#i don’t actually want them to divorce i just think it’s funny

[ab0minationn]

old man divorce but they treat it like a proposal

(larry’s gift for the happy couple is a set of divorce papers for each of them. how sweet <3)

[iceyrukia]

Good tags 🏷️

really gets me pissed when men see my frustration as amusement. thinking abt how i would get genuinely angry about something w my ex (unrelated to him in these cases, like getting cut off in traffic, etc) and he would look at me w this little smile on his face and say something along the lines of “youre so cute when youre mad” shut the fuck up i will rip ur fucking face apart

[moongreenlight]

“Realistic Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley headcanons” and then it’s just the fun police.

Mdni. Nsfw below cut.

- It makes me want to scoop my fucking brain out with a spoon when people say that Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley is some shy, anxious soft boy. I really do not believe he’d need to be coddled after a nightmare or babied when he’s feeling angsty. He is fine, y’all. Please don’t call paw patrol.

He is a soldier. He’s a war criminal. He is traumatized to the point of numbness. He is fucked up and weird and insane and honestly I think that we should all let everybody have their thing.

I cannot fix him. I do not want to fix him. I can only make him worse.

- Sorry but I just cannot write him having any kind of romantic feelings toward Soap. I like writing their dynamic more brotherly.

Furthest they’ve gone is ‘locker room gay.’

Like Johnny sends him dick pics on occasion because he thinks it’s funny and it pisses Ghost off.

That being said, I do read the occasional Ghoap fic. I’m not a perfect person. Sometimes it’s just yummy delicious.

- Feel like he’s the kind of freak to intentionally go to the gym without headphones. Something about discipline. Opting to just stare at the wall in front of him while he’s doing cardio or counting repetitions of exercises.

But on the rare occasion that he does indulge himself, he has a playlist of like 5-6 songs he likes and when it ends he just goes back to silence. Divorced dad rock. Chorded headphones only.

- Doesn’t have the debilitating commitment issues as people paint him out to have. Just commitment-phobic. Obviously stems from his past. He’s got that sexy deep rooted fear of abandonment or something horrible happening to people he actually lets close to him. But he’s not completely turned off by the idea of romantic attachments or close friends, just a little hesitant to open himself up to that kind of opportunity.

Probably very cagey about romantic partners. Doesn’t want the guys to know about you. Doesn’t keep pictures of you around his bunk or anything like that. He’s worried it’ll somehow compromise your safety. Worried about you getting swept up in his work.

- Women’s rights? Or Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley? I really do think he’d love to have a partner who lets him provide *everything* for them. He just wants to serve and protect. Wants his bird to be in a gilded cage all nice and safe and reliant on him for survival.

Doesn’t even really like the idea of you going to the grocery store by yourself. Would prefer if you just stayed put and tended his home and cooked him meals and let him dote on you and provide everything you could ever need.

- Has a really strange understanding of technology. He’s fine with the newer military stuff. That’s his element. He can do electrical wiring, set up a TV, install security cameras. That’s all whatever. But a cell phone? He doesn’t give a shit enough to keep up with the new updates and all the new things you have to learn when you get a smartphone. Wishes he would have kept a flip phone.

Texts like this: [OK. See youtonight.]

MAYBE has a private Facebook with no profile picture where the only things on his wall are Price wishing him a happy birthday every year.

His camera roll is like; 97 accidental screenshots of his Lock Screen, a few pictures of him and the task force boys, the inside of his pocket (another accident), a sunrise, a few cool things he found on missions, 34 pictures of Soap and Gaz when they took his phone.

- Insufferable in the early stages of trying to date him. Little to no communication other than basically demanding you meet him somewhere. Texting or talking on the phone? Like pulling fucking teeth. You think he’d rather be dead.

It was a headache getting him to go out in the first place. Maybe you worked at a bar where the guys would come to have a drink after a long day. He’s a little stand-offish but he’s handsome and he knows how to banter well enough for you to be persuaded by a coworker to slip him your number after you complained one too many times about a shit hookup or yet another terrible first date. It takes him nearly two weeks to phone you.

“Didn’t think you’d call.”

“Didn’t think I would either.”

He takes you out once, you think he seems sort-of interested, then he doesn’t phone or text you back for three days. You get over it. A few more dates in. You can tell he’s a bit more relaxed. A bit more open. You’re less worried that you’re a terrible conversationalist. Then he goes on a month long deployment without saying anything in advance. Radio fucking silent yet again. You want to tear your hair out. When he finally gets back, he’ll text you something like [Atthat pub you like. Drinks ?] completely out of the blue. You think you may actually go insane.

- Once he’s gotten used to you, it’s like the sole purpose of his life is to be your protector even if you’ve only recently convinced yourself he may want something casual. You’re small and grab-able. He knows how nasty people can be and what think when they see you. He needs to know that you’re taken care of, kept safe from such a scary world.

So he’ll just linger around you. All the time. Standing behind you when you’re at the till at the store, staring down the cashier who was only trying to be friendly when they asked if you had any fun plans for the rest of the day. Big arms folded over his chest. Looming so largely he threatens to eclipse you without taking a single step forward. Eyes burning a hole into the poor person who hastily finishes the transaction without another word.

Walking silently next to you in the evenings after you’re both off work; close enough to brush shoulders, but that’s about it. Listening to you chirp on about your day. Occasionally offering a small grunt of acknowledgement or a few words of interjection. Always walks on the side of the path that he thinks could pose you the most immediate danger. Shielding you from what may lurk in a darkened alley or a hedge or a small thicket of trees.

Scary dog privilege, but like… for when you go to fill your car up with gas in broad daylight in a good part of town and he insists on standing out there with you. ‘Just in case’ If he even lets you out of the car in the first place.

- AND OFF THAT POINT. I think once he’s decided that he’s actually fond of you, it goes from zero to a hundred so fast it makes your head spin.

Like the last time you spoke, it was still unclear on if you were keeping things casual or not and now you’re at dinner and the waiter just asked him if the two of you wanted dessert and Simon just grunts “dunno. Ask the missus.” ??? He sucks so bad I NEED him.

- As much as I love an overly possessive and jealous Simon, I saw this tweet that said “My girlfriend can wear what she wants because she’s a hoe and I knew that before we started dating” and it changed my life.

He’s secure enough not to need to cause a scene if someone makes a pass on you in public. He understands that you’re attractive and that other people are bound to find you attractive too. (Not that he doesn’t still want to pull their fingernails out one by one, threatening them and everything they love for daring to exist near you. He’s just got better control over himself than that. King.)

He knows he’s better than any of your other options. Nobody else could keep you as safe as he could. They don’t know the world like he does. They don’t know how breakable you are. How sweet and naive you can be.

Not to say he isn’t overly jealous and possessive, he just won’t pitch a fit in public.

LIKE dragging him to the bar with your friends and he sits at the table with all of your drinks. Him watching you dancing out of the corner of his eye, seeing some prat come up and grab your ass in passing. Or a group of guys dancing with your friends getting a little *too* close to you for his liking. He doesn’t do anything while the two of you are out- not wanting to ruin your fun. But that night after you’ve gotten back to his flat (He insisted. Closer to the bar. Uber was cheaper.) and he’s tearing your miniskirt off like it’s personally offended him. He’ll be a little rougher. A little more liberal with the marks his mouth leaves on your collarbones and inner thighs. His strong hands will grab at the fat of your hips a little harder than he should- leaving bruises where his fingers dug in. He’ll lean over you while you’re split open with his length, snarling down at you. “Had everyone’s attention tonight, didn’t you, pet?“ “You like havin’ eyes on you?” “Greedy fuckin’ slag.” “Can’t appreciate what you have.” “Need a reminder of who you’ve got to impress.” Maybe he’ll take you in front of a mirror, massive hand fixed on your jaw. Jerking your face up so you have to look at yourself being ruined by him. How pretty and slutty you look when your makeup is ruined by the tears he’s fucking out of you.

- He calls you ‘bird’ or ‘pet’ more often than anything else. A little on the nose for how he treats you. Like you’re some small, frail thing that can’t go a day without him. Stripped of your natural survival instincts and instead leaning on him for support and comfort and food and shelter. Just how he likes it.

GOD he’s a fucking freak. Gross and mean and fucked in the head. Makes my stomach hurt. I hate him. I wish I was schizophrenic so I could vividly hallucinate him.

[rottenaero]

Steve stares at the orange shorts Eddie was wearing.

It’s summer, and the kids had decided to have a Harrington house pool party, which of course meant wearing swim attire.

And Eddie had dressed for that, don’t get him wrong, but the pants were throwing him off.

One, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen him wear orange before, or any warm color that wasn’t red, really. Didn’t think it’d ever touched his skin except for Steve’s yellow sweatshirt.

And two, because they were weirdly reminiscent of the color people wore in movies where they were behind bars, screaming for their one call.

And Steve didn’t have a filter, didn’t really care to have one, and since they were already sitting down all he need to do was nudge his foot against the guys side to catch his attention.

So he did.

The metalhead flicks down his sunglasses- Or, actually those may be Steve’s. Whatever, he flicks down the sunglasses with a brow raised.

“ Yeah, babe?”

Babe, because whatever they had was far more than friendship, or two older men acting like divorced parents to a group of children.

He lifts his hand, gestures to the pants. “ What’s with the prison shorts?” He asks.

Eddie blinks, glances down and smirks. “ Just broke out from there before this. Thought I told you.”

He tilts his head to the side. “ Oh really?”

“ Mhm-hm. A lot of pretty guys in there, hard to resist, but I held out. Knew I had something better.”

“ Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, and Eddie leans back into his chair shrugging. Then, because he’s a good boyfriend and knows he likes being all dramatic, and wants to see how long the bit will last, he questions him further, “ What were you in for?”

He sets the glasses over his forehead so they were out of the way, tugging on a strand of hair in-front of his face in thought. Finally, he grins.

“ Murdered people for rit-ualistic sacrifices.” The way he says ‘ritualistic’ is over exaggerated, but what about Eddie isn’t?

Steve gives him an unimpressed look. “ You’re not funny.”

“ No?”

“ No.”

Eddie shrugs, sets a leg over Steve’s lap. “ Worth a shot.”

Quick as a flash, the man’s arms clutch to his chest, and he’s rolling out of the chair making what seems to be dying noises.

Only, the chairs were set up by the edge, so without realizing it, after a roll or two he falls into the water.

There’s splashing, the desperate attempt to break through the surface before he finally grasps onto the edge and takes a big breath.

Steve can’t help the snort, and Eddie claps his hands together and points at him with an ‘ I told you so’ look. “ Ahah! So I am funny.” Steve rolls his eyes as the main hoists himself onto pavement, and crawls towards him.

“ Laugh for me, Stevie! Come on, again! Really let me revel in the fact that I proved King Steve wrong.” He’s got a wicked grin, and the jock can barely contain his own.

Finally, he’s weighed down, and he nudges the other man’s ankle with his foot. “ You’re a little funny. Mostly, you just look funny.”

Eddie whoops and cheers, shakes his imaginary pom-poms in the air. “ I’ll take it!” He leans down, smacks a kiss on his lips that’s really more teeth than lip, before lounging back down with his legs twisted between his.

Steve shakes his head, leans across the tangle of limbs to grab his sunglasses and slides them back on his nose.

[henry-fox-biggest-stan]

It’s SO funny to me when I see movie fans writing alex as this daddy dom, himbo guy because Alex is so!!!

If you scream at him a little too loudly he’ll probably cry, just not in front of you. He falls in love really hard and deeply but it takes him so long to accept that he can also be loved hard and deeply! He has the highest grades ever 1) because he’s smart and 2) because he bases his self worth on making others proud, on being useful. He overworks himself, he runs to clear his head until his feet bleed, his coffee is bitter but so are his thoughts. He’s a softie, who writes his bf love letters and who probably giggles and kicks his feet while reading what henry writes back to him. He can absolutely destroy you in a debate, don’t even try to argue with him he’ll win each time. He talks a lot but he has never been listened to. His rivalry with Henry started with a bad meeting and also with constant comparison, because everyone compared them both, and it was just a constant reminder than Alex will never be enough. Henry was born on the spotlight, Alex wasn’t. Henry was white, Alex wasn’t. Henry had everyone’s support, Alex didn’t. *He is a jester and a devoted knight. He knows hundreds of fun facts and will tell you. He loves Texas despite the bad memories of his childhood and teen years it brings. He feels guilty for making his sister worry so much. He loves his mother despite everything, and she loves him too, but they have an unusual, almost unhealthy relationship. He needs to prove himself every minute of the day. He works as a distraction. He puts on a façade around everyone, golden boy, America’s heartthrob, no one sees his house key, his glasses, the hundreds of papers hidden under the windowsill, the pills stolen from Liam. Someone teach this man healthy coping mechanisms. He is a child of divorce, and this affects him more than he lets on. He is actually a huge nerd. He grew up poor. He was in denial about his sexuality for years. He definitely has abandonment issues. He might be impulsive sometimes (storming Kensington palace after being ghosted by Henry) but he usually thinks things through, and is very reasonable. He makes lists, tons of them. He has undiagnosed adhd and this has shaped him as a person in a way I can’t even describe. Before Henry, bea, and Pez, he didn’t have any friends aside from Nora and his sister. He grew up catholic. He is a romantic. And a dork. He is just as passionate about history as Henry is. But Nora makes friends, and Alex ends up with acquaintances who think they know him because they’ve read his profile in New York Magazine, and perfectly fine people with perfectly fine bodies who want to take him home from the bar. None of it is satisfying—it never has been, not really, but it never mattered as much as it does now that there’s the sharp counterpoint of Henry, who knows him. Henry who’s seen him in glasses and tolerates him at his most annoying and still kissed him like he wanted him, singularly, not the idea of him.

Always the talker, never the heard. Always good, never enough. Always ogled, never seen. Always the first son, never Alex.

[celuere]

Grading Homework

Context: you try to help Arlecchino grading the children’s homework and run into some obstacles. One of them being modern slang

Content: sfw, use of modern slang, this is a crack fic please don’t take it serious but I couldn’t stop thinking about this after her voiceline in the imaginarium theatre, oh yeah also reader is a fatui researcher (totally not inspired by my oc)

Also something something about Arle having to use reading glasses😩 ALSO PLS SEND IDEAS ETC IN MY INBOX I‘D LOVE TO READ THROUGH THEM!!!! (Read pinned first tho🙏🏼)

„Darling… do you maybe need some help…?“, you placed a hand on her desk as you bent down next to her. Red marker in her hand as she adjusts the position of the reading glasses on top of her nose.

„I‘ve told the children numerous times now to stop using their… extraordinary vernacular in their homework. And here I am trying to decipher this sentence.“, an annoyed huff escapes her lips as she held up the paper for you.

You raised an eyebrow as you took it from her hand. „Surely you must be exaggerating…“, your eyes slowly skimmed over the letters as confusion starts to write itself all over your face. You were by absolutely no means stupid, hell you have a doctorate, you were one of Sumeru Academias best graduates.

But what the fuck.

„What the hell does „gyat“ and… „rizzing up“ even mean?“, now you were the one grabbing after the red marker, setting a big question mark behind the strange sounding words.

„If you think that‘s bad, please have a look at Etienne‘s essay.“, she handed you another paper, your eyes widening at all the red underlined sentences. There wasn’t a single line on this paper where she didn’t write a remark down.

„I… Is… Is that a songtext…? I mean we know Etienne is more on the… special side but… I‘m pretty sure „Gegadigedage“ isn’t even a real word… maybe I should have a look at him…“, it‘s actually not uncommon for you to take care of the children whenever they’re sick or if there might be something going on with them. Maybe he fell onto his head and earned himself a little concussion, you never know.

„No… I don’t think there is something inherently wrong with them. They’re simply just being children but… Celestia above, I just want to grade a single paper without having to look things up in a dictionary.“, believe it or not, the fourth Fatui Harbinger seems troubled for once. Troubled by her children using modern slang. You bit back a laugh at the sheer irony.

Chuckling to yourself, you placed your hands on her shoulders as you gently kissed the top of her head. „Oh poor you… I can technically see the wheels in your head slowing down…“

„Very funny.“, she took off her glasses, „but since you offered your help so nicely earlier…”, she got up from her desk in a swift motion, dropping the stack of papers in your hands as she did so.

Eh?

You merely blinked and she was already at the door of her office „I‘d very much appreciate it if you’d grade these until tomorrow, dear. I really owe you my gratitude, doctor.“, and out she was.

Silence filled the room.

In absolute disbelief you stared at the dark wooden door where she just stood at mere moments ago, the clacking sounds of her heels growing quieter and quieter as if she was in a rush to get out of the house. Slowly, you lowered your eyes to the sheets of papers in your arms.

„You little…“

She simply just waited for the opportunity.

Divorce never sounded so good.

———————

This was actually a lot longer but my tumblr decided to just not- save whatever I was writing in the last paragraphs and I didn’t even remember a single thing from them, I‘ll probably rewrite this later!

[happeehippie]

instagram j.b.

summary: follow along with joe and his WIFE evie as they go through his football career.

*face claim is yasmin quintana*

series masterlist.

liked by bengals, joeyb_9, and 983,729 others…

evie: honeymoon avenue.

view all 4,738 comments…

user: i love you guys together!

> evie: 💗💗

user: am i the only one that doesn’t like her?

> millyg: it’s the jealousy in you.

> user: i don’t see how anyone can’t like her, she’s so nice!

user: yikes

joeyb_9: no complaints, probably the best avenue out there.

> evie: thanks for your input, i totally agree.

> millyg: gtfo you guys 🤣

joeyb_9

liked by evie, lahjay10_, and 902,519 others

joeyb_9: we will send a post card.

view all 5,739 comments…

user: nooooo that’s two times in a row he’s posted ev

> user: they are literally married now, she’s not going anywhere.

user: in his *husband* era

user: i can’t stomach this

millyg: still mad i got left at home.

> user: i don’t like them together, im not jealous or anything something just feels off.

> user: i think that means your jealous.

evie: the views were 10/10

> joeyb_9: i was only looking at you.

> lahjay10_: 🧀🧀🧀

evie

liked by joeyb_9, millyg, and 810,826 others

evie: some small things…🤍

view all 3,738 comments…

user: i’m SO single

user: she doesn’t have to rub it in

user: NOT THE PRETTY GIRL. ladies he is everything..

user: if he wanted to he would

millyg: not joes failed cursive attempt

> evie: it wasn’t TERRIBLE 🤣

user: being with joe burrow is this girls whole personality

joeyb_9: the prettiest pretty girl.

> evie: 😭💗

user: so when are we expecting the divorce?

user: take notes fellas

user: joe and ev being so taylor coded makes me sick

> evie: swifties are superior, even if jb likes to pretend he isn’t one.

joeyb_9

liked by obj, evie, and 1,785,002 others

joeyb_9: had the basketball versus football convo too many times

view all 2,372 comments…

user: low key forgot you weren’t just some guy from cincinnati

> evie: THE guy from cincinnati

obj: Da boyyyyyyyy

user: tough. basketball tho

> evie: wrong answer. 😭

user: Joey B is A list now

evie: it was so nice of you to take photos with a few fans today.

> joeyb_9: 😎

> user: ev is coming for those opps

user: not him hanging with obj

user: such a weeb

evie

liked by millyg, joeyb_9, and 1,037,927 others

evie: went to something called a white party?

view all 2,801 comments…

user: you win

user: he actually took you with him?

> evie: i actually got invited to come with him.

> user: standing on business.

user: YOU MISSED TAYLOR FOR THIS?????

> evie: marriage is about sacrifice.

joeyb_9: 🥵🥵🥵

user: this is everything

user: that joe pic is my new background thanks

> evie: charity work is my passion.

user: i keep coming back to look at this post

user: second pic sent me into cardiac arrest.

> evie: you should’ve seen it in person.

joeyb_9

liked by bengals, lahjay10_, and 710,991 others

joeyb_9: “It’s time to go mobile.”

view all 3,729 comments…

user: YESSIR

lahjay10_: My step brother

> evie: hell yeah

user: do you want my mobile phone number

> evie: he doesn’t have a mobile phone.

> user: you are so funny mrs. burrow. 🤣💀

> user: why are you always so rude?

> user: she isn’t rude, but she’s always going to let us know that’s her man. don’t play like you wouldn’t do the same thing if random girls were coming at your bf with this kind of shit.

> user: i agree, she isn’t being rude but she’s never really let people show blatant disrespect for their relationship. even when they were in college.

tylerboyd: levels

> evie: BIG LEVELS

evie: you’re so hot. there is said it.

joeyb_9: 🪞

user: return of shiesty

user: YEAH BABYYYY

evie

liked by bengals, lahjay10_, and 810,003 others

evie: volume 4. 🤍🧡🖤

view all 2,761 comments…

user: you’re special

user: do you ever get sick of having to pretend to be interested in football?

> evie: never pretending.

user: he needs a tall blonde that has a brain.

> evie: my masters in marketing is offended.

user: i’m so excited to see the team smash it this year!

joeyb_9: very big fan of this.

> evie: your sunnies really tie it together.

> user: not you sharing sunnies. 😭

user: i love ev truly, but im also jealous of her.

> evie: i’m not sure what to say here. 🤣💗

joeyb_9

liked by evie, bengals, and 789,524 others

joeyb_9: Mask off.

view all 2,751 comments…

user: clothes off

> evie: the clothes will stay on. (for now) 🤪

user: Burrow is back!

user: solid W

evie: put the mask back on, i can’t think straight.

> joeyb_9: keep it on all night?

> user: i wish i could unsee this

> user: joe. please. this has to stop.

user: i’ll never quit you.

evie’s instagram stories:

a/n: hiiii. i’m going to finish this series up in the next post so i can work on some of the other requests i have. if you guys are interested in me continuing it once the new season starts let me know and i’ll see what i can do. thanks for all the love on this, you guys rock. and as always im taking request so if you have an idea i’d love to hear it.

[dtmsrpfcringe]

We don't hate women. We hate women who are abusive towards their partners.

Michael and David both deserve better and just because you want to buy into what PR and social media tells you, you don't have to attack other people for being upset over actors they care about possibly not being happy.

David wouldn't leave Georgia, they are married and have children, so he feels responsible. He always puts other people before himself. And Anna played it well with the babies, as harsh as it sounds. Michael would feel terrible leaving the girls. People staying in relationships doesn't prove you right, sadly. It's no sign of anything other than commitment and commitment doesn't always come from a place of love.

By saying that Michael and David shippers want to see them unhappy in their relationship, you show that you're missing the point. The whole point of shipping them is wanting them to be happy. You just want to be hateful towards people who don't suppprt your narrative, it seems.

GOD I WISH TUMBLR WOULD LET ME ADD TEXTS BEFORE ASKS SO I COULD SAY “Warning: you’re about to hear one of the most moronic takes I have ever heard” *insert gif of amanojaku from ghost stories here* okay let’s…we have to break this down it’s too much for me to just laugh at and go “wow this is dumb as hell”

“We don’t hate women, we just make up stuff so we can justify hating them”- you. where’s…where’s any shred of proof that either women are even a little bit abusive? I mean don’t you think we would have seen some of that by now? And no, enty lawyer doesn’t count as proof and neither does random screenshots of a bit of text with zero context. Also neither do jokes online with your partner when they’re okay with it (and make the same jokes quite literally all the time) and nobody sees a problem with it except the people that conveniently hate these women.

2. “Michael and David both deserve better” yes I’m sure the rich white middle aged men who are two of the most popular actors in their countries who have girlfriends/wives and kids who love and adore them are surely hurting because some weirdo on tumblr says it.

3. Hate to tell you this but married people with children divorce all the time. It’s not like if they divorce he is going to suddenly vanish in a puff of smoke babe.

4. Even if that’s true, your theory of him only staying out of responsibility is bullshit. Someone who stays for the kids isn’t going to dip their wife into a kiss on the red carpet and look at her like a hozier song sounds. If there’s any event or interview where he can find a way to praise Georgia, he does it. He always talks about her. After events they’ve been seen kissing deeply and walking arm in arm honeymoon style.

5. as for Anna and Michael, (David and Georgia too but they seem more open to pda) they don’t owe you pda. Michael has been more than adamant about defending his girlfriend on twitter and good for him about it.

6. if you guys were genuinely concerned with Michael and David’s impending relationship crashes, why is it always tied to their love for one another? The only people who see This rampant “abuse and unhappiness” is this group of people who believe David and Michael are actually in love and want to elope together. Nobody else. Not even other Sheenant shippers. You guys literally just hate them, I mean Invisibleicewands has been talking shit on Anna since she posted her first photo with Michael back in 2019 and hasn’t stopped.

7. “And Anna played it well with the babies, as harsh as it sounds.” seriously what the absolute crap is this supposed to mean my dude? I’ve gotta be honest….you know how smex works right? Michael could absolutely choose to use protection!!! Why is it on her? Not on him. He’s had kids before I think he knows that a stork doesn’t bring the baby. Holy hell you people make my eyes hurt

8. (finally) funny you should bring up narratives, you know considering you’re part of the group that thinks any affection towards anybody else that isn’t them is PR (thinking of the Joseph Fiennes hug fiasco) that lied about Georgia and Anna being abusive, that has tried time and time again and moved the goalpost, that fabricates evidence and tries to send death threats to people who speak out, and then lie about it, that your group is the one who can’t handle women working together and have to call everything PR. The same group that ignores the fact that Anna and Georgia are friends, to talk grave shit on them. Newsflash sweetheart, we aren’t the ones pushing the narrative here. You only want to see David and Michael happy as long as it aligns with your delusion. Have the day you deserve.

anyways, I think this is going to be my pinned post. Mostly because I want this to be embarrassing if you ever try to come back here and lie on Betty whites internet again, but also because I think this addresses so many tin hat talking points at once. Just because we love aziraphale and crowley doesn't mean we get the right to insert ourselves into their personal lives, you wouldn't want someone else praying for your relationship to fail.

[snake-spire]

Been meaning to type something like this for a while but I completely forgot about it.

I like how so many people project onto these characters so much, I love seeing platonic John and Arthur, I love Queer platonic relationship private eyes and I love romantic private eyes.

No interpretation of their relationship is wrong. You can view it as a budding romance with massive ups and downs (aka the divorces) or as a strong friendship, showing that men are allowed to say I love you to their friends. It’s beautiful regardless.

I don’t think people (and I have seen a little bit of this but not too much) should look down on others for their headcanons on these characters, they’re headcanons. You can view Arthur as aromantic or not. I project onto this man and will slap the demiromantic label on him, but that’s just me and what I took away from the flashback episodes and the episode with Daniel.

I tend to lean into the romantic readings for their relationship because I’m a hopeless romantic who isn’t privy to romance. It’s pretty funny to think about that part: I've only been in one relationship before that crashed and burned, constantly confusing my strong platonic feelings for my friends as romantic because of social norms, and me and my roommate accidentally became a QPR. I love my friends and I tell them that all the time. But for me, I want to see romantic love that has an actual bond and strong connection and I can project what I want in a relationship. Very physical touch oriented and just a deep understanding and connection to one another. Nothing more.

It’s funny for me to pick up on this series from the romantic fanart: I had come to realize that I was demiromantic/grayromantic/aromantic (it kinda fluctuates) several months before, but I came into the fandom thinking this was the case (the romance), but it became one of my favorite hyperfixations of all times.

Regardless of how you view their relationship, it’s still very strong and wonderful to see :).

[localplaguenurse]

Falling Head over Heels (Pantalone x Male Reader) pt 6

So ever since my last update, I've gotten a new laptop because deadass the same day I posted chapter 5 like "oh hopefully I'll get it back soon," they told me my old acer aspire is so old they don't even make the parts for it anymore. This has nothing to do with the fic, I just thought it was funny.

Notes: still sfw, semi dysfunctional/controlling family dynamics (I assure you they will get progressively worse), ableism in the form of reader being coddled and patronized by his parents. Check masterlist for previous parts, will eventually make an actual masterlist for this fic.

@thedeimoshimself @eli-chris

You did not immediately tell your parents about your interaction with Pantalone when you finally returned, as once again they were in the midst of an argument. Your mother’s scoldings about how your father knows better, and your father’s arguments about how you’re a grown man who should fend for himself by now could be heard the moment you stepped through the door. Colleen gives you an awkward, sympathetic smile as you shuck off your coat. Before the maid can hang it up, you fish the letter from your pocket, and seeing your name in the Guuji Yae’s handwriting fills you with nervous excitement once more. 

You can’t really hear the fighting from your study. If you try to listen, you can, but otherwise it is very peaceful. You open the letter again and set it next to your typewriter, while also tucking the briefcase with your manuscript under your desk. You proceed to load your typewriter, ready to type a response, when it occurs to you that maybe you should hand write this letter. Would it be disrespectful to just type a letter? Maybe. A handwritten letter is more personal, after all. 

By the time you finish your letter, there are six other letters crumpled up in your bin, and you hear your mother’s voice informing you that it’s dinner time. The tense atmosphere of dinner keeps you from talking, let alone telling your parents about Pantalone. You really don’t want to set off yet another argument with how much these two have grown apart. As horrible as it is to think or say, you will not be surprised if the word divorce comes up in their next fight, and that next fight is probably tomorrow. 

This tense silence continues the next day, and the day after that, until a full two weeks have passed where you have not heard a single argument. Not because your parents made up, mind you, but because they have barely spoken to each other. Nothing beyond standard small talk or informing the other person about meals or receiving something in the mail. The air is oppressive, and you try not to let it show how much it is starting to stress you out. Instead, you have been waiting patiently for a letter back from the Guuji, hoping to surprise them with some good news for once. 

(You’ve also been replaying your last interaction with Pantalone in your head, because you know you did not mishear him.)

The silence breaks when your father throws your bedroom door open one morning, when you are in the midst of getting changed out of your sleepwear. 

“You!”

You jump, having just put on your pants. Your face heats up in embarrassment. “Would it kill you to knock?” you snap. It’s not even ten. 

You hear your mother somewhere behind your father. “Darling, calm down.”

Your father storms inside and an envelope is shoved in your face. “Do you care to explain this?”

You step back and take the envelope. You rub your eyes, shoot your dad a dirty look, and read the envelope. That’s your name and address, but you don’t recognize the return address in the corner. The name, however, you do recognize, and your father does too.

“Why is it that I haven’t had contact with the Regrator in two weeks,” your father asks, “but when I finally get a letter back, it’s for you?”

“Yes, why is Pantalone writing to you?” your mother asks in turn. 

Your brow furrows, and with your father glaring daggers at you, you break the seal on the back of the letter. Before you can actually open it, your dad snatches the letter from you. He tosses the envelope aside and unfolds the paper within. 

“Hey!” You grab your father’s arm. “If you’re going to barge into my room, at least let me read my own mail!”

“There has to be some mistake,” your father says. “There’s no reason for the Regrator to talk to you.”

“While I disagree with his approach,” your mother says, “your father has a point.”

“Maybe if you let me read my mail, I could tell you,” you reply sarcastically. Your father rolls his eyes but hands the now crinkled letter back to you. You straighten it out and let your eyes scan over the words.

Your father’s voice is impatient. “Well?” 

You squint. “It’s an invitation.”

“An invitation?” your mother asks.

“What the hell for?” your father asks.

“An invitation for tea,” you answer, “for… tomorrow, at two.”

“Anything else?”

You flip the paper over. It’s blank. You flip it back over. “No, it’s just tea at two at his estate.”

“No, you fool,” your dad says, pulling the letter out of your hand again. “I meant if he mentions your sister or myself, because I find it hard to believe he’d invite you to his estate.”

You cross your arms. “Why’s that?”

“Your father means it’s odd that you would be invited over when you are not, ah, working with him,” your mother says, making up an excuse on the fly. “You’re not working with your father and sister, so if you were to be invited over, then that would include the rest of the family.” Though she’s out of your limited line of vision, you know she’s glaring at your father based on the way he averts his eyes from you.

“Then why is it addressed to him? It doesn’t address anyone else in the family.”

“I’m not sure, dear. Perhaps there’s been a mistake?”

“Pantalone would not make a mistake like this. Perhaps the post office lost our invites, but not his.”

“Or he just invited me,” you butt in.

Your father gives you a look. 

“Think about it,” you say, “if we all got an invite, surely mine would have said something about it, right? Hope to see you and your family, or something along those lines.”

“Perhaps mine would have it,” your father retorts, “as he’s my business partner.”

More like marriage partner at this point, you think and know better than to say. “You’re also assuming this has anything to do with work,” is what you say instead. “What if it’s just tea?”

“No, a man like him wouldn’t invite someone over for just tea,” your mother says. 

Your father goes to put your invitation in his pocket, but gives it back to you when your mom gives him a look. He clears his throat. “Well, we’ll have this sorted when we visit tomorrow.”

You blink. “Wait, what?” 

“We’re not going to just turn down this invitation,” your father says, as if you’re an idiot for not understanding what he was getting at. 

“We? We?”

“That’s right,” your mother chimes in, “we really shouldn’t go if we don’t know his intentions.”

“That’s not…” You groan, annoyed. You point at your father. “You aren’t on the invite.” You turn and point to your mother. “And we’ve talked about the coddling.”

Your mother shakes her head. “That was about when he visits us, I don’t want you alone at his estate.”

“No, no, we’re not getting into the semantics,” you say, “I have told you time and time and time again to stop treating me like I’m seven! I should be allowed to go have tea with someone else by myself.”

“Watch your tongue,” your father snaps, “and our decision is final. If you want to go to the Regrator’s for tea, then your mother and I are going as well.” He turns to walk off, and stops in the doorway. “And put a damn shirt on.”

The door slams shut, leaving you and your mother in your room. She offers you an apologetic smile, and gets the hint you want space when you pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. Her exit is much quiet, a soft apology and a gentle closing of the door. 

It takes you a moment, but you manage to find the envelope your father carelessly tossed aside. It slid most of the way under your bed, only the corner of it is immediately visible. You pick it up and feel your heart thump in your chest.

So this is what your name looks like in his handwriting.

----

While the novelty of Pantalone’s social status has worn off, the estate that comes into view through the snowstorm is a reminder of his intimidating wealth. It’s a beautiful building, and significantly larger than your family home. Your eyes are glued to the sight of it through the covered sled’s window. You can also just see your mother looking at it as well through the reflection of the glass. 

“Remember what we talked about,” your father says, and you make a face of annoyance similar to the face your mother’s reflection makes. “Hey, are you listening?”

“Don’t touch, trip on, or break anything,” you reply, “and only speak when spoken to. I’m aware of the whole routine.”

“And watch the attitude.”

“And you remember what I told you,” you reply, not bothering to turn your head. “If it turns out Pantalone didn’t invite you over, you need to leave.”

“Look at me when you talk to me.”

There’s a thump. Your mother most likely gave your father a nudge with her foot. Silence takes up the last few minutes of the ride as it slows to a stop right outside the snowy steps. You slide over to the opposite end of your seat and open the door, sucking all the warmth out of the sled. You make no effort to wait for your parents before you step down from the stairs. The snow pelting you in the face diminishes your vision, so you only make it a few steps before you trip on the first step. You catch yourself before you tumble forward and smash your teeth into the stairs. 

You hear your mother’s voice from the sled. “Please be careful!” 

You shout back that you’re fine, and climb up the stairs. Pantalone must have just had the steps cleared off before the blizzard hit, as there’s no crunch beneath your feet, merely the puff of snowflakes puffing out of the way with each step you take. Your father calls for you to wait for them as you stand before the door. You grab one of the large knockers and give it a few hard knocks on the door.

You feel your father’s firm hand on your shoulder just as a gust of heat rushes out and envelops you. You find yourself standing face to face with an older gentleman dressed in pristine servant’s attire. The two of you lock eyes, and for a moment he offers a welcoming smile before he notices you’re not alone, then it becomes confusion.

“Oh, hello there,” he says, “this is a little unexpected.”

“We’re here for tea with the Regrator,” your father butts in before you can even open your mouth.

“I had assumed as much, but I was told we were expecting a single visitor,” the man says. He brings his gaze back to you. “Now, you fit the description, but these two–”

Somewhere behind the man, you hear Pantalone’s voice. “Fyodor, what’s going on? Why have you not let our guest inside?”

The man turns around to address his master. “Apologies, my lord, but there seems to be some sort of… misunderstanding?”

You hear heeled footsteps descending a flight of stares and across the floor before your host comes into view. You feel yourself salivate and swallow it down quickly. You’re so used to seeing him in mostly black clothing, so the white lace up shirt with puffy sleeves immediately catches your eye. It’s tucked into a pair of black corset pants, which you make a point to not look at either. His hair is not tied back, and the chain on his glasses seems different. Though he still has his rings, he’s not wearing his gloves. Even in more “casual” attire, the Regrator is the pinnacle of wealth and beauty.

This very beautiful man tilts his head at the sight of your parents, namely your father. “What are you doing here?”

“You… You invited us to tea,” your father says.

“No I didn’t.”

Your father is quiet, and you turn yourself to see the confusion on his face. “You sent an invitation, i-it had our address on it.”

“Yes, and I believe I put your son’s name on it, did I not?” Pantalone asks. When you turn back around to him, you find he’s looking right at you. 

“You did, b-but I presumed you… you forgot to mention us, or maybe the invitations for my wife and I got lost in the–”

Pantalone lifts his hand, silencing your father. “If that were the case, I would have either addressed it to your family as a whole on the envelope, or I would have mentioned it in the invitation itself. Likewise, I did not send this through the post office, I had one of my staff deliver it personally.”

“But, b-but I’m your business partner!”

Pantalone turns to you. “Did you invite them with you?”

You stumble on your words, feeling too humiliated to answer honestly. What’s worse, saying yes, or saying no, but your parents wouldn’t let you leave unless they came along like they were chaperoning a child’s first field trip or playdate? You manage a shake of your head, and fortunately Pantalone seems to understand your plight after having many interactions with your family.

He sighs, and steps aside. “You’ve already made the trip, and the weather is taking a turn for the worst,” he relents, “you may come in.”

Your father pushes past and marvels at the interior of Pantalone’s estate. Your mother gives you an assuring pat on your shoulder. Pantalone whispers something to Fyodor, who nods and goes to help your parents with their coats.

The door shuts behind you, and you turn to Pantalone. You clasp your gloved hands together and lower your voice. “I am so sorry, I tried to tell them–”

“I know,” he replies in a voice as soft as yours, “perhaps I should have seen this coming, but I didn’t think I would need to be more specific in the invitation.”

With that, Pantalone stands up and claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Once you’re all settled, please follow me for a short tour on the way to the tea room.” He turns to Fyodor, who is carrying your parents’ coats. “Fyodor, please be a dear and let the chefs know to prepare some extra refreshments for our unexpected company.”

Fyodor nods, and you give him your coat before he leaves. Your mother is already hovering right next to you protectively, and Pantalone gives you a subtly sympathetic smile, which your mother seemingly interprets as an underlying threat judging by the way she wraps her arm around yours. You imagine your father is rolling his eyes.

The tour is short as promised, only staying in any given room long enough for Pantalone to state what the purpose of it is. You pass through the dining room, where Pantalone points out the doors to the kitchen, before you’re in a corridor passing by a ballroom entryway. You try to have a look at the oddly macabre paintings your host has displayed on the walls, but your mother is practically dragging you along so she can get this event over with quicker. You want to ask questions about what the chandelier in the foyer is made of, but your father already asked that in his never ending ramblings of praise for Pantalone and probably isn’t going to stop so you can actually ask the man anything.

Your father finally shuts up and your mother lets your arm go when the four of you step inside the tea room. Something you notice immediately is, while there are paintings on the walls, a table in the centre of the room, and a large cabinet with various tea sets, there is actually very little decor and furniture here. You passed by some sculptures and house plants and other miscellaneous extravagant pieces on the way, but the small room is oddly empty compared to the corridor just outside. 

When Pantalone takes a seat, your parents end up taking a seat on either side of him. Your father is immediately praising the barely furnished room, while your mother acts as barrier. As such, you end up seated across from him. On cue, you hear two people come in through the door behind you. You hear a soft squeaking, and a servant pushing a cart with a tea set on top of it. The porcelain teapot and cups have a vaguely floral pattern, with the handles shimmering with gold leaf. You jump when the second person, another servant, comes up beside you with a tray of food to place on the table. Your father marvels as they get to work setting the table, your mother politely thanks the staff, and you just sit still as your cup of tea is poured.

“This is quite lovely, Pantalone,” your father says for the millionth time, “really, I expect nothing less from you!”

Pantalone gives your father a smile, a polite gesture that does not reach his eyes. “I’m flattered.” When he looks your way, his smile seems fonder. “How about you? You seem to have something on your mind.”

“Oh! Um…” You lean back and glance around the room once more. “I was just… curious about your decor.”

Pantalone tilts his head curiously. “Oh? And what would you like to know?”

You hesitate to answer out of fear you would offend the man.

“Well? Out with it,” your father remarks.

“This room is a little bit… um…”

“Bare?” Pantalone finishes. “Yes, I had some of the furniture moved around in preparation for your arrival.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your eye condition,” he answers, “you said you used to trip on furniture because you didn’t see it, correct? I figured with a room this size, it would be safer to move some of the decor out of the room while you were visiting.”

“Oh, that’s… actually rather sweet,” you say, “b-but unnecessary. I’m not as clumsy as I used to be.”

“Ah, yes, my suit can attest to that fact.”

You chuckle.

Your father chimes in. “Yes, it’s better we avoid any more expensive accidents.”

Pantalone hums. “While I would rather avoid paying for a replacement or repair job, I was more focused on ensuring your son’s safety. I would hate for my guest to get hurt at an event I invited him to.”

You pick up on his passive aggressive comment, and your father does not. That, or he’s elected to ignore it. “Ah, that too,” your father says. He gestures to your mother. “I would have never heard the end of it if that were the case!”

Your father was expecting someone to laugh. He is ignored by Pantalone and gets glared at by your mother. You just grab a couple pastries, honestly wishing you had just turned down the invite altogether.

Your father clears his throat. “So, about that thing I-I had proposed a few weeks ago–”

“How is the book deal?” Pantalone asks you.

“O-Oh,” you stammer, not expecting him to bring up your book, “well, I’ve decided to go for it, and I’ve written back saying I would like to move forward with the deal. Now I’m just waiting for them to get back to me.”

Pantalone smiles and nods. “That’s lovely to hear.”

Your mother looks at you, confused. “What is he talking about?”

Fuck. You swallow, and nervously, sheepishly smile. “Right, um… I was, ah, saving this for when the deal was finalized, but my book might be getting published now.”

“By who?”

“... The Yae Publishing House.”

Your mother’s squeal could shatter porcelain. “The Yae Publishing House?! Sweetheart, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

You awkwardly laugh, avoiding Pantalone’s knowing gaze. “They’re just s-such a big deal, you know? I didn’t want to get your hopes up before I knew for certain they were going t-to publish the book.”

“Still, you could have at least told me you sent your book to them! Oh, goodness, I’m getting all worked up now. My sweetheart, being published by the Guuji Yae…”

Pantalone chuckles. “Yes, quite exciting. It warms my heart to see hard work being recognized.”

“I’m very excited,” your mother says, “he hasn’t told me what his new book is about, he keeps telling me to wait until it gets published. I was worried I’d never get to read it when your first deal was cancelled!”

You sheepishly rub the back of your neck. “This one’s kind of, well, different from my usual writing. I wasn’t sure how people would react to it.”

“Your stories are lovely, sweetie,” your mother insists, “you should never worry about what your mother thinks because I will always support you.”

You hear your father lean over in his chair towards Pantalone, and in a room of four people, his whisper is very audible. “He was worried he would have to get a real job, haha.”

“Which would be difficult given my disability,” you add, “seeing as most jobs require you to have awareness of your surroundings, and my eyesight is only going to continue degrading.”

Your father glares, and clears his throat. “... It was a joke.”

“And it wasn’t very original.”

“You’re also one to talk, considering our little deal,” Pantalone remarks. Your mother looks at your father for an explanation, to which he just sips his tea, embarrassed. 

The rest of the afternoon isn’t less awkward. The momentary embarrassment does not stop your father from badgering Pantalone with questions about what he’s been doing the past two weeks (settling some financial matters in Liyue), and praising him for the pastries he’s provided. Pantalone answers out of politeness, but his responses grow shorter and shorter every time your father opens his mouth. Your mother just silently eats, disinterested in conversing with the Regrator. You try to engage in conversation with Pantalone, but despite glares from everyone at the table, your father continues to interrupt you or answer questions Pantalone could not have more clearly directed towards you. You also just keep your answers short, not wanting to divulge too much about your book or true thoughts in front of your parents. 

Your father pops the last cream puff in his mouth. He’s already eaten most of them. There is no more tea, bringing the meeting to a close.

Pantalone claps his hands together. “Well, this has been a meeting!”

“We appreciate the invitation, Lord Pantalone,” your father says.

“What invitation?” Pantalone asks. “Remember? You two never received an invite.”

“... Right.”

Pantalone leans forward, propping his head up in his hands. He’s looking right at you, and he smiles so sweetly. “Would you care to stay for dinner?”

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly overstay our welcome.”

Pantalone nods, acknowledging your father. He then looks back at you. “So? Would you care to stay?”

“We just said no,” your mother says.

“That’s fine, you two are free to leave. I’m talking to your son.”

Your mother and father lock eyes, before your father turns back to Pantalone. “Wait, why are you asking him if he wants to stay, but not us?”

Pantalone sighs, and grins at your father. “Well, I think I’ve played host to you two long enough, so I’ll tell you honestly.” At that, Pantalone drops his smile. The atmosphere immediately grows tense as he speaks, his voice cold. “I invited your son to my home because I wanted to discuss his upcoming book over tea. I did not invite you over to discuss work matters on my day off. Now, I would like to have the discussion I cleared my schedule for, and I would like to do it with the guest I actually invited.”

Your father balks, while you feel your jaw drop to the table and your eyes go as wide as saucers. You slowly turn towards your mother, and she is immediately seething. She stands up, her chair scraping on the floor. Pantalone smiles at you once more.

“So will you be staying for dinner? I have many questions about your writing process.”

“I–”

“Absolutely not,” your mother snaps. She grabs your arm hard and attempts to pull you up to your feet. Your father is torn between being shocked over being called out for his behaviour, humiliated for being scolded like a child, and incensed that your invitation did not extend towards him. Your mother tugs your arm again, and you stand up so you can better shake her off your arm.

“We’re leaving,” your father says. “Come along, you two.”

You brush some crumbs off your lap and sit back down.

Your father shakes your shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me? I said we’re leaving.”

“Have fun,” you reply dryly, “I’ll be home late.”

Pantalone absolutely beams. “Oh, wonderful!”

You flinch at your mother’s shrill voice. “No, you’re not! I am not leaving you with this disrespectful–”

“Violka, he has made up his mind,” your father growls. You feel him glaring daggers into the back of your head, and do not move. You hear your mother start to protest, but then the door shuts behind you.

Pantalone lifts a small plate up off the table. On it is the final little piece of cherry bublanina. He offers it to you with a sly smirk, like forbidden fruit. 

With this in mind, you take it.

[chaifootsteps]

The funny thing about stolas is that he really is the most real depiction of NPD I’ve seen in a while. Unintentionally very well written. This show like few others ever do, explores the fact that people with NPD can be so socially inept and incapable of change they can ruin their own life and never fully understand why it happened. A stereotype is that NPD patients are always evil abusers but sometimes like with covert narcissism, it’s complicated. Stolas ticks every last box in the covert category.

He’s not outright a villain but is infuriatingly self centred, and destructive. One example is all of his “I” “me” “my” statements in every situation. Fizz is in danger ‘this will be fun (for me!) I love words!” While it was a good gesture to help Asmodeus, he makes things about himself again. And this made Ozzie mad. And in the latest argument he clearly forced himself to try and empathise with someone but gave up right away when it wasn’t going well and went back to the same I/me/my statements. “I have my answer so you needn’t say any more” “I didn’t know you thought so low of me” and to Stella “I want you out..out of my life” “via you have been the one good thing in my life” Even in a desperate situation where someone he undoubtedly loves, but who he hurt with his lies, is leaving him, he physically can’t stop making it about himself because of this disordered way of thinking. And in a way, that is sad.

It really is a disorder and not just villainy because the person with NPD has grandiosity and callousness, that combination prevents them from seeing a problem in their own behaviour until really pushed. (Who does that sound like) So without help, they end up alone and confused/bewildered by why that is. That reaction of blatant frustration from every single character who speaks with him - via, blitz, Asmodeus, (I don’t feel right including stella but that dinner table scene implies she’s angry he ignores her) is so accurate too.

I mean, I’m by no means a Stella fan but after that confrontation in LooLoo land and him screaming his divorce declaration in the circus, he seemed to think they could just ignore everything despite the ongoing affair, and eat dinner together as a family like nothing is wrong in harvest moon. So at that point I understood her being pissed.

They try force everyone into their version of reality, but it’s exhausting and someone incapable of empathy or change without help (seriously why are all these deeply mentally suffering characters not have a therapy arc - Bojack had several. Many failed. But he had several, because he was messy and had to keep trying.) Viv thinks Stolas is Herb, an innocent victim of homophobia, but he’s actually Joseph Sugarman, dangerously callous and terrifying but soft spoken, mixed with Bojack. Sugarman is a brilliant villain imo.

This is an extremely good point. It's a damn shame it's unintentional, because if it weren't, Stolas would at the very least be in the running for one of the best depictions of NPD ever put to fiction.

NPD isn't Magical Evil Abuser disease -- like you said, it's a legitimate disorder, and it's horribly damaging to the person who has it. People with NPD can both feel and crave love the way Stolas loves Via, but healthy relationships require give and take, and giving doesn't come easily to them. Even when Via's leaving him, the highest praise he can give her is that she's been the only good thing in his life.

It's extremely sad, tragic even. If only Viv understood why.

[moonshynecybin]

Have you ever thought about reporter!marc having his own podcast?? Like years after his falling out with Valentino he starts one with Alex, and it actually breaks out of the niche of motogp simply because it’s so well done. It becomes a staple in riders yearly marketing duties, with Marc asking insightful questions, maybe getting some acclaim outside the pieces he would write on Valentino. Like ppl who don’t even watch races will tune in to listen because it hits that sweet spot of expert explaining what they love with passion. The end game of all of this is of course the divorce episode, where by some power of god Valentino does an interview on the podcast. And, as has happened in real life, he is much more open and vulnerable on the podcast even though it’s marcs (especially because it’s marcs??)… it either starts them toward reconciliation or next level fame trauma or both :)

the thing about this au is that SHOULD initially be more resentful of each other— marc is a reporter prying at vale’s careful facade and vale is a representation of everything that marc wanted but never got. they each catch on the other’s most tender of issues and it SHOULDDDDD prevent them from falling in love crazystyle but unfortunately for them it does not. truly they are friendly they are yappers they are personable and marc has that same razor sharp but occasionally goofy gleam in his eye that vale does and an insane little face to boot. reallyyruly deeply they just have an instant and natural affinity for each other… UNFORTUNATELY for them, this also means that when the breakup happens it is just a bad if not WORSE than irl. just like it happens here, apply some pressure career-wise, and all of the reasons they SHOULD hate each other start to look a lot more viable… they do NOT forgive people fucking with their ability to succeed…

so. anyways your beautiful little scenario. it’s a few years post sepang and they have an overly professional but CLEARLY cold detente. still make each other hyena laugh occasionally in that deranged way that they do but after that it’s like. ignoring each other in presscons while marc asks increasingly insane questions about vale’s age with every new article…. marc (along with every other journo) has a podcast (i think he videos it so he has an excuse to throw on one of his slut turtlenecks) and its pretty successful because marc has this inherent ability to understand/create narrative in sport (usually he uses this power on himself but i for one would LOVE to see his hot takes on the others lol) which i DO think is literally the mark of a good sports journalist. they are paid to do rpf, in a way. BUT the most notable thing is the WAYYYYYY he talks about vale… incisive. oddly almost worshipful. frank. strange note of tension coloring his voice. funny. occasionally mean. sometimes he starts a story off about the two of them from when he was just starting his career with abject delight in every line of his posture before cutting himself off and changing the subject… and the thing is i DONT think he gets vale on the pod until post reconciliation and then he drops like. a two hour intimate interview of them cackling like LUNATICS out of genuinely fucking NOWHERE and every single listener in the world is like i thought they HATED EACH OTHER ?? an absolute BOMB in the motogp journo podcasting world

[autisticlancemcclain]

“You know I love you, right?”

Keith smiles. He doesn’t stop his hands from their constant brushes through his boyfriend’s hair, doesn’t shift or move. Lance stays where he is, too, full weight on Keith’s body, head pillowed on his chest, moving slightly with every breath.

“Yes,” Keith says. “I know.”

“Good.” Keith feels the rumble of Lance’s voice in his ribcage, the puffs of his breath on his bare skin. “‘Cause I tease you, a lot, so I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

“I do. I know.” He pauses as he runs his fingers over the shell of Lance’s ear, tracing the scar on his skull, before gently tapping his finger three times. For a while Lance simply breathes, sinking into Keith’s touch, then he shifts slightly, turning brown eyes up to meet Keith’s.

“How do you know, though? Like if you had to define it.”

Keith leans down slightly to press a kiss to his freckled nose, just to watch it wrinkle. It makes him grin. “I just do, Lance. You say my name like you love me.”

The answer doesn’t seem to placate Lance completely, but enough that he sighs, putting his head back down on Keith’s chest and reaching over blindly to pull their blankets up to his chin.

“Okay.”

Keith says nothing for a long while, humming to himself, enjoying the feeling of Lance’s soft skin under his hands, the weight of his body pressing him into the mattress. It’s a relief after a long day, a balm to his exhausted muscles and tired brain.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

Keith tugs a strand of Lance’s hair in admonishment, not enough to hurt, but he grumbles anyway.

“Try again.”

“Maybe I don’t love the man who hurts me so,” Lance pouts, sticking out his bottom lip and rubbing his scalp like it actually hurts.

Keith rolls his eyes. Lance grins, then sighs.

“Just — someone said something, at training. Kind of huffed and said something about how annoying it was that we still don’t like each other.”

Keith snorts. “Well, you did shoot me.”

“I was justified! You were being irritating!” Lance shifts, moving to his belly so he can look at Keith properly, glaring. “And I put my bayard on stun! It barely hurt!”

Love of his life or not, Keith loves getting this man so riled up.

“Yeah, the giant bruise I have says otherwise.”

There is no giant bruise.

But messing with Lance is funny.

“You are not fucking bruised!”

Before Lance can get too enraged and start stripping him down to make sure, Keith laughs, giving up the game and grabbing Lance’s wrists. He pulls him forward so he loses his balance, arms around Keith’s neck, barely managing to catch himself before their heads smack together, face inches from Keith’s.

“You worry too much,” Keith whispers, nosing his way down Lance’s cheeks, peppering kisses as he goes. “I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. The whole point of keeping them in the dark is so that I can have you —” he bites Lance’s earlobe gently, pulling it slightly, making the Cuban’s breath hitch — “all to myself.”

“Still,” Lance tries to insist, but Keith can physically feel his resolve falling away, feel him melting into Keith’s touch. “It bothers me that people think I can do anything but love you. You’re — I dunno. You’re everything to me. You make me feel like I can keep going.”

Keith can’t help his smile, and he knows Lance feels it, pressed into the junction of his neck. He kisses slightly there, and Lance turns his head to give him access, slides his hands into Keith’s hair as he works a mark into dark skin.

“That’s gay,” Keith mumbles, as fondly as he can.

It takes a second for Lance to clock Keith’s words, too focused on the besotted sound of them, but he huffs when he does, shoving Keith away and glaring at him.

Keith bursts out laughing.

“You’re the worst,” Lance says, but soon he’s smiling, too. Keith leans in and kisses that smile, because he can and because he wants to.

“I know.”

“Jerk. I’m divorcing you.”

Keith hums, tugging him back down under the covers, wrapping him back into the position he was in earlier. “You won’t even let me marry you.”

“We are twenty years old,” Lance grumbles, but every time he says it he sounds less and less like he cares. “We’re not getting married at twenty years old.”

“We’ll see.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Lance settles into the silence, breathing evening again, wandering hands going still.

“I love you too, by the way,” Keith murmurs, suddenly worried that Lance doesn’t know.

He feels Lance’s lips upturn, and smiles to match it.

He knows.

[the-hopeless-haze]

You Know I’m Not That Girl

Summary:  You don't want to be tied down. You've lived almost your whole life running from commitment. But Aaron wants more from you. You don't know how to handle that.

Word Count: 10k+ (I KNOW)

Warnings: smut nsfw mdni

-------

His mouth is on yours again.

Hot, heavy, heady, like you could get drunk off his kiss.

You don’t know that he picked out that shirt you’re taking off his body just for you. You also don’t know that he combed his hair this morning thinking of you brushing it back when it falls forward on his forehead. For whatever reason you also failed to notice that he let that waitress he was interviewing in relation to the case back at the diner flirt with him much longer than he would have if you weren’t in the room. If only to get a reaction out of you, however selfish his motivations were.

But the thought in the back of his head hurts more than he can bear.

That you noticed all those things. And you didn’t care.

It wasn’t so far-fetched. You are a profiler like him, after all, and it causes you to glean things from people that you’d rather not know. It makes it harder to be innocent, naïve, happy. Because you learn how to read people, and you learn how to separate paranoia and fiction from reality and fact.

In the same token, though, learning how to read people led Aaron to learn how to be unreadable. How to be a blank canvas, stoic and resolved, never granting anything a reaction. It worked well. It allows him to morph easily, because his tether on who he is outside of the job is so loose nowadays, especially after divorcing Hailey.

But you could’ve seen the signs and chosen to ignore them. It’s unclear how obvious he is, because what he feels like is his skin is on fire every time you walk in the room. If that were the case, though, there’d be a lot more talk of what the two of you were doing behind closed doors. So far, no one knew, or no one was brave enough to talk about it loud enough for him to hear.

Aaron knows he should just enjoy this. He has you, half-naked, begging for him to touch you. Kiss-bruised lips—you did that to him. Hair disheveled by your hand. Cock hard and straining under his dress pants, well, that was your influence too. You are here. Tangible. Real.

Though sometimes he gets the feeling all you’re giving him is your body. Like your soul is far away. Detached. You’re giving yourself to him, sure, you’re arching your back at the touch of his hands and you’re kissing him back fervently…. But there’s nothing else behind your actions besides a desire to get off.

Maybe he’s not being fair, exactly. You’ve done nothing to indicate you don’t care about him. But whenever he asks to see you outside of the office, the jet, the bedroom…. You come up with an excuse. You kiss him again until he forgets what he asked you. And then it’s back to this.

It was never his intention to make this just about sex. He’s barely done a casual thing in his life, never mind having a casual situationship. It wasn’t long after Hailey, and if he was being honest, he’d wanted you before that, and even though he’d never cheat… Haley knew his eyes were wandering. She could smell it on him. Takes one to know one. At least he didn’t actually commit the deed with the ring still on his finger.

And then… you both went undercover as a couple and it was one thing after another, caught your eye in just the right light and then your lips. It was in Vegas, of all places, but what happened there didn’t stay there like he thought it might’ve. Once he had you… he wanted you in whatever capacity you’d grant. Even if it was just sex. Even if you refused to talk about it.

But it was getting unbearable to keep holding back.

“Aaron,” you say breathlessly in his ear. “Where are you? Because you’re not here with me.”

Funny you should call him out like that.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he whispers, carding his fingers through your hair, pushing it back, away from your face, looking into your eyes in the dim lighting of the room, feeling his own brim with tears. Quickly, he diverts his gaze to above your head, leaning up to press a kiss to your forehead. “I promise I’m right here.”

You try to swallow against the lump forming in your throat. He needs to not do this tonight. You need to do whatever you can to make sure he doesn’t do this tonight. You can’t handle a confession, or more of a conversation than “good night” after you fuck him.

So you wiggle out of his embrace, start leaving wet open-mouthed kisses across his torso, heading down lower, lower…. Down the length of his body until you reach the fabric of his pants and he’s flushed red in the face.

“Honey…” he says quietly. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” you tell him.

And you think from the look in his eyes maybe you misread him. This alone might result in him professing his undying love for you.

You don’t know how he stayed married to Hailey that long if she refused to give him head. That’s the first sign right there, especially when she demanded it for herself. Or, well, that’s what you’ve gleaned. He’s much too gracious to be throwing his ex-wife under the bus. Still. You know he didn’t get this often, if at all.

It’s usually not your favorite thing in the world, granted, because a lot of men are too rough and you don’t like to be manhandled when you’re already struggling to breathe. But Aaron was so gentle the first time, caressing your hair and praising you in between whimpers and breathy moans.

Let’s just say it was hard to look at him in the office the next day. If nothing else the two of you are a perfect sexual match.

You can’t believe you ever got him on his back.

You must have caught him off guard, in those bright lights of the Vegas casino, both of you a little tipsy off the free drinks, neither of you really playing the slots even though the case was over. The plane needed emergency maintenance. Funny how these things just happen like this.

You were still clad in your sequined dress, high heels, and heavy makeup and you remember making an off-color comment about how your fake marriage for the case was never consummated. And he said something stupid, stiffly, like, “Well. It was fake.”

And you said, “Well, what if at least the consummation part was real? We should’ve done that first, you know, to really sell it. Maybe we should have sex now, you know, in case we ever need to go undercover again.”

When his eyes widened and he cleared his throat you knew you had him wrapped around your finger.

You knew you had him long before that, though. JJ, a beautiful blond woman, always knew when men’s eyes were wandering where they weren’t supposed to, having been a victim of it her whole life. And she informed you on multiple occasions that Aaron’s target was you. She wasn’t wrong. But to act on it? You had to be crazy.

You knew it was stupid from the get-go, and not just because you’re technically his subordinate. You were in the midst of two situationships prior to him, and you knew logically both of you wanted different things. Yes, he married his high school sweetheart, and maybe the divorce led him to think a little differently about what sex and relationships meant to him. Ultimately, though, you know what he wants. A live-in girlfriend that will marry him someday, have his kids, and give him the whole white picket fence deal that he thought Haley would’ve given him.

But you’re not that girl. You never could be.

Even if you could be locked down, you care too much about your career to give it up while he works. Little does he know you’re vying for his position if it ever opens up. You wouldn’t be so cruel to oust him, no, but if he or Gideon were to ever transfer…

But you know Aaron won’t leave. His career was the mistress that broke up his marriage, not you. He chose it over her time and time again. And he would choose it over you, too, when push comes to shove. Leave you alone when you’re swollen pregnant with his kids and he’s halfway across the country. Doesn’t sound like your idea of a good time. You almost can’t blame Hailey for wanting an end to it. Raising kids with someone like that is akin to being a single mom anyway.

Kids aren’t even something you want. If you can’t stay with a lover for longer than six months, you don’t know how you’d be able to handle an eighteen-year-long commitment, even if it was your own flesh and blood.

You’re theorizing a lot about what this man really wants from you for someone that’s never had a conversation with him about it. But you two don’t talk much. You made sure of that.

He’s not saying anything as he helps you free his cock from the confines of his dress pants, hard and leaking pre-cum already, and you look up at him where you lay crouched at the end of the bed. He’s hesitant, still.

“Touch yourself,” you say quietly, looking at him, commanding him softly.

He does what you say, bringing his left hand to wrap around the base of his cock and fisting it, giving what seems like an experimental tug, like he’s never touched himself before.

Which you know is a lie.

But you make him nervous.

He does it again, again, again, and without warning you lean forward and lick the pre-cum weeping from his tip, whimpers leaving him as he stops moving his hand.

“Did I say you should stop? No. Keep going,” you order, and he nods in agreement and starts moving his hand across his length again.

You almost wish the rest of the team could see how easily you get him to submit to you. It’s quite honestly the best part of this whole arrangement.

You watch him for a little bit, seeing how his cheeks get redder from exertion and beads of sweat start forming on his chest and neck, and he’s fluttering his eyelids closed, muttering your name under his breath, begging you to touch him and put your mouth on him again. What a sight for sore eyes. He’s not going very quickly, just steady and sure, like he does all things. Again, you meet him, tongue swirling around the tip of his cock and he’s able to keep his ministrations going until you run your tongue over the underside of his cock, meeting the edge of his hand in the process.

Both his hands fly to your hair now, and you take the hint he’s all set with the teasing. You take more of him in your mouth, feeling him settle hot and heavy against your tongue.

“Jesus Christ,” he whimpers, massaging his fingers gently through your hair. “You feel so good, so much better than my hand.”

You would certainly fucking hope so.

Leaning back a little, you let go of him, pressing hot, wet kisses along his length, leaving smears of red lipstick in your wake. When he’s wet enough for your liking, you take him in your mouth again, suppressing your gag reflux to take almost all of him. You were never much of a deepthroater, again, because it’s not fun to have a man jab the head of his penis in the back of your throat, but for Aaron, you’ll try. You can at least give him this if you can’t give him anything else he wants from you. You know he won’t try to hurt you in the search of his own pleasure.

Unlike some people.

The tears pricking your eyes are due to the feeling of his cock in your throat. Nothing else.

Aaron shouldn’t look down at you because he thinks he’ll cum right then and there. You’re bobbing your head up and down on him now, the feeling of your lips and your cheeks hollowing around him almost too much to bear. He knows he sounds desperate, wrecked, stupid, even, his voice unrecognizable to even himself as he grunts and whimpers your name, begging you, pleading with you… for what? He doesn’t know. Everything. He wants everything you can give him.

More than you’re willing to give him.

You were very good at distractions.

You’re also very good at telling when he’s about to cum, and you stop right before he was going to warn you.

“What was that for?” he asks, panting, coming down from his almost high, still feeling needy and disoriented.

“You should know by now. You’re only finishing in one place. I suffer through birth control for a reason,” you grin, letting him kiss your mouth as you travel back up to his face.

“You should know by now that I can last for more than one round,” he teases, kissing you again.

“Still have to wait for that refractory period, old man,” you retort. “And I’m not feeling patient tonight.”

“No? Neither am I, then,” he says, reaching forward to snake his hand in your panties, feeling how damp they are against his knuckles, and he inserts his index and middle fingers into you, pumping slowly, methodically, stretching you out, trying to ignore his throbbing cock. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

“You can cool it with the flattery, Aaron. You don’t need to woo me. You already got me in your bed.”

“Not really a way to accept a compliment.”

“I wasn’t accepting it. Please just stop talking and get me off.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, honey, look,” he says, his fingers leaving you for a moment to turn the light on all the way. Nodding toward the mirror on your left, he climbs back on the bed. “Look at yourself. See what I see.”

You don’t really see anything to gawk at. You’re just a woman with mussed hair, sitting in a lacy black bra and panties, but when his hand wedges its way between your legs again, you realize you can use this to your advantage. Fuck his bullshit, making out like he was trying to help you increase your self-esteem when ultimately, he was just using you to get off like everybody else.

But two could play that game.

Something about watching his frame envelop you, watching his fingers scissor in and out of you in the mirror, dripping wet with evidence of your arousal… well, fuck.

“See?” he murmurs, kissing your mouth, but you’re still watching the mirror, and even that is more erotic, being able to see him and feel him from all angles. “So beautiful.”

When his face disappears between your thighs you think you might cum right then and there. Seeing only his black hair, your hands fisted there, the muscles of his back and arms flexing as he holds onto your hips… Christ.

“Aaron,” you hiss as the bridge of his nose runs over your clit.

“Mm?” he asks, not bothering to stop licking at you, his voice muffled by your cunt.

“Wish you could see yourself right now, fuck,” you whine.

Aaron pulls back from your body to look at you, grinning like a goddamn psychopath as you whimper from the sudden lack of his mouth. “I like the view down here.”

“Then get back down there, you bastard,” you say, pretending to be irritated but you’re smiling, too. “You can’t see anything, anyway, dumbass.”

“Still one of my favorite pastimes,” he says, fucking his fingers into you again, causing you to buck your hips against his hand involuntarily. Taking a glance into the mirror, Aaron begins to understand why this turned you on so much. It wasn’t so much about watching himself, no, it was you from a different angle, seeing you as a whole instead of the bits and pieces he usually gleaned in the glimpses of light.

Eye contact in the mirror is somehow sexier, hotter, and more intense. Intimate. Watching you watching him watching you watching him. Hair frazzled. Skin sheen with sweat. Hands gripping onto skin and sheets. The whole picture rather than the tiny details now on display.

“So wet for me, honey. So gorgeous,” he coos, rubbing his thumb over your clit.

“Aaron—“ You start to protest, but the words die in your throat and you grit your teeth, head falling slack on the pillows behind you.

“Sorry, honey, but if you want to get off you’ll have to suffer through my compliments,” he says, grinning at you again, leaning up to kiss you, the taste of you potent on his tongue.

“Fair trade, I guess, Aaron, fuck,” you hiss, bringing your head back up to watch him as he travels back down your body, disappearing between your legs, and you think if this is all he ever wanted to do for the rest of his life (besides work, of course, neither of you could ever give that up) you would be the happiest woman alive.

Aaron can tell you’re close to your peak, your thighs squeezing his head and trembling against him, and he looks up at you briefly, saying, “Honey, you can let go.”

And you do, the coil breaks finally and you cum, gasping out his name as you pull his hair just hard enough that he grunts yours out in almost a scolding tone.

“You’re lucky I’m nicer than you,” Aaron says after kissing your mouth gently and brushing the hair out of your eyes.

“Not hard to achieve,” you say, smiling at him, letting him lean down to kiss you again. You deepen the kiss, wrap your arm around his neck, wrap your leg around his hip, and straddle him, your cunt dangerously close to his cock.

“Fuck,” he breathes into your mouth.

“Exactly,” you quip, and he chuckles.

You think these are the only times you ever see him smile.

You try not to dwell on that as you sink onto his cock. It’s easy to forget anything you were thinking about now, feeling him fill you completely, hearing him moan your name as you start fucking him.

It still amazes you how desperate he is in bed, given how restrained he is elsewhere.

You’re so close to driving yourself over the edge, Aaron meeting you thrust for thrust, the friction against your clit each time almost enough… but then he reaches for your waist, stills your movements, and flips you onto your back, and you look at him questioningly.

“Is this okay?” he asks gently.

“Yeah. It’s okay, but was that not doing it for you? Because it was working for me.”

“I just… I just wanted to be closer,” he says, leaning down to kiss you softly, setting a slow pace as he starts fucking you again. “I can’t reach you like that. I can’t kiss you. I just… I need this right now. I want to be closer. Is that okay?”

There it is, the lump in your throat returning. His eyes are looking into yours imploringly, begging you for an answer, that yes, it’s okay, yes, you understand, yes, you want this too.

You can’t find words so you just kiss him like he said he wanted, and it’s different, not being able to see his face now, making out the entire time he’s inside you, the kiss turning messier as his pace increases. Your bodies are impossibly close, god, you’ve done everything in your power to avoid missionary with this man to avoid this, his body completely enveloping yours, just inches away from putting all his weight on you.

It’s taking everything in him not to say it. Not to say he loves you. It’s all that’s running through his head right now, sweat dripping down his back, but he knows you’d rationalize it away, say it’s because he’s fucking you right now that he’s bringing this up, that when his mind is clear he won’t feel the same way.

Even hypothetically, you break his heart.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Aaron, right there,” you whine, arching your back, drawing him out of his pity party, and he fucks into you with renewed fervor, making sure to angle his hips the exact same way each time, doing anything, anything at all to make you feel good. Predictably, you let go quickly, your cunt squeezing him as you cum, and he knows he won’t last long either, and true to form it’s a few thrusts until he’s spilling into you, slowing his hips until they still, his cock starting to grow soft inside you.

“Will you stay tonight?” Aaron asks before moving off you.

“Yes,” you nod.

“The whole night?”

“Yes, Aaron,” you say. “Why?”

“I… I want to wake up and you’re still here…. I…” His voice trails off before he can tell you why. Because he sleeps better when you stay. Because he can pretend you’re really his if you stay the whole night. Because he loves you.

“So you can fuck me again in the morning before we go in?”

He tries not to frown. Of course, he’d always want to have sex with you… but it seems like you know when he’s on the verge of a confession, on the verge of asking for something more and you always divert the conversation to sex instead.

“We’ll have to get up early,” you say, stroking his hair absentmindedly. This, you don’t mind. This, you can do. You can stay the night. You can sleep next to him, bodies still intertwined. You can kiss him good morning, tease him for his morning breath.

What you can’t do… you can’t believe he really loves you or that even if he did, a real relationship outside of the bedroom and the office would work out.

You and Aaron had a rocky start. You were transferred from a white-collar crimes unit the second a position in the BAU opened. Always an issue with authority, you antagonized him whenever you thought his decisions were wrong, which came as a shock to the rest of the team who seemed happy to fall in line. But you refused to sit idly by while a man had the audacity to be incorrect and lead his entire team down that path.

He never raised his voice, but you did.

And he wasn’t always wrong.

You still don’t know how he possesses this much restraint. You envy it, almost. Control. Self-control.

But you didn’t know that that in itself is what made his eyes wander. You were exciting, tantalizing, and stimulating. A wildcard. The arguments between the two of you meant something, unlike the same tired ones he had been having with his soon-to-be ex-wife at the time about how he was never home, how she wanted children and didn’t want to raise them alone. They were at an impasse. He wasn't with you. Even when you nauseated him back in those early days, there was always a solution to whatever issue was at hand. Unlike at home.

It was the same thing. Day in. Day out. And he thrived on predictability. It’s what keeps him centered. Or so he thought, until you came into the bullpen, guns blazing. What he wants though… he was never going to get. From either Haley… or you, it seemed.

Sighing, Aaron rolls off you to let you go to the bathroom and brush your teeth.

You didn’t even bring your own toothbrush from home. He bought you one to keep here.

He follows you into the bathroom, grabbing his own toothbrush, and the eye contact in the mirror this time is different. More poignant. Simmered down. Hollow.

“Try not to look so miserable, Aaron. I did just fuck you,” you say.

“I’m just tired,” he lies.

“Mm.”

“When are we going to have a conversation?” He asks you after spitting out toothpaste in the sink, coming over to hug you from behind, and kissing your jaw gently.

“Who needs conversations?” you tease, leaning back to grind against him.

Maybe you were getting to be predictable, too.

But he tries not to let it get to him. You’re still in his bed, wearing his shirt to sleep in, wrapped in his arms.

And you still are when the sunlight bleeds through the blinds.

———

Aaron didn’t get it at first, but now he does. You said he wasn’t the only one you were sleeping with from the get-go, not completely honest prior to getting him in bed, but after you fucked him and then he almost gained the courage to tell you he saw you as more than just a friend with benefits, you dropped that bomb.

He didn’t expect it to be this close to home.

But he understands now. Morgan would’ve been his first guess if it was anyone else on the team, but oh, was he so wrong in his heteronormative thinking.

The way you used to sidle up to Elle, smirking, flirting, giving her that look he thought was reserved just for him. He knew… All those secret glances, the way you hugged her, let her fall asleep on your shoulder on plane rides back… and it’s part of why he feels like he can’t overstep, ask you to be with him seriously. Why he can’t tell you how he feels.

Now he sees Elle, trying to keep a frown plastered on her face but she can’t help but laugh at whatever you said. You squeeze her shoulder. You act like nothing’s wrong. But he can see in the way Elle averts her eyes from you that there’s a rift between the two of you. It was never too noticeable in the field. The two of you are solid agents and you’d never let the personal get in the way of the professional. There was a decrease in the jokes and smiles you shared together, and you’d sit next to him on the plane instead of her. But other than that…It was an invisible severance of ties.

Now, though, the two of you were the only people on the floor, the only two that got sucked into paperwork this evening, and he recalls it’s been a while since both of you drew the short straw together. It didn’t use to be like that. You two would always offer together, he recalls, order Chinese takeout or pizza, take the overtime, and tell him to go home to his wife, that the two of you could handle it. That was before he started having sex with you.

Nowadays, you either stayed with Morgan, or on the off chance you’d stay with Elle, either one of you would leave early, most often Elle. You’d tell her you got it. Often Aaron would take pity on you and take half the stack despite your protests, and sometimes you’d bring your half into his office and work in silence, in tandem with him.

Fair enough. He was your rebound just as you were his.

You cup Elle’s cheek with your hand, kiss her cheek softly before moving away, and he can make out you saying “I’m sorry.”

Elle turns away, jerking her body away from your touch.

You fake a smile.

“What is wrong with you?” she says, raising her voice.

“Elle, I…”

“No. You don’t get to do this. You ended this by sleeping around.” “You said you didn’t want anything serious! And you knew you weren't the only one when we started this."

“That didn’t mean I wanted you to go fuck somebody else. Or for you to leave me out to dry after I was just in a fucking hostage situation!”

“It’s the job, Elle, you—“

“How can you be so goddamn insensitive?” she asks, eyes blazing at you. “You weren’t trapped for hours in a train car in the middle of Texas with an unsub armed with two guns! No. You were fucking somebody else. That’s what you were doing.”

“No, actually, I was working to get you out of there,” you snap back.

“Right. Reid was more instrumental in that operation than you ever could have been.”

“Why don’t you go fuck Reid then and fuck off?”

“You know what? That sounds like a good fucking idea. At least he actually cared about my well-being after the fact. You’re all set with your ex from college and your new mystery man you won’t tell me anything about.”

“Listen, Elle, you told me you were fine. I didn’t want to press it. And I haven't seen my ex in over a month."

She sets her jaw, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re colder than some of the guys we bring in, you know that, right? What the fuck? I don’t care that we were never going to be flag wavers who came out to the whole team and put our careers and lives in danger. Sure. It was mostly for fun. But I thought you saw me as something more than just a fuckbuddy. I thought I was at least your friend. No one’s fine after that. You know that. Although I don’t know, maybe you would be. Must be nice to be so detached.”

“Elle… I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t know you were struggling. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I would’ve been there if you reached out.”

“Yeah. It’s always like that, isn’t it? You can never be the person who chases, never be the person who asks if someone needs anything from you,” she scoffs.

“Elle, I… I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I am!”

“Okay.”

“I still want to be friends.”

Elle laughs sardonically, shaking her head. “Not yet. You’ve got to give me space right now.”

“I gave you a month of space.”

“It wasn’t enough. I need some air.”

And she starts walking away in a huff, and that’s when Aaron realizes he needs to pretend he was doing anything but watching this public display of disaffection. He puts his key in the lock to his office, but you hear it in the dead silence of the building, and you look up and see him, making eye contact with him across the awning.

And your face falls. It’s not anger or sadness at the way you’re looking at him… it’s fear. He recognizes that look all too well. And it breaks his heart, to think you’d be frightened of his reaction to anything you brought to the table.

Aaron walks down the stairs over to you, and you’re trembling. “What’s the matter, honey?” he asks softly.

“Nothing. I’m okay,” you lie, blatant lies always falling from your mouth. Why couldn’t you ever just be honest with him?

“You don’t seem okay. Why don’t we go talk in my office?”

“I’m okay, Aaron. Please,” you say, but your eyes are brimming with tears as you speak. “Please just… let me work on my files. I don’t want to be here all night.”

“I don’t care about the files. I want to make sure you’re okay, and I know you’re not. Please talk to me. What’s going on with you and Elle?”

“I… how much of that did you hear?” you whisper nervously, your voice taking on a higher frequency than normal.

“It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

“But I…” You trail off, leaving what you are unspoken. Jesus, you wonder what he must think of you now. Slut. Dyke. Whore. Cunt. Bitch. Just another woman who fucked him and then fucked him over. You were waiting for the slurs to start spilling from his mouth.

It’s not like the two of you were exclusive.

But you know for him it was only you and part of you feels guilty anyway.

“I’m not mad,” he reassures you. “I could never be mad at you.”

Oh, God. There it was again. The false promises, the ones you get at the start of every relationship. Wasn’t that what Elle said to you, or some variant of that... until things got too close for comfort for you and you stepped back? Like you always do?

“I highly doubt that,” you say, trying to level your voice and fight back the tears threatening to spill over onto your cheeks.

“I don’t want to ignore this. I want you to be able to talk to me.”

“I have nothing to say,” you tell him, a little harsher than you meant to. You expect him to nod curtly at your attitude; like maybe he would have when you first started working here, walk back into his office, and call it a night.

But he doesn’t walk away. He steps forward and wraps you in a hug that you don’t return, your arms still crossed over your chest against his body. His lips press against the top of your head and you hate this, you feel claustrophobic wrapped in his embrace, and you wish you could be normal, that you didn’t fuck up everything good you ever had.

But he’d be another one on a long list.

“Honey… I don’t care if you’ve been with women. I knew about this before, anyway, or suspected the two of you were together. If that’s what you think the issue is, I want you to know it doesn’t bother me at all. It shouldn’t bother anyone. I’m sorry I had to find out this way instead of you telling me on your own terms, but I… I still care about you. This didn’t change anything for me. Okay?” Part of you wants to psychoanalyze his statement, tear it to pieces, and make him an asshole for saying it. Because…no, it shouldn’t need to be said. He’s not a hero for this. It should be a given, that whoever you’re with would accept who you are. But you’ve had past men you’ve been with be bullies, terrorize you for it, make you feel like a whore, dirty... like you’re less of a woman for it. Projecting all their insecurities on you.

And for a man as traditional and reserved as Aaron… you somewhat expected him to be the same way if he ever found out. At the very least you expected him to call things off, and ask for some space. It’s a relief and a burden at the same time that he didn’t. You’re glad he’s accepting and it means there’s one less bigot in the world, but now it’s so much harder to villainize him or to make yourself believe he only sees you as a recurring one-night stand.

“Please talk to me,” he begs, pulling away from the hug to look at your face.

“What is there to say, Aaron? You caught me. I’m a whore.”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” he scolds. “I’m not mad about that, either. It’s not like we ever really discussed what we were.”

“Jesus, Aaron, what’s it going to take for you to hate me?” you ask, shaking your head. “I refuse to believe you’re this much of a pushover after Haley.”

He stiffens a little at the mention of her name, but he nods. “Why would I hate you? Anyway… yes. She cheated on me. But she had my last name and my ring on her finger. It’s a little different than… whatever it is we’re doing. We didn’t put labels on this. You told me you were still seeing somebody else. I knew there was…overlap. We never talk about what it is, and what we want from each other. Hailey and I were far past that point and she betrayed my trust.”

You hate how courteous he is about this, how he’s refusing to put any blame on you at all. You almost wish he would scream at you. At least that you know how to deal with.

“I told Elle,” you say quickly. “About us. Or… well… not us. Not that it’s you. But that I’ve been sleeping with someone else. I told her a month ago, probably two months later than I should have. And I never told you about her… because… I hadn’t been seeing her as much since we started sleeping together, either, Aaron… and I didn’t know how you would take this.”

“I told you. I’m not mad,” he says. “It’s okay. Everything’s still okay. Please. You can still come home with me tonight.”

You frown, and shake your head. “It’s been every night this week.”

“Did I wear you out, yet?” he asks, smiling a little more suggestively than usual.

You smirk devilishly, finally returning to your natural self. “You know you never could.”

“Then, please. I’ll take half your stack and we can head to my place after. I still want you.” Aaron punctuates his statement with a kiss to your forehead.

—————-

And so you let him take you home, your place this time, you let him kiss you, tangle his hands in your hair, you let him tell you how gorgeous he thinks you are without a mirror on the side of the bed to prove it.

You let him tell you he loves you without stopping him this time before he gets there. But you don’t say anything back.

You like him. You do. He makes you laugh, he’s handsome, and you know he would treat you well. He has, so far, and you’re not even dating.

But he’s too good for you. One girlfriend before you, who he married. No flings to speak of. He always tried to be perfect, color in the lines of what a stereotypical man should be in this day and age, although you did appreciate he was never boastful about it. Strong yet caring. Stern yet soft-spoken. Intelligent, but he knew his limits.

You weren’t like what men thought women should be. You certainly never fit into that mold.

He stops fucking you, stills inside you.

“Please say something. Did you hear me?” he asks you.

“What?”

“I said, ‘I love you’”.

“No, you don’t, Aaron. Stop it,” you say.

“When are we going to have a conversation?”

“Not now,” you say.

“Then when?” he asks, searching your eyes for something more than your words were giving him.

“Not when you’re fucking me. Jesus Christ. Way to kill the mood, Aaron,” you say, trying to come off like you were teasing.

But he’s not taking the bait today.

“It doesn’t kill the mood for me,” he says quietly.

“Aaron, please,” you say, trying to thrust up against him.

He ignores you. Now he knows his only chance to get you to listen to him is if you’re in bed with him. Now that he knows your track record from what he gleaned from your conversation with Elle. “Remember when we had that case that looked like a satanic ritual attack? And you told me I was stupid to go after that heavy metal kid because you used to be into that, and you went on a whole tangent about how I needed to learn the difference between profiling and stereotyping?”

“Mm.”

“And you were right.”

“Yes. I was.”

“And I just… I don’t know. I love that you’ll speak your mind. I love that you’ll call me out when I’m wrong. I love that you’re not afraid to be a little… hostile to get your point across when you know you’re right. That you’re subversive. That you’re also… kind when the situation calls for it. That you’re witty. That you’re so, so, so intelligent and gorgeous and…. I’m not good with words or emotions. I know you’re not either. But believe me. Believe me when I tell you I love you because… I really do. And I want this to be something else. Something more. I want us to be exclusive. I don’t want… I don’t want you to be afraid and push me away like you’ve done with other people in the past.”

“Aaron. Your cock is in me right now. You’re not thinking straight,” you say, teasing again, kissing him, but he breaks away.

“Can you be honest with me? Please? Like I was just honest with you. What do you want from this?”

“This. This is what I want,” you answer.

“Just sex?”

“I don’t know. We’re friends, Aaron. We get along… for the most part. What will really be so different if you call me your girlfriend?”

“What do you think will be so different that you’re so against it?” he asks.

You sigh. “Things are good right now. Aren’t they?”

“They are, but I want more from you.”

“What more could I possibly give you, Aaron? I fuck you almost on the daily. When you were happily married, did you get that?”

“I wasn’t happily married,” he sighs.

“Exactly. That’s an oxymoron. It won’t be any different with me.”

“I think it would be. You’re not a choice I’m making at seventeen.”

“Aaron, stop it. I’m still just a woman.”

“You’re the woman I want. I want to be with you. It’s… yes. The sex is great. I’m not complaining. But I… I want to be able to take you out to dinner. Go for runs with you. Be the only one you sleep with.”

“So it is about that. It does bother you.”

“No. It didn’t.”

“But it does now.”

“I don’t have to be mad at you for it to bother me. Like I said. It was never anything we discussed until now.”

“Yeah. Now that we’re discussing it, do you feel better? Because I don’t,” you snap.

“Honey… it’s been killing me. Keeping it secret, close to my chest.”

“If you really cared about me, you would move,” you say, trying to bring levity back into the situation and get him to fuck you again as you roll your hips up against his.

“Okay,” he says solemnly, pulling out of you, and searching the floor for his boxers.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

“I can’t… I can’t keep doing this, having you close but not as close as I want you, knowing you don’t feel the same way or want the same things. I held on too long for something I was never going to get with Haley. I can’t do it with you, too.”

You don’t say anything. You stay there, naked in the center of your bed, and you watch him get dressed, and you watch him leave your bedroom. You meet his hollow-eyed gaze. You don’t say a word.

You know it’s over.

It takes a lot of strength for Aaron to exit your apartment.

But he finds it anyway.

——————

You’re talking to Reid enthusiastically about the book series the two of you were reading. Or rather, that you were catching up on that Reid had already finished.

That was another thing Aaron loved about you, how you seemed to be one of the only members on the team that actively sought out Reid’s eccentricities and special interests. In fact, he may have been the only member you hadn’t had choice words with at one point.

You could be gentle when you wanted to be.

He knows he shouldn’t be looking at you. He should be avoiding you unless it’s absolutely necessary to be in your presence. But it was so very hard to ignore you, even if you did break his heart for good this time.

There’s another person who’s watching you.

Elle.

It’s hard for Aaron to read Elle, sometimes, too. She comes off reserved. Uncaring. He wouldn’t have thought the hostage situation bothered her as much as she claimed it had with you the other day either.

No one in this room is good at dealing with emotions. Compartmentalization? Everyone could teach a class on that. It’s what you studied, being profilers, people that hid away the depraved parts of their psyche to be able to function as members of society. So it only made sense that the rest of you would fall in line with that, albeit maybe not to that degree. Refuse to discuss anything that bothers you, though. Relive nightmares over and over again. Tell no one.

He’s tired of it.

“Elle, I need to speak with you,” Aaron says softly. “In my office.”

“Something wrong?” She asks, averting her gaze from you.

“I just need to speak with you,” he says, leading her up the stairs and unlocking the door of his office, and letting her follow him in. “You and her… you two were…”

“What?” she asks, already on edge.

“Together,” he says stiffly.

“As in?”

“Dating.”

Elle laughs sardonically, biting her nail anxiously. “No.”

“I’m not mad or upset. Whatever you tell me is held in strict confidence here. For both of your safeties,” he assures her gently.

“I said no. I meant no.”

“Then…?”

“Why do you care, Hotch? It’s not going to affect my work.”

“I just… I want to know.”

“For your own curiosity?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

Aaron doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to put Elle in a precarious position, make her not only come out of the closet but also admit that she slept with you. But he needs to know where he stands.

Well. Takes one to know one.

“Wait a second. Son of a bitch. It was you,” she says quietly, realization visibly dawning on her. “You’re the man. You’re the one she told me she was sleeping with. There’s no other reason you’d pull me aside like this. Wow, she likes to keep it a little too close for comfort, huh? Maybe she’s trying to sleep with the whole unit.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he says firmly.

Elle shrugs. “It’s not anything bad. If that’s what she wants to do, she should have at it. We both know she could score. She’d definitely give Reid a good time.”

“Stop it,” he scolds.

“You can’t tell me I’m being unprofessional. You pulled me, your subordinate, in here to talk about how you’re in love with her.”

“Excuse me?” he asks firmly.

“God, Hotch, it’s nauseating. It’s all Morgan and Garcia talk about. It’s very obvious. You’re not exactly subtle. I didn’t know you were getting any, though. Good for you, I guess. That’s about as far as you’ll get with her.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

But he knows exactly what she means.

“She’s distant, right? Cold, even. I thought maybe it was because she didn’t want to come out with a sign that says she sleeps with women, which, fair enough. Lots of reasons to stay closeted in this day and age. I’m not exactly a flag waver myself. I knew I wasn’t going to be walking down an aisle to her someday. Still didn’t mean it didn’t hurt that whenever I asked her anywhere besides my bedroom she flaked. Eventually, I got sick of it. It’s whatever. I wasn’t under any real delusions about what we were. I just got a little pissed and told her off. I was stressed because of the job and I took it out on her. We all do it. We’ll still be friends. I just want to play the game a little longer and ice her out.”

“Do you… want her?”

“No. Not anymore. I’m not as lovesick as you are. You can try to go for her. Like I said. Don’t think you’ll get farther than you have. Are we done here, or am I getting paid extra to give you a therapy session?”

“We’re done here. Cool it with the attitude.”

“Why? You let her talk to you however she wants.”

“Agent,” he says warningly.

“Right. You’re not in love with me. Special privileges,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Not a word of this to the rest of the team.”

“Yeah, no worries, Hotch,” she says, smirking and nodding. “I think surprisingly I’d have more to lose than you if it got out.”

Meanwhile, you had sat at the desk across from Morgan, thanking him for running coffee duty.

“What do you think that’s about?” Morgan asks you. “Hotch and Elle.”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” you lie, sipping at your coffee, wondering vaguely if they're swapping stories about how much of a bitch you are. “You ever think you’ll settle down?”

“Why are you asking me that? You’re more of a player than me.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Jealous?”

“Not in the slightest. Your life is messy and I don’t even know the half of it. Wish you would sleep with the boss man, though. Man’s lovesick.”

You wince a little. “Who? Gideon?”

“Yeah,” Morgan replies sarcastically, then drops his voice lower, “I’m telling you. Hotch would drop anything in a heartbeat if he had one second with you.”

“He had more than that.”

“You’re kidding me,” Morgan says, leaning back in his chair. “Okay. Then why does he still look at you like he didn’t?”

“Because I don’t want to be the next Mrs. Hotchner.”

“He had one girlfriend his whole life and he married her. And look at him. He’s not a player like us. You can’t fuck with him like that.”

“He’s a grown man. He knew what he was getting into.”

“Did you?” he asks. “Because I think somewhere in that cold, bitchy heart you love him, too. Can Hotshot Hotchner do it? Tame this femme-fatale?”

“You’re not funny, Morgan.”

Morgan shrugs. “I think if anyone could tame you it would be him. He’d certainly be the only one willing to put in the effort to.”

“Nope. He left like they all do,” you counter.

“Because you let him.”

Because you let him.

You didn’t even try to stop him.

These things were true. What was Aaron supposed to do with that?

————

All you taste is blood. The metallic-tinged liquid in your throat, your back pressed against the car, and you had your arms up to block the perpetrator but he got the best of you anyway. It’s a swift kick to the stomach and you bend over, the wind knocked out of you, and you’re spitting up blood, seeing it bright red and viscous on the grass in front of you. Your lungs burn, and your head aches, but the adrenaline coursing through you is enough to overpower that and to give you the strength to knee him in the balls, hard, and he keels over, groaning in pain. Morgan takes the opportunity to pull his hands behind his back and snap the handcuffs on him while you fall to your knees, leaning against the car for support as you struggle to catch your breath, still swallowing blood, wincing at the taste in the back of your throat.

It was your mouth that got you in trouble again, predictably. At least if nothing else you proved he had a temper and was easily provoked. You expect Gideon to chew you out later anyway. Aaron was still avoiding you like the plague.

“Can you hear me?” A voice asks, coming from above you, soft yet distinctly masculine and you realize it’s Aaron. What?

You nod, chest heaving, but you can’t speak even if you tried.

You feel him loosen the buttons of your shirt at your throat, rubbing your back soothingly. “Just breathe. It’s okay. You’re okay. You did well. Good. Just like that. Can you walk?”

You try to push yourself off the car and take a few steps, but your legs give out and you fall back into his arms, the adrenaline that was pushing you a second ago gone now that you weren’t being attacked anymore.

“Hey, hey, hey, easy,” he says gently, supporting your weight. “I’m going to get you to a hospital.”

“I don’t need…” you manage to rasp out, shaking your head.

“Shh. Shh. If you never let me use my authority for anything else again I’d be fine with it as long as you let me use it here. You’re going to the hospital.”

Calling an ambulance, he clears out the rest of the scene, letting the other members of the team go back to the office with the perpetrator, checking in with you at what feels like five-second intervals.

“I’m okay, Aaron. Really. I got kicked in the stomach. I’m fine,” you say when you can catch your breath.

“You could have a broken rib. Or nose. You’re still bleeding,” he points out, using the sleeve of his dress shirt to wipe the blood still dripping from your face.

“I think I would’ve heard either of those.”

“What if you lose too much blood? Hm?”

“From a nosebleed?” you question.

“It could happen.”

“Why are you… why are you acting like you care?”

“Acting?” Aaron asks, then shrugs. “It’s not acting.”

“You didn’t have to stay with me.”

“I wanted to.”

“Why? You could’ve made anyone else stay with me.”

“I wanted to be the one to make sure you’re okay,” he says, taking of his blazer, unbuttoning his dress shirt and handing it to you, leaving him in just his white undershirt. “You need to keep pressure on that. Stop the bleeding. Here.”

“Aaron… why? This isn’t just routine. Reid got hurt the other day and you didn’t—"

“Because I still love you,” he says quickly, looking you in the eyes. “It doesn’t just go away. I thought… I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought I was going to achieve by leaving that night. It hurts either way.”

“If it’s any consolation, I miss you,” you say quietly.

“I have two questions, then,” he says, exhaling, deciding to take a chance. There was nothing more to lose.

“Yeah. What?”

“You miss me? Or the sex?”

“Can’t it be both?” you ask sheepishly, blushing a little.

“I suppose.”

“What’s your second question?”

“You miss me? You don’t love me?”

“Aaron,” you say, moving his shirt away from your nose. “That’s not a fair question. I don’t know if I’ve ever loved anyone.”

“Why did you let me leave?” he asks.

“I didn’t agree to a third question.”

“Just answer me,” he says, exasperated.

“You were going to leave anyway, Aaron. We don’t want the same things. I don’t want to get married, and give up my career to raise your children.”

He shakes his head, looking at you incredulously. “Where in the world did you get the idea that either of those things were what I wanted from you?”

“You were married and it didn’t work out, you’re older, you—“

“See what happens when you refuse to talk about things?” he says, laughing a little. “Yes. I wanted a wife and a family. And I had a wife and the chance of having a family and… it fell apart. And in the aftermath of it all, there was you. I was never asking to tie you down and make you feel trapped. I’m not asking for you to have children if that’s not something you want. I’m certainly not asking you to give up your career for me while I work. You aren’t what I thought I wanted. You would’ve… you would’ve terrified me if I met you two decades ago. But you meet me where I’m at now, and that’s what matters.”

“I would’ve terrified you?” you tease.

“You do, now, too,” he grins. “A little. But in a good way.”

“Did you actually call this ambulance?” you ask.

“You know they take forever to get anywhere,” Aaron says, looking at you concernedly. “Why? Anything new hurt?”

“I’m fine, Aaron,” you say, rolling your eyes at him. “I would’ve been fine with an urgent care.”

“Forgive me for being cautious.”

“Forgive me for letting you leave,” you say, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

“I already did,” he responds quietly, reaching for your hand and squeezing it gently.

“What… what do you want from me, then? Because I… I don’t understand. I’m argumentative, divisive, and hostile. I don’t know the meaning of restraint. I don’t—"

Aaron shakes his head and kisses you, then pulls away, looking down at you and grinning as the red and blue lights from the ambulance arriving start to illuminate you in the dark. “You taste like blood.”

You laugh more than you should have at that, your sides aching as you do. “You really are a profiler, huh?”

“Some might even say a good one.”

“What do you want—"

“I don’t want you to change. I want you to still call me out when I’m wrong. I want you to argue with me like you always used to. I never want you to feel like you need to hold back, act differently, or be somebody else. All those things you listed… I love about you. I just want you to be with me like I told you. Go out to dinners and breakfasts with me. Cook with me in my kitchen. Have wine outside with me in the summer. Go for runs with me. Drag me to Taylor Swift concerts with you. I don’t care. I want it with you.”

The paramedics exit the ambulance before you can respond, and they’re helping you onto the stretcher and taking your blood pressure, and asking you what happened, and it’s not until you walked the few steps to the stretcher that you realized how much that son of a bitch really got you. Maybe Aaron was right to be this worried.

Not that you’d tell him that.

They leave you in the emergency room to wait, as they’ve deemed you non-emergent amid the heart attacks, strokes, and overdoses being wheeled in. You’re breathing. Which is good. Your nose stopped bleeding. Which is also good. Your oxygen level is normal, which means you didn’t puncture a lung with a broken rib, which is excellent.

Now that you’re alone again, or, rather, without an audience of paramedics, you look at him, drinking him in again, letting yourself look at him for the first time in weeks. Broad shoulders, dark hair, large hands. Calm demeanor, even here. Strong. Commanding. Yeah. As much as you were a man's nightmare, he was a woman's dream.

“What you want doesn’t sound half bad,” you admit.

“Why would I want to trap someone I love in a situation where I knew they’d be miserable? I know you value your freedom and your career. I would never ask you to compromise that for me. I just… I needed to step back because you would never even let me speak. You never let me take you out. You only let me take you home. And it… it hurt, honey. But I still love you.”

You wince. “I don’t know how to be in a relationship. I don’t know how to love. I’m broken.”

“That’s the thing I don’t understand. You’re always putting yourself down. Why do you think you don’t deserve this? That you don’t deserve to be happy?”

“I don’t know, Aaron. I’ve never seen a happy ending. For me or anyone else.”

“That doesn’t mean you should never try. And it doesn’t mean we can’t be happy now.”

“But it will hurt—"

“It will hurt anyway,” he reminds you. “These past few weeks have been hell.”

They haven’t been fun. He isn’t wrong.

“I’m not the easiest person to love.”

“Neither am I,” he admits. “I know I don’t bring a lot to the table. But I love you. And… Christ, it doesn’t take a profiler to see you’ve been damaged by somebody. I don’t blame you for living the way you have been, switching people out, and toying with people like you must have been toyed with on a larger scale. I don’t need to know the details if you’re not ready to share them with me. But whenever you feel like you’re ready, let me know. I want to listen.”

“Aaron,” you mutter. “Why can’t I just be fucked up?”

“You could be. But I don’t believe that’s the case.”

You don't say anything for a moment, leaning your head against his shoulder, listening to the idle chatter of everyone else in the emergency department waiting room. Kids crying, grown men screaming, and nurses talking calmly to patients. And then you focus in again on Aaron, listening to the steady rhythm of his breath, smelling the warm spice of his cologne against his neck, feeling the heat from his skin against yours.

And you think... maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

The journey was hell. But it brought you here.

"Okay," you say, with strengthened resolve. "I can't promise anything, but..."

-----

taglist @mrs-ssa-hotchner @mechformers​ @agentrose17​ 

[norrisreads]

Dangerous Woman 2 #CS55

PAIRING: carlos sainz x reader!, non racer carlos sainz jr x reader!

SUMMARY: being arranged married to carlos sainz, will the both of you work the marriage or will the next step be signing the divorce papers

WARNINGS: age gap, arranged married related, no smuts! tensions ofc, will be a 4 part series, inc of smau! angst, fluff (in the future?)

part 1

full masterlist

Carlos definition of a date in his mind was a normal casual dinner date, not a date where the both of you would’ve enjoyed because right now while waiting for both of your food to arrived, there was a thick air of tension surrounding both of you.

“will you explain what is going on or are we supposed to sit here in silence?” you spoke, cutting off his train of thoughts

not far from your table you could notice the presence of the trio that was peeping towards your table, it’s not a secret when they’re out there wearing the exact same thing that you last saw them in.

“i’m aware lando have told you i’ve broken up with her” nodding your head agreeing to the statement

“I’ll appreciate if i could rekindle this situation, slowly”

now, you’re laughing because why now? why rekindle after a year?

“that’s funny sainz, the last thing i’ve heard from you was that you threw away our friendship over, just because you thought this marriage would meddle in to your relationship”

“you would’ve done the same thing, y/n. you don’t understand”

What did he meant that you wouldn’t understand? what about the nights you sobbed to him about how much you’ve loved your ex, but your parents would never approve of him which led the both of you to part ways

“i would’ve done the same thing carlos, but i couldn’t. it’s different for me because i’m not the head of the family, i’m just a woman who has to listen to everything my father says. I loved him, but i couldn’t do it anymore so i truly understand carlos. I’ve never once threw away our friendship but instead you, you’re selfish and you’re unaware of it”

you expected a reply but all he gave you was a slight nod agreeing to whatever you’ve just told him

“let’s just eat, we’re here anyways, and it would be great if those trios of yours join us instead of trying to hide themselves, because it’s not working”

it’s been two weeks since then, there was an improvement in carlos attitude towards you, he would pick you up daily from your shifts, asked you out to dinner and he’s actually treating you like a wife should have been treated, which was odd but it did healed a part of your heart knowingly this is exactly the way you wanted to be treat as a wife.

“you’ve been nothing but glowing these past few days, what’s going on?” you’re currently on face-time with your best-friend, casually keeping up with each other gossips

“it’s carlos, he’s been treating me differently ever since that dinner date” setting up your phone on your table, while you’re removing your left over makeup

“well that’s great isn’t it? you guys are married so, least he could do is start treating you like a wife”

your best friend have always had a grudge towards Carlos, ever-since you’ve told her about both yours and Carlos rough past

“yeah and i guess im still getting used to it, but she’s gonna come back anytime sooner, this isn’t the first and surely would not be the last”

sighing while removing your makeup, from your phone screen you could see your best friend shrugging her shoulders agreeing with whatever you’ve just said to her

“he does that everytime, y/n. it’s all up to your choices love”

just then you heard your front doors open with voices trailing behind, “i think he’s homed, i’ll text you in a while, love you”

with that you ended the call with your best-friend and walked to your living room only to be greeted with carlos and his friends

“is there something going on today?” you were confused, you weren’t aware of the invitation of his friends over to your house

“they were just stopping by for dinner, would you like to join us?”

“It’s alright, your mom came by and brought over some food. I’ll just heat them up for you guys”

with that, carlos left the kitchen to entertain his friends

you weren’t particularly fond of his friends, other than the three who’s always around the both of you, these friends were different

you knew the friend group that he sticks by has been there for him since childhood and they’ve particularly were more fond of her rather than you.

there were many times you’d eavesdrop their conversations and those times were when you’d listen to their bad remarks about your marriage.

you knew who carlos ex girlfriend was, you’ve met her multiple times due to carlos and your family gathering that’s on-going for every year.

you’d be lying if you think she wasn’t beautiful because she is, no one knew but you’d sometimes compare the both of you because clearly she was the better looking.

your train of thoughts left your mind when you felt hands snaking around your waist

“what’s going on with that mind of yours, i’ve been calling for you to join us”

you could smell that strong perfume of his and a tint of sweetness which you for sure know it’s neither his nor yours because the perfumes you wore were always citrusy scents, and that was one sign you should have never choose to ignore

taglist ; @iissza @spngi @sainzluvrr @slut4lando

link to taglist

a/n : thank you for the support & love for dangerous woman 🥹! i’ve received multiple inboxs asking when will i post the next part, so here you go <3!

[mouwrites]

Hello, I was wondering if you could do like a fic about the future where Lloyd and fem reader are getting married? Please.

Sure thing! I tried to keep descriptions pretty vague so that y'all can imagine your special day however you like. Also some Nya content in here bc we can never have enough of her <333 okay I'll shut up now

Word count: 1k

Ninjago - Your Wedding Day with Lloyd

You leaned in closer to the mirror, turning your head this way and that, scrutinizing every inch of your face. Pursing your lips anxiously, you focused so hard on your own reflection that you didn’t see Nya approaching from behind you.

“Here,” she said, startling you. She placed her fingers under your chin, turning your head so you were face-to-face. She cocked her head as she examined you. Then, with a smile, she plucked a stray eyelash off your cheek. Holding it up to your lips, she waited for you to blow it off.

You puffed, launching the eyelash into obscurity. 

“Did you make a wish?”

You nodded.

“What was it?”

With a coy smirk you turned back to the mirror. “I’ll give you three guesses.”

“Hmm… did you wish that you won’t have a wardrobe malfunction?” She tugged at your clothing, making sure everything was fitting as it should. You remembered going out with her, buying the clothes that you were to be married in. How your heart soared when you saw yourself in them for the first time. If you were flying then, you were floating in space now. With each miniscule adjustment Nya made, your image in the mirror somehow became even more perfect; no, it surpassed perfection. 

“Thanks,” you said as she gave one last tug on the fabric near your waist. “But that wasn’t my wish.”

“Did you wish away your pre-marriage jitters?”

You looked at the ceiling, chewing your cheek thoughtfully as you assessed your own feelings. Your reflexive response was “I don’t have jitters,” but you slowly realized that you did have jitters. The fluttery feeling in your stomach wasn’t just excitement. You were afraid, too.

What if things went wrong? What if you had a wardrobe malfunction, or you tripped while walking down the aisle, or if you accidentally said “I don’t” or—oh. Oh no. What if this was all a mistake? What if you were left at the altar, or abandoned on your honeymoon? What if one of you wanted a divorce after two weeks? A year? Ten years?

The image of your soon-to-be husband flashed in your mind suddenly. The vision of him in his neat tuxedo, smiling, telling you it would all be okay, chased your worries away. Funny how he could comfort you even when he wasn’t in the room. Yes, he was perfect for you. And, as he told you almost too often, you were perfect for him. You two were made for each other; nothing else mattered.

With a sigh, you felt your muscles (which you hadn’t realized were tense) relax. “Didn’t wish for that, either. One more guess.”

“Really? Ooh, I’ve got it!” She placed her head endearingly on your shoulder, making eye contact with your reflection. “You wished for a long and happy marriage.”

You clucked your tongue, shaking your head. “I don’t need to wish for that.”

Nya’s eyes sparkled. You knew she was a sucker for romance; she must’ve been absolutely feasting these past few months. But her obsession with your wedding wasn’t a one-sided relationship; actually, she had proven to be a fantastic planner. There wasn’t one detail she didn’t think of, and she wouldn’t settle for anything less than fairytale-esque sublimity. Without her, this day wouldn’t be the happiest day of your life.

“Humph,” she straightened herself, putting her hands on her hips. “Well then, you’ll have to tell me after your honeymoon. Now come on, I hear the music starting.” She took your hand eagerly and hurried you out of the room.

The aisle was lined with arrangements of your favorite flowers, their scent filling the venue. You felt your cheeks darken as everyone stood, their eyes fixated on you. For a second you were frozen there, bouquet in hand, air trapped in your lungs. You felt a little silly as you realized that these were all your friends, your family, the ones most important to you. The looks in their eyes—proud, overjoyed, a little misty—brought a smile to your face.

You proceeded slowly, the (f/c) petals on the ground getting crushed under your pristine shoes. You weren’t looking at your shoes, though. You looked each guest in the eye as you passed, doing everything you could not to cry as they shot you the most heartfelt looks.

You finally made it to the altar. Lloyd held his hand out. You felt your heart skip a beat when you took it, as if it were the first time you’d touched.

You remembered that day. You remembered the first time you held hands, the first time you kissed, the day he asked you to be his partner—and, more recently, his spouse. 

He looked just as beautiful as the day you met. Thick platinum hair framing his angular face, green eyes brimming with wonder, he was your dream boy. And the way he smiled… Now you were really trying not to cry. He gave your hands a reassuring squeeze as the officiator read his script. You smiled back at him, blinking your tears away and preparing to say your vows.

He was first. “I do.”

The words hung in the air, surely keeping the audience in suspense, but all you felt was bliss as you waited for your chance to echo him. “I do.”

“You may now kiss.”

The audience erupted into applause as your lips crashed together. Your eyebrows jumped high on your forehead when Lloyd surprised you by dipping you low, prolonging the moment.

You broke the kiss, bursting into laughter. You stood there for a few more seconds, holding each other’s faces, laughing, foreheads pressed together. 

As your laughter died down but the audience still hooted and hollered, Lloyd whispered, for your ears only: “I can’t believe how lucky I am. How beautiful you are. I’m going to treasure you forever.”

“As I, you.” You brought your lips together again, delight flowing through you electrically. 

But what about your wish? I wish that this will truly be the happiest day of my life. Well, it’s safe to say that it came true.

Thank you for this wonderful request!! Also, thanks for reading! Take care of yourselves my flowers <33

(divider by saradika)