#it used to be niche but its not anymore fucking shut up

[cephalodon]

people literally know about and like takabikkan because of me its not a niche ship that only a couple of people ship anymore I fucking hate everyone

[woundlingus]

Sabriel in the 70s conversation pit (my second most recent reblogged post)

In news I’m sure will horrify you as requester and everyone else who knows me for my horny niche, I actually made fluff with feelings- they get a fade to black tho so know in your heart that they fuck gross and nasty

Short sabriel fluff, misunderstandings and feelings under the cut ❤️

“Welp, this is me.”

Sam hovered just behind as Gabriel slipped a key into a lock that looked like it was just about ready to rust and fall apart, sure he was going to have to kick the door in and give the neighbours all something to call the cops about, but by some miracle the key still turned within and clicked the old thing open, sending the door creaking itself open on uneven hinges.

“Make yourself… comfortable, I guess,” Gabriel told him, hovering in the doorway as he watched a world he no longer lived in come to life with the flick of the lights.

Faded orange carpet, green walls, a fucking disco ball. Movie posters on the wall for some obscenely sexualised horror movie with the final girl splayed out in the monsters arms, and a boxy tv on one of those rounded tables.

It was seventies in a way Sam had never been old enough or rich enough to experience firsthand, his encounter with it was mostly floral wallpapers in motels, and the playboy magazine that used to be Dean’s that he’d stolen, which might have even been John’s that Dean had stolen first, which was… a lot grosser now that he was old enough to think about it.

The tables were red, the counter tops were red, the chair seats were red- none of it worked together, which in its own gauche way seemed to work. If Sam had to conjure an image of where the trickster might reside, he might very well conjure this very image. It was enough to make him want to laugh, at the predictability, at the cliche, at the almost vulgar way Gabriel had set up an apartment to look like a set he could picture tall and tan oiled men pushing over blonde babysitters in what looked like a ‘sex pit’ of a living space sunken into the floor, all to the tune of Girls On Film.

It would be very funny, if that person still existed.

This had been a home, and yet Gabriel wandered around the furniture as though he were a stranger, afraid to touch any of it too much. He stuck out like a sore thumb in a space he would have blended in just a few years ago, instead he cringed away from the performance of fun and sexuality. Despite being a man of small stature Gabriel had always taken up a lot of space with a big presence, but here among relics of things he didn’t want or need anymore he just seemed so much more impossibly small; perhaps it was the way he refused to look up from his shoes, like if he raised his head to look at the world he used to fit into he might fall apart and he’d just managed to get himself together after so long, he’d only just gotten brave enough to let Sam drive him here and open up a time capsule from a life pre-hell.

“Thanks for doing this, by the way,” he called back to Sam as he wandered around barstools to get to the kitchen. “There shouldn’t be much to pack.”

“You want me to get started anywhere in particular-“ Sam started, watching Gabriel swing the fridge door open and then immediately slam it shut with absolute disgust. “We’re not bringing the fridge, huh?”

“Absolutely not, don’t open that if you value your life.”

He wandered off down toward a hallway, presumably where he’d find the bedroom and most of Gabriel’s personal possessions that he’d care about keeping, but the guy appeared right in front of him to cut him off from going any further.

“You uh, don’t wanna go in the bedroom until I clear some stuff out first either.”

Sam, with the roll of his eyes, “Gabriel, I’m a grown up. I don’t care if you have sex toys, just tell me which drawer and I’ll leave it alone.”

“It’s cute you think it’s a drawer. Don’t go in there.”

He didn’t know if it was better or worse not to know, not knowing saved him the potential trauma of seeing something he was not prepared to know about his only very recently offical boyfriend, but the not knowing left his mind running rampant with ideas that were probably a lot more dramatic than the reality hidden behind the door- he just thought he deserved a heads up beforehand if Gabriel needed to put him in a little cage with a tail in his ass in order to get off.

“Well, is there anything I can touch?”

He hadn’t meant to, but it had been a long drive and he was tired, and it left an air of shortness to his question. He was tired, Gabriel had asked him to come all the way out here and now he wasn’t even allowed to touch- it almost always felt like Gabriel didn’t want to make space for him, and that wasn’t entirely fair to say when he knew this was hard, but it was hard too to be guarded away from bubble wrapping lava lamps like it was all sacred ground of a better life before he was stuck with Sam.

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

And it’s all over just like that, before it can even start. With the mighty archangel Gabriel, pulling at his fingers, lip wobbling like he was waiting to be yelled at. Punished. Put in his place.

Again, frustrating, especially when neither of them were wrong, and neither of them could help it.

He throws his hands up in defeat, and follows the stairs down into the sunken lounge space to find a seat to bide his time, “Fine. Let me know when you’re done.”

“I don’t know what I did,” Gabriel said, following him down like a little mouse. “If I did something wrong you have to tell me.”

It felt silly trying to find the words to lay it out so bare and plain, that surrounded by gaudy riches Sam felt insecure. Insecure about the kind of life he could provide someone like Gabriel- something like Gabriel. An archangel; a god; a playboy. What could a poor man who was too scared of loud noises and had a bad back provide for the likes of him when what Gabriel enjoyed most was luxury in excess and being the center of a party? How many others had passed through the door, how many lovers had he shared a bedspace Sam wasn’t allowed to enter? What kind of a life was it for a social butterfly to live buried under the earth with Sam and his only friends- his older brother, and Gabriel’s brother; who were basically obligated to be his friend based on principle. Sam wasn’t fun, his idea of fun was being left alone for a solid fifteen hours to get a really good sleep and maybe jerk off without having to wonder if Dean was going to kick in the motel door at any moment. That’s who Gabriel was saddling himself with, a man who was thirty seven and still needed to sleep with his big brother in the room lest he have bad dreams, he couldn’t even give him a motel room to fuck in.

But Gabriel could do all those things if he really wanted to now that he’d gained a little more strength back, and if it’s what made him happy then it’s what would make Sam happy, because what really made him happy was Gabriel! But hadn’t, not even once, tried to allow Sam into any part of his life. It was all grand tales of mighty conquests and high speed chases, and none of the actual living- at least, not with Sam. Maybe Gabriel had another boyfriend, a better one that he saw on weekends when Sam was away hunting with Dean. One that was cool, and funny, and liked all of the things Gabriel liked…

Okay… now he’s just spinning out, so he has to say something before he creates a whole pretend man to get angry at.

“Why don’t you want me involved in your life?”

Gabriel stared at him hard for a good long minute, long enough for Sam to flush a deep shade of red with embarrassment.

“Never mind-“

“You are my life.”

Gabriel says it so matter of factly that it’s now Sam’s turn to sit there gobsmacked and staring, and while it makes his heart swell a little he isn’t quite sure he believes fully that Gabriel wasn’t saying that just to shut him up.

“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying-“ Sam stopped and gestured at all of Gabriel’s things, “-This. Your life. Who you are. You never let me be a part of it, you never let me in.”

“This isn’t my life,” Gabriel said, an echo of exhaustion to his tone and the way he slumped into the tacky printed pillows. “This was a thing I did. I don’t let you be a part of it because I’m embarrassed. For whatever reason you’ve decided that you see something of worth in me, and I don’t want you free roaming my past and remembering I’m some kind of scumbag.”

“I don’t care that you were… very… sexually active, Gabriel.”

“This is about more than just the sex- this isn’t me! This life isn’t something I want to associate with you!”

A line of tension forms in Sam’s jaw as he snaps his mouth shut, but before he can glare and storm out, Gabriel continues.

“I’m building something new, something better with you. All of this is buried under a mountain of shit with Loki and what happened that I don’t want to begin to unpack, I just want to go! I don’t want you in here becoming tangled up with everything that feels so bad when you’re the only good thing I’ve got!”

Well, now he just feels stupid.

The shame must be visible all over his face because Gabriel scoots across the lounge to drag him in close, closing the distance first for Sam to the be able to put his arm around him.

“Right… sorry.”

Gabriel shrugged, “I don’t know what there is to be insecure about, it’s not like any of this was ever real.”

“It was though, even if it’s all tainted and bad now this was your life, and I can- I want to help you pack what you still love and bring it home. Pretending it’s not real isn’t going to fix anything, let me help you do this right. Say goodbye.”

There was a deep sigh from under Sam’s arm as Gabriel relented, whether he believed Sam’s quack science or not was up in the air but he’d do it anyway.

“Fine. You want to say goodbye to the house? I feel like the only appropriate way to say goodbye is the same way I said hello. To bring it full circle.”

“Sure,” Sam agreed before he knew what that meant, because all he heard was what sounded like Gabriel making healthy choices, and it wasn’t until the angel had straddled his lap that he understood just how he’d christened the house. “How many people have you screwed on this couch?”

“I mean, they call it the conversation lounge for the great many guests you can have all at once… I don’t know that we were doing much talking though.”

“Oh god…” Sam sighed and scrunched his nose up, trying not to focus too hard on the couch and if he felt any stiff spots beneath where he was sitting.

“Oh no, Sam. God was definitely not in the room when that was happening.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sam groaned and leaned in to kiss Gabriel before he could open his mouth with another disgusting comment, grinning into Gabriel’s throat at the playful shriek out his mouth as Sam toppled them over into the pillows, to give Gabriel a touch of something sweet to remember a chunk of his life by.

[claudepie]

let me share with tumblr nation. behold. a true event that happened to me this week.

so, i was minding my own beeswax, playing with my cookie(cookie clicker), feelin sexy and chipper. then came a knock at my door.

me: who is it?

i think to myself: who could it possibly be this time. ugh! (there are always solicitors)

i think about my temu package: um maybe it’s that! i scamper towards my door with glee and delight….

then comes to mind… reddit nation yea we are together we can go very far…take down tiktok take down instagram…take down everything we don’t give a damn. nevermind. back to the story.

so anywho, i practically gallop to my front door, excited for what prizes await me. i approach the door, unlocking it and grabbing the knob(oh, lala). i swing open said door and i see…

nothing? no temu package! um… what.

i then frantically look around the general vicinity of my door. um…still no package! what a bummer!

i turn away from the door, making sure to close and lock it before i begin to walk away, just in case my solicitor was a homeless man who wanted to perform a pitch-perfect korean-style dance inside of my home. i walk to my room, my enthusiasm and excitement stripped away from me. i sit my ass down on my chair, examining the number of cookies i have now. 20 trillion?! nice! whoeeah?

i mean, what else can you expect when your bakery is named big chungus big big bi money?

anywho, i spend a few minutes chilling at my computer before i hear a second knock at my door.

me: ugh! really? who could it be this time!?! this pleb better turn himself in before i call the police!

reluctantly, i hop off my chair and make a run downstairs, hopefully catching this dweeb in the act. nobody messes with claude-pie!

as my hand makes its way to the doorknob, a beautiful smile crosses my face.

me: haha, open na noor.

is what i said out loud to myself. i think to myself about how epic and sus my remark was, but there is no time to dwell. i must fulfill my duty. as i continue to open the door, and i…um…WHAT! there is nothing at the door!

i let out a disgruntled sigh and stomp my foot. i slam the door shut and make my way back upstairs. a familar thought comes to mind.

i chuckle at it, not giving it too much mind, i mean, how often do you “open na noor” and there’s a big lump of knobs? that also has the juice?!

i sit back down at my chair, resuming my game. it is a nice couple of minutes, but then after when i hear yet another knock; it is not nice anymore. this time, i decide to not answer the door. this fucker will surely stop after a while, right? RIGHT????????

um…well major plot twist!! doesn’t happen!! just keeps knocking like a champ! i consider marching my way downstairs and giving this sucker a piece of my mind, but i figured that i could just block out the noise with some music. i put my earbuds in my ears and turned on my favorite song: ice safety by extraordinary rapper lilgomezz. as i was jamming out, you wouldn’t guess what i hear.

nononononononoNO!!!!!!!! it’s not knocking. i already drowned that out. it’s my FUCKING DOORBELL!!!!!!!! UM! who uses those anyway!

i turn up my niche, underground music and sigh, louder than ever. i manage to hold myself back from checking the door. many hours pass where i hear not a peep, but that is because of these sick ass beats being pumped into my ears(like your english teacher on a friday night?). yuh huh!!

soon: day becomes night, and the sun sets. and i think to myself: that pleb shouldn’t be at the door now!

so i decide to go have dinner. i make my way downstairs again, more careful this time. maybe this guy is sleeping on my porch? maybe he’s waiting for any semblance of noise. maybe that’s his cue to start assaulting my poor front door.

i manage to receive my dinner, and my stomach grumbles at the thought of it as of writing. damn you!

for the ones who were curious: my meal consists of corn, a huuuuuuuuge glizzy, and a grimace shake! oh lala!! i absolutely devour said meal, licking my fingers afterwards. the flavors are melting on my tongue!

suddenly, welcome to the black parade comes on. i unfortunately, was completely alone when this came on. and yes, there is still music blasting into my ears at this point. this is like simon says. no, this IS simon says. simon didn’t say simon says.

i couldn’t help but hold my breath at the G note at the beginning of the song, tearing up as the song went along. by the end, i was full on ugly sobbing on the floor, having forgotten about the fulfilling meal i had prior to this. suddenly, i hear a BANG, shocking me to my senses.

…what could be happening at my door at this hour?

i wipe the tears from my face and begin to stand.

me: sweet jegus, i swear if it’s that geek again! ill give that twink a piece of my mind!

i make a mad dash to the door, fumbling with the lock and the knob. i manage to wildly swing the damn thing open, and and and and AND AND AND AND!!!!!!!!

[finsterhund]

My brain deciding to retreat into my research driven science autism to combat how my body has been actively shutting down and trying to die from the agony and retraumatizing it's been going through lately (thanks to subhumans that shouldn't be alive spreading their diseases all over good things on the internet) is a welcoming change in the fact that right at this moment I don't want to fucking die as bad and me having no outlet for how much I need to righteously kill people other than chewing and chewing and chewing is currently the slightest bit ignorable.

but man do I fucking hate how unfriendly academia information is online nowadays. I can't just have fun and explore scientific info anymore. I have to hope some fucking YouTuber is talking about the specific niche subtopics I'm focusing on or else find a paper if after digging through Wikipedia doesn't land me sources that aren't as fucking dry. These fuckers are so terrified of visually appealing illustrations and diagrams. Would it fucking hurt to show images when you are talking about VISUALLY DISTINCT PHYSICAL DIFFERENCES!!??? COME ON MAN. FUCK OFF. I DO NOT WANT JUST A WALL OF TEXT. We have fucking highly evolved frugivore special eyes and you fucking insufferable dipshits won't put in as many images as possible. Die.

And I'm not one who can't read anything other than grade 6 reading level layman's terms but come on can somebody have a authorial style that isn't fucking clinical ass wikipedia article? Bad enough I have to use those to start my search because the internet is a corporate nightmare but then any real fucking source I find talks like that too. Maybe I don't want to have to exclusively read research papers all the time. Bro why in the fuck does society hate education and knowledge. Unless you pay for it of course 🙄

The internet is supposed to be a big fucking library but it's all just spam and ads and shitheads and stupid fucking garbage. Andy want go library Andy want go library screaming crying throwing up

The fact that you have to like, actually do the damn research yourself because it's presented in such a currently inaccessible way.

I mean it's not like I'd just be able to go into a regular ass library because if I'm lucky there's like 1 relevant book and there's only 1 chapter that's relevant in that one book.

You stupid bastards shouldn't make it so that you have to owe some shitheads money for life as punishment for the crime of getting more education.

What do you mean I can't just get more science class for free I am going to fucking kill you and set everyone on fire. Life would be so much fucking better if I could just have an adult tell me more and more and more and more biology and astronomy and paleontologically and shit until I fucking throw up. Instead I have to fucking dig through garbage.

All of which doesn't really reflect on the absurd stupidity how this was only first brought on today by what essentially equates to me metaphorically chasing after a fictional animal and screaming, demanding to know what its skull looks like.

Because the fucking encyclopedic worldbuilding brainrot cannot be repressed. Because fucking of course it can't. Why can shitheads churn out awful fucking art but then my life sucks so bad that all I can do is make an encyclopedia related to the art I want to create. Everything I love and care about is dead or worse.

[girlwiththegreenhat]

man idk how people have opinions on this website, every day im filled with the burning Need to post my hot takes without tags and with relevant characters and IPs censored to hide them from the greater fandom that disagrees, but i cant bear the thought of someone still managing to find those posts and being upset or thinking poorly of me, because as much as i completely disagree with people they’re still entitled to their opinions and headcanons too!!!!

best i can do is rant on the tags of posts from people Braver Than I

[imagining-in-the-margins]

The Birds & The Bees (S.R. | Pt. 4)

Summary: Reader has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, which her Professor is hellbent on making a little bit better. A/N: If y’all thought you hated Kyle (bathroom bitch boy), just wait until you meet the new antagonist (of the female variety) here... I hope you all enjoy! 😚 Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Sexual themes/fantasies Word Count: 6.3k

MASTERLIST | Series Masterlist

——————————————————

Einstein once attributed his genius to his childlike sense of humor. Studies performed since then have largely proven his point — funny people tend to have higher IQs, which makes sense when you consider the cognitive and emotional intelligence required to produce humor.

Spencer Reid was no exception. The only problem was that his humor was so remarkably niche and impossibly specific that barely anyone could understand the punchline. He insisted to me that he’d gotten better over the years, which I only barely believed… until he told me a joke that hadn’t left my mind since. A joke that he described as ‘just crude enough to make it palatable to the layman.’

"Caffeine and Viagra are both phosphodiesterase inhibitors,” he’d said — a slow start if there had ever been such a thing. But I held on to hope, hanging on the ecstatic, guileless smile he wore. And boy, was I glad I did, because what he’d said next broke me into a frankly embarrassing fit of giggles that returned with the memory every time.

“Which explains why both of these drugs keep you up all night."

The poor barista stuck working the busy early morning shift eyed me like I’d grown two heads when I once again devolved into laughter for no apparent reason. I almost felt embarrassed about it, but then I reassured myself that if she’d heard Dr. Spencer Reid tell a drug-induced-boner joke, she would also laugh about it forever.

I’d been thinking about him a lot lately. Not in a perverse way, either, despite his increasing comfort in breaching such topics in my presence. It was more like I’d started to infuse him into my every day, finding him in whatever way my brain would allow. While I made my way to his office, I breathed in the soothing scent drifting from the cups that were precariously perched in flimsy cardboard.

The smell took me back to quiet moments in his office. The kind of simple serenity that accompanied silence between two people who need not speak to share ideas. Where the second you looked away, you felt their eyes follow you, like the universe couldn’t maintain its structural integrity without one of you looking at the other.

It was intoxicating and alluring; so easy to lose myself in. Something I knew was dangerous for a number of reasons.

For example, when I am not paying the utmost attention to my surroundings, I have a tendency to lose track of where I am and what I’m doing. I also tend to… drop things. Especially hot and otherwise dangerous things.

Things like the two cups of coffee that finally became too much for shallow, defective cardboard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I screeched as I became acutely aware of every place where scorching hot, drenched clothing hung on angry skin. Normally, I would at least try to sound more dignified while on my way to work, but it hardly seemed like it mattered anymore.

I was too busy hurriedly tearing at my shirt and dropping everything else I was holding. I’d gotten three whole buttons on my shirt popped by the time I remembered it wasn’t technically necessary. I dropped my bag immediately at the thought, tugging on the hem of the shirt and trying to bring it over my head.

Unfortunately, I still hadn’t regained my grace, and in the muddled mess of fabric, I’d also grabbed hold of my undershirt. Which meant that whoever was walking through the empty halls of the early morning in academia would find me, with my stomach exposed and clothing dripping while unintelligible curses flowed freely from my lips.

I expected most people would probably just turn around and leave. I probably would’ve. The giant splatter of coffee and the absolute idiot slipping in it were beyond saving.

But there was at least one person who saw the mess and stayed.

I smelled his cologne before I felt his hand was pressed over the bare skin of my lower back. Despite the fact my skin was burning, it welcomed the warmth of his touch. My body stopped at his command, waiting for him to break me free of the paradoxically frozen state I was in.

He pulled the shirt back down, just enough that I could see him when he wrapped his cardigan around my shoulders and started guiding me into his office, which I’d somehow managed to almost walk straight past in my daze. I wished that I could go back there, to the imaginary world where he hadn’t just seen me half disrobed and cursing while covered in the coffee that I’d meant to give to him.

Spencer’s hands left me once the door was shut, probably trusting, or at least hoping, that I could figure out the mess on my own. Oddly enough, I didn’t notice any signs of him staring at me. Like he only felt comfortable looking when I was clothed.

I tried not to think about it. Once I did manage to free myself of one of the shirts — without further flashing my boss — the anxiety brewing inside of me burst out in the form of frantic shouting.

“Hi Professor! I’m so sorry, I spilled the coffee!”

“Yeah, I... saw the puddle,” he mumbled, throwing a cursory glance back at the hallway before his eyes met mine with a terrifying level of compassion, “Are you alright?”

“Besides the boiling liquid on my skin and the horrid embarrassment? I guess,” I mumbled back before shouting, “Shit! This is why that woman sued McDonald’s! Why do stores serve coffee like that?!”

Spencer didn’t really say anything. In fact, he kind of just stood as frozen as I had been, staring at everything around me rather than meeting my eyes again. But while he seemed somewhat cool and composed, I continued to tug at my clothes to try and avoid the friction. It was then that he cleared his throat, covering his face just like he’d done when he saw me in an arguably more provocative position the week before.

Arguably, I said. I should have known that Spencer would win any argument. I should have considered why he was making such a point of not looking at me while I clawed at the white undershirt turned beige. But I didn’t. Not until I looked down to inspect the state of my skin.

I realized then that Spencer had been trying to figure out a way to inform me that not only had the coffee turned my shirt a different shade — it had also eliminated the opacity.

He could see my bra. Spencer Reid, my boss, was trying not to stare at my very clearly visible bra.

“God, this is the worst Monday of all Mondays!” I whined between half-sobs, “and Mondays are already bad, Professor!”

There must have been something else in that cry, too. Something akin to permission. Enough for him to step closer, managing to avoid looking at my chest in the process. I’d entirely forgotten that he’d wrapped me in his cardigan until he pulled it tighter around my shoulders like his own version of an embrace.

“That they are, Bunny.”

If my skin had been heated before, it turned to flames at the use of the nickname. It was honestly a pure work of magic that the liquid on me didn’t turn vaporize the second I’d heard the word.

Bunny?

I pushed the thought away as quick as humanly possible, focusing instead on the way my clothes were going from uncomfortably hot to frigid as a result of the usually refreshing air conditioning. But when I was once again reminded of the obvious undergarment, I sighed.

“I can probably ask a friend to bring me a replacement shirt, or just go to class like this,” I thought aloud, “No one really looks at me, anyway...”

Spencer’s response came immediately, his hands flying up in protest as he shouted, “No!”

I wasn’t quite sure how to reply to that, or even which part of the statement he was objecting to, so he was met with a wide-eyed, slow blinking stare.

“I-I mean, I have a shirt you can borrow. I don’t want to subject you to any further embarrassment,” he explained at a significantly more appropriate volume, “You can just wear my extra shirt.”

He turned away from me before I could respond, shuffling through something hidden beneath his desk that created more questions than answers for me.

“Why do you have an extra shirt?”

“Go bag,” he said in the most nondescript manner. It wasn’t necessarily abnormal, either. The question I’d asked didn’t spark any concerns in his mind, but it also wasn’t the question that I felt needed to be asked.

What I really wanted to say was caught in my throat. My hands clamped together in front of me tighter than my jaw that resisted opening to make way for the thoughts that felt more scandalous than they should’ve been.  

“U-Um, Professor don’t you think—“

“Here you go,” he offered with a smile. I took the large, plain black shirt with a hefty dose of caution, my hands shaking along with my broken voice that still couldn’t finish the sentence from before.

Spencer finally noticed the struggle on my face, and I watched his body move from comfortable to defensive in a matter of seconds. Like he was worried he’d done something wrong in trying to be kind.

He hadn’t, but I felt like I had.

“Won’t people... you know?” I mumbled, motioning a hand between the two of us, “I’m showing up to your class at 8AM wearing your clothes…”

I thought that the words alone would be enough. I thought that the gesture was overkill. But Spencer was still staring at me with his head cocked to the side and his eyes narrowed in thought.

I was going to have to say it.

Won’t they think we’re having sex?

There was no way I was going to be able to say it.

“Aren’t you concerned about people getting… the wrong idea?” I blurted out, instead.

The confusion on his face shifted to a clever little self-assured smirk so fast that I almost missed the transition. My stomach flipped from the sight, but then he spoke again, and what had felt like it was filled with butterflies turned to rocks.

“I’d much rather them gossip about something that’s not happening than watch the young boys ogle you instead of paying attention.”

It wasn’t the words, but the way that he’d said them. Like they were silly, like the idea of us being together was so preposterous it could only be entertained by people he perceived to be children.

I was foolish, too.

“Don’t worry about them,” he said with a wave, “Just worry about making this Monday a little bit better.”

“O-okay. Thanks,” I whispered, turning and running from the room only to be reminded of the mess I’d made. But the pool of tawny liquid on the floor wasn’t the most disastrous thing anymore. That honor was reserved for the state of my heart, begrudgingly continuing to beat despite being broken.

Scooping up my bag that I’d abandoned before, I tried to allow myself to be happy about the little things. For instance, the fact that the shirt Spencer had handed me was probably the softest thing I’d ever felt in my life. It made sense, considering the sensory issues he always described.

Still, I waited until I was in the safety of a bathroom stall before I buried my face in the fabric. It smelled just like him, a mixture of freshly done laundry and vanilla. Much better than the cheap, burnt coffee that covered me. Funny enough, that sort of smelled like him, too.

By the time I slipped into his clothes, I had almost forgotten his joke entirely. I was too lost in the joy of sweater paws from his cardigan and fabric that felt like a hug. Or at least, what I’d imagined a hug from him would be like.

The energy it provided me was a better pick-me-up than any cup of coffee had ever been. I kept my squealing as quietly as I could, bouncing in place just like the nickname he’d chosen to let stick. But before I returned to him, I felt something. A small, noticeable weight in one of the cardigan pockets.

If I’d thought about it for longer than five seconds, if I’d reminded myself that they were his clothes and not mine, I would’ve let it be. I wouldn’t have pulled the little object from its safe hiding spot. It would have stayed locked away, leaving me none the wiser of its presence.

But I didn’t think about it, and then there I was, holding onto the sobriety token I should’ve seen coming.

Not that it was a bad thing; I already knew Spencer had a history with drugs. He’d mentioned it in passing in class and was deeply involved with a number of volunteer programs around the area. At one point, I’d even taken it upon myself to research his history.

That research, while I regretted it now, feeling that it violated his privacy some way or another, led me to a second conclusion. As my thumb ghosted over the embossed number five, I realized that Spencer had been sober since he was released from prison.

My heart swelled with pride and relief that felt shameful. I didn’t want the token to have such a profound effect on the image of him I’d already crafted in my mind. Lord knew I didn’t need any more reasons to idolize him. And, at the end of the day, I’d only discovered this information by happenstance.

Part of respect, I decided, meant ignoring the way that fate seemed to push us together. If Spencer ever wanted my opinion on his sobriety or strength, surely, he would just ask. So, I slipped the chip back into the pocket and made my way back to him without worry for what it meant.

While I had no worries, Spencer was another story. I’d barely even made it through the door when he saw me. All of the papers he’d been holding immediately fell from his hands the same way the coffee had fallen from mine.

“Oh no! My clumsiness was contagious!” I laughed, bolting over to help him only to find his face an unhealthy shade of red. He chuckled back but said nothing else as he scrambled to pick up the loose-leaf that had splayed itself all over the floor.

Once we were back on our feet and as collected as we could be considering the circumstances of the morning thus far, his eyes met mine again. His cheeks were still flushed, unable to focus on anything specific and choosing to traverse my body the same way his hands had on Halloween.

“Sorry,” he mumbled in a way that made me wonder if he knew I could hear him, “I was distracted by how unfair it is that you look better in my clothes than I do.”

It was my turn to be flustered, but Spencer didn’t let the moment drag on. He tore himself away from me in every sense of the word, marching past me and halfway exiting the room before he found the courage to look at me again.

“Are you ready to head to class?” he asked as if it were an option.

I suppose to him, it was. For a second I imagined what the future would hold for us if I’d said no. What would he have done if I begged him to stay with me, instead? What if we rebelled against expectation and remained locked away in his office until we grew tired of one another? What if we never did?

My mind filled with fantasies of Spencer’s hands freely feeling my skin the way his clothes could. I could hear soft, breathy sounds of desire shaped like my name. For all of my inexperience, he would still find me intoxicating. He would grow drunk on me the same way a child finds endless joy in sweets that really ought to make them sick.

Then again, maybe he had grown used to the sugar. Maybe he wanted something more mature, a bitterness like molasses that was only earned from years I hadn’t had yet.

Regardless, I couldn’t really get into any of that. Instead, I just flashed a very awkward thumbs up to the man fifteen years my elder when I droned, “Sure am, Professor man.”

As stupid as it felt to do something so juvenile, the smile he gave was worth it.

“Alright then, Bunny,” he answered with his own little peace sign, “Let’s hop along.”

——————————————————

It hadn’t even been a week since I saw her, scantily clad in the plush, socially acceptable equivalent of lingerie. It’d been even less time since I admitted my own weakness to her. I’d replayed the memories of her visceral responses to my touch enough times that I should be sick of it. But there was no tiring of her.

I considered deleting the photos she’d sent me, convinced that it was cruel to keep them when she’d only sent them while inebriated and undoubtedly exhausted beyond belief.

But when I woke up in the morning, my stomach still reeling from the knowledge of what I’d done, all that she’d sent was a curious collection of emotes and a very brief note.

“Oops!” she’d written, “Bad bunny?”

I put that phrase out of my mind immediately, unable to handle the way it incited the desire for destruction in my veins.

“I’m always glad to hear that you are safe.”

That was the end of the conversation, and I was grateful for that much. Even the few words we’d exchanged would haunt me until I saw her again. Of course, the torture ended there, but only for a few seconds before it was replaced with other images and words.

It’d been hours since I’d found her flailing about half-naked in the hall while uttering rushed curses that sounded too crude for her lips. It’d been hours since I felt the soft skin of her lower back and became lost in an entirely different set of fantasies.

It’d been even less time since I saw her standing at my door, pulling on the sleeves of my sweater and staring at me with nervous, shifty glances. Completely unaware of just how beautiful she was in her simplicity. How much more torturous it was to see her wearing my clothes than any lustful suffering that lingerie or nudity could elicit.

I thought that it would get better throughout the day, but it didn’t. It only got worse.

I’d stepped out of my office for barely half an hour, but I returned to find her curled up on the plush chair. Her shoes were slipped off, revealing colorful socks that clashed with every other neutral color she wore. It somehow made me want her even more.

I stayed stuck for a few seconds longer, watching her with bated breath and shameless admiration. She was so caught up in the papers on her lap that she didn’t even notice my presence until the door clicked shut. It was then that she turned to see me, allowing a smile to blossom across her face despite eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“What’s all of this?” she asked, gesturing to the collection of bags hanging from my wrists.  

“Did you know…” I started before my heart stopped at how she always leaned forward with excitement whenever I started a sentence that way, “that food is one of the best ways to solve a terrible Monday?”

“Which scientific study did you get that from?”

I paused again, debating telling her the many studies that would support such a theory, but then decided against it. Instead, I sought out her laughter and childlike joy that always brought out the best of her.

“Garfield,” I answered.

Sure enough, the office filled with the melodious sound of her happiness. I moved as quietly as I could, thinking back to when I was younger and thought of how powerful bottled laughter would be if I could capture it. Hers would surely right so many wrongs.

“You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to, but I figure it’s the least I could do.”

She approached me to assist before I’d even made it to my desk, and although I thought her hands were far too soft to be bothered with something like this, I allowed her to help.

“You could do nothing, you know. It was my own fault.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to.”

She laughed again, shier and shrinking into the sweater as she tried to find her place in such a domestic activity as sharing a meal with me in private. I thought of how it was a taste of my dreams.

Because as often as I did fantasize about her, undone, bare-skinned, and defenseless to my desires, I just as often envisioned her just like this. In fact, I found those fantasies more dangerous. They couldn’t be written off as mere lust. They were another, scarier thing.

“Well, lucky you I am an exhausted, broke grad student, so free food will always win me over,” she muttered, half-sarcastically but just sad enough to bother me.  

“Duly noted,” I said.

I hid away the promises I wanted to make. That if she were mine, she would want for nothing. That I would give her everything she needed to bloom. That I would prune away any neighboring flower that dared get in her way or block the sunlight. There would be no need to worry of predators or pollinators intruding, because she would belong to me and only me.

I would be her earth, her rain, and her sun. I would be surely and shamelessly selfish.

Her shoulders rose with a cheeky, excited little giggle once she had collected her food. I wanted nothing more than to let her enjoy it to her heart’s content… but there was a problem.

“Nuh-uh, no way,” I chuckled before she had a chance to return to the chair with her precarious paper plate, “Get in the other chair.”

Her face scrunched up, bouncing back and forth between the two seats in the room like she’d heard something so strange that it must have been a mistake.

“Wh— your chair?”

“I will not have you ruining another shirt today,” I explained. It caused the confusion to quickly shift to an embarrassed frustration within seconds. Just as she opened her mouth to protest my teasing, I continued with something I knew would tie her tongue until she could no longer argue.

“If you’re so worried about what they’ll say when you show up in my shirt, just think of how they’ll talk if they catch you wearing nothing.”

That stubborn little thing still tried. Her mouth floundered, strange sounds of protest starting but never finishing until she gave up. She sulked over to the seat with an odd amount of self-satisfaction. She settled into my space as comfortably as she always did. With an ease that was almost unsettling to my tired, tortured heart.

Swapping places with her for that little bit of time was a good idea. I hadn’t expected that it would bring me as much serenity as it did. My usually busy lips kept their focus on the food, opting to listen to her ramble about any and everything that came to mind.

It wasn’t until she was fifteen minutes into an explanation on her paper that I realized how little I’d tried to learn about her life outside of me. Whether it was self-preservation or narcissism, I’d never decided. But what I was certain of was that it had been a brutal form of self-sabotage.

Because as I sat there, watching her clumsily, excitedly swinging her fork and proving my point that it had been a good decision to give her the desk, I saw her for in a different light than before.

She was not just a beautiful, mysterious flower peeking through the concrete. She was the trembling giant, the clonal colony of thousands of quaking aspen trees. An extravagant network of roots that flowed far beyond the seed that started them.

This sprout might be new, but her soul was ancient and celestial, wise and immortal.

“Who knows?” she sighed, coming to a natural conclusion of a story I had almost missed while lost in daydreams and metaphors, “Maybe one day I’ll be a professor, too.”

“You’d be good at it.”

For once, it felt like she accepted the compliment without a fight. I considered it progress all the way up until she shot back a thinly veiled taunt.

“Thanks. Means a lot from someone who has 4 stars on rate my professor!”

“Don’t forget the chili pepper,” I jokingly returned.

“Not sure I’d get one of those.”

I knew that my disagreement wouldn’t amount to much in the grand scheme of things, so I opted for a slightly-self-centered flattery instead.

“Just show up in that outfit,” I said with a nod that barely hid my actual intention of focusing my eyes on the rest of her, “you’ll be golden.”

“You gonna let me borrow it in ten years?” she hummed.

It was a dangerous proposition, an implication that made the pitter-pattering in my chest unbearable. Rather than chasing her down the rabbit hole of fantasies, I just chuckled before I answered, “You know how to find me.”

Then it happened again. Her face slowly changed, growing from a cautious optimism to a yearning. A subtle hint of words left unsaid. And although she wet her lips and set down her fork, the words never came out. They stayed stalled in her throat, and there was no discernible way for me to drag them out of her without hurting the both of us.

When a loud knock resounded through the room, the thought ended altogether.

“Come in,” I grimly announced, recognizing the intrusive sound as the death rattle for whatever might have been said.

As the door opened, I realized the same time (y/n) did that we had forgotten that the rest of the outside world wasn’t familiar with our dynamic. They didn’t have the backstory of how she’d perched herself on my chair with her shoes off and wearing my clothes.

Torn between scrambling to take more socially acceptable positions and the knowledge that our hurry would make us look even more suspicious, we both opted to remain frozen in place like deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming train.

When the door opened, however, I was somewhat relieved to see someone I found completely unthreatening. My closest colleague, a woman that should really terrify me all things considered, seemed mostly perplexed when she found a young girl in my seat.

She quickly turned to me, drawing out her words as she asked, “Oh. I’m sorry, am I... interrupting something?”

“No, what can I help you with, Candy?”

“I was hoping we could talk about my current paper proposal.”

She paused, and I took the moment to follow her glower to the flower still stationary behind my desk. (Y/n) stared back, seemingly frightened by the presence of the other Professor.  

“If you’re busy with... office hours…” Candy muttered before turning back to me, “we can always set up a meeting for a better time.”

Before I could address the possible tension or implication, the girl at my desk sprung to action, clearing off any sign of her presence as she spoke.

“You know, I actually need to get going.”

“Are you sure?”

She didn’t look at me when she answered, “Yeah, I’m sure your papers are more important.”

If I’d turned back to Candy, I might have seen the condescending scowl that was driving her away. If I’ve had any inclination or desire to look at Candy, I would have realized that (y/n) wasn’t trying to escape from her connection to me. She was just trying to get out of my way.

It didn’t make it any harder to watch her leave. I took solace in the fact that she held tighter to my cardigan, trusting me to keep her warm by proxy as she ventured back into the real world. The world where we couldn’t be in peace.

“Thanks for the advice, Professor,” she said before she left, “You were right. As usual.”

One last smile was shared, somber but sobering. A necessary break from the intimacy of the moment.

“See you in class.”

The office felt so much duller without her radiance, but my disappointment would have to wait. As much as I actually didn’t mind the world knowing how my heart hurt from her absence, I knew that it was best I didn’t let it impact her academic career.

“Sorry again for the intrusion,” my colleague said in a much happier voice.  

“It’s not a problem at all.”

She must have noticed the way it sounded like a lie, because her tone quickly shifted back to a slightly disgruntled confusion.

“I didn’t realize she was your student, too. What class is she in?”

It was juvenile, really, the way my heart fluttered so ridiculously at the mere mention of her existence. The excuse to discuss her again.

“Oh, did she not tell you?”

Candy just shook her head with a blatantly false smile.

“Unsurprisingly modest,” I laughed, making my way back over to my seat and running my fingers over the wooden armrests like it would be the same as touching her ghost, “She’s my TA.”

“Oh… I see.”

“She was the only one who would put up with me,” I offered with a chuckle. Self-deprecating humor was the only reliable personality trait I had. It was also, unfortunately, one that most women in my life despised and refused to let sit.

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

It sounded less sweet coming from her. I wrote it off as a product of the differences in their species. While the hummingbird of a girl who’d just flittered away was used to only drinking the sweetest, purest nectar, the bird of prey who’d entered relied on the work of others to gather the sweetness before they were devoured.

That wasn’t to say she was cruel; hawks are as much a miracle of nature as hummingbirds. I simply related to one more than the other. I understood one while the other remained a mystery. And I loved mysteries more than myself.

“So, you wanted to talk about your paper?”

“Oh! Yes,” she chirped, passing the packet over to me now that I’d found my way back to what she probably deemed my rightful place. “The conference is coming up so much faster than I anticipated, and I would love to hear your opinions on my first draft.”

I’d already started to read the first page when she spoke again, uncharacteristically bashful and anxious, “Since we’ll be presenting together, I figured...”

“Yeah, no problem at all,” I interrupted, not wanting her to dwell nor expand on the thought of us doing anything together any more than necessary, “I can send you mine.”

It felt curt, blunt, and off putting when I said it, but she didn’t take it as such.

“Wonderful. You have such a unique voice when you’re writing. It’s very refreshing.”

Immediately, a memory appeared at the forefront of my mind and led to a laugh that I couldn’t contain. Candy seemed pleased at the sound, and I felt the need to explain.

“Thanks. (Y/n) likened it to Ray Bradbury at one point, although in different and less flattering words.”

I could hear her clear as day, quoting my words with an overdramatized effect before laughing, ‘Pack it up, Bradbury, you’ve got more science stuff to explain.’

Of course, we both found her laughter-ridden explanation of the ‘meme’ far funnier than the original joke. She was probably the only person in the world who never seemed bothered by explaining everything to me ad nauseam.

“She is... certainly a choice as a TA,” Candy strained upon scrutinizing the smile that had returned to my face for the first time since (y/n)’s departure, “Will she be joining us at the conference?”

But then the guilt returned, wiping the smile from my face and replacing happy memories with deviant thoughts and fears.

“Oh... you know, I haven’t asked her.”

“That’s perfectly alright! I think we’ll do just fine without her.”

“Right...” I whispered, glancing back down at the stack of papers in my hand before setting it in the tray designated for (y/n). “I’ll have her look at your paper just in case.”

A lull in the conversation stretched past the point of comfort for both of us, and I glanced up at the woman I actually felt guilty for ignoring in place of fantasies that would probably never come to be. She hadn’t even done anything to warrant my disregard. She was an attractive woman — as beautiful as she was brilliant, really — she had worked very hard to garner my trust and academic collaboration. At one point, I had considered her one of the few potential candidates for something more than a purely academic partner.

But there was something about the way she looked at the honeyed girl that made my hair stand on end. A defensiveness and instinct that couldn’t be ignored.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“No, that was all,” she said as she broke from what I presumed to be her own daydream, “I hope your semester keeps going well.”

“Thanks, I hope yours does, too.”

I meant it, despite the aforementioned concern. I wished her well in the semester for both selfless and selfish reasons. I wished her well because she deserved it, certainly. But the other reason, the larger one, was that I hoped she would remain distracted. I hoped that she didn’t notice the way I would slip away from her affections to chase those from a more interesting challenge. One that remained mysterious, with hair covered in pollen and lips sweet with ambrosia.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Dr. Reid.”

I failed to respond to her again before the door shut because my hands were already busy with rekindling contact with another.

“I have a proposition for you, Bunny.”

“Sounds ominous. I’m in.”  

The fact that the response came before I could even shut off the display was so characteristic of her that I had to laugh.

“You haven’t even heard it yet,” I observed, to which she once again immediately responded, “Your point being?”

“I’m afraid this is an obligation that does require some expansion before agreement.”

Her response was slower, then, and I could almost see her with a slight panic and overwhelming curiosity that grew stronger by the second.

“Ominous and vaguely unsettling,” she said.  

I considered drawing it out further, letting her imagination truly run wild with the possibilities. But then I realized that if she thought hard enough about it, she might reach the same place that had immediately come to my mind.

“Would you like to attend the upcoming conference with me?” I relented, almost stopping there but then frantically tagging on the conditions I knew would be most likely to cause hesitation. “You’d have your own room, of course. The department and I will help with funds.”

But, as it turned out, I didn’t need to be worried.

“A cheap weekend away from school where I get to be a nerd with you?” she sent with another set of small, smiling faces I was only just starting to understand, “Of course I’m going to say yes, Professor!”

“Perfect. I’ll arrange it.”

“I can’t wait!”

Although I felt the same, I forced myself to end contact again. I put my phone out of reach to prevent myself from spoiling any more of my fantasies than I already had. I didn’t need her to second-guess the possibilities of a weekend away together now that she’d already agreed to it.

The thought alone sparked guilt anew. Through the entire interaction, I’d infused each word with a charge that shouldn’t have been. Each line was far more provocative than it needed to be.

It was just an academic conference. Most people found them terribly dull, not to mention physically exhausting. It would not be a time away like most couples dreamed of because we were not a couple in any sense of the word.

Yet… I couldn’t help but feel that perhaps there weren’t as many differences as one might think. Because while yes, most people would be bored, I didn’t think Bunny would be. Clandestine meetings made between conference meetings sounded exactly like the kind of dreams we would share.

I believed it so strongly that my mind had already drafted several narratives that would suit her. I pictured her and I sharing company in public, unafraid of public displays of affection — innocent, childish kinds, of course — because we were miles away from those who might care.

That drunken, lust-inducing, half-lidded gaze from the week before would return. Except this time, I would taste the wine on her tongue, my hands sliding not over fluffy fabric, but the same skin that I’d felt for the first time that morning.

Behind our door, I would teach her so many things. Things that she would have begged me for. Things that others would see written on her skin in the shape of my fingers and mouth. Things that she would carry with a straighter back and dripping down her legs.

I didn’t just want to destroy her. I wanted to break her so that I could build her back with gold-laced lacquer. She would be my kintsugi creation full of sugar and honey, just imperfect enough that the sticky residue of her sweetness would slip through the cracks to coat everything she touched.

And then she would touch me, and I might finally feel like I deserved anything at all.

——————————————————

| Part Five |

[unbridgeabledistances]

whipped up this little gallavich father’s day one-shot bc i woke up and had feelings!

(to everyone who has a complicated relationship to father’s day—know that i love u 💗)

tw for mention of dead parents / abuse (terry 🙄🙄)

***

It was quiet when they woke— it had been months, and Mickey could finally admit that he had gotten a little bit used to waking up to the silence and blinding sunshine, the light reflecting off of the shiny glass exterior of their neighbors’ apartment complex windows and the soft chatter of people sitting down below at the pool as the slow summer mornings turned into lazy afternoons.

He turned to face Ian, shifting under the plush duvet they were wrapped in tightly; usually summer heat meant sleeping in underwear and a pool of your own fucking sweat in the South Side, but this boujee-ass place had fucking air conditioning that blasted all night long— Mickey nearly wore a fucking sweats and a hoodie to bed the first hot summer day when they’d started blasting it in the place. Ian had just grinned, making fun of him for being dressed like he was about to climb Mount Everest, and had pulled him closer under the sheets to wrap him in warmth.

Mickey rubbed at his eyes, reaching for his phone and clicking it to see the time. 7:52, the asscrack of dawn on a Sunday morning as far as he was concerned. No wonder Ian was still sleeping.

He had a couple of notifications— a few texts from Sandy, livetweeting when she was out last night and probably drunk out of her mind at some gay bar she’d started going to on the West Side at Ian’s recommendation; while Mickey had resisted those expensive-ass hipster beers at every fucking turn, Sandy had been coming by his and Ian’s place a lot more these days, and Ian had kept convincing them to all go out at the boujee queer spots along the block. Whatever— so what if he blew $9 on a fucking IPA that tasted like fucking battery acid? Ian loved it, Sandy loved it more, and he could afford to spend a few nights at some hipster-ass bar with his cousin and his husband hanging off his hip. He could do that shit now.

He scrolled through some emails, trying desperately to tune out the work bullshit and ignore the unread emails in his inbox— he and Ian had been making bank lately, the business growing more than ever especially now that COVID restrictions were all but nonexistent and people were ready to fucking party. He and Ian definitely spent more hours than not attached to their fucking Gmail app, scrolling through new requests and niche demands from growers; but they’d agreed that weekends were off-time, and talking about work was strictly forbidden. “Weekends are husband time, not co-worker time, Mick.”

Even so, Ian was still sleeping, and Mickey didn’t know what else the fuck to do until he woke up— he filtered idly through the inbox, then opened Instagram and started scrolling mindlessly, through pictures of his few dipshit cousins and their new gun purchases and questionable tattoo choices.

It was then when he saw the picture that V had just posted: a black-and-white photo of Kev and the girls, sitting at some sidewalk restaurant in Louisville.

To the papa bear of my amazing girls. Happy Father’s Day.

Fucking Father’s Day.

It’s not like Mickey didn’t know when Father’s Day was— it was more that its occurrence was knowledge that he passively avoided. The only time he remembered knowing when the fuck it was was in elementary school, when they’d been forced to draw colorful cards for their dads on thick sheets of construction paper. He’d drawn a fucking cool one for Terry, with scribbles of skulls and snakes and a picture of him and Mandy. He remembered clutching it tight between his fingers the walk home from school that Friday, and immediately shoving it deep into his backpack when he returned home and it was one of the bad days, the days filled with screaming and sobbing and him and Mandy huddled together in his bed.

“Hey, you okay?” Ian’s arm was snaking around Mickey’s waist under the blankets—a heavy weight, welcoming the air back into Mickey’s lungs.

Mickey reached over to ruffle Ian’s hair. “G’morning, sleepyface.”

Ian’s eyes searched Mickey’s face, then squeezed tightly shut as he yawned. He leaned to rest his head on Mickey’s shoulder, a dull weight on his chest.

“You know it’s Father’s Day?”

Ian craned his neck back again to meet Mickey’s eyes. “Huh.”

From his pensive gaze, Mickey could tell that the realization stunned Ian in the same way it had hit him. “Yup.”

They were silent. Ian reached his arm aimlessly under the covers, searching for Mickey’s hand— intertwining their fingers.

“It’s fucking weird, man.”

Ian breathed out a silent laugh of relief, a gust of air through his nose. “Was just thinking the same fucking thing. I could hate Frank on Father’s Day when he was alive, talk all the shit I wanted— seems kind of hard to do now that’s he’s gone.”

Mickey pressed his lips together. “Yeah.” The heavy feeling—the loss, the dread, was still heavy in his chest, beating next to where Ian’s head was resting. “Homophobic that this shit is during pride month, anyways. Don’t they know all the gays have fucking daddy issues?”

Ian snorted—and they laid there, breathing. Ian’s thumb started to trace a pattern on Mickey’s inner palm— soft, slow. “What d’you wanna do today?”

“I don’t know, man. A distraction would be nice. Can’t fucking scroll through Instagram without thinking about my dead dad, kind of a fucking mood kill.”

Ian laughed. “Yeah.” He took in a breath. And then:

“I know I keep talking about the kid shit. But I can’t stop thinking about when today will be, like. Exciting for us. Someday. Y’know?”

Mickey felt something lurch in his chest—he didn’t really know what it was. He and Ian had been talking about the kid thing— Ian dropping hints here and there, Mickey giving his wary consent that he’d tell Ian when he was ready. And now—this.

There was gonna be a day, some day—when Father’s Day didn’t feel like the hardest goddamn thing in the world anymore. Even after a lifetime of bad ones.  

Mickey felt the beginning of tears pricking in his eyes—stupid, stupid.

“Yeah, man. Guess so.”

[bnha-almost-a-hero]

ૢ✧∘*━━𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍,

a;n: ʰⁱ, ʰᵉˡˡᵒ. ᵉⁿʲᵒʸ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵖⁱᵉᶜᵉ ˡᵒᵒˢᵉˡʸ ⁱⁿˢᵖⁱʳᵉᵈ ᵇʸ 'ᴸᵃ ᶜᵃˢᵃ ᴰᵉ ᴾᵃᵖᵉˡ'. ⁿᵒ ˢᵖᵒⁱˡᵉʳˢ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ˢʰᵒʷ ᵒʳ ᵐʸ ʰᵉʳᵒ ᵃᶜᵃᵈᵉᵐⁱᵃ ⁱⁿᶜˡᵘᵈᵉᵈ. ᵃˡˢᵒ ⁿᵉʷ ᵇᵃʳᵒqᵘᵉ ˡᵃʸᵒᵘᵗ ᵒⁿ ᵃᶜᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵐʸ ᶠʳⁱᵉⁿᵈ'ˢ ʳᵉᶜᵒᵐᵐᵉⁿᵈᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ.

𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, 

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬; yandere! shigaraki tomura, a blabbermouth! reader, dabi, toga himiko

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲; le casa de papel ⁽ᵗʰᵉ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ᵏᵉᵉᵖⁱⁿᵍ ᵐᵉ ˢᵃⁿᵉ, ˡᵐᵃᵒ⁻⁾

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; bank robbery, hostages, guns ⁽ᶜᵃⁿ ʸᵒᵘ ᶦᵐᵃᵍᶦⁿᵉ ˢʰᶦᵍᵍʸ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵃ ᵍᵘⁿˀ⁾, stockholm syndrome, post apocalypse, a brief, shitty rant on evolution and socio-economics because...? i should have made a graphic, fuck—

The first thing a person does when the world ends is adapt.

It’s an animal’s first instinct to every major event in life. How can I survive this? How can I live to preserve my future? It takes a while, sure, but you learn to find a niche in the system—something left behind by the species before you. And you take that niche and you exploit it.

When the League of Villains had raided the bank you were in, you couldn’t help but wonder why no-one had done so sooner as your skin prickled and your body trembled. Banks were amongst the first buildings ransacked when the government body collapsed and a power vacuum emerged. 

After all, society had practically hammered in the idea that money was something one should strive to obtain since one entered schooling and learnt of jobs. And, Blu-Tacked to the walls of many a primary school, was a clip-art of a bank—representing both the letter ‘B’ and the far-off concept of money.

A civilisation's head was often the person with the most influence or possessions: both of which could be bought with money which was most concentrated in a bank. That’s why you had come here, you told the head of the operation, Shigaraki Tomura as he rounded up the hostages with the nozzle of a rifle.

“Shut up,” He muttered from behind the hand clinging to his face. You stared up at it for a moment as you knelt down and pressed your hands behind your head in surrender. Your eyes traced the knuckles, the notches, the imprints surrounding the fingernails. So lifelike, you think as you watch him turn and walk away, I wonder who sculpted it. 

The other hostages whimper beside you, heads meek in their disparity, but you can only smile. 

The world had truly and honestly went to shit.

“Don’t you find it odd?” You asked the man, Shigaraki, when he came to transfer you to the western atrium of the bank. Four of his fingers curled around your arm, cold to the frigid bone and with a grip that could crush ice. Still, you did nothing to stop him as he dragged you along, even taking a few steps of your own accord. You spoke once more, “Don’t you find it odd how banks make money out of thin air? How all they do is print paper and say, ‘Hey, this is worth something,’ and we all just go along with it?”

 Silence.

“I guess that kinda constitutes cult behaviour, right? I mean, what’s stopping someone from refusing to acknowledge the value of money?” You make a ponderous ‘hmm’ with your lips as Shigaraki stops. “On that thought, why is gold so valuable? It’s just a metal; it’s not even that useful. Then again some people eat it, so—”

Shigaraki’s thumb presses down hard onto your skin, followed by the nail of his index, “You talk too much,” He mutters. You look at the hand clinging to his face, wondering what adhesive he must have on it. Do adhesives even work on clay, you wonder, or maybe it’s a clouded plastic? He reaches his other hand up to scratch at his neck, the third time today that he’s done so. “It pisses me off.”

“Where’d you get that hand from?” You ask, feeling like an idiot when his red eyes flit towards yours. A part of your mind asks if maybe you’ve poked this bear a little too much, but you shake your head, it’s just a fake hand. “Like, does it have a sculptor tag on that brass thing at the bottom?”

Your hand reaches out to grab at the golden lining at the bottom of the hand, but Shigaraki veers back suddenly and swats your hand away.

“Don’t touch Father!” His voice is almost a shriek in its highness, yet there still is a brash rasp to it that you recognise. With a brief movement, you snatch your hand back to rest it against your chest—crestfallen. Shigaraki straightens up at once, eyes narrowing to a flash of red before he turns and stomps off.

Your lips part, but the wheeze that escapes it betrays your total bewilderment at the situation. You stand there, watching as his gaunt form disappears through the door at the end of the hallway, eyes wide and fingers twitching as the last of your adrenaline dissipates.

“Another tantrum?” A voice says behind you, you jump. “I’m not surprised anymore. Never thought he’d snap after you, though.”

You twist around, eyes remarking the tall, willowy figure behind you. Dabi, his name is, the one who’s been half-assedly threatening the hostages since the heist started. 

“What are you talking about?” You ask, an eyebrow raised.

Dabi chuckles and pushes past you, then turns so you can see one frighteningly blue eye beneath the expanse of black hair. “You’ll see, doll.”

“You shouldn’t be talking to them so much,” Izumi murmurs to you when all of the hostages are rounded up in the morning. Your poor ‘hostage-buddy’ had gone pale ever since the League had crashed through the door, their eyes glassy and red. “They’re—” They pause, looks around for a second. “They’re villains.”

You nod along to them, though your eyes are trained to Shigaraki who’s going about overseeing the sorting of hostages. Your belly still simmered with uneasy guilt when you thought back to the incident three days ago. He was obviously attached to the hand—you knew that—and yet you had reached out to touch it without permission like an—

“Idiot,” You murmured, kicking the marble flooring with the tip of your shoe. 

“What?” Izumi whispered, although they stiffened as Himiko Toga came skipping along.

“Noth—,” You yourself stiffened when Toga came at a standstill before you, slitted eyes peering into your soul. 

She smiled a wicked smile, then spoke, “I need to have a talk with you!”

You gulped. Beside you, Izumi shivered and stepped forward, about to speak but upon glancing the blade settled at Toga’s hip, fell stiff and silent. You couldn’t blame them, though, you would’ve done the same thing.

“Sure,” You stated, attempting to put a smile on your face, if only to settle Izumi’s nerves. 

Oddly, Toga reached out to grab your hand, tugging you along to the eastern corridor. You passed Shigaraki on your way, who turned his head to regard you and Toga. Was that anger you caught in his eyes as he looked over at Toga? You thought nothing of it. 

Toga hummed a hymn as she lead you further and further into the bank until you were just in front of the printing room. This is where money is made, you thought, staring dumbly at the steel, vault door. This is the heart of the world.

Toga giggled at the look you gave the door, “Tomura had the same face when he saw it. He was less happy when he found out that he couldn’t get it open.” Toga pressed a palm flat against the door. “It has a Quirk-cancelling force field around it, so we’re stuck here until we can get the door off.”

“That’s why you’re still keeping hostages,” The remark is a rouge thought vocalised.

Toga nods, “Yeah, there were some pesky heroes outside looking for you guys, but Spinner’s got rid of them.” She makes a gun motion with her hands, you gulp. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I came here to talk about boys!”

“Boys?” You ask, a little confused and a little indignant. “We’re in a hostage situation!”

“Yeah, I know, but I noticed that Tomura’s taken a liking to you.” She boops you on the nose. “Well, he’s liked you for a long, long time, but he’s finally got to be close to you. I wish it was like that with my Izuku.”

The identity of Izuku is the least puzzling thing about that sentence.

“For a long time, what?” You blurt out. 

“He was in love with you before the End happened,” Toga smiled, stepping closer to you. “He was so sad because he thought you died, imagine how happy he was to find you here!” Toga babbled on, “He’s not too happy about that Izumi guy that’s always following you around, though. If I were him I would’ve have gotten rid of them, but—”

Your mind leapt. Izumi, you’d left them alone with a bunch of villains. You turn your gaze toward Toga, who seems lost in her own conversation before looking behind you. The door leading out of the hallways seemed so far, although if you were fast enough, it would be easy to just run there. 

With a final glance to Toga, you turn and get ready to start running. A hand against your arm and a blade against your back stops you, however.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

[jojo-reader-hell]

Time to show you all how we do it in the pinta cuh.

Gwess x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Uh, I guess just Gwess being Gwess. I don’t expect everyone to assume she’s not going to be abusive.

Also if I catch anyone complaining about the Spanglish it’s going down and I know for sure you’ve never kicked it with the 90’s cholas in your entire sheltered life.

...

“Oye, listen bollera.”

“Told you not to fuckin’ call me bollera cabrona.”

“Cállate tu boca. Escucha bollera. Esa machorras, they do shit differently in the pinta. I worry about your ass because you don’t got one mean bone in your body. Shit, you couldn’t even stand up to the guera who bullied you in eighth grade. But I’ll tell you how it is in there esa. Maybe you’ll have the advantage since you’re going in a bollera, not coming out one…”

“What’s bollera?”

She butchers the Spanish, and all you can do is fucking laugh at her poor attempts. Your girlfriend frowns from between your legs, but you tug at her hair to get her to shut up her whining.

Saturdays, she always bugs you in your free time from writing to spend time with her. What the hell is there for two girls to do in prison on a date anyways? You can play cards with her in the yard, have her spot you lifting weights, all that shit gets old. Instead the two of you stay in, she begs you to baby her and brush her hair, and you oblige. Treating it like your grandma did and telling her stories while she made sweet eyes at you.

“How come you always talk in Spanish whenever you tell me stories about us meeting and falling in love?” She asks, pouting her lips up at you.

“Because that’s how it happened esa.” You laugh, tugging on her hair again and making her squeal, “It’s rare that I even get to act like this, not easy being trapped in the middle of two cultures and not getting accepted by either or. But with my babe, I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

She pulls on your jailbird blues, wanting a kiss but you make her wait. It’s just how that shit goes. You still hold grudges from the time she made your first stint into prison some bullshit.

“As I was saying mensa, as every corresponding event would prove in the future, it seemed Little Mosca was, for lack of a better term, entirely full of shit.”

To a point though, as you would later find out. But when it came to it, she didn’t know you or your life.

Never the less you’d have never thought your time in the “pinta” was going to be as smooth sailing as it was. You expected to get into fights, possibly be violated, become “somebody’s bitch” as they so eloquently put it in every fucking prison movie you could get your little pizza hands on. That’s what they told you in your friend groups too. Stop doing loca shit with the girls and go back to school, school girl. You should be at home studying fool. You like to talk about stupid shit like rocks and fucking video games all fucking day. You’re still a kid.

It pisses you off and only serves to give you a Napoleon complex.

Maybe if you had listened, it wouldn’t have gotten you into a case of wrongful arrest that not even the best pro bono lawyer could get you out of. You expected to have no one to turn to in El Acuario. Especially when you didn’t seem to fit in any of the stereotypical niches that came from being an outsider in some bad ass peckerwood lands.

Last name is impossibly hard for the white kids to say? Three strikes you’re out and a beaner. Try to bond with the other people of color? Let’s face it, even if you’re on the same short end of the stick there’s no spot in that long history of oppression for you homes. Speak Spanglish even though you don’t know all that much Spanish because your parents took “English Only” as law? Now every homegirl at El Super is taking the piss out of you.

But say you get grudgingly accepted by the locas, but they’re the kind of girls that sport hoop earrings, lipliner no lipstick, and a neck covered in hickeys? Well, you had the last part, but when the hickeys were from another girl it tends to cause a ruckus in the barrio.

You didn’t expect to be led to your cell and recognize nearly every girl already locked up in there.

“A la verga! Es La Bollera guey!”

“Sad Girl?!” you exclaimed at the voice, only to be jostled into silence.

“Shut the fuck up!” Screams the guard who is leading you.

“Orale bollera! The fuck are you doing in here homegirl?!”

“Let her go homes, she ain’t do shit!”

“Ay loca! The fuck did you do to get in here foo? Get caught eating panocha again?!”

“She ain’t do shit pinche culero! Let her go!”

But somehow against every barrier, life worked in its own way. You went to school, tried to keep it straight to fit in, let your energy help you to fit in seamlessly no matter where you went. But the homegirls always warned you to stay out of shit. Even though they all loved you anyway, bollera y todo, they always claimed you barely survived outside when it came to your sweet nature, how the hell were you going to last a day in the pinta?

The way they seem to want your freedom, it seems like you’re going to incite a riot among the chicanas.

You’re almost embarrassed. Every mom friend on the block seems to be doing time the same way as you, but the camaraderie doesn’t last too long.

So far the worst part of Green Dolphin was being arrested. Slammed on the hot hood of a police cruiser and cuffed, thrown around like you were a rag doll. Granted it wasn’t any fun having la juda sticking their fingers into where you didn’t want anyone except your future partner to, but that and the mugshot, it came with the territory. Eventually your homegirls do have to quiet down, not before reassuring you that they got your “esquina”. Well, now that you’re trapped in a six by eight cell with some goo goo eyed chick that acts like she’s la reina of the whole fucking place, it doesn’t seem like that’s going to be an option anymore.

Even better… she’s not even Hispanic or Latina. Her skin is pasty white and clashes with her blue koolaid dyed lips.

No matter. You know how to deal with the white girls too. That’s the beauty of being able to chameleon your way into any situation.

“Uh… hey.” You say awkwardly. “Nice to meet you.”

She doesn’t say a word. Weird. You have to scoot by her to take your place on the bottom bunk, about four seconds from opening your mouth to ask the dreaded ice breaker “what are you in for”, when she suddenly yanks you by the coveralls.

Oh… Oh hell no.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! Thats my bunk-…”

Earrings off. Let’s go fool. It goes down like Diddy Kong, or more like Donkey when that’s just the type of punch she gets seemingly out of nowhere. You don’t have to turn around to know. She was fucked the minute she tried to get you.

It’s a matter of seconds, after you’ve floored her to the enamel first and pretty much sat on her chest, your hands and an unseen force have her pinned below you with your hands around her skinny guerra neck. The homegirls must have thought the screams were coming from you, because immediately you hear the banging of iron bars as your homegirls are coming to back you up.

“Oh shit! Bollera! Que esta pasando guey?!”

“Get the fuck off her white bitch!”

Their spring into action is stopped dead in its tracks when they see you’re strangling the girl on the floor. It takes them a minute to really comprehend the predicament you’ve got the girl in. When they only knew you from hang outs at Burger King or some dude’s house, they don’t truly know the reason that you waltzed in among them. Unafraid. Unyielding. They only know you that you’re a real loca to be walking around with girls who claim to be so.

They’re dead silent. Don’t even say shit when the girl’s turning blue. Not a word of encouragement or a “ja guey” to keep you going. But it’s fine.

You knock her back and forth into the enamel. She keeps trying to kick you off but her arms are pinned. You’re too far up on her chest, almost sitting on her breasts, smothering her down and punctuating every sentence with a jolt of her head against the flooring as you press down on her windpipe.

“Andale puta, you wanna play that way, I’ll play too.”

She’s blue. Turning the same shade as her lipstick. But you let her stay conscious enough to squeak out an answer.

“Here’s a few rules home girl, keep your fucking hands off me and leave me the fuck alone. I don’t give a shit about you, I didn’t get thrown in the pinta to get fucked up by some gabacha. But you wanna play that shit with me? Al rato bitch!”

“Sueltalo Bollera!”

“You feel me bitch?” You growl.

“Sueltalo homegirl! She ain’t worth it!”

“Let her go!”

“You feel me?!” You insist.

A squeak. That’s all you get from her. A small squeak of affirmation and you let her neck go, continuing to to make your bed as she flounders on the floor, totally ignorant of your homegirl’s gawking but feeling proud of yourself none the less.

It’s no fanfare when you meet up with everyone else later on. They tell you to watch your shit and to leave your cellmate at that. If word gets out, you might have a couple more fights at this rate.

But it doesn’t matter. Smooth sailing from now on since you stood up to her before she could get a hit in.

“You hit me though!”

“Technically that was my Stand that hit you.”

Those same blue koolaid lips pout at you again, and this time you lean down to give her a kiss right on her mouth. She squeals, its that same familiar sound she made when you had her pinned to the floor all those months ago.

“Yeah and you tried to knock my ass out too, but the thing I wasn’t prepared for was to meet someone who liked it like that.” You laugh.

Gwess just huffs, making grabby hands at your coveralls and begging you for more affection.

That’s how it goes in the pinta though. At least Little Mosca was right about that part.

[whump-town]

Breathe In Breathe Out

Delayed Drowningc • Chemical Pneumonia • Oxygen Mask

He’s slept roughly four hours in the last two days. It occurs to him that today is Saturday and he’s got the weekend to catch up on that sleep. The thought washes over him like a calming wave and then a tight knot of shame forms in the back of his mind, a nasty voice sneering that he shouldn’t be so happy. His son is going to be gone the whole weekend. Jack’s going to enjoy being away from him. 

The apartment is going to be empty. 

Trudging through the living room, leaving the lights off, he manages to catch his shin on the stupid coffee table, knocking the remote onto the floor. “Fuck,” he curses, bending over to grab at his throbbing shin. His other hand rubs over the carpet, failing to find the remote where he’d managed to lose it onto the floor. With a roll of his eyes, he abandons the mission. 

Finding that damn thing can wait to tell he’s had some sleep. 

Standing, his knees give audible protest and he grunts at the pain spiking up his back. He’s old. Shaking his head, he rubs at his lower back, heading back to his room. He just needs to get some sleep. 

Nose diving into the duvet, he doesn’t so much as kick his shoes off. Getting to sleep is easy, he’s out the second he curls into his side. He’ll have to remember to thank Jessica for turning on the heat. The dropping September temperature hadn’t been on his mind when he’d stumbled out the door four days previously. 

But he comes home to a toasty apartment, a nice contrast to the fall chill in the air just outside his bedroom’s window. 

Groggily, stomach aching with a strange vengeance, he wakes some hour or so later. Time is a concept his fuzzy mind can’t grasp. With hands that feel twice their size and a body that feels too heavy to be his own, he pushes himself upright. Fumbling, he tears off his clothes. Simply letting his suit jacket and pants land in a heap on the floor. The buttons make his head throb but it’s muscle memory to work them apart. By the time the final one snaps out of place, he lands back on the bed. Too tired to hold himself upright but at least his clothes aren’t trapping him in anymore.

It feels like he’s just closed his eyes when he wakes with a startle, his entire body trembling. 

He rolls over onto his back, sweating lightly. He’s still bone-tired and when he turns his head to see the alarm clock on the nightstand he finds he can’t really see the numbers. Somewhere, on the floor, maybe, his phone vibrates where it’d fallen. His chest is tight, painfully so— his father had died of a heart attack not much older than he is now.

Is this how he’ll go?

Not with a bang?

He’d always expected to find himself looking down the barrel of a gun, as he had some many times before, and been unable to walk away. To crumble where he stood. Leaving his son and ex-sister-in-law to bury him in a closed casket. Forcing his team to carry him through the graveyard one last time. 

But…

He’d always hoped someone would be there. So his last thought would be of his family and not… not this painful coil of fear. 

Against his will, a tear falls down his face. He feels miserable. The back of his throat feels tight with nausea but he’s not sure he can stand. He wants so desperately for someone to come. He doesn’t care if it’s Dave with his frustrating muttered Italian or even JJ, who he knows would wrap the blanket at the end of his bed around his shoulders.

He misses them. Shivering and crying softly in his confusion, he wants so desperately for comfort. Eyes sliding shut against his will, the darkness and his anxiety overtaking him, he knows something is so desperately wrong but… he doesn’t know what.

Monday comes around without a hitch for the others.

In fact, for once, Emily Prentiss is ahead of schedule. She’s set to arrive at the office before JJ, not to toot her own horn or anything. When the elevator comes to a stop on the floor, she frowns. She’s used to the soft wafting smell of coffee greeting her and the lights up and down the hall being turned on. 

But it’s seven in the morning and she supposes maybe Hotch isn’t here yet. He always makes coffee in the morning. By the time she normally gets there, he’s got all three coffee pots going and the bullpen slowly coming to life under his nurturing hand. The man’s got the green thumb equivalent of whatever paperwork and federal agents are to plants.

This morning, it seems he’s slacking in his watering of the plants. 

JJ comes in ten minutes later, a bagel in one hand and a newspaper in the other. She’s scowling at the later, too busy to observe the too-quiet office and lack of Hotch going on. She does manage to stop her brisk walk the second time Emily calls out for her. “Yeah?” she shakes her head, she hasn’t had any coffee yet. “Emily,” she says shocked. “You’re here early.”

Emily nods her head, “I am.” Pointing up to Hotch’s dark office she deduces, “but Hotch isn’t.”

JJ glances up at the office and tries to stifle the immediate worry that consumes her. “Uh,” she shakes it away. “Jack gives Hotch some trouble on Monday mornings,” she rationalizes. Hotch had said something once about it but she’s just hoping, clinging to that idea. “Besides,” she adds, recalling this detail. “Sometimes they stop for a muffin or donuts. That’s probably just taking some time this morning.” 

Right, both women think as they go their separate ways, that has to be it. 

For esteemed members of the A team of the BAU, Reid and Morgan don’t notice Hotch’s absence until around lunchtime. Morgan realizes Hotch hasn’t been down to the bullpen for his second and third cup of coffee. Which he customary drinks leaning against one of their desks and arguing with Reid about whatever niche subject he’s devoted his time to this week. Morgan didn’t think that was something his day needed until…  

“I forgot Hotch isn’t here to make any more coffee,” Reid complains. He’s standing in front of Emily’s desk, his mug in his hands. She gives him only a second of her time, looking him up and down and shaking her head. He’ll grumble all day about how she and Morgan treat him like a baby and then he’ll stand here and pout because Hotch didn’t make coffee. 

Hotch has no personal obligation to make the coffee. They’re all adults who can make coffee. 

Reid shuffles his weight between his left and right foot. “Do you think something’s wrong?”

Yeah, she feels like snapping, the thought has occurred to her. First of all, Dave can preach all day about how it’s good Hotch has taken the day off, but in the years she’s known Aaron Hotchner he’s done that once. Once. And even then he’d left them an objective— a damn warning! 

“He’s fine, kid,” Morgan speaks up but he doesn’t look up from his file. A dead give away. He’d joked when he’d first noticed Hotch’s lights off but the light of his tone never met his eyes. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t said much of anything to any of them. Just sat and did his paperwork.

Derek Morgan never does paperwork.

Reid nods, glancing at Emily, but she’s lowered her head to her own paperwork. Okay, he thinks understands. With a nod, he goes back to the break room and makes his own coffee. Hotch will be back tomorrow, he convinces himself. It’ll all be fine… tomorrow. Hotch will make them coffee. Hotch will be here...

Tuesday comes with a southern downpour. The temperature drops dramatically and that chill follows it’s way into the building. 

“He’s not here,” Reid greets Emily. 

She’s running her fingers through her wet hair, glad that no one’s around to hear her cursing up a storm worse than the one blowing outside--- and by anyone, she means Hotch and his disappointed but not surprised frown. “What do you mean,” she grumbles, resigning herself to the fact that she wasted an hour in front of the mirror this morning getting her hair straight. 

Reid watches her with a mix of awe and curiosity but answers none-the-less. “Hotch,” he says, motioning behind them to the dark office. 

Emily’s fingers are caught in her hair, her arms twisting her damp hair back into a bun. “What,” she asks, having heard him but too surprised to say anything else. With the ease that comes from muscle memory, she snaps the hair tie around her messy excuse of a bun and discards her belongings on the floor. Headed for Hotch’s office.

Reid already knows what she’s going to find. 

He’d come bearing the book he’d been telling Hotch about last week. The plan was to surprise Hotch with the hand translated version. Reid had read both the version in its original Russian and the translated English version. After finding it less than adequate, he’d translated it himself. Today, he was going to give it to Hotch.

Only Reid had thrown his boss’s office door open and taken the cold chill of the empty room like a punch to the gut. Anxiety bubbling its ugly head up at the familiar, usually comforting, scent of Hotch’s cologne but his general absence being… terrifying. 

Seeing Emily react to the same anomaly, he’s glad this isn’t just some demonstration of his tendency to establish unhealthy attachments (it still kind of is but that’s not the point). The twist to her lips makes his heart rise to his throat and he shakily points to Hotch’s desk and the absence of any proof that Hotch might simply be elsewhere in the building. 

“What are we doing, my loves?”

Garcia’s on her own mission. 

It’s Tuesday, bright and early, and Hotch promised to revise and look into her eco-friendly idea about the jet and the paperwork. She’d given him an entire week to review it--- he could do it in a day but she knows he’s busy and stressed and she hates the idea of adding unnecessarily to that. 

She’s been looking forward to today since last week. It seems as if she never really gets to hang out with her boss anymore and the thought has made her so sad. Contrary to what he might convince himself, her love for that grumpy man knows no bounds. Just because he’s not as darkly striking as Emily or whimsical like Dave doesn’t mean he doesn’t bring his own things to the table. She’s really excited to hear him grumble about Strauss in that humorous, sarcasm so dry it cracks way only he manages.

Seeing his empty office upsets her beyond words. He’s the dependable person she knows. He wouldn’t just… “He promised,” she says, not even attempting to hide the fear. “Hotch doesn’t break promises.”

Yeah, that’s what they were afraid of.

Hotch could never see the similarities within himself reflecting into his son. Even now, as they stare so blankly back at him, he doesn’t recognize it. That eerie calm— Haley had always said he was like still water. A danger you never know is there until it’s too late. He could never wrap his mind around figuring out if that was a compliment or not. 

“I’ll come back after school,” Jack promises, the shaky undertone of his soft voice making Hotch’s chest tight. He’s afraid. Reasonably so. The poor kid goes away for a weekend with his cousins. He sets up a campfire with his grandparents. Listens to Aunt Jessica tell him about how his parents fell in love--- leaving out the bits about Aaron’s father and the way the entire town hated the idea of sweet little Haley Brookes getting with that troublemaker Aaron Hotchner.

He has so much fun and comes home to this...

Thinking about his father so young and his mother… for a moment he felt no different than the other kids. 

But he’s always been too much like his father for that.

Jack thinks the world will fall apart if he’s not there to catch it. Just as it had this weekend.

Jessica prays she can teach Jack the lesson Haley could never convince Aaron of, he doesn’t have to save the world. “Come on, baby.” Jessica pats Jack’s shoulder, it’s breaking her heart to have to tear father and son apart. “We’ll be here around three, Aaron,” she promises. 

Her words are lost to him. He’s watching them behind heavily lidded eyes. A nurse had said something about him not sleeping but Jessica had discouraged the idea of sedation. Aaron’s not sleeping for a reason and whatever that reason is, whatever he’s afraid of seeing, is worse than what’s going to happen if he keeps himself awake. They’d rejected her idea of intravenously giving him the medication he’d been prescribed to take as needed for his anxiety— so they have this unhappy medium. 

Where Aaron doesn’t sleep but he’s not losing it either. 

She presses a kiss to his sweaty forehead, “get some sleep, Aaron.” Pushing back some of his unruly hair from his face she can better see the sleepy eyes looking back at her. “I love you.”

Jack squirms uncomfortably. They’re pushing it for school. Another habit picked up of his fathers: the obsessive need to be places earlier than the required time. Jessica can forgive him easily for this but the teachers and the school have already expressed their understanding if Jack is late a few days. 

Not that Jack can extend himself that same courtesy— yet, another habit of his father’s.

She squeezes Aaron’s hand one final time in goodbye and takes Jack’s, leading him from the room. There’s no benefit in sending him to school right now. He’s not paying attention in class, anxious to get back here and make sure Aaron hasn’t died without someone here to constantly remind him what he’s fighting for.

They share a similar fear that in that room by himself Aaron will allow the world to consume him and he’ll just stop fighting. He’ll just die and leave them both. And Jessica had hated him once upon a time but he’s really the only family she has too. She loves Jack to pieces but she has no desire to raise her sister and brother’s son. 

She has no desire to bury Aaron. Not today, not tomorrow--- she’s done burying family. 

All she can hope is that Aaron understands that.

He watches them leave. Jack glances back only once, today he doesn’t silently sob as they make their exit. Hotch’s heart thanks the small boy for that, he can’t handle his son’s tears. It hurts so much more to know that he’s the reason his little boy is so sad. That fear of losing Hotch hasn’t gone away in the years since his mother’s death. It won’t ever really go away. 

Tuesday passes as slowly as Monday. 

He doesn’t eat the breakfast they bring him. Just as he hadn’t eaten the dinner or the lunch they brought him yesterday. While most of the symptoms have died down, like the headache and vertigo, but the trouble breathing and nausea have not abated. Giving him a nasty aversion to the food that already looks unappealing.

He can’t remember much of what happened. After falling asleep to the sound of his phone frantically buzzing he hadn’t woken back up for hours. He has a distant memory of a man in grey—a firefighter— pulling him upright. His legs and body limp and the whole world shifting as he’s lifted and carried out of his bedroom. 

He’d been one of the more severe cases. Exhausted from working for so long, he hadn’t so much as left the building for hours. Meaning while the rest of the building occupants went on about their days-- leaving for church or groceries or dinner plans-- he’d been left to succumb to the symptoms of carbon monoxide alone. 

A boiler in the basement had some malfunction, one of the nurses had told him. Hotch didn’t really care how it happened or why, he just knew he was glad Jack was nowhere near any of this. Even if Jack being home meant things not escalating to this point. Hotch can take the tight feeling in his chest and the difficulty breathing over anything if it means keeping Jack safe… Jack’s all he has.

At least, Jack is all he thinks he has.

The nurse’s face spreads into the softest, happiest smile David Rossi thinks he’s seen in days. The woman, hardly twenty-five, beams and clasps her hands together in her excitement. “You’re here for Aaron?” She motions for them to follow her. “He’s a sweetheart,” she tells them. He really is. Aside from giving her a hard time about his pain level and eating, he’s been her best patient. Never once rude or anything but the picture of calm. 

Well, he’s almost always the picture of calm…

“He’s had a bad day,” she explains simply, stopping in the doorway. She’d come in for what she was quickly learning to be her daily ritual of fighting with the man to eat something and found him sobbing. From there, the nerves he couldn’t control, lack of sleep, and anxiety going unchecked had bubbled into an anxiety attack. The end result—

Dave clears his throat, “is he okay?”

The nurse nods her head, “I stayed with him for a while. He’s just a little groggy. The doctor ordered some sedatives.” He hadn’t lasted long under their heavy influence and she’d checked in on him as many times as she could but he still wasn’t up yet. 

Maybe with his friends here though…

“Thank you,” JJ says, reaching out and squeezing the other woman’s hand. There’s a sad smile on her lips as she says, “we can’t thank you enough for taking care of him.” JJ has to look away before the tears pooling in her eyes spill over. “He’s a very stubborn man but--but we love him dearly.”

The nurse nods her head, sympathetic tears threatening to fall. “He talked about you guys,” so much so she’s fairly certain she knows each of them far more than she should. JJ is the soft blonde, stronger than she knows and still gentle. There’s Dave whose hardened scowl had thrown her off but now she sees the curious brow Aaron had told her about. The stick and bones genius Doctor Reid hadn’t been a hard one to figure out, just like the bright and dazzlingly beautiful Penelope Garcia. Leaving only Emily Prentiss, dark and serious. 

His family. 

“But really,” she says, excusing herself with one last glance at her friend in the room. “He’ll be very pleased you’re here. He never said it but he missed you.” 

Yeah, JJ smiles, that sounds about right.

They enter the room with a soft knock, as to not disturb him if he is sleeping. 

“Good morning, sunshine.” 

It takes hours. By the time that Aaron wakes up, Dave has already called and got the rest of them today and tomorrow off. Derek’s made two trips out for food-- lunch and then the snack that Reid was getting antsy about. Reid’s consumed three Poptarts and if not for Hotch’s eyes cracking open he’d be making for a fourth. However, Reid knows Hotch’s mood will flip like a switch and the last thing he needs is Hotch’s frustration being taken out on him. 

“Ach,” Dave swats at Hotch’s hand. His fingers failing to form a strong enough grasp around the flimsy plastic fo the mask to pull it away from his face. However, the idea is in his head and Dave doesn’t want him to just find that strength. “Something tells me that’s not there for decorations,” Dave says, pulling Hotch’s hand down to his chest. 

Hotch grumbles something, pale lips cashing in words that his lungs can’t check-out. Whatever is lost to his rasps or drowning by the mask is made up for by the eye-roll of angst he sends Dave. Which also loses it’s flavor when he starts hacking up a lung.

“Easy--”

Dave’s soft soothes go unheard and Morgan steps in, pulling Hotch up by his shoulders. There’s a split second where Hotch gags, the sudden movement causing intense nausea, but nothing comes up and he’s left coughing painfully into Morgan’s side. Needing the other man to keep him upright.

“You good,” Morgan asks. He’d picked up a soothing rub of Hotch’s back, moving his large palm in circles until the coughing died down. Until now, as Hotch just leans limply into his side. 

Hotch nods, “thanks.”

Morgan doesn’t go far, he stays close enough to help Hotch lay back down. His dark brows furrowed as his eyes move over Hotch’s strained face. He’s in obvious discomfort and it bothers Morgan to see him like this. “How are you feeling,” Morgan pushes, fidgeting with the blankets bunched up around Hotch’s waist. “You cold?”

Hotch turns his head into the pillows, nodding.

Morgan pulls the blankets up and fixes the mask half pushed off Hotch’s face. He smiles when Hotch just scowls but submits to the movement. Morgan bites back whatever comment he might make about Hotch being particularly grumpy today. It’s hard to believe that you could miss something as simple as someone’s grumpy mumbling but at the thought of losing Hotch… 

“You good,” Morgan asks, one of his hands on Hotch’s shoulder. “You need anything?”

Hotch’s glazed over eyes move over Morgan as if he’s uncertain if he’s really there. Hotch is still fairly under the influence of the sedative working its way through his system. So, his lazy, uncoordinated movement to dislodge the oxygen mask over his face is futile. “Itches,” he slurs, under his breath. 

It’s easier than it should be for Dave to pin Hotch’s hands to his chest once again, just pushing his wrist down. Hotch grunts a little, giving only a little resistance to hold. “Aaron,” Dave chides. “The carbon monoxide in your blood is still elevated so you have to leave the mask alone.” 

The doctor had told them that when Aaron was emitted he’d stopped breathing on his own. The percentage of carbon monoxide in his blood a 48%— one of the highest out of the patients brought in from the incident at the apartment complex. High enough to kill him, as it should have. As it still could.

They’d been assured, upon arrival, that he’s doing exceptionally well considering. But it will take time for his blood to return to normal as it will take time for him to recover. Which he will, recovery that is. He has to. 

He always does.

[phantomato]

Uber

Nottmort (Tom Riddle/Nott Sr.), Modern Muggle AU, ~2k words

Thanks to @yletylyf for kicking around this idea! Tom drives an Uber in the Bay Area. Thoros & co need a ride.

—

Abraxas and Orion are bickering over luggage in the background when your Uber pulls up. Black, of course, so it’s a Mercedes that will smell a little too much like leather cleaner when you get in, but none of you have ever ridden in an UberX or, god forbid, an Uber Pool, and you’re not about to start.

Your colleagues—never forget, you are not friends, no matter how much time you spend with them—slide into the back seat before you can even begin to help load bags into the trunk. You’re left alone with the driver, and though he offers to help, you haven’t let yourself sink that low as to make this man pile all of your shit in his car while you sit around and watch. And anyway, it feels like the polite thing to do. More than Abraxas or Orion, you’ve been raised to be polite.

So you fold yourself into the front passenger seat, too kind to push the seat all the way back and give yourself the leg room you need even if Orion, behind you, is just 5’8 to your 6’3, and smile at the driver as he confirms your destination.

He’s pretty. You’ve been in a lot of Ubers and you’ve never seen a driver this pretty. Is that classist?, you wonder to yourself, remembering something you read in Vox the other day. Probably. Nevertheless, you’re taken by the curve of his mouth, the sweep of his dark hair, and you throw a smirk over your shoulder at Abraxas who you know must have also noticed.

“Traffic to SFO will be busy,” he says regretfully, and you roll your eyes. Orion refuses to take the early morning flights, unwilling to wake at 3 AM, and you’re always stuck with these long, miserable Uber rides down from the city to the airport. “And Terminal 2—right in the middle of it. There’s construction around those doors, if you haven’t been there—”

“We know,” Orion butts in rudely, shutting up your driver for the few minutes it takes to get out of your neighborhood.

You use those few minutes to swipe through your phone. Email—nothing important. Messages—you clear the notifications. Your Instagram is alight with people reposting the same infographic about voting rights and you make a mental note to kick some money to that non-profit that’s been all over Twitter lately. You close out apps and end up back at Uber, watching your car’s laggy progress through the San Francisco streets. Your driver’s name is Tom, the app informs you. It’s a nice name.

You clear the side streets and Tom offers amenities. “If you want any water, there are bottles in the cooler between the seats,” he calls back to Abraxas and Orion, “and mints in the cup holder. You can adjust the air conditioning if you like, and there’s a charging cable attached to the back of my seat if you need it. Would you like to choose any music?”

“No,” Abraxas says, and whether he means the music or the entire spiel doesn’t really matter, given his withering tone. You look back at him, trying to convey ‘Be nice’ with just your eyebrows, but Abraxas is fussing with his hair and ignoring you.

Tom’s one of the chipper ones, it turns out, because he takes the rejection in stride and shifts to the dreaded personal conversation. “What do you all do for a living?”

“Ah, we invest in companies, mostly start-ups,” you say, trying to avoid—

“Venture capitalists!” Tom guesses, and he’s right but you hate the term and its connotations. So what if you are all white men whose family money has bankrolled tech speculation? It’s what anyone with half a brain would do. You donate, you read the liberal news—at least, you think that’s true for all of you, though Orion was friends with that Republican mayoral candidate and Abraxas’ father sponsors that conservative think-tank and…

Ah, fuck. “Yeah, pretty much,” you agree, hating yourself.

Behind you, Orion digs his AirPods out of his pocket. You hear the snap of the magnetic lid as he closes himself off to the world. Abraxas is slouching, the hem of his third-favorite cashmere cardigan catching on the seat behind him, and you realize that you’re alone in this conversation.

Well, fuck it. If those two pricks are going to make you call the Uber, deal with the reimbursement paperwork, and sit in the front seat, you’re going to talk to the driver and make this car conversation as painful as possible for them.

As if reading your thoughts, Tom does the one thing that guarantees a terrible ride: he pitches his app idea.

“You know, I’m also a software developer,” he says, which is at least more promising than when someone isn’t, “and if I had the kind of funding that companies like yours provide, I would absolutely make this app.” He proceeds to describe something completely inane, the type of exclusive, niche social networking app that hasn’t had legs since before the Trump presidency and you would be content to let him drone on, to let Abraxas keep melting into his own seat and to let Orion channel his anger through a knee driven into the back of yours, but—

But for all that Tom’s idea is stupid, he has the energy of the best pitches you see. His energy is infectious. His eyes light up, he gestures with one hand, and when he stops to take a drink (one of those water bottles with a built-in straw, which you associate with joggers and your lamest employees but which does very different things to you when it’s Tom’s mouth wrapped around the top) you’re transfixed by the wet sheen over his chapped lips.

And so, yes, maybe it’s mostly lust, and maybe this is a sign that you need to download Grindr again, even if only to jerk off to the dick pics you’ll get, but you start to actually talk to him.

“There’s no future in niche social networks,” you say, halting Tom in his tracks. “There will always be new ones, don’t misunderstand me, but the broader landscape is saturated by the top names, and they’ll buy out their competitors if they need to. Perhaps you can topple Tumblr, but that’s not a path to profit. If you want to impact the social market, you need to pinpoint the novel interaction model that you want to offer and make yourself buyable.”

“Buyable,” Tom repeats, like he’s never been interrupted before. He probably hasn’t. The first rule of Ubering around the Bay Area or the Valley is to never engage the app pitches, and Orion has started kicking your seat for your transgression.

“Yes,” you enunciate. “You want to be bought out and brought in at a high level. The giant that eats you may or may not use your idea, but you’ll make a comfortable sum as a consolation prize.” You’ve helped companies through this before. You’re flying out to New York this week in part because one of your investments is considering purchase offers and you want to strategize in-person. The founder is dallying, sending emails about independence and integrity, and Orion will bully him into selling while you and Abraxas negotiate the best terms for the contract.

You can feel Tom’s eyes on you. Abraxas might be calling “Thoros…” from the back seat, and Orion might be attempting to annihilate you with his gaze alone, but you’re smiling at that handsome face behind the wheel and hoping for an accident on the 101.

Unfortunately, you make it through San Bruno without running into more than the usual level of traffic, and Tom’s pulling up to your terminal much sooner than you would like. Abraxas and Orion jump out of the car with uncharacteristic speed when it stops, Orion even moving to stand by the trunk in readiness to take his bags. You delay.

“Do you have a business card?” you ask, when it’s clear Tom’s waiting on you.

He fumbles to pull a wallet from his jeans. You can’t quite get a view of his ass as he does, but that doesn’t stop you from looking.

His card is bent at the corner, printed cheaply, and probably from his last job. You’re pretty sure that company doesn’t exist anymore. Tom taps the phone number. “I can be reached here,” he says smoothly, but his professionalism cracks when he adds, “by call or by… text.”

You know what sort of texts you’d like to receive from him.

Pulling out your own card case, you hand him your card. “Text me,” you say, your voice just this side of appropriate, “any time.”

Tom visibly swallows and jumps out of the car. You take your time getting up, and if your cashmere sweater—Margaret Howell, not that Elder Statesman piece of shit Abraxas is wearing—ends up in the footwell of Tom’s passenger seat, well, you’ll be back in SF next week, won’t you?

“Thanks for the ride, Tom,” you tell him as you take the handle of your luggage, letting your fingers brush his. “I enjoyed our conversation.”

“Yeah,” he nods, and you don’t care that Abraxas is snorting behind you, he’s been judging you this whole trip and he lost out on a hot guy’s number as a result. “It was…”

“Thoros,” you interrupt him before he can ramble and psych himself out. “My name is Thoros, and I really would like to hear from you.”

Tom looks at you then, and you see him pull together the same sureness that drew you into his initial pitch. “I’ll text you about the app.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” you say, meaning it.

—

Bonus:

“You know,” Abraxas drawls as you sit in the United club lounge, gesturing lazily with his overpriced airport Fiji water, “if you tip him too much it’s like you’re paying him for sex.”

Orion looks up from his phone then, removing one earbud for the first time since he put them in. “I’ve paid more for sex with less attractive men.”

“Welcome back,” you say, “I didn’t realize you had paid any attention.”

“Someone would need to not have eyes in order to miss how hot that Uber driver was,” he bites back, returning to his phone.

“Well, I’m tipping him extra anyway,” you announce, confirming Tom’s five-star rating. Should you write a review? Is that too much?

Abraxas, with a grumble, declares, “I’m telling Alecto not to approve this expense.”

—

Bonus bonus:

Your phone buzzes at the end of dinner, the celebratory affair to close the sale which someone had insisted must be at Lilia, even though Abraxas doesn’t eat carbs and you would have preferred to grab a slice at Scarr’s rather than haul out to Williamsburg, anyway.

It’s Tom. Of course it’s Tom—you’ve been texting all week, and between a few late-night flirtations and one very bald statement of interest, you’ve got a date set for when you’re back home. You’re going to Mensho Tokyo, since he lives in the Tenderloin and you live… vaguely around the Tenderloin, at least, you tell people you live there when you want to seem cooler, and Tom is the type of guy that makes you excited to stand in line for hours to get seats. You’re already thinking about whether you might put your arm around him while you’re waiting, and you unlock your phone to see what he’s saying now.

It’s a picture message.

A picture of Tom, wearing your Howell sweater and no pants and oh god oh fuck—

“Was that Uber driver’s dick?” Abraxas whispers, next to you, and you curse your luck. “Remind me to call the next Uber, Jesus Christ.”

[rametarin]

And further thoughts about the yaoi paddles.

If you’re under 20, and just now learning that fandom seniors in their late 20s, 30s, 40s, even low 50s, used to run around slapping eachother on the ass with yaoi paddles in anime and comic conventions after anime became a household media staple, you probably have.. questions.

You’re probably thinking, “Wow!! It was really lawless and anarchistic back then, wasn’t it! They never heard about personal space or sexual harassment laws! SOCIETY must have been SO different, back then!”

NO. I cannot stress enough, the Yaoi Paddle phenomenon was borne PURELY because the demographic MOST LIKELY to protest and be wet blankets about everything fun and sexual and admittedly VERY SKETCHY sometimes in fiction, and ALWAYS bad in reality.. turned off and said virtually nothing. Wokesters that’d protest about the environment and sexual assault against women would take off their Problem Glasses by night and act like paddling was harmless, contextually acceptable behavior.

Yaoi Paddle shit appeared because something absolutely magical happened in scifi and fantasy fandoms. It survived purely because boys didn’t complain, or their complaints were not taken seriously. I promise you, I assure you, if you grew up in the late 80s, your night time TV was INUNDATED with heavy handed messages about how sexual harassment (always male-on-woman flavored) was wrong, even proxy or indirect violence to women (tossing rubber gloves in their lap) was wrong, and to never, ever, ever do that thing or they’d rub your nose in it and consider you mentally diseased until the day you died.

Fandom was always niche, with sci-fi and fantasy stuff being off in its own little corner. Conventions, before the internet was king, was one of few places where more rural, disparate suburban and city-definition isolated geeks, nerds and dreamers could get together and just cut loose. Comic books, novels, video games. All that GOOD shit. But if you knew a girl in the 80s and 90s, you knew a girl that knew a girl that was getting them to be less tolerant and “more conscious and aware” (80s and 90s parlance for Woke) and when that happened, a new persona was created. A new bunch of dialogue options, created.

Suddenly they didn’t say stuff like, “Ew. Why is this character dressed like a SLUT? Typical male writers. Like we’d ever draw ourselves in this or put ourselves in this.” Because that’d be a personal, subjective opinion. Instead, the option to say, “It’s endemic in our western culture that male chauvinist authors and writers in a patriarchal system exploit femininity in media and reproduce misogynistic culture.”

And so assured this was true by mob mentality AND the idea that learned, educated, acredited and tenured academics had this opinion, they were scientists, and so they were right, permeated. Suddenly girl-fans had outlets to have justified apprehension for everything they saw and didn’t like or, if they actually liked it, STILL interpreted it through their lenses to be on, “the right side of history.”

It made fandom miserable and a sausage fest for a while, if only out of fear of driving away female friends. You couldn’t share that shit unless you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that your female peers and friends wouldn’t disregard you like a “typical misogynistic western male” for enjoying that stuff.

Sentiments and peer pressure thoughts emerged. Like, “The comic industry is hostile and cruel to women that try and enter it, and they exploit the image of women for cheap dollars.” So they simply weren’t interested in comics- mostly- unless the comics were written by women and sold with that virtue in mind. In which case, you had boys glowingly mentioning just how much they liked this authentically written adventure by this female comic author. Isn’t that just so special? Not like those horrid anti-woman cigar smoking old man stories, right?

There was always something to nag and get vitriolic about with the media. That’s part of why the Whedon brand of feminist writing got so popular in the 90s. it was low hanging fruit of peppy “sassy” girl characters doing girly things. They weren’t like “other” girls written in comics and cartoons. They were actually girly. Not idealized infantalized children, like those horrible white men write, you know.

Well. Things were looking really bleak for the forseeable future. Lots of boys just felt like comics and cartoons were lost to girls that weren’t specifically into them, and that meant more sausage fest conventions or hobbies, and signing off hope on those things being respected and accepted on the merits of what they are and were. The girls had embraced serials-filed-off radfem rhetoric and lenses, sometimes without even knowing the origins of where those truisms like the Male Gaze even came from, just assuming it was true and indisputable. And it complimented their insecurities, so they’d embrace that shit until they couldn’t anymore.

And then.. something absolutely miraculous and amazing happened that blindsided this whole vitriolic culture.

Anime.

And amazingly, every complaint that a lot of nerdy girls had about the very much sanitized, policed and made PG writing and characterization of characters in western comics and cartoons, just... fucking up and vanished. Seemingly within a fucking YEAR, the entire social culture of Problem Finders, finding everything wrong about these stories, the characters, the writer and the company that produced them being misogynistic male chauvinism, dried up. Those voices quieted, or were shut out of the groups.

Media from Japan was some of the most infantilizing, sexist, tittelating shit compared to mainstream American comics and cartoons and video games, and girls fluttered to it like flies to shit. We had Buffy basically subverting boogymen that a bunch of girls had been taught were still relevant after the 1950s by fighting crime in melee combat with men, and winning, while wearing jogging pants and cracking sassy, like Lola Bunny being a “tough girl.”

Japan had doe eyed, waif bodied ballet dancers that basically farted iridescent glitter, hearts and all the symbols and shapes of the Lucky Charms, riding unicorns and fighting evil in cute outfits. Being childish and not at all mature or professional to show how womanly and competent they were, basically being overgrown 11 year old girls fresh off the playground swing set.

And the fangirls loved it. Those nagging voices that would speak up and remind them about misogynistic, male chauvinistic “societies” and culture? Just.. they fucking VANISHED from the mind for AN ENTIRE GENERATION. I’m not exaggerating. Tolerance and fun and innocence was back again. The problem-glasses felt too ostracized and alienated, or didn’t even want to wear them anymore for personal reasons, and the Radfem Baby Wokes just seemed to grow out of that collective hysteria and pretend it never happened and never existed.

That’s why the very EXISTENCE of Yaoi Paddles at conventions was just so fucking bizarre to those of us that lived up to that point. After, “Stay in your own personal space, boy. DON’T even TOUCH a GIRL unless she VERBALLY AND PUBLICLY CONSENTS or it’s proof you’re just living up to this misogynistic, objectifying society’s evil history!” was drilled into us, day on the playground by day on the playground, by women with axes to grind and good-boy sycophants performing sharing those sentiments for brownie points, it was so fucking surreal to IMAGINE girls just running around sexually assaulting and physically assaulting random strangers because they thought they looked like cute, gay men.

It wasn’t that they didn’t know any better beforehand, it’s that they COMPLETELY put those sentiments away and up and decided, as girls, it was okay to violate male autonomy because they weren’t women, and “it’s okay to paddle a yaoi boy ^.^!” With NO self-awareness whatsoever.

The very fact it existed is testament to how attention starved boys were for girls approving gaze and playful interaction, that they’d tolerate some pocky fingered little cow stranger smacking them on the ass with a plank of wood because it was a socially acceptable way to just interact with girls in their lonely assed fandom and interest. It was an acceptable way to meet girls and positively interact. That’s the degrading bullshit boys said virtually nothing about at the hayday of yaoi paddles, purely to be welcoming to girls in anime and hentai approving spaces.

WE GREW UP hearing and watching horror stories and boogymen stories about true crime and sitcoms and crime shows about evil evil men violating the personal space of women for lewd and lecherous reasons. We had it drilled into our heads that the tolerance for boys and men doing that was negatives, and the general sentiment was men caught doing that (to women, or children of any sex) were effectively free game for any violence you personally felt like unloading on them, confident that in such outraged rape and sexual assault hating times, juries would excuse that passion as a defense.

So if you look back on the era of Yaoi Paddles and think. “WOW. That must be like driving cars before they invented seat belts and cough medicine before they invented the drug safety and scheduling legal system!”.. NO.

It was not like the 50s-70s, where many of the rules hadn’t been written yet so it was anarchy and chaos. Yaoi Paddles existed almost PURELY because girls HAD no rules if they didn’t want to respect them. The Yaoi Paddle phenomenon flew in direct opposition to how interactions were supposed to go, and ABSOLUTELY NO ONE would tolerate the reverse; no cis straight man could walk around randomly smacking women on the ass with a plank of even foam in pantomime, or ‘floating hand’ pretending to be a perverted character. The double standard was GLARING. The Double Standard was a fucking bugbear that had grown from a tiny screaming goblin and was now hanging upside down from the ceiling, roaring.

But because it was GIRLS inflicting it on BOYS, absolutely no party cared enough to raise a stink about it. The Radfems kept their mouths shut, because boys were the recipients. The Radfem Sympathizers really wanted to spank boys, so suddenly they couldn’t find their problem glasses and instead put on their neko ears. The boys were either stoic and amused by it or really wanted to be seen as cool and not buzzkills, so they tolerated to reveled in it.

Many times when you hear about things that happened either when you were a child just too young to really personally experience a thing, or before you were born, we’re quick to assume it’s a medieval place and the people were so uncultured as to have never pondered the social problems of spanking one another on the ass unprovoked. Violation of personal space, personal sovereignty- all that. That was NOT okay at the time. It happened because fujoshi decided it was okay and nobody argued with them to not do hat, or they were told to stop and did it anyway.

And as I’ve laid it out, that is the most bizarre and surreal element to the whole thing. They DID know better, but felt it didn’t apply to THEM because they were girls, and a girl slapping a boy on the ass “as a joke” didn’t mean anything- because it wasn’t happening TO them, FROM a man.

And irony of ironies, it was NEVER okay, EVER, throughout that entire era, for the reverse to be a thing. It was very specifically and exclusively not. As a man if you ran around slapping cute looking girls with the Yuri Paddle, you goin’ to either juvy hall, or prison, boi. Both sexes knew it. And yet, yaoi paddles STILL became a thing.

[skzcre]

Cheeky

Lil somethin I threw together from a dream I had about Chan - 🤐 Anon

***

Chan reached out blindly, fumbling for his cell phone. His fingers finally finding it, he groaned, trying to find the appropriate button to make it stop blaring the stupid song Felix had programmed in as his ring tone. After a moment, he realized that he must have answered the call, because he heard Changbin’s voice through the beeps of his attempts to silence the device, instead of the ring tone.

Sighing, he lifted the cell phone to his ear, mumbling, “What?”

Changbin’s laugh met his ear, and Chan buried his face in the pillow, muffling his invectives. He was in the middle of a musical slump and in no mood to deal with people. As he was weighing the merits of attempting to smother himself in the pillow versus the odds of him being able to hurl his cell phone into the toilet from his bed, Changbin spoke.

“Do you do anything but hide in that hotel room?” his bandmate asked, his voice bright.

Chan glanced at the open door to the bathroom, and huffed out a sigh. He’d never make it. Giving in, he answered.

“What do you want?” he said, rolling to his back and tossing his free arm over his eyes.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Changbin snorted, “Or good evening, I should say. Get up. You are coming with us.”

“No, I’m not,” Chan replied immediately.

He had no desire to be immersed in the masses any more than he had to. Chan couldn’t pinpoint when it had begun, but more and more he became the workaholic hermit everyone jokingly called him. And he enjoyed it. No autographs to sign. No pictures to smile for. No having to run from the less sane fans. Why the hell would he want to go through all that when he had a comfortable little niche carved out for himself and his music?

“Yes you are, mate,” came a new voice from the doorway of his hotel room. 

Chan quickly sat up, dropping his cell phone. He fell back again almost instantly as he saw what his friends had done.

“Oi, how the fuck did you get in my room?” he sighed, shoving the phone off his bed and ignoring the laughter ringing from it once more.

With a puckish grin, Felix replied, “Easy. Changbin distracted you and I used the key card I lifted off you last night.”

Chan grimaced. He knew he hadn’t just lost his key. With a long suffering sigh, he closed his eyes. They were going to force him to leave his cozy isolation.

“Where are you wanting me to go?” he asked wearily. 

Hearing a zipper open, he lifted one eyelid to spy Felix rummaging through his suitcase for clothing. Turning a sly smile over his shoulder to Chan, he winked and tossed a pair of jeans and a shirt at him.

“You’ll see. Get dressed,” he said, dropping to sit in a chair.

Chan pursed his lips, considering the possibility of getting out of this little outing, and finding it impossible. Emitting a growl of annoyance, he stood and gathered the clothes, making his way to the bathroom. As he slammed the door behind him, he heard Felix laugh. This was going to be a pain in the ass, he could already tell.

***

The car stopped in front of a glittering building, and Chan immediately shook his head. 

“No way. You have to be joking,” he said, turning wide eyes to his friend.

Felix laughed, and replied, “Hey, this place is a legend. We can’t come to France and not take a peek.”

Chan’s eyes widened on Felix, doubting the sanity of his friend. If JYPE or the fans found out about this… 

“It’s a strip club,” he said slowly, as if explaining something very simple to someone very stupid.

Felix only rolled his eyes and hopped out of the car, shooting back, “Yes, the finest damn strip club in France. Now get your ass out and come on.”

Chan opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to think of a proper response to this. Sure, they had snuck off to strip clubs before as trainees, but it had never been something Chan enjoyed, the reward certainly not worth the risk. There was a desperation in places like this that ruined any appeal it may have. And truthfully, Chan’d had enough of women offering themselves up to him. There was only one difference between the professionals and groupies. The professionals were more honest about what they wanted out of the deal. 

Felix opened Chan’s door with a flourish. Chan let his eyes fall shut on a groan, then stepped out. There was no way out of this, he supposed. They made their way to the front door, and were met by Changbin and Jisung, walking from their car. 

“How the hell did Minho get out of this little adventure?” Chan asked, eyes narrowing.

“He didn’t want to come,” replied Felix.

Chan snorted, and mumbled, “Neither did I.”

Changbin clapped him on the back, shoving him through the door behind Jisung and saying, “Yes, well, Minho isn’t a shut-in. Stop bitching and have fun for once.”

Chan muttered a few pointed remarks and allowed them to herd him inside. He would find some way to get them back for this.

***

Sitting at a table in a dark corner of the place, as far from the bar as he could get, Chan tore a paper napkin into tiny shreds. This may be the finest strip club in all of France, but it was still a seedy place filled with the scents of lust and money. Pressing his lips together, he glanced up at the girls scattered around the room. He found that none of them interested him in the least. The rest of his bandmates were happily cracking jokes and playfully tossing money at women.

They had given up on trying to make him join in on the ‘fun.’ He knew his company was less than enthralling of late, but he just didn’t really care anymore. Sighing, he slid further down in his chair, wishing he were back in his hotel room, happily making music. Scanning the room once more, he decided to slip out and get an uber. This place was just depressing him. Like he needed help with that.

He leaned forward to stand, but froze as his eyes found a woman across the room. She was draped across a brass bar, languidly gyrating her hips. She appeared to be either stoned out of her mind, or to have completely given up on life. He blinked, then leaned back in his seat. Cocking his head to the side, he studied her as she straightened a bit, turning around, her hips still moving. 

She wasn’t the type of woman who usually caught his eye. She was plain. She was average. She was not fat, but certainly not thin. Her hair was a boring shade. There was nothing exceptional about her at all. So why was he watching her so intently? Crossing his legs, he leaned back and set about discovering why his eyes were glued to some stripper.

She seemed to ignore the men around her, writhing to the music with a flat expression. Her back turned to him, and his eyes wandered down. It hit him then. The reason he was so entranced… was her ass. A small laugh of surprise burst from his lips. Well, that was new. He had never been much of an ass man. Sure, they could be sexy, but never had one made him really sit up and pay attention. But as he watched the woman’s hips bounce to the music, he thought maybe there was something to that particular body part.

Sucking in a deep breath, he snickered at himself. The last thing he thought he’d be doing tonight was sitting in a strip club, trying to pry his eyes from some disaffected, boring girl’s butt. She slid in his direction, and he followed her movements. Attempting to think this out logically, he dissected her swaying behind with as much cold calmness as he could muster when his cock was finally deciding to come back to life.

It wasn’t a large ass, nor particularly round. But the skin above her gartered stockings was calling to him, begging for his touch. And the way she moved her hips… well, she certainly knew what her selling point was. As she drifted closer, Felix returned to the table, falling into a seat, with a laugh.

“Man, you are really worrying me. The girls over there are actually pretty nice to talk to, and you sit over here sulking,” he said, shaking his head at Chan.

Chan only nodded, leaning to the side to get a clear view of the ass around his friend. Felix’s eyebrows shot up, and he turned to see what Chan was so intently looking at. A puckish grin lit his face as he spied the thing that held Chan’s attention. Before Chan could even realize what was going on, Felix raised a hand and called to the stripper. 

She turned her dull eyes in their direction, and danced her way to the table. Chan tried to work up some sort of denial, but all was pushed aside as the ass drew closer. She reached the table, turned around, and gave her hips a good roll. His cock, already taking notice, stood right up and saluted at that movement. Oh yes, he was going to have to thank Felix for this later.

Felix stood, laid some money on the table, and told the girl to give Chan a good time. Chan tried to look up in thanks to his friend, but the ass was slowly backing towards him, gyrating. Swallowing, he clenched his hands, doing his best not to reach out and touch. He wasn’t sure if the rules were the same everywhere, but the strip clubs he’d been in had always stipulated that the customer not touch. 

But oh, how he wanted to touch. She bent over the table, her ass fluidly moving to the music so very close to him. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes heavily lidded, and watched him. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, chewing at it, doing everything he could think of not to either reach out for her, or to stroke the very insistent erection he had gained. It seemed that his dick had been feeling a bit neglected as of late, and was determined to remind him of its importance.

A small attempt at a smile flitted over her lips, and she said in a heavy, languid voice, “It’s okay if you want to give it one touch. I won’t tell.”

He glanced up at her face, and licked his lips nervously. She was not so plain as he had thought from a distance. His eyes narrowed back in on her ass. He wanted to touch. But if he did, he would only be teasing himself even more than was already happening. His member was already beginning to ache. She softly laughed, a tactile sound, velvety. Chan growled at the sensation of her laugh washing over him as her cheeks moved enticingly only a foot from him.

Glancing up into her eyes for a moment, he shot his hand out, gripping her hip, and sending the other hand to deliver a slap across one of the globes that was driving him mad. She sucked in a breath, looking up. He thought at first that he had broken through her calm reserve, but realized that she was simply making sure no one had noticed. After a moment, she turned her head slowly once more to peer at him through a veil of lashes. 

He smirked, seeing the red mark on her ass, matching the flush creeping into her face. Leaning forward, he rested his elbow on his crossed knee, slowly cocking his head to the side to simply watch the show her ass was giving him. She straightened, moving to turn, and Chan glanced up at her warningly. 

“Get back across the table,” he said in a low, commanding voice.

She paused, then slowly leaned back down, working her hips harder. Chan let a soft growl slip out, and she wet her lips, her hands splaying across the table for purchase as her ass did an elaborate dance before him. Chan quickly glanced around then leaned in closer. 

“Lap dance,” he breathed, keeping his words to a minimum. 

She stiffened a moment, and he found that he liked the fact that he was unnerving her. She seemed to be so distanced from her job, and he discovered that he wanted to see if he could wake her from that haze she seemed to be in. She slowly arched her back, keeping her ass on display as she raised her shoulders from the table. 

Backing towards him, she twisted her waist, her entire body moving sinuously to the music. But he only had eyes for that one part of her. Just as his patience was about to snap, she straddled his chair, slowly lowering that captivating ass to his lap. Gyrating, she stroked it across his groin, and he jerked his hips up, involuntarily. He heard a soft laugh from her, and narrowed his eyes. 

He wasn’t going to let her turn the tables on him like that. Gritting his teeth, he rolled his hips up, holding back a groan as his throbbing erection slid across the junction of her thighs. She let a moan slip out, and the tease was worth it. The clothing containing his cock scraped across his sensitive skin, and he cursed softly. She pressed down on him harder, and he knew that this was going to end painfully, but he was going to get as much as he could of her lush ass.

Reaching up, he put his hands over her hips hesitating as he looked around to see if they were being watched. She didn’t even bother to look. With an inaudible murmur, she pressed his hands down to grip her hips. Chan hissed in a breath between his clenched teeth, and began to rock up against her. He couldn’t get the friction he needed through the thick, tight material, but she was soon trembling under his palms, that alluring ass of hers moving quicker against him. 

His eyes were still following the movement of the rounded cheeks in his lap, and he bit back a frustrated snarl. He was aching to find his release, but he just couldn’t, without pulling out his dick and stroking it right there. Even if that were allowed, he wouldn’t give her that much satisfaction. This had become a battle of sorts. Him trying to get a bigger and better reaction from her, and her trying to distract him back into a lusty fog. 

But he would win. He could feel the pain in his balls from being hard so long with so little pleasure, but he would not give in. He wanted to break this girl, to crack open the veneer she pulled between herself and her customers. He pressed up harder, tightening his grip on her hips, his strong fingers digging into her flesh. He pulled her against him, unable to withhold a grunt as her fantastic ass pressed into him harder. 

She whimpered, and he wanted to crow in victory. A shudder of climax passed over her body, her ass jerking against his crotch, and she hissed out a string of curse words, her hands flying out to grip the table, steadying herself. Chan panted, his triumph at making her orgasm dimmed by the insistence of his cock that he do the same as soon as possible. She weakly leaned forward, sliding from his lap to the chair next to him. Her hand trailed blindly across the table as she leaned back in the seat, her eyes closed. Finding the money Felix had left, she grasped it, and dragged it to her chest. 

Chan quickly stood, wincing at the motion. He peered down at her for a moment, her eyes still closed, her face unguardedly relaxed in her satisfaction. A smirk flitted across his lips, and he turned to gingerly walk towards the door. He had a serious case of blue balls, but it was worth it. He nodded to his friends as he passed them. Felix cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly, and Chan just gave a tiny shrug and a knowing smile. Felix turned to the table where the stripper still sat, then burst into laughter. 

Chan carefully made his way outside, hailing a cab to take him back to his hotel room. He told the driver to hurry. He needed to get to his comfortable bed and rub out the frustration that had built to a fever pitch in his groin. And he knew exactly what image would be playing through his head as he came.

[unicyclehippo]

beaujester star wars au..... beau is a cocky rebellion pilot that’s a little Too good at dodging and firing shots, and jester is a princess-turned-junior senator-turned rebellion supporter. they are both force sensitive and kiss

The star base has been overrun by decorations and muted music, louder toward the centre of the hanger and half-volume at the edges, where a few hand-picked individuals - volunteers, probably - are keeping an eye on the alerts still. Colourful lights spin over the ceiling in programmed patterns that put Beau in mind of the star maps she reads on a daily basis, and the longer she looks, the more she starts to think they actually are star maps. Blown out to make ‘em look all pretty, though. That’s what decorating on a tight budget looks like, though. 

She’s leaning against the landing gear of her fighter, largely hidden by the shadows of her wings, and doing her utmost to strike a balance between looking incredibly cool but incredibly unapproachable whenever anyone looks her way. It’s hard, and she’s pretty sure she just looks injured, but no one has come over to talk to her and that’s a win in her book. No one, that is, save for Fjord.

Fjord Tusktooth - tall, green, surprisingly lean for an orc, tusked as the name suggests and a damn good pilot, her Captain actually - sidles over, arms raised over his head as he steps through the dancing crowd. He tries his best not to let the drinks spill but he’s licking what looks like jet oil off his hand when he reaches her. 

‘That better not be mine, Cap.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Can humans drink strick-oil?’

‘No.’

‘Then it’s not yours, is it? What’s wrong with your face?’

‘What? Nothing! Give me that.’ 

It doesn’t smell like a drink; it smells like it’ll strip her innards of anything and everything useful and replace them with alcohol. Luckily, that’s exactly how she likes her drinks. Taking it from him, she flings it back, feels it burn all the way down. It hits her system like a punch to the face from a nydak. 

‘Good?’

‘Fuckin’ awful,’ she rasps. ‘Cheers.’

He laughs. Settles into place beside her, sipping at the thick oil drink. ‘So. Any reason you’re all the way over here instead of letting all of these lov-erly ladies lavish you with attention?’ He waggles his brows as he asks and grins, very much aware that he’s the only one who can get away with asking her these kinds of questions as baldly as he does. Mostly because he manages to ask in a way that doesn’t make her wanna use him for shooting practice. And a little because he’s her superior officer. ‘I’ve turned down two proposals on your behalf - you’re welcome.’

‘Huh? What? Who?’

He points them out subtly - one a dusty pink alien clad in white and gold, with about a half dozen tentacles drifting around her head like a mane, the other a waist-high, bearded lady who winks right at Beau when she sees her watching. 

‘That’s kinda my call, isn’t it?’

‘They offered two nerfs for you -’

‘Like, both of them together? That’s hot.’

‘What? No - Beau,’ he laughs. ‘The point is that you should know your worth.’ His face goes carefully blank as he tries, very obviously, not to smile. ‘Three nerfs.’

Beau snorts. ‘Shut up. I’m going to get another drink. See if you can get them to bid higher for my hand, yeah? Remind them that I lead Team Two today. Integral to the battle. Integral.’ He salutes and she pushes off the wall, walks toward the party just long enough for his eyes to slide away from her. She steps sideways into the corridor and ducks out of sight, breath coming out in a gust.

Tyr-Mannou Star Base is built deep in the asteroid that orbits the planet, hidden from prying eyes and ears by the layered rock. Beau hadn’t been listening a hundred per cent when it was explained but something about the metals in the area, and in this planet, seemed to provide a buffer - mild, temporary - to long-distance scanning and surveillance. And at this point - haggard, hurting - the rebels will take any buffer at all. 

It’s good for the rebellion, to be buried in the asteroid. 

It’s hard to find fresh air, though, and Beau pulls at the collar of her jumpsuit, unzipping it until she doesn’t feel like she’s being strangled. 

Moving farther from the party, down the corridor and just away, Beau lets her feet carry her aimlessly at first - listening to the sound of her boots on the metal, echoing in the tin-can corridors, hiding briefly from the passing technicians who don’t seem to notice her in the various shadowed niches she finds. And then less aimlessly, until she realises she is headed directly for the command station. 

The room isn’t dark, not ever, but it is running on a skeleton crew who look up suspiciously at her entry, relaxing when they recognise her face - or, more likely, the badge affixed to her shoulder. 

‘Lionette.’

‘Commander.’

‘Shouldn’t you be at the party? I heard your squad was receiving a commendation.’

‘We are. Did, Commander.’

Commander Dairon - a hard-ass and a legend in the fighter crews for the Battle of Sotheirrik in which they led the harrying of a military convoy for two fucking weeks - looks her over with a cool eye before nodding. ‘Made an appearance at least, I hope?’

‘Sure did.’

‘Good. Get some rest, Lionette. There will be plenty of work come morning.’ The Commander reaches out a gloved hand. Rests it on Beau’s shoulder for a moment, squeezes. ‘Enjoy these moments when you can,’ they tell her quietly, and it has a tinge of an order to it. But just a tinge. 

‘Yessir.’

‘Good. Now,’ they say, eyes glittering, ‘Fuck off.’

Beau barks a laugh. Salutes her Commander lazily and continues on, onwards toward the view that had been calling her. 

The command station sits closest to the surface of the asteroid and it is here, only here, that one can see the view that they are risking everything to protect. The field of stars and asteroids, glinting as they catch the light of Tyr-Mannou’s sun. The purple-blue of Tyr-Mannou’s surface, the deep deep green almost black of its seas. The layer of clouds that cloak portions of the landmasses and oceans alike, drifting. Beau leans up against the window, hands curling over the rail, and watches a storm brew.

She feels Jester’s presence before she sees her. A flicker of something at the edge of her awareness, far beyond that which her awareness should rightfully cover. She hears the hiss of the gas as the doors slide open and turning, beau watches a green-cloaked figure step down from the corridor. Jester exchanges a few words with Commander Dairon but Beau can feel it - the focus of her attention like a taut string between them, and she already knows Jester is about to look up, feeling her intent like a thrum, a plucked note on that string. 

Jester looks up. Dark, dark eyes in a smiling face. 

‘Ambassador Lavorre, this is one of our finest pilots.’

‘Beauregard,’ Jester interrupts Dairon’s introduction. 

Beau tries not to shiver. No one says her name the way this girl does, like they’re sharing a private joke. 

‘Princess,’ Beau returns, and she’s aiming for calm and cool, something to suit her new title of the best fucking pilot of the rebellion, but damn if it doesn’t come out reverent. 

Commander Dairon’s brows are at their hairline now and out of the corner of her eye Beau sees them mouth, ‘Okay,’ and they take their seat, turning away. 

‘How are you?’ Jester asks. It’s as nice to hear as it is weird. ‘I was told that you and your squad took on the main fleet today?’

Beau snorts. ‘Fuck no. I mean - uh,’

‘I’m not a Princess anymore,’ Jester teases, though her smile flickers at the reminder. ‘You don’t have to not swear around me.’

‘Oh, you’ll regret saying that. I swear every second word now. Habit. Us pilots are a rough and rowdy lot.’ 

Jester just laughs. ‘May I join you?’

‘Join - yeah, sure. Of course.’

Beau presses back until her back hits the rail, her spine and shoulders the cool glass. She grips the rail. Gulps. The weight of Jester’s attention, the force of her presence, feels like a real and tangible thing and Beau is finding it hard to concentrate the closer she comes - until she is right at her side and then the weight of it, the distraction, all falls away and Beau feels like the headache that has been pressing at her for the last few hours has lifted and she is seeing entirely clearly again. 

Jester holds out her hand, straight out as if to shake Beau’s. 

Beau slides her bare hand into Jester’s, tries not to shiver at the chill of her skin. Turns it and lifts it to her lips, brushes a kiss over sharp knuckles. 

//

‘Introducing the First Madrick of Kar-Marodah, Thoreau Lionette, and the First Madrise,’

The Hall is as large as four grav-barret courts, Beau is sure of that. And it’s all made of grand, sweeping lines that she can’t quite follow. She cranes her head to try and follow one to its end but it meets with another three lines and Beau is dizzy with it; a large hand sets heavy on the top of her skull and stops her turning and twisting and Beau, nine years old and well acquainted with her fathers displeasure, falls still. 

‘Be still, Beauregard. We are here to make a good impression on the Laveesh Embassy and that won’t happen,’ he reminds her, ‘if you are swinging all over the place like some common nerf-herder.’ His flat green eyes narrow. ‘Understood?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I’d prefer Captain,’ she dares tell him, sure that he won’t reprimand her too terribly in front of an audience, and the chance to see his eye twitch is too good to pass up. She doesn’t press too far, feeling the first flutters of her danger sense. ‘Yes sir.’

‘Come along. They’re waiting.’

His fingers are clawed into her shoulder as he moves them strategically around the room. Smiling and making small talk with the various important boring folk in the chamber, and Beau is waist-height to most of them so it’s not her fault that she’s more interested in what they’re wearing on their feet and if they have anything on their belts. 

She finds two strange cards that have no writing on them that she recognises, which she returns, disappointed, and a ring on the floor, which she pockets. It feels cold and warm all at once, and as she drags her finger around the inside whorl of the ring, she feels very strange all of a sudden. As if she had done that exact thing a hundred, a thousand times over with this very ring. 

‘Ah, Madrick Lionette, how wonderful,’ comes a voice, finally, that drags Beau’s eyes from the mosaic floor. The woman - the alien - the alien woman in front of Beau is beautiful in a way she has never seen before, all vibrant red skin and curves and gold gold gold and Beau feels her jaw drop. She didn’t know that women could look like this. 

She’s still staring when she hears her own name, and feels her father shake her shoulder. 

‘Beauregard,’ she blurts out. ‘Hello.’ The sigh from above tells her that she did that all wrong. Face flushing, ears burning, Beau trawls through her memory and tries again. ‘I’m - It’s a pleasure to meet you, Queen Lavorre. I am Beauregard Lionette, scion of the Madrick Lionette.’

‘Oh!’ The Queen laughs, not meanly at all but seemingly delighted. ‘How polite! It is my pleasure to meet you, Young Beauregard.’ She laughs again when Beau stammers through a thank you. ‘Have you had a chance to meet my daughter? You’re about the same age and she’s force sensitive too -’

‘Beauregard is not,’ her father tells the Queen flatly. ‘We had high hopes, but...it was not to be.’ He coats the words with the displeasure Beauregard hates; feels it pressing into her skin like his clawed fingers. It’s her fault she’s not force sensitive. She’s known that for a long time now. For as long as she can remember. 

There is a moment of silence, then, ‘Well. Jester? Where have you gone, my darling?’

Like a flicker of fish in the pool back home, and with the same warmth of the sun-soaked tiles against Beau’s chest and belly as she lays at the side, hand plunged into the waters to try and catch one of those crafty fish, Beau sees her. A girl, around her own age as promised, and dressed all in pretty robes. She is muddy to the knees, the dress heavy around her feet and dripping the purpled soil in a thick trail behind her. 

‘Jester? What have you gotten into?’

‘The mud. Obviously,’ the girl adds, though the Obviously was already clear from her tone. Her curls are riotous about her face, and she wears a great big smile, though it slips momentarily as she twists something between her fingers. 

‘Are you alright?’ Beau blurts. 

‘Beauregard,’

‘Oh yes,’ Jester tells her, and smiles with all the brilliance she can muster in her round, round cheeks and dark eyes. It’s... a lot. 

Beau still feels an undercurrent. Cold water around her fingers. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Beauregard! Don’t be a pest!’

Jester stares for a moment, then laughs. Shoves her hand toward Beau. ‘Hello, pest. I’m Jester.’

Beau takes it. Blanks for a moment over what is proper and finally bows, kissing it clumsily. As she stands upright, she notes the rings - one on each finger. Except for, 

‘Are you missing a ring?’

‘Oh, Jester,’

‘It was an accident,’ Jester tells her mother immediately, complete with trembling lip and abject sorrow. Though, Beau notes, no seeming anxiety for her mother’s reaction. 

She reaches down into her pocket. Rubs her thumb over the heavy ring. Is struck, momentarily, by the urge to keep it. It’s beautiful, she found it. 

It’s Jester’s. 

She didn’t see a name on it, but she knows it as certainly as she knows she’ll have blisters in the morning from these awful shiny boots. 

‘Come along, Beauregard,’ her father says, and begins to draw away from the Queen and her daughter. 

Beau shakes out from his hold and steps forward, holds out both her closed hands toward Jester. If she can guess which one the ring is in, Beau decides in nine-year old logic, then she can have it back. If not, Beau will get to keep it. 

//

They’re seventeen and the Madrick has called the meeting this time. The Queen - The Planetless Queen, Beau has heard her called behind her back, and she owns several bruises and one cracked knuckle for putting upstarts back in their places by force. The Queen has disappeared into the war room and Beau isn’t surprised to find that Jester has found her, even hidden away in the engineering core as she is. 

‘Still on with this plan, then?’ Jester asks her, peering up from beneath the suspended chassis to where Beau is hanging, fixing the wiring. ‘Becoming a pilot?’

‘Why? You think I can’t hack it?’

‘What? No. Of course you can!’

‘Then why wouldn’t I be?’

Jester is quiet for a long time, long enough for Beau to almost forget the question. She winches herself down from her position and before she can fully reclaim her feet, Jester is in front of her and her hands press against Beau’s cheeks and she’s kissing her. Kissing her, with the engineering teams buzzing around outside, and the smell of jet-oil and soldering thick in the air. 

‘I’ll miss you,’ she says. Simple words, but the feelings that slam hard into Beau’s stomach are far from simple. 

‘Jes - ‘

‘I’m sorry,’

‘You can’t -’ Beau scrambles up onto her feet. Hooks a grease-stained hand onto the perfect sleeve of the newly minted Junior Ambassador, pulling her deeper into the corner. ‘My father -’

‘He’s busy, he didn’t see,’

‘He owns these people,’ Beau hisses, glances back over her shoulder. But no one seems to have seen. ‘If I’m going to get into the Academy, he can’t - he can’t know that I’m - with you,’

‘Why not? What’s wrong with me?’

‘Nothing! Everything!’

‘Oh, how very flattering,’

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it, Jes,’

‘Well you do one thing and then say a lot of other nonsense, Beau, so forgive me if I’m a little confused!’ Jester is a sight and a half, eyes flashing with unbridled fury. She’s a good inch or two shorter than Beau but with them both straining to hiss-yell at one another, their noses are almost touching. 

‘You’re hot when you’re angry.’

‘Oh shut up.’

Beau grins. The grin fades into something softer, something adoring. She reaches up. Is careful that, when she brushes a curl back, the grease-stained finger doesn’t touch Jester’s cheek. ‘Did you come here to ask me that? If I still wanna be a pilot, all I’ve ever wanted to do since I was five?’ 

Jester’s eyes drop.

Beau wipes her hand off on her jumpsuit. Crooks a finger under her chin. ‘Or did you come to ask me not to go?’

For a little while, Beau thinks Jester won’t answer. Then her eyes shift, harden, and Beau is reminded of those months after the destruction of her planet. When the pain had threatened to overflow and so Jester had locked it down, hard and tight enough to become coal, something that would let her burn and burn and burn with fury for ages to come. 

‘What you want to do, it’s important. More important than me.’

Beau can’t disagree. The simple fact is that the war is more important than everything. Any one person. She opens her mouth to argue anyway, because - because this is Jester. 

‘I came to tell you to be safe.’ And then Jester is reaching into her pocket and she removes something from it. Small and round and familiar, the golden band with the touch of emerald studded along it. The ring they have passed to one another at every meeting. A keep-safe. A talisman. ‘I want this back,’ she tells Beau, and presses it into her palm. Beau closes her hand around it, and Jester’s hand. Kisses the back of it. 

‘Be safe. Please - I don’t want - I can’t lose you as well.’

‘As you command,’ Beau whispers. ‘Princess.’

//

The fight is coming quickly into its sixth hour. Beau’s jumpsuit is slick with sweat, her hands are basically swimming in her gloves, and she can barely fucking see with the sweat dripping, stinging in her eyes. There’s nothing she can do about that right now, though, and she yanks hard on her controls as another volley of bolts burst into the space where she just was.

‘Blue-XP, what’s your status?’

‘Got a bruiser on my tail, Cap,’ she gasps, and pulls hard, swivelling overhead of the TIE fighter, letting it zoom ahead. ‘Coming in hot on the zero.’

Whatever reply Fjord might have for her is lost in a crackle of energy and a blur as Beau reacts to something she feels before she sees - another TIE, bursting out from fucking nowhere to pinch her between the two of them. 

Beau swears and books it, zipping in and out of the carcass of the long-dead transporter, her small fighter tackling the corners like a champ and her memory of the interior bursting into sharp relief as adrenaline and luck slam hard into her. She doesn’t let herself think, just slams into the controls in a way that might have made her wince if she had time to feel anything at all over the fear and fury. 

One TIE bursts into flame, utterly silent in the vacuum. The other is hot on her tail still - the hunter becomes the hunted, piece of motherfucking shit Empire dogs - and then Beau is lifting a prayer to old, dead planets and touching a finger to the ring of heavy metal that hands around her neck and spinning her fighter around to face the TIE dead on. Spins around the bolts that come her way and - between one breath and the next she fires. Bolts away without even needing to look back. 

It hit. She knew it before she saw the impact. 

//

They stand in front of the star field now, in a quiet command station far from a party celebrating a truly minor battle. The war rages on all around them, in every direction, and will for years to come. But for now, there are drinks and lights and dancing, and everyone will pretend that it is enough. 

With distant stars as their lights, and the beep of alerts and reminders as their music, Beauregard and Jester dance like they have been dancing together for decades. Like it hasn’t been almost five years since they’ve seen one another. 

‘Most daring pilot in the ninth sector,’ Jester murmurs, cheek resting on Beau’s shoulder. Her words rumble up through her chest to the top of her head, where Beau’s cheek rests in turn against soft curls. ‘That’s what I’ve heard. You’re fast becoming a legend.’

‘Me? Maybe. But you faced down a legion of Kryn soldiers and got them to turn tail - yes or no?’ From the flush on Jester’s face, Beau knows her answer. She whistles, low and quiet. ‘Damn, Jes.’

‘That won’t be remembered. No one remembers the ambassadors - you’re not supposed to remember us. The fighters are the cool ones.’

‘I’ll remember you,’ Beau shrugs.

They sway together, a slow side-to-side. 

‘I’ve got a present for you,’ Beau tells her. Jester’s smile is warm against her skin, even through the jumpsuit. 

‘Oh really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It wouldn’t happen to be a ring, would it?’

‘What - how did you know?’

Jester hums, trying to hide a laugh. The laugh actually does fade when Beau lets her go - just for a moment, just long enough to unclasp the chain - and tugs the ring off from around her neck. She clasps it in her hand and Beau is close enough to feel the ripple of it - the energy that swirls around this shared ring, no doubt full of the fear and thrilling adrenaline of the fight, hopefully filled with the memory of all those nights she spent in her cabin, missing Jester. 

Jester’s breath hitches. She blinks a few times, blinking open dark eyes, and then turns in the cradle of Beau’s arms. Lifts her hair, as she offers the chain to Beau. ‘Do it up for me?’

‘Y-yeah. Yeah, sure.’ Beau takes it with suddenly clumsy fingers. Can’t resist brushing her thumb over the knob of Jester’s spine, the soft hair at her hairline. It takes a moment for her to work the clasp but finally it clicks closed and she lets her hands fall to either side, to Jester’s shoulders, and leans forward until she can kiss where she had touched. Lips pressed to the vulnerable space there. ‘I want that back,’ she whispers. ‘Sooner than five years, if you can manage.’

Jester twists back to face her. ‘Shouldn’t I get to keep it for five years? You did.’

‘That’s not how the game works.’

‘I’ll let you see it,’

‘We trade it, Jes. That’s how the game works.’

‘That’s how it has historically worked. I might suggest a change in rules,’ she says, in her most Ambassadorial tones, and Beau fights a laugh. ‘I had two dozen Kryn warships fleeing before me, Beauregard, I think I can get you to change your mind.’

‘You try your best, Princess. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.’

[atiny-piratequeen]

Hello everyone. I’m here to get a bit serious, but I don’t apologize for my tone in this. 

Truth be told, I’m vibrating in pure rage at this, but I’ll do my best to formulate what I have to say in a mature manner. I will also lead off by saying, in the event that any of you happen to follow the link to report the work or tell the op to take it down, please remain respectful and keep your tones mature. I’m not keen on the idea of mobbing someone and bullying them (even though I feel very hurt and wronged), and I am only posting this link here for us to one) politely and maturely tell the plagiarizer to take down my work and two) hopefully locate the authors of the other stolen works.

Today, thanks to a followertiny-I won’t name bc idk if you feel comfortable with that-informed me of my work (Specifically, 1:28am, the Jongho Jacob’s Ladder piece I posted a month or so ago) being reposted onto Wattpad. 

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I do NOT allow reposting of my works ANYWHERE.

All of my necessary accounts I post to have links available to them that are easily accessible either in my bio or my masterlist. If I had any update in this, you all would know. 

I do not consent to ANYONE taking my work off of their designated sites. Hell, my timestamps aren't even on my ao3 account. (I consider them little lovely gifts for my tumblrtiny followers so I haven’t really posted any of them there for that reason, though I may in the future). I do not use FF, Wattpad, and most of my works are too long for me to post to my Twt. I wouldn’t put them on YT or anywhere else. 

I’ve been writing fics for over a decade, the first thing I posted was a rinky dink pokemon fic as a literal elementary school kid in like ‘07, ‘08 on fucking Quizilla. That site doesn’t even exist anymore. Even then, I have never stolen or plagiarized anyone's work. I do nothing here but try and boost up my fellow writers, but this? Stealing? This isn’t it. 

What’s worse, is it not just my Jongho fic affected. This person has not only stolen my work, but the works of other writers to tack on together for their ‘daddy’ story or whatever, some of the writers not even being Atiny, as Admin Cy of KSC has pointed out to me, they’ve even stolen works from Army writer, since one of their stolen Yeosang pieces refers to him as ‘Jungkook’, but a few sentences down, he’s back to being Yeosang. There are also at least two works as part of this person’s stolen collection that are stolen from @ateezlust ,as well as them stealing from OTHER writers on OTHER sites as well

If you have all the energy to take and edit and steal people’s work, I highly suggest looking into making some of your own. 

There is nothing wrong with being inspired. I’m inspired by the writers and media around me when I write. But taking someone’s work, covering it up to pretend like it’s yours, changing the original author’s words here and there to try and tailor it for you...that disgusts me. 

I don’t care how ‘bad’ you think your writing is. How much you talk yourself down and say you’ll never be as good as the ‘popular’ authors, you keep trying. You work hard. You adapt over time. What we aren’t gonna do, is take someone else’s hard work and claim it as your own because you can’t be assed to better yourself. That’s what we won’t do. 

It is well known here that I personally sometimes stay up to ungodly hours of the morning to make my content for you all. So this really...disgusts me on so many more levels. My content, and the content of other creators is not here for you to steal and put on your fridge and say it’s your own. Most of us put these things here for free. The least you can do is respect us as creators and our work. 

I’ve issued a full DMCA takedown of the stolen work and Admin Cy is working hard behind the scenes to find the other authors of the other stolen works bc of course, like with most shameless reposters, they usually steal more than one. I take this very seriously and just so everyone is clear;

Plagiarism is illegal. It is punishable by law. 

Just because my work is not fully original and it does use idols or whoever I decide to write a fic about, does not omit it from the fact that legal action can and will be taken. As the writer, I own the copyrights to my own work and if I find my shit on your blog, you bet your ass I’m gonna have it shut down. 

Share works, support them, be inspired by them, but do NOT go and fucking slap us creators in the face like this by stealing our shit, especially when you try to pass this off as your own. 

If you are reading this, and have someone else's work reposted somewhere else, I implore you to take it down, apologize to the person you stole it from (whether they caught wind or not, you owe them that much for stealing in the first place) and reevaluate yourself. Better yourself as a person and then try the writing thing again. Your own work this time.

And those of you who may scoff at this, think you can't be caught, think somehow in your mind that you stealing peoples work for your own selfish benefit is okay...unfollow me. Leave and dont come back. All of my works, dont touch them. I dont need likes or reblogs or comments from someone who would so carelessly put aside a content creator's feelings and ignore the fact that we all say this to people, writers and artists alike to NOT repost our hard work.

Idk where you're from in the world, its 2020, the concept of "reposting is stealing" /"dont repost my work" is not foreign or some niche thing. We have artists and authors who post it in their bios and everything telling you not to repost bc they're tired of it. You have NO excuse for this behavior and if you condone this behavior and see nothing wrong with these actions, I ask you leave my blog(s) and dont come back. I do not tolerate this at all, not for myself or others.

Thank you.

-Fie, Atiny-PirateQueen/Flora-Jimin

[radioactive-mouse]

overcomplicated niche and close-to-my-heart xeph&strife lore gang rise UP give us the deets op - @strifesolution

me: ask about my xephos and strife lore

anyone: asks

me: oh fuck oh shit-

heads up a lot of this was made in conjunction with @chaotic-solutions because we never shut up about yogscast so like. go follow them this is a threat.

CW: a lot of talk about depression and addiction because blood magic is Bad

but basically i am very adamant about alien strife and xephos, and the fact that strife went to college with sips is incredibly funny and under appreciated. i feel many different emotions about them being a dumb college trio.

so strife and xephos were roommates in college who started dating like, probably their sophomore year, and sips was their mutual friend that lived a few doors down and was in strife’s Evil Corporate Overlord class. (it wasn’t actually even called that, it’s literally just a business course. calling it that is an old joke between them that stuck even if no one gets it)

Very unfortunately for everyone involved, mid sophomore year is also when Strife started to get really into blood magic. The thing about how I hc blood magic is like, not only is it morally fucked up as hell, but it’s also incredibly bad for you. No matter how careful you think you’re being your blood isn’t even your own anymore, replaced with witches’ and villagers’ and it might make you powerful but it’s cold, feels alien beneath your skin, and quitting is nearly impossible. your altar is what sustains you, keeps you alive even if it leaves you feeling dead on your feet, and it always wants more. im getting long winded but my point is blood magic fucks with you.

it’s nearly a year before strife tells xephos that he can’t live like this anymore. he’s tried to quit and he can’t and it hurts, letting his altar run dry makes his blood feel like it’s boiling and there’s no way out. and xephos tugs him in close and kisses his forehead and tells him that they’ll find a way.

they can’t exactly just look into it, blood magic isn’t the most talked about thing, much less how to quit it, but if there’s one thing the yogs can fall back on its explosives. and sips is good with them, too, because listen i KNOW the meta reason why they had red matter is because sjin spawned it in but the idea that sips accidentally made a wormhole-creating hell explosive is the funniest shit to me. but long story short they blow up strifes altar and it hurts, it hurts like hell but for once the magic isn’t pressing in on him, begging for him to hurt someone, and such a relief that he almost forgets that he feels like he’s dying.

there’s a solid two weeks of recovery, the first of which had everyone genuinely worried that strife might be dying, being cut off from his altar, but he’s fine. he feels like shit, but he’s fine.

(A really similar sequence of events happens with parv post-blood and chaos which i WILL go off about if literally anyone would like to know)

from then on they’re pretty much in the clear for the rest of college being dumb kids trying to graduate, as strife recovers from all of That.

that is, you know, until xephos crashes his ship on minecraftia during his flight school final and is presumed dead.

strife and sips do try to stay friends, but the only person strife’s developed a close relationship with just vanished into thin air and xephos going missing sends sips spiraling into a depression that leads to him dropping out and running off to minecraftia to start a fucking dirt business. strife finishes college alone and gains 1000 more trust issues and functions pretty much on his own until solutions in chaos.

and listen, i know the plot is that xephos sent parvis to strife to learn minecraft, but i see your canon and throw it into a lake, doing as i please. jaffa factory happens (which again. i disregard canon and sips and xephos’ meeting went much differently) and sips mentions to xephos at some point when strife solutions is starting that strife’s setting up a business on planet and xephos goes to see him and they do all the mushy reunion stuff that makes my heart melt. they aren’t a romantic thing anymore at any point after college because they’ve both pretty obviously moved on, but they are best fucking friends and having someone familiar around is comforting for both of them.