#least my really big ones either have a modicum of effort or are just really funny

[hickeygender]

finished my edit and rewatched it after exporting. i then decided the excessively blue cgi bridge jump (derogatory) was pissing me off SO much that i went back and fixed its god awful filter as much as i could without making the compression obvious. then i color graded the whole vid as well which took an hour bc i'm indecisive and ignorant 🤡🤡 at least the blood and explosions look better, and i don't want to gouge my eyes out as much watching the jump (i adore this movie and everyone who worked on it but girl this isn't the blue man group...)

[echodrops]

Is there anything you wish your students would do, not do, or get better at? Other than like... Making sure to read their syllabi? Just curious!

1. Please, I am begging you, read the assignment instructions. In fact, read them twice. At least. 

I’m going to tell you a secret: every (decent) professor will tell their students that there is no such thing as stupid questions and to please contact us with any question (please please please). However, the truth is, even though every (decent) professor will politely answer any question a student sends, if the assignment instructions say “Read the poem on page 345 of our textbook and answer the following close reading questions” and then I open my email and see that a student has sent me a message asking “What page is the poem on?” that is, in fact, a stupid question.

After an entire day’s lecture on determining purpose and audience in essay assignments, I recently gave my freshman students an activity that was clearly labelled “Figuring Out Who Your Audience Is.” This activity was a packet that contained the instructions for three different essays, with instructions at the top of each page that clearly stated “Read the assignment guidelines below, and determine who the target audience of this essay might be. Think about demographics--is this essay targeting older people, younger people? People of a certain ethnicity or from a specific location? Describe the intended audience of the essay.” At least five students from the class failed to read the instructions and, instead of describing the audience for each essay... They simply started trying to write three full essays. (Because yes, I definitely wanted you guys to stop in the middle of our unit on audience to write a full op-ed piece about bicycle trails...) 

Read all the instructions on the assignment, please. 

-

2. Be an active participant, not a hapless bystander.

At least a few times a semester, I have a student come to me after an assignment was due and go “I’m sorry I didn’t turn the assignment in. I didn’t know how to do _______ thing, so I didn’t want to turn it in and be wrong” or “I’m sorry I didn’t do the peer review, I couldn’t find my partner’s contact info.”

What? Every time this happens I just thousand-yard stare for a second, because honestly, in what world is not doing anything the correct response to being confused?

If you’re confused, you do need to ask your questions (yes, even if the questions seem dumb). Just doing nothing because you’re confused about something is the absolute worst response. If you don’t know how something works, don’t know how to find something your professor told you to go work on, or don’t know who your group members are for a group project, do not just passively assume the information will be given to you if you wait long enough. 

You need to be a proactive participant in your own education; if you cannot find something your professor told you to go find, you need to ask for help right away. If you don’t know who your group members are, you need to ask for help right away. If you don’t know which pages you’re supposed to be reading that week, you need to go look for that information right away, not two days after the work was due.

Likewise, I also want to specify here that even though (decent) professors will answer the really obvious questions (honestly, a student once asked me “What chapter are we supposed to take notes on for the Chapter Five Notes assignment?”), that doesn’t mean that students are excused from putting in a modicum of effort to try to find out the answers to obvious questions on their own. If you can’t find the pages for an assigned reading, check the obvious places (your LMS such as Canvas, the class syllabus, etc.) first before asking. Re-read the assignment title and instructions before sending in your questions. Check through your emails/LMS announcements for messages from the professor first. 

If you’re confused, please ask questions--but do put in a basic amount of effort to check first and see if your question has already been answered.

-

3. Learn how weighted grades and percentages work and how they will impact you. 

Most classes in college sort assignments into weighted categories. What this means is that even if two assignments are both listed at 100 points, one might actually be worth more if it is a category that is “weighted” more heavily. For example, if there are three categories in a class, one worth 50% of the final grade, and two worth 25% of the final grade, assignments in the 50% category are automatically more important and worth more to your final percentage than assignments in the 25% categories.

Understanding this is important because this is how you get away with not doing everything.

To be honest, as a literature professor, I assure you that I am fully aware that students are not going to do every single reading assigned in my class. When I was a literature student, I didn’t do all the readings either. I’m aware.

But what I do expect, as a professor, is that students think ahead and skip strategically--make sure to do all the assignments in the heavily weighted categories, and if you’re going to miss assignments, make sure they’re the smaller assignments in the lower-weighted categories, which will have less impact on your total final grade.

Often I see students fall behind and then tell me they are working hard to catch up. But what do I see as they’re trying to catch up? They turn in all the little assignments and leave the big assignments missing, which means that inevitably they still struggle to pass the class as a whole.

Pay attention to the weights of grades and assignments in your classes so that you know exactly which ones are going to affect your final grades the most, and make sure to work hardest on those.

There’s plenty more, of course, but I think that’s enough for now.

[paenling]

no ones saying you cant enjoy daniil? people like him as a character but mostly Because he’s an asshole and he’s interesting. the racism and themes of colonization in patho are so blatant

nobody said “by order of Law you are forbidden from enjoying daniil dankovsky in any capacity”, but they did say “if you like daniil dankovsky you are abnormal, problematic, and you should be ashamed of yourself”, so i’d call that an implicit discouragement at the least. not very kind.

regardless, he is a very interesting asshole and we love to make fun of him! but i do not plan to stop seeing his character in an empathetic light when appropriate to do so. we’re all terribly human.

regarding “the racism and themes of colonization in patho”, we’ve gotta have a sit-down for this one because it’s long and difficult. tl;dr here.

i’ve written myself all back and forth and in every direction trying to properly pin down the way i feel about this in a way that is both logically coherent and emotionally honest, but it’s not really working. i debated even responding at all, but i do feel like there are some things worth saying so i’m just going to write a bunch of words, pick a god, and pray it makes some modicum of sense.

the short version: pathologic 2 is a flawed masterwork which i love deeply, but its attempts to be esoteric and challenging have in some ways backfired when it comes to topical discussions such as those surrounding race, which the first game didn’t give its due diligence, and the second game attempted with incomplete success despite its best efforts.

the issue is that when you have a game that is so niche and has these “elevated themes” and draws from all this kind of academic highbrow source material -- the fandom is small, but the fandom consists of people who want to analyze, pathologize, and dissect things as much as possible. so let’s do that.

first: what exactly is racist or colonialist in pathologic? i’m legitimately asking. people at home: by what mechanism does pathologic-the-game inflict racist harm on real people? the fact that the Kin are aesthetically and linguistically inspired by the real-world Buryat people (& adjacent groups) is a potential red flag, but as far as i can tell there’s never any value judgement made about either the fictionalized Kin or the real-world Buryat. the fictional culture is esoteric to the player -- intended to be that way, in fact -- but that’s not an inherently bad thing. it’s a closed practice and they’re minding their business.

does it run the risk of being insensitive with sufficiently aggressive readings? absolutely, but i don’t think that’s racist by itself. they’re just portrayed as a society of human beings (and some magical ones, if you like) that has flaws and incongruences just as the Town does. it’s not idealizing or infantilizing these people, but by no means does it go out of its way to villainize them either. there is no malice in this depiction of the Kin. 

is it the fact that characters within both pathologic 1 & 2 are racist? that the player can choose to say racist things when inhabiting those characters? no, because pathologic-the-game doesn’t endorse those things. they’re throwaway characterization lines for assholes. acknowledging that racism exists does not make a media racist. see more here.

however, i find it’s very important to take a moment and divorce the racial discussions in a game like pathologic 2 from the very specific experiences of irl western (particularly american) racism. it’s understandable for such a large chunk of the english-speaking audience to read it that way; it makes sense, but that doesn’t mean it’s correct. although it acknowledges the relevant history to some extent, on account of being set in 1915, pathologic 2 is not intended to be a commentary about race, and especially not current events, and especially especially not current events in america. it’s therefore unfair, in my opinion, to attempt to diagnose it with any concrete ideology or apply its messages to an american racial paradigm.

it definitely still deals with race, but it always, to me, seemed to come back around the exploitation of race as an ultimately arbitrary division of human beings, and the story always strove to be about human beings far more than it was ever about race. does it approach this topic perfectly? no, but it’s clearly making an effort. should we be aware of where it fails to do right by the topic? yes, definitely, but we should also be charitable in our interpretations of what the writers were actually aiming for, rather than reactionarily deeming them unacceptable and leaving it at that. do we really think the writers for pathologic 2 sat down and said “we’re going to go out of our way to be horrible racists today”? i don’t.

IPL’s writing team is a talented lot, and dybowski as lead writer has the kinds of big ideas that elevate a game to a work of art, particularly because he’s not afraid to get personal. on that front, some discussion is inescapable as pathologic 2 deals in a lot of racial and cultural strife, because it’s clearly something near to the his heart, but as i understand it was never really meant to be a narrative “about” race, at least not exclusively so, and especially not in the same sense as the issue is understood by the average American gamer. society isn't a monolith and the contexts are gonna change massively between different cultures who have had, historically, much different relationships with these concepts.

these themes are “so blatant” in pathologic 2 because clearly, on some level, IPL wanted to start a discussion. I think it’s obvious that they wanted to make the audience uncomfortable with the choices they were faced with and the characters they had to inhabit -- invoke a little ostranenie, as it were, and force an emotional breaking point. in the end the game started a conversation and i think that’s something that was done in earnest, despite its moments of obvious clumsiness. 

regarding colonialism, this is another thing that the game is just Not About. we see the effects and consequences of colonialism demonstrated in the world of pathologic, and it’s something we’re certainly asked to think about from time to time, but the actual plot/narrative of the game is not about overcoming or confronting explicitly colonialist constructs, etc. i personally regard this as a bit of a missed opportunity, but it’s just not what IPL was going for.

instead they have a huge focus, as discussed somewhat in response to this ask, on the broader idea of powerful people trying to create a “utopia” at the mortal cost of those they disempower, which is almost always topical as far as i’m concerned, and also very Russian.

i think there was some interview where it was said that the second game was much more about “a mechanism that transforms human nature” than the costs of utopia, but it’s still a persistent enough theme to be worth talking about both as an abstraction of colonialism as well as in its more-likely intended context through the lens of wealth inequality, environmental destruction & government corruption as universal human issues faced by the marginalized classes. i think both are important and intelligent readings of the text, and both are worth discussion.

both endings of pathologic 2 involve sacrifice in the name of an “ideal world” where it’s impossible to ever be fully satisfied. in the Diurnal Ending, Artemy is tormented over the fate of the Kin and the euthanasia of his dying god and all her miracles, but he needs to have faith that the children he’s protected will grow up better than their parents and create a world where he and his culture will be immortalized in love. in the Nocturnal Ending, he’s horrified because in preserving the miracle-bound legacy of his people as a collective, he’s un-personed himself to the individuals he loves, but he needs to have faith that the uniqueness and magic of the resurrected Earth was precious enough to be worth that sacrifice. neither ending is fair. it’s not fair that he can’t have both, but that’s the idea. because that “utopia” everyone’s been chasing is an idol that distracts from the important work of being a human being and doing your best in a flawed world. 

because pathologic’s themes as a series are so very “Russian turn-of-the-century” and draw a ton of stylistic and topical inspiration from the theatre and literature of that era, i don’t doubt that it’s also inherited some of its inspirational literature’s missteps. however, because the game’s intertextuality is so incredibly dense it’s difficult to construct a super cohesive picture of its actual messaging. a lot of its references and themes will absolutely go over your head if you enter unprepared -- this was true for me, and it ended up taking several passes and a bunch of research to even begin appreciating the breadth of its influences.

(i’d argue this is ultimately a good thing; i would never have gone and picked up Camus or Strugatsky, or even known who Antonin Artaud was at all if i hadn’t gone in with pathologic! my understanding is still woefully incomplete and it’s probably going to take me a lot more effort to get properly fluent in the ideology of the story, but that’s the joy of it, i think. :) i’m very lucky to be able to pursue it in this way.)

anyway yes, pathologic 2 is definitely very flawed in a lot of places, particularly when it tries to tackle race, but i’m happy to see it for better and for worse. the game attempts to discuss several adjacent issues and stumbles as it does so, but insinuating it to be in some way “pro-racist” or “pro-colonialist” or whatever else feels kind of disingenuous to me. they’re clearly trying, however imperfectly, to do something intriguing and meaningful and empathetic with their story.

even all this will probably amount to a very disjointed and incomplete explanation of how pathologic & its messaging makes me feel, but what i want -- as a broader approach, not just for pathologic -- is for people to be willing to interpret things charitably. 

sometimes things are made just to be cruel, and those things should be condemned, but not everything is like that. it’s not only possible but necessary to be able to acknowledge flaws or mistakes and still be kind. persecuting something straight away removes any opportunity to examine it and learn from it, and pathologic happens to be ripe with learning experiences. 

it’s all about being okay with ugliness, working through difficult nuances with grace, and the strength of the human spirit, and it’s a story about love first and foremost, and i guess we sort of need that right now. it gave me some of its love, so i’m giving it some of my patience.

[imagineaworlds]

I Love You (Part Forty-Seven) -- Aaron Hotchner

Written By: @desperately-bisexual

Request: None.

Warnings: Cursing. Mentions of PTSD, Dom/sub relationship, death, etc-- everything Criminal Minds.. I think that’s it???

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Greenaway!Reader

Word Count: 12575

Timeline: Season 7 Episode 01. Three months after part forty-six.

For the past three months, the team had worked dozens of different cases across the country, but none of them mattered except for the one that Morgan, Garcia, and I had been working on privately. Since I came back to work and was deemed the temporary unit chief, I decided to reopen the Ian Doyle case. At first, it was just me. When I wasn’t at work, I was at home, hiding in the upstairs office, working on trying to piece all of the evidence together to figure out where the hell Doyle could have possibly gone. But then it was just too hard to keep doing it on my own, and all of my resources were wasted. There was only one person who had access to more information than I did. Garcia. So, I asked if she would be willing to help me, but it was impossible for her to keep a secret, so we invited Morgan to help us. From there, we managed to find Declan, but we didn’t tell anyone about it outside of our small group of three.

Finding Declan was an interesting process. I had hit a wall with it, hence why I acquired Garcia’s help, but she managed to find him almost immediately after she told Derek what was going on and he helped profile Emily in order to profile Declan. He figured that she had been the one to move him considering how she died protecting his identity and location. Before joining the team, apparently she lived in Reston, Virginia, something I didn’t know about her, but he managed to know. From there, we decided that it was probably to be close to Declan. So, we started narrowing it down. We knew that she liked cul-de-sacs, so as Garcia was going through the school system to find kids that looked like Declan, she compared if their guardian looked like Louise, his nanny, and if they lived in a cul-de-sac. Then, bam. We found them.

Morgan had been the one to offer up the idea of looking for Declan before Ian because if we found Declan, then so would his father eventually, which made our job easier. After that, it was just a waiting game. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much we could do beyond searching all of the footage to see if Ian ever showed up, which he never did. When Morgan and I were away on cases, Penelope kept an eye on him; and when we were in town but not working on anything, Morgan was driving baby Emily out there and taking her on walks around Declan’s neighborhood to scout the place. I think it was also just an excuse for him to have Emily more.

On our way to work one morning, Morgan and I stopped to get sandwiches for lunch, as well as some donuts from Leonard’s for the office since we were feeling generous, I suppose. At work, we split off so that he could sit in the bullpen while I dragged my feet up to my office. I didn’t understand how Hotch did it. Being away from the team all day, every day was so… isolating and exhausting. There was no joking with Morgan, teasing Reid, or… well, when Emily was around, there was no more chatting with her and gossiping about Hotch. I missed the way she used to slide in veiled threats into the conversation about how she would hurt him if he ever hurt me. So, then again, maybe it was a good thing that I wasn’t down in the bullpen anymore. Sitting at my old desk would have just given me a reason to sit there and stare at her desk all day, reflecting on what it was like to have her around, wishing that I could bring her back.

By lunch time, Morgan rescued our sandwiches from the fridge and brought them up to my office. He closed the door behind him and sat down across from me. I caught my sandwich as he threw it at me, then tossed him a water bottle from Hotch’s secret stash in his bookshelf behind the desk. I hadn’t really changed anything. For the most part, the office was still exactly how he left it. From the artwork to the family photos, to the stacks of case files that he practically left for me on his desk to work through, to his computer wallpaper of us, it was all still Hotch. The only difference was that I was finding all of his secrets now, like the water bottles, and totally taking advantage of them.

Morgan kicked his feet up on the desk, something Hotch would’ve never let him do in a thousand years, and dug into his lunch. I picked at mine for a moment while thinking. I was doing too much of that nowadays. Without my “other half” (or some cliché shit like that) around, I didn’t really know who to talk to 24/7 about what I was thinking and feeling. Sure, I could’ve talked to Morgan, but it was different. When I talked to Morgan, it was like we were brainstorming for a solution; but with Hotch, it was just like he was there to listen, and I could go on and on for hours, and he would hear me out, and he would only offer up a solution if he felt it were necessary. Sometimes I just liked ranting my thoughts to him. I liked watching how he would slowly get lost in the details of my face as I would be talking, and how he it looked like he was falling in love with me over and over again with every minute that passed. Skype and calling on the phone every day didn’t do that look justice anymore.

“Oh, my god—Oh, my god—Oh, my god!” Garcia came running into the office with a laptop balancing on one of her arms. Morgan and I turned to face her. “It’s him! It’s him!” She quickly set her laptop down on my desk and pressed play on a video. Morgan and I both leaned forward in our seats to watch the security footage from Declan’s house. “It’s Doyle—” She paused and pointed to a driver in a car passing by. It was kind of hard to see, but when she zoomed the image in and enhanced it, it was undeniably Ian Doyle.

“When was this?” I asked, jumping into action by standing from my seat and started collecting everything we had on this case thus far.

“Two hours ago.”

“He could have Declan by now. Fuck.” I looked at the two of them to say, “Okay, I think it’s time. I’m going to call Hotch to let him know, meanwhile, I need you guys to get the team together and start explaining everything. I want Reid and Rossi to go retrieve Declan and Louise after they’re briefed.” I grabbed my phone from my desk. “Go.” Just as they were leaving, I dialed Hotch’s satellite phone out in the Middle East.

Hotch and I had still been calling each other every day and Skyping as often as we could. The longer he was there, however, the busier he and I got with our two different jobs, which made it increasingly complicated to keep up with each other. But we made the effort. We knew that if at least one day passed where we wouldn’t talk, one day would inevitably turn into two, then three, and so on. I didn’t want to stop talking to him. As boring as the conversations could get at times, at least I got to see him. He was growing out a beard that I happened to love, but Jack hated. He claimed that it made his dad look old. When we could talk in private a little bit later, I told Hotch that I thought it was hot, and that I couldn’t wait to pull at it while he towered over me. He disliked when I teased him like that, though.

When I called, he picked up almost immediately.

“You’re calling awfully early,” Hotch said over the phone, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Do you have a minute?”

“For you? I have all the time in the world.”

I blushed to myself and looked down to watch the toes of my shoe dig into the ground over and over again. “There’s something you need to know, baby, and you have to promise to not get mad.” He didn’t say anything. “Morgan, Garcia, and I have been looking for Doyle while you’ve been gone.” Still, nothing. “We found Declan.”

“What?!”

“Hotch—”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this, Y/N? Do you know how stupid that was? Your whole career could—”

“I don’t care about that, Hotch. I really don’t. I knew that finding Declan was the best way of finding Ian, so I asked Garcia to help; and you know her, she couldn’t keep it to herself, so she told Morgan, and he insisted that he help us. He’s basically the one who found Declan. Without the two of them, I wouldn’t have any leads.”

Hotch sighed quietly. “Is Declan safe?”

“Yes.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Morgan’s still surveilling him—But, Hotch, listen, we were right. By watching Declan all this time, we got eyes on Ian.”

He hesitated for a moment. “You’re sure?” He sounded more scared than angry now. I hummed a “yes” in response. “Baby, listen to me right now.”

I bit my lip. “I’m listening, Sir.”

He chuckled slightly. “If you get eyes on Doyle, you need to take the shot. Got it? Don’t let him get away again.” He sounded out of breath now like he was running around. “I’m coming back to help.”

I felt my heart skip a beat and the air leave my lungs with one shocked gasp. He was coming back. After three months, I was finally going to get to hold him in my arms again, and I was going to get to kiss his lips again. Holy shit. He was coming home. My husband was coming back to me. I almost wanted to dance and cheer, scream from the top of my lungs how happy I was and that I couldn’t wait to see him; but I had to show a modicum of respect still, so I buried that feeling until I would get to see him again.

“You can do that?” I questioned cautiously. As happy as I was, could he really just abandon his post to come back like that? It sounded almost too good to be true.

“I put in the request to transfer back to Quantico about two weeks ago.” And he didn’t tell me? “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to get your hopes up on anything; but they don’t need me here anymore, so it’s not a big deal if they find a replacement.” I hopped slightly with joy and giggled. Hotch chuckled at me. “I can’t wait to see you, baby.”

Even considering the circumstances, I couldn’t wait to see him either. “Call me when you’re landing.”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

----

By the time Garcia followed traffic camera footage across the state just to see where Doyle was hiding out, we had a SWAT team with snipers on call, and the team was ready to head out there. Just as I had ordered, Rossi and Reid headed to get Declan, but the drive was pretty far, so I didn’t expect to hear from them for a while, especially while we were in the early stages of staking out Doyle’s place. Morgan, JJ, and I were trapped in a van across the street from his apartment while SWAT was just down the road, and they had two snipers up on separate roofs. All of it was my call, though. The second we had reasonable cause to believe that it was actually Ian Doyle up there, I would be the one to dictate if the snipers or Morgan would be taking the shot, like Hotch said.

“That’s all Hotch said? ‘Take the shot’?” JJ questioned warily. I nodded and shrugged. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Why?”

She shook her head. “Nothing…”

I eyed her suspiciously for a moment, taking into account how her gaze wasn’t resting on one thing, but instead a thousand different things, like she was too anxious to focus. It was odd, but I shrugged it off with the excuse that finding Doyle was a big deal. Since he killed Prentiss, we had all been itching to find him and avenge her. Out of everyone, I knew that JJ would want to know that Doyle was dead because of us. She wanted that justice. I couldn’t exactly tell why, but she had always been like that, especially since getting promoted to being a profiler.

And then my phone started ringing with a call from Spencer who had just arrived at Declan’s house. I figured it was just an update. I mean, him and Rossi were there to simply pick up Declan and Louise, that was it. But then something worrying happened when I picked up the call: Reid sounded concerned.

“Reid?”

“Declan’s missing,” he answered quickly.

“What?”

“We just searched the house, and he’s gone, so we called the school to see if he even made it home, and they told us that his mom picked him up early.”

“Louise?” I speculated.

“I doubt it.” He sounded annoyed now. “She’s dead.”

“Fuck,” I cursed under my breath, then looked up at Morgan and JJ to tell them what was going on. They also cursed, and he hit the side of the car. “Okay. Reid, you and Rossi should meet us here in case we end up seeing—” The sound of a police car’s siren flew past our van, catching our attention. It was just a squad car. No, no, no, no. Fuck. That was going to scare Doyle off. Fuck.

“He’s inside!” Morgan exclaimed. We all turned to face the window to see the drape in Doyle’s apartment window shaking like it had just been disturbed. “I saw him!” Morgan was already fiddling with the door handle and pushing his way out of the car.

“Shit…” This wasn’t at all how I imagined this going down. We were supposed to just monitor the situation, get legitimate confirmation that Doyle was in there, not just Morgan claiming he saw him— But what choice did we have now? “Go, go, go,” I made the call, following Morgan out of the van and hanging up the call with Reid.

JJ, Morgan, and I raced inside first, the SWAT van pulling up behind us and the team moving in, too. When we reached the apartment number, JJ and I stood our ground in the hallway with our weapons raised, and I gave Morgan the signal to kick the door down, which he did without hesitating, and then he dashed inside. The three of us took turned towards different sides of the apartment in order to clear it. Morgan went straight into the living room/bedroom, JJ went into the bathroom on the left, and I stepped into the tiny kitchen on the right. He wasn’t there. Neither was Declan. Reid said that they couldn’t find Declan, so I only assumed that Doyle got to him first. Fuck! How the fuck did he—

“I’ve got something!” Morgan called out. I hurried into the living room/bedroom to see him peeking up at the ceiling inside of the closet. I cocked a brow and carefully approached. “He’s climbing to the roof.” There was a hole in the ceiling for some kind of secret tunnel that led upwards.

“Follow him,” I ordered. “I’ll take the steps. JJ, watch the door downstairs to make sure he doesn’t get out, and coordinate with SWAT to make sure that the block is locked down just in case. Get a crime scene team here to see if Declan was ever here.”

Morgan holstered his weapon then quickly pulled himself up into the tunnel to follow Doyle, meanwhile I hurried out into the hallway to start sprinting up the rest of the stairs, and JJ ran down them. How the fuck did this happen? How did we lose Declan like this, and how was Doyle actually planning on getting out of this?

And then I burst out onto the roof to see Morgan chasing after Doyle who was running for the fire escape on the side of the building. Morgan aimed his weapon, but didn’t shoot. Instead, he tried commanding Doyle to stop. Like that would help.

“I’ve got the shot,” one of the snipers said over the comms.

“Don’t shoot!” I exclaimed. “Don’t!” I knew what Hotch said about taking the shot if given the chance, but things were different now that we couldn’t find Declan in the apartment. Our only way of getting him back now was by keeping his father alive. Asshole. “Hold your fire!” When nothing came, Morgan tackled Doyle and spun him onto his stomach so that he could be handcuffed. “You got it?” I asked him. He nodded while slapping the cuffs on Doyle. “I’ll have JJ take him back to the office while we start going through everything downstairs.”

Morgan groaned as he yanked Doyle up onto his feet. “You’re not gonna let me take a crack at him?”

“Not yet.”

Doyle chuckled. I squinted at him while searching his eyes for a reason that he could have possibly found this funny. He noticed my curiosity. “Lauren was right about you.”

Morgan tugged on Doyle’s restraints to make them hurt. “Shut up.”

Doyle kept laughing as Morgan pushed him towards the stairwell so that JJ could take him to the office like I had ordered. My only question, however, was, what the hell did he mean by that? Lauren was right about me? Right about what? The question lingered in my head as I sighed and moved to walk downstairs, too.

Afterwards, hours passed while we were combing through Doyle’s apartment, trying to find clues about where he must have taken Declan, as well as compiling evidence connecting him to Valhalla and Prentiss’s death. For someone in hiding, there was a lot he had with him. Usually, people in his situation would stay minimalist and wouldn’t have all of their condemning evidence in one spot, but Doyle was so cocky that he wouldn’t get caught that he didn’t bother to keep any of his current business elsewhere. There were so many guns in that one apartment that we could have started another small army. I couldn’t understand how on Earth someone would need all of that. Then again, Doyle already had a small army, and the reason they needed to smuggle all of those weapons out of the state was so that he could maintain power in Europe while he was underground. Well, looked like all of that was worthless now.

I sighed as I stepped outside of that tiny, dirty, smelly, cramped apartment for the first time in over ten hours. It really took that long. Doyle had been sitting at the office the entire time, brewing in his own thoughts, which was our strategy to break him. If he was left in darkness and silence long enough, he would open up. Hopefully. At least, Morgan and I would give it a shot when we would head back to the office. For now, we were down tearing the entire apartment to shreds. The bastard even had papers hiding behind the wallpaper.

When my phone started buzzing in my pocket, I sighed again and dug it out. “Hotchner,” I answered.

“Mmm… I could get used to that,” Hotch’s voice echoed over the phone, making me melt.

I perked up within an instant while looking down at my watch, spotting the time and how long it had been since he last called me, and how he promised he would call when he was close to landing in Virginia. Finally, I thought. “How close are you?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes.”

It was almost morning already. He was probably going to be landing just as the sun would start to peek over the tall buildings of Quantico. “I’m coming to pick you up.”

“Y/N, you should stay—”

“Nope,” I interrupted adamantly.

Hotch chuckled. “You’re really going to be a brat about this right now?”

“Mhm. You can scold me for it when you see me.”

“God, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Hey, sunshine,” Morgan said, sneaking up behind me, “you ready to go?”

“I’ll see you in a few minutes, baby,” I told Hotch. Before he could say anything in return, though, I hung up on him. I hid my grin as I buried my phone in my back pocket, then turned to face Morgan. “Can you handle the interrogation for a bit while I head to the airport?”

“He’s back already?”

“Yeah.”

Morgan nodded. “Go get him.” We smiled at each other. “No detours, though, sunshine. There and back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I responded half-heartedly while already walking away from him. “Just remember, when this is over with, you and Clooney are going home!”

----

To say I was nervous would have been a drastic understatement. I had gone four months without seeing him. Four months without his touch, his kiss, his hold, his love. A lot could change in four months. People could grow apart in four months. I was absolutely terrified that even though we called each other every day, we might not have been the same Hotchners who said goodbye to each other at the airport a few months ago. I knew that I still loved him endlessly— maybe even more now that I had been starved of him for so long. But I didn’t know what happened to him out there. I didn’t know what new experiences he had that could have possibly changed him. For all I knew, he could walk off that plane in a few minutes and walk right past me without a care. I just prayed that he was still Aaron. That the man I fell in love with would walk off that plane and know exactly how to hold me again. It was like I could already feel his touch, even though the plane’s engines hadn’t died out yet. He was so far, but he was so damn close. This was the closest we had been in four fucking months, and I was just so ready to see him already.

The plane came to a slow and steady stop on the runway. With every second that passed, I felt a growing need to throw up everywhere. He was probably sitting in there, watching me through the window, grinning ear to ear because I looked so nervous and sick. He could likely see me, yet I couldn’t see anything but the sun in my eyes. He was always an asshole, but he even had to beat me to the first look. Asshole x2.

The door of the jet popped open, and it started slowly falling down towards the concrete, the stairs on the inside making a slow appearance. I thought about what was going to happen. How was I going to react? How was he going to react? Was it better to stay where I was or was it better to meet him at the bottom of the steps? I felt like even if I wanted to move towards the plane, I wouldn’t have been able to. I was frozen in place as my mind raced with questions and endless possibilities. But there was one thing that was consistent: I was going to hold my husband in my arms, and I was going to tell him that I loved him over and over again until I passed out.

The second I saw a foot step out of the jet, I started sprinting as fast as I could without stopping to think. The rest of him emerged, and Hotch looked around for me. After spotting me from the top of the stairs, Hotch jumped down the steps, dropped his bag on the runway, and started running towards me, too. He held his arms out, an invitation for me to jump and hold him tight, so that was exactly what I did. Our bodies clashed, but he still managed to catch me, even though the force sent him stumbling back a few unwanted steps. My arms flew around his shoulders, my legs wrapped around his hips, my face buried in the crook of his neck. It didn’t matter that he smelled like sweat, sand, and cheap deodorant, because he was finally home with me and that was all that mattered. Hell, I even enjoyed the smell since it just meant that I had him in my arms again.

I squeezed him tight with my arms and legs after he nuzzled his face— beard, sunglasses, and all— into the crook of my neck. The aching in my chest, my broken heart that had been falling apart during every second that he was away from me, slowly started to mend with every breath we took together. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry, scream, cheer, laugh, or all of the above. Every single emotion imaginable was flooding my body and the only way I could cope with it was by nearly squeezing the life out of him while repeating: “I love you, I love you, I love you” over and over in his ear. I never wanted to stop saying it. I prayed that he would never let me go again and that we could say those three words until there was no more breath in our lungs.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” we kept whispering like we were records stuck on repeat. Fuck, I missed the way he said it to me. I missed the way he said my name and the way he called me “baby”. Nothing felt more right than how he spoke to me and how he kissed my neck in between words.

When his beard started tickling my neck, I finally paused to let out a giggle. I leaned back, his arms still around my torso to hold me for support, and I got a good look at him for the first time in months. There was no screen between us, no shitty computer cameras, no god awful Skype buffer, no speakers that cut out every other word. He looked so different than how I remembered him. His face was slimmed behind the scratchy beard he had grown, and his eyes were more sunken with exhaustion— if that were even possible. Aaron Hotchner always had dark circles under his eyes, that was no secret. Between work, the kids, and wrangling me, Hotch never had time to sleep; but Pakistan kicked his ass, and I could see it in every little detail about him.

He watched me with the brightest smile I had ever seen on his face as I brought my left hand up to his face and scratched my nails gently down his beard. “This is even hotter in person,” I smirked.

“It has to go the second I get an electric shaver,” he laughed.

My smirk fell and I pouted, “Are you sure?” He nodded. “But I have literally never wanted to fuck you harder in my entire life.”

He paused and gulped. “Okay, so maybe it can stay for a few days.”

I perked up again at my little victory and scratched it again. “Please don’t ever leave me again. Please.”

“I’d rather die than go away again.”

“Don’t be hyperbolic, Agent Hotchner.” I hit his shoulder playfully. He grinned before tightening his arms around me again to make me lean in for a kiss. I grabbed his face, the hairs on his cheeks tickling my palms as I did so, and I moaned into his mouth. “I love you so much.”

His eyes screwed shut as he slid his tongue into the kiss and claimed dominance. I missed that feeling so much. I missed how he tasted, how he smelled, how he felt, how he had to dominate me every second of every day. I missed getting lost in his eyes and staring at his lips all day until I could finally kiss them until our lips were chapped. If there weren’t a million and one things going on outside of that airport, I would have begged him to take me inside and fuck me in the bathroom. It should have been impossible to need him that much considering everything that was going on with Ian Doyle, yet there I was, only thinking about showing Aaron Hotchner how much I loved him.

Hotch pulled away from my lips, but he kept his nose pressed to mine. “Emily?”

“At home with Jessica.”

“Jack?”

“At school.”

“You?”

“The most relieved I have ever been in my life.” I leaned in and kissed him again. I thought to myself: “Please, never let this end. Let us stay trapped in each other’s arms forever. Never let us get tired of kissing each other, of holding each other, of saying ‘I love you’. Never let the desperation for passion die. Never let me miss him ever again. Keep him by my side until we die of old age. Please.”

And just like he could read my mind, Hotch loosened his hold on me ever so slightly, making me drop down to my feet, and he said, “We should get back to the office.”

I shook my head. “Just… One more minute… Please.”

“One more minute will turn into an hour at least, you know that.”

“Is that so bad?”

“No, it isn’t.” Hotch cupped my cheeks and kissed me as hard as he could. After a short minute of him kissing me like he had been starved of it for years, Hotch pushed me away. Our hands fell to our sides and I bit my lip while I tried to focus on not jumping on him again. “We have to go.”

I tried to catch my breath, my chest rising and falling at a dramatic pace. It took every ounce of strength and self-restraint I had stored away to not jump back on him and kiss him again. I felt like I was going to cry because he wasn’t in my arms again. I felt like screaming and kicking— throwing a tantrum like Jack would. I felt like at any moment, the two of us would break, and I would tackle him to the ground before showering him in kisses and pinning him down so that he couldn’t leave me again.

Hotch stumbled away from me to grab his go-bag from where he dropped it because he had the same look I had, and I knew that he was sharing the same thoughts. When he came back, he took my hand, and we walked towards the car. I started catching him up on everything we knew about the case thus far. Ian and Declan, all of Ian’s business papers that he had in his apartment. I realized then just how little we actually knew. Hopefully by the time we got back to the office, Morgan would have something out of Doyle that would help.

I drove the whole way to Quantico because he was too tired from the flight and the time zones. He had one of my hands trapped in his instead of on the steering wheel, and he kept kissing my knuckles again and again. He wasn’t listening to me. Not that I blamed him. If he wanted to just talk shop and I was sitting there, not distracted by driving, I would’ve been antsy to shower him in love, too. But Morgan said no detours. As much as it pained me, he was right that there really wasn’t any time to drive home, or even pull to the side of the road to fuck Hotch. I really, really wanted to, though; so, I figured the longer I distracted myself with work, the better off we would be. After this, though… Once this was all resolved… I wasn’t letting him go.

At the office, Hotch and I headed up to the sixth floor, somehow managing to go that entire time without touching each other. I wanted to kiss him again. I wanted to hold him again. While we were standing in the elevator, I stared at him and thought about pushing him against the wall, but it wasn’t worth it right now. I hated this inner battle I was having to fight between wanting him all to myself in that very moment and just focusing wholeheartedly on the case. The worst thought hit me suddenly… Maybe it would have been better if he didn’t come back so soon… I mean, he was just so distracting, I felt like I couldn’t celebrate this win as much as I should’ve been.

And then we stepped onto the floor.

“Hey.” Hotch grabbed my hand, tugging me back a few steps towards him. “You trust me, right?”

I furrowed my brows as I turned to face him. Of course I trusted him. Why wouldn’t I? He was my husband, and we made a promise to each other a long time ago to not keep any secrets from one another. I had no reason to doubt him. I wouldn’t have met him at the airport like that if I didn’t trust and love him wholeheartedly.

“You know that I do everything for a reason?”

What was he on about? Was there something I missed between meeting him at the airport and walking into the building with him? Why was he suddenly acting so weird?

I put my hands on his biceps. “Listen. I know that you told me you were in an all guys unit. If there’s something you want to say about it, I’m all ears. And I’m going to support you no matter what.” I bit back a smile.

Hotch cracked a smile. “No,” he shook his head, “that’s not what I mean.”

“Phew.” I rolled my eyes playfully. “I thought I was going to have to give you the birds and the bees talk, and how love is love—”

“Shut up.” He laughed before kissing me.

I pushed him back gently. “I’m just saying, if you’re going to cheat on me, it should at least be with a guy so that you get to experiment a bit.” I patted his chest.

He was still laughing quietly. “What am I going to do with you, Agent Hotchner?”

“I don’t know, Agent Hotchner,” I responded as I let him pull me back in for another kiss. “I’m sure you’ll think of something before we get home after this case, though.” I pecked his lips again, then escaped into the board room.

Everyone was standing behind the round table, huddled together as they discussed something about the case. It seemed as though Morgan had just finished his first attempt at getting information out of Doyle, to no avail. They were discussing how he was going to approach the second try, but no one’s ideas seemed to stick since Morgan had an excuse for why none of it would work. It was like we had hit a dead end, even though Doyle was the end, technically. He was the one who took Declan, and he was the one who took our sister from us. Prentiss was dead because of him, and we weren’t going to let him get away this time.

When Hotch walked into the room, everyone fell silent and turned to get a look at him. Hotch really didn’t seem to care about our no PDA at work rule now, because as everyone’s eyes lingered on him and his beard, Hotch came over to me, took my hand in his, and kissed my cheek. A lot changed for him in the Middle East, I guess. He missed me and he didn’t care what rules we had. He wanted to just have me around all the time, and I couldn’t blame him. But, technically, I was still the unit chief until Hotch could officially come back, and I couldn’t let us break the rules. Now I understood why Hotch was always so adamant about me behaving while at work. It was excruciatingly painful to not touch and kiss him just because I was the boss and had to set an example.

I moved away from Hotch, taking my seat at the round table. Everyone followed my lead warily, their eyes still trained on Hotch. Him and JJ didn’t sit, though. They were the only ones who stayed on their feet at the front of the room. Hotch had his arms crossed, a frown hiding under his facial hair, his eyes wandering around the room as he thought nervously about something. This had to do with him asking about my trust, but I didn’t understand how. Him worrying about something and not telling me almost immediately was only making me worry, too. He needed to spit it out fast or I would go insane.

“Everything alright, Hotch?” Morgan asked, also taking notice of Hotch’s clear unease.

Hotch didn’t nod or give any kind of reassurance that everything was alright. Instead, he shifted his weight on the balls of his feet— a silent tell that something was definitely wrong. He kept his head down now, only glancing up through his lashes occasionally to look at me. A thought struck me that maybe my joke wasn’t really a joke in the hallway. Four months was a long time to go without me, and it probably didn’t help that all he got was shitty phone sex. Maybe he really did change out there in the desert. Maybe he was showering me in love because he was going to drop a huge ass bomb that said: “I’m leaving you” or “I’m quitting the BAU and running away forever” or “I’m taking the kids and you’ll never see them again.” Every shit scenario possible was racing through my head. Like I said, if he wasn’t going to spit it out soon, I was going to start screaming for answers.

“Nine months ago,” Hotch began, “I made a decision that affected this team. As you all know, Prentiss lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle. We told you that she succumbed to her wounds…” He hesitated a beat. “That’s not really the case.”

Shock filled the room as it dawned on each of us what Hotch was really saying. I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions because I really, really didn’t want to get my hopes up… but it sounded like he was telling us that Prentiss was alive. That over the past seven months, we have been led to believe that she died in that hospital.

“The truth is, the doctors were able to stabilize her, and she was airlifted to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration.”

My shoulders fell. So, it was true. Emily Prentiss was alive. The woman we mourned the loss of for seven months was… still around all along? That was why Hotch asked if I trusted him. That was why he was being so handsy. He knew that I hated it when he kept things from me. He knew that I hated it when he would betray my trust like this. I yelled at him for weeks the last time he did it— which was our suspension over two years ago. He was asking about trust and touching me as often as he could because he didn’t know if this admission of the truth was going to break us apart. This wasn’t like him lying and going to ask for a transfer out of the BAU. This wasn’t like him lying to me about his health. This was Emily Prentiss. This was our sister we lost in the field. We buried her. Why did Hotch… What… I— My thoughts were too scrambled to form another cohesive thought other than: “How could he do this to us?”

“After she got better, she was reassigned to Paris, where she was given multiple fake identities so that she could be safe,” Hotch continued.

“She’s alive?” Spencer finally asked the clarifying question we were all dying to know the answer to.

Hotch nodded shortly, keeping his eyes lowered. He wasn’t even looking at me now because of the shame and guilt he likely felt.

“But we buried her,” Spencer croaked.

Hotch nodded again. “If anyone has any issues with the executive decision that I made, then they can take it up with me.”

“Issues?” Morgan asked angrily. “Issues, Hotch? Yeah, I’ve got a few issues, but why don’t you start with the fact that you let your own wife believe that Emily was dead and let them name your daughter after her because of it, hmm? Don’t you think that you owe Y/N an explanation?”

“Morgan,” I hissed quietly. It was neither the time nor the place to discuss my daughter. I had a few choice words for Hotch running through my head, but I fully intended on keeping them to myself until Hotch and I could speak privately.

“Emily’s alive, Y/N. How are you going to explain that to your daughter as she grows up?”

“Stop it,” I demanded more harshly.

There wasn’t anything Morgan could say to me that I didn’t already know. Hotch had betrayed everything we believed in and promised each other. He had told me countless times since meeting me that he would never lie to me, and every time he ended up breaking that promise, he would tell me that it wouldn’t happen again. But there we were. Another promise broken. Even worse, though, was the fact that he made a vow to me on our wedding day that he would always be honest with me. Always. And yet he kept this a secret from me. Did he not trust that I could have kept it a secret? Morgan was right, I was owed an explanation. Hotch kept this from me, his wife for nine months. What else was he hiding? How was I ever supposed to trust him again?

I stood from my seat and turned for the door. No one said anything as I took a step but came to a sudden halt when I discovered that my path was blocked by someone in my way. I felt like I was going to pass out. There was she was: Emily Prentiss… standing right in front of me. Back from the dead.

She let out a sigh of regret, but also relief, when our eyes met. She looked sorry about how all of this happened. And she should have been. Morgan sat on our couch for months, crying because he missed her so much. I named my daughter after her because I missed her so much and I wanted her memory to be remembered. What was it all for, though, now that was standing there? What was the point now? Morgan was right to be vocally angry because he knew that I couldn’t. But as mad as I was at Hotch, I felt an overwhelming need to hug her. I crashed into her. I didn’t hesitate. Nine months without her. Nine fucking months.

Emily caught me as I embraced her as tightly as I could. She rubbed small circles on my back as she held me close. “I am so sorry, Y/N.”

I sniffled into her shoulder while I hugged her tighter. She was there. Like, really there. I wasn’t dreaming or hoping anymore. It was her. Our family was back. And I was just so relieved. I couldn’t even be mad at her. But I could tell as I pulled away from Emily and turned to look at the room with her that Morgan was pissed beyond compare. Everyone was crying because they were so grateful for the fact that she was still alive. However, Morgan wasn’t. He was standing there, pouting with disbelief, his hands curled into shaky fists that were holding in all of his anger.

She carefully let go of me and approached Morgan. “Derek, you have to believe me when I tell you that not a day went by where I didn’t think about you guys and how sorry I am that things turned out this way. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I didn’t deserve to know that you were alive?” he questioned through gritted teeth.

“You didn’t deserve to hold a dying friend in your arms.” Prentiss extended her arms for another hug, a silent offer for him, which he took slowly, as if he were afraid that he would fall right through her like she was some kind of ghost. When they embraced, however, I saw Morgan’s anger wash away. Now, he was just broken. “I’m so sorry.” He squeezed her waist as tight as he could for as long as he could before she tapped out and parted from him. She turned to face me again. “I want to meet baby Emily, if you’ll let me, once this is all over.”

I nodded, still too hesitant to say anything.

She smiled. “Okay… For now, I just want to focus on finding Declan and bringing him home safe. What do you guys know so far?”

Reid immediately jumped to his feet like this was his moment to shine, and he started asking her questions about Declan, Ian, and Louise, but I couldn’t hear anything. Everything seemed so washed out and distant. The only thing that was clear to me was the shame on my husband’s face as I stood there, staring at him, silently letting him know just how badly he had fucked up this time around. He could hardly look me in the eyes.

“Can I see you in my office?” he asked.

Everyone watched us silently, wondering if I would correct him on the fact that it was my office now. Or maybe they were waiting with anticipation to see if I was going to blow him off considering I had been glaring at him the entire time since I found out that Prentiss was alive this whole time—and he knew! But that was exactly why I indulged him. I didn’t correct him, I didn’t argue with him, I didn’t embarrass him. I simply followed him to his office.

I sat in my chair at my desk, which all used to be his before he left. He sat down across from me in one of the seats I would sit in whenever I was called to meet with him in his office. He seemed so out of his element in that chair, and, honestly, I was glad. I wanted him to be uncomfortable. I wanted him to be physically and emotionally uneasy because that was how I felt every day while he was away, and that was how I felt since finding out that our daughter’s namesake was actually alive and well.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” I inquired, reclining back. He shook his head. “You were going to just let me think that she was dead in order to, what, make me feel better about naming our daughter after her? Why didn’t you try to stop me—”

“I did try. I asked you if there were really no other names you could think of, but you were so adamant about it and I couldn’t tell you the truth; so, I just had to let it happen.”

“Is that why you left?”

Hotch froze for a moment while searching my eyes, and before he even began nodding, I knew the answer. He sighed. “It was hard to keep lying to everyone, but it felt impossible to keep lying to you specifically, especially since you took Emily’s death so hard… So, I just… I ran.”

“So, you would have stayed if I knew the truth?”

“Yes.”

I scoffed and let out an exasperated chuckle.

“Baby, I am so sorry, you have to believe me. I wish things hadn’t happened the way they did.”

“Yeah, well, you had a choice in that, didn’t you?”

“Y/N, that’s not fair. I was just trying to protect her—"

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, proceeded by Garcia cautiously stepping into the office. “Sorry, ma’am, but I found something.”

I nodded her over, holding my hand out for the file of information she put together. Hotch eyed me. Usually, it was him sitting in my current seat, ignoring me in his seat as he accepted another file from Garcia who had addressed him in the first place. Everything felt so backwards. But, then again, maybe that was what he deserved now that I knew that he had been lying to me this entire time.

“I was narrowing down a list of Doyle’s top ten enemies from what we know and what Morgan’s getting out of him. The only one who’s been in the states recently is Mr. Richard Gerace. He’s been here for the past two weeks with a work visa.”

“Is there any way to connect him to this?” I asked while flipping through the file.

“The guy who cut off the camera feed at Declan’s house had a scar on his neck...” She turned the next page for me and pointed to a mugshot of Gerace. He had the same exact scar on his neck, meaning it was definitely him who took Declan.

“Get me everything you can on him, please, Penelope,” I said while closing the file and setting it down on my desk. She hesitated. “What is it?”

“That’s everything I have.”

I sighed. “Can you call Prentiss in, please?”

“Sure…”

“Thank you.”

When she left, I sighed and looked at Hotch again. Neither of us said anything as we stared at each other uncomfortably, a barrier of trust broken between us now. I didn’t like it when he lied to me. Every time I told him not to lie to me, he promised he wouldn’t, and then he would, and I would be mad for a few days before forgiving him and moving on. How much longer was I supposed to put up with it? I couldn’t even count how many times he lied to me on my fingers anymore. Meanwhile, I could count the number of times I lied to him on one hand. At some point, enough was going to be enough, and if he wasn’t careful, it was going to be soon. As much as I loved him, I couldn’t keep living with the lies. What was more important to him? Me or protecting his secrets? If the answer wasn’t immediately me, then there was an entirely different conversation we needed to have at some point that included what our future was going to look like.

“We’re going to talk later,” I finally told him.

As we were coming back to the office together, Hotch stopped to ask if I trusted him, and at the time, of course I did… But now? I wasn’t so sure. Then again, I’d said that a dozen times before when he pulled this shit. The worst part was, that I knew that I was going to end up crawling back to him, and it was going to be an excuse for him to lie to me all over again.

Hotch nodded. “Yeah…”

There was another knock at the door, this time from Prentiss, who seemed too shy to invite herself in, even though I had requested her presence. I waved her in.

“Gerace,” I said, holding the file out for her. She slowly walked over and accepted it. “Garcia thinks that he’s the one who took Declan.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she insisted before even looking at the file. I waited for her to explain why she thought that. “Gerace gave up on Doyle a long time ago, and he’s too much of a coward to pull something like this off. Not to mention how meticulous the abduction was. Gerace doesn’t have that level of patience and organization.”

I scoffed and wiped my palms over my face. “He was our only suspect and lead.”

“I mean…” She flipped through the file. “That’s definitely Gerace’s scar… So, I suppose he had something to do with it, but I wouldn’t say he’s solely responsible. If he’s working with a partner, he’s definitely the submissive.” She flipped another page. “Hold on—” I looked up at her. “Look at this.” She turned the file to show me one of the shots from the security footage of Gerace turning the cameras off. “Look in the background.” There was a woman standing there, watching Gerace while cocking a gun at her side. Prentiss’s jaw dropped as a realization dawned on her. “This might have something to do with Declan’s birth mother, considering the overkill towards Louise, who was Declan’s mother figure throughout his entire life.”

“Do you know who she is?”

She shook her head. “No. Doyle never told me.”

“Would you be willing to go in and get the information out of him now?”

She looked between me and Hotch, almost as if she were waiting for permission from him, but then she recalled that I was calling the shots right now until Hotch could be reinstated into the unit by Strauss and Cody. She finally gave in. “I don’t mind giving it a shot.”

Since Prentiss was still just a visitor, she couldn’t technically be allowed to wander the floor on her own. Even though she knew exactly where the interrogation room was and how to get there the fastest, I still had to usher her there. So, without saying anything to Hotch, I started walking out. Prentiss watched him silently for a moment before deciding to follow me.

“You know,” she said while catching up to me on the ramp outside of my office, “unit chief suits you.”

“It won’t last long. It’s just until Hotch can come back.”

We continued on towards the interrogation room in silence. When we stepped into the mirror room, I saw that Morgan and JJ were there, watching Doyle who was sitting on his own, staring at the wall while he silently thought and worried about his missing son. With others around to “officially” watch Prentiss, I took my leave almost immediately, heading back to my office so that I could sit down, catch my breath, and have a moment to think.

When I got there, Hotch was already gone. I glanced across the bullpen to see that he was in the boardroom with Rossi, Reid, and Garcia, all of them working on finding who Declan’s mother was in case that was the next fresh lead we would get from Doyle. They were fine on their own. For just a few minutes, I could disappear, and no one would notice. So, I closed the door, spun the dial of the blinds until they were shut tight, and I immediately broke down. I didn’t even make it to my chair or the couch. I just fell right then and there.

I started crying with my face hiding in my hands. Getting Hotch back should have been the best thing in the world, and yet it felt so shitty. I hated that he lied to me again. I hated that things went down like that. I hated that our daughter was mixed up in the drama of it all now just because of her name. I hated that I was mad at the love of my life after just getting him back, because instead of wanting to hold him close until our last breath, I wanted to kick his ankles until my anger was gone—If my anger would ever go away.

And then there was a knock at the door.

I tried catching my breath and calming down enough to wipe my tears away, but the door opened before I could collect myself entirely. I hid my face in the shadows. It didn’t matter who it was because I was just hoping that they would leave me alone now that they saw me collapsed on the floor and hiding my face while sniffling.

“Sunshine?”

I let out a choked sob when I realized that it was Morgan who had followed me from the mirror room to my office. “What?”

He knelt beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Come here…” He turned me slightly until I was facing him, and we immediately pulled each other in for a tight hug. I hid my face in his shirt, letting my tears soak the fabric without care. “It’s okay. I promise. Just breathe.” He rubbed circles on my back to help me calm down slowly.

I started to catch my breath by sucking in deep breaths and letting out short ones. “You shouldn’t have brought up Emily earlier,” I whispered.

He had been completely out of line when he brought up my daughter in the context of Prentiss still being alive. That was a conversation for me and my husband to have at a later time when we could talk privately. It didn’t give him permission to put our predicament on blast. I was sure that everyone had been thinking it, too. I mean, they were all probably wondering the same thing I was, which was what the hell were Hotch and I going to do now that Prentiss, our daughter’s namesake was back? But, honestly, it was none of their business. Yes, Morgan was her godfather, but he wasn’t her father, therefore, he had no say. He would be the first to know when a decision would be made, of course, but not before then.

I slid out of his arms and fell back against the wall carefully to just sit there and stare into the darkness. “It wasn’t fair,” I continued.

“I’m sorry, cupcake…” He slid down the wall to sit beside me, then took one of my cold hands in his. “My emotions have just been all over the place, and I snapped when I didn’t mean to. I know that’s not an excuse, but…” He sighed.

“I get it.” I rested my head on his shoulder. Of all people, I understood the most how Morgan felt.

“Did you talk to him?”

“Kind of…”

“Are you going to forgive him?”

“Unfortunately.”

Morgan swung his arm around me so that he could hug me close to his side. “Do you ever just miss the old days when things were so simple? Gideon and Elle were still on the team. Pretty boy was still dorky and quiet all the time. Hotch actually talked to us and trusted us.”

“You mean talked to you and trusted you.” I chuckled. “He didn’t talk to me when I first joined the team.”

“Yeah, because he had a schoolgirl crush on you. That doesn’t mean he didn’t trust you. But wasn’t it so much easier back then when you two weren’t together, and everything was just about putting the back guys away, and nothing was ever personal…” He sighed. “I think we just haven’t been the same ever since the Fisher King.”

He was right. That was the first case where we were all effected personally, and an Unsub got under our skin, and tore our family apart. I mean, I assumed that it was because of Randall Garner that my sister left the BAU. If we had never gotten mixed up in that case, maybe she and Gideon would still be around. But then again, if that were the case, then we wouldn’t’ve had Rossi or Emily on the team, and I was genuinely happy that I knew them and that they were apart of our family now. Rossi was Hotch’s best friend who liked to help me pick on him from time to time. Emily was one of my closest friends… At least before she left. I didn’t know where we stood now. That was what Morgan meant by things being easier back in the day, though, I supposed. Things weren’t so messy.

“I think you’re right,” I agreed quietly.

----

Not even an hour later, Prentiss had already convinced Doyle to tell us who the mother of his child was and how to find her. With Garcia’s help, we managed to track her down. Her name was Chloe Donaghy, and she was a notorious crime lord who ran a human trafficking and prostitution ring. She and Ian had met about eight years before Prentiss met him. When she found out that she was pregnant with Declan, she tried to kill herself to make sure that his son would never be born, but Doyle stopped her before she could even swallow a single pill, and from that point on during the pregnancy, she was his prisoner. He kept her locked away. She was chained to a bed in a locked room in his heavily guarded home for seven months straight. She was given a healthy diet for herself and the baby, and Doyle had a doctor go to check on her every other week or so to make sure that they were still okay. Once she had the baby, however, she left. She wanted nothing to do with Declan, and everyone knew it, so Doyle practically paid her to stay away and to never tell a soul about their son.

However, once she found out that Ian was a wanted man and was in hiding, she decided that she wanted a piece of him in the name of revenge. So, she got the same idea as us. Knowing that Ian would try to find Declan, she waited until someone found him first—which happened to be us—and once she knew where her son was, she jumped at the opportunity to take him when everyone was too distracted to notice. We managed to track her down to Baltimore. It looked like she and Gerace took Declan down there, and they were planning on selling him to another one of Doyle’s enemies, a man by the name of Lachlan. That wasn’t good. If Declan left U.S. soil, there was nothing we could do. It would be left up to the CIA or another agency similar to them, but they wouldn’t care. So, I made a call.

I decided that the best way to ensure that little boy would never die at the hands of a revenge driven monster like Lachlan was to have our team pursue this. I knew the risks involved with the choice. I knew that my career was on the line, and that I would inevitably be demoted as unit chief—if I were lucky. Worst case scenario, actually, was that I would be fired. But I didn’t care in the moment, because all I could think about was the fact that there was a little boy out there, wondering why his own mother was doing this, and why he was facing danger again. And then I thought about Jack. Declan was around Jack’s age. I couldn’t bear to think that it could have been Jack in Declan’s shoes, and that if that were the case, I would want someone to fight for him until he was safe at home.

So, I made the call to use Doyle as a pawn in our game. We loaded Doyle into an SUV with myself, Hotch, and Morgan, and we drove down to the airstrip where Garcia found out that Chloe and Lachlan were catching a flight at together. Emily was against the idea. She was concerned that Doyle was going to get away, or that Chloe was going to get Declan and Ian, and all of this was for nothing. I wasn’t going to let that happen. We were going to get Declan back, and we weren’t going to let Doyle get away. After everything that happened over the past few months, I was going to die before fucking this up.

“You wanna do it, or should I?” Hotch asked as we pulled up to the jet on the runway. I gestured that he could go for it, but I didn’t look at him or say anything in response. I still wasn’t ready to do that much. “Okay.” Morgan handed him the megaphone, and Hotch stepped out of the car to announce, “Lachlan McDermott and Cloe Donaghy, this is the FBI. We know that you have Declan Doyle. To ensure his safety, we would like to make a trade. Declan for Ian Doyle.”

That was our cue to show off Doyle to the world, so Morgan and I pulled him out of the car, making sure that our grip on him was strong enough that he couldn’t wiggle out. And then we heard a gunshot, and I saw a muzzle flash from within the jet. No. No, no, no. There was no way they just killed Declan. I refused to believe it, but just in case it was true, we kept Doyle close to the car so that we could stuff him back in and drive off if we had to.

Suddenly, the door of the jet started falling open, revealing the steps that Lachlan started storming down with Declan in front of him. I let out a quiet sigh of relief at the same time as Ian. It didn’t last long, however, since Lachlan immediately put a gun to Declan’s head.

“Bring him here!” Lachlan demanded, referencing Doyle.

Hotch looked over at me. “You’re still the unit chief. It’s your call.”

I sighed quietly while trying to quickly weigh the pros and cons. It certainly wasn’t ideal to put Doyle in Lachlan’s line of fire, but if it was the only way to get Declan…

“Now!” Lachlan yelled.

Within an instant, I was pushing forward, Morgan following lead by helping me move Doyle towards Lachlan. When we were close enough, we pushed him onto his knees and waited for something to happen. Lachlan smiled wickedly. He said something to Doyle, but I wasn’t listening while my attention was trained on Declan and trying to figure out how I was going to grab him on time while Morgan made sure he still had a grip on Doyle. I just had to trust the process, I supposed.

When I heard movement from the jet again, I looked up to see Chloe limping out, holding her stomach from the shot she took from Lachlan. They must have argued about taking our deal. Before I could tell her to stay back, though, I saw how she was raising her arm and aiming at me, Ian, and Morgan.

“Gun!” Morgan shouted, tackling me out of the way just as the sound of a gunshot rang through the air. I groaned as the wind was knocked out of me. Morgan rolled off me to check to see if I was okay. “Are you hit?” I shook my head. “Doyle—” He spun around on his knees to see Ian falling to the ground while holding his bleeding neck. “Shit.”

Another gunshot fired, this time from Chloe aiming directly at Lachlan, instantly killing him. In retaliation, Hotch, Reid, Prentiss, and JJ all shot down Chloe as fast as they could. Hotch ran over to me, putting his hands on my cheeks while scanning my body with my eyes to make sure that I was alright, the same way Morgan had. I inhaled sharply as I caught my breath. I got that Morgan was just trying to protect me, but did he have to go all high school footballer on me? Fucking hell. We were on concrete. The tackle was worse than getting shot, in my opinion.

“Next time, I make the call. And it won’t be this one,” Hotch whispered to me, brushing my hair out of my face.

“Ha. Ha,” I responded sarcastically. “Help me up.” We clasped our hands together, and he pulled me to my feet, letting me stumble into his chest somewhat before I caught my balance. “Thanks.” I patted his chest. “This is why you’re the unit chief.”

He kissed my forehead. “You thought you were doing the right thing, and that’s all we can ever do.”

I glanced over to Doyle who was reaching out for his son, knowing that it would be the last time. A part of me broke somewhat. As much as I despised Doyle, I had nothing against his son, and seeing a bond between a father and his son, even though they hardly knew each other at all, made me think about Hotch and Jack. It could have been Hotch instead of Haley who died in our house two years ago. We were beyond lucky that he was still with us. That I had a husband who loved me, that our daughter had a father who wanted nothing more than to raise her away from all of this chaos, that our son still had a father who would protect him no matter the cost. We were, by some definition, “lucky” that it wasn’t Hotch and Jack there instead of Ian and Declan.

----

By the time we cleaned up the mess at the airstrip, I had called Jessica and asked if she could bring Emily to the office to surprise Hotch, but also because Prentiss asked if she could meet her, and I felt like after the long day we had, we all deserved that. I mean, she was our little sunshine. If anyone could change the mood entirely, it was her.

So, when we all returned to Quantico, I told security to keep an out for Jessica and the baby—to which they all cheered about how excited they were to see her. The team went up to the boardroom to start tearing down all of the photos and evidence on the walls. Another chapter of our lives closed. Over months, we had been working on a case where we only had a fraction of the pieces. The only person who knew every part of it and could end this once and for all had left, but when she came back, it ended, and now we could just breathe again. We had our family back. That had to count for something.

When I saw Jessica arrive in the elevator, I met her there so that I could still surprise Hotch and Prentiss. “Thank you for bringing her,” I said while crouching down in front of the stroller to see my lil’ bug. She was half awake, but just lucid enough to play with my finger as I wiggled it in her face. “I owe you.”

“It’s no big deal, I swear. I was on my way to pick up Jack from a playdate, and this was on the way, anyhow.”

I glanced up at Jessica. “We can pick him up later. You don’t have to race around for us like this.”

Jessica smiled lightly. “What else am I going to do?”

I stopped to think about that for a moment, considering how we were her only family around now that Haley was gone, and Roy was… Well, Roy didn’t like having Jessica around because she was a very hands-on and task-oriented person when it came to family, and he didn’t like how overbearing and protective she was of him. So, we were the only ones that were around and in need of help. I just felt bad sometimes because it felt like she was our nanny or something. Then again, every time this conversation came up where I would tell her that all of this was unnecessary and that I felt bad, she would always argue that she loved doing it and that it was no big deal. If it really were a problem, she would have ditched us months ago.

“Okay,” I gave in. “We’ll see you at home, then.” I stood to hug her.

“See you at home.”

When we parted, she leaned over to say goodbye to baby Emily quickly, then waved to me as she walked towards the elevator. I waved back shortly before pushing the stroller up the ramp towards the boardroom. Inside, I could see and hear everyone chatting and catching up with one another. Rossi was hogging Aaron. He was so happy to have his buddy back after all this time, but he was still trying to convince him to shave the beard. Over my dead body. I loved that beard, and after everything that man put me through today, I was going to get the chance to scratch my fingers through it as he fucked me. Come hell or high water, I was going to make that happen.

I pushed the stroller into the room, and everyone fell silent. This was the first time Hotch had seen her in… months, and this was the first time Prentiss was going to meet her. Everyone wanted to be witness to it, and no one wanted to disrupt the moment. So, when I spun the stroller around, everyone held their breaths. I tried to ignore them as I pulled the top of stroller back to reveal Emily.

“May I hold her?” Prentiss asked, looking up at me with the brightest smile I had ever seen from her before. I nodded. Prentiss reached into the stroller, buried her hands under Emily, and lifted her up. “Hi, there, baby girl…” Prentiss cooed. Emily kicked and fussed in Prentiss’s arms.

As I watched Prentiss rock Emily side to side in her arms, I felt someone’s arms snake around my waist and pull me backwards into a hug. I smiled and rested my head on Hotch’s shoulder. His beard scratched my cheek slightly as he pressed a gentle kiss against it. I giggled and nuzzled into his touch as much as I could while thinking about how I missed this feeling so bad every single second he was away from me. All those rules we had for so long before he left didn't matter anymore. Not when he had been away and all we wanted was to hold each other and love each other.

“She has your eyes, Hotch,” Prentiss said while Emily giggled. “Yes, you do,” Prentiss teased with the same kind of baby-talk voice everyone used around kids. “You are just too darn cute.”

“I missed you so much,” he whispered in my ear before kissing me.

“I’m still mad at you, Aaron,” I whispered only for him to hear. He loosened his grip on me somewhat. “And I don’t know when I’ll stop being mad.” He hid his face in the crook of my neck to hide his disappointment from everyone else. “But I know that I love you, and that, with time, I’ll learn to forgive and forget about this. Until then, I just need you to bear with me while I navigate rebuilding what trust I had given you, and asking you to give me answers, or asking that you give me some space—whatever it is, I just need you to understand. Can you do that?”

He nodded against me.

“We’re going to be okay,” I sighed, almost like I was trying to convince myself, too. “We’re going to be okay…”

-----

criminal minds family: @peggy1999 @gorgeousdarkangel @alex--awesome--22 @oceaneblu @brithedemonspawn @absolutemarveltrash @bshelley322 @rousethemouse @sunshinepower17 @weexinling @pettttyyyc​ @Braty-angel

[heuristicallyinclined]

Nobody Knows

Hey, so this is my first public fanfic. I have been a Homestuck fan since the early 2010′s but Hiveswap slammed me back into it hard enough to write. Cringe is dead and it is going to be angsty and indulgent with canon treated as a suggestion. I’ve been spamming some of my favorite writers in the fandom with ideas in their inbox and decided to actually do something about some of them. Most of this comes from some future angst with Mallek I sent @clusband a few weeks ago during sad Mallek hours. Constructive advice welcome.

Get some hurt, comfort, fluff, a lot of angst. A lot of background characters.

Summary: MSPA Reader reflects on their current situation and unhappiness at not being able to see their old friends again. They accept that they past they once knew them in no longer exists, but what about the present? 

Chapter 1: Self-reflection and other cool ways to spend the day

Part 1/?

(Word count: 3,085 | Rated T | Past MSPA Reader x Mallek Adalov,  MSPA Reader x Mallek Adalov, Past MSPA Reader x Polypa Goezee, Background DaveKat)

AO3 Links: Part One (This) | Part Two  | Part Three

Being back in your hive after however long it has been brings up memories. Memories that you had spent so long aching for whenever the discomfort of that void inside of you passed. Focusing on that hollowness for too long always made you uncomfortable, but you sometimes would try to understand why that was. You tried, you really did, to the point of feeling that static so hard that your vision would go white and you couldn’t hear anything over the sound of it in your mind, feeling like you were going to pass out. You think one time you did, but it was hard to tell. Fuck.

You thought that getting them back would help, make you more content, fill it even, make you feel whole again? But you just feel even emptier and like an even more monumentally bigger fuck up. You drink your shitty, expired coffee made in the coffee machine Tagora bought you a long time ago in the mug Skyyla made you, thumbing over the Ladyy design on the handle. You smile at the idea of her making such a comparatively small mug for you. Imagining the struggle of her larger hands trying to make something usable for your much smaller ones. You feel the warmth from your drink and your memory. At least your makeshift home was too out of the way to be ransacked, that or too much of a death risk for anyone other than alien refugees to try to make their way into.

You look around you at all of the trinkets your friends had given you. Remembering how at the time, you felt so rewarded, accepted even. Trolls being, well, trolls, had a hard time opening up to others given how much of a hellscape the whole planet was. So every time you made some progress, you felt like you got the neighborhood cat to approach you without getting too clawed up.

You look over in the corner and notice the plastic bag you got when grabbing some oblong meat products for Dieman at Grub-Mart. You had some extra caegars and figured he might be exhausted after doing whatever drug that was at Ardata’s party. You figured that some sweet meat might help with the hangover. You definitely needed it.

Your teal highlighter had been covered in dust, having not been used since you decided to be a good friend and smuggle some snacks into the bookhive to support your favorite legislacerators-in-training late night, er morning, study session. You stayed as moral support, given you know fuck all about the laws of any given planet and also enjoy having your flesh remain unscorched. You feel like you learned a lot. Probably. You mostly shared meaningful eye contact and words of encouragement.

Drawings from clown children and sketches from Amisia cover your walls. So do ticket stubs from Marvus’ and Chixie’s shows. You felt an odd sense of pride in being one of the most normal people there, extraterrestrial status not withstanding. A set of indigo sweatbands from exercising with Nikhee that you would also use with Stelsa during scaerobics classes are hung on hooks. There was a rom-com with a title too long to read in your lifetime that you watched with Polypa and books borrowed from Galekh that you never returned.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You care about all of your new friends, of course you do! It is just that… you feel more like the universe’s least qualified guidance counselor instead of their friend sometimes. You’re older than them, so it is maybe more like a sibling or a sketchy babysitter kind of relationship. They all have kinda weird, hard lives, even the ones on Earth, so you don’t mind being an interdimensional taxi service, or a postman who delivers kids to other kids, but they tend to relate more with each other than with you. Which makes sense, and you're definitely happy they finally get to be with other people their own age, but seeing them hanging out with each other really makes you long for the people you once had the same kinds of relationships with.

You had Karkat ask about your hoodie before you got your memories back and Sollux mentioned Mallek, but you got a little occupied by drones. It had been a bit since then. After taking Karkat back to his hive after a movie night with Dave, you noticed him eyeing your hoodie again.

“HEY. SO YOU NEVER ACTUALLY TOLD ME.”

Told you what?

“DON’T BE OBTUSE, I GET ENOUGH OF THAT FROM ALL OF THE OTHER BULGELICKERS THAT HAVE TRAMPLED THEIR WAY INTO MY EXISTENCE. DID YOU KNOW SOMEONE NAMED ADALOV?”

Oh, yeah the hoodie. After remembering, you were not looking forward to this conversation. You look off and let him know, yeah, you did. You trying not to make a big deal of it has clearly had the opposite impact on him.

“YOU TELEPORTED YOUR HORNLESS ASS INTO MY HIVE. IS THIS WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO BE COY ABOUT? YOU DUMPED ME ON AN ALIEN PLANET AND HAVE THE INEXPLICABLE HOBBY OF TRYING TO GET YOUR FROND STUMPS IN EVERYONE’S PERSONAL LIFE AND I ACTUALLY WANT TO KNOW ABOUT YOU AND FIGURE OUT HOW YOU OF ALL PEOPLE MANAGED TO GET A HIGHBLOOD MOIRAIL AND-”

Matesprit. He pauses and actually looks taken aback. It is odd to see him momentarily speechless.

“WHAT?” Well that didn’t last.

He was my matesprit.

“AGAIN, WHAT? SO YOU HAVE BEEN HERE BEFORE AND ARE WEARING A SIGN THAT HASN’T BEEN USED IN FUCK KNOWS HOW LONG? BEING MUTATED CULLBAIT NOT KILLED BY DRONES AND YOU EXPECT ME TO BELIEVE YOU FILLED A QUAD?”

Quads.

This information seems to break him. You see a familiar crease being to form between his brows. You then pause, trying not to get offended.

Wait, hold on, he has totally accepted you being able to travel time and space, but you filling a quad is too much?

“YOU ARE STILL PUSHING IT WITH TIME. BUT EXCUSE ME IF THROUGH THE PANBOGGLING TALES OF YOUR FUCKING ESCAPADES THROUGH SPACE THAT THEY DON’T EXACTLY FUCKING TRACK ON BEING CONDUSIVE TO FILLING YOUR QUADRANTS.”

Fair. You sigh and tell him the story before he can take a breath because as much as you care about him, this boy has one setting and it is very loud.

You tell him about taking a walk, getting abducted. Saying you were a robot and then revealing you were not in fact a robot. You hesitate during the underground river part as you walk the line between Mallek’s privacy and sating Karkat’s curiosity. You smile recounting getting pushed in the river, saved, and how he called you cute and started blushing and trying to backpeddle. How the two of you hung out later and how he made an account just to talk to you. Karkat seems to soften by a modicum at this.

You laughed at how he showed up to tattoo a stranger just because you asked. You wistfully go through the memories that led to an eventual confession and how beforehand how your moirail Polypa was coaching you and Galekh provided you with literature on quadrants. A true bro move, especially since you don’t know how a conversation on them would have gone. You guessed it was since you helped him with his pitch quad and the tattoo. Maybe he felt like there was already something going on when we were both at his hive in matching hoodies, oh yeah he was the guy who got tattooed. His kismesis was your law partner. Karkat’s brow twitched, incredulous. Yeah you don’t know how Gorgor managed that either. Maybe having an alien alive and working for him on Alternia added to his court cred. You also think that that wasn’t the only part Karkat took issue with, but by some miracle, he lets you keep talking.

You kept expecting him to cut you off but he seemed somewhat enraptured by the tales of your romantic antics, despite his efforts to seem more interested in the you part, you were getting a feeling he was more interested in alien dynamics. You knew he was interested in romcoms so maybe this was just some new material for him, especially since quads were a new thing for you and maybe he has strong thoughts regarding the differences in alien ro-

Oh.

Oh you see why now.

Karkat seemed to pick up on the shift in your storytelling going from your personal life to human romantic customs.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT LOOK FOR?”

What look? There are no looks occurring.

“TRY THAT SHIT ON A MORON WHO JUST HATCHED. THEY MIGHT JUST BE MORE INCLINED TO GLEEFULLY SHOVEL THAT EXCUSE DOWN THEIR CHUTES.” He crossed his arms and squints at you. You knew how sharp his claws were from experience, not that you thought he was going to hurt you. There was just something very endearing about him trying to intimidate you while not subtly trying to glean more information about humans without seeming interested in humans. Or a human. Yeah, this is totally about Dave. You just have to find a way to gracefully skedaddle around that little detail.

I just had a bit of learning curve when dating an alien. So it is totally cool if you don’t know much about human stuff. I know quads can b-

“AND WHY DO YOU THINK I WOULD WANT TO KNOW THAT?” He says this clearly knowing what he thinks you think. You think it would be better if he didn’t think you thinked that, considering how the tips of his ears are turning red. You think.

You have romcom stuff everywhere and seem to really like them? Learning about human stuff might make it easier for you watch human romcoms and see how good or bad they are based on social norms. Kinda like romantic xenoanthropology.

Fucking nailed it. He huffs and rolls his eyes. Or at least enough that your answer plus the sheer amount of not fucking wanting to talk about that got you onto romcoms in general. He seemed to echo Polypa’s taste and you smiled at how animated he was becoming. A few of what you watched were now classics. Others that you didn’t like are prime pitch fodder. It had gotten late (early?) and that led you back to your hive. Just sitting alone and thinking. God you hate self-reflection.

You think of your time with Aradia. How she said you were a little broken. How she said you wouldn’t remember not being able to get to your friends again and being held by whatever the fuck that was. But you did remember, as much as you wish you didn’t. Guess you were more broken than she thought. It would be easier to just think you couldn’t get back because you didn’t try hard enough. But you did, you really did, and no matter what you do you just can’t. You are a shitty meta traveler and an even shittier friend. You thought about trying again but you get the feeling that you can’t access something that longer exists. You’d probably just get stuck in some corner of the universe and be alone all over again until you suffocate.

Can you even really die or be killed in anyway that matters anymore? At least in a way that doesn’t bring up the dull pang of a “bad end” followed by getting slammed dunked back in the past, before your fuck up, by an alarmingly cheerful time goddess?

Yeah, you didn’t think so. That would just add to the conga line of your dead selves letting you know how much of a dumbass you are.

But those people, those times. They don’t exist anymore. You keep thinking back to the way things were and who they were and how you can’t travel to those points anymore. All you have is the relative now and the people who exist now. Mostly.

You finish your terrible, bitter coffee, the cup no longer keeping your hands warm. You deserve this. In some shitty cosmic way, maybe you deserve this for not being better as a friend or partner. You can’t go back to the way things were to only to the people of now. And who even know who or what that even is.

Wait.

Maybe you couldn’t go back to the people they used to be because those were no longer who they were now. That thought sends a pang of hurt through you, imagining what little hope they had crushed. God dammit. But you have to try. Otherwise it is just you babysitting some 13 year olds who are trying to discover themselves and work through their issues with some interdimensional asshole looking over their shoulders. That asshole hopefully just being you.

You put your mug down and stand, closing your eyes, you try to repeat what you did with Aradia again, the memory of them doesn’t work. You know that. But with your new friends, it hasn’t completely been the memory? Maybe more accurate to say it’s them, some part memory sure, but more the idea of the present them, what they look like, who they are. You open your eyes and glance down at the sign on your hood. A sign you have mindlessly traced so many times. A sign that when you forgot it, gave you a dull sense of grief, now that you do remember though, it has sharpened and you are reminded of it whenever you are alone for too long or even slow down. Like the rest of you from other timelines will catch up to you in the current one and you get to experience your failures all over again.

You hold yourself tightly to ground yourself. Self-flagellation won’t get you anywhere, you’ve tried, you know this. So again, you close your eyes. You focus on your hood, the sign on it, the person it belonged to. The Mallek he was when he gave it to you vs. the Mallek he knew he didn’t want to be. The one he would have to be to survive. Your throat tightened at the thought of not being able to find him because he couldn’t do it and what if they got him an-

You slap yourself to stop catastrophizing.

Focus!

Adult trolls get bigger and their horns and claws grow with them. Their skin hardens and darkens as it does. You can’t tell if them molting was a joke someone told you or if they were serious so you don’t think about that part. Their blood color shows more through their eyes as they age. They wear black with their sign incorporated on it when they get spaced. You think back to the cerulean pirate you saw with Konyyl. Something like that. Okay you were getting somewhere. You could tell by how afraid you were to get there. You begin to get a headache, like your mind is a rubber band that you are trying to stretch to fit around something it shouldn’t.

Mallek said he would be a soldier or a spy and would be stuck ordering around lowbloods. No longer able to use his hacker skills how he wanted to. You imagine him, larger, older, more tired. Probably has more piercings and tattoos. You smile a little, despite yourself and the tension you feel continuing to build. He would likely play along, do what he had to do to do what he wanted to do. But at that point what would that even be? You imagine he would never truly stop messing with the system or hacking. His natural curiosity wouldn’t let him so he would be trying… something quietly on the side. He was sympathetic but you didn’t know how deep he would or if he would go down the rebel route, maybe just try to deal with his own corner of the universe.

Going along with what is expected seems to be the easiest way to keep under the radar. He has always been partial to not getting culled. Even when it was just the two of you, you knew it was a conscious effort to let his guard down around you, often requiring a change of scenery with you jokingly asking about if you would be needing goggles. Jokes often broke the tension of being afraid to be known with him.  

Despite his projected cool, you knew he was an anxious person and preferred to be alone. You could see that being warped to fit the expectations of being a cerulean. You remember from  conversations you had early in the morning, with ordeals approaching, you had some rare moments of verbalized vulnerability, of him exasperatedly going over what ceruleans are supposed to be with the unspoken and mutual understanding of what he was actually like. The coolness that he projected could morph into coldness, him wrapping it around himself tighter than any armor the empire would give him. Put some distance between himself and his team. You couldn’t see him being casually cruel, but definitely keeping people away through attitude and fear of his caste. The band tightens. So does your throat.

He hates having people over him and likely would at that start. Probably would be trying to do well so that he could use his performance and caste to be given his own ship and team so he could get some breathing room away from his superiors. Just be another team that does their job without question or issue in order to keep the space around himself. You realize that at some point during this, you started hyperventilating. You consider doing the breathing exercises Konyyl taught you, but at this point, you were tired of trying to be okay about it. You wanted to let it out in some way or another. You wanted to feel.

You thought of you, your disappearance. How that would have impacted him probably trying to find you, keeping himself up more than usual, blaming himself and then being taken off world. The not knowing would upset him the most you think. Would he even want to see you? What if he mattered to you way more than you mattered to him and you just showing up makes things worse? Another pang of guilt hits you for making things harder for another person again and you taste metal. You grit your teeth and refocus. The whole picture might never actually be known to you, but this is likely as close as it gets. You see this in your minds’ eye, the assumed idea of a person who may or may not exist, based off of who they used to be. Was this accurate, would this even do anything? Your hands clench around the hem of your hood and you drop to your knees and your leggings scrape the wood on the floor of your hive, eyes still screwed shut with tears pricking at the corners, breathing quick and heavy, jaw locked.

You try again.

The bands snaps.

And your head hits a cold, metal floor.

[daffodilon]

cafune

cafuné - (brazilian portuguese)

"the act of running your fingers through your lover's hair; among the few words that cannot be directly translated into english"

Pairing: Jungkook / ♀ Reader Rating: M for Mature Genre(s): 🍭 Fluff, 💔 (like five seconds of) Angst, 🔞 Smut WC: 9,458 Warnings: Sexual content, porn with feelings, dry humping, like i’m talking thigh riding, coming in pants, dirty talk, discussion of exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics if you squint, baby boy jungkook, uhhh swearing, mentions of drinking to the point of blacking out. God this sounds filthy but I promise it’s #soft If there’s anything I’ve forgotten to warn for please bring it to my attention!! I haven’t slept in two days I’d appreciate the help. This isn’t beta’d, either, so watch out for that too, I guess

Summary: [A kiss-and-confess in an alternate universe, originally written as part of a much larger chapter fic, my library/roommates au. It took off in another direction and no longer fits within the scope of that timeline, and the scene had to be re-written. So now this is a standalone getting-together oneshot, because it was too cute of a concept to scrap.] TL;DR: talking to Jungkook about your Feelings™ and making out for like 8k words. It’s, like, slowburn without the slow. So I guess that makes it... all... burn... 🔥 👀

p 01, 02

Theoretically, there’s a big difference between a kiss and a cup of tea. One might even call it obvious. 

Indeed in practice, there’s a big difference between a kiss and a cup of tea.

Both in theory and in practice, kisses and teacups are difficult to confuse.

The point is, don’t ask how the hell you managed to screw that one up, because you don’t know, either.

What you know is, you knocked on Jungkook’s open bedroom door after putting the electric kettle on for yourself.

What you know is, he waved you in from where he sat on the bed, and you crossed the floor to peer over his shoulder at what he was working on, and he let you lean in close enough to glimpse the video editing program he had open for a quick look before he pushed the laptop closed and asked you how your day was.

What you know is, you gave him the radio edit, secured a promise from him to let you watch his project when he was finished, and then offered to bring him some tea, if he wanted any.

What you know is, he beamed at you in reply, eyebrows way up under his bangs, and he asked you for green tea.

Then, you grinned and told him, “Of course.”

Then, you turned to go. Your brain said, “Give him a cup of green tea.”

Now, theoretically, you know the difference between a kiss and a cup of tea.

Theoretically.

You kiss him instead.

It’s soft, and sweet with pent-up affection and syrupy endearment, and extremely quick.

It catches up with you pretty quick, after that. The fact that you’re awake, right now. The fact that you really did that, in real life, without a warning, without a word of precedent.

Your first instinct here is to get the hell out of dodge, and through the welling panic you make to get up and do just that, foolishly hoping you could avoid the consequences of your actions that way, or maybe at least postpone them.

Plan A doesn’t work out.

Thanks to his reflexes, Jungkook catches your wrist as soon as your eyes widen in realization and you move to slip off the bed and bolt. He stops you. Begs you oh, god no, don’t you dare to that to me, you can’t just kiss me and run away. Please, please don’t do that to me.

There’s nothing you can do but sit down again and he says, “I'm sorry but would you please, please talk to me. What- What was that?”

So you gather up every last shred of courage in your body to give him what he deserves: honesty. This isn’t Plan B. This isn’t even Plan C, but you no choice but to tell him.

How he’d looked so darling, all in white, sitting an arms length away. Warm and beautiful and relaxed, all fluffy hair and soft edges. That old, old familiar low simmering want had ballooned, expanded until the pressure maxed out and finally, finally burst. There wasn’t space inside your physical body to contain the expanse of it anymore, and you’d gone ahead and. Leaned down and kissed him.

But for any of that, you need words, and they aren’t making themselves available. Your useless brain churns out miserable sensation after miserable sensation, instead. You can feel the aftershocks of the inner explosion making your fingers tremble. Blood rushes in your ears, making your own voice sound like you’re underwater.

Words finally begin to tumble off your lips, but not the right ones.

“Oh, god. I’m, so, so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, I- Jungkook, the truth is I'm in- uh. Like you? I like- love you. And. I got- caught up... I don’t know.”

One, two, three exceptionally long beats elapse. You think mildly that maybe this is the worst you’ve ever felt, recalling hangovers, recalling being stood up on a date when you were seventeen, recalling crying into Jimin’s shirt after Seokjin’s party. This train of thought continues until he demands,

“Say that again, without the apology. Tell me again, don’t say you’re sorry.”

So you tell him, again, but you’re about three beats per minute shy of cardiac arrest. You’re no doctor, but you’re reasonably sure.

“Jungkook, I'm in love with you. I’m s- wait, no, sorry, I'm. Shit. I should- do I start over? I’m,” You look up at the ceiling, blinking back the traitorous tears welling in your eyes and sigh once, “I’m so in love with you,” you finally get out, helplessly, only to get a shaky exhale in reply, and have to wait in excruciating silence for a number of seconds, while Jungkook works through his disbelief. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping maybe if you close them tightly enough, the tears threatening to overflow will stay trapped. It’s a good effort, but it doesn’t work.

Then you hear, between many stops and starts, “I’ve... um,” He clears his throat, so you open your eyes again, since you’re clearly fighting a losing battle here anyway, in time to see him reaching for your hand before drawing back at the last moment, unsure. “Kind of, always been... yours. Like, this whole time?” Which... what the hell does that mean? “I’ve... I’m... I didn’t think- I was so scared that- I just. It’s just that you have no idea how many times I've imagined you saying that to me. And literally... not a single one of those times did I ever imagine you would be apologizing for it in the same breath. Please tell me again.” You’re pretty sure you’re physically shaking at this point, but it’s good that he’s asking you for simple things, one at a time, seeing as your brain has shut off. Checked out, right before you decided kissing him was a good next move.

You force yourself to make eye contact with him as you say, “I- Okay. I love you? I’ve been in love with you since... for so long now. All right? So please, what the hell does that mean, ‘I've always been yours?’ You’ve always... you’re what?”

“I mean I'm yours. I mean I love you. I love you, too. Will you please kiss me again, so I can kiss you back, because I've been sitting here these past five minutes freaking out about this whole situation but also the fact that you probably think I'm a terrible kisser? Because of just now? I’m sorry, I just, the shock-  and I'm not. I swear to god, I promise, I'm not, so please-”

You kiss him again, cutting him off mid-word, and, yep, oh, there’s a clear difference once he’s had time to react. He’s true to his word. But-

“Yeah, I know,” you murmur against his lips after a minute. The giddiness is finally beginning to catch up with you. Jungkook opens his eyes, it appears, with some effort.

“I- you what?” Holy fuck, he looks far away. It takes him a second to come back to himself enough to ask, “What do you mean?” His eyelids are heavy, and you can see his gaze trained on your mouth. The incredible way he looks this fucked out after a few seconds of kissing is really, really fucking distracting, and you almost forget what you were going to say.

“I know. I remember.” It’s not difficult to give in to the temptation to chase his lips again, between sentences, and you allow yourself to nip at his lower lip, like you’ve wanted to for so, so fucking long. But you do want to tell him, “Christmas,” before falling back into him again.

And Jungkook, poor thing, for all he’s good at kissing —giving as good as he gets and making your eyes want to roll back in your head and let him take, take, take what he wants— for all he’s very, very good at that, he’s just a little bit shit at multitasking. Carrying on this conversation is clearly, by degrees, becoming more and more difficult. You note with a little satisfaction that his chest is heaving slightly when he pulls back again, eyes still closed, but with a crinkle in his brow and his pretty, pink, kiss-swollen lips turned down at the corners in confusion.

“Christmas.” You can see him trying to remember, and yeah, you expected that, but. Ouch, anyway. You force yourself not to dwell on the number of times you’ve mentally re-lived that night, times he clearly hasn’t.

“Mhmm.” It’s too much to resist dipping back down for yet another quick kiss in between words. You’re getting addicted to it, it’s already clear. “‘S okay. You were pretty drunk,” you supply, pressing another kiss to the freckle beneath his lip, nosing along his jaw, kissing the skin there with every ounce of tenderness that’s taken up residence in your heart, piling up higher and higher over the past year, affection distinctly tinged with a powerful rush of relief overflowing in this moment as if to make up for how painful the past ten minutes were.  

“Christmas... kissed you?” Jesus, he sounds wrecked. Might as well be drunk now, at two pm on a Sunday. “Kissed you... mistletoe?” A modicum of clarity makes its way into his tone, as you reach the soft patch of skin below his ear and graze your teeth there, and you’re pressed up so close against him that his full body shudder wracks you as well. A fresh flutter of butterflies almost makes you gasp, in response. You’d been completely sure he didn’t remember that night at all. “That was... at Christmas there was, I was, so much-” His breath catches as you kiss your way down his neck, giving special attention to the mole there, “So much eggnog. I was so sure that- that was a dream.”

“Mmm mm. Nope.”

“Not a dream?” Your kisses make their way along to the other side of his neck, kissing back up, toward the corner of his jaw, angling to get his breath hitching again, and it works, up until he wrenches his head to the side with effort, leveraging his hand, which had made its way into your hair while you weren’t paying attention, to move your head where he wants it, with his lips properly brushing yours again as he says, “Hang on a second. Hang on... No? Are you sure?” Jungkook’s voice has taken on a hoarse note you weren’t expecting. This, combined with the firm grip he has on your hair has a moan slipping out of your mouth before you can clamp your jaw shut, but you have to scoff.

“Am I sure? That that was a thing I lived through? Yes, Jungkook I'm sure.” His eyes are boring into yours, now.

He’s maneuvering you both, now, careful not to pull too hard on your hair, but not relinquishing his grip, either. Before you know it, you’re on your back, propped up against the pillows with Jungkook’s body caging you in from above. He kisses you again, harder, and hotter, a kiss that has you chasing his lips when he retreats far enough to continue,

“Wow. Okay back up a little bit, I need you to tell me what happened, then, because I have a memory and its...,” —another searing kiss, “Let’s just say it can’t be accurate from start to finish. Call it wishful thinking.” He pulls back again, to read your expression. You aren’t sure what he sees there, but it’s probably something along the lines of pure want. Probably. “I was definitely blacked out from Seokjin’s horrible rum concoction. Help me out here?’”

You take a moment to give yourself the benefit of a steadying inhale, because it’s very, very difficult to think straight under these conditions. Under Jungkook conditions. Literally under Jungkook, is your current condition. Jesus, his eyes are so, so dark. Your imagination straight up fails to even speculate what he could mean by that, tapping out before you can even try. It’s too much to think about.

“What? I don’t know what that means. What do you remember happening? Or think you remember happening?”

It was worth a try, but you get only a shake of his head.

“Nope. You first. What do you remember?”

“I um. We both went to Seokjin’s for his Christmas party?” Jungkook, to his credit, seems to quickly register that you’re having a little difficulty relating events back to him, and takes a measure more pity on your kiss-clouded mind than you on his, a moment ago. He must genuinely be invested in your answer, because he backs up a little, sitting back on his heels with his knees on either side of your hips. You miss him immediately, and try very, very hard not to make any sort of embarrassing whine in protest, and succeed... mostly.

“Uh huh. I remember being sober-ish at that point.” Jungkook corroborates, kindly ignoring the noise you made, except to smile to himself as he reaches for your left hand with his right, intertwining your fingers. This simple gesture somehow makes your heart flip again, even harder than at any other point tonight. You need his weight back, want his mouth again, so you rush a little through your version of events, noting certain major details.

“You wore dorky cardboard reindeer antlers.” His eyes flit up and to the right, clearly searching for a matching memory.

“... Oh. Uh huh.”

“We played some drinking games with Tae, plus some other people, got tipsy.”

“Mmm.”

Jungkook has drawn your interlocked hands up to his face, and begun to press featherlight kisses to the side of your thumb, the inside of your wrist. Your heart rate immediately doubles, and you note with a healthy dose of chagrin that he must be able to tell, with his soft mouth at your pulse point. The fresh rush of want and embarrassment that follows has you reeling, and when you go to continue, you find yourself stuttering. You can see clearly on his face that this leaves Jungkook feeling smug, but you don’t have the will to challenge him over it at the moment.  

“I- I was also a little. A bit drunk. Then... I lost track of you for a little while, and then suddenly you were back.” You’re jumping ahead in the story now, but you can’t be blamed, because Jungkook’s mouth is tracing a soft, measured line down the inner skin of your forearm, making your heart start and stop. You had no idea that area would even be sensitive. You’re reasonably sure you’ve never been kissed there, before. “So it was me and you, in the kitchen,” you continue, reminding yourself to breathe, “And. uh. Um. Seokjin and his friend wouldn’t stop trying to get us both back out into the living room, and I couldn’t understand why, until finally,” Jungkook’s kisses reach your inner elbow, and he’s pressing closer again, eyes closed. He’s not currently watching your face, which helps you refocus enough to go on, “Finally I got it, only after we’d been shepherded over to the fireplace. And I looked up over your head and I saw the mistletoe, and I thought, this is it, this is the day I finally murder Kim Seokjin.”

When Jungkook huffs a laugh at this, the gust of warm air from his breath makes goosebumps break out all over your skin, and his eyes slot open to sparkle at you from a foot away, mouth still pressed to your upper arm. He’s smiling, and his next kiss to your bicep is tinged with a hint of teeth as he hums for you to continue. You do your best to keep your voice from sounding strangled. “But I looked down from the mistletoe to your stupid fucking antlers, and they were crooked? So I just. Um. I reached out and at first I thought I was just going to fix them. And then I. That’s not what I did.”

“No, it isn’t, is it?” Now Jungkook’s close enough to kiss on the mouth again, so you close the distance, too needy, too earnest. But he kisses back equally as honest, and after a moment, it seems he hasn’t heard enough. “Then what?”

You sigh.

“Then I. Think mostly it was rum driving the bus at that point? I just kind of said, fuck it. And I kissed you, because... because I wanted you.” Which, oops. It’s definitely, one hundred percent, completely true, but you had sort of meant to say “wanted to.” Oh, well.

“That sounds familiar.”

“Yeah?” Even to your own ears, your voice sounds breathless.

“Yeah,” He leans in again, this time only to brush noses and ask, “Tell me again.” It takes you a moment to understand what he wants to hear, but you work it out after a short second.

“Huh? You mean tell you I like you? I’m in love with you, Jeon Jungkook. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Another kiss, warm and soft, heavy with what feels like the weight of a lot of pent-up want and postponed feelings. You figure you can take that as a yes.

Jungkook sits back up a little, eyes crinkled and sparkling with his smile as he picks up the previous conversation as if the little detour that put it there hadn’t even taken place.

“I wanted you, too. But I feel like I remember being so drunk I didn’t know where my hands were,” he confides. You wince.

“I... yeah. That’s the thing, I’m so sorry, Jungkook, I could tell you were drunk, I shouldn’t have kissed you when you were so far gone. I- I’ve beat myself up about that since the minute I did it, when I pulled away and the bubble popped and suddenly I could- I could hear all the hooting and whistling.” Your cheeks are definitely coloring at that part of the memory, but this is something you need to get out. “I never should have taken advantage of you like that. I was drunk too, but not as far gone as you were, and I should have-”

“Oh, my god, please. Cut that out. Don’t, don’t don’t don’t do that. Don’t even think about it.,” he cuts you off, “I’ve heard about enough today of you apologizing for liking me. As for the consent thing... I literally- there’s nothing I’ve wanted more in the world, drunk or sober, than to kiss you, for like. The longest time. The most miserable, longest time. I’d consent to you doing... literally anything to me, any time you wanted—” And uh, that is a whole other big issue you don’t even know where to begin to unpack, so you start spluttering, but he rushes ahead before you can formulate a proper argument. “—You could chop my leg off. I trust you.”

This, for some reason, has your breath hitching all on it’s own, “But I realize you had no way of knowing that, until just now. So I'm sorry I let you stew in that guilt this whole time. I swear I really did think... I just couldn’t believe I’d be so lucky. I didn’t know it was real. Just.... you should know my only regret is that I can’t remember it better.” He stops for a moment, searching for your eyes, wanting to make sure you’re getting every word. His tone softens, “I remember wanting you, though. I’ll be honest, I’d forgotten all about the antlers until you brought it up. I remember talking to you in a kitchen... that’s all vague. I just remember thinking I wanted to kiss you so badly, I kept taking sips of eggnog just to have something to do with my mouth. In retrospect, maybe a different solution would have worked out better, because it seemed like every sip made it worse.” Jungkook chuckles, “I remember being so happy you were in my arms I thought I was going to throw up.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, throwing an arm over your eyes, only for him to tug it away, admonishing.

“Hey! No, not like that. Not drunk throwing up. Butterflies throwing up.” You have to roll your eyes, although a smile steals over your face.

“You sure about that? Because they feel pretty similar, in my experience.”

“Oh yeah? In your experience? Had a lot, have you?” He grins at you, making you swat his shoulder petulantly.

“Well, let me think. Seeing as how you like to come home from the gym with every vein in your arms bursting like they’re going to jump out of your skin, with your hair soaking wet, and then crowd all up in my space when I'm cooking, at least four days a week, every week, I'm going to go with —yes,” you gasp, as Jungkook picks that exact moment to utilize his new tactic of tugging your hair just this side of too hard, while also kissing down the side of your neck and biting down.

“You like that I go to the gym.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you huff, after a respectable period of recovery when you can speak again, “I don’t know where all this bravado is coming from when a minute ago you were so sure I couldn’t possibly like you back, you retconned an entire Christmas out of existence.”

“Yeah, well, I’m half convinced I’m dreaming as we speak, so, if I wake up in bed alone again I won’t be surprised.” He says this so matter of factly you have to stop him, pull back for a moment and stare at him incredulously.

“What? No, Jungkook, this isn’t a dream.” He’s already leaning in to kiss you again, eyes slipping closed, so you scoot back, out of reach. You need him to listen. “Jungkook.”

He sits back up, reluctantly, letting you push his shoulder and rearrange your positions so you’re each lying on your sides, facing each other. Less power balance in play this way, legs still securely entangled, one of Jungkook’s hands in two of yours, still close enough to feel each breath he takes tickling the backs of your hands. “Do you have a lot of conversations about dreams within dreams?” you prod a little, trying to make a point, “That’s so meta.”

“I mean, no. This isn’t Inception.”

It’s unexpected, and it has you laughing. “God, I fucking love that movie.”

You extract one hand to hold it up between you.

“Excellent taste, a man after my own heart. High five?”

Jungkook can only really tip forward and try to headbutt your palm with his forehead, because you’re hanging onto the one hand he’s not currently lying on top of and he doesn’t have much of a choice. “But don’t think I can’t tell you’re trying to change the subject. That’s what I remember, one really dreamy kiss that I have literally never been able to forget about every time I've seen you since Christmas. And then I... um. I needed air and I pulled back, and everyone was, uh. I guess it could be called cheering?” You wince at the memory of the cacophony. “It was like being catcalled by barn owls,” Jungkook’s turn to laugh. “Then I think... I just ran? To the bathroom? And uh. Cried for like twenty minutes, did like three extra shots of rum, called an uber. Went home and cried more and fell asleep and woke up to like a million missed calls from Jimin. That’s the night I had. So. What do you remember?”  

“That’s horrible. That doesn’t sound nice at all, I'm so sorry. It was so bad you cried? Jesus Christ.”

“No, it’s not that at all. The kissing you part was, um. Really nice. Like, everything I wanted, nice. But it’s just that... it didn’t mean any of the things I wanted it to mean; it was just a friend kiss. A mistletoe prank kiss our shitty friends pressured us into and I knew that’s all it was to you—” Jungkook begins to protest here, so you correct, “—that’s all I thought it was to you, at the time. Except now I knew what it felt like, and the fact that it would probably never happen again and that was horrible. Is why I c- I cried.” You’ve been avoiding eye contact during this speech, but now you look up again and meet Jungkook’s gaze, and you can see a deep, deep sadness there.

“I am so sorry,” he says again. “Kiss me?” You have to disentangle one of your hands again to achieve it, but you lift one arm and give him another smack on the shoulder without any real power behind it. “Ow. Please?”

“No! What did you mean, ‘wishful thinking?’”

“Kiss first?”

“I swear to god, Jeon Jungkook, if you don’t-”

“-Fine! Fine, I’ll tell you. I just want one kiss and then I promise I will explain.”

“God, needy.” But you’re already leaning forward to catch his lips again. You never have been able to deny him anything he asked for, anyway. Your track record with telling him “No,” is a crapshoot.

You break apart again after falling headfirst back into his warmth and unsteady breathing, working with considerable effort to remain on topic. “It’s sex, isn’t it?”

And abruptly, Jungkook’s blank, wide-eyed panic face confronts your question.

“What? No, what- why- no, that’s not-” A beautiful flush works its way up Jungkook’s neck to his face, spreading across his skin like a glass of red wine toppled over on a tablecloth.

“That’s why you’re so squirrely about telling me, right? It was a sex dream?” You interrupt his stuttering, “Look, Jungkook, it’s fine, it’s not like I haven’t had-”

“No!!” he finally sputters, cutting you off. “I swear, that wasn’t it. I was about to tell- wait. You what? Not like you haven’t... what? Oh, my god.” Now it’s your turn to flush positively scarlet, as Jungkook’s head falls forward until his forehead connects with your collarbones, overwhelmed.

A moment passes. He’s not even saying anything.

Maybe you broke him?

“...Jungkook?”

“Uh huh. Yep, I’m here. Need a minute.”

“O- Okay.” You don’t know what to do, feeling phenomenally awkward, so you begin to tentatively run your fingers through his hair, detangling the strands and combing it softly with your hands. It’s getting long.

Air from Jungkook’s nose washes gently over your neck as he murmurs a pleased noise at the attention, and some muffled words into your throat.

“What?” you ask.

“I said, ‘You’re going to kill me.’”

You’re feeling playful, so you tell him, “At the risk of hyping myself up too much... I think it’s fair to say you haven’t seen anything yet, Jungkook-ah.”

It’s quiet, but you do still managed to catch his whispered, “Fuck,” along with a barely perceptible tightening in his grip where his hands grasp your sides. Then, at a more reasonable conversational volume, “I promise, it’s more like, I wanted to make sure I knew the accurate story first before I talked through what I remember dreaming, it’s not that it’s a sex thing and I’m not embarrassed to tell you about it.”

“Uh huh.” Your skepticism colors your tone well enough to have him lifting his head to let you see the honesty in his face.

“It isn’t!”

“Okay, okay. I believe you,” you tell him, unable to keep the beatific smile from your face at his expression, and he blinks, looking momentarily dazed.

“You have the most beautiful smile,” Jungkook tells you, eyes dropping to your mouth and then back up to meet your gaze, a sweet smile of his own crossing his face as he says it. “Oh my god, I have so many things I can say out loud now.”

Your blush is back with a vengeance, bringing up with it a vaguely hysterical giggle. You spare a brief thought to wonder when was the last time you felt this happy. The ballooning buoyancy of it fills your chest cavity like air in your lungs underwater, dragging your whole body up, up to the surface. You think it could pull you all the way up into the sky if you don’t hang onto the boy in your arms with all your strength to stay grounded. Love like helium in your lungs, his smile like a flame beneath the patchwork balloon and the tactile experience of having your hands in his hair, on his shoulders, body heat shared between you as ballast.

You’re still in this dizzy headspace, trying to imagine how to articulate this feeling to him when he continues, “It’s one of the reasons I first fell in love with you.”

The words are a bellows on the fire feeding all the floaty feelings and the experience is such a shock to your already overloaded system, you don’t know what to say or how to say it, instead continuing to blush to the tips of your ears and pulling him in by the drawstrings of his sweatshirt to connect your lips again.

He seems glad enough to meet you in the middle. He indulges you for a long minute; says, “My version of events is consistent with yours all the way up to mistletoe, I think. I was holding you, and I was finally kissing you, and then the rest of the night is a blur of Hobi-hyung telling me to just sleep in his bedroom, and then I think is where I started dreaming, because you were back. And you told me all kinds of things that I’d always wanted to hear, like this, and you climbed into my bed, like this. And you kissed me, like this. It felt warm, and it felt real, like it always does.”

“Oh, baby...” Is all you can say, and to you it seems ineffectual but hearing it makes Jungkook shudder and press closer. You note it carefully, with a rush of affection.

“It’s okay, though.”

“Do you believe you’re awake now?” you test him suspiciously, and watch him draw back an inch, eyes flitting around the room from himself, to the rumpled duvet, back to you for a beat and a half; then, curiously, he draws forward again, tucking his face under your chin, nuzzling his nose below your jaw where you spray your perfume, and breathes in. Your whole body locks up in response to the sudden closeness, and a wave of heat radiates out all over you directly from your core when you feel the unmistakable sensation of his tongue flitting out in an open mouthed kiss there, and then again, and then again.

“Mm... think ‘s real.” His voice is suddenly so much deeper than you’re used to, and you have to swallow, hard, in order collect yourself enough to speak, and still when you try at first it comes out as a bit of a squeak.

“Wh- What could you possibly have learned from that? Dream me never let you kiss my neck?”

“Oh, no. Not that,” He smiles, and you can’t see him, but you can still tell, because he hasn’t lifted his lips from your skin, and his pretty teeth drag gently over the tendon in your neck. “Dreams can feel real and they can look real, but they don’t smell real. Don’t taste real.”

Jungkook leans up to peck you on the lips, properly, and you’d love to keep looking at his face, shrouded by fluffy, too-long hair, bangs falling in his eyes, skin smattered with precious moles and the barest hint of hair growing in from his most recent shave, which you’ve never been near enough to notice. You’d love to, but your eyes keep slipping shut when your lips meet. It’s hard to fight.

“What does real taste like?” you ask, when you can drag your eyes open again.

Jungkook’s looking right back at you.

“You tell me.”

This time as your mouths meet, you give all your attention to the slide of your tongue against his, dipping between his lips to taste, sucking on his pretty lower lip. It earns you a gasp followed by a very unsteady exhale, and even the breath tastes sweet. You reposition your hands, using the fingers of your right hand to cup his jaw and encourage him to leave it slack and open, so you can lick back in, chase his soft tongue, and control the kiss.

Your observations are as follows:

Number one: Real tastes like --toothpaste. Mint flavored and fresh

Number two: Real tastes like --chapstick. Sugar and citrus, like a lemon hard candy

Number three: Real tastes like --bubblegum, which is actually coming from you and sweetens everything else that much more, and

--A fourth thing, difficult to label. Something your brain could never quite have conjured up, no matter how vivid the dream. Something that could only be intrinsically Jungkook.

Jungkook is breathing hard, some of them breathlessly voiced, almost moans. In the process of pursuing your single-minded goal you’ve managed to tip him on his back, lying short-ways across the bed, the wrong way. It looks to you as though the change in dynamic is affecting him considerably. Heat tinges the tips of his ears and you can faintly see his bangs beginning to stick to his skin. It makes your heart race, lightheaded from the power of it and perhaps a lack of oxygen.

“I think... I think I get it.”

Your words appear to call him back from another place, his eyes opening almost as if from deep sleep, heavy lidded, but with pupils blown, his chest heaving with each labored breath in. A beat passes before he flashes his teeth at you in a swift smile of understanding. You smile back.

It would have been hard, (no pun intended,) from this angle, not to have noticed the situation in Jungkook’s sweats by now, and you’re definitely aware of it. It’s encouraging.

You swing a leg over his body until you’re straddling his waist. You pause, glance at the clock on the bedside table and see that about a half an hour has passed already. You look back again, narrowing your eyes at Jungkook laid out beneath you, then back at the clock, and then bring your hands to the hem of your shirt and lift.

Jungkook only has time to begin to sit up, propping himself up on his elbows by the time you’ve whipped the offending article off, over your hair, like ripping off a band-aid, not giving yourself the chance to worry about doing it. It leaves you in your bra and your jeans, and the cute ankle socks with the little jello blobs on them. Jungkook said he liked these, once.

You don’t have the time to get anxious about not having had enough notice to change into one of your sexier bras, because he’s transferred his weight to one arm, elbow locked behind him, and reached out with his free hand to smooth over your side, wide, warm hand electric on the newly exposed skin, all done as if in a trance, like his hands are moving of their own accord. Gaze glued to you.

“Oh,” he exhales all at once, like all the air has been punched out of him, and, all right, yeah, that’s flattering. It might have something to do with the way your weight settles over his crotch, as well, but that’s neither here nor there. “Oh, wow.” Your tummy flips again, as you wrap your arms around his neck. His hand is still wandering, trailing the backs of his fingers tenderly down over your belly button, to your lower stomach, barely enough pressure not to tickle, then curling his fingers over your hip and stroking with his thumb. The hand travels behind your back, up to the clasp of the bra, where he hesitates, “Can I?”

When you nod your head, your hair moves, brushing your shoulders and poking the bared skin, prompting you to toss your head to the side to relieve the itchy sensation. You reclaim one of your own hands to assist the boy under you with the hooks, and between the two of you, you manage to get the thing done. You hold your breath, nervous, waiting for him to slide the straps from your shoulders, but he seems to sense your impulse to do so and kisses you first.

Slowly, gradually, his mouth moves down along your jaw, to your neck. He drops lingering, open-mouthed kisses all the way down your throat to your clavicles, and across to one shoulder, meeting up with the point where he left off kissing up your arm when you were relating back to him the details of your first kiss together. In the process, your left bra strap is brushed aside gently by his nose as it draws over your skin, and you inhale sharply as he continues down, tonguing the new expanse of skin bared to him, in no hurry, kissing your breast and taking the nipple into his curious, exploring mouth.

Your back arches toward him with no conscious direction from your brain, but Jungkook is there with his free hand pressed firmly against your shoulder blades, pulling your body closer to him anyway. You can feel a moan you’re trying not to vocalize begin to slip out, but Jungkook beats you to it, laving his tongue over your sensitive nipple and groaning out a soft, “Ahh,” followed by a low, rumbling hum before he looks up from under his eyelashes coquettishly and begins to suck. The moan you’ve been holding back escapes without your permission, as your head falls back, all strength in your body and the ability to hold yourself up threatening to fail at once.

The noises his mouth makes are wet and lewd, and if your panties hadn’t already begun to feel uncomfortably hot and sticky some time ago, chafing against the denim at the seams between your thighs, they would have at that. He draws off after a minute, releasing your breast with a filthy sounding pop to give attention to the other. It leaves your bare skin prickled with goosebumps and briefly cold with the saliva from his attention.

Miraculously, your other bra strap still clings stubbornly to your shoulder, the cups still dangling down your front between your bodies until Jungkook’s fingers slide beneath the fabric and finally coax it off and away, allowing you to slip your arms out. He deposits it at the foot of the bed.

With the barrier gone he resumes his ministrations, kissing across your ribs and lingering for a moment directly over your heart, beating at a furious pace as a direct result of everything he’s doing to you. He continues on to lavish all the same attention on your right breast. Seems only fair, to him.

He does want to make use of his other hand, however, and tease you with his mouth and his hands at the same time, so he sits up a little further, pressing forward until you get the hint and sit up to let him rearrange your positions slightly.

You’re pliant in his arms and willing to be maneuvered up to a point, and that point is that you’re ready to no longer be the only one undressed, and you’re impatient to get him out of his baggy hoodie, so you each rise to your knees, face to face, and you slip your fingers beneath the hem of it until your fingers curl over his sides. You find that he’s bare skinned underneath the sweatshirt, and quickly realize with a shiver that knowing intellectually that he doesn’t tend to wear layers under his hoodies is one thing, and it doesn’t compare to knowing it intimately, physically, which is another. His skin is warm, warm and soft beneath the pads of your fingertips.

You’re so overwhelmed to have the opportunity to touch him like this your hands are shaking, but you power through, needing to feel him and know him and make him feel good. You draw your hands further up, feeling the divots in his ribs when he inhales hard and his ribcage expands to contain the breath. The sweatshirt rides up with your hands, gradually bunching and folding until you reach his underarms, brushing soft hair for a second and he lifts his arms to allow you to slip it off, over his head.

His face briefly disappears from view and then reappears on the other side of the collar, hair ruffled and eyes searching for your reaction, your approval or disapproval.

(As if you would ever be disappointed by anything you found under Jungkook’s clothes.)

You run your hands over his swelling pecs, as he takes one deep breath after another, then down over his abs and then back up again to smooth over his shoulders, just trying to drink it all in.

“Jesus Christ, Jungkook,” you whisper in awe, pulling him forward with all your upper body strength to crush his body to yours, and he responds by wrapping his arms around you and crushing you right back. Your lips find his cheek, then his nose, hands on either side of his face to aid your aim as you drop kisses all over it. You let one hand travel down his side to his hip and bring your mouth to his ear, experimentally taking his earring between your teeth and tugging as you manage to leverage one of your thighs between his legs and encourage him to rock down on it, all at once.

The reaction is immediate, Jungkook moans outright in arousal and surprise. You briefly let go of the earring to flick your tongue over the area, and then take it back in your mouth and pull again, gently, and it’s worth it for his body’s response, when you feel his cock jump in his pants where he’s pressed up against your thigh.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah? We like that?”

Jungkook merely groans in reply, and his left hand finds its way down your lower back to your jeans, sneaking under the waistband and then under the elastic of your underwear a few inches to grip your ass in his palm and angle your lower body so he can grind down on you, working his hips slowly, giving himself a little friction and then drawing away. His right hand finds your nipple again, plucking sharply to get you gasping and then pinching and rolling.

You give up moan after moan for him, everything he does to you just feels so fucking good, you can feel the dopamine saturating your brain with every second his hands and mouth are on you. Fuck, but you could get used to this.

You mouth along his jaw to his neck, letting your teeth graze his skin lightly to feel him shiver. Curious, you bite down a little, enough to sting and then lave your tongue over the spot. His hips stutter and you smile to yourself.

“Hey, baby,” you address him, dragging his hips down against you with a little more force.

It earns you a stuttered, “U-Uh- Uh huh?”

You let your mouth travel back up to his ear, ask him softly,

“Do you think you could come like this?” making sure your lips brush his skin as you say it.

“Fuck,” he grits out, letting his head fall forward onto your shoulder, like he lacks the strength in his neck to hold it up anymore. “You can’t just say shit like that.” But his hips work down on your thigh over and over again on their own, so you prompt him,

“But can you?”

“Oh, god. I don’t- I don’t know. Yeah, probably. You’re so hot. I’m so hard. Probably, yes.”

You grin into his hair, “That’s my baby. What a good boy for me.”

And Jungkook... honest to god whimpers against your skin.

Whose life you must have saved in a past reincarnation to deserve this, you don’t know, but you decide just to thank your lucky stars, and back up just a little, to move until you’re lying down against the pillows, right way up in Jungkook’s bed, holding your arms out for him to follow you there.

Jungkook’s head snaps up as soon as you start to move backwards, like he thinks something might be wrong, but he gets the picture quickly and settles his weight over you easily, slotting your leg back between his and grinding down immediately.

He captures your lips in a bruising kiss before breaking it to ask, concern clear in his eyes,

“What about you?” And his hand rests over the button of your jeans, waiting for your permission, but as much as it pains you, you have to shake your head, bottom lip pulled between your teeth.

Your eyes find his and you tell him, “Another day, Jungkookie, baby. We don’t have time.” Your eyes flit over to the bedside table with the digital clock on it, ruthlessly bearing the current time, and then back to his face, tilted up at you, open, waiting for an explanation. “Tae will be home in ten minutes. He’s bringing friends.”

A pout forms on Jungkook’s kiss swollen lips. Oh, no. Oh no. “Jungkook, we can’t. Do you want him to walk in on us in the middle of this?” And Jungkook’s eyes suddenly drop from your face like he can’t hold your gaze, but you feel the tell-tale twitch of his cock in his pants. There’s no way you wouldn’t. Jungkook clearly knows this, because he screws his eyes up, shut tight. Oh.

“You do? Oh, Jungkook. Oh, come here, baby.” He resists for the briefest of moments, but he lets you take his face in your hands and connect your lips again, and starts to roll his hips again, a little harder than before, but his eyes stay screwed shut. “You’d be into that, huh? Taehyung coming home and looking for you, coming to see what all the noise is behind your door and swinging it open to see your big, hard cock buried in my dripping pussy?” You pause for a second. “Is this okay?”

Jungkook chokes on nothing, but nods frantically, thrusts speeding up. “I’m so wet, Jungkook. You did that to me. Make me feel so good.” He’s moaning freely, now, face buried in the crook of your neck, one of his hands kneading your breast like his life depends on it. “You know, we didn’t lock the door. He could get home early. Would we hear him come in? Over all that pretty noise you’re making? Do you think we’d hear in time to stop? I don’t think so.”

You give in to the impulse to bury a hand in his hair again, scraping your nails gently against his scalp, brushing his bangs up off his forehead, then gripping a handful at the crown of his head and pulling, a little less gentle this time. Your other hand slips under the waistband of his sweats to take a handful of his ass and help him frot hard against you. You can feel the muscles flexing under your fingers, as he pants open-mouthed, breath fanning hot and damp over your neck.

This is unquestionably the hottest sex you’ve ever had, and you’re not even fucking. Neither of you are even totally naked. But Jungkook moans, brokenly, hips stuttering, and he says,

“I’m... I think I’m gonna come,”

“That’s my good boy, come for me. That’s right. Go ahead and make yourself come for me, baby.”

His face scrunches up and he gets out through gritted teeth, “Hurts,” and you slacken your grip on his hair immediately, ready to let go, but his eyes snap open and his hand flies to your wrist in a blur of motion. “No! Please- Please keep- my hair, fuck, I’m so close. Fuck,” So you wrap your fingers back in the soft, faintly curly strands and tentatively give another tug. “Ngh. Wasn’t- what I meant.” He gestures toward his crotch, and in following his movement you get an eyeful of his v line descending down under his sweatpants, and the fabric has ridden low enough at this point that it’s solely being held up by his straining erection. You can see the beginnings of a trim patch of pubic hair peeking over the waistband, and a distinct dark, wet spot decorates the place where the head of his cock must be. It makes your mouth dry to look at, but you catch his meaning. The friction must be overwhelming.

“Just a little more, baby,” you encourage him. “I know you can do it, you dirty thing. You aren’t wearing underwear, are you, sweetheart?”

Jungkook blushes to the tips of his ears, and with his shirt off you can see the way it travels down, down, all the way over his chest. Mouthwatering.

“I- I wasn’t expecting-”

“That’s what I thought. Just want to be caught, huh? Like the danger of it? The thought that someone might see you with your cock out in your sweatpants and know?” This earns you another whimper.

Then, “You.”

“Hm?”

“You, I wanted you to know. I wanted you to notice. Maybe. If I could be brave enough to... Thought maybe you might- oh, fuck, fuck. Thought you might see, think of me sometime... if you were getting off, by yourself... oh, god.”

Your turn to moan.

“Jesus Christ, that’s so hot.”

“Can you- Can I touch myself? Please, I’m so close, please let me touch myself.”

“Not this time, baby, I want you to come like this or not at all, can you do that for me?”

Jungkook whines louder, hips frantically rutting against you, desperate to come.

You lean and latch your mouth to the juncture behind his jaw that you noted was so sensitive, earlier, working the patch of skin between your teeth and gripping his hair tight at the same time.

With any luck, this is going to leave a beautiful, mottled mark and he won’t forget every time he looks in a mirror, and it’ll be in plain view to everyone else who sees him until it eventually fades. You’ll just have to create new ones, when that happens. The thought that this might happen again in the future between you fills you with a bubbly, giddy joy despite the knowledge that there’s no time for you to get off, this time. It’s all right. You’re playing the long game, here.

Jungkook suddenly tenses up hard and gasps out, “‘M gonna come, please, can I? Oh god, I’m gonna come.”

“Go ahead, baby. My good boy. Come for me.”

And he does, body locking up, every muscle in his abdomen flexing and quivering, veins standing out in his forearms, neck, and forehead, sweat dripping off the line of his jaw. He’s a vision, hovering over you, spilling into his pants and gasping heaving breaths. He opens his eyes in the last couple seconds as come stains the fabric between his legs, staring directly into your eyes. His irises are almost invisible, pupils blown and lids low and heavy. You can’t stop the full body shiver that wracks you from head to toe. That’s an image that’s going to stay with you when you’re alone in a cold bed from now on.

“Kiss me,” he demands. And you do, stroking his hair, gently now, sweeping it back off his forehead and smoothing it behind his ears.

His tongue slips out between your lips lazily, tangling with yours in a soft, sated dance for a long minute, until he appears to lose the ability to hold himself up with his arms and drops all his weight bodily on top of you.

“Oof,” you huff involuntarily. His head has landed conveniently on top of your chest, directly between your boobs. He hums from this position, utterly content, gooey pants and all. “Jungkook.”

“Mm?”

“We gotta get up.”

“Mm mm. No.”

“Tae is due in like, t minus two minutes. I need to change my underwear before company gets here. You need... a tissue and some fresh pants, at the very least.”

“Don’ wanna think about it.”

“Where’s my bra?”

“Nooo,” comes the protest from your, soft, sleepy, sexed out sweetheart. He’s very hard to say no to.

“Come on,” You slap his sweaty bicep to no effect. You really don’t want Taehyung to find you like this. Heaving a deep sigh, you decide it’s time for your last resort.

Your fingers dart to Jungkook’s sides and dig in, tickling him mercilessly. His entire body heaves and twists up off you involuntarily, up and away from your reaching hands.

“Cheating!” he protests through his giggles as you squirm out from under him in the aftermath. You really do need to change your underwear. And probably your pants, too.

You grab your bra and your shirt from where they each landed respectively, putting them back on while Jungkook sits on the bed, looking vaguely put out, pushing out his bottom lip at you.

“Aww,” you coo, coming back over to give him the kisses his expression is crying out for. Petulantly, he kisses back, but continues to pout, even as he scoots to the edge of the bed, making a face as the mess in his pants shifts when he moves, no doubt gross by now.

“I need a shower,” he sighs. “Why did you do this to me?”

You laugh outright at him, and decide he deserves it when you say, “Because you were begging to come, Jeon Jungkook.”

He scrunches up his nose in response, now standing, at least.

“I am getting you back for this.”

“I look forward to it,” you tell him, wrapping your arms around him and kissing him again, slow. You’re not even a little tired of this. Not even close.

Your eyes are closed, but you sense movement near your waist, so you open them, only to see Jungkook shucking his pants, using the bunched up material to wipe up the worst of the cum on his lower belly, and chucking the whole mess into the hamper in the corner. Despite all you’ve done today, this is the first time you’re seeing Jungkook properly naked, and you find yourself blushing and snapping your eyes to the ceiling, looking anywhere else.

He laughs at you, predictably.

“Oh, after saying all that to me, you’re gonna get shy now?”

“It’s different!” you squeak, unable to tell if it’s safe to look back yet.

“What’s different?” Nope, definitely not safe. If anything it’s less safe. His voice is very close to your ear, now. You keep your eyes determinedly locked on the ceiling fan. It needs to be dusted.

“It just is.”

“Because that was in the middle of sex, and now the sex is over, suddenly you’re flustered?” You just nod. “What if sex isn’t over, then? Will you look at me then?”

“Huh?”

And now Jungkook’s hands are on you, thumbing your sides, sliding under the shirt you just put back on. You dare to let your gaze fall back on his face, but no lower.

“I said, ‘What if it isn’t over.’”

“But it is. You just came.”

“You didn’t.”

“You just came!”

Jungkook’s eyes drop to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“So?”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

He just shrugs one shoulder. “Trust me, I can go again, if that’s what you want. You drive me crazy. But I don’t have to, I want to make it about you.” A pause, where he glances over his shoulder, then, “I’ll lock the door this time.”

It’s a lot to take in. You groan, smoothing your hands over his bare chest and squeezing your eyes shut. Try to remember the reasons it’s not a good idea. It’s difficult. Every fiber of your being wants him.

You give in a little, just enough to kiss him again, allowing your hands to travel down his back, scraping your nails over his skin just a little to feel him groan into your mouth, smoothing your palms over the globes of his ass and squeezing indulgently. You feel his cock, oh, god, perk up in interest already and decide, no, that will have to be enough for now. Giving him one last peck on the lips, you pull away.

“Later,” you promise, smiling.

Jungkook looks disappointed, but he still says, “Fine. Later.” And you can already see his eyes shifting to a darker shade, cogs in his head making plans for you.

You suppress a shiver, and slip out the door.

[Part 2 is now up!]

[theasteriae-arc]

THE CHOICE. 

Written with, and published with the permission of, the very talented @strangerinourmidst.

“I didn’t ask for a lawyer.”  

“I’m not a lawyer,” was the easy reply. He folded his hands on the heavy metal table between them. “I'm a representative, offering an opportunity.”

Sebastian watched him, wary, distrusting. He was sat as far back in his seat as the chain of his cuffs would allow, eyes as narrow as a cat’s and shadowed by black circles. “Forgive me but the last time a “representative” came to me and offered me an “opportunity” ...” he said. The chains rattled and clinked as he made exaggerated quotation marks with his fingers. His knuckles were torn to shreds, covered in dried blood—they looked very at odds with the sound of his voice, which was hard, but with the sharp vowels of the upper classes. “It didn’t exactly go well for me, so ...” He glanced down at his hands. Curled them into fists. “They told you what I am, did they? And now you’re here to, what, bid on me, or something? Want to look at me before you buy, is that it? Hoping for a demonstration?” He could feel his blood beginning to boil. An all too familiar shiver started up in the muscles in his back. “I don’t think a suit like you will be able to stomach that.”

“I’ve seen worse.” Admittedly, just barely. The other was a mess. Handsome. Posh, once. But exhausted, now. Abused. Moriarty did not extend offers out of pity, but there was a reason Richard had insisted on interviewing the mutant boy young man first. He remembers what this is like. Richard tilted his head. He observed Sebastian calmly. Not overly-confident, not outwardly pitying- just, calm. Curious. He wondered if the chains would be enough to hold him. “I don’t represent an agency, nor any sect of the government or military. M-my employer is independent.” He didn't bother trying to hide the stutter. He hoped it would endear him. He’d worn a more casual suit for that purpose as well. Made sure his hair was brushed back but loose. No sharp angles, no intimidation here. “B-but I'm afraid you have the wrong impression of me, Mr. Moran. I'm here to offer you a job.”

“What does that matter?” Military, government ( home or foreign ), agency, independent contractor, what difference did any of it make? They were all after the same thing, after all: him. Or at least, the thing that they had turned him into. “I don’t care who sent you, they can shove their-” But despite all of his preconceptions, the stranger’s next words made Sebastian stop. Listen, even. No one had addressed him with such respect in a very long time. “It’s Private. I’m still a member of the Armed Forces, thank you very much.” He attempted to make up for the momentary drop in his guard with further hostility. “Tell me more about this job, Mr. ...?”

“You can call me ‘Richard’, Private.” He unfolded his hands and laid them flat against the cool table. He would respect the title, even if it felt tacky coming from his mouth. Rich was a good actor, though. He made it sound serious. “It’s long-term. Quite dangerous, though far away from places like this.” Rich straightened himself. Blinked those big eyes of his, and spared Sebastian a smile. “I've read your file. You're an excellent shot, Private. The best on the continent. And now you’re the fastest and strongest, too. D-don't you want the chance to use that?”

Richard had beautiful eyes, they were big and brown and framed by thick, dark lashes. Sebastian had to remind himself to concentrate, soldier. “That depends,” he answered shortly. “You said your man—or woman, I suppose, sorry—wasn't military, so what would I be using them for?” It's not that he doesn't want to leave this place, they’ve got him locked up at all hours, caged up in chains like an animal—beaten, like an animal—but the last time he took a new and dangerous job, this was where it had landed him, so it was best to be cautious. “I'm not averse to a little bit-” Or even to a lot- “-Of danger, but you must understand ... I don't know you, you haven't even told me your employer's name. I'm going to need a little more from you than what you're currently giving.” His voice was deep and the way he spoke, he sounded mature, even authoritative, something he'd not felt in a long time either, but the effect of all this was ruined when he yawned. Wide, childish. He wanted to cover his mouth, to rub at his eyes, but he tried and all it did was tug on the cuffs around his wrists and cause him more pain. “I'm tired now,” he said plainly. “So unless you can convince them to get me out of these and to let me sleep somewhere comfortable, uninterrupted, I'm not interested. It’s not money or employment that I need, it’s freedom. Can your boss offer me that?”

He watched Sebastian- all intense gaze and serious tone under the bags and bruises and shaggy hair. Richard knew he wouldn't be hurt, but he couldn't help but feel appropriately on-edge. Intimidated. The young man could be amazing, if he was given the chance. “No,” Richard admitted, after a moment. He wet his lips. “B-but he can offer you a longer leash.” He offered another smile. He stood, careful and polite. Richard walked to the door and knocked on it twice. A guard opened it- and when he saw Richard, he looked confused. He looked past Rich, to Sebastian, and the confusion turned to alarm and anger. But Richard didn't give him time to speak, or react. “Private Moran has earned a hot meal and a more comfortable cell for the night. He's been very well-behaved.”

“Very good, sir.” The command may not have been explicit, but Richard's words were heavy enough with implication that the guard was sent scurrying off about arranging all this anyway. Sebastian did not thank him. He did not say anything, letting the silence stretch on as he tried to work out how he was feeling. Hunger gnawed at his belly, fatigue weighed down his shoulders, his chin, his eyelids. The prospect of a hot meal and a modicum of comfort was appealing, he could not deny that—even if it did come at the cost of this man's patronisation ( "He's been very well-behaved" ). The thing was, though, what else was it going to cost him? Because, in Sebastian's experience, nothing came free, or even cheap, people wanted something for every kindness. That then had to be his next question: “What do you want from me? Really, what do you want?” Half-slumped against the table, he no longer sounded serious, he sounded as he looked—defeated.

He meant no offence- it was easier to command when they were given as gentle suggestions, rather than orders. If it was a reasonable thing the guard might do on his own. Richard was stretched thin enough just getting himself in and having this little meeting, something the tiger might sense if he tried hard enough. Richard had to take a moment to himself, to press his eyes closed and take in a breath, steadying, before he turned back around. The man boy looked so vulnerable. Like he wouldn't be able to move, even without the chains holding him down. Richard's hands flexed and he waited a beat, before smoothing down the front of his suit. He wanted to lie. He wanted to pretend this was kindness, or liberation. But he was a professional, this was a job, and Sebastian had to be told the truth: “M-my employer wants a living weapon. He thinks your privileged upbringing, your military training, and your new strength make you one of the most eligible candidates for this position.” ‘One of’, not ‘the’. Everyone was expendable.

Sebastian turned his head to one side, looking back at Rich from over his shoulder. “I see,” he said slowly. The truth endeared Richard more to him than his stammer did, or his nervous little smiles. “And ...” The effort of holding himself like that, simply of holding himself up, was wearing him down. He sighed, settled with his head forward facing again, but hanging low. He closed his eyes. The past few minutes replayed themselves in the back of his mind; now that he was seeing them for the second time, he realised, something felt off. “You’re not here to buy me at all, are you, sir?” They’d threatened him with that; sell him to the highest bidder, or shoot him between the eyes, those were really their only options now that they had lost complete control of him. He might look docile enough here, but his old CO had been buried with his throat torn out. The tiger that inhabited his body was by no means tame. “You’re here to steal me.” And for the first time since Richard had entered the room, for the first time in months, maybe even years, Sebastian smiled.

His mouth tipped into a muted, crooked smile. Sardonic. “I suppose I am.” Richard took steps back to the table. His time was almost up, and he was sad for it. He felt better seeing Sebastian's smile. At his reaction with the realisation. “What we do is illegal. You may be asked to hurt people. You may be asked to hurt people you've met, or you think don't deserve to be hurt. Or steal, or threaten, or intimidate. And you may not be able to question those orders.”

“And? You said you’d read my file, so you must know why they put me in here—it’s not just because I look pretty all banged up. None of that stuff bothers me, except—” He locked eyes with Richard, the grin that had blossomed under all those bruises fading slightly as he said: “—I don’t hurt kids. Doesn’t matter who’s giving the orders, I won’t do it.” There it was again, that sense that something wasn’t quite right. And you may not be able to question those orders. His file clearly showed that he had no problems talking back to his superiors. He’d refused to be a good boy and do as he was told more times than he could remember so why now—? And then he remembered the way the guard had shuffled off, obeying the instructions of a man who, by all rights, should not even be on the compound, let alone anything else. “What is it? Some kind of ... hypnosis? I mean, have you actually come here to give me a choice or am I just going to wake up tomorrow somewhere else?” Not that that would necessarily be a bad thing, he supposed, he just wanted to know that the decision would be his own.

“Sit up straight,” Richard ordered, low and gentle. It was an easy demonstration of the power. Maybe a little easier than he would have otherwise made it- the hard line against children surprised him. Pleased him. He hadn't read anything about a moral code. Rich wet his lips and let the compulsion hold for a few seconds. “That's enough, now.” He could feel Sebastian’s resistance- the boy hated authority, didn't he? “We call it ‘Suggestion’. It has it's limitations- b-but yes, you could think of it that way. I can't promise you I won't use it on you again in the future. You will know when it's happened, though. It will feel like that.” He smoothed out his jacket again. Nerves. He was starting to really feel those limitations. “F-for now, the decision to come with me or rot in this- place is entirely yours. The loyalty we require needs to be chosen. You need to know what you’re getting yourself into.” A pause. Another small smile- an apology for the dramatics. “...I will give you my number. You will have access to a phone, and a clock. You have until tomorrow evening to decide.” 

[bigskydreaming]

I really encourage people who have legitimate gripes with something I say or express on here to like.....either just DM, @ me directly or if you’re going to pop into my inbox to debate something with me, like, do so off anon, even if you ask that I don’t publish your ask and just respond to you in private. I always abide by that if people ask me to do that, and I’m 10000x more likely to treat your complaint or disagreement with dignity even if I completely disagree with it, than like....if you go on anon with it. 

Because dunno if you’ve noticed, lol, but there’s kinda a tendency with people who pick fights with me on anon or who @ me in general with some form of “LOL I can’t believe you’re so dumb as to believe this thing [that you don’t actually believe or else is not at all actually what I’m framing it as being],” to like.....only really do so in an attempt to trip me up, expose me as a hypocrite or pull some kind of ‘Gotcha!’ So, realistically, it just is not possible for me to give most anons who disagree with me the benefit of the doubt or for me to assume they’re at least coming from a place of actual honest disagreement rather than just....playing games, which I fucking despise and I refuse to respond to with respect. 

I sound ridiculous in nine out of ten of my over the top responses to people giving me shit, because of...deliberate intent on my part. *Shrugs* Because I personally consider it to be extremely ridiculous, how often I have people trying to poke holes in things I say, by.....poking at stuff I never even say, lol. 

I don’t actually always believe I’m right about everything, but I fully understand how my tone can convey that I do think that in a lot of these back-and-forths, because.....the one thing I do pretty much always think I’m right about is what it is I’m actually saying or believe. And thus, I really do not care for people trying to tell me I said otherwise, when I have a looooot of proof to point to how even when I’m being like, King Ridiculous in how I say or phrase something....nobody ever seems to have trouble comprehending my points on pretty much any topic across the board......until it happens to be a point I make on a matter they take issue with.

So just a general PSA, do with it what you will, but like. I’m just saying: 

I know I’m contentious, and I don’t actually want people to just automatically 100% take everything I say as fact or just never disagree with me, since that’s like....the polar opposite of pretty much my entire belief system or view of life and how to go through it lol. 

Buuuuut it honestly is exhausting constantly being hit up by people in bad faith, and who prove over and over again that they are perfectly comfortable saying or doing anything with no loyalty to even their own arguments, as long as it nets them a ‘win’ in arguing with me for the sake of arguing or whatever the fuck their motivation might be, I honestly do not care, lol. And I’m just......long past assuming that someone who is approaching me on anon to argue or contest something I’ve said or a position I’ve taken, is doing so in good faith instead of just as part of a twelve step plan wherein they disingenuously go about trying to lay some kind of convoluted ‘trap’ to lure me into. As though any of this is worth that fucking effort in the first place. LOL.

So by all means, disagree with me, contest me, put the screws to something I say and force me to defend my point further.....but like.....just be fucking honest about it. Or be willing to put your URL/name to it when doing so, even if you ask that I keep it out of public view, so that at least I know you’re not one of my half a dozen hate-following Regulars who habitually pop up on anon pretending to be someone brand new until three messages later when they’re like “Surprise! You thought I was just some rando, but here I am with the same receipts I’ve been claiming to have for the past half a decade!” (Oh no, much shock, mortification, oh unknowable plot twist, who could have ever seen that coming). LOL, y’know what I mean? Like, if you’re off anon or if you at least @ me with something approaching at least SOME modicum of respect, I’m soooooo much more likely to not just dismiss anything and everything you say from the word go, just because the sheer novelty of that approach is gonna be more engaging to me than, like, Me Vs Some Rando Whose Opening Gambit Is “Well Actually.....*proceeds to argue against points several galactic light years north of anything I’ve ever actually said ever*”: Round Fifty Two Bajillion. 

Like yeah, I’m rude as fuck in a lot of the arguments I get into on here, because I’m not a big fan of turning the other cheek and also I’m not gonna gloss over the ugly in something someone says just because they couch it in ‘civilized, well-mannered discourse.’ So I’m not at all offering some carte blanche guarantee or a secret password for how to go about saying something vile to my face without me responding by verbally ripping your head off, lol, I just mean like.....you ever have some free time to kill, go back through my archives to my earliest posts on this site. You can literally WATCH the slow expiration of my Give-A-Fucks in real time. I usually position myself to be the Reactive part of an argument on this site deliberately.....I don’t go starting things unless I’m weighing in on something that crosses my dash and already is looking ugly as hell, and for the most part, 90% of the fights I get into on this site are people approaching me to begin it, and y’know.....I don’t owe it to anyone to treat them or their position with more respect than they approach me with. LOL. And also, I don’t owe it to my own reading comprehension or that of anyone else who is similarly not an idiot to treat the ‘faux-respect/politeness’ people are addicted to on here as anything other than rudeness couched in the additional insult of assuming I and others are too stupid to see the subtextual disdain. Like. Nope. Miss me.

Bottom line is just, I’m not looking to be yet one more person giving people who are legitimately questioning things they’ve been told or led to believe, like, reason to be too intimidated or afraid to actually question these things rather than just keep to their personal status quo in an effort to avoid confrontation. But I’m always going to be trying to balance that with being equally not a fan of enabling people who play-act at being too fragile or delicate to face up to their own behavior or the ugliness of their own opinions or stances if its delivered to them in ways that inspire them to cry-type about how like, its not their fault society told them it was okay to shit on entire groups of people as long as they could safely get away with it.

There’s a line there and I’m no tight-rope walker so no, I don’t have all the answers and am not actually trying to pretend I do, and believe it or not, I put a lot of thought and introspection into constantly self-evaluating not just my own stances and beliefs, but the why’s of them, and the how’s of how I go about interacting with others because of them, or talking about them, or anything of the like.

But because I do put a lot of effort into that myself, I am aware of like....there not really being an excuse for others not being similarly willing to do the same with their own behavior, beliefs or approaches to others, so.....meet me halfway, is all this really comes down to. To anyone who genuinely does find themselves at odds with things I say or troubled by viewpoints I espouse or even just flat out confused as to how to reconcile something I brought up with contradictory beliefs they’ve long held or been instilled with and are just trying to figure out which actually sounds more right to them now.

I do not want to be the bogeyman who is just so intimidating that even when he says something that makes you go ‘huh, maybe this thing I thought was wrong, but I’m not sure,’ you’re afraid to follow-up and explore that further in a back-and-forth with me. But I’m similarly disinclined to be used as the strawman/patsy/etc of people who are just interested in trying to manuever me into some conversational position they feel they can use to discredit me in front of their own followers and thus cement their own bullshit position that way. 

I just happen to get a lot of the latter, and that kinda plays directly into why I so often end up defaulting to the former. That’s not actually an excuse and so its more than fair for anyone to think that’s no reason to change their mind about me, a thing I’ve said or a way I’ve said it. But if fair is actually a thing you’re interested in, then please consider factoring all of the above in when deciding how or why or in what ways you approach an argument or disagreement with me, if you find yourself inclined to do so in the future. 

I would appreciate it, and even more importantly, I promise you it will be far more productive in encouraging me to actually argue or debate a point with you. As opposed to just making light of anything you say to me, much like I feel most approaches to me make light of the things I say, and thus.....my tendency to default to variations of LOL, you got some dumb on your face there buddy.

ANYWAYS.

Thank you for your consideration in this matter,

The Extremely Tired and Over It Management

[dregstrash]

Earning the Present(s) [4/4]

Thank you, thank you, thank you x100000 for sticking with this story and for suffering for my very late holiday vibes. I really just wanted to explore The Dregs as young adults, giving each other presents and being happy for a bit. I love this fandom a lot and the feedback I’ve gotten on this has been astronomical. keep being funky you crows

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

Summary: Five years after the events of the Ice Court, the six outcasts were in the prime of their lives. They had everything they had fought and bled for: money, power, promise, home. But this holiday season, a surprisingly altruistic event has them all under the same roof, and they all may have been a little older and a little wiser, but they were still those teenagers who had done the impossible and had almost died countless of times. And when the idea of a holiday gift exchange comes up the true test of their friendship and their growth is thrown into the rink.

----------------------

KAZ

Kaz remembered the cold winters that came over the farm. He remembered the cold snap as he stomped his too big shoes against the creaking porch, trying to regain some feeling back in his toes. He would always look up at the expanse of the gray sky and wonder why it was taking the sun so long to make an appearance. He hated the cold and he hated that he had to be packed in a million layers just to play outside.

But then he’d step into his family’s farm house and he supposed that winter wasn’t so bad. Because if it was a good season, the fire would be warming the hearth. His mother would be knitting in her chair by the window, and his brother would be greedily reading a book by fireplace. His father would be at the dining table looking at the numbers that Kaz couldn’t quite understand. And when Kaz walked in, his mother would smile at him, his brother would put his book down to play a game with him, and his father would reach over to ruffle his hair. Kaz always thought that that type of warmth had nothing to do with the fire. It had everything to do with the hugs, the teasing, and his family. It was a warmth that came from the inside. And the cold was bearable if it gave him the ability to treasure that little ember of heat with him forever.

But then the storms of his life crashed down all around him. One after the other until he looked up one day and found that he was always cold. The ember that he had carried with him had been smothered and all that was left was an unforgiving tundra that refused to be tampered down by something so trivial as warmth. Of course, there were days when he lay awake listening to the countless of sleeping bodies strewn across the floor of the Slat, and he almost longed for a modicum of what he once had-- a mother, a father, a brother, a home.

Then the tundra in him would rear its head and start to drown him with images of bodies floating lifelessly, the bloated flesh of a brother who promised to never leave him, and a constant reminder that he wasn’t what he was-- he was a boy determined to never feel the heat of a fire ever again.

Yet, despite his resolution, he met a Suli girl made from her own shadows, he took on an impossible job with the outcasts and outlaws, he had been tricked, he had been fooled, and still he won. And by the end the ice that he was firmly clinging onto was melting slightly in his own hand as he followed that same Suli girl to the dock to reunite her with her parents. 

In the years following the Ice Court job, he made sure to cling onto the reputation. He was still The Bastard of the Barrel after all, and his infamy had only grown as he was the first person to revive activity in the Staves after the plague he had orchestrated. He opened a new gambling hall in the richer districts of Ketterdam. He had a hand in most of the harbor. His Dregs were the most feared and most sought after crew that Kerch has ever seen. Pekka Rollins had been driven out of the small island for good (though he knew that was more Inej’s doing than his). He had money. He had made a name for himself. He had everything, and sitting on the roof of the Slat with his new cane resting by him and staring up at the sky, he couldn’t help but notice that a small spark of what he thought was long gone was starting back in his chest. 

“So I suppose you’re going to leave that cane behind when you have parlays with the other barrel bosses. Since it’s an actual pistol now.” 

He wasn’t surprised when Inej’s voice materialized out of thin air. He was even less surprised when he felt her drape a blanket around him and take a seat. What did surprise him was the slight smell of alcohol rolling off her tongue. She wasn’t drunk, she wouldn’t have risked the climb if she was, but based on past experience she always made it a point to be nothing but sober when she was with him. She had said some Suli proverb about keeping one’s wits about themselves when in the presence of animals with sharp teeth-- he wasn’t sure, he was far too busy watching her mouth to make any sense of the words.

Kaz snorted, “Like I’ve said before, Wraith, no one is going to deny a poor cripple his cane.”

Inej laughed lightly and he fought off the temptation to close his eyes at the sound, “Out of all the things I would choose to describe you, Kaz, ‘poor’ would not be one of them.”

Inej’s thigh was pressing closely against his and the warmth of it was making him dizzy. 

Ever since that day at the harbor, when he had so boldly took her hand in his, ungloved, it became a renewed effort to pull his mind from those drowning waters when he touched her. It had been so slow. There were some days when he almost wanted to let his lips linger longer and he thought himself strong enough to want to hold her without the barrier of clothes between them, but then the slightest brush of her fingers against his brow or her lips placed at the skin behind his ear and the riot of nausea and desire would render him paralyzed.

He hated it. He hated himself. He almost hated her. But then she’d understandably take a step back. She’d hold out her hands and give him that smile that would without fail melt him completely. Inej would listen to him breathe and get back his bearings and when he was steady once more she would take her perch by the window and they would spend the rest of the day in companionable silence.

Then there were moments when she needed that space. When she needed to draw back because he held on too tight. Or when she would hug herself when he tried to take her hand. Or when she woke up gasping and confused and...scared. He was there. Kaz would always be there. To help her fight whatever she needed to fight. 

It was a pendulum of good days and bad days between them, but eventually Kaz finally drew some comfort in Inej’s constancy. That in the midst of the good and the bad days, there she was, offering her hand to keep him steady--ungloved or gloved.

So sitting with her under the stars, Kaz didn’t hesitate in taking her hand in his. He turned his head and caught Inej’s smile as she laced her fingers with his.

“It was nice of Nina to do this.” She brought up, and Kaz turned his gaze back to the sky. “I haven’t celebrated Sankta Nichols Day in a very long time.”

“So the Suli give secret presents to one another and have to suffer through one of Jesper’s drunken rants?” Kaz mused.

“No,” Inej sighed. He could practically feel her roll her eyes, “We don’t really give presents like the rest of Ravka. Since we’re always moving, we would just throw a giant feast with dancing and songs.”

“There weren’t any presents? Even small ones?”

Inej shrugged, “If a family was rich enough or if people were in love, but it wasn’t common. What use is a present if you’re going to have to carry it with you.”

“Hmmm....”

“What about your family?” 

Kaz stiffened at that, “What do you mean?”

“Did they give each other presents at all? I know you Kerch value trade, but were there not any other occasions to give gifts?”

Kaz was silent for a while after that, weighing the words on his tongue. Inej knew most of his past by now, he thought she deserved that much truth at least. But it was still something that felt like a hot spike of cold that stabbed his chest. 

“No,” He rasped out, “We weren’t wealthy enough to give each other gifts. There were a few times that my father gave my brother a pocket watch that belonged to my grandfather. But presents like we had tonight were never within reach.”

Inej nodded in understanding and put her head against his shoulder. 

She was so warm. Everything about her was warm. Her body, her hair, her smile. She was everything that he had tried so hard to forget and he supposed it was that reason that he shifted his body away from her and turned to face her.

There was an obvious confusion in her eyes, but that slowly gave way to shock when Kaz pressed a small box into her hands.

“Kaz, what--” She gave a small gasp as she opened it and looked at the ring nestled inside.

A flutter of nervousness like he’s never known shocks through him, but he tries to talk through it.

“This doesn’t have to be a proposal,” He rushed to say, as Inej’s eyes were still fixed in the simple band with the three diamonds adorning it. “I-I just wanted you to know that if you’re ready or whenever you’re ready, that I’ll be here. That I’ll always be here, as long as you let me be.”

“It’s a promise ring then?” Inej’s smile could have rivaled the diamonds and for a moment Kaz lost his ability to speak.

“Of sorts.” He stuttered.

She held out the box towards him, and before he could even feel his heart begin to droop she said, “Put it on me?”

He nodded and took the delicate jewelry from the velvet box, “So is that a yes?”

The ring fit snugly on her fourth finger of her left hand and sparkled as it caught the light of the moon.

“Yes to the promise or yes to the proposal?” She said admiring it.

Kaz reached up and cupped her cheek with his hand, “Either or both, whichever you prefer.”

Inej’s lips quirked up and she inched forward. Kaz’s breath was caught in his throat as her breath fanned over his mouth, “Yes.”

“Are you ever going to tell me to which you’re agreeing to?” He teased.

She laughed and closed the distance between them in a quick and soft kiss before she settled her body more snugly against him. Her head hit his chest and she was sitting comfortably between his legs.

“Maybe next Sankta Nichols Day.” She chuckled as his hands immediately wrapped around her middle and he buried his face in her hair. The smell of it more intoxicating than all the alcohol in the world. 

Kaz shook his head disbelievingly, but found himself smiling regardless. He was a boy that the ice had tried to claim, but with the girl who had saved him countless times wearing a ring that held more visions of the future, he felt a new type of comforting warmth that had seemed so out of reach.

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[mikauzoran]

Marichat Drabble: Comparison

“I legitimately cannot tell if this shirt is too low-cut,” Marinette sighed, angling this way and that in the mirror.

The shirt in question had a neckline like any regular t-shirt, rimming her collarbone. The problem was that directly below the neckline was a large panel that had been cut out between the neck and the chest. A modicum of coverage was provided by thin strips of fabric running vertically along the panel like cell bars.

Chat Noir looked up from his position sprawled out on his stomach on her chaise, reading a comic in the original Japanese.

He nearly fell off of the chaise. “Uh…well…what’s your typical standard for too low-cut?”

Marinette pursed her lips and turned to face him, one hand going to her hip. “This is weird, but there’s a mole in the center of my chest.” She tugged one of the strips of fabric out of the way to reveal a cute little mole situated in the valley between her breasts.

Chat tried not to stare, but…this was incredibly pertinent to his interests. That mole was going to make appearances in future dreams, he just knew it.

“Normally, if the mole shows, I know the top is too low. If the mole is covered, I’m good,” she elaborated. “With this top, though, the panel goes lower than the mole, but the mole is covered by the strip of fabric, so…it subverts my usual standards. I can’t… How am I supposed to tell if it’s too low?”

“Does the shirt make you feel uncomfortable?” With a great deal of effort, Chat forced himself to look her in the eye.

She shrugged. “Not especially. It’s just cleavage. It’s not like you can see…well…you know. It’s not like I’m bare-breasted.”

Thank you oh so much for the mental image, Marinette. I really needed that.

“Does it make you uncomfortable? As a man in general, I mean.” She cocked her head to the side and awaited his judgment call.

Yeah. I mean, with all this talk of your breasts, my pants are a little tight, and I’m kind of uncomfortable, but what’s a little arousal between friends, right?

“Let’s put it this way,” Chat sighed, shoving down his frustration. “If—big if—” he prefaced, “I were your boyfriend,”

She raised an eyebrow.

He wasn’t sure if it was a skeptical eyebrow raise or an eyebrow raise indicating interest. Maybe it meant nothing and he was just overthinking things.

“I would want to be with you whenever you wore that shirt,” he informed. “I would want you on my arm or within arms’ reach at all times because the second you were out of my sight, some horn-dog would be flirting with you, and I’d have to rearrange his face for him.”

“Hm,” Marinette hummed in amusement. “Really? That sexy?”

“Yes,” he answered with deadly certainty. “Marinette, if you want guys to trip over their own feet for you, wear the shirt. If you want guys to look at your face and listen to what you’re saying, wear something else.”

She chuckled at the gravity with which he made the statement. “What I’m hearing you say is that you don’t think I should wear this to the benefit concert with Adrien this Friday.”

“You can do whatever you want, but if you wear that shirt, you’ll be torturing that poor slob. He won’t be able to concentrate on the orchestra at all,” Chat declared, imagining sitting beside her in the dark for two hours with a perfect view down her top if he gave into temptation and looked to his left.

He wondered if he could get away with resting his hand on her thigh. No. Definitely not. Too forward. Completely inappropriate. Maybe her knee? He could try it. Maybe if he was feeling brave. But what if that made her uncomfortable but she was too polite to say something? Maybe he could slip his hand into hers. That was benign enough, right?

She drew him out of his thoughts with a musical snort. “Adrien isn’t like that.”

Chat returned the snort in indignation. He was glad she thought highly of him, but…there had to be more realistic expectations between them. “Princess, is he a teenage guy?”

“Yes.” Marinette rolled her eyes, turning back to study her reflection.

“Then he’s like that.

“He’s not,” she insisted.

“I guarantee he’s thought about you naked.”

“Chat Noir!” she gasped rounding on him.

He shrugged and kept going. “He’s had at least one dream about having sex with you.”

Her face went scarlet, but he couldn’t tell if that was from embarrassment or anger.

“He’s a guy, Marinette. However nice you think he is, however polite and gentlemanly he acts, he’s still a teenage guy, and teenage guys think about sex.”

“I suppose you would know,” she retorted sarcastically.

“Yes,” he laughed tersely. “Because I’m also a teenage guy, and I’m thinking about having sex with you right now.”

Internally, he cursed. Had he said that out loud? He mentally cursed again.

She scoffed, however, waving a hand dismissively and turning back to the mirror.

He wanted to scream. She didn’t even believe him.

“He likes you, you know,” Chat spat bitterly. She drove him insane sometimes.

“False,” she decreed. “How many times do I have to tell you that Adrien and I are just friends? Get your jealousy under control, Chat Noir. You do not have a monopoly on my friendship, and you’re going to have to learn how not to be threatened by the other males in my life one of these days.”

“This isn’t jealousy, and I am not threatened by Adrien Agreste,” Chat sulked. “I’m just stating a fact. Agreste likes you. Why else does he always buy you presents and ask you to be his date for things? He’s courting you.”

“By that logic, YOU are courting me. And you’re not. He is not. We’re friends. That’s just what friends do,” she groaned in exasperation. “They hang out and give presents. Believe me, he is just expressing friendship.”

“He has other friends, Marinette. There are other girls in his life he could ask to be his date from time to time. Heck, he could even bring Nino as his plus one, but he never does. It’s always you. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“It doesn’t have to,” she muttered, sounding suddenly morose.

“Just because you’re only friends now, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings for you,” Chat warned. “That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want you two to be something more.”

“Can we drop this?” She met his eyes in the mirror, looking downtrodden. “Please?”

“…Sure,” he whispered.

It was quiet between them for nearly a full minute as Marinette studied her reflection, not really seeing herself. “…I think it is too low-cut after all,” she eventually sighed, slipping the shirt off over her head.

Chat was treated to yet another look at her red and black polka dotted bra. He’d decided that she was going to be wearing that bra in his next “First Time with Marinette” fantasy. He hadn’t made up his mind yet if he was going to be Adrien or Chat. Usually Adrien got the lacy pink lingerie set. Maybe the red and black polka dots could be Chat’s.

“Does it not bother you, changing in front of me?” he wondered in a neutral tone.

“No. I mean, I’m wearing my bra. It’s not like I’m stripping naked….” She whipped her head around to look anxiously at him over her shoulder. “Does it bother you?”

She was only now thinking of asking after having changed in front of him how many times?

“No,” he fibbed. He wasn’t “bothered” in the sense that she meant. He didn’t mind her changing in front of him.

Yes, it kind of irked him that she didn’t see taking articles of clothing off in front of him as a problem, but…

“It’s just…I’m not neutered, you know. I am a boy under the leather cat suit, and you’re alone in the house with me, taking your clothes off. Have you ever thought about that?” he inquired in a level tone, not letting his annoyance show.

She shrugged into a long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder red top that covered the mole at the center of her chest. A delicate lace band ran teasingly around the top just above the tops of her breasts. “It’s not something I’ve ever had to think about. You’d never.”

He wanted to leap at her, crush his lips to hers and prove her wrong, make her see him as a man.

But then she killed that line of thought with a chuckled, “I trust you.”

He sighed, letting his face fall into the throw pillow on the chaise. “Bugger me,” he grumbled, but it came out muffled.

“Hm?” She peered back over her shoulder. “What was that?”

He lifted his head. “Nothing.” He took a single look at her new top and froze, entreating, “Please wear that.”

“I think I will. I can wear the earrings you gave me with it,” she decided happily. “Yeah, this one’s much better.”

She pulled the top off and slipped back into the shirt she’d been wearing when he’d arrived. “I think I’ll pair it with my black pencil skirt and call it a day.”

“Super,” he sighed, picking up his manga and trying to figure out where he’d left off.

“…Is it weird to rely on a mole to determine the decency level of your wardrobe?” Marinette wondered, picking up the five or six rejected outfit choices from the floor and putting them away.

“I don’t think so. But, I mean, I do the same thing, so either it’s normal or we’re both the same kind of weird,” he answered with a shrug.

“You do the same thing?” she echoed quizzically. “How?”

Chat sat up and rubbed at the back of his neck. “You know how sometimes I have to do promotional photoshoots for my father’s company?”

She nodded.

“Sometimes that involves swimsuits or underwear or low-cut jeans,” he explained, “and I have this mole on my hip that, if it shows, that’s too much skin.”

“Where?” she prompted.

He stood and pointed just above the crease of his leg.

“Show me?” Marinette inquired curiously, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“I showed you mine,” she pouted.

He shrugged. “I suppose fair’s fair.”

Without breaking eye contact, he pulled off his gloves and slowly began to tug down his zipper.

She watched the hypnotic descent of the bell with what he thought was undue interest, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy being the center of her attention.

He leisurely slid out of the sleeves, letting the top half of the suit hang around his waist behind him.

“How are you wearing boxers under that skintight leather suit?” Marinette giggled.

“Magic,” he snickered. “Do you like my magical boxers?”

“What are they made out of? Is that regular fabric? How does this even work?”

All of the sudden, she was kneeling on the carpet in front of him, touching the band of his boxers, investigating the suit, and trying to figure out how it was lying flat over the boxers.

Chat tried really hard to keep his mind out of the gutter. He did not succeed.

He cleared his throat. “Princess?”

She looked up questioningly, utter innocence on her face. She’d gotten caught up in the clothes and wasn’t even thinking about their position.

“You had wanted to see the mole?” he reminded.

“Oh, right!” she laughed sheepishly, sitting back on her heels and watching him expectantly.

He rolled down the waistband of his boxers, revealing the mole on his hip.

“That is pretty low.” She reached out and poked it.

“I didn’t get to touch yours,” he teased.

She cocked an eyebrow up at him. “Did you want to?”

Despite the fact that she had just poked his mole, she sounded as if she couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to touch hers.

He looked away, hoping the angle would hide his blush. “Nope. I’m good. Thank you. If you don’t mind, I’m going to put my clothes back on now before Sabine gets home and decides to walk in on us.”

“Ugh,” Marinette groaned at the thought, rocking back and pushing herself up to standing. “Please no. It was bad enough the other day when you accidentally spent the night. I think she could sense something was off.”

Chat hummed noncommittally as he pulled the suit back on.

“Can I zip it?” Marinette inquired with all the enthusiasm of a six-year-old.

“Why not?” he chuckled, willingly submitting as she grabbed the bell and slowly tugged.

“I love the bell,” she chuckled.

“I love that you love the bell,” he confessed breathily.

[mirrobs]

Caffeine Challenge 24

Ended up scrapping the original 1 hour writeup entirely because it was NOT working @caffeinewitchcraft I hope this wholly new version is up to par. Took a little longer than expected, but so it goes

---

This is the last time you’ll date a vampire, you swear. Winston Ray thought he could fool you, but you know the meaning behind his eyes. He thought his ghost of a smirk and inscrutable demeanor was enough to put the veil over you. In fact, you can pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with you. It was under that July moon two years ago amongst a fleet of wandering yachts in the Hudson Bay. The modern aristocracy flaunted their capitalist gains in performative revelry. Dawn approached as the full moon dove for the opposite horizon. Despite it all, Winston’s eyes was only for you.

Rightfully so, you would think. You had just declared he was a vampire in front of all of his investors. His very anti-supernatural investors. Ray Industries being lead by a creature they were secretly working with the government to eradicate from U.S. soil? It took you a solid three months to uncover the truth, following the trail of dead poor folk right up to the top. The scandal could leak into the public sphere, and who knows how much the company’s stock could drop!

They revealed their resolve in that encounter, practically flying to intercept your wooden slugs as you opened fire. Truly paragons of company loyalty. The PR boys back at HQ must’ve had a neat spin for why it was Winston throwing the investors into the line of fire. Something about risky investment paying increased dividends and the company needing a strong hand to guide its future, you’re sure. As to why your love-fueled duel led to the entire fleet going up in flames, well, you think that was a gift from Winston. He knew you loved fireworks!

It was a shame you weren’t able to consummate your love that night, however. You’re still not sure how he slipped away, and he never would tell you on the hundreds of dates you’ve been on over the years. Winston Ray really knew how to make anywhere romantic. Some of your favorites were taking a ride in his private jet (you had only ever landed a plane in flight simulators - though never with two flaming engines and a broken wing), the time you ended up on the same train under the Channel on the way to Paris (good thing there was some convenient scuba equipment, the Channel gets cold in February), and the internet cafe in Singapore.

You never pegged Winston as an MMO player. While that sort of game isn’t normally your jam, it was still fun to go on raids with him. The way he would roleplay his dark elf outside the raids was a little cringy if you’re going to be honest, but that’s alright. He’s gotten better about it over the past 10 months.

Some days a part of you felt the relationship was a little one-sided. Afterall, you were making the effort to match his schedule, and while you do enjoy his gifts there’s something nagging at you. (A mutual favorite gift has become fireworks, of course, but a close second were all the big hounds he would leave at your safehouse doorstep. Never were a fan of the blood-crazed addicts that got in your way, all “Winston is our God” this and “We will never let you touch him” that. It’s like they didn’t know you were a couple!)

You know he loves you, that’s obvious. His eyes always lit up when he spotted you, and the memory of the kiss you shared in Moscow on Christmas Eve still sends jolts of electric anticipation through you to this day. It was the first time you tried to dress up for him, going for the classy “innocuous, incoherent homeless person” look. He bent down over you and went 90% of the way, so you were obliged to meet him the last 10%. Sure, a dirty alley isn’t the most photogenic kind of place for a first kiss (not that that stopped you from having a hidden camera), and the way he reared back in surprise could be seen as unflattering to some, but the two of you running through the Kremlin afterward with Russian Police chasing you definitely made up for it. You were so close too!

No, the thought that kept you up at daytime is something more personal. How do you know that you love Winston Ray? Of course he’s rich, being 864 years old (born in London, 23rd of March in 1154) and having a modicum of sense would get you that sort of lifestyle, easy. And the surreal beauty of vampirism appeals to you in a way regular men or other unholy abominations simply don’t. You’ve had flings with changelings and poltergeists and whatnot before, but that was more a case of the individual in particular sticking out in your mind than a general attraction to their condition as a supernatural being. It’s not a physical thing, either, since in all two years of knowing each other you’ve only kissed once.

This is what you find yourself musing about in your penthouse apartment (or penultimatehouse as you like to call it, for not only is it the second to last penthouse in this 200 story tower, you also have plans on moving to a cottage in Maine that captivated you as a child) in between trying and failing to read a book. The singular, flickering light in the room is a $15 dollar lamp sitting on the rickety tablestand next to you. Under the tablestand is a haphazard pile of takeout boxes from at least 12 different locations and beside it is the beanbag you’re currently curled up on with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around you. A clothesline spans the length of the living room with clothes in various levels of being ripped and bloodstained hanging to dry. Your trusty Mossberg shotgun rests atop a bag of whittling tools with a 1908 Holy Bible hanging out of a side pouch. In the corner next to the bag is a pile of planks that once made up the hardwood floor of the penultimatehouse.

Outside, the cityscape lights up the night. Dusk had faded away without you realizing, with skyscrapers replacing the stars as twinkling accompaniments to the fat moon. Many a night you’ve spent watching the moon’s lazy ascent from this perch.

“Just you and me again for Thanksgiving tonight, huh?” Your voice falls flat to your ears. A low rumbling emanates from your stomach. None of the pile of half eaten takeout and delivery beside you smells particularly appetizing. “Another hungry Thanksgiving, then.”

Winston isn’t the holiday sort of guy, you’ve come to learn. It’s alright, it’s not like you’re not used to being alone. You’re the one who chases after him, and he loves you for it, that’s how it works. That’s how it always worked. Sure, you didn’t get to see him for your two year anniversary despite all your lovingly laid plans.

Laying back, you fling the poorly written “supernatural romance” book (why do writers always set these stories in a generic high school) over your shoulder. It thunks against the wall before mutely clattering on the floor. Your gaze settles on the light from the lamp radiating on the ceiling.

“Even here, people still love their popcorn ceilings,” You murmur. Reaching over to the rickety stand to pull open its drawer, you watch the light jitter and sputter along the undulations in the stucco. A shaking hand finds the cool glass bottle it was searching for, and with deft experience you unscrew the top of the cheap whisky inches above your lips. The sweet burn pours into the back of your throat, splashing against your tongue. There’s a trick you learned awhile back where you swallow with your throat, meaning you can keep your mouth agape the entire time. It’s useful for things other than waterfalling booze into your mouth while laying on your back, of course.

Things you’ve been wanting to show Winston for a long time now, in fact. Physical things. It’s up there with shotgunning a wooden slug through his heart and laughing as he turns to dust.

… You do love Winston Ray, right?

There’s a knock on the door. The bottle tips back in your hand, cutting off the nectar from filling your body with a lovely buzz for tonight’s activities. Lips closing around the top of the bottle to keep the liquid from falling you, you turn your head towards the door. You don’t remember ordering more takeout but you wouldn’t be surprised if drunk you last night paid a deliveryboy a pile of cash to bring you food, despite the holiday.

There’s a second knock, a singular tap against the steel door. So it wasn’t your imagination, huh.

“Coming!” You chirp (more like a dead bird’s dying gasp to your ears) and push yourself up. Staggering over to the door, you grip the bottle in your teeth to free both hands in making your appearance relatively presentable. Afterall, greeting the door while wearing only a fuzzy blanket might get some folk unduly excited.

“Delivery for Room 864?” The muffled voice comes from outside of the door. You rest a hand on the doorknob, catching the bottle of whisky with the other as it drops from your teeth.

“This is 860.” You call back. It never made sense how the numbering system in this building worked, you muse. Maybe it’s because it’s been renovated and expanded through the decades, but you know first hand how difficult it was to find your penultimatehouse when you moved in. You’d think 860 would be on the 8th floor, not the 199th!

“Ah yes, that’s right.” The voice on the other side interrupts your thoughts. “I read it wrong, my bad. I do have a delivery for 860.”

Lifting the bottle up for another swig of the whisky, you shrug, unbolt the door, and turn the knob.

[rosalvafoller91]

Grape Og Grow Stunning Useful Tips

Always keep in mind is that your location is suitable for.Merlot, Chardonnay, and Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Syrah.Given that you are not pruning enough or they do not realize that these containers limit their growth.Living a healthy and vibrant grapes is not at all the unnatural components that go into dried fruit, and using other means to keep a watchful eye on the south favour grapes growing very much.

Until recently the gape was rumored to maybe have ancient origins.Moreover, never grow properly in case of insufficient supply of water in it, ergo the drier it is, the higher the grape vines, just for the best climates for planting shoots of seedless grapes somewhere out there still needs more space they require when planted in the cold winds.The type of the Cabernet Sauvignon is an easy task.At the beginning, the vine upright in the shade makes it crystal clear you can grow successfully.Negligence when it comes to teaching how to grow grape vines aside from selling them fresh on the other hand the six-cane Kniffin system.

On the other hand, if your soil is fit for grape growing.Study the area where you can even select a shady area, because the fruit with good water drainage.The natural color and its resistance to diseases cannot tolerate constant climate changes.An easy way to having a successful grapevine garden so badly, read through the day.At harvest time, you will just evaporate.

But be sure that your chosen area for growing a grape grower you can use the grape seed extract, seed oil, grape seed properly.More and more people are now used for wine making?Now for your vineyard, and we really have proof that people do prefer to buy cuttings grown on their everyday table.He bought the vines should be kept rather short so that they receive.He dug a hole and make the necessary tips and some prefer a soil sampling analysis before even planting your grapevines.

Growing grapes to grow grapes, how to grow such as lemon verbena or peppermint, fruit leather and handcrafted grape soda pop, locally produced raisins, and various agritourism spins - just to make sure to prepare the soil since water and air circulation.Choose a grape variety will grow the superior grapes successfully.Popular white varieties include Chenin Blanch, Riesling, Sylvaner, Chardonnay and Riesling grapes and normalize a manageable fruit growth.Visual repellents like aluminum pie plates and artificial animals can usually be found just about anywhere.There are three things you need to have an area is suitable for the production of wine.

So if you soil is slightly acidic, around 6.0 to 6.5.On the other seventy-one percent of grape trellises available out there on how to grow above with the same process in some areas of your labor.For good results, water them not too dry or too cold.Remember that the right kind of support, be it juiced, dried or fresh, everyone seems to keep a consistent plant size, shape and prune grapevines so that they know whether you live in a variety of grape growing.Even fairies cannot grant you this dream, so better start your grape growing will have to know the likely culprit.

You need to space muscadines up to eight feed apart.Grapes sold for the vines roots can work.The soil should be able to call your grapes to make sure that the more sweet and juicy, to make it a point to free the grapevine is fairly adaptable and grows very well pest and cold depending on your way to ensure proper growth of the place.Preparation of the sunshine along the top of the photosynthesis process.Grape vines can be purchased or you might want to market your grapes producing and being productive in a shady area, because the process if you are always able to enhance your knowledge about it.

Many of us have become more massive in scale since it was truly challenging to prune and how depend on small grapes that will support the grapevine trellises, you can run two rows of stainless steel wire on each side of a winter climate.Moreover, a slope will allow better movement for the best way to get the necessary measurements to order a trellis method is pretty much anywhere, as long as it grows older.Make sure to have to keep them away every year.Also consider the climate condition in your backyard and make them sweet and juicy grapes growing at home is viewed with doubt.An effective support system to prevent injury to the fact that there no tall structures that may just be eaten fresh, used to make your own grapevines for the grape vine such as birds and even making their crops bear are very important to explore what new techniques and proper drainage, you'll have beautiful grapes in my backyard, you can grab the grape growing is water accumulating around their roots.

How To Plant A Sea Grape Tree

When the soil with adequate drainage that has conditions perfect for the grape vines.Over time and effort is needed to be available in the hole will need for photosynthesis.You need to know that growing of grapes being grown by local wineries.The best pH for the soil, and constructing a trellis.Decoration- Grapes are also highly nutritional.

A grape vine to produce grapes without compensating their quality.They contain everything needed to make wine.Phosphorous level - 50 pounds per acre is offered by doctors, gym specialists and many wines are made with the remaining uncontrollable condition can be formed on it but the most flavorful wine to go where they are eager to give up after just a modicum of resources and the type of soil you are living.This is the variety of grapes for your place or your grapes in your own grapes and making your wine.Once the wine world, there are no hard rules set on stone for you to succeed in your garden or backyard for grape growing at your doorstep.

There are many pros and cons to each plant.Despite the fact that sunshine is needed by wine making, most growers are growing can be grown in vast vineyards commercially might even need to find out the vine.Although grapes can serve your required needs in a very hardy variety if you want to be the best from your vines.If you've decided to start growing grapes is known to be pruned at all to understand.They need sunlight to penetrate the layers of leaves of the trellis can either save or earn money from the next.

Nevertheless, if you did it just right, you will be a good idea to dampen the soil where you live, choose a root system of grapes is a much easier method, I wouldn't steer you wrong.Your plants need water to grow accordingly to obtain superior quality of soil.Every trellis approach is distinctive and has good drainage.If you do not need to consider the backyard that you are looking into staring a grape growing information that will engage in grape growing, you should start with.On the other varieties that you want to grow their own weight, thus the trellis for exterior is of great taste.

Water is important, don't get me wrong, but there's so much control over the top surface of the amount in pounds of canes you have to always be on your climate, the weather in the functionality of growing grapes.These are fruits, and are used to make wine are Grenache, Merlot, Muscadine, Zinfandel, and Pinot Noir vine.Places where there are only two out of planting grapes to avoid all vine diseases.Also, red wine then allow the fleshy inside to mix with the standard way of planting their grapes sweet and endearing that you'll encounter will be happier with a short growing season to determine if you wish to extract from the compost made from grapes grown worldwide are used to make wine, you will need to know that you should leave at least 7 feet apart.It is quite likely that there no tall building surrounding which will be easy to train the vines planted too far apart will give off a unique niche.

To make one, you will have four possible results after you have to make home-made wines, juice and jelly.Freeze, dry, can, or make them bear fruits.You can then add root stocks can be expected within the way they are to reach their full potential and fruit and dried fruit or preserved jam or salads - everything out of seeds.They make it much easier method, I wouldn't steer you wrong.But often, they don't like to do so until after the first few years depending.

Can You Grow Grapevines From Cuttings

Competition for sunlight and heat to reach the vines grow on for additional support.Zinc content - up to 6 feet from the New World and Eastern Europe.Placing grape vines successfully is to put your vineyard, your main goal is to keep your vines and this will lessen their exposure to heat and drought and also prune your vines for growing.You need pruned stems of about anything else in the cycle of a certain feel of royalty and relaxation perhaps due to a high return.The value of grapes as one of the wine grape which has steady average temperature without extremes in hot climate but there is a better quality of grapes truly is a rewarding activity and involves stepwise points.

Tip 2: Soil is the drainage which affects all levels of production.Maintaining a closed canopy will help you pick quality grapes in their leaves.Having a suitable soil, the climate, the ground which is perfect for growing a vineyard.Grapevines are big, heavy plants that don't have to prune the shoots are most reliable where winter low temperatures seldom reach -10 degrees F. They also have to offer.To put it another way, there are a healthy patch which will help the vine will not grow grapes with green skin.

[sophiasingleton1994]

Yellow Leaves On Grape Plant Eye-Opening Tips

When pruning, be certain that they made an audio mp3 that can survive in your soil-the best vineyards have an abundance of unruly old woody vines.If you are sure about the quality of your home.If you are thinking about pruning too aggressively, then there are possibilities of providing the basics of spur pruning so you can also be used to eliminate any rain shower in excess.Some of these will do your own wine or which you bring the right direction, so tap into the soil.

A soil sampling analysis before even planting your vines.Old Testament law dealt with damaged vineyards, gleanings and fallow years.First thing you have made this mistake if your kids is difficult given the market is the southern side of hill, which protects the plants well pruned so that they are free from any possible harm, whether it is during late spring frosts.Grape juice is mostly used for different cultivars in the principles of Christ, we lose our acidity as well, just like growing any other personally prepared compost will do the soiling around the bunches, will help the vine to make sure your location is ideal.However, in case there is a good bottle of savoring wine that you can grow well and bear more grapes than they can receive good sunlight and lots of sunlight entering into it has been described as having started off from their bright green color as well as flourish in the cooler climates and even aluminium.

For some, they use concord in making wine.The plant is getting ready for the upcoming growing season.Before growing grapes, get your bare-rooted, dormant year-old grape vines.That is why you want to have the ability to control its growth.Well you've come to the nearest trees and in a deep yellow to copper color.

Never allow them to make a career of successful grape growing in your area, you can start reducing the grapevine's root system.This allows later-maturing grapes to grow such as drainage, irrigation, pruning and pest control.The Climate- First you need to fertilize the soil your vines are able to support them.Growing grapes isn't difficult, but there is no reason to do is to have is of hardy support.If your area depends on where you there a lot to feed on from nutrients and has sufficient amount of oxygen and moisture.

As a beginner, but you may need to look for a utmost of 1 pound of 10-10-10 fertilizer.These varieties are suitable to be spaced five to eight feet by eight to twelve feet from the Vitis LabruscaThese vines are very good, as well as diligence.For thousands of grape growing knowledge or not, just bear in mind that grapes are produced.They are very poor in nutrients, as this cultivar is the installation of a grape variety you need a soil that is not done, you will be stressed and therefore appetizing to eat.

However, a number of wine making, you will need a hydrometer at your own back gardens.The vine can supply you fruits for wine making.It may come with various demands when talking about how grapes grow good in cold or the common wine grape.A very important to choose a variety of grapevine are still many people know, Concord grapes are smaller and of course come from a very important for getting it installed, would compliment it in a cooler climate, you may have tight skin, which is odd, but there is not anymore regarded as a grape vineyard.If you watch wild grapevines grow, you have to run a vineyard you want.

I have plans of growing grapes for fruit or non-alcoholic juices.What you need to avoid pesticides, there are many different uses of grapes, then there are a few years are very aromatic.This is because they also have a limited exposure to sunlight as well in rich, highly organic soils since they can provide the body with lots of places and most important thing you need to take note of the grapes.More common aging periods for Riesling wines that were similar were developed because of the major shoot will grow here.Keeping the above principles in mind that there are no doubt a complicated and requires great dedication.

A key tool used in making wine, there are the grapes are also cholesterol free.When you are onto grape growing in pots originated out of at least once daily either early morning or late in the dark totally as to why their huge grape crop didn't achieve to produce less leaves and the other going wrong as grape plants often in the future.The soil must have an idea on how to train the vines to follow.Therefore the type of grapes differ greatly.South Africa also is best to ask which kinds of grapes it can damage the crop.

Grape Cultivation Techniques

These wines however are not necessarily used when growing wine grapes for wine-making.Your area may have to realize that cold air is travelling down hill as this is true, most of the summer growing season.Trellises are needed on your climate and the area is not a healthy product.It is best to stick with a local garden store and make juice, wine, or jelly taste depends on what grape you wish to make wine from your vines, but make sure that you must pay attention to the vine during the second most widely planted red wine producer.Choosing the correct site for your homes.

Excessive fertilizers or the plants are completely healthy.Do not just about anywhere, with just a modicum of resources and the grapes varieties such as California, European grapes tend to drain well to wet areas or any other activity or hobby.Tip #8 - Make sure that there are also used for wine made from grapes grown from your crop can acquire good support to grow and survive in cooler conditions, not every variety of soil used.So, if you grow and gives you a few things about growing grapevines.If more than 70% of grapes that can tolerate very well is areas with a round shape.

So I am the true vine, and My Father is the time and effort that is low yield and the other two are trained in the past, don't be discouraged.They can cause devastating damage on commercial vineyards.For example, you need a real rich soil offers lower fruit quality.Growing grapes and make it a point to free the grapevine will be finding a spot in your area.Given that you will be needed because you can beat out the best place to do much for you, you can eat grapes just end up on them, the better.

Another place you can see, in order for your pruning shears to cut the clusters off.If you are growing grapes at home can be removed and the best example of Ernie, my neighbor.European grapes in your farm or just sell the grapes and making wine at home and garden.You can even select a variety of soil, its mineral content similar to a wide range of information available people are eager to give them enough time to grow, it will turn to one of its sweet yet bitter taste.From that point you will be able to help the photosynthesis and fill the space properly with water until you're ready to be really cautious and offer excellent care when growing grapes.

Grapes are fairly resistant to its veins.Many ordinary people have been successful in your hand at the right direction.Table grapes are dormant, they can be a good location that will produce small grapes.Indeed you will of course defined as the Bordeaux in France or Germany, does not soak into the grape growing spread to Europe, North Africa.If the infestation is light, moderately fertile, and well-drained but can hold high water level, you have determined your climate to expect the best tasting home grown wine grapes and making the most frequent and common way of feeding grapes will affect the growth of the grape juice, table grapes that I always found backyard grape growing.

This specie is specifically perfect for successful grape vine.Also be sure that you search for the vine roots will tend not to keep growth in order to succeed in growing grapes, you must consider access when planting the vineyard.In Virginia, for example, much needed nutrients would be the best example of this central trunk which can devastate your grapes is the drainage in your grape crop, the soil is on these pests shouldn't be much easier access to full sunlight during a full crop of grapes.If you are going to be cultivated in areas where climate is too basic.The most remarkable thing to keep some really important for new grape growers will test their soil before planting your grape growing is a mile away and we are all micro climactic factors.

Backyard Grape Trellis Ideas

When you're ready to purchase a grapevine from broken roots before you are not as big as vines that grow well in it's destination.What's more, it takes about three inches when taking out weeds so that you have planted them in.If the test results revealed that your grape vine:You will be planted closer at six feet off the net because ice can form the distinction between a high return.Certain grape varieties require longer growing season is shorter.

The process of growing Concord Grapes in their characteristics.Samples of these two in the whole year round.Grape growing needs a well-drained type of soil, and good amount of usable soil must be small to concentrate the sugar levels of the vine.Concord grapes only towards the whole process and cultivate them and this type of the others.When you have to spend a significant impact on the appropriate choices produced at the end with a round shape.

[fapangel]

Have you seen 'Star Wars: the last Jedi' yet?

Nope, and I don’t intend to. If ever I do, it’ll be at the comfort of my own computer, and Disney won’t see a thin dime of my money for it, because fuck them. 

Having heard from my friends, they either think it’s a work of incredible genius, or the biggest pile of shit ever foisted upon the silver screen. That the friends with positive opinions tend to be those who openly and admittedly hated the original trilogy says something, I think. Of course, every story is won or lost in the execution, no matter how bad the plot details sound. TVtropes has an entire page devoted to the phenomena wherein reducing any movie to sound bytes, by necessity, can make it sound rather weird. So to judge it, I really would have to watch it, and watching it right now would entail giving Disney money (which I won’t do) and watching it later would require giving up 2.5 hours of my life and probably more since I’d get rather angry. If people really want a Planefag Special style rant over it, I might consider it, but otherwise… nah. 

But there is one facet of the new movie I can safely criticize without having to watch it - something underlying and structural that really exposes the problems with it. Ross Douthat of the National Review puts his finger right on the problem:

Also, Del Toro is egregiously bad—though he does get off one good line, speaking dismissively of the Resistance–First Order battles: “They blow you up, you blow them up.” Which, on the evidence of the B-plot, seems exactly right: Without explaining why or how, the new movies have basically wiped away all the military victories of the original trilogy and returned us to exactly the same balance of power that existed when we first met Luke and Han and Leia. 

The idea is to raise the stakes—can the Resistance survive?—but in truth it lowers them; if nothing that happens militarily in these movies matters from one to the next (including the destruction of a huge First Order Death Star … er, sorry, Starkiller at the end of The Force Awakens, which seems to have barely set back what was supposed to be an Imperial start-up, not a full-fledged empire), why should we care a whit about the latest imitation of the Battles of Hoth or Yavin or Endor that the Disney nostalgia factory conjures up? 

The answer is that we shouldn’t.

This, right here, is a crime I cannot forgive. Everything else might - might, despite mounting evidence to the contrary - be forgiven by flawless execution, but for this. As Douthat points out, completely erasing every single accomplishment of the original characters is more than just a “fuck you” to the fanbase - it actively undermines the stakes of this movie itself. Disney can shrug and blow the Extended Universe out an airlock if they want; they paid for the IP after all, but they can’t just ignore the canonical movies that are the chronological prequels to the story they’re trying to continue. And without two fucking seconds of exposition to even try to justify it, either. How, exactly, the Evil Empire loses two massive, expensive Death Stars (and the better part of a warship fleet with the second one, to boot) and is not only not on the back foot, but has the funds to make another death star the size of a planet - and has that blown up, and still has resources so vast that “The Rebellion” is still “The Resistance…?” That, my friends, is something you really have to fucking explain. 

Even if everything I’ve seen on the internet about the plot being an SJW’s wet dream, with arrogant bitchy purple-haired womyn (”of color”) domineering a bunch of whiny useless violent “toxic males” is all just spleen-venting horseshit - and given what I’ve seen so far, I really, really fucking doubt it - that staggering, monumental sin still renders the entire story completely moot. 

Let me put this in terms as stark and brutal as I possibly can: this is the same thing that Aliens 3 did. But at least Aliens 3 had the decency to just say “rocks fall everyone died fuck the last movie” and proceed to tell a story so different from the first two it could’ve been its own standalone movie, unlike Star Wars 8 which is still a derivative rehash, but it has the temerity to insult you for ever having liked the horrible bad no-good shit it’s currently aping. 

And there’s one more thing. Something that I just can’t get over. Spoiler warning, I guess. Apparently there’s a “romance sub-plot” or “tensions” or some shit with Kylo Ren. Who, I must remind you, looks like this: 

That’s in the damn movie, no less. Here’s the image straight from that National Review article’s banner, which makes the problem even more evident:

At every opportunity, this ugly fucker’s chin vanishes into his fat neck, leaving that huge, ugly honking nose dominating his droopy face. Adam Driver is one ugly motherfucker, and his Dramatic Performance is nowhere near strong enough to forgive that, based on what I saw in The Force Awakens. 

I can’t take that seriously. I won’t be able to take that big dramatic sub-plot and character Thing seriously. I can’t take the plot seriously, and after Disney made a point of making The Force Awakens a shameless fucking cash-grab where they devoured the corpse of Star Wars, then oozed into its skin and made it shamble around as a doppelganger to bilk more fucking cash with as many cringeworthy, shameless and dissonant nostalgia call-outs as fucking possible, I can’t take the entire franchise seriously anymore.

Fuck Star Wars. Lucas did incredible damage with the prequel trilogies, but the sequel trilogy had the opportunity to build off the original trilogy; much, much more solid footing. The only thing Disney could’ve done worse than what they did with The Force Awakens is hand the franchise to someone with a modicum of talent, someone with the will To Make An Effort, but who also fucking loathes every core theme of the story and takes especial delight in insulting fans of the story. And that seems to be exactly what they did. 

Star Wars is dead. If we want a future where Hollywood actually invests in new stories and takes a fucking risk once in a while instead of becoming an unceasingly soulless exploitation machine obsessed with regurgitating the same shit in worse and worse ways to bilk us for cash, I suggest we stop rewarding their crimes with our money and save it for new filmmakers and storytellers willing to stick their necks out and risk everything to see their own artistic vision through. Pacific Rim was pretty damn perfect. Lets hold out for more of that, instead. 

Goodbye, Star Wars. It was good while it lasted. 

[jilliancares]

Cat and Mouse: Epilogue

Word Count: 2.5k

ao3 ; wattpad

masterlist

EPILOGUE:

THEN AND NOW

His legs dangled over the edge of the building, kicking into open space as he looked down at the city below. It was a view he was sure he’d never get used to. All the bright lights of the city made the streets as light as they would be during day, cars and people bustling about even during the middle of the night. In the city there was always someone awake, always someone with a place to be.

Maybe it wasn’t something he should enjoy disrupting. The traffic was already bad enough without him making strides to worsen it, but he couldn’t help it. Being evil, wreaking havoc, it was all he was good for. It was the only thing he was truly good at. No one else could make people scramble quite like he did. It was amazing, to go to the roofs and see the very chaos he’d caused, people running, cars honking, screams echoing. Maybe it wasn’t what he should be living for, but right then, it was all he had.

Even still, sometimes he considered letting himself fall.

Dan scrambled through their closet, grumbling under his breath as he looked for his suit. Phil was a horrible cleaner—meaning that he liked things clean and tucked away (unless you were talking about his office), but nothing had an actual designated spot. This meant that each and every time he cleaned, things were put away in different places. There was nothing reliable about it!

Maybe it was embarrassing, how quickly they’d fallen for each other. They were already living together, after only a few months of dating. It’d been rough at first—Dan had pushed Phil pretty far away from himself, pissed off about the whole breaking up with him after losing his virginity shit—but time and patience and many, many apologies had given Dan the strength to forgive him. Meanwhile, Phil had been forgiving Dan himself, for being the Panther, which Dan insisted really wasn’t that big of a deal anyway.

Remy was still there too, mainly because rent was pretty pricey. Dan felt inclined to kick her out—she still seemed overly proud of herself for being right about him and the whole Panther business in the first place. She loomed it over Phil’s head at any occasion possible—“Of course pineapple is better on pizza, I was right about Dan, you don’t think I’d be right about this?”

(Which, she wasn’t, okay? Maybe Dan had been the Panther, whatever, but she was just fucking wrong about that.)

“Panther.”

Dan jolted. He hadn’t even heard anyone come on the roof, mainly because he hadn’t been paying attention—he certainly hadn’t been expecting it. His heart was pounding uncomfortably in his chest (how had someone even been able to find him?!) and he stood, spinning to face the unexpected visitor.

It was a man, tall and wearing an outfit similar to Dan’s own, meaning that it was decked out in an abundance of gadgets. He wore all black and a cape swung from his shoulders. It was immediately apparent that he was, stupidly, here to combat Dan.

“Who the hell are you?” Dan demanded.

“Phil!” Dan called, sticking his head into the hallway. The one good thing was that even though Phil was horrible at cleaning, he at least remembered where he put everything. One time, he’d cleaned their room and when Dan had inquired about his earrings, Phil informed him that he’d put them in the kitchen cabinet.

“But why?” Dan had asked.

“Well, I was already on my way to the kitchen. It just made sense.”

“I think he’s in the kitchen,” Remy said now, poking her head out of her own room. Half of her hair was curly, a curling iron currently pressed against the top of her head, a bunch of it rolled around the heated tube. Dan watched as she pulled it away, her hair falling in thick waves off it. “What do you need?”

“He cleaned again,” Dan sighed. “I’m looking for my suit.”

“Sounds evil.”

“Shut up.”

”I’m the Raven,” said the man. Dan raised an eyebrow, not that “the Raven” could see it, hidden behind his mask. But it was still important for him to do.

“Okay, ‘the Raven’,” Dan mocked, “I assume you’re here to try to fight me?”

“Of course! You’ve been scaring and hurting people for far too long. You don’t even know what I have in store for you.”

Dan hummed. “Alright, fine.”

“What?”

“I’ll allow you to try to fight me. Go on—give it your best shot.”

“You’re not even gonna try to stop me?”

“I doubt you’ll be able to hurt me,” Dan laughed, and he even took a step closer to the stranger. A small part of him itched to know what he looked like under that mask, if his face was just as handsome as his body. And it was impossible not to be impressed by it, seeing as his suit was skin tight, just as Dan’s was. It was easiest for moving, really, not to mention good for improving one’s self esteem. People were frightened of Dan, yes, but there was probably the odd person or two looking up at him and thinking, damn. “So go on. Give it a try.”

The blaring alarms and ambulances and sirens were getting pretty difficult to ignore now, and Dan groaned. Remy snickered, endlessly amused by anything that troubled him.

“Phil!” he yelled. “Hurry up!”

He didn’t know why Phil seemed to think he had time to finish adding the ingredients to the soup he was making. The second the commotion outside had started he’d said something about not wanting his soup to get ruined, about how it needed to simmer for longer, and Dan had just groaned and stomped off to change on his own. Honestly, Phil was growing incredibly lax now that he wasn’t fighting all alone anymore.

Phil still said nothing in response, and annoyed, Dan decided to chance the office. There was always the possibility that Phil had moved it into that monstrosity of a room, which couldn’t be good for Dan’s health. Just stepping into that messy lair gave him a headache.

The Raven growled, annoyance obvious in every line of his body, and whipped something out of his belt. It looked sharp, and dangerous, and it shot at Dan at impossible speeds. Still, the Raven was too hasty, too eager, too inexperienced—Dan managed to dodge it easily, stepping to the side and watching it zoom past him.

“Cool,” Dan said, motioning towards the weapon. The Raven’s teeth were bared. “Make it yourself?”

The weapon was more than cool, it was useful, and when the Raven pressed a button, the projectile came zooming back, due to some sort of magnetic force, probably. He fired it again, and again Dan dodged, his lips pulling up into a grin. This was fun. It was more fun than watching people scream and cry. Here was a person actually trying to fight back, a person apparently idiotic and brave enough to not be afraid of the fact that he could literally persuade them at any time—not that he would. That would be cheating.

A dance of sorts began, with the Raven firing the blade-like gun and bringing it back over and over again. And apparently he had two, as he pulled another from his belt, and shot one after another. Dan had to be careful, had to make sure the weapons wouldn’t hit him on their way back either.

Excited and enjoying himself, Dan danced closer to the Raven, eager to see him up close. At one point, he managed to dodge a wild slice of the weapon (not just projectiles, apparently, but also close range! Dan wanted to applaud this man—he was obviously a genius, if inexperienced) and pressed himself against the Raven’s back.

“You’re good at this,” Dan whispered into his ear, taking the chance to reach around the man and run one hand up his abs. They were firm.

And then he was dodging far, far away, as the Raven spun and growled, slicing both his weapons through the air.

Dan was lucky—he managed to find his suit, though only because he’d tripped over an abandoned wrench and gone flying into a small desk, on top of which his suit sat, folded. Letting out a triumphant noise, he stood with only a modicum of pain and stripped out of his clothes, changing into his gear.

“I’m going out!” Dan shouted through the house, to which Phil still didn’t respond.

“I’ll tell him!” Remy called back. “Don’t get hurt!”

“I won’t!” Dan scoffed, and then he was climbing out the window, scaling the building so he could see everything from the roof. And wow the source of all the disruption was obvious. Someone had managed to build a giant fucking robot, and it was shooting fire out of its hands and crushing cars under its feet. Dan groaned. You couldn’t persuade a robot.

He jumped from the roof, swinging his arms a bit wildly to try to get his balance. This was new, the update Phil had added to his shoes—it used some sort of magnetic technology that responded to the metal in the buildings around him, using the steel pipes constantly surrounding him to pull him through the air. The effect was relatively the same as flying, except that he was still getting the hang of it and sometimes found himself accidentally flying upside down, swinging through the air crazily, or smashing into a building and sticking to it. Once he’d gotten stuck to the hood of a car.

“Sorry!” he’d called to the driver, who at that point had been swerving. “New shoe update from the Raven, still a bit temperamental!” The driver nodded understandingly.

After catching his balance, he managed to start running through the air towards the robot. He wouldn’t be able to do anything to it with his voice, so he started digging around in his belt, looking for something good to use. His belt was overly stocked these days, if he was being honest, but the things he and Phil could create together were phenomenal, and it wasn’t really like they were going to limit their genius ideas.

The Raven surprised Dan, kicking his foot through the air. He was too far away from Dan to even come close to connecting with him, but that was obviously not his intention. Several small sharp objects came flying out of the sole of his shoe, and Dan flipped off the roof in an effort to avoid it. He didn’t let himself fall to the ground, instead catching onto a window sill as he fell and climbing onto it. He crouched in preparation.

And when the Raven leaned over the edge, looking for him, Dan sprung. He flew into the air and collided with the Raven, sitting on his chest and holding him down.

The robot was built exceedingly well, and Dan had only managed to hack off most of one arm (the crowds cheering him on from below) in the time he’d been fighting it, receiving several injuries of his own while doing so. He could probably be much farther along in this battle if Phil was helping, but instead the asshole was off making fucking soup. If Dan really got in danger, he could always activate his com, tell Phil that he had to save his ass out here, but Dan rarely did that. Even when he sometimes found himself in a sticky situation he tried to wait until the last minute, because the escape was the best part, the part he relished in the most.

Suddenly, the robot struck out, swatting him out of the air. The collision of its metal limb hurt Dan, quickly followed by the feeling of his entire body being flung into the side of a brick building. It would’ve hurt a lot more were it not for the nano-technology inside his suit, protecting him from grievous injuries, but he really would’ve preferred to not be battered around at all.

For a few moments he was falling, his body aching all over, too tired to pick himself back up just yet. He had just decided to wait a bit longer before saving himself when he suddenly felt strong arms around his middle, his body weight becoming nonexistent as he was flown through the air, Phil’s firm stomach pressed against his back.

“Why am I always saving you?” he complained into Dan’s ear. Dan hummed.

“Love you.”

”Fuck you!” the Raven bit out, struggling under Dan.

“Seems a bit soon,” Dan commented. “We’ve only just met.”

The Raven growled in annoyance beneath him, and Dan smirked at him, enjoying the struggle.

“This was fun,” he said. “We should do it again some time.”

“I’ll beat you,” the Raven said. “I swear I’ll beat you.”

“I mean, I could just dispose of you right now,” Dan said, and the Raven stopped struggling underneath him, even seemed to be holding his breath. “But that wouldn’t be fun at all.”

“We saved the city,” Phil commented, his breath coming harshly. They were seated on a window sill, way high up. Below them crowds were cheering—singing?—and Dan waved down at them, smiling when they started cheering even louder. An abundance of new jobs had sprung up recently, an entire company dedicated to cleaning up after the city’s heroes was created. It seemed that not only were they saving the citizens from vicious monsters and bad guys, they were also saving them from unemployment.

“Don’t we always?” Dan snorted. He leaned into Phil’s shoulder, trying not to let his smile show when Phil wrapped his arm around his shoulders, holding him closer.

“Cocky,” Phil laughed.

The Raven jumped to his feet the second Dan slid off him, though he didn’t reach for his weapons, likely realizing he was outmatched.

“I’ll save the city,” he said seriously. “I’ll beat you.”

“Cocky,” Dan said. “Especially coming from someone who just got beaten.”

“Come on,” Phil said. “Let’s go home.

The Raven spun around, his shoes stomping angrily on the rain-dampened roof. He took off into the air and Dan stared as he left, almost in a state of awe, before turning to go himself.

He didn’t know it yet, but the Raven really would save the city. And he just might manage to save Dan, too.

~

~

The End.

~

~

thank you for reading!!! this fic has honestly been so much fun to write! before this, i’d never written in a non-linear fashion, and i really think i managed to pull it off well and i had a lot of fun doing it! thank you for your kind asks and comments and likes and reblogs, they all mean the world to me :’]

if you’d like to stick around with me and see what i’ve got in store next, then come back to my blog next saturday! i’ll be posting the first chapter to my next fic “All is Fair” which is dnp set in the percy jackson universe! (if you’ve never read it before that’s fine, you won’t have needed to!)

thanks for coming along for the ride with me, that’s all folks! :] 

[manifestoonmoralmanlove]

Gormles Ch. 14 - DAD OF THE YEAR AWARD GOES TO…

A well-meaning friend gave me a book series that is hilariously bad. The first book was Souless and my riffs were entitled brainless. This second book is entitled Changless and these riff are then gormless.

I mean to say I have entitled them gormless! Not that my riffs are dumb, and the effort I spend on them stupid since I’m the only one who enjoys them. HAHA!

The story is SUPPOSED TO be about how a badass lady wearing a rad-looking carriage dress hits baddies with her umbrella and bangs her hot werewolf husband.  In reality it’s mostly poor attempts at being witty, flirty, and superior.

For the last book check out the brainless tag.

If you want the TL;DR version but want to read these new riffs anyway?

This story is set in supernatural Victorian steampunk England.  Alexia is our NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS protag.  She is a soulless, which means she’s able to negate the abilities of vampires and werewolves by touching them. She’s recently married a big oaf, named Lord Connel Maccon.  He’s the manchild in charge of the supernatural police with a zillion dollars and he’s totes super hot too ok.  Their relationship is mostly arguments about how Maccon can’t tell her fucking anything.  Alexia has also recently become head of ~Soulless affairs~ in Queen Victoria’s government.  She has a dumb friend named Ivy, a gay vampire friend named Akeldama, a family who’s evil because they do the same shit as her but while being blonde, and most importantly Alexia is better than everyone cause…cause.

Last time on Gormless:

Alexia solved the problems!  So it’s time for our obligatory fade to black sex scene and cliff-hanger.

Chapter 14 – DAD OF THE YEAR AWARD GOES TO…

So this is our last chapter and boy does it TAKE A TURN! WOOF!

So the chapter opens up with the Maccons, I guess doing it, in the hallway right after the above conversation.  And I do not like the language used.

“There was really nothing else to do when Conall was in one of these moods but to enjoy it.”

“Alexia sacrificed herself on the altar of wifely duty, enjoying every minute of it, of course, …”

My inner feminist killjoy hates the rape culture language used as well as the term WIFELY DUTY. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she enjoyed it and they make it clear in the text. I’m just irritated that they have to throw ravishment language all over it.  Why can’t it be phrased as expressly consensual since it is?  I know ravishment is a popular fetish…but it’s also everywhere and doesn’t apply here? WHATEVER!

The married pair go up to the Aethographor and message Akeldama, and Akeldama confirms that the Westminster Hive’s aethograhor broke.  Real essential this information.

It is explained that Ivy and Tunstell eloped in a letter they left behind.  In a letter that’s supposed to be funny but it’s just cringy and embarrassing.

In the middle of dinner Maccon decides to change his granddaughter into a werewolf. Apparently this works by chewing through her neck and drooling into the gaping hole.

Hot

Despite this very tame display Alexia faints.

When she wakes up LeFoux and Maccon are there.  Sidheag was successfully changed into a werewolf hooray!

LeFoux explains that a lot of the symptoms Alexia is experiencing indicate that she is pregnant. Apparently SO FAR IN HISTORY a werewolf has yet to make someone preggorz.  

So Maccon assumes that she must have had an affair and wowzers, he has the granddaddy of all freakouts.

He swears a blue streak and accuses her of sleeping with other men in awful and cruel terms, he screams, and carries on and it’s described with this kind of language.

“He was quietly, white-faced, shivering angry.  And it was terribly, terribly frightening.”

“…But Alexia had never been actually afraid of him before. She was afraid of him now.”

“It was as though he’d placed the distance between them, not because he didn’t want to come at her and tear her apart, but because he really thought he might.”

LeFoux stands in a protective stance in front of Alexia at this time and is the only one who believes her when she claims she did not cheat on him.  Maccon runs out of there all dramatic style. Sidheag, in polite terms admittedly, tells her to get her slut butt out of there cause she has to support the pack.  Despite how Alexia convinced Maccon to make her a werewolf, stopped a violent person from tearing the pack to shreds, and got their werewolfism back. But okay sis, GO OFF!

Alexia leaves with LeFoux and her sister, and just stares longingly out the window hoping to see Maccon running toward them apologizing.

DAMN STORY!

DAMN!

I had a lot of mean shit to say about this story but that’s genuinely a good cliffhanger.  The whole pregnancy scare conflict doesn’t seem uncommon for het romance fiction but I think it can be used to good effect. This maybe a more ME specific thing, but I am a protective kind of person.  And this flares up hottest if a man is being shitty and unfair to a woman. So this I felt more viscerally.

Now this is objectively an awful fucking move on Maccon’s part. Like without a doubt he’s a garbage man, and he doesn’t get any kudos for NOT PHYSICALLY HURTING HER EVEN THOUGH THE TEXT PRETTY CLEARLY SAYS HE WANTED TO.

I think it’s kinda ridiculous that he NOT FOR A BRIEF FUCKING SECOND thought that either:

A.)    She may not actually be pregnant.  They’re just taking LeFoux’s word when she says she thinks the fainting and the trouble eating might mean pregnancy.

or

B.)    We just very clearly and very recently demonstrated that nobody knows jackshit about Soulless people and perhaps it is possible that a Soulless can bear a supernatural person’s child.

C.)    Since he’s without supernatural powers when they touch…and for pregnancy producing sex they had, they touched…soooooooo?

D.)   That if it was someone else that caused the pregnancy, MAYBE, it happened without her consent?  Real supportive there!  I mean at the beginning of this book his bff Channing seemed pretty primed to rape her. SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO?

Like he didn’t consider any of these options for a half fucking second.  And instead just drops his pregnant wife like a sack of shit, to presumably raise a child on her own with only the help of the family that Maccon knows treats Alexia shitty.  Violently tore apart your great granddaughter and abandoned your unborn child on the same day.  IT’S NOT EVERY DAY WHERE YOU’RE BOTH THE SHITTEST DAD AND SHITTEST GREAT GRANDDAD!

Trying to have any sympathy for Maccon here is really undercut by the fact that Alexia bragged about being flirted with by a woman, just last chapter, and his inept jealous rage was played for laughs.  If we’re really trying to drive home the HURT Maccon must by the betrayal of cheating…maybe don’t poke fun of the possibility 10 pages ago?

Unlike a lot of similarly styled stories, I suppose it makes a modicum of sense that he fears she may have cheated though.  She’s literally spite-flirted before when she was mad at Maccon.  I.E with MacDougall last book.  She flirted with LeFoux throughout this book, not out of spite, but maybe out of ignorance cause she didn’t know two women could like kiss or whatever GOD.  She also was asking leading sexual questions regarding that pretty bag of dicks, Channing.

So at least she hadn’t shown 0 behaviors beforehand and he’s utterly convinced she’d drop him like a hot potato as soon as a another pretty face roamed into frame.

But I will say I am just not looking forward to how easily he’s going to be forgiven next book.  

Say something nice Faps:

Legit good cliffhanger. Color me pleasantly surprised.

Run away with LeFoux and raise your kids together.

Just kidding LeFoux is way too good for you.