pauses in the threshold of your bedroom and looks back. “I’m sorry if that was… weird.”

“No! No, it wasn’t weird. I liked it, actually.”

“Oh, okay.”

Aaron fusses over you incessantly the entire day, from cutting your fruit up to holding your hand to help you to the couch, despite your insistence that you’re fully recovered. He isn’t so used to putting his feelings so brashly on display, but you’ve been walking this tightrope between friends and more for a while and it’s no secret he wants it. Wants you. Wants whatever you may have to offer. No matter if you’re well or not, he’ll want you.

“Thank you,” you say over lunch, picking idly at the tangerine he’d peeled for you. “For staying with me, I mean.”

He lifts his head. He’s opened the window above your sink, citing the lovely weather and your need for sunshine as his reasons for letting the bugs in, and it makes his eyes shine from his seat facing the sun.

You’re like a vampire, he had said. Don’t get me wrong, definitely a beautiful and kind one, but fresh air will do you good, then he’d laughed as he stood in the spill of warmth exuding from the open window.

In his hand is the other half of the tangerine, which he assiduously peels the spongy pith from and discards in a small heap atop your dining table.

“I hope you know that I don’t mind.” Aaron breathes out and hands you two slices stripped of their white viscera. “I like taking care of you. Every so often someone get hurts on the field and it never gets more comfortable to deal with. It makes me feel… good to be here with you.”

“That’s really nice of you to say.”

“It’s only the truth.”

You’ve been better for the greater part of a week and no longer need babying like you did at the start, you think, but withhold on commenting for fear that he thinks you don’t like having him around. You more than like it, really, and you like it even more when he leans over the table enticingly.

He’s smiling widely when he speaks. “And the company is the best part.”

“Even if the company is a vampire?” You touch the side of his throat, flush over his jugular where a vampire might bite. His heart thrums hard beneath the pads of your fingers when you push down with the faintest pressure.

“Even so.”

⊹₊ 𐙚

“Can I see you in my office? There’s something that I want to talk to you about.”

You stand from your desk. Aaron — rather, Hotch, because you’re at work — has been staring at you through his window the entire morning like a reverse-scenario zoo animal in an enclosure. It’s been unsettling to feel someone’s eyes on you perpetually but you let it slide because you know he’s just worried. He made it very clear that he didn’t want you coming back to the office so soon, for worry you might bump a fading bruise on the exceedingly dangerous desks in the bullpen or injure your back further by sitting in the expensive, cushy roller chair.

It’s an overcast Monday in light of your sunny weekend. Aaron had messaged you at five-thirty in the morning, insisted heavily that if you intended on coming in today then it had better be with a warm coat on. You’d come to a tentative middle ground via a knit sweater that he likes because Emily runs cold and makes sure the whole office knows it (Seriously, you can’t remember the last time she’d allowed it to be less than the low eighties, and most of the team would rather bear the heat than listen to her gripe about how cold it is. Today, it’s freezing. The heat is broken and you figure you’ll have to deal with it once she comes in.)

He’s waiting for you when you step in and close the door behind you, drawing the blinds. “How are you?”

“I’m well. I’d be better if you’d stayed home to rest.”

“I promise I’m recovered enough for desk work, Aaron.”

He grumbles with no real upset and beckons for you to come around the other side of his desk. When you do and lean back with palms braced over the lip, a broad hand slips around your waist to touch your back. He drops it quickly. So unprofessional, you might tease, if you weren’t so pleased with the fact that he’s unabashedly touching you at work.

Something in the air has shifted. Following the night you spent together, it’s as if the spark between you has turned into a real firecracker, a sparkling dazzle of neon color and fizzling light. He’d left Saturday afternoon after a lot of coaxing that you’d be alright alone, made you promise you’d eat real food and not just cereal and frozen pizza and TV dinners. Most importantly, he wouldn’t leave without kissing you silly all over your cheeks and forehead and jaw. And when you’d anticipated the killing blow and closed your eyes and parted your lips, he’d bid you goodbye with an affectionate pat to your shoulder.

It was cruel, but you don’t mind waiting for a real kiss. The riper the fruit, the sweeter the juice, isn’t that what they say? This thing, for lack of a better word, with Aaron being as discernible as it is, is still relatively new. Not to mention he’s navigating romance for the first time again after Haley, so you’re more than willing to take it slow with him.

“What did you do over the rest of the weekend?” he asks conversationally.

“You know, the ushe.” You tuck your cold hands between your knees, press your lips together like you’re really devastated by the answer you’d come up with. “I laid around feeling sorry for myself, missing you…” you trail off, wistful.

“You poor thing,” Aaron responds sympathetically. “What can I do?”

You lean forward with a mock show of great sadness, though not without an underlying coquettish, hopeful demeanor. “The only thing that would make it all better is dinner later tonight with someone special.”

“What a coincidence. I was just thinking of asking my own someone special if she wanted to get takeout and spend the night at mine after work.”

It’s awful, the way he’s staring at you and beaming. Like you’re the one who hung all the stars in the sky, crafted the constellations just for him; like you control the tide of the ocean and the spin of the Earth; like you’re the light that makes the moon glow. Makes you want to grab him by his hand and bring him back to your place and never let him leave the comfort of your apartment. Keep him safe and warm and content.

You settle instead on smoothing his lapels down. He isn’t propositioning you when he asks you to stay over — never would he be so blatant, and you don’t think you’re quite involved enough yet for such a risqué offer to be on the table (though the notion has you imagining a torturous handful of things that you wouldn’t dream of telling him about.)

“Tell you what,” he begins. He moves his chair to be positioned in front of you. You have to look directly down to see him face-to-face. “We’ll pick up some dinner and we can watch whatever movie you like. Do you have your go-bag?”

“I do... and if I want to watch Mean Girls?”

“I’ll watch anything you want,” he supplies.

“Oh, how sweet are you?”

“Don’t tell anyone. My professional reputation would be ruined.”

Truth be told, there is a prominent lack of ‘professional reputation’ in Aaron’s department, at least within the team. He can pretend as much as he likes for as long as he likes but it’s their specialty to sniff out lies, pick up on secret cues, and of course they notice when he comes into the office with two cups of coffee instead of one, when he holds your hand to help you up the steps of the jet. You’ve received enough conspiratorial looks to know that they know.

You don’t suppose Aaron is your boyfriend. Your relationship with him is a nuanced thing. Becoming the brunt of office gossip is one thing, jeopardizing your careers is another — Strauss has her suspicions and there’s been, well… talk that stokes the (albeit small) kindling flame. It comes down to having a discussion that will remain on the back burner until the both of you can sit down and discuss the professional implications and the other difficult things that Aaron doesn’t want to talk about.

Dark has long since encompassed the Bureau by the time that he decides to be done working. You’ve been waiting on the couch in his office for the better part of the day, his suit jacket draped over your legs fashioned into an impromptu blanket. And then there’s the shuffling of loose-leaf paper shoved into folders, the scratch of his chair’s wheels as he pushes it in.

The toes of his shiny oxfords come into view and a kind hand pushes a loose lock of hair out of your face. “Are you ready?”

He wedges his hand beneath the small of your back to get you up. You’re tired from your day and limp when he encourages you to sit, but ultimately allow him to prop you up against the back of the couch. You take his hand to stand up when he offers it to you.

One and a half years ago, he wouldn’t dream of holding your hand. Wouldn’t even sit next to you in the conference room or on the jet, in fact. But Aaron didn’t really start liking liking you until eight months ago and didn’t tell you for even longer. It took him a long while to gather the courage to come out and just say it like any normal adult with feelings might do.

If you told your former self you’d wind up holding hands with Unit Chief SSA Aaron Hotchner, going home to eat dinner with him and sleep in his bed, you’d have laughed in your own face. The most you’d ever let yourself indulge in such a fantasy prior to his grandiose confession of more than friendly feelings was maybe, just maybe, in an alternate timeline you’d met Aaron under different circumstances and it would have been history.

But you have him in this timeline. You have him picking up your dinner, driving you to his house, crouching down in front of you to undo the buckles keeping the straps of your kitten heels fastened around your ankles. He rubs your calf after tucking your shoes away before he stands and walks to the kitchen.

“What a long day,” he comments. He loosens the knot of his tie and looks over at you over his shoulder. “For you especially, I imagine. Does it get tiring, laying on the couch in my office?”

“Mhm,” you hum agreeably. “A very long day of very grueling paperwork. My boss can’t stop assigning me more and more when there are other agents who could share the workload.”

You know Aaron is smiling, even as he’s faced with his back to you. It’s clear in his voice. “Maybe your boss just thinks you’re very diligent and produce quality work.”

“That sounds to me a lot like favoritism, Hotchner.” You saunter up behind him, draping your arms around his waist. He tears apart the plastic bag holding your food then separates portions onto two ceramic plates.

“Uh-huh,” he says wryly. “You see, honey, favoritism would be more like if I let a member of my team quote unquote lay down to rest her eyes on my sofa instead of doing her work like I very kindly asked — oh wait, doesn’t that sound familiar?”

“So I am your favorite? Ooh, how scandalous. Imagine if word got out that you were picking favorites.”

“I must be doing something wrong if you have to ask.” Aaron turns and puts a hand on the back of your neck, scoffs, shakes his head good-naturedly. This mood he’s in, playful, teasing, is so rare, and you love it. “Do you ever see me letting Morgan take a nap during work hours?”

“Derek will nap regardless if you let him or not.”

(This is true. You’d caught him sleeping in the conference room once. He’d made you swear not to tell Aaron in exchange for vending machine money — and who were you to deny such a generous offer? Your silence was easily bought via chocolate bars.)

“In that case, I might have to give him a stern talking to.” His expression is grim.

“Oh, please don’t. He gave me money to buy candy from the machines if I swore not to tell you.”

Aaron is delighted by this answer. “But you’re telling me anyway?”

“Does that make me a bad friend?” you ask morosely.

“No, no. You’re the best friend. And an even better subordinate for ratting him out… it’s good to know where your loyalty lies.”

He’s laughing when he says it and then he isn’t laughing a mere moment later. Rather, he’s leaning in on a whim, eyes fluttering shut, a hand over the back of your neck, thumbs a whisper against the curve of your cheek. There’s a perceptible flash that travels like lighting up your spine — he’s going to kiss you for real this time, you know he is, and it’s something you’ve wanted for who-knows how long and it’s finally yours to have. To keep. And it’s not just about the kiss, is it? It’s about Aaron, like it most always is, and you thank your lucky stars one by one to have found a man like him and to be able to keep him.

But it’s over nearly as soon as it began. How torturous for it to end so quickly when you’ve dreamt of kissing him day and night. It’s only right for you to go for another and another and another, and yes, juice is always sweeter when the fruit has had time to ripen.

[quarterlifekitty]

Hey stepdad Nik gal here again, so my idea might be a little half baked but imagine if Nik decides it's finally time to settle down and meets a woman a little younger than him but not by a lot maybe max 4 years. He's mentioned having kids or adopting and she seemed on board with it if a bit disinterested but it's when they get married it goes downhill. He finds she was just really good at playing into what he wanted and changes a lot but not enough to leave her because well it's someone to keep the house and she's not terrible just not exactly what he thought she was. Until her daughter shows up. Her adult daughter in her last few years of college who's extremely surprised to find out she has a stepdad considering she was never even invited to the wedding, her mother's excuse? "Well you're just so busy!" And Nik expects at least a little bit of anger but his apparent stepdaughter just deflates a bit, nodding before turning to him with a sweet smile and introducing herself. He had no idea this girl existed, there's no photos of her in the house, no keepsakes, he honestly believed his wife had no children by her behavior. And he quickly sees why, his wife is fine on her own but seems to have a personal issue with her own daughter. Passive aggressive comments, piling chores on her, even restricting where she can go, in general treating her poorly. Meanwhile she's the sweetest thing he's ever met. Checks every single box of his, and she's so sweet when he does things for her like she cant fathom someone wanting to care for her or help her. He gathers from his sweet stepdaughter that she was an oops baby and that her mother never let her forget it either and had been like this her whole life and had kicked her out the night before her 18th birthday and only really demanded her home on holidays(for appearances) or when she needed money. Everything he learns makes him wish he'd rethought marrying this woman, but oh well, at least it led him to the sweetest thing he's ever met. Now he just has to go about winning her over while secretly getting things ready to divorce the mom. Stepdaughter for sure has a huge crush but doesn't wanna mess things up and that goes well until her and Nik are alone one day and somehow baking him something turns into him pressing her into the couch and fucking her stupid. I dont really know how he'd go about it or anything but my brain wouldn't let this leave. Sorry it's so long and probably not coherent but take this and do what you want with it lol <3 Love your writing, it's delicious thank you for feeding me <3 <3

I’ve been sitting on this one for a bit bc it’s SO GOOD and I wanted to come up with a halfway intelligent response

I think he’d play into your crush and just set up all of these tiny boundaries that you’ll beg him to cross. Like— we can cuddle, malýshka, but no kissing. Which moves to we can kiss, just not on the lips. We can touch— just keep it over the clothing.

Until eventually his cock is sliding against your slicked up panties, teasing your folds through the fabric until they’re soaked and sticky with a mix of your cum and his, his tongue in your mouth the whole time. And then you’re rutting against him bare— well… maybe just the tip? That would be okay, wouldn’t it? And of course you ask so sweetly— you’re never anything less than the sweetest thing to him— how can he say no?

[kingjasnah]

idk if this has been discussed but i do wonder if there was a way jasnah could have won over fen. jasnah calls her very emotionally intelligent and she only started responding positively to dalinar in ob once he got truthfully frustrated with her and did some yelling and idk i wonder if jasnah had set aside all her philosophical talk and made a passionate and emotional plea if fen would have been more receptive. but of course jasnah wouldn't do that

short answer: agreed. long answer: ive been wanting to talk about this for weeks. so you're getting kinda a long one.

jasnah is obviously one of my favorite characters and that's almost why i was clapping and cheering during the taravangian takedown--like all of her flaws and everything that makes her compelling was completely cracked open. if jasnah cares about anything at all, it's how she is perceived. we dont know what happened to her when she was a child and we dont know why it seems that she was institutionalized or at least in confinement for a period of her youth but we do know that every single thing she does is a measure to keep her from never going back to the kind of powerlessness she felt back then. i remember shallan commented on her perfect her hair and makeup and clothing was waaay back in book 1/2 and thought how interesting it was for a self professed heretic to still take care to make sure the darkeyed sailors on their ship to the shattered plains never saw her out of makeup. jasnah has been vulnerable in this series, sure, but only to her family. or maybe shallan. or maybe hoid? persumably. every single page she has appeared on in this entire series has reinforced that to her a huge part of the way she does her job (and im considering hiring a spy to follow her sister in law her job too, not just being queen. i mean what she considers her role to be in her family) of statecraft is in the perception that she is perfect. and yeah, that's why it was never going to work with fen

dalinar did have a hard time cracking fen because i think that in the beginning of their interactions they both made fundamental misinterpretations of each other based on where they came from. fen only thought of dalinar as a warmonger who would walk all over her country in the name of conquest, and dalinar straight up did not understand that fen's perspective was so heavily influenced by the thaylen mercantile culture. they still found common ground and yeah it was a frank conversation and an abandoment of diplomat speak that did it. jasnah's made emotional pleas before but i think the crux of her error with fen is that she DID know how important the mercantile culture was but she interpreted it as "fen is going to leave the alliance if she gets a better deal for her country so i need to prove that im her best option" instead of "fen values exchange of commerce but she really values relationships. fen's culture involves building relationships with other merchants so that they can trade with each other and understand each other" (please see the original two rysn interludes). fen didn't need a perfect argument from jasnah but she also didn't need dalinar's approach either. all she needed was for jasnah to TRUST her enough to treat her like an equal partner in their alliance instead of a marker to be moved around a war map.

cause let's be honest. fen is an extremely capable ruler. she's smart and she's been in power for a long time. i do not think for a second that she was genuinely aghast that jasnah sent spies after aesudan or well, the kharbrath murders were pretty bad but im certain that a middle aged to senior member of ruling nobility has seen worse. it's not a bad thing for jasnah to put her people first. i am convinced that fen felt betrayed because jasnah had already set the parameters of their relationship by even engaging in this debate with taravangian. fen saw her logic backfire on herself and went "oh. okay. you are putting YOUR people first because you do not see the thaylen people as having the kind of relationship to you as, for example, vstim had with the shin or with the reshi king. you see us as an argument to be won over, as numbers on a map, as a thought excersize. not onyl withh you walk all over my country in the name of conquest (like dalinar might have) but you'd do it for the sake of what, rhetoric??" in that way, at least taravodium was honest.

but yes. jasnah would never do that. jasnah put on a full face of makeup every morning in her cabin just in case a handful of sailors that she never learned the names of would see her. of course she would never let a queen that she respected see her worry for her kingdom on purpose but it's over now. the mask has cracked, she lost, and she knows that the trap she fell into only closed around her because of her own hubris/the kind of love you have for winning that you'd have to have in order to spend your pre-apocalypse time actively arguing about heresy with every scholar and ardent out there. taravangian's arguments would not have worked on fen if jasnah had never put her in the position to be won over in the first place. i cannot stress enough that jasnah was my first love in this series and watching her finally crack and expose what i have always considered to be the most interesting thing about her was easily one of my favorite moments in the book. insane shit. i can't wait to see how she builds herself back up.

[catchastarorten]

Heyyyy!!! I just wanted to day i love Ur writing and if you dont wanna do this then you can just ignore! Could you possibly write headcanons of kang dae ho with a reader who has avoidant attachment? Because i recently broke up with a guy who i rlly wanted to be in a relationship because of my avoidant attachment and now he has a new girlfriend and i just feel like shit

Hey lovely, I’m sorry to hear what you’re going through right now, and I hope you’re feeling better. Take care of yourself, you deserve so, so much <33

I don’t usually do headcanons, but here’s one for you, I hope you like it — sending lots of love <3

—How he loves you

Pairing: Kang Dae-ho x reader

Content: reader has avoidant attachment, comfort, soft, understanding, Dae-ho is a sweetheart, no games au

• Dae-ho never rushes you. He understands that trust isn’t something you give easily, and that’s okay. He’s in no hurry. He doesn't mind waiting for you to open up. He's like a calm, unbothered cat sitting on your porch—he knows the door will crack a little bit if he waits long enough.

• When you pull away after a vulnerable moment, he doesn’t get upset or demand answers. Instead, he gives you the space you need, quietly waiting until you’re ready to let him back in.

• He's unshakable. Seriously. He never takes it personally when you hesitate or retreat. Instead, he sees it as part of who you are—and he loves all of you, even the parts you can’t share or is still learning to share.

• He has a way of showing he cares without making it feel overwhelming. A simple message like how he’s thinking of you is his way of reminding you that he’s there, without pressuring you to respond. He always waits until you're ready to find him.

• Instead of big, romantic gestures, he's all about the small things—a peaceful walk, sitting on the couch in comfortable silence, or sharing a meal where neither of you feels the need to fill the quiet. He's not here to stress you out.

• He admires your independence. He doesn’t see your need for space as a problem to solve—it’s something he respects and works with, knowing that love doesn’t mean smothering you.

• When you finally open up to him, he listens with his whole heart. He doesn’t try to "fix" anything or tell you what you should do. He just listens, making you feel heard.

• He shares pieces of his own struggles—not to compare but to let you know he understands what it’s like to carry heavy things alone. Like that time he pretended to be confident in the Marines but secretly sucked at running drills. He wants his own experiences to make you feel less alone, like you’ve found someone who really gets it.

• He never sees your distance as rejection. He knows it’s your way of protecting yourself, and instead of reacting negatively, he just stays steady, showing you he’s not going anywhere.

• Dae-ho doesn’t overwhelm you with affection. Instead, he shows his love in small, tender ways. Maybe it’s brushing his hand against yours, or draping his jacket over your shoulders when he notices you’re cold.

• He makes you laugh when you least expect it—turning heavy moments into something lighter without diminishing their importance. His sense of humor has a way of melting your walls without you even realizing it.

• When you shut down or pull away, he doesn’t press you to talk. Instead, he gently says, “Take your time. I’m here when you’re ready,” and you know he means it.

• He notices the small moments when you start to trust him—like when you lean your head against his shoulder or let him hold your hand for a second longer. He never makes a big deal out of it, but the soft smile on his face tells you how much it means to him.

• Every step you take, no matter how small, is something he treasures. If you share even a tiny piece of yourself, he makes sure you know how much he values it.

• He doesn’t expect you to change who you are. He loves you exactly as you are—doesn’t matter the hesitations, fears, and all. You are you, and he loves you for being yourself.

• Dae-ho isn’t the type to give up when things get hard. Your struggles with trust don’t scare him away, they make him want to be there for you even more.

• His love is steady and calming, like a warm cup of tea you didn't ask for but secretly needed. With him, love doesn’t feel like pressure or fear—it feels safe, soft, and freeing.

• Over time, you may realize you don’t have to carry everything on your own anymore. When you finally lean on him, you see that he’s always there to hold you, without hesitation or doubt.

• With Dae-ho, love isn’t something you have to fight for or fear. It’s patient, gentle, and warm—like being wrapped in a soft blanket after a long day.

[apatheticintrovert]

Craving human connection but too awkward and introverted to do anything about it

[bunnyboy-juice]

NO MORE ASSOCIATING THINGS WITH FEMMES ONLY BECAUSE THEY ARE PINK!HYPERFEM FEMMES ARE GREAT AND I LOVE YOU CAMPY FEMMES WHO EMBODY PINK BUT ALSO JESUS CHRIST CAN YOU GUYS NOT GO MORE THAN ONE DAY W/O TRYING TO SHOEHORN FEMMES INTO BEING ONLY PINK UWU BABIES. I AM FEMME AS IN GRASS AS IN DIRT AS IN TREE BARK AS IN WEEDS SPROUTING THROUGH THE SIDEWALK CEMENT. FEMME AS IN GENDER NONCONFORMITY AS IN FUCK YOU MY FEMININITY IS WHAT *I* SAY IT IS. FEMME AS IN DEPTH AND DARKNESS AND WARMTH AND TERROR. FEMME AS IN CAVES. FEMME AS IN LIGHTNING. FEMME AS IN AN AMALGAMATION OF TRAITS THAT I HAVE DECIDED ARE FEMININE REGARDLESS OF WHAT SOCIETY SAYS. FUCK IS IT THAT HARD TO UNDERSTAND?!???

[umblrspectrum]

Can we get more of the murder drone x rain world au?

ok

[buggachat]

i do just have to say though.................... i feel like people who really really loved the movie's portrayals of the characters are adding aspects of the show characters onto them? you know what i mean? like i see people say that adrien and marinette were more likeable in the movie than the show, when movie adrien didn't perform a single act of kindness in the entire 2 hours despite kindness being a core trait of adrien in the show? marinette was normal and not particularly weird at all and just kind of a generic protagonist? were adrien and marinette actually more interesting in the movie than the show, or are you just cherrypicking the aspects of them you like the from the show and putting them on the movie characters to make your favorite amalgamation?

marinette fell for adrien not because he showed vulnerability and forgiveness and kindness and opened his heart up to her.... but because he awkwardly tried to help her up after being kind of weirded out by her? so like i guess she thought he was hot and that was basically it? chat noir fell for ladybug not because she was strong and confident and showed determination in the face of fear... but because she begrudgingly helped him up in the middle of a battle? so like i guess he thought she was hot and that was basically it? they fell for each other over just the bare minimum interactions? most of their relationship was a montage? like, did the movie do the work to convince you of lovesquare's romantic potential, or did you go into the movie already shipping them because the show had already convinced you?

thats totally a valid way to enjoy the movie ftr! i'm just saying.... idk it's weird to see people praising the movie for being "better" when i feel like a lot of the enjoyment of the movie actually hinges on watching the show as context for their characters. and i guess im just a cringe slow-burn enjoyer but i find it weird that people are using "faster" as a synonym for "better"

[snekdood]

so uh

for 1. most people are gonna take advantage of black friday and wont see your specific niche tumblr post, I hate to say it

2. the us isnt running out of money for war any time soon, so...

3. this is just antisemitism???????? all we need is some (((echoes))) around the us and israel and then I'd have no reason to suspect otherwise from op...............

[dykedvonte]

One of my mutuals opinions is the "bro code" thing, that Curly is one of those guys who wouldn't care about the victim because the perpetrator is his friend and I'm really banging my head on the wall like that other anon. I've only played through the game once but Curly's behaviour/reactions etc read completely different from the "bro code" thing and I have to wonder if my mutual and I even played the same game.. like the constant digs at him from Jimmy, his body language in his face reveal and so on like you mentioned in your post. While this game is a little different obviously, it kind of reminded of a point in Alice Madness Returns that makes it very clear that Alice's pain blinded her to the abuse of the other children and her failure to act earlier because of it. Curly is guilty of a similar inaction but it doesn't change the fact he was a victim of Jimmy too. I don't think I can look at it any other way because both of these games have really stuck with me.

I genuinely think it really is the idea that people want a simple easy to blame problem and the idea that the only relatable victims of abuse are those that "surpass" it or do a lot to help others. When it comes to victims, especially those that don't fit the typical demographics, who either accidently perpetuate it, enable it or aren't ideal in some way shape or form, people jump to ignore what they went through as it's easier than dealing with those conflicting sentiments.

The bro-code conversation in Mouthwashing stems from a concept I generally dislike that there had to be something about Curly that made him meet or keep being friends with someone like Jimmy. I think people genuinely underestimate how many like decent and good people just know an asshole or are friends with someone who is really bad outside of their view/established dynamics. The game makes it clear none of the inaction against Jimmy is because of a lack of care, it is a lack of understanding from the privaleged postions they have as men to not have to worry about what Anya does/went through and the type of extremes men like Jimmy will go through to cover it up. They are all too preoccupied in their own strifes.

Another thing I see being oversaturated the idea that you have to be a freak, misanthrope or have a disorder to do the thing Jimmy does. The game is an escalation, it's a spiral that I don't see people comment on that Jimmy was not likely having the mood swings and episodes of rage/frustration we were seeing in the game. This is after they all start experiencing the worst moments in their lives that he got THAT openly bad. Of course, this is just my interpretation but much like in real life, people that go to extremes like that usually live mundane lives. It's a pressure cooker affect to where the stress made them pop. It's self inflicted but still the case.

I really think people need to be more willing to acknowledge that not everything needs to be an extreme or in black and white or easy to understand. It doesn't need to be happy or have an answer or solution, especially in the cases where the abused sadly helps perpetuate what they experience. It's not he should've known better from experience or shouldn't he have known what could've happened because victims tend to not like to think in matters of the worst. Not to mention, especially in cases of abuse where it feels so personally directed that you don't expect to happen to someone else.

[stargloom]

im everything you hate

blood ver

[plutosoda]

having low empathy like actually sucks

[crunchsomebones]

I fear that anything I write about the transmasculine experience will pale in comparison to a song written by cisgender heterosexual man Will Wood. like he got it. he wrote it all down. how tf did he do that was he possessed

[anonymocha]

finally coming out as a dyke in 2023 is realizing i dont need to pretend to simp that Guy just because everyone else in my friend group does

[pocketsizedquasar-3]

you know. white liberals would be far less annoying (still deeply annoying) and far less difficult to take seriously (still deeply difficult) if they stopped lying to themselves and everyone else about what they were doing. ‘cause y’all either sound completely stupid and removed from reality at best or violently callous at worst.

(and before anyone fails their reading comprehension here, i am not telling anyone to vote or not vote or who to vote or not vote for. get off my dick.)

but no, you’re not doing “real leftism” by voting for kamala (something i have actually seen countless people say. “real leftists” would vote for kamala!!1!!1!! if you don’t vote for her ur not a “real leftist!!!!”). that’s not what that is. words mean things. you’re actually engaging in pretty textbook liberalism. it’s not “real leftism” to vote for a genocidal fascist who is actively employing genocidal fascistic policies both overseas and domestically, and who has pledged gladly to continue doing so. (again, bc this is the bad reading comprehension website, i’m not telling you if you vote for kkkamala ur not a “real leftist” (mostly because that’s meaningless); i’m saying that that act itself is not a """leftist""" action). if you feel the need to justify what you’re doing to yourself by pretending you’re doing ~real leftism~, stop.

you're not “stopping fascism” or “saving democracy” or whatever else. you’re not “stopping fascism” by voting for a fascist. you’re not “saving democracy” by voting for a fascist. if you genuinely can’t see in this current moment that kamala harris & the democrats are fascists, you are deliberately ignoring and excusing fascism as long as it’s happening to nonwhite people. it is willful, deliberate ignorance at this point and it is violent. you genuinely do not see victims of fascism unless it happens to white people.

you’re not “protecting palestinians” by voting for kamala. you’re not making their chances better or being better for them or improving their conditions. you’re not “more likely” to sway kamala on palestine; you can’t even threaten to withhold your support for her because of her wanton slaughtering of palestinians. 13 months of ongoing genocide and ongoing mass protest movements and multiple polls showing that she would literally guarantee the win in key swing states if she would just call for an arms embargo / ceasefire as part of her platform have not swayed her. she constantly, constantly reaffirms her willful, enthusiastic support of this genocide. she has said over and over again that she will not end her support for israel, that she would not have done anything differently than biden, that she has no intentions to stop sending israel arms and money so they can keep slaughtering palestinians and now lebanese. you are not “protecting” or helping palestinians by voting for her. keep their names out of your mouths.

you’re not protecting """minorities""" or """poc""" either. not when the candidate is a cop whose administration has already funneled billions of dollars into the police and the military, who is priding herself on wanting to create the most lethal military, on being tougher on the border&immigration than trump, who is happily continuing to perpetuate racist atrocity propaganda to justify the mass slaughter of palestinians, who continues to reaffirm and support the escalation of imperialism and war even elsewhere in the so-called middle east, who is gladly seeking (and securing) endorsements by racist white supremacist republicans (like dick fucking cheney. come on), whose administration has been for four years enthusiastically accelerating the climate crisis, whose campaign has been littered with examples of both their supporters and the politicians themselves being virulently racist. you’re not protecting us. you’re not helping us.

your candidate wants us dead. your candidate wants me dead. your candidate wants my people in iran dead. your candidate wants my sister peoples in palestine and in lebanon dead. your candidate is actively orchestrating their slaughter.

kamala might be better for you, white liberal american. fine. vote for her if you wish. no one is stopping you. but stop white knighting about it. stop pretending you’re doing this for anyone but yourself. stop lying to yourself and everyone else about what you’re doing. stop speaking over us the with fucking audacity that you’re somehow doing us a favor, and stop talking down to us, palestinians especially, like they are children who need to be ~explained~ the right way to save them. stick your white savior complex up your ass.

vote however you want, but stop lying about what you’re doing and who you’re protecting.

and if you want my vote too? fucking earn it.

[handhourgalleries]

Warcraft rp/writing hot take/rant: It is fine to choose to back away from another player's writing/characterization/personal lore because you don't click with it. But the minute you begin lore policing someone that didn't ask for your criticism, it just becomes harassment. World of Warcraft is an ever-changing fictional game that has plot holes for days. Concepts we did not see in Vanilla are being realized in other expansions. But you know what? Sometimes people don't want to play by definitive lore. That is okay. Sometimes people want to play canon characters. Sure. Sometimes people want to play the lost child of Arthas. Let them. Sometimes people just want to be very silly, or very horny. You can in fact choose what you let affect you and your bubble of storytelling and characterization. So can they. Yes you pay to play a game, and so do they. Block/Ignore if you don't like it, move on.

Whether you liked an expansion or didn't like it, or didn't play it. Whether you read books, or no. Whether you are for the Horde or for the Aliance, whether you like a race or no, whether its canon to the lore you understand or no. Let people play what they want if it isn't legally hurting anyone, holy hell. Interact with them if you like it if you like what they present, leave them hell alone if you don't like it or understand it, end discussion. Don't ruin someone else's good time or try to tear down their creativity to superimpose what your acceptable version is on them. It's REALLY that easy.

This is a general etiquette that should also be reflected in rp communities like Tumblr or on Discord too. I've seen too many friends through the years mistreated over something that should be fun, and just never want to participate in a community again. I've seen it happen again to my current friends in the now. If you are trying to police, harass or manipulate rpers because they don't have fun the same way you do, you my friend, are in the wrong, and need to get out of the roleplay pool. Go home and play alone in your sad little tub.